The Halls of Stormweather

THE SECOND SON

Through the dark boughs of the Arch Wood, Talbot Uskevren fled for his life.

Black branches slashed at his face as brambles clutched at his cloak. A hideous force snagged it from behind, snapping his head back painfully. The clasp cut into his throat before tearing away with the cloak. Tal twisted and nearly fell, but his boots dug into the slippery ground, and again he ran. He dared not look back.

The creature was almost upon him. Tal heard its labored breath, felt its massive heat radiating through the darkness. He imagined the vice of its jaws on his neck, then thrust the thought from his mind and poured all his strength into his pumping legs.

He ran toward the only beacon he could see, a bright patch of moonlit clouds at the edge of the wood. If he remembered correctly, the moonlight marked the edge of a clearing. He hoped some of the others had escaped and waited there with spears.

Just as his hopes rose, Tal smashed into a solid branch. The blow slammed him flat onto the ground, blasting the breath from his lungs. His pursuer flew overhead, narrowly missing Tal as it briefly eclipsed the moonlit clouds. The branch that clobbered Tal snapped crisply under the creature's bulk, and the thing crashed to the ground, blocking Tal's path.

Tal couldn't discern the thing's shape, but he felt its coiled energy as it tensed for the attack. Fear gripped his body, but Tal rolled away just as the creature pounced. Too slow, he cried out as claws raked his back.

Tal tried throwing himself to the right, but snarling jaws clamped his arm and shook. Tal flopped as helplessly as a rag doll in the teeth of a vicious dog. He hurtled through the darkness to smash painfully back on the cold winter ground.

As he scrabbled to his knees, another blow buffeted his head. Sparks burst in his skull, and he felt a cool wetness on his scalp. The image of his exposed brain flashed briefly through his mind, and his mouth opened wide to scream, but then he was running again, saving the breath for flight.

Tal could no longer feel his legs, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side. He ran by force of will, by force of terror. He knew the thing was inches behind him, but it was death to glance backward. Not while he was still in the grip of the deadly Arch Wood, where the owlbears were clearly not hibernating after all.

Tymora, the goddess known as Lady Luck, must have heard one of his half-formed prayers, for Tal struck no more trees before exploding out of the choking forest.

He leaped into the clearing in a rapture of hope, only to realize that Beshaba, the Maid of Misfortune, must also have heard one of those prayers, for it wasn't a clearing that lay beyond the darkness.

It was a cliff.

Tal's body turned as he plummeted, and the brief instant of his fall stretched into one long moment of perfect clarity. He saw the huge figure of his pursuer silhouetted and silvered against the moonlit clouds. It perched at the very edge of the precipice over which Tal had run, seeming to debate whether to leap down after him.

"Rusk!" called a harsh voice from behind the beast. Before Tal could see whether the thing would turn away or leap down after him, the dark ground rose up to smash him senseless.

A pixie kept beating his skull with a tiny club, so Tal reluctantly opened one gummy eye. He tried to swat the pest but managed only to poke himself in the eye. His arm was feeble, and his fingers felt thick and limp as cold sausages.

That thought made the pixie's accomplices jump with laughter from their lair in his stomach. Tal rolled to one side and vomited onto the floor.

Blinking, he peered into the thin yellow mess, expecting to see the soggy little nuisances wringing out their caps and cursing. Maybe he could squish one.

There were no pixies in his vomit, and Tal began to realize that the rhythmic pounding came from outside.

He swallowed painfully. The vile taste in his mouth was familiar. What nasty medicine had he been fed? How long had he been sleeping? With an effort, he rolled onto his back and blinked at his surroundings.

He was in an unfamiliar cottage. Of course, any mere cottage should be unfamiliar to a scion of the Uskevren family, whose Stormweather Towers was among the finest mansions of Selgaunt. Instead of the warm scent of incense, Tal smelled the earthy odor of wood smoke. Rather than rich tapestries, he saw bunches of drying herbs and clusters of garlic, onions, and a confusing variety of other roots hung from the rafters. Amid it all was a squat stone fireplace, its flames dancing upon a trio of withering logs.

Cold fresh air and thin rays of morning light swept in from under the crude wooden door and through the simple shutters. Tal took a deep, cleansing breath. Even through the sickness, it felt grand to be alive, and better still that someone other than his father had rescued him from the disastrous hunting expedition. Recovering in a woodsman's home would give him time to put a better face on the fiasco.

Tal stopped kidding himself. This was far more serious than spending a night in jail for a tavern brawl. For all he knew, he was the only one of the hunting party to survive.

Tal tried sitting up, but his head spun. Only then did he begin to feel the stiff pains of his wounds. He cautiously lifted the woolen blanket and surveyed the damage.

His left arm was neatly bandaged and bound against his chest, which was swathed in more bandages. His scalp itched, and he felt more dressings on his head. Tal gently probed his skull but thankfully found no boneless wound. Whoever had found him must have been a skilled healer, perhaps even a priest. Tal wasn't particularly observant of the gods, but he made a mental note to donate next month's ale money to the shrine of Tymora back in Selgaunt. She had certainly showered him with enough good fortune to make up for the regrettable mistake of the cliff.

Tal tried rising once more. He managed to put his good elbow under him and swing his feet over the side of the bed. His back prickled and ached from lying too long on the straw mattress. He realized that the chopping sound had stopped, replaced by muted voices.

Tal rose from the bed but couldn't unfold his body completely. He shuffled hunchbacked to the window and peeked through the shutters. Snow glare made him blink at first, but then he saw a neat row of firewood and the flat-hewn stump that served as a chopping block. Upon the stump sat a figure so heavily bundled in shawls and coats that Tal knew it was a woman only by her voice, rough but strong as old hide. She was speaking to someone Tal couldn't see.

"… gone already. Fetch some from Abell. Hurry, and you'll be back before night."

"What if it doesn't work?" replied another, younger woman's voice. Tal fumbled to unlatch the shutter for a better look, but the younger woman added, "We'll have to kill him, won't we?"

Tal left the shutters closed. He crouched down, just in case one of the women should glance his way.

"If we can keep him sleeping another tenday," said the old woman, "and if Dhauna Myritar approves, and if he submits himself to Her will…"

"And if the search party doesn't return," said the younger woman. "Even with the fresh snow, I don't think they believed…"

"Feena," interrupted the old woman. "None of these ifs matter unless you run your errand soon."

"Yes, mother," replied Feena contritely. Tal heard her reluctant footsteps crunching in the snow as she walked away.

"Don't dawdle," called Feena's mother. The sound of chopping resumed. "He's a big lad and getting his strength back."

A thrill of fear surged through Tal's veins. He had no idea why these women might kill him, but it had to have something to do with the attack on his hunting party. Did they command the owlbears that charged through the camp? If so, why hadn't they killed him already?

The obvious answer was ransom.

Thamalon Uskevren, Tal's father, had objected to his hunting trip for many reasons. Among them was the constant threat of kidnapping the child of one of Selgaunt's most wealthy and influential men. In the city, Tal was almost always in the public eye, and he always suspected that his father sent bodyguards to shadow him and his siblings. Tal tried not to care, as long as he never saw them and they never interfered with him.

Kidnapping didn't seem like the right answer, though. True, the hunting party consisted almost entirely of young scions of wealthy Selgauntan families, but the sounds Tal heard the night of his attack were not those of young men and women being captured. It was of their being torn to pieces.

Tal shivered. The fire was burning low. Soon, he knew, Feena's mother would return with more wood.

He considered climbing back into bed and pretending to sleep, waiting for a chance to escape, but he realized that this might be his only chance. He considered the position of the door in relation to the old woman. Yes, she would see him if he tried to slip outside.

His mind racing, Tal looked for his clothes. There was no sign of his shirt, but he found his boots stuffed under the bed. He tried putting them on with the use of just one hand and nearly overbalanced himself. Frantically, he searched for a blade among a jumble of cabinets, finally turning up a short paring knife.

He cut his arm free of his chest, then gingerly extended it, wincing at the anticipated pain. Surprisingly, the arm felt good, if a little numb from long restraint. He cut away the bandages. Underneath, the scars were pink and faint. Even if someone had used magical healing on him, Tal had expected scabs, at least.

How long had he been sleeping?

Tal used the knife to make a slit in the middle of two woolen blankets. He cut himself a twine belt to secure his makeshift tabard. Finally, he used both hands to put on his boots. Not only did his wounded arm not hurt, but he felt a surge of exhilarating power. He knew it was the thrill of fear, but it cleared his head and gave strength to his limbs.

He crept to the door and turned his head to listen. He heard no sound of chopping, just a muted grunt and a creak as the door was grasped from the other side. Tal felt a sudden bout of indecision. He wasn't sure whether he could bring himself to hit an old woman. On the other hand, he was quite sure he couldn't let her kill him. Without thinking, he snatched a burlap sack from the wall, wrapped it around his hand, cocked a fist, and waited for a target.

The door opened, and Tal saw a short lump of clothes clutching a huge bundle of wood. Tal's punch landed squarely in the center of the bundle. Logs scattered in all directions, and the old woman fell to the floor, stunned.

"Sorry!" blurted Tal. He felt a sharp pang of guilt as he saw the old woman's surprised face, round, matronly, and even kind, but he remembered that she might be the spell-caster who had healed him. One word from someone like that would be enough to defeat him.

"Sorry," he said again, and knocked her head against the floor. This time her eyes rolled straight up, then closed. Grimacing, Tal put his ear to her mouth. He heard a breath, much to his relief.

He lifted the woman in his arms and carried her to the bed. She was much lighter than he'd expected, or else he was stronger than he felt. He made her as comfortable as he could, then bound her securely to the bed with the remaining twine.

"Feena will be back before dark," he said to the old woman. He felt foolish consoling the unconscious form of his would-be murderer. Still, he touched her bruised cheek gently before he turned to go, wishing he knew exactly why she'd planned to keep him hidden.

Outside, Tal squinted at the white landscape. In the distance was what he took to be the edge of the Arch Wood. Judging from that and the position of the sun, he figured the direction of Selgaunt. It would be a long journey on foot, but at the end lay home and safety, and maybe some answers.

