“Only what was necessary in the moment.” Carvesh, Anya and Carwell were gathered together in the upper room of Quelana’s home. It was the only place that was not filled with the wounded and the dying, and offered at least some measure of privacy. The hysterical woman had been dragged away, with orders that she was to be watched carefully. It was clear that she had gone mad with grief, but Quelana believed she would recover enough to recognize how irrational she had been. In the meantime, they would take all measures to keep her away from Carvesh.

“How was that necessary? You’ve just given me a military position.”

“A relatively minor one.”

“I’m an exile, uncle,” said Carvesh. “I have no place in the army.”

“You have no place in Relen’kar at all.”

“Yesterday you had all but arrested me. You threatened to put me in chains.”

“As I recall, that was your idea. I was just saying that it could be done. I know what I said, Carvesh. I know that I said you could not leave the village on your own. But things have changed. Yesterday I was investigating rumours. Today I find myself at war.”

“If my mother finds out—“

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. It won’t be the first time we’ve butt heads. I’ll survive it. She’s a hard woman, Carvesh, but she has to be. It’s the only way she keeps herself alive. There are a half dozen other Lords who’ve had their eye on the Winged Throne since your father’s execution. The only things that keep her in power are her iron will, the support of those Lords still loyal to her, and Jayslen’s rightful claim as heir. If she should lose any of those—well I’m afraid she would find herself in a very difficult position. But that’s not the point. The point is that we’ve deflected—at least for the time being. When people look at you they won’t see the tall southerner with a prince’s name. They’ll see Carvesh, the demon slayer.”

“You mean Demonsbane?” Anya smiled.

Carwell furrowed his brow. “It’s not very good is it? Torshen would have done better. He always had a way with words.”

“It may be a tad melodramatic,” she replied.

“It seemed right at the time.”

“Like making me Captain?” Carvesh interjected. “What are we going to do about that? Can you undo it? Say you made a mistake?”

“I’m afraid not. I don’t make a habit of lying. Besides, it was a decision I’d already made. That woman just forced me to declare it earlier than I’d intended. If we’re going to fight this war, then I’m damned well going to do everything I can to win it.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

Carwell regarded him thoughtfully then turned to Anya. “He really doesn’t see it does he?”

“He never has,” she replied.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Merek was blind to it too—even to the end. But I suppose that’s part of what made him who he was.”

“I don’t understand what either of you are talking about,” said Carvesh.

“He’s saying you’re a natural-born leader,” Anya smiled and placed one hand on his forearm.

“I’m just a farmer,” he protested.

“No, my dear. Farming is only something you’ve been doing. You’ve done it well, but it’s never been who you are. You were born to lead, my love. That you don’t see it in yourself only confirms it.”

“Your father was the same way,” said Carwell. “Have you ever wondered how he came to the Winged Throne? Why Torshen stepped aside for a younger brother?”

He had, of course. As Carvesh understood his history, no first-born heir to the Winged Throne had ever abdicated as Torshen had done. Younger brothers had laid claim to the Throne, but such ascensions had always been wrought with war and blood or political scheming, and has always left the Realm in a worse state than it had started—drained of resources and fragmented by opposing allegiances. Torshen had been the first and only prince to ever step aside of his own free will, clearing the way for Merek to become King.

Carvesh remembered the day it happened. He had been just six years old and his grandfather, King Lachlan had been ailing. The Lords of the Realm had descended upon Relen’ayar for a special Council. Carvesh had been excited because it was the first time that he was to allowed to sit and watch the Council in session. He could still remember his grandfather, looking so grey and tired, rising slowly to his feet and calling on Torshen to address all those assembled.

And so he had. Dressed in royal garb, he had stood before all the Lords of the Realm, looking every inch like a king in his own right. He had spoken of his love for his father, and the honour in which he held his own family. He had spoken of duty to the Realm and of doing what was right in the eyes of the Nine. Carvesh was not sure why he recalled those details so clearly, but he remembered thinking the peech sounded just like one of the High Chaplin’s sermons. At least until the moment when Torshen had announced that he was renouncing all claim to the Winged Throne, in favour of his younger brother. The Council had erupted into a cacophony of voices, and Carvesh, Jayslen and Vhanna had been ushered back to their rooms.

Six months later, Lachlan Rayderon had died and Carvesh’s father had been ascended to the Throne.

“I have wondered,” Carvesh admitted, “Though I’ve never been able to do more than that. While I was in Mesinia, the entire Yeartide separated me from Relen’kar, and the People of the Sun care little for our politics. So long as trade continues, one King is much like another.” Anya nodded in agreement. “There were few answers to any questions I had. And since returning, so much of our time and energy has been spent in trying to stay hidden that I’ve never dared to ask anything about my family.”

“For fear of drawing too much attention to yourself,” concluded Carwell.

Carvesh nodded. The only people he was ever able to speak freely with were Anya—who knew less about his family than he did—and Jayslen. But Carvesh had always found his brother to be unpredictable and moody. Any mention of their father was more likely to be met with sullen silence than any real answers.

“Then let me tell you.” Carwell sat down on a bench, folding his hands and wresting his forearms on his knees. “There have been those that have said that Torshen was a coward. He was nothing of the sort. Others will tell you that he was showing the first signs of madness. Another lie. His mind was as sharp as his sword. The simple reality was that both your uncle and your grandfather saw something in Merek. I saw it too, first when we were boys and then later when we campaigned together on the Ice Range. We all recognized that, while men might follow us because of our power and and titles, men would follow your father simply because of who he was. They followed him because they wanted to follow him. Because they loved him.

“Hear me when I tell you that Merek Rayderon was a man worth fighting for and, if necessary, a man worth dying for. All the Nine know that your brother did not inherit that quality. I believe you did.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Carvesh. “Men don’t follow me.”

“Madik,” Carwell countered, “and Jadoc.”

“Uncle, I really don’t think—“

“The Mayor speaks well of you. That woman outside claimed that her son fought and died because he was inspired by you. Merek did that to people too. And what about Taaru? He cares nothing for my title, yet he defers to you.”

“He speaks the truth,” said Anya. “I’ve known as much for years.”

“But I don’t want it!” Carvesh shouted. He felt trapped and cornered, and for a moment, he was transported back to that day when he was taken from his father’s arm and told that he was being sent to live across the Yeartide. All the same emotions began welling up in his heart. He wanted to scream in frustration. He wanted to grasp on to the power of the Flame, just for an instant, so he could smash something to pieces. “I don’t want anyone dying for me!”

“Of course you don’t,” said Carwell. “Any man who relishes the death of his followers is not worthy of his power. But sometimes it’s the men who don’t want the burden of leadership that are the best suited for it. I told your father this on the morning of Torshen’s abdication. I’m telling you the same thing now. You were born to greater things than this, Carvesh. I’m not sure why the Nine chose to deny you the Flame, but in just one short day, I’ve come to believe that your purpose is greater than working the land and tending you livestock. I recognize that those are important tasks. I just don’t believe that they are for you.”

“You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ashes and bloody embers. How am I supposed to shoulder that kind of responsibility? How am I supposed to look a man in the eye knowing that he could die because of some decision I make?”

“With a great deal of difficulty, I should expect. I won’t pretend it’s easy. But it’s what men need. When a man believes that his commander respects and values him, he will push further and fight harder. Your father taught me that.” Carwell shook his head and smiled sadly. “He was a master at it, and he never even knew it.

“During our campaign on the Ice Range, I watched an entire company of mercenaries throw themselves at a band of armed Titans in order to save your father. These were hard, vicious men, whose services your grandfather had purchased in order to bolster the strength of his own forces. The sort of men that are loyal to nothing but their own purses. Yet they threw themselves against the Titans with zealous ferocity.”

“What happened?” asked Carvesh.

“They were slaughtered. To a man. And do you know what your father did? He honoured them. He wrote their names in a small book he kept with him—he called the Book of the Fallen—and when he returned home, he spent an entire year tracking down their families. Mothers and fathers, wives and children. To each of these, he sent a letter, along with fifty golden crowns, as recompense for their loss. When your father died, years later, seven of those mercenaries’ sons were serving, or training to serve, as members of the Winged Guard. As far as I know, they’re still serving today, dedicating their lives to protect your family.”

“I’m not my father.”

“No. You’re not. He was more hot-headed than you seem to be, more prone to thinking with his heart instead of his head. I think you might have more of your mother’s patience and cunning. But never forget, Carvesh, that you are the son of Merek Rayderon, and that is not something to be taken lightly.”

“I don’t know—“

“I do. Trust me on this. Now you’d best get packing. We still have a long march ahead of us. I’ll see you in the square later today, Captain.”

“Blessed Guardian!” he shouted as Carwell reined in his horse. “When the farmhand returned alone with the boy, we feared the worst.”

“Well met, Linden. They made it safely, then?”

“Aye,” replied the man, stepping forward to take horse’s reins as Carwell slipped out of the saddle. “They came in shortly after dark. Was there really a demon?”

“We’ll discuss it later. For the moment, we have work to do. Where’s Samane?”

“Hurt. She’s at the infirmary—what we’re calling the healer’s house now—nursing her leg. Rimey thinks she’ll be okay, but it’s hard to say for certain.”

“What happened?”

