On slender ice all plans parade

Yet slender still this doomed charade.

The dream was almost the same as before. Once again, Ferrian was cocooned in scintillating brilliance, the white light forming a barrier to his senses, his emotions and memories, filling his entire being within and without. Once again, he knew only peaceful indifference.

Somewhere, he could hear a fierce wind ululating in joyous reverie like a thousand freed spirits, faint and distant, beyond the glow of magic. He sensed that a terrible storm raged all around him and yet at the same time very far away. He listened to it, unconcerned, feeling strangely safe and protected. He felt detached from the world, as though listening to meaningless echoes from inside the heart of a star, high in the heavens.

After awhile, a woman's voice drifted into his range of hearing, as he knew it would, as he eagerly expected it to. It was just as beautiful as he remembered it. The whispers of the storm slipped completely from his thoughts, trailing into silence as his awareness focused completely on the song.

This time, he thought he began to recognise glimmers of meaning within the melody. He did not know how this could be, for he knew that the language was one that he had never heard before. Trickling through his mind like a sunlit stream, he felt the words slowly unravelling, translating themselves in bits and pieces that seemed familiar.

Ferrian concentrated harder. He did not know for how long, since the concept of time here was foreign, but eventually the song revealed itself in full, blooming like a flower opening to a cold winter sun:

Breath of snow and raindrop bright

Keep our Mother safe and cold

Through the everlasting night

May she never perish old

May she once again bring light

To the children of her fold.

The lilting verse repeated itself over and over, brandished with love and, Ferrian thought, sadness. But it was a gentle, forgiving sorrow, as of someone saying goodbye.

She's not my mother, he realised. She's searching for her own…

Who are you? he asked.

The woman's voice trailed into soft silence. After a few moments, however, it resumed as though there had been no interruption. Ferrian asked again. Who are you? Please, tell me.

Again, he received nothing in response to his query.

The singing continued.

He wondered at that, for awhile. Why did the woman never answer him? Was she even aware of his existence? Or did she not have the words to reply?

Was there, perhaps, no woman at all, but merely the voice, the same exquisite, melancholy chant repeating itself for all eternity?

Just the echoes of a voice long gone…

Keep our Mother safe and cold.

Trapped within a diamond…

Ferrian turned suddenly, searching the white glare. As though summoned by his wishes, the pedestal appeared a short way away, hazy in the light. He ran towards it – or perhaps it came to him – and in an instant he stood once again before the great clear crystal. Light shimmered within it, sparkling off thousands of facets, throwing tiny rainbows in all directions.

The voice was louder, now.

May she never perish old.

Ferrian stared into its depths, mesmerised by the pattern of flickering light. An overwhelming desire to touch the crystal seized him and without thinking, he placed his hand upon it.

Crack.

It snapped along a facet, the crack travelling deep into the diamond's heart, splintering the light, freeing it from its frozen prison.

Ferrian's emotions returned in a rush that caused him to gasp and take a step backwards. The edges of his vision closed in as blackness crept up behind him, deeper than starless space, the omnipresent white glare retreating into the crystal, into a freezing, burning ball. The woman's voice warbled and wailed: no longing soothing or beautiful but sharp and dissonant. Fear and horror spider-webbed through him like the ever-spreading cracks in the diamond, threatening to break him apart as well.

No, he cried. I didn't mean to break it!

Knowing what was going to happen next, he tried to turn, to flee, but found that he could not move. His insubstantial body was riveted to this realm of light and darkness, forced to watch his dream play out.

The light grew so bright that he could not look at it.

And then the diamond shattered.

But just before it did, in a sliver of time before the end, the invisible shackles binding him in place abruptly released and he turned into the darkness…

…only to find himself staring at an enormous eye.

A quicksilver eye. Just like his own, but nothing like his own at all; it was huge, inhuman, and inconceivably old. Disembodied, it floated in the black void, gazing directly at him.

Ferrian could see his reflection in it – not a ghostly wisp of shadow but his own solid self, his own stunned, terrified expression, silhouetted against the white glow behind him.

Then the great eye closed and crystal shards exploded all around, like glittering daggers. One of them embedded itself into his right hand, pain ripping his arm asunder, and he screamed…

Removing his boot from the boy's broken hand, Arzath watched him wake with a scream and roll over on the icy floor, clutching his arm to his chest. In the chilly, quiet stillness, the sorcerer's breath clouded before bloodless lips, his eyes bright glimmers beneath frost stiffened hair. He dropped to one knee at Ferrian's side, ice cracking off him in sheets. Then he curled one freezing hand around the boy's throat, causing him to gasp.

