Sword of Flames

11 Killers of the Night

Pickings that night were even more scant than usual. Grince was driven by his own hunger, and the more pressing needs of his small white companion, from his usual safe haunts within the Grand Arcade. Though the streets were cold and dangerous, there was always the chance that a sharp lad like himself could come by something or other to keep body and soul together for another day—especially when that lad was getting better all the time at his newfound trade of thief.

It was hard to leave his home, though—even for a few short hours. Grince’s cozy lair in the labyrinth of the arcade’s deserted storerooms showed ample evidence of his burgeoning skills. He had found a small chamber at the end of a dusty passage, and had concealed the door from prying eyes behind a pile of boxes, planks, broken crates and casks, and any other rubbish he could find. Having wedged the door ajar just enough for a skinny boy to worm his way through, he had constructed his own entrance at the bottom of the tottering stack of camouflage, using two casks with the ends knocked out, laid in line to make a narrow tunnel through the pile of junk. Apart from this access into the arcade, the room also had a high, barred window, now screened and draftproofed with old sacks tacked to the wooden frame, through which the young thief could reach the alley outside.

Within his hideout was a magpie nest of odds and ends that Grince had scavenged, found, or liberated from their previous owners. In a box were his utensils—a dented tankard, a patched and battered cooking pot, and two chipped bowls (now used by the puppy) that had all been gleaned from a rubbish heap behind a tavern; a carefully straightened spoon with a consequently wavy silhouette; an eating knife with a broken haft; and four wooden trenchers, of which Grince was especially proud, that had once been the ends of the casks that formed his entrance tunnel. The porridge pot, the original theft that had started his career, held a supply of water now, painstakingly transported from the pump in the arcade, as did a large, tightly lidded crock that had originally, and all too briefly, been filled with sticky, sweet honey.

The young thief’s bed took up an entire corner. He had laid down an old door to shield his body from the cold that seeped up from the stone floor, and had strewn a thick layer of straw over the wooden panels. On top of these he had piled a rainbow of rags and snippets: every rag he came across and any scrap of cloth he could steal from the unsuspecting tailors and dressmakers of the arcade. Each day, when the night’s business of survival was done, the weary boy and his dog would burrow into the snug warmth of the mounded scraps like rabbits vanishing underground.

Grince had snatched two thick blankets of creamy, un-dyed wool from a washing line in the north of the city, much to the puzzled dismay of the goodwife who had hung them there in the confidence that the walls of her backyard were unscalably high. These were spread over his nest, adding weight and warmth and keeping the tottering structure together, and crowning it all was his prize—a heavily fleeced sheepskin that had vanished one night from a tanner’s shop near Greenmarket square.

Since he had come by the sheepskin and blankets, Grince had taken the swaths of thinner cloth—filched from the great stored bolts used by the arcade’s seamstresses—that had originally served him as bedcovers, and hung them from the walls of his lair, where they brightened up the room with their colors and kept out drafts. He had nowhere to make a fire, nor would it be safe to do so, but a motley collection of lamps, both brightly polished household treasures and dented old relics with cracked and soot-stained chimneys, stood safely on another box in the center of the chamber, along with candles of both beeswax and tallow.

Grince kept a battered bucket in one corner for his own waste, with a piece of wood, weighed down by a stone, on top for a makeshift lid. A straw-and-sawdust-filled box stood nearby for his dog to use. Each night the boy was forced to make two awkward and unpleasant journeys outside to empty these down a nearby drain.

His treasures were strewn about or propped on makeshift shelves of plank and brick. An old sword, its blade broken off a foot below the hilt, that came in useful for prying open windows. Mismatched items of clothing that had come from washing lines all over the city. A pile of odd gauntlets, woolen mittens, scarves, and kerchiefs, that Grince was sure would come in useful for something, sometime. Assorted needles, spools of cotton, hanks of wool and twine, odd-shaped bits of wood, and a collection of rusty nails that came in useful all the time. A precious tinderbox and a bottle of lamp oil that he refilled when he had the chance. A twinkling assortment of combs, clips, rings, and trinkets, whose value he had no means of assessing—nor was there any means of selling them. Grince kept them because their sparkle cheered him, and, besides, they made him feel like a proper, bold, and daring thief. He kept them on a shelf by his bed, along with his chiefest treasure—a long, keen dagger with a jeweled hilt, a lucky find that he had taken (even now his gorge rose to think of it) from a drowned corpse washed up on the riverside mud.

