Child Of The Flames 4y5c4h

CHILD

of the FLAMES

THE SEVEN SIGNS Book One

by

D.W. HAWKINS

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Child of the Flames Book One of The Seven Signs 2nd Revised Edition

Copyright © 2019 Daniel Wesley Hawkins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, ed, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, ing, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Published by Laconic Press. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. For all inquiries, [email protected], or visit our website at www.laconic.press.

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Visit the author website: http://www.dwhawkins.com

I dedicate this book to vanquished demons.

It’s been a long battle. May you sleep forever.

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The Fall of House Llewan

Shawna blinked tears from her eyes and held her breath against the sorrow building in her chest. It writhed inside her, a storm of screams and rage and indignation, threatening to come bursting forth in a flood of agonized wailing. Her body was hot, her blood pounded in her ears. Nervous, fluttered breaths slipped through her clenched teeth, but that was all the noise she allowed herself to make. Her father lay bleeding in the chair across from hers, bound to its wooden frame with thin, knotted rope. Dolland Llewan’s face had always evoked quiet strength, but no longer. Now it was a swollen, bruised mockery of the face Shawna knew—like it wasn’t him, just an arrangement of features that barely resembled him. His graying hair was matted with blood, as was the beard that covered his swollen jaw. His head hung to the side, and blood sputtered from his lips with each labored breath. He’ll die if he doesn’t get help! Shawna had stopped sobbing nonsensical syllables sometime during the beating, but she hadn’t been able to stop the tears. Her chest was heaving, her heart pounded her ribs, but she’d at least stemmed the howling. Nothing had stopped the men from beating her father—neither threats nor pleas for mercy had been heeded. In the end, Shawna’s screams had earned only laughter from the men who’d arrived with the sunrise. Everyone is dead. My sisters, the household, everyone—dead, dead, dead. Shawna struggled against the ropes binding her to the chair, but they gave no more than they had the last hundred times she’d tested them. She balled her fists and continued to fight until her strength wore out, but the ropes only grew tighter. She tried to scoot to the table between her and her father but couldn’t get the necessary leverage. When the brigand returned, he would kill them both—she was sure of it.

She heard the rest of the men inside the manor, ransacking everything in a methodical search for riches. In all her twenty-five springs, Shawna had never imagined something like this could happen. Her family’s estate lay on the fringes of Cambrell, but the kingdom had been peaceful for as long as anyone could . The king’s patrols visited her family’s barony several times each season, and there had never been any sort of trouble. The most excitement Shawna could was when refugees had come streaming out of Shundovia, fleeing the invasion of the Galanian Empire. The peace had been shattered with the dawn. Shawna closed her eyes at the memory of the morning’s frenzied events—flashing steel, screams for mercy, and spattered blood filled her mind. It had happened too fast for Shawna to do anything but stare in horror, and now almost everyone she loved lay dead or dying. “Shawna.” Her father coughed and raised his head. “Shawna?” “Father!” Shawna forced her voice around the lump in her throat. “I’m still here. I’m alright.” “Shawna, listen,” he sputtered around a mouthful of blood. “You have to listen to me.” “Alright.” Shawna glanced to the door. Sweat trickled down her neck. “These men—they’re going to kill you, dear.” He coughed low in his chest, the sound wet and heavy. “No matter what they tell you, you will not leave this house alive.” “Why are they here?” Shawna kept her voice low, eyes darting between her father and the closed door. “What were they asking about when they were —” Shawna closed her eyes. “When they were hitting you?” “I was ed seasons ago by a collector of artifacts. A rich man. He made multiple offers to buy your mother’s armlet—the one she got as a wedding gift. He even threatened me once. I wouldn’t sell.” His shoulders slumped with the statement. “I should have just sold.” He grew quiet, chest fluttering with pained breaths. Shawna’s breath caught, and she leaned forward, searching his face for signs of life. After a

moment, he struggled to raise his head. “You...you knew this was coming?” Shawna’s voice sounded colder than she’d intended. “No,” he grunted, spitting blood onto the floor. “I didn’t even know who the buyer was! I recognize these men, though. Their weapons, their accents— they’re Galanians, dear. Imperial Military!” Shawna gasped. “So, there’s an army coming?” “Doubtful.” Dolland shook his head. “These men are military, but they’re no normal scouting party. They know what they’re looking for. Someone powerful wants the armlet, Shawna! There’s no clear leader amongst them, though, so there have to be more of them coming. But you’ve got time, Shawna. You’ve got training enough to—” He sucked in a sharp breath and descended into a fit of wet coughing. Shawna wanted to rush to his side and wipe the blood from his face, but the ropes held her tight to the chair. His fit dragged on until Shawna was sure someone would come to check on him, but the door remained closed. Thank the gods for that. “Father?” Shawna waited for him to focus on her. “What do I do?” “You have to get free, Shawna.” His face twisted with pain. “You have to run. Take your mother’s armlet and go!” “Take the armlet?” Shawna gave him an angry, confused scowl. Why should she care about a piece of jewelry in the face of all this death? Dolland fought to hold back another coughing fit. “There must be something important about it, Shawna! It always gave your mother an odd feeling. She had dreams about it, and so did—” He paused, his face a mask of anguish. “So did Lya. You take that thing and run, dear. Don’t let these bastards get their hands on it. If they find what they’re looking for, then everyone here has died for nothing! Do you understand? Do you want Lya and Anna to have died in vain?”

Shawna rocked back from her sisters’ names, the sight of them lying in a bloody heap flashing through her mind. For a moment, she was furious with her father for using that against her, for forcing her to their lifeless gazes. The anger was swept away in the storm of other emotions in her chest, and she banished the memories with a deep breath. “I understand.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Where do I go?” “Ferolan.” Dolland shifted in his chair. “To your cousin. Warn the city, Shawna. Get word to the king!” The door slammed open before she could reply. The man who entered was grizzled, but not unkempt. He had hair the color of jet and wore a mail shirt over a dark gambeson. A longsword hung at his waist, flapping around his legs like an afterthought. Shawna noted the sword by reflex, but her eyes were locked to the dagger in his hand. The intruder smiled and toyed with the tip of his knife. “Now that you’ve had some time to think about your choices, we need to move this operation along.” “We don’t know what you want!” Shawna’s father watched the dagger with fearful eyes. The Galanian scoffed and walked toward Dolland, spinning the tip of the knife against his finger. Shawna wanted to scream, but fear seized her voice in an icy fist. The Galanian stopped in front of her father, and his smile took on a wolfish cast. “Last chance, old man. Where’s the artifact? Tell me, and I’ll let you and the girl walk away clean. No more blood—my mouth to the ears of the gods. Be reasonable. Tell me where it is.” You’re not leaving this house alive—Dolland’s words echoed in Shawna’s mind. Dolland shared a determined look with Shawna and glared at the Galanian. “Take your promises to the Void, and I’ll see you there!”

Shawna wanted to grab the words and stuff them back in her father’s mouth. The Galanian chuckled and shook his head, an ugly smirk twisting his lips. He reversed the grip on his dagger and glanced once at Shawna. With a shrug, he turned back to her father. “Very well.” The Galanian slammed his dagger into her father’s chest. Dolland gave a short cry of pain and writhed in his bonds. His white shirt—already spattered with the blood from his beating—turned red in a dark, spreading stain. “NO!” Shawna struggled against her bindings to reach her father, but the ropes held her just as tightly as before. The Galanian stepped toward her and cuffed her across the jaw. Shawna’s sight dimmed as her head exploded with pain, and she lost a moment of time while her wits reasserted themselves. She vaguely felt her bonds being cut, and then her chair was kicked to the side, spilling her to the dusty floor. “Get up.” The Galanian reached down and tangled his hand into her hair, dirtying her red-golden locks with her father’s blood. Shawna tried to fight him off, but her movements were sluggish, her muscles weak. He yanked her from the floor and put his dagger to her throat. “Here’s what’s going to happen—you’re going to find the artifact, and I know you know what I mean. Don’t you?” Shawna nodded, but she jumped as the knife brushed the skin of her throat. “Good. Find me what I want, and I’ll let you live. If you get any stupid ideas like your father did, well…” The Galanian turned her so she could look upon her father’s corpse. “Your death will be slower than his. Understand?” Shawna only sobbed in reply, her eyes pinned to her father’s slack expression. “Move!” The Galanian prodded her through the door with his dagger.

He marched her out of the kitchens and into the main hall. Her family’s furniture was tossed about, their heirlooms scattered over the floor. Shawna cried out as she was prodded past the bloodied corpse of her father’s chamberlain. He had been in his sixty-second spring and had lost his wife to the plague that took Shawna’s mother and older brother. His face was frozen in a look of horror, his hands clutched to a gaping wound in his chest. The dagger prodded her back. “Where’s the artifact? Where are you headed?” Shawna gulped and took a steadying breath. “Upstairs.” A second Galanian came into sight as Shawna’s captor marched her toward the stairs. He scowled at her and rested a hand on his sword, eyes flicking over her body. Her captor pulled on her hair and stopped her in place. “Have you found anything?” “Trinkets, coin.” The second Galanian shook his head. “Nothing like what we’re looking for. There are a lot of good horses outside, though.” “Have everything of value brought to this room. If it won’t fit in a chest and we can’t spend it, leave it where it lies.” “Yes, Corporal. And the girl? Sergeant Janks has one outside, but she’s not as pretty as this one.” Shawna’s skin crawled with disgust, and her hands shook. The Corporal was silent for a moment, but Shawna couldn’t see his face. “Tell the boys not to burn anything yet. The Colonel will want to set up here for the night, and I’ll not have the Lieutenant crawling up my arse because you lot can’t control yourselves. Shit rolls downhill, Pellim. Got it?” “Got it, Corporal.” “Good. We’ll be upstairs.” The Corporal prodded her toward the staircase and Shawna went without protest. Her limbs were numb as she climbed toward her family’s rooms.

She heard screams from somewhere outside, and she recognized the voice of one of the kitchen girls. Shawna was nauseous at the thought of what these men may have in store for her. No matter what they tell you, you will not leave this house alive. The Galanian led her down the hallway on the upper level, toward her father’s suite at the end. The door was ajar, but the man still slammed her into it as they stepped inside, chuckling the way a half-stupid child would laugh as he ripped the limbs from a frog. It was more humiliating than painful, but the urge to launch herself at the man and rip his eyes out blossomed in Shawna’s chest. The Galanian grabbed her by the upper arms and tossed her into the floor. Shawna bit her tongue as she went down, but she refused to let the pain show on her face. The Corporal stepped into the room, his eyes roaming over its contents. It was a spacious suite—the largest in the manor—and decorated as any provincial lord’s home might be. Her father had a large covered bed festooned with white sheets, which had been the convention of her late mother. Dolland had never changed it in the wake of his wife’s death. He’d always said she’d be angry if he stopped paying tribute to her superstitions, and her ghost would come back to nag him from the Void. Shawna forced down a pang of sorrow before the Galanian could see it. A large fireplace stood on the far wall, while three windows looked out over the sunlit hills of her father’s pastures. The light streaming in through the windows fell upon the detritus scattered about the floor. The soldiers had already been in the room, but it hadn’t yet suffered their full attention. Shawna’s muscles burned—being tied to the chair in the kitchens had stiffened her. “We’re looking for a piece of jewelry.” The Galanian glared down at her. “One gifted to your mother by the King of Cambrell on her wedding day. Where is it?” “Her armlet.” Shawna was surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

“Where is it? Tell me, and I’ll let you live.” No matter what they tell you, you will not leave this house alive. “Let me live? You’ll take what you want and leave this place?” “Tell me where it is, or you’ll end just like your father.” The Galanian bared his teeth and gestured with the knife. “Tell me.” Shawna kept her eyes on him as she got to her feet. His hand tightened on the dagger, but he made no move toward her. Shawna nodded toward the table in the corner of the room, where a small clay pillar sat behind a trio of white candles. “It’s in the shrine.” Her stomach sank as the words ed her lips. “Her armlet—it’s inside the sculpture.” The Galanian gave her a considering look before his eyes shot to the pillar. The cylindrical sculpture was carved with religious symbols, and ed a plaster cast of a smooth, feminine face—Shawna’s mother. The local potter had made the sculpture, and it had been blessed by the Chaplain of her father’s largest village. Her father had sealed it himself after placing her mother’s favorite piece of jewelry inside. In the days following her death, the candles would frame the plaster cast of her face with soft light, making it glow in the darkness. Dolland had kept the candles burning night and day. They flickered back and forth in the dusty air, dancing to the noise of the manor being ransacked. Shawna had always imagined those flames to be the only light to point her mother’s way back from the Void, so strong and constant. Now, before the Galanian intruder, they seemed terribly fragile. The Corporal kept one eye on Shawna as he approached the shrine. He grimaced at the plaster mask and gave the entire display a look of disgust. Without so much as a pause for reverence, he smashed the pillar with the pommel of his dagger. The clay shattered and collapsed into a pile of broken shards. Shawna bit down on her tongue, stifling her anger at sight of the plaster mask lying cracked on the ground. The Galanian smiled, pulling a small silver box from the pile. “This is it. It

has to be.” The Corporal opened the tiny latch, reaching inside the box with more care than he’d given the shrine. He pulled a dusty armlet into the light, an old thing made of sinuous bands of silver. A dark ruby was set into the center, held by tiny silver fingers. Its sweeping metal bands evoked flames in motion, their curves arranged in an eye-twisting design. “What a pretty thing this is.” The Corporal stared into the ruby. “I’m getting a promotion for this.” Shawna had never liked her mother’s armlet. It gave her an odd feeling, as if an invisible weight charged the air in its presence. Even now, she was more anxious about the gem than the armed man in the room. Everyone I love is dead because of that thing. Shawna edged toward the Corporal as his eyes peered into the gem. If she could reach him and attack before he noticed, she may have a chance of winning. She had to do it quietly, though, or the rest of the men below would hear. Heart beating in her ears, she stepped toward him. Without looking up, he pointed his dagger at her throat. “Don’t be so quick to follow your father into the Void, girl.” Shawna scowled. “You’ve got what you want. Now, go!” The corporal smiled. “You kept your end of the bargain, didn’t you?” “Please.” A chill washed through Shawna’s stomach. “Just let me go.” “Let you go?” The Corporal smiled, his eyes flicking over her body. “You Cambrellian girls—you don’t all wear riding pants like that, do you? The others were wearing dresses. It just isn’t proper, is it?” “What?” Shawna’s breath caught in her chest at the hungry look in his eyes. “You’re nobility—a Lord’s daughter.” His eyes narrowed. “Never had one of them before.”

In the space of a breath, he closed the distance between them and pulled her against his body. He smelled of steel oil and horseflesh, and Shawna pushed away from him as he struggled with her arms. She thought she might win free, but he slammed the back of his hand into her face, and her legs went weak. She screamed through clenched teeth and flailed at him with desperate strikes, but he pulled her close, pressing the tip of his dagger to her throat. “There, now—be quiet!” He pawed at the ties to her breeches, breath coming in ragged gasps. “That’s a good girl. You’re going to be a good girl, right?” Shawna struggled, but he was much larger than her. With her body pulled so tightly against his, with his muscles and sweat and stinking breath, all she could do was close her eyes and fight his searching hands. In the blind chaos of the struggle, she touched the dagger clenched in his hand, and held tight to his wrist. “Wait! Wait—please!” “Truth told, I’ve been waiting all day, love. That’s long enough.” The knife moved away, but she clutched it in a desperate grip. “Please! Please!” A bout of nausea rose in her belly. “I’ll let you. I’ll let you!” His struggles quieted, and he looked in her eyes, the dagger pressing a warning into her neck. She held onto his knife-hand like it was a snake too close to her skin. He peered into her face, suspicion painting his expression. “You’ll let me, will you?” “Just you.” Shawna gulped a mouthful of bile back into her throat. “Just you, not them. Please—just don’t give me to them.” She pushed on the arm holding the knife to her throat, moving it away from her skin. His smile grew as his hand relaxed, teeth gleaming like a predator about to devour a meal. His eyes left hers to slither over her body again, and he uttered a chuckle under his breath.

Shawna moved with all the desperate speed and strength she could summon. She twisted his wrist and shoved the blade of the knife toward his face, using her other hand to post his elbow. The dagger went into his eye with a wet squelch, and blood flicked over Shawna’s white shirt. The Corporal released her with a pained shriek, his hands going to his face. Shawna grasped the hilt of his longsword and planted her foot into his gut, pushing him backward with a kick. The sword slid free of its sheath as he stumbled back, but he was too busy pulling the dagger from his eye socket to notice. Shawna gripped the sword in both hands and stepped into a practiced thrust, stabbing the blade tip into the Galanian’s throat. The point sank home with little resistance, and the man fell to the floor with a strangled grunt. Shawna watched him kick his heels on the floor and gurgle through the last seconds of his life. Blood pooled beneath him in a growing puddle, and the one eye he had left regarded her with a mystified expression before his soul left for the Void. He died still clutching the wound in his neck. I’m holding my breath. Shawna inhaled through her nose, eyes locked to the body on the floor. Her legs shook with fierce energy, and the urge to collapse filled her body with despair. The smell of his armor was still in her nose, now coupled with the stink of his blood. Shawna gripped the hilt of the sword until the wrappings bit into her palm. Breathe. I’ve got to breathe. Just— “Corporal?” A voice in the hallway—Pellim, from downstairs. “Corporal, is everything alright?” Shawna closed her eyes, forced them open again. She took the hilt of the sword in both hands. She changed grips. Her whole body shivered—she could barely move. Do something! “I told you not to kill her until—” Pellim stepped into the room and went silent. His face danced between anger and surprise, eyes flashing between

the Corporal’s body and the sword in Shawna’s hands. He made a startled noise and reached for the sword at his belt. Shawna moved in a flash and licked out with the heavy blade, chopping into Pellim’s hand as it found the hilt of his sword. He cried out as blood flew from the ruined hand, but his screams cut off as Shawna whipped the blade in the other direction and sliced open his neck. He hit the floor with a thump, gurgling through a spout of his own blood. There was a commotion downstairs in response to the screams. Shawna’s eyes tracked over the white sheets of her father’s bed, now covered with the spattered blood of the two intruders. She looked to the busted shrine and her mother’s mask. Rage and heartbreak swelled in her chest, entwined and poignant beyond the pain. Take the armlet and go! Her father’s voice spurred Shawna to move, and she rushed to where the first man had dropped the armlet. It lay amongst the busted remains of the shrine and the pooled blood of the Corporal, its silver bands reflecting the daylight. She picked it up with the tips of her fingers and placed it back into the silver box. She hesitated upon seeing the rest of the things her father had put in the shrine—an old letter and a lock of her mother’s red-golden hair, so close to her own color. Grimacing, Shawna grabbed the lock of hair and stuffed it into her belt. There was no time to clean up the rest. Shawna dashed from the room and down the hallway toward her chambers. Grumbling voices drifted up the stairs, and her stomach climbed into her throat. She had never done more than wound someone in a contest, and never more than a flesh wound. Now, in the space of a short morning, everyone she loved was dead, and she was neck-deep in violence. There will be more before I can escape. Shawna ducked through the entry to her rooms ahead of the voices, shutting the door behind her. She wanted to scream, but she clamped her mouth shut on her emotions. Her stomach fluttered so hard it threatened to make her vomit. She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths. “Calm down.” Her words whispered through shaking lips. “Breathe!”

Footsteps thumped past her doorway—two men, by the sound of them— headed toward her father’s room. Shawna held her breath until they ed and dropped the bloody longsword onto her bed. She dropped the box with her mother’s armlet beside it and wiped her bloody hands on her shirt. There were spatters across the white fabric, bright red spots already drying. With another steadying breath, Shawna turned to the corner of her room. A crude arming stand rested near the window. It bore a leather arming kit she’d never had to wear. Her father had grumbled when she’d purchased the armor, and the memory brought a fresh bout of tears to her eyes. Have the gods abandoned us? She had no time to don the armor—what she sought hung around the leather cuirass on twin sword-belts. Shawna grasped the hilts of her swords and pulled them free of their sheaths, relishing the familiar weight of the blades. They were elegant but simple, balanced and deadly, the steel forged by Infs in Lesmira and imbued with a minor touch of sorcery. The blades uttered a low, musical tone as they met the air, and Shawna’s reflection glared back at her from the reflective sheen of sorcerous metal. Her face, like her shirt, was spattered with blood. Shouts rang down the hall—the Galanians discovering the bodies in her father’s room. Shawna took a series of deep breaths, her hands tightened on her swords. Her blades were shorter than the weapons wielded by the Galanians, but she was comfortable with them. They felt right in her hands, as if their presence completed her resolve. Her eyes flashed to the tattoos on her wrists—grapevines twisted around a sword. If I don’t move now, I’m dead! Shawna took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. The muscles in the middle of her back threatened to knot, and her legs quivered. She forced them to move with determined steps until she was opening her bedroom door and stepping into the hallway. She turned toward her father’s room just in time to see the first Galanian emerge. “There!” He raised his sword in her direction, his bared steel tight in his

hand. A shadow appeared in the room over his shoulder, but the first man was already advancing into the hall. Shawna’s heart thundered in her ears. He was big—fully two heads over Shawna’s modest height, and his face was contorted with anger. His longsword was like a willow switch in his hands. Strength is a fearsome advantage, but its counter is simple—greater skill. Treat every blade as a deadly thing, no matter the arm wielding it. If he is strong, you will be faster. If he is fast, you will be more skilled. Do not whine to me of strength, of size, or youth. Skill counters all. The tension in Shawna’s muscles sharpened as her lessons came flooding back. She glanced at the brute’s wrist and took in the way he was holding his sword—like a cudgel hefted for a tavern brawl. He had no awareness of the point of his blade as he stomped in her direction and didn’t bother to assume a guard position. He thinks he’s going to teach me a lesson. Shawna closed the distance to the big man in two quick steps and licked out with one of her blades, sliding his longsword to the side. As big as he was, his reflexes were sluggish to respond, and Shawna was inside his guard in the space of a heartbeat. She took his throat with a contemptuous flick of her opposite sword, and he went down with a surprised gurgle. The second Galanian—a smaller, lither opponent—thrust toward Shawna’s eyes as the behemoth fell to the floor. She slipped backward, keeping the body of the first man between them as she danced out of range. The Galanian soldier advanced, thrusting high and low, keeping his sword from tangling with hers. Shawna slid his attacks wide, or tapped them away from her body with smooth, confident motions. With each movement, she felt more confident, until the energy behind her defense was no longer fear, but something hot and righteous. The flaw in the Galanian’s technique revealed itself as he advanced with a high cut, bringing his blade down toward her head. Shawa blocked his attack his ease and countered with her off-hand—a straight thrust to the torso. Her sword slipped easily into his guts, the chain-mail no obstacle to its path. His face twisted with pain as his longsword clattered to the floor. He

glanced between her swords and the twin tattoos on her wrists, eyebrows climbing with surprise. “Bugger…the gods!” Shawna pulled her blade from his guts and left him to bleed. She stood for a moment, surveying the mess. The two Galanians lay dying. Blood was everywhere. Shawna looked down at her shirt and was unsurprised to find it spattered with the evidence of her killings. She listened for sounds of alarm, but the only thing she could hear was her own labored breathing. How am I alive? Gods in the Void—how am I still breathing? She held her swords up to examine them, and found the slick, sorcerous steel covered in blood. It trickled toward the hilt like it abhorred the metal—some trick of the magic used in the blade’s forging. Shawna flicked her wrists to the side, flinging the blood to the floor and clearing it from the blades. With one last look over the bodies, she turned and ran toward her room. She donned her armor, nearly forgetting to shrug her way into the padded tunic first. The boiled leather was made to her measurements and easy to adjust. She grabbed a pair of saddlebags and threw handfuls of clothing inside, barely looking at what she packed. Her ears focused on the sounds of the manor, and she stiffened with each loud noise. Shawna paused as she came to her mother’s armlet. The ornate silver box was closed, but an ominous feeling hung in the surrounding air. Shawna’s hand hovered on the edge of picking it up. So much bloodshed for such a small thing. Maybe I should leave it. If they find it here, maybe they’ll leave. Maybe they’ll take it back to wherever they came from. Shawna glared down at the box. Her mother’s shattered mask flashed through her mind, accompanied by her father’s dying words. So many had died already. Would they chase her if she ran? Had her father charged her with a life on the run? Grimacing, she grabbed the silver box and stuffed it in the bottom of her

bags. Her father had been right. If she left it here, then everyone who had died— her father, her sisters, and everyone she had ever loved—would have done so in vain. The gods could take everything else, but Shawna wouldn’t let their deaths be wasted. Belting her swords in place, she grabbed her saddlebags and fled the room. She rushed down the stairs, clutching the hilt of one of her swords, and reached the bottom without encountering another Galanian. She glanced toward the kitchens and hesitated—she needed to fill her waterskins. Her father’s body was inside one of the pantries, savaged and bloodied. I can get water from the well outside. Grimacing, Shawna turned away and headed in the opposite direction. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she cursed herself for a coward as she rushed toward the back of the manor. She encountered no one in the main hall. She picked her way over destroyed finery, averting her eyes from the destruction. She ed the bodies of the serving staff, mostly young girls and children. A cry of horror slipped from Shawna’s mouth when she saw the tiny corpses mixed with the rest, scattered like so much trash over the polished floor. Clamping down on her disgust, she gathered her resolve and stepped over them. Shawna rounded a corner near the storerooms and ran into a grinning Galanian toting a small wooden crate full of loot. He let out a startled cry and stumbled backward. The crate clattered to the floor as he reached for the dagger at his belt, a curse forming on his lips. Shawna was too quick. Her free hand whipped to the side and drew one of her blades in a smooth, contemptuous motion. The sword hummed as it sliced through the mail and opened a wound in his stomach. The man gasped in pain as his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. His hands scrambled to his belly, trying to hold in a tide of gore. Shawna raised her sword to finish him off, but the faces of those children flashed through her mind. She lowered her arm and backed away, regarding him with a cold, furious expression. Incredulous whimpering noises escaped his mouth as he tried to gather his insides.

Shawna left him to die with his loot. She moved through a darkened hallway which led to a rear exit. The manor was silent now that she’d killed so many, but there were more outside. Coming to the door, she placed her ear against the hardened wood and strained to listen. She heard nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat. Shawna had planned on an early morning ride when the Galanians had attacked. She enjoyed taking the younger horses—the ones with too much will and energy—on trips through the hills, or down the narrow roads to the villages in the barony. With any luck, the mare she’d saddled for the morning was waiting where Shawna had left her. All she had to do was make it to the training stables. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Shawna opened the door. The sun shone on the winter-brown grass behind the manor house. Her father’s barony included some of the most idyllic land in southern Cambrell. It was green, fertile, and forested, and it lay just a day’s ride from the sea. The land rolled downward to the east, where the training stables occupied the corner of a large, fenced pasture. It was a long run from the manor to the stables, and over open ground, but Shawna had little choice. Just a quick sprint to the stables. Just a short little run. Screams echoed around the side of the building as she made to leave, and Shawna froze. The voice was high and feminine, and it pleaded between terrified shrieks. Distant laughter answered the pleas for mercy, and cold anger writhed in Shawna’s stomach. Sergeant Janks has a girl outside, but she’s not as pretty as this one. The words of the dead Galanian flashed again through Shawna’s memory. Her eyes went from the stables to the sky and back again. She clenched her jaw and cursed through her teeth. If she ran now, she might escape while the rest of the men were distracted. A wave of nausea went through her as the thought crossed her mind, but it surfaced, nonetheless. Her father would doubtless have told her to go. You’re not a warrior, Shawna. You learned the sword academically, but you’re

no cold-blooded killer. You should run! She could almost hear him shouting the words at her. Martial skill was considered prestigious for firstborn sons of the nobility, and Shawna had earned her Mark to prove a point to her father—that she could be just as valuable to their family as her late brother had been, and she was worthy to take his place. She’d dueled in tournaments, faced challengers, but she’d never imagined that one day she would be forced to kill with what she’d learned. The gods, it seemed, had forced her to become the warrior her skills demanded. But did they have to take everything in the process? Why? Why would they do this? Shawna glared at the sky, eyes blurring with fresh tears. “If this is what you want, if this is what you demand of me, then so be it.” She dropped her saddlebags from her shoulder and looked at her sword. The sunlight flashed from the steel and returned a distorted reflection of Shawna’s bloody face. The screams from the other side of the manor cut into Shawna’s ears. Laughter followed, stoking her anger. Shawna turned her glare on the clouds. “Look here, Aastinor! Look here, Father of War, Sword of Vengeance! Look down from the Void and see me now!” Shawna drew the sword across her palm, and blood welled up from the cut. “I am Shawna of House Llewan, and I swear this oath in your name! I will seek vengeance on my enemies, and the blood will spill in your honor if you grant me the reckoning I seek! Open your eyes and watch!” Shawna closed her eyes and rubbed her palm down her face, smearing the blood down the center of her forehead. A breeze whipped stray locks of hair into the blood, sticking it to her skin. Shawna took the breeze for an answer and drew her second blade. “This oath I swear, so mote it be.” She stepped around the side of the manor in a haze, a quiet part of her mind

incredulous at what she was doing. Her limbs were afire with cold energy, and her stomach held a thousand butterflies. The sounds of the attack came closer, each scream tightening Shawna’s grip on her swords. She was burning with rage when she turned the corner. Three men stood in a semicircle with their backs to her. They were taking their ease and ing around a decanter—doubtless looted from the manor. They laughed like old chums out for a nighttime romp. One man put his arm around another and slapped him on the shoulder. The fourth man was on the ground in the middle of the group, his weapons discarded nearby. A girl younger than Shawna struggled beneath him, clawing at his face and kicking her feet. Her fight was earning her little more than sporting laughter from her attacker. Shawna’s hands tightened on her hilts and she quickened her steps. The one in the center would be the first to die—she could turn her blades on his friend in a heartbeat, and she’d have just the one without pants and the other fool to deal with. She could take the fool before the fourth man got his pants up, and— The man in the center turned, grinning ear to ear, and spotted her. “What? —To arms!” The two men to the side cursed and backpedaled, yanking their swords free. The one in the middle just managed to wrestle his blade from his belt before Shawna was on him. She kicked his hand aside without losing a step and opened a wide gash in his throat. He went down with a surprised exclamation, blood pouring from the wound. “Tarmon!” The man to Shawna’s right charged with his sword raised over his head. Shawna side-stepped, careful not to slip in the first man’s blood, and moved to the attacker’s weak side. She lunged before he could recover from his slash, putting a hand’s worth of steel into his side. When he cringed over the wound, she dealt him a hard blow across the face. He fell with a scream, and Shawna spun to face the remaining two.

The pants-less man was struggling to extricate himself from the girl on the ground, who was snarling and raking at his eyes. Shawna put a long, deep gash down the middle of his back, and he toppled to the side with a pained gasp. The girl kicked him away and scrambled from Shawna’s path, pulling her clothes around her body. The last man swallowed as Shawna turned to him. This one didn’t attack with clumsy slashes, or rush in with amateur thrusts. He held the tip of his sword in her direction and kept his distance. Shawna settled into a loose guard. “Think about this, girl!” The Galanian flicked his eyes over Shawna’s shoulder. “There’s more of us coming. You got no choice but to run. If you leave now, I’ll let you go. I’ll give you a chance to get away!” “Is that right?” Anger coiled in Shawna’s chest. “You’ll let me go, will you?” Shawna rushed forward, attacking him high and low. He put up an irable defense for someone with marginal skill. He held her at bay with wide, sweeping parries, but Shawna slipped behind his guard. She kicked his knee out in mid-stride, fumbling an attack, and thrust one of her blades into his side. The Galanian’s longsword tumbled to the grass as he fell to his knees. He grasped folds in Shawna’s armor, his mouth working to form words. All that escaped was bloody foam and pained noises. Shawna put the tip of her sword in the crook of his shoulder and thrust hard into his heart. He fell to the grass beside his sword, and Shawna let out a cleansing sigh. The morning went silent, save for the sobs of the girl she’d saved. Shawna cleaned the blood from her swords and sheathed them. She turned to survey the surrounding carnage, taking deep breaths to slow the beating of her heart. The Galanians had been stacking the corpses on the lawn, and now Shawna had added their own bodies to the tally. “Did you see that, Aastinor?” Shawna whispered through her teeth. “Did you see?”

Her family had cared for a large staff of servants and holdsmen, many with families of their own. The bodies, when laid out together, occupied a sizable section of the manor’s manicured yard. Crows were already picking through the pile, and Shawna turned away in horror. A dust cloud gathered on the horizon, rising from the southern road. Shawna’s muscles went rigid. Now I know what the Galanian was looking at when he glanced over my shoulder. How many men does it take to raise such a cloud? “Lady Shawna?” Shawna turned to find Taiba—one of the kitchen girls—sobbing and holding a ripped dress around her body. She was a slight thing, younger than Shawna by a few springs. Bruises decorated her face and arms, livid against her pale skin. Her hands were bloody, and judging from the fight she’d given her attacker, not all of it was hers. Taiba’s mother had been in her family’s service for years. Shawna’s heart broke to see her in such a state. “Taiba.” Shawna’s voice cracked. “Taiba…I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.” “You saved my life, Lady Shawna.” Taiba took a fluttering breath and looked around. “What do we do?” Shawna grabbed Taiba by the shoulder and looked hard into her eyes. “Taiba, listen to me. There’s more of them coming. Do you see that?” Shawna pointed toward the road at the growing cloud of dust in the distance. “We have to leave! But first, we have to slow them down!” “Slow them down, Lady?” Taiba gave her a horrified look. “If we don’t, they’ll catch us,” Shawna said. “I’m going to get us horses. I need you to do something for me, Taiba. Can you help me?” Taiba took a moment to rip her eyes from the dust cloud, but she squared her jaw and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Good. Go into the house. Get all the lamp oil you can find, Taiba. Set everything on fire. Understand?” Taiba blinked. “The—the house, Lady?” “Burn it to the ground, Taiba. I won’t let them despoil this place, come here and eat our food, sleep where they’ve killed our loved ones!” Taiba’s eyes hardened, and she nodded. “Go!” Shawna ushered the girl into motion. Taiba ran for the house, holding her ripped dress around her knees. Shawna winced at the state of her clothing, but they had no time to worry about such things now. Maybe I’ve got something in my bags she can wear once we’re safely away from here. Shawna ran around the side of the manor and gathered her saddlebags. She headed for the stables, swords flapping at her waist. There were too many men under that cloud to fight, and Shawna needed to buy some time. A plan came to her as she ran, though its necessity put a fresh wound in her heart. The horses reacted with unease as she ran into the long corridor between their stalls. Her breath misted before her face in the cold air, and the sharp smell of horse dung filled her nose. Charlotte—the mare she’d planned to ride—and two other horses were already saddled. Shawna gathered Charlotte and another mare together, tying the second horse to Charlotte’s saddle with a long lead. The horses sensed her anxiety and scraped the dirt with their hooves, shaking their heads in protest. She got them ready despite their fear and led them outside, snatching a horsewhip from the wall as she ed through the door. Anyone who kept a large stable of horses feared one thing above all others —fire. Wooden barns could go up like burning hay, especially during the dry winter seasons. A single accident could kill entire teams of horses, so Shawna’s father had hired an engineer from Lesmira to ensure it wouldn’t happen. The strange little man had built a system of levers, counterweights, and springs into her father’s stable. The emergency system was held in place by a single rope and counterweight, so the whole thing could be activated at once.

Shawna went back into the barn and ran down the center of the stalls, screaming and raising a clatter. The horses responded to her urgency, neighing and shuffling in their stalls. Shawna ran to the end of the barn and back again, stopping by the emergency mechanism. She had a moment of doubt as she glanced at the horses. These animals were thoroughbreds, known for their speed and endurance. Her father’s entire legacy was invested in the horses. If she left them, the Galanians would take them—there was little doubt. I’m sorry. Shawna grimaced and sliced the emergency rope with one of her swords. Several things happened in quick succession. The rope gave way, causing a gear higher in the contraption to spin out of control as the absence of tension unfurled it. Heavy stone weights slammed to the floor all along the stable, trailing ropes that jerked the stall doors open. A thin steel cylinder attached to the rope screeched with an incessant clatter loud enough to jar Shawna’s teeth. The horses went mad. Shawna covered her ears and rushed through the door as the panic began. A few horses thundered past in their rush to leave the barn, missing her by a hair’s breadth. She heard the rest of them screaming and bustling through the other side of the stable, away from the strange, clattering alarm. Charlotte shied and stomped her feet, sending the other horse into a similar state. Shawna took hold of her reins and brought the beast under control, mounting before the mare could protest. Shawna took a deep breath, grasped the horsewhip with her free hand, and kicked Charlotte into motion. The young mare responded with enthusiasm, breaking into a sprint past the manor and toward the road. The horses from the stable thundered down the hill, raising their own cloud of dust. A wooden fence was all that separated the field from the road at the foot of the hill, and Shawna had to beat the herd to the gate. She bent over Charlotte’s neck and gave the horse her lead, pointing her toward the gate and holding tight to the saddle.

Charlotte pulled ahead of the herd and reared when Shawna stopped her near the gate. Cursing, Shawna rode down the horse’s excitement and jumped from the saddle, eyes flicking to the approaching stampede. She rushed to the gate, undid the latch, and threw it wide. Charlotte danced as Shawna returned to the saddle. The thunderous sound of the herd grew to a storm as the horses rushed toward the open gate. Shawna nudged Charlotte through the gate and moved to block one side of the road. She unlimbered the horsewhip and stood in the saddle, arm poised to strike. The first horses burst through the gate, and Shawna snapped the whip in the air above their heads. They turned from the snap and headed down the road—directly toward the growing dust cloud. The stampede was spectacular up close, a veritable wall of unstoppable horseflesh. The noise rattled Shawna’s teeth, and she couldn’t help but cheer as she snapped the whip to usher the herd along. When the horses were past, Shawna tossed the whip aside and turned toward the manor. She was struck numb to see smoke rising from the windows of her home. The manor was framed against the cold morning sun, flames flickering in the windows. Taiba stood before it, her dress fluttering in the wind, clutching a bundle to her chest. Shawna spurred Charlotte up the hill and pulled up near Taiba, gesturing for haste. Taiba ran for the second horse and struggled to climb into the saddle, but her ruined dress caught in the stirrups. She wrestled with it, which made the horse shy away from her. Shawna turned to help, but she froze as her eyes ed over the road. Two Galanians sat astride horses at the edge of the tree line, drawing bows to their ears. Shawna cried out in alarm as Taiba threw her leg over the horse, but the girl never raised her head to see the danger. Arrows flitted down from the sky and buried themselves into Taiba’s back with a pair of meaty thumps. “Taiba!”

Taiba gave a wet cough, a look of surprised pain on her face, and tumbled to the ground. Shawna yelled in anger and pulled the knot holding the second horse to Charlotte’s saddle, allowing the beast to run free. Charlotte danced away from Taiba’s mount as the horse was freed, and Shawna shot a pained look at Taiba’s body. Another pair of arrows sliced through the air where Charlotte had been, landing between the horse’s hooves. Shawna ducked on instinct and pulled the horse around, facing her to the west. With a final cry of anger, Shawna dug her heels into Charlotte’s flanks and urged her to run. Her back itched with fear as she bent over the horse’s neck. She turned Charlotte toward the road and the city of Ferolan, where her cousin made his home. She whispered to Charlotte as the horse ran—Come on, girl! Come on!—and prayed the gods would see her to safety. Something punched through her back, and agony filled her left side from toes to hairline. She gasped and almost fell from the saddle, but she was able to keep her seat. Each jarring report of Charlotte’s hooves sent flashes of pain through Shawna’s body. I’ve been hit! They put an arrow in my back! Shawna yelped as more arrows fell around her. She thought one may have flown through her hair, but they were gone so fast she couldn’t tell. She screamed into Charlotte’s mane and prayed to the gods for her stamina to hold. Haven’t the gods sated their appetites for blood? Shawna certainly had. The faces of her loved ones flashed before her eyes as she rode, all ripped from this world and sent into the Void before their time. She was the last living person who could attest to what happened, and the responsibility weighed on Shawna’s soul. She carried their memories with her as she fled.

***

Dormael came awake with a snap. His heart was thundering blood through his head, and the skin on his neck and shoulders felt as if it had been dipped in icy water. The sensation faded as the world came into focus, dissipating into a cloud of angry tingles before disappearing altogether. He was filled with an odd foreboding as he gathered his wits. What in the Six Hells was that? His head swam with the ale he’d been drinking—wasn’t it ale in the cup in front of him? There was only one way to find out, so Dormael commenced to take another long pull from the mystery cup. He tipped the drink back and grimaced at the taste. It’s ale, sure as anything, and warmer than a summer day. His vision blurred, and he swept his arm before his face, trying to clear the drink from his head. The movement only caused his mind to swim even worse, and he grasped the edge of the table to avoid an embarrassing introduction between his face and the floor. Taking a deep breath of the stale, smoky air, he tried to focus his sight. The tavern was alive with revelry around him. It was a seedy, dockside dive teeming with workmen and sailors. Barmaids dodged in and out of the boisterous crowd, ducking through small groups of singing men and deftly avoiding the drunken advances of the same. A man was perched on a table at the far end of the room, strumming a lively melody on a country guitar. He belted out verses about a merchant’s daughter and her various sexual indiscretions with his household. Dormael winced as the crowd roared a boisterous “HEY!” and descended into laughter. The orange glow of lanterns lit the scene, casting a merry ambiance on those gathered in the alehouse. Wood chips were scattered on the floor, in case someone decided to spill their stomach, though the acidic smell of vomit still wafted through the establishment. The scents of roasting fish and tobacco smoke also floated through the air, and it made for a strange mingling of odors. The smell notwithstanding, it seemed a nice place to spend an evening.

Dormael’s head felt like it was covered in wet mud, with his wits trying to swim to the surface. He sucked another deep breath and counted his belongings, uttering a sigh of relief as he found his pack and purse still intact. Mostly intact, anyway—his purse was lighter than when he’d stepped off the ship. How much do they charge for this ale, anyway? He had traveled lightly, bringing only what was necessary. He had a pack with a few changes of clothing, a bedroll, and various implements of everyday life. He carried a quarterstaff that was more weapon than walking stick—at least to an eye sharp enough to know the difference. It was two heads taller than Dormael and was capped on either end with steel. In his experience, a staff didn’t set teeth on edge the way a sword did, and Dormael preferred to travel with as little conflict as possible. His only indulgence was his most prized possession—a beautifully made guitar. Normally he took great pains to hide his level of wealth, carrying only simple clothing and the trappings of the vagabond, but he couldn’t stand to be away from the instrument. The guitar itself would never be mistaken for the tool of some traveling minstrel. It was made of polished wood, and carved with the various semblances of the gods, all rendered in painstaking detail. He carried it in a weathered, nondescript case to hide its true value. Dormael spotted a few of the patrons giving him sidelong glances, and he took note of their faces as he continued checking his gear. He expected as much in this part of the world—his kind was widely regarded with ill favor in the east, and he wasn’t dressed to blend with the crowd. While the people in this part of the world were as light-skinned as his own countrymen, with various shades of hair, their dress was mostly what one would expect in any poor district in any city in the world. Homespun and leather were the fashion for those too poor to care about fashion, though there were sailors in the room sporting the odd affectation from far and wide. None of them, however, were dressed like Dormael. His mesavai, a traditional Sevenlander garment, hung sleeveless over a woolen shirt and was belted at the waist, leaving a swath of fabric to hang to

his knees in both front and back. It was white with a wide, black hem, and within that hem were sewn flowing runes specific to one’s self and lineage. Dormael’s own mesavai was well decorated, but still incomplete. He’d only had twenty-eight springs to fill the hem. His Sevenlander cloak was thrown over his pack, but he knew it would evoke the same reaction from these easterners. It was voluminous and sleeved, sported a deep cowl, and was made of heavy material. People didn’t wear them in this part of the world, and it would mark him out just as certainly as his mesavai. As would his beard, which hung long, braided, and lacked a mustache—a style clearly unpopular in the east, judging from the looks he got. The door to the tavern opened, itting three laughing men and a chilly draft from the street. The autumns in port cities were always a bit cooler, with the sea churning up winds and throwing them toward the shore. The weather on the Stormy Sea was notorious for being angry at this time of year, and Ferolan sat right beneath the meeting of the north and south winds. If Dormael listened hard enough, he fancied he could almost feel the power gathering over the ocean, waiting to come screaming toward the shore. He could do without the damnable cold, though. After his last assignment he’d decided to take some time to himself. He wasn’t escaping anything, but he’d been ducking his normal s since he’d decided to leave. Dormael didn’t feel like making explanations to anyone, and he needed some time to unwind. The last few years had been rough, and his responsibilities had begun to chafe. He’d been in dire need of some time to himself, so he had decided to take it. If his colleagues wished to track him down, he was sure they could find him. They always did. Ferolan was a temporary stop. He was bound for Tauravon, the Great River City. It was late in the autumn, and the Winter Solstice would soon be celebrated. Tauravon’s Festival of Frost celebration was world renowned, and Dormael intended to partake this year—perhaps he would make a coin or two playing his guitar. He had planned to buy a horse and take to the

road, but it had been so damned cold that the tavern had been irresistible. His purse was much lighter as a result. Sighing, he called for his last mug of ale and gathered his belongings. The night was growing long, and it was time to find a bed. Dormael was used to walking, and he told himself it was good for the soul. The movement would keep his blood flowing against the winter chill. The barmaid deposited his mug on the table and gave him an offhand smile. Dormael pressed some coins into her hand and gave her a wink. She laughed and slipped back through the press of drunken merrymakers, but she returned his wink before she left. I’ve always had a way with the girls, haven’t I? Shrugging on his cloak and shouldering his bulging pack, Dormael picked up his staff and his guitar as he rose to leave. Downing half the mug on his way out, he left the rest with a smiling, red-nosed man who cheered and clapped him on the shoulder for his trouble. Pulling his hood up against the chill wind, Dormael opened the door and stepped into the night. The streets outside were empty. Most people had retreated indoors for the evening, leaving the cobblestones to collect the mist coming in from the sea. Autumn had waned, and the chill fingers of winter gripped the city of Ferolan. The glow of street lanterns cast long shadows into the alleyways he ed, and the absence of people gave the night a lonely, haunting quality. Dormael shivered. Cities are always unsettling after dark. He ed a few people—men headed to taverns, hurrying after unknown errands, or the ever-present City Guards. None offered him a greeting. The night made people wary of ersby, and Dormael didn’t blame them. Honest men had long taken to their cups, and the cutpurses ran the streets until morning. Dormael walked from the Docks District into a slummy residential area, where the brick warehouses and shops lining the streets gave way to squat, two-story tenements. Most of the windows were dark, save for the occasional lighted bedroom, but the street lanterns still gave off their ruddy glow. It was quieter than the Docks, and Dormael’s boots tapped on the

cobblestones underfoot. The noise bounced from the surrounding buildings, echoing in the cold night air. Perhaps it was the near silence, or maybe the ale, but a strange feeling tingled in Dormael’s stomach. At first he thought he was going to be sick, but he wasn’t feeling nauseated. He tried to shake it off, taking deep breaths of the cool air, even baring his head to the chill, but nothing worked. No matter what he did, the feeling only intensified. As he turned a corner onto a side-street, Dormael’s magic burst to life. He collapsed against a street lamp to keep his feet beneath him. His heart beat into his ears, playing a thumping rhythm to the furious song of his power. His senses were alive with clarity, and the night came into sudden, painful focus. The rush of the waves against the distant cliffs resonated in his chest. The air tasted so strongly of salt that Dormael’s mouth went dry. He concentrated on his Kai, the source of his magical power, and tried to force it to rest, but the magic would not leave him. His Kai was resonating with something far to the south, though it was difficult to hear through the tumult in Dormael’s senses. His magic tugged at him, urging him toward that distant noise like a dog pulling its master’s leash. Dormael rested his hand on a street lantern and tried to calm the storm inside him. Magic was a dangerous and volatile thing. If his power could wake of its own accord when he was blistering drunk, could it set a building aflame? Kill someone accidentally? Plenty of wizards had lost control of their power and paid the ultimate price. Sometimes scores of people paid that price along with them. Dormael cleared his head and embraced his power instead of fighting it. He was terrified of the prospect of losing control, and it seemed the only way to prevent it was to acquiesce. Shrugging his packs back onto his shoulders and grumbling the whole way, Dormael trudged in the direction in which his magic pulled him. After a few moments of walking, the power eased its wild insistence, but nonetheless kept him steadily moving. He could feel something out there in the night, some pulsing source of unknown power drawing the attention of

his Kai. Dormael kept up the pace, apprehension building with every step. What in the Six Hells is that sound? His Kai led him through the residential district to the market, and through the market into another, richer area where the houses of merchants and officials were raised two and three stories above the streets. He turned south at some point, ing through another trade district sprinkled with shops, alehouses, and inns, but still the magic marched him on. Soon, the guardhouse of the southern city gate appeared before him. Dormael paused before walking through the gate. It was late, and colder than the underworld outside, and the last thing Dormael fancied was a tromp through the windy highlands around Ferolan. He had already been out in the cold for too long, and he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of allowing his magic to pull at him. He considered heading back into the city regardless of what his Kai wanted, but he knew he couldn’t ignore this. Squaring his shoulders and shrugging deeper into the voluminous Sevenlander cloak, Dormael trudged through the massive gate and into the night. The guards on duty paid him little mind as he ed. Cambrell had been at peace for a long time, and Dormael couldn’t recall the last time Ferolan had been attacked. The City Guards were more used to dealing with petty thieves than threats to the walls, and the lackadaisical attitude was apparent. He ed from the city into the darkness of the road beyond, and none of them said the first word to him. He felt exposed as the night closed in around him, but his Kai kept urging him onward. The wind blew unchecked from the sea, lashing Dormael’s cloak like a flag caught in a squall. The moon was bright, though it did little to aid his blurry, drunken vision. The road was made of trampled dirt, and it loosed clouds of dust every time the wind blew. Dormael had to shield his eyes with his hand each time the breeze picked up. The only sound was the noise of the Stormy Sea crashing against the rocky beach of the coast. The land around the city consisted of coastal highlands, and the road snaked southwest into a dense forest a short distance from the city. Sparse trees dotted the highlands between the city and the forest, though they gave

little shelter from the wind. Most lay bare under winter’s touch. The trees are just as cold as I am. The shape of a horse and rider came out of the night, appearing like distant ghosts in the moonlit shadows. Dormael paused upon spotting them, glancing over his shoulder to the guards in the distance. He could see a pair of them speaking with one another, but without the augmented senses of a wizard, he doubted they could see him in turn. Even from where he stood, Dormael could hear the horse’s labored breathing and smell its sweat. The rider did not rise to greet him, and they gave no indication they were alive. As the horse came closer, the smell of blood filled Dormael’s nose. Dormael stepped within range of the horse and was surprised at its size. It had long legs and a deep chest, and the fact it was still alive after being ridden so hard was a testament to its strength. It was well-fed and muscular, though its head was bowed with fatigue. The horse offered Dormael a weak whinny as he raised his hand in a wary greeting. Dormael cleared his throat. “Hello?” There was no answer from the rider who had a wealth of fair hair. Judging from the size of the body, the rider was female, but she was covered in a thick winter cloak, which made it hard to tell. Dormael reached out to nudge her, but the horse shied from his touch, and the rider was dumped to the road in a motionless heap. A low, pained groan escaped her, but that was all the protest she gave. Fuck the gods. If I’m caught on the road with a dead Cambrellian woman, I’ll be hanged before the sun reaches its zenith tomorrow. Dormael’s Kai intensified, ringing in his ears. It pulled at him, reaching toward the girl, or something she had in her possession. He wrenched down on his magic and tried to clear his head. A bout of vertigo washed through him, but his Kai responded to his efforts and fell into a low hum. Taking another cleansing breath, Dormael bent over the girl to examine her.

She was very pretty—that much he noticed right away. She was close to his age, or just a few springs younger, with delicate skin. She had the sort of face men wrote songs about, though it was locked in a sweaty grimace of pain. She let out another agonized grunt and muttered something under her breath. “Can you hear me?” Dormael glanced toward the distant city. “Are you alright?” The girl barely stirred in response. Dormael shot helpless looks down the road in both directions. Ferolan loomed to the north, silhouetted walls against the dull glow of the city’s lights. The only sound was the constant crash of the waves against the nearby cliffs. There’s nobody out here except us and the guards. Where did she come from? Dormael rolled her over and found her vestments stained with blood. An arrow stuck from her left side, its tip having pierced her armor just under her ribcage. Dormael was no healer, but it was easy to see the seriousness of her situation. It’s a wonder you made it this far on horseback. Dormael sniffed at the arrow’s point of entry and was relieved to find no putrid smells coming from the wound. If the girl’s guts had been nicked, she probably would have died despite Dormael’s assistance. As it was, she might still have a chance to live through the night. “How does a pretty girl on a fine horse get stuck with an arrow?” Dormael winced as he moved her body into a more comfortable position and looked over her belongings. She was horribly unprepared for life on the road. She only had two small saddlebags, a pair of waterskins, and nothing but the bloodstained cloak she wore to keep the wind off—which now had a hole in it, thanks to the offending arrow. She was wearing leather armor, of all things, and carrying two swords. Dormael raised his eyebrows when he touched the blades with his Kai. “Infused swords, as well? A fine saddle, a fine horse…this isn’t good. Not good at all.” Dormael glanced in the direction of Ferolan again. “Somebody is either expecting you or looking for you. But which is it?”

Either way, Dormael had to do something. He couldn’t just leave her for the gods to decide her fate—they were capricious at the best of times. This woman was special, that much was obvious. Dormael had no idea what she was doing armed, skewered, and dressed for war, but she was probably nobility. Mercenaries didn’t have such fine horses, nor did they tend to carry Infused weapons. He dropped his belongings nearby and whipped a dagger from his boot. “You must be lucky to come upon a sap like me in the middle of the night.” Dormael crouched next to the woman and touched the arrow with careful hands. “Hells—it’s the gods’ own luck you’re still breathing.” He sliced the cloak away from the arrow and moved it aside. Field medicine was no better than a leaky cork in a ship on most days, but his meager skill was all she had. Dormael turned the girl once again on her side and felt the head of the arrow poking through her belly. Dried blood was caked around the arrowhead, but fresh blood was still trickling from the wound. Removing the arrow might be the right course of action, but Dormael hesitated. If he pulled it out, he might open a vein somewhere in her guts, and she could bleed out where she lay. He settled with breaking off the longer part of the arrow and stuffing it into her pack. Dormael unbuckled the straps on her leather cuirass, grimacing at the amount of blood staining the padded tunic beneath. Her stomach spasmed with labored breathing, and each movement caused a fresh round of droplets to leak from the hole in her side. Dormael peered at the wound, shaking his head. “Gods—how far did you ride with that arrow in your back?” He looked back in the direction from which she had come. Was someone tracking her? Dormael sighed and turned his attention back to the arrow wound—best to worry about what was in front of him. He didn’t have the materials nor the knowledge to dress a stomach wound, and if someone was after the woman, he was likely short on time. There was no way the guards at the south gate would turn a blind eye to him returning with a wounded Cambrellian girl—a rich Cambrellian girl, at that. Sevenlanders weren’t exactly hated, especially in a peaceful place like Cambrell, but they weren’t trusted. If he showed this to the guards, he’d

likely see the inside of a cell for his trouble. If he didn’t get her to a healer soon, though, she would die. I’ll dress the wound as best I can and worry about the rest later. Using his knife, he reached under the girl’s padded tunic and cut a few strips from her shirt that weren’t soaked through with blood. He popped the lid from his waterskin and poured cold water over the entry point, separating the clotted blood and fabric from her flesh. The mystery girl let out an unconscious cry of pain as he worked. “Sorry.” Dormael winced. The arrowhead hadn’t penetrated the front of her armor, but it had gone right through the back. Pulling the hard leather from around the shaft proved more troublesome than Dormael would have anticipated. The arrow was lodged at a strange angle between her skin and the armor and putting pressure on the shaft elicited another weak whimper from her. Dormael winced again, but she failed to wake even as the armor was pulled free of the arrow. He took the strips he had cut and stuffed them around the arrow shaft. Perhaps they could soak up some blood and provide a cushion to keep the wound from tearing further. He tightened her armor back down around the secured arrow shaft and arranged the winter cloak to better cover her body. Dormael grimaced as he looked at the lathered horse. The thing was exhausted, and Dormael half expected it to drop dead where it stood. Every movement it made would jostle the girl’s wound and threaten to spill her to the ground. He couldn’t carry her with his magic—it would cause a ruckus with the guards, not to mention any Aeglar Cultists who might be lurking about. The Cult kidnapped and killed those who used magic, and they had a strong presence in Alderak, though Dormael had never seen them in Cambrell. Dormael didn’t have much of a choice. He reached out with his Kai and let the magic take hold of the girl. He tried to be gentle, but she groaned in pain as he lifted her from the ground with the invisible force of his power. He laid her body across the exhausted horse and pumped a little of his power into her. Magic was no good for healing, but if he lent the woman some of his

strength, it might have a positive effect. Once he had stowed most of her things—and some of his—on the horse, he led it back toward the city. Dormael’s magic was still flowing through him, and the strange resonance he had sensed before was interacting with his power stronger than ever. It pulled at him, beckoning in a manner he had never experienced before. Something in the woman’s possession was causing the interaction, but it wasn’t her swords. He spared a thought for searching her bags. If she held something dangerous, it might be right for him to relieve her of the burden. The idea of rifling through a dying woman’s belongings, though, filled him with repugnance. Maybe she’ll tell me when she wakes—if she wakes. Finesse and deception would be required to get her past the gate guards in her state. He could just put them all to sleep, but if a Cultist was lurking around the city, such a direct use of magic would put them on his trail. Could he risk even a small amount? Dormael removed her swords and tied them to her saddlebags, along with his pack and guitar. He wrapped her in both of their cloaks, sitting her upright in the saddle. Apologizing to the horse, Dormael held her in place with his magic as he climbed up behind her. When everything was situated, he nudged the horse toward the gate. He weaved magic around the two of them, altering small details about their appearance. It wasn’t a full illusion, but it would be enough to get past a few sleepy guardsmen. He hoped it would, anyway. The gate loomed out of the night, the torchlight a painful blight on his vision after the moonlight of the road. As Dormael approached the gate, one of the guards lazily moved to bar his path. The City Guardsmen were armed with long halberds, and they leaned on them as Dormael pulled the horse to a stop. The one who had stepped into the road spit to the side before challenging him. “Alright, now. What business do you have in Ferolan?”

“Come to seek age on a ship for my sister and I.” Dormael patted the unconscious girl’s shoulder. “That’s your sister? Is she awake?” The guard nodded his head toward her. “Ah…no.” Dormael gave the guardsman an apologetic smile. “She had a bit of a problem on the road.” “Problem?” “Yes—a drinking problem.” Dormael smirked. “She put down a whole bottle of firewine.” “Your sister sounds like a keeper, Sevenlander.” The guard laughed. “Any woman who can put away that much of the strong stuff must be quite the catch.” He turned his head sideways to leer at her, but the cloak was covering most of her body. Dormael hoped the magic was covering the bloodstains, which were more than apparent to him. “You might think she’s a keeper,” Dormael replied, “but you should ask her last husband. Why do you think I’m coming to take her home? She was unbearable—drunk all the time, angry for most of it, too.” “That so?” Dormael gave the man a tight smile—every moment, the woman bled a little more. “Aye. He put up with her moods and her drinking for a few years, but then the stabbing happened.” Come on, move it along. “Stabbing?” The guard stepped back and raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. She got drunk, got angry, and he got a knife through his leg. Put him down for a whole season, I think. Tragic, really, he was a good-natured sort.” When the guard laughed and looked to his friend, Dormael continued. “And then, there’s the issue with her sickness.” “Sickness?”

