aNow you expect my sister to return him to his people, in the condition you have rendered her to, before the allotted time runs out?a Tiernanas voice was steady, surprising Martaina. There was an edge of restrained fury in it, she could hear, but it was not raised at all. aYou want this war, want to fight the westerners, want your revenge, do you?a aI fear no westerner,a Hoygraf said, and leaned heavier, both hands on his cane, but the smile was gone. aAnd certainly no silliness of the north from the Syloreans. Let them come, and we will break these western fools. Let Syloreas fall to whatever chews at it, and the army of Actaluere will deal with that as well.a aI need a courier.a Milos Tiernan raised his voice now, so that the entire crowd could hear. Martaina had set foot forward before she even realized she had, stepping out of the circle of observers, crossing the ground between her and the post, where Tiernan stood facing Hoygraf and Cattrine. The voice went low again, but Martaina followed it as she approached them, the lone person who did so. aYou are a fool, Tematy, and your war is direly timed. You are twice the fool if you think that whatever afflicts Syloreas will be easier to defeat without their aid as with it. You may have dominion over my sister nowa"to my eternal shame and dismaya"but you do not rule my Kingdom. You do not declare war for me or take action that will cause me to have to fight after you provoke others into them.a Martaina arrived at his side, then, and the King of Actaluere looked to her without any sign of recognition. aPlease take my sister and her a accompanying package a to the Sanctuary camp to the southeast. Ensure that she is able to return their generalas head to them, but give them no further message.a His face twitched. aStay with her while she is there, and perhaps one of their healers will find it in them to ease her pain. Do you understand?a Martaina nodded, and Tiernan waved her off. aBe on with it, then, with all alacrity. Hurry.a Martaina knelt next to the Baroness, whose head snapped back at her approach and again as she wrapped an arm around Cattrine and pulled her to her feet. The Baronessas legs did not work, not at all, and she was dead weight as Martaina carried her along, half-dragging her to the edge of the crowd, which watched her. There was silence from behind her as Tiernan and Hoygraf continued to stare at each other, or possibly at her, and she could almost taste the bitter conflict between the men, burning hotter than the summer day around them, and with none of the occasional idle breeze to break it up. The quiet was oppressive in its own way, and every step she could feel the Baroness sag against her and the slippery, bloody, naked skin of Cattrine was slick within her grasp.

They made their way past the circled crowd, and Jaanda and Aisling joined them as they passed. aIall take this,a Aisling said, and laid a hand on Cyrusas head. aIall run ahead.a aNo,a Cattrine said, halting, her words choked with pain. aI need to get it to a Curatio. To the Sanctuary guild members.a aYou have,a Aisling said quietly, and Cattrine cocked her head. Her eyelids fluttered. aLet me take it, so that I can get it there in time.a aAll right,a Cattrine said, weakly, and relinquished her hold. Aisling, for her part, did not waste a momenta"she ran, no stealth, no guile, and faster than Martaina would have thought the little dark elf could have moved, disappearing between the tents ahead of them in a flat-out sprint in the direction of the Sanctuary camp.

aIam going to get you to Curatio,a Martaina said to Cattrine. She could feel Jaanda hovering next to her. aWe need to get something to cover you, and weall make certain youare healed.a aIall give her my robes when weare out of the camp,a Jaanda said. aTake care with her, those wounds are aa The enchanter cursed, a word that Martaina had heard before, something in the dark elven language that was so foul it left a bitter taste in the air. aBarbarians.a aNo doubt,a Martaina said, hurrying along as fast as she could side-carry the Baroness. The tents around them passed in slowest speed. The soles of Cattrineas feet were red with blood and covered with dirt, which stuck to the crimson in flecks, dust holding in place from the stickiness. Every time Martaina tried to readjust her grip, Cattrine cried out; there was nowhere to hold the woman that wasnat hurt, oozing blood with her every motion. aIam not certain sheas going to survive the walk to camp,a she whispered to Jaanda and hoped he caught it.

aI will endure,a Cattrine said. aThis is not the worst of my husbandas affections I have experienced, not by a very lot. I have saved him, and with him, this land, and that is all that matters.a With that, her head drooped, and she fell into unconsciousness, yet no more of a weight on Martainaas shoulder than she was before.

Martaina exchanged a look with Jaanda, and they hurried on, the trail left by the Baronessas feet dragging a line of red through the pale dust that followed them all the way back to the Sanctuary camp.

Chapter 46.

Vara aSo they circle,a Alaric said from the head of the Council table, Vara, Vaste, Erith and Ryin there with him. aThe Sovereign needs food for his legions, and he turns his eye toward the Plains of Perdamun.a The Ghost rested a hand on his helm, the peculiar, almost bucket-shaped helm. aThey will not let us rest long, if their objective is to hold the plains for themselves. We would be like a knife perched at the small of their back, ever ready to strike at our leisure, destroying their caravans and tearing asunder their lines of supply.a aNot that we would do such a thing, attacking caravans and whatnot,a Vaste said with a sense of irony.

aYouare damned right we would,a Ryin said, frowning at the troll. aThis is a war, the dark elves are our enemies, and we would be fools not to toss as much chaos as possible into their camp.a aI was making a joke,a Vaste said, straitlaced. aBear with me, as I know it was the first Iave ever made, so it may be hard to discern given my usual tendency toward the seriousa"a aThe Sovereign is right to fear us in this way,a Alaric said. aAs Ryin points out, our loyalties in this war were long ago revealed by our actions, and if they were to begin running shipments of grain to the dark elven armies in the north and west, we would be ill-brained not to cost them as much as we could, especially now that he has tipped his hand to reveal that he wants us destroyed.a The Ghost shook his head. aAnd so we enter a period of consolidation and licking wounds on the Termina and Reikonos fronts; all that remains to supply his army for the next hundred years is to put his boot on our guildhall and apply the pressure until we are finished.a aOr so he thinks,a Vaste said then shot a look around the table. aRight?a He looked to Erith. aRight?a aWhy are you looking at me?a Erith snapped. aBecause Iam the only dark elf at the table?a aYes,a Vaste said, nonplussed, athe same as if we were discussing something to do with trolls, Iad probably be the reference point.a aWell, I donat know what the Sovereign intends,a Erith said with little restraint. aHe doesnat run his plans by me, nor I by him. I left Saekaj when they opened the gates and allowed the exodus, and I havenat been back since. From what I know, heas vicious enough that yes, he would stomp us down if he thought we were even a slight threat. Just look what he did in Termina, and the elves were doing nothing more than passively supplying food and weapons to the humans.a aNot the happiest thought,a Ryin said, abut what do we do? Can we take on whatever he sends our way?a aYes,a Alaric said.

