The lovely maiden of summer had matured, growing into matronly autumn. She would stand guard over Solendrea as long as possible before the ice queen of winter descended, stripping the trees bare and laying out their naked bones against the cold grey sky. The first hint of that frigid air hung on the wind, buffeted by the magnificent white dragon’s wings. Forty feet across and nearly twice that long, Stryne would have been a terrifying sight to behold if anyone had been able to see him. His command of the Quintessential Sphere kept him hidden from prying eyes. Any stray mage or magical being wandering nearby would have to know where to start looking to find him. Even the beating of his impressive wings was too high above the ground to be felt or heard. He was alone, as he had been for hundreds of years.

Movement on the ground caught his attention, and he dropped his long neck to look more closely at the spot that held his interest. There was a minuscule speck of black moving across the landscape. A shadow moving across a deeper shadow, barely discernible, even with his magically augmented vision. It was the Warleader of the Xarundi. He had hovered in this same spot, day after day, week after week, for four years. He was careful, watching and learning. He would bide his time until it was perfect.

During the Age of Dragons, when Stryne had been free, and his brothers and sisters in command of the entire continent, the Xarundi had been a surface-dwelling race. In the interim, the wolf like warriors had fallen far and fast. No doubt due to the meddling influence of the humans. The dogs called them vermin, but humans were much worse than vermin. They were an infectious disease that, unchecked, would destroy anything it came into contact with.

The Xarundi had lost nearly as much to the humans as the dragons had. However, the dogs had been fortunate enough to retain their lives. Stryne was the last of his kind.

During his entombment in the ice, he had been forced to endure the loss of each of his kin. As the spark of each psychic link to the rest of his kind had died out, he had experienced what it was like to be truly alone. Turning his thoughts away from that painful memory, Stryne instead looked toward the slightly darker smudge in the foothills that was the entrance to the Xarundi’s subterranean empire. The Warleader began each day standing in the entrance tunnel to the cavern complex, and then would set out on his daily duties. Duties that Stryne would often survey from high above.

As long-lived as dragons were, they were gifted with incredible amounts of patience. A dragon could plot and plan and scheme for decades before settling on a course of action. Stryne was unique in that patience had never been one of his strong points. He preferred action over inaction, which was what brought him to the Warrens in the first place. There were still creatures on Solendrea who remembered the reign of the dragons and possessed long enough lives to remember old alliances and affiliations. The gargoyle who had given him the information about the Xarundi had also been imprisoned by the humans. Though the manner of his imprisonment was different, the result was the same. A burning hatred for humankind and a desire to see them eradicated.

Reestablishing his alliance with Sleeper had given Stryne what he needed most—information. Gargoyles had an uncanny ability to know everything about anything. Stone was everywhere on Solendrea, and the gargoyles could commune with the stone as easily as men could speak to each other. Sleeper’s assistance had been invaluable. Now, as he hovered over the foothills that hid the extensiveness of the Warrens, the dragon was ready to enact the first phase of his plan. The Xarundi wanted the humans destroyed as much as, if not more than, the dragon did. They would be well suited as allies.

Folding his wings against his back, the dragon dove, feeling the cold wind rushing against his sides and belly. The tip of his tail whipped back and forth in the air that screamed past. Dropping the spell that made him invisible, Stryne spread his wings. They snapped taut, catching the air and pulling him backward as they met sudden resistance. The powerful sweep of his wings ripped leaves from the trees at the edge of the clearing and bent the grass underfoot. The Warleader leapt backward at Stryne’s sudden appearance. Four-inch claws slipped from their sheaths and glimmered in the light of the pale moon that was just beginning to rise.

Stryne neatly backwinged, dropping to the ground and folded his wings against his back. He wrapped his tail around his haunches and lowered his neck, looking at the Warleader with glowing violet eyes. To the Warleader’s credit, he didn’t flinch under that regard. Instead, he stared back with his own pools of luminescent blue fire. Though his claws were still extended, the Warleader hadn’t made any aggressive movement. Instead, they stood in the clearing maybe twenty feet apart, staring at each other.

“Greetings, Warleader,” Stryne said in a passable, if unpracticed, approximation of the Xarundi tongue. “Though the manner of my appearance was sudden, I mean you no harm. I wish to parlay.”

The Warleader cocked his head to one side, his ears twitching as the dragon spoke. There was a long pause before he replied.

“Respectful greetings, Great One,” the Warleader was speaking hesitantly, as if feeling out the words as he said them. “You speak the tongue of the Xarundi as it was in ages past. I fear there may be misunderstanding betwixt us.”

“Then let us use the language of the lesser races,” Stryne replied in the low tongue. “I don’t wish there to be any mistake about what I offer, or require. I am Stryne the Forsaken, Dragonlord of the East and the last of my kind. I come with information for you and a proposal.”

The Warleader’s claws slipped slowly back into their sheaths. “I am called Xenir, of the Xarundi Combine. What information do you bring?”

“I know who you are, and I know how you came to live in this place you call the Warrens. An interested third party, a gargoyle named Sleeper, directed me in finding you. You are familiar with him?”

The Warleader nodded, and Stryne continued.

“I was exiled under the ice, far to the north before your kin released me from my prison. One of them, your High Priest, was captured during the ensuing battle.”

Xenir nodded. “Few of the war party I sent north returned with life and limb.”

“You didn’t know I was there. You sent them because you had a vision of a powerful relic buried in the ice.”

“Yes.” Xenir’s tone was unapologetic. “Had I known you were the relic, I’d not have sent the war party.”

“No, I suspect not.”

“If you wanted my life as penance for the war party, I’d be dead by now. So why are you here?”

“I seek not penance, Warleader. We share a mutual interest in seeing the human plague eliminated. I offer a way for both of us to get what we want.”

Xenir hunkered down and rested his arms on his powerful legs. A gentle breeze stole through the clearing and Xenir watched the movement of the branches for a while before he replied.

“What is the offer?”

“I offer you a way to recover the High Priest in return for your alliance against the humans. The city they call Dragonfell is an abomination, an affront to the Draconic Empire. I wish to see the vermin exterminated and control of the land returned to its rightful owner.”

“You.”

“Yes.” Stryne snorted. “Who else has the right to rule?”

“The world has changed,” the Warleader said slowly. “You said it yourself; you are the last of your kind. How can you hope to hold and keep all the land that was once part of your vast empire?”

“I don’t. I require only the land around Dragonfell. The rest of the lands of the Human Imperium belong to you to do with as you see fit. Isn’t it long beyond time for the Xarundi to stop living in holes and return to the surface world? To return to the proud race they once were?”

Xenir shook his head. “My people struggle against themselves. The fall of the High Priest has convinced many that our cause has been forgotten by The Six.”

The dragon snorted again. “Primitive nonsense. As if the Eternals concern themselves with the petty machinations of such short-lived creatures. Regardless, what if I could offer you a way to reunite your people? To restore their faith?”

“You’ve just dismissed the importance of The Six, how can you hope to restore faith when you have none?”

“My faith isn’t important, or required. If I return your High Priest to their people, I think that their faith would be bolstered, at least for a time.”

The Warleader shot to his feet, his good eye blazing. For a moment, Stryne was sure he would attack, regardless of the fact that he was outclassed in both size and power.

“Do not mock me!” He roared, his long fangs glistening white in the light of the moon. “The High Priest is gone. Not even you can restore the dead.”

“Your war party returned to you misinformed, Warleader. Or perhaps they feared being sent to retrieve that which they lost. Regardless, the High Priest lives. At least, as far as being imprisoned by man and cut off from the Sphere can be considered living.”

“How do you know this?”

Stryne rumbled deep in his throat, the dragon’s equivalent of a chuckle. “The dragons were long allies of the Shadow Assembly, long before the Xarundi took nominal leadership of the darker races. I have my own allies and methods of gathering information.”

“The High Priest,” Xenir began, his eye sparkling. “You’ll tell me where he is, in return for our allegiance in eliminating the vermin?”

“That is what I offer, yes.”

Xenir shot to his feet. “Then come, we must free the High Priest at once!”

The dragon half extended his wings, arresting the Warleader’s excitement.

“We will be doing no such thing. I will provide the location of your High Priest. No more. Finding and freeing him is your responsibility. I prefer to remain in a supervisory capacity.”

The Xarundi looked as if he wanted to protest. Stryne thought that he probably would have if he had been facing any being other than a dragon. However, as it turned out, Stryne was a dragon, and the Warleader wasn’t foolish enough to jeopardize the information he wanted just to argue the finer points of the arrangement. The indignation left his eye nearly as quickly as it had flared there, and Xenir nodded.

“Very well. The location of the High Priest for our allegiance.”

Stryne drew power from the Quintessential Sphere. At first, filaments of cerulean light seemed to litter the air in a haphazard jumble. As the dragon further worked the intricacies of his spellcraft, the lines began to shift and merge, forming patterns and shapes. Glowing trees sprung up along shimmering hillsides. Rivers of light flowed down from the hills, sparkling as if touched by an unseen sun. Before long, the countryside was laid out before them in miniature, and the dragon used the power of the Sphere to show Xenir where the quintessentialists were holding Zarfensis.

“My part of the bargain is fulfilled,” Stryne said as the map collapsed, fading from view. He unfurled his wings, preparing for flight. “I trust that your portion will be fulfilled as soon as you have the High Priest in your possession.”

“Yes. Once we have restored the High Priest’s place among the Chosen, we will gladly fight by your side. The vermin will pay for what they’ve done, to the dragons and the Xarundi alike.”

Without a further word, Stryne launched himself skyward. His powerful wings carried him up, level with the tops of the trees in the clearing, then beyond. He climbed steadily upward until the air was cold and thin, then he turned toward the cave where he had temporarily made his home. The plan was in motion. All that remained now was to watch it unfurl and ensure that the players did as they were instructed.

“There!” Xenir hissed, stabbing an extended claw at a flickering light at the base of a towering hill. “That is where they are holding the High Priest hostage.”

It had taken them five days to cover the distance between the Warrens and the prison camp where Zarfensis was being held. During their journey, the Warleader had plenty of time to think. He had to admit that there was no way they’d have found the High Priest, or had any hope of mounting a rescue, without the dragon’s help. The land was some of the most inhospitable Xenir had ever experienced.

Large boulders dotted a field of loose shale that slipped and slid underfoot. What wasn’t covered in rocks as sharp as a blade was waist deep in brambles and thorns so dense that they had given up trying to hack their way through and instead detoured around them. The detour had its own hazards, in the form of a fetid black bog that slowed their progress to a frustrating crawl.

Finally, they had climbed out of the muck, up a gentle grass-covered hill to look down on an expanse of rolling grassland that ended against a much larger hill. As they pressed on they could see, tucked away in the elbow of that union, a squat grey rock building. Half buried in the earth and the hillside beyond, it had a heavy wooden door banded with black iron with a single window beside it. The window was guarded by two sets of bars, one inside and one out. The door itself had no need of bars. It was made from tree trunks banded together, with no hinge nor hardware, nor even a handle on the outside. It might as well have been a city wall, save for the little square peep window that was tightly shut.

One of the warriors snarled with frustration. He was young, just out of adolescence, with pale yellow fur striped with brown. One of these stripes ran across his eyes, giving him the appearance of wearing a mask and earning him a nickname among his peers. Xenir wasn’t even sure what his given name was. He had simply been called Bandit for as long as the Warleader could remember. Several of the other warriors growled in support and Xenir brought them all up short with a savage snarl. One by one they turned to face him, their eyes lowered in their submission.

“Are we vermin?” Xenir asked them. “To be blocked by thick doors and barred windows?”

“No Warleader!” Their voice was one voice of many parts, and their burning eyes met his at the challenge to their honor. The merest implication that they might be vermin had driven the frustration from them and replaced it with the burning desire to conquer.

They’d need that desire, Xenir knew. The humans might be the inferior of the two species, but they had an uncanny knack for causing trouble. They had been a thorn in the side of the Xarundi since the days when the two races had first collided. They had been clashing with each other ever since. The vermin would never forget their subjugation to the claws and fangs of the Xarundi and the Chosen would never forget how the humans had driven them out of the light into the perpetual twilight of the Warrens. Peace simply wasn’t an option.

The wind brought a sound to his erect ears, and the Warleader motioned them all to the ground. They crouched in the cover of the trees, eyes and ears alert as the prison door swung inward. Two soldiers in heavy plate armor emerged, each with a towering shield on one arm and a long, heavy spear in the opposite hand. They took up positions outside the door, spears and shields at the ready. Another, smaller man in plate emerged from the pale light beyond the door, his eyes scanning the hills. For a moment, Xenir felt the weight of the man’s eyes upon them. He held his breath.

Xenir had received no premonition about their mission. No vision had visited him giving a clue to the success or failure of their endeavor. He knew that a seer’s power came and went as it pleased, occasionally favoring the seer at the moment of greatest need. Other times it was cold and silent as an angry lover. Whatever he had done to fall out of favor with the power that imbued him with insight into the Quintessential Sphere also prevented him from guessing how their current endeavor would end. So he watched, and waited, though he could feel the younger warriors quivering with anticipation.

The third man made a final survey of the darkened landscape and turned to the door. He waved his hand and said something far too distant for Xenir or the others to hear. Another figure, this one enrobed in thick cream colored folds of cloth, stepped through the door and stood talking to the short man. They exchanged words, then the robed figure started off down the small, winding trail that lead away from the prison door. As he walked, a glowing orb blossomed over him, casting a wide circle of light that surrounded him.

The heavy thud of the door drew his attention back to the building, and he saw that the soldiers had retreated there, sealing off the entrance. Trying to get through that door would be futile. By the time they worked their claws through the wood, the wicked spears would have been thrust through the window bars and into their flesh. They’d have to find another way into the building.

“Pursue the mage, Warleader.”

To Xenir’s surprise, it wasn’t one of the warriors who had given the impudent order. It was the tiny grizzled cleric who leaned heavily on his staff. The cleric had doggedly followed them on the trek through the swamp, though his infirmity and age prevented him from keeping the grueling pace the youngsters set. He had often fallen behind, sometimes disappearing entirely from view, during their trek here. Still, he had somehow managed to catch up with them again.

“Quickly, Warleader.” The cleric motioned beyond, to the bend in the trail where it turned and disappeared from view. “I have a plan, but we must be swift.”

“Very well, cleric,” Xenir said, deciding to humor the old-timer. “What would you have us do?”

The cleric gave orders in a series of low, short growls. Bandit and another of the young Chosen were sent to intercept the quintessentialist on the path. They were told to take him by surprise, to keep him quiet, and most importantly, bring him back alive. The cleric had stressed that last point so strenuously that Xenir had to assure him that the younger Xarundi would obey his orders as they would have obeyed the Warleader’s. The pair of hunters slipped off into the darkness and the rest of the party waited.

Xenir began to worry as the silvery disk of the moon climbed ever higher in its arc across the night sky. Though he had stressed the need for stealth, he doubted that even the younger Chosen would need so much time to bring down a single human, even if that human were a quintessentialist. He made up his mind to move to a different vantage point if they didn’t return before dawn, just to ensure that the mage didn’t discover them if he managed to defeat Bandit and come looking for others.

As it happened, Xenir’s worry was unfounded. Shortly after he had decided to move the war party to a different location, there was a rustle in the underbrush. The sound and movement was no more than a rabbit would make, but the Chosen warriors appeared in the thicket, the mage, bound and unconscious, carried between them. They cut his bonds and laid the quintessentialist on the ground before the cleric, calling a rather obnoxious amount of attention to the fact that no tear or even a single drop of blood marred the purity of the billowing robes.

“Stand him up,” the cleric commanded.

The warriors shot a look at the Warleader, who nodded. If the cleric had a plan that would get them into the prison, he was a step ahead of the rest of the group. Xenir was a good enough leader to know when listening to subordinates was the best course of action. Besides, he was curious as to how all this was going to play out. The cleric was old, nearly ancient, but it was obvious that he was still in full command of his intellect.

Once the mage was upright, the cleric laid his staff on the ground and began circling the clearing, tracing arcane symbols onto trees with a single outstretched claw. The sigils pulsed with a flickering, blue-green light. They seemed to grow brighter and livelier as the cleric made each subsequent symbol. As the cleric made the sixth and final sign, the marked trees bowed inward, blocking out the light of the moon and plunging the Xarundi into velvety darkness.

Thick vines snaked down out of the trees and across the ground, twining themselves around the quintessentialist’s wrists and ankles. Bandit and the other warrior stepped away, as their support was no longer required. A low moan escaped from between the man’s lips. Though it was pitch black in the clearing, Xenir could see the man’s face plainly. The myriad shades of grey that made up the Xarundi’s night vision produced vivid detail even when there was no natural light.

The man’s eyelids fluttered. Whatever the cleric was planning, he needed to complete it quickly. If he didn’t they’d have a panicky quintessentialist in their midst and that would do none of them any good. The cleric seemed to grasp that reality, however, as he continued to intone the words of command to whatever ritual he had in mind. Stepping up behind the mage, he extruded a sharp fore claw and pressed it into the skin at the base of the mage’s skull. The flesh dimpled and a small bead of blood welled up around the puncture.

A moment later, the claw slammed forward with a speed that belied the cleric’s age. The mage gave a single spasmodic leap and then sagged limply against the restraints. The body seemed to lift off the ground as the cleric withdrew his claw, bringing with it a sinewy blue-white mist. The cleric pulled the strand out of the body, separating the last of it with a little tug that made the empty body give a little jump. With a drop of his jaw that equated to a Xarundi’s smile, the cleric displayed the shifting mist to the Warleader.

“What is it?” The Warleader reached out to touch the mist, but the cleric shook his head in warning.

“You don’t want to touch this, Warleader. It’s the vermin’s soul. Don’t sully yourself.”

Xenir was both impressed and sickened. That the cleric could so nonchalantly hold the very essence of a vermin turned his stomach. The cleric spread his hands apart, spreading the mist thin between them. He spoke a single word and the blue-white light left the strands. As the light vanished, the soul disintegrated.

“How frail they are,” the cleric said, still grinning. “Frail even in spirit.”

Before the Warleader could respond, the cleric stepped up to the mage’s body and grasped the neck, his thumbs holding the wound his claw had made open by the edges. Another guttural command and there was a flash of green light that dazzled all the Chosen. They threw their hands up in front of their eyes at the brilliance of the flash. As the Warleader drew breath to scold the cleric for giving away their position, he saw that the vines were gone. The trees had returned to their natural state and both the body of the mage and the cleric lay crumpled next to each other.

Xenir rushed to the cleric’s side, but he was still. His eyes were open and dull. The blue fire that danced in the eyes of every Chosen had gone out. The cleric had failed. The rest of the warriors gathered around, looking down on their fallen comrade with a mixture of pity and disgust. The Warleader passed his heavy hand over the cleric’s eyes, closing them for the final time. He rocked back on his haunches, trying to decide what to do next.

When the body of the human stirred, Xenir was so startled that he retreated to the loose circle of warriors ranged around him. As they prepared to spring, Xenir got a strange feeling in the back of his head and held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. The quintessentialist turned to face them. His eyes blazed blue for a moment, and then faded to the dull, lifeless color typical of all human eyes. Xenir was aghast.

“Cleric?”

“Warleader.”

The voice that came from the quintessentialist’s body was plainly human, but there was something underneath that the Xarundi’s hearing could just barely detect. It was definitely the cleric’s essence in the human’s body. The Warleader felt sick.

“I don’t understand,” Xenir said slowly. “Why?”

“The vermin will gladly open their doors to one of their own, Warleader. What better disguise than their own skin?”

“But you…”

“I am old, Warleader. My time has come and gone. Once my task is complete, you will release me. Give me a warrior’s death. An honorable death. Regardless of this fragile, disgusting form.”

“You are a hero and a patriot, cleric. I will grant your death by my own hand.”

The cleric bowed his human head. “My thanks, Warleader.”

Xenir turned to the others.

“Witness the sacrifice of one of our brothers, who offers his life in trade for another of our own.”

The warriors accorded the old cleric with a ragged howl, the sound echoing through the trees. After a moment it died away and the woods were silent.

“Watch closely, my brothers. Our time is at hand,” the cleric said, flipping the cowl of the robes over his head.

The sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky as the mock quintessentialist made his way down the hill and across the rolling valley. The warriors followed, keeping to the shadows of trees and gentle rises, staying out of sight of the prison door. The cleric approached the door, knocking loudly. A moment later, the peep door popped open and someone looked out from inside the prison.

“Master!” A surprised voice said from the other side of the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” the cleric replied earnestly. “I merely forgot to leave something with you when I departed. May I enter?”

“Certainly! A moment please.”

The peep door closed and the prison door swung inward on silent hinges. The cleric-mage stepped into the doorway, blocking sight from inside the prison. Xenir motioned to the warriors and they rushed forward. As he reached the door, his claws flashed out, parting the cleric’s head from the borrowed body. The Chosen spilled through the open doorway, falling on the startled soldiers in a swarm. The plate armor offered little protection as sharp claws found the seams and pulled them apart, limb from limb.

In less than two minutes, the three soldiers that stood watch over the prison were dead and the floor of the watch room was slick with blood. Xenir crouched over the watch commander and plucked the ring of keys from his belt. As a unit, the Chosen moved toward the door at the back of the watch room. Finding the appropriate key, the Warleader opened the door and they descended into darkness.

A long stone corridor was lined with cells on either side. A few flickering lamps cast feeble circles of light on the corridor floor. Most of the cells were empty. Xenir checked each one, looking for the hulk of the High Priest. His despair grew with each cell they checked. Perhaps the dragon was wrong. Perhaps Zarfensis really had perished and his incarceration here was just a sick ruse by the vermin.

As they reached the last cell on the left hand side of the corridor, all Xenir’s doubts evaporated. Crouched on the stone floor was the emaciated frame of the High Priest. Only the slight rise and fall of Zarfensis’s breathing gave the Warleader any indication that he was still alive. Xenir was horrified that the High Priest, once a hulking brute, had been reduced to the creature he saw before him. Even so, it could be no other. The twisted brass and blackened rubber of the artificial leg could belong to no one else.

“Your Holiness?” He asked quietly. “Can you hear me?”

Zarfensis uncurled from his crouch, getting to unsteady feet with slow, steady deliberation. One side of his face was a ruin of naked skin and puckered scars that had robbed him of an eye. The skin hung from his bones like laundry on a line and the flame in his eye had died to the flicker of a single candle, holding its own against the growing black. With shuffling, grating steps, Zarfensis made his way to the door of the cell, standing well back from the bars. He stared at Xenir, his ash grey tongue flicking out to lick his muzzle. At length, he seemed to gather enough strength to speak.

“My brother,” Zarfensis rasped. “Is that really you? Has my freedom finally come?”

Xenir found the key to the cell door and wrenched it open, crossing the threshold and crushing the High Priest in an uncharacteristic embrace. Xenir felt him tremble and knew that they had arrived not a moment too soon. Any longer and he might have succumbed to the harsh treatment the vermin had subjected him to.

“You are free, my brother. It is time to go home.”

CHAPTER ONE

“How dare they?” Tiadaria brandished the letter at Wynn, as if he was somehow responsible for its contents. “They have no right! How can they just make demands of us and expect them to be followed?”

“He is the King, Tiadaria.” Wynn held up a hand to forestall her outburst. “I’m not saying that it’s right. I’m just saying that being the King gives him the legal authority.”

“I don’t care. When do I get to choose, Wynn? My father, the Captain, Faxon, and now this. When do I get to make my own decisions about who I want to be and what I want to do? It isn’t fair!”

Wynn rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The tension there made his head ache. She stood, glaring at him, her arms folded across her chest. He knew that posture well. It was Tia at her most stubborn, her most obstinate. He wasn’t going to get anything useful out of her until she got over her initial indignation and was able to think rationally again.

“Well?”

He didn’t care for her demanding tone, but really, he knew that it wasn’t directed at him. Not exactly. He just happened to be unfortunate enough to be in the way. He turned his good eye toward her, gazing back into the full force of her fury.

“Do you want an actual answer? Or are you just looking for a vent for your frustration?”

A pained look flickered over her features so quickly that he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely. Her lips whitened as she considered his question and he waited patiently for her response. He knew it could go either way. Either she’d ask him for his council or she’d want him to listen while she railed against the injustice of it all. He didn’t mind either way, he just wanted to know what to expect. They had lived together long enough for Wynn to be used to her mercurial moods and he had adapted to them early on.

Tia took a deep breath and blew it out in a gusty sigh. She made a show of unfolding the letter that she had crushed in her fist and smoothing it out as best she could. She offered it to Wynn and he took it from her, scanning the brief missive.

The Imperium courier had caught them on their way out of the cottage and handed the letter to Tiadaria before Wynn could intervene. He had wanted to get her up into the old training field so he could ask her something important. Now he wondered if he had any hope of getting her up there today at all.

Now that he read the letter, he understood why she was upset. She had every right to be. The King had demanded her return to Dragonfell for assignment of duties, without so much as a “by your leave” or a please, or thank you. It was unlike Greymalkin to issue such demands. The letter in itself was troubling. He couldn’t really blame her for her reaction. He finished reading and folded the paper, slipping it into one of the pockets that lined the inside of his robes.

“You’re not going to like—”

“Then why say it,” she snapped. “If you already know I’m not going to like it?”

Turning on his heel, he set off down the path toward the training field. The end of the path rose to the crest of a gentle hill. It was a place that they often came together, to talk, or just to sit and watch the stars together on clear nights. He stopped at the top of the rise, looking out into the conifers that ringed the small clearing.

Tiadaria came up behind him and stood there for some time. Finally, she stepped into his line of sight and looked at him. Wynn pressed his lips together and stared at her, saying nothing. Her blazing eyes met his, then flicked to his eye patch as they often did when she was nervous or upset. She seemed to crumple in on herself all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Wynn knew her anger was as quick and furious as a summer rain shower, but ultimately just as harmless. “All I said was that he had the right, not that I thought it was proper, or that agreed with him.”

“So you agree with me?”

“I do, but it doesn’t really matter what I think. You’re a citizen of the Imperium, but you still have a choice. Maybe if you talk to the King…”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Because the King is so flexible?”

“Okay.” Wynn shrugged. “Maybe not, but he can’t just conscript you.”

“Actually, I think he can. I think that’s part of the deal with being King.”

“There’s always Ethergate, or Overwatch.”

The surprised look Tiadaria shot him was almost comical. Her mouth dropped open and she tried to form words, failing miserably at it.

“Leave the Imperium?” Tia said it slowly, as if she were measuring the full weight of her words. “Could we?”

“Why not? I lived in Ethergate most of my life before you dragged me back here. Need I point out that you haven’t even been a citizen of the Imperium for that long, all things considered.”

Tia stuck her tongue out at him. That was a good sign, Wynn thought. It meant her sense of the ridiculous was returning. With it would come her ability to see more than just her rage.

“I actually had a reason for wanting to come up here,” Wynn said, with some exasperation. “Do you think maybe we could move on to that? Or would you like to go on a bit more about the King and his demands?”

“No, I think I’m done. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“It wasn’t so much talk as it was action,” Wynn replied.

“Well?” Tia made a show of crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot.

Getting down on one knee was something of a chore in quintessentialist’s robes, but Wynn thought he managed it with a fair amount of aplomb. Tia cast a suspicious eye on him as he reached inside and withdrew a small parcel.

Wynn presented a small black velvet pad. A plain gold and silver ring rested on the pad. He had agonized over the design for her bonding band, finally settling on something simple, almost utilitarian. He had indulged in a bit of whimsy, asking the artisan to craft a ring of two intertwining bands. The result was both simple and elegant. Perfect for Tiadaria.

“Wynn,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”

“I’m attempting to propose,” he said with mock exasperation. “If you’d stop interrupting me long enough to let me finish it.

So what say you, Tiadaria of the clans, last swordmage, and heroine of Dragonfell? Will you accept my handfasting?”

“I…” Tia faltered and looked away.

In that moment, Wynn felt like his world was going to implode. He had planned for so long to make everything perfect. From the ring, to the arrangements, to the guests. He hadn’t overlooked a single detail and now she couldn’t even look at him. He wanted to get up, wanted to run down the path to the cottage and just pretend that this moment had never happened, but he seemed to be rooted to the spot.

When she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears. They weren’t the happy kind of tears, Wynn knew. He’d been stupid, thinking that she’d just be willing to accept his proposal. He should have warned her first. At least felt out her feelings on the matter. He had been so sure she’d want it as much as he did.

“Wynn…”

Her voice seemed to break the paralysis that gripped him and he was able to climb to his feet. It was awkward, but not nearly as awkward as what he’d just been through. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet. The lump in his throat felt like a ship anchor and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get any words past it. Instead, he busied himself with tucking the ring back inside his robes and brushing the worst of the dirt from his knees.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding like a little girl. “Wynn—”

“It’s okay.” Once he’d managed those two little words, he found that the worst of the shock was starting to ebb and he could think again. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. I was stupid, I should have talked to you first.”

“No, Wynn, that’s not…”

She trailed off as he started off down the trail back toward the cottage. Her rejection had stung bad enough. He wasn’t going to let her see the tears that were welling in his eyes. The sun sparked a million rainbows in his wet eyes as he fled the hilltop. He knew it for a retreat and wouldn’t embarrass himself by calling it otherwise.

When he reached the door to the cottage, he realized the full extent of his foolishness. The door was locked and Tiadaria carried the only key on a length of black ribbon around her neck. So he’d have to wait until she turned up to let him in, a fact that did nothing to assuage his sense of being the biggest idiot on all of Solendrea.

He turned and leaned back against the door, slowly sliding down until he was seated against it. Wynn propped his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his short brown hair. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The gate at the end of the little path creaked and Wynn looked up, knowing that she’d be upset, or contrite, or both, or something else entirely. Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did. He had been so sure she was going to say yes!

Tiadaria approached him slowly, as if he were some species of dangerous animal. As if she didn’t know how he would react. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe he had overestimated the strength of their bond in the four years they’d been together. If he’d been wrong in that, what else had he been wrong about?

“Wynn,” she said, her voice soft and steady. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay—”

“No,” her voice was firm now. “Don’t brush me off. Let me finish.”

Wynn looked at her. He assumed that his eyes were rimmed with as much red as hers were. He had hoped today would have been a day for celebration. So much for that idea. He nodded. She sat down cross-legged in the middle of the path, close enough to him that she could lay her hand on his knee, which she did.

“I really am sorry, Wynn. I’m just…” She trailed off, casting her eyes skyward as if an answer were floating there. “I just need some time. I love you. You know I do.”

“I thought I did.” The words came out of him in a rush and he sounded far more hard than he’d wanted. This time he wasn’t the indecisive one. He knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it, but it had been denied him.

“I do,” she protested, new tears in her eyes. “I really do. It’s just…how can I? The King makes his demands, and Faxon decides when and where I need to train, when do I get to decide what’s right for me?”

“Seems to me like you already have.”

Tia shrank back at the bitterness in his tone. The tears that had threatened to spill over did so, streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t sob, didn’t make a sound. She just looked at him. Something seemed to snap deep within him and his breath left in a rush.

“I’m sorry,” he said at the end of the massive sigh. “I love you and I know you love me. I just…well, I just wanted to make it official.”

“I didn’t say no,” she said, her voice small and far away.

“I know. I can be patient.” He laughed without much humor and shrugged when she raised her eyebrows at him. “Just as well you got that letter today. We were due in Dragonfell at the end of the week. At least now we have a reason that doesn’t make me look like a fool.”

“The end of the week? But what about a ceremony? Our clothes? Our friends?”

“All were taken care of, love. I’ve been busy these last few months.”

Tia gave him a sharp look and poked him in the chest with a finger. “All that skulking around on ‘Order business’ that I couldn’t know about?”

Wynn looked away. The lump had suddenly returned, making it hard to answer.

“Yeah.”

Tiadaria said nothing and Wynn was thankful for that. Her rejection had been hard enough. He really didn’t want to spend the rest of the day hashing things out. They sat in silence for a long time. It was Tia who finally broke that long silence.

“I just want to know who I am before I promise to be everything you need me to be.”

He caught her eyes and held them.

“Tia, when have I ever needed you to be anything more than you are?”

She shook her head, her eyes sad and welling with more tears.

“You don’t understand,” she said, this time she sounded as if she were teetering on the edge of control. “It’s not about you needing more. I can’t even dedicate time to myself. How can I dedicate time to you and be what you want me to be?”

Her voice broke and she pelted down the cobblestones, through the gate, and down the wide lane that ran in front of the cottage.

“I just need you to be you,” Wynn said to himself.

The Community Hall in Dragonfell had once been the common room of a brothel that had held a certain black renown when Faxon was a boy. Perhaps it was for that reason that he seemed to laugh every time he entered the space. It made him happy and if he was happy here, he knew that Tia and Wynn would be.

Once the decorations were in order and the trestles and chairs set up, it would be the perfect place to hold the festivities. There was a small lectern at the front of the long room where Faxon would say the ancient and traditional words that would bind two of his closest friends together for eternity.

“Where do you want these?” The sharp tone intruded on his ruminations, dragging him forcefully back to the present from the near future.

“There is fine, Tionne,” Faxon said. He pointed to a corner of the room where other crates and boxes had already been stacked.

The elder quintessentialist wasn’t sure what her problem was, or when it had grown so out of control. She was one of the most disagreeable and taciturn acolytes he had ever known and being involved with the education of so many students in the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences, he had known many. He had hoped that age would help her grow out of her shrewish temper, but so far, he had been disappointed.

“I don’t understand the need for all this fluff anyway,” she groused as she dropped the crate she had been carrying. “How does it change anything?”

Faxon peered at her. The girl he had known from a youngster had grown into a young woman. A young woman who would have been pretty if she didn’t insist on drawing her hair back in such a severe braid. Her emerald green eyes sparkled, but not with the merriment of most girls her age. Instead, they danced with a quiet, cold malice that bothered Faxon far more than he let on.

“It’s not supposed to change anything, Tionne. It is supposed to be pretty and pleasing to look at. It is meant to be inviting and welcoming and to make people feel good on a special day.”

Tionne nudged an open crate with the tip of her boot. She insisted on wearing boots under her robes, eschewing the traditional slippers that mages normally wore. Faxon raised his eyebrow at her. A sardonic smile twisted the corner of her mouth.

“I wouldn’t let your guests get too near the garland, Faxon.” She tipped the crate toward him so he could see the contents. “Witchweed will strangle whatever it can reach.”

“It’s been cured, Tionne,” he said, his patience wearing thin. “It isn’t a threat to anyone, which is more than I can say for myself, if you keep pushing.”

“So sorry, Master,” she replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Get out,” he snapped, pointing toward the door. When she didn’t move fast enough to appease his annoyance, he flicked his fingers in her direction, striking her in the back with a bolt of lightning just powerful enough to sting in the hindquarters, but not strong enough to do any real damage.

He heard her swear from the hallway, then all was quiet. She’d no doubt find no end of trouble to get into in the city, but he could deal with that later. In the interim, he’d have a few hours of peace and quiet and maybe that would serve to sooth the thundering headache she’d left him with.

Tionne rubbed her bottom where the bolt had hit her. The skin still tingled there, but he hadn’t burned her. It wasn’t the first time that she’d goaded Faxon into using his power against her, but she was usually more adept at avoiding the repercussions.

One day she’d return the favor. If he thought he could sling spells at her with impunity, he had another thing coming. She might not be able to do it soon, but when she was ready to pay him back, she’d do a good enough job of it that he’d never forget. Or dare to attack her again.

The sun was low in the western sky, gilding the city streets in gold and casting long, dark shadows. A smile crept across Tionne’s face. Any big city changed after sunset and Dragonfell was no exception. Once the last rays of the sun had died away, the things that shied away from the light would come out to play, scurrying out of their daytime dens.

Tionne was one of them. Ever since she was small, she had found comfort in the darkness. It was the dark that had saved her from the savage monsters that destroyed her village. The black, hot confines of the water barrel she had been shoved in had kept her safe with only her own breath in her ears to keep her company. There was a comfort in the dark that forever eluded her in the light.

Now that the sun had slipped below the city wall, she felt better. Cradled in the night, she was more herself. She walked down the emptying street. The reputable citizens were closing their shops and sitting down for dinner with their families. Soon the night would belong to her kind. She smiled.

With sudden clarity, Tionne knew exactly where she wanted to go. She ducked down an alley and weaved her way through the city, away from the palace caverns and toward the fringes near the walls. The darkest places in a city were always those that fell under the shadow of the city walls. The places where the touch of sun only lasted for an hour or two every day.

The Turgid Eel was just such a place. A motley combination of inn, tavern, and brothel, the Turgid Eel catered to the disreputable elements of the city. Tionne loved it there. The people were interesting and the barmaid didn’t care who she served as long as they had good coin to pay with.

Aluka, the barmaid, was one of the only friends Tionne had. She was always glad to see Tionne and twice as glad if there were crowns being pushed across the bar. Ale wasn’t a fondness for her, but the young quintessentialist had taken to honey mead from the first time it had crossed her tongue. A frosty glass of mead would be just the thing to take her mind off Faxon and his forceful reprimand.

By the time she reached the halfway house, twilight had deepened almost into total night. Tionne crossed the rough wood planks that made up the wide porch that surrounded the building, her boots rapping a sharp staccato pattern on the boards. She pushed through the batwing doors and surveyed the room with arch superiority.

The regulars were just starting to trickle in. There was a table toward the back of the room where a group of sailors were playing dice. Most of them were stripped to the waist, their arms well muscled and their fingers and torsos scarred with the ravages of salt, sea, and line. Just beyond the table of seamen, there was an open spiral staircase that snaked its way up to the rented rooms. Tionne had never been up there, but she had heard enough stories that piqued her curiosity in the most devilishly sensual ways.

A long bar ran the length of the room on the left and that was where the young mage made her way now. There was a lanky blond behind the counter. Her butter yellow hair was pulled back in a long braid that hung to her waist. Deep grey eyes, the color of witchmetal, flicked over the bar and the patrons, as if tallying up the number of crowns that would be in the till at the end of the night. Those eyes caught Tionne’s and held them for a moment, the corner of the barmaid’s mouth lifting in a smile.

Tionne’s stomach did a little flip when Aluka smiled at her like that. She didn’t know if it was because she found the older girl so pretty, or just because she relished the singular attention that Aluka lavished on her when she was nearby, but Tionne knew that she had never felt that way about anyone else. If the rough company was enough to make her shy away from the Turgid Eel, Aluka’s smile was always a stronger reason to come back.

“Hey beautiful,” Aluka said to her in low voice as Tionne sat down at the bar. She produced a thick, well-frosted glass filled with deep amber liquid and slid it front of the mage. “Honey for my honey?”

Her milky pale skin did nothing to hide the blush that crept up Tionne’s neck and spread all the way up to her ears. She felt as if her entire face was burning. Aluka smiled at her again and then drifted down the bar, her attention caught by a figure in a thick traveling cloak.

Tionne watched the newcomer out of the corner of her eye. Surreptitious investigations came as naturally to her as breathing. Her guile and subterfuge had kept her one step ahead of officious Masters and conniving fellow students alike. She prided herself on her knowledge of things that were thought well guarded secrets and only divulged that knowledge when it would profit her to do so.

