Traitor to the Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

Magiere rook another sip of tea and shuffled the deck of cards. Byrd and Leesil sat across from her at a table in the common room.

It had been a long, unproductive day, but late as it was, no one showed interest in heading for bed. Wynn sat on the floor trying to tease Chap's interest in Potato and Tomato's wrestling game. Clover Roll crouched alone atop a table at the room's rear, glowering at everyone.

A few patrons came earlier for an evening meal. Magiere gave Byrd a hand at the bar, missing the nights at her own Sea Lion tavern. She wondered how Caleb and Rose fared in Muska and hoped Leesil was right about Aunt Bieja heading there on her own.

Magiere's assistance was also an excuse to watch over Byrd. Like Wynn, she thought the man deceitful at best, with designs on Leesil connected to the unfinished drawings he had so casually handed over. She wished they'd never come here, but Byrd might still be the only lead to answers for Leesil. After the patrons left, Magiere sat down to play cards. She chatted politely as she watched over Leesil, hoping Byrd would tip his hand in some way.

Leesil's heart didn't appear to be in the game. He'd stayed upstairs, out of sight, until the last of the patrons were gone. As the night ran on, he grew more restless. Magiere knew that they must soon decide on some course of action.

"More tea?" Byrd asked. "Or something stout? Your father never drank, but I don't know your habits."

Leesil hesitated in a way that set Magiere on edge. "Just tea," he replied.

Byrd headed off for the kitchen. Magiere wished she had the man alone. Getting Byrd drunk might yield something more than Leesil had gotten out of him.

"Leesil, look," Wynn said. "Like four little hands!"

Magiere glanced down. Tomato had all four paws wrapped savagely around Wynn's arm as if locked in a life-and-death battle. The sage's fascination with the kittens baffled Magiere, and the attempt to get a smile from Leesil failed. Chap was merely bored, head lying on his paws.

Clover Roll yowled.

Magiere tensed, and Chap instantly sprang to his feet. The cat's mouth opened wide, exposing missing teeth in a long, grating hiss. As Byrd trotted back in from the kitchen, clunking the teapot down on a table, the mangy animal's noise grew louder.

Clover Roll leaped from table to table all the way to the front window's sill and pushed at the closed shutters.

"What's up?" Byrd asked and joined the fat feline, but when he cracked the shutter to peek out, he whirled around, all traces of the witty innkeeper gone. "All of you, get in the kitchen, now! Keep quiet and out of sight."

Leesil stood up. "Byrd-"

"Move!" Byrd whispered harshly, and grabbed Wynn's arm, pulling her up as he rushed them all into the kitchen and jerked the curtain closed. "Not a sound."

Magiere looked to Leesil for answers, but he shook his head, white-blond hair falling forward over his shoulder. The curtain swayed slightly as Clover Roll sauntered in, weaving through their legs away from Chap to settle beneath the kitchen table.

There was a knock at the inn's front door. Magiere hooked the curtain with one fingertip and peered out.

Byrd opened the front door, revealing a slender man. His wild black hair, dusky complexion, and silver earrings marked him as a Mondyalitko. When he turned his head, she noticed he wore the rings in only one ear. His other ear was missing, and only smooth scars remained.

Magiere didn't care much for these wanderers with their wagon houses. She and Leesil had encountered their traveling families over years on the road. They wore motley bright clothes and had open smiles for strangers, and their laughter came too easily to be trustworthy.

The man in the doorway was different. Closed and serious, with hard eyes, he showed none of his people's sly mirth. He was rather plainly dressed in a burgundy shirt, high boots, and a thin belt. As he stepped into the common room, several cats scurried out from hiding beneath tables. Even Tomato and Potato skittered around behind the bar in a strange panic.

"Bit late for a visit, Faris," Byrd said.

"As if I'd make a social call here," the man answered.

"Then what do you want?" Byrd shut the door but didn't follow his visitor into the common room. He stayed at the bar's far end near the front door.

"Lord Darmouth wishes to find a woman named Magiere. He's been told she's in the city."

Magiere stiffened. Why and how had she come to that tyrant's attention?

Byrd merely shrugged. "And what of it?"

"We were told she's a dhampir." Faris offered a shallow smile of mockery. "A noblewoman was assaulted outside the Bronze Bell last night. The story is that the attacker was a vampire."

Faris waited for Byrd's reaction. When none came, he continued with a shrug of his own.

"Our lord wants to protect the city, of course, so he wishes to engage this hunter's services… for whatever fee. Put the word out and be quick about it. He wants her found tonight."

"Of course." Byrd paused. "But which noblewoman was attacked?"

"Lady Hedi Progae. She is safe now, under our lord's protection."

As Faris spoke the name, Magiere heard a breath sucked in behind her. Something clattered to the floor, followed by a hiss. She glanced back to find that Leesil had retreated back against the kitchen table, knocking off a carving knife and startling Clover Roll. Leesil's gaze was fixed on the curtained doorway, and he didn't blink.

The noise had surely attracted Faris's attention, and Magiere dropped one hand to her hip. The falchion wasn't there. She'd stowed it behind the bar while serving drinks earlier that evening.

Clover Roll scurried out from under the table. Magiere ducked back as the doorway curtain rustled in the cat's passage. When the fabric settled in place, she peeked out again. The cat sauntered around the bar's near end and out into the common room.

Byrd looked down at the cat and smiled calmly. "Ah well, I forgot about my partner's late night nibble. My kitchen will be in quite a state for that oversight."

Paris sneered in disgust. "Just find the hunter-tonight." He pushed past Byrd to the front door and left.

Magiere spun around, stepping close in front of Leesil. He didn't acknowledge her.

"What's wrong?" she said. "That woman's name…"

Magiere stopped. Leesil's gaze wandered across the floor, eyes shifting quickly as if he was watching something. When she glanced down, there was nothing to see. Leesil remained silent, and at first Magiere thought she saw him shaking his head ever so slightly. Then she realized he was shuddering.

"Leesil? What has that woman to do with this?"

And still, he didn't seem to know she was there. She was about to grab him and shake him to awareness when Byrd stepped through the doorway curtain.

"You heard?" he asked.

Before Magiere could answer, Leesil whispered.

"A trap…"

Magiere slowly reached toward him and then stopped.

"If Darmouth knows of Magiere," Leesil continued to himself, "then he knows she's with me. He knows I'm here, and this is just a pretense to draw me out."

"Don't be so quick," Byrd warned.