aNo,a Vara said after the momentas pause that followed her Guildmasteras statement. aAlaric, the dark elven army at full force must number in the hundreds of thousands, of which there are quite a few magic users. Not as many as we possess, to be certain, but a considerable number. We have something on the order of four thousand at our disposal, and even with the somewhat gross mismatch of our spellcasters to theirs, we are desperately outnumbered.a aWere we fighting on open ground in a great melee, that would be of greater concern,a Alaric answered. aBut we fight behind the walls of Sanctuary, which cannot be breached by magical means, and which we can hold nearly indefinitely against traditional methods of siege, as we have already proven.a The Guildmaster drummed his fingers against the table. aWe need only keep careful watch in the foyer and on the wall, so that any catapults, trebuchets, or siege towers are destroyed before they come close enough, and we will be fine.a aAnd if they breach the wall?a Vara asked.

aThey will not.a aYour confidence is unfounded,a Vara said, and she felt her blood go up. aThey have magics, the same as ours, and they can be detrimental to rock and stonea"a aWhich will be nullified by the enchantments that surround the wall,a Alaric said with calm, his hand now at rest. aShould they heave a great exploding fireball at us, it will disappear before it hits anything.a There was a silence for a beat. aWell, that seems like the sort of thing each of us should be wearing on our persons,a Vaste said. aAll the time, you know, in case youare standing at a privy somewhere and a mean-spirited wizard hurls a lightning bolt at you.a Heads turned to him slowly. aHappened to you often, has it?a Ryin asked.

aReally, when youare handling your delicate parts, being struck by a lightning spell even once is quite enough to be getting along with.a aIt is not the sort of enchantment that is easily carried with you,a Alaric said. aIt is rather more permanent, in much the same way as the alarm spell protects the grounds. It also has the ability to stop curative magics as well, which would be detrimental if you were, for example, stabbed by a blade and then someone tried to heal you.a The Ghost shrugged, a motion that was, like the man himself, subtle.

aSo what do we do?a Erith asked.

aWe wait,a Alaric said.

aBut if youare that firmly convinced that Sanctuary is unbreachable,a Ryin said, leaning forward with a passion that was not uncommon in the druid, ashouldnat we send another army into Luukessia to aid Cyrus? Isnat our duty to them?a aPerhaps I have overstated my position,a Alaric said. aI do not believe that they will be able to breach the wall or overwhelm us through an assault on our foyer at present with the numbers we have to guard the wall and our sanctum. To send another army to Luukessia, along with the number of spellcasters and leadership it would take to make any significant difference over there would leave us in a weakened condition here. Our defense would be tenable but also inflexible. The less force we have available, the greater my concern. As it is, we may be able to begin offensive moves against the dark elves should we find ourselves able to confront their smaller armies and do so piecemeal. Sending away another two thousand, which would be the minimum in order to be of any sort of assistance to Cyrus, would leave our cupboard rather bare.a He shook his head. aIn the event that they were to break our internal defenses or open the gates, that is not enough to mount a firm defense without resorting to aa He drew quiet for a moment. aa measures that do not bear thinking about.a aOoh,a Vaste said with a childlike delight. aTantalizing! Another mystery with no hope for resolution at any time soon.a Alaric favored the troll with a carefully measured gaze. aThere is more to this place than stone and brick, my friend, and there is more to our guild than a simple roster of warriors, rangers, enchanters, healers, wizards, druids, paladins and that lone dark knight.a aWe do have that rock giant,a Vaste said. aDid we ever get him back?a Alaric sighed. aI sent a druid after him; he should be back by tomorrow. But over-reliance on Fortin is a folly of its own sort. He can be killed; he is not invincible after all.a aNeither are we,a Vara said. aOur defense should bear that in mind.a aWhich is why I am not sending away another two thousand of our number,a Alaric said with a deep sigh, amuch as I might wish to aid our comrades. No, I am afraid they will have to make do with what they have, and we will re-evaluate should things turn worse.a Alaric raised his hand to his cheek and leaned against it, his dark, weathered gauntlets pressing his tanned flesh white where the fingers lay. aAnd I have a feeling, given what our friends are up against, that even with our illustrious General at the fore, things will indeed get worse.a

Chapter 47.

Martaina The walk was long and painful, even with Jaanda to help her shoulder some of Cattrineas dead weight. Though she didnat wish to say it, she could plainly tell the enchanter was not nearly as strong as she, not nearly so capable of feats of strength, and so she suffered under as much of the womanas burden as she could carry. At least she is only a healthy woman, not excessively weighty, as some are. Though now I wish she were Aisling; the woman is a twi, and would surely be much easier to carry than the Baroness, who was certainly well-fed if not well-treated a The birds were chirping in the trees above her; they had hurried on, avoiding the slope that had required them to slide down before entering the camp. They took a half-mile detour that had them on the road, watching for any sort of traffic. Not far, by Martainaas estimate, was the place where Cyrusas body had been found. Hopefully Aisling got his head back to them and in time a They came upon the very bend, the place where it had happened. There was nothing there but a bloody mess to mark the passage of events, nothing to show but the disturbed dirt that was as readable to her as any book was to a priesta"perhaps moreso, depending on the dialect of the ground. She could see footprints, the places where the Sanctuary warriors had trod, dragging something with them back toward camp. There were other tracks, too, fresher ones, smaller, more dainty, leading out of the woods. aAisling brought the head back here,a she said. aFrom here, I think they dragged his body back to camp. Though,a she conceded, awith or without the head, I cannot say.a Jaanda made no reply. The enchanter was thin, dangerously so. Between her and me, we would be able to carry him along easier than Jaanda and I laboring under just her weight. To the enchanter, who was shouldering as much of the burden as his lean frame allowed, she said nothing.