Aluka was drawing a drink for the stranger in the cloak. The mysterious figure kept its head low, letting the voluminous folds hide its features and grant it anonymity. They must be roasting under all that cloth, Tionne thought. It was still warm outside and even though the windows were open, the air inside was thick and hot. The barmaid passed the ale to the stranger and took a coin in return. During that brief exchange, Tionne noticed that the stranger was wearing thick leather gloves.

She leaned back in her chair to get a look at the feet. It was an inadvisable action, as it called attention to her, which was something one usually didn’t want in a place like the Eel. Still, her curiosity got the better of her and she gave the stranger a closer look. Not that it helped all that much. The cloak ran almost to the floor. Only a pair of black leather boots peeked out. The boots were unremarkable, save for the brilliant shine of the silver hardware. If nothing else, it was obvious that the footwear was well cared for.

Shaking her head, as if to clear the curiosity, she took a long pull on the mead and shivered as the alcohol sparked a fire in her belly. The warmth was a welcome visitor and she nursed it along with small sips throughout the evening. Aluka would stop by and chat when she wasn’t busy with others, scampering off only when drinks were shouted for or when she caught the master of the house giving her the evil eye.

It was during one of these absences that Tionne realized that the stranger in the traveling cloak had ended up on the stool next to hers. The newcomer was accompanied by a strange, but not unpleasant, musk. Like the smell of freshly turned earth. Tionne couldn’t recall the stranger moving. It felt as if they had been further down the bar one moment, and very nearby the next. As they sat there side by side, Tionne’s sidelong gaze was drawn to the hood again and again, as if through force of will she could see past the veil of darkness.

“You’re a bit too tipsy for that to be an option,” the stranger said. The voice was definitely feminine, but it had a strange, deep burr to it.

Tionne went rigid. She was tipsy enough that command of the Quintessential Sphere would have been difficult, but normally she was more on guard. She hadn’t felt the stranger touch her thoughts and her lapse in self-defense was as disturbing as the violation itself.

“I apologize,” the stranger said softly, still not turning to face Tionne, though the girl had now swiveled on her stool to face the interloper. “That was rude of me. Still, we had to know that you were one of us.”

Tionne’s eyes narrowed. There were few things she distrusted more than inclusion in a group. She had learned those lessons painfully from the other students in the Academy. Groups were good only for excluding others usually for excluding Tionne.

“One of who?” she demanded, all pretense of patience gone in a flash. “You don’t know me. How do you know what I am or who I belong with.”

With surprising speed, the stranger’s hand snapped out and caught her wrist. Tionne tried to pull away, but found the grip more than enough to hold her hostage. She could feel the fingers inside the glove, they were thin and delicate, but strong. The stranger turned to face her now, still just a dark expanse of black under the hood.

The stranger’s other hand pushed up the sleeve of Tionne’s robe, exposing a line of old scars just below the elbow, as neat and tidy as a farmer’s furrows. The stranger traced these with a gloved fingertip and Tionne felt a strange longing spread through her. It was similar to what she felt when she looked at Aluka, but much more intense.

“Stop,” Tionne said, pulling her arm away. This time the stranger released her and Tionne pulled the sleeve down, covering the old scars. The touch had unnerved her. Her reaction to it, doubly so.

“Rest easy, Tionne,” the stranger said, exposing her own arm. The skin was the color of a leaden sky, a light, warm grey that was both surprising and seemed perfectly natural.

A gloved hand pushed away the cloak and the stranger turned the inside of her arm to show Tionne a much longer line of scars like her own. Instead of fine white lines on pale skin, these were faint black lines on grey. Even so, Tionne could see that they were made from the same type of injury: a self-inflicted wound with a very sharp blade.

“So?” she asked, unappeased. “We share some scars. Nothing more. Who are you?”

The stranger pushed the hood of her cloak back and Tionne gasped. She was surprised on several levels. The first of which was that the woman hidden by the cloak was possibly the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Fine silver hair was brushed back from her forehead, flowing down her back like a moon touched waterfall. Her skin was uniformly grey and smooth, like the surface of a river rock worn down by eons of sand and water. What set her apart, and caused most of Tionne’s reaction, was her eyes. They were wide and round, seeming to Tionne to be much larger than they should be. They were an opaque red, with just the faintest glimmer of light, like a single ember burning from across a dark clearing.

“I am Nerillia, of the Lamiad,” she said, inclining her torso toward Tionne. “We share much more than scars, Tionne. We share an affinity for the blood. We crave it. We want to control it. I’d like to talk to you about who I am, who I represent, and what we can offer you, if you would hear me.”

Tionne tumbled that about in her mind. If you would hear me, she had said. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t coercion. It wasn’t a threat. True, Nerillia had touched her mind without her consent, but if the Lamiad was also a slave to the call of blood, Tionne could understand. That wasn’t just something you blurted out to a stranger. Not without having some assurances.

“You’ve been watching me,” Tionne said with sudden clarity.

“Yes. For some time. We had to be sure before we approached you.”

Nerillia flipped up the hood of her cloak. Not, however, before Tionne noticed some of the other patrons staring in their direction. People were strange. Men were here cheating on their wives. Wives were here making extra crowns on their backs. But expose something beyond the fringe of those acceptable debaucheries and people got uncomfortable.

Aluka appeared before them as if summoned. Her grey eyes were troubled and Tionne saw something in her face she hadn’t seen before. Fear.

“You need to leave,” the barmaid said to Nerillia. “Now. It isn’t safe for you here.”

“I was just going,” Nerillia said, getting to her feet. She turned toward Tionne, her eyes faint glimmers of crimson under the drawn hood. “You’re like us. I just want to talk. Think about it.”

Before Tionne could react, Nerillia took her hand and clasped it. The young mage felt something cold on her palm and instinctively closed her hand around it. Then the Lamiad was gone, weaving through the crowd and disappearing through the hanging doors. Behind her, Aluka let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Thank goodness,” she said. “I thought we were going to have real trouble. Another mead?”

“No thank you,” Tionne said absently, still looking out over the crowd.

“Suit yourself,” Aluka huffed, stalking off down the bar.

That she might have permanently damaged her relationship with the barmaid never crossed Tionne’s mind. Her attention was drawn to the cold, hard object in her palm. She unfolded her fingers and looked at it. It was a pebble, but a pebble unlike any she had ever seen. It was black, so black that it seemed to drink in all the light and heat around it. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if she needed to protect it. As if it had suddenly become her utmost responsibility to protect this little stone.

Pushing a coin across the counter, Tionne left the Turgid Eel and wandered out into the street. With the din of the crowd now at her back, the night seemed more serene and still. There were a few hangabouts outside, but no one hassled her as she descended the wide steps.

Now that her head was clear, she wondered what she was supposed to do with the stone Nerillia had given her. She cradled it in her open hands, staring at it, trying to puzzle out its meaning. The effects of the mead were starting to wear off, so she slipped into the Quintessential Sphere, hoping that sphere sight would help unlock the mystery that had presented to her. The stone, in the timelessness of the sphere, was no different than the physical manifestation she held. It was small and completely black. It was the only object that Tionne had ever seen that didn’t have a memory or an echo of its past.

This was a test. She was sure of it. It was a test that would tell Nerillia and her mysterious group if she had the skills to join them. It was a puzzle. Tionne loved puzzles. It was one of the only aspects of being a student in the Academy that really appealed to her. There was no better feeling than finally figuring out the last piece of a riddle that was a particularly difficult spell or ritual.

So then, all that remained was for her to figure out the riddle. To do that, she’d need somewhere to sit and think. Going back to the inn was out of the question. Faxon would no doubt be there. The last thing she needed while trying to figure this out was Faxon standing over her shoulder with his jokes. Or worse, his sermons.

Glancing around she saw the little alley that ran between the Eel and the buildings on the other side. That should offer sufficient privacy to worry out the puzzle. She slipped into the darkness, relying on the advantage of sphere sight to lead her around the debris that made the footing dangerous. She found an empty crate and turned it over, plopping down on her makeshift stool.

The stone didn’t seem to respond to her touch, nor did it respond to her thoughts, either in the physical realm or in the ethereal one. It seemed utterly unaffected by magic and the few simple manipulations that Tionne tried. Warming it, cooling it, and suspending it with the power of her mind seemed to make no discernible difference. It stayed the same temperature as it had been from the moment Nerillia had thrust it into her palm.

Her ruminations were disturbed by a man stumbling into the alley. He reeked of ale and teetered on his legs so violently that Tionne thought he might collapse at any moment. He saw her and stopped short, a broken smile glittering in the darkness.

“‘Choo doin here, pretty girl?”

The words were so slurred that Tionne could barely understand him, but the naked intent on his face held enough meaning. She reached into the sleeve of her robes, taking an obsidian dagger from the sheath strapped to her forearm. She had crafted it herself, drawing the obsidian from the Great Tower and shaping it through sheer force of will in the Quintessential Sphere. Tempered with magic, the glass blade was just as strong and durable as the finest steel and twice as sharp.

As he saw the blade, the drunkard’s face took on hard lines. He held up a warning hand.

“Choo gonna stick me with ‘at, girl?”

I’d like nothing more, Tionne thought. However, she knew her limitations. She was no fighter. If she let the man get close enough, it was very possible he’d be able to overpower her. She was tall for her age, but she was lanky. She had reach, but no muscle to make her a skilled fighter. Instead, her power came from the timeless void of the Sphere and from there, she’d deal with his threat.

Keeping the blade pointed at the man, who was still creeping toward her, she dropped the stone in an inside pocket of her robe. Then she drew the very tip of the blade across her other palm. The pain was exhilarating, an erotic pleasure that bubbled up from the black depths of her soul. A fine, thin line of blood welled up in her palm and she closed her eyes, slipping into sphere sight.

The grey-washed living memory of the alley surrounded them. Speaking ancient words of command, Tionne slowed the passage of time in the physical realm, manipulating the memory-in-making. The drunk seemed to move in slow motion, a darkened shade consumed by a writhing blackness.

Tionne’s darkness was blacker still. Her manifestation in the ethereal realm was her body rendered black as coal. The only light that surrounded her was the pulsing, crimson glow that welled up from the palm of her hand where she had drawn the blood. She called to it in the sphere, coaxing it to do her bidding. She imbued it with the memories of ancient evils and wars long ended. Tionne commanded the infestation to attack and it broke from her body, streaking across the ethereal void to burrow into the man’s chest.

In the physical realm, there was a crimson flash as the transference was made. The line on her palm was a new, pink scar, untainted by a single drop of blood. The man seemed unchanged. Tionne let her control of the Sphere collapse and reentered the physical realm, doing her best to ignore the sudden nausea that swept over her.

The drunk took a step forward and stopped with a lurch. The menacing look on his face shifted to surprise, then agony. He screamed, but no sound came, just a low gurgling from deep within his chest. Blood streamed out of his nose first, then his ears. Tionne could see it glimmer in the dim moonlight. The blood came from his eyes next, finally trickling from the corner of his mouth before he went rigid, falling face forward into the trash-strewn passage.

Tionne stood motionless. It was the first time she had killed anyone. She knew he was dead. She had felt his presence pass beyond the physical world. If she was expecting to feel remorse, or glee, or joy, she was disappointed. She felt nothing. It was just a thing that she had done. He had meant nothing to her. He had probably not meant much to anyone. She had protected herself and provided a service. This man wouldn’t again bother any young girl in an alley.

A strange sensation overwhelmed her and she thought, with sudden panic, that she might be reacting in some way to the taking of another life. Then she realized that the feeling was coming from inside her robes, a gentle vibration from the pocket where she had slipped the stone. She reached inside and withdrew it, feeling it shake against her hand. It tugged her toward the body and she took a reluctant step forward.

The nearer she got, the more insistent the stone was, pulling her toward the blood. Finally, Tionne released the stone. It skittered across the ground of its own accord, stopping near the blood pooled near the body. She watched with curious fascination as the stone seemed to absorb all the blood from the body, drawing it out of the orifices and leaving the body a withered husk. She was glad that the man had fallen face down. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see what the stone had done to him in any more detail.

It was pulsing with crimson light, beckoning to her. She felt its pull and Tionne suddenly knew what the stone was. It was a bloodstone. It had its own type of magic, activated by the power of the blood. As she picked it up, she felt it pulling her, guiding her. She took a few steps forward and the stone pulled her this way or that.

Tionne continued to walk, following the pull of the stone and allowing it to lead her where it willed. She had no doubt that it would take her to Nerillia and the rest of her people.

CHAPTER TWO

Tiadaria had never been more glad to see the gates of Dragonfell. Their passage through the last gate in the pass through the Dragonback Mountains meant that the weeklong journey was at an end, but more importantly, that she and Wynn would have some space from each other.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand why he was upset, it was just that she wished he wouldn’t linger on it so. She knew she hurt him, and it broke her heart to do it, but she just couldn’t abandon her duties to the King and crown without a second thought. If nothing else, the Captain had taught her that her honor was everything.

A sidelong glance was all she dared as they descended the last gentle slope before they’d be on the valley floor. Wynn was looking the other way, which was probably just as well. It seemed like every time they talked they were snapping at each other. They’d always been able to overcome their differences, but Tia was worried that this time, the chasm would be too wide to bridge.

“I’ll be glad to get into the city,” he said, almost as if he was hearing her thoughts. “I’m tired of traveling.”

“Me too,” Tia replied, her voice soft and tired. That, at least, was innocuous enough that it wouldn’t lead to another fight.

Wynn must have decided the same, as the conversation ended at that point. The horses continued their gentle, plodding gait. It was almost enough to lull Tia to sleep. Would have been, probably, if she hadn’t been so upset. As it was, she kept her eyes on the horizon and the city walls that were growing steadily taller.

As the hard packed earth gave way to cobbled streets, they passed the first of the city guard posts. They presented their papers, chatted a bit with the duty guard about the condition of the roads and the trip into the capital, and then they went on their way. Not more than five minutes after they had left the outpost, a guard courier on a steel grey charger raced passed them. Nightwind shied to the side, letting the faster beast pass.

“Run me off the road next time,” she muttered under her breath.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Wynn smile. Then he stopped, as if he had suddenly remembered how angry he was with her. No, angry wasn’t the right word. He hadn’t been mean about it at all. He was just upset. As upset as she was that he couldn’t see her side of it. Though she supposed that was fair. She couldn’t really see his side of it either.

“We’re almost to the gate,” he said. Tiadaria nodded.

Tia wasn’t used to Wynn being so quiet. She was accustomed to his dry wit and his penchant for pointing out things during their travels that she might not know, or realize. She had missed the easy peace between them during their ride. For at least the hundredth time in the last week, she wished she could just go back and have that entire conversation over again. She’d take the ring and be happy about it and everything would be okay.

“Listen,” he said, turning in his saddle so he could face her. It was the first time he’d done so in days. “I sort of understand why it has to be this way, but coming into Dragonfell is going to be hard for me. I already had Faxon making arrangements, so I need to tell him to undo all those arrangements. I’m sorry if I’ve been, and continue to be, a little short. I’m just disappointed.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “We’ll figure this out, just like we’ve done with everything else. I just wanted you to know that, at least this part of it, isn’t your fault.”

Tia bit back a retort. She wanted to tell him that none of it was her fault. She didn’t ask him to take her away from her life and her duties. She didn’t expect him to rescue her and whisk her off to the life of a wife and, potentially, mother. She just couldn’t think of that right now. No matter how much he wanted it. Fortunately, they had just arrived at the massive ironwood city gates, which spared her from having to make any reply at all.

No sooner had they pulled up to the guard house when Faxon appeared around the corner. Tia stifled a groan. Of course he would show up just now. The stupid grin plastered across his face meant that he had, like Wynn, taken for granted the fact that she’d accept his proposal, no questions asked. She wondered if Faxon would treat her the same way as Wynn had when he found out what had happened.

“How’s the happy couple?” the quintessentialist asked, coming up to take the reins of both horses.

Wynn made a strangled noise and Tia covered her face with her hands. She wanted to slip off Nightwind’s back and just melt into the earth. If there was anything she didn’t need, it was Faxon making things even worse. Wynn recovered sufficiently to reply before Tia could.

“We’re fine, but the handfasting is going to have to wait.”

Faxon’s eyebrows went up at the hardness in the young man’s tone, but he had enough good sense not to say anything. He turned to Tia, the question plain on his face.

“I have duties to attend to, Faxon,” she snapped, finally losing the grip she had held on her temper.

The older quint rocked back on his heels, surprised by the vehemence in her voice. He blinked at her and nodded, as if buying himself time to compose a response.

“Yes, I had heard that the King requested you come to Dragonfell.”

“At least she’s eager to do it when someone asks,” Wynn groused.

Tia rolled her eyes skyward. She clenched her hands around the edge of the saddle so hard that the thick leather doubled. She would not get into this argument again. Not for the third time in as many days.

“I wasn’t asked. I was ordered.”

“Well, better hop to and follow those orders, then.”

The last of her patience snapped. She slid from the saddle and rounded on him.

“Fine, Wynn, I will. Just remember one thing, I wasn’t the one who surprised you without any warning. I’m not the one who asked you to give up what and who you are to be with you. I’m not the one who wants you to be something you’re not. Maybe, just maybe, you were the one who was wrong even asking me in the first place.”

She stomped away from them, leaving Wynn to deal with both their mounts. Maybe a little extra inconvenience would help him realize what a jackass he was being. Her anger and frustration propelled her deep into Dragonfell before she managed to let go of the worst of her fury. She stopped short and forced herself to take deep breaths, counting to ten as she did so.

Wynn had called out to her as she left him standing at the gate. She hadn’t wanted to return to him then and didn’t want to now. She needed some time to herself and the walk through the city to the palace would provide her with ample time to get herself under control before she spoke to the King.

Now that her head was clearing, it was easier for her to get her bearings. She stood in the shadow of the curtain wall that surrounded the city. There was a throng of people gathered around the end of an alley not too far away. Tia couldn’t help but be reminded of her first visit to Dragonfell, when a similar mob had been turned against her. She quickened her pace and walked toward the group. If nothing else, it would sate her natural curiosity.

Weaving her way through the people milling around, she worked her way toward the mouth of the alley. There were a number of city guards clustered around a crumpled form laying amongst the moldering trash. Tia recognized a broad shouldered man crouched over the body. He was armored in a brightly polished breastplate with a black dragon emblazoned on it.

“Valyn!” she called, raising her hand in greeting. The man’s eyes flicked up and he smiled as he saw her. Brushing his hands together, he walked over to the edge of the crowd.

“Hello Tiadaria. Back in Dragonfell to see the King?”

“So you’ve heard too?”

The corners of her mouth turned down in a frown. Valyn nodded.

“I hear most of what’s on the King’s mind sooner or later,” he said with a sigh. Tia wondered what might be so troublesome as to bother the otherwise imperturbable Captain of the City Guard, but he blundered on before she could get a word in edgewise. “I’m glad you happened by here actually. I could use your opinion…in an official capacity.”

“Of course, Valyn. Anything I can do to help.”

The knight beckoned for her to follow and lead the way to the corpse in the alleyway. Valyn hesitated as he crouched next to the body as if steeling himself for something unpleasant. It was strange to Tia that a man so accustomed to death on the battlefield should be squeamish about any other sort of body.

When he rolled the man over, Tia understood why he had hesitated. The man, if that was really what it had been, bore only a vague resemblance to a living human being. The skin had been drawn back tight against the bones, every ridge and curve showing through the pallid skin. There were some rust colored stains around the mouth, nose, ears, and eyes and she realized with a sudden lurch in her stomach that those were bloodstains.

“What happened to him?” she asked, aghast.

“I don’t know.” Valyn’s eyes searched her face. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

Tia got down on one knee and took a closer look at the body. It was nothing like anything she had ever seen. Though she wasn’t as widely traveled as Faxon, she had seen many things while traveling on assignment for the quintessentialist or the King. She’d seen people die in some pretty horrific ways, but this was different. Shifting into the Quintessential Sphere, she reached out and tentatively touched the body.

It was cold and there was a definite magical resonance about it. Tia didn’t dare delve any deeper into the Sphere while Valyn was standing there. She could come back later and do some mystical investigation, or better yet, she could convince Faxon to do it. He, at least, didn’t need an alibi to use his connection to the Sphere.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said withdrawing her hand and returning her attention to the physical realm. “But I’ll bet you your weight in crowns that it is magical in nature. I don’t know of any natural death that could cause something like this. I suspect you’re going to be looking for a rogue mage.”

Valyn groaned.

“I really wish you hadn’t said that, Tia. You know how the King is.”

“I do,” she nodded. “He’s not overly fond of mages on the best of days. Tell him that there’s a rogue mage loose in Dragonfell and he’s going to make life miserable for everyone until they are caught.”

“Exactly,” he sighed.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, then, Valyn. As it turns out, I’m on my way to see the King now. I’ll pass along the message first. That way, you’re not the one taking the brunt of the initial reaction.”

Valyn looked at her for such a long time that it wasn’t hard for her to figure out what was going through his head. On one hand, he really didn’t want to be the one to tell Greymalkin that there was a rogue mage loose in Dragonfell. On the other, he knew it was his duty to be the one to give such a report.

“I don’t know, Tia…”

“Look, I’m on my way to the King now. I’ll tell him you asked me to pass along the message because we met and you couldn’t make it back until the body was removed to somewhere more appropriate. All of that is true. Then you can follow up with him as soon as you get back to the palace. Hopefully, he’ll have adjusted to the news by then.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“It’s fine,” she replied, with a little wave. “I’ve been yelled at enough over the last couple of days that one more isn’t going to kill me.”

“Yelled at?” Valyn pounced on her words. “For what? Why?”

“Nothing,” she sighed. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Something to do with the handfasting?” he asked, laying his hand on her shoulder.

“Ugh. How did you know about that?”

“I was invited. Wynn sent a message a couple fortnights ago. I’m happy for you.”

“I probably would be too, if I had as much warning as everyone else had.”

Tia knew it wasn’t Valyn’s fault Wynn had invited him to a wedding that wasn’t going to happen and she knew that she would likely have this conversation again with some other well-meaning resident of the capital, but knowing it didn’t improve her mood any.

“Well, I’ve no doubt you’ll work it out,” Valyn said, apparently deciding to abandon the entire conversation. “I need to get this body out of here before it attracts any more attention. I’ll see you in the palace later?”

“Unless I somehow earn a reprieve for this week.”

The Captain of the Guard gave her a half smile and pushed her gently toward the end of the alley. He was right, Tia thought as she wound her way back through the onlookers. The crowd was growing every minute. More than one type of scavenger was drawn to a body in the street.

The rest of her walk to the palace was uneventful. As she approached the towering alabaster statues that stood guard over the palace cavern, she craned her neck to look up at them. The sun was sinking in the western sky and kissed them with orange, giving them a golden glow. The beauty of it caught and held her. She stood that way for a long time, until she felt eyes upon her. She whirled, about to call the intruder to task, and found herself instead face to face with the One True King.

“Your Grace!” she cried, sinking to her knees.

“Get up, get up,” he snapped, undisguised irritation in his voice. “The last thing I need lately is the common folk seeing me with some pretty young woman on her knees. Things are bad enough as it is.”

“I’m afraid they’re worse than you think, Majesty.”

The King lifted his cane from the cobbles and brandished it at her.

“I don’t need you making more trouble, young lady.”

“No, Your Grace. Sir Valyn found a body out near the curtain wall. You’re not going to like hearing this, but it appears there might be a rogue mage involved.”

Greymalkin dropped his cane back to the street and leaned on it with his entire weight.

“And why, pray tell, isn’t Sir Valyn imparting this particularly disturbing morsel of information?”

“He’s still securing the body and dealing with the crowd. Since I passed by on my way here, I offered to pass on his message when I got here.”

“And spare him my terrible wrath, no doubt.” The King peered at her with hooded eyes. “What did this mage do?”

“Killed a man, Your Grace.”

“What else?”

Tiadaria shook her head. “I don’t know. I was only there for a moment. Sir Valyn asked my opinion, but I’d never seen anything like it.”

“I suppose I’ll have Faxon or some other finger-waggler on my doorstep tonight telling me how this never happens and that they’ll take care of it and so on and so forth.”

“Very likely, Your Grace.”

“Alright. Then let’s get on with why I summoned you here. Walk with me.”

The King turned away from the cavern and Tiadaria hesitated for a moment before she took two quick steps to catch up. The King’s physical infirmity made it easy to match his pace, but she was still confused by the direction they were going.

“Aren’t we going the wrong way, Your Grace?”

“We are not, young Tiadaria. We’re not going to the palace. At least not just yet.”

Greymalkin didn’t seem inclined to carry on any more conversation so they walked in silence for a long time. They turned a corner and descended a gentle slope and Tiadaria knew with gut-wrenching certainty where they were going. She stopped, rooted in place by fear and uncertainty.

“Your Grace?”

The King stopped and leaned on his cane, his head bowed. He stood that way for so long that Tiadaria thought he might have fallen asleep on his feet. In fact, she wished he had. Then she could turn around and go find Wynn, or Faxon, or anyone or anything that wasn’t right here, right now.

“Yes. You know where we’re going.”

“But I don’t want to.”

Tiadaria had avoided returning to the place where the Captain had been interred. All that was left there was a body, an empty shell. The last time she had stood in front of his tomb, she had said goodbye. Standing there in front of the Captain’s closest friends, she had spoken of her love for him, the love that she had lost, and broken down there, weeping as they moved the heavy capstone onto the sarcophagus. She never wanted to go back there. There was no reason to go back.

“I know,” the King said quietly. “But you need to see what I have to show you.”

Dread coiled around Tiadaria’s spine, a cold black viper ready and waiting to strike. As the King began walking, Tiadaria didn’t move. She couldn’t. No matter how many steps there were between her and the Captain’s tomb, there weren’t enough.

“Come along, Tiadaria.” The King’s voice was kind, but firm. No matter how horrible it felt, she knew she would obey the King’s orders. The Captain had trained her well.

Putting one foot in front of the other was the hardest thing Tiadaria had ever had to do. It took all of her concentration and force of will to follow Greymalkin into the city cemetery and down the well manicured path that lead to the stone monument that held the Captain’s remains. Tia kept her eyes on the ground, both because she felt uncomfortable around so many dead, and because she didn’t want the King to see the tears that welled in her eyes.

The King stopped and Tia finally looked up. The Captain’s monument was before them. It was smaller than she remembered. It seemed so much bigger in her memory. She’d been younger then. Her perspective had changed, both with age and with experience. What had seemed to be a massive memorial at the time was, in reality, no more than a stone coffin a little larger than the man laid to rest inside it.

“Why are we here?” she asked in a whisper, proud that she’d managed to keep her voice from cracking.

Heron Greymalkin raised his cane, using it to point to the far end of the grave. Tiadaria, hands shaking, took slow steps toward the spot he had indicated. The grass was soft and green underfoot, a stark contrast to the stone pavers making up the path leading from the edge of the cemetery. She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting the King to be gone, but he was still there, head bowed over his cane.

Tiadaria turned the corner of the memorial and the viper coiled around her spine attacked. Coldness spread through her body, starting at the base of her spine and racing down each limb and up into her head. Though the day was mild, Tia couldn’t remember ever having been colder. She sank to numb knees, unable to control the tears that were now spilling down her cheeks.

It seemed like she was unable to breathe for a very long time. When she was finally able to draw a long, ragged breath, it burst out of her in a wail of anguish that wracked her entire body. She surrendered to the grief, letting it wash over her, hoping that it would drag her under and end her suffering. It wasn’t fair. His dignity, his honor, was all she had left to remember him by and they had been ripped away.

Tia had never quite been able to reconcile herself to the human custom of an interment. The clan way was to honor their warriors with a funeral pyre, ensuring it burned so hot and so long that their worldly remains rejoined the essence of all things, just as their soul returned to the ethereal eternity of the Quintessential Sphere. Even though it somehow still felt wrong, she had come to terms with the Captain’s remains resting in peace in the little garden cemetery in Dragonfell.

Now he was gone. Someone had smashed the back corner of the stone box containing his remains and dragged him out of his rest. Someone had violated both the Captain and his memory. Everything they had laid with him in the crypt, the flowers, his armor, his weapons, were all gone.

Rage replaced sorrow and she rounded on the King, who had come up behind her.

“How could you let this happen?” she demanded. “How could you let—”

Tiadaria faltered. She couldn’t even imagine who would do such a thing. Who would take the Captain’s body? And why?

The old King laid his hand on her shoulder, showing surprising strength when she tried to pull away from him. He held her there, one hand on her shoulder the other on his cane.

“That’s why I called you here, Tiadaria. To find out and to make it right.”

The sun retreated from the sky, as if it knew what darkness was about to descend on Dragonfell and refused to bear witness to the horrors to come. A low hanging pall of smoke poisoned the evening sky, turning the last light of day to an ominous crimson glow.

Tionne stood in the center of the market square. Frantic people dashed past her. A woman was crouched by an overturned cart, scooping scattered fruit into the upturned hem of her skirt. A man running from the other end of the square collided with her, sending them both sprawling. The fruit rolled free of her skirt. She tried to grab for it, but someone stepped on her hand as they passed. Tionne heard the crunch of breaking bone and a strangled cry as the woman clutched her arm to her chest. With her other hand, she tried to retrieve the few pieces of fruit that hadn’t been ruined.

The man who had collided with the old woman had regained his composure. He crouched by the overturned cart, watching the woman with wary, animal eyes. As she reached toward the tantalizing red sphere that was inches from her grasp, the man sprang at her. His fist caught her in the mouth and her head rocked back from the force of the blow. Her lips tore on her teeth and blood and spittle glistened in the evening light before she fell over backward and was still.

Snatching a few pieces of fruit from the ground, the man’s eyes darted about the square. His gaze fell on Tionne. His face a menacing rictus, he took a step toward her. Tionne broke into a wide smile, her teeth gleaming behind ruby lips twisted to one side. The aggressor’s step faltered. The menace in his eyes turned to fear and he tripped over his own feet backing away from her. He landed hard on his bottom, his teeth making an audible crack as they came together. Scrabbling away from her, he managed to get to his feet, and then he was gone. Just another body pelting headlong down the cobblestones.

Throwing her head back, Tionne laughed. Her laugh wasn’t the laugh of a carefree girl of fifteen, just barely out of her apprenticeship at the Academy. No, this was the dire cackle of a banshee loosed from the very bowels of the Deep Void. Whether consciously or not, the other people in the square gave her wide berth as they abandoned the capital city of the Human Imperium.

The wind that howled through the square was hot on her face, warmed by the fires that burned almost every building in Dragonfell. She brushed her raven dark hair back from her face, her pale skin tinged an ugly orange by so many fires nearby. By morning, every building in the city that was capable of burning would be reduced to ash and cinder.

A brassy scream sounded high overhead and Tionne cast her large emerald eyes skyward. In stark contrast against the oncoming night, a massive white dragon turned on a wingtip, hurling magical lightning at a target only he could see. There was an explosion that shook the ground under her feet and a plume of dust and fire blossomed into the sky in the distance.

A child’s wailing, the sound thin and warbling, seemed to pierce her eardrums and dragged her attention away from the destruction the dragon was raining down on the city. A little boy sat in the dirt under a nearby cart. His eyes were wide and wet, streaming rivulets down his dusty cheeks. A woman lay beside him, on her back, her open eyes staring sightlessly skyward. The woman’s torment was over and she was still. Tionne only wished the toddler would stop its screaming. When it didn’t, she resolved to do it herself.

As she moved toward the cart, a black shape bounded across her path. It reached the cart before she had even taken a step, the monster flipped the cart up and away from the child with the strength of half a dozen men. It snatched the little boy from the ground and whirled to face Tionne.

Half its face was a ruin of old scars and patchwork fur. One eye was missing, but the other burned with luminescent blue fire that sent a chill up her spine. The toddler’s wails had become screams of terror. The Xarundi roared, baring its wicked fangs. There was a wet tearing sound. The child gave a final, gurgling scream and was still. Blood and offal dripped from the monster’s jaws as it fed with messy greed.

As if spirited away, the panicked masses of people were gone. The fires were still, frozen. Coils of smoke arrested themselves in mid-motion, painted on the sky by the hand of some unseen artist. Only the Xarundi seemed to be immune from the sudden cessation of even the minutest movements of life.

It dropped the tattered remains of the boy and peered at her, the eye boring into her.

“We are bound by blood, child,” it said in a guttural but passable rendition of the low tongue. “Come to us. Come to us and we will rule together.”

Before Tionne could process the words, or feel the gut-wrenching terror that she usually associated with the huge wolf creatures that had massacred her family, she was plunged into darkness. Not just darkness, but a blackness so deep and pervasive that she felt as if it was folding over her like a heavy blanket.

The air was fetid and seemed to cling to her, as if it was trying to smother her in her hiding place. Every breath she took sounded like the roar of a tornado in her ears and she dare not take too many. There was no way of knowing if the monsters were still there. The strong odor of urine and the uncomfortable dampness clinging to her thighs was proof of her fear. When mother had shoved her into the barrel, she had protested, half awake and groggy, not understanding what was happening.

The naked terror in her mother’s face had stopped any more questions. Seven year old Tionne found herself shoved in an empty water barrel and wedged under a bed.

She had heard the monsters when they came into the house. Their claws made little scratching sounds on the floor. It sounds like the stylus on the slates at school, she thought. How strange that it could sound almost the same. Then the screaming started and she couldn’t think of anything else. Tionne bit down on her lower lip, tasting copper and forcing any sound that might escape deep down into her belly which already ached from the panic that gripped her.

Mother’s screams, for she knew it was mother who had been screaming, ended in the same wet, rending sound that had ended the toddler’s life only a few moments ago. It was dark in the barrel, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Tionne’s eyes were shut so tightly that her head pounded with the effort to not see anything at all.

Tionne would never be sure how long she had stayed that way, crammed into her tiny cylindrical prison. All she knew was that when the barrel was yanked from under the bed, she couldn’t bear to be quiet any more. She started screaming before the monsters pulled off the lid and didn’t stop for a long time.

Even when her eyes adjusted to the light flooding into the room from the broken window, she continued to scream. When she saw it was a woman, not a monster, who tried to take her from the barrel, Tionne screamed. When the woman called for help, Tionne screamed. When other men and women came rushing in, Tionne screamed. When they pulled her cramped body from what could have been a tiny coffin, Tionne screamed.

In fact, she went on screaming until one of the women summoned a healer, who had the good sense to dose her with an elixir of valerian root and chamomile. Her tiny stomach empty of anything substantial, Tionne almost vomited back up the vile tasting liquid, but managed to keep it down. After a while, she stopped screaming and stared with vacant eyes at those who were gathered around her. Somewhere, deep in her head, Tionne knew they were speaking the same language she had been raised on, but it was impossible for her to put the words together. It all sounded like gibberish, so she stood, and stared.

She wanted to ask for her mother, for her father, for her baby brother Raynold who was a very precocious two and liked to sit in the dirt by the water pump and make mud pies for hours on end. She saw Raynold with his mud pies. Then she saw the toddler from the market square. They were different, but the same.

No matter how she tried, Tionne couldn’t make words come. Even if she had been able to speak, these people were strangers. Mother always told her not to talk to strangers unless she was nearby. But mother wasn’t nearby, and Tionne knew with dreadful certainty that mother would never be nearby again.

The enormity of that knowledge seemed to fall on her like a mountain and Tionne dropped to her knees, oblivious to the fact that the congealed crimson liquid that stained the rough wooden planks of their common room had poured freely from her mother and father only hours before. Tionne curled herself into a tight little ball, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. Mother used to hug her, but now she knew, she would have to hug herself. Tionne began to shake and the strangers clustered around her looked down on her with pity. One of them reached out, as if the gesture could offer some sort of comfort or ease the pain, but snatched their hand back when Tionne hissed at her like a feral cat.

Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The shadows moved ever so slowly across the floor as Tionne listened to the nonsense coming out of the strangers who had huddled by the door to speak in hushed tones. Tionne knew they were talking about her, but the full meaning and import of their words was still lost in the haze of indescribable longing that flooded every darkened corner of her soul. She wanted to smell the lilac of mother’s perfume as she leaned over to tuck Tionne in for the night. She wanted to feel the rough skin of father’s fingers catching on her raven dark hair as he smoothed it away from her face. She wanted to hear the squalling of baby Raynold, a pitiful wail that usually annoyed her to no end, as he called attention to his wet swaddling, or his hunger, or his fear. All these things she wanted, but would never again have.

Even as she sat there, rocking back and forth on the bloody floor of her family’s home, the longing began to fade. Even more terrifying than the things she knew to be true, or the things she heard, was the fact that the longing left nothing but emptiness in its wake. She felt as if someone had pulled a stopper and drained out everything she was or wanted to be, leaving only a gaping, empty hole that would never be filled.

Tionne woke, screaming. She sat bolt upright in her bed, her thin nightshirt soaked through with sweat and plastered to her thin frame. Cutting off the sound as a gardener would prune off an errant twig, she forced herself to breathe, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light of her rented bedchamber. The shutters were ajar, letting a narrow sliver of moonlight pierce her room and adding an almost ethereal quality to the glow that permeated her room. She slipped out of bed, crossing to the deep window. She opened the shutters and looked down on the city laid out below her.

Dragonfell slept. Only a few windows flickered with light across the dark expanse of the city. Tionne cast an eye upward, judging the length of the hour by the position of the moon as it dangled in the sky. Midway between midnight and morning, if she had to guess.

Idle fingers scratched at a half healed scar below her elbow. The fine white lines, the ghosts of long healed incisions, ran down her forearm from her elbow, as neat and tidy as farmers’ furrows. Tionne no longer remembered when she had started cutting, only that she needed it. It had started as a way to feel something when nothing else seemed to fill the void inside her. The pain had helped, for a time. She felt something. Not alive, not happy, but something. Then she had become accustomed to the pain, and the emptiness returned. Now she needed something more. That was how she had discovered Aluka.

By the light of the waxing moon, Tionne crossed to the chest at the foot of the bed. She opened it, slow and steady, to ensure that an errant squeak of the hinges wouldn’t call the attention of anyone else at the inn. She lifted out her clothes. Robes and underthings, the finery Faxon had bought her on her fifteenth name day, not yet six months ago. Her fingers lingered on the black velvet tunic and pants. At least Faxon knew her well enough to not have given her a dress. The black, he had said, would bring out the subtle highlights in her hair. Tionne wasn’t sure. She hadn’t had occasion to wear it. Nor did she want to. She didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him.

Setting the clothing aside, she slid her hands down the inside walls of the chest and, with deft fingers, lifted the almost invisible catches that held the false bottom in place. It had taken her nearly a year to cobble together the materials she needed to create an adequate space for her secrets. Patience had paid off, however, and been rewarded with craftsmanship that would meet with envy, even among some gnomish circles.

The thin waxed boards out of the way, Tionne could gaze with unfettered longing at her clandestine treasures. An obsidian dagger, the edge formed and enhanced by spells of her own creation, lay to one side. An intricate motif of skulls and thorns adorned the hilt, etched with a meticulous hand. On the other side of the shallow drawer were vials of thick red fluid; the blood that she had harvested from each of the rows she had carved into her own flesh. In the center, between the dagger and the vials, lay the bloodstone, her newest treasure.

She frowned, the downturned corners of her mouth drawing her brow into a scowl. The blood called out to her. It wanted to be used. It wanted to be put to its purpose. Lifting one of the vials from the darkness, she cradled it in reverent hands. Soon, she promised. Soon you will fulfill your purpose and help me fulfill mine.

