The proprietor of the Sellsword pointed her to a list of charges posted on the wall when she inquired about a room.

“Second floor single, no view, five sovereigns per night, or three galifars a week. Second floor single, bridge view.…” As the heavily-muscled woman ran through the list, Irulan noticed that she was missing two fingers on her left hand and one on her right, and stood somewhat off-balance, possibly due to a poorly-fitted artificial leg. Even so, one look at the multitude of war trophies decorating the inn’s foyer, and Irulan was convinced that the old mercenary could take her down without so much as breaking a sweat.

Captured standards from enemy regiments covered the walls. Though she’d never served in the War herself, Irulan recognized some of the more famous banners. The Black Wolves of Karrnath, the Cyre Home Guard, even a tattered gray flag emblazoned with the axe-cleft storm cloud of the Cloudreavers. Interspersed between the standards were weapons and armor from across Khorvaire, and beyond-a Valenar double scimitar, a Talenta sharrash, a darkleaf breastplate, and other, more exotic things Irulan had never seen before, like a three-pronged boomerang. Most of the weapons-and even some of the armor-bore dark stains that Irulan could only assume came from their former owners.

“… and baths are a sovereign a tub.”

Irulan tore her attention away from the walls and glanced at the sheet. Judging by the prices, the guard had sent her to one of the most expensive inns in Flamekeep, and a week’s stay in even the cheapest room was going to use up all her coin. But the next closest place to stay was halfway around the Cathedral Cliffs, and she had no guarantee their prices would be any better. Sighing, she booked a single in the back of the inn for three nights, and prayed to the Flame that she’d need no more than that.

“I’m going to be visiting the Cathedral tomorrow, and I was wondering-”

“You’re a pilgrim, then? Why didn’t you say so? The Purified always get a discount at the Sellsword.”

The Purified. Irulan had always hated that name for followers of the Flame. Very few of them were all that pure, and the phrase was too often used to imply homogeny, as if being different somehow made you less pure or faithful in your devotion-a dangerous line of thinking, especially if you happened to live in a shifter camp on the outskirts of a city whose populace didn’t particularly want you there.

The proprietor-or proprietress, Norah Hetrion, as the sheet named her-was looking at her expectantly.

“Um, yes … a pilgrim. That’s right.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She would no doubt be spending a lot of time in the Cathedral praying, just not quite in the way Norah envisioned. Most pilgrims probably didn’t offer up fervent prayers that the Flame would keep them from clawing out the eyes of the next pompous Church official to cross their path, which is exactly what she expected to be doing tomorrow. Still, if it saved her money, she’d wear that humble mantle, at least for now.

“Excellent! That will bring your total to twelve sovereigns. Half in advance.”

Irulan handed the coins over, pleased to discover she would now have money for both a meal and a private bath. Perhaps she would enjoy her stay in Flamekeep, after all.

He noticed the dwarf first. Dzarro Silvervein, the Queen’s bodyguard. Standing just behind and to the right of a modest but ornate throne on a single-stepped dais, the silver-bearded warrior leaned on a massive dwarven waraxe while he observed Zoden with one startling blue eye. The other eye was covered by a bejeweled patch that twinkled in the light of half a dozen golden everbright lanterns. Striking though the patch was, Zoden’s practiced eye calculated its value at less than half that of the simple platinum pin that clasped the dwarf’s flowing purple cloak at his left shoulder. He wondered if the dwarf’s attire was a subtle message to those seeking audiences with-and favors from-the Queen. A gentle but pointed reminder that what such a boon appeared to be worth and its actual value might be two very different things.

To the left of the throne stood a knight with the Silver Flame blazoned across his breastplate, its argent fire incongruous in this castle that remained locked in the days of Thalin’s reign. A silver pendant hung on a thick chain about his neck, its stylized flame proclaiming the man’s faith for all to see, and the hilt of a great-sword was visible over his left shoulder. Malik Otherro, captain of the guard, paladin of the Silver Flame, and, according to rumor, the Queen’s own lover.

Then Zoden’s gaze turned to the throne, and both dwarf and paladin were forgotten.

Diani ir’Wynarn was often said to be a pale copy of her cousin, Queen Aurala of Aundair, whose long blonde tresses and steely gray eyes were the stuff of legend. If such aphorisms were true, then Aurala must be a veritable angel, for the woman who sat before him was breathtaking. Blond curls spilled over shapely shoulders and fell nearly to her waist, while eyes like Siberys shards set in alabaster studied him intently from within a perfectly-sculpted face. The soft glamerweave of her gown danced with shifting shades of purple and clung in all the right places, while a pendant of lavender mournlode sparkled provocatively from within the confines of her cleavage. Even her amused smile was lovely, formed as it was by lips the color of sun-kissed roses. Zoden was, he decided, in love.

As if sensing the bard’s thoughts, Diani let out a musical laugh. “Welcome, cousin. Though I do believe the usual greeting for one’s queen involves more bowing and less drooling.”

Mortified, Zoden dropped into a low bow, so off-kilter that he forgot to remove his feathered hat, which tumbled from his head and across the floor to land nearly at Diani’s slippered feet.

Without thinking, Zoden darted forward to grab the offending headpiece. Before his fingers could do more than brush the brim, he found himself flat on his back with a mailed foot on his chest and the blade of a waraxe resting heavily on his throat. Silvervein’s single sapphire eye blazed down at him.

Diani laughed again.

“Oh, let the poor boy up, Dzarr. He’s not even armed.”

Dzarro’s gaze didn’t flicker. “He’s a bard, my lady. This”-he pressed his axe blade harder against Zoden’s throat, and the young noble was sure he could feel blood beginning to trickle down his neck-“is his weapon.”

“Well, I hardly think he’s come all this way to sing us to death, Dzarr. Now, let him up.”

The dwarf scowled but lifted his axe and stepped back. He did not, however, offer the bard a hand up. After a quick check to make sure that he was not, in fact, bleeding, Zoden rolled over and got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. He left the Host-damned hat where it was on the floor.

Diani’s smile went a long way toward assuaging his wounded pride. “You’ll have to forgive Dzarro, cousin. He takes his job very seriously.”

Zoden nodded, trying to surreptitiously massage his neck where the dwarf’s blade had rested, sure that it must be horribly bruised from the bodyguard’s manhandling. “Of course, Your Majesty. Just as any man with such a precious charge would do.”

One blonde brow shot up at that. “Very pretty. Perhaps Dzarr was right to be concerned.” At Zoden’s flummoxed look, she laughed again. “I jest, cousin. Here, sit.”

She gestured to Otherro to bring him one of the chairs that lined either side of the small hall. When he had done so, she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees-a posture which, unfortunately, gave Zoden a rather distracting view.

“Now,” she said, a sudden hardness in her tone drawing Zoden’s eyes back to her own. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

“And this packet you were unable to show Cardinal Riathan-may I see it?”

They were seated in a private sitting room, deep in the heart of the Cathedral. Jaela had led her here after her encounter with Skaravojen, finding a servant to bring Irulan fresh clothing along the way. She’d allowed the shifter to clean up in a small washroom that connected to the parlor, and now they sat on comfortable chairs in front of a black marble fireplace, their feet resting on a white bearskin rug. The room, like Jaela herself, was simple and unadorned, save for a masterwork tapestry that hung above the mantle. The luxurious wall hanging depicted a collage of all the previous Keepers, from Maliah Sharavaci to Jaela’s predecessor, Lavira Tagor. Tiny silver flames traced the tapestry’s borders, seeming to flicker in the light of floating everbright lanterns, and at first Irulan thought the effect was the work of magewrights, but closer examination revealed that the only magic was in the shuttles of the craftsmen who had woven the intricate piece. Set below the Cathedral’s main floor, the room had no windows, and a faint humming seemed to emanate from the walls. It took Irulan several moments to realize what it was she must be hearing-the roar of the Silver Flame itself, muted by distance and thick stone walls.

At the Keeper’s request, Irulan handed over the packet she had guarded so vigilantly since she left Aruldusk. Skaravojen looked up from his place near Jaela’s feet, blinking his small silver eyes in her direction before putting his head back down, apparently asleep. But Irulan could sense the creature’s alertness, and she knew that, even though Jaela had healed her monstrous hound when she had healed Irulan, he would relish the opportunity to pay her back for the pain she’d inflicted on him. The slightest move in the wrong direction would have the magebred pet at her throat again before she could so much as scream, and this time the Keeper might not be quick enough to stop him.

Jaela took the packet from Irulan’s outstretched hand and opened it, shaking its contents gently onto her palm. A tuft of ivory fur floated down to land softly on her chocolate-colored skin.

The Keeper examined the fur for a moment, then looked at Irulan quizzically.

“It was found on the body of one of the victims, Your Holiness, a minor noble whose death left his three children orphans.” Irulan couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice-she knew how those poor children felt, and what they now faced. “This was not the noble my brother supposedly killed, but one who was killed a week later.”

“And you believe this fur belongs to the murderer?”

“I do, Your Holiness, though I can’t prove it. It was caught beneath the man’s fingernails, probably while he was trying to defend himself.”

The Keeper did not ask how she came to be in possession of the tuft, for which Irulan was grateful. Somehow, she did not relish recounting her stint as a grave robber to the spiritual leader of the entire Church.

“I took it to a friend of mine, a bounty hunter from House Tharashk, but he couldn’t determine its origin. I didn’t have the money to have it checked for spells, but I’d be willing to bet it can’t be traced magically, either.”

Jaela returned the fur to its packet and handed it back to Irulan.

“I can have it tested, but if a Finder had no luck with it, I’m not sure if the wizards here will be any more successful.”

She sat back in her chair, chin on fist, a frown creasing her forehead. Irulan was abruptly saddened by the deep lines she saw there. No child should have to bear the weight those lines spoke of-at least not alone. So many thoughts of children could not help but bring Javi to mind, and she swallowed the familiar lump of guilt thinking of him always evoked. She had tried to watch out for him, but she was barely more than a youngling herself when their parents died, and certainly not equipped to be a surrogate mother to such a wild cub.

“Tell me again what it is you hope to prove with this … evidence.”

Irulan leaned forward, eager to turn her thoughts toward something other than her own shortcomings. The sudden movement earned her a one-eyed glare from Skaravojen.

“Well, for one thing, Your Holiness-”

“Jaela, please. Or ‘my lady,’ if you must insist on an honorific.”

“My lady,” Irulan acceded. “If the fur does belong to the murderer-and why else would it be cloaked so thoroughly from even a Finder’s detection? — then it rules out every shifter in the Bishop’s custody. Including my brother Javi.”

“How so?”

“Fur this color is very unusual. A white-haired or blond shifter would stand out like the Flame in the pits of Khyber, if you’ll pardon the analogy. They might be common in places far colder than Khorvaire, but I’ve never seen a shifter with that coloring, not in Thrane, not even in the Reaches where I grew up. And certainly not in the jail cells of Aruldusk.”

“I see.” The Keeper bit her lip as she thought it over, reminding Irulan again how very young she actually was. “And you informed Bishop Maellas of this?”

“I did, my lady.” The Bishop had been … less than appreciative. Or rather, his Ancillary, Xanin, had-she hadn’t even been allowed to talk with Maellas. But she assumed Xanin spoke for the Bishop. He’d certainly implied as much.

“And yet he remains convinced that the weretouched are responsible for the murders,” Jaela said, using the ancient name. “Why?”

Irulan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This part was hard to explain away.

“Some of the earliest victims were members of the Church. Bishop Maellas performed their last rites. Before he sent their souls to join the Flame, he said he was able to question them about their attackers, and get descriptions.” She paused for a moment, but could see no way around it. “They described shifters,” she admitted.

“I see,” Jaela said again, her eyes taking on a far away look, and Irulan had the sense that she did, indeed, see far deeper into the mystery than the shifter could even fathom. She cocked her head to the side as though listening to voices the shifter could not hear. And, given their proximity to the Chamber of the Flame, perhaps she was.

Jaela’s gray eyes cleared, focusing on Irulan with an eerie intensity. When she spoke, her voice was sharp, almost angry.

“Tell me plainly why you have come seeking help from the Flame, Irulan Silverclaw.”

Irulan took a deep breath. There was nothing for it.

“Because I’m scared, Your Holiness. Bishop Maellas is imprisoning shifters for murder with little or no proof, and the people of Aruldusk have become hostile toward us. Just last week, a shifter woman selling herbs in the Market District was attacked in broad daylight, and no one lifted a finger to help her. The shifters who live in the city are afraid to leave their houses, and those who live outside the city can’t even trade for basic necessities. With every new murder, things get worse. Many shifters have begun packing up and moving away, to Aundair, and Breland-even back to the Reaches. Anywhere but Thrane. They’re worried that if the real murderer isn’t caught soon, something terrible is going to happen … that it’s going to be the start of a second Purge.”

The word hung in the air between them like some unforgivable insult.

Purge.

The blackest stain in the Church’s oft-sullied history, a period of fifty long years in which religious fanatics hunted lycanthropes nearly to extinction. Even shifters were not immune from the zealots’ silver blades, as the crusaders made no distinction between true lycanthropes and their more civilized cousins. Some historians claimed that more shifters died in those first years of the Purge-before heroes like Irulan’s own ancestor, Bennin Silverclaw, convinced the Church that shifters were in fact a separate race from lycanthropes-than died during the entire century of the Last War.

And now it was about to begin again, unless Irulan could stop it.

Jaela had sucked in her breath and closed her eyes at Irulan’s words, as if they pained her. Now she let the breath out in a long sigh and opened her eyes again. They were steely with resolve.

“That can not be allowed to happen,” she said, and stood, forcing Irulan to clamber hastily to her feet as well, much to Skaravojen’s displeasure.

The Keeper clapped twice, and a servant appeared at her elbow, dancing back quickly to avoid stepping on Skaravojen’s tail.

“Please conduct our guest back to the Cathedral entrance, and have the knights provide her with an escort back to her lodgings.” As the young man bowed, Jaela turned to Irulan. “Please gather your things and return here. Liyam will have rooms ready for you in the Psalmist’s Tower. You’ll dine with me this evening.”

It wasn’t a request, and Irulan would not have argued in any case.

Finally, someone was taking her seriously! There was hope for Javi yet.

“Of course, your Holiness,” she replied, bending automatically to kiss the Keeper’s ring before realizing that the barefoot girl did not wear one.

Jaela startled her by placing a hand lightly on her head and murmuring a blessing in the harshly melodic language of the dragons. Irulan made the sign of the Flame and straightened, allowing Liyam to lead her from the room. As she reached the door, Jaela called out one last instruction.

“And, Liyam? Summon Andri Aeyliros.”

He awoke sometime later to the sound of two waiters wrestling a food cart into the compartment. The cat and the other two passengers were gone. Zoden assumed they’d gone across the hall to the sleeping quarters, though a quick glance out the window revealed a faint blush of pink that hinted at the approaching sunrise. He was surprised that breakfast was being served at such an early hour, but he supposed they must provide at least one meal during the lengthy trip from Flamekeep to Sigilstar regardless of what time the rail left the station, and judging from the light outside, they were nearing their destination. He’d traveled in the standard passenger cart on his way to Flamekeep and had taken his meals in the dining cart, which was always open to accommodate travelers, so he’d never even considered what the dining arrangements might be for those privileged enough to have their food brought to them, and on silver platters, no less.

Zoden stretched and sat up, reaching for his boots. The thought of food made his parched mouth water, and he wondered if they had anything not seasoned with the ubiquitous, and rather hot, thrakel spice. He preferred to work up to scalding the inside of his mouth over the course of the day, rather than having his taste buds scorched into uselessness with his first meal-an opinion, unfortunately, that most of his countrymen did not share.

As he pulled the left boot on, adjusting the slim dagger he kept hidden in a sheath there so it wouldn’t catch on his stocking, he noticed a few things amiss with the waiters. Their House Orien uniforms seemed too small for their hulking frames, and one had dark stains around the hem that not even the crew of the dining cart would have tolerated, let alone the elite staff assigned to the first-class carts. Come to think of it, those waiters looked a little too well-built to be just waiters. The rippling muscles he saw did not come from hefting trays, no matter how heavily laden they might be. In addition, they’d positioned the cart so that it blocked the door, and were taking an unusually long time with the various lids and covers, as if they were either unfamiliar with the set up, or trying to buy time-or both.