In a sack suspended from a hook in the arching stone ceiling Grince kept his food supplies—when there were any to be had. It was the only way, he had discovered, to keep them safe from the marauding rats that could not be kept out, no matter how hard he tried. Tonight, however, for all his scavenging around the arcade, the sack hung flat and empty, and his puppy, Warrior, was beginning to whimper with hunger.

Grince sighed, and took a last, wistful look around his hideout. He was constantly amazed by his own ingenuity. It was a far better home than the squalid hovel he had shared with Tilda—and it was all his own. There was no one here to curse or cuff or beat him; none of the drunken scum who were his mother’s customers trooping in and out. When he got lonely, there was always Warrior—the best friend a boy could ever want—to keep him company. But though he was building up a kind of wary confidence in his own abilities, the city held a multitude of dangers, and he was always reluctant to leave this place of safety. What if something dreadful happened to Warrior in his absence? What if someone else should find his refuge and turn him out? What if…

“Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid,” Grince growled to himself. After all, it wasn’t as if he had any choice. It was either steal or starve—and he didn’t mind going hungry himself, but for Warrior, it was unthinkable. The dog was growing rapidly, and needed all the food he could get. Grince picked up the squirming white puppy and petted and hugged him before putting him in his special basket, also filched from an unsuspecting merchant in the arcade, which had a lid that tied shut with a piece of twine, and a handle so that it could be hung from the same ceiling hook as the food sack. By the time that Warrior outgrew it, he would also be big enough to defend himself from the huge, marauding rats—but in the meantime his anxious master was taking no chances.

Thrusting his dagger and broken sword into his belt, Grince put on his outdoor “cloak”—a garment of which he was very proud, for he had made it himself, and a great deal of thought had gone into its invention. One of his mother’s regular clients, a one-legged seaman forced onto shore by his disability, had taken to the youngster and had taught him to use a needle—with the wholehearted approval of the lackadaisical Tilda. Though Grince had spurned such nonsense as only fit for girls, old Tarn, the sailor, had quickly—and forcibly—corrected this notion, and the boy was glad of his teaching now, in the chilly nights of the northern spring.

Grince had cobbled together his peculiar piece of apparel from bits of leather and fur, fustian, velvet, brocade, and any other scraps of warm fabric that he had been able to find among the stalls and storerooms of the arcade. Its patchwork of varied textures and hues broke up his outline and helped him blend into the shadows. It was short enough to leave his feet unencumbered for running, and loose enough to be slipped off at an instant’s notice—or in the clutch of a grabbing hand. Unlike a normal cloak, there were slits in the sides that he could put his arms through to snatch a cooling pastry or cut the strings of a purse—and the inside was lined with a multitude of pockets to carry home his spoils.

Old Tam, in addition to his sailor’s skills with a needle, had possessed a fund of outrageously tall stories with which he had bribed the boy as they worked. Grince particularly remembered the tale of a magic cloak that made its owner invisible, and he liked to think of his cloak having similar powers, though he had far too much sense to put it to the test. Nonetheless, it was his special thief’s cloak, and it gave him confidence. Though it would have been too conspicuous during the day, he never went out at night without it.

Thus equipped for the night ahead, tine boy stacked some wooden boxes to act as steps up to the high window of his lair, and blew out the candles and all of the lamps, save one. Then, squirming between the bars of the window, he dropped down into the alley below and vanished into the maze of darkened streets.

Grince slid through the shadows like dark water running downhill toward the river and the docks, heading toward the merchants’ warehouses and the possibility of stored food. It was cold outside, but in his cloak he was safe. The other denizens of the night were far too intent upon their own business to take any notice of him—a small boy was clearly no threat to them, and he had nothing that they could possibly want.

As it happened, the boy did not have to go as far as the river. His chiefest skill was burglary, and the looming, tottering houses in the old quarter, with their overhanging stories, crumbling masonry, and loose-fitting windows, had always provided him with the easiest pickings—when there was any food within. Tonight he was lucky. His third such foray (the first having produced one ancient, wizened apple plus a few small shellfish from the river, which he ate on the spot; the second, nothing whatsoever) provided him with a stub of candle, half a dozen oatcakes, and a small, stale meat pie of indeterminate ancestry. Slipping his spoils into a deep pocket within his cloak, Grince blessed his luck as he wormed his way out of the forced window back into the street, and headed for home.

It was later now, and the streetfolk were becoming desperate. Grince hugged every scrap of cover he could find on the way back and gave a wide berth to the starving derelicts that remained. A few narrow escapes in the past had taught him to be circumspect. While he had lived with Tilda, he had never known anyone desperate enough to eat human flesh, but these days he was not so sure. He had overheard rumors of gangs who roamed the streets in the guise of beggars so they could get close enough to their victims—and then it was too late.