The night she had acquired the bloodstone, she had followed it all over the city, hoping that it would lead her to Nerillia. The endeavor had been fruitless. All she had ended up with at the end of the night was a pair of bloodshot eyes and dark circles under them. She’d fallen into bed in the morning, only to be woken by Faxon’s incessant demands a short while later.

His constant intrusion on everything she did almost made her think that he knew she was trying to get out from under his thumb. Faxon always seemed to be watching her, asking her about her day, offering to help her with her studies. It was enough to drive her crazy.

In truth, she had all but abandoned her studies. All she needed to know, she was certain Nerillia could teach her, if Tionne could only find her. Perhaps tonight was the night. She lifted the bloodstone and a vial of blood from the bottom of the chest. Pulling the stopper with her teeth, she upended the vial over the stone, watching with curious fascination as it drank in every drop.

She clutched the stone in her palm, feeling its gentle pull.

CHAPTER THREE

Though the sun had inched its way into the sky, the morning fog hadn’t yet burned off. Low hanging clouds and thick fog wrapped Dragonfell in a shroud that gave the capital city a soft, ethereal glow and deadened even the loudest sounds.

Loud sounds weren’t a problem for Tiadaria, Wynn, and Faxon. They stood in a loose knot, at the edge of the cobblestone path, looking at the tomb where the Captain had been laid to rest. A rest that had been disturbed in the worst way imaginable. The three of them stood and stared in silence, the daily sounds of city life muted and far off, as if the city itself were honoring their vigil.

Tiadaria was cold, though the morning was mild. The chill went deep into her bones and had nothing to do with the weather. It was a cold dread that seemed to permeate every fiber of her being. An ache of loss so profound that she didn’t know if she’d ever recover. Not completely.

She felt Wynn’s hand brush hers and she grabbed it, clinging to him like a drowning man would clutch a lifeline. From the corner of her eye, she saw him wince and forced herself to relax her grip. The animosity between them had faded, or at the very least had been suspended, since Wynn had seen her after her meeting with the King.

Tia glanced at Faxon. The change in him made her heart ache. His lips were pressed together in a firm white line, and there were deep, dark hollows under his eyes. His hair, which had been chestnut brown when she’d met him, was turning a distinct grey over the temples. He looked tired. Almost as tired as she felt.

“This isn’t accomplishing anything,” Faxon said, scrubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t know what else we can do.”

“You did your best. No one could sort through this mess.” Tia waved her free hand, indicating not only the shattered marble, but the tumultuous eddies of the Quintessential Sphere that surrounded them.

Whoever had stolen the Captain’s body had bombarded the area with so much obscuring magic that the space around the tomb was warped beyond recognition in the ethereal realm. Faxon had spent almost an hour trying to unravel the mysteries inherent in the disturbance and had found nothing. Tia couldn’t even bear to look at it. The twisted essence of the ethereal realm made her head hurt. She’d made a halfhearted attempt to see what she could glean from the Quintessential Sphere, but knew in her heart that if Faxon couldn’t find anything worthwhile, she’d have no hope of doing so.

“I don’t understand,” Wynn said slowly. “Who would do this? And why? What could they hope to gain?”

Faxon shrugged and they lapsed again into uneasy silence. None of them had any answers to the myriad of questions the crime had spawned. Still, they couldn’t seem to leave the place empty handed. So they stood and stared, one or the other of them occasionally offering a guess that was easily dismissed. Tia knew they were lost and they had little hope of being found.

Releasing Wynn’s hand, she stepped closer to the tomb than she had dared to the previous day. It smelled of damp earth with a hint of decay. She crouched near the edge of the broken marble, picking up the smooth pieces of white stone and fitting them back into the side of the sarcophagus as if fitting pieces into a puzzle.

Tia wasn’t surprised when Wynn knelt beside her to help, but she was grateful. Perhaps some good would come of this desecration. At least they weren’t at each other’s throats, and that was something. It was a start and she’d take it. They were still trying to sort out the largest of the marble shards when Tiadaria caught a shadow out of the corner of her eye. It was just a darker smudge against the fog, moving toward them.

Faxon spread his hands, as if gazing into an invisible crystal ball. Magical lightning sprang up between his fingers, arcing from one hand to the other with a faint crackle. Tia felt for her swords and came up empty, remembering that she had left them in the inn. There was really no need for her to be armed in Dragonfell. Or so she thought.

“Rest easy, Master Indra,” a familiar voice came from the fog. “I come as a friend, not a foe.”

A few more steps and the figure was close enough for them to see plainly. It was Adamon, the Grand Inquisitor of the Order of the Ivory Flame. The hood of his robe was pushed back, exposing a shock of medium length, dishwater brown hair. His grey eyes glittered in the subdued light. He nodded to Tiadaria and Wynn in greeting, then to Faxon, who had dropped the spell with a grunt after seeing Adamon’s face.

“What brings you to Dragonfell, Adamon?” Faxon cast a curious glance at the Inquisitor, then turned his eyes back to Tia and Wynn.

“The three of you aren’t the only ones who are interested in the events that have taken place here over the last week. The desecration of the Captain’s tomb, though the most heinous, isn’t the only crime this cemetery has been home to this week.”

That caught Faxon’s attention, Tia thought. His eyebrows jerked upright, but he was quick to school his expression. Though they had been together the first night she had met them, Tia had always had the impression that there was little love lost between the stolid, humorless Adamon and her more carefree friend. She’d never asked him about the relationship and she doubted she ever would. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie.

Adamon was the epitome of a sleeping dog, she thought. An inquisitor’s job was to seek out and bring to justice rogue mages. If he ever found out about her unique abilities, the Order would send him to bring her to trial, or censure her outright, cutting off her connection to the Quintessential Sphere and leaving her to go mad from the pain of the loss.

She shook her head, trying to clear the worrisome thought from her mind. Adamon gave her an appraising look, then continued.

“There was an artifact stolen from one of the other graves,” he said, directing his gaze at Faxon. “An ancient artifact that was rumored to have lain with one of the oldest members of the King’s court.”

“What was the artifact?” Tia asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. She tried not to speak much when Adamon was around, just in case.

“The Chalice of Souls.”

Wynn jerked up as if drawn by a string. He turned to Adamon, his eye wide. He glanced to Faxon, then to Tia, then back to Adamon. Whatever he knew of this artifact, Tia thought, it wasn’t good.

“The Chalice of Souls was here?”

Adamon reached into his robe and withdrew a roll of yellowed parchment. The edges were so brittle that some flakes broke off as Wynn unrolled it, even though his touch was gentle, almost reverent. He scanned the parchment, looked skyward as if expecting an answer, then rerolled the document and returned it to the Inquisitor.

“Do you,” Wynn began, swallowing loudly. “Do you think that the theft of the Chalice of Souls and the sacking of the Captain’s tomb are related?”

“Yes,” Adamon replied. “Don’t you?”

“I’d happily weigh in with an opinion if someone would fill me in,” Faxon snapped. Tia hadn’t planned on saying it, but she was glad that Faxon had.

Adamon motioned to Wynn and folded his arms into the sleeves of his robes. Tia could feel the weight of his eyes. It wasn’t the first time she had thought he knew more about her than he was letting on, but so far, he hadn’t said, or done, anything about it, so she was inclined to leave it alone.

“The Chalice of Souls is an ancient Xarundi artifact. The legend is that after the Cleansing, the One True King took the Chalice as spoils of war and returned it to the capital.

It was said that the Chalice was the cornerstone of the Xarundi’s necromancy…that by combining the Chalice and the Dyr, they were able to reanimate the dead and bind the tattered remnants of the soul that were scattered around the ethereal realm to the reanimated body.”

Tiadaria’s blood ran cold. Though she still didn’t know who had stolen the body, she had a horrible certainty that she knew what they were going to do with it.

“They’re going to bring him back,” she said quietly, looking at the ground between her knees. “They’re going to bring him back and turn him against the land he loved.”

“They can’t,” Wynn said flatly. “What we know of the ritual is long and complicated and requires several blood sacrifices. Plus, they’d need the Captain’s blood. He—”

The young quintessentialist broke off, looking pained. Tia had already skipped ahead and had a good idea what he was about to say.

“He’s been dead too long for them to take his blood,” she finished for him, climbing to her feet. “Maybe it’s not him they plan to reanimate, then. Maybe it is something else entirely.”

Adamon shrugged.

“It’s pointless to guess, Lady Tiadaria. We need more information before we can form an adequate hypothesis. I trust that you are willing to offer your, ah, unique skills, to the cause?”

Again Tia had the unnerving feeling that Adamon knew more than he was saying. She ignored it and nodded.

“Of course, Master Vendur. Whatever you require.”

“Very well,” Adamon replied, flipping the hood of us robe up. With the light of day as faint as it was, the motion plunged his features into shadow. “Good day.”

The Grand Inquisitor seemed to glide away from them, fading from view almost as quickly as he had appeared.

“I don’t trust him,” Faxon said softly, peering after the younger man. “Not even a little bit. And I don’t like how he implies he knows something about you that he doesn’t, Tia.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he does know.”

Faxon snorted. “If he knew, you’d be in a cell or censured. There is very little grey in Adamon’s sense of justice. There is black and white, and woe betide the poor individual who tries to convince him otherwise.”

“What about this artifact,” she asked, addressing the thing that was bothering her far more than what Adamon knew or didn’t know. “Do you really think its theft is related to the Captain’s body, Wynn?”

The younger quintessentialist tugged at his lip for a moment before he shrugged, his eye meeting hers.

“I don’t know. Adamon makes a good point about the requirements for reanimation not being met, but I think it’s too much, too close together, to be a coincidence. I don’t have the resources of the Grand Inquisitor, but if I had to guess, I’d say Adamon is hiding something.”

“Which wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Faxon interjected. “I think if we’re going to investigate the theft alongside the disappearance of the Captain’s body, we should do it ourselves, and do it discretely. I’m not sure I want Adamon looking over my shoulder any more than necessary.”

Tia had to admit that she wasn’t fond of that idea herself. The less time she spent around Adamon, the better. It also seemed as if Faxon and Wynn were willing to put a good effort into finding out what was going on. That surprised her a bit. With as contrary as Wynn had been since leaving King’s Reach, she’d expected him to oppose the idea.

“So where should we start?” Tia hoped one of the mages would have an idea. The prospect of trying to track down the thieves with as little information as they had was daunting. Wynn shot her a wry grin.

“In the library, my dear Tia, but of course.”

Tiadaria groaned and the quintessentialists laughed. Her dislike of research was legendary, as were the lengths she would go to avoid it. Still, in this case, she knew they were right. The library probably was the smartest place to begin their search.

“Alright,” she conceded with a sigh. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Faxon stepped away from Tia and Wynn and motioned toward the city.

“I’ll let the two of you get started. I need to go and see where my journeyman has gotten off to now.”

“Tionne?” Tiadaria knew that Faxon had taken her on as his private pupil, but she’d never heard such exasperation in his tone when he spoke of her. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” The older quint smiled. “She’s just being a teenager. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll see the two of you at the inn later.”

He strode off, leaving Tia and Wynn beside the ruined tomb. They stood there in silence, as if Faxon’s exit had suddenly widened the gulf between them. She hated that. Hated feeling as if she’d broken his trust in a way she could never fix.

“We should probably get to work,” Wynn said, stepping away from her in the direction of the cemetery gate.

“Wynn? Wait!”

He paused, then slowly turned to face her. Now that she faced his full regard, she found it harder to put the words together. She’d been practicing things to say, things that might start mending the rift between them, but they all went out of her head when she saw the hurt in his face.

“Can we talk for a minute?” Her tone was plaintive. “Please?”

For a minute, she thought he was going to turn around and walk away. Then he shrugged and sank to a stone bench beside the path. She sat down beside him, searching his face.

“Sure,” he said with a sigh. “Though I’m not sure what there is to talk about.”

“I just want you to understand why I couldn’t say yes. It isn’t because I don’t love you. I do. It’s just…I’m scared. There, I said it. I’m scared of what happens next.”

“Scared?” Wynn was incredulous. “Of what?”

Tiadaria stared at the distant horizon for long time before she answered. When we finally did, her voice was soft and quiet.

“Scared of you resenting me. Of resenting the fact that I have to drop what I’m doing at a moment’s notice and leave on some task for the King, or Faxon, or whoever. I’ve seen the way you look at me when I leave, sometimes. I don’t want you to hate me for what I am.”

“I don’t hate you for what you are, Tiadaria.” Wynn sighed again. “I just wish you could include me. Didn’t you ever wonder how I had so much free time to plan an entire wedding without you being any the wiser? It wasn’t just about the excuse of ‘Order business’. You just weren’t around that much. I had lots of free time to do the planning.”

He stopped then, and Tiadaria was afraid that he might stop talking completely, but he swallowed loudly and went on.

“I guess I had a lot of time to dream up a reaction that didn’t match reality. I don’t need you to be anything other than who you are, but I’d like to be included.”

“Well, you have your tasks at the library, and…” she trailed off at the look he turned on her.

It was a weak excuse and she knew it. The library in King’s Reach was little more than a room with a few moldering tomes and some very basic educational texts. Wynn had taken to teaching some classes there, but she knew that was more out of boredom, probably exacerbated by her absence, than anything else.

“I just want to feel like you need me, Tia.”

“I do need you.” She reached up and touched his seamed face, where the old scars had drawn the skin down into deep valleys. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Wynn got to his feet with an abrupt motion, as if he could cut off the conversation by jumping out of it. He turned to her and his eyes were troubled.

“There are a lot of different ways to get hurt, Tia. Come on. We have work to do.”

A cock crowed somewhere in the distance, heralding the dawning of a new day. Tionne was exhausted. It had taken her an entire night of following the bloodstone’s gentle pull to find the plain, squat building she stood before.

Like the Turgid Eel, this building was nestled in the shadow of the massive curtain wall at the outskirts of the city. Unlike the Eel, there was nothing welcoming about this place. There were no windows and the only door that Tionne had found was a massive, sturdy thing of oak, banded with iron, and set in a thick frame. Everything about the building seemed determined to put off the casual observer, but still the bloodstone pulled her toward it. If Nerillia and her people were in the city, they’d be inside.

The eastern sky was growing pink and soon the sun would be climbing over the horizon. Ignoring the coldness in her gut, Tionne raised a pale hand and rapped sharply on the door. The knock seemed to echo down the street and Tionne was sure a guard would come racing out of the alley at any moment. Her heart thundered in her ears and pounded in her chest.

This was stupid. What had she been thinking? She’d just decided to flee the building and forget all about Nerillia when the door opened just a bit. A familiar face peered out at her, then broke into a smile. Tionne let her breath go in a sigh. A delicate grey hand reached out and took Tionne by the wrist, drawing her into the dimly lit building.

Once Tionne was inside, Nerillia pushed the door closed and slid a series of large bolts into place, including one that ran the length of the door and slid into a hole in the floor. Then she put her hands on Tionne’s shoulders and turned her this way and that, as if appraising her.

Tionne glanced around the room. It was easy to see why the building was so foreboding from the outside. The entry was a common room and the space had, at some point in a former life, been an inn or halfway house. A long bar ran the length of the room in the back, though it was shrouded in a thick layer of dust. No drinks had been served there in a long time. The windows had been boarded over and secured from inside. A new facade had been put up on the exterior, hiding any evidence that there had been any windows at all.

There were tables and chairs scattered throughout the room. Oil lamps burned on a few of the tables, making islands of light in the darkness. Nerillia’s eyes seemed to burn brighter in the darkness, a soft crimson glow that felt as if it should have been unnerving, but wasn’t. In fact, Tionne felt more at ease with this stranger than she did with most people whom she had known for her entire life.

“You found us,” Nerillia said happily. Her voice was light and sweet, but still held the curious deep burr that Tionne had first heard in the Turgid Eel. “See? I told you we had much in common. Come with me.”

Nerillia took her hand and Tionne felt the pins and needles of link shock dance between them. That simple touch had sent the blood rushing to her head and Tionne felt as if she’d been plunged into a hot bath, though the interior of the safe house was cool. The Lamiad shot her a sidelong glance and smiled. Tionne wondered if Nerillia could sense her reactions as easily as she seemed to touch her thoughts.

They stopped in the center of the room and Nerillia leaned toward Tionne. The Lamiad’s cool breath against her ear sent a shiver up Tionne’s spine.

“I can,” Nerillia whispered. Her hand brushed the hair away from Tionne’s eyes and trailed down her cheek to her neck, her fingers lingering there until a peculiar grating interrupted them.

Tionne looked up to the balcony that extended around the second floor of the building. She tried to scream, but the sound came out as a hoarse grunt. She stumbled backwards, tripped over a chair, and landed on her rear. Her feet worked spasmodically against the floor, pushing her up against the far wall. Her mind commanded her to run, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. The terror that gripped her was all encompassing. The monster that stood at the top of the stairs was the same that she had seen in her dream.

A moment later, Nerillia was crouched beside her. Through her panic, Tionne could make out the faint odor that followed the Lamiad and found it calming. She gulped breath, trying to get herself under control while Nerillia whispered in her ear.

“It’s okay. Zarfensis isn’t going to hurt you. He’s one of us. Just as you are one of us.” She turned toward the stairs, raising her voice. “Please come down, Your Holiness. I’m afraid your presence startled our newest friend.”

The Xarundi remained silent, but navigated the stairs with careful steps. As her panic subsided, Tionne saw that one of his legs was a ruin of twisted, blackened metal and melted rubber. After what seemed like hours, Zarfensis stood at the foot of the stairs. His ears flicked back, then swiveled forward as he regarded Tionne with one bright blue eye.

“I’ve seen you, child,” Zarfensis growled in a passable approximation of the low tongue. “In the Quintessential Sphere. In your vision.”

“I remember.” Tionne was glad that her voice was stronger than she felt. She managed to get to her feet with just a little help from Nerillia. “That was just a dream. A nightmare. You said we were bound by blood.”

The Xarundi shook his head.

“Not a dream, child. A vision of the future. A portent of things to come. We are bound by blood. It was I, Zarfensis, who killed your parents and gorged on their flesh. I drank deeply of their blood. The blood that courses through your veins.”

Tionne heard the words, but wasn’t sure she was really comprehending their meaning. The entire experience was surreal and supernatural, leaving her feeling slightly less than grounded. She also didn’t understand why, discounting her initial flood of panic, she didn’t feel afraid. She was standing across the room from the monster that, by his own admission, had slaughtered her parents.

“Go on,” Nerillia said with an encouraging shove in the small of Tionne’s back.

The young quintessentialist let the momentum carry her forward a few steps and then she hesitated. There was a knot in her stomach, but that wasn’t the same as fear. The Xarundi stretched a hand toward her. Tionne could see the indentations at the tips of the strong fingers, where the claws could appear at a moment’s notice.

Even with the mangled leg, the Xarundi could easily have killed her by now if it had wanted to. She was within striking range of the sharp claws and if he chose to end her life, there was little she could do to stop it. Mastering the last of her misgivings, she closed the distance to Zarfensis and stood before him.

The High Priest took her by the shoulders, just as Nerillia had done moments before. Tionne had to look up at him and she saw his nostrils flare. His breath was hot on her forehead.

“You don’t smell like other vermin, child.”

“Um,” Tionne stammered. “Thanks? I think?”

The Xarundi dropped his jaw in a feral grin. “You smell of the Dyr, the rune of death, decay, and disease. I think your essence is older than you know. Your soul was born into the wrong vessel. Perhaps you should have been a Xarundi, or a gargoyle, or a Lamiad.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Tionne answered candidly.

“You are different from the rest of your kind. You are special. Can you not feel it?”

Tionne wasn’t sure what she thought, or what she felt. Suddenly the room was spinning and she tipped forward. Only the quick reflexes of the High Priest kept her from falling down. The next moment, Nerillia was beside her, her strong but delicate hands holding Tionne against her.

“She’s exhausted, Zarfensis. Perhaps we can continue this later?”

Zarfensis nodded.

“See her to a room and make her comfortable. Then return to me.”

“Of course, Your Holiness. Come along, Tionne.”

Nerillia put a hand on her elbow and guided her up the stairs onto the balcony. Tionne felt the weight of Zarfensis’s eye on them as they climbed the stairs and circled the balcony leading to the farthest room. The Lamiad opened the door and motioned for the young mage to enter the room.

Tionne didn’t bother to hide her surprise at the room she was ushered into. While the rest of the safe house was in a state of disrepair, this room was pristine. Fresh linens adorned the bed, the floor was polished to a bright shine, and a small oil lamp burned on the bedside table. Tionne sat down on the bed and sighed with relief. She’d nearly forgotten how tired she was.

She tried to express her gratitude, but Nerillia shushed her. The Lamiad’s deft fingers removed her boots and robes, folding the latter and draping them over a nearby chair. She tucked Tionne under the cover and turned down the lamp. As it was doused, Nerillia’s glowing eyes were the only light in the bedroom.

“Sleep well, Tionne. We’ll talk more when you wake.”

Tionne was asleep before Nerillia had left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Did the child give you any trouble?” Zarfensis asked as Nerillia returned to the common room.

“Of course not. The pheromones will see to that. Though I won’t even need those in due time. She’s smitten with me. I can feel it in her thoughts.”

“That could work to our advantage.”

Nerillia regarded the High Priest for a moment.

“Did you mean what you said?” she asked. “About her being different? About her smelling different?”

“Yes. She is different. I don’t know how, or why, but she is no vermin. She has the soul of a Chosen. Perhaps that’s why she’s been out of place for so long. Why you feel the draw of blood from her. I feel the power of the Dyr within her. That child is destined for great things.”

“How will that help us?”

“She will do what needs to be done, even without your wiles. She will feel compelled to obey the will of the rune.”

Nerillia studied Zarfensis’s face, her eyes tracing the deep seams of scars that ran along one side.

“You’re sure the rune will guide us?”

“The Dyr craves death and what better way to feed its hunger than to turn our creation loose in the city?”

“And what of the dragon?”

Zarfensis winced at her simple question. Nerillia wasn’t sure what power the dragon held over the High Priest, but whatever it was, the Xarundi felt it keenly. Though she didn’t want to needle the High Priest any more than was needed, she had her own goals to see to fruition. If their plan failed for any reason, it wasn’t only the Xarundi who would suffer for that failure.

“Stryne wants only to see the humans driven from his ancestral homeland. He has said that we are free to go about with our other plans once his goal has been achieved.”

Nerillia wasn’t sure if the High Priest was trying to convince her, or himself, of that rather large leap of faith. While it was true that the dragons were largely gone from Solendrea, she wasn’t sure that she would trust the mammoth beast to keep its word. Everything she had ever heard about dragons was that they were vile, treacherous creatures who placed very little value in the lives and plans of anything outside their own realm of influence.

“Let’s assume that he does allow us to go our separate ways. Then what?”

“Then the Chosen will recover all the lands the vermin have taken from us and you will have your…payment.”

The High Priest winced again and Nerillia knew exactly what he was thinking. Zarfensis had vehemently denied her original request. He wanted nothing to do with the fee she had requested for her crucial role in the plan. However, she’d worn him down through negotiation and guile. Eventually she’d gotten exactly what she wanted, though she knew it bothered him greatly.

“Which is?” She asked, prodding the Xarundi into saying the words. She needed to hear it. More importantly, she needed to assure herself that he remembered the terms of their arrangement.

“The agreement is that upon dispatch of the vermin and return of their lands to the rightful owners, you will take possession of the Deep Oracle.”

“Very good.” The smile that crept across Nerillia’s face was as cold as the Frozen Frontier.

“I still don’t understand—”

“It doesn’t matter what you understand,” Nerillia snapped, cutting him off. “All that matters is that you’ll remember and honor the terms of our agreement when the time comes.”

“As you wish, Nerillia of the Lamiad. You will have possession of the Deep Oracle. For however long you survive after releasing it from its prison.”

Zarfensis stalked off and Nerillia watched him go. The Xarundi might not be openly hostile to the other races of the Shadow Assembly, but they certainly didn’t go to great lengths to hide their general disdain for anyone not of their lineage. No matter, she thought, once the Lamiad have control of the Oracle, they’d learn their true place in the grand scheme of the Assembly.

CHAPTER FOUR

The rock tower on which Stryne perched was the highest peak in the range of mountains that protected the human capital city from attack from those outside its borders. He had driven his claws deep into the stone like a climber’s pitons. His wings were folded to his back, the muscles along his great shoulders bunched, ready to provide the first all-important down sweep of the wings. The air was thin and cold at such a height and any other creature on Solendrea would have succumbed to suffocation long ago. Only the air stored in his lungs and the diligent beating of both fore and tail hearts kept him awake, alert, and alive.

Not moss, nor lichen, nor a single intrepid blade of grass crept up the bare rock face of this lonely pinnacle of stone pointing toward the sky. During the Age of Empires it had been known as the Dragonlord’s Spire. It was the symbolic seat of power for the draconic empire long before the disease of man spread across the world, consuming and laying waste to everything they touched. A disease responsible for the travesty that was laid out before him. In the distance, at the very limit of his vision, he could make out the great cavern by the sea that had once been his demesne. Even the name the humans had given the city, Dragonfell, was an affront.

As the youngest of seven nest mates by a day and an hour, Stryne had been forced to fight for everything. His sisters were larger than even his biggest brother and each of his four brothers dwarfed him in size. Therefore, it had been to the smallest dragon’s advantage to rely on guile and deceit to gain what was denied to him. He became so adept at scheming that his siblings didn’t realize he had been turning them against each other until it was too late. Their sire and dam had long since left the nest, leaving their offspring to fend for themselves. Eventually, between being hunted for sport by men, challenged in the air by the meddlesome winged horses, and terrible fighting amongst themselves, their numbers dwindled dramatically.

Eventually only Stryne and his eldest brother, Dominus, remained in the East. They ruled the land along the seacoast, Stryne controlling the northern half and Dominus the southern. By that time Stryne had amassed a great cavern full of treasure from selling information and his magical services to the lesser races of Solendrea. As his treasure grew, he gave in to the ingrained hoarding instinct that ruled all dragons. When Dominus discovered his brother’s stronghold, it was the most basic draconic instinct for him to drive the younger dragon out and take the hoarded trinkets, gold, and baubles for himself.

The battle was long and bitter, with the sound of their fighting echoing along the valley for several days and nights. Though Stryne fought valiantly, Dominus was larger and stronger. Eventually he could stand against Dominus no longer and Stryne renounced his claim on the cavern and his hard-earned treasure. Slinking away into the night, he had vowed his revenge on his brother. The humans had stolen much from him. First in taking his right of vengeance against his brother. Second, in moving into the cavern he, himself, had built up over many years and claiming it as their own. Dominus’s skull hung on the ridge above that same cavern. It was sacrilege and Stryne would see that the humans paid for their arrogance.

Wrenching his claws from the rock, Stryne threw himself backward, his wings tucked tight against his body. He fell toward the jagged rock peaks several thousand feet below the wind screaming around him. As air became thicker and warmer, scented with the touch of spring, he opened his jaws and filled his starved lungs. He felt a tingle deep in his chest, the innate power of his soul seed feeding on the sudden return of air. At the last moment, his wings snapped out and he threw himself nose over tail, checking his descent and hovering over the sharp rocks which were now only a hundred or so feet under his broad wings.

Stryne hung there a moment, his sharp eyes searching, cataloging every crack and crevasse. Every boulder that an intruder might hide behind. Every rock fall that could hold a complement of archers. Satisfied that the Dragonlord’s Spire was safe from human defilement, he turned on a wingtip and winged into the warm wind blowing from the west. The current pressed against him, but lifted his wings, which carried him along toward the cavern that he had claimed for himself in the mountains overlooking Dragonfell. It wasn’t as grand as the one he had lost to the humans, but it would do until he could reclaim his home.

It took time for him to reach his destination, but as the sun was slipping beyond the horizon, he folded his wings and dove toward the entrance, black against the twilight sky. He backwinged with just the right amount of force to land on the rock lip that surrounded the cave. Powerful claws caught the ridge, checking his momentum. His violet eyes sparkled as he surveyed his refuge. Satisfied that no living creature hid in the shadows to challenge his claim, he nestled down into his wallow and curved his long neck around the small pile of treasure he had amassed in the center of chamber.

Most of it was useless. A battered shield he had taken from a solitary knight, surprised to find a dragon in his path. A broken wagon wheel. A handful of gold coins pilfered from travelers along the desert trade road far to the west. The only item of any great importance was a ruby as large as a man’s fist that Stryne had kept hidden before he was driven into exile under the ice and snow. He had found it in its hiding place, a narrow cleft in the northern mountains that had been covered over by hundreds of years of ice and dirt. It had taken him the better part of a day to find it and dig it out. In the end, though, he had wrested it from its safe place and it felt good to have something that truly belonged to him once again.

The day’s warmth was draining from his body and Stryne felt the suggestive siren’s call of sleep spreading through his body. His eyes closed and he was just drifting off to slumber when he heard it: the sound of rocks and loose scree sliding down the side of the mountain where he kept his refuge. Convinced, in his half slumbering state, that it was Dominus returned to take his sanctuary from him once again, Stryne’s eyes snapped open. They blazed in the dim light and a low rumble of warning shook the rock of the cavern and loosened a fine sifting of dust from the ceiling.

However, it wasn’t Dominus, or any dragon, that appeared over the lip of the cave. It was a woman. Not a human woman, but the exotic grey skinned curves of a Lamiad. She stopped just inside the cavern and presented herself with a respectful bow. Stryne snaked his head forward, protecting the meager, almost laughable, treasure he had amassed. Still, the treasure was his, and instinct was a powerful thing.

“You may enter, Nerillia,” the dragon said, his mind touching hers.

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Nerillia responded in the same way she had been spoken to. Stryne much preferred direct mind-to-mind communication with the species who were capable of such a feat. There was much less opportunity for misunderstanding, or deception. True, a skilled telepath could still influence either their own thoughts, or the receptive thoughts of the other party, but Stryne felt that he was as skilled in that arena as any.

“What have you to report, Nerillia?”

“I was able to smuggle the High Priest into the city without incident. Likewise, the girl you recommended we recruit has been found. How did you know about her, My Lord?”

“Her essence is a blight on the Quintessential Sphere,” the dragon replied. “The forces of death, darkness, and disease are drawn to her like moths to a flame. The Ancient Dyr seeks to make her its avatar.”

Nerillia’s eyes widened. He could feel her uncertainty. She wasn’t sure whether or not to believe what he said about the Ancients. She was still young enough to know that there were forces in the Deep Void more powerful than any mortal could comprehend, but old enough to be skeptical when another invoked those primordial powers.

“Is it wise to meddle in the affairs of an Ancient, My Lord?”

“If we were to truly anger the Ancient Dyr, none of us would survive long enough to worry about it, Nerillia. Our task remains the same. To eradicate the human pestilence and recover what they have taken from me. In return, your soul will be made whole again.”

Stryne felt the pleasure spill out from her, a cup filled past the point of overflowing. Though he wasn’t certain exactly how long the other half of her soul had been trapped in the cavern under the Xarundi’s adopted home, he knew that it was long enough that the desire to be made whole would override all other concerns that might arise.

“You honor me with your assistance, My Lord.”

The dragon snorted, blowing Nerillia’s hair out behind her like a bridal train.

“I assist you because it benefits me to do so. Remember that, tiny creature.”

“As you say, My Lord.”

“Have you obtained the Chalice of Souls?”

“Of course, My Lord. The information you provided was invaluable. All proceeds according to your plan.”

“Very well. Then leave me and continue to carry out my instructions. I will summon you as necessary.”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

The Lamiad bowed deeply and backed out of the cavern. Stryne listened to her descent down the mountain, following the sound of her feet on the loose earth until it was outside his senses. Then he turned his eyes toward the Quintessential Sphere, stalking her until she reached the foot of the mountain and turned back toward the city. Satisfied that she was well away from the cave, he closed his eyes and slept.

“Where in the nine hells have you been?” Faxon demanded as Tionne entered the common room of the Dirty Magpie Inn.

The raw fury in his face gave her a moment of panic, her heart racing like a startled rabbit. Though she was mostly devoid of normal feelings for a girl her age, the dread that settled into the pit of her stomach was visceral. She wanted to run. To turn and run from the inn and not have to explain anything. Even in her panicked state, she knew that if she ran, he would follow and where would she go? Back to the safe house? That’d be even more dangerous than Faxon at his worst.

“Out,” she replied, with far more confidence than she felt, and tried to brush past him toward the stairs.

As she passed him, his hand flashed out and he grabbed her arm, hard. His fingers dug into her flesh and tears of pain sprang to her eyes. He spun her to face him, his fingers dug into the muscle and her arm started to go numb.

“You’re hurting me,” she managed to gasp. The confidence was gone and now she was just a terrified girl in pain.

“You think this hurts?” Faxon backed her up against the wall near the staircase.

He was apparently unconcerned by the stares of the few patrons who were in the common room. It was still early in the afternoon and the common room wouldn’t get busy until later. Tionne wondered why none of them would come to her rescue. No one ever has before, she thought bitterly. Why should they start now? Another squeeze of her arm snapped her out of any conscious thought.

“This doesn’t hurt,” Faxon snarled, giving her a little shake. “Can you imagine what it would be like to be cut off from the Quintessential Sphere? You know that is what’s waiting for you if you abandon your training, don’t you? An inquisitor will come for you. They will hunt you down, find you, and tear out the part of your soul that makes you special. Is that what you want?”

The rage that welled up within her was sudden and engulfing. It coursed through her, replacing the pain with the fire of her own indignant fury. She wrenched her arm from his grasp, ignoring the flare of pain.

“What difference would it make?” she screamed at him. “My soul is mostly empty anyway! So what if an inquisitor takes the rest of it?”

Faxon spoke quickly. So quickly that Tionne almost had trouble making out the words. She was aided by the fact that his invocation was impeccable for the speed at which he was speaking. Too late, Tionne realized what he meant to do. She couldn’t defend herself against what was coming. She’d heard the call to power for the censure ritual before, in the School of Academics. There they were taught the theory behind the complicated and ancient words. That was the spell Faxon was casting on her.

Something snapped deep within her and there was an emptiness unlike anything she had ever felt. Tionne had thought that she was as empty as she could be. She’d been wrong. Horribly wrong. The feeling in the back of her mind, the feeling that told her that she was a part of all things and the energy of the Quintessential Sphere flowed through her, was gone. Now she knew, with the clarity of experience, why most censured mages went mad or killed themselves. No one could exist this way and remain sane. Her knees went weak and she slid down the wall until she was slouched on the floor.

Tionne was vaguely aware of Faxon crouching down beside her. She heard a few words, then screamed. The pain that coursed through her was unimaginable. Her blood was fire in her veins. Then as quickly as it began, it was gone. In its wake was the subtle, subliminal hum that reminded her of her connection to the Quintessential Sphere. Faxon had severed the connection and held the ends of the cut thread that linked her to her power. Then, somehow, he’d made it whole. Focus was difficult, but she saw one of the men in the common room get to his feet and start toward them. Now he finds a conscience, for all the good it does me.

“Don’t.” Faxon’s voice was low and menacing. Though he didn’t turn around, it was obvious to everyone in the room who he was talking to. “This doesn’t concern you.”

He leaned over Tionne and pressed his fingers against her neck. She wanted to pull away, but couldn’t muster the strength.

“You’re traveling a dark path, Tionne.” Faxon rocked back on his heels, looking at her. “That was the merest taste of what awaits you at the end of the path. The darkness at the end of that path will consume you. It will consume you and there will be nothing left. Whatever you’re involved in, whatever you think you know, you don’t have the experience to temper your passion. Let me help you. Please.”

“I’ll think about it,” she lied. “Now I just want to be left alone.”

Faxon took her hand and she ignored the link shock that jumped between them. He stood and helped her to her feet, stepping away from the stairs.

“I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help.” She started climbing the stairs, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. She stopped halfway up and looked over her shoulder at him. “I hate you.”

For a moment, she thought he would pursue her and finish the job he’d started. He didn’t. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, shaking his head. His face was a mix of sorrow and grief and she hated him for that too. She didn’t need his help, and after what he had done to her, she didn’t want anything to do with him. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, didn’t compare to what Nerillia had shown her.

She wanted to run to her room, but her legs wouldn’t manage anything more than a slow walk. The temporary cessation of her link with the Quintessential Sphere had had a very pronounced effect on her. Faxon probably thought the experience would make her submit, but he had another thing coming. She heaved a sigh of relief when she reached the door of her rented room and slipped inside. She closed it behind her and leaned against it, regaining some of her composure in the solitude.

Nerillia hadn’t wanted her to leave the safe house and now Tionne wondered if maybe she had made a mistake in returning. She’d argued that if she didn’t return, Faxon might come looking for her. The elder quintessentialist had an annoying way of sticking his nose places that it didn’t belong and Tionne doubted that either Nerillia, or Zarfensis, wanted him to be snooping around their plans. Not that she was even certain what their plans were.

Tionne frowned. Nerillia had wanted to fill her in on the details last night in the common room of the safe house, but the Xarundi had stopped her before she’d been able to divulge anything meaningful. She knew that the success or failure of the plan depended heavily on blood, but she hadn’t been able to convince either Nerillia or Zarfensis to tell her who’s blood it would be or why it was so important. That was going to change, she decided. If they needed her for their plan, they’d tell her what she wanted to know. They’d have to. Besides, she wasn’t coming back here.

She crossed to the foot of the rented bed and the battered wooden chest that was on the floor there. The magical seal she’d placed on the container was still in place, so Faxon hadn’t thought to disturb her belongings in his halfhearted search. Not that there was much there. She’d been rescued, if that was even the word for it, from the ruins of her village with hardly anything to her name. Her current fortune wasn’t much better. There were a number of things in the trunk, but few that she actually cared about.

Stripping off her robes, she dropped them to the floor and kicked them away. Opening the chest, she lifted out the finery Faxon had given her and set the garments aside. She took a pair of black leather breeches and a simple tunic. Dressing quickly, Tionne lifted a thin belt from inside the chest and wrapped it around her waist. To that she added her dagger, a purse with a few crowns she’d scrimped and saved from odd jobs, and a pouch that held the vials of blood and the bloodstone.

Nerillia had let her keep the bloodstone, explaining that if they were ever separated, all Tionne had to do was feed the stone and it would lead her back to the Lamiad. Tionne didn’t feel the same attraction to Nerillia that she felt for Aluka, but whenever the Lamiad was nearby, Tionne found herself drawn to her as if she couldn’t help herself.

Tionne glanced around the room. What was left in the chest would stay here. There was just one more thing she had to do before she could be out from under Faxon’s thumb forever. She scooped up the clothes he’d given her and drew her knife from its sheathe. The razor sharp blade made short work of the fine velvet. Soon all that remained of the expensive garments was a pile of jagged scraps. These she spread across the bed. When Faxon came looking for her, he’d surely be able to puzzle out the meaning of that message.

Slipping into the Quintessential Sphere, Tionne slipped through the wall and into the hallway. There was no one there. No one in the rear stairwell or the small yard that separated the inn from the visitor’s stables. No one to stop her and no one to see her leave. Perfect.

