Thief's Coin: Larenia's Shadow Trilogy, #2

By Michael Staton

In the river town of Opal, as the traveling players in Balthasar's Dream Palace perform, sorceress Illisandra Zayla's spymaster Jarn Sork captures Prince Derrius Hextor and imprisons him in a tower in the middle of the River Dolor. The prince's lover, the thief Stealth, must employ her cunning to outfox Sork and rescue Derrius, even though she knows her effort might result in his death.

As Stealth begins her perilous ascent up the tower, the two warring personalities in the sorceress's mind join in a life-and-death battle, one determined to merge their minds, the other just as determined to prevent the union.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090282

Book preview

One

UNDER A STARRY AUTUMN sky, Illisandra marched at the head of her Wolf Legion centuria toward the Mage Tower. Soon, there’d be no more mages poisoning Meda with nonsense. Blaming the Tower and the rebel Circle for the attack on Meda’s nephew Derrius would eliminate foes who viewed her intimacy with the Emperor as a threat.

All it took was a whisper in Meda’s ear after he’d spent himself making love to her. Order the Wolves to move without delay. No mercy for the bastards who tried to kill your favorite nephew.

If only the amphipteres, her little dragons, hadn’t been lost in the attack. Such a waste. But their sacrifice would be redeemed by the deaths of the rebels and the mages.

Along the broad avenue stretching between the Winter Palace and the Tower, lamps of magelight glowed twice as bright as torches, illuminating the highborns’ six-story brick townhouses. Red-caped legionnaires, their faces nearly invisible behind the face-guards of their conical helmets, dragged an eerily quiet rebel baron, still in his sleeping robe, toward a lamppost. Illisandra didn’t recognize him; he’d obviously avoided the Winter Palace. The man knows how to die properly, Illisandra thought, stirred by his impassive courage.

Pink nightgown fluttering in the breeze, the highborn’s keening wife staggered down the steps and flung herself toward her husband. A legionnaire blocked her, and she crumpled at his feet. Her hands clung to his pants. No! Not like this. Not in front of our children.

More legionnaires emerged from the townhouse with belt-high children in tow. The two boys and a girl wore fur-lined coats, unlike their parents, and gripped the soldiers’ hands. The legionnaires looked withdrawn, unhappy. Forcing children to watch their father’s execution was not what they’d signed up for.

The highborn grimaced as his hands were tied behind his back. A bruise bordered his swollen right eye. Blood trickled from a cut lip. Broken fingers thrust outward at odd angles. Illisandra squirmed. She had no problem with people enduring pain; she just didn’t want to see their suffering. Stop putting thoughts in my head, Charis. You’re the weak one.

An officer fit a noose over the highborn’s head. The baron looked forlornly at his wife. I love you. Always.

His wife screamed and screamed. Terror scrawled across the children’s faces, and they too shrieked. Illisandra gritted her teeth. The fool would go to the grave blaming her for the looks on the faces of his wife and children. To his dying breath, he’d not see that his own muddled intrigue had led to this night. She turned away from the woman and her brats, but the macabre scene unfolding proved too beguiling. Her eyes returned to the tableau.

Methodical and precise, the soldiers hung the baron from the lamppost. His wife fainted. The children screamed even louder as he writhed for long moments until finally becoming still.

Elsewhere along the avenue, more women and children wailed as men were carted toward lampposts. Roused from their beds by the commotion in the street, neighbors who’d rejected invitations to join the Circle watched from their porticos. Clad in chemise nightgowns and fur shawls, shivering wives clung to their husbands’ arms. No doubt identical scenes were being enacted along adjoining streets. Beyond, in the Mansion District, plumes of smoke wafted into the sky and flames leapt over rooftops and spires, coloring the smoke scarlet. Some legionnaires were overzealous.

Illisandra hardly felt the cold. Her tightly drawn hood and the padding beneath her chain-mail shirt barred the wind from needling her skin, except for her cheeks and nose. Boots smacking the cobblestones drowned out the fading screams as the legionnaires marching with Illisandra closed in on the Tower. Mages stared out windows illuminated by harsh magelight, watching the cohort approach. She’d yet to feel the sting of a spell lashing out at her protective shield. She grinned. These naive mages regarded her as no more than a hedge witch brewing potions to befuddle Meda’s mind. The fools awaited proof she spell-tainted Meda. This night they’d have their proof.

