They climbed farther into the ravine, keeping the peak on their left-hand side. Their route coincided with a stream that leaped and tumbled among the broken stones. The rocks along the streambed were wet and slippery underfoot. They climbed almost vertically the last hundred yards until they came to a place where the water seemed to explode from a cliff face.

“This is the water gate to Raven's Ghyll.” Hastings had to shout over the roar of the falls. This left Jack as clueless as before. But he knew that Raven's Ghyll was their destination, the traditional site of the tournament. Hastings had suggested they enter the back way, for safety reasons.

“The Rules of Engagement are not in force until you are officially registered for the tournament,” Hastings had said. “I don't want to risk an ambush along the way.” Jack remembered what Linda had said about the members of the council wanting to cut Hastings's throat, and assumed that the wizard might have personal reasons for slipping in unnoticed. As if the terrain and weather were not bad enough, the idea of an ambush had infused their journey with just that extra element of suspense. Jack found himself reacting to every little noise and flicker of movement.

Hastings boosted himself easily onto a small platform of rock next to the falls and extended a hand to Jack so he could climb up after him. All of the stones and handholds were slippery with spray. Hastings pointed into the falls. “We're going in there.”

There was a scant eight inches of ledge along the side of the gorge. By flattening themselves against the cliff and hugging the cold rock face, they were able to slide past the falls and into a rock chamber that lay beyond. It was cold and shrouded in vapor from the thundering falls. Jack could look out past the cascading water and see how far they had climbed.

At the back of the vault a narrow path snaked up between two massive blocks of stone. That was their road. They were hardly hiking anymore, but climbing. Any steeper and they would have needed ropes, Jack thought, tightening his fingers around stones above his head and hauling himself upward, trying not to think about what would happen if he slipped.

His thoughts wandered to his opponent, putting flesh on the bones of speculation. Hastings had guessed that Jack's opponent must be young, or the Red Rose would have called a tournament before now. The White Rose had held the cup for years, a situation that rankled the other House. Since most warriors were taken as young children, he'd probably been in training for years. Perhaps he looked forward to this fight with anticipation instead of dread.

Another half hour of hard climbing, and they were over the rim and looking down on Raven's Ghyll.

They couldn't see much. The valley was shrouded by a shimmering cloud that might have been mist, but which even Jack's uneducated eyes recognized as a wizard's barrier.

“How did you know how to get through here?” Jack asked, struggling to catch his breath and hoping to delay the wizard long enough to do so.

“I've had to get in and out of Raven's Ghyll unseen in the past,” Hastings replied. The wizard wasn't even breathing hard. Hastings unslung his backpack and produced two lightweight cloaks. He pulled one on over his clothes and handed the other to Jack. “Put this on,” he directed. Jack put his cloak on and pulled up the hood.

“Have you ever been in a tournament before?” Jack asked.

“I've never actually participated, but I've disrupted a few.” Hastings reached into his pack and drew from it a small object, which he handed to Jack. It was a roughly-hewn gray stone, oval, about the size of the palm of his hand. It was covered with unfamiliar runes and symbols, and hung from a finely-wrought silver chain. It seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

Jack looked up at Hastings. “Put it on,” the wizard said. “I'd like to surprise them, if I can.” He didn't offer any further explanation.

Jack slipped the chain over his head and pushed the stone into the neckline of his sweatshirt. It lay against the skin of his chest, creating a slight tingling sensation. The wizard laid a hand on his arm, spoke a few words of Latin, and disappeared.

“Hastings!” Jack could still feel the burn of the wizard's hand.

“We're both invisible, Jack. The stone is called a dyrne sefa. Created by sorcerers. It allows us powers uncommon even to wizards. Now, stay close so I don't lose you.” And he pressed ahead, more slowly now, descending the inner side of the hills that enclosed the Ghyll. The footing was tricky, and Jack had to concentrate to keep from stumbling and to stay within reach of Hastings.

As they approached the barrier, the wizard spoke a charm, and a ragged rent appeared in the mist before them. They stepped through, and it closed behind them. Now they could see clearly.

Raven's Ghyll was a broad, shallow valley surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs and frowning fells. Snow-fed streams tumbled from the flanks of Ravenshead and meandered across the valley floor, cutting it into meadows and parks quilted with trees, and finally escaping through the ravine they'd just climbed. At the far end of the basin, halfway up the slope, a large castle was built into the hill. It had been constructed of the native rock, and resembled an outcropping, part of the landscape. It was surrounded on three sides by terraced gardens that sloped down to the floor of the Ghyll.