“It’s the alcohol, see? It’s taken a toll on her body—particularly her bowels.” “What?” “She has absolutely no control over when she…well…when she goes.” Dormael gestured to her backside. “That’s why it took us so long to get here from the back country. I had to stop every few hours to dump water over her, and—” Dormael paused and looked down at the girl in mock surprise. “Hells, I think she’s going now.” The guard made a disgusted noise. “Go on, then. Get her somewhere with a bath. I don’t want to have clean up her shit, Sevenlander.” “Much obliged.” Dormael clucked to the horse, and she stepped through the gate, snorting in irritation. A shudder ran through the beast’s flanks, and Dormael thought the mare would fall. He prayed to what gods were listening that the animal would last just a bit longer. The men at the guard station laughed as they disappeared behind him. When Dormael felt safe to do so, he dismounted and lightened the horse’s burden as best he could. He checked on the girl and was relieved to see she was alright. “If you live through this, those men will forever you as the selfshitting drunk. You can thank me later.” He smiled and patted the horse’s neck. His next set of problems was no easier to overcome. First, he was going to have to avoid notice. The sight of him leading a horse with a body laid across the saddle might raise a few questions with the authorities. Back alleys were a necessity. For another thing, he didn’t know where he was going. A healer’s shop would be the best bet, though he hadn’t noticed any on his walk out of the city. The girl’s life was trickling away with the blood she was losing, so he set out through the darkened streets of Ferolan. Walking in any direction was better than standing still. There was, however, another problem—Dormael was still drunk. His steps

were not the quietest, and they were wrought with the occasional stumble and muttered curse. Tromping about in the darkened alleys was hard enough when he was sober, much less after so much ale and excitement. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he startled an alley cat from its slumber, and it went hissing into the night. He worked his way back into the city center, heading for one of the market districts. Perhaps he could find a healer’s shop there and somehow convince them to help. Under the circumstances, it was the best plan Dormael could come up with, and time was of the essence. His purse was light, but he was hoping to find a healer who wouldn’t let the girl die—though he had met plenty in his life who would turn him away without any marks. Suddenly, in a narrow space between two squat buildings, two men moved into his path. Groaning inwardly, Dormael turned only to find another, larger man barring his retreat. Dormael clenched his teeth over a curse— someone in the Six Hells had it out for him tonight. One of the smaller men stepped forward. “Greetings to you, my friend. It’s a cold night for a stroll, eh? Time for good boys and girls to be in their sheets.” The man’s voice was like dry scales rubbing together, and it sounded as if someone had tried to cut his throat but hadn’t finished the job. What a pity. The men were dressed in throw-off clothing, and they smelled of piss and sweat. They were unshaven, and their eyes darted around in nervous ticks. They held daggers that looked more suited to whittling than killing. “Please,” Dormael said, “It’s a cold night. We’re all tired. Let’s just forget this ever happened and go find a warm bed for the night. What do you say?” Mocking laughter rolled into the night. “Come now, Sevenlander, there’s plenty of your stuff for everyone. Well, plenty for me and mine, anyway. You can keep your little cunny, just give us the bags, the horse, and that guitar you’re carrying around. Things will go much easier for you that way.”

“Sorry, but I rather need these things. Dangers of the road, and all that. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be going now—with my belongings.” He gave the little man a glare that promised violence, but it didn’t have the effect he’d hoped. “The only place you’re going is the Void, Sevenlander.” The mugger signaled his men to move in. “Go ahead boys, kill this savage and let’s get off the streets.” “Last chance to walk away.” Dormael set his staff and rucksack against the side of an adjacent building. “We’re quite set on leaving you to bleed in the gutter. We need your stuff. Dangers of the road, and all that.” The man smiled through cracked and broken teeth. “Very well.” Dormael sighed. He pulled up his sleeves as the men moved in around him, baring the Sevenlander script tattooed on his arms to the night. The horse shied a little as the men moved in, but Dormael paid it no mind. He reached out with his Kai and grasped control of his power. Time slowed as the world sharpened. The mist hung in the cool night air, every tiny droplet an individual entity. The muggers appeared frozen in mid-step as they came towards him. He could taste the steel of the knives they carried, hear their hands tightening on the leather grips in anticipation of the kill. Every hair on his body tensed, building to a crescendo that would end in a violent expulsion of power. He heard the thieves’ heartbeats, and his own heart began to beat in time. Through it all, the magic flowed like an invisible song, connecting him to everything—the buildings, the air, and even the muggers. Slowly, as if he were moving through jelly, his arm rose and pointed at the rasping leader. The world leaped back into motion with a loud crack. Lightning arced from Dormael’s outstretched hand to slam like a charging bull into the skinny, unwashed little thief. He was lifted into the air and thrown back into a nearby building, his knife clattering to the side. He slid to the ground and lay motionless, his chest smoking where the bolt had burned a hole through

his ratty shirt. He was dead before he stopped smoking. The second thief had been thrown back as well, and was sitting on his rump in the alley, dumbfounded. He looked from Dormael—who stood with unspent electricity arcing from his hand—to his dead partner. With a small cry of alarm, he rose and scurried into the night, his panicked footsteps ringing in the distance. Dormael turned to face the man at his rear and found him standing wideeyed with abject terror. The thief stepped back, shuffled his feet. He hefted the knife in an uncertain grip. Dormael sighed. “Listen, we don’t have to do this. Turn and go back the way you came. Let’s both find somewhere to get warm.” Taking his advice, the thief backed away and disappeared down another alley. Dormael kicked a piece of trash before turning back to the horse. He had to hurry—the lightning had made too much noise, and someone would probably looking. As he was readying to leave, the girl let out a weak cough. Dormael rushed to her side, steadying her with nervous hands. She struggled to rise from where she lay across the horse’s back—a futile attempt which ended in a weak cry of pain. Dormael brushed hair out of her face and crouched to speak with her. “Alton?” Her voice was strained. “Where…am I?” She tried to move again, but Dormael calmed her with a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t move, or you’ll upset your wound. Who are you looking for? Who are you?” “Alton…Alton Dersham…my cousin.” She coughed, grunting with pain, and gave him a bleary look. “Who are you? Take me to Alton. He’s… nobility…a rich man. Where—?” She collapsed with a pained sigh and went quiet. Great. Who in the Six Hells is Alton Dersham?

Dormael cursed and got to his feet. The sky was turning a sullen blue, and people would soon be in the streets. Gathering his gear, he led the horse down the alleyway. It snorted and tossed its head as they stepped past the body of the thief. Dormael shook his head as he headed deeper into the city. I’m never getting drunk in this part of the world again.

Lords, Swordswomen, and Fools

The room smelled like blood and char. It had taken some time to put out the fire the girl had started during her escape, and even longer to clear out the corpses littering the manor’s halls. Despite the efforts of his men, Colonel Rengard Grant now stood in a smoking ruin. He should have been sharing tea with a Cambrellian Baron, but instead, he was forced to endure the smell of burning corpses. Grant wanted to kick something, wanted to scream. His men, though, were watching. “Explain it to me again.” Colonel Grant paced in front of the two idiots before him. “How was it that the two of you—trained by the Empire in the arts of horsemanship, archery, melee and tactics—were evaded by a single country sweetheart?” The scouts stood at rigid attention, though Formin—a youth with barely a beard grown—was regarding him like a confused cow. Grant stood a head taller than both his soldiers, and he was wider across the shoulders. He loomed over them, barely holding back his rage. His left eye twitched uncontrollably, and Grant took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to lose his military decorum in front of his men. A whole contingent of scouts lost, the locals slaughtered, the manor burnt, and this fool blinks at me like a herd animal. Grant raised an eyebrow. “Speak, Formin.” “She had a fresh horse, sir.” “A fresh horse, did she? Oh, well that certainly changes things, doesn’t it? And I imagine, being the intelligent and resourceful of the Emperor’s elite forces that you are, you employed your bows against this dashing little minx?” Grant forced a smile.

“Ah…we did, sir.” Formin nodded. The fool was off balance, and Grant gestured for him to go on. “Tamst put a shaft through her back.” The little cunt puffed his chest out like a puppy with a trophy. “I killed the other one myself.” “And a fearsome target she was, Formin—almost the weight of a large boy and wearing that terrible dress. Have you notched your dagger to mark the glory? Have you offered her kill to Aastinor?” Grant widened his grin. “Ah…no, sir.” Formin looked at the floor. “No?” Grant glanced between Tamst and Formin, still smiling, though his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth together. “Why is that?” “Because…well, she was a girl, sir.” “A girl.” Grant turned away. “A girl in a ripped kitchen dress, wielding nothing but the fabric itself. You must be so proud.” “Sir, I—” “Shut your fucking mouth and stand at attention!” Formin and Tamst stiffened. “Do not brag to me of killing a defenseless girl, Formin. In the event I order you to do so, I expect the challenge will be negligible to your level of skill.” Grant took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Now—what I want to know is how this other young lady managed to kill eight of my scouts and escape with the very fucking thing we’re looking for. Can you tell me that, Formin?” “She…she outran us, sir.” Formin glanced at Tamst. “Our horses expired before we could bring her down.” “Quite a resourceful girl, isn’t she?” Grant shook his head. “If the manor was secured, she must have been in custody. Which means that somehow, she escaped, and in the process, killed eight of my men. She scatters my

column with a stampede of horses, burns down her manor—unbelievable. I’m inclined to ire her resolve, but this…this is an embarrassment, Formin. A complete and utter embarrassment. Do you understand?” Grant came to stand in front of Tamst, who had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and his eyes forward. “Yes, sir.” Formin nodded. “I don’t think you do. Where was your Sergeant?” “He was at the manor, sir. I was guarding the perimeter. I didn’t see what happened to him.” “He was killed, Formin. That’s what happened to him, you drooling idiot. Why did he choose to attack the manor against my explicit orders to wait?” When the column had been charged by a stampede of thoroughbreds, Grant had nearly killed someone on the spot out of sheer anger. The mission had been to intimidate the Baron Llewan into selling the artifact. Violence was supposed to have been the last resort—a possible outcome, but not the first option. Sergeant Janks had ever been a problem, but this new transgression was too far. The man was lucky he was dead. “He—well, he—” “Speak up, Formin.” Formin swallowed. “Sir, he said the manor was ripe. That there were barely any fighting men, and we could get the job done and have everything ready when you got here, sir.” “No fighting men, indeed,” Grant said. “This woman, though, managed to kill most of you. She would have killed you all, had it come to blades between you. I’m sure of it.” “I’m…not sure, sir.” Formin shuffled his feet. “The bodies of your comrades tell a different story,” Grant snapped. “I thought we had this little talk about bragging, Formin. What Sergeant Janks wanted was loot. Rapine. Doubtless he had you prepare a story?”

“He said the point was to take the manor by storm in the first place, sir. He said we were just acting on our existing orders.” “Your orders were to scout the manor for defenses. That’s your job, Formin —you’re a fucking scout. What do you think the baron would have done when faced with so many fearsome of the Emperor’s Red Swords? Do you think he’d have bravely shut the door in my face and told me to go back to Shundovia? No, Formin. He would have given the thing to me, because he didn’t want everything he had to be burnt to the ground. People care about their place in life, Formin. They spend so long building it, you see. “Now we have a major problem. We’ve got a pile of bodies on our hands, and some of them my own men. My entire contingent of scouts, in fact. How bothersome do you think that is for a commander, Formin? Not only that, but you bloody fools left someone alive—someone apparently resourceful and dangerous—and she escaped with the very thing we came here to find. Chances are she’s nobility, Formin—or do you think the kitchen girl learned the sword in her spare time between cleaning pots?” Grant stepped closer to Formin, pinning the little bastard with a scowl. “I’m not sure, sir.” “Not sure, indeed. So now we’ve gone and slaughtered a country baron’s entire household, save for one girl—likely his daughter. Which means that now, she’s a baroness. She fled to the north, and there’s only one thing in the path of that road, Formin. Do you know what it is?” “No, sir.” “Ferolan. One of the busiest ports in Alderak, and the center for trade in the entire kingdom. Doubtless she’ll go to the local nobility and make her case. Far and wide the cry will go that Galania has made an attack on another sovereign nation. Do you know what happens then, Formin?” “Ah…war, sir?” “War, indeed. Someone has to answer for this, you know.” “Sir?”

Grant’s tone was cool and flat. “Sergeant Janks is dead, so someone must be punished.” He snapped his fingers twice, and two of his men grabbed Formin and Tamst by the arms. Neither man struggled, their military discipline winning out over their fear. Would that had been the case this morning, Grant would not be standing here. “Sir?” Formin gave him a confused look. “Gods, boy, you really don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?” Grant shook his head and took a few steps away from Formin. “You violated my direct orders. You participated in the slaughter of innocent people. Not that I particularly care about that, but then you left someone alive to tell the story. Do you think the Emperor won’t hear of this? He is going to shit on me, and I’m going to have to shit on someone. Guess who wins the honor of receiving it?” Formin gulped. Grant turned to the men holding the two scouts. “Crucify them.” “Sir?” Formin’s voice took on the distinct tone of a bleating sheep. Tamst still had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Grant almost spared the man for his silence, but he dismissed the idea. He couldn’t be seen to show favorites, after all. “Take them away.” The men struggled as they were pulled from the room, but Colonel Grant was already turning away. The shouts faded as the door was slammed behind them. Grant was left alone with his aide, a square-jawed Lieutenant fresh from the Academy. Once the door was closed, Grant kicked the wall. “Fuck the gods!” “This is quite the situation, sir.” Lieutenant Havram stepped forward with his hands clasped behind his back. Grant turned to spit vitriol at the man but stopped himself short. Yelling at Havram would get them nowhere.

“I need to write to the Lord of Ferolan.” Grant sighed and rubbed his temples. “We need to get ahead of this, change the story. Let’s say the girl is a criminal, that we’re pursuing her for crimes against the Empire. Do you think that would work?” “It might work, sir. How do we explain the slaughter?” “We don’t.” Grant rubbed his chin. “By the time these ruins are discovered, we will be in Ferolan. By the time word reaches anyone that matters, we will be to sea again and bound for Shundov with the artifact in my possession. There will be suspicion, but no proof. The King of Cambrell may ride against a single company of Red Swords, but he will not risk open war with the whole of the Empire.” “Should I bring a quill, sir?” “Yes and find me somewhere to sit that hasn’t been charred to all Six Hells. She had to go and burn the place, didn’t she? I’ll need to write both to the Lord of Ferolan and make my report to the Emperor. Get me a fast horse and someone willing to ride through the night. Tell the rest of the men to take their ease. We’ll camp here tonight and move north in the morning.” “Yes, sir.” Havram saluted, fist to chest. “And Havram?” The Lieutenant paused on his way out. “Sir?” “Tell them not to bother erecting a cross. Just nail those two to the side of the barn and have it done. And have the condemned gagged. I don’t care to listen to their screams all night.” “Yes, sir,” Havram said. Grant sighed and kicked a burnt piece of detritus across the floor. Things had devolved far past the point they should have. Grant should have been having a civilized meal with the baron after a hard-won negotiation. A true battle of wits between gentlemen, perhaps over the local tea, followed by a shared pipe afterward to bless the transaction—that had been the way Grant had seen it this morning. That had been the plan.

Instead he stood in a charred ruin, surveying the damage his men had wrought. His career would probably end just as the house had, now that this travesty had happened on his watch. The Emperor would not be pleased. A tentative knock at the door sounded, and Grant called for them to enter. An old woman tottered into the room leading a little girl, brown hair over downcast eyes. Grant’s stomach fluttered when he saw her, but the girl kept her eyes to the floor and said nothing. The child looked so familiar, so much like her. The old woman shot him a hateful glance, but she hid it as soon as Grant noticed. Grant knew the old hag hated him, and he accepted that. Her hatred, in the end, meant nothing. His arm muscles tightened at the sight of the girl, and his knuckles cracked as he tightened his fists. The cloaked man had given Grant an unexpected gift in her, though he couldn’t have known the hold she would have over him. He was supposed to be taking her back to Shundov, but as every day ed, he questioned that course of action. Whatever the cloaked man wanted with the girl, it wouldn’t be pleasant. As much as Grant wanted to protect her, it could not be. The cloaked man was more dangerous than anyone Grant had ever had the misfortune to become tangled with, and he had some vague connection with the Emperor. Grant would never be able to keep the girl from him. Still, he shivered as he regarded the youngling. “Take her to the kitchens,” he grunted. The kitchens were made of stone, and as such, had survived the blaze. The stone would hold in the screams, as well, which would serve to keep things a bit more discreet. His eyes were locked to the little girl. Someone had to be punished, after all.

***

The mystery girl’s name was Shawna. That was what her cousin—Alton Dersham—had told Dormael. It had been quite the scene when Dormael had finally found the Dersham household. Alton was a rich man, and his household guards had been understandably suspicious of the outlander towing in the Lord’s wounded cousin. There had been a tense moment, but once the dangerous nature of Shawna’s wound had been realized, everyone had concentrated on her. The manor had risen into an uproar. They probably didn’t get much excitement on most days. Alton Dersham was a man of medium height with a chiseled jawline and hair as brown as mud. He had a self-assured and distinguished air, though it wasn’t quite arrogance. Alton had interrogated Dormael about what happened, but Dormael hadn’t been able to tell him much. Once Dormael had answered Alton’s questions to his satisfaction, or at least to exhaustion, he had been offered a room for the night. A loud knocking jolted Dormael from his sleep the next morning. He grumbled under his breath, blinking in the sunlight streaming through the window. The bedding wasn’t the softest in the world, but Dormael was used to sleeping on the road, and it felt like a dream. Dormael’s eyes drifted closed again as the soft mattress pulled him into lassitude. The knocking came again, more insistent this time, and Dormael sighed and tossed away the sheets. Alton Dersham’s serious face greeted him when he opened the door. “Did you get some rest?” Alton grimaced at the sight of Dormael’s shirtless, disheveled appearance. “You look like you’ve been dragged behind a horse. You’ve still got some of Shawna’s blood on you.” Dormael squinted down at his hands, blinking his eyes into focus. Alton was right—dried blood was soaked into the creases of his hands and smeared on his forearms. “I hope I didn’t ruin your bedding.” He tried an apologetic smile. “It’s nothing to worry about. Do you mind?” Alton gestured into the room.

Dormael stepped aside and opened the door. “No, of course not. It’s your house, after all.” Alton smiled. “True enough.” Alton stepped into the room and ran his eyes over Dormael’s belongings. The quarterstaff leaned over Dormael’s rucksack, while the guitar case was covered with his cloak. Alton raised his eyebrows when he saw the number of knives and daggers Dormael had tossed on top of the cloak when he had disrobed. “You must lead quite the interesting life.” Alton turned back to face him. “Interesting is a word for it.” Dormael smiled. “I could think of a few others, though. How’s the girl—Shawna, right?” Alton sighed and his shoulders relaxed. “She made it through the night. The healer said it had to be the favor of the gods that she lived. She lost a lot of blood, and she’s fatigued from the cold and whatever else came out of the Void upon her.” Was it the favor of the gods, or the raw magical power Dormael had pumped into her body? Had his efforts with magic helped at all? In his experience it was never wise to reveal his gift to anyone in the east. Prejudices ran deep, even in a moneyed and peaceful kingdom like Cambrell. Most on the continent of Alderak despised magic, and Dormael preferred to avoid being abducted and burnt to death. “Will she live?” “We can hope.” Alton flicked a weak smile. “The healer is keeping her drugged with a sleeping tincture. Shawna is struggling to live. Only the gods know what will happen.” “What do you think happened to her?” Alton frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve sent riders to her family’s estate. We should know something in a couple of days. Whatever it was, it can’t be good. Her father’s barony lies on the fringes of the kingdom. It’s something of a backwater, but a peaceful one.”

“I…didn’t say anything to the authorities on the way into the city. I hid her identity,” Dormael said. “I wasn’t sure who she was, or what had happened, so I thought it best to keep things discreet. No one else knows she’s here.” “I’m not sure it was necessary, but thanks.” Alton gave Dormael a wary look. “I can’t imagine she was involved in anything criminal.” Dormael shrugged. “Always better to be sure. Someone put that arrow through her—someone who didn’t care much for her noble blood. That could mean brigands, sure, but it could also mean someone powerful.” “I hadn’t thought of that, but you have a point. Baron Llewan was well liked. His horses are the pride of the nobility all over Cambrell. The king himself has one.” “It may not be my place to speculate,” Dormael ventured, moving to sit on the bed, “but it sounds to me like he wasn’t the kind of man one would cross so openly without the risk of being exposed. Is there any reason his daughter would be traipsing around the countryside at night, armed like a mercenary on campaign?” “Shawna was…infamous…amongst the country nobility.” Alton sighed. “She learned the sword, you know. It’s not unheard of for a lady to learn to fence here in Cambrell, but a noble lady that becomes a Marked Blademaster is a rare thing.” Dormael blinked at Alton. “She earned the Mark? Impressive. I guess that could explain something.” “Shawna was eldest, but only because a plague took her older brother.” Alton shook his head. “She was in line to become sole heir to her father’s barony, so there’s no reason she would have been alone out there. Perhaps she was traveling, or…I don’t know.” “Armed the way she was, though?” Dormael gestured vaguely to the south. “And I didn’t see anyone else out there. If there was a party she was traveling with, they were nowhere near when I found her. She was alone, and she’d been on the road for a while. Her horse was nearly dead from exhaustion. She was running from something.”

Alton fixed Dormael with a considering gaze. “Once word returns with my men, I can write the king with a clear report of what happened. For now, I’ve already warned his Majesty’s patrolmen there’s violence in the south.” “If this is some type of conspiracy, they’ll be able to trace that request back to you.” Dormael couldn’t stop himself from pointing that out, though he worried he was overstepping. “If someone’s after her, they could track her that way.” “You have a dark turn of mind, my friend. An interesting life, indeed.” Dormael shrugged. “Why did you help her?” Alton regarded Dormael with suspicion. “Many people would have stolen her belongings, perhaps finished the job the arrow started. Some would kidnap her and hold her ransom, if they could keep her alive. The horse alone is worth more than most people see in their entire lifetimes. You appear to have no ties to this place, so what is it that interests you?” Dormael shrugged again. “Whatever I am, I’m no thief. I couldn’t just leave her to bleed out on the road. I figured whoever she was, she’d made a heroic effort to reach the city. What kind of bastard would I be if I had disregarded such a thing?” “You don’t strike me as the religious type.” Alton smirked, gesturing at the knives. “Not particularly.” Dormael smiled, shaking his head. “Let’s just say there are levels of shit I don’t care to wade into, if you know what I mean.” “I think I understand,” Alton said, snickering under his breath. He took a deep breath and relaxed his posture. “You saved her life. If her tragedy runs deep enough, you may have saved her family’s lineage. That’s no small thing.” “I didn’t know who she was.” Dormael shrugged and looked away. Alton was probably about to offer him money and send him on his way. If that happened, he would have to watch the girl from afar. He had to know what had awakened his magic, but he dared not reveal his true motivations to

Alton. “Still, if you require a boon of me, all you need to do is ask. You may have noticed I’m quite wealthy. Anything you feel that you deserve—within reason, of course—is possible. You’ve earned it.” Dormael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not interested in money. I am, however, interested in the outcome of her story. I’d like to stick around until she wakes up. It was quite the ordeal getting her here. I’d honestly just like to talk to her. Find out what happened.” “That’s really all you want? She may not wake, you know.” “I know. I’m not asking for your hospitality. If you wish, I can find a room in the city.” Dormael shrugged. “I don’t mean to take advantage of you.” “Nonsense.” Alton held up a hand and shook his head. “I’ve an abundance of rooms and no need to collect rent for them. You’ve earned that much, at least. I’ll have my staff collect your things and move you to a more suitable room—and pour you a bath, as well. No offense, but you stink.” “I can only agree with you about that.” Dormael grimaced. “Thank you.” “It’s nothing. I’ve business to attend, but I’d like to speak to you later.” Alton gave him a friendly smile. “Have my chamberlain direct you to my study this evening. You’re free to seek food in the kitchens, as well.” “Where do I find your chamberlain?” “Her name is Nan and don’t worry—she’ll find you.” Alton smiled and gave a formal nod as he left. As it turned out, the matronly old chamberlain was waiting outside. She bustled him out of the room and up two flights of stairs to the third floor of the manor. When the old woman deposited him into one of the larger suites on the top floor, there was already a steaming bath waiting for Dormael in a copper tub. Once Nan had collected his dirty clothing and departed the room, he leaped into the bath. He hadn’t realized how filthy he was until the water soaked into his skin.

Dormael had been at sea for many days, and he’d gone straight from the docks to the tavern. The sea left a salty layer of grime on a man, and it still clung to Dormael’s skin. After the adventure of the previous night, he’d been left covered in dirt and blood, as well. Once the heat had soaked into his bones, Dormael scrubbed himself clean and relaxed in the water. This Alton Dersham is wealthy, indeed. The floor in Dormael’s new suite was ed with pleasant, dark wood. A tan plaster was covering the walls, which lent the room a peaceful air. Two large windows looked over the city of Ferolan and the sea beyond. Dormael rarely had a chance to stay in such pleasant settings, and he savored the luxury. While his body relaxed, he opened his Kai and let his magical senses listen to the world around him. Alton’s home had a quiet, efficient energy buzzing through it. It was a sprawling place, and Dormael’s magic touched upon a small brigade of servants and a modest number of personal guardsmen. He could sense a feeling of anxiety hovering about the estate, though, like a discordant note buried in a symphony. Everyone’s probably worked up over last night. He pushed his senses through the manor and sought out Shawna. The strange power that had hovered around her was silent. Dormael listened hard for it, but his Kai could detect nothing. Since the attack in the alleyway, his magic had behaved as normal, and no trace of the other song had been present. Shawna still had a tenuous hold on life. She returned troubled sensations to his magic, as if she was dreaming and lashing out in her sleep. Another presence was in the room with the girl—perhaps the healer, or a servant tasked with watching her. A noble daughter of Cambrell and a Marked Blademaster. Who are you, Shawna Llewan? When evening rolled around, Dormael was led to the top of the manor’s only tower, where Alton kept his office. Nan had sent a young girl in her place—a pretty blonde named Lyssa. Dormael spent the walk making overt

glances at her, hoping she would blush. He was rewarded with rosy cheeks and a mortified expression, which he repaid with a wink. Lyssa refused to look at him after that, which made Dormael chuckle. She itted him into Alton’s study and scurried off down the stairs. “Come in.” Alton smiled. “Pull up a chair.” Three full walls of the man’s study were given over for bookshelves, and they were filled with tomes of all shapes and sizes. Books weren’t easy to come by, and Alton Dersham was displaying a veritable fortune. Dormael had seen scholars with more modest collections. In the floor between the bookshelves was a large desk made of polished wood. The other half of the room was a sitting area. An expansive window looked over the harbor, the city’s lights scattered along the hillside like distant candles. A brick fireplace occupied one wall, and a pair of chairs with an ornate stones board sat in front of it. A small table held an ashtray and a pair of mugs made of unblemished glass. A decanter sat between them. Alton gestured toward the stones board. “Do you play?” “I’ve been known to move a stone or two.” Dormael smiled. “It’s hard to get anyone to play around here.” Alton gestured at the door. “Most of my household has no appreciation for the game. Where did you learn it?” Dormael shrugged. “One learns things on the road. I can’t if a wagoneer taught me, or if I picked it up elsewhere.” Alton poured Dormael a drink—a smooth, golden firewine—and the two of them spent some time setting up the field. Dormael chose white against Alton’s black, and soon the game was underway. Alton played a conservative game, protecting what territory he claimed by placing his stones where they could one another. Dormael found a weakness in his formation and broke his line with an all-out assault, forcing him to split his forces. Alton’s defense disintegrated, and Dormael wiped him from the board.

Alton grimaced. “I’m out of practice.” “Happens to all of us.” Dormael took a sip from the glass, smiling at the woody taste of the firewine. “This is good. Don’t think I’ve had a flavor quite like it.” “It’s strong.” Alton took a cultured sip and swirled the glass. “Made with some sort of new process. It’s a mystery to me, but the final product is quite enjoyable.” They made light conversation as Alton set up another game. The conversation ended once the game commenced, and they continued to play for a time, trading wins and losses. Dormael pulled out a pipe after their fifth game and offered to share his tobacco with Alton. Once the bowls were packed, they leaned back in their chairs and sipped from the firewine. Alton narrowed his eyes. “I would be interested to know what you think happened to my cousin. You were the one who found her, and given your interesting turn of mind, I’d like to hear your theory.” “Are you sure you want to know?” Dormael regarded the man through narrowed eyes. “I’m not a man to shy from serious conversation, Dormael.” Alton gave him a tight smile. “Indulge me, if you would.” “Well, first there are some things I’d need to know about her background.” “Ask away. We weren’t very close growing up, but we were friendly. I’ll tell you what I can.” “You said her father was a baron, correct? I’d wonder how many enemies the man accrued during his lifetime.” “None that I’d know of.” Alton shrugged. “He cornered the market on thoroughbred horses throughout most of northern Alderak. Perhaps a business competitor? Their family is old, and Dolland Llewan wasn’t a social climber. He was country nobility. His barony is nearly in Shundovia, for Evmir’s sake.”

“What used to be Shundovia, you mean.” Dormael held up a finger. “It’s part of the Galanian Empire now.” Alton grimaced. “I try not to think about that.” “So the baron was no courtier. No political aspirations and no enemies.” Dormael toyed with his beard. “What of his lands? Are they prone to banditry? Especially valuable?” “No.” Alton shook his head. “In fact, the Llewans helped manage the influx of refugees during the Galanian invasion of Shundovia. After the war, though, they all went back home. It’s been quiet ever since.” “Until last night.” “Until last night.” Alton nodded. “Still, there hasn’t been a peep out of the south since the end of the war in Shundovia.” “Could she have been transporting some horses? Perhaps driving a few to market, or to a prospective buyer?” Dormael shrugged. “Horses are valuable. Maybe it was wrangling, and not everyday banditry.” “I suppose that’s possible. I don’t know much about the mechanics of their business.” Alton shook his head. “Still, Dolland would have hired guardsmen for that. He wouldn’t have let his eldest daughter arm herself and lead the caravan. Shawna competed in small, local tourneys. She wasn’t known for being an adventurer.” Dormael sighed and looked at the stones board. “We should know more when your men return. Nothing about this adds up to a simple explanation. She had no conceivable reason to be on the road alone. A noble lady in armor with an arrow in her back…my instincts tell me you should keep her a secret for now.” “Why?” Alton blew a cloud of bluish smoke toward the window. Dormael took a pull from the pipe. “Regardless of how it happened, someone tried to kill her. If it was a highway brigand, then you’ve lost nothing in waiting to alert the gentry of what happened to her. However, if

this wasn’t a robbery, it had to have been someone who doesn’t fear the reprisal of the Cambrellian establishment.” “But what reason would this unnamed party have for attacking the Llewans?” Dormael shrugged. “Powerful people move in powerful ways. Land, wealth, influence—any of these are reasons for you nobles to poke daggers in each other’s backs.” Alton smirked and blew a puff of smoke through his nose. “True enough. That sort of thing happens more in the capital than in the country, though. Dolland was as wealthy as any country noble, but no one wants a barony on the edge of the kingdom.” “Could be a small move in a larger strategy, but you have a point. Still, if this unnamed powerful person knows she got away and lived, they would also know she’d have pull with the authorities. They’ve either got to come after her or face the judgment of the kingdom. You can’t lay claim to a barony with a living baroness, unless my interpretation of your laws is wrong.” Alton’s brows drew down as he tapped the edge of his pipe on the table. “It just doesn’t make sense. They didn’t have enemies—at least, none willing to kill Shawna.” “In my experience, people don’t take up the sword because they have too many friends.” Dormael took another sip from his glass. “And there are plenty of people out there willing to kill for what they want.” Alton raised an eyebrow. “Is that another thing you just picked up on the road?” “Something like that.” Dormael kept a nonchalant smile on his face, but prickles of discomfort ran through his stomach. Alton was clearly a shrewd man—anyone who had the mind to amass so much wealth and prestige was not to be discounted. Saying too much could be dangerous. I need to learn to keep my fool mouth shut.

“What is it you do?” Alton took a hit from his pipe. “For money, I mean.” “Never enough.” Dormael took a long pull from the firewine. “Very well.” Alton’s eyes narrowed. “I will allow you your secrets for now. They may become tiresome, or inconvenient, in the future. We should be clear on that.” “There aren’t any great secrets.” Dormael sighed. “Just a lot of bad decisions. You might say that I’ve done a lot of different things because I’ve never been able to make one of them work.” “And some of those things involved plotting and an unhealthy number of blades.” Alton smirked. “And a guitar, apparently. That’s something you don’t see every day.” Dormael spent the rest of the night fencing with Alton’s questions. He was artful with his interrogation, and he tolerated Dormael’s secrecy with amusement. They played stones until the game lost its interest, and Dormael stumbled toward his rooms and collapsed atop his blankets. Shawna’s recovery went slowly in the following days, and she remained in an intermittent state of unconsciousness. Her wound had taken an infection, and it was unknown if she would recover. Alton had the local healer stop by daily to change her dressings, ister medicines, and check on her progress, but there was little more she could do. Dormael visited her when he was in the mood for contemplation. He plucked quiet melodies on his guitar and listened to her energy with his Kai. Sometimes he shared his magical power with her, hoping to bolster her strength. Magic could do little to heal the body, and Dormael had doubts his efforts had any real effect. The mysterious force from the night of her appearance was silent, though Dormael listened for it every day. He mulled over the reason his magic would react to her with such vigor. It had never happened to him before. Magic had a certain resonance with the world, and sometimes odd things could evoke a response from a wizard’s Kai. His power coming so violently awake on its own, however, had never happened to another wizard to Dormael’s knowledge.

As the days wore on, Dormael grew more anxious. He had come to Ferolan in anticipation of meeting with his cousin and traveling to Tauravon for the Festival of Frost. Shawna’s predicament—and the problem with Dormael’s magic—had changed everything. His cousin would be expecting him, and Dormael had no word of what happened. It won’t hurt to get another opinion about my Kai. He left his room and found Alton in his study, poring over a ledger with a graying man who had a stiff, proper manner, and a perpetual frown on his face. The older man had a red embroidered coat and polished shoes. He stiffened when Dormael came into the study and regarded him with a look of disdain. “Lord Dersham.” Dormael bowed, shooting an uncertain glance between the two men. “I didn’t know you were indisposed. I’ll come back later.” “Nonsense, Dormael. I was only seeing to a small matter of business. Durham,” he said, motioning to the man at his side, “this is Dormael, an associate from the Sevenlands. Dormael, this is the Baronet Durham Keeting of the Ferolan Logistics Consortium.” Keeting put a wrinkled hand to his nose. “Lord Dersham, you would honestly associate with a Sevenlander?” Alton scowled at Keeting. “You are a guest in my home, Durham, as is Dormael. However you feel, you will conduct yourself accordingly. Honor demands no less.” Keeting scoffed. “My Lord, you would throw your reputation on the coals for one of them? Everyone knows what they are, what they do.” Dormael chuckled under his breath, which reddened Keeting’s face. “I would see guests in my home treated with respect.” Alton put his hands on the table. “Dormael is an honorable man. Can you say the same?” “You would question my honor?” Keeting raised his chin. “I believe I just did.”

Keeting sniffed and gave Dormael a disgusted look. He turned and gathered a stack of papers from the desk, moving in snippy, tight little motions. Once his belongings were secure, he stiffened and gave Alton a cold glare. “The Logistics Consortium will hear of this. They may find it problematic to store any goods that may have come from unsavory alliances.” Keeting left the room with a final sniff for Dormael. Dormael sighed as the door slammed shut. “Apologies for that. I hope I didn’t ruin something just there.” Alton rubbed his temples. “Durham is an unrepentant ass, but the Logistics Consortium controls most of the storehouses in Ferolan. Doubtless he will try to cause me no end of irritation.” “How so?” “I run a shipping business, Dormael. I need their floor space for goods in transit. I’ll handle it, though. What did you want?” Dormael winced. “I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you. I was planning on meeting my cousin here before I found Shawna. We were going to head to Tauravon for the Solstice. That’s obviously not going to happen now, but he may be able to help figure out what happened to Shawna.” Alton raised an eyebrow. “Really?” “He’s shrewd and well-traveled.” Dormael shrugged. “He should be on his way here anyway, since we’d planned on meeting. I wanted to ask for a bit more of your hospitality.” “You want me to prepare a room for him?” Alton nodded, a pensive frown on his face. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt, though I don’t know what else he could do. I assume you trust him?” Dormael scoffed. “Of course.” “You earned a lot of trust by bringing Shawna here.” Alton’s face drew into a thoughtful frown. “I’ve enjoyed our conversations, and I wasn’t lying to

Keeting—I think you’re an honorable man. If you really think your cousin can help, I’ll have Nan prepare a room. When is he supposed to arrive?” “Today, most likely.” Alton nodded, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I’ll be indisposed for most of the day but call on me this evening. I want to meet your cousin, and we’ll discuss Shawna’s situation.” Dormael gave a quick bow and walked out the door, leaving Alton to his business. He would have waited until nightfall to D’Jenn but he needed some insight. He made his way back to his room and moved to look out the window. With his face in the sun, Dormael closed his eyes and opened his Kai, feeling the torrent of magic rush into him. He pulled magic up from the ether—the invisible plane from which it came—and pushed his senses out the window, carrying a reserve of power with them. While his body channeled power, his mind could roam great distances, especially on a clear day. There were limits to mind-flight, but for the purpose of simple communication, it was a powerful tool. It was also fun as all Six Hells. Dormael flew low over the docks, slowing to take in the view of the ships rocking in the harbor. From his height, the masts looked like trees jutting from the bay, and the city spread out beneath him in the cool winter sunlight. Though his body stood in the window back at Alton’s manor, his mind soared northward over the rocky coast of Cambrell. He did a few twists in mid-air, relishing the excitement, and pushed his speed to its limit. He turned to the east in a long, lazy circle, and followed a wide road headed northeast toward the heart of the kingdom. D’Jenn had to be somewhere close to Ferolan. He would have been coming from the north, or perhaps the northeast, on the road from Arla, the Cambrellian capital. Dormael had kept communication to a minimum during his hiatus, but he trusted D’Jenn more than anyone on Eldath, and had made an exception for him. During Dormael’s absence, D’Jenn had his own business to attend, and had apparently been traveling all over northern Alderak.

Dormael sent a magical pulse through the air, searching for his cousin’s song in the ether. If D’Jenn was using magic, even a small amount to keep warm, his Kai would resonate with the pulse. Something buzzed farther down the road—a whisper of harmony, like a distant pair of ephemeral instruments playing in unison—and Dormael focused on the sound. Like a bird with a target in its sight, Dormael sped toward the resonance. Dormael found his cousin trudging through the cold winter morning. D’Jenn was half a head taller than Dormael, with paler skin and piercing blue eyes. He had long auburn hair, though it was stuffed into the cowl of a black Sevenlander cloak, and a beard on his chin of the same color. D’Jenn wore a heavier version of the cloak than Dormael did, with a mantle embroidered with silver thread in swirling patterns. A rucksack bobbed on D’Jenn’s back, and an ugly mace was stuck through his belt. It was spiked and heavy, the metal dark and pitted. Dormael had always thought it looked odd, like something meant to crack rocks rather than skulls. Beneath D’Jenn’s rucksack swung a Doomba—a traditional Sevenlander drum. Dormael lowered his consciousness to the ground in front of D’Jenn and formed the image of himself in his mind. Using his magic, he infused that image to make it substantial, producing the illusion of his body standing in the road before D’Jenn. As his mind took control of the illusory simulacrum with a feeling akin to donning a jacket, he bowed and favored his cousin with a wry smile. “I thought I felt your song in the air.” D’Jenn smiled, dropping his packs at the side of the road. He balled his right fist over his heart and bowed to Dormael, who returned the gesture. He would have embraced his cousin, but his illusion was no more substantial than a gust of wind. “What brings you? I’ll be in Ferolan this evening. Are you playing around?” “Playing?” Dormael scoffed. “You know me better than that. This is serious.” “I do know you, and I’m sure you’ve been flying over the sea turning very serious loops in mid-air.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“Not yet.” Dormael smiled. “But it’s early. There’s still time for that.” “Aye, still time yet.” D’Jenn smiled. “Are you ready for the Solstice? You didn’t forget to get us horses, did you?” Dormael winced. “About the trip, D’Jenn—something has happened.” D’Jenn gave him a long, flat look. He sighed and tromped to the side of the road, rummaging around in his voluminous dark cloak. He produced a pipe carved in the semblance of a serpent, sat down on an overturned log, and started packing a bowl. “We’ve been planning this trip for an entire season.” D’Jenn lit the pipe with a flash of his power and took a long pull. “I’ve been ducking Victus’s messages for weeks. He’s been leaving word at every drop in Alderak, so I know it’s important, whatever it is. I’m blowing him off for this—the Deacon of our Discipline.” “I know.” Dormael sighed. “This was your idea.” “Aye, I know.” “Think of the spectacle, the food, the women—those were your words to me.” D’Jenn shook his head. “Let me guess what happened—you got arrested?” “Why do you always assume I’ve been arrested?” D’Jenn rolled his eyes. “Is it the city dungeons, or have you gotten yourself abducted by a street gang, or something? Can’t you break yourself out?” “I wasn’t arrested.” Dormael chuckled, shaking his head. “I didn’t buy any horses, but that’s another story. I need to ask you something. Your magic— has it ever awakened on its own? Perhaps in response to something else?” D’Jenn furrowed his brows, his smile replaced with a guarded look. “No. What are you talking about?”

Dormael’s guts tightened at the look D’Jenn gave him, but he gritted his teeth and launched into the story. He told him about the night he found Shawna, about the strange resonance from something in her possession. D’Jenn listened to the entire tale with a thoughtful, troubled expression. When Dormael had finished the telling, D’Jenn’s face took on a grim cast. “The girl—Shawna. Has she said anything?” Dormael shook his head. “She’s still unconscious. She’s been fighting off an infection since I found her, and whatever magical thing she has is still in her saddlebags.” D’Jenn gave a slow nod. “And you’ve been hanging around, watching over her. Is she pretty?” “I suppose so. Why?” “No reason.” D’Jenn smirked. “That’s not the reason, D’Jenn.” Dormael rolled his eyes. “The magic, ?” “Of course, the magic.” D’Jenn’s tone was flat. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with a pretty face. Nothing like the tavern girl in Moravia with the overbearing boss, or the one in Mistfall whose husband never loved her. Nothing like those.” “You’re being ridiculous.” “I’m being ridiculous?” D’Jenn scoffed. “You’re the one ruining our entire trip for this one girl. Take the infused thing, whatever it is, and get on with it. I want to be heading to Lesmira in the morning.” “I’m not going to steal it, D’Jenn.” Dormael snorted. “Besides, you’re not listening. This thing—this magical item—it’s not like anything I’ve felt before. You know I’m not some child in his First Four. I wouldn’t come to you with something stupid.” “That prescription against stealing doesn’t apply to a Blessed exercising his duties,” D’Jenn grumbled. “If it was a fat old man in trouble, would this be

such a pressing issue?” “Yes, gods-damn it. Don’t you trust me?” “Against all the evidence my relationship with you has provided, I do.” D’Jenn sighed. “Fine. Tell me where you are.” “I’m staying with her kinsman, a man named Alton Dersham. He’s a good sort of fellow—and a rich sort, too. He’s prepared a bed for you.” “Very well. I should be in the city by this evening.” D’Jenn tapped his pipe on the log and stood. “Hopefully we can take care of this soon and be off to Tauravon before the gods return to Eldath.” “Stop being such a grouse. You know we can’t leave something like this behind us. If Victus—or the Mekai, for that matter—found out, we’d be punished for it.” D’Jenn smirked. “You’d be punished for it. This is your problem, I was just ing through on my way to Tauravon.” Dormael chuckled. “I’m in the Merchant’s District, in Ferolan. The Dersham manor.” “I guess I’ll be seeing you this evening, then,” D’Jenn said. “I hope to the gods this doesn’t take all winter.” “Thanks, D’Jenn.” Dormael let his illusory form fade with his last words. “See you in Ferolan.” D’Jenn waved, grumbling under his breath, and Dormael left him on the road. He hurtled back toward Ferolan, where his body stood in Alton’s window. He could feel hunger growing along the tenuous thread connecting his consciousness to his physical form, and by the position of the sun, there was probably still time to catch breakfast in the kitchens. He did, however, do more barrel rolls on the way.

*** Alton placed a black stone on the board, blowing out a slow trickle of tobacco smoke as he straightened. He narrowed his eyes at Dormael and schooled his features to stillness, but his anticipation was clear. The waning sunlight coming through the window cast red shafts of light through the smoke hovering in the room, and Dormael peered through it at Alton’s bland expression. “You’re not very good at hiding your emotions.” Dormael placed a white piece to block Alton’s intended goal. It wasn’t the move he’d tried to bait Dormael into making, and Alton grimaced at the board. Dormael regarded him with a smile. “I haven’t had much practice.” Alton placed another stone. “It’s hard to find people amongst the staff who would sit and play the master of the house at stones. For that matter, it’s hard to find anyone amongst the staff who plays stones in the first place.” “You could invite the noble Baronet Keeting over for a game.” Dormael smirked as he placed another stone on the board. “He certainly concerns himself with gentlemanly pursuits.” “He’s well educated on the taste of his own ass, maybe.” Alton smiled. “Most of the gentry are like him—social climbers obsessed with their own status. I don’t get along with most of them, and they don’t get along with me. You saw what happened today.” Dormael took a pull from his pipe. “I saw, and I appreciate your taking up for me. Seems like it’s going to affect you, though.” “Not as much as you may think,” Alton said. “My family is low nobility. I’m a Baronet as well, you know. The lowliest of the highborn in Cambrell.” Dormael looked around the study, taking in the rich wood and wealth of books. “Apparently that didn’t hold you back.” Alton laughed. “No, not particularly. My father valued two things— business and education. Other families thought business was the trade of the merchant class, but my father didn’t care for their nattering. He taught me

about trade, and made sure I had my nose in books from sunup to sundown, at least when I wasn’t learning the gentleman’s arts.” “Gentleman’s arts?” “The sword, the horse, the bow. Etiquette, honor and the religious traditions. You know—all the basic rubbish society crams down your throat.” “Your society, maybe.” Dormael smiled. “My own father—he values education, too. He made damn sure I learned three things—the spear, my letters, and the guitar.” “That’s a strange mix of skills.” “Aye. My father said a man always needs to learn to defend himself—hence, the spear. He said that idiots die quickest, so the reading.” “And the guitar?” “The guitar has been in our family for a long time—music in general has.” Dormael smiled as he recalled memories from his childhood. “It’s my father’s greatest love. We used to sit outside during the high summer and play until the sun fell below the hills.” “He didn’t have a witty reason for the music?” Alton dropped another piece on the board. “Beauty,” Dormael replied. “He used to say I’d never appreciate anything without the ability to know and create something beautiful.” “He’s still alive, then?” “Aye. Still puttering around my family’s homestead.” Dormael dropped another piece. “My parents both died during the plague.” Alton sighed. “As much as the old man used to grill me, I sometimes wish he was still around. You never realize how much you love them until they’re gone, right?”

“I suppose.” Dormael sank into his thoughts as Alton examined the board. He had been taken from his family at a young age when it was discovered he was Blessed. Dormael’s father had been a spearman in the Clan militia before taking up blacksmithing, and he’d wanted Dormael to follow in his footsteps. Dormael could still the disappointment on the old man’s face the day the Conclave Scout had come to their homestead. “What happened after you left home? It must be quite the story to have brought you so far.” Alton dropped another piece on the board and looked up. “Tell me and don’t be so vague this time. You have a gift for that, you know—using a lot of words to say nothing at all.” Dormael shrugged and looked over the board. “There’s not much to tell, really.” “Rubbish.” Alton fixed Dormael with a piercing look. “Did your father give you the guitar? It’s a fine piece, and rare. I know plenty of noblemen who don’t own anything that nice. It must have been expensive.” “Very expensive.” “So?” “So, what?” Alton narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get it?” Dormael leaned over the stones board, taking a long moment to contemplate his next move. “If you must know, my brother is a gladiator back home. You’ve heard of the Gladiator’s Ring in Tept? It’s in the western part of the Sevenlands.” Alton nodded. “I’ve heard of it.” “My brother fights in the tournaments—not the religious festivals.” Dormael held up a hand to forestall any questions. “I know what people probably say, but the Teptians only kill each other for their religious festivals. Anyone can fight in the tournaments, and my brother’s won a few champion’s purses. He bought me the guitar with some of his winnings.”

It wasn’t true—the guitar had been a gift, but it had come from a Lesmiran merchant who had needed someone to track down his daughter. She was a wizard who’d been abducted by the Cult of Aeglar, and the top magical authority in Lesmira—the Mage Tower—wasn’t a martial institution. They had appealed to the Conclave in the Sevenlands for help, and Dormael had been the one to find her. The guitar was his gesture of thanks, but Dormael couldn’t reveal any of that to Alton. Alton seemed an honorable man, and he hadn’t voiced any prejudice where magic was concerned. Shawna’s swords were clearly infused, and he hadn’t commented on them, but that didn’t mean he’d tolerate a wizard under his roof. The Conclave of Wizards had earned a great deal of historical enmity from the people of Alderak, and as a result, magic was barely tolerated in most countries, where it wasn’t outright illegal. I hate lying to him, but I can’t take the chance he wouldn’t report me to the authorities. Dormael dropped his next piece on the board and leaned back in his chair. “Your brother won a champion’s purse at the Gladiator’s Ring?” Alton raised an eyebrow. “Yes.” That much, at least, was true. “He’s won three, in fact.” Alton chuckled. “If you say so. It sounds far-fetched to me, but you can keep those secrets if you wish.” Dormael smiled as Alton dropped another piece on the board. “You don’t believe me?” “I’m not sure what to believe.” Alton grimaced when Dormael dropped his piece and gestured at it in frustration. “How did you do that? I can’t claim any more territory without losing half my pieces.” Dormael winked. “I’m well educated in gentleman’s pursuits.” There was a knock at the door, drawing Alton’s attention. “Come!”

Lyssa poked her head into the room, shooting Dormael a quick glance before bowing at the waist. “There is someone at the gate, My Lord. He says you are expecting him. His name is Jenn.” “D’Jenn,” Dormael corrected. “That would be my cousin.” “My Lord?” The young lady looked back to Alton. “Show him in, Lyssa. Nan should have prepared him a room. She will know where to put him.” Alton glanced at Dormael. “When you’ve quartered him, bring us up some ale and show him to my study.” “Yes, My Lord.” Lyssa gave a short curtsy and disappeared through the door. D’Jenn appeared a short time later, tromping in through the door as Lyssa opened it for him. He had doffed his heavy cloak and dropped his packs, but the dirt from the road was still dusted over his clothing. He wore a mesavai much like Dormael’s, though it was black with red hems. D’Jenn was partial to the dark color, and his pants and undershirt were just as dark as his mesavai. D’Jenn winked at Dormael and turned to Alton. He gave a respectful nod and balled his fist over his heart, bowing at the waist. Alton stumbled over returning the traditional greeting, shrugging his ignorance as he rose from the bow. “Dormael has not explained this Sevenlander custom to me.” Alton threw Dormael a mildly irritated glance. “Things were a little tense when we met.” Dormael shrugged. D’Jenn nodded. “I would think he would have told you what it meant, but no matter. I will explain if you want to know. I’m D’Jenn, by the way. D’Jenn Pike, of the Red Hills of Soirus-Gamerit.” “I’m always up for learning something.” Alton smiled. “Alton Dersham, Seat of House Dersham. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Lyssa muttered an apology and deposited a pitcher of ale on the table. Alton

held up a hand as Lyssa poured three cups from the pitcher and handed them out. She hurried back through the door and pulled it quietly shut in her wake. D’Jenn smiled and raised his cup. “Well, that’s a proper greeting if I’ve ever seen one. To health.” “To health.” Dormael and Alton repeated the toast, and three of them settled into chairs around the table. Dormael pulled out his pipe and offered some of his tobacco to Alton, who accepted with a nod. D’Jenn packed his own bowl and waited to speak until the pipes were lit. “The bow,” D’Jenn said, “is used for strangers meeting each other for the first time, or for acquaintances meeting after a long absence. The right hand is considered the hand of violence in our homeland and placing it just so—” He balled his fist over his heart. “—demonstrates you mean the other person no ill will. It’s an agreement to nonviolence. There are, of course, other greetings for close family, or even greetings for enemies. If you ever meet a Sevenlander who does not offer you the bow when you meet them, they don’t trust you.” Dormael smiled. “Now you’ve got two Sevenlanders in your home, Alton. Baronet Keeting would have a seizure.” “Baronet Keeting probably would, and it would leave Ferolan a better place if he did.” Alton snorted and shook his head. “Don’t remind me of him.” D’Jenn glanced between them. “I must be missing something.” “Don’t worry about it, your cousin is just trying to tweak my nose.” Alton waved a dismissive hand in Dormael’s direction. “I trust the road was good to you, D’Jenn?” “It was.” D’Jenn nodded. “Cambrell is pretty serious about keeping the peace on her roadways. I didn’t run into any trouble.” “Good to hear.” Alton sighed. “Trouble seems to be going around.” D’Jenn nodded. “So I’ve heard. How is the girl? Shawna is her name?”

Alton gave D’Jenn a suspicious look. “Still fighting the infection from her wound. How did you know?” Dormael cleared his throat. “I sent a message for him. To the place we’d planned to meet.” D’Jenn nodded when Alton looked to him for confirmation. “I see.” Alton furrowed his brows and looked at Dormael. “I thought you were concerned for secrecy. Your advice to me urged it, as I .” “I was careful,” Dormael said. “I told you, Alton—I trust D’Jenn. He can help us, and he can help Shawna.” Alton glanced between them with suspicion, but he gave a grudging nod. “Secrecy is probably the right call.” D’Jenn sat forward in his chair. “Dormael skimped on the details of the story, though. Particularly who Shawna is and why someone would want her dead.” D’Jenn shot Dormael a weighted glance, and Dormael could imagine his cousin’s unspoken question—Why are you hanging around here looking into this? Alton let out a deep sigh. “The Llewans are minor nobility. Shawna’s father is from an ancient line, but his barony is a small stretch of land on the outskirts of the kingdom. It doesn’t produce much of value, and it holds no tactical advantage—not that anyone in Cambrell would care. Dolland had to make his money in horse trading, despite his wife being cousin to the king.” D’Jenn raised his eyebrows. “If Shawna’s related to the royal line of Cambrell, she might have a bit of Sevenlander blood—Soirus-Gamerit, in fact. The Kings of Cambrell married Sevenlanders into their house before the Second Great War. It was part of the same treaty that built the Mage Tower in Lesmira.” Dormael rolled his eyes. “My cousin likes to point out useless things. I might have mentioned he was well educated.”

D’Jenn scowled at him. “I enjoy useless facts.” Alton gave D’Jenn an apologetic smile. “Anyway, Shawna’s father made good money trading horses. Llewan horses are highly prized by the nobility in Cambrell, and I’m sure he’s sold some to buyers outside the kingdom. The horse market is anything but cut-throat, though, and the Llewans weren’t among the wealthiest noble houses. I’ve thought long and hard, but I can’t think of anyone of whom Dolland could have made an enemy.” “It’s hard to derive any reason someone would want Shawna dead from that,” D’Jenn said. “She was alone on the road?” Dormael nodded. “She was running from something.” “Banditry?” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow and glanced between Dormael and Alton. “It’s possible, but I doubt it.” Alton shrugged. “Her father’s barony is quiet. The king’s men patrol it regularly, and there are no major trade routes running through it. There are barely three villages under Dolland’s rule, and they don’t produce anything of note. There’s little to attract a group of thieves.” D’Jenn stroked his chin. “Has anyone thought to send a pigeon to her home? That’s the first thing I’d have done.” “I sent some of my men to investigate their hold.” Alton gave them a serious look. “They haven’t returned.” “That was days ago.” Dormael furrowed his brows. “I’ve been wondering if you’d heard anything, but you hadn’t mentioned it.” Alton smirked. “There’s much you haven’t shared as well, my friend.” Dormael shrugged and raised his glass in acknowledgment. “If it wasn’t a political attack, and you don’t think it’s banditry, then we must be missing something.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow at Dormael. “We need more information.”

“There is something I’ve wanted to show you. A moment, if you please.” Alton rose from his seat and nodded to them before going to the door. He left the room, leaving the door open to the hallway. His footsteps echoed in the corridor. D’Jenn raised his hands and moved them in the Hunter’s Tongue—a silent language of gestures they’d learned as children. He doesn’t know about the magic. He doesn’t know about you. Dormael shook his head. D’Jenn scoffed. Wonderful. Alton returned holding something wrapped in a towel. He walked to the table and sat the object in the middle, scooting the stones board aside. He glanced at the cousins and threw back the towel, revealing a broken, bloodied arrow. “This is what you pulled out of her.” Alton pointed to the fletching. “Now— fletchers will usually leave their marks on the shafts in order for others to recognize their work. Archers who make their own use bright feathers, so they can recognize their own arrows.” D’Jenn picked up the long piece of the arrow and looked it over. “It’s not well made. Nothing bright about the fletchings. No marks on the shaft.” Alton plucked the opposite end from the towel. “This is a bodkin point. They’re made to pierce armor. It sank right through Shawna’s leather.” Dormael winced. “Bodkins aren’t carried by hunters. Those are military arrowheads.” “Seems like an army moving around would have been noticed.” D’Jenn put the arrow back on the towel. “I’ve been in the area for weeks, and it’s been quiet.” “You said Shawna’s barony lies to the south?” Dormael shrugged. “If her family’s lands are between Ferolan and the Galanian Empire, maybe her manor was attacked. Maybe there’s an army marching on the city.”

Alton’s jaw clenched, a worried expression on his face. “I certainly hope not.” “The Empire has barely solidified its hold on Shundovia, but they’ve been conquering for a long time.” D’Jenn shrugged. “If the king’s men patrol Shawna’s barony—and you say it’s a backwater—then certainly they’ve been watching the southern border. Everyone has been watching the Empire.” “A shrewd commander could move a force into the country.” Dormael shrugged. “Transport them by sea, put ashore in the dark. It’s been done before, and Cambrell isn’t known for its martial prowess.” Alton gave Dormael a pained look. “Sorry.” “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” D’Jenn held up a hand. “A bodkin arrow isn’t enough to say there’s an army in the hills. We can go into the city tomorrow. We’ll ask around, see if we hear any rumors. Until your cousin wakes, there’s not much else we can do.” Alton nodded. “It’s getting late. I’ve got things to attend in the morning. We’ll continue this conversation soon. D’Jenn, I’m honored to have you in my home. I’m sure your cousin will accompany you back to your room.” D’Jenn nodded. “Thanks for putting me up, and for putting up with my cousin.” “Your cousin saved mine.” Alton smiled. “Good night, gentlemen.” Dormael and D’Jenn excused themselves, leaving Alton to sit by his fireplace. Dormael signaled for D’Jenn to follow and walked toward the guest wing of the manor. The halls were quiet, with most of the staff having left for the day, and they encountered no one between the guest wing and Alton’s study. They moved down the stairs to the second floor, where Shawna’s room was located. Muffled singing came from inside the room, and Dormael signaled D’Jenn to stay quiet. D’Jenn rolled his eyes and stepped to the side of the

door. Dormael gave D’Jenn a rude gesture—his fist with his pinky extended —and opened the door. Shawna lay in a large bed, her body covered with heavy blankets. Her face was wan, lips pale, and her hair was wet around her forehead. Nan sat in a chair at the bedside, knitting as she hummed a pleasant melody. She looked up as Dormael entered the room. “Dormael—good to see you, lad.” Nan smiled. “Have you come to check on the poor dear before turning in?” “Yes, how is she?” Before Nan could reply, Dormael opened his Kai and brushed a whisper of magic across her mind. Her eyes fluttered, her head tottered to her chest, and her knitting needles went limp. D’Jenn ducked into the room and shut the door behind him, turning to look down at Shawna. Dormael felt a tingling sensation along his arms and legs—the physical reaction to a nearby wizard using magic. D’Jenn’s song whispered through the ether, playing his own unique melody to Dormael’s senses. D’Jenn extended a hand in Shawna’s direction, and Dormael heard his cousin’s magic flitting over Shawna’s body, poking at her with curiosity. “Careful.” Dormael glanced at the door. “I don’t want her to wake up and start screaming or something. She needs to heal.” D’Jenn snorted. “I know what I’m doing.” D’Jenn lowered his hand, and his Kai went silent. He turned to a wardrobe sitting at the side of the room. Shawna’s bags rested inside, save for her swords, which were propped against the wall beside it. D’Jenn made a surprised noise and walked to the wardrobe. He bent and picked up one of the swords, glancing at Shawna’s sleeping form. He drew the blade which rang with a low, musical tone as it came free. The steel was unnaturally smooth, and the candlelight reflected from its surface with a subtle glow. “Incredible,” D’Jenn said. “This is an amazing job of infusion. It’s not just a

sword with a power source worked into the hilt for trivial effect—even the steel was spell-forged.” Dormael nodded. “I’ve never been much of an Inf, but I could tell they were superb. You don’t just pick these up at your local smithy. They must’ve cost a bloody fortune.” “Three fortunes, maybe.” D’Jenn slid the sword back into its scabbard and placed it against the wall with its twin. “Still—these aren’t the source of your mysterious magical disturbance.” “No.” Dormael shook his head. “Whatever that is, it’s likely in her bags. Go ahead—rummage through them. She’s only fighting for her life. Nothing wrong with invading her privacy, right?” D’Jenn scowled at him. A long moment of silence ed while D’Jenn looked between Shawna’s inert form and the wardrobe against the wall. Finally, he let out a frustrated breath and shook his head. “No.” D’Jenn grimaced. “It wouldn’t be right. Alton has shown us hospitality, too, and we’d be wronging him as well.” “Right. And you don’t want to do it now that you’ve seen her and put a face to the name.” Dormael smiled. “Makes you feel bad to see her lying there, doesn’t it?” “That has nothing to do with it.” “Of course not. You’re not human, after all.” D’Jenn smirked and shook his head. “Fuck yourself, cousin.” Nan stirred, muttering something under her breath. D’Jenn glanced between Dormael and Shawna, an unreadable expression on his face, and turned to leave. When D’Jenn was gone, Dormael walked back around to the other side of Shawna’s bed and turned to the sleeping old woman. With a silent effort of will, Dormael brushed his power across Nan’s mind once more. The old woman gave a start and looked up at him. She blinked her eyes, a confused look on her face, and glanced around the room.