My Lady, you should move out of harm’s way, the peacock beside her advised. My battle mage expects incoming spells any moment. He gestured toward a little, baldheaded man garbed in a blood-red robe and a sea-blue flat cap who moved his hands furiously. Single-mindedly focused on completing his spell, the battle mage hadn’t detected her shield.

No, General. I want the mages to see the Emperor’s strumpet.

He gave her a quizzical look and, turning to his orderly, pointed to the Tower’s iron-banded door. Bring up the ram.

The orderly saluted and took off on a run toward the column’s rear. Soon a squad carting a battering ram loped past the column at a double-time pace. The captain at the head looked familiar.

Illisandra shouted, Captain Hextor!

In the lamplight, Myron Hextor looked back, frowning as he searched for the source of the voice.

A moment of your time, Illisandra shouted again, letting a trace of eagerness creep into her voice.

A scowl rippled across Myron’s face. The general turned glacial eyes on her.

General? she said, smothering an urge to turn him into a pink-furred lapdog.

The Wolf Legion’s commander pursed his lips. Captain Hextor should be with his men, Milady. My personal guard will keep you safe.

The general wasn’t very good at concealing his emotions. He wanted her to command nothing more than Meda’s bedchamber. She aborted a spell struggling for birth. Not now. Someday, though. Someday I’ll fashion you into a fine lapdog and wile away the candlemarks petting your soft fur.

Her fingers patted the Emperor’s Golden Wolf pendant hanging from her neck, the symbol of her role as Meda’s surrogate in temporary command of the Wolf Legion. Nonsense. The good captain is Derrius’s brother. Myron should have the honor of guarding me and punishing those who sought to kill Derrius.

The general tried to soften his annoyed look but couldn’t. Breathing heavily, Myron approached and swung his gaze tentatively between his commander and Illisandra. She enjoyed witnessing his uncertainty.

The sorceress suddenly felt violated, as if a wraith had plunged a claw through her skull. She cringed as something unbidden awoke deep in her mind. Charis always manifested herself at the most inconvenient times. This time the bitch in her brain reproached Illisandra for toying with the men. Don’t overact. We want Myron thinking this is nothing more than gloating.

That’s my intention. Quit badgering me, Illisandra snarled.

Charis withdrew, allowing Illisandra to turn her attention to Quintus Hextor’s middle son. Captain, I want you to be my personal guard. As Derrius’s instrument for justice, it is appropriate for you to be at my side.

Myron looked to his commander. Sir?

No temper tantrums, Charis warned. Let military protocol run its course.

Illisandra took a long breath and suppressed an undignified remark.

The general straightened his spine as he marched. Have the lieutenant take temporary command of your squad, Captain.

Myron saluted and swung his suspicious gaze to Illisandra. Coming? He whirled and hurried away, forcing her to run to catch up.

Captain, this is an honor I accord you, Illisandra said wryly as Charis’s laughter echoed in her mind.

Do you get pleasure from this game? Spoken under Myron’s breath, the words were sharp enough to cut her throat if Teverus had been around to give them life.

Illisandra ground her teeth. Teverus, that damned ancient mage, the thorn that could shred my plans. I’ll need to be careful with that one.

Myron clenched his fists. I know it was you who tried to kill Derrius.

Why is it so hard to believe these vaunted mages conjured the amphipteres? They hate your uncle. She reached out with her right hand and, before he could jerk his head away, caressed his cheek. Her index finger meandered to his neck, and a tiny needle glued to her nail pricked his skin, drawing blood. Hollow inside, the spell-formed needle contained a potent compel potion. There wasn’t enough to make his obedience absolute, but it was sufficient for what she needed.

What have you done? he rasped as the potion entered his bloodstream.

I made you mine.

Myron blinked, his lips tightened. Damn—

Tell the lieutenant to smash down the door.

