Shadow witness

CHAPTER FIVE

Call le waited anxiously in the carpeted hall outside Thazienne's room. Sweat beaded his brow and a lump sat in his throat. When he had left her side to organize the cleanup, she still had been unconscious and barely breathing. Her face had looked so pale and drawn.

Behind the closed door of the bedroom, he could hear Thamalon, Shamur, and Tamlin praying with High Songmaster Ansril Amm-haddan, Priest of Milil. Talbot had not yet arrived. Cale had sent a servant for him several hours ago, and was growing worried by his continued absence. Talbot would never forgive himself if something happened to her and he was not here for it.

Though Thazienne still treated her little brother as if he were an adolescent-much to the rapidly maturing young man's annoyance-Cale knew that brother and sister still shared a close bond. He hoped Talbot arrived soon.

Through the thick door Cale listened to the soft, melodic murmur of the High Songmaster's song spells and the teary, answering chorus of the grief-stricken Uskevren. Thamalon had invited Cale to accompany the family in prayer of course, but Cale had gently declined. He was not a religious man. His presence would be a hindrance to them, not a help. Prayer and priests made him uncomfortable. Gods made him uneasy. He thought people of faith often to be overly gullible-followers not leaders. Only Jak had shown himself an exception to that rule. Religion distracted men, made them bond to the true nature of events around them. The Righteous Man embodied the point. His obsession with the worship of Mask had made the old man vulnerable. Cale would never allow himself to fall into such a trap. No, Cale preferred to rely not on divine assistance, but on his brains, his body, and his blades. Now more than ever before, however, he realized that those three things could not solve all problems. He saw in his mind Thazienne lying unconscious in her bed, weak and stricken, barely breathing. His wits and steel could do nothing for her, he knew, but he still could not bring himself to offer prayer.

Of course, his brains and blades could solve other problems. The need for payback, for example.

Later, he reminded himself, and swallowed his rising anger. For now, Thazienne's well-being was all that mattered. Besides, at the moment he felt too exhausted and worried to plan vengeance. For an instant, he wished he could allow himself to find solace in faith.

Instead, he found solace in a high backed armchair. His anxious pacing did nothing but wear out the carpet and his nervous fidgeting only fed his worry. Trying to

calm himself, he crossed his long legsy clenched the carved arms of the chair, took a deep breath, and tried hard to remain still. He had ordered the staff away so that they would not see the family distraught, but he would have welcomed someone to talk to now. Even Larajin. Anything to distract him. He felt so damned useless!.

The praying within Thazienne's bedroom stopped. Cale waited anxiously. After a moment, the door to her room slowly opened and the High Priest shuffled out. A heavyset yet stately looking old man with a thick beard and a neatly combed mane of gray hair, High Songmaster Ammhaddan looked so somber that Cale's stomach hit the floor. He tried to rise from the chair but the strength had gone out of his legs.

Tamlin, eyes red and swollen, followed the High Songmaster out. Thamalon and Shamur came last. Both still wore their attire from the celebration, the fine clothes now stained, wrinkled, and disheveled.

With tears streaming unabashedly down his cleanshaven face, Thamalon gently pulled the door closed. Beside him, Shamur struggled to hold back her own tears, but finally lost the fight and wept openly. Her slight body shook with sobs.

Awkwardly,- as if unsure of himself, Thamalon took her in his arms. She stiffened immediately, haltingly returned his embrace, and quickly disengaged. Though grief-stricken, she still insisted on maintaining her distance from Lord Uskevren.

Cale saw the hurt on his lord's face. The wound in his heart of a stricken daughter salted by the coolness of his wife. At that moment, Cale detested Lady Uskevren.

"It will be all right," Thamalon whispered to her. He lifted a hand as though to touch her face, but let it fall to his side without contact. "It will be all right."

Caught up in their emotion, Gale felt his own eyes begin to well. He lowered his head and looked at his hands. She can't be dead! he inwardly protested. She can't.

He had to hear it explicitly before he would believe it.