There were, however, certain advantages to this perilous hour, for the doors of the taverns were beginning to open now, and their occupants were spilling out into the streets. With luck, Grince might encounter a number of drunks on his homeward journey—and a drunken man, off his guard and bent on weaving home, was a far easier mark than a guarded, sober man for a young pickpocket who was just learning his trade. Unfortunately, however, Grince’s luck seemed to have run out for the evening. The impoverished folk of the city were growing increasingly desperate in this hungry spring, and many were taking to the streets in the hope of robbing their more fortunate brethren who had anything—anything at all—worth stealing. People were on their guard now, and tended to go about in groups for their own protection—and when a likely prospect did present himself, the competition from bigger, well-armed ruffians was more than one small boy could handle. Time and again, the boy would sidle up to a potential victim, only to be beaten to the mark—usually by armed thugs who did not stop at the mere picking of pockets, but had murder in mind.

With some mixed feelings, Grince decided to give it up for the night. In the end, his safety was more important than a couple of coppers in a leather purse. After all, he had responsibilities. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen to his dog if he should be killed out on the streets. The mere idea of poor Warrior, shut in his basket and slowly starving to death, was enough to make the young boy cautious. Because of this, though he did not realize it, the white puppy had probably saved his life on several occasions.

Grince was looking forward to seeing his small companion again. Warrior, like his master, had become used to eating all manner of things in his short life. He would enjoy the meat pie, and afterward they could snuggle up together in the warm and cozy bed, safe from the violence of the cold, damp streets. These happy thoughts gave impetus to Grince’s feet as he turned homeward. Familiar as he was with all the shortcuts, it took him very little time to get back into the tangle of alleys that ran behind the Grand Arcade. Grince slowed his pace then and began to creep forward cautiously, reminding imself that this was one of the most dangerous parts of his journey. He must be sure that no one saw him approach the arcade or climb in through the window—or the secret of his hiding place would be out at last.

There was one last, broader lane to cross before he could duck into the narrow passage that backed onto his home. He would have to be careful here—the thoroughfare was usually the hunt of beggars. As he crept stealthily forward, Grince heard the sound of footfalls, soft but brisk, coming from the street ahead. He froze like a rabbit that scents the hunter, flattening himself against the cold, damp wall and peeping warily around the corner of the building to look into the lane. In the distance a tall figure came into view. All details of its identity were concealed beneath a billowing hooded mantle of midnight-black, yet there was something about it that made the young boy shiver and shrink farther back into the shadows, lest the dark void that concealed the shrouded face should turn his way and transfix him with its blank, arcane regard.

Oh, grow up, Grince, he told himself in withering disgust, as the figure came nearer. It’s only some damned mark who’s stupid enough to be wandering home alone at this time of night. Do you want to miss a chance like this? You’d never get at a pocket through that big loose cloak, but maybe begging would work… Maybe it would—but Grince would never find out because there was no way, no way at all, that he could force himself out into the open to accost the eerie stranger. His heart labored, and sweat sprang out on his forehead, icy in the chill of the night. It felt as though his feet had been nailed to the ground. Though he had been too intent on the approaching nightmare to see them go, he suddenly noticed that the lane had emptied of beggars—apart from himself.

Huddled in the folds of his patchwork cloak, his guts knotted in terror, Grince shrank back into the shelter of his alley and watched the looming figure pass. Once it had gone beyond his hiding place, he felt limp and shaky with relief.

Nonetheless, he would not—dared not—move until the shrouded shape was completely out of sight. Grince closed his eyes and listened to the receding tap of footsteps, and prayed that they would soon be gone.

The sound of footfalls stopped abruptly, and the boy felt a chill go through him. Was the figure turning? Did it know he was there? Though Grince was afraid to look, the fear of not knowing if he was being stalked was far worse. After a brief struggle with the shreds of his courage, he opened his eyes and sneaked a quick look around the corner.

“Alms, great Lady? Spare a copper for a poor old blind woman?”