Thieves, he decided, making a show of pulling his other boot on while he considered his options. Were they making their way through the compartments, robbing each in turn, or were they here specifically for him? If the latter, there was some chance he might be able to call for help, but if it were the former … well, there were a lot of places those dark stains could have come from. The rightful owner of the uniform, say, or any of his fellow first-class passengers. Or all of them, though the man would have to be pretty talented to kill a dozen people with so little blood to show for it.

Probably here for him, then, so he might be able to attract some attention. He glanced around the room furtively, and his gaze fell on the trunk in the corner. Of course!

Pretending to struggle with his remaining boot, he muttered a few choice imprecations, then murmured a short phrase and blew, sending it out to the cart’s sleeping quarters.

Your armor is being stolen!

Hopefully the man hadn’t been lying about its worth, and wasn’t an insomniac who’d gone to wander aimlessly through the caravan of carts or to see if the lightning really would spark if he relieved himself on it, but Zoden couldn’t worry about it now. He had run out of time. The two thieves, tired of their charade, drew weapons from within the serving cart and advanced. Zoden pulled the dagger out of his boot and vaulted over the couch, putting the cushioned divan between him and his attackers.

“If it’s just money you’re after, I’ve got gold, and I’m willing to part with it.”

He’d never been much of a fighter, preferring battles of wit and verbal skirmishes over physical confrontations. He wasn’t ashamed to run when the situation warranted it, but he did know how to use the small blade he wielded, as well as the longsword that was, unfortunately, slung over a bedpost across the hall.

One of the men, a bald brute who was missing a tooth, laughed. It was the other, smaller one Zoden was most concerned about-his was the soiled uniform, and as the man neared, it became obvious that the stain was, indeed, blood spatter. Zoden focused his attention on that one.

“You don’t really want to do this,” he said, backing away from the couch as the two men rounded it, one on each end. His tone was genial, cajoling, that of an old friend asking a favor he knew would be granted, but the words themselves reverberated with an undercurrent of power. If he could turn this one, then together they might stand a chance against the gap-toothed goon.

Baldy laughed again.

“Not gonna work, bard. We’re wise to your tricks and your little spells, and talking ain’t gonna do you no good.”

Wonderful. If he had to rely solely on swordplay to save him, he might as well leap out the window to his death now, and save both him and his assailants some time. The window … hmmm. He glanced behind him at wide pane of glass and the landscape speeding by beyond it, then back at Baldy’s falchion, and Bloody’s short sword. The jump might be survivable. A two-on-one swordfight, when he was armed only with a dagger, definitely would not be. He made his decision.

Just as he was about to wheel around and make a dash for the window, there was a loud crash from the doorway as the serving cart was overturned. Baldy turned to look, but Bloody never took his eyes off Zoden.

“Take care of it,” he said, and Baldy grinned eagerly in reply.

“Happy to.”

Zoden risked a peek at the doorway. It was the Avaroth enthusiast, hefting his silver longsword and looking none too pleased. The newcomer assessed the situation in a single glance, ascertained that his armor was in no danger, and moved into the compartment to engage Baldy. Behind him, in the hallway, Zoden could hear the shifter woman.

“Andri! What in the name of the Flame are you-?”

She halted as she entered the compartment and took in the scene before her-the spilled cart and scattered food and cutlery, Andri facing off against an opponent half again as large as he was, and Zoden, backed up against the window now and trying to parry a short sword with a dagger. With a growl, she darted past Baldy and sprang at Bloody’s back, hurtling one couch and using the other to launch herself into the air. As she leaped, she shifted, and long claws came out to rake across Bloody’s head, slicing off one ear and leaving deep gouges along his cheek. She landed in a crouch nearly at Zoden’s feet, spared him a feral grin, and spun to face Bloody, who was just bringing up one disbelieving hand to grab for an ear that was no longer there.

“You crooked bitch!” he spat, shaking the blood from his hand and swiping at her with his sword, a blow that the nimble shifter easily dodged.

Zoden circled around behind him, harrying the would-be assassin with his dagger, trying to distract him so the shifter could get in a telling blow. Bloody ignored him, focusing on the shifter woman, whom he obviously-and rightly-considered the greater threat.

The shifter woman laughed and feinted to the left, the side she’d already slashed, and when Bloody brought his sword down to block her attack, she kicked out with her right foot, her claws tearing into his thigh. He went down to one knee, and she closed in.

Deciding she had the situation well in hand without any help from him, Zoden turned to Baldy and the other man, just in time to see Andri fly back into the serving cart, landing with a clatter of silver right in front of the door. As Baldy moved in, Zoden saw his chance. While the bigger man’s attention was on his downed foe, Zoden crept up behind him, using the couches as partial cover, and raised his dagger, intending to plunge it in between two of Baldy’s oversized ribs.

“No!”

The cry came from Andri as he pulled himself to his feet. Thus warned, Baldy whirled, slapping the dumfounded Zoden to the ground with a mighty blow from the flat of his blade.

Ears ringing, Zoden crawled out of the way as Andri and Baldy went at it again.

What in the name of Aureon’s thrice-damned shadow did the man think he was doing? Zoden had been trying to help him!

Just then, he felt the telltale shudder signaling the rail had begun to decelerate. They’d be pulling into Sigilstar Station in a matter of moments.

To Dolurrh with the lot of them, he thought as the combatants’ maneuvering took them away from the door. He’d had enough, and he was getting out. Now.

He crawled around behind the food cart, and when he was sure no one had noticed him, out into the hall. When no outraged cries followed his exit, he stood. A few heads peeked out of doorways, attracted by the commotion but unwilling to venture any nearer to discover its cause. Someone called a question to him, but he ignored it, darting into his sleeping chamber to retrieve his sword and bag. Then he was out on the walkway and stepping onto the boarding platform before the rail had even come to a complete stop. Within moments, he had disappeared into the milling crowd of early morning passengers, leaving the rail and the battle far behind him.

They reached Aruldusk just after sunset. As porters wrested Andri’s trunk onto a waiting carriage, he asked Irulan for directions to the Cathedral. She looked at him curiously.

“Why? There’s no way you’ll get in to see the Bishop tonight.”

“I have no intention of disturbing His Excellency this evening, but I do need a room.”

“You’re going to stay there?” she asked, surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s common practice for visiting warriors of the faith to abide at the local house of worship.”

“Even when you’re investigating the owner of that house?”

“Bishop Maellas does not own the Cathedral,” he said, somewhat impatiently, then caught himself. It was a common enough view among the laity, and not the part of her question that truly needed addressing. He waited until the porters were finished with his trunk, paid each of them a sovereign, and asked the driver to wait for a moment. Then he turned back to Irulan, took her arm and guided her a few paces away from the carriage. She shook his hand off. “What?”

“Irulan, there’s one thing you need to understand before we go any further,” he said quietly, choosing his words with care. “I am here to investigate the murders, not the Bishop. So far, the only thing Bishop Maellas stands accused of is not liking shifters-which, while it is an unfortunate prejudice, especially in a leader of the Church, is not a crime.” He pitched his next words low, so they would travel no further than her ears. “Maligning the Bishop in public, however, is. I would suggest you refrain from doing so.”

Her eyes had been narrowing to brown slits as he spoke, and now her lip curled back to reveal sharp teeth.

“Are you even here to help me? Or are you just-”

“I’m trying to help you!” Andri broke in, frustrated. “I’m trying to keep you from landing in a cell next to your brother’s!”

Irulan stared at him for several long heartbeats, hands flexing, and Andri wondered for a moment if she was going to hit him. Then she took a deep, calming breath.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just … this is my brother’s life we’re talking about. It makes me a little … emotional.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “Peace?”

“Peace.” Andri nodded, relieved. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she had decided to hit him. He was glad he wouldn’t have to find out.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay at the Cathedral. You could be putting yourself in danger. Why not come stay out at the shifter camp with me? It’s not glamorous, but the tents are clean and the food is good.” She glanced appraisingly at his silvercloth shirt and her lips twisted. “On second thought, there’s an inn not far from here that might be more to your taste.”

“Perhaps that’s best. I’ll meet with His Excellency in the morning, then-”

“You’ll meet with him? What about me?”

Her smile had disappeared, replaced once more by narrowed eyes and her habitual snarl.

“Bishop Maellas is already … unkindly disposed towards you. I think our investigation might be better served if he didn’t realize we were working together just yet.”

Irulan looked skeptical.

“You’re going to lie? You? A paladin?”

Andri shrugged.

“I am a defender of the Flame and a servant of its Keeper, and truth is but one of many weapons at my disposal. Sometimes it is most effective when kept sheathed.”

Greddark had never actually been in a Silver Flame Cathedral before-it was rare enough for him to enter a temple dedicated to the Sovereign Host, and he believed in them. The building was just as garish as he’d imagined it would be, with marble pillars and silver statues and riotous colors battling for control across every visible pane of glass. The red carpet was so deep it was like a plush pudding, and he wondered if young children were ever frightened that it might try to eat them. He had to suppress a chuckle at the thought.

If the Cathedral was extravagant, it was nothing compared to the complicated rituals followers of the Flame practiced. After checking their weapons with a dwarf priest who hefted Greddark’s alchemy blade appreciatively, they walked through a colonnaded gallery toward the Cathedral’s huge double doors, flanked on either side by Knights of the Silver Flame whose armor and unsheathed swords had been polished to outshine the sun. Entering the narthex itself required two bows, a genuflection, and reverently kissing what he could only assume was a scaled-down rendition of the Silver Flame itself-though with Flamic art and architecture growing ever more abstract, he wouldn’t bet on it.

Once inside the nave, the entrance to which was guarded by another matched set of knights, the sanctuary opened up into a cavernous room with ceilings so high they were lost in the shadows. A huge mosaic stretched out across the floor, another stylized flame in its center, crafted of cleverly interlocking pieces of silver and mother-of-pearl. Above this rendition of the Flame, an actual silver fire burned in a silver brazier as large as a bath tub. The brazier hung suspended on a long, heavy chain that disappeared into the shadows above. Rows of pews, mostly empty at this time of day, were situated in concentric circles around this central fire. It was in one of these pews, toward the rear of the church, that Greddark spotted Margil. She sat alone, her head covered with a silvercloth veil. A casual observer might assume she had donned it out of respect. Greddark knew she wore the veil to hide her face and lips as she spoke.

He made his way casually over to the empty pew behind her and slid into place, after making yet another intricate obeisance at Zoden’s prodding. He hadn’t wanted to meet her here-it was dangerous, and increased the risk of her getting caught-but she was so busy with the fallout from the murders that she never left the Cathedral complex these days. Hence this charade.

He knelt with his hands resting on the back of the pew only a few inches from Margil’s veil.

“The bard’s your apprentice now?” Margil’s murmur had the same cadence and intonation of the prayer she was reciting. If Greddark hadn’t been expecting her words, he would have missed them.

“More like my stray,” Greddark said into his beard, his head bowed. Zoden, a foot away, didn’t react. Their voices weren’t carrying that far.

“I have what you want, but you’re not the only one looking for it. A paladin from Flamekeep-supposedly sent by Cardinal Riathan, though I suspect the Keeper’s hand behind his. And a shifter woman. Her brother is in custody now-for killing your stray’s twin.”

Now that was interesting.

“What about the Bishop? Any reason to suspect him of setting these shifters up?”

“He doesn’t like shifters, I know that much,” Margil said after a moment’s thought-no doubt choosing her words with care. “Truth be told, I don’t like them much, either. But disliking them is a far cry from framing them for murder. And if you’re casting your eyes in that direction, you might be better served looking at Ancillary Bishop Xanin. He hates everyone. Except, possibly, Bishop Maellas.”

Was that … jealousy? Interesting. He’d done a little research while he and ir’Marktaros were cooling their heels in Sigilstar, and he knew Xanin was relatively new to the city, having arrived a little over a year ago. Apparently Margil didn’t like being replaced as Maellas’s second-in-command. Greddark filed the information away for future reference, but decided not to press the matter. It didn’t do to anger your contacts-at least not if you were planning on using them again, and Margil had proven quite helpful over the years.

“Thanks, Gil. I’ll have the usual amount deposited in your account.”

The aide said nothing, merely rose from her place and exited the pew. She had left a thick book on the seat behind her. The Prayers of Tira Miron, translated from the Draconic.

Greddark stayed on his knees for another quarter bell before rising. As he used the pew back to lever himself up, he reached down with his other hand to grab the book. With it tucked firmly under his arm, he and Zoden made their own exit from the Cathedral, bowing and scraping at all the necessary intervals as they went.

The inside of Ostra’s pavilion was as plain as the outside. Heavy linen curtains divided a small sitting area from the rest of the tent. Unpadded wooden chairs sat around an unlit brazier in the middle of a swept dirt floor. Thorn ushered them in then disappeared into the deeper recesses of the tent to fetch Ostra.

“So I’m a gift, now, am I?” Andri asked, genuinely amused.

Irulan’s cheeks colored. “Well, I’m sure your parents think you are,” she said, trying to cover her embarrassment with humor.

Andri felt the mirth drain from him like wine from a spilled glass. If his parents had thought anything of him in their last moments, it certainly wasn’t that he was a gift-quite the opposite.

“My parents are dead,” he said, earning him an unreadable glance from the shifter. Her parents were dead, too, he remembered, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy, followed quickly by a wave of shame. A lot of people had lost their families in the War. The loss did not make him unique, even if the circumstances of his bereavement did.

Much to his relief, Irulan ignored the comment, continuing on in a more serious tone. “The camp shifters consider themselves a tribe, however loosely organized and fluid their numbers might be. And you never approach a tribal leader empty-handed, unless you plan on leaving the same way.”

“Unusual wisdom from one of our more ‘fluid and unorganized’ members,” a sardonic voice said, and Andri and Irulan turned as one to see a shifter silhouetted in the tent opening.

“Ostra!” Irulan exclaimed as the old shifter stepped into the tent, closing the flap behind him. As he did, Andri caught a glimpse of black, red, and yellow beyond-Thorn, returning to his accustomed duty. Apparently the wily elder had left the tent by another exit and lingered outside the opening to judge the merit of the Keeper’s “gift” for himself.

“Irulan, my child. I am pleased to welcome you back to the fire.” He extended a hand, and Irulan rose from her chair to grasp it, then she bowed low and touched his claws reverently to her forehead. As Ostra withdrew his hand, Irulan straightened.

“I am grateful to find it still burns, Father,” she replied, apparently completing some tribal ritual. Then she returned to her chair and waited while Ostra looked them over.

Andri returned the favor, studying the old shifter even as the camp leader assessed him. Like Thorn, tattoos covered both his arms, but where the colors of the younger shifter’s decorations were still distinct and vivid, Ostra’s markings were faded and blurred around the edges, reminders of the glories of a youth long passed. He had lanky brown hair, with thick gray sideburns framing a strong face, and wore plain clothes. Though he bore no visible weapon, Andri knew that no shifter was ever truly unarmed, thanks to the legacy of their lycanthropic forebears. His only badge of office appeared to be a three-stranded necklace with a set of claws on each strand-rat, wolf, and bear, if he knew his shifter lore. The wolf claws at least he was sure about. They matched the set of werewolf claws he wore about his own neck.

“I understand you’ve brought me a small token of honor, Irulan?” the old shifter said, his keen glance having already taken the measure of that gift.

Irulan rose, gesturing for Andri to do the same.

“I present Andri Aeyliros, paladin of the Silver Flame and chosen of Jaela Daran. A brother to the shifters, he is descended from those who hunt the moontouched.”

Ostra’s lips twitched, and he stepped forward, reaching out one clawed hand to lift Andri’s chin. Andri stiffened, but did not pull away as the shifter scrutinized him. He half expected the camp leader to check his teeth, as if he were some prize stallion Ostra was considering putting out to stud.

“So, he’s to be my personal manservant? My bodyguard?” Ignoring Andri’s dark look, Ostra dropped his hand and turned to Irulan. “No? My cook, then? I could use a good cook-Leata always burns the meat.”

Irulan frowned, taking her seat once more. After a brief hesitation, Andri followed suit. “Aeyliros is not the gift. His services are. He’s come to help us prove the shifters are not behind these murders.”

“Ah.” Ostra’s twitch grew into a smile that was not entirely pleasant. He turned his bright gaze back to Andri. “Flamekeep has sent the shifters an advocate, then?”

“I am an advocate for the truth,” Andri said. Ostra was trying to provoke him. And very nearly succeeding.

Ostra’s smile widened to show pointed teeth, and Andri realized that the old shifter was enjoying himself. And he was just getting started.

