Dust swirled through fields abandoned to years of drought and a decade of civil war. The setting sun cast forward the shadows of a dozen men sauntering down a narrow but well-used road. Faroul's hand drifted down to the hilt of his broadsword.

Besara clutched to his opposite arm. "Jaska, get behind us and don't stray."

"Shouldn't we run?" young Jaska, only ten years old, asked.

"To where?" his father Faroul replied. "If they're bandits, they'd chase us down, and if they're soldiers, they'd think us guilty of something by running and then do the same. Now, fall in and keep your mouth shut."

Jaska walked within his parents' shadows. With a shaking hand, he clutched the hilt of his hunting knife.

The lean men with desperate, scarred faces wore a motley collection of military uniforms. "Mercenaries at best," Faroul whispered which was little comfort since most mercenaries survived as bandits between jobs. The uniforms several of the men wore belonged to defeated armies.

As they neared, the men spread out and blocked the road. A thick-bearded one in their midst with a nasty scar cutting across his mouth stepped forward.

"Here now, don't be rushing past. We'd hear news of Xampaji."

Faroul replied tersely, "Fallen. We got out just ahead of the carnage."

The bearded man loosed a wicked smile. "Count yourself lucky, eh?"

"I did. If you go north to Alcorol you could probably find work there."

"We've work enough here, I'd say, with all the refugees heading toward Kabulsek."

Faroul loosened his sword and tried to lead his family around the men, but they encircled them.

"Here now, don’t be moving on just yet. We'll be taking your money and a turn or two with your wife, first. We're lonely men. You can give us that much, eh?"

Faroul dipped his head as if in defeat then sprang forward. The mercenary leader drew his own weapon too late. The sword skewered him through the heart. Faroul shouldered into one mercenary and slashed another across the eyes. Two more he killed before they wrestled him down.

Besara cut one with a small knife but then he twisted her arm, snapping the elbow joint, and threw her to the ground. Jaska stabbed one on top of his father in the back then retreated as another approached. Jaska yelled and charged him. The bandit dodged and elbowed Jaska in the back of the head. He tried to rise but a boot struck him in the face.

* * *

With a ringing in his skull, Jaska awoke, discarded into a patch of thorny shrubs. He heard mercenaries laughing and joking. He heard his mother's voice, a pitiful moan and wail. He lifted himself enough that he could see the campfire where the mercenaries continued to rape his mother. He fell back and passed out.

He awoke again later and heard one of the bandits say, "Damn, we've killed the bitch."

As they laughed, tears ran down Jaska's cheeks. He vowed to spend his life fighting bandits. He vowed to attain such skill in fighting that ten men could never best him. The bandits left him there, figuring him dead, and Jaska crept away while they slept. He arrived in Kabulsek five days later, half-starved, exhausted, and nearly dead. But his uncle Tursk nursed him back to health.

For three years, Jaska lived with his moderately wealthy uncle. He pressed for fighting lessons, and Tursk hired a retired soldier to instruct him in sword fighting. His uncle proved caring if a little stern and demanding. Jaska believed him to be a good man. Tursk lacked children despite many affairs and saw Jaska as his opportunity for an heir. So Tursk groomed Jaska to take over for him, giving him personal instruction in mercantile matters and paying a private tutor to give Jaska a classical education.

The Jaska that watched now saw that his uncle was neither a good man nor a bad one. He was a successful merchant who smuggled and cheated but also gave a few coins to the temple coffers for the poor. Lacking good judgment, he sometimes chose poor business associates, like the palymfar.

Salahn believed Tursk had crossed the palymfar on a business deal and one day showed up to handle the matter himself since he was in the area attending to other business. Tursk backed into a corner of the house with Jaska beside him. Though fear shook the man, he tried to fight. It was pointless. Within seconds, he was down on the floor groaning and bleeding to death. Jaska yelled and pulled his dagger.

A spark of amusement lit within Salahn's eyes as Jaska charged him. He dodged easily and lashed out with his claws. Jaska ducked beneath the bagh nakh swipe and countered. Salahn's face hardened as the boy dodged attack after attack. Salahn stopped playing and used a spell of compulsion.

"Halt!"

Jaska stopped, gazing into Salahn's eyes without moving. A part of his mind wanted to do what the assassin suggested, but a stronger part defied him. He waited, and when Salahn neared, he lunged with the knife. Salahn turned enough that the blade didn't stab into his stomach, though it did slice through his uniform and cut across his ribs. He grunted and struck Jaska with a furious backhand that knocked him unconscious.