Grince started at the sound of the quavering voice. To his dismay, he saw a beggar grope her stooped and halting way toward the brooding figure. The unsuspecting crone had claimed she was blind—he supposed that accounted for the fact that she had not run off in terror, as the other beggars had—but how had she known that the mantled stranger was female? The old woman shuffled forward into the dim pool of light from the lamp that hung on the corner building at the end of the street. The figure in the black cloak stepped forward, arm extended, and Grince—astounded that the blind crone should have met with such easy success—thought, Damn—what was I afraid of? I’ve missed my chance. Then that thought, and all others, fled from the young thief’smind. The outstretched hand flashed white in the light of the lamp as it touched the crone—and the blind old beggar crumpled into a limp, dark heap of rags on the cobbles. Grince heard a soft laugh, as chill and cheerless as a winter’s dawn, as the figure continued on its way, rounding the corner and passing out of sight.

Minutes crawled by, and the slumped shape of the beggar woman in the roadway did not move. It was much later than that before the terrified boy dared venture from his hiding place. Cold and hunger drove him out in the end, as did the threat of the impending dawn and the thought of his poor puppy, still shut in its basket and cold and hungry, too. In order to reach his own alley, Grince had to cross the street and go almost as far as the lower corner—much too near, in his estimation, to the body of the crone. But if he wanted to reach the longed-for safety of his lair, he had no other choice. I’ll just run, he thought. I’ll run right past her, and I won’t look, because if I do…

When it came to it, of course, he couldn’t help but look. Though he ran as fast as he could, especially when he neared the shapeless heap, it was as if Grince’s eyes had been hooked by a fishing line that the body was reeling in. For many nights afterward he had reason to curse his curiosity. His footsteps faltered, and his breath congealed in his throat at the sight before him. Though the body was grotesquely twisted, the face was half turned toward him, the milky, sightless eyes rolled back in death. In the lamplight he could see the bloodless pallor of its sagging, wrinkled skin—and the expression of stark terror sealed into the features in that last moment of fading life. On the old woman’s forehead, like a brand, was the mark of a hand that burned in flaming silver.

Suddenly, Grince found his wits again. With a yelp of terror he fled, back to the safety of his den in the arcade, tumbling in through the window without a thought for the drop on the other side. Without pause he snatched up Warrior’s basket and dived into the spurious safety of his bed, where he huddled, wild-eyed and trembling, clutching the puppy to him for comfort, biting his lip to keep back tears. It was a good thing he had Warrior, he thought. Without the dog to care for, he doubted that he would ever find the courage to venture out into the streets again.

Though the nighttime thoroughfares of Nexis were aswarm with the usual human detritus of beggars, whores, and footpads, Eliseth made her way through the dark back streets without concern. Even though she was disguised by the billowing drapes of her hooded cloak, there was an aura about her, a sense of presence that bespoke both power and peril. Only one had dared approach her—and that one had been blind. Almost contemptuously, Eliseth had extinguished the faltering flame of the old beggar’s life with a single touch, taking in its energy to add to her growing powers. To her surprise, even such a used and faded existence had provided her a tingling jolt of energy that coursed through her veins like wine and felt so good—so very good—that she understood at last why Miathan had become addicted to his human sacrifices. Well, well, she thought. We live and learn. I must look into this matter further—but not tonight. Tonight the Weather-Mage had other business, and her hurrying steps had almost brought her to her goal: the place she had located by scrying crystal; the home of the one she sought.

The bakery had been repainted on the inside and limewashed without, and the floors and windows sparkled. The crumbling brickwork and the sagging roof had all been well repaired. Bern had worked hard to undo all the depredations left by his father’s neglect—with one exception. The business was still a failure for one single, simple reason: there wasn’t a scrap of flour to be had in Nexis for love or money.

Bern was sitting—as was his habit on these long, sleepless nights—in the downstairs room that was the bakery itself, a bottle at his elbow and his feet up on a convenient ledge in the warm brickwork of the older, smaller oven. Almost as a ritual, Bern still kept the great fires of the ovens alight: both the original one and the new one he had built to augment it in more hopeful days, when Tori was newly dead and the business was his own at last. They warmed the house but did little to assuage the cold, creeping sense of failure within the baker’s heart. He had betrayed the rebels and murdered his father to get this business for himself—and what had been the point? Supplies of flour and yeast had run out during the dark and endless winter, and the girl he had planned to marry—a dark-haired lass with flashing eyes, the daughter of a widowed dressmaker who lived nearby—had left him when his black moods and evil tempers had become too much for her to bear. Bern cursed aloud. It was so bloody unfair! As soon as he had achieved his lifelong ambition, the glowing dream had turned to ashes in his hands.

