She had caught him just in the act of taking his shirt off. The garment slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor in a heap. He wore only boots and breeches, and the bare skin of his chest gleamed in the light of a dozen candles.

A gasp escaped Grace. "My lord, forgive me." She began to turn away.

"And what should I forgive you for, my lady?" His voice was deep, soft: for her only. "For making manifest what I had been dreaming of moments ago? When I saw you there, I thought you were only a phantom, conjured by the fever that has burned in my brain since I first laid eyes upon you. But you're here, aren't you? You're real."

Despite herself, his words drew her back around and led her farther into the dim space of the solar. Her eyes adjusted to the candlelight, and she saw him more clearly. His chest was smooth, damp with sweat, and his stomach was so taut she could see shadows flicker across it in time to the beating of his heart. Dimly, she wondered where he had gone after supper, and where he had just come from.

She realized it was her turn to say something, and she grasped for something, anything to say. "It was very kind of you, my lord, to take care of Mirdrid's father as you did."

"What?"

"Mirdrid. The old steward's daughter. She told me of your generosity-how you laid him in the family crypt."

"My lady, I won't believe you came here to talk of serving maids." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. As he did, several dark droplets scattered across the floor.

Grace's instincts as a doctor leaped to the fore. "Your hand, my lord. It's bleeding."

He stared at his hand, as if he had not noticed it himself until just then. Grace took his hand in hers, turning it over, examining it. Blood oozed from two sets of puncture wounds, one on the back of his hand, one on the palm. She pulled a handkerchief from her gown and wiped away the blood so she could examine him more clearly. She had seen wounds similar to this in the Emergency Department. It looked almost like a dog bite.

"It's nothing, my lady. I can't even feel it. Not with you here."

"Hold still." She wrapped the handkerchief around his hand and bound it in a makeshift bandage. Immediately, spots of crimson began to soak through, but it would do for the time being. All at once she was conscious of how close she was to him. She took a step back.

"Thank you for your care, my lady. But now you must tell why you really came to see me."

Grace drew in a breath, gathering strength. "I have come to beg your permission to leave Seawatch, my lord. My companions want to depart in the morning."

"Then why not let them go?" His gaze ran over her face, her throat, her breasts. "But look at me. Look at me, and then tell me you really wish to leave."

He was a lord, and his words a command, and she could not resist them. She did look at him, touching him with her gaze, her thoughts. His face was fine, his lips surprisingly full for a man, his arms sculpted with muscle. Against the tight cloth of his breeches, the shape of his desire was plain: hard and compact like the rest of him.

A shudder coursed through her. For so long she had been unable to touch another, to allow another to touch her. But she had put that shadow behind her in Tarras. This time it would be her choice, an act of passion not violence. A heat rose within her, so fierce it must surely burn her gown to ashes.

In a single step he closed the distance between them. He coiled his unbandaged hand around her neck and bent her head down with irresistible strength, for she was taller than he. Her lips brushed against his nose, his beard, then found the hot, hard moistness of his mouth.

And from the shadows around them, a voice spoke, at once shrill and croaking, like the call of a crow.

"Heretic! Trespasser! I see what you do."

Grace froze. A moan ripped itself from Elwarrd-fear or rage?-and he jerked away from her. The taste of metal flooded Grace's mouth. She touched a finger to her lips, and it came away dark with blood. Blood that was not her own.

"I know what she is," the voice croaked. "A harlot. A witch. And far more. She is not for you!"

Elwarrd spun around, searching for the source of the voice. Motion caught Grace's eye. There, in the darkest corner of the room, where the light of the candles did not reach, something moved. Grace started to reach out with the Touch.

As if struck a cruel blow, her mind was slapped back, her concentration shattering.

"Keep your foul magics to yourself, witch! I have labored too long to let you poison him now with your spells!"

By the time Grace saw it coming, it was too late to move. Candlelight glinted off steel as the dagger flew through the air. She braced herself for its deadly bite.

The dusky air before her rippled, folded. A hand lashed out and clamped around the dagger, stopping it before it could strike. Grace found herself staring into golden eyes.