"What if there is a vampire?" Wynn asked, looking to Magiere.

The little sage stood off to the side and couldn't see Leesil's face as Magiere could. Leesil blinked, finally focusing on Magiere, then slowly tilted his head toward Wynn as if realizing she was there and had spoken.

"There are better cities to settle in," he said, "where prey is just as plentiful."

Byrd's brow wrinkled at Leesil's response. Magiere wished Leesil hadn't been so quick to reveal their belief in such creatures. And normally he wouldn't have.

Byrd shook his head and answered hesitantly, his brow wrinkling as he eyed Leesil.

"Faris thinks it's all nonsense… but he believes Darmouth is convinced that your woman can deal with this… vampire, supposedly. Any truth to it?"

"Yes," Magiere snapped, her self-control faltering. "And call me 'his woman' again, and I'll fix you so you've no interest in one of your own."

Byrd didn't even react to her warning. "Anyone before ever try to locate you like this? To hire you?"

"We spent years on the backroads, working the remote villages of southern Stravina," she answered. There was no point letting Byrd know it had all been a ruse until last season.

"We never worked this far north," Leesil whispered, "No one here would've heard of her by rumor. Someone told him we were here… told him of Magiere."

"And now Darmouth has invited me inside the keep," she said, and instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Leesil's gaze lifted to her face as if her voice had startled him. His eyes widened, and his head shook. Not truly in denial but more like the shudder within him had grown suddenly.

"This is over!" he tried to shout, but it came out harsh and grating rather than loud. "You're not meeting Darmouth in that keep or anywhere else. We're leaving tonight."

Before Magiere's anger fueled a retort, Byrd pushed her aside to face Leesil.

"Don't be a fool! She's fierce and clever, and she's been handed an invitation to the last place your parents were seen. She can handle Darmouth. I didn't think Nein'a's son would go belly-up so easily."

Leesil tensed, and his features slackened for an instant before his eyes locked on Byrd. He started to lean forward as if ready to lunge.

Magiere shoved Byrd back. "Shut your mouth and get away from him!"

For a second, Byrd peered straight in her eyes, waiting. He backed up to lean against a cutting block table at the kitchen's side wall.

"Am I right?" he asked her. "You think about it… and maybe get him to do the same."

Magiere's instincts rose like hunger in her throat. Leesil's self-control had slipped farther than she'd ever seen before, and it had something to do with the woman's name Faris had mentioned. Getting inside the keep might be her only avenue to help him find answers, but now Byrd was suddenly pushing too hard. Why had the man lost his temper the instant Leesil mentioned leaving?

Wynn stepped away from Byrd to the kitchen table, but she was watching Leesil as warily as the innkeeper. Leesil lowered his head, hands gripping the table edge as he clenched his eyes shut.

"I am coming with you," Wynn said quietly to Magiere. "So is Chap. We may recognize things of interest while you are negotiating services with Darmouth."

"No," Leesil said hoarsely. "Wynn, don't-"

"We'll have Byrd feel this out," Magiere cut in, "and try arranging an audience. If it smells bad-or we don't like the way he handles it-then we're gone. All right?"

"Why ask me?" Leesil said coldly. "You've made up your mind."

He shoved off the table so hard it slid several inches, making Wynn jump back and Chap sidestep out of his way. As he swatted the doorway curtain aside and left, Magiere watched in stunned silence. Worse still was that she didn't know whether to leave him be or follow and force out of him whatever had just pushed him over the edge.

Magiere turned on Byrd. "Set it up. Tell me as soon as you hear anything."

Byrd's eyes were on the kitchen curtain, still swaying in Leesil's wake. He glanced at her, nodded with a frown, and left. It wasn't until Magiere heard the inn's front door slam shut that Wynn came up to her.

"Chap and I are going with you," Wynn insisted, and grasped Magiere's arm. "You will need us."

Magiere looked at her, and finally nodded. "Yes, Wynn, I know."

Hedi sat at a mahogany table in the small common area of the Bronze Bell Inn. It was little more than a wide alcove just off the foyer and the main hallway running between the front and rear doors. She wore a midnight-blue velvet gown with a matching wide ribbon around her neck to hide her recent wound. She picked at an apple tart with a fork as she waited for Emel's return.

The clop or hooves grew loud outside the inn, and the creak of the front door followed. Hedi was slightly surprised when Lieutenant Omasta strode through the foyer into view. Emel was close behind, and the subtle widening of his eyes and clench of his jaw muscles told her something was wrong.

"What has happened?" she asked.

She stood up, her head barely reaching the top of Omasta's leather hauberk, and stepped around him to Emel standing in the hallway. There were four of Omasta's guards waiting near the front door and no sign of Emel's own men.

"I've been ordered to escort you to the keep, lady," Omasta explained. "Lord Darmouth will ensure your safety until this beast in the city has been dealt with."

"I am safe enough here," Hedi replied evenly, holding in her rising panic. "I have the protection of Baron Milea's own contingency."

Emel shook his head slightly, just once.

"Baron Milea remains here," Omasta said. "I have my orders, lady. I've brought a horse for you."

"She will need her personal effects," Emel said. He took Hedi's hand and walked toward the foot of the stairs.

Omasta fell in behind them. "Of course. I will assist with the baggage."

Hedi climbed the stairs with Emel. It was clear that Omasta would not leave her alone with the baron. Something more had happened for Darmouth to want her locked inside the keep for her own "safety."

Emel looked strained as he led the way to her room and began gathering her clothes and belongings. Omasta remained out in the upper hallway but kept the door open. There would be no chance for a single private word with Emel.

Once Hedi was packed, her panic rose again. She tried to think of a way to postpone her departure and have even one moment alone with Emel. When no ideas came to her, she was left with only the most cliche of feminine ploys.

Hedi put a hand to her throat, rolled her eyes closed with a soft exhale, and slumped to the floor in a heap.

She heard Emel kneel beside her, felt him take her hand, and he shouted at Omasta, "Get cold water and a towel… to the kitchen, man!"

A moment's silence followed, then heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway.

Hedi opened her eyes and pulled herself up by Emel's grip, leaning close to him with a whisper. "What has happened?"

"Shhhhh," he answered, and there was as much fear in his green eyes as she felt herself. "I should have told you last night. Darmouth has chosen you for a wife. He wants a legitimate heir."

Hedi stared at him. Had she even heard him correctly? Too many thoughts raced through her mind, and Omasta would return any moment.

"Do not let them lock me up!" she insisted.