In the midst of his brooding, Bern must have dozed, for he was jolted rudely awake by the slam of a wind-caught door. The curse that instantly sprang to his lips died there, unut-tered, as he opened his eyes to see a tall, black-cloaked shape that towered over him, its face concealed within the shadows of a hood. His hand, flung out instinctively to reach the long iron poker, the nearest available weapon, froze, extended in midair. Then, without a word, the figure extended white and shapely hands, and pushed the hood back from her face. “You!” Bern gasped—and then, gabbling apologies, he fell to his knees before the figure of the Weather-Mage.

Eliseth laughed. “Indeed, Mortal, it is I. Did you never think, after the night you came running to the Academy to betray your father, that you would see me again?”

Bern, who in fact had thought no such thing, remained groveling in terrified silence. The Magewoman laughed again, and stepped over his prostrate form to take the best chair by the fire. “Have you fallen on such hard times, baker, that you offer no refreshment to your guests?” she asked him sharply.

“My Lady—I beg your pardon.” Bern leapt up on shaky legs and ran to fetch a crystal goblet that had been part of his mother’s dowry, and a flask of good wine, all too scarce these days, that he had been saving for a celebration—or an emergency such as this. Setting them on the low table before his terrifying guest, he poured for her with shaking hands, while Eliseth pushed back her heavy mantle and held out her slender white hands to the dancing flames. Taking his own cup, still filled with the rough, inferior stuff with which he had been drowning his sorrows, he took the other chair, restraining himself with an effort from pushing it farther away from the cold-eyed Mage. All the while, his mind had been racing. What could she want from him? How could he possibly placate her?

Eliseth, watching him sidelong from under her lashes, let the baker writhe in silence for a while before putting him out of his suspense. At last, when she judged that his curiosity and fear had reached the exploding point, she began to speak:

“Mortal, you once did the Magefolk a great favor by disclosing to us the location of the rebels that infested our city. Such loyalty is to be greatly commended—and now I find that I must count upon it once again.” Swiftly she outlined her plan for his betrayal of the rebels, watching his eyes first widen in amazement—and then narrow in calculating greed. Eliseth smiled to herself. She had gauged his nature to a nicety. When she had finished speaking, she sat back in her chair and took a sip of the disgusting wine, wondering what this base and lowly Mortal would dare to ask of her in return.

Bern’s request took her completely by surprise. “What?” she gasped. “Grain? Are you certain?”

The baker nodded, his expression avid. “Lady, there is no flour in Nexis. I’m a ruined man—I can’t run my business. Think what it would mean to me to be the only working baker in the city. And I did hear rumors,” he added slyly,

“that the Magefolk have all sorts of supplies up there in the Academy…”

Eliseth made a mental note to investigate the source of such rumors, and turned her attention back to Bern. It was difficult to suppress her smile as she answered. “Of course you may have the supplies you require,” she told him graciously. “But on one condition—you must set out this very night.”

Bern looked thunderstruck. “Why, yes, my Lady, of course, but…” He swallowed hard. “How shall I make arrangements to collect my grain?”

Eliseth marveled at the man’s temerity, even though he had shrunk from actually suggesting that she might not keep her word. “That can be dealt with at once,” she told him crisply. “Have you a secure place to store it in your absence?”

Bern nodded, and led the way to his storeroom in the cellar. The Mage nodded her satisfaction. “Now, be silent,” she commanded. Reaching with her mind to the location of the Academy supplies, she poured her powers into an apport spell. There was a flash, a roar of displaced air—and the cellar was filled from floor to ceiling with bags of spilling golden grain.

“Oh—Lady!” The baker’s expression told Eliseth everything she needed to know. “After this I’ll do anything for you,” he blurted. “Anything at all…”

“You already know what I require of you.” The Mage had had enough, now, of the Mortal. She wanted him on his way, and out of Nexis before the morning. Leading him from the cellar, she shut the door firmly behind them and passed a hand across the wood, watching the wardspell shimmer into place like light on water. “Now,” she told the baker, “pay attention. To protect your precious supplies, I have spelled the door and the grating to kill anyone who touches them.”

The baker’s avaricious eyes grew round with dismay. “But, Lady…” he stammered.

“As soon as you return, having successfully completed your mission,” Eliseth went on crushingly, as though he had not spoken, “you will report to me at the Academy, and the spell will be removed. That is all. Make your preparations, Mortal, and leave immediately—lest I should be tempted to regret my generosity.”

There was no need to say more. Eliseth knew now that he was hers. As she left the bakery, she could no longer hide her smile, thinking of Bern’s dismay when he returned from his dangerous assignment to discover that free supplies had been given out by Miathan the very day he had left—and gloating over the thought of the Archmage’s baffled fury in the morning, when he discovered that most of his grain supplies had mysteriously vanished.

