Andri followed Irulan into the graveyard, his eyes struggling to adjust as the sun set and night fell across the cairns. Wind whispered through the grasses, night birds called in the distance, and he could even hear an occasional whicker as their horse voiced his displeasure at being left behind. But among the tombs themselves, there was little noise. Andri’s breathing sounded loud in his ears and his footfalls seemed to echo. Irulan, on the other hand, was as stealthy as her wolf forebears, a silent shadow moving against growing darkness.

Andri moved in the direction he thought she had taken, his eyes searching the area where he’d last seen her. As he passed between a waist-high pile of stones and a weathered marble statue, his foot caught on something soft and he stumbled.

Irulan came loping toward him through the cairns.

“Run!”

Too late. Behind her, a desiccated corpse leaped from atop a crumbling statue. He caught a glimpse of the thing’s eyes, glowing red with malevolence, as it flew through the air and landed squarely in the middle of Irulan’s back, sending both of them tumbling through the dirt.

Wight.

Even as he called on the Silver Flame, the back of his neck tingled. He twisted out of the way just before two leathery arms slammed down in the space where he had been. Andri spun to face his own attacker.

Correction. Two wights.

the inquisitives

Bound by Iron

BY EDWARD BOLME

Night of the Long Shadows

BY PAUL CRILLEY

Legacy of Wolves

BY MARSHEILA ROCKWELL

The Darkwood Mask

BY JEFF LASALA

LEGACY OF WOLVES
The Inquisitives • Book 3
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

EBERRON, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Michael Komarck

eISBN: 978-0-7869-6323-2
640-A1480000-001-EN

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v3.1

Dedication

For my husband, Lt. F.O. Meñez, CEC, USN, currently deployed in support of Operation, Iraqi Freedom: you are, and always have been, my hero, and I am so very proud of you. Seabees CAN DO!

Acknowledgements

They say it takes a village to raise a child. It most certainly takes one to publish a book, and I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to many people for helping bring this one to fruition. First and foremost, to my husband and my sons, for their patience and support. To my editor, Mark Sehestedt, for taking a chance. To my fellow WotC authors, Keith Baker, Matt Forbeck, Don Bassingthwaite, and especially Elaine Cunningham, for helping out a newbie. To my fellow Inquisitives authors, Ed Bolme, Paul Crilley and Jeff LaSala, for making it fun. To the Musers and the MOPers, especially Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Samantha Henderson, Jaime Lee Moyer, Mikal Trimm, Stuart Etter, Ed Gentry and Harley Stroh—you guys rock. And to Catherine, who knows why.

Prologue

Zol, Therendor 3, 998 YK

They stumbled out of the tavern, laughing and waving. The E’erful Well had lived up to its name tonight, with Demodir buying rounds of Nightwood Ale for a full house. Zoden still wasn’t sure exactly what it was they’d been celebrating, but he was never one to say no to a drink, especially when someone else was paying for it.

He and Zodal made their way through Aruldusk’s deserted Market District, hurrying from one pool of everbright lantern light to the next. The city’s decline was even more evident here than in other Districts. Shop windows were boarded over—more this month than last—the streets were pitted with missing or broken cobblestones, and a dank, sour smell permeated the air, hinting at rubbish and fouler things hiding in the shadows. Zoden rather liked this part of the city. It gave Aruldusk character, like a grizzled old soldier’s battle scars. Zodal just thought it stank. His brother wouldn’t even have come along this evening, but he was convinced Zoden couldn’t make it home on his own.

A concern that might not be so misplaced, Zoden thought as he caught his toe on a loose cobblestone and stumbled into his twin. Zodal shoved him away with a curse and glanced over his shoulder, his face drawn and worried.

“What’s wrong, little brother? Forget your money pouch?”

Zodal spared him an angry look.

“I told you we should have left sooner. Or, better yet, not gone out at all.”

Zoden laughed. His brother, ever the worrier.

“Relax. There are two of us, and we’ve got weapons. Even if Bishop Maellas is right, and the murders are the work of shifters, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack two armed men.”

“Two armed and drunk men,” Zodal muttered.

“Oh, that reminds me, I’ve been working on a new ditty. I’m thinking of calling it The Elf Bishop’s Downfall. Here, listen.

“When the silver you love so rejects you
And your miter no longer protects you
Then the wyvern will—

“Wait, where are we going?”

Zodal had grabbed his arm roughly and was steering him down a side street. He was fairly certain this wasn’t the way back to the Garden District, but he was having trouble focusing. That Nightwood was strong stuff.

“The lanterns up ahead were broken, and I don’t want to walk through the dark.”

Zodal was right, and even though two of Eberron’s twelve moons—Dravago and Lharvion—were full tonight, the Hunter’s Moon had not yet risen, and Lharvion’s slitted eye cast only a dim light. It did nothing to brighten the shadows. If anything, the pale light only seemed to make them darker by contrast. More menacing.

Zoden laughed at his own foolishness, but it sounded strained and nervous, even to his ears.

“Damn! Not another one!”

Zodal took them down another side street to avoid more broken lanterns, and after a quick jog through a narrow alleyway, they found themselves in a grassy courtyard. A statue of the paladin Tira Miron stood sentinel in the center, her sword raised up in a gesture of defiance.

“Where are we?” Zoden asked, beginning to sober up as he realized that there were no exits.

“I think we’re behind the Cathedral. Where they house visiting Church dignitaries.” Zodal drew his sword. “And I think we were herded here.”

Zoden looked at the dark windows and closed off balconies that ringed the small courtyard. No prelates visited at this time of year. The apartments would all be conveniently empty. He fumbled his own weapon from its sheath, though the dagger looked pitifully small in the moonlight.

“Ambush?”

“Trap.”

“So where are they?”

They turned as one back toward the entrance.

As if in answer, something stepped out of the shadows.

At first, Zoden though it was just a dog, but it was too large. A wolf, or a big cat? In the city? Zoden squinted, trying to make his drink-addled eyes focus, but the harder he tried, the fuzzier his vision became. Matters weren’t helped when a bank of clouds scuttled across Lharvion’s eye, casting the courtyard into gloom. The creature that approached was nothing but a grayish blur on four legs, advancing toward them.

“Is that a wolf?” Zoden asked, brandishing his dagger.

Zodal didn’t answer, instead taking up position beside him at the feet of Tira Miron. They stood, weapons forward and feet planted, and at any other time, the irony of two Throneholders making their stand in the shadow of the Flame’s greatest champion would have amused the cynical bard, but not tonight. Tonight Zoden was just scared.

With a speed that surprised both of the ir’Marktaros brothers, the animal leaped at them, coming down on two feet in front of Zodal and raking its front claws across his midsection, shredding clothing and leaving deep gouges in the hardened leather he wore beneath. Before Zoden could react, the creature—was it standing?—caught him on the backswing, its paw—fist?—connecting powerfully with his temple. The force of the blow sent Zoden flying across the courtyard to land in a stunned heap, his dagger sliding across the slick grass and into the shadows.

He tried to blink the stars out of his eyes, struggling up onto his hands and knees. From the statue, he heard a thump and a crack, then the sound of metal bouncing off stone. Shaking his long blond hair out of his face, Zoden looked up to see his brother pinned against Tira Miron’s jutting knee, his sword lying useless at his feet.

Zoden watched in horror as the thing swatted his brother’s head aside and opened its jaws wide. For a brief moment, Zodal’s blue eyes locked with his own, and he mouthed the word, “Run.”

Then his twin was screaming as the thing tore at his throat, his blood spraying out to coat marble, grass, and flesh.

Zoden felt a sudden wetness in his trousers, and then he lurched to his feet, choking on bile and tears. He looked about wildly for his dagger, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Lharvion escaped from the clouds’ embrace, and Zodal’s sword glinted mockingly in the moonlight. Zoden considered running to grab the blade and stabbing the creature in the back as it savaged his brother. Then Zodal’s scream of terror trailed off into in a wet gurgle, and his courage fled.

Praying his mother would forgive him, Zoden turned and ran.

And behind him, over the pounding of his heart and his terrified sobs, he thought he heard laughter.

Chapter
ONE

Sar, Therendor 14, 998 YK

The lightning rail pulled into the station with an unexpected lurch, nearly sending Irulan into the arms of the white-robed priest who sat across from her. The man, whose brightly polished holy symbol marked him as a servant of the Silver Flame, waved her apology away, distaste flashing across his features before he could hide it. She wasn’t surprised. They had shared this cart from Aruldusk, and shifters weren’t very popular there right now. Then again, it could simply be the aroma of her stained leathers causing his nose to wrinkle like unpressed linen. Flame knew the last time they’d had a proper washing. Laundering her traveling clothes was the least of her concerns these days.

Whatever the reason, the priest had tried to find another seat when she boarded, but the cart was full, and he seemed unwilling to pay the cost to upgrade to a less crowded cart—apparently his attachment to his coin was marginally stronger than his aversion to her and her kind.

The thought brought a snarl to her face and the priest blanched, perspiration beading on his wide forehead. He grabbed his satchel and hurried from the cart, the fear rolling off him with a stench so strong she didn’t need a shifter’s nose to smell it.

Irulan waited until the cart emptied before slinging her bow over her shoulder and gathering up her own bag, not wanting to deal with any other disembarking Arulduskans. She knew she had a fight ahead of her, and she couldn’t afford to use up her limited reserves of patience now.

She’d only been to Flamekeep once before, and then she’d been approaching from the north, through farmland ravaged by the War. After passing the Face of Tira, a huge likeness of the paladin carved into a rocky crag eighty miles to the west, Irulan had been expecting Flamekeep to be even more magnificent and awe-inspiring. But when she’d entered the city through the smaller northern gate, accompanied by farmers, refugees, and road-weary pilgrims, she’d been disappointed to see nothing but the back side of the high gray wall that surrounded the Grand Cathedral.

It hadn’t helped that she’d made the long trek over from the Reaches on foot with Javi in tow, the youngling whining with every step. The thought of her brother brought a burning lump to her throat, and she swallowed it with difficulty, along with the accompanying anger. She couldn’t afford that right now, either.

Her scabbard slapped against her thigh as she stepped out onto the boarding platform. A stiff wind blew in from the Sound, laced with the faint scent of salt and the harsh cries of sea birds. She hurried over to the main concourse, her many looping braids whipping around her face like tiny scourges. Shoving her way past the crowd of people that clustered in front of the vendor stalls, she entered the main building through a set of wide double doors.

Inside the concourse, passengers milled about, some buying tickets to Sigilstar and points south, others reading notices posted on the various message kiosks. Still others rested comfortably on the myriad benches while they waited for the rail to depart. The great House Orien unicorn stretched out across the floor in a bright mosaic that contrasted brilliantly with the dusky rose marble. As she admired the artistry of it, a House Orien courier, her dragonmark glowing blue against the golden skin of her cheek, appeared at the base of the unicorn’s horn and hurried off to a side door.

A schedule and map of lightning rail routes adorned one wall, while a map of Flamekeep filled another. Irulan walked over to examine the second, and far larger, map. She easily identified the Cathedral of the Silver Flame, towering as it did over the entire city, as well as its much smaller offshoot, Thalingard. A few other buildings were identified on the map, such as the Great Library and the city’s sole Temple to the Sovereign Host, tucked away in the eastern harbor district. The city’s largest thoroughfare, the High Road, encircled the cliffs that housed the Cathedral like a silver necklace. A necklace—or a noose. Pushing that thought away, along with its attendant images of Javi, Irulan headed through the front doors of the concourse, back out into the wind.

Though the temperatures were rising with the advent of spring, the icy waters of the Sound were always the last to feel the sun’s warming touch, and the wind seemed even colder on this side of the station. Irulan pulled her collar up in a futile attempt to protect the back of her neck from its chill caress. She surveyed her options from the relative protection of the concourse building. Past the bridge and over the soaring walls of Flamekeep, she could just make out the great silver fire that burned above the Cathedral, though from this distance, it looked more like a candle flame than the huge conflagration she knew it to be. Nearer to the concourse, she saw single- and double-seated carriages lined up to ferry disembarking passengers into the city, along with a few skycabs. Having coin for neither, she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder for the long walk across the bridge.

She had just reached the bottom stair when she felt her bag shift. It could have been the wind, but she knew it wasn’t.

Turning, she snagged a handful of reddish hair just as the would-be pickpocket darted around her, making for a nearby alleyway. She hauled the diminutive thief back, his feet scrabbling ineffectually against the dirt, and called for the House Orien guards she knew would be stationed somewhere close.

As one approached, she grabbed the youngster’s wrist with her other hand and twisted sharply, forcing him to drop the small knife he’d used to slice open her bag. Just a child, his face and clothing smudged with dirt. Not even in his tenth year by the look of him, and already resorting to robbing weary travelers for the price of his next meal. She felt a tiny twinge of sympathy: a few unkind twists of fate and her feet—or Javi’s—could easily have trodden the same path. When she saw what the boy had taken, though, any feeling of empathy evaporated like sweat on a reachrunner.

Flame!

Her identification papers.

“What seems to be the problem?” the guard asked, his bored tone belying the hand that rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.

“A thief, and a poor one at that,” Irulan answered, shoving the boy roughly at the guard. She quickly rifled through her bag to see if the brat had stolen anything else. With a sigh of relief, she saw that everything else was undisturbed, save by her own frantic rummaging. The packet was still there.

“Sorry ’bout that. Vedic here has a little problem with the concept of property rights. He thinks other people’s property rightfully belongs to him.” The guard grinned at his own joke, but Irulan did not laugh.

“If he makes a habit of robbing House Orien passengers, why is he still running around free?”

The guard’s smile faded, and he tightened his grip on Vedic. The boy let out a yelp as the collar of his shirt constricted, squeezing a neck that did not, on second glance, look to be in any great need of a next meal.

“Well, now … that’s the problem.” He nodded to another guard who had come down the stairs behind her. It was then that she realized the guard who held Vedic was wore the livery of Thrane, while the other wore House colors.

“See, Vedic may have robbed you, but it was on House Orien property.” He pointed with his free hand at the boy’s feet, which were now firmly planted on Thrane soil, while her own boots still rested on the bottom step of the concourse, which belonged to House Orien. “And he’s in Thrane now, where, to our knowledge, he’s committed no crime.”

She turned to the House Orien guard. “You know he’s guilty. Arrest him!”

The guard shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t have jurisdiction off the concourse. If you’d care to file a claim, we can send it over to the Thrane guard and they’ll process it. If they determine it’s valid—”

“If?”

“—then they may release him back to our custody. Probably take a month, two months, for the whole process.”

“Probably not worth your time,” the Thrane interjected, and Irulan wondered what sort of deal Vedic had with the guards, and how much of a percentage they made off the sale of his stolen goods.

“Evidently not,” Irulan said, making no attempt to conceal her disgust. “I suppose I should thank the Flame that he didn’t cut me with that knife of his—I’d have bled to death before you two could work out whether I should be tended by a House Orien healer, or one from Thrane—let alone which one of you would have to punish him!”

Not expecting a reply, Irulan turned her attention to her bag, pulling the drawstrings tight and tying them in a ranger’s knot. Then she upended the bag to see if it would hold. When nothing fell out, she turned toward Flamekeep once more.

“Excuse me.”

Irulan looked up at the House Orien guard, whose face was no longer friendly.

“Yes?”

“Your papers, please.”

“Surely you can’t be serious. I was just robbed, and you’re asking me for my papers?”

The guard held his hand out.

Barely suppressing a growl, Irulan handed the leather folder over.

He took several moments perusing the papers, partly because the wind kept threatening to tear them out of his hand, but he eventually determined that everything was in order. He reluctantly handed them back to her.

“Thanks for traveling with House Orien. Maybe next time you might want to use House Lyrandar.” With that, the guard executed a smart turn and marched back up the stairs.

Biting back a scathing reply, Irulan turned and stepped down into the dirt. The Thrane guard was still waiting, though Vedic had vanished.

She knew what was coming.

“Papers, please.”

Snarling, she handed them over, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man’s eyes widen as he glanced at the papers, then at her left hand. She wiggled her fingers so the silver tip of her middle claw twinkled.

The guard hastily returned the folder, his manner becoming much more solicitous.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize who you were.”

Would it have made a difference? Irulan wanted to ask, but she held her peace.

“We don’t often see descendants of Bennin Silverclaw here in Flamekeep. It’s quite an honor. Quite an honor.”

Irulan managed a tight smile. “Thank you,” she replied with as much grace as she could muster, but all she really wanted to do was slap the obsequious look off the man’s face. On second thought, she might as well take advantage of his helpfulness while it lasted.

“Perhaps you can help me. I’m here to speak to the Diet of Cardinals about a matter of some import concerning the shifters of Aruldusk.…”

“You mean the murders?” The man nodded sagely, and Irulan stifled a curse. She should have known news of the killings would have preceded her, despite Bishop Maellas’s best attempts to keep details of the murders quiet—which of course meant that what the guard knew was likely a concoction of vague rumors and bardic embellishments. Fortunately, those rumors did not yet include Javi’s involvement, or the guard would likely have had a much different reaction to her name.

“You’ll probably want to see Cardinal Riathan about that—no way you’re getting in to see the full Council, let alone the Diet, ’less you want to wait a month or more for an appointment—and that’s assuming they’ll even grant you one. ’Course, you may have to wait that long to see Riathan, too, though bein’ a Silverclaw, I’m guessing they’ll get you in right quick.”

Irulan had her doubts about that, but she kept them to herself. She asked about an inn close to the Cathedral, since she was apparently going to be here a while.

“You’ll want the Sellsword. Left on High Road. Big building, three stories, with a blank shield hanging out front. It’s a reputable place, despite the name. Owner’s a retired mercenary.”

“Thank you,” Irulan said, dismissing the guard with a nod as she made to step around him—she wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a hotter bath, and the sooner she got out of this wind, the better. When the guard seemed disinclined to move, she suppressed a sigh and stuck out her hand, which the guard shook eagerly before stepping aside.

“Enjoy your stay in Flamekeep.”

Irulan grunted. Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.

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.

Two days later, after a second morning spent sitting idly outside Cardinal Riathan’s office waiting to be “squeezed in” between appointments, Irulan decided that, no, she was not actually enjoying herself very much at all. But it was either that, or, as the rail guard had predicted, wait another three weeks to get on the Cardinal’s calendar. And who knew how many other shifters might have joined Javi in shackles by then? If Javi was even still in shackles, and not hanging from a set of hastily-constructed gallows.…

No. That wasn’t going to happen. She’d get help from Flamekeep, or she wouldn’t, but either way, she wasn’t going to let her brother die for a crime he didn’t commit.

With some effort, she turned her attention back to her surroundings. Set high up in one of the many towers flanking the Cathedral’s narthex, Cardinal Riathan’s office suite was richly decorated with fine furniture, exotic plants, religious statuary, and sumptuous paintings, including a rather large portrait hung over the fireplace that dominated the small reception area. Irulan examined the Cardinal’s smiling face for what must have been the hundredth time. Wisps of white hair escaped from beneath his silver cap, while blue eyes sparkled with a merriment that she doubted was the product of artistic license. Worry lines furrowed the prelate’s wide brow, but the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth were much deeper, and it seemed clear Riathan was a jovial man, an assessment that the laughter occasionally ringing out from behind the wide door leading to his office only confirmed.

A bespectacled gnome shuffled papers at a livewood desk that guarded the door to the Cardinal’s inner sanctum. Branches sprouting from the living green wood of the desk had been coaxed into loose baskets that overflowed with even more papers. A small everbright lantern perched atop one of the desk’s thicker limbs that was growing upwards toward the room’s single high window. Judging from the orange light that leaked in through the glass, early afternoon was giving way to late, with no end to her waiting in sight. Irulan had just resigned herself to another day of camping out on the Cardinal’s plush carpet when his office door banged open and an angry-looking priest stormed out, giving her a disdainful glance as he passed. The gnome glanced up at her from behind violet-tinted lenses.

“The Cardinal will see you now.”

Surprised, Irulan hastily stood, patting the small packet in her pouch, as if trying to reassure herself it was still there. She pushed stray braids behind her ears and vainly tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her pants. There was nothing to be done about the dirt on her sandals. Feeling naked without her weapons—one did not enter a Cathedral armed—she took a deep breath to steady herself and then hurried through the open door before the Cardinal changed his mind about seeing her.

Riathan’s office was a study in organized clutter. Shelves filled with books and scrolls lined two walls, and two of the three chairs facing his oversized desk were piled high with folders. The Cardinal himself sat in an equally oversized chair behind the desk, its dark leather in sharp contrast with his white robes. While the outer office was designed to impress, this room was sparse by comparison, its only ornamentations a single tapestry and a small silver statuette of Tira Miron that was currently being used as a paperweight.

As Irulan entered, Cardinal Riathan waved toward the open chair, not looking up from the scroll he was writing on. She sat on the edge of the seat, feeling like a youngling about to be schooled by the clan elders.

The Cardinal scribbled furiously without speaking for several long moments, and Irulan took the opportunity to examine his office more closely. His desk was set against the northern wall, beneath the room’s lone tapestry, which acted in lieu of a window. The hanging depicted the view from one of the east-facing towers, with the narrow gray spires of Thalingard overshadowing the city of Flamekeep as it spilled down the cliffs toward the docks. An interesting choice, given that most members of the Church’s hierarchy would like to see the ancient seat of Thrane’s former monarchs razed to the ground.

A small door in the eastern wall probably led to a bedchamber and privy. Everbright lanterns floated about the room, more than making up for the absence of natural lighting. Books lined his many shelves, and Irulan found she recognized some of the titles. Her father had owned many of these same tomes, and had required her to read more than a few of them. Thinking of her scholarly father brought a small smile to her lips, but she bit it back and turned her attention to studying the Cardinal.

Riathan was a not a small man, though he was dwarfed by his over-large furniture. No doubt a tactic meant to ensure visitors would underestimate the smiling prelate, but Irulan had no intention of doing so. While the Cardinal was known for his sympathy toward shifters, Irulan knew she couldn’t count on that to guarantee Javi’s release. She would have to convince him of her brother’s innocence, and treating him like the friendly old priest he pretended to be was not the way to do it.

The Cardinal finished writing and set his quill aside. He sat back in his chair and gazed at Irulan with eyes that held no hint of merriment. Under his assessing gaze, she unconsciously straightened her back and raised her chin.

“Irulan Silverclaw, daughter of the learned druid Drego, son of Melak ‘the Broken,’ son of Rave of the Silver Quill, son of Bennin, possibly the greatest shifter hero in the history of Khorvaire. To what do I owe this honor?”

Irulan’s nose twitched. He knew exactly why she was here.

He was baiting her.

What choice did she have? She bit.

“Your Eminence,” Irulan replied, inclining her head slightly. “I’m honored that you know of my humble origins. It is on behalf of my family that I have come.”

A tic was forming at the corner of Riathan’s mouth.

“Continue.”

“Your Eminence, no doubt you are aware of the terrible events that have occurred in Aruldusk over the past months?” At his nod, she continued. “His Excellency, the Most Reverend Bishop Maellas, in his great wisdom, believes that the murderers are shifters.”

She paused then, not for effect, but because the words had congealed on her tongue, like old grease. Or blood.

“One of those shifters is my brother, Javi.”

“Ah,” the Cardinal said, unsurprised. “And, you, naturally, believe your brother is innocent?”

“Of course he’s innocent,” she responded, then caught herself. Giving into her anger would not do her—or Javi—any good. “My brother is incapable of that kind of violence, Your Eminence, let alone the viciousness required for such a heinous act.”

“Ah,” Riathan said again noncommittally. He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you have any proof of your brother’s innocence? An alibi, perhaps?”

Irulan clicked her claws together impatiently. “It was the last day of Brightfest, Your Eminence.”

The Cardinal paused, blue eyes narrowing. Brightfest was one of the most beloved of shifter holidays, and he knew as well as she did that every shifter in Aruldusk would have been outside the city walls, celebrating long into the night. Except Javi, who had apparently started early.

“Yes. Well, as I understand it, your brother was discovered passed out behind a tavern only a few streets away from where the mutilated body of Zodal ir’Marktaros was later found. With blood on his face, and his clothes—”

“He’d been drinking and gotten in a brawl. There’s nothing illegal about that.”

“—and he himself could not remember his whereabouts at the time of the murder.”

“Because he was drunk. Your Eminence, please. He’s being framed!”

Riathan did look surprised at that. He sat back, blinking.

“By the Bishop?” he asked. “For what possible reason?”

Irulan bit back her first response, then said carefully, “Not everyone in the Church looks as kindly on shifters as you do, Your Eminence.”

She’d overplayed her hand. Riathan’s eyes grew icy.

“How dare you? The only reason I even agreed to see you was in deference to your heritage, but your implications are outrageous, and very nearly bordering on heresy. Bishop Maellas has served the Church faithfully for almost two hundred years. He renounced the false teachings of the Undying Court—one of the few elves of Aerenal ever brave enough to do so—and turned his heart to the Flame while Bennin was still a pup. His holiness and wisdom have earned him a place on our highest council many times over, but he refuses the honor out of a deep sense of his own humility. If Maellas believes shifters are to blame for the murders in Aruldusk, the Council of Cardinals will not gainsay him. I’m afraid your trip has been a waste of time.”

He stood, forcing Irulan to stand as well, then held out his ring for her to kiss. The meeting was over.

It was only once she was outside in the corridor, with the gnome locking the door to the suite behind her, that she realized she hadn’t shown him the contents of the packet.

When she’d been brought to Riathan’s office, a young boy in livery had led her through the twisting corridors and up several flights of stairs, but he was long gone. Irulan thought she remembered the path they’d taken well enough, but after three sets of stairs, and twice that many hallways, she appeared to be nowhere near the Cathedral narthex. Apparently few of the Cardinals worked past the third bell, for the halls were remarkably quiet, without even the expected scurry of overworked servants’ feet against the silver-veined black marble. Perhaps there was some religious ceremony occurring elsewhere in the city that had called most of the Cathedral’s inhabitant’s away. Or perhaps they were all off somewhere, observing their evening prayers.

Or perhaps, she mused, she was hopelessly lost in part of the Cathedral where she wasn’t really supposed to be.

And then she rounded a corner and came face to face with a six-legged beast the size of a small pony, and all such thoughts fled.

The creature reared up on its massive hind legs, balancing on a thick tail as it prepared to gore her with its four cruelly curving horns. Knowing she had no time to calm the creature, and that trying to outrun it would be futile, Irulan dropped into a defensive crouch and shifted, feeling the blood of her ancient wolf forebears course through her veins. Her claws thickened, lengthened, becoming like twenty razor-sharp knives that responded to her every thought. Her awareness expanded and her nostrils filled with the musky scent of her prey. She smiled and beckoned to the creature, glad to finally have a release for her building rage.

“Come on, then, you crooked ratspawn. Let’s play.”

Chapter
TWO

Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK

Be brief, as the Queen has just returned from Silvercliff Castle and her schedule is very …”

Zoden ir’Marktaros nodded at the aide’s incessant chatter as they hurried d own a long carpeted hallway, smiling and raising his eyebrows at intervals to give the appearance of attention while he rubbed at the stubble on his chin and wished again that he’d remembered to shave. He’d actually stopped listening to her some time ago when she began instructing him on the precise angle his body should make when he bowed in order not to offend her Majesty’s delicate sensibilities, exactly how far from the ground the feather on his hat should be when he doffed it, and how many seconds he should hold the pose after she invited him to rise, all based on his assessment of her mood from the fleeting glimpse he would have of her before he performed the complicated obeisance.

Moons above! She was just a woman, after all, and Zoden was quite well-versed in the arts of massaging feminine egos—and other things, as well. He certainly didn’t need some babbling halfling girl—cute as she was—tutoring him on the subject.

They reached a set of double doors flanked by guards in the old livery of Thrane, a black wyvern on a purple background, which had now become Queen Diani’s personal crest. The halfling, Chodea, stopped and turned to him. She eyed him critically for a moment, then beckoned for him to bend down. When he did, she reached out to straighten the collar of his scarlet cloak, brushed loose strands of blonde hair off his shoulder and fluffed the peacock feather sprouting from his hatband, which had, he must admit, seen better days. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, so he could smell the thrakel spices on her breath. Her chatty voice and breezy smile had been replaced by ice.

“If you’ve listened to nothing else I’ve said, you pompous ass, then listen to this. You are about to enter the presence of royalty, the rightful ruler of this country and the woman on whose blood your family has traded for every comfort they have. You will show her the respect she is due, or you will find that the noble house of ir’Marktaros has even farther to fall.”

Without waiting for a reply, she released him, then turned and rapped hard on the door three times. It opened silently and she stood aside, allowing the chastened noble entrance to his cousin’s private audience chamber.

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.”

Diani listened as Zoden recounted the tale of his twin brother’s death, murmuring and shaking her head sympathetically. He’d told the story so many times now that it was very like a part in a play, one he performed reluctantly but well. Indeed, it was easier to think of that night as something out of a playwright’s fancy than the all-too-real horror that it had been. That it was still.

“And you say they caught a shifter not far from where Zodal was slain? But you do not believe he is the culprit?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I mean, no. They did catch a shifter, and they charged him with Zodal’s murder, based on some largely circumstantial evidence, but I don’t believe for a moment that it was him.”

“What do you mean, circumstantial?” At some point during Zoden’s recitation, she’d called for wine, and she toyed with her glass as she waited for him to answer. Zoden’s own glass sat untouched beside him.

“He was close by and covered in blood. He claimed to have been in a fight at a local tavern, and several witnesses corroborated his story. At first. But after the Bishop’s people interviewed them, they decided that it might have been a different shifter at the tavern, or that they’d really had too much to drink and couldn’t remember much about that night after all.” He snorted in disgust. “I had plenty to drink that night, but that doesn’t stop me from remembering.”

Diani let that pass without comment.

“And it’s not the first time. There have been at least a dozen other murders in Aruldusk over the past year that have been blamed on the shifters. Only a few have been arrested so far—the ones, like this shifter, who were unlucky enough to be within a mile radius of one of the victims. And just like in Zodal’s case, any witnesses who claim otherwise soon change their story or just disappear. It’s as if someone has some sort of vendetta against shifters, especially those living outside the city.” He finally remembered his wine and took a long, appreciative drink. It was a fine vintage, tart and dry, probably the most expensive he would ever taste. Definitely meant for sipping, not gulping, but his thirst got the better of him. Diani said nothing, merely motioning for Otherro to refill his glass.

“To be honest, Your Majesty, I don’t particularly care for shifters myself. They’re crude, uncultured, and generally have the table manners of a rutting pig. But even I can see that this is the beginning of some sort of campaign to get rid of them—imprison them all, or, more likely, drive them all away from Aruldusk out of fear for their own safety. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

“Except, of course, their actually being guilty,” Otherro remarked as he topped off Zoden’s glass.

Zoden glanced up at the paladin, looking pointedly at the Flame emblem on his armor before answering.

“If the guilty parties are truly in custody,” he asked, “then why do people keep dying?”

Zoden’s impassioned words rang through the chamber, and even he was surprised by his vehemence. His hand shook as he raised his glass for another drink, and he took a slow sip as he tried to gain his composure. When both the trembling and his temper were back under his control, he continued.

“Somebody—or something—is murdering people in Aruldusk, ripping out their throats and leaving them dead in dark alleys. That much is true. But whoever, or whatever, it is, it’s not that shifter they arrested for Zodal’s murder. I saw him. He doesn’t look anything like the animal that attacked my brother.”

“Animal?” It was the dwarf, the first time he’d spoken since attempting to decapitate Zoden.

“I don’t mean that in the literal sense. When the killer first came into the courtyard, he—it—was on all fours. I know shifters sometimes run that way, but this thing wasn’t running. And then later it seemed to stand, though it could have reared up on its hind legs, as big cats sometimes do. I’m a little fuzzy on that. But, even so, I don’t believe it was really an animal.”

“Why not?” Diani asked.

“Animals don’t laugh while they’re eating you.”

The Queen frowned. “If it wasn’t a shifter, and it wasn’t an animal, then what could it have been, cousin?”

Zoden shrugged. “Some wizard’s magebred pet? An illusion cast to cover the tracks of a human killer? I just don’t know. That’s why I need your help.”

After Zoden finished speaking, Diani sat back in her throne. She said nothing for a long while, merely watched him, a thoughtful look on her face. Zoden was beginning to wonder if she was expecting him to say something else—perhaps there was some courtly phrase he was supposed to utter, something the halfling had mentioned that he hadn’t bothered to listen to, let alone remember? He began to sweat as he searched vainly for some recollection of the proper courtesy required for this situation. Not for the first time, he damned his family’s fall from grace and his own subsequent absence from the social circles that would have kept him informed of Diani’s latest preference in sycophantic contortions.

But when she did finally speak, he almost wished she’d kept torturing him with her silence.

“Thank you for informing me of the situation, cousin.”

That was it?

“I’m very sorry for your family’s loss. Please convey my condolences to your mother, Lady Ghelena. I trust she is well?”

Zoden nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Otherro will escort you back to your rooms. You are welcome to stay here at the castle, of course, but I would certainly understand if you felt the need to return home. Lady Ghelena should not be left alone in her grief.”

His mother wasn’t alone, and Diani knew it, but after his father’s gambling debts had nearly driven their family to the brink of poverty, the name Urdan ir’Marktaros was not mentioned in polite society. And Diani was nothing if not polite, even when she was dashing your hopes against the walls of a spike trap.

Was it because of his father? Is that why she wouldn’t help him find Zodal’s murderer and bring him to justice? Surely not—they were only distant cousins, and the decline of his stunted branch of the family could have no possible impact on her. Why, then? Why bother seeing him at all if she had no intention of helping him?

It was too much. Propriety be damned. He had to know.

“That’s it? Sorry your brother’s dead, regards to your mother, have a nice trip home, and the sooner you start that trip, the better? Don’t you even care that Maellas is framing shifters for the deaths of people loyal to you?”

Dzarro hissed and stepped forward, and even Otherro’s hand went to his hilt at the bard’s impertinence, but Diani waved them back.

“What do you mean, loyal to me?”

He’d hoped that would pique her interest.

“I’ve been asking a lot of people a lot of questions since Zodal died. And, interestingly enough, I’ve learned that many of the victims have been vocal opponents of the Church.” That might be overstating the case a bit. While several of the victims had been hostile towards the elf Bishop, their hostility hadn’t necessarily extended to the Church as a whole—Maellas had many inconvenient laws against things like gambling and carousing that made him less than popular among certain circles. But Zoden thought it might be prudent to keep that observation to himself.

“Throneholders,” Otherro muttered, earning him a dark look from Diani.

“Seems like quite a coincidence that both the victims and the suspects belong to groups that the Church would be happy to see eradicated,” Zoden remarked.

Diani pondered that for a moment, one long, slender finger tapping on the arm of her throne.

“Eradication is such a strong word, cousin,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “And even if it did apply to the victims, it can hardly be true of the shifters—the Church has not sought their extermination since the Purge.”

“Not officially,” Zoden said, but knew he was losing her. Her next words only confirmed that suspicion.

“In any case, what would you have me do, cousin? Maellas is the Bishop of Aruldusk, and I am only its queen. I have no authority to gainsay him, even were I inclined to do so.”

“To Dolurrh with Maellas!” Zoden raged, rising from his chair. He saw Otherro’s face blanch at the insult, and heard the paladin’s sword clear its scabbard, but he didn’t care. He’d exhausted his own limited resources in Aruldusk, nearly earning himself a cell next to the shifter accused of killing Zodal for his trouble. Diani and her connections were his last hope.

“My brother is dead! Murdered right in front of me! His blood is still on my cloak!” He tore the scarlet fabric from his shoulders and flung it to the ground. “He’s dead, and no one is doing anything to find his real killer, and it should have been me!”

As he spoke the words he’d been holding back since he’d woken in Zodal’s room the morning after the murder, head pounding, his clothes and his brother’s bed splattered with blood and vomit, he realized the truth. Zodal had never been the target—quiet, serious Zodal who looked exactly like him but was his opposite in almost every way. Zodal, who never had a bad word to say about anyone and would never criticize even the most deserving person, let alone the most powerful man in the entire city. The murderer hadn’t been after Zodal. The killer had been after him.

And he had run away like some craven kobold out of one of his own overwritten ballads, leaving his brother to the fate that should have been his.

“It should have been me,” he repeated and discovered to his horror that he was crying.

Diani was standing now, too, one hand on Otherro’s arm, keeping the paladin from skewering Zoden where he stood.

“I’m sorry, Zoden,” she said sadly, unshed tears sparkling in her own eyes. “I truly am.”

She turned to Dzarro.

“I think it would be best if you escorted my cousin back to his rooms and helped him gather his things.”

The dwarf’s eye narrowed almost imperceptibly, and then he nodded. Shouldering his axe, he bent down to retrieve Zoden’s cloak and hat, then led the weeping bard from the hall. Behind them, Diani sank back into her throne and finished the rest of her wine in one long draught.

Dzarro said nothing until they reached the small suite of rooms Zoden had been given during his all-too-brief stay. Once there, he paused and looked both ways to make sure the corridor was empty before opening the door and shoving Zoden through it. Stepping in after him, Silvervein closed and barred the door, then listened intently for a few moments. Apparently satisfied with what he heard—or didn’t—the dwarf turned to Zoden.

“You can stop the waterworks now, boy. Show’s over.”

“Wha … what?” Zoden asked, bewildered.

The dwarf walked over and dumped Zoden’s cloak and hat on a chair before pouring himself a glass of wine from a decanter perched on an ornate side table. He drained the glass in one quick gulp, then let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“Ah, that’s better. I thought my tongue was going to shrivel up and fall out of my mouth, watching you and Her Majesty slamming back the good stuff like a couple of fresh recruits.”

“What?” Zoden asked again. He was thoroughly confused now, as much by the dwarf’s words as by his sudden change of demeanor.

Dzarro grunted. “I said you could drop the act, boy. Ain’t none of Otherro’s lackeys here to see it.”

“Otherro?” Zoden repeated, but he thought he was beginning to understand.

“Onatar’s Holy Hammer!” the dwarf swore, exasperated. “She said you were an actor, not a fool!”

She?

Diani.

“That whole meeting was … staged?”

But for whose benefit? Otherro’s?

No.

The Church’s.

Otherro was a paladin of the Silver Flame, and loyal to the Council of Cardinals. Whatever his personal feelings for Diani, he would have to report what he’d heard in her chambers today.

So why have Otherro there at all? Surely he didn’t attend every private audience the Queen gave?

Suddenly it all clicked into place.

The paladin had to be there, precisely so he could give a report to the Cardinals. A report stating the Diani had refused aid to the Arulduskan Throneholders, and effectively clearing her of any involvement in their activities.

Plausible deniability.

Brilliant.

And, more importantly, it meant that she intended to help him, after all.

Dzarro gave him a sardonic grin. “There. I knew no relative of my lady’s could be that dim, no matter how distant the connection.

“Now, listen. I can’t spend too long here or Otherro might begin to wonder. He’s a good man, and I like him well enough, but he hasn’t figured out where his heart is yet, and until he does, we can’t risk rousing his curiosity. So. The Queen can’t give you any overt help—you know that—but rest assured that she shares your concerns and will be looking into the situation. However, she has asked me to recommend an inquisitive who might be able to help you uncover the truth behind your brother’s murder. And if, in so doing, you should happen to learn anything about the Bishop or the Church that Her Majesty might be able to use to her advantage … well, I’m certain she’d be grateful. Very grateful. And a queen’s gratitude might do wonders for improving the lot of the ir’Marktaros family, might it not?”

At Zoden’s mute nod, the dwarf’s grin grew wide enough that his lone eye was almost lost in the cavern between cheek and brow.

“Excellent. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting an old associate of mine who operates out of Sigilstar. Be on the next rail south—there will be a ticket waiting for you—and go straight to his office. He’ll be expecting you.”

With that, the dwarf handed over a small placard. Then he clapped Zoden on the back.

“Olladra’s luck, boy.”

As Dzarro Silvervein let himself out of the room, Zoden turned the card over and read aloud the words printed on the other side.

“Greddark d’Kundarak, Security Specialist, Artificer, and Master Inquisitive. Court of Leaves, Sigilstar.”

As the words echoed through the small sitting room, Zoden began to wonder just what he was getting himself into.

Chapter
THREE

Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK

As the creature reared back, Irulan rocked forward on the balls of her feet, ready to dodge to either side when its head descended. But the charge never came. Instead, the six-legged monstrosity opened its mouth wide, revealing rows of wicked-looking teeth, and an explosion of pure sound erupted from its throat like a divine roar. Irulan had only an instant to react, throwing herself to one side in an effort to avoid the blast.