Myron winced and then said in a dour voice, Lieutenant Tobinias, that door will not be standing ten heartbeats from now, right?

The young officer’s face brightened. Yessir. He eyed the men. You heard the captain! Put the door on the floor, boys!

The men took deep breaths, rushed forward, and heaved the ram against the door. The wood groaned. The men stepped back for another try. Their boots clunked against the cobbles; a hinge cracked. Again, they stepped back. They swung the ram back and forth, accumulating energy, and dashed frontward. Both hinges screeched; the door shuddered and fell back, kicking up dust as it settled on the stone floor.

Face creased by a pillow, sapphire eyes flashing rage, a mage dressed in his gray nightshirt stood behind the fallen door. His left hand gripped a staff topped by an orb pulsating teal-green light that outshone the magelight receptacles. How dare you!

Kill him, she commanded Myron.

He ran his gladius through the mage’s paunch. As blood dampened his nightshirt, the mage sank to his knees. Though he still clung to the staff, the orb’s light slowly faded. Illisandra felt its magic dissipate.

Why? the mage creaked.

The Emperor knows you tried to kill his youngest nephew, Illisandra mocked.

Put one hundred mages in a tower, and soon they’d see themselves as invulnerable. Most had their noses too deep in manuscripts to realize they were being pinned with a crime they hadn’t committed. Worse, they’d done nothing in the days since her amphiptere spell ricocheted and left them momentarily insensate. The fools were probably waiting for Teverus to return and provide guidance.

Blood coursed between the mage’s fingers, which were pressed against the wound. You’re Myron Hextor. You know I’m—

Finish him off, Myron. Her eyes welled with insincere tears so the soldiers would think she ordered the execution with regret, even sorrow.

Myron drove his shortsword deep into the mage’s throat; the upper spine cracked and shattered. Eyes glazed, the mage fell face first to the ground and quivered.

Even with her shield in force, magic not her own still tingled her face. It scratched her skin, like another woman’s nails raking her cheeks. At last the mages were defending themselves. The eyes of the soldiers near her flickered with unease as the magic touched them. The squad would flee if she didn’t do something immediately.

Her mind stroked a magical current rippling near her. Charis slinked away from her favorite dark corner of their mind and helped. Together, they jiggled the current until it gyrated like a Tefenese spirit dancer high on kafia. A rainbow of dazzling colors became visible, eliciting oohs and ahs from the legionnaires. The mage struggling to control the current let go.

The vibrating current rippled; soon a host of other currents vibrated as well. The pulsations formed a resonance that shook the walls and the foundation. A stomach-churning hum changed to a whine and then to a shrill caterwaul, and minds were flung from the currents. The tower’s magic quickly faded. She expected most mages were unconscious. Ones clinging to awareness were no doubt suffering incapacitating headaches.

What in the seven hells was that? the lieutenant said.

Illisandra shrugged. Don’t know. I’m just grateful. Maybe Larenia helped us.

The lieutenant turned to Myron. What are your orders, sir?

The Hextor middle son looked to Illisandra. Kill the bastards, she said.

Myron took her words as a compulsion order. He headed for the stairwell with the lieutenant and the squad in his wake.

Stay, Captain Hextor. The edge to her voice obligated him to whirl around and return to her side.

The others’ thick boots echoed as they climbed the spiral stairwell. When Illisandra no longer heard their boots, she knew the legionnaires were sweeping along the upper floors, dispatching the helpless mages in the same efficient, methodical way they killed enemy wounded after a battle. Intermittent screams rattled the bottom floor’s uneasy silence. Sometimes a frantic voice would entreat, Mercy...I’ve a baby girl, then gurgle and become still.

When assured no would disturb her, Illisandra gave further orders to Myron. Your father will soon return to the court. I will have Meda assign you to guard him. Tell him nothing of this night. If he learns you participated in these killings, tell him you were following orders.

As soon as Quintus learned of his son’s complicity in the executions, he’d realize yet another Hextor had become ensnared in her spell web.

She took Myron’s hand and stroked his palm. You look so dazzling in your dress uniform. Meda is much too shriveled. You will make a more striking escort for balls, markets, fairs and game parlors. She kissed him on the cheek. He flinched, which she liked; he still had some fight in him. Come immediately to my suite when I summon you.