"We cannot refuse," Emel said quickly. "I would end up rotting on the keep wall, and you would still be trapped."

"I would rather be dead," she answered too loudly, and Emel raised a finger to his lips, "than be breeding stock for that aging savage! There must be-"

"Go with Omasta, and wait for me," he said. "Smile for Darmouth, flatter him, play the bride-to-be if you must, but do whatever keeps him pacified. I will find a way to get you out, and we will disappear, but we cannot let him suspect anything."

Omasta came running back to the doorway. "The maid is coming. Are you… all right, lady?"

He saw her hand clasped in Emel's as she leaned close to him, and the concern vanished from the lieutenant's face as his eyes narrowed. A serving woman followed on his heels with a pitcher and towels. Emel turned his back to the door and looked Hedi in the eyes.

Go, he mouthed silently, and stay alive.

Alone in the dark room upstairs, Leesil dropped on the bed's edge. He was awake, yet visions like nightmares thrashed about in his mind. There had been so many victims, and then so many years of drinking himself into unconsciousness just to forget. Sometimes he couldn't remember all of their names. Only those who came after him in his sleep.

Lord Baron Progae… Lady Damilia… Sergeant Latatz… the blacksmith of Koyva… Lady Kersten Petzka… Josiah, the old scholar…

Leesil looked about for something, anything, to focus on rather than face his own rising memories. Magiere would come soon, but he half-hoped she would stay away. It took all his effort to fight off the ghosts, so how could he keep them from her?

Someone shifted in slumber beneath the bedcovers behind him.

Leesil lunged away, spinning about as he backed against the room's opposite wall.

The blankets and sheepskin cover were still neatly pulled up where he'd left them that morning.

The bed was empty. It was just his memories taunting him. But Leesil remained staring at the smoothed bed covers, uncertain that he could trust what he saw. He slid down the wall to lean against it on his haunches.

He should light a candle, or prepare for bed. Do anything to keep himself in the moment. But he remained there shaking in the dark, unable to forget…

Hedi Progae.

He'd seen her only once. No, in a way, it had been twice. One face among so many in his mind. And it had all been so long ago…

On the morning of his seventeenth birthday, his mother presented him with a gift.

The wooden box was as long as his forearm, less than half that in width, and no thicker than two hands stacked one on the other. Inside were items of unmatched craftsmanship. The sheen of their metal was brighter than polished steel.

Two stilettos as thin as knitting needles rested upon a coiled garrote wire with narrow wooden handles. There was a short curved blade strong enough to cut bone. Hidden behind a foldout panel in the box's lid, he found hooks, picks, and wire struts for opening locks.

No boy would have wanted this for his coming of age.

His mother slipped away as Leesil examined the items. When he noticed she was gone, he clutched the box and went looking for her. On the house's second floor, he stopped at his parents' room, looking in through the half-open door.

Cuirin'nen'a… Nein'a… Mother…

She sat on the window seat at the back of the room, the lake and for-est and gray sky all far out of reach behind her through the glass. Her perfect caramel skin, white-blond hair, and large almond-shaped eyes were mesmerizing. She was like an unearthly statue of smoothly polished wood, silent and unmoving, except for wet tracks of tears upon her checks.

Leesil backed away, unable to watch anymore.

Something tugged at his pant leg, and he looked down. Chap let go with his teeth and turned down the stairs. Leesil followed his only boyhood friend through the house to the kitchen. When Chap whined and pawed at the hatch in the corner, Leesil lifted it open. Chap jumped effortlessly down into the cellar and waited as Leesil followed.

He lit the lantern resting on the floor. The cellar was sparse, with no furnishings and few stores except a crate of dried goods, a barrel of excess fabrics and linens, and small sacks of whatever vegetables were in season. A small assortment of light and short blades and one buckler hung from the stone-reinforced walls.

Leesil opened the box, wondering at his mother's tears after all the training she had insisted he endure. He lightly fingered a stiletto blade as the hatch above him opened again.

His father climbed down the ladder.

Gavril always dressed in neutral colors, earthy and dark hues. His brown hair hung to his shoulders, and soft down covered his chin. His refined hands looked as if they belonged to a musician or perhaps a silversmith.

Leesil lifted one wire pick, a bit thicker than all the others. "What kind of lock would this open?"

His father held up both hands as a call for silence. "Our lord has a task for you."

Leesil blinked. He'd seen Lord Darmouth only once, four years earlier, as the ruler left his keep to lead a regiment out of the city. Gavril had been called to attend, and Leesil waited in the road with his father just beyond the gatehouse of the keep's stone bridge.

Darmouth rode out on a gray-flecked stallion so large that Leesil was certain he felt each pound of its hooves vibrate through the stone bridge and into the earth beneath his feet. Darmouth didn't dismount or even gesture to Leesil's father, but pulled up his horse under the gatehouse.

Gavril put a hand on Leesil's shoulder, telling him to wait, and stepped forward. Darmouth spoke down to Leesil's father in a low voice. The gray-flecked beast beneath him pawed the ground and snorted in the freezing winter air, its breath like belching smoke. Leesil never learned what was said, but Gavril was gone all that night and returned after the following dusk.

Seated on a crate in the cellar, Leesil looked at his father. The hatch in the kitchen floor above Gavril remained open, and light spilled down, deepening the shadows on his face. His skin seemed too tightly stretched over cheeks and jaw, as if he couldn't relax.

"What does Lord Darmouth want from me?" Leesil asked.

The tension of Gavril's face broke, leaving a strange exhaustion as he pulled a rolled parchment from the front of his shirt.

"Baron Progae is accused of treason. His influence is such that Lord Darmouth cannot risk arrest and a public trial. The death warrant has been signed by the council of ministers. I have a map of Progae's fortress and grounds. You will leave tonight." He paused, not looking at Leesil. "Scale the north wall to the rampart and enter through the northeast tower. I've marked Progae's chamber. He will be alone. All other family members are away with relatives. Make certain he is asleep. Do you understand?"

Leesil followed his father's words, but he did not understand… didn't want to understand.

"This is why we still live," his father said, "how we stay alive. It's your time."

Leesil had undergone years of training, with many nights in this very cellar learning things he put out of his thoughts during daylight. Still, he wasn't prepared for this moment.

"Remember every detail," Gavril continued. "Lord Darmouth expects an accounting when you return. I've vouched for your skill, and… our lives depend on each other. Do what is necessary. Consequence matters not unless it comes. Remember your training, and it never will come."