The slow hours of darkness crawled by as Zanna waited. Now that she had a plan, her spirits fluctuated wildly with an unsettling mix of excitement and trepidation, and she could scarcely wait to leave her hiding place in the storeroom and get moving. Unfortunately, the last thing she needed at this point was to run into Janok. Zanna knew she would have to curb her impatience as best she could, and wait until everyone—especially the brutal head cook—was sure to be asleep.

Getting out of the storeroom in the darkness was a nightmare, but even if Zanna had remembered to bring a candle, she dared not risk a light. She was forced to worm her way out of her cramped lair on her hands and knees, feeling blindly ahead for the stacked barrels, bags, and crocks that turned the room into a maze of hazards. It seemed to take forever. She was stiff and aching after Janok’s beating and, after so long a wait, every movement made her muscles scream in protest, but that was the least of her worries right now. Zanna felt lost and disoriented, her head spinning dizzily. Surely, it was such a small chamber that she must have reached the wall by now.

Zanna’s heart leapt into her mouth as she felt a pile begin to totter and fall. Reaching up quickly, she tried to steady it, but to no avail. The breath was knocked out of her as several lumpy, laden sacks landed on top of her. Potatoes, from the clean, sharp, earthy smell. For an instant of frozen terror she simply lay there, waiting for the crash that never came, then carefully began to lever herself out from beneath the heavy bags. Thank the gods, she thought, as she rubbed her bruises, that one of the crocks didn’t go over! After another long moment of groping, she scraped her knuckles on a cool, rough surface. She had reached the wall at last. She took the best guess she could at the direction in which the door lay, and was lucky. The spaciousness and empty air felt so good beyond her seeking hands. Oh, what a blessing it was to be able to stand up again and move unhindered! She went slowly down the dark passage, feeling her way with one hand on the wall.

The kitchen, though shrouded in shadow, seemed dangerously bright after the pitch-black corridor. Dark, humped silhouettes against the dim, smoky light of the banked fires showed the positions of sleeping menials, and Zanna found herself thinking it was a measure of Janok’s cruelty that he would not permit his few helpers to take over the almost-deserted dormitory of the household staff. He goes groveling and creeping around the Magefolk, she thought resentfully, but he treats us worse than animals, because it keeps us cowed so that we do his bidding. And because he enjoys the sense of power. Zanna shuddered, and tried to put him out of her mind. The thought of him made her sick and afraid to her very soul.

The door that led directly from the kitchen into the Great Hall was on the far side of the room. It took more courage than Zanna had known she possessed to cross that broad expanse of kitchen floor. Only the thought of her dad, imprisoned and suffering, could make her take that worst, first step, and keep going thereafter. Guiding herself by the faint glow of the fire, she slid from shadow to shadow toward the door, giving the slumbering menials a wide berth. Though her feet were silent, surely someone must hear the beating of her heart!

As she passed the sinks, a dull gleam of red caught Zanna’s eye, as though an ember from the fire had somehow rolled into the shadows underneath the deep stone basins and was slowly dying on the cold, damp floor. What in the world…? Zanna’s heart leapt. It couldn’t be, could it? Stooping quickly, she snicked her scrabbling fingers on the razor-keen edge of a long, broad-bladed knife. She snatched it up quickly, her bloody fingers slippery on the smooth bone handle, and felt instantly amazed at the difference a weapon made to her faltering courage. With considerably lifted spirits, the young girl finally gained the door and slipped gratefully out into the cool, musty darkness of the deserted Great Hall.

Zanna darted away from the door and crouched down beside the paneled wall beneath the overhanging minstrels’ gallery. There she stayed for several minutes, until her heart slowed and her breathing steadied and her trembling stilled. Though a little light filtered from outside through the row of tall windows, illuminating the stark black columns of the double row of pillars, the vast, echoing chamber seemed very dark after the half light of the kitchen. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the difference, Zanna turned her weapon over and over in her hand. She supposed it must have been knocked from the table or the bench and accidentally kicked beneath the sink, where it had been lost in the shadows until that stray gleam of firelight had picked it out for her eyes. Janok must truly have been preoccupied today, if he had not noticed it was missing. Usually, he kept a careful tally of the knives.

The thought of the brutal head cook was enough to spur Zanna into action once more. Levering herself away from the wall, she turned to her right and made for the corner, where an elegant spiral of open wooden steps curled round a carven pillar and led up to the minstrels’ gallery. There was just no way to get up those steps silently—and the Great Hall had been designed to carry sound. Zanna froze, horrified and startled, as the hollow shuffle of her footsteps was magnified into sibilant echoes that whispered around the massive chamber. She had to take herself sternly in hand and remind herself that she was the only one there, before she could find the courage to continue.