He stood on legs still weak and walked over to the solemn High Songmaster, who looked on the grieving Thamalon and Shamur with an understanding, fatherly expression. High Priest Ammhaddan turned to see him coming and regarded him with the same paternal warmth. Gale's legs gave out and he nearly fell to the floor. The High Songmaster, strong despite his years, caught him by the arm and helped him to stand upright.

Gale gave him a grateful smile through teary eyes. His voice caught when he spoke. "Well?" he asked, and winced in anticipation of the answer. "How is she?"

Still holding him by the arm, the High Songmaster scrutinized his face with a look Gale found ominous. "Mister Gale, is your first name Erevjs?"

His throat constricted and he could barely find his voice. Tea." He felt as though he were floating.

His distress must have been plain on his face for Ansril Ammhaddan softly patted his shoulder. "Shell live, son. Rest easy. She'll live."

Gale's vision instantly went blurry. She'll live!

Tears of joy replaced those of grief and streamed down his face. He smiled like a buffoon until he saw that the High Songmaster still wore a somber expression. He clutched a handful of the priest's crimson robe so hard that he pulled Ansril forward a step.

"What? You said she would live. How is she? Will she-" He could not bring himself to mouth the words. A thousand terrible possibilities flew through his mind but he could give voice to none. He stared into

Ansril Ammhaddan's wrinkled face and tried to read the priest's eyes.

"What is it, Ansril?" Thamalon asked. "I thought you said she would be all right." Thamalon and Tamlin closed in around them, apprehensive. No longer crying, Shamur seemed to be holding her breath.

High Songmaster Ammhaddan gently disengaged Gale's fingers from his robe and turned to Thamalon. "I did say that she would live, Thamalon…" he began to say.

Immediately, Shamur began again to laugh and cry all at once. Thamalon smiled like a fool through his own wet eyes. Gale gave Tamlin's shoulder a squeeze and the heir patted him on the back.

"But," the High Songmaster's baritone cut through their relief. Their smites vanished and the hallway fell silent. When Ansril had their full attention, he continued. "I did not say that she would be all right. She is severely wounded. Severely. Whatever this creature was, this shadow, the wounds it inflicted have attacked her soul and drained her life-force." He looked to Thamalon and Shamur with sympathy. "Her recovery will be long, and she may not be the same afterward. Wounds like these could affect the spirit as much or more than the flesh…" He trailed off thoughtfully and stroked his beard.

Shamur's eyes Went wide. She visibly fought down her grief, looked to Thamalon, and spoke with certainty. "But she's so strong, Thamalon. Shell be all right. I know it. She will."

Thamalon gave her a soft smile. "She will. She has her mother's strength."

To that, Shamur finally gave Lord Uskevren an appreciative smile, though she did not reach out to him. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and rubbed thoughtfully at her shoulders.

Finally unable to contain his own grief, Tamlin began to cry. He stood stiffly beside Gale with tears slowly falling down his face. Even if they had been close, Gale could have offered him nothing, his own sorrow cut too deep. The spirit aa much as the flesh, Ansril had said. Shamur too began to weep anew.

Thamalon's eyes alone remained dry, his mouth a thoughtful grim line. Gale could see in his lord's expression grief warring with anger-anger at the parties responsible. Gale.knew the reason for the attack but dared not speak "it. It tore him apart inside to not immediately confide in Thamalon.

"I'm sorry, Thamalon," said High Songmaster Ammhaddan sincerely. TH do everything I can, of course."

Thamalon gave him a forced smile and shook the Songmaster's hand.*I know you will. Thank you, Ansril."

The High Songmaster indicated Thazienne's bedroom with a nod. "She needs undisturbed rest. The work of the Lord of Song is done. Sleep will heal her now aa much as spells."

"Ill see to it she's undisturbed. Thank you again."

High Songmaster Ammhaddan bowed to Lady Uskevren. "She is strong, Lady. I can see that. Do not lose hope."

Shamur nodded and forced a smile of thanks.

Ansril turned and nodded to Gale and Tamlin. The Songlord's voice bring you peace and keep you," he said, and with that took his leave.