The first day was the worst. Tal was much hungrier than he realized upon escaping the cottage, and he didn't know the first thing about hunting without a spear and a dozen servants to flush out the quarry. He whooped with joy when he came across the Daerloon-Ordulin caravan trail just as his strength was beginning to flag.

The wind turned cruel after dark, and Tal squatted in the shelter of a snow bank to escape the night's howling. He couldn't sleep-he'd slept too long already. Instead, he listened for the knifing wind to subside, then he continued the trek eastward throughout the night.

A few hours after dawn, Tal's perseverance was rewarded by the appearance of a tinker's cart. In other circumstances, Tal would gladly have traded an Uskevren promise for services rendered. Considering recent events, however, he omitted his family name when asking for a ride. Fortunately, the tinker was lonely enough to welcome an unarmed passenger. Four days later, he left a leaner, hungrier Tal just outside the nearest city, Ordulin, while he continued west on the road toward the port of Yhaunn.

Tymora continued to smile on Tal, perhaps enjoying the irony of a noble's son reduced to makeshift clothes and begging for food and rides. Just as he began to rue the decision to turn south, away from the scowling guards at the gate of Ordulin, he begged a ride from a southbound cart drover. The kindly fellow not only offered him a ride in his hay wagon but also gave him a warm meal each day. Tal resolved to repay the man a hundredfold.

Nine days after Tal's escape, the farmer's cart passed through the streets of the town of Overwater, the staging grounds for caravans arriving or leaving Selgaunt. In summer the place would be teeming with travelers and traders. Even in the dead of winter, it was spotted with tents, wagons, and pack animals snorting plumes in the cold air. Most of these were from nearby Ordulin, small merchant caravans keeping trade with the port city brisk. Their activity churned the dung and mud into a pungent morass that threatened to engulf them all on warmer days. To Tal's nose, the stink was welcome. He was coming home.

They emerged from Overwater to pass over the High Bridge. Aptly named, the seven-story structure was lined with shops, market stalls, taverns, and enough guardhouses to keep them all in line. At its far end, Tal saw the Klaroun Gate. Magnificent water horses were carved into its face, seeming to leap from the river to form the bridge of the central arch.

After long absence, Tal felt keenly aware of the city's pulse. He heard it in the chatter on the bridge, in the irregular clop of hooves on cobblestone. He smelled the human musk of the place, diminished but not hidden by Mulhorandi perfumes and Thayvian spices.

He peered everywhere for some sign of a friend, someone he could surprise with his miraculous return. The urbane citizens of Selgaunt were giddy for fashion, and a thousand colors and styles of clothing were paraded through the streets each day. The farmer had driven nearly the entire length of the bridge before Tal spied a familiar face.

Tumbling out of a little alehouse, a sandy-haired man nearly collided with a squad of Scepters, the city guardsmen.

With drunken grace, the man wove neatly among the five Scepters, barely disturbing their dark green weathercloaks. The guards looked formidable in their silver-chased black leather armor. One of them made a show of fanning the air before his face and wincing at the invisible cloud surrounding the drunk.

"Get yourself home, Chaney," warned the Scepter wearily. He'd obviously had this conversation with the man before. "Get off the streets, before you're run over by a night-carter."

Tal put a hand on the cart driver's arm. "Wait a moment," he said.

Duly chastened, Chaney swirled his own red cloak around one arm and made an elaborate, unsteady bow. His tousled hair fell over his eyes as he slurred, "I thank you, and I shall. Soon as I purchase a jug in which to drown…" Chaney's eyes lit upon Tal, and he stared in astonishment.

The Scepters glanced back at Tal, then turned back to Chaney, frowning their disapproval. One took Chaney by the arm. "Let's find you a nice pallet down-"

"Wait," called Tal, climbing down from the cart. The Scepters looked at him dubiously, while Chaney continued to stare in disbelief. "I'll make sure he gets home safely."

The Scepter holding Chaney's arm looked Tal up and down in obvious disapproval of his makeshift attire. One of his companions nudged the Scepter impatiently, and he relented.

Chaney continued to stare at Tal even after the scepters walked away. Tal grinned back at him. "Is it Tal?" Chaney asked, peering dubiously up at Tal's new beard. It had grown in thick, black, and curly.

"More or less."

"They didn't get you!" slurred Chaney. He reached carefully to touch Tal's rude imitation of a tabard, then clutched it to keep his balance. "They just stole your clothes."

Chaney seemed tiny beside his big friend. Where Tal was broad, Chaney was slight and narrow. His intelligent eyes sparkled even through the fog of ale, and his fine nose and pointed chin gave him a look of perpetual mischief. Softening his impish appearance were his smooth cheeks, preserving an illusion of youth that made him seem the younger of the two, though he was in fact a year older at twenty.

"How much money do you have with you?" asked Tal.

Chaney fumbled for his purse before Tal took it from him. Peering inside, he frowned at the contents before tossing the entire thing to the farmer.

"If you stay at the Outlook tonight," he said, "I'll have something more sent over to you."

"That's all my money!" complained Chaney, reaching after it long after the farmer had caught it. The farmer's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise at the heft of the purse.

"This is more than enough for what I done," said the farmer.

"All the same," said Tal. He had it in mind to reward the kind farmer with more money than the man had seen in a decade, and even that wouldn't put a dent in Tal's monthly stipend.

"I won't say no," conceded the farmer with a friendly nod. He snapped the reins and continued across the bridge.

Tal got an arm under Chaney's shoulders and turned him back toward the Klaroun Gate. "Let's get you wrung out."

Chaney needed sleep before he could sober up, so Tal delivered him into the care of a frowning housekeeper in Chaney's flat. Soon after, Tal stood before his tallhouse.

It was a narrow building of equal parts gray stone and brown vines, which in spring would smother the building in vibrant green. It stood amid five similar buildings, each divided from its neighbors by a narrow alley.

Tal ascended the short flight of steps and pounded cheerfully on the door. He couldn't wait to see the expression on Eckart's face when the fastidious valet saw Tal wearing a pair of old blankets and a twine belt.

After a few moments, Tal banged on the door again, to no avail. Of course, realized Tal, Eckart must be back at Stormweather Towers. He slipped around to the side alley, where stairs descended to the side entrance. Tal had hidden a key behind a loose stone there, despite Eckart's protests about burglars. He was pleased to see that it was still there.

As he turned to open the side door, Tal heard a sudden hiss. He looked up to see the neighbor's fat orange tabby perched on the ledge above. It was one of a dozen cats who haunted this street, and Tal often saw it near the steps, where Eckart often placed leftovers or a saucer of milk in the morning.

"Well again, kitty," said Tal. He reached up to let the little beast smell him, but the cat spat furiously and vanished.

Tal sniffed at himself and frowned at the sour odor. "Can't blame you," he muttered. "I do need a bath."

Inside, Tal was surprised to find the wine cellar illuminated by two bright lamps. More alarming was the sight of the empty wine racks and a stack of crates. One was still open and overflowing with packing straw.

"Don't tell me they've sold the house," muttered Tal wearily. He knew he'd been missing for a long time, but surely his family wouldn't have given up hope already. He reached into the open box and removed a bottle of Thamalon's Own, the precious pear wine his father gave him for his birthday earlier in the year.

"I must warn you," called a prim and tremulous voice from the stairs, "that I am armed and have no compunctions about shooting a burglar."

Tal put away his smile before turning around and adopting his father's own voice. "Put that toy away, and tell me where in the nine hells you've taken the rest of my wine!"

"Master Talbot!" squeaked Eckart, lowering his hand crossbow so quickly that he shot a bolt into the stairs. Glancing down, he paled at the bolt quivering neatly between his feet. Looking back at Tal, he whitened even more. "Bu-Bu-but we thought you were-"

"Still waiting for an answer about my wine!" roared Tal. He struggled to keep a straight face. He rarely used his father's voice to fluster Eckart, but it worked every time. Chaney insisted it was because Eckart received exactly such rebukes each time he reported on Thamalon Uskevren's wastrel son.

"It's at Stormweather, sir, along with the rest of your belongings." Eckart gulped as he saw Tal's brow's furrow in another perfect imitation of the elder Uskevren. "Lord Uskevren thought it best to remove everything to your rooms at home."

Eckart's earlier words finally sank in, and Tal said quietly in his own voice, "Because he thought I was dead."

"Oh, no, sir," replied Eckart in a tone of genuine distress. "Your father-all of us-never gave up hope. Your father merely felt that, upon your return, you'd prefer the safety of-"

"You mean the confinement," interrupted Tal, now genuinely angry. His sudden flare of temper surprised him, for as much as he resented his parents' continued coddling, he also appreciated their concern-especially after his recent ordeal.

Tal noticed Eckart's pale lips working soundlessly, looking for all the world like the gasping of a fish out of water. "It's all right, Eckart," said Tal more gently. "I realize I've been missing for an awfully long time."

Eckart swallowed his distress as best he could, but Tal realized he had to make sure the servant wouldn't have time to report his return before he himself could go to Stormweather.

"Just see that everything's back in order here by tomorrow morning," said Tal with an impish gleam in his eye.

"Tomorrow!" sputtered Eckart. "But-"

"But first, draw me a hot bath. Is the tub still here?"

"Yes, but-"

"And summon a barber." He scratched under his chin. "I don't like this beard."

"Yes, but-"

"And fetch me some clean clothes-not from Stormweather, mind you. Buy new ones."

"Yes, but-"

"And have you any funds on hand?"

"Yes, but-"

"Good. Once you've drawn the bath, summoned the barber, and fetched me some clothes, take one hundred fivestars to the Outlook Inn, and give them to a farmer named Mott."

"A farmer! But sir-"

"Thank you, Eckart. That will be all."

With a look of genuine pain, Eckart nodded his assent. Tal felt briefly guilty for harrying him so.

"Oh, and Eckart?"

"Yes, Master Talbot?"

"It's good to see you again."

Before approaching Stormweather Towers, Tal stopped to observe his reflection in the frozen waters of a public fountain.

