Peto waited until the courtyard was empty save for his personal guards. He had already admired the beauty of the lands around the castle. Now he stood in the center of it, looking at the imposing outer walls and gate, the airy design of the living quarters rising before him with their delicate oval windows covered in clear crystal, their towers lifted majestically toward the sky.

Nimbus Castle-his spoil of war.

This should have been his moment of triumph, indeed would have been save for the sudden chill he felt. He might have rationalized and said it was caused by the clouds moving in front of the sun, or the evening mists already rising from the river and curling through the open doors, or by the weariness of battle, but in truth the chill was caused by none of these. Instead he had a feeling of doom so strong it seemed as if someone were speaking words of dread clearly into his mind:

No good will come from this victory-not for your family or for the Obours or for the citizens of Kislova who I am sworn to protect. Leave this place. If you are wise you will never return.

He spun and looked toward the path leading to the river. In the place where the mists were the thickest he saw the floating figure of an old woman, her long white hair flowing like the folds of her gown. There, yet not there, but whether this was vision or spectre he did not know. "Leave this land," she whispered and raised one pale hand, pointing at him.

"I cannot," he replied. Nonetheless, he mounted his horse, and without a backward glance at the castle or the apparition, rode quickly toward his camp.

FIVE

Ilsabet retreated to the great hall and paced the length of it, hysterical with shame and sorrow. She'd seen the blind rebel leader ride up beside Baron Peto and knew exactly how Peto had been warned of the invasion. She wondered how she'd live with the guilt of her father's death, then alternately how she would survive now that he was gone.