Almost as an afterthought, she snagged her cloak from the chest. She’d have no need of the Order’s robes anymore, but something that would hide her could come in handy. Throwing the thick fabric over her shoulder, she slipped out the door, down the stairs, and into the city. Her absence wouldn’t be noted until much later that night when Faxon came to check on her.

It was easy for him to figure out her message, but by that time, he had far more dire things to worry about than his errant journeyman.

“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Nerillia was crouched behind her and the woman’s breath on Tionne’s neck sent goose bumps racing down her arms.

“I’m ready.” Tionne didn’t take her eyes off the inn. “I know exactly what I need to do.”

“Very well then.” Nerillia gave her a gentle shove. “Go. Fulfill your destiny.”

The lateness of the hour and the location of the inn made it easier for her to slip inside unnoticed. Tionne had watched the inn since earlier that evening and when she saw Faxon leave in a rush, she’d summoned the Lamiad with a spell Nerillia had taught her. Nerillia had looked things over, asked Tionne about her plan, then told her to wait. They’d waited until after midnight, watching the lights in the windows of the inn go out one after another. Now her time was at hand.

The night had grown cold and dark. Her breath puffed out in little white wisps as she crossed the wide street to the stairs that lead to the rear entry of the inn. There was a guard there, but he was sleeping soundly. His chin was touching his chest and the sound of his own snores would mask any noise that Tionne might make.

With a simple manipulation of the Sphere, Tionne silenced the oak door leading into the back hallway. She slipped inside and closed it behind her. The easy part was over. Now came the challenge.

She tiptoed down the hall to the doorway she’d noted earlier in her stay. A youngster was staying there, a boy, maybe five years old. He’d wanted to play with Tionne on the day she’d arrived with Faxon, but she’d been busy running errands. When she was in the inn, Lemmy was underfoot, wanting to play, or watch, or just be paid attention to. His parents spent more time in the common room than they did with little Lemmy. A fact that would work to her advantage.

Shifting into the Sphere, she cast out into the closed room. The main bed was empty. Lemmy’s parents had probably passed out at the table. Lemmy was there though, tucked into the little trundle at the foot of the bed. Snapping back into the physical realm, Tionne glanced up and down the hall to ensure she was alone, then eased the door open and went inside.

She knelt beside the little bed, her hand hovering over his face. As if he sensed her presence, Lemmy’s eyes snapped open and he gasped. Tionne knew that breath would end in a scream, so she clamped her hand over the boy’s mouth, leaning in close so she could whisper in her ear.

“Shhhhh, it’s okay, Lemmy. It’s me. Tionne. You’re okay, right?”

The boy’s eyes scanned her face frantically, but finally the tension left his tiny frame. Tionne let a smile play across her lips.

“Good. I’m gonna take my hand away, but you’ve gotta be really, really quiet, okay?”

Lemmy nodded again. His eyes were troubled, but Tionne knew exactly what to say next.

“Okay. When I take my hand away, I need you to get up. Be as quiet as a mouse. The cook just made a new batch of honey drops and we can get all of them all to ourselves, but you have to be extra quiet. Would you like that?”

The trouble in the boy’s eyes was replaced by childish avarice. When Tionne removed her hand, he swung his legs out of the bunk and put his bare feet on the smooth wood floor. She laid a finger to her lips as a reminder and made an exaggerated pantomime of sneaking away.

The boy giggled, then clapped both hands over his mouth. Tionne glared at him and they stood, still as statues, for a moment while she listened. No one in the inn seemed to stir, so she led him across the length of the room and out into the hallway beyond.

As she took Lemmy’s hand in hers, Tionne saw herself holding Raynold’s hand, leading him toward the stream for a bath. Her heart gave a sudden lurch and she shook her head, trying to drive the memory away. It was suddenly hard to swallow and Lemmy gave her an inquisitive look.

Tionne tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it came across more as a grimace of pain than anything else. She gave him a little tug on the hand and they continued down the hallway to the stairwell at the end.

They descended the stairs and took a short walk to the storeroom at the end of the basement hall. She pushed open the door. The storeroom was pitch black and Lemmy, like any good child his age, balked at going into the darkened room.

Tionne summoned a willow wisp, a little ball of pale blue light, and sent it floating into the storeroom. Delighted by both the light and its summoner, Lemmy stepped inside without any further prodding. She followed him and closed the door behind her.

As preoccupied as the boy was with the wisp, it was easy for Tionne to prepare the requirements of the ritual. With a charcoal stick, she inscribed the runes on the walls and floor. She reached high up on a shelf and took down an empty crockery bottle. She pulled out the cork and inverted the bottle, insuring it was empty. It wasn’t very big, but then, neither was he.

Lemmy was standing on his toes, batting at the wisp and giggling as it bounced and swayed in the air over his head. As Tionne began to invoke the ancient words that Nerillia had so recently ingrained in her memory, the temperature in the room plummeted like an avalanche.

In a few moments, it was as cold inside as it was outside, Lemmy’s panting breath tiny puffs of white in the dim light. The longer she spoke, the colder it got. They boy stopped playing with the wisp and hugged himself tight.

“Tionne, I’m cold. I wanna go back to bed.”

Lemmy started to turn around, but never got the chance. Tionne’s hand snaked over his shoulder and under his chin, yanking it upward, she drew the knife across his throat, severing the blood carriers and turning his high, thin voice to a bubbling croak.

His blood flowed eagerly from the wound, but did not touch the floor. It was held in abeyance by the magical power of her spell. Instead, it coalesced in the air, forming a large sphere. Tapped into the Quintessential Sphere, Tionne chanted the words that would coax every drop of the vital liquid from her young victim’s body. As it drained, his skin shrank against his frame, turning paper thin.

Disgusted, she let the husk fall to the floor as she completed the ritual and stared at the blood before her. There was so much. She’d had no idea that such a tiny body could hold that much. With a gesture and a curt word in a long dead tongue, she directed the blood into the jug.

Tionne was certain that it wouldn’t all fit, but it did, and when she finally shoved the stopper back into the bottle, the bone chilling cold left the room. The wisp that had so delighted the boy was still bobbing in the middle of the chamber.

She looked around. There was a small area between one of the shelves and the back wall. She lifted Lemmy’s body with a shudder and dragged it over to the shelf. It weighed hardly anything at all and without much trouble, she managed to wedge it into the space behind the shelf. She took some old crates from one of the other shelves and piled them around the shelf where she’d hidden the body. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. It was good enough.

Tionne picked up the jug and noticed that it had a curious heft to it. More weight than should have been accounted for by the liquid alone. She crossed to the door, banished the wisp, and stepped out in to the dark hall. The inn was quiet and still. She climbed the stairs and slipped out the back door, past the guard still asleep at his post.

As she crossed the street, she wanted to shout with elation. She felt so alive. She almost felt whole. Even more importantly, she was powerful. She could feel the residual magic flowing through her, dancing along her skin. This wasn’t the pain of residual magic she was used to. This was pure, unadulterated pleasure, a sensual caress that seemed to touch her in every place she desired to be touched. Her breath caught with the heady rush of what she had done.

An image of Raynold intruded, pushing its way into her head. She dismissed it. Raynold was a long time dead. Lemmy was dead now too. By her hand. Maybe her little brother’s memory could play alongside the dead boy. She didn’t care. All that mattered was that she had done exactly what she had set out to do. Nerillia was still crouched in the alley where she had been keeping watch.

“Is it done?” she asked as Tionne approached. The young quintessentialist offered her the jug as if she were presenting the older woman with a trophy.

“It’s done,” Tionne said with a smile.

“How do you feel?”

“The best I’ve ever felt in my life,” she replied, without hesitation. “How can I help next?”

“In due time,” Nerillia laughed. “In due time.”

Together, they slipped through the streets of Dragonfell, keeping to the shadows to hide their return to the safe house.

CHAPTER FIVE

The crowd of people packed into the basement hall of the inn was so thick that Faxon and Adamon had to resort to elbowing their way into the storeroom. A pair of inquisitors stood guard at the end of the corridor, so when they passed that vanguard, Faxon felt like he was able to breathe again.

A woman that Faxon recognized as the innkeeper’s wife, stood just outside the door to the storeroom. She wrung her hands as she paced, her pale eyes darting about with the haunted look of someone who’d just seen something that would remain with them until they died. Faxon brushed past her and stepped into the room. Adamon hung back, speaking a few words to the woman in a hushed tone before he too entered the room.

“She found the body behind one of the shelves, hidden with some crates,” the inquisitor said as he entered. “She moved it out into the room, then called for the inquisitors.”

“The one discovered with the body is often the one guiltiest of the crime,” Faxon said drily.

“Not in this case.”

The inquisitor knelt and flipped back the sheet. Lemmy’s eyes, dull and sunken in their sockets, stared at the ceiling in mute accusation. His skin was paper white and so shriveled that he appeared to be little more than a shrouded skeleton. The only color about him was where his throat had been cut. It was a single, neat incision that was black around the edges, but that was all.

“Great Gatzbin’s gonads.” Faxon reached over and brushed his fingertips over the boy’s eyes, finding to his horror that the lids wouldn’t close. They simply weren’t supple enough anymore with all the blood drained from the body. “I know this boy. He was staying here.”

Adamon nodded.

“The innkeeper’s woman said that many had seen him around the inn the last few days. We’ve questioned most of the visitors, but no one knows how the boy was taken and who perpetrated this crime. I’m told that his parents were beside themselves at the news.”

“So it’s already gotten out?”

“When have you ever known bad news to drag its feet?” Adamon shrugged. “At least this way the killer, or killers, either know we know, or soon will.”

While Adamon made a slow circuit of the room, Faxon looked at the dead boy, his thoughts in turmoil. How could this happen, here, of all places? Dragonfell should be the safest city in the Imperium! And who would want little Lemmy dead? It didn’t make sense. None of it made a damn bit of sense.

Having no desire to stare in the dead boy’s eyes while they performed the rest of their investigation, he pulled the sheet over Lemmy’s face and stood up. Adamon had pushed the door half closed, his fingers tracing the dark outline of a sigil there. Faxon took note of the other runes etched on the walls and floor. They weren’t perfect, but they weren’t rushed and haphazard either. Whoever had done this had time to plan and time to execute that plan.

Faxon winced inwardly at his poor turn of phrase. Executed was certainly the right word for it. Poor Lemmy hadn’t had a chance. Whoever had done this to him had done it quickly and savagely. The trust of a child was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a manipulative adult. There were no signs of a struggle and no indication that anyone staying in the inn had heard anything. Whoever had lured Lemmy down here, it had been someone he trusted. Faxon jerked upright.

“You’ve questioned his parents?” he asked, his throat tight.

“They were the first people we interrogated,” Adamon said without turning his attention from the rune he was studying. “Both of them had passed out in the common room. Hardly fit parents, but not killers. Besides, neither of them is a vessel, so they can’t have done this. Can’t you feel it?”

Faxon could. He’d felt it as soon as they’d walked into the storeroom. It was a crawling, creeping darkness that seemed to hover at the very edge of Quintessential Sphere. It was the feeling of being observed by unseen eyes and he hated it. No matter how many times he felt the imprint of great evil, he’d never get used to the feeling.

There was a knock at the storeroom door and Adamon stood aside and opened it all the way. Tiadaria and Wynn stood at the threshold. Adamon and Tiadaria glanced at each other and then she and Wynn stepped into the room. It wasn’t lost on Faxon that the young woman gave the Grand Inquisitor a wide berth. Not that he could blame her, but she needn’t make it so obvious.

“What’s going on? We’d heard someone was killed? Who? What happened? Did it have anything to do with the graves?”

“Easy Tia,” Faxon said, raising his hand. “I don’t think the boy that was killed had anything to do with the other graves. He was definitely killed during a ritual—”

“I know,” Tiadaria interrupted and stopped short. Faxon shot her a warning glance. “I mean, I can see the runes on the walls. I didn’t think they were decorative.”

Faxon nodded, passing a hand over his face. “In any event, I don’t think the boy was a specific target. I think he was easy to get to and easy to manipulate.”

“What did they do to him?” Tia asked, kneeling to take hold of the sheet.

“Tia,” Faxon warned. “I wouldn’t—”

She’d flipped the sheet back before he could finish his warning. Her sharp intake of breath told Faxon that she wasn’t likely to peek under any other sheets in the near future. He passed the hand over his face a second time, wishing that he could scrub the pain that was developing behind his eyes away.

“What happened to him?” Tiadaria was aghast.

“I can’t be sure,” Faxon said.

“I can,” said Adamon and Wynn at the same time. The Grand Inquisitor raised an eyebrow at Wynn but nodded for him to continue. The younger quintessentialist looked pained, but offered up his explanation.

“This is obviously the Ritual of Sanguine Reaping. I’m not sure why someone would want to harvest the boy’s blood, but they did. The ritual would drain him of every drop and it seems that it did.”

“What purpose would that have?” Tiadaria asked, pulling the sheet back over the boy in much the same way that Faxon had a few moments earlier. He could appreciate her discomfort.

“It was primarily used in primitive sacrifices,” Wynn replied, wrinkling his nose. “It is a barbaric practice that, fortunately, has fallen into disuse as we distance ourselves from the past.”

“Obviously whoever did this was unconcerned about how barbaric it was. I think the age of the victim can assure us that whoever did this was without remorse.” Adamon indicated the body with the tip of his boot. “They wanted the blood of an innocent. They have it. What remains is for us to determine why they wanted it, and what they plan to do with it now that they have it.”

“I trust your inquisitors will be performing a full investigation?” Faxon asked the question, even though he already knew the answer. Regardless of how the King felt about magic and mages, Greymalkin would want answers and want them quickly. There was no better way to produce those answers than to let the inquisitors do their job.

“We’ve already begun,” Adamon replied with a raised eyebrow. “Hence the questioning of the parents and the others in the inn. Which reminds me, Faxon, you and your journeyman are registered in the inn. Where were you last night?”

Faxon gaped at him. Surely he wasn’t serious. Did the Grand Inquisitor just seriously imply that he, Master Faxon Indra, one of the most respected and well-known mages in the Imperium, had murdered a boy in cold blood?

“Are you seriously asking me that question?” Faxon demanded, his voice rising to a shout by the end of the question. “I was with Valyn. He can vouch for my whereabouts.”

Adamon nodded. “Why were you with Valyn?”

“We were…” Faxon trailed off, his mouth suddenly very dry. “We were looking for Tionne.”

“Your journeyman?”

“Yes.” His heart sank. Faxon didn’t really believe that Tionne was capable of such a thing, yet his thoughts kept turning back to the savage display she’d made of the finery he’d bought her. She was angry, he knew. Frankly, she had every right to be…but killing a boy? To what end? And why?

“Very well,” Adamon said with a shrug. “If she’s involved, we will find out about it, Faxon.”

“I have no doubt, Adamon. I have no doubt.”

Adamon gave him a sharp look, then shrugged and left the room. A wave of relief swept over Faxon and he leaned against one of the nearer shelves. He was exhausted. He’d spent the entire night out looking for Tionne and when he’d returned, he’d found Adamon waiting for him in the common room.

“Do you think that maybe Tionne is behind this?” Tiadaria asked, breaking the silence.

“No. I think there’s something else going on here, and I need the two of you to help me figure out what it is. I think Adamon is going to go after Tionne, whether there is evidence against her or not. He tends to censure first and question later. Tionne’s had a rough time of it, but I refuse to believe she’s capable of something like this.”

The elder quintessentialist paused, studying Tiadaria.

“You need to be more careful, Tia,” he said. “You almost said something really inappropriate in front of Adamon and I wouldn’t want him hunting you the way I suspect he will be hunting Tionne.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

“Tia—”

“I know!” She raised her hands, indicating her surrender. “I know. I’ll be more careful.”

“Good, because I need both of you right now. More than ever. I need to know who did this to poor little Lemmy and I need to know if it has any connection to Tionne, or to what happened in the graveyard. Can I count on you?”

“Have you ever not been able to count on either of us?” Wynn asked with an odd hitch in his voice. Tiadaria glanced at him but said nothing.

“No,” Faxon said. “You’ve both always been very loyal to me.”

“Then why should now be any different?”

Wynn practically ran from the room, banging the door hard on his way out. He looked at Tiadaria, who shrugged.

“What’s going on with him?” he asked.

Tia shook her head, her eyes sad.

“It’s complicated and we don’t have time for it now. We’ll be in touch.”

Tia left the room and wound her way up the stairs and outside.

The morning sun was bright and Tiadaria had to blink a few times before her eyes adjusted to the change. She’d come out the back door of the inn and was standing in the small courtyard that lay between the main building and the stable. Wynn was leaning over the edge of one of the stalls and she approached him slowly. His arms dangled into the stall and he was idly scratching a dappled grey mare behind her ears. The stable smelled of hay and beast. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was soothing in its own way.

Tiadaria didn’t say anything. She just leaned over the rail beside them. She could feel his tension. He was practically vibrating with it. She just hoped that he’d let it out before it boiled over or before he had to explode. Tia knew that they hadn’t been on the best terms since that day on the hillock, but it pained her to see him in so much distress. She wanted to know what he was thinking.

“I understand now,” he said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “I know why you couldn’t say yes.”

Wynn’s voice was more bitter than she’d ever heard it, and her heart ached. Tia had always been the one in more demand, due to her natural talents and skills. There was always conflict in the world and precious few people who would stand up to anything beyond their own self-interests. So naturally, when called by King or country, she’d wanted to lend her aid. Wynn was one of many quintessentialists who had dedicated their entire lives to research. Although she knew he was special, he didn’t have a reputation that put him in demand.

“I’m sorry,” Tia said, putting her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. That made her feel slightly better.

“You don’t need to be sorry. I guess, well, I guess I just wanted things to be different. When we met, I had this idea that it would be Tia and Wynn on whirlwind adventures, saving the land from ne’er-do-wells. It’s more like Tia goes out to save the land and Wynn stays home and bakes, or does some darning, or maybe teaches a youngster how to read.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” she said gently.

“I did too.” He closed his mouth, opened it, then closed it again, silently staring into the stall where the mare way laying. “I think maybe I was wrong, but I hate the idea of you out there facing these things alone.”

“I have to be alone, Wynn. I have unique abilities and that makes me alone. The Captain taught me what it meant to stand up for the things I believe in, and I have to use my abilities to see that through. He knew what kind of a commitment needed to be made. He was alone all his life. I’m very lucky to have you in mine, but there are some places that I have to go that you can’t follow.”

“That’s just it, Tia,” he said, turning to face her. “I don’t want to follow. I want to be standing beside you. That’s what that ring I offered you meant. I want us to stand together.”

Tiadaria sighed. She didn’t want to fight with Wynn again. Things had just started feeling almost normal between them. If they had another argument now, there was no telling how it would end. She didn’t want to lose him, but at the same time, how was she supposed to make him understand that this was something she had to do alone? The Captain had told her it would be a solitary life and she’d accepted that. She just didn’t know how to make Wynn see that he was asking more than she could offer. Maybe they could come to some sort of compromise.

“Well,” she said slowly. “When all of this is done, maybe we can take some time to figure out how to make that happen. For now, though, this is the way things have to be. I’m sorry. I really am. We both have things to do and I can’t do mine if I’m worried that you hate me.”

The last part came out in a rush, but it was true. Tia knew she was asking a lot of Wynn, but the thought of losing him altogether was enough to break her heart. She didn’t want that. Wynn’s eye widened a little.

“I don’t hate you, silly girl. I love you. That’s what all this has been about. Me loving you.” He spread his arms and she went to him, rubbing her face against his chest.

“I know,” she said, slightly muffled by his body. “There are just some things that I have to do alone, Wynn. It’s my duty.”

“Alright,” he finally acquiesced. “But we’ll talk about things after this?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“Alright.”

Wynn smiled at her. The first genuine smile he’d given her in days, and it felt as if a dreary, overcast day had been split by beautiful summer. Maybe things weren’t going so horribly wrong after all. Maybe they’d be able to figure out the mystery and still be able to enjoy a party, even if it wasn’t a bridal party, with their friends before they headed back out to the frontier of the Imperium.

Tionne was sprawled on the common room floor. Faxon stood over her, his hand extended and his face a mask of sadistic pleasure. He was drawing the soul out of her, shredding it. The emptiness she felt daily was nothing compared to this. Everything was being drained from her, leaving her a withered, desiccated husk, just as she’d left Lemmy.

She could feel her mind going. It was hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything except feel the incessant pull of his magic and her soul ripping itself apart in answer to those primordial forces. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Just a low hiss. She collapsed to the floor, unable to move. She saw herself from above, as if she was floating above herself, then everything went black.

The young quintessentialist sat up, gasping for breath. It was quiet and dark and save for the pale flickering light of a lantern under the bedroom door, she might have thought she was still in the dream. She brushed sweat damp hair back from her forehead. There was a light knock on the door and she jumped. If Faxon were coming for her, it wasn’t likely that he’d knock.

“Come in,” Tionne called, her voice low.

Nerillia entered, her eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. She closed the door and glided across the room, her grey skin ghostly in the dim light. She seated herself on the edge of Tionne’s bed and searched the girl’s face.

“Are you alright?”

Tionne struggled between two extremes. On one hand, she was happy that Nerillia had come to check on her. She always felt safer in the presence of the Lamiad. Nerillia was the only one who understood her, or cared what she thought. The Xarundi, Zarfensis, only seemed to be interested in the end result of their plans. Either he was working out strategy, or he was questioning Nerillia about details. He rarely spoke to her directly and when he did, it was in a curt tone that didn’t allow for conversation. On the other hand, she was worried that Nerillia might think she was too young to do what they had to do. Tionne knew she could accomplish her tasks if they gave her the chance.

“I’m fine,” Tionne said, embarrassed. It was just as well that Nerillia couldn’t see her burning cheeks in the dark. “Just a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it?”

The last thing Tionne wanted was to make herself look foolish, but when Nerillia used that particular tone, Tionne found it incredibly hard not to obey.

“It was nothing, really. I just dreamed that Faxon was ripping out my soul.”

“Oh yes,” Nerillia agreed. “Someone ripping out your soul. Nothing to be scared about whatsoever. Happens every day.”

Tionne’s embarrassment grew immeasurably at Nerillia’s taunt and she ducked her head. The Lamiad reached out and, with a cool palm, turned Tionne’s head to face her.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Tionne. Our dreams are very important. They can contain warnings about things that might happen, portents of things to come. One who discounts their dreams has no right to complain when the nightmares become real.”

Tionne didn’t answer. She turned her face into Nerillia’s palm, inhaling deeply. There was something both sensual and soothing about the peculiar musk that was Nerillia’s natural fragrance. The smell of freshly turned earth wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it soothed Tionne in a way that nothing else did.

Nerillia allowed her to rest that way for a few minutes, then gently pushed her back down onto the bed. She pulled the light blanket up over Tionne and smoothed it down around her. Tionne had a vague recollection of her mother doing something similar, but it was so long ago that she couldn’t really be sure. She knew that she liked the care Nerillia showed her, and that was all that mattered.

“You need to get some sleep, precious girl. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Tionne tried to sit up again, but when Nerillia pushed her back down, she settled for turning her head toward the Lamiad. “What happens today?”

“A technician is coming to repair the damage to Zarfensis’s leg. Once that happens, we’ll be more free to move around the city and we won’t have to rely on the safe house quite so much.”

“I still don’t understand why he is so important,” Tionne complained. “Aren’t there thousands of Xarundi? Why does it have to be him?”

“There are only a couple hundred of Xarundi left. They were thinned out by the battle here in Dragonfell, then again by a brutal civil war that started after Stryne was released from his prison. Zarfensis, for all his gruff nature, is one of the only priests they have left.

And he’s not just any priest, he’s the High Priest and the Runekeeper for the Dyr. Do you know what that means?”

Tionne nodded.

“He protects one of the stones of the Ancients. The stone of death. We learned about the runes in the Academy.”

Nerillia smiled, her teeth glittering in the semi-dark.

“Then you know how important he is to our cause. He controls the power of the Ancient Dyr. It is that power that will allow us to fulfill our purpose and finally drive the humans from Dragonfell.”

Tionne had a sudden sense of misgiving. It wasn’t the first time that Nerillia or Zarfensis had talked about driving the humans from the city and killing as many of them as possible. She knew she was different, but she was still human. Would she die by Nerillia’s hand? Would Zarfensis descend on her and tear her limb from limb as he’d done to her parents and baby Raynold? She shuddered, and Nerillia leaned over her, putting a hand on each of her shoulders. The Lamiad gave her a little shake.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tionne. You’re special. Even Zarfensis said so. Even Stryne, one of the oldest creatures on Solendrea, recognizes your power. Nothing will happen to you. I promise.”

“Can you hear everything I think?” Tionne asked, somewhat abashed.

“No.” Nerillia smiled at her. “Just the things you think that are particularly loud or unexpected. I hear most of your worries. Sometimes I hear what you think about me.”

The blood that had subsided from her cheeks suddenly raced back to renew the flush and Tionne turned her face away. She was all too aware of the thoughts Nerillia had heard and the discomfort was almost too much to bear.

“Shhhhh,” Nerillia whispered, caressing the side of Tionne’s neck with one hand. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I like you too. We have time. Maybe when you’re a little older—”

“I’m old enough,” Tionne said, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

“Yes, you are. However, we have a mission to complete. Our duty has to come before all else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Nerillia.”

“That’s my good girl.” The Lamiad stood and stretched, her spine popping loudly in the quiet room. “Get some rest. You’ll need it. I need some too. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

Tionne thought her voice sounded very small and very far away, but Nerillia didn’t seem to notice. She disappeared through the bedroom door and Tionne listened until her footsteps retreated to her own room.

Get some rest, she’d said. Tionne wasn’t sure that was going to happen. It was probably only a few hours until dawn and she was still wound up over what Nerillia had said. More importantly, what she’d heard. Tionne would have to be more careful about shielding her thoughts from the Lamiad.

She wished she’d paid more attention to her classes at the School of Academics. She had a vague understanding of how such hidden thoughts were supposed to be managed, but the details eluded her. It was something she’d have to try and figure out through trial and error.

Even so, for as embarrassed as she felt, her thoughts kept turning back to the gentle touches Nerillia had given her. She’d said she liked Tionne too. What did that mean? Was it the same type of longing need that Tionne felt for her?

Tionne rolled over and these questions chased themselves around her thoughts under she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Morning, when it came, was entirely too early.

“Where is the damned technician?” Zarfensis snarled.

Nerillia looked up from the table where she sat with a mug of spiced wine between her hands. Tionne saw her shake her head at the Xarundi’s impatience. A trait which seemed to define Zarfensis more and more with each passing day.

“He will be here, Your Holiness. Patience.”

“Do not counsel me to patience when you can easily move about of your own accord,” the massive lupine creature snapped. “I will be patient when I am whole again. Not before.”

Tionne remained quiet. She’d seen Nerillia and Zarfensis get into an argument before and it wasn’t something she wanted to witness again so soon. Or ever. They were both fearsome fighters in their way. Even though the clash hadn’t come to blows, it was easy for Tionne to see how dangerous they were. It was one of the only times that she’d had serious second thoughts about abandoning her training with the Order and forsaking Faxon as her Master.

As if summoned by the conflict, there was a scratching at the door. Nerillia leapt to her feet and pressed her eye to the peep hole. Then she knelt down and peered through a lower peephole. She nodded to herself and unlatched the heavy locks.

“He’s here.”

Nerillia opened the door and Greneks, the gnome technician, waddled into the common room of the safe house. Greneks was no more than about two feet tall, with coal black skin and enormous black eyes and seemed to drink in any light they encountered. A wide semicircle of a mouth surrounded the lower half of his face and large flaps of skin, like a bat’s wings, sprouted from the sides of his head. These ears swiveled to and fro, catching whatever sounds happened to be nearby. He had long fingers tapered to small points.

He was dressed in simple breeches and a waistcoat, with a pack slung over one shoulder and a pipe sticking out from between his wide lips. This he puffed constantly, a haze of noxious smelling smoke belching from the tiny creature.

There were very few things that brought Tionne any real joy. Joy that would temporarily replace the aching emptiness within her. Gazing down at Greneks, she knew that gnomes were one of those things. Nerillia had told her that they were poisonous and could be incredibly dangerous when threatened, but Tionne didn’t care. She was delighted with the tiny man and his miniature implements. As soon as Greneks entered the building, she slipped off the bench she’d been seated on and sat, cross-legged, on the floor.

Greneks promptly ignored both Nerillia and Zarfensis and came to stand in front of the girl. He bowed deeply from the waist, nearly toppling his pointed blue hat from where it was precariously perched behind his ears.

“Greneks, I am, little miss,” he said, thumping his chest with one hand. “Is pleased to meet you, yes! What call you, do they?”

Tionne glanced at Nerillia, who gave her a little smile and a nod. Zarfensis stood behind her. It was obvious that he was agitated, but he hadn’t said a word since Nerillia had closed the door.

“I am Tionne, Greneks. I’m pleased to meet you too.”

The gnome nodded vigorously, his oversized head bobbing back and forth. He smiled and took one of her fingers in his tiny hand, pumping it up and down.

“Tionne is powerful mage, yes? Power of the Ancients, one with. Is good.”

“Yes, she’s a powerful mage. Now to the reason why you’re here,” Zarfensis snarled.

Greneks turned to the Xarundi and made a strange screeching sound. Tionne found herself startled when the little creature threw back his head and snapped his jaw open, revealing two rows of sharp, shark like teeth. Zarfensis raised both hands in supplication and the gnome quickly returned to his docile form.

“Xarundi,” Greneks sniffed. “Is always work, work, work. Is no time to make nice with the pretties.”

Tionne laughed and the little man grinned at her. He tapped out the contents of his pipe on the floor and ground the orange embers out with the heel of his tiny boot. Then he turned to Zarfensis.

“Yes, High Priest. To be repairing your leg, I will. Materials needed, yes? And much gold, also.”

Tionne thought she saw something unpleasant flicker across Zarfensis’s features, but it was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure. The gnome seemed harmless enough. Why would the High Priest of the Xarundi have anything to fear from a creature so much smaller than himself? He certainly didn’t seem to be threatened by either Nerillia or herself.

“This way, Greneks,” Zarfensis growled, motioning toward a back room. “The materials and your payment have been gathered.”

Nerillia didn’t speak until the door had closed behind them. Then she heaved a massive sigh and sank to the bench Tionne had vacated.

“I hate those things,” she said, placing heavy emphasis on the last word. “I can’t hear anything from them and they make me nervous.”

“I don’t think he means any harm,” Tionne replied. “Except maybe to Zarfensis, and maybe a little bit of a kicking would do him some good.”

Nerillia frowned. “Don’t let him hear you say that, Tionne. Better yet, don’t say it at all. Certain parts of our plan will require his skills and he’s not stable. Not by a long shot.”

Tionne looked down at her hands. She hated being talked to like a child and she hated it even more when Nerillia did it. She quickly sublimated her thoughts, forcing them down away from the surface of her mind. Tionne thought she must have done a decent job of it, since Nerillia didn’t react in any fashion.

“Come on,” Nerillia said, climbing to her feet. She offered Tionne a hand and helped her up. “There is a ritual we must prepare for, and I need to teach you some of the spells before we can perform it. It must be perfect, so we’ll practice while they work.”

Tionne let Nerillia lead her into an upstairs room she’d set aside as a study. They worked there together for the better part of the afternoon, the Lamiad coaching Tionne until the younger woman’s intonation was perfect. It took a long time, but Nerillia was finally satisfied with her performance, and Tionne was more than willing to call that a success.

CHAPTER SIX

Cold grey walls slimy with black mold closed in on every side. No matter which direction Tiadaria turned, she was faced with another wall of unyielding stone. The smell of mildew hung in the air, so thick she could feel it in the back of her throat. Slow, rattling breaths were drawn by something hidden in the blackness.

Tia whirled, her hands dropping to her sides, but her sword belt wasn’t there. She had neither weapons nor armor, her only protection from the horrors of this dank place was a nightshirt. Somewhere, nearby, Tiadaria heard a woman scream. It was a raw, grating sound, the sound of a woman in unimaginable agony.

Her eyes snapped open and it took Tia a moment to realize that the screaming had just been intruding on her nightmare. It was very real, very loud, and very close by. Wynn lay pressed up against her, one arm draped across her hip. She nudged him with her elbow. He grunted and rolled away from her.

How he could sleep with the woman going on that way was beyond her. She swung her feet off the bed and into her boots. She slipped her breeches over the boots and shucked the nightshirt without modesty, replacing it with a durable tunic and belt.

“Wynn, get up. There’s trouble.” She didn’t speak loudly. Her tone of voice was even but firm. It cut through his sleep and his good eye snapped open.

“What kind of trouble?” His voice was hoarse with sleep, but he was already out of bed and pulling his robes over his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Well good,” he said, picking up his staff from the corner where it rested. “Who needs a full night’s sleep anyhow?”

Tiadaria lifted her sword belt from the post at the foot of the bed as she passed. She didn’t lose a single stride as she looped the belt around her waist and cinched it tight. Tia felt the familiar twinge of pain as the scabbards slapped against her thighs. That pain was reassuring in a perverse way. She always felt a little naked without her weapons and the pain of steel so near her skin was a tactile reminder of the weapons that awaited her call.

They took the steps to the common room two at a time. It was empty and dark. The screaming was coming from a room behind the bar. Tiadaria vaulted over, effortlessly clearing the top of the bar and leaving Wynn to take the long way around. She took the knob in hand, waited only a moment, then twisted it and threw the door open.

Tiadaria stumbled back in horror. Wynn stepped forward, unable to lower his staff in the close confines of the tiny room. It was just as well, his mind was preoccupied with sorting out the scene in front of him. Casting a spell would have been impossible.

The woman doing the screaming was backed into the corner. The bed was turned on its side, providing a flimsy barrier against which the horror repeatedly flung itself.

Wynn supposed it had been a man at some point in recent history. A farmer judging by the dirty feet and patched pants. Its arms were stretched out in front of it and it was clawing at the bed as if trying to dig through the wood.

Its head was what turned Wynn’s blood cold. The eyes were rolled back in the head, showing only red-tinted whites. Blood oozed from wherever it found a way free of the body. Trickles of blood leaked from the ears, the nostrils, and the eyes. The worst part, Wynn would reflect later, was the thing’s mouth. The jaw hung limply away from the rest of the skull, its hinge broken so forcefully that it was almost torn off.

The blood had congealed in that distended maw and a grotesque face peered out at him, its black eyes glittering like coal.

“Move!”

Wynn didn’t need to be told twice. The tiny room didn’t give him many options, so he flattened himself against the wall to his right as Tia passed him, scimitar drawn.

The thing took a step toward her and she plunged the tip of her sword directly into the heart. There was a ripping sound as the tip of the scimitar exited through the back of the threadbare tunic it wore.

It grabbed her by the shoulders, ignoring the blade that had run it through. As its face got nearer to hers, the blood began to expand outward, long tendrils of crimson fluid snaking toward her eyes and ears.

Tia gripped the scimitar tight with both hands and shoved the creature back with one foot, managing to free her blade. She spun and the thing raised its hands as if trying to fend off her attack. The blade sliced through one wrist, parted the head from the neck, and then through the other wrist.

What had once been a farmer collapsed in a pile of parts. As soon as the body hit the floor, the tendrils of blood snaked out, seeking a new host. They slid under the edge of the bed incredibly quickly, blood snakes seeking out new prey.

They found a target in the woman who still hadn’t stopped screaming. The ribbons of blood wound their way up her legs and then around her arms and torso. As they slipped into her ears, the scream stopped abruptly, as if cut off with a knife. Smaller tendrils split off from the main ropes and invaded the woman’s eyes and mouth.

Tia and Wynn watched in stunned disgust as the blood drew itself into the woman’s mouth, the hideous face beginning to form in a new host. There was a sickening pop as the woman’s jaw snapped, making room for the bulk of the blood creature.

She couldn’t be certain, but Tiadaria thought that the thing peeking out from beyond a row of yellowed teeth had gotten bigger. The woman got to her feet with a speed that Tia couldn’t believe and threw herself out the tiny window beyond the bed. There was a wet thud in the night beyond, and then silence.

Wynn gingerly stepped over the body of the farmer and stuck his head out the window. Before Tiadaria could scold him for his recklessness, he withdrew from the jagged hole and shrugged.

“Whatever that was, it’s gone now.”

“We need to go after it.”

Wynn looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted wings and a tail. “Are you out of your mind?”

“We can’t just leave it to terrorize the city!”

“I’m not suggesting we do. We need to find Faxon and figure out what in the name of hell that thing was, and how we kill it.”

Though she didn’t fancy the idea of leaving whatever that thing was loose in the city, she had to accept that Wynn’s plan was the most rational and logical thing to do. She sheathed her scimitar and motioned for the door.

“Come on then. I don’t want to leave that thing out there for any longer than we have to.”

Wynn shook his head. “Nor do I.”

They dashed out of the common room and into the street. Though most of the street lights had been doused for the night, enough remained on street corners that they could see the chaos that Dragonfell had been plunged into.

The creature that had been in their inn was one of many, it seemed, judging by the shouting in the streets and people running madly in all directions. A sea of people was surging up the wide main street, running over any of their number unfortunate enough to stumble and fall.

Tiadaria and Wynn flattened themselves against the wall of the inn as the mob passed and in a few moments the street was empty save for the stragglers who had been trampled. Many of those lie motionless in the street.

“Come on,” Wynn said, grabbing her hand and dragging her away from the wall.

Tia willingly followed. They needed Faxon and they needed him now. There was no telling how many of those creatures were loose in Dragonfell or what kind of casualties they were causing. No sooner had that thought crossed her mind than she noticed something even more ominous than the thing they had pursued. Her half gasp, half sigh alerted Wynn and he spun to look at her.

“What?”

“Wynn, look!” Tiadaria pointed over his shoulder toward the far end of the city, toward the cavern where the royal palace was nestled. The sky was tinged an angry orange. Dragonfell was burning.

Wynn glanced in the direction she was pointing and the blood drained from his face.

“Let’s go, Tia. Now!”

The common room of the Dirty Magpie was abuzz with activity, a hive of agitated bees. City guards were marshaling civilians into squads. Faxon had a map of the city spread out over one of the tables, the corners weighed down with half-filled tankards and ale mugs.

As they entered, Faxon glanced up. The look of naked relief on his face was enough to start Tiadaria’s heart pounding. Even with his considerable knowledge and experience, it was clear that Faxon was floundering.

“Oh thank the Gods!” Faxon dropped a sheaf of papers on the table and rushed to Wynn and Tiadaria. “There’s something loose in the city.”

“We noticed,” Tiadaria shot back drily.

That brought up Faxon short on his heels. “You saw it? What was it?”

“That’s why we are here,” Wynn said with a sigh. “We were hoping you could tell us what it is and how to kill it.”

The elder quintessentialist shook his head slowly. He gestured over his shoulder to the other people in the room.

“I daresay we know less than you do. Maybe if you could give us some details, you’d help in our search and he can destroy whatever it is faster.”

Wynn nodded. “Of course. We’ll offer whatever details we can.”

“No need.” A new voice came from near the door and the trio turned to see Adamon standing in the doorway. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the city beyond. “It’s a blood wraith.”

“A what?” Tiadaria, Wynn, and Faxon all asked the question in unison.