“Another pack of those beasts came tearing through town last night. It was all we could do to drive them back. As it was, we lost Wallace and about six of the villagers.” Carvesh’s stomach knotted and he must have gasped because Linden turned to him. “Your family’s safe, goodman. It was an old couple who was caught outside when the attack came, along with four other men who fought with us. Solid men, too, from good northern stock. I cursed the beasts seven times over for that.”

“How many wounded are there?” Quelana asked.

“I lost count—wait, that man, Jadoc, he said you got done in pretty bad, but you look fit as a bull, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“I got better. And it sounds like I have my work cut out for me. I’d best get to it. If we’re moving these people, their wounds will need to be bound differently. I may need your help, Madik.”

“Happy to oblige,” replied the hunter, and together they made their way toward the healer’s home.

“Moving?” asked Linden. “What’s she talking about?”

“We can’t stay here,” said Carwell, speaking quietly so that the gathered crowd could not hear. “Call the Mayor. Have him gather the people in the village square within the hour. And unfurl the Black Banner.”

“My Lord?” the man’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“Yes, old friend. I’m afraid that, as of this moment, we are at war.”

“The Guardian protect us.”

“Indeed. We need—“

Carvesh never heard what was said next. “Father!” someone shouted. He followed the familiar sound of the voice and found Jayne rushing toward him. Vaulting from his saddle, he closed the distance between them in a dozen strides. He fell to his knees, opened his arms and gathered his daughter up into his arms. He held her close and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for her safety. He never wanted to let her go.

“We were so scared,” Jayne said, choking back her tears. “When you didn’t come back—and the monsters last night. Oh dada—I heard people screaming. I heard them dying.” She broke down, trembling and sobbing softly into his shoulder.

“I’m here now,” said Carvesh. “I’m here. Where’s your mother?”

“At Quelana’s. She’s still working with the people who got hurt. I was helping her, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. There’s so much blood.”

“And Alec?”

“With Dane and his aunt, I think. I haven’t seen them since breakfast. What’s happening, dada? Where did these monsters come from? Why are they doing this?”

“We’re still trying to work that out,” Carvesh told her. He was not about to repeat Taaru’s story to his daughter. Jayne had always shown a maturity beyond her years, but she was still just a child, and prone to the same vivid nightmares that he had suffered as a boy. The coming days would be hard on her—they would be hard on everyone—and there was no reason to add more fuel for her troubled dreams. She had already seen enough.

He glanced back at Carwell. Though the Lord was still speaking intently with Linden and his men, he somehow sensed Carvesh’s gaze. He returned it with a slight nod, as though to say go ahead.

“Come on,” said Carvesh. Jayne was eight now and he rarely carried her anymore, but this seemed like the right moment to do so. When she nestled into his shoulder and some of the tension seemed to ease from her body, he knew it was the right decision. “Let’s go see your mother.” Jayne nodded weakly in reply.

As he made his way through the streets of Kervale, it was like walking through an entirely different place. Many of the villagers were moving about at a frenzied pace, while others seemed to be wandering aimlessly. A number homes were already boarded up and normally friendly faces lacked their familiar smiles. Altogether, a pallor seemed to have fallen across the village, as though all of Kervale had been covered by a fog of fear and grief. It reminded Carvesh of the silence that had preceded the demon’s attack. He had to fight down the constant urge to look over his shoulder.

It’s mid-morning, he thought, struggling to ignore the uneasy quiet. The sun is high in the sky. We’re safe.

He had just arrived at the steps of Quelana’s house when the woman rushed at him. “You bastard!” she shrieked, throwing herself at Carvesh with fists flying. “You flaming, bloody bastard!” Carvesh recoiled from her assault, and nearly fell backward over the steps. He raised one arm and pushed his assailant back so that he could lower Jayne onto the safety of the porch. The woman stumbled for a moment. By the time she rushed forward again, Carvesh had retreated into the middle of the street. She swung at him with all the strength she could muster, but her attack was more surprising than painful. His greater height allowed him to keep her at bay until she grasped his arm and sunk her teeth into his wrist.

He screamed in pain. “Ashes and embers woman! What the bloody hell is your problem?”

“He’s dead because of you!” she shrieked. By now, two of Carwell’s maroon clad soldiers had appeared, rushing out of Quelana’s home to restrain the woman. She was older than Carvesh had first thought, with thick streaks of grey through her dark hair and deep lines around her eyes. She was clad in a long, black dress.

A mourner’s black.

“Who?” Carvesh asked. “Who’s dead?”

“My son, you horse’s ass! My beautiful boy! Those damned beasts killed him. And it’s all because of you!”

“I—“

“He thought you were a hero!” she shrieked. “Carvesh the farmer, slayer of shadowbeasts. Bullocks, I said, but would he listen? Of course not! The fool picked up a sword and went to fight because he thought that’s what you would do. And now he’s dead!”

“Miss,” said one of the guards, trying to restrain her.

“You know what I think?” she continued. “I think you brought those beasts. I think they’re here because of you! You, that bitch wife of yours and your half-breed whelps! It’s unnatural, and the Nine sent these beasts to punish us all for not driving you out years ago.”

“Enough!” The voice boomed so loudly that it seemed to shake the very earth. When Carvesh turned to see Aurin Carwell approaching, he thought that perhaps it had. The Lord  strode forward with  his shoulders squared, making him look taller than he really was. His emerald green blazed with fury. “What in the name of the Nine is going on here?”

“My son is dead!” shouted the woman again, though she sounded somewhat less certain of herself. “Because of him!”

“You accuse this man of murder?”

“Yes!” she shrieked. “I accuse him of darkness. Of consorting with the Iria. Hang him! Hang him like the dog he is—“

“Silence!” snapped Carwell. “I am sorry for the loss of your son, madam, but I will not stand by and allow you to besmirch the name of this good man.”

“Good? He’s in league with those beasts. Fellheart, I name him! May he be cursed beneath the eyes of the Nine and all other gods!”

Carwell’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. When he drew his sword, Carvesh thought his uncle was going to order the woman’s execution and carry it out right there in the middle of the street. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, very quietly.

“The rockcat of Sharenden,” spat the woman. “Lord and Protector. Isn’t that what they call you? Where were you when the beasts attacked? Where were you when my son died?”

“Fighting my own battle. Men die in war. There’s nothing I can do to stop that.”

“But we’re not at war!” the woman wailed, working herself into hysterics. Carvesh could almost see the last vestiges of reason being swept away by the flood of her grief.

“We are now. Our lands have been invaded by strange beasts, and I have reason to believe this incursion is just beginning. The Black Banner flies.”

Even as Carwell spoke, Carvesh felt a hand on his back. When he looked down, he found Anya at his side. She did not say a word. She merely looked up at him with those beautiful brown eyes that spoke a language deeper than any words. I love you, they said. And I’m so glad you’re back safely. He pulled her close.

“My son was not a soldier!” the woman protested.

“No,” said Carwell, quietly. “You’re wrong about that. The truth is every man’s a soldier in his own way. Every man is a warrior in his own home. Every man has right to stand for what is important to him, to fight for justice and to defend the weak. If your son took up a sword in the defence of this village, then surely he is resting with the Guardian in the Hall of Heroes, for he did what was good and right in the eyes of the Nine.”

“But he’s dead!”

“So that others might live, woman! Has your own grief blinded you so much? Or has selfishness so hardened your heart? You accuse this man of darkness, but the only darkness I see here is that which lurks in your own mind. You seek retribution against the blameless. In my eyes, the man you accuse has done nothing but fight to protect the people of this community. He put his own life on the line to rescue a boy that was not of his own blood. And last night, he slew a creature that none in our party had ever seen before, a creature that we can only describe as a demon. Fellheart, you name him? By both my Lordship and that of my forefathers, I deny it. For I give this man a new name.

“I name him Demonsbane, and raise him here and now to the rank of Captain of the Kervale Militia.”

War.

It was all wrong. He and Anya had come place to find a simple life, far away from the struggles of Lords, where he could work the land and wrap himself in obscurity. Seeking to distance himself from his former life and the danger it presented, he had felt secure in the knowledge that Nevhen had long been among the safest and most stable of the Realm’s provinces. Nestled in the shadows of the Stonewall, Carvesh had believed that he had found the perfect home.

Now, that life was shattered. There was nowhere left to hide, and the family he had worked so hard to protect was threatened, both in the ways he had always feared, and in others that he had never imagined.

War.

He felt a strong hand touch his shoulder. “I will see you through this.” Carvesh looked up and met Carwell’s blazing emerald eyes. “I don’t know what the future has for you, but I promise you that I will stand by you and your family to the very end, even as I stood by your father. When we return to the village, I will send you back to your farm with some of my men. Pack whatever you can carry on your backs, but leave the rest. Tell any others you meet to do the same. We will be leaving three hours before the sun sets.”

“Leaving? Where will we go?”

“The ultimate goal is Sharenden. If I’m to fight a war, then I would do so behind the walls of my own fortress. Your wife and children will be safe there.”

“What about the rest of the villagers?”

“It’s a big fortress, Carvesh. There is room for all who would come. And if there’s not, we’ll make room.”

“It will be a two week journey by foot, assuming we have favourable weather. We’ll be exposed at night. Even with your men, those shadowbeasts will cut into us.”

Carwell shook his head. “You forget one very simple truth.”

“What’s that?”