By the Flame! Not only did the thing look like some crazy magebred cross between a dragon and a hound, it actually was, combining the most dangerous features of both—the breath weapon of a great wyrm with a dog’s unflagging tenacity.

She rolled away, but not fast enough. The wave hit the side of her head, and a sudden stabbing pain shot through her ear. Irulan fell to her knees, her heartbeat thundering inside her skull. She clutched at her head, and her left hand came away slick with blood.

As she struggled to her feet, dizzy and disoriented, the beast swiped at her with its forepaws, its claws slashing across her unprotected side, ripping through fabric and flesh as if both were butter. Closing her eyes against the pain, Irulan let her other senses guide her, spinning with the blow and lashing out, her own claws raking ineffectually against the creature’s tough hide.

With an indignant bellow that Irulan felt more than heard, the dragonhound slapped her to the floor, pinning her arms with its middle set of limbs as it brought its four massive horns to bear. But the beast could not know its foe was as much animal as human. With a howl of her own, Irulan brought her knees up and kicked out with all her remaining strength, the long claws on her sandaled feet stabbing into the creature’s exposed underbelly.

Screeching, the monster reared up and back, batting her legs away from its abdomen as it prepared to blast her again with its cacophonous roar.

Exhausted, nearly deaf, and bleeding profusely from her own wounds, Irulan knew she could not avoid the full fury of the beast’s breath a second time. Commending her soul to the Flame, she clambered up on all fours, intending to die on her feet, when a high, feminine voice that she knew she should not be able to hear somehow pierced the fog of agony in her brain.

“Skaravojen, hold!”

Baring its sharp teeth at her, the creature obeyed, sinking down into a sitting position, while its owner, a young dark-haired, dark-skinned girl in a simple gray shift stepped up beside it and scratched behind its ears.

“Good boy.”

The girl regarded Irulan curiously as the shifter rose unsteadily to her feet. Her stone-colored eyes took in Irulan’s wounds, the wild look in her eyes, and the long, sharp claws that shed crimson drops with her every shuddering breath.

“Hold,” she said again, softly, and to Irulan’s surprise, she could not only hear the girl clearly, but she found herself becoming calmer, her breathing slowing, steadying, the adrenaline draining out of her muscles. Without intending to, she shifted, her claws retracting. Magic, she thought as she straightened to stand, but she felt no compulsion on her. Rather, she simply felt safe. At peace.

Though the girl did not touch her, Irulan could feel strength flooding through her, and the pain in her side and head abated, replaced with a spreading warmth.

“Skaravojen and I do not usually wander these halls, but today I felt drawn here, almost as if the Voice were whispering to me, guiding my feet. Now I know why.”

At her words, Irulan realized, belatedly, who the girl must be. She fell to her knees, her forehead pressed against the cool marble floor.

“Your Holiness,” she said, awestruck, as she knelt before Jaela Daran, the Keeper of the Flame.

“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.”

Back at the Sellsword, Irulan gathered up her few belongings while the knights waited for her. When she came back downstairs to settle her debt, Norah waved away her coin.

“Personal guests of the Keeper do not pay at the Sellsword,” she said, somehow managing to sound both chiding and fawning at the same time. “If I had but known when you arrived.…”

“I didn’t know when I arrived,” Irulan muttered, not quite inaudibly, but the proprietress seemed not to hear.

“… refund what you’ve already paid, of course.”

“No,” Irulan said, louder this time. “That’s really not necessary.” Before the burly innkeeper could protest, she turned to the nearer of the two knights, a red-headed woman who was trying hard to hide a smile. “I’m ready to go. Now,” she added, as Norah came limping around her desk.

The woman’s smile vanished and she saluted smartly.

“At once, my lady.”

Irulan winced at the title—the same one the Keeper had asked her to use, as if she, a lowly shifter, were someone of importance. She didn’t bother correcting the knight, though. After asking both of them repeatedly to drop the honorific on the short trip from the Cathedral, she’d resigned herself to being “The Lady Irulan Silverclaw,” at least for the remainder of her stay in Flamekeep. She simply shook her head and hurried out the door before the Sellsword’s owner could catch up to her and ask for her blessing.

Outside the inn, they boarded a waiting carriage. Fashioned of the shimmering wood of the silverfruit tree, embellished with silver filigree and pulled by four gray stallions, it was a conveyance reserved for visiting dignitaries. Given her mode of transportation, Irulan supposed the innkeeper could be forgiven her sudden change in attitude.

The horses made short work of the climb up the steep, winding causeway that led to the Cathedral. Liyam was waiting for her when she disembarked. As she moved to join the young man, who she’d learned was the Keeper’s personal steward, the horses caught wind of her and whickered their disapproval. The carriage ride was a novelty to her, and this was why. She hated horses. They were the only animals she had never been able to master, despite her skill as a handler. Irulan hissed at the nearest one, causing its eyes to roll as it pranced away. She smiled in satisfaction, baring her canines.

Liyam cleared his throat, and Irulan turned toward him.

“If you’ll come this way, lady, your rooms are ready. I’ve had more suitable clothes found for you, and you should have just enough time to change for dinner.”

Irulan had cringed at the thought of “more suitable clothes,” but when she’d arrived in the lavish rooms that had been assigned to her, she was relieved to see a simple gray shirt and pants laid out for her on a bed big enough for four people, along with a pair of silvercloth sandals. On closer inspection, the clothes were spun of fine silk and embroidered with actual silver, but still far better than the multi-layered skirts and tight-fitting bodices that were popular now.

Her weapons had been returned to her, but she did not even consider belting on her longsword. One simply did not wear weapons in the Cathedral of the Silver Flame. And even if the roaming guards did let her get away with it, she had no desire to offend her host, arguably the most powerful person in Thrane and the only one willing to help her free her brother.

A large tub beckoned invitingly from within an arched doorway, but she knew she didn’t have time for that luxury. Besides, two baths in one week verged on decadence for someone who spent most of her time sleeping in bedrolls and tents.

She changed quickly, noting the blood stains on her soft leather pants. Whether the blood was hers or Skaravojen’s, she couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter. A week in the forest and they’d fade to match all the other stains, becoming indistinguishable from the blood of a hundred other creatures already soaked deep into the fabric. She’d have to replace the shirt the Keeper’s pet had shredded, though—while the borrowed tunic she’d worn after the attack was serviceable enough, the idea of walking around with a huge Flame on her chest did not appeal to her.

She glanced at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Presentable, she decided, though some of her reddish-brown hair had escaped from the looping totem braids she wore and was busy curling itself into unruly spirals around her ears. With a disgusted grunt, she licked her fingers and tried to smooth the offending strands into submission, but without a comb to her name, she was fighting a losing battle. To think, some women actually paid to have their hair look like this!

As she tried to tuck the curls behind her ears, one of the braids came loose, unlooping itself to hang to the middle of her back. It was Javi’s braid, the one she’d dedicated to seeing him freed from prison. She looked forward to the day she could cut it off and toss it into the Thrane River.

She threaded the loose braid back through the knotty mass, reflecting that she looked a bit like a hairy medusa. With a laugh, she turned away from the mirror. She’d never been good at primping—the frills and fripperies that occupied the lives of so many young women were nothing but an annoyance to her. Perfume, jewelry, complicated skirts, they were all designed to do one thing—snare a mate. Thankfully, she was far more interested in catching animals.

And a killer.

A knock sounded at the door, and she crossed over a fine Brelish rug to answer it, her feet sinking into the plush weave with each step. She opened the door, expecting Liyam.

A young man stood there, resplendent in a tabard so white that it hurt her eyes. He was tall, almost a foot taller than her, and had dark brown hair, cut short, and a strong, aristocratic chin with a slight cleft. Handsome, even for a human. His tabard, embroidered with a single small silver flame over the left breast, was worn over a long-sleeved silvercloth shirt and gray leather pants like her own. A slender silver chain, the expensive sort often used by wealthy women for holding dainty charms, circled his throat and disappeared beneath his shirt. He wore knee-high black boots, and a longsword in a jeweled scabbard belted at his waist, its pommel a stylized silver wolf’s head with two rubies the size of grapes for eyes.

“Lady Irulan,” he said with a bow, “I am Andri Aeyliros. Her Holiness, Jaela Daran, has asked that I escort you to dinner.” As he inclined his head, the movement dislodged the necklace he wore, and the “charms” spilled out. A simple silver flame bracketed on either side by claws.

Shifter claws.

As she took Andri’s proffered arm, her mind and heart raced. Instead of the steward, the Keeper had sent a warrior, who, while clearly not one of the regular guards, still wore his sword in the Cathedral.

Not only a sword, but shifter claws.

Was he leading her to her death? Did the Keeper intend to betray her?

But why? And why like this? If Jaela Daran had wanted her out of the way, why not just have her imprisoned? After her abbreviated fight with Skaravojen, no one in Flamekeep would believe she hadn’t meant the Keeper harm. Not that Jaela needed a reason—if she decided Irulan was a threat, or an enemy of the Silver Flame, there would be thousands of faithful in the city ready and more than happy to tear her to shreds on the Keeper’s word alone. Or she could have just let Skaravojen finish the job.

No, it didn’t make sense. Why go through all the trouble of dressing her up and feeding her, if Jaela simply meant to have her killed? There must be something to this she wasn’t seeing.

Wary, but not willing to abandon her trust in the Keeper just yet, Irulan allowed Andri to lead her through the Cathedral to Jaela’s own private dining hall. After his initial introduction, the tall young man did not speak again, though Irulan could not help but notice the odd looks they received from guard and servant alike. Or, more accurately, the looks Andri received.

Swift recognition, followed by … what? Dislike, certainly, even disgust. Open hostility in some cases. And fear.

Who was this man Jaela had sent to be her escort?

Andri Aeyliros. She thought she recognized the name, though she had no great knowledge of the Cathedral’s inhabitants. Was he the son of a Cardinal?

She had no more chance to speculate as they arrived at their destination, a set of unguarded double doors. Andri released her arm to knock once, then pushed one of the doors open and stepped through. Irulan followed him, tensing. Was he leading her into an ambush?

The room was empty, save for a long table set for four. Closing the door behind them, Andri took her arm again and led her to the seat to the right of the table’s head, where she assumed the Keeper would be sitting. After holding her chair for her, a courtesy to which she was unaccustomed and that made her feel oddly embarrassed, he took his own seat across from her. The fourth place setting was to his left.

Liyam appeared as if summoned, bearing a crystal decanter of wine from which he poured them each a glass without asking. Aundairian Windshire, it changed colors as it filled the glass, from rose, to plum, to indigo, and finally to a deep red-black.

“Her Holiness will be with you shortly,” he announced, then promptly disappeared before either of them could ask any questions.

Irulan looked at her wine glass, the silver place setting with its crisp white linen napkin and more different-sized forks than she would have guessed existed, and the ornate Flamic candelabra that acted as a centerpiece. What was she doing here?

Saving Javi, she reminded herself sternly.

She glanced at the man across from her, but he seemed disinclined to conversation. She noticed, thankfully, that he’d tucked his necklace back under his shirt.

Aeyliros. She wondered again why the name was so familiar, and was actually on the verge of asking him, if for no other reason than simply to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them, when Jaela Daran entered the room unannounced through a servant’s door, Skaravojen at her heels.

Andri stood a fraction of a second more quickly than Irulan, and when they knelt, their foreheads touched the floor in unison.

“Please. If I’d wanted my dinner guests fawning over me, I would have dined with the Diet,” Jaela said as she walked over to stand in front of her chair. Her words were harsh, but her tone was gentle and amused, removing their sting.

As Irulan stood, Jaela greeted her warmly. “Irulan. Thank you for coming. I hope I will be able to help you.” She turned to Andri, who had not yet risen. “Oh, Andri,” she said softly, reaching out a hand to touch his head tenderly, as a mother would do to a beloved child. “It is enough. Get up.”

Andri stood—reluctantly, it seemed to Irulan.

“It will never be enough,” he replied morosely, moving to pull her chair out for her. When she was seated, Irulan and Andri sat as well.

Liyam appeared with wine and a platter of Karrnathi ved cheese, beesh berries and silverfruit. After setting the platter down and filling Jaela’s glass, he bent down to whisper quietly in her ear, stepping over Skaravojen’s bulk to do so. She said nothing, merely nodded, then dismissed him with a smile of thanks.

Irulan was about to reach for a slice of the cheese when she noticed that both Andri and the Keeper had bowed their heads. She quickly followed suit, joining them in the traditional dinner blessing, a nicety she usually forewent when eating on her own.

Dinner progressed at a leisurely place, with Liyam and assorted servants periodically clearing plates and bringing in new courses. As they ate, Jaela filled Andri in on the murders in Aruldusk, pausing now and then to let Irulan explain a point or make a comment. The story advanced with each course, like some macabre dinner theater. The first known murder coincided with the delicate mollusk soup, the first arrest with the sparkle mushroom-garnished salad. Javi’s arrest was accompanied by thrakel-seared beef in red sauce, and Irulan’s own arrival was heralded by the advent of beesh-berry sorbet and silverfruit pie. Andri would occasionally ask a question, but primarily listened in silence, eating little and drinking not at all. Irulan, on the other hand, ate her fill and then some. She’d seldom feasted on such rich food, and Flame knew when she’d get the chance again. She wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.

Throughout the meal, the seat on Andri’s left remained conspicuously empty. Irulan was trying to figure out a discreet way of asking about it—perhaps it was customary for Keepers to set a place for Tira Miron at their table—when the fourth guest finally arrived.

The double doors opened wide and Cardinal Riathan hurried into the room, his face wreathed in an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness. I was detain—”

He stopped abruptly when he realized he was not alone with the Keeper. His smile wavered when he saw Irulan, then evaporated completely as his gaze fell on Andri.

As anger and worry chased themselves across his features, Irulan realized that the dinner had been an ambush after all—for Riathan.

Belatedly, Irulan and Andri made as if to rise, but Jaela waved them back into their seats.

“Cardinal Riathan,” she said coolly, and Irulan had to remind herself yet again that this girl was only eleven years old. “How good of you to join us for dinner. What a shame that you seemed to have missed the main course.” Even Irulan could not fail to miss the double meaning in her words.

Riathan blanched and prostrated himself on the floor. “Your pardon, Holiness! I—”

“Enough. Get up.” The same words she had said earlier to Andri, but short and hard this time, holding none of the affection.

Riathan stood, using the edge of the table to help himself up.

“I trust you’ve met my guests already?”

The Cardinal forced a smile. “Yes, Your Holiness.” He inclined his head toward Irulan. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said to her, though it was obviously anything but.

He turned to Andri, and the smile became thin and strained. A single droplet of sweat formed at his temple and rolled slowly down his cheek.

“Aeyliros,” he said, as though unable to bring himself to say the man’s given name. With that, Irulan abruptly remembered where she’d heard it before.

Lukar Aeyliros had been a renowned lycanthrope hunter during the Purge. Not so well-known as her own ancestor, but famous for slaying the family of Zaeurl, a vicious werewolf who once terrorized the Eldeen Reaches and was now rumored to reside in Droaam, under the protection of the Daughters of Sora Kell. That might explain the claws Andri wore—perhaps they belonged to one of his great-grandfather’s victims, and not to a shifter at all. And … wasn’t there another Aeyliros who’d gained notoriety some years back, when Irulan had first come to Thrane? A massacre of some sort, wasn’t it? In Flamekeep, maybe even in the Cathedral itself? That would certainly account for the unfriendly reactions that seemed to follow Andri wherever he went, if his father were some sort of mass murderer. Maybe even why he wore his sword in the Cathedral, when both decorum and common sense advised against it.

Andri surprised her by ignoring the Cardinal completely. Instead, he took his wine glass, which had remained untouched throughout dinner, and drained it.

“It has come to my attention, Riathan—as I know it has come to yours—that there is a situation of some concern in Aruldusk. Since it affects the shifters of that community, a people for whom I know you have a special affection, I have decided to assign you to help uncover the truth behind these awful murders.”

“I’m honored, Your Holiness, certainly, but—”

“You will not need to leave the Cathedral, of course. Andri and Irulan will go to Aruldusk to investigate. You will give them whatever assistance they need, up to and including letters of credit issued in your own name, and drawn on your own accounts, not those of the Church. As both an advocate of the shifter people and a personal friend of Bishop Maellas, I know you will be happy to help resolve this issue in any way that you can.”

“But, Your Holiness, with all respect, I hardly think—”

“Enough!” Jaela’s small fist slammed down on the table’s surface, making the wine glasses jump. She drew herself up to her full height, which suddenly seemed much taller than four and a half feet. Skaravojen rose as well, growling at the Cardinal, who took an uncertain step back.

“Any unlawful persecution of shifters brings us one step closer to repeating the evils of the Purge. I will not allow this to blossom into a second such horror,” she said, enunciating each word with cold precision. “I would sooner see one of my own Cardinals stripped of his rank and banished. Am I understood?”

Riathan’s face was a white as his robes.

“Yes, Your Holiness,” he replied weakly, looking as if he might be ill.

“Excellent,” she replied with a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. She turned to Irulan and Andri. “Gather your things. You’ll leave on the next lightning rail for Aruldusk.”

Chapter
FOUR

Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK

Zoden relaxed on the plush couch, easing his boots off and putting his feet up with a contented sigh. He hadn’t expected a first-class rail ticket, but on reflection, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Silvervein had said Queen Diani would be grateful if he could find anything that might incriminate the Church in the rash of murders plaguing Aruldusk—no doubt, this was a taste of that gratitude, meant to motivate him and keep him hungry for more. And, he had to admit, it was doing the trick.

Except for a somewhat ragged-looking gray tabby curled up on a rug, he had the four-passenger compartment to himself. But House Orien wouldn’t have booked a first-class cart if they didn’t have the passengers to fill it, so he knew his solitude wouldn’t last long. Not that he cared. He intended to spend a good part of the nine-hour trip to Sigilstar sampling the fine array of complimentary drinks set out on a side table. He’d already begun with a glass of fruity Aundairian Orla-un wine, and planned on continuing with the Nightwood Ale and then perhaps some of that bottle of Frostmantle Fire he’d noticed in the back.

His brother would have enjoyed the delicate Orla-un, Zoden thought as he took another appreciative drink of the exceptional vintage. His twin had always enjoyed the finer things in life, though his tastes ran more to art and literature, while Zoden preferred the wine and women end of the spectrum. Host knew, they’d seen little enough of either since their father had lost his luck, along with their wealth.

Which had led directly to his own involvement with the Galifar loyalists—or Throneholders, as they were more widely known. The Throneholders were a motley group, made up of those who’d lost faith in the rule of the Church, petty criminals who felt their businesses interests would stand a better chance of survival under a monarchy than a theocracy, and nobles whose families had served the Wynarn line faithfully for generations before the advent of the Silver Flame, and continued to do so even now, though secretly, for fear of reprisal. He’d first worked for them out of necessity, drawn in by a drinking companion who knew he was badly in need of the coin they offered. But as he’d gradually come to understand their goal—a Thrane united under the banner of the Wyvern and not the holy standard of the Silver Flame—he’d discovered within himself a deep love for his country and a passion for the reforms the Throneholders advocated. He had no problems with the Church, but when the mayor was also the voice of the gods, or the priest also commanded the city watch, it was just too easy for justice and freedom to be sacrificed on the altar of personal aggrandizement. Both governments and religions were hotbeds of corruption, and the marriage of the two could only lead to decay, eroding the very foundations of Thrane until there was nothing left but scraps for the carrion birds to fight over.

And of course it didn’t hurt that raising the ir’Wynarns back to the throne could only serve to increase the ir’Marktaros fortunes as well.

It had been easy to sway Zodal over to his point of view, and to get his idealistic younger-by-moments brother as embroiled in the cause as he was—he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. And Zodal had always looked up to him, envying his easy confidence and his way with words. He always wanted to do everything his older brother did—up to and including drawing the ire of someone who wanted him dead.

Shaking the thoughts loose with a toss of his blonde head, Zoden leaned back into the velvet cushions and closed his eyes. If drink would not banish the demons that dogged him—and, by Olladra’s brimming tankard, he’d certainly tried that tack often enough in the past weeks—then maybe working on a new verse would.

He had been trying to write an elegy for Zodal, but the pain was still too fresh, and every attempt fell quickly into triteness. Perhaps an ode to Diani’s courage instead, though he doubted anything he came up with could compare with Delenn ir’Ovion’s seminal The Waiting Wyvern, a work written in the alliterative style first popularized, ironically, by clergy of the Flame around 900 YK.

Distant cousin of the dragons,

daughter of weak Daslin’s blood

Left by her fainthearted fathers

to flounder in an argent flood

Still the wyvern, ever wary,

waits and watches over all

No less a queen for her quiescence,

her quarrels grimly quiet fall

Amid insouciant Sovereign orphans

who from silver cliffs were spied

Piercing all who would despise her with

the poison of remembered pride

No, his own piddling efforts could not hope to capture his cousin’s splendor any better than that. Perhaps he’d be better off with the liquor, after all.

He was still debating when four people entered the cart, three human men and a shifter woman. Slitting one eye open, Zoden watched as two of the men, in House Orien uniforms, struggled to carry a heavy trunk between them. The other man, who wore silvercloth, gray leathers, and an ornate sword, surveyed the compartment and directed the porters over to a spot on the far wall.

“Sir,” one of the porters was saying, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your things stored in the cargo cart? I assure you, our security is very tight—”

“No,” the dark-haired man replied. “That armor costs more than your security guards earn in a year. I’m sure you understand if I’d rather keep it here with me.”

“As you wish, sir.” They hauled the trunk over to the far corner and shoved it roughly against the wall. As they exited, the tall man handed them each a sovereign.

“How can you wear all that, when it takes two men to carry it?”

It was the shifter woman, who had taken up a spot on the couch opposite Zoden. Unlike the man, she wore old, stained leathers and a white tunic edged in silver. She kicked off dusty sandals and buried her toes in the thick rug, flexing and kneading her claws like a cat. When she turned to look at the man, her many intricate braids danced around her head like chestnut-colored vines. With everything about her lending itself to nature metaphors, Zoden would bet a golden galifar that she was either a druid or a ranger.

“It is the lightest of my burdens,” the man replied cryptically, taking a seat at the cart’s small dining table and digging out a worn copy of Avaroth’s Treatise on the Flame—the one written by Darmin, and not his shorter-lived grandson, Bec. Zoden had to stifle a laugh when he saw the shifter woman roll her eyes.

“Huh. I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk,” she said before turning to watch the waters of Scions Sound turn to fire under the rays of the setting sun.

As the rail began to move, Zoden closed his eye again and settled deeper into the cushions, letting the wine and the gentle motion of the cart lull him into a fitful slumber.

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.

The Court of Leaves was in the Teahouse District, and Zoden was guided there as much by the medley of aromas as he was by directions from helpful passers-by. The blended bouquets of fruits, spices, herbs, and flowers hung thick in the air like humidity, underlain everywhere by the pervading scent of wet, steamy leaves.

Only a few of the teahouses were open this early in the morning, the sun just now beginning to suffuse the cerulean sky with golden light, refracting through the multiple crystal spires that gave the city its name. A query to an aproned girl busy sweeping the patio of one of such shop led him to the eastern end of the court. The inquisitive’s office was on the second floor of the building which housed a quaint little teahouse called A Second Cup that had not yet opened for business. The stairs were at the back of the building, leading up from a narrow alleyway to a small balcony and an unadorned door. Zoden wondered if he’d gotten the directions wrong. A cursory examination revealed that some of the other shops had balconies leaning out over the alley, but none of those had signs, either.

Well, he’d knock on this door, then. If it wasn’t d’Kundarak’s office, chances were whoever lived inside would be able to point him to the right place.

As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Once on the balcony, he could hear voices, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. Curious, he moved closer.

“… dead or alive, dwarf. Your choice.”

The dwarf’s reply was deafening. A body blasted through the doorway, ripping the door from its hinges and sending both body and door crashing through the balusters to the alleyway below.

There was a clash of steel on steel, and a woman—a half-elf brandishing a warhammer—backed out onto the balcony, followed by a dwarf wielding a flaming short sword. As Zoden pressed against the wall, well out of the way, he noticed several things at once.

The warhammer was actually a bizarre fusion of a sledge and a crossbow, able, he surmised, to discharge a bolt into an opponent at point blank range whenever the head of the hammer struck home. Which it very nearly did at that precise moment, though the stronger, heavier dwarf was able to deflect the blow through brute force alone, causing the metal head to scrape shrilly along the blade of his sword, setting Zoden’s teeth on edge.

The woman wielding the hammer was House Medani, judging by the sinuous Mark of Detection that wound its way from the back of her hand, up her left arm, and beneath the short sleeve of her tunic. A rival inquisitive, then? Or someone’s bodyguard? Perhaps for the man lying twisted on the cobbles below, covered in what was left of the dwarf’s door?

The dwarf himself, who must be d’Kundarak, wore a grease-smudged shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal arms thick with corded muscle. A wide gold bracelet studded with silver charms glinted dully on his forearm. His hair was a riotous tangle, but his short beard was neatly trimmed. In one hand he held the flaming sword—and scorch marks on the half-elf’s leather cuirass gave testament to the fact that he’d gotten in at least one good hit. In the other hand he held a thin clear vial that narrowed to a needlelike point. It was filled with some swirling liquid that glowed a nacreous green. He threw the vial with practiced precision, right at the half-elf’s face.

She brought her warhammer up to deflect the glittering projectile and whipped her head to the side, but the quarters were too close. The tip of the vial sank into her cheek, releasing its contents into her bloodstream.

With a yelp, she batted the vial away from her face, succeeding only in breaking the delicate ampoule and leaving its sharp point lodged firmly in her skin. Then her eyes widened as whatever had been in the vial began to take effect. She paled and began to sweat profusely. Then, with a horrified look, she turned and vomited over what was left of the railing.

She looked up at the dwarf through a curtain of honey-colored hair, and her violet eyes were murderous.

“This isn’t over, dwarf,” she promised, spitting bile at him as she turned and fled, unsteadily, down the stairs. The dwarf just watched her go.

“No, I suppose not,” he said with a sigh, then turned to Zoden.

“Zoden ir’Marktaros?” he asked as the flames licking his blade guttered and died. At Zoden’s nod, he held out a grimy hand. “Greddark d’Kundarak. Been expectin’ you.”

After checking to make sure the d’Medani woman had cleared out, taking her friend with her, Greddark led Zoden through the broken doorway into his office. The interior was every bit as dirty as Greddark’s appearance had led the bard to believe it might be—possibly worse. Tables cluttered with mechanical parts and bits of forgotten food were scattered haphazardly throughout the room, while bizarre tools and unfathomable mechanisms hung on long chains from hooks in the ceiling, requiring Zoden to duck and bob as he tried to follow the dwarf to his desk, which was itself covered in schematics, scrolls, and bubbling beakers. The walls were papered in drawings and maps, layered over each other with no discernable pattern. And something smelled vaguely like burning oil.

Greddark pushed a bulging sack off a low stool, spilling the metal scroll cases it held, seemingly oblivious to the racket they made as they bounced and tumbled across the scarred wooden floor. He motioned for Zoden to sit, while he cleared a small space and sat on the edge of his desk.

“So, people are dying in Aruldusk, the local Bishop’s blamin’ it on shifters, but you disagree. That about it?”

Zoden, somewhat flummoxed by the dwarf’s succinctness, replied, “Well, yes, if you’re painting in monochrome and using only the broadest of strokes.”

Greddark grunted. “I don’t get paid to tell pretty stories, bard.”

“What do you get paid for, exactly?” Zoden asked, with a pointed glance at the scroll cases still rattling around on the floor. From what he could see, the dwarf was more of an artificer than an inquisitive, or a “security specialist,” for that matter, considering he’d been fending off—what, thieves? bounty hunters?—when Zoden had arrived. And he sincerely doubted the adjective “master” applied to the wild-haired tinkerer in any of those roles.

“Finding answers people don’t want found, mostly. Like the fact that you’re a coward and a drunk from a nearly destitute family who feels both guilty and secretly relieved that the murderer missed his target and killed your brother instead.” Ignoring Zoden’s outraged spluttering, he continued. “But I could have gotten all that from Dzarro. How about this? You’re carrying a dagger in your left boot, and you’ve got a stolen bottle of Frostmantle Fire in that bag on your hip—down by about two fingers since you opened it when you got off the rail this morning. Probably drank it to calm your nerves after that fight you ran from.”

“How—?” Zoden managed, then quickly recovered. “Magic.”

“No. Observation. Reason. Deduction.” Greddark slipped off his desk and jabbed a meaty finger at Zoden’s boot. “Never mind the tell-tale bump. When you walk you put slightly more weight on your right foot to compensate for the dagger’s presence. And it has to be a dagger, doesn’t it, because what else would fit in such a fashionably tight boot? Though that particular style of footwear went out in Aruldusk two seasons ago. The fact that you haven’t upgraded your wardrobe tells me more about your financial situation than Dzarro’s briefing ever could.”

He moved to stand in front of Zoden, pointing at the bag half-hidden by the bard’s scarlet cloak.

“I can smell the Fire on your breath. It has a distinctive odor that’s released the moment the seal is cracked and becomes more acrid the longer it’s exposed to air. There’s also an undercurrent of ironspice in it that gets stronger the more you drink. Someone familiar with the spirit—a dwarf originally from the Mror Holds, say—can pinpoint exactly when a bottle was opened and how much has been consumed. Two fingers, as I said, and only within the last quarter bell or so. And it would have to be in your bag, given the size of the typical bottle, since that’s the only place both big and inconspicuous enough for you to carry it. And it’s obviously stolen, since there’s no way you could afford it—probably from the lightning rail, since you were riding first class.”

He leaned forward to tap Zoden’s cheek. Twice. Hard.

“Finally, you’ve got a bit of blood on your lip and a bruise forming on your face. Either you ran into a door, or someone whopped you upside the head, probably with the flat of their blade, given the size and shape of the bruise. With your history, I’m betting on a fight, and since the only blood on you is your own—or the old stains on your cloak—you must’ve run.”

The dwarf crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk.

“Any other questions?”

Zoden had only one.

“When can you start?”

Chapter
FIVE

Zol, Therendor 17, 998 YK

If you’ll just take a seat there, Captain Entarro will be with you shortly.”

Andri nodded and sat where the guard indicated. They were in the Sigilstar station’s private lounge, reserved for members of House Orien and the Wayfinder Foundation. The lounge was spacious and every bit as luxurious as the first-class cart they’d just left. Its amenities included a fireplace, bookshelves packed with everything from histories of Xen’drik to old copies of the Sharn Inquisitive, a bar, and a string quartet. The musicians had been practicing the popular Aundairian ballad The Epic of the Valiant and the Vigilant, a tale of two lovers trapped in the besieged twin towers, each thinking the other safe when both, in fact, were doomed. It was one of Andri’s personal favorites, and he’d hoped to hear the musicians’ interpretation of it, but when they saw the Orien guards leading him and Irulan in, they gathered up their instruments and made a hasty exit. Given their disheveled state and the blood that stood out stark and red on Irulan’s tunic, Andri couldn’t blame them.

“This is ridiculous!” Irulan growled, falling into the chair next to him so heavily that her braids jumped. She crossed her arms across her chest. “Can’t you just tell them we’re on the Keeper’s business and get us out of here? We’re not the ones who were masquerading as Orien waiters and trying to rob people in the first class cart. If anything, they should be giving us some sort of reward for coming to that man’s rescue, not interrogating us!”

“Considering that neither the victim nor the perpetrators are present to corroborate our story, what choice do they have but to question us?” Andri replied. “Just let them do their jobs, and we’ll soon be on our way.”

Irulan snorted. “Spoken like a man who’s never had dealings with House Orien security. We’ll be lucky if we don’t wind up in a cell. At the very least, they’re going to keep us here for hours, and we’ll miss the next run to Aruldusk.”

“There will be other runs. Patience is the most valuable weapon in a hunter’s arsenal,” he reminded her, only to be rewarded with a glare.

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “It’s not your brother rotting in the Bishop’s dungeons.”

Andri resisted the urge to point out that Bishop Maellas did not have dungeons. Prelates were forbidden to own property beyond their own homes, and he seriously doubted that the Bishop had a group of murder suspects cooling their heels in his wine cellar. Still, the shifter woman did have a point—he had no personal stake in the outcome of this investigation, and so perhaps did not feel quite the same sense of urgency she did.

He was about to apologize when Captain Entarro, a harried-looking elf with a stern face and incongruously curly blond hair, entered the lounge. As Andri made to stand, the elf waved him back into his seat.

“I don’t have time for that. I just got word that Baron Kwanti himself may be coming from Passage to look into this mess. That’s all I need, the House patriarch breathing down my neck while I try to conduct an investigation.” Entarro ran a shaky hand through his curls. “So I want your story again, from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

“This is ridiculous—” Irulan began again, but Andri silenced her with a look.

“Of course,” he answered smoothly. “We’d be happy to help.” He ignored Irulan’s indelicate snort and began to relate—again—the events of the past night. This was the third time he’d had to recite them, but he tried not to let the redundant effort or wasted time bother him. Everything would unfold when and as the Flame decreed, and impatience with that unfolding would serve no purpose. “My companion and I boarded the lightning rail at Flamekeep at the ninth bell, on our way to Aruldusk. We entered our compartment to find another passenger already there, asleep on one of the couches. A blond man in a scarlet cloak. There was a wine glass on the floor next to him, so I assume he’d been drinking.”

“Could he have been passed out, not just sleeping?”

Andri paused, considering. “That’s possible. However, without knowing how long he’d been on the rail before we boarded, or how much he might have had to drink, there’s no way to say for certain.”

Entarro nodded. He’d pulled a thin book out from some hidden pocket and was busy scribbling down notes. “Go on.”

“Since it was late, we retired to our sleeping quarters. I—”

“Separate quarters?”

“Of course!” Irulan snapped, clearly affronted.

“Yes,” Andri replied, trying to curb his own annoyance. How their sleeping arrangements had any bearing on the case at hand was beyond him, but he knew the captain was just trying to do his job—and a difficult, thankless one at that—so he was bound to continue answering Entarro’s questions. For now.

Entarro wrote something else.

“So you went to your separate sleeping quarters. What did you do there?”

Irulan heaved a long-suffering sigh. “We slept.”

Andri nodded his agreement. “Yes, though I did rise before dawn to perform my morning devotions. I was just finishing my recitation of the Fourth Miracle when I heard the call from the compartment.”

“Ah, yes. The call. What were the exact words you heard, and how did you know their source?”

“ ‘Your armor is being stolen.’ Since my armor was in the compartment across the hall, it was reasonable to assume that the call originated from there.”

“And why did you leave this armor in another compartment, if it was so valuable?”

Andri allowed a hint of irritation to creep into his voice. “Because I knew the compartment was in the hands of House Orien security, so I had no reason to fear for the safety of my belongings.”

Entarro looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow at the tone, but he let the challenge pass without comment.

“And then what happened?”

“I grabbed my sword, woke Irulan, and crossed over to the other compartment. A food cart was parked just inside the door, blocking the entrance. Inside I could see two men in House Orien uniforms menacing the man who had been sleeping there. Realizing that he must have sent the call that summoned me, I went to his aid.”

“Can you describe the two men?”

Irulan had finally had enough of being interrogated. She stood.

“We’ve already been through this—twice now. We’ve given your men their descriptions and told you everything we know. Is there a reason we’re still here?”

Then she gave a small gasp and sat down again slowly, shaking her head. She looked at Andri, her eyes incredulous. “Don’t you understand? We’re suspects.”

Andri’s eyes narrowed, and he looked up at Entarro. “Is that true?” he demanded. “Is that why you’ve been detaining us here?”

It made sense. No one else had seen the two Orien imposters—except for the man they’d tried to rescue, who had fled the compartment and disappeared during the fight. Until they found some other witnesses who’d seen the two would-be waiters—not likely, given that it was a night run and most of the passengers had been asleep—or found the two members of the House Orien wait staff who’d been divested of their uniforms—preferably alive—all Entarro and his men had to go on was a broken window, a lot of blood, and Irulan and him. And with Baron Kwanti d’Orien’s arrival imminent, dubious suspects were better than none. In the captain’s shoes, he might well do the same.

But he wasn’t in the captain’s shoes, and he didn’t have time for this. Entarro would have to sort it out on his own.

“I’m truly sorry, Captain, but we’ve given you all the help we can.”

With that, Andri rose and pulled Cardinal Riathan’s letter from out of his tabard. He passed it over to Entarro, who took it after a brief hesitation. When he unfolded it and saw the crest of the Diet of Cardinals, his lips compressed into a thin line. They got thinner and thinner as he read through the letter, which instructed the reader to confer the same rights on its bearer as they would a member of the Diet, up to and including financial, military, and diplomatic support. By the time Entarro had carefully folded the letter and handed it back to Andri, his lips had practically vanished.

“Your pardon for the delay, sir,” he said, his words so stiff and brittle that Andri thought he must be choking on them. He almost felt sorry for the elf captain. Almost. “You and your companion are free to go.”

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.”

The inn was, in fact, rather garish for Andri’s taste, but as he followed the halfling host down the gold-leafed hall to his rooms, he had a feeling the shifter had been quite aware of that when she made her recommendation, and was having a bit of fun at his expense. Literally.

The Golden Galifar was owned and operated by House Ghallanda, and the source of its name was twofold—nothing here cost less than a galifar, and virtually everything was covered in gilt, from the walls to the furniture to the employees, whose cloth-of-gold uniforms could feed a small family of dwarves for a month. He was just grateful that the sun had already set. Even thinking of the blinding reflections that would be bouncing through this place come morning gave him a headache.

His trunk was already in the sitting room, along with a “light snack” consisting of three courses. A fire crackled in the fireplace, steam rose from a hot bath, and the bed had been turned down, all in the time it had taken him to let the room and climb two flights of stairs.

“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” the halfling asked, bowing low.

“This is more than adequate, thank you,” Andri replied, and meant it. He could have used the Cardinal’s letter to secure his rooms here, but he’d chosen to pay himself. He had no great qualms about using Riathan’s coin instead of his own, though he could easily afford the cost. Andri simply didn’t want anyone to know why he was here until he’d had a chance to speak to Bishop Maellas, and flashing a letter with the Diet crest on it was not exactly the best way to keep a low profile.

“Excellent.” The halfling straightened with a wide smile. “Breakfast is served in the main dining room beginning at dawn. Late risers may take advantage of our brunch at the tenth bell.”

“When is the first Mass of the Silver Flame celebrated at the Cathedral?”

“The seventh bell, but if I may suggest it, you may want to try to attend the sunrise service in Tira’s Chapel. It’s usually much less crowded, and Bishop Maellas himself presides on Wir.”

“Does he, indeed? Well,” Andri said, handing the helpful concierge a galifar, “I certainly don’t want to miss that.”

The Tira Miron Chapel faced the rising sun, so that the altar was bathed in the chromatic light of half a dozen silver-filigreed stained glass windows during the entire service, an effect that was no doubt meant to awe and inspire the laity. Andri merely found it distracting as he watched Bishop Maellas prepare for the final blessing. The Bishop’s white robes and white-blond hair were tinted with rainbow hues from the windows. Blues and purples slashed across his chest, green and yellow swirls covered the lower half of his face, and his eyes were painted a disconcerting crimson.

“May the light of the Silver Flame shine in your every deed and burn ever bright in your hearts,” the Bishop intoned, raising his hands in benediction.

The congregation, heads bowed, responded in kind.

“And may the Flame illuminate our path and ever guide us.”

Andri made the sign of the Flame and stood along with the others as Bishop Maellas processed out of the chapel. While the faithful filed out, most stopping to greet the Bishop or ask for his blessing on some small token of the faith, Andri hung back, watching the prelate interact with the people of Aruldusk as he waited for the small crowd to thin out.

Maellas was tall, almost as tall as Andri himself, and slender, even for an elf. His eyes, when not colored by the light from the windows, were a pale green. He smiled politely at each member of the congregation, allowing them to kiss his ring or exchanging a few words with some of the better-dressed patrons. Andri thought he looked distracted. Or bored.

Andri followed the last of the stragglers out of the chapel and waited his turn in line. The man ahead of him, a noble dressed in ridiculous shades of saffron and salmon, was asking about the latest shifter arrest. Andri edged closer so he could hear.