When he had gone, Gale, Tamlin, Shamur, and Thamalon stood about in the hall,'grief-stricken, exhausted, and unsure of what to do with themselves.

Tamlin'broke the awkward silence at last. Embarrassed, he wiped at his tear-streaked race. "I think I'm going to try and get some sleep." He nodded goodnight to Thamalon but the two did not embrace. "Father." He did, however, hug his mother with genuine affection. "Good night, Mother. It's going to be all right. You heard the High Songmaster."

"I know," she whispered, as though trying to convince herself "I know."

He wiped a tear from her face and smiled at her. When she returned a wan smile of her own, he patted her shoulders and turned away from her to face Gale. "Goodnight, Mister Gale."

"Goodnight, Master Tamlin."

After he had gone, Thamalon kissed Shamur on the forehead. Unusually, she did not shrink from his show of affection. "I think our son has the right notion, Lady. Let me take you to your bed. Erevis and I will wait up forTalbot."

At first hesitant-Thamalon only rarely set foot in her quarters-she at last nodded, dabbed her nose, and allowed him to lead her off toward her suites. As he passed, Thamalon said to Gale, "Erevis, Til meet you in the library in a quarter of an hour." His serious expression told Gale that he should be ready to discuss business.,

"Yes, Lord," Gale replied. He would not have been able to sleep anyway..

Though only a few hours from dawn, the halls of Stormweather still bustled with activity. The surviving house guards scoured the manse, They searched and re-searched every room in the manse and every outbuilding on the grounds for ghoul stragglers.

A pair of weary-eyed guards dressed in blood-spattered, Uskevren blue thumped up the stairs as Gale padded down. They looked exhausted, but nevertheless

Shadow's Witness •

went about their duty with the stolid, seemingly limitless endurance possessed by all professional soldiers.

When they saw Cale, both immediately snapped to attention. Cale gave them a half-hearted smile. He had always had the respect of the house guard-once, when he had been delegating duties to the staff for an upcoming dinner, Captain Orvist had walked by and complimented him by saying that he gave orders like a field general-but his battle with the shadow demon had elevated him to the rank of honorary commander. He thought he might as well take full advantage.

"Lady Uskevren has taken to her rooms," he said. "Pass the word and see that it remains quiet upstairs. And under no circumstances is Mistress Thazienne's bedroom to be disturbed." The High Priest had ordered undisturbed rest for Thazienne, and Cale would see to it.

"Yes, Mister Cale," snapped Darven, a big, muscular veteran who towered over most of the guards but still stood a handspan shorter than Cale. "We'll inform Captain Orvist right now." Darven gave the guard beside him an elbow and both men spun and hurried back down the stairs. Cale followed at a more leisurely pace, thoughtful.

The members of the household staff had already cleaned up most of the carnage, though Cale could still hear voices and the occasional clatter of dishes coming from the feasthall.

Thank the gods for Brilla, he thought with a tired smile. While he had personally organized the cleanup, he had left supervision of the effort in the kitchen mistress's pudgy, but still very capable hands.

After the attack, the families of the slain had been notified immediately. All of the corpses and the pieces of corpses had been removed hours ago. No doubt some fortunate few already had been raised from the dead.

Cale knew that with enough coin for the temple's coffers and a powerful enough priest, not even death was insurmountable for the richest of the Old Chauncel nobility.

Thinking of the raised dead reminded him of Krendik, a former living man twisted into an undead monster, and sent a shudder up his spine. The dead should be left dead, he thought, and knew as soon as he thought it that those murdered by the shadow demon would be left dead. Cale himself had felt that black horror's touch pull sickeningly at his soul. No matter the coin a family paid the temple priests for those the demon had slain, there would be no coming back. There was nothing to bring back. The demon had devoured their souls.

Shuddering, his hand went to the faded gash in his shoulder. Strangely, the physical damage from the demon's claws had almost entirely healed. The same was true of Thazienne's chest. It was as though the demon's claws opened the skin only to free the soul, and if the soul was not loosed and devoured, the wound quickly healed. The physical wound, at least. The emotional wounds would heal much more slowly.