“These beasts are strangers in my lands. I know them better, and plan to use that to our advantage. There’s an old keep not far from here. Close enough to make by foot before dark if we hurry.”

“Athan Ridge? It’s a complete ruin.”

“I wouldn’t want to defend it against a lengthy siege, but its walls are thick and its more defensible than the village itself. There are tunnels cut into the hill, with enough room to house the villagers, I should think. Master Taaru,” Carwell said, turning to the minotaur “you said these shadowbeasts have limited intelligence. Can you elaborate?”

“They are keen predators,” replied the minotaur, “but not particularly bright.”

“There is an old keep not far from here. It has been abandoned for centuries. How would they fare against walls of stone?”

“Not well—at least not yet. They usually rely on the strength of numbers, and though their numbers are growing, they are not so great yet. It is the Sjataki that you need to be concerned about. They are both cruel and cunning, and when they command, the jychra obey. But you are right, Lord of the Humans, a fortress—even a ruined one—will provide greater protection for your people.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Carwell. “We make for Athan Ridge. Can you show us to our horses?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Dozens of questions raced through Carvesh’s mind as he and his companions followed Taaru out of the ravine. What will we do once we reach the keep? It’s still a massive march to Sharenden. Where will we find shelter along the way? Bryswall? Flintmoor? Both were sizeable cities, but neither was heavily fortified and they were both several days away. Any attempt to march to either location would leave them dangerously exposed for several nights. It was not a pleasant thought, but Carvesh was in no mood to argue the wisdom of travelling to Athan Ridge. All he wanted to do was get back to his family.

The small company trudged along in solemn silence. Carvesh could almost sense his companions’ troubled thoughts. Carwell would already be formulating his battle plans, weighing everything he had learned about the shadowbeasts and seeking a means of turning that knowledge against them. Meanwhile, Quelana would already be thinking of the hurt and wounded—both those at her house and those that would invariably fall in the coming days. As for Madik, Carvesh could only assume that he was wondering how to disentangle himself from this mess. He was a hunter, after all. He probably stood a better chance of survival on his own.

True to his word, Taaru led them to a clearing, where they found their horses tied loosely to a few low hanging branches. Carvesh eyed Stepper warily. Though he appeared calm, it was impossible to know how much of the night’s fear was still be burning through the big bay’s veins. As Carvesh approached, however, the horse responded affectionately, neighing softly and pawing at the ground. His coat glistened, as though he had been brushed down, and he appeared to have been well fed. After a quick examination to ensure that the horse had not been wounded, Carvesh scratched Stepper once behind the ear then untied his reins.

“Thank you for your help,” Lord Carwell said to Taaru. “Once we’ve established a clear course of action, I’ll send someone back to you—hopefully Madik, if he’s willing. I mean no offence when I say this, but for the moment I think that the fewer people who know about you, the better.”

“I understand, Lord of the Humans.”

“I’ll have my men start gathering scrap iron, and whatever smithing tools people are willing to sell. I’ll figure out how to get them to you later.”

Taaru nodded. “I will wait in the ravine until nightfall. If I do not hear from you by then, I will follow you to this keep.”

“You can find your way?”

“A village on the move will leave clear signs of its passing. I can find you easily enough, though I will remain hidden until I am able to approach one of you. However, I would speak privately with Carvesh of the Great Oak before he leaves.”

“Very well.” said Carwell, turning to Carvesh. “We’ll wait for you on the Kingsway.” Grasping the reins for Jadoc’s horse, he led Madik and Quelana toward the road. Winter followed several paces behind, passing as silently as a ghost.

“He trusts you,” said Taaru when he was certain that they were out of earshot.

“Who?”

“Your Lord Carwell.”

“I’ve known him since I was a boy. Until recently though, I hadn’t seen him for a long time. He was a friend of my father’s.”

“Was?”

“My father died. A long time ago.”

“My sympathies, Carvesh of the Great Oak. I too lost my Sire. Regardless, the friend of your Father looks to you. He trusts your judgement.”

“I doubt that. Whatever history Aurin and I might have, at the moment I’m more of a thorn in his side than anything else. Besides, I know nothing of war.”

“You handle a sword well enough. But what you know of war is irrelevant. You have the man’s ear. He does not defer to you, but he listens close enough that you may have the opportunity to sway his thoughts. And sway them you must.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The Remnant,” rumbled Taaru. “She is who I say she is. Above all, she is dangerous, even locked as she is behind the wardings of the Stonewall. But she will not be content to remain there. I have told you that the jychra are sometimes called Those that Come Before. They are not the Remnants army. They are her vanguard, even as the nightstalkers are her scouts.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Carvesh.

“Speak to your Lord. Convince him of the truth behind my words. Because I promise you this—even if you manage to survive this struggle, even if you drive the jychra back, this is just the beginning. I assure you, Carvesh of the Great Oak, that there are worse things than shadowbeasts beyond the Stonewall, and the Remnant commands them all. You must begin preparing for them. I will guide you in this, so far as I am able, but it will be difficult if your Lord refuses to accept the truth. Speak to him. Make him believe. The future of all people may well depend on it.”

Carvesh knew the stories well. He had heard them told by storytellers at festivals and celebrations, and occasionally by his father in more private settings. Later, he had heard variations of the story in Messinia, where it was said that The Fey Queen’s dying shriek was still echoing in some of the darkest and most distant reaches of the world. It was said that the weeks and months following her death had been some of the most violent and chaotic that the Realm had ever known. The Iria armies had splintered, turing on each other and destroying thousands of human lives in the process.

Only the leadership of King Terramore and the cleric Lindrech had saved them. Somehow, those legendary heroes had negotiated a truce. The Fey King had taken his people retreated far to the south, and the Shimmering had divided them ever since.

That was what the stories told.

“Not dead,” said Taaru quietly. “The spirit of Tatalanaria is too strong for that. Her body was destroyed during the war, but her spirit lives on, exiled to the lands beyond the Stonewall and imprisoned by powerful wards. But she is not alone. Many of her followers went with and the lands of her exile were not uninhabited. She found others living there as well, dark hearted men and beasts that lurked in the shadows. Over time, she has twisted them to her purposes. Some became the jychra. Some became like the sjataki you encountered last night. And still others became foul creatures you should hope you never see.”

“That can’t be,” Lord Carwell insisted. “It goes against everything we know about the Fey Wars. History clearly tells us that Tatalanaria was destroyed.”

“Then your history is wrong, Lord of the Humans.”

Carwell scowled. He appeared ready argue when Quelana interrupted. “Or at least incomplete,” she said, turning to question the minotaur. “You said that her body was destroyed, even though her spirit survived. If that’s true, it would only stand to reason that our historians assumed she was dead.”

“Surely you can’t believe this!” said Carwell. “It’s ludicrous!”

“Maybe not,” said the healer. “You’re familiar with the premise of corporal limits?”

“Of course.” Even Carvesh was familiar with the concept. Men or women with a particularly strong connection to the Flame had been known to burn themselves out from time to time. The sages said that the human body could only handle a certain degree of stress.

“About a century ago,” continued Quelana, “there was a sage named Fesilan. He was not Flameborn, but he dedicated his life to studying those who were—mostly in the areas of healing and medicine. We’re still using many of his ideas today. One of his theories was that our spirits become unanchored when we die and drift into the Beyond, but he also suggested that, with enough raw power, it might be possible to create a new, bodiless anchor point. Corporal limitation makes this impossible for any human, but the Fey Queen—well I doubt that she was hindered by the same limitations as us.“

“You speak wisely,” said Taaru. “Tatalanaria was among the strongest of the Quilani. Second only to her husband, the Vanarch.”

“Fine,” grumbled Carwell, though his expression made it clear that he remained unconvinced. “I’m not saying that I believe this, but I’ve seen enough to believe that there is something unfriendly out there. Let’s assume for a moment that this Remnant is, in fact, the Fey Queen—or at least someone claiming that identity. What can you tell us about her? What kind of threat does she pose?”

The minotaur grunted. “The very worst. Before her defeat, she sought to expunge humanity from this world—or else twist them to her purposes. I do not expect that has changed. Fortunately, the wards of her imprisonment still hold. The greater danger are her minions, such as the jychra and the sjataki. These are the ones you must concern yourself with, Lord of the Humans.”

“And what can you tell us about them?”

“They are darkness—very literally. Their strength grows in the shadow and wanes in the light, so much so that the jychra will not appear while the sun is in the sky unless forced by those that rule over them. The sjataki do not shun the light in the same way, but even they draw strength from the darkness.”

“How about it, my Lord?” quipped Madik. “Can the Flameborn keep the sun from setting?”

“No,” responded Carwell.

“Was worth a shot.”

“The shadows make the jychra stronger,” said Taaru, “not invincible. They still have weaknesses that can be exploited. For instance, they have a distinct pack mentality. Couple that with a severely limited intelligence, and you find yourself facing an enemy that is quite predictable.”

“Predictability is irrelevant if our weapons can’t turn them back,” argued Carwell. “My men and I fought a pack of the beasts two nights ago and they nearly overwhelmed us.”

“But you did manage to defeat them. How?”

“Brute force. I had to call upon the Flame and borrow strength from the earth itself to smash them apart.”

The minotaur nodded. “Their hides are thick and hard enough to turn back a common blade, but they are also brittle enough to crack under sufficient force. Hammers, cudgels and other blunt weapons might prove more effective than swords and spears.”