“… I just don’t understand, Your Excellency. Another shifter arrested, and still the murders continue! Are they reprisal killings, do you think?” The man didn’t wait for an answer, just prattled on while Maellas pretended to look interested. “By the Flame! At this rate, we’ll have to clap the whole lot of them in irons just to make sure they don’t get any ideas!”

“Oh, I hardly think it will come to that, Lord Drosin,” Maellas replied mildly. “Surely all shifters can’t be evil. Our revered Keeper, Jolan Sol, declared it so himself during the Purge.”

Drosin harrumphed. “Begging Your Excellency’s pardon, but Keeper Sol just said they weren’t lycanthropes. Doesn’t mean they’re not killers.”

Maellas just smiled wanly as Drosin kissed his ring and strode off, muttering about “murderous shifters.”

Andri moved in to take the noble’s place. He bent to kiss the proffered ring, an ornate silver band set with a single, bright diamond. He was surprised to see the prelate’s finger blistering around the ring, and then he remembered—Bishop Maellas was said to be allergic to silver, yet he wore the traditional symbol of his office without complaint, virtuously offering his pain up to the Silver Flame as penance for the sins of all the Purified. Or perhaps the elf Bishop wore it as proof of his devotion to the Flame, for even after two centuries, some still doubted that one of the Aereni could be loyal to the Tenet of Purity. But Andri dismissed such aspersions out of hand. Race was no indicator of virtue, and by all accounts, Maellas was doing a better job of leading the faithful than many of his human counterparts.

Silver dust, which no amount of washing could ever completely remove, glittered around the elf’s fingernails, a sure sign that Maellas was still a working priest, despite his years as a prelate. The lingering traces of silverburn gave mute testimony to the many Masses over which he presided, as well as his own private rites. Though Andri knew that in this, at least, the Bishop chose practicality over piety. While the ceremonial powder used to make mundane fires burn with an argent hue was normally made with actual silver, Maellas and his staff used a special mix that utilized platinum instead. Doing so required special dispensation from the Diet of Cardinals, and the cost was high enough to make even him blink. Accordingly, an allergy to silver would have been enough to turn most seminarians away from the priesthood, but Maellas’s piety was such that he would not let the limitations of an imperfect body keep him from the path he had chosen. Andri found it hard to believe that so devout a follower of the Flame could truly be the scheming bigot Irulan had described, but that’s what he was here to ascertain.

Straightening, he saw the Bishop looking at his necklace, which had slipped out from under his collar. Andri touched the holy symbol reverently before tucking it back in his shirt, a movement that brought the elf’s pale eyes back up to his face.

“Your Excellency,” Andri said formally, “I bring you greetings from His Eminence, the Most Reverend Cardinal Riathan, and Her Holiness, the Keeper Jaela Daran.”

Maellas’s eyebrows shot up.

“Well met, indeed, sir paladin. Come, I was just about to break my fast with Ancillary Bishop Xanin. You must join us.”

“Aeyliros. Of course. I thought you looked familiar, and that would explain the claws. I knew your father well.”

Andri stiffened at the mention of his father, Alestair. He forced himself to relax. The Bishop was merely making polite conversation. And even if he wasn’t, and this was to be a skirmish of words, it would not do to hand the prelate arrows to loose against him this early in the fray.

“The claws, Your Excellency?”

Maellas took the last bite of a large flank steak, chewing the mouthful with obvious relish before swallowing. Xanin, a short blonde man with a perpetual frown, was watching the Bishop with a faint look of disgust. He’d refrained from eating, citing a large dinner the night before. Andri had limited himself to thrakel-spiced eggs and vedbread slathered with onion butter.

“They’re from a werewolf, yes? The same werewolf, Flame forgive me, that I sent your father to hunt nearly five years ago now. The same dread beast that infected him.”

Maellas put his fork down, and leaned over his plate, his face earnest and sorrowful.

“In many ways, Andri, it’s my fault your father died.”

Andri stilled, letting the wave of mingled grief and hatred wash over and through him, refusing to drown in it again. When it had passed, he replied, his tone short and inviting no further discussion on the matter.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but the blame for my father’s death lies solely on his shoulders, as does the blood of all those he took with him.”

“Of course, Andri,” Maellas said, pushing his plate away and wiping the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin before taking a delicate sip of tea. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. But I didn’t come here about my father.”

“Ah, yes. You mentioned a letter?”

Andri handed the letter over. Maellas read it and then passed it to Xanin without comment. Xanin scowled as he read the missive, muttering something under his breath and thrusting it back to Andri as though he’d touched something particularly repellent. He almost expected the Ancillary Bishop to wipe his hands with a napkin, but the blonde man refrained. When Andri folded the letter to replace it in his tabard, he noticed the corner was now smudged with silver.

“His Eminence has been made aware of the situation here in Aruldusk and has sent me to help track down the perpetrators. He asks that you share whatever information you may have gathered in the course of your investigation.”

Maellas gave him a bewildered smile. “I’m not sure I understand. The perpetrators have already been tracked down, and are currently awaiting trial.”

“Even for the latest murder?” He’d seen the front page of this morning’s Archives as he walked to Mass—SHIFTERS STRIKE AGAIN.

“Indeed. A shifter woman. She apparently had words with the victim in a local tavern shortly before the attack.”

“Odd that these murders are all being committed by shifters,” Andri said, careful to keep his tone offhand. “How is it that you are so certain of their guilt?”

“Well, there was one case where the main suspect was a human—a Throneholder, actually—but, otherwise, yes, the suspects have all been shifters. When the first murders occurred and seemed to be related, I feared that we might have some sort of demonic predator on our hands. So I spoke with Cardinal Riathan by means of a speaking stone and was given permission to lift the prohibition against necromancy in order to question the departed about their deaths. The victims all identified shifters. I’ve allowed no further speaking with the dead since then. Keeping their bodies from the fire also keeps their souls from their rightful place with the Flame.” He shuddered delicately. “It borders on sacrilege, and I would be remiss in my duty as spiritual leader of Aruldusk if I condoned such despicable practices, even to help apprehend a murderer.

“In any event, in each subsequent case there has been other evidence to support the arrest of a shifter, so such tactics were not needed. With the exception of the Throneholder, the murders appear to be the work of some subversive element within the shifter community. A shame, really, as it reflects badly on the entire shifter populace.”

“Have you uncovered a motive?” Andri leaned forward in spite of himself. From Irulan’s account, the only thing connecting the murders was their brutality and who was being accused of committing them. A motive linking all the killers had so far been glaringly absent.

The Bishop shook his head slightly. “No. More’s the pity. There is an ugly rumor going around that the murders are racially motivated, but I’ve done my best to squelch that before it gains too much momentum. That’s just the sort of narrow-mindedness that led to the Purge.”

Andri ignored that.

“Another shifter, you say?” At Maellas’s nod, he continued. “And you have proof of her guilt?”

It was Ancillary Bishop Xanin who answered, his voice as pinched as his face.

“We have several witnesses.”

“Ah.” Andri guessed they were not witnesses to the actual murder, but simply people who’d seen the altercation at the tavern, which in Aruldusk seemed to constitute incontrovertible proof of one’s guilt. He’d have to be sure not to argue with any serving girls about the accuracy of his bill. “Well, then, perhaps Your Excellency will not be in need of my services, after all … unless, of course, there is yet another murder.”

“Flame forbid!” Maellas said, making the sign of the Flame. Andri and Xanin followed suit.

“In the meantime, I’m sure Your Excellency will not mind if I question the survivors, and anyone else who might have information? In order to provide a complete report to Cardinal Riathan.”

Xanin’s frown deepened, his expression now openly hostile, making Andri wonder if Irulan’s difficulties with Maellas didn’t actually stem from this man.

“I’ll need a list of all the victims, their family members, and any witnesses.”

“Of course,” Maellas replied, while Xanin glowered. “I’ll have my chief aide, Margil, coordinate with the captain of the watch to get that information to you.”

“Very good. I’d like it by the end of the day, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Andri pushed his chair back, then waited for Maellas and Xanin to rise before standing himself. He kissed Maellas’s ring, then paused, waiting for Xanin to offer his. The Ancillary Bishop kept his hands at his sides, balled into fists, not the first evidence of anger Andri had seen from him. Nor, he was sure, would it be the last.

“May the Flame light your path, Your Excellencies,” he said, bowing to them both. He turned and exited from the Bishop’s dining room, not bothering to wait for a response.

The files had arrived that evening as requested, and since the only living witness to any of the murders, Zoden ir’Marktaros, had wisely left town, Andri and Irulan spent the next two days going through the list in reverse order, from the most recent murders to the earliest. Their questioning yielded little that was not already contained in the notes the Bishop had provided, and while it seemed clear that at least some of the witnesses had been coerced, Andri was unable to determine if that coercion was due to actual malfeasance, or simply to the pervading desire the survivors felt to see someone—anyone—brought to justice for the murders. The Tankard was the duo’s last stop before evening Mass and dinner. The proprietor, Edven Irvallo, was a retired sergeant in the Thrane army and his son had been the first identified victim.

As they entered the tavern, Andri reflexively stepped away from the door, removing himself as a target while his eyes adjusted to the common room’s dim interior. His gaze swept the room, taking in an old dog busy scratching itself in front of the low fire, a couple at a back table exchanging coy looks and coin, and the stout man behind the counter whose business had clearly seen better days.

Andri approached the bar with an easy smile, intending to order a drink before questioning the man. The paladin was thirsty and Irvallo could obviously use the coin.

Irvallo smiled widely in answer, sizing up Andri’s armor and rich tabard quickly and no doubt thinking that his luck was about to improve. Once he got a good look at Irulan, however, his demeanor changed and his welcoming smile was replaced by a dark scowl.

“No animals allowed, shifter.”

Irulan’s lips pulled back in a snarl and her hand dropped to her hilt, but Andri stayed her with an impatient gesture.

“She’s with me,” he said, drawing Irvallo’s heated gaze back to him, and the livery he wore.

“Sorry, sir,” the man replied. “No pets allowed, either.”

Andri heard the familiar shing of a blade sliding out of its scabbard, and he stepped forward quickly, interposing himself between the old soldier and the shifter before she could do more than flash a bit of steel and growl.

“I understand your anger, friend, but it is misplaced. I know you believe a shifter killed your son—”

“Not one from Aruldusk,” Irulan muttered behind him, but he ignored her, focusing his attention on the man in front of him whose face was still dark with rage.

“But even if that is true—and we have no definitive proof that it is—this shifter has done you no harm.” His tone was calm, placating. “Stand down, sergeant.”

Irvallo glared. “And if I won’t … sir?”

Andri’s hand flashed out. He grabbed the man by his beard, heaving him off his feet and onto the bar. He pulled Irvallo so close that he could see the ring of darker brown around the man’s caramel-colored irises and smell the stale beer on his clothes.

“If you won’t, then I will personally recommend to Bishop Maellas that this flea-infested brothel be shut down and cleansed, and that you spend the rest of your life doing penance in the iron mines. Do I make myself clear, soldier?”

“Yes,” Irvallo said through gritted teeth, glare never wavering.

“Good.” Andri released him. “Now, suppose you get me and my companion a mug of your best ale and tell us about Mikal.”

Irvallo led them grudgingly over to a table near the bar, calling for a maid to bring out three tankards of the Nightwood. A middle-aged woman, well past her prime, came out of the kitchen a few moments later carrying a tray in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. She slapped the mugs down on the table, sloshing golden froth everywhere. She turned away, unconcerned, and was about to walk off when Andri called her back.

“What?” she asked, and Andri saw Irvallo wince at the rude tone. The paladin slid a sovereign across the table, avoiding a dark puddle of ale.

“Thank you,” he said.

She picked the silver coin up and looked suspiciously at it, and him, before tucking it into her apron pocket. Then she wiped up the spilled ale with her rag, and stalked back into the kitchen.

Andri took a drink of the dark brew, savoring the full, robust flavor that had only been slightly watered down. He did not often drink and would have preferred to order wine or mead, but he sensed both Irulan and the barkeep were in need of something stronger. He continued to drink slowly until they followed his lead, and the three spent several long moments in silence enjoying the Karrnathi ale. When Andri judged that tempers had cooled all around, he set his mug down and turned to Irvallo.

“We’re here investigating the recent murders on behalf of the Council of Cardinals,” he explained. “I know it’s painful to dredge up these memories, but I need you to tell me about Mikal’s death.”

“No dredging required,” Irvallo retorted, finishing his own ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pain’s still as fresh as if it happened this morning.”

He slammed his mug down on the table but didn’t release the handle, his fingers turning white with the force of his grasp.

“Mikal was a good lad, and bright. Would have done better for himself than I ever did. Well-liked, made friends easy, didn’t run with the wrong crowd. He was apprenticing with the baker, Syra Corus, down near the Market District. He’d be up hours before dawn firing the ovens and getting things ready for her. Always woke me up when he left, no matter how quiet he tried to be. I learned to sleep light during the War and haven’t been able to shake the habit.” He gave a small chuckle, sad and disparaging, before continuing. “Left that morning like he always did. Sometimes I’d worry, him walking all that way in the dark, but both Zarantyr and Barrakas were full, so I knew he’d have plenty of light. Next thing I know, one of Syra’s delivery boys is pounding on my door, telling me to come quick. They’d found Mikal’s body in the alley behind her shop. His throat had been ripped out. He never even made it in to work.”

Irvallo’s grief was a raw, open wound, even after all these months. Andri wished, not for the first time today, that his ability to heal went beyond the physical. No one should have to relive the heinous murder of a loved one—he knew how painful stirring up those memories could be, and how hard it was to quiet them once they had been so roused.

But if he could learn even one thing that would prevent the Keeper’s darkest fear from coming to pass, then he would not only open the wounds, but douse them in brine. The pain experienced by a few families in Aruldusk was as nothing compared to the anguish of a continent mourning an entire race.

“You were there when they interrogated Mikal after his death, correct? Do you remember anything he might have said about his attacker?”

Irvallo laughed, loudly this time. Bitterly.

“Remember it? I wish I could forget! ‘He came at me from the shadows, on four legs, then on two. He howled like some kind of wild dog, and he was covered in moon-lit fur. He jumped on me before I could even think to move. Please tell my Da that I love him, and I’m sorry.’ ” He repeated the last part, softly. “I’m sorry. Oh, Mikal.” He put his head in his arms and wept.

Andri motioned to Irulan and they rose, not disturbing the grieving man. Andri left a handful of galifars on the table, not even bothering to count them. It was little enough to repay the man for his trouble, but it was all he could do.

Outside the tavern, Irulan turned to him.

“What now?”

“We’ve spoken to all the families and witnesses that we can. Even a writ from the Keeper herself isn’t likely to persuade those who don’t worship the Flame to help us, so that leaves the accused. And the camp shifters.”

“Good luck,” Irulan snorted.

“What do you mean?” Andri asked.

The camp shifters. They won’t tell me anything, and I live there. They don’t trust anyone who follows the Flame, so what makes you think they’re going to talk to you? And why do you need to talk to them, anyway? They haven’t done anything.”

“Perhaps not, but if someone is trying to frame shifters in order to destroy them or drive them away, then maybe somebody within the shifter community knows why.”

Irulan nodded. “Well, that makes sense.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Andri replied, trying to keep the irony from his tone. By the look Irulan gave him, he didn’t quite succeed. “We’ll go to the camp first, I think.”

“Why not the prisoners?”

He shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere.”

When they reached Silver Way, Aruldusk’s main thoroughfare, Andri bid Irulan a good evening. He planned on attending Mass at the Cathedral, but she would be celebrating outside the city, where a priest of the Flame offered Mass in a borrowed tent near the livestock pens. Understandably, those few shifters who, like Irulan, followed the Silver Flame, no longer felt safe worshipping within the city walls.

Before he could turn away, she reached out and grabbed his arm.

“It wasn’t a shifter from Aruldusk who killed that boy,” she said, and Andri could see she was spoiling for an argument. He cut her off.

“I know.”

“How?” she asked, seemingly put off by his easy acquiescence.

“Mikal mentioned ‘moon-lit fur.’ How could it be moon-lit if he was in the shadows? I think he meant white fur, like the sample you brought to Flamekeep.”

“So you think we’re looking for a shifter with white fur? You might find one in colder places, but here, on Khorvaire? That coloring would make him—or her—stand out like a Karrn necromancer at High Mass.”

Andri cracked a smile at the comparison, even though it was more than a little sacrilegious. Though there were some Karrns who did worship the Flame, they were few and far between—and as likely to bring their blunt, loud ways to their worship as to everything else they did. It was an apt analogy. One that applied as well to the straightforward shifter, though he doubted she’d appreciate the parallels.

“Mikal also said his attacker was covered in fur. The only way he could have known that was if whoever attacked him wasn’t wearing clothes.”

“Shifters don’t normally run around town naked,” Irulan said, smiling wryly in spite of herself. “Most of us, anyway.”

“No,” Andri agreed. “Plus he said it walked first on four legs, then on two. That doesn’t sound like a shifter to me.”

“So now you’re thinking some sort of animal?” Irulan asked. “One that looks like a shifter—or possibly a large dog, or wolf—walks on both four legs and two, and is smart enough to roam around the city for months killing people without getting caught? What kind of animal …?”

Irulan trailed off, her dark eyes widening with realization.

There was one animal—if you could call it that—which fit the description. Andri didn’t want to believe it could be true, didn’t want to confront the dark memories conjured by the mere notion, but duty compelled him to face the possibility that they were hunting something far more dangerous than any shifter.

“Oh, Flame,” Irulan whispered, and Andri nodded.

“A lycanthrope.”

Chapter
SIX

Sar, Therendor 21, 998 YK

Greddark stepped off the rail cart and onto the boarding platform, pausing to take a deep breath. The station vendors were serving beef, but it was overspiced and overcooked, probably to disguise the fact that it had started out tough and stringy before it ever hit their grills. A new issue of the Inquisitive was available at the chronicle stand—the acrid smell of fresh ink accented the fragrance of cooking meat, and not in a pleasant way.

“Ah,” Zoden said beside him, taking in large lungfuls of air. “The welcoming aromas of Aruldusk! Probably seems a bit bland to you after living in the Court of Leaves.”

“Not exactly,” Greddark replied.

They’d spent a few days in Sigilstar waiting for the furor from Zoden’s encounter to die down before boarding the rail again. While the bard had bathed during that time, he hadn’t gotten his clothing laundered, and he still smelled vaguely of Frostmantle Fire and old sweat. Combined in Greddark’s sensitive nose with the other odors, the scent was anything but bland. Noxious was more like it.

He pulled out a map from one of the interior pockets of his long coat. Finding what he was looking for, he stepped off the platform, heading west along Silver Way.

“Wait! Where are we going?”

“I’m going to the Cathedral, to speak to a … friend. You are going to go home and lock yourself in until I come to get you. And change your clothes, while you’re at it. I’m not even a shifter and I could track you through town with my eyes closed.”

“What?” The bard bristled, though whether it was because of Greddark’s order or his insult, the inquisitive couldn’t tell. Probably both. “There’s no way I’m going to hide out at home while you go and solve the whole mystery without me!”

Greddark figured he’d better put a stop to this foolishness right now. Curiosity did not an inquisitive make, and the sooner Zoden found that out, the better his chances of surviving this whole affair would be.

“Seems to me hiding out is one of the things you do best,” he pointed out. At Zoden’s crestfallen look, he added, “It’s for your own safety. As far as we know, you’re the only person still living who has witnessed one of these murders. Frankly, you’d have been better off staying in Sigilstar. Or Flamekeep.”

“Why? It’s not as if I’d be any safer there. They found me on the rail, didn’t they?”

“Be that as it may, you are safer behind locked doors. And there are a few House Kundarak charms I can use to make you even more secure, after I finish up at the Cathedral.”

“And how do you think you’re going to get into the Cathedral without me?”

Greddark blinked. “Walk in?”

“Nobody just walks into the Cathedral … at least, not if you aren’t a worshipper of the Silver Flame. They’d be politely escorting you out—probably by sword point—before you could figure out what direction to kneel in and which knee is supposed to go down first.”

The dwarf grunted. “Funny, I hadn’t pegged you as a Flamer.”

Zoden gave a sardonic laugh.

“I’m not. The only flame I find worthy of veneration is the one that cooks my food and warms my hearth. But I’ve lived in Thrane my whole life, and I know how to play the part. Do you?”

Damn. The silly git had a point.

“Fine. You can come with me, and I’ll follow your lead in the Cathedral, but once we get to where we’re going, I’ll do the talking. Understood?”

Zoden nodded, eager as a puppy to please now that he was getting his way.

“So who are we going to see?”

“Margil Ravadanci, the Bishop’s chief aide.”

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.

Greddark waited to look at the book until they were well-ensconced in Zoden’s home, behind locked doors that the dwarf had enhanced with a few House Kundarak tricks. As he opened the thick tome, he found several loose sheets inserted, ironically, in the section on prayers for justice. The first sheet was a list of victims, in chronological order. There were twenty in all, beginning with Mikal Irvallo and ending with the most recent victim, Demodir Imaradi.

“See?” Zoden said, reading over his shoulder. “It’s just like I told Diani.”

“What is?”

“Most of them are Throneholders—or were, I guess.” He paused for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the past tense, then hurried on. “Zodal, of course, but also Ravan, ir’Sarhain, Neskadus and now Imaradi. Arrun ir’Sarhain was the one who got me my first job with the loyalists. These others … hmm. Krayci wrote for the Aruldusk Archives. I remember he wrote a chronicle about a year ago criticizing Bishop Maellas for disallowing shifter marriages outside of the Cathedral. Said Maellas was wrong for requiring shifters to change their traditional outdoor marriage rites just because they’d embraced the Silver Flame. I believe he was sanctioned for the chronicle. He might even have lost his job over it. And this one, ir’Vanatar—his father is known for holding grand galas to raise money for the Crown.”

The bard looked at him, as if expecting some sort of praise for his observations. When none was forthcoming, he frowned.

“Well? Don’t you think it’s rather strange that, in a city full of Flamers, at least a quarter of the murder victims were either loyal to Queen Diani or openly critical of the theocracy? I mean, what are the odds?”

“About one in a hundred fifteen, unless Aruldusk’s population has changed a lot since the last census,” Greddark replied, as he looked over the other pages. There were checkmarks by roughly two-thirds of the names. A note on the bottom, written in Margil’s neat script, read: Questioned by P. and S. The paladin and shifter, no doubt. They had worked quickly, which likely meant they’d gotten little new information. But why hadn’t they questioned everyone on the list?

Cross-referencing the checked names with brief descriptions of the victims and their families yielded the answer. Those that had not been questioned by the pair from Flamekeep had been worshippers of the Sovereign Host, including the ones Zoden had called out as Throneholders. Either the paladin had chosen only to question those he knew would be cooperative, or, more likely, those families had refused to speak with him. Either way, they were ripe for Greddark’s picking.

There was also a half-sheet of paper stuck in with the files, though it was of a different stock and had been torn in two, lengthwise. One corner was smeared with some sort of silver dust. It appeared to be a list of items, though with half the sheet missing, Greddark couldn’t tell what the significance was.

 … skin of a chameleon, whole …
 … diamond dust, two pin—
 … severed finger of a wer—
 … under the light of a fu—

Ingredients for some sort of potion? An attached note from Margil indicated that it had been found near the body of one of the victims, a Flamer named Desekane. The files indicated that Desekane’s body had been so badly mutilated that he could only be identified by a birthmark on his ankle.

“How do you do that?”

Greddark glanced up from the papers, startled. “Do what?”

“Figure the odds like that, so quickly? Olladra’s purse, but what I wouldn’t give to be able to do that in a gambling hall!”

Like your father? Greddark wanted to ask, but he forbore. Zoden truly was like a little child, naïve and oblivious. Greddark couldn’t decide if the bard’s enthusiasm was charming or pathetic.

“Being able to calculate the odds only helps you if your hand is playable.”

“Is that why you’re in Thrane, instead of the Mror Holds? Because your hand wasn’t playable?”

Damn! Not so oblivious as all that, apparently. Well, the lad deserved an honest answer, especially after witnessing the latest group of bounty hunters to have tracked him down.

“I was living in Korth, not the Holds. Let’s just say that if you’re wanted in Karrnath, Thrane’s not a bad place to take up residence.”

He could see that the tow-headed bard was bursting with more questions, but wisely contented himself with a knowing, “Ah.”

Ah, indeed.

Greddark scribbled a quick note then pulled a metal bird from his pack.

“What’s that?”

“My messenger service,” Greddark replied. He’d fashioned the little bird himself, to resemble a pigeon—or, as his father would have called it, a rat with wings. From even a few feet away, it looked like the real thing, and only a closer inspection would reveal its body was fashioned of steel and its feathers meticulously painted on. Since most people hated the disease-carrying birds, such an inspection was highly unlikely. Which made it the ideal vessel for sending messages when he couldn’t afford to be gouged by the gnomes of House Sivis and their infernally expensive speaking stones.

He thumbed a hidden latch on the bird’s chest and a small door swung open to reveal a hollow perfect for sending notes or small bits of evidence. He folded the note in half and placed it inside, along with the torn bit of paper. With any luck, his wizard friend back in Sigilstar would be able to tell him what the silver substance was and what sort of potion—or spell—the recipe was for.

Greddark set the bird aside. He’d release it when they left the house. He pulled his map of the city from his pocket and spread it out on the table. Then he began lightly marking the addresses of those he wanted to question. Most of them resided in the same area as ir’Marktaros—the Garden District, a neighborhood whose eponymous parks had fallen into neglect, as had the homes—and lives—of its inhabitants.

“What are you doing?”

“Mapping a path.”

“You’re going to go to their houses and question them? Won’t that take a while?”

The bard obviously thought he had a better plan. As Greddark mused whether or not to let the overeager human divulge it, he scratched his short beard. At least a sovereign’s width longer than the tight half-inch length he preferred, it was itchy and scraggly and sorely in need of a trim. He hoped this case didn’t take too long to solve. He doubted there were any dwarf barbers in Aruldusk, and his last attempt to do the job himself had left him with an embarrassing scar. There was a reason barbers heated your face first and then shaved you, as opposed to trying to do both at once.

“If you’re thinking I should question them all at some secret Throneholder gathering, there are several reasons why that’s not a good idea. First, there’s a good chance you’re being tailed. If the Church does have anything to do with all this—beyond just using it to their advantage to get rid of some pain-in-the-ass shifters—then you would be leading them right to the group of people they would most like to destroy. Second, witnesses tend to influence each other, even if they don’t mean to. Get a whole group of them together and we’re about as likely to get the truth as we are to hear “Light the Way” sung in a Karrn brothel. Same thing applies to bringing them here, with the added complication that if they’re being followed and your return has somehow escaped detection, then you’re basically waving a giant red flag and screaming, ‘Here I am!’ to anyone who might want you dead.” The dwarf stopped scratching and looked up at the bard, who had deflated considerably during the course of his speech. “So, unless you have some other idea, then, yes, I’m planning on questioning them all at their homes.”

Greddark paused, waiting for Zoden to jump in with a suggestion, but the bard remained sullenly silent.

“No? Very well, then. We’ll start with ir’Sarhain.”

Arrun ir’Sarhain the elder was a taciturn old man who responded to Greddark’s questions in gruff monosyllables and didn’t offer any information beyond those terse replies. Not even Zoden’s bardic cajoling could get the old man to open up to them, but it didn’t take Greddark long to realize that the aging Throneholder likely had little of value to tell them, at least in regards to this case. However, if he had wanted to know about the activities of the Throneholders in Aruldusk and much of northern Thrane, ir’Sarhain was definitely the man he’d go to for answers. The shelves of his study were lined with political texts, histories of Thrane and old Galifar, and even a leather-bound copy of The Wyvern Reborn by Kievan Helmworth. Originally from Breland, Helmworth had been a seditionist and prolific author whose writings had gotten him burned at the stake by Archbishop Dariznu of Thaliost, ostensibly for heresy. Considering that Helmworth had just written a rather unflattering biography of the theocratic tyrant, the actual reason for his execution remained much in doubt. Most of Helmworth’s books had been banned in Thrane. The Wyvern Reborn, whose treasonous messages were couched in courtly verse, had thus far escaped burning.

An ir’Wynarn banner hung over ir’Sarhain’s mantle, its rampant black wyvern lit from above by a floating everbright lantern. Below it, and only slightly smaller, was the ir’Sarhain crest, a split field of green and purple behind a crossed set of golden spears, the heads of each having been formed into miniature wyverns, wings back and sharp snouts extended. The mantle itself was lined with nine marble figurines—statues depicting the various deities of the Sovereign Host. This man was clearly no friend of the Silver Flame, and he didn’t bother to hide it. Greddark wondered how much more vocal his son might have been, and how large a role that vocality had actually played in Arrun the younger’s death.

That was only one of many things that bothered him about this case. The murders were being blamed on shifters, but what quarrel did shifters have with Throneholders? If anything, he would think the shifters would be happy to see the Flame blown out, considering all the persecution they had suffered at the hands of its worshippers.

And why so many perpetrators? A group of killers working in tandem—or, even more improbable, cooperating with each other? It was practically unheard of, though there had been that village in Karrnath. Located on the Mror River, it had been decimated by residents who had apparently succumbed to some mass psychosis, murdering their neighbors and then turning on each other in a mad frenzy. But this case was nothing like that one, thank the Host.

Still, no scenario made sense—not the official one presented by the local government, that it was the work of malcontent shifters, nor the counterargument that it was some Church conspiracy to rid Aruldusk of shifters, Throneholders, or both.

If anything, Greddark thought as he thanked ir’Sarhain for his time and left the man to his machinations, the murders were far more likely to be the work of a single individual, who might or might not be selecting his victims at random. True, there were a relatively high percentage of loyalists among the victims, but that could as easily be the result of the murderer’s chosen hunting grounds as any grudge against Throneholders.

Following a sudden hunch, Greddark paused at a nearby park bench and pulled out his map. In addition to the addresses of the victims’ families, he had also noted the location of each murder. Seventeen of the murders had occurred in either the Garden District—home to many old noble families, who typically still supported the throne—or the Market or Warehouse Districts. The only anomalies were Zoden’s brother, who had died behind the Cathedral only a few streets away from the Market District; Desekane, who’d been killed in a similar no-man’s land between the Market District and the Gutters—so named because most of the city’s gutters drained there; and Imaradi, the Throneholder who had been slain shortly before he and Zoden had arrived from Sigilstar, his body found in an alley near the East Gate. Desekane’s family had already been questioned by the paladin. That left Imaradi’s family, who lived in the Garden District, two streets over.

Perfect.

As Greddark snapped the map closed and stuffed it into a pocket, Zoden asked, “So where are we going next?”

“Imaradi’s family,” Greddark replied, heading towards Sylvan Street.

“Umm … I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Zoden said, having trouble keeping up with the dwarf even though his strides were twice as long.

“Why not?”

It didn’t take him long to discover the answer to that question for himself.

The Imaradis were preparing for their son’s funeral, to be held at Aruldusk’s small temple to the Sovereign Host the following day. They were understandably upset about Greddark’s arrival, and even more so when he told them he needed to examine Demodir’s body. Unlike Aruldusk’s Flamers, who routinely sent their adherents to “join the Flame” by cremating their remains, those who followed the Host—particularly, worshippers of Arawai and Balinor—buried their dead. Which meant that the unburied body of Demodir Imaradi was the inquisitive’s only chance at examining something in this case other than files.

“Please,” Zoden said. “This may be our only chance to discover who is really responsible for Demodir’s death, for Zodal’s, for all of them. I—”

“We know who’s responsible for Demi’s death,” Kaith Imaradi interrupted angrily. “They’re holding that shifter woman he fought with at the bar.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” When Demodir’s father didn’t answer, Zoden continued on, his voice pleading. “I swear we don’t mean any disrespect—Demi was my friend! But Master d’Kundarak is an inquisitive of some renown, and he comes highly recommended. Very highly.” Zoden paused in his pleading to emphasize that point, so the Imaradis would understand that the dwarf had been sent by the Wyvern herself. “Maybe he can find something the others missed. Please.”

The Imaradis remained unconvinced. Demodir’s father glowered at them, while his mother bit her lip uncertainly.

“Please,” Zoden said again, and this time Greddark could feel the persuasion behind his words, almost like a physical force.

Good. The bard was finally using his magic.

“I—I suppose it would be all right,” Imaradi’s mother said, still worrying her lip. “If it will help them catch Demi’s killer. Don’t you think so, Kaith?”

Kaith Imaradi still looked angry, but his anger was tinged with confusion.

“Ye—yes, dear. If you think it’s best.”

His wife nodded hesitantly, and Greddark needed nothing more. He followed the wafting fragrance of incense to the Imaradi’s small home altar, where Demodir’s body had been laid out beneath a statue of Arawai. The halfling-sized sculpture showed the goddess in her half-elf aspect, a flickering candle held in one hand and a morning star in the other while her face gazed down benevolently on the cold, blue corpse.

Demodir was naked, a white sheet arranged discreetly over his hips while they waited for the priests to come and anoint his body for burial. His wounds had been cleaned, leaving pale, ragged flesh where his throat and half of his chest used to be. Greddark cursed the timing. Had they arrived in Aruldusk even a few days earlier, he might have been able to collect evidence that had now been washed away unwittingly by loving hands. He leaned closer to the body, glad of the heavy incense that covered the scent of rot already beginning to set in despite whatever magic was being used to preserve the corpse. The left clavicle had been broken, but Greddark could not immediately determine if it was from the jaws of whatever had attacked Demodir, or if it had happened during the course of a struggle. A quick perusal of the man’s hands and arms showed defensive scratches, so he was inclined to think the bone had been broken while Demodir tried to fight off his attacker. The files Margil had given him indicated that the man had been unarmed at the time of the assault.

The muscles around the gaping wound were shredded and hung like limp fingers across the exposed sternum and rib cage, which showed signs of having been scored by sharp teeth, like some animal had tried to gnaw its way through their bony protection. The organs beneath were intact, save for the heart, which bore deep gouges beneath the fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs, as if the animal, frustrated with not being able to chew its way in, had resorted to trying to fish out the choice flesh with long claws. For all the seeming ferociousness of the attack, the neck laceration had missed the vital vein, so Greddark guessed that it was one of these deeper wounds that had actually killed the young Throneholder.

Wounds that were certainly not indicative of a shifter.

As he peered more closely at the heart and the torn flesh over the rib cage, other inconsistencies became apparent. He pulled out a thin book from his pocket and scribbled some quick notes. Then he motioned to Zoden.

“Here. Put your head down by his neck, with your jaw out.”

“What?” the bard asked, appalled. He had been studiously avoiding looking at the corpse, and his face turned an odd shade of greenish-white as Greddark forced him to look at it now.

“I need to compare the bite marks with a jaw roughly the same size as a shifter’s. Obviously I can’t use my own, so get your mug down here and let me sketch it out. Unless you’d like me to go ask his mother to do it?”

The goad worked as Greddark had anticipated. As craven as the noble might be, there was no way he would stoop to having a woman—and a grieving mother, at that—do his job for him. With a look somewhere between nausea and petulance, the bard did as he was bade, bending down low over the corpse and aligning his clenched jaw with the jagged flesh edging Demodir’s wounds.

Greddark pulled out a ribbon of fabric with measurements marked off regularly on its surface and gauged the size of Zoden’s jaw versus that made by whatever had attacked his friend. He wrote the numbers down in his book, noting that the bite marks were both wider and shallower than the human’s jaw line. As he wrote, Zoden made a small groaning sound.

“Are you done?” the bard asked between clenched teeth, the muscles in his neck standing out as he strained to keep from falling headfirst into the clammy mess. The petulance was gone, replaced entirely by bilious impatience.

“What? Oh, yes. You can get up.”

Zoden straightened and stumbled over to the doorway, drinking in the incense-laden air in great, noisy gasps like it was pure ambrosia.

Greddark tucked his tape away and pulled out a thin metal rod, similarly marked. With the utmost care, he inserted the rod into the wound between the fourth and fifth ribs. It went in easily, and Greddark stopped when he felt resistance, copying down the depth of the wound in his book. Then he did the same with the gouge between the fifth and sixth ribs. The rod sunk deeper this time, by another three inches, through the heart entirely and out the other side. Greddark withdrew the rod and wiped it off discreetly on the underside of Demodir’s sheet, then pocketed it again before recording the numbers.

“How long would you say an average shifter’s claws are?”

Zoden turned from the doorway.

“I don’t know—two inches? Maybe twice that if you’re dealing with a razorclaw. Why?” His curiosity overcame his repugnance and he stepped closer to the corpse.

Greddark didn’t answer, instead grabbing the candle from Arawai’s hand and bending close to the body once more. He used his quill to gently lift the flesh around one of the gouges, shining the candlelight down into the shallower wound. As he suspected, it was ragged all the way down, evidence of a claw forcing its way in and twisting about as it tried to find anchorage. Repeating the process with the deeper gouge, he noted that the unevenness went to the same depth as in the other wound. Beyond that, the flesh was smooth, as though parted with a keen blade.

“What are you doing?” Zoden asked, his tone reflecting simultaneous horror and fascination.

Greddark thrust the candle at him.

“Figuring out who killed your friend,” he replied as he finished up the last of his notes.

Zoden replaced the candle in Arawai’s outstretched hand, automatically kissing his fingertips and placing them to her lips in a reverential gesture. Then he turned back to Greddark.

“Who? Not what? Even I can see that the bite marks are too big to belong to a shifter—”

At Greddark’s raised eyebrow, he hastily amended his comment.

“—once you pointed it out to me, of course.”

“Of course. True, the bites are not those of a shifter. The marks are more consistent with some sort of large cat, bigger even than what I would expect to find in the forests around here. Certainly too big to be wandering around the streets of Aruldusk without attracting any notice.”

“A cat? I remember thinking Zodal’s killer might be a big cat, at first.”

Greddark shrugged.

“Possibly a bear, but that’s even more unlikely.”

Zoden snapped his fingers and smiled, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

“That’s it! I think you may have just cracked the case, Master Greddark! There is a House Vadalis compound not a half-day’s ride east of here, on the shores of Lake Arul. And I happen to know they’ve been training a magebred ghost tiger for King Boranel’s court. One of the handlers is a regular at the E’erful Well.”

His smile exploded into an ear-to-ear grin.

“I think we’ve just found Demi’s killer,” Zoden crowed, “and maybe Zodal’s, too!”

Greddark let the “we” pass without comment, instead making another note in his book before tucking it away.

“Well, I’ll agree that it’s likely the tiger attacked Demodir, but that’s not what killed him.”

Zoden’s smile faltered.

“It’s not?”

“No. Demodir was killed with a blade, most likely a sword. Possibly a long knife. So unless that tiger is exceptionally well-trained, it’s not our culprit.”

Zoden’s disappointment was palpable.

“Then who is?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’d say the next person we want to question is that handler. Which way to the Well?”

The handler, Kyrin d’Vadalis, was not at the E’erful Well, nor was the Well actually all that full this evening. Greddark did find himself a talkative scullery maid who was more than happy to part with all the Market District gossip for a mug and a coin.

“Shame about the Imaradis. Demi was their last son. Lost two others in the War, and a daughter to childbirth. The baby died, too.” She leaned close to Greddark, so that he could see the wrinkles around her pale blue eyes. “It’s on account of them turnin’ away from the Flame, it is. You know what they say. Trouble follows those who follow the Host.”

Greddark nodded noncommittally, though he had not, in fact, heard the saying before. It must be peculiar to Aruldusk, an observation that did not surprise him in the least.

“His lady friend must be taking it hard,” he commented, fishing. Neither his parents nor the files had said anything about a lady in Demodir’s life, but Greddark had seen from his corpse that the man must have been handsome and well-built in life. Surely he’d caught the eye of some attractive young girl.

“Gaida? She wasn’t really his lady, you know. Any more than she was Martel’s, Lucien’s, or Kyrin’s. And she wasn’t really much of a lady, either, if you know what I mean.” The maid’s leer was no doubt meant to be enticing, but the Well would have to be twice as deep and filled with Frostmantle Fire before he’d take that bait.

He steered her back to the conversation. “Kyrin d’Vadalis?”

“Yeah, that one. Bit of a temper. He and Demi almost came to blows over the little hussy, Flame knows why. It’s not as if she’s even that pretty.”

“Huh. I’m surprised he wasn’t a suspect.”