Arzath leaned forward, struggling to speak through numb lips and chattering teeth. "M-most impressive," he stammered. "Y-you have proven your w-worth…" He leaned forward even further, until he was whispering directly into Ferrian's ear, his mouth twisting into a sadistic grin. "Sh-shall we try that again, this time on my d-dear brother's castle instead of my own?"

And then he laughed.

* * *

Ferrian woke slowly. He felt groggy, his consciousness dragging itself out of a sticky quagmire of unpleasant dreams. He could not remember any of them – save for the one with the crystal, which he was beginning to think was something more than just a dream – but the sick, unnerving feeling they created stayed lodged in his stomach.

He forced his eyes open.

Rain and sleet splashed in violent waves against a nearby window, as though the room was adrift in a heaving sea. Nothing was visible beyond the rippling panes except grey fog and a glimpse of mountain rock. The storm still grumbled all about, but slightly more subdued now, having retreated beyond the walls.

I summoned the Winter, Ferrian thought. I did it.

That one act alone might very well have saved his life, or at least bought him some more time, but the fact brought him no joy. If Arzath thought that Ferrian had some kind of control over the Winter, he would surely force him to summon it again.

Or use it in Gods knew what unthinkable ways.

He groaned. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he peered around, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

He was in a small, circular room, only about five paces in diameter and sparsely furnished. Besides the bed he was lying on, there was a dusty clothes chest and a tiny crude table made of scrap wood nailed together, one leg propped up with a chunk of obsidian rock, the same material as the enclosing walls. On the table was a bowl of water and a mug containing the remnants of a strong-smelling herbal concoction.

Ferrian slumped back onto the hessian sack that passed for a pillow. So, Arzath had drugged him. That explained why his head was so foggy. He touched a hand to his forehead and saw that it was splinted and bandaged. The pain had lessened to a dull throb, but was starting to spike again as his body awoke fully. He winced. Obviously, Arzath wanted him rested and healed for some reason.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what the sorcerer had whispered in his ear. Something about his brother's castle… he could barely recall anything that Arzath had said, other than forcing him to summon the Winter.

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Inevitably, his thoughts drifted back to the dream within the white light. He was ruminating on how it was connected with the Winter when he heard the door lock click.

He scrambled out of bed as a black robed figure entered, but it was only the young servant. The boy carefully averted his eyes from Ferrian's as he placed a tray of steaming food on the table, collected the empty mug and turned to leave. Ferrian made to catch his arm, thinking to ask him some questions. But the boy dodged away, nimble as a mouse and scurried out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Ferrian sat back on the bed gloomily, noticing as he did so that he, too was clothed in a similar black garment, but his distaste was short-lived.

The smell of the food was intoxicating.

Too hungry to care whether it had been contaminated or not, he threw himself onto the hot soup and bread. He was still choking down the last of it when the door opened again.

This time, it was Lord Arzath.

The sorcerer strode across the room and threw a heavy oilskin cloak at Ferrian's feet. "Put it on," he ordered.

Ferrian swallowed quickly. "We're going outside?" he said in surprise, glancing at the frost-streaked window. "In this weather?"

"I've no more time to waste!" Arzath snapped impatiently. "Put it on!"

For a moment, Ferrian considered refusing the order. Then he decided that being petty would gain him nothing, so he reached down for the cloak. Arzath's staff lashed out and caught him on the cheek, sending him staggering against the wall.

"I'm doing what you asked!" he cried angrily.

Arzath stepped up to him and leaned forward. "Just making sure that you're completely awake," he said, smirking. Then he turned, leaning on his staff, and departed the room, leaving the door open. Glaring after him, Ferrian picked himself up from the floor, snatched up the cloak and put it on. He paused for a moment, scraping together the last crusts of bread and stuffing them in his mouth, then followed.

The Grik on guard outside the door sneered at him as he passed, causing him to take a startled step sideways and nearly trip over. The Grik guffawed and then attempted to spike him with its halberd, but Ferrian was already hurrying down the stairs. Arzath was waiting for him at the bottom, boot tapping. He grabbed Ferrian's arm and yanked him out of the stairwell, whirling him into the corridor and giving him a shove in the right direction.

For all his arrogance and intimidating manner, Ferrian thought, he still looks as though a sneeze would blow him over. I could probably get the better of him in a fight, if it came to that. If it weren't for that staff…

He wasn't about to attempt anything rash just yet, however. He remained observant as Arzath directed him through the castle, but the place was a rabbit warren. Some of the corridors were laid out lavishly with red carpet runners, tapestries, urns and other decorative features, splashes of colour against the black. Others were simple bare flagstones and cobwebbed walls. There were niches and crannies everywhere, passages that could have led anywhere or nowhere. Most of the windows were high and impossible to look out of, the light filtering through dusty and uncertain. They came across no one save a few rats that skittered out of their way.

