Brant was led through a great carved archway into the High Wing proper. Even after they crossed the threshold, the sunlight seemed to follow them, flowing through windows and reflecting off mirror and crystal. The air almost danced with the spring light. Brant inhaled the spiced air, heady with the natural oils of the pompbonga-kee.

Despite the beauty and wonder of it all, Brant's legs had begun to tremble. He was not worthy. He grew acutely aware of his poor attire: leggings patched at the knees, a loose jerkin that was missing two hooks. Even his soft boots, gifts from his father two years ago, were scuffed to a dull brown. He combed fingers through his hair, working away some old knots. At least he had bathed two days ago.

He lost track of the turns through the High Wing.

Suddenly he found himself before a set of tall doors, carved like a single leaf of the pompbonga-kee, but split down the middle in an S-shaped curve, following a vein in the leaf.

The knight pulled a twined rope of leather and a bell rang beyond the door. Moments later, a thin woman, wearing an ankle-length white dress sashed at the waist, pushed open one leaf of the door. Her eyes, pinched at the corners, glanced over them, then she bowed them inside. Only Brant and the lone knight, the woman, stepped through.

"Matron Dreyd," the knight said. "We've come with the boy your mistress asked us to bring."

"Thank you, Ser Knight. The mistress will be pleased."

The matron's words were spoken staidly, as if she doubted them herself. Brant noted how she glanced out the door as she closed the way, almost as if she weighed fleeing through it and away.

Still, she turned and offered a wan smile of welcome.

The chamber here was lit by an arched window to the sky. It shone down upon the floor, where the graining was so fine that Brant could not discern the individual planks. Smaller archways branched off the hall, some open, others sealed.

"My mistress has instructed that she would like the boy to join her in the Heartroom."

"Truly?" the knight said, unable to mask her surprise.

A nod answered her.

The knight stepped back. She placed a palm on Brant's back and gently pushed him. "Go. Do not keep the Huntress waiting."

Brant tripped a step, then followed his new guide, Matron Dreyd. She led him straight down the hall to another set of doors, a smaller version of the ones through which they had entered. The matron led him through those and deeper again down a narrower hall. Here lamps flickered on wall hooks as the sunlight was left behind. The spicy scent of tree oil grew stronger.

Brant realized they must be within the very trunk itself.

Gooseflesh prickled his skin.

They continued to the endawhere a single plain door stood closed.

Matron Dreyd knocked softly. "Mistress, I have the boy named Brant."

Silence answered her.

The matron glanced back to Brant, then back to the door. She lifted her arm to knock againa"then words whispered through.

"Send him in. Alone."

The matron nodded, though her mistress plainly could not see her assent. She stepped back and motioned Brant to the door. "Go inside."

Brant took a deep breath, then reached for the latch.

Fingers gripped his shoulder, stopping him.

"Do not upset her."

Brant glanced up to her. She clasped a hand over her mouth as if surprised the words had escaped her. His shoulder was released, and he was pushed forward.

Hands in full tremble now, Brant tried the latch, found it unlocked, and creaked the door open. A slightly foul smell wormed through the spiced oil.

Brant glanced again to the matron. He was shooed inside, but the matron's words were stuck in his head. Do not upset her.

He had no choice. He stepped into the room.

The space was small, almost cozy, oval-shaped, with a low-domed roof and a hearth on the far side that glowed with red embers, the flames long died away. Still, it was the only light in the room. The glow washed over the walls and roof, bathing it in dark crimson. Brant noted the graining, all whorls and rings. This was no planked construction, but a chamber hewn from the tree itself.

The Heartroom.

On the far side, a chair rested before the hearth, alongside a small table. A single figure sat there.

Brant froze at the threshold.

"Do not fear, Brant, son of Rylland. Come forward."

The words were spoken with soft assurance, sweetly melodic, though with a deep trace of melancholy. It spoke to the sorrow in his own heart.

He crept forward, unsure if he should bow or scrape a knee. He circled wide, edging around the oval room, attempting to keep as much distance between him and the speaker.

The Huntress of Saysh Mal.

One of the Hundred gods of Myrillia.

She sat, head bowed, brow resting on her folded hands, elbows on either arm of her chair, a posture of forlorn concentration. She was dressed in green leathers and white silk, a simple hunter's cut. As he stepped into view, she lifted her head. Eyes glowed at him, rich in Grace. Even her skin seemed to shine with a waxen sheen.

He sagged to his knees.

A cascade of curls, as dark as shadow, framed her dark skin. Full lips formed the ghost of a smile, like a memory of innocence. Brant felt himself stir, deeper than his loins.

"I knew your father," she said, glancing away, releasing him. She stared into the dying embers. "He was a great hunter."

Brant stared at the floor, unable to speak.

"I'm sure you still miss him."

Grief and pride freed his voice to a quiet squeak. "Yes, mistress, with all my heart."

"Just so. He sifted many great treasures out of our sea here. A pelt of a balelion. The head of a manticrye. The antlered rack of the rare teppin-ra. Did you know teppin-ra comes from ancient Littick? Tepp Irya. Meaning fierce buck."

