"No, for any who may face him," he said.

"I don't understand," she said.

"When . . . when he holds a weapon, particularly one of mine, he is a graceful, silent, clean killer. When he is unarmed, he is something else altogether. Vicious, forceful. He reverts to something primal. I dare say he is even more deadly that way, but in a way that is unmistakably animal," Desmeres said with a chill.

"What do you care?" she asked.

"If a man must die, so be it, but there is no reason to be cruel. I must finish his weapon. But first I must finish yours, and the paperwork. So much to do, and only seven days to do it," he said, turning back to his task.

Myranda found her way back to the room with the table, where she had set up her bed roll, and retired. Try as she might, though, she could not bring herself to sleep. She was more at home on the freezing ground outside than in this place. Knowing that all that surrounded her was paid for by blood turned her stomach. She wondered how the peace of the world could be left to the whims of such twisted minds. The best she could manage was a light doze, interrupted periodically by an odd sound or smell emanating from Desmeres' workshop. Myn, lying atop her as always, slept peacefully until what must have been morning. When the dragon roused, Myranda decided she may as well end this fruitless pursuit of sleep. She wandered into Desmeres' workshop.

The half-elf, visibly weary, was admiring what he had done to the staff. He noticed her walk in and held it up proudly. Myranda took it from his hands. It felt much lighter. He had carved a good deal of the exterior down and shaped it carefully. Her fingers fit easily and comfortably around it. The color was different, streaked with darker colors that made the formerly white surface resemble the gray bark of a tree, and covering the surface were dozens of small, intricately carved symbols. She had noticed the same symbols decorating the blades and handles of nearly every other weapon in the room. Lowering its tip to the floor, she found it stood at a more appropriate height than before. His improvements were apparent, though she wondered about the reasoning for some.

"Why the darker color?" she asked.

"A side effect of the solutions I soaked it in to strengthen it. Natural wood at the thickness that is appropriate for your hand size would not be strong enough for my tastes. I could restore the color, if you like," he said.

"I don't much care. What of the symbols?" she asked.

"Runes. Lain has put them to fine use over the years, and I see no reason why you couldn't do the same. He doesn't know a word of magic, as I've said, so he needed something that could turn the defensive skills he does have into something effective against magic. Those runes will allow you to defend against spells tossed in your direction as though they were conventional attacks. You can deflect a fireball as easily as a thrown stone, or shatter a conjured shield spell as though it were gla.s.s, all without wasting an ounce of your own mystic strength. Of course, a stronger spell is more difficult to deflect, just as a larger stone is. Also, though I stand by my work, I cannot guarantee that the enhancements will work against all magics. It is an ever changing area, after all," he said.

Myranda tested the strength of the now much thinner tool. Touching it for the first time in a day, she was struck by the clarity of mind it brought. Certainly the effect had not been so noticeable before. Seeming to notice her expression, Desmeres offered an explanation.

"Among other things, I treated the wood so that it will aid focus in absence of a crystal. With a crystal, the effect is doubled. Useful, yes?" he said.

The girl admired the work for a few more moments before a suspicion crept into her mind.

"You only did this to raise the price on my head again, didn't you?" she said.

"Heavens no. Not only that. I also needed some practice in the manufacture of mystical weapons. I almost never get the opportunity. I'm glad you thought to accuse me, though. It shows that you are developing a healthier outlook on the people around you," he said with a grin as he searched around for some sheets of paper, some ink, and a quill.

"Healthy? I thought the worst of you!" she said.

"And you weren't completely wrong. You'll find that you seldom are when you think the worst of people," he said, finding some high quality parchment and ink.

"That is a terrible thing to say!" she objected.

"Prove me wrong," he said, dipping a quill and beginning to scribe in impressive calligraphy.

"What are you writing?" she asked.

"Paperwork. There is a fair amount of it involved in transferring land," he said.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" she asked.

"I prefer to wait until my affairs are in order," he said.

"And Lain? Does he ever sleep?" she asked.

"Not in the traditional sense. They call it 'the warrior's sleep', but the two couldn't be more dissimilar," he said.

"You spoke of the warrior's sleep before. What is that?" she asked.

"It is . . . well . . . let us put it in mystical terms. It is like meditation, only far, far deeper, and not merely of the mind. It focuses the thoughts, and it brings the body near to death. They have been teaching it at Entwell since the beginning. I could never get the hang of it, but they say a few minutes like that will do the work of a few hours of real sleep. Back before he had someone to cook up healing potions, that is how Lain dealt with serious injury. It is not nearly as fast as a potion or a spell, but it is measurably better than simply waiting," he explained.