Far above their heads, halfway up the slope of Ravenshead, something caught the light, reflecting it into Jack's eyes. He squinted, shading his eyes. A crystalline boulder protruded from the granite, as if trying to escape its drab prison. It must be huge, tons of stone, he thought, to appear so prominent from this distance. It had several shining faces, and was bluntly pointed at the end. The brilliance he was seeing was not reflected sunlight, but rather came from the heart of the stone itself.

“What's that?” he asked Hastings, pointing, then remembering that Hastings couldn't see him. “That shiny rock up there?”

He could hear amusement in Hastings's voice. “Hardly a rock, Jack. That's Ravenshead, soul of the mountain, otherwise called the Weirstone, the Dragon's Tooth. It is said that the crystals we carry originated from that stone, freed and shaped by a magic more powerful than any known today.” He paused. “It is the stone that keeps us imprisoned,” he added softly.

Jack didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

“The Rules of Engagement are part of the covenant that keeps the dragon sleeping in the mountain. If the rules are broken, the dragon will awake.”

“Is that true?” Jack shivered, gazing up at the stone that shimmered like a beacon on the hillside, while the top of the mountain was still shrouded in mist.

Hastings shrugged—Jack was sure he did, though he couldn't see it. “That's what they say,” he repeated.

The weather was better in the valley than it had been on the fells, though everything dripped with moisture from the recent rain. The wall of stone around them diverted the relentless wind, which made it noticeably warmer. The grasses of the meadow were lush, deep greens and yellows where the buttercups bloomed. It was almost sunny, although the light had an odd, incandescent quality from the wizard's mist.

Between them and the castle, the Ghyll boiled with activity. Buildings and tents and trailers were scattered along both sides of the vale, as if tossed there randomly by a giant hand. People swarmed across the meadows, all seemingly in a hurry. Bright pennants flew from many of the temporary structures. Some bore a white rose, and others red. The smell of food came faintly to them. It reminded Jack of a Renaissance fair he had attended years ago. Or how he imagined a gypsy encampment might look.

A large space had been left free of buildings on the valley floor just before the castle walls. Teams of workers were constructing reviewing stands on either side. He assumed that was to be the site of the tournament. The thought left him numb.

“Who organizes all this?” he asked Hastings.

“His name is Claude D'Orsay,” Hastings said shortly. “He is a wizard, and the lineal Master of Games of the Weir. The Ghyll is the seat of the Wizard Guild, the legendary source of their power. For centuries, his family has had the job of keeping peace among the heirs. Under the rules, the Master is a chancellor who works with the head of the Wizard Council, the Holder of the Tournament Cup.”

He paused. “The Master of Games is supposed to be neutral in these affairs, but D'Orsay has always been a political player, more powerful than he should be. He administers the rules—for example—the one that says that wizards are not allowed to attack each other except through the warriors. Only, he overlooks a lot when it suits him,” he said dryly.

Jack had wondered why Linda seemed to think Hastings was in danger, despite the protection of the rules. “Where did all this come from?” He waved a hand, then remembered again he was invisible. “All these buildings. How did they get here?”

Hastings laughed. “We are wizards, after all. What with servants and so on, we can set up rather quickly. It will all be gone the day after the bout.”

The two picked their way down a stony path to the valley floor. Soon they were fighting their way through crowds of people who seemed startled at their touch.

Jack's head was spinning, filled with a cacophony of voices, living wizards and dead warriors, an overwhelming din that grew as he approached the keep. The dead voices were warning him. Away the warrior, they pleaded. For this is where they spill your blood. The floor of the valley was a killing ground, watered with blood, salted with bones, the resting place of hundreds of warriors. It was brutally familiar, courtesy of Jeremiah Brooks. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was dry. He remembered coming there a captive, in full knowledge of what lay ahead.

Hastings disabled the invisibility charm as they approached the festival grounds.They were assigned quarters in a permanent structure, a cottage in the manor garden. It was small and comfortable, with two bedrooms and a large room that served as living room, kitchen, and parlor, centered around a large stone fireplace. Jack was cold and tired and grimy after his trip up the mountain. Fortunately, the place had a shower. He spent considerable time under the hot spray, and emerged to find new clothes piled on his bed: heavy canvas pants; a white shirt with full sleeves; and a long tunic, navy blue with a device embroidered on the back and down the sleeves. It was a silver dragon rampant, if Jack recalled his heraldic terminology correctly. He and Nick had spent time studying heraldry a year or two ago. He never thought it would have any practical application. His old clothes, including Mercedes's vest, were gone.