A flicker of something that might have been a smile tugged at Adamon’s lips, then it was gone. Tia wondered if his good humor was always so fleeting. Every time she had seen the man, he had seemed to be in a dour mood. Although, to be fair, every time she had seen him, they had been in the middle of a bloodbath or cleaning up after it.

“A blood wraith. A malevolent spirit crafted from the living blood of an innocent.”

“Lemmy,” Faxon said, his voice harsh. Adamon nodded.

“Yes. Now we know why the youngster was a target when there were so many others of equal or greater opportunity. We also know that whoever summoned the wraith has considerable skill and power. Blood magic is volatile, and this particular rite is exceptionally difficult.”

“Alright,” Tia said, planting her hands on her hips. “So how do we kill it? We killed its first victim and it just jumped into another.”

Adamon peered at her for a moment, as if he was decided whether or not he believed her, or whether or not he trusted her. Maybe it was a bit of both. After a moment’s pause, he answered.

“Kill the host and destroy it before it jumps into a new one. You’ll be on guard against it now. I’m sure your blade will make short work of the host. Wynn, your particular specialty will serve to kill the wraith before it can find a new host.”

“Great,” Wynn said with an edge of sarcasm. “Now we get to go hunt it down.”

“Be careful,” Adamon advised them gravely. “When it gets large enough, it’ll split itself in two and spread. The more blood they consume, the faster they reproduce. Go, now.”

Adamon stepped back from the door, gesturing widely for them to leave. Tia walked past him as quickly as she could. She had a healthy amount of both fear and respect for the Grand Inquisitor, and though she didn’t necessarily think he knew about her true nature, she didn’t want to test the theory.

As Wynn stepped past the inquisitor, Adamon stopped him.

“Remember, when the host dies, it’s going to try to jump into one of you. Kill it before it can. No time for hesitation.”

Wynn’s cheeks burned red, but he assured Adamon that he would be able to perform his duty without issue when the time came. Adamon gave him a doubtful look, but let him go.

Tia could tell by the look on Wynn’s face that he was rattled. To some, he would always be the boy who stood by and watched the sacking of Ethergate without being able to lift a finger to stop it. Tiadaria felt bad for him, but as there was little she could do about it, she kept her mouth shut.

They left the inn, crossing the wide porch and descending the stairs into the street. They could still hear screaming, some in the distance, some much closer. Tiadaria wondered how many of the wraiths had managed to reproduce during the time they were talking to Faxon and Adamon.

“Okay,” Tia said, glancing at Wynn. “We know how to kill it, now how do we find it?”

At that moment, almost as if answering her question, there was a sound of a woman shrieking nearby.

“My guess is that we follow the screams,” he said uncertainly. “That didn’t sound too far off.”

“Let’s go.”

As they entered the small workshop, Greneks made a quick survey of the materials and equipment and then indicated that the High Priest climb up onto the workbench. Zarfensis complied and the gnome peered at the ruined contraption still attached to the Xarundi.

Grenek’s face became an almost comical mask of tragedy. “My work! What have you done?”

“I did nothing,” Zarfensis replied with a snarl. “The human vermin did this and I want to make them pay.”

Greneks didn’t reply. He fished around inside his belt pouch and produced a large eyepiece, which he placed in one eye and began to inspect the leg. His attention to detail was impeccable. He investigated every inch of the prosthetic, occasionally poking here or prodding there. There were several times when he demanded Zarfensis hold the most uncomfortable poses while he scratched figures and calculations on the pad he produced from the back pocket of his worn breeches.

Finally Greneks replaced the pad and dropped the monocle into his pouch. Placing one hand on his chin, he rolled his large eyes skyward and stood there for such a long time that Zarfensis thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Yes, can be done,” Greneks said, as if he and the Xarundi had been carrying on a conversation.

“What can be done?”

“Repair, of course. Make leg new again. Improve. Make better.” The look Greneks gave him was clearly condescending, as if the answer to Zarfensis’s question should have been obvious.

The High Priest’s ears flicked back. The gnome was obviously mad to think that the twisted pile of scrap fused to his flesh could be repaired. For a moment he thought of seizing the little creature and shaking him, then he remembered what had happened in the Xarundi workshop when Xenir had tried to menace the gnome and controlled the urge.

“Are you certain?” Zarfensis’s tone was just short of naked incredulity. He didn’t want to antagonize the gnome, but neither did he believe the claim that the leg could be repaired. Then Greneks said he could improve it, which was just flatly impossible.

“Yes, of course. Certain. Need several hours. No more. Fix and make better.”

Zarfensis gaped at the gnome. He still remembered the agony of his initial introduction to the prosthetic. A ring of hollow brass teeth had burrowed into his flesh, seeking out his blood and, through some dark gnomish magic Zarfensis would never understand, bonding with the veins. Now the gnome proposed to just yank it out like removing a splinter from a paw pad?

His tongue flicked out, circling his maw before it snaked back in. The nervous habit wasn’t lost on the gnome, who saw it and grinned his toothy grin.

“No worry, High Priest. Gnomes prepare. Every contingency planned for.”

From his pack, he took a tiny brass instrument. To Zarfensis, it looked like an arrow shaft with a claw on one end and a knurled ball on the other. He couldn’t imagine what Greneks intended to do with it, but he was terrified that he was about to find out.

“Settle here,” the gnome said, pointing to the very edge of the workbench. “Will detach for repair. But a moment.”

No stranger to pain, Zarfensis was still wary of the instrument and the gnome holding it. His tongue snaked out again.

“How much pain will there be?” Zarfensis finally asked, settling himself onto the indicated spot.

“Not so much as the attaching.”

Without further conversation or any warning, the gnome thrust the instrument into the charred remains of the leg. He worked quickly with long, nimble fingers, explaining in his clipped sentences that he was closing the valves and loosening the attachment points. The pain wasn’t as bad as Zarfensis was expecting. Certainly nothing compared to the fusing process that he had also endured at the gnome’s hand.

Greneks dropped the tool back in his pouch and grasped the leg. With a twist that demonstrated the surprising amount of strength in the gnome’s wiry frame, he removed the entire assembly and sat it to the side.

Zarfensis was almost afraid to look down, but the curiosity that compelled him would not be denied. The sight he beheld wasn’t nearly as bad as he was expecting. The solid ring with its metal teeth was still in place. A few flexible segmented tubes ended in tiny valves. The thicker supporting rods and rings that held the prosthetic in place had tiny claws that were open, as if waiting to accept the leg once it had been repaired.

“Will fix soon,” Greneks said, hefting the leg as easily as a feather, though it was easily three times his own weight. “Bring back. Stay here.”

The gnome trundled over to another work bench and began unpacking his bag, singing to himself in a strange language Zarfensis didn’t recognize. Stay here, the gnome had said. As if he could go anywhere else. He had no crutch to lean on. He was effectively trapped in the workshop until the gnome completed his task.

After several hours, the gnome announced that his task was complete. A few spells needed to be prepared, he said, but Zarfensis would be whole again very soon.

Every muscle in Zarfensis’s body was aquiver in anticipation. In the years that had passed since the battle in the ice cavern, he had never expected to have a functioning leg again. At first, he expected the vermin to execute him outright. Then, when they didn’t and instead left him to rot in one of their subterranean jails, he had assumed he would die of neglect.

The day that the Grand Inquisitor had come to the prison to tell the guards that he would be transferred to the city to have his connection with the Quintessential Sphere severed was at turns the most terrifying and elated moment he could remember. The dragon who had stayed in contact throughout those years promised that he would be freed and he had been.

Regardless of anything else Stryne said or did, he had lived up to that promise and it seemed that he was about to live up to this one as well. Of course he had ulterior motives, but if their motives aligned in the extermination of the vermin, a dragon was a powerful ally to have.

Greneks was singing a jaunty tune as he came to stand before Zarfensis. His black eyes danced with merriment. He finished the last verse of his song before he sat the prosthetic down in front of the High Priest.

Zarfensis could hardly believe that in a few mere hours, the gnome had produced this from the mangled remains of his previous leg. Where the original had been a mass of exposed gears and bundles of cording, this new leg had plates of armor that wrapped around the points most prone to damage or attack. Gone also was the crystal window that had held the runedust powering the leg’s magic. This concerned the Xarundi, but he had learned enough from the gnome to know that anything important would be explained in due time.

“Is good yes?” Greneks waved a hand at the contraption, his dark eyes staring intently at Zarfensis.

“Not just good. Amazing.”

The little creature beamed and took the strange instrument from his pouch. Zarfensis assumed his previous position without being asked and Greneks set about reattaching the leg to the metal ring. After it had been reattached to the studs that circled the rings, the gnome began to open the valves he had closed only a few hours before.

As Greneks enervated the prosthetic, Zarfensis felt a surge of power flow through him. This wasn’t just the return of his mobility, although it was certainly that. The leg had begun to thrum with muted power upon being fed his living blood. This was something different entirely.

Greneks stood back, motioning for Zarfensis to stand. The Xarundi got unsteadily to his feet, relishing the feeling of being truly mobile again after so long. He took an experimental step forward, finding the motion of the leg to be much smoother and more natural than the previous version.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Greneks.”

“Pleased, yes?” The gnome steepled his long slender fingers under his chin and regarded the massive Xarundi as he flexed the leg, taking a few more steps to get the feel of the augmented limb.

“What about the runedust chamber?” Zarfensis asked, bending at the waist to get a better look at the armor plating that surrounded the leg.

“No runedust,” Greneks said with a grimace. He displayed his left hand and Zarfensis saw that half of the smallest finger was missing.

Sudden comprehension sent a chill up Zarfensis’s spine.

“You mean…” The High Priest trailed off, feeling uncharacteristically squeamish about voicing what he suspected.

“Gnome magic most powerful machine magic,” Greneks replied solemnly, nodding. “Is power and protection.”

Without warning, the gnome thrust his right hand forward, fingers extended. He spoke words that crackled with power. Zarfensis recognized it as a spell, but had no time to counter with magic of his own.

A jet of green flame leapt from the gnome’s fingers, striking the prosthetic leg. Zarfensis instinctively jerked it back, but not before he saw that the armor plating had deflected the flame. He reached down and touched the spot where the flame had touched. It was no warmer than the air around them.

“Gnome machines, gnome protection,” Greneks said, as if that ended the conversation, which it effectively did. There was nothing left to say.

Greneks turned toward the door and motioned for Zarfensis to precede him. The High Priest bounded easily into the common room, relishing in the comfort and stability the new leg provided him. It had been so long, so many years, since he had been whole. If nothing else, the dragon kept his word. Now it was up to them to keep theirs.

“Greneks, would you be so kind as to summon the women?”

The gnome grinned his wide smile, his triangular teeth glimmering the dim light. With his head still bobbing up and down, Greneks opened the door to the safe house and stepped outside.

Tionne and Nerillia stood in the shadow of the safe house, watching panic sweep through the city. The magical safeguards Tionne had put in place around their hiding place keep them free of the wraiths as they jumped from host to host, consuming as much blood as they could before splitting and resuming the hunt. Tionne glanced at Nerillia and the older woman flashed her a wide smile, gesturing to the city.

“You did that, Tionne. That’s your power, set free and rampaging through Dragonfell. How does it feel?”

“I feel alive.”

“That’s all?” Nerillia frowned. “I thought you’d feel more.”

“Oh, no, Nerillia,” Tionne corrected her. “You don’t understand. I’ve never felt this alive. I feel full to bursting, when I’ve always felt empty. This is my purpose. This is what I was born to become. I live to serve the will of the Ancient Dyr.”

Nerillia sniffed.

“You sound like Zarfensis.”

Tionne shrugged.

“He might be right, Nerillia. Maybe I do have some strange, unknown connection to the rune and its ancient power. All I know is that I can feel them. I can feel every single wraith loose in the city. I feel them swelling. I feel them growing. I feel them spawning. I feel the terror they’re spreading and the death they are causing and it all feels so…so…alive!”

“I told you that you’d fulfill your purpose with us,” Nerillia said. “You just had to believe in yourself.”

“I had a good teacher,” Tionne said, slipping her hand into the Lamiad’s and giving it a squeeze. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The Lamiad shrugged and looked out over the city. “I imagine you could have. I just pushed you in the right direction.”

“Why couldn’t you help me with the ritual?” Tionne asked, peering curiously at Nerillia. “I know you’re a vessel. I can feel the link shock dancing between us.”

She squeezed Nerillia’s hand, sending a renewed tingle through both of their bodies. Nerillia pulled away, her crimson eyes troubled and focused far away.

“I can’t.”

“Surely you have the knowledge,” Tionne blundered on. “You taught me the ritual—”

“No. You don’t understand. I can’t. They took that part of me.”

“They took—” Tionne gasped, her hands going to her mouth. “They censured you? Who? How? When?”

“Censure is a human ritual,” Nerillia replied, her voice bland. “Other races have other rituals, but the end result is the same. Who isn’t important. It was a long time ago. Hundreds of years before you were born.”

Tionne’s head jerked up and she looked at the older woman. She didn’t seem more than twice her own age. How could she be hundreds of years old?

“You’re hundreds of years old?”

“I am,” the Lamiad replied with a hint of her usual humor. She slid her palms down her voluptuous body, writhing in exaggerated sensuality. “I look pretty good for my age, don’t I?”

“Yes,” Tionne replied flatly, and Nerillia laughed. “How did you survive? Faxon cut me off from the Sphere for seconds and I thought I was going to die.”

“I found a way to adapt. My people are skilled with magic of the mind.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I’m far more impressed with how you’ve managed to survive.”

“Why?” Tionne was puzzled. It was the first time that she and Nerillia had compared experiences.

There was something ridiculous about their confessional moment. They were standing on the porch of the safe house, watching blood wraiths lay waste to the capital city of the Human Imperium, yet their conversation was as easy and natural as ever.

“Because I was able to sequester the emptiness I felt. You’ve lived with that lack all your life. It’s hardened you in ways I can’t imagine.”

Tionne thought about that. She’d never really seen it that way, but she supposed that Nerillia was right. After all, she’d never tried to block out the emptiness, just find ways to temporarily fill it. To find things that made her feel whole. Tonight, standing here watching Dragonfell fall, she felt more whole than she’d ever felt in her entire life. She felt almost drunk with it.

Hinges squealed in protest behind them and Greneks stepped out from inside the darkened safe house, cutting off their conversation. His long tapered fingers were folded under his chin and his huge eyes seemed to drink in the madness around them.

“Is time for you to witness the marvel, yes. High Priest to have his leg back. The white one commands it.”

“Well,” Tionne said with a giggle. “Let’s not keep His Holiness waiting.”

She dropped her arms to her sides and let Greneks take one of her little fingers in his tiny hand. The gnome led her back inside and the Lamiad followed.

Zarfensis stood in the center of the room. His mechanical leg was no longer a twisted mass of blackened metal and melted rubber. It was an armored work of art. The meticulous craftsmanship of the appendage was obvious. There was a faint metallic whine when Zarfensis moved the leg and the articulated claws at the end of the foot sheathed and unsheathed themselves at his will. Even Tionne could see that Greneks hadn’t just repaired the leg, he’d improved on it tenfold.

“Congratulations, Your Holiness,” she said, her voice earnest. The Xarundi’s jaw dropped in the equivalent of a grin.

“Yes, whelp, I am whole again. I’ve heard the screaming in the city and I know your part of the plan is already underway. You’ve done well. Now, we finish this and claim our due rewards.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tiadaria would have been happy if all they had to follow was the sound of screams. As it turned out, they were able to follow a trail of bodies as well. They’d come across three more corpses, each in worse condition than the last. Some of them were missing large sections of torso or head. The blood wraith was growing, just as Adamon had predicted. They needed to find it, and find it fast.

“This way,” Tia said as another scream pierced the night. She grabbed Wynn by the arm and drug him into the dark alley.

“Just once, I’d like to fight in broad daylight,” he complained between breaths. “Maybe against some nice bunnies, or a fearsome deer.”

“Careful what you wish for, Wynn.”

They left the alley and found themselves on the wide lane that wound through Dragonfell, serving as both the main street and the central market. Market Street ran the entire length of the city, north to south, with a large square in the middle. Merchant stalls that would sell all manner of goods and services in the daylight lined both sides of the street, long abandoned for the night. Tia glanced this way and that, irritated that her line of sight was broken by so many obstacles and so many irregular shapes. Anything could be hiding out there and they wouldn’t know it until they were on top of it.

She slipped into sphere sight, hoping that she might be able to catch a brief glimmer of the wraith. Tia thought that it probably was sentient enough to try and hide itself, but it couldn’t hurt to try. She scouted up and down the quiet street but saw nothing. With a sigh, she slipped back into the physical realm.

She stood in silence, both hoping for and dreading the next scream that would give them a location for their prey. They stood there several minutes and heard nothing. Wynn was shifting back and forth on his feet and Tia wanted to scold him, but she dared not make a sound. They listened some more and still heard nothing that would give them a nudge in the right direction.

If it hadn’t been for that all-encompassing silence, Tia wouldn’t have heard the soft whisper of a slipper on the cobblestones. She whirled, just in time to face the monstrosity that had been sneaking up behind them. Tia cursed her lack of foresight in not drawing her weapons earlier. Now the wraith had hold of both of her wrists and was pushing her backward toward one of the empty stalls. There was no doubt that it wanted to pin her down and consume her as it had done with its other victims.

The blood wraith drove her into one of the stalls, the rough wood digging into the small of her back. Tia was bent backward over the edge of the stall and she couldn’t get her foot between herself and wraith. There was a sickening crack as Wynn brought his staff down on its skull. Turning to face a new attacker, it loosened its grip just enough that Tia could spin away from it and draw her scimitars.

Tia shifted into sphere sight, hoping that her heightened speed would give her the upper hand against the wraith. As she turned to strike, the wraith whipped out a long tendril, wrapping it around her ankles and pulling her legs out from under her. It was fast! She hit the cobblestones hard and her breath left her in a whoosh. She rolled to her stomach, still gasping for breath. She got up on her knees, trying to crab crawl away. The blood spirit’s grip on her tightened and it started dragging her across the stones.

A quick glance over her shoulder spurred Tia into a more desperate struggle. The wraith’s tendrils had multiplied, reaching out to trap her. Its eyes glittered with dark menace. She wondered what had happened to Wynn when a cone of flame lit up the night. The fire passed between Tia and the wraith, severing the tentacle. It lost its cohesion, turning to liquid and splattering on the street.

The quintessentialist, using his staff as a lance, drove it into the wraith’s chest. It split down the center like a cracked egg, spilling sickly grey entrails at Wynn’s feet. He jumped back as if the offal were on fire. The wraith careened into another stall, shattering it and sending slivers of wood flying.

The body gave a massive heave and then was still. Wynn ran to Tia and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet. They spread out and flanked the unmoving body. Wynn glanced at Tia and she nodded, giving him a gesture to flip the body. He worked the tip of the staff under the ungainly mass and rolled it over.

It was just a husk. The wraith’s essence had left the host, leaving a twisted pile of flesh in its wake. Wynn stepped back and summoned a globe of light, suspending it above them. Wet slapping sounds echoed across the empty street as the wraith scurried under the stalls and away, south along the road.

“Damn it!” Tia ran after the wraith and Wynn followed, his globe of light trailing along after them like a child’s kite.

Reaching the large Market Square in the center of the city, Tia pulled up short. She spun in a circle, her eyes ranging around the square. Sphere sight or normal sight, it didn’t matter. The wraith was gone. How could it have gotten away so fast?

“What now?” Wynn asked, coming up behind her.

“How did it get away?” Tia kicked a rock and sent it skittering across the road. It hit the opposite curb, bounced away, and fell into a slit in the street. They heard a faint splash and looked at each other.

“Great Gatzbin’s gonads!” Tia swore. Wynn interrupted her by grabbing her elbow and pointing down the road.

“There! Look!”

The lanterns that lined the streets cast pale yellow circles of light on the stone street at regular intervals. The wraith was crawling out of a similar drainage slit further down the road. Back on the road, it propelled itself forward on its tendrils with a speed that had to be seen to be believed.

Tia grabbed Wynn’s still outstretched hand and pulled him along behind her. She heard him gasp and knew that he’d come to the realization she’d had only a few seconds earlier. The wraith was heading straight for a squat grey stone building just off the main avenue. The Hospital of the Lyr. Providing both care and education for healers in training, the hospital would be an ideal feeding ground for the wraith.

The hospital was surrounded by a low wall, but its purpose was ornamental, not defensive. Between regular knockouts for aqueducts and sewers, there were probably a hundred places or more that the wraith could get through the wall. Tia and Wynn weren’t so lucky. They had to race along the edge of the wall until they reached the heavy ironwood gate that opened into the compound.

The gate was shut for the night and the screaming in the city had the guards on edge. As they came skidding to a stop in front of the entrance, the guard on duty nearly impaled Tiadaria with his spear.

“Open the gate,” Tiadaria panted between breaths. She dug her hand into her side, trying to ease the pain of the stitch in her side she had acquired during their headlong rush. “There’s a blood wraith loose on the hospital grounds.”

“I’m sorry My Lady, the hospital is—”

Whatever objection the guard had formed was promptly forgotten when a piercing scream shattered the night on the other side of the gate.

“OPEN THE GATE!” she roared, and the guards stumbled over themselves to unlatch it and slide it back along the rails. Tia and Wynn slipped through before it was fully open and stopped in the center courtyard.

There was a huge marble fountain in the middle of the courtyard and they couldn’t hear anything over the steady streams of water that poured into the pool. Another panicked scream from ahead of them solved their problem and they set off after the sound as fast as dared go.

The cries echoed off the face of the hospital and seemed to bounce around the grounds, making it difficult to know exactly what direction to run. After two mistakes, they finally homed in on the sound and turned the corner between two short buildings.

Topiaries dotted the side yard of the compound, their pale white flowers glowing in the moonlight. There was a small meeting area in the center of the yard, paved with flagstones and circled by a number of stone benches. Tionne was backed against one of these benches and the wraith was scurrying toward her.

Tiadaria had little time to wonder why Faxon’s missing journeyman was inside the hospital grounds. She saw the terror on the girl’s face and had to act. Tionne’s green eyes were wide and round, showing far too much white as she cowered against the bench. She was frozen in place, unable to stand or run.

She raced toward Tionne but she knew she wasn’t going to make it in time. Not even the power of the Quintessential Sphere could bridge the distance between them or the lead the wraith had on her. Wynn stopped running abruptly and Tia tried to turn to him as her momentum carried her another few steps.

A ball of flame shot past her, near enough for her to feel the incredible heat of the conflagration. Wynn’s spell missed its mark, slamming into the ground to the left of the wraith. It exploded, the shockwave spinning the spirit across the courtyard. Tia wasn’t waiting for it to recover. She darted forward and snatched Tionne by the wrist, ignoring the burn of link shock.

“Run!”

Tia shoved Tionne hard toward the door to the hospital building and followed. They had nearly reached the door when a massive black shape materialized from the darkness. A blue eye glowed. Tia screamed and tried to check her momentum. She searched frantically for Tionne and saw that the girl had turned, stopping behind Zarfensis.

Tiadaria’s blades flashed as she circled the Xarundi. She dared a split-second glance across the courtyard. Wynn was still battling the blood wraith.

Tia danced into range of the huge Xarundi. She stabbed and sliced, looking for an opening. She found one and took it. The tip of her sword slit the flesh on the upper part of Zarfensis’s right arm, staining the end of her blade. Zarfensis roared, and sprang.

She gathered the power of the Sphere and leapt over Zarfensis’s head. It was a trick she’d used before. Here, at Dragonfell, the night the Captain died.

The Xarundi was ready. His huge hand slammed into her midriff as she passed over him. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her landing was anything but graceful. She slammed into the ground, the blades jarred from her grasp by the force of the impact. Her chest burned and Zarfensis was advancing. She struggled to roll up onto her feet.

Zarfensis’s eye turned toward Tionne and Tiadaria seized the moment. Ignoring the pain, she rushed to recover her swords. The ring of metal on stone caused the Xarundi’s attention to turn back toward Tia.

They circled each other warily, Tia’s blades at the ready, the Xarundi’s claws unsheathed and ready for the attack. She saw the muscles in his leg bunch and heard the servos whine in the prosthetic. He’d leap at her and she’d be ready. She turned, ready to unleash a terrible backhanded swipe that would, with a little luck, be fatal.

Tia thought she had it timed perfectly, so when she unleashed her full fury and hit nothing but empty air, she was thrown off. Zarfensis had preyed on her confidence. He stood well back from where she had anticipated him, his hand raised in the final gesture of a spell. The ground under her boots softened and she sank shin deep. The more she struggled against the muck, the tighter it seemed to grasp her, until she thought it would shatter every bone in her feet.

Zarfensis bore down on her. She resolved to meet him with the points of her blades and cocked her elbows, ready to stab at the last possible moment. Before she had a chance to carry out her plan, a fireball slammed into the High Priest, singeing his fur and sending him sailing away from Tiadaria.

Wynn stood atop one of the benches in the center of the courtyard. With his staff in one hand, he held the blood wraith at bay. In his other hand, he cradled another ball of flame. This he hurled at Zarfensis as the High Priest recovered from the assault and tried to return to where Tiadaria was trapped. Tia found that by moving agonizingly slowly, she was able to extricate herself from the trap an inch or so at a time.

The High Priest attempted to spring on Tia again, but another fireball from Wynn’s hand made him shy off. Apparently deciding that the swordmage wasn’t worth the effort, he instead turned his attention on the quintessentialist. Tia glanced at Wynn and saw that he was in frenzied combat against the wraith. She dared not risk breaking his concentration even though he was in grave danger.

Forcing herself to take slow, deliberate movements, Tia managed to get one foot free before Zarfensis closed the distance to Wynn. She wanted to wrench her leg free and go to the rescue, but knew that she’d never make it with a broken foot. There was a soft pop as Tia pulled her foot free of the morass.

Even though she was free of the Xarundi’s trap, there was nothing she could do for Wynn. The blood wraith was becoming frenzied, having nowhere to run, it had become even more aggressive. Zarfensis was closing on him and Tionne was just standing there, watching.

“Wynn! Look out!”

Zarfensis was nearly on Wynn now. He was trapped from two sides. The blood wraith pulsed menacingly, its tentacles of blood quivering in the night air. Even with the benefit of the Sphere, there was no way she would be able to reach Wynn in time.

A strangled cry bubbled up from Tia’s chest as the wraith struck. It skittered forward like a spider, throwing tendrils toward Wynn and trying to entangle him. He swept the still flaming staff across the spirit’s path, severing the appendages and turning some of the blood to steam. The wraith seemed to back off, quivering as if uncertain what to do next.

Tia watched in horrified fascination as Wynn doused the magical flames on his staff and laid it on the stone by his feet. He folded his hands across his chest, closed his eye, and bowed his head. He stood still as a statue and both Zarfensis the wraith closed on him.

“Wynn! No!” Tia screamed, her throat raw with the support of the sound. He gave no indication that he heard her. As Zarfensis and the wraith reached the quintessentialist, Wynn’s head snapped up, his eye blazing brighter than she had ever seen it. He opened his hands, as if welcoming an old friend.

The explosion from the courtyard blew Tia up against the wall of the hospital. The rush of hot air seemed to suck the breath from her lungs and Tia had to fight to remain conscious. She struggled to her feet, stumbling into the courtyard, tears streaming down her face.

Wynn was crumpled in the center of a charred circle, but the wraith was gone. Streaks of blood on the fieldstone pavers showed the awesome force of the explosion, which had picked up the heavy stone benches and tossed them up against the building like a child’s jackstraws.

Running to the spot where he lay, Tia fell to her knees. The ground was still warm to the touch. A few wisps of steam still climbed with lazy turns into the night air. Tia choked back a sob.

His skin was black, his robes a tattered mass of singed cloth. His staff, the weapon he had carried since Tiadaria had met him in Ethergate, lay shattered on the ground where he had laid it. The heavy ironwood staff had been reduced to splinters.

Reaching into his robe, she laid her fingers on the side of his neck, reassured by the faint pain of link shock. If he was still a vessel for the power of the Quintessential Sphere, that meant he still lived. She found his pulse and it fluttered against her fingers.

Tia rolled him over. The force of the explosion had ripped his eye patch away, showing the hollow socket and the deep scars that seamed his otherwise handsome face. Her throat closed over and the tears that had formed in her eyes now streamed out in a torrent she couldn’t control.

Whatever relief she might have had at knowing that Wynn was still alive was cut short by powerful hands pinning her arms to her sides. Tiadaria realized that her scimitars, the weapons the Captain had given her, were probably still laying among the bushes against the wall where she had fallen following the explosion.

The acrid tang of seared fur told Tiadaria who her captor was before she even craned her neck to get a glance at the ruined face of the High Priest. Tionne walked into the center of the courtyard, stepping around Wynn as she did so. Tiadaria struggled against the Xarundi’s grip.

“Tionne! Help me, please!”

A slow, sardonic smile played across the girl’s lips.

“Why would I do that?” Tionne asked sweetly. “When I’m the one who managed to draw you here?”

“What?” Tiadaria stopped struggling in her shock. “How?”

Tionne laughed.

“Didn’t you find it curious that there was a wraith practically waiting for you when you left in the inn? I figured you’d go and see my former Master. From there, it was just a simple matter of leading you to the right place.”

A shout went up from the corner of the building as a group of guards came into view. Tionne fired a magic missile in their direction and they scattered.

“What about the vermin mage?” Zarfensis growled.

“Leave him. She’s the one we came for. Let’s go.”

Tionne led Zarfensis to a shattered side gate. The bloodied hulks of two corpses inside the wall told Tiadaria that Tionne had planned the abduction well. They’d laid a trap for her and she’d walked willingly right into it.

Outside the hospital wall, Tionne whispered a few words and brushed her fingers over Tiadaria’s eyes. The world went black.

Something pungent and unpleasant roused Wynn from his fitful sleep. Hands were holding him down against a stiff board under his back.

“Don’t try to move, Wynn. You nearly blew yourself up.”

The voice was familiar and the quintessentialist struggled to place it. All that registered was that it wasn’t Tiadaria, which was who he was most concerned with. His condition didn’t matter. He’d seen the Xarundi High Priest in the hospital grounds and knew that she was in grave danger.

“Where’s Tia?” he managed to croak.

Speaking hurt. It felt as if his throat were on fire. Wynn knew he’d be burned following the stunt he’d pulled, but he hadn’t counting on hurting so much in so many places.

“I don’t know,” the almost familiar voice said. “She wasn’t with you. I’ve got people out looking for her. What happened, Wynn?”

“Wraith,” Wynn managed, licking blistered lips. “Xarundi and Tionne.”

“What? Tionne! Where?”

The puzzle piece finally snapped into place and Wynn knew that Faxon was there with him. How had he not recognized his own Master’s voice for so long? Wynn managed to open his eye and look at Faxon’s worry lined face. Even the feeble lamplight hurt his head.

“Tionne was there, at the hospital. She was with the Xarundi. Zarfensis.”

Faxon sank to a nearby bench, running his hands through his greying hair. He looked at Wynn and shook his head.

“That’s not possible, Zarfensis is in prison and Tionne couldn’t possibly abide by the Xarundi. Not after what they did to her family.”

“You’re wrong, Faxon,” Wynn’s voice was too weak to convey the full force of his observation. “She was there and they were working together. They’ve taken Tiadaria. I know it.”

Wynn struggled to sit up and the healers held him down. Faxon leapt off the bench and was standing beside the table Wynn was laying on the next moment.

“You need rest, Wynn. You can’t go after her, not now. Not like this.”

“He’ll kill her, Faxon. You know that. Zarfensis will kill Tia and then he’ll probably kill Tionne too. Is that what you want?”

“No!”

“Then why are we wasting time? We need to find them.”

Somehow, Wynn found the strength to wriggle out from under the insistent hands that were holding him down. Once he was sitting up, he understood why they’d held him down. The room spun around him and threw him into the clutches of vertigo. Faxon had the presence of mind to grab a bucket and hold it in front of the younger quintessentialist before Wynn’s stomach emptied itself.

He drew the back of a singed hand across his mouth and looked at Faxon. Faxon looked back at him and it was easy to read what was so plainly written on his face.

“You don’t think I’ll make it to the door, much less to find Tiadaria,” Wynn said. He saw Faxon wince at the bitterness in his voice.

“You’re in pretty bad shape, Wynn. Why don’t you let me go and look for her? She’ll understand…”

“No. I’m going.”

“Young Master Wynn will need to go on his own, I’m afraid,” a voice said from the door. Both Wynn and Faxon looked in that direction and saw Adamon standing in the doorway. The healers had moved on to another patient, leaving the three of them to work things out.

“Not a chance, Adamon,” Faxon said, nearly shouting. “He can barely stand upright. He’s not going up against a Xarundi and…”

“And?” Adamon raised an eyebrow at Faxon as he trailed off.

Wynn knew that Faxon didn’t want Adamon going after Tionne until he’d had a chance to sort things out. While he wasn’t sure that was sound reasoning, he didn’t really care what Faxon’s motives were as long as they found Tiadaria before something happened to her.

“Nothing,” Faxon snapped. “Either way, Wynn and I are going together.”

“I’m afraid not.” Adamon slipped a rolled paper from inside his robe and handed it to Faxon. “The Head Master has given me authority to conscript any of those who might be beneficial against the blood wraiths. They’re spreading through the city like wildfire.”

Faxon scanned the note and thrust it back at Adamon. Wynn had the feeling that he’d rather have balled it up and thrown it at him.

“So I suppose you’re going to conscript us both then?” Faxon demanded.

“No. Master Wynn doesn’t look like he’d be much use to me in his present condition. You, Master Indra, will report to me outside. There is much to do.”

Adamon turned and walked out the door before Faxon could respond. Faxon balled his fists and Wynn imagined him chasing down the Grand Inquisitor and giving him a sound thrashing. Instead, the elder quintessentialist turned to him, putting his hands on Wynn’s shoulders.

“Find her as quickly as you can, Wynn. If Adamon gets wind that Tionne is involved, it could end badly for both of them. I’m not sure Adamon doesn’t already suspect about Tiadaria. Finding them both together would give him an opportunity to claim collusion, unchallenged.”

“What happened to me not going alone?” Wynn asked, both amused and disgusted by Faxon’s sudden change of heart.

“I’d go if I could!”

Wynn waved him off and watched with sullen detachment as Faxon slipped out the door to join Adamon on his wraith hunt. He slipped off the makeshift bed he was laying on and managed to remain on his feet even though the room swam around him, making him dizzy. Unsteady steps took him to the door, where he looked out on the courtyard that was still smoldering from his ill-advised blast. They hadn’t needed to carry him very far, at least.

Taking the smooth marble steps down into the courtyard one at a time, Wynn tried to remember exactly where Tiadaria had been standing during the final confrontation with the blood wraith. He went and stood in the center of the char mark on the cobblestones. Looking down, he saw the slivers that remained of his staff. He felt naked without it, but there was no time to craft a new one. Though his connection to the Quintessential Sphere would be weaker without the talisman, he’d have to make due.

There was screaming outside the hospital gate. Obviously Adamon hadn’t been exaggerating the depth of the problem. He shook his head, willing his concentration to turn to the matter at hand. He had a limited time to find Tiadaria. Slipping into the Quintessential Sphere, Wynn peeled back the layers of recent memories. He hadn’t been unconscious for very long. A few hours at most. The psychic imprint of the High Priest and Tionne were still strong in the ether.

Staying attuned to the Sphere but turning his eye to the physical realm, Wynn traced the echoes of Tiadaria’s kidnappers to the side of the hospital building where he’d been taken. There was a shattered gate there, obviously torn off its hinges by the powerful Zarfensis. Blood stains inside the gate indicated that bodies had laid there before they were removed.

Outside the gate, the psychic imprint blurred. Tionne and the High Priest had made a passable attempt to hide their passage, but it was clumsy and not very effective. It was almost as if they wanted to be found, Wynn thought. Or maybe they just didn’t care if they were found or not. With the city in panic, it was unlikely that they had much to fear from anyone who might stumble upon them.

Something skittered out of the dark in front of him and Wynn stepped back. The blood wraith was tiny, obviously newly split from a larger host. It extended quivering tentacles toward him. Wynn summoned a ball of flame without thinking, holding it suspended in the palm of his hand in upturned fingers. The wraith hesitated. Wynn had a better idea.

Flattening his hand, he allowed the ball of flame to dissipate and instead called on the forces of time and energy deep within the Quintessential Sphere to freeze the wraith in place. Cocooned in an invisible web of energy, the wraith pulsed in agitation, throwing tentacles against the invisible walls of its floating prison. Wynn lifted it to eyelevel, peering in at the paranormal creature. It looked back at him with menacing black eyes.

Through those darkened orbs, Wynn projected himself. Though enough of him was left outside the wraith for him to find his way back, he found himself consumed with the primordial need for food. The hunger was overwhelming. Only blood could sate the hunger and make him whole.

Ignoring the urge, he pressed deeper into the thing’s limited mind, tracing its connection to the Quintessential Sphere to the point where it had originated. There! Wynn saw what he was looking for. A thin crimson thread snaked out from the wraith, showing him everywhere the spirit had been since its inception.

In a sort of trance, Wynn followed the thread through the Quintessential Sphere. It was slow going. There were many places the wraith could go, both in the physical and the ethereal realm, that Wynn wasn’t able to pass. When he reached those blockages, he’d have to puzzle out where the wraith had gone and then find another way to pick up the trail. It was several hours before he found himself across the street from a seemingly abandoned inn on the outskirts of the city.

At a hoarsely whispered command, the web Wynn had cast around the wraith contracted, compressing the wraith within it. There was a single moment in which the spirit issued a piercing scream, then it imploded and was gone. This inn was where they were keeping Tiadaria. He was sure of it. The protective magic around the building was thick, a roiling blackness that made him recoil in instinctive self-preservation.

Now what? He was certain that Tiadaria and the others were inside, but what could he do about it? He was one quintessentialist against a powerful Xarundi priest and a rogue mage. He might be able to hold them off for a time, but it would take a considerable amount of luck. He wasn’t feeling particularly lucky. He needed Faxon, or even Adamon. Wynn wasn’t at all confident in his ability to mount a heroic rescue. He didn’t feel like a hero. He felt small and insignificant.

Wynn reached over his shoulder for his staff and grabbed only empty air. He remembered then that his staff lie in shards in the hospital courtyard and felt even more alone than he had. Funny that the loss of something tangible could make him feel like everything was in flux.

There was nothing he could do here, not without help. He’d go and get Faxon or at least find a city guard or someone who could help him mount a rescue. He wanted Tiadaria back, but if he tried to do it himself, he’d just end up getting them both killed. He cast one last long look at the building, committing both its features and its location to memory, then he turned to leave.

“Going somewhere, mage?”

The voice was feminine, but had a curious burr to it. He whirled to face it and found himself looking into glowing crimson eyes in a delicately boned face. The woman’s grey skin was smooth as porcelain and her plump lips were twisted to one side in a little smile.

In that moment, the carnal thoughts that invaded his mind pushed all the urgency of finding Tiadaria away. Wynn wanted to know more about this woman. Who was she? Why was she here?

“Um, no, I mean, yeah,” he stammered, overtaken by a powerful compulsion he didn’t understand.

The woman smiled at him and reached down to take the hand that was lying limply at his side.

“Come inside, we’ll talk.”