"He never sleeps normally?" she asked.

"If you ever find him lying down, especially in a bed, you can be certain it was not his idea," Desmeres answered.

As she watched him sculpt the official language of the paper with great care, she decided he had best be left alone. She found herself drawn to the room that contained the gold and the records. Myn's tapping claws followed her, and once inside, the little dragon leapt up onto one of the chests that was mostly coins, instinctively drawn to the gleaming treasure. She curled up and watched Myranda as she approached the second shelf. The books that filled the shelf were in groups of four. All told, there were a few more than seventy such sets. She reasoned that, since Desmeres had been partnered with him for roughly seventy years, the groups must be by season and year, though if there was a written indication of exactly what year each represented, it was not in a form she recognized. It was just as well. The standard method for labeling the years these days was to measure from the day that the war had begun. By that measure the year was 156. The thought depressed her.

In the days to come, days that seemed painfully long with nothing to fill them, she spent much time leafing through the books. The names of the people and places, as well as the prices, were the only things not written in some bizarre language that they had certainly learned at Entwell. As a result, she found herself scanning the pages for any places or names she knew. It seldom took long. A lifetime of journeying from town to town had taken her to most of the places in the north. Apparently Lain's business had done the same. People of much renown were frequently named in the pages as well. Wealthy landowners, merchants, and people of all walks of life had either hired his blade or fallen to it. Without understanding the language it was impossible to tell which. Much of what she saw she had heard in the form of rumors over the years. The Red Shadow. The fact that he was real, the fact that she knew him, filled her with a cold feeling.

Soon it was the seventh day. Desmeres had long since finished his preparations, the last of which was the completion of some manner of sword for Lain. He refused to unveil it to her, claiming that Lain ought to be the first. He slipped out the entrance hatch, warning her that he would arrive back at the end of the day and they would have to move quickly when the time came. Until then there was nothing to do but leaf through more books. She had worked her way backward through fifteen or so of the years, and came upon a name she had known about already. Rinthorne, the unfortunate man who had been in charge of Kenvard when the ma.s.sacre occurred. Dark memories filled her head at the glimpse of the name. She'd lost her home, her family, everything that day. Then something odd caught her eye. A line in the book was struck out. It was clearly written in a different hand than the rest. With a bit of effort the words could still be read, not that it did any good. She still hadn't worked out what they meant. Something else was odd. There was no indication for whom or to whom the job was done. There was only one word that she did recognize. Kenvard.

Her mind began to stir. How? He had told her of the job he had done for Rinthorne. It happened at the same time as the ma.s.sacre. How could a job have been done in Kenvard afterward? Afterward there was no Kenvard. Kenvard the nation had been absorbed, and its capital of the same name had been razed. Was that why it was crossed out? And why no names? And no price? Rather, not one that could be counted in gold bars. The word that always preceded the number was present, but what followed was only another word. Myranda cursed herself for not spending more time in the warrior's section of Entwell. Had she, she might have learned this language, and this would have been clear. A nagging feeling burned at her. This was important. She couldn't explain why, but she had to know what it meant. As she further pondered, her thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the trapdoor and the whir blades through the air.

"Myranda! Quickly! I am not sure how long we can keep the oloes at bay!" called Desmeres, struggling to yell over a powerful wind that whistled in the opening.

Myranda slipped the book into her bag and hurried to the entryway. The gold needed for the purchase had been transferred into twenty or so small crates. Though each held only four or five of the ingots, they were heavy as lead. A rope was lowered for Myranda to secure to one chest at a time, and the combined strength of Desmeres and Lain, top side, hauled each up. Myn, interested in the activity on the surface, scrambled up to them, and soon the chests were moving much faster. The little dragon had quickly determined the purpose of this little game and joined in, clamping the end of the rope in her jaws and lending her deceiving strength to the effort. Soon the chests had been loaded, and Myranda clutched the rope herself and was hauled out.

On the surface, it was night. She found the ground around them covered with a thin haze that smelled strongly of burning wood. The horrid brown creatures that guarded the place were completely surrounding them, staying at the exact distance that the mist faded to nothing. Waiting for them was a four horse carriage. It was just as he had asked: elegant, but st.u.r.dy. Not a gaudy showpiece, a well crafted vehicle. There was a very large cargo compartment in the back that was filled fairly to bursting with their precious load. In the front was a comfortable place for the pa.s.sengers to sit, and just in front of that was a sheltered place for the driver. There was no one there. Desmeres approached her, he was dressed as he'd been when he left, utterly coc.o.o.ned in winter clothing in an attempt to stay warm and hide his ident.i.ty. Lain was not disguised at all, wearing a lighter gray cloak with a white lining and a plain tunic underneath. Hanging from his belt was the new sword, concealed in a sheath.