SERVANTS FOR QUINTUS Hextor, the Emperor’s brother, scurried willy-nilly. The stable master and his boys prepped the stables to get ready for an onslaught of horses. In the villa, the cook inspected the larder’s food stock while serving girls buffed the best silverware. Upstairs, maids aired out the guest bedrooms.

Right arm draped protectively around his wife, Jolene, Quintus watched a long procession of cavalrymen, musicians, carriages, and baggage wagons wind along the villa’s gravel roadway, passing bare apple groves and harvested rye fields. The tail stretched all the way back to Leatherbark Road. Under the low late-afternoon sun, the apple and cherry trees cast long shadows that fell across the carriages and wagons. With the library’s windows open to admit a cool but pleasant breeze, Quintus heard the rattle of carriage and wagon wheels and the clip-clop of hoofs.

He felt Jolene shaking. Darling, Dariano has my household guards and the Leatherbark militia huddled in earthworks on either side of the entrance road. Quintus pointed to the fortifications, ugly scars marring the farm fields. The procession was just reaching the earthworks. The cavalry officer in the lead saluted. Dariano stood and returned the salute and then gestured for his troops to bow to the emperor as the Royal Carriage passed. "See, the cavalry is sufficient to protect Meda but too weak to mount an attack on the villa. Even the strongest compel spell can’t make my brother harm me."

Quintus’s oldest son, Felix, turned away from another window and eyed his father. If Meda’s completely under Illisandra’s sway as Teverus fears, I don’t want to see him have to make a choice between you and her. You’re saying her magic can’t unmake his love for you. Are you sure?

At the earthworks, Dariano and his men were lining up along the entranceway to honor Meda. If she wanted me dead, Meda would be leading the Wolf Legion, not this pathetic procession of dainty hangers-on. Whatever her plans, they apparently don’t include my head spiked to a city wall.

Jolene slipped from his embrace and sat on the window ledge. She scowled as the head of the procession entered the circular driveway. "Illisandra’s like a cat toying with its victim. I don’t care what Meda’s note says. That woman tried to kill Derrius, not the Tower and the Circle." She studied the musicians, who had just begun to play Southwind as a jester wearing a floppy cap-n-bells let one of the juggled balls land on a drum. What better way to lull us than with a procession of parasites? She gripped Quintus’s thigh. Mathia and Syana... They are safe?

Quintus smiled and kissed the top of her head. "Yes. Tucked away in Dariano’s apartment. The Blade’s cook is watching them. Our daughters will come back with stomachs plumper than Teverus’s."

Felix settled into a chair at the large study table and groaned. Where’s that reprobate?

Seducing elf maidens when he should be taking your sisters to Luxamere where that bitch can’t get to them. Jolene’s cheeks flamed with color.

Quintus shook his head. The news Derrius survived the dragons should have come from him, not from my brother and the woman who orchestrated the attack.

Jolene bent her head. He’s helping a friend at Arlienn’s request.

That should have taken candlemarks, not days. Again, he fails me. Quintus’s hand closed on his wife’s shoulder. Let’s go and meet my brother.

The three made their way from the library through the atrium and out onto the front portico. There they waited for the procession to make its way into the courtyard.

As the emperor’s coach stopped next to the fountain, Meda leaned out the open window and waved. A footman opened the door as Meda’s personal bodyguard waited to help him step to the ground.

Before his musicians could play The Emperor’s Fanfare, Meda leaped from the coach, darted around the fountain with his bodyguard in pursuit, and bounded up the portico steps.

How I’ve missed you, Quintus! Meda hugged his brother and stepped back. I know my courier gave you the wonderful news, but I wanted to come to your side. Damn the Tower mages!

His bodyguard tried to drape a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, but Meda waved him away. Quintus took the cloak, arranged it around his brother’s shoulders, and secured it with a brooch pin. You mustn’t tempt the cold, Meda. You were a sickly child. Those bad coughs and fevers terrified Mother. The empire can’t afford to lose you.