“Their eyes are vulnerable too,” added Carvesh, thinking back over his previous encounters with the beasts. “And Madik killed one by catching it in the throat.”

“Yes,” agreed Taaru, “Though none of my people have ever shown the marksmanship of your hunter friend, we have discovered several key weaknesses in their defences. In addition to their eyes and throats, they also have soft spots on the inside of each leg. If you can catch them in these places, swords and other blades can be effective.”

Carwell shook his head. “Most of my soldiers are swordsmen or cavalry. They’re used to fighting Titans or putting down rebellions—enemies who bleed when you cut them.”

“I can teach you several techniques that you can use to train your men,” said Taaru. “You might also consider enlisting the aid of blacksmiths and woodsmen. Those who know how to swing an axe or a hammer might prove invaluable.”

“Jadoc can help with that,” suggested Quelana. “Trent too. They’re both well connected and know most of the local craftsmen and apprentices.” Carvesh nodded his agreement.

“I might be able to scrounge up a man or two myself,” added Madik.

“It doesn’t seem like much of a plan,” said Carwell. “But I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

“There is one more thing,” said Taaru. “Something I would like to show you.” Abruptly, the minotaur turned and vanished back into the woods.

As Carvesh glanced at his companions he found his own emotions reflected in their faces. Quelana’s brow furrowed in confusion, while Madik stroked his long moustache thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Lord Carwell’s expression was a storm of uncertainty and frustration. Carvesh had always known his uncle to be a proud man, confident in his ability to look out for those under his care. The sudden appearance of the shadowbeasts had clearly disrupted that confidence. Carvesh found himself lifting a silent prayer to both the Nine and the Sun God of Messinia, that whatever Taaru intended to show them would help restore some of that confidence.

It was several minutes before the minotaur returned. When he did, Carvesh and his companions leapt to their feet. Madik nocked and arrow and Carwell reached for his sword.

“Ashes and flaming embers!” he shouted as Taaru descended into the ravine, dragging a demon behind him.

It was like a smaller version of the creature they had faced the previous night, with the same featureless face and spine-ridged arms. But, while the other demon’s natural armour had been weathered and bone-like, this one glistened with the same obsidian as the shadowbeasts. It thrashed and hissed and pulled furiously against the thin, metallic cord that bound its neck and wrists—to no avail. Taaru was bigger and stronger, and the demon could not match such strength.

“Sjataki,” growled the minotaur. “There are too many of the jychra in this for the one you destroyed to be the only of its kind. I hunted this one down as you slept.”

“Kill it!” shrieked Quelana. There was terror in her voice, a deep, visceral fear. Her ravaged flesh had been miraculously healed, but it was clear that the wound in her mind was still fresh and raw. She took a single step toward Carwell, as though for protection. Instinctively, the Flameborn lord placed one reassuring arm around her shoulders.

“Why does this monstrosity still live?” he demanded.

“To serve as a demonstration,” responded Taaru. “Carvesh of the Great Oak, would you do me the honour of lending me your sword?” The request caught Carvesh off-guard. After all the aid and overtures of friendship, it was difficult to believe that Taaru would use the weapon to harm them—his own sword was far larger and far more dangerous. Still, Carvesh paused for a moment before nodding and offering the weapon hilt-first to the minotaur.

“My thanks.” All at once, Taaru whirled and the bright, polished blade followed him. It cut through the air with a metallic hum, arcing toward the demon with thunderous force. Carvesh winced as the sword caught the hissing demon in the side of the face, cleaving its head cleanly in half. A small wisp of green smoke billowed briefly from the cloven skull before the body dissolved into black ash.

“Done,” said Taaru, raising the sword before him, as though to admire the blade. “Such is the power of Brightsteel. Creatures like the sjitaki and the jychra cannot stand against it.”

“Brightsteel?” asked Madik.

“You do not know if it?” The hunter shook his head. “It is an alloy made from common iron and the ore extracted from Moonstone. It can be difficult to work. Too much moonstone and the steel becomes brittle. Not enough and a blade won’t hold it’s edge.”

“But I’d always thought that sword was made from solid Relenian Steel,” said Carvesh. “At least that’s what Jayslen told me when he gave it to me.”

Carwell’s head snapped toward Carvesh, then back to Taaru. “Jayslen…” His brows furrowed and his emerald eyes narrowed for a moment before snapping wide open, as though in sudden shock. “Ashes and Embers! I knew it looked familiar. Fool of a boy! What was he thinking?”

“Uncle?”

“That’s not just a sword, Carvesh. That’s Nightmane. The ancestral sword of House Rayderon, forged centuries ago and passed down for generations. Your father wore it the day he was ascended to the Winged Throne, and it hung for years on the wall of his private chambers. It’s part of your brother’s birthright.”

“I had no idea—”

“Of course not. You would have no reason to remember it. There’s nothing to be done about it now, but I’ll have stern words for your brother the next we meet. For the moment, let’s just be grateful for his folly. It may very well have saved all our lives last night. Would that we had more weapons such as it.”

“And so you shall, Lord of the Humans,” said Taaru. “I have been working with Brightsteel since I was old enough to carry my first named weapon. I can craft the weapons you require.”

“I’m afraid these lands are not exactly rich with moonstone.”

“You needn’t worry about that. I have a small store—enough to forge a dozen swords.”

“A dozen?” asked Carwell. Taaru nodded. “And they will cut through the shadowbeasts as easily as Nightmane?”

“They will.”

“What do you need?”

“Iron—even scraps will do—a forge and time.”

“I’ll see that you will have all of it. How much time?”

“I can produce a sword every half day. They will not be properly forged, however, and will be useful only against the hides of the sjitaki and the jychra. They will surely shatter against anything else.” Taaru hefted Nightmane. “A blade with such workmanship as this would take a month to forge. Perhaps longer.”

“We don’t have that kind of time” said Carwell. “What you offer will have to suffice. If such swords are as effective as promised, they will be deadly in the hands of my Sentinels. But now I think it’s time we returned to the village. We have work to do.”

“What kind of work?” asked Carvesh. In his heart, he already knew the answer.

“We prepare for war. May the Guardian watch over us us.”

Then he remembered how he had come to be in this place. His mind snapped to full wakefulness and he bounded to his feet, turning to where he had laid Quelana the previous night. He expected to find her laying still and unmoving beneath her blanket; he feared that what he found would be far worse.

He was not at all prepared to find her sitting up, drinking from a hollowed gourd and eating a breakfast of nuts and berries. She appeared refreshed and free of pain, chatting quietly with Madik. The Hunter was sitting on a nearby log, with Winter was curled up at his feet. Quelana looked nothing like the woman that Carvesh had carried to this place the previous night. Could the vile looking herbs that she had pushed into her arm have acted so quickly? It did not seem possible, even for someone with her Flameborn talents.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said a voice. Carvesh turned to find Lord Carwell, standing beside him. “I wasn’t certain that she’d survive through the morning. Now it’s as though she was never wounded at all.”

“But how?”

“I have to believe that it has to do with the nature of this place. An Alnhome is a place of Olde Magic—older than the Flameborn or even the Iria, if half of what I’ve read is true.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A look of peace passed over his face. “You can almost feel it in the air.”

“Maybe it’s because your Flameborn,” said Carvesh. “Personally, I can’t feel a thing. Still, if it helped Quelana, I suppose I’m grateful.” It was only as he gazed around the ravine that he realized that someone was missing. “Where’s Taaru?”

“He was gone when we awoke, but there was water, berries and nuts, so I can only assume he laid them out and left shortly before dawn. He seems to have been true to his word—he did bring us to safety—but I’m still not sure about him. Who is he? Where did he come from and why is he helping us?”

“I couldn’t say. All I know is that he’s helped me twice now.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s a friend.”

“No,” Carvesh agreed. “But he might be an ally. At the very least, he seems to know more about these shadowbeasts than we do. I think we should at least try to learn whatever we can from him.”

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” replied Lord Carwell. “I just want you to understand that I’m not yet prepared to offer him overtures of friendship.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“There’s still plenty to eat.”

They joined Quelana and Madik. The hunter offered Carwell his log, but the Lord declined, content to lower himself to the ground and lounge comfortably beneath the shaded canopy of a tall elm.

“How are you feeling?” Carvesh asked Quelana between mouthfuls of sweet berries and rich pine nuts.

“Fine,” she replied, though she had a puzzled look on her face. “Better than fine, really. To be honest, I expected the wound to be infected when I awoke. Maybe even festering. But it’s completely gone. There’s not even a hint of a scar. I’ve never seen anything like it. The best Flameborn healers in the Realm would not have been able to heal it so effectively.”

“The Olde Magic, uncle?” asked Carvesh.

“No doubt,” replied Carwell. “Alnhomes have strange powers, though they’re not always so—accommodating.”

“You seen one before,” said Madik.

“Only once. Long ago, when I was campaigning on the Ice Range with Merek, back before he was ascended to the Winged Throne.”

“What was it like?” asked Quelana.

“Much like this, to be honest. It was warm and bright, and filled with a sense of tranquility, at least at first.”

Madik grunted. “I’ve roamed all over that blasted wasteland, and never seen anything like this. Didn’t think anything warm was allowed in that part of the world.”