At one point, they passed along a wide, lofty hallway lined with deep-set windows that were low enough to allow Ferrian a glimpse of the valley beyond, saturnine and misty. There was the white castle, perched on the cliffs like a ghost in the rain.

Ferrian nearly stopped walking, struck by a sudden thought. Lord Requar! That was his castle, it had to be! Was there a chance that he was home? Could he help? At the very least, he couldn't possibly be worse than Arzath…

"Vile, isn't it?" Arzath said sourly from behind him. "Take a good look while you can, boy. With your help, it won't be there for much longer."

This time, Ferrian did stop walking. He turned to Arzath, aghast. "That's what you want me to do? Use the Winter to break into that castle?"

The sorcerer's eyes narrowed. "No, you fool, I want you to freeze ice for my drinks!" he spat. "What did you expect I wanted you for?"

Ferrian stared at him. "I don't understand. Why don't you use your own magic? I can barely even control–"

In the next instant Ferrian found himself pinned to the wall, the butt of the black staff jammed painfully against his chin. "You WILL get me into that castle, wretch, or I will let the Murons pick you apart, piece by piece! Those are your choices. Why don't we decide right now?"

Rain hammered on the window glass beside them, casting rippled reflections like teardrops over Arzath's face. Ferrian stared into those green eyes and quavered. There was a wild, mad desperation there, and hatred like nothing he had ever seen before, or imagined. This was not a rational man, but one teetering precariously on the edge of sanity. And despite his outwardly fragile appearance, he was nevertheless a sorcerer: a very powerful one. Pushing him too far would almost certainly be the last thing Ferrian ever did.

He tried to swallow against the staff. "Alright," he whispered.

Arzath continued to shred him with his gaze for a long moment. Then suddenly he removed the staff and said: "Ilulu elé."

"W-what?" Ferrian coughed, rubbing his throat.

"Ilulu elé," Arzath repeated. "It is a simple chant used by novices to improve concentration. Repeat it over and over if you feel yourself losing consciousness. You are no use to me if you continue to black out every time you try to summon your magic."

Ferrian simply nodded, grateful despite himself.

"That is all the instruction I can give you at this stage," Arzath went on. "You are far too young and naïve to learn anything more complicated, and there is no guarantee that anything I teach you will have any effect whatsoever, considering your magic is innate and not taught in the traditional way." He regarded Ferrian like a chained animal not yet broken in. "Willpower will prove most effective in controlling your Winter. Spells are merely words to help guide you. Remember that."

"I understand," Ferrian replied.

"Good." He flung the boy back into the corridor. "Keep walking."

A few minutes later they emerged onto a mezzanine balcony, and Ferrian couldn't help staring around in morbid awe. A grand, vaulted entrance hall dropped away to their left, lined with columns and towering twelve-foot high statues of gargoyles and demons. The heads of all the statues were turned towards the main doors: anyone entering that way would be faced with a very disquieting sight.

But Ferrian's attention was caught by much more than the impressive architecture.

The polished marble floor was strewn with glass and mud and debris. The high windows were shattered, gaping white holes through which the rain pattered. Patches of ice melted from the ceiling, trickling down the walls and dripping in a steady cadence. Carpets lay in soggy heaps against the walls and draped like tattered banners over the broken balustrades. At the top of the sweeping staircase that led down to the foyer was another pair of heavy oaken doors, sitting awkwardly on their hinges and splintered with deep cracks.

Ferrian peered inside and recognised the throne room where he had arrived the previous day. Memories of his first encounter with Arzath jarred his consciousness with horrifying clarity.

Arzath swung him away from the doors and down the stairs. "I… I did all this?" Ferrian whispered.

The sorcerer smiled, eyes gleaming. "Indeed," he replied.

Even the impenetrable-looking main doors showed signs of damage. They were firmly secured now, however, with a massive iron bar.

Arzath stopped before them and scowled. "I thought I ordered these doors unlocked!" he said irritably. He spun, his gaze sweeping the hall, but there were no Grik guards in sight.

"Kyosk!" he bellowed.

They waited for a long moment, listening to the wind thrumming the spires high above, creating eerie echoes throughout the castle.

No response: no one appeared.

Arzath cursed and turned back to Ferrian. "You!" he said, waving his staff at the doors. "Open the damned thing."

Ferrian looked doubtfully at the huge bar. He knew before laying a hand on it that it was far too heavy for one person to shift, but he didn't bother arguing. Instead, he took as firm a grip as he could manage with his injured hand and shoved with all his might.

Losing patience, Arzath joined him. But even with their combined strength, the bar would not budge a fraction. It seemed to be jammed in place.