Cale still did not know the total number of guests that had been killed. In truth, he didn't want to know, but it had been a lot. The number of distraught relatives that had come by coach and carriage to Storm-weather's doors to retrieve their dead had seemed to him an unending stream. With Thamalon, Shamur, and Tamlin tending to Thazienne, the duty to assist the grief stricken relatives in sorting through the corpses had fallen to Cale and Captain Orvist. He had seen up close the gory wounds inflicted by ghoul fang and claw. He had also witnessed the desiccated remains left in the wake of the demon's attacks. The images from the slaughter's aftermath would haunt his mind for a long while. The fact that it was his fault would haunt him longer.

It was my fault, he frankly admitted. It had to be. He felt too tired now even to feel anger at himself for the attack. He admitted the truth of it as he would any other self-evident fact. Thazienne's wounded spirit, Meena Foxmantle's wounded sanity, all the dead guests and house guards-his fault. He was not sure how, but he was sure that the Righteous Man had finally learned-that he had been protecting the Uskevren, not spying on them. The Righteous Man had meant the attack to send a message-/ know.

After driving off the demon, Gale had carried Thazi-enne up the stairs to her room and placed her in bed to await a priest. Thamalon, Shamur, and Tamlin had remained with her. Gale had reluctantly left her side and hurried back to the feasthall to examine the ghoul corpses. He had to know for sure.

As he had suspected and feared, all of the ghouls had been former Night Knives. Beneath the gray skin, rotted fangs, and charnel reek, he had recognized the twisted faces of his former fellow guild members. Somehow, they had been transformed from living men into flesh-eating, undead monsters. The realization had sickened him, but he had swallowed his nausea and tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle.

After learning of Gale's ten-year deception, the Righteous Man must have decided to repay the betrayal by hurting the people Gale hived most To accomplish that, the Righteous Man, not only a guildmaster but also a powerful priest of Mask the Shadowlord, had summoned the shadow demon. After using his black magic to warp guildsmen into ghouls, he had turned them loose on Stormweather to slay its inhabitants.

While it seemed an extreme measure, Gale pat nothing beyond the sadistic guildmaster. He was a priest, and therefore a fanatic by definition. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he realized that he was mistaken, that anger was causing him to over generalize. Many priests,might be fanatics, but not all. Not Jak, and not Ansril Ammhaddan. For them at least, religion had not meant fanaticism.

But it had for the Righteous Man. Once, Gale had watched him burn down an entire guild warehouse, with eleven guildsmen trapped inside, just to ensure that he had eliminated one among them whom he suspected to be a traitor. It would be just like him to try to hurt Gale before killing him.

Gale's thinking had gone no further, then. At that moment, High Songmaster Ammhaddan and three other underling priests had walked huffing and wide-eyed into the feasthall. The priests insisted on healing Gale's wounds and he had reluctantly stood still for a few moments while their song spells closed the numerous cuts in his chest, back, and shoulders. Afterward, he had dispatched three of the priests to tend the wounded among the house guard and had escorted High Songmaster Ammhaddan from the slaughterhouse to Thazienne's room.

She had looked worse than when he had first left her, so he had waited apprehensively in the hall while the High Songmaster had used song spells to try to heal her.

Now that he knew her to be safe-or at least knew that she would live-he began again to consider the depths to which the Righteous Man would sink. The masked dog had dared attack him here! Had dared harm Thazienne!

Rising anger began to wash away his fatigue- anger at himself for adopting this selfish, asinine plan ten years ago, anger at the Righteous Man for using

Gale's family as a way to get at him. As he stomped through Stormweather's carpeted halls, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in rage.

If the Righteous Man had targeted him, as he now suspected, then he was already a walking corpse. He could admit that forthrightly-his death was only a matter of time. Sooner or later the Righteous Man would come to finish him, or more likely still, send Drasek Riven to do the job. Unfortunately, at least as far as Gale was concerned, Riven had not been among the ghoul corpses. Given that situation, Gale could not remain in Stormweather and risk another attack on the family. But where to go?

He knew the answer almost as soon as he posed the question-the Night Knife guildhouse. Thinking of it gave him a focus for his anger. He would take the battle to them.