“Nan? I was asking you how she was doing,” Dormael said. “Oh—right.” Nan cleared her throat and sat up in her chair. “I’m so sorry, I do apologize. I must be exhausted.” Dormael smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” Nan chuckled. “You’d best not. I’ll have your bathwater drawn from the sea.” “How’s Shawna?” Nan sighed and rose from her chair, moving to a bedside table. She took a cloth from a basin full of water and moved to Shawna’s side, wetting the sleeping girl’s lips. Nan shook her head, a worried expression on her face, and looked back to Dormael. “She’s fighting as best she can. There’s little I can do for the poor dear, but the healer says she’ll probably pull through if she’s still breathing.” Nan put a concerned hand to Shawna’s brow. “The fever’s gone, but I still worry. All we can do is keep her comfortable and pray to the gods. They must have a reason for keeping her here. I try to remind them of that in my prayers every day. Best you do, too, young man.” Dormael smiled. “I’ll do that. Good night, Nan. You should head to bed soon. You look exhausted.” Nan waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll sleep when I can. Good night, Dormael.” Dormael found D’Jenn waiting in the hall and led him back toward the third floor, where Alton had boarded them. They ed Lyssa on their way to their rooms, who was checking the few candles left burning in the hall. Once they made their rooms, D’Jenn turned to his door and let out a long sigh. “We’ll head into the city tomorrow, see if we can find some information.” Dormael smirked. “See? I told you this was important.” “We’ll see.” D’Jenn shook his head. “Sleep well, Dormael.”

“You too.” D’Jenn slipped inside his room and closed the door behind him. Dormael sought his own blankets, his mind occupied with dark thoughts. The bodkin-tipped arrow, the strange power his magic had encountered, the odd circumstances of Shawna’s appearance—the possibilities swarmed through Dormael’s mind as he drifted to sleep. He dreamed he was made of fire, and everything burned under his touch.

A Conspiratorial Turn of Mind

The morning dawned bright and cool. D’Jenn wasn’t hungry, so instead of going to the dining hall for breakfast with Alton, Dormael sent a servant to let him know he and D’Jenn were headed into the city. Leaving their weapons in their rooms—save for a few daggers Dormael kept hidden—the two Sevenlanders set out into the morning. Alton’s manor was surrounded by a walled yard, the view of the street blocked by manicured trees and bushes. The front gate was made of iron and had his name worked into the stylized bars. D’Jenn shook his head at the gate, but Dormael only shrugged. His family had a similar thing—an arch carved with the family name built over the path to the homestead. The usual rush and hubbub of Ferolan was quieter in the Merchant’s District than in other parts of the city. Well-dressed citizens hurried to some unknown place, sometimes with guards carrying large chests in their wake. They ed a caravan staging to leave, with workmen and families crawling on every wagon. People ed with respectful nods. As they rounded a bend, the city spread out before them. Ferolan had been built in a small valley in the middle of a vast coastal highland. Most of Cambrell’s coast was rocky and unusable for ships, and Ferolan boasted the only port in the kingdom. The city occupied the harbor and the cliffs above, like a crowded garden in a seaside depression. The web-work of buildings and streets was tucked into the hills in charming, orderly rows, but a walk through the city meant going either uphill or down—there was no middle ground in Ferolan. The streets, at least, were paved with cobblestones, so they wouldn’t have to slog through mud. The Merchant’s District was high on the northern end of the valley, which meant most of the morning would be a downhill hike. Dormael led D’Jenn toward the harbor, down winding streets and long

stairs connecting one rise to another. They ed from the Merchant’s District to poorer residential areas, and dodged their way through a teeming market, where the buzz of the city was in full spectacle. Hawkers stood on crates in the street, promising everything from curing oils to fine fabrics. Cambrellians were generally polite people, but the Sevenlanders still attracted their share of dark looks as they walked the streets. One pair of scowling youths followed them down three separate turns, caressing knives worn at their belts. D’Jenn scowled the whole time the boys followed them and spat when they finally turned away. “Bloody superstitious fools.” D’Jenn shook his head. “I’ve been in Alderak too long. I’m tired of always looking over my shoulder.” “They think we’re all evil sorcerers.” Dormael snorted. “Best to let idiots unmolested. Come on—the harbor is just a few streets down.” Dormael led D’Jenn onward, to a winding street bordering the harbor. Buildings were crowded along the street, standing two and three stories high. Colorful signs hung outside the various establishments, some depicting frothing cups or ships on the sea. Other signs had women painted on them, and some of them had carvings to give the exaggerated girls in the pictures more depth. There were bright pennants hanging from windows, and even murals decorating a few walls. “Welcome to Whiskey Row.” Dormael smiled and spread his arms wide. “There’s nothing but inns, alehouses, and brothels on this street. Leave it to the Cambrellians to provide every service a sea-weary sailor could want right here in the harbor.” “A sea-weary sailor,” D’Jenn said, nodding to a man in an embroidered coat being tossed from the door of a building nearby, “or a rich local looking for fun.” Dormael glanced at the man D’Jenn was watching. He was picking himself up from the street, shouting at another, larger man who stood in the doorway. A pair of girls crowded the door behind him, shouting curses back at the well-dressed fellow outside. Dormael shook his head and laughed. “Come on. Let’s find a place to get a

drink.” As Dormael turned to continue down the street, a man bowled into him, knocking him into D’Jenn. They kept their feet, but the offending man had fallen to the cobblestones with a pained curse. He was an older, balding fellow with bleary eyes and rumpled clothes. A clay tankard lay near his outstretched hand, shattered to pieces on the ground. Liquid had spilled from it, and the smell of alcohol wafted from the puddle. Dormael sighed and offered the old man a hand. “You alright, friend?” “Fine.” The old codger blinked and took Dormael’s hand. “Just fine.” Dormael helped the man to his feet and brushed some dirt from his clothing. His tunic was ripped and stained with blood. His eye was swollen, as was the opposite side of his lip. The old man swayed as Dormael let him go, waving a drunken hand in a thankful gesture. D’Jenn winced. “Gods, old man. Who worked you over?” The old fellow made a noise between a hiccup and a chuckle. “Who? Oh, I’ll tell you who, young man. I’ll tell you.” Dormael smiled. “Do you even ?” “Yes.” The old man favored Dormael with a bleary scowl. “It was the damned Galanians. City Watch, too.” Dormael shared a surprised look with D’Jenn. “What?” The old man took a threatening step forward. “You think I’m a liar? You calling me a liar?” “I’m not calling you anything.” Dormael pushed the swaying man a step back. “Just tell us what happened.” The old man glowered for a moment but finally scoffed and gestured up the street. “Last night the damned City Watch comes in the Fish Head, kicking over tables, causing a damned ruckus. They got these two bastards with them, armed to the teeth and wearing surcoats. Everybody gets real quiet,

see? There isn’t a soul in Cambrell who doesn’t know the look of a Galanian. These boys were killers. Soldiers, I’m saying.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “Soldiers? Are you sure?” “Aye, I’m sure.” The old man scowled at D’Jenn. “Are you calling me a liar now?” “No.” D’Jenn returned his scowl with a flat stare. “They were wearing standards.” The old man gestured at his chest. “Like a flag, see? That’s for soldiers and knights, big armies and the like. You think I’m stupid?” Dormael sighed. “What did they want?” “What?” The old drunk glanced around the street, spotted his broken tankard, and grimaced. “What did who want?” “The Galanians.” “They were looking for some girl.” He shrugged. “Said she was a criminal, killed somebody important or something. Gave out descriptions of her. I told those bastards if they wanted a girl, there was plenty of them upstairs who would do whatever you please for a few copper marks.” D’Jenn nodded. “That’s when they had their little conversation with you.” “I thought it was funny.” The old man swayed. “Everybody else did, too. That’s what pissed them off—everyone laughed at them. Next thing you know, the City Watch pulls me into the street, and they all go to beating on me—Galanians and City Watch both!” Dormael winced. “What did they say about the girl?” “The girl? Who gives a golden shit about the girl? We got Imperials inside the walls! They already did this!” The man gestured at his face. “This is just the beginning! Just you wait, young man. Just you wait.” “Alright, friend.” Dormael held up his hands and took a step back. “You

should get home. Have someone see to your face.” “Just you wait.” The old man shook his finger at the two of them. “I’m not a damned liar.” The old man turned and swayed down Whiskey Row, muttering under his breath. Dormael raised his eyebrow at D’Jenn, who grimaced and gestured down the street. They continued past the inns and alehouses, dodging the people clogging the road. Dormael examined each sign and mural until they found a three-story building with a smiling fish head painted over the door. The smell of cooking food wafted from inside, but there were also half-dressed women lounging in the windows of the upper levels. They stared at the street with uninterested expressions and ignored the Sevenlanders as they approached. Dormael gave D’Jenn a shrug and went through the door. There was a surprising number of guests seated at the common room tables, despite the hour. A haze hung in the air, adding a smoky note to the smells of spices and woodchips. Dormael and D’Jenn attracted a few scowls when they entered and sat at the bar, but the quiet buzz of conversation was unchanged. A slim, older brunette approached from the other end of the bar, putting a fist to her mouth to stifle a yawn. She snatched a pair of mugs, wiped them with a rag, and raised an eyebrow. “Fancy an ale, gentlemen?” “Two.” D’Jenn slid a silver mark across the bar. The barkeep raised her eyebrows, but grabbed the coin and secreted it away. She dipped the mugs into a barrel behind the bar and brought them over. A suspicious look was in her eyes as she plopped them in front of D’Jenn. “You’re a strange pair, aren’t you?” Her eyes flicked over the pair of them. “Where do you come from?” “Orris.” D’Jenn gave her a tight smile. “Came over on a trading ship this

morning.” Dormael leaned on the bar. “We’re off to see Tauravon. We heard it’s the wonder of all Eldath.” The brunette scoffed. “I’ve never been there, but I wish I could go with you. The Great River City—it sounds beautiful. My daughter’s there—at least that’s what my son says. Ran off with a drover a few years back.” “That’s…unfortunate.” Dormael took a pull from his tankard. “Of course, now we’re worried about making the trip. We’ve heard some nasty rumors.” “Rumors?” D’Jenn glanced around and leaned closer. “Galanians. Imperial soldiers, right here in the city. Some people are saying there’s an army out there.” The barkeep nodded. “I know what you’re talking about. I’ve seen them myself.” “You’ve seen them?” Dormael shared a glance with D’Jenn. “Where?” “Right here in my establishment.” She gestured around at the building. “There were just two of them, though. It weren’t no army, I’ll tell you that. They had the City Watch with them, too, and a fancy proclamation from the Earl.” D’Jenn furrowed his brows. “A proclamation? The Earl?” She nodded again. “Big seal, fancy words—you know what I mean. Said they was looking for some criminal—a girl, if you can believe. It weren’t no army, though.” “So foreign soldiers come to the city, and your earl just lets them in?” Dormael gave the woman a confused look. “Does that sort of thing happen often?” “I don’t know, do I look like some pretty noble girl to you?” She snorted. “They asked their questions and moved on. We’re honest people down here.

Let the gods worry what the nobles are doing—that’s always been my guiding principle.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “What did they say about the girl they were chasing?” “A red-head carrying swords.” The barkeep shrugged. “I that. Sounds like some story, doesn’t it? Whoever she is, they want her bad. They weren’t in the mood to be messed about.” “Thanks.” Dormael shared a grim look with D’Jenn and dropped another mark on the bar. “We were never here, alright?” The brunette snatched the coin, shaking her head. “Whatever you say, Sevenlander.” The cousins finished their drinks and left the Fish Head. Dormael led D’Jenn away from the harbor, ing out of the bustling districts near the docks. He followed the flow of people through the streets in the direction of the Merchant’s District, eyes scanning the crowd. D’Jenn ground his teeth as they walked, but whatever thoughts were turning in his mind, he kept them to himself. At a crowded intersection stood three City Watchmen, their cloaks bearing a wheel over a black and white field. They spoke with a pair of men wearing red and white surcoats whose eyes slid over every ing face. The whole group laughed at a joke told by one of the City Watchmen, and one of the men in the red and white surcoats smiled at Dormael as they ed. Once they were two streets past the intersection, D’Jenn cleared his throat. “That answers a few questions, doesn’t it?” Dormael nodded and glanced over his shoulder. “Their story has to be horseshit—about her being a criminal, I mean.” “Why?” D’Jenn snorted. “Because she’s pretty?” Dormael scowled. “Something doesn’t make sense. You hire a tracker to

find a criminal. You don’t send a unit of soldiers. Did you see their standard?” D’Jenn gave him a grim nod. “Red Swords.” “Who sends an elite fighting force to track down one girl?” Dormael shook his head. “Shawna’s not an Imperial citizen. That criminal stuff is horseshit. Something else is going on here, D’Jenn. You know this is out of the ordinary.” D’Jenn grimaced. Dormael led him down a side street where the press of people was much lighter. He walked to the edge of a hill and sat on a retaining wall, looking up the southern slope of the valley. Ferolan Castle loomed over the city, flags whipping in the cold wind. D’Jenn gave the castle a distasteful glance and turned to face Dormael. “What if it’s not Shawna they’re after?” Dormael’s eyes went back to the castle. “What if the Empire is after the thing she’s carrying, whatever it is?” D’Jenn’s scowl deepened. “You think the Empire’s after magical artifacts?” “Unless you think Shawna’s some hard-bitten Imperial crime lord.” Dormael snorted. “Something’s not right about this. If they are seeking magical items, we’d be compelled to act, wouldn’t we?” D’Jenn gave him a flat look. “That would make it Conclave business.” D’Jenn snorted. “You’ve been out of reach for a long time, Dormael. Now you’re worried about Conclave business?” Dormael stood, a knowing smile on his face. “The Galanian Empire could be seeking out magical artifacts. You know what that means, D’Jenn. You want to convince me you don’t care about that?” D’Jenn snorted and shook his head. “We’re supposed to be on holiday.”

“Aye, but the gods don’t make things easy, do they?” Dormael rose from his seat, nodding toward the castle on the distant rise. “If the Galanians had a proclamation from the Earl, I bet they’re staying up there. We’ve got to get in and have a look around.” D’Jenn gave him a long, unreadable look and turned to gaze at Ferolan Castle. “Maybe.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “But what are you going to tell Alton?”

*** “Galanians?” Alton raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What would the Imperials want with Shawna? She can’t be a criminal in the Empire. I don’t think she’s ever been there.” Dormael took a long hit from his pipe, staring into Alton’s fireplace. “They know who she is.” Alton furrowed his brows. “Say again?” “They had her description,” D’Jenn explained. “They’ve been ing it around the city. Whatever the reason they’re chasing her, their story is a justification. This isn’t some case of mistaken identity—they’re lying.” “I’m writing to the king.” Alton’s expression darkened. “They can’t come into Cambrell and apprehend one of her noble daughters! This is illegal! And the Earl—” “They had a proclamation from the Earl.” Dormael turned away from the fireplace. “Write to the king if you wish, but ten marks to one says the Earl has beaten you to it. We’re alone here, Alton.” Alton sighed and looked away. “Of course. I shouldn’t have waited to send the message I’d planned on writing. It appears that my inaction has cost us —and Shawna—dearly.”

Dormael sighed, sharing a glance with D’Jenn. “Maybe, maybe not.” Alton gave him a confused look. “Do you know how many Galanians are in the city?” “No, but it can’t be too many. The city would go mad.” D’Jenn raised his eyebrows. “Enough to attack a country estate, though, and kill everyone inside.” Dormael turned a flat stare on his cousin, and Alton regarded him with a pained expression. D’Jenn shrugged. “Sorry, but you must have realized it yourself. I’m only saying it aloud.” Alton shook his head in bewilderment. “But why? Gods, I just…why?” Dormael shared another reluctant glance with D’Jenn and took a deep breath. “There’s something you don’t know, Alton. Something I should’ve told you before.” “Before?” Alton narrowed his eyes. “Before when?” Dormael sighed. “I think the Galanians aren’t necessarily after Shawna, but after something she’s carrying. Something magical.” Alton looked between the two of them. “What?” Dormael winced. “Truthfully, I know she’s carrying something magical. I felt it on the night I brought her in from the cold. It led me to her. It’s the whole reason I found her.” Alton stared at Dormael, his jaw working in thought. “Shawna has infused swords. They were a gift from her father.” “We’ve looked at the swords,” D’Jenn said. “They’re not the source.” “What do you mean you felt it?” Alton peered at Dormael. “What does that

mean?” Dormael sighed and held his hand toward the fire, palm facing upward. He opened his Kai and pulled a trickle of power from the ether, plucking at the dancing energy of the flames. A mote of fire leaped from the wood and zipped to Dormael’s hand, coming to rest in the air above his palm. He shrugged and pinched the flame in his fingers. It fizzled into a puff of black smoke. Alton stared, his mouth hanging open. D’Jenn raised an eyebrow, his fingers moving in the Hunter’s Tongue. You should have told him before now. Alton flinched away from D’Jenn’s fingers. “Are you—?” D’Jenn spread his hands wide. “I am, but I wasn’t doing anything.” “What was all that—” Alton wiggled his fingers. “So…you’re both sorcerers?” “Sorcerer is considered a bit insulting.” D’Jenn winced. “We’re from Ishamael. We’re—” “Wizards of the Conclave.” Alton took a deep breath, rocking back from the realization. “Gods be damned. You’re from the Conclave.” Dormael glanced at his cousin, who watched Alton with weighted eyes. Alton could raise his voice and yell for his guards, and if so, they’d have to run. Dormael cursed himself for a fool. “Alton, I—” Alton raised his hand. “I knew there was something strange about you, Dormael—the knives, the vague explanations, your conspiratorial turn of mind. I didn’t suspect this, of course, but I found your story of having messaged D’Jenn to be suspect. He knew too much about what had happened before he got here. I assume that was…” Alton winced and wiggled his fingers.

Dormael nodded. Alton sighed and gave Dormael a level look. “If you’ve known she was carrying something magical, and that’s what led you to her, you could have taken it and let her die on the road. You could have taken it at any point in your time here, but you haven’t.” “I’m not a thief.” “No.” Alton shook his head. “I’m not entirely comfortable with magic, but I harbor no animus for those who wield it. You shouldn’t mention it in front of the staff, though. And no more tricks with my fireplace, please.” D’Jenn smirked. “This thing you say Shawna is carrying—what is it?” Dormael shrugged. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it was able to awaken my Kai from a great distance. It damn near wrestled control from me, and that’s never happened to anyone I know. It sings like—” Dormael looked up and noticed Alton’s confused expression. “Nevermind that.” D’Jenn waved away his explanation. “What really matters is the Empire’s interest in it. If they want this thing, and they’re willing to kill for it, it must be dangerous.” Alton nodded. “And if they’ve come here looking for it…gods. We’ve got to get her out of the city. We’ve got to get Shawna to Arla and take her case before the king!” D’Jenn shared a weighted look with Dormael. “You should inform your king, but I don’t think Arla is far enough. There’s somewhere better, somewhere far from the Empire’s reach full of people trained to deal with magical threats.” Alton narrowed his eyes. “You mean the Conclave. You want to take her to the Sevelands.” “It’s the safest place on Eldath for her.” D’Jenn shrugged. “Our superiors will know what to do about this, and it’s too far for the Empire to pressure

anyone with military force. They wouldn’t dare move against the Conclave, if we extend our protection.” “No one wants anything to do with the Conclave.” Alton shrugged at D’Jenn’s expression. “You know it’s true. I’m only saying it aloud.” D’Jenn smirked. “Fair enough.” “This is all assuming, of course, that she wants to go, and is able to make the trip in the first place,” Dormael said. “We’ll have to convince her when she wakes. We can’t force her to go.” “The healers have done all they can.” Alton shrugged. “It’s in the hands of the gods now.” “Trusting the gods is all well and good,” D’Jenn said, “but I’d rather get ahead of our enemies. Make our next move before they make theirs.” “And what would that be?” Alton looked between Dormael and D’Jenn. “We need to gather more information and prepare to leave.” Dormael turned back to the fireplace. “We need to find a ship with a crew willing to sail this time of year. From what the lads at the Docks were saying, few would be willing to face the weather on the winter sea.” “I can make those preparations.” Alton furrowed his brows and tapped on his chin. “My s in the harbor should make that fairly simple. If Shawna is willing to leave with the two of you, if you really think it will help, I can get things ready for the journey.” “Good.” D’Jenn moved to a chair and sat. “Let’s figure out our part of it, then.” Alton glanced between the two wizards. “Just what is your part?” “Simple.” Dormael shrugged. “We’re going to find out who these Galanians are and what they’re after.” “And how will you do that?” Alton wiggled his fingers. “With magic? You’re going to divine the answer from the gods or something?”

“No.” Dormael grinned. “We’re going to sneak into the castle.”

*** “Sir,” Lieutenant Havram said. “The reports from last night.” Havram ed Grant a small sheet of paper. Grant took the document and perused it from top to bottom. There was nothing—nothing, nothing, and more of bloody nothing. He sighed and shook his head, resisting the urge to toss everything on the fancy writing desk onto the floor. It wouldn’t do to treat his host’s things in such a way. “Where is she?” Grant handed the report back to his aide, who took it and stuffed it into his belt. “A damned noble, wounded and armed, should have raised a hue and cry when she came through the gates. Where in the Six Hells has she gone?” “I wouldn’t dare speculate, sir.” “Have the men checked all the clinics in the city?” “Yes, sir—that was your first command, respectfully. There are no clinics here, just healers who sell their skills.” “Of course, of course, the backwards fools. No clinics, indeed.” Grant sighed. He hadn’t slept much since their ride to the city. The Earl of Ferolan had capitulated with surprising ease, and Grant’s men had been quartered inside the castle garrison with little fuss. The Emperor hadn’t anticipated the need for bribery, but Grant never went on campaign without enough money to buy extra food for his men. He hated that all those marks had gone to grease Earl Lindesholm’s hairy little palm, but sacrifices had needed to be made. Sometimes better men had to pretend to pay tribute to those beneath them. “With the initial search drawn to a close, sir, I’ve drawn up a duty roster for patrols. I just need your signature.” Havram produced a second document.

“You don’t need my approval for such matters, Lieutenant. You’ve been around long enough to have earned my trust in those affairs. See it done.” “Yes, sir.” “How are the men adjusting to their new surroundings? I trust there have been no incidents in the city, or with the City Watch?” His men were soldiers, not a police force. Doubtless they were chafing at the odd nature of their mission, and that was never good for soldiers. They grew bored, and things tended to happen when soldiers got bored—bloody things. Sergeant Janks had been a prime example of that. “No serious incidents yet, sir. A few fistfights with the City Watch, but nothing too unfriendly. Competition, you know.” Havram shrugged. “I trust there have been no further issues with discipline since the manor house?” “None, sir. The crucifixion made its point.” “Bloody good.” Grant rapped his fist on the desk. “Maybe the next time someone gets their blood up for something, they’ll who it is they should fear.” “Without a doubt, sir.” “Is there anything else, Havram? I’m tired, and I want to get some sleep before that preening shit invites me to dinner this evening.” Grant sighed at the thought of another evening in the company of Ferolan’s nobility. Too much gold did something to people, he was sure of it. They were soft, oily people with no awareness of the outside world. Grant had entertained fantasies of slapping Earl Lindesholm in the face until he cried like a woman. The man insisted on showing off every chance he got, all the while going on and on about their budding friendship. Doubtless he’d reached the end of his social climb with the Cambrellian monarchy and now thought a bribe from Grant meant he could weasel his way into Galanian circles.

If the man had any self respect, he’d have his servants strangle him to death. “Just one more thing, sir. This arrived by pigeon.” Havram handed Grant a small scroll painted with red and white edges, stamped with the Imperial standard. “From His Eminence, sir.” “I know who it’s from, Havram.” Grant snatched the letter away from his stoic lieutenant. He took a deep breath and set the message on his writing desk before regarding his aide with a pained grimace. “Apologies, Lieutenant. This debacle is getting under my skin.” “Of course, sir. No apologies are necessary from superior to subordinate.” “Spoken like an exemplary soldier, Havram. Is there anything else?” “No, sir. I will inform you if any new information comes to light. Will you need me for the next few hours?” “No, I will be trying very hard to drool on my pillow. Take your ease, Havram. Get some rest.” “Yes, sir.” Havram saluted him, fist to chest, and turned on a stiff heel to stalk from the room. “Havram—one more thing.” “Sir?” Havram turned around to face him. “Have the girl cleaned and fed. I’ll want to see her later.” Havram’s lip twisted with disgust. The look was there and gone before Grant could its appearance, and Havram’s face was once again schooled to a flat, disciplined stare. He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Sir, the castle staff…” Grant fixed Havram with a hard glare. “What about the castle staff?” “They’ve begun talking, sir.” “Talking?”

“About the girl, sir. Rumors are going around.” Havram’s face stayed flat, as if he had hammered a bland expression on the front of his skull. His eyes, though, betrayed his disgust. Grant stood from his chair and turned to face his aide. Havram was of a height with him, but broader through the shoulders. He had the sort of chiseled jawline and light-colored eyes that women everywhere went crazy for. He was a picture of military discipline. Polished and pretty, green as a fresh blade of grass. Most of Grant’s men were killers, trained and desensitized to the types of work more respectable soldiers wouldn’t take. The delicate jobs, such as the one that had brought them here. Havram, though, still clung to his prickly sense of honor. He’s a good officer, but I’ll have to watch him. “Lieutenant,” Grant said, “I do not care about the rumors of chambermaids and stable boys. Sheep will bleat—that is all they do. What you do is obey fucking orders. Are we clear?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. See to it, then.” Havram’s eye twitched. “Yes, sir.” “And Havram?” “Sir?” Havram met his eyes, his expression unreadable. “The next time I see that look in your eyes, I may put a dagger through one of them.” A moment of tense silence hung in the air between them. The muscles in Havram’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. It was good he was angry—he would need to harden up, to get used to the kinds of things he would be required to do.

If not, there was always the dagger. “Understood, sir.” “Good.” Grant raised his chin. “Dismissed.” Grant listened to Havram’s footsteps fading down the hallway as the door closed behind him. He sighed and walked to the shuttered window to look out over the city. He opened the window, letting the sea air rush into the chamber. Grant filled his lungs with it—fresh air always made him feel at peace. “Where are you, girl?” he muttered into the wind. “Where the bloody Hells are you?” When no answer came, he turned from the window and strode back to the writing desk. The Emperor’s message waited like a soothsayer’s curse. Cold fear rose at the thought of the Emperor’s displeasure. The man was not above prosecuting his officers for offenses committed in the line of duty, and if Grant fell far enough, he had no doubt he would see the inside of an Imperial courtroom. Once that little formality was over, he’d be strangled to death in public. I must succeed here. Everything depends on it. Grant closed the window and turned away. He tossed his shirt over the edge of the bed and settled into the blankets. He stared at the canopy overhead for a long time before falling asleep. His dreams were haunted by a cloaked figure tightening a cord around his neck.

Stealing the Child

Dormael blew on his hands to warm them. The air was frosty, and his breath misted between his curled fingers. The smell of salt was heavy so close to the ocean, and there was no shelter from the wind. The waves crashed like thunder on the rocks below, and lightning flashed over the sea. D’Jenn stared at the rocky cliff face looming out of the night, tugging a cloth facemask over his nose. Clouds of misty air puffed from inside the fabric while he tied his hair back with a leather cord. He regarded Dormael with a raised eyebrow and shot one last glance over his shoulder. Dormael checked the kerchief he’d tied around his own face, settling the fabric in place. Facemasks always got damp halfway through any operation, and his beard was always a problem. He checked the few knives he’d brought—one in each boot, and another in a drop-sheath up his sleeve. With a calming breath, he focused his will and opened his Kai. The cold was immediately more uncomfortable, and he could feel every miniscule bead of moisture floating in the air. The waves crashing against the rocks was a cacophony of noise, and the odor of salt was strong enough to taste. Dormael concentrated, walling away the various stimuli, until he had steeled his mind against the flood of sensation. D’Jenn’s melody played through the ether, and his voice spoke into Dormael’s mind. Reconsidering? Dormael smirked and shook his head. D’Jenn shrugged and gestured at the cliff face. It’s a long climb to the castle wall. The rocks will be slick. I’ve got a solution, though—watch and learn, coz. D’Jenn channeled magic from the ether, gathering power at his hands and

feet. He took a running step and jumped over the gap between their perch and cliff face. Dormael stifled an alarmed shout, but D’Jenn grasped the rocky surface of the cliff and stuck like a spider in its web. He crawled upward for a few links of distance and paused to glance over his shoulder. Coming? Dormael copied his cousin’s spell—it wasn’t hard to make two objects stick together, though Dormael had never tried it with his own hands and feet— and leaped across the gap to the face of the cliff. His hands hit the rocks and stuck fast, and he almost jerked his shoulder out with the force of the jump. Repositioning himself on the rocks, he scowled up at his cousin. D’Jenn’s eyes were full of mirth over his facemask. You must control the spell consciously. Else, you’ll have to repeat it with each hand and foot when you need to pick them up. Dormael shook his head, glancing between his feet to the churning sea below. Or wrench my shoulder out when I jump the wrong way. Or that. D’Jenn looked upward. Come on. I can keep a shadow over our backs to keep us hidden from the city during the climb, but let’s get going. I don’t like hanging here. Dormael nodded. Go. I’ll follow. They pulled themselves upward, hand over chilly hand. Dormael had difficulty with D’Jenn’s spell for the first moments of the climb. The trick was to gather power on his palms and the soles of his feet and keep it there, waxing and waning with how much energy he needed to counteract his bodyweight. There was a rhythm to the spell, much like there was a rhythm to walking. Once Dormael was comfortable being stuck to the rocky face of the cliff, the climb went smoother. Ferolan Castle loomed at the top of the cliff face, illuminated by flashes of silent lightning above. The rise upon which it was built faced the sea and looked over the crowded valley below. It was only accessible from the city by a winding, narrow road from the Lord’s March—the district where Ferolan’s richest people made their homes. The castle’s walls were built right to the edge of its rise, where sheer cliffs fell to the sea. No force could

besiege it, and no sane person would attempt the climb. Dormael paused near the top, taking one hand away from the rocks to turn and gaze down at the city. Ferolan’s lights were sprinkled through the valley, illuminating orderly streets crowded with buildings. He tried to spot Alton’s manor in the Merchant’s District but couldn’t make it out. By the time Dormael pulled himself over the edge of the rise, his fingers were hurting with the cold. D’Jenn helped him onto a narrow stretch of grass between the cliff-side and the castle wall, and the two of them moved to crouch against the stone. Dormael blew on his fingers again, warming them with his breath. Voices floated down to them from the top of the wall—a pair of guards on patrol. D’Jenn froze, his hand up for silence, and Dormael replied by rolling his eyes. The voices ed on their way, rolling laughter echoing in the night, and D’Jenn nodded. With another whisper of magic from the ether, D’Jenn started climbing the outer wall of Ferolan Castle. Dormael blew on his hands again and followed D’Jenn up the stone. They slipped like a pair of shadows over the edge of the battlements and crouched on the walkway. The upper wall was wide and dotted with chesthigh parapets on both sides. The stone underfoot was pitted with age, and the parapets were weathered by rain and wind. Torches burned at distant towers, where the wall changed direction, but the sea wind whipped the flames until they barely provided illumination. Lightning flashed over the sea, and a peal of thunder followed a few moments behind. Maybe the weather will keep the number of patrols down. D’Jenn shrugged. Nobody wants to walk the castle walls in the rain. Dormael nodded. If we’re lucky. Let’s get moving before the next one comes by. Moving to the inner edge of the battlements, Dormael peeked through the space between two parapets. No one moved in the courtyard below, between the castle’s outer wall and the taller, inner wall protecting the castle’s main

keep. The walkway atop the inner wall was also empty. Dormael turned a smile on D’Jenn and backed up to take a running start. It’s my turn to teach you something. Dormael took a running step and jumped from the edge of the battlements, sailing into the air between the walls. His Kai sang in a steady tone, counteracting his weight, and instead of falling, he slid through the air on a lazy arc toward the inner wall of the castle. Dormael started to fall too quickly and adjusted the amount of power feeding the spell. The more he used, the more weightless he became. Dormael abandoned the spell in the last moment in favor of D’Jenn’s climbing technique. A terrifying moment ed as Dormael’s hands slid over the pitted stone of the inner wall, his body falling, until the magic took hold and brought his downward slide to a stop. He let out a tense breath, pressing his entire body to the stone. D’Jenn landed on the stone nearby—without sliding. Are you alright? Fine. Let’s keep going. The wind was stronger the higher they went. Dormael’s mask fluttered on his face, and the tails of the kerchief whipped at his ears. His hands were freezing, and the cold stone under his fingers didn’t help with the chill. I should have worn gloves. The cousins made the ramparts on the second wall and narrowly avoided being spotted by a roving patrol of guardsmen. They waited below the lip of the battlements until the guards were gone and slipped over the edge to the walkway. The inner keep lay inside the walls, with two wide towers rising above the main structure of the building. The towers, one higher than the other, were probably where the Earl would keep his own apartments, and hopefully where he would house any esteemed guests. Dormael glanced to D’Jenn. Which tower do you want to climb first? The big one or the small one? D’Jenn glanced over the walkway and shrugged. The tallest is probably home to the Earl. Think he’d want to house his guests in his own tower?

The small one, then. Dormael glanced back and forth, ensuring the walkway was clear. Another patrol of guardsmen walked in their direction, but they were on the northern side of the inner walkway and wouldn’t be close enough to see. Dormael clapped his cousin on the shoulder and nodded. After another teeth-clenching jump to the wall of the inner keep, Dormael was once again clutching to a cold stone wall. The sound of boots scuffing on dry stone announced D’Jenn landing nearby. Dormael glanced over his shoulder, looking for the guards on the battlements of the inner wall. They had turned the corner and were on the stretch of walkway within sight of the pair of wizards. Dormael shared a tense look with D’Jenn. D’Jenn’s Kai whispered in the ether. Flatten yourself against the stone. I’ll shield us both from detection. Dormael nodded and pushed his chest against the wall. He felt D’Jenn’s spell cover them both, twisting the natural shadows over their backs. The guards walked past without looking toward the keep, and Dormael let out a breath he’d been holding. Climbing the curved surface of the tower was different from scaling the wall. The wind lashed the tower with chilly blasts, numbing Dormael’s fingers. The height made him dizzy, and his legs shook with fatigue. D’Jenn, of course, seemed to have no trouble. They climbed to an eroded windowsill on the southern face of the tower. The window was closed, and there were heavy drapes on the other side of the milky glass. The room was dark, and a quick inspection with Dormael’s senses revealed its emptiness. D’Jenn used his Kai to open the lock from the inside, and the cousins slipped into the quiet, darkened chamber. A large covered bed sat against one wall, the drapes hanging limp in the cool air. The fireplace was home to nothing but gray ashes. Dust motes floated in the moonlight from the window, and the room smelled like old candle wax. No one’s slept here in a while. Dormael turned to his cousin. D’Jenn nodded. The commander must be staying higher in the tower. The

Earl probably put him in one of the larger rooms. Let’s go have a look. D’Jenn grimaced. Fine, but I don’t want to get caught up going room to room. In and out quickly—that’s the game. I know the bloody game, cousin. Dormael waved D’Jenn’s concerns away. Knowing it and playing it are different things. Dormael raised an eyebrow. If I push you from the wall on the way out, will you splatter at the bottom, or just crack open like a melon? D’Jenn snorted. Crack open. Splattering is too dramatic. You’d probably splatter. Dormael shook his head and moved to the door, bending his ear to the sounds in the hallway. Nothing but silence greeted him. He pushed the door open and peeked around the corner, using his Kai to keep the hinges from squeaking. There were candles burning in the corridor, filling it with ruddy light, but it was otherwise deserted. Dormael slunk out of the room, D’Jenn following close behind. The hall was curved around the shape of the tower, and Dormael kept his body close to the inside wall. They ed another room—also unoccupied—and made their way to the opposite side of the tower. A noise drifted down the hallway—a man humming a tune. The steady rasp of a whetstone over steel accompanied the melody, though there was no scuff of boots on stone. Dormael paused, crouching in the hallway, and listened. Someone guarding a door, sharpening a blade. D’Jenn listened to another long rasp. A sword—it has too much edge to be a dagger. Dormael nodded. Put him to sleep? D’Jenn nodded back and narrowed his eyes at the hallway ahead. His song whispered through the ether, a filmy thread of magic floating down the

corridor. The rasping stopped, and the humming trailed off. There was a quiet clatter—the whetstone falling to the floor. Dormael shared a glance with D’Jenn and crept around the curved wall. The guard was a large man, dark-haired and clean-shaven, wearing chainmail and a white surcoat trimmed in bright red. He was slumped in a wooden chair, his chin resting on his chest. The sword still clutched in his hand teetered over his lap, threatening to fall to the floor. Dormael reached down and took it in careful hands, laying the blade on the floor beside the man’s chair. On the chest of the guard’s surcoat was a red sword, its tip pointing downward. D’Jenn raised an eyebrow at the standard. Red Swords. Let’s see what he’s guarding. They moved to the door and D’Jenn put his ear to the wood. Dormael waited a tense moment, watching the slow rise and fall of the guard’s chest. A large, worn locking mechanism was attached to the door, and D’Jenn used his Kai to open the lock. With a muted clack, the lock turned, and D’Jenn opened the door. Dormael followed him inside and shut the door behind them. A pile of wood smoldered in the room’s single fireplace, filling the room with warmth and a muted glow. A canopied bed dominated the room, but this one had silk curtains covering the framework, drawn closed in the occupant’s absence. A thick fur rug covered most of the floor, and a small writing desk stood to one side of a window which was drawn shut against the cold night wind. Lightning flickered outside, illuminating the window through the curtains. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed with a sheathed longsword resting on top. The sheath was capped with silver and bore an insignia in the center—three straight bars under a starburst. He picked up the sword and presented it to D’Jenn, who nodded in recognition. That’s the insignia of a Colonel in the Imperial Army. D’Jenn’s brows furrowed. You’d think Colonels would be commanding units in the field. The Empire must want this artifact bad if they’re willing to send such a highranking official.

Dormael tilted his head. How do you know the Imperial rank structure? I read books, cousin. You should learn how someday. Dormael chose to ignore that one. D’Jenn crossed the room to the writing desk. A tidy stack of paper sat in the middle with a quill and inkpot nearby. D’Jenn rifled through the papers while Dormael spelled the trunk at the foot of the bed to unlock and open itself. Before Dormael could start searching the trunk, D’Jenn cleared his throat. “Look at this.” D’Jenn turned and proffered what looked to be a message. It was a small scroll painted with red and white edges. A broken seal was stuck to the message, a fist inside a circle stamped into the wax. Dormael took the message and pulled it open.

Colonel Grant, Your letter was not a welcome one. You have always served with distinction, and I thought I could trust you to handle this mission with greater care. With matters having spun so far out of control, I trust you’re working as hard as possible to clean up your mess. The mistakes of the soldiery fall upon the commander—a thing of which I’m sure you’re fully aware. Find the artifact and fix this situation. Failure will mean swift punishment. See it done with all possible haste and report to back to Shundov.

There was no name at the bottom of the letter, but the fist on the seal—the official standard of the Galanian Empire—was all the confirmation Dormael needed. He shook his head and handed the message back to D’Jenn. “Right. Well, now we have our confirmation,” Dormael said. “She’s got something they want, and I’m guessing this ‘artifact’ is the same thing that awakened my Kai.”

D’Jenn nodded. “Aye. I wonder what it—” Someone whimpered from inside the canopied bed. Dormael spun, pulling magic from his Kai, ready to strike out at the noise. D’Jenn stopped him with a restraining hand on his shoulder. Dormael held himself ready, heart beating in his ears. The whimpering continued, peppered with sniffling noises. The voice had the distinct timbre of a small child. Dormael shared a confused look with D’Jenn. Together, they moved toward the bed. With a tentative hand, Dormael pulled the silk curtains on the bed aside. A young girl sat crying on the bed, cowering in fear. She hid her face between her knees, arms hugged around her legs to pull them close. Her hair was brushed and neat, but there were bruises on her arms and legs, as if someone had taken a cane to the poor little thing. She wore only a sheer nightgown which displayed the purple and brown welts on her limbs in lurid detail. She couldn’t have been older than ten springs—maybe younger. The girl raised her head and regarded them with wide, tearful eyes. D’Jenn hissed a surprised intake of breath over Dormael’s shoulder. Her eyes were sunken, one of them darkened by an old bruise, and there was dried blood on her lower lip. “Who—” She sniffled, rubbed her nose. “Who are you?” Her voice was strained, as if she’d been crying for hours. Dormael was at a loss for words. He looked to D’Jenn, who regarded the youngling with concerned eyes but said nothing. Dormael took a deep breath and looked away from her bruises. “I’m Dormael, young one, and this is my cousin, D’Jenn.” Dormael glanced toward the door. “There’s no reason to cry, now. We’re not here to hurt you.” I’ve never been good with children. Gods—what is going on?

The girl’s eyes darkened. “That’s what he says every time. Not here to hurt me…but he does.” She pushed herself further away, cowering toward the wall. Dormael winced. “Listen, young one—what’s your name?” “Bethany.” She watched him like a cornered animal. Drum tried to smile. “Well, Bethany, you don’t need to worry. We’re not with him.” “You’re not?” Her expression was suspicious. D’Jenn’s eyes blazed with anger. “Not even close, kid.” “Then who are you?” She glanced between them and scooted away, though she had nowhere to go. “What are you doing here?” Dormael ground his teeth and glanced again toward the door. “Do you want to leave this place, Bethany?” Dormael felt D’Jenn’s sharp gaze at the back of his head, but he ignored it. “Leave?” There was a glimmer of hope in Bethany’s voice. Dormael gave her a sharp nod. “Yes. We’ll take you with us when we go.” D’Jenn let out a small, frustrated sigh, but didn’t speak in opposition. “But he said he would kill me if I tried to leave.” Bethany sniffed, a fresh bout of sobbing welling up in her voice. Her shoulders threatened to start shaking again, but Dormael cut in before she could erupt. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.” Dormael kept his voice even, his tone soothing. “He can’t hurt you if you’re with us. You can trust us.” Bethany’s face twisted with confusion, but she stifled her crying. Dormael made to put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, but reminded himself of what had happened to her—or might have happened to her. He kept his hand to himself.

Footsteps rang in the hallway, bringing everyone’s attention to the door. D’Jenn was at the window in an instant. He opened it to the cold night wind and started climbing through, his Kai singing in the ether. A pair of voices drifted through the bottom of the door, coming closer with every step. D’Jenn made an irritated gesture. Hurry! Dormael checked his facemask and gave Bethany a plaintive look. “Stay here, little one, and don’t tell anyone we were here. We’ll be right back to get you, alright?” He turned to rush for the window, but Bethany’s voice brought him up short. “Promise?” Dormael turned and looked in her eyes. “I promise.” Dormael! D’Jenn’s tone was urgent in Dormael’s mind. Let’s go! The voices reached the door, and the lock clattered with motion. Dormael turned and rushed for the open window, gathering his magic. There was no time to climb carefully over the windowsill—the people in the hall were already at the door. Dormael tucked his legs, grabbed the sill, and hopped through the window into the night. He had a moment of wild panic as the air yawned beneath him. His guts crawled to his throat as he fell, feet scraping against the stone. He enacted D’Jenn’s climbing spell on instinct, gathering power at his hands and feet. His right hand was the first to catch, and it slid along the stone surface of the tower, ripping off bits of skin before it jerked him to a stop. His body slammed against the tower, knocking the breath from his lungs. Pain screamed through his arm, and he stifled a cry as he got his feet onto the wall. Jaw clenched, he started the climb back to where D’Jenn hung against the stone. Dormael’s shoulder protested every movement. The skin on his palm burned with each , and he left bloody handprints on the stone. Coming level with D’Jenn, Dormael pressed his chest against the stone,

settled his weight on his legs, and let his body tremble with unspent terror. D’Jenn put a comforting hand on his shoulder and conveyed his relief with a look. Dormael let out a tense breath and focused his emotions, taking his right hand from the wall to clutch a pained fist to his chest. His shoulder throbbed with the movement, sending dull shocks of pain from neck to elbow. Voices drifted through the cracked window which D’Jenn held in place with a steady effort from his Kai. “…was seen entering the South Gate, sir. A member of the City Watch brought in the report an hour past. According to the guardsman, the girl was unconscious and accompanied by a Sevenlander.” “A Sevenlander?” the second voice echoed. “How did a westerner get involved with her?” Dormael and D’Jenn shared a grim look. “The guardsman had no explanation. The Sevenlander said she was his sister.” “Can’t the fools tell the difference between their own countrymen and bloody Sevenlanders?” “Apparently not, sir.” “I thought Tamst put an arrow through her. She should have been half dead.” “According to the guardsman’s report, she was unconscious. The westerner said she had a drinking sickness.” There was a long pause. “A drinking sickness, Lieutenant? A drinking sickness? Have you ever seen someone bleed from a drinking sickness?” “No, sir.”

“The City Watch must be full of blind men and fools.” “Yes, sir.” “He’s sure the girl matched our description?” “He described a striking red-headed woman with a pair of swords on her saddle.” “Striking? Is that what he said, Havram?” “His description was vulgar, sir.” “I see. And the Sevenlander? What do they about him?” “He had a guitar, sir, and some kind of long, odd-looking beard.” Dormael cursed inwardly. “At least now we know for certain she’s here, and we have a lead.” “Yes, sir.” A rustling sound came from the room, like the noise of a man buckling on a sword. “Send orders to Sergeant Mildon. Have his men detain every Sevenlander they can find. Tell them to be gentle—we don’t want more blood on our hands. Send someone to Whiskey Row and find out if any Sevenlanders have disembarked in the last couple of weeks. If we find this westerner, we’ll have the girl’s trail, if not the Baroness herself.” Dormael stifled another curse. “Yes, sir,” the subordinate replied. “I want to talk to this City Watchman myself. I’m going to the South Gate to learn more about this little encounter. And wake that bloody fool in the hallway! Put him on the night patrol and make sure he doesn’t take his cloak. A night in the cold wind ought to teach him not to fall asleep at his post.”

“As you say, Colonel.” Bethany sobbed in response to the Colonel’s raised voice, and there was a dangerous pause in the room. Dormael tensed, readying himself to climb back through the window, but D’Jenn stopped him with another hand on the shoulder. Dormael clenched his jaw in frustration but heeded his cousin’s warning. “And you keep your little mouth shut. Do you hear me?” Another pause. “I said do you hear me?” Bethany’s voice may as well have been a squeak. “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “Yes, sir.” “Better.” Another pause, pregnant with danger. “Come, Lieutenant. Send a runner to find—” The door slammed and the Colonel’s voice was gone. Bethany started sobbing in the wake of the Colonel’s visit. Her voice leaked through the window and stabbed Dormael in the heart. The cousins waited a ten-count and slipped back into the room. Bethany gasped as they came back over the windowsill. Most of the room lay untouched, but the Colonel’s sword was missing. D’Jenn moved to the door and put his ear to the wood. Dormael rushed to the Colonel’s trunk and threw it open, pawing through the clothing inside. He found a thick blue tunic made of wool and handed it to Bethany. Wool would keep her warm even if it got wet, and given the thunder rumbling outside, rain would soon fall. She took it from him and gave him a nervous

look while he put the Colonel’s trunk back in order. “Go on. It’s cold out, and you can’t…well, you you’re not wearing that anymore.” He gestured at the nightclothes. “We’ll find something better soon, I promise.” “How did you…” She looked at the window in confusion. “You jumped out the window!” “We’re wizards,” D’Jenn explained. “You’ll be safe with us. You have to hurry, though, little one.” Bethany blinked at D’Jenn. “You—you’re wizards? You can use magic? Real magic?” Dormael nodded. Bethany pulled the woolen tunic over her head, her expression full of cautious hope. She climbed to her feet and worried at the sleeves—which hung well past her tiny hands. Dormael reached out to help her, and she shied away. After a tentative exchange of nervous glances, though, she let him roll up her sleeves. Dormael moved with care, hoping he didn’t spook her. Gods—she has bruises everywhere! Bethany climbed down from the bed, wincing as she upset some unseen injury. Dormael summoned his Kai and touched her with a gentle finger of magic, lifting the dried blood from her lip. It floated away from her lip and disintegrated to fine ash. Bethany held a finger to lip and gasped, regarding Dormael with astonished eyes. D’Jenn turned away from the door. “They’re gone, but I’ll wager someone will be up to replace the guard on the door any moment. We can’t go out through the castle.” D’Jenn eyes flicked to the girl. “Not now, anyway.” D’Jenn’s voice spoke into Dormael’s mind. Is this a good idea? Are you sure you want to take the girl? What if she’s his daughter? Dormael scowled. If she is, he deserves her even less. She wants to leave—

you heard her. Aye, I heard her. Dormael crouched to look in Bethany’s eyes. “Alright Bethany, we’ve got a climb ahead of us. I’m going to need you to be brave. Can you do that?” Bethany nodded, her eyes full of fear. “Good.” Dormael glanced at the window. “I’ll need to carry you, and I’ll need you to hold on as tight as you can. If you trust me, Bethany, I swear to the gods I’ll get you out of here. Can you do that?” Bethany nodded again. “One more thing.” D’Jenn stepped forward, looking down at the girl. “We’ll need you to be quiet. No noise—not even a scream if you’re hurt. Understand?” Bethany took a deep breath, the oversized tunic clutched in both her tiny fists. “I can be quiet. I can be very quiet.” D’Jenn nodded and moved back to the window. He gave them both a hooded glance before climbing back over the windowsill and disappearing into the night. Bethany watched him with a fearful expression. “Alright Bethany.” Dormael removed his facemask and tied the kerchief around his injured hand. “Climb on my back and hold tight.” Bethany closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and moved around behind him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed his ribs with her legs, crossing her ankles around his waist. Dormael stood and tested her weight —the girl was as tiny as a bird. He let her shift her weight until she was comfortable and moved for the window. “Alright, little one.” Dormael pulled magic from the ether. “Close your eyes and hold tight.” She buried her face in his shoulder. “Alright.”

Using D’Jenn’s spell once again, Dormael climbed through the window and into the night. Bethany trembled as the wind whipped the tunic over her body, though Dormael didn’t know if it was in response to the cold or her own fear. He’d have split his consciousness and channeled some heat to keep her warm, but with the pain in his shoulder and hand, using the climbing spell took all his concentration. D’Jenn got halfway up the tower and leapt for the inner wall, sailing across the gap in a smooth, slow arc. Dormael watched him and grimaced—there was no way he could make the jump with Bethany on his back. He’d have to get higher. “Are we almost down?” Bethany mumbled into his shoulder. Dormael grunted with effort as he pulled them toward the tower’s roof. “Not yet.” Her arms and legs clenched tighter. Dormael’s shoulder protested with every pull, and his bloodied hand stung with each touch of stone. His legs shook with anxious spasms, and he focused on the rhythm of using the climbing spell—right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot—until the lip of the roof was just above his reach. With a powerful effort, he hauled himself and Bethany over the ledge at the top of the tower, hugging tight to the sloped tiles. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder cracked in response. Dormael crouched on the tiles and started pulling Bethany’s arms free. “I need you to let go and climb into my arms.” Dormael steadied the girl as she settled her feet on the sloped roof. “It will be easier to make the jump that way.” “Jump?” Bethany gave him a horrified look. She glanced around to the surroundings spread out beneath them. The lights of Ferolan were sprinkled through the valley below, and the sea churned just past the castle walls. The wind picked up, whipping her tunic around her legs, and Bethany crouched lower to the roof. “Really?” “Really.” Dormael fought his dizziness at the height and rose, gesturing for the girl to climb up. “We have to go, Bethany.”

Bethany closed her eyes, nodded, and climbed into his arms. Dormael was intensely aware of his balance as he gathered her close. He looked to the walls of Ferolan Castle, judging the distance to the walkway of the outer wall. He could make the jump to the inner wall just fine, but his height was great enough that he could probably make the outer wall with enough magical power. Dormael took a deep breath. “Here we go.” Dormael took a springing step and jumped as hard as he could, sailing into the empty air. He pulled magic from the ether, counteracting his and Bethany’s weight, and arrested their fall. The rain poured down, sudden and cold, raising a whisper against the stone like ghostly applause. They descended in a slow arc toward the battlements of the seaward wall, the rain pummeling them the entire way. Bethany tightened her grip until Dormael thought he would suffocate, but she made no sound as they floated toward their target. Dormael’s guts tightened as the inner wall came into sight, but they slid over it without coming too near the battlements. When the outer wall appeared out of the haze, Dormael’s chest tightened with alarm. They were hurtling toward it, traveling through the air faster than Dormael had anticipated. For a brief, terrifying moment, he was sure they were going to miss the walkway and topple over the side, but a quick adjustment to his spell brough them in line with the battlements. They landed on the walkway with a tooth-jarring impact, and Dormael had to roll as the momentum pushed him from his feet. He wrapped a bubble of thickened air around his body to protect Bethany from the hard stone and held her tight to his chest. His back slammed against the outer parapet, knocking the breath from him, and the two of them came to a stop. D’Jenn crept up to them along the walkway, materializing out of the rainy night. Are you alright? D’Jenn glanced back to the tower. I thought you weren’t going to make it. I was getting ready to grab the two of you with my Kai and lift you up. I had to get higher in order to make the jump. Dormael extricated Bethany’s arms from his neck and checked her over. She had so many bruises on her

arms and legs that it was difficult to tell if she’d garnered any during the tumble. D’Jenn nodded to the girl as Dormael checked her over. “You didn’t scream once. Good job, little one.” Bethany replied with a nervous smile. “You there!” A voice from further down the wall cut through the noise of the rain. “Stop where you are!” Dormael struggled to his feet, helped by D’Jenn’s offered hand. Two guards ran toward them through the pouring rain, bared steel held in ready hands. Dormael cursed and pushed Bethany behind him. “Eindor’s bloody eye.” D’Jenn grimaced at the running guards. “You know what we have to do. They’ll we were here. They’ll our faces.” Dormael sighed and nodded. “Aye, I know.” “It’s not unheard of for a guard to slip from the battlements and fall in the rain.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “The walkways are slick tonight.” “It’s a real tragedy.” Dormael took a deep breath, coaxing more power from his Kai. The magic spun around him in a wild storm, touching each raindrop and returning tiny musical notes in his mind. His veins were full of lightning, his mind overwhelmed with ringing music. Dormael reached out and clenched his fist, wrapping one of the guards in the invisible grip of his Kai. The man let out a choked exclamation until Dormael tightened his grip, cutting off his air. Dormael raised his arm, raising the man from the stones with it. The guard hung in midair, eyes full of terror. D’Jenn’s Kai sang in the ether, and the second guard rose a moment later. I wish this wasn’t necessary.

Dormael flicked his wrist and sent his guard hurtling over the side of the wall toward the churning sea below. D’Jenn’s man went a moment after, their screams swallowed by the thunder and rain. The wall went quiet as they fell, and the rain filled the silence with its wet cacophony. Bethany gaped at the place where the men had just stood. “Come on!” D’Jenn gestured for everyone to follow and trotted toward the spot where he and Dormael had climbed the outer wall. Dormael grasped Bethany’s hand and dragged the stunned girl in D’Jenn’s wake. She came without protest. Reaching the place where they’d climbed over the wall, Dormael looked for more guards—for the moment, at least, the walls were clear. D’Jenn climbed atop the battlements and offered Bethany a steadying hand as Dormael helped her up beside him. Once D’Jenn and Bethany were on the wall, Dormael pulled himself up on Bethany’s other side. D’Jenn peered into the night. “Can you float us down with your spell?” “Aye, but I can’t see a bloody thing in this haze.” Dormael squinted his eyes at the ground below and shrugged. “It will be a blind jump.” “I think the piece of ground where we jumped to the cliff face is that way.” D’Jenn pointed ahead and to the right. “I’ll ready myself to shield us if we’re coming down on top of something.” “Or if we miss.” D’Jenn scowled. “Don’t curse us before we start.” “Alright, let’s get on with it, then. But if we land in the sea, I’ll remind you it was your fault every day.” Dormael nodded to his cousin. “You chose the direction.” D’Jenn smirked. “Fair enough.” Dormael reached down and took one of Bethany’s hands. The girl looked up with wide, frightened eyes, and he gave her an encouraging nod. It seemed to have no effect, and heat rose to Dormael’s cheeks.

I have no idea how to act around children. “You may want to close your eyes, little one.” D’Jenn didn’t bother to smile. “Close your eyes and hold on tight.” She nodded. “We go on three,” Dormael said. “One…two…three!” In unison, they pushed off the parapet, jumping into the dark night. Dormael extended his spell to include all three of them, and they floated through the air as the rain hammered down. The night yawned beneath them, and Dormael’s stomach crawled into his chest. Bethany’s hand was tight in Dormael’s, and he glanced over to find the girl staring straight into the dark, jaw clenched and defiant. Her eyes were wide and fearful, but she didn’t make a sound. Dormael turned his face back in the direction they were falling, teeth bared in a fierce grin. A stretch of wet, grassy ground materialized from the haze. They had made the distance they needed with some to spare, and Dormael was relieved he wouldn’t have to swim—though the rain had soaked him well enough without it. Dormael added a bit of power to the spell to slow their descent, and the three of them came down on a soggy patch of ground. Safe on the ground again, Dormael let his magic sleep and turned to look up at the castle. He half expected a cry to sound through the night, but none came. Ferolan Castle seemed distant and lonely, looming above the city in the rain. He made to let go of Bethany’s hand, but she held fast. Dormael glanced down to find her regarding him with a plaintive look. A dagger went into his heart, and he let the girl hold on to his hand. “Are you going to leave me now?” Bethany glanced over her shoulder at the castle on the rise. “He’ll come for me if you do. He always comes.” D’Jenn shared a confused look with Dormael and crouched in front of Bethany.

“My name is D’Jenn, and this is Dormael. We’re pleased to meet you, little one.” “And we’re not leaving you to starve in the rain.” Dormael moved a few strands of soggy hair off the girl’s forehead, and she didn’t flinch the way she did before. “You’ll come with us. We’ll get you in some warm clothes, and you can have something to eat. Does that sound good?” Bethany nodded and looked at the ground. “Well then, let’s get going.” Dormael grimaced at her feet. “If you don’t get out of this cold, your feet will freeze right off.” Bethany nodded again and the three of them set off into the rain. Ferolan was quiet, the rain keeping most people off the streets. They walked through dark alleyways, where tiny waterfalls poured from rooftops onto the street below. They sneaked across streets where the only light was cast from the windows of busy inns. They jogged along the back streets of the Merchant’s District, headed for the rear entrance to Alton’s manor. By the time they made it to Alton’s manor, everyone was soaked to their bones. Coming to the rear gate of the Dersham manor, D’Jenn waved his hand at the bolted gate, and it unlocked itself under his power. Looking around to make sure they weren’t seen, the wizards ushered Bethany through the gate and closed it behind them. They hurried across the grounds to the back entrance and opened the door, slipping out of the rain with a collective sigh of relief. Lyssa saw them and rushed over. She got almost all the way to Dormael when she spotted Bethany hiding behind him, no taller than his waist. Lyssa’s eyes widened at the sight of her. “By Lady Neesa!” Lyssa put one hand to her mouth and crouched to Bethany’s level. “What’s your name, dear?” Bethany took a step away, her diminutive hand tightening in Dormael’s grip. “Bethany.” Her voice was quiet, and she edged back another step.