“Real truth doesn’t need advocates, paladin. It is like the sun, the moons, or the earth upon which we tread. It abides without regard for the smallness of the beings who try to comprehend it. To think that one could be its sole possessor or its chosen defender is, indeed, the height of arrogance.”

“Hrazhak!” Irulan spat the word out at the old man before Andri could respond. She came to her feet angrily, and much to Andri’s surprise, she had shifted, her claws now twice as long and thick as they had been. He half-rose from his own seat, looking from her to Ostra and back again, confused. Hrazhak was a shifter game, he knew that, played on a sort of combined obstacle course and battleground. Which, he supposed, was not too different from this conversation.

“Peace, child,” Ostra responded, holding up both hands, palms out. “I will not challenge your hero further.”

The camp leader gestured for Andri and Irulan to resume their seats and took one himself. He called for wine and waited until they each held a short-stemmed glass before pouring out a small libation onto the dirt floor. Though Irulan did the same, Andri noted that she had not yet retracted her claws, and when she tossed the drink back, he could see that the hackles on her neck were still raised. The shifters finished their wine nearly simultaneously, then bent as one to slam their glasses upside down on the dirt floor, as though it were some sort of contest. And perhaps, given the hrazhak, it was.

Ostra grinned at Irulan and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned his deep, intelligent gaze on Andri once more.

“Now tell me, child of the moontouched, how you are going to help my people.”

Andri blinked, startled by both Ostra’s words, and his imperious tone.

Child of the moontouched. Did the old shifter just deliberately misunderstand Irulan earlier, or was he referring to Andri’s past? Andri guesses it was the latter-he had a feeling that there was very little the camp leader did not understand.

Well, then. The best defense against insinuation was candor.

“I think the question is: How are you going to help them? There’s nothing I can tell you about this matter that you don’t already know, but I think that the reverse is not true.”

“Meaning I have information about these murders that you don’t?” Ostra asked. “If that were true, don’t you think I’d be using it to free my people?”

“Not if that information implicated them.”

Both Ostra and Irulan glared at him. Andri raised his hands, palms out, as the shifter leader had done.

“But that’s not what I was referring to. Based on everything Irulan has told me and everything I’ve learned through questioning both witnesses and the families of the deceased, I’m not convinced your shifters are behind these murders. The arrests seem far too convenient. It’s as if someone with a grudge against shifters is either committing these murders and framing them, or is taking advantage of someone else’s misdeeds and making sure the blame is laid squarely at your feet. If that’s true, then it’s likely you know who the culprit is, even if you don’t realize it.”

Ostra considered this, idly clicking his claws together as he thought it through.

“If someone has a grudge against my people, then why is he targeting the citizens of Aruldusk? Why not just kill shifters?”

Andri paused. He’d been thinking about that, and though he’d told Irulan the killer could be a lycanthrope, werebeasts were few in number and most avoided civilized areas at all costs. Especially in Thrane. And a lycanthrope-a werewolf-was the last thing he wanted to have to face, and not just because they were deadly, cunning foes who were nearly impossible to track.

But perhaps there was another solution to this mystery.

Ostra’s appearance had given him the idea. Maybe the killer was a shifter, after all-not a blond or white-haired one, but an old one. Perhaps the tuft of fur Irulan had found did not belong to some rare albino shifter from across the Bitter Sea, but to an elder of the tribe. Not Ostra-Andri would have sensed the evil about him the moment he laid eyes on the camp leader. But a compatriot of his, one who had, perhaps, been driven from the tribe for some transgression?

It was an avenue worth pursuing, at least, though a tiny voice inside him-one he’d been trying to ignore from the moment the Keeper had summoned him-pointed out that Jaela Daran would not likely have chosen him for this task if she didn’t believe a lycanthrope was involved. He shied away from that thought, like a skittish horse from a telltale hiss and rattle. There had to be another way, another enemy he could face without having to become what he most hated-his father.

With a casual shrug, Andri laid out his idea, careful to keep his voice neutral, to keep from betraying how desperately he wanted-needed-this to be the answer.

“Maybe killing them is too easy. Maybe his feud is with the entire community, and his revenge will only be complete if the tribe is completely destroyed. What better way than to have you branded as murderers and driven away from your home? Once word spreads of what’s happened here, no city will ever welcome you again. Your tribe will be splintered, scattered to the winds, forced to purge the name of Aruldusk from their history if they have any hope of blending into society again. That, or they will have to return to the Reaches with the shame of their failure here as their only legacy.”

Ostra’s lips pulled back to show teeth, but Andri pushed on.

“Why settle for your deaths when he can have your dishonor?”

The shifter leader rocked back in his seat as if Andri had struck him. And, in a way, Andri supposed he had. In a culture with such a unique and fierce sense of honor, the thought of a tribal member intentionally bringing disgrace not only to himself, but to his entire clan, was an offense so egregious that to even mention it was to risk blood insult, or worse. It was, in a very real sense, blasphemy.

“You dare?” Ostra snarled, and even Irulan looked furious. Or perhaps she was just angry that he had not conferred with her before springing this theory on Ostra. Either way, Andri knew that his position had just become extremely precarious.

“Forgive me, Ostra. I mean no offense to you or your people. But with so many lives in peril, and perhaps the very existence of your tribe, we have to be willing to look at every possibility, no matter how unsavory.”

Andri’s smooth words and calm tone seemed to mollify the old shifter somewhat, but the paladin knew he’d better end this quickly.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might feel that he’s been wronged by the tribe? Anyone unstable or vindictive enough to sacrifice his own honor for the sake of vengeance?”

Ostra was silent for so long that Andri feared he’d pushed the shifter leader too far. Or, worse, that there was no vengeful shifter to pin these crimes on, and he would have to take on the role that had ruined his father, his family, and his life. Lycanthrope hunter. Moon stalker. Werebane.

“We do not air tribal grievances to outsiders,” Ostra finally said, his shoulders sagging, “but … there is … someone.”

Andri felt a rush of relief so heady it nearly made him dizzy. He fought to keep his words even and composed.

“Go on.”

“Several years ago, before Irulan and Javi came to stay with us, there was an … incident. A dreamsight shifter, hardly more than a boy, but revered far beyond his years for his exceptional gifts, journeyed into the Burnt Wood alone to commune with the Ancient One.”

At Andri’s questioning look, Irulan supplied, “An old dire bear who is said to have been born before the start of the Last War.” She was leaning forward, listening intently, and Andri realized that, like him, she was hearing this tale for the first time.

“Over a hundred years old?” he asked, startled. Was that even possible?

It was Ostra who answered.

“We believe the Ancient One has been blessed by Balinor, and on occasion, shares those blessings. Skunk went seeking the favor of the Host-”

“Skunk?”

“The boy,” Ostra explained. “We called him that because he was marked by one of his dreams. Though he would never speak of it, the memory of that vision branded him with streaks of hair so white it shone in the moonlight. The streaks seemed to widen with time, so that after a while, his fur was more white than black. More like a tiger, really, but the name Skunk seemed to fit him better.”

Andri exchanged an excited glance with Irulan. So white it shone in the moonlight! Could it be that the shifter they were looking for was not an albino, or even an elder, but simply a skunk-streaked mystic prone to nightmares? Mikal had been in the shadows when he was attacked-in the darkness, only the whitish fur would have stood out to him.

Andri knew he was reaching, but a shifter-any shifter-was better than the alternative. Moontouched.

He wondered briefly if that was Bishop Maellas’s reasoning, as well, but before he could follow that twisted path, Ostra resumed speaking.

“He was gone for months, and when he returned, he was not the same. No longer a boy, surely, but also sullen, uncommunicative, almost feral. He began getting in fights, but he was not strong and was beaten down many times, until he found someone even weaker than him. A gentle swiftwing girl who believed her love could change him.” Ostra paused, shaking his head sadly. “She was wrong.”

After that, the shifter leader fell into a thoughtful silence. Andri was both curious and hesitant to hear the rest of the tale. The story obviously ended badly for the girl. The only question was how badly? All things considered, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. But Irulan, never patient even at the best of times, had no such misgivings.

“What happened?” she asked, sitting forward in her chair.

Ostra heaved a sigh so long it verged on the theatrical-an uncharitable thought for which Andri chided himself.

“They married, taking a tent on the edge of camp, between the tanners and the butchers, where few would care to visit and where the noise of dying animals would hide any errant cries from the ears of those who did. The swiftwing girl-Kira, her name was-soon stopped visiting her family, leaving the tent only rarely to barter for scraps of fruit or bread. When she did, those who traded with her marked the bruises and cuts she could not conceal. And the bulge of a belly quickly swelling with Skunk’s seed. They gave her twice what her poor bone necklaces were worth, and more besides, urging her to take herself and her unborn child far from Skunk’s angry hand. But she would not listen, would not speak against her husband, and soon no longer came to trade at all. She was still two months shy of her time by the midwife’s reckoning when they found her body in the corrals, where she had seemingly been trampled by horses, though we all knew the truth. Neither she nor the babe survived. Skunk made a great show of grief, and I do believe a part of him was truly sorry. But no amount of remorse would have been enough to cover his guilt-”

Or yours, Andri thought. He kept his silence-barely-but inside he was furious. How could the tribe have let the situation get so far out of hand? If they suspected Skunk of harming his wife, why hadn’t they done something?

“-banished him from the camp and struck his name from the tribal chants, with only the marker on Kira’s grave to show he’d ever even existed.”

“So that’s why I haven’t heard this story before,” Irulan said, but Andri wasn’t listening. He imagined that poor shifter girl, alone and frightened in her tent, neighbors on either side knowing what was happening to her every night, but turning a blind eye and a deaf ear. It was too much to be borne.

“Why in the name of the Flame didn’t you do something?” His voice broke on the accusation. “You all knew what was happening, and yet you did nothing. I don’t know whose sin is worse-Skunk’s, or yours.”

Ostra blinked at him, unperturbed. “Think what you want, paladin. Kira was of age, her marriage formally recognized by the tribe. We could not act on her behalf without her consent, though some tried. Every time someone attempted to intercede, the healer had to make a visit to Skunk’s tent the next day to mend a broken bone or a shattered jaw. Kira was so clumsy, he said, and she did not once deny it. Finally, her brothers cornered Skunk and beat him to within an inch of his life, warning him that if he touched their sister again, they would risk banishment themselves to deal with him. Kira’s body was found in the corrals three days later.”

Andri shook his head, disgusted beyond words by the rationalizations. If a society’s rules did not protect those who could not protect themselves, then what good were they? Sometimes doing the right thing meant not following the rules-a stance which had landed Andri in trouble with his superiors more than once. But he had seen firsthand what happened when strict adherence to regulations superceded compassion and common sense, and he had made the decision long ago that he would always err on the side of mercy.

“So you think Skunk is behind the murders?” Irulan asked, having noticed Andri’s anger and obviously trying to derail it before he erupted and lost any chance to get information out of Ostra. Seeing her worried look, he forced himself to remember why they were there-to find a murderer, for the sakes of both the victims and those who had been wrongly accused. Focusing on the task at hand, he was able to rein in his anger at the old shifter’s complacency, but in his heart, he promised Kira and her unborn child a reckoning.

“You asked if there was anyone who would have a grudge against the whole tribe,” Ostra replied, shrugging. “Skunk vowed vengeance when we shaved him and drove him from camp. No one took the threat seriously-if he returned here, he would be killed on sight, with no questions asked. I half-believed Kira’s brothers would hunt him down and save us the trouble. But he disappeared, and we were, for the most part, happy to let his memory fade. Alas, that was not to be.”

“What do you mean? He defied the ban and came back?”

The camp leader shook his head. “No. No one from our tribe has seen him since he was shunned. But lately we have begun to hear rumors of a wild shifter terrorizing travelers to the south. He attacks at night, his dark fur nearly invisible in the darkness, save for streaks of unearthly white.”

“Skunk,” Andri said, certain of it.

“We don’t know that,” Ostra cautioned, but Irulan overrode him.

“Who else could it be? You know how rare that coloring is.”

Ostra nodded, the claws on his necklace clattering against each other with the movement.

“To the south, you say? Can you be more specific?”

The shifter hesitated, making the sign of Balinor’s tusks to ward off evil before answering.

“Cairn Hill.”

Greddark waited in the copse until nightfall, sharing a meal of new spring apples and bread with his horse before heading out, crouching and slinking from bush to tree to boulder as he made his way to the stockade. As he neared, he saw that the fortification was not made entirely of wood. Every third timber had an iron strap bolted along its length. Good. That meant the wards were likely tied to the metal, and so would not extend outward from the stockade, but he had to be sure. He gathered a handful of large rocks and threw them toward the timbers, each one a little closer than the last, the final rock landing less than an inch from the one of the wooden poles. When no fireworks ensued, he decided it was safe to approach.

Though he’d seen the wards immolate a small bird, he knew they would cause less damage to a larger creature-the defenses were meant to deter, not kill, and House Vadalis wouldn’t use measures that might cripple their own wayward livestock. But how much damage would touching the stockade cause? Burns, undoubtedly. And probably some sort of paralysis-temporary, but long enough for curious guards to come looking for whatever had triggered their spell. They wouldn’t come for something as insignificant as a bird. The disruption probably wouldn’t even register with whoever was monitoring the wards. A creature the size of a dwarf, however, was going to set off alarm bells and bring them running.

No, he was going to have to avoid the wards completely. And the only thing he had with him that would allow him to do that was his planar doorway-the same one that had gotten Yaradala d’Medani killed and him exiled from both the Tower of the Twelve and Karrnath. Simply creating an ethereal door would not work. It would allow passageway through the timber but would not protect him from the warding spell. The only way to bypass both the physical and the magical barriers was to open a doorway through the stockade and then shift to another plane as he stepped through, returning instantly to the material plane on the other side of the wall.

Easier said than done-he’d been rooming with a sorcerer from Thrane when he’d first come up with the idea, and with Fedin’s help, he’d been able to open the doorway with relative ease. Unfortunately, since Fedin’s focus for the spell had been a rod of flametouched iron, the plane they’d stepped through was Fernia, the Sea of Fire. It had taken the Tower healers several days to heal all their burns and regenerate new skin. After that, Fedin had asked for a different roommate.

But once he knew the planar doorway would work, it didn’t take Greddark long to find another sorcerer to help him, this one an elf from House Phiarlan. With a slim dagger of rare byeshk for a focus, the doorway they fashioned opened onto a peaceful courtyard in one of the floating crystalline cities of Syrania, the plane of Azure Sky.

What Greddark hadn’t realized when he’d lent the dagger to Yaradala was that, while the cities in Syrania moved, the doorway he’d created didn’t, so when the girl had tried to use the portal, she’d stepped through into nothing but air. Even if the fall hadn’t killed her, the wards she set off when she landed on the other side would have. Her charred, broken corpse hadn’t been a pretty sight, and Greddark had since acquired a feather fall token from a colleague in Sharn, in case he ever needed to try the planar doorway again. From what he understood of the token, it should be enough to save him from Yaradala’s gruesome fate.

Should.

He dug the token out from an inner pocket and held it in his left hand. With his right, he plucked the dagger-shaped charm from his golden bracer, a wand bracelet he’d modified to look more masculine and hold twice the number of usual ornaments. The dagger grew in his hand, from one inch to a foot in length. With a brief prayer to Olladra and Onatar, he stepped up to the stockade and thrust the byeshk blade in between two timbers, half-expecting to hear the crackle of lightning and feel the heat and shock as the magic of the wards coursed through him. Instead, he felt a familiar stretching sensation as the invisible portal opened before him. He knew it was working when he saw that the iron on the two nearest metal-strapped timbers no longer sparked.

Taking a deep breath, Greddark walked into the wall.

The sky about him was cloudless and a deeper, more vibrant blue than he’d ever seen. In the distance, a city floated, sparkling in the sunlight like a diamond. Nearby, an emerald-skinned human with large white-feathered wings paused in its graceful flight to glance in his direction, the angel’s beautiful features marred by surprise. For the briefest of moments, Greddark was enveloped in utter, idyllic peace.

And then he was falling, falling through an endless cerulean expanse, his mind coldly telling him that he had nothing to fear, for there was no ground to hit, but his heedless heart threatening to burst from sheer terror regardless. He clutched at the feather fall token, struggling to slow his tumbling descent through perfection, sure he was going to die, just like Yaradala …

… and then his foot hit the ground on the other side of the stockade and he was inside the House Vadalis compound. Still shaken, he barely remembered to summon the byeshk dagger through the portal before it closed behind him. As he replaced the now shrunken charm back on his bracelet, he breathed a sigh of relief and promised a hefty donation at the next Host temple he came across. Of course, considering that he was in Thrane, that could take awhile, but he wasn’t worried-the Sovereigns were patient.