Leesil left that night with his toolbox, thick and short daggers for climbing, and a rope coiled about his torso. No one saw him in his dark cowl and clothes as he scaled the north wall, clinging below the rampart until the guards passed out of sight. The rest of the way, from the tower to the courtyard and on to the main manor house, seemed almost too easy as he slipped along walls, around corners, and through doorways. Some part of him waited for something to go wrong-wanted it to happen.

He believed he was alone, but while passing an archway, he saw faces peering out at him.

Leesil's muscles tightened. He forgot his training in an instant of alarm. He ducked his head and froze in a crouch, with the cowl shading his eyes above a black wrap covering the lower half of his face.

Through the archway was a room with hardwood chairs, a dark colored divan, and a russet carpet covering the middle of the stone floor. Long curtains by the window had been left open. The moon threw enough soft light into the room for Leesil's elven eyes to see a large family portrait hanging on the wall. He relaxed slightly. It was just a painting.

Everyone in the portrait had dark hair, perhaps black, from the man and woman to the three daughters, dressed in simple but refined attire. The father stood behind his seated wife and an eldest daughter, and the two younger girls sat upon the floor at their mother's feet. Behind them was a draped curtain for a background.

Baron Progae's chin beard and scant mustache accented a long face of narrow features but prominent cheekbones. A shelf of thin eyebrows overhung his hazel eyes. He wore a white shirt beneath a plain brown vestment trimmed in black. His wife was austere in her cream dress with an overlaid vest of golden fabric, yet there was warmth and pride in her eyes. She had one arm around the eldest daughter seated beside her.

The daughter looked about fifteen, or at least a bit younger than Leesil himself. A mass of black curly hair fell past her shoulders. Her skin was pale, her nose and mouth small and delicate, making her eyes seem deep and dark. She had her father's nobility mixed with her mother's allure. Leesil had rarely been exposed to young women face-to-face, and this girl in the painting was quite pretty.

He flushed beneath his cowl and scarf at being so foolishly startled. He slowed his breaths and moved on.

Rounding the stairwell landing on the third floor, Leesil faced an empty corridor. The guards were all outside and the servants asleep. He spotted the third bedchamber door on the right. It wasn't likely to be locked, but he already had a pair of wire picks in his mouth.

Leesil crept down the corridor, quick and quiet, and found the door was unlocked. Progae had no idea his betrayal had been uncovered. Leesil took his time turning the latch, inching it down slowly to be certain of silence, then slipped in and closed the door. He took the picks from his mouth and locked it from the inside.

The room held a four-poster bed. It was so immense that at first he wasn't sure anyone slept there. From the dresser and chest to the window seat and side tables, all the room's fixtures seemed large in the dark. Leesil crouched, listening, and heard the long and low breaths of slumber. He crawled along the floor to the bedside.

Progae slept on his back, lips barely parted. A thick down quilt was pulled up high about his throat. Leesil hesitated. His mind went blank, and he couldn't move-until he heard his father's voice in his thoughts.

This is why we still live… our lives depend on each other… do what is necessary.

Leesil watched Progae take two more breaths.

He removed one silvery stiletto from his wrist sheath and settled next to the bedside so his left hand could reach Progae's face. In his right hand he held the stiletto poised above the bed's edge. One of his mother's lessons came to him.

A sleeper will roll away from a touch, even before waking.

Leesil reached out and brushed Progae's cheek with his left palm. The man started in his sleep and turned away, exposing the back of his neck. Leesil followed the movement and wrapped his left hand across the man's mouth. The rest took less than a blink.

He rose up, full weight behind his grip. The man's head sank sideways into the yielding pillow, pinned by Leesil's forearm. He drove the stiletto upward, and it pierced the soft skin at the top of the neck. The tip scraped over the first vertebrae and into the skull. The blade stopped when the narrow hilt guard met skin.

Progae clenched and went limp.

A splotch of blood welled around the stiletto's hilt. It looked black in the dark room.

Leesil remained there, pressing his victim's head into the pillow. He didn't know how long, only that the muscles in his left arm suddenly cramped, goading him back to awareness. He jerked the stiletto out and rolled the body onto its back again. He forgot to wipe his blade before sheathing it.

Progae's hazel eyes stared up at the ceiling over a gaping mouth. Leesil closed the mouth and eyes and straightened the quilt. When he left, he locked the chamber door from the outside with his picks before stepping softly down the hallway to the stairs.

In the years that followed, he never remembered leaving the grounds, nor whether he'd been cautious or run the whole way home.

He arrived before dawn, breath ragged in his throat and chest, to find his parents waiting. Nein'a was watching out the kitchen window when he stepped in the back door. He passed her without a word, but Gavril stood in the carved archway to the front room. Leesil had no choice but to stop.

He gave his report without looking at his parents' faces. When he fell silent, and it was clear he had nothing more to say, his mother quietly dismissed him. He sat alone on the floor of his room, the door closed, and barely heard Chap scratching from the outside.

Come dawn, Gavril took him to the keep. He was led to an alcove by guards to make his report in secrecy. Lord Darmouth nodded in approval.

"No one will even know he's dead until my troops seize his fief. You've done well, boy. Progae's treachery ended before he made his first move."

Leesil told himself again and again that he had assassinated a traitor. The relief of justification stayed with him for almost a whole moon.

His mother was called to the keep for a celebration, and so his father decided to take Leesil out for the evening. Along the way, they passed a few nobles in their finery on horseback headed down Favor's Row to the keep bridge.

Leesil sat alone at a table in an out-of-the-way inn, nibbling on roasted mutton with herbs, while Gavril chatted at the bar with a man named Byrd. He couldn't hear much of what they said over the noise of other patrons. What he did hear was a name uttered by someone nearby behind him.

"Shameful," one said. "About Progae."

Leesil lowered his fork.

He knew better than to get involved. Even in this inn, his father told him to keep his cowl up. His hair was too different from that of other people. Leesil kept his back to the speaker at the table behind him and toyed mechanically with his food.

"About Prograe?" asked a second. "I heard he was a traitor."

"I meant his family," answered the first.

"What of them?" asked a third, deeper voice.

"The wife and two youngest girls starved to death in the streets."

Leesil stopped poking at his mutton.

"What?" asked the second. "No one helped them?"

"They were outcasts," the first said. "Blood of a traitor and all, and they served no use anymore, I suppose. Not even their relatives would take them in, probably on their guard to see who was next. Only the eldest girl survived. Darmouth gave her to one of his loyal 'nobles' as a mistress if I heard right."