Somewhere in the back of his head, Wynn knew that he shouldn’t follow this stranger into the inn where he was sure the Xarundi was waiting with Tionne, but he couldn’t make himself care.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tiadaria’s head felt like it was wrapped in thick felt. Everything sounded far away and it seemed to take more effort than it should to breathe. There was a familiar aroma in the air. It smelled old and faintly of spices. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, but it wasn’t immediately offensive either. She managed to open her eyes, just a sliver at first, and then more fully.

The screaming pain of the muscles in her shoulders and arms told her that she was bound, spread eagle, to some sort of upright frame. Her legs were similarly bound. She tested the strength of the bindings, finding no give to work against to free herself. She glanced to the side and saw that she wasn’t alone. Wynn was bound in the same fashion to other pillars in the spacious room. It appeared to be a common room. There was a dusty bar at one end of the room and there were tables pushed to the edges of the room.

What was laying on the bar tore her attention away from the fact that Wynn was there with her. The body of Royce MacDungren was arranged there, his armor torn and tattered. She remembered the russet stains on his armor. They were wet and fresh when she held him dying on the battlefield. Tiadaria had watched the light go out from his eyes and held him until his last breath expired and his soul was released to the Quintessential Sphere. Now his body, the shell of him, was here in this dusty, dimly lit room. Why had they brought it here?

“She’s awake.”

Tiadaria recognized Tionne’s voice. There was a curious roughness to it. The girl had always been quiet, withdrawn. Tiadaria would never have expected the mousy girl from Doshmill to be in league with Zarfensis. Especially not since the Xarundi had murdered Tionne’s family and everyone else in her village. Tiadaria wondered what hold the beast had over the girl to force her into this.

“Very good, then we can begin.”

With a groan, Tiadaria managed to turn to face the new voice. This one she didn’t recognize. It had a curious resonance, as if it was coming from deep down a well. It was sultry and smooth and as the woman stepped into the pool of flickering light cast by the single lantern lit in the room, Tiadaria found that the voice matched her appearance. Her granite grey skin was smooth, etched with the faint white lines of ritual scars. Her eyes were crimson pools that glowed with subdued radiance.

“Who are you?” Tiadaria managed to ask. The effort of forming the words seemed almost insurmountable. She didn’t know what they’d done to her, but her entire body and mind felt as if she was immersed in molasses. The entire world was slower than it should be.

She tried to shift into the Quintessential Sphere and found, without much surprise, that she couldn’t break through the physical realm. Whatever they’d done, they’d made certain that she’d be no threat. Without her weapons or her magic, Tiadaria was at their mercy and they almost certainly had planned it that way.

“Let us complete the ritual and be gone,” Zarfensis snarled. Tia recognized his guttural voice instantly.

“Patience, High Priest,” the grey skinned woman chided. “The ritual is complicated and will take some time. Attention to detail is essential.”

“Get on with it then, Nerillia.”

“Very well. Tionne, bring me the blade.”

When Nerillia approached Tiadaria, she seemed to glide rather than walk. She stopped very near to Tiadaria. Nerillia exuded a strong musk, like the smell of freshly turned earth, that made Tiadaria think of the graveyard where they’d laid the Captain to rest. That was the smell she’d recognized earlier, the smell of the long dead.

Tionne carried a wickedly sharp obsidian dagger to Nerillia in reverent hands. She offered the weapon in upturned palms and Nerillia took it with a nod and a smile. A cold knot of dread settled in Tiadaria’s stomach and beads of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She wasn’t sure what they were planning to do with the knife, but she knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

“Bring the vials, Zarfensis.” Nerillia waved absently at the Xarundi, towering in the background.

“Do not presume to order me, Nerillia. Know your place,” Zarfensis growled, but carried a wooden rack of crystal vials to Nerillia and placed them on a nearby table.

“The ritual requires four vials of blood,” Nerillia said to Tionne, ignoring the Xarundi entirely. “One from the source, one from the one who wields the magic, one from an innocent, and one from someone who was there at the time of departure.”

Tionne nodded, ticking off the requirements on her fingers as she spoke.

“One from the body, mine as the quintessentialist, one from the child we sacrificed, and one from her.”

“Exactly so. Very good.” Nerillia beamed at the girl and Tiadaria felt sick.

“You’re not taking my blood,” Tiadaria said, with far more conviction that she felt.

“Silence, vermin.” Zarfensis raised his hand, about to strike her. An upheld hand from Nerillia arrested his swing.

“You’re in no position to balk us, child.” Nerillia smiled. “Your part in the ritual doesn’t require your participation, only your presence.”

“How are we going to get the blood of the source,” Tionne asked, her face a mask of confusion.

“Why, that part will be the easiest.”

Nerillia went to the Captain’s body and used the dagger to slice away a bloodstained strip of his once brilliant white armor. She returned to the table and tucked the strip into one of the vials. She filled the vial with water from a pitcher and shook it vigorously. The liquid in the vial took on a threatening, ruddy color and Nerillia handed it to Tionne.

“You know this spell, don’t you?”

The girl laughed, her emerald eyes dancing.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Quite well.”

Tionne spoke a few words of magic and the liquid in the vial thickened visibly. They had the Captain’s blood, but what did they need it for? Tiadaria watched as they uncorked a crockery jug, pouring a few drops of congealed blood into another of the empty vials.

“Your turn,” Nerillia said to Tionne, offering the girl the dagger. Tionne took it without hesitation and drew the blade across her palm, cutting a shallow slice that bled freely. She took the vial that Nerillia offered her and used it to collect the blood that spilled from her open wound. Once the vial was filled, Tionne spoke a soft spell and watched the skin close over.

“Now for the witness.” Nerillia motioned to Tiadaria and Tionne advanced on her with a cold malice deep in her eyes.

Though Tiadaria and Tionne had never been close, Tiadaria couldn’t imagine what had happened to the girl to have twisted her into something so completely wrong. True, she’d lost her family, but so had Tiadaria. Tionne, at least, had the advantage of Faxon as her surrogate caregiver. Though he certainly had his idiosyncrasies, Faxon was far more suitable as a guardian than even the Captain had been. She’d loved the Captain, but it had become very clear over the years that he had been training her to fill a role, not filling one she lacked.

With each step Tionne took toward her, the feeling of dread in Tiadaria’s stomach intensified. Tionne laid the cold blade of the dagger against the inside of her wrist and drew it across in a quick slice. Fire raced up her arm into her shoulder and Tiadaria screamed. Blood flowed freely from the severed vein, spilling down her arm and dripping off her slightly cocked elbow before the younger girl held the last vial under the wound, harvesting the life-giving liquid.

When the vial was full, Tionne returned it to Nerillia, who replaced it in the wooden cradle with a gentle touch. Neither of them made any move to staunch the flow of blood from Tiadaria’s wrist, so it continued to flow down her arm and drip off her elbow, making a little pitter-patter sound as it hit the floor.

“Dispose of her,” Zarfensis said. “She’s outlived her usefulness.”

Nerillia shook her head.

“And spoil the surprise? Come, Zarfensis. Where is your appreciation of the dramatic?”

The Xarundi snarled, but said nothing. He skulked into the corner of the room, a shadowed hulk identifiable only by the cerulean glow of his remaining eye.

Tiadaria was getting woozy from the loss of blood and found herself sagging against the ropes that held her to the pillars even though it intensified the pain in her wrist. She desperately wanted Wynn to wake up. She wanted to see him one more time, tell him she loved him, before she died.

Her waning attention snapped back to Nerillia and Tionne when they approached the Captain’s body with the blood they’d collected. The table where the corpse was resting was far enough away from where Tiadaria was imprisoned that she couldn’t hear the words that were being exchanged.

The tone and inflection of Tionne’s voice changed and goose bumps sprang up on Tiadaria’s arms. The sound that came out of the young quintessentialist wasn’t her normal voice. It was the sound of something that came from the Deep Void. Part screech, part howl, the intonation of the words was almost impossible for Tiadaria to understand.

Ultimately, Tiadaria didn’t need to understand the words. The end result of the ritual was terrifying and apparent. As Tionne poured the blood from the vials into an ancient looking chalice on the table, it turned from dark red to a sickening, writhing green-black. The Chalice of Souls seemed to pulse with malevolent power. Tionne lifted it, spoke a few words, and carried it to the head of the table. She tilted it toward the gaping maw where his teeth peeked out from behind rotted lips.

A final word from Tionne sent the mass oozing over the edge of the chalice and into the Captain’s mouth. It raced passed his teeth, distending the paper-thin flesh of the corpse as it wriggled deeper into his body.

At first, nothing appeared to happen. Tiadaria had a moment of hope that the ritual had failed. That whatever Tionne had been trying to accomplish had lacked some crucial component. All those hopes were dispelled when the Captain’s corpse gave a shudder. A moment later, an unearthly keening split the air. If she’d been able to, Tiadaria would have covered her ears to try and escape from the cacophony.

Fortunately, the sound ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. The Captain, or what was left of him, struggled off the table and stood on legs of bleached bone and rotting flesh. Tiadaria felt strange. She felt as if she should be screaming, or crying, or attempting to escape. Instead, she found herself consumed by a numbness that was far more frightening than the resurrected form of the Captain swaying unsteadily before her.

“Can you hear me, Captain?” Nerillia asked, peering at the construct with undisguised curiosity.

The Captain’s jaw moved, the slivers of flesh quivering, but no sound came. He turned his head this way and that, the empty eye sockets aglow with a sinister green light. The lich turned to Nerillia and nodded, the taught flesh creaking audibly.

“I hear you, Daughter of Darkness.”

The numbness that was gripping Tiadaria broke, all at once. His voice, the voice that had taught her so much, the voice that had offered both comfort and rebuke, was still recognizable. It was harsh and had a strange echo, as if he was speaking from across a deep chasm, but it was, without question, the Captain’s voice. Her tears came in a sudden torrential burst that shook her body against her restraints. Tiadaria’s entire body heaved with the support of her grief.

“Little one,” the Captain said, his gaze sliding across Tiadaria. “I remember you.” He slowly turned back toward Nerillia. “Why have you summoned me?”

“We have need of your skills as a fighter, Captain. A great battle is about to begin and we need your expertise in leading the armies of the Imperium.”

“I would enjoy fighting for the Imperium again.”

“No, Captain,” Nerillia corrected him with a sardonic smile. “You will be leading our army against the Imperium. You will be instrumental in the siege of Dragonfell.”

“I won’t,” the Captain growled, the light in his sockets flashing.

“Oh, my dear Captain,” Nerillia laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong. You will do exactly as we demand. Tionne?”

The young quintessentialist jumped at the mention of her name. She had been engrossed by the exchange between her mentor and the lich they had raised from the dead.

“Yes, Nerillia?”

“Give the Captain his orders.”

“Pick up your sword, Captain, and kill Tiadaria.”

Though the blood loss was making it difficult for her to focus, Tiadaria could plainly see the conflict on the Captain’s gruesome face. Whatever magic they had used to bind his soul back into his body, it was plain that he still had all his thoughts and memories. The Captain struggled against the order for a long moment, during which Tiadaria hoped he’d be able to throw off the spell entirely. In the end, however, the lich lumbered over to the table where his weapons were laying and hefted one of the rusted scimitars resting there. The moan that escaped him was a mixture of pain and frustration and Tiadaria closed her eyes at the sudden ache in her chest.

“Now kill the girl,” Tionne commanded again, as the Captain hesitated.

Unable to resist the magic that bound and controlled him, the Captain advanced on Tiadaria with shambling steps. As he approached, she found that she could still sense him. Whatever had happened to his soul since his death on the battlefield, the soul that was bound to the lich was definitely the one that had known her and loved her. That he was trapped in a rotting shell made her more sad than afraid.

“Captain,” she gasped, surprised at how foreign and painful speaking that simple title aloud was. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I must obey, little one. I don’t want to do this, but I must obey.”

The methodical, plodding steps had brought him nearly into striking range. She didn’t have much time. Though she didn’t know she could get through the spell that was forcing him to act, she had to try.

“Please, Sir,” she begged. “Please help me.”

Tiadaria had a sudden flash of memory. She’d been tied up, much like this, to a tree near Cerrin’s wagon. She’d been sure she was going to die then. They had beaten her nearly to death and she had been ready to welcome it. Then, the Captain had arrived and saved her. That’s what she needed from him now, but she wasn’t sure that part of him could prevail against the powerful magic that bound him.

“You saved me once, Sir, from a fate almost exactly like this. Please, Sir. Help me.”

The Captain stopped and peered at her with sightless emptiness and Tiadaria’s sense of hope was renewed.

“I can’t help you, little one. I can’t even help myself. I am damned. As are you.”

With a thrust only slightly less powerful than that of which he was capable in life, he plunged the rusty scimitar into her. Tiadaria screamed as the flesh below her ribs parted, tearing away from the blade as the Captain’s lich ran her through. The icy coldness of shock flashed through her and she tried to fight back the darkness. It was a battle she couldn’t win. Still swaying against the ropes that bound her, Tiadaria passed from the physical realm.

Wynn came to at nearly the same time that the door to the common room exploded, sending a rain of wooden shards into the room. Faxon and Adamon dashed through the ruined door, their eyes blazing with the harnessed power of the Quintessential Sphere. These weren’t mages prepared to defend themselves if necessary. They were ready for war, which is exactly what they got.

Wynn thought Faxon recovered well from the surprise of coming face to face with a dead man. The Captain’s swords were dull and rusty, but still sharp enough to do serious damage. It was then that Wynn realized that the Captain’s blade was already stained with blood.

That he had forgotten about Tiadaria was secondary to the shock that coursed through him when he saw her body slumped limply against the ropes. Blood stained her tunic around a ragged hole in her gut and her arm was covered in a sheen of drying blood. Wynn couldn’t see her face, but her skin was pale and waxy.

His connection to the Quintessential Sphere was there, but it was too far away from him to be able to do anything to help. The Xarundi and his accomplices had planned this attack well. Without their magic, Tiadaria and Wynn wouldn’t have stood a chance against the trio and the Captain’s lich. Only the appearance of Faxon and Adamon improved the odds of their survival. A few city guards followed the quintessentialists into the room, but their presence meant little in the face of a quartet of determined foes.

“Wynn!” Faxon cried, recognizing his former apprentice.

Before Faxon could close the distance to where Wynn was hanging, the Captain had intercepted the quintessentialists. His scimitars flashed out, aided by power drawn from the sphere. Adamon countered with a spell to deflect the blades, pushing the lich off balance as the spell landed. Zarfensis leapt into battle, scattering the city guards with a single swipe of one muscular arm.

Faxon seized the distraction offered by the battle to run to Wynn, using a simple cantrip to sever the ropes binding him to the building supports. Adamon and the guards were holding their own against the Captain and the Xarundi. Tionne and Nerillia were gone. They’d also taken advantage of the initial moment of conflict and made a hasty retreat. Wynn removed the restraints and rubbed his wrists, trying to restore circulation cut off by hours of abuse.

“Faxon!”

With an apologetic glance, Faxon abandoned Wynn and rejoined the fight that was raging around them. One of the city guards was splayed against the wall, his entrails spilled down the front of his obliterated leather armor. The Captain’s lich was a blur of frenetic motion, holding both of the remaining soldiers at bay with ease. Faxon and Adamon had teamed up against Zarfensis, who, despite the missing eye, was providing a more than adequate challenge for the pair of them.

Without his magic to call on, Wynn knew there was nothing he could do to assist either of them, so he turned his attention to Tiadaria. He put his fingers against her throat, feeling for the life beat. He found one, but only barely. It was far too faint and far too slow. She was nearly gone. His stomach leapt into his throat. He lifted her face, prying one eye open. Only the whites showed. She was almost gone.

Wynn, his fingers trembling, untied the ropes that held Tiadaria to the posts. She slumped to the floor between them. It was then that he saw the Captain’s blade had gone straight through her. He couldn’t imagine the kind of damage that would do and didn’t want to. Wynn rolled her over and tore one of the sleeves from his robe, doubling it over into a thick pad which he pressed against the wound in her abdomen. He pressed his hand against the puncture in her back, feeling only a tingle of the link shock that normally bound them together.

There was a roar and Wynn’s attention was torn from Tiadaria to see Faxon and Adamon backed into the corner by the lich and Zarfensis. The other city guards were dead. They’d simply been no match for the horror they had come to face. Wynn could relate. He was torn between wanting to help the quintessentialists and doing what little he could to keep Tiadaria alive. Helplessness and frustration welled up in him, fighting with anger and fear to take control of him. He forced all of his emotions down, struggling not to panic.

Wynn heard Faxon speak in a voice so unlike him that he actually did a double take. The quintessentialist’s eyes were blazing. In one hand, he held a crystal orb. Inside the orb danced formless ivory flames. Faxon brought his other palm down on the globe and screamed a word of command.

The flash that filled the room was blinding. Wynn heard the Captain’s lich scream, an unworldly screech that seemed to come from within the Deep Void and made his skin crawl. The roar that followed was easy to identify as Zarfensis. The air moved around Wynn and he felt something massive strike the wall behind him. A snarl nearby made Wynn instinctively grab Tiadaria and drag her toward where he’d last seen Faxon.

There was a crack, the sound of splintering wood and then silence. A silence so deep and sudden that it was almost as unnatural as the Captain’s lich had been. Wynn blinked a few times, hoping to clear the flash blindness from his vision and finding himself unable to see. Half blind was bad enough, being unable to see at all was maddening.

“Faxon? Adamon?” he called, perversely pleased that his voice didn’t crack as he’d expected it to. “Are you here? Are you alright?”

“Here is one thing,” Adamon’s stern voice answered. “Alright, another.”

“We’re both here and okay, Wynn,” Faxon’s voice had returned to normal.

Wynn shuddered. He’d never seen Faxon so consumed by the power of the Sphere and he wasn’t sure he wanted to again. He’d heard stories of mages that went mad with power, unable to control what they pulled from the Quintessential Sphere. Wynn knew that Faxon was regarded as one of the most powerful quintessentialists of their time, but he’d had no idea to what extent that power ran.

“I can’t see, Faxon.” Wynn turned his head, trying to figure out where the others were by sound. “Tia’s hurt, it’s bad.”

“I know,” Faxon was beside him now. Wynn could feel him on his right. That meant that the presence on his left would be Adamon.

“We have to save her,” Wynn said, almost pleading. “I’m not sure we can stop this without her.”

“Nor I,” Faxon agreed grimly. “Adamon, what can you do?”

“Me?” Adamon’s voice was incredulous. “Nothing.”

“We may not be friends,” Faxon snarled. “But I know your history, Adamon. You were a cleric before you became an inquisitor. You were powerful. A ‘power of the Lyr’ Master Tanglar put it, before you mysteriously quit and never looked back.”

“Please, Adamon.” Now Wynn was pleading in earnest. “Please, you have to save her.”

“Why?”

The mage’s voice was cold and hard. Wynn turned his head to face the sound of Adamon’s voice, staring at him with a sightless eye.

“Why? Because we need her!”

“No,” Adamon countered. “You need her. She is a rogue mage. The flawed product of another rogue mage. As far as I can see, this is justice. She’s been put down by the one who created her.”

“Mages aren’t created! They’re born! You know that she couldn’t control her becoming a mage any more than you could! She was born to the clans, they don’t even recognize our laws. How could she have presented herself to the Academy?”

Wynn wondered why Faxon wasn’t coming to his aid. How could his former mentor abandon him now? When Wynn needed him most?

“She lives here now,” Adamon retorted. “She knows the laws of the Human Imperium, but somehow they don’t apply to her. Just as they didn’t apply to her mentor. Yes, I know all about Captain Royce MacDungren. I know that he was a rogue mage who kept his abilities just out of sight of the King and managed to have enough of the right friends in the right places to evade my censure all those years.”

“So you’re taking it out on Tia?” Wynn screamed. “You can’t!”

“Give me one good reason why.”

“Because he’s right,” Faxon interrupted, his voice slow, low, and calm. “Because she may be the only way that the Captain’s lich can be defeated and the Imperium saved. And you know it.”

There was a long pause and Wynn felt Tiadaria’s body move. At first, he thought she might be coming to, then he felt Adamon shift next to him. His hands were on the body now, lingering at her throat.

“She’s almost gone,” he said, his voice no softer than it had been. “Letting her go would be a mercy.”

“We need her. I need her.” Wynn was no longer pleading. He was stating a fact. He was certain that if they were going to reverse the darkness falling on Dragonfell, Tiadaria would be instrumental to their cause.

“I can’t just bring her back,” Adamon snapped. “That’s not how the Quintessential Sphere works. Every grant must be repaid. I might be able to heal some of the wounds. Maybe, possibly, save her life. You expect me to make her ready for combat. That, I cannot do.”

“There is a way,” Faxon said quietly.

“No.”

“Adamon, it is the only way.”

“I won’t do it, Faxon. You ask too much.”

“I ask only for what is required. I offer myself in tribute.”

“What?” Wynn was lost. His mind adrift on uncertain seas. “Faxon, what are you talking about?”

“Every grant must be repaid,” Adamon repeated, his voice harsher than before. “Faxon means to trade his life for hers. To use the power of the Lyr to take his life and restore hers. And that’s not all he asks. The spell is extremely hazardous to the mage acting as the conduit. Some never recover.”

“Faxon!” Wynn gasped. “No…you can’t. We need you. We need both of you. How are we going to save the city? How are we going to save the Imperium?”

“Tia will have you,” Faxon said and Wynn felt his hand on his shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

The weight of those words seemed to sink like lead in Wynn’s belly. They wouldn’t be enough. He was skilled, but he’d never match Faxon’s raw talent in controlling the forces of the Quintessential Sphere. Tiadaria would need him. His mind turned suddenly back to Ethergate. Standing in the road, Zarfensis’s claws around his throat, unable to do anything but wait for death to come. Waiting for Tia to save him.

“No,” Wynn said suddenly. “Me. Take me.”

“Wynn—”

“Faxon, no. Tia will need you. Who knows how long I’ll be cut off from the Sphere? I don’t know what they did to me and neither do you. You’ll need Tia. She needs me now. Take me.”

“I haven’t even said I’ll do it,” Adamon roared.

“You will.”

“Why is that, Master Wynn?”

“Because you love the Imperium enough to become an inquisitor, Adamon. No matter what you think of Tiadaria, or the Captain, or of me, or of rogue mages, you won’t let the Imperium fall when there is anything you could do to stop it. You may be an ass, but it’s not in your nature to sacrifice everyone for an ideal.”

In the long pause that followed, Wynn was almost sure that Adamon would still refuse. Finally, there was a gusty sigh beside him that told him Adamon had accepted the responsibility.

“Wynn,” Faxon said urgently. “Don’t do this. We’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way. Tia’s out of time. We’re all out of time. Get me to the hospital. Who knows. Maybe I’ll make it out of this.”

“You won’t,” Faxon’s voice was sorrowful. “But I’ll make sure everyone knows what you did here today.”

Wynn swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.

“Quickly, Adamon,” he said. “Time’s up.”

The words that Adamon spoke were unlike any that Wynn had ever heard. He knew the clerics had a language all their own, words of command that came down from the Lyr and the forces of life and light that it drew its power from, but he’d never heard them spoken. In fact, spoken was the wrong word. What came from Adamon’s lips was more of a sung prayer to the power of the Sphere.

A warmth began in the center of his chest and spread out to his extremities as he listened. Wynn thought of when he was young, when his mother would lower him into a warm bath. She’d sing to him then, as she bathed him. He could almost hear her voice now.

He closed his eye, following the voice into the ether, allowing it to carry him up, lift him out of his body. Everything seemed to fade away. The only thing that was left was the sweet melody his mother was singing, leading him into the infinite expanses of the Etheric Sphere.

The voice faded away, an echo of an echo. For the briefest of moments, Wynn was apart from everything and a part of it all. He stood behind himself and took in the room. His hands were still on Tiadaria, holding the makeshift bandages in place. Adamon was beside him on one side, still chanting the words that were channeling his life into Tiadaria. Faxon was on the other, his hand still on Wynn’s shoulder.

Tiadaria’s body spasmed and Wynn felt faint. He saw Tiadaria’s hand move and he knew he could let go. And he did.

CHAPTER NINE

Tiadaria awoke in the middle of a field. She sat up, her head spinning. The ground was oddly soft under her, spongy almost. Climbing to her feet, she glanced around the clearing. Tiadaria knew exactly where she was. This was the training field near the cottage in King’s Reach. It was different though. The colors of the trees and grass were muted, pale imitations of their normal vibrancy. What struck her most was the lack of sound. There were no insects buzzing, no birds singing, and no rustle of wind through the trees. All was still and quiet.

“I was wondering when you’d get here, little one.”

She whirled and saw the Captain, not the weatherworn corpse, but the actual Captain, hunkered down in the grass a short distance away. Tiadaria wanted to run to him, but something stopped her. A hazy memory she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Where are we?”

“The training field,” the Captain chuckled. “I’d have thought you’d have recognized it by now, little one.”

“There’s something wrong. It’s different.”

“Different isn’t wrong. Just different. The Etheric Sphere is a pale imitation of the physical world, in an almost literal sense. Things here are very ‘almost’.”

Tiadaria’s gut went cold, the hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stand on end.

“Are…are we, ‘almost’?” She didn’t really want an answer to that question, but knew it had to be asked.

The Captain nodded.

“Almost dead, or almost alive. Depends on how you look at it.”

“And so we’re here?”

“It would seem so,” the Captain agreed. “I think it’s a place that we both took comfort from in life. Only fitting that we should return here when we are both so close to death.”

The memory that had been evading her materialized. The agony of his blade flashed through her and she clutched her stomach. Then it was gone. She was surprised to find the ugly wound there, but no pain to accompany it. Tiadaria prodded the edge of the ragged gash with an exploratory finger.

“You can remember the pain you felt in life, little one, but you’ll feel no pain here. In time, you’ll forget the wound and it will fade. Or you can choose an entirely different avatar. Boundaries are fluid in the Sphere.”

“You killed me,” she said, her voice soft and ragged. “How could you? I thought—”

“The thing that killed you isn’t me. Not really. It has my memories, my thoughts, my skills and knowledge, but it isn’t me. It is forced to obey whatever commands it is given by the magic that binds it. Without free will, the construct isn’t me. It, like this place, is a pale echo of what I was.”

“I thought you might be able to break through, to save me.”

“Then you were doomed from the start, little one. The only one who can save you is yourself. Didn’t I teach you to stand on your own? That you, and you alone, are the only person on all of Solendrea that you can be certain of?”

“You did.” She faltered, looking out over the clearing and its static trees. She’d have given anything to see a single bird on a branch, or a bee buzzing about the sallow wildflowers that dotted the grass. “But it’s lonely.”

“Our lives are solitary, Tiadaria. We are unique. We alone can stand against some that would seek to tear down the Imperium and its people. In our prime, we don’t have time for others. Our duty won’t permit it.”

“I thought I could have both.”

“Unlikely,” he snorted. “Remaining vigilant requires all our time and resources. Other relationships consume those valuable resources. Think about what brought you here. How much of what you’ve seen could you have prevented, if you had seen it? How much could you have changed if you’d have been present?”

“I never wanted this!” she screamed. “I was just a girl. You made me into what you thought I should be, I never had a choice!”

The Captain shook his head.

“You never had a choice, but not because I took it from you. Would you, could you, stand idly by while the Imperium falls? If you want a choice, make it now. Walk away.”

Tiadaria stood and stared at him. What was this madness that he was speaking? How could she just walk away? How could she allow hundreds or thousands of innocent men, women, and children die just because she wouldn’t take responsibility for their safety?

“I—”

“You can’t. No more than I could. We are breeds apart, Tiadaria. It was your destiny to come to me that day on the executioner’s platform. You were guided by the hand of the Primordials. They had a plan for you. The only choice you ever had was the one you make every day: walk away and let the evil win, or accept your responsibility and fight for good.”

“I’m almost dead. You said so yourself. How can I fight for good if I’m dead?”

“The Primordials move in mysterious ways, child. I suspect that, even now, the others who have accepted their fates are finding a way to return you to the physical realm.”

That thought spurred a sudden panic in Tiadaria. She was so tired. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go back. Here, the pain was over. There, more pain was a certainty. She’d hurt so much for so long.

“What if I don’t go back? What if I stay here? I can do that, can’t I?”

“Of course,” the Captain nodded. “There are few things that can compel a soul to act against its will. You’ve seen one of them. Powerful magic of the Dyr binds me to the rotting flesh that was my body. Those that love you won’t turn to the Dyr. They’ll do what they can to save you, but it is ultimately your decision. You can rejoin or abandon them as you will.”

Tiadaria winced. The Captain’s spirit had the same direct, blunt way of putting things that cut directly to the heart of the matter. He was right. If she chose to stay, not only would she be abandoning her friends, but she’d be walking out on everyone who needed her help. She wanted to see Faxon and Wynn again. She wanted to stand beside them in battle again.

“I want to go back,” she declared.

The Captain chuckled.

“And here you were just complaining that you didn’t have a choice. You don’t have a choice in this either, little one. Your friends will either find a way to save you, or they won’t. You can’t just decide to go back and make it happen, any more than I could decide not to return to my body.”

“Oh.”

“Your friends are very resourceful. I’m sure they’ll succeed.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here. What inhabits the construct is just a part of my spirit, not all of it. I’m stuck between worlds. Half in yours, half in this one. If you make it back out, I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“When you face my construct again, and you will, destroy it. Make sure there is nothing left. I have no desire to be imprisoned again against my will.”

Tiadaria shivered.

“I’m not sure I can, Sir. It’s still you.”

“It’s not. It is an empty vessel filled by a poisonous spirit. I need you to promise me, little one. Promise that you’ll destroy it and free me.”

“Okay.”

“No, I need to hear the words.”

“I promise, Sir.”

Tiadaria swooned as a curious feeling overtook her. She looked up and found that she saw the Captain standing at the end of a dim tunnel. It felt as if she was being dragged backwards through the ether.

“Sir?”

“I suspect your friends have found a way,” the Captain said, smiling.

She realized that this might be the last time she ever got to talk to the Captain she knew. Their last few moments on the battlefield at Dragonfell had been fleeting. There were so many things she’d wished she had said in the years between.

“Sir!” she called. “I loved—I love you.”

“And I loved you, little one. Remember your promise.”

Before she could say anything else, she was tumbling through blackness. All sense of her body was gone, buffeted through all of time, space, and existence as she fell. And fell. And fell. She seemed to fall for days before she noticed a pinprick of light in the distance.

That singular dot was what she focused on, willing herself toward it, out of it. To emerge into the physical world where her friends needed her and she could fulfill her destiny.

Closer and closer she got to the light. It seemed to surround her. It lifted her on its back and carried her across the endless expanses of darkness she had fallen through. Faster and faster they went, until it seemed as if she and the light had merged, hurtling through the darkness.

With a gasp, her eyes snapped open and she looked into Adamon’s pale, waxy face. With a groan, he collapsed beside her and she felt strong hands help her sit up. The hands went to her cheeks, turning her face toward someone she’d recognize anywhere.

“Faxon!”

“You’re alive!” he cried, crushing her to him, threatening to force all the air out of her. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

She managed a rusty laugh.

“I won’t be for long, if you don’t stop crushing me.”

Tiadaria slipped a hand inside her tunic, gingerly feeling the spot where the Captain’s blade had entered her. There was nothing. No pain, no blood, no scar, no indication that she had sustained a wound that could have easily taken her life.

“How—” she began, but Faxon shook his head.

He was hunched over someone else on the floor. Tia didn’t remember anyone else being there, so she skittered around Faxon’s side to see who else was possibly injured.

The sleeves had been torn from the poor soul’s robes. Maybe they’d bled him too, in the same way they’d taken her blood to reanimate the Captain. Her eyes flicked up to the face and what she saw brought everything rushing back.

It was Wynn. Of course, it was Wynn. He’d been there with her, he’d watched her execution. How could she have forgotten? The middle of his robes were drenched in blood. His skin was so white that it was a stark contrast to even his normally pallid complexion. A thin sheen of sweat coated his face.

“Oh no,” she gasped. “Wynn, no. Please, no.”

Faxon scooped the young man up in his arms, like a father would carry a sleeping child. He turned troubled, mournful eyes on Tiadaria.

“I need you, Tia. We need to get both of them back to the hospital and I can’t do it alone. Then we have to figure out how we’re going to save the city.”

Tiadaria took stock of Adamon’s state for the first time since she had recovered. He seemed to be unconscious, his eyes shut tight. However, he was making a low, almost inaudible groan. Bending down, she drew on the power of the Sphere and hefted his body over her shoulder. He was much slighter than she would have expected. His frame was thin under his thick robes.

Faxon nodded to her as she lifted her burden and they slipped through a broken wall out into the night. It was easy to see in which direction her captors had fled. There was a trail of motionless bodies that bore the telltale wounds of claw and blade.

The gentle breeze blowing through Dragonfell brought the smell of smoke. The horizon was dotted with the orange glow of fires burning throughout the city. Though it was the middle of the night, people dashed through the streets, seeking solace from the panic that seemed to be infecting every living thing.

Tiadaria’s eyes lingered on the trail of bodies and Faxon shook his head.

“Later,” he grunted curtly. “Hospital now.”

Faxon strode off without looking back. There was a small part of her that worried that if they left the trail now, it might be much harder to find later, but a larger part of her screamed that they had to save Wynn, no matter what it took to do so. The Captain was wrong. She needed Wynn and somehow, some way, she’d make it work. She could be loyal to Wynn and to herself. Destiny be damned.

Even as she thought those thoughts, her mind turned to the situation in the city. The Captain’s lich was on the loose. It had his thoughts and his memories, the Captain had said, but it wasn’t him. That meant that instead of protecting the people of Dragonfell, he’d be doing the opposite of what he’d done in life. He’d be trying to do as much damage as he could in as short a time as possible. He’d want to spread panic and demoralize.

The palace. He’d be heading for the palace. Tiadaria was sure of it. There were few things as recognizable or iconic as the palace of the One True King. If the Captain were to take the palace, the cost in panic among the citizens could be nigh insurmountable.

Tiadaria was so lost in her head that she almost didn’t realize that she and Faxon had arrived at the hospital. All her tactical analysis and planning faded into the background as they carried Wynn and Adamon into the surging sea of hysterical bodies.

Cleric and healer alike were overwhelmed. It seemed as if there was someone wounded or dying everywhere they turned. They might have spent the rest of the night trying to find care for their charges if it weren’t for Faxon’s powerful bellow demanding instant obedience from the nearest cleric.

The very frazzled, white-haired woman who took Wynn from Faxon’s arms promised him that they’d be well taken care of and disappeared behind a nearby curtain. A healer took Adamon from Tiadaria’s shoulder and then she and Faxon were promptly forgotten. The flood of people ebbed and flowed around them, oblivious to who they were or what they were doing.

Tiadaria was glad to get back outside. Inside the hospital had been an oppressive wall of heat. At least outside, it was cooler and easier to breathe. Faxon stopped at a basin outside the door and used water from a jug to clean the worst of the blood from his hands. The worst of Wynn’s blood. She looked at her own palms and found them remarkably clean for everything she’d been through. Even the cut where they’d bled her for the ritual was little more than a faint white line. Adamon had done well.

“Okay,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t shake when she spoke. “So where do we go from here?”

Tionne wrenched her hand free of Nerillia’s grasp. She planted her feet in the center of the street. She wasn’t going to run. Not now.

“Come on,” Nerillia hissed. “We don’t have much time.”

“I’m not leaving,” Tionne fired back. “Not now. We’ve come too far and done too much.”

“We aren’t leaving,” Nerillia said, grabbing Tionne’s hand and yanking her into the darkness. “We need to rejoin the others at the West Gate. Zarfensis and the lich will be there waiting for us by now.”

Tionne allowed Nerillia to lead her through the night toward the West Gate. Along the way, they saw many signs of the success of their labors. Blood wraiths were spreading across the city like wildfire. There were ravaged bodies strewn across the streets, many showing signs of having been used and discarded during the blood wraiths’ growth.

When they arrived at the gate, Tionne was surprised to find it standing open. Dragonfell was known for the loyal and well-trained guards that watched over the city. To not see them at their customary posts was more indicative of the chaos gripping the capital than anything else she had seen.

True to Nerillia’s word, the lich and the Xarundi were waiting just outside the gate. What the Lamiad hadn’t mentioned was that there would be a huge white dragon waiting for them as well. She stopped at the threshold, trying to reconcile the enormity of the beast with the fact that she knew it was real.

“I remember you,” Tionne said slowly. “There was a white dragon in my dream. I saw you flying over the city.”

“Not so much a dream as a premonition, child.” The dragon turned its arrow shaped head toward her, speaking directly into Tionne’s mind. There was something in the violet eyes that made her want to shrink away from them, to flee back into the city away from that intense regard. “Hasn’t everything you saw in your dream come to pass?”

Tionne spun a slow circle, taking in the destruction around her. The smell of smoke was thick and the sky above Dragonfell was an angry red-orange from the many fires that burned unchecked in the city. It was true. Almost everything in her dream was now a reality. She’d been a part of it. In fact, she’d been instrumental in it. If it weren’t for her command of the Quintessential Sphere, reanimating the Captain’s lich would have been impossible.

“Yes, it has,” she agreed, turning again to look into the dragon’s unsettling eyes. “But what’s next?”

“What’s next is that you finish what you’ve started.” The dragon’s voice was much louder and Tionne sensed from the reaction of Nerillia and Zarfensis that he was speaking to all of them, not just into her mind alone.

“My Lord,” Nerillia began, her eyes cast downward. “Although we’ve managed a foothold, I fear that the blood wraiths and the lich alone will not guarantee our victory and allow us to take the city. Even now, the humans are likely rallying nearer the palace, hoping to fortify that position.”

“I planned for this eventuality, Nerillia. I have an alliance to call upon. High Priest?”

Zarfensis gave the dragon a measured look, as if he was considering an act of defiance. He thought better of it and threw his head back, producing a throaty howl that made Tionne wince at the sheer volume of the sound. No sooner had he finished his ear shattering summons than a mass of black shapes appeared at the edge of the light thrown off by the torches and lanterns along the city wall. A hundred Xarundi warriors and clerics had appeared, their eyes glowing like blue coals in the night. At the head of their company, a massive Xarundi warrior stood in battered armor.

Tionne recognized the armor. It was the armor of the Dragonfell City Guard. The pieces had been beaten into shapes that would conform more closely to the Xarundi’s body. It took two breastplates joined together to cross the Warleader’s chest. More formed a plate skirt and additional protection for his arms and legs. He carried no weapon, relying instead on the wicked four inch claws that extended from each finger and toe. A bit of the old fear that had begun to subside in Zarfensis’s presence found its way into the pit of her stomach and Tionne found herself stepping nearer to Nerillia, as much for comfort as protection.

“Warleader!” Zarfensis bellowed, stepping up to the plate clad warrior. They grasped forearms and nodded to one another before stepping apart.

“It is good to see you alive and well, Your Holiness.” Xenir motioned to the leg the gnome had recreated. “And whole again. You’ve not been idle, I see.”

“No, dear brother. This time, the vermin will not prevail.”

“The swordmage is dead then?”

At the mention of the girl, the Captain’s lich uttered a listless moan. Xenir glanced at the construct but paid it little attention.