His gray eyes glittered beneath his black hair, now trimmed neatly above his short collar. Eckart had found him some warm woolen hose whose dove gray hue matched the shirtsleeves that showed through the slashes in his blue doublet. The ensemble was completed by Tal's favorite longboots, into which he'd tucked a fine but simple dagger at the right hip. It was his concession to going armed out of doors. As much as he enjoyed sword practice, he loathed the inevitable confrontations his size attracted from the city's bravos. Sometimes, it was more trouble being a big man than a small one.

Straightening his warm weathercloak, Tal left the fountain and came to Stormweather Towers.

The mansion was one of the newest in Selgaunt, but at first glance it looked like the accumulated accidents of a dozen different architects. The house itself was a great stone collection of towers and turrets, each with its own character. It took a thorough observation to realize that the seemingly random collection of structures formed a unified if complex whole.

Stables and a guardhouse formed the shorter branch of the L-shaped border around the open courtyard. The quadrangle was completed by a cunning array of intimate gardens bordered with fruit trees.

The only people standing outside in the cold afternoon wind were a quartet of family guards. Their leader tipped Tal a wink that told him his arrival was expected. With a sigh, Tal smiled his thanks for the warning and went to the door. It opened at his approach, and there stood Erevis Cale, the family butler.

"How good to have you returned home, Master Talbot," said the gaunt man. His head and face were immaculately shaved, but his clothes hung loosely on his angular frame. Somehow Cale always seemed taller than Tal, though he was a few inches shorter.

"You're not surprised to see me, are you, Cale?" Tal smiled to take the edge off his disappointment. He liked the butler, who had an uncanny knack of knowing what was about to happen before it did. Tal had never decided whether the talent was supernatural or merely criminal.

Cale smiled faintly, a rare expression on those thin lips, and one that might seem chilling to someone who didn't know him better. Sometimes Tal's elder sister teasingly called the man "Mister Pale," though Tal would never dare do so. He had no doubt that Cale would hear of it, and Tal shrunk at the thought of the man's disapproval.

"I don't know how you do it," said Tal, shaking his head. "Still no chance of your replacing Eckart?"

Cale's smile nearly turned warm. "I suspect Lord Thamalon might forbid it, young sir."

"Yes," agreed Tal. "I suspect he might, too."

"Your father awaits you in the library, Master Talbot."

"Thanks, Cale," said Tal, stepping into the foyer. "Does everyone…?"

Tal's question was smothered as a veritable comet of older sister crashed into him. All he saw before the powerful arms clamped around his neck was a flash of scarlet fabric and ink-black hair.

"Tazi!" he gasped before the last of his breath was cut off.

"You great buffoon! You should have come here as soon as you returned to the city. Don't you know how worried we were?"

Tal hugged her back, just hard enough to make her ease up on his collapsing lungs. She was tiny compared to him, but she was fierce and strong. "You'd feel differently if you'd had a whiff of me when I arrived."

Thazienne, more often called Tazi, pushed herself back and held Tal at arm's length. For a moment, Tal thought he saw the hint of tears glimmering in her eyes, but she wouldn't let them come. "They looked everywhere, and there was no sign of you."

"I know," said Tal. "I came back as soon as I could." He made a point of looking over his shoulder as if to examine his back.

"What are you doing?" asked Tazi.

"Just making sure you haven't pinned a tail to me."

They laughed as Cale looked on with his inscrutable neutrality. As well as he knew the Uskevren children, he wasn't present for the many childhood pranks Tazi had played on Tal. Once she had talked him into drinking a potion that turned him green for most of a tenday. Loyal to the end, Tal took the blame-and the punishment-when their mother had to endure the embarrassment of Tal's appearance at the appropriately timed Greengrass Festival.

That was the least of Tazi's pranks. The one that most threatened their youthful alliance came when Tazi embroidered bunnies and lambs on all of Tal's underclothes just before he went on a swimming trip with the young sons of a half-dozen other families. On the bright side, Tal learned a lot about fistfighting, and he came back the most formidable brawler of his cohorts that summer. Moreover, he made fast friends with Chaney Foxmantle, who until then had borne the brunt of the other boys' torments.

"It's just like you to keep us all waiting," called another familiar voice from the inner hall. Tal looked up to see his elder brother standing in the doorway.

Thamalon Uskevren the Second was better known as Tamlin. Even at six year's Tal's senior, he was much smaller than his younger brother, but he carried himself as if he were much greater in everyway. He leaned casually against the doorjamb, idly glancing at his fingernails as if to observe his reflection there. His fine clothing made Tal's new attire seem as mangy as his recent makeshift clothes. "I'm glad you're not dead, little brother."

Tazi scowled at Tamlin, perhaps expecting him to be more gracious at their younger sibling's miraculous return. If he had been the least bit friendly, however, Tal would have suspected an impostor. "I'm glad you're not dead, too," he said.

"Ah, we have something in common at last," observed Tamlin. He smiled winningly, and once again Tal understood what Tamlin's friends saw in him. He could be a charming fellow, as long as he wasn't your brother.

Before Tal could frame a suitable reply, a hulking form emerged from behind Tamlin. It was Vox, Tamlin's mute bodyguard. He loomed above Tamlin like a mountain shadow, black hair spilling all over his square head until it collected in a single barbaric braid over his left shoulder. The man's size and blunt features suggested ogre blood, and Tal secretly despised him.

When the Uskevren children were much younger, Tamlin and Vox threw the admittedly annoying Tazi from a window. Torn between running to his sister's aid and beating his brother senseless, Tal had gone to Tazi rather than risk facing the monstrous Vox. His anger burned brighter when he discovered they had broken Tazi's arm. Tamlin insisted that the children agree to a lie to avoid their parents' punishment. Tazi was quick to forgive, but ever since that day, Tal had found it impossible to trust Tamlin, and he had forever after hated the brute who had kept him from dealing a deserved punishment to his arrogant older brother.

"I should visit Mother before going up to face Thamalon," said Tal.

"She's in her parlor," said Tazi. "We just returned from the opera when we heard you were back." She squeezed Tal's arm and grimaced for him. She knew how little Tal enjoyed confronting Thamalon after a disaster. He smiled his thanks back at her.

"We'll catch up later," he promised. He walked toward the west hall, pointedly avoiding Tamlin and Vox. The gesture wasn't lost on Tamlin, on whose face Tal glimpsed a smile just before he left.

Shamur Uskevren was in her parlor. The room reflected her personality, for it was feminine without seeming dainty, expensive but not garish. Its deep purple draperies were complemented by a half dozen paintings, from a serene landscape to a glorious montage of the events of the Time of Troubles, when gods walked Faerun, made war with each other, and died.

Tal worried that his mother would turn this latest proof of his irresponsibility into another lecture on the many wrong streets his life was taking. Why consort with those theater scoundrels, she might ask, when the opera was a respectable venue? Why not explore sculpting or painting or composing? At least she wouldn't insist that he follow in his father's footsteps and look after the family business. That fate was reserved for Tamlin or, more likely, for Tazi once Tamlin proved himself inept.

When he arrived in her parlor, however, Tal found his mother less than argumentative.

Shamur remained seated on an elegant fainting couch as Tal entered the room, greeting him with the poised smiled reserved for honored guests. It pierced him to the heart, for there was no greater sign of her displeasure.

"Mother," he began. "I'm sorry for all the worr-"

"Come here, Talbot," she said.

Tal knelt beside her couch. She looked into his face for a long moment, then pulled his head onto her shoulder and held it there.

"Mother," he began.

"Hush," she said, and he obeyed. She held him there for a quarter of an hour, without saying another word. At last she stroked his hair a few times, lifted his head up to look into his face, and said, "Now go to your father."

As Tal walked slowly down the hall to his father's study, he heard the whisper of slippers and a gentle tinkling of silver bells. A servant had withdrawn to a side passage ahead of him, no doubt to avoid the conflict between Thamalon and his wayward son.

As he reached the narrow hallway, however, Tal saw that the servant stood waiting for him, hands folded demurely beneath her breasts. Her gaze was locked deferentially on the carpet.

She wore the knee-length white dress of the Uskevren domestic staff, the family colors shown in the slashes of her sleeves and a tight gold vest. From a turban of the same gold dangled the bells he had heard, a device to warn family members of a servant's intrusion.

"Master Talbot," she said, looking up at him. Her pale hazel eyes looked yellow in the steady golden light of the corridor's enchanted sconces.

Tal summoned his best look of exaggerated disappointment, then looked pointedly up and down the empty hallway. "Where is the audience that makes me 'Master Talbot'?" he asked. "Have you forgotten our promise?"

Four years his senior, Larajin had been with the Uskevren for as long as Tal could remember. As children, they were frequent playmates. One summer night, after escaping the flustered adult servants at an Uskevren family picnic, they tramped about the nearby fields until the fireflies rose from the ground. Exhausted, they lay upon the heather and gazed at the stars. After a long silence, Larajin told Tal this was their last night together. Upon returning to Stormweather Towers, she must assume the respectful demeanor of the other servants. She was no longer a child.

"But we're friends," protested the six-year-old Tal. "That isn't fair."

"I'll always be your friend, in here," replied Larajin, placing the tip of a finger over her heart. "But now I must call you 'Master Talbot' and answer only when you speak to me."

"That's stupid," said Tal crossly. He furrowed his brow and considered the options.

"If I don't, I'll be punished," she said reasonably.

"Not if nobody else hears you," argued Tal. "When we're alone, you can call me Tal, and we can be friends, and nobody will know."

Larajin looked ready to protest, but then she agreed. "We'll be secret friends, then."

Tal reached for her hand in the secret pirate handgrip. It was secret because pirates was the one game that would win him a thrashing if he were discovered. Father hated pirates.

"Promise," said Tal. "We'll be friends forever, even if it has to be a secret."

"Promise," agreed Larajin, returning the secret sign, her hand gripping Tal's wrist, then making a fist inside his own hand, already almost as big as her own. "Forever."

Thirteen years later, Tal remembered that promise.

"I haven't forgotten," she replied, "but we aren't children anymore." A beat later she added, "Tal."