“It’s well hidden. So well that you could search for years and never stumble across it. We only found it because we were invited.”

“By who?” asked Carvesh.

“Someone your father knew.” It was an evasive answer and, while he wanted to press the matter, something in Carwell’s tone indicated that it was not a subject he was open to discussing further. As they continued to eat, the conversation turned to the events of the previous night. They each have voice to the troubling questions that had been haunting them all. What was the demon?Was it alone, or were there others like it? Had Jadoc and Dane made it safely back to Kervale?

Alone and isolated in the ravine, such questions loomed like a great cloud of uncertainty that seemed to pervade even the unnatural tranquility of the ravine. Though Carvesh’s slumber had been oddly peaceful, since waking he had felt a gnawing sense of anxiety bubbling up in his spirit.

When Taaru finally returned, Carvesh very nearly leapt to his feet.

The swordsman approached with a silence that belied his great bulk, melting out of the trees like a wraith. His face remained hidden beneath the shadows of his deep cowl. But in the brighter light of the morning, Carvesh caught the vaugest impression of the face concealed within that cowl, and while most of the details remained hidden within the shadows, one thing was clear. It was not a human face.

But if he’s not human, what is he?

“Good morning,” he rumbled. “It is good to see you up and recovered, lady of the Fiery Hair. I trust that you slept well.”

“I did, thank you.”

“You are most welcome, though I did nothing but bring you to this place. I have retrieved your horses. They are fed, watered and waiting for you in a clearing near the road whenever you are ready for them. But if you would spare a moment, there are other matters I would discuss with you. I have given this much thought, Carvesh of the Great Oak, and I have come to a decesion. If you will have it, I would lend you my aid in your struggle against the jychra.”

“You seek an alliance with us?” asked Lord Carwell.

“No,” responded Taaru. “I mean no disrespect, Lord of the Humans, but I extend my offer to Carvesh, slayer of the sjataki, and to him alone.”

“I’m only a farmer,” Carvesh protested forcefully. He had spent all of his years in Kervale attempting to distance himself from all matters of politics, and though he had recently revealed the truth of his identity to his companions, he had no desire to form alliances. Doing so would only draw further attention to himself. “I have no position or authority.”

“I care nothing for such things,” said Taaru. “I make this offer from myself, and the iron in my own blood. Perhaps if I spoke on behalf of my people, such things would matter. But I am afraid that cannot be.”

“Why?”

“As I have told you, I am all that remains. My people are no more. We were betrayed and overrun by The Ones Who Come Before. And now they are crossing the Stonewall through the Pass of Kharil, as was never meant to be. I am the last of the Tribe of Odar, and I will continue to perform the duty that is expected of me. I will fight the jychra, and if you will accept my aid, I will teach you too do the same. Either way, I swear to you, by the iron blood of my fathers and the very bones of the mountains, I will not rest until every jychra west of the Stonewall is destroyed—or until I am sent into the beyond to rest with my kin.”

“Noble words,” snapped Carwell. “But forgive me if I have trouble accepting such sentiment from a man who hides his face from those he seeks to help.” He was answered by a deep, rumbling growl.

“Uncle,” Carvesh whispered in warning, but the Lord payed him no heed.

“Reveal yourself,” pressed Carwell. “I would look upon the face of any man who seeks to ally himself with my friend.”

“Your kind have a long standing reputation for hatred and distrust,” snarled Taaru, “even amongst yourselves. But because I cannot deny the truth of your words, and will not be accused of cowardice, I will do as you say.” He reached up with one massive, gloved hand and pulled back his hood. Carvesh felt his jaw drop. It was all he could do not to recoil in shock. He heard Quelana gasp. Madik let out a low whistle.

The shape of Taaru’s head was very similar to one of Carvesh’s own bulls, save that its snout was less pronounced and had more the appearance of a broad, dominant nose. His eyes were different too. Clear, blue and fiercely intelligent, they were set beneath a deep, severely angled brow. His skin was covered in a fine, rudy fur that grew darker and thicker around his jaw. Thick horns extended from each side of his skull, curving elegantly around large, bovine ears that were each adorned with a number of iron rings.

By the Nine, thought Carvesh. He’s a bloody minotaur. He could hardly believe his eyes. Such creatures were the stuff of myth and legend.

“Look, then, upon my face,” rumbled Taaru. “What say you now, Lord of the Humans?”

If Lord Carwell was surprised, he did not let a hint it touch his face. He simply nodded and said, “Be welcome in the Province of Nevhen, Taaru of the Odar.”

“You do not appear shocked,” said the minotaur. His eyes were fixed squarely on the Lord of Sharenden. He sounded almost surprised.

“Why should I?” responded Carwell. “I know all to well that humans are not the only people in this world. I’ve spilled Titan blood on the Ice Range. I’ve read the stories of the Fey Wars and seen the expanse of the Shimmering with my own eyes. It was clear from your words and your stature that you are not human, so why should I be surprised to discover what was already obvious?

“Besides, there have been rumours for years—stories of large creatures that stalked the mountains of the Stonewall, walking like men but far too large to be so. Mostly, such stories have been dismissed, but I’ve always wondered. If the Titans can inhabit the frozen wastes of the Ice Range, why couldn’t there be something living in the mountains as well? It seems I was not mistaken in my thinking.”

“You were not,” replied Taaru. “We make our home deep within the mountains, and make it a habit to avoid any humans who ventured into the passes. But I suppose we could not hide all evidence of our existence.”

“Not from a skilled mountaineer,” said Madik. “Of course, most other folk don’t have much trust in hunters and trappers, which probably accounts for their not believing the stories. You say you guarded the pass? The big gorge, about a fifty miles east of here?”

“Yes,” the minotaur nodded. “That would be the Pass of Kharil.”

“Around here we call it Evernight Gorge, on account of the sun’s light hardly touching it. Been there once myself, though never saw anything that made me think anyone was living out there. Hellish looking place if ever there was one. Seems to me that gorge pretty much guards itself. Can’t imagine anything crossing it.”

“My people did not live in the pass itself,” said Taaru. “We merely guarded it. As you say, the shadows are deep in Kharil, and this only lends strength to the jychra, and others of the Remnant’s fiends.”

“There’s that name again,” said Lord Carwell. “Who is this Remnant? Last night you said that answers would come with the light.”

“That I did. So be it. The Remnant threatens your people. In truth, she is a threat to all people, but perhaps yours most of all. You have the right to hear what I have to say, though I do not think it will please you.”

“I’ve heard bad news before.”

“Not like this. You say you’ve read the history of your people’s war with the Quilani—the Fey, as you call them. Then you will also recognize the Remnant’s name, for once she was the Qualarch, known to the world as Tatalanaria.”

“The Fey Queen,” whispered Carvesh in awe.

“The very same.”

The small woman sat across from her, taking long sips from her own glass and chatting idly about a number of uninteresting topics. It was all a façade, of course, put on for the benefit of the servants who lingered near the edge of the garden, as though to wait on their mistress should she require anything else. Lady Vander acted as though she was oblivious to their presence, which was all but an open invitation to eavesdrop. The mindless chatter was intended to whittle away the curious, leaving only those who were being paid to watch and listen.

Shade had seen it all before. She had even participated herself when the situation demanded it. She knew enough to recognize that the servants were little more than a decoy. The real danger were the spies that remained hidden—or tried to. Shade had already spotted two of these, though she suspected there were others. The first had been either novice or an amateur hiding amidst the vines. He had vanished from his concealment the very moment he caught Shade looking directly at him. The second had been more difficult to spot. She might have missed him completely had it not been for a sudden gust of wind that had rustled his camouflaged cloak just enough to catch Shade’s eye and alert her to his presence.

She had to assume that Lady Vander knew she was being watched, so it came as somewhat of a surprise when her chatter turned abruptly to the topic of her husband.

“So tell me dear,” she said. “Just what is it that troubles you about our little arrangement concerning my husband?”

“Is it safe to talk here?”

“Certainly. I know that Oralon is spying on me, and he knows that I know, which has always brought us to somewhat of an impasse, wouldn’t you say? You may speak candidly, my dear.”

“Very well,” responded Shade. “I don’t think you were being entirely honest with me the last time we met.”

“At this point, I would think that should be obvious.”

“But I’m not convinced the entire thing was an act either. I think you really do despise your husband, and that you would like nothing more than seeing your son come to his inheritance.”

Alys Vander smiled. “It would not shock anyone to hear that my mourning would have been brief in the event that you had somehow managed to kill my husband. It’s fairly well known that there is no love lost between us.”

“Then why help him deceive me?”

“He gave me something I wanted.”

“And what was that?”

“You.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Suddenly, Shade did not like where this conversation was going.

“It’s really quite simple. My husband found himself in very sudden need of an individual with your particular skill set. But before hiring anyone, he wanted to put them to a test. He came to me and explained his plans, along with the role he wanted me to play. I agreed, so long as I got to select the assassin. I’m sure he was suspicious, but then he’s always suspicious. It’s in his nature.”

“And you chose me.”

“Evidently.”

“Why?”

“You have a remarkable reputation, my dear. When I learned that you were in the area, it seemed like an obvious choice.”

“That’s it? There’s nothing more to it?”

“Nothing at all,” responded Lady Vander sweetly.