"Damn shame," said the third. "I saw them once, coming in for last winter's harvest celebration. Lady Progae was an eyeful, and that eldest daughter had the look of her. Hedi, I think. Why cast out women and children? It was Progae's academy, not theirs."

"Watch your mouth!" whispered the second. "Just be thankful you and yours aren't blood kin to a traitor. I for one can't wait for spring. At least then I can take my goods and caravan away from this place for a while."

Leesil stood slowly, dropping the fork before he realized it. He didn't look back to see the men's faces and said nothing to his father as he pushed out the inn's front door.

He walked quickly through the night streets. By the time he entered Favor's Row, he was running for the house. He slipped in through the kitchen door and stared out the window at the keep upon the lake.

"Leshil?" a soft voice called from behind him. "What is it?'

Leesil spun about. His mother stood in the kitchen doorway with Chap beside her.

Only Nein'a called him by that name. His more common one was simpler, less memorable to any who overheard it. Her speech was tainted by her own native tongue and made anything she said both lyrical and guttural. Leesil wondered if this was just her or if all her people sounded this way.

And he wondered why she'd returned so early from her duties at the keep.

She wore a deep tan gown that matched her skin, its vine-and-leaf pattern wrapping about her tall form. A midnight-green cloak with ermine trim hung over her shoulders, its hood down.

Chap whined softly, staring at Leesil with perked ears. His tail stopped wagging.

Mother wasn't often affectionate, but when she stepped close to Leesil, her slanted eyes showed concern.

"What is it?" she repeated. "Where is your father?"

Leesil still wouldn't speak, but the fear faded from her expression.

Nein'a's amber eyes looked into his. Her thin lips pressed together as a shadow of sorrow passed over her face. She finished a slow blink, and the sorrow was gone. She became her controlled and poised self once again.

"You have heard something, yes?" she asked.

She reached out with a soft hand. Slender fingers that seemed too fragile brushed Leesil's cheek, and her warm palm settled against his face. She seemed to know what churned inside of him.

"Never seek to know the fate of those your actions affect. We serve, and we survive. You, your father, and I live for one another. Think only of us and yourself, for now, and do as you are ordered. Let go of all else, for it will do you no good."

She brushed white-blond hair away from his face, and Leesil nodded, showing his understanding and acceptance. That nod was the first lie he'd ever told her.

The next few days were quiet. He watched the street from his house or while wandering the city with his cowl pulled forward around his face. He left Chap behind when he went out, though the dog growled and barked each time he was locked inside. Leesil watched for the ones on horseback, fine men in armor or rich dress with their retinue. Days passed, and he began wondering if his mother was right. He headed home at dusk one day, passing before the mouth of the bridge gatehouse.

Coming out along the bridge was a tall man with red hair and lightly freckled skin riding upon a bay charger. Mounted men in leather armor and yellow surcoats followed behind him. Leesil crossed the way quickly, putting the gatehouse behind as he headed for home, but he heard the horses turn his way into Favor's Row. He ducked into the first house's vvalkway though it wasn't his own home. He didn't like having anyone at his back and waited for them to pass.

The red-haired noble ignored Leesil, as did his men. A smaller figure on a roan horse rode between them. Her fur-lined cloak was pulled fully around her, hiding even her hands, and her mount's reins were held by the nobleman. The man led the girl's horse under his own control. Anyone would have thought her a daughter. Anyone who hadn't seen the portrait of Baron Progae and his family.

Hedi Progae's vacant eyes were sunken in dark rings from many sleepless nights. Her cracked and dry lips were slack, slightly separated. Whereas the guards breathed clouds of vapor in the cold air, her breath came out in a slow, thin trail. The life in her simply leaked into the winter air.

The nobleman rode on, his property in tow.

Leesil stared after Hedi Progae. He went numb inside.

She was property. They were all property here. Obedient slaves who did what was necessary in order to live one more day.

The procession passed out of sight beyond the distant bend in the road.

Leesil didn't remember stumbling home until he stood in the kitchen. His mother didn't come to him, or even his father. There was only the sound of scraping claws on the floor, as Chap raced toward the kitchen to see who'd returned.

Leesil frantically looked about as he heard the dog coming. He wanted no one near him. He lifted the cellar hatch and dropped through the hole, then jerked the hatch shut. With no light at all, it was pitch-black even to his half-elven eyes. He scurried to the cellar's back, far from the hatch, and huddled in a corner.

Chap clawed at the hatch, and his muffled whines filled the cellar. Leesil ripped his cloak off. He clamped his hands over his ears and sat shuddering in the dark, in the cold, waiting for numbness to spread from his flesh into his thoughts.

Until he felt nothing at all, finally numbed inside by his mother's counsel, and he could go on and…

168 • BARB and). C. HEN DEE

Do what is necessary.

He had done it again, and once more, and then yet again. He'd kept on killing for Darmouth for another six years.

Silence surrounded him.

Leesil realized he was sitting on the bed in the room he shared with Magiere.

Everything became mixed and muddled as he broke out in a sweat. Was this Byrd's inn? Or was he still in the cellar?

Leesil backed away from the bed in uncertainty. It didn't make sense. Magiere hadn't been in the cellar in the dark. He couldn't hear Chap scratching overhead in the kitchen. He looked up to a timber ceiling. The floor under his feet was wood planks, not the dirt of a cellar.

Still, he should be in that cellar, where he could stay numb. He was so hot, and what he wanted was the cold. He pulled at his shirt clinging to his chest from sweat until it came off and chill air surrounded him.

The room was black, and his elvish night sight caught only the barest details.

And it was wrong. There was no crate, barrel, or sacks of vegetables. There was no narrow bed he had slept in with Magiere. He now saw dark columns of a large four-poster bed, and heard the deep breaths of a man sleeping there,

He had to protect the lives of his mother and father. He had to do what was necessary. Crouched in the corner, he wondered why the walls looked too close for a traitor's bedroom, but he knew where he was. He knew why he was always here in the dark listening to someone's last breaths.

It didn't matter what happened to Hedi Progae. It didn't matter what became of the mother and two younger daughters. He'd always do what was necessary,

Leesil jerked a stiletto from the sheath on his wrist.

Magiere stood in the upper hallway of the inn with a small lantern in her hand. There was no light coming from the crack under the door, so Leesil hadn't bothered lighting candles. If he was already asleep, she didn't want to wake him. Sleep was seldom peaceful for Leesil, but it was still some relief from all he'd faced in recent days.