Through the Shadowland, the adult Jaska watched Salahn stare down at him with fury. But after some time, Salahn's eyes eased and took on a curious gleam. He bound the cut on his ribs then roused Jaska.

Jaska awoke with fear but Salahn said, "Be calm boy. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You’re a palymfar, and you killed my uncle."

"Not all palymfar are corrupt, boy. Your uncle, however, was thoroughly crooked."

"I don't believe you."

Salahn removed the veil over his face and lowered the hood. "I can prove it. But I wonder if you're hiding something. Are you guilty as well?"

"No more than Uncle Tursk."

"That would make you a murderer, a smuggler, and a thief, boy. Choose your words carefully."

Jaska spoke with passion, his eyes flaring wide. "I am innocent, and if I had known that Tursk was guilty of any such things I would have killed him myself."

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The two stared at each other for some moments then Salahn said at last, "I am the Grandmaster of the Order of Palymfar. The true palymfar, not those committing crimes. And I will prove to you that I am honest."

Gritting his teeth, Jaska responded, "If you're not, I will slay you."

Salahn smiled. "If I prove myself, will you become one of my students? Your talent exceeds any I've seen. Even my own reflexes are not as good as yours. And your willpower is incredible. Only a few men in all the world could resist the command I used on you. I could make you into a fine palymfar. You could fight corruption and champion the weak and innocent."

"Like my parents," Jaska muttered.

And that was how he came into Salahn's tutelage, having believed the lies Salahn concocted and the half-truths about Tursk and the palymfar order. He had believed it because he wanted to.

The scene faded. Jaska and the Farseer moved on.

He saw Mardha with her father, abused in every way possible. The sight of her brought tears to his eyes. She was every bit as beautiful as Zyrella and there was something indescribable about her spirit, something he couldn't resist. He realized that he still desired her just as much. And he wished he could save her, even though he knew she had been a willing participant with Salahn since she was quite young.

"Why does she do it?" Jaska asked.

"Because part of her father's demonic spirit resides within her," the Farseer replied. "Remember always that she is not entirely human. Mentally she matured three times faster than normal."

He shook his head. "Why am I drawn to her?"

"That I cannot say, but you feel the same way toward Zyrella do you not? Mardha is a danger for you, Jaska. Heed my warning. The mystical power that these two women have over you, whatever its origin, is intense and possibly deadly."

"Do I fall to her in your futures?"

"There are only a few strands where you make it that far."

"Do I succeed in any future that you see for me?"

"I could not view all the possibilities within a lifetime, Jaska. I must concentrate on those most likely. But, no, I haven't seen you succeed."

"What of Zyrella and Ohzikar?"

"They will die fighting with you, as will the twins. Salahn will conquer the Shadowland and all of Pawan Kor. Then he will open the Gates of the Underworld and free Jeraia. She will tear up from that realm like a goddess of wrath and people will pray to Salahn for mercy."

The shadows around them shifted. Jaska watched the ritual of binding which he had believed to be his ceremony of initiation when he received his qavra. As soon as it was on Jaska’s neck, Salahn ordered him to slaughter a child. Jaska moved toward the altar with slow, steady steps, resisting Salahn's command all the way. He would turn and look toward his mentor for confirmation. Salahn would tell him again what he must do. He doubted and yet he couldn't resist. The qavra bound him.

The Farseer said, "As soon as you killed the child, the binding was sealed."

"I don't remember any of this."

"Because you failed. You could not resist such compulsion forever, especially against someone you loved."

Sweat broke out on Jaska's brow as he crept toward the altar and lifted the ceremonial knife. Half an hour passed as he moved the knife closer and closer to the child's throat. His hand shook. Salahn kept telling him to do it. Over and over.

Then Mardha came behind him and rubbed her hands across his chest. "It's easy, Jaska. I've done it before. You will like it, I promise. And afterward I can show you many new things. Pleasures you have never imagined."

Jaska lowered the knife to the screaming child's throat.

The Jaska of the future turned away. "Enough! I cannot watch anymore."

The shadows became a solid wall of dark cloud. "Shall we return?"

Jaska knelt, sobbing. "No. I must see what Salahn has done recently and know more about his plans."

"Understand that in the shadows of history, recent events are closest to where they just occurred."

"How close to the present can we get without having to leave the mountain's safety?"

"Three years."

"Can you get us closer to him?"