“Oh, they questioned him, all right, on account of the fight being only a few days before Demi turned up dead. But, what with the shifters and Demi having his throat torn out and all, well, they never really suspected Kyrin. I mean, what’s the point? Everybody already knows who’s doing the killing.”

What was the point, indeed? Especially when Kyrin’s innocence was such a given that they hadn’t even bothered to include him as a witness in the reports. Greddark wondered if the omission was due to his being from one of the dragonmarked Houses, or to the fact that he wasn’t a shifter.

“When was the last time you saw Kyrin?”

“Why? He ain’t all that pretty, either.”

Greddark smiled apologetically and whispered in the woman’s ear before sliding another coin her way and excusing himself from the table. He had to suppress a laugh as she gasped and put a horrified hand to her mouth, making the sign of the Flame against evil.

Once outside, Zoden, who’d been under strict orders to keep his mouth shut while in the Well, could contain his curiosity no longer.

“What did you say to her?”

Greddark shrugged.

“I just told her that dwarves don’t like loose women, and they like loose lips even less. And what exactly dwarves do when the lips attached to the women continue to flap after they’ve been warned not to.”

“What?”

“Cut them off.”

Back at Zoden’s house, Greddark double-checked his wards and gathered his things.

“Where are we going?”

“I am going to the House Vadalis compound to question Kyrin. You are staying here.”

Zoden stopped in the midst of donning his scarlet cloak to glare at the dwarf. “I thought we went through this already!”

“We did,” Greddark agreed. “That was before, at the Cathedral, and when we were questioning the Throneholders. I needed your help then. I freely admit it. I do not, however, need it now.”

As he spoke, he palmed an orange bloodspike.

“But I helped you! You wouldn’t have made it this far without me!”

“You did help me. And now you can help me even more by staying here, out of harm’s way, until I return.”

“No! I’m not—”

The bard didn’t get any further. As he threw his arm out in a typically theatrical gesture, Greddark darted in and jabbed the bloodspike into the soft flesh of Zoden’s neck. The young noble had only a moment to register hurt surprise before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward. Greddark caught him before he could fall and eased his body to the floor. The potion, brewed for a dwarf’s constitution, should keep the slim human sleeping peacefully until Greddark returned. Hopefully, with the case solved. And as long as the bard stayed put, he would stay safe—Greddark didn’t call himself a security specialist for nothing.

“Sorry, Zoden,” he said as he let himself out, pausing only long enough to reset the house wards. “I tried to tell you. I work alone.”

Chapter
SEVEN

Sar, Therendor 21, 998 YK

Stepping outside of Aruldusk’s so-called East Gate—actually on the city’s northeastern side—Andri was overwhelmed by a hundred shelters in a dizzying array of colors, fabrics, and shapes, encroaching on either side of the Orien trade road like fantastical weeds. The camp boasted everything from waterproof tarps barely large enough for one person to sleep in, to tents made of stitched animal hides, to great pavilions streaming rainbow ribbons into the breeze. The tents housed both people and businesses, organized in roughly concentric circles. As might be expected with a race so sensitive to scent, the more aromatic trades—trappers, butchers, and tanners—were located downwind, on the fringes of the settlement, along with the livestock pens and horse corrals, while the herbwives and sellers of produce and breads were located closer to the center. Closer still, clothing and weapons could be found, and in the center of the encampment, two large pavilions faced each other over a group of fires—a temple to Balinor and the quarters of Ostra Farsight, the shifter leader. It was to this tent, the plainer of the two, that Irulan led him.

“Ostra doesn’t follow the Flame,” Irulan warned him as they walked towards the tent, “so don’t expect him to cooperate simply because you’re a paladin. You’re going to have to convince him to help us, and the fact that you’ve been sent by Cardinal Riathan isn’t necessarily going to weigh in our favor.”

Riathan was known as a shifter supporter, but his sympathy was largely theoretical. When it came to helping the shifters in any meaningful way, the Cardinal’s voice was often conspicuously silent. If Andri were a shifter, he wouldn’t think much of anyone who’d been sent by Riathan, either.

A tall shifter with black hair stood guarding the open tent flap. Vivid red and yellow tattoos twined up through the thick fur on both arms to disappear beneath a sleeveless leather jerkin. Twin scabbards rode his hips, and long fangs protruded over thin lips that pulled back in a grimace when he caught sight of Irulan.

“Thorn,” Irulan said, nodding her head at the larger shifter.

“Irulan,” he replied, returning the gesture but not looking especially pleased to see her. “I see you’ve returned from Flamekeep.”

“Yes. And I’ve brought a gift for Ostra, from the Keeper herself.”

“A gift? From the Keeper?” That got his attention. “What is it?”

“Not what. Who.” Irulan jabbed a thumb in Andri’s direction. “Him.”

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.”

“I’m a paladin, Irulan. I have no reason to fear the undead, if any truly do haunt this graveyard.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think we should rush off unprepared.”

Andri stopped in his tracks and turned to face Irulan. She’d been arguing with him since they left Ostra’s tent to purchase horses, saying they should question Kira’s brothers first, or Skunk’s old neighbors, to try and learn more. Ordinarily, he would agree, but Cairn Hill was two days’ hard ride to the south, and the longer they dallied, the more likely it was that Skunk would strike again. And the murdering bastard’s killing spree had gone on far too long already, beginning with his poor, defenseless wife.

Mindful of the shifters who moved about the camp or peered curiously at them from inside tents, he kept his voice low, but he could not hide his impatience. “Why are you so opposed to traveling to this hill? The undead hold no fear for those who follow the Flame, Irulan—you know that. If you are truly that frightened, then stay behind me. I will protect you.”

Irulan’s lips pulled back in a snarl, and she looked as if she were about to launch herself at him—and she probably would have, had they not already gathered a sizeable audience in the short time since they’d stopped walking.

“I don’t need your protection, you arrogant ratspawn,” she spat at him, her claws flexing at her sides. “I just don’t particularly want to walk into a trap because you’ve decided you need to avenge some weak-willed girl who didn’t have enough sense to get out of a bad situation while she still could.”

“This isn’t about Kira—” he began, but Irulan cut him off.

“Kira, Kira,” she parroted back at him. “Tell me, Andri—what’s my brother’s name?”

Andri opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.

He didn’t know.

Oh, he’d heard the name, surely, but he could not now recall it, or the names of any of the other accused. The victims, yes. He could rattle those names off in his sleep. But the ones still living, the ones he could still help—they were somehow less real to him, their plight less urgent.

Not so surprising I’d feel that way, he thought, since I’ve always believed the same was true of myself.

But these shifters deserved better from him than he’d ever be willing to do for himself. Irulan deserved better.

“You’re right, and I’m sorry. It’s just that this is our best lead—our only lead—and I want to follow up on it as quickly as possible. Every moment we delay could mean another death in Aruldusk.”

His apology seemed to appease Irulan. She expelled her anger in a long sigh and resumed walking. As Andri fell into step beside her, their audience dispersed, returning to their own business about the camp.

“I know this isn’t your fight, not really. How could it possibly mean as much to you as it does to me?”

They walked on in silence, and Andri tried to think of a way to respond. She was right. It wasn’t his fight. He wouldn’t even be here if the Keeper had not specifically asked him to come. But he was a paladin, sworn to uphold the rights of the innocent and essay the battles they could not. In that sense, every fight against injustice was his, this one included.

He was about to tell her that, when she said something so softly he didn’t quite catch it.

“What?”

She looked askance at him, and he was surprised to see she was blushing.

“It’s the horses,” she said again. “I hate horses, and I’m a horrible rider. And I know there’s no other way to get to Cairn Hill.”

“Wait.” Andri put his hand out, touching the soft fur of her arm to stop her. “You’re a ranger, and you don’t like horses?”

She gave him an embarrassed grin. “So? You’re a paladin and you don’t like Cardinals.”

He laughed at that.

“Come,” she said, pointing between two tents, though Andri’s nose could have told him they were nearing their destination if he’d been paying more attention. “We’re almost there.”

As they reached the corrals, Andri grabbed her arm one last time.

“Javi,” he said. “Your brother’s name is Javi.”

She rewarded him with a smile brighter than the sun.

They’d ultimately chosen to ride double on a heavy warhorse, not in small part due to the exorbitant prices the shifter handlers were asking—not that Andri couldn’t have paid the cost twice over without blinking, but it was the principle of the matter. He wouldn’t have paid that much for a Valenar stallion, let alone the Aundairian nags the shifters were trying to pawn off on them. But even more compelling than the lower cost was the horse itself—a chestnut stallion that stood a respectable sixteen hands, he was the only one in the lot that didn’t roll his eyes and shy away from Irulan’s obvious unease. Since Andri did not relish the thought of fighting a skittish mount all the way to Cairn Hill and back, he paid the shifter’s fee without haggling.

As it was, they spent the first day arguing over every stop he made to pray.

“We rush out of camp like the fiends of Khyber are on our heels, because ‘any delay could cost another life,’ and yet you have no qualms about stopping for an hour to pray a Mystery or two? That’s insane!”

“Irulan,” Andri replied as calmly as he could, given that he’d been trying to explain his reasoning to her almost since they mounted up. At least this time, she’d had the decency to let him finish the Fifth Mystery—Tira’s Sacrifice—before snapping at him. “I have to pray. It’s where I get my ability to heal and to turn back the undead. If there is anything lurking in that graveyard besides Skunk, then the more time I spend in prayer before we get there, the better. And we have to stop to give the horse a rest, and let him eat. Driving the poor beast into the ground won’t benefit anyone.”

“That’s all well and good, but we’re using up precious daylight! Unless you really want to get to a haunted burial ground and fight a feral shifter on his home territory after nightfall?” She tossed the remains of their short meal into her pack and went to stand by the horse, impatiently waiting for Andri to mount. “Why can’t you just pray while we’re riding?”

He hoisted her up into the saddle and climbed up after her before responding, with some alacrity, “I’ve been trying.”

After that, Irulan stopped complaining and they rode in silence, for which Andri offered up his unabashed thanks to the Flame.

Despite riding well past dusk and rising with the sun, limiting their stops, and driving the horse harder than Andri wanted, it was nearing evening on the second day when they spotted the hill. Not truly a cemetery, Cairn Hill was one of many places throughout Khorvaire where armies, too far from their own countries during the Last War to bear the fallen home, had instead buried their comrades on foreign soil. Since the end of the War, some families had come and erected small monuments in memory of their loved ones, but the majority of the graves were marked with simple piles of stones, some only a few feet high, and some as tall as a man.

As they neared, Irulan motioned for Andri to stop the horse. She jumped lightly from the stallion’s back and bent down close to the ground, examining the brush. She walked slowly to the left, kneeling at one point to grab a handful of earth that she sniffed deeply before letting it sift through her fingers. Andri was impatient to follow her and see what she had found, but he held his position, instead scanning the terrain ahead. The cairns were painted in rich shades of vermillion and scarlet on the west while their lengthening shadows stretched out to east, providing more than enough cover for someone to lie in wait. His eyes jumped from stone edifice to tombstone to marble statue, alert for any sign of movement. So focused was he that Irulan’s voice at his knee startled him.

“Shifter tracks,” said Irulan. “Less than a day old. Moving fast, and leading into the graveyard.”

Andri smiled. “We have him.”

“Maybe,” Irulan cautioned. “It could be another shifter. Even if it is Skunk, we have no way of knowing if he’s still in there. But just in case, you’d better leave the horse here and we’ll follow the tracks on foot. It’s getting dark, and I don’t want to miss anything.”

Andri readily agreed and dismounted, tying the horse to a small thicket and pulling his holy symbol out from beneath his armor. Then he unsheathed his father’s silver sword, its two large wolf eyes glinting redly in the last light of the dying sun.

“Let’s go.”

Andri followed Irulan into the graveyard, his eyes struggling to adjust as the sun set and night fell across the cairns. The area around the burial ground was quiet, though not eerily so. Wind still whispered through the high grasses that surrounded the small hill, night birds called to one another in the distance, and he could even hear an occasional whicker as their tethered horse voiced his displeasure at being left behind. But among the tombs themselves, there was little noise. Andri’s breathing sounded loud in his ears and his footfalls seemed to echo. Irulan, on the other hand, was as stealthy as her wolf forebears, a silent shadow moving against growing darkness that he lost sight of more than once.

Andri moved in the direction he thought she had taken, his eyes searching the area where he’d last seen her and not the ground in front of him. As he passed between a waist-high pile of stones and a weathered marble statue that might once have depicted Tira Miron, his foot caught on something soft and he stumbled forward, nearly losing his grip on his sword. Recovering quickly, he turned to see what had tripped him, calling silver flame to his blade with a word.

It was a net, half-stretched between the two grave markers. To one side, an uncoiled rope, hammer, and some stakes lay scattered on the ground, as if their owner had been disturbed in the middle of something.

Like setting a trap.

Even as the realization struck him, he felt a sudden chill and Irulan came loping toward him through the cairns.

“Run!”

But it was too late. Behind her, a desiccated corpse leapt from atop a crumbling statue, its twisted form weirdly illuminated by the flickering argent light of Andri’s sword. He caught a glimpse of the thing’s eyes, glowing red with malevolence, as it flew through the air and landed squarely in the middle of Irulan’s back, sending both of them tumbling through the dirt.

Wight.

Even as he called on the Silver Flame to rebuke the foul creature, the back of his neck tingled with sudden apprehension and he twisted out of the way as two leathery arms slammed down in the space where he had just been. Andri spun to face his own attacker.

Correction. Two wights.

And as the second undead creature lunged at him, he noted the scabbards still riding on both the thing’s hips and the red and yellow markings on its arms, and the awful realization hit him, worse than any physical blow.

Thorn.

Or what was left of him, anyway.

And then the wight lashed out at him with a heavy foot, sending him sprawling, and Andri was too busy fighting for his life to wonder how the shifter guard had come to be there.

He climbed to his feet, his blade tracing a path of fire in front of him as he readied himself. And then he charged.

“For the Flame!”

Chapter
EIGHT

Sul, Therendor 22, 998 YK

Greddark urged his mount up a small rise and caught sight of a shimmer in the distance that could only be Lake Arul, reflecting the light of the warm afternoon sun. Though he was too far away from Aruldusk to hear the city’s signature carillons, he guessed the time was just past the second bell. He reined in the mare he’d purchased from one of the few merchants still open on the weekly Day of Cleansing—a fact which allowed the impious man to charge Greddark a ridiculous price. But she was docile and fairly nimble, he reflected as he led the horse back down the rise. She might actually be worth half of what he’d paid for her.

He dismounted and tethered the mare to a small, stunted tree. He climbed back up the knoll, crouching low when he reached the crest so as not to stand out against the skyline. Pulling a spyglass out from his long coat, he surveyed the shoreline. He located the compound easily. With a high palisade that encompassed a large house, a sizeable stable, a corral, several barns and outbuildings, and at least a hundred acres of rangeland, he would have to be blind to miss it. Damn. He had hoped he might be able to walk into the compound without being noticed, but the stockade thoroughly quashed that overly optimistic plan.

As Greddark scrutinized the wooden fortification, he saw no sentries, though the timbers themselves were sharpened and tipped with iron. Telltale blue sparks arced between the iron spikes, revealing the existence of lightning-based wards meant to keep both predators from entering and livestock from escaping. The high gates were open and seemed to be untended, though he had no doubt that the entrance to the compound was ensorcelled. Still, if you weren’t interested in announcing your arrival, it was much easier to get around spells of warding than a bevy of gate guards.

Especially if you were a member of the same House that operated the Warding Guild.

Though he spent long moments examining the gates through the glass, without getting up close and personal—which he certainly wasn’t going to risk in the middle of the day—there was no way he could determine which type of ward they might be using.

Well, no matter. He’d find another way in.

He turned his attention back to the palisade, watching the faint white flashes that jumped from tip to tip like miniature lightning bolts. He had tried to bypass similar wards only once before, with disastrous results. He was hoping he wouldn’t need to try it again, but he’d have to study the spell mechanism more closely to figure out how, and it was going to take some time. More time than he was comfortable spending so close to the road, exposed to anyone who might be coming along behind him from Aruldusk.

Greddark crept back down the knoll and untied the mare, leading her north, away from the muddy track but parallel to the stockade. After about a mile, he found a small copse where the horse could rest unseen while he continued his perusal.

Climbing one of the taller, sturdier trees in the thicket, he picked a spot on a branch, pulled out his glass and bit of jerky, and settled in to watch and wait.

An hour later, Greddark saw what he’d been waiting for. A flock of birds flew in from the west, heading for the fresh water of the lake. Thirty feet up, they cawed back and forth to each other as they passed over the stockade, blissfully unaware of the fiery death that sparked along the metal tips below them. A straggler, its wing trailing awkwardly as if it had been injured, flew lower than the others, perhaps fifteen feet above the tops of the timbers.

Too close.

Like a wick dipped in oil and dangled too near a lit candle, the bird’s wingtip brushed the top of the invisible barrier and burst into flame. The unlucky fowl was consumed within seconds and hurtled to the ground behind the stockade, a smoking ball of fire and feathers.

So. He would not be going over the barricade. There was likely an approach on the lake side. Though he hadn’t been able to see far enough to determine if there were docks, he had to assume the Vadalis handlers had chosen this location because they trafficked in aquatic as well as earthbound animals. He also had to assume that any approach from the water would be just as well warded as the palisade itself. In any event, it was too far around—he didn’t have the time to circumnavigate the compound and then search for a way in. Nor did he have time to try and go beneath the wooden stockade.

That left only one option, short of marching up to the gate, knocking and introducing himself.

He was going to have to go through the warded timbers. Damn.

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.”

Chapter
NINE

Sul, Therendor 22, 998 YK

As Andri lunged at the wight that had once been the shifter Thorn, he heard Irulan cursing and scrambling to her feet behind him.

“Don’t let it touch you!” the paladin called out, not daring to take his eyes off the undead monstrosity before him.

“Now he tells me,” he heard her mutter as her blade cleared its scabbard.

Then he had no more time to worry about the shifter woman, for the wight before him was barreling forward, thick arms raised for another blow.

With a quick prayer, Andri brought his sword up to parry the wight’s attack, the argent flames burning away what was left of the hair on the undead shifter’s forearms. With a weird, ululating cry, the wight recoiled, pulling its arms away from the holy fire and flashing its fangs in an angry grimace.

Andri pressed the attack, taking advantage of the wight’s fear to beat it back. As it stumbled over loose rocks from a broken cairn, Andri moved in to finish it off. Raising his sword, he intoned, “May the Flame have mercy on your soul, wherever it is,” and drove the blade downward toward the wight’s unprotected chest.

And was knocked three feet to the side as Irulan’s limp body came flying through the air and crashed into him, sending him and his sword in opposite directions.

Both he and the undead shifter scrambled to their feet. Irulan, obviously weakened by the other wight’s attack, lay panting where she had landed at the foot of a statue of Dol Arrah.

A quick glance told Andri the Thorn-wight would reach him before he could get to his sword. Knowing he had no other choice, he invoked the healing power of the Silver Flame and readied himself for the wight’s assault.

Now that the wight no longer had to fear the silver flames of Andri’s weapon, the creature abandoned all caution and charged. As it neared, Andri opened his arms wide, as if to embrace the undead shifter. The force of the wight’s rush knocked him to the ground again, but instead of trying to get away, Andri wrapped his arms tight about the thing’s leathery chest and let the divine healing force of the Flame flow through his hands and out from his fingers.

The wight screamed in agony as the holy energy coursed through it. Meant to restore living flesh, the paladin’s healing power washed over the undead shifter in a wave of pure silver light, eradicating the false life that had animated it and leaving its desiccated skin and bones crumbling to dust in Andri’s arms.

Climbing to his feet once more, Andri saw the other wight bending over Irulan’s supine form. Willing the shifter woman the courage to hold on, he sprinted over to retrieve his sword. Recalling the argent fire that had guttered and gone out as soon as the blade was separated from his hand, Andri hoisted the flaming weapon and rushed toward the unnatural creature.

“Get away from her!”

The wight turned its head, baring its sharp teeth in an evil grin before slamming one fist down in the middle of Irulan’s chest. Andri could hear the dull crack of ribs breaking and the sudden gurgling gasp that indicated a punctured lung. Worse, the thing was draining Irulan’s life with every blow, its corpse-pale face becoming flush with her stolen essence.

Andri knew she couldn’t withstand much more. With a desperate cry, he called upon the holy Flame once more to rebuke the creature.

“In the name of the Silver Flame, I abjure thee!”

Miraculously, the wight hesitated. In the split second it took the thing to shrug off Andri’s feeble attempt to turn it, the paladin covered the remaining distance between them and swung his blade with all the strength of his faith and his fear for Irulan. The wight’s head, severed cleanly from its body, sailed across the graveyard to land atop a rock cairn, then tumbled down the stone slope to land facing him, its sightless eyes staring.

Andri pushed its headless body away from Irulan and knelt down beside her. He’d already used up most of the healing energy he had to kill the first wight. He prayed that the Flame would grant him enough to keep the shifter woman alive.

“O benevolent and merciful Flame, I beseech thee on behalf of this shifter woman, a stout warrior and a true friend. Allow me the grace to heal her so that she may continue to fight evil and bring others to the faith.”

He placed both hands lightly on her chest, palms down, directly over her broken ribs and pierced lung. Closing his eyes, he felt a rush of warmth as the power of the Silver Flame channeled through him, pouring into the shifter’s body to knit broken bone and mend torn tissue. Even as the energy coursed through him, he knew it would not restore the life the wight had drained from her, but that would come in time. It was enough, now, to know that she would not die.

As the power faded, he opened his eyes. Some color had returned to Irulan’s cheeks, and the rise and fall of her chest was steady and unlabored. With a grateful sigh, he sagged against a tombstone. Now all he had to do was wait for her to wake up.

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?

As it turned out, two days wasn’t enough. They were within sight of Aruldusk’s walls on the morning of the third day and still, every time Andri tried to bring the subject up, Irulan pleaded fatigue or faintness. It wasn’t entirely a charade, Andri knew—the wight had drained part of her life essence, and it was going to take time for her to fully recover, even with the aid of Andri’s healing. But she was dodging the issue. And, while he couldn’t blame her, they had to come to some consensus on how to deal with the shifters, or his only recourse would be to inform the Keeper that Maellas’s suspicions had been correct all along.

Irulan reacted with predictable outrage at the suggestion.

“You can’t be serious! You would be handing him the very thing he wants most on a silver platter, complete with garnish!”

Riding in front of him as she was, Andri couldn’t see her expression, but he could feel the tautness of her anger vibrating through her slim form.

“I don’t want to give the Bishop a reason for his prejudice any more than you do, Irulan, but we can’t just ignore what happened. Why would Ostra set a trap for us if he weren’t guilty, or at least complicit? If you don’t want me to go to straight to the Church with this, then give me another option.”

Irulan was spared from answering by the sound of bells in the distance, the deep, insistent ringing that signaled an emergency.

As Andri spurred his mount into a hard gallop, Irulan turned her head, grabbing her braids to keep them from scouring his face and exchanging a worried glance with him. They both knew without speaking what the nature of the emergency must be.

There had been another murder.

Chapter
TEN

Sul, Therendor 22, 998 YK

Greddark froze.

“Good,” said the voice. “You’re smarter than you look. Now put that damned spike down—slowly!—and get off my son!”

Kyrin’s father.

Wonderful.

Greddark complied, slowly lowering the bloodspike to the floor and releasing it with difficulty from his crippled hand. He levered himself up and away from the handler with his good arm, sneaking a glance over at the speaker as he did so. A large man, easily a head taller than the six men arrayed on either side of him with crossbows cocked and aimed straight at Greddark. Bald, with a copper and silver beard and a golden House Vadalis hippogriff hanging around his neck on a thick chain. The Mark of Handling snaked across his scalp, down both sides of his neck and beneath his shirt, only to reappear at his wrists and across the backs of both hands.

The head of the compound and an heir of Siberys.

This just kept getting better and better.

Kyrin scrambled to his feet.

“Father! He killed Sharihon!”

The elder d’Vadalis turned cold green eyes on his son.

“I see that. Now suppose you tell me what she was doing out of her cage?”

His words quivered with rage, and Kyrin took an unconscious step backward.

“Well? Nothing to say? Maybe your two-crown doxy will tell me, then.” He gestured, and one of his men dragged Gaida in through the now open barn door, her face streaked with tears and a large red mark on her cheek that looked like a handprint. The man threw her to the ground in front of Kyrin’s father, where she collapsed in a weeping heap.

“Father, I—”

“Enough!” he snarled, silencing his son with a dark look. D’Vadalis turned to Greddark. “How about you, dwarf? I’m sure you must have something to add to this tale.”

Greddark drew himself up to his full height, struggling to look professional and competent when all he really wanted to do was thrust his forearm in a barrel of ice-cold water to numb the screaming nerves.

“I am Greddark d’Kundarak, an inquisitive in the employ of one of Aruldusk’s noble houses. I’ve been asked to investigate the murders that have been plaguing the city. During my examination of the body of the latest victim, Demodir Imaradi, I discovered a sword wound hidden by the bite marks of a great cat. When I learned that Kyrin not only had such a creature in his care, but was also one of Demodir’s rivals for the young lady’s”—he nodded toward Gaida—“affections, I naturally wanted to question him.”

“Naturally,” the elder d’Vadalis muttered, but Greddark continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“When I tried to speak to Kyrin, he set the ghost tiger on me. I had no choice but to defend myself, with rather … unfortunate results. During the ensuing struggle, Kyrin admitted to murdering Imaradi. I—”

“I heard.”

“—am therefore obligated to turn him over to the Arulduskan authorities.” Greddark paused to let his words sink in, then added, “Unless you can offer me a better alternative.”

Dealing with fugitives from other dragonmarked Houses was always tricky. Despite what they might profess in public or to the government of whatever country they resided in, very few House heads acknowledged any authority other than their own, especially on their own property. And then there was always the risk of inciting an inter-House war if both the hunted and the hunter were well-known scions. That was one reason inquisitives and bounty hunters from the dragonmarked Houses often refused to go after fugitives from other Houses. Of course, Greddark didn’t have to worry about that. House Kundarak wasn’t likely to go to war over him, as Baron Morrikan had made abundantly clear when he had Greddark expelled from the Twelve. But it made for a tricky political situation, nonetheless. Who knew when some lesser scion with more ambition than sense would decide to use just such an altercation to stir up trouble?

Greddark just hoped d’Vadalis would take the out he was presenting and offer to subject Kyrin to House justice. Having been on the receiving end of such justice himself, Greddark knew it to be far more brutal than any punishment that could be meted out by the courts of Thrane.

D’Vadalis barked out a short, mirthless laugh.

“You’ve got guts, dwarf, I’ll give you that much. You trespass on my property, threaten my son, and kill an animal meant for the courts of King Boranel of Breland—one whose training was paid for in advance, I might add—and you actually have the temerity to ask me to make your life easier?”

Greddark shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. Inside, his heart was pounding as he ran through the options he’d have left if d’Vadalis didn’t agree to either release Kyrin into his custody or bring his son before a House inquiry. The choices were few. None of them were pleasant.

“Your son is a confessed murderer. Your life isn’t going to get any easier, regardless of what you do to me. My partner back in Aruldusk has the same information I do. If I don’t return—with or without Kyrin—he’ll go to Bishop Maellas himself. I don’t think Vadalis wants a war with the Church in the middle of Thrane, but perhaps that’s something you’d like to take up with your House patriarch. Not to mention what might happen if Baron Morrikan d’Kundarak decided to get involved.”

D’Vadalis scowled. “You’re bluffing.”

“Can you afford to take that risk?”

He and d’Vadalis glared at each other, like two old bulls sizing each other up before a charge. Greddark’s right arm throbbed in time with his too-fast pulse, every beat bringing fresh agony. He could no longer feel his fingers. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be needing them if d’Vadalis killed him and fed his remains to some magebred carnivore. No one but Zoden would ever even suspect his fate, and what would the flighty bard be able to do about it, anyway? Go to Maellas? The Bishop would laugh the noble out of his office before having him clapped in irons and left to rot in prison with the shifters. At least, that’s what he would do, if he were the elf Bishop.

Greddark forced his wandering thoughts back to d’Vadalis, though the pain and blood loss were making him feel faint, almost giddy. He focused on the bald man’s pupils—deep black against verdant green. He refused to look away or blink, willing d’Vadalis to back down. He knew his own eyes must be wide and wild, and the thought of what he probably looked like—feral hair, lunatic eyes, awash in blood—brought an absurd chuckle to his lips, but he swallowed it down like bile. If he broke now, he was as good as dead.

Finally, d’Vadalis looked away.

“No,” he answered with a heavy sigh, though Greddark couldn’t help but feel it had more to do with losing the dwarf’s challenge than with Kyrin’s fate, a suspicion which the man’s next words only confirmed. “Unfortunately, thanks to my idiot son, I can’t.”

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.”

Greddark left the compound first thing in the morning. He’d wanted to depart after the scene in the dining room, but he knew with his arm freshly mended, he was in no shape to try and guide his horse over the rough track back to Aruldusk, with no guarantee that they’d open the gates for him when he got there.

He walked the short distance to the thicket where he’d left the mare tethered. Even before he got there, he knew something was wrong.

The horse was gone.

Suspecting d’Vadalis’s hand in this new development, he approached the copse cautiously, his sword out and ready. When he got to his former hiding place, though, he saw he needn’t have worried. The horse’s disappearance had not been a result of House Vadalis vengeance, or even of an attack by some roaming predator, but rather of his own poor horsemanship. The mare had chewed through her too-slack tether, and her tracks led north, toward Lake Arul, and fresh water.

He pulled out his spyglass, but the mount was long out of sight—along with all the food in his saddle bags. He knew he’d lose days trying to follow her—days he didn’t have, since he didn’t want Zoden to starve to death while slumbering under the effects of the potent dwarven soporific Greddark had administered.

No, he’d have to walk, and even then, he was probably going to be facing a very angry client when he got back to Aruldusk. If he didn’t starve to death himself along the way.

The trip took him four days. When he finally reached the shifter tent city outside of Aruldusk, he paid a small fortune for a handful of restorative potions from their resident healer—the Jorasco halfling had done a piss-poor job. He was just slamming one back when warning bells started to ring inside the city walls. He realized what the sound must mean.

Another murder.

And on the heels of that thought, a flash of fear.

Zoden.

With a curse, he began to run, praying that he wasn’t already too late.

Chapter
ELEVEN

Wir, Therendor 25, 998 YK

The city bells were ringing.

There’s been another murder!

Zoden’s eyes snapped open, and he felt a moment of disorientation as he looked at fuzzy wooden staves jutting out of ground as blue as the sea. Then he blinked and the room came into focus. He realized that he was lying on the floor of his study, looking at the underside of his table and chairs. And that the chiming noise he had heard was not the city’s warning carillon, but his own alarm spell.

Someone was trying to get in.

He tried to sit up and felt his stomach lurch violently in protest, even as the room began to tilt. He turned his head to the side and vomited sour bile onto the threadbare Brelish carpet.

Surprisingly, after he’d emptied his stomach, he felt a little better, even hungry. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. A few hours? It was dark out, and Aryth shone full and fiery through the study window.

Wait. Surely that wasn’t right? The moon known as the Gateway would not be full for another three nights yet.

His second attempt to sit was more successful, and when he found he could stay upright for more than a few seconds without being overcome with nausea, he used the chair and the table legs to pull himself into a standing position. As he did, he felt something sting his neck. He slapped it away clumsily, only to realize it was not some nuisance insect, but a bloodspike.

Greddark.

The inquisitive had drugged him—that would explain the lost time.

But why?

To keep him out of harm’s way, no doubt. Unfortunately, it seemed harm had come to find him anyway, and was even now forcing its way through his front door.

He pulled his sword from the scabbard he’d left hanging on the back of his chair and stumbled to the study door. Greddark had told him not to try and go out once the wards were set. The dwarf had rigged some sort of petrification spell to catch any intruders in the act.

A spell that didn’t appear to be working, judging from the sound of the knob being twisted and torn from the wood.

Zoden arrived in the foyer just as the door flew wide.

A blonde shifter stood there, amber eyes blazing out of the shadows, clothes hanging from him in shreds. At his feet, a gray wolf looked back toward the street.

No, not a gray wolf. A statue.

Greddark’s spell had worked after all.

There was something strange about the shifter, but Zoden’s thoughts were still swimming from whatever had been in the bloodspike, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He shouldn’t be so hairy, should he?

Before Zoden could pinpoint what was wrong with the intruder, the shifter stepped across the threshold, activating another of Greddark’s traps. A dozen crossbow bolts slammed into the shifter—six in his chest, two in each thigh, one in his stomach and one in his throat—knocking him back out onto the porch.

With a growl, the shifter pulled the bolts out of his body, snapping them in half and tossing them behind him into the yard. Zoden watched in dread as the bloodless wounds left by the quarrels sealed of their own accord, leaving the shifter angry but unharmed.

Not a shifter.

A werewolf.

Of course. That wasn’t a shadow slicing across his face, but a long snout jutting out from below a sharply sloping forehead. Thick blonde fur didn’t just cover his head, cheeks and forearms, but his entire body, from tufts of hair on his pointed ears to the tip of a bushy tail that lashed back and forth behind him in anticipation. And not even a longtooth shifter had fangs that large.

Fangs that Zoden remembered well.

At the sound of his horrified gasp, the werewolf looked up and caught sight of him. He smiled.

“Hello, Zoden. Time for you to join your brother.”

With a strength born of desperation, Zoden lifted his sword and charged. The werewolf made no attempt to avoid his blow, laughing as the length of metal slid into his gut.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Zoden.”

The werewolf reached out and grabbed the blade with both hands, yanking it from the bard’s grasp. He pulled it slowly back out of his stomach, hand over hand, grinning all the while. When he’d removed the sword completely, he hefted it in one hand, flashing it in the light from the foyer to demonstrate that it was still clean. Then he threw the useless weapon to one side with another laugh.

“Care to try something else? No?” The lycanthrope stepped aside, gesturing to the yard and the open gate beyond. “Then you’d best take my advice—run.”

Zoden didn’t need a written invitation. He bolted past the werewolf and down the front stairs, nearly falling as he struggled to get his leaden legs to move the way they were supposed to. As he headed for the open street, he considered crying out for help, but knew it would do no good—in a city gripped by terror, no one was going to brave the dark to aid a neighbor, for fear of becoming a victim themselves.

He was on his own.

Zoden ran for the Imaradis’ home two streets over, knowing even as he did so that he’d never make it.

The werewolf brought him down before he’d gone more than a dozen paces, leaping onto his back and sending him sprawling, face-down, in the street. The werewolf tore at the nape of his neck, coming away with a mouthful of cloak that he spit out in disgust. Zoden could feel the thing’s hot breath against the side of his face, as the lycanthrope bent close. His jaws dripped drool onto the ground as he whispered in Zoden’s ear.

“You could have died like a man on the rail, but you ran then, too. Now you’re going to die just like your brother did, weeping and pissing in your pants like a frightened child.”

No!

With an enraged cry, Zoden summoned every bit of strength he had left and thrust himself away from the ground, throwing the werewolf off him and rolling onto his back. Unable to stand, he scrabbled backward on all fours, trying to put as much distance between him and his attacker as possible.

The lycanthrope landed lightly on his feet and stalked after him, the moonlight catching his fur and making it glow like fire.

Host! What was he going to do? He had no way of hurting the lycanthrope, and the lingering effects of Greddark’s drug made any hope of flight impossible.

It looked like he was going to be joining his brother tonight, after all.

He almost laughed as the werewolf advanced on him. He’d wanted this confrontation, wanted the chance to prove himself, to claim the hero’s death that Zodal had stolen from him that night—was it only three weeks ago? And now look at him, scuttling across the rutted street like some misshapen crab, his hand and legs tangling in his precious scarlet cloak.

His cloak.

Of course!

He stopped trying to flee and sat down hard on the ground, one hand reaching up to loosen the pin still lodged in the folds of his ruined cloak.

It had been a gift from Zodal when he’d first joined the Throneholders, its head shaped like a tiny wyvern to symbolize their loyalty to Diani. His brother had thought it ironic to have the pin made of the very metal that epitomized the Church Zoden so ridiculed—silver.

The werewolf stood over him now, gloating.

“Get up. Die on your feet like the man you profess to be. Or would you rather do as your brother did, and die on your back like a coward?”

“My brother was no coward!” Zoden bellowed, trying to surge to his feet, the pin grasped tightly in his hand. “He was a hero, facing a death meant for me!”

Still wobbly, Zoden couldn’t quite stand. He stumbled and went down on one knee. Mustering strength from some heretofore unguessed-at inner reserve, Zoden lunged forward and stabbed the silver wyvern deep into the werewolf’s thigh.

Roaring in agony, the werewolf reached down and tore the cloak pin from his flesh, his warm blood spurting in Zoden’s face. He grabbed the bard’s head, one clawed hand on either side, and twisted. Zoden heard a snap that echoed through the quiet street.

As both pain and awareness faded, the last lines of the poem Zoden had been working on flitted through his mind.

“No more cheap honor to defend,
The bard welcomes his fated end
His guilt and grief all proven lies,
A coward—now a hero—dies.”

It was, he thought, a fitting epitaph. And then the darkness closed in. Warm, welcoming, and permanent.

Chapter
TWELVE

Zor, Therendor 26, 998 YK

Irulan felt her pulse pounding in her throat as they galloped through the shifter camp toward the gates of Aruldusk. Shifters, awakened by the early morning bells, scattered out of their way as they thundered past, and she didn’t blame them. Flame-burned horses, she thought as she gripped the saddle horn with both hands. If she wanted to be astride something that moved this swiftly, she’d take her chances on the roof of a lightning rail cart. At least elementals didn’t step into snake holes at breakneck speeds and kill themselves, along with their hapless riders.

As they neared the East Gate, she realized that the guards were not going to see Andri riding behind her in the saddle. Since Andri had chivalrously insisted that she ride in front of him, the guards were going to think some crazy shifter was barreling toward them on a warhorse for the Flame only knew what reason. They would feather her full of arrows first and check papers later.

“Andri! Slow down!”

She ducked as she yelled, pressing herself against the horse’s neck and trying to make Andri as visible as possible. As she felt the steed’s muscles surge beneath her—gaining speed, if anything—she realized she was also making him a perfect target.

Well, she thought, wrinkling her nose at the heavy scent of equine sweat, at least he’s wearing armor.

“Hold!”

Andri pulled the horse up just short of the gate, stopping so abruptly that she might have flown over the stallion’s neck if Andri hadn’t reached out and grabbed a handful of her tunic.

“What’s your business?”

Andri pulled out Riathan’s letter and passed it to the guard, the horse prancing in response to his impatience.

“I’m on the Cardinal’s urgent business, and you are delaying me.”

The guard read the letter over quickly, but stood his ground.

“What about her?” he said, gesturing to Irulan.

Andri, his fingers still bunched in her tunic, hauled her up unceremoniously into a sitting position. “She’s with me.”

“The letter doesn’t say anything about a shifter.”

Though Irulan couldn’t see the paladin’s face, she felt him go still.

“The letter,” he said, enunciating each word with painstaking clarity, “says that you are to render whatever aid I require. And I require that you stop acting like a fool and let us through—now.”

He spoke as if to a small child or a simpleton, though Irulan couldn’t imagine him ever using such a furious voice with anyone so innocent. And while a simpleton might have known enough to obey the tone, if not the words, this guard didn’t appear to be quite that smart.

“What’s going on here?”

Another guard in Thrane livery walked up—a captain, by the looks of him.

The gate guard showed him Andri’s letter.

“He wants to bring the shifter in.”

The captain perused the letter, his eyes widening slightly as he read. He stood up straighter.

“And you’re going to let him.”

“But—”

“Your pardon, my lord,” the captain said, raising his voice and glaring the other soldier into silence. “Hal is new to the guard and apparently has never seen the Diet crest before. Please forgive us for delaying you.”

“Of course,” Andri said, with icy politeness. “There’s been another murder?”

The captain nodded, handing the letter back to Andri.

“Yes, my Lord. In the Garden District, I believe, though I don’t know anything more than that. We’ve just been alerted to watch for shifters trying to leave the city.” He glanced at Irulan. At least he had the grace to look uncomfortable.

“Which explains perfectly why your man is trying to prevent one from entering,” Andri said, obviously still angry. He slapped the horse lightly with the reins to get it moving and maneuvered around the guards and through the gates without another word.

Behind them, Irulan heard the captain say, in a low voice, “Send a runner to the Bishop. Now.”

“Andri.”