Vani threw down the knife and lunged in the direction from which the weapon had come. She snatched a tapestry from the wall, and the resulting puff of air caused the candles to gutter, flare. Their light reached the far corner, revealing a wooden door. It stood ajar.

"Whoever it was went this way," Vani said.

Laughter bubbled out of Elwarrd. "You won't find her. I can never find her. I don't know where in this godsforsaken keep she finds to hide." He pressed his wounded hand to his temple; the bandage was soaked with crimson. "Everything I want, she denies me. Everything I try to do, she mocks." He threw his head back, chest heaving as he shouted. "I won't do it, Mother! Do you hear me? I won't be what you want me to be. You'll have to kill me first, just like you did my father!"

Vani watched this spectacle in silence, hands on hips. Grace reached out a trembling hand. "My lord, we have to go. Please. We have to leave Seawatch."

He batted her hand away. "No one is leaving until I say so. I am the earl, and this is my fiefdom. If you leave, you will all be outlaws in Embarr. I will send word of your crime to every corner of the Dominion. You'll be caught and beheaded before you can reach the borders." He clenched his wounded hand, and blood ran down his arm. "Return to your chamber. Now!"

Grace couldn't move-shock paralyzed her-but Vani pulled her, guiding her back into the great hall and the corridor beyond. Cooler air struck Grace's cheeks, and she returned to her senses. What had she done? And what had Vani seen? She felt again the lord's lips on her own.

"Vani, I didn't...what happened in there, I..."

The T'gol's strong hand on her arm propelled her forward. "Do not think of it now, Grace. We must go tell the others what has happened."

Minutes later they gathered in Falken and Beltan's chamber. Grace was still shaking, so Vani told the two men what had taken place. However, the T'gol did not speak of Grace and Elwarrd's kiss, and for that Grace gave her a grateful look. Falken poured wine for all of them, and Grace gulped hers down, feeling her nerves grow a bit steadier.

Beltan set down his empty cup. "It sounds like Elwarrd's mother is completely mad. I can't believe she tried to harm you, Grace." His expression was hard with anger.

"It was not Grace his mother was trying to kill," Vani said, her voice cool, almost clinical. "The dagger was aimed at Elwarrd. Had I not stopped it, the blade would have pierced his heart."

Falken flexed his silver hand. "But that doesn't make any sense. Why would she kill her own son? Grace is right-something strange is going on in this keep. And I bet the earl's mother is the only one who knows what it is. Vani, did you see which way she ran?"

"No, she moved with a strange swiftness. The only trace I found was this, caught on a nail in the door." The T'gol set a small scrap of black cloth on the table.

"It doesn't matter where she is," Beltan said. "We're getting out of here."

Falken glanced at Grace. "Did he grant us leave to go?"

It was Vani who answered. "No, he did not. And he threatened that if we go, we will be branded as outlaws and hunted down."

"I imagine he means it," Falken said with a sigh.

Beltan jerked the knife from the mantelpiece. "We can take care of anyone who follows us."

Grace stared into her empty wine cup. Something about her conversation with Elwarrd nagged at her. Then she had it: When she mentioned Mirdrid and the old steward, he hardly seemed to know what she was talking about.

She looked up. "Vani, the other day when you searched the keep, did you go into the family crypt?"

"I did. There was nothing in there save old bones."

A chill coursed through Grace. "Are you sure? You didn't see the body of a man? Elwarrd told Mirdrid he put her father in the crypt just a few days before we arrived."

Vani crossed her arms. "The only bodies in the crypt had been there for years."

"Maybe it's somewhere else in the keep," Beltan offered.

Falken shook his head. "Vani and I went through the entire keep, and we didn't see any bodies. The only place we couldn't go was behind the door marked with the rune of shadow."

With an electric surge, two pieces of knowledge connected in Grace's mind. "That's it-it has to be. Elwarrd said he didn't know where in the keep his mother hid from him. He doesn't know about the door, but she's found a way to open it."

The bard rubbed his chin. "I suppose you're right, Grace. But I don't see how that helps us. It's Elwarrd who has to grant us leave to go, not his mother. Besides, there's no way we can see beyond the door."

But there was, and Grace knew it. She stood, forcing her legs to stop shaking, and picked up the scrap of black cloth from the table. Yes, it would be enough. She turned around to regard the others.