“Oh, you’re soaked, you poor thing. Where did you come from?” Lyssa grabbed a rag from her apron as if she meant to wipe the rain from Bethany’s hair. She paused, glancing at the towel, and seemed to realize the futility of the gesture. Bethany only shrugged in reply and tried to slink behind Dormael. He squeezed her shoulder with encouragement and gave Lyssa an apologetic smile. Bethany looked to him again and nodded toward Lyssa. “She’s a friend, little one. She won’t hurt you.” Lyssa smiled and held out a hand. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll get you out of those wet clothes and put some warm food in you. Does that sound nice?” Bethany nodded, shooting another nervous glance at Dormael. “The cooks made a roast this evening, and I think there’s still some in the pot. Nothing warms you up like a bellyful of hot food, right?” Bethany stepped from behind Dormael’s leg. “Roast?” “You’d better hurry and get to it before I do.” D’Jenn smiled. “I’m famished.” “Seconded.” Dormael nodded. He looked down at Bethany. “Shall we eat, little one?” A timid smile cracked the girl’s lips—tiny, but there, nonetheless. There was a twinge in Dormael’s chest as the smile slid onto Bethany’s features, and he reached out and tousled her wet hair. She didn’t shy from him, and he smiled even wider. “Lyssa!” Nan came bustling down the stairs. “Lyssa! We need another plate of food now! And find me—” The elderly chamberlain drew up short when she saw Dormael and D’Jenn. “Ah! You two—I’m glad to see you down here, but you need to get upstairs now.” Nan’s tone brooked no arguments. There was something magical about an old woman’s commands all on their own, and he found himself snapping to

attention as if Nan was his own grandmother. Dormael paused, glancing between D’Jenn and Bethany. “What’s going on, Nan? We’re a little wet, a little hungry. Can’t we change first?” “It’s Lady Shawna,” Nan said. “She’s awake!”

No Use for Crying

Shawna pushed herself from the wet grass, grunting with effort. A bright welt decorated the back of her right hand, angry and hurting in time with her heartbeat. She looked to the side—to where she had dropped the practice sword—and reached out to pick it up for the fifth time. “Is it necessary to be so gods-damned rough with her?” Shawna’s father glowered at the shorter, darker man who currently towered over her with a wooden sword of his own. “You’re not training her for the battlefield!” Shawna bristled at the comment, but she was too winded to protest. Master Severin’s expression was flat. “I am training her to dance the blades, Baron Llewan. I will train her to my standard, or you may find another to see to her education. Perhaps knitting would be more to her liking?” “No!” Shawna picked up the sword and rose on unsteady feet. “I can do this.” Master Severin watched her with implacable gray eyes. “It has not yet earned the right to speak as a person.” He lashed out faster than she could react, smacking the practice sword from her hands with a contemptuous gesture. She stumbled back, but he lashed out a second time and landed a stinging blow on her right flank, causing her to double over in pain. “Until it can keep from squealing like a beaten dog, it will not be treated as a person.” “Gods, man!” Shawna’s father took a step forward. “Father, please!” Shawna gasped around the pain in her side. Master Severin eyed her for a moment, taking in her pitiful form. “It appears the girl wishes to continue.” Severin turned to her father. “Baron, if you have summoned me here because of vanity, you are quite

mistaken. I do not train pretty boys to wield pretty swords. I train Blademasters. The tradition is generations old, and it will not be watered down for the likes of anyone, much less a country girl who wishes to play with her brother’s things.” He came forward in a flash, wooden sword arcing down for a killing blow, but Shawna’s frustration finally won out over her pain. She threw herself to the side—more awkwardly than she wanted to it—and picked up her practice sword again. She held it in shaking hands and took a low guard, watching the small Kerallian Master closely. “It has some fight in it after all.” Severin smiled. “This is your first lesson, girl. I am not your father’s Master-at-arms. This will not be a pleasant experience for you.” He rushed forward, sword raised, and Shawna made to meet his blade with a parry. Severin, however, kicked her full in the stomach instead, sending her sprawling into the grass once again. She groaned in pain and tried to suck in a breath, but the kick had knocked the air right out of her. “Shawna,” her father said, “come on. We’ll go inside and get you something to eat. I’ll send this bastard away.” “No!” She grunted and rolled to her side, wincing as every muscle in her abdomen clenched in pain. She reached once again for her sword. “I won’t give up!” She fought back to her feet and faced the sword master, raising her wooden blade. Shawna’s father regarded her with displeasure, but finally relented with a scowl. Severin’s expression was unreadable. “Very well.” Dolland’s eyes went to Severin, who stood with his practice sword behind his back. “Train her as you wish. But don’t cripple her or mar her face. She still has to marry some poor bastard someday.” He shot her one last guarded look and stomped back toward the manor. Severin watched him go, silent as a monolith, and turned back to Shawna. He was a short man, but wiry and strong, and only a fool would discount the danger he represented—as Shawna was repeatedly discovering. He regarded her with a piercing, gray-eyed stare. Shawna felt more than a little ridiculous under that gaze.

Finally, he nodded. “So. The pretty girl wants to be a Blademaster, does she?” “She does,” Shawna growled, growing more than a little tired of the way everyone was speaking over her. “She thinks she knows what this means.” His tone made it a statement more than a question. “Whatever it means.” She sighed. He regarded her for another long moment, his weathered face as still as a winter pond. “Very well. I will train you.” Her eyes perked up. “You will?” “Yes. This is your last chance to back out. Leave now, girl—you will not enjoy this, that I promise you.” His eyes sparkled, but she couldn’t read anything in them. “I’m not going to quit!” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “We shall see. The first thing you’re going to do is run.” Shawna blinked. “Run?” “Yes. You will run thirty laps around your father’s manor, or until you collapse. Whichever comes first.” “Now?! But you’ve already beaten me half to death!” “I’ve not even started to beat you.” Severin smiled. He whipped his sword at her again, and she was too tired to deflect it. Her own blade went flying into the grass, and his next blow landed on her leg with a fire that brought

back memories of being whipped as a child. “Run!” He whipped her other leg with his sword. She squealed and took off, trying to escape the crazy little man and his wooden sword. Severin laughed with glee behind her, and Shawna increased her pace to stay ahead of him. She took off around the manor, trying to ignore the astonished faces of her father’s staff. Behind them, her father’s house was burning.

*** Shawna woke with her heart beating into her ears. She blinked her eyes and rubbed at her forehead, disturbing a light sheen of sweat on her skin. She was covered in lavish blankets, and a slight odor of wood smoke tickled her nose. The noise of a crackling fireplace filled the room with thick heat. A bare ceiling hung above her—thick wooden beams sealed with off-white plaster. Where am I? The bed was suddenly cloying, and Shawna needed air on her skin. She tried to rise, but a fierce pain in her side forced her to lie back again with a grunt. “Oh!” An old woman appeared, fussing with the mountain of blankets. “Oh, dear, don’t get up, now—just lie back!” “Where am I?” Shawna’s voice cracked with disuse. Her head was fuzzy, as if she’d spent all night drinking her father’s firewine. A pang of loss stabbed deep into her heart at the thought of her father, but she pressed it down. She ed the attack and her mad flight. Charlotte had left the attackers far behind, but everything past that was a confused jumble of dream-like flashes. “You’re in the home of your cousin, dear—Lord Dersham. Now, you just lie back and relax, I’m going to get you seen to.” The old woman bustled to a bedside table and took a cloth from a metal basin. She wrung water from

the cloth and came back to Shawna’s side, dabbing her sweaty forehead with the cool rag. “There you are, dear.” “I made it.” Shawna sighed, relief flooding through her body like cool water. “Oh, bugger the gods, I made it!” “Well, there’s certainly no need for that kind of language, dear.” The old chamberlain smiled. “But yes, you’re safe. Dormael found you and brought you here.” “Dormael?” The old woman nodded. “I imagine you’re famished, dear. Is there anything you want?” “Water.” Shawna grunted, poking at the painful wound in her side. “Maybe some firewine or milk of the poppy.” “No milk of the poppy here, but we’ve got some firewine.” The old woman nodded. “I’ll bring some with the food.” “Thank you.” Shawna tried again to rise, but the old woman pushed her shoulders down with gentle hands. Shawna’s abdomen gave a sharp tug of pain, and she collapsed in the bed. “Don’t you move, now. You’ll break open that wound again, and we’ll not have any of that.” The old woman fussed at the pillows under Shawna’s head. “I’ll prop you up, just give me a moment.” “What’s your name?” Shawna tried to clear the cobwebs from her mind. “I’m Nanathelle Bellostra, but everyone calls me Nan. Chamberlain to my Lord Dersham, if you please. It’s an honor to finally meet you, my Lady. We’ve all been biting our nails over you.” “Nanathelle,” Shawna repeated. She gave a weak smile. “It’s a beautiful name.” “Aye, but don’t go repeating it, Lady.” Nan smiled. “It may frighten the staff to hear it.”

After a moment of rearranging the pillows and moving Shawna about, the old woman had propped her back against a mountain of cushions and pulled the blankets up to cover Shawna’s indecent parts. A quick check under the covers had revealed her to be wearing nothing but a sheer nightdress. A sudden panic charged Shawna’s limbs. “My horse! Is Charlotte alright? And my things—where are they?” “Peace, Lady Shawna. Your horse is fine—she’s stabled here at the manor. Your belongings are in the wardrobe, just over there.” Nan pointed at a standing closet opposite Shawna’s bed. Her swords were propped against it. She imagined her saddlebags were inside. She let out a huge sigh of relief. “I have to speak to Alton.” “I know, Lady Shawna.” Nan nodded. “I’m going to retrieve him now. He’s been most anxious since your arrival. All the lads have.” “The lads?” Nan smiled. “I’ll let my Lord inform you. Is there anything else you need?” “Not right now, thank you.” “No thanks are necessary, dear. I’ll return shortly with the food.” Nan offered Shawna a slight bow of the neck and left the room. The door shut behind the chamberlain, leaving Shawna with nothing but the popping fireplace for company. Shawna let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the dryness in her mouth. Her heart fluttered with nervous energy, but she ignored that, too. She couldn’t put a name to the way she felt. Her chest was hollow, but that warred with the pain in her body and the muddiness in her head. The smell of the roaring fire reminded her of the way her family’s home had smelled when she had last seen it. Shawna clamped down on a blooming storm of emotion and swallowed a bout of sobs. There’s no use crying now. I’ve got to get myself under control.

Just when she had smoothed her emotions, Alton burst into the room. “Shawna!” He rushed over to take one of her hands. He was different from the lanky boy she ed. The Alton of her youth had been a mischievous and troublesome sort, awkward and always getting into one thing or another. The man who took her hand was different—poised, broadshouldered, and much taller. He had grown into his frame, and she could tell by the way he regarded her that he’d kept the comionate streak that had so endeared him to her in their younger days. “Alton.” She smiled, wincing as she tried to sit up again. “Careful, cousin.” His smile was strained, but there was a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. “I don’t know if you realize, but you had an arrow in your back.” The joke made her snicker despite the warring emotions in her chest. “You’re still an unrepentant ass, I see.” “How do you feel? Nan just informed me you’d awoken.” “I hurt.” She shot him a smile that was more wince than anything else. “I imagine.” “Alton…my father,” she said, trying to force the words out. “He’s dead.” His expression sobered. “I had feared as much. When Dormael brought you in…well, I assumed the worst.” “Who is this Dormael everyone is talking about?” Just as the words left her mouth, the noise of bustling feet brought her attention to the doorway. Two strange men entered the room, both wearing interested expressions on their faces. The first man through the door was a shade taller than Alton, which would have put him a head taller than Shawna. He had long wavy hair and a ginger beard on his chin, though his hair was wet, and the color was hard to discern. He favored her with a friendly smile, but his piercing blue eyes hid a frenzy of mental activity.

The second man was of a height with the first and wore his hair short, the way a soldier might. His own beard was a ridiculous thing braided all the way from his chin to his waist, and his eyes were a bright green color. His right hand was wrapped in a kerchief, and blood-stained water dropped from the clenched fist. They wore close-fitting shirts and leather breeches and had rags tied around their necks. Their clothing was soaked through, and water dripped into the floor at their feet. Shawna raised an eyebrow at the state of their dress, but this was Alton’s house, and it wasn’t her place to call them to task. What have they been doing, dressed like that? “Speak his name and the man appears.” Alton smiled. “Shawna, meet Dormael.” He indicated the one with the braid hanging from his chin. “The one with the dour face is D’Jenn.” “Dormael and D’Jenn.” Shawna narrowed her eyes. “Those are Sevenlander names.” “They are.” Dormael smiled, placing a fist over his heart and bowing at the waist. “Dormael Harlun, of Soirus-Gamerit.” “D’Jenn Pike.” The blue-eyed man also bowed. “Pleased.” He doesn’t look pleased. “Shawna Llewan.” “It’s good to meet you,” Dormael said. “We’ve been hoping for your recovery.” Shawna was struck with a strange vision—a blurry image of Dormael standing amidst a storm of lightning. The smell of horse sweat and blood pervaded the memory. She put a hand to her head and regarded him with a confused expression. His voice—it’s familiar. I’m sure of it. Shawna narrowed her eyes. “I you. They said you brought me in.

You found me.” Dormael grimaced. “Indeed. On the road, near the southern gate.” “I see. I suppose I should thank you for my life.” The words sounded empty, and regret wormed into Shawna’s stomach. She felt the gratitude, but the only emotions burning in her chest were grief and smoldering anger. “No need for thanks.” Dormael gave her an awkward smile. “Anyone might have done the same.” “Maybe.” Shawna nodded. “Thank you, nonetheless.” “Now that you’re awake, we must speak of serious matters.” D’Jenn turned to Alton. “Things have changed, Alton.” Alton grimaced. “For the worse?” Shawna cleared her throat. “Excuse me? Serious matters?” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?” Shawna ground her teeth. “To begin with, I’m wondering who you are. I’m grateful for whatever help you’ve given, but that doesn’t give you the right to involve yourself in my business—especially considering I’m landed nobility. Any serious matters that need to be discussed are the purview of Lord Dersham and I.” “Is that so?” A smirk raised the side of D’Jenn’s mouth. Shawna’s anger stirred. “It is so, and I would caution you to my station. Your attitude is more than a bit free.” “You’ll have to forgive me.” D’Jenn bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “I’ve not much experience dealing with touchy nobility.” The one called Dormael winced and looked away. “Touchy?” Shawna drew herself up as best she could. Alton held up placating hands. “I think everyone needs to calm down.”

Shawna ignored him. She struggled to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, using every ounce of control she’d learned during her training to hide the pain. D’Jenn raised his eyebrows in surprise, and both Alton and Dormael moved to help her—the latter running his eyes over her legs with an incredulous look on his face. Shawna was too angry to rebuff him, and she waved the two of them away. Shawna stood on unsteady feet and looked D’Jenn in the eyes. “You listen to me. I have just been through the worst night—” “Week,” Dormael put in. Shawna gave him a dangerous look, and he shrugged in response. “Week,” she repeated, turning her eyes back to D’Jenn, “in my life. My family is dead. Our livelihood destroyed, our holdings burned. I only escaped because I killed my way out, and I’m no mood for your disrespect.” Dormael stepped forward. “Lady Shawna—” She silenced the Sevenlander with a glare. “You can call me Lady Baroness, or Baroness Llewan.” The insufferable man shot her cousin a wry look and backed away, holding his hands up in surrender. “Shawna, I know this is all very strange,” Alton cut in, “but please sit down. We’ll explain everything.” “Strange? Oh, this is strange, alright. And you.” She shot Dormael another irritated look. “If you don’t stop running your eyes over my legs, I’ll cut the treacherous things from your head.” The man didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed as he snapped his eyes back up to her face—he was grinning like a fool. He stopped ogling her, but his smile made her want to slap him across the cheek. No wonder everyone hates Sevenlanders. They have no care for propriety. D’Jenn sighed. “Lady Baroness, allow me to apologize. I spoke out of turn. If you will forgive me, we can move on from this misunderstanding. There is

much to discuss, and I believe you’ll want to hear what we have to say.” Shawna took a deep breath and nodded. “Better. First, would the two of you care to explain who you are, and why you’re dressed like a pair of thieves?” Dormael scoffed. “We’re not thieves.” “Oh no?” She ran her eyes over his soaked clothing and the rag hanging around his neck—which was obviously some sort of impromptu face-mask. She made a point of hovering her gaze over him just to jab at the man. “You certainly look like a pair of thieves.” “We’re not thieves.” D’Jenn ground his teeth. “Courtesy goes both ways, Lady Baroness.” Shawna raised an eyebrow. “Who are you, if not thieves?” “Alton?” Dormael asked. “Just show her.” Alton rubbed his temples. “I want no part of this.” Shawna glanced between the three of them. “Show me what?” Dormael sighed and cupped his upturned palm toward the fireplace. With a quiet whoof, a mote of fire leaped from the wood and shot across the room, coming to rest in Dormael’s palm. He held the tiny burning globe above his hand until D’Jenn reached over and plucked it from his grip. D’Jenn smiled and held it out to Shawna, who backed away in horror. With a smirk on his face, D’Jenn shook his palm as if he was clearing a bug from his skin. The fire fluttered and disappeared. Shawna sat down on the bed. “Shawna,” Alton said, “Dormael and D’Jenn are—” “Sorcerers,” she finished. “They’re sorcerers.” It was odd even saying it. D’Jenn sighed. “Insults flow from your mouth, Lady Baroness. Odd, for one

so concerned with discourtesy.” Shawna gave him a confused look. “You’re not sorcerers?” “Yes—well, no. Sorcerer is a little insulting,” Dormael explained. “We’re wizards.” D’Jenn nodded. “Wizards of the Conclave.” “The Conclave?” Dread filled Shawna’s stomach. She’d never met a sorcerer, but the Conclave was a name to conjure nightmares. The last time the Conclave took a hand in world events, thousands died by magic. Entire armies had been destroyed by lightning from the sky and flames from the hands of Conclave wizards. Hundreds of years had ed since then, but Shawna had been raised to mistrust sorcerers, if not magic itself. Are they using sorcery right now? Shawna’s skin crawled. Dormael gave her a concerned look. “Are you alright? You look a little pale.” Shawna turned a bewildered expression on the Sevenlander. “I had this strange picture of you in my mind. You were standing amidst a storm. There was lightning.” “Ah.” He nodded. “I thought you were unconscious during that part.” Shawna scoffed. “So, my mind isn’t cracking after all.” I stood face to face with a sorcerer and dressed him down. What if he curses me? “Shawna,” Alton said, “you’re going to upset your wound again if you don’t relax.” “Relax?” She chuckled. “How do you expect me to relax?” “You should get as much rest as possible tonight,” D’Jenn said. “Things are

going to get more complicated.” “What do you mean?” “The Galanians.” Dormael shot her a grim look. “They’re here.” Dread washed over her shoulders, and the familiar, cold anger kindled to life in her chest. “We knew that already,” Alton grunted. “I didn’t know that.” Shawna took a nervous breath. “It was them, Alton. They are the ones did this to me. They killed my father.” “We know.” D’Jenn nodded, and his tone softened for the first time. “We worked it out earlier today.” “You said something had changed?” Alton asked. Dormael winced. “They know she came into the city in the company of a Sevenlander. I was careless. This is my fault.” “You helped me,” Shawna said. “I would have died out there if not for your assistance. Don’t blame yourself for the Imperials.” Dormael nodded, but the guilt was plain on his face. “No sense in lamenting the fact now.” D’Jenn shrugged. “We overheard their commander—a Colonel named Grant—talking about conducting a search for westerners. They’re going to start rounding up Sevenlanders and interrogating them.” Alton let out an exasperated breath. “Wonderful.” Dormael nodded. “There’s more. We saw a letter addressed to this Colonel Grant with an Imperial seal. He’s under orders to find you and take an artifact from you. From the context of the message, it either came from the Emperor himself, or someone high enough to speak in his capacity.” I was ed by a buyer—a rich man. The voice of her father played again

through Shawna’s head. Could the wealthy buyer be the Galanian Emperor himself? He was probably the most powerful man in Alderak. The Galanian Empire had already conquered two other countries, and no one expected them to stop. The Empire had the resources to chase her across the entire continent —a large portion of which was already in Imperial hands. She felt like a rabbit with nowhere to hide from the hounds. “The Earl is treating them like guests of honor,” D’Jenn added. “He’s got the Colonel put up in the castle, and his men appear to have a free run of the city. Given that, we can’t expect any help from the officials here.” Alton scowled. “Earl Lindesholm has committed treason. He’s sold his to a foreign power to aid in the abduction of one of Cambrell’s noble daughters. There can be no doubt.” “Indeed.” D’Jenn nodded. “If they know who she is, and they know she came into the city with a Sevenlander, we don’t have long to act.” “It’s worse than that.” Alton’s eyes shot to Dormael. “ the Baronet Keeting?” Dormael sighed. “I’d forgotten him.” “You can bet he hasn’t forgotten you.” “What’s this?” D’Jenn glanced between them. “I had a confrontation with one of Alton’s business associates the day you made it here.” Dormael grimaced. “There were insults. He left angry.” “He’s exactly the type to go running to the Earl if he hears of what’s happening.” Alton ran his hands through his hair. “He’ll be jumping at the chance to wipe the noble ass of anyone who will show him favor.” “Our path is clear now,” D’Jenn said. “It’s only a matter of time until they come knocking. Once they realize Shawna has relatives in the city, they’ll come straight here.” Alton sighed and nodded. “How long do you think we have?”

“No more than a day, maybe less than that.” Dormael looked out the window. “If the rain holds out, it may slow them down.” “I doubt it.” D’Jenn shook his head. “These aren’t normal soldiers. They’re Red Swords—the Imperial elite—and if they’re being led by a Colonel, the Empire is paying this situation close attention.” “Gods.” Alton shook his head. “But why? All this over some…some artifact?” Shawna gave Alton a sharp glance. Dormael and D’Jenn noticed the look, from the interested expressions on their faces, but they said nothing. The Sevenlanders had helped her, and had risked their lives to do so, but could she trust them? After the events of the past week—gods, I can’t believe I’ve been out for a week—her trust was wearing thin. If she revealed her mother’s armlet, would the Sevenlanders just take it and disappear? Could I stop them if they tried? They’re sorcerers, for the gods’ sakes. Shawna took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to trust someone. Alton had done all he could to help, and given what they were all saying, she was in desperate need of allies. But sorcerers? Shawna looked at Dormael. “They wanted something from my father. An heirloom given to my mother on their wedding day.” Dormael nodded. “An heirloom? I’ve been wondering what it was. I’d be interested to know where it came from—who gave it to your mother, I mean.” Shawna narrowed her eyes. “The King. My mother was related to him. What do you mean, you’ve been wondering? How long have you known of this?” “Since the night I found you—or I knew something, at least.” Dormael gave her a sheepish look. “Whatever it is, it’s what led me to you. I could hear it with my Kai, even as far away as you were.”

“Far away?” Shawna furrowed her brows. “I thought you found me on the road.” “I did,” he said. “I was in the city when I heard it.” “What do you mean you heard it?” Dormael shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.” “Try.” Dormael sighed. “Magic has a certain sound to those of us who can wield it. It’s like a song, like music no one can hear but wizards. Sometimes you can feel a resonance with certain things, like infused items—magical items, I mean—and the night I found you, my magic came awake on its own. It wouldn’t sleep until I followed the sound. It was as if…well, nevermind.” “As if what?” Dormael met her eyes. “As if the heirloom wanted to be found. Like it was trying to get my attention.” So, he helped me not out of noble character, but an interest in my mother’s armlet. Shawna regarded him with narrowed eyes. For a moment she considered giving the damned thing to the wizard and having done with it—after all, it was certainly something beyond her understanding. Who better to examine and guard the thing than a Wizard of the Conclave? The sentiment ed quickly. The armlet was her responsibility, no matter how dangerous or magical it was. Her father would scream from the Void if she ed it to someone else for safekeeping and let them go on their way. Giving away the armlet probably wouldn’t save her from the Galanians. Regardless of what they wanted, she was the only witness to the attack on her family’s manor. If they cared enough to chase her here and risk the ire of the kingdom in the process, they probably wouldn’t stop until she was dead.

A thought occurred to her, and she gave Dormael a searching look. “When I was unconscious, you could have taken the armlet and left me to die. Why didn’t you?” Dormael shrugged, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. “I just wasn’t going to leave you there, that’s all. You were obviously remarkable, even without the magic leading me to you.” “Oh?” She wasn’t sure how to take that remark. “You were alone and had obviously been in a fight.” Dormael cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “I couldn’t just leave you there. I wouldn’t have, either.” Shawna nodded. Maybe his motivations weren’t entirely ignoble, after all. D’Jenn rolled his eyes at Dormael. “My cousin, noble as a lion shitting in a bed of roses.” Dormael shot an irritated glance at D’Jenn, but the blue-eyed man ignored him. “We need to speed things up before we’re caught in the city with no escape. Lady Baroness, we need to smuggle you out of Ferolan.” Shawna nodded. “Yes. I need to get to Arla. I’ve never met the King, but my mother was his cousin. Surely that’s enough to get me an audience.” “That was my idea,” Alton said, “but our new friends don’t think it’s far enough.” “Not far enough?” Shawna looked at Dormael and D’Jenn. “And where would you have me go, if not to the one man in Cambrell with enough power to see justice done?” D’Jenn’s eyes were steady. “I don’t think the King can do much to help you.” Shawna couldn’t stop herself from chuckling. “You don’t?” Alton held up a hand. “Hear them out, cousin. In this, they’re speaking sense.” Shawna shook her head with incredulity. “Very well. Go on.”

“For one, we know Emperor Dargorin was willing to commit an act of war to get his hands on your artifact,” Dormael said. “He’s got the largest military force on the continent, probably more gold than anyone in Alderak, and he wants what you have very much.” Shawna raised an eyebrow. “Obviously.” D’Jenn shook his head, regarding her as if she was stupid. “Let’s say you go to the King, you make your case, and he offers you his protection. That will be fine right up until he starts getting letters from the Galanian Emperor. I don’t know what sort of man the King of Cambrell is, but I do know that he has more than you to worry about. If the Empire starts making noise about moving an army onto Cambrellian soil, what recourse would your King have?” Shawna tried to follow the Sevenlander’s logic. “If the Empire threatens invasion, it would mean war.” “Right.” Dormael nodded. “Cambrell is a prosperous country. No offense, Lady Shawna, but your armies haven’t seen combat in a very long time. Every soldier under the King’s command is untested. The Galanian Empire has the might of three nations behind it, and their armies have been making war for years. They have a clear advantage.” Shawna scowled. She wasn’t stupid by any stretch, and she could see where they were going with their arguments. It didn’t make the conclusion any more palatable. “He won’t sacrifice the thousands who’ll die in a war, not to mention the peace we’ve seen for so long, simply for one minor Baroness.” The words tasted like ashes in her mouth. “He will give me up to the Empire rather than go to war.” “He would.” Alton nodded. “It pains me to agree, but he probably would.” “What’s more, the Red Swords are spinning some tale about you being a criminal,” Dormael said. “The Emperor will write to the King, demanding your extradition. If he refuses, Dargorin can offer him gold, titles, a political alliance, or maybe a treaty—perhaps even to protect his borders.”

“Everyone in Alderak is afraid of going to war with the Empire,” Alton said. “Keeping the borders of Cambrell inviolate, even for a short time, would be a powerful motivation to give you up.” “The borders have already been violated!” Shawna regretted the comment as soon as it ed her lips. “I’m sorry, Alton. It’s just—” “I know, cousin,” he said. “No need for apologies.” Dormael shrugged. “Emperor Dargorin holds all the advantages in this game. We’re on our own as long as we stay in Cambrell.” The crushing weight of it all came down on Shawna’s shoulders, and for a moment, quivering emotion welled up in her chest. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream at the gods in frustration. She wanted to put her swords through every Galanian she could find. “What am I to do, then?” she asked. “If not the King, then who can help?” “We are not entirely without options.” Alton’s tone was full of reluctance. D’Jenn nodded. “There is one place on Eldath even the Empire would fear to tread.” Shawna looked at him. “Where?” “Ishamael,” Dormael said. “We can take you to the Conclave.” Shawna’s insides went cold. “The Conclave?” Shawna covered her discomfort with a deep breath. “Why would I travel so far from my home? How am I to reclaim it from half a world away?” “Reclaim it?” D’Jenn scoffed. “Do you have any fighting men?” Shawna grimaced. “No.” D’Jenn raised his eyebrow, his expression grim and weighted. “Then how —”

“I know what you’re going to say.” Shawna scowled. “I’m not a fool. But leaving, it’s just…it just seems—” “Like the only choice open to us,” Dormael said, giving D’Jenn a disapproving glare. Shawna looked at him. Is it ‘us’ already? “Right now, you’re wounded.” D’Jenn’s expression softened at Dormael’s glare. “You’re an animal being hunted, and you’re running out of places to go to ground. Fight if you wish, but you must strike from a position of strength. You’ve no major political allies. You have no fighting men and no marks to your name.” Shawna grimaced. “Strike from a position of strength—my master used to say something like that.” Dormael smirked. “Ours, too.” “I’m worried for you, cousin.” Alton put his hand on Shawna’s shoulder. “I can’t protect you from the Empire—not alone.” “But the Conclave can protect you.” Dormael met her eyes. “And it’s the only place where you can learn the true nature your mother’s heirloom and why the Empire wants it.” “The true nature of—” Shawna shook her head. The memory of her father’s bruised face flashed through her mind. His words echoed with the memory. If they find what they’re looking for, everyone here has died for nothing! Shawna took a deep breath to calm her beating heart. “If I come with you to the Conclave, can you tell me why this happened? Why this piece of godsforsaken jewelry was so important?” “It’s the only place you’ll find someone who could.” Dormael nodded. “You could find solace there.” “And what if solace isn’t what I want?” Shawna held his eyes. “What if I want blood?”

D’Jenn raised his chin. “Then the best thing is to choose your own battleground, not to have it chosen for you.” Shawna furrowed her brows and nodded. She re-situated her seat on the bed, clenching her teeth with pain. Alton helped her and pulled the blankets up to cover her legs. Her side throbbed, and her muscles were protesting with painful spasms. She let out a relieved breath when she was comfortable again. “Very well.” Shawna looked at Dormael and D’Jenn. “I’ll come with you.” Dormael smiled. “Good.” “Speaking of departures,” Alton said, “I’ve found you a ship. It’s called the Squidchaser, captained by a man named Roldo. He’s not the most honorable type, but he knows his business, and doesn’t ask troublesome questions.” Dormael looked at him. “What does that mean—not the most honorable type?” “It means he’s all I’ve got.” Alton winced. “The other Captains are staying on this side of the Stormy Sea for the rest of winter. No one wants to sail west at this time of year.” D’Jenn shrugged. “It’s not called the Sea of Storms for nothing.” “I told him to make ready for a departure tomorrow night, and he’s agreed to take you all to Duadan. He’s moored at wharf sixteen. I set up a meeting tomorrow night in front of the Happy Lad on Whiskey Row.” Shawna gave Alton a suspicious look. “The Happy Lad?” “It’s…well, it’s a brothel, cousin.” “I see.” “He chose the place.” “I’m sure he did.”

Alton rolled his eyes. “I’ve also put together a number of supplies for your journey, taken from my company’s assets.” D’Jenn raised his eyebrows. “Supplies?” “Sundries.” Alton shrugged. “Horses. Your age overseas is paid for— and Roldo was paid a substantial bonus to keep quiet, just so you know.” Dormael put a hand on Alton’s shoulder. “We can’t thank you enough.” “You can, and you are,” Alton said. “Repay me by protecting my cousin.” Dormael bowed his head. “We’ll do everything we—” Both the Sevenlanders stiffened and turned to look at the wardrobe on the far wall. The sight made Shawna’s limbs go cold. “What?” “Is that—” D’Jenn gave Dormael a sharp glance. “Aye, that’s it.” Dormael’s eyes were locked to the wardrobe. “Lady Shawna,” D’Jenn said, “can we see this heirloom? It’s time we got a look at what the Empire is after.” Shawna shared a wary glance with Alton. “It’s in my saddlebags. Alton, could you—?” “No need.” D’Jenn beckoned at the wardrobe, and the doors creaked open. Shawna’s saddlebags floated out and plopped gently on the bed at her feet. She shied away from them but was immediately embarrassed by her reaction. Shaking her head, Shawna reached into the bags. Gods, I thought I tossed more clothing in here. She rummaged around the different pieces of clothing, scoffing when she felt something inside made of fine silk. Her hands alighted on the silver box and she drew it out, pushing the saddlebags aside. Dormael’s eyes were pinned to the box, his expression confused.

Shawna lifted the latch and opened the box. The ruby gleamed, twinkling as it refracted the room’s ruddy light. She made to pull out the armlet, but D’Jenn stopped her with a cautionary hiss. “Don’t.” D’Jenn peered at the armlet. “Don’t touch it, Lady Baroness.” Shawna recoiled from the box and placed it at the foot of the bed. “What? Why not?” Dormael took a step toward the bed, his eyes locked to the armlet. His eyes seemed brighter than normal, focused, but his body swayed on his feet. He reached toward the box, tilting his head as if listening to a distant noise. “Dormael, wait.” D’Jenn put a restraining hand on Dormael’s shoulder. Dormael ignored him, continuing to move forward with unconscious steps. The light in the room intensified, and a glimmer blossomed in the depths of Dormael’s eyes. Shawna felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of her face. The fireplace crackled, and the flames grew brighter, filling the room with heady warmth. D’Jenn’s hand tightened on his cousin’s shoulder. “Dormael!” Steam rose from Dormael’s shoulders. A flickering wave of fire rolled over his clothing, like the fuzz burning from a wool garment. Shawna scooted further away, and her side twinged with sharp pain. D’Jenn grabbed Dormael’s shoulders in both hands. “Look at me! Wake up, you—” D’Jenn turned a sudden, confused glance on the armlet. Dormael stumbled against D’Jenn and shook his head, blinking down at his cousin’s hands, which were tangled with his shirt. The two of them shared a grim look, and D’Jenn released his grip. The flames receded to their normal intensity, though the room was cloying. Alton cleared his throat. “What, in all the names of the gods, was that?” Dormael looked at D’Jenn. “You felt it.”

“I felt it.” D’Jenn narrowed his eyes at the armlet. “What in the Six Hells was it?” “That’s what I asked.” Alton looked between them. “Don’t you know?” The ruby still glimmered, reflecting the flickering light of the fire. It was muted, though, compared to what it had been before. Shawna pulled her saddlebags into her lap, if only to put something between her and the armlet. Dormael let out a cleansing breath, stepping back from the bed. “That thing is powerful.” “It sings.” D’Jenn regarded the armlet with a mystified expression. “It has its own song.” “What in Evmir’s name does that mean?” Alton asked. D’Jenn fixed Alton with a level gaze. “It means we need to get that thing to Ishamael as soon as possible. I don’t know what it is, but I know I’ve never seen its like before.” Shawna stared at the box, her body gone cold. “Put it away. Please.” D’Jenn shook his head. “We dare not touch it. Not right now. Please, Lady Baroness—shut the lid and stuff the box into the deepest part of your bags.” Shawna scoffed. “You want me to touch it now?” “It’s gone quiet.” Dormael put his back against the far wall. “It shouldn’t hurt you.” Shouldn’t hurt me? Shawna shook her head and did what he asked—neither of them would come near the bed, in any case. She handled the box like a poisonous scorpion and stuffed it to the bottom of her saddlebags. When she was done, D’Jenn was kind enough to float them back into the wardrobe for her. “That settles it, if it wasn’t settled before.” D’Jenn turned away from the wardrobe. “We must reach Ishamael with all possible haste.”

“In that case, we should let Shawna get some rest.” Alton brushed off his clothing, though it wasn’t dirty. “I don’t know if anyone could sleep after that, but—” “Wait.” Dormael held up a hand. “There’s something else. We found a girl in the castle.” “A girl?” Alton asked. “A child,” Dormael clarified. “We found her in the Colonel’s rooms and brought her back with us.” Alton looked at Dormael like he’d said the gods were coming back. “You what?” “Believe me,” D’Jenn growled. “It was a worthy thing to do.” Dormael nodded. “She was a prisoner there, Alton. She’s not the Colonel’s child.” “I see.” Alton let out an all-suffering sigh. “Nan is aware of this?” “She is.” Dormael winced. “Apologies, Alton, but we couldn’t leave her there.” Alton held up a dismissive hand. “In the face of everything else, feeding a child is a small concern. Nan will see to her. You can tell me more later.” “Thank you.” Dormael nodded. As if mentioning her name summoned the woman herself, Nan came bustling into the room with a steaming plate of food and two mugs. The old chamberlain favored Shawna with a bright smile and sat the dinnerware on the bedside table. Shawna’s stomach growled. Nanathelle put her hands on her hips and faced the three men. “I’m sure you’re all worried about Lady Shawna, but the Baroness needs her rest. The rest of you ought to get some food in your bellies, too.” Alton smiled. “I’ve already eaten, Nan.”

“A bit more fat around the midsection wouldn’t hurt, my Lord.” Nan smiled. “Now—if there’s nothing else, I’ll respectfully ask you boys to say your good-nights.” “Not even the master of my own home.” Alton enfolded Shawna in a light embrace. “I’m glad you’re awake, cousin. I’ll see you soon. If you need anything, just let someone know.” “Thank you,” she smiled, “for everything. And you two—Dormael and D’Jenn. Thank you as well.” Dormael’s responding smile was distracted, his eyes flicking toward her wardrobe. D’Jenn gave her a friendly nod. “We’ll speak in the morning, Lady Baroness.” D’Jenn went through the doorway. Dormael turned before leaving. “I’m glad you’re healing, Lady Shawna.” “Thank you.” Once the men were gone, Nan sat a steaming plate of food in Shawna’s lap and fussed with the bedding while she ate. The food tasted wonderful, but her stomach was too nervous to handle even half the plate. Nan gave Shawna the mug of firewine before bustling from the room with the used dinnerware. Shawna gulped the alcohol down as soon as the old woman was out the door. She lay awake for some time after the candles had been snuffed. She hadn’t had a chance to grieve for the loss of her family, and as the dark closed in around her, the weight of their loss pressed down like an invisible pile of stone. The twisted, bleeding bodies flashed through her mind again, and visions of the men she had killed paraded before her eyes. It was long into the night before she fell asleep.

Quitting Sanctuary

All Dormael wanted was to finish his breakfast. “All I’m saying is that she’s your problem.” D’Jenn chewed on a mouthful of eggs. “You got us into this, so you get to do all the babysitting.” Dormael rolled his eyes, chewing on his bacon. The morning light streamed through the narrow windows of the common hall and stabbed into his eyes. D’Jenn had been grumbling about Shawna all morning, but Dormael had yet to summon the energy to form a coherent response. After the night’s excitement, he had slept like a stone. The dawn had brought soreness, stabbing light, and D’Jenn’s grumbling. Bethany sat beside Dormael, toying with the length of his beard. Once she was bathed, dressed properly, and fed, she didn’t look quite so pitiful. She’d sought out Dormael and D’Jenn with the dawn and hadn’t left their shadows since. She was quiet, but she managed a reluctant smile here and there. Bethany’s eyes flashed to every noise in the hall. When she’d eaten, she had guarded her food as if it was going to run away. Dormael watched her while he ate, smiling when she looked up, but he didn’t bother her with questions. “Are you listening to me?” Dormael turned back on his cousin. “Aye, I heard you.” He tried to spear some eggs onto his utensil with his left hand, scowling at his plate as the food fought to stay clear of his attack. With his right hand bandaged and his arm in a sling, eating was an exercise in frustration. He muttered a curse and chased the eggs across his plate. Bethany reached up, flipped her fork into her fingers, and held the eggs in place for him.

Dormael smiled. “Thanks, little one. You’ve got deft fingers, don’t you?” Bethany shrugged. “You owe me, Dormael.” D’Jenn tapped a finger on the table to accent his point. “Don’t forget that.” “Owe you? For what?” “Helping you.” D’Jenn smirked. “You ruined my holiday.” Dormael shook his head. “Alright, I owe you.” “And since you’re the one who’s sweet on Her Ladyship, you’re the one who has to deal with her—that’s the rule.” “Why are we suddenly making rules? And who said I’m sweet on her?” “When she needs handling, you’ll handle her.” “Handling?” “You know what I mean.” D’Jenn gave him a flat look. “When Her Ladyship needs her questions answered, it won’t be me doing the talking. When she wants to spit fire at someone, that someone is you.” Dormael shrugged. “Very well. I can deal with that.” D’Jenn peered at him. “I’ll bet you can.” “That’s not what I—” “Of course not.” D’Jenn shook his head. “You just like the sight of Her Ladyship’s legs.” Dormael scowled. “That’s not why we’re here.” “Oh, of course not. My cousin, the paragon of virtue. It’s not as if you’ve ever done anything stupid for a pretty face and a nice pair of—” “Swords,” Dormael interjected, indicating Bethany with a meaningful

glance. “Of course.” D’Jenn chuckled. “Swords.” If Bethany understood, she didn’t comment. “Why are you being so objectionable this morning?” Dormael wrestled with another bite of eggs. “All you’ve done is grumble.” “I don’t like this.” D’Jenn looked out the window, his expression pensive. “The Baroness, her armlet—I can’t help but feel that we’ve stepped in a pile of snakes.” Dormael raised an eyebrow. “Do snakes congregate in piles, cousin?” “Some do.” D’Jenn’s tone was off hand. “When they’re mating.” Dormael chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course, you would know that. Why would you know that?” D’Jenn continued staring out the window. “Books. I lay awake for most of the night, you know, even though I was exhausted. I couldn’t stop thinking about her armlet. What is that thing?” Dormael sighed. “I don’t know.” D’Jenn went silent, brooding while he ran his fingers through the beard on his chin. Dread crept into Dormael’s stomach, but it wasn’t enough to defeat his appetite. He let his cousin stare out the window and went back to chasing eggs across his plate. Bethany helped him, and the rest of the meal ed in silence.

*** Alton took the day from his business matters to see the group off. It took most of the day to pack for the journey, even with Alton’s household assisting. It would take thirty days or more to cross the Stormy Sea, and the

overland trek from Duadan to the city of Ishamael would take weeks. Alton oversaw the preparations, directing the flow of goods and issuing orders. Shawna was withdrawn for most of the day. She walked with slow steps, hiding the pain on her face, and made an issue of doing things herself. She spent most of her time with Alton. Dormael and D’Jenn paired themselves with horses. Dormael found a chestnut gelding with a white stripe down his nose, and D’Jenn chose a gray one who he named Mist. Dormael dubbed his mount Horse and snuck him a few apples from the kitchens. Alton walked over as everyone was making ready to leave. Only Shawna was still inside, having been stolen away by Nan during the preparations to depart. Alton looked over the horses, took in a deep breath, and let it out with a shake of his head. “I wish I could come with you. What I wouldn’t give to be out of the manor for a while, to see the Sevenlands, and to know what happens in the coming weeks.” “We’ll try to send word to you, and we’ll return when this is over,” Dormael said. “Besides, someone has to get word to your King. The Earl should be outed, despite what happens with us.” Alton nodded. “I will do what I can here.” “Good.” D’Jenn walked up between them. “It’s getting dark. We should go.” Shawna and Nan appeared from the servant’s entrance into the stables, drawing everyone’s gaze. Shawna’s hair had gone from red-gold to deep black. She wore a rueful expression on her face, but Nan beamed at the taller woman in triumph. “River-root pulp.” Nan smiled. “Girls from Cambrell have been using it for years. It’s not much, I know, but it’s what I can do. Sometimes the grain tips the scale.” “Thank you, Nanathelle.” Shawna gave the old woman a weak smile. “For

everything.” Dormael raised an eyebrow. Nanathelle? Nan folded Shawna in a careful hug. “May the gods grant you guile and good fortune, dear. You be careful, now—don’t go undoing all the hard work we did keeping you alive. I’ll pray for you every day.” Shawna grew red in the face, but she returned the embrace. Nan went around shaking the hands and kissing the cheeks of the departing men, offering pearls of wisdom and well-wishes. She crouched down and smothered Bethany in a hug and kiss—which made the girl cringe in discomfort—before handing her something wrapped in cloth. Bethany hid it under her cloak, whatever it was, but she was unable to keep the smile from her face. Dormael pretended not to notice. Once everyone was gathered, Dormael clasped arms with Alton. “You’ve been good to us, Alton—shown us trust and hospitality. That’s not something taken lightly where we come from.” “We got to thinking about a parting gift.” D’Jenn smiled, coming up beside them. “But what could we get for you that you couldn’t buy for yourself?” “And to repay you for the lie,” Dormael said. Alton shook his head. “You owe me nothing.” “We know,” D’Jenn replied. “But we can give gifts to our friends if we wish.” Alton opened his mouth to object, but he stopped when D’Jenn started to sing. It was a quiet, sorrowful melody. Everyone paused what they were doing at the unexpected baritone, the rattling of buckles and shifting of garments settling into stillness. Dormael’s tenor ed with his cousin’s voice, and as the song lilted through highs and lows, Dormael opened his Kai.

He was suddenly connected to the world, senses ringing with invisible, restless energy. D’Jenn’s magical song ed his own, and their voices harmonized with the melodies their magic played through the ether. Dormael’s power danced with the music, as if the fabric of reality was bending its ear to listen. A bluish haze rose from the ground surrounding the two wizards, and those gathered shuffled back in stunned disbelief. The mist rushed outward, flowing toward the walls of Alton’s gardens, which separated his manor from the street. When the haze reached the inside surface of the wall, flowing runes scrawled themselves over the bricks in symmetrical patterns. The magic sank into the stone, into the ground underfoot, and even the few trees inside the estate’s walls. As the tune died on the wizards’ lips, the runes finished their race around the gardens, and the glowing runes faded away. A stunned silence followed the wizards’ performance. The melody hung in the air, reluctant to leave. Bethany gaped at the mist as it dissipated and ran her hands through the air in a vain attempt to catch it. Alton regarded Dormael and D’Jenn with surprise. Dormael cleared his throat. “It’s called Sanctuary. This place is tied to you now. It can’t make you completely safe from your enemies, but anyone who means you harm will come to fatal misfortune inside the Sanctuary.” “Fatal misfortune?” Alton blinked. “How?” “Think of it like a cascade of the worst possibilities,” D’Jenn said. “It will protect you in our absence, in case the Galanians come looking.” “That’s probably both the most wondrous—and most terrible—thing anyone has done for me.” Alton’s face sobered. “Thank you.” Dormael waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “We watch out for our own.” Alton offered his forearm, and Dormael took it. “I expect to see you all back here as soon as you can make it.” Shawna enfolded Alton in a hug, and Dormael gave the two of them room to

say their goodbyes. He busied himself with readying Horse and ensuring Bethany’s feet were covered. Nan had found the girl a blue dress and a thick winter cloak, but she’d disdained her new shoes. Each time Dormael had turned his back during their preparations to leave, Bethany had been barefoot again. Dread wormed in Dormael’s chest when he looked at the girl. She was so young to take on the road, but if they left her in Ferolan, the Colonel might reclaim her. The safest place would be in their company, and according to Bethany, she had no one. She’d probably follow us, anyway. She hasn’t left us since dawn. By the time farewells were said and prayers for safety were promised, the sun was well below the horizon. Dormael put Bethany on Horse and led them through the gate, making for the Docks. D’Jenn brought up the rear, riding Mist and leading two pack horses, his eyes scanning the night for danger. Shawna sat astride her massive gray mare, taller in her saddle than either D’Jenn or Bethany. She winced with every hoofbeat, and her face was drawn with pain, but she withstood it in silence. The ruddy glow of oil lanterns threw splattered reflections across the slick cobblestones of Ferolan’s streets. The rain from the previous night hadn’t burned off in the cool winter sun, and it made the steeper inclines treacherous. There were few people walking through the darkened city, and the wind was still and cold. Dormael kept them to back streets when he could, though the horses sometimes made that impossible. He led them through the city’s seedier districts, hugged along the northern cliff face below the Merchant’s District. As they ed into the poorer parts of the city, the street lanterns were replaced by torches. Their smoky odor made Dormael’s nose itch. They ed a few squads of City Watch, but Dormael took care to avoid them when he could. Dormael’s stomach tightened every time he saw them, but quick thinking and convenient alleyways were enough to slip their notice. The party rode in tense silence. Shawna had a look of concentration on her face, and her brow beaded with sweat despite the chill. By the stiff way she was riding, her wound wasn’t

responding well to the activity. Still, she uttered no complaints. After an hour of snaking down back alleys and taking detours, they made their way to the harbor mouth. Dormael led them to an alleyway near Whiskey Row and handed Horse’s reins to Bethany. He patted the beast’s neck and moved toward the mouth of the alley. “I’ll head to the meeting with this Captain Roldo,” he said. “Make sure there’s nothing suspicious.” D’Jenn nodded. “Be careful. We haven’t seen any Red Swords yet, and that bothers me.” Dormael shared a grim look with Shawna. “I will. Stay out of sight.” D’Jenn snorted. “Go teach a fish to swim, why don’t you?” Dormael winked, pulled his hood up, and set out down Whiskey Row. Puddles reflected the yellow-orange light from the pubs along the seaside street, and music drifted through their windows. The air was cooler in the harbor, though the salty wind was calm. He ed groups of singing men too drunk for the cold to stifle their enthusiasm. Sailors dragged crewmen in various states toward the docks, and others stumbled in one direction or another. Still don’t see any Red Swords. I’d have men all over the harbor if I was the Colonel. The Happy Lad was a three-story building with women—and men painted like women—waving from the windows. They called greetings to a group of men in the street who shouted back and laughed with enthusiasm. There was a line to get inside, and the people waiting in the street had formed their own celebration. Dormael found an alley nearby and slid into the shadows to watch. He rubbed his aching right shoulder and flexed his tattered hand inside the bandage as he surveyed the street. There were plenty of men in the street, and a good many of them could have been sea Captains. Most were yelling up to the windows of the brothel, shouting obscenities and making sexual

promises they probably couldn’t keep. Most were beyond drunk already, swaying to the dance of the alcohol in their bellies. One man leaned on a railing across the street, peering around while drumming his fingers on his crossed arms. He wore the thigh-length coat sailors favored in wet, cold weather, and he had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead. A shaggy brown beard curled from most of his face, and greasy hair lay down to the sides of his chin. Beady pig-eyes stared out from a thick brow which made the grimace on his face particularly ugly. He seems anxious, like a man expecting someone. Is this Roldo? Roldo—if Roldo he was—had a man standing next to him who leaned on the railing and stared at the harbor. Dormael couldn’t see his face, but he had a wooden baton hanging from his belt, probably for keeping stowaways from a ship’s loading ramp. He was trying to appear idle, but he kept glancing down the street to the south. Following his gaze, Dormael spotted two more men pretending to lounge against the railing further down the street. Both were armed with cutlasses. They shot furtive glances up and down the street, fingering the hilts of their weapons. That’s the best way to be seen, you bloody idiots. Was it a trap, or was Roldo being cautious? Alton had described him as having questionable honor, so perhaps he was used to dealing with seedy types. Caution was like breathing for men like that. Dormael pulled his hood up and moved into the crowd. He dodged past drunken revelers, keeping an eye on the men with cutlasses. He waited until they turned around and approached the man he thought was Roldo. “Horrible weather,” Dormael said from the depths of his hood. Roldo gave Dormael an indifferent grunt in answer, peering past him up the street. When Dormael stayed in place, Roldo peered into his hood. The cudgel bearing man turned and noticed, but Roldo waved him back. “You’re Alton’s people?”

Dormael smirked. “You’re Roldo?” He nodded. “Aye, that’s me. Where’s the rest of you?” “Do you always bring so many bruisers to meet with engers?” Dormael gestured at the bodyguards. “Why the warm welcome?” Roldo’s expression was bland. “age across the Sea of Storms in the dark, a fake manifest with the port, and the payment more than sufficient? I’m not a fool, Sevenlander, and I do what’s best for the Squidchaser and her crew. If that means a bit more caution when something stinks, so be it.” “I can’t fault you for that, Captain.” Dormael raised an eyebrow. “Alton vouched for me, did he not?” Roldo nodded. “He did.” “And your price has been paid?” “Aye, paid in full.” “We’re ready to leave immediately. I trust that’s not a problem?” “If it was a bloody problem, we wouldn’t be standing here.” Roldo shot a nervous glance toward his men. He blew on his hands to warm them. “We’re ready to pull anchor and the seas are calm. The quicker we get started, the better.” “Where’s your ship?” “She’s moored down on sixteen.” Roldo jabbed his thumb towards the darkest part of the wharves. “How many are with you?” “Four people, five horses.” “Best we get moving, then. Things smell a little troubled in Ferolan lately. I’ve heard enough stories about the City Watch dragging people off in the night for no good reason, and that’s the last kind of gods-damned trouble I want.”

“Very well. I’ll return within the hour.” Dormael turned away before Roldo could reply. He turned down another alley and watched to make sure he wasn’t followed. Roldo was reprimanding his men when Dormael turned to look. He pointed down the docks and the pair of fools with cutlasses scuttled toward the docks. Roldo threw a worried look over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows, head bent in conversation with his cudgel-wielding companion. He seems nervous. Dormael waited until the men were gone before making his way back to his friends. He ducked into a few alleyways to avoid two patrols of City Watchmen, but there was no sign of the Galanians. Where’s the search for Sevenlanders? This is too easy. Dormael left the alley and hurried back to his friends. D’Jenn waited at the mouth of the alleyway, keeping watch over the street. Shawna and Bethany waited farther into the alley. “Well, I’ve met our Captain.” Dormael shook his head. “Something isn’t right.” “Agreed, coz.” D’Jenn looked at the street, his expression pensive. “If you were the Earl, what would you do to catch us?” “Place the harbor under military control.” Dormael shrugged. “Search everyone coming in and out.” “That’s what I’d do.” D’Jenn nodded. “So, where are they?” “That’s the pressing issue, isn’t it?” Shawna’s face was pale, but her voice was steady. “I’ve been watching for them—the Galanians. I haven’t seen them all night.” D’Jenn grimaced. “There’s only one reason the Red Swords wouldn’t be on the streets. Think about it—our path has been clear all night.” “They know where we’re going.” Shawna’s eyes went to the street. “They’re

waiting for us.” “Fuck the gods.” Dormael rubbed his temples. Shawna winced. “I don’t like this. If they know , they know about Alton.” “I’ll warn him,” Dormael said. “The Sanctuary should protect him.” “Shouldn’t we head back? We can’t just leave him there alone!” Shawna winced again and grabbed at her side. “He’s got the magic we left with him,” D’Jenn said. “That’s better than a whole company of mercenaries. He’ll be alright.” “If you say so.” Shawna didn’t look happy about it. “I do.” D’Jenn nodded. “The most important thing right now is to protect you, and to figure out our next move.” “I’d like to head over to the Squidchaser and have a look around, see if the Galanians have a party set for us.” Dormael ground his teeth. “Maybe punish Roldo a bit. Just a little. He had to have given us up, right?” D’Jenn snorted a laugh. “Do it, but make it quick. We need to get out of here.” “How are we going to do that now?” Shawna made a frustrated gesture. “We don’t have a ship.” “We have horses,” D’Jenn said. “So that only leaves us with two options— north, or south.” “South leads right into the Galanian Empire, into old Shundovia.” Shawna shook her head. “We’d be rushing right into the arms of the enemy.” “North it is, then,” D’Jenn said. “We’ll go to Borders and cross the sea there.” “Borders?” Shawna scoffed. “Borders is a cesspool! Not to mention the bay

is blocked by the Maelstrom Field. How do you expect to find a ship willing to brave the Maelstrom Field in winter seas?” “Would you rather go north to the Dannon steppes? We have to get to sea,” Dormael said. “He’s right,” D’Jenn grunted, cutting in before Shawna could protest. “There’s hostile country to the south, hostile country to the east. We’re against the sea, and we need a ship. Borders is all we’ve got.” Shawna grimaced. “And if we can’t?” “Then we’ll deal with that problem when it presents itself.” D’Jenn gave Dormael a nod. “Go—warn Alton. Take care of our friends on the Squidchaser and get a good lay of the land. Don’t take long, though. We need to get moving.” “I’ll return shortly.” Dormael closed his eyes and summoned his magic, turning it inward and separating his consciousness from his body. He soared upward into the night, away from the alleyway and over the crowded streets. Turning toward the cliff face, he sped toward Alton’s manor. He circled the manor grounds in search of soldiers, but the streets were clear. Light shone from the window of Alton’s study, which was cracked to the night. Dormael flew in through the opening and found Alton at his desk, scratching a letter by candlelight. Pouring his magic into a thought, Dormael solidified an illusion of himself standing in the room. “Alton.” Alton jumped in surprise, almost falling from his chair. He regarded Dormael with a bewildered expression and glanced around the room. He sighed and placed his quill on the desk. “Magic?” “Magic.” Dormael smiled.

“All the gods in the Void, Dormael. A little warning the next time you decide to call on me this way would be welcome. I nearly pissed myself. What’s happening?” “She’s fine,” Dormael assured him, “but something is wrong. Your Captain has betrayed us to the Galanians—or we think so. We think they’re waiting in ambush.” “The treacherous little shit.” Alton’s expression grew dark. “We’ll see—I’m dealing with him next. We’re fine, we haven’t been captured. Our plan is to head north and find age in Borders.” “Borders?” Alton wrinkled his nose. “There’s nothing but criminals and muddy streets in Borders.” “It’s our only choice. In any case, we wanted to warn you before the trap is sprung. If they know —” “They know about me.” Alton sighed. “The Sanctuary should keep you safe, but you need to hunker down. If you know any fighting men you can hire out, now would be the time.” “None who can get here on short notice, but I’ll be fine, Dormael. Lindesholm would have a hard time explaining how he arrested one of the richest men in the city, and I’d have my day in court no matter what he did. Besides, he’d have to beat my message to the King. Go—take care of Shawna and take care of yourselves.” “We will, my word on it. Take care, my friend.” “And you, Dormael.” Dormael threw his mind once again into the night. He flew over the rooftops of Ferolan, headed toward the docks. The street lamps shone like beacons in the night, ing beneath him as he hurried to the harbor. Wharves poked from the main quay, like a multitude of fingers reaching toward the water. Ships were clustered in their berths, and it didn’t take long to find dock sixteen.

The Squidchaser was a two-masted brig that looked more than a little worse for wear. She was stained with a dark finish, and a white line had been painted just under the rail. There was a single oil lamp burning on the ship and another on the wharf by a stack of crates, where a few crewmen milled about, trying to look busy. Dormael hovered over the scene, searching for anything out of place. There were sailors standing just out of the lamplight on deck. They appeared to be doing nothing more than loitering about. Dormael spiraled toward the ship to get a better look. All the crewmen were armed. There were men with crossbows on the forecastle, and others armed with cutlasses on the deck. They shot furtive glances toward the quay where Dormael and his friends would have appeared. Definitely an ambush. Crates were stacked along the quay, lined up and ready to be loaded. A gust of wind blew in from the sea, and one of the crates wobbled. A hand reached up and steadied the crate from behind—an armored hand. Found you. Dormael climbed into the air and circled the quay for a better vantage. Armed men huddled behind the crates, some wearing the white and red surcoats of Red Swords, and some dressed in the uniforms of the City Watch. They would have pushed the crates atop Dormael and the rest as they ed and surrounded them. We’d have been trapped on the dock. Not a bad little ambush, truth be told. He wheeled around and alighted on the deck of the Squidchaser, picking a shadowed spot near the forecastle. Roldo stood near the gangplank, shooting nervous glances at every moving shadow. Dormael poured his power into another phantasm, solidifying his form in the shadows before stepping into the light. One of the crewmen gave a start, and Roldo’s eyes went wide. Expressions played across the man’s face—surprise, anger, uncertainty, fear. Dormael

couldn’t help but smile. “Captain Roldo.” Dormael smiled and spread his hands wide. “Are we ready to depart?” “How did you get here?” Roldo’s eyes shot around the deck. “You made a big mistake, Roldo.” “What in the Six Hells are you talking about?” Roldo took a step back. The crewmen shuffled around, uncertain glances flying around the deck. “Don’t act the fool. You took Alton’s money and gave us up to the Earl and his new allies.” Dormael pointed to a man on the forecastle. “You have crossbows all over the deck.” Roldo scowled, taking another step backward. “I told you. I don’t want to be dragged off in the middle of the night. A man’s got to preserve his skin, doesn’t he?” Dormael shook his head. “Cowards—you’re all the same.” “Kill him!” Dormael allowed his phantasm to dissipate, flashing away from the spot where he’d been projecting his form. A few tentative twanging noises rang out, and bolts cut through the air where Dormael had disappeared. Roldo screamed another curse, whirling around and peering into the shadows. Solidifying himself once again, Dormael stepped from the darkness on the other end of the deck. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Dormael gave him a broad, mirthless grin. “Normally I’d take a good bit of time to seek the proper redress for this sort of thing, but lucky for you, I’m in a hurry. We’ll have to settle for a little payback—for me, and for Alton.” Dormael concentrated on the ship, reaching down to the outer hull. Roldo snarled another command, but Dormael was lost in his power. Working magic at a distance was more difficult, and he had to draw more energy

from the ether to get anything done. Grasping the bottom of the hull with his Kai, he yanked it inward. There was a violent cracking noise, followed by an ominous creaking from below. The ship rocked as Dormael pushed the hole wider. Crewmen ran in all directions, shouting and flailing about. Roldo held to the railing, staring over the side in open-mouthed horror. “Should’ve kept to the bargain!” Dormael made his phantasm rise into the air, holding his hands wide for dramatic effect. This shouldn’t be so much damned fun. The ship pitched forward and rolled to starboard, sending implements tumbling across the deck. Roldo screamed orders at his men held tight to the tilting rail. More men rushed around the quay, shouting with alarm as the Squidchaser sank. Somewhere in the harbor, a bell started pealing. “You!” Roldo glared at Dormael. “You did this! I’ll kill you for this!” “Have fun dredging her up, old boy!” Dormael snapped his fingers, sending a pulse of energy into the Squidchaser’s sailcloth. The mainsail ignited with a whoosh, bright flames rushing across the yardarm. Dormael pulled harder on the ether, his mind full of the angry melody of the fire. It crawled further into the rigging, jumping to the topsails and rushing down the shrouds until the whole rig was aflame. He abandoned his phantasm and his disembodied mind rose higher into the air. The docks were alive with frantic activity as people jostled to see what was happening. Dormael looked over the crowd and spotted the Red Swords climbing from their hiding places, staring in wonder at the burning ship. I figured that would flush out the insects. With another effort of concentration, Dormael pulled a few of the Red Swords from their feet and into the dark waters of the harbor. They slid from the dock one by one, screaming in surprised terror. The rest drew their swords and spun, searching the night for an enemy to stab. Dormael slammed the nearby crates into their startled faces and set some of them ablaze.