The camp was in motion when they arrived, armored men moving about, the shine of the late afternoon sun catching on their armor, which was dull and unpolished after the long marches and recent idleness. She could smell the camp scent again. There was a quiet in the air, too. It was not as a meadow at midday to her ears (which was still quite loud) but neither was it as active as the camp had been before. The weight of the leather on her shoulders was nothing compared to the numbness setting in on her right arm where the Baroness had been perched for the last twenty minutes. Her mouth was dry and she craved water, but had feared to set Cattrine down not only for the womanas own health but because she wondered if she would be able to get her up and moving again should she stop.

aAhoy!a The call took her by surprise, even as she walked past the sentries, one of whom was Odellan, whom she noticed late.

aAhoy?a Jaanda called back, struggling under the Baronessas weight, ahave you gone nautical?a aWhat?a Odellan said, approaching them. He reached out and took up Cattrineas weight, picking her up. She was wrapped in Jaandaas outer robes, and the dark elf looked odd with only his tunic and pants underneath, both simple cloth and as close to the opposite of his rich red garb as possible. Odellan lifted the Baroness, cradling her in his arms. aI served on a galley on the River Perda early in my career.a aOh, good,a Jaanda said, afor a moment I thought perhaps a career in piracy was in the offing.a aAn Endrenshan of the Elven Kingdom would not stoop to such a low,a Odellan said, adjusting the Baroness in his arms as he started through the small tent city of the encampment, Martaina and Jaanda following behind. aThough another two months encamped here and this soldier might consider a pirateas life.a aAre you taking us to Curatio?a Martaina asked. Her mind was racing, her body fatigued, and she wondered how far away the healer was. He can still fix her wounds, make her whole again a physically, at least a. aDid they manage to resurrect Cyrus?a aI remain uncertain,a Odellan said, carrying Cattrine against his mystical, shining armor, still polished even now, the carving in the breastplate filling the lines with blood from the Baroness. aI would assume a call would go up over the camp when the news made its way out, but I have heard nothing as yet.a Odellanas already unexpressive face took a further downward turn. aWhich, as you know, for an elf, is disquieting to say the least.a aIt means thereas likely nothing to be heard as yet,a Martaina said.

aAye.a Odellan circuited the last campfire as they came upon a tent that Martaina knew had been used by the few healers who had come along on the expedition as a communal quarters. Warriors bunk with warriors, for whatever reason, rangers with rangers, and wielders of magic flock together as surely as any fowl of the waters. He didnat even duck as he pushed his way through the tent flap, Martaina only a step behind him.

The smell in the tent was horrible, blood overwhelming, more of it possibly than even at the scene of the attack, though it wasnat as confined a space. There was a lamp burning, too, and the oil helped cover it only a bit. The tent was long, at least twenty feet, and ten wide. There were three healers all huddled in the corner, and Martaina could see Curatio on his knees, between the others, who stood with their backs to the flap.

aWe have another who needs help here,a Odellan announced, and one of the healers, a human, sprang toward him immediately, leading the elf to the corner where he laid the Baroness down upon a flat bedroll covered in a thin white sheet. Martaina watched for just a moment and knew that however the sheet had started, it was no longer white.

aDid you manage in time?a Jaanda asked, stealing Martainaas question before she could ask it. She held her tongue out of habit, realizing only now that she was the only non-officer, non-healer in the room save for those being healed. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder from carrying Cattrine at the distance she had, she was in fine conditiona"especially compared to the man who lost his head only an hour ago. Oh, Vidara, let it have been less than an hour ago.

Curatioas face was lined by the shadow of the tent, lit by the faint orange glow of the lamp. aIt was in time.a He ran a hand along his forehead, one drenched in blood that left markings in the lines of his brow. aOnly just, I think, and because his head has been separated for some time, our healing efforts have been unable to fully repair the damage. Still,a he took a breath and blew it out through his lips, which seemed to have lost all their color in the darkness of the tent, ahe is alive, and well enough for now, though unconscious. I would not be surprised if he developed a fever over this, though.a aBut heall live?a Martaina let her breath hang in her lungs, as though she dare not chance to believe she had heard it correctly.

aHeall live,a Curatio said, abut with a scar across his neck, Iad expect. A thin one but there, from what we werenat able to heal. It appears minimal, almost superficial, as I can heal somewhat more powerfully than most, but a it is there. Heall need to travel in the wagon as we begin our journey north.a I saved him, Thad, Martaina thought. I was faithful to my word a in this way. aWhy are we moving the army north?a Martainaas surprise at the question coming from her was genuine; she had not realized she asked it until it was out. A feeling of giddiness had flooded her, blotting out the pain of her arm.

aThe scourge is sweeping through these lands,a Jaanda said in answer. aIt is a a problem we must deal with for several reasons. Especially since Sanctuary and Syloreas will be the only ones to stand between it and the balance of Luukessia.a aYou are wrong,a came a voice from the corner. It was faint, but stronger than when last Martaina had heard it. She turned, and Cattrine was sitting up on the bedroll, Odellan and the human healer at her side. aActaluere will send its army north to aid you. I have seen to it.a Her face was still pale, white, and her eyes were sunken, as though she were already dead. I have not seen a more haunted and beleaguered look on a face since the night Termina fell.

aYou were under the protection of Sanctuary, malady,a Curatio said, standing from where he had been at Cyrusas bedroll. Martaina caught her first glimpse of the warrior; he looked almost normal, though his chest was bare and there was an accumulation of congealed blood about his throat. His chest rose and fell in a normal rhythm, though, and she felt her breathing return to normal and her focus shift back to Curatio.

aI no longer require it,a Cattrine said and, clutching the fabric of the robes closer to her figure, she stood tentatively, reminding Martaina of a foal get to its feet for the first time. Phantom pain, the searing agony that stays even after the flesh is knitted together. She is no doubt feeling it harshly now. aIall be making my way back to the Actaluere camp to rejoin my husband. Because of that, Actaluere will not go to war with Galbadien and my brother will be freed to send his troops north with Briyce Unger.a aWhat a complicated little web we find ourselves in,a Jaanda said.

aMalady,a Curatio said, with a faint, almost patriarchial smile, athere will be no healer for you next time, you realize this, yes?a His hand swept the length of her. aNo one will be able to save you from your husband when next he puts the whip to you, and none of us will be close at hand to soothe the damage afterward.a Cattrine stared at him dully, then turned her back to him and let the robe slip to just above the small of her back. The other healers, humans, younga"gasped at the scars, but Curatio managed to hold any reaction to himself. aI have never before had the luxury of protection from my husband, sir.a She paused, and Martaina could read the regret and fear in equal measure hidden underneath the bravery on the Baronessas face. aAnd for the benefit of my people, that is a burden I will have to accept again.a

Chapter 48.

Cyrus The world swirled about him, to and fro, and he caught glimpses of darkness and light in twain, lamps and the sun. Everything hurt from the neck down, and other times everything hurt from the neck up, but the divide was there, at the neck, and consciousness was a fleeting thing.

