The plain that stretched between Ceir Gwyn and Elmont was barren, save for tussocks of rough grass and the coarse plants that grow on deprived soil. Beneath a merciless summer sun the sparse herbage lay shrivelled, while the gravelled track that ran from west to east shimmered and shifted in the heat. To a hawk that circled on silent wings high above, there was no other movement, except the horseman riding swiftly eastward, and the cloud of dust that rose at his passing and hung like faint smoke on the air behind him.

A watcher might with justice suppose this a Fir Domnan traveller, though a bold, even foolhardy one to go alone in these troubled days--especially toward known haunts of outlaws and Firbolg. Closer observation, however, would reveal him to be exceptionally short; a surprising anomaly, considering his accoutrements were similar to those of a Sentinel, one of the tall knights who protected and policed the Nine Realms.

His horse, a fine dun stallion, was shod with iron, well cared for and in peak condition. His saddle was the type snugly fitted to the rider's own shape, to keep him balanced despite lack of stirrups when wielding blade or lance. The rider had a long sword, finely made but businesslike, belted over a buffcoat, which probably, from its ample size, covered mail beneath. He wore boots of soft leather, and a conical steel helmet banded with gold-toned metal, probably tarnishless orichalc, set before with a milky-green stone. But unlike many Sentinels he carried no lance. Instead, a bow was slung across his back, intricately crafted of layers of wood and horn. A quiver of goose-feathered arrows hung to balance the shield, blazoned in silver, gold and green, suspended from the left front horn of his saddle.

Holt neither drew rein nor looked back until the sun stood at noon, when for a while he stopped to breathe his horse and drink from his flask. Turning, he looked back across the parched plain to the heights of Ceir Gwyn rising above the haze, seeing them strung like silver beads against blue gauze, with the city pendant at their southern extremity like a pale citrine. It shone too bright for his eyes. He felt for the chain about his neck, clasping the green jewel a moment in his hand, then, looking eastward again, saw where the mountain mass rose dark in the distance, its forbidding heights shrouded in mist. Thrusting his lady's pledge away, he took up the reins once more. Brandysnap started forward at a steady pace, eating up the miles that lay between them and their goal.

Holt's thoughts revolved as he rode, always returning to the same conclusion: he would pursue this quest for the rest of his life, whether short or long. For he could not return without Cyrhision, the fabled Chain, and yet there was, he felt, no hope of his ever finding it. Rillodan had spoken cheeringly at their parting, but so would any friend seeing him off on such a venture. Rillodan's Lantean Sight was fragmentary at best; he had not foreseen the massacre of the Fifth Company, nor sensed anything of subsequent events save that the captives still lived. If any words of his were likely to be true, they were the gloomy ones, and Holt needed no one to tell him of hazard. The Elmont range crawled with evil creatures, gone to earth there when driven out of more open lands. Worst of all, Holt's enemy,the Renegade Krasim, kept several strongholds there. Holt had no doubt that he and the Lord of Ondarerda would meet again. He knew now the strength of the bond between himself and Amrielle; but that link also included Krasim.

Far behind, the cat Minx still trailed him, as she had done all the weary day since she bolted from the City gate. She had tarried there, torn between the master who had rescued her, and the mistress who now took care of her; finally, she had chosen Holt, sensing perhaps that his need was greater, and that her mistress would wish her to go. Minscaramuni (her formal name, as befitted a descendant of ancient Lantean hunting-cats) was no mere fireside pet, and Amrielle knew, none better, how useful she could be at tracking, warning, finding food.

But Minx was smaller than her ancestors, and despite her usefulness, her pace could not match that of a galloping horse. Though not built for sustained speed, she padded on. Feeling herself observed, she glanced up; above her the hawk floated, and she knew that even as she saw him, he had spied her. But she did not fear him, having claws as sharp as his. She opened her mouth to hiss and he tilted away, for she had spoilt his chance now for prey along the road.