Luckily, the gallery itself was carpeted for the comfort of the visiting musicians. Zanna finally gave in to her wild urge to run. Holding the knife carefully away from herself at arm’s length, she pelted down the long side of the hall, through the flickering patches of dark and light made by the line of windows. Turning left at the bottom, she found the curtained upper door that led to a short corridor and thence through another, plainer door into the quarters of the household servants.

Had Zanna but known it, she was lucky. In Elewin’s day, both doors had been securely locked, except when the hall was in use, to prevent the servants taking a shortcut through the hallowed chamber from their quarters to the kitchen. Now, however, the Magefolk had so few servants that such traditions had been permitted to slide. The second door opened for Zanna, as she had been confident that it would, and she permitted herself a sigh of relief at last. Nothing could stop her now! Because of the two closed doors and the stretch of corridor between, she didn’t hear the sound of the kitchen door opening into the Great Hall, and softly closing again.

On a shelf at a convenient height beside the door, Zanna found a tinderbox and candlestick. Laying her knife down on the shelf, she lit the candle after several shaky attempts—then cursed her own stupidity. What if someone—even the Archmage, she thought with a terrified shudder—should be crossing the courtyard, and see the gleam? Shielding the flame with her cupped hand, she ran to quickly close the curtains across the three windows that were spaced at regular intervals down the length of the dormitory. Once that was done, Zanna felt much more secure. Lifting her candle high, she passed the lonely row of neat and unused beds and crossed back to the corner near the door, where the rack of twinkling crystals glittered with cold fire as they caught her tiny flame. Holding her light close to the gems, she moved her hand along the rack until she found a glimmer of green.

At last! Vannor’s daughter replaced the candle on the shelf and was reaching out to take the crystal—when the door burst open with a crash.

“Got you, you little bitch!” Rough hands spun her and grabbed her arms with bruising force, making Zanna cry out with pain. Struggling was useless against that enormous strength. The candlelight made red reflected gleams in Janok’s eyes, giving him the look of some brutish wild beast. Zanna’s mind went blank with terror. It was all over now. He had caught her—here in this deserted place, where there were no witnesses and no one would even hear her screams.

Janok chuckled, enjoying her fear. His hands tightened around the tender flesh of her arms, making her whimper. “Well?” he said. “And why are we creeping around the servants’ dormitory in the darkness, I wonder? Were you trying to find a lover, by any chance? I’ll wager you’ve never had one, such a plain little thing as you are, but you’re a year too late, my girl. All those fine, handsome young men have left or been slain, and there’s no one in this place to bed you. No one but me, that is.”

What would anger him worse? To reply or not? Yet Zanna had little time to reflect on the decision. His hand lashed out—hitting her—hurting her. Zanna felt a warm trickle of blood crawl down her chin. He was pressing his weight against her, pinning her body against the wall. Janok’s hairy arms encompassed her; his sweaty body was pressed against her flesh. She could feel the moisture, warm and clammy, seeping through the thin fabric of her blouse, and swallowed down the acid nausea that came boiling into her throat. His foul breath, and the greasy stench of his unwashed body, made her retch.

Janok pushed at her lower body, hard and excited. Zanna tugged one hand free and jabbed at his eyes with rigid fingers, but he caught her wrist in a merciless grip and hem her hand, helpless, above her head. Holding her in place with one arm and his knee, he ripped at her clothing, pulling her blouse away in tatters. Zanna felt cold air wash over her breasts and turned her head away, aghast as his rough fingers squeezed her flesh. Then the hand was fumbling lower, lifting up her skirts and feeling underneath. She knew what would happen to her now: had she not seen it happen, many times, to helpless, shrieking, weeping kitchen maids?

It was far beyond too much. Zanna wriggled helplessly, desperate to escape. It was the only thought in her mind, the whole core of her being. Against his size and strength her efforts were hopeless, but they irritated him, nonetheless. Angry now, he slammed the back of her head against the wall, and from the corner of her eye she saw the crystals tumble from the rack. Their fiery glitter in the shivering candlelight matched the dazzling dark-bright pain that shot through her skull. Aurian, she thought desperately—but the Mage was far too far away to help. It would all be up to Zanna now—and what could she do against a man so much bigger and stronger than herself?