"No, mistress."

"So much forgottena" She sighed. She remained silent for several breaths. Long enough for Brant to peek up.

Her gaze had shifted to the table at her side. A single object rested there, draped in black sailcloth, which appeared damp as it reflected the ember's glow.

"But this was the greatest treasure your father ever attended."

Curiosity drew Brant straighter.

She reached to the heavy cloth and tugged it free. Brant caught again the waft of stench. Only now did he recognize it. Black bile.

Dread flared in his chest.

In the ember-light, the skull glowed like blood.

At his throat, a fire exploded. Gasping, he clutched at the stone, the bit of rock that had been rolled to his toes by the dying rogue. The same fire that had consumed the trespassing god had come to claim him. Brant tore at his jerkin, ripping hooks.

The Huntress seemed oblivious, focused on the skull.

"He brought this to meanot knowingasurely not knowing."

Brant cried out, digging for the stone. He had known his father had collected the skull after the god's body burnt. He had picked it free of the ashes with the tip of an arrow through an eye socket. He had wrapped it in his own cloak. Brant had not known what had become of it. Of course, his father would have brought word here, of such a trespass by a rogue god. But afterward, Brant assumed the foul thing had eventually been destroyed or laid to rest in some manner. All but forgotten.

The only remnant of the frightening adventure was the small black rock, no bigger than the end of his thumb. His father had let him keep it so long as he swore to tell no one of it. The stone was a secret bond between father and son.

And now the stone meant to burn him to ash.

The Huntress finally seemed to note his writhing. At some point, he had collapsed to the floor. She rose to her feet.

"Do you hear its call, too?" She drifted toward him. "Poor boy. It can't be resisted. I try to stay away, to keep it steeped in the blackest of biles, but still it calls. Day and night. And now I hear wordsabut I can't quite understandanot yet. Only that somewhere it asked for you."

Brant gasped out, "Help mea"

She knelt next to him, her face strangely calm as he burnt.

"I wish I could."

She reached out and touched his cheek. Where her fingers touched, a cooling balm pushed back the searing agony. But the pain had to go somewhere.

The Huntress screamed.

Brant forgot the remaining burn. He struggled to roll away from her touch. He could not let her come to harm. But her fingers dragged down into his cheek and, nails scraping, her hand grabbed his throat. His skin flamed with her touch, more fiery than even the stone. Her eyes fixed upon him. The Grace within her flared brighter.

"Noayou must not be here. You must go." These words were spoken with a sudden intensity, shedding the strange malaise that had haunted her earlier words. She threw him aside by the neck. He smelled his burning flesh. Then the stone flared anew at his chest with its own flaming agony.

He writhed on the floor.

She stumbled to the table and ripped the bile-encrusted cloth back over the skull. The flames from the stone immediately vanished. He pawed at his chest, expecting crisped skin and burnt bone. But all he found was smooth skin. There was not even a residual warmth.

Not so his throat.

Where she had throttled him, his skin blistered and weeped.

The Huntress stood by the table, trembling from head to toe.

A pounding erupted from the door. "Mistress!"

Brant recognized the shadowknight who had led him here. They must have all heard the god shriek.

"Attend me! Now!" she barked out.

Brant remained on his knees on the floor.

The Huntress turned to him as the door burst open and a flow of shadows swept into the room, shredding into individual knights. Brant kept his focus on his god. He watched the flare of Grace subside in her eyes.

But before it was gone completely, she shoved an arm toward him. "Take him, chain him, get him out of my land by nightfall."

Brant's mind refused to make sense of her words.

Her eyes bore upon him, fading with Grace, full of sorrow and certainty. "I banish him."

A world and a lifetime away, Brant wept in a chair. He could not stop the tears. He had told no one of his full story, his full shame, until this moment.

Tylar came forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Rogger had sheathed his dagger. "You and your father witnessed the rogue's trespass and demise?"

Brant nodded.

The bearded man shared a studied glance with the regent.

Tylar tilted up Brant's chin to examine the scar. "And you've been marked by a god, too," he mumbled and stepped back.

The regent's hand drifted to his shadowcloak.

Brant knew that beneath that blessed cloth Tylar bore the black handprint of a god, pressed into his chest by Meeryn of the Summering Isles, branding him a godslayer. He met the regent's eye, sensing some bond between thema"for better or worse.

"May I see this burning talisman of yours?" Tylar asked. "This stone."

Brant reached up and tugged the black stone free. Tylar leaned down and reached for it.

"Take care with that," Rogger warned.

The tall stranger edged closer, one hand on the serpent-headed pommel of his sword.

Tylar picked up the stone between two fingers. Nothing happened. He turned it around, examining all the surfaces. "Appears like a shard of rock, rough-hewn. I sense no great power here."

"Let me see."

Rogger shouldered up and bent down.

Tylar stepped back and to the black-cloaked stranger. "Did the Wyr mention anything about a black stone associated with the skull?"

"No," the other intoned dourly.