The hawk with his keen eyes had seen her from above, but Holt had not, low to the ground as she was, and masked by the slowly settling dust. Still, she would catch him up, she had no doubt. His horse was fast, but a horse must rest. Footsore but still purposeful, as her shadow lengthened before her she continued to trot in pursuit.

Holt stopped for the night in a dip beside the road. In this treeless place, little could be found to burn, so he did without a fire, contenting himself with an uncooked supper. The night would grow cold, but he had known it colder in the wilds. He buttoned his coat, wrapped himself in his blanket, leaned against Brandysnap's saddle and was soon asleep.

A small, plaintive sound wakened him. He sat up, blinking in the morning light as it came again, and saw a small, pointed head peering out between two tussocks of grass.

"Minx!" he exclaimed, reaching out his hand. "Well, I suppose I should have known. Have you walked all this way?" The cat picked her way down the bank and lay beside him, purring and nuzzling his arm. Holt saw that her feet were sore. He stroked her dusty coat, marvelling at the determination that had caused her to walk through the night. After a few minutes, he realised she was asleep, so he eased himself away from her and ate breakfast. She was still sleeping when he was ready for the road, so he gathered her up and mounted, settling her in front of him, secured in a fold of his coat.

They set off, Brandysnap taking an easy pace for the sake of the sleeper. He had cocked an ear when his small friend arrived, but seemed not the least surprised. All that day Holt carried Minx, feeding her when she woke on pieces of his dried meat. He made no attempt to set her down or send her back. Since she had chosen to come with him, he accepted her companionship gladly, knowing that once rested, she would prove no liability. She might not match the horse's pace on the road, but among tumbled mountain-slopes, her agile feet had the advantage. She could hunt for herself, flush game for him and fetch it like any spaniel, and he felt no doubt that her uncanny instincts would help him on his quest. This was no lap-cat that he carried, despite the orichalc collar Amrielle had set upon her. Minx had saved his life once already, and might well do so again.

They followed the road until it bent northward, heading for the Duergh city-state of Vigdoladgr. Made originally for trade with Loigris and the rest of the Nine Realms, until recently it had carried brisk traffic. But now the minds of the Rockfolk were occupied with warfare rather than profit, for their very realm was threatened; and no merchant of Gwendirion had a mind to expose himself or his wares to harrying Firbolg. Nor had Holt any desire to run across them, or indeed the Duerghar, to whom he would be equal anathema. Every Rockman in western Earda must know his name in connection with the death of F'Ram. Duerghar were quick to take offence, slow to alter their opinions, and their memories were enduring as the crags they inhabit. Holt hoped his quest might not lead to their domains.

Little enough was known these days of Cyrhision, the Chain of Nadon, which was almost certainly why King Elfeor had sent his daughter's inconvenient suitor to look for it. The folk of the City had all but forgotten the King's own quest, almost fifty years past, for lost Lantean artefacts; nor was it generally known that Elfeor had long sustained hopes of success, and had sent out several further expeditions during the early part of his reign, all of which proved entirely fruitless.

Holt had been given scant time to prepare, being ordered to leave the day after Elfeor set him his unreasonable task. Rillodan of course had told him all he could, though the Lantean's knowledge was far out of date. Amrielle too had done her best to help. The best source of information, her father, she could not ask; but she went to her sister's husband, who as Regent of Loigris, Elfeor's chief minister, took an interest in his sovereign's obsessions.

East, west and north, all trails were cold. Rumours of hoards, hidden caves, secret vales guarded by dragons, monsters, giant bulls or boars--none held substance. The searchers in Elmont had chiefly looked for Luneholme, the last known refuge of Nadon's consort. Yet, it had not been they, but Amrielle herself who found the place, when in desperate straits she had brought Holt there to be healed of one wound, and unwittingly dealt another. The Hidden Valley was a place of enchantment, where no falsehood, malice or self-seeking might enter; it held perils even for the well-intentioned, stripping away all the careful illusions built up by world or self. There, Holt had seen truly the warm and simple heart of his lady, and the love which, until then, he had locked away, even from his own awareness, had burst its bonds and consumed him.