His mouth was dry, appallingly so, like someone had opened it and poured sand in until it ran over his lips and out, down his face and off his chest, leaving everything scratchy and dusty. He could smell old, dried blood, that more than anything, but oil was in the air, too, and fire, and other smells, familiar ones, like plants or an ointment, and moldering flesh. Faces blurred in front of him, forcing him to thrash about. He felt pressure on his arms, saw Martaina before him, and Aisling, Curatio at least once, but they were gone again a moment later.

aHe has a fever,a Curatioas disembodied head told him. The words echoed through the dark space he was in, like booming words lit out of the clouds and born on thunder.

aSearing hot to the touch,a Aisling said, but she was not disembodied at all, he could see her plainly, see her naked, her dark blue curves hidden in the shadows around him, suggestive, and he took a deep, gasping breath as he looked at her.

aIs he awake?a That was Martaina, and he saw her as well, but she was headless, just the green cloak and attire of the ranger was visible, only a flash or two of a head being where it wasa"where it SHOULD be, dammit. aHis eyes are open.a Cyrus could feel his eyes, too, and they were crusty, like someone had dropped stones in the corners of them, and no matter how much he blinked or rolled them, he couldnat get them out. aa pebbles aa There was no answer from any of the three of them to that, even though it made perfect sense to him somehow, just that one word. Wasnat it a perfect way to describe everything that was happening?

It felt like a day passed, or possibly an age, or maybe only a few minutes. It was brighter now, a lamp overhead shining. The sand was everywhere, the dust, encroaching, filling his eyes and face. It was just like the last time, exactly like it, and Cyrus was suddenly six again, and very, very far from home, if ever there had been such a thing a.

aThe Arena is where you will learn to fight,a the Society of Arms Guildmaster told him, him and a half a hundred other strays and orphans, all his own age. Most were smaller than him, he thought as he looked over the crowd. A few roughly the same size. None bigger. aWhere you will face your fears and put them to death. Where you will learn to serve Bellarum and the needs of war.a He was a big man, the Guildmaster, and he spoke from the far entrance. The entire thing was sand, sand around the feet, all the way to the edges. One might have expected something like the coliseum, a place he had been once with Mother, but it wasnat; no stands around the edges for spectators, just a single, boxed enclosure where the Guildmaster stood with the other adultsa"a man in a white robe, and two others in armor.

aFear is weakness,a the Guildmaster said, his face knit with scars on each cheek and rough skin on his forehead. He looked older than Mother, older than the man who had brought him to the Society, but beyond that, Cyrus couldnat tell his age. aWeakness is the sum total of all your flaws, all your faults, all the things that can get you killed in battle. We purge weakness here; we donat coddle it. If you fear something, face it down. Run it to the ground. Beat it out of you.a The Guildmaster looked them all over, and there was nary a flinch from him, though Cyrus heard the sobs from some of the others. aIf you fear to be hit, then youall need to face it. Many of you wish to go back to your comfortable places, even if those places are the streets. You wonat find comfort here, because comfort is weakness.a With that, the Guildmaster left the enclosure and walked into the arena; some of the crying subsided, and Cyrus could hear the soft crunch of the sand against the Guildmasteras metal boots, his steel armor scuffed with age. Cyrus wanted to cry, could feel it, but his tears were already gone. More than half when Father died, all the rest when Mother went. He was as dry in the eyes as the arena floor, dusty but wracked with emptiness. Head gone along when the big mana"Belkan was his namea"had led him here; after all, with Mother gone, what else was there?

Cyrus looked to the boy next to him, who wore rags, browned and barely covering him. It was winter now, and cold outside. How could one not be cold out on the streets, wearing something such as that? The boyas eyes flashed at him; he was one of the ones that was Cyrusas size, one of the very few, and his brown hair was over his eyes, long, unlike Cyrusas short cropped bangs that barely touched his forehead where his mother kissed him every nighta"or had, beforea"

aFear is weakness,a the Guildmaster said again. aIt is in your nature to be weak. We will make you mena"or women, as the case may be,a he said with a nod toward two girls who were in the front of the crowd of children. They werenat crying, Cyrus thought, oddly, though he heard other girls crying among all the boys sobbing around him. aBreaking fear is nothing more than looking it in the eye and spitting in its face, finding your courage, and daring it over and over again. Pain is nothing to fear. Pain only hurts. Battle is nothing to fear, because it brings only pain. Commitment to your cause will draw out your fear, excise it, take it away. You must subsume yourself in the cause of war in the light of battle, and learn to love the draw of combat. The crack of bone and hand, the slash of sword and steel, the rending of flesh with axe, these will be your daily prayers, the things that you commit yourself to, to draw out the fear. I can make you fearless.a The crying didnat stop at that, it seemed to get worse, but Cyrus felt the little flecks of dust fall out of his eyes and he realized for the first time that that was what he wanted, what the Guildmaster had offered. He had cried when he had learned that Father died, cried hard, and even worse after Mother, though for a shorter time. He had stayed with the neighbors, though not for long, until Belkan had come for him. All that time he had felt the gnaw of fear, felt it chip at his bones, awaken him in the night when the tears had come, felt it eat him at him like it would someday come and take him whole, drag him off into the night where he would never be seen again.

aWho among you,a the Guildmaster said, awants to be fearless?a The words echoed in the arena, over the sand pit, and there was silence apart from the sobs, a quiet that settled among the crying children, all so far from home, wherever that was to them.

Cyrus felt his hand go up, as though it were out of his control. It went up above the others, the first, a silent flag to mark his surrendera"and his desire to be free of the feara"once and for all.

Chapter 49.

Vara The Council Chamber had emptied quickly after the meeting, as though everyone had other things to deal with, other urgencies to be handled. Erith and Vaste, she knew, were both balancing the responsibilities of the Halls of Healing, keeping it running while Curatio was away. She wondered if Ryin had even set foot in his own quarters since returning to Sanctuary to find it under attack. Alaric, however, remained in his seat, as though carved out of the same material as the chair, not a Ghost at all but a mountain lain down in the middle of the room, growing out of the stone floor. His head was bowed and his helm lay upon the table, as it always did. A kind of darkness enshrouded him, like the clouds that hang over a peak at midday, hiding it from the view of the world, and she could tell naught about his mood or intentions save that they were present and as hidden as the manas face usually was.

aYou have something on your mind,a Alaric said, breaking the silence between them, his eyes not finding hers but remaining fixed on the edge of the table.