Illisandra brews me cold remedies that work fabulously. Meda folded his arms against his chest. What made you think to send Derrius on a trade mission in these thorny days? I keep sending orders to my legions to kill the outlaws, but they are a slippery bunch.

Jolene and Felix exchanged lightning-fast glances of disbelief.

Quintus maintained an inscrutable mien. I thought my two best household guards, Brother Estrander, Crag Hammersong, and Arlienn ir Silverglen a strong enough contingent to keep him safe. A larger force would invite trouble. The truth—that the trade mission was a cover for a desperate mission to recover the sword Larenia’s Shadow—couldn’t be revealed, not with Illisandra sharing Meda’s bed and presumably dispensing compel potions. Instead, Quintus shifted the subject to more mundane matters. Our servants will find guest rooms for your retainers. The banquet will be at sunset.

Meda nodded distractedly, his attention drawn beyond the courtyard wall to the nearby fields. Trenches? Looks like you expected an army, not a procession. Just because I banished Teverus doesn’t make me your enemy. He made insinuations against Illisandra. I had to do something to keep peace in the palace.

Quintus shrugged. After the attack on Derrius, it was prudent to set up a defense. I can’t be sure I’m not also a target. As you said, thorny days.

Slouched against a portico column, Felix stepped away and drew himself up to full height. With neighboring villas burned to the foundations, I would be remiss if I didn’t have Father’s forces arrayed in the trenches.

Menes Petreca, the household’s majordomo, took care of shepherding Meda’s hangers-on to their rooms while the stable master made sure the horses were properly tended to by his journeymen and apprentices. The Hextor family retired to the library.

Meda’s bodyguard, food taster, and chief counselor intended to remain with him, but he dismissed them curtly. No enemies here, he said in a petulant voice as Quintus closed the windows.

A serving girl brought a decanter of An-Huran port wine, four goblets, and a stack of chocolate squares. The redheaded girl filled the goblets, curtsied, and departed.

Meda stood and raised his goblet in a toast. To a long life for Derrius and a successful trade mission. His magic will be even more important to the health of the empire now that the Tower mages and the Circle are dead. He settled back in his reading chair, a smug look on his face.

Jolene’s hand twitched, and wine splattered on her aqua day-dress. A small yelp escaped her mouth. Oh, no, Meda! Not like the old emperors. No trials.

Meda pressed his hands against his stomach and guffawed. I’ve vowed to be more like Setorius and less like our grandfather. If I think they’re guilty, they’re guilty. He tittered when no one else joined in his laughter.

Quintus jerked involuntarily. He reached for a square of chocolate and shoveled it into his mouth. Meda’s aberrant behavior had stolen its sweet taste. I’m just glad Derrius is all right, he said tightly.

Meda scooted his chair closer to Quintus and rumpled his brother’s hair. Agreed. And I want to keep all of us safe. Maybe there are rebels who escaped. Meda cleared his throat. Seeing your fortifications has reinforced a decision I made on the way here. I want you, Jolene, and the girls with me at the Winter Palace.

Quintus’s stomach churned at his brother’s words. No. The villa is quite—

No is not permissible, Meda interjected, each word grumpier than the next. I command you to return with me to the palace. Felix can oversee the villa.

Quintus couldn’t halt a faint, guilty grin from creasing his mouth. You command me? That’s unfair. You know I will never refuse a command from my emperor.

What good would it do to refuse to go to the Winter Palace? Especially with the Wolf Legion ready to enforce Meda’s every whim. If ordered, the militia and household guards would offer resistance, but legion reinforcements would crush the small force and Quintus would still have to return to the palace. With the Tower and Circle eliminated, Illisandra really had no need to fear him. Nevertheless, she surely wanted him near her so he couldn’t meet secretly with any Circle stragglers that might have survived the crackdown. If she wanted him dead, the Wolf Legion would have mounted an attack, not had a cavalry detail escort Meda to the family villa.

Even so, Quintus decided not to tell his brother the girls were hidden away. If pressed, he’d just say they were visiting friends.

I intend to have a cavalry century bring Derrius to the palace, Meda added in a brisk voice.

