He tapped the map at a point just northwest of Lake Roghoiz.

"Velalisier?" Valentine said. "The ruins? Why do you look so troubled, Ermanar?"

"An unhealthy place, my lord, a place of foul luck. Spirits wander there. Unavenged crimes stain the air. The stories told of Velalisier are not to my liking."

"Floods to one side of us, haunted ruins to the other, eh?" Valentine smiled. "Why not go south of the river entirely, then?"

"South? No, my lord. You recall the desert through which you came on your journey from Treymone? It’s worse down there, much worse; not a drop of water, nothing to eat but stones and sand. I’d rather march straight through the middle of Velalisier than attempt the southern desert."

"Then we have no choice, do we? The Glayge Valley route it is, then, and let’s hope the flooding isn’t too bad. When do we leave?"

"When do you wish to leave?" Ermanar asked.

"Two hours ago," said Valentine.

—2—

IN EARLY AFTERNOON the forces of Lord Valentine came forth from the Labyrinth through the Mouth of Waters. This gateway was broad and splendidly ornamented, as was fitting for the chief entrance to the Pontifical city, through which Powers traditionally passed. A horde of Labyrinth-dwellers assembled to watch Valentine and his companions ride out.

It was good to see the sun again. It was good to breathe fresh true air once more — and not dry cruel desert air, but the mild sweet soft air of the lower Glayge Valley. Valentine rode in the first of a long procession of floater-cars. He ordered the windows swung open wide. "Like young wine!" he cried, breathing deep. "Ermanar, how can you bear living in the Labyrinth, knowing there’s this just outside?"

"I was born in the Labyrinth," said the officer quietly. "My people have served the Pontifex for fifty generations. We are accustomed to the conditions."

"Do you find the fresh air offensive, then?"

"Offensive?" Ermanar looked startled. "No, no, hardly offensive! I appreciate its qualities, my lord. It seems merely — how shall I say it? — it seems unnecessary to me."

"Not to me," Valentine said, laughing. "And look how green everything looks, how fresh, how new!"

"The autumn rains," said Ermanar. "They bring life to this valley."

"Rather too much life this year, I understand," Carabella said. "Do you know yet how bad the flooding is?"

"I have sent scouts forward," Ermanar replied. "We’ll soon have word."

Onward the caravan rolled, through a placid and gentle countryside just north of the river. The Glayge did not look particularly unruly here, Valentine thought — a quiet meandering stream, silvery in the late sunlight. But of course this was not the true river, only a sort of canal, built thousands of years ago to link Lake Roghoiz and the Labyrinth. The Glayge itself, he remembered, was far more impressive, swift and wide, a noble river, though hardly more than a rivulet by comparison with the titanic Zimr of the other continent. His other time at the Labyrinth, Valentine had ridden the Glayge by summer, and a dry summer at that, and it had seemed calm enough; but this was a different season, and Valentine wanted no more taste of rivers in flood, for his memories of the roaring Steiche were still keen. If they had to go north a bit, that was all right; even if they had to go through the Velalisier ruins, it would not be so bad, though the superstitious Ermanar might need comforting.

That night Valentine felt the first direct counter-thrust of the usurper. As he lay sleeping there came upon him a sending of the King, baleful and stark.

He felt first a warmth in his brain, a quickly gathering heat that became a raging conflagration and pressed with furious intensity against the throbbing walls of his skull. He felt a needle of brilliant light probing his soul. He felt the pounding of agonizing pulsations behind his forehead. And with these sensations came something even more painful, a spreading sense of guilt and shame pervading his spirit, an awareness of failure, of defeat, accusations of having betrayed and cheated the people he had been chosen to govern.

Valentine accepted the sending until he could take no more. At last he cried out and woke, bathed in sweat, shivering, shaken, as bruised by a dream as he had ever been.

"My lord?" Carabella whispered.

He sat up, covered his face with his hands. For a moment he was unable to speak. Carabella cradled him against her, stroking his head.

"Sending," he managed to say at last. "Of the King."

"It’s gone, love, it’s over, it’s all over." She rocked back and forth, embracing him, and gradually the terror and panic ebbed from him. He looked up.

"The worst," he said. "Worse than that one in Pidruid, our first night."

"Can I do anything for you?"

"No. I don’t think so." Valentine shook his head. "They’ve found me," he whispered. "The King has a reading on me, and he’ll never leave me alone now."

"It was only a nightmare, Valentine—"

"No. No. A sending of the King. The first of many."

"I’ll get Deliamber," she said. "He’ll know what to do."

"Stay here, Carabella. Don’t leave me."

"It’s all right now. You can’t have a sending while you’re awake."

"Don’t leave me," he murmured.

But she soothed him and coaxed him into lying down again; and then she went for the wizard, who looked grave and troubled, and touched Valentine to put him into a sleep without dreams.

The next night he feared to sleep at all. But sleep finally came, and with it a sending again, more terrifying than the last. Images danced in his mind — bubbles of light with hideous faces, and blobs of color that mocked and jeered and accused, and darting silvers of hot radiance that held a stabbing impact. And then Metamorphs, fluid, eerie, circling around him, waving long thin fingers at him, laughing in shrill hollow tones, calling him coward, weakling, fool, babe. And loathsome oily voices singing in distorted echoes the little children’s song:

Laughter, discordant music, whispers just beyond the threshold of his hearing — skeletons in long rows, dancing — the dead Skandar brothers, ghastly and mutilated, calling his name—

Valentine forced himself to wake, and paced, haggard and drained, for hours in the cramped floater.

And a night later came a third sending, worse than the other two.

"Am I never to sleep again?" he demanded.

Deliamber visited him with the hierarch Lorivade as he sat slumped, white-faced, exhausted. "I have heard of your troubles," Lorivade said. "Has the Lady not shown you how to defend yourself with your circlet?"

Valentine looked at her blankly. "What do you mean?"

"One Power may not assail another, my lord." She touched the silver band at his forehead. "This will ward off attack, if you use it properly."

"And how is that?"

"As you prepare yourself for sleep," she said, "weave about yourself a wall of force. Project your identity; fill the air around you with your spirit. No sending can harm you then."

"Will you train me?"

"I will try, my lord."

In his sapped and wearied condition it was all he could do to project a shadow of strength, let alone the full potency of a Coronal; and even though Lorivade drilled him for an hour in the exercise of using the circlet, a fourth sending came to him that night. But it was weaker than the others, and he was able to escape its worst effects, and sleep of a restful kind finally embraced him. By day he felt nearly restored to himself; and he drilled with the circlet for hours.