That should occupy them for a while. The docks were in chaos. Red Swords scrambled in every direction. of Ferolan’s City Watch ran up the street, calling alarms for reinforcements. Squidchaser pitched in its berth, and its foremast toppled into the water with a violent crack. Dormael rushed back through the night, leaving the harbor for the alley where he’d left his friends. Dormael came back to his body and fought off a wave of dizziness—using magic at such a distance was taxing. He swayed against the wall of a building next to him, and he almost lost his footing when he tried to catch himself. Leaving his body for so long had allowed his feet to go numb with inactivity. Gods, that hurts! “Alton knows.” Dormael winced. “Roldo has been dealt with. The Red Swords had a tidy little ambush set for us. There are probably more in the city somewhere, but the ones at the harbor will be occupied.” “Good.” D’Jenn smirked, bending an ear to the echoes of bells ringing in the harbor. “Let’s get to the North Gate.” There were no more guardsmen in the streets than there had been before, but the mood of Dormael’s companions was sharper. Dormael was winded from his expenditure of power, but he sucked the cold air into his chest to help him stay alert. A squad of City Watch ran past once they left the docks, but they trotted in the direction of the harbor’s bells and paid the party no mind. They rode at a walk from the poorer parts of Ferolan into the higher reaches, where the tenement buildings gave way to modern designs made of neat bricks of stone. The streets were quieter toward the northern end of town, and the only people making their way through the night paid the party little heed other than to shuffle from their path. The silence was welcome, but it made the hairs on Dormael’s neck rise with anxious tension. They halted in the shadows between two stone buildings as the city walls came into view. Dormael dismounted to peek around the corner at the North Gate, and D’Jenn followed. Four torches burned along the wall of the

gatehouse, casting a flickering pool of light across the cobblestones of the street. Inside the glow of the torches, five men stood conversing in low tones, though their voices carried odd bits of the conversation to Dormael’s ears. Three of them wore the surcoats of Red Swords. “Five men,” he said over his shoulder, “three of them Galanians.” “Eindor’s blighted eye.” D’Jenn grimaced. “Well, we knew it wasn’t going to be easy.” “Just use your magic and have done with it,” Shawna said, her voice tight with pain. “We need to leave, they’re in the way. Seems pretty simple to me.” “It’s not simple.” D’Jenn shook his head “If we just go out there and blast our way through, we might as well write your Colonel Grant a letter telling him where we’re going.” “Let him come,” Shawna shot back. “I’m practically itching to meet him.” “D’Jenn is right.” Dormael looked at her. “It’s best not to hand them information.” “Besides, what are you going to do in your current state?” D’Jenn shrugged. “You might be deadly with those blades when you’re healed, but right now all you could do is hurl angry words and get killed.” “For now, Sevenlander.” Shawna turned away. “For now.” Dormael glanced back around the corner. “Distraction, or deception?” “Maybe a bit of both.” D’Jenn sighed through his nose. “Have any ideas?” Dormael ground his teeth. “What about a messenger? I could run up, scream about the emergency at the Docks.” “They’d piece together what happened pretty easily after we’d gone.” D’Jenn shook his head. “Not good enough.” “Put them all to sleep?” Dormael offered.

D’Jenn shook his head again. “If they all get knocked out, they’ll know something strange happened as soon as they wake. Not good enough.” “A distraction, then. We could start a fire.” “I don’t like the thought of burning a few buildings just to aid in our escape. People could die in the fire,” D’Jenn said. “An illusion, then?” Dormael shrugged, turning away in frustration. “Maybe we could slip past them in a magical disguise.” “It’s risky.” “Wait—you can do illusions with your—?” Shawna wiggled her fingers. “To a certain degree.” D’Jenn nodded. “Well,” Shawna said, “there is one thing that would set them all to running.” “What?” Dormael asked. Shawna looked him in the eyes. “Me.” D’Jenn narrowed his eyes. “Not a bad idea. If you showed up at the gate and took off running—” “They’ll take off chasing me.” Shawna nodded. “Once they abandon their posts, we ride through the gate.” D’Jenn smiled. “They might even think you’re still in the city when you disappear into the streets. Distraction and deception—I like it.” “Whatever we do, let’s do it quickly.” Shawna winced. “It’s my side.” D’Jenn nodded. “I’ll do the illusion. I’m better at that sort of thing.” “Fair enough.” Dormael shrugged—it was true, after all. Dormael was naturally powerful, and he was an artist with destructive forces. When it came to complicated workings, however, he was less talented. He’d barely managed to cover the blood on Shawna’s clothing during his last attempt

with illusions, but D’Jenn was subtler. “We’ll hide here in the alleyway while I do this. You keep us hidden,” D’Jenn said. “Got it.” Dormael nodded. “If this works, we’ll need to get out fast,” D’Jenn said. “Everyone, mount up.” Once everyone got into position, D’Jenn went to work. His power sang through the ether, his melody whispering through the night. He borrowed light from the air and twisted a shadow from the night. Colors sprang to life as the form solidified—a vision of Shawna astride her horse. She sat tall in the saddle, displaying her twin blades on her hips, her redgolden hair resplendent on her shoulders. D’Jenn made the illusory woman trot toward the gate and pause at the edge of the torchlight, wheeling the horse around. She glanced around in confusion and drew one of her swords. With a defiant glare in her eyes, she kicked her horse into motion and rode away from the gate. The hooves of the illusory horse even made noise, clopping over the cobblestones in time with its legs. Gods, he’s good at that. Dormael, for his part, deepened the shadows in the alleyway to hide the party. The Red Swords started shouting, and a clamor rose from the gatehouse. One of the men went for a pair of horses tied near the gate. He offered the second mount to one of his fellows and hopped into his saddle. He shouted a few terse orders, and the rest of the guards took off down an adjacent street to flank the illusory Shawna. The Red Swords snapped the reins of their horses and thundered in pursuit of D’Jenn’s illusion. The illusory Shawna rode past the alleyway, one sword drawn, hair streaming behind her like a warrior maiden in a song. The torchlight played along her sword, and she had a fierce expression on her face. She leaned forward in her saddle, hair blazing like fire in the ruddy light, and outpaced the two Galanians with ease.

Shawna gaped at the illusion, her expression more awed than surprised. The Red Swords galloped past the alleyway, eyes locked to their prey. Their hoof-beats faded into the night, and finally D’Jenn opened his eyes and looked up. He gathered his reins and nodded to the street. “We ride!” Bethany clutched to Dormael as he kicked Horse into motion, and the companions headed for the gatehouse at a run. Dormael whipped out with his power and sucked the flames from the torches burning by the entrance, plunging the square in front of the gate into deep shadows. They ed beneath the city gates without a fuss, and soon their backdrop became the rolling hills surrounding the northern edge of Ferolan. Dormael wanted to howl at the moon as the cold wind bit into his face. How long would it take the Galanian Colonel to figure out what happened? Perhaps the Galanians would waste days—or weeks—searching the city for Shawna. It was a warming sort of thought, and Dormael held onto it. The moonlit hills spread out before him, and though it was damnably cold, he was happy to be out of the city. Dormael glanced one last time at the fading lights of Ferolan, smiling as he caught eyes with Shawna. The wind was calm, the night was clear, and for the moment, they were free. I just hope it lasts. Hope was always fleeting. Dormael held to it anyway.

Dancing with the Fire

“What do you mean ‘gone’, soldier?” Grant tried his best not to toss everything on his writing desk into the floor. “She was just gone, sir.” Ferun gulped. “Disappeared. We chased her, but she outran us, and when she went around the corner…just gone, sir. I can’t explain it.” Grant tapped his finger on his desk, grinding his teeth. “That’s twice the bitch has escaped my grasp.” Ferun kept his mouth shut—he was more intelligent than Formin had been. Grant sat down in the chair at his desk and gazed out the window. He wanted to throttle the private. He wanted to scream. The Emperor will have me dismissed for this, and I’ll be strangled. I know too much to left alive. “Sir, if I may offer an opinion?” Havram said from behind him. “Speak, Lieutenant.” Grant sighed. He was yet unsure if he could trust his aide, but the child was gone now—either stolen from him in the night or escaped. The point of contention between them was removed, and Havram had always been otherwise professional. Did you help her escape, Havram? I saw that look in your eyes. “There’s something interesting going on.” Havram stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “We’ve received the reports from the docks. That ship they had requested sank in its berth, and the sails caught fire.” “Yes.” Grant scowled. “Those gods-damned bells were ringing for half the night.” “One of the men from the quay said some of his comrades were pulled into

the water, as if something invisible had come out of the harbor and jerked them under.” Grant turned a raised eyebrow on Havram. “Go on.” “Not long after, the baroness appears at the North Gate, leads our men on a chase, and just disappears around a corner. It’s more than a little odd, sir.” “The flames, the ship, the disappearance,” Grant mused. “This mysterious Sevenlander we heard about—you think he’s a sorcerer?” “It sounds like a definite possibility at this point, sir. Ships don’t just break open at anchor and sink to the bottom of the harbor. They certainly don’t just catch fire on their own.” “And you think the appearance of the woman was done with magic?” “I think so, sir.” Grant looked out the window. “The westerners are known for their tolerance of sorcery. They celebrate it, even—or so I’ve read. I believe you’re right, Lieutenant. Quite perceptive. Ferun!” Ferun stiffened. “Sir!” “Find one of Lindesholm’s servants and bring me a map of the countryside. Quickly, now!” “Yes, sir!” Ferun’s footsteps faded into the hallway as the man went to his task. “So, Lieutenant,” Grant said as Ferun left the room. “Do you think the baroness is still in the city?” “I don’t, sir.” “Why not?” “We know they were trying to find age over the Stormy Sea. If the baroness appearing at the gate was a trick of sorcery—an illusion, perhaps

—its intended purpose was clearly to get our men to abandon their posts.” “So our quarry could slip out when they did.” Grant nodded. He wanted to put his head in his hands and scream with frustration, but he contented himself with a cleansing sigh. The officer never shows weakness before his subordinates. “Sir, if I may suggest—there is one place we can go to learn their destination.” “This Alton Dersham, you mean.” “Yes, sir.” Grant rubbed his chin in thought. He was already operating outside the bounds of his original orders. This was supposed to have been a secret mission, something the Emperor could explain away, or deny completely. Externalities were already stacked high and dragging another Cambrellian nobleman from his home and putting him to the question was probably too far. “I’ll think on that, Lieutenant. For now, let’s see what we can figure out on our own. We’re flapping in the wind, and I hate being at the mercy of events. I rather prefer to control them.” “Of course, sir.” Havram nodded. Ferun returned with a map of Cambrell and spread it out on Grant’s desk. Grant dismissed the man with a curt nod, and Ferun retreated into the hallway. Grant gestured Havram over to the table, and the two of them leaned over the map. “What do you know of Cambrell, Havram?” “Not much, sir. Just general knowledge, so to speak.” Grant ran his finger over the coastline north of Ferolan. “This entire section of land is supposed to be unusable for ships. Sheer cliffs, no natural harbors, that sort of thing. All the way up to here.” He moved his finger to a dot on the map—a town called Borders.

“What do we know of it, sir?” “Nothing, but we can ask the Earl.” Grant peered at the bay around Borders, which was decorated with representations of whirlpools. “If she means to sail from there, she’ll have to go wide of the Maelstrom Field.” “Unless this sorcerer can do something.” Havram shrugged when Grant scowled at him. “I don’t know what powers sorcerers wield, sir.” Grant sighed and nodded. “We’re not trained to fight sorcerers, Havram. I’ve never seen a sorcerer. I’ve seen some magical items before—mostly curiosities. Nothing like this.” “My grandmother told stories of the Conclave.” Havram stared at the map, though his gaze was focused elsewhere. “Her parents ed the aftermath. They were children during the Second Great War.” Grant shuddered. “The last thing I want to do is deal with the bloody Conclave of fucking Wizards. We cannot allow the baroness to escape to the west. If she leaves Alderak, we will never get our hands on her. How did she fall in with a sorcerer, of all people?” “Her family may have been sympathizers. There are rumors about the Conclave, sir.” “Rumors, Havram?” Havram’s face twisted with reluctance. “Just things people have been saying for years, sir. Nothing you probably haven’t already heard yourself.” “Speak up, Lieutenant. You’re not standing here looking over this map with me because of your chiseled jaw and pleasant demeanor.” Havram showed the barest hint of a smile. “Yes, sir. People say the Conclave has a network of spies, sir. They’re ed by sympathizers—locals who don’t see the danger sorcery presents.” “Ah, yes. I think I may have heard that somewhere before.” Grant waved the rumors away. “It’s beyond my concern. I’m concerned with the baroness. We have to prepare, to cut off her routes of escape.”

“Yes, sir. What are your orders?” “I’ll need to draft some letters. First, I’ll have a message to send back to our ship. Second, I’ll need you to talk to the Earl’s chamberlain, ask the man if he has any pigeons that know the way to Borders. I’ll write the King of Cambrell on the off chance she goes there, though I doubt it. I’ll have a lot of letters to send today, Havram.” “Yes, sir.” “Have the men prepare for sea deployment. We’ll be taking to sea as soon as our galleon enters the harbor.” “We will, sir?” “Yes. This coastline along the north side of Cambrell is all craggy highlands. It will be cold, and the winter snows will soon be upon them. She has a long ride ahead of her, but we don’t have to slog through the snow in pursuit. All we need to do is catch her ship when it leaves the port at Borders and apprehend her on the sea. There’s no one to see what happens out there, and we can turn around and head for Shundov as soon as we have her.” “Yes, sir.” “Good work today, Havram. Very perceptive with the sorcery. Keep this up, and you’ll do well here.” Havram’s expression remained unreadable. “Thank you, sir.” “Fall to purpose, Lieutenant. And have the servants send something up from the kitchens. I’m starving.” Havram disappeared through the doorway and shut it behind him. Grant once again turned to the window. The day was bright, and by the frost lining the edges of the window, it was going to be cold. Grant hoped the baroness was feeling the full brunt of it. She had been a thorn in his side since this entire thing had started. No more, Baroness Llewan. You’ll be at my mercy soon.

*** Dormael awoke to the dull ache in his right shoulder. His hand itched under its protective wrappings, and his toes were cold as all Six Hells. Every bit of his body was sore. Levering himself out of his bedroll with his good arm, he climbed from his blankets and looked toward the fire. D’Jenn stoked the campfire, watching a steaming pot hanging from a spit. The pleasant odor of Sweetpenny tea wafted from it, and Dormael’s mouth watered. Grunting as he moved his tired muscles, Dormael trudged over to sit next to his cousin. “Morning,” D’Jenn grunted. Dormael nodded. Bethany and Shawna lay tucked into their blankets, still huddled together where everyone had slept. The ride had been hard on Shawna. By the time they’d stopped—well into the early hours of the morning—her face had been drawn with pain. Dormael had awakened his Kai and fed her body some of his magical energy, though it probably hadn’t done much good. Bethany had slept like a stone, though she’d kicked her feet and muttered all through the night. Judging from the bags under D’Jenn’s eyes, Dormael wasn’t the only one to have been on the wrong side of Bethany’s dreams. The child rolled in her blankets and poked Shawna with an elbow, muttering something under her breath. Given where they had found the girl, Dormael could allow Bethany her nightmares. If there was any good in the world, they would go away with time. Her bruises were fading, but the hidden scars would need healing, too. “We should start moving as soon as we can.” D’Jenn’s breath misted in the cold morning air. “I’m not so sure Colonel Grant hasn’t figured out where we’ve gone, and chances are he’s sending out search parties as we speak.” Dormael sighed. “Let’s give it a few minutes. I haven’t ridden in a while, and my arse is chafed something fierce.”

“Have some of this.” D’Jenn smiled as he dipped out a cup of the steaming Sweetpenny tea. “Toughen your arse up. We’ve got a long way to go.” Dormael accepted the tea, a flat look on his face. “They’d have been here already if they were going to give chase.” Dormael took a short pull from the cup. “The Galanians don’t seem the type to just let things go.” “It is odd we didn’t have them after us right away.” D’Jenn nodded. “I expected our ploy to work well enough to get out of the city, but I expected them to come after us, too. I put down some wards around the camp to warn us of anyone approaching, but they never woke me. It doesn’t sit well with me.” “Maybe Shawna’s plan worked better than we thought.” Dormael shrugged. “Maybe.” “I did a little mind-flight this morning when I awoke, but I didn’t see any signs of pursuit. I don’t like it.” “You’d rather they were following us?” D’Jenn sniffed. “I’d rather they were predictable. Unpredictable enemies aren’t good things to have at your back—or not at your back, as it were.” “If they come, we’ll take them.” Dormael took another drink. “If they’re dumb enough to attack trained wizards, they’re dumb enough to get killed.” “Hubris.” D’Jenn elbowed Dormael in the ribs. “All that brute strength you have makes you careless. An arrow through the heart will kill you as soundly as another man.” “True enough, coz.” Dormael smirked. “The arrows have to get past the magic first, though.” “There are children in every village who can take a rabbit with a sling.” D’Jenn smiled. “ how good your brother was with a sling when we were children? A boy of eight springs could kill you. All he’d have to do is hit you when you weren’t looking.” “Now you’re just being deliberately obtuse.”

“Oh, forgive me, great wizard.” D’Jenn rolled his eyes. “I’d hate to draw your ire. My cousin, wrath of the gods.” “Stop doing that,” Dormael grunted. “What?” “That ‘my cousin’ thing. You’re about to draw my ire, alright.” “Just what I’ve been afraid of our entire lives.” D’Jenn took a slow sip of tea. “How long has it been since you were in a fistfight? Probably too long.” “If you’re going to fight,” Shawna’s voice piped up from her bedroll, “can you do it quietly? The rest of us are trying to sleep.” Dormael smiled at D’Jenn and mimed Shawna’s words with a mocking expression. “I saw that, Dormael.” Shawna climbed from her bedroll, wincing and holding her side. She stretched her body, forcing herself into as many interesting positions as she could. Dormael smiled when D’Jenn caught him watching. Shawna either didn’t see him or chose to ignore him. When she was done, she trudged over to the campfire, bringing her blanket with her. “What are you drinking? It smells nice.” D’Jenn dipped a cup into the pot and handed it to her. “It’s called Sweetpenny tea.” “Hopefully it will stave off this cold.” Shawna pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I hadn’t realized how windy it was up here.” Dormael shivered even as she spoke the words. There were few trees this close to Ferolan, and the sea wind blew unchecked across the hills of the Cambrellian coastline. Dormael huddled deeper into his blanket.

Shawna took a tentative sip. “That’s good. Where does it come from?” “Back home.” Dormael smiled. “It’s made from a flower native to the Sevenlands.” “We get it from Dormael’s mother.” “Your mother?” Shawna gave Dormael a surprised glance. “We all have them,” Dormael said. “Why? What’s that look on your face about?” “It’s just strange.” Shawna shrugged. “I grew up hearing all kinds of stories. You never hear about the evil sorcerer’s mother.” “Oh, of course.” D’Jenn snorted. “What stories? What did they say? Wizards are born deep in the bowels of the earth? We only come out of our caves to steal young women from villages?” Dormael laughed. “Wait, I’ve got one—we’re born when the stars mate with the moon, and we fall to Eldath as old men and live our lives backwards. Every time we use magic, we regress toward childhood, and one day we’ll all end as infants!” “We all worship Saarnok, the Lord of Bones.” Dormael wiggled his fingers. “We commune with evil spirits who help us perform our trickery.” “We draw our power from the sorrow of the downtrodden.” D’Jenn raised his eyebrows. “Though, in my case, that might be true.” “I get it, that’s enough.” Shawna sighed. “Though I have heard the one about evil spirits.” Dormael smiled. “Now you know the reason we’re here. Bethany’s really an ancient wizard, and you’re the girl we stole from the village. Off to the cave we go.” D’Jenn chuckled, but Shawna looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t say I believed those stories.” She shook her head. “Just that I’d always heard them growing up. And now I’m sitting here with two of you, and you’re talking about your mother. It’s strange, that’s all.” “It’s not so strange.” Dormael shrugged. “You have a talent—the sword. Magic is like that. It’s a skill, that’s all. It’s not evil—it’s just there. Simple.” “It’s not simple.” Shawna looked at him in disbelief. “Anyone can pick up a sword and learn to use it. A sword is just a thing—a tool.” Dormael sighed and looked to D’Jenn for help, but D’Jenn took a sip from his tea and returned a bland look. His hand flashed the Hunter’s Tongue sign for . Dormael ground his teeth. I forgot about his bloody rule. “Some wizards are born with an innate connection to magic. We can’t deny it any more than our arms or legs. It will come out no matter what, and if you don’t train the skill to use it, it can be deadly—to you, and to everyone around you.” Dormael shrugged. “But magic is there whether you can hear it or not. It’s in the air, the dirt, everywhere. It’s in you right now—you just can’t hear it.” “That’s…not something I wanted to know.” Shawna pulled her blanket tighter. “What did you mean by some wizards? There are different kinds?” Dormael nodded. “Anyone can learn to use magic. It takes a lot of training, but plenty of people do it. At the Conclave, they’re called the Learned.” Shawna scoffed. “I thought you had to be born with it.” “Plenty do it with training and dedication.” D’Jenn glanced up from the teapot. “The same thing it took to earn your Mark.” “It took a lot of pain to earn my Mark.” Shawna smiled. “The first year I trained—really trained—I think everyone had an incredulous expression permanently etched on their faces, and I had welts permanently etched everywhere else.” “You discipline the body for the sword,” D’Jenn said, “you discipline the

mind for magic.” “Where does it come from?” “Who knows?” Dormael shrugged. “Maybe it was a gift from Eindor, like it says in the Song of Creation. The Philosophers call it the Song of the Gods— they say it’s the leftover energy from the forging of the world, the very echoes of existence. They’ve always been too impressed with themselves, if you ask me.” Bethany climbed from her blankets and interrupted the discussion, plopping down between Dormael and D’Jenn. Dormael finished his tea, dipped another cup, and handed it to Bethany. He took the opportunity to leave the conversation and started handing out food. Shawna had more questions as soon as he came back to the fire. “If anyone can learn to use magic, why doesn’t everyone?” Dormael sighed. “It’s not something you can just pick up on your own. It has to be taught.” “In Alderak, you’re likely to be killed for even trying. Imagine what it’s like for the Blessed here in Alderak—those like us, born with the spark.” D’Jenn looked at Shawna, his expression unreadable. “Imagine you’re thirteen, and suddenly, strange things are happening to you. Maybe you start a fire without realizing it, maybe you move something because you’re angry.” “You’ll get a hangman’s noose around here.” Dormael smiled at Shawna. “This is a civilized place. It’s like that in the Empire, too. In Thardin, they’ll take your head. They used to burn people at the stake in Shundovia, before the war.” D’Jenn nodded. “If you’re that kid from some no-name village in Thardin, or Shundovia, you’ve got a lot to worry about. Most of those kids end up dead, but some run away. There are wizards here in the east whose sole mission is to seek them out and bring them to the Mage Tower in Lesmira, where they can be educated.”

Shawna chewed on her ration of dried meat. “It’s not like that everywhere. Sometimes they’re just sent to Lesmira.” D’Jenn scoffed. “Sometimes.” “How was it for the two of you when you learned you had the spark?” Dormael took a deep breath. “I was having an argument with my father. I was eight, I think. I got to yelling and pitching a fit about something, I don’t what, when the tree in the yard burst into flame. Damned thing burnt right to cinders. You should have seen the look on my father’s face.” Dormael smiled, but Shawna looked horrified. “For me it was different,” D’Jenn said. “I could hear it for a long time before I knew what it was. The world sounded different, it sang to me. I kept it to myself for a long time.” “But they don’t kill wizards where you’re from.” Shawna raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” D’Jenn shrugged. “Sometimes it’s fun to have a secret between you and the world. It was my secret to tell, so I kept it for a while.” Shawna mulled that over in silence, so Dormael took the cue to break camp. The wind picked up while they readied to leave, bringing a sharp chill. They left the camp for the company of the highland road and headed north. The hills stretched around them like a folded blanket of brown grasses, interspersed with islands of green shrubbery and stunted trees. The wind whipped through the landscape, launching the grass into a constant whisper. The ocean was a bluish haze on the western horizon, and the air still had the salty tang of the sea. As the day wore into afternoon, the road turned away from the jagged coastline. Scattered trees began to appear, stunted limbs bare for the winter, and by the late afternoon the party was riding through the edge of a light forest. Dead leaves littered the ground, having lost their color weeks gone, though Dormael did spot a few evergreens in the distance. The trees cut the worst chill from the wind, and Dormael was able to lower the hood of his

cloak and take in a little sunlight. Shawna rode up on his right side and matched pace with Horse. “So, you said there are wizards in Lesmira with a mission to round up these children in Alderak. How many types are there? What’s your mission, or whatever you call it?” Dormael looked to D’Jenn for , and D’Jenn’s hands flashed in the Hunter’s Tongue. May as well tell her. We’re going to be traveling together for a while, so let’s extend some trust, he signed. You’re doing the talking. the rule. Dormael rolled his eyes and turned back to Shawna. “I’m not sure how the Lesmirans do it, but at the Conclave, there are different choices you can make. The most common is a path to becoming a Hedge Wizard. You do a lot of natural sciences, healing arts, that sort of thing. Hedge Wizards help their communities with farming, healing, teaching—things like that.” Shawna nodded. “What else?” “Well, there are Infs—wizards who make things. They’re the types who would have made your swords. It’s not widely studied at the Conclave, but the Lesmirans are supposed to be good at it. I’ve never gone for it myself, but D’Jenn has studied a little infusion.” D’Jenn was silent. “There are the Scouts—the ones we talked about earlier. In the west, they’re more like traveling teachers. They go around gathering younglings who can use magic and bring them back to the Conclave. They’re given free room and board everywhere.” “Here in the east, the Scouts are more like bounty hunters,” D’Jenn said. “Half the time they have to rescue the children from angry townsfolk. Sometimes they have to track them after they’ve run away from their homes. Sometimes they have to find a kid who’s killed with his power and put him down.” Shawna glanced between them. “You two don’t look like traveling

teachers.” Dormael shook his head, smiling. “I suppose not. There are two more kinds of wizards at the Conclave. The Philosophers—” “Who are too impressed with themselves, apparently.” Shawna smirked. Dormael chuckled. “Indeed. D’Jenn and I are from the last Discipline. We’re what’s known as Warlocks. We’re trained to fight with magic, trained in stealth and survival. We’re trained with weapons.” “So, it is true!” Shawna peered at Dormael as if she’d found him hiding under a rock. “People always said the Conclave had a network of spies, and sorcerers trained to kill with magic. I can’t believe it’s true.” “We’re not spies,” D’Jenn said. “We don’t care for state secrets unless they affect the Conclave. When something involving magic happens—say, a rogue wizard kills a bunch of innocents, or some minor nobleman starts using a dangerous infused item—that’s where we come in.” “Like when the Galanian Emperor attacks a foreign barony in search of something magical?” Shawna raised an eyebrow. “Precisely.” “So…so why weren’t you aware he was searching for magical things in the first place?” Shawna’s voice thickened. “How were you unaware of my mother’s armlet?” “Shawna,” Dormael said, “the Conclave can’t be everywhere at once. Especially on the other side of the Stormy Sea, where it’s death to be a wizard in the first place. How could anyone have known?” “I understand, it’s just hard to swallow.” Shawna grimaced. “My whole family, everyone I’ve ever known—gone. All over this stupid piece of jewelry.” “The gods love their tragedy.” D’Jenn shook his head. “The good thing is that now we know. The Galanians made a mistake when they came after you.”

“There’s nothing good about this.” Shawna’s expression darkened. “But you’re right about the second part. They’ll pay for what they’ve done.” “You bring up a good point, though,” D’Jenn said. “I wonder where the Emperor learned of your mother’s armlet. Maybe Dormael and I are behind on things, but if he’s gathering infused items, I’d hope someone at the Conclave would know about it.” “It’s new to me.” Dormael shrugged. “The last I heard about the Galanian Empire was when they attacked Old Shundov and put the castle to the sword. It surprised me when it happened.” “Why would it surprise you?” An edge formed on Shawna’s tone. “Dargorin obviously has no scruples where slaughter is concerned.” “At the time, it seemed out of character. I the conquest of Neleka —I was there, in fact. It was civilized, as wars of conquest go.” “Civilized?” Shawna gave him a dangerous look. “It was.” Dormael shrugged. “They fought a few battles, but the takeover was easy for the Empire. There was no slaughter at Fal-Nelek, no sacking of towns, no horror stories from the countryside. There were a few arrests, if I , but the Galanian Emperor allowed the Nelekans to keep their state mostly intact. Any who opposed the Empire could leave—no hangings, no purges. Something changed at Shundov.” “You sound quite impressed by them,” Shawna said. “That’s not what I mean. You know what happens during a war—cities are sacked, there’s looting, there’s widespread killing.” Dormael shook his head. “In Neleka, things were civilized. That’s why the slaughter at Shundov surprised me.” “What were you doing in Neleka during the Galanian invasion?” There was an involuntary pang in Dormael’s chest. “Visiting a friend.” “And is your friend impressed with the Galanians, too?”

“No.” Dormael sighed. “She died during the war.” Dormael kicked Horse ahead of the party, leaving Shawna behind.

*** Shawna turned a flat look on D’Jenn as Dormael rode away. “What was that about?” D’Jenn gave her a sideways glance and stayed silent. She kept looking at him, waiting for an explanation. Finally, with an irritated breath, he spoke. “Dormael had a friend in Neleka before the invasion.” Shawna sighed. “You’re just repeating what he said.” “I am.” “Was she special to him, then?” It would have been hard to imagine a sorcerer taking a lover, but Dormael had been shooting covert—and overt—glances at her since she’d met him. Shawna had been exposed to such things before. She had been of a suitable marrying age for quite a few springs, and she’d fielded a few suitors in her time. She had long been able to tell the difference between a harmless glance and a dangerous leer. Dormael played the uncaring rogue, but there were moments where an actual person peeked through his flippant facade. D’Jenn, on the other hand, seemed more grounded—though she could tell her very presence irritated him. D’Jenn sighed through his nose. “Aye, he cared about her.” “At least he’s almost human.” D’Jenn gave her a sidelong glance. “He’s not the type to explore his feelings, but after she disappeared, he disappeared. I think he was looking for her.

When he came back, he wouldn’t speak of her. Wouldn’t have me speak of her, either.” “What happened to her?” D’Jenn shifted the reins in his hands. “She was a wizard. Some rare few children who have the spark come to with it on their own, and she was one of those. Had some cabin in the forest near the city of Fal-Nelek. I don’t know what happened to her, but I can guess.” “Guess, then.” D’Jenn gave her an all-suffering glance. “Wars are chaos, no matter how civilized Dormael said the invasion was. Even if the fighting never reached her doorstep, things may have devolved in the region. There would have been refugees fleeing the Galanian border towns. She was living in hiding, so she might have been outed as a magic during the chaos. A group of refugees might have come along, found her cabin, and killed her. Who knows? If Dormael ever found out, he never mentioned it to me.” “What was her name?” “Inera, but I wouldn’t mention it to Dormael.” Shawna nodded and the two of them rode on in silence. She stared at Dormael’s back for a while, wondering about the mysterious woman. He didn’t seem to hold the same weight in his heart as she did—a burning fire in her chest, a desire for blood. Perhaps his wounds were too old to be so raw. Shawna sighed and let Charlotte fall behind in line. Guilt twisted in her belly—it always did when she loosened her tongue in anger. It wasn’t proper to act so peevish, even if she was emotional. It wouldn’t do to throw away her honor because the gods had given her hardship. She might apologize later—he had saved her life, after all—but she could let him sulk for a little while. Perhaps it would deter him from ogling her backside the next time she stretched in the morning. Something told her it wouldn’t be enough.

*** Dormael spotted a likely campsite to the east side of the road just after the sun touched the horizon. It was a clearing around a ready-made firepit, complete with stumps arrayed in a circle, their tops rounded smooth from the weight of untold numbers of travelers. It was probably maintained on some sort of honor system. Cambrell is almost sickeningly civilized. Dormael turned Horse toward the clearing without speaking, and his companions followed. Before long, Dormael found himself warming his freezing hands by a glowing fire and puffing on his pipe as he let the soreness escape his backside. It had been too long since Dormael had spent time in the saddle. Bethany lounged with her head against his shoulder, staring into the flames. It was too cold to speak, so Dormael offered silent company to her instead. Bethany didn’t seem to mind. D’Jenn rummaged around in his saddlebags, and Shawna came trudging over sit across the fire from Dormael. He gave her a wan smile and returned to staring into the flames. His desire for speech grew smaller. “I didn’t mean to pry earlier.” Shawna winced. “About your lover, I mean.” “My lover?” Dormael snorted. “You weren’t. It’s nothing.” “Still, I didn’t mean to make you angry.” “I’m not angry, just tired from the ride.” Dormael held up his hand to forestall any more words. “My backside is slowly turning to cured leather.” “Can’t you just magic that sort of thing away?” “No.” Dormael shook his head. “Healing with magic isn’t easy. Otherwise we’d have just wiggled our fingers at you, and no more arrow wound.”

“I thought you were holding out.” Shawna smirked. “Maybe I’d have to pay you with my firstborn son, or the sorrow of the downtrodden.” “I’ll take the sorrow of the downtrodden any day.” D’Jenn tromped to the fire, depositing various cooking implements on the ground. “Who wants to deal with a squalling babe all day, right young one?” D’Jenn threw a mock punch at Bethany, who fended him off with a playful swat and a nervous smile. “Well, my father had a cure for saddle soreness.” Shawna smiled. “He told me about it when I was a girl.” “Really?” “Yes. We raised horses, you know. You learn all sorts of things, growing up around them.” “What’s the cure?” “A tougher ass and less whining.” Shawna smirked. “I said something similar.” D’Jenn laughed. “See, cousin? Wisdom of the ages.” “Stunning revelations abound.” Dormael snorted and huddled deeper in his cloak. D’Jenn stoked the fire. “How long is the ride to Borders from here?” “Around a week, maybe.” Shawna scooted closer to the flames. “That’s just a guess, though. I’ve never actually been there. No one goes to Borders if they can help it.” “Is it really that bad?” Dormael blew on his hands. “It’s a hole in the coastline full of smugglers and thieves,” Shawna said. “It’s a cesspool.” “I’ve been in a few cesspools in my time.” Dormael shrugged. “They’re not all bad.”

Shawna sniffed. “I’m sure you have been.” “What’s that mean?” “Exactly what I said.” Shawna fixed him with a flat look. “I think there’s a village, maybe two days up the road,” D’Jenn said. “If we keep a good pace, we might make it in time for the festival.” Bethany perked up. “Festival?” Dormael turned a surprised glance on the girl who cowered from his look in embarrassment. He nudged her with his elbow in apology and wiped the surprise from his face. “The Festival of Frost, little one,” he clarified. “The day after tomorrow is the Winter Solstice. The Festival should last from noon on the Solstice to noon the next day.” Bethany cleared her throat, eyeing the rest of the companions with nervous glances. “Will there be food?” “There’s always food at a Solstice.” Shawna smiled. “Enough to fill your belly three times.” “Food, drink, dancing. There might even be games,” Dormael said. Bethany cracked a diffident smile. “Then we should hurry. Food is worth it.” “Our wise little leader has spoken.” D’Jenn winked at Bethany. She settled deeper into her cloak in answer and returned to staring into the fire. Dormael snapped his fingers. “Bethany, do you know how to read?” She looked up and shook her head. “Well, it’s high time you learned, little one. While D’Jenn cooks, I’ll teach you how to write your name. Sound good?” Bethany nodded.

“Alright, then.” Dormael grabbed a stick and scribbled a few lines in the dirt. “This is the first letter of your name…” Bethany listened and piped in whenever Dormael asked her a question, and before the food was done, she was scrawling her name in the dirt with dexterous fingers. It warmed him to see her smile, though a wild look still harbored in the fringes of her expressions. They ate in silence until the cold sent everyone to their blankets. The next day was clear and utterly devoid of warmth. Dormael spent parts of the ride allowing Bethany to lead Horse and shooting his consciousness into the morning to do a little mind-flight. The road, which meandered near the coastline, was clear of travelers in both directions. The clear, blue sky coupled with the absence of movement made the world surreal to Dormael, as if he and his friends rode through some winter-locked wasteland with only the cold for company. The forest grew thicker as they made their way north. Evergreens peppered the woods, standing out in rebellion of the season. The afternoon took on the early twilight of the deep woods, painting the road with somber colors. When he opened his Kai for a sweep with his magical senses, it resonated with a pleasant hum coming from the forest. D’Jenn must have sensed it as well—he turned his mount from the road toward an overgrown game trail. Dormael followed, signaling for Shawna to come with him. She regarded them both with a cautious glance, but she clucked to her massive horse and followed him into the woods. The going was slow, as the horses had trouble navigating the trail, but Dormael gasped as they broke into a clearing. An old wooden cabin sat in the center. The roof had long ago fallen in, and vegetation grew through the windows. Near the cabin was a firepit, complete with a bricked enclosure and an iron grill. Smooth stones sat neatly around the pit, with rusted tools stacked beside them. All along the clearing were ancient trees, their limbs intertwined as if they had agreed to shield this place from the outside. The whole area vibrated with magic.

“What is this place?” Shawna broke the warm silence. “How did you know of it?” “I didn’t.” D’Jenn stared around at the trees. “But I could feel it.” “Magic?” A strange note entered Shawna’s voice. “The whole place is singing with it.” D’Jenn shot her an evil smile. “Don’t worry, it won’t kill you.” “What does it…what does it feel like?” Bethany smiled. “Like a warm buzz all over your body.” D’Jenn gave Bethany a sharp glance. Dormael climbed from the saddle and helped Bethany down after him. Shawna saw them dismounting and regarded him with what Dormael could only describe as white-faced terror. She shot incredulous glances between Dormael and D’Jenn. “Wait—we’re going to stay here?” “Aren’t we?” Dormael looked to D’Jenn for . D’Jenn only smiled and dismounted to explore the clearing. “Well…didn’t you say there was magic here?” Shawna shivered. “That this place is…well, you know.” “What? Cursed?” Dormael couldn’t keep a smile from his face. “Why are you smiling at me like that, Dormael? Is it safe to sleep under all that magic? What will it do to us?” Shawna shook her head in disbelief. “It won’t do anything to us.” Dormael was trying his best not to laugh. “Sometimes you can feel the intent of a thing. This place is a refuge, Shawna. Have you noticed it’s warmer in here?” She paused. “It is, isn’t it?” “I promise you, this is the good kind of magic. We would be able to tell if

something dangerous was going on here.” “I think a wizard died here,” D’Jenn said from near the cabin. “Because that doesn’t sound dangerous.” Shawna turned a raised eyebrow to Dormael. “That doesn’t mean his ghost is going to come screaming out of the trees.” D’Jenn walked over to them and offered Shawna a mocking bow. “Or her ghost, respectfully. I think a wizard lived here, died here. He protected this place in life, so his magic does now that he’s gone.” Shawna snorted. “I still don’t feel good about this.” “When a wizard dies, they leave a sort of imprint on a place,” Dormael said. “It’s wild magic, unfocused, so most of the time there’s no clear intent. Where violence is done, sometimes you would find a place that’s hostile, or just…strange. Sometimes, though, other things happen. The magic in this place is welcoming.” Bethany smiled. “It feels warm in here.” “See? Bethany’s not afraid.” D’Jenn gave Shawna a weighted look. “Very well.” Shawna sighed, dismounting awkwardly around her wounded abdomen. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the ghosts come screaming out of the trees.”

*** Dormael was surrounded by darkness. He knew he was dreaming—lucid dreams were amongst the first signs of being Blessed, and an innate ability all wizards possessed. This dream, however, seemed different. There was tangibility to this dream, a vivid sense of reality slapping his senses to attention. He floated in an eternity of shadow. He could feel the darkness pressing

against him. It had an oily presence that groped him, measured him, whispered to him. A point of light appeared in the darkness. Dormael shied away, closing his eyes, as the light pushed away the shadow. When he opened his eyes, the light had gone the color of blood. Shawna’s armlet hung in front of him, glowing like a jeweled star. The silver of the sinuous band undulated, unraveling like a budding flower. The metal turned liquid and quested outward from the ruby. It reached for Dormael with mindless silver tentacles. Dormael tried to run, but his body was locked in place. The armlet came closer, burning away the darkness, and Dormael shied away. Heat blasted his face and sweat blossomed on his skin. The tendrils lashed out, wrapping around Dormael’s arm. He was frozen, forced to watch in horror as the armlet climbed onto him, wrapping his shoulder in implacable fingers of metal. The ruby moved over his shoulder, and the red light filled his vision. The darkness blossomed with bright, angry fire. Dormael screamed as the fire embraced him, but he did not burn. The heat was intense, and he could feel every blazing second of it, but his flesh was unscathed. The armlet was cold against his shoulder, curving lines of ice cradled against his burning skin. There were people in the flames, great masses of people struggling against each other. Weapons rose and fell in the chaos, striking people down on all sides. The fire danced a tapestry of horror before Dormael’s eyes, and he shut them against the sight. He screamed, and the fire crawled down his throat.

*** Dormael snapped awake like a man drowning. His hands went to his throat as he gasped for air, the vivid memory of blazing agony still filling his lungs. He sat up from the ground and took a deep breath, running his hands over

his face. With a shuddering breath, he mopped cold sweat from his brow. His heart nearly stopped when he turned to the campfire. Formerly home to a pleasant, low flame, the firepit now belched a twisting pillar of fire into the clearing. The column spun in a hypnotic dance, waves of flickering heat floating from the edges, as if the very air burned in complete silence. Dormael was transfixed. The flames brushed the undersides of the canopy overhead, but not a single leaf smoldered or smoked. His Kai was screaming into the ether. For just a moment, he wondered if he had somehow used magic in his sleep, unwittingly causing this strange occurrence with the campfire. The idea was shattered when he felt the other song lilting through the night—the song of Shawna’s armlet. Its voice was alien to his senses. It was something near to his own magic, but not made of the same essence. His Kai danced through the night with the alien song, flitting around the clearing like a child at play. Listening to the interplay between his magic and the armlet was like hearing an unexpected harmony between dissonant instruments. Dormael’s Kai resisted his efforts to put it to rest. He had to focus, using exercises he hadn’t used since he was a child in his First Four, and gather his willpower to regain control of his power. When he wrestled it into submission, and his Kai finally slept, Dormael felt the alien song of the armlet turn its attention toward him. It reached out to him, brushing against his consciousness. Dormael resisted, but was afraid to summon his Kai in defense, lest his power be ripped from his control again. The armlet reached for him a second time, and Dormael was unable to keep it away. With a feeling like being dunked in warm water, the song of the armlet flooded his senses. A thousand feelings filled him at once. Rage, warmth, pain, lust, fear, and longing all rushed into his chest like a blazing flood. The combination was an almost physical sensation, as if his heart had been replaced with a tiny sun. Images filled his mind, one after another, faster than he could make sense of

them. A star exploding somewhere in the cold expanse of the Void, a field of burning men, a line of blood-soaked spears, an ancient shrine—the images would not stop. A rush of emotion flashed through him with each picture until tears came to his eyes as he tried desperately to fight them from his head. A sound came to his physical ears—the whimpering of a child. Dormael turned his eyes to Bethany, who crouched on the ground near the twisting, burning campfire. She cowered on her hands and knees as if she fought a bout of nausea, but her face was turned in rapt horror to the fire twisting above her. With each image that came into Dormael’s mind, Bethany would flinch and utter a low whimper. Gods in the Void, she’s getting them, too! Dormael reached toward the girl, but his muscles felt weaker with each movement. Bethany turned her eyes to him, and in their depths was reflected an eternal tunnel of fire. The images kept coming, falling like hammer blows to his consciousness. He reached for Bethany, her fingers closed around his hand. The world exploded into a thousand bright needles.

The Frozen Flame

Throttling hands snapped Dormael awake. He fought them, throwing his arm before his face and trying to roll away. The hands tightened down and shook him by the shoulders. “Dormael!” D’Jenn’s voice broke through his befuddled wits, and Dormael ceased his struggles. Cold sunlight, gray through a thick cover of clouds, beamed into his eyes. D’Jenn’s face filled his vision, a concerned frown tightening his features. “The girl.” Dormael coughed through a dry throat. “Where’s Bethany?” “She’s right here. Sit up, coz.” D’Jenn moved back to give Dormael some room. He struggled to a sitting position just in time to receive Bethany’s hug at full force. He was stunned by the girl’s affection, and almost fell back to the ground, but wrapped a tentative arm around her shoulders as he steadied himself. “Are you alright? Do you ?” Dormael pulled her away to look into her eyes. D’Jenn raised an eyebrow at the question, but kept silent. “I . It was talking to us.” “It was talking to you?” D’Jenn gave Dormael a meaningful look. “What was bloody talking to you?” Dormael extricated Bethany from his neck and looked the girl over. The only wounds on her face were the yellowing bruises the Galanian Colonel had left her with. Dormael spent a moment checking her over before turning his attention to D’Jenn. “The armlet. It…did something last night.”

“Did what?” “It talked to us,” Bethany said. “The armlet came into my dream somehow. When I awoke, the fire was just…I can’t even explain it. It was dancing, D’Jenn, writhing around like a living thing.” “And your magic?” Dormael grimaced. “Just like before. I had to focus harder this time to put it to sleep. When I did, the armlet reached out to me.” “The song, you mean? The song from the armlet?” “Aye. It showed me pictures in my mind, like snippets of memories, I think. I’m not sure. Each time…well, the was unpleasant.” “It hurt.” Bethany nodded. “You were getting them, too?” D’Jenn turned a raised eyebrow on the girl. “I didn’t mean to,” Bethany muttered, looking away. “It just happened.” D’Jenn furrowed his brow and stroked his chin in thought. “You’re not in trouble, little one.” Dormael tousled her hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Well, a few things make more sense now.” Shawna walked up from the firepit. “The iron grate over the pit is melted through.” Dormael looked toward the fire—the metal drooped inside the pit like candle wax. “You’d think we would have felt the heat from a flame that hot.” D’Jenn looked over the remains of the campsite. “We were all sleeping close enough to it.” “It was odd.” Dormael climbed to his feet. “I could have sworn the fire was touching the tree limbs, too, but none of them burned. It wasn’t moving like

fire, it wasn’t…gods, I don’t know.” “Why did it wait until now to do this?” Shawna asked. “Why hasn’t it tried to me? I’ve been living with it my whole life.” D’Jenn shrugged. “We don’t know enough about it to figure that out, yet. It could be the more it reaches out, the more powerful it gets. It obviously has some resonance with Dormael’s magic—his song, I mean—because it reacted to him before. It might be that bringing it to this place, where there is such strong magic to begin with, is what caused the event.” “Seems like I might have warned someone about this yesterday.” Shawna gave Dormael a meaningful glance. “They said something about ‘good magic’, I think.” Dormael grimaced. Shawna responded with a smile. “It could be something else entirely.” D’Jenn looked at Bethany as he stroked his beard. “There’s no way to know. Not yet, anyway.” “What should we do?” Shawna asked. “Is it safe to carry the thing around in my saddlebags? What if it wakes up?” “There’s only one thing we can do,” D’Jenn said. “We’ll put a ward on it and see what happens. After that, we’ll get moving. We’ll have to forego staying in the village for the Solstice.” Bethany’s face was full of disappointment. “Why?” “If this thing can burn iron to liquid while we sleep,” D’Jenn said, more to Dormael and Shawna than to Bethany, “then what happens when it ignites a second time, only we’re sleeping in some small village inn, or someone’s hayloft?” “It’s alright, little one.” Dormael sighed, patting Bethany on the back. “We’ll steal some food on the way through.” D’Jenn moved to the firepit. “Shawna, can you bring the armlet over here? Just set it on the edge of the firepit, please.”

She nodded and walked toward her saddlebags. Her gait was pained and stiff, but she was moving better than Dormael would have expected. She held the silver box at arms’ length when she returned. She sat it on the edge of the pit like she was handling a snake and stepped out of D’Jenn’s way. Dormael opened his Kai to listen. D’Jenn’s song lilted into the morning, causing Dormael’s arms and legs to itch in response to his use of magic. He gestured, and the box rose into the air, revolving as D’Jenn studied it. Bethany moved away from Dormael, watching D’Jenn with interest. D’Jenn gestured to the firepit, and a piece of the melted iron glowed redhot. There was a great hissing noise as the piece separated from the melted grill. The globule of hot metal floated toward the box, undulating as it came near. D’Jenn’s song wove complex patterns into the air around the silver box. The hot metal unraveled, reaching out narrow tendrils like the armlet in Dormael’s nightmare. The tendrils twisted and writhed around the box, glowing with heat. With a sharp gesture, D’Jenn tightened the iron around the box. The metal cooled as it set, and D’Jenn’s magic soaked into the bands. When it was done, D’Jenn allowed the box to drop into his hand. “Hopefully that will work.” D’Jenn offered the box to Shawna. “No one will be able to open it, anyway.” Shawna turned the box around and examined the tendrils of iron, shaking her head as she gazed at them. “What did you do, exactly?” “It’s hard to explain.” D’Jenn sighed. “But there’s more at work than a metal cage for the box. I warded the thing against magic, but instead of keeping magic out, I inverted the spell in order to keep it in.” “Ah.” Dormael smiled. “Ingenious.” “Thank you.” “I’ll take your word on it,” Shawna said. “Just tell me it won’t wake up and burn me alive.”

“I’m reasonably confident it won’t.” Shawna raised an eyebrow. “That’s as good as you can get?” “According to my vast knowledge of magical theory, that should do the trick.” D’Jenn’s face was unreadable. “But you’re not certain?” “Nothing is certain.” Shawna stuffed the box into the deepest part of her saddlebags. Dread wormed in Dormael’s stomach as he watched. The warring tapestry flashed in his mind, and he turned his eyes away. How can a thing be so powerful? That song—is it alive? Dormael tried to put it from his mind while readying Horse for departure, but he couldn’t stop chewing on the problem. What had it been trying to tell him? How had it touched the fire with nothing guiding its purpose? If it could shape and twist fire, what would it do next? Why did it talk to Bethany? He turned the problems over in his mind as they rode through the morning. The day was locked in a deep chill, and thunder rumbled far in the distance. The weather fit Dormael’s mood. Bethany was stiff in the saddle all morning, moving only to pull her cloak tighter across her shoulders. Her silence was weighted with tension. Dormael let Horse fall back in line. “Bethany.” He kept his voice low. “Are you alright?” “Yes.” “Were you frightened last night?” “Yes.” She pulled her cloak tighter. “What did the armlet show you? Do you ?”

Bethany peered ahead, chewing on her lower lip. “I think it was alone for a long time.” “Alone?” The clearest memory from Dormael’s dream was the flaming tapestry and the searing agony of fire climbing into his throat. Had the armlet shown Bethany the same visions, or different ones? “What gives you that impression?” he said. Bethany shrugged. “It felt so lonely. I think that’s why it hurt us. It was excited to finally meet someone.” Bethany twisted in the saddle to look at him. “I don’t think it was trying to be mean. I think it was an accident.” Dormael tried to recall the feelings jumbled with the armlet’s sendings, but he couldn’t untwist them. Every vision had landed like a pile of stones, and during the process, they had been stirred into a confusing mass. What he ed was deep terror and the pain of burning alive. “Had it spoken to you before last night?” He dreaded the answer. “No.” She shook her head. “Last night was the first time.” Dormael sighed in relief. “Were you awake when it talked to you?” “No.” She turned to look at him again. “It came into my dream! I didn’t know what it was, though—it looked like you! It told me its name.” “Its name?” Bethany nodded. “Fiega.” Dormael’s heart froze in his chest. There was no way Bethany could have known that word, and he doubted she’d ever heard it in ing. It was a dead language, and one born far from eastern shores. It was spoken by the Vendon, the ancestors of the Sevenlanders. The word meant ‘fire’.

“It told you that word—fiega?” Bethany nodded again. “That’s its name.” Dormael took a deep breath. “Listen, Bethany, can you do me a favor?” Bethany nodded. “The next time it tries to talk to you, I want you to ignore it. There’s a secret way to keep it out, and I’ll teach it to you. Will you do that for me?” “Alright.” “Good. Next time you hear it, I want you to close your eyes and imagine a rock. No matter what you hear, no matter what it tries to send you, just think about a rock. Keep it right in the front of your mind. Do you think you can do that?” “Just imagine a rock?” Bethany’s face scrunched with confusion. “Just a rock.” Dormael nodded. “You have to practice, alright? Do it while we’re riding. See how long you can think about a rock.” Bethany grimaced. “That doesn’t sound like fun.” “It will make you stronger.” Dormael smiled. “Go on, give it a try.” Bethany went silent, and Dormael hoped she was heeding him. The rock exercise was one of the first meditations taught to children at the Conclave. It would strengthen her mental defenses if she practiced. D’Jenn dropped back beside them and wiggled his fingers in the Hunter’s Tongue. The girl also spoke to the thing? Yes. She said it was lonely. That it didn’t mean to hurt us. D’Jenn shook his head. That makes no sense. It was trying to communicate. She said it has a—

Shawna cleared her throat from the road ahead. “Do you two think I’m too dense to know you’re talking when you’re waving your hands around like that? Don’t you think it’s rude to be keeping secrets, considering I’m the one carrying this thing around?” Shawna waited for them to come even with her, sitting in her saddle with her arms crossed. D’Jenn shrugged and spurred Mist past her, leaving Dormael alone with Shawna. She watched him go with a tight frown on her face. Dormael held up his hands for peace. “Apologies, it’s just habit. It’s called the Hunter’s Tongue. People have been doing it for generations back home.” Shawna raised an eyebrow. “What an odd thing.” “A useful thing,” Dormael countered. “What were you talking about?” Dormael sighed. “Your armlet. I think we may want to save the conversation until certain ears aren’t around to hear it, though.” He gestured to the back of Bethany’s head. “It already talked to me,” Bethany said. “You’re getting awful talkative.” Dormael chuckled. “And you’re supposed to be imagining a rock.” “But—” “Rock, little one.” He tousled her hair. She sighed and turned back around, closing her eyes. “Very well, then.” Shawna gave Dormael a cool smile. “Let’s talk about my armlet.” D’Jenn fell back to ride even with Shawna. “It’s dangerous.” “Obviously.” Shawna scoffed.

“ when I told you magic is in everything?” Dormael said. Shawna nodded. “Well, it has a certain sound to it. Wizards can hear it—that’s part of how we sense magic. In turn, each wizard’s magic also has a certain sound, and it leaves a unique signature behind.” “Imagine a group of musicians playing the same song,” D’Jenn said. “The song is magic. Now and then, one of the players starts to improvise—that’s using magic. The song is the same, but the melody is unique.” “I…think I understand.” “Your armlet has a song, too,” Dormael said. “But it’s not like anything we’ve heard before. It’s not a melody from the same piece of music, it’s an entirely different song.” “Whatever it is, it isn’t magic,” D’Jenn added. “At least, not the way we know it.” Shawna’s face paled. “What do you think it is, then?” Dormael sighed, sharing a grim look with D’Jenn. “We don’t know.” “What’s more, it obviously acts with purpose—at least, to some degree— and it can communicate. Whatever your armlet is, Shawna, it’s aware. And we have no idea when or how it can awaken.” D’Jenn shook his head. “None of that adds up to anything good.” “All the gods in the Void.” Shawna’s eyes went to her saddlebags. “I hope your spell can hold it.” “It would hold anything else,” D’Jenn said, “but given how little we know about it, who can say?” “Have you known this the entire time?” Her eyes narrowed at D’Jenn. “That the armlet was…alive?” “No,” D’Jenn said. “We didn’t know until this morning—and it may not be

alive, precisely. These could be effects generated by resonance between our magic and the power of your armlet, or it could be reacting to some other stimuli we’ve yet to figure out.” Shawna gave him a grudging nod. “So, what do we do about it?” “We’re already doing it.” D’Jenn shrugged. “We find a ship, we get this thing to the Conclave. I’ve warded it, so hopefully that holds. We deal with things when they happen.” She took a deep breath, and the tension left her shoulders. “Very well. Now —teach me.” “Teach you?” Dormael asked. “The Hunter’s Tongue.” She gave him a flat look. “I want to learn. Come on, don’t look at me that way, just teach me.” D’Jenn smiled at Dormael, his hands flashing in the silent language. This is why we made the Rule. Enjoy yourself. He spurred Mist to the front of the line and left Dormael alone with Shawna. Dormael sighed and shook Bethany from her silent reverie, too. She perked up and turned around. “You might as well learn, too, kid.” He closed his fist and moved it up and down. “This means ‘yes’”. He opened his hand and swiped it left to right. “This means ‘no’. Show it back to me. Wait, Bethany, when you move your hands up like that, it means you’re asking a question.” The lessons went on for the better part of the afternoon. The first snowflakes fell as the sun crawled toward the horizon. By the time D’Jenn pulled off the road and back into the trees, the horses were leaving deep tracks through the fluff. It fell in a thick rain, though the trees kept the worst of it from Dormael’s shoulders. The evening found them seated around the fire, huddled beneath their cloaks. Dormael puffed on his pipe, staring into the fire as D’Jenn helped Shawna change her bandages. Dormael’s fingers were freezing, and the

snow kept falling into the crook of his neck. Why would the gods ever create snow? What bloody purpose does it serve? “This is healing quickly,” D’Jenn said. “How does it feel?” Dormael’s ears perked up. “It’s itching like mad recently.” Shawna hissed through her teeth as D’Jenn ministered to the wound. “Though, I haven’t been quite as stiff.” “Itching is good.” D’Jenn nodded. “Means it’s healing.” “You’re lucky they didn’t nick your guts open,” Dormael said. “I thought you weren’t long for this world when I found you.” “I’m tougher than I look.” She winced as D’Jenn wrapped a fresh bandage around her midsection. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Why so dour?” “He hates the snow.” D’Jenn finished the binding and brushed off his hands. “Ever since we were children, he sulks every time the sky opens up with it.” “I’m not sulking. I just prefer the warm and dry to the cold and wet. If you’re going to hate a man for that, go ahead.” “Now I know there’s something wrong with you,” Shawna replied. “Only a monster hates the snow.” “Lots of people hate snow.” Dormael shrugged into his cloak and turned back to the fire. He was blinded by a wet, freezing explosion on his face. Laughter rang out from all three of his companions, though Shawna’s voice had a distinct, vindictive tone. A pile of disturbed snow sat between her feet. Dormael spit snow from his upper lip and cleared it from his eyes. “I can’t believe you just did that.” “Why not? The evidence is all over your face.” Shawna grinned.