She was lying. The glint of deceit was reflected so clearly in her eyes that it was almost as though she was admitting that there was something more, some unknown facet of the game in this game she was playing with her husband. Whatever that facet might be, however, it was equally clear that she was not about to reveal it—at least not here, where eyes were watching and ears were listening. For the moment, there was nothing Shade could do but play the game herself.

“I understand that you will be accompanying us to the Capital,” continued Lady Vander.

“Your husband extended the invitation.”

“I’m sure he did. It seems a logical decision, of course. A Wind Carriage is the quickest way to reach Relen’ayar, and given that we are heading to the Capital ourselves, it seems only sensible that you should accompany us. I’m afraid we’ll have to do something about your attire, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oralon and I generally travel separately. It doesn’t do much for appearances, I admit, but it makes for a more pleasant journey. I’m sure that my husband intended for you to travel in his carriage, but I think that I will insist you travel with me instead, as one of my companions. He’ll object, of course, but in the end I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Lady Vander paused as a faint trilling whistle rose up out of the vineyard.

“Well now, it seems as though my dear husband is about to join us. How convenient. We can settle this matter right here.”

Sir Oralon Vander appeared moments later, strolling wordlessly into the vineyard flanked by two armed guards. His long black overcoat and matching, silken doublet were elegantly cut, trimmed and embroidered with gold. He carried himself with a quiet dignity and, though the expression was calm and impassive, when his eyes fell upon Shade, they narrowed dangerously.

“So here is my little bird,” he said. “I was most troubled at your unexpected disappearance. I believed that I had provided adequate accommodations.”

“The room was fine,” responded Shade. “But given what had transpired there, I found it had an unwholesome feel to it.”

“I was not aware that you had such a delicate constitution.”

“It has nothing to do with that. I simply don’t like being manipulated. In any case, I prefer to make my own accommodations.”

“Duly noted,” said Sir Vander dryly. “I must admit, I’m somewhat surprised to find you here. I was not aware that you had a friendship with my wife.”

“Oh come now, Oralon,” said Lady Vander. “There’s no need to be snarky. Miss Shaydra and I simply had some matters to discuss. You know this has always been one of my favourite places to chat.”

“And drink.”

“We all have our vices. Shall I begin naming yours?” She paused, as though inviting him to respond. When he said nothing, she continued as though the entire matter was already forgotten. “In any case, our dear friend and I we were just talking about the trip to the Capital, and how we will need to find some more suitable clothing. A nice, elegant dress should do just fine for a new lady, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

“What are you talking about, Alys?”

“Our journey to the Capital! Pay attention, Oralon. If Miss Saydra is going to be traveling as one of companions, she should at least look the part of a lady, don’t you think? You were planning on sending as a member of my party, weren’t you? It simply would not be suitable for her to travel with you and your men. What would the other Lords think? What would the High Chaplin think?”

Shade half expected Vander to retort angrily. Instead, he surprised her offering his wife a wry smirk. It was the first hint of a smile Shade had ever seen touch his face. He clearly enjoyed this verbal sparring with his wife. It was a dangerous game, and one which likely favoured Sir Vander, but both parties had clearly managed to survive this far, and Shade suspected that each knew when to pick their battles.

In this instance, the husband conceded to the wife.

“Of course, Alys” he replied. His eyes flickered momentarily toward the man still concealed in the tree, as he strolled casually over toward the large white cage. For several long moments, he seemed to be admiring the creatures locked within. “We must always keep up appearances, mustn’t we? The birds seem quite merry today. So beautiful. So colourful. Such beautiful songs. So full of life. But they’re silly creatures too, don’t you think?”

With a deliberate slowness, Sir Vander unlatched the door to the cage. It swung open with a long, drawn-out creek. Instantly the birds went still and silent, as though they sensed the sudden change, but were unsure what to make of it. As soon as the Lordling turned back toward Shade and Lady Vander, however, one small, red-crowned swallow jumped from perch to perch, approaching the opening with a tentative curiosity. With one final bound, it came to rest on the edge of the open door. It hesitated, casting nervous glances in all directions, before whistling one and bolting through the opening. Its little wings flapped hard, gaining speed quickly as it bolted for freedom.

It had not made it more than a hundred feet when a falcon burst abruptly from the trees. Before Shade even knew what was happening, the predator had already fallen on the smaller bird, catching it in in its talons. The swallow cried out in panic, trashing madly as it struggled to escape, but the falcon’s grip was just too strong.

“A shame,” said Sir Vander as he watched the falcon fly away with its prey. “It was perfectly safe within the cage. Fed, watered and well protected. But such is the price of freedom, I suppose.” He turned back toward Shade and his wife. “In any case, it’s always good to know that you have matters well in hand, Alys. I suppose that I shall see you both on the air fields later this morning. Until then.”

With a curt nod and a simple signal to his guards, Sir Vander turned and walked wordlessly from the vineyard. His silence only served to amplify the weight of his message. The swallow’s death was no accident. That much was clear. It was both a warning and a threat. But who was it directed at? Shade wondered. At Lady Vander? At me? Or maybe both of us? Either way, the message was clear.

Oralon Vander might see himself as the falcon, but Shade was determined to show him that she was no swallow.

In Shade’s view, Lord Vander’s manor house was a hulking monstrosity. It was not that it was ugly. Constructed on a man-made hill at the very heart of the city, it was a sprawling complex of beauty. The colours of its carefully manicured gardens and terraces contrasted against the polished white columns and great, vaulted archways that surrounded the inner buildings like an intricate architectural web. The primary residence was octagonal in shape, with spire-capped towers at each of its corners and a massive bulb-shaped roof that gleamed bright and golden in the morning sunlight. Altogether, it radiated an aura of wealth and self-importance that set Shade’s nerves on edge.

She had come a long way from living as an orphan on the streets of Relen’ayar, but there was still enough of that little girl in her that she always felt a strong disdain for excessive displays of wealth. Of course, disdain was not enough to keep her away. It only served to reinforce her opinion of her most recent patron.

Shade spent less than a quarter hour strolling casually around the perimeter of the manor house, watching for an ideal entry point. She found it easily enough, and slipped into a public garden that rested just beneath one of the open terraces. She strolled along the path, admiring the colourful flowerbeds and intricately shaped shrubs. She slowed as she approached the stone wall that supported the terrace. When she was confident that nobody was watching, she slipped into a small grove and scampered into the branches of an old pear tree.

The terrace wall was constructed from thousands of different sized bricks, set in a complex pattern that provided plenty of footholds. Shade set her attention on another tree that was growing near the edge of the terrace, carefully plotting the path that would bring her to the top as quickly as possible, while also offering the greatest degree of concealment from any watching eyes.

She glanced behind her once more to ensure that nobody was coming up behind her. Assured that she was alone, she began climbing with a practiced agility. Placing her hands and feet confidently, she reached the top of the wall in under a minute, slipping quietly over the top and dropping into a crouch behind the tree toward which she had been climbing.

Immediately, she heard the sound of approaching voices.

She could not see who those voices belonged to. Nor could she hear what they were saying, though from the casual timbre of their voices, she was confident that she had not been seen. Fixed in place, with her back pressed against the tree, she listened intently in an effort to determine the proximity of the strangers. They sounded as though they were drawing closer, perhaps enjoying a morning stroll. Shade drew one of her knives, cupped it in the palm of her hand and held it out before her. In a matter of just a few seconds, she caught a glimpse of the approaching strangers reflected on the polished surface of her blade.

Shade smiled.

It seemed that after having been duped into killing the wrong man, and the debacle on the rooftops earlier that morning, fortune had finally chosen to smile on her again. It was a man and woman approaching and, though their shapes were distorted by the slight curve of her blade, Shade clearly recognized the small, roundish figure of Alys Vander.

Shade did not recognize the man, though it was clear that it was not the Lady’s husband—he was too tall and thick through the shoulders to be Oralon Vander. He carried a sword at his side, however, and even from the small, indistinct reflection, Shade could tell that his clothing was rich and well-tailored.

A courtier? Too familiar. Probably not a bodyguard either. A lover? If so they’d be foolish to be walking together so publicly. Family then, Shade determined. It was possible that it could be a visiting brother or cousin—Shade new little about the woman’s kin—but it was far more likely that the man was Cerin Vander, Alys’ son, and the only living heir to the wealth of Kilinshire.

“I don’t understand why father won’t let me go,” Shade heard him whine as they approached, all but confirming her suspicions. “I’ll need to acquaint myself with the court sooner or later.”

“Patience, my dear,” said his mother. “Your father does not expect much to come out of this council, and he wants you to remain here to look after his affairs. Between the droughts in the Lowlands and trouble brewing in Tallavorn, we can expect a higher than usual demand for our grains come harvest time—”

Trouble in Tallavorn? Shade had heard rumours that the Islanders were stirring up trouble along the coast, but if Vander was planning on profiting from the situation, matters must have been worse than she thought. It would be something to keep an eye on while in the Capital.

When Lady Vander and her son were nearly out of earshot, Shade fell into a low crouch and began tailing them, moving from concealment to concealment with all the silence of a shadow.

“It just seems grossly unfair,” complained Cerin.

“When has your father ever concerned himself with what’s fair? He doesn’t trust the Steward to oversee the farming while he’s gone, so he’s leaving you in charge.”

“He doesn’t trust me either.”

