The Enemy Within
Author: Christie Golden
Date: 2011-12-13T08:00:00+00:00
Description: Sir Tristan Hiregaard, terrified by his periodic transformation into the evil Malken, a hideous man-beast who controls a vast criminal empire, sets out to destroy, one way or another, his evil side.
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Rights: Copyright © 1994 by TSR, Inc.

“A Byronesque combination of tormented hero, a particularly loathsome super-villain, and increasingly gruesome horror, The Enemy Within reveals Christie Golden as a young writer with mature thoughts—a rarity in American genre literature.”

Marvin Kaye
Author of Fantastique and
Editor of Masterpieces of Terror and the Unknown

“Christie Golden has blended the suspenseful essence of a crime drama with the classical elements of Gothic horror. The Enemy Within, like Ravenloft itself, draws you into its world whether or not you wish to go.”

Adrienne Reynolds
Editor of Gateways

Ravenloft is a netherworld of evil, a place of darkness that can be reached from any world—escape is a different matter entirely. The unlucky who stumble into the Dark Domains find themselves trapped in lands filled with vampires, werebeasts, zombies, and worse.

Each novel in the series is a complete story in itself, revealing the chilling tales of the beleaguered heroes and powerful evil lords who populate the Dark Domains.

The Enemy Within
Christie Golden

Mordenheim
Chet Williams

Tales of Ravenloft
Edited by Brian Thomsen

The Screaming Tower
James Lowder

THE ENEMY WITHIN
© 1994 TSR, Inc.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

RAVENLOFT, TSR, Inc., D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Paul Jaquays
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6181-8
640-51428000-001-EN

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www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1

This book is dedicated
to my husband, Michael:
My love, best friend, and head cheerleader.
I couldn’t have done it without you.

And third’s a charm—
As ever, thanks to my editor, Jim Lowder,
for keeping the faith.

Contents

Cover

Ravenloft Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one

About the Author

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Frowning, Sir Tristan Hiregaard closed the shutters against the approaching storm. The change in weather was morbidly appropriate, he thought, as if the land itself were mourning its dying king.

“Let’s get a little light in here, gentlemen,” he ordered in the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed. Tristan was tall, still muscular and handsome although his curly blond hair was now more gray than gold. His tanned face was lined, but he had earned every wrinkle, and now he was adding a few new ones to his brow. Few members of the royalty had the privilege of dying in private; Tristan was merely one of several keeping vigil beside King Kethmaar’s deathbed. He shared this unhappy honor with four other noblemen and several servants.

Tense and relieved to have something, anything, to do, the servants hastened to light candles and bring in lamps. The thunder rumbled again, closer now, but Tristan no longer paid it any heed. Another sound had full claim on his attention—the harsh, gurgling rattle in his dying friend’s throat. The only thing worse than that awful noise, thought Tristan, would be its sudden silencing.

Kethmaar lay faceup on the canopied bed, oblivious to the presence of his concerned friends. The war with his own body had ravaged him. The bed’s silken sheets and gilt-edged wood frame seemed to swallow Kethmaar’s wasted form, and sharp cheekbones jutted through parchment-pale cheeks. He looked decades older than his fifty-one years—one year younger than Tristan. The royal seal on his garments huddled in the sunken chest of its shriveled owner. Catching a wayward flicker of candlelight, the gem in the seal’s center winked with an inappropriate cheerfulness. Watching, Tristan felt suddenly, absurdly offended by that sparkle. Nothing should shine, he thought with a quick burst of impotent anger. In the presence of death, nothing should be bright.

Tristan directed his piercing gaze to Torval, the court physician. “Where is Othmar?” asked Tristan.

“My lord, His Royal Highness is—exercising his mare,” stammered Torval. Tristan frowned, his normally open face going cold and angry as the physician continued. “I told him he would be well advised to remain for this meeting, but …” Torval’s voice died, gutted by embarrassment. His pale blue eyes beseeched Tristan, who cleared his throat. The huddle of waiting men turned toward him.

“My lords,” Tristan began in the sonorous voice that had won a thousand debates, “we shall proceed without being graced by the presence of our prince. King Kethmaar summoned us here to discuss the future of the royal line. I had hoped that he would be able to convey his wishes to us himself, but …” His throat closed unexpectedly, and the four other incipient members of the council of regents waited with sympathy while Tristan regained his composure. All five nobles—Tristan, Osric Laars, the mayor of Kantora; Lord Hadwin Hadwinsson, the chief advisor; the landed baronets Lord Adal Keirin and Lord Bevis of Blacktower Heights—had known the king well enough to call him friend. But among them all, only Tristan had been close enough to call Kethmaar brother.

“His Majesty left us a statement,” Tristan went on, motioning to the court scribe. Berwin waddled forward, unrolling a scroll as he came. Tristan took it from him. “With everyone’s permission, I—”

“We are still king,” came a thin voice that, for an instant, quivered with humor and not weakness. Murmuring in pleased surprise, everyone turned to the pale figure on the bed. “Just because you have the tongue of an angel, Tris, doesn’t mean you can speak for us … not yet. Soon enough, we will—” A sudden attack of coughing overtook Kethmaar, and he convulsed with the effort.

Tristan rushed to him, holding his friend as the paroxysms racked the frail frame. Frothy blood flew from the withered lips to spot the white bed linens. The men averted their eyes, embarrassed. Gently, Tristan wiped his liege lord’s mouth with his handkerchief. Kethmaar nodded his thanks and resumed.

“You five are to be Prince Othmar’s regents until he reaches the age of twenty-five.” Eyes flew open wide and a few men muttered under their breaths. Berwin cursed softly. He hastened to the desk, grabbed a quill, and dipped it hurriedly in a pot of ink. Mouthing the words to himself, he scratched out something on the parchment, then wrote in the new number.

“Aye, we know,” Kethmaar continued, “eight years longer than tradition dictates. But we know our boy, and we want him to be under your guidance for as long as possible.” A sudden smile briefly lit his pale face. “We would have you be regents until his sixtieth birthday, truth be told.”

Answering chuckles came from the regents, and the tension eased ever so slightly. “Tris, pour us—” But Tristan had already filled the crystal goblet half full of ruby-hued wine and was in the process of cutting it with water. Their eyes met for an instant as the king took the glass, then Tristan had to look away. He had no desire to embarrass his friend with his emotions; dying was difficult enough. Kethmaar sipped the liquid, then continued.

“We have done our best. Now, he’ll have five fathers. Tristan, we are afraid this means an end to your traveling for a while. Othmar will need your diplomacy in hearty portions.”

“I’ll leave traveling to the younger men. How better to serve my ruler than to be at his side?” Tristan assured him.

“Silk tongue,” said Kethmaar affectionately, smiling a little. He turned his watering gaze to the other men of the council. “Osric, Kantora is your city, even though it’s the capital. We have made allowances for you to override Othmar’s decrees on occasion, if he gets a bit overzealous. Hadwin—had we listened to your advice more, we would be a happier man today. We pray our son will. Adal, Bevis—you know your parts of the country, your people … what they want. Speak to Othmar of them when you deem it necessary. We have—”

Kethmaar began coughing again, this time unable to control himself. Blood flew, and his hands reached to claw his chest, as if he could tear out the illness that clogged his lungs. He gagged, his body tensing as Tristan reached for him, then went limp, his life escaping with his last hacking cough.

The horrible silence that Tristan had so dreaded now filled the room. Gently, Tristan reached an unsteady hand toward his friend’s still face and closed the eyes. He picked up Kethmaar’s limp hands. There was a saying in Nova Vaasa, The hands of a king are the hands of a healer. But this king had been unable to heal himself. Tristan folded the thin hands with their many rings over the dead ruler’s sunken chest and bowed his own head in silent mourning.

A door slammed sharply open. Prince Othmar entered. He was tall for his fourteen years, and thick, dark hair curled rambunctiously over his milky brow. His fine clothes were dusty and smelled of horse sweat, and he still carried a riding crop in one hand. The boy glanced around, his hazel eyes taking in the somber faces. He strode to his father’s bedside, and Tristan stepped aside.

For a long moment, Othmar stared at the corpse of his father. One muscle near the corner of his mouth twitched. Then he glanced up at Tristan, his eyes gleaming.

“When’s my coronation?”

For a heartbeat, there was a shocked silence, then Osric Laars choked on an oath.

Before he could recover and give the arrogant youth the scathing words he deserved, Tristan stepped in. “Your Highness, regretfully, there will be no coronation for some time.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw the pudgy mayor begin to smile like a tiger.

Othmar gaped, then exploded furiously, “What? My father’s dead! Of course I’m going to be king! I’m fourteen now and I—”

“That was not what your father wished.” Tristan indicated Berwin, whose jowls paled as the young royal fixed his outraged gaze upon the hapless scribe. “Just before he died, His Majesty stipulated that you would not claim your full title until the age of—” he paused for effect, taking a shameful glee in thwarting Othmar “—twenty-five.”

Othmar swore savagely, lashing with his riding crop at the crystal decanter of wine that sat on the bedside table. It fell to the marble floor and shattered with a musical crash. Wine splattered everywhere.

“Violence will not bring your coronation any sooner, Your Highness,” Tristan observed mildly. As Othmar took a menacing step toward him, Tristan swiftly brought his hands up and closed them with steely strength on the boy’s slender wrists. “As captain of the royal guards, I have the power to put even you in prison if you don’t calm down.” His voice hadn’t changed, but his blue eyes flashed a warning. Othmar read it. When he felt the tension ebb slightly from the boy’s frame, Tristan released him. Othmar glared sullenly at the floor, his left hand massaging his reddened right wrist.

“That’s better,” Tristan approved.

Othmar shot him a venomous look. “Play the good father with me, now that mine’s cold? Ivaar doesn’t think you’ve done so good a job, does he?” With that he stormed out of the room, head high.

There was an embarrassed silence. The regents were friends of Tristan and knew that father and son did not get along well at all. The relationship—or lack of one—was, to say the least, a delicate subject with Tristan. Tristan flushed at the public accusation, but turned a carefully expressionless face to his fellow regents as he reached for the scroll. “Let us continue, gentlemen.”

Outside, the storm clouds roiled.

Tristan’s sorrel gelding galloped smoothly across the grassy plains, leaving Kantora and its dead king behind. Mount and rider cast no shadow, as the sun was hidden behind the lowering clouds. To Tristan, even the horse’s hoofbeats on the earth seemed muffled to the ear.

Tristan sat easily in the saddle, one gloved hand clasping the reins while the other reached to pat Kal’s neck affectionately. The beast was an excellent mount, one of the proud, wild steeds that were Nova Vaasa’s prized commodity. Tristan kept the name the Vistani had given the horse, Kal n’Akarni, which meant “prince of the plains” in their tongue. It was considered an offense to the horse-taming Vistani to give a Nova Vaasan horse a different name. It was a small enough gesture, and besides, Tristan rather liked the sound of Kal n’Akarni.

The twin mountains that stood sentinel over Tristan’s family estate, Faerhaaven, grew larger as horse and rider approached. Soon, the castle itself came into view, and Tristan felt the constriction in his chest ease slightly.

Faerhaaven had been the Hiregaard family seat for generations, and it was perhaps the finest private residence that Tristan had ever seen. For unlike the impersonal fortress that was the royal palace, Faerhaaven bore the stamp of its owners. It sat regally alone on the empty flatland like—well, like a kal n’akarni. Four circular turrets soared proudly into the sky. The peak of the Central Tower reached so high as to almost pierce the lowering clouds. While the thick stone walls were strong and imposing to hostile eyes, what they protected was warmly personal and welcoming. Courtyards, private gardens, fully equipped guard towers and armories, suites to house the family and any visitor in gracious luxury—Faerhaaven was both stronghold and sanctuary.

A slight breeze stirred the thick air, making the gaily colored pennants that decorated every possible peak flutter slightly. As Tristan neared, he watched the first two towers on the barbican lower their pennants. A few moments later, as grassy earth gave way to a paved road beneath Kal’s hooves, different pennants were raised. A golden griffin, flanked by two white roses, pranced against a sky-blue background. This was Tristan’s coat of arms. The vigilant guards, spotting his approach, had raised it to indicate that the master had returned home.

Tristan eased Kal to a canter, then a trot. The portcullis was raised at this time of day. As Tristan watched, a mounted figure emerged from the main gate. Tristan grimaced as he recognized his son, but nonetheless raised a hand in welcome as he slowed Kal to a walk.

Ivaar had just passed his twentieth birthday, but one wouldn’t have guessed it by his face. Thin and pinched, his visage would better have suited a scholar of forty than a noble-bred youth. He had, unfortunately, not inherited his parents’ good looks. Ivaar’s attire, as usual, was plain and dull. He wore a simple leather vest over a muslin shirt. His black breeches were functional, but little more, and his boots were as worn as a foot soldier’s. As always, Ivaar averted his gaze when speaking with his father. It was an error, for Ivaar’s eyes were much like his mother’s, and the sight might have given Tristan more patience with his son.

“There’s a storm coming soon. You shouldn’t be riding to Kantora now,” he told Ivaar.

“I promised some … friends I’d meet them. I can take care of myself.” Ivaar’s tone was sullen.

Tristan suddenly realized what garment the boy was lacking. “Where is your green?” Tristan demanded, indicating the bright green sash that he himself wore belted about his waist.

“I—” began Ivaar.

“I sent Squire Blayne ahead with the news of the king’s death. Where is your mourning band?” Ivaar stared at the ground. “Kethmaar was not only the king, Ivaar, but one of my dearest friends.”

“The second I honor, Father, but the first—”

“You don’t have to approve of a man’s politics to show a little respect,” Tristan said, his voice deceptively gentle. “You must have something green to wear, among your browns and grays and blacks.”

“You know how I feel about kings. The Calpranian Council of Twelve—”

“Is comprised totally of nobles, as I’ve told you before. I was ambassador to Calprania for five years, and believe me when I say that so-called people’s council was more corrupt than Kethmaar’s rule ever could have been.”

“You didn’t raise me to be a hypocrite,” Ivaar began, his voice rising.

“I didn’t raise you to be a slovenly, discourteous—” Tristan bit his lower lip. He continued, more calmly, “Ivaar, your country has lost its leader—whatever you may think of the office he represented—and your father has lost his best friend. You might at least put on the trappings of mourning, as a gesture to me if nothing else.”

Ivaar looked miserable. He hunched down on his brown mare. “It’s just not that simple.…” he began wretchedly.

Tristan snorted in disgust and kicked Kal with unusual force. Startled, the beast leapt forward. Ivaar watched him enter the barbican. A few moments later, all the pennants were lowered to half-staff.

Tristan wasn’t an evil man, and Ivaar knew it. But, the young man thought to himself as headed toward Kantora, Tristan had given in to habit. Monarchy was right simply because that’s the way things had always been. Perhaps the Calpranian Council of Twelve had its problems, but they could be worked out. Ivaar and more than a few other young nobles of the land thought so. And even if the Twelve were of noble blood, surely that was better than one man having the kind of power Nova Vaasa granted to its kings. Kingship, thought Ivaar bitterly, is an accident of birth. Nova Vaasa was damned lucky that Kethmaar had been the kind of ruler he was. Ivaar had met Othmar and strongly doubted he would make a good leader.

Ivaar’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. Perhaps Othmar’s incompetence would turn others toward Ivaar’s way of thinking.

A fork of lightning split the sky, and Ivaar winced at the loud crack of thunder. The heavy clouds opened, disgorging their contents. Within seconds Ivaar was soaked. His father had been right.

Still clad in the long cotton shirt that served him as a sleeping garment, Tristan opened the shutters of the large window in his bedchamber and took a deep breath. The window was sheltered from the direct pounding of the rain, and he extended a hand to catch the cold wetness. The day of Kethmaar’s funeral would be a fittingly somber one. The brisk, chilly breeze that stung Tristan’s eyes and brought color to his pale cheeks also turned the plains into a rippling ocean of rain-sodden grass. The knight sighed and closed the window, drying his hand on his shirt.

As he did every morning, Tristan slipped on a robe and tugged a rope near his bed to summon the maid. Using one of his “little magics,” as he called them, he lit his bedside candle with a single word and a wave of his hand. He then carried the glowing taper toward his writing desk, located beneath a large portrait of a beautiful young woman. He set the candle down on the desk, then sank into the cushioned chair beside it and sat for a moment, gazing up at the portrait.

His wife of seventeen years smiled down at him. The painter had captured Ailsa’s sweet smile, which made her beautiful green eyes even brighter. The rich mahogany of her hair was caught up and pinned atop her head, held in place with jeweled combs that, to Tristan, gleamed less brightly than his beloved’s eyes. Her slim neck was bare, but a rich brooch was pinned above her right breast to her heavy silk dress. Tristan had given the brooch to her the day she accepted his proposal, and she had worn it every day of her life since. Even now it adorned her as she slept peacefully in her grave. The painting also showed a small, tawny-hued cat sitting in his mistress’s lap. Ailsa’s slim hands reached to stroke it, caught forever in that gentle, affectionate pose.

A knock at the door startled Tristan out of his reverie. The sound also woke his dog Luath, who slept at the foot of his master’s bed. A mammoth creature with a surprisingly gentle disposition, Luath raised his big head and whuffed to alert his master. “I hear it, boy,” Tristan told the beast. To his visitor, he called, “Enter.”

Ten-year-old Madeleine Guillaume entered, curtsying. The girl was the daughter of Tristan’s chief servant, Giles Guillaume. She bore Tristan’s breakfast tray professionally; the china jostled not at all, and the pot of steaming hot water remained level. “Good morning, Sir Tristan,” she murmured. “Where would you like your tray, sir?”

“On the chest by the bed, my dear,” he answered. She glided smoothly over and deposited the tray.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Nothing now, thank you. And tell your papa that I was very pleased with the way you delivered my breakfast this morning.”

She blushed and curtsied again. “Thank you, sir. Madame must be pleased, too.” She gestured shyly toward the portrait of Ailsa. “I found a flower on my pillow this morning.” Like a little ghost, she glided out and, with the barest of sounds, shut the door behind her. Madeleine will make the fifth generation of Guillaumes to serve the Hiregaards, Tristan thought to himself with pride. Obviously, the family is well content at Faerhaaven.

Her comment about “Madame” amused him. Ailsa’s gentleness had utterly won over the servants. There were rumors that her spirit still did kind things—made beds for busy maids, left flowers on pillows, and so forth. Tristan suspected Giles Guillaume of these tricks, meant to inspire good service. Whoever the prankster was, the jests were harmless, even endearing, and Tristan did not discourage the domestics from believing in the benevolent spirit of their mistress.

Tristan poured a cup of tea. Sipping cautiously at the steaming liquid, he regarded Ailsa for a few more moments.

“I wish the stories were true. It would be nice to think that somehow you were still here, still keeping an eye on us all.… But you’re not. Now Kethmaar comes to join you, my dear,” he said sadly to the woman on the wall. “First you, then Kethmaar. I have not many more left to lose these days. No friends save Osric and dear young Sigfrid. No kin save our boy, and Ivaar absolutely baffles me. I can’t even talk to him. He needed a mother, not a politician. Maybe you could have …” He sighed. “I try to see me in him, somewhere, to see you in him, but I can’t. All I see is a spoiled, ungrateful—”

He didn’t want to think about his disappointing son anymore. Setting his cup aside, he took a key from the pocket of his robe and unlocked a drawer. Inside were dozens of books—Tristan’s journals of bygone years. He removed the newest one, opened it, and placed it on the desk. As he seated himself, he lifted the quill from the inkwell and began to write.

Avarill 3rd: Today I bury my friend Kethmaar. I, along with four others, am a regent for the young prince Othmar. It will be my greatest challenge yet, I fear, making the business with the Vistani look like child’s play. But it is my duty, and I shall not shirk it, both for the love I bore Kethmaar and the love I bear my people. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Engrossed in his journal, he did not see Luath fasten his eyes on the emptiness behind Tristan. The candle flame flickered and began to burn blue.

The gods had long since become “unfashionable” in Nova Vaasa. A few country folk still worshiped various deities, but the majority of citizens had ceased to search for the sacred in their daily lives. There was little wonderment in the world to inspire awe and respect for some distant divinity. Nor were there many dangers in the land that would not fall to a solid sword blow or arrow. Traditional clerical duties had gradually become the responsibility of others. Herbalists healed without divine intervention; people learned to rely on themselves rather than favors from a divinity. Other responsibilities fell to the government, such as weddings and, less happily, funerals. As mayor of Kantora, it was Osric Laars’s duty to attend the king’s funeral; as friend of the dead man, it was his privilege.

Rain pattered in a dull drizzle. Tristan adjusted his cape, pulling the hood protectively over his eyes. Standing outside the city walls near the royal mausoleum, he listened with only half an ear to Laars’s eulogy. His attention had settled on Othmar.

Othmar wore no cloak, wanting his new subjects to get the best possible view of their new ruler. Rain, however, was no respecter of rank. His velvet doublet was now ruined and clung wetly to his slight frame. His leather belt had been stained magenta once; now it was a reddish brown, and most of the magenta had spread to the once-gorgeous velvet. The only tasteful thing the youth wore was his prince’s coronet, an understated circle of gold. That, and his mourning band of green.

Nearly everyone was wearing a green garment of some sort, and the color stood out like spring in the middle of winter. All manner of classes and ranks were represented here: the nobles, the very poor, the merchants. There were even a few dark Vistana faces to be seen.

Tristan had arrived two hours before the ceremony and had posted guards along the funeral route as it processed down High Road and East Street, and here at the interment site itself. Some of them were not in uniform, but disguised in the tattered rags of beggars or the sweat-stained garb of laborers. These guards would be able to sense the crowd’s mood and act upon it at once. Though Kethmaar was a well-respected monarch, Tristan recognized the possibility that some rabble-rousers might choose to disrupt the solemnities. As Tristan’s blue gaze scanned the crowd, he met the eyes of a handsome young man with a shock of red hair. Tristan smiled slightly. Captain Sigfrid Skolsson, second in rank only to Tristan, nodded briefly in acknowledgment. He, too, was alert and watchful.

Tristan relaxed slightly. Few knew it, but Sigfrid had once been on the other side of the law. In the boy’s wildness, though, Tristan had seen something worth pursuing. He had watched the youth grow from a horse thief into an utterly reliable soldier. There were those who had questioned Sigfrid’s rapid rise in the military, but Tristan had never found cause to regret smoothing the youth’s way. With both himself and Sigfrid alert to potential problems, little was likely to happen today.

Laars’s eulogy drew to a close. “We were glad to have Kethmaar among us, but it is time for him to lay down the burden. So he goes to his ancestors, with our thanks to echo his passage.”

Kethmaar lay on a bier, clad in his most ornate robes. His sword rested by his side. The king’s face was bare for all to see. No amount of cosmetic paint could hide the ravages of the illness that had claimed him, and he did not wear the look of peace that often graced the dead. Tristan stepped forward, ready to carry out his final duty to his liege.

Traditionally, the key to the resting place of the Nova Vaasan royalty was passed only from king to king. As Tristan was head regent, it had been entrusted to him. Now he drew it out, and it began to glow a cool blue. The lock was both physical and magical. One without the other was useless. Tristan spoke the correct word, and the lock clicked as the key turned. Servants stepped forward and pushed the gate open. It groaned in protest, but obeyed. Though the kings always bore much worth stealing to their final resting place, the crypts had never been desecrated by grave robbers. Legend had it that the spirits of the kings guarded their bodies. Tristan, however, thought that the magical lock and hungry plains cats had more to do with the crypt’s safety than spectral guardians.

Othmar moved to his father’s corpse. His face devoid of grief, the youth placed the traditional handful of rosemary leaves in Kethmaar’s dead hands. His job done, Othmar stepped back and motioned the pallbearers to proceed with their solemn burden. Accompanied by torch carriers, they marched through the gate and into the open doorway of the mausoleum. The flickering light of the torches was soon lost to the view of the spectators, swallowed by the cool darkness of this place of death. Several long moments passed, and the crowd fidgeted in uncomfortable silence.

Farewell, Kethmaar, Tristan thought.

The pallbearers emerged, looking slightly relieved. “It’s about time,” muttered Othmar. As quickly as he could, the prince retreated to where a servant held his horse. Tristan followed, as did the other members of the party. Some would have liked a few moments beside the grave, but they, like Tristan, must needs follow their prince.

The crowd parted for the young royal. Othmar’s black mare slogged through the mud until she reached the cobblestones of the road that led back into Kantora. They had almost reached the city gates when, without warning, the horse neighed abruptly and reared. Startled, Othmar struggled to keep his seat. One hand flailed as he sprawled comically in the saddle, and a few onlookers laughed. Tristan was instantly at his side, seizing the mare’s reins and looking about for the disturbance.

He found it. A young Vistana, a boy about the prince’s age, clutched a wriggling mongrel puppy protectively. He glared up at Othmar, a little frightened but yet defiant. He did not back away when Othmar, haughtily yanking his mare’s reins from Tristan’s grip, rode directly over to where the boy stood.

Tristan recognized the youth. He was Amasa, the son of Konstantin, one of the best Vistana horse tamers. The boy had gotten into trouble before, but never directly with an angry Prince Othmar. Before Tristan could speak, the indignant royal raised his riding crop and brought it slashing down across Amasa’s upturned face. A bloody welt arose on the dark skin, dangerously close to Amasa’s left eye. Othmar’s arm rose for a second blow, but it never fell.

Amasa snarled with outrage. His brown right hand shot up to grab Othmar’s arm. Still holding the now-frantic puppy, Amasa tugged with all his strength. The prince toppled off his mount, landing heavily on the slick cobblestones. The Vistana seized the prince’s crop and stood over Othmar, breathing heavily, ready to give as good as he had gotten.

Tristan and Konstantin were there before the blow could fall. The knight grabbed Othmar as the boy struggled to his feet. Konstantin slapped Amasa’s hand soundly, and the boy released the crop at once. His father’s strong but compassionate grip on his shoulder was all Amasa needed to restrain himself. Othmar jerked away from Tristan. The prince brushed off what dirt he could from his now utterly ruined clothing, then turned his attention upon Amasa.

Words of contrition would have done much to soften Othmar’s rage, for the prince was an easy mark for a flattering tongue. The Vistani, Tristan knew, were too arrogant for such gestures, and he was not surprised to see Amasa, still panting and holding the dog, meet Othmar’s gaze evenly and angrily.

“You have threatened the life of the prince,” Othmar declaimed. “Such an outrage is intolerable. I sentence you to death!”

The shocked crowd broke into excited, angry babbling. Konstantin’s brow darkened, but before he could speak Tristan said, “Your Highness, may I have a word?” Propelling the boy out of the Vistani’s earshot, he hissed, “You cannot simply order an execution for an insult!”

Othmar laughed without humor. “I can and I will!”

“Listen—just listen to me for one moment!” Something in Tristan’s tone commanded attention, and Othmar quieted. “The Vistani train the horses, and the horses are Nova Vaasa’s lifeblood. Kill this boy for such a minor offense, and you’ll alienate all Vistani. And if you alienate the Vistani, we all suffer.” He had the boy’s attention now and continued. “Make him give you a formal apology, or fine the family, but do not get their blood on your hands.”

Othmar’s hazel eyes searched Tristan’s, then he nodded slowly. Drawing himself up, he turned to Amasa and Konstantin. “Although I am well within my rights to demand your death, I am a merciful ruler. You may live. However, such an action cannot go unpunished. We hold the whole family of this boy responsible. On the suggestion of Sir Tristan Hiregaard, I hereby declare no one shall have dealings with this boy’s family for one full year.”

Tristan gasped, staring at Othmar. The punishment was ludicrously savage. Konstantin’s family wouldn’t starve; the Vistani protected their own. But neither would they be able to earn any money to invest in breeding and caring for new horses for the following year if Othmar forbade trade with them. Othmar noticed Tristan’s reaction, and he smiled a nasty little smile. He returned his attention to the Vistana boy, “You are not to come within the city limits for a year. If you disobey me on this, Vistana scum, then I will have you killed.”

He turned away, mounted swiftly, and clapped heels to his horse’s sides. Tristan’s duty was to cleave to his prince for the boy’s own protection. He had no choice but to follow, after throwing one agonized look at Konstantin’s carefully expressionless face. As Tristan swung himself into the saddle, the younger Vistana’s control broke. Now tossing the little dog to the cobblestones, Amasa strode up to the mounted knight.

“We were told that you were our friend, Sir Tristan ‘High Regard’!” he snapped, deliberately mispronouncing Tristan’s name in a scornful mockery. “My family will suffer for the next twelve moons because of you, and I say now that you will pay for this!”

Tristan forced himself to look straight ahead and put heels to Kal. Amasa’s strong voice would not be drowned by the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, and Tristan could still hear his cries: “You will pay for this, Tristan! You will pay!”

Avarill 3rd, Continued: I felt terrible, but what could I do? I couldn’t challenge Othmar in public, even though he had blamed his own vile decree on me. I rode away, shamed.

Later, I tried to talk to Konstantin. When I went to the Vistana encampment, they would not let me in. It is unsettling to see so many inscrutable faces turned upon me. Even I, who know these people better than most, was uncomfortable. I will continue to try to help—perhaps they will take money or food.

Tristan shook his head, already knowing he would have no success. “They’d cut off their hands rather than accept charity,” he said glumly, but with a hint of admiration. They were often liars and cheats with others, but among themselves, their code of honor was inviolable.

A knock came on the door. Tristan, surprised, glanced at the clock by the bedside. It was past midnight. He reached for his clothing. “Enter.”

Giles Guillaume opened the door. Concern was on his thin, ascetic face. “Master Tristan, I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but it appears we’ve had an intruder.”

“Let me guess,” sighed Tristan as he tucked his shirt into his trousers. “A young Vistana boy, about fourteen or fifteen.” He belted his green mourning sash and glanced up to see Guillaume’s reaction.

“Sir, I—yes, sir,” the servant stammered.

“Not injured, I hope?”

“No, sir. The guards are quite able to subdue one lone man without resorting to violence.” There was a trace of pride in his voice.

“I would hope so. Very well, Guillaume, take me to the boy.” Luath rose, eager to accompany his master, but Tristan bade the hound lie down. He obeyed, reluctantly setting his russet muzzle on his forepaws.

Amasa was waiting nervously in the main receiving room when Tristan arrived. Thin and bedraggled, the boy looked sorely out of place in this abode of opulence. A fire had been lit and was already starting to warm the room. Two guards stood close to the youth, making sure that his fingers did not grow too light near the valuable trinkets that adorned the mantlepiece and small tables.

“Won’t you sit, Amasa?” Tristan invited, easing himself into a comfortable, velvet-covered chair near the fire. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small copper coin.

“What are you going to do to me?” Amasa demanded, ignoring the invitation.

“That all depends. Why have you honored me with a visit?” The boy stayed silent. “Amasa, I knew it was you,” Tristan continued more gently, absently tossing the coin. The gesture appeared to be, as Tristan wanted it to seem, little more than a nervous habit. In actuality, Tristan had enabled a spell that told him if a man was lying. “I’m not going to hurt you, lad,” he continued. “Why did you come? To kill me?”

Genuine horror filled the boy’s black eyes. “No! I only—because of your punishment, my family would suffer. I was going to take enough from you to make up for what you had cost them. That was all.”

Tristan nodded slowly. The coin had remained cool to the touch—a sure sign that the boy had told the truth. He returned the copper to his pocket. “I can tell when a man lies, even a Vistana. I believe you. Let me first, in my own defense, say that I didn’t know what Othmar was going to decree until the words left his lips. I urged mercy; I suppose Othmar considered letting you live was merciful enough. If your family is suffering, all you need to do is come to me. You’re right, Amasa. I have enough here to feed your entire tribe for years. If your people wished to settle in the towns, they could earn a very good liv—”

“Never!” cried the boy. “We are free people! No land will ever claim us as ‘theirs,’ not even yours, Sir Tristan. And it is a mistake for anyone to try.”

Tristan held up a hand in mock horror. “Enough!” he laughed. “I think we understand each other.”

A small smile touched the corner of Amasa’s mouth. “I think we do.”

“You’ll have to spend the night here as my prisoner. I’d have preferred you as a guest, but you did trespass onto my lands, after all. It will be an easy captivity,” said Tristan, rising. “You’ll stay in the Tower of Isolation, with a good dinner now and a hearty breakfast in the morning. Tomorrow I will escort you back to your people.” He turned his attention to the guards. “What did you confiscate from him?”

The first guard held out a sack. Tristan sorted through it. Inside were two small but sharp daggers, a few coins, and a whetstone.

Tristan’s eye fell to the length of rope that served the boy for a belt. It was intricately knotted, with horsehair, beads, feathers, and other items woven into the knots. “I’ll need your ra, as well.”

The boy’s hand’s flew protectively to his belt. Tristan knew what he was asking. The ra was precious to the Vistani. It translated literally as “life” in the Vistana tongue. Each gypsy was given a plain length of rope at birth. As momentous events happened in his life, intricately tied knots were added. Each knot was a symbol. For instance, Tristan could tell from Amasa’s ra which clan he belonged to and that he had broken his first horse. As Amasa grew older, a wife and children would be added, and the good and evil that came their way duly noted by the appropriate knot.

The ra, for all its superstitious power, could also be used as an effective garrotte on an unwary guard, or a noose for a desperate captive. Tristan nodded to the guards. One fumbled with the complicated knots while the other one held Amasa’s arms securely. At last the guard shook his head; his thick fingers couldn’t manage the delicate work.

“Amasa,” said Tristan reluctantly, “unless you want your ra cut off you, you’ll have to untie it for us.”

It was a dreadful, insulting threat, and Amasa frowned angrily. Ras were only cut when a death in the family occurred; to have one’s ra cut off one was a terrible humiliation. Still, Tristan had the upper hand, and there was really no choice. Angrily, Amasa obeyed, untying the rope and handing it to Tristan. He took it with care, coiling it respectfully into a neat loop.

“Good night, Amasa,” he said. The boy, back stiff, did not answer. Tristan gestured to the guards. Politely but firmly, they bore the boy out. Tristan regarded the rope in his hand, the knots and feathers crowding one end and the smooth, untouched length that remained. When he returned to his room, he laid the coiled rope on the trunk at the foot of his bed, updated his journal, and went to sleep.

He awoke early, with a vague sense that something was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, as he reached for his robe, he saw Amasa’s ra.

It had fallen off the chest during the night and lay in a huddled heap on the multicolored carpet that covered the stone floor. Something about the rope bothered Tristan, and in another second he knew what it was. He rushed to the ra and snatched it up, staring at it with horror.

Someone had been in the room with him last night. Who it was, how he had gotten in, and why Luath had permitted the intrusion was of secondary importance. What gripped Tristan with cold fear was that the trespasser had completed Amasa’s rope—“finished” it in the most frightening sense of the word. An intricate series of knots twisted along its length now, and Tristan knew what they meant.

Death.

The guard who had been appointed to keep watch over the youthful prisoner lay facedown on the stone. Taking the keys from the corpse’s waist, Tristan opened the heavy wooden door to the cell, knowing what he would find inside.

He gazed down upon a small, colorfully garbed heap that lay sprawled in the center of the cell. Gently, he turned Amasa over. He drew back in startled alarm.

The face that stared up at him bore an expression of such horror that it would have unnerved even the strongest of men. Amasa had bitten through his lower lip, and his face was crusted with dried, dark brown blood. Brown eyes bulged with fright. He had clenched his hands tightly as he died, forming small fists, some vestige of courage coming even as terror stole his life.

Tristan mastered himself quickly. In the thick of battle, he had seen brutalized corpses, but none had held the horror in their eyes that Amasa’s did. He examined the body efficiently, finding no wounds other than the bloodied lower lip. Gentle fingers explored the skull; there were no telltale lumps to indicate a head blow.

Another guard had likewise examined his fallen compatriot. “Just like the boy, sir,” the man reported. He was shaken, though he tried not to show it. “No injuries, nothing taken.”

“Any indication of a struggle?”

“His sword wasn’t even drawn, sir.”

Tristan nodded. Rising, he glanced around. Nothing was disturbed. The bed had been slept in, the dinner Tristan had sent eaten. Had the boy been frightened to death? If so, of what—or whom? Tristan knew all of his servants and guards personally. Many had been with him for decades. None was the sort to try to murder even a deadly foe if proper imprisonment could be provided, and Amasa had done little enough real harm. Why kill him?

“He was afraid, Father,” came Ivaar’s voice. Tristan turned to find his son staring accusingly at him. “He was terrified of spending the night alone in a cold, lonely cell. Look at his face!”

“He did die of fear, I think,” Tristan said slowly, “but not of his imprisonment. Come now, Ivaar, take a look at this cell.” He indicated the soft, well-blanketed bed, the tray of eaten food. “It’s hardly a torture chamber, and he knew he would be going home in the morning. No, something else frightened him; frightened the life right out of him, and of the guard, too. What, I have no idea.”

Stepping back into the room, Tristan nodded to the guards. He gestured to the corpse on the floor. “Notify Perryn’s kin. Give them my deepest sympathies. He died in service to me, and I would be grateful if they would permit me to bury him in the family graveyard here at Faerhaaven.” He glanced down at Amasa, then knelt and retied the boy’s ra around his waist. “As for my unfortunate young prisoner, I must take him back to his people. I don’t know what they will do to me, but I must face them. I’m going to send a message to Captain Skolsson. I don’t want to go into that camp alone.”

Tristan and Sigfrid rode in a small wagon, sitting together in the front seat while Tristan drove the horses. Behind them, Amasa’s body lay covered by white cloth.

“I should warn you, Tristan,” Sigfrid commented, “that if they try to kill you, I’m going to take a few of them with me.”

Tristan smiled a little. “Thank you, Sig, but I want you to promise me that you won’t question their decree.”

Sigfrid’s jaw clenched, but he kept his face expressionless. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t hear that order.” Tristan knew better than to insist. Sigfrid would stubbornly refuse to acknowledge him. He tried another approach.

“I’ve spent my life trying to build trust between people, heal wounds,” Tristan said. “Yes, I’ve certainly killed a few as well, but only when there was no alternative and under my liege’s command. The Vistani live very well in our midst; they’ve learned to work with us and cooperate with us. As a result, we’ve become a rather rich little country.

“If we go in there with swords waving this afternoon, that relationship will be damaged beyond repair. We’ll lose our horses and consequently our wealth. No one life is worth that; not even mine.”

“But you didn’t kill the boy!” Sigfrid protested.

“I know that. You know that. We have to hope that the Vistani know it, too.”

“What do you think they’ll do to you?”

“They may try to use their magic to determine my guilt. Or they may just stab us on sight.” He grinned mischievously at his companion. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

Sigfrid swore angrily, quite unable to see the macabre humor in the situation. A moment later, both men were startled by the sudden loud chirping of a bird. Tristan glanced up as a small gray-and-white bird dived about the wagon before flitting away.

“Those little birds are called vista chiri,” said Tristan. “The Vistani say they are the souls of long-dead ancestors. Whether or not that’s true, they’re a sure sign of a Vistana encampment in the vicinity.”