“You know why it’s not a good idea to pick a snowball fight with a wizard?” He answered her smile with one of his own. Another snowball flew out of the night and struck him in the side of the head. Shawna burst out laughing, and D’Jenn was soon echoing her. Bethany stood a short distance away, a snowball raised for a second attack. “You too, little one?” Dormael smiled. “She knows which side to choose.” Shawna turned a conspiratorial wink on Bethany, who promptly hit her in the face with the second snowball. Shawna gasped as the wet snow burst over her face and fell into her clothing. Everyone froze, poised for battle. Bethany let out a giggle, as if there was a storm of laughter being held back by her teeth. Dormael feinted toward her, and she squealed as she darted away, piling handfuls of snow into her arms. The campsite devolved into chaos. Dormael opened his Kai and pulled snowballs up from the ground one after another, sending them zinging around to smack into any target who moved into his field of vision. Shawna fought valiantly, tossing snowballs as fast she as she could. Bethany went for an all-out assault on D’Jenn, who humored her for a few moments before gesturing to the surrounding snow. A massive pile of snow hopped from the ground, hovered above her head, and fell with a loud plop. Muffled laughter tittered from the pile. No one escaped the onslaught. Everyone was covered in wet, icy snow, and it took a bit of magic to dry everyone out. Even until they laid down to sleep, Dormael heard scattered bits of laughter roll out randomly into the night, and he had trouble holding it back himself. He closed his eyes and settled in with a warm feeling for the first time since this ordeal had begun.

*** Shawna stood on the sprawling lawn near her father’s manor, sunlight beaming down on her back. Sweat ran unchecked down the curve of her

spine—a result of the devilish summer heat. Master Severin would hear nothing of the heat. “Faster,” he said, pacing before her. Shawna gritted her teeth and focused harder on her task. She was being made to juggle. As the rudimentary sword movements had been taught, built upon, and perfected, Master Severin came up with increasingly difficult—and strange—activities for her to master. She’d had to catch balls while standing on her head. Once, he’d made her speak to him all day while walking backwards, unable to see where she was going. He still pulled that one on her from time to time, but Shawna had learned to step lightly after the first ten or fifteen times she fell on her ass in the dirt. “The Blademaster is not some back-alley thug, stabbing at his target like a side of meat.” Master Severin’s lilting accent made every sentence a musical performance. “The Blademaster is not a soldier, fighting in a line of men, chopping with his sword like he is felling a tree—no.” He turned on her. “Faster, girl.” “I’m working on it, Master,” Shawna said through clenched teeth. She almost dropped one of the three balls she was juggling, but she saved it at the last moment. Severin held his stone-gray eyes on her for an instant longer, then returned to his pacing. “The Blademaster is an artist. She knows where to put her steel because she can feel the fight, because she knows the secret. The sword is not a weapon.” “I am the weapon,” Shawna repeated the mantra he’d hammered into her mind. “If your sword is not fast enough, your hands are slow. If your sword is not true, your aim needs improvement. If you disgrace yourself—or your Master—by falling to the ground in a fight, your footwork is what needs attention. Do you understand, girl?” “Yes, Master.” She focused on the keeping the three balls in the air.

“Let us see.” Severin whipped his practice sword from his waist in a smooth, vicious movement. Pain exploded from her right hand, causing her to cry out and drop the balls. She spun away, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest. Severin came on with another attack. “Defend!” Shawna dodged an overhead slash and stepped aside from a smooth thrust toward her midsection. She quick-stepped away from Severin, reaching to her side to draw the practice sword from her belt. Hot pain blossomed in her hand as she tried to close it, and she grunted with frustration. Master Severin closed the distance between them with a long lunge for her face, but Shawna stepped aside. He continued his forward momentum, slashing the air so near her eyes that she felt the wind from his sword against her lashes. She ducked and rolled away from him, hissing with frustration. I can’t slip him forever—I’ve got to attack! She slipped aside from an upward slash and reversed her motion, whipping her sword from its sheath with her left hand. She countered him with a wide, awkward slash toward his torso. Severin sucked in his gut and danced backward, his girded robe fluttering around surprisingly muscular legs. Shawna smiled as he backpedaled and rushed forward. Their blades met in a quick series of cuts and parries, Shawna barely keeping her master’s ripostes at bay with her off-hand. Her left hand wasn’t seasoned to the sword like her right, and she clutched to it like a lifeline, afraid that each blow would tear it from her grip. Her fingers vibrated with each thwack. Master Severin side-stepped, but Shawna cut off his movements and pressed him with a series of thrusts toward his midsection. He stepped backward, knocking each blow aside with tiny movements of his blade, but Shawna got close to cutting him with a few of her attacks. She lost herself in the fight, anticipating the angles Severin would choose to attack her, and staying ahead of him by the skin of her teeth.

Severin brought his sword down toward her skull in a deadly arc. Shawna whacked it aside and answered with a back-handed slash across the belly. It met nothing but air as Severin slipped out of range. Shawna saw the fight’s conclusion happening in her mind. Her blade was wide, Severin’s high. His eyes tightened with the surety of victory. Shawna screamed in defiance and fought to bring her blade around in time. Severin’s practice blade smacked into her neck at the shoulder. “Dead.” “Gods!” Shawna grimaced, breathing hard from the fight. Severin’s grin was wolfish. “Look down at your hand, girl!” Shawna eyes tracked to her hand, where the sword was clutched in a whiteknuckled grip. The tip of her blade was turned inward, its tip resting against Master Severin’s side. Shawna gaped. A smile formed on her face. I hit him! She looked to her master’s face—pride burned in his eyes. Severin swatted his practice blade against Shawna’s thigh, and hot pain whipped through her leg. He moved like a snake, pushing against her shoulder and tripping her to the grass. Shawna cursed and cradled her leg, shooting Severin an evil look from the ground. “Good with the hands.” He sheathed his practice sword. “The feet still need work.” “The fight was over,” Shawna groaned. “That wasn’t fair.” “Fair is for children, girl. I am not training you to fight children, correct?” “Correct, Master.” She sighed, moving to stand. Severin turned and stepped toward the manor. “When your hand is better, you will begin training with two swords.” He didn’t look back as he walked away. Shawna stared at his retreating

back as she sat up, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart. The grin wouldn’t leave her face. Master Severin smiled at me! He actually smiled at me! She shielded her injured hand as she rose to her feet. Her leg stung, and she’d gotten dirt in her mouth sometime during the fight. It was wonderful —it was all wonderful. Shawna turned to head for the manor and screamed. A man in a red and white surcoat thundered toward her on a massive horse, sword raised with purpose. Shawna tried to turn, but her body was exhausted from the fight. She screamed as the sword came down and split open her chest.

*** Shawna jerked as she came awake. The dreams had come with more frequency since leaving the city. She swept her hand over her forehead, but the cold had kept her from sweating overnight. Her body was stiff, and the gray light leaking through her eyelids suggested another cold, overcast day. The smell of Sweetpenny tea perked her up. Grunting, she climbed from her bedroll. Her body was stiff—both from the injury and the biting cold—but she bit her lip and pushed the pain away. Every day she awkwardly strapped on her weapons and hated herself for the uselessness of the gesture. Her side was healing, but every time she twisted a certain way, a bright twinge of pain would bring her midsection into sudden weakness. And the itching, by the gods. Shawna resisted the compulsion to rip her bandages away and claw at the wound like a wild beast. She’d learned how to discipline her body against satisfying every urge—a legacy of her training. Still, she had never experienced an itching sensation from inside her skin before. It took all her willpower to resist tearing at it. What would Master Severin have said, had he known what had happened to

her? Would he comfort her? Would he her in this revenge fantasy she had been entertaining, or would he recommend a different path? Some part of her blamed herself for what had happened. She should have died there, should have fought the Red Swords off, should have done something to stem the tide of blood the gods had visited on her family. The logical part of her knew those thoughts were irrational, that the slaughter was no fault of hers. That cool, sensible voice didn’t penetrate to the place where her hatred lived, though. It huddled deep in her chest, sending her dreams and idle thoughts of the men she’d killed during her escape. She tried to picture her father’s face, but lately the image of his lifeless body was all that could come to her mind. Shawna shook her head, banishing the thought. She could almost hear what Master Severin would have said to her. You blame yourself. That is stupid, girl. Things happen in this world, that is something you cannot change. Life is not easy, but easy is for the weak. Get up. Get better—keep getting better. She trudged to the fire, where Dormael and D’Jenn were huddled by the small flame. Dormael offered her a cup with a wordless smile, and she accepted it in silence. The tea was delicious, and it filled her limbs with a pleasant warmth. The cold bled slowly from her body. “Do they teach you boys weapons at the Conclave?” she asked, breaking the silence of the morning. “They teach the Warlocks.” Dormael shrugged. “But it’s optional for any wizard who wishes to learn. Lots of classes are that way at the Conclave.” “But you know how to fight?” “Aye, we can fight,” D’Jenn grunted. “Wouldn’t last long out here if we couldn’t.” “Good. We should spar this morning. Just a friendly match to get the blood flowing.” Dormael and D’Jenn shared a glance, doubtless thinking she was pushing herself too hard. She straightened her back and prepared to tell them in no

uncertain that she was not their charge, and she knew what her body needed. She needed to practice. She could practically feel her edge dulling. “I think that might not be a bad idea, actually.” D’Jenn nodded. “I wouldn’t go at full speed, so to speak, but you’re right. If you don’t work it, you’ll stiffen up around it.” “Aye.” Dormael smiled. “It might be fun, facing a Blademaster. If you’re too injured to win the match, I can go around telling everyone that I once defeated a Marked Blademaster in combat.” A smile split Shawna’s face, the arguments she had prepared leaving with a sigh. “Good. I’ll let you know when I’m ready. It will only be a few minutes.” She rose and returned to her belongings, rustling around until she located her waterskin. She took a long drink and tossed the skin back where she found it. Shawna needed to clear her mind, so she walked a small distance into the trees to prepare for the fight. Her side still throbbed—there was no denying it. Every day since she had awakened, a nagging part of her mind had whispered that she might never fully recover from this injury. Shawna had never taken a hurt like this before, and she had no idea how things would end up. In every contest she had fought since earning her Mark, she had never taken more than a bruise or shallow cut. What if her body was never the same after this? What if she could never move the same, could never dance the blades the way she did before? What if the wound haunted her, and she had to worry about it for the rest of her days? Shawna stood as tall as she could, ignoring the twinge from her side as her midsection adjusted, and started to breathe. She stepped back into a lunge and slowly moved her body through the various poses of the exercise her master had taught her—the Siyane. Shawna had long ago mastered the toughest forms, but she stuck to the beginner’s poses. Her wound wouldn’t allow her to stand on her hands, or to put too much of a demand on her abdomen. Pain still shot through her as she moved through the various poses, but the more she moved, the better she felt.

Once she was satisfied, she met Dormael and D’Jenn out in the snow. Dormael wore a lopsided grin, leaning on his quarterstaff, while D’Jenn ran his hands over his wicked morningstar. Morningstars were weapons from an older time—at least, in her opinion. Braining your opponent to death was simply barbaric when compared to the elegant dance of a sword fight. Sevenlanders cared little for elegance in her experience. “How do you want to do this?” Dormael tapped his staff on the ground. “D’Jenn first, then once he wears you out, and you defeat him, I’ll come in.” D’Jenn laughed, but Shawna spoke up before he could reply. “Both of you against me.” Dormael and D’Jenn shared an incredulous look. “At the same time?” D’Jenn said. “You may as well.” Shawna shrugged. “You can get the disappointment of defeat out of the way, salve each other’s wounded pride. Just come whenever you’re ready.” Shawna rolled her shoulders and put her hands to her swords. Her left side sent tiny shocks of pain in time with her heartbeat, but she took a deep breath and ignored the sensation. D’Jenn moved into a crouch and shuffled to her right. Dormael stepped in the opposite direction in a clumsy attempt to flank her. Shawna moved backward, forcing the two of them to chase her as they tried to close the net. As Dormael feinted toward her leg with his staff, she whipped her swords from their scabbards and stepped toward him. He was good with his staff, which made him a difficult opponent to beat. Quarterstaffs, and some types of spears, were devastating weapons in the right hands. They were easy to obtain, deadly in the right hands, and could strike twice for every blow from a sword. Spears were one of the most common weapons for a reason. Dormael’s true weaknesses betrayed themselves in his footwork. Shawna’s master had long ago instilled in her a simple truth—the basis of any fight was where one moved, and why. Footwork was the bedrock for the most

damaging techniques. Dormael moved with grace, and he had good instincts, but his missteps were like beacons to Shawna. She slapped his attacks aside and moved into his path, keeping him off balance. Quickening footsteps crunched through the snow behind her. Shawna had expected D’Jenn sooner, but he was the more cautious of the two Sevenlanders. Perhaps he had thought a bit before deciding to attack a Marked Blademaster from behind. He hadn’t thought long enough. She slipped from his path like an eel, ducking his mace and tripping him with a kick to his ankle. D’Jenn lost his balance and bowled into Dormael. They went down in the snow, landing in a tangle of beards and weapons. “Oh, the run-up-and-hit-her-from-behind strategy.” Shawna sighed, tapping the side of her blade on her boot. “I hadn’t expected that one. Really, boys—I had an arrow through me, and that’s the best you can do? I’m starting to think I should go it on my own.” Dormael laughed, but D’Jenn only pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Maybe we were going easy on you.” Dormael smiled. “Maybe that was a terrible mistake.” Shawna smiled back, gesturing at the two of them with her sword. “Tell me that’s not all. I’m not even warm yet.” The rest of the sparring match went much like the first part. She put Dormael down with two slices to the throat, a thrust through the ribs, and stopped counting the number of times she tripped him. D’Jenn was especially vulnerable to thrusts. The morningstar was not a weapon that lent itself to a parry and riposte, and Shawna lured D’Jenn into that trap again and again. By the end of the match, everyone was winded, but laughing. “Your magic is impressive,” Shawna took a waterskin from Dormael, “but you boys really need to work on your weapons. It’s a bit like fighting children.” “It’s not all that bad.” D’Jenn took the waterskin from Shawna, rolling his

eyes. “You’re Marked. The best of the best. We have our own strengths.” “Do you?” Shawna grinned. “I couldn’t tell.” Bethany appeared with a pair of sticks and attacked Dormael and D’Jenn with gusto. It took them a few moments to get her calmed down enough to eat something. She carried the sticks around for the rest of the day. For some reason, it put a huge smile on Shawna’s face.

*** The snow continued for days. Dormael shrugged deep into his cloak every day, allowing Bethany to snuggle close for heat. Once they had ridden through the tiny village, the forest thinned out. The wind took up its ceaseless blowing, and there was no way to keep the icy snow from billowing into the hood of his cloak. The wind smelled more and more like the sea as they moved north, though the snow brought their progress to a crawl each day. Shawna assured them the road was clear all the way to Borders, which left it exposed to the elements. Every morning the road was covered with more snow, and their pace slowed. D’Jenn bristled at the weather. The deeper the snow in their path, the darker the scowl on his face. Dormael silently echoed D’Jenn’s concern—if they missed their departure window from Borders, they’d be forced to stay in Alderak and go into hiding. It would be an entire season until ships would sail east to west over the Stormy Sea again. On the fourth day trudging through the snow, D’Jenn grew frustrated enough to use magic. He plowed the snow from their path, and they picked up the pace. Dormael would have protested leaving a giant trail behind them, but there had been no signs of pursuit from the Red Swords. At camp, they ate a rabbit D’Jenn had caught earlier in the day, and Dormael took Bethany through her letters. Rabbits were slim pickings at

best, and Dormael never enjoyed them. He taught another lesson to Bethany and Shawna on the Hunter’s Tongue and shared a pipe with his cousin before lying down for the night. His ears itched as he closed his eyes, but he was asleep in moments.

*** Dormael stood on an endless expanse of waving, brown grass. Rolling hills surrounded him on all sides, and in the distance was a forbidding range of mountains. Clouds hung overhead, roiling in an unnatural storm. Wind blew steadily from the west, coaxing a constant whisper from the waist-high grass. It was neither warm, nor cool. There was no humidity on his skin, and no smells came to his nose. Around the edges of his vision, things twisted into his periphery and distorted. Anything in front of him, though, was vivid enough to punch into his eyes. A strange wave rippled through the ether and rushed through him. An immediate feeling of nausea overcame him, and he buckled to his knees in the high grass. He heaved a few times, though nothing came out, and rose to his feet, blinking his eyes against the startling visuals. A blot stood on the distant horizon—a building of some sort on a wide, high hill. It had the look of a monument, or perhaps some kind of temple. A strange feeling vibrated Dormael’s bones when he looked at the distant monument. It pulled at him, urged him closer. What is this place? I’ve never been to— Another nauseating wave rippled through the grasslands, once again bringing Dormael to his knees. He clutched the ground in shaking hands and allowed the vertigo to , sucking deep breaths of the odorless air. The breeze tickled his hair and made his body shiver. When Dormael stood, he was in the shadow of the monument.

Eight stone pillars stood in a circle, ing a circular slab of gray, pitted rock. The pillars were carved with square-faced representations of the gods. Neesa, with flowing hair, stood beside Aastinor, who held a massive sword. Even Saarnok, the Lord of Bones, was depicted amongst the pillars—a skinny man with a pile of skulls at his feet. The church hasn’t depicted Saarnok for generations. What is this place? The pillars stood around a tiled floor littered with dead blades of grass and scattered dirt. In the center was an altar ing a massive stone bowl. It was full to the brim of clear water. Dormael blew over the water’s edge, but the surface didn’t ripple under his breath. A sprig of ivy with bright green leaves and black berries rested under the water. It looked to have been cut from somewhere and left as an offering. The water was as still as glass, and the ivy seemed to be frozen under the surface. “I knew you would come,” said a voice behind him. “It told me you would come.” Dormael spun, reaching instinctively for his magic, only to draw up short. Bethany stood behind him, hugging close to a pillar carved to represent Devla, the Goddess of Nature. Her expression was fearful, her eyes darting to the windblown horizon. “Bethany?” Dormael took a tentative step toward her. “Is that really you?” “I’ve been here for a long time.” She looked at the ground. “It told me you would be here, but it left me here alone, and—” “It’s alright.” Dormael tousled the girl’s hair and steadied her with a hand to the shoulder. “What told you I would be here?” “The fiega,” Bethany said. “It brought me here. Didn’t it bring you here, too?” Dormael’s blood went cold with alarm. Lightning burst from the boiling storm and struck the bowl. Searing energy

flashed around the columns, crawling over the stone with electric fingers. Dormael pushed Bethany behind him, wiping his eyes against the afterimage of the lightning. Silver tendrils reached over the edge of the bowl in slithering, mindless hunger. The armlet—transformed to a liquid spider ing the glowing red eye of its gem—crawled out of the bowl and raised itself on quicksilver legs. The noise of rushing flames filled Dormael ears, and the sky turned a deep orange. The tendrils whipped toward them, and Bethany screamed.

*** Dormael came awake like he’d been hibernating for years. The smell of Sweetpenny wafted to his nose, and he rubbed his eyes as he sat up. The dream came rushing back to him all at once, and he searched around the camp in fear. Bethany was still rolled up in her blankets, mouth agape in slumber. D’Jenn and Shawna were awake, huddled in close conversation near the fire. The pot of tea steamed on a spit in front of them. Dormael sighed and rose from his blankets. He sat down beside Shawna and rubbed his hands near the fire. D’Jenn offered him a cup of tea, and he accepted it with a nod. “I think I know what’s happening now—between Bethany and the armlet, I mean.” “What do you mean?” D’Jenn asked. Dormael took a deep breath. “Shawna’s been carrying the armlet around for a while. She lived with it for her entire life, and never a peep out of the thing.” “Well, it did give me an odd feeling, but no dreams or weird tricks with the fire.”

Dormael nodded. “But I can hear it every time it sings. D’Jenn hears it, though without the same effect, and now, Bethany.” D’Jenn narrowed his eyes. “I think I see where you’re going with this. It would explain a few things.” “What would explain a few things?” Shawna said. “Bethany.” Dormael smiled. “She’s got the spark. She’s Blessed.” The color drained from Shawna’s face. “How can you know?” “She could feel the magic, back at the cabin we found.” D’Jenn nodded, favoring the sleeping girl with a considering glance. “She said something that perked my ears up, but I dismissed it at the time.” “And the armlet only seems to reach out to wizards,” Dormael pointed out. “Also, there are the dreams.” Dormael told D’Jenn and Shawna about his encounter with Bethany on the windswept plain, and the appearance of the armlet. D’Jenn nodded in thought once the tale was done. “If she has the gift, but has an untrained mind, her defenses against the armlet’s intrusion would be practically nonexistent. It could reach out to her whenever it wanted.” The three of them shared a grim look. “What do we do?” Shawna glanced at Bethany. “We can’t let anything happen to her.” “We’ll have to test her and she’s Blessed. After that, we’ll have to start training her.” D’Jenn shrugged. “It’s the only thing to do.” Dormael nodded and let out a deep breath. “Let’s not tell her until we make camp tonight. We’ll need silence to conduct the test.” “How do you test her?” Shawna said. D’Jenn took a sip from his cup. “You’ll see.”

Shawna shot knowing glances at Bethany throughout the day. Dormael almost told her to avoid the girl for the rest of the day, but he didn’t want to further add to the confusion. Bethany caught Shawna staring in the morning and watched her with suspicious eyes for the rest of the day. They were lucky enough to find another copse of trees before the sun went down, though the growth along the highland hills was getting sparser as they traveled north. The trees did nothing to hide their fire and little to break the wind, but it was better than being out in the wind. Once they had eaten and finished with lessons, Dormael wrapped Bethany in her blanket and took a seat on the ground across from her. “Now,” he said as D’Jenn and Shawna settled down nearby, “we’re going to do one more thing before bedtime tonight.” “More lessons?” Bethany’s expression was dubious. “I’m getting tired.” “A game.” Dormael smiled. “One that D’Jenn and I used to play when we were children.” “Alright.” Bethany smiled back. “What are the rules?” “First, you have to close your eyes,” D’Jenn said. Bethany humored him, the ghost of a smile flickering over her mouth. “Alright.” “Now, I want you to silence your mind,” Dormael said, taking on a quiet tone. “How do I do that?” “Just listen to all the things going on in your head,” D’Jenn said. “Chase them down one by one and tell them to be quiet. It might take some time, but you can do it.” “If you say so,” Bethany muttered. Her face made a few scrunching movements as she sat there, but D’Jenn began to tap out a rhythm on the stump next to him, and soon the girl was swaying in time with the beat. Dormael let the silence stretch before speaking again.

“I want you to imagine a pool,” he intoned. “A pool deep inside your chest. Can you picture that for me?” “I think so.” Bethany sighed. “Good. The pool has clear, still water inside. The water is warm, it’s deep, and it’s comforting. Just sink into the pool very slowly until the water is covering your face,” Dormael said. “Alright.” Bethany sighed again. D’Jenn’s tapping continued, and Bethany swayed with it. “Now, deep in the water, you can’t hear anything.” Dormael kept his tone soothing. “All the sounds from your ears just fade away, one by one, until you hear nothing. Just let them go, Bethany. Sink down until the water is the only thing you can hear.” Bethany did not reply. “You’re deep in the pool, now. Way down deep where nothing can touch you. Nothing can hurt you. You can’t see anything, you can’t hear anything, right?” “Right,” Bethany whispered. “Are you sure, dear? Listen harder. Listen deeper than you ever have before.” Bethany was silent, swaying in time with D’Jenn’s tapping. A long moment stretched, and Dormael grew impatient. Failure was common the first few times a Blessed tried to open their Kai. Coaxing out a wizard’s magic could be difficult, and most children learned an instinctive way of reaching their power before being walked through the Conclave’s method. Just as Dormael was about to bring her out of the trance, Bethany spoke. “Wait,” she whispered. “Wait.” “What is it?” “I think I hear something.” Her brows drew together in a frown, and she

tilted her head as if listening to a distant sound. “I can almost reach it.” “Just let it come to you, Bethany. Listen to it and let it—” Bethany gasped, and Dormael’s body tingled like a thousand insects were crawling over his skin. He resisted the urge to scratch as he shot a surprised glance to D’Jenn. Shawna glanced between the two Sevenlanders, eyes raised at their amazed expressions. Bethany’s power was immense. All wizards had a natural capacity for how much magic they could channel. As far as anyone understood, it was the one thing determined by birth, and each wizard was different. Dormael was known at the Conclave for being among the strongest wizards of his generation. His power was vast, and he’d always felt lucky in that regard. Bethany’s gift was more than half again as strong as his own. All the gods in the Void! “What is this?” Bethany opened her eyes, a mystified expression on her face. She looked to Shawna and smiled in wonder. “Your hair…it’s really pretty. I never noticed before.” Shawna let out a confused laugh. “Thank you, little one.” “Why doesn’t the snow sing like this all the time?” Bethany looked to the darkness beyond the firelight. “It does.” Dormael laughed. “You’re just not always listening.” “You’re Blessed, squirt.” D’Jenn smiled. “You’re one of us.” Dormael nodded. “That sound you hear is magic.” “How did you know?” Bethany gazed slowly around the camp. Dormael shrugged. “We’re good at this sort of thing, ? Now, I want you to listen again.” He opened his own Kai and let his song ring out through the night. “Can you hear that?”

Bethany nodded. “What is it?” “That’s me.” Dormael smiled. “That’s the sound of my magic. That’s my Kai.” “And this,” D’Jenn said, awakening his own power, “is mine.” Bethany laughed and put a hand to her chest. “I like mine better.” Dormael smiled—he ed what it was like the first time he’d learned to listen to magic, to see the world through the eyes of a wizard. The light danced across one’s vision instead of ing it. The moonlight almost had a taste to it, and the wind could tell a story. “Alright.” D’Jenn broke the spell. “Now that you know how to open your Kai, you must learn to close it.” “Sink back into the pool,” Dormael said, “and I’ll show you how to—” “Wait.” Bethany laughed. “Whose song is that?” Dormael gasped in alarm—an alien, silvery song hummed at the edge of his senses. The armlet! “Bethany, wait! Don’t reach for—” Bethany sucked in a startled breath, her eyes going wide. A bright, orange light filled the campsite. Tears leaked down Bethany’s cheeks, but her expression was frozen in terror. The song of the armlet entwined with Bethany’s power, like a parent holding an errant child by the arm. Dormael tried to force his way into the link with his Kai, to wrest the alien song away from the girl, but it was like climbing against the weight of a waterfall. D’Jenn’s song worked at something, but Dormael could barely hear it. Magic screamed in Dormael’s Kai, like the clearing was the center of a storm.

Dormael broke through the armlet’s hold on Bethany and lent some of his power to her. If his energy did her any good, her face didn’t react. Her eyes dilated to their limits, swirling with bright orange and yellow light. Dormael’s blood was chilled. Bethany’s body shook, and she floated from the ground. The campfire froze in place, held in stasis. Heat still radiated from the flames, but they didn’t flicker. Bethany’s hands twitched, and the flames twitched in response. Shawna screamed and scooted away. D’Jenn’s song ed its power to Dormael’s, and he redoubled his efforts to fight the armlet away. He drew on Bethany’s vast reserve of power and seized control of her Kai. Something fought him for control, like a dog with a stick, until Dormael wrenched the power away with an angry effort of will. Bethany hit the ground and fell on her side, her magic going silent. She started to cry, and Dormael made to help her, but Bethany was too fast. She scrambled to her feet and ran into the night, her sobs echoing as she disappeared into the snow. “Gods!” Dormael cursed. “Go after her, I’ll deal with the armlet!” D’Jenn said. Dormael dragged himself to his feet and ran after Bethany. He followed a trail of broken snow toward the east. Bethany must have been quick to have gotten so far in the dark. The trail led through the sparse trees, past the road, and toward the seaside cliffs. The air took on a wet chill and the salty smell of the sea grew thick. Dormael found her sitting on a stone overlooking the sea. She sat with her back to him, her sobs echoing over the wind. The sea beyond the cliffs reflected the moonlight in dancing flickers of silver. The waves crashed to the rocks below, and the wind buffeted Dormael’s ears. His feet were frozen and wet, and his breath was thick with exertion. He sat down before Bethany could protest and put an arm around her

shoulders. She resisted at first, but he held her against his side until she stopped moving. She settled against him and sobbed into his cloak. Dormael took a nervous breath. “I’m sorry that happened to you. It isn’t always like that.” “It’s not?” “Well, it’s never like that.” Dormael smiled. “That was the armlet’s doing. You know that, though, don’t you?” She nodded. “We didn’t know it would reach out that way. I’m sorry. It’s our fault.” “I’m not angry.” She shuddered. “I was just scared.” “It’s alright to be scared. Scared is what keeps you alive, sometimes.” “It is?” Dormael nodded. “You can’t be brave unless you’re scared first. It’s how you deal with it that matters.” “How do you deal with it?” Dormael leaned in close, as if to share a secret. “I swallow it.” She gave him a disbelieving look. “You do not.” “I do.” Dormael winked. “I swallow it and hold it in my stomach. Fear can’t come out of your stomach—everybody knows that.” “You’re just making things up.” “Would I do something like that?” Bethany smiled. “Shawna said never to trust a word out of your mouth.” “Who are you going to believe, though?”

I’ll have to ask Shawna about that. “Can you use magic to change your hair? I want red hair like Shawna, before she changed it.” Dormael mussed the girl’s brown locks. “You can, in a way. If you come back to camp, we’ll teach you. You can do it yourself one day.” Bethany’s eyes widened. “You’re going to teach me?” “Of course.” Dormael smirked. “Did you think we’d just let you go without teaching you?” “I don’t know,” Bethany mumbled. “No one’s ever taught me anything.” Dormael peered at Bethany, a question on the tip of his tongue. Where had she come from? Where were her parents? Dormael always thought of them at inappropriate times. I’ll find out one day, when she’s ready to tell me. “Well,” he said, rising from the stone, “that’s going to change. Come on, little one. Let’s get out of the wind.” “This is all very touching,” said a deep voice from behind them, “but you won’t be going anywhere.” Dormael spun, pushing Bethany behind him. Four men stood in the darkness, outlined by the moonlight. Three of them held crossbows, drawn and ready to loose. Dormael cursed his folly at not hearing their approach. The sound of the wind and sea below must have drowned them out. A tall, muscular man with braided hair stepped forward. He pulled a short sword from his belt and favored Dormael with a smile. He gestured at the men behind him. “If the Sevenlander moves, shoot the girl first.”

Inconvenient Enemies

Dormael clenched his jaw and stared the brigand in the eyes. He awakened his Kai, drawing the night into clear focus. The four men were tough, sinewy types, and had a desperate look in their eyes. They wore leather and fur, and their weapons were well made. The three in the back were Cambrellian, but the tall one with the braids was from the Dannon steppes. They cut off wizards’ fingers up there for magical charms. “Hurt the girl,” Dormael growled, “and you die.” “I told you we should have put bolts through the Sevenlander from back there!” The man on the left shot fearful glances between Dormael and the Dannon. “They’ve all got sorcery in them! I told you, dammit!” “Regan,” the Dannon said, keeping his eyes on Dormael, “if you keep pissing yourself, I’ll put a sword in your guts myself when this is over.” Regan gulped. “What’s a Dannon doing south of the steppe?” Dormael pulled magic from the ether, filling his body with power as he drew in his breath. “Tracking down a bitch and her pet sorcerer.” The Dannon showed his teeth and gestured with his sword. “We’re taking the child into our care. If you play nice, she won’t be harmed. Test me, and the first thing I’ll do is cut her pretty throat. Understand?” These aren’t Galanians. There must be bounties on our heads. With the Earl of Ferolan’s seal, Colonel Grant had probably circulated their descriptions throughout the region and offered a reward for their capture. It was a smart play, and one he and D’Jenn should have anticipated. Dormael wanted to slap himself.

The magic burned inside him. “I understand.” The air was strained, filled with the anticipation of violence. Dormael could feel the racing heartbeats of the Cambrellians, could hear the muscles in their jaws tightening as they clenched their teeth together. He sensed the light, eager tension of fingers tightening on triggers. Dormael focused on the tips of the crossbow bolts. He tied threads of magic to the wooden shafts, pumping them with energy. The bolts vibrated in their settings. One of the men faltered, pulling his crossbow away to check it. “Funny thing about crossbows.” Dormael smiled. “They’re useless if you take the bolts out.” The bolts made rhythmic cracks as they shattered, falling from their slots. The Dannon raised his sword. “Take them!” Dormael reached out with Kai, ripping the crossbows from the hands of their wielders. He smashed them together in the air, shattering them with the force of his magic. Bethany squealed, clutching his cloak in a meager shield. With a grunt of effort, Dormael sent the shattered pieces flying into the crossbowmen with enough speed to whistle as they flew. Leather-clad men went down in sprays of blood, staining the snow red beneath them. The Dannon snarled and came for Dormael, but the brute found himself wrapped in hardened air. He snarled something unintelligible, struggling against the crystallizing barrier around him. He went still, held in mid stride with his sword raised, his eyes full of blood rage. Shouts rang out from the direction of camp, and the smile on the Dannon’s face told Dormael his friends were in danger. Leaving the Dannon to languish in his magical prison, Dormael dragged Bethany back in the direction of their campfire. She held tight to his hand and came without protest. Halfway there he saw a bright flare of light, and wild screams erupted as it grew in intensity. In a few moments a man ran out of the trees, screeching in pain as flames crawled over his body. Dormael winced and shoved Bethany behind him. He killed the man by twisting his neck with his Kai. Clutching

Bethany’s hand, he dragged her farther into the trees. He made it back in time to find Shawna and D’Jenn taking care of their last two attackers. Two more corpses lay bleeding around the fire. Despite the screams Dormael had heard, neither Shawna nor D’Jenn seemed to be injured. Shawna pulled her sword out of a blonde man and spotted Dormael. “You’re alive!” “Aye. There’s four more like these on the other side of the road. I left one of them alive.” D’Jenn turned from the dying man at his feet. “Good. Let’s go see what he has to say for himself.” He cleaned his mace in a snowbank and started for the road. “Come on.” They found the Dannon where Dormael had left him, stiff and staring daggers into the cold sea wind. D’Jenn stepped where the Dannon could see him and looked the man up and down. After a long, threatening look into the man’s eyes, D’Jenn stepped back and gestured for Dormael to loosen his spell. Dormael put a cautionary hand on Bethany’s shoulder and dismissed the thickened air around the Dannon’s body. The northman fell into the snow, snarling as he came loose from the spell. “Imagine our surprise when your friends came out of the night.” D’Jenn smiled down at the Dannon. “Imagine theirs, before they lost their lives.” “You won’t get begging from me, sorcerer.” The northman spat. “My mother sang my blood-song when I became a man. You won’t have my soul.” Shawna gave him a confused look. “What’s he talking about?” “He thinks I’m going to steal his soul.” D’Jenn smirked. “He’s afraid his spirit will have to serve me in the afterlife. As for the blood-song—that’s what his mother whispered to him while they lay together.” The northman growled and tried to scramble to his feet, but D’Jenn raised

his hand and lashed out with his power, sending the Dannon back into the snow. “Don’t get up. If you get up, there will be pain. Understood?” The northman only stared. Shawna sighed. “He isn’t going to talk.” “Oh, he’ll talk,” D’Jenn kept his eyes on the Dannon. “There will be a bit of screaming first, maybe a spot of cursing, begging the gods for salvation. Talking will follow soon after.” Shawna’s face went a little white. She crossed her arms and took a deep breath, giving D’Jenn a grim nod. Her hand fell to the hilt of one of her swords, as if touching it gave her comfort, but that was all the emotion she betrayed. A few days ago, she couldn’t handle a bawdy joke, but now she’s ready for torture? “Just keep it quiet and be quick.” Dormael nodded at Bethany when D’Jenn looked to him. “We’ll clean up the mess, see if they have anything worth keeping.” D’Jenn nodded and gestured above his head. A blur formed around the three of them—D’Jenn, Shawna, and the northman—and coalesced into an opaque dome of blackness. Dormael listened for muffled screams, but no sound came from within. Bethany grimaced. “Do we have to move those?” She pointed to one of the corpses, crumpled into a pile of disturbed, bloody snow. “I’ll take care of those, little one.” Dormael sighed. “You look around and see if they dropped anything. Are you alright?” Bethany nodded and shambled away before Dormael could say more. She trudged around in the snow, keeping wide of the bodies. Dormael turned and started moving the corpses with his power. He piled the bodies in the trees and burned them with magical fire. The men had left their horses

down the hill, and Dormael corralled them together. He returned to the burn site and crushed the scorched remains to dust. Bethany tugged on his cloak as he was churning the ashes into the dirt. “What is it?” “Look!” She proffered a bulging leather purse. Dormael opened the snaps to reveal a fortune in silver Cambrellian marks. He reached into the purse and pulled out a handful of the coins—letting the silver marks tinkle back into the purse. Dormael raised his eyebrows. “Where did you find this?” “In one of their saddlebags.” Bethany grinned. “I found some string, too.” Dormael plucked one of the coins from the purse and flipped it to Bethany. “Here—keep that one. It’ll be our secret.” Bethany tucked the coin away with a smile. D’Jenn and Shawna came back to camp once the mess was cleaned. The Dannon wasn’t with them, and neither spoke of his absence. Dormael tossed the purse to D’Jenn, who raised a surprised brow once he saw the coins inside. “Eindor’s bloody eye.” D’Jenn smiled. “Where did you find this?” “Bethany found it.” She nodded. “On one of their horses.” D’Jenn fished a silver mark from the purse and handed it to Bethany. “Here —for a job well done.” Bethany grinned and accepted the coin, shooting Dormael a conspiratorial glance. “That must be what he meant.” Shawna looked down at the money. “He said they got paid double.” “Double?” Dormael asked.

“On of there being magic involved,” D’Jenn said. “Our former friend’s name was Fulgaar. He was a tracker, a bounty hunter from Borders.” Dormael gave him a suspicious look. “Since when do bounties get paid up front?” D’Jenn shrugged. “When the quarry is this important, I guess. This dangerous, maybe. They knew about Shawna, knew about you. Didn’t expect me, though.” “So, the Red Swords are ahead of us.” “We should have expected it.” D’Jenn let out a frustrated breath. “There’s no way we could have stopped every pigeon from flying to Borders, anyway. Fulgaar got our contract from a man named Hadrick Lucius. He’s a big man in town, apparently.” “Borders is a trap.” Dormael gave the snow a frustrated kick. “Our avenues of escape are closing around us.” “I don’t think so.” D’Jenn shook his head. “If this Hadrick Lucius is a local tough, he won’t speak the same language as the Red Swords.” Shawna furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?” “He’ll be open to bribery.” D’Jenn shrugged. “The leader of a crime syndicate is a businessman at heart. Lucius could probably give two golden shits —he wants money, or something just as good.” “And you think you can negotiate with him?” Shawna’s tone was full of doubt. “I think we don’t have much of a choice,” D’Jenn grunted. “We have to get over the sea, and Borders is our last hope until spring. Maybe we can offer him something.” Shawna crossed her arms. “And if you can’t?” “We threaten him.” D’Jenn fingered the half of his morningstar. “Threats

can be powerful motivators, especially if you make them sound good.” Dormael sighed. “I still say it’s a trap.” “It’s only a trap if you don’t know about it,” D’Jenn said. “Come on, let’s finish up here and get some rest. I’m going to lay down some wards around camp tonight. I don’t want to be surprised like that again.” “Agreed.” Dormael nodded. “Tomorrow we’re up and riding before the sun,” D’Jenn said. “And much more carefully than before.” Everyone murmured their agreement and sought their blankets. The smell of burnt bodies lingered in the cold night air. Dormael’s ears perked to every sound until he was too tired to raise his head. He thought he heard the silver croon of the armlet’s song as he drifted to sleep, but his mind was too fuddled to be sure. His dreams were haunted by a woman with eyes made of fire.

*** Grant’s eyes fluttered open, leading his hazy mind back to wakefulness like a horse pulling a cart. His cabin was dark, though bars of moonlight filtered through a pair of portholes in the hull. The ship creaked as it rolled in the swell, and odd things made bumping noises in the darkness. His nose was full of the ship’s odors—salt, tar, and unwashed men. “Colonel,” a rasping voice uttered from the shadows. Grant’s chest went cold. The Cloaked Man! He raised from his bunk, shooting his eyes around the room. His stomach tightened at the fear of facing the Maaz naked, though he knew his armor and weapons would be useless against him. The comfort of a hilt in hand would have been welcome, nonetheless.

A piece of shadow deepened in the corner of the room, and a tall, thin figure stepped out. He was swathed in a black robe, his head hidden deep in its cowl. Maaz took care to keep his skin hidden, but Grant had seen it peeking from the robe in the past. It was pale, tight, and covered with scars. Grant shuddered at the memory. “I see you, Colonel.” The voice from the hood was a dry, scratchy rattle. “Do not cower like a fool. I don’t sense the presence of the artifact. Why?” Grant cleared his throat, licked his lips. “The Baron Llewan’s daughter escaped, taking the artifact with her. We’re pursuing her now. She’ll be ours soon enough.” Maaz glared for a long, dangerous moment. Grant had the distinct feeling the man was sizing him up for a spit. Why did the Emperor tolerate this creature? Why would he place him in such a high position? Why did the gods tangle me with this bastard? How did he find me, even here? “Colonel,” Maaz hissed the word like an insult, “I thought you were the cream of the crop, the very epitome of the Galanian officer, the shining example of genteel brutality. I thought we had a gods-damned deal.” “We still do.” Grant drew himself up. “Nothing has changed. As I said, she’ll be ours soon enough, and I’ll sail into Shundov Harbor with the armlet in tow.” “You’d best hope that’s true, Colonel. The Emperor would be most displeased if you failed in this.” Maaz looked around the cabin. “And the child? You have her?” Grant froze. “Ah…the girl. She escaped.” The room grew colder. “She escaped.” Maaz raised his chin. “In Ferolan.” Grant cleared his throat—his mouth was dry as a desert. “Two of the castle guards disappeared the same night, so I assume they aided her.”

“And why would they do that, Colonel?” Maaz stared like a snake watching a mouse. “I don’t know. I was indisposed. We searched for her, but…she was gone. Disappeared.” “Disappeared.” Maaz stepped forward, his cold glare sweeping the cabin. “Colonel, if there is one thing that displeases me more than anything else, it’s ineptitude. Stupidity. Utter uselessness.” Grant bristled. “I’m not—” “I tasked you with capturing her because I had something else to deal with.” Maaz stepped closer. “I was assured you would care for her and return her to me in Shundovia when your mission in Cambrell was complete. Why did she run, Colonel? Why would the girl try to escape? What’s more—why would someone help her?” Grant’s mouth was heavy with the truth. Because I beat her, he wanted to say. Because I touched her. I couldn’t help myself. “I don’t know,” was what he managed to say. Maaz scoffed. “Colonel, do you the deal we made?” Grant nodded, his heart beating into his ears. “You work for me, do my bidding in all things. In return, I allow you to speak with your daughter. What was her name?” Maaz asked, as if he didn’t . You know her name, you fucking snake. “Geraldine.” Grant forced the word past a lump in his throat. Her name was a knife to his heart.

“Little Geraldine.” Maaz sighed. “So young, so innocent when she ed. How old was she?” “Nine,” Grant hissed. “Nine.” Maaz shook his head. “I know what happened to her, you know. I have ways of knowing things, Colonel, and I know what you did to her.” Grant’s stomach was like a block of ice. “I did nothing to her!” “Liar.” The word echoed in the confines of the shadowy cabin. “I spoke with her. It takes time to call a soul back from the Void, Colonel. It takes multiple tries, preparation, but it is possible. Little Geraldine told me a very strange tale.” “Shut up.” “Da hit me.” The voice that came out of the hood wasn’t Maaz’s. It was impossible, Grant knew it was some trick, but the voice was his daughter’s. He would know it anywhere. That voice was burned into his mind forever. “Da did things to me. He hurt me.” “Stop it.” “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Maaz went on in his own voice. “Couldn’t stop yourself from beating her…from doing other things to her.” “Shut up.” Grant’s lips peeled back from his teeth. “It was fine until her mother died.” Maaz smiled. “That’s when it got tough on little Geraldine, wasn’t it? Geraldine, though…she couldn’t take your hands on her. Couldn’t take the rigors of your…attentions.” Maaz leaned closer, his voice deadly quiet. “She was only a little girl, Colonel. She didn’t understand why her father would hurt her so much. You were supposed to love her. She’s happier now. She doesn’t regret jumping into that river.” Grant took a step forward before he could stop himself. “You shut your

mouth! Never speak of this again!” Maaz raised a shadowed hand, and Grant was tossed back against the door to the cabin. His back pressed hard against the wood, limbs flattened to the door. He tried to move but found his muscles numb to his commands. In his mind he screamed and fought, but his body would not respond. Slowly, he rose from the floor and slid upward. He tried to breathe, but no air would enter his chest. “Do not presume to take such a posture with me, Colonel. If I wished, I would eat your organs for dinner. Do you understand?” Grant could say nothing, so he only stared. “Find the armlet. I will find the girl. Once I do, you will retrieve her and return her to me. Then—and only then—will I complete my end of our bargain. If you fail…well, there are worse fates than crucifixion or being strangled by an Imperial assassin. And this time, Colonel, control yourself with the girl. Find another to terrorize if you must, but do not chase mine away a second time. If you do, you will regret it for the rest of your days— which will be a very short period.” Grant crumpled to the floor, released from the sorcerer’s power. His legs buckled, and he sucked in a desperate breath, trying to still the furious beating of his heart. When he looked up, he was alone in the cabin. He rose on shaky legs and stumbled to a table in the corner. He snatched a jug of firewine and took a long pull of the stuff, savoring the burn of the alcohol. It took four more pulls before his heart stopped trying to escape his ribcage, and six before his hands stopped shaking. It was hours before he was able to sleep again.

*** The next morning dawned bright and warmer than the day before. Though it was far from pleasant, it was enough for the snow to begin melting, which brought a new set of problems. The horses slogged through mud and icy

slush instead of flaky snow, and their hooves made small sucking noises as they were pulled from the saturated ground. It was unpleasant, but unavoidable, and Dormael found himself wishing the ground would freeze again. No one spoke about the events of the night prior, but Dormael could tell it was on everyone’s mind. Even Bethany was somber—more somber than normal, anyway. Most of the morning ed in silence. They turned northeast around mid-morning and the road meandered ever closer to the sea. The thundering rush of the tide rose in the distance and by midday they were paralleling the shoreline, a sheer drop to the ocean beckoning from nearby cliffs. The smell of salty water hung in the air and sunlight beamed on scattered patches of snow. A strip of land—little more than a dark stripe on the northern horizon— appeared across the bay around midafternoon. “Dannon.” Shawna peered at the distant coastline. “That’s the southernmost point of it.” Dormael nodded. “A dangerous place full of dangerous people.” “Borders will be in the valley at the mouth of the bay.” Shawna held her cloak against a strong gust of wind. “We must be getting close.” “The land slopes down from here,” D’Jenn said. “We’ll pick up the pace, but we should be careful not to twist the horses’ legs in this muck.” “What’s wrong with the water?” Bethany leaned over Horse’s flank to peer at the ocean. The water in the bay had a strong current. On the southern side—the Cambrellian side—the water flowed inward, toward the city. It flowed in the opposite direction on the north side of the bay, past the coast of Dannon. “That’s the current,” D’Jenn explained. “Just out to sea, somewhere around the mouth of the bay, there’s a great disturbance in the water. That’s what causes the current.” “A disturbance?”

“Maelstroms,” Dormael said. “Giant whirlpools in the sea. Anything that gets too close to them gets sucked down into the water, never to be seen again.” Bethany’s eyes went wide. “Are we going to see them—the maelstroms, I mean?” “I certainly hope not.” Shawna shuddered. “If you’re close enough to see them, it’s probably too close.” D’Jenn nodded. Bethany looked over the water again. “What causes them?” “Some say it’s a hole in the ocean floor that leads to the underworld.” Dormael smiled. “Saarnok takes any vessel that sails too close.” “Don’t tell the girl such things.” Shawna rolled her eyes. “Saarnok is not waiting for us out in the ocean, dear.” “I’ve heard there’s a hole in the sea bottom out there,” D’Jenn said, “and the water comes out on the other side of Eldath, in the Sea of the Beast.” Shawna scoffed. “Do you believe that?” D’Jenn shook his head. “No. I don’t know what it is.” “Maybe the gods reach their fingers into the sea and stir it every once in a while.” Dormael winked at Bethany. She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s there,” D’Jenn said. “It makes this place hard to reach, and the captains who do sail here must be amongst the best.” Dormael snorted. “You hope.” D’Jenn scowled and waved his comment away. “I hope you’re right about that. There’s nothing up here but the cold, the trees, and Dannon marauders.” Shawna shook her head. “No one wants to come here, and no one wants anything that comes from here. I don’t know

why any ship would come here. I doubt this place has seen a King’s Patrol, or a tax collector for that matter, for a long time.” “No tax collector?” Dormael echoed, miming a scandalized expression. “The horror!” Shawna gave Dormael a flat look. D’Jenn shrugged and snapped his reins. “It’s all we’ve got. Let’s get moving.” They spotted smoke on the horizon before Borders came into sight. The sun was close to setting by the time they crested a hill and began the descent into the valley. Dormael could smell wood smoke and horseshit, though the acrid stink of a tannery was mixed with the odors on the wind. It was dark when Borders appeared in the valley. It was a crowded town of wooden buildings huddled against the wind, with no real order to the streets and avenues. It looked like a forgotten outpost on the edge of nowhere. A thick forest stood to the east, and to the north were the windswept hills of the Dannon Steppe. Dormael was heartened to see a few masts in the harbor, though it was difficult to tell what sorts of vessels lay at anchor. I suppose this place is prime for those who want to avoid a customs man. Bethany looked up at him from her perch on Horse, and said with grim sincerity, “It stinks.” Dormael patted her on the head and nodded his silent reply. A wooden palisade encircled the town. It reminded Dormael of something he’d seen the Nelekan Legions do during the Galanian invasion. The Legions were notorious for their ability to fortify and build, and the palisade looked so much like the wall around a Nelekan camp that Dormael did a double-take. It was made of bare tree trunks, cut and erected in a hurry. They were sharpened on top and there was even a gatehouse constructed of fresh timber. “Those are new.” Dormael nodded to the fortifications. “The wood hasn’t even cured.”

D’Jenn turned to Shawna. “Do the Dannons raid into Cambrellian territory?” “Not in years—at least, not that I’ve heard of.” D’Jenn turned back in his saddle and spent the rest of the trip regarding the wall in silence. Four men ambled into their path as they approached the only gate into the city. They were wearing leather and fur and leaning on long spears that looked more like re-purposed farm tools than weapons of war. A pair of crossbows leaned against the wall nearby, and those looked deadly enough. The men had hard-bitten features and bored expressions. Dormael raised his eyebrow at the guards. What threat had prompted the residents of Borders to put up a hasty palisade? If it was the most likely suspect—raiding war-bands from the cold steppes of Dannon—then how had the northman they’d encountered been so free to move around? The men standing in the muddy slush in front of the gate were no soldiers. They carried themselves more like thugs than military men, and their weapons were anything but uniform. Hells, one of them is holding a boar spear. “Hold up right there.” The man standing in front spit to the side. “State your business.” “My business,” D’Jenn said, flashing the man a grin, “is my own. It will stay that way.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Fair enough. It’ll cost you.” Dormael smiled at the man’s straight-forward nature. D’Jenn reached into his cloak and produced a pair of silver marks, flipping them to the guard. The man took a second to examine the coins before tucking them out of sight. “Right, then.” The guard nodded and moved aside. “Take this path straight on toward the harbor, you’ll an inn before you get there.”

Shawna cleared her throat. “Sir—where did this wall come from?” The other three men snickered and began to mutter amongst themselves. The leader flinched as if Shawna had slapped him on the shoulder and turned around to regard the noblewoman with a raised eyebrow. Dormael stifled a grin. “Say that again?” “The wall,” Shawna repeated. “How did it get here?” “Well, we built it, didn’t we? Didn’t get here through the wishes of sprites and little children.” “Yes, but—” “Did you just call me ‘sir’?” Shawna gave him a confused expression. “I did.” The man chuckled and shook his head. “You’re in the wrong damned place, missy. You want to know about the wall?” “I do,” Shawna said. Her cheeks reddened. The man smiled at her with crooked teeth. “It’ll cost you.” Shawna stiffened. “You should learn how to speak to a lady.” She spurred her horse through the gates, kicking up soupy mud and splashing it over the guard’s clothing. The man favored her back with a dark glare and spat into the mud at her ing. Dormael nudged Horse in Shawna’s wake, and D’Jenn followed. He ignored the curses the guard yelled at their backs and Bethany’s questions about what they meant. Borders was an odd sort of place. There were spots where enclaves had sprouted—walled compounds of modern brick and stone much like those in Ferolan. Outside of those places, though, the story was quite different. Much of Borders was a slum. Ramshackle constructions huddled together in

the cold, some walls standing simply from the benefit of the other walls resting upon them. Some places that they ed looked more like mazes made of garbage than actual buildings. Dormael shuddered at the thought of living in such a place. They ed two defensive positions made of fresh wood, though neither barricade was manned. The skeletal remains of burned buildings greeted them in another place, and the streets were deathly quiet for this time of night. People ed them, but none offered even a curt greeting as they hurried toward their destinations. “There was a battle fought here,” D’Jenn said as they neared what looked like an inn. Dormael nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.” “The palisade, the destruction,” Shawna said. “What do you think is happening here?” “I don’t really care as long as there are ships in the harbor.” D’Jenn sighed. “Let’s get settled in for the night so we can get our stay in this place over with. I’d like to bathe before Lucius’s people spring their trap.” Shawna gave the inn a dubious look. “You want to bathe in there?” Dormael followed her gaze. The inn was an older building and larger than anything nearby. A light buzz of conversation floated out through the doorway and into the twilight, along with the smells of burning wood and tobacco. It wasn’t the worst place in which Dormael had ever slept, but it was far from the nicest. At least it’s an actual building. “If everything goes according to plan, we’ll be leaving on an extended sea voyage some time in the next few days.” D’Jenn climbed from Mist’s saddle. “Aye, we’re going to bathe here. It will be the last bath any of us will get for a while—unless you’d like to take a dip in the Stormy Sea.” Shawna’s face twisted with reluctance. “I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t relish the thought of being surrounded with unwashed brutes day in and

day out. The two of you smell awful when you don’t bathe.” Dormael scoffed. “We’re not that bad.” “Ask Bethany. We can tell the two of you apart by your stink.” “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about what you’re telling her,” Dormael grumbled as he climbed from his saddle and helped Bethany. “Did you tell her not to trust me?” “No.” Shawna shook her head. “I told her not to trust anything that comes out of your mouth.” “That’s the same thing.” “Sound advice, either way.” D’Jenn mounted the steps to the door. “Now— will you two stop flirting so we can get this done? Silence would be a gift from the gods.” Shawna looked horrified. “flirting?!” D’Jenn shot them a mischievous smile and ducked through the door before they could say anything else. Shawna stared at the place where he had been standing for a moment, her mouth hanging open in indignation. Dormael sighed and turned to his belongings, but he paused as Bethany tugged on the sleeve of his cloak. She bit her lip and gestured to him in the Hunter’s Tongue. Don’t worry, her hands said, I trust you anyway. Dormael smiled. You’re learning your lessons well. You’ve been paying attention. Bethany nodded, and everyone went inside. The innkeeper was an obsequious little man who hovered around Shawna, wringing his hands and dipping his liver-spotted head. His eyes darted constantly, never meeting Dormael’s direct gaze. A buzz of conversation came from a common room that had been built as an addition, so they were saved from any gawking as they paid for their rooms and headed upstairs.

The moon was high by the time everyone made their way to the common room for dinner. Shawna had wrapped her hair—which had begun to shift back to its red-golden hue—in a dark shawl, and she wore both her blades to the table. She drew every eye in the room, and Dormael could tell it made her self-conscious. The crowd eyed her the way a pack of wolves might eye a deer before digging in. He and D’Jenn drew their share of dark glances. There was a fair number of Dannons in the room, and Dannons had an irrational hatred of Sevenlanders. Given that during the Second Great War, the Dannons had invaded the Sevenlands and raided the countryside, despoiling everything in their path, Dormael didn’t feel particularly cheery toward them, either. Dannons were tall, fair-skinned and lightly colored, but they were tough people. The frozen lands they called home hardened them into brutal warriors. Dormael returned their stares with bared teeth. “How long until this Hadrick Lucius springs his trap?” Shawna asked. “I’m growing tired of everyone staring at us.” “Any time now.” D’Jenn smiled. “We’ve been sitting here in plain sight for long enough. At least three different messengers have come and gone.” Dormael looked around the room. “They’re probably just getting everyone into position.” “How are we supposed to do this?” Shawna asked. “How am I supposed to do this?” “You’re not going to crumble on us now, are you?” D’Jenn said. “I’m not bloody crumbling! This is the first time I’ve ever…well, done whatever this is!” “You were fine with Fulgaar.” D’Jenn gave her a searching look. “I only watched.” Shawna turned her face aside in disgust. “Besides, it wasn’t like I had to face Fulgaar—not in the way we have to face this Lucius person. How am I supposed to face someone like that? Talk to them? I don’t even want him to look at me.”

Dormael shrugged. “I have a trick that might help.” “Seriously?” “Seriously.” Dormael nodded. “I call it the silence effect.” “Silence effect?” “Aye.” Dormael leaned closer. “Trust me on this one, it works. If you have no idea what to say, or just want to put someone off, just don’t say anything. Look at them, look right into their eyes, and just keep silent.” “And what will that do—make me look simple?” “Actually, it does work,” D’Jenn said. “People will assume all sorts of things about you from what you hold back. In conversation, in reputation…it works in all sorts of ways.” “ this, too—you’re not back on your father’s farm anymore,” Dormael said. “No one knows you here, Shawna.” “I know that.” Shawna gave the room an uncomfortable look. “I’m not some spoiled brat.” “That’s not what I meant.” Dormael sighed. “I mean that you can be anyone you want out here. Hadrick Lucius doesn’t know you from any other woman on the street. Act as if you’re a force to be reckoned with, and he’ll treat you as such.” “Roll up your sleeves, flash your Marks around, and just stare at him.” D’Jenn nodded. “I’ll bet he treats you like a poisonous snake.” Shawna appeared to mull that over as another round of drinks came, and a commotion started at the far end of the room. A group of men pushed their way into the common room, shooting dark glances at the patrons. A few terse commands were spat, and the people who had been eating suddenly found somewhere else to be. The common room emptied with a clatter. Bethany stiffened, but Dormael calmed her with a hand on her shoulder. He summoned his Kai and let his magic seep into the room, opening his senses

to the music of the ether. Dormael could almost feel the leather on Shawna’s weapons compressing as she tightened her grip on the hilts. Six men pushed their way through the throng of departing patrons, moving to surround the companions’ table. They kept their distance, making no move to subdue anyone, and watched with wary expressions. They were pale of skin with dark hair and light-colored eyes, wearing tunics in the fashion of Neleka—a country to the east of Cambrell that had been annexed by the Galanians years ago. Their hair was cropped short in military fashion, and each of them held their hands to the short, wicked swords for which the Nelekan Legions were famous. Dormael’s eyes flicked to Shawna, and he noticed her peering at the swords, too. Once the room was cleared and the guards in place, another man strode through the door. An unassuming man walked into the inn’s common room and regarded the companions with a grim expression. He had a hard face, one that seemed used to violence. He had a swordsman’s build and sported another Legion-style blade. He walked to the table and pulled out an empty chair between Dormael and D’Jenn. The air was thick with tension. “I think we can dispense with all pretenses here,” he said. “My name is Hadrick Lucius. I’m a man with interests around here. One of those interests is you.” “And here we are.” D’Jenn smiled. He poured himself a drink from the pitcher on the table and offered some to Hadrick. The Nelekan surprised Dormael by taking the proffered cup and ing the table in a silent toast. His eyes peered at them over the rim of his goblet as everyone drank. Hadrick sat his cup on the table. “Two days ago, I paid a substantial bounty for a group of people that sound remarkably like you. A girl, golden-haired and carrying a pair of swords, and a Sevenlander with a long, braided beard.” “That’s strange.” Dormael raised an eyebrow. “Cousin, do you know anything about this?” “Can’t say that I do.” D’Jenn shrugged.

“There you have it, friend Hadrick.” Dormael smirked. “Sorry we couldn’t help with your problem.” “Is that so?” “It is. In fact, it’s probably best if you turned around and pissed off.” Dormael leaned forward, showing the man his teeth. “I’m sure you’ve got something to do—somewhere else.” The Nelekan narrowed his eyes at Dormael. “No need to be insulting, Sevenlander. I’d hate for knives to get drawn and blood to start flying. That sort of thing wouldn’t go well for you, would it? A little courtesy might be in order.” “I think you’re forgetting something,” D’Jenn said. “Something that your bounty mentioned—something your pet Dannon found out the hard way.” Hadrick shot D’Jenn a cold glare. “You killed Fulgaar?” “I didn’t kill him.” D’Jenn shrugged. “I held him upside down over the edge of a seaside cliff and broke his legs. It’s hard to swim with shattered legs, and I tossed him pretty far out. I wouldn’t expect him for supper.” Hadrick narrowed his eyes. “Fulgaar had seven other trackers with him.” “Had.” Dormael nodded. “They didn’t last long against magic.” He let the words hang in the air and took another long pull from his goblet. The men in the room shifted around. Hadrick gave him a cold, flat stare. “So, the information in the bounty was true. You’re a sorcerer.” “I thought we weren’t insulting each other.” Dormael kept his eyes on Hadrick over the rim of his cup. Hadrick stared right back with a stony expression. “We can sit here and toss shit at each other until the moon sets, or we can dispense with this wordplay and get to the realities of the situation.” “Realities?” D’Jenn asked.

