“This is for your king,” the Eletian said.

The Eletian blurred in her tearing eyes. He stood erect and drew the bow string taut.

“One arrow to kill him,” he gloated.

Karigan fought the agony of his magic on her. She staggered to her feet.

“And the other to enslave him.”

Karigan tackled Shawdell as he loosed the arrow. It flew wild. She attempted to get a hold on him, and they struggled on the ground for a moment, limbs and bow entangled. Shawdell threw her off.

She tumbled through ghosts, feeling their cold presences pass through her. An old man with an arrow in his throat leered over her. He held a hoe over his head as if to strike her. F’ryan Coblebay pushed the spirit and it dissipated.

Break the arrows.

The Eletian faced Karigan, his features drawn with anger. He drew his sword once again.

This time, Karigan did not have a saber with which to defend herself, and it did not look like Shawdell was in the mood to play anymore. It was hard to think amidst the burning coils of his spell. She could toss a bunchberry petal to the wind, but by the time help arrived, Shawdell would have her sliced into a hundred pieces. The sprig of bayberry might make her feel better, but it was no defense against Shawdell. The winged horse brooch she wore pinned to her shirt had certainly been no advantage against him before.

There was only one more thing. She dipped her hand into her pocket and felt the smooth cool sphere she always kept there.

Immediately the spell shattered to pieces. Tendrils of black burning filaments fell to the ground, scorching and burrowing into the soil. No more burning hot coals. No more boiling flesh. When she looked at her skin, it was smooth and untouched.

But Shawdell still held the sword.

Use what is available to you, the king had told her following their game of Intrigue. She drew the moonstone out. It was all she had.

At first the stone did nothing, and all Karigan could do was back away from Shawdell’s intent advance. Then the stone flared to life in a single, silver blade of light. Shawdell stopped his advance in surprise.

It was like a sword in her hand. She shifted it this way and that and it swept through the air as a well-made blade should. Now she advanced, and Shawdell met her.

Their swords did not clang when they touched as two metal blades would, rather they hummed as if resonating against one another, light and dark. Silver sparks cascaded about them and a thread of smoke curled up from Shawdell’s sword.

The light of the moonstone grew within and without her, drawing on her strength and memory; gathering together everything she had ever learned about survival and putting that knowledge in her immediate grasp. It was as if all her experiences during her long journey had finally come full circle in a combination that guided her hands and feet with a confidence and a competence she had not known before.

When their swords crossed and they pushed on one another, Shawdell hissed, “Eletia has truly failed if it relies on a weak mortal to fight its battles.”

Karigan pushed him away with a grunt and battered him with another volley of blows.

“Eletian moonlight is nothing over the power of Mornhavon the Black!” Shawdell shouted.

In a calm, quiet voice, Karigan answered, “Eletia has nothing to do with it.”

The ghosts stood as supernatural witnesses in a fluctuating, gray ring about the two combatants.

Shawdell cut low at Karigan’s knees, she whipped the moonbeam blade in a luminous arc and blocked it. She thrust at his chest, but he sidled away and swung back with a slash to her stomach. It went back and forth like this, this oddly silent sword fight.

Karigan used many techniques she learned from Arms Master Rendle and F’ryan Coblebay. The ghost had shown her more than anyone when he had claimed her body during her fight with Torne. She had felt how to move her body in a precise way when wielding a sword. She had learned how to anticipate and meet the enemy. Rendle and F’ryan had taught her well, and she owed her survival in this duel, thus far, to them. One element was missing, however, that would help her overcome Shawdell. It was what the cargo master, Sevano, had taught her: unpredictability.

As they traded blows, Karigan awaited the appropriate moment. It came in the form of an especially hard blow delivered by Shawdell.

Karigan stumbled back and fell to her knees as if stunned. She looked up at Shawdell with beseeching eyes, holding her breath, the sword tip to the ground in the position of surrender.

Shawdell laughed in triumph and brought his own sword down like an ax intended to split her in half.

Karigan loosed a bloodcurdling scream of suppressed rage, closed in on him, and wrapped her arms about his waist. The sword swung far too wide to touch her. She knocked him over and rolled away.

Quick as a cat, Shawdell was on his feet again. The ploy had failed, and now he would expect anything from her.

Where Karigan’s instincts of survival and her experiences once helped her, they now faded away, leaving her drained and feeling hopeless. She could not go on much longer. She saw in Shawdell’s sparkling eyes that he knew.

The light of Laurelyn had been made Ages ago to face the dark, to repel and defeat it. A thousand years ago, Eletian warriors of the League had carried blades of light to turn the tide of the dark. The light would not tolerate the dark then, nor would it now.

The blade of light intensified rather than diminished at Karigan’s despair. Hope flared within her as if she were part of the light. The whole ridge ignited in brilliance, more brilliant than sunlight, and the ghosts, shadows of the afterlife, blanched. Shawdell’s triumphant look turned to one of uncertainty, and Karigan sprang forward.