The interior of the compound was dotted with the same low-lying scrub and stunted trees that marked most of the area this close to the lake. The moonlight made the vegetation and intermittent rocks luminous, in stark contrast with their black shadows. It also illuminated him plainly for anyone to see. Digging into yet another pocket, he found a flask made of thick crystal and uncorked it, downing the salty potion with a grimace. It would only keep him invisible until he spoke or made any violent movements, but he wasn’t planning on doing either of those things-at least, not until he found Kyrin.

He’d begin in the barns. They were the most likely place to house something as exotic as a magebred ghost tiger, and if Kyrin was its handler, he wouldn’t be too far away from it. Greddark could only hope they didn’t treat the beast as a pet and let it sleep in the house, but with House Vadalis, you could never tell. Some of them treated their animals better than their heirs. And judging from some of the members of House Vadalis he’d met at the Tower of the Twelve, they had good cause.

From his perch in the tree, he hadn’t had a good enough angle to see far into the compound, so he wasn’t sure exactly what sort of livestock he’d encounter in the open range. He hoped it wasn’t carnivorous, aggressive, or overly curious. The potion’s effects would not hide his scent, and even a brief encounter with a sniffing nose could render him visible before he was ready. As he crept toward the nearest barn, he kept a sharp eye out for cattle or sheep, but while he heard lowing in the distance, he saw nothing. If luck was with him, the herds had already bedded down for the night closer to Lake Arul, their nearest source of water.

The barn doors were closed and barred from the inside, but he was able to move a barrel under a row of low windows and peer in through an open shutter. From the smell, the windows were located directly above a feed trough that hadn’t been properly cleaned in quite some time. Or perhaps the stench came from the pigs he heard snuffling and squealing in their stalls. No tiger here, then-that would be like letting a halfling sleep in the larder.

The next barn held dairy cows-magebred, by the size of their udders. He could not tell what the third held, as the chicken coops had been located beneath the only accessible windows, and he couldn’t risk disturbing the noisy hens by climbing on top of the wooden cages. But he doubted the birds could sleep so calmly if there was a tiger prowling just on the other side of the wall, so that left the fourth and final barn.

As with the other barns, the doors were closed and barred, but a window showed a faint light burning inside. There were no convenient barrels, so he pulled out a series of tubes and quickly assembled them into a long S-shaped contraption with mirrors located in the angled pieces. With it, he could view the inside of the barn, though his field of vision was quite limited.

Placing the tube up to his eye, he saw several empty cages, stacked boxes, barrels, and, at the edge of his vision, a blanket spread out over a bed of hay and two pairs of legs entwined.

Unable to see more, regardless of how he angled the tube, he pressed his ear to the barn wall and strained to hear.

Two voices, a male and a female, probably human. Laughter. A low growl, and a sudden note of fear in the female’s voice. As he looked back through the tube, the slimmer set of legs disappeared from view, followed quickly by the other pair. The male voice, pleading.

Realizing what was happening, Greddark quickly disassembled the tube and shoved it in a pocket, then hurried to the barn door, just as it opened and a pretty human female stormed out, still buttoning her blouse. A bare-chested male with bright copper hair hurried after her, trying to pull on his boots as he followed her out of the barn. The Mark of Handling was a black swirl across his shoulder.

“Gaida, I’m sorry! You know I’d never let her hurt you … Gaida!”

The girl turned to face the dragonmarked handler, and even Eyre’s waxing light could not hide the flush of anger that stained her cheeks.

“No, Kyrin. I’m done with this. You said you brought me out here to comfort me, and instead you let that … that thing … watch us …” She trailed off, her rage momentarily too great for words as d’Vadalis finally got his boots on and caught up to her. When he reached for her, she slapped his hands away. “No! How am I supposed to forget about Demi, when that thrice-damned cat is just staring at me like it wants to eat me? Forget about him? I feel just like him!”

With that, she spat full in the handler’s face, then turned and stomped off to the house. Kyrin just stood there and watched her go, not even bothering to wipe the spittle away.

“Bitch!” he hissed with sudden venom and whirled around, heading back to the barn. Greddark had to hurry to get inside before d’Vadalis closed the door, slamming it home with a muttered curse.

Greddark waited until the handler had turned his back to the door before speaking.

“Kyrin d’Vadalis, I have a few questions for you regarding the death of Demodir Imaradi.”

Kyrin whirled, his hand going for a scabbard he no longer wore.

“Who-?” He caught sight of Greddark, who had materialized when he challenged the handler. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m an inquisitive from-” Greddark began, only to be interrupted.

“Maellas has no authority here. This is House Vadalis property.”

“-from House Kundarak,” Greddark finished. He wasn’t here on House business, of course-far from it-but it wouldn’t hurt to let the man believe he was. “So don’t think I’ll be frightened by threats of your House’s wrath. I’d wager Vadalis needs Kundarak a lot more than Kundarak needs Vadalis-at least when it comes to running this little operation.”

Kyrin’s eyes narrowed to green slits.

“Who sent you? Imaradi didn’t have any ties to Kundarak.”

“That you were aware of.”

The man paled. Good. At least he was smart enough to be afraid of facing House justice, even if he held the local authorities in contempt.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Everyone knows you and Demodir were after the same girl. Did you decide to take out the competition?”

Kyrin’s jaw flexed, but the man said nothing as Greddark continued.

“Because if that’s what you were trying to do, you should know your job’s not quite finished. Gaida has at least another handful of suitors you’ll need to get rid of. Unless you’re planning on using your pet tiger to take care of them, too?”

Greddark had hoped to goad the handler into a confession, but as an oily smile spread across Kyrin’s features, he realized he’d made a mistake.

“Maybe. But first I’ll have her take care of you.” The dragonmark on d’Vadalis’s shoulder glowed. “Sharihon! Attack!”

A big mistake.

Another growl sounded, this time from above. The tiger, it seemed, was not caged.

Greddark threw himself to the side as the magebred ghost tiger leapt down from the loft, its claws digging into the dirt floor where he had just been. As he rolled to his feet, the black and white-striped tiger wrenched its claws out of the floor, spraying dirt, and turned to face him, baring its preternaturally long teeth.

The big cat advanced, eerily silent now as it slunk toward him, its tail lashing back and forth in anticipation.

“I don’t want to hurt your pet, boy,” Greddark said, unsheathing his alchemy blade and priming it as he backed away from the tiger. With the push of a button, alchemist’s fire would course down grooves in the blade and set it aflame. “Or should I say, King Boranel’s pet?”

He risked a glance over at d’Vadalis, who had run back to the hay to retrieve his own weapon-a longsword, Greddark couldn’t help noticing, and just the right length to have caused the wound that killed Demodir.

He looked back at the ghost tiger-too late!

Sharihon sprang, her front paws landing in the middle of his chest, knocking him to the barn floor with enough force that his blade flew from his hand. On his back and weaponless, he watched as the tiger’s head dipped down toward him, her jaws wide and slavering. His arms free, Greddark waited until she was in range, then cocked his fist and punched the tiger in the mouth as hard as he could. He felt the crunch of breaking bone as teeth shattered. The tiger rocked to the side, momentarily off balance. Greddark used the opportunity to snatch a charm off his bracer. A bell grew in his hand-he could only pray it was the right one.

As the tiger shook her head, showering him with warm blood, and came in for another bite, Greddark shoved the golden bell straight down her throat, slamming it to one side to activate the clapper even as the great cat bit down on his arm, stiletto-like teeth puncturing his flesh.

Greddark felt more than heard the resonating sonic blast that blew out the back of the tiger’s skull, lifting her heavy body off him and propelling her ruined head across the barn, almost taking his arm with it as her jaw clamped down in a paroxysm of death. But he was able to twist his arm, dislodging the sharp teeth just enough that they only scored his forearm to the bone as the skull that bore them flew backward.

Behind the tiger’s head, the bell’s tone had blasted a hole in the side of the barn, taking out one of the support beams. The sound of timbers creaking, breaking, and crashing to the ground almost drowned out Kyrin’s desperate shout.

“Sharihon! No!”

The dwarf climbed slowly to his feet as Kyrin ran over to the tiger’s now headless body, blood still pumping from what was left of her neck. Greddark replaced the bloody charm on his bracelet, wincing with pain as he did so, and removed another, this one shaped like a small silver leech. In his hand, it doubled in size and began to wriggle. He placed it on the ruined flesh of his forearm, where it sought out a severed artery and began repairing the blood vessel. The magical leech would not be able to stop the bleeding completely, but Greddark hoped it would at least reduce the flow enough for him to take care of Kyrin.

He located his alchemy blade and hefted it clumsily. He was going to be hard-pressed to defeat the handler using the sword in his off hand. For the first time, he almost regretted his disdain for wands-he could use a nice paralysis spell at the moment, and it wouldn’t matter that most of his good arm was hanging in shreds from his bones. But the only wand he carried was simply a light source, and he couldn’t have reached it in any event.

Kyrin rose from his place by the tiger’s corpse, his bare chest slick and red, his eyes wet and furious.

“Host damn you! You’re going to pay for that!”

Greddark set himself as d’Vadalis came for him. The dwarf held his short blade awkwardly in front of him as the handler advanced.

“I told you I didn’t want to hurt her,” Greddark said. “I only wanted to ask you some questions. All you had to do was tell me why you killed Demodir. And how many others you’ve killed.”

If Greddark could distract d’Vadalis long enough, keep him from attacking, he might be able to work a bloodspike out of his pocket with his right hand, though he didn’t think he could throw it with any accuracy. The tiger’s teeth had severed a tendon in addition to several arteries and veins, and Greddark’s fingers were already drawn up in a tight, agonized claw. If he could somehow manage to retrieve the spike, he’d have to be close enough to d’Vadalis to jam it someplace soft-an eye, maybe, or a temple.

“Demi was trying to steal Gaida from me. I knew there were others, but he was the only one she was really serious about. I knew if I could just get him out of the way, she’d be mine.”

Kyrin had a wild look in his eyes, but he was moving slowly, almost as if he were drugged. He was probably still in shock.

Greddark inched his right hand closer to his pocket, trying not to hiss in pain. Just a little more time-

“So you decided to kill him, to make sure he couldn’t challenge you for Gaida?”

“No. No! It wasn’t like that.” The tip of Kyrin’s blade wavered, as if it were becoming too heavy for the grief-stricken man to hold. “I snuck Shari into town, because Gaida wouldn’t come out here. I was going to surprise Gaida-I knew if she could just see how beautiful Shari was, how beautiful all the animals are, she’d realize her place was with me, not that washed-up blueblood. But when I got to her place, he was there-he was just coming out, and I knew he’d been with my Gaida. When he saw me, he started to laugh and I–I don’t know what came over me, but the next thing I knew, he was on the ground, and my sword was bloody. I knew no one would understand-they’d think I killed him on purpose, so I had Shari drag him away from Gaida’s house-I couldn’t have her walking out in the morning and finding him there! And then I had Shari chew on him a little-I figured Maellas would just blame it on the shifters and no one would ever know.”

Greddark’s hand had reached his pocket, and he was able to snag a bloodspike between two curled knuckles. Making sure it was snug, he slowly withdrew his hand, his eyes never leaving d’Vadalis.

“So it was just an accident,” Greddark said, his voice calm and soothing as he lowered his own blade. “Of course. I should have realized that. Accidents happen, and they’re nobody’s fault. This was all just a big misunderstanding.”

Kyrin nodded, the tip of his sword now dragging in the dirt. The anger had drained out of the handler as he spoke, and now he just looked sad, and lost.

“A misunderstanding,” Kyrin whispered, and Greddark made his move.

Lowering his shoulder, he rushed at the handler, colliding with the man so hard they both crashed to the floor, d’Vadalis’s blade skittering away while Greddark’s was trapped between them. Releasing the weapon, Greddark heaved himself up with his left hand and raised the bloodspike in his right, preparing to thrust it into the most vulnerable spot within reach-Kyrin’s wide, surprised eye. With any luck, the blow would only blind the handler, and not kill him, but Greddark was in no position to be picky. He had to end this fight now, before half the compound’s population arrived to investigate the commotion.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of multiple crossbows being loaded, the clicking of bolts rammed into their grooves echoing through the now-quiet barn.

Too late.

“One more move and you’re dead, dwarf.”

The night passed uneventfully, and Andri was drowsing when he heard Irulan stirring with the morning sun. His eyes shot open and he came fully awake, cursing himself for his laxity of duty.

“What … what happened?” she asked, her voice thick with weariness and thirst. She tried to rise and failed, still too weak from the wight’s attack.

“Shh. Don’t try to talk,” he said, moving to her side and placing a steadying arm around her shoulders as he eased her into a sitting position. When he had her propped up against the base of Dol Arrah’s statue as comfortably as he could, he opened his canteen and helped her drink.

“What happened?” she asked again when she’d drunk her fill, her voice stronger now and her gaze sharp, taking in the headless body rapidly rotting away not five paces away from her, and the pile of dust that had once been Thorn, now being scattered by the gentle morning breeze.

“It was supposed to be a trap. Somehow Thorn got here before we did-”

“Longstride reachrunner,” she said, and he nodded. Of course. Longstride shifters gained the speed of their wolf ancestors when they shifted, and he had heard that reachrunners were the fastest scout and trackers alive. Combine the two, and it was no wonder Thorn had been able to beat them here, even with them riding hard on a fast horse.

Too bad his speed hadn’t been enough to save him.

“The wight must have surprised him while he was setting the trap up for us. I found a net-”

“The wight,” Irulan repeated, and he could see the memories come storming back as the ghosts of fear, anger and remembered helplessness flitted through her dark eyes. “The wight got Thorn. And it almost got me, too. Would have, if it hadn’t been for you.”

Andri looked away, oddly embarrassed by the emotion in her voice.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, covering his discomfort by rummaging in a pouch for some hard tack. He offered it to her with an apology. “The rest of the rations are with the horse. I didn’t want to leave you to go get them.”

“It’s still there?” she asked, her tone light and joking.

“The horse, or the food?” Knowing Irulan’s aversion to horses, she could be talking about either one.

“There’s a difference?”

He chuckled, and Irulan smiled, but her merriment soon faded, and she looked at him with serious eyes.

“Thorn was the only shifter to have visited this place in a very long time.”

It took a moment for her meaning to sink in.

“Skunk?” Andri asked, and she shook her head, then looked away, blinking rapidly.

He didn’t ask how she knew-a lack of tracks, or scent, or perhaps she’d used some ranger magic. Whatever it was, she was certain, and coupled with Thorn’s botched trap, it could only mean one thing.

Ostra had betrayed them. The shifters really were behind the murders, after all.

“Irulan, I-”

“Don’t. I can’t … think about it. Not yet.”

Andri nodded. They would rest today, so she could regain her strength, then leave on the morrow. They would still have a two-day ride ahead of them. Plenty of time to figure out how to bring her people to justice. Not nearly enough for Irulan to come to terms with the pain of the shifters’ treachery. But then, two years would likely not suffice to heal that wound, let alone two days.

He should know. It had been twice that number of years since his father turned on him, and his heart still ached anew every time he thought of it.

But Irulan was strong. She would survive the heartbreak, just as he had. What other choice did either of them have?

They sat around a table in the house’s dining room, Greddark nursing his left arm with its new, itchy pink skin. The House Jorasco halfling who’d healed him hadn’t been pleased at being woken. She had the bedside manner of an orc, which wasn’t surprising, considering most of her patients were dumb animals. A category she’d probably classified him in, as well, after he vomited all over her tunic when she’d tried to stitch him up. She hadn’t wanted to use the Mark of Healing on him-she’d seen what he’d done to the magebred ghost tiger, and thought the more pain he suffered, the better. But when it became clear a simple needle and thread would not suffice, she relented. She used her dragonmark to close the blood vessels his leech hadn’t been able to repair, reknit his torn muscles, and grow fresh skin, but nothing more. In retrospect, he didn’t feel too badly about puking on her.

As he sipped appreciatively from a steaming mug of hard cider, Greddark appraised his hosts. The elder d’Vadalis, Pherud, sat across from him, cradling his own mug in large, calloused hands. Kyrin sat at the man’s left, while his aide, a changeling named Jin, sat on Pherud’s right. Jin was trying to pass as human, but telltale signs gave his true nature away to the inquisitive-eyes never quite the same color, features just a tad too symmetrical. The disguise was a good one, though, and Greddark wondered if d’Vadalis even knew about the pretender in his employ. Chances were the changeling was up to no good, but it was no concern of his. The dwarf had his own problems.