"No," agreed Tal, "but a promise is a promise." He gently covered her shoulders with his massive hands, intending to embrace her as he did his sister. Before he could, however, he felt a most unbrotherly stirring and dared not draw her close.

Larajin must have seen something on his face, for she took his hands from her shoulders. "Lord Thamalon the elder awaits you," she reminded him. Her tone was formal, but she took the sting away with a last, warm squeeze of Tal's hands.

Tal smiled in agreement, took a deep breath, and turned to enter the library.

The Uskevren family library was not by any means the most comprehensive in Selgaunt, but what it lacked in volume it made up in comfort and beauty.

Besides the inevitable shelves of scrolls and books, the library contained a fantastic collection of artwork. What separated it from the many other collections in the city was that each piece was distinctly elven.

Most citizens of Selgaunt would rather rub shoulders with Red Wizards or Tuigan barbarians than consort with the elves of the great forest north of Sembia. Centuries of rivalry and conflict had burned deep resentment into the hearts of Sembians, so much so that their scorn was not limited to the elves of the kingdom of Cormanthor. Very few elves of any sort lived in Sembia, and any association with their kind was considered disgraceful.

While Thamalon Uskevren did not share the bigotry of his countrymen, he was wise enough to confine his love for things elven to the privacy of his library. Tal was not surprised to find him there, surrounded by the fabulous masks of the green elves, the wondrous dreamcatchers of the gold elves, and the excruciatingly beautiful crystal of the moon elves.

Amid all these beauties, Thamalon Uskevren sat beside a chess table. Upon it were arrayed exquisite figures of ivory and mahogany, no doubt carved by an elven artisan.

Tal could tell by his father's expression that there would be no small talk.

"Start from the beginning," said Thamalon Uskevren. The white-haired patriarch had already made his standard opening, pawn to queen's four. He frowned intently at the ivory pieces before him, his black brows forming a dark chevron above his deep green eyes.

Tal took the seat behind the mahogany pieces and opened with his knight, a move that invariably irked the elder Uskevren, who considered it reckless. "After some debate, we decided that the owlbears would be hibernating."

Thamalon moved to protect his pawn without hesitation.

Tal knew at once that this would be a match of lightning chess, which he preferred. He soon became bored during a longer, more considered match. He advanced his other knight, a dragon rampant. "We decided to hunt boar. There's little for them to eat in winter, so they root for yams."

Thamalon advanced a pawn, threatening Tal's knight. Still, he didn't speak.

"Right after a kill, you gut the boar and make sausages. They're filled with sweet yams, you see, and you roast them on an open flame." Tal advanced his knight again, looking at his father's face for a reaction. "You slice them while they're still steaming hot."

At last the elder Uskevren's patience cracked. "Unless you've been missing for nigh on a month because of food poisoning, I fail to see the point." He pressed the attack against Tal's first knight with another pawn.

"We killed a boar on the first day," said Tal. He retreated the knight. "It was when I left the camp to relieve myself of some of the your Usk Fine Old that we were attacked."

"So, you were drunk," said Thamalon. He followed the retreat relentlessly, intent on showing Tal the folly of his twin knights' attack, as he had done so often.

"I wasn't drunk," said Tal with a hint of indignation. His knight safe at last, he advanced his own pawn. "Being away from camp probably saved my life. I heard shouting, not all of it from the other hunters. By then it was dark, and men were screaming. I ran back to the campfire. Before I could reach it, something began chasing me."

"An owlbear?" Thamalon freed his king's bishop by advancing another pawn.

"I think so." Tal opened the outer line of his own king's bishop.

"Did you see an owlbear?" persisted Thamalon.

"No, I didn't see it. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, I didn't have a spear, so I ran." Tal described his terrified flight through the Arch Wood in unadorned terms, pausing only briefly to respond to the ever-changing board. "Eventually, I escaped."

"And how was that?" asked Thamalon Uskevren.

"By cleverly throwing myself over a cliff," said Tal dryly.

At last the old man's eyes met Tal's, suspecting a jest.

"Honestly," said Tal. "I couldn't see where I was going, but it probably saved my life."

Thamalon pressed an attack on Tal's king's flank, threatening his second knight with pawns while advancing his own king's knight, an ivory unicorn. "Tell me the rest."

The rest of the story unfolded much like the game of chess, quickly and in short bursts. Tal told the story, and Thamalon interjected a question here and there. The elder Uskevren explained that Chaney and the other survivors had already given their accounts to the city guard, and Thamalon had interviewed them afterward, learning little more.

"I called upon High Loremaster Yannathar," explained Thamalon. "His acolytes cast divinations at once. Nothing."

"I knew that old woman was a wizard," said Tal, "or maybe a priest. She must have hidden me from magic."

"We'll find her," asserted Thamalon. "Then we'll have the truth of it."

"She mentioned a name-Dhauna Myritar."

"Hmm." Thamalon tapped his chin with a forefinger as he considered the name, momentarily distracted from the game. "That has a certain familiar echo." Snapping out of his reverie, he resumed his attack on Tal's chess pieces. "Continue."

Tal resumed his tale, eventually coming to the point when he ordered Eckart to return his belongings to the tallhouse.

"By no means!" snapped Thamalon. "You're to stay in Stormweather until this business is sorted out."

"Check," said Talbot.

"What?" Thamalon observed the board. He had captured one of his son's knights and two of his pawns at the cost of only three of his own pawns. What he hadn't realized was how badly he had exposed his king's flank in the process. Fortunately for him, it was not a fatal check, and he moved quickly to block it with a protected bishop.

"I'll be staying in the tallhouse," said Tal. "I didn't come home rescued by your men-but thanks for sending them."

Thamalon's jaw tightened, but he controlled his voice as he replied, "Son, it's foolishness to leave yourself exposed after such an obvious attempt."

"Who knows that it was aimed at me? There were ten other sons of equally wealthy families-"

"Not quite as wealthy," interjected Thamalon. "And not my sons."

"Father," said Tal evenly. "I'm not moving back into Stormweather."

"I can stop paying your rent," warned Thamalon.

"Yes, and you can cut off my stipend, too. I'll move in with Chaney and start taking my shares at the theater."

"You'll do no such thing!" roared Thamalon. Tal had to suppress a smile at the thought that he'd been acting his father's part just a few hours earlier. Had he looked so furious to Eckart? "That wastrel is the worst possible influence-"

"Check," said Tal, meeting his father's angry gaze. He wasn't even sure it was true until Thamalon looked down at the board and scowled.

"Speaking of Chaney," said Tal, trying not to sound curt and failing, "he's probably looking for me right now. It's good to see you again. Thanks for looking for me. I'll visit soon." He stood before he could lose his courage, but he faltered as he reached for the door and heard his father's voice.

"Tal," said Thamalon. He almost never contracted Tal's name. "I want only the best for you, my boy. I just wish you could be-"

"More like you," said Tal with a rueful smile, finishing the unspoken refrain of their relationship. He opened the door and stepped through.

"You don't have to be exactly like me," said Thamalon as the door closed. "Just be something. Just do something. Make something of yourself."

"I will, one day," promised Tal from the other side of the door. "You'll see."

Chaney was sleeping so soundly at his own flat that Tal left him alone. He knew Eckart would still be busily supervising the return of the household furnishings rather than risk Tal's wrath. While the servant was no Erevis Cale, Tal noted with amusement and a little guilt that he'd put the fear of Thamalon the Elder into the man. If he could imitate the bearing as well as the voice, perhaps he could persuade Mistress Quickly to cast him as something other than a soldier in her next production.

Thoughts of the theater reminded Tal that the troupe probably had not yet heard of his return. Today's last show had begun over an hour earlier, but there was still time to visit before the play's end.

Outside, Tal looked up and down the street for his father's guards. He smiled as he spotted the corner of a blue cloak whipping back into a nearby alley. Sometimes he'd play a game with his father's paid men, darting into an alley or using the back door of a tavern to slip away from them. Considering his recent ordeal, he didn't mind a few guards tonight.

Tal cupped a hand beside his mouth and cried, "I'm going to the theater!" One of the family guards poked his head back around the corner. He touched the brim of his helm with an expression composed of equal parts guilt and gratitude. Tal returned the courtesy by not looking back over his shoulder at each corner.

The Wide Realms was a simple open-sky theater in the round, with a few permanent enchantments in place to keep out the rain and cold. Mistress Quickly had invested a fortune in constructing the building with such conveniences, so none of the troupe complained of her generous shares in each production. She had even paid to lift an expensive enchantment she'd commissioned to mute the audience. Rather than improve the actors' concentration, it had made them constantly nervous that they weren't evoking sufficient laughter, sobs, or-most importantly-applause.

Tal knew by the hour that tonight's show was nearly over, so he went directly to the stage entrance. He had to repeat the company rap three times before the door opened, seemingly by itself. Beyond, Tal saw the familiar chaos of rigging and storage.

"Tal!" cried a high, whispery voice at his feet. A tiny green creature with bright feline eyes clambered up the front of his clothes and clutched affectionately at his hair.

"Lommy!" exclaimed Tal. When the little tasloi wasn't capering about on stage as a clown, he was usually up in the rafters, operating the mechanicals with his brother, Otter. Tal gave the minuscule creature a gentle hug before trying to peel him off. Lommy refused to budge, pressing his long, flat forehead against Tal's cheek. Tal had never seen the intimate gesture extended to anyone but Otter or Mistress Quickly, the tasloi's adoptive mother.

If Tal had stretched Lommy straight out, the tasloi would measure little more than two feet tall. He looked even smaller when loping across the floor or swinging through the rigging, his fine black hair forming a wake behind him. More often than not, both Lommy and Otter were invisible to the casual observer, lurking in the upper shadows.

"Lommy is very happy," whispered the tasloi. "Lommy was afraid Tal died, but Otter said Tal would come back."

"Tal is happy Otter was right," grinned Tal. The tasloi indifference to pronouns was infections among the actors, and the creatures often bore the curses of actors who flubbed their lines after chatting with one of them. Tal was half certain the idiosyncrasy was not a cultural trait but one cultivated by Mistress Quickly for exotic effect.