“There were…complications.” Zarfensis’s tongue snaked out, licking his maw from top to bottom before retreating. “No matter, with as many Chosen warriors as well as the lich and our spirit army, we will prevail.”

“With a dragon on our side, how can we lose?” Tionne asked.

The dragon snorted, blowing a cloud of dust across the clearing outside the gate.

“I will not be fighting, child. I am far too important to risk in your skirmishes against the humans.”

“But in my dream—”

“In your dream, you saw me leaving the city. This battle is yours to win or lose, but know this, if you lose, you’ll have a far more dangerous enemy to face than the humans.”

The dragon spread his massive wings, causing some of the Xarundi warriors to jump out of the way. Powerful leg muscles bunched and the beast sprang skyward, its wings wafting acrid air down over those assembled outside the gate. Tionne, Nerillia, Xenir, and Zarfensis all looked skyward. Watching as Stryne turned on a wingtip, flew over the westernmost edge of the city, and disappeared into the night.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Tionne said under her breath.

Nerillia looked at her sharply, then burst into laughter. Zarfensis peered at them for a moment, then shook his head and turned to Xenir.

“Xenir, have you planned your attack?”

The Warleader nodded.

“I have, Your Holiness. If you will join us in our assault on the palace, the verm…the others can assist by maintaining the level of panic and disorder.”

“Of course, Warleader.”

At a barked order, the assembled Xarundi fell into groups and started making their way through the gate. Tionne looked on in fascination. She knew she was watching the beginning of the end of the Human Imperium. There was a part of her that knew she should be sad, or angry, or something, but all she felt was the growing exhilaration of battle. No matter what happened, she’d be able to take care of herself. She’d spawned an army and created a lich that was bound to do her bidding. Never again would she have to rely on anyone else and that alone was worth fighting for.

“Keep the vermin occupied,” Zarfensis said to Nerillia as he passed her, on his way to join the last of the warriors passing through the gate.

The High Priest stopped and looked at Tionne. His glance flicked to the Captain’s lich, then back to her.

“If you were my whelp, I’d tell you to die with honor.”

“I don’t intend to die tonight, Zarfensis.”

“No. I don’t expect you do. Fight well, little one, and die well when the time comes.”

Zarfensis and the Warleader passed through the gate, shoulder to shoulder, speaking in the harsh guttural language of the Xarundi. Nerillia laid a hand on her shoulder and Tionne looked over at her.

“Are you ready?” the Lamiad asked. “The swordmage and her friends will be coming. We must prevent them from reaching the palace.”

“I’m ready. Tiadaria may outmatch every other soldier in Dragonfell, but she can’t outclass our friend here.”

Tionne patted the Captain’s lich and again he gave a listless moan. She could feel his essence pulling against the magical tethers that held him in the rotting body, but it was a token resistance. She knew he wouldn’t be able to throw off the spell. It was too powerful. She was too powerful.

Nerillia dropped the cloak she normally wore. She was clad in a wolf hide tunic and breeches, dyed dark as the night around them. A flick of each wrist unraveled a whip looped over each of her hips. As she started back toward the city, the metal tipped ends of the weapons dragged behind her like tails, etching parallel lines in the dust.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at Tionne, a wide smile parting her ruby lips. Her teeth shone bright white behind her smile.

“Come on, then. Let’s put on a show.”

CHAPTER TEN

The steady stream of dead and wounded being brought to the hospital eroded any sense of respite Tiadaria had received from being outside. Time and again her mind tried to pull her back into the curtained room where Wynn was fighting for his life. So far, she’d been able to push her worry and fear to the very edge of her consciousness, but she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to do that. She only needed to make it through the night. Then she could fall apart for however long she needed.

As if the Primordials had heard her and wanted to test the limits of her dedication to remaining sane, Valyn appeared out of the darkness and strode toward them, his lips set in a thin line. There were dark circles under his eyes and a smear of dried blood across one cheek. His left arm hung limply at his side.

“Faxon, Tia! You’re here. Perfect. Things have gone from bad to worse. One of my men reports that around a hundred Xarundi warriors are marching on the palace. The army’s been scattered, the Captain, the current Captain, not that abomination, is dead. Men are deserting their posts. There’s looting, rioting. Blood wraiths are everywhere.”

Valyn paused, drawing the back of his working hand across his brow. He looked back and forth between them before continuing.

“I fear Dragonfell may be lost.”

“Not yet, man,” Faxon said with more confidence than Tiadaria felt, or thought was warranted. “We’ve still got some fight left in us.”

“Right.” Valyn nodded. “I ordered my men to form triple lines around the palace and stationed my best fighters in the hall. They’ll fight hand to hand if it comes to that. More than I can say for the army, the cowards.”

“It’s not exactly just another day on the job, Valyn,” Tiadaria interjected. She couldn’t condone the men abandoning their duties, but she could understand why they would. With every minute that passed, things were looking even more grim.

“No, I suppose not. Even so, we need every man we can muster. Those wraith things are damn hard to kill. I’d much rather be facing the Xarundi. At least I know how to fight them!”

“I might be able to help with that,” Faxon said, turning to Tiadaria. “The ritual Tionne used to animate the Captain’s lich, did she have a chalice? A really old looking cup?”

“I know what a chalice is, thank you. Yes. She took the blood she needed and combined it in the chalice. Then she forced it into the Captain’s body.”

Valyn shook his head.

“What good is a moldy old cup going to do us?”

“That moldy old cup is the Chalice of Souls,” Faxon explained quickly. “It’s probably how they created the blood wraiths in the first place. If we can get our hands on it, we can likely use it to nullify their magic. Might be able to take them all out in one fell swoop.”

“And the Captain’s lich?” Tiadaria asked. Faxon shook his head.

“The lich is bound to Tionne. It’ll return to her for orders and there isn’t anything we can do about it with the Chalice. Let’s deal with one apocalypse at a time.”

“I’m not sure we have time for singular tasks.”

“I agree with Tiadaria.” Valyn waved in the direction of the palace. “My men are loyal, but they’re outnumbered at least two to one. They won’t be able to keep the King safe forever.”

“The King is still in the palace?” Faxon was aghast.

“Of course,” Valyn snorted. “Where else would he be? He was up on the battlement, calling down orders to me before I left him midsentence.”

“Yes,” Faxon sighed. “That’s Greymalkin alright. Damn it! I wish there were an ether gate here. I’ve called up reinforcements from Blackbeach, but they’re coming on horseback. They’ll get here just in time to do nothing.”

“Then we’ll work with what we’ve got,” Tiadaria said, running her finger along her collar.

It was the first time since laying in the snow of the Frozen Frontier that it had felt like a restriction. Her collar had always been a perverse comfort to her, reminding her of the connection she had with the Captain and everything he’d taught her. Now it reminded her that such bonds were all too fleeting. It felt heavier than it should, as if it was weighing her down, which was silly, considering how thin the band was.

Faxon stared at her, his eyes tracking the movement of her finger until she, embarrassed, clasped her hands behind her back.

“Indeed,” Faxon said, his voice curiously absent. “Tiadaria and I will return to the old inn and see if the chalice is still there. We might be able to narrow this war down to a single front. Do you still have runners in your ranks, Valyn?”

The Captain of the Guard shot Faxon a genuine grin.

“Finest and fastest in all of Dragonfell. I can still give orders, or get them, depending on your need.”

“I wouldn’t presume to order you, Valyn. I just make suggestions.”

“That one disregards at their peril.”

Faxon shrugged.

“Maybe. We’re out of time. If you head back to the palace, Tia and I will find the chalice and meet you there. If we don’t find it, we’ll meet you there anyway. That’s where we’ll make our final stand. There isn’t much we can do for the people of Dragonfell now. We’re all going to have to fend for ourselves.”

Valyn nodded, his eyes dark.

“Aye, Master Faxon. I’ll see you there.” He nodded toward her with a sad smile. “Tiadaria.”

He half jogged, half ran off to the north, toward the road that would eventually lead him into the palace cavern, if the Xarundi didn’t get to him first. Faxon was moving before the faint jingle of the clasps on Valyn’s plate had faded into the distance.

“We need that chalice. We can only hope that it’s still at the safe house. Otherwise, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”

“What?” Tiadaria asked, feigning surprise. “Something go right for a change? Madness!”

Her flippant remark must have struck him in his sense of humor. The bark of laughter that burst from him had a slightly hysterical sound to it, but it was, however briefly, the Faxon that she knew. He’d been entirely too serious in the face of this threat. It wasn’t like him. She knew that Wynn’s condition was weighing heavily across his shoulders, but he’d have to learn to keep it at bay like she did.

Tiadaria had thought that retracing their footsteps to the inn would be faster without the added burden of Adamon and Wynn slowing them down, but she was wrong. By all appearances, it wasn’t only the army that was getting out of Dragonfell while they could. The streets were crowded with men and women, some of them with children and belongings in tow, trying to make their way toward the nearest gate. They passed one of the smaller gates and found it snarled with people and their belongings. Fights were beginning to break out. Tiadaria and Faxon quickly went on their way.

“This is going to get worse before it gets better,” she muttered under her breath. “I wish Wynn were here.”

“He was here, now he’s not. He knew you needed to be here instead. Focus less on Wynn and more on ending this.”

Faxon’s voice was almost savage. Tiadaria wasn’t expecting an attack from such a surprising quarter. She stopped short.

“Faxon, stop! Tell me what happened to Wynn.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Tell me, or so help me, you’ll fight this battle alone. What happened to Wynn?”

The quintessentialist rounded on her and where Tiadaria was expecting rage, she was surprised to see tears streaming down his cheeks. Confused, she took a half step forward. When he failed to react, she took a full step, and gathered him in her arms. He put his chin against her shoulder and wept.

Tiadaria was scared. She was always a little scared when it came to battle. The Captain had said that a warrior without a little fear was already dead. However, the sight of Faxon so reduced filled her with a dread akin to a blind panic. Faxon was never this emotional, about anything. He was the stalwart defender, always ready to face death with a quip or a joke.

“Faxon,” she said gently, but urgently. “I need to know what happened.”

He pushed away from her, held her by the shoulders, and nodded. His eyes were still rimmed with red, but he’d stopped crying almost as fast as he’d begun.

“You were nearly dead, Tiadaria. There wasn’t anything else we could do. You’d have been dead before we got you to the hospital. I all but ordered Adamon to switch my life force with yours, through the power of the Lyr—”

“But Wynn wouldn’t let you,” Tiadaria interrupted. Her throat was tight and the corners of her eyes burned with suppressed emotion. “He knew I’d need you, so he sacrificed himself. For me.”

Faxon nodded. Tiadaria scrubbed her palms against her thighs, willing with all her might to keep the tears at bay. If she started crying now, she wasn’t sure she would ever stop.

“Stupid, brave, heroic, coward!” she screamed to no one in particular. “I’d hate him if I didn’t love him so much…and if we manage to live through this, I’m going to murder him. Let’s go.”

Tiadaria was, at turns, impressed and horrified with Wynn’s solution to the problem. He’d come such a long way from the scared boy he’d been in Ethergate, when he couldn’t even fight. He’d sacrificed himself for her and she couldn’t even take the ring he’d proposed to give her. She should have just said yes. Damn it. How much time had she lost because she felt as if her duty and destiny had to come first? In that moment, she hated the Captain as much as she’d hated anyone, ever.

The fire of her rage kept her feet moving in a steady rhythm and before long, they’d made it back to the inn that Tionne and the others had been using as a safe house. Tiadaria entered through the massive splintered hole in the wall and Faxon followed. Once they were inside, Faxon summoned a brilliant light that flooded the entire area.

A patch of dark crimson on the weathered wood showed how much blood had been spilled and Tiadaria had to look away. A cursory glance around the room was enough to tell her that the chalice was gone. The wooden holder and the crystal vials that had held the blood were scattered on the floor. There was no telling who else might have been here in the time between when they’d left for the hospital and now. Looters could easily have made off with anything of value left in the decrepit building.

“It’s not here,” Faxon said, close to despair. “We’ll need to find another way.”

“Just a minute.” Tiadaria said, closing her eyes and slipping into the Quintessential Sphere.

“We don’t HAVE a minute.”

She heard him, but he was muffled, as if she could only hear him down a very long hallway. Instead, she was focused on the itch in her arm where Tionne had laid the blade. There was no scar, no sign of the injury, but Tiadaria could still feel it, and she focused on those feelings, letting the power of the Sphere tug her in the direction it wanted her to go.

Tiadaria felt as if she was being led to the center of the room, where the bloodstain was, so she went to it, standing in its center, still surrendering to the will of the Sphere. She felt a gentle tug in the small of her back, as if an invisible hook were drawing her across the room. She followed the insistent tug toward the broken bar at the end of the room.

Putting her hands on its surface, the same place where the Captain’s body had lay, she tried to decipher what the Sphere was trying to tell her. It wanted her here, at the bar, but she couldn’t fathom why. What was she supposed to do? She pressed further back into the etheric realm, watching the memories slip by as if she was watching time in reverse.

The images were cloudy, obscured by the amount of evil that had been present in such a small pace over such a short period of time. Still, she watched, hoping to find the clue that the Quintessential Sphere was trying to reveal to her. She stopped and watched Tionne feed the Captain’s corpse the blood. Tionne sat the chalice down on the bar as the Captain’s body started to stir. Then the lich came to life, swinging down off the bar and shambling toward the bound Tiadaria.

This was it. This was the moment of her death. This was when she’d found the Captain in the clearing. That’s how they’d been able to find each other. They were both so near to death, but both of them clinging, somehow, to the life they’d had. Tearing her eyes from the scene unraveling before her, Tiadaria glanced at the bar. The chalice was gone, but Tionne and the Lamiad hadn’t yet fled. No one had taken it. It was still here!

“Tia, we don’t have time for this!” Faxon cried as she slipped out of the Sphere.

Tiadaria forced away the nausea that always came with the transition from the deeper parts of the Quintessential Sphere to the physical realm. With a graceful leap, she vaulted the bar, ending up behind it. She knelt, her fingers exploring the darkness where Faxon’s globe of magical light didn’t extend.

Her fingers grazed cold metal. It was much colder than it should have been, accounting for the temperature in the room. Tiadaria clutched it tightly, and wrested it from its hiding place under the bar. She held it over her head as if she’d just been crowned triumphant at some summer game of skill.

The surprise and elation in Faxon’s eyes was enough for her to give a laugh of her own and she rushed around the end of the bar to deliver the artifact to the mage. If he really could use the chalice to end the threat of the blood wraiths, they might have a chance to yet prevail.

No sooner had she passed the chalice to Faxon than they heard a voice at the wall where it had been broken away by the Xarundi’s exit. The voice was soft and sultry, and it was a voice that Tiadaria would never forget as long as she lived.

“Well, well,” Nerillia said, stepping into the room, two wicked looking whips trailing behind her. “It seems that I’m not the only one interested in recovering our party favors.”

“You know what they say,” Tiadaria snapped. “Finder’s, keepers.”

“Not in this case, I’m afraid,” another voice said from outside the wall. Tionne entered, the Captain’s lich only a step behind. “I think we’ll be taking back our little toys.”

“Tia!” Faxon yelled in warning, but her blades were already in her hands.

As the Captain’s scimitar streaked down, her blades flashed out, catching the rusted blade of her former mentor and throwing it away. Another strike came soon on the heels of the first, then another.

Soon, Tiadaria and the Captain were locked in a battle of blades that flashed faster than the human eye could recognize. With Tiadaria occupied, Tionne and Nerillia moved toward Faxon.

“Don’t do this, Tionne. Turn back from this dark path you’re traveling and I promise you that we can find a way to make this right.”

Tionne was, at turns, amused and horrified. The fact that Faxon thought he could make her ‘right’ only showed how little he knew about her or had been paying attention. The last few days had shown her that there was no place for her among the Imperium. Her connection to the Dyr would forever make her an outcast to the majority of their society.

She spared a quick glance to where the lich and Tiadaria were fighting. The swordmage would be far too busy trying to stay alive to meddle in other affairs. Tionne was thankful for that. Though she thought she could fight Faxon and win, she was somewhat frightened of Tiadaria. The flashing blades were something she didn’t understand. Magic, on the other hand, was something she was intimately comfortable with.

“I don’t need fixing, Faxon. What about that don’t you get? Or do you get it? Is that it? That the great and powerful Master Faxon Indra couldn’t fix the broken little girl under his care?” She laughed. “You couldn’t even see me for what I really am. How could you ever think you could fix me?”

He looked away from her and Tionne knew she was getting to him. That was it then. Faxon felt as if he had failed her. Never mind that she hadn’t wanted his help in the first place. He was a fool. She dropped her hands to her sides and hung her head.

“Please, Master Indra,” she said in her best scared little girl voice. “Please, help me.”

As she expected, Faxon took a step toward her, his hands outstretched as if to guide her back to the path of the light. Tionne’s head snapped up, her eyes flickering with the sickly glow of power drawn from the Dyr. She snarled the words of power as her hands snapped forward. Deadly black tendrils shot from her palms, seeking to ensnare and devour the older quintessentialist.

A flick of his wrist severed the tendrils before they could reach their target and Tionne felt the burning backlash of the countered spell between her temples. A blue-white missile streaked from Faxon’s hands, striking her in the shoulder and spinning her around. She screamed in both pain and surprise. Before she could counter, Nerillia had gone on the offensive, striking out with one of the whips.

Faxon countered with one of his own. A whip of gleaming white light formed in his hand and wrapped around Nerillia’s weapon, arresting it mid-strike. He yanked hard on the magical strand, pulling the Lamiad off balance and wresting the weapon from her grasp. He flicked the whip out a second time, wrapping it around the Lamiad’s ankle.

Tionne drew on the Quintessential Sphere and sliced the air in the direction of the whip Faxon was holding. The spell bolt went wide, slamming into the bar and sending a shower of splinters into the air. Before Tionne could do anything about it, Faxon yanked the lanyard upward, picking Nerillia up off the floor. He lifted her until she nearly touched the ceiling, then whipped his hand down, slamming her into the floor so hard that the boards snapped.

“NO!” Tionne screamed. Nerillia wasn’t moving, but she didn’t dare go to her. That would put Tionne directly in Faxon’s line of sight.

Instead, she took her rage and coaxed it out, feeding it with all the memories of her miserable experiences in the Great Tower. Feeling isolated and alone in the Academy. All the times she missed her family. All the times Faxon had treated her unfairly. Every negative experience she could remember, she fed to the raging fire in her belly.

Slipping into the Quintessential Sphere, she called out to the Dyr, feeling its influence in the swirling eddies of magical power that surrounded her. Though the rune was far away, protected by the Xarundi, she felt it answer her call. It had accepted her offering, all the harrowing experiences she had offered it in return for granting her the power to dispose of Faxon once and for all.

He turned on her, his hands full of ivory fire, his lips moving in a silent prayer to whatever lightwalker runes he called on for his magic. Her guttural shout was faster and more powerful than he was expecting. She moved her hands, as if parting an invisible curtain, and the ground split under their feet.

The sudden movement made him stumble. Faxon managed to keep his footing, but his concentration was broken. He cried out in pain and Tionne smiled. She pressed the attack by calling on the power of the Deep Void, enticing the horrors that lurked there to push through the weak spot she’d created in the rift.

Many horrors responded to her call, throwing themselves at the gate, begging for release out into the world. They sang to her, worshiped her, trying to convince her to open a bigger gate. Tionne knew better than to listen to the sweet whispers in her mind. She opened only a small hole in the fabric of the Meridian and coaxed a few of the smallest demons through into the rift she’d created.

A pair of hellhounds clawed their way out of the rift, advancing on Faxon as he prepared another spell. Their blackened hide was shot through with lines of red and orange, their eyes afire with a malevolent red glow. Their slavering fangs extended four inches outside their skeletal maws and dripped with molten fire.

Tionne banished the rift and ordered the hellhounds to attack the quintessentialist. It took every ounce of her power and will to control these creatures from the Deep Void. She struggled to remain in control, for she knew that if she failed to maintain her dominance over them, they’d turn on anything and everyone, including herself. While she relished the thought of Faxon being torn limb from limb, she didn’t want to experience that fate firsthand.

The unholy mongrels leapt out of the fissure and ran toward Faxon. Their ragged howls sounded like a blade drawn along a slate board and made Tionne wince. There was a brilliant flash of light and a braying scream of pain from one of the hounds. It spun across the floor, a smoking hole in its side where Faxon had hit it.

He wasn’t fast enough to deal with the other, however, and it jumped on him, plowing headfirst into the man’s chest and knocking him backward. Powerful jaws snapped at Faxon’s neck. He was inches from a gruesome death and Tionne found all her muscles tensed with both the effort of will and desire to see him die.

Somehow, he managed to wedge an arm between the beast’s jaws and his neck. The hellhound clamped down on his arm, small gouts of fire bursting from both sides of the creature’s mouth. Faxon screamed. The arm of his robe had burst into flames and was dangerously close to searing the hair from his face and scalp. His face contorted in a mask of agony, he forced the beast back, using his own arm as a lever.

The other hellhound, having heard the scream of prey, had gotten back to its feet and slowly circled the pair on the ground. Its wounds were bad, but not mortal. There was still a considerable amount of fight in the beast. Tionne could feel it through her link.

She could also feel the link to the Captain’s lich. It’s battle with Tiadaria had reached a breakneck pace. Their strikes and counterstrikes landed so fast and furious that the blades threw off showers of magical sparks where they clashed against each other. Fresh blood stained Tiadaria’s clothes where the Captain had gotten in a few lucky hits. Likewise, the lich was looking even more ragged and shabby than when they’d reanimated it. Tionne dared say that Tiadaria probably had the upper hand in that fight, so she better dispose of Faxon and be gone before she’d destroyed the lich.

Taking advantage of the moment of respite offered by the hounds’ relentless attack on the quintessentialist, Tionne darted over to Nerillia and fell to her knees. The Lamiad’s eyes were closed, but her chest moved with breath, so Tionne knew she was still alive. The girl pressed her fingers against the smooth grey neck and felt for the beat. It was there, slow and strong.

Assured that Nerillia was as fine as could be expected, Tionne turned her attention back to the battle. The second hound had darted in, trying to latch its powerful jaws onto Faxon’s leg. Though his face was sheened with sweat, he’d managed to land a crushing kick to its skull. There was a crack and the hellhound’s head split down the center. It wavered, dead on its feet for a moment, before it burst into sparks that quickly faded to ash.

The beast that had latched to Faxon’s arm hadn’t lost any of its drive to kill. It had slid further down his arm, toward the wrist, tearing the robe away from his arm. She could see deep furrows where the fangs had torn into his flesh and blisters where the hellflame had seared the skin. The smell of charred flesh was heavy in the room.

With a roar that Tionne wouldn’t have believed had she not seen it, Faxon summoned a globe of lightning that danced around the fingers of his free hand. He slammed it into his other arm, where the jaws of the hellhound were firmly latched.

Faxon’s roar turned into a scream of agony as his own weapon raced up his arm into his shoulder and beyond. The luminescence in the quintessentialist’s eyes faded and Tionne knew that the pain had knocked him out of his commune with the Quintessential Sphere. His gambit had paid off, however. Spears of light shot out from cracks in the remaining hellhound’s sides. It yelped, then collapsed in a shower of dust just as its brother had done.

Cradling his ravaged arm to his chest, Faxon had managed to sit up. Tionne took a step toward him, calling on the power of the Dyr to imbue her with pestilence and disease that she could spread to her former guardian and seal his fate. There was a curious tingle in her hands and Tionne glanced down to see hundreds of tiny black-green spheres scuttling back and forth over her skin like hungry insects.

A cruel smile twisted her lips and she walked to the edge of the break in the floor. There was nothing he could do to her now. Without being able to call on his own power from the Sphere, he was no threat to her. She’d always known she was more powerful than he. Now she had proof.

“This is how it ends, Faxon. You die by my hand, knowing that you failed. You failed to ‘fix’ me. You failed to turn me to the foolishness you lightwalkers regard as truth. You failed to save the Imperium. You’ll die as a failure, a foolish, old, useless man.”

“There’s something I have that you’ll never have, Tionne.” Faxon managed to gasp the words through teeth clenched in pain. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Friends,” he grunted.

Tionne whirled, aware that the sounds of the sword battle Tiadaria was waging against the Captain’s lich had gotten much closer. She turned just in time to see Tiadaria’s blade flash out. Time seemed to slow as the razor sharp weapon moved inexorably toward her throat.

At the last moment, the lich’s rusted scimitar crashed down on Tiadaria’s blade, turning it and forcing it lower. The flat of the blade slammed into Tionne’s chest, throwing her across the room. She crashed into the far wall, her teeth coming down so hard on her tongue that she almost severed it. She spat blood and forced herself to her knees.

The battle was lost. The chalice was on the floor beside Faxon and there was no way she could get to it before Tiadaria was able to take another swipe at her. Tionne couldn’t count on the lich to be able to protect her from another blow. She’d been damn lucky as it was. She glanced in their direction.

Tiadaria and the lich were still locked in battle. Tionne didn’t know how much time she’d have, but she knew when to retreat. She skittered across the floor like a crab, wincing at the pain in her chest. Lifting Nerillia’s body by the shoulders, she dragged her toward the hole in the wall where they’d entered.

Tionne was suddenly very tired. The strength she’d expended to keep the hellhounds in check was now endangering both herself and Nerillia. They needed to leave and they needed to leave now. With a primal scream, Tionne summoned every last bit of strength and pulled the Lamiad through the hole and out into the night.

They’d given the Xarundi enough of a head start. She’d find a way to wake Nerillia, then they’d go to the palace. Once the King had been executed in front of his subjects and the palace cavern returned to the dragon, where the chalice was and who possessed it wouldn’t matter in the slightest.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Metal clashed against metal. The shock ran up Tiadaria’s arm into her shoulder. Her scimitar dropped from numb fingers. Her entire arm felt as if it had been plunged into ice-cold water. Though the lich’s muscles were atrophied, and in some places in tatters, the power that reanimated it also gave it at least as much strength as the Captain had possessed in life. She was forced to defend with her less dominant hand. That always made her feel slower and more exposed, something the construct of the Captain obviously remembered.

“Come, my little one, you can’t keep this up indefinitely. Faxon is injured. Go to him and I’ll allow you to die together.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not so little anymore, and I don’t belong to you.”

She punctuated her retort with a spinning kick to the Captain’s middle. The blow knocked him off balance and his scimitar dropped for a moment. Tiadaria swung from the shoulder, sacrificing agility for raw power. If she was going to dismember the horror before her, she needed to be able to cut through bone.

The Captain dodged to one side with a deft feint, bringing his sword around backhand and slicing across her shoulder leaving a jagged gash. Tiadaria cried out from the fire that crossed her back. A skeletal foot in a tattered boot slammed into her ankle and it buckled, throwing her sideways onto the floor.

The scimitar, jarred by the hard landing, slid across the rough planks. Face down and weaponless, she was in a terribly vulnerable position. Tiadaria rolled onto her back, just in time to dodge the whistling blade that embedded itself in the wood inches from her ear. She took advantage of the time it took for the Captain to pull the blade free to roll away from him and recover her weapons.

“And yet you still wear the collar. Why is that? Still longing for someone to take care of you? Are you still too young and inexperienced to take care of yourself?”

She launched a series of lighting quick strikes, which he countered with ease. His bony hand flashed back and forth, knocking each of her blades away with no apparent effort.

“Two blades, and still no match for me,” the Captain taunted her. “I thought I taught you better.”

Tiadaria knew he was trying to get into her head, to make her doubt herself. Logically, she knew that, but the more he said, the more she started to wonder if there was a kernel of truth to his taunts and jibes. Maybe she hadn’t learned enough to hold out against him. Maybe she really was too weak and too slow to win this fight.

“You’re so tired. All you need to do is put down your weapons and let me end it. Quickly, painlessly. Your suffering will be over. You can join your little friend. The one who foolishly sacrificed himself so you might live.”

“He’s not dead. We took him to the hospital. They’ll save him.”

The Captain laughed. His hollow voice echoed deep in his rotted chest. He waved his free hand, the tattered flesh twitching back and forth with the motion.

“Of course he’s dead. He was dead before you ever reached the hospital. Faxon knew. He had to have known.”

Tiadaria’s eyes darted to the quintessentialist, who lowered his head. She wanted to scream at him. Wanted to demand that he deny the accusations. What the Captain said couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She hadn’t even had time to say goodbye. She hadn’t had time to tell Wynn everything she needed to tell him. They were going to be married. They were going to spend the rest of their lives together. All of this would be over soon and they’d be able to start over and make it work the way they should have from the beginning.

“He isn’t dead,” she said defiantly, her eyes blazing. “You can’t know that. You’re trying to get inside my head and it’s not going to work.”

Once again the Captain laughed, the sound grating on Tiadaria’s nerves and raising gooseflesh on her arms.

“Poor Tiadaria. Your friend is most assuredly dead, young Tiadaria. I am a part of the Dyr. Don’t you think I felt it when he died? From a wound that I inflicted, no less. A wound that was meant for you. He sacrificed himself to allow you to live, for all the good it did.”

The seed of doubt found fertile soil in her soul, sending out black tendrils that burrowed into her heart and mind and made it feel as if her blood was freezing in her veins. Wynn was dead. Somehow, now that she’d heard the words, it was impossible to deny them. It was as if hearing them aloud had made them real. As if in speaking of the deed, the Captain had sealed the fate of the man she loved. Tears sprang to her eyes and she swiped them away, remembering to stay on guard against any attack the Captain might make.

“Poor Tiadaria,” he taunted her. “Everyone she’s ever loved is either dead or has abandoned her. I’m dead. Her friend is dead. Faxon will soon be dead. How many others will die tonight because of your shortsightedness, Tiadaria? How many will pay the price for your inattention to your duty?”

Even as he spoke, Tiadaria’s thoughts turned toward Valyn and the King. How many would die because she hadn’t anticipated the threat? The currents and eddies in the Quintessential Sphere had to have been there for her to see. If she’d been closer to the capital, maybe she’d have seen or heard something that could have prevented the hundreds of deaths she’d seen tonight. Maybe the Captain was right. Maybe she had turned her back on her destiny. The people of Dragonfell, of the Imperium, deserved better. Her swords wavered in shaking hands.

“That’s right, Tiadaria. Just lay down your weapons and you’ll never be troubled by this again. I shouldn’t have interfered that day on the executioner’s platform. His blade would have been a kindness. You wouldn’t have had to felt so much pain to get to where you are right now.”

She remembered that day as clearly as anything in her life. The sky a crisp blue and the sound of songbirds singing in the trees at the edge of King’s Reach. Despair flooded through her. Perhaps she would have been better off on the chopping block. She’d at least have been free. No longer a slave to her destiny, her duty, or her honor.

“Tiadaria, don’t…listen to him,” Faxon’s voice was harsh and filled with agony.

She dared another short glance at him. His arm was mangled, the bloodstained ivory of bone showing through in some areas where the hellhounds’ fangs had torn his flesh away. He was blistered and burned and far too pale for him to be conscious, much less alive.

“Faxon, please!” She pleaded with him, unsure of what she was asking him for, only that she needed him. If Wynn was truly gone, she needed him now more than ever.

The quintessentialist pushed himself slowly to his knees, then to his feet. The Captain’s lich took a step toward him, but Tiadaria’s blades crashed down on his, shoving him back away from the crippled mage.

“Don’t listen to him, Tiadaria.” Faxon sounded stronger now, though he looked no better than he had a moment ago. “The Captain was proud of you. You’ve done nothing to tarnish his expectations of you. This…thing…is the twisted echo of every negative aspect of the man you loved. He’s using the power of the Dyr to try and cloud your memories. Fight him. End this now and we might still have time to save the city.”

“Faxon always was an idyllic fool. You can’t defeat me, little one. Your mentors are dead or dying, everyone else has abandoned you. You have nothing. Curl up and die. Why suffer more than you need to?”

“Pain is the fire in which resolve is tempered,” Tiadaria said quietly. “You told me that. Before they forced you to become this perverted wretch.”

“A badly tempered blade is worse than no blade at all,” the Captain snarled.

“My will and resolve are tempered by something you can’t understand. There is no love without pain and no pain without love. You’ll never know love again, Captain, and I’m sorry for you…but you will know pain.”

Channeling her memories of the Captain, of Faxon, of Wynn, of a hundred different moments in which her love had caused her pain, Tiadaria called on the power of the Quintessential Sphere. Its essence flowed into her, buoyed her, lifted her above the sickening miasma that the Captain had tried to use against her.

Tiadaria ran toward the lich, her blades held out in front of her like a pachyderm’s tusks. A condescending smile crossed the Captain’s ruined face and he brought his blade around, meaning to sever her head from her shoulders. At the last moment, she leapt, clearing the sweep of his blade and coming down inches from him, too near for him to defend.

She thrust her scimitars up into his chest, tears streaming down her face. The blades entered the wound where the Xarundi had killed him so many years ago and grated against the spine. Tiadaria forced the blades together, severing the spine and tearing the rotted flesh and tendons that held the body together. Severed below the ribcage, the top half of the body collapsed to the floor, still clawing at her with one moldering hand.

Drawing back one of her blades, she buried it in the Captain’s skull, splitting it down the center. The seat of the magic disrupted, the lich collapsed into a pile of broken bones and desiccated flesh. Whatever part of it had once been the Captain was gone, forever.

Tiadaria sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face. There were tears of relief mixed with tears of grief and pain, but she knew she had little time for any of them. They needed to get to the palace and save the king from the Xarundi menace that was almost on their doorstep, if they weren’t there already.

A groan from behind her cut through the fog of emotion and she rushed to Faxon, deftly leaping the chasm that Tionne’s magic had caused. The mage was in poor shape. He was covered in sweat and his eyes showed far too much white to be healthy or proper. He was going into shock and Tiadaria didn’t know if there was anything she could do for him.

“I don’t know how to help, Faxon.”

“Forget about me,” he countered gruffly. He motioned to the corner of the room with his other hand. The chalice was resting in the corner. “Get me the Chalice of Souls. We don’t have much time.”

“Faxon! You can’t cast in this condition. You’ll die.”

“We’ll all die if I don’t. We all have sacrifices to make.”

“Faxon! No! Please! I can’t lose you too.”

“And you won’t, if you help me, but we’re running out of time. The chalice, swordmage, now.”

It was the first time that Faxon had ever called her that and the surprise spurred her into movement. She ran across the room, snagged the chalice, and brought it back to him. Faxon had sunk back to his knees, unable to remain standing.

“Hold it tightly. No matter what happens to me, don’t let go. Just focus on sending the blood wraiths back from where they came.”

“Faxon—”

“No arguments, Tiadaria. Focus!”

Tiadaria screwed her eye shut and focused on the blood wraiths being tossed back into the abyss of the Deep Void. As she concentrated, her hands where she clutched the metal started to get cold. She felt the coolness of Faxon’s hands over hers as he intoned a complicated spell. With each passing iteration, the metal seemed to grow colder and colder, until it was burning her flesh.

It felt as if the chalice were molten in her grasp. She screamed in pain, her eyes snapping open to see a stream of red wisps flowing into the safe house through the broken doors and windows and through the massive hole in the wall. They slipped into the chalice where they disappeared in a whirling vortex of blackness at the bottom.

Faxon’s chant had reached a hysterical pitch and Tiadaria held on to the chalice with every ounce of willpower she could muster. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, the last of the red wisps was sucked into the chalice and there was a brilliant flash at the bottom of the cup. They released it at almost the same time, nearly throwing it from them. It hit the floor, rolled toward the chasm, and tipped over the lip, disappearing from view into the darkness.

Tiadaria knelt by the quintessentialist, who lay on his back, his injured arm clutched to his chest. She prodded his shoulder with an experimental finger.

“I’m still here,” he said, from what seemed like a considerable distance. “Go to the palace. Now, before it’s too late.”

“I can’t leave you, Faxon. Please.”

“You can and you will. You need to stop the Xarundi. Go.”

Tia got to her feet, brushing her palms against her tattered breeches. She gathered her scimitars and turned toward the door.

“Tia?” Faxon called.

“Yes?”

“If you see a healer, I’m not too proud to be carried back to the hospital.”

Tiadaria couldn’t help but chuckle. She promised to send help and slipped out into the night, heading north toward the palace and the Xarundi. Whether or not Tionne was there too, this was going to end and end now, before anyone else had to die.

As it turned out, finding a healer to attend to Faxon wasn’t a problem. It appeared as if the ritual that he had invoked using the chalice had indeed rid Dragonfell of the last of the blood wraiths. Rotting husks dotted the streets, but none of them appeared to be moving. She checked on one or two as she passed, but finding nothing to be concerned with, hurried on. The city guards were returning to their posts, and with them a host of clerics and healers who were doing their best to attend to those who couldn’t make it to the hospital or a healing house for treatment. Tiadaria paused long enough to give directions to where Faxon was and urge haste, then she continued on her way toward the palace cavern.

The nearer she got to the northern quarter, the more signs of combat she saw. Valyn’s men might be outnumbered, but they were fighting for their lives and the lives of their King. The bodies of slain Xarundi warriors lay where they had fallen, indicating that the city guard was forcing them to stay on the move. Otherwise, the Xarundi would have reanimated the corpses for use in their attack. That much, at least, gave her heart. If the Xarundi couldn’t use their fallen to their advantage, the guards might have a chance yet. She’d seen a few human casualties, but not as many as she would have expected from a surprise assault.

Tiadaria was near enough now that she could hear the unmistakable sounds of battle. The ring of metal against claw and the shouts of the engaged combatants was amplified by the echo bouncing back from inside the cavern. The Xarundi hadn’t yet breached the line and the city guards were fighting valiantly to keep them out of the cavern and away from the palace proper.

Glancing up toward the battlements, Tiadaria was unsurprised to see King Greymalkin pacing the parapet between the largest turrets. Every now and again he’d pause in his rounds to shout something down to the fighters below. If she knew Greymalkin, he was probably yelling down encouragement or what he thought was the best tactical advice.

Quickly scanning the cluster of Xarundi warriors outside the cavern, Tiadaria decided that Zarfensis and the Warleader must be inside. Though fearsome in their own right, the warriors outside were all young, without the size or experience to make them truly intimidating. If this was all that was left of the Xarundi Combine, Tiadaria understood why there were so many dead lupines and so few of their own casualties.

None of the younger Xarundi were watching their flanks. They were so focused on pressing into the cavern that they were throwing themselves past each other toward the human lines. Archers, high atop the palace walls, were picking off those who strayed too far from the pack with deadly precision.

In no immediate danger, Tiadaria took a moment to take a deep breath and ready her weapons. She wished, for the umpteenth time that night, that she’d been in her customary armor. The witchmetal rings provided a sense of safety and security that she found soothing in combat. No sense in worrying about it now, however. She’d have to rely on her skill and speed to make it through without losing any more of her skin.

Tiadaria tightened the grip on the scimitars, feeling the familiar bite of the steel deep within her chest. The pain was a welcome reminder that things were as they had always been. She was a powerful warrior and would prevail with the unfaltering assistance of the Quintessential Sphere. She began to run.

Each pounding footstep brought her closer and closer to the writhing mass of Xarundi warriors. Her boots pounded out an equal rhythm to her heart as she closed the distance between them. She jumped, exploding upward with the assistance of the Sphere, and angled her blades down for the first strike.