“I heard. We can’t worry about that now. What’s the quickest way to the Garden District?”

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.”

Irulan went to inform Andri about their new partner as d’Kundarak continued on into the house to look for more clues and gather whatever belongings he might have left there. As she approached the paladin, she saw he was in a heated discussion with an old priestess who wore the blue and yellow of the Sovereign Host. The robes hung off her gaunt frame, and her weathered skin and graying hair suggested a frailty belied by her angry expression.

“… and I’m telling you,” Andri was saying, “that I’ve been given the authority to override the prohibition against necromancy, by the Cardinals themselves.”

The woman spat on the ground. “I don’t give a damn about your letter,” she said. “I live here, in Aruldusk, where Maellas is the law. He has issued an edict that no one is to attempt to revive the murder victims, even those few of us who have a legitimate right to use such spells. If I go against him to do this for you, I might as well join this boy in his grave. The only reason I’m even here is because Zoden was one of ours, and I’ll not see you Flamers burn his body before his mother even gets to say her goodbyes.”

“If the Bishop attempts to have you punished for following my orders, the Keeper herself will have him censured.”

The priestess laughed. “Lot of good that will do me when I’m dead.”

Irulan could see that Andri was getting frustrated with the woman’s cynicism. If the paladin had summoned a priestess of the Host, knowing what Maellas’s reaction was going to be, he must believe it was the only way to get the answers they needed. But the Bishop had to be on his way here already. If they were going to do this, it had to be now.

“Excuse me, Old Mother,” she said. It was a shifter honorific for the wise women of their tribes, and she knew the priestess would recognize it, for she wore Balinor’s symbol about her neck—twin antlers, one brown and one red.

The priestess turned, her demeanor relaxing somewhat. She no doubt thought Irulan was a follower of the Host like herself.

“Yes, daughter? How can I help you?”

“It’s really a question of how we can help you,” Irulan replied, wondering how Andri was going to react to her next words. She just hoped he’d hold his anger in check until after the priestess had done her work.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Irulan had seen Aruldusk’s small temple dedicated to the Host. Like the Garden District, it was a holdout for people who refused to give in to the Flame. And, as such, it was in a state of continual disrepair—the offerings of its poor worshippers were not nearly enough to pay for the building’s upkeep. She’d yet to meet a cleric who wouldn’t appreciate a large contribution, especially with a crumbling temple and a dwindling congregation. If this priestess wouldn’t help them in the name of the Silver Flame, she’d certainly do it in the name of the silver sovereign.

“We know that the Host has fallen on hard times in Aruldusk, with few worshippers and even fewer offerings. We’re prepared to make a sizeable … donation to the temple in exchange for your questioning the bard.”

Luckily, the woman was looking at her, and so didn’t see Andri’s expression.

“Are you trying to bribe me, daughter?” the priestess asked, her tone soft and dangerous.

“Of course not, Old Mother,” Irulan replied with a smile that showed the sharp tips of her teeth. “We merely want you to know we recognize the value of your service to the community.”

“Oh? And what would you say my service is worth?”

Irulan risked a quick glance at Andri, willing him not to erupt. She’d seen how much money he carried on him, over and above what he had access to through the Cardinal’s letter. The figure she had in mind shouldn’t set him back much.

She hoped.

“Five platinum dragons?”

She wasn’t sure who spluttered loudest, the priestess or Andri.

The priestess regained her composure first and turned back to Andri with a swish of gold and sapphire.

“That’s a lot of money,” she said, clearly tempted. “Is it worth that much to you, paladin?”

Andri spoke through clenched teeth, though the look he gave Irulan was murderous. “It is.”

“Very well, then. I will do this, to help bring Zoden’s murderer to justice, but I must have your word that you will accept the responsibility for violating Maellas’s edict.”

“Done.” With another angry look at Irulan, Andri reached toward his belt.

“Wait.” Irulan moved to interpose herself between the paladin and the crowd. Though they were far enough away from the throng that they didn’t need to worry that their conversation might be overheard, fishing in one’s pouch for coins was a universal gesture that didn’t require words to be interpreted. It was bad enough that they were going to defy the ban on necromancy, but if they were seen paying for it by half the citizens of Aruldusk, not even Jaela Daran would be able to save them.

When she was sure the exchange couldn’t be seen, she nodded to Andri to continue. He dug the dragons out and offered them to the priestess, who turned the silvery coins over reverently a few times before pocketing them. Irulan wondered if the other woman had ever held that much money before. Irulan certainly never had, and likely never would, unless Andri decided to make her pay him back.

Which he probably would do once he found out she’d also hired the dwarf with his money. That, or string her up. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

The priestess knelt beside Zoden’s corpse, pulling the scarlet cloak back to his waist. She drew a vial of dark red liquid from within her robes and drew a simplified skull on his lips, throat, and chest. Irulan was startled to realize it was a symbol of the Keeper, part of the Sovereign Host’s dark pantheon and the lord of death and decay. The priestess began a low chant in a language Irulan didn’t recognize, making arcane passes over the bard’s body. As the woman’s hands glowed faintly with a dark light, Irulan wondered just which one of the Sovereign gods this priestess actually worshipped. But then Zoden’s eyes snapped open and he drew a harsh, gasping breath, and Irulan took an involuntary step back. Her own aversion was echoed distantly by low murmuring from the crowd.

“Quickly,” the priestess said, gritting her teeth with the effort of the spell. “Ask your questions, but carefully. He will take everything you say literally and will respond in kind.”

“Zoden ir’Marktaros,” Andri said, his tone both solemn and full of distaste. “Tell me what happened to you.”

“Was it a shifter who killed you?” Irulan asked, almost at the same time, garnering another glare from the paladin.

Zoden seemed not to hear her. “I was murdered. My neck broken. But not before I stabbed him, in the leg. The sword and the arrows didn’t hurt him, but my cloak pin did.”

“Your cloak pin?” Andri asked, clearly puzzled by the corpse’s response. “Why would your cloak pin hurt him, when your weapons didn’t?”

“It was made of silver.”

Irulan’s eyes widened.

“Who killed—” Andri began, but Irulan overrode him.

“What killed you?”

Zoden’s eyes moved in their sockets to focus on her. “A werewolf.”

“What color was its fur?” Irulan asked, ignoring Andri’s signal to stop.

“Light. Maybe white. Or yellow.” “Irulan.”

“Did it—”

“Irulan!”

Satisfied that he’d gotten her attention, Andri made a sharp slashing gesture across his throat and then resumed his own line of questioning.

“Zoden, do you know—” he began, but it was too late. Maellas had arrived, with Xanin in tow. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

“Enough! How dare you defy the Bishop’s edict!” Xanin was fuming, a regular fountain of self-righteous vitriol, but Maellas just looked … tired. “Guards, seize them!”

In the whirlwind of activity and motion that followed, Irulan was dimly aware of several things. The guards taking her and Andri’s weapons and binding their arms. Greddark being arrested along with them, having apparently returned sometime during the interrogation; guilty by association. And Zoden, still talking, not answering Andri’s last half-asked question, but rambling on incoherently as the priestess was dragged away by soldiers and began to lose control of her spell.

“Zodal … is that you? I’m sorry I got you killed, little brother, but I’ve made it up to you now. Now you can be at peace. Now we both can.”

The light dimmed in Zoden’s eyes as the last vestiges of the priestess’s spell faded, but he was able to whisper one last, relieved word.

“Finally.”

Their incarceration didn’t last long. Instead of ushering them to the dungeons, the Bishop, his Ancillary, Margil Ravadanci, and two dozen members of the city watch escorted them to the East Gate, accompanied by a crowd of curious onlookers eager to see the blasphemers punished.

At the gate, the Bishop had his men release them, returning their weapons and their horse. Andri’s trunk was even waiting there for them, fetched by two quick guards from the Golden Galifar.

Walking stiffly, Maellas took his place between them and the gate. The morning sun limned his figure with golden light and made his white-blonde hair shine like a halo. Irulan had no doubt the elf had chosen the position for just that reason. No one could say the clergy of the Silver Flame weren’t consummate showmen. Then Xanin joined him, spoiling the effect.

“Andri Aeyliros of Flamekeep, Irulan Silverclaw of Aruldusk,” the Ancillary Bishop paused for the barest moment, and Ravadanci leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Greddark d’Kundarak of Sigilstar and Vidora Altaner of Aruldusk, for crimes against the—”

“No!” Andri interjected. “Not the priestess. She acted under duress, and cannot be held responsible for flouting the law.”

One of the soldiers made as if to cuff him across the mouth for his impertinence, but the Bishop’s aide held up a hand to stop him.

“You threatened her?” Ravadanci asked, forestalling Xanin’s angry response with another whisper.

“I … encouraged her,” the paladin replied, his unwillingness to lie leaving him with very few options. Irulan hid a wince. Andri’s integrity was going to get the priestess punished right along with them.

The aide turned to the priestess. “Is this true?”

Vidora Altaner wisely did not share Andri’s compunctions.

“Yes, my lady. He had the city guard drag me from my temple and told me he’d have me arrested or worse if I didn’t do what he wanted.” The gray-haired woman threw herself into the embellishment. “I would never have gone against His Excellency’s edict if this one hadn’t threatened me, but what could I do? He is a great paladin, claiming authority from the very Cardinals themselves, and I am simply a weak cleric who—”

“That’s enough,” Ravadanci interrupted the woman before she could overplay her part. After another whispered exchange with Xanin and Maellas, she gestured to the guards. “Vidora Altaner, you are free to go. These men will see you back to your temple.”

The priestess bowed her head in thanks, not even glancing at Andri as she made good her escape from whatever fate still awaited them. Though Irulan doubted Altaner would really get off that easily, now that she knew Zoden’s killer had been a lycanthrope and not a shifter. Making that information public would bring all the previous arrests—and Maellas’s judgment—into question, something the prelate would surely not allow. Then again, if the priestess was actually a secret disciple of the Dark Six, she’d have her own reasons for keeping silent. No, Irulan decided, Altaner would probably be just fine.

An observation, unfortunately, that did not apply to the rest of them. As the Ancillary Bishop resumed his proclamation, Irulan wondered if Andri would try to get the dwarf excused as well, but the paladin made no further protests as Xanin pronounced their sentence. Maellas said nothing, merely shaking his head sadly.

“Andri Aeyliros, Irulan Silverclaw, and Greddark d’Kundarak, for crimes against the Silver Flame—namely blasphemy, necromancy, and keeping a soul from its rightful place within the peace of the Flame—I do hereby banish you forthwith and forevermore from the city of Aruldusk. Should you be found within these walls without the benefit of a pardon, you will be executed on sight. May the Flame take pity on your wayward souls.”

With that, he etched the sign of the Flame in the air before him and the crowd responded in kind, as if at Mass. He ordered the guards to escort them out of the city, but before they could do so, Maellas walked over to stand in front of Andri, moving slowly. He looked at the paladin with tears in his eyes. More showmanship, Irulan thought, but to be honest, she wasn’t really sure. She wondered, for the first time, if she’d been wrong about the elf Bishop—perhaps her anger should have been directed at Xanin this whole time.

“Oh, Andri,” Maellas said softly, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Why? Why would you defy my edict and pull that poor soul away from the Flame? Do you truly hate me that much for what happened to your father?”

Andri opened his mouth, then shook his head once and closed it again without saying anything. The Bishop sighed and stepped back, motioning to the guards. They conducted the exiles and their mount outside of the gates, depositing Andri’s trunk roughly on the ground and slamming the massive iron and wooden doors closed behind them.

“Well, that was fun,” d’Kundarak said, to no one in particular.

Andri stared at him curiously. “How is it that you did not tell the Ancillary Bishop that you were not with us?” he asked, seemingly glad of the distraction.

Irulan wondered what Maellas had meant about Andri’s father. She resolved to ask him about it, but as Greddark looked pointedly in her direction, she thought now might not be the best time to do so.

“Um, Andri? About that … I hired him, before we got arrested.”

“Hired him.” The paladin’s tone was flat.

“He’s already been working on the case for ir’Marktaros and has information we don’t. How better to get to the bottom of this case then by combining our efforts?” She gave him a wide smile, hoping he wouldn’t castigate her in front of the dwarf.

Andri didn’t respond, instead taking a deep breath and looking off towards the tents. She thought he might be counting to ten, as her mother had often done when either she or Javi tried her patience once too often in a day. Thinking of her mother and brother brought an unexpected rush of grief and she blinked back sudden tears. She knew d’Kundarak could help them with their investigation, and hiring him had been the right thing to do. If Andri didn’t agree, she was prepared to argue the point.

She didn’t have to. Andri appeared to make his decision and turned to hold his hand out to the dwarf.

“Good to have you along,” he said.

D’Kundarak shook the proffered hand. “Likewise.”

“Well. At least the guards had the courtesy to put us out the right gate,” Andri remarked as he hefted his trunk and began to drag it along the ground. Greddark picked up the other handle without prompting, sticking Irulan with leading the horse.

“Why do you say that?” the dwarf asked, the weight of the paladin’s trunk not fazing him.

“Because this was going to be our next stop, anyway.”

“The shifter camp?”

Andri nodded.

“More specifically, the tent of their leader, Ostra Farsight. Who has a lot of explaining to do.”

Chapter
THIRTEEN

Zor, Therendor 26, 998 YK

Ostra did not look happy to see them. Possibly because they barged into his tent without waiting to be announced, possibly because Irulan had shifted and had him pinned to the ground, her long, thick claws at his throat.

“So. Would you like to explain why you sent Thorn ahead of us to lay a trap in the graveyard, or should I let Irulan try shaving you with her claws?” Andri realized it wasn’t the most politic of openings, but he didn’t care—the shifter leader had lied to him, making him ache for the fate of a girl who likely never existed, and nearly gotten him and Irulan killed in the process. Had gotten Thorn killed, though they hadn’t told the old shifter that yet.

“Please.” Ostra looked beseechingly at him. “Let me up, and I’ll explain everything.”

Irulan glanced at Andri, as if asking what the paladin wanted her to do. In that split second of distraction, the shifter leader rolled and threw her off him. But Greddark was there in an instant, the tip of his short sword forcing the old shifter back down and coming to rest on the jugular where Irulan’s claws had just been.

“I think not,” Andri said, his voice cold. “You can tell your story from there. But this time, if I sense even a hint of duplicity, I’ll let the dwarf slit your throat.”

“You’d never make it out of camp alive.”

Andri shrugged. “I’ll take that risk. Now, talk.”

The dwarf took his cue well, easing the point of his blade into the soft flesh of Ostra’s neck until a bright drop of blood appeared beneath his blade.

“All right. All right! I didn’t lie to you about Kelso—Skunk—and Kira. That really did happen. But it was at least twenty years ago, and no one has seen any sign of Skunk since he was driven from the camp. Some people believe he’s living wild in the Burnt Wood, but there have never been any reliable sightings. I’d heard about the white fur Irulan found from Javi when I went to visit him, and I figured it would be easy enough to make you think Skunk was the source of that fur. So I concocted the tale of travelers having seen a white-streaked shifter by Cairn Hill to lure you away, to buy us some time. Thorn’s trap was supposed to keep you there for a few days, but I see it wasn’t successful. Where is he? What have you done with him?”

Irulan looked too shocked by the mention of her brother to speak, so Andri answered.

“Thorn is dead,” he said, making no attempt to cushion his angry words. Thorn’s death could have been avoided if the camp leader had simply told the truth from the beginning. Another life lost unnecessarily in the pursuit of this killer. “What you didn’t realize when you made up your little tale of a vengeful shifter is that there was something evil haunting those cairns, just not something living. A wight, who killed and turned Thorn before we even got there. We were lucky to make it out alive.”

Ostra’s face blanched.

“Thorn is … dead?” He sagged against the floor and all the fight drained out of him. “He was my sister-son. I raised him from a youngling when she died. He would have been leader after me.” The old shifter closed his eyes against tears, which spilled out onto his cheeks to form tiny puddles of mud on the dirt floor.

Andri motioned to Irulan and Greddark to let the shifter leader up. He did not think the old shifter would lie this time. His grief was too strong to be feigned.

Ostra sat up, knuckling his eyes, a curiously childlike gesture. But when he looked up at Andri, there was nothing childish about his mute sorrow. He was just an old, tired shifter who had lost one too many loved ones.

“You said you were trying to buy time,” Andri prodded him gently. “For what? Or who?”

“Old Quillion. He’s a werewolf, laired up in the ruins of Shadukar, half-crazy from age and the things they did to him during the Purge. When the murders first started happening, we feared he might be to blame, especially since so many of them occurred on nights when several moons were full.”

Andri dropped into the nearest chair, stunned. There had been nothing about full moons in the files he’d gotten from the Bishop. Had Maellas even known? And even though Andri had himself worried a lycanthrope might be to blame, he hadn’t tried to track down an orrery to correlate the dates of the murders. Granted, he’d only been in Aruldusk for a few days and orreries weren’t that easy to come by, even with access to a Cardinal’s coffers, but he should have looked into it after questioning Irvallo. But he thought he would have more time and, if he were honest with himself, he hadn’t really wanted to know. He’d allowed his own personal fears to get in the way of the task the Keeper had given him. By the Flame, he’d been a fool!

Ostra continued, oblivious to Andri’s silent self-recrimination.

“We tried to hunt him down, even got close to snaring him once, but he vanished before my trackers could spring their trap. It was then that we realized he had some sort of teleportation device—a ring, we think—which of course made tracking him next to impossible. But even if he hadn’t had such a powerful item, Quillion lived in Shadukar for years before it was razed. We weren’t going to find him unless he wanted to be found. So we watched, and waited, and prayed that we were wrong. And then you showed up—Andri Aeyliros, son of the famous Alestair Aeyliros, Scourge of the Moontouched. Why else would the Keeper send you if she did not suspect a lycanthrope? So I sent you south, and runners north, to try one last time to find Quillion and determine his guilt or innocence before the Silver Flame got hold of him.”

“If you think he’s guilty, why in the name of the Flame are you trying to protect him?” Irulan asked, her disgust and outrage evident. “It’s only a matter of time before Maellas starts executing the shifters he’s imprisoned, and even less than that before the people of Aruldusk start lynching us in the streets! Is the life of some insane werewolf worth even one shifter’s death?”

Ostra looked at her sadly. “I know your clan has never believed that being descended from lycanthropes is a gift, Irulan, but they are our ancestors, and deserve our reverence. And aside from honoring our beginnings, we know what the Inquisitors did to him. Their brutality was unconscionable. Unspeakable. It was a miracle of the Host that Quillion survived at all, let alone escaped. If it hadn’t been for the Path of the Howl, he wouldn’t have. So even if he was responsible for the murders, there was no way we were going to put him through that again. A nice, clean death with a silver-tipped arrow through the heart. We owe him that much.”

“The Path of the Howl?” Greddark asked from his place by the tent flap, where he was watching for the rescue attempt they all knew would be coming—they hadn’t exactly snuck in to Ostra’s tent, after all, nor had the camp leader been particularly quiet in his protestations of innocence.

“It’s a network of safehouses, tunnels, and hidden paths that crisscross each of the Five Nations,” Andri explained. He had heard of its existence from his father, who had actually helped to fill in one such tunnel beneath Thalingard—thankfully, long before the pyromancer had cause to try and use such an escape route himself. “It was used to transport lycanthropes and shifters beyond the reach of the Church during the Purge. Now I suppose, if it’s used at all, it’s the province of smugglers and other criminals.”

“Well, I hate to break up this little history lesson,” Greddark said, drawing his sword, “but they’re here.”

Andri rose from his seat.

“How many?”

“Ten that I can see, so that probably means twenty. Longbows, a few crossbows. The ones circling around the back will have blades.”

“I’ll deal with them,” Irulan said, drawing her own sword and disappearing into the interior of the tent.

Ostra heaved himself up from the dirt floor. “Let me go out and talk to them. Once they see I’m safe, they’ll back off.”

Andri didn’t particularly want to let the duplicitous shifter out of his sight, but he didn’t have a ranged weapon, and Irulan had left her bow, unstrung, strapped to their horse’s saddle. As if reading his mind, Greddark pulled a wand out of his multi-pocketed coat.

“Go ahead. But I’m going to have this wand trained at your back the entire time. One false move and you’ll find your guts blasted all over the campfires. And I don’t think you want roasted innards to be that last thing you smell before you die, especially when they’re yours.”

Ostra sighed. Defeat hung about him like a miasma.

“There’s no need for threats. If I wanted you dead, I would have impaled myself on your blade and let the tribe do the rest.”

He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. Greddark stood aside to let him pass, keeping the wand’s crystalline tip pointed at the shifter the whole time.

The shifter leader exited the tent, both hands raised in a calming gesture. Greddark kept him covered from behind the dubious safety of the tent flap.

“Peace, my children. I am unharmed. There is no need for weapons or violence. Go back to your tents.”

“We saw the furless storm into your tent!” a shifter shouted. “We heard you yell!”

Furless. Andri hadn’t heard that particular insult before.

“A misunderstanding,” said Ostra. “Nothing more. All is well. The furless and Bennin’s heir have my blessing. They are not to be harmed.”

There was low murmuring and grumbling that Andri could not decipher. Finally, someone said, with obvious reluctance, “As you wish, Father.”

“He’s coming back,” Greddark said. “The shifters are dispersing.”

“Not all of them,” came Irulan’s reply.

Andri turned to find her yanking another female shifter by the braid into the sitting area. The shifter was no warrior. Her long skirts and apron made that clear, as did the heavy pan Irulan carried in her own hand now in place of her sword.

“I found her trying to sneak in through the back. It’s Leata, Ostra’s first wife.”

“Leata!” Ostra exclaimed as he entered the tent. The shifter woman twisted violently in Irulan’s grasp and Irulan released her with a curse. Leata ran into her husband’s arms.

After a moment, she pulled back from his embrace to look him over. “Did they hurt you? I’ll have Thorn hunt them down and kill them!”

At the name of his nephew, Ostra let out a long sigh and pulled his wife close again, burying his face in her thick braid.

“Thorn is dead, my love. Killed by foul undead while carrying out a special task for me. Irulan and her friends brought me word of his fate.”

“D-dead?” came Leata’s muffled response. “Oh, Ostra! Half the Circle, and now Thorn? Why is the Host punishing us so?”

Ostra shushed her and there was nothing but the sound of her quiet weeping for long moments.

Andri looked away, uncomfortable with the show of grief, and the part he had played in causing it. If only he’d been willing to pursue the idea of a lycanthrope earlier, Thorn’s grisly fate might have been avoided. But, no—he would still have come to question the shifter leader, and Ostra would still have sent him southward, only this time with a tale of a lycanthrope lairing among the graves instead of an outcast from the tribe. Thorn’s death was Ostra’s fault, not his. But somehow, knowing that didn’t make him feel any less guilty.

As the shifter woman sobbed and Ostra murmured quiet words of comfort in her ear, Greddark kept watch out the tent flap. Irulan looked embarrassed and studiously avoided staring at the couple, casting her gaze about the tent and finally settling for contemplating the claws on her feet.

At last, Leata pulled away from her husband, wiping the tears away with the corner of her apron. She turned to Andri and Irulan, not leaving the protective circle of her husband’s embrace.

“Thank you for bringing us word of Thorn’s passing. Did he die bravely?” Her voice nearly broke on the last word.

Andri exchanged a quick glance with Ostra. He had no idea how the shifter had died the first time, and he didn’t think Leata would want to know the circumstances of his second passing.

“He fought well,” he said, hoping it would be enough.

Leata nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“They’re going after Quillion now,” Ostra said, holding her tightly to him as her eyes widened in shock.

“No!”

“It’s the only way, Leata. He’ll never come out for us, but for … them, he might.” It was a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but Andri caught it. The shifter had been about to say something else, but substituted “them” at the last second.

What had he meant to say? Andri wondered, guessing it was important, but having no way to ferret the knowledge out. Not for the first time, he wished his abilities allowed him to detect actual thoughts, not just honesty and intent.

Ostra looked back up at Andri.

“Promise me, if you find him, and he’s guilty, you won’t let them torture him again.”

They hadn’t discussed going after the old werewolf, but of course that was the next logical step in their investigation. It should have been the first, that accusing voice in the back of his mind whispered, but he ignored it.

Andri had heard tales from his father about what the Church had done to lycanthropes during the Purge. Barbaric tortures—skinning them alive with silver blades, sprinkling belladonna over their open wounds, or binding them in close-fitting suits of silver while in their humanoid forms and then forcing them to change, their bodies trying painfully to shift into a shape the holy metal would not allow. He could understand why the shifters would want to protect the werewolf from that doom, especially here in Thrane, where he’d be found guilty regardless of whether he’d committed the murders or not. Andri wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone—except perhaps his father.

“I promise,” he said.

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.”

They reached Angwar Keep the following night, just before the gates closed. From a distance, bits of broken glass in the keep’s high windows shone gold and carnelian in the fading light and made the battered fortress seem to shimmer, like some otherwordly bastion of Thelanis. Closer up, though, it was evident that this was just another forgotten outpost languishing in decrepitude. Debris from the War still littered the fields around the fort, including the charred remains of what looked like a Karrnathi siege engine. The keep’s central tower was missing half its roof and listed so far to one side that Andri thought a strong gust of wind might blow it over.

Beyond the crumbling outer wall, however, he could see that the old fort was actually in much better condition that it first appeared. The stone walls had been reinforced with heavy wood and steel beams, the gatehouse had been completely rebuilt and was manned with alert archers, and two catapults sat loaded and ready in the middle of the well-kept courtyard.

Angwar Keep was known throughout eastern Thrane as the Stubborn Shieldmaiden, because it had never fallen during a hundred years of war, despite frequent attacks from both Cyre and Karrnath. It looked as though the keep’s new inhabitants, monks though they were, fully intended to keep that well-deserved reputation alive.

Once inside the gates, the companions were welcomed by the fort’s monastic warforged, who gave them a hot meal and beds in the keep’s old barracks, which had been refurbished into a communal sleeping area. The monks were self-styled disciples of the Redeemed, an elite cadre of warforged who defected from Cyre and had devoted themselves to the defense of Thrane and the precepts of the Silver Flame. Now that the War was over, they were rebuilding the fort as a haven for other warforged who followed the Flame and desired a simple life of labor and service to others. A haven they would have no problems protecting, should the need ever arise.

Andri appreciated the opportunity to pray in their makeshift chapel and found himself kneeling beside one of the warforged in front of an abstract rendition of the Flame formed by fusing together whatever silver the monks could find—jewelry, goblets, combs, even weapons and pieces of armor. The curving tip of the stylistic Flame was an upended hunting horn. Andri admired the ingenuity of these devout warforged, working with what little they had to honor their faith. Would that some of the Cardinals shared their mindset—Thrane would no doubt be a much improved place.

He bowed his head and willed his mind to stillness. Images of Zoden’s staring eyes, Ostra’s grief, and Irulan limp beneath the hands of the wight flashed through his thoughts, followed by darker visions of his parents and their gruesome deaths. He did not flinch from the memories, but allowed them to run their course, reciting the Prayer of Cleansing over and over again until the images had been bled dry of guilt and regret and were simply colorless, emotionless scenes from someone else’s life. Only then did he begin Tira’s Prayer of a Paladin and the Nine Miracles of the Silver Flame.

When the time came for mentioning his own intentions, he revisited those scenes that plagued and tormented him, beginning with his mother’s death. He prayed that she had found peace within the Silver Flame and that she had been able to forgive him before she died. He prayed for Zoden, that his soul was likewise at peace, wherever it was. He prayed that Ostra and Leata would be comforted in their grief, and that the shifter leader would use this hard-learned lesson in honesty for the betterment of his persecuted people. He prayed for Irulan, that she would find justice for her brother and a place for herself. He even prayed for Greddark, for he suspected the dwarf blamed himself for Zoden’s death. Lastly, he prayed for himself, that he would have the wisdom to discern Quillion’s guilt or innocence when they found the werewolf and that he would not be led astray by his own prejudices. That he would be able to solve this mystery and bring the killer to justice before anyone else died. That he would somehow be worthy of the enormous faith the Keeper had placed in him.

He did not pray for his father.

When he made the sign of the Flame and opened his eyes, he was surprised to find the warforged still kneeling next to him, his own head bowed. Andri rose quietly, so as not to disturb the monk’s prayers, but as he was leaving the chapel, the warforged spoke.

“You will make her proud.”

Andri turned quickly, but the monk hadn’t moved. Had he been praying aloud? Andri didn’t think so, but sometimes when he was alone, he would murmur his prayers, just to make the solitude a bit less lonely.

After a moment of watching the motionless warforged, he began to doubt that he’d actually heard anything at all. Shaking his head, he exited the chapel and made his way back to the barracks, where he quickly found his bed and fell into it.

But as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help wondering if the words he’d heard had been real and, if they were, to which of the women in his prayers they had been referring.

After a brief stop a day and a half later to replenish their supplies in the small riverside city of Olath, they continued on, reaching Shadukar on the morning of the fifth day since they’d left the metal monks of Angwar Keep.

The gray walls of Shadukar were visible for several miles, situated atop an escarpment that formed the base of what locals called “The Arrow,” a low-lying spit of land jutting north into Scions Sound. The bulk of the city itself had been built into the side of the bluff, looking north toward Flamekeep and Thronehold. But over the years the population had outgrown the stony confines of the scarp, and buildings had sprouted at the top of the cliffs. Eventually, Upper Shadukar had become a city in its own right, and walls had been erected to protect the affluent neighborhoods located there. From this distance, the only things that marked the shattered Jewel of the Sound as a ruin were the lack of movement atop those walls and the eerie quiet that hung over them.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Greddark remarked. “Why didn’t they try to rebuild it?”

“Just wait,” Andri replied. He’d never been to the ruined city himself, but one did not become a paladin in Thrane without hearing how clerics had had to drive out the unquiet spirits of the dead, and at what cost. The people of Thrane believed Shadukar was cursed, and with cause.

As they approached, they could see the first hints of disrepair. The massive gates were black with soot and hung ajar, swinging slowly on rusty hinges. The creaking complaint of the distressed metal made the hair on the back of Andri’s neck stand up.

Andri and Greddark dismounted and moved toward the entrance. Setting their shoulders against the blackened wood, they pushed the heavy gate open enough for their mounts to pass through unimpeded. Then they climbed back on their horses and entered the city.

The extent of the devastation wreaked by the Karrns became readily apparent as soon as they were within the city walls. The burnt skeletons of wooden buildings rose into the air out of mounds of old ash and debris, while their stone counterparts were crumbling and overgrown with sickly-looking moss and vines. Chunks of wood, fallen stones, and broken glass littered the streets, and here and there some bit of rotting fabric that had miraculously escaped the fires waved languorously in the cool salt-scented breeze.

In the distance, a bird cawed, shattering the silence and making them all jump.

Andri turned to the others.

“Welcome to Shadukar.”

Chapter
FOURTEEN

Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK

After a quick consultation of the camp shifters’ maps, they found the nearest likely lairing spot and planned out the shortest route, one that would take them through the Lodging District, Artificer’s Avenue, and the Greensward—though Greddark doubted very much that the large park was green any longer.

They formed a loose line, with Irulan leading on foot, arrow nocked as she scoured the ground and sniffed the air for any traces of their quarry—or anything else that might be wandering the ruins. Greddark followed on horseback, with Irulan’s horse tied to his saddle. Andri, also mounted, brought up the rear, his sword out and ready, but thankfully extinguished. They’d all agreed that having a paladin with a flaming silver sword in the lead would make it rather difficult to sneak up on a lycanthrope.

They followed the winding road through the Lodging District, an area populated largely by inns and taverns—or what was left of them. Stone chimneys reached up out of the burned wreckage of common rooms, and here and there the remains of soot-blackened staircases ended in nothing but the tomb-gray sky. A few of the inns still had a wall or two standing. One still boasted a gaping hole where its door had once been, with a sign scorched beyond readability hanging dejectedly above it from one rusting chain.

The wind occasionally stirred ashes into the air, forming tiny gray whirlwinds that skipped across the road before dying again on the other side, as if nothing could live long in this forsaken city. The smells of salt and smoke haunted the breeze and made Greddark think, inexplicably, of Karrnathi sausages.

They were nearing the end of the row of hostels and alehouses when Greddark caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Fleeting, and gone before he could be sure it was anything more than an errant gust of wind, but still enough to make the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up and take notice.

A wide curve brought them through a blasted gate and into a business district—jewelers, clockmakers, and artificers of all stripes, judging by the tiny gears and springs that littered their path. Artificer’s Avenue. These buildings had been made primarily of stone and so were petrified corpses instead of the rotting skeletons of the Lodging District. Here, most of the second floors were still intact and they rose up to block the sky, casting the road into shadow. Black windows stared down at them as they passed, like empty eye sockets.

Another movement, behind them and to the left. A second story window above a toymaker’s shop.

Some of the sockets still had eyes, after all.

Greddark slowed his horse, pretending to scrutinize one of the maps while Andri caught up to him.

“Is there a problem?” the paladin asked as he reined in his horse next to the dwarf’s mount.

“You might say that,” Greddark said, pointing his finger at the paper while turning toward Andri. He lowered his voice. “Act as if I’m showing you something interesting,” he said as he glanced surreptitiously over the paladin’s mailed shoulder.

The window was empty.

Andri caught on immediately. “We’re being followed?” he asked, leaning forward and pretending to examine the map. “Is it Quillion?”

“Well, like Irulan said,” the dwarf replied, grinning wolfishly at the perplexed shifter as she turned back to see what was keeping them. “There’s only one way to know for sure.”

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.”

Greddark thought quickly. She was a bounty hunter, not an assassin, or she would have killed him in the City of Spires. If he could stall her, get her talking, it would give Andri and Irulan time to get in position. Thankfully, Irulan was the one with the ranged weapon. Unlike the paladin, she would have no qualms about loosing an arrow into an enemy’s back.

He hoped.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, taking a step back toward his horse so he could see her better.

“Don’t move,” she said, her grin morphing into a scowl as she resighted the crossbow. “My employer wasn’t too explicit on whether he wanted you dead or alive, and it’s a lot easier to transport a corpse.”

“Your employer?” There were a lot of people who might put a bounty on his head, but most of them would have been quite specific about the dead part.

The half-elf shrugged. “You’re the inquisitive. You figure it out. It shouldn’t be that hard. But first get your hands in the air and turn around—slowly, unless you want to find yourself doing a bad impression of the House Orien unicorn.”

Greddark complied, raising his arms and turning around, not risking a glance at the road where Andri and Irulan should be entering the junction. He prayed to Olladra that the two would have the sense to change their tactics once they saw they weren’t dealing with Quillion—he didn’t relish a crossbow bolt sticking out of the back of his head any more than the front.

The thought brought him up short. When he’d first encountered her in Sigilstar, the bounty hunter had been accompanied by a muscle-bound human who had done most of the talking. That is, until Greddark had used his blasting chime to send the brute hurtling over the railing of his balcony.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked with studied nonchalance as the woman pressed the spikard into his back. She pulled his short sword from his scabbard and tossed it aside, then patted him down, discovering the pocketful of bloodspikes in short order.

“Maybe he’s still in the Jorasco house, recovering from our last meeting. Or maybe he’s watching from a window or a rooftop, waiting for one wrong move from you to pay you back with a little blast of his own.” As she spoke, she pulled the spikes from his pocket and dropped them onto the ground. The crunch of breaking glass and the shuff-shuff of a heel in the dirt told the sorry tale of their fate. Damn. Those had been expensive.

Despite her bravado, Greddark could tell she was lying. Wherever her former partner was, she was alone now. Good. It would be three against one. He liked those odds.

And he didn’t really need inquisitive skills to figure out who had sent her. House Medani didn’t have a lot of bounty hunters, and her partner in Sigilstar had worn boots of a style only popular in Korth.

She was here about Yaradala. Wonderful.

Where were that damned shifter and her sanctimonious paladin?

He heard the clink of iron on iron.

“Lower your right arm behind your back. Slowly.”

As he did so, he felt the cold kiss of metal on his wrist.

Manacles.

“Now your left.”

Onatar’s empty chest! If those two didn’t show up within the next few seconds, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. Make that, hand.

“Move it, dwarf! I want to be out of this accursed graveyard before nightfall.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Irulan’s voice rang out from somewhere behind them.

Finally.

He couldn’t see, but it sounded as if d’Medani turned to glance over her shoulder. The spikard never wavered from its spot pressed up against the middle of his back, though, so he couldn’t risk trying to break free just yet.

“You’ll never get that arrow off before mine impales your friend through the heart,” d’Medani said.

Greddark could imagine Irulan’s lazy shrug.

“So? You hurt him, we’ll just heal him up again. We have a paladin. What have you got?”

Hopefully not a teleportation spell. But then, if she’d had that, she wouldn’t still be debating an answer.

Finally, he felt the grip on his manacled arm go slack and the spikard move away from his back. He stepped forward, expecting to feel the fire of a crossbow bolt burying itself in his flesh at any moment. When he’d put his horse between d’Medani’s weapon and his backside, he turned to survey the scene.

The bounty hunter had lowered her spikard to the ground and was standing with her arms up, facing Irulan, who had an arrow trained at the half-elf’s heart.

But d’Medani wasn’t looking at the shifter. Instead, her gaze was focused on Andri, who had dismounted and stood close to the half-elf, his sword drawn and ready. Greddark could feel the charm pouring off the woman like fine perfume.

“If you’re a paladin of the Silver Flame, then truth and justice are as sacred to you as they are to me,” she said, her lilting voice going husky and her violet eyes luminous. If Andri was reacting to the enchantment, he didn’t show it. “This dwarf,” d’Medani inclined her head—just slightly; her charm wasn’t aimed at Irulan, and the shifter might take any movement as an excuse to let her arrow fly—to indicate Greddark, “is wanted in Karrnath for murder.”

Andri turned his own dark gaze on Greddark.

“Is that true?” he asked. The warning was unspoken, but the paladin’s tone was clear: don’t lie to me.

Greddark reached up to pat his horse’s rump, one open manacle still dangling from his wrist. He briefly considering jumping on the mare’s back and riding away, but he discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. He’d never be able to outride Irulan’s arrows.

The inquisitive sighed. Perhaps he’d be able to reason with Andri. If not, and worse came to worst, he still had his wand bracelet and its chimes. Much as he’d hate to hurt an erstwhile partner, if that’s what it took to keep from going back to the Tower to face Yaradala’s father, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“It’s true,” he replied, bracing himself. “I’m wanted for murder.” Before d’Medani could crow her triumph, he continued. “But I didn’t do it.”

Greddark and d’Medani sat on the edge of the merman fountain, their arms bound behind them—he in the bounty hunter’s iron manacles and the half-elf in Andri’s silver ones.

The paladin stood before them looking righteous, his sword alight with argent fire. Irulan stood not far away, an arrow still nocked, just waiting for a target. From the glare she gave d’Medani, it was clear to Greddark who she’d rather choose.

“Let’s get to the bottom of this,” Andri said. “You first.”

To Greddark’s surprise, Andri pointed the tip of his sword at the bounty hunter. Perhaps the young man was not as immune to her ensorcellment as he appeared.

She batted her lashes at him, and Irulan sniffed in disdain. Ignoring the shifter, d’Medani launched into her story.

“It’s a simple tale, really. Eight years ago, Greddark d’Kundarak was a student of the Twelve with a knack for creating unusual items. He gave one of those items to Yaradala d’Medani, the daughter of Committee member Helanth d’Medani, in exchange for securing him an interview with her father for a position within the House Medani enclave, since he was out of favor with his own House. While using the item—a doorway of some kind, meant to help her escape from rooms warded for her protection—Yaradala was killed in a most gruesome fashion. The lower half of her body materialized in a stone wall while the upper part triggered wards that burned her alive as she screamed for help. The damage was so severe that she could not be raised. She was Helanth’s only child. He hired me to help bring her killer to justice.”

Andri’s eyes had gone cold at the description of Yaradala’s death. Greddark didn’t blame the paladin—he’d seen the girl’s body shortly after she died. The sight and the smell still haunted his dreams.

Andri pointed his sword at him.

“Is that what happened?”

Greddark shook himself to dislodge the image of the young woman’s charred corpse partially imbedded in the wall of her own chambers. “More or less. The device opened a doorway into Syrania. If Yaradala had followed my instructions, she would not have been hurt, but she must have become frightened or disoriented during the passage. Her death was horrible and tragic, but it was entirely avoidable.”

D’Medani harrumphed at that and opened her mouth to contradict him, but Greddark raised his voice and kept talking.