“So we’re nearly there,” Sigfrid said glumly. Tristan did not respond, but blue eyes met brown.

The vista chiri grew more numerous and visible, almost as if acting in escort. Within a few moments, at least two dozen of the brightly colored caravans that were the gypsies’ homes came into view. Children scampered to and fro, shrieking joyfully, playing with the dogs, cats, and fowl that wandered freely about. In the center of the encampment was a low-burning fire; smaller cookfires burned near individual vardos. The smoke hung as a dirty haze to the air. In the distance, a large group of horses cropped contentedly.

Speaking quickly and in a low voice, Tristan told his friend, “I don’t expect this to go well. The Vistani love their children.”

“Of course they do,” responded Sigfrid, confused.

“You don’t understand. All Vistani love all their children—desperately.” No sooner had he finished speaking than two men, wearing bright-colored garments and distinctly unfriendly expressions, rose up from behind a large stone to block their path. Their daggers were drawn.

“We have refused you before, Sir Tristan,” growled one of them. “How many times must we send you on your way before you realize there is no welcome for you here, hey?”

Tristan regarded him sadly. “I have business before your tribe, Orlan. I bear the body of Amasa, son of Konstantin.” He did not try to explain the circumstances; these men would not have listened.

Orlan sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. Then, to Sigfrid’s astonishment, he threw back his kerchiefed head and let loose a high, keening wail. It was picked up and immediately echoed by everyone in the encampment. Sigfrid reached for his sword as a wave of Vistani rushed them, but Tristan’s strong hand stayed the move. And indeed, the mourning tribe was headed not toward them, but toward the body of their fallen child.

Dark hands reached to gently lift the corpse and carry it to the encampment. Tristan and Sigfrid exited the wagon, leaving the care of the horses to a waiting Vistana, and followed the mourners. For the time being, they were paid no attention, but Tristan knew that if he and Sigfrid had tried to flee, the gypsies would have been on them at once.

Using tables and cloths, the Vistani erected a bier in the center of the clearing, near where the main fire burned. The white-swathed form of Amasa was lain out reverently.

Although he’d had no part in Amasa’s tragic death, Tristan still felt a stab of guilt as he saw the pained, poised face of Konstantin. His wife Nata stood beside him, a woman with a large, round body and a heartbreakingly beautiful face. Tears spilled from her almond-shaped eyes. Beside the bereaved parents stood their two remaining children. The little boy, about eleven, was Nikos, he recalled. The daughter, a lithe, sensuous young woman with her mother’s fine features, was Rozalia. As Tristan watched, she turned her dark, angry gaze upon him. They had crossed verbal blades before. Unlike her father, Rozalia had been opposed to making a treaty with the “damned giorgios,” and had been quite outspoken about her opinions. With hands that trembled, Konstantin and Nata unwrapped their son’s body.

Now it begins, thought Tristan.

Gasps arose at the sight of the fear on their dead kin’s face. Harsh murmuring followed, and hostile black eyes were turned on Tristan and Sigfrid. Slowly, with a menacing air, several men and women moved toward them.

Coolly, Tristan drew his sword and embedded it in the rain-softened earth. “I yield my weapon and demand the right to trial!” he shouted.

The Vistani paused. “You are a giorgio!” Orlan snarled contemptuously, spitting. “You are not entitled to any of the privileges of our kind!”

“Stay your anger,” came a voice harsh with age. The Vistani all turned to watch as a withered old woman, leaning heavily on a staff, hobbled toward them. Her white hair was braided and piled atop her skull, a hairstyle better suited a girl than a woman, but on this woman, it only served to give her a strangely youthful air. In contrast to the bright hues of typical Vistana clothing, the crone was dressed all in black. One eye fixed Tristan with the mental acuity of a woman decades younger. The right eye was obliterated by three giant scars that ran the length of her face.

“He is a giorgio, yes, but he knows enough to ask for trial.” She chuckled raspingly. “That gives him the right. Sir Tristan Hiregaard, you have asked for the privileges afforded our kind. Do you also agree to abide by what we decide in trial?”

Tristan bowed. “Yes, Madame Terza.”

The Vistana seer fixed her eye on Sigfrid. “He’s brought you here to stand as witness. Do you also agree to abide by our decisions?” Madame Terza chuckled, reaching out a bony hand to touch Sigfrid’s curly hair. “Hair like fire, temper like fire, so they say.”

Sigfrid glanced at Tristan, who nodded. “I agree,” he said, wondering what exactly he had agreed to.

The old woman nodded, satisfied. “Watch what grief you have brought to us, you two giorgios. Then wait until nightfall, and the trial will begin.”

Tristan and Sigfrid turned their attention to Konstantin and his family. Gently, the mother undid the ra from the dead boy’s waist. She stretched it taut between her hands, presenting it to her husband. With a cry, Konstantin sliced the rope in two with his dagger, signifying a life abruptly and unnaturally cut short. Then he did the same to his own ra and those of his wife and children, showing that they, too, felt the loss. Amasa’s ra would be buried with him. Those of his surviving family members would be retied and worn again the following day; damaged, but not destroyed, just as the lives of their wearers had been.

Strong hands fell upon Tristan and Sigfrid. The two men were firmly steered to one of the nearby caravans. Sigfrid stumbled on the stairs, catching himself, then both were rudely shoved inside and the door bolted shut behind them.

It was hot and dark inside the vardo. It smelled of straw and excrement, and Sig swore in disgust. “What’s going on, Tris? Who was that old woman?”

“I have asked for a trial according to Vistana law,” Tristan explained. “That old woman; as you put it, is Madame Terza, leader of the tribe. She got those scars when she was a girl, attacked by a bear. It was then that she developed the gift of Sight—you know, visions, fortune-telling, that sort of thing. They say it was in compensation for her lost eye.”

“Come on, you can’t tell me you believe in all that nonsense!”

“I’d better.” Tristan laughed a little. “I’ve just flung myself on its mercy. I must say, though, that there are some among the Vistani who do have uncanny insight. Their mysticism is not quite like my magic, which is much more logical. But I’ve learned to respect it.” In the darkness, Tristan heard Sigfrid snort. “Two Vistani will be selected—one to defend me to their ancestors, the other to accuse me. Madame Terza will then consult the cards, and decide my innocence or guilt.”

“You can’t expect any of these barbarians to defend you!” Sigfrid exclaimed.

“They dishonor their ancestors if they don’t do their best,” countered the knight. “It was the only hope I had.”

“What’s my part in all this?”

“You’re my witness. If you’re asked questions, you must answer them truthfully. Madame Terza has a way of seeing through lies, and that wouldn’t go over well at all.” He sighed, fidgeting in the filthy straw. “We’ve got a good four or five hours before things get underway. Make yourself comfortable.”

The hours passed slowly. Sounds and scents from the outside filtered in through the wood: directions from mothers to children in the strange Vistana tongue, the clanking of metal utensils used for cooking and serving the meals, the fragrance of cooking meat. In the distance, faint but unceasing, came a sad keening sound, uttered by the bereaved mother. Gradually the heat lessened. A hard-faced Vistana opened the door, and cool, sweet air hit the giorgios’ faces.

They got out of the vardo, stretching their cramped muscles. Sigfrid looked around, startled. The encampment had changed. Before, all was relaxed disorder. Now the entire encampment was seated in a circle, staring at them. The dark skin of the Vistani glowed slightly under the moon, in contrast to his and Tristan’s milky faces. Several torches and the fire, fueled by dried horse-droppings, burned smokily, adding to the mysterious setting. There was a tense, hungry silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the night.

Sigfrid swallowed, slightly unnerved, and glanced over at Tristan. The knight was familiar with the uncanny change the night brought to these people, for he had occasionally been privileged to join them in dancing by the fire. Now, however, there was no welcome in the magic, only hostility. He took a deep breath and strode forward into the center of the circle. It parted for him and Sigfrid.

Madame Terza was waiting for them inside the circle, seated behind a table covered by a dark cloth. Two torches behind her provided illumination. Now clad completely in white, she seemed a ghostly manifestation of Justice. On either side stood two unsmiling Vistani. One was Konstantin, the other unknown to Tristan. Konstantin’s face was expressionless, and Tristan hoped he had been right to trust in the Vistana sense of honor.

“Sir Tristan Hiregaard, you have demanded the right to trial,” stated Madame Terza. “If you are found innocent of murder, you may leave here freely and none shall bear you grudge. If you are found guilty, we shall leave you for the plains cats to devour. Your bones shall find no burial, nor your soul rest. Do you agree to these terms?”

Tristan nodded.

Madame Terza fixed her eye on Sigfrid. “You have come here as witness to Sir Tristan. Do you swear that you shall not protest whatever verdict I shall render?”

Sig nodded. The night was chilly after the heat of the day, but he was sweating slightly. “So be it.”

She redirected her attention to Tristan. “Speak.”

Tristan did so, his voice clear and calm. The assembled Vistani murmured angrily when he told them about confiscating Amasa’s ra, but did not interrupt.

When he had finished, Konstantin stepped forward. “I draw Madame Terza’s attention to what we know of Sir Tristan. He it was who made the first treaty with the Nova Vaasan government and our people. We are paid well for the services we render. We may come and go in the cities, unlike in many countries, where stones are thrown at us. Sir Tristan—” his voice thickened “—did not kill my son. It would avail him nothing and cost him everything. He has long been a friend to the Vistani. It would have been easy for Sir Tristan to hide the body, but instead, here he is, standing humbly for our judgment. I ask you, Madame Terza, to look well, and consider, and choose rightly.”

“Our ancestors and I have heard the defender,” replied Terza. The other Vistana, a slim, nervous older man named Gianni, rose and began speaking rapidly.

“Tristan Hiregaard has dealt well with the Vistani—when it suited him. Any gains we have made are far surpassed by the gains he has won for his country. Wasn’t he the one who decreed that Konstantin’s family should suffer for a full year?” He drew himself up and gazed fiercely at the crowd, encouraging the unhappy murmuring. “And the boy came to steal! A lowly Vistana daring to rob a castle! Perhaps,” Gianni said darkly, “the boy was indeed frightened to death—by Tristan himself! We have only one man’s word—and Amasa’s young, cold corpse. I ask you, Madame Terza, to look well, and consider, and choose rightly.”

“Our ancestors and I have heard the accuser. Come forward, Tristan, and let us listen to the Tarokka.”

Tristan accepted the deck of cards she handed him. They seemed unnaturally warm, almost hot in his hands. “Shuffle them until they are ready,” the Seer ordered. Tristan complied, feeling the cards rearrange themselves until, strangely and suddenly, they did not want to be shuffled further. He returned the strange, magical deck to Terza.

By the dim, flickering orange light of the torches, he could see the first card. It depicted an armored warrior, kneeling and being knighted by a glowing sword. “The Paladin,” said the gypsy. “This is you, Sir Tristan. Hardly a card for a murderer, but the tale is not all told.”

With bony fingers, she turned over the second card, placing it beneath the first. This one showed a young girl, craftily snatching a coin from a wealthy man and giving it to a beggar. The card was upside down. Madame Terza sighed heavily. “The recent past—the Swashbuckler, poor Amasa. He meant no ill in stealing from you, Sir Tristan.”

“That I know,” the knight replied.

“But tragedy stepped in. The cards do not yet mark you a killer, but the tale is not all told.” She drew a third card, placing it to the left of the Paladin, and clucked her tongue. “It would seem the cards have some advice for you, Sir Tristan.”

The picture on this card was beautiful, but slightly sinister. A young woman, a wizard, stood looking over six dark books. One arm reached, perhaps to open the tome. The Invoker. “There are things that man was never meant to know. Dark magics, evil powers that no one, not even the desperate, should rely upon. This card is your near future. Stay away from such temptations, Sir Tristan, as you value your soul. But the tale is not all told.”

The fourth card was turned and placed above the Paladin, and this time not only did Madame Terza gasp, but so did the watching Konstantin and Gianni. A man swathed in a dark cloak covered with glyphs turned away from the viewer. “There is a Traitor in your future,” Madame Terza warned. “Someone close and trusted—a friend, or your kin, I cannot say—will turn on you. Guard yourself well and keep a watchful eye on all. But the tale is not all told.”

The final card was turned over. One wizard knelt before another, who leaned on a staff and was clothed in white. Both regarded a large book, but their eyes were fixed on each other. The Diviner. “This card represents your allies in shaping your future,” said the Seer. “All good magic and knowledge will help you. Work for the greatest good, wisely and well, and you may yet find a chance of defeating your Traitor.

“There is but one more task I must undertake before I pronounce your sentence.” She turned abruptly on Sigfrid and made a quick signal. Gianni stepped behind the young man and placed a blade to his throat. Sig gasped, but wisely made no move. Tristan, too, was forced to stay his natural impulse to defend his friend.

“Lie to me, Tristan, and he dies. Did you kill Amasa?”

“No,” replied Tristan at once. But the Vistana did not remove the glittering dagger from Sig’s throat.

Madame Terza turned a card and nodded, satisfied that Tristan had told the truth. But she obviously had a second question, and from the cruel smile on her face Tristan knew he would not like it. “Do you like our people?” she demanded.

Tristan was confused. “I—respect the Vistani and their ways,” he stammered. The blade pressed closer to Sig’s throat, and a dark drop wandered down his pale neck.

“But do you like us?”

Tristan didn’t know how to answer. If he lied, he had no doubt that Madame Terza would know it, and Sigfrid’s life would be forfeit. But if he insulted the Vistani, wouldn’t the result be the same?

“No, Madame Terza. I don’t.”

For a long moment, the tableau froze. Then Madame Terza cackled and waved her hand. Gianni stepped back from Sigfrid, and the young man’s hand reached to gingerly explore his still-whole throat. “You’re very honest for a politician. That is why we have dealings with you. Go home, Sir Tristan. You’re no murderer.”

Rozalia stared after the departing figures of the giorgios as if she could burn holes in their backs with the fury of her gaze. She held her tongue until they were out of earshot. She would not shame her father as he had shamed the tribe. Once they were safely away, she whirled angrily on Konstantin.

“I am ashamed to be your daughter!” she exploded. The crowd had not yet dispersed, and several heads turned. Weeping and keening were expected sounds from a family with a tragedy on their hands; angry accusations were not. “You defended that cursed giorgio even after he killed Amasa!” New tears burst forth, tears of anger and grief combined.

“Rozalia,” came Konstantin’s voice, sharp with strain and warning, “think of your mama. She has been through enough this night. Your accusations—”

“Are justified!” shrieked the girl. Several more people had begun to form a little ring around them. One spoke up now.

“It was your father’s duty to defend the accused, Rozalia. Besides, we know now that he wasn’t guilty.”

“I don’t believe it for a moment! He tricked us, that’s all, just like he tricked us into selling our freedom for a few gold coins! He is a lying, two-faced, blind, self-satisfied giorgio. How he ever stood in the circle for trial I shall never understand or forgive. He blasphemes our ancestors, demanding Vistana justice for a Vistana’s murder!”

“That is enough, Rozalia!” Konstantin’s baritone boomed, drowning out his daughter’s tirade. She glared at him mutinously. Sneering, she snatched up her severed ra and threw it in her father’s face.

“You shame me and all our ancestors,” she cried, her voice growing hoarse with emotion. “From now on, I do not share your blood! I do not share your campsite! From this moment, I have no father. He is dead to me, dead as the brother he failed to champion!”

She spun on her heels and stalked to her vardo, slamming the little door shut behind her. Konstantin stared after her in stunned silence. His fellow tribesmen, too, were shocked and quiet. As far as all were concerned, the ancestors had spoken, and Tristan was innocent.

At last Konstantin spoke. His face was haggard, as though he had suddenly aged many years. “This has been a tragic day,” he said, slowly picking up Rozalia’s discarded ra. He walked toward his own vardo with the slow shuffle of the incredibly weary. “Today I have lost my son and my daughter.”

“Perhaps,” offered Orlan hesitantly, “she will change her mind. You know the ways of young ones.”

Konstantin turned his head slowly to meet Orlan’s gaze. “After what she has said tonight, I am not sure that I could call her daughter again.”

Inside her vardo, Rozalia was furiously searching through her belongings. Her anger was frenzied and demanded an outlet, and she was going to give it one. She had not been blessed with the gift of Sight, but she had other skills that she had discovered on her own—skills of which Terza would not have approved. An obsidian ball on a brass stand, dried herbs in leather pouches, candles colored in different hues, a length of rope for practicing knot magic—these she dug out of her trunk with a swift fury. Rozalia abruptly realized she was so hot with wrath that she was actually sweating heavily. She shrugged out of her cloak and blouse, spreading the former on the floor and piling the arcane objects randomly upon it.

Naked save for her tiered, multicolored skirt, she sat down before her gathered trove of artifacts. Her breathing was swift, and perspiration made her dark skin gleam. She lit four candles and placed them at the corners of the cloak. The candles were red, red like blood. She set the obsidian ball on its base in the center; it was black, black as Tristan’s black heart. Rozalia licked dry lips. What else?

Some of the herbs she had gathered were poisonous. Rozalia sniffed each pouch until she recognized the deadly plants. With a savage glee, she sprinkled their contents over the makeshift evil altar.

“Punish him!” she cried aloud, to whom she did not know. “He who smiles with a kind face, then kills the children! He who makes good treaties, then despises us to our faces! Liar, false one, lord of a people who are too rich and fat and lazy to be wise! He treads with heavy foot, not knowing whom he crushes beneath his heel! Punish him, powers of vengeance! Be guided by my murdered brother’s spirit!”

The girl seized the rope she kept for knot magic and, grunting with the effort, violently twisted it into representative tangles. One knot for destruction. One for vengeance. One for suffering. Suddenly, moved by she knew not what, she reached for her eating knife and brought the bright blade slashing down across her upturned left palm. The pain was surprisingly intense and sobered her somewhat, though her desire for revenge did not dim. Gritting her teeth, Rozalia let the drops fall onto the knots she had tied in the rope. She had heard about the power in blood magic but had never dared try it before. Now, leaning back and sucking the wound, she watched, bright-eyed, eager.

Nothing happened. One heartbeat, two … Frowning, Rozalia poked at the rope—then screamed in terror. It leapt violently and then began to move, twisting sinuously with serpentine grace. On its own, it began to tie more knots, symbols that even Rozalia didn’t understand. Slowly at first, then faster, until the knots were twisting so swiftly her eye couldn’t follow it. For a few moments the girl watched with horror, then comprehension dawned. She threw her head back and laughed hysterically, then stumbled to her feet and opened the door.

She didn’t care that she was half naked in the chill night air. She wanted to see her magic working, and she did. As she watched, her eyes bright with brutal satisfaction, a thick, unnatural fog began to grow above the camp. The stars vanished before that swirling black-gray mist, as if they had been devoured. Even the moon disappeared, struggling vainly for a few moments, then surrendering its pallid light. The fog descended, swirling gracefully around each vardo before obliterating it from view. And when it reached Rozalia, she flung her dark head back and opened her arms, shivering as its cool tendrils trailed over her body like the touch of a long-awaited lover.

It had been a long and unsettling evening, although Kelda wasn’t sure quite why. The strange fog had something to do with it. Nova Vaasa was a comparatively arid land. Rain was rare enough, and fog was practically unheard of. Still, the mysterious mist had driven more customers than usual to seek the cheery interior of the Clever Gray Malken.

The inn’s sign depicted a contented gray cat, and the hostelry resembled its mascot. Pelts of plains cats and thick blankets draped the stone walls to cut the chill. Within, patrons crowded around the fire, reaching to it as though it could warm their very souls. The flames revealed strained, frightened faces, but the inn’s good ale and crackling fire held the outside at bay for a time.

Tips have been exceptionally good tonight, thought Kelda. She was the only one who had volunteered to stay past her usual time but was reaping the benefits. Kelda was young, and if not exactly pretty, at least good-natured. The customers, strangely eager tonight for a reassuring atmosphere, failed to notice how hard Kelda worked to present a cheerful face. She would go home this evening with heavier pockets than most nights, but her false liveliness had tired her.

It was late, well past the normal closing time. The innkeeper, Davin, had opted to stay open longer in order to take advantage of the number of customers. But now most of them had finally gone, taking a last drink to fortify themselves against that strange, swirling fog that lurked just beyond the reach of the torchlight.

One last man lingered. Kelda silently wished him home; something about this man disturbed her. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. His clothing was standard garb for the town, though it didn’t seem to fit him well. The shapeless hat he wore pulled down over his eyes concealed his face, and he wore a sash of mourning green wrapped about his throat like a scarf. Lank brown hair escaped from the hat, and when he looked at her, Kelda could see small, sharp eyes glittering in the shadow that hid his features. As she busied herself wiping the tables, Kelda chanced a sidelong glance at the stranger. He was staring right at her, and she quickly glanced away, aware that her heart had sped up with a lurch. Again, Kelda wondered why this man distressed her so. She had been mauled and molested by bigger drunken louts and had shrugged the incidents off. This man had done nothing … except watch her.

As she finished the tables, Davin piled the chairs atop them. The last customer, apparently unable to take a hint, continued to hunker over his mug. Finally, Davin walked over, his jowly face apologetic. “It’s closin’ time, sir,” he said. “Much as we’re glad ye came, we must be after ye t’ leave.”

“Oh, certainly!” The voice was deep, smooth, and polite, and Kelda recognized the accent of the nobly born in his tones. A wellborn? No wonder he didn’t want to be recognized, not in this part of town. Even now, as he rose and tossed an obscene amount of money carelessly on the table, he kept his face averted. Kelda realized that though his clothes were plain, they were very clearly well made.

“I hope I haven’t kept you long,” added the stranger. He had, of course, and he knew it. With a slight bow that was more mocking than polite, he left. A puff of fog swirled in through the door, then the stranger vanished as if swallowed by the mists.

“Ye go along home, too, Kel,” Davin said generously. “I’ve kept ye late enough as it is, an’ there’s one great lot of cleanin’ still t’ be done.”

“All right, Davin,” Kelda said. “See ye tomorrow evenin’.” She removed her cloak from the pegs that lined the wall and draped it about her narrow shoulders. One hand went to her bodice and freed the small but sharp dagger concealed there. Kelda steeled herself for that strange fog, then went outside.

Two torches placed in the ground outside the tavern flickered bravely against the all-consuming mist. Nervously Kelda tightened one slim hand about her cloak while, in the other, she gripped the dagger’s hilt. The moist chill still managed to seep through the fabric. Kelda shivered, whether from the damp or a strange unease, she couldn’t tell. She glanced down the narrow lane. Normally, the various shops and stalls would have their own torches, and Kelda’s way home was well lit. But this late at night, few orange lights gleamed to illumine her way. Even if they had, Kelda thought morosely, how far would torchlight carry in this monstrous haze? She took a deep breath, pulled her hood on, and began walking.

The mist let her see only a yard or two ahead, not enough to make out the large stone street signs fastened to the corner walls of buildings. They were impossible to read until she was standing next to them, and Kelda didn’t trust her memory in this deceptive swath of gray. Though tonight more than ever she desired to reach home swiftly, she would have to slow down to reach home at all.

Sounds, too, were delusive. Some, like the sound of horses’ hooves on adjacent streets, were muffled and furtive. Others, like the cough of a passerby hastening homeward across the street from her, seemed to occur right beside her. Kelda swallowed and pressed onward. She was only two streets away now.

Something brushed her leg. For a wild, panicked instant, Kelda thought that the fog had solidified and was twining about her body. She gasped and stumbled, her fingers losing their hold on the dagger and her foot stepping on the small cat that had chosen her for its object of affection. She trod heavily on its tail, and the beast yowled, startled. A quick, slashing scratch on Kelda’s leg, and the cat vanished, a gray swirl in the blacker swirl of the mists.

Kelda put her hand to her breast as if to calm her frantically pounding heart. She cursed quietly and knelt, groping gently for the dropped weapon on the moisture-slick stone. She frowned and expanded her search. Where had the thing gone? Fear began to seep through her. Rising, Kelda hastened to the nearest torch a few yards down the street, uprooted it from the earth, and carried it back to better examine the area. The small dagger was nowhere to be found.

“I’m afraid the cat and you startled one another,” came a smooth voice by her ear. Someone slid a proprietary hand under her elbow.

Kelda gasped; it was the disguised wellborn she had seen at the Clever Gray Malken. The man was clearly following her. “You startled me worsen’ the cat did,” she accused nervously. “Who are ye, anyway, an’ why are ye down in this part of the city?”

“Oh, my name’s not important. In honor of your taproom, you may call me Malken. As for why I’m here, I’d like the privilege of walking you home.” He pulled her closer. The scarf had slipped, not enough to reveal his face, but enough to release the smell of ale on his breath. “And of … entertaining you once we get there, hmm?”

Angered, Kelda wriggled out of the stranger’s grip. Malken’s eyes, glittering in the dim, flickering light, narrowed with displeasure. “Cats scratch when their affections are rebuffed,” he reminded her. It was only then, as he raised his hand, that she saw the knife—her knife—glitter in the torchlight. “And my claws are rather sharp.”

Kelda shoved the torch at Malken’s face. He stepped backward with unnatural speed, the silky voice going harsh with cursing. His hat fell off as he brought his arms up to shield his face. Kelda dropped the torch, which sizzled and went out immediately upon hitting the vapor-damp cobblestones. She fled. This close to home, she knew her way, and there was no more light to be seen. There was no way Malken could follow—

A brutally strong hand closed on her upper arm, spinning her around. She could see nothing, only the swirling black fog and a darkness blacker still immediately in front of her. “Cats can see in the dark, too,” hissed the cultured voice.

And now, somehow, Kelda could see as well, and what she saw shocked her beyond speech. Malken’s eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure, an expression so powerfully evil that Kelda was overwhelmed, and when he smiled, her sanity fled. She struggled now only as the mouse with the cat, mindlessly, futilely, and the scream that ripped from her throat was the cry of prey as it falls to the predator. The animal wailing pierced the thick fog, turning into a gurgle as the blade slashed her throat.

Tristan awoke with a start. For a second, he was completely disoriented, then he remembered that he and Sigfrid had sought lodgings in Bergovitsa when the strange, enveloping mist had so abruptly descended. He regretted not being able to ride straight home, for he knew how worried his retainers would be. Still, to attempt to reach Faerhaaven through that kind of vaporous mess would be tantamount to suicide. Navigation was impossible, and the hungry plains cats, Nova Vaasa’s most dangerous predators, needed no light to scent their prey.

He yawned and stretched. Perhaps it was the strange bed or the strain of the previous two days, but his dreams had been disjointed and jarring. Tiredly, Tristan pulled off the covers—and immediately pulled them back up to his chin. The room was far colder than it should have been. Drawing back the drapes that shrouded the bed, Tristan saw why. The fire had gone out and the window was wide open. Tristan frowned. Had he opened it during the night? He didn’t think so.

Fully awake now, Tristan wrapped the bed sheet around him and rose, looking about sharply. He went over to the wardrobe, and then truth hit him. He had been robbed during the night. His clothes and his money pouch were missing. He swore softly, then resignedly gathered the sheet more tightly about his muscular frame and went across the hall.

Tristan knocked on Sigfrid’s door. “It’s Tristan. We’ve got a problem.”

“Come on in,” Sigfrid invited. “Door’s unlocked.” Tristan let himself in.

Sigfrid was already up, dressed and shaving. As he drew the freshly stropped blade across his cheek, he glanced casually in the mirror. His eyes widened when he saw Tristan clad in nothing but the white bed sheet, and he nicked himself. Red merged with the foamy white of soap. Sigfrid tried not to laugh at his superior, but he couldn’t help himself.

Tristan, however, did not join in his amusement. “You shouldn’t have left your door unlocked,” he said coldly. “They could have gotten you, too.”

Mirth fled Sigfrid. Quickly he splashed water on his half-shaved face and roughly toweled it dry. “The inn at Bergovitsa is one of the most reputable in the country,” he said. “I didn’t think I needed to lock the door.”

“Well, I locked my window and somebody still managed to break into my room.”

Together they returned to Tristan’s room. Completely professional now, Sigfrid made a careful check of the lock and the windowsill. They leaned down and looked out on the quiet alley that would be pitch-dark after twilight. Their eyes met.

“A perfect job,” stated Sigfrid. “Not a scratch on this lock. Obviously done by someone who knows his business. What did they take?”

“My purse and my clothes.”

“Not your weapons?”

Tristan shook his head. “Nor my armor.”

“How much money did you bring?”

“Enough to travel comfortably. Not a king’s ransom, by any means.”

“But, perhaps, enough to salve a Vistana’s wounded pride?” Sigfrid suggested.

“That’s what I think. A Vistana would have no problem scurrying up to a second story window and picking the lock. He wouldn’t take the armor or weapons—too easily identified and too bulky to carry. As for the clothes,” Tristan concluded grimly, “no doubt it would amuse him to think of the mighty Sir Tristan Hiregaard wandering about in a sheet, at least for a while.”

A hint of a smile touched Sigfrid’s lips. “Well, actually …”

Tristan too had to laugh a little. “Well, they’ve had their joke. Little enough real harm done. I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t kill me as I slept.”

The owner of the inn was so dismayed at the thought of such an esteemed guest being robbed that he waived payment. “Which is a good thing,” Sigfrid commented, “as I have only a few copper and silver pieces on me.” While Tristan and Sigfrid ate breakfast in Sigfrid’s room, Tristan still robed in the bed sheet, the humiliated innkeeper scurried about trying to locate clothes for the knight. He succeeded, and shortly thereafter Tristan and Sigfrid were on their way back to Kantora.

There was no trace of the curious mist that had inhibited their progress the night before. Indeed, the day was fresh and clear. Tristan, however, was out of sorts. “I kept a few magical items in my pouch,” he explained as the wagon rumbled along. “I was hoping to use them to speed our way back to Kantora.”

Sigfrid frowned at this news. “Nothing very powerful, I hope?”

“Nothing at all that’s useful by itself, just some ingredients for spells—a little bottle of mercury, certain stones and roots.…”

“Be thankful we have Vistana-tamed horses,” reminded Sigfrid. “They’ll get us there in good time.”

Nonetheless, it was well into the early afternoon before Tristan reached Faerhaaven, having parted from Sigfrid in Kantora. As he approached, his watchful guards raised his standard, and it began to snap in the breeze. A joyful bark reached his ears, and he soon saw Luath racing toward him.

“Hello, boy,” Tristan said fondly. Luath rose on his hind legs and planted his large paws on Kal’s saddle. Tristan affectionately rubbed behind the dog’s silky ears. “That’s enough, Luath. Down, fellow.”

Obediently the dog dropped to all fours and padded alongside Kal as Tristan continued to approach Faerhaaven. Guillaume greeted him inside the courtyard. Relief was plain on his face, but he spoke in his usual cool, steady voice.

“Good afternoon, Sir Tristan. We were rather worried. I trust all went well with … those people?” Like most Nova Vaasans, Guillaume disliked the “uncouth, filthy Vistani.”

“Well enough,” replied Tristan, swinging down from Kal and handing the horse’s reins over to a groom. He and Guillaume walked across the courtyard to the side entrance of the main keep. “How are arrangements for Perryn’s burial coming?”

“Fine, sir.” Guillaume hesitated.

“Out with it.”

“Well, sir,” began Guillaume, “let me say first that nobody blames you for Perryn’s death. But it is a topic of conversation among the servants, much as I have attempted to discourage it. They’re concerned, sir. Do you have any idea … what happened?” he finished lamely.

Sighing and rubbing his tired eyes, Tristan shook his head. “No. It’s a fine little mystery, but I’ll do my best to solve it. In the meantime, I’m filthy and famished. I’d like a hot bath and something to eat.”

“Shall I serve your meal in your room, sir?”

“No, in the secondary dining hall, I think. Is Ivaar here?”

Again, Guillaume hesitated before replying. “Yes, sir, but he’s still abed. Shall I wake him?”

Tristan frowned. “Asleep? At this hour?”

“Well, sir, he didn’t come home until very, very late. He said the fog delayed him.”

“That fog didn’t start until late last night,” Tristan answered. “What was he doing in Kantora till all hours?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. He did seem rather agitated when he returned home.”

“Wake him up, Guillaume. I want to talk to him.”

Tired and irritable, Tristan bathed, his mind not on the steaming hot water but on his unfathomable son. He shaved, dressed, and went down to the secondary dining hall. He thought sourly that sharing the meal with Ivaar would probably spoil his appetite.

Ivaar was already seated, staring at his empty plate and glancing up furtively when his father entered. The table was laid with cold ham and mutton, sweet ripe pears and fresh tangy berries, a round of cheese and bread fresh from the oven, and pitchers of both wine and water.

“You waited for me, I see. Thank you,” said Tristan, carving a slice of mutton. “Mutton or ham?” he asked.

“Neither, thank you,” the young man responded, not looking up.

Tristan sighed. “Don’t tell me that cold mutton is too elegant for you.” Ivaar did not respond. Tristan took a closer look at the boy. His eyes were hollow, his unhandsome features blunter than usual. It had been a late night indeed. “You are not a child,” Tristan said as he reached for the bread and tore off a hunk. “You are free to come and go as you will. I’ve no objections to your spending the night in the town, Ivaar, but I do like to be informed ahead of time.”

“You weren’t here,” Ivaar replied.

An unexpected flare of anger made Tristan’s eyes flash. “That’s right. I wasn’t. I was down at the Vistana encampment, put on trial by a group of thieving gypsies. If they’d found me guilty, I wouldn’t be here sharing this pleasant repast with my son. Just what were you doing in Kantora that was more important than wondering about your father’s life?”

Hot color flooded Ivaar’s face. It was more than just shame, Tristan thought, suddenly worried. He had unexpectedly stumbled on to something. “By the gods, boy,” he murmured, invoking deities that had long since abandoned Kantora, “what have you gotten yourself caught up in?”

Ivaar shot his father a look that was stricken, guilty, and angry. “You are all that is wrong with this place! You are the reason there’s disease and death and, and—we’ve got to get rid of what’s dirty and wrong and make everything clean again, and—” Ivaar almost choked on the words. Frenzied, he seized one of the crystal goblets from the table and threw it across the room. It shattered with a crash against the far wall. The sound seemed to sober him, and he blinked rapidly, then stared at his father. “I—” With a little moan, he rose, knocking the chair down, and fled from the room.

Tristan hurried after, but the boy eluded him. A few moments later, Tristan heard the sound of activity in the courtyard. Rushing to a window, he looked down to see Ivaar clambering atop his mare and racing off.

“Ivaar! Come back here! Ivaar!” Tristan slumped against the cool stone of the wall. He glanced back at the still-laden table and shook his head. As he had gloomily predicted, the encounter with Ivaar had sickened his soul and destroyed his appetite. He strode out of the room, seeking refuge in his private quarters.

Behind him, the table began to tremble slightly. One by one, the remaining goblets shattered, their contents oozing over the lace-covered table. The decanter, filled with red wine, exploded also, blood-red droplets flying. A few moments later, Guillaume hastened in and frowned at the mess. The master and his son often quarrelled, but never before had they broken anything in their arguments. He shivered, and noticed the room was much colder than it had been before. He strode to the window and pulled the shutters. It was careless of the master to leave it open—although, Guillaume reflected, it didn’t seem that chilly out today.

Alone in his room, Tristan stared up at the portrait of his dead wife.

“Ailsa, I keep trying, but I seem to lose him more and more each day. You were always so good with him. He always stopped crying when you held him.

“He’s going wild now, he and his friends. They want to turn the world around, shake everything up, start it all over.” Tristan’s eyes were sober, and he glanced down at his hands lying, tightly clenched, in his lap. “Ivaar says that it’s my fault that things are bad. What he doesn’t understand is, if you just throw away everything that I and Kethmaar—all of us—have done, you throw away the good, too.”

His blue eyes wandered back to the portrait. “I can’t reach him. Sometimes, I’m afraid for him. Today, I finally saw you in him, Ailsa. Too much of you. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear if he, too, went mad.” There came a knock at the door. “Enter.”

Guillaume opened the door. “Sir Tristan, Captain Skolsson wishes to see you.”

Tristan was surprised. “I’ll be right down.”

Sigfrid was pacing in the main receiving room. The face he turned to Tristan was pale and agitated. “What’s happened, Sig?” Tristan asked, skipping the pleasantries. Sigfrid’s face told him it was serious.

“There’s been a murder.”

“Who?”

“A barmaid named Kelda.”

Tristan frowned. “Not to seem disrespectful, but that’s really not my area. You and the city guards handle the daily crimes—”

“It’s not who she was,” Sigfrid interrupted—another sign, if Tristan needed it, of his distress. “It’s how she was murdered. This wasn’t some drunken lout or rejected …” He groped for the slang that the prostitutes called their clients. “Rejected tumbler. This man—you should have seen the body. Really brutal.”

Tristan walked over to the table and poured himself and Sigfrid some wine. The young man looked badly in need of it. “But that’s not all, is it?”

Sigfrid shook his head and took a sip of the wine. “The bastard left us a message. Written in the poor girl’s blood on the side of a building.” He handed Tristan a piece of parchment. “Sergeant Valdisdottir found the body. She copied the message exactly as it appeared.”

Tristan took the parchment. Scrawled across it was the threat: SHE’Z THE FURST. Tristan went cold.

“I thought maybe, with your magic—”

“We could find out who it is before he kills again,” Tristan finished. “Of course, Sigfrid. Come with me.”

The knight kept all his magic items in one room, located in the far turreted tower unofficially dubbed the Master’s Tower. In addition to this particular chamber, the tower housed Tristan’s extensive private armory and library. Like the gate to the royal mausoleum, Tristan’s magic chamber was protected with both a lock and a magic ward. The knight spoke a word that was incomprehensible to Sigfrid, twisted the key in the lock, and opened the door. “I’m afraid it’ll be a bit of a disappointment. There’s very little in here that’s as mysterious as Vistana magic.”

Sigfrid followed Tristan inside. With a wave of his fingers, Tristan lit several candles as Sigfrid looked about curiously. The few spots on the walls not completely covered by bookshelves were bare stone. The windows were sealed shut.

“It’s a bit gloomy, but some of the delicate ingredients necessary for various spells are too fragile to endure daylight,” Tristan explained.

Two small tables stood in the center. One made of wood served Tristan as a writing desk, complete with drawers for parchment, ink, quills, and vials of powder and sand for blotting and erasing. Sigfrid assumed the second, made of stone with a marble top, functioned as a place for experiments. Presently, its surface was bare. Tables, cabinets, and shelves groaned with magical tools, books, herb pots, and other items. Yet somehow, the clutter was orderly. Such organization, thought Sigfrid, was entirely typical of Tristan.

Tristan opened a cabinet and withdrew a large mirror. It was a gorgeous work. The mirror itself was oval, surrounded by an intricately fashioned silver frame that hung between two supporting poles. A slight touch would rotate the mirror easily. The poles, too, were silver, covered with twining ivy. Its feet ended in dragon’s claws. Three inches from the bottom, two sconces twined out from the side, bearing half-burned beeswax candles.