Ten feet above a knot of Xarundi warriors, she picked her targets and ensured that none of the city guards were near enough to be struck down by her attack. Tiadaria dropped like a stone, her enchanted blades slicing easily through fur, flesh, and bone. Two warriors died instantly, divided in half from the tops of their head to their bellies. She yanked her blades free and struck out at two new targets.

Each arm acted independently of the other, seeking out and dispatching targets seemingly of their own accord. Tiadaria was only vaguely aware that she was making conscious decisions on where to strike and when. She had opened herself to the Sphere, making her body a conduit for the will of the Primordials who would see light and justice prevail over the darkness.

Claws raked down her back, rending flesh and spilling her blood on the cobblestones underfoot, making them treacherous to stand on, much less fight on. The pain knocked her out of her commune with the Quintessential Sphere and she was forced back into the here and now. She dodged away, trying to ignore the ribbons of fire that spread from her left shoulder to her right hip.

Pushing the pain to the back of her mind, Tiadaria waded back into the fray, dealing death to as many Xarundi as she could reach with her wicked blades. Claws tore at her, sometimes cutting narrow fissures in her flesh, but none of the injuries, save the one on her back, gave her much pause. After a time, she was covered with so much blood that it was difficult to see where theirs left off and hers began.

A change in the quality of sound cause Tiadaria to do a quick scan to reassess her surroundings. They were inside the cavern now, in the sandstone courtyard that led up to the wide steps that entered the palace. The number of human casualties was much greater here. The bodies of fallen guards littered the courtyard and the steps leading up to the palace.

A peculiar glean on the stairs caught her eye and she turned in time to see Zarfensis kick out at Valyn with his mechanical leg. The Captain of the Guard was unfortunate enough to catch the blow directly in the chest. His breastplate buckled and he sailed down the stairs, crashing into the retaining wall that circled the fountain in the center of the courtyard. Even from this distance, Tiadaria could see the stamped impression of Zarfensis’s foot in the breastplate. If Valyn were very lucky, he’d have only some interesting bruises to recount the tale. If he weren’t so lucky, it could be much worse.

Zarfensis turned toward a quartet of city guards who were clustered by the doors to the palace. Tiadaria spied the Warleader, being harried by another group of loyalists not too far away. The High Priest was, without question, the greatest threat at the moment, so she set out to intercept him.

Dodging and weaving across the courtyard, Tiadaria deftly outmaneuvered the younger Xarundi warriors and killed the older ones who had more skill and experience. Forces on both sides of the conflict were thinning now, making it much easier to move without being penned in on all sides by flesh of one type or another.

Tiadaria reached the foot of the stairs just as Zarfensis plunged his claws into the stomach of the last guard standing between the High Priest and the door. He ripped out the man’s entrails, lifting them up to the young man’s line of sight before kicking the not-quite-dead body away from the door.

“You go no further, Zarfensis,” Tiadaria said as his massive hand wrapped around the handle.

The High Priest turned on her, his eye blazing. Saliva dripped from exposed fangs, his matte-black claws glistening with blood.

“You? Again? Quit while you’re ahead, girl. You may have survived our previous encounters, but we’ve already won. Look around you.”

Keeping her other senses trained on the High Priest, Tiadaria took a quick look at the courtyard. Most of the city guard had fallen or fled. Those that remained were outnumbered, though they were fighting bravely.

“I see young warriors who lack experience and discipline. They’ll break and run home with their tails between their legs as soon as I slaughter their leaders.”

“A prideful boast, child. Do you really think you can back it up?”

Tiadaria was done talking. She leapt forward, blades flashing out to strike at Zarfensis’s neck. He was fast and managed to deflect the blades with his long claws before launching a counterattack. Their weapons rang off each other, filling the cavern with the sound of their frenetic combat and the echoes that it spawned. Strike, feint, strike, parry. They ranged up and down the stairs, trading blows.

Zarfensis’s tongue lolled out of his mouth to one side, the panting told Tiadaria that she was at least an equal match for the High Priest, though she was sweating too. The Xarundi began to speak the words of a spell and she slammed the flat of her blade into his side, breaking his concentration as well as a couple ribs. She remembered his skill with spellcraft from Ethergate and she’d not let him gain that advantage over her.

His backhanded swipe caught her in the throat, his claws glancing off the witchmetal collar. Suddenly, it was biting into her throat, cutting off breath she so desperately needed. She gasped, dropped her scimitars and clutched at her throat, trying to force her fingers between the band and her skin. She knew it would expand to its normal size soon enough, but soon enough might very well be too late.

Tiadaria fell to her knees, only too aware of how close the Xarundi was and how sharp his claws were.

“Now, swordmage, you die.”

Zarfensis raised a massive hand. One swipe of those long claws would open her from head to toe, much like she had ended the first Xarundi warriors she’d come into contact with. Her vision was starting to go grey around the edges and she thought, with bitter irony, that it would be a fitting way for her to die.

The collar suddenly expanded, letting air rush back into her starved lungs. Her chest burned, both with tension and pressure, as she tried to catch her breath. Zarfensis had begun his downward stroke and Tiadaria watched in a sort of horror intensified slow motion. There was a spray of blood, and a crossbow bolt appeared in Zarfensis’s shoulder, knocking him off balance.

Tiadaria glanced over her shoulder and saw Valyn, his back propped up against the fountain wall, with a crossbow between his legs. He flashed her a feeble smile and raised a thumb. She quickly snatched her swords up from the ground, crossing them in front of her to protect against another attack that would make her vulnerable to her collar.

Zarfensis reached up and snapped the shaft of the bolt, howling in pain. Though it had sunk deeply into the flesh, it seemed not to affect him at all. He flexed the arm with a grimace, but it was easy to see that he still had almost full control over the limb.

He closed on her with a bound, his mechanical leg whining with the stress of his rapid movement. Tiadaria watched his chest and when he was fully committed to the charge, dodged away at the last moment. She drew her blade along the top of the High Priest’s good leg, and she felt the blade grate against the bone.

There was a spray of blood and a howl of agony. Zarfensis collapsed to the stairs, unable to stand. Not even the mechanical leg could make up for such a terrible wound. He rolled onto his back, looking up at her with a hateful eye.

“Vermin filth,” he snarled. “Strike me down, make me a martyr for my people.”

Zarfensis tried to swipe at her, but she easily cut through the tendons in his elbow, leaving him lying limp at her feet. He was no longer a threat. If she left him this way, blood loss would claim him in a matter of minutes.

Tiadaria went to one knee by his massive head.

“A martyr for who? Look around you before you die, High Priest.” She waved a hand at the courtyard. There were still a few small groups of city guards making their way through the fallen, checking for survivors, but the Xarundi were gone. True to her prediction, they’d broken and run when the tide of the battle had turned. “Even your Warleader has abandoned you. There are none left. The few Xarundi who have survived will be hunted down in the days and weeks to come. You are the vermin now.”

“You’ll never break the Chosen, vermin. We are your rightful masters.”

“You are the masters of nothing and I’ll ensure that you and those like you, are never a threat to the people of the Imperium again.”

“We won’t stop. Not until every last one of us is dead.”

“That can be arranged.”

Tiadaria got to her feet and swung one blade, parting the High Priest’s head from his neck. She stepped out of the way of the pooling blood, letting it flow down the stairs. She watched the fire in the one remaining eye flicker for a moment, then die out.

“That’s for the Captain,” she said quietly.

She sank to the steps, her swords dangling between her knees. She glanced over at Valyn, who was still propped up against the fountain. Tiadaria wondered if he felt as bad as he looked. Then she took stock of her own wounds and realized that she didn’t look much better.

There was a creak at the top of the stairs, and King Greymalkin poked out his head and looked around before casting the door open. He stepped out, leaning on his cane for support. He slowly made his way down to where Tiadaria was sitting. He nudged Zarfensis’s head with one slipper clad toe.

“It would seem that you’ve saved the day again, Lady Tiadaria.”

Tiadaria didn’t answer, she just waved toward the courtyard, where the men were gathering their dead. Greymalkin nodded.

“Many sacrificed themselves for the greater good today. That’s true. However, without your particular set of skills, would they have won the day?”

“Maybe.”

The King snorted.

“You know better. Come see me after you’ve settled your affairs. We should talk.”

Without waiting for her to answer, the King moved down the stairs in his shuffling gait. He stopped to talk to Valyn, who had managed to get to his feet, though he was leaning heavily on the fountain for support.

Tiadaria was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to find a bed and sleep, but she knew her duties weren’t quite finished. She needed to find Tionne and the Lamiad and she needed to check in on Faxon. Then…she paused, not wanting to even think the painful reality. Then she had to see if what the Captain’s lich had said about Wynn was true.

There was still more pain to face today. Tiadaria struggled to her feet and wandered, mind numb, out of the cavern. The sky was tinged orange and pink, but not with the fires that had ravaged the city. Dawn had come, kissing Dragonfell with its gentle golden caress.

A new day was beginning.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“I must look worse than I thought,” Tiadaria quipped as a cleric ushered her into a curtained cubicle.

The cleric uttered a vague platitude, the kind that seemed to only come naturally to healers and politicians. She cleaned the worst of Tiadaria’s wounds with a bedside manner as sterile as the building they were in. Then she went out through the curtain, leaving Tiadaria alone with her thoughts.

“No, I won’t calm down,” a familiar voice bellowed from the opposite end of the ward. “I’m injured, not an invalid!”

Tiadaria smiled to herself. Faxon was obviously fine. Or near enough to fine that she needn’t worry about his recovery. Risking the wrath of the ward nurse, she slipped out past her curtain and walked slowly down the long hall, following the sound of Faxon’s vocal complaints.

She found him in the last cubicle on the left. He was seated in a wheeled chair, with a blanket over his legs and his arm swaddled in enough bandages that it looked twice its normal size. Tiadaria’s smile faded a trifle when she saw him. It was the first time since she’d met Faxon that he looked old. Much of that, she knew, was due to his injury, but it was more than that. The quality of the light in his eyes had changed. There was a darkness there that hadn’t been there before. In that moment, as happy as she was that Faxon was alive and relatively well, she felt immeasurable, crushing sadness.

Tiadaria knew Wynn was dead. There was nothing else that would have robbed Faxon of the twinkle in his eye and his ready smile. He looked at her, standing in the doorway. He still had a smile for her, but it was a slow, sad smile. The smile of a survivor who had lived through much and seen even more.

He tried to stand, but Tiadaria quickly crossed the room and put a firm hand on his shoulder. Faxon made a token attempt at resistance, then buckled under the gentle pressure she put on him. The quintessentialist contented himself with patting the hand she had laid on his shoulder.

“It’s over then?” He craned his neck to look up at her. She nodded and snaked her foot around a stool in the corner of the cubicle and sank onto it.

“I guess? I killed Zarfensis. The Xarundi lost many of their young warriors. I doubt they will be much of a threat for a while. I don’t know about Tionne or the Lamiad. They weren’t at the palace and Valyn hadn’t seen them. I guess they made it out of the city.”

“I doubt this will be the last time we hear from them.”

“I really don’t care.” Tiadaria sighed, cracking her neck. “They just got thoroughly whipped and I don’t think they’re likely to come back to Dragonfell any time soon. As long as I can get a solid night’s sleep in, I’ll be ready for them when they come back.”

Faxon smiled. “I don’t doubt that in the slightest.”

They lapsed into silence. The sounds of the hospital had faded to a low drone, as if with the safety of the Imperium restored, the burden on the healers and the clerics had been lifted. There was an occasional cry, or a moan of someone in pain too great to abate by medicine or magic, but for the most part, dawn had brought a morning that was quiet and still.

Faxon’s gaze was fixed at some point on a distant horizon. Somewhere far away from Dragonfell or Blackbeach. Tiadaria doubted he was even still on Solendrea. She had a feeling she knew what he was thinking about, but she really didn’t want to ask. In fact, there were few things in the world she wanted to do less than have that conversation with him. Still, it had to be done, and as with many of life’s hardest moments, perhaps it was best done quickly.

“So,” she said uncertainly. “I…um…” Tiadaria wasn’t sure what to say. The words all seemed so foreign. As if everything had taken on a different meaning. “Is he here? Wynn, I mean?”

“Yes. They moved him into the basement. His parents asked me if I would be so good as to bring him home.”

“Oh.” Tiadaria hadn’t thought of that. She knew that Wynn’s parents lived in Blackbeach, but he hadn’t been close to them. He hardly ever spoke of them. It seemed strange that his parents would want back the empty shell of what had once been their child. “That’s nice, I guess.”

Faxon shrugged.

“Everyone has their own traditions,” he said, as if that explained the matter. He paused then and gave her a look she couldn’t read. “Are you going to go see him?”

“Should I?”

“It’s up to you, Tia. Just think about how you’d have felt if you hadn’t seen the Captain one last time.”

“I think I’ve seen enough of the Captain to last a lifetime.”

Faxon winced, obviously realizing what he’d said.

“You know what I mean. If you hadn’t seen him before…”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” Tiadaria mulled it over. She supposed she should do it, if only for the sense of peace it would bring. It was still hard for her to believe that he was really dead. Seeing him that last time would at least settle that lingering doubt. “I guess I should.”

Faxon nodded. He gave her a half smile.

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

Tiadaria found the wide granite steps that led down into the basement of the hospital. All the activity was upstairs. Only a few clerics and orderlies were working on the lower level. Every one of them nodded to her with grave courtesy as she passed. As if they knew of her task and silently commiserated with her pain and discomfort.

She realized she had no idea where to begin looking for Wynn’s mortal remains. She flagged down an orderly and asked. The young man nodded and led her to a curtained room, little larger than the Captain’s tomb had been. Wynn’s body was inside, laid out on a white marble slab in the center of the alcove. The orderly retreated with sympathies for her loss and closed the curtain behind him.

It was odd. Tiadaria was no stranger to death. In fact, she’d just cold-bloodedly killed more Xarundi warriors than she could count, but standing in this cold stone room with Wynn’s body made her feel peculiar in a way she’d never experienced before. She expected him to get up. To tell her that everything was going to be okay. He didn’t, and though she knew it was ridiculous and unfair, she was angry with him for not meeting her completely unreasonable whim.

The clerics had done a wonderful job of cleaning him up. He was draped with a simple white linen. Wynn’s usually unruly shock of brown hair was pushed back away from his face. Tiadaria’s eyes stung with tears that slipped down her hot cheeks. She’d never again see him brush a lock of hair away irritably in that charming, boyish way he’d had. Stupid that such a simple realization could make her throat close up and her chest tighten with an agony unlike any she’d ever felt.

“I should have said yes!” she sobbed, the dam she’d built up around her heart bursting into a torrential flood of regret. “I did love you. I always loved you, Wynn. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tiadaria laid her forehead against his folded hands. They were cool and lifeless. Hands that would never again seek hers in comfort, stroke her hair, or just to hold while they were walking through the market. There just hadn’t been enough time for her to do what her duty demanded and what her heart wanted.

“He knew, child.” A familiar voice startled her. She hadn’t heard the curtain part or anyone else enter the small room. Tiadaria had been so consumed with her grief that nothing else registered. “He knew how much you loved him, otherwise he wouldn’t have wanted you to have this.”

Tiadaria turned and found Heron Greymalkin standing behind her, the gold and silver ring cradled in an age weathered palm. The King pushed his palm toward her, urging her to take it. She found herself both wanting to take it and wanting to cast it from her, as if it were the cause of all the pain she felt. After a pause that seemed like hours, she plucked it from his hand and held it between her thumb and forefinger, as if it might burn her.

“I should have taken it when he offered it to me.”

Greymalkin snorted.

“If I had a plank for every regret in my life, I could bridge all the oceans and the seas. If you spend your life worrying about everything in your life that you should have done, you lose track of all the things you can do.”

“I guess.”

“I know. Take some advice from an old man, Tiadaria. Regret is the most wasteful emotion. Young Master Wynn loved you for who you are. That wouldn’t change just because you weren’t ready to accept that ring. Instead of lamenting the terrible loss you’ve experienced, celebrate that you found someone so worthy of your love. And someone who found you worthy of theirs in return. That, in itself, is no small feat.”

“But what do I do now?”

The King slipped his cane from a loop on his belt and leaned on it with both hands. He tilted the upper part of his body toward her as if he were committing a grand conspiracy.

“I always have need of those loyal to the crown and who steadfastly support the people of the Imperium. The offer I’ve made you in the past stands, young Tiadaria. You can make a difference here. You can protect the citizens of Dragonfell from such an attack happening again. You can protect the Imperium from her enemies. I need people like you.”

“I’m too young.”

“Nonsense,” the King snorted. “Age is but a number on a piece of paper. I’m nearly in my ninth decade and I still manage to do alright. Do you expect me to believe that you can’t meet the challenge?”

“I’ll make mistakes. Probably a lot of them.”

“Aye, and you will. Not the least of which was pretending that you’re not one of those finger-waggling types from the day I met you…but I suspect Royce had his reasons for wanting it to remain a secret and I suppose you do too. That Adamon is a good lad, but he’s a bit too severe for my peace of mind. Still, mages do as mages do. The rest of us are left to our own devices.”

There was a strange feeling in the pit of Tiadaria’s stomach and she found that it was less pain and more excitement. If the King believed in her, then maybe it was possible that she really could make a difference. She couldn’t bring back Wynn, but she could honor his sacrifice. She could do everything within her power to ensure that the loved ones the people of the Imperium held dear were always defended if they were put into harm’s way.

“So you knew, Your Grace? About the Captain?”

“Of course I knew, child. I’m old, not daft. No man untouched by the Sphere can move that way on the battlefield.” He tapped his temple with a wrinkled finger. “Not much escapes Heron Greymalkin, my dear. Not much indeed. It hurt no one for him to have his secret and I suspect it saved him a great deal of harassment from the inquisitors and the mages in general.”

He paused and looked down at Wynn’s body, shaking his head slowly.

“I never much cared for magic,” he said candidly. “I don’t really trust quintessentialists and I suspect they don’t like me very much for my bias. However, no one can deny what they’ve done and continue to do for the Imperium and her people. Young Master Wynn is a hero, and he’ll be honored as one.

Faxon told me what he did. He sacrificed himself so that you could live, because he knew that you alone could save us when we needed saving. Those are large boots to fill, Lady Tiadaria. No one knows better than I how heavy the mantle of leadership really is. Wynn knew we needed you and I’m glad he did.”

The lump in her throat had returned, making it difficult for her to swallow, or even breathe. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and the King reached up and wiped it away with a touch that was much softer than she’d expected from such a grizzled man.

“When Royce first brought you to Dragonfell, I knew you were different. My advisors pitched a fit you wouldn’t believe. ‘You let a slave into the palace.’ ‘What will the people think?’ All that rot. Fact of that matter is, I knew if Royce was bringing you into the Capital, there was a damn good reason.”

“Do you still think so, Your Grace?”

“I know so, Lady Tiadaria. I also know that you’ll need to sleep on it to make your own decision. People like you and Royce keep their own council. I approve of that. I keep my own as well. Just don’t think on it overlong.

You’ve driven the dogs back into their den, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be someone else at the gate tomorrow morning looking to destroy everything we’ve created.”

“I just need a little time, Your Grace.”

“Aye, child. I know.” He patted Wynn’s hand, where her head had so recently rested. “You’ll have time to mourn your loss. I’ll see to that. Think about what I’ve said and think on it well. I need you and the Imperium needs you, if you’re equal to the task.”

He vanished as quickly as he’d come, the curtain barely moving behind his swift exit. Tiadaria wondered if the King didn’t have some sort of secret magic of his own.

Tiadaria knew in her heart that she’d accept his offer; that it was her destiny to fill the void that the Captain had left when he died. She hadn’t been ready then, but she was ready now. Or at least, as ready as she was going to be. She wasn’t expected to be perfect, but she wanted to do as good a job as she was capable of. For Wynn, for the Captain, and for the King, but most of all, for herself.

Her father had sold her into slavery, thinking only of the benefit it could bring him. To her own family, she’d only ever be worth a handful of gold and a couple beasts. The Captain had seen so much more in her, and he’d been right.

Tiadaria pushed her shoulders back, standing a little straighter, though there was no one in the alcove to see her. Her conversation with the King hadn’t healed the awful hole in her heart. That space would always be reserved for Wynn, but now she knew how to best honor his memory. He’d always been proudest of her when she knew exactly what she wanted to do and set those plans in motion.

Now she had the biggest plan of all to set in motion. She was going to be the protector of the Imperium and all its people, and she couldn’t imagine Wynn being more proud of her.

“What about Zarfensis?” Tionne asked as they fled through the night. The orange-black smudge of Dragonfell burning was fading into the distance behind them.

The even fields surrounding the capital had given way to rolling foothills and would soon become the treacherous paths and passes leading through the Dragonback Mountains.

“He’s dead,” Nerillia said flatly, scanning the ridge ahead of them. “As we will be, if they catch up with us. We need to keep moving.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Warrens.”

“But if Zarfensis is dead, won’t the Xarundi be, uh, less than happy to see us?”

“Unless I miss my guess, we won’t need to worry about the Xarundi. I suspect the Swordmage took care of most of their warriors at Dragonfell and those remaining at the Warrens will have another matter to contend with.”

“Which is?”

“You’ll see.”

They traveled all that night and most of the next day, stopping only for the briefest of moments to take water from springs or streams and then moving on. The Lamiad’s eyes constantly scanned the trail, both before and behind, for any sign that they might be caught or pursued. It was so tense a journey that Tionne didn’t realize how hungry she was until they stopped the next evening.

They were in a small mountain clearing high above Dragonfell. So high above that the city seemed to be little more than a dark smudge on the land below. It was the first time that Nerillia seemed to relax. She consulted the rising stars and mumbled something to herself before turning to Tionne.

“We can rest here, for a time,” she said.

“What are we going to do now?” Tionne asked, for the first time uncertain of her role in everything that had transpired.

In commune with the darker forces of the Quintessential Sphere, their success had seemed preordained. It was almost as if nothing could stop them. Now, huddled together for warmth at the top of a cold mountain, Tionne wasn’t sure how things had gone so wrong, so fast. What she did know, what coursed through her like venom with every beat of her heart, was that she wanted Tiadaria dead. She wanted to make the Swordmage suffer and Tionne would relish every minute of it.

“We wait.”

No matter how she prodded Nerillia for information on what or who they were waiting for, the Lamiad refused to elaborate. She also refused to build a fire or allow Tionne to use her magic to summon a source of heat, so when the sun slipped below the horizon, what had been a bothersome annoyance became a threat to life and limb.

Fortunately, Tionne didn’t have long to wait after the sun had slipped from the sky. The massive form of the white dragon backwinging for a landing answered Tionne’s unasked question about who or what they were waiting for.

“You failed me,” the dragon snarled by way of greeting. He was broadcasting his anger so loudly that Tionne clutched her head in pain. “The humans still control the place of my birth.”

“My Lord,” Nerillia said with a bow. “It was neither I, nor Tionne, who failed you. In fact, we both acquitted ourselves of our roles in the plan without error. I brought you artifacts and power you needed to summon the lich and Tionne reanimated it and the wraiths.

The Xarundi are to blame for the collapse of your plan. It is they who have paid with their lives, unless I wildly miss my guess.”

Stryne snarled, tossing his head back and forth on his long neck. His wings rustled restlessly. Tionne had suspected Nerillia knew more than she was letting on. The dragon’s behavior only reinforced that notion. After a few moments, Stryne regained his composure and lowered his head, turning one massive eye toward the Lamiad.

“You speak truth, Nerillia of the Lamiad. I will not punish my allies for the failure of their contemporaries. The Draconic Empire fell because they lacked the foresight to award the loyalty of their subjects. I will not commit the same sin.”

“I had hoped that you might see things that way, My Lord.” Nerillia motioned to Tionne. “How may we serve?”

Stryne settled back on his haunches, looping his great neck so that his chin rested on his chest. The huge wings moved idly and he remained in that position for so long that Tionne though he might have gone to sleep. After what seemed like an hour or more, he raised his head, looking first at Nerillia, then at Tionne.

“Dragonfell is lost, for now, at least. The Xarundi have failed me. Perhaps, however, some good can come of their failure. One cavern may be as good as another for the short term and it will fulfill the terms of our arrangement, Nerillia of the Lamiad.”

“Very good, My Lord.”

“I will allow you to ride on my back for this part of our travels.”

“Our thanks, My Lord.”

Stryne crouched down low on his forelegs, allowing Nerillia to climb up onto the soft skin between his wings. There were no ridges there, so when she offered a hand to Tionne to help her up onto the gigantic beast, she balked.

“I can’t!” Tionne exclaimed. “We’ll fall.”

Nerillia shot her a savage look.

“If you stay, you’ll die. Don’t anger him. He won’t let us fall.”

The Lamiad thrust out her hand a second time, demanding Tionne’s immediate compliance with her unspoken demand. Tionne was still unsure of her place and wondered if this weren’t some complicated ruse for Stryne to get them high above the mountains and then drop them off onto the jagged peaks below.

Still, what were her options? She’d followed Nerillia this far. If she decided to turn back now, she’d be on her own again, and she didn’t want that. Tionne had spent all of her life alone. The prospect of losing the kinship and closeness she felt with Nerillia was worse than the thought of dying. With a final moment of hesitation, Tionne grabbed the hand that Nerillia offered her and allowed the older woman to hoist her up onto the dragon’s back.

True to his word, Stryne did not let them fall. His magic protected them from the cold and thin air that his powerful wings carried them through and prevented both her and Nerillia from falling from the wide shoulders where they crouched. Looking back on it later, Tionne wouldn’t be able to say it was a comfortable way to travel, but it did get them to the Warrens in the span of a few hours, when going by foot would have taken weeks or months.

Tionne actually managed to fall asleep toward the end of the trip and was surprised and out of sorts when Nerillia awoke her with a gentle shake.

“Where are we,” she’d asked, her voice slow and groggy with sleep.

“Just outside the Warrens. Wake up and prepare yourself for battle.”

That simple warning forced Tionne’s mind awake and she called useful cantrips and memorized spells to the front of her mind. If Nerillia thought they’d be in combat, there was probably a good reason for it. They slid off the dragon’s back, landing on the hard, packed earth that surrounded the largest entrance to the Warrens.

It turned out that Nerillia was right. Almost as soon as the dragon had landed, young Xarundi streamed out of the cavern, armed with underdeveloped claws and spears. They tried to attack Stryne, but an ages old dragon was too powerful for even their massed numbers.

Between Nerillia’s whips, Stryne’s lightning, and Tionne’s command of the Quintessential Sphere, the waves of Xarundi that belched forth from the Warrens were dispatched with deadly efficiency. It wasn’t long before there were piles of Xarundi bodies scattered across the moonlit expanse of flat earth. At last, the stream of defenders came to an end and the trio stood in the midst of the carnage they had caused.

“Was that all of them?” Tionne asked. Though they’d killed many adolescent Xarundi, she wasn’t at all convinced that all of the elders would have abandoned their young so readily.

“Doubtful,” Stryne said, poking his head into the entrance to the cavern. “The remainder most likely fled from another entrance. I sense no more in the immediate area.”

“Good,” Nerillia replied, writhing in almost sensual pleasure. “Then we can do what we came here to do.”

“Indeed, Oracle,” Stryne said. “You shall have your payment in full.”

Stryne lumbered down the corridor, his wings folded tightly against his back. It was an exceedingly tight fit and there were places where he used his magic and his breath to break open parts of the tunnel that were too narrow or too low for him to fit through. Tionne didn’t enjoy the trip, constantly in fear of the dragon bringing down tons of rock and earth on top of them.

At last they reached a wide open cavern, with a narrow ledge of rock encircling it. A wide granite bridge crossed over to a center island where a huge cathedral stood, its windows flickering with subdued light.

“Behold,” Nerillia said to her softly. “The Cathedral of the Dyr. The ancient seat of power for the Xarundi Combine.”

Before Tionne could respond, Stryne leapt across the chasm, landing in the open area in front of the cathedral. The hair on the back of Tionne’s neck stood on end as the dragon filled his massive lungs. The air seemed alive with lightning and a moment later, a concentrated blue-white bolt burst from Stryne.

The right hand side of the cathedral exploded in a splinters of wood and fragments of rock. It cascaded down the side of the building, falling into the abyss below. Another blast from the dragon ruined the left side of the ancient structure. A final blast obliterated most of the remaining structure. With a swipe of his powerful tail, Stryne knocked what remained of the building into the crevasse, leaving only a small pile of rubble in its wake.

As the last of the Xarundi’s cathedral slipped into the darkness, Tionne felt a curious pull from the smoldering pile of rock that was left. Breaking away from Nerillia, she ran across the wide bridge to where the dragon was standing. She darted between his legs, climbing up onto the rocks and shattered timbers.

There was something here, calling to her. Begging her for help. She had to find it. Out of the corner of her eye, Tionne saw a blue-black glow from under a pile of rocks. She ran to the spot, hefting the jagged stones that cut into her palms, and tossing them away. After what seemed like a lifetime of backbreaking labor, she’d cleared a hole.

At the bottom of the hole were spiral stairs, bathed in the blue-black glow she’d seen from afar. Whatever was calling to her, was calling from down those stairs. Without waiting, or even considering the consequences, she bounded down the steps two at a time.

The nearer she got to the source of the light, the more insistent the call became. Tionne instinctively constructed mental barricades, keeping the seeping tendrils of dark thoughts at bay. Whatever was down here was powerful, but not so powerful that it would have its way with her. She could, and did, command it. It withdrew ever so slightly, still probing her defenses but finding no openings.

Tionne turned the last corner of the stairwell to find a simple stone pillar, upon which was perched the Dyr. The Rune of Death was what had been calling to her, begging for her help. It had tried to worm its way into her mind, but she’d been too wily for it, denying it entry into her head. It would do her bidding, not the other way around.

“Zarfensis was the Dyr’s last rune holder,” Nerillia said, from behind her. “It has chosen you as a replacement.”

With a hesitant touch, Tionne reached out and caressed the rune. It was colder than anything she’d ever touched. Colder than the snow and ice of winter storms. When she touched it, it felt as if insects were crawling inside her head, seeking out weak places where they might burrow into her mind. She forced them out with a toss of her head. She’d need to remain on her guard as the keeper of the rune.

Tionne lifted a handful of the glowing blue dust that surrounded the rune. She let it sift through her fingers, falling back into the pile. It seemed that no one had gathered the dust for quite some time. Probably since Zarfensis had first been defeated by the Swordmage. Tionne had little gold and no possessions, but she was now richer than she’d ever imagined.

With the Dyr and an unlimited supply of runedust, she’d kill the Swordmage. The rune thrummed against her hand, signaling its approval of her thoughts. Not only would she kill Tiadaria, but she’d raise the corpse and make her lich serve the Dyr until it rotted away to dust.

A cold smile crept across Tionne’s lips. She tore away the bottom half of her tunic, relishing in the cold touch of the rune’s power against her bare flesh. She fashioned the cloth into a carryall of sorts, reverently tucking the rune into the hastily constructed bag. She gathered as much runedust as the pack would carry and lovingly filled the space around the rune, cushioning it from any outside force that might seek to influence it.

Tionne crafted some crude straps and carefully laid the pack across her shoulder. She could feel the gentle pulsing of the rune against her pack. Never before had she felt so accepted by anything or anyone. The rune was hers and it would remain hers forever. She turned to find Nerillia smiling at her.

“I told you that you’d find greatness with me, Tionne.” The Lamiad gestured toward the steps. “Now that you’ve found that which makes you whole, come and witness my ascension.”

Tionne followed Nerillia up out of the bowels of the Xarundi’s rune chamber. Stryne was gone. When she asked Nerillia where he was, the Lamiad said she didn’t know, but that it didn’t matter. They’d be gone from the Warrens before dawn.

For hours, Tionne followed Nerilla through twists and turns in the corridors that had once belonged to the Xarundi. They came across few bodies and no living Chosen. Tionne supposed that Stryne was right. They’d abandoned the Warrens when they realized that all was lost. Those that remained would be scattered to the corners of Solendrea to seek out whatever meager existence they could.

After what seemed like an incredibly long time, Nerillia lead her into a chamber that was almost as cold as the rune. Tionne’s breath puffed out in little clouds of condensation. As they entered a flicking green light at the gentle of the chamber began pulsing brightly. It grew to such intensity that Tionne had to shield her eyes.

“What is that?”

“That, my dear Tionne, is the other half of my soul.”

When Nerillia spoke, the voice came from her mouth and from the light in the center of the chamber. The strange chorded sound of the voice was almost hypnotic, but Tionne forced herself to remain focused.

“I need you to release it,” Nerillia was saying. “Make me whole again, Tionne. Please. Make me whole and together we’ll rule all of Solendrea.”

EPILOGUE

By the following morning, the streets of Dragonfell were returning to normal. Vendors were out setting up, or repairing, their stalls. A few children ran through the streets, calling to each other in voices that seemed too loud for the recovering city. In a few places, the remains of buildings still smoldered, but for the most part, things had been cleaned and patched. Dragonfell had lived through another nightmare and was embracing the sun that fell on its cobbled streets.

Tiadaria walked slowly down the market row, enduring the curious stares and whispers she usually received from people in the capital. Part of it, she knew, was due to the collar around her neck. The rest of it was because the stories of the battle in the palace cavern had been spreading like wildfire. She’d spoken briefly to Valyn, who told her that the King had been adding his own embellishments to what happened during the battle. Pretty soon the line between what had really happened and what the people thought had happened would be clouded in legend.

The common room of the inn was empty when Tiadaria arrived. She inquired with the barmaid to see if Faxon was in his room, then started up the stairs. Two flights of stairs seemed to take far longer than they should have, and she lingered on the landing for a long time before she made her way to his room.

Faxon’s door stood ajar, and she let herself in. He was sitting in a chair by the window, looking out over the city. His hair had taken on a distinct grey undertone and his arm was still in a sling. There was another chair near the bed. She drew it over to him and sat next to him.

“I heard that Greymalkin asked you to stay and take over the Captain’s job,” Faxon said. His voice was soft and seemed very far away. As if he was talking to her from wherever his mind had wandered off to. Wherever he was looking.

“He did. I told him I needed to sleep on it.”

Faxon’s eyes flicked to hers. She saw the same sadness there she’d seen in the hospital. It hadn’t lifted and Tiadaria wondered if it ever would.

“Did you?”

“I did, but I really didn’t need to. What do you think, Faxon?”

“I think the Imperium needs you. I think that both Wynn and the Captain would be very proud of you. I know I am.”

“You are?” Tiadaria was surprised. She liked Faxon, she always had, but she’d always felt as if he thought of her as a child. As if she was blundering her way through discovering who she was or who she needed to be.

“Of course I am. You’ve come a long way since I first met you, Tiadaria. You’re not the little girl I met here in Dragonfell. You’re a grown and powerful woman. A defender of the realm.”

Tiadaria didn’t answer. She gazed out the window for a long time. A flood of uncertainty washed over her. Maybe Faxon and the King were wrong. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be the person they thought she was. Maybe she was still just a little girl. Her fingers went to the collar around her neck and she snatched them back as if burned.

The gasping blackness she’d felt on the sandstone courtyard came rushing back to her. She never wanted to feel that vulnerable again. She wasn’t a little girl and she wasn’t a slave. She was the last swordmage and she was going to be the Captain of the Grand Army of the Imperium. Maybe the King had known it before she did, but she accepted it now. It was who she was meant to be.

“Faxon…”

“I know.” He smiled at her, reaching into the sling around his arm. He withdrew a small, black glass tool. A tool she’d seen more than once in her lifetime. It was the same tool that Cerrin, the slaver, had used to attach her collar. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

“How did you know?”

He shrugged.

“You’re different now, Tiadaria. You don’t need anyone else defining you. I figured it was only a matter of time. Especially since Wynn…”

He trailed off there and Tiadaria saw the pain flare in his eyes. She’d always known that Faxon was fond of his oldest apprentice, but she’d never guessed how deeply the feelings ran for him. Since Wynn’s parents had cast him out, Faxon had taken over and now he’d lost a son.

“Come kneel over here, Tiadaria,” he said, with a hitch in his voice.

Tiadaria slipped from her chair and went to one knee beside Faxon. She lifted her hair, exposing the back of her neck and the collar to the quintessentialist.

The glass was cold at the base of her neck. Faxon gave a quick squeeze and the collar sprang open as if hinged. It fell to the floor at their feet, landing with a dull ring. Tiadaria put her hand to her throat, feeling the naked skin there. It was the first time in a long time that she hadn’t had a constant reminder of being less than everyone else.

She stood and went to the looking glass over the chest of drawers. There was a pale white line around her neck, but she knew that would fade in time. Tiadaria was a slave no longer. She went back to the window and picked up the length of curved witchmetal. She turned it over in her hands as she sat down.

“I can destroy that for you,” Faxon said, dropping the collar tool to a table near the window.

“No,” she said slowly. “I think I’d like to keep it.”

“That didn’t work out for you so well once before.”

“Perhaps not,” she said with a nod. “But this time, it has no power over me. I know who I am and I’ll never be bound by anyone again.”

“No,” Faxon replied thoughtfully. “I don’t suspect you will.”

“What are your plans, Faxon?”

He shrugged.

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose I’ll go back to Blackbeach. Maybe I’ll teach. I fear my days of practicing theory are done.”

The quintessentialist motioned to his arm with a sour look. Tiadaria nodded. She reached into her tunic and withdrew a complicated looking brass key on a length of black ribbon. She took it from her neck and extended it to him.

“I wondered if you’d do me a favor and look after my cottage in King’s Reach,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll have a chance to get there very often. At least, not for several years. Wynn started a little library there. The people aren’t well educated, but they’re eager to learn. Maybe it would be good for you.”

Faxon reached out and took the key from her, turning it over in his palm.

“Maybe it would, young Tiadaria. Maybe it would at that.”

They sat together at the window for a long time. Sometimes they talked and sometimes they just sat in silence, but they were together, and that’s all that mattered.

In the years that followed, Tiadaria got back to King’s Reach far less often than she would have liked, but when she did manage to find the time to visit, Faxon always greeted her with a hug and welcome smile and he always reminded her that the cottage was her home.

He would take care of it, he said, until she was ready to come back. Tiadaria always thanked him and told him that day would come soon enough. She knew in her heart that, eventually, it would.

<<<<>>>>

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to every single reader and fan who has made the Solendrea stories a success. Your interest and support means more to me than you will ever know. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Special thanks to my beta readers for helping to keep me on the right path. Thank you Barbara, JR, Laura, Faith, and Heather.

Thanks to my editor, Amber Bungo.

Thanks to Jess, Tori, Tyler, and the Ladybug Baking Company for being my office away from home and keeping me well fed and supplied with cupcakes.

Last, but certainly not least, thanks to Alexander Trefethen who has brought the audiobooks of the first trilogy of the Solendrea series to life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Martin F. Hengst resides in South Central Pennsylvania with his wife and two children.

An avid reader since childhood, he attributes his love for fantasy and science fiction to his father. Martin’s passion is creating intricate stories with intimate details set in fantasy lands that exist only in his readers’ dreams.

If you’d like to keep up with the world of Solendrea and the extraordinary people and places that exist there, visit: www.solendrea.com.

You can also follow Martin on Twitter and Goodreads. Email inquiries can be addressed to: martin@solendrea.com.