“Aye.” Hadrick leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “For one, your long-bearded friend over there might be a sorcerer, and that’s a godsdamned fearsome thing. How fast can he get his curses off before one of my men puts a sword through his soft parts? That mace you’re wearing is wicked enough, but the wrong kind of weapon for a brawl in close quarters like this. You’ve no room to swing it, and there will be a Legion sword in your back before you can pull it from your belt.” Hadrick looked to Shawna. “Those pretty swords you’re wearing mean one of two things—either you’re overconfident, or overcompensating. The bounty also mentioned you took an arrow wound, and all the pretty swords on Eldath won’t save you from crumpling the first time someone bowls you into the floor and puts a foot in your ribs. The bounty is just for your body and your belongings, so you know.” Dormael let out a short, mocking laugh. “That’s a pretty picture you’ve painted.” “I usually enjoy insufferable types,” Hadrick said, “but I’ll make an exception for you. Gut wounds are painful, you know.” D’Jenn smiled. “You’re missing some key information.” “Do tell.” The muscles in Hadrick’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. “First, the baroness is worth four of your men, even with one arm,” D’Jenn said. Hadrick’s eyes went to Shawna, who smiled and laid her arms on the table, baring the Marks of the Isle tattooed on her wrists. Hadrick’s expression changed from irritation to cautious surprise. “To continue,” D’Jenn said, “my mace is the last thing you should be worried about.” D’Jenn smiled and snapped his fingers, and Dormael felt his song whip into the room. The doors—both to the stairwell and to the kitchen—slammed shut with such violence they vibrated in their rickety frames. Hadrick’s men flinched but recovered their discipline in short order. They’re not easily cowed. Those are Legion men, unless I miss my guess.

Hadrick smirked. “This does complicate things.” “Considerably.” Dormael smiled. “Maybe it’s time you took the advice I offered earlier. Piss off, friend. Find another arm to twist—this one is too much trouble.” Hadrick took a deep breath and a long pull from his goblet, polishing off the alcohol before pouring himself another. Dormael and D’Jenn shot each other confused glances. Hadrick narrowed his eyes at them as he raised his second cup. “I’m new to the bounty hunting business.” He took a careful sip. “The channels your warrant came through aren’t even mine—I took them from their previous owner. As such, I’m unsure of the way these things are normally done, so let me be straight with the three of you.” D’Jenn regarded him with a bland look. “Go on.” “Things have been…interesting…in Borders lately.” “We noticed,” Dormael muttered. “There’s been a shift in the balance of power here. I had a little dispute with the former lords of the city’s…ah…trade organizations.” Hadrick smiled. “I chased them out of town. They took what men remained to them and fled into the woods.” “So that’s why the palisade went up,” Dormael said. Hadrick nodded. “They’ve ed their little ragtag bands together and started raiding the surrounding hills. I might have run of the city, but the city is a gods-damned shit stew. I’ve got starving people, dying people, no food for the winter, and a bloody season on the horizon. What few farms brought food into the city have been burned by the syndicate leaders. I want you to understand my position. The people in this shit-hole are depending on me. “Your bounty promised a sum that I couldn’t scrape together in three years. With that sort of money, I could buy foodstuffs, supplies, maybe mercenaries to deal with this problem. Without it, people will die of

exposure in the muddier parts of town. So, you see—there’s no way in all Six Hells I’m letting you walk out of here, sorcery or no.” So, he’s not quite a thief, after all. He cares about the people in this town. D’Jenn broke the silence. “You’re former Legion.” “The Bloody Eighteenth.” Hadrick smiled. “Did fourteen years, made First Order Centurion. Came here after the troubles.” “The troubles?” Dormael took a drink from his mug. Hadrick made a disgusted gesture. “The war with Galania. My service died with Neleka, when those bastards took her.” Dormael, D’Jenn, and Shawna all shared a surprised glance. “With Galania, you say?” Shawna startled Hadrick with the sound of her voice. “It’s the last war Neleka ever fought,” Hadrick grumbled. “Some of us left after the nobility surrendered to the Empire. They offered us clemency, of course, but we weren’t going to stay and fight for those bastards, like some pack of broken mutts.” “Odd, then,” Shawna said, “that you would find yourself in their employ after all this time.” Hadrick stiffened as if he’d been insulted. “Don’t you know who the warrant came from?” D’Jenn smiled. “In this line of work, you don’t ask those types of questions.” “It might interest you to know this time.” Dormael shrugged. “If I was a man who’d spent years trying to escape the Empire, I would want to know when they came sniffing around.” “I wasn’t escaping.” A note of anger entered Hadrick’s voice. “I wasn’t going to take a knee and swear to be a good little traitor, that’s all.”

Dormael smiled. “Well, since you need that money for the bounty, would you like if I cleared a space in the floor so you can take that knee before we get started? You might as well make it official before you do the Empire’s dirty work.” He knew the comment would sting. Hadrick ground his teeth. He looked like he wanted to punch Dormael in the teeth, or perhaps rip his short sword from his side and come for him, magic be damned. The crack in his stony facade showed for just a moment before his bearing was back in place. “I don’t see much of a choice before me,” Hadrick growled. “I don’t have to like this, but it must be done. I’ll let you finish your drinks before we get started—I can give that much courtesy, despite your insults. A favor from one enemy of the Empire to another.” D’Jenn shrugged. “What if you did have a choice?” “What if the gods piss golden nectar on my head? What’s your point?” Hadrick shot back. “Your real problem is out there in the hills, raiding the farms that this city.” D’Jenn gestured at the harbor. “If you find us age across the sea—to the Sevenlands—we’ll deal with your problem. We’ll go out there and kill the leaders of the rival gangs ourselves, cut the head from the snake. We can’t give you money, but we might be able to save some of your farmers.” Hadrick peered at D’Jenn for a long time before he spoke. “Why are the Galanians after you? What did you do?” “Nothing.” Shawna’s voice was tight. “The Red Swords burned my home, killed my family. I killed a few of them in return, and they didn’t like that much. The only thing we’ve done to the Empire is defend ourselves from it.” “And you’ll kill the syndicate leaders?” Hadrick looked back to D’Jenn. “We’ll even do it tonight. Find us a ship, and you’ll be the only trade organization in town by morning.”

Hadrick regarded D’Jenn for a long moment before letting out a deep breath. He looked to his men, who stood around the room in silent witness. No one spoke as Hadrick mulled over his decision. “If you can do this, if you can kill the bastards threatening my food supply, then fine. I’ll find your ship. The Baroness and the child will stay with me— as guests, mind you—to ensure you hold up your end of the deal. And I’ll need proof.” “Of course.” A wicked smile bloomed on D’Jenn’s face. “You won’t be disappointed.” “Fine.” Hadrick narrowed his eyes. “If you’re enemies of the Galanian Empire, you’re friends of Hadrick Lucius and the Eighteenth. Let’s have another round of drinks, and I’ll point you in the right direction.”

*** Dormael turned his beak into the wind, filling his wings with the cold night air. His vision, heightened to the breathtaking clarity of the gyrfalcon, crawled over the land as it wheeled beneath him. He beat his wings, pulling himself into the higher reaches, where the strong winds flowed unfettered. The wind howled from the sea, and the harbor rolled with the chop. It wasn’t the easiest flight Dormael had ever attempted, but he was well experienced with flying. The same could not be said for D’Jenn. For some reason unknown to any but the gods in the Void, D’Jenn had never mastered the basic feel for flying. Dormael had attempted to teach him over the years, but D’Jenn remained the least graceful flier Dormael had ever seen. If birds could laugh, D’Jenn would have been a flock favorite. Luckily for his cousin, it was too dark outside for any onlooking bird to see him pawing through the air like a dog trying to swim. Don’t flap unless you must, Dormael said into D’Jenn’s mind. If you climb and get some stronger wind beneath you, it will be easier going.

I don’t know why I ever agreed to this, D’Jenn’s voice came back. We could make good time on four legs and not risk breaking every bone in our bodies. Be my guest, but when you finally catch up to me, you have to it I’m the better Warlock. You should hold your breath until that happens, see if you out first, D’Jenn shot back. He struggled to an altitude closer to Dormael, despite his grumbling. Once D’Jenn got the rhythm down, he stopped floundering in the air and stabilized his body. If you feel like you’re going to lose control and fall out of the sky, spread your wings and aim for a snow drift. Dormael would have smiled if the gyrfalcon could grin. I hate this, D’Jenn returned. Taking the forms of animals was a strange experience. Each wizard had different affinities for different things, and even within the small group of Blessed who could muster the power to take animal form, skill with maintaining the spell varied. It took intense focus to make the change, and sliding into the physical form of another creature brought certain complications. Wizards tended to develop preferences for the forms they took, because each time an animal form was assumed, the wizard gained greater control over the change. Shapeshifting brought with it the essence of the form, the instinctual side of the animal. Staying in control was like riding the beast from within. Dormael had his own preferences for shapeshifting—he took the gyrfalcon for flight, the wolf for hunting, and he’d once been instructed to take the form of a lion for a mission. He kept it sharp in his memory for its prowess, but he’d never again tried to assume it. He could slide into other forms if he had time to prepare, but staying in control was difficult. Mastering the form was like mastering the animal itself. D’Jenn found the forms of birds distasteful, and he hated to fly. Dormael had loved flying from the first time he’d tried. Flying was the whole reason he’d learned to shapeshift in the first place. His shoulder gave a painful

twinge now and then, but it was the only remaining indication he’d been injured. The rival gang leaders and their men had taken up residence in a sprawling forest to the east of Borders called the Darkroot. To hear Hadrick tell it, the Darkroot was a massive, old forest that stretched between three different lands. There were no roads through the Darkroot and few trails leading anywhere. Hadrick had told them tales of massive trees and rumors of dark spirits in the forest, but Dormael rarely bought into such stories. Dormael dipped his wings and headed east, putting the wind at his back. The land rolled beneath him, and the cold night air whisked through his feathers. The aura of light from Borders faded as Dormael led D’Jenn into the inky night. Lightning flashed through the sky to the north, a flickering beacon over the steppes of Dannon. The Darkroot stretched beneath them, and the moonlight reflected from the top of the canopy. The trees filled the valley to the horizon, dense and foreboding, with only blackness between the trunks. Dormael tucked his wings and pointed his beak at the trees, sliding into a shallow dive. Follow me. Just don’t get me killed. Dormael turned over the canopy, sweeping the trees with his heightened vision. He turned lazy curves back and forth, working his way to the east. Hadrick had no idea where these men had camped, but street toughs wouldn’t have ventured far into the primordial forest. After a few turns over the trees, he spotted moonlight playing through wisps of smoke in the distance. Stay close, we’re landing! Right behind you! Dormael turned to the north and wheeled in a circle. Holding his wings wide to slow down, he spiraled into the clearing and landed on a patch of leaf-

covered ground. Turning his magic inward, he pulled his body back to its own form. His mind wrenched with vertigo as his flesh slid back to its normal state. Feathers pulled into his skin, his face distended and morphed, his torso exploded with sensation. When the transformation was complete, Dormael crouched on his hands and knees, staring at the wet leaves under his fingers. He breathed the cold air through his own nose and shook off the sensation of the change. The flutter of wings alerted Dormael to D’Jenn’s landing. With a quiet whisper of power, D’Jenn slid into his own skin and rose to his feet. “You had fun that time.” Dormael smiled. “You don’t have to lie to me.” “Dormael,” D’Jenn sighed, “I’d rather pull my teeth out through my stomach than do that again. I always lose my bearings in the air. Where was the smoke?” “Northeast, I think. If you give me a moment, I’ll try to catch the scent.” D’Jenn nodded. “I need to clear my head before we make another change, anyway. It always makes me nauseous.” “Kick your feet up, take a nap. It’s not as if we’ve got people to kill.” D’Jenn gave him a sour look. “I lead this time. I’m well acquainted with the wolf.” Dormael nodded. “If you want.” Once he’d caught his breath, Dormael turned his power inward once again. He visualized the image of the wolf in his mind, summoning the very essence of the beast. A violent spasm wracked his body, then it was fluid, sliding like a greased eel into the form of the wolf. He breathed, tasting the air of the forest. Scents assailed him from every direction, their myriad sensations telling him stories. A deer had ed nearby earlier in the day—female unless he missed his guess. Dormael’s mouth watered and his jowls opened, tasting the air along the deer’s trail.

He resisted the strong, instinctual urge to snuffle along the ground and shoot off after the deer—they had more dangerous prey to chase. D’Jenn’s chosen form was a giant, black-furred beast. His eyes were deep gold, and they glowed like beacons in Dormael’s wolf-sight. His vision was sharp as if each movement in his field jumped out at him, and the moonlight glowed. Though the colors were washed out, he could tell when each individual leaf on a bush tussled in a breeze. Adding scent to the mix produced an entirely different way to see the world. The essence of the wolf pulled at him, eager to be on the hunt. Dormael pawed at the ground. Are you ready? It’s time to go. D’Jenn shook his black shoulders and sniffed the ground. Dormael tested the air again and smelled a faint odor that filled his body with tension— burning wood. His muscles were suddenly tense, full of the need to run. I’ve got them, D’Jenn’s voice whispered into his mind. We hunt! Like ghosts in the night, they were off. D’Jenn flew across the ground, dodging around trunks of ancient trees, loping over the litter of dead leaves without seeming to touch the earth. Dormael sprang over the ground after his cousin through the strange world of the Darkroot. They ran like whispers in the wind, as silent as flashes of moonlight. They followed the scent of cook fires until the acrid stench of burning wood became thick enough to make Dormael sneeze. D’Jenn slowed to a stalk and Dormael fell in beside him. The trees stood like dark sentinels in the night, branches reaching out to block the light penetrating the canopy. The woods were alive with man-stench. The air tingled with steel oil, cured leather, sour sweat and someone had even pissed nearby in the last few days. D’Jenn crouched low to the ground. There’s a guard ahead. A form materialized out of the darkness ahead. Moonlight glinted from a helmet and mail shirt. The sentry milled about in the woods, oblivious to the presence of the two wolves.

I see him. Dormael peeled his lips from his teeth. Should we take him, or wide? We’re getting close, so let’s take him. D’Jenn dug his paws into the dirt. I’ll go high. Dormael’s mouth watered, and his legs twitched with energy. He itched for the guard’s blood in his mouth. Nothing beat taking a fresh kill after a good run. Dormael ghosted out to the guard’s side, circling to take the man from behind. The woods didn’t betray his presence, and Dormael moved through the brush with little more than a whisper. D’Jenn’s black-furred visage was nowhere to be seen. Dormael put his belly to the dirt and slinked forward, baring his teeth. Now! Dormael took three lightning-fast steps and slammed into the man’s legs, teeth champing shut around his hamstring. The barest hint of a scream escaped the man’s throat before D’Jenn slammed into his chest, taking him to the ground. With a vicious jerk of his neck, D’Jenn ripped out the guard’s throat. The coppery taste blood filled Dormael’s mouth, having leaked from the guard’s leg. It invigorated him, charged him with energy. He wanted to throw his head back and howl at the sky, he wanted to tear into the man’s soft parts before death cooled them to tastelessness. Dormael clenched down on the essence of the wolf, trying to wrench control of his psyche back from its baser instincts. The last thing he wanted was to become a cannibal—even though the thought of the meat filled his mind with a ravenous hunger. Perhaps it’s time we abandon the animal form. Dormael backed away from the body. It’s becoming hard to control. D’Jenn dipped his snout. Indeed. Turning his power inward once again, Dormael returned to his own skin.

Once the vertigo was out of his system, Dormael gagged on the taste of the man’s blood. He spit and coughed into the dirt as quietly as he could. It took long moments of heavy breathing to calm his beating heart. D’Jenn’s hand on his shoulder signaled him to alertness, and he nodded to let his cousin know he was ready to move on. D’Jenn slipped into the cold darkness of the woods, his feet moving through the underbrush without a sound. Dormael took a deep breath and followed him, blinking his eyes to adjust to the change in light. The world was more vivid with human eyes, but the darkness was much deeper. He followed D’Jenn through the silent landscape, moving toward an orange glow in the distance. Scattered noises floated through the woods—the tinkling of metal or bursts of harsh laughter. Tension settled into Dormael’s shoulders as they neared the camp. He focused on placing his feet with care. D’Jenn fetched up against a massive tree trunk and signaled Dormael to a place nearby. Dormael crouched in the shadow of a massive old tree and closed his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the camp through his Kai. D’Jenn’s voice came into his mind. Get a look at what we’re dealing with. I’ll watch your back for sentries. Dormael nodded to his cousin and turned his magic inward once again. He separated his consciousness with practiced ease and floated through the boughs of the ancient trees. The camp was little better than a haphazard gathering of tents and cook fires. Plundered carts were parked around the encampment, their contents spilled over the ground or stacked in clumps. The only place where the camp had any organization was on the eastern side, where the horses were picketed in a long line. There were thirty tents in camp. None were larger than the others, and he couldn’t pick out anyone as definitive leaders. Men milled about in the camp, or huddled into their bedrolls, and all of them wore thick fur cloaks. He returned to his body and breathed through his own nose again, shaking his head as he settled back into his skin. His head swayed and his feet tingled. Too many shifts were taking their toll. Thirty tents, maybe sixty or seventy men. I couldn’t tell who was in charge.

Eindor’s bloody eye, D’Jenn cursed. I’d hoped we could identify them, hit them from a distance, and get out of here in time to get some sleep. Dormael sighed. Any ideas? Hadrick had specifically asked—and somewhat unexpectedly—to spare anyone they could. Most of these men were just hired hands, according to him, and he could use them in cementing his own influence over the city. Without the men paying them, they would melt back into town rather than camping in the cold woods to raid a few farms and food caravans. Dormael glanced to the east, toward the horses. We need to cause a little trouble. If I slip around to the east and stir up something big, do you think you can pick out the leaders and take them down? Stir up something big? What does that mean? Dormael smiled. I’m going to set their horses loose. Just sit tight, coz. Be ready. D’Jenn shot him a murderous glare in the moonlight, but Dormael waved him to silence. He moved away from his hiding place, working out from the camp to avoid getting behind another sentry. Dormael entertained the idea of slipping back into wolf form. He could move easier as a wolf, and nothing spooked a bunch of horses like a natural predator. All he would have to do is get close enough for one of them to smell him, and the beasts would panic. The thought of human blood in his mouth was all it took to banish that idea. Dormael used every bit of woodcraft he knew to move through the night. Dead leaves crunched under his feet, but the noise was lost in the wind whispering through the boughs. He went from hiding place to hiding place, working his way past huddled groups of sleeping men, careful not to put a foot in the wrong place. It took an eternity to maneuver his way to the picket lines. Just as he was about to cut a picket line, something sharp pressed into the back of his neck. “You move, and I’ll cut your throat,” a gruff voice said from behind him.

Dormael froze. If I kill him before he raises a— “Jarl! Jarl, you fucker—stop scratching your balls and go tell Roburn we caught somebody nosing around the camp!” Dormael cursed under his breath. A voice answered from the dark. “Fine, keep your knickers on. And don’t call me a fucker!” Dormael kept his face pressed to the dirt, held by the blade at the back of his neck. “Alright, little man.” The blade pressed harder. “We’re going to walk into camp so you can meet the big man. You make any threatening moves—you even sneeze with an attitude—and I’ll open your neck. Got it?” “I’ve got it,” Dormael said. “You can let up with the blade.” The man behind him let out a snort. “Move!” Dormael climbed to his feet, turning his eyes on the man holding the blade to his neck. He was a big bastard, pig-eyed, and unshaven. He scowled at Dormael and shoved him around, prodding him in the back with a short sword. Dormael went without complaint. Nice distraction, D’Jenn whispered into his mind. Was that your masterful plan the whole time—get caught and dragged before the leader as a prisoner? Dormael rolled his eyes, though D’Jenn was far away. It’s working. Just watch my back. If I wasn’t watching your back, Dormael, you’d have died long ago. Fuck yourself, cousin. “Walk, dead man!” There was another prod from the sword. He was led past mounds of sleeping men and smoldering fires, and Dormael’s captor kicked men awake at each site. Dormael’s stomach fell—

he’d be surrounded by at least sixty men. The camp roused as they moved toward the center. A murmur moved through the crowd as people roused their neighbors. Shortbows and swords were brandished, though some men followed while wrapped in their blankets or spooning up steaming bowls of broth. Dormael got surprised looks from the men who got a good look at him. Gods, I hope D’Jenn is watching. They stepped before a group of men, and the man with the short sword punched Dormael in the kidneys, doubling him over in pain. Dormael was shoved to his knees, and he bit his tongue as he went to the ground. He shot his captor a dark look, but the ugly bastard only smiled back with murder in his eyes. Three men stood before him, one just in front of the others. He wore a black tunic with gold trim, though the fabric had seen better days. It was tattered and dirty, hanging on the man’s shoulders like a loose blanket. He had a long, crooked nose, and a huge black mole on his left cheek. He held a large knife with a heavy blade—the ideal kind for removing limbs. The knife had old blood stains on the metal. “Roburn, I suspect?” Dormael asked, glancing at the man who’d captured him. “Was that the name you said back—” The big man kicked him in the ribs. Dormael hunched over in pain, stifling a chuckle. He fought back to his knees and shot the big fucker another evil glance. Roburn stepped forward. “Who in the Six Hells are you?” “I bring a message,” Dormael said. I hope you’re ready, he sent to D’Jenn. Always, his cousin replied. “A message? What the—?” Roburn looked at the big man standing behind Dormael. “Where did you catch this bastard?”

“Sneaking ’round the horses,” the man replied. “You had a message for the horses?” Roburn’s words prompted a round of laughs from the men surrounding them. He stepped forward with a grin and waved his knife under Dormael’s nose. “Well go on, let’s hear it. I want some kind of fucking entertainment before Grell takes your head off.” Dormael clenched his teeth and pulled on his magic. The hairs on his arms rose as the power filled his body, his senses, his mind. There was a rushing noise in his ears and his heart thumped against his ribcage. His magic tensed like a scorpion readying to strike. Dormael glared up at Roburn. “Hadrick Lucius sends his regards.” Roburn’s eyes widened. He gestured to the side, making to say something, but Dormael didn’t give him a chance. In the moments it took for Roburn to open his mouth, Dormael let loose with his magic. Lightning lashed out in a storm of power, illuminating the camp in flashes of intense blue light. Roburn was hit in the chest and flung backwards into the trees, collapsing a pair of tents as he tumbled away. Screams broke out as Dormael attacked blindly around him, striking anyone close enough to get scorched. Chaos broke out as men fled in panic, tearing through the camp. Grell fled into the trees, throwing his short sword aside. Dormael smiled and captured the man in the grip of his magic, ripping him from the ground in a violent, satisfying motion. Grell screamed in terror as Dormael’s power closed around him, but the sound cut off he threw Grell’s body into a group of other men. He landed with a meaty crack, and no one rose from the pile. Sudden pain stabbed into Dormael’s thigh, causing his leg to crumple. He cursed, rolling to the side as something flitted through the air nearby. Dormael covered his head as another arrow landed in the dirt next to him. The lightning had scarred bright lines across his vision, leaving him blinded. D’Jenn’s song wove around him, and low thuds sounded from near his head. He looked up to see the arrows caught in midair, vibrating like they’d been shot into a tree. Dormael breathed a sigh of relief. Grunting in pain, he pulled the bolt from his thigh and tossed it away.

Get up, Dormael! We have to move! I’ve been hit! Wincing, Dormael tried to stand, but his leg gave a flash of pain when he settled his weight on it. If you don’t move, you’ll be hit some more! Come on! D’Jenn appeared out of the night, reaching down to grasp Dormael under the arm. He yanked Dormael to his feet, whipping out with a gout of flame to scourge a bowman who took a shot at them. A man ran screaming toward them, a sword raised high in his hands. Dormael lashed out with his Kai, cracking the man across the ankles and taking him to the ground. “Can you shift?” D’Jenn gestured to the side, tossing an attacker into a tree trunk. The man made a wet crunching noise as he hit. “Give me a moment.” Dormael grabbed his leg in pain. He walled away the sensations, using the mental discipline he’d learned at the Conclave to summon more power from his magic. “I can’t run, even in wolf form!” “We fly, then!” D’Jenn sent another gout of fire from his hand. “Just hurry!” Dormael turned his magic inward again, summoning the form of the gyrfalcon. He wasn’t sure what to expect with his wound when he changed, but found that as his body distended, the injury simply changed to something comparable. He still had a hole in his leg, but falcons had no need to stand on their legs for long. Let’s go! Dormael flapped hard, springing off his good leg and battling into the dead air under the trees. An arrow whipped through the shadows just to his right, sending the air into chaotic eddies under his wings. After a considerable struggle, he managed to get things under control. D’Jenn tossed a few more spells before sliding back into the form of a black raven. Dormael flapped his wings and climbed through a hole in the forest canopy, calling a challenge as he burst into the sky. D’Jenn was right behind him, clipping a limb on his way through the hole. As the shouting faded behind them, the night closed in. The lights of Borders glowed on the coast, and Dormael turned his beak toward them.

D’Jenn stuck close to his wing, flitting around the edge of his flight path. Dormael struggled on the flight back, exhaustion and pain warring to drag him to the ground. Borders wasn’t far from the wood’s edge, and the inn was easy to find from the air. Dormael’s body was flagging by the time they spiraled down for a landing. Dormael’s leg gave out as they came down and he stumbled in the soupy mud. Sacrificing what little energy was left to him, Dormael poured his power back into his body and slid into his own form once again. His stomach lurched and his head swam as he came back to his skin, lying in the muck. A startled curse to the side alerted him to the presence of one of Hadrick’s guards, standing sentry on the door to the inn. Dormael smiled at the man and gave a little wave as he tried to stand. His leg gave out with a stab of pain, toppling him to the ground. He clutched to his thigh, and his hands came away stained red with blood. The last thing he saw before the world went black was D’Jenn’s worried face.

*** Dormael awoke to the smell of roasting fish. He stared up at a ceiling—old, knotted boards and thick beams. Dust drifted down between the cracks, and Dormael turned his face away with a sneeze. His bed was itchy, and morning light drifted through the window. He was naked and covered with a thin blanket. His left thigh was wrapped in a tight bandage and he ed a dull throb from the wound as he examined it. His head felt like it was stuffed full of wool and his tongue was drier than a desert. He was alone in the room he had shared with D’Jenn. Clattering plates and the low, murmuring drone of conversation drifted through the floor from downstairs. With a pained grunt, Dormael tossed the blankets aside and climbed to his feet.

The walk to the common room was a painful ordeal. In the middle of the dining room, a space had been cleared to accommodate two tables. A generous breakfast, complete with tankards of drink, was heaped on the table. Hadrick Lucius sat in the middle, and around him were Dormael’s friends. A man Dormael didn’t recognize sat opposite Hadrick. The newcomer was wearing thick pants and a billowing shirt. A large sailor’s coat was tossed over the back of his chair. His hair was braided into a multitude of thin plaits, and it stuck back from his head with roguish nonchalance. Small tattoos decorated his hands and the side of his neck, and he had a wide, friendly grin on his face. Dormael smiled. He’s a Sevenlander! Maybe the gods have finally given us good fortune. Laughs erupted at a joke that Dormael didn’t hear, but the commotion clued everyone in to his presence. Bethany jumped from her seat and rushed over to wrap his waist in a tight hug. Dormael was surprised, but he accepted her hug with a smile and a ruffle of her hair. Shawna walked over to help him. “The conquering hero returns.” Dormael accepted her arm and laid his quarterstaff against the wall, allowing her to lead him to the table. The smell of breakfast tickled his stomach, stoking his appetite. A seat was vacated for him as he greeted everyone in turn until he got to the unknown Sevenlander. “Dormael,” Hadrick said, “this is Mikael. He’s the captain of a rickety tub down in the harbor. What is it called? Haircutter?” “Seacutter.” Mikael snorted. “Which you know very well, you bastard.” Hadrick shrugged and took a long pull from a cup at his elbow. “Blame it on my memory. He’s the one that’s going to ferry you lot across the sea.” Dormael balled his fist and managed the best bow he could without standing. “Well met, Mikael.” “And you.” Mikael returned the customary Sevenlander bow. “I hope you

slept well. Hadrick’s healers are little better than midwives with strange elixirs, so I’m surprised you lived at all.” Hadrick scoffed. “I don’t have healers. I have one old woman who has a mouth dirtier than half of my men. She’s been here for longer than most of them have been alive, though. She patched you up last night.” “It’s much appreciated.” Dormael gave Hadrick a thankful nod. I wonder if he still wants to punch me. Dormael’s stomach did a wild series of flips as he smelled spiced fish and bread. Shawna slid a plate in front of him with a pat on the shoulder. He thanked her with a nod and dug in, sighing in pleasure as the hot food filled his belly. “As I was saying,” Hadrick said, as if Dormael had interrupted an ongoing conversation, “the Legion short sword is the perfect weapon for almost any fight. It’s quick, dirty. It’s strong, and you don’t need a mountain of silver marks to maintain it.” Hadrick pulled his sword out and set it on the table in front of Shawna. “It’s thicker here, see?” He ran his finger along the center of the blade. “Perfect for the sort of up-close and personal blood-letting that occurs in the front lines of a battle, or the back alleys of this city. It will get right through chain mail, even with a woman swinging it.” “Even with a woman, eh?” Shawna smirked at Hadrick. She picked up his sword and held it up, regarding it with distaste. With a smile, she reached to her side and drew one of her own blades for comparison. Shawna turned and presented both to Hadrick. “Your Legion sword is a nice weapon, I’ll not deny it. It’s good for its intended purpose—the front lines of battle, as you say. Fighting in a group with these severe chops and stabs.” Shawna mimicked the motion with the Legion sword, shaking her head. “My Sheran short sword, though, has many uses.” She raised her own

blade. “It’s thicker at the bottom which adds strength to the blade. The edges are curved at the top—unlike those on your Legion sword—for slashing and draw-cutting your opponent’s wrists. My blades are fullered, which also makes them stronger, and the points are more tapered. Not to mention that my swords have guards. You might as well chop your fingers off for pride, fighting with a guard-less weapon.” “Aye, and that fine point will be good for breaking on a shield somewhere,” Hadrick grunted. “And I’ve still got all my fingers.” “Normally it would,” Shawna nodded, “but mine are magical. You could throw them point-first at a boulder, and the boulder would yield. Besides, my blades would have to touch the shield—and not a throat or an armpit— for that to be a problem.” Hadrick laughed. “I guess I should know better than to argue blades with a Marked Blademaster.” “We all make mistakes.” Shawna smiled and handed his sword back to him. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into staying here?” Hadrick cocked a crooked smile. “I could use a good blade, and a pretty face never hurts, either.” “You’ll have to get in line, my friend.” Mikael smiled. “I’m going to marry her first.” Shawna laughed and dismissed their comments with a wave. Dormael gaped, and his food almost fell from his mouth. In Ferolan, Shawna had been as prim as a noble girl in a tight halter, and now she joked—no, flirted —in good nature with smugglers, and debated the finer points of killing with veterans of distant wars. Oddly, a snag of jealously squirmed its way out of his belly. He stuffed it down with another mouthful of fish. “So,” he said, trying to change the direction of the conversation, “you’re an Orrisan?” “Of course.” Mikael indicated his tattooed skin. “We’re the finest sailors on the sea, and with the finest ships, too. Mine’s one of the best, so don’t you worry. You’re in good hands.”

“The arrangements have all been made.” Hadrick nodded to Dormael. “Though Mikael drives a bargain tighter than a flea’s arsehole.” Shawna gave Hadrick a distasteful look, and surprisingly enough, his cheeks reddened. “I drive a fair bargain,” Mikael grunted. “I am not the one who’s the head of a criminal organization. I am the trustworthy one, surely you all can see that.” Hadrick scoffed. “You’re a gods-damned smuggler.” Mikael winked and raised a glass. “I’m just a sea captain, old boy. Man’s got to make his fortune somewhere, doesn’t he?” “That he does.” Hadrick raised his own glass, and the two shared a drink. Dormael returned to his meal and let the conversation wash over him, contenting himself with flicking pieces of rice at Bethany when she wasn’t looking. His eyes tracked to a dingy window where gray light illuminated the dust hanging in the air. The wind blew, rattling the glass in its shabby frame. D’Jenn reached into his pouch to light a pipe, offering it to Dormael when he caught him looking. Dormael accepted and put his food aside, lighting the pipe with a whisper of his magic. No one at the table noticed except D’Jenn and Bethany. Hadrick spoke of his tasks in rebuilding and discussed swordplay with Shawna. Mikael told a few stories to Bethany about sailing, and mulled wine was brought to the table as the food was cleared away. Dormael sat in silence, letting the conversation go on without his input, and shared a pipe with his cousin. His mind kept returning to the Galanians. In the morning, he and his friends would board Mikael’s ship and strike out for the Sevenlands—far away from the grasping hands of the Empire. Dormael, however, couldn’t get the feeling of dread to leave his guts. The Red Swords must be close. Where are they?

A Tide of Blood

Dormael shielded his face from a spray of cold salt water. He gripped tight to a hand line on the port side of the ship and tried to rock with the motion of the sea. His leg, protesting his every movement, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. It would probably be weeks before he was well enough to do more than limp. Seacutter was a sleek, three-masted ship. She cut through the water with surprising speed, and her crew worked with expert precision. Mikael had all the laundry hanging, and the sails were taut with the wind. A squall threatened the sky to the northeast. Mikael had been running from it for four days, after the six days it had taken to skirt the edge of the Maelstrom Field. Dormael found his eyes drawn to it, as if it was a massive fist waiting to come down, but Mikael assured him it was nothing to worry about. Another day and it’ll be on top of us. Then we’ll see about worrying. Another wave sloshed over Seacutter’s port side, and Dormael cursed as the ship rocked in response, putting pressure on his wounded leg. With the violent motion of the winter sea, he’d had trouble navigating the deck since the first day. Staying belowdecks had always made him uncomfortable, and he did whatever he could to avoid it, wounded leg or not. Bethany had traipsed around the deck since the first day like she was born to the sea. Dormael had caught her hiding in piles of rope or hanging from anything she could reach. The crew of Seacutter took to her like a group of ill-gotten friends and even helped her along in her mischief. On the third day around the Maelstrom Field, Dormael had found her leaning out of the crow’s nest with one of Mikael’s men, trying to spot a whirlpool in the distance. He’d been unable to climb the rigging, so he’d watched her the entire time, magic poised to catch her if she fell. He’d given serious thought to hiring a governess once they reached the Sevenlands.

Shawna had spent the first two days at sea in her cabin, green with seasickness and ill-tempered. By the third day, she had taken breakfast, and two days later her nausea seemed to have mostly subsided. She spent most of her time resting in her narrow cabin. Dormael summoned his Kai, using a bit of magic to keep warmth huddled under his cloak. The wind whipped unchecked over the waves, and the water was frigid. Thunder rumbled in the sky, and Dormael could hear it echoed in the ether. “Sails!” called the lookout. “Sails on the horizon!” Dormael stiffened. No one made an issue of the call, though Mikael pulled out a looking glass and gazed into the distance. A shudder ran down Dormael’s spine, his mind going to the Red Swords and their commander. Could the man have procured a ship? It was probably another trader, pushing the edge of his weather window to make a big haul. Few captains would risk an oversea crossing at this time of year, and they were well out of reach of any port. Why would there be another ship so far north and so close to the Maelstrom Field? Cursing under his breath, Dormael struggled down the deck to speak with Mikael. Pulling his way along the pitching deck was difficult. Dormael cursed his carelessness in getting wounded for the thousandth time since it happened and gritted his teeth against the pain. By the time he struggled to the poop deck, he was sweating from the effort. “A ship?” Dormael breathed through his teeth to banish the ache in his thigh. “Aye.” Mikael peered through a long spyglass at a speck on the horizon. “Square-rigged, tall bitch, she is. Can’t tell much else. She’s too far out.” “What do you think about it?”

Mikael regarded him with a speculative look and snapped his spyglass shut. His wild, braided hair was wrapped in a scarf against the weather, but the wind still fluttered some tiny braids. He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Don’t know as I need to think much about it. She’s coming our way, but so’s the wind. She won’t be close for a while now, anyway—if she even gets close.” “Is it normal for ships to be out here this time of year?” Mikael peered at him askance. “Is someone chasing you, Blessed? Is there something I need to be worrying about?” Hadrick had arranged the whole age between himself and Mikael, and it had become apparent that he had told the sea captain a few things about their situation—Dormael and D’Jenn’s identities as wizards, and Shawna’s status as an Imperial fugitive—but he had also left some things out. “Is it normal, or not?” Dormael pressed. Mikael pursed his lips, returning his eyes to the distant speck. “There ain’t many ports to sail for on the eastern coast of the Sevenlands. Minsdurim— though nobody goes to Minsdurim this time of year, it’s too far north—and Mistfall. What I wonder is where that big ship came from. From her angle, she must have been south of the Maelstrom Field, or west of it. I don’t know why she’d turn in our direction, but the gods give us a strange world to live in. Why do you ask, and why do your eyes say you’re worried?” Apprehension tightened Dormael’s guts. “It just gives me a bad feeling.” “That storm has been brewing up for a few days.” Mikael shrugged. “Could be she’s running before the wind, just like us. Trying to get away from the blow.” “Maybe. I think I might have a look, though, in any case,” Dormael said. “Do your men have any weapons?” Mikael’s face darkened. “Just enough to keep stowaways from climbing in the crates and a few crossbows. My men aren’t pirates, Blessed. We’re a trading ship.”

“Might be a good idea to have them at hand, just in case.” Mikael narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Dormael. “Listen, Blessed, I’m as patriotic as any man. I respect the Conclave, as any Sevenlander does. I know better than to get on the wrong side of it, at least. But my men aren’t fighters. They’re hardy, they’ll sail right into the teeth of a storm and laugh at the gods, but they’re not fighting men. What in the Six Hells has Hadrick gotten me into?” “Probably nothing.” Dormael shrugged and waved his concern away. “It’s probably running from the storm, like you said. I just want to be sure.” Mikael narrowed his eyes further before turning away to scream at his First Mate. “Kennick! Hang out all the laundry she’s got! Time to get her moving!” “Aye.” Kennick gave an offhand wave before turning to scream the command to the crew—albeit with more vitriol and colorful descriptions of what he’d do should anyone fail at their task. Mikael turned back to Dormael. “Have your look, Blessed. But if you get us into the shit, I expect you and yours to defend Seacutter and her crew, understand? This is your fight, if a fight is what we have.” “You don’t have to worry. We’ll do our part.” Mikael waved him off and returned to his duties. Dormael worked his way belowdecks, where his companions had taken residence in Seacutter’s guest cabins. The corridor ing them together was little more than shoulder-width, and Dormael took the opportunity to lean against the wall for . He made his way down to the room he shared with D’Jenn and opened the door. The cabins weren’t much better than closets, with fold-out cots fastened to the wall. There was just enough space for one man atop the other in the tiny rooms, and a box under the lower cot for storage. There were only four such cabins aboard the Seacutter, and Shawna had squeezed into a second with Bethany. The other two held Mikael’s First Mate and Quartermaster.

Dormael found D’Jenn in their cabin running through a meditation exercise with Bethany. He sat on the floor, his back planted against the hull, watching Bethany breathe from her place on the lower cot. The girl was at a critical stage in her magical development, and she needed all the training they could give in the meager time they had. Now that she had learned to hear the song of her Kai, she would be tempted to reach out to it on her own. If she walked around with her Kai singing all the time, it might bleed out and change things in her carelessness. It was imperative the dangers of being caught in that temptation were made clear to her, and she learned how to resist. The lessons were painstaking and slow-going, but disciplining her mind was necessary. D’Jenn looked up as Dormael came in, and Dormael spoke to him in the Hunter’s Tongue. There’s a ship on the horizon. They’re headed our way. Mikael says they could be outrunning the storm, but I have a bad feeling. I don’t like it, D’Jenn’s hands replied. I didn’t expect we’d see many ships this time of year, this far out to sea. Me either. Can we out pace them? I think Mikael is trying, but I’m going to fly over and have a look. Bit windy for that, isn’t it? What about your leg? Mind-flight, then. Dormael gave a grudging nod. I’ll let you know something. D’Jenn nodded, and Dormael shut the door as quietly as he could. He hobbled back toward the deck, but he caught himself on the way out. He looked to the door to Shawna’s cabin and sighed. She would probably want to be updated. He knocked on the door, and she called for him to enter.

She was seated on the lower cot, turning one of her blades around and gazing at the candlelight playing over the steel. She motioned him over to the cot without taking her eyes from her sword, patting the space beside her. Dormael sat, leaning away from the sword as she turned it around. “I was so proud the day my father gave me these.” She smiled at the sword. “He fought me, you know—about training. Fought me tooth and nail until he realized I wouldn’t be dissuaded. The swords…they were an apology. They were my father’s way of saying he was proud of me, that he accepted me. It was his way of saying he loved me.” Dormael had no idea what to say. “I’m sorry about your father.” “These are all I have left of him now. Of my mother, just a lock of her hair…and that thing. It’s fitting, I think. The one thing of my father I have left is the thing I’ll use to avenge him. It’s enough to make me see the hand of the gods in this. What a clever little joke they’ve played. Do you see the humor?” “Shawna—” “I’m sorry.” She sighed, lowering the sword. “I’m in a dark mood. The sea does not agree with me.” “I thought you’d been feeling better.” Dormael gave a sigh of relief. “You stopped emptying your guts every day.” She snorted. “Better than the first day, but not so good I feel like dancing.” “Well, you might want to try a few steps. There’s a ship on the horizon. I’m going to find out more, but I figured you should know.” “I see.” She turned a considering glance on him, and a ghost of a smile flashed on her face. It was gone before Dormael could what it meant. “Thank you. For telling me, I mean, and…all of this. Everything.” Dormael gave her a thin smile and rose to leave. “No thanks are necessary. I’ll let you know what I find out about the ship.” She grabbed his arm. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?” “Shrug and try to escape when people get serious with you.” “I don’t.” “You do.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Turned once again to leave. Her hand tightened on his arm. “You’re doing it now.” Dormael smiled. “Let me go, Shawna.” “it I’m right.” She grinned back. “That will never happen.” Shawna’s smile took on a feral cast. “Fine.” She punched him in his wounded leg, crumpling his balance and toppling him back to the cot. Dormael winced, but laughter burst around his pained growl. “Fine!” He held a hand up for peace. “You’re welcome. Is that good enough?” “I’m not sure if I believe your act, you know.” “Oh?” Dormael levered himself to a seated position. “Yes.” She pushed against his shoulder. “You strut around, flirting with everything that breathes, and act like you don’t care about anything. But you dote on that little girl like she’s your own, and you took the time to patch me up when you shouldn’t have.” “Maybe I just wanted to bed you.” She punched him hard in the shoulder. “Maybe you should learn how to talk to me properly.”

Dormael laughed and struggled back to his feet. Shawna watched him with a wry expression as he made his way to the door. He stopped on the verge of leaving and turned back to her. “Why did you tell Bethany not to believe anything I said?” Shawna smiled and waved him away. “That’s something my mother told me when I was a girl. You wouldn’t understand.” Dormael paused. “Your mother? Shawna, that doesn’t make any sense.” “To you, maybe—it’s girl stuff. Let me know if I need to move from this cot.” Dormael sighed and made his way outside. He tried to pick an out of the way spot on deck—the seas were high, and he didn’t want to be underfoot. Mind-flight would leave his body unable to react if the ship rolled and tossed him overboard. The last thing Dormael wanted was to drown while his mind was flying over the waves. Such things had happened to wizards before. The noises of Seacutter faded as his mind soared upward, leaving his body huddled in its corner on the deck. Dormael looked over the sea and was suddenly apprehensive at the breadth of the churning ocean. Seacutter stayed upright with surprising ease, but every swell she crested made Dormael nervous. From the sky, the ship looked too small to handle the sea. He turned to the horizon, shaking off the awe. The coming storm stretched over the whole northeastern section of the sky. Its clouds were dark gray, angry thunderheads, and the haze of falling rain hung beneath them. He spotted the mysterious vessel to the southeast and took off in that direction. Dormael was no expert on ships, but he could tell when a vessel had been built with war in mind. Even from a distance, he spotted the high-sided hull, and a sail plan so crowded he was surprised the sails stayed lashed to their yardarms. She was beating through the seas on an intercept course with Seacutter and turning to take on more speed. Her standard, a huge

rendition of a black fist over a halved red and white field, whipped out from the mainmast in the heavy winds. That’s the Imperial flag. Dormael cursed and flew low for a better look. The ship was immense, and crewmen crawled all over the deck. Two massive ballistas sat fore and aft, each designed to hurl three spear-sized missiles at a time. Armed men stood on deck, either checking over the ballistas, or conversing in tight groups. At least fifteen men on deck, which means more below. Seacutter was fast, sleek, and true, but she hadn’t been built on the scale of this massive warship. The Galanian ship was a full deck taller than the Orrisan ship and looked as if she could plow through Seacutter’s hull and keep on sailing. The siege engines on deck would rain death on them, and there would be nowhere to hide. Mikael’s men were no warriors, as he’d said, and there was no telling how many trained soldiers were waiting belowdecks. The gods have certainly shit on us today. He blinked his physical eyes back open, wincing to feel the cold wind again. It took him a moment to stand and work some feeling back into his thawing limbs, and his wound hurt from the chill. His eyes went to the southeast, where the huge warship was hurtling in their direction like death herself. Dormael turned from the railing and went in search of Mikael.

*** Mikael scowled across the map table at Dormael and D’Jenn, puffing on a nondescript pipe. With all three men smoking, the cabin was full of the smell of tobacco. Mikael’s knuckles tapped a steady rhythm on the table. “Far be it from me to sour on a deal well struck,” Mikael said around a cloud of smoke, “but I’ve a few questions on why a gods-damned warship is bearing down on us. Hadrick said your girl was an Imperial fugitive. A criminal, he said. Only I’ve never heard of a fully outfitted warship chasing

a damned fugitive.” “It’s definitely something we didn’t expect,” D’Jenn said. “Who could have known they’d have a ship?” Mikael’s scowl darkened. “She’s close enough now that I’ve gotten a look at her sails. She’s a poor imitation of a Sheran galleon, but good enough that it won’t be much of fight when she catches us.” “When, not if?” Dormael asked. Mikael nodded. “Seacutter would out-sail her in lighter conditions, when the seas weren’t such a concern. We have a lighter keel, and a sleeker beam than she does, and with all the sail we can hang, we’d outrun her in a steady wind. Even in moderate seas.” D’Jenn narrowed his eyes. “Why can’t you outrun her now?” “The bloody storm,” Mikael cursed. “The seas are too rough. That galleon has a deeper keel, she’s heavier and can take the churn better than we can. That means she can hang more sail in higher winds. We’ll tear our sails, or crack a mast, before we outrun her in this chop. I know my ship, and she won’t take that much stress.” “So, it’s a fight either way.” Dormael grimaced. “That’s not good. They’ve got ballistas on board. Damned things can put a spear through two men at once. There aren’t enough crates on board to put up any barriers, and I’m not sure they’d do the trick, anyway.” Mikael shook his head. “Not a good idea to have crates bouncing around the deck in this weather. No bloody crates.” “We won’t be able to guard against the spears and fight—not with magic.” D’Jenn rubbed his chin. “Good magical defenses take time to construct, and we don’t have time.” “My men won’t be much help.” Mikael sighed, shaking his head. “Not against Red Swords. They’ll fight for their lives, but against that…I don’t know. I almost wish the bloody storm was on top of us.”

Dormael gave him a confused look. “Why?” “Only a man with a death-wish would fight in a storm, Blessed. There’d be no way to get a bead on us with those ballistas, and I doubt they’d try to board in a churning sea with rain beating down on them. Might as well tell men to jump in and drown themselves.” D’Jenn gave Dormael a significant glance. Mikael raised an eyebrow. “What?” “How long can you sail in that storm before you have to pull everything in?” D’Jenn asked. Mikael grimaced. “Not long. The ship can only take so much force from the wind and the sea in the first place—lots of things could give way. My crew will be crawling over the rigging and pulling lines, which is always dangerous in bad weather.” D’Jenn nodded. “What if I bolster your mast a bit, will that buy you some time under sail?” Mikael shrugged in response. “A bit, maybe. I’ll sail her as long as I feel safe.” D’Jenn nodded again, a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s something we can do, then. It might work, and it might not. It’s dangerous, but the warship is coming no matter what we do. This will buy us a little time, maybe give us a slight advantage.” “If you can buy us a little more time under sail, we might be able to outrun her, but it will be a slim chance.” Mikael tapped his pipe out on his boot. “The galleon can still take the sea better than Seacutter, but if she has to pull her sails down first, there’s no way that tub will catch us.” “What do you think we should do?” Dormael looked to D’Jenn. D’Jenn smiled at his cousin. “We bring the storm a little closer.”

*** Dormael stared into the wind, surveying the storm chasing them over the water. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distant murk of clouds, and the swish of breaking water around the bow answered in kind. The galleon was close enough now for the flag to be visible, and her sails poked over every swell in the sea. Crewmen shot fearful glances at the ship as they hurried about their duties. Dormael leaned toward his cousin. “What did Shawna say when you told her it was a Galanian vessel?” “She said it was time she bloodied her swords, anyway.” D’Jenn shook his head. “She was practically fondling the things when I came in.” Dormael nodded and gazed back into the storm. D’Jenn punched him in the shoulder. “Are you ready?” He readied his Doomba—the drum he carried around under his rucksack. It was carved with intricate geometrical patterns, and made from wood, bone, and goatskin. It produced different tones when struck in various ways, and D’Jenn was well practiced. “Aye, I’m ready,” Dormael grumbled, gesturing to his guitar. “I hope this doesn’t take too much out of us. We’ll still need a little fight left over if they catch up to us.” “If this works, then they won’t catch us, and it won’t matter. All we can do is what we can.” “Are you quoting our grandmother to me right now?” Dormael regarded his cousin with a raised eyebrow. It had been something she’d said to them as children—all we can do is what we can. D’Jenn shrugged. “Even an old woman gets something right every once in a while.” “I’m going to tell her you called her old.” “She’ll never believe you.” D’Jenn smiled. “If, however, I turn it around

and say it was you who said it…well, it is the sort of thing we expect from you.” “Fuck yourself.” Dormael laughed. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” “You take the lead.” D’Jenn nodded. “You were always better at wild magic.” Dormael took up his guitar. He opened his Kai and pulled on his magic, letting it flow into the world and twine itself with the wind. D’Jenn’s song rang out as Dormael felt the familiar tingling sensation. Dormael melded his power with D’Jenn’s, taking control of the link, and closed his eyes. He began to play his guitar, letting his fingers pick out the tune his heart wanted for the situation. Something melancholy began to take shape, but with a deliberate rhythm of a military marching song. It came slowly at first, as Dormael settled into the tune, but once he started on the melody, it grew into something with form and direction. D’Jenn beat an accompaniment on his drum, reinforcing the menacing sound of the tune. It evoked images of a faceless army on the move, like an unstoppable force of nature. The magic surged with each beat of the drum, as if their power was being struck right along with it. Throom-throom-throom-ratata-throom-throom-throom. Dormael’s perception expanded as he sank into his magical senses. The storm behind them was a roiling cloud of energy, a conflagration of nature’s raw power. The wind sang to him like the music of existence, and the thunder vibrated his bones. Throom-throom-throom-ratata-throom-throom-throom. He sent their power whispering into the clouds, spinning webs of energy into the boiling storm above. The sky responded with thunder, the clouds thickening in the air. Lightning flickered somewhere in the darkening clouds. The world crawled over Dormael’s skin, tickling Kai with sensation. Odd things happened when wizards used wild magic—especially if it was

augmented with music. The crew of Seacutter tapped out D’Jenn’s rhythm on whatever surface was at hand, entranced by an eldritch side effect of the spell. Dormael felt every beat like flashes of light across his mind’s eye, and it sent the magic into a frenzy. Throom-throom-throom-ratata-throom-throom-throom. A strong gust blew past the ship, causing the sails to flutter and snap. Fingers of dark clouds reached toward the ship, as if the storm was a giant hand trying to catch them. Lightning flashed into the water in random strikes, and thunder rumbled across the sky as the storm awoke to its purpose. Dormael let his magic sleep as the spell took its course, and the music was replaced with howling wind and churning seas. D’Jenn stood and offered him a hand. Dormael grunted as he put weight once again on his injured leg. The crew regarded the storm with awestruck, fearful expressions, and Dormael couldn’t help but feel a little strange when those looks were turned on him and D’Jenn. Even Mikael looked a little white in the face, but he held his incredulity in check. “I’m not so sure I like this plan anymore.” Mikael’s eyes were pinned to the storm. “Not exactly a plan,” D’Jenn said. “More like a last-ditch effort.” “All we did was stir things up a little.” Dormael hefted his guitar. “We gave the storm some energy and a direction.” Mikael scoffed. “You say that like you just went for afternoon tea.” “My cousin has a talent for understatement.” D’Jenn smiled. “Still,” Mikael returned to eyeing the darkening storm, “I’m not so sure I like the cure more than the sickness. I hope you can keep your end of the bargain, Blessed. If we lose a mast—or a sail—in this weather, we’ll die just as surely as if that warship catches us.” “We’ll do our part,” D’Jenn said. “You just keep us above water, Captain.”

Mikael nodded and strode away, calling vociferous commands as rain pelted the deck. “I’m going to get this guitar out of the rain.” Dormael moved for the gangway. D’Jenn looked up at the rigging. “I’ll meet you after I take care of the masts.” Dormael nodded and ducked into the creaking interior of the ship. Rain pelted the deck as he slipped inside, and Seacutter tilted as she sailed down a swell. Dormael steadied himself against the wall, wincing at the pain in his leg. Shawna opened her door and backed out, coming face-to-face with Dormael as she headed outside. She was armed for battle and wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her hands tapping on the hilts of her swords. Her eyes were haunted, her jaw clenched. She took a tight, nervous breath. “Are they close?” “Closer. We’re hoping the storm will help us outrun them.” “Why would we want to do that?” Dormael raised his eyebrows. “Well, it has been the point, hasn’t it?” “Maybe I’m tired of running. It’s time to get this over with.” She reached down and fingered the hilt of one of her swords, looking toward the galleon as if she could see it through the hull. “If I die, so be it, but I’m going to find the man responsible for my family’s murders and pay him back with steel.” Dormael was taken aback by the vicious tone in her voice. “That warship has enough men to do for us all, not to mention the weapons on board. Mikael’s men won’t be any help—they’re not warriors. We’re on our own out here, and no one but the gods are watching.” “I hope they’re watching.” Her eyes narrowed. “I have something for them.”

Dormael had an urge to argue with her, to tell her it was useless worrying about the gods and what they may or may not do. He believed in them—for the most part—but his experiences had taught him justice was not something in which the gods were interested. Prayer might work for priests, but taking one’s own destiny in hand was a much better strategy. The look on her face silenced him. Dormael sighed and rubbed his temples. His leg throbbed with another roll of the hull. I’m supposed to be on holiday. “Just don’t get yourself killed,” he said. “I’d hate for our efforts to be for naught.” Shawna looked at him, eyes focused and bright. “Dormael…I like you. For all your faults, you’re not bad—even if you have no idea how to treat a lady. You’re even handsome, after a fashion. But let’s make one thing clear.” She moved forward, grabbing him by the cloak and pulling him close. “This isn’t about you.” She held his gaze until Dormael was unsure if she meant to kiss him or head-butt him. Her expression ed how close they were, and she backed away. Shooting him one last guarded look, she ducked into the rain. D’Jenn appeared when she marched through the door, glancing in her direction with a confused look as he ducked inside. “What did you say to her now?” Dormael shrugged. “Nothing. She’s out for blood, that’s all. I wouldn’t get in her way, were I you.” D’Jenn smiled. “I’m not worried. She likes me.” “She likes me just fine.” Dormael sighed. “She just said so, in fact.” “I’m sure. But then again, you leer at the girl every time she es by.” “She doesn’t know that,” Dormael grumbled, “and I don’t leer. Rapers leer. I just look—more like glance, really.”

D’Jenn gave him a serious look. “She doesn’t know, eh? You should ask her what your eyes feel like on her backside sometime. I’m sure she knows the feeling well.” “Maybe you should worry about yourself. Besides, weren’t you telling me not long ago she was a spoiled princess, and you refused to deal with her?” D’Jenn shrugged. “She proved me wrong. Now—let’s go talk to your ward. I don’t want her to start tossing around magic by accident.” “My ward?” Dormael raised an eyebrow. “Come on.” D’Jenn pushed past him. They found Bethany seated on D’Jenn’s cot, playing with a doll made from pieces of a frayed rope. She brightened as the two wizards came in, setting the doll aside. The ship shuddered as it took another swell. Bethany gave them a nervous smile. “I felt what you were doing—with the storm, I mean.” “Did you pay attention?” Dormael moved to put away his guitar. “I couldn’t tell much.” Her diminutive brow wrinkled. “But I could hear it.” “Good.” Dormael finished with his guitar and sat on the cot beside her. “Listen, Bethany—things are going to get…noisy…soon. You might hear a lot of magic being tossed around out there, but I don’t want you to worry, alright?” “Alright.” “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, don’t come out of this cabin until one of us comes to get you,” Dormael said. “Whatever you do, don’t use your magic. Understand?” Bethany frowned. “But I want to see.” “I thought you might.” Dormael smiled, tousling her hair. “It’s too

dangerous, plain and simple. You’re to stay here, understood?” She sighed. “Understood.” “And your magic?” he pressed. “Don’t use it,” she muttered. “Very good.” On an impulse, he reached out and took the girl into a one-armed hug around her shoulders. He half expected her to shy away from him, but she didn’t. She accepted the hug as if it was perfectly natural. Once he let her go, she picked up her doll again. “If you want, you can open your Kai and listen to our magic, get an idea how it sounds,” Dormael said. “Don’t draw any power, mind you, but if you hear us, you can listen—just listen. Alright?” Her face brightened. “Alright.” “Do you think that’s wise, cousin?” D’Jenn gave him a skeptical look. “You and I did it all the time when we were her age.” Dormael shrugged. “It will be fine as long as she doesn’t touch her power.” “Yes, but we weren’t supposed to do it. There are reasons you and I weren’t aware of then, if you . If she interferes, even by accident, things could go awry very quickly.” “That’s why she’s just going to listen and not interfere.” Dormael turned a stern eye on Bethany. “Right, little one?” “Right.” She nodded, beaming. “Alright, if you say so.” D’Jenn shrugged. “Just —I objected.” “Yes, and if things do go wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.” “That was implied.” D’Jenn smiled, though there wasn’t much humor in his tone.

Dormael sighed and turned his eye back on Bethany. “And what are you supposed to do?” “Stay here and listen.” Bethany smiled. “Good.” Dormael returned her grin. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out some stress knotting the muscles between his shoulder blades. “Let’s go, coz. I want to get this over with.” With that, they gathered up their weapons and left Bethany on the cot. Rain was lashing the deck by the time they made it back outside. The wind howled over the waves, sending the sea into a churning mess. Water sloshed over the prow of the ship as Seacutter sliced through the waves. The sky had turned a menacing shade of dark gray. Mikael’s crew held tight to hand-lines and moved about with casual expertise, though the mood on deck was tense. Kennick screamed orders as he marched around the deck, stepping in to correct mistakes where he found them, though they were few and far between. To Dormael’s amateur observation, it looked as if Seacutter’s crew needed little in the way of direction. Dormael and D’Jenn made their way to Shawna, who was gazing over the port side at the distant sails. Dormael embraced his Kai and used a bit of magic to warm himself against the cold, driving rain. He heard a nervous, eager energy wafting from Shawna like mist from a river—her resonance in the ether. “I’m not sure if our plan is going to work.” D’Jenn squinted his eyes in the direction of the Galanian ship. “Her sails are still up, and she’s sailing true —at least, as far as I can tell.” Dormael followed his cousin’s gaze, uncertainty gnawing at his chest. D’Jenn was right—the galleon didn’t look to be having as much trouble with the weather as they’d thought it would. There was so much laundry hanging from her masts it seemed impossible for her to stay aright, but the monstrous vessel came on with inexorable certainty. “This is a race of endurance.” Dormael tried to sound hopeful. “If you can

hold Mikael’s masts together long enough for theirs to be damaged, we’ll win through.” D’Jenn glanced to Seacutter’s rigging, but he said nothing. D’Jenn’s magic was at work, waxing and waning with the strength of the wind. Dormael wasn’t sure how long his cousin could keep it up, though—the force of the wind on the masts would be unpredictable. He might hold out for some time, but what happened when it started gusting? “We shall see.” Shawna ground her teeth and stared across the water. The next few hours were tense. The storm intensified, bringing howling winds and a heavy downpour. Seacutter’s crew rushed to and fro over the deck, climbed through the rigging, and labored hard to keep the ship safe in the water. D’Jenn’s face took on a look of strain as he held to the masts with his magic, working to counteract the force of the wind. The galleon stayed close on their heels, even gained on them from time to time, but Mikael kept the distance with smart sailing. The Galanian ship got close enough that Dormael could see tiny forms crawling through the rigging, working like ants to keep the monstrosity sailing in the right direction. Seacutter was no exception to the weather. Mikael’s crew worked tirelessly to outrun the galleon, trimming sails and furling them on command with expert speed and determination. On the few chances Dormael took to glance at the Orrisan, Mikael was watching everything on his ship with a studious eye, calling for his men to trim this, furl that, or tighten down something flapping in the wind. Dormael held to the hope that Mikael was a better sailor than the Galanian Captain. He had no choice, after all. “Dormael!” D’Jenn pointed to the churning sea. “Look!” Men crawled over the upper yardarms of the Galanian ship, furling the topmost sails as best they could in the driving wind. A sudden surge of elation rushed through Dormael’s chest. He turned a fierce smile to D’Jenn. “Maybe we’ll get out of this after all!” The galleon slowed, though her mainsails were still full of the wind.