“Ultimately, the Committee agreed with me, though I was expelled from the Twelve, and my own family cut me off, fearing the political fallout. The murder charges came after—when Helanth d’Medani could not convince the Committee to do more than censure me, he appealed to the Karrnathi government, which was more than happy to oblige him and his coffers.” He looked right into Andri’s eyes, letting the paladin read the pain he still carried in his soul. “I’m sorry she died. I truly am. But it wasn’t my fault.”

Some days, he even believed that.

D’Medani had had enough. “The item was clearly defective! And according to Karrnathi law, the burden for any death resulting from the use of such an item falls on its maker. Whether you intended it to happen or not, Yaradala died, and you are responsible!”

He didn’t think now was the time to point out that the planar doorway was hardly defective. It had worked just fine for him.

Andri looked from him to the half-elf and back again, then seemed to come to some decision. He extinguished and sheathed his sword, then unlocked both Greddark’s manacles and the ones the bounty hunter wore. He handed the iron bonds back to d’Medani.

“You’re free to go.”

The half-elf looked puzzled. “With the dwarf, right?”

“No. You are free to go. Alone. The dwarf stays here.”

“But Karrnathi law—”

“You are not in Karrnath. You are in Thrane, and here, the Church is the law.” Greddark had never heard the paladin’s voice sound so hard. “In the absence of clergy, I am the Church. And I am declaring Greddark d’Kundarak innocent of this crime.” Andri’s tone lost some of its edge. “Now, I know you came a long way and will likely forfeit a large fee for not bringing him in. The Church is nothing if not generous. Tell me your fee and I will pay it.”

D’Medani looked as if she’d been slapped. “I don’t want your money, you self-righteous—”

Andri’s sword was out and resting against the base of her throat before she could finish the imprecation.

“You’ll take my gold, or you’ll take my steel. Decide. Now.”

Whatever her personal feelings about Greddark’s guilt, the bounty hunter wasn’t stupid.

“The gold,” she muttered, glaring.

Andri smiled at her. “Wise choice. How much?”

She cast a sidelong glance at Greddark. “Fifty dragons.”

“What?” Greddark exclaimed. For that sort of money, he’d be tempted to turn himself in!

Andri’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. So she was telling the truth. Damn. Helanth must really want him back. Probably so he could have the pleasure of killing Greddark himself.

Andri sheathed his sword again. “Keep an eye on her,” he said to Irulan as he crossed over to his horse and rummaged through a pack. Irulan, who’d had an arrow pointed at d’Medani this whole time, was more than happy to comply.

The paladin returned with a folded piece of paper.

“This letter will allow you to draw fifty platinum dragons from my personal account at any House Kundarak bank, in or out of Thrane, in exchange for your abandonment of the unlawful bounty on Greddark’s head. Do I have your word on that?” He held out his hand.

After a moment, d’Medani reluctantly grasped it. “You have my word.”

“Excellent.” Andri handed the letter over. “I trust you can find your own way out of the city?”

The half-elf grunted in reply. Snatching up her war spikard, she set off the way she’d come, running with an easy stride that ate up ground quickly. In moments, she was out of sight. Irulan kept her arrow trained on her the entire way.

“That’s it?” Greddark asked, not really surprised. “You’re just going to let her go?”

Andri looked over at the shifter. “Irulan?”

She gave him a wicked smile.

“I’m on it,” she said, replacing the arrow in her quiver and turning to lope after the bounty hunter, her gait easily matching that of the half-elf.

As she, too, disappeared from view, Greddark looked at Andri. “Now what?”

Andri shrugged. “Now, we wait.”

Chapter
FIFTEEN

Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK

Irulan tracked the half-elf though the silent streets of Shadukar, the fleeing bounty hunter’s footprints easy to follow in the dust and ash. She caught up to the other woman quickly but stayed back, out of sight. Much as she’d like to put an arrow through one of the little strumpet’s amethyst eyes, she was only here to ensure d’Medani didn’t renege on her agreement with Andri.

True to her word, d’Medani exited the city by the same gate the trio had used to enter it earlier. A black stallion waited for her outside the walls, and she quickly mounted and rode back toward Olath. Irulan watched her go, wondering at the bounty hunter’s easy acquiescence. She didn’t think Greddark had seen the last of the persistent half-elf, but it really wasn’t her problem. Just as long as d’Medani waited until after they’d found their killer, she could drag the dwarf back to Karrnath by his unnaturally short beard, for all Irulan cared. He seemed like a decent enough fellow, but their partnership was one of mutual convenience, nothing more.

When d’Medani was just a speck on the horizon, Irulan lowered her bow and turned to go back the way she had come. As she did so, she noticed the myriad tracks they had left—hoof prints, boot prints, and her own clawed feet. If the bounty hunter did come back, she’d have no problem finding them again. Their tracks would lead her right to them. Her or Quillion.

She could cast a quick spell to make sure she left no trace of her passage back to Andri and the dwarf—something she should have thought to do earlier, though she’d had no reason to suspect they would be followed—but the older tracks would still be there. She had nothing she could use to obscure the tracks herself, but … there. A whispered word revealed the presence of rats—even in a seemingly dead city, the clever scavengers would find a way to survive, and thrive. After a few moments of concentration, she discerned that there were at least a dozen of the sly creatures in the gatehouse alone, and several dozen more spread out in the basements of the ruined buildings nearest the gate. She walked toward the closest of these until she knew her voice could be heard, and then she called out to the rats, chittering at them in their own strange language, cajoling them with promises of fruit and bread if they would come to her aid.

At first, nothing happened. Then the blackened debris in front of her seemed to shift and slide, as if it were collectively heaving itself up to shamble toward her. Irulan felt a moment of fear before she realized it was the rats—hundreds of them, not dozens—heeding her call.

She singled out a large gray one in the front of the teeming mass.

I do not have food enough for all your people, rat-brother.

The rat’s nose twitched, and its red eyes gleamed. The squeaks and chitters, both in front and behind her now, subsided as her chosen envoy replied.

Those who cannot eat will be eaten, wolf-sister. It is the way.

She nodded. It was, indeed.

I travel with three horses, a man, and a dwarf. I need you to erase all evidence of our passing, so that we may not be followed.

The rat regarded her with beady eyes before nodding its head once in a gesture it knew she would recognize.

We have done this for the wolf-brother. We will do this for you.

Wolf-brother?

Quillion.

But if he could teleport, why did he need the rats to hide his tracks? Perhaps, she thought, the spell required a focus his addled mind was no longer truly capable of, and transported him to the gates or the Garden District, instead of to his lair.

Where might I find the wolf-brother? I wish to pay my respects.

The rat clicked its teeth at her.

The wolf-brother sleeps beneath the blue waves and the black ships.

Blue waves and black ships? Was Quillion lairing in the ruined docks down on the Arrow? That hadn’t been one of the places Ostra’s shifters had marked on the maps.

Can you show me?

The clicking became more pronounced. The rat was getting angry.

We do not wish to die.

Apparently, humans weren’t the only things Quillion liked to eat.

Irulan wished she could ask more questions, but the creature’s growing impatience was obvious. So she simply nodded her thanks. Perhaps Andri or Greddark would be able to puzzle out this choice bit of information later. But first she had to get it to them.

She slung her bow over her shoulder and began an easy lope back towards Artificer’s Avenue and the circular junction. Behind her, the rats swarmed over the road, their long, segmented tales sweeping over the dirt and erasing all the tracks—including their own—as if they had never existed.

At the entrance to the junction, she had the rats wait while she hurried over to speak with Andri and Greddark, who were understandably unsettled to find her at the head of a horde of vermin.

“You brought friends?” the dwarf asked when she got close.

Irulan ignored him. “I need your food,” she said to Andri.

“What? All of it?”

“Just the fruit, vegetables, and bread.”

“That is all of it,” Greddark muttered.

“But that will only leave us with jerky, and oats for the horses,” Andri protested.

“We can resupply in Olath,” Irulan said impatiently. “Just hurry up. They’re hungry, and there’s enough of them they could eat us if they decided to.”

“And why are we feeding the local rat population?” Greddark asked, fishing his own supplies out of his pack and handing them over to Irulan reluctantly.

“Because they’re going to make sure your friend from House Medani doesn’t sneak back to bother us again,” Irulan gave the dwarf a dark look. Then she allowed herself a triumphant grin. “And because they told us where to find Quillion.”

“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.”

They would use the same trap as the one they had caught d’Medani in, this time amid the park’s black trees, their leafless branches jutting into the leaden sky like the grasping hands of drowning men, reaching out in supplication—though for what, Irulan couldn’t imagine. She’d been born and raised in the forests of the Eldeen Reaches, learning to climb trees before she learned how to walk. The woods were like a second skin to her, one she sometimes thought fit better than her real one. And while this place might once have been a peaceful woodland, there was nothing of the forest in it now. Burned by the ravaging Karrns, the Greensward was as dead now as on the day seven years ago when the invaders first set torches to its branches. Lifeless. Soulless.

More than the thousands of people who lost their lives when the Jewel of the Sound was plundered, the loss of this idyllic park filled her with a deep grief, and an even deeper rage. The Last War had touched her family only peripherally, and she’d never really understood the hatred the citizens of her adopted homeland had for Karrnath.

Until today.

She wondered why Quillion would choose to lair anywhere near this place. Perhaps he saw it as poetic justice—the charred remains of trees resembled the stakes still used for burning heretics in some parts of Thrane. A reminder that the fire that had taken the lives of so many of his kinsmen—her kinsmen—was indiscriminate, as likely to burn the executioner as the executed.

No. Quillion was not her kinsman. She might be descended from lycanthropes, but she was nothing like them, thank the Flame.

Irulan shook the distracting thoughts away and focused on looking for a likely spot for an ambush. Normally a wooded area such as this would be ideal for their purposes, but the stark, bare trees and lack of underbrush yielded few options. She settled on the bed of a dry pond, surrounded on three sides by a rocky outcropping. A small grotto had been carved into the stone, a place no doubt favored by young lovers during Shadukar’s heyday.

They camped in the cracked bed of the pond, easily finding enough tinder for a small fire that Irulan made no attempt to hide. They wanted Quillion to know where they were.

The sun was setting as they finished up their dinner of thrakel-spiced oatmeal and jerky. Aryth already rode high in the sky, orange-red face round and radiant.

“That was just about the worst meal I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating,” Greddark said with a grimace as he finished his last bite of dried meat and washed it down with several gulps of water. “And I’ve eaten a lot of bad meals. Dwarves aren’t very good cooks.”

“Apparently shifters aren’t either,” Andri said, giving Irulan a rueful grin.

She scowled at him. “You’re welcome to do the cooking yourself from now on. I’d just as soon eat my food raw and still squirming.” Not entirely true, but she enjoyed his grimace of distaste.

Greddark grunted. “Just what you’d expect from someone whose grandmother slept with a werewolf. Or was it your mother?”

They’d agreed that some insults would have to be thrown to make any sort of argument believable. They hadn’t discussed the potency of those slurs. The dwarf had gone straight for the jugular. Any other time, she might have been impressed. Now, she just wanted to claw the smirk off his face.

She rose from her place by the fire, her hand going to the hilt of her sword.

“How dare you?”

Greddark and Andri rose, the dwarf reaching for his own sword, while the paladin tried to placate her.

“I’m sure he was only joking, Irulan. He didn’t mean anything by—”

“Take it back,” she said coldly, precisely.

Greddark’s grin just widened. “Ah. Mother, then.”

Irulan lunged. Greddark’s short sword was out in an instant, and the clang of metal on metal rang off the rocks and through the barren trees.

“You sure you want to do this, shifter? I don’t have any qualms about hitting women.”

Irulan replied by lashing out with her foot, kicking the dwarf square in the stomach. The force of the blow sent Greddark stumbling backward, and Irulan pressed her attack. She pulled her sword in and spun, bringing her other foot around in a high arc. Her heel connected solidly with his jaw, and the dwarf went down. She reversed her hold on her hilt, and raised her sword, meaning to plunge it into the dwarf’s side as he lay sprawled in the dirt.

A strong hand on her arm swung her around, and she was face to face with Andri.

“Stop this,” he said, his brown eyes stern and compelling. As he held her gaze, she calmed a bit, remembering that this was supposed to be just an act. “Greddark’s not your enemy.”

Irulan took a few deep breaths to slow her racing heart as she stared into his eyes. This close to the handsome paladin, she could detect a hint of lavender clinging to his hair and skin. Leave it to Andri to still smell clean after a week on the road. She licked dry lips and his gaze darkened, his grip tightening on her arm. She felt her pulse begin to speed up again, though this time for a far different reason. The nature of the tension between them changed, becoming at once more powerful and more dangerous.

“I’m not your enemy,” Andri said softly. She lowered her sword, taking a small step closer to him.

“No,” she agreed, her own gaze flicking to his lips, then back up to the dark wells of his eyes. She had only a moment to register their shock before she felt a sharp agony blossom in her back.

She looked down in surprise at the sword tip protruding from her stomach.

Greddark had run her through.

They left her there, lying curled around her stomach beside a dying fire, though it was clear Andri didn’t want to abandon her. It wasn’t until she hissed at him to go that he’d allowed Greddark to drag him and the horses away. The torment in his eyes as he was leaving almost made up for the pain in her gut.

Almost.

Her canteen—filled with one of Greddark’s healing potions—was within arm’s reach, but she didn’t have the strength to reach it. Greddark’s thrust had been truer than he intended, and she was fairly certain he’d at least nicked something inside that ought not to have been cut. She was bleeding far more profusely than she should be, and though she was close to the fire, she was beginning to feel cold.

“Let me help you, little daughter.”

She struggled to turn her head. An old shifter stood beside her, his dark fur shot through with gray. He held her canteen in one clawed hand.

No, not a shifter. A werewolf, in hybrid form—standing upright on two feet like a man, but with the face of a wolf, down to his long snout and fangs.

Quillion.

She wondered if she hadn’t heard him because he’d teleported, or because the blood rushing in her ears was just too loud.

“Please …” she said weakly.

Quillion knelt beside her, raising her head gently and pouring a little of the canteen’s contents in her mouth.

Irulan felt warmth spread instantly down her throat and into her belly, but she wondered if it was too little, too late. She didn’t immediately realize that Quillion was talking, and had been the entire time.

“… who wields silver cannot be trusted,” the old werewolf was saying, “So says Pater, so says the pack. That’s why the farsighted one hides them, deep in the forest that burned, so they will be safe from silver flames and silver swords and silver tongues.”

What was he rambling about? Who was Pater? And what pack? Of werewolves? One lycanthrope in Thrane was unusual enough, but a pack of them? Impossible! Forest that burned? The Greensward? Farsighted one? Not … Ostra? And was that about silver tongues …?

Silver.

The werewolf that murdered Zoden had been stabbed in the thigh with the bard’s silver cloak pin. If Quillion bore such a wound, they had their killer.

“Please, old one … more water?” she asked, interrupting his bizarre litany against silver, which had grown to include circles, chains, and forks.

The werewolf complied, lifting her head higher as he trickled more of the warm liquid down her throat. From her vantage point, she could see most of both thighs. They were uninjured.

Quillion was not the killer.

Some noise in the distance caught the werewolf’s attention, and he lowered her head gently to the ground before standing to peer out into the growing darkness. As he did, Irulan saw something on his hand glinting in the moonlight. She thought at first it must be the teleportation ring Ostra had talked about. Then she realized it was one of his claws, tipped in silver.

Like her own.

As strength returned to her, she gulped down the remains of the healing potion, feeling skin and muscle knit back together. With Quillion distracted by whatever he’d heard out in the night, she slowly climbed to her feet, watching him all the while. She spied the ring on his other hand, and just as he was turning back toward her, she leapt. As her hand closed tightly on his and she felt the cold touch of metal, Irulan looked toward the copse where Andri and Greddark were hiding and willed herself to be there with them. There was an instant of dizzying disorientation, and then she and Quillion were amongst the blackened trees. But apparently her will had been too strong. They appeared directly in front of Andri, who brought his sword forward in a bright silver arc, not realizing who it was that faced him.

Before Irulan could do more than flinch, Quillion twisted out of her grasp and threw himself in front of her, intercepting Andri’s blade as it swept down. Unable to check his blow, the paladin could only gape in horror as his silver sword cleaved through the werewolf’s neck and chest.

As the old werewolf collapsed onto the ground, he began to change. Bones and muscles moved beneath his skin like something fluid and alive, accompanied by the wet snap of gristle popping into place. His face shifted, compressing like clay in the hands of an angry and ungentle god. His snout retracted, his forehead flattened out, and he was no longer a creature out of legend, but simply an old shifter with tired eyes.

He looked up at Irulan, and for a moment, she thought those eyes shone with gratitude. Then they glazed over, and Quillion was dead.

She tore her gaze away from Quillion’s corpse and looked at Andri, who stared back at her, stunned and sickened.

“What have I done?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Irulan fought to keep her voice even. “I’m not sure, but I think you may have just killed my great-grandfather.”

Chapter
SIXTEEN

Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK

With an anguished cry, Andri pulled his sword out of the old shifter’s body. It came loose with a sucking sound that made the bile rise in his throat. Swallowing it down, he tossed the weapon aside and fell to his knees, begging the Flame that it was not too late.

He laid his hands on the shifter’s ruined chest, closed his eyes and prayed, fervently invoking the healing power of the Flame.

Nothing happened.

No argent light or soft heat spreading out from his hands, no divine presence, nothing but warm, wet fur beneath his palms, cooling quickly in the chill night air.

He tried again, his brow furrowing with the intensity of his intercession, as if he could heal Quillion through force of will alone. As if the Flame were his to command, instead of the other way around.

It was futile, and he knew it, but he didn’t stop until he felt Irulan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Andri, let him go. He wouldn’t thank you for bringing him back even if you could.”

The paladin opened his eyes and looked over at the shifter woman, who was kneeling beside him on the ground, her own gaze focused on Quillion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, the slight quaver in her voice making his heart wrench. Because he had put it there.

Irulan reached over and lifted Quillion’s left hand. “Do you see? The silver claw? He was a member of my clan. Probably Bennin’s own son, Rave of the Silver Quill.”

Greddark dug out his wand from within his coat and now whispered something in Dwarven. The multifaceted crystal began to glow, infusing the stand of trees with a hazy, indistinct light. Andri knew it was for his benefit. Both Irulan and the dwarf could see well in the dark. It was a kindness he could have done without, though. The light made Quillion’s dead eyes gleam. Andri knew he was only imagining the accusation he saw there, but the knowledge did not allay the guilt.

“Who’s Bennin?” Greddark asked.

“The greatest shifter hero who ever lived,” Irulan said, her tone regaining some of its usual acerbity at the dwarf’s ignorance. “There was a time when the Church did not differentiate between the weretouched and the moontouched. Bennin changed that. He was a renowned lycanthrope slayer who became famous during the Purge for his efforts on behalf of the Church, hunting and killing more than fifty of the moontouched with his claws alone—claws fashioned magically of pure, holy silver. The stories tell of how he led a contingent of brave knights and clerics into the Demon Wastes to destroy a cult of lycanthropes who were set on taking revenge against the Church. The mission was betrayed by a member of the expedition who was, unbeknownst to Bennin, infected by a wererat’s bite.” Irulan’s voice had taken on a sing-song quality, and she rocked slightly on her knees, her eyes half-lidded as she recited the shifter tale. “The Betrayer led Bennin and his men into a fatal ambush. The battle was fierce and bloody and raged beneath the light of no fewer than five full moons. But finally, the Silverclaw and the three most powerful leaders of the cult were all who remained. Bennin fought with speed, cunning, and above all, honor, but he was overmatched and died beneath the jaws of an old werebear. But not before reaching into the lycanthrope’s chest with his silver claws and ripping out the creature’s still-beating heart. His sacrifice broke the power of the cult and ended the Church’s persecution of shifters. His son, Rave of the Silver Quill, was the first to set his father’s story to paper, and now all of Khorvaire knows of Bennin’s greatness.” She stopped rocking and looked askance at Greddark. “All of Khorvaire except for the Mror Holds, that is.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Sorry. Must have skipped that lesson.”

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with Quillion,” Andri said, finally reaching out to close the dead shifter’s eyes and free himself from that unseeing stare.

“Bennin left three legacies for his descendants: his name, his silver claws—we all have the one claw tipped in silver out of respect for him—and his hatred for the moontouched. Quillion—whom I believe was really Rave of the Silver Quill—was infected with lycanthropy, just like the Betrayer. He would not want to live so afflicted. None of us would. It’s probably what drove him crazy.” She looked up into Andri’s eyes, her expression earnest. “He wasn’t trying to save me when he jumped in front of your sword, Andri. He was trying to die. And you helped him do that. You did him a favor, one I hope you would do for me, if it ever came to that.”

Andri wanted desperately to believe her, to accept the forgiveness she was offering. But watching Quillion—Rave—die by his hand, and change from a murdering, tormented lycanthrope to a tired old shifter, right at his feet … it struck too close to home. It was like watching his parents die all over again, a sin for which there was no remission.

“Favor or not, you just killed our only suspect, before we even had a chance to question him,” Greddark pointed out with a frown.

Irulan shook her head. “It wasn’t him. Look at his legs. There’s no wound like the one Zoden described.”

Both Andri and Greddark looked where she indicated. Though the shifter’s corpse still bore the evidence of Andri’s blow, there was no other mark on him.

“So that means there’s another lycanthrope out there?” the dwarf asked, aghast. “Aren’t those things supposed to be rare? Especially in Thrane?”

“More than one, I think,” Irulan replied. “Quillion mentioned a pack, hiding in ‘the forest that burned.’ I think he may have meant the Greensward.”

“What?” Greddark said, grabbing for his sword, his eyes darting to the surrounding trees.

“No. He didn’t mean the Greensward,” Andri said, closing his eyes against the pain of memory, and realization. Would he never be free of his father? “He meant the Burnt Wood.”

“How do you know that?” Greddark asked, his voice sharp with curiosity. Or suspicion.

Andri opened his eyes to look from Irulan to the dwarf, and back again.

“Because,” he said at last, “That’s where my father went to hunt a werewolf five years ago. Right before he turned into one himself.”

“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.

Chapter
SEVENTEEN

Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK

As Andri trailed off into silence, Irulan and Greddark sat stunned by the paladin’s story. Irulan found herself swallowing hard as she tried to imagine how awful it must have been for him. She knew how it felt to have both of your parents die. She’d experienced it herself and had seen its effects on Javi. The grief, the resentment, the constant second-guessing yourself, always wondering if it was somehow your fault, if they might still be alive if only you’d done something different. But to know it was your fault, because they died at your own hand? She didn’t know how Andri could bear it.

“So what happened?” the dwarf asked, his voice rough. Though he didn’t show it, Irulan was certain Andri’s tale had affected the inquisitive as deeply as it had her.

Andri looked up from the fire, his eyes haunted. He shrugged. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Obviously, they let me go. They realized I was telling the truth—it simply isn’t possible to lie to the Inquisitors.”

The paladin gave a short, humorless laugh. The irony of a lycanthrope killer being subjected to the same tortures that the lycanthropes had themselves faced during the Purge was not lost on him.

“I wish I could have lied, that it had all been some mad delusion. But it was all completely and horribly true. My father infected with lycanthropy and unable to fight the curse when the moon turned full again. Him killing all those people on his way to get to my mother. Me having to kill him to protect her, and then …”

His face contorted, but the paladin quickly mastered himself and continued, staring blankly into the flames once more.

“But even though the Keeper vouched for me, some people still believed I was—am—a murderer. My parents were extremely wealthy, and people began whispering that I’d just used my father’s rampage as an excuse to get rid of them both and gain my inheritance. Even so many years later, those rumors still haunt me. People talk about me behind their hands as I pass, and some don’t bother with whispering. But the Flame knows the truth—the Flame, and the Keeper, and now you. I can ask for nothing more.”

Andri stood.

“I’ll take the first watch. I wouldn’t want to sleep now even if I could.”

As Irulan watched him disappear into the darkness, the lump in her throat threatened to choke her. Warm wetness cascaded down her cheeks and she realized she was crying. As she tried to dash the offending moisture away, she snuck a glance at Greddark, whose own eyes sparkled in the firelight before he turned away.

The only one who had no tears for the paladin, it seemed, was Andri.

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.”

“You want to do what?”

Irulan sighed. For an inquisitive, Greddark was pretty slow on the uptake.

“Look,” she said. “They’re wolves, and territorial. They’ll know where any other pack is lairing, including the werewolves. It shouldn’t be too—”

“Dire wolves, didn’t you say? About as big as my horse? Six of them? On the hunt?” Greddark turned to Andri. “She’s lost her mind.”

The paladin just shrugged. He’d been withdrawn and taciturn all morning. As irritating as his fervent prayers had been, his silence bother Irulan even more. She knew the memories he’d dredged up the night before still plagued him, and his pain was palpable.

All the more reason for them to go after the wolves—or, rather, have the wolves come after them. A fight would do the paladin good.

“I’m not crazy. They’ll think we’re easy prey—”

“And they won’t be wrong,” Greddark muttered, but she ignored him.

“—and try to attack. We defeat their pack leaders, and they’ll have no choice but to help us.”

“Pack leaders? As in, more than one?”

Honestly. Had he never been out of the city?

“Two. The dominant male and female. Usually the parents of the other wolves.”

“And what if we can’t defeat them? They lead the pack because they’re the biggest, strongest, and fiercest of the lot. If the rest of the pack can’t beat them, what makes you think we can?”

“Simple. We’re smarter and better armed.”

“Better armed, anyway,” the dwarf grunted, pulling his short sword from its scabbard.

“That’s not what I meant,” Irulan said. “If we want the pack’s cooperation, we can’t kill the leaders outright. We have to challenge them. Though, if they’re not a mated pair, we may only have to deal with the male.” She flexed her fingers in anticipation of shifting. She wouldn’t mind a good fight, herself.

“Challenge?” Greddark repeated, looking at her in frank amazement. “You mean, wolf to wolf?”

He’d no doubt meant the phrase to be disparaging, but Irulan chose to ignore it. She wasn’t so much of a hypocrite that she wouldn’t utilize the abilities inherent in her bloodline when it was to her benefit, regardless of how much she detested the source of that advantage.

“Something like that, yes.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

She shrugged, an unconscious parody of Andri’s earlier gesture.

“Then I’ll use magic.”

The dwarf didn’t even try to mask his disbelief. He grabbed at his beard, which wasn’t nearly long enough for such abuse, then shifted to his hair, tugging on lanky strands in sheer frustration. Irulan would have thought it comical, if that frustration weren’t quickly morphing to anger—anger that was directed at her.

“Magic? You’re going to try and charm a dire wolf? When you can’t even control a Host-damned horse?”

Irulan felt her own patience slipping. There was no way they’d find the werewolves’ lair on their own. They had to have help, and it wasn’t as if they could summon up a House Tharashk Finder to locate the lycanthropes for them. Especially not when at least one of the werewolves had some sort of ward powerful enough to interfere with both dragonmark abilities and magical means of scrying. The wolves were their only option.

“You have a better idea?” Irulan asked. Her mare, sensing her own mounting ire, chose that moment to begin chomping at the bit, earning a smug smirk from the dwarf. Irulan could have kicked the stupid beast—both of them.

“As a matter of fact—”

“Stop it.”

Though he didn’t raise his voice, Andri’s words carried a sharp edge of command. Both Irulan and Greddark turned to look at the paladin in surprise. He’d reined his own mount in and was grasping the reins so tightly his knuckles were white. But when he spoke, his tone betrayed neither impatience nor temper, only the expectation of obedience.

“Irulan’s right. The pack Quillion spoke of could be anywhere in the forest. Wolves and dire wolves have an empathetic connection with werewolves. They will know where the lycanthropes are lairing. It would be better if we could separate their leaders out from the rest of the pack, but we are short on time and resources. We will go with Irulan’s plan.”

Irulan hid her own smirk while the dwarf started to protest.

“But—”

“If this plan is not agreeable to you, Master Greddark, you are free to consider your employment terminated. I’ll give you a letter of credit to cover the fee you’ve already earned, along with your share of the rations that remain, and you can follow the edge of the wood to Olath. You can resupply there and book passage back to Sigilstar, if you so desire.”

The paladin and the inquisitive stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Greddark was the first to look away. Seeing the bleak expression in Andri’s eyes, Irulan didn’t blame him. It was as if something vital in the paladin had perished, draining away the warmth and compassion that Irulan had come to admire so much. A coldness radiated from him now, one borne not of anger, but of black despair. When his dead gaze flicked over her, she shivered.

“I was hired to find a killer,” the dwarf said finally. “I don’t quit with a job half-done.”

“Very well. Then we’d better prepare.”

The preparations, such as they were, took little time. Irulan scouted out a small clearing beside a muddy brook where deer and other wild game often came to drink. The wolves had been headed in this general direction. It was an obvious choice for a hunting ground.

Or a trap.

The tricky part would be making sure the wolves thought they were easier prey than their horses. But Irulan had a spell that would hide the mounts from detection, as long as the steeds didn’t accidentally touch another living creature. She solved that problem as best she could by tethering the mounts at intervals along the downstream end of the small creek, on the opposite side of the clearing from where the wolves would be approaching. She would just have to pray to the Flame that no curious chipmunk or darting bird bumped into one of the horses before the wolves arrived, thus negating the spell and revealing the mounts for all to see, friend and foe alike. She pulled out a small knife and notched the bark of each tree where one of the horses was tied, so they would be able to find the mounts again afterwards.

Assuming they survived that long.

Andri’s vote of confidence notwithstanding, she wasn’t sure her plan was actually going to work. Irulan had always put more stock in her claws than in her spells. Though she was loathe to admit it, the dwarf had been right to doubt the efficacy of her magic-wielding capabilities. She would try to charm the pack leader. Hopefully she would only have to worry about the male, because she wasn’t sure she could hold two of them in thrall at once. But she knew she’d better be ready for a fight, because chances were good that it was going to come down to whose claws were faster and whose bite sank deeper.

Greddark built a small fire and they took their positions around the circle of rocks, pretending to chat and snack like frivolous nobles out picnicking in the woods on a lark. Of course, since Andri had gone back to being his usual uncommunicative self and Irulan needed to focus her senses outward, on the wolves, that left Greddark to chatter along inanely with himself, a situation that the shifter suspected she would have found wildly amusing under other circumstances. As it was, she had to tune most of the dwarf’s blathering out in order to track the wolves’ approach, although random phrases periodically threatened to draw her out of her reverie.

“… and, of course, that’s when I found out she was really a he. Talk about embarrassing.”

“… when Uncle Zaxon thought it would be funny to turn me to stone for a few years …”

“… be sure to add that to my list of things never to say to a dragon …”

Irulan wrenched her attention away from the sound of the dwarf’s voice and sent her awareness back out into the forest, searching for the wolves.

There, to the south. Three … four. Where were the others?

Ah, the two females, one approaching from either side, but thankfully nowhere near the horses. Irulan could not sense them, but she knew the mounts would be whickering in alarm as they scented the wolves. Luckily, the spell hid them not only from sight, but from smell and hearing, as well. As long as their tethers held, they should be safe.

As the wolves moved in, Irulan noted their positions, then let her awareness of the hunters fade. She opened up her eyes and looked at her companions.

“They’re here.”

With the two females split off from the rest of the pack, Irulan knew the dire wolves would try to run them. It was a tactic their smaller counterparts commonly used to cull the weak from herds of deer and other ungulates. The pair would harry their frightened prey until the luckless animals ran, at which point the two wolves would chase them straight into the midst of the waiting pack. This time, though, they were in for a surprise.

The wolves were all but invisible, their grizzled black pelts blending seamlessly into the forest shadows. If not for their glowing yellow eyes, Irulan might not have known they were there until they moved out of the underbrush on either side of the clearing. As it was, she pretended not to notice them as she alerted her companions, making sure to keep her tone light and airy.

“The two females are circling us,” she said, as though she were discussing nothing more serious than the weather. “They’ll try to get downstream of us and force us to move closer to the males. When they make their move, draw your weapons and stand your ground, but whatever you do, don’t attack.”

“That’s like making your lady get all dressed up for the party, then refusing to dance with her,” Greddark said, not quite able to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Irulan smiled, watching the wolves approach out of the corner of her eyes.

“Oh, never fear, there’ll be dancing. But the steps may not be to your liking.”

The dwarf grunted. “Nothing else about this plan has been. Why should this part be any different?”

Irulan laughed at his surliness.

“It’s a good thing you have such a quick wit, Greddark, because you’re going to need it. Right … about … now.”

As if her words had been a signal, the two females rushed them, snapping and snarling. They were at least five times the size of a normal wolf, with teeth twice as long as those of their smaller cousins. Their claws were like miniature sickles which the huge canids used to trip prey that got too close.

The companions sprang up, Andri and Greddark’s weapons clearing their sheaths with a song of steel on leather. Andri called flame to his blade, and the smaller of the two wolves whimpered when she saw it, crouching low with her tail between her legs. The larger, dominant female growled at her packmate, her own tail held high. The other female took courage from her leader, and soon she was standing and growling as well, though she stayed a good distance away from Andri.

Irulan did not draw her own blade, but shifted instead, feeling her claws lengthen and thicken as she crouched, making sure that she was still taller than the large female. Height was one of many way her animal cousins showed dominance, and she wanted it clear that there was only room for one leading lady in this clearing—her.

The pack leader reacted predictably, her ears jutting upward as she bared her long teeth at the shifter. She stalked forward slowly, stiff-legged, her hackles bristling, until she was within arm’s reach of Irulan. Then she very deliberately raised her hind leg and urinated all over Irulan’s saddle bags, which were sitting on the ground not far from their campfire. Marking her territory. Letting Irulan know who was really in charge here.

Irulan leapt, clawed hands reaching for the thick ruff of fur at the base of the dire wolf’s throat. Grasping the long hairs firmly as she sailed over the female’s back, using her momentum and her angle to heave the wolf off her feet—no mean trick, given that the dire wolf outweighed her by several hundred pounds. They rolled across the grass until she came up with the struggling animal pinned beneath her, her arms locked about the wolf’s throat in a hold that cut off the creature’s air supply. While Andri held the other wolf at bay with his flaming sword, Irulan bent low and murmured soothing words in the female’s ear. As she spoke, the charm began to take effect and the wolf’s struggles subsided, her flattened ears gradually perking up again. When Irulan was sure the pack leader was completely under her thrall, she loosened her hold and climbed off her, allowing the female to regain her feet. The wolf turned to face her, panting and darting forward to lick her face, then abruptly grabbing the shifter’s chin in powerful jaws.

Greddark hissed and started to move toward her, but Irulan waved the dwarf back. The female was merely showing her submission. She meant the shifter no harm.

“It’s fine,” Irulan said when the wolf released her, “She’s just trying to mouth my muzzle.” The phrase elicited only blank looks from her companions. She just shook her head. She didn’t have time to tutor them on the intricacies of wolf behaviors. “It’s fine,” she said again.

She stood slowly, scratching the now subordinate female behind the ears. The wolf’s coloring reminded her of Destry, the pup she’d bonded with back in the Reaches. Destry had gotten himself killed trying to defend her from a mother bear whose cubs she’d stumbled across by accident, and she hadn’t had the heart to take another animal companion since. But sometimes, when she happened upon a wolf in the wild, she’d think of that fierce little pup and how much she missed him. Maybe, once this was all over and Javi was free, she’d go back to the Reaches and see if she could find one of his littermates. Traveling with Andri and Greddark reminded her how lonely her life was. It would be good to have a friend again.

But first things first.

She whispered to the female, who wagged her tail once, then sat back on her hind legs and let out a long howl that reverberated through the small clearing. The other female joined her in the echoing chorus, a forlorn sound that was oddly incongruous in the bright sunlight.

Greddark shivered, and even Andri looked unsettled.

“What in Onatar’s name are they doing?” the dwarf demanded, his grip tightening on his hilt as his eyes roved uneasily over the surrounding trees.

“Calling the rest of the pack.”

It didn’t take long for the pack to respond. An answering howl sounded, much closer than Irulan had anticipated, and before its last echoes had faded away into the canopy, the other four dire wolves materialized silently out of the woods.

Irulan identified the dominant male. He was easily a foot taller at the shoulder than the other males, and probably weighed more than her horse. With jet black fur and eyes that blazed amber, the hostility radiating from him made it clear that charming him was not going to be an option.

She would have to fight.

Irulan stared into the male pack leader’s yellow eyes, her refusal to look away a clear challenge to his dominance.

“Whatever happens to me,” she said to her companions, not taking her eyes off the wolf, “don’t run.”

“You’re suggesting we stand still and let them eat us?” Greddark asked.

“No. I’m telling you that they will chase you down and kill you if you run. If the leader kills me, just keep your swords up and back away slowly. Use fire, if you have to. If they see you’re not frightened, they’ll let you go.”

“We won’t leave without you,” Andri said.

Irulan smiled, though she knew the paladin couldn’t see her face. She should have known all it would take was a lady in seeming distress to bring him out of his depression. But his chivalry was pointless.

“Don’t bother. If he defeats me, there won’t be anything left of me to save.”

Then she had no more time for words. The male leader, accepting her steady gaze for the challenge it was, advanced, much as his mate had, with his tail erect and his lips curled back to reveal his fangs.

The other wolves held back, waiting to see how the challenge would play out. Irulan unbuckled her sword belt as she moved toward the pack leader, tossing the weapon to the side. She hated to be without the sword, but if she wanted the pack to accept her victory, it would have to be won by the law of the pack, using only the weapons of the wolf—claws, fangs, and wits.

Though she supposed Greddark would tell her she’d have to make do with two out of three. And as the dire wolf neared, she had to admit that the dwarf might be right. The dire wolf was only a few feet away now, and she could see just how big he really was. Larger than the dragonhound, Skaravojen, and stronger, by the looks of the muscles rippling powerfully beneath his dark fur. And no Keeper in sight to calm him with a word.

Though she did have Andri. Would the paladin’s intercession be enough to tip the scales in her favor? Or even move them?

Well, she thought as the dire wolf emitted a deep, rumbling growl that set her teeth on edge, it certainly couldn’t hurt.

“Andri,” she called, not breaking eye contact with the lead male. “A little prayer, please?”

The paladin complied, beginning a low chant, his voice rising and falling in a martial rhythm. A warmth spread through her, and Irulan felt herself becoming stronger and more confident.

She could do this.

She would.

With a growl of her own, she attacked.

She tried the same maneuver that she had used on the female, launching herself at the male’s neck with the intent of knocking him off his feet. The wolf crouched low as she sailed over him, and her claws sliced through nothing but thick fur. She tumbled across the grass and was on her feet in an instant, but it was already too late.

The dire wolf crashed into her, sending her sprawling onto her back. She rolled away as the wolf’s heavy jaws came down, teeth slamming together on nothing but air as she narrowly avoided having her shoulder and half her arm bitten off. Then she was on her feet again and dancing away as the wolf stalked after her, snarling in anger.

They circled each other, growling and glaring, with Andri’s chant providing a melodic and surreal backdrop for their dance of dominance. As they moved, lunging, dodging, and posturing, Irulan noticed that the wolf seemed to be favoring his right fore-paw, placing his weight more on the pad than on the toes of that foot as he walked. The difference was subtle, and the wolf was trying to hide it, so as not to appear weak, but a quick glance at the tracks he left in the muddy grass confirmed it—the wolf had a broken toe.

But walking on the pad was putting pressure on the recessed dewclaw, which was what was actually causing the wolf’s almost imperceptible limp. Irulan felt a twinge of sympathy for the animal. Each step he took was probably excruciating. If they both survived this encounter, she would have to try and heal his foot.

Especially since she was planning on making it hurt a lot worse.

As she circled him, she made sure her path would bring her closer and closer to the tree line. She dropped her gaze to make the wolf think she was beginning to back down from the challenge, then pretended to stumble on a root, fetching up against the trunk of a large oak.

The wolf charged, loping toward her like a dog running to greet its owner. He jumped on her, his paws landing heavily on her shoulders as his slavering jaws closed around the lower half of her face. But unlike the female, the male was not showing submission—he meant to put an end to this two-legged bitch who had challenged his dominance in front of his pack.

Irulan raised her hands as she felt the tips of the male’s teeth beginning to puncture the skin of her cheeks, like the sharp sting of insects. But instead of trying to fend off the wolf’s bite, she grabbed the paw on her left shoulder. With one hand, she found the broken toe and grasped it, wrenching it out and away from the wolf’s foot. With the other, she found the tender area around the dewclaw and shoved her own claw deep into the soft flesh of the pad, feeling blood gush over her knuckles and down across her wrist.