She closed the lantern's shield to smother its light, then steeled herself as she quietly cracked open the door. The dim glow escaping the closed lantern revealed the shadowy form of an empty bed in the dark room.

"Leesil?" Magiere whispered.

Movement to her left. Something skittered, quick and low, to the bedside.

Magiere's sight widened instantly as her dhampir instinct surged up. A dim shadowed form became distinct.

Leesil crouched there, naked to the waist with a stiletto in hand, and his head snapped around at her voice. His amber eyes were bright sparks in Magiere's night sight. They focused on her without recognition, and his dark skin glistened with sweat.

Magiere's stomach clenched.

He pivoted in his crouch to face her… like a predator, with his head low.

"You weren't there," he whispered. "I have to finish this."

"Leesil!" Magiere flicked the lantern open and thrust it out.

He lurched back as light struck his face, and raised an arm to shield his eyes. Leesil backed toward the corner, until his shoulders struck the wall, and held out the stiletto.

"You weren't there… here," he rasped at her. "Father… Mother are waiting up for me."

Magiere's gaze shifted once to the slim blade held out at her, then back to his face. She grew more frightened with each breath as she watched him, his chest expanding and contracting erratically.

His eyes flicked once toward the bed.

What did he see that she couldn't? There was no one in the room but the two of them. Was someone else doing this to him?

She glanced quickly about the room, afraid to take her eyes off of him for too long. She remembered the night in which they'd each run into the Droevinkan forest. The undead sorcerer named Vordana had assaulted them with their own fears, trapped them each in a phantasm that masked the real world from their senses.

But Leesil did see her, knew who she was, though he didn't believe she was standing before him.

"One more," Leesil whispered and jabbed the stiletto in the air at Magiere. "Always one more. Always necessary!"

Leesil looked at the bed, as if he had to go to it, and if he didn't, it would cost him more than he could live with. But he held his place, cowering in the corner.

This wasn't sorcery or any magic. It was madness. And that was so much worse, Magiere almost rushed to him. Leesil was drowning in his past, and she didn't know how to follow and pull him out again.

Magiere realized she was shaking and set the lantern on the floor for fear of dropping it. Her mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow.

"You weren't there, and I have to do this," Leesil insisted. Sweat now matted tendrils of hair to his face, and he closed his eyes so tightly his features twisted. "Get out!"

"No!" Magiere growled back. "I am here, Leesil… look at me!"

Leesil's eyes snapped open, anger plain on his face. Suddenly he became blurred in Magiere's vision, and she felt the tears drip off her jaw beneath her watering eyes. She inched forward toward him.

"I'm not leaving," she insisted. "We're alone. We are in our room at Byrd's."

Magiere lunged in and snatched his wrist.

Leesil didn't try to bring the stiletto in at her, but every muscle in his body twisted against her efforts to make him lower it. He began shaking from the effort, pushing at her with his free hand. His strength was more than Magiere could counter.

Hunger rose in her throat until her strength matched his. And with it, her fear grew… of what she might do to him. Her jaws began to ache. She clenched her teeth, fighting back the change. Her dhampir nature was in her flesh, in her eyes, making Leesil's hair and amber irises searing bright in her vision.

All the pain Magiere felt in watching Leesil suffer-in losing him this way-turned her hunger to anger. She wanted to rend and tear every memory that tortured him.

"Don't… leave me!" she managed to get out. "Come back."

Leesil's eyes were so bright. For an instant the madness faltered, and he seemed aware of her as she struggled with him.

Magiere released his wrists and grabbed for his face with both hands, lunging in close. Leesil stiffened as she pressed her mouth to his.

She heard the stiletto clatter to the floor. His fingers closed tight on her upper arms, pulling and pushing to throw her aside, but she held on to him. Magiere didn't lift her face from his until he finally quieted.

Leesil looked at her. His expression was sad and wild, like he'd woken from a nightmare but still believed it was real just the same. Magiere slid her fingers up into his drenched hair.

He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again as his eyes searched her face. Then he was kissing her, but harder than he'd ever done before. He pulled her close as they slid to the floor.

Words weren't enough for Leesil at that moment, and Magiere wrapped herself around him. He buried his face in her neck, his arms tightening around her until she felt the muscles in his back clench beneath her hands. His mouth slid to the top of her shoulder, and Magiere began pulling off her own shirt.

She would not let him leave her again.

Hedi rode beside Lieutenant Omasta across the long bridge, the keep seeming to grow and fill the night as she approached. It was built like a gigantic square with a wide courtyard in its open center. Its four corners were reinforced towers rising above the main structure. Firelight from massive braziers atop the towers reflected across the water. As they crossed the lowered drawbridge, the double gates opened wide, and she passed through a long tunnel into the courtyard at the keep's center.

Omasta helped her dismount. He led the way across the courtyard as his men took away the horses. At the courtyard's far side, they entered through a set of wide doors and into the keep's main floor.

Hedi tried to remain impassive. She slowed her quick breaths and forcibly relaxed her face to show no expression.

Once inside, Omasta called for a servant. A middle-aged woman scurried out from a vast dining or common hall on Hedi's right. To her left was Darmouth's council hall, and straight ahead was a wide stone staircase leading upward. To the sides of the staircase were two corridors running in opposite directions, north and south.

"Welcome, my lady," the woman said with a submissive curtsey. "I am called Julia. I will show you to your room."

Hedi scrutinized the woman. Her hair was tucked under a muslin cap, and she had a round face with reddened cheeks. Her expression was open and warm, if a bit simple, but the woman kept nervously twisting the edge of her apron with two fingers. She carried no keys. This was not what Hedi had expected.

Lieutenant Omasta sighed in relief. "Well, then… I bid you good night, lady."

He seemed glad to release his charge into someone else's care and turned toward the council hall. Perhaps he did not enjoy abducting women for his master and pretending to play bodyguard.

"Come this way," Julia said. "Are you hungry, my lady? Do you need water to wash?"

Her kind tone made Hedi waver again. What was happening here? If Omasta had dragged her to a room and locked her in, at least she would have known for certain that she was a prisoner.

They ascended the stairs. When they reached the third floor, Julia turned left down a corridor. She opened a door midway and stepped back with a polite bow of her head as she ushered Hedi inside.

A fire burned brightly in a small hearth to the right, and to the left stood a cherry-wood wardrobe and desk. Against the back wall was a matching bed with a thick mattress, covered by a deep blue comforter. Her chest of personal effects had already arrived ahead of her, likely by Omastas men. Darmouth must have been quite terrifying in his orders for her careful retrieval.