Gently, he set it down on the stone table. “This is the prize of my collection,” he informed Sigfrid. “I use it for scrying. I acquired it a long time ago, when both Kethmaar and I were younger than you. It looks just like an ordinary mirror when I’m not—”

He broke off, startled, and sat down in front of the mirror. All that could be seen in its polished glass was a dark, sluggishly swirling bank of gray-black fog. Sigfrid seated himself on the table, wisely holding his tongue. This was Tristan’s territory, and Sigfrid would wait for him to speak. Tristan watched the glass for a while, seeing if any image would emerge. None did. Tristan lit the candles and gave the mirror a series of instructions.

“Show me Ivaar.” The mists did not clear. “Show me the Vistana encampment. Show me Othmar.” More requests. All proved useless. The fog continued to swirl, unconcerned. At last, frowning, he eased his chair back and looked at Sigfrid.

“I gather something’s wrong,” Sigfrid hazarded.

Tristan nodded. “Normally, it’s simply a mirror. With the right commands, it can show me certain things.”

Sigfrid whistled in admiration. “That’s pretty useful.”

“Yes and no. It’s very tiring to use, and I have to word things just the right way. It’s a tool, like any other tool. But right now, I think it’s a broken one. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sigfrid. We may have to approach this murder like ordinary mortals. We can only hope our killer does as well.”

Sigfrid looked grim. “You didn’t see that body. There was nothing ordinary about the way she died.”

Tristan did not answer his friend. He merely continued to stare, wondering, into the gray murk that clouded his scrying mirror.

Dagmar Valdisdottir took a deep breath and attempted to maintain a hold on her patience. The young prostitute quailing before her was obviously genuinely terrified. Yelling at the girl wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Dagmar glanced over at her partner, Hallam. He, too, was getting tired of asking the same questions and getting the same nonsensical responses. His mouth was drawn in that thin line that Dagmar had come to recognize as utter impatience.

“Let’s start again, shall we?”

The prostitute’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I’ve told ye all I know! It’s the truth, me lady, honest it is!”

“Sergeant, not my lady,” Dagmar corrected her. “Ara, I sympathize with your loss, but you can’t honestly expect us—”

“It was a plains cat!” Ara cried, her voice rising to a wail. “I saw it, clear as I see ye! It came right up to where my little Teo was playing, good as gold he was being.…” She began to sob harshly.

“What were you doing, leaving a baby outside at that time of night anyway?” asked Hallam. Dagmar shot him an angry glance. Attacking Ara’s mothering was hardly the way to earn her trust. Besides, no tumbler, as the prostitute’s clients were called, would tolerate a baby in the room.

Fortunately, the distraught girl didn’t appear to have heard Hallam’s remark. She continued with her tearful account. “I heard him cry and went to see—that great big black thing had him in its mouth. Then it was gone, just like that, gone with my little Teo.…”

Fresh sobbing broke out. Dagmar mentally shook her head. They would get nothing more out of the bereaved mother tonight. With a gesture, Dag summoned one of the girl’s friends, who gently wrapped her arm about Ara and led her away. As Dagmar watched them go, she took in the squalid, false luxury of the place. Stained velvet curtains trimmed with dull gold tassels served as doors to various rooms. Behind those inadequate barriers came sounds that left little doubt as to the activity being pursued therein. The smell of heavy, cheap perfume did little to hide the sour scent of bodies that were not as clean as they could be. Dampness, too, emanated from the place, and the carpeting beneath their feet had green spots of mildew.

Dagmar had had enough. “Let’s get out of here.”

They paused long enough to relight their lanterns, then headed back toward their station.

“Do you think this has anything to do with the barmaid you found five days ago?” asked Hallam.

Dagmar shook her head. “The slashes on that body were made from a dagger, not from teeth or claws.”

“Well, poor Ara’s obviously mad,” Hallam concluded. “Someone snatched her baby, and she snapped. Guilt created this plains cat, nothing more.”

“I don’t know,” Dagmar said thoughtfully. “This isn’t the first rumor I’ve heard about them coming into the city. People are frightened, especially in this part of town. With that killer out there, I don’t blame them.”

Hallam made a disparaging noise. “It’s the fashion,” he said. “You know how it works. One person sees a movement out of the corner of his eye, next thing you know a whole section of town is haunted. Remember that werewolf rumor two years ago? They were about ready to burn everybody whose eyebrows met, and it turned out it was someone’s pet dog gone feral. No, Dag, this is only—”

A sudden noise from an alleyway interrupted them. Immediately, both soldiers drew their clubs and raised their lanterns. They waited, tense. A high-pitched moan came from the alley, a growl-wail that ended in a sharp hiss. A small, sleek orange shape appeared. It had an object in its mouth. In a swift movement, it fixed them with a baleful glare, eyes glowing in the lamplight, then vanished into shadow.

Hallam let out the breath he’d been holding. “There’s your plains cat, Dagmar—a pet gone wild.”

“Hallam—”

“What?”

Dagmar stared after the little animal, still tense. “It had something in its mouth.”

“A mouse?” He desperately hoped he was right even as he knew he wasn’t.

She shook her head. “No.” She swallowed hard. “A human ear.”

Hallam groaned. Their eyes met, then they looked toward the alley. They both knew that they would find another mutilated corpse hidden in the shadows. He swore softly. “Come on.” Lifting the lantern high, he strode forward and turned the corner.

There was indeed another corpse—mangled and torn. And above it, furious at having its feeding disturbed, snarled a giant black shape. Hallam cried out, dropping the lantern as he lifted his club. The weapon was useless against the mammoth cat, which sprang with supple power for the guard. It landed squarely on him, its weight mercifully knocking him unconscious before inch-long fangs crunched down over his face, obliterating it.

The cat’s attack was so swift Dagmar didn’t even have time to react. Poised above the red and gray mass that had been Hallam’s face, the great beast glared at her with eyes that glowed green in the faint light of the torches. Slowly, it drew back bloodied lips. She had expected a feline yowl, but to her horror, the cry that exploded from the creature sounded like nothing so much as a woman’s scream.

Dagmar was armed only with a guard’s club. The creature had its prey, and there was nothing she could do for poor Hallam now. She turned and fled.

Safe in the shadows, Malken watched her go. He laughed softly to himself. He had grown more bold in the five days since he had first killed, since he had realized that the shadows obeyed him unquestioningly. His hunger, sated only by violence, had also grown.

The guard who had run away like a frightened hare was a pretty thing. One day—one day soon—he would number her among his victims. But for now, like the predator thinning the herd, Malken would content himself with the dregs of Nova Vaasan society. Nobody, surely, would miss another whore. He thumbed his already bloodied knife and smiled as he moved quietly down the street toward the brothel.

Normally, Tristan would have looked forward to a day spent with the friends of his youth. But the regents council he was hosting today at Faerhaaven was sobered by two things. It was the first time the five regents had met since Kethmaar’s funeral seven days before; all five men would be thinking of their missing companion. Also, Tristan had invited Sigfrid to attend the meeting, and he knew what the younger man planned to discuss was grim indeed.

Apparently, the other regents shared Tristan’s mood. They smiled pleasantly at little Madeleine when she entered carrying tea for the six men. After she left the receiving room, closing the door gently behind her, the smiles faded. How tired we all look, thought Tristan. How tired and … how old.

“Is Othmar behaving himself?” he asked Hadwin Hadwinsson. The chief advisor to the prince grimaced as he took a sip of the fragrant tea.

“A bit worse than usual. He does his duties rather like a farm boy doing his chores. Most of the time, when I want him, I can’t find him.” Hadwinsson smiled briefly, his teeth flashing white in his gray beard. “Then again, when I don’t want him, I can’t find him either. So it balances out.”

The other men chuckled faintly. Tristan turned his attention to Lord Keirin, a slender, white-haired nobleman. “Any problems in your area?”

Adal shrugged his thin shoulders. “King, prince—my people are far enough away that it makes little difference. There’s no trouble.”

“I report the same,” interjected Bevis. His large, beefy hands made the china teacup look even more fragile as he sipped at the tea. “As long as the Vistani are willing to keep training and selling the horses under Othmar’s rule, my people have no objections.”

“Osric?”

Osric Laars, mayor of Kantora, was normally a jovial fellow with a quick smile. Today, he was somber, and Tristan noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes. He gestured toward Sigfrid. “He’s got my report.”

Tristan nodded to Sigfrid. “Go ahead, Captain.”

“In the last seven days,” said Sigfrid, “the watch has discovered three female corpses—two found just last night—all mutilated in the same unique fashion, as if the killer were leaving his signature.”

“Any link between the victims?” Bevis asked.

Sigfrid turned his attention to the heavyset nobleman. “They were all either prostitutes or barmaids—strictly lower class. All were killed with a knife and, as I said, mutilated afterward.”

“You’re sure the mutilations occurred after death?” Laars inquired.

“Absolutely. There were things … done to them that would be impossible to do to a living person, even an unconscious one.” The regents exchanged uneasy glances. Sigfrid continued. “There is as yet no clear suspect, but we have had a few leads. Witnesses all report that there was a nobleman at the various establishments. Dressed in plain clothing, dark-haired. He wore a hat pulled low over his eyes and a scarf around his neck. Clearly, he didn’t want to be recognized. Problem is, nobody can agree on anything more specific. All say they mistrusted him. Something about him was, as they put it, simply wrong.”

“That’s not enough to arrest anyone,” Laars noted.

“Captain Skolsson and I discussed this earlier,” said Tristan. “I’d like to allot more men and money to the night watch. We have every reason to believe he’ll keep killing till he’s caught.”

“I’m definitely in favor,” said Laars. “I know he’s only stalking Kantora now, but—”

“He could move to our areas at any time,” finished Bevis. His brows were drawn together and there was thunder in his voice. “Add my vote to yours.”

Tristan, Hadwinsson, and Adal all agreed. The killer had to be stopped. “Now,” resumed Tristan, “on to the so-called plains cat attacks. What’s going on there?”

“It’s very odd, sir,” Sigfrid began hesitantly.

“I don’t want to hear how odd it is; I want to hear what’s happening and what’s being done about it.”

“Over two dozen sightings have been reported, sir.”

“By whom?”

“It’s a good, solid sampling of the populace. Everyone from drunks to judges, from prostitutes to my own guards. One of my men was killed just two nights ago. We’ve seen the destruction they do.”

“That they’re hunting in Kantora is a fact. But why?”

Sigfrid hesitated again. Tristan disliked putting Sigfrid on the spot like this, but it couldn’t be helped. The regents needed answers, not wild speculations.

“There may be shortages of food on the plains. The Vistani are taking excellent care of the horses, and maybe there simply aren’t enough horses left wild to feed the cats. They seem to have some means of getting in and out without being noticed, as they certainly would be if they just wandered into town. We’ve found no traces, no tracks, nothing. We think they might be using the sewer system. And they seem to be driving the domestic cats quite crazy.”

“What domestic cats?” snapped Laars. “They’ve all gone feral. My daughter had one. Loved it to death until the thing scratched her and fled into the streets.”

“Captain, put some men on this during the day,” said Tristan. “Follow up on the sewer angle. If we know how they’re getting in, we can prevent it. In the meantime,” he said, glancing at his compatriots, “I have a suggestion, but I’ll need you all to approve it. I’d like to have a look at these goings-on myself.”

Laars choked on his tea. “You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed I am. There’s something not right going on here. Don’t you see how strange everything is?” He sat forward, his eyes snapping with intensity. “A week ago, the king died. Then a mysterious death occurred in my own castle. Pet cats go mad, plains cats invade town, a killer starts playing games with us—”

“Respectfully, sir, I can’t let you put yourself in that kind of danger,” said Sigfrid. “You’re retired now, and chief regent. You don’t need to supervise this yourself.”

“Oh, so I’m an old man and can’t wield a sword anymore?” Tristan joked.

“Yes, indeed,” laughed Laars with a hint of his old humor. “If I have to sit by the fire and leave this sort of thing to the young, so do you. For one thing, you’re immediately recognizable.”

“My clothing can be changed. Even my face and form. You know that.”

The regents exchanged glances. They knew Tristan had taken up magic many years ago, applying himself to its study with the same diligence and enthusiasm he had exhibited with weaponry. Not many in Nova Vaasa practiced the arcane arts, so Tristan had been largely self-taught. His skill was great, though, and he had mastered many of the subtleties of the craft. It would be simple enough to alter his form, slightly or greatly, and go thus disguised.

Sigfrid glanced down at the green sash that Tristan still wore, then up to his friend’s face. Tristan looked tired and wan. It wasn’t surprising, not after all he’d been through in the last fortnight. Perhaps the distraction would do him good.

“Well, sir, we could use your expertise,” said Sigfrid. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“It’s uncanny,” said Sigfrid softly, permitting his concern to show. “No witnesses to the murders. No clear suspect. The cats are like ghosts; they come into town, kill or frighten, and then just disappear.”

Laars spoke up. “Tristan, I know you’re not a superstitious man, and neither am I. But is there a possibility of—”

“The supernatural?” Tristan Finished. He thought of past campaigns. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, gentlemen. Magically animated statues, things unnaturally created, monsters right out of nightmares. But all of these have a solid reason—if perhaps artificial or magical—for existing. Nothing yet has made me believe in ghosts or vampires—or, in this case, spirit cats or spectral murderers.

“Let us look for the rational first. This may be nothing more than a clever madman and hungry plains cats.

But there’s only one way to find out. We have to go and see for ourselves.”

“If we said no, you’d do it anyway,” said Laars. “Gentlemen, we’ve never been able to hold back Tristan once he gets an idea in his head, and I don’t think we’re going to start now.”

“Do be careful, Tris,” said Hadwinsson. “I’m next in line for head regent, and I’ve quite enough trouble with the royal brat as it is.”

Sigfrid smiled a little. He was no longer alone.

Avarill 14th: How I yearn for the simple years now. Was life this confusing and complex when I was young? Perhaps I only now have the wisdom to see it!

I have learned more about the killer who stalks the streets of Kantora. He sounds a monster, but whether truly bestial or merely a twisted human being, I have no way of knowing yet. Sigfrid has agreed to accompany me on a search for the killer. I am afire to begin. Our trail will, I am certain, lead us into the most unsavory parts of the city, parts I had hoped, in my youth, to eradicate altogether.

Tristan frowned to himself and hesitated to write the next words. Grimly, he continued.

Ivaar, too, hates the squalor in which the lower classes must wallow. He would like to eradicate poverty, but would he do so by eradicating the poor? I have confided my suspicions to none save my ever-silent journal. I pray I am wrong, but fear I am right.

Tristan paused, dipped his quill in ink, and continued. It has taken four days to gather the necessary items for our trip into the darker side of Kantora, but I am now prepared.

He rose and surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. The clothing, a dull brown tunic belted with an equally dull brown leather belt, black breeches and calf-high black boots, were all far too small for him. No matter; he would remedy that quickly enough.

He ascended to his sorcery chamber, closed the door behind him, and paused for a moment to peer into his mirror. As it had for the last few days, it showed only fog in its glass face. Tomorrow, the knight resolved, he would take several hours and determine how to lift that irritating cloud. Now, he had more pressing business to attend to.

Tristan spread a rolled piece of parchment onto his experiment table, weighed down the four corners with books, and studied the sketch intently. It was a rough drawing of the man they sought, created from eyewitnesses’ accounts. Tristan bit his lip. The face did not overly resemble Ivaar, but then, the sketcher had had little to work with. Though the lack of detail was a problem in identifying the man, it made Tristan’s spell easier. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind, closing his eyes to aid in concentration. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked again at the illustration.

He uttered a long string of words that would have seemed nonsense to a listener, and then his hand began to glow softly. His right forefinger reached to touch the sketch. The paper at once began to undulate, as if suddenly springing to life, but Tristan held his finger firmly on the illustration, keeping it from flying away. After a moment, the vibrating subsided, and the sketch lay quiet on the desk once more.

Tristan’s left hand came up to gently touch his face. He traced the lines on the paper. Where his hand touched, the ink glowed bright red. His other hand softly molded his own face. He elongated and hooked his nose, softened his sharp cheekbones, smoothed out the cleft in his chin. Closing his eyes again, he touched his eyelids gently. Lines smoothed out, vanished, and when his lids fluttered open their blue had muted to a mixed hazel hue. Witnesses had disagreed as to the killer’s eye color.

When he ran his fingers through his hair, the graying blond was suffused with a dark, rich brown. Tristan placed his hand on his heart and closed his eyes. A huge flash illuminated the room, and his body shimmered and changed. He shrank a full foot, and the firm bulk that had characterized a warrior still in fine shape dwindled, almost hunched, into that of a far smaller man. The clothing, so tight and constricting before, now fit perfectly.

There came a light knock on the door. “Come.”

Sigfrid opened the door and started. “Tris?” he asked, unsure.

“In the flesh,” answered his friend.

Sigfrid shook his head. “In whose flesh is the question. You look just like him.”

“If this is what our killer looks like,” replied Tristan.

“He’s apparently a slumming noble, so you won’t have to disguise your voice too much,” said Sigfrid. “What about me?” He gestured to his blazing head of coppery hair. “This is pretty unmistakable.”

“I have an idea for what to do about you,” replied Tristan. “I’m not sure you’ll like it. First, is your sergeant willing to work with us?” He had suggested using Sergeant Valdisdottir tonight; the killer went after women, and from what he had heard, Dagmar was a beautiful woman as well as a competent soldier. The suggestion had gone over very well. Ashamed of her flight at her partner Hallam’s death, Dagmar was eager to both redeem herself and bring the murderer to justice.

Sigfrid nodded. “She’s to meet us at the station in the Horse Quarter in two hours. We’ll tell her the specifics then.”

“Good. Come here and let me show you what I have in mind.” Sigfrid stood beside his friend, peering easily over Tristan’s shortened shoulder as the knight spread out a map of Kantora on the table, anchoring it down as he had the sketch.

“The Clever Gray Malken is here,” Tristan began, pointing to a small building. “Each of these red crosses marks where a body has been found. Now, there seems to be no pattern—they’re simply scattered randomly throughout the rougher neighborhoods. If you post your men atop these buildings—” he indicated five structures, two of them abandoned “—they will form a circle around the murder sites. More importantly, they surround the major thoroughfare of the area, Baker’s Way.” Since this was the workingman’s area of town, all the streets were named for professions. In addition to Baker’s Way, murders had occurred on Tailor Lane, and, grimly enough, Butcher Street.

“I plan to show up at the inn as you see me now, as close as I can get to the appearance of the killer. We’ll see who, if anyone, talks to me, and how they react.”

“What if they react with a lynching?” Sigfrid asked. “Nerves are stretched tight in that part of town.”

“I hope I can hold my own against a few drunken louts. If not, well, that’s what you and Sergeant Valdisdottir are for. And let’s not forget about the men I’ve placed here.” He tapped the buildings where the armed bowmen were to take up their stations. “If no one does talk to me—or try to attack me—we send Sergeant Valdisdottir out onto the street as bait. She’ll wander alone down Baker’s Way, past nearly all of the murder sites.”

“I don’t like that, Tris,” said Sigfrid with a frown. “She’s good enough with a weapon, but unarmed—”

“Remember, she won’t really be alone. I can leave shortly afterward, make myself invisible, and follow at a close distance. Now, here’s where your disguise comes into play. I’d like, with your permission, to turn you into a dog.”

Sigfrid gaped. “Come on, Tris, you—”

“Hear me out, old friend. A man who relies on surprise and a knife blade is likely to flee if set upon by armed men. Who better than a hound to track him and keep up with him? He won’t be able to shake you.”

Sigfrid was silent, thinking. “Will I keep my own mind?”

“Probably. If not, we’ll toss the plan, and I’ll turn you right back into your redheaded self again.”

“What if something happens to you?”

“The duration of the spell is limited. After a certain period, you’ll change back with or without my help.”

Tristan had been right. Sigfrid did not like the idea. Still, he was forced to admit that both of Tristan’s plans were sound. If even one strategy worked, they’d be far closer to catching the criminal in one night than Sigfrid was in ten days. “You said track him,” said Sig slowly.

Tristan nodded. “You’ll have all of the animal’s senses. A dog’s sense of smell puts any of a human’s five senses to shame.”

Sigfrid agreed reluctantly, adding, “I hope you’ve bathed today.”

Tristan smiled and clapped Sigfrid on the back. He went to one of the laden shelves and took down a small lacquered box. Inside were dozens of small white objects, each about an inch long. He removed one of the caterpillar cocoons and began to gently tear it apart as he chanted an incantation.

Tristan heard the low murmur of conversation as he paused at the entrance to the Clever Gray Malken. He glanced down to the dog at his feet and nodded. The huge grizzled beast, the transformed Sigfrid, nodded his own head. He, too, was ready. Tristan pushed the door open with a bit more force than was necessary, hoping to draw attention to himself.

He succeeded.

Conversation stopped abruptly, and Tristan found every pair of eyes in the place watching him. The barmaids, the body of their mutilated sister no doubt etched forever in their minds, had open fear on their faces. The men wore expressions of smoldering resentment. Sigfrid had been right. Tristan had underestimated the terror and anger the murders had caused in the poorer parts of town.

He stood for a few seconds, keeping his face hidden but allowing everyone a good look at his form. He was ready for an attack, but the patrons at the Clever Gray Malken seemed to lose interest after a few seconds of scrutinizing him. Tristan made for a corner table, well lit but out of the way. Sigfrid followed, curling himself at Tristan’s feet and constantly sniffing the air. Tristan had anticipated relying on Sigfrid’s canine tracking skill, but looking at the hostile faces that filled the inn, he was glad his friend had fangs and claws should something happen. Sig would be able to rip the throat out of an enemy before the man could draw a sword.

A pretty young barmaid approached him. “What’ll ye be havin’ tonight, sir?” She was tense, not terrified.

“Roast chicken, bread, and ale,” he said, not hiding his cultured voice.

The barmaid stiffened a little at the sound. Large blue eyes searched his for a moment, then she relaxed and smiled. “Right away,” she replied and moved off without haste. She had obviously concluded that he was not the murderer. Tristan wondered whether his disguise was inaccurate or she had not seen the man.

Another patron entered. The newcomer received the same reaction Tristan had—a sudden, universal silence in the taproom, an intense perusal, then dismissal. When the girl returned with Tristan’s meal, he thanked her politely. This time, she smiled unconcernedly. The chicken was overdone and dry, and the bread was several days old. Nevertheless, Tristan ate, feeding bits of meat to Sigfrid to keep up the pretense.

When he was halfway through his meal, a stunningly beautiful blond woman entered. Her hair was loose and fell halfway down her back. She was dressed plainly in bodice and skirts, but her shapely figure made them seem the finest of clothes. Cool blue-green eyes looked this way and that.

It was Dagmar. Tristan recognized her from their meeting earlier that night, but the efficient soldier he had spoken with and this enticing, slightly trollopy woman seemed worlds apart. She would have done well in the theater, he thought to himself.

It’s time to put the second plan into action, Tristan decided. “Pretty lady!” he called, waving a chicken bone. “Let me buy you a drink and some supper!”

A smile settled on Dagmar’s full lips, and she walked slowly over to where Tristan sat. Tristan leaned forward, covering her hand possessively for the benefit of anyone watching, and whispered into her ear. “Right on time, Sergeant.” She laughed, leaning back flirtatiously against Tristan’s chest.

Now they were attracting attention. Excellent, thought Tristan. He waved the barmaid over and ordered a drink for Dagmar. “Any reactions?” asked Dagmar softly, sipping the wine.

“Only at first. They seem to have decided I’m no threat,” Tristan murmured in response.

“We’re being watched now,” she replied, stroking his face with one finger.

“That’s just what we want. Now, Sergeant, it’s your turn. Remember—head down Baker’s Way toward the waterfront. You won’t see your protectors, but we’ll be there.” Loudly, he said, “Why don’t you bring some of that sweet fruit home with me?”

Dagmar’s slap was harder than he had expected, the slap of the warrior she was, not the street woman she pretended to be. Tristan’s head whipped sharply to the side, and he blinked a little. His hand went to massage his reddened, stinging cheek. He felt a sudden wry sympathy for any man who tried to attack this woman.

“Think t’ buy me, do ye?” shrilled Dagmar, tossing her mane of gold hair in splendid anger. “I don’t come that cheap!” She stalked angrily out of the inn, slamming the door behind her.

Heads now turned in Tristan’s direction. The patrons of the inn were disapproving and hostile, but there were still no signs of recognition. Swearing loudly at “that harlot,” Tristan slammed down some coins and left noisily. Sigfrid trotted beside him.

Dagmar was huffily straightening her skirts when Tristan emerged. Without looking at her, Tristan ducked into a shadowed doorway. Working quickly, he withdrew a wad of gum arabic from his pouch. He plucked an eyelash and, murmuring an incantation, folded the eyelash into the gum and sealed it shut. He opened the pouch and dropped the material inside. At once the gum, pouch, and Tristan himself vanished. Feeling the tap of Tristan’s invisible fingers, Sigfrid began slowly following Dagmar. Per Tristan’s orders, Sigfrid remained about fifty feet behind her, staying on the left side of the road. Quietly, the invisible Tristan followed on the right side of the street.

Sigfrid paused suddenly, sniffing the air. Tristan tensed. A sound came from above. Glancing up, Tristan caught the sinuous shape of a house cat as it quickly ducked out of sight—one of the now-feral cats that populated the streets of Kantora. That was all.

Ahead, Dagmar was playing her role to the hilt, softly singing a tune and moving her hips so that her skirts swayed seductively around her. She stopped and chatted with a late-night wanderer. Clearly not the killer, the pudgy, white-haired old gentleman was still not immune to Dagmar’s beauty. Tristan couldn’t hear their conversation, but Dagmar laughed, patted the elderly man’s cheek, and continued strolling.

Tristan caught the glitter of several sets of eyes in the shadows. More cats, watching Dagmar and Sigfrid. No, Tristan saw. The lambent eyes, their owners hidden by the shadows, were fixed on him. Of course, thought Tristan, oddly relieved. They can’t see me, but they can smell me.

“This be my street corner, hussy!” came a female voice. Tristan glanced up sharply. A woman, past her prime and dressed in not much at all, scowled angrily at Dagmar. Her heavily applied makeup cracked with the gesture. Dagmar tried to apologize, but the woman was not placated. At last Dagmar ran for the next corner, followed partway by the angry prostitute.

The encounter had attracted attention from a tall, spindly man with a sharp, ratlike face. He sidled up to Dagmar. Tristan tensed, but the thick, lower-class accent spoken by the man as he propositioned Dagmar was not that of the sought-after killer.

Tristan heard a scrabbling sound overhead, the sounds of claws on wood and stone. He didn’t see the feral cats this time, but he knew they were there. More sounds—too many to be made by two or three animals. How many of them are there? he wondered.

More furtive sounds up ahead, drawing away from Tristan and toward Sigfrid and Dagmar. More fleeting glimpses of baleful, glowing eyes. Tristan rebuked himself for not using a spell that could make him see in the dark. He picked up his pace. A sixth sense warned him to stay closer to Sigfrid and Dagmar.

Sigfrid, too, had picked up on the presence of something in the shadows. He paused, and Tristan saw the glimmer of sharp white teeth as the dog growled softly. The hackles on the back of Sigfrid’s powerful shoulders were raised. Dagmar continued to saunter down the alley, flirting with the would-be tumbler, oblivious and vulnerable.

The flickering torches that tried to illumine the dark recesses of the twining street cast more shadows than they dispelled. One inky shadow now glided smoothly along the stone walls of the buildings. So subtle and quiet was it, so alert and careful, that for an instant Tristan didn’t recognize it. Then the silken shadow passed near a torch. Horror gripped Tristan.

“Sigfrid, watch out!” he cried. The dog whirled, growling. In one fluid motion, Tristan drew his dagger and threw it expertly. It sank to the hilt in the glossy black coat of the stalking plains cat. The beast screamed in anger and pain, its attention diverted to the now-visible Tristan.

As if the large predator’s cry had been a signal, the smaller cats lurking in the shadows leapt for Sigfrid. They descended in a mass of claws and teeth, yowling and scratching furiously. Big as he was, Sigfrid went down under the sheer number of the creatures. When Dagmar, rushing to aid her captain, came within reach, the cats savagely turned on her as well, leaping straight for her eyes.

The injured plains cat turned, dark blood staining its haunches, and prepared to spring at Tristan. Tristan was ready for the beast; he had brought his cane with its heavy, solid brass head. While it was by no means the weapon a sword would have been, Tristan intended to get the best use out of it now. He lifted the cane in both hands to swing it and crush the creature’s skull.

It was unnecessary. To Tristan’s shock, the beast suddenly cowered before him. Ears flat against its sleek black head, it backed away a few steps. It uttered a sound—not the startling shriek it had cried before, but a confused, frightened, crooning noise. Then it whirled and fled.

Tristan’s archers, however, allowed it no escape. The air was filled with a stinging noise, and half a dozen arrows found their mark. The plains cat snarled and convulsed. It protested death until the slim shafts finally defeated it, then it spasmed and lay still.

Tristan turned to Sigfrid. The big dog was holding his own, keeping his face and eyes away from the savage claws and biting furiously whenever the opportunity came his way. Still, the torchlight showed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of scratches. Dagmar was doing less well despite her superior size. Sigfrid had a mouthful of sharp teeth, but she had only one dagger. Nonetheless, several small bodies lay scattered around the struggling pair.

Tristan began slamming his cane down on the mass of writhing feline bodies. One died instantly. Its fellow turned, hissing, on Tristan. As the plains cat before it had, the creature hesitated. More cats turned. Then, as if by some unheard signal, the animals fled.

Tristan rushed to Dagmar. The face she turned to him was covered with bloody scratches, her eyes agonized. He felt a pang of sympathy; she wasn’t seriously wounded, but her beauty was destroyed.

“Sir Tristan!” came a breathless voice. Tristan glanced up to one of Sigfrid’s lieutenants. “Orders?”

“Take care of the sergeant,” Tristan replied. “I’ve got to change Captain Skolsson back. His wounds will be easier to tend on a human body.”

Sigfrid was whimpering when Tristan reached him. Gently Tristan placed his right hand on the dog’s head and passed his left hand down Sigfrid’s spine while murmuring the proper incantation. Beginning with the tip of his nose, Sigfrid began to transform. Tristan held his breath. The change was a great shock to the system, and he knew it could kill Sigfrid. At last, the transformation was complete. Sigfrid shuddered, his wounds bleeding copiously. He closed his eyes tightly as Tristan’s gentle fingers explored his injuries.

Sigfrid’s hand, covered with blood, closed on his arm. “Tris,” the injured man whispered. “They went for—for me and Dag.”

“Well, yes. I was invisible, remember? You’re both going to be fine,” Tristan started to reassure him. Sig shook his head.

“They went for us,” he repeated, “but not for you. I saw … the big one—them all—run from you. Why?”

Tristan did not reply. He, too, desperately wanted to know the answer to that particular puzzle. Whatever it was, it did not bode well.

Rozalia held the trembling field mouse in her dark palm. She gazed at it, a little smile crinkling the corners of her lips, and its shiny black eyes stared back at her. It was utterly in her power now, and she liked that. She always savored this moment when she had a terrified creature in her hand—the moment before she would slay it.

Tiny whiskers twitched. Rozalia felt the miniature heart thudding against the white-furred chest, beating a rapid tattoo on her palm. With her index finger, she gently smoothed the soft brown fur of its back.

The mouse was totally under her control, but fully aware of what was happening to it. Almost tenderly, she turned the little rodent over on its back. It toppled in her hand, its tiny clawed feet reached straight up to the ceiling of her vardo. Murmuring a soft incantation, Rozalia arranged the pot on the floor, then transferred the beast to her other hand. Languidly she pierced its throat with the tip of her knife. Hot blood burst forth in a small, spattering stream to fall with a hiss on the herbs, that lay in the bottom of the pot.

The gypsy girl hummed to herself, continuing the magical chant, occasionally squeezing the dying mouse with her hand to get more blood out if it. When she had finished, she went outside to drop the tiny corpse into a small cauldron of water that sat boiling on her small cook fire. The bones of the creature had their uses, too. Ground into a powder and mixed with the bloody herbs, it made a formidable, pastelike poison that could easily be smeared onto a blade. The one she now constantly wore was so treated.

This was not the first time she had concocted such a lethal brew. Her father had died mysteriously two days after he had so stupidly let the giorgio roam free. Some had eyed her, remembering her outburst that night, but none had made an accusation. Sometimes, Rozalia thought as she stirred the bubbling brew with a large wooden spoon, her people were almost as stupid as the giorgios.

She glanced up at the sky and smiled to herself.

The stars were different now. Rozalia gazed at the new constellations that sparkled against the ebony field. They had changed ten days ago, when she had called the mysterious fog. It was as if the strange haze had played with the stars, rearranging them with its misty fingers. She had noticed the difference right away. Had the other Vistani? She did not know, nor did she care.

The light from the just-risen moon shone upon her outstretched arm, and Rozalia frowned. She ran one hand over her flesh. Once, she had been almost too plump, even for a race that enjoyed its women round and fleshy. Now, the flesh was melting away. Her blouses, once so pleasingly tight across the breasts, now hung loose on her. She had become almost bony. Rozalia shrugged. It could be that she had become so involved in her newly discovered arcane ability that she had simply forgotten to feed herself properly. Or if, as she suspected, it was a price to pay for this new power, then it was a welcome fee.

A sudden sound in the darkness beyond the ring of firelight caused Rozalia to look up swiftly, quickly covering the pot with its lid. “Who is there?”

Hesitantly, a young man stepped into view. She recognized him as Tario, Madame Terza’s grandson. He seemed very uncomfortable, like a wild deer lured into the range of the hunter’s arrows. “My grandmama wishes to see you.”

“Your grandmama will have to wait,” she replied coolly. If the brew were not completed tonight, the same night it had been begun, it would be worthless.

“It is her will, Rozalia.”

The phrase chilled the girl. So, it was truly important. She did not change her expression. Reluctantly, she removed the brew from the fire and set it carefully aside. Tario turned and Rozalia followed.

She had moved her vardo beyond the major encampment site. More and more, Rozalia desired distance from her own kind. The tribe sensed her desire and seemed all too willing to accommodate her. Now she saw that the entire encampment was gathered outside Madame Terza’s vardo. Her legs trembled in sudden comprehension.

She was going to be put on trial.

Rozalia shrieked in fear and anger. She tried to draw her dagger, but young Tario was stronger than he looked. Without hesitation he leapt on top of her. She struggled, her long nails raking the smooth young flesh of his cheek. Even so, Rozalia was hauled to her feet, two large Vistana men on either side of her. She snarled like a wild thing, twisting in their grasp.

Gianni, the man who had stood as accuser of Sir Tristan, looked down at the girl with pity and anger. “True Vistani accept the wisdom of their leaders. Come willingly, Rozalia, if you have nothing to hide.”

Rozalia, hissing, sank her teeth into his arm. Gianni cried out but did not loosen his grip. The four men dragged her into the ring formed by torchlight and silent Vistani, tossing her to the earth. Her blouse had been torn in the struggle. Defiantly, Rozalia raised her head and brushed back her tangled black hair. Her eyes swept the assembled Vistani before she reached to pull her blouse closed. Slowly, she stood erect before Madame Terza.

As before, a fire burned in the center of the circle. The gypsy leader was seated at a small table, flanked by two Vistana males with torches. One of them was Tario. Blood painted his left cheek, but he stared stoically ahead.

“You have marked my boy as a beast marked me,” Madame Terza said slowly. Her one eye flashed with controlled anger. “Yet you shall be judged fairly within this circle, Rozalia, daughter of Konstantin.”

Rozalia snorted with mirthless laughter. “There is no fairness within this circle, Terza, as I have good cause to know.” She deliberately did not use Madame Terza’s title. “And I have no father.”

“Because you poisoned him!” came a young, high voice from the circle. Rozalia wheeled. Trembling but resolute, her younger brother Nikos, only eleven years old, stepped forward. He pointed a finger at her. “I accuse you, Rozalia, of poisoning our father.”

“You lie. You are the whelp of a cur, born to a tribe of liars and cowards.”

Angry murmuring began, but Madame Terza hushed them with a gesture. “Choose your witness,” she ordered Rozalia.

Rozalia scanned the crowd, her lips twitching with what might have been amusement. The firelight in the center of the circle and the ring of torches did little to illuminate the closed, dark faces that gazed coolly back at her. “None here would speak for me,” she said honestly. “I need no defender. Proceed, Terza, to determine my innocence or guilt. This grows tiresome.”

Terza pursed her lips, but waved the girl forward. Swiftly, efficiently, Rozalia shuffled the old cards in her slender hands. She laid them in front of the leader.

For a moment, Madame Terza made no move. It was as if she were loath to touch the cards, loath to read what she already knew. At last, moving slowly and looking her age, she turned the first one over.

Rozalia permitted herself a hard smile as she saw the card that was to represent her in the reading. It was the Conjurer, a beautiful wizardess surrounded by a ring of fire. She did not need for Terza to tell her what it meant, but the gypsy leader did so in a loud voice for the benefit of the other Vistani.

“The Conjurer,” declared Terza, “the lady of forbidden knowledge. Are you master of your dark powers, Rozalia, or do they master you?”

Rozalia did not answer. The strange mists had come to her call, and everything had gone the way she wished it since that night. She knew they obeyed her.

The next card was turned over. “The Transmuter stands for your past; for power gained by knowledge but not tempered by mercy,” intoned the half-blind woman. “You have strayed from your original ideals. You will pay for your wandering, Rozalia.”

Terza turned her attention to the third card, which represented obstacles in Rozalia’s chosen path. “The Hooded Man. He tells you to be careful of those without tolerance. Beware strangers with smiling faces.”

Rozalia knew then that the cards would condemn her. When the next card was turned upright, she broke out in a cold sweat. Madame Terza inhaled swiftly, and the eye she turned up to Rozalia was filled with a new horror and contempt.

“The Torturer,” she breathed. “Your future is laden with vindictive cruelty. I cannot see if you suffer it or if you inflict it. Be that as it may, no good will come of this, Rozalia, no good, not even for you.”

Arrogance gave Rozalia strength, and she tilted her chin up defiantly to keep it from trembling. “Turn the final card over,” she demanded.

Terza did so. Both she and Rozalia frowned at it. Neither woman had ever seen this card before. Where had it come from? It depicted a bestial, twisted creature seated on some sort of throne. In its clawed hands it clutched close a scepter. Its eyes were black and feral, with red gleams at their centers. Its title was “The Darklord.”

“Whatever, whoever, this creature be,” said Madame Terza, “the card is in the position of a friend or ally. I fear for you, Rozalia, if you partner with such as this strange dark lord.”

With Tario’s help, Madame Terza rose and gazed keenly out of her good eye at Rozalia. To the gypsy girl’s surprise, there was only pity in that aged, puckered face; no hatred or malice.

“I brought you into this world, child,” Terza said quietly. “As I did your father. Four days ago, I buried him and sang his soul to rest. That is not as things should be. There was nothing wrong with Konstantin—no illness of the body or mind, only a sickened soul at the loss of his son and daughter. The one death could not be helped; crueler was the abandonment of his best-loved little girl.