“Of course he doesn’t, my dear. He doesn’t trust anyone, but at least you have something at stake in the matter. Reymen Sale is growing more senile by the day. I can only assume that your father’s simply waiting for him to die, rather than having to deal with all the nastiness of disposing him. He’s held his position for more than forty years.”

“Do you think you could talk to him?” pleaded Cerin.

“To Reymen?”

“To father!”

“No, Cerin. I don’t think so. I don’t speak to your father. Not like that. He does what he does, and as long as I don’t stick my nose in his business, he leaves me well enough alone. I make a habit of picking my battles, and you’re injured pride is not reason enough to go to war with him. Your time will come, my boy. But run along now. You’ll be wanted in the Steward’s office, and I intend to visit the vineyard before we depart.”

“More wine, mother?”

“I’m preparing to spend the better part of a week surrounded by some of the most vicious, venom-tongued gossips of our age. Trust me—there is never too much wine.”

In spite of herself, Shade could not help but smile at the woman’s deadpan humour. While she had never spent much time moving among the highborn circles, she had encountered enough nobles to attest to the truth behind Lady Vander’s words. It was a broad generalization, of course. There were some intelligent, kind-hearted women in the court. Still, Shade prefer an evening among the thieves and cutthroats that lurked in the shadows of the Capital’s underworld than among the women of the court.

She continued watching from her concealment as Cerin bid farewell to his mother and turned back in the direction from which they had come. Lady Vander continued on alone. Her casual pace providing Shade with all the time she needed to weave between the trees and shrubs, until she was well ahead of Alys Vander. When she felt the moment was right, she stepped out of her concealment and directly into the other woman’s path.

“Lady Vander,” said Shade in quiet, level tone.

“Well hello dear,” responded the woman, as though greeting an old friend. While the crown of her head did not even reach Shade’s chin, she was still a commanding presence. She wore her dark hair up, in a severe style that leant a certain hardness to her otherwise round face. She was clad in an elegant golden dress, trimmed with green silk that was a perfect match to her Flameborn eyes. “I’d been wondering when you might pop up. I trust this is not an assassination. It seems far too public and direct for you.”

“I was just hoping to talk.”

“Very good. I’m in no mood to defend myself this morning.” As if to emphasize her point, she traced her fingers casually through the air, conjuring a thin line of fire. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but the implication was clear. “Not that I wouldn’t, mind you. It’s just that my stomach feels a little sour. I think the prospect of travelling by Wind Carriage has upset my constitution.” She smiled. “I’d heard that matters went a bit awry on you.”

“You might say that,” said Shade. “It seems that not everybody was entirely honest with me.”

“Very sorry for that. But a woman has to do what a woman has to do. I’m sure you understand.”

“Not entirely. Let me put this simply, Lady Vander. You don’t strike me as the devoted wife. It puzzles me that you would play into his games.”

“Does it now?”

“I also pride myself on my ability to read the truth of a situation. It surprises me that you were able to deceive me so readily. Thinking back, it seems to me that there was some truth to what you told me. So while I certainly appreciate the need to look out for our own best interests, I’m not convinced that you are being forthright with your motivations—either with me or your husband.”

The small woman responded with a cunning smile. “I think I like you, miss Shade. I think I like you very much. Tell me dear, do you like wine?”

“I enjoy the occasional cup.”

“Excellent. I was just on my way to our private vineyard—though I would imagine you already knew that, didn’t you? Why not join me? We have some of the best vintage in the Realm.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?” Shade asked, drawing a deep laugh from the small woman.

“In this house, my dear, it’s never too early.”

“There you are,” he said as she approached, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought you told me to meet you here just after sunrise.”

“I was delayed,” Shade responded.

Laird chuckled. “By the city guard, by chance?”

“In a manner of speaking. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” shrugged the big mercenary as he finished grooming his mount and packed the brush away. “But after two years, I’ve learned that when I hear an alarm go off, I should probably just assume the worst.”

“That is completely unwarranted,” Shade snapped with a level, disapproving stare. While Laird’s talents were neumerous—he was strong, intelligent, uncommonly loyal for a mercenary and exceptionally skilled with both his sword and axe—she had never warmed up to his brutish sense of humour. She supposed that it was a testament to their partnership that he felt comfortable making her the butt of his jokes, but that did not make them any more palatable.

Laird returned her stare with a crooked grin. “But from the look on your face, it’s entirely worth it. Besides, by the time we see each other again, I’m sure you will have forgiven me. So what happened?”

Shade shrugged. “A roof tile gave way underfoot. Wouldn’t normally be an issue, but it shattered when it hit the ground and drew the attention of a guard who just happened to be coming out of the inn at that exact moment.

“Another spot of bad luck, there.”

“As if I hadn’t noticed. Wasn’t much I could do at that point, so I ran. He raised the alarm.”

“How did you get away?”

“Trade secret, I’m afriad.”

When Laird laughed again, Shade could not help but smile. As infuriating as his sense of humour could be, she had to admit that his jovial spirit could be infectious. “I assume you’ll be wanting your things now?”

“They won’t do me much good if they go all the way to Wellan with you.”

“I don’t suppose they would,” replied Laird. “Fortunately for you, I was smart enough not to pack them.” He walked back into the stables, where dozens of tightly bound bales had been stacked into a massive wall of straw. He bent down and pulled on that wall, shifting it just a matter of inches, but causing several of the bales to teeter so precariously that Shade half expected them to come tumbling down on the mercenary’s head. Somehow, they remained in place. A moment later, Laird had managed to push them all back into place. When he returned, he was carrying a bundle wrapped in a grey, woollen blanket. He pulled back the covering to reveal Shade’s pack.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed it to her. After a brief check on a few key items, she slipped it onto her back, securing it with a strap that wrapped tightly around her hips.

“Do you have that list for me?” asked Laird.

Shade nodded, producing a small piece of paper from one of her hidden pockets. It had been carefully folded and inscribed with everything she needed. Mostly, that included the replenishment of a few supplies that were not readily available throughout the Realm—poisons, a few exotic herbs and a particularly interesting stone that she had happened upon some years ago. She also wanted a few additional items that would help her slip into several of identities that she had not worn in years.

“Here,” she said, offering him the folded page.

“Thanks,” Laird replied, accepting the list and tucking it inside his brown leather vest. “Standard procedure, I assume?”

“Of course.” It was encoded using a simple system that she had worked out a number years ago. If a stranger happened upon the list, they would see it as nothing more than an inventory of common household items. Even if they knew it to be more than it appeared, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to read it. There was only one other person in the Realm who knew her personal cypher, and the last she had heard of him he was miles away, living in the capital.

Where she would be headed in a few hours.

“Keyword?” asked Laird

“Check the second drawer of the boudoir. What you’re looking for is small and yellow.”

He grunted. “Two years ago, I didn’t even know what a boudoir was.”

“I’m educating you.”

“Lucky me. Say, have you figured out how you’re going to find your mark?”

“I’ve given it some thought.”

“But no plan yet?”

“You might call it a work in progress,” said Shade.

“I thought as much.” He scratched mindlessly at his short red beard. It had been a habit of his for as long as she had known him. Usually, it meant there was something he wanted to say, but he was unsure of how to breach the subject.

“What is it, Laird?” Sometimes, all he needed was a bit of encouragement.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking. We don’t have much to go on, do we? I mean, I know you’re good at this sort of thing, but don’t you think it might be easier to find a hare in the cornfield?”

“Could be,” she conceded.

“So I’ve been thinking. What if you got some help?”

“What kind of help?”

“Well we could talk to the Finder—“

“Absolutely not!” Shade snapped. The words came out harsher than she had intended them, but that was a reflection of her feelings on the matter. The Finder was a mystic of sorts, a man whose name had been forgotten, and who had cultivated an uncanny ability to uncover the location of items and even people. If the stories were to be believed, his scrying had never been proven wrong, though the information he provided was rarely as straightforward as it appeared. Shade understood why Laird might be drawn to the idea of seeking the mystic’s aid. But that aid was never given freely; with the finder there was always a price—and it rarely involved mere gold.

Shade had paid that price once. She was not prepared to do so a second time.

“It was just a thought,” Laird grumbled defensively.

“And a damned foolish one! Wait—“ She placed one hand gently on his forearm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that the Finder is not to be trusted. He knows more than he should, and his deals seem to have a way of coming back on you when you least expect it.”

“Have you—?”

“Once,” said Shade, very quietly. “And it cost me one of the most important things in my life. Never again, Laird. Never again. I’ll complete this contract and find the mark, but I’ll do it on my terms, and that starts in Relen’ayar. If I don’t find anything there, then I’ll just have to look somewhere else. If half of what I’ve heard of the victim is true—” Shade was careful not to name the Prince aloud—“than he probably left a trail a mile wide. I’ll find it.”

“I just thought—“

“I know what you thought. And I appreciate it. I really do. It’s just not an option. But don’t worry. We’ll manage. Now you’d best be off. How long do you think it will take you to reach Wellan?”

“If the weather holds, I’ll make it inside a week.” Laird vaulted gracefully on to his horse’s back. “A day the take care of affairs there and then several more to make the Capital by boat.”

“Good. I’ll spend a few days nosing around the city. I still have some old contacts there. Assuming they haven’t all cut each other to ribbons by now, they should be able to help.”