The wolf howled, the sound ringing in her ears, but he did not release his grip on her head. If anything, his jaws tightened, and she could feel the bones in her jaw beginning to break as blood coursed down her face and agony radiated through her skull.

He wasn’t going to let go.

Desperately, Irulan kicked out with one clawed foot, trying to gouge the dire wolf’s stomach as she had with Skaravojen, but he was too close and too big. She couldn’t get any leverage. The most she could do was slash her claws across his hind legs, which only made the wolf shift his weight forward onto her head and chest. She wondered idly if she would suffocate before he either broke her neck or tore her jaw off.

She continued to drive her claw into the wolf’s foot, feeling it slide along bone and punch out on the other side, but even though it was a debilitating injury, one that the pack leader would not survive, she knew she would die long before he did.

And then, abruptly, the fire that consumed the lower half of her face lessened, and the weakness and dizziness that had been tickling the edges of her consciousness disappeared. She was vaguely aware that the tenor of Andri’s prayer had changed, and that his voice was faltering, but she didn’t immediately connect the two events. Instead, she used the reprieve from pain to redouble her attack, pulling her claw out of the wolf’s foot and using both hands to twist the wounded appendage around as hard as she could until she heard a sharp, satisfying crack.

The wolf released her face with a high-pitched yelp and dropped back. As his considerable weight landed on the now-broken ankle, it buckled, and the wolf went down, legs splayed out in front of him as if he were kneeling to her. Irulan stepped away from the tree and placed one foot on the wolf’s back, raising her head to loose a howl of victory. The leader flattened his ears against his head and whimpered in submission.

It was over. She had won.

Even though, by all rights, she should be dead.

She lifted a hand up to touch her face gingerly. Though still slick with her own blood, the flesh was intact. It was like the wolf had never attacked her.

There was a moan and a clatter of armor. Across the clearing, Andri collapsed. Though none of the wolves had made a move toward him, his face and tabard were covered in scarlet blood, as if her wounds had been transferred to him.

And, with a gasp of shock, she realized that they had. The paladin had used the power of the Silver Flame to take her hurts upon himself, suffering in her stead so that she could remain strong enough to defeat the dire wolf.

The dear, sweet fool.

Though she wanted nothing more than to run to Andri’s side, she knew that doing so would endanger everything she had fought for, and make the paladin’s sacrifice meaningless. As calmly as she could, she instructed Greddark to tend to Andri’s wounds, hoping he had another healing potion secreted in that multi-pocketed coat of his.

She turned her attention back to the wolf beneath her. Carefully removing her foot from his back, she crouched down next to the injured animal and held out her hand in front of his muzzle. Cautiously, the wolf moved his head toward her and began licking her hand, acknowledging his defeat. When the other wolves saw this, they gathered around Irulan, bowing their heads to her and licking the blood from her face and hands.

They were hers to lead now.

Certain of her safety, and that of her companions, she took the pack leader’s paw gently in her hands and spoke a spell of healing, easing the bone into its proper place and letting the magic knit the broken pieces back together. He would limp for a few days, but then the paw should be good as new.

As she looked up and saw Greddark trying to force the last of a potion through the unconscious paladin’s ruined lips, she only hoped the same would be true for Andri.

Chapter
EIGHTEEN

Zor, Eyre 5, 998 YK

Something was licking his face.

As Andri’s awareness returned, he realized he was lying on his back, and his head hurt—so much so that he didn’t want to open his eyes. He knew that he should, but he couldn’t remember why.

They’d been in a forest, hunting … what?

Wolves.

And they’d found them, too, a pack of them, bigger than any wolves he’d ever seen before.

Dire wolves.

Had they fought? No … he remembered singing. Praying, as someone else battled the leader of the wolf pack.

Irulan!

Andri’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up so abruptly he knocked the shifter woman onto her rump, the wet cloth she’d been using to wipe blood from his face still clutched in one hand.

Though his head was spinning, he lunged forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her close. He examined her intently, his hands running over her hair and face as he touched her cheek, her jaw, her neck, looking for any sign of injury.

There was nothing.

Thank the Flame! His spell had worked.

With a sigh, he sat back, releasing his grip on the startled shifter.

“Well, looks like you’re feeling fine,” Greddark said from somewhere behind them.

Andri turned his head—slowly, this time—to see the dwarf leading their horses into the clearing. The wolves were nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” he asked, turning back to Irulan. She moved into a kneeling position and filled him in as she continued to wash the blood from the new pink skin on his cheeks and jaw.

“I was able to defeat the pack leader without killing him—thanks to you.” Her face was mere inches from his own, so close he could feel her breath on his skin and smell the heavy odor of wet dog that clung to her, no doubt from her struggle with the dire wolf. “What was that spell? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Andri pulled back from her, uncomfortable with the earnestness of her gratitude. He tried to shrug it away, as if what he’d done hadn’t almost cost him his own life.

“It’s powerful, but not many learn it, because of the obvious risks.” Though if he’d known it when his mother had been attacked, he would have used it without hesitation. He didn’t say that part aloud, but by the look of sympathy that flashed across Irulan’s face, he knew he didn’t need to.

“So where are the wolves now?” he asked. The throbbing in his head was starting to subside. In a moment, he would try to stand.

“Off hunting. Except for the lead male. He’s going to guide us to the werewolves’ lair.”

Andri climbed slowly to his feet, ignoring the steadying hand Irulan offered. He took a few experimental steps. When he was satisfied that the world was not going to tilt and send him reeling to the ground, he reached out for the reins that Greddark was offering him. Swinging himself up into the saddle, he looked down on his two compatriots.

“Well, then,” he said, rubbing his still-aching jaw. “What are we waiting for?”

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.”

They traveled for another day and a half into the heart of the Burnt Wood. Ostra and his shifters led them through the dense forest, chained to one another like prisoners in the iron mines, their horses—loaded with their equipment, including their weapons—being pulled along behind. They weren’t allowed to speak to one another. Irulan had gotten cuffed across the mouth when she tried to tell them how the shifters had ambushed her. But Andri was able to piece together some of what had happened from snatches of conversation between their captors that he caught along the way. Apparently, Ostra had sent another reachrunner to Shadukar ahead of them. He had just been meant to observe and report, but after they had confronted Quillion, he’d followed them and watched long enough to see they were heading into the woods. When he had returned to pay his respects to Quillion, he’d found the old werewolf’s body defiled—the fingers on both hands were missing, cut off cleanly with a sharp blade. The teleportation ring was still there, however, and the shifter had used it to travel to Ostra. The camp leader and his men—the so-called “Silver Circle”—had not been at Aruldusk, as the shifter had expected, but at the werewolves’ lair. Once Ostra’s men knew they were coming, it was a simple matter for the shifters to find them in the forest, and to overpower both Irulan and their dire wolf guide. Now they were taking the trio back to the lair where Pater, the leader of the werewolves, would “deal” with them.

Andri was dismayed to hear what had happened to Quillion’s body, but surely the shifter was mistaken. Irulan had expected the rats would come to claim the werewolf for their own—perhaps they had conquered their fear and begun their feast with his fingers, only to be frightened away by the shifter’s return before they could finish the job.

And why had Ostra been with the werewolves and not in the shifter encampment? Surely he couldn’t have known Quillion’s ramblings would lead them to the Burnt Wood? Even the reachrunner had been surprised to find him there, though Andri had heard something about a schedule being “moved up.” The shifter leader must have had some other reason for being there, then, one that had nothing to do with them. But what? Obviously, he was in league with the werewolves, but what did that mean, exactly? Was he helping to harbor the murderer, or simply trying to protect them from discovery and persecution, as he had claimed to be doing for Quillion?

But that line of thinking left Andri with even more disturbing questions. Andri’s father had been infected by a werewolf from the Burnt Wood. It stood to reason that the lycanthrope was a member of Pater’s pack. So if Ostra was helping the werewolves and had been for some time, how much did the shifter really know about what had happened to Alestair Aeyliros? Ostra had called him “child of the moontouched,” yet the true tale of what had transpired that night in Flamekeep was not widely known. Either the old shifter had a spy network to rival the Queen’s, or he had gotten his information from the only other party to Alestair’s infection—the werewolf that had doomed him and Chardice to death.

Which meant the werewolf had survived his encounter with Andri’s father and might still be alive.

The possibility stunned Andri. His father had been sure of the lycanthrope’s demise—Andri wore the thing’s claws around his neck, for Tira’s sake—and the paladin had never had any cause to doubt Alestair’s certainty. He had never even contemplated seeking revenge for the deaths of his parents, because he’d believed the one who had cursed his father—and, ultimately, his entire family—was already dead.

And now, it seemed, he might have been wrong.

Andri tried to marshal his thoughts as he stumbled along behind Irulan and Greddark. The Keeper had sent him to find a killer and prevent potential genocide, not to pursue a personal vendetta. He had to focus on his duty, not vengeance.

But the opportunity to make someone else pay for taking his parents from him … the thought of it was heady and sweet, like fine Aundairian wine.

Too sweet.

He knew temptation when it reared its vile head, and he would not be lured by its empty promises. He was here to apprehend a murderer, not slay a demon from his own past.

But, Flame help him … what if they were one and the same?

It was nearing evening on the second day of their capture when Andri began to notice subtle changes in the forest around them. As he followed Irulan and Greddark along a game trail, pulled along by the chains that bound them at the wrists and ankles, he realized that it wasn’t as humid as it had been, or as warm. Though he wasn’t a ranger by any stretch, the trees seemed different to him—taller, perhaps, with thicker trunks and darker foliage. The animal life seemed more abundant—birdsong trilled overhead and the leaves all about rustled with unseen activity. It was as if they had entered some primal place in the woods, an area ancient and undisturbed by even the faintest vestiges of civilization. Andri found it both peaceful and profoundly unsettling.

“Where are we?” It was Irulan, the first words she had spoken in nearly two days, since she’d gotten backhanded by one of Ostra’s men. Her lip was still puffy and bruised. “Is this … Lamannia?”

Lamannia. The Twilight Forest, a plane of untamed beauty, where nature and her wild children ran riot. They must have stepped into a manifest zone, a place where the normal boundaries between planes were fluid and shifting, sometimes allowing passage from one plane to another without a traveler even realizing they’d crossed over into a different realm of existence. Such zones were not unusual—the great Brelish city of Sharn, with its floating towers, was located in a manifest zone linked to Syrania, for instance—but Andri had never heard of one in the Burnt Wood. The lairing choice of the lycanthropes seemed much more logical now.

“I said no talking!” one of their escort snarled, a big brute of a shifter with horns and a wide, boarish face—the same one who had struck Irulan earlier. He raised his hand to do it again, and Andri tensed, wanting to jump in the way of the blow, but the chains and another shifter’s dagger at his ribs stopped him.

But Irulan did not need his aid. She was ready for the attack this time, anticipating it, and when the gorebrute shifter’s hand connected with her face, she stood her ground. Instead of allowing the impact to force her head to the side, she moved into the blow, opening her mouth and latching onto the other shifter’s hand with her sharp teeth. Then she bit down, hard, and Andri could see the blood starting to flow.

“You bitch!” The gorebrute spat, trying to extricate his hand, but Irulan held on with the tenacity of dog, her teeth sinking even deeper as the shifter’s struggles jerked her to and fro, nearly toppling Greddark in the process. The shifter punched her in the ear, trying to get her to release him, but she refused. With a howl of pain and outrage, the shifter drew his sword, intending to run her through.

“Hold!”

The voice held all the command of a general or a high priest, and Andri found himself turning with the others to find its source. Even Irulan loosened her hold on the gorebrute’s hand, and he wrenched it away, cradling the abused appendage against his chest. His sword remained poised near Irulan’s midsection, but he, too, turned his head to look.

An old werewolf stood on the path before them, upright in his hybrid form, but leaning heavily on a walking stick. His fur was brown but grizzled with age, and his eyes were a milky blue, the sockets surrounded by thick scar tissue.

Pater.

Two human men and an elf woman stood behind him. They were dressed in simple, loose-fitting clothes and wore no weapons. The woman carried a wolf pup in her arms.

Ostra stepped forward, cuffing the gorebrute as he passed. Then the shifter leader went down on one knee before the old werewolf, reaching out to grasp Pater’s free hand and touch the werewolf’s claws to his forehead. It was the same gesture of respect Irulan had given to Ostra in the shifter’s own tent.

“Grandfather,” the old shifter said, though Andri suspected the term was merely an honorific, “I bring you the werehunters, as you requested.”

“And did I request that you to bring them to me in chains?” the werewolf asked, pulling his hand out of Ostra’s grip, his displeasure clear. “How are we to convince them of our innocence if you imprison and abuse them?”

Ostra straightened. “Your pardon, Grandfather. The chains were to ensure they would refrain from attacking long enough to hear you out. You heard what they did to Quillion. I will remove their bonds, if you so desire.”

Pater ignored him, walking slowly over to the prisoners. He stopped in front of Irulan, cocking his head to the side. His nose twitched once.

“Bennin’s daughter,” he said, by way of greeting.

Irulan’s eyes narrowed, but she did not respond.

To the boar-faced shifter behind her, he said, “Put your sword away, and have Daimana dress your wounds.”

The gorebrute bowed his head in acknowledgement, the horns regressing back into his forehead as he shifted from his animalistic state. He sheathed his sword and walked over to the elf woman, who turned and led him back down the path.

The werewolf moved to stand before Greddark.

“Son of the mountains,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

Like Irulan, the inquisitive did not answer, and Andri wondered idly if dwarves were even susceptible to werewolf bites. He’d never heard of a dwarf lycanthrope, and how would the moons’ influence reach them deep in their rocky caverns, in any case?

And then Pater was before him, and all such frivolous thoughts fled.

The old werewolf’s blind eyes stared at him, not seeing his physical features but reading his very soul.

“Son of the Flame,” Pater said. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

Not waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away, following in Daimana’s footsteps. As he went, he ordered Ostra to unchain them, return their belongings and their mounts, and bring them into the camp. The shifter leader did so reluctantly, though his men kept their own weapons trained on the trio.

As they collected their things, Greddark muttered something about another dead end.

“What do you mean?” Andri asked, pulling his silver sword out to check the blade over before returning it to its sheath.

“The old werewolf, Pater? He can barely stand, let alone chase down victims in the city streets. Plus, his fur’s the wrong color. And the others, the men and the elf? None of them are walking with a limp. Unless there are more of them back at their lair, I don’t think our murderer is here.” He shook his head in disgust. “Host, that’s just what we need. Another one.”

The werewolves’ lair was not so different from the shifter encampment outside Aruldusk, with tents made from animal skins set up around a central fire, upon which a large buck was being slowly roasted, sending out a delectable aroma that made Andri’s mouth water. A creek gurgled nearby, and a rock outcropping sported a small cave. Daimana sat at its mouth, playing fetch with the wolf pup. As Andri watched, the pup chased after a short stick, which landed on the bank of the creek. The overeager young wolf tried to stop but was going too fast and went tumbling head over heels into the water with an angry yowl. Andri was horrified and sickened to see the pup change as it stood in the middle of the creek, its back legs lengthening and stretching until it could stand on two feet and kick at the running water in frustration.

Not a wolf pup, but a young lycanthrope, morphing into a sweet-faced toddler, who, his mercurial temper fading, was now splashing about in the creek, laughing in delight. Daimana—his mother?—joined the boy, shedding her clothes before jumping into the water. As she raised her shift over her head, Andri quickly averted his eyes, but not before he saw that her long, white legs were free of blemish.

Pater sat near the fire. Ostra seated himself next to the old werewolf and gestured for Andri and his companions to do the same. As they did so, Andri taking the seat nearest to the lycanthrope, Pater began his tale.

“Please forgive Ostra and the Circle. They strive to protect us from the outside world but are sometimes … overzealous.”

Leata’s words suddenly clicked into place.

Half the Circle, and now Thorn? Why is the Host punishing us so?

And Quillion’s ramblings about silver circles made more sense now, as well.

“We are refugees from the Purge,” Pater said. “First we hid in the shifter quarters of Shadukar, then we fled here when the city was razed. We found this small area where Lamannia and Eberron intersect, and we have hidden here ever since, safe from those who would persecute us. We have even begun to breed again.”

Daimana’s laughter rang out against the trees as her son, in wolf form again, splashed her with his tail.

“The forest sustains us,” Pater continued, “and those few things that we cannot make ourselves, Ostra’s shifters bring to us once a month—sometimes sooner, if we need medicine for the cub. Their rangers patrol the woods, and they keep outsiders from coming too near the manifest zone, though I believe they tell those they turn away that it is for their protection, not ours.”

At the mention of rangers, Andri felt himself gripped by a sudden dread, and he turned to look at Irulan. No. She couldn’t be involved … could she?

Pater, sensing his movement, chuckled.

“Not Irulan. Do you truly think she would try to protect us when we represent everything she hates about herself?”

Irulan opened her mouth to protest, glaring first at Andri and then at Pater, but the old werewolf’s next words silenced her.

“Though Javi, on the other hand, has been most helpful. He’s turning into quite the ranger—almost as good as his sister. It’s a shame she can’t be swayed to our cause. The two would make quite a team.”

Irulan’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Black rage chased disbelief across her face for several moments before the rage won.

“That crooked bastard!” she snarled, her words venomous. “After all I’ve done—”

“He’s hardly that,” Pater interrupted. “He has the same father you do.”

“Not if he’s helping you, he doesn’t,” Irulan spat. “No real Silverclaw would jeopardize his freedom—his life—to aid a werewolf. We remember the Betrayer.”

“As do we,” Pater replied, his tone no longer mild. “Do not paint us all the same hue, simply because we share the same heritage. It is yours, no less than ours.”

Irulan glared. “Regardless, after we free him, I’m going to kill him.”

Andri wasn’t entirely sure that she was joking.

Pater seemed satisfied, though, for he continued his tale. “Ah, yes. That’s why you have come, is it not? To free your brother and the other members of the Circle from their imprisonment? Ostra has told us of your investigation, and—”

“What do you mean, other members?”

The old werewolf turned his head in Greddark’s direction.

“Several members of the Circle have been among those arrested, yes. Is that important?”

Greddark shrugged, then seemed to realize Pater couldn’t see him. “Could be,” he said, but Andri could almost see the wheels turning in his head as the inquisitive mulled over this new piece of the puzzle.

“We know that you believe the murders in Aruldusk are being committed by a lycanthrope. While we sympathize with the good citizens of that city, we are not responsible for what is happening there.”

“Prove it.”

Pater looked at the inquisitive in surprise. “How would you have us do that, master dwarf, if your own ability to discern lies will not convince you?”

“The killer was stabbed in the thigh by his last victim. Let us examine your people to see if any of them have similar wounds.”

Pater did not hesitate. “Of course.”

He called the two men and Daimana over.

“Not her,” Andri said as the elf woman approached, still naked save for her sodden coppery hair, which clung to her body like sheer silk and left little to the imagination. He could feel his cheeks burning as he looked anywhere but in her direction. “We can see she’s not hurt. She can go.”

The elf laughed at his prudishness and walked the long way around the fire to get back to the creek, making sure to brush up against him as she passed. When she was gone, Andri looked up again, only to find Irulan frowning at him.

The two men dropped their trousers and submitted themselves to Greddark’s inspection. As the dwarf had surmised earlier, neither of them were injured.

“Is this all of them?” Greddark asked, resuming his seat.

Pater nodded. “Save for the cub. And me.”

So saying, the old werewolf clambered to his feet, and began to methodically part the fur on his thighs with both hands to show that he bore no wounds underneath. But doing so required him to put his entire weight on his own legs, instead of using the walking stick, and it was too much. Pater’s knees buckled and he would have fallen, but Andri sprang up and caught the lycanthrope before he hit the ground. As he helped the werewolf back to his feet, Pater’s hand darted out, unerringly finding the chain Andri wore and yanking it from around his neck.

The werewolf held the necklace up.

“Son of the Flame, son of the Flame wielder,” he said, hissing the sibilants, and Andri saw his hand.

He had no claws.

Chapter
NINETEEN

Sar, Eyre 7, 998 YK

Before Andri could think to react, something big and white blurred past him and crashed into the old werewolf, knocking both him and Pater to the ground and sending the necklace of claws flying. As Andri rolled frantically to the side to avoid the fire, he caught glimpses of Pater and his attacker tumbling together in a brown and white tangle a few feet away. He regained his feet and drew his sword, joining the others who had gathered around the two combatants.

As they fought, Andri saw that Pater’s assailant was another werewolf. The ivory-furred lycanthrope wore simple gray trousers and the shredded remains of a like-colored tunic, no doubt ruined when he transformed. A dark stain marred the fabric of one pant leg, and it took Andri a moment to realize it was old blood. A similar stain discolored the bottom of a small pouch he wore at his waist.

Then the interloper was standing, dragging Pater to his feet. He had the old werewolf by the neck, a dagger pointed at his throat. The blade glinted silver in the reflected light of the fire.

He turned to face them, using Pater as a shield from the arrows of Ostra’s shifters. Not that those arrows would do more than annoy him, even if one of the shifters could get a decent angle. They had been meant for mundane foes and would not harm a lycanthrope. There were only two weapons visible here that would—the dagger the blonde werewolf held, and Andri’s sword. The werewolf knew it and directed his words to the paladin.

“I really must thank you,” he said, his voice incongruously cultured, coming from the muzzle of a wolf. “I had hoped only that you would lead me to the pack. I never dreamed you would lead me to my own sire. I thought your father had killed him, but apparently getting himself cursed wasn’t the only mistake Alestair made.”

As he spoke, the werewolf dug the tip of his blade into Pater’s throat, and the movement caused a second flash of metal, this one on his hand.

The werewolf wore a silver ring, set with a single, bright diamond.

Andri’s gasp of shock echoed through the camp, and he felt as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. The world spun, and he thought he might pass out.

He blinked away the sudden vertigo, praying to the Flame that his eyes were deceiving him, but when the world righted itself again, the scene before him had not changed. Pater was still held captive by a white-furred werewolf with a leg wound, the murderer who had been plaguing Aruldusk, none other than …

“Bishop Maellas?” Andri whispered in horror.

The werewolf looked at him and smiled.

“Ah, Andri. Brighter than your father, after all. That complicates things a bit.”

As he spoke, he changed, though his grip on Pater never loosened. The fur on his body retracted, the amber cast left his eyes, and his face reshaped itself into a familiar countenance.

“So you have decided to return to us?” It was, against all expectation, Pater. The old werewolf showed no fear, seeming calm, even resigned as he leaned heavily against Maellas, trying to lessen the burden on his frail legs. “Surely there are better ways to ensure your welcome?”

Maellas gave a nasty laugh. “Return to you? I didn’t even know you were here, old man. If I had, I would have come much sooner.”

“Such hatred is unbecoming in one of your position, my son. And unwarranted—in all the years since the Purge, you’ve not rid yourself of your ‘curse,’ despite the resources available to you. One has to ask, why is that?”

“Silence,” the Bishop snapped, pushing the point of his dagger deeper into Pater’s throat. Though he winced in pain as bright red blood welled up around the silver, the old werewolf did not stop.

“You claim to despise lycanthropes—and their descendants, the shifters—and profess to hate me for infecting you, but the truth is, you like being a werewolf. Being among the moontouched gives you strength and power you would never have known as the sickly, fragile priest I encountered in Shadukar, leaving the home of a shifter courtesan by the back way.”

“I said, silence!” Maellas roared, his skin rippling as he fought to control his rage and the transformation that so often accompanied it. He pulled the dagger away from Pater’s throat and with three quick, precise motions, sliced a crude rendition of the Flame into the old werewolf’s chest. As Pater moaned, Maellas laughed again.

“Hurts a bit more than you expected, doesn’t it? That’s because the blade’s been coated in belladonna extract, an interrogation method favored by dear Andri’s father. I’m surprised he didn’t use it on you—but, then, you didn’t put up much of a fight, did you? Played dead while he cut off your claws, and paid for it with your sight.”

Now Andri understood. It was common practice among the Purified who battled evil to sprinkle silver dust in the eyes of those they had slain, in order to prevent the dead from rising again. Since Pater had not actually been dead when his father had performed the ritual, the silver had burned the delicate flesh around the old werewolf’s eyes, blinding him.

But Maellas was wrong about Pater not fighting back—he’d used his claws to good effect before Alestair had brought him down, and it had been one of those wounds that had transferred the curse to his father. Just as, Andri now surmised, had happened to the elf Bishop himself, close to a century and a half ago.

But if Maellas had been able to conceal his true nature for that long, hiding in plain sight, knowing the Church would never look for a lycanthrope among their own ranks, then why was he risking exposure now? Why go on a killing spree in the very city he governed, endangering his position, and his life, if discovered? It didn’t make any sense.

And why was Maellas even doing this? He couldn’t reconcile the humble, pious priest who served Aruldusk so faithfully with this evil, mocking creature that obviously delighted in dealing pain.

Andri knew he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, just as he knew he was running out of time to find them. Now that Maellas’s identity had been revealed, the odds of any of them surviving this encounter had just plummeted.

If Andri could just keep the Bishop talking, he might be able to maneuver into position or distract him from Irulan, who was the only other one here who had a weapon that could harm him. Though she would have to make her one silver-tipped arrow count. She wouldn’t get a second shot.

He took a step toward the two werewolves, careful to keep his sword pointed down. He wanted to look as innocuous as possible, but he’d seen Maellas’s speed. He didn’t dare sheathe the blade.

Maellas raised his own blade back to Pater’s throat. “That’s far enough, my boy.”

Andri stopped where he stood and held a hand up to show he wasn’t a threat.

“Very well, Your Excellency,” he said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to appeal to the Bishop’s vanity. “You’ve clearly outwitted us, and I’m sure you’ve planned it so that none of us will live long enough to divulge your secret. But I have to know—why are you killing innocent people and framing shifters for their deaths?”

Maellas snorted. He wasn’t falling for it.

“I think I know,” Greddark offered from his place by the fire. As he spoke, he moved closer to Andri, casually stepping in front of Irulan and partially obscuring her from Maellas’s view. Andri hoped the shifter knew what to do with the cover she was being given.

The Bishop’s green eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak, merely tightening his grip on Pater, whose strength was failing rapidly. Whatever move they were going to make, Andri knew they had to make it soon.

He only wished he had some idea what that move would be.

“Your Bishop there is not just a priest. He’s also a wizard. One who came up with a nifty little concoction to hide his affliction from the world. Unfortunately, the key ingredient to that potion is the severed finger of another lycanthrope. And they’re a rather rare commodity in Thrane, present company excepted. In fact, I believe if you were to look in that pouch he’s carrying, you’d find a nice fresh supply of said digits, culled from old Quillion’s body. Enough to last him another fifty years, at least. Too bad he got greedy and decided to follow us here for more.”

Greddark glanced at Andri. “Did you ever wonder why your father brought you those claws? He’d never done that before, had he?”

The dwarf was right. Alestair had never been one to take trophies from his kills. Andri shook his head, beginning to suspect where Greddark’s train of thought was headed.

“My guess is Maellas here asked him for the werewolf’s hand, and your father misunderstood, bringing back the claws as proof that he’d killed the werewolf—which is what he thought the Bishop had hired him to do. He didn’t realize it was the fingers Maellas wanted, and when he didn’t get them, he told your father to keep the claws as a souvenir—what good were they to him?

“But something your father said must have tipped him off that there was more than just one werewolf lairing in these woods. There was no way Maellas could find them on his own—especially with their lair being in Lamannia—and he obviously couldn’t send anyone else to look for them, because look how that turned out. So if he couldn’t go after them, he was going to have to get them to come to him. And what better way to do that then to get rid of their supply line?”

Of course. The shifters of the Silver Circle.

“But what about his victims?” asked Andri. “Where do they fit into this?”

Greddark shrugged. “They were mostly Throneholders and critics—people he wanted to get rid of, anyway. He was just cleaving two skulls with one axe.”

Maellas sneered, making his disdain for the inquisitive’s deductive abilities clear.

“I do hope you’re not paying him too handsomely, Andri. You already know I asked your father to locate the lycanthrope rumor placed in the Burnt Woods—I’ve made no secret of it. But I certainly never asked him to try and kill dear Pater,” the Bishop said, looking at Andri as he ran the tip of his belladonna-laden blade along the old werewolf’s jaw line, leaving a bright trail of blood. “Alestair was simply supposed to bring him back to me for … questioning. But then your father decided to take matters into his own hands, and we all know the results of his arrogance, don’t we, Andri?”

Maellas’s expression was one of mingled pity and disgust.

“How many dead in Flamekeep? And your own poor mother, defiled by Alestair’s animal lusts. You had no choice but to kill her. The Flame only knows what monstrosity might have resulted from that foul union. And do you know why your father became a murderous, raging beast when the moon turned full, Andri, so different from the loving, generous man you knew? Because he took on the nature of the one who infected him.” Maellas held Pater up in front of him, the werewolf’s body dangling limply in his iron grip. “He is the reason your parents died, Andri, the cause of all the pain and guilt you’ve carried with you for so long. And now the Flame has brought him within your grasp, offering you the chance to take the vengeance you’ve always secretly desired.”

It was as if the Bishop could read Andri’s heart, voicing his darkest, innermost thoughts, the ones he wouldn’t even dare admit to himself. Though he struggled against the temptation, Maellas’s words ignited a fire within him, one that threatened to rage out of control.

“Don’t listen to him, Andri!” Irulan called from behind Greddark, risking drawing Maellas’s attention to her and her bow in order to warn the paladin. “He’s trying to manipulate you!”

“Manipulate you?” Maellas scoffed. “I’m trying to help you, Andri. To give you the surcease you long for.”

He shook Pater roughly for emphasis. “You can end it all now. Kill the one who cursed your father, with your father’s own sword—isn’t it fitting? Do it now, Andri. Make the guilty pay for their crimes. You’re a paladin. It’s your calling. That’s why you were chosen for this task. You, and no other. Do it. Now.”

With a cry of grief and fury, Andri rushed forward, his sword raised. Maellas smiled, gloating as he thrust Pater into the path of Andri’s charge. At the last moment, sensing a sudden shift in Andri’s gait, the old werewolf seemed to sag against Maellas. The Bishop’s grip slackened, and before he could readjust, Pater, with an unexpected burst of speed and strength, twisted out of the way. Andri’s now-flaming sword skated over his ribs and singed his dark fur as it plunged past him and into Maellas’s abdomen.

The Bishop bellowed in surprised pain and released Pater, his hands spasming reflexively. As the old werewolf slumped to the ground, Irulan’s makeshift silver arrow thunked into Maellas’s left shoulder with such force that it pulled him off Andri’s blade and spun him around. Another half dozen arrows slammed into him as he fell—Ostra’s shifters loosing their own shafts along with their frustration. The paladin didn’t think Maellas would be getting up again.

Andri reached down and lifted Pater back to his feet. As his hand closed around the lycanthrope’s arm, revulsion surged through him, the sheer magnitude of the emotion catching him off guard.

Maellas was right, he thought as he held the old werewolf up in one hand, his silver blade grasped firmly in the other. Pater was responsible for the deaths of his parents, for the heartache and the loneliness that had plagued him ever since. For the nightmares that still woke him, sweating and crying out, in the middle of the night. For his inability to truly trust anyone or let them get close.

And he had in his hand the means to exact his revenge for it all, argent fire still dancing along its length. He could kill Pater now, finish the job his father started, and then, perhaps, finally, be at peace.

But even as he thought that, Maellas’s other words came back to him.

 … your father decided to take matters into his own hands … we all know the results of his arrogance .…

And, finally, his own words to the Bishop back in Aruldusk rang in his ears.

 … the blame for my father’s death lies solely on his shoulders, as does the blood of all those he took with him .…

Alestair chose to attack Pater, when all that had been required of him was to apprehend the werewolf. Just as he had chosen not to take any precautions other than chewing belladonna after Pater injured him. In both cases, the silver pyromancer’s arrogant self-assurance had led to severe lapses in judgment. Lapses that had ultimately cost several innocent people their lives—including his own beloved wife, Andri’s mother.

Pater may have infected him with lycanthropy, but Alestair’s true curse was, and always had been, his pride.

Andri let the old werewolf go, his hand falling to his side. His sword’s silver flames flickered and died. Killing the lycanthrope would accomplish nothing but leaving a pack leaderless and a young boy without a father.

“Pater—” he began, but he got no further.

The werewolf shoved Andri to the ground, his head just missing one of the rocks that circled the fire as he fell.

Maellas had risen up behind him, in hybrid form once more, arrows protruding from his blonde fur like feathered thorns on a pallid vine. As the pale werewolf went to drive his silver dagger into Andri’s back, Pater, his sensitive ears tracking movements his ruined eyes could not see, pushed the paladin aside. Andri could only watch in stunned horror as Maellas plunged the blade meant for him straight into the old werewolf’s chest.

As their leader fell, the pack converged on Maellas. Daimana, her copper fur glinting blood-red in the firelight, was the first to the Bishop, racing toward him on all fours and leaping up, her powerful jaws aiming for his throat.

“No!” Pater’s voice was weak, but it still carried, and his pack obeyed him instantly, not releasing the Bishop, but no longer trying to tear him limb from limb. “He must … return to Aruldusk … be judged. Free … the Circle … clear … names.”

Andri hurried over to the old werewolf, kneeling beside him. He tried to invoke the healing Flame, but realized he no longer wore his holy symbol, the focus through which he channeled the divine power. As he cast about for it, Irulan came up beside him and held the necklace out. His hand closed over hers briefly and their eyes met. Something indefinable passed between them in that instant, but Pater began to cough up blood, and Andri had to turn his attention back to the lycanthrope. He could sort his feelings for Irulan out later. He hoped.

He pulled Maellas’s dagger from the old werewolf’s chest, then placed his hands over the wound, still clutching the chain bearing Pater’s claws. He tried to stem the flow of blood with his hands as he closed his eyes and called once more on the restorative fire, anticipating its bright warmth.

There was no answer.

He could feel hot liquid seeping through his fingers as he tried again, desperately pleading with the Silver Flame.

Nothing.

He felt Pater’s hands cover his own. Opening his eyes, he looked into the werewolf’s blind orbs, knowing that Pater could not see the anguish on his face as Andri realized there was nothing he could do. But the werewolf sensed it, just the same, and he tried to comfort the paladin, even as his life bled away into the dirt.

“Not … your fault. My time. Forgive …?”

Pater’s words trailed off as he heaved one last, rattling sigh. For a moment, they both held the necklace that Andri’s father had given him. Then Pater’s hands went limp and slid away, and Andri was left with only a handful of bloody claws as Daimana sobbed quietly behind him.

Chapter
TWENTY

Sar, Eyre 7, 998 YK

With the pack’s help, they secured Maellas in Andri’s silver manacles. Once in the magical shackles, Maellas reverted to his elf form, and Andri gagged him to keep him from casting any spells. Greddark had suggested using belladonna extract on the gag, but Andri had refused, though Greddark liked to think the paladin had at least been tempted.

Daimana, it turned out, was Pater’s daughter, not his mate. She would become leader of the pack now that the old werewolf was dead. The other two werewolves wanted to kill Maellas outright, but Daimana insisted they—and Andri—abide by her father’s dying wish.

“My father wanted justice done, Werebane. See that it happens.”

Luckily for the paladin, Daimana had replaced her shift after changing back into her elf form, so he was able to converse with her without stuttering and turning redder than her hair. Women probably thought such modesty was endearing, Greddark reflected, but, personally, he just found it annoying. And a little unnatural—he’d certainly enjoyed the view, and he wasn’t even an elf.

“You have my word,” Andri told her. If the Werebane moniker bothered him, he hid it well. “Maellas betrayed the Flame, and the Flame will judge him accordingly.”

Daimana tossed her copper tresses in disdain. “I care nothing for your silver fire, paladin,” she said, her eyes flashing. “If your Church does not see fit to punish this kinslayer, then you must do so. You’ve given your oath, and you owe it to my father.”

Greddark suppressed a grin. The elf woman had neatly trapped Andri. There was no way the paladin would go back on his promise now. Maellas was a dead man, one way or another. He wondered if the Bishop realized it yet.

Andri bowed his head, defeated. “You have my word,” he repeated.

That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and called her son to her. Lifting the child in her arms, she smoothed back a lock of red-brown hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead. For his part, the toddler seemed oblivious to what had just happened to his grandfather, pulling on his mother’s clothes and pointing back to the water. He just wanted to play.

“Later,” Daimana murmured, kissing him again and setting him back on his feet. She smiled as he ran off, pursuing a butterfly. Then she looked back at Andri, and her smile faded.

“One of Ostra’s men will lead you to where Lamannia and Eberron intersect, but you will have to find your own way from there. We cannot spare anyone to guide you. We have a funeral to prepare.”

The paladin nodded. “Of course. But I would be happy to perform Pater’s last rites, if you’d like. It’s the least I can do.”

“No,” Daimana said. “You’ve done enough already.”

Andri accepted the rebuke, though Greddark could tell it stung. The paladin held out the necklace of claws, from which he had removed his holy symbol.

“Take these, at least. He should go to the Flame whole.” When she hesitated, her eyes filling with sudden tears, Andri grasped her hand and pressed the necklace into it. “Please.”

Daimana stared at the claws for a long moment then looked up at Andri, her eyes like faceted diamonds.

“It’s not true, what the rogue told you,” she said, referring to Maellas. “The moons’ blessing only removes the veneer of civilization, exposing what lies beneath. Sometimes, that veneer reasserts itself, and the moontouched is much the same as he was before he was blessed. But, sometimes … it does not.”

Whether she’d meant the words as a gift or a curse, Greddark couldn’t tell, but before any of them could fully digest the information, she leaned forward and kissed Andri on the cheek. Then she stood back and regarded the paladin with an unreadable expression, the silver chain held tightly in her fist. “You should go now. And don’t come back. Ever.”

She turned away from him, going to kneel beside her father’s body. The other two werewolves, in their human forms now, were cleaning him in preparation for their burial rites. Daimana joined them, weeping once more as she wiped blood from her father’s chest. Andri watched her for a moment then turned to his companions.

“Let’s go. We still have a long journey ahead of us,” he said, walking past them to his horse.

As Greddark turned to follow and caught sight of the invidious look on Irulan’s face, he thought the journey might be far longer than Andri had bargained for.

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.”

It took Greddark a long time to fall asleep. His hand twitched toward his sword at every frog’s croak and cricket’s chirp. When he was awakened from a fitful slumber some hours later by the frantic ringing of a bell, his first thought was—Host! What did I do to deserve this? His second was—Not again.

As he and Irulan scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons, Greddark cast a quick eye over to the tree where the Bishop was tied. Still there. Then he turned his attention back to the forest, just in time to see Andri step into the small clearing they had chosen for their camp.

“Andri!” Irulan’s voice was sharp with reproach and relief. She lowered her sword at the sight of the young paladin. “I told you not to trigger the al—”

“He didn’t,” came another familiar voice. “I did.”

D’Medani stepped out from behind the paladin, her war spikard pressed up firmly against Andri’s back.

“I’ll thank you to drop your weapons now, unless you’ve got another paladin handy to heal this one when I skewer him.”

“Flame!” Irulan swore as she bent and placed her sword on the ground. “What, do we have some sort of magical beacon floating over our heads that only our enemies can see? Here we are, come ambush us?”

“Well, actually, in this case, you do,” the half-elf replied, nodding towards Greddark. “I believe it’s called a locator charm, and it’s attached to my quarry’s back, there.”

Locator charm? It couldn’t be!

Greddark dropped his blade and reached over his shoulder, fingers brushing lightly over his coat. There. He pulled a small spiky object out from the weave and held it up, scrutinizing it in the firelight.

The little metal device was designed to look like a bur, down to its brownish coloring and its carefully-crafted casing of spines. It would be inconspicuous on a traveler’s clothes, overlooked until it was too late. Inside the casing, the “seed” was in fact a tiny Siberys dragonshard imbued with a location spell that was linked to a ring on d’Medani’s finger, which also sported a golden shard. A variation on the standard location spell, the charm linked the ring to the bur so that, once the bur was planted on a subject, the ring-wearer could follow at a considerable distance without worrying about interference from running water, or lead, or even other spells. A powerful tool in the hands of a bounty hunter or an inquisitive, this prototype was the only such charm currently in existence.

He should know. He created it.

D’Medani caught his look of recognition, and gave him a smug smile.