“No one in this encampment wished him ill save that little girl. Nothing natural he had eaten could have killed him, have rotted his stomach away and seared his flesh. And no one save a Vistana could have made a poison that we could not detect.

“You, Rozalia, stand before me accused by your own brother of murdering your father, whose only crime was to be a fair and just man when his heart cried out for vengeance.”

She drew herself up to her full height and pointed a shaking finger at the girl. “Be it decreed that there is no Rozalia of the Twin Waters tribe of the Vistani!” Terza cried, her voice rich and sonorous. “We know her not! Should she come begging for food, we shall not share our bread. Should she come thirsting for water, we shall dash the ladle to the earth and let the grass drink her portion. Be thou gone!”

Swiftly Terza seized the torch nearest her, upended it, and ground its light out into the dirt. With a wordless cry, all the other members of the tribe did likewise. In the span of a heartbeat, the only light that remained was the glow of the fire in the center of the circle. Shadows came from beyond the circle, dark Vistana forms carrying all of Rozalia’s belongings. One by one, they walked slowly to the fire and sacrificed all that was Rozalia onto the greedy flames.

For the first time that evening, Rozalia knew pain. Her birthing quilt, a small blanket of gorgeous, colorful patches made by her mother, fluttered onto the fire. The colors died as the blanket turned black. Her medicines followed, vial by vial, some bursting with the heat to send colorful sparks into the air. Her blankets, her jewelry, her clothing, her drum, the Tarokka deck she had been working on for seven years but had not yet completed—all were consumed, blackened, made nothing, just as she, Rozalia, had now been made nothing in the eyes of her people. Her beasts would be slaughtered, her vardo reduced to firewood.

As the torturous procession of gifts to the flame continued, Rozalia cried, “You shall regret this!” Her fury blazed as brightly as the campfire. “You do not understand what I have done, what powers I have at my command!”

The Vistani ignored her utterly. For them, she no longer existed. There would be no attempt to drive her from the camp. Why drive away someone who was not there? She could, if she wished, continue to live on the outskirts of the encampment, stealing food and clothing, but the thought of such behavior disgusted Rozalia. She would not linger here, a Vistana ghost in all but substance, living off the scraps of her former kin.

Her hand reached for her dagger. At least they had left her that. Nothing from her person had been taken. She drew the weapon, and took comfort in the feel of its hilt in her palm. Deliberately, she turned her back on the encampment. She wore no shoes, and as she made her way into the dark night of the Nova Vaasan plains, she winced at the pain of the occasional rock.

As she strode away from the only life she had ever known, Rozalia’s mind raced with plans. Bergovitsa was not that far away. Rozalia thought she could make it in an hour or so. She could—and would—sleep in the street, see if she could earn her living selling fortunes or dancing for the men in a tavern. With a sudden spurt of hope, she remembered that tonight was festival night in the town. Her dancing would be appreciated—if she arrived there in time.

Suddenly, she stopped. For the first time in ten days, Rozalia tasted fear and doubt. Where was she in relation to Bergovitsa? The waning moon was still full enough that she could clearly see the flat, grassy plateau, dotted here and there with large boulders.

Her father had taught her how to navigate by the stars in case she had ever gotten separated from her fellows. Contempt swelled in Rozalia’s breast; he could never have foreseen this kind of separation. But his teachings were wasted now. The constellations were alien. Unbidden, thoughts came of another time she had looked at the stars. It was two nights before Amasa’s death, when she and her current lover had strolled away from the encampment and lain on a blanket, sipping wine and gazing at the heavens.

Then came Amasa’s death and the fog, that strange and beautiful fog. And, thought Rozalia with a confusing mix of excitement and regret, nothing would ever be the same again.

It was then that she heard the scream.

Every muscle tensed. She clenched the hilt of her dagger until her fingers ached. The sound was horrible, the wrenching cry of a woman in the grip of a terrible torment. Rozalia listened, her bony frame held taut as a bowstring, and the sound came again, nearer this time. It was joined by another, and sudden realization flooded her. It was not the cry of a woman. The agonized sounds that shattered the stillness of the night came from the throats of beasts—from a pride of plains cats, hungry and on the prowl.

She thought of her bloodied feet and the scented trail she was leaving behind with every step. Fear lodged in her throat. She broke into a trot, and then a run, ignoring her hurting feet. It no longer mattered what direction she traveled, as long as it was away from the plains cats. As she ran, cold sweat trickled down her back. She suddenly had the feeling that she was not alone and glanced from side to side. Nothing. Nothing, but she knew with a certainty that was in her blood, that there were other … things … out here tonight than a lone Vistana exile and predatory cats.

Rozalia stopped and brandished her dagger. “Show yourself!” she demanded, breathing heavily from the exertion. “It is I, Rozalia, she who controls the mists that changed the stars, and I command you!” It was a boast filled with more bravado than bravery, and she knew it. Still, it was better than simply waiting.

Coarse laughter met her ears, laughter somehow unnaturally choked and muffled. She swallowed hard. “She who controls the mists?” laughed one voice.

“The mists that changed the stars?” cackled another. The voices came from all around, and Rozalia’s eyes darted about nervously.

A few shapes emerged from behind various stones. They rose, dark forms silhouetted against the night sky. She could not see their faces, but one or two wore Vistana garb. Rozalia was about to scorch them with angry words when the rest of the beings emerged. Anger turned to a numbing horror as she saw a black, man-shaped cloud moving slowly toward her. Two red points of fire glowed where its eyes should have been.

Attack by plains cats suddenly seemed preferable.

“Poor little Vistana exile,” groaned one thing as it lurched toward her. Its tongue lolled halfway to its chest, gleaming wet in the moonlight.

“You won’t make it to Bergovitsa. None of us did, hey?” another laughed. It raised its hands, and Rozalia saw that its fingers had become claws.

She turned and fled. Her weapon, poison-laced as it was, would be useless against the undead horrors. She now knew what they were—what was left of other Vistana outcasts who died without proper burial rites. And she knew that, barring a miracle, she would join their ghastly number within minutes.

Evil laughter followed her. The creatures were effortlessly matching her pace. Suddenly, they reappeared not four yards in front of her. Rozalia whimpered, terror drowning her confidence. She dashed toward the right—ghouls rose up, pointing their gnarled, grotesque hands and laughing. The Vistana whirled, desperately seeking someplace to run, but they had now formed a circle and were closing in on her. She knew how fast such creatures could be—they were the stuff of tales told around the fire, after all. Now, though, they moved slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Rozalia’s feet gave out, and she huddled on the earth. Defiantly, uselessly, she clutched her dagger.

Someone spoke, softly, right next to her ear. “There, there, little renegade,” it said in a voice that was smooth and calming, “I’m here to help you.”

Terrified, Rozalia stared frantically toward the voice but saw only the slow encroachment of the undead. The voice continued. “Will you serve me, little Vistana girl, if I make the bad things go away?”

At any other time, such condescension would have infuriated the proud Rozalia. Now, her own dreadful fate was descending upon her with greedy claws, and she would have allied with anyone or anything, “Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes!”

Outside the ring of the wights and ghouls, Malken smiled beneath his scarf and called off his servants.

They reached Bergovitsa shortly before midnight. Rozalia learned very little about Malken on that hour-long walk across the plains, but what she did learn shook her. First, he could control the wrathful spirits of renegade Vistana dead. Second, he had no fear of the plains cats. Either ability alone would have been enough to win her admiration.

“How did you know I was outcast?” she asked.

Malken shrugged his bulky shoulders. In the deceptive moonlight, his back appeared almost malformed. “I have my ways of knowing what goes on in Nova Vaasa. I also know why you were outcast. And,” he hastened to add, seeing suspicion flicker in her eyes, “I want to make use of that talent in the future. It is a fine night for visiting Bergovitsa,” he said, changing the subject. “Festival night. You should be grateful. It was one of the reasons I was close enough to help you out.”

Every month at festival time, the shops remained open all night. Food, drink, and street entertainment abounded. Even now, some distance away, faint strains of music reached her ears.

Malken withdrew a pouch from his shirt and tossed it to Rozalia. “Here.”

Rozalia opened it and gaped at the coins it contained. “What’s this for?”

“New clothes, shoes, tools—whatever you need.”

“You are most generous.”

He belittled her comment with a coarse oath. Rozalia blinked. The contrast between the smooth voice and the gutter words was startling. “I am not generous. I am in business. You must look your part.” When she frowned, he added, “Unless, of course, you want to haunt the plains as your fellows do.”

There was, as Malken knew, no answer to that save agreement.

At last, they reached Bergovitsa. The main street was lined with lanterns and torches. The sounds of tambourines, drums, flutes, and drunken voices filled the air. People thronged past, wearing garish holiday costumes and masks. At one booth, roasted chickens turned slowly on a spit.

Malken sniffed appreciatively. “I’m ravenous,” he declared, marching up and ordering an entire hen. “You’ll join me, of course, my dear?”

Rozalia grimaced, shaking her head. The smell of cooking flesh was strangely offensive to her, although she’d had little enough to eat today.

Malken stilled at her refusal. “You’ll take my gifts, girl,” he rumbled in a low voice.

The booth keeper removed the chicken from the fire and handed it, spit and all, to Malken. Malken tossed him a coin and strode a few steps away from the booth, where a tent flap cast a shadow. He ripped off a leg of the chicken and shoved it at Rozalia. She took the hot, greasy offering and stared at it, certain that if she forced it down her throat she would vomit. Malken turned his attention to his own meal, carefully turning his back on her before pulling down his scarf.

He ate like a starved dog, snorting and snuffling. Rozalia wrinkled her nose as Malken shoveled the chicken into his unseen face, gulping and smacking. The Vistana girl glanced around and tossed her chicken leg to a thin, hopeful-looking dog. Malken was finished a few seconds later. He pulled back the scarf and turned around. The chicken was picked clean.

He tossed the carcass away and sighed. “Delicious.”

At that moment, one of the revelers tripped and fell heavily against Malken. Malken whirled on the offender.

“Pardon me,” the young man said apologetically. He gestured to the black leather mask that hid half his face. “The eyeholes—it’s hard to see—”

Malken stepped closer, pushed his scarf-covered face into the youth’s. When he spoke, his voice was the soft hiss of a snake about to strike. “You’re careless,” he said. “Careless people pay a price.”

Malken’s gloved hands shot out. One seized the man’s mask, smoothly lifting it from its wearer’s face. The second struck the youth firmly in the throat. He fell backward, choking, knocking down two other festival-goers. An angry murmur rose, and for an instant Rozalia thought the crowd was going to turn on her protector. Her hand went to her dagger. But then the indignant faces raised to Malken’s paled, the determined eyes wavered and fell. One by one, people backed away from Malken, leaving him with his trophy. Malken slipped the mask on and turned to Rozalia.

“Fits perfectly, don’t you think?” He strode off toward another booth, leaving the wounded man groaning in the street.

Over the next hour, Rozalia learned she could overlook Malken’s behavior when amply compensated with his gold. The wellborn—for his accent betrayed him, if not his manners—was incredibly free with his money. They went from store to store, purchasing rich foods and beautiful jewelry. Some clothes she selected for herself; others Malken demanded she wear.

Rozalia paused to admire one such outfit Malken had given her. It was a long cloth-of-gold gown. Slits ran up both sides, revealing her strong, dark legs, and the bodice was sleeveless. A thick gold necklace draped her neck, and similar adornments graced both wrists and ears. A jeweled girdle encircled her waist. On her chest, contrasting sharply with the gold and glitter, was pinned a huge ebony brooch in the shape of a cat’s head. Malken stepped beside her, clothed in an identical outfit. He had purchased a second mask, the golden face of a cat, which completely hid his face.

Rozalia knew some of the wellborns in Nova Vaasa and wondered just who it was behind the disguise. “An interesting costume,” she said. “What’s it for?”

“These are not costumes,” replied Malken. There was a quiver of mirth in his voice. “They are vestments. Come. We may yet be in time.”

“Where are we going? What—”

“Shut up and follow me.” Malken, thought Rozalia, was obviously not a man of great patience. She remained obediently silent and followed him until they were well away from the main thoroughfare.

It was darker now, and quieter. People here had foregone the festival and were asleep. As she walked behind Malken, his golden garb fluttering, Rozalia wondered again who he was—and why he wanted her and her skill with poisons. He made her nervous, but also vibrant and, somehow, more alive.

Whose face was it?

Malken, meanwhile, turned down a small, residential street, looked around, then paused. There was a dark house nearby. That would do. Malken went to it and halted, facing one of the house’s stone walls. Slowly, he passed his hand over the stone. “Open to me,” he bade it. Like everything else Malken decided to use for a door, the wall obeyed him without question. Its solid surface softened, dissolved. A few seconds later, the stone transformed into mist by Malken’s desire.

Behind him, he heard Rozalia gasp, and he smiled to himself. Tendrils of fog began to tentatively twist into the street, brushing over Malken’s booted feet. They crept upward, like lonely, grasping hands. When they reached his face, caressing it coolly, Malken stepped forward into the door.

He turned back to Rozalia. “Come along, girl, we haven’t got all night.”

Without knowing who he was, how he had done this, or where he took her, Rozalia grasped his hand and stepped through the unnatural portal.

Ivaar swayed back and forth in the saddle. Trying to stay awake, he rubbed his eyes hard with his knuckles, stifling a yawn. Tristan had gotten home late, and Ivaar had been afraid to leave before Tristan had gone to bed. The long ride to Kantora did nothing to rest him, but he had to come. The others depended on him.

Like everyone in the city, he had heard about the murders. The last few weeks, the gates to the city had been closed at dusk. Travelers who wished entrance had to pass through a small entryway cut into the stone wall that surrounded the city. When he came through this “eye of the needle,” as it was called, he was questioned briefly by a mounted guard. The sentry knew him by his father’s reputation and let him pass.

Although he himself was clad plainly, his horse was obviously the mount of a wealthy man and attracted covetous looks from the few souls who were out at this time of night. Ivaar continued down the High Road, Kantora’s main street, at a pace that was brisk but would not attract undue attention. He turned left on Colt’s Foot Road, heading into the part of Kantora known as the Horse District. Here were all the shops that dealt with equine matters. Here also was the Great Corral, where the horses trained by the Vistani were auctioned every midsummer. The Horse District radiated affluence, and Ivaar relaxed as he left the High Road. While he loved the common people, he was well aware that their poverty could—and often did—force them to acts of violence. Much as he wished there was no need for the presence of the guards, he was grateful for them.

In the off-season, when there were no horses being bought or sold, several dozen stables stood empty. It was to one of these that Ivaar went now. The noble family of Tavolys owned many of these stables. Their youngest son, Raphael, had struck up an acquaintance with the head groomsman, Cavell. As a consequence, Raphael had access whenever he desired to the deserted stables, and many a meeting of the group whose members called themselves the Lights of Liberty had taken place under the very nose of House Tavolys.

The dark-cloaked groom materialized out of nowhere when Ivaar approached the fenced-off stable. Though the groom recognized him at once, there were formalities to be observed, and Cavell spoke.

“What do you bear, stranger?”

“The light of liberty,” responded Ivaar.

“Who shall carry it?”

“All who fight for freedom.”

Cavell nodded his graying head. “Enter, Master Ivaar. You’re late. They’ve been waiting for several hours.”

Ivaar winced. “I know, I’m sorry.” He slipped off his horse and hurried in as Cavell opened the gate.

Meetings of the Lights were held in the third stall on the left. He heard the murmur of voices as he opened the door. At the sound of the door creaking, the talking was abruptly silenced. “Oh, it’s you, Ivaar,” said Raphael. The youngest Tavolys boy was seated, as were all the others, in the straw that littered the stable floors. His golden hair glinted in the light of the few lamps that provided dim, smoky illumination.

Ivaar, embarrassed by his late arrival, didn’t catch the strained glee in Raphael’s voice.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Ivaar began, “but Father—”

“It is of no consequence,” came a smooth, mature voice.

Ivaar frowned. The voice seemed familiar somehow, but the man who stood up from his obscured place in one of the stable compartments was a total stranger to him. The man was not overly tall nor well built, but there was something about him that raised a warning signal in Ivaar’s head. His clothing, a cloth-of-gold tunic with a cat’s head brooch on it, was bizarre. He rose smoothly, and Ivaar saw that his face was hidden by a golden mask of a cat’s head.

“My name is Malken, and this is my sister in faith, Rozalia.” He indicated the Vistana woman who stepped out from the shadows and bowed.

“Have you come to arrest us? Is one of you a traitor?” cried Ivaar, turning angrily on his fellow Lights. The seven young men, all sons of the upper class, shook their heads violently.

“He’s not going to turn us in,” said Raphael.

“Hah, not yet,” snorted Cueth Laars. The slight, dark-haired youth was the eldest son of the mayor. His face, normally as open and friendly as his father’s, was clouded with mistrust. “I still think he’s sent by Papa, Raph. He knew where to find us. He’s talking now, but arrests’ll come later, you’ll see. His name—I mean, honestly. Malken? Like a cat?” He snorted with disgust.

Raphael shot Cueth an angry glance, then returned his attention to Ivaar. “Brother Malken has been talking to us for an hour now, and he thinks just like we do.”

“I’d like to decide that for myself, thank you,” retorted Ivaar.

Though Raphael had whispered, Ivaar had not.

Cueth smiled. “Hear, hear,” he muttered to himself.

“Fine,” agreed Raphael, ignoring Cueth’s interjection. “That’s what we want. But he’s—” the youth fumbled for words, but his face still radiated an almost sublime joy. “He can make it happen for us, Ivaar! He can! We can stop dreaming about helping people and finally start doing something! Please—don’t be angry. Come and listen to him and Sister Rozalia for a little, and make up your own mind.”

Ivaar searched his friend’s eyes. By the look on Raphael’s face, and on the faces of most of the other Lights, they had made their minds up already. “All right. But if I don’t like them, out they go.”

Raphael nodded, and he and Ivaar returned to the others. “You weren’t invited here, but apparently my friends think you deserve a hearing,” Ivaar said.

“That’s kind of you, Ivaar,” replied Malken. “I realize I trespassed. But, you see, I was led here.” His voice was smooth, as cool and creamy as butter.

“Led?” asked Ivaar.

“As I said, Sister Rozalia and I were guided here. We serve the cat god; as young Cueth pointed out, Malken is not my real name. I use it to honor the god. He is called Sehkmaa, and I am bound to obey him.” Malken spread his hands, indicating the rapt young men who gazed up at him. “Just as you, the Lights of Liberty, see the worth in all men, from the prince himself to the poorest tiller of the soil, so Sehkmaa is the god of all cats, from the mighty plains cat to the humble tabby. He is swift in punishment, but gentle with those who follow him faithfully.”

Ivaar still did not sit with the others, but leaned up against a stall toward the back. He saw Cueth roll his eyes and flash him a you-see-what-I-mean look. Initially, Ivaar had been inclined to agree with Cueth. Now his original dislike, so strong in its intensity, was somehow evaporating.

The lantern lights cast a golden nimbus around Malken’s masked head as the priest of Sehkmaa continued to speak, but Ivaar no longer heard the words. The mask hid Malken’s face, which was of course, just as human as anyone’s … or was it? Perhaps the cat mask hid a cat’s face, or the face of a beautiful, divine being. Malken’s voice was sweet, honey-sweet.…

A sudden nudge startled him. Cueth had risen and was now beside him, glowering. Ivaar blinked, dazed.

“That is why I was able to find you—the Guardian led me to you,” Malken was saying. “You wish that all be equal, that there be no hunger, no covetousness: that is the way of Sehkmaa! I have come on a divine pilgrimage to your country of Nova Vaasa. Help me to spread his word, that all who follow and love Sehkmaa shall feast equally on the fruits of their labor!”

Ivaar shook his head. He felt dizzy, a little weak. “You said you were led here. How? Who is this Guardian? Do we know him?”

Malken laughed. Ivaar saw Cueth cringe a little at the laugh, saw a flicker of fear across his friend’s face. But Ivaar heard no malice in the laugh.

“You shall,” said Malken.

A low growl began behind Ivaar, and he whirled, frightened. Out from one of the stalls came a plains cat. It paused between him and the doorway, but other than that, it made no hostile move. It didn’t need to; its very presence shocked the youths into terrified silence.

“Behold one of the Guardians of Sehkmaa, Sehkmaa of the shadows, Sehkmaa the slow stalker, Sehkmaa whose claws are sharp and whose paws are velvet, Sehkmaa …”

The words faded as Ivaar gazed at the cat. Why had he never noticed the terrible beauty the creatures had? The voice of Malken the Cat caressed his ears until, without realizing it, he was whispering in synchronization with Malken, “Sehkmaa … Sehkmaa …”

“Go to the Guardian,” Malken urged. “The Guardian will accept you or reject you.”

“You’re mad!” cried Cueth. “Ivaar, Raphael, Theogar—Don’t you see?”

Rozalia, forgotten by the boys, now moved with astonishing speed. Springing up, she seized Cueth’s arm. He cried and tried to twist away. “Be still!” Rozalia whispered harshly. “Do you wish your friend to die? Do not upset the Guardian!”

This is crazy! wailed Ivaar silently. He heard Cueth’s outburst and the Vistana woman’s reply, but he found himself unable to flee. The plains cat, the Guardian of the faith of Sehkmaa, gazed at Ivaar with unblinking green eyes. Ivaar wondered, what will it do to me if it finds me unworthy? No! I don’t want it to! If it rejects me, I don’t think I’d want to live anyway! Trembling, he walked toward the cat, then fell to his knees before it. Tears of fear and strange joy slipped down his cheeks.

It moved its great head closer to his face. The rumbling of the cat’s breathing filled Ivaar’s ears. Hot breath scented with dead flesh brushed his face. Yet he did not pull back. Daringly, he reached and stroked the cat’s black head. It closed its eyes and submitted to the caress.

“I … I want,” Ivaar whispered.

Malken leaned forward, tense. “Yes?”

“I want to know more. I want to serve Sehkmaa.” Ivaar swung round to stare at Malken. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I want to be a priest, like you!”

The words broke a dam of sorts among the other Lights. They were all talking at once, crowding around Malken. Theogar, a big, beefy youth, humbly reached to touch Malken’s foot.

“Yes! Yes!” laughed Malken, raising his arms and throwing his head back. “The spirit of Sehkmaa has touched you all! Together, we can work miracles!”

“What do you want us to do first, Brother Malken?” asked one of the young men, his eyes afire with enthusiasm.

Malken laughed and rested his hand on the youth’s head. “Go to your homes and sleep,” he said gently. A chorus of male voices protested his decree, but he waved them silent. “Sehkmaa needs healthy, wise clergy, not sleepy fools. In five days’ time, I shall make priests of you all. Sister Rozalia will contact you before then. Good night, and may Sehkmaa bless you.”

One by one, the Lights of Liberty put on their cloaks and left, talking animatedly among themselves. Only Cueth stayed behind, leaning up against one of the stalls and gazing at Malken and Rozalia with barely concealed contempt.

“And what is it you wish, my son?” asked Malken. This time, there was no mistaking his patronizing tone.

Cueth shook his head disgustedly. “You are so transparent,” he said. “I’m only sixteen, but I can see right through you. You hire some Vistana wench, tame yourself a plains cat, and you’re set to rule the world.”

“I can tell you’re the son of a politician. Such tactful words,” drawled Malken. He rose slowly. Without the flickering shadows cast by his friends to obscure the stranger, Cueth saw a slight hump in the man’s back.

“You are sent by my father, aren’t you?”

“Actually, no,” admitted Malken. He raised a hand, and suddenly the plains cat was standing behind Cueth. It growled low and crouched in the straw.

Sudden fright flooded Cueth. He stared, dry-mouthed. He had thought the man a fraud, certainly, but not dangerous. “Look,” he rasped, licking his lips, “I can’t do anything to hurt you—I mean, I’m breaking the law myself, aren’t I?”

“Oh, but I want you to take a message to Mayor Laars for me,” protested Malken, rising and walking toward Cueth.

Sweat beaded the youth’s brow as he stared at the cat. It was still growling. He could tell by the way the creature’s ribs showed clearly through its coat that Malken kept it hungry. “Sure,” he said, his voice quivering. “Sure, I’ll take a message to Papa for you. What is it?”

“Only this,” hissed Malken as he brought his dagger slashing down.

Avarill 19th: Thrice have I ventured into the streets of Kantora in search of the killer; thrice have my efforts come to naught. The first time, Avarill 14th, strange actions by the cats of the streets, including a plains cat, thwarted our attempts to learn anything. Sigfrid and Sergeant Valdisdottir were injured, but are recovering. The second time, Avarill 17th, the evening passed without incident. Last night, too, was quiet. Sigfrid expressed hope that the murders might have stopped, but I somehow do not agree.

Perhaps the killer knows we are laying traps for him. Could there be someone who is not altogether on our side? The Vistana warned me of a traitor, but only now do I have cause to wonder if the prophecy has come to pass. Perhaps, horrible though it is for me to think it, the killer is indeed my son. Or perhaps—and what gods there be forgive me—but perhaps the traitor is the other one who knows when the traps are being laid … the one who accompanies me on my trips.…

That is a path down which I am loath to tread.

Tristan stretched and yawned. He was so tired these days. He slept well enough, he supposed, for he never awoke, and his sleep even seemed to be untroubled by dreams. Yet he did not feel rested when he rose. Perhaps he ought to concoct a sleeping draft.

A sharp knock on the door broke his reverie. “Come.” Guillaume entered, and his face was as agitated as Tristan had ever seen it. “What’s happened?”

“Sir, I regret—that is—” With a visible effort, the valet calmed himself. “The young master is gone, sir. I found this pinned to his pillow when I went to awaken him this morning. The room—it seems he did some damage to it before he left.”

Tristan felt cold inside. His hand trembled as he reached for the note his son had left him. He smoothed it out on the desk and read.

Father:

The differences between us have become too great. A light has at last shone in my life, and I must follow it. Sehkmaa calls, and I go.

Ivaar

Tristan was stunned. He and Ivaar had clashed on a few things, certainly, but he had never dreamed his son would flee in the night like a coward. Emotion threatened to overcome him, and he gestured to Guillaume. Discreetly, the servant left the parent alone with his pain.

Anger warred with grief. Who was Sehkmaa? Why had Ivaar not talked to him? He stormed back and forth across the room, his hands clenching into fists even as tears filled his eyes. Luath remained under the bed, watching his master with apprehensive brown eyes. When he had calmed himself somewhat, Tristan splashed water on his face and left.

Still, Luath did not emerge from his place of safety. The hound watched, shivering, as a candle on Tristan’s writing desk sparked to flickering life. The flame burned blue. The candle rose from its holder and hovered in the air.

Luath began to whimper.

Ivaar’s letter, too, slowly levitated, floating until one corner brushed the blue flame. The parchment ignited, flared, and burned. The fiery paper fluttered to the desk, curling and blackening, until all that remained were bits of charred parchment.

The candle went out. Luath crooned in the back of his throat, a sound of fear and bafflement.

Tristan had gone to his magical chambers in search of answers. He now sat before the enchanted mirror, staring into a placid reflection of his strained visage and puffy eyes. He had, with a certain spell, been able to clear it of the strange fog, but the mirror seemed damaged by the incident. What divinations it did reveal were accurate, but it seemed to have a will of its own in what it chose to impart.

Though Tristan had hitherto respected his son’s privacy, he now was worried for Ivaar. “Show me Ivaar Hiregaard,” he told the mirror. Obligingly, the surface of the mirror shimmered and reformed.

Ivaar was riding to Kantora. He looked happier than Tristan had ever seen him. The knight let out a quavering breath. At least the boy was well. He thought about watching Ivaar until he stopped, then sending men to bring him home, but there was little point in that. While Tristan would rest easier with Ivaar safely under his roof, Ivaar was certainly old enough to decide where he wished to live.

He gave the mirror another instruction. “Show me Sehkmaa.” The mirror began to darken to gray, and to Tristan’s annoyance the fog reappeared on its reflective surface. He swore. “Clear,” he ordered. The fog dissipated like steam from an ordinary mirror. Obviously, he did not have enough knowledge about Sehkmaa—whoever he or she was—for the mirror to function. It also would not respond to questions Tristan had put to it about the killer, stubbornly refusing to do anything but reflect its surroundings.

He sighed and rubbed his temples. His head hurt, and he decided not to risk using the mirror anymore today. He would pursue answers in a more mundane fashion—by talking to those in a position to know.

Three hours later, he met Sigfrid at his headquarters, located in the Horse District. The room spoke of professionalism; everything here was neatly organized, if by necessity impersonal. This had once been Tristan’s office, and little had changed. Tristan recognized the heavy oak furnishings and thick, drab rug that helped cut the chill of the stone building in the cooler months. The walls were decorated with various plaques and honors awarded to the city guards. One new furnishing was the giant map that covered nearly one whole wall. Tristan walked up and studied it. It was a detailed map of the city of Kantora.

“Good job, Sigfrid.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s the code?” the knight asked, referring to the colored marks on the map.

Sigfrid stepped beside him, pointing as he spoke. “The red marks are the three unsolved murders. The green dots are the guard stations, and the yellow circles—well, that’s something else I’m working on. Could be related, could be something else entirely.”

“Tell me.”

Sigfrid shrugged and obliged. “We’ve been getting reports of vandalism over the last few days. Nothing serious, just a single phrase that keeps recurring: ‘Sehkmaa has come.’ Nobody knows what Sehkmaa is. I think it may be related to the murders. Perhaps the killings have gotten people so frightened that they think the end of the world is at hand.”

Tristan turned away so that Sigfrid wouldn’t see his face. The perceptive young man knew something was wrong, though. “Do you know anything about this?”

Still keeping his face averted, Tristan said, “Ivaar left home this morning. He left a note—something about Sehkmaa calling him. I came to ask you, but …” His voice trailed off.

“Tris, I’m sorry. I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you. I’ll make it a priority, and if I find out anything else, I’ll let you know at once.”

“Thank you, Sig.” It isn’t much, thought Tristan, but it will have to do. As he turned to leave, he nearly ran into Sigfrid’s secretary. The youth, all of eighteen, saluted smartly. Tristan returned the gesture.

“Captain, Mayor Laars wishes to see you.”

Sigfrid and Tristan exchanged glances. “Show him in.” The young man saluted and left. A moment later, the mayor of Kantora was ushered in.

He looked terrible. Though Kethmaar’s death had aged him, as had the trouble with the signature killer and the plains cats, Laars now looked worse than ever. His skin was an unhealthy gray hue, as if something had drained the life from him. He seemed startled to see Tristan. “I thought Captain Skolsson was alone.…”

“I was just leaving,” replied Tristan. He hesitated, then said gently, “Are you all right? Do you feel well?”

The mayor grew even paler, and he avoided Tristan’s eyes. “We had some problems with … with Cueth. Misbehaving, you know. We sent him off to live with his uncle in Arbora, but it’s been hard on his mother—and on me. You understand.”

Tristan did, more than Laars could know.

“Stay, Tris, you’ll hear this sooner or later.” Laars hesitated, steeling himself for what he was about to say. “I want you to call off the search for the killer.”

“What?” shouted Tristan. Sigfrid’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment as Tristan blurted, “You can’t be serious!”

“I am.” The mayor’s voice was hard. “That’s one great lot of manpower you have on the case, and with Othmar’s birthday celebration coming up you’ll need to reassign them anyway.”

“But, sir, the killer—” began Sigfrid.

“Has hitherto confined himself to barmaids and prostitutes. Those damn cats are the real problem. They’ll attack anyone. Put your men on that, Captain Skolsson.” Color had returned to his face, turning it crimson. A blood vessel began to beat in his forehead. “As mayor of Kantora, I have a right to dictate how our city militia is to be used. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Sigfrid.

Laars glanced over at Tristan. “Sorry, Tris, but it’s not as if all this effort is even doing any good. You’ve turned up nothing on this man.”

“You’re right,” said Tristan coolly. “I understand your position.”

The color began to ebb from Laars’s face. He even managed a faint smile. Nodding, he left.

With a precise snap suitable for a military parade, Sigfrid turned to Tristan and brought his hand up in a stiff salute. “Commander Hiregaard, sir!”

“Yes, captain?”

“Request permission to ignore order of civilian mayor, sir!”

A smile tugged at Tristan’s lips. He’d been about to suggest that same course of action. As captain of the guard, Tristan could overrule any civilian order or restriction. “Request granted—provided the order is ignored with discretion.”

Sigfrid dropped the salute and the formal stance. He and Tristan exchanged the barest of smiles. Tristan’s faded, however, as the full impact of what had just happened settled upon him.

Osric Laars was hiding something.

The sign that hung outside the Unicorn’s Horn was as old and weatherworn as the inn itself. The unicorn that posed tiredly on the sign looked more like a weary nag than an eternally beautiful beast of magic. The colors, no doubt, had once been bright, but time and lack of care had faded them until they were only ghosts of their former hues.

Ivaar regarded the sign dolefully. He eased the door open and went from bright sunlight into murky darkness. Little light filtered through the filthy windows, but he could see that a few patrons were here this late afternoon. As his eyes adjusted to the semidark, he saw who the customers were. His heart lifted, and he tried to seem casual as he walked over toward them.

The other Lights were seated in a corner, huddled in their cloaks to avoid being recognized. Their faces radiated the relief that Ivaar knew must be on his own visage. “Where’s Cueth?” asked Ivaar.

“Mayor Laars said he sent him to visit relatives in Arbora. I think he just didn’t have the courage to go through with it,” Raphael answered in a superior tone.

Five days had gone by since Brother Malken and Sister Rozalia had come to the secret meeting of the Lights of Liberty. As Malken had promised, Rozalia had contacted each of them since then. She had asked those who felt they had a true calling to meet her after dark at the Unicorn’s Horn. Malken would induct those who had the courage to brave the rite of initiation into the priesthood of Sehkmaa. They were to leave notes so that their families would not worry.

“Are you frightened?” asked Theogar of Ivaar. Theogar was a big, burly youth with blunt, open features and thick black hair.

Ivaar licked his lips. “Of course not,” he lied.

“Do you know what he’s going to do?” asked Raphael.

Ivaar shook his head. “You know what Sister Rozalia told us. Sehkmaa’s rites are secret. We’ll just have to see.”

They ordered ale to pass the afternoon and food and wine to while away the early evening. By the time Rozalia came for them, her Vistana heritage veiled by a rich velvet cloak and a concealing hood, six of the seven young men were thoroughly drunk. Even Theogar, who was built on a large scale, was tipsy.

“Come,” was all Rozalia said. Her large dark eyes pierced them through the shadow of her hood, and suddenly each youth felt much more sober.

They followed her out of the Unicorn’s Horn into the cool night. Ivaar clutched his cloak closely about his slim frame and tried to walk without stumbling. He had never been in this part of town at night, and he did not like it at all. Far fewer lamps chased back shadows on these streets than elsewhere in Kantora. There was a stench of refuse that was absent from the better part of the city. Ivaar felt vulnerable in the pressing darkness, but the local folk seemed not to share his sentiments. The numerous people that passed close to him smelled, and more than a few surveyed him with what seemed to Ivaar to be predatory intent. Once he felt nimble fingers searching for a pouch. He instinctively jerked backward, colliding with Raphael, and the would-be thief was swallowed up by the night. A quick glance at his companions told Ivaar that they, too, felt out of their depth here in the Trade Quarter.

Rozalia glided smoothly ahead, untroubled by the human wreckage that lay strewn about. Once, she glanced back and observed Ivaar’s expression. “I can see you wonder how best to remedy this sad situation once you have the power of Sehkmaa in hand.”

Ivaar was grateful that the darkness hid his flush of embarrassment. He had been thinking no such thing. His mind had been on keeping his purse out of a robber’s hand and wishing he hadn’t left Faerhaaven. “Yes, of course,” he stammered.

The breeze shifted, and the young men began to cough. Raphael struggled to keep his supper. The new scent assaulting their noses was not waste, but blood and decay. Ivaar needed no map to know Rozalia was taking them down Butcher Street. But why?

“Cats need meat,” said Rozalia simply. Without warning, she turned to the left and headed into a large building. The stench sharpened, and Ivaar realized with horror that the Vistana priestess was leading the seven young men into a slaughtering yard.

Back straight as an arrow, Rozalia led them past the pens in which the cattle were killed and butchered. The smell of blood and earth was almost overpowering. She continued to a small barn and pulled open one of the large double doors. “Enter,” she ordered.

The barn was lit with an eerie red glow that seemed to come from nowhere. The straw beneath Ivaar’s feet was moldering and dark with blood. Two trenches, nearly filled with the crimson fluid, lined the sides of the building. Above the trenches were huge, bloodstained metal hooks from which the slaughtered carcasses were usually suspended. Now, however, the metal hooks were ominously empty, and they glinted in the scarlet glow.

Behind him, Ivaar heard Theogar gasp. “Are those for us?” the young man whimpered, fear raising his voice an octave. “Ivaar, what are we—”

“Quiet!” snapped Ivaar, as much to hide his own growing panic as to smother Theogar’s. “We’re Sehkmaa’s priests, not his sacrifices.” As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. He should never have put the idea of sacrifice into Theogar’s head. Now Theogar’s eyes grew even larger, and he began to physically tremble.

“I have brought them, my brother!” cried Rozalia, flinging her cloak away. “Let the rite begin!”

The Lights turned their attention to the far wall. There, splendid in his raiment of glittering gold cloth and jewels, stood Malken. He perched on a huge stone slab, and when he moved to leap down to the earth, Ivaar saw that the slab was dark in places with large stains. This was where the animals, having been killed, were cut up into salable pieces. His words about sacrifices hammered in his own ears, but he fought the fear. Disbelievers had no place in Sehkmaa’s clergy.

A low groan of dread escaped Theogar. Rozalia’s hand closed on his shoulder.

“Turn now from Sehkmaa, and you die,” she whispered.

But Theogar was beyond heeding such warnings. Trying to move his bulky frame with a speed for which it had not been designed, Theogar raced for the door.

“Stop the blasphemer!” cried Malken, clapping his hands sharply. Four plains cats emerged from the shadows where they had been camouflaged. They were on Theogar before he had gone three yards. Theogar, still crying out harshly, went down under a pile of sleek black fur. Ivaar heard himself crying out, but before he could move, even think, Rozalia had turned him around to face Malken.

“Will you come, Children of Sehkmaa, or will you, too, face the righteous sentence of the Guardians?”

As it had before, Malken’s voice could not be disobeyed. The six remaining youths walked forward with dazed expressions on their faces and stood beside the blood-drenched altar. Theogar wasn’t worthy, but they were.

Malken’s voice sounded right in Ivaar’s ear, although the priest was many feet away. “Come to me, come to Sehkmaa.”

The fear receded a little, like a winter chill before a blazing fire. That voice warmed and reassured, and the tension that had cramped Ivaar’s chest lessened. He took a step forward, then another and another, until at last he stood before Malken.