Again Janok hit her—first with his open hand across her face, then, when that failed to cow her, two or three lower blows with his fist. That stopped the fight in her. Zanna sagged against the wall, gasping for breath, his strong grasp all that kept her from doubling over in agony. Briefly, she was gone beyond all conscious thought.

“Now!” With an iron grip on one arm, Janok dragged her toward the nearest row of beds. An odd, dizzy, disconnected thought shot through Zanna’s innocent mind: after all his brutality, why was he being so particular now? He might as well have thrown her to the floor, and taken her, and had done with it. Then Janok threw her facedown on the bed, keeping her pinned down with one hand while his other groped to free himself from his fetters of clothing.

This momentary distraction was all that Zanna had been waiting for. She had gone beyond all reason now; she was merely working on pure instinct—and it was all the more unexpected to Janok, for he thought he had her cowed beyond resistance. Writhing away from the palm that pressed her down, she managed to turn herself half-around and, with all her might, bit into the arm that pinned her.

Now the tables were turned. Janok howled, cursing, flailing at her with his free hand, making her vision explode into stars. Zanna held on grimly. Coarse black hairs tickled her throat, and the salt-metallic taste of blood made her retch, but she still hung on, biting deeper and deeper. Though he beat at her and hurt her, he had hurt her already—and this was her only chance to escape him. What had she to lose? It took a surprisingly short time before Janok relaxed his grip and she slid out from underneath.

Tripping over the tatters of her skirt, Zanna scrambled, half-stumbling, across the room, the head cook’s grasping hands and bruising fists snatching at the air an instant behind her. She had only one thought in her mind as she shot toward the door and the shelf nearby. In the moment of hesitation that it took to haul herself up by the smooth, slippery edge, Janok had laid hands on her again—but though Zanna’s groping fingers knocked down the tinderbox, she found the knife she had laid down only moments before.

The girl could sense Janok’s surprise—almost disappointment—as she ceased to fight him. “Ah,” he muttered, pressing her body against the wall. “I knew you wanted it. Of course. They always do.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “but I would like to see your face.”

“Naturally.”

Zanna felt his hard hands upon her as he turned her around. She felt him press against her, even as her fingers clenched round the knife that was half-hidden in the torn remnants of her skirt. Then the blade was embedded hilt deep in his belly, and Janok doubled over, screaming, his blood gushing out all over her hands. At that moment, Zanna felt nothing for him but a burning, all-consuming hatred. Remembering something that Parric had told her long ago, she took a firm grip on the slippery haft and thrust the knife downward with all her strength, to slice the blade into Janok’s guts. He fell to the floor, shrieking and clutching himself, rolling and writhing across the floor in the spreading pool of his own blood.

It was taking him a long time to die. Zanna, frozen with shock, felt a stab of panic penetrate her numbed mind. What if someone heard him? She had to get out—and fast. There was no time to look for the correct crystal—she simply gathered them all as she found them, crawling on her hands and knees to scoop up the scattered gems and dropping them into a twist of cloth torn from her ruined skirt. As soon as she had them all, she fled out of the door opposite the one she’d entered.

Without any thought now for stealth, Zanna clattered down the wooden staircase and into the refectory below. There she paused, shudders running through her, her back

Pressed against the outer door like a hunted beast at bay. Her head was whirling and her knees had turned to water. She looked down at the stinking, sticky blood that coated her hands and the front of her body, and doubled over sharply, vomiting. When at last she had emptied herself, she straightened shakily, automatically wiping her mouth on her bloody arm—an act that set her retching again. Zanna took great, gulping gasps of air and forced herself to be steady. So she had killed a man: well, there was no time to think about that now. Her dad needed her, and time was running out.

All sounds from the floor above had ceased. Slowly, Zanna began to realize that, if Janok’s screams had been heard, someone would have come long before now. The remoteness of the servants’ quarters from both the kitchen and the guard post at the far side of the courtyard had saved her. Relief washed over her. She dropped to her knees in a patch of moonlight from the window, wishing that she’d had the sense to remember the candle. Well, she’d just have to wish. She wasn’t going back up there, past Janok’s body to get it—not for anything.

The crystals rattled on the wooden floorboards as she spilled them from their makeshift bag. They all twinkled enigmatically in the dim, cold light, but only two held sparks of bright fire in their hearts: the crimson and the blue-silver gems. But somewhere among them was another, that held a slumbering spark of green. One by one Zanna held them up to the moonlight, peering into their jeweled depths, until she found the one she sought. Kneeling like a statue in the beam of light, she cupped the crystal in her hands, and with a prayer to all the gods she knew, she concentrated on the image of the Lady Aurian.