“How much is it going to take to make this go away?” Pherud asked.

Greddark considered. He was after whoever was murdering Throneholders and blaming shifters for it-if it was, in fact, the same individual. He didn’t give a rat’s hairy nether regions about Kyrin, now that he knew the handler had only been responsible for the one death, but he supposed Imaradi’s parents deserved justice. It was a question of perception, though. If he never revealed that Demodir’s death was not the work of the same killer terrorizing Aruldusk, then when that madman was eventually caught-and executed, for there could be no other punishment for the well-publicized murder spree-the Imaradis would believe justice had been served. They could take some comfort in knowing they were one of many families impacted by the tragedy, perhaps finding solace in their common grief. But if they learned their son’s death had been the result of a fight over a harlot, what consolation would they find for that ignominy? He was inclined to think that what they didn’t know, couldn’t hurt them.

But Kyrin had taken a life, for the favor of a woman whose charms could be bought. And while stupidity was, unfortunately, not a crime, in this case, its consequences were.

Greddark drank his cider in silence, contemplating the dilemma while he relished the warmth that radiated through the metal to fingers that still ached, even with the healing.

Pherud would pay handsomely to ensure that the words “murder,” “Aruldusk,” and “d’Vadalis” were never mentioned in the same breath ever again, and Olladra knew Greddark could use the gold. But in accepting it, would Greddark be absolving Kyrin of guilt? Would the younger d’Vadalis see any punishment more severe than being banned from the arms of his lady love-for-hire?

Bah! Why should it matter to him? He should just pocket the money, walk away, and forget he’d ever heard the names Kyrin or Demodir. Ultimately, the handler’s fate had no bearing on his case. It was, quite literally, none of his business.

But.

He couldn’t help but remember the pain and sorrow he’d seen on the Imaradis’ faces, even on Zoden’s, though the bard had quickly hidden it. Demodir meant nothing to him-he was simply evidence in an investigation-but the Throneholder, his parents’ only surviving child and the last in his line, had meant everything to his mother, his father, and to his friends.

There had to be a reckoning. If he wasn’t an inquisitive to make sure guilty men got punished and innocent ones went free, then why? It wasn’t like he was going to become rich doing this. No, even if he didn’t care about the victim-or the perpetrator-a crime had been committed. A crime that he had solved, and that he was now obligated to see punished. That was his job. It really wasn’t any more complicated than that.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“This isn’t going to go away,” he said, after having finished his cider and set the still-warm cup aside with some regret. “Kyrin killed a man, and not in self-defense. Your coffers can’t exonerate him. Either you see to it that he’s punished, or I will.”

“Done,” Pherud said, too quickly.

As Greddark’s eyes narrowed, Jin chimed in, his eyes vacillating from azure to perse and back again.

“We had every intention of disciplining Kyrin. If not for the death of that boy, then most certainly for the destruction of King Boranel’s property.”

Kyrin, who’d been leaning back inattentively in his chair, confident that he’d be redeemed, sat up now, his eyes wide. He looked back and forth from his father to the changeling in dawning horror.

“I’m not talking about a slap on the wrist,” Greddark warned, his voice a low growl.

“Neither are we,” the changeling replied. “The punishment for a handler who allows any animal to die in his care is forty lashes. If that animal is magebred, it’s sixty lashes, and confinement with only bread and water for nourishment for up to a month. If that animal has already been purchased by a client, especially a royal client, then when the confinement ends, the handler is immediately-and permanently-expelled from the House.”

“Excoriation?” Kyrin breathed, the blood draining from his face. “But, Father-”

“Silence!” the elder d’Vadalis roared, backhanding Kyrin so hard that he fell from his chair. “You are no son of mine!”

Pherud looked over at his aide. “Get him out of here,” he said in disgust.

“Of course,” Jin replied, smiling. He stood and walked over to where Kyrin still sat on the floor, now crying softly. Yanking the handler up roughly, he pushed d’Vadalis-no, just Kyrin now-toward the door. “It will be my pleasure.”

After watching the two leave the room, Greddark turned back to Pherud, his shock no doubt showing on his face.

Pherud smiled grimly at his expression.

“Don’t look so surprised, dwarf. Unlike many Vadalis branches, I’ve never forgotten that we are a business first and a family second. Not so different from the Kundaraks in that, I think.” His smile widened. “Really, I should be thanking you. You saved my reputation and my bank account, and all for something I intended to do anyway.”

D’Vadalis raised his mug to toast Greddark.

“Here’s to you, dwarf. I’ve never bought silence so cheap.”

Finding the way to the murder scene wasn’t difficult. They simply had to follow the crowd. For a city that had seen more murders in the past year than it usually saw in five, its people never seemed to tire of the spectacle-everyone wanted to gawk at a fate that could have been theirs but wasn’t, thank the Flame.

They had to dismount because the press of people was simply too great to navigate on horseback. Leading the warhorse by the reins, Andri pushed his way through the crowd, with Irulan trailing behind, dodging angry looks and occasional globs of spit.

Andri finally had to draw his sword and let the magical silver flames clear a path for them. When they got closer to the scene of the murder, the way was blocked by guardsmen who took one look at Andri’s blade and let them pass.

Irulan had never been in the Garden District and so was somewhat surprised at the overgrowth, the rundown nature of the homes, and the general aura of neglect. If memory served, most of Aruldusk’s old noble families lived in this area, the ones who still held out hope that one day the ir’Wynarn family would regain control of Thrane. Seeing how they lived, Irulan could understand why-if Queen Diani returned to the throne, the fading fortunes of her supporters would bloom again. It was a feeble hope, of course-Thrane had been a theocracy for nearly a hundred years now, and the people seemed content to let it remain so for another hundred. These nobles were stubbornly holding onto a way of life that was doomed to disappear. In that, Irulan mused, they were not so different from the camp shifters.

A group of people clustered around the body, which was stretched out in the middle of the street and covered with a scarlet cloak. More guards, a House Jorasco healer, and a dwarf who was barking orders. No priests yet, though that was bound to change.

As they neared, Andri extinguished his sword and sheathed it, but not before making sure the guards saw it. He walked up and handed the horse’s reins off to one of the flustered soldiers, telling the young woman to tend to the mount, as if he had every reason to expect his orders to be followed. And perhaps he did, for the guard obeyed without question.

“Who is in charge here?”

Another of the guards, this one considerably more seasoned, stepped forward.

“I am, sir. I’ve secured the scene and am waiting for the watch captain and His Excellency, Bishop Maellas, to arrive.”

“And who is he?” Andri asked, cocking his head toward the dwarf, who was busy examining the ground around the body and taking notes in a thin book.

The dwarf looked up. Irulan noted that his brown eyes were rimmed with red, as though he’d been drinking. Or holding back tears.

“I’m Greddark d’Kundarak,” he answered, not bothering to rise from where he knelt. “I’m an inquisitive in the employ of Zoden ir’Marktaros, here to investigate the murders.”

Irulan exchanged a quick look with Andri.

Ir’Marktaros. The brother of the man her own brother was accused of killing, and the only surviving witness to one of the murders.

“He’s back in town?” she asked. “Where is he?”

The dwarf pulled the cloak away, revealing the slack face and staring eyes of the blonde man they had rescued on the lightning rail to Sigilstar.

“Right here,” he replied bitterly, before reaching over to close the dead man’s eyes with surprising gentleness.

Andri bent down on one knee next to the body and made the sign of the Flame on ir’Marktaros’s cold forehead. Then he murmured the words of the Final Prayer, meant to guide the man’s soul to the cleansing light and warmth of the Silver Flame.

Standing once more, he asked, “What happened? He doesn’t look to have been killed the same way as the others.”

“He wasn’t,” the dwarf confirmed, pointing to long furrows on the bard’s neck. They were white and puckered, their edges crusted in dried blood. “His neck’s broken. The other wound happened after.”

“How do you know it was the same killer?” Irulan asked. She could smell the stale scent of alcohol and sweat coming from ir’Marktaros’s corpse, and a muskier odor, tantalizingly familiar, coming off the dwarf’s clothes. The fresh pink scars on his right forearm looked suspiciously similar to the wounds Zoden bore.

The dwarf looked at her appraisingly before responding, his tone clipped.

“Never said it was. But there’s a witness. Of sorts.”

He pointed over to a man sitting on a nearby bench, talking to a guard in subdued tones. The man was disheveled and clearly hung over. His eyes darted wildly, trying but unable to stay away from the sight of the dead bard.

“A neighbor. Coming home late from a night out on the town. Surprised the killer before he could do more than slice Zoden with his claws.” The dwarf glanced at her, his eyes sharp. “Said it was a shifter.”

Andri looked up at Irulan. “I’ll go talk to him.”

He rose and walked over to the bench. The guards moved away as well, as did the healer, whose services were obviously no longer needed, leaving Irulan alone with the body of the only other person in Aruldusk who had believed her brother was innocent. And the dwarf.

She eyed him distrustfully.

“House Kundarak, huh? Zoden hire you for protection?”

“The details of my employment are none of your concern,” he said, standing and dusting off his knees. He began to walk down the street, following faint tracks. Two sets-one booted, one clawed.

Like a shifter.

“Maybe not,” said Irulan, “but considering he was the only witness to the murder my brother was falsely accused of committing, what happened to him is.”

She walked after him, careful not to disturb the footprints. They led to an open gate and up a short path toward a large house.

“Wait,” she said, holding out a hand to stop the dwarf from stepping on another set of tracks, even fainter than the first. She bent down to get a closer look.

“There are only boot prints leading into the yard.”

“So the shifter came in another way,” d’Kundarak replied, shrugging.

“Maybe. Let me see your foot.”

“What?”

“This is ir’Marktaros’s house, right? I assume you’ve been here recently?”

“Of course,” the dwarf said, an interested gleam in his eye. He grasped where she was leading and lifted his foot so she could examine the sole of his boot.

“Look. There are three sets of boot prints here. Three different sizes. One set clearly belongs to ir’Marktaros-they’re the ones leading to the body. These are yours”-she pointed out the smaller set of prints to the dwarf, aware that he would likely only see them as a vague broken outline, obscured as they were by more recent tracks. “That leaves this set, which leads into the yard from back there”-she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the house across the street-“unaccounted for.”

“A guest?” the inquisitive mused, but Irulan shook her head.

“Not unless he’s still in there-the tracks lead in, but they don’t come back out. Your tracks come in and out, Zoden’s do, too, but these don’t. One set of booted prints in, one set of clawed prints out.”

The dwarf had put his foot down and was looking up at the front of the house.

“Looks like Zoden also acquired a new statue while I was gone,” he said, mostly to himself.

Irulan followed his gaze to see a gray stone wolf in the open doorway, glaring reproachfully out at them.

“Some sort of familiar?” she wondered aloud, but d’Kundarak shook his head.

“A canary.”

At her puzzled look, he explained. “Dwarves sometimes use them in unfamiliar tunnels to make sure the air is good. You send them in first, and if they come back out alive, you know you’re safe. If they don’t, you find another way, and buy yourself a new canary.”

Irulan nodded and turned her attention back to the wolf. The sight of it reminded her of the wounds on the dwarf’s arm. They could have been made by a wolf. Or by whatever-whoever-had killed the bard.

“So, where were you last night, if you weren’t with Zoden?”

“Following a lead.”

“Looks like the lead fought back.”

D’Kundarak snorted. “You could say that,” he replied, unconsciously rubbing his arm.

Irulan abruptly placed the odor that hung about him like an old lover. She’d smelled it before in the Reaches-not this exact scent, but one very similar, and she was certain of its origin.

Not a wolf. A cat, and a big one.

Where could the dwarf have been that he’d come back smelling like a tiger’s chew-toy? Only one place-the House Vadalis compound.

And if he was following a lead there, then maybe he had a suspect-one that wasn’t a shifter.

But if the murderer wasn’t a shifter, then who was Ostra trying to protect? Because he had to be protecting someone, didn’t he? Why else would the shifter leader have sent her and Andri into a trap?

By Tira’s Sword, none of this made any sense! Just thinking about it was starting to give her a headache. If she didn’t get some answers soon, she thought her head might explode.

She’d start with the dwarf. He had to know something. It would just be a matter of convincing him to share.

“So who won? You or the cat?”

He didn’t even blink. “I did.”

He walked into ir’Marktaros’s yard, stepping through the thick grass and weeds so as not to compromise the tracks on the path. Irulan followed.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

He stopped and turned to her, his eyes cold and unfriendly. “Irulan Silverclaw, isn’t it?”

It was her turn to stop. How had he known that? She hadn’t introduced herself.

“Easy. You told me yourself,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, though she realized he was probably only reacting to the surprise on her face. She never had been very good at hiding her emotions. “The only murder Zoden witnessed-other than his own-was his brother’s. If your brother was accused of that murder, then you must be Javi Silverclaw’s sister, Irulan. Not to mention the silver-tipped claw on your left hand. Who else could you be?”

“Fine. You know my name. You know my stake in this case. So why won’t you tell me what else you know?”

“Also easy. You’re a suspect.”

Irulan’s jaw dropped before she could stop it. “I’m a what?”

D’Kundarak shrugged again. “Everyone’s a suspect … until they’re not.”

He turned and continued walking toward the porch, making more notes in his book as he went. Irulan resisted a momentary urge to run him through. Andri would never approve. Besides, the dwarf might well have uncovered information that would help her clear Javi’s name-information that would perish with him if she killed him now in a fit of annoyance. She would just have to figure out how to get him to spill it-then she could stab him.

“What was ir’Marktaros paying you?”

The dwarf had moved into the yard and was busy sketching something he saw amid the greenery. As Irulan approached, she saw what he was drawing-broken crossbow bolts littered about the yard.

He grunted, not bothering to look up at her as he finished his sketch and bent to retrieve the ruined bolts. He examined the quarrels of each before shoving them into his sack and scribbling more notes. She was just beginning to think he was ignoring her when he answered.

“More than you can afford.”

“Probably. But is it more than he can?” She pointed to Andri, who was rising from his spot on the bench next to ir’Marktaros’s neighbor.

That got the dwarf’s attention. He looked where she indicated, assessing the paladin’s fine armor and heirloom silver sword. Then he looked back at her, and she couldn’t miss the calculating glitter in his eye.

“You want to hire me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I think you have information I need, and I doubt I’m going to get it without paying for it. Besides, it looks like you’re out of a job, so … what do you say? Same rate as ir’Marktaros paid you. Deal?”

The dwarf regarded her outstretched hand for only a moment before reaching out to shake it.

“Deal.”

They emptied the contents of Andri’s trunk into sacks and traded the intricately carved chest to a shifter merchant for supplies and two more horses. If the others were surprised by the silver manacles, various extractions of belladonna, and other accoutrements of a lycanthrope hunter that Andri transferred from the trunk, they didn’t say anything, though Greddark looked at him speculatively. He wondered how much more curious the dwarf would be if he knew Andri never went anywhere without them-though he’d never had cause to use them and prayed fervently that he never would.

Irulan was more concerned with trying to calm the nervous nag they’d purchased for her. She was not happy about having to ride her own mount, but Shadukar was over two hundred fifty miles away following the Orien trade route-trying to ride double on his warhorse would have stretched a trip that was already going to take nearly a week into two, and that was time none of them had to waste.

Ostra had offered the services of his best trackers, but Andri had politely declined, while Irulan opined that they’d had more than enough “help” from the shifter leader and his people. Instead, they had quizzed the trackers on likely lairing spots within the ruins of Shadukar. Armed with that knowledge and several detailed maps of the city as it had been before it was razed, they set off for what had once been known as the Jewel of the Sound.

Leaving the shifter encampment just after noon, they pushed the horses and got in a full day’s ride by evening, but were still only halfway to Angwar Keep, their first stop on the way to Shadukar. The outpost had been hit hard and often during the Last War, located as it was just across the river from Cyre-or what had once been Cyre. Now the only enemy facing the keep was the dead gray mist of the Mournland, ever-present and oppressive, reaching up into the sky like a wall of stone that kept the residents of the fort from ever witnessing a true dawn. Of course, since most of the inhabitants were warforged, they probably didn’t care.

They pitched camp several hundred feet to the west of the road, wanting to put as much distance as possible between them and the mist that lingered just beyond the river’s opposite bank. Andri and Greddark tended to the mounts while a surly Irulan complained about saddle sores and prepared dinner. Over a mixture of fried eggs, salted pork, and tubers that the shifter had spiced liberally with thrakel, the trio compared notes.