"Do I take from your presence up here that you have chosen to aid us?" Desmeres asked, opening the door of the carriage for her.

"Certainly do not want to spend the rest of my life in that hole. We shall see if I aid you or not. I want to know more about it first," she said, stepping inside and dropping her bag and staff on the floor.

"Fine, fine. I wouldn't expect you to do it without considerable instruction anyway," he said, starting to close the door.

"Aren't you coming inside?" she asked.

"Dawn will be here soon, and our driver is still a few hours away. Lain is the best there is, but even he couldn't drive a carriage in broad daylight without being seen. I will drive it until we meet the coachman," he said.

"What about Myn?" she asked.

"One of the lines in every description of you mentions that you will be in the company of the dragon. She will have to tag along with Lain," Desmeres said.

Myranda's heart sank as Myn turned to Lain in the distance, cast a goodbye glance, and trotted off to him.

"As for you, there is an outfit in the carriage, I suggest you change into it while you are alone," Desmeres said, closing the door.

A moment later the carriage lurched into motion. Myranda looked around her. In all of her life this was the first time she had been in a covered carriage, save the rather unpleasant trip in the back of the black carriage after the cloaks attacked her. The seats were cushioned with deep red velvet. Doors that were better crafted than those on her childhood home kept even the slightest draft from breaking through. On the gla.s.s windows, of which there was one on each door, there was a gauze curtain to keep prying eyes out but allow light in, and a heavy drape of the same red velvet to eliminate the light. She lowered the gauze curtains and looked over the outfit. It was exquisite. Fine lace, linen and . . . silk! She had seen women pay a fortune for any one of these pieces of clothing. When she had put on the dress and petticoats, she found them to be just precisely her size, as though they had been hand altered to suit her. She wondered for a moment how Lain had managed such a feat, but her thoughts were interrupted by the gleaming white fur coat that would protect her against the freezing cold. Fur was not at all an uncommon thing to see someone wear in the north. If one had forsaken the ubiquitous gray cloak, a rough one of fur was generally in its place. In those cases, though, it was merely a skin, perhaps not even cleaned, draped about the shoulders and tied about the waist. This was, again, tailored to suit her. She slipped it on and found it to be more than warm enough. If they wanted her to go unrecognized, they had certainly chosen a fine wardrobe. Dressed in this way, Myranda didn't even feel like herself. The crumpled pile of overused clothes on the floor of the carriage more closely resembled her true self than who she might have seen in a mirror. After stuffing her former self into the bag and attempting to gather her hair into something more becoming of her wardrobe, she drew the curtain on one side of the carriage and gazed outside.

After a few minutes, a fellow traveler pa.s.sed in the opposite direction. He was an older man in a sleigh that was nearly falling apart. He wore a cloak so tattered that the hood was useless, replaced with a fur hat. He tipped it as he pa.s.sed. Myranda smiled at him. It was the first time that anyone had acknowledged her as she traveled. She leaned into the soft seat and pondered why people were so willing to ignore their own, and so eager to acknowledge those that were better off. Her thoughts were interrupted when the carriage pulled to a halt just as the traveler disappeared from view. Desmeres appeared outside the window and pulled the door open.

"Has this curtain been open all along?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Close it. You should know better," he said.

She obeyed and they were on their way again. It was nice to finally be able to travel in luxury, but without Myn to keep her company she was beginning to feel loneliness creep back upon her. It was a feeling she'd not had to deal with since she'd found the little dragon, and she did not relish it. She pulled the bag from the floor and found the stylus inside. Rolling it slowly in her palm, she remembered the man who had given it to her. Fetching the torn spell page from the bag, she cursed it for not being written in his hand. She scratched the stylus along the page. A thin black line faded in swiftly behind it. It was enchanted to write without ink. In Entwell it was nothing. Out here, it was miraculous. Smiling, she went back to admiring the simple tool. As she admired, her mind wandered to those happier times.