Quintus would retreat no farther. If Derrius comes to the palace, our enemies win. He must finish the trade mission.

Meda nodded. I’m dusty and starting to feel cranky. Have Menes prepare the bathhouse.

Jolene went to the door and instructed a servant waiting in the hall to tell the majordomo to drain and refill the caldarium. Meda described Illisandra’s latest play, Larenia’s Ire, tasted the chocolate, and complimented Jolene as he waited for Menes. Quintus refilled his brother’s goblet just as majordomo arrived.

Menes dropped to his knees and let his forehead touch the tile, then raised his head. Your bath is ready, Your Majesty.

Meda smiled. No need for such formality, Menes, in my boyhood home.

When Meda left with majordomo and the door closed behind them, Quintus steepled his hands beneath his chin. That’s not my brother. He’d never execute men and women without trials. His words are Illisandra’s words. She owns his soul.

Two

Derrius twitched and jerked his head to the left. A tiny shadow whipped about within the bush, scattering leaves barely discernible in the pre-dawn light. A brown hare peeked from the red-tip and eyed the campsite. Derrius laughed and coiled a magical current around the hare, freezing it in place.

He’d been a jittery wreck all night, flinching at the slightest sound. No one in the party had got much sleep. The amphipteres had attacked mere days before, and the party was now half its original size.

Unsheathing a dagger Stealth loaned to him, Derrius rose from the campfire and made his way to the hare. A swipe of the blade across the creature’s throat ended its life. Seizing the animal by its ears, he returned to the campfire and began preparing breakfast.

Stealth sat back on her heels and rolled her eyes as Derrius poked the dagger toward the hare’s head. Sweet Larenia, Princeling! Too many servants make for a helpless nobleman.

Derrius huffed and shook his head. His first impulse was to upbraid her, but she batted her eyelashes at him, stealing his irritation. Think you can do better? The hare thumped to the ground beside her.

Loving her was like cuddling with a dagger. Even her jokes drew blood. Still, his skin tingled with the nearness of her, lust unbridling his mind. He was mortified with poor Arlienn shivering on the other side of the fire, amphiptere poison slowly killing her. Crag huddled by her side, caressing her temple.

Stealth’s fingers caressed the back of Derrius’s neck. Her mouth pressed against his; the tip of her tongue tickled his lips. As she drew away from him, she teased, Let me show you how it’s done.

A stiletto appeared in her hand. Coming to her knees, she made cuts near the bottom of its back legs and peeled the fur off the body. A thicker, double-edged pugio carved off its legs below the knees, and a twist of her hands took off the head. The tip of the dagger pierced the body cavity near the anus and sliced up to the neck, easily dividing the ribcage.

Sheathing the pugio, she scooted backward and settled her buttocks on a log. I’m not a guts girl. That I leave to you, Princeling.

Derrius levitated their meal so it hovered above the fire. The night’s too-short snooze had somehow defeated spell fatigue. The numbing exhaustion that had nearly claimed him after the amphiptere attack seemed like it had happened to someone else. He gave the hare a mental shaking, and entrails and blood spilled into the fire.

They dressed several more hares and cooked them on a makeshift spit while Brother Estrander prodded Crag out of the way and prayed beside Arlienn. The dwarf drew back with a frown and watched the cleric mouth his silent words. For unfathomable reasons the Goddess Larenia refused to make the elf whole. Each morning Brother Estrander attempted to delay the poison’s advance until the antidote could be obtained. But that required time, something in short supply for Arlienn. Each healing prayer seemed less effective.

Brother Estrander motioned for Crag to rejoin his companion. The dwarf collapsed by Arlienn’s side and cradled her head in his lap, mussing her silver hair, covering her clammy forehead with staccato kisses.

Don’t mourn yet, dear Crag. Arlienn lifted her hand weakly and patted his cheek. I refuse to give Meda’s bitch the satisfaction of my death.

Stealth’s troubled voice drew Derrius’s attention away from Arlienn and Crag. Gallant words, she said quietly, trying not to disturb the elf and dwarf. Her tongue clicked annoyance. I hope Arlienn’s words prove prophetic. Two ambushes and the attack by the amphipteres, all in less than a week. Illisandra must know by now we survived. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried again. She picked up a clump of dirt, squeezed, and hurled it angrily toward the river.