The dwarf was intrigued by the tuft of fur Irulan had found and asked to examine it, though his perusal yielded nothing new. When Andri had finished the tale of his and Irulan’s investigation, Greddark shared what he and Zoden had learned. As he did so, Andri found himself nodding at several points, and shaking his head in confusion at others. Why had Greddark’s contact included the scrap of paper with the list of spell components on it? There was nothing linking it to the murders, save proximity to Desekane’s body, which had been found in one of the dirtiest parts of the city. Desekane had not been a spellcaster-did the dwarf’s contact think the killer was?

And what was the significance of the smudges of silvery dust? It sounded like silverburn, but that was so commonplace as to be useless as a clue to the killer’s identity-Andri carried a small container of it himself, for use in his private prayers.

And if the paper was somehow related to the murderer, what spell or potion were the ingredients for? He knew chameleon skin was a component used in a spell to obscure objects from scrying, but could such a spell be used to obscure a person? Is that why the Keeper’s wizards had been unable to locate the killer with their magic?

Thinking of the Keeper brought Andri back to Greddark’s contact. Who could it be? Someone high up in the local Church hierarchy, that much was obvious, but who? Not Maellas, surely, but someone close to the Bishop-Xanin, perhaps? The thought disturbed Andri. It was further evidence of the corruption that ran through every level of the Church like the silver veins in its ubiquitous black marble. Though he had to admit, in this case the evil had served a larger good-or would, if they caught the killer.

But while the information the dwarf provided painted a clearer picture of that killer, it raised more questions than it answered, and the murderer’s motive still remained obfuscated. Why would an old werewolf from Shadukar want to kill Throneholders in Aruldusk, especially when the murders were being blamed on the same shifters that were trying to protect him? Was his supposed madness really enough of an explanation? If anything, wouldn’t Quillion want to kill followers of the same Flame that had burned him so awfully so many years ago? Why attack people who wanted the Flame to gutter and die out just as much as he did?

“I don’t know if the political affiliation of the victims is really that important,” Greddark said, scooping up a spoonful of the egg mixture and spreading it over a slice of vedbread. He took a bite and chewed as he thought. “Most of the murders occurred in or around the Garden District. Maybe the location was the important factor, and the victims were mostly Throneholders because that happens to be where most of them live.”

“But that still doesn’t make any sense,” Irulan argued, washing down her own mouthful with a swig of water from her canteen. “The Garden District is practically in the middle of the city. Why wouldn’t Quillion-if it is him-have chosen a location closer to the gates, where it would be easier for him to escape?”

“Look at this,” Greddark said, pulling out one of the maps of Shadukar he’d gotten from Ostra’s tracker. It showed the city’s Cathedral complex and surrounding environs. “Shadukar had a Garden District, too, only it didn’t house nobles. It was the neighborhood where the Cathedral was located. And this”-he indicated a large open square in front of the Cathedral-“is probably where they set up the stake whenever they burned a lycanthrope. If it is Quillion, maybe he’s somehow reliving his past, seeing Aruldusk as Shadukar and hunting his enemies in the same place where they hurt him so badly. Or maybe it’s just the easiest place for him to teleport to, because it is so similar to the layout in Shadukar.”

Andri considered the dwarf’s conjecture. It did fit the facts, but so did any number of other theories. The only one who knew the truth was Quillion.

“Well, there’s only one way to know for sure,” Irulan said, echoing his thoughts. She climbed up from her spot by their small fire to take the first watch.

“What’s that?” Greddark asked curiously.

The shifter shrugged. “Find him and ask him.”

The trap was simple. After a quick perusal of his maps, Greddark found a circular junction where the road they were on intersected two others. He would stop there, feigning an injury to his mount with the aid of a tiny spiked ball he kept for just such occasions. Meanwhile Irulan and Andri would seem to press on, following their intended route to a spacious park that backed up to several large, gated estates. Once out of sight, they would double back, cutting through several alleyways to another of the roads that fed into the junction. Greddark, meanwhile, would appear to busy himself with tending to his horse, leaving him seemingly vulnerable to attack. Though it was still daytime, the opportunity to catch him alone and distracted should prove tempting enough to draw the lycanthrope out, especially with the threat of Andri’s silver sword removed.

Of course, Andri’s sword was also the only weapon any of them had that would do real damage to a lycanthrope. Irulan had her single silver-tipped claw, but it was more decoration than dagger. Whether it would actually hurt the creature or simply annoy him remained to be seen. She’d also been able to haggle with one of the camp shifters for a large pair of silver teardrop earrings, which Greddark had helped her melt down and apply to a single arrowhead, but she’d only use the makeshift arrow as a last resort.

Greddark hadn’t anticipated facing a werewolf when he left Sigilstar, and so he had nothing to hand that could hurt one, nor had he been able to find a suitable weapon on the journey here. In Thrane, silver swords-in actuality, steel swords alchemically bonded with silver-were the province of knights, forged by commission. Even if Greddark could have found a weaponsmith willing to make one, he wouldn’t have been able to afford the cost-in time or in gold.

Magic weapons weren’t any easier to come by-at least not when you’d been kicked out of the largest city in the area. Greddark had tried asking around in Olath, but those who trafficked in such items rarely advertised on the street, and even if you could find a seller, transactions were often by appointment only. Not an option when the four moons which were currently full would all begin waning in a matter of days. If they stayed on schedule, Aryth would still be full by the time they reached Shadukar. If not, their job would become that much harder.

So he’d taken the precaution of borrowing a vial of liquid belladonna extract from Andri before they entered the ruined city. He couldn’t coat his own blade with the mixture-since it was neither silver nor magical, any wound from the short sword would heal before the poison could be introduced into the lycanthrope’s bloodstream. No, if it came down to it, and he was forced to fight Quillion before Andri and Irulan arrived, he’d have to remove the stopper and splash the mixture in the werewolf’s face, praying that some of the liquid reached Quillion’s eyes or the soft, delicate tissues of his nose or mouth. With any luck, he might be able to blind the lycanthrope before it tore his throat out. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He wasn’t often lucky.

They reached the junction much more quickly than Greddark would have liked. A long-dry fountain served as the circle’s centerpiece, carved from a single block of bluish-green marble and depicting a merman in mid-leap, seaweed and shells twined in his hair and beard and a trident carried in one webbed hand. The trident was an ancient symbol of the Devourer, and finding the emblem of the god of destruction right where they were about to spring their trap struck Greddark as a very ill omen indeed.

He saw no further signs of their pursuer as they neared the fountain, but the hairs on his neck refused to relax-the lycanthrope was out there, watching them. He could feel it.

Sighing, he put their plan in motion. He sneezed once, loudly, an action that was not entirely a charade-the dust and ashes stirred up by their passage floated in the air and tickled his nostrils with every breath. He could taste Shadukar’s death on his tongue, oily and rancid.

Irulan, still on foot ahead of him, turned to shush him with an angry gesture. If he hadn’t been anticipating it, he would not have seen her drop the ball he’d given her in his horse’s path. Marking where it landed, he shrugged apologetically at her and urged his horse onward, guiding it until it stepped right on the spot where the ball lay.

As if on cue, the horse balked, whinnying in discomfort and lifting its leg off the ground. If Greddark had been a better horseman, the ball of spikes-a trick he’d learned from the Karrns, who used the tiny balls against opposing cavalry during the War-would not have been necessary, but they had to make it look convincing. Hopefully, the spiked ball would not actually hurt the horse, merely lodge in its hoof and make walking uncomfortable until it was removed.

“Something’s wrong with the horse,” he said loudly to Andri, who’d ridden up to see why Greddark had stopped. “Maybe the shoe-I’ll check it out, but you two should go on and see if you can find the lair. I’ll catch up to you afterward.”

“Are you sure?” The paladin frowned, his brown eyes concerned. He hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of leaving Greddark undefended. Frankly, Greddark wasn’t all that happy about it himself, but as the only one of them the lycanthrope had no reason to fear, he was the obvious choice for bait.

“Yes,” he responded, perhaps a bit too forcefully, but Andri did not argue further. He simply nodded.

“Very well. If you should require aid-”

“Scream and you’ll come running? Along with anything else that might be hiding out in this Host-forsaken shell of a city. No thanks.” Greddark swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. “I’ll be fine.”

The paladin considered him for a moment, then shrugged. He urged his mount onward, motioning for Irulan to continue. The two were across the circle, around another bend, and out of sight in moments.

Greddark led his limping mount to the fountain, Irulan’s mare tagging along behind, whickering softly in complaint. He tied the reins to the merman’s outstretched arm, then sat on the edge of the basin and lifted the horse’s leg to look at the affected hoof. As he made of show of examining the shoe, he pulled out a small knife and dug the spiked ball out of the sole of the animal’s hoof. Perhaps Olladra did smile on him, after all-the spikes had come a sovereign’s width from puncturing the spongy frog and causing the horse real injury.

He heard something-a footfall?

He thought it came from the road behind him, but in this empty, echoing city, it was hard to ascertain the cause or direction of any noise. He pretended not to notice, cooing comfortingly to the horse while he palmed the vial of belladonna. As the glass slid across his sweaty hand, he realized that he was frightened in a way he hadn’t been while facing down the ghost tiger, which surely could have killed him as easily as any lycanthrope.

But, then, he knew he could hurt the magebred cat. Not so one of the moontouched.

He was alone, with a crazy, possibly murderous werewolf sneaking up on him, and his only defense was a vial of purplish-green liquid that smelled like an ogre’s breath after a night of hard drinking.

The surprise was not that he was afraid, but that he wasn’t more so.

There. Another footfall. He was sure of it this time.

Twin whinnies from the horses as they pulled against their tethers confirmed it. Quillion was here.

With a prayer to Onatar and Andri’s Silver Flame-because it couldn’t hurt to have the favor of a deity whose very essence was anathema to werebeasts-Greddark popped the stopper on the vial and turned, intending to fling its contents full in the lycanthrope’s face.

Instead, the vial was slapped out of his hand and sent flying to the ground where it shattered, the belladonna extract oozing out to form a nacreous puddle.

Greddark found himself looking at the business end of a war spikard aimed straight at his head.

His eyes focused on the quarrel, then followed the shaft of the crossbow bolt upwards to his assailant’s arm, and the dark lines of the Mark of Detection that wound up it. Above the arm, violets eyes regarded him coolly out of a delicate face framed by soft golden curls.

The half-elf from Sigilstar flashed him a smug grin.

“I told you it wasn’t over.”

“Beneath the blue waves and black ships?” Greddark asked, flicking his reins. “Sounds like the docks to me.”

Irulan had cast her spell to keep them and the horses from making any tracks, and then they had exited the junction after leaving their rations in the dry fountain basin. They were trying to put some distance between themselves and the squealing of rats feasting on fresh food-including meat, as they tore one another apart to get to the fruit and bread.

Eat or be eaten, indeed.

“I thought of that, but the docks aren’t marked,” Irulan said, astride her own horse now. The nag still fought her. She might be able to calm anything from an angry bear to a host of hungry rats, but no horse had ever responded to her touch or her magic. Flame, but she hated the things, and the need to ride them. Why couldn’t she have been born a halfling? Fastieths had to be easier to handle.

“I don’t think they meant the docks,” Andri said. He looked over at the dwarf. “Let me see the maps again.”

Greddark reined in his horse and handed the maps over, watching Andri with interest. After a few sharp tugs on her own reins, Irulan’s mount followed suit.

Andri pointed to the first spot marked on the map, the large park to which they were heading.

“See this district that backs up to the park? It was known as the Crown District, because of all the nobles who lived there. What if Quillion isn’t lairing in the park, but in one of these estates?”

“So the blue waves and black ships are some sort of family crest?” Irulan asked. That would make sense-since most shifters she knew didn’t care much for any body of water they couldn’t cross under their own power, she would be surprised to find a lycanthrope choosing to lair virtually on the banks of the Sound. Then again, Quillion was supposed to be crazy.

“Yes,” said Andri.

That was abrupt.

“You recognize it?” Greddark asked, picking up on the brevity of the answer.

The paladin looked uncomfortable.

“I believe it is the device used by the Stalsun family. The entire family died in the invasion of Shadukar, all save one-Lady Hathia Stalsun, who now resides in Flamekeep.”

“You know her?” Greddark pressed, his curiosity clearly piqued.

Andri did seem to have a lot of information about her.

“I know of her,” the paladin replied, and something in his tone made Irulan wonder just how well-acquainted he and the Lady Stalsun actually were. Then she decided she probably didn’t really want to know.

“Well, how are we going to figure out which estate belonged to the Stalsuns?” she asked, turning her attention back to the map. “There must be at least twenty properties near the park alone, and that doesn’t include the rest of the Crown District. We can’t possibly search them all.”

“We don’t have to.”

Both Irulan and Andri looked at the dwarf, who was smiling.

“Why not?” Irulan demanded, not liking the inquisitive’s smug expression.

“Your rat friends gave me the idea,” he replied. “Look what they were willing to do for food that was several days away from fresh, and then again what happened when they turned on each other to get that food-a feeding frenzy, driven by the scent of new blood. Of rat blood.”

“I’m not following you,” Irulan said, though she thought perhaps she was-and didn’t particularly like where the dwarf was leading.

“There’s precious little to eat here, and we know Quillion-if it was him-didn’t get a chance to feed on Zoden. What’s more likely to bring him out of hiding than wounded prey on his doorstep, warm and ripe for the eating? Especially when this is the last night with a full moon for another two weeks?”

“And who did you have in mind for this ‘wounded prey’ of yours?” Irulan asked, already knowing the answer.

Eat or be eaten.

Damned rats.

Greddark’s smile widened, as if he had heard her thoughts. “You, of course.”

“I think you better tell us the whole story,” Greddark said, his hand still hovering near his hilt.

Andri nodded. They deserved to know the truth. “Can we do it somewhere else?”

“Back to the pond?”

“That’s fine.”

Andri stood and retrieved his sword from where he had thrown it. In the moonlight, the black blood looked like tarnish on the silver blade. Shoving the thought aside, he wiped the sword clean on a patch of dead grass and sheathed it.

When he turned back, Irulan still knelt beside her great-grandfather’s body. Andri swallowed the lump sticking in his throat and walked over to her.

“Do you want me to give him last rites?” he asked as gently as he could.

Irulan shook her head without bothering to look at him. Perhaps because she couldn’t stand to.

“Rave never embraced the Silver Flame the way Bennin did. They say he always blamed the Church for his father’s death. Besides”-she glanced up at him at last-“you already gave him the only absolution he would have wanted.”

Greddark started trying to cover Rave’s body with brush, to make an impromptu cairn, but Irulan told him not to bother. The rats would find him when his absence eroded their fear of the place, and they would return his body to the earth. It was the way.

As they led the horses back to the dried up pond in silence, Andri prayed for the strength to tell his tale. He’d only recounted it twice before-once in the immediate aftermath of the murders, and once to the Keeper. Though only a child, the depth of Jaela Daran’s compassion had utterly disarmed him. While she had held his much larger hands in her own, he had wept for his loss for the first and only time.

The embers of their fire were still warm, and Greddark had a new blaze going in a matter of moments. They sat around the campfire, the dwarf watching him expectantly while Irulan stared into the flames, lost in her own thoughts.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Andri nodded. He took a deep, fortifying breath, made the sign of the Flame, and began his tale.

“It was 993 YK. My father, Alestair, had just returned from a successful hunt in the Burnt Wood. He even brought me the claws of the werewolf he’d slain.” Andri reached up to touch the necklace he wore, his fingers running lightly along the chain, touching each claw in turn before closing around the silver holy symbol they framed. “He’d been scratched by the lycanthrope but took belladonna immediately and was sure he’d escaped infection.”

As Andri looked into the dancing orange flames, he could see his father’s confident expression and hear the pyromancer’s laugh as he dismissed Andri’s fears, as clearly as if the paladin were once again in the room with his parents. Of course, he hadn’t been a paladin then. He hadn’t learned of Cardinal Brynde’s decision until the following week. The same day that he learned that his father’s certainty had been misplaced.

“Nine days later, on the night of the next full moon, we found out he was wrong.…”

Wir, Lharvion 18, 993 YK

… Andri walked out of the Cardinal’s chambers as calmly as he could, nodding to the beaming secretary as he passed, but once he was out in the hall, he couldn’t contain his joy any longer.