"I hope this is acceptable, my lady," Julia said. "I prepared the room myself by our lord's instructions."

He is trying to please me, Hedi thought. She remembered Emel's words and smiled. "Yes, it is fine. Your effort is appreciated."

Julia's nervousness faded a little as her smile broadened. "Can I bring you anything, or help you out of your gown?"

"No, I can manage myself. I would like to unpack my things. You may go."

Julia hesitated, but Hedi remained poised and waiting. Ladies did not unpack their own clothes, but neither did servants refuse dismissal. Julia nodded, and Hedi watched the woman leave. She listened, her body tense.

No click or rattle followed after the door's lever settled. Waiting a moment longer, Hedi stepped to the door and opened it herself. It was not locked. Prisoner of the keep she might be, but it appeared her personal room was not to be treated as a cell. She took a slow, shaky breath, and her thoughts cleared enough to turn elsewhere.

She now had an exceptional opportunity to gather more details of the keep for Byrd. But how would she ever get such information to him?

And poor Emel. He must be suffering by himself at the inn, worrying about her. Perhaps she could bribe a servant to take him a message? No. Their fear of Darmouth was greater than their desire for coin.

The hour was late, and Hedi opened her travel chest. She took out the heaviest nightdress and her robe. As she laid them upon the bed, someone knocked at the door.

"Julia?" she called out. "I need nothing more. You can retire for the night."

The door swung in, and Lord Darmouth stood in the opening.

Hedi froze at the sight of his tall and wide frame filling the doorway. His cropped hair appeared more brown than gray in the dim light from the fire, but she still made out the faint scars below his left eye. He crossed his knotted arms over his leather breastplate.

"I wanted to be certain you were settled comfortably," he said, voice low.

Hedi weighed her response carefully. "The room is quite agreeable, but I did wonder why you had me escorted here. The baron's soldiers protect me at the Bronze Bell, and it was my own foolishness in leaving without them that put me in harm's way."

Darmouth took one step inward. "They should've attended you better… or you wouldn't be wearing that ribbon around your throat."

She had no response to this, so she nodded graciously at his observation and presented her best worried front.

"Am I free to move about the keep? Or are there further concerns for security I should be aware of?"

His brown eyes softened, but this made her wary rather than relieved. He took another step toward her, now fully inside the room.

"You're my guest, here for your protection, Lady Hedi. The main floor and the upper levels are yours, but stay clear of anything below Only prisons and stores are in the lower levels, and neither are of any interest to a lady."

She felt dwarfed by his size and unnerved as he stepped ever closer His eyes were fixed upon her face but occasionally drifted elsewhere. Hedi feared that if he touched her, she would grab for a war dagger at his belt and bury it in his guts. She stepped back, fussing with her nightdress and robe upon the bed.

"Thank you for your concern, my lord, but it has been a long day and night. I am quite tired. Perhaps I will see you at breakfast?"

Darmouth hesitated.

Hedi knew her one real weapon. He wished to gain her approval and foster her affection for him. He would not force himself upon her if there was a chance he might yet win her willing consent. She had to keep him in his role of the hopeful suitor as long as possible.

Darmouth backed to the door with a curt nod. "Good night, then."

"Good night."

Once the door closed behind him, Hedi waited until his footsteps faded down the hall. She ran to the door to fasten it, but there was no key for the lock on the inside. Hedi retreated to bed, still watching the door.

She hoped Emel would come soon.

Welstiel walked the night streets of Venjetz, thoughts turning one upon the other, until he was barely aware of the shabby buildings slipping past him. He tried to focus upon his agenda.

Whatever was needed to move Magiere onward, it had to begin with Darmouth. Welstiel had dealt with a few warlords in his time. Most were petty tyrants of limited intellect. Darmouth might be a deluded pretender to a crown, uneducated as well, but he was no fool. And he was well guarded.

The best Welstiel might manage was to weaken the keep's security and assist once the assassination was under way. Once any such plan was in motion, it was a matter of days or less before the event took place; otherwise the risk of discovery in waiting further was too great. All Welstiel had to do was keep Magiere diverted for that time, and then her and

Leesil's motivation for coming to Venjetz would be gone. Hopefully this nonsense concerning the elven lands would fade as well. She would once again turn to finding the orb in order to stop him from finding it first, Magiere would become his unwitting bloodhound once again.

Welstiel shook his head at the irony. So much time had been lost since Magiere had left Bela. Thinking too much on it fed Welstiel's frustration. He paused in the street, realizing he had lost track of his destination. People still moved about the marketplace up ahead, drinking and talking even in this bitter cold.

Welstiel was surprised at the effort it cost him when he moved on. He was hungry, and an edge of fatigue crept in upon him. It had been too long since he last absorbed a life. He sidestepped into an alley out of reach of the street lanterns and watched the few people passing by. Most were inebriated or just tired at this late hour. Two voices engaged in an argument, and their words became clear as they drew closer.

"You know it's two coppers, Deni. It's always two coppers!" the woman nearly shouted.

"Not tonight it's not," the man answered. "I ain't got two coppers, but I'll catch you up next time."

Welstiel flattened against the alley wall as they passed by.

A young woman with long, oily brown hair shrugged a tattered shawl up over her shoulders. It did not cover her scant cleavage, partially exposed by two unfastened buttons at the top of her bodice, and she coughed twice.

"You know I don't give credit," she said.

The man trailing her wore a long leather hauberk, most of its sewn-on iron rings missing. He reached out to grab her waist from behind.

"Oh, come on, Alliss. I got a warm bed. Better than freezing out here, trying to find someone with coin at this time of night."

She elbowed him, spinning away from his hold. The man threw up his hands with a disgusted huff and continued on without her. The girl snorted and headed back toward the marketplace.

Welstiel stepped out. "Miss?"

She turned and looked at him, spite still lingering on her gaunt features.

Welstiel held up a silver penny. "I can offer more than a warm bed."

She sauntered toward him, a coy smile stretching her lips. Stains marred her faded lavender dress. With just this and a shawl, he wondered how she withstood the cold. Her skin was sallow.

"Looking for company?" she asked.

Standing in the alley's mouth, Welstiel lifted one side of his cloak. "Come in for warmth."

Her smile grew. Perhaps she saw luck in finding a gentleman, and she walked right up to him. He stepped farther back, determined to touch her as little as possible.