Malken smiled and placed his hands on Ivaar’s shoulders. The young man trembled, and the green eyes he turned to Malken were huge and dilated. Rozalia walked up behind him, and she and Malken began to remove Ivaar’s clothing. Too enraptured to be embarrassed by his nakedness, Ivaar stood like a small child and let himself be disrobed.

“Lie on the altar,” said the soothing voice. Ivaar swallowed hard. Shivering uncontrollably, he clambered onto the cold stone slab. Warm skin recoiled from the touch of cold stone and still-sticky cow’s blood, but Ivaar forced himself to continue. At last, he was lying down, the achingly cold stone against his bare flesh.

“Do you believe in Sehkmaa’s goals?” asked Malken in a voice that was almost a purr.

“Y-Yes,” whispered Ivaar.

“Will you follow me as High Priest and trust that I hear Sehkmaa when he speaks to me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you take what he gives, bear his mark, and do whatever the god may demand of you?”

“Yes!” Tears filled Ivaar’s eyes and ran hotly down into his ears. The fear, as always when Malken spoke, yielded to rapture and joy, which surged through him in a warm tide. So caught up was he that when a plains cat, having finished its grisly meal, leapt onto the altar, Ivaar was not afraid. The Guardian of Sehkmaa gazed down at him, Theogar’s blood dripping from its muzzle onto Ivaar’s cheek.

Then with the speed of a lightning strike, the cat raised its huge paw and raked its claws across Ivaar’s upturned face. He shrieked in pain, but did not move. The three marks burned like fire on his cheek, and he could feel his own hot blood trickling down his neck. The cat, seemingly satisfied, turned away.

Malken eased him up, and Rozalia embraced him, kissing his uninjured cheek and calling him brother. Dizzy, Ivaar let himself be guided away from the altar and eased down into the rotting straw. Rozalia produced a cloth, poured some water from a waterskin onto it, and gave it to Ivaar. He dabbed gingerly at his scarred face, glancing up at his companions. They were ashen, their eyes huge. He didn’t know what to say to them.

He felt a movement at his side. Glancing down, he saw a cat with a tawny gold coat staring fixedly at him. “Her name is Kesh,” said Malken. “She is yours now. With time, you will be able to see through her eyes, and she will obey you.”

Kesh’s expression did not invite petting, but she settled down in the straw next to him. He lifted his eyes from the creature and watched in a daze as Raphael was led to the altar. He, too, was asked the ritual questions, was disfigured by the Guardian. When Raphael had been given his familiar and was seated beside Ivaar, the next would-be priest stepped forward.

Ivaar watched, rapt, and at last Kesh deigned to climb into his lap.

He did not once think about Theogar.

Avarill 20th: Sigfrid and I have been forced to disguise our searches for the signature killer—this despite the fact another girl was discovered dead this morning. We have decided tonight to combine our quest with more ordinary law enforcement: investigating a gambling den called the Hungry Tyger. One of our men suspects the owner of cheating. Sigfrid promises to have at least five of his men there, also in disguise; should things turn rough, we may need them.

As he put away his journal, Tristan hoped he would indeed find cause to shut down the establishment. He disliked gambling, as he told Sigfrid later that evening.

“I myself enjoy a bet or two,” replied Sigfrid. “I won a month’s pay on a sweet-tempered filly at the races this afternoon. We’ll see if my luck holds.”

“We’ll see if we can learn anything about the killer or Sehkmaa,” Tristan reminded him.

The Hungry Tyger was one of the places where the Sehkmaa vandalism had occurred. It was also a far less pleasant place than even the Clever Gray Malken. Pipe smoke, body odors, and noise assaulted Tristan and Sigfrid as they entered. Although Tristan wore his disguise, the hat pulled low over his face, nobody paid any attention at all to their entrance.

Someone placed a hand on Tristan’s arm. He jerked it back at once, expecting trouble, but it was only one of the Hungry Tyger’s “girls.” She leered up at him and preened suggestively. “I ’ave an awful thirst, tumbler,” she said, having to shout to be heard.

Tristan continued pushing his way through the crowd. “Watch my back, Sig,” he said, “or that girl will put a knife in me for not … buying her a drink.”

Sigfrid laughed. They made their way to one wall, where they could move and breathe more freely. Tristan had his first clear look at the place. Each corner had a gaming table. Cards and dice were the main games of chance, although there were a few bone-and-stone games being played. Two rooms branched off to the sides of the main gaming area. As Tristan watched, the girl who had accosted him led a drunken tumbler into one. Well, thought Tristan, now I know what’s going on in that room.

The second room remained a mystery. A great deal of cheering came from there, and the crowd spilled over into the main room. First, Tristan told himself, he’d check the main room, then that one.

Tristan and Sigfrid separated and blended with the crowd. Sigfrid sat down at a card table and was dealt in. He kept his face open and guileless, deliberately losing in order to divert suspicion. He surreptitiously fingered the cards as he held them; for a man who had spent his youth in a crime lair, spotting marked cards was simple. He even managed to palm one without the dealer, a formidable-looking man, noticing. He would show it to Tristan later. After losing a second time, Sigfrid moved to a dice game. The moment he picked up the small wooden cubes, he knew they had been weighted. Again, he played through, biding his time.

Tristan, meanwhile, employed his own talents in another card game. He murmured under his breath, as if unhappy with his hand, and made a slight gesture with his fingers as he rearranged his cards. In his years as ambassador, he had played many so-called “friendly” games of cards. The friendliness usually came to a grinding halt when Tristan revealed that his opponent had cheated. It was a simple thing to alter the appearance of individual cards; even simpler, thought Tristan as he felt the familiar tingle, to tell if magic had been used on an object. Every card he held had recently been enspelled.

Like Sigfrid, he played deliberately badly, handed over his money, and withdrew from the table. As he departed, a man dressed in a long cloth-of-gold tunic smoothly took his vacated seat. The strange garb caught Tristan’s eye, and he raised an eyebrow at the black cat head on the man’s chest.

“Perhaps Sehkmaa will be with you some other time,” said the man.

Tristan started, but the man had turned away, and Tristan didn’t wish to draw attention to himself by asking more questions. He glanced around and saw two other men in the same uniform.

“Seen enough?” Sigfrid asked, coming up quietly behind him.

Tristan nodded, adding, “I want to get a look at what’s going on in that other room.” He pointed. Together, they made their way through the crowd. They could get no farther than the door, but even from this far away the two men could hear strange noises. The scent of animal urine and a rank smell of musk hit them powerfully. Only Tristan’s height let him see into the packed room.

He wished he couldn’t.

In the center of the room, there was a large cage, five by seven, and three feet tall. Inside the cage were two fighting animals—or what was left of them. A ferret, its coat slick with blood, pranced as best it could on three feet. The right foreleg was a chewed-off stub. The animal writhed and dodged, chittering as it alternately lunged and scurried away. Its opponent, a small brindled terrier, was in a similar state. Its limbs were still intact, but blood streamed from dozens of small, savage bites. It barked and growled, and as it charged the weaving ferret, Tristan saw that the dog’s left eye had been chewed into a pulpy mass.

That was more than enough for Tristan. “By order of the Kantora city guard,” he cried as he drew his sword, “this house is closed for illegal procedures.”

He expected resistance, and he got it. One man, frightened and angry, tried to knife him. Tristan easily parried the clumsy attack, bringing the flat of his blade sharply down on the man’s wrist. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two other men drop their attitudes of greedy gamblers and draw weapons—Sigfrid’s men. He shouldered his way in as the crowd, subdued by the weapons in the hands of the soldiers, drew back. Silently, Tristan stood by the cage.

The animals continued to fight. Their owners, Tristan knew, would not stop the “baiting” until one or the other was dead. Wordlessly, Tristan raised his sword. The slats of the cage were wide enough for him to reach in and swiftly stab both creatures. Neither one of them would have survived the fight.

Protests broke out. “Here then, which of ’em won?” “I had twelve silver on Ratcatcher there!” Baiting, to Tristan’s disgust, was not illegal, but he didn’t care. He stormed out of the room that reeked with the scent of blood, fear, and death.

While Sigfrid arrested the owner, Tristan made a great hit with those assembled by opening the cash box and distributing the night’s earnings equally among the gamblers. Tristan confiscated the books and told Sigfrid to join him at Faerhaaven the following afternoon to carefully examine the ledgers over lunch.

The next day, Sigfrid chewed on a chicken leg while Tristan absentmindedly nibbled some grapes and leafed through the book. Suddenly he sat upright, the meal forgotten. “Here’s something about Sehkmaa.”

“What is it?” Sig asked, his attention grabbed.

“He’s written, ‘Donation to Sehkmaa.’ ” Tristan turned to look at Sigfrid. “I saw three men in unusual matching garb. I thought it was the livery of some noble house, but one of them said something about Sehkmaa not being with me, and now here’s something called a donation to Sehkmaa.”

“A political figure of sorts?”

“Sounds more like a religion to me. One doesn’t usually wish a politician’s blessing at a card game.”

Sigfrid laughed. “True enough. How large a donation was it?”

“A quarter of his earnings.”

Sigfrid whistled.

Tristan frowned. “Now that’s odd,” he said. “Look at this.” He motioned Sigfrid to sit beside him and pointed at various entries in the book. The name “Cavell” cropped up repeatedly. After each entry, the owner of the Hungry Tyger had written words whose meanings were unclear, such as “Gray Lady,” or “Shooting Star,” or “Mistrunner.” Various amounts were scribbled in as well—three silver, twelve copper, and so on.

Sigfrid studied the words, as confused as Tristan at first. Then suddenly he laughed. “Those are horses’ names!” he exclaimed. “I myself put money on Mistrunner last week. Our bookkeeper did love his gambling, didn’t he? Lost a lot, too, I see.”

“Maybe because, unlike in his own den, the races aren’t rigged,” said Tristan contemptuously. “The question is, who is Cavell? I knew someone by that name—let me think.…”

“Wait a minute,” said Sigfrid, looking more carefully at the amounts. “Tris, these are not the records of a licensed bookmaker.”

“How do you know?”

Tristan pointed to the amounts wagered. “Licensed bookmakers can’t place bets of less than five silver. Says so in the regulations. Our crooked gambler may have lost himself a small fortune, but most of those bets are in coppers and silvers. Therefore unlicensed and highly illegal.”

Tristan suddenly remembered where he had heard the name Cavell. “The Cavell I know is a groomsman for House Tavolys. If it’s the same man, it would make sense that he’s involved with illegal gambling because—”

“Groomsmen can’t legally make bets outside of the house they work for,” Sigfrid finished.

“I want to follow up on this. When is the next race?”

“We just missed this week’s.”

“Next week, then. In the meantime,” Tristan sighed, “Osric Laars was right about one thing. We do have to worry about security for Othmar’s birthday.”

Sigfrid groaned.

Avarill 23rd: Although his father has been dead for only three weeks, Othmar has ceased wearing his mourning green and has no compunctions about indulging in a huge, three-day-long revel.

He has displayed an uncharacteristic interest in the affairs of state and has insisted on discussing everything with me rather than trusting to my considerable experience with crowd security. “After that attack by that dirty gypsy boy,” he said once, “I’ve learned that I can’t be too careful.” It took all of my diplomatic training to resist the urge to slap him.

However, Othmar, the city militia, and I have worked out patrol routes and guard postings that meet with everyone’s approval. Let’s hope all goes smoothly.

Tristan put the pen down. Somehow, he didn’t think the day would pass without incident.

The High Road was festooned with decorations. Banners of all colors hung from the windows along the boulevard. For the past fortnight, cleaning crews had been hard at work scraping muck from the cobbles and keeping the parade route free from vagrants. The pushcart vendors who long inhabited the main street of the city had been permitted to ply their trade during the holiday, provided their wares and their appearances were acceptable. There was a marked increase in musicians, jugglers, and other performers during the week prior to the parade, but Sigfrid and his guards reported very little trouble.

Tristan, Othmar, and the four other regents waited in the stone-encircled courtyard of the royal palace of Stonegard. The great palace was surrounded by a moat, connected to the city by a stone bridge. The prince and the regents would comprise the final section of the lengthy parade to process along the High Road. Seated on black steeds and clad in bright garb, the regents looked more like a carnival act than the powers behind the throne—which is, Tristan was certain, the effect Othmar was after. Tristan could hear the cheering crowd of about ten thousand as a variety of acts went by, but the stone walls and the castle’s gates prevented him from enjoying the spectacle. His mind was not on merriment, anyway, but on the unsolved murders and the mysterious cult of Sehkmaa.

“I said, I think the parade has done a lot for the city’s morale,” said Osric Laars, glaring at Tristan.

Tristan stiffened. He was still trying to figure out why Laars had wanted the hunt for the killer stopped. “Yes, of course it has, Osric.”

Laars had known Tristan too long not to pick up the ice in his voice. He looked uncomfortable and shifted in the saddle. “Things seem to have quieted down,” he offered in an almost apologetic tone of voice. “No more murders, no more cat sightings.”

Tristan did not respond. The bustle of the guards at the mighty palace gate provided a distraction. Within a moment, the huge gates opened. “Time to greet our adoring public,” muttered Laars with a hint of the old twinkle in his eye. Heralds, manning their posts atop the twin towers on either side of the gates, blew their trumpets energetically. Laars gently kicked his horse and pulled up ahead. As mayor of Kantora, he would lead the final segment followed by the regents, Othmar, and the prince’s personal guard.

The procession moved through the gates and across the bridge. Laars led the way, smiling and waving to the crowd that, at least for the moment, cheered him on wildly as his horse reached the High Road. Tristan, Adal, Bevis, and Hadwin followed at a short distance. Tristan kept his unfamiliar horse at a brisk trot and forced himself to look pleased with the whole display.

The people of Nova Vaasa reserved the wildest cheers for their prince. They had had little contact with their liege. Of course he would be well loved at this point, since he hadn’t gotten around to levying harsh taxes or organizing a war or promoting some dunderhead to a delicate position. Oh, yes, the crowd loved Othmar, who hosted this huge and expensive festival for their amusement, but Tristan knew that would inevitably change.

They had made it halfway down the High Road when Tristan’s horse became agitated. The animal halted suddenly. No amount of coaxing could calm it, and when it reared and tried to bolt Tristan became concerned. He knew horses and realized that the creature was not merely being recalcitrant but was in the grip of real fear. The knight drew his sword, and his blue eyes scanned the crowd.

The other horses behaved in the same manner as Tristan’s. Othmar’s was the most panic-stricken, and Tristan directed his attention toward the prince. He had not seen the first lethal, shadowy form emerge, but he now had an excellent view as the sleek black creature fastened its jaws into the prince’s steed. The horse screamed, toppling under the weight of the plains cat.

The crowd was now shrieking with terror. Dimly Tristan realized the posted guardsmen were having difficulty with the panicking mob. Other cries filled the air, cries not from human throats. More black feline shapes emerged, seemingly from nowhere. They were rampaging through the chaotic throng, and the crowd had little defense against the claws and fangs.

Tristan’s own horse would no longer heed its rider’s commands. Tristan was just scrambling off his maddened steed when one of the great cats lunged for it. The knight abandoned the horse to its killer’s hunger, determined to save his prince. Othmar huddled on the ground, frozen with fear, staring at the predator feasting on what had been his horse. Tristan had almost reached him when another plains cat emerged. Sigfrid had been right—the cats were using the sewers. One now pulled itself up from the grates that lined the street and charged Tristan. The knight raised his sword, but before the blow could fall, a new sound sliced through the mayhem.

“In the name of Sehkmaa I command: Begone!” It was a youthful male voice filled with assurance. Tristan thought the voice familiar, but he dared not turn his back on the cat just to assuage his curiosity.

The words had an immediate effect on the animal. It cringed and cowered. Tristan debated attacking it now, but some inner instinct held him back. His reflexes were sharp enough that if the animal returned to attacking he could land a blow in time to save his skin. He waited, tensely poised, and watched.

The beast hesitated a moment longer. A slim, male form clad in a gold tunic stepped from behind Tristan.

Ivaar. There was a brutal scar on his face, clearly the mark of a previous encounter with a big cat. A scimitar was strapped to his belt, but Ivaar did not draw it. He laid a gentle hand on the plains cat’s black head. “Seek your prey on the plains, Guardian of Sehkmaa, not here in the city.”

To Tristan’s astonishment, the creature lowered its head in apparent obedience. Gathering its coiled muscles like springs, the beast vaulted over their heads and sped down the High Road. The last Tristan saw of it was its tailless hindquarters vanishing into the sewer. Tristan stared at his son. Ivaar met his eyes evenly for an instant, and then he, too, darted away.

“Wait!” Tristan cried, reaching out imploringly.

“There are more plains cats than priests, Father, and people need my help!” Ivaar called over his shoulder. He ran down the street, clear of most of the crowd. Tristan saw him raising his hands and ordering more of the wild creatures back to the sewers.

He returned his attention to Othmar, hauling the boy up by one arm. The prince appeared to be uninjured, but still shaken. Two of the prince’s guards hastened up, their torn uniforms testifying to their own encounters with the cats. Tristan shoved the prince at them. “Take him back to Stonegard,” he ordered. They nodded and complied.

Now Tristan could hear other voices, some as youthful as Ivaar’s, others gruff and deep, here and there the dulcet tones of women. It was the same command each time, using that strange name of Sehkmaa, and it was having a miraculous effect. None of the men and women had to draw their scimitars; their orders seemed to be their weapons. The cats were deserting like rats from a sinking ship. Othmar taken care of, Tristan wanted a better look at what was going on. He worked his way through the crowd, hacking at the cats that still remained until he reached a tall building beside the High Road. He climbed its stone stairs and peered out from this superior vantage.

More and more cats were abandoning the crowds and vanishing down the sewer entrances. Others converged on the southern gate of Kantora, running full tilt toward their natural environment. Tristan turned his attention back to the High Road and was relieved to see Othmar, his guards, and the four other regents fleeing back toward Stonegard. Here and there in the crowd, he saw others wearing the same outfit that his son was wearing. He recognized it now from his excursion into the Hungry Tyger. These men definitely considered themselves priests—perhaps true ones, if they could banish the plains cats with a few words.

He caught a brief glimpse of Tavolys’s youngest boy, Raphael, arms raised as he intoned a command that Tristan was too far away to hear. A few yards to Raphael’s right, a big, brawny man with grizzled gray hair was doing likewise. Though this man’s form, more suited to a dockyard bully than a priest, contrasted sharply with Raphael’s golden-haired youth, their garb and gestures marked them as members of one brotherhood.

Others had found the higher steps of the building to be a sanctuary from the tumult down in the streets. Tristan now turned his attention to the wounded. There were surprisingly few of them, considering the staggering number of cats, and most of the wounds were minor. Tristan, anxious to reassure the frightened populace, said as much to one young woman as he made a makeshift sling from a strip of her long gown.

She gazed at him with glowing eyes. “Don’t you see? Sehkmaa and his priests saved us!”

Tristan paused in his work and glanced at the others who were with the woman. They all nodded eagerly. Tristan thought about the men in the Hungry Tyger. They didn’t seem like holy men to him.

The following evening, when the full contingent of the Claws of Sehkmaa appeared at the banquet that Prince Othmar hosted in their honor, Tristan was surprised to see the variety in their number. Two at least were nobles: Ivaar and Raphael. Others Tristan recognized as merchants’ children or even the merchants themselves, moved by the call of the cat god to leave their vocations and follow him. Most were in their twenties and thirties, although the group encompassed men and women as old or older than Tristan himself. A few seemed, to Tristan at least, shifty-eyed and untrustworthy, but he was a man who judged by deeds not appearances. All had the mark of Sehkmaa: three claw marks across their cheeks. It lent them an air of deadly seriousness.

As was usual with Othmar, the banquet was even more opulent than perhaps the occasion warranted. The food was all overly seasoned as far as Tristan was concerned. He appreciated fine cooking as long as the foods thus prepared were still recognizable.

Sigfrid chewed absently on a slice of rye with honey butter and said quietly to Tristan, “Look at that one down there. The skinny one with the black hair. He’s eating as if he hadn’t seen food for a week.”

Tristan looked where Sigfrid indicated. The thin priest, or Claw as they preferred to be called, was indeed packing away the fare as if he could store it for later usage. “Perhaps he hasn’t,” said Tristan soberly.

Othmar stood. This occasioned a hidden grin from Tristan; Othmar’s garb would put a peacock to shame. His vest was of purple velvet, covering a silk shirt of a pale lilac. Breeches of blue leather matched thigh-high boots of the same hue. A ruby brooch was pinned to the vest, and an even larger one adorned the prince’s golden belt. He had forsaken his crown for a large black hat that half hid his face. Its brim was graced by a scarlet feather, which bobbed up and down as the prince spoke.

“We were saved from certain death by the intervention of the Claws of Sehkmaa, who drove the dark plains cats from our fair city of Kantora,” stated Othmar. He spoke deliberately and without inflection. “Dozens of our loyal subjects were likewise spared a horrible fate. The debt of Kantora to you Claws is great. We hope that this feast, in some small way, welcomes you and your god to Nova Vaasa.”

A general chorus of “Hear, hear,” greeted this ponderous statement, and there was a smattering of applause. Othmar’s face changed, became more animated, better suited to a youth of fourteen. “I want to hear more about Sehkmaa and what the Claws want to do here,” he said, dropping the royal “we” like a snake he had mistakenly picked up.

To Tristan’s surprise, it was Ivaar who rose to speak. Obviously, the youth held a high position among his brethren. “I speak for one who cannot be here today, but who has appointed me to speak for him: our High Priest. He has direct communication with Sehkmaa, and as result cannot always choose where he might be.

“Our goals are simple. We wish to help all Nova Vaasans, rich and poor alike, to learn of Sehkmaa and follow his teachings. To that end, we both ask help and offer it. We want to build an orphanage and give the orphans Sehkmaa and the Claws as their family. On the same grounds, the Claws will teach any children who wish to come. Education is always an advantage, even to the noble classes.” He smiled a little, and a quiet chuckle went around the table.

“We have already talked some with the less wealthy of the city,” Ivaar continued, “and come to some agreements. A bored person is an unhappy and dangerous person, my lords and ladies. Give him or her enjoyable pastimes, and everyone benefits.”

To prove his point, he reached down to a heavily laden pouch that hung beside his sheathed scimitar. Untying it from his belt, he casually tossed it on the table in front of Othmar. It landed with the heavy chinking sound of coins. The prince’s eyes went wide.

“What’s this from?” he asked.

“Donated to the Claws of Sehkmaa from various honest businesses in all four quarters of the city,” Ivaar replied. “We in turn donate it to the Crown to be used as our prince deems wisest. We have kept other funds to clothe and feed our brothers and sisters and to fund our planned orphanage and temple school. Do you not agree, Prince Othmar, that Sehkmaa and his followers can be a boon to the city?”

Othmar nodded his dark head eagerly as he gathered the coins to him. “Indeed,” he murmured.

Tristan gazed searchingly at his only child, trying to sort out his conflicting emotions. Apparently, Ivaar was not only learning to work with his government and country, but was aiding it. In turn, the Claws were bending the government to help their own needy. It seemed to be a perfect partnership, but Tristan instinctually mistrusted the Claws of Sehkmaa.

“There’s something not quite right about this,” said Sigfrid at his ear. “It’s too pat, too easy. Change like this doesn’t just happen overnight.”

Tristan nodded slowly, reluctantly. There was still a great deal of the idealist in him—a fact that might have shocked Ivaar. But years of diplomacy had taught him caution. He focused on Ivaar, who continued speaking. The boy stood confidently in front of the most powerful men in the land, holding their attention easily. His arguments were logical, well founded. He’s a natural diplomat, Tristan thought; but is he on the right side?

At the end of the feast, Othmar invited everyone to stay for some entertainment. Though Tristan normally enjoyed watching the singers and dancers who performed at Stonegard, he wanted a chance to talk to his son. When chairs were pushed back and the sated diners withdrew to the dance hall, Tristan went to Ivaar. “Do you have a few moments to spend with your father?” he asked.

He expected Ivaar to decline, or at best, sulkily agree. Instead, his son smiled eagerly. “Indeed, I do. I’ve learned much in the last few days, Father, and I’d like to share it with you.”

They left the merriment and music behind, opting for the cool seclusion offered by the royal gardens. Topiaries shaped like fanciful creatures pranced beneath the moonless sky. The flowers were in full bloom, and delicate fragrances filled the air.

“I would not have envisioned a cat god as a benevolent deity,” Tristan began, seating himself on a carved stone bench next to a sundial.

“Well, Sehkmaa isn’t, exactly,” said Ivaar. He bent to inhale the perfume of a rose, smiled a little, then seated himself next to his father. “He is very demanding of the Claws, as you’d expect.”

“What about other … followers?”

“Loving and lenient. Above all, he wants his followers to learn and grow. That’s why we’re putting so much emphasis on the school and the orphanage.” He smiled in the darkness. “We’ve already got places for the temple, school, and orphanage—donated by the faithful. Building began today.” His face grew sober. “Sehkmaa alone knows how we will house all the orphans of this land, but we’ll try. We’ll train them in useful skills, and when they are old enough, they’ll leave and contribute to the society that helped them. Then we will have more room for other unfortunates.”

Tristan changed the subject. “Your room has been kept for you,” he said, “in case you change your mind about living at Faerhaaven.” He paused, and added, “I’ve missed you.”

The words came hard, and Ivaar knew it. Cautiously, as if he were afraid Tristan might bite, Ivaar laid a hand on his father’s arm. “Thank you, Father,” he said gently, “but I would prefer to get a room here in town. I want to be near the temple. It’s … it’s important to me. Do you understand?”

“I do, son. Go with my blessing. But,” he joked, “you didn’t have to destroy your room before you left.”

Ivaar looked puzzled. “I didn’t. I just left you the note, that’s all.”

Tristan frowned. “There’s no need to lie about it now. I forgive you.”

“I’m not lying. Why would I destroy my room?”

“I assumed you were angry with me, and …” For Ivaar to have left his room in such a state was childish. The young man seated before him seemed incapable of such reckless destruction, and Tristan suddenly felt ashamed for suspecting Ivaar. Still, if he hadn’t destroyed the room, who had? Some disgruntled servant? He would have Guillaume look into it.

“Tell me about Sehkmaa’s creed,” he invited. The youth brightened, and began to chat animatedly about Sehkmaa’s desire to protect the weak and make all men and women equal. His father listened with half an ear. It seemed like a good thing, the coming of Sehkmaa and his priests. Tristan, however, couldn’t shake the memory of the hard-eyed men he had seen at the Hungry Tyger.

It was late when he returned home, but instead of heading straight for his bed he went into his sorcery chamber. His mirror was on the table, and Tristan seated himself before it. It reflected his tired visage.

“Show me Sehkmaa,” he asked, wondering if, now that he knew who Sehkmaa was, it would make any difference. It did not. The mirror clouded over, its shiny surfaced replaced by the swirling fog Tristan was coming to hate. “Show me Ivaar Hiregaard.”

The fog didn’t change. Frowning, Tristan leaned forward. The last time he had ordered the mirror to show him Ivaar, it had complied. Now, it balked at the command. Tristan wondered if his own mental strength was to blame; he was, after all, quite tired. His temples throbbed, and he rubbed them fiercely. “Show me the signature killer.” The mirror cleared, and for a moment Tristan’s hopes rose. But when the reflecting glass refused to show him anything but his own face, he swore and brought his fist slamming down on the table.

He would try again in the morning. Obviously, he was too weary to bend the mirror’s powers to his command tonight.

Sigfrid lingered at Stonegard. It wasn’t often he was invited to royal events as a guest. He lay, relaxed, on a pile of pillows and enjoyed the precise movements of the dancing. When a young page tapped his shoulder, he looked up inquiringly. “Captain Skolsson, a Sergeant Valdisdottir wants to see you.”

Osric Laars, lounging nearby, turned his attention to the young soldier. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. Sigfrid’s sense of serenity evaporated. He rose at once and went down to the courtyard.

Dagmar was there, pacing back and forth tensely. When she saw him appear, she nearly ran to him. The torchlight was kind to her, kinder than the daylight, making the mass of scars that was her face less visible. She saluted smartly.

“What is it, Sergeant?” asked Sigfrid, though he felt certain he knew what the problem was.

“We’ve discovered another body.”

“Same markings?”

Dagmar nodded. Then she tensed slightly. Her eyes flickered over Sigfrid’s shoulder and then back to his face. He read a warning in their blue-green depths. Somebody was standing behind him.

“As you know, Sergeant, we’re not permitted to allot any more men or funds to this useless hunt,” he said, making his voice slightly louder than normal. “But mark it down, just for the records. Dismissed.”

Badly as he wanted to go and scout out the murder scene, Sigfrid forced himself to turn around and head back into the palace. As he expected, he saw Osric

Laars lingering in the doorway. What startled him was that Laars was not alone. The slim figure of Lord Adal Keirin, another one of Othmar’s regents, was with him.

One skill Sigfrid had learned when he was a young thief in Kantora’s streets was the art of deception. He nodded casually to the two regents and ascended the stairs to the revelry without undue speed. He felt their eyes boring into his back, but he knew neither his face nor his body had betrayed him.

He would ride out to Faerhaaven first thing in the morning. Things were starting to get out of hand.

Rozalia smiled to herself, surveying the changes six days had wrought. Several philanthropic Kantorans had donated an entire block to the Claws of Sehkmaa for their use. Rather than raze the buildings and build new ones, which would take far too long for the impatient Malken, the Claws used most of them as they were.

One group of four buildings had become the orphanage, the Paw of the Cat. Work was progressing on a stone wall about four feet high that would encircle the buildings. At the center, opening invitingly in the direction of the High Road, was a large stone arch. There were no gates.

The temple itself was a public bathhouse, donated by Osric Laars as a gift to Sehkmaa from the city. Its basic structure had not been altered. A short flight of stone steps led up to the columned building, which contained many small rooms in addition to the large bathing area. All that was necessary was that the baths be drained and filled.

It was well past twilight, and the workers had gone home. Rozalia ran up the bathhouse stairs, unafraid of the yawning darkness inside the building. Malken was waiting for her, carrying a small lantern. He led her carefully around the drained but still unfilled pools to a corner behind a pile of tools left by the workers.

“Do you like surprises?” His voice, floating from behind a fish-head mask, was mirthful. Rozalia nodded.

Malken’s gloved fingers groped on the wall until they touched something that clicked. He pushed gently, and the Vistana saw that there was a door in the wall, hidden so expertly that she doubted she would have seen it even in the daylight. The door swung inward. A flight of stone steps spiraled down.

Wordlessly, Rozalia followed Malken as he descended. What she saw dazzled her. Malken had his own sanctuary, buried deep beneath the temple. The stone stairs opened into a large, lavish room.

“It’s only been six days!” she gasped. “How …?”

Malken chuckled. “It was simply there, waiting for me. Power has its privileges.”

“The clever gray malken,” said Rozalia.

Inviolate and secured by means both mundane and magical, this underground refuge ensured that Malken need fear no intrusion on his various perversions. Thick, blood-red carpeting covered every inch of stone floor. Tapestries, their subjects engaged in violent acts, adorned some of the walls. Other walls were bare, save for steel shackles and chains. Every room, and there were many, were filled with beautiful objets d’art—carved woods and statues, paintings, bone china, cabinets inlaid with gold and extremely rare, imported mother-of-pearl. Malken at times enjoyed admiring beauty; at other times, he took pleasure in its destruction. He made sure he had ample supplies to satisfy either craving.

As Malken and Rozalia entered, three huge plains cats, secured to the wall with heavy chains, swiveled their ears toward their master. Other cats, smaller than their cousins but no less wild, also tensed.

With a savage rip, Malken tore at the high collar of his robe. “Ah, that’s better,” he said. The scales of his fish-head mask were made of glittering blue metal, and the staring eyes seemed to have a life of their own. Its gaping maw, complete with hook embedded in its papier-mache lip, was wide enough to let him eat, but dark enough that his features remained concealed.

He and Rozalia went to the black marble table that sat in the center of the room. From side doors, two servants, clad in the robes of the Claws, entered silently. “Dinner for two,” Malken told them. As quietly as they had entered, the servants slipped away. Malken eased himself into a chair, reaching absently to fondle the ears of one of the great cats. Fruit and cheese were brought in, along with a bottle of red wine. Rozalia poured while Malken heaped his plate high.

Rozalia took a sip of wine and stretched languorously. Her scanty robes revealed more than they concealed. “I like going into town now,” she said. “They’re afraid of me. They always have been, these Kantorans. But now, they don’t dare spit on me.”

“Of course not,” responded Malken. “Your scimitar is your chaperon, your priestess robes your armor.”

She watched him eat. His manners, or rather lack of them, no longer offended her. As she spent more time with him, watching him manipulate people, weaving this fantasy about Sehkmaa, she grew to admire him. He was unquestionably the most powerful man she had ever known—if, indeed, he was something as ordinary as a mere man. She had never yet seen him with his mask off, and the face she created for him in her mind was handsome and dashing. Malken excited something deep inside her. He made her want him, want to be more like him, and the sensation grew with each hour in his presence. She gazed at him now with slitted dark eyes. Her breath was coming quickly, and her heart was beating rapidly. One slim hand reached to touch his as he rested it on the table.

He jerked it back, and the gaze he shot her from beneath the mask was for an instant full of anger. Fear replaced desire in Rozalia’s heart. She had seen the sort of things this man could and would do, and while she enjoyed watching them happen to others she had no desire to be Malken’s latest victim.

Malken’s voice was tense and uncomfortable. “Let us keep our relationship as it is, my dear. We can both benefit.” Absently, he lifted the dagger from his plate and thumbed the point gently. “Besides, I don’t think you’d care for my sort of—sport.” He returned to eating, cramming hunks of bread into his fish’s maw.

One of the servants approached hesitantly. His mouth full, Malken gestured impatiently for him to speak. “Lord, the dockmaster is here,” he said timidly.

Malken nodded vigorously, pleased, and swallowed. “Ah, yes, he was invited to join us. Bring him in.”

The man who was brought in a moment later did not look like an invited guest. His hands were tied behind his back, and his face bled from several cuts. One eye was swollen almost shut. The other eye took in the surroundings, including the chained great cats, with only a hint of fear. Malken rose.

“Good evening, Hollin Turndach. Or should I call you by your title? I’ve dressed to honor you, you see,” he said, indicating his fish mask.

Turndach glared up at him. “Are you some kind of damned police?” he snarled. “I’ve done noth—”

Malken raised a hand. “There are no police here. There is only me—Malken. Let us get to the point, shall we? I know who you are, and I know what you do.”

The dockmaster glared at him fiercely. “I’m but the tip of the iceberg,” he warned. “You harm me and—”

“And what?” snapped Malken. “No one knows you’re gone, dock lord! And no one knows of me unless I want them to know. When your body is found floating in the river tomorrow, they won’t have the slightest clue!” He slammed his fist down on the table, upsetting his goblet of wine. The liquid dripped off the table, forming a spot of deeper crimson on the thick carpeting. With an effort, Malken brought himself under control.

“It is truly not my wish that this happen. Your organization has done very well for itself, and I have no desire to topple you from your perch as king of the River Quarter. By all means, continue your smuggling and small-scale piracy. I will not interfere with it.”

Turndach was clearly still antagonistic. “You obviously haven’t ventured beyond the borders recently. My days of trading—honest or not—are over.”

Malken froze in the act of bringing a thickly buttered slice of bread to his mouth. “Dear, dear,” he mused. Rozalia tensed. By now, she could recognize Malken’s anger, even when he cloaked it. “That won’t do at all.”

“No sane man would travel anymore. I don’t know what’s happened, but there are monsters out there where there used to be men!” He shuddered. “It’s as if the countries we knew just weren’t there anymore.”

“Surely you have met some people who would be willing to trade.”

Turndach stared. “Didn’t you hear what I said, man? The countries on our borders are different!”

Malken sat very still. Slowly, he raised a gloved hand to his fish mask. He caressed the gleaming metal hook that protruded from the gaping mouth. “This is you, my friend. You’re on a hook. My hook. You can either swim away free or be my supper tonight. I don’t care who is or isn’t on our borders as long as you can trade with them.”

Clearly, the dockmaster was apprehensive about the so-called “new countries.” But the danger before him was more immediate. “Suppose I do go back to my trading,” he said cautiously. “If you want me to continue, why have you abducted me?”

“That’s such a harsh word. Let’s call it—persuaded you to visit, shall we? But you have a right to know.” He rose, placing his hands on the table, and leaned forward into Turndach’s bearded face. “I want a quarter of everything your organization makes.”

Turndach gaped for an instant, then began to laugh. “What makes you think for even a minute that I—”

“I have the means of persuading you.” Malken indicated the great cats, who rose as one and turned their eyes upon the dockmaster.

Turndach paled, but his voice was still defiant. “You may kill me, but you can’t send those hellcats into the quarter. You’d draw attention to yourself then, wouldn’t you, you bast—” He yelped as a small orange tabby scratched his leg. He glanced down at the bleeding scratch, and began to laugh.

“You think I’m scared of a little cat like that?”

“Indeed I do. I think in about ten seconds you’ll be quite terrified.”

Faced with Malken’s confidence, the dockmaster began to look uncertain. He glanced down at his leg, and saw the swelling occur almost before his eyes. He winced with the pain and could not stifle a groan as his leg seemed to burn with an unceasing fire. Boils erupted on his face, bursting and dripping pus down his cheek. The groan turned into a shriek of pain as the bones in his spine began to twist, and Turndach started to stoop as a hump formed in his back.

With a wicked smile, Rozalia delicately withdrew a vial that had been tucked between her breasts. She waved it in the air, teasingly, then closed her painted nails tightly over it.

“You’ve heard of the Vistana way with magic and herbs, haven’t you, Turndach? My dear Rozalia is a master of poisons. She also holds the antidote.” Malken withdrew an object of his own, a small hourglass. He tipped it over, and the sand began to snake down to the bottom portion. “You have this much time to make your decision. A quarter of your earnings, or your life.” When Turndach stayed silent, his shocked gaze frozen on the rapidly emptying hourglass, Malken chided, “Come now, surely the decision isn’t all that difficult!”

It wasn’t. “I agree!” Turndach burst out. Rozalia obligingly uncorked the vial of precious fluid and, striding with a leisurely pace to the dockmaster, emptied the contents of the vial in his opened mouth. Turndach gulped, and within seconds the pain faded. The pustules on his face dried up, leaving scabs behind. His aching spine straight once more, the dockmaster sagged in relief, gasping and trembling. Malken gestured, and one of the servants slipped behind the wharf-master and cut his bonds. Rubbing his wrists, which were red but not raw, Turndach stared at the man who had nearly killed him.

“You’re right, of course, about the plains cats. I can’t send them after everyone who crosses me—people would talk. But these little fellows, my small friends—admittedly, their use is limited,” Malken drawled. “The poison on their claws kills them as well. One little nick—” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I have plenty of cats. They’re everywhere. They are my eyes and ears, dockmaster, and if you breathe one word of what happened here tonight—well, Rozalia’s poison works even faster on children. You have four, don’t you?”