Meanwhile, a forest and a mountain away, Deacon sat at his table. He had found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on his task, and self imposed deadlines were quickly piling up. All of his life he had kept to the schedule he made for himself. Faced with the daunting task of recording every piece of gray magic his former mentor had neglected to write down, if he hadn't forced himself to keep to a schedule it would have consumed his life. Thanks to his diligence, he reasoned that in five short years he would have finished recording the teachings of Gilliam and would be free to begin his own contributions in earnest. That was before. Now he was a full volume behind. Even so, rather than writing, he was staring at the empty chair across from him. A motion drew his eye to the pen that sat in the pot of ink at the corner of his book. The pen rose shakily and touched to the paper. A slow, lazy line was drawn along one corner. With a curling flourish, the pen lifted from the paper and returned to the ink. Anxiously, Deacon watched the pen for any further movement. When it remained still, he pulled the page from the book and greedily took in the curve with his eyes. She drew it.

When he gave the stylus to her, he had meant it to be useful to her, a tool that would make her path easier. It was not until later that he supposed that the spell might persist regardless of distance. The moment that the thought came to him he had rushed to the paper to see if any of the words were not his own. From that day forward he had awoken each morning with the hope of something new. Something from her. Slowly it occurred to him the madness of it. This was a simple line. It was no different than any meaningless scribble he might have made himself. Why should this one mean so much? He tried to convince himself that it was because of her task, that he couldn't keep his mind off of her because she had a part in the prophesy. It was a lie. The prophecy was the last thing he thought of when he thought of her. He didn't think of anything. When she was in his mind, there was nothing else. He tried his best to shake the thoughts away, placing the paper in a drawer. There was nothing to be done about it. It would be months before the way was open for her to return. Until then he would simply have to keep his mind on magic. If he could not scribe, at least he could study. Standing and approaching one of his many shelves, he plucked a volume he had written years ago. He flipped to a page in the center, where there was described a spell he'd never had much use for. Distance seeing. Perhaps . . . he may just find a use soon.

Back in the carriage, it was hours later. Desmeres pulled to the side of the road and stopped, joining her inside. Sitting on the seat across from her, he peeled off several of the outer layers of his winter covering until he was left with an outfit that was every bit as finely tailored as the one she was given. Standing, he lifted the seat he had chosen to reveal a large compartment beneath it, obviously the hiding place he had requested. From inside he pulled a pile of papers.

"Now, to complete your disguise," he said.

"What is on those papers? Spells?" she asked.

"Heavens no. I am no wizard. Any disguise spell I could manage would only attract more attention to you. No, these papers contain your new personality, by far the most important part of the disguise. That and your instructions, but those can wait. The driver will be showing up soon, and he will be your first test. We need to lay the groundwork before then," he said.

"I don't understand," she said.

"No need to worry. You will. You see, the most commonly used phrase in the dispatches that describe you is 'poor, nomadic girl.' Even if you manage to completely change your appearance, you would still fit that little phrase. And right now you are dressed as a n.o.blewoman. If you do not act as one, you will draw attention even if you don't even remotely resemble a person to watch for. You need to act appropriately. As such, we will start from the bottom. Your name is Alexia Adriana Tesselor," he began.

Myranda tilted her head as she tried to recall where she'd heard the last name before.

"Of the West Kinsey Tesselors. It is a fact that you are endlessly proud of. Given the chance, you will mention it no later than the second sentence of any conversation, and as often afterward as possible," he said.

Myranda nodded. The Tesselors were an exceedingly wealthy family on the west coast of the continent, so much so that they practically owned the city that they hailed from. Though they were not n.o.bles, there was not a single leader in all of the Northern Alliance that didn't have either a marital or financial connection to the clan. Rumor had it that the King himself owed a rather sizable debt to the patriarch of the Tesselors for the cost of his coronation. Desmeres handed her a piece of paper and a small bag of jewelry.

"This is a family tree and a short description of the most prevalent members. Memorize it. Lord knows that they have. Rings, and necklaces, gold, all bearing the family crest. Put them on. Now you know who you are. All that is left is to teach you how to be who you are. Listen up. I am about to give you the single most important piece of advice that you will ever receive. There are only two things that you will ever need to succeed, regardless of what you do: Confidence and experience. Of the two, confidence is paramount. No one, no one, is more confident and secure in their superiority than the extremely wealthy. You need to exude obnoxious amounts of confidence in all situations," Desmeres said.

"Like you," Myranda said, mockingly.

"Precisely," Desmeres replied, ruining her joke. "I owe everything I have to, often unjustified, confidence. Now, rather than trying to fill in things you already know, we will do this as a test of sorts. First, what is your name?" he asked.

"Alexia Tesselor," Myranda replied.

"Alexia Adriana Tesselor. Adriana Tesselor is your grandmother and one of the more powerful members of your clan. You will never pa.s.s up an opportunity to flaunt your common name. Now, what is the name again?" he asked.

"Alexia Adriana Tesselor," she said.