“You know I still don’t understand you’re change of heart about this. I’ve always said you could make a killing in the Capital—pardon the expression. Yes, I know, things change, but one day, you’re going to have to tell me what those things are.”

“I will,” said Shade. “Someday. I promise.”

“That will have to do I suppose,” Laird responded, turning his mount and urging the horse into a slow walk. “I’ll see you in less than a fortnight.”

“Stay safe.”

“You too.” With a final nod, he snapped his reins. His horse responded by breaking into a trot, and then to a brisk canter. Laird waved once more as he set off down the road that led west out of Kilinshire. Shade did not bother to watch him go. The mercenary knew how to take care of himself, and she had never been prone to sentimentality. Now that he was on his way, she had other matters to attend to before leaving the city—starting with a visit to Alys Vander.

Shade planned to have a very pointed conversation with the Lordling’s wife.

Like the Warrior chasing away the darkness, her mother would have said. But then, her mother had always been devout, right onto her dying breath. Shade assumed that she took after her father. She made a conscious effort not to concern herself with matters of the Cathedral. The majority of priests and chaplains she had known throughout her life had little patience for women and, depending on the circumstances of their encounters, tended to see her as a thoughtless commoner, an immoral harlot, or both. The few who knew who she really was made a habit of avoiding her completely.

Shade had discovered that men—especially those of a religious nature—tended to grow uncomfortable around a woman with the reputation for being able to slit a man’s throat in his sleep. It hardly mattered that she had never performed such a gruesome act. That reputation had served her well over the years.

It had also helped bring her to her present circumstance.

As the sun bathed the world in the newness of day, Shade found her mind returning once more to the events of the past few days. She was still struggling with a number of troubling details—beyond having been duped into killing the wrong man. It all started with Lady Vander. She had seemed so genuine in her disdain, so determined to see her son come into his inheritance, that Shade was having trouble accepting that she had been so thoroughly deceived.

Had Oralon Vander somehow manipulated his wife? That too was difficult to believe. Even in the brevity of their lone encounter, Shade had seen a rare cunning in Alys Vander.

Something was not adding up. Once she saw Laird off toward Wellan, she intended to pinpoint exactly what that something was. She just hoped what she found did not add to the sense of uncertainty growing in the back of her mind.

Shade liked to think of herself as a rational woman who thought things through and weighed all the options before making a decision. Her acceptance of Sir Vander’s proposal pointed to a different reality. The truth was that she struggled with a tendency toward impulsiveness—sometimes a very strong tendency. She could not help wondering if she had been too quick in taking this new contract.

It was not that she necessarily believed she had made the wrong decision. She merely felt it would have been prudent to have given the matter a bit more thought. But there was little to be done about it now, and Shade knew herself well enough to know that she would not renege on the contract.

She would find the Prince’s killer and bring him back to Kilinshire, just as she had promised.

Then, she thought, I’m taking a vacation. With a thousand gold falcons in her purse, that vacation might just last the rest of her life. But first, there was business to take care of, and the first matter of the day was to meet up with Laird.

Taking one last moment to admire the sunrise, Shade bounced to her feet and began tiptoeing across the inn’s roof. She moved quickly and carefully. Her footfalls were quiet and she kept herself crouched low. While most of the city was still stirring, there were always a few people out and about. Years of experience had taught her that people rarely took the time to look up, but she preferred not to risk being seen.

She was impulsive, not foolish.

When she reached the edge of the roof, she paused. The Fool’s Fiddle was a full storey taller than any of the neighbouring structures, and while the streets below appeared empty, Shade knew that could change in an instant. Determined to avoid climbing down to street level, she eyed a rope that stretched from the inn down to one of the shops across the street. It appeared to have been in place for sometime, but when Shade tested it she found it was still strong. From the rusted, iron clips that were fastened at even intervals, she assumed the rope was used to hang decorative lanterns during the festival seasons of Midsummer and Wintergalia.

She cared little about why it had originally been strung. At the moment, it would serve her own purposes well. After checking that her clothing and concealed knives were all secure, she gripped the rope firmly and pushed off.

The roof betrayed her.

At the last moment, one clay shingle came loose. Shade was never in any danger of falling— she secured herself easily enough—but when the shingle hit the cobbled road below, it shattered loudly, drawing the attention of a guard who happened to be emerging from the inn at that exact moment.

Ashes and embers!

“You there!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting away from you,” Shade muttered to herself. She reached out and, using all the strength of her upper body, swung along the length of rope, toward the opposing rooftop.

“Halt!” shouted the guard. “In the name of Sir Vander, I order you to halt!”

Shade ignored him. Moments later, she was bounding across the rooftops again, but the ear-piercing blast from the guard’s whistle told her it was too late. The alarm was sounded and the rest of his comrades would be on the lookout. Fortunately, the sun was still low enough that the streets remained cast in shadow. The guard could not have seen her clearly.

Still, she was not about to take any chances.

As in most cities, the rooftops of Kilinshire were not swarming with people, and that made her conspicuous by her presence upon them. It was not a comfortable situation, but it was a familiar one. After her mother’s death, several years of Shade’s life had been dictated by circumstances that were beyond her control. Against all odds, she had managed to claw her way out of that life, but she had never forgotten its lessons. She could still hear the words of the old woman who had caught her stealing bread one morning.

If you don’t like your situation, girl, change it.

Before the disaster with the treacherous shingle, Shade had intended to keep to the rooftops. Now she was determined to escape them. She just needed to find the right place. Keeping low, she ran for several more blocks, until she caught sight of two guards patrolling one of the main streets. They held their long spears defensively before them and, by the way their heads darted from left to right and back again, they had the appearance of men who did not know whether they were hunting, or being hunted.

She shadowed them for a minute, straining to hear what they were saying. When it was clear that their voices were too hushed for her to hear, she raced ahead, seeking some means of abandoning the rooftops, without alerting the guards to her presence.

After a few moments, she found it.

With a faint smile, Shade untied her hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders. She loosened her shirt, pinched her cheeks and assumed the flirtatious identity of a woman she called Keeva. She glanced back over her shoulders to make sure that the guards were still walking down the street. Satisfied, Keeva allowed herself to drop down into a nearby alleyway—landing directly in front of a startled young man.

Though he was tall and strong, he had a boyish face, touched by only the faintest hint of a beard. He wore simple clothes and the long, flour-covered apron of a baker. She hardly noticed. For one heart-stopping instant, Shade fell out of her assumed identity. In that moment, all she could see were his eyes. They had gone wide with surprise at her sudden appearance, but there was a gentle strength there too, a nobility that reminded her so much of another man, from another time—a man she had come to love, and in so doing very nearly destroyed.

“What—“ the baker started to say, causing her to snap back to attention. Putting all hesitation behind her, Keeva reach up, wrapped her arms around the stranger’s neck and kissed him.

The shock of her lips pressed suddenly against his own nearly caused the man to stumble backward. Keeva caught him, ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his head down to whisper in his ear. “Don’t say a word,” she commanded, pressing the tip of a knife between his ribs. “Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

“Good,” Keeva smiled sweetly. “Now kiss me. And make it convincing.”

He hesitated before leaning forward. When their lips came together, it was a tentative meeting. He was so gentle and cautious that she wondered if he had ever kissed a woman in his life. She did not have time to instruct him. The guards were approaching now and she needed this exchange to appear genuine. She grabbed his hair again, pulled him close and kissed him deeply. After another brief moment, all hesitation vanished and the baker was kissing her back, pulling her close in the crook of one strong arm just as the two guards came into view.

As anticipated, they paused Keeva chose that exact moment to break off the kiss. Her knife slid back into the concealment of her clothing and she ran one finger playfully down the baker’s chest.

“I’m going to turn away now,” she whispered. “If you want to live, be sure to play along.” She smiled again, as if their kiss was some shared secret, then turned toward the guards, gasping loudly in mock surprise when she saw them.

“Goodness,” Keeva said sweetly. “You gentlemen startled me.”

“Apologies, miss,” responded one of the guards. He was taller than his companion, with a thick, black beard.

“Is everything alright?” asked the baker.

“Everything’s fine,” said the other guard, whose clean-shaven face was a stark contrast to his companion’s. “Just looking for some idiot running across the rooftops. Say, Talborn, aren’t you getting married soon? This sure doesn’t look like Andrea to me.”

“Yeah, well…” stammered the Baker. “You see…”

“I was just giving Talborn a few pointers,” interjected Keeva. “He’s a nice enough fellow, but he needs to learn that his Andrea is more than just a piece of dough. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Ummmm… of course.”

The guards laughed. “Well don’t let Andrea catch you taking lessons. She’d beat you half to death with your own rolling pin.”

“I’d appreciate if you kept this to yourself,” said Talborn sheepishly.

“We never saw a thing!” winked the bearded guard. Then he and his companion sauntered away, laughing between themselves. Keeva turned back to the baker, whose cheeks were burning cherry-red.

“Sorry about all that,” she said.

“Who areyou?”

“Why is that the first thing everyone asks?” Keeva responded.

“On second thought,” said Talborn. “I think I’d rather not know. You’re the one they were looking for, aren’t you?”

“Handsome and smart. Sounds like Andrea’s a lucky girl.” She reached into her purse and withdrew a single silver wren, which she pushed into the baker’s hand. “I’ll be off now, but take this for your trouble. Buy your girl something pretty.”