The dockmaster flushed angrily, but held his tongue. Malken laughed from behind his mask. “You’re a fast learner. Good. I like that. I’m not the most patient of teachers. For now, dockmaster,” continued Malken, leaning back in his chair and surveying his newest servant, “I will honor you with my trust. On your word, you are to donate a quarter of each month’s earnings to the Claws of Sehkmaa when they come to accept offerings. Try to cheat me, and you’ll need to beware the cat in the night. How you get the money, as I have said, is your business, and I won’t interfere. In fact, if things work well, I and my followers may be able to help you increase that income—and offer you protection, should the need arise.”

“I have my own protection,” Turndach snapped.

Malken chuckled again. “It didn’t help this evening, did it?” Turndach’s lips thinned, and his eyes flashed angrily. Malken leaned forward, sliding the heavy pewter plate across the table to the man standing in front of him. “Have an apple? They’re not poisoned, I assure you!” He and Rozalia laughed, but Turndach remained stonily silent. “As you wish. You’ll dine at my table soon enough, dockmaster. Everyone does.” With a slight flick of his long, gloved fingers, Malken indicated that the conversation was at an end. None-too-gentle hands took Turndach’s arms, but he savagely shrugged them off.

“I leave here your ally, Malken. At least give me the dignity of departing unescorted!”

Malken raised an eyebrow, impressed. “As you wish, friend. They’ll not touch you as long as you don’t warrant it. I suggest you travel with my Claws, though, until you reach the outside. Lots of unpleasant surprises in my sanctuary for the uneducated.”

Back straight, the master of the wharf departed, closely ringed by the Claws. “He could be trouble,” Rozalia warned, pouring Malken a glass of wine.

“Possibly. But for every trout in the river, there are dozens of minnows who’d gladly take his place—and who wouldn’t need to be escorted unwillingly, either. He’ll have his chance. If not—” a hand dropped lazily down to caress the silky black head of a plains cat “—my beauties will feast.”

The Merry Mermaid, despite its location in the River Quarter, was a family affair. A stout, red-cheeked man named Enoch and his wife, Hannelore, were the proprietors; their daughter, Elyssa, had waited tables. Tristan knew them, although they did not recognize him; he and Sigfrid, in disguise, had visited the inn only a few nights ago. Then, with a sweet smile, the pretty Elyssa had brought them ale. Now she lay in the city morgue, latest victim of the signature killer, and Tristan and Sigfrid were questioning the grieving parents.

“Elyssa knew better’n to let some stranger walk her home,” mourned Hannelore, her words catching in her throat. “Her pa and I told her, wait for us t’ close up, and we’d take her home ourselves … but she never liked to trouble us.…” Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away.

“Mama?” came a small voice. Tristan glanced up to see a six-year-old boy peering curiously down the stairs. “Why are you crying? Did Elyssa run away?”

“Go back to bed, Garran,” Enoch told his son. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“But—”

“Honey, you heard your papa,” said Hannelore thickly. Frightened, uncomprehending, the youngster did as he was told.

Tristan and Sigfrid questioned the parents for another half hour, then left them to their grief, donning cloaks and stepping out into the cool night air. They walked in silence for a few moments. At last Sigfrid said, “It must have been somebody she trusted. Elyssa sounds like a smart girl, not the sort to be alone with a stranger when there’s a killer out in the streets.”

“That seems logical.”

“Perhaps she had a gentleman she didn’t want her parents to know about.”

“Or maybe it was an old family friend.”

A sudden shriek behind them made both soldiers whirl, drawing their swords smoothly in the same gesture. The street was only dimly lit, as was usual in this area, but Tristan could make out four cloaked forms fleeing from the direction of the Merry Mermaid. At once Tristan and Sigfrid were in hot pursuit. When they approached the tavern, they saw that the windows were open and one shutter hung crookedly on its hinges. Tristan knew then who had screamed.

He skidded to a halt, leaving the chase to see to the victims. Tristan stuck his head inside the window, but it was dark. He could see nothing. “Enoch? Hannelore?” he called. No answer. He tried the door, but it was locked, and he hurled his muscular frame against it. The door groaned, but did not give. At the second shove, the door’s bar splintered, and he stumbled inside. The dim light from outside filtering through the doorway was enough for Tristan to see what he had dreaded.

Enoch was clearly dead. A blow from a sharp blade had nearly separated his head from his shoulders. Hannelore was still alive, but would not be for long. Her torso was hacked, and blood pooled out from under her. Her agony-filled eyes met Tristan’s, and the fingers of her right hand twitched, as if trying to reach out to him. Tristan knelt by her side and closed his strong hand reassuringly about her bloody one.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice rough with intensity.

Her lips opened, moved. Blood spilled out, and the hand in his went limp. Tristan undid his cloak and gently covered Hannelore’s savaged corpse with it.

Sigfrid came in, panting. “Lost them,” he gasped. Then he saw the bodies, and swore violently.

“They knew who killed Elyssa,” said Tristan. “They didn’t realize it, but they knew. And someone wanted them silenced.”

“Where’s the boy?” asked Sigfrid tensely.

“I’ll look for him. You go find the nearest guards and let’s start figuring out what happened.”

The search for the child yielded nothing. At least, thought Tristan grimly, there was no tiny corpse waiting to be discovered. When Sigfrid returned with two guardsmen, Tristan had already begun to examine the crime scene.

“They were counting up the day’s take when the killers broke in,” he told Sigfrid. “There’s the money bag open, its contents scattered behind the bar.”

“But—didn’t they take the money?”

“Yes and no. This ledger,” Tristan indicated a book, “shows that they had pulled in twelve gold, eighteen silver, and three dozen copper pieces. Only the copper and silver are still here.”

“Mighty picky thieves, taking only the gold,” commented one of the guards.

“Indeed,” agreed Tristan. He moved to the corpse of Enoch. “Take a look at these wounds, Captain Skolsson. What do you think made them?”

Sigfrid knelt, examining the body. He removed Hannelore’s cloak and looked at her corpse as well. “Bladed weapon of some kind. Short sword would have produced stab wounds; these were done by a slashing weapon. Probably curved, to judge by the depth. I’d say a curved dagger, a scimitar, or a cutlass.”

Tristan paused. “Can you narrow it down further?”

“Not without knowing who wielded the weapon. The depth of the wounds could vary, depending on the strength of the killer. None of the weapons is all that unusual. I’d say most of the people in this quarter have cutlasses. Curved daggers are not uncommon, and at least a few hundred people in Kantora have scimitars.”

Including, Tristan thought with a sinking feeling, every member of the Claws of Sehkmaa. “So it’s impossible to trace the weapon,” he concluded. He turned his attention to the guards. “Any witnesses?”

“No one on this street saw or heard anything.”

Sigfrid’s face flushed with anger. “Then they’re all liars. You and I heard the scream, and we were more than two blocks away!”

“But why lie?” Tristan wondered. The answer came as clearly as if whispered in his ear.

These people were afraid.

Just like Osric Laars was afraid.

“We may have one witness willing to talk,” he said.

“Who?” Sigfrid asked.

“Garran, Enoch’s little boy.”

“Tristan, we don’t know where he is, or if he’s even alive!” said Sigfrid, exasperated.

Tristan raised a hand in a calming gesture. “I have a feeling we’ll find him at the Paw of the Cat.”

The next day, he mounted Kal and rode into Kantora along the High Road. Tristan curiously examined the bathhouse-cum-temple under construction. It was humble, as such things went. He had seen enormous structures devoted to deities in other lands, but Sehkmaa seemed content with a simple place for his followers to worship. As Tristan drew rein and halted for a moment, he could see three Claws directing the workers. Next to the emerging temple was a group of buildings that had become the Paw of the Cat.

Tristan noted there was no gate in the new wall. Then why build a wall at all? he wondered. As he watched, a gray and white cat leapt gracefully onto the barrier. Its yellow eyes gazed at him steadily. Tristan felt inexplicably uncomfortable under that unblinking gaze. Ignoring the cat, he squeezed Kal’s side and walked the horse into the courtyard. The cat followed, slinking along the wall, its ears flat against its head.

He rode slowly, wary of any children who might suddenly scamper his way. The yard, though amply supplied with outdoor toys such as hoops and stick horses, was devoid of children. Perhaps they were at their lessons. He draped Kal’s reins around a tree branch, and the horse lowered his head to crop.

Tristan walked to the nearest house. Graceful and spacious in design, the building had previously been a town home of a wealthy Kantoran landowner. He stretched out a hand to the door’s knocker, but before his fingers could close on it, the door opened.

Tristan’s eyes widened as he stared at the skinny young Vistana woman who greeted him. He had thought Rozalia was actively hostile to giorgios, so seeing her here, in an orphanage for giorgio children, was the last thing he had expected. It was clear from the flash of anger in her eyes that she recognized him as well. He started to give her the hand signal that was the traditional greeting among her people, but she laid a cool hand on his fingers, stilling them.

“Such gestures are no longer necessary. I am now Sister Rozalia, one of the Claws of Sehkmaa. Welcome to the Paw of the Cat. How can I help you?”

“You perhaps remember me, Sister Rozalia. I am Sir Tristan Hiregaard. How is your father? I trust the ban on your family is not making them suffer unduly.”

Rozalia’s eyes snapped fire, but her voice was calm. “My father died. I do not know how the rest of them fare. As I told you, I follow Sehkmaa now. You surely did not come here to discuss my family. What is your business with the Claws of Sehkmaa?”

Konstantin dead? Tristan began to express his condolences but knew Rozalia did not want them. Instead, he answered her question. “I’m looking for a boy named Garran Kalana. His parents were killed last night, and there was no sign of Garran at the murder site. I’m hoping he was frightened away, and turned up here.” He described the boy—six years old, stocky, dark haired, mischievous.

“Does he have a family waiting for him?”

Tristan shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I haven’t come to take him away. I merely wish to question him, to see if he can give us any clues as to the identity of his parents’ murderers.”

Rozalia shook her head. “A tragic tale, Sir Tristan. We do have a child of that description here, but I don’t think he will be able to help you. Still, I will bring him to you if you will come inside and wait. Excuse me.”

She stepped aside and indicated that he enter. Then, with a rustle of gold cloth, she was gone. Tristan found himself alone in a hall that, while it did not compare with the opulence of his own Faerhaaven, was certainly impressive. Whatever furnishings had filled the place, however, had gone with their former owners, and the hall felt empty. It was, for an orphanage, strangely silent. In time Rozalia returned, climbing the stairs and leading a small boy.

Tristan didn’t remember much about Garran, but he did remember the boy’s intensity. That had disappeared. The child who stood before him now was pale and still, his eyes huge and unfocused with deep purple shadows beneath them. He stared fixedly, and Tristan felt a stab of apprehension.

“Is this the boy?” asked Rozalia.

Tristan nodded and knelt to the child’s eye level. “Hello, Garran. I’m Tristan. I have some questions.”

The boy remained silent, but Rozalia spoke in his stead. “He cannot answer you.”

Tristan rose and regarded her angrily. “What have you done to him?”

Rozalia smiled an almost crafty smile. “We gave him certain herbs to heal him when he came. He is still injured, and we still treat him. He’ll be fine when—”

“Injured? Let me see.” If the wound wasn’t healing cleanly, he would take the child with him back to Faerhaaven. More and more, he was growing suspicious of the Claws of Sehkmaa. He expected to see the long scar of a scimitar stroke or a cutlass swipe on the boy’s body. To his surprise, Rozalia placed a finger on Garran’s chin. He obediently opened his mouth. Tristan stared horrified at the pulpy mass that had been Garran’s tongue.

Rozalia’s strange smile widened. “We found him wandering, dazed and bleeding. Some horrible person had cut out his tongue.”

She again touched the boy’s chin, and he closed his mouth. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, you have upset poor Garran enough for one day.” Rozalia turned and ushered the boy back down the stairs.

Anger flared inside him—anger at the boy’s condition, anger at Rozalia’s arrogance. He had opened his mouth to call after her when he heard Ivaar’s voice coming from the front yard.

“Father!” Pleased, Ivaar hastened up to Tristan. “One of the Claws told me you were here. You should have let me know you were coming. I could have arranged a tour for you.”

“I don’t need a tour,” snapped Tristan. “I’ve seen enough. I need your help, son.” He kept his voice low and walked toward Kal. As he unwound the horse’s reins, he whispered, “I believe that one of the Claws is the signature killer. I also think they may be behind some other crimes that have taken place recently.”

Ivaar’s reaction was swift and unhesitating. “How dare you accuse my brethren of such a crime!” cried Ivaar, his green eyes flashing dangerously. Sensing its master’s ire, the cat at Ivaar’s feet arched its back and hissed at Tristan.

Tristan held up a placating hand. “I’m not incriminating the organization, just a few individuals. You yourself have told me many of the Claws come from poor origins—literally from the slums. Not everyone who lived there is a criminal, I know. But that kind of environment does breed crime. All I’m asking is if you know anyone who might be—”

“Sehkmaa would not choose anyone who would so disgrace the order!”

“Son,” continued Tristan, keeping a check on his impatience, “I’ve seen a lot in my time. A good faith doesn’t always make for good followers, and—”

“If you accuse my brethren, you accuse me.”

Tristan glared at Ivaar. All the old arguments they had had over the last several years came back to him. They had all ended like this—Tristan angry and frustrated, Ivaar hurt and feeling wronged. There was no getting through to him, after all. “At least do this for me,” Tristan said. “Keep your own counsel on this.”

Ivaar snorted. “Gladly. I would never repeat such a terrible rumor. Good-bye, Father.”

Tristan felt a sensation of terrible, inexplicable finality as he watched his son stride away, the strange vestments of his priesthood billowing about his small frame. He did not know how they would ever repair the damage they had done to each other this time.

Tristan’s mood was black as he closed himself up inside his sorcery chamber. He lit the candles with a wave of his fingers and a single word, then sat down before his obdurate and unpredictable mirror. He stared into it for a moment, examining his own chiseled, tanned features, the deep blue eyes with the lines that surrounded them, the mouth that didn’t seem to smile much anymore. His hair, too, had more gray in it than Tristan recalled seeing there before. He had slept well last night, for a change, and had eaten a full breakfast. Still, working with the mirror tired him, and he expected to be exhausted long before he had his questions answered. He drummed his fingers on the table, then resigned himself to beginning.

First, the most important question, the one he had asked the mirror so many times before with no result. “Show me the signature killer.” The mirror did not change. “Show me Sehkmaa.” Now, as it had before, the mirror crawled with a sluggishly swirling mist. “Show me Ivaar Hiregaard.” The mist continued to churn in the mirror.

Tristan rubbed his temples. His head was beginning to hurt. What could he ask to determine just how maladjusted the mirror was? A macabre idea occurred to him, and he grimaced. “Show me the most recent murder victim.”

The fog cleared, revealing a prone drunkard in an alley. Another man rummaged through his pockets. Tristan shook his head sadly. Murder did not always carry with it the high drama of the signature killer; it was sometimes tragically mundane.

Another thought came to him. “Show me the next murder victim,” he asked. The mirror fogged over. It wouldn’t predict the future—could it shed light on the past? If he could see the murder, he could see the murderer. “Show me—” what? “—show me who killed Amasa the Vistana and my guard Perryn,” he ordered.

Excitement rose in him as the fog cleared, shimmered. The next instant Tristan stifled a desire to smash the cursed thing into a thousand pieces. It revealed the portrait of his wife Ailsa.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked angrily. The mirror continued to show Ailsa’s smiling face.

It was then that he noticed that the room grew suddenly colder. The candles flickered as if from a breeze, but there could be none. Alert, eyes narrowing, Tristan watched the candles in the mirror’s sconces. They wavered for a few seconds, then steadied. Now, they burned not orange but deep, cool blue.

Tristan recalled a superstition that would explain the candles’ unusual change. Even as his logical mind rejected it, his imagination cringed. Slowly, he rose and went to his bookcase. His hands caressed the tooled leather bindings of the old books until they paused on the one Tristan wanted. He hesitated, feeling a cold finger of fear trace its languid way up his spine. Would it be, in the end, better to be unsure?

He shook his head and pulled down the book. Turning the old pages carefully lest they disintegrate, he found the spell he wanted. He read the ingredients needed and calmly retrieved them, aware that his hands were shaking slightly. A sprinkle of talc, a bit of ground silver atop it … He chanted the proper magical words as he gently blended the ingredients with his forefinger. Then, with his back pressed to the door, Tristan faced the room. He took a deep breath, passed his hand over the mixture, then blew the powder into the air.

As if a gentle wind had taken the powder, it flew farther than nature would have permitted it. The talc swirled, floating to the ceiling, then descended in a small shower. As it fell, it outlined a form that, like a drowned corpse floating up from the depths of a dark river, gradually became more visible. Tristan gasped in shock and pain. His heart spasmed painfully, as if gripped by an invisible hand. His hand flew to his chest, and his trembling legs very nearly gave way.

Standing before him, rendered visible by the spell, was a translucent, pale blue and silver image of his wife Ailsa. She looked exactly as Tristan remembered her. Her hair was loose, falling in a white cascade down her back. She was dressed in the beautiful brocade gown they had buried her in, and she wore the brooch he had given her so many decades ago when they were young and in love and the world housed infinite possibilities. The gown became less defined as it passed her hips, trailing off into mist as she hovered a full foot from the floor.

“Tristan, my beloved,” said Ailsa’s ghost in a breathy voice. “I have waited so long for this moment!” She glided toward him, arms outstretched for an embrace.

“No!” Tristan cried, averting his eyes and thrusting his hands ahead of him.

The spirit seemed hurt. “Tristan, love, I have waited for your call all these years! You speak so sweetly to my portrait, but when I appear you reject me!”

Somehow, Tristan managed to contain his horror. Now he knew what the mirror meant—Ailsa had indeed slain the unfortunate young trespasser and his guard. They had died of fright when she materialized. But then, why didn’t her very presence destroy him now?

“You killed the Vistana boy and his guard, didn’t you?” His voice shook, badly, but Ailsa didn’t seem to notice. She nodded yes in answer to his question. “But … why? What had they done?”

“I am sorry for the guard,” she admitted in her dulcet voice, “but the Vistana was a trespasser. He could have hurt you, Tristan, and I could never let anyone hurt you.” Smiling, she floated toward him, and he flinched back into the door. She paused, frowning slightly.

“How—how long have you been here?”

“Why, Tris,” she said, her voice teasing now, “I have never left your side for a single day since we were married! I’ve been waiting for you to notice me. As for everyone else—” She shrugged her incorporeal shoulders. “They were happy with the flowers and made beds. They didn’t need to see me.”

Again, she moved toward him, and this time Tristan steeled himself for—what? Her hand brushed his cheek. He felt a coldness, as of a damp draft, but nothing more. Ailsa’s hand had passed right through him. She frowned as if confused and reached out again, with the same result. Floating backward, she stared, annoyed, at her disobedient hand, then smiled coquettishly. “Are you playing tricks with your magic again, Tristan?”

The question stabbed Tristan like a knife. He had indeed played harmless tricks on his beloved, tricks that both would laugh about afterward. He missed those days terribly, and the memory of his living wife was torturous. This was no trick. His wife was dead, and her ghost could not find rest.

“What must I do to help you?” he asked.

Again, she looked puzzled. “Help me with what?”

“Help you—pass on,” he finished awkwardly. When her pale blue brow remained furrowed with confusion, he continued, “You are not resting in your grave at peace, as you deserve. What can I do to—”

He broke off. The confusion on the phantom’s face was bleeding slowly into anger. “I am not dead,” she hissed. “How cruel, to pretend that I’m dead!”

Tristan’s jaw dropped. His wife’s ghost was exactly the way Ailsa had been when she died—beautiful and insane. Even as the thought occurred to him, Ailsa’s lovely if spectral features twisted, as if they were made of rubber. Her mouth opened wide, wider, until it seemed as though her head would split in half. A chilling shriek of denial issued forth, its tones shrill and keening. The long white hair lifted until it stood out straight from her skull. Ailsa’s hands became bestial claws, and the gruesome image turned Tristan’s blood to ice. The unnatural creature charged at him. A deep, bone cold shuddered though him, and he cried aloud, fear crackling along his nerves in a horrified rush. As he fell to the stone floor, his eyes clenched shut in vain denial of what he was seeing, Tristan’s one thought was, So this is how Amasa and Perryn died.

A heartbeat later, it was over. The fear faded and died, and he cautiously opened his eyes. He became aware of a sharp pain in his forehead, and guessed he had hit the table as he fell. Tristan probed the injury with tentative fingers, wincing. Blood trickled down his face. Groaning a little, he got to his feet. There was no sign of Ailsa. He eased himself into his chair before the mirror, using it as he would any ordinary looking glass to examine his forehead.

As his eyes met those of his reflection, a new, reluctant knowledge crept into Tristan’s heart. The mirror had given him the truth when he had asked about Amasa’s death. It had shown him Ailsa. What about his other questions? Leave them, a part of him warned. Leave them unanswered, only half guessed at. But Tristan could do no such thing. The idea had come, and as he had done with Ailsa, to his pain, so must he now gain answers to these questions.

He swallowed hard. In a voice that shook, he again asked the mirror, “Show me the signature killer.” It remained unchanged, showing him his strained, pale and bloodied visage. Tristan licked his lips and closed his eyes, gathering strength. “Show me … show me what other faces the killer wears.”

At once the mirror shimmered.

A monstrous thing stared back into Tristan’s eyes.

That it was, or had been, or might some day become human was undeniable. There was a humanoid symmetry to the placement of eyes and ears and mouth, and shaggy brown hair covered the creature’s skull. The eyes, too, were human, but filled with a burning, angry malice and a sense of shock. What passed for its mouth was a rubbery slit crammed full of sharp white teeth. One side of its face was distorted, as if it had been made of clay and a careless child had clutched it too hard. The other half was a welter of partially healed scars. Boils oozed pus on its forehead. Its ears tapered to a point, incongruously graceful features in so hideous a visage.

“You!” shrieked the being, furious.

“Me,” whispered Tristan. He jumped back as the thing in the mirror yowled angrily and lunged for him.

The creature, however, slammed against an invisible wall. It pounded on its side of the mirror angrily. “You’ve closed it!” it shrieked. “Damn you, you’ve closed it!”

Tristan stared in shock at the monstrous thing in the mirror as it raged furiously, hurling epithets and obscenities. Spittle gathered at the corners of its lips and sprayed the air. But Tristan was not listening.

He himself was the killer! Somehow, he, Tristan Hiregaard, had managed to slay—what was the number now? Eight? Nine?—innocent women, without even being aware of the crimes! The thing continued to rant. Tristan moaned softly as the revelation hit him, and covered his ears to shut out the filthy diatribe. No, he could not have committed all those murders, that was impossible. He wasn’t capable of such atrocities. Besides, there was an entity, right here, trapped in the mirror. And if the quirky mirror was to be trusted—and Tristan realized he had no choice but to trust it—this monster, this raving brute was the face the killer wore.

No, that wasn’t right. According to the way he had framed the question, the mirror creature was merely the other face the killer wears. For the sake of his sanity, Tristan grasped at the hope that the beast who slavered at him now was the true killer, and was somehow using Tristan to commit his heinous acts. He had to believe that. It gave him a chance.

With that slim comfort, rationality returned to the knight. It was the beast that was responsible. And right now, Tristan apparently had him trapped.

“Yes,” said Tristan suddenly, composing his features. “I have closed your—” he hazarded a guess “—doorway.” It was a bluff, the only play he had.

The being in the mirror sneered. “I have others, idiot.” He whirled around, scanning what seemed a wall of gray mist. An instant later, the brutal face turned back to his adversary. “You’ve closed them all!”

Elation flooded Tristan. He had no idea what he had done or if he would be able to do it again.

“What is your name?” Tristan pressed. The being hurled an epithet at him. “What is your name?” More swearing. “If you don’t tell me who you are, I can only call you Monster. You are the ugliest thing I—”

“I am not ugly!”

Tristan was so startled at the violence of the creature’s reaction that he stepped back without thinking. He had heard the thing’s anger; now it seemed somehow pained. It covered its grotesque visage with gnarled, clawed hands as if to hide it.

“Malken,” it spat. “You will call me Malken.”

Tristan kept his features even, but inside his triumph grew. Malken. The mysterious leader of the Claws of Sehkmaa. Malken was the signature killer. He had linked himself with the biggest cult that had ever descended upon Nova Vaasa. Tristan thought of little Garran, tongue cut out to prevent him from revealing his parents’ killers, and anger mixed with his triumph.

“What sort of creature are you? Man, spirit?”

“I am Malken. That’s all you need to know, fool.”

Tristan’s lips twisted in a smile. “I’m the one who has you trapped, remember? I ask, you answer! What kind of thing are you, and what is your link to me?”

Malken remained silent. His hideous face, hidden behind equally hideous hands, suddenly roused righteous anger and loathing in Tristan. He bellowed to Malken, “Answer me, damn you!”

One hand came down from the face, and Tristan saw that the monster was leering. “I know what you’re thinking at any moment. I can become you any time, any place I so desire, and you can’t do a thing to stop me.” He waved a mock-chiding finger. “And I’ve got you all upset now. Temper, temper, Tris.”

Anger seemed about to choke the knight, but he needed to learn from this creature. “How can you—”

The mockery mutated into anger again. “No more questions. Let me go.”

Tristan snorted in outraged amusement. “You’ve called me an idiot, Malken the cat—” he took grim pleasure in seeing Malken start at the title “—but I am none. You say you can become Tristan Hiregaard, so you must know him at least a little. Do you think I would set you free to wreak evil on the world again?”

Malken’s brutish face split into a grin, revealing sharp teeth. “Well, actually, I do.”

There came a furious pounding on the door. “Master Tristan!” It was Guillaume, his voice treble with fear. “Cats! They’ve gone mad! Dozens of them, sir, attacking Faerhaaven!”

Tristan instinctively glanced toward the window, but it was boarded shut in this room. He looked again at Malken’s warped face grinning triumphantly in the mirror. Tristan was afraid to leave the room, afraid that if he did so Malken would somehow escape. Yet there was something going on, and he was the master of this house. He hesitated.

“Master Tristan!” Guillaume’s voice was on the edge of panic. Sweat dotted Tristan’s brow. “Please come!”

“Go satisfy your curiosity, Tristan. Not that you’ll be able to do anything about it. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t leave. I want to see your reaction. Besides, you’ve got me where you want me, remember?” The frightful grin widened, and a hint of evil mirth crept into Malken’s voice. “For the moment.”

Tristan paused a moment longer. When a faint scream floated up from below, however, he knew he had no choice. He flung open the door and nearly collided with Guillaume. “Can’t my men handle a few plains cats?” he demanded.

Guillaume looked terrible. “They’re not ordinary cats, sir. Go see.” Tristan raced into the room next to his magical laboratory, his extensive library, and rushed to the window. The Master’s Tower was situated at the far end of the castle, its windows opening onto the vast plains. It seemed an unlikely area for attack, but Castle Faerhaaven was indeed under siege.

Dozens of plains cats were running full speed toward the castle. Guillaume had been right. These were not natural creatures. Tristan could see by the many still black bodies that the archers had already made good use of their time. Other cats came on, heedless of the arrows in their skins, coming as if driven.

No, Tristan corrected himself. As if summoned.

Even as he watched, some of the beasts gathered themselves and leapt into the moat. The water distressed them not at all, and they were soon on the other shore.

Now Tristan heard cries of agony in addition to fear and confusion. He ducked into the armor room, seized a sword, and ran down the stairs. A guard passed him, and Tristan grabbed his arm. The man didn’t wait for questions.

“Plains cats, sir,” he gasped. “We raised the drawbridge but not soon enough. Some got inside.”

“Then they’re trapped. We can handle them.”

The guard’s eyes were wild and frightened, an expression usually foreign to Tristan’s men. “Sir … s-something else is inside, too.”

At that moment, Tristan heard a shriek. A cat tore around the corner of the bottom landing and began to bound up the stairs. The guard raised his sword and shield, but still the cat came on. Tristan’s sword found the creature’s heart, but not before the cat had mauled the guard’s arm. The guard groaned and sat down heavily on the stairs, clutching his wounded arm. Tristan plunged his sword into the beast one more time to make sure it was indeed dead, then leapt over its body and continued downstairs.

The cries and growls increased. Tristan rounded a corner, tripped over some small object on the stairs, and went sprawling. Gasping, he stumbled to his feet and glanced back to see what had tripped him.

It was the body of a child. Her throat had been torn out and her face clawed beyond recognition, but he knew the long, flowing dark hair and clothing. It was young Madeleine Guillaume, Giles’s little daughter.

He hastened back up to her corpse, though he knew there was nothing he could do for her now. The winding stairway was dark, lit even in daylight with torches. Madeleine’s still, small body cast a wildly flickering shadow. No, not flickering—moving.

Now Tristan saw what else had come in with Malken’s cats. Madeleine’s shadow grew. It rose slowly, pulsing, its shape mutating until it ceased to bear any resemblance to a little girl. The shadow creature came for Tristan in utter silence. He swiped at it with his sword, but a solid blade could do no damage to the insubstantial thing. The shadow reached for him, and when its cool tentacles of non-light closed on him, Tristan cried out in pain. His body tensed, then felt limp and trembling, as if he had been fighting for hours.

He turned and stumbled up the stairs. His only chance was to reach his sorcery chamber. Magic, not swordplay, would be the only way of defeating this hideous thing. Tristan missed a step, fell, and turned on his pursuer. He shouted the words of the first spell that came to his mind—a spell for light. Instantly, the dark stairway was filled with what could have passed for bright sunlight. The true shadows fled; the monstrous one remained, sharply outlined against the wall. It cringed from the light, but then, to Tristan’s horror, rallied and continued its approach.

Tristan reached the head of the stairs and stumbled toward his room, pursued by the creature. As the thing swiped at him, a sudden ball of blue light coalesced in the hallway above him and swooped down upon the shadow. There was no sound, but when he glanced back, Tristan saw the shadow writhing and struggling with the blue ball of light. A lilting, feminine voice he had loved in life floated back to him: “Hurry, my love!”

He opened the door, fell inside, and leaned back against the door to shut it. The creature did not follow. His wards were too strong for that, and the insane ghost, true to her word, was not letting it hurt him.

His dilemma was a terrible one. If he did not release Malken, the bastard would not call off his cats or the shadow creature he commanded. Brave though his guards were, they would have their hands full with just the cats alone. They would not be able to fight the shadow, even if there was only one. But if Tristan set Malken free, what else would he do to torment the citizens of Kantora, indeed, all of Nova Vaasa?

Malken knew Tristan all too well.

The evil being in the mirror took one look at Tristan’s weary face and exploded with laughter. “Call off your cats and your shadow assassins,” said Tristan, defeated, “and I will set you free.”

“Oh, no. Let me go; then I release my servants.”

“How can I trust you?” cried Tristan.

“You can’t. But you have no choice, do you?”

Tristan licked his lips. Then he said, “You won’t escape me, you bastard.”

Malken threw back his dark head and laughed. “Oh, Tristan, you’re so naive. How do you plan to stop me? I’m you!”

“No, you’re not!” Tristan shouted, ordering the mirror to cease displaying Malken’s image. The mirror obeyed, shimmering. Malken’s hideous visage disappeared, and Tristan saw only his own pale, drained face in the mirror. At once, Tristan commanded, “Show me Malken.” If he could recapture the fiend at any time—

But no. The mirror fogged over, just as it had when he had asked to see Ivaar. Now that he realizes I know where to look for him, he’s protecting himself from me, Tristan thought. Just like he’s shielding Ivaar. On a whim, he asked, “Show me Rozalia.” The fog still would not change. The Claws of Sehkmaa existed only to serve Malken’s diabolical purposes.

Much as he wanted to continue tracking Malken, Tristan knew he had other sobering duties to attend to. He braced himself and left the room to do what he could to repair the dreadful damage done in so short a time by Malken’s malice.

Mahai 3rd: Disaster has fallen upon my house. I write now, as I shall henceforth, in my sorcery chamber rather than my room. I shall be spending much time here now, I fear. Yesterday was a day filled with both sorrow and horror, fraught with dreadful revelations. My dear wife, Ailsa, haunts Faerhaaven, sometimes gentle, sometimes cruel, always mad. I do not know how to send her to rest. I know not of supernatural things; I must wait and hope she gives me some sign.

Seven people, including little Madeleine Guillaume, died yesterday after plains cats and evil shadow creatures attacked Faerhaaven. Twelve more people were seriously wounded. Morale has plunged. Some servants and guards wanted to leave. I feared Guillaume, too, would leave, but my loyal valet, though aged by the tragedy, has remained.

It was easier to state facts rather than relate what Tristan had learned, but he continued on, his mouth a thin, grim line of determination.

I have discovered beyond all doubt that the signature killer is a being—I dare not call him a man—called Malken the Cat. He is also the organizing force behind the new faith of the cat god Sehkmaa. My son Ivaar is a priest of this cult; I cannot bring myself to believe the boy is a knowing part of this evil.

I have also learned—and what pain it is to write this!—that Malken and I are, for want of a better word, linked in some bizarre fashion. According to the mirror, he is the “other face” that is the killer. He claims he can “become me” any time he chooses, but I think this is a bluff If this is true, then why am I, Tristan Hiregaard, still here and in control of my own mind? I have tried several spells, but nothing seems to reveal anything more certain to me about the nature of this strange, unnatural, and repulsive “bond.”

Malken is not as all-powerful as he would like me to think! He must rest, must keep the nature of this link secret. In all these things, he is vulnerable, and where the evil thing is vulnerable, there am I strong.

Tristan paused, collecting his thoughts.

I had Malken trapped in my mirror, but he exerted a terrible vengeance. Once I had let him go—how could I have done otherwise when innocents would suffer?—I was unable to trap his visage again.

I must learn why this terrible punishment has been visited on me. When? Why? How did this come about?

Tristan sensed that Malken had given something away in his careless gloating, bragging that he could “become” Tristan. But what, exactly, was meant by the word “become?” Could he, by means of a spell, assume Tristan’s appearance? Tristan rejected this idea almost at once. The only purpose served by such a disguise would be to cast doubt on Tristan’s reputation, frame him for the murders. But Malken wore a hat and scarf, keeping his face out of sight and unidentifiable. No, that wasn’t it.

Become … that word also ruled out hypnotism. Making someone do things that he wouldn’t ordinarily do is not “becoming” someone. Possession? Tristan shivered, suddenly cold. If Malken was indeed a spirit, such a terrifying possibility seemed very real. It would also fit the definition.

“No,” Tristan said, voicing his thoughts. Possessed individuals have the mind of the possessing spirit, not the body. The appearance of Malken was nothing like Tristan—not eye color, nor hair, nor body shape.

He cast his mind back to when the murders had first started. It was shortly after the trial at the Vistana encampment. Suddenly he remembered rising the next morning to discover his clothing had been stolen—by the Vistani, he thought. “The gypsies didn’t steal my clothes,” he whispered, “Malken did.” And then the full impact of Malken’s egotism exploded upon him.

Malken didn’t become Tristan.

Tristan became Malken.

That night in Bergovitsa, Tristan had transformed into Malken—how, he did not know. “And Malken would need clothes and money!” Frantically he scribbled this down in his journal, his mind racing ahead of his laboring hand. Malken’s fog yet covered his mirror—fog had appeared the night after the trial. The murder of the first girl had taken place in Kantora that night while Tristan slept—“hah, not slept,” he muttered—in Bergovitsa. Tristan himself could teleport. Was Malken appropriating not only Tristan’s physical body but also his magical skills? What about the doorways of which Malken had spoken?

A feeling of combined horror and hopelessness descended on Tristan. He had thought he and Sigfrid were dealing with merely a madman and some unscrupulous cultists. What kind of an unnatural thing was Malken? Who could possibly—

Tristan stopped in midsentence. The Vistani were the only ones who could, on the one hand, possibly explain what was going on and, on the other hand, could bear Tristan any kind of grudge. He was reluctant to go to the Vistani begging favors, but before he dared try anything on his own he needed more information. Malken’s very existence, not to mention his bizarre relationship to Tristan, spoke of dark and dangerous magics. Tristan was wise enough to get help where he could. Too, the Vistani knew the spiritual world better than anyone, and they could perhaps aid him in soothing his wife’s restless spirit.

Returning his attention to the mirror, he commanded, “Show me the Vistana encampment,” adding, “the one near Bergovitsa.”

The image appeared. Rising slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the image in the mirror, Tristan began to chant in a low, guttural voice.

Tristan manifested in the middle of the encampment and was not alarmed nor surprised when he found himself quickly surrounded by hostile Vistani. “Trespassing giorgio!” hissed Orlan. “Can we never succeed in keeping our encampment free from your presence?”

Tristan bowed respectfully. “I apologize for violating the barriers of your encampment, but I had need of haste, and magic is not always precise. I wish to see Madame Terza. I have important information for her, and a few questions if she will answer them.”

Orlan frowned, his dark eyes flashing. He took his dagger from his belt, dug a furrow into the earth, and embedded its blade beside it. Pointing to the shadow cast by the dagger, he stated, “You have until the shadow comes to that mark, giorgio, then the dagger and I come in for you myself. You are like the Black Hounds of Kulaach in our folktales, Tristan Hiregaard. Your presence never seems to bode well for my kind.” He led Tristan to Madame Terza’s vardo, a large, ornately carved creation of wood and paint. “She is in back,” Orlan said. He glared at Tristan once more, spat at his feet, and stalked off.

Quietly, Tristan walked around to the back of the caravan, following the smoky scent of a small cookfire. Terza was seated on a small hassock, her back to him and her white braid falling down her back. Without turning around, Terza said softly, “You’ve much on your mind, Sir Tristan. Come, sit, have a cup of tea.”

It was a friendlier greeting than Tristan had any right to expect, and he did as bid. A kettle steamed on the fire, emanating strange but enticing fragrances. Terza wrapped a bit of cloth about her hand to keep from burning herself, withdrew the kettle from the coals, and poured a large mug of steaming tea for her guest. Tristan accepted, thanking her in her own language.

He was about to take a sip when Terza clucked reprovingly, “Let it cool; you’ll scald yourself. Be not so hasty to be polite that you become merely foolish.” Her one eye twinkled brightly with mirth that was not malicious. Tristan smiled despite his burdens.

“You are wise, Grandmama,” he said, using the Vistana term of respect for an older woman.

Terza’s smile faded. “Sometimes, one can be too wise,” she said softly. “But,” she added, collecting herself, “your coming was not unexpected. You have information for me?”

Tristan lowered his eyes to the coals for a moment, then raised them to Terza again. “I have learned the identity of Amasa’s killer. It was the spirit of my dead wife.” The words came hard for him. Even now, part of his mind rejected the evidence of his own eyes.

Madame Terza merely nodded. “An alamisha,” she said. “Such things are not unheard of.”

“She … is not happy to be trapped here, I think.”

“That is why they are called the restless dead.” Tristan shot Terza a hurt, angry glance, but her ironic amusement did not fade. “I cannot tell you how to solve that, Sir Tristan. Each alamisha lingers for a different reason. She was your wife; you best know the troubles in your own home.”

“That’s not much help,” replied Tristan.