"Right. Now, let us imagine that someone tries to exert some authority over you. Also suppose that what you are doing is wrong, and they are justified in reprimanding you. What do you do?" he quizzed.

"I don't suppose I follow their orders," Myranda said, rolling her eyes at what was obviously a wrong answer.

"You are a Tesselor. What do you do?" he repeated.

"I . . . bribe them," she said.

"Better, but no. Criminals bribe. Besides, bribing acknowledges that you are at a disadvantage," he said.

Myranda thought hard, but couldn't find the answer.

"Threaten. Always threaten. The mere sound of your name should be enough, particularly if you repeat it, which you will. If it isn't enough, mention any name in the family line. On the off chance you have particularly duty minded individual, the implied wrath of the patriarch of the family, Vander Tesselor, will stave off almost any authority figure," Desmeres instructed.

For an hour or so, Myranda was taught how to behave in a way opposite to what her heart and upbringing told her. Conversations with underlings are short and direct, always in the form of orders. She must a.s.sume that everything, in all situations, has been done for her benefit. At first, she found it impossible to decide what to say or do to appear to be this new person, but her thoughts shifted to the one person in her life who she realized she was sounding more and more like. Ayna, the wind master in Entwell. When she began answering questions as Ayna would have, everything fell into place. Her first test came when the driver tapped on the window. Desmeres slipped quietly into concealment. Myranda pulled back the curtain.

"What is it?" she snapped irritatedly.

"Where does madam -" he began.

"Mistress Alexia Adriana Tesselor, not madam. You will refer to me as Mistress Tesselor. I want to be at Grossmer's mines in three days," she declared haughtily.

The driver, somewhat bewildered by the flurry of orders, hesitated.

"Well? Off with you!" she said curtly, dropping the curtain into place.

"Fine work," Desmeres said quietly when the carriage jerked into motion. He slipped from beneath the seat.

"Was it convincing?" she asked, somewhat proud.

"Exceptionally so. Voice down please. You are alone in here, remember. There is much for you to learn before we get there. Three days may not be enough," he said.

The rest of the day pa.s.sed in much the same manner as the time she had spent in Entwell. Desmeres explained to her everything she might need to know about securing the ownership of the mines as quickly, easily, and cheaply as possible. She was told the prices of their ore, the success in recent years, and the likely success in the future. By sundown her head was swimming. The carriage began to turn, signaling the approach of a town.

"Here is money. Give it to the driver when he opens the door. Rich people never pay for anything themselves. That case on the floor has five changes of clothes. He will carry it without being asked. Stay in the best room of the best inn in town. You won't need to figure out which is which, the driver will. I will stay in the carriage, slipping out for the necessities, of course," he said, climbing into the hiding place.

"Wait, what about the gold? Are we simply leaving it in the carriage? It will be stolen," she said.

"Lain is out there, somewhere. If anyone so much as lays a finger on a chest, they will have to pick it up off of the ground if they want it back," he answered, slipping out of sight.

A moment later the door opened.

Without a word, Myranda thrust the bag of money into the hands of the driver and put out her hand to be helped from the carriage. He did so and they entered as nice an inn as was likely to be found in the area. It was not a tavern with rooms to let as was typically the type of place Myranda would have selected. The difference was obvious from the moment that the driver opened the door for her. Inside were attentive porters and a remarkably comfortable room, the first real bed she'd slept in since Entwell. Properly prepared food was a pleasant luxury as well. Of course, for the duration of the stay she belittled the quality of each and every little thing. It would have been suspicious if she hadn't. Spending the night alone was worse than she remembered. Worse yet was the fact she had left her satchel from Entwell in the carriage, and had nothing to do but stare at the painted walls of the room until her departure. Once she had checked out of the inn, she was led back to the carriage and they were on their way. Desmeres slipped out of his hiding place with a stern look on his face. He was holding the book that Myranda had brought along.

"What is this doing here?" he whispered harshly.

"I found something inside that I wanted to ask you about. Why were you going through my bag?" she asked, somewhat annoyed.

"I spent the night in a carriage. I needed something to do, but never mind that. This book contains very sensitive information. It was never to leave the storehouse," he said.

"Well I didn't know that," Myranda said.

"You should have asked. What question have you got, anyway? It had best be an excellent one to warrant this sort of breach," he said.

Myranda took the book and flipped to the offending page. She indicated the crossed out line and handed the book to Desmeres. He had only just glimpsed at the line when he shut his eyes tight and slammed the book closed.

"What? You didn't even read it," she said, taking the book away and trying to find it again.