"Shh!" warned an actor standing near one of the stage entrances. Then the young woman recognized Tal and threw him a friendly wave. With Lommy perched happily on his shoulder, Tal joined her at the curtain, where they watched the final scenes of the play.

Mallion Dray had taken the part Tal would have had if he hadn't disappeared. As the hotheaded son of an unlawful king, he was about to meet his doom at the hands of the rightful prince, played by Sivana Alasper, a woman of such androgynous beauty that she often took the role of young men. Such gender trading was a hallmark of Mistress Quickly's troupe, and she often composed comedies based on the old trick.

As the hero, Sivana stood before the company's prized prop, an enspelled long sword with the conveniently theatrical powers of producing light, flame, or a variety of thrilling sounds upon command. As Tal watched, Sivana grasped the weapon and spoke a line in which the command syllables were carefully hidden. The weapon blazed with blue light, proving the young hero's claim to the throne.

Tal had choreographed the fight scene months ago, eagerly anticipating the chance to play the dark prince. He tried not to feel jealous as Mallion leaped to the attack with the aid of a springboard hidden behind a small pile of artificial stones. The slender actor flew gracefully over the shoulder of his opponent, landing behind her to strike the first blow.

The fight varied from Tal's original design here and there, usually to take advantage of Mallion's lighter build. Tal noticed with some chagrin that the death scene had changed to include one of the stage's four hidden trapdoors. He felt that Quickly overused the device, but he had to admit that it pleased the crowd to see the vanquished pretender pulled down into the ninth hell as the triumphant prince dealt him the killing blow.

As the applause died and the actors left the stage, Tal found himself the center of attention. The resources of House Uskevren might have detected his arrival as soon as he set foot in the city, but everyone at the Wide Realms was astonished to see him in the flesh. Soon he was dizzy from the hugs, kisses, and occasional friendly gropes.

"Don't think this means you get the part back," warned Mallion.

"How could I top that performance?" said Tal. "But next time it's my turn to use the sword."

"You'll have to take it from me, first," declared Sivana, sketching a flourish with the blade before leaping up to grab the bars of a big steel cage hanging behind the stage. The troupe still hadn't found a use for the gigantic prop, which Mistress Quickly had bought for a production of "The Royal Prisoner" the previous spring.

Tal grinned at the challenge and started toward her, but before he'd taken a second step, powerful arms closed around his waist and lifted him off the floor.

"My boy!" cried a husky voice. Mistress Quickly set him down just long enough to kiss him full on the mouth. As usual, her breath smelled of garlic and pipeweed.

Quickly was a big woman, almost six feet tall and wound tight with muscle. She was the only one in the troupe who could have lifted Tal off the floor, and when she held him at arm's length to look him over, he doubted he could escape her powerful grip.

"You look little worse for the wear," she said appraisingly. "Tasty as always," she added with a leer, revealing a prominent gap between her front teeth. Her features were broad and almost comical, even without the garish makeup she wore on and off the stage. No one dared guess at her age, though to account the thousands of stories she told of her five late husbands, she might have been a hundred.

"Let's hear the whole story," boomed Quickly, "and not in any tavern full of tilting ears. Who'll be a dear and fetch us a keg?"

The long journey and the many reunions since his return finally caught up with Tal shortly after dark. With some difficulty, he extricated himself from his friends with a promise to return soon.

His tallhouse wasn't far from the theater, so he walked. He made it all the way home before realizing that he'd forgotten to call out to his father's guards. Mindful of the irony, he hoped he hadn't lost them by accident.

He'd forgotten to ask Eckart for another key to the front door, so Tal went to the cellar entrance again. As he descended the stairs, his boot struck something, causing a ceramic clatter. He bent down to pick it up. A bowl from the kitchen.

With a startling scream, a furious animal threw itself from a ledge at Tal's face. Razor claws tore his skin before the creature pushed away and dropped to the ground. Tal turned to see the orange tabby retreating across the street, hissing and yowling as it was chased out of its territory.

"Damn it!" hissed Tal. He touched his cheek and felt the wetness there. His affection for the local cats was diminishing by the day.

"Take that, you scoundrel!" cried Tal. His sword was a blur against a weakening barrier of retreating parries. Between each sharp rap of the blades, he could hear his opponent's labored breathing. Tal hadn't yet broken a sweat, despite a night full of troubling dreams. "Had enough?" he called.

"Nev-!" puffed Tal's adversary. "Never!" He withdrew with haste, crossing back quickly without lowering his guard.

"Have at you, then!" cried Tal. Grasping his blade in two hands, he unleashed a punishing series of head and neck attacks. They lacked finesse, but his superior strength beat his opponent's weapon down. When he saw that he'd forced the man into too short a guard, Tal feinted a slash to the left. As expected, his opponent overextended his parry.

Instead of striking the unguarded right, Tal whirled low and threw a sweeping reverse kick at the man's legs. His quick-thinking opponent turned his parry into a straight thrust at Tal's hip. A quicker swordsman might have succeeded. This one fell to the wooden floor with a resounding thud. Before he could move, Tal's blade was at his throat.

"I yield!" cried the fallen man. He dropped his sword to clatter loudly on the floor.

"You should have jumped," offered Tal. He removed his practice helmet single-handed and set it on the floor. "That would have looked great."

"Gods know I've suffered enough humiliation at your hands. You are truly a master swordsman."

Tal offered Chaney his free hand and lifted him from the floor. "I'm a sober swordsman, at least," replied Tal, pulling the other man to his feet. "You'll beat me after you've had a few more days to dry out."

"May the gods forbid," said Chaney. Even among the notoriously hedonistic Foxmantle family, he was known for his excesses. Even on the rare occasions when he was momentarily sober, Chaney couldn't best Tal at sword play. In fact, Chaney was without rival the worst of Master Ferrick's thirty-two students.

Tal used these matches with his friend to devise maneuvers for the fighting scenes at the theater. More often than not, that meant a sharp rap or two from Chaney's wooden practice sword as Tal tried flashy but unsound attacks.

"I'll need a bottle or two just to dull the pain from this hangover," added Chaney, struggling to remove his padded helmet. "I hope-"

The sound of loud, slow clapping interrupted their conversation. Chaney and Tal looked up to see that two other men had entered Master Ferrick's practice hall.

One of them strode forward as he continued his mock applause. He was narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered, with long blond hair held up in ivory combs that matched the piping on his burgundy doublet. He wore an elegantly curled mustache above a thin red slash of a mouth. Alale Soargyl fancied himself the most accomplished swordsman of Master Ferrick's school.

"Bravo," said Alale. "I shall endeavor to recall that inspired maneuver. It will undoubtedly prove useful when next I am faced with a blindly drunken sailor."

"I doubt he's ever facing the drunken sailors he meets," observed Chaney in a stage whisper. Tal couldn't quite hide his smile.

"If your sycophant wishes a lesson in manners or sword play, Master Uskevren," sniffed Alale, "it may address me directly."

Tal felt the hairs on his neck prickle. It wasn't the first time Chaney had been insulted in this fashion, but it still rankled. Ever since they were childhood friends, Chaney was perceived by his peers as little more than Tal's henchman. Chaney derived from a particularly disreputable and very nearly destitute branch of the Foxmantle tree. There was no stopping gossip that he courted Tal's friendship to improve his own standing.

Never one to ignore a barb, Chaney opened his mouth to retort, but Tal interrupted. "I could stand a lesson."

Alale's mustache twitched. Tal couldn't tell whether the man was pleased or irritated. Tal was a much better fighter than Chaney, and he was big enough not to fear the rumors that Alale paid longshoremen to thrash those who bested him at practice.

"Very well," replied Alale after a long pause. "One must assume responsibility for one's pets."

"To three?" asked Tal.

"To three, then." With a last sneer at Chaney, Alale plucked off his gloves before returning to fetch his gear. He would need a few moments to warm up.

Tal smiled inwardly. He considered Alale a poor swordsman and expected to win. He was more concerned about Chaney. Tal hoped he hadn't hurt his feelings by interceding. He turned to see his friend's expression, but Chaney was still glaring at Alale as the man unlaced his doublet.

Tal glanced at the other man who had entered with Alale. It was Radu Malveen, second son of one of the lesser merchant families in Selgaunt. Radu was nearly Tal's height, and his hair was just as black. There the resemblance ended, for while Tal was massive, Radu was whipcord thin. His black eyes were cool as a snake's, and Tal knew from experience that the man was serpent quick. Tal was certain that Radu was the finest swordsman of the school.

Radu returned Tal's gaze but said nothing. He had finished lacing his padded tunic and hooked the back of his ankle over the stretching bar. He bent as gracefully as a swan, touching his high forehead to his shin.

"Be careful," said Chaney. "If you beat him too badly, you'll have to watch your back for a month."

"That's your job," replied Tal. "Which means showing some mercy to the local vineyards for a while."

"Curses!" spat Chaney. He shot Tal a genuinely grateful smile. "But it's the least I can do for my faithful bodyguard."

"The very least," agreed Tal.

Alale announced his readiness with an imperious sniff. He stood upon the middle circle of the central practice ring. Half the diameter of the red outer boundary and twice that of the green inner circle, the black line represented balance and equal opposition.

Tal took his place opposite Alale and met his opponent's eyes, as Master Ferrick always insisted. They donned their wicker helmets. Without another word, the two swordsmen saluted, Alale affecting a delicate little Tethyrian flourish at the end. The maneuver seemed clumsy and ridiculous with a wooden sword.

"Be careful, Tal," called Chaney. "He means to tickle you into submission."

Alale kept his eyes on Tal, but he scowled at the taunt. Tal grinned. He loved sword practice, and he had a mind to do a little tickling of his own.

"Stand the middle…" said Chaney,"… attack!"

Tal stood his ground at first, watching as Alale crossed over left, then forward, then back. Instead of obliging his opponent's invitation to dance, Tal exploded forward in a loud, stamping rush that startled Alale into a premature parry. Tal's attack, a beat later than anticipated, rapped Alale smartly across the knuckles. Alale didn't drop his weapon, but as it fell out of guard, Tal lunged and smacked the top of Alale's helmet.