aAlways,a Vara said, not sure where she found it within her to be even slightly smartass. aItas the peril of thinking, you know.a Alaric did not smile, did not return hers because she did not have one to return. aWhat is on your mind, lass?a aYouave proven to have an uncanny knack at guessing what sort of things might be on the minds of others.a She shifted her hands to her lap, letting the steel gauntlets clink against the metal of her greaves. They were like a second skin by now, she had worn them for so long, but in moments such as this, they found ways to remind her, subtly, that she was different than even many of the women of Sanctuary. aSo why donat you tell me a what is on my mind?a Alaric let a long sigh, his head settling back down to look at the edge of the table rather than her. aYour mind is on Cyrus, in Luukessiaa"a aMy mind is on our guildmates,a she said hotly, afacing the consequences of our mistakes, in a foreign landa"a aOne of whom is our General,a Alaric said calmly, aa man with whom you are developing a somewhat tangled history, even if you donat wish to admit to it.a She didnat bother to interrupt him again, but she felt the burn all the way up to the tops of her ears, which was enough to tell her that her pale face was, by necessity, flushed. aYou neednat bother denying it, and nor do I care. I did not allow Cyrus to casually disentwine himself from admitting his feelings for you, even when he didnat want to, and if you want me to speak your mind for you, donat pretend to be offended when I speak to you what is truly on it. Yes, you worry about our troops, and our guildhall, and Sanctuary, but your emotions sweep you, old friend, and your emotionsa"the ones you donat care to admita"are so loudly proclaiming your thoughts for the man in black that I cannot ignore them in favor of anything you might say.a aIt is my fault, Alaric.a She heard the echo of the words in the silence, even though they were no more than a whisper. aWe went to the Realm of Death for my peoplea"to save my people, to find out why Mortus wanted me dead. And he killed the God of Deatha"a aI killed the God of Death,a Alaric said, and there was menace in his voice, alest you forget.a aBut Cyrus threw himself in the path of Mortus.a Varaas head was up now, and she stared down the Ghost. aI should have died there, and none of this would have happened. But he threw himself in front of Mortus and cut the hand, and we fell upon the God of Death like crows upon a piece of carrion. If he were still alive, Luukessia would be a I donat know, not being overrun by these creatures. Weare responsible a Iam responsible, Alaric! Itas my fault.a She felt the strong emotion, and it caused her to shut her eyes, to cover her face with her hand. aItas all my fault.a aBecause you made him love you?a Alaricas voice was oddly distant, and Vara looked through her fingers to see him on his feet, back to her now, facing the window and looking out across the plains. aBecause you forced him to defend you in your time of need, follow you when Mortusas assassins pursued you, and try to save you when you had lost all hope?a Alaric still did not look at her. aYes, I can see how this is entirely your fault.a aI know it sounds absurd.a She rose from her place at the table but did not move closer to him, merely stood, as though she were a child in the Holy Brethren again, answering an instructoras question. aBut it is so, that his aa she struggled with the word, aa feelings for me, they caused him to act, to set things in motion, and what I did afterward sent him over there, where our people face a whatever those things are.a aA scourge, I believe they call them. And a scourge I believe they are.a aHow do you reconcile a thought like that?a She let the words hang before asking her next question. aYou said you killed Mortus, and I suppose you did, struck the final blow. But we all killed him together, all of us, and you may have struck the last, but Cyrus struck the first, and he did it in my name, for me, binding us all together in some grand pact that has unleashed untold hell upon people who I had never even heard of until this last year. How do you a handle that? How do you not let it weigh upon your thoughts every waking moment of the day? How do you live with the idea that someone so dear and frustrating and annoying and noble and fearless is facing the consequences of what youave wrought, that they could die so far from home, and never return to aa She almost coughed, overcome with annoying emotion. aHow do manage that, Alaric? How do you bury that and get on with things?a The Ghost was quiet, his broad shoulders almost unmoving beneath his armor, his silhouette against the shadows of the evening sun outside. aI donat know that you can, lass. What I would advise a is that you recognize that what is past is past, and that no amount of agonizing or wishing will change the outcome of that day in Deathas Realm, and that no excess of cogitation will change what happened that night in your quarters. No matter how much you think and dwell and wonder, no other outcome will make itself known but what has happened.a Alaricas hand reached out to the window and he touched it, the fingers of his metal gauntlets clicking against the glass, as though he were trying to touch the orange sky beyond. aYou can scarce change the past or what has gone before. All you can do is dwell in the moment, and work to change the course of things from here on.a He turned his head to look at her. aThat is what I would advise.a aIs it?a Vara asked, and she let her fingers clench inside her gauntlets. aThen why is there a pall over you, Lord Garaunt? Why does it seem that darkness has settled on the Ghost of Sanctuary, and that the ephemeral Guildmaster seems weighted down even more than he has ever been before? If dwelling in the past does not change the course of things then why are you still there, every day, every night, and letting it own you, become you?a Alaric made no reply at first. aIt would seem that I am not the only one for whom an uncanny knack for guessing the minds of others has become a standard. I said that the advice I gave you is what I would advise. I did not suggest that it was in any way what I, myself, was doing.a aYou think about it, too, donat you?a She left the table behind carefully, walking toward him, halting a few paces away. aIt is on your mind, always, what has happened, what we allowed to happen, by our actions and inactiona"a aYes,a Alaric said, and his head went back to the window, which his hand had never left, still touching the glass. aIt is a a difficult thing to lose guildmates. When we lost Niamh, I was once again torn with indecision. We have lost several in the last few years, and that is to be expected, normal attrition for a guild of our size and the way that we run things. But Niamh a was precious. She had been here almost since the beginning of Sanctuary, twenty-odd years ago. To see her lost, not to some raid but to a deliberate attack by an assassin, was wrenching. I questioned myself in ways that I had not in years. Not since aa he shook his head, aa Raifa. For everything that followed, that led you and Cyrus into peril at Termina, that took you into wara"every single thing that happeneda"I questioned my choices, my thoughts, the distance that I had allowed you to operate at. And even though there was not a single thing I would have done differently than either of you, from the moments before Niamh died to the night on the bridge when you held off an empire, I still questioned. Even in Deathas Realm, when I tried to bargain with Mortus, I wondered in the moment if sacrificing one guildmate in order to save the rest was the right choice.a He bowed his head and his hand came free of the window.

aThe truth is a I was relieved when Cyrus jumped in front of Mortusas hand. I wished I had had the courage to do it myself, to die so that none of the rest of you would have to. I was relieved because his courage spared me from the cowardice of consigning one of you to death, to making the impossible decision of entering battle with a god or letting one person die as a sacrifice. Cyrus made the choice I couldnat find it in myself to disagree with. He spared your life, and aa Alaricas eyes found her then, aa and I was glad, glad that the God of Death died that day, because the alternative would be to lose you, and that would be aa He did not finish.

aSo it weighs on you, too,a Vara said, though she did not touch him, did not so much as place a hand on his shoulder. It would be unseemly, somehow, between the two of them. There was always much unsaid, and Alaric was no more profligate with his touch than she was; two distant people, so bizarrely different than someone such as a say, Niamh.