Conjuring a flock of dragons the size of warhorses...that had to have exhausted my uncle’s bed-warmer. I’d say she’s down with a severe case of spell fatigue. Derrius sighed. I pray we reach Aquila and its warrens before she recovers.

Brother Estrander stood; behind him, dawn retreated before the inevitable march of azure blue. Two peaks shaped like crumpled legionnaire helmets poked above gaunt trees. Through their spindly limbs Derrius glimpsed a pale gold ribbon—the River Dolor, perhaps a thousand paces away, cloaked in wisps of fog. Aquila awaited him and his companions in the foothills nestled at the base of the peaks.

The gamy smell of cooking rabbit harried the rest of their companions from an exhaustive sleep. They were wearied beyond measure by the fight with the amphipteres, and not even Stealth’s capricious banter had pricked them to awareness. The trader Kybono woke first, his great belly growling as he spotted the hares. His guard Cero rose to a sitting position, his sleep-dulled face turning fretful at the sight of the rapidly bluing sky.

Nico awoke leisurely, as if reluctant to slip away from a romantic dream. Confident in his magic even when asleep, Teverus’s former apprentice wriggled his nose, wet his lips, and opened his eyes. Groaning theatrically, Nico crawled closer to Dorin and probed the pink skin where the sailor’s scalp had been ripped from his head by an amphiptere’s claw. The wound should have been lethal, but Larenia had listened to Brother Estrander’s prayer; new skin grew miraculously fast where there’d been none.

Derrius didn’t understand why Larenia healed the sailor and not the elf. Brother Estrander would say a man must walk the road of faith and believe the Goddess had an immaculate reason for denying Arlienn. Beyond all else, Derrius knew he must trust that Larenia still favored his quest for Shadow and would use Arlienn’s poisoning to bring the party closer to success. He hoped enough of his uncle Meda’s witch-thralled mind would still survive when the magic sword finally dispelled Illisandra’s magic. Stop—no defeatism, he admonished himself, and then prayed silently to Larenia, Your will be done in my life.

Why the frowns? Stealth stood and snuggled against Derrius. Disappointed I only kissed you?

Grinning, he slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her earlobe. He let his mouth linger against her ear. "We’ve so far to go to reach Three-Petals Monastery and Shadow. He whispered so Drevo and the other recent arrivals would remain ignorant of their mission. The snows will soon be here—the passes will close up. We survived the amphipteres, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. Does Larenia still favor our quest?"

The Goddess can’t possibly want Illisandra and her amphipteres lording it over the empire. Her warm breath tickled his cheek. I hate the snooty highborn—except for you, of course. But I hate Illisandra worse—and her toads Jarn Sork and Tylo Drevo.

Even with the Goddess’ help, nothing’s easy, is it?

I guess that’s why Teverus wants me with you. Nothing’s been easy in my life. He expects me to sneak you into the assassins’ fortress and then get you and the Sword out without too much of your blood spilled. She stroked his cheek.

He took and kissed her hand. Even when we could barely tolerate the other, I think he knew we would fall in love. I don’t know who’s the more inscrutable...the Goddess or—

Everyone turned towards the raucous sound of branches snapping and the crackle of leaves as something heavy crashed through the bushes. The sentries, Danis and Punta, hadn’t warned Derrius of the newcomers’ approach. Perhaps they’d been killed by the intruders. A fireball hovered just above Nico’s right hand, ready to be hurled toward the noise. Derrius conjured a similar fireball. Stealth drew two daggers. Elsewhere around the campfire swords and an axe slid from scabbards. Arlienn tried to stand but collapsed to her knees.

Something or someone slithered within the bushes. A dagger—not from Stealth—whistled toward the sound. From the shrubbery, a man’s voice shouted, Baron Guy—

Waving his hands wildly, Punta stumbled from the bushes, a dagger jutting from his left eye. Sweet Larenia, no! The sentinel curled his fingers around the hilt as a watery, jelly-like substance sprayed from his eye. He lurched forward, dropped like a log, and lay unmoving.