"Dark curse it!" Arzath whacked the stubborn bar with his staff. "Fine," he muttered. "We'll go another way." He walked a few paces away and then paused, closing his eyes and bringing a closed fist up to his forehead.

Ferrian watched him nervously. "Is something–"

"Shut up!" Without opening his eyes, Arzath swung his staff up to point at Ferrian again. "I'm trying to think!"

It was then that Ferrian noticed something odd.

The staff had a crack in it.

Quite a large one, several inches long. It must have happened when Arzath hit it against the doors in frustration.

Ferrian frowned suspiciously. Surely, a magical staff couldn't be broken so easily? Wouldn't it necessarily need to be extremely strong in order to contain the power within? And now that he looked closer… he was not an expert on runes or sigils, but those carvings appeared to be very similar to a decorative design that he had seen on staves sold at the markets as walking sticks. Why would a sorcerer be using something so mundane and flimsy as a weapon?

His mind began to work very fast. He had been too fearful of the rumours to consider it properly before, but from what he could piece together from bits of tales, sorcerers were renowned for carrying swords. Long, shining, magnificent swords... the Swords of the Gods, designed to channel and intensify their power. Every sorcerer who graduated from the School of Magical Studies was supposed to have received one.

Where then was Arzath's sword? It would certainly have made a more convincing threatening implement than this…

The staff is fake, Ferrian thought, astounded by the revelation. It isn't magical at all, but Arzath is trying to make me believe that it is!

All of a sudden, his anxiety was swept away in a conflagration of anger, making the recent bruise on his face sting anew. Instinctively, and with no real idea of what he was doing, he grabbed the staff.

Unfortunately, he underestimated his opponent's grip; Arzath stumbled, but maintained his hold. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he cried, attempting to pull it back. Ferrian wrapped both hands around the staff and held on for all he was worth.

A furious struggle ensued. "Why are you so… desperate to… get it back?" Ferrian challenged, gritting his teeth at the pain in his injured hand. "It's just a… worthless stick!"

"You have no idea what you're… talking about!" Arzath snarled, slamming Ferrian against the doors. The shock of the metal bar against his spine caused him to gasp and lose his grip.

Triumphantly, Arzath wrenched the staff back, but Ferrian kicked out desperately at the other man's shin, causing him to stumble, and used the distraction to grab the staff with his good hand and smash Arzath's head against the door with it. While the man was momentarily dazed, Ferrian twisted the staff out of his grasp and staggered away.

"You're not… what you claim to be, are you?" Ferrian panted angrily. "You're no more a sorcerer than I am! Less, even! Do you even have the use of magic at all?"

Slumped against the door, Arzath's face contorted in fury. "You little fool." He pushed himself away. "I will show you how mistaken you are." For the barest of instants, his gaze flicked towards the balcony.

Ferrian caught the look, and it fanned his courage. "What's wrong, huh?" he mocked, backing away. "Afraid your minions will find out YOU'RE A CHARLATAN!" He shouted the last words as loud as he could muster.

Arzath stopped breathing, becoming very still as the words rang throughout the hall and bounced away down the corridors. His expression changed, assuming such a look of panic that Ferrian felt a chill creep up his spine. He didn't regret the outburst, however. He hoped the Murons would come swooping down and see their master for what he really was.

"IDIOT!" It was half scream, half sob. "You will not live to regret that!" Flinging back his cloak, Arzath pulled forth a short sword that had been concealed there and advanced on the boy murderously.

Ferrian went pale and backed away faster. Oh no, he thought, I've pushed him too far. If any of his minions heard the truth, then he's finished. He has nothing more to lose. He's going to kill me this time…

He came up against a pillar and ducked behind it as Arzath slashed at him, hitting the stone instead with a shower of sparks. Seizing a sudden opportunity, Ferrian spun around the pillar swinging the staff at Arzath's back, but the other man was quicker. He whirled, catching the staff with his sword and smashing it against the stone column, breaking it to pieces.

Heart thundering, Ferrian threw the remains of his weapon at Arzath and sprinted for the stairs, frantically trying to think of a plan on the way. At the bottom of the staircase, however, he stopped dead. There was a squeak on the marble floor as his pursuer skidded to a halt as well.

A lone Grik stood at the top. He was huge and heavily muscled, with dark, stony skin and deep-set red eyes, his large fangs and face freshly warpainted with Human blood. Several enormous red spikes, four or five feet long, loomed impressively from his craggy, shell-like back, but the sword he held in one thick fist looked oddly disproportionate to his stature. There was something strange about the way the blade reflected light, seeming far too bright for the gloomy hall.

"Charlatan, eh?" he rumbled, and grinned. "Dat's intrestin'."