PROLOGUE

In a hidden corner of the Heavens, the Weaver of Lives bent over her loom.

On the frame before her, the fates of all who lived were decided, her certain fingers tying in seconds the many-hued strands that became the passions and adventures of a Mortal’s lifetime.

In the warp and web of the present fabric lay the young soldier’s life--only a third yet complete--its pattern begun long before his birth. At its beginning the stark design of his father’s days contrasted sharply with the delicate intricacies of his mother’s brief existence and now, etched in bolder colors, his own. She lifted the slender green life-thread as if testing its strength.

Riven kan Ingan....

Prideful...

Irreverent...

Trusting in himself and nothing more....

Arrogant, deceitful, non-believer...marked by the gods for his blasphemy....

Weave it carefully, Ildred All-Father had instructed her. He has much to answer for!

The Weaver smiled grimly. Aye, she would weave his life carefully. Very carefully indeed....


Chapter One

When the red raw mists cleared, he was alone.

That was how the Mortuaries found him--face down in the bloody slush where the heat from his body had melted the snow--the black war-horse standing guard above him. They had to blindfold the animal to lead it away, for it bared its teeth and struck at them, determined to protect its master even at the cost of his own life

In desperate haste, the man was carried back to Aljansur, given over to the ministrations of his long-time enemy, the Royal Leech, who put aside his differences long to enough to treat the Margrave’s favorite, declaring that ’twould not be because of a lack of skill on his part if the young warrior died.

That said, the Royal Leech did what he could before abandoning his patient to the compassion of the gods.

At this point, the gods were still merciful.

The slow and painful process of healing took many months. ’Twas winter when Riven was injured, late spring before he was able to leave his sickbed. Too weak to mount a horse or lift a sword, shamed by his infirmities, and the knowledge that he’d been unable to defend neither his princess nor his men, he felt himself a laughingstock and his anger grew until it supplanted his humiliation.

Nearly a year passed before he declared himself returned to health, ignoring the Leech’s half-hearted advice. From one winter to another, four seasons of impatience and accompanying guilt gnawed at his heart and railed at him in his dreams. When the day came that he was able to leave his sickbed, he prepared to go after the raiders in spite of the protests of the Court Physician and the twelve brave knights to whose counsel the King always listened.

Even Hraeth, his sword-brother, closer than a real brother, closer than blood, tried to dissuade him.

"Nay, Riven, wait," he cautioned, knowing that his reasoning fell on deaf ears. Riven was the more headstrong of the two, ready to brave dragons in their dens and call out anyone who dealt him what he considered a slight, whether intentioned or otherwise. "Wait until the snows have melted. Early Spring is an occasion for prudence, not a time to enter the Snow King, when the mountains are treacherous with change!"

Hraeth was right, of course, but Riven was determined.

"Those thieving B’akshir bastards braved the snows," he argued. "Why shouldn’t I?"

Shrugging off Hraeth’s comforting hand, he stood before Leontilf’s throne, ashen with pain and trying vainly to ignore it, and railed at them to hide his shame.

"Stay safe if you wish! None of you has had your body wounded near to death, or your men slain!" Nor had any of them had his betrothed snatched from his arms but no one knew that, and he was wise enough not to reveal his and Aleza’s secret. "’Tis my responsibility, Your Majesty. I lost her... I’ll bring her back! I’ll go. Alone!"

He would rescue the woman he loved and, more importantly, avenge his honor.

"You can wait--all of you!" Including Hraeth in his anger, he fairly spat the words at them, scorn in every syllable. "Until the safe season."

Some quailed before him, not daring to face the fury in those wild eyes, others merely shook their heads in pity that one so young could have so much hate, but eventually, one by one, each one spoke his pledge.

"You’ll not go alone, Riven! What kind of men would we be, if we let a single man attempt our Princess’ rescue?"

Oh yes, they came with him, pricked by his taunts, but more because Leontilf ordered it so.

He and twelve knights set out from Aljansur Castle, following the highroad that became the path leading through the mountainside groves of black-needled pines into the Snow King. In their winter armor and heavy capes, they rode through the snow-heavy passes where the frost-heave had buckled and twisted the earth.

The bodies of those men and their horses now lay in the chasms and crevasses of that treacherous mountain.

Only he had survived.

A soothsayer once told him he was accursed by the gods.

Mayhap the man was right, Riven now thought, if the gods existed, that is. Personally, he felt that fortunetellers, like priests, were there only to frighten and intimidate the foolish and any man with half a brain in his head knew better to believe their tales.

If Hraeth had been along, things might have been different. Perhaps Riven might not have pushed forward in such haste but the chances were that he would merely have added his bones to those already lying at the bottom of one of those wide snow-hidden mouths which lurked to swallow men and animals whole.

For some reason, only the Margrave’s young chevnal, stunned and shaken by the useless loss, had been allowed to ride his horse onto the plain.

The heat and barrenness had been a shock after the cold in the heights and for a while it only added to his confusion, but slowly the turmoil in his mind cleared, giving way once more to anger. He kept feeding it as he rode, thinking again and again of what had happened, reopening and bruising the wound in his heart until his rage and the deep-burning need for revenge were the only forces that kept him going.

Riven closed his eyes, feeling the heat sear as if it were trapped under his eyelids, and wished he were back in Aljansur with the waves beating against the cliffs amid the Great Ocean’s crashing.

"Perhaps, when I open my eyes, I’ll awake, and find this merely an ale-inspired ride upon the Night-Mare." It was breathed like a prayer.

It didn’t happen.