But though the wards of Luneholme were created by Cyrhision's aid, the Chain was no longer there. So Rillodan had said, who despite his maimed senses was likely to know; and deep within himself Holt felt it must be so. Though the Chain might well have concealed itself then, there surely would have been some sign, some resonance, that now he would remember. That Cyrhision should lie where he had already been was, moreover, somehow too easy; dimly he sensed a pattern, of which such an outcome could not be part. If he drew a blank, he might return there, in hope of some clue. Yet, he did not wish to, cheerless, bereft of his lady. The memory of their time there was as much a jewel as the one she had given him, an image of unsullied sweetness and a pledge of future fulfilment. He would go far before he sought to meddle with a thing so precious.

Nevertheless, with all of Earda to choose from, Holt had decided to begin his search among the grim peaks of Elmont. He had not told Amrielle so, since the dangers they held were considerable, and she would have much preferred that he slip away far south or west where she would know him safe. Despite all that she meant to him, his most fervent wish to please her, this he could not do. Given a chance, however slim, to win the right to spend his life with her, he could not do other than pursue it to the utmost of his ability. Shean wariness did not, as many believed, equate with timidity; cornered, even the most peaceable could fight like a lynx at bay.

Holt came to Elmont because it was the Chain's last known location, and rumours of strangeness there persisted among drovers and travellers. It was harsh, wild country, and by no means yet entirely under the grip of Krasim's armoured fist, much though the would-be Emperor might like to think so. Rillodan knew of pockets of power there, dimly sensed even by his impaired faculties, that his desolate spirit had for centuries chosen to shun. Had he gone with Holt, the task would have been far simpler. Elfeor had forbidden this, fairly perhaps; though rancour that the Lantean had stood proxy for a humble Shean, rather than wooing a daughter of the House of Elsar for himself, probably had more to do with it. But Rillodan had helped his friend all he could, even giving him the ring that was his last reminder of lost days, and Holt was heartily grateful.

The morning of the next day saw him among the deep valleys of western Elmont, strewn with glacier-fed lakes reflecting white and blue and green like bright opals, below peaks more forbidding than any Holt had seen. He began to search, exploring every glen, every corrie and cleft, working from south to north then back from north to south as he edged gradually eastward toward the main mass of Elmont. It was slow work, difficult, dangerous and fruitless, but he set his mind on the goal ahead and left no stone unturned.

He needed all his skill to avoid the denizens of this forbidding country; Firbolg, wolves and other fell creatures he gave a wide berth. Troll, however, he sought out, and was fortunate quite early on to come across a solitary member of the breed, snoring like a volcano within a shallow cave. Holt peered in, and saw the vast bulk outstretched, almost filling the den. It was alone. Holt searched up and down the valley, knowing he was safe enough till dark, and found no more. He spent the rest of the daylight fashioning a snare from rope he had brought with him, fine but strong from the artisans of Gwendirion. It was much like the snares he used once to set for rabbits, but now it was giant prey he meant to catch. When all was ready he set Minx up on his saddle-horn and marked their escape route, in case the rope broke; an angry trol moved fairly fast, so getaway would need to be quick.

But all went well. At dusk the monster came out, failed to see the snare and was caught; though troll can see in the dark they are not keen-sighted, nor was this one at all wary in his lonely fastness. Holt had him trussed like a fowl before he had quite finished swearing. Then he made himself comfortable by the mouth of the cave, and prepared to make a night of it, for troll find coherent speech even more of a labour than thought. While the trol was undoubtedly strong enough to be able to break his bonds, Holt had made sure they were tight enough to cost him some effort, and to avert the possibility he drew his krist, making sure his captive could see it--a trol's wits might be slow, but not when it came to immediate self-preservation. Holt began to polish the blade nonchalantly on his sleeve; the warning-stone set in the hilt gleamed darkly orange.