I'm coming1 for you old man, he silently vowed. I may*be a dead man, but I'm taking you with me.

He stalked into the library and began to pace and think. The smell of burning ghoul corpses carried through the shuttered windows. Spells that allowed High Songmaster Ammhaddan's priests to magically communicate with the dead ghouls had revealed nothing. Gale had therefore directed the house guard to pile the dead creatures near the stables, cover them in lantern oil, and burn them to ashes. The lingering reek of the burning pyre only fueled his anger.

Seething with rage, he hardly noticed the blazing stone hearth. He barely saw the shelves of valuable, leather-bound books that he so loved. He paced the floor, thinking, planning, stewing. His lord's chess set, the pieces skillfully carved from imported ivory, the board itself crafted of aged mahogany, stood untouched on a walnut end table. He restrained the urge to shatter t?e valuable pieces against the wall.

He tried to calm himself.

He lit a single candle, carried it to the end table, and fell into one of the accompanying chairs to await his lord. He could feel his pulse pounding in his forehead, every beat of his heart feeding his rising rage. Get yourself under control, he ordered.

With a supreme effort of will, he calmed himself and remained still.'

After a time, Thamalon walked into the room and pulled the door shut behind him. He had shed his doublet and now wore only a light shirt, blue pants, and cloth slippers. He looked exhausted-the events of the night understandably weighed heavy on his mind-but his blazing eyes could fire a torch. When he entered, Gale immediately climbed to his feet, but Thamalon ordered hi" to sit down.

Grim faced, Thamalon walked to the small wine rack he kept near his oak work desk and pulled out a bottle of Storm Ruby. He stabbed the cork with a screw, jerked it out, and poured two glasses. Gale could see the barely controlled anger in the tense set of Tha-malon's powerful shoulders.

He and I are much alike, Gale realized. We both understand that uncontrolled anger works against us, not for us. Both men had to struggle mightily to control that anger. Of course, guilt did not pollute Tha-malon's anger. That burden was Gale's alone.

Thamalon strode over to him, handed him a silver goblet, and sat opposite in his favorite rocking chair. For a time, they sat in the dim light of the fire and silently regarded one another, two friends who took comfort in each other's company. Riddled with guilt, Gale found it difficult to look Thamalon in the eye. Uncomfortable, he placed his wine untouched onto the table beside him.

"You wanted to talk, Lord?" He managed to keep his voice level, though he thought his guilt must be plain on his face.

Thamalon gazed at him from beneath bushy brows for a long moment before replying. "I wished to thank you again for your bravery tonight-"

"Unnecessary, Lord," Gale interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Without you…" Thamalon trailed off and took a gulp from his goblet. He gripped the metal so tightly his fingers went white, "Without you, things would have ended much differently."

Gale nodded but held his tongue. Where was Thamalon going with this?

Thamalon set the goblet down on the table. "I did not know you were capable of such things, though I've long suspected." His discerning eyes pierced Gale like blades.

If you knew what I was really capable of, Gale thought, you'd have thrown me out years ago.

After a moment of awkward silence, Thamalon spoke, "It*s time we played a match, Erevis."

"Lord?"

Thamalon sat forward in the chair and indicated the chessboard with his eyes. "A chess match. We have never played. It's time we did."

"Tonight? After-"

"Tonight." Thamalon took another gulp from his goblet and slammed it down on the table so hard it knocked over several chess pieces. "Ill have the heads of everyone responsible for this, Erevis! Everyone."

Gale stiffened at that. Everyone responsible. A wave of fear and self-loathing drowned him. He looked across the end table and met Thamalon's angry gaze, fearful of what he would see there.

Thankfully, his lord's eyes held no accusations. Anger blazed in those gray orbs, but not anger directed at Gale.

Thamalon continued, "To do that, I will need to call upon all of my resources. Including you." He leaned forward, placed his forearms on his knees, and shot Gale a meaningful stare. "I need to know the full range of your…chess skills." He nodded at the chessboard. "I don't need to know where you learned to play."