aIt weighs on me,a he said. aBut it need not weigh on you if you should follow the advice I give youa"a aRather than the example you set for me?a Vara felt the taste of the irony on her tongue, and it was not to her liking. aThat should be the first time, I would think.a aI rather suspected you would not listen, preferring instead in your infinite stubbornness to do things your own way,a Alaric said with a note of melancholy. aOr my own way, if you prefer.a aStubbornness is hardly a quality reserved for the officers of Sanctuary,a Vara said, abut if I may boast, I think we bring it to such a level that few could ever hope to master it in the way we have.a aTrue enough. But my counsel is sound; if you would heed it, you would agonize less.a aAnd you would agonize just the same,a she said. aAnd I would still aa She shook her head as though the mere action could cleanse the bitterness from her palate, aa worry. Abouta"a aHim.a The Ghostas crisp use of the word sounded like a shock in the quiet. aAs do I. I worry for all of them, but should the General fall, Curatio will surely evacuate the rest. He is reasonable in that way. Cyrus, on the other hand a does stubbornness with a skill and effort that even I can admire.a He looked back at her, sidelong, with a hint of a smile. aYou truly do know how to pick them. You and he are matched horses, unbroken animals that are unlikely to ever be cut loose of your maddening habits of pride anda"a aYes, that will do, thank you.a She eased closer, and took up her place next to him, on the other side of the double doors to the balcony, at the window opposite. She looked out across the sunlit plains, the grasses set to fire by the sunset, the horizon showing the first sign of purple. aSo we wait. And dwell on our every previous bad move.a aWe wait,a Alaric said. aBecause we all have a dutya"he to his part, us to ours.a He let the quiet infuse the air, the stillness of the coming dusk settled over the Council Chambers, and the sun dropped a few degrees in the sky before he broke the silence again. aTheyall be coming, you know.a aI know,a she said. aWhen?a aSoon,a Alaric promised. aThe Sovereign will not wait. And for all my bravado in Council, you should knowa"they may yet break us. He will send a almost everything at us, here, because the future of his war depends on it.a aThen I suppose weall have to break him. His army. His war.a She said it more certainly than she thought it, as though Alaricas confidence had made its way to her, and they had reversed their roles in the minutes since the meeting ended.

aI suppose we shall,a he said, and lapsed into a silence that carried them well past the time when the sun sank below the horizon, and the roomas torches and hearths lit themselves, and they could no longer see anything out the windows but darkness and the reflections of themselves in the glass.

Chapter 50.

Cyrus aSo you want to learn to be fearless?a The Guildmaster smelled of sweat and leather, as Cyrusas own father had. aYou want to know what it feels like to be empty of all dread, to be free from worry, to unconcern yourself with that gut-ripping, heart-rending sensation they call fear?a Cyrusas hand wavered in the air, his six-year-old, thin arm quivering from being in this strange place. aYes,a he said, quietly.

aWhat was that?a The Guildmaster asked again.

aYes, Guildmaster,a Cyrus said, louder this time, adding the honorific because adults liked that. He knew they liked that. Belkan had told him so.

The Guildmaster towered over him, his six-year-old self, Cyrus realized, dimly aware that this was not him now but years ago, a strange divide in his consciousness between the awareness of memory of how he thought then and how he thought now, whenever NOW was. The manas armor was scuffed from use, yet the polish was there, impressive in its way, and his gauntlets were stiff, as though his fingers were locked into position all in a line. aWhat do you fear, Cyrus Davidon?a Cyrus blinked, uncertain. How did one know what they feared? There were so many things, so very many a they hung out there, a thousand ideas just below the surface of his mind, things that he could snatch at but that wisped like vapor when he made to grab at them, to seize them and put them into the light where all could see. aI a I donat know, Guildmaster.a Maybe if I add the title he wonat be mad at me for not knowing a The Guildmasteras face honed in on him, watched him, but there was no malice there, Cyrus thought, no anger. aIt would be hard indeed to eliminate fear when you cannot even say what it is that you are afraid of.a aMy father,a came the voice to Cyrusas right. He turned his head, and saw the boy with the brown hair, the unkempt and bushy hair that grew long, and his hand was raised too, though for how long Cyrus was uncertain. aI fear my father. When he had too much to drink, he always came after mea"a aGood enough,a the Guildmaster said. aYou fear your father, Cass Ward?a The man took a step toward the boy named Cass, and Cyrus watched him go, turning away, and he felt regret for not knowing the right answer straight away, felt the burn of shame for being too embarrassed to name his fear, to shout it out loud and look it in the eye the way the boy named Cass had. aYou fear your father because he hit you?a Cass nodded, eyes disappearing under the mass of hair. aBecause it hurt?a Cyrus watched the Guildmaster, wondered if he was going to hit Cass, as though there were some lesson in that. aA reasonable fear for a normal person. Pain causes fear. You fear pain, it paralyzes you, holds you back, keeps you from giving it your all in fight. You feared your father because he was bigger than you, stronger than you, could hurt you and cause you pain.a The Guildmaster stood over Cass now, and Cyrus saw the manas hand come down on Cassas head, not to hurt him, but to rest in the boyas hair, and the Guildmaster gave him a slight mussing, as though in affection. aGood on you, boy, for admitting it. Fathers can frighten, no doubt. But you fear them because of the phantom of pain. I will teach you not to fear pain. I will teach you to make the pain your own, to live in it, to turn it against those who would use it on you, who would seek to make you fearfula"and to make them fearful instead. There are worse things in life than pain.a The Guildmaster looked over the crowd. aThis is the Society of Arms. I teach the art of war to those who want to learn. I will teach you how beat your enemies, to make them fear you. I will teach you to purge this weakness, to exploit it in others. I will make you brave and fearlessa"at least those who want to learn. Some of you are fearful even at the prospect of what I have said, of living in pain to overcome it. You wonat last very long.a The Guildmaster walked back to the enclosure at the far end of the arena, where a healer waited for him, the white robes the brightest color in the room. aThis is the path of the bold, the brave, the strong. This is the path for those who will fight fear to its natural death, who will pass through the fire and come out fearless.a The Guildmaster looked over them again, the half a hundred. aAnd we will start to determine who those among you are a right now.a He clapped his hands together, gauntlets ringing their metal chime, discordant, across the pack of children who waited. aThis is your first test. Are you ready?a There was still muffled crying in the crowd, a few sobs here and there, but most of it had ceased in the course of the Guildmasteras speech. He looked at the boy called Cass, saw Cass looking back at him from beneath his mop of hair, and felt his voice join a very small chorus of aYesses.a He knew, instinctively, that Cassas voice was in there, too, even as he saw the boyas head nod and his lips move.

aVery well, then,a the Guildmaster said, and then raised his voice, the low guttural, reassuring sound turning harsh and discordant. aThen you will fight amongst yourselves until there is only one of you standing a and we will judge which of you will remain, will learn to be fearless a and which of you will spend the rest of your lives living like an ordinary person a in all the requisite fear that brings with it.a

Chapter 51.