"I'm going to do a spell. But it's dangerous. Once before when I did it, I was..." It had been the time she had used the half-coin to see Travis being hauled to his execution at the Gray Tower. She had nearly been lost, her spirit permanently severed from her body. "I need you all to keep watch over me."

Falken's expression was grave. "Are you sure you want to do this, Grace?"

"We have to know what's happening here," she said, although she could feel the dread rising in her chest.

In minutes she was ready.

"I still don't like this," Beltan said, pacing. "How can we defend you when you're not in your body?"

Grace sat in a chair, the scrap of black cloth in her lap. "You'll see it on my face if I'm in trouble. And the potion will wake me." She had given Falken a bitter concoction of herbs. The smell should shock her out of her trance.

Falken knelt beside her chair. "I'll watch you closely, Grace. I'm not going to lose you a second time. And Beltan and Vani will make sure no one bothers us."

Grace held his gaze a moment, grateful for the bard's calm. Then it was time. She shut her eyes and reached out with her mind to Touch the scrap of cloth.

Instantly she was flying through the keep.

Bodiless, she floated through stone corridors, down winding staircases, and past an old servingman who couldn't see her, but who shivered as she went by. A pair of huge wooden doors loomed before her; she slipped through them like they were an illusion, only it was she who was without substance.

Both times before when she had cast this spell, Grace had glimpsed events that had not yet taken place. This time she was seeing the present, she was sure of it.

With a note of faint panic-she was so cold, so hollow, it was hard to feel anything at all-Grace realized she was being drawn to the curtain at the far end of the great hall. Before she could fear more, she fluttered through the fabric like a delicate breeze. The earl was no longer in his solar. The blood on the floor was the only trace of him. Grace flew onward, through the half-open door in the corner, down a winding flight of steps, and then through an archway into a small room.

It was the shrine. There was a bare altar, and shelves where stone gods might once have stood. But the gods had forsaken this place long ago. Or had they been cast out? Grace was moving faster. She floated to the shrine's corner and saw a darkness so pure, so perfect, she would have cried out if she had possessed lungs. The darkness was hungry, conscious, but not alive. Surely it would consume the feeble wisp of her spirit. Drawn by the power of her own spell, she hurtled directly toward it.

She would have thought the darkness to be cold, but instead it was horribly hot, suffocating her like a black blanket. There was terrible resistance, as if she was being pushed through tar. She could feel it eating at the very substance of her being. Then, all at once, she was through.

Once again she was flying down a set of stone steps. She glanced back and saw an ironbound door, tightly shut. Set into the surface of the door was a small circle of iron marked with an angular symbol which she knew Falken would tell her was Alth, the rune of shadow. Then the door was lost to sight as the staircase led her deeper down. Three times it circled around, and she knew she was far beneath the keep. There was an opening ahead; crimson light spilled through. Grace floated forward, then her motion ceased. This was it, this was where the spell had led her. She peered through the opening.

And somewhere, far above and away in the keep, she knew her living heart faltered in her chest.

She didn't doubt Falken's belief that at one time this place had been used by a wizard who had bound the rune of shadow into the door. But it was clear that, when it was first built, this had been the keep's dungeon. There was a central room ringed by a series of alcoves, each one walled with rusting iron bars. Things sinuous and gray prowled back and forth inside some of the cells. Whuffles and snarls echoed off stone.

Along one of the dungeon's walls, set into the stone, was a row of iron manacles. The remains of three men hung there, although there was not much left of them besides bones. At first Grace thought perhaps they had been mauled to death, but then she saw it had been more careful than that. She understood the crisscrossed pattern of cut marks on the bones. These men had been butchered, the flesh systematically carved from their bodies. Somehow she knew they had not yet been dead when the process had begun. Sickness washed over her, and an overwhelming desire to vomit, but of course she could not.

There was another body lying on a bench, carved up like the others. Atop its head remained a shock of yellow hair shot with gray. Why did that seem important to Grace?

Before she could think, her attention was drawn to the two figures in the center of the room. One had his back mostly to her, but Grace recognized him as the steward, Leweth. The other was a woman clad in a severe black gown. From a chain around her neck hung an iron key. She was old, that was clear, but she stood straight and stiff, her bearing proud. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back so tightly it stretched her expression into something that was at once smile and grimace. White makeup plastered her face, and her cheeks and lips were colored red, done up in a garish facsimile of life.