Derrius let the fireball dissipate and wove a shield. The noise beyond the bushes grew thunderous. Kybono implored Nico, Hurl your damned magic! Nico shook his head.

Derrius extended the shield to the front and sides of Punta as Baron Guyio and a company of his guards, crossbows loaded and leveled, emerged through a gap in the underbrush. A dagger rebounded off the invisible shield in front of the baron and fell harmlessly.

Hold your fire! Guyio shouted, leaping from his horse to kneel beside Punta.

Cero shook his head vigorously and blurted to Kybono, Horrible mistake, sir! You’ve killed one of the baron’s men.

Damned lucky shot, Stealth muttered. Too lucky.

Derrius groaned. The baron loans me two of his men, and now one’s dead.

What are you up to, Larenia? Stealth bristled.

Larenia guided the trader’s arm? Derrius furrowed his brow. Why would Stealth think that? The Goddess wants Punta dead?

On his knees, breath hissing between his teeth, Kybono glanced at the two empty dagger sheaths strapped to his belt. Face ashen, he brought his hands to his face and kneaded his forehead. Larenia help me! Trembling, the fat man tried to rise but flopped onto his immense buttocks.

Sighing, Cero helped Kybono to his feet. The trader bowed obsequiously. Forgive me, Baron. Kybono flinched. But if you can’t, I accept whatever punishment you deem just.

Is Kybono’s regret sincere? He seemed genuinely distraught, but Derrius had his doubts.

Guyio closed Punta’s eyes. Dead, the baron said, his expression more sad than angry. His eyes, stoic in the first rays of morning, fixed on Kybono. Poor man. Your train lost, then the amphipteres.

Behind the baron, horsemen still aimed loaded crossbows at the party, so Derrius kept the shield in force.

Derrius tapped Stealth’s dagger-gripping left hand. Put it away.

She smiled sheepishly. Sorry. Old habit. The dagger slid into a waist sheath. Soon, a second dagger glided into an arm sheath.

Guyio glanced back at his bowmen. The prince has good advice. Put away your bows. He took a deep breath and narrowed his gaze to Derrius. My fault, Prince. I approached at too fast a pace. Didn’t take into account what your people went through. Amphipteres...I’m surprised they weren’t more on edge.

Derrius nodded. My fault as well, Baron Guyio. I knew you were to return this morning, yet I took no precautions even though my people feared another attack. Your man died because of my shortsightedness.

Guyio lifted his hand in acknowledgment. Again, there’s more than enough fault to go around. I should have shouted out my arrival. Then Punta would still be alive. He removed his helmet and tucked it under his right arm. I’ve ensured that my family will be safe. Let me bury Punta in a temporary grave, and we’ll be on our way. The baron turned thoughtful. When it’s safe, I’ll have him buried in the villa’s graveyard.

A thick line of dirt and sweat circled Guyio’s blue eyes. A leaf, swirled by the breeze, landed on his matted hair, once blond but now grayish white. He captured and crumbled the leaf between his thumb and forefinger. Since saving Derrius from Tylo Drevo’s plan to hang him, the austere but handsome baron had witnessed his eldest daughter flee with the two-timing bard and had been forced to send his wife and other children into hiding. Still, there’d not been a moment’s hesitation in offering his services.

Derrius stewed. Tylo had wormed his way into the party’s good graces, even losing a finger in one of the attacks. And all the time he’d been Sork’s agent.

Guyio had brought horses for the party and a travois for Arlienn. Once Guyio’s men buried Punta, Crag and Brother Estrander strapped Arlienn into the travois, and Derrius, the baron, and Stealth led everyone southward away from the camp. The stubborn autumn sun hung two hand-breadths above the distant twin peaks in a sky free of clouds, a harbinger of coming warmth. They made their way along a leafy trail that hugged the meandering Dolor. The narrow path wound through old-growth forest whose trees were as naked as Meda’s hangers-on at a Winter Palace orgy. The terrain gradually rose, and soon they shadowed steep, laurel-covered bluffs that overlooked the river. Sometimes they met peasants on foot or