“It’s only fitting, don’t you think? That we use your own inventions to track you down? House Medani has made good use of the things you were forced to leave behind at the Tower—some even think it was a fair trade, Yaradala for the plans to your clever toys.” Her smile grew brittle. “I don’t.”

“Why are you doing this?” Andri asked, drawing the half-elf’s attention back to him. “Your bounty has already been paid.”

D’Medani laughed, a musical sound in the night, utterly at odds with the scene being played out. “And a most generous payment it was, sir paladin. But if I take it and deliver d’Kundarak to my employer anyway, then I’ll get paid twice. One hundred platinum dragons. How could I possibly pass that up?”

The bounty hunter had gumption, Greddark had to admit. Beautiful and smart. Too bad she was on the wrong side.

“So, how about it, d’Kundarak? You, for the paladin. Though, if you ask me, the shifter’s getting the best end of that bargain.”

Greddark’s thoughts raced. D’Medani would have no qualms about killing Andri, and he had no more healing potions left in his pockets. Irulan wouldn’t be able to nock her own arrow or close the gap between them to engage the bounty hunter with her sword before the other woman could get off another bolt, and at this range, the half-elf wouldn’t miss. No, it was better if he complied—he still had the chimes on his bracer, which d’Medani hadn’t seemed to realize earlier was anything more than a rather gaudy accessory. If she thought he was unarmed, he might get a chance to use one, though it would be a shame to see that pretty blonde head explode like the ghost tiger’s had. Not as great a shame as doing time in a Karrnathi cell would be, though—or worse, in Helanth d’Medani’s private dungeons. Yaradala had had good reasons for wanting to escape her father’s overbearing presence, not the least of which was his reputation for cruelty, and even torture. No, the half-elf’s sweet face would be a small price to pay to avoid that.

“Very well,” Greddark said, over protests from both Andri and Irulan. He raised his arms and began walking slowly toward the bounty hunter.

“Turn around,” she ordered. “Walk backwards.”

As he did so, taking each step with care, she continued speaking, this time to Andri and Irulan.

“I see you’ve picked up another straggler. I hope you have better luck with this one than you did with the dwarf, though from the looks of him, he’s as bad as d’Kundarak.”

If she only knew.

Then Greddark was beside her, and she shoved Andri past him. As the paladin stumbled and fell to his knees, she grabbed a handful of Greddark’s hair and pulled him back until her war spikard was pressing into the small of his back, a sensation that was becoming all too familiar. The feeling was only magnified when she released his shock of hair and slapped her manacles on his wrists. An easy task, considering she was at least a foot taller than him. She let his bound hands fall in front of him, and looped the chain that ran from them once about his neck. When she pulled on the makeshift leash, the links scraped his neck raw and drew his hands up to his chest, giving him very little room to maneuver.

“Now we’re going to back out of here slowly, and you’re going to act as my dwarven shield.” She seemed to find that funny, chuckling at her own joke.

Irulan had her bow in hand, an arrow nocked and ready, and was keeping pace with them, trying to outflank them and get a shot, but d’Medani was compensating for the other woman’s movements, keeping him firmly interposed between the two of them. Andri had picked up Irulan’s sword—d’Medani must have tossed his when she captured him—and was following, ready to take advantage of any misstep on the half-elf’s part.

But there would be no misstep this time, Greddark knew, and no timely rescue. If he wanted an opportunity to escape, he was going to have to make it himself. And, unfortunately, he had a feeling it was going to hurt.

As they backed out of the clearing, Greddark knew he was running out of options. Though d’Medani hadn’t had a teleportation device at Shadukar, he realized it was probably because she had been on foot—the horse Irulan had described her riding away on sounded like a Valenar warhorse, and there was no way the bounty hunter would risk leaving such a valuable mount behind. Once they got to wherever the half-elf had tethered her stallion, all bets were off. He had to make his move now.

He decided to wait until they were past the first few trees and into the forest proper. The extra cover should make d’Medani relax a little. The trunks would impede both Irulan’s line of sight and any charge Andri might see fit to make. It would also serve as protection for his companions if his aim was off.

There. The pressure on his back lessened almost imperceptibly. Before he could change his mind, Greddark pretended to stumble over his own feet, falling backward into the half-elf.

Agony exploded through his back as she released the trigger on the war spikard and the crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletching, the quarrel tearing through muscles and organs and popping out through the front of his abdomen with a squelching sound. At the same time, the chain about his neck was pulled taut, effectively choking him even as his hands were jerked up to slam into his nose so hard he felt blood gush. Then they went down in a jumble of limbs and Greddark rolled onto his side, trying desperately to pry the blasting chime off his bracelet before d’Medani could regain her feet, or he blacked out from the pain.

He was too slow. The half-elf was up, and instead of loading another bolt into the crossbow mechanism, she used the spikard as a hammer, bringing the heavy head down on his shoulder. Distantly, he heard the crack of bones and realized they were his.

But he had the chime off now, and the charm grew to fit in his hand, an inscribed bell with an ornate grip, a small Siberys dragonshard embedded in its clapper. As d’Medani raised her arms for another blow, this one aimed for his head, Greddark used the last of his strength to ring the bell, its sweet tone echoing through the surrounding forest. As Greddark watched the warhammer descend, he thought fuzzily that the timber of the bell’s ring had changed since the last time he used it, followed by the horrified realization that he’d grabbed the wrong chime.

Then the head of d’Medani’s hammer was blocking his vision and he closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable.

The blow never landed. Greddark opened one eye, half-expecting the hammer to smash into his face as he did so.

D’Medani was gone. Andri and Irulan were rushing to him, the paladin sheathing Irulan’s sword in his father’s ornate scabbard while the shifter cast about wildly for some sign of the bounty hunter.

“Where did she go? She just disappeared—an invisibility spell, do you think?”

Disappeared …?

Then Greddark was laughing as understanding dawned, though the movement made fire blaze in his belly and pulled the chain even tighter about his abused neck.

He thought he’d grabbed the blasting chime, but he’d inadvertently pulled a different charm off his bracer, the one he’d never been able to figure out how to use. Whenever he’d tried it before, nothing would happen. But it had worked now, because d’Medani was a dragonmarked member of her House.

It was a recalling chime, designed to teleport anyone within a certain radius who bore the Mark of Detection back to the Warning Guild in Wroat. No doubt d’Medani was there even now, cursing his name.

“Gone,” he gasped, his laughter fading as he struggled to breathe. “To Breland.”

“Don’t try to talk,” Andri admonished as he knelt beside the dwarf. First the paladin loosened the chain about his neck, then he used Maellas’s silver dagger to cut the quarrel off the crossbow bolt protruding from his stomach. With great gentleness, he pulled the bolt out through the inquisitive’s back. Greddark nearly bit his tongue in half to keep from screaming, then promptly vomited blood all over them both as soon as the wooden shaft was free.

The darkness deepened around him, and he realized that he was losing consciousness. He felt Andri lay one hand on each wound, both entry and exit, and a seeping warmth crept outwards from the paladin’s fingers, running through Greddark’s body, up to his ruined shoulder and abraded neck, even through his bloody nose and mouth and out to the tip of his tongue. He was healed.

But then why did his veins still burn like he’d swallowed acid, and why was he so terribly thirsty all of the sudden?

Irulan was kneeling beside him now as well, apparently satisfied that d’Medani had indeed departed. A look of concern crossed her face, and she picked up the quarrel Andri had discarded, sniffing it experimentally. Her expression grew grave.

“Poison,” she said. “Concentrated, by the smell of it. I think it’s dwarfbane. And I’m guessing d’Medani took the antidote with her.”

Greddark couldn’t suppress a groan. If she was right, then he was already dead.

Chapter
TWENTY-ONE

Sul, Eyre 8, 998 YK

Is it still in his system?” Irulan asked, watching as a sheen of sweat formed on the dwarf’s creased brow. “Maybe your healing took care of it?”

Andri reached his hand out to touch Greddark’s forehead. His skin was hot to the touch. “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “But I’ll try again.”

He invoked the Flame once more and felt warmth course through his fingers, but if he’d done anything more than delay the effects of the poison, Andri couldn’t see it. Greddark’s clothes were drenched in perspiration, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

“I don’t think it’s working. We’d better get him back to the fire.”

“Wait,” Irulan said, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him from lifting the inquisitive in his arms. “Let me talk to him first.”

The dwarf’s eyes were glazing over, and she slapped him lightly on the cheek to bring him around.

“Greddark! Can you hear me?”

His eyes cleared for a moment, focusing on her. He gave the barest of nods, as though the movement pained him.

“You know what the antidote for dwarfbane is, right? What the plant looks like? I need you to describe it to me.”

Greddark opened his mouth, licking away a string of drool that had been forming.

“Purple … flower. Seven petals. Spiny leaves. Use … sap, stems.”

Irulan chewed on her lip. “Hmm … sounds like dweomer root, though the flowers are usually reddish. They’re most likely related, but whether it’s close enough, I don’t know.” She looked uncertainly at Andri. “I could probably find some, but it may take a while.”

He nodded. “Do it.”

Her grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment, then she stood. Andri handed her sword back to her.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She headed deeper into the forest at a trot, dodging bushes and low branches with a lithesome grace Andri couldn’t help but admire. He prayed she would find what she was looking for in time.

Greddark groaned again, and Andri turned back to the dwarf, hefting his not inconsiderable weight in both arms. He could see last remains of their dying campfire through the trees and he set his course for the dancing orange and yellow flames, taking care not to jostle Greddark too much.

A quick glance as he came out of the trees assured him that Maellas was still chained to the tree, where they had left him. The priest was watching him with interest. It was a shame the elf had to be gagged. Surely his healing abilities must far surpass Andri’s own. If only … but, no. Best not even to set a foot on that path.

Andri laid the dwarf down gently on his bedroll. Greddark was shivering now, though he was giving off more heat than the fire. Andri gathered up his own bedroll and Irulan’s to cover him, tried to pour some water between the dwarf’s chattering teeth, then stared into the darkness, watching for any sign of Irulan, and prayed.

O gracious Flame, I know not why I have been deemed an unworthy conduit of your healing power, but I beseech you to ignore my sins and grant respite to this servant of the Host. Though he walks a different road, still his heart is good, and he seeks to right great wrongs. Grant that if I cannot heal him, your daughter Irulan might be led to the antidote he needs. Give her the speed and cunning of the wolf as she searches, and bring her back to me—to us—safely.

He was just beginning the Seventh Miracle—the Victory over Lycanthropes—when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. His hand went to his sheath, only to discover it empty. Then he remembered—d’Medani had disarmed him and thrown his sword into the underbrush. He cast about for Maellas’s silver dagger, his hand closing around its hilt before he realized that it was only the elf struggling against his bonds. He started to relax, then saw that the elf had managed to loosen his gag by turning his head and rubbing the side of his face against the tree. The rough bark had snagged the fabric, and with one sharp twist of his neck, the gag was dislodged. Maellas spat it out, coughing.

“Andri,” he wheezed, “let me help you.”

The paladin hesitated. A part of his mind was screeching at him not to listen, but that nagging little voice seemed distant. Irrelevant. What was important was healing Greddark.

“Look at him!” Maellas said. “He’s starting to convulse! If we don’t do something now, he’s going to die.”

Andri looked at the dwarf. His shivering had turned to shaking, and his limbs were jerking, as though he danced to some bizarre music only he could hear. Spittle flecked his mouth and his close-cropped beard, and his face had turned an angry shade of red.

Maellas was right. They didn’t have time to wait for Irulan and her antidote, which might not even work. If they didn’t do something now, Greddark was going to die.

They? the voice in his head questioned shrilly, protesting, but the cleric’s insistent words drowned it out.

“Hurry, Andri! Release me. Let us lay hands on the dwarf and call on the Flame together. Surely with our combined efforts, the poison will be neutralized. We can save him. But only if you free me. Now.”

Andri found himself nodding. The warning voice faded and grew silent.

“Don’t bring the dagger. Just the keys to the manacles. Hurry! There’s not much time.”

Andri dropped the dagger. He didn’t need it. Just the keys. He retrieved them from his belt pouch and stood. He had to hurry. There wasn’t much time.

He skirted the fire and walked over to the tree where Maellas was bound. Something was wrong. Why had they chained the Bishop to the tree? He was their friend. He only wanted to help them. Help Greddark.

Frowning, Andri knelt down beside the elf, fumbling with the key. Bishop Maellas was his superior, and by all accounts a humble, pious man. What had he been thinking, clapping him in silver manacles?

Silver … why was that important? He paused, key half in the lock, trying to remember.

“What are you waiting for?” Maellas demanded, his green eyes taking on an amber cast. “Release me!”

Andri wanted to obey—knew he should—but something stopped him.

Why did we put the Bishop in silver manacles?

“Damn you! Do it!”

Andri felt his hand moving of its own volition, sliding the key the rest of the way into the lock, twisting …

“Andri, no!”

He heard a sound like the whistling wind, then a soft thunk, and the Bishop’s silver dagger was protruding from the tree trunk, bare inches above the manacles and his own hands.

Irulan shoved him to the ground and turned the key back the other way before Maellas could escape. The Bishop started to shout something, an arcane word of power, and Irulan punched him full in the face, slamming his head up against the tree. Then she pried the dagger out of the pine and held it up to his mouth, running the tip of the blade along his lips.

“One more word out for you, Your Excellency, and I’ll cut out your Flame-forsaken tongue.”

Maellas’s mouth snapped shut and he glared.

“That’s better.” She grabbed the discarded wad of fabric and forced his mouth open. Not bothering to shake off the dirt and ants, she shoved it in so far that he gagged. “Choke on it, you mooncursed bastard.”

She turned back to Andri. He stared up at her from where he lay on the forest floor, shaking off the last vestiges of Maellas’s charm. Irulan held out a hand to help him up, and he took it, clambering to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quavering. If she had arrived even a few moments later … he shuddered to think what Maellas would have done to him. Though he knew it wasn’t possible for the priest to infect him, he had a sudden vision of himself standing over Irulan, as his father had stood over his mother, and bile burned the back of his throat.

Never! He would kill himself first.

He wondered abruptly if Alestair had thought that, too.

“Don’t mention it,” the shifter woman replied. She was staring at him oddly, and he realized he was still holding her hand, rather too tightly. He quickly let go and began brushing the pine needles from his clothes to cover his embarrassment.

“Did you find it?”

“It, and a few other things.” She gestured back over his shoulder, where he saw a black stallion standing at the edge of the clearing, tethered to a tree. Closer to the fire, next to Greddark, was an open saddle bag spilling food out onto the ground and his father’s silver sword, its rubies flashing crimson in the flickering light. “I had a quick look through her saddle bags, just in case she might have left the antidote behind. I found food. And this.” She held out a folded piece of paper to him. “There’s some other interesting stuff in there, too. You might want to take a look yourself, later.”

Andri took the paper and unfolded it.

His letter of credit.

He looked up at Irulan, who smiled wryly. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

As Andri pocketed the letter, Irulan headed back over to the fire. She threw on more wood, then retrieved a pot from her own saddle bags and filled it with water from her canteen. Andri watched as she set it over the newly-fed flames to boil and began preparing the stems from a handful of red flowers. She looked over her shoulder at him.

“This is going to take a while, if it works at all. You might as well eat.” As a weak moan escaped from Greddark’s now-bluish lips, she added, “And pray.”

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.”

It seemed Andri’s prayers had been answered, for within moments, Greddark’s color and breathing had returned to normal and by midmorning he was sitting up, asking for food. As he ate, Andri related what he’d found in the bounty hunter’s bags. By the time Greddark had finished his second helping of eggs, the dwarf was ready to travel. Luckily, thanks to d’Medani, they wouldn’t have to go far.

“You’re sure you can get us inside the gates, without getting us … inside the gates?” the inquisitive asked once Andri had revealed his plan. His concern was understandable, given his own unfortunate experiences with teleporting.

“Do not worry, friend dwarf. I’ve used similar scrolls before, and familiarity with your target destination is not a requirement for their use. But there is likely a weight limit. We must leave the horses behind.”

“Fine by me,” Irulan muttered, but Greddark protested.

“Do you know what that warhorse is worth? We could buy a stable full of horses, and a stable boy to feed them, and still have money left over—and that’s if we got a bad deal. Leave the others if you must, but this one comes with us.”

Andri hid a smile. Obviously, the dwarf was well on his way to a full recovery.

But they couldn’t afford to bring the stallion. His bulk would only hamper them if they needed to fight in close quarters, and despite Andri’s words to the contrary, he had no way of knowing exactly where they would appear within Aruldusk. Greddark finally agreed, grudgingly, and they began transferring necessary equipment from the saddle bags to their packs. Andri felt a momentary pang of guilt at the thought of leaving the horses to fend for themselves. Still, they were near the edge of the woods and, once out of the forest, they wouldn’t be far from Angwar Keep. The horses would have a good chance of survival. Probably better than their erstwhile riders did. But as long as Maellas was brought to justice, their individual fates were not important. The will of the Flame would be done, regardless of what happened to them. And that was how it should be.

They made their preparations quickly. The shifter damped the fire and Andri unchained Maellas from the tree, leading the unresisting priest to their staging area. As he neared, the horses whinnied nervously and moved to the other side of the clearing. The last vestiges of Maellas’s non-detection potion must be wearing off, making his nature apparent to the unhappy mounts.

Good, Andri thought. That would just make their job easier.

When all was in readiness, they gathered in a circle, Irulan and Greddark grasping Andri’s tabard while the paladin kept a firm grasp on Maellas. With his free hand, he unrolled the teleportation scroll and read it.

There was an odd lurching sensation, as if they were on a boat in the middle of rough seas, and then the trees and horses were gone, to be replaced by wooden walls, a desk, and three very surprised guards.

They weren’t just inside the gate. They were inside the gatehouse.

Andri drew Maellas’s silver dagger and held it to the priest’s throat, while Greddark and Irulan brandished their blades.

“Don’t,” Andri warned, as one of the guards—the inexperienced Hal—lunged for an alarm bell. “Or the Bishop’s death will be on your hands.”

Hal stopped in his tracks.

“Good. Now sit down,” Andri said to the other two, who obeyed after a bit of encouragement from his companions’ swords. “Hal, fetch your captain, and Bishop Xanin. Tell no one else we are here. And move quickly. If you are not back within a bell, we will kill Maellas, and then start on your friends. Now, go!”

Soon after the guard left, Andri heard a familiar carillon and had to suppress a groan. With everything that had happened in the last few days, he’d forgotten it was Sul, the Day of Cleansing. The odds of Hal getting anywhere near Xanin on such a holy day were so low, not even Greddark would bet on them.

He was still trying to decide how to get out of making good on his threat when Hal knocked on the door, barely a half bell later. The guard ushered in his captain and Ancillary Bishop Xanin, who was cloaked to disguise his identity. As they crowded into the small room, Andri wondered whether Hal had followed his other instructions as well. Half the garrison could be waiting for them outside. But it really didn’t matter—if they couldn’t convince Xanin of Maellas’s guilt, there was no way any of them were leaving the gatehouse alive.

Xanin threw his hood back and blanched when he saw Maellas. “It is you. We thought you’d gone on retreat.…” He trailed off, his eyes icing over as he looked from the bound prelate to Andri.

“What is the meaning of this, Aeyliros? Not only have you defied yet another official edict by returning here, but you have added the charges of kidnapping and assaulting a Bishop to your long list of sins! Have you abandoned your faith completely? Or just your wits? Not even the Keeper’s favor is going to get you out of this fix, boy.”

Andri couldn’t blame the priest. If someone had told him a month ago that he would soon be holding a knife to a Bishop’s throat after having been exiled from that same Bishop’s city, he would have thought they were mad. Was it any wonder Xanin was now questioning his sanity? He’d questioned it himself more than a few times since this whole affair began.

“Her Holiness charged me with apprehending the murderer who has terrorized Aruldusk over the course of this past year, Your Excellency,” he said, more calmly than he felt, “and that’s what I have done.”

Xanin’s blonde eyebrows fairly shot off his forehead. “Bishop Maellas?” he exclaimed. “You are insane.”

“Not at all. Our investigation revealed that the true murderer was not a shifter, or even a group of them, but a werewolf. Surely you would agree that is a far more plausible explanation?”

Xanin’s brows descended as his eyes narrowed. “Even if it is,” he replied, “what has that got to do with the Bishop?”

“Allow me to show you.” He looked at the captain, who had been following their exchange with interest. “Captain, would you hand your dagger to Master d’Kundarak, please?”

The soldier hesitated, looking to Xanin for direction. The Ancillary Bishop gave a curt nod. The captain withdrew his blade from the sheath strapped to his thigh and handed it to Greddark, hilt first. The dwarf then exchanged daggers with Andri, keeping the silver weapon firmly pointed at Maellas while Andri hefted the captain’s blade, a simple, non-magical dagger with a keen edge.

Then, before anyone could react, he spun and plunged the blade into Maellas’s naked chest.

Xanin cried out in horror, and the soldiers rushed forward, only to be held at bay by Irulan’s longsword and Greddark’s alchemy blade, which now burned with a bright yellow fire.

Andri withdrew the dagger while Maellas thrashed about, helpless in his silver chains. Silence descended in the small room as the wound closed of its own accord, leaving no blood—or indeed any sign at all that the elf had ever been injured.

“And now the silver dagger,” he said, switching blades once more with Greddark, while the dwarf kept his eyes on the guards and his sword at the ready.

Maellas began to struggle in earnest now, vainly pulling at his bonds and backing away from the paladin. But with Greddark’s flaming blade on one side and his own silver dagger on the other, there was nowhere for him to go, and he bumped hard into the wall after only a few steps.

Taking advantage of the elf’s momentary distraction, Andri darted forward and sliced the silver blade across Maellas’s forearm, just deep enough to draw blood. As the rich red liquid welled and began to drip on the wooden floor, Bishop Xanin gasped, and made the sign of the Flame, as did the soldiers.

“Flame forfend!” Xanin whispered, his face pale and his eyes huge. “This … this is some sorcery!” But he did not sound as if he believed it.

“Question him yourself, Your Excellency,” said Andri, “or better yet, call an Inquisitor. You will see that I am telling the truth. Maellas is a werewolf and a killer, guilty of at least twenty murders, and those are only the ones we know about. He has hidden within the very heart of the Church for over a hundred years, and no one realized his true nature. But now that his evil has been exposed, his sins cannot be allowed to tarnish the Silver Flame any further. As acting Bishop of Aruldusk, it is your responsibility to see justice done.”

Xanin drew himself up at that, his expression hardening. He turned to Hal. “Summon a carriage.” As the soldier sprinted away, Xanin gave the captain his orders. “You will transport Maellas to the Cathedral. Make sure that he is seen by no one.”

Andri noticed that Xanin was no longer referring to the elf by his title, and he realized that the Ancillary Bishop, for all his abrasiveness, was actually on their side. That, or the thought of succeeding Maellas was tempting enough that he was willing to take them at their word. For now.

“You will have him taken to the Inquisition Room,” Xanin continued, “where he will await the arrival of an Inquisitor from Flamekeep. None of you is to speak a word of what you have seen or heard in this room today, on pain of expulsion from the Church.”

The Bishop turned back to Andri.

“Your exile will be provisionally revoked until this matter is resolved. However, I request that you accompany me to the Cathedral and put yourselves at the disposal of the Inquisitor, to expedite the process.”

Both Greddark and Irulan looked at him, but Andri knew that despite Xanin’s cordial language, they didn’t really have a choice. Maellas was their only bargaining chip, and they had to give him up to prove that he was guilty. Andri nodded and sheathed his weapon, gesturing to his companions to do the same. They had to trust in the mercy and wisdom of the Church. As the guards escorted them and Maellas to the waiting carriage, Andri could only pray that trust was not horribly misplaced.

The Inquisitor was on the next rail from Flamekeep, and her questioning was not nearly as unpleasant as it could have been, at least for Andri and his companions.

Once Maellas’s guilt was ascertained, the only thing that remained was his sentencing. Though once a well-respected Bishop, he would suffer the same fate as every convicted lycanthrope in Thrane—burning at the stake. But whereas such executions were usually public, Maellas would be burned in a private chamber below the Cathedral that had been constructed during the Purge for just this purpose. The Church would punish its own, while ensuring that the public at large never discovered the true identity of the werewolf, or that he had been operating under the very nose of the Church for years. As for Andri and his companions, and those soldiers who had been in the gatehouse, their silence was insured by the judicious application of a Mark of Justice on each of their left shoulders. The Inquisitor was vague as to what would happen should they ever speak of what they knew to anyone who was not authorized to hear of it, but she hinted that Maellas’s fate would seem pleasurable by comparison.

Bishop Xanin made a statement to the public, announcing only that the true killer was a werewolf who had been caught and would be punished, and that the shifters now in custody would be freed. When questioned by chroniclers about the nature of the lycanthrope’s punishment, Xanin had responded simply, “Death.” Maellas’s absence was explained away as a long-overdue visit to his homeland of Aerenal, which the Aruldusk Archives promptly reported was due to his failure to find the real killer. The new Bishop’s staff did nothing to disabuse them of that notion.

So three days after their return to Aruldusk—on Initiation Day, the anniversary of the day when the priesthood of the Silver Flame declared itself a faith independent of the Sovereign Host—Andri, Irulan, and Greddark found themselves sitting in the gallery of a small amphitheater beneath the Cathedral, waiting for Bishop Xanin to arrive and set his former superior to the torch.

Maellas had not yet been shackled to the charred wooden pillar in the center of the underground chamber. Instead, he stood a few feet away, restrained at the wrists and ankles by silver manacles that were in turn connected by heavy chains to rings set into the smooth stone floor. Apparently there was some special ritual for binding a lycanthrope to the stake that only the presiding prelate could perform. Either that, or Xanin just wanted to do it himself for reasons Andri didn’t even want to try and fathom.

Andri saw that while the elf hadn’t been gagged, he did sport a new onyx amulet about his neck. Andri guessed it was to keep the cleric from casting any spells, or perhaps to prohibit him from speaking altogether. Whatever the necklace’s purpose, Maellas remained silent, for which the paladin was unaccountably grateful.

While they waited, Andri examined the room, wondering how often it had seen use since the Purge had ended. The thick coating of greasy ashes at the foot of the stake did not look a hundred and fifty years old.

The gallery consisted of five tiered benches. The trio sat at the lowest level, their feet resting on the amphitheater’s floor. Above them, the ceiling was dotted with small holes, which Andri surmised were used to disperse the smoke and convey it to the skies above the Cathedral, where it would mix with the haze from burning incense and silverburn.

Hooded acolytes in plain gray robes guarded the room’s only two entrances, and Andri’s eyes darted from the doorway at the top of the gallery stairs to the smaller one near where they sat at floor level. He wondered which one Xanin would use, and how much longer the new Bishop would make them wait.

Andri glanced over at his companions, trying to gauge their level of impatience against his own. Greddark appeared characteristically stoic as he gazed about the amphitheater with a faint look of disdain, probably thinking his people could have done a much better job carving the chamber. Irulan, though, seemed nervous, her eyes flicking from acolyte to acolyte, sweat beading at her hairline. There was something different about her, and it took Andri a moment to pinpoint what it was—one of her long, looping braids had been shorn off near the skull, leaving a noticeable gap in the intricate headdress. Ah, yes, now he remembered—it was Javi’s totem braid, and she had said she would cut it off and throw it in the Thrane River once he was freed. Andri could only hope she hadn’t also made good on her promise to kill the young shifter afterward.

There was a noise at the lower door, and Andri tensed, expecting Xanin. But instead of the Bishop, yet another acolyte stepped into the room, barring the door behind him. The sound of a second bar being shoved home came from the other doorway.

Andri half-rose from his seat, his hand going instinctively to his hilt. Something wasn’t right here.

The newly-arrive acolyte threw back his hood, revealing himself as a brown-haired shifter with braids like Irulan’s. Then he pulled a silver dagger from within his robes, and Andri realized what was wrong.

With a cry, he drew his own blade and sprinted for Maellas, Greddark at his heels. As the paladin ran, he called argent flame to his sword. Even as he did so, he wondered who had betrayed them. This execution was supposed to have been secret.

He and the dwarf beat the acolytes to the stake and positioned themselves in front of Maellas, weapons raised. Irulan, who’d been a step or two behind Greddark, now stood uncertainly in the no-man’s land between the two groups.

“Our quarrel is not with you, paladin,” the male shifter said to Andri. “We’re here for the moontouched. Step aside.”

Andri shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

The shifter’s face grew grim. “Then you’ll go to your grave knowing you died defending a murderer.” At his signal, the other acolytes—shifters all—drew their own weapons.

Andri reached out to pull Irulan back away from the shifters, but she hesitated.

“Andri, are you sure—?” Then, as she searched his eyes—looking for what, he wasn’t certain—she seemed to reach some decision. “No,” she murmured, answering herself. “Of course not.”

Shaking her head, she moved to guard his left side, while Greddark took his right. The paladin planted his feet, prepared to shield Maellas with his own body, if necessary. The murdering elf deserved to die, because the Church had declared it so. But he would die according to the laws of the Church, and not at the whim of a group of vigilantes.

He knew Xanin would summon soldiers when he found himself unable to enter the amphitheater, but as Andri parried one sword aimed at his head and felt another duck past his guard to score his ribs, he realized they might not make it that long. The shifters outnumbered them two to one. He hadn’t imagined things would end this way when the Keeper had first summoned him and introduced him to the feisty but beautiful Irulan Silverclaw. He wished he’d had the opportunity to get to know her outside of this investigation, then wondered what his parents would have thought of his feelings for a shifter. At the thought of his father, he had a sudden vision of Alestair laughing as he watched his son die defending a werewolf. The image was so strong that he thought he could even hear the pyromancer’s sardonic chuckle.

And then he realized it wasn’t some specter of his father laughing. It was Maellas. Apparently the amulet didn’t keep him from talking, after all.

“Is this what you die for, Andri? Keeping me from death at the hands of vengeful shifters, so I can burn at the stake instead? Why bother? Let them have me. No one would blame you—you were ambushed and overpowered. I know I need to die for what I’ve done, but why does it matter whose hand it is that takes my life? As long as I die, justice is served.”

Andri did not answer immediately, blocking a sword stroke aimed at his knees. As he saw Irulan take a knife in the thigh, he thought that perhaps Maellas was right. Why should anyone have to die simply to delay a murderer’s execution?

No. The cleric might not be able to charm him with a spell, but he’d been influencing his flock from the pulpit for over a century. He didn’t need magic to be persuasive. Andri shook the priest’s words off. He’d been charged with a duty, and he would fulfill it, or die trying.

As if sensing the paladin’s resolve, Maellas pressed him again. “If it is so important that my executioner be an agent of the Flame, then kill me yourself. Are you not the hand of the Keeper? Kill me, and save these innocent lives, shifter, human, and dwarf.”

At Maellas’s words, Andri glanced over to see the braid-wearing shifter maneuvering behind Greddark. Just as the shifter was preparing to plunge his dagger into the dwarf’s back, Greddark spun and sunk his own blade deep into the shifter’s shoulder. Then he primed his blade, and alchemist’s fire ran down the length of the metal, burning the hapless shifter from the inside out. The shifter howled in agony, dropping his weapon and falling to the floor, where he rolled about in a vain attempt to extinguish the flames.

Irulan, distracted by the shifter’s wounding, sidestepped a thrust at her midsection. The movement brought her too close to Maellas, and the werewolf didn’t hesitate. He lunged at her, grabbing a mass of braids in his mouth and hurling her to the floor. Her sword skittered across the stone and then Maellas was on her, his powerful jaws tearing into the soft flesh of her throat.

“Nooooo!”

Andri turned and rushed at the werewolf, his sword raised, leaving his back unprotected. He felt shifter blades penetrating through the joints in his armor, but the pain was as nothing to him as his entire being focused on one thing.

Irulan.

Maellas’s jaws came away bloody as he drew back, preparing for another bite. Irulan’s eyes met Andri’s over the werewolf’s blonde head, and for a moment he was transported back to his mother’s bedroom in Flamekeep, watching as another woman he loved was ravaged by a lycanthrope. But where Chardice’s eyes had held resignation, Irulan’s held only fury. She fought to push Maellas off her, to get her hands ups between his muzzle and her throat, battling to the last. She would never give in to her fate like his mother had. When she died, she would be cursing, kicking, and screaming as death came to claim her.

But that would not be today.

Bellowing with a rage he’d been holding in check for five long years, Andri brought his sword down in a mighty arc that cleaved Maellas’s skull in two, spraying pink and gray matter everywhere. As the werewolf’s dead body slumped atop Irulan’s, Andri tossed his sword aside. He heaved the cleric’s corpse off Irulan, then knelt down next to her and gathered her up into his arms. As the light faded from her brown eyes, she looked up at him and smiled.

“Proud … of you,” she whispered, then her eyelids fluttered closed, as if she were simply asleep, and Andri crushed her to him, hot tears coursing down his cheeks.

Epilogue

Mol, Eyre 16, 998 YK

Greddark watched as Andri tethered a fine gray stallion to the post and entered the small teahouse. It looked like the paladin had finally gotten his mount. Apparently, in Andri’s black-and-white world, killing a Bishop was less sinful than killing your parents—or at least more easily forgiven.

Greddark raised his hand in greeting, and the paladin nodded, crossing the room and taking the seat opposite him. Greddark summoned the waitress and ordered another cup of Silverleaf. Though this was supposedly one of the best tearooms in Flamekeep, neither the tea nor the service was as good as in Sigilstar. But what the shop lacked in amenities, it made up for with an atmosphere of studied serenity. And, frankly, after the events of the last few days, he could use a little relaxation.

Xanin’s men had broken through the doors shortly after Maellas’s death and the shifters who still lived had been taken into custody. Andri had been able to heal the worst of Irulan’s injuries, and she’d been taken to the House Jorasco enclave to recuperate. Xanin had cleared Andri of all charges and revoked the edict exiling them from the city. He had, however, suggested that Andri might like to go back to Flamekeep sooner rather than later, and the paladin had been more than happy to take his advice. Greddark had offered to accompany him back to Flamekeep. He needed to report to Dzarro anyway, and the information he had for the older dwarf was best told in person.

As he’d expected, the news that the murders had been committed by a high-ranking member of the Church, but one that was acting alone, was a tale neither Dzarro nor Queen Diani wanted to hear. It wasn’t a tale he particularly wanted to tell, either, once the effects of the Mark of Justice had begun to kick in, but Diani’s wizards had been able to lift the curse before any of the damage became permanent. And since Andri had elicited a promise from him not to reveal the existence of the Burnt Woods werewolf pack or the Silver Circle, Greddark had precious little else to offer, though the young queen did express an interest in the activities of the Arulduskan Throneholders. In the end, though, her compensation had been generous, even if remorse had compelled him to have half of it sent anonymously to Zoden’s mother. The lad had been bright, if overeager, and his poems hadn’t been half bad. Perhaps Lady ir’Marktaros would use the funds to set up a scholarship in her son’s name at the local bard’s college. Or perhaps she’d follow in her estranged husband’s footsteps and gamble it all away. Either way, Greddark’s guilt would be assuaged.

“Did your meeting go well?” Andri asked, sipping from his own steaming cup. The paladin had exchanged his armor for a brilliant white tabard and gray leather pants, though he still wore his father’s sword. Greddark imagined he probably slept with the thing.

“As well as could be expected.” Andri had figured out that Greddark’s true employer was higher up the Throneholder chain than Zoden, but if he suspected how high up, he was keeping it to himself. “Yours?”

“The same.” Andri had had to make his own report to the Keeper of the Flame and the Diet of Cardinals, something he’d been more than a little concerned about. But apparently the greater good of ridding the Church of a murderous—and embarrassing—canker had outweighed the evils of consorting with necromancers, defying a Bishop’s edict, and raising a weapon against a superior. Either that, or the Keeper’s favor had protected Andri from any punishment other than what the paladin would heap on himself—not even Jaela Daran could shield him from that.

“The Cardinals were very … lenient. Especially since I couldn’t tell them the one thing they really wanted to know.”

“Which was?”

Andri frowned, his forehead creasing with residual frustration. “Why. I mean, I realize that Maellas needed the other werewolves for his potion, and I even understand him hating Pater for infecting him. But surely he could have come up with some other way to draw the pack out? Why did he have to kill all those people? I just don’t understand how he could go from being such a good man to such an evil one. His prejudices aside, he was a good Bishop. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Greddark sloshed the dregs about in the bottom of his cup, considering. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that. I had a chance to visit with my wizard friend when the rail stopped in Sigilstar. He speculates that it was a side effect of the potion—that by using it to suppress his lycanthropic nature, Maellas was actually losing his ability to control himself whenever he did change and reverting back to the way he was immediately after he was infected, before his own better nature had a chance to reassert itself. Basically, the longer he used the potion, the more evil he became, but because of the effects of the spell, that evil only became apparent when he changed. He probably wasn’t even aware of it himself when he was in his humanoid form. Except maybe near the end.”

Andri looked thoughtful. Finally he nodded. “That would explain why he wanted me to kill him. He realized the monster he had become, and knew his only redemption lay in sacrificing himself.”

Or he just didn’t relish the idea of burning at the stake, Greddark thought, but he held his peace. Let the paladin believe Maellas had repented at the last—the boy could use a happy ending. And who was he to say that Andri was wrong? Stranger things had happened, some of them just since he’d taken this case.

“How is Irulan?” he asked.

The paladin had intended to contact her via speaking stone once he finished with the Diet. Greddark wondered if that conversation had been any more pleasant.

“She is well. The healers say she should be back to hunting and tracking in another day or so. And Javi is recovering from his burns, albeit back in the dungeons. Hopefully his stay will be a little shorter this time.”

Greddark didn’t know quite how to broach the next subject.

“About Javi … you know Irulan—”

“I know,” the paladin said quietly, not looking at him. Maellas’s execution was supposed to have been a secret, but Javi Silverclaw and the other newly-freed shifters had known exactly where to find them, and how to bypass the guards along the way. It didn’t take an inquisitive to figure out that Irulan must have been the one who tipped them off. Apparently, the Mark of Justice only prevented them from revealing Maellas’s identity, not where he was going to be. Either that, or Irulan had judged the payout to be worth the pain.

“Maybe it was an accident, a slip of the tongue. She couldn’t have known—”

“No.” Andri shook his head. When he looked up at the dwarf, his brown eyes sparkled. “She knew.”

Greddark felt sorry for the young paladin. It was obvious he cared for the shifter woman, and just as obvious that her treachery had wounded him deeply, perhaps beyond hope of repair. But Greddark could understand why Irulan had done it—ultimately, she didn’t trust the Church to see justice done. And it was that lack of faith in the Church Andri served that hurt him the most. In the paladin’s eyes, she hadn’t just betrayed him, she’d done something far worse—betrayed the Flame. It was an egregious sin, one that fledging feelings would be hard-pressed to conquer.

But the shifter was stubborn. Greddark wondered if he should tell Andri that she had a new totem braid, this one dedicated to the paladin. No. Knowing Irulan, Andri would find out for himself, soon enough.

He took a sip from his tea, lamenting again that they were not having this conversation in the City of Spires. But the biscuits were better here, buttery and bursting with chunks of tart silverfruit. He supposed he shouldn’t complain.

“I never did thank you for paying off that bounty hunter. Or being willing to, anyway, since we got the money back. But, still, it was a nice gesture.”

Andri looked grateful for the change of subject. “Did you tell your employer about Pater’s people, or how Ostra is helping them?”

“Of course not,” Greddark huffed, scratching his freshly-trimmed beard in irritation. “I gave you my word.”

The paladin smiled to show he meant no offense. “Then that’s all the thanks I need.”

Greddark nodded. Fair enough.

“Well, then. I just have one more question for you. Ever thought of becoming an inquisitive? I don’t usually work with partners, but I’d make an exception for you. You’ve got the knack.” He grinned. “D’Kundarak and Aeyliros. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Andri laughed.

“Indeed it does, friend dwarf. Indeed it does.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell is a Rhysling-nominated poet and author of over fifty published short stories and poems. She lives in sunny Arizona with her Naval officer husband, two sons, the requisite dog and cat, a large collection of Wonder Woman statues, and far too many books. She sold her first story to Marion Zimmer Bradley back in 1995. A little over ten years later, she signed the contract with Wizards of the Coast for her first novel, Legacy of Wolves.

To find out what she’s up to now, check out her author topic at worldsofdnd.com/forum or visit her blog at

biodegradable.blogspot.com.

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