With a whoop that earned him startled glances from several passers-by, Andri took off at a run for his parents’ quarters-he couldn’t wait to tell them. They lived on the third floor of the aptly-named Tower of St. Valtros. The saint had been the first paladin called to serve the Silver Flame, an honorable tradition that Andri had been deemed worthy to continue.

He’d made it! After four hard years of study, he’d passed his final tests at the Psalm of the Flame Seminary, and tonight Cardinal Brynde had informed him that he was being accepted into the Order of Templars on Victory Day, just three weeks hence. He was going to be a paladin!

He knew his mother would be a little disappointed. As a high-ranking priestess in the Order of Ministers, she had hoped her only child would follow in her footsteps and become a priest. But his Uncle Ajiuss, a Templar himself, would be bursting with pride, and his father would be utterly ecstatic. Andri couldn’t wait to see Alestair’s face when he told him the news!

He took the servants’ corridors, and his pace brought him to the west-facing tower within minutes, though he had to dodge a group of maids, nearly upsetting their laundry cart. But even their angry recriminations could not dampen his mood.

He had done it! He didn’t think he’d ever been happier or more proud than he was at this moment. He bounded up the stairs as if he wore boots of jumping.

Andri was in such a hurry, he almost stumbled across something long and hard lying at the top of the third floor landing. He kicked it with his toe, sending it skittering across the marble floor as he hopped about on one foot, trying to regain his balance. When he had, he looked down at what had tripped him.

Twin ruby eyes winked up at him from out a silver wolf’s head.

His father’s sword.

Andri stared at the silver blade, confused. What was Alestair’s sword doing on the landing? The pyromancer never went anywhere without it. And then he realized he had kicked the sword into the middle of a crimson pool.

Blood.

Red smears led from one end of the pool down the hallway. Lured on by a dread curiosity, Andri bent down to pick up his father’s sword as he skirted the scarlet puddle and followed the grisly trail.

It led to the body of a serving girl, only a few years younger than Andri. She was responsible for making sure the tenants on this floor had fresh linens. For some reason, Andri could not remember her name.

She lay on her back, glassy blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. Her throat had been torn out, so savagely that he could see the bones of her spine.

The thick smell of blood and the sight of her glistening tendons and exposed muscle made Andri’s stomach churn. He turned his head and vomited, hot bile burning his mouth and nose.

When he could breathe again, he moved over to the girl’s body and bent to close her eyes, murmuring a prayer for her soul. As he touched her skin, he realized she was still warm.

That meant the killer could still be nearby, on this floor.

He knew he should go find the guards and raise the alarm, but if whoever had done this was still here, then people-his parents-were in danger.

Is that why his father’s sword had been lying discarded on the floor? Had the pyromancer faced the killer? Had he been overpowered and forced to flee? Or had Alestair stumbled across the girl’s body himself and realized that Andri’s mother could be next?

No, Andri couldn’t wait. He had to find his parents. Now.

Bloody footprints led from the serving girl’s body down the hall. Though the tracks were smudged and indistinct, Andri thought he could make out what looked like claws.

He wasn’t looking for a human, then. For some reason, that made him feel better.

Hurrying down the corridor, he followed the crimson trail past several closed doors, until he found an open one. Another body lay just inside the doorway-a man who, like the girl, had had his throat torn out. He’d probably been on his way to Mass, if the prayer books scattered on the floor were any indication, though the service didn’t start for another quarter bell. The man’s piety had likely gotten him killed.

Andri didn’t bother to stop, merely mumbled a quick prayer for the man as he picked up his pace until he was almost jogging. The closer he got to his parents’ quarters, the more his fear grew.

He rounded a corner and almost tripped over a third body, but he didn’t even pause to look to see if this victim was male or female. His parents lived at the end of this hall.

And their door was open.

Andri resisted the urge to call out. If the killer was in there, he wanted to take him-no, it-by surprise. He paused at the doorway to wipe sweaty palms on his pants and make the sign of the Flame. Then, with a wordless prayer, he entered his parents’ apartments, cautiously stepping over the threshold.

The foyer and living room were empty, with everything in its proper place and no sign of any struggle. The tell-tale red prints led across the rich Aerenal rug towards the bedrooms and his father’s study. As Andri followed, he could only think how angry his mother was going to be when she saw the mess-the rug had been a wedding present from her childhood friend, Lavira Tagor, who was now the Keeper of the Silver Flame. He remembered the one time he had tracked mud across the fine weave-his mother had threatened to take him to the Keeper, to make him explain to the head of the Church why he had so little respect for her incredibly generous gift. Andri, who even then had known he was called to serve the Flame, had begged his mother not reveal his sin to the Keeper, and spent three nights on his hands and knees scrubbing the stains out of the rug himself. He’d never set foot on it again, and even now he skirted the edge as he trailed the killer.

The tracks bypassed his father’s study, and Andri felt the fear he had been fighting back take an iron hold on his heart as he realized where the killer was headed. His mother’s rooms.

Chardice Aeyliros was a powerful priestess of the Flame, and normally Andri would have confidence in her ability to hold her own against any would-be murderer, but she had been ill for some time now, and neither the Jorasco healers nor her fellow clerics had been able to determine why. She spent most of her time in bed, rising only to attend evening Mass, walking slowly and leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, or Andri’s when he was free from his studies. She was in no condition to fend off a chattering maid, let alone a feral creature that had already left three corpses in its wake.

The door to his mother’s rooms was ajar, and Andri pushed it open slowly, tightening his grip on the hilt of his father’s sword. The sitting room was empty, but a fire burned low in the hearth, destroying Andri’s one hope that his mother might somehow not be home.

He heard a sound from her bedroom-not a scream. His mother was too well-trained for that. More like an exclamation of surprise.

The need for stealth had passed. There was no other exit from his mother’s rooms. He had her assailant trapped.

Andri rushed across the sitting room and into his mother’s bedroom, where a nightmare awaited him.

His mother lay disheveled on her bed in a long, silvery nightgown, her heavy brocaded quilts tossed haphazardly on the floor. Leaning over her in some obscene parody of intimacy was a creature covered in dark blood-spattered fur, bushy tail wagging like a dog’s, its long canine snout hovering mere inches from his mother’s open mouth.

For a split second, Andri thought it was a shifter-her friend, Renato? But wasn’t he in the Reaches, visiting family?

Then, as the pale lavender light from Dravago’s newly-full face streamed in through the window, Andri realized the awful truth.

The thing bending over his mother, looking for all the world as if it wanted simply to lick her face like a happy puppy, was not one of the weretouched.

It was one of the moontouched.

A werewolf.

A startled gasp escaped him, and the werewolf and his mother turned their heads to look at him. The lycanthrope’s tongue lolled out, and it seemed to smile. Then it turned back to his mother and, head darting forward with blinding speed, locked its powerful jaws around her throat and began to tear.

Chardice’s eyes never left those of her son. Her gaze captivated him, held him rooted to the spot, even as the werewolf tore bloody chunks of flesh from her neck.

The priestess did not look horrified, or even frightened, just … sad. Resigned. And perhaps even … expectant?

Andri shook off his trance with an inarticulate cry and threw himself across the room, certain even as he did so that he was too late. His brief moment of inaction had cost his mother her life.

The werewolf turned at the last instant, just as Andri reached the bedside and was preparing to bring his father’s blade down in a powerful arc. With a nonchalance bordering on arrogance, the creature stepped past his guard and backhanded him across the face so hard that Andri felt his jawbone break. The force of the blow sent Andri stumbling backward. His feet tangled in his mother’s cast-off blankets, and he went down.

Surprisingly, the lycanthrope did not take the opportunity to attack, instead turning its bloody muzzle back toward Chardice, who raised her arms up, as if in welcome.

But that was insane. She was so ill, so weak from blood loss, she must be trying to defend herself, and just didn’t have the strength to do more than gesture feebly.

Surely she wasn’t, couldn’t be … encouraging the foul beast?

Andri clambered back to his feet, kicking the quilts aside as he approached the werewolf again, more cautiously this time.

“Get off my mother, you Flame-cursed abomination!”

That seemed to get the creature’s attention. It snarled at him and stepped away from the bed, shaking scarlet drops of Chardice’s blood from its snout as it did so. The werewolf set itself in a ready stance, knees bent slightly as it prepared for Andri’s next charge. It raised its clawed hands up in what Andri at first assumed was a defensive gesture, but he soon realized that it was the beginning of an arcane pass, one that seemed strangely familiar.

The werewolf was trying to cast a spell on him!

As it thrust one palm out toward him, Andri dove to one side, rolling and coming up on his heels a few feet away. He expected to feel the tingle of magic passing over him as he tumbled out of the way, but there was nothing. Standing, he saw that the werewolf was staring at his hand with an oddly canine expression of frustration and disbelief.

The lycanthrope began the pass again, and Andri recognized the motions this time. It was one of his father’s own favorites, a ball of fire tinged with silver and imbued with holy power. But the werewolf’s magic didn’t seem to be working.

Whatever the reason, Andri took the lapse for the boon it was and pressed his own attack. As the lycanthrope tried again and again to call the fire into being, Andri moved in. He feinted toward the werewolf’s hands. As the creature drew away to protect them, Andri crouched low, reversing his stroke and slicing at the lycanthrope’s knees, which had been his true target all along. Only the beast’s preternatural speed allowed it to avoid the blow, as it danced back just out of reach of the silver blade.

Andri had been prepared for that, though. Uncoiling, he sprang forward, bringing the tip of his father’s sword up and scoring a long gash along the werewolf’s abdomen. The creature whirled away, clutching at the wound with one hand, while Andri positioned himself so that he stood between it and the bed.

The werewolf brought its hand up, staring at its own blood curiously. It looked at Andri and grinned again, then thrust its tongue out between its fangs and lapped up the scarlet liquid as if it were water. Andri could not suppress a shiver of revulsion.

There was a hissing noise behind him and Andri risked a glance over his shoulder. Miraculously, his mother, awash in her own blood, was still alive. She was trying to speak, but all that came out of her ruined throat were breathy gasps.

When she saw she had attracted his attention, she tried to lift her too-pale hand and beckon to him. Andri half-turned toward her in spite of himself, unable to deny his mother’s call.

It was a mistake.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but before he could react, the werewolf hit him square in the midsection, sending the young man hurtling over his mother’s bed where he landed facedown with a sickening splat on the eviscerated body of Inulda, his mother’s halfling nurse.

Gagging, Andri scrambled away, swiping at his face with both hands to get the woman’s blood and bits of her masticated flesh off his skin.

His back against the far wall of the bedroom, Andri looked about wildly for his father’s sword, knowing he was doomed without it. It lay where it had fallen, near the foot of his mother’s bed. The werewolf ignored both the sword and him as it turned back to the priestess.

The creature reached out one claw, stroking her cheek in a lover’s caress. It trailed its claws down across the shredded flesh of her throat to her sternum. Its hand hovered there, over the hollow between her breasts.

Andri crawled slowly toward the foot of the bed, each measured movement a torment as he prayed that the creature would disregard him, while every fiber of his being screamed at him to hurry! But he knew his only chance lay in a surprise attack from behind-a blow that would destroy any hope he had of becoming a paladin. Followers of the Silver Flame did not stab their enemies in the back, no matter how abhorrent those enemies were, or how vile their crimes.

So be it. For all he cared, the attack could consign him to eternal damnation in the pits of Khyber. Just so long as it kept that detestable thing from defiling his mother.

What seemed like hours later, he finally felt his hand close around the hilt of his father’s sword. He stood, grasping the hilt in two fists. Then, with a roar of rage he could no longer contain, he lunged and drove the blade into the werewolf’s back, just as it began to dig its claws into his mother’s chest, reaching for her heart.

Howling in agony, the lycanthrope collapsed onto the bed, covering Chardice’s body with its own.

Pulling the sword free, Andri rushed to the side of the bed and heaved the werewolf’s body off his mother, unable to stand the thought of it touching her. As the lycanthrope fell to the floor, it began to change, its fur retracting to leave smooth, tanned flesh and the bones of its face reforming themselves into a familiar, and much beloved, countenance.

“Andri …” his father managed, then he coughed once and his eyes went dark. And Alestair Aeyliros, famed lycanthrope hunter, was dead, slain by his own son, with his own blade.

“No,” Andri whispered, shaking his head in horror, even as all the clues fell into place. His father’s sword. His path of destruction. The full moon shining in the bedroom window. “No, no, no, no, no!”

He sank to the floor beside his father’s body, fighting back tears.

Andri had begged his father to see a priest after he returned from the Burnt Wood, but Alestair had stubbornly insisted that he was fine. The chances of the werewolf he killed there being a natural-born were so slim as to be nonexistent, his father had said, and, since infected lycanthropes hadn’t been able to infect others with their curse since the Purge, he had nothing to worry about. Besides, he’d chewed belladonna as soon as he’d killed the creature, just as a precaution. The pyromancer had laughed at Andri for worrying.

And now he was dead, after having killed at least five people himself.

Oh, Father.

There was a sound from the bed, and Andri looked up in amazement.

Not five. Not yet.

He left his father’s corpse and went to his mother’s side. Her face was white-so white-and her lips were turning blue. Her hand, when he grasped it, was already cool.

But, somehow, she was still with him, still hanging on. Still trying to speak to him, to give him one last message before she died.

Andri bent close to hear her.

“Is … dead?” she wheezed, her eyes wandering and unfocused.

“Yes, Mother. But … but …” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her who her attacker had been. But as she looked up at him, her eyes cleared, and he realized she already knew.

“Good. Now … kill … me.”

Andri drew back, appalled.

“What? What are you saying, Mother? Why? I can’t-”

“Andri!” she said, the forceful tone costing her as blood began to trickle from the corner of her mouth. “Have … to. Can’t risk … what he did.”

“No. No!” His tone was pleading, whining even. He didn’t care.

She couldn’t be asking him to do this. She couldn’t.

“Use … sword.”

“No! I won’t. I can’t!”

Chardice drew in a shuddering breath.

“You will … if … love me.”

“I’ll find the belladonna, I’ll get a priest, anything! Just not this. Anything but this!”

His mother’s eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t send … soul to Flame … with this stain. Please.”

She had always ruled his life with a velvet glove of guilt, and Andri had never been able to deny her anything.

Now was no exception.

With a leaden heart, he bent to pick up his father’s sword. Then, his eyes caught in his mother’s gaze, he plunged the silver blade into her chest.

She gasped once, a small sound of pain. Then she looked up at him, smiled, and died.

He was still standing there, his hands wrapped around the hilt, when a pair of guards came pounding into the room, swords drawn. One of them, a new recruit he’d done some training with, took one look at the carnage and vomited all over the floor.

The other leveled his weapon at Andri.

“Drop the sword.”

Numbly, Andri did as he was bade. He’d driven the blade into his mother’s body so hard that it pinned her to the bed, and stood quivering once he’d released it.

“Now back away. Slowly.”

Andri complied, raising his hands to show he meant no harm.

“Stick out your hands.”

He did so, his grief-fogged mind not immediately comprehending why they were clapping manacles on his outstretched wrists.

“Andri Aeyliros, in the name of the Keeper, you are under arrest. For murder.”

They thought he was the murderer.

And as they led him away, he cast one look back at the bodies of his mother and father, and realized they weren’t wrong.

They left the ruins of Shadukar the next morning and headed south into the Burnt Wood. It had once been called the Flamewood, before the Jewel of the Sound had been sacked, but when the Karrns set Shadukar to the torch, they’d also burned the forest from which the city drew many of its resources. Though the trees had started to grow back, and the undergrowth was green and healthy, the skeletons of pines still clustered about the forest edge, like an undead Karrnathi garrison left behind to finish off anyone with the temerity to return.

“So now we’re looking for a whole pack of lycanthropes hiding out in the woods. How big did you say this forest was, again?”

Greddark frowned as he said it, glaring at a tree branch that had scratched his cheek while he was trying to duck under another.

“The Burnt Wood stretches from Angwar Keep to Shadukar, and from Olath nearly to the mouth of the Thrane River,” Andri replied. It was the first thing he’d said since last night’s revelations. If you didn’t count the Nine Miracles of the Silver Flame-the long version. Three times. Irulan had finally relieved Greddark of his watch early, since there was no way she was going to get any sleep with the paladin’s incessant praying.

“That’s what, nearly a hundred miles? And probably half that across? So, basically, five thousand square miles,” the dwarf said, figuring the area in his head. “And we’re supposed to find a pack of werewolves in here-a pack which, presumably, doesn’t want to be found?” He barked out a short laugh. “I’d say that’s like looking for a specific blade of grass on the Talenta Plains, but I think I’d prefer those odds.”