"One," said Tal, returning to his position in the middle ring. He could almost see the red glow of Alale's cheeks beneath the nose and cheek guards of his practice helmet.

"One," agreed Alale crisply. He sounded as if he wanted to complain about the ignoble attack, but he knew it was perfectly fair. He should have been more careful.

"Stand…" called Chaney,"… attack!"

This time, Alale came on in a direct but cautious attack. First he explored Tal's outer guard, always careful of a riposte. Tal restrained himself from a counterattack at first, looking for a chance to strike a particularly humiliating blow instead of settling for an ordinary cut.

Alale's feints were good, and soon he added a low cut with a thrusting riposte. The first one nearly came through, and Tal realized that remaining on the defensive would be more difficult than he had expected.

Before he could change tactics, however, Tal misjudged a low cut by half a beat and felt a smart blow to the thigh.

"One and one," said Alale triumphantly. Tal shrugged an apology at Chaney and took his place again.

In the next pass, Tal tried to take the offensive once more. He beat Alale's blade to the outside with all of his strength. Rather than lunge forward for the point, however, Tal whirled around, taking the blade from his right hand to his left, throwing an ambitious backhanded sweeping cut at Alale's padded shoulder.

It would have been spectacular, had it landed.

Instead, Tal nearly threw his arm out of joint as Alale thrust the tip of his wooden blade into his shoulder.

"I suppose that sort of thing appeals to the groundlings," observed Alale scornfully. Normally immune to such barbs, Tal felt his cheeks warm. It was a silly attack, but it might turn into something good for the next show. If it had landed, how Alale would have simmered!

Tal evened the score in the next pass by pressing with his superior strength, then luring Alale into a hasty counterattack. Tal deftly deflected the cut to his head and thrust under Alale's blade to poke him with a two-handed thrust in the biceps. Annoyed, Alale slapped the wooden blade away before Tal could withdraw it.

As he took his position for the final pass, Tal noticed that Radu Malveen stood outside the fighting circle, opposite Chaney. Even when he turned his eyes back to Alale, Tal could feel Radu's leaden gaze upon his back.

"… attack!" Tal realized that he had lost his concentration almost too late to parry Alale's running thrust. Had Alale moved before the command? Tal twisted to evade Alale's body, then quickly raised his blade to block a quick but weak slash as Alale recovered from his lunge. Unfortunately, the maneuver left Tal on one knee. Before Tal could recover, Alale kicked the side of his forward knee, spinning him to the right and opening his entire left flank to attack.

Ignoring the pain in his knee, Tal threw himself to the right, rolling to evade the attack. Alale followed him, the sharp rap of his sword against the floor striking three times just behind Tal's helmet before he came to his feet in a low guard position. Tal feared he might have rolled out of bounds, but he heard no call from Radu or Chaney.

Without looking down, Tal knew he stood on the red outer line. If he took one step backward, the touch would go to Alale, who even now unleashed a furious attack designed to make Tal retreat. Tal was determined not to move.

As he pushed aside his burning embarrassment at putting himself in such a weak position, Tal felt a gentle calm envelope him.

Tal's blade moved faster as his heart grew quiet. Soon he could no longer feel the weapon in his hands, then his arms were more a memory than a tangible presence. His blade was no longer his conscious defense. It had become the mirror of Alale's own weapon, moving where it did not by will but simply because it must.

Frustration built on Alale's face, and Tal didn't sense so much as he later remembered when the man's fury broke into a desperate lunge. Instead of another sword strike, Alale threw his entire weight toward Tal's chest.

Tal shrugged as smoothly as if donning a robe, rolling beside and behind Alale as his opponent threw himself out of the red circle.

Alale landed with a painful crunch and a muffled curse.

"Yes!" shouted Chaney gleefully.

Tal blinked as if coming out of a trance. Then he grinned and turned toward Chaney. "I thought he had me," said Tal, shucking off his helmet.

Chaney didn't have time to voice a shout, but the expression on his face was warning enough. Tal dropped and spun to the right, just in time to see Alale's practice blade slash down where his unprotected head had been an instant earlier.

Before Alale could recover, Tal had the man's wrist in his hand, squeezing hard. "That's enough," said Tal.

Alale's face was white with hatred. Tal saw his eyes go wide and watery as Tal squeezed his wrist harder, feeling the bones grind together before Alale gasped. The wooden practice sword clattered on the floor.

Alale choked back furious tears as Tal released him. "You'll regret that, Uskevren."

Tal growled, low and throaty. The inhuman sound transfixed Alale. For long seconds he stood looking up into the eyes of the bigger man with naked terror in his eyes.

The moment passed, and Alale twisted his thin lips an ugly, flickering sneer. Still, he kept his tongue still as he scurried away to stand near Radu Malveen.

Radu looked at the frightened man with the expression of one noticing that he was standing next to a pile of steaming dung. With the barest widening of his nostrils, Radu stepped gracefully away, turning his back on Alale.

Abandoned Alale scurried off to collect his things and left, still cradling his bruised wrist.

"That went well," suggested Chaney. "Don't you think?"

Outside the fighting school, Tal and Chaney blinked into the strong sea breeze that wound through the warehouses. They paused for a passing ale wagon before entering the street. As they did, Radu Malveen appeared beside them. Tal noticed that the wind did not disturb the man's hair or clothing and wondered what sort of enchantment he carried for the effect.

Tal barely knew the man, but Radu's younger brother, Pietro, had been on the ill-fated hunting party. Fortunately for the Malveens, Pietro was one of the few who reached their horses in the early moments of the attack. Like Chaney, he had escaped unharmed.

"My apologies for disturbing your practice, Master Malveen," offered Tal.

Radu inclined his chin.

"Perhaps I can make amends for chasing off your opponent. Shall we practice tomorrow?"

"No," said Radu.

"Perhaps another time…"

"No."

"Why not?" asked Chaney, cocking his head as if detecting a sound he didn't like. "You came here with that fool Alale."

"It's all right, Chaney," said Tal. "Let's see who's at the Green Gauntlet."

"No, it isn't all right," insisted Chaney. "What's wrong with Tal, Malveen? He's twice as good as Alale, and you were going to face him. Weren't you?"

"Chaney!" protested Tal.

Instead of flattening Chaney, as was the usual custom among their peers, Radu merely nodded again, as if acknowledging Chaney's point. "That is true. Master Uskevren is mechanically proficient with the sword."

Chaney's head bobbed as if he'd just scored a touch, ignoring the caveat of "mechanically."

"So what's the problem?"

Tal wished Chaney would shut up.

"I will face you in the circle," said Radu, turning his unreflecting eyes on Tal, "once you begin treating it with respect."

Chaney opened his mouth to retort, but Tal shushed him with a raised hand.

"This is not theater rehearsal," said Radu. Few of Tal's peers thought much of the theater, but Radu sounded particularly scornful.

"I was just having fun with Alale," said Tal. "I intended no disrespect."

"You don't understand," said Radu coolly. "You should never have permitted Soargyl to touch you. Your antics are an offense to the circle, to your sword, and to yourself." With that, Radu Malveen made the most perfunctory of bows and turned away.

Chaney gave a little snort, but Tal noticed he didn't cast a snide remark after Radu.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," said Chaney. "You're one of the best swordsmen in Selgaunt."

"No," said Tal slowly, "I'm not." Radu's words had disturbed him more than he thought possible. "But maybe I ought to be."

That evening, Tal returned alone to his tallhouse. The sun had just set, and his shadow stretched across the cobblestones in the deceptively warm-looking glow of the street lamps.

He'd had more than a few flagons of ale throughout the afternoon, but he was sharp enough to keep his eyes on the shadows. The figure trailing him for the past few streets was probably one his father's men. At least he made an effort to stay out of sight.

Throughout the day, Tal and Chaney had traded gossip and sung songs with longshoremen and market girls at the Green Gauntlet. When the wealthier patrons began arriving, they moved along to the less savory Black Stag, where they shared rude jokes and flirted with the tough women of that den of smugglers.

Chaney slipped out with a fetching young servant of the Hulorn's palace. Like Tal, he preferred common women to merchant nobility. Chaney considered them exciting and dangerous, the more disreputable the better. Unlike his friend, Tal simply found such women more approachable, free of the inevitable pretensions of the rich.

Unfortunately, even common women who learned Tal's heritage often became more ambitious than interesting. At the first sign of an ulterior motive, Tal's interest evaporated. Thus his experiences were considerably less epic than Chaney's.

The idea made him angry at no one in particular. He hated thinking his most valuable attribute was the accident of his birth.

These sour thoughts distracted him so much that he walked completely past his tallhouse. Turning back, he glimpsed a hooded figure gazing at him from the corner of his house. A woman's face framed in auburn hair, bright eyes-maybe blue or green-that was all he saw before she slipped into the dark alley.

She'd been watching for him. He was sure of it.

Tal ran to where she'd been. In the dark alley, only the glittering rails of shallow balconies and stairwells shone in the streetlight. Tal wished the moon had risen to shine straight down into the darkness. The woman could be hiding almost anywhere in that gloom.

Opening his eyes wide against the darkness, Tal stepped carefully forward. He debated whether to call out to the woman. But what would he say?

Before he found any trace of his mystery woman, a light appeared from the tallhouse beside his. A big-bellied woman stood on the second-floor balcony holding a lamp. She wore a gaudy, embroidered robe over her nightgown.

"Precious?" she called. "Is that you?"

"It's me, Mistress Dunnett," said Tal. He stepped out of the shadows and into the dim circle of her lamplight.

"Oh," she said, disappointed. "It's good to see you've come back home, Master Talbot. Have you seen my precious Pumpkin?"

"I'm afraid not." Briefly, Tal wondered whether his mystery woman had done away with the cat, but he couldn't think of a reason why she would. After the scratch the little bastard had given him yesterday, Tal found himself unmoved by the thought of Pumpkin's untimely demise.

Tal said goodnight to Mistress Dunnett and went inside to bed.

In his dreams, Tal relived the terror of the Arch Wood, only this time the beast had him cornered. It harried him time after time, tormenting him yet withholding the killing stroke.