Cyrus found himself moving before the Guildmaster had even finished speaking. He heard the words, absorbed them, but after the command to fight, nothing else needed to be said. Belkan had told him what the Society was, after alla"it was to learn to fight, like his father had fought the thrice-damned trolls. That meant hitting, it meant swords, it meant fists. Head fought his fathera"wrestled, more likea"trying to knock the man down to little effect. But his father was big, tall, muscled, could lay him out with a single swata"not that he ever would do that, but he could, and Cyrus could feel it. Head fought with other boys his age, too, though, clumsy, uncoordinated fights, miming the things head seen the drunks do in the alley outside the Rotten Fish, the tavern just down from his home. Punches, kicks, bitinga"head seen a dark elf lose an ear that way, once, seen blood come down the face of another man and seen a dwarf kicked so hard in the groin that it looked as though his pants came up to his chest.

Cyrus head-butted the boy next to him, remembering what his father had told him about using his skull against the soft part of a face. His father had meant it as advice in case head been about the market and someone other than a guard had tried to take hold of him, but he used it now and watched the blond boy next to him, who was already near to tears, fall to the ground, his hands on his face and his low sobs turned to a high whine. Cyrus moved on, but the boy was already still. The child next to him was not as tall as Cyrus, and Cyrus jabbed the heel of his hand into the boyas nose and felt pain shoot through his wrist from the impact. This was near to a punch, and his father had taught him how to throw a punch, a good one, straight on and with his weight behind it. The boy on the receiving end fell to the ground sobbing, too, just like the last, and Cyrus wondered if he was doing well, if the Guildmaster would teach him how to be unafraid if he knocked them all down. And if they get up, Iall knock them down again until they donat.

He kept on, the sobs and wails growing louder and more persistent. He saw other boys, too, making their way through, knocking down the ones who stood dumbfounded, almost as though they were prey. It wasnat just the larger ones, either; Cyrus saw the two girls at the front, the ones the Guildmaster had nodded to, and he watched them both tear into a larger boy with a flurry of kicks that brought him to his knees.

Cyrus saw two come at him, both just a shade smaller than him, and he dodged the first and put a fist in his face. Blood trickled down the boyas lip, but he only flinched a little. Cyrus hit him again, then again, and felt a heavy blow land on the back of his head, with enough impact to send him sideways. He staggered, came back up with his hands in front of his face, and lashed out with a foot to the nearest oneas leg. He tripped him sideways, leaving Cyrus to look at the other one, the one with a bloody nose. Cyrus leapt after him, caught him with another punch, then another, until the boy curled into a ball and Cyrus moved on, back to the first, whom he hit twice before the boy yielded, shaking where he lay.

aEnough!a came the voice, the call, over them, and what motion there was halted, all save onea"Cass, the boy had been called, and he was pummeling another, hitting him in the face over and over. aI said enough, Ward,a the Guildmaster called again, and Cass stopped his assault.

The Guildmaster and the others came out of the enclosure now, down the five steps to the arenaas dirt floor. There was a wide gate opposite them, and it opened now, and a few men came out, waiting in a huddle behind the battleground, where at least forty of the fifty that had started lay on the ground, a few unmoving. aThis was a good showing by some of you,a the Guildmaster said. aA good showing indeed. Some of you have the seeds of fearlessness within you, the roots to grow mighty and strong in the sight of the God of War. Others aa he touched one boy who was curled up with the toe of his boot, not hard, but the boy whimpered anyway, aa others of you will find paths more suited to your a tendencies, shall we say?a He pointed to a few of the fallen, including the two boys Cyrus had just downed, and whispered to one of the armored men at his side, a painfully thin one. The other, a dwarf with a face that was all jaw and beard, shook his head a few times during the conversation. Their healer was already moving about the children on the floor, using his magic, mending wounds, sending some of them on their way, out the gates, where Cyrus could see other men waiting for them, herding them like the cattle head seen run through the streets of Reikonos in the past.

aFifteen,a the Guildmaster said, finished with his talk with the dwarf and the thin man. aOut of fifty-four, Iall have you know. Thatas how many of you will be inducted today. Twelve years from now, when your training is complete, perhaps five of you will remain. That is the way of things here in the Society of Arms. But donat think youall be safe simply because you are one of the top in your form; there have been plenty of forms that havenat graduated a single warrior.a The Guildmaster gave them a grin, one that highlighted that his smile was missing at least three teeth. aThatas how we like it. Toughness will become a second skin to you, fearlessness is earned, not given freely, itas a confidence that comes with knowing that you will be able to deal with anything and anyone you meet or else youall die with a sword in hand, and that will be fine, too. We will take a everything,a his voice became throaty when he said this, afrom you. You have no past. You have no future but war, weapons, and service. You will exist only in the present, in the moment, with your weapon in your hand, and conviction in your heart that whoever stands opposed to you will die by your hand.a He made his way through those still standing, as he said this. Cyrus cast a sidelong look at Cass Ward and got one in return. Heas trouble, Cyrus thought. Not the others, just him. Heas the only threat in this room, the only serious one.

aCyrus Davidon,a the Guildmaster said, and Cyrus looked up to find him lingering overhead. aDo you still wish to be a warrior, to lose your fear and look into the face of death unflinching?a Cyrus heard the moans of those still fallen, the ones the healer was working his way around to, one at a time. The smell of sweat and sand was heavy in the room; fear, Cyrus thought with his six-year-old mind. aYes,a he said. aGuildmaster.a He remembered the honorific at the last. Adults like that.

The Guildmaster studied him shrewdly, and Cyrus could smell the leather of the man, could see the scars where a blade had worked long cuts across the manas forehead in a diagonal slash, an X above his eyebrows. His cheeks were pitted worse, and when he smiled at Cyrus only half his face lifted. aThatas good talk.a His hand came down on Cyrusas head, gave it a tousle, then came back to his belt, where Cyrus heard a noise of metal on leather and steel, a screech of a blade running out of a scabbard, then it was in his face, in his hands, pressed into his palms by the Guildmaster, a blade longer than his forearm. aBut letas see if good action follows it. Take this aa The Guildmaster squatted, and pressed the weapon into his grasp then turned his eyes left, where Cyrus followed his gaze to a boy at his right, whom Cyrus had headbutted only moments before. Cyrusas look flitted back to the Guildmaster, and he felt the first stir of uncertainty as the Guildmaster looked back at him, watching, assessing, judging. aa and kill him.a

Chapter 52.