“Vistani do not exist solely to help troubled giorgios.” There was no mistaking the antagonism in her voice, though Terza’s face remained calm.

Tristan realized his offense and apologized. Anxious to reestablish courtesy, he inquired, “And what of Konstantin’s family? His daughter told me he died.”

Terza’s face became carefully expressionless. “Konstantin has indeed gone to the ancestors. Perhaps he is now one of our friendly vista chiri. But you are mistaken, Sir Tristan, for Konstantin had no daughter.”

Tristan frowned. “Not to contradict you, Grandmama, but I talked with Rozalia and—”

“Rozalia? That name is unfamiliar to me.” For a moment, Tristan wondered if the old woman were merely senile and had forgotten about the daughter who had left the tribe to follow a new god. Then his eyes fell upon the gypsy leader’s ra. It was a long and complex thing; knotted, severed and retied, braided with human and horsehair, beads, feathers—

He froze. The most recent event in Madame Terza’s lengthy and eventful life was represented by a wilted plant woven into the ra. Tristan knew a little bit about herbs, having worked with them in his magical pursuits, and after a moment he identified this one—deadly nightshade. He had once, as negotiator between crown and gypsy, known every symbol in the complex code of the ra. Now his mind worked furiously to remember. The appearance of the nightshade was a dire but rare thing, and betokened—it betokened.…

Suddenly Tristan remembered what nightshade stood for, and the blood drained out of his face as he stared at Terza. It betokened the ostracism of a clan member, someone who had done something so horrible that not even the blood kin of the tribe could overlook it, someone who had become—what was the term—?

“Rozalia has become a darkli—”

“Drink your tea, Tristan, it is cool enough now,” interrupted Terza. There was an urgency and a subtle plea in her voice, and Tristan immediately took a deep swallow. The flavors were rich and complex on his tongue, a combination of musk and sweetness.

“You like tea, I believe,” said Terza conversationally. “This brew should suit you well. It will help you think better. Take note of the flavors, that you can make it again on your own. I’m certain you will want to.” Once again, Tristan wondered if she were mad, but made a mental note to recall the flavors as she had instructed. Terza made a hasty “Go on, go on” movement with her hand, and he drained the mug in another few gulps.

“Do not come here again, Sir Tristan.” The words startled him. “You bring more than yourself these days.”

Tristan stiffened. “How can I—”

She cut him off. “A terrible thing was done, but no Vistana hand can undo it for you. We are in this land, but not of it, and that is how it must be. You are a good man, but I will not endanger my people for you. I have helped you all I can. Remember what I have said to you here today. I can do no more; I will do no more. Go, now. The rest of your answers, you must find on your own.”

Answers? he thought miserably as he rose to leave. I haven’t even found all the questions yet. He had not realized how much he had counted on the Vistani for aid, tapping into their sensitivity to the supernatural, their karatakasta. Clearly, though, Tristan was now alone in his battle against the enemy that lurked in his own skin.

Tristan’s first thought was to teleport home at once and look for ways to dissociate himself from Malken. But he had agreed to meet Sigfrid for this week’s race to follow up on the closing of the Hungry Tyger. They had already delayed the trip to the tracks once. While for Tristan the most important thing was stopping Malken from doing whatever it was he did to take control of Tristan, he also realized that every blow that weakened the Claws of Sehkmaa in the public eye would be a direct hit to the malevolent fiend behind the cult. Besides, with the new insight he had into Malken, Tristan was loath to send his friend in alone.

He materialized outside the city walls where he would be least likely to be observed, then headed into the Horse District.

Although it was only midmorning, and the race wasn’t until late afternoon, the Horse District was already becoming crowded. As far as these citizens were concerned, Nova Vaasa had two seasons: the racing season, when the races were run once a week at the track raked out in the Great Corral, and trading season, when the Vistani brought in the new horses for auction at the same locale. In truth, the seasons overlapped: races were occasionally run during trading season, and the gypsies constantly brought in horses.

Tristan met Sigfrid at the agreed-upon location, a drinking house called the Nag’s Head, located right next to the Great Corral. The smell of horse that pervaded the entire district was not absent from the Nag’s Head, and excited talk made for a cheerful buzz as Tristan entered. He couldn’t help thinking how this place contrasted with the hovels he and Sigfrid had visited recently.

Sigfrid was waiting for him at a corner table along with two other men Tristan didn’t recognize. He assumed that Sigfrid, in his intelligent fashion, had brought support in case the operation went awry. A few introductory words as Tristan sat down beside his friend confirmed his suspicion.

“Have you learned anything new about the killer?” Sigfrid asked, sipping at his foaming tankard.

Tristan felt macabre mirth welling inside him. Why, yes, Sig, he thought crazily, I’ve learned that Malken is somehow me, or I’m him, or something along those lines, and he’s the most horrifying thing I’ve seen in two score and ten years. He did want to share the new information with Sigfrid, but his mind flew back to the warning words of the Vistana at that night of trial so many months ago. There is a Traitor in your future.… Someone close and trusted—a friend, or your kin, I cannot say—will turn on you. He didn’t truly believe his protégé would become a traitor, but at this point Tristan’s own knowledge of Malken and their strange bond was so slight that it seemed wisest to stay silent. Besides, there were strangers here. He could, however, share his knowledge of the Claws with Sigfrid. He related his encounter with Rozalia and Enoch.

Sigfrid’s brown eyes snapped with righteous anger, and he swore. “I want to expose those bastards if it’s the last thing I do,” he growled, taking a long drink.

“Let’s hope that it isn’t,” replied Tristan. He rose. “You gentlemen stay here and keep your ears open for useful information. Captain Skolsson and I are going to learn what we can about Cavell. We’ll be back shortly.”

The two men left the Nag’s Head and headed for the Great Corral. Each noble house had its own stable right off the enclosure. Tristan quickly scanned the banners and located the gold and black standard that marked House Tavolys. When he and Sigfrid entered the stable, they found that the two groomsmen minding the horses were men Tristan didn’t know.

“Good day, sir,” said one, a lad who reminded Tristan of the young Sigfrid. “Come to check out Milord’s Pride before the race?” The chestnut stallion turned bright eyes toward them and whickered.

Tristan stepped up and rubbed the velvety muzzle. “No, no betting for me today, young sirs. I’m actually looking for someone. Is Cavell about today?”

The amiable faces of the grooms hardened slightly, and they exchanged uneasy glances. This time, the older one, a man about Sigfrid’s current age, spoke. “Nay, sir.”

“Will he be here anytime this week?”

“Nay, sir. He—he doesn’t work for the master no more, sir.”

“Indeed?” Tristan looked over at Sigfrid. “Why not?”

“Let go, sir.” There would, apparently, be no more information. Tristan fished in his pocket, drew out a piece of silver, and held it up. The light that filtered into the stable was heavy with swirling dust, but the coin still glittered enticingly in the ray. Suddenly, the groom’s tongue was loosened. “He was caught placing illegal bets, and Master Tavolys’ll have none of that.”

“Of course not,” agreed Tristan, handing the groom the coin. “Nor would you, I’m sure. Did Cavell perhaps place any bets for his friends?”

“Not that I know of, sir. But he still hovers round the track.” The man waited, expectant. Another coin was produced, and the groom continued. “In fact, he has a small place just round the corner. Saw ’im there this morning. Find the people standing in line, and you’ll find ’im. Not,” the groom added hastily, “that I’d be the one t’ be telling tales, sir.”

“Of course not,” said Tristan a second time. “Your horse is beautiful. You’ve taken splendid care of him, and I shall tell your master as much when I see him.”

The two men beamed, relieved. As Tristan and Sigfrid left, the boy caught hold of Sigfrid’s arm. He let it go almost at once, frightened at his impulsiveness. The two men merely looked at him. “Cavell—he’s got friends, if you catch my meanin’.”

They did indeed. They turned and exited the stable. Behind them, excited chatter broke out.

“Pardon, Sir Tristan,” came a raspy voice. Tristan glanced down to see an elderly Vistana man tugging at his sleeve.

“Greetings, Grandpapa,” he said respectfully. “And what can I do for you?”

“You have ever helped the Vistani here in Kantora,” said the man, also in a respectful tone. “We need your help now. Someone is stealing our horses!”

Tristan narrowed his eyes, wondering if this could have anything to do with the illegal gambling. “That’s a very serious charge, Grandpapa. What’s your proof?”

“Aiee,” mourned the old man, clucking his tongue ruefully, “there lies the problem. We have none. Each week, even in the slow season, I and my family bring in a dozen good beasts. Each time, it is duly noted in the logbook by the night watch captain. But in the morning, two are missing, and when we demand to see the logbook, it says that only ten were brought in!”

“Mount your own guards, then, if you don’t trust the city to protect you.”

“We cannot! We tried and were forbidden!”

Tristan glanced at Sigfrid. “Is that usual behavior for the guards, Captain?”

Sigfrid shrugged. “The Horse District has tended to develop its own rules. That’s an unusual one, but I don’t know that it’s illegal.”

“Grandpapa,” said Tristan, “if you have no proof, there’s not too much I can do to help you.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed and shifted to Sigfrid. He pointed a bony finger at the captain. “Then perhaps he can. Does he know what the guard shift is doing in the quietest part of the night?”

“Guarding the Great Corral, of course,” snapped Sigfrid.

The man laughed. “Oh, no. No, no. Wherever they may be, ’tis not there. Check and see, Captain Skolsson. You’ll find old Giacomo doesn’t lie.”

Tristan glanced around, wondering if there were any hostile eyes taking note of the conversation. He decided to end it quickly. The fewer people who saw the captain of the guards talking with a Vistana about stolen horses, the better. “We’ll take your advice and see what we can do,” said Tristan. He bowed courteously and bustled Sigfrid off. “What kind of truth might there be in that accusation, Sig?”

Sigfrid shook his head wearily. His eyes were haunted. “If you’d asked me that two months ago, I’d have said none. Now—Tris, I honestly don’t know.”

Tristan was silent. What had started with one simple crooked gambling den had led them to an apparently large-scale illegal gambling operation, and a shadow had been cast upon the trustworthiness of at least one guard in the Horse Quarter. Malken, you bastard, thought Tristan with a rush of heated anger, you seem to have your deformed fingers in everything.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was high now, burning through the haze. In a few weeks, the sweltering Nova Vaasan summer would descend. Tristan wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead and considered. The race would be run in three hours. “Let’s go round up your men.”

The group of guards Sigfrid had brought were prepared. Beneath their loose-fitting shirts they wore chain mail. “The betting’s going on heavily right now,” Tristan said to his companions. “These men won’t take kindly to being interrupted. I can’t explain it now, gentlemen, but I have a feeling there’s more to this than one man’s illegal betting. Be ready for a fight.”

The groom’s directions, while not explicit, were correct. The group of seven left the Nag’s Head, rounded a corner beside the Tavolys stable, and found themselves in an area that, despite the promised long line twining out of the door of a ramshackle building, was devoid of casual passersby.

Sig frowned to himself and whispered to Tristan, “This area is known for shady dealings. There ought to be guards out here—several, in fact.”

“Terribly convenient for our groom-turned-bookmaker,” said Tristan grimly. “Let’s go.”

They strode into full view of the would-be betters. The long line of men and women looked askance at the seven stern-faced men. There was some uncomfortable fidgeting, but no one stepped out of line. Three of the guards moved around the side of the building to guard any other possible exits. The door was open, and Tristan strode up to it.

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Tristan turned to regard an angry young man. “You’ll wait in line like the rest of us, old man,” the man growled, “or I’ll make you wait.” His hand fell to a dagger at his waist.

Tristan’s lips twitched with amusement. He drew his own sword in a swift movement. “Unless you want to sit in prison for illegal gambling, son,” he replied in a cool, quiet voice, “you’ll get out of here right now.”

The man blanched. Tristan didn’t bother to watch the response, but heard gasps of distress and the sound of people fleeing as he entered the building.

He had reason to be thankful for the younger groom’s warning, for Cavell was indeed surrounded by “friends.” Though none was so foolish as to be wearing the distinctive cloth-of-gold garb of the Claws, three of the dozen or so men in the room bore telltale scars across their faces. For half a second, the tableau that greeted Tristan remained frozen—Cavell, older than Tristan remembered him, stooping over a wax tablet writing bets down; two Claws seated at a table collecting money, one of whom seemed familiar to Tristan; another Claw scribbling names into a book, several men throughout the room either placing bets or taking them.

Then the tableau shattered. Tristan and Sigfrid found themselves set upon by the men nearest the door. They were big but clumsy, and the two skilled fighters parried their blows easily. Sigfrid, his temper up, wielded his sword with lightning speed. His sheer intensity, coupled with years of training, enabled him to back his adversary into a corner and force a surrender. Tristan, his eye on the Claws, had no patience for such tactics. He dealt the big thug a blow that seared along his torso, slicing a red ribbon from left shoulder to right thigh. The man screamed and went down. Tristan didn’t spare him a second glance; he knew the wound was incapacitating, not lethal. He sped across the room to apprehend the Claws.

Two of them had already slipped out the windows into the waiting arms of the law. The third, a young blond man, was frantically trying to gather up the cash and the ledger and follow suit. Tristan struck him across the shoulder with the flat of his blade. He wanted this one alive and able to talk. The youth fell atop the desk, dropping the cash and book. He grunted in pain and threw Tristan a look of frightened anger.

Tristan paused, his arm suddenly frozen. He recognized the boy. It was Tavolys’s youngest, Raphael. The boy had spent many pleasant hours with Ivaar in Faerhaaven when the youths were but children, and Tristan had always liked him. Tristan’s instant of indecision allowed Raphael to grab a large, smooth stone paperweight. With a grunt, he swung it up, intending to smash it into the side of Tristan’s head.

The experienced warrior recovered his senses in time to lessen the blow with his arm, if not stop it altogether. The rock still hit his head with a great deal of force, and he felt the jarring all through his body. His vision dimmed, fading to black around the corners. He managed to remain conscious but found himself sitting down on the floor clutching his throbbing head.

Sigfrid had intercepted the miscreant and was now busily tying Raphael’s arms behind his back. The cause of the struggle, Cavell, sat wearily in a corner. “You all right?” asked Sigfrid. He finished the knot and hastened to his friend’s side.

Tristan tried to nod but the motion caused lightning bolts of pain to slash through his head. “I’ll be fine,” he managed, gritting his teeth. “Get these bastards behind bars now, before—” he had been about to say before Malken gets wind of it “—we attract a crowd. And get me a horse. I need to get back to Faerhaaven.”

Sigfrid turned to look at him sharply. “You’re not riding for two hours with that injury,” he replied, adding, “Commander, sir.”

“I outrank you, Captain, and I don’t appreciate your attitude,” snapped Tristan. For an instant, Sigfrid looked shocked and hurt, but his professional mask dropped back into place. Tristan felt remorse at once. “I’ll be better off at home, where I can tend to it myself. If you’d like to send one of your men as escort, that’s acceptable.” He kept his tone light and bantering, and noticed Sigfrid relax slightly. “Captain, I’m going to shut myself away a while. There are things I need to—to puzzle out about this case. I ask you to respect my privacy, and I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”

He didn’t wait for Sigfrid’s reply. Grasping the desk, he rose shakily, one hand clapped to his head. A guard stepped beside him unobtrusively, and they left. Tristan felt Sigfrid staring at him, but he knew it was better this way. Until he had figured out a way to stop Malken, the less Sigfrid knew, the safer they all would be.

By the time he had turned over the horse for stabling and reached his sorcery room, Tristan felt faint. He realized with an abrupt stab of hunger that he had not eaten all day, and made a quick detour into the castle’s mammoth kitchen for some food. He crunched into an apple and felt better once the nourishment hit his stomach.

Alone in his sorcery chamber, he dropped his facade of strength. Groaning a little, he clutched his head, forcing himself to eat more. He looked with bleary eyes at the array of jars of ingredients. Ailsa used to make a concoction for him when he’d been bruised in sparring. What was it she had put into that? Thoughts of Ailsa served to further depress him. What was torturing her? Why couldn’t he understand?

He shivered. Either the head injury was affecting him or there was a draft in the room. Or else …

“Ailsa?” he asked quietly into the stillness.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the form of his dead wife shimmered quietly into being. “You’re hurt, my love,” she said softly. There was something alert in her expression, no longer dreamy or mad with grief and anger. For a moment, she seemed … sane?

“I’ve hurt my head,” he hazarded. “I can’t remember what you used …” he hesitated. She seemed angry before when he denied her material existence, and continued, “what you always make for me.”

She smiled, and it was her old, sweet smile that pierced him to the heart. “You are the alchemist, my dear, but who supervises the cooks? Who knows the drinks you like best? The herb garden you harvest from so recklessly is mine, you know.”

In the early years, in his infatuation with all things magical, Tristan had gotten samples of everything that he thought might come in handy. A fragile smile touched his weary face as he recalled Ailsa’s exasperation when he began putting horse dung into jars. She knew the herb garden; he merely gathered up a little of everything, bottled it, and placed it on one of his myriad shelves. “Here, silly,” chided the specter, “let me help.” She floated up to the shelves, examined them, and selected three jars. “Mix equal portions of each of these ingredients and steep them in hot water.”

“Ailsa …” Tristan’s voice was pained. “What can I do? Why are you still here?” He was afraid he would trigger an outburst similar to the one he had witnessed the first time she had appeared to him, but he had to do what he could.

Her face crumpled into pale lines of pain. Tears welled in her eyes. “I miss my family,” she mourned. “I miss you, Tristan, and I miss my little Ivaar. Why isn’t he here anymore? Why did he leave me?” Her voice rose, and a note of hysteria crept into it. Her coloration flushed from pale blue and white to deep blue and silver. Anger replaced pain in her expression. “Why did you let him go? Why were you two always arguing?” Anguish shattered her face, and she sobbed, “What kind of wife and mother could rest through that?”

Tristan’s own features went pale with comprehension. “Ailsa …” he began, but she did not hear him. She buried her face in her translucent hands and sobbed, then slowly began to fade. Within a moment, she was gone.

Tristan sat for a long time, thinking about the nightmare his life had suddenly become. Then, determined, he went about preparing the tea Ailsa had suggested. He had a long night ahead of him, and he could do without the aching in his head. Tristan had a great deal of magical knowledge available to him. Somehow, he felt certain, there was a way to remove himself from Malken’s influence.

He would simply have to find it.

Sister Evania nearly stumbled as she fled down the stone steps that led from Sehkmaa’s temple. Her heart lurched into her throat, but she kept her balance, and her small, slippered feet continued hastening down, down toward the open streets of Kantora, and safety.

She had joined the cult of Sehkmaa almost as soon as word began to seep out about it, seeing in the new faith a chance to liberate herself from the shackles of poverty. And she had. Her feline familiar had become her best friend, and the brothers and sisters of the church had welcomed her with open arms. For the first time, plain, poor Evania belonged. Not only that, she had been granted power. She had been permitted to feed the honored Guardians of the temple, the great black plains cats who kept the temple safe from blasphemers. She had daringly stroked their sleek pelts, gazed into their green eyes, and known they were kin. Sehkmaa’s creed was kind and fair, and she had risen every day filled with gratitude that she had been chosen to serve the cat god.

But tonight, Brother Malken had held one of his “special meetings,” meetings that took place beneath the temple in the place he called Darkhaaven. Only a select few were permitted to attend, and Evania had been one of those few. There, filled first with disbelief and then with growing horror, she had learned what Sehkmaa really was.

Nothing.

The cult was a front for criminal activity so heinous Evania could only guess at the depths of its depravity. She tried to keep her breathing regular, to join with enthusiasm as the treacherous priests hailed Malken and his plans. Finally, unable to take any more, she claimed she needed to relieve herself and left. Alone, she ran up the stairs and fled into the cool night.

She had to tell someone, let Nova Vaasa know what kind of evil was being unleashed in the name of Sehkmaa. For a few wild moments, when pursuit did not immediately follow, Evania thought she had actually managed to escape.

The screaming cry of a plains cat told her otherwise. She jumped down the last few stairs, expecting at any moment to feel raking claws shredding her now-hated cloth-of-gold robe. Instead the great black cat landed in front of her and crouched, growling. Moonlight glittered on its eyes and teeth. It blocked the High Road.

Barely slacking her pace, Evania swerved to the right. Now the cat did give chase. Vision blurred by tears of sheer fright, Evania headed for the nearest shelter—the orphanage. She ran into the courtyard and threw herself on the door. The knob turned easily and Evania half-ran, half-fell inside. Whirling, she slammed the door closed and threw the bolt. The heavy wooden door shuddered as the cat slammed its body on it.

She almost whispered a prayer of thanks to Sehkmaa before she remembered. Turning around, she encountered the gaze of a dozen children who had been wakened by the confusion. She had to get them out, too, she realized. There was a secret door that led outside, out to freedom, and she would take as many as she could through.

“Come, little ones,” she gasped with strained cheer. “There’s been a mistake. You don’t belong here.”

One of them frowned. “But Sehkmaa says—”

“Honey, there is no Sehkmaa. That’s just a lie made up by Brother Malken. He’s a bad, bad man, and I’m going to take you someplace away from him.” She moved toward the girl standing in the foyer, but the child, puzzled and frightened, backed away.

From behind Evania came a loud crashing noise as the door splintered and gave way under the angry weight of the plains cat. More frightening to Evania than the beast lunging at her was the skinny form of Sister Rozalia frowning in the doorway.

The cat pinned Evania beneath it, but made no attempt to hurt her. “You have blasphemed, Sister Evania,” reprimanded Rozalia.

“You and Malken have blasphemed!” sobbed Evania, struggling against the smothering weight of the cat. “You lied! Sehkmaa is nothing!”

Rozalia shook her head sadly. “Poor Sister Evania. She has fallen, children, fallen from Sehkmaa’s grace. I’m afraid she’s quite mad.” Frightened, the children drew back farther from the writhing, weeping form of Evania. Several Claws came up the walk—large, muscular men in the robes of their order. The cat leapt smoothly off the prone body of the priestess, and the Claws wordlessly and none too gently seized Evania. She struggled, but was dragged into the cool night air. The children watched, round eyed.

“Go back to bed, children,” Rozalia told them.

“What’s going to happen to Sister Evania?” a little girl asked in a quivering voice.

“She’s going to be punished for her lack of faith,” said Rozalia simply. “As are all punished who deny the goodness of Sehkmaa.” She watched as the children, properly frightened, hastened back downstairs. When they had all gone, Rozalia hurried to Darkhaaven.

The Claws had already taken the hysterical Evania before Malken by the time Rozalia arrived. Malken’s mask was simple tonight—a plain black hood like that of an executioner. There were eyeholes and a slit for a mouth, through which Malken shoveled his food. “Take her to the cat cages,” Malken ordered, yet eating. “They’ll take care of her.”

Evania stared at him. Then she began to scream—a high, shrill, raw sound that made Rozalia wince. The woman still screamed as the Claws took her away. The sound grew fainter, but it seemed to Rozalia to take a long time before Evania’s cries finally faded.

Malken gestured. “Come, eat. You look famished.”

Rozalia wasn’t hungry at all, but she obediently came and slid into the velvet chair beside Malken. The second course was brought in—leek broth, roast duck with white wine sauce, the first delicate vegetables of summer. Malken dived in with gusto, eating with his fingers and only occasionally wiping his grease-stained mask with the fine linen napkin.

Rozalia merely picked at her food. She had once been a woman of great appetite—for food, finery, and men. Now nothing seemed able to please her palate, not even the savory meals served at Darkhaaven. She wore the ornate cloth-of-gold robes of the Claws of Sehkmaa because of her role, not because she enjoyed the beauty of the garb. This loss of delight in all things material bothered and hurt her. The only passion she could seem to feel these days was for magic and poisons and her strange, nonphysical lust for Malken and his power. She indulged these lusts to the fullest.

She could feel Malken’s sharp eye on her and forced herself to choke down a mouthful of the meltingly tender duck. He didn’t like it when she refused food, and she wished to please him. But her stomach did not want the nourishment, and she wondered how on earth she was going to make it through the entire meal. “Has Hollin Turndach kept his part of the bargain?”

He nodded, his mouth full.

“With the River Quarter under control, the city is yours,” she commented, hoping both to please him and to divert attention from her lack of appetite.

Malken nodded again and swallowed. “The city, yes, and as it’s the capital, that’s the most important thing.”

“Are the Claws being received well in other cities?”

“I’ll have to take some time and travel, I suppose. Somehow, my personal presence makes taking sides much easier for people.” Rozalia smiled appreciatively. He turned his keen gaze on her directly. “The Vistani now are the only ones who truly stand in my way.”

Rozalia’s smile ebbed and she lowered her gaze.

“When you first joined me, you told me that you would be able to bring them in line.” His voice was cool, and he continued to eat, but there was a subtle menace in his tone.

Rozalia licked lips suddenly gone dry. “I had hoped to,” she confessed, “and I have tried. But no matter what I do, they deny my existence. Malken, it’s very hard to persuade people who don’t admit you exist!”

“Perhaps it is time I stepped in there, too. It’s obvious you won’t be able to help.” The reproach stung, and it frightened her as well. The only thing worse than being a foe of Malken’s was becoming an obsolete ally, and Rozalia knew it.

“I am—was of them,” she said hastily. “I can give you whatever background you need. Surely that will make your task easier!”

He smiled a little at the plea in her voice, but nodded agreement. “I should have done this earlier, but it is not too late now. Proceed.”

Over the next two hours, Rozalia was given a reprieve from the meal as she discussed everything she knew about her people to her new master. All of their vulnerabilities—though there were not many—their unexpected strengths, their magical skills; she poured it all into Malken’s eagerly listening ear. At last, she had finished. Her throat was tired from talking. “The one person who might be able to stop you is Terza. The old woman has great knowledge and great power, though she seldom bothers to use it.” Scorn was in the darkling’s voice at this last comment. “If she feels her people are threatened, she could be very dangerous.”

At this, Malken laughed aloud. “Silly fool,” he said, but it was said without real rancor. “An old woman is no match for me, be she ever so powerful. I’ll find a way, either around her or through her, to the Vistani.”

“But why even bother?” Rozalia’s voice was taut, excited. “Why not destroy them? That I can help you with. My poisons—”

“Are useless in getting what I’m after. My attitude toward the Vistani is like theirs toward the horses. You tame them, you don’t kill them. They help the country make money with the horses; no Vistani, no horses; no horses, no money; no money, no economy; no economy, no us. I’ve no use for a dead Vistana, Rozalia, not even you, so you needn’t worry. Nor shall you exact your vengeance on them, either. If even one little gypsy brat turns up poisoned, I’ll know where to look. And I’ll be very angry.”

Rozalia found she could not meet his gaze.

Terza sat by her fire. Although the night was pleasant, almost balmy, the warm summer evening could not penetrate the cold in her bones. She sipped at the hot tea with withered lips, not pausing to savor the flavor, but hastening to down the brew and uncover its secrets. When she had finished, she tipped the drained cup over onto a plate, turned it three times, and read the information the tea leaves gave her. When she finished, she sighed heavily and closed her single eye. Then, slowly, she rose and went into her vardo.

When she emerged a half hour later, hobbling into the main fire area of the camp, conversation stopped. She was wearing a red dress covered with gems that winked and sparkled in the light of the fires. Her hair was loose, flowing down over her back in a white wave. Terza leaned heavily on the staff with one hand and raised the other high in a commanding gesture.

“Tether the horses. Cage the animals. Then go to your vardos. Ornament yourselves with all manner of talismans to ward off evil. Light the candles; say prayers for protection this night. All of you who have the Calling, come to me now, for perhaps never in your lives will you be as tested as you shall be tonight.”

There was a murmuring of surprise and fear. The Vistani were not a people to doubt themselves, their skills, or their leader, and after a moment or two of shocked discussion, the gypsies did as Terza had instructed. Nearly a dozen women, from the tender age of ten to the late sixties, came to Terza. Their faces were carefully blank, revealing nothing of their fear as they awaited instructions.

Terza handed them each a bag containing finely ground powder. “Open it,” she told them. Obediently the Vistana women did so, and blinked back surprise. The powder inside glowed in the dark and seemed to pulse with its own energy.

“What is it?” Carmilla, aged twelve, wanted to know.

“Best not to ask, child,” came the reply. “Follow me, and do as I do.”

Over the next hour, Terza and her acolytes ringed the entire encampment with the radiant powder. When they had finished, Terza made an inspection by lamplight, checking to see if there were any breaks in the line. There were a few, and these she carefully mended with the end of her staff. In addition to the glowing powder, Terza sprinkled generous amounts of strongly scented herbs. When the women returned from their task, they found the rest of the tribe seated expectantly. Amulets of all sorts adorned their throats, wrists, and ankles. They were prepared for the event foretold by their leader.

They didn’t have long to wait.

When the moon reached its zenith, the night air was filled with the cries of plains cats on the hunt. But so many of them—and so close! Terza glanced at Orlan and some of the other men. The urge to fight was always near the surface in the men of the tribe. They had been asked to stifle that urge, and they were obeying, but she could see by their taut postures that they disliked sitting and waiting for the predators to descend upon them.

“Peace,” she said, chuckling a little even at so tense a moment. “Spears would do little against these beasts. One must fight magic with magic. There will be a time for your weapons tonight, but that time is not now.”

The ghastly sounds came closer, until Terza heard little Carmilla at her side gasp with fear. The gypsy leader’s sight was not as keen as the child’s, but in another minute the black shapes and glowing eyes of several dozen plains cats were clear even to her dimming sight. She breathed a prayer. Not even she had expected quite so many. The Cat must have called all the beasts at his disposal to this attack tonight. That meant that he was not prepared to fail. Terza gripped her staff a little more tightly and murmured, “Come out from the shadows, then.”

As if in answer, several cats charged the encampment. Their initial burst of speed slowed and then halted as the pungent aromas of the herbs reached their noses. Some sneezed. Others pawed at their muzzles. All of them appeared confused and tense, bursting into quick charges, then veering off and slowing again. A few voiced their vexation; the sound, only a few feet away, turned warm blood to ice.

Suddenly the ones closest to the invisible ring cocked their heads, as if listening. One, cowed but still coming, crept with obvious reluctance toward the circle. From the corner of her eye, Terza saw Orlan lift a spear. She knew what a tempting target the plains cat presented, but cried out, “Do not strike, Orlan! Any attack from within will dissolve the circle of protection!” Orlan lowered his weapon.

The cat extended a great black paw and tentatively patted at the glowing powder. A sudden crack exploded into the night, and a brilliant flash of blue light nearly blinded the watchers. The cat, snarling in surprise, leapt backward nearly three yards and began licking its hurt paw. Its fellows avoided the wounded animal, and backed away from the circle.

There came from the nightscape a noise. It sounded like a voice, but not quite human, uttering words that were not clear. The cats heard, and the sound pained them. Slowly, as if forced, they edged toward the gypsies in the circle again, their limbs moving with the slow, mechanical gracelessness of puppets.

Terza spoke. “When the cats break the circle that protects the encampment, then you may attack them—but not before.”

Carmilla and some of the other girls, who had been ordered to keep away from the glowing barrier, glanced up at the tribe’s grandmama. Terza was obviously prepared to fight, but her actual moves confused them. Instead of grasping her staff or chanting an incantation, Terza let the rod fall to the earth. One bony hand went to the collar of her dress. Then, to Carmilla’s complete bafflement, the old woman pulled off the garb in one swift motion and stood naked before her clan. Nothing in her stance or her expression seemed vulnerable.

That instant, three of the plains cats leapt through the invisible barrier. The air exploded with sounds, and three bright blue flashes illuminated the night. The gypsies screamed as the sleek black beasts converged on the naked, seemingly defenseless Terza. One died almost immediately, pierced to the heart by the sure strike of Orlan’s spear. The others, ignoring their fallen comrade and the patent danger, leapt for Terza.

Except, thought Carmilla as fear shot through her, Terza wasn’t there anymore.

Where the elderly Vistana matron had been was an enormous brown, shaggy mass. The creature rose to its full height, over ten feet tall, and roared its own challenge. The brown bear’s right eye was covered by a mass of scars. When the two plains cats landed on her simultaneously, the werebear fought back with a viciousness and intelligence the cats lacked. A single blow from a powerful forepaw snapped one cat’s neck instantly. The dead animal plummeted to the earth, legs splaying. Terza hugged the second one to her in an ironically affectionate gesture, crushing the life out of the yowling beast. Its claws could not penetrate the dense hair and hide, and Terza’s neck was far too thick for the cat to bite her jugular. There came a snapping pop, then Terza dropped this one, too, to the ground.

More cats came, and Terza was ready. Inch-long teeth crunched sleek feline limbs; giant paws slammed the life out of sleek black forms. One cat leapt straight up, aiming for Terza’s throat, but her claws ripped the cat’s belly into a mass of pulpy ribbons.

Terza had no real heart for the killings. The plains cats had been weakened by the magical barrier, and the fight was not theirs, but their evil master’s. Only a little out of breath, Terza dropped to her four feet. Two more feline bodies lay in the encampment—bodies of cats intercepted by the men.

A voice, silky smooth and commanding, floated to Terza’s ears. “Madame Terza! You surprise me completely! A word with you, if you don’t mind.”

The werebear growled to herself. She had been angered if not harmed by the attacks. She wanted nothing more than to leap from the protection of the circle and bury her fangs in Malken’s throat. That, she mused darkly, would silence that honey-hued voice. Instead, she acted for the safety of her tribe. It was what made her such a good leader. She closed her eye, willed the change, and became an old woman once again. She did not bother to reclothe herself. Malken might hurl another surprise her way, and clothes would only hamper the change from human to bear. She did, however, retrieve her staff.

Malken had appeared just outside the barrier. He was dressed like a Vistana, from his colorful, soft hat to his embroidered vest, from bright sash to scarlet pantaloons. The choice of attire reflected both respect and mockery. He had not bothered to hide his face, and the monstrous visage was hideous enough to add a frightening edge to the innocuous Vistana apparel. Gasps and whimpers of fear came from the Vistani at the sight of Malken, but he ignored them.

“Greetings, Grandmama.” His tone dripped sarcasm.

“Greetings, Malken the Cat. How fares the Unnamed One?”

“Rozalia is quite well, thank you. But I think she misses your delicious Vistana suppers. She’s gotten quite thin these days.” His smile widened. Terza realized that Malken knew what evil transformation that unnatural emaciation signified.

“What do you wish from the Tribe of the Twin Waters?”

“Cooperation. It’s that simple, Terza.”

“If it were that simple, you’d have come to me without your pets,” Terza retorted.

Malken laughed mirthlessly. “It seems you’re able to handle a few of my kittens without effort. You’re not stupid. You all know what’s happened to Nova Vaasa, what I’m doing. I want the Vistani to be my allies. Rozalia warned me about you, old woman, but she didn’t tell me you were a werething!”

“Until this moment, no one knew,” Terza answered calmly. “You’ve forced my hand, Malken the Cat. That should please you some, I imagine.”

“Oh, it does, it does,” Malken agreed, lacing his hands behind his back and walking along the circle. Terza, deeming herself and her tribe safe from attack for the moment, reached for her robe and reclothed. She hobbled after him. The rest of the Vistani stayed where they were. In a few moments Malken and Terza had walked out of earshot of the tribe, and the pleasant facade vanished. The beast that was Malken showed plainly now as he turned toward Terza.

“You’re more than I expected, Terza, but really, not much more. I can defeat you any time I care to try.”

“Perhaps you can,” hissed Terza, her own beast still roused. “Why not tonight? Force your way into my circle. Go ahead.” Should he rise to the bait, she would die. That much was certain, and they both knew it. They both also knew Malken was not invincible; he had his weaknesses, and to pursue an attack now would leave him more vulnerable than the Cat cared to be.

He read her face and smiled alarmingly. “Oh, I’ll take you on, but I’ll decide when that particular battle is to transpire. You’re old, Terza, werebear or not. You’re old, and your people like the glitter of gold. If you won’t do business with me on behalf of the Twin Waters tribe, well, they’re free-minded individuals. I’ll get to them one by one if I have to. I’ll kill you or wait until you’re dead if need be.” His teeth glittered as he bared them in a dangerous smile. “You’re a barrier, but I can go around you or through you when I please.

“Your people are not of the land, somehow, and I can’t quite get a good grip—not yet. But remember, Terza. You’re still in the land, if not of it—and I am its lord. And I’ll have my due. If not tonight, then one night. That, I promise you.”

He bowed low, mocking her, and she stood rigidly as he turned and left. He whistled a carefree tune that clashed with the tone of fear that still echoed in the night. One by one, the cats turned from their posts and followed him docilely. The great inky pool of black plains cats bled into the darkness from which they had come. The hairs on Terza’s neck rose as she saw other shadows, shadows that had no material creature to cast them, also follow the departing form of Malken.

Terza sagged. She felt a tentative brush on her arm and glanced down to see young Carmilla. Slowly, wordlessly, Terza extended a withered hand to touch the child’s firm, plump cheek.

“I had hoped you would have more time for play, child,” she sighed. “But your training must begin. Tomorrow, at first light.”

“But … grandmama, you’re not going to—”

“I hope to be around for many more years, young one,” Terza replied, forcing a jolliness that she was far from feeling. “But our friend the master of the cats may have other plans. I must teach you what I know, while I still can.”

She glanced back over the now empty plains, and prayed there would be enough time.

Tristan blinked rapidly. He was in his own quarters, sitting on the bed, alone. He had no recollection of getting there. The last thing I remember, he thought slowly, is writing in my journal in my laboratory.…

A knock on the door startled him. Luath, sleeping near the foot of the bed, woke up and yawned, blinking. “Come,” Tristan called, wondering if his voice sounded as high-pitched and nervous to the person on the other side of the door as it did to him. Guillaume entered. His face was thin and drawn. Tristan wondered if his loyal servant would ever smile again after the brutal death of his youngest child.

“Sir,” said Guillaume, “I hate to be a pest on the subject, but we really do need to hire more help to fill … the spaces.” It hadn’t even been a full day since the attack on Faerhaaven, but Guillaume as usual was taking charge of the situation. No doubt he was right, and perhaps such trivialities kept his mind off Madeleine’s death, but Tristan had more vital tasks than hiring maids, butlers, and castle attendants.

“You said that you would take care of it,” Tristan said, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“I tried, sir, but quality help is going to be difficult to come by if you don’t raise your rates.”

“I pay very well!”

“Yes, sir, but you must remember the … circumstances created by the vacancies. The risk—”

“The circumstances were an aberration that won’t happen again!” Tristan missed the look of pain on Guillaume’s face. “I pay well above the standard rates as is; I always have. Hire whoever will work for my wages, and staff all positions by the end of the week.”

Guillaume’s face was neutral. “Yes, sir,” he said coolly, closing the door. Almost at once, Tristan hastened to his sorcery chamber, swiftly taking in the place with a searching eye. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Quickly he went to his journal, lying open on the table just as he had left it. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it. No, not quite as he had left it.

