Believed dead by all but the handful of supporters who rescued him from his Mataian enemies, Abramm Kalladorne has fled his homeland to the high mountains of northern Chesedh. Traveling under a new name with a group of bitter and increasingly desperate fellow exiles, Abramm hopes to reunite with his wife, Maddie, where he will offer his services to her father in fighting the invading armies of the Black Moon.

But with every step, he is thwarted from the direction he wants to take, and it soon becomes clear Eidon has other plans for him.

In the royal city of Fannath Rill, Maddie alone believes Abramm still lives. But since she has no proof, her friends, family, and public opinion press her to remarry. With its neighboring realms now under enemy control, Chesedh has become the last bastion of Eidon’s Light. Desperately overmatched, it cannot survive on its own. Yet an eastern warlord has a vast fleet of galley ships that could turn the tide in their favor if Maddie agrees to his offer.

As war, betrayal, and shifting alliances close in, both Maddie and Abramm have their faith tested beyond what either of them could ever imagine.

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About the Author

Karen Hancock has won Christy Awards for each of her first four novels —Arena and the first three books in the Legends of the Guardian-King series. She graduated from the University of Arizona with bachelor’s degrees in biology and wildlife biology. Along with writing, she is a semi- professional watercolorist and has exhibited her work in a number of national juried shows. She and her family reside in Arizona.

Excerpt from the Book

THE BELL-TONED VOICE DREW ABRAMM KALLADORNE

into the sunlight of the open meadow, a yellow butterfly zigzagging ahead of him above a patch of purple lupine. He pressed through the bloom-laden stalks into rippling grass, following the plucked notes of a lirret and a voice as familiar as his own. She must be just beyond that primrose at the meadow’s far edge.

Children’s laughter echoed in counterpoint to her sweet voice, and his pace quickened. Ian would be over two by now, walking well, maybe even talking in phrases and sentences, while Simon would have left all his toddlerhood behind, a real little boy at last. Then there was Maddie.

Abramm ached for her so badly sometimes he could hardly bear it. Now finally, that was behind him. All the worrying about threading the high passes before winter closed them had been for naught. In a moment he would step around that bush and there she’d be, her gray-blue eyes widening with surprise at the sight of him an instant before she’d cast her lirret aside and fling herself into his—

His foot slipped, and he lurched to regain his balance, gripping his walking staff hard as he drove it into the snow. The misstep jolted his entire body as the vision winked out and the dark, icy reality of the blizzard-swept heights filled his senses again. She wasn’t here. His boys weren’t here. There was no meadow. The passes were not behind him, and winter was very definitely closing in . . .

Realization slammed him so hard he reeled to a stop, struggling to breathe as he felt again the cold and the exhaustion and the misery.

Wind screamed around him, pelting his heavy woolen cloak with slivers of snow and flapping its snow-caked hem about his legs. For a moment, the desire to give up was so strong he nearly collapsed.

But he couldn’t. Maddie was waiting for him. His boys needed him. And so he drew a deep breath and reached up to dash away the ice that continually froze onto his beard and mustache. Chunks of it clung also to the long hair dangling beside his face, some of them rasping against the inside edge of his cowl, others frozen to his beard. He no longer felt his feet, and his fingers, numb beneath a double layer of glove and mitten, could hardly grip his walking staff.

He squinted down the rocky hill to where a shin-deep trough of footprints angled across the slope through the rapidly accumulating snow. At the end of his pocket of visibility, the last of his companions were starting down the next switchback, obscured by the shifting veils of snow. Shuddering, he started after them, placing steps and stick carefully to avoid any more almost-falls.

Neither he nor anyone else in his party had any real idea where they were going, only that having come through the Kolki Pass they must descend the barren slopes beyond to an ancient Terstan monastery just below the tree line. “The way will be obvious,” the men back at Highmount Holding had assured them. Maybe it would be if clouds hadn’t swallowed the world and driving snow hadn’t made it hard to open one’s eyes and the rock cairns that were supposed to be their guides weren’t fast disappearing beneath the drifting snow.

It was typical, though, of the bad luck that had plagued them since leaving Kiriath, transforming what should have been a three-week journey through the pass into a six-week trial of endurance. They’d run out of food two days ago and burned the last of their dung-pats in last night’s fire. Water had been in short supply for over a week, and they had an old man, a pregnant woman, and a number of children with them. Thinking they’d be in Caerna’tha tonight, they’d left much of their bedding and tents with the wagon when it had irreparably broken down in the pass that morning. Now, with the day three-quarters gone, and the tree line still who knew how far below them, their situation was growing desperate.

For not the first time he sent up a prayer for guidance and protection.

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