The weight was heavy on Cyrusas shoulder, the hand of the Guildmaster resting there, and Cyrus looked at it, looked at the metal gauntlet on the soft cloth of his shirt. That smell of leather was persistent, the other smell, too, that reminded him of the time he wrestled with his father and hit his nose, hard, and it wouldnat stop bleeding a that was here as well, but it wasnat his nose that was bloody, not this time a The dagger had weight, too. He knew it was dagger. His father had showed him all manner of weapons, from short swords and axes to polearms, when he had gone to the militia house for a day. There were even a few hanging above the mantle in his house, he had seen them all his life. But when his father was clad in the black armor, he wore a sword. aA dagger is just a shorter sword, son,a his father had told him. aYouall know it when you see it.a And he saw it now, the blade, it fit in his hand but the hilt bulged out on the ends. aLike this,a the Guildmaster said, and pushed the guard up against his hand so that more of the hilt stuck out of the bottom of his fist. aHold it like this.a Cyrus did, and he felt the Guildmaster steer him toward the boy, the one he had hurt so badly that the child hadnat bothered to get up yet. And he is a child, not even a boy because he wasnat ready, couldnat handle it, folded and lay down when the call came over usa"

aDo it,a the Guildmaster said. There was a silence in the arena that Cyrus reckoned had fallen in the last few minutes. aGo on.a Cyrus took another step toward the boy; he was over him now, hovering, and looked down over the patch of blond hair, where two grubby hands, smeared with dirt were held against the boyas face. He was writhing, sobbing quietly, no older than Cyrus. Younger even, perhaps. It was so hard to tell.

aGo on,a the said Guildmaster again. aYou want to be fearless? Be a warrior; do what a warrior does. Kill him.a Cyrus swallowed, as though he could drown his fears inside him. He stared down at the boy and felt only pity, looking at the ragged cloth, at the shoes that were no more than foot covers with holes in them. aTheyare orphans, all,a Belkan had said when he brought Cyrus to the Society. aLike you.a Cyrus stepped closer, toward the lad, who was looking up at him now, eyes half-closed, curled up like a baby Cyrus had once seen sleeping at a neighboras house. The boy was still, though, breathing steady, watching Cyrus closely, but with a far-off look in his eyes.

aGo on,a the Guildmaster said from behind him. aHave at it.a There was a still in the arena and the place was dark, lit only by the lamps all around them, a thousand of them, perhaps, and Cyrus wondered idly who took the time to light them all. The boy waited for him, unresisting, crying softly, and Cyrus saw the little droplets of water that ran down the boyas cheeks, remembered the feel of his own before he ran out from overuse. Pitiful. Heas not there yet but close. Then heall be like me.

The air was quiet, everyone watching him, even the men at the door. Beyond them he could see snow falling outside, damp, and even more quiet out on the streets than it was in here, with the men watching and waiting. The fear bit at him, and he knew he was failing the test, hesitating, and he stared down at the boy again. The smell of urine was strong now, and he could not tell whether it was from the boy or from himself. He looked again at the boy, then at the gate to the world outside the arena, so small, and getting ever so much smaller by the minute, the quiet, snow-covered streets. The sand beneath his feet was crimson, red with blood.

Cyrus felt a weight on his shoulder, the Guildmasteras gauntlet resting on him. aAre you afraid to do it? Afraid to end him?a Cyrus thought about it for a minute, looked again at the boy, and realized with utter clarity that he was not afraid at all, for once, that he really just felt sorry for hima"

The dagger came around and plunged into the Guildmasteras belly without Cyrus even being truly aware of what he was doing. There was a sharp grunt from the man and his gauntlet squeezed Cyrusas unarmored shoulder tighter for a moment before he broke away, falling to his back, his hands clutching his midsection. There was a stunned, continued silence in the arena, and before the Guildmaster could speak, could proclaim, could say anything, Cyrus was off, running, dodging past the men at the gate, and his feet were slapping against the cobblestone street, stirring the wet snow and mud. He heard one of his pursuers slip and fall behind him as he dodged into an alleyway and past an open door where the smell of eggs wafted into the cold evening air.

The streets were twisted, and there were shouts behind him, a great clamor, but he ran, and when he came to the markets the noise was all but gone, buried in the sound of Reikonos by evening. There was still noise, in the distance, but Cyrus kept to the shadows. He saw guards in their armaments, patrolling, he saw men in heavy cloaks, and a few women wearing little enough beneath their robes, talking to every man who passed. He went unnoticed by them all, following the signs, the monuments, the things he knew and was familiar with. The stall in the corner of the market where the big man with bad teeth always gave him an apple. The house on the corner where the boy his age watched from the high window, never allowed to play in the street with the other lads. The spot where the man stood and called the news of the day, made announcements and proclamations from the Council of Twelve. He went slowly, carefully, but the streets were quiet and he had little to worry about. The evening shadows grew stronger as he went, and he could hear the torchlighters making their rounds in the distance. They had already passed here and the lamps shed a little light for him, enough to see as the snow came down harder, clumps of white that covered his shirt and turned it wet. He had no cloak, no coat, and his soft footcovers were soaked through.

The smell of the frigid air caused his nose to run, and he felt it freeze on his upper lip as he clasped his hands over his chest, rubbing them against the skin, trying to find warmth. His belly growled, roaring at him like the feisty cat that had lived in the alley behind his house but with more verve, more feeling. He shivered and felt the shake of his limbs, the chill that crept through the skin and went bone-deep. Only a little farther, he thought, and then he saw it.

It was a little house, to be sure, only a one story, but stone, good and strong. The roof was thatched, but he could see from here it had already begun to fail, caved in on one side. The corner where Mother and Father sleep. Itall be all wet by now, then a The stones were still there, though, still strong.

He slipped from the shadows across the street and came to the door, his feet now slushing in the low places on the road. He could hardly avoid them all, his legs only so long, after all. He didnat knock at the door, which was slightly cracked, he just pushed his way in. Warmth. A fire, sitting beside the hearth with mother like I used toa"

The house was quiet, a dread silence hanging in the air. The corner where the roof had failed was wet indeed, snow piling up in the place where Mother and Fatheras bed had been. The hearth was not warm, there was no fire, and it was chill inside. The only change was that the light wind was no longer present, though he could hear it stirring the roof now and again. The place was dark too, shadow consuming the entirety of it, only a little light coming in through the windows from the street and in the corner where the snow was gathering.