The trol's eyes, small in the huge head, watched Holt wanly. It was a hideous gangrel, not quite two-headed but with a double face--a characteristic of most troll, but not usually so evident. His nose, lips and chin were cleft, looking to left and right, and he had three eyes, the middle one the largest. A stubbly beard covered his two chins, and his hair stood on end like the head of a stiff broom. Holt looked at the ungainly, misshapen body, twitching a little within its bonds, and felt almost sorry for the creature; given such disadvantages, troll could scarcely help what they were. He did not intend to harm it, but all the same it would never do to let the trol know that. He went on polishing his knife.

"Well, Wad or whatever your name is," he said at length. "If you want to be free before sunrise, you'd better talk."

The trol made no reply, only growled expletives against himself. Holt caught the word "polecat", and presumed it referred to himself. Unflattering as this was, Holt doubted he smelt worse than the trol, and was pleased to be equated in that limited mind with something which, if small, was a fierce hunter. He allowed himself a grin. The trol's flat pebble eyes looked sideways at him, as though trying to make him out. Holt wore Sentinel's garb, but even a trol could tell he was no Fir Domnan. He began a long, rambling account of himself, calculated rather to puzzle than inform. According to Rillodan, who had distilled the essence of his vast experience into an intense few hours schooling for Holt before he left, curiosity tended to put trol off their guard.

Holt paused when the trol's pupils had grown small and shiny as black buttons. "So," he said. "I'm a seeker, but all I've found so far is you. A poor prize, hardly worth keeping. If you help me, I may let you go."

"Ah," grunted his captive. "What you seek?"

"Starshine and sunshine. A jewel, the finest in Earda, and mine to claim."

"Know naught of jewels," the trol mumbled. But as the stars faded he grew uneasy.

Holt watched his fidgeting, unconcerned.

"Know one hoard," the trol stammered at last. "If tell, let me go?"

"One hoard?" Holt said. "Oh, come. You can do better than that."

The trol whimpered, then began to blabber of every Firbolg bolt-hole he knew.

"Hold your noise!" Holt commanded. "What do you take me for, a common pilferer? Do you think I want to hunt in every heap of trash between here and Ceir Quern? Tell me who has the good stuff, and where they got it."

The trol's tongue fell over itself now to provide information to please his captor, but when he was done Holt shook his head.

"I doubt any trol-cave or boggan-den holds what I'm after," he said. "Pity you couldn't help me." He rose as if to go.

"No, no!" the imprisoned trol gasped. "Tell more--if promise untie me--" His eyes were now pits of terror, perhaps simply of the spreading silver in the east, the coming dawn that would turn him, so he believed, to stone. Or perhaps, also of something more.

"Go on then," Holt said. "Best be quick!"

"Two valleys," the trol muttered. "Never go there. One, dragon made lair, many years gone--" He held up his hands, rapidly clenching and releasing his fingers.

"Hundred?" Holt calculated.

The trol nodded. "Saw it fly, like blue flame that hiss out of black fire-rock. May have left hoard, not know, not dare look." He paused, shivering slightly.

"Why not?" Holt glanced at the paling sky.

"Can't, can't! Afraid--"

"Why? What's there?"

"Don't know! Can't get in!" The trol was squirming in his bonds. "Let go now," he pleaded.

Sunrise was close, and whatever it might actually do to the trol he was certainly frightened. But the stakes here were high.

"You said there was another place," Holt pressed.

"Yes! Yes! Went there once, no way in. Mist comes, then trees move. Fell over edge, nearly, ran and ran, found way back. Heard them laughing."

"Who laughed?"

"Trees! Nothing there but trees."

Something must have been, Holt thought. Something with power to make rooted trees appear to move.

"What were they like, these trees?"

"Rowans! Rowans with red crowns." He rolled fearful eyes toward the sharpening hilltops.