Irulan thought she might have a way to improve Greddark’s odds, but they weren’t deep enough into the forest yet. She led them further in, following a faint game trail, her mare for once tractable and easy to handle. Perhaps the animal sensed Irulan’s relief at being back underneath a green canopy, sunlight dappling her path and birdsong guiding her steps. She was only ever truly comfortable in the wild, which was why she stayed away from Aruldusk-and Javi-so often. The thought brought a familiar twinge of guilt. Perhaps if she’d made the effort to stick around more, Javi would not now be pacing a five by five cell, unable even to see the open sky she loved so much.

Or perhaps, she thought with more than a hint of annoyance, she’d been spending far too much time around Andri.

Returning her attention to the forest around her, Irulan let the reins go slack as she concentrated on the rhythms of life that pulsed all around her. She opened up her senses, accessing the animal instincts left to her by her lycanthropic forebears. Her sight and hearing sharpened, and her sense of smell became so acute that she winced when the wind shifted and she caught the scents of her companions and their mounts. The faintest hint of lavender still clung to Andri, but dirt and sweat predominated, producing a musky, masculine odor that made Irulan’s nose twitch. Greddark, on the other hand, just plain stank.

Beyond them, the fresh scents of spring flowers and new grass, the wet, earthy smell of moss, the too-sweet aroma of moldering leaves and decay. The buzz of insects, the muted scratch of animals burrowing underground, the hiss of scales on bark as a snake wound its way towards an unsuspecting squirrel.

There, in the hollow of that large oak, an owl slept, waiting for nightfall. A clearing, far to her right, held a doe and her fawn, lapping water from a sluggish creek. Over to her left, a mass of hollow rock that could only be a cave. Inside, a great bear, dozing after a meal of rich honey and tart berries.

And there, ahead. What she’d been searching for.

Wolves.

Five … no, six. Four males, two females. But big, too big for normal wolves, or even lycanthropes.

Dire wolves.

Hunting.

They hadn’t scented her small pack yet, but they would.

The only question was, would it be before or after they made their kill?

“Irulan? Are you well?”

Greddark’s voice snapped Irulan’s awareness back into her body, like a rope pulled too taut and abruptly released. She shook her head to clear it, and the slap of her braids against the side of her face sounded loud in her ears, a sharp and painful contrast to the sudden quiet. Only it wasn’t quiet, she knew-the same noises still hummed through the forest, but now that she’d severed the connection with her more animalistic senses, she was no more sensitive to them than a human. Or a dwarf, she mused, as she turned to see him dodging yet another wayward branch.

“I’m fine. Just trying to figure out the best path to our destination.”

Greddark cocked one bushy brow at her. “Our destination? You almost make it sound as if you know where we’re going.”

She smiled at him, baring her teeth. “No, but I know who might.”

At Irulan’s command, the dire wolf stayed downwind from them, and out of sight as much as possible, to avoid spooking the horses. The wolf led them along the creek, in some spots having to wade through the shallow water because the brush on either side was too high to traverse. As they moved deeper into the forest, the canopy thickened, screening out the sunlight and enfolding them in an unnatural twilight. The air became thick and humid, making Andri sweat beneath his armor, even though it was cooler here than it had been on the road.

“How do we know the wolf isn’t leading us into a trap?” Greddark asked.

Irulan, who was riding ahead of him and Andri, didn’t even bother to turn. “Because we’re part of the pack now. We’re family.”

The dwarf grunted. “That only increases the likelihood of treachery,” he muttered, but he didn’t press the issue. Though Andri did notice that the inquisitive started riding with his sword half out of its sheath after that.

They traveled that way for several hours, their journey silent save for twittering birdsong, the occasional splash of a frog in running water, or the rustle of a small animal darting through the undergrowth as it caught the wolf’s scent.

As the gloom deepened from a twilit green-gray to the bluer shades of dusk, the trio found another small clearing to make camp in. Greddark started a fire and Irulan scouted for food, taking the dire wolf with her. Andri tended to the horses, as he did most evenings. He removed their tack and rubbed them down, then let them graze a bit before brushing each of them until their coats shone. He didn’t want to risk washing them this late. It was still cool enough at night that leaving them unstabled and wet was just inviting illness. But they could certainly have used a good bath, and they weren’t the only ones. Catching a whiff of himself, he wondered if Irulan was taking so long to return with food because game was that scarce, or because she needed the fresh air.

The shifter still had not returned by the time he finished with the horses, so Andri joined Greddark by the fire.

“You’re good with horses. Why don’t you have one of your own? Don’t most paladins?”

Andri blinked at the question. “Most paladins aren’t guilty of parricide.”

Though his superiors in the Order and even the Keeper had told him that was not why he had yet to receive a holy mount, Andri knew in his heart they were wrong. Why would the Silver Flame grace him with such a gift, and what celestial steed would deign to serve a murderer?

The dwarf grunted. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, then went back to throwing tiny twigs on to the fire as he watched the woods with a suspicious eye. Greddark was clearly uncomfortable in the forest, a fact that perplexed Andri. He imagined the omnipresent press of greenery was not so different from the rocky caverns of the Mror Holds-or even from the marble walls of Flamekeep, for that matter. They all cut you off from the sky, bearing down on you with a weight so much greater than that of mere wood and stone, carrying the burden of age, tradition, expectation. It was a wonder neither one of them had run off to join the halflings and the Valenar elves on the open plains.

Andri’s stomach rumbled, and he was tempted to dig into their dwindling store of dried meat, but he knew they had to make it last. There was no telling when they would get to a city again to restock. A few days? A few weeks? The thought only made his stomach protest more loudly.

“That you or the wolf?” Greddark asked, his eyes darting nervously from tree to tree.

“Me,” Andri replied, but then he wondered. His stomach was no longer gurgling, but he could still hear a faint growl. Greddark heard it at the same time, and both men jumped up, swords in hand, expecting to see the dire wolf.

Something dove at them from the high branches of the canopy overhead, and Andri’s blade arced up to meet it, blazing a trail of argent fire in the settling darkness. As his sword clanged against their foe, Greddark cried out, “No! Wait!”

But it was too late. Andri’s magical blade met little resistance, cleaving the airborne assailant neatly in two. As both halves of what Andri now realized was some sort of mechanical construct fell to the ground with twin thumps, Greddark let out a low groan.

“Wonderful. You just broke my messenger bird. Do you have any idea how much that thing cost to make?”

Andri extinguished his blade and sheathed it as Greddark hurried over to the remains of his metal bird, fussing over it as if it had been a real pet. When Andri got closer, he saw it wasn’t the construct itself the dwarf was worrying about, but what it had been carrying-a piece of parchment that was miraculously still intact, and the shattered remnants of a glass vial that had contained what looked like silverburn.

“What is it?” Andri asked.

Greddark scanned the parchment before responding. “Remember that bit of paper found at one of the crime scenes, with what looked like a partial list of spell components? My wizard friend in Sigilstar thinks it’s a sort of nondetection spell, one customized specifically for lycanthropes.”

That would explain why even Flamekeep’s top wizards had been unable to locate the source of the fur Irulan had found.

“But this is odd,” the dwarf continued, rubbing some of the silver dust thoughtfully between his fingers.

“What is?”

“The smudge on the paper was from silverburn, as you suggested, but with a rather unique composition. It seems it’s not made of silver at all, but of plat-”

The inquisitive was interrupted by a noise from the underbrush. They turned to see a shifter step into the clearing. It was Irulan, returning from her hunt at last.

And though the dire wolf was not with her, she was not alone.

“Well met, Sir Paladin, Master Dwarf,” Ostra Farsight said, nodding to each of them in turn. As the shifter leader shoved Irulan to the ground before him, belying his polite greeting, Andri could just make out the chain that led from her bound wrists to the older shifter’s belt. Andri reached for his sword, but several other shifters moved out of the trees, long bows and crossbows trained on him and Greddark.

They were surrounded.

Ostra smiled unpleasantly, his teeth flashing white in the gloom.

“On behalf of Pater and the Silver Circle, I bid you welcome.”

It was full night by the time they made it out of the Twilight Forest and back into the Burnt Wood. After their shifter guide left them to return to the werewolves’ lair, Irulan took point, leading them eastward for about a mile before striking camp. After helping Andri secure Maellas to a tree, she climbed up a taller pine to look at the stars and get her bearings.

While she was gone, Greddark started a small fire. Andri took care of the horses before digging bandages out from one of his packs to bind the Bishop’s wounds.

“Why bother with bandages? Why not just heal him? For that matter, why doesn’t he heal himself?”

“I don’t believe he can,” the paladin answered as he measured lengths of clean white fabric and cut them with Maellas’s dagger. “I’ve not been able to heal any of the werewolves harmed by silver weapons-Quillion or Pater. It may not be possible. Perhaps the Flame will not aid those to whom the touch of its sacred metal is anathema.” He shrugged and began dressing Maellas’s shoulder, taking care not to wrap the wound too tightly.

Catching Greddark’s quizzical look, the paladin shrugged.

“We don’t want his blood attracting predators.”

There was a rustling sound from the pine Irulan had climbed, and the shifter appeared out of the foliage, sliding down the last few feet of naked trunk, shedding bark as she went. She landed lightly on her feet and shook the pine needles from her hair.

“So where are we?” Greddark asked. They had exited Lamannia at a different place than they’d gone in, and she’d been hoping to discover both their approximate location within the forest and-more importantly, as far as Greddark was concerned-how long it was going to take them to get out.

“I can’t be certain,” she replied, picking at a few stray needles from her braids, “but I think we’re only a day, two at most, from the edge of the wood, and closer to Angwar Keep than Olath. Ostra’s guide must have taken us to the southernmost boundary of the manifest zone. It probably cut a good three days off our journey. Maybe more.”

Thank the Host! He was getting tired of the trees, oppressive green, and interminable biting insects. The forest made him feel insignificant and, well … dwarfed, and he had to agree with Andri-the sooner they were out of it, the better.

“I also brought us some food, if anyone feels like eating,” she continued, pulling three large blue eggs out of her tunic. At the mention of food, both his stomach and Andri’s grumbled.

Irulan laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said and set about cooking the eggs, adding the last of their salted pork and the caps of some mushrooms she found growing in the shade of a large rock.

After they’d eaten, Irulan drew out a tiny bell and a bit of silver wire from her pouch. Whispering a few words, she set an alarm spell around their camp.

“We don’t need a repeat of the other night, especially now that we don’t have the dire wolf to guard us.”

“Not that he helped much,” Greddark muttered, earning himself an annoyed look from the shifter.

“You didn’t fare so well against the shifters yourself,” she reminded him, before climbing up from her spot by the fire and grabbing her bow.

“I’ll take the first watch, “Andri said, the first words he’d spoken since before dinner, other than a mumbled thanks when Irulan had handed him his plate of eggs. Irulan frowned at him as he stood.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You haven’t gotten much sleep in the past few days.”

None of them had, but Andri’s short naps had been particularly restless. From the words he murmured as he tossed and turned to the occasional moan or whimper, it was clear that the revelations of Shadukar still haunted his dreams, even if he didn’t speak of them during daylight hours.

“Paladins are trained to go days without sleep, if necessary,” he replied. “I’ll be fine.”

Irulan still looked skeptical, but she finally acceded.

“Just stay within the radius of the alarm spell. I don’t want to be woken up if I don’t have to be.” Her words were gruff, but her concern was obvious. Greddark wondered if the tormented young man even noticed.

“I will,” Andri answered, and by the gentleness of his tone, Greddark realized the paladin wasn’t quite as oblivious to the shifter’s feelings as he might appear. “Sleep well.”

After he had gone, Irulan walked over to where Maellas was, double-checking his bonds and his gag. When the Bishop made a noise, Irulan just grunted.

“Right. Like I’d be stupid enough to unmuzzle a rabid wolf. We’re only a few days from Aruldusk. You won’t starve. Think of it as penance-Flame knows, you’re in need of it.”

She turned her back on the priest, whose green eyes narrowed in anger as they followed her. But there was little else the elf could do besides glare-the silver manacles were enchanted to keep him from changing forms, and the chains were strong enough that he couldn’t break them, even with a werewolf’s might. He was at their mercy. Or rather, at Andri’s, since both Greddark and the shifter woman would just as soon kill him now and let the priests in Aruldusk pull their answers from his corpse.

Irulan remarked on the paladin’s forbearance as she laid her bedroll out by the fire.

“Why didn’t he just let the werewolves kill Maellas and be done with it? I’m sure he could have persuaded what’s-her-name-Daimana-to do it.” She said the female werewolf’s name with the same distaste she might reserve for a piece of meat that had gone bad. She didn’t wait for Greddark to answer. “Justice,” she snorted. “As if the Church could deliver that to one of its own. You don’t need a trial to ensure justice. All you need is a sword.”

“I’m not sure his motives are all that noble,” Greddark said, hiding his amusement at her venom. It was probably a good thing she spent most of her time in the woods. Her way of speaking exactly what was on her mind wouldn’t endear her to those who were used to at least a pretense of civility.

One of Irulan’s eyebrows rose. “Why, then? It would be so much easier to just get rid of him here, where there are no witnesses.” She stopped short. “Oh.”

Greddark nodded. Not having witnesses was exactly what Andri was trying to avoid.

“No one in Aruldusk is going to believe Maellas is infected if they don’t see it for themselves. It would be the situation with his mother all over again,” she said, shaking her head. “Poor Andri.”

“We are all forged in the fires of our past,” Greddark said, by way of agreement. It was an old dwarf saying; a favorite of his father’s, judging by how many times the old dwarf had said it the day he exiled Greddark.

Irulan look surprised, then thoughtful.

“Yes, I suppose we are.”

Andri prayed, ate some bread and cheese from d’Medani’s saddle bag, and prayed some more. Dawn was beginning to filter through the high canopy, and still Irulan fussed with her pot, while Greddark lay as one dead, barely moving or breathing, his once-scorching skin now clammy and pale. After feeding the horses, checking Maellas’s bonds again and wandering aimlessly through their small camp, Andri finally remembered what Irulan had said about the rest of the bounty hunter’s bags.

He crossed over to the black stallion, who whickered uneasily but allowed the paladin to pet his nose. When he was sure he wouldn’t spook the horse and that it wouldn’t bite him, Andri opened the nearest of the three bags and began looking through it.

Clothing, some of it quite fine, and some cheap but still fashionable jewelry. This trip hadn’t been strictly business for her, then. Her identification papers were in the second bag, along with the writ for Greddark’s arrest, including a rather good likeness of the dwarf, though Andri thought he looked a fair bit more sinister in real life. The writ had been signed by King Kaius himself, though the surety for the bond was being put up by someone with the unlikely name of Rango ir’Rangoth and not House Medani. He supposed that made sense. Regardless of Greddark’s crimes, House Medani was unlikely to publicly put a price on the dwarf’s head, for fear of angering House Kundarak. He doubted ir’Rangoth actually existed anywhere but on paper.

There was another piece of paper in the bag, though Andri didn’t notice it at first, as it had been crumpled into a ball. Smoothing it out, he saw that it was a personal letter, addressed to a Julanna d’Medani-the bounty hunter? It was signed only with an “H”-Helanth d’Medani? As he skimmed the body of the letter, he began to understand why the half-elf had been so insistent on bringing Greddark in, even after Andri had paid the bounty.

… avenge the horrible death of my daughter, your cousin, Yaradala-a death for which you are at least partly responsible, since it was your lapse in surveillance that allowed her to contact the dwarf in the first place. Accordingly, his fate will be yours. You are no longer welcome in the Tower of the Twelve, and if you fail in this mission, you will be stripped of your name and expelled from House Medani forever.

Do not fail.

— H

He almost felt sorry for the bounty hunter, but as he looked over to where Irulan was finally feeding spoonfuls of her dweomer root broth to Greddark, pouring small amounts in through his swollen lips and stroking his throat to get him to swallow, any stirrings of sympathy died stillborn in his heart. Excoriate was better than dead.

Andri returned the letter and moved on to the third bag. It held manacles, chains, rope, a vial of a gray, oily liquid that he assumed was the dwarfbane, several unpleasant looking knives, and a scroll case. Andri opened one end of the case and eased the scroll out. He unrolled the parchment only far enough to see the first line.

Think of the place you wish to go. Speak these words, and it shall be so.

A scroll of teleportation? That could come in handy. “Andri!”

He turned, shoving the scroll back in the case and dropping it back in the saddle bag.

“Hurry! I think it’s working.”