Gale swallowed a sigh and immediately felt shame for the relief he felt. Thamalon did not suspect that Gale was responsible for the attack. He only wanted information about Gale's past and skills. He wanted to know what Gale could do to help find the guilty parties.

At that, he felt his face flush red and looked away. 7 am the guilty party, he thought. If Thamalon ever learned that his secret life had been the cause of the attack, he would never forgive him. Hells, Gale would never forgive himself, but he didn't want the last conversation he had with his lord to end with the revelation that he had been living in Stormweather as a spy.

Still, Thamalon obviously realized that Gale was more than a butler with a knowledgeable criminal cousin. Butlers didn't drive off demons. His lord had suspected-no, not suspected, known-him to be a former criminal and yet had trusted him enough to allow him to continue on as Stormweather's butler. Thamalon had even respected his privacy and asked no questions. His trust had gone that deep. Gale could never repay that debt, not fully.

For t?e first time in his life, Gale had gotten a taste of legitimate work. Work that did not require him to mistrust everyone. Work that did not require him to keep his eyes on the exits and his hands on his blades. Work that had allowed him to put his darker side to rest, at least for a time. But most importantly, he had done work that had resulted in the love and trust of a family. Though the lie laid heavy on his soul, now more than ever he could not reveal that he originally had been sent to Stormweather to spy. He would not pollute their memory of him, though he knew it meant polluting himself by keeping it secret. Still, he wanted them to remember him the way he would remember them-with love. He was determined to leave with their trust. Hie trust he had earned from years of loyal service.

Look where their trust has gotten them, he thought bitterly. Thazienne near death. His lord and lady shamed, plus a_ multitude of murdered guests and guards. His presence here had put them all in danger. Previously, he had always told himself that by being here he actually decreased the risk they faced in Sel-gaunt's backstabbing world of secret plots and scheming nobles, not increased it. "I can handle the Righteous Man, " he had told himself again and again, as he had struggled to quell the pangs of conscience that tore at him. He now realized that he had been lying to himself, just as he had lied to everyone else.

No more, he vowed. No more. Abruptly, he came to a decision.

Everything changed, starting now. He would no longer put the Uskevren at risk. Either he got out of the life altogether or tonight was his last night in Stormweather; his last night as Erevis the butler. Resolved, he looked across the chessboard at Tha-malon. If his lord wanted to know who he was, he would tell him.

"Let's play," he said.

Over the next hour they played and talked.

Thamalon opened with a standard cleric gambit. Gale countered it in three moves.

"You play well, Erevis,1* observed Thamalon with raised brows. "I find myself unsurprised."

Cale smiled.

"I was taught by the best players in Westgate two decades ago. My instructors did not forgive mistakes, so I learned well."

Thamalon nodded sagely.

"I understand Westgate to have been that way. Still is, most say.";

A city comparable in size to Selgaunt and likewise on the coast of the Inner Sea, Westgate had a long history of being run by powerful thieves' guilds. Though no longer dominated by guilds, the city still harbored more thieves than a brothel did whores.

Move. Countermove. Cale felt lighter for having finally revealed some of his past to his lord. He had kept too many secrets for far too long. Once started, he found it hard to stop. With his face turned down to look upon the board, he revealed still more.

"Of course, my instructors as such no longer exist in Westgate. Other players allied and forced them out of business."

At that, Thamalon gave a barely perceptible start. His lord knew the history of the region. Years ago, an alliance of smaller guilds and the Westgate city authorities had allied to destroy the powerful guild known as the Night Masks. The guild that had formerly run the city. The guild to which Cale had formerly belonged.

So now you know, Cale thought. Your butler was a Night Mask operative. "I found chess to be a very cutthroat game, then," he added. "Fine for me as a younger man, but not a life I wanted to live forever."

Thamalon cleared his throat as though to speak but said nothing. Instead, he moved a vicar into position to threaten one of Cale's clerics. Cale countered and attacked with his second cleric.

"I understand," Thamalon managed at last, but he looked upon Cale with different eyes now. A mixture of surprise, respect, and fear. Cale didn't much care for the change. "That answers many of my questions."