"Very well," Holt said. "I'll let you go, but first you'll tell me where these valleys are." He listened, knife in hand, while the hapless trol gave him what directions he could. Then he slashed the rope binding the creature's legs and grinned as it blundered back into its cave, just as the sun's polished rim won clear of the morning cloud above the hills.

Holt whistled Brandysnap, who trotted up accompanied by Minx. He mounted as the sun became a cabochon of flame and rode down the hillside toward it, feeling more cheerful than he had for some time.

It took him only a few days to find the first of the trol's feared valleys. There were no rowan trees--in fact not much vegetation at all below the frowning cliffs--so Holt assumed it must be the dragon's lair. A stream trickled down a rocky ghyll, similar to many he had seen, save for the leaden sense of horror that pressed down from above. Brandysnap snorted and stopped short, trembling, and Holt felt the hairs rise on his own neck.

But he must climb the ghyll, for the dragon had surely placed this barrier to guard something within, perhaps the very thing Holt sought so keenly. Dismounting, he gentled his horse and persuaded him to move. Minx ran ahead, then came back to look at them inquiringly. Holt realised she felt no fear; she, who cowered at the smell of a gangrel footprint, was afraid of nothing else, not even a dragon's den. She went before, returning constantly to reassure them.

Holt's throat was tight with fear, but reason kept him going--the knowledge that no harm could lie ahead since Minx was unscathed. They climbed upward slowly, like figures in some endless nightmare. Morning passed, and they had covered scarcely a mile. Then, where the cliffs narrowed to a dark opening, Brandysnap halted. He had done his best, but now could go no further; his eyes were starting, his flanks sweating with terror. Holt stroked his mane and spoke to him, bidding him stay.

He looked up at the overhanging cliffs, and his feet seemed frozen to the ground. Maggots of horror crept across his skin, then, solid against his breast, he felt his lady's jewel. He laid his hand upon it, and at the same moment Minx bounded out from the cleft, and rubbed against his ankles. Warmth flowed into him and he dragged forward, floundering as if sunk in quicksand, but somehow he gained the narrow place. He put out his hands and heaved himself along, mindless, catching his breath in great gasps from the effort. Suddenly the cliffs opened out and the ground vanished beneath his feet. Sunlight blinded him as he pitched forward into space.

He fetched up against a rock, and lay for a moment half-stunned. Then as his head cleared he found he could move. Picking himself up, he looked about. He had not in fact fallen far, only rolled down a sharp slope. The head of the valley curved round to form a bowl; its sides were steep and slippery with scree, so that there was no entrance save the way he had come. Here there was vegetation, scrub and a few stunted trees, different altogether from the valley of terror beyond. The creeping horror was gone, yet something in the air was strange, eerie, like no place he had ever known. He drew his sword, holding it ready before him. For the first time, Minx felt the strangeness. Snuffing the air uneasily, she pressed close to him as he descended to the floor of the bowl.

At the bottom it was marshy, criss-crossed by many runnels. There was a constant sound of water trickling and bubbling, and wisps of mist rose here and there like formless wraiths, wavering and shifting until they dissolved away. Strangely, in this high place, the air was stuffy, and the water warm to his feet. At one point in the valley wall, a waterfall cascaded down, a ribbon of white foam across the rocks. It lost its rushing in a deep pool, from which a stream flowed out, swift but silent, and plunged into a hole in the cliff. Wisps of steam or gas rose from the dark water. No fish swam in it, no midges danced above. A curious odour came from it. Holt sniffed, remembering tales of dragon-scent, and moved away from the bank. Minx wrinkled her dainty nose, and shook the tainted water from her feet, for it was wet wherever they trod. But she followed her master close as he traced the course of the stream.

As they approached the pool, something rose and swirled in the water, as if a great fish prepared to leap the falls. But it was not a fish. Holt stopped short a yard from the brink, drawing a soundless breath. Beside him Minx arched her back, all her fur standing on end. They had come upon the secret of the Dragon's Valley.