The illusion failed; it was quite clear the woman was dead. In her present form, Grace could see the threads of the Weirding as clearly as the torchlight. None of them spun around the other. The old woman was dead.

And she was speaking.

"How does the Gift suit you?" It was the same croaking sound Grace had heard in the earl's solar. It was she, Elwarrd's mother.

"It suits me well, Lady Ursaled. I feel strong. Stronger than I have in all my life. I thank you." There was something queer about Leweth's voice. It was harder than Grace remembered.

"You were wise to accept it," the earl's mother said. "Your father would be alive had he not been such a fool as to refuse it."

Laughter rose from Leweth. "But he has made himself a service in other ways, has he not?" He gestured to the body on the bench, the one with the shock of yellow-gray hair. Wet snarls emanated from the cells. Iron rang like broken chimes as hard talons were dragged across the bars.

"They are hungry, my lady," the steward said. "And there is nothing left to pick from these corpses. Not from my father, or from these three I found on the beach. We'll have to let them gnaw on the bones, but I doubt that will keep them long. Would that I had had time to go back and find the others on the beach before they woke."

The woman moved to a table in the dungeon's center. "It is just as well you did not. What fate brought her here, I know not, but she is the key to all we desire. Elwarrd will present her to our Master, and so my son shall rise high in the Master's favor just as I have planned all these years."

"So the Master truly does seek her?"

"Yes," Ursaled hissed. "And He wishes her alive of all things! Do not the stories say that only one of her blood has the power to harm Him? But it is not for us to question His ways. Our only task is to please Him, so that my son may rise high in His favor."

Leweth took a hesitant step forward. "And why must it be the earl, my lady? Why can you not deliver her to the Master?"

"You show your ignorance. I am but a woman, and of common birth-a countess by marriage only. What standing could I expect in the Master's dark court? No, it must be my son. He is a noble by blood. The Master will be sure to reward him. And Elwarrd in turn will reward us."

Gray bodies flung themselves forward; iron bars groaned.

"Did Elwarrd catch the one that escaped?" Leweth said. "Did you not send him after it?"

Ursaled sniffed. "It was the least he could do, after all I have done for him. But he failed in the task."

"Should I look for it, my lady?"

"No, it matters no longer. The time has come to free my pets. The Master's magic has shaped them well; they will not harm the pale-haired harlot, the witch. And they can feed on the others to gain strength."

"And what of Elwarrd? Do you truly think the earl will do as you wish? I believe that he fancies her, my lady."

The old countess pounded a gnarled fist on the table. "Of course he will do as I wish! All these years, I have made every sacrifice for him. I protected him from the attention of the king in order to save him for greater opportunities. I kept him from becoming entangled in a woman's snare. And all this time he has been ungrateful. But soon, all that will change. Soon he will understand everything, just as you do, Leweth!"

Ursaled took an object from the table and thrust it above her in triumph. It was a fist-sized lump of iron.

Fear permeated Grace's being. It was impossible she could scream, yet somehow it seemed she did make a sound, for both the countess and the steward turned in her direction. The front of the steward's shirt hung open, and the torn cloth was soaked with blood. In the center of his chest was a jagged wound, the raw flaps of meat held together with crude stitches. Yes, Grace saw it clearly now that she looked: the lump of iron in his chest where his heart should have been. He was every bit as dead as the countess.

The steward peered forward with dull eyes. On his forehead, burned right through the skin and into his skull, was a brand. The brand might have been a raven's wing. Or a staring eye. Grace looked again at the countess, and beneath the thick layer of makeup she glimpsed the same mark.

The countess moved forward, turning her head back and forth. "There is something here, something watching us." Then, impossibly, her eyes locked on Grace. "You!"

Grace's entire being moaned in horror. The old woman reached a hand toward her, her face a white mask of murder--and Grace opened her eyes, slumping in the chair by the fireplace in her chamber. Falken lowered the vial with the bitter potion. Beltan and Vani stared at her.

"It's the Raven Cult," Grace said.