Seacutter pulled away from the giant warship. The crewmen gave a tentative cheer. “It worked!” D’Jenn chuckled. “It bloody well worked!” A commotion broke out on deck. Crewmen scrambled toward one of the mizzenmasts, shouting curses and confused exclamations. Dormael turned to see what was going on, and the hope drained out of him like water from a sieve. The main mizzen sail was stretched tight in the wind, its lines fraying in two places. Two sailors were tangled in the taut lines, one of them dangling by his foot. Vicious creaking noises cut through the excited shouting of Seacutter’s crew, and Dormael summoned his magic. Crewmen swarmed into the rigging, struggling to reach their ailing comrades through the driving rain. Kennick appeared with a small group of men hauling a pile of sailcloth. They rushed to get the cloth unfurled while the rest of the crew scrambled like ants to save the two crew . Dormael could hear Kennick shouting as they worked, but his words were lost in the thunder and commotion. There was a loud snap, and the taut sail luffed away as the wind tore the lines to shreds. A collective shout of alarm went up from the gathered crew, and some of them ducked to find cover as the rigging tumbled into chaos. The two tangled sailors fell, and Dormael reached out with his Kai, wrapping them in his magical grip. D’Jenn’s song went to work in the tumult, trying to hold the rest of the rigging together. Dormael brought the two men to the deck, setting them gently down in a clear space. Mikael marched into the chaos. “Tie her down! Get that sail in before we lose the whole gods-damned thing!” He grabbed two men by their collars and shoved them toward the inert bodies of their downed companions. “Get those two belowdecks and hurry! Once they’re snug, start bringing up weapons! Move, gods-dammit!” Mikael caught Dormael’s eye and shot a meaningful look at the galleon. Dormael scowled and turned back to the sea. “Maybe the gods are watching

you. You’re going to get your chance at vengeance after all.” Shawna gave him a quick, guarded look, and returned to watching the galleon in silence. D’Jenn turned away from the chaos on deck, his magic going quiet as the sailors got everything under control. He grimaced in the direction of the oncoming Galanian vessel, and shot his eyes to Dormael, mouthing a silent curse. Shawna kept staring into the distance, as if the power of her gaze could bring the ship closer. D’Jenn grabbed Dormael’s shoulder. “You said that thing has ballistas on deck?” “Aye.” Dormael nodded. “Two of them.” He peered into the distance, trying to focus through the driving rain. Seacutter was still moving, but the galleon still had her mainsails out. There was no escape—there would be a fight. Mikael’s men would be cut down like wheat once it got close enough for knives, and everyone aboard knew it. If any attempt at parley was made, Dormael wouldn’t blame Mikael for wanting to give up the lot of them. His eyes went to the crow’s nest. If I can get higher, maybe I can do something. Dormael turned to D’Jenn. “I’ve got to get up there, up to the top of the mast!” “Bloody fool. Your leg! You’re going to fall, and I’ll have to pluck you out of the sea! You saw what just happened to those crewmen—that’s what caused this mess in the first place!” “I’ll be fine, you bloody old woman.” Dormael patted his cousin on the shoulder. “We have to take out those ballistas, hit them hard before they get too close. Maybe it will scare them off.” “Doubt it.” D’Jenn shook his head. “They know what they’re up against.” “Then it’s still a good idea to kill a few. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Be careful.” Shawna turned a skeptical look on his injured leg. Dormael nodded and pulled himself along the rocking ship to a place where he could climb the rigging. He summoned his magic and evoked his floating spell, using the relative weightlessness of his body to relieve some pain. It was an odd way to move around a ship at sea, and the weather made it stranger. His feet left the deck every time Seacutter went down the side of a swell, and his stomach lurched with each roll of the ship. The only thing holding him to the ship was his grip on the hand-lines. The spell was more effective once he struggled into the rigging. He was able to move over the slick network of ropes with ease, though there were a few times he had to hold tight as the ship rocked beneath him and his body threatened to float over the side. His leg hurt with each movement, but he did his best to ignore the discomfort. When he finally reached the crow’s nest, a sailor reached over the edge and helped him up. “Are you well, Blessed?” The lookout glanced at Dormael’s leg—his pants were stained with blood. Dormael gave an irritated sigh at his wound. “I’m well enough. Listen—I’m going to be doing something up here. It’s going to get loud and violent. If you’re staying, keep your head down and stay quiet.” The sailor went a little pale. “I’ll leave the bucket to you, wizard. I’ll tie into the rigging, see how many bolts I can get off before the sea drags us to the bottom.” He levered a small crossbow and sealed quiver from the bucket and slung them over his back. With a nervous glance, the sailor climbed over the side of the bucket and into the rigging. Dormael winced and grabbed his throbbing leg until the pain subsided enough to ignore. With a nervous sigh, he wrapped his arm around the tip of the mast and stood. The view from the top of the ship was terrifying. Seacutter rolled back and forth with the churning sea, and each movement was exaggerated at the top of the ship. A slight roll to the side would be a long,

stomach-lurching trip for Dormael. He was afraid he’d be launched from the bucket each time the ship rolled with a swell. The Galanian warship was closer than it was when Dormael started his climb. Forms crawled over the galleon’s deck, readying the hulking silhouettes of the ballistas. The galleon came on like the storm itself—slow, grim, and unavoidable. It wouldn’t be long before she was pulling alongside them, and it would come to boarding hooks and knives. Let’s give those bastards a proper greeting. Dormael opened his Kai. The sky rumbled as the storm threw its fury at the sea. Dormael coaxed magic from the ether, sending it into the clouds and channeling the chaotic energies within. The storm was like a web of snarling motes of light, each playing a tone back to his Kai in a conflagration of sound. He sent tendrils of charged air whispering into the squall, tapping into that web of energy. Focusing his magic, he created a conduit around his body—a pathway for the energy to take. With his other arm, Dormael pointed a single, ominous finger at the approaching warship. He waited for the Galanian vessel to crest a large swell and rush down the other side, to a point where Seacutter sat higher in the water. The deck of the galleon pitched toward him, baring itself like a flower to the sun. Dormael pulled on the tendrils of magic, beckoning with a flash of energy to the roiling clouds above. Dormael called to the sky, and the storm responded with lightning. His entire body sang as the energy was released. The first strike flashed from the sky, rushed around the pathway he’d created, and slammed into the foredeck of the Galanian warship. It struck three times in quick succession, bright flashes of super-heated air searing a path across the deck, directly through the forward ballista. The siege engine shattered into flaming splinters as the lightning carved through it, and the screams of the galleon’s crew resonated in Dormael’s Kai. He focused on the second ballista, sending the lightning in its direction. The clouds erupted with random strikes, and each one sliced into the deck,

leaving charred destruction in its wake. The second ballista was destroyed much like the first, and Dormael abandoned his magical link to the sky. He collapsed into the bucket, breathing hard from the effort of using his power. His leg ached like fire, and he still had to climb back down. I can wait a few moments—the gods can give me that much.

*** Shawna watched, blood running cold, as Dormael threw lightning at the oncoming ship. It was easy to forget how dangerous the man was. Charming smile and brash attitude aside, the fact that he could unleash such deadly forces with nothing more than a thought chilled her to her bones. Every time I think I’m used to these sorcerers, something changes my mind. She couldn’t imagine being on the other end of that lightning. It would be terrifying to run from something so alien, so unstoppable. Her thoughts went unbidden to the feeling she’d had when the Galanians had killed her family—that there had been some mistake, that this was all wrong and would somehow be set to rights. But there had been no justice. The crushing weight of reality fell on her shoulders instead, and despair came with it. Anger rose in her chest as she recalled the slaughter. Maybe those bastards deserve what comes to them, sorcery or steel. It wouldn’t be long before the Galanians were close enough for blades, and she planned to send more of them into the Void. They would be drops in the bucket against the weight of blood she owed the gods. Her hands itched to pull steel. “You’re eager,” D’Jenn said, his gaze on the approaching warship. “I just want this to come to its end.” “You won’t have long to wait. Have you ever fought at sea?” “This is only the second time I’ve been to sea.” Shawna held to a hand-line

as the ship rocked. “Is it so different from fighting on land?” “Just watch your footing. The deck will be pitching about. They have to make sure you’re dead and get your armlet, so I assume they’re going to board us. They’ll come alongside and toss hooks on the deck. Cut them if you can, but don’t be underneath one when they come down. It isn’t pretty.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” “And don’t get yourself killed, Lady Baroness.” D’Jenn gave her a grudging sidelong glance. “You’re not half as bad as you could be.” “I’m…not quite sure if that’s a compliment.” She smirked, her stomach fluttering with a nervous chuckle. “But I’ll take it that way.” D’Jenn snickered and turned back to the railing. “We should find some cover. She’s almost close enough for—” He raised his hands suddenly, hissing in alarm. Two thunks sounded in front of Shawna’s face, and she started back in surprise. A pair of quivering arrows hovered in midair, the rainwater eddying around bubbles of blue light surrounding the shafts. Shawna caught D’Jenn’s eyes with a surprised look. “Arrows,” he finished. “Come on!” They rushed from the railing in the driving rain and ducked behind a capstan. D’Jenn shouted a warning, and the call was repeated around deck as arrows sliced out of the storm. A few stuck harmlessly into the deck, but more than one found a mark, felling sailors in sprays of blood. Mikael called orders, and crewmen moved to help the wounded. D’Jenn scowled at the approaching warship. “They’ll make the deck soon. I’m going to hit them with something before they get to us.” “Don’t get yourself killed.” D’Jenn answered her with a wink and slipped back onto the deck. Shawna rose to a crouch behind the capstan and readied herself to move. D’Jenn

pulled his mace from his belt and gestured with his off-hand. The rain slid away from him, as if he was encased in an invisible bubble. Flashes of light winked across the bubble at random places—arrows glancing from the magical shell. Seacutter pitched as she rushed down the back of a swell, and the hulking galleon filled Shawna’s vision, coming along the port side. The sheer size of the thing was staggering up close, and as the two ships rose and fell with the ocean, the galleon loomed over the Orrisan trade ship. Men rushed back and forth along the railing of the warship, some of them gathering lengths of rope. D’Jenn strode toward the port railing, ignoring the arrows glancing from his shield. He gestured, and shards of ice formed in midair, hissing as they rushed toward the galleon. Screams cut through the deluge as the ice shards cut through faces and throats, sending sprays of blood into the rain. D’Jenn ducked away as hooks clattered to the deck. He deflected a few with his magic, but he couldn’t stop the assault on his own. Arrows cut through the air in a furious storm, and it was all D’Jenn could do to keep them off. Shawna was forced to duck behind the capstan as several missiles stuck into the wood nearby. Screams sounded through the thunder, and everything went silent for a moment. Shawna gritted her teeth, steeled her resolve, and glanced over the edge of the capstan. She was up in time to see a man clambering over Seacutter’s railing, and several more following in his wake. D’Jenn faced off with another, but Shawna paid him only a spare second of thought. Her heart beat with sudden intensity, and she raised into a fighting crouch. Her side throbbed with nervous pain. Her head was aching with the rhythm of her heart. Her hands shook, and she grasped her hilts to steady her emotions. There’s nowhere left to run. It’s time to face your fate. Shawna drew her blades and rose to her feet. If she was going to die today, then so be it. The gods would do what they willed, and all she could do was go screaming along for the ride. If death was her fate, she would take as many Galanians with her as she could. She took a deep breath and dashed into the fight.

*** When Dormael peeked over the edge of the bucket, the Galanians were tightening their boarding ropes. The two ships were hugged together in the churning water, and the rigging threatened to tangle together. The storm raged around them, and Seacutter’s deck swarmed with fighting men. Cursing under his breath, Dormael slipped over the edge and grasped hold of the slick rigging. He summoned a barrier with his magic to keep stray arrows from his back and split his consciousness to enact his floating spell again. With his stomach in his throat, he started down the ropes. Arrows sliced into his shield, draining Dormael’s concentration. Dormael paused in his climb and turned toward the warship, searching for the offending archer. The galleon’s rigging loomed behind him, and a man stood on a platform halfway up a mast, winding a crossbow back in place. Dormael pulled the man’s legs out from under him with a quick rush of power. The Galanian tumbled into the rigging, screaming until he hit something that silenced him. Dormael steeled himself against the pain in his leg and kept climbing. He ed the crewman he’d evicted from the lookout and gave the man a fierce nod. The sailor favored him with a smile—or the best he could do, given the bolt clenched in his teeth—and took a shot across the distance separating the two ships. Dormael kept going. Halfway down, a shuddering crack went through the entire vessel. An ominous scraping noise sounded from the hull, and Dormael’s feet slipped from the ropes. Seacutter rocked hard to her starboard side, and the jarring motion ripped Dormael’s hands from the wet rigging. The floating spell allowed him an extra moment of panic as he tumbled from the ropes, D’Jenn’s warning echoing into his mind. He slammed hard into something lumpy, and his vision blossomed with stars as the breath left his chest. He bounced—the floating spell at work again—and slid to a halt somewhere on Seacutter’s deck. With a pained grunt, Dormael rolled to his side and looked around the deck.

Two Galanian soldiers lay nearby. One of them was shaking the other who was lying in a spreading pool of blood and gurgling into it. A blade protruded from beneath his body, lying at just the right angle to have cut his throat in the fall. Dormael let out a bemused chuckle as he climbed painfully to his feet. The second Galanian saw him move and rose to his feet in response, snatching a longsword from where he’d dropped it. He was wearing some form of leather armor, though his helmet had tumbled from his head in the fall. The soldier took one look at his fallen companion and turned an accusing stare on Dormael. “You killed my friend.” Dormael looked at the man like he was an idiot. “Aye, I did. That’s the point, isn’t it?” “He was my friend,” the man repeated, brandishing his sword. “You said that already,” Dormael growled. “He was dumb enough to fall on his sword—clearly, that isn’t my fault.” The Galanian answered by coming at him with the longsword. Dormael gave him another flat look and tipped him into the sea with his magic. The man screamed as Dormael’s power ripped him from the deck and tossed him into the frothing water, but Dormael didn’t have time to enjoy his victory. Two more Galanians came screaming out of the rain, and Dormael slammed one into the other with so much force that he heard their bones crack as their weapons went tumbling away. A third came at him from behind, but Dormael ripped a discarded sword from the deck and slammed it through his torso, blowing him from his feet. A fourth man went down as he ran past, Dormael coaxing his very skin to catch fire. That one screamed in agony and cast himself into the sea. Dormael shifted his weight and cried out in pain as his injured leg betrayed him. He grabbed a hand-line to keep from crumpling to the deck and took a few deep breaths as he got his bearings. His leg was bleeding, the red soaking through his pants before being absorbed by the rain. The wound

throbbed in time with his beating heart. D’Jenn’s song blasted through Dormael’s senses, and he could feel his cousin tossing death at their attackers nearby. The driving rain and wind was a cacophony in his ears, but Dormael caught the telltale sound of Shawna’s blades ringing, too. Men screamed, the sky rumbled with thunder, and the sea whispered its fury. Two more Red Swords came for him, screaming as they raised their swords. Dormael cut them down with flying shards of ice, but more came in their wake. Dormael laid about with his magic, sweeping some men from the deck and crushing others with his Kai. The Galanians spilled onto Seacutter’s deck, and Mikael’s men were being cut down in droves. They couldn’t go on losing men like that—the Galanians might be able to throw fighting men at them until they were exhausted, but Mikael’s men were all sailors, and necessary for crewing the ship. If something wasn’t done soon, even a victory would mean eventual death. Dormael didn’t relish the idea of winning the fight only to die afterward at sea. He steeled himself against his pain, pulled more power from his magic, and went to work.

*** to breathe, girl. Shawna slid a longsword wide of her shoulder and stepped into the blow, thrusting her blade into the eyes of the man behind it. He screamed and rocked back from her sword, but it was in and out of his eye socket before he could move. She stepped aside, letting the screaming man fall out of her field of focus, and met the attack of his comrade with a jarring downward parry. Her steel sang as the blades met, and the Galanian’s sword was knocked to the deck. His blood closely followed. She skipped to the side as the deck of the ship rolled, seeking a higher elevation on the shifting platform. D’Jenn’s earlier warnings about fighting at sea came to mind, but he had no cause for worry. Shawna’s master had made her run backwards, stand on her head, and do other ridiculous feats

of agility. At the time, she had thought the endless exercises pointless. Today, she reveled in their familiarity. A grunt of effort alerted her to a man at her back, and she dove forward out of range, rolling to her feet and turning to face the attacker. He followed up and came on with a wild overhead slash. Shawna sprang forward, thrusting her blade through the man’s armpit. He gave a small gasp of surprise as his blade tumbled from his hand, and Shawna kicked him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling to the deck. Her side ached in protest, but she bit back the pain as best she could. to breathe, girl. Two more went down after they rushed her, stumbling over each other as she tripped them up with a bit of basic footwork. She had barely pulled her sword from the back of one man’s neck before a third faced off with her, offering tentative thrusts. She knocked each aside with contemptuous ease and left a draw-cut on his arm as she disengaged. The man grimaced and glanced down at the wound. Never take your eyes from your enemy, fool. Shawna put a delicate cut across the Galanian’s eyes as a lesson. He stumbled away into the rain, clutching his face and screaming in agony. “Baroness!” A voice—cultured and deep—called out behind her. “Baroness Llewan!” She turned, raising her swords, and regarded the owner of the cultured baritone. He was a tall and imposing man with wide shoulders and a swordsman’s build. He was in the process of removing a helmet—something close-faced in a standard military style—and he carried a huge, round shield. His face was hard, expression one of tightly controlled anger, though his features were pleasant enough. He had a growth of gray stubble across his face, and his hair was the same shade, cropped close to his head. Shawna’s blood went cold. “Are you the one?” For the life of her, she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“If you mean ‘the one responsible’, then I suppose my answer would have to be a resounding yes.” The man eyed her with a face made of stone. “I am Colonel Rengard Grant. In service to the Emperor of Galania, I formally place you under arrest.” Shawna would have laughed, but she was consumed by cold anger. “We both know that’s a load of horseshit.” “Well,” Grant cracked a smirk, “horseshit has its place. That particular pile is now out of the way, wouldn’t you say? Why don’t we speak frankly?” “Oh, do me the courtesy, kind sir.” Shawna’s tone was as mocking as she could make it. Grant smiled. “You know why I’m here, Baroness Llewan—the artifact. Give it to me, surrender to me, and I promise you every courtesy befitting a lady of your station. The Emperor will clothe you in wealth for all your days.” Shawna narrowed her eyes, unable to keep the pure disgust in her belly from twisting her face into a grimace. Her father’s words echoed again in her mind, the parting phrase with which he’d left her—a painfully relevant warning. This offer sounded much the same to her. No matter what they tell you, you will not leave here alive. “You murdered everyone I’ve ever loved.” The words came out hollower than she’d imagined they would. “You slaughtered innocents over…over what?! A piece of magical jewelry? This is what I think of your courtesy!” Shawna spat at the man’s feet. Grant sneered. “Quite unladylike.” “Fuck yourself!” The profanity tasted awkward, but freeing. “You can play at your Imperial courtesy all you like, but I’ve seen the true face of it. Your men, when they threatened to rape me. The bruises all over Bethany. The bodies of my family—those are the faces of your gods-damned courtesy!” Grant’s eye gave an involuntary twitch. “The child? The girl is here?”

“You’ll die before you see her again.” Shawna’s body trembled with nervous energy. “If you’re quite done with this insipid wordplay, I’d like to get this over with.” Grant’s eyes narrowed, and he slapped the helmet back onto his head. “You’re not what I imagined—landed nobility, the blue bloods of the old world, courteous and aloof to a fault. instead what I find is a mouthy bitch, up to her neck in dangerous things. A pretty girl with a pair of pretty swords, playing at being a pretty little warrior.” “And I see a man too weak for a real woman,” Shawna spat, “so he hurts little girls instead.” Grant rocked back from the comment, though she couldn’t see his face through the helm. “Oh yes, I know all about your perversion. I might have given you the respect of an honored enemy otherwise, but that’s enough to change my mind. Your death will be slow, do you hear me? It will be painful.” Grant brandished his shield and drew a longsword from his side. “Very well. For what it’s worth, I never intended for any of this to happen. I would have enjoyed a spirited conversation with your father, perhaps a bit of dithering. My men were overzealous.” Overzealous?! You bastard! Shawna raised her swords. “Defend yourself or be cut down where you stand.” Shawna was so viciously tired of this bastard’s cultured words. She thought of her father, of the blood running down his shirt, trying his best to say one last thing to her. She ed the look in his eyes. She drew that memory around her like armor. “Let me share the truth with you, woman.” Grant ducked behind his shield and stepped forward, his blade leveled in her direction. “You and your people are doomed. You might kill me, but I have the numbers. Your fight is irable, but stupid.”

“Gods above, don’t you ever shut your bloody mouth?” Shawna quick-stepped toward his shield and feinted with her right blade, forcing him backwards. He ducked behind the shield and stepped away, holding his sword ready. Shawna pressed, tapping his shield with her blades in a lazy attack, trying to keep the man on his heels. If I can make him stumble, he’s dead. Grant must have sensed what she was doing. He rolled away to her left and sent a parting slash at her torso. She slipped aside and readjusted her stance. His form was much better than the men under his command. Shawna showed him her teeth and slid his sword wide of her belly as he thrust. She skipped out of range of his shield as he tried to catch her with the rim. He pressed his attack, forcing her to parry his sword and slip away from his shield. Shawna tried a few counterattacks, but the man loomed over her when he was close, and the shield kept him well protected. He kept his legs out of range, and when she ducked low, he tried to trap her with his shield. Shawna kept his blade from getting close and stepped away, allowing him to back her into a corner. She feinted left and right, as if looking in vain for an exit, and backed closer to the railing. Grant took the bait, rushing to pin her against the rail with his shield. Shawna threw herself to the right, rolling away from his sword arm, and whipped out with one of her blades as she went. Her wrist gave a light tug, and the Colonel grunted in surprise, but the slash couldn’t have done more than graze him. She came up and gained her feet as Grant pushed himself from the railing and took another defensive stance. “You’re quick.” He gestured to the shallow cut she had left across the side of his leg. “You’re not terribly slow.” Shawna smiled. “But you could be faster.” “We both know when I catch you, you’re dead.” “You seem to be taking your time getting it done.” Shawna settled into a

guard position. Grant growled something unintelligible and came for her with his blade.

*** Bethany huddled into the corner of D’Jenn’s cot, watching the door to the cabin with wide, fearful eyes. Her magic blazed inside her, a storm of noise with no sound. She could hear—or feel, she wasn’t sure—what Dormael and D’Jenn were doing up there. It was like listening to musicians trading flourishes of their skill. Bethany had no idea how to make sense of it, and she was too paralyzed to try. He was up there. She knew it. Her magic—her Kai, D’Jenn had said—sent her impressions of the people on deck. She would get a flash in her mind of the last burning emotions of a crewman, or the murderous intentions of a Red Sword. Bethany had felt Shawna—focused and bright—only moments before, and she had also felt the man she was fighting. Though her magic hadn’t awakened until recently, she couldn’t mistake the impression her power sent back to her. He was a dark cloud, an inky darkness gilded with a golden face. He was the type of man to smile and show you kindness…but then his hands would come. She knew him like she knew the feeling of an empty stomach. When she’d realized who he was, she had drawn her knees to her chin and huddled into the corner. Her heart beat into her ears, and she couldn’t take her eyes from the door. Gnawing fear gripped her spine, and she was certain he would burst through the door at any moment. He would take her back with him, and this dream she had been living would be over. Bethany felt sick. “No,” she whispered, pulling her knees to her mouth and praying the door would stay shut. “Please, please, please no.”

Nothing could hear her—she knew that. Bethany had heard people talk about the gods, and a kind old man had once told her stories about them, but she didn’t think they listened to little girls. She had tried so many times to talk to them, but they never listened. That kind old man died in the cold, so maybe they didn’t listen to him, either. Bethany calmed herself. D’Jenn and Dormael had spent a few days teaching her control. She could feel her magic all the time now, like a storm sleeping in her chest. She clenched her eyes shut—the effort of surrendering her view of the door was terrifying—and ed the words D’Jenn said to her every time they did an exercise. “Close your eyes,” she whispered. That much, anyway, was done. “Think about your breathing. There is nothing in the world but your breath.” Her voice caught on the last word as something large tumbled to the deck outside, but she held her emotions tightly in check. She breathed in a steady rhythm, imagining her ears didn’t work. She filled her mind with the sound of her heart beating, and her shoulders relaxed. Bethany took an extra deep breath, holding her lungs as full as she could make them. Unbidden, the memory of the Colonel’s smell filled her mind. Bethany’s trance rocked, and she looked to the door as fear gripped her bones with a vengeance. She clenched her jaws together and breathed through her nose. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her magic quivered with nervous energy. Loose things in the room began to shake violently, sending the tiny cabin into a clatter. Bethany stiffened, and the movement caused the cacophony to rise as the shaking went from violent to chaotic. The door made a thumping noise as it pushed against the frame, as if a large, invisible beast were leaning its weight into it, trying to hold it closed. Bethany whimpered. I’m losing control! “Don’t,” she said, unsure of what else to do, “please, just don’t!” Her magic only intensified.

Bethany crawled deeper into the corner, but she could only make herself so small. Shadows danced across the walls of the room as darkness closed in around her, and she squealed in fright. A slow creaking noise issued from the wood in the cabin, as if her magic was putting pressure on the entire ship. Tears came to her eyes, and her vision blurred with the wetness. Something strange came to her senses. Just on the edge of her hearing, a new song emerged from the din of noise. It was quiet, peaceful, and sweet in the way of a morning sunrise. It whispered into the room and danced with her magic, coaxing it down from the brink of eruption. The alien song—the one from the armlet—calmed her magic. Bethany’s power still raged through her, but it was manageable. She had the overwhelming urge to reach out to the alien song, to grasp to it like a rock in a raging flood. Bethany closed her eyes and reached. The violent shaking stopped as soon as she immersed herself in the song of the armlet. Warmth filled her arms and legs, it trickled into her chest. Every muscle in her body relaxed, and she sighed despite the desperate situation. The heat was so good in the wake of the hard road she’d had for the last couple of weeks. The snow, the driving wind, the frigid sea, the fear—it all flowed away into the Void. When Bethany opened her eyes, she was holding the armlet in her hand. She gasped at the piece of jewelry in her hands. The warmth from the song clung to her like an invisible blanket, stifling her thoughts and actions. She gazed into the ruby. How did I get down here and open the box without knowing it? The armlet was beautiful. Bethany had thought so from the moment she’d first laid eyes on it. It had curving, delicate silver bands, and a ruby bigger than her balled fist. The gem was glowing, leaking fluttering, misty light into the air. Bethany stared into it, trying to force herself to put the thing back. Dormael and D’Jenn had been very clear on this—she was not to play with it. She tried to make herself move, but she couldn’t. She opened her mouth to tell her hands to drop the thing, but they wouldn’t listen. Panic blossomed

again in Bethany’s chest, and the memories of the last time it had spoken filled her mind. Her magic tried to wrench away from the armlet’s power, and for a moment, there was a vicious, invisible wrestling match. The silver turned to liquid in her hands, grasping her arms in a cool, unbreakable grip. Bethany stumbled away from the chest and tried to throw the thing from her arm, but it clung there like a spider. She screamed in terror as it started to climb.

*** Shawna danced to her rear, taking care to stay on her toes. Grant’s blade came at her from overhead, from the side, in a straight thrust, all with practiced, well-timed intensity. The man was no Blademaster, but he was close enough to make it a contest. Shawna turned his attacks aside and stayed out of his range. She’d left him with a long draw cut on his forearm to accompany the one on his leg, though it hadn’t gone deep enough to matter. The Red Sword commander was faster than she anticipated. to breathe, girl. Shawna flowed with the rhythm of the fight. She kept Grant’s blade away from her and tried to find an opening for a good attack. The problem was the shield. The man was fast enough—and good enough—with his longsword that getting inside his guard would have been tough in a bladeto-blade match, but the shield made it nearly impossible. Each time Shawna thrust over the edge, or tried to force the shield aside, Grant would turn and threaten her with the blade. When she focused on the blade, he attacked with the shield. Her side ached like fire. There was a slight hesitation in her movements, and her strength was waning. The pitching ship made the fight harder on her body, and the activity taxed her. Shawna concentrated on keeping her muscles loose, but the pain was distracting. She struggled to keep the strain hidden from Grant, but she suspected he could tell. The man might be disgusting, but that didn’t mean he was blind. to breathe.

Shawna reversed her momentum and went on the attack, swiping at Grant with quick, deadly movements that put him on his heels. She licked out with her blades, thrusting at his eyes over the rim of his shield, and he ducked behind it to throw a counter-slash at her midsection. Shawna was ready for it. She slammed the man’s blade aside, moving to slip her other blade into his armpit, but something was off. The sword tumbled away without the slight bit of resistance she’d expected from the parry, and her arm went wide, throwing her off balance. Grant’s fist connected with her face, blurring her eyes as her nose exploded with pain. She cried out in surprise, but her breath left her throat as he planted a vicious boot in her wounded side. Shawna’s world went white with agony. When her vision refocused, she was lying beneath the Colonel, retching as her stomach heaved with pain. Her muscles stiffened as her body curled around her old wound, but Shawna fought the sensation as hard as she could. Master Severin had put her through pain enough to deal with it. She clenched her jaw and struggled to move. “It was apparent there was no way to beat you with the sword.” Grant smiled down at her through the pouring rain. “So, I used my fist.” to breathe! Steel rustled as Grant moved above her. “You must know something, Baroness Llewan, before you die. In all my years in service to the Empire—and the years before—you have been my most worthy enemy. I’ll it, part of me wants to beat you bloody, to wrap my hands around that pretty little throat and look into your eyes as I choke your life away. But I will make your death quick, and I’ll leave you with some dignity.” Shawna tried to rise, but he kicked her back down to the deck. Shawna’s side wrenched, and she hissed as she curled into a ball. She tried to move her legs, but her side was knotted with such pain that she could barely think. Move, woman!

“You should know, however, that what happened here today means nothing. Your family dying, that was a fucking tragedy, but only to you. You’re just a stepping stone, dear girl. A step on my path to greater things—that’s the truth.” He kicked her again, and Shawna’s head went fuzzy with the pain. “The refined nobility of the old world—” He kicked her again. Tears came to Shawna’s eyes, and she fought the urge to vomit. “—leaching from the people beneath you as if they fucking owed you something!” He rolled her over with another kick, and rainwater poured into Shawna’s eyes. Her hands spasmed in pain, and her fingers brushed the hilt of one of her swords. “You’re a relic. The Empire is coming for the lot of you. At least you faced your end with some honor—for that, you can find a little solace on your trip to the Void.” The world came into stark focus. Every part of Shawna’s body urged her to move. Her hand tightened around her sword, and she summoned every bit of strength she had left, throwing herself into a final effort to cheat the gods of their victory. Grant’s sword jerked upward and came for her heart with deadly intent. Shawna moved, and her magical steel met his sword with a jarring, silvery note. Grant screamed, his blade tumbling away in the rain, clutching his hand back out of range. He tried to dance away from her, but Shawna was dedicated to her purpose. She screamed in pain as she rose against her knotted muscles, rolling to her feet and swinging her sword with the last bit of fight she could muster. Her blade sang a second time, and Shawna nearly dropped it as it gave a heavy tug.

Grant tumbled to the ground, his leg giving way as Shawna severed it at the knee. Blood sprayed onto the deck, washed away by the rain. He wailed in agony as his back hit the ground, clutching at his bleeding stump. Shawna struggled to her feet, the sudden rush of strength leaking away like mist in the morning. She grabbed her second blade from the deck and took a deep breath as she let the rain wash down her face. She let Grant scream. He wasn’t so smug, less half of his leg. “I think,” she breathed, “I like you better this way.” He cursed something garbled and rolled away from her. Another Galanian appeared from nearby, coming upon the scene and skidding to a halt. He was a square-jawed man with an officer’s knots on his shoulders. Shawna’s spirits fell as he brandished his sword. His eyes, though, slid back to where Grant lay on the ground. “Havram!” Grant tried to crawl away. “Kill the bitch! She’s half-dead already, Lieutenant! Kill her!” Havram looked back to Shawna with a guarded expression. He glanced a second time to Grant with the same hooded eyes. His face hardened, and he took a careful step backwards. He turned an unreadable expression on Shawna and gave her a short nod. As he was backing away, he spat on the deck in Grant’s direction. “Havram! Havram, help me! That’s an order, you gods-damned…Havram! Havram!” Grant clawed across the deck toward the retreating Galanian, bleeding like a sieve from his stump. A smile came to Shawna’s face. “You should know something, Colonel, before you die.” Her heart beat a cacophony in her ears, and her hands shivered. “I think you’re the lowest creature the gods ever shat into existence.” Grant sputtered something, but she ignored him. “You should know, too, that what you’ve done up to this point means nothing. You will die here with my sword in your skull, and I’ll dump your

body over the side when your soul leaves for the Void. No one will care what happened to you, because you’re no one.” He tried to crawl away from her, but she moved forward and stabbed him through the hip. Her Master had taught her long ago that disabling the hips ended a struggle, and Grant gasped in pain as his body betrayed him. He jerked and twitched like a fool as he bled onto the deck. “You’re nothing.” Shawna loomed over him. “Just a stepping stone on my path to kill the rest of you worthless bastards. You’re the first weight of blood I owe the gods for what they’ve stolen from me!” Shawna fell to her knees atop the Colonel and brought the hilt of one of her swords down hard on his nose. He gagged and sputtered as blood poured from it, but Shawna stilled his movement by placing one of her blade tips under his chin. She leaned over him, breathing hard through her nose. “Just get it over with, you—” Shawna ended his speech by sliding the tip of her blade into his jaw. “Be silent while I speak to the gods.” Grant’s eyes went wide with fear. Shawna leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “Look here, Aastinor! See this I offer you now! Take this enemy against my oath to you, and may you choke on the tide of blood to come!” Grant’s eyes filled with terror, but Shawna held his head steady with her free hand. She slid her sword up into his skull, taking care to be slow about it. He made a gurgling sound, his body kicking with wild desperation before he went limp. Shawna rode down his struggles with cold determination. The leader of the men who killed her family, who took everything she loved and burned her life to the ground, finally lay dead beneath her. He looked ridiculous as a mutilated corpse, even shameful. Shawna was numb as she stared at his sightless eyes. She struggled to her feet and let out a pained cry as the movement disturbed her wound. The battle lust had kept off most of the pain, but now it was

settling in with a vengeance. Three Red Swords strode toward her after looking once at Dormael and D’Jenn, who tossed magic around the deck. Despair filled Shawna’s stomach as she watched them come. All that work, and I’m still going to die. Strange, red-tinted light filtered over the surface of the deck. The source was somewhere to the rear of the ship, near the companionway to their cabins. The Red Swords advancing on Shawna stopped short and stared toward the light. When she saw what was at the center of it, Shawna’s breath caught in her throat.

*** Dormael punched out with his magic, sending a bolt of lightning slamming into a trio of Galanians trying to flank him. The electricity arced around him as the strike hit home, and the three Red Swords were blown from their feet. He spotted another one behind them, sword raised over a cowering member of Seacutter’s crew, and Dormael sent a second bolt screaming toward him. Charred spots marked the place where he died. He turned to find a pair of Red Swords close to his back, and he pushed them from their feet with a gesture. D’Jenn waded through the fight nearby, keeping several spells going and laying about with his morningstar. His Kai sang a desperate song through the ether. Red Swords swarmed the deck, killing everything in sight. Dormael seized one of the men he’d knocked to the deck with his magic, eliciting a frightened yelp. He threw the Galanian over the deck so hard that his bones cracked when he landed amongst a group of his friends. The second fallen Galanian was thrown into two others who were trying to flank D’Jenn. His cousin brought down four more by turning the rain against them, sending the droplets screaming into their face until they backed over the railing. The sea pulled them down, and they disappeared.

“We’ve got to cut the boarding ropes!” D’Jenn screamed into the storm. Dormael ran his eyes down the port side of the ship, grimacing at the number of lines from the galleon. Another Red Sword braved the distance every moment, and Mikael’s men weren’t putting up much of a fight. They were brave and tough, but they were no match for Galanian soldiers. “If you keep them off my flank, I can take out the lines!” Dormael yelled. “Just try not to break our ship in the process.” D’Jenn reached out with his Kai and wrapped Dormael in protective magic. He paused to center his concentration and gave Dormael a nod. More Red Swords came out of the rain, and Dormael turned his attention to them, if only to get them out of the way. He sent slivers of ice whistling through the air toward them, bringing them down in sprays of blood. By the time he turned his attention back to the boarding ropes, a strange noise was lilting through the air. D’Jenn’s magic went tense, and Dormael’s followed an instant later. D’Jenn shot him a grim look, and Dormael’s eyes went wide. He had listened to that alien crooning before, and he knew exactly from where it came. The armlet was awake. Dormael’s heart fluttered with fear. He turned toward the entrance to the companionway and trained his eyes on the door. The armlet’s song approached like a peal of thunder. The door burst open, spilling red light onto the deck. It was a stark contrast to the darkened cast of the sky, and it blinded Dormael with its sudden brilliance. Bethany came up the stairs, though her feet never touched the wood beneath her. Her eyes were wide, expression one of pure terror. She seemed to have no control over her body, because her movements seemed at odds with the expression on her face. The armlet had changed, forming itself to the girl’s body in a wild, decorative pattern. It had its silver tendrils wrapped around Bethany, all the way from her jawline to her left elbow. The giant ruby rested over her shoulder, blazing with the jarring red light.

Bethany floated a hand’s distance from the surface of the deck, hovering in the arms of the armlet’s power. Her head moved around as she took in the scene, and her fingers twitched as if she was plucking an invisible instrument. Her eyes, though, betrayed the storm of emotion happening inside. Everyone on deck paused to look in her direction, and the fighting came to a complete standstill. In Dormael’s magical senses, the world was on fire with sensations. He was stunned to immobility. One of the men nearest to Bethany moved toward the girl, brandishing his longsword. Dormael summoned his magic to defend her, but Bethany was faster. Her manner changed, her expression going vacant, and her eyes shot to the man as he raised his sword for a strike. Bethany’s eyes flashed the color of a campfire, and the man exploded into bright flames. He didn’t have time to scream before his body was burnt beyond recognition, and two men standing nearby went up seconds later. Bethany turned her empty, glowing eyes on the galleon looming over Seacutter’s port side and raised her tiny hands. Every sail on the galleon went up at once, and the rain did nothing to stop the blaze. Chaos broke out on the deck as men fled in terror. Red Swords flung their weapons and headed for the railing or climbed onto the boarding lines and clawed their way back toward the galleon. Bethany turned her eyes on them and spread her arms to the side. Flickering motes of light fizzled out from the aura surrounding her, rushing into the deluge and hissing when they were struck by the rain. They flew in haphazard lines around the deck, ducking through the rigging and zipping past defenseless crewmen. Dormael watched in horror. The whole ship is going up in flames! The certainty of death sat in his guts like a cold, black stone. One of the motes touched one of the Red Swords, and he flashed into bright flames. Half a moment later, a second, then a third. Galanians started going up like torches, and the scramble to leave the ship reached a fever pitch. Men went for the side like ants escaping a flood.

D’Jenn’s voice cut through the chaos. “Dormael!” D’Jenn gestured at the boarding lines, and they dissolved under the power of his magic. One by one they came apart, falling into black dust that was swept away by the storm. The ships listed as the lines gave away in sequence, and a great shudder came from below as the hulls scraped together. Men were still burning, and some of them fell between the two ships, screaming in agony. Dormael reached out with his Kai and took hold of the warring ships with his magic. His power drained as he tried to wrest control of them from the sea, an effort which turned out to be futile. Dormael pulled back from the effort with practiced difficulty—reversing one’s commitment to a spell was dangerous. “Dormael!” D’Jenn’s face was tight with fear. “Hurry!” Refocusing his efforts, Dormael seized the prow of the Galanian ship in his Kai and planted his feet on the pitching deck. With one last effort of magic, he pushed against the bow of the looming galleon, bracing his power against Seacutter’s hull. The drain on his Kai was immediate, and Dormael fought off a wave of dizziness as he taxed the limits of his magic. The wood of both ships gave a creaking protest, but the galleon’s nose was pushed away from Seacutter’s hull. The massive warship dipped down the side of a swell, and the sea rushed between the two ships as she listed away. Dormael watched, eyes unblinking, as the warship drifted away in the churning sea, sails burning against the rain. The storm filled his ears as the last Galanian fell into the water, and Seacutter was free. No one said a word, and not a cheer went up. Dormael moved toward Bethany, who was watching the last soldier burn to death as he ran for the water. She turned her empty, flame-filled eyes on Dormael, and a moment of icy terror filled his veins. What did the girl see? Will she burn me, too? She crumpled instead, her aura of light winking out. Dormael grunted in pain and increased his pace, the quick movements jarring his wounded leg.

D’Jenn beat him to Bethany’s side and gathered the girl into his arms. Her head lolled to the side, and her eyes fluttered shut. The armlet was around her upper arm, but it was once again to its normal size—half again too large for Bethany. The gem sparkled with a low, fell light. The song crooned in a contented tone, vibrating the ether with its voice. Dormael shared a grim look with D’Jenn. Shawna came up behind Dormael. “What in the Six Hells was that?” Dormael was startled by the sight of her. She was splattered with blood, and though the rain must have washed most of it away, gore still clung to her in every place it could. She had a pained grimace on her face, and she moved like she had fallen down a flight of stairs. “That was your mother’s armlet,” Dormael replied. Shawna nodded and glanced around at Seacutter’s crew. “Let’s get her out of the rain. We need to get her out of sight.” Dormael followed her gaze to the frightened gazes of the sailors. Some of the crew was crawling through the rigging or moving to help downed companions. Others stood in rapt silence, staring at Bethany’s inert form. D’Jenn hefted Bethany’s body and moved for the companionway. Shawna followed him inside, refusing Dormael’s offer for . It was just as well —his leg throbbed, and he was feeling faint. He wouldn’t have been much . Dormael stayed on deck and offered as much magical to Mikael as he could. The ship was still battered, and the storm was just as treacherous as it had been before. They were anything but safe, even with the threat of the Galanian ship neutralized. Dormael checked the horizon and couldn’t find the warship’s burning sails through the storm. Mikael wasn’t happy about the outcome, but anytime men were lost in combat, it was a bitter leaf to chew. Dormael promised to repay him as best they could, and the man was as satisfied as he could be, given the situation. Countryman or not, Dormael made sure they were still on good before he crawled back to their cabins. The last thing he wanted was an

angry crew pulling them from their cots and tossing them in the sea. He found D’Jenn alone in their cabin sitting cross-legged and staring down at the armlet. “It’s quiet now,” he said. “It’s still singing, but it’s as if…it’s like a cat, after it’s gorged on a fat mouse.” “I know.” Dormael sighed. “I felt it, right before she fainted. Where is she?” “Lying down with Shawna. She wouldn’t leave Bethany alone, and I wasn’t going to argue with her. Shawna needed her moment alone, too.” “Do you think Bethany will be alright?” D’Jenn sighed and took a moment in replying. “I’m no healer, Dormael, no Hedge Wizard. I don’t know. She seems to be asleep, but she may never wake. She might wake up, but her mind could be gone. There’s no way for me to know.” “You could just say ‘aye’ next time,” Dormael muttered. D’Jenn shook his head. “This thing, Dormael…it’s like nothing in the world.” “I know.” Dormael regarded the armlet in D’Jenn’s lap. “It’s gods-damned powerful.” “Not just that, cousin.” D’Jenn gave him a grim look. “This thing is a separate power from our own, something no one has seen before. It communicates, and now we know it can do things completely on its own— things more complicated than tricks with the campfire. Things that kill. You know what that means.” Dormael looked down at the artifact, trying to swallow the bile rising to the back of his throat. The armlet’s ruby sparkled in the low light, twinkling as the song warbled in contented slumber. The screams of the burning Red Swords filled Dormael’s mind, and he tore his gaze away from it. It was a moment before he cleared his throat and spoke.

“I know.” Dormael sat against the cabin wall. “The gods-damned thing is a weapon.”

Epilogue

Shawna sat bundled at the rear of the ship, huddled into a corner and gazing over the expanse of the Stormy Sea. It had been days since the encounter with the Red Swords with no sign of pursuit on the horizon. Shawna still came and looked every day. She clutched the lock of her mother’s hair in one hand, letting it flutter in the wind. It was more golden than Shawna’s own color but close enough that the relation was unmistakable. Loosening her grip, she held the bundle of hair up into the wind. She teetered on the edge of letting the hair fall into the sea, but she clutched it tight in the last instant. Part of her wanted to let it go, perhaps as some theatrical gesture to commemorate the end of her old life. It was a bit macabre, but the Shawna Llewan of old deserved a funeral. She was just as dead as if Grant had killed her during the assault, instead of the other way around. The memory of his last moments flashed through her mind, and she shivered. It had been the first time she had killed someone so…intimately. The other men she had cut down had been obstacles more than anything else, but Grant had mattered. She had wanted him dead. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the gray melancholy filling her after taking his life certainly hadn’t been it. Heroes in the old songs were always filled with righteous glee in the wake of their victories, but Shawna wasn’t so sure of herself. Grant had deserved his death, but the sight of his corpse had done little to soothe Shawna’s grief. That didn’t mean, though, that it had done nothing. She could still hear his screams of agony when she’d cut off his leg, and every time the sound filled the corridors of her memory, it brought a wicked smile to her face. Anytime she looked at Bethany, she was vindicated. The girl had cried all night after Shawna told her the Colonel was dead,

huddling against Shawna like a frightened deer. She didn’t say anything or try to explain her feelings, she just cried herself to sleep and disappeared before morning. Bethany had been withdrawn since that night, but back on the road to normality. There’s nothing normal about traveling with Sevenlanders. She wouldn’t be rid of those two anytime soon. Half of their journey was still ahead of them, and she had no idea what would happen once they made the safety of the Conclave. The thought of visiting the Conclave still filled Shawna with trepidation, but less now than before the fight at sea. One could only be exposed to so much sorcery before it became commonplace. Well, it became almost commonplace. Shawna felt beginnings of friendship with the Sevenlanders. It was a grudging thing, and slow to bloom, but she had grown used to their coarseness and disregard for tact. She was even starting to see humor in the way they acted, like they were a pair of teenage boys who couldn’t help but cause trouble. They certainly needed someone to look after them. What else would she do? She could reinstate her claim, but by the time she was able to make it back to Cambrell, her home would be a ruined husk. Farmers from the barony would have looted the place, and Shawna had scattered the horses to the winds. She would have nothing but a claim. Alton would probably see to the place, or he’d at least keep her inheritance intact. The thought of going home after everything she’d seen made her feel empty. Shawna loved her home, but she couldn’t go back for a long time. She wasn’t the same girl who had fled its burning remnants. She was the woman who had repaid the gods for its destruction. Why not stay with the wizards for a while? Once this business with her mother’s armlet was done, she could decide what to do next. Dormael told her that her services as a mercenary could net mountains of riches, and she could even garner fame if she so wished. She’d considered the idea, but she dismissed it after a while. Glory wasn’t what she wanted, and if it was excitement she needed, she had found enough of that to last until the gods returned. She had a feeling more would find her before she left the company

of the two Sevenlanders. They had at least another twenty days at sea, but probably more because of the damage to the ship. There was plenty of time on the journey to make her decision, and time enough after to find the best path. She looked at the hair clutched in her hand and stuffed it back through her belt. A reminder of where she came from couldn’t hurt, wherever her journey led. She considered finding one of the Sevenlanders and bothering them for conversation. D’Jenn, though, always acted as if she was interrupting the most important brooding episode of his life, even though every day was an episode of brooding for D’Jenn. Dormael couldn’t help but flirt and sneak glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, but it wasn’t as irritating as it used to be. It was fun to make him uncomfortable sometimes, and he was completely off balance when she turned the tables on him. She had been spending a good bit of time with Dormael, as the pain of their wounds kept them both abed. He’d even taught her to play tavern dice, which was fun enough after a fashion. Games of chance had never held much attraction for her, though men were crazy for the things. Dormael was no exception, as interesting as he was otherwise. He wasn’t bad looking, either, even with that stupid beard. My mother always said never to trust the pretty ones. Perhaps she could stay where she was. All the Sevenlanders could talk about was the armlet and what they would do once they made it to Ishamael. Shawna didn’t feel like planning or engaging in long conversations about strategy. She felt bleak, as if the victory they’d pulled from the teeth of the Red Swords was just the first in a long series of conflicts. The day was clear, but the memory of the storm was fresh in her mind, and the silence was pregnant with future peril. Shawna let out a breath and stared into the wind. Whatever comes, I’ll be ready.

***

Maarkov knew his brother was going to kill the poor bastard at his desk. Maaz had a real gift for corpse-making. Everything the bastard touched, ed, or saw had a strange way of ending up dead. “I don’t know what you expected me to do,” pleaded the sea captain. “The attack was risky enough in the storm as it was, and there was no way I could follow after they burned my ship. She was crippled! They turned sorcery on my ship! Sorcery! How is a man supposed to deal with that?” “Sorcery, was it?” Maaz cocked his head to the side in a slow, dry movement. The expression looked more like a reptile regarding its future meal than a human considering an argument. The reptilian likeness was close to the truth. His brother had lost his human qualities long ago. “They opened up the sky and threw lightning at us! All my sails went up at the same time, and in a driving storm, too. Nothing normal about that, by the gods.” The captain made a sign to ward off evil. “Indeed,” Maaz said in an ingratiating tone. He was wrapped in a deep, hooded cloak, and he’d wound a scarf around his mouth to hide the rest of his face. Only his eyes regarded the captain across the desk from him, and those were as dead as a corpse. Maarkov had no doubt that Maaz’s teeth would be showing in a wide, friendly grin. It would be a lie, though. Maaz’s smiles had nothing to do with happiness. The shabby office, a room in an out-of-the-way building in a corner of Shundov’s harbor, stunk of seawater and fish carcasses. The whole damned city smelled that way, truth be told, but one grew accustomed to it, after a fashion. A single candle burned in the room, throwing long, dancing shadows on the floor. Maarkov leaned on the wall near the door. “I saved that boat from the storm and barely made it back here.” The captain shook his head. “We’re lucky we had enough spare sailcloth to rig something, or we’d have died out in the blue. Only thirteen of your boys survived.” The captain cowered under Maaz’s intense stare. Maarkov couldn’t blame the man for his discomfort. Maaz’s presence had that effect on people.

Maaz leaned forward. “And the commander of your expedition? Colonel Grant?” “He left for the Orrisan ship. Never came back.” Maaz sighed and placed his hands on the table. “I see. Who is in command of the unit now?” “A young officer named Havram. Seems like a good sort. He was very courteous, see?” “How wonderful. Tell me, Captain—why in the Six Hells have you come here today?” The captain stiffened at Maaz’s tone. Maarkov reached down and fingered the hilt of the long, thin sword he wore at his hip, and watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. When that tone entered Maaz’s voice, there was likely violence to follow. “I…ah…well, I’m still owed payment, see? And damages.” “Damages?” Maaz’s tone was full of feigned interest. “Aye.” The captain glanced over his shoulder at Maarkov and cleared his throat. “I lost a full rig’s worth of sailcloth to this expedition—something the original contract won’t cover—plus a fortune in hull and deck repairs. Not all the men who died on that voyage were Imperial military, either. What am I to pay their families?” He thinks he’s speaking to an Imperial functionary, like a governor. The poor fool. “You misunderstand me, Captain. How did you make it here, to this room?” Maaz put his clawlike hands on the table. “Who sent you to me?” “The Lieutenant sent me to the Imperial Registrar, who gave me this office as a place to seek recompense.” The captain shot a dubious glance in Maarkov’s direction. Maarkov didn’t care enough to try to smile at the man. He met his stare with a flat

expression. “I see.” Maaz sighed. “Did they give you a name?” The captain looked sideways at Maaz. “No, sir.” “Very well. You shall have your recompense, Captain, and so shall the families of your dead crewmen.” “They will?” “No.” Maaz chuckled. “I was lying.” “Lying? What…what is this?” Maaz looked up and caught Maarkov’s eye. Maarkov pulled his sword from his belt and stepped into a long lunge, sticking the captain through the back. The captain gave a pitiful cry of surprise as Maarkov’s blade exited his belly, and he leaned over the desk, gurgling in pain. His hands scraped at the wood, and he grunted as Maarkov pulled the sword out of his back, twisting the blade to widen the wound. Maaz watched it all happen with intense interest. The captain cursed and sputtered as his blood leaked to the dusty wooden floor. He tried to rise, but Maarkov stuck him through the hips. Cutting the muscles there ended his little rebellion, and the bastard slumped back into the chair. The man coughed and hissed, and his shoulders relaxed as he laid his head on the desk. Maaz reached out his hand just as the man was hovering on the brink of death, and the captain’s body went rigid. Veins popped to the surface over every inch of the man’s skin. His muscles contorted so violently that he twisted on the chair, but his eyes stayed locked to Maaz. “Oh no, you can’t die just yet,” Maaz hissed, looking the body in the eyes. “You’ll serve a purpose before I send your worthless soul to the Void.” Maaz held out a thin, gray finger, and gestured toward it with his other hand. A cut appeared there, leaking dark fluid that barely resembled blood,

and Maaz pressed it to the captain’s forehead. The man wailed in pain, but Maaz paid him no heed. With quick little motions, Maaz drew something on the captains’s forehead. “There are rules in place, you see—rules more ancient than either of us, Captain. There are routes to power that few people have the gall to tread, but for everything…a price.” Maaz leaned back and regarded his work, nodding like he’d just built a sturdy section of wall. He held out his hands like a puppeteer and gestured at the man’s contorted body. Sizzling patterns appeared on the captain’s skin, burned into its surface by Maaz’s power. The captain grunted like a beast in a feral rage. Maaz continued his work, deaf to the man’s bleating, and examined him one last time as the magic faded. When he was satisfied, Maaz raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. The sailor’s body went completely still. “Where is the Third Sign of the Nar’doroc?” Maaz asked. “It is above the sea, below the sky,” whispered the captain, though Maarkov wasn’t sure if the man still occupied his own skin. He’d seen enough strange things to last two lifetimes in his brother’s service, but the revulsion still came anew every time. “It is on a ship, and in a box.” “To where does it travel?” “West, to the land of seven tribes.” The captain’s body twitched. “West, to the city of magic.” “Where is the child I seek?” “She is over the sea, and under the sky. She is on a ship, and in a cabin.” Maaz tilted his head. “Is she with the Nar’doroc?” “She is with a part of it,” the thing whispered. “Very well.” Maaz made a dismissive gesture. “Begone.”

The body went limp and slid to the floor, rolling in its own blood. Maarkov chanced a look at its face and shivered at the expression of terror frozen on its features. Maaz rose from the head of the desk and walked around to look down. He shook his head and sighed. “Gather up the men left under Grant’s command and kill them. Kill the crew of the ship, too. We’ll hire more men and restock it for the journey.” Maarkov raised an eyebrow. “You mean to follow them?” “Of course, I mean to follow them,” Maaz snapped. “It’s obvious I can’t count on anyone else, isn’t it? We shall go to the Sevenlands. We leave as soon as you prepare the ship.” “You want to chase them into the west? That…thing…said they’re traveling to the city of magic. We both know that means Ishamael. What do you think the Conclave will do if they catch you traipsing around the countryside, eating people as you go? Is this thing really so important?” Maaz gave him a withering look. “My dear brother, allow me to fill your mind with something other than swordplay and the running price for Shundovian whores.” Maarkov stiffened, but he was used to this sort of vitriol from his brother. For all the hatred Maaz spat in his direction, Maarkov added more reasons to stab him through the heart. He despised his brother and had despised him for a long damned time. He was, however, bound to him forever. “How about I fill your neck with steel instead?” Maarkov asked. Maaz ignored him, as he always did. “Nothing could be more important than this, Maarkov. All our preparations over the long years have led to possessing the Nar’doroc, and we cannot allow the threads to sever now.” Maaz looked to the west, as if he could see the Sevenlands through the wall. “The ancient weapon, sundered into seven pieces—seven signs of power over the world. No, Maarkov, there is nothing more pressing. Make our preparations. We hunt as soon as they’re

complete.”

THE END of BOOK ONE of THE SEVEN SIGNS

A Note From the Author

Now we’ve come to the part of the book that’s sort of like one of those scenes from a movie where the camera floats into a warm livingroom. Maybe it’s snowing outside, maybe it’s raining. One thing you notice, though, is that it sure looks warm by that fireplace. Oh—who’s that guy in one of those smoking jackets that no one ever wears sitting in that recliner by the fireplace? Is that whiskey in his hand?—and in such a fancy tumbler! My, sir—what a lovely livingroom you have. Except this is me we’re talking about, I’m the guy that’s supposed to be in that smoking jacket. The only thing is, I don’t have a smoking jacket, nor a fancy livingroom, or nice tumblers (hehe). We’re standing in a garage, I have tattoos, and there’s certainly no fireplace. I’m just a dude. I’m a dude that hopes you liked my writing enough to it along to your friends, maybe your Bridge Club, or your mom. Moms always need something to read. You wouldn’t keep a book from your mother, would you? What are you, some kind of monster? So—if you enjoyed this little trip through the stranger corners of my mind, and you wouldn’t mind helping a dude out, why not head over to where you ed it and leave me an honest review? Don’t shill—that’s dirty, and I’ve no need for a smoke cannon pointed dead-to-rights at my exhaust port. Sounds fun, I know, but it’s not. Trust me and don’t ask. (Now imagine me raising a fancy tumbler in your direction, like that meme with Leo DiCaprio’s face on it.) Also, thanks for taking a chance on a dude with tattoos who has nothing fancy. I hope you stick around for the rest of the adventure, and the others

that are coming in its wake. I got plans like a supervillain. Much love and respect to you all, and I’m sincerely thankful for your time, smartassery aside.

~D.W. Hawkins

About the Author

D.W. Hawkins haunts the badlands of southern Arizona and Sonora, Mexico. Sightings in the wild are rare, and this creature should be approached with caution. If you insist on pursuing this dangerous animal, you can find out more about him by visiting his website.

You can also follow him on Facebook, Instagram, Bookbub, and YouTube.

More from D.W. Hawkins

The Seven Signs The Killings at Rockman’s Ford Child of the Flames The Knife in the Dark The Old Man of the Temple The City Under the Mountain The Oath of the Blade The Shadow of Death The Heart of the Wasteland*

Collections and Anthologies Defiant Guardians From the Shadows: Villainous Tales of Dark Lords, Despots, and Devils

*Coming soon

TURN THE PAGE FOR YOUR NEXT ADVENTURE

Shadows rise. The powerful scheme. In the dark, knives await the unwary.

Seeking answers to the riddle of the armlet’s power, Shawna and her allies flee to an ancient city of magic. But the halls of power are built on a foundation of secrets, and lies have spread through the bedrock, deteriorating the base upon which everything stands. Schemers lurk beneath the churning currents of intrigue, waiting for their chance to pull the unsuspecting under the surface.

The mysteries of the past beckon, but secrets can be deadly to those who seek them.

CONTINUE YOUR JOURNEY WITH BOOK TWO

*Coming soon to your favorite bookstore*