It was a salamander, a young dragon, not yet fledged. Long as a man, it filled the pool, the serrations along its back just breaking the water. Beneath the surface its body glimmered, worm-like and pale, but dark markings showed along its flanks; when the armour-scales grew, hard as plated steel, they would be firecoal black. The legs splayed, each ending in a triple-clawed foot, fully formed. But there were only two knobs behind the shoulders where the wings would grow once it had left the water, vast membranes to cloud the sun, and terrify the creatures of Earda with their sound. Behind its narrow snout, crimson gills extended like patches of blood.

It lay regarding them, these trespassers within the precincts of its haven, and floated upward until its raised eye-sockets rose clear of the water. Its eyes held theirs, fathomless tourmaline to drown the unwary, until Holt felt himself sway with dizziness. He wrenched his gaze away and laid a restraining hand on Minx' collar, for she had taken a stiff pace forward. At his touch, she leapt back and spat. Flame flickered in the depths of those baleful eyes, an echo of the slumbering fires within, and the jaws opened in a faint hiss. The creature was hungry. It had exhausted the fish in the pool, and then devoured its weaker brothers and sisters, in the way of dragons. Soon it would leave the water; already its gills were shrinking. Meanwhile it must starve. So it had tried to draw them in, and almost succeeded, for there is seduction in the eyes of a dragon, even one so young.

Holt looked about. Dragons do not bury their hoards in the earth, and there was no crack that could have hidden one. The only place that might hold treasure was the pool. He looked again at the salamander. It had as yet no voice, but it could comprehend.

"I seek Cyrhision," he said aloud, his voice reverberating around the sides of the closed bowl. The dragon lashed its tail and hissed again, raising its snout from the water. The crimson gills rippled on either side like flames, and a cascade of drops fell shimmering into the pool from the frilled jaws. But they were not all that sparkled; about the sinuous neck Holt caught a glint of silver. Quick as thought, he put up his blade and held the point to the salamander's throat. The beast flung back its head, gasping, flailing its clawed feet and scraping its tail along the rocks below. The chain it wore swung clear, a thin thread of silver set with pearls.

Holt lowered his sword, and sighed. It seemed he was not to complete his task so easily. For Cyrhision, according to Rillodan's description, was fashioned like a collar, triple-linked, but the clasp was rough silver, set with a piece of veined rock-amethyst. No need to search the pool; Cyrhision was a work of power, the summit of skill of the Lantean metalsmith Nadon Silverhand, and no dragon, not even a blind, newborn salamander, would pass over it in favour of another. This dragon at least could not possess it.

The salamander lay still once more, glaring up at Holt, and he wondered suddenly if he ought to kill it. But he had no reason, and it was helpless. If it survived to leave the water, hunger would drive it from the safety of its valley, and before its wings grew and its fire kindled, it would be vulnerable as a lizard, hated and hunted by every beast of Earda. He took a last look at the awesome nursery and climbed back up to the entrance in the cliff, Minx clambering at his heels.

Holt found Brandysnap where he had left him. The whites of his eyes showed and his flanks heaved with terror, but he had stood fast. Holt led him away, talking and praising him softly, but keeping a firm hand on his bridle. Returning, the ghyll had an altered effect: now, it impelled the intruder to wild flight. Holt went at a brisk pace, but resisted the impulse to flee, easier now that he knew what lay behind.

Once free of the place, he found shelter and slept the rest of the day. Brandysnap cropped the grass, then dozed also. Minx kept watch, stretched on a branch above; she never seemed to need sleep, though she must have cat-napped at times. Always she guarded her master while he slept, and several times already had warned him of approach. She watched him where he lay, one hand clasped about the haft of his krist, the other at his breast, resting on his lady's talisman. Worn out, he slept sound, trusting her to rouse him at need. She yawned, a cat's yawn of content, and continued her solitary vigil.