While they had existed, the Night Masks had earned a reputation for violence and assassination. Even Thamalon apparently had heard of it. When Cale had fled Westgate and the guild, he had tried to leave that life far behind, but he had never seemed fully able to escape it. Soon after arriving in Selgaunt, he had fallen hi with the Night Knives, another guild of thieves. That fact he could not reveal to Thamalon. It was enough that his lord now knew him to be a former thief and assassin. Cale would not add spy to the list.

Move. Countermove. Cale had the advantage in the chess match.

"Your schoolmaster," Thamalon asked while trying to counter Cale's attack, "what did he look like?"

Cale smiled grimly but did not look up. Thamalon wanted confirmation.

When Cale had been in the Night Masks, the guild had been headed by a secretive guildmaster who called himself The Faceless-a man whose identity had been and remained to this day a mystery-to most everyone but Cale.

He looked up from the board and into Thamalon's eyes and said meaningfully, "I never saw his face."

Thamalon nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. Move. Countermove.

They played in silence for the next quarter of an hour. Cale knew Thamalon to be working through the implications of everything he had learned. His chess suffered for the inattention. Cale's attack soon had Thamalon's high monarch in retreat.

"You play aggressively, Erevis," Thamalon remarked, and removed his high monarch from immediate danger. Cale followed up with his archer and threatened anew.

"That is the only way I learned to play, Lord. Check."

Thamalon interposed a cleric, but both knew the game to be soon over.

"Unbridled aggression can sometimes be an enemy."

Gale halted in midmove to offer Thamalon a nod. "My Lord speaks truly. But the demands of the game frequently require it. When that is so, only the most cutthroat of players can win." He moved his low monarch into position and looked up into Thamalon's face. "Checkmate."

Thamalon smiled thoughtfully. He lay down his high monarch and sat back in his rocking chair. "A most enlightening game, old friend. Thank you, for everything."

It warmed Cale to hear Thamalon still call him old friend. Cale downed his wine in a single gulp, stood, and bowed.

"May I take my leave, Lord? I have…" he smiled without mirth, "I have another game yet to play tonight."

Thamalon raised his bushy brows and gave Cale a piercing stare. "Do you already suspect the name of your next opponent?" He sat forward in the rocker and his eyes blazed beneath his fatigue. "Tell me if so, Ere-vis."

Cale's lie came easy to him; too easy. "No Lord, not yet. But I will learn it."

Thamalon eased back into the chair but his eyes never left Cale's face. "Everything I have is at your disposal-coin, men, magic. You don't need to play alone, Cale."

Cale raised his eyebrows at that. Thamalon had never before called him Cale. This conversation had changed their relationship. "Chess is not a team game, Lord."

Thamalon smiled softly and nodded in acceptance. "No, I suppose it's not."

Cale prepared to leave but Thamalon stood and seized Cale's arm. "If the circumstances of the game change, and you require something, anything, you need only ask."

"I know, Lord." Gale smiled. He wanted to embrace Thamalon, the man who had been Mend and father for ten years, but could not bring himself to do it. He cleared Ms throat and stepped away from his lord.

"I keep my chessboard and pieces in my room. That's all 111 need for now. Ill leave immediately. When I learn something certain, 111 send word." He wanted to tell Thamalon that he likely would not be coming back, but feared the inevitable questions that would follow. Gale knew leaving without saying goodbye would be something he would regret forever, but he also knew that if he told Thamalon the truth, his lord's pained expression would also haunt him forever. If Thazienne learned of his past, she would despise him. He could not endure that. Better they thought him dead or vanished. Better they remembered him as Erevis the butler.

"My lord should retire," he said, still playing the role of butler. "I will give this matter my full attention."

Thamalon seemed to notice his exhaustion for the first time. He nodded and gave Gale a tired smile. "I will, soon. I need some time yet to think. And I still want to wait for Talbot." He patted Gale on the shoulder. "You should rest too, old friend. Dawn is only hours away."

Gale returned his lord's smile with a hard smile of his own. "My Lord," he said, "I play chess best by night."