She followed him beyond the reach of the street lamps. Before she could speak again, Welstiel slammed his gloved fist into her face. The woman's head jerked sideways. Blood spattered the alley wall from her nose and mouth. Welstiel tensed in alarm.

He had struck with too much force, anger welling inside him before he could stop it. If she died from the blow, his effort was wasted.

The woman toppled sideways, scraping down the wall to flop facedown. Welstiel's senses snapped open wide, and he felt a moment's relief upon hearing the muffled beat of her heart.

Her hair splayed out above her head. A trickle of blood ran out of her mouth across the frozen mud. Welstiel stared at the growing trail and the back of her exposed neck.

Anger at Magiere made him reckless. A drive to feed wormed through his mind as he remembered Chane ripping a woman's throat open.

Welstiel recoiled at his own savage impulse. He could not allow Magiere's actions ever to weaken his self-control again. Welstiel stared down at the woman, remaining still until his calm fully returned.

He knelt and removed an ornately carved walnut box from his pack and opened it. Resting in fabric padding were three hand-length iron rods, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper. He took out the rods, each with a loop in its midsection, and intertwined them into a tripod stand. The brass bowl's inner surface was etched with a pattern of concentric rings all the way to its lip. Between these lines were the characters of his conjury. He carefully placed the cup in the tripod.

The white bottle contained thrice-purified water, boiled in a prepared copper vessel whenever he had time to replenish the fluid. He pulled the stopper and poured just enough to fill half the cup.

Welstiel rolled the prostitute onto her back. So much life was lost in bloodletting that little was actually absorbed by an undead who drank for survival. It was not blood that truly mattered but rather the leak of life caused by its loss. His method was far more efficient. He slipped out his dagger and dipped its point between her lips, collecting a puddle of her blood on its tip. Tilting the blade over the cup, he let one red drop strike the water.

It thinned and diffused. He began to chant.

The air shuddered before his eyes. He felt it grow humid and warm in the distortion. The woman's skin started to shrivel.

Her body slowly dried to a shrunken husk as her life drained away. When her heart stopped, Welstiel ceased his chant and the air around him became clear and crisp again. The woman was a brittle shell with sunken eye sockets.

The water in the cup brimmed to the lip, so dark red it appeared black-a red-tinged black like Magiere's hair. Welstiel lifted the cup from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat so that he tasted it as little as possible. A last drop struck his tongue and tasted of ground metal and strong salt.

He set the cup back in place and flattened both hands upon the ground to brace himself. So much life taken in this pure form shocked his system. It burst inside him like burning sunlight and rushed through his dead flesh.

Welstiel waited for the worst to pass.

When he picked up the cup to put it away, it was clean and dry, with no sign that anything had been in it. He packed away the iron rods and white bottle as well. He stood up carefully under a lingering vertigo, but it passed, leaving him clear in his thoughts. Normally he would have found a way to hide the girl's body, but if her corpse were found, it would cause more panic. It would build Lord Darmouth's desire to employ Magiere. There were monsters to hunt down in his city.

Welstiel made his way to the Ivy Vine inn, wondering how Chane had fared all this time being trapped alone in his room. When he arrived, the lobby was empty. He headed up the narrow stairs to their room. He did not bother to knock and opened the door to step inside.

Chane sat on the floor in bare feet, feeding his robin crushed nuts and crumbled bread. He wore breeches and a well-tailored muslin shirt, and looked like any handsome young noble engaged in a pastime.

The parchment and quills still lay untouched upon his bed.

"I see you've fed," Chane said in his rasping voice. "You look better."

Welstiel did not answer. Instead he rummaged through his pack and pulled out a small bag of black charcoal and a wad of tattered clothing that smelled of urine.

"Lord Darmouth has engaged Magiere's services," he explained. "You will keep her occupied by giving her an unusually savage beast to hunt."

Chane blinked, staring at the rags in Welstiel's hand. "What are those?"

"I bought them from a servant at the keep. If you are witnessed during an attack and described as a tall noble with reddish hair, Magiere may wonder. We must create some other creature for her to track. Sit, and I will cut your hair, then use charcoal and oil to dye it black."

Welstiel took out his dagger and motioned to a chair. Chane hesitated.

"It will wash out," Welstiel said.

"But will my hair grow back?" Chane rasped.

The question surprised Welstiel. Not by its vanity, but that it was the first time Chane had shown such concern over anything since crawling forth from his second death.

"Have you ever seen a dead body months after it was buried?" Welstiel asked.

Chane shook his head.

"The hair is longer. And I will not cut much off."

He motioned again to the chair. Chane sighed but obeyed.

Late into the night, Leesil was still awake. Magiere curled against him, breathing softly, lost in deep sleep. He watched her pale face on the pillow. He wished he could join her in the oblivion of sleep, but he couldn't.

Nightmares wouldn't let him.

The name of Hedi Progae opened dark cell doors in his mind that he'd long been able to keep locked. He couldn't close them again.

Leesil tried to focus on the memory of Magiere's mouth, her body, both soft and hard, and her hands all over him. But whenever his eyelids drifted shut from fatigue, he saw the back of Baron Progae's bleeding neck.

Progae's hazel eyes opened where he lay dead as Leesil pulled the bedcovers back into place. Those eyes rolled to glare at Leesil, and his pale lips parted, speaking with Gavril's voice.

"Think only of your mother, father… of yourself… this is how you survive."

Leesil's eyes snapped open.

He'd slipped into sleep for an instant, but he couldn't face it again. Not without smothering away the nightmares, drowning them as dead as his victims. He'd sworn to Magiere never to do that again, but the moment stretched as he watched her beside him. When his eyes drifted closed again, he snapped them open.

He couldn't stand the faces in his sleep anymore.

Leesil slipped from under the blanket. Magiere rolled, and he froze until she grew still once again. He pulled the blanket and sheepskin cover back in place over her bare body, and walked softly to the door. He stopped for a moment, looking back at Magiere's sleeping form, then stepped into the hallway and gently shut the door.

The inn was silent. The stairs were empty, even of cats. He crept downstairs, and two steps creaked lightly under his feet. All was quiet in the common room, and he stepped around behind the bar and found the cask of red wine Byrd stored there.

Leesil opened the cask and picked up a tin cup from under the bar. When he poured out half a cup, he stared into the red liquid. His hand shook slightly, and he gripped the cup with both hands.

He could put it down, go back upstairs to Magiere.

He knew this, even as he drew the wine to his lips and swallowed.