Gray light filtered through the draperies of Tal's bedroom window, but it was the noise that had awakened him from the vexing nightmares. This time, Tal awoke clearheaded enough to realize that someone was banging on the door to his bedroom. In fact, someone else was banging on his closet door-from the inside.

"Master Talbot!" called Eckart from the hallway.

"Help me!" cried an unfamiliar voice from the closet. "They're still out there!"

Tal began to rise but paused, sensing something strange about the room. The curtains flapped at the open window, raising goose bumps on his naked flesh. That was odd, for he wasn't one to sleep in the nude.

Tal threw his feet over the side of the bed. Standing, he slid in some nasty slickness on the floor, crashing down beside it.

His head hit the floor beside the torn and bloody face of Alale Soargyl. Tal had slipped in the man's scattered guts.

Tal screamed, the voice from the closet screamed, and Eckart screamed from the hallway. Tal was the first to stop, scrambling through the horrid mess toward the hallway door. He found the portal blocked by a heavy chest pulled from the foot of Tal's bed. Crammed into the corner behind it was another dead body, or most of one, its remaining features unrecognizable.

Tal screamed again. So did the man in the closet. Eckart had never stopped.

Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, Tal shoved the chest away from the door to let Eckart in. His manservant took one look at Tal and began to scream again, but Tal quickly clamped a big hand over his mouth. His arms were bathed in blood, and he felt the stickiness all over his naked body. It was on his legs, his chest, his arms, even his face.

"Let me think," said Tal, but a horrible realization had already taken shape in his mind. At last he knew the nature of his mysterious attacker back in the Arch wood. He understood now why he had been followed to the city.

"Fetch Chaney," said Tal, taking his hand from Eckart's mouth. "No one else, and I mean it. You don't want to be the one to describe this to my father, do you?"

Eckart demonstrated a certain amount of iron as he calmed himself. He plucked a handkerchief from his vest and dabbed hastily at the bloody handprint over his mouth. "No, sir," he said emphatically. "I should not desire that."

"I know some men from the Stag who'll take care of the bodies for a few coins," offered Chaney.

"Yes," said Tal, "but how much for their silence? And for how long?"

"True," agreed Chaney. "Once they realized who you were, there'd be no satisfying them."

"Cale would know what to do."

"What Cale knows, your father knows."

"Sometimes I'm not so sure of that," said Tal. "But eventually my father must know. I can't afford a cure with my own money. Even if I could, there isn't a priest in Selgaunt who wouldn't tell father later."

"I thought a cure worked only before you actually… you know. Changed."

"That I don't know," sighed Tal. "I don't know anything about being a werewolf." He'd washed himself soon after Eckart had left to find Chaney, but he still felt unclean. "Maybe I should just turn myself in."

"Don't be a fool!" said Chaney. "If nothing else, think of the harm it would cause your family."

"I've just killed two men!" countered Tal. "The third one's still locked in my closet. How much more harm can I cause?"

The lone survivor of the night's massacre had been eager to tell his story, though it was hard to make out the details through his terrified babbling. He was a lockpick who prided himself on working for only the wealthiest employers.

Alale Soargyl offered him and his hulking companion two hundred fivestars each to beat Tal into submission, then hold him as Alale threw a few punches of his own.

They'd broken into the tallhouse and found their way to Tal's bedroom, where they had planned to lie in wait. Instead, they'd found a monster.

"What if it's not your fault?"

"How can that be?"

"What if someone did this to you on purpose?" said Chaney.

Tal considered that suggestion. "That's too fantastic," he said at last. "Even if the attack on our party was planned, how could they know who would survive?"

"Maybe they didn't care which of us it was," suggested Chaney. "Or maybe we were all supposed to die."

"The old woman knew I'd been attacked by a werewolf," said Tal. "But was she part of the plot? Or was she just trying to help?"

"She had to be in on it," said Chaney. "It's too big a coincidence that she'd find you out there in the woods."

Tal nodded. It was all too convenient.

"The important thing is that we put you someplace safe tonight. Too bad the closet's already occupied."

"That wouldn't be enough, anyway," said Tal. "I need a strong cell. And in case I get out…"

"It takes an enchanted sword to slay a werewolf," said Chaney. "You'd be safe as long as you didn't run into a wizard or someone with a magical weapon."

"There's that big, solid cage at the theater," said Tal.

"And you can trust Quickly to keep things quiet." Chaney was brightening, even if Tal was full of despair.

"There's the sword, in case I get out."

"You won't get out," said Chaney. "I mean, it won't get out. You said yourself you don't remember anything from last night. That proves it's not you. It's… you know. The thing. The wolf. It."

"But if it does get out," said Tal, "I need someone I can trust to take care of it. I need you there with the sword."

"Listen," said Chaney, "Eckart and I can take care of things here. You go talk to Quickly."

"I'm serious, Chaney. I need you there tonight, and I need your promise that you'll kill it if it gets out of the cage."

Chaney sighed. "I'll be there."

"Promise."

"I promise."

"You're a what?"

"A were-"

"No, no, I heard you the first time," said Quickly. She bit the tip of her thumb and turned away to pace beside the big steel cage. "Do you suppose we could work it into a play? Of course, we'd be limited to a few shows each month, and-"

"Quickly!" exclaimed Tal. "This is a serious problem, not an opportunity to…" He saw from the sly look on Quickly's face that she'd been putting him on. "Can I count on you to keep this quiet?"

"You know you can, lad. I'll cancel today's shows and put out word that half the cast is down with river fever. That should keep the other half from snooping about tonight." She gave Tal a comrade's hug. "We'll see this thing through, just you and me."

"And Lommy!" cried a voice from the dark rafters. Tal looked up to see two pairs of yellow eyes peering down. "And Otter!"

"Eavesdroppers!" scolded Quickly.

Tal hesitated a moment. "Chaney, too," added Tal. "He'll be here before nightfall. We'll need him in case the cage doesn't hold."

"What do you expect he can do about it?"

"We need the sword, Quickly."

Even the false cheer at last drained from her cheeks. "You can't mean it, Tal. There must be another way."

He shook his head. "I'd rather die than kill again. Even Alale didn't deserve what he got. Imagine if I woke up at Stormweather tomorrow morning."

"The cage will hold," affirmed Quickly, grabbing one of its bars and pulling. It didn't budge.

"Let's hope so."

Chaney arrived an hour before moonrise with assurances that he'd taken care of the problems back at the tallhouse. He'd also done something he assured Tal would keep Eckart quiet for a while, but he wouldn't reveal what it was.

"In you go," said Quickly. Lommy and Otter had lowered the cage to the ground, and Tal stepped inside. Quickly locked the door and set the key on a prop table, well away from the bars.

"You want us to turn our heads or anything?" asked Chaney.

"Would you if I said 'yes'?" asked Tal.

"Well, no," admitted Chaney. Quickly laughed, but Tal could see the tension on both their faces. He thought of the tasloi peering down from above.

"No matter what happens," he called up to the darkness, "you two stay up there."

Lommy and Otter squeaked their assent.

"Well," said Chaney, "I don't plan to stand the whole time." He found a couple of chairs for himself and Quickly, then eased himself comfortably into the better one.

"The sword!" said Tal suddenly. "Don't forget the sword."

"Right, right," said Chaney in a tone that convinced Tal that he hadn't forgotten it.

"You'll never find it on your own," said Quickly. "I'll show you where it is." She led him down the narrow stairs to the small prop room under the stage.

Tal found himself wishing one of them had stayed. He looked up toward the ceiling, but there was no sign of Lommy or Otter. He stopped himself from calling out to them. They were probably more frightened than he was and had run off to avoid witnessing his horrid transformation.

A muffled thump came from the prop room.

"Chaney?" called Tal. "You haven't been drinking already, have you?" He tried to keep his tone light, but a new fear crept into his heart. "Chaney? Quickly?"

Neither of them answered.

He tried again. When no one replied, he fell silent, gripping the bars of his cage. Time oozed at a gelid pace.

Tal heard two pairs of footsteps rising from the prop room stairs. "Come on, now," he said weakly. "Stop kidding around, you two." The echo of his voice made him fall silent, and he watched as two people emerged from the stairs. They weren't Chaney and Quickly.

The intruders each wore long, gray cloaks, the hoods pushed back to reveal their faces. Tal immediately noted the family resemblance. Feena had her mother's determined jaw and slightly upturned nose.

"What have you done with my friends?" demanded Tal. He'd meant to sound intimidating, but he failed to conjure his father's voice.

"They are well," assured the old woman in the voice Tal remembered from his confined convalescence. She turned to her daughter and gestured toward Tal in his cage. "Does this reassure you?"

"Yes, Mother. Perhaps I was hasty."

"There is hope for you, young Uskevren," said the old woman, "but only if your faith is strong."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Tal. "Who are you?"

"My name is Maleva. I am a servant of Selune."

"The goddess of the moon," said Tal.

Maleva nodded, then gestured to the young woman beside her. "This is Feena, my daughter and acolyte. We pulled you from the brambles of the Arch Wood and tried to cure you of your affliction. Now we offer you one last chance to escape the curse of the beast."

"But there's a price," said Tal suspiciously.

"There is indeed a price," agreed Maleva. She produced a crystal flask from beneath her cloak. A thick, pearlescent liquid glowed within the container. As Tal watched, the stuff seemed to move, undulating like a jellyfish. "This is moonfire. I have traveled far for the privilege of offering it to you."

"It can give you control over the beast," said Feena, "but only if you have not hunted and devoured your fellow men."

Tal felt a heavy sigh escape his chest. "Well, that's where we have a problem. You see-"

"I have seen," interrupted Feena. "While mother traveled to the city of Ordulin to beg a fraction of moonfire from Dhauna Myritar, I followed you here, to Selgaunt. In the past two nights, you have slain no one."

"You must have nodded off," said Tal. "This morning there were two dead bodies in my room." He realized suddenly how easy it would have been to lie, but something about the strange women made him blurt the truth.

Maleva's faint smile told him that he had passed a little test. "We were not the only ones to follow you," said Maleva. "Rusk slew the men who watched over you, then tracked you to your home."

"Rusk…" said Tal slowly. "That's the name I heard the night I was attacked."