"With the power at my command, with your friends' spirits aiding us, I can get you to within a week."

"Then let us do so."

"We will face great danger. He may detect us within the Shadowland of the present. And he may have some power at moving back in timelines that concern him directly. His powers there are extensive and unprecedented."

"We shall risk it. I must know what his plans and capabilities are."

"So be it. Know also that you will not understand things there as you have so far. That power lies only within this mountain."

She faced the endless shadows and began to move her arms in great sweeping motions. After several moments of chanting, a new tunnel appeared within the dark clouds of the Shadowland. She walked forward and Jaska followed.

* * *

Through the haze, the palymfar compound came into view. Jaska and the Farseer walked through the walls and stood within the primary training ground. When he saw Grandmaster Salahn, Jaska stopped cold and a shiver ran across his skin. He had been preparing himself for this moment, knowing it would be difficult. But he hadn't imagined that his former master would appear so young and vibrant.

"He has restored his vitality," the Farseer said. "And he shall remain in that state forever unless you stop him."

Jaska turned away to catch his breath. "It's difficult to face him."

"Your mind grew used to obeying him. It will take some time for you to overcome the urges and imprints left within you."

Jaska regained his composure and watched Salahn meet with Nurit, the highest officer below Adynarh. Salahn wore pantaloons and his three qavra but nothing else. One qavra was centered in a belt around his waist. Another was lodged in his palymfar choker. Those were the sisters to Jaska's old qavra. The third rested in a headband that Salahn sometimes wore. Jaska recognized now that this was the stone Jeraia had given her son.

Nurit bowed. "Master, the soldiers you requested have arrived."

"They are not inferior?"

"These received elite training and were part of a decorated corps. They are here for a dereliction of duty. It seems they partook in looting against Karphon's orders."

"Bring them in."

Nurit returned moments later. Behind him, a group of twenty armed soldiers trudged into the courtyard. They stood before Salahn and bowed nervously.

"Guard the exits," Salahn said, and his palymfar dispersed to cover all the paths leading out. A devilish smile spread across Salahn's face, crinkling his dark eyes and exposing his sharp, white teeth. "You soldiers will serve a great purpose. You will help me judge my new capabilities that I may better understand them. You will all attack me and fight as best as you can. Any who survive will be given freedom. The alternative is death."

Tentatively, twelve of the soldiers drew scimitars and shields. Three prepared their bows. The last five readied their spears. The group shuffled forward.

Salahn stretched his shoulders and arms. "You must do better than that. Does no leader exist among you cowards?"

A scarred veteran in the front grimaced and spun to face the others. "If we must fight and die, then let us fight and die as brave men. It's a better death than the gallows would give."

Many nodded and firmed their expressions. The leader turned, yelled an ululation, and charged, scimitar held high. The others followed.

First, the Grandmaster had to deal with the archers who fired ahead of the others. Three arrows sped toward their mark. To Salahn they moved no faster than a rock might roll down a hill. He caught the first, deflected the second, and dodged the third. As the leader neared him, he flicked his wrist and sent the caught arrow into the man's neck. The leader fell, but those behind him didn't slow.

Unarmed, Salahn fought them. With his bare hands he crushed skulls, ruptured kidneys, disemboweled armored men, and broke swords. But he couldn't defeat so many. A spear thrust came through his guard and pierced deep into his chest.

Salahn grunted and jerked the spear out. A sword slashed across his back. Another stabbed into his leg. After a moment's hesitation, he kept fighting. He shattered the spear and broke the jaw of its wielder. A sword cut him across the arm, yet he kept fighting. Several small wounds later, only the three archers remained.

Jaska noticed that the first wound in Salahn's chest had sealed. Little blood had flowed from any of the wounds. Two arrows struck Salahn. The archers reloaded, yet Salahn laughed. He drew back his hands and darkfire ignited within his palm. With two casts, the black flames flew toward two of the archers and engulfed them. Screams echoed through the courtyard as they turned into piles of ash.

The third archer feathered a shaft into Salahn's eye. The Grandmaster fell to the ground writhing. The palymfar stirred but Nurit calmed them. The archer put two more arrows into Salahn. But Salahn rose from the ground and pointed toward the archer. The soldier's eyes widened as he clutched at his chest, fell to the ground, and writhed in agony as some unseen force killed him.

"Impressive, is it not?" said a deep, clear voice from behind Jaska and the Farseer, a voice Jaska knew and feared. "I have grown quite powerful as of late."