"Rusk is a servant of the Beastlord" said Maleva, "a priest of the god Malar. We children of Selune are charged with checking the atrocities of his kind. It is he who led the attack on your hunting party. Now he claims you as his disciple."

"He's the werewolf who mauled me?" ventured Tal. The women nodded.

"He rarely ventures from the wood," said Maleva, "but something brought him…"

A beam creaked noisily from the rafters above. At the sound, Maleva and Feena stepped back as one, clutching the talismans they wore about their necks, their voices chanting two different spells.

Harsh laughter boomed from the rafters. It wasn't a sound Lommy could have mimicked.

Feena raised her talisman like a shield. A pair of eyes surrounded by stars blazed on the amulet. Before Feena could finish the words to her spell, a great dark figure crushed her to the ground.

It was a huge man, bigger even than Tal. His leather jerkin was open to expose thick gray hair on his muscular chest and arms. A beaded headband kept his unruly locks at bay and held the bronze image of a ragged claw upon his forehead. His mustache grew down either side of his broad mouth, while grizzled stubble covered his cheeks and throat.

He crouched growling over Feena, who moaned and shook her head dazedly. Rusk turned his blazing blue eyes on Tal and made a savage smile.

With a flash, a blue-white blade of light appeared in Maleva's hands. Without a word, she raised the weapon high. Rusk whipped around to face her and spat a single word: "Stop!"

Tal saw Maleva's arms tremble, but her conjured blade was fixed fast above her head. Rusk stood, towering over the old woman.

"Your powers are weak," he declared, balling a fist scant inches from her grimacing face. "Strength lies only within the heart of the beast."

Rusk punched Maleva in the stomach hard enough to lift her feet from the floor. Her paralysis broken, she fell back hard. Tal heard the crack of her skull on the wooden floor.

"Stop it!" he shouted from the confines of the cage. Real anger empowered his voice, making a weapon of it.

Rusk turned back again. "Don't worry, brother wolf. I am saving them for your first true hunt."

"Let them go," said Tal. He felt powerless within the cage, but he couldn't silently watch Rusk murder the women. He hoped he could buy enough time that Chaney could recover from whatever Maleva and Feena had done to him. He hoped Rusk's melodramatic manner ran true.

"Oh, that I will," agreed Rusk ominously. He turned to Feena, who was crawling across the floor toward Maleva. Again he spoke a prayer to Malar, the Beastlord, god of hunters. To Feena he said, "Take your mother and flee."

Feena obeyed so quickly that Tal knew Rusk's words carried the power of the Beastlord. She dragged Maleva toward the back stage door.

"You, my cub," said Rusk, turning again to Tal, "have disappointed me. You ran like a hart last moon, but you must learn to be the hunter as well as the hunted."

"Then teach me," said Tal, hoping to buy a few more minutes. Too much, however, and the moon would be upon him, too. He hoped he was a better actor than he thought, and he prayed that Rusk was not the most discerning audience.

Rusk's grin told Tal that the man did not yet trust him. "This is your last chance, little brother."

Tal winced at the phrase. He wanted no relation to this monster.

"You must do better than one miserable cat before you can join the great hunt," snarled Rusk. "This is the last time I will show you."

"What about the moonfire?" ventured Tal. "Shouldn't we take it? The old woman said it would give us control of-"

"A lie!" spat Rusk. "It is a trick to place you in thrall of their mewling, feeble goddess. It saps the power of the beast and bends your will to theirs. Tonight they shall be our prey."

"I should have known." Tal made fists of his hands, a stone of his face. He paused as long as he dared for dramatic effect. "I never trusted them."

Rusk glanced sidelong at Tal.

Tal clenched his teeth and thought of all the attempts to control his life: his mother, his father, even Maleva and Feena. He summoned his father's voice. "I'll take the old bitch first," he thundered. "She tried to tame me with her potions, but now she'll feel my teeth on her throat."

Rusk leered and watched Tal closely.

"Let's stand beneath the naked sky," rumbled Tal. "Let the moon come. We'll wash it in blood."

Tal nodded toward the table, and Rusk found the key. He put it in the cage lock but then paused. "I'll tear out your heart if you run from me," he warned.

"No more running," said Tal. "It's time to hunt."

Satisfied, Rusk opened the cage. Tal walked past him, out onto the stage. Rusk followed closely, watching for any sign of weakness. The floor lamps cast unsettling shadows on the faces of both men.

Tal paced the length of the stage, his real anxiety making it easy to appear restless and eager. As he walked across one of the trapdoors, a plan began to form in his mind.

"The moon is coming," rumbled Rusk. "Can you feel it?"

Tal noticed the pressure on his ears and eyes. "Yes," he said. "It's like a storm."

"That's it!" encouraged Rusk. "Open your heart to it. The beast sends you strength and courage."

Tal stood squarely on the trapdoor. He couldn't open it himself. Glancing at the open galleries, he peered for some sign of Lommy or Otter. "Open, heart!" cried Tal. "Open your depths to the beast!" He hoped the tasloi understood.

Rusk raised his arms toward the sky. "Malar, Beastlord, Master of the Hunt, hear my prayer and bestow your blessing on my acolyte. Give us your-"

The trapdoor opened, and Tal vanished into the small prop room.

"No!" screamed Rusk. He pounced toward the closing door. His fingers slipped into the crack and prevented the door from closing. "Fool! Weakling! I'll kill you!"

Tal heard wood popping as Rusk pushed against the trapdoor. He found what he wanted, then ran to another trapdoor across the dark prop room. He pulled the lever and rose back onto the stage.

"Here I am," Tal called from behind Rusk. He raised the enchanted sword and spoke the words. Hot flames whooshed along the long sword's blade.

Rusk began chanting another spell. Tal rushed to strike him before it could be completed, but he saw the effects before he reached his foe. The man's fingers grew long and thick. The nails extended into sharp, bony knives.

Tal's sword glanced off Rusk's terrible new claws. The scraping vibration made his teeth ache. In his rush to strike the first blow, he opened his guard far too wide.

Rusk swept a backhanded slash across Tal's belly, ripping through fabric and flesh. Tal gasped at the pain and tried to restore his guard.

The beast man pressed the attack, slashing furiously with both gigantic hands. Tal felt a horrible looseness in his guts as he struggled to sustain a defense, parrying left and right as he backed across the stage.

Even through the pain, Tal felt another keen sensation. The hairs all over his body pricked up, and his joints ached. The transformation was starting.

Rusk felt it also, and he stopped to howl at the sky. Tal felt a wild scream rising in his own breast, but he fought to keep it down. Rusk lowered his eyes to meet Tal's. He approached slowly, savoring the fear he saw in his prey.

Tal retreated until he ran out of stage. The pain in his belly sprang to agonizing life. He wondered briefly if he'd live long enough to die as a wolf. Part of him hoped he would die first.

Then he noticed the springboard.

A mad grin stretched across Tal's face. Win or lose, he would finish this fight on his own terms. Clutching the flaming sword in both hands, he ran toward his enemy.

Rusk braced for a headlong attack, his god-granted talons spread before him in a shield of blades. Tal hit the springboard with both feet and flew high above Rusk's bony shields, flipping forward as he guided the sword in a great overhead arc.

Rusk moved just in time to save his skull. The sword swept past the werewolf's cheek to cleave through the meat and bone of his shoulder.

Tal collapsed heavily before his enemy, defeated. He felt his guts spilling through his belly but didn't even have the strength to clutch at them. He raised his head to face his death.

He looked up just in time to see Rusk's severed arm fall away from his body. The arterial spray was black in the yellow light.

Rusk's agonized howl was deafening as Tal fell backward onto the stage. Their blood mingled in a widening pool.

Tal's second convalescence was much more painful than the first. Maleva and Feena returned in time to save his life, but they had yet to use Selune's power to heal him properly. When they returned to his tallhouse the next day, they found Chaney and Eckert at his side.

After they'd mended his wounds, Maleva produced the moonfire. Tal had already told Chaney and Eckart his story. The servant was especially quiet this morning, still angry at having spent the night trussed and locked in the closet beside the captured lockpick. His cold glare followed the unrepentant Chaney wherever he went.

"At last," said Chaney, admiring the vial of moonfire. "Here's the solution to all your trouble."

"No," said Tal. "I don't want it."

Feena's eyebrows jumped, but Maleva seemed nonplussed.

"But sir," said Eckart, breaking his silence at last, "how else can you put an end to this curse?"

"That stuff won't work for me unless I pledge myself to Selune. Right?"

"That is true," replied Maleva evenly.

"I can't see you as a priest," said Chaney with a little whimsy.

"Neither can I," agreed Tal.

"There are many ways to serve Selune," said Maleva. "All that is required is devotion."

"You mean obedience."

Maleva inclined her head with a little smile.

"The difference between you and Rusk is only the purpose you intend for me. You both demand my obedience."

"Rusk sought to turn you into a beast, like him," said Feena.

"I've been wondering about that," interjected Chaney. "There were more than a dozen of us in that hunting party. None of this 'Hunt' came after me or the others who escaped. Why are they so interested in Tal?"

"It is strange that he followed you to the city," allowed Maleva. She looked Tal in the face as if considering him for the first time. "He has a special interest in you, Talbot Uskevren."

"He isn't done, either," said Feena. They had found a trail of blood leading to the theater entrance, but Rusk had escaped. "You would be wise to trust in Selune. She offers the power to oppose his kind."

"I appreciate what you've done," said Tal. "Eckart will see that you're well paid for healing me. But I'll need more time to consider this business of the moonfire and Selune."

"If you let the beast rule your heart," warned Feena, "you must be destroyed." The heat in her voice was startling.

"I'll find a way," promised Tal. "But I'll find my own way."

"Sometimes that is the best course," said Maleva. "We will remain in Selgaunt until you have found that way."

Feena gave Tal a long look to emphasize her mother's point, a threat mingled with some other emotion in her steady gaze. "We'll be watching you," she said.

"I understand," said Tal. He knew Maleva and Feena would deal harshly with him if he surrendered to the monster Rusk had placed inside him. "I have thirty days."