Now that Malken knows that I am aware of him, I fear that he may become more reckless. As I do not know the extent of his control over me, he may well

The words in Tristan’s journal, written in his neat, precise hand, ceased abruptly. He read on, and cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

LITLE MEDLER! THE VISTANI HAD NO ANSERS FOR YOU, DID THEY! OH, YES, I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE ANY TIME I CARE TO FIND OUT. HAHAHA! HOW’Z YOURE WIFE, ANYWAY?

Tristan licked dry lips. I can’t let this upset me, he told himself; I must remain calm. He located pen and parchment and began to write down all the information he had gotten from the Vistani, beginning with the prophecy. Though recently his relations with the gypsy horsemen of the plains had soured, Tristan still trusted Madame Terza to, if not actively help him, at least not hinder him with false information.

First card—me—the Paladin. Self-explanatory.

Second card—recent past—the Swashbuckler; Amasa.

Third card—opposition—the Invoker—dealing with dark magics—must be Malken.

Fourth card—the future—the Traitor.

Here Tristan paused. Who was the betrayer in his midst? He thought of poor, tormented Ailsa. No, she had troubles enough of her own. She was here to protect him, she had said, and wanted to bring the family back together. Betraying him would hardly accomplish that goal. Ivaar? Possibly, but Ivaar was now in a position of strength, thanks to the popularity of Sehkmaa. If Ivaar was after revenge—and to the boy’s credit, Tristan had never seen him do anything malicious in his life—he would take it openly. Tristan did not fear a knife in the back from his son.

He thought of Sigfrid. The man was a master plotter. He had the best gambling face Tristan had ever seen, and he had worked enough with the youthful captain to know that he was capable of being perfectly polite to a miscreant one day and ordering his death the next. It was an attitude, he had to admit, that came with Sigfrid’s background. And truth be told, Sigfrid had ever been the most loyal of friends.

He glanced over at the mirror, which showed him his unsmiling face. Then again, over the last month changes had come about in his world that Tristan had never expected. He certainly had no intention of telling Sigfrid that he was, after a fashion, Malken. But there was no concrete evidence yet to condemn Sigfrid as a traitor. He would wait, and keep an eye on the young man. Wasn’t that the advice Terza had given him, after all, to guard himself and keep a watchful eye on all?

He returned his attention to his work. Fifth card—allies in the future—the Diviner—work for greatest good; use knowledge to that end. Obviously, use magical skills to defeat Malken.

Having come up with definitions for the Tarokka reading, Tristan began jotting down other thoughts. Rozalia banished—what did she do?—Rozalia important figure in S. cult. Terza knows what’s going on but will not help. Made me drink tea—

His hand froze. The tea! What was it Terza had said? This brew should suit you well.… Take note of the flavors, that you can make it again on your own. I’m certain you will want to. Why had she been so certain? He tried to recall the flavors. The tea was palatable, but not overwhelmingly delicious. Yet Terza had seemed insistent. And afterward she had been more free with her conversation—

Tristan flipped back to Malken’s scrawl on the diary. THE VISTANI HAD NO ANSERS FOR YOU, DID THEY! OH, YES, I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE ANY TIME I CARE TO FIND OUT.

“But he didn’t know,” Tristan said aloud, his voice soft. Terza had answers for him, cryptic though they might be. He recalled Malken’s ugly face in the mirror, bragging that anything Tristan knew, he, Malken, knew also. “Then why wasn’t he angry about the arrests of the Claws at the racetrack yesterday?” Because somehow, something Tristan had done yesterday had prevented Malken from reading his thoughts. Malken knew about the trip to see the Vistani, obviously, but apparently nothing after that. Which meant that—

“Oh, yes, Terza, I do want to make that tea again!” Tristan almost laughed aloud. The canny old grandmama had managed to help him without arousing Malken’s wrath upon her and her people. She had not told him how to fully separate himself from the fiend, but she had bought him time to think and work on the task. Now, he thought, his elation sobering, I just have to figure out how to make that damn tea.

For the next several hours, Tristan experimented with his herbs. He was fairly certain he would recognize the tea’s flavor once he had mixed it correctly, but the recipe proved stubbornly elusive. Finally Tristan’s palate, normally refined, refused to cooperate. One concoction began to taste like any other.

Impatiently, Tristan rang for Guillaume. When the servant emerged, Tristan demanded, “I need some sprigs of mint and a loaf of bread.”

Guillaume blinked, but otherwise hid his puzzlement well. “Mint, sir? If you would like some tea, I can—”

“No, no, the plant, the plant. I need to chew it. And,” he admitted wearily, “I need to eat something. But just bread, as plain as it can be. No herbs or butter or honey. Nothing. Do you understand?”

“The only mint we have is dried mint for tea, sir.”

“Then go into town and buy me some fresh. I don’t care how much it costs, find me some. In the meantime, send up some bread. Just—”

“Just plain bread, sir. Yes, sir.”

When Guillaume returned with twelve small mint plants, Tristan began his quest with renewed earnest. After each tasting, he would chew the mint, eat a few mouthfuls of bread, and drink a cup of plain water. He would also, though he begrudged every second, give his tongue five minutes to refresh itself.

Guillaume knew better than to interrupt Tristan save when his master called. Over the next two days he seldom saw Tristan, except to bring him fresh water and bread. The twelve mint plants he had bought were being stripped one by one. Tristan looked worse each time Guillaume visited him—gaunt, pale, with hands that shook and eyes circled with purple.

Finally the loyal servant could take no more, and broke his respectful silence. “Sir, please, let me bring you something to eat. I can make it plain—”

“Just the bread, Guillaume! Anything else will taint my palate! If I want anything, I’ll call for you, all right?”

Guillaume had never been spoken to thus before, but his face did not show the sting. He merely bowed and exited with a quiet “Yes, sir.”

Tristan poured some of the water into a bowl and splashed his face with it. It revived him a little. He was tired, so tired. He wondered morosely if he would even be able to recognize the right brew if he should stumble upon it. He longed to sleep, even a short nap, but he was afraid to.

There was someone who could help him, but he was reluctant to call upon her aid. Ailsa had been through so much already. Also, because of the more pressing need to stop Malken, Tristan had been unable to do anything to reconcile the shattered Hiregaard family. He didn’t want to face her without having at least spoken to Ivaar, but he needed her advice.

“Ailsa?” he whispered.

Ailsa appeared, her face sad. “Yes, my love?”

She looked terrible, as sick and soul-weary as she had been in the last few days of her illness, before she had taken her own life. Tristan bit down on his reluctance and described the tea to her. Ailsa listened, her face still dull and unhappy, to the descriptions of flavor and fragrance, then gracefully floated from one end of the table to the other. Silently she took note of the herbs and powders Tristan had already assembled, then pointed her pale blue finger at three more.

He hesitated. None of the names of the herbs was familiar to him. For all he knew, the mad ghost might be trying to trick him into poisoning himself. He again looked full into Ailsa’s spectral visage, searching for answers there. She looked miserable, but not malicious. I could never let anyone hurt you.…

He selected one jar and added its contents to his brew. No reaction. He did the same with the second.

Almost as soon as he swallowed the first sip, his stomach clenched in pain. Tristan gasped, and slid off his chair. Ailsa’s translucent form floated over his prone body. “Tristan, love, are you all right?”

He closed his eyes as another spasm of pain shook him. Cold sweat broke out on his face and trickled down into his shirt. Tristan’s breathing was shallow. His vision dimmed, and he willed himself to stay conscious. His mouth was filled with the taste of the tea, brewed many times stronger than the cup Terza had given him—that combination of musk and sweetness.…

All at once his vision cleared and his stomach quieted. He still felt weak, but managed to climb back onto his chair. “Thank goodness!” sighed Ailsa, her hand to her heart. “Tristan, you frightened me!”

He ignored her, his mind racing. The reaction he had had to the tea was extreme, but he now realized that he had probably made the brew much too strong. Did it work? Was it the right combination? The taste, as best he could recall, was the same, but he had tasted so many flavors and was so tired.

He forced himself to stay awake and reached for the mirror, turning its shiny surface toward him. For the first time in two days, he saw his reflection. He looked terrible. If this worked, he would sleep for a month, he told himself. But how to tell?

“Show me Malken,” he croaked, his voice harsh from the astringent sting of the tea. His reflection faded—only to be replaced by a swirling mist. Tristan almost wept. It had to work, it just had to! But the mirror only showed the protective mist Malken wrapped around himself and his lackeys.

One final hope remained, and Tristan seized it. Though Malken might always safeguard himself, perhaps he did not put so complete a block on others. When Malken could read Tristan’s thoughts, he would know which of his lackeys to shield, but if the tea worked, if somehow Tristan had managed to hide himself from Malken’s eye, the fiend couldn’t know.

“Show me Ivaar,” Tristan whispered, putting what little energy he had left into a last, fevered hope.

The mist in the mirror shimmered, dissipated. Ivaar’s form coalesced. The priest of Sehkmaa was taking a break, sitting on the terrace of the now-completed Temple and sipping a glass of wine. A large, tawny cat was curled up in his lap, and Ivaar stroked the evil creature’s fur absently.

“Show me Rozalia,” Tristan rasped. Again the mirror’s image shimmered, changed, and he saw the gypsy feverishly grinding something with a mortar and pestle. “Clear,” he sighed, and the mirror reflected only his own exhausted face.

He had successfully completed the first part of his plan—to shield his thoughts and activities from Malken. Now, he and Sigfrid would be able to make some inroads into Malken’s criminal activities. Once those loose ends had been tied up, Tristan would again absent himself and concentrate on another problem—separating himself from Malken.

Tristan laid his head on his hands, whispered “Thank you” to Terza and Ailsa, and immediately fell into the first truly refreshing sleep he had experienced since the mists and Malken had come into the land.

The following day, Tristan showed up at Sigfrid’s office. Sigfrid fixed Tristan with an unhappy look as the young sergeant showed him in. He waited until the sergeant left, then said, “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

“What?” asked Tristan.

“I had to release the prisoners we captured at the racetrack day before yesterday,” Sigfrid replied glumly. “Your son is very close with Othmar these days, and he persuaded our dear prince to leniency. I was told that the Claws would reprimand their own. We can’t touch the bastards. Here’s the order.” He pushed a piece of parchment toward Tristan, who read it silently.

“Did you get any information out of them before you had to let them go?” asked Tristan.

Sigfrid shook his head. “Close-mouthed lot, all of them. Not a word.”

Tristan swore.

“But, on the brighter side, you’re not going to believe what I found in Cavell’s ledgers.”

“The real tragedy is, I probably will believe it,” Tristan replied grimly. He seated himself, and Sigfrid handed him the first heavy book.

There were several of them, dating back over the last few months, and they housed a wealth of information. “Look at the names,” Sigfrid pointed out in a whisper. Tristan slowly nodded with recognition.

“If you and I were blackmail-minded, we could make a tidy fortune,” he said. Many implicated on the pages of these notes would indeed pay dearly to have the books simply vanish—along with those who dared read the pages. “This is dangerous ground we’re walking on,” he said softly.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sigfrid replied.

“Well, let’s not let ourselves get carried away. We’ll leave those whose names are in here alone, for the moment. Did you notice a pattern? Something we can get our hands on and do something about?”

Sigfrid nodded. “This information implicates the captain of the night watch. Several payments were made, once each week, to Captain Voldar Karlssen.”

“What are Karlssen’s duties?” Tristan demanded.

Sigfrid didn’t like the anger in the other man’s voice and replied carefully. “He checks in who or what goes in and out of the Great Corral area.”

“Including horses.”

“Right. He also supervises the patrol route between the hours of midnight and dawn.”

“Damn it!” Tristan brought his fist crashing down on the desk. “Giacomo was right.”

“It looks like it. The Vistani bring in a dozen horses. Karlssen notes it, sees to it that no one is around, either smuggles the horses out himself or at least gives someone the opportunity, then tampers with the book. On paper, the crime never even took place.”

“But someone would see the horses leaving,” said Tristan. “And where would they go?” His enthusiasm renewed, Tristan returned his attention to the books. “Maybe Cavell was involved with that end of it, too.”

Sigfrid rose from his chair and went around behind Tristan. Leaning over the older man’s shoulder, his quick brown eyes skimmed the entries. Triumphantly he pointed to the ledger and read aloud, “Payments Received: Twenty G., H. Turnd.—transp. Black Swan.”

Tristan looked up, his eyes glowing with anger. “Twenty gold pieces received from Hollin Turndach for transportation aboard the Black Swan,” he translated. “It makes perfect, diabolical sense. Who better than the dockmaster to see that things go where they should? Two Vistana-bred horses once a week; twenty would be a pittance next to what someone would pay for them.”

“But enough to content a bookmaker able to buy off the guards,” finished Sigfrid miserably. “Tris, where is all this going to take us?” He was suddenly frightened, as frightened of the criminals as, once, he had been frightened of the law.

Tristan did not answer. He already knew where one road led: the Black Swan was owned by Lord Bevis of Blacktower Heights—one of the five regents of Prince Othmar, and one of Tristan Hiregaard’s oldest friends.

“Here’s what we do,” said Tristan at last. “I want you to get a few men you trust and arrest Captain Karlssen this afternoon. Be as rough with him as you like. You and I have worked hard to build up the reputation of the city guards; if this man’s involved in criminal activity, I want to make sure he pays for it. Find out as much as you can. Once you’ve done that, confiscate the ship. We’ve got enough evidence here to impound the ship for a search, and I’m certain we’ll find illegally run horses. Report back at Faerhaaven tomorrow.” He sighed, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“It’s as good as done, Tris. Are you sure you don’t want to come along?”

Tristan shook his head and rose. He felt very old. “No, I have some other business to take care of this afternoon. I’m going to talk to Bevis and find out how much—or how little—he knows.”

The view from the main parlor of Blacktower Heights was breathtaking. The rock that gave the castle its name was across the river from Bergovitsa. On a clear day like today, one could even catch a glimpse of the colorful vardos in the gypsy camp.

“These windows are new, aren’t they?” Tristan asked as he took in the view. He didn’t need to ask. All of this parlor was new within the last year or so. The sumptuous furniture, the large extravagant windows, the carpeting, the trinkets on the mantelpiece.

“Yes, they are,” replied Lord Bevis shortly. He eased his bulk into one of the well-cushioned chairs. “Now, why have you honored me with your presence today?”

Tristan turned to face his host. “I am unfortunately here on business. Bevis, we’re going to be confiscating one of your ships this afternoon. I have it on irrefutable authority that the vessel was running illegal cargo—stolen horses.”

The lord’s eyes flew wide. “No!” he said, in a voice that was just a shade too shocked to be convincing. Tristan fingered the coin in his pocket; it grew warm to the touch. But he already knew that Bevis was lying. “I assure you, Tristan, I had no idea. Which ship?”

“The Black Swan. Nothing implicates you directly.”

Bevis relaxed slightly. “How horrible! I hope you jail the blackguard of a captain!”

“We will. As I said, we’re confiscating the ship.” Tristan sat down in one of the too-comfortable chairs and fixed his friend with a sharp eye. “Bevis, you and I go back a long way together. I know what kind of pressure you’ve been under—damn, we’ve all been under—since Kethmaar’s death.” He hesitated, then continued. “I would think it was particularly difficult for you, as your gambling debts—”

Bevis’s bushy black brows drew together slightly, and his voice dropped to a warning growl. “My luck has changed,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” said Tristan, his own voice taking on a sarcastic tinge. “Seems the luck of many has changed since Sehkmaa came to the land. I understand that you contribute quite heavily.”

Bevis was truly agitated now, but hiding it as best he could. Tristan mourned inside. The man was ill suited for intrigue. “All contribute to Sehkmaa. And yes, you’re right. My luck has changed, and for the better. Glory be to Sehkmaa! Will that be all?” Bevis rose heavily.

Tristan rose as well. “There is the matter of a fine, my lord.” He added the title with a hint of sarcasm. “A hundred gold and the Black Swan confiscated.”

Bevis’s eyes narrowed. Color flushed his face. “You always were an arrogant son of a bitch, Tristan. You haven’t even seized my ship yet!”

“But I will.” Tristan’s voice was dangerously, deceptively soft, and his blue eyes were bright with controlled anger. “And I’ve told you what I expect to find. You’ve known me for a long time, Bevis. A long, long time. You know I don’t give up easily, and what’s more, you know that I wouldn’t make these accusations if I weren’t positive I could make them stick. Come, now, save us both a bit of trouble and unpleasantness. I don’t want to make another trip out here tomorrow.”

The two former comrades in arms stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Then, wordlessly, Bevis turned and left the room. He returned a few moments later carrying five small bags. He tossed them on the chair in which Tristan had been sitting. “Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Eighty. One hundred. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. The mayor is joining me for dinner tonight, and I must get everything ready.”

The news did not surprise Tristan. He already suspected that Osric Laars was involved in some nefarious activity, but Bevis’s comment cemented Tristan’s certainty. Tristan searched Bevis’s face for any trace of the man he had once called “friend.” In the past, had he shown up early, he would have been invited to dinner as well. The three old friends would have stayed up all night, drinking, talking, and sharing memories. Now, he was all but being ordered to leave.

There was nothing of the friend left now. Now, there was only the Lord of Blacktower Heights, a man whose fortunes had taken a sudden and drastic turn for the better since he had embraced the faith of the cat god.

“Good afternoon,” said Tristan. On his way out, he encountered Laars and his entourage. He did not stop to talk. He didn’t think words could have gotten past the lump of anger, loathing, and grief that had lodged in his throat.

When Sigfrid showed up at Faerhaaven the next morning, he had answers and information. Karlssen had named several guards at the Great Corral who had known about both the gambling ring and the horse thievery. “But apparently no one at that guard post was actively involved in the theft,” Sigfrid said wearily. “The thought unnerved our friend Karlssen. Looks like we cast our net for flounder and caught barracuda.”

“I’m not surprised. Go on.”

“Last night I assembled a group of soldiers and put them in place near the dockyard. We tracked the course of the horses, from theft to the Black Swan.”

Sigfrid paused and stared down at his hands for a long moment. “Tristan, last night was a black moment in the history of the Kantoran city guards. The guards took the horses through the city, and we followed. They cleared every check post with a few words, obviously in code, and each man received payment. As we thought, the thieves brought the animals to the dockyard. We clearly overheard traitorous talk between the captain of the vessel and Hollin Turndach. Then—we attacked.”

“Lose any men?”

Sigfrid shook his head, and for an instant wounded pride showed in his eyes. “My archers and my men in an ambush?” He almost smiled, then sobered as he went on. “We took the crew, the captain, Turndach, and the ship. A successful evening, but how I wish it hadn’t been necessary.”

Tristan empathized. Quietly and succinctly he told Sigfrid what had transpired at Blacktower Heights yesterday when he had visited Bevis. “I’m convinced that the stolen horses, the illegal betting, and the murders are linked. Unfortunately, it seems as though many powerful men are involved here, and we can’t undo any single link in the chain until we can undo it all. Keep up your hard work, Sigfrid, and be very careful. Work only with people you know you can trust. If that means that any particular project will take a little longer, so be it. I, meanwhile, will keep working on my own part of the puzzle here at Faerhaaven. And again, I ask that you not disturb me.”

Sigfrid clearly didn’t like this, but he agreed reluctantly. He rose. “I’d best be getting back to Kantora.” He smiled without humor. “My plate is rather full.”

I’d trade your plate for mine in a heartbeat, thought Tristan morosely. He escorted Sigfrid out, then went to his sorcery room. “Show me Ivaar Hiregaard,” he ordered the mirror. It obliged, and for a long moment Tristan regarded his son. Ivaar was deep in conversation with another Claw, and their heads were bent over an ornate drawing of the future temple. Tristan thought of Ailsa. As soon as possible, he resolved, he would do whatever he could to make peace with his son.

In the meantime, he had established that one cup of Terza’s tea would keep his thoughts shielded from Malken for a full eight hours. He would not have to drink another cup for a while yet, but he assembled the ingredients. It would not do to forget.

With an angry growl, Sigfrid threw his wineglass at the giant map that graced one wall of his main headquarters. It shattered, and the pieces flew. Immediately afterward he hastened to wipe the droplets of red from the map so that the wine wouldn’t stain it. Not for the first time, he cursed his quick temper. Tristan, he was sure, never threw things at walls.

It had been a long and nerve-fraying day. The afternoon and evening had been crowded with a host of petty problems that kept Sigfrid from the task he wanted to follow—helping Tristan figure out the twisting mass of connections between various crimes in Kantora. The map itself seemed to mock his efforts. Although to an observer the map appeared to show the policing forces in control, just the opposite was true. The many red marks on the map of Kantora indicated unsolved murders, not arrests. The green dots that represented the guard stations seemed pathetically few to Sigfrid, and the yellow circles that stood for the known gathering places of the Claws of Sehkmaa revealed no hidden pattern.

Somewhere in the twisting streets of Kantora, those streets that appeared on the map as clean, dispassionate lines drawn by a pen, a murderer lurked. “We should have caught you by now, you bastard,” muttered Sigfrid to himself. “You’ve got more lives than one of the Claws’ cats!”

That there was a connection with the Claws of Sehkmaa was clear, but not yet something he and Tristan could prove. And, as Tristan had pointed out, they dared not go against so powerful and popular a cult without proof. Even with proof, thought Sigfrid glumly, we might not be able to truly expose and defeat this false faith. Othmar practically worships Ivaar and is not likely to turn a willing ear to talk against him or the beloved cat god.

Sigfrid had had enough of uselessly musing on the map and reached for his cloak. Blowing out the lamps, he closed and locked the door behind him.

His route home took him past the buildings that composed the Paw of the Cat. Although both he and Tristan were suspicious of the Claws, there was little to condemn about the orphanage. Orphaned children, as Sigfrid knew all too well, usually found “parents” of a sort in a city the size of Kantora. With an orphanage in operation, it was less likely that the innocents would be snapped up quite as fast as before.

As he walked homeward, Sigfrid recalled his first meeting with the man who would become both mentor and friend, the man who had, in effect, rescued him from the rookeries.

Sigfrid had been fourteen then, an orphan of the streets. Despite his slender physique, he had risen in the ranks of his rookery because he had both an ability to control and conceal his emotions and, at the same time, a temper that knew no limits. Blessed with an earnest, freckled face, Sigfrid’s specialty was gulling wellborns. His favorite trick was to charm nobles into letting him curry their horses, and then steal the animals. Once on the creature’s back, Sigfrid stuck like a burr until they reached the safety of the border. This activity was called “borderbreaking,” and it paid well. There was a thriving black market in horseflesh.

One day Sigfrid had spotted Tristan, and had foolishly pegged him for an easy mark. Tristan had agreed to let Sigfrid curry Kal: “If I like what you do, there could be a permanent position in it for you.”

Sigfrid’s easy smile had suddenly frozen on his face. No one had ever offered him honest employment before. He loved horses, and he knew a job as a groom to this well-heeled man could pay well. Well enough to get him out of the rookeries and the nests of crime in alleyways and beneath streets. Well enough to give up the heart-stopping midnight races to the borders. Well enough to become an officer in His Majesty’s Army.

When Tristan went into the pub, leaving Kal to Sigfrid, the borderbreaker did not steal the horse. He curried Kal well, despite the urging of a mate to steal the animal and flee. When at last Sig’s friend left, angry and confused, Tristan reappeared. He had overheard it all, and offered Sigfrid a job as a groom. “That’s just to start,” Tristan had said. “You’ve the build for a fast swordsman—if your interests lie in that direction.”

When he heard the soft child’s voice a few moments later, Sigfrid was still trapped in reverie.

“Hey-ya, wee baron, trapped a few vixens?”

Sigfrid froze. The words were a code—what was called the fledgling’s chatter. It was the language in which young thieves communicated with adults they didn’t know. If overheard by an ordinary person, the reaction would be something along the lines of “poor mad child.” But if the nonsensical words were heard by the right person, the adult criminal would respond in kind—as Sigfrid hesitantly did now.

The child had asked him if his night had been successful thus far. “Hey-ya, grand duke, the trap’s lying empty,” Sigfrid replied. The phrase meant, No, young thief, no luck so far.

The child ventured forward. It was a little girl, about ten years old. When she glimpsed Sigfrid’s uniform, she frowned. Fear and confusion played on her face. But she did not run, not yet. “Hey-ya, wee baron, someone be springing the traps?” She wanted to know if he was in some kind of trouble.

“Hey-ya, grand duke,” said Sigfrid, moving closer but not placing a hand near his weapon, “wolf be after the vixens. Where should they go to ground if they run?” He said he was being chased and needed refuge.

The girl looked relieved at his obvious familiarity with the secret language. “Hey-ya, not too far be lair for fox cubs. Dog fox, vixen, they be on their own for two more crowflies.” There was a place nearby for children, but adults had to travel farther.

Sigfrid was shocked. The girl had flatly stated that the orphanage was a rookery—the biggest, boldest rookery he had ever heard of. He was torn between regret that the orphanage was not what it seemed and sharp pleasure that he had discovered the fact. The girl was within reach, gazing up at him trustingly, and Sigfrid reached out a strong hand and seized her arm. He pulled her toward him, covering her mouth.

“Hey-ya, fox cub on the wrong end of the chase,” he told her.

Twenty minutes later the little girl was in a prison cell. She was crying hysterically, and no one could get anything from her. Dagmar stared at the child, sympathy warring with contempt on her disfigured face. The youngster was a pathetic sight, but she was also, according to Sigfrid, a criminal.

“Doesn’t look like a thief,” Dagmar commented. “But then again, they never do.” She glanced at her captain. Sigfrid’s handsome, freckled face was harder than Dagmar had ever seen it. “Why wasn’t she in the orphanage?”

Sigfrid grimaced inwardly. He hated lying, especially to one of his sergeants, but no one except Tristan knew of his origins. It was safer that way. Also, he didn’t want to reveal the Paw of the Cat as the biggest, best-organized rookery that ever existed to anyone without first discussing the subject with Tristan. “Well, the Claws of Sehkmaa can’t find every wandering child in the city.” Not an outright lie, but a lie all the same.

“True. What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve tried questioning her, but she’ll say nothing.”

“Withhold food?”

Sig shook his head. “No. Give her some good, hot food, and plenty of it. We’ll treat her well and see if we can’t win her over.”

Dagmar smiled wryly. “I’ve met lots of men who take that tactic with women,” she joked, then faltered. Since her disfigurement a few weeks ago, such attentions had ceased coming her way.

Sigfrid quickly changed the subject, sensing her discomfort. “I’m going to go check on a few things,” he said. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

“If she talks?”

“Write down everything she says. And no visitors except me or Sir Tristan. No one. That includes so-called parents, siblings—no one is to see this girl.” He wanted to specifically exclude the Claws, but Dagmar was a sharp woman, and any attention might point out precisely what he wished to keep secret.

Dagmar frowned but nodded. “Aye, sir.”

She followed her captain’s orders to the letter. The child was given a thick beef stew, fresh bread and butter, and a glass of milk. The girl ate appreciatively, but not ravenously. Whatever rookery she called home obviously looked after her well.

“Are you going to talk now?” Dagmar asked through the bars.

The girl paused in mid-chew. She raised innocent-looking blue eyes to Dagmar. “Talk about what?”

“Where your rookery is. Who feeds you. What you’ve done. No one will hurt you if you talk to us,” she added, wondering if that was what was worrying the child. “We’ll keep you safe.”

Contempt and fear flitted across the girl’s delicate features. She made no reply.

Dagmar tried periodically to engage the girl in conversation over the next few hours, but the child remained uncommunicative. The sergeant was startled when a light knock came on the door. She was even more surprised when she opened the door to see a tall, sharp-featured man wearing the cloth-of-gold raiment of a priest of Sehkmaa.

“Good evening, Sister,” the man greeted her. His voice was soft, pleasant, but Dagmar took an instinctive dislike to the keenness of his gaze. The scar that crisscrossed the ritual three-claw slash of his rank also warned her not to trust this man, priest though he might be. He had clearly seen trouble before.

“Good evening—Brother?” she hazarded, unsure as to greet the priest.

“I have been instructed to comfort those imprisoned in your jail. Though I am certain they are not incarcerated without cause, you must surely see that the state of their souls concerns Sehkmaa, who looks after all his children.”

Even without Sigfrid’s adamant warning, Dagmar would not have admitted this sinister-looking individual. “I regret, sir, that I cannot allow you in. This is not a public place, and with all due respect to your order, I can’t permit you to see our inmates.”

The cleric’s jaw tightened, but his voice was unchanged. “As you will, lady.” He bowed, and with a rustle of his robes he was gone.

She closed the door after him, wondering. Dagmar had stood guard duty at this hour before, with men in jail who needed spiritual guidance far more than this little girl. She made a mental note to inform Sigfrid when he returned.

The night wore on. The girl slept, her stomach full and her head cradled on the softest blankets Dagmar could procure. Toward the middle of the night, Dagmar’s sharp ears caught the murmur of the girl’s soft voice.

“I didn’t tell,” she said. Dagmar rose from her seat and went immediately to the cell, carrying her lantern with her. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and the girl cried out. A small, supple shape in the darkness leapt up from the child’s cot, and as it turned its head to glare balefully at Dagmar, the sergeant caught the glow of eyes in the orange-yellow light of her lantern. Hissing, the cat leapt upward to the small window that led up to the street.

The girl sobbed hysterically, and as Dagmar hastened to her, she looked up with terror in her tear-filled eyes. Mutely, the child raised her hand. There was a nasty-looking scratch on it, no doubt from the girl’s recent visitor. Dagmar inspected it, frowning. The flesh around the bleeding scratches was rising.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry,” Dagmar soothed. She set the lamp on the window ledge so that she could tend the wound. “It’ll be just—”

She broke off, horror choking her. The girl’s body had started to hump over like an old woman’s. The young, soft skin of her face puckered before Dagmar’s very eyes, turning and twisting in on itself and exploding into pus-dripping boils. The girl’s cries escalated, and she writhed in pain and blind panic.

Then the sound froze, cut off in midsob. The child’s beautiful blue eyes, staring out of the disgusting mask her face had become, went glassy. Her breathing hitched once, and then her eyes rolled back in her head. Her lifeless body fell forward into the arms of a horrified and baffled Dagmar.

Carefully, Tristan measured the correct amount of saffron and added it to the small bowl of beef fat in front of him. The messy white mass took on a yellow hue as he mixed it. Now for the most important part of the concoction—a powder made of ground mushroom. It had cost Tristan a small fortune to obtain the fungus, but the spell in which it was used had come in useful on more than one occasion. He found the jar and uncorked it gently. One small spoonful of the precious material added to the mixture would, he hoped, render an ointment that would permit Tristan to see what, exactly, Malken really was.

Concentrating utterly on his work, Tristan carefully measured a spoonful. He was about to sprinkle it into the mix when a pounding on the door violently startled him. The costly powder spilled over the table. Furious, Tristan strode over to the door and flung it open.

Sigfrid was there, staring at him with barely suppressed excitement. “Tris, I’ve got to talk with—”

“Damn it, I was in the middle of a spell! You’ve made me lose about three hundred gold pieces’ worth of material, and I have to start all over again!” Angrily, Tristan spun round to clean up the mess.

Sigfrid, taken aback by Tristan’s words, hesitated. “I know you told me not to interrupt, but—

Tristan was now carefully sweeping up the shards of broken glass and dull green powder from the table and the stone floor. “That’s right, and I expect my orders to be obeyed.” Hearing how the words sounded in his own ears, Tristan amended, “I’m in the midst of a vital experiment now, so important that … well, you couldn’t even imagine. In the future, leave a message with Guillaume. He’ll see that I get it when I’m not involved in this.”

Sigfrid was hurt, angry, and confused. “Tris, I’ve got some information on—”

Suddenly realizing what motive Sigfrid had in coming to him, Tristan flung up a hand in horrified protest. He had not yet drunk his tea, and was close to the end of the previous dosage’s limit. He couldn’t risk hearing something Malken might profit from. “No! Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to hear it, not yet.”

“Tristan!”

Tristan shrank from the angry tone of betrayal in his friend’s voice. He tried to explain as best he could. “This experiment I’m working on will help in—in what we’re doing. Until I’ve completed it, I can’t—” he floundered “—clutter my mind with information.”

“What’s going on? Where’s the man who took a chance on a young borderbreaker? Are you afraid to take risks now, is that it? I never thought I’d see the day when you were too self-centered to—”

“Enough!” roared Tristan. Nights with too little sleep and tension-fraught days were beginning to take their toll, and Tristan’s store of tact was depleted. Nevertheless, he calmed himself with an effort. He extended his hand to his friend. “Bear with me, Sig, please. Trust me when I say I’ll be back out there, at your side, sword at the ready, the instant I feel I can. And trust me when I say that what I’m doing here is not only important, it’s vital. All right?”

Sig almost literally swallowed his anger. “I’ll try, Tristan. I’ll try.”

Sigfrid had come home after his frustrating encounter with Tristan to be met by a tense and tired Dagmar. He had not even dismounted before she hastened up to him with tragic and strange news of the death of the little prisoner. Now, back at the prison cell, he stood before the tiny corpse. Keeping his leather riding gloves on, he gently drew back the blanket Dagmar had used to cover the girl.

The child’s face was an obscenity, a violation of her prettiness. Her little body was bent nearly double, and a hump had appeared on her shoulders. The twisted features were ghostly white. Blue lips were pulled back in a horrible grinning rictus, and her eyes were wide.

Steeling himself, he began his examination. First, he checked the scratches on the hand—the hand that looked more like the claw of a harpy. The swollen flesh around the scratches was a shade of angry red, fading to black. He bent over her face and pulled back her eyelids. Her pupils were enormous, and the whites had taken on a distinct yellowish tinge toward the outer corners. Gently, he felt her neck, then moved an arm with an effort and felt the armpit. He discovered lumps in both areas that were hard as rocks. Sigfrid quickly covered the dead child again. Stripping off his gloves, he went to the basin to wash his hands.

“You were right. It’s poison, but not just that. There’s some kind of magic involved to, uh, contort her like that. We’ve got a murder on our hands—and a pretty horrible one too.”

Dagmar shook her golden head slowly. “Who would want to kill a child? And what kind of sick mind would think of poisoning a cat’s—” Her eyes flew open in comprehension. “You don’t think the Claws of Sehk—”

Sigfrid whirled and clamped a still-wet hand over her mouth. With his lips barely an inch from her ear, he whispered, “I don’t know anything for certain, and I don’t want you voicing any opinion on it, either. This incident is between you and me. If you want to help, then help me bury that child swiftly. Until we know what caused her death, we shouldn’t let anyone see her. Wear your gloves and wash your hands. I’m no expert on poisons, so let’s not take any chances.”

“Captain, you look exhausted,” said Dagmar. “You go home and get some sleep. It won’t take me too long to bury her by myself.”

Sigfrid was exhausted, but he shook his head. “There’s a murderer out there who attacks after dark. I won’t let—”

“A soldier go about her duty in an official manner? Come on, sir, the cemetery’s locked at night, and I’ll have my sword. The killer’s attacked lower-class, helpless women. He’ll leave a lady with a sword well enough alone. This case has really taken its toll on you, and I want to help.”

“And it hasn’t taken a toll on you?”

Dagmar’s hand fluttered to her lacerated face. Her beautiful eyes went hard. “Don’t you see? I want to solve this as much as you. Go on home. Please.”

Dagmar was an excellent swordswoman, one of the best he had. He had feared for her safety when she had posed, unarmed, as a prostitute—what was it, less than a month ago? And he had been right—her ruined beauty was mute testimony. But as long as the young sergeant could carry a blade, she could handle most attacks. Still, it was best to be safe.

“I’ll go home, but I don’t want you out there alone. Take someone with you—any of the guards you trust to not ask questions. And wear some armor, too.”

Dagmar smiled. “You sound like someone’s mother.” Then, suddenly worried about her flippancy, she added formally, “Captain, sir.”

Sigfrid laughed, made a deprecating gesture, and left.

Dagmar did put on some armor, a chain main shirt that would turn most blades—and, she thought grimly, the claws of a plains cat. Wearing gloves, as Sigfrid had instructed, she wrapped the deformed corpse in a blanket and placed it in one of the small wagons assigned to the guards. She was in luck. A friend of hers was one of the four guards on duty. Renfred—big, strong, capable, tactful—would be an excellent choice.

“What’s in the blanket?” asked Renfred. His plain face indicated mild curiosity. Dagmar drew a second blanket over the corpse.

“Something I have to deliver tonight. Captain’s orders. I’ve also been instructed to have someone accompany me. Care to come?”

Renfred’s answer was to heave his bulk into the seat beside her. “No questions,” she said quietly as she shook the horses’ reins and the wagon lurched forward.

“None asked,” replied Renfred.

They moved down the streets, nearly deserted at this hour, until they reached the city gates. A guard opened the locked gates, and they continued on.

The city cemetery was near the royal mausoleum. It was divided into several sections, with one area especially for criminals. It was here that Dagmar went now. Like the royal mausoleum, the cemetery had its own locked gate. Dagmar opened it, and she and Renfred drove the horses inside.

The light cast by Dagmar’s lamp seemed very feeble against the looming darkness. Row after row of mounds stretched away into the night. None of these graves had markers; Nova Vaasa felt criminals did not deserve them. Dagmar thought of the little girl, a lively, pretty child; too young, really, to understand the evil vortex that had sucked her down and then abandoned and destroyed her. A shiver went through the soldier.

“Cold?”

Dagmar laughed, a hollow sound. “Just a chill.”

Renfred shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s an eerie place, a graveyard at night.”

They found a space and set about their grim task. Dagmar had brought pick and shovel, and the work went quickly. The cemetery was silent, and when Dagmar paused to wipe sweat from her brow from time to time, she scanned the area with sharp eyes. She felt certain she could have dealt with any threat that came her way, but Sigfrid had been right. It wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, she liked the comfort Renfred radiated. At last it was done. Dagmar packed the earth down with a shovel while Renfred carried the rest of the tools back to the wagon, waiting a few yards away.

The horses suddenly neighed, a shrill sound that startled Dagmar. She drew her blade instinctively and heard Renfred trying to calm the panicked animals, but the beasts tore their reins free and bolted, the wagon jolting furiously behind them.

It was then that the cat launched itself at Dagmar.

For a second, Dagmar was frozen, the memory of the horrible night not so long ago paralyzing her. Then the reflexes of a trained soldier took over. Before the black plains cat could descend on her, Dagmar attacked. Grasping the sword with both hands, she swung with all her strength at the animal. Steel bit into flesh and sliced. The cat’s attack cry turned into a wail of pain. It hit the freshly dug grave hard, its limbs thrashing uselessly. In the light from the lantern, Dagmar could see that she had nearly sliced the animal in two.

Ignoring its dying convulsions, Dagmar, still grasping her dripping blade, ran after the fleeing horses. She didn’t see Renfred’s body until she nearly tripped over it. He was sprawled facedown on the earth, and for an instant Dagmar allowed herself to hope he had merely been knocked unconscious. Turning the body over, she saw that she was wrong. Renfred’s throat had been sliced open.

The cooling sweat on her body mixed with the chill of fear. Dagmar looked around, trying to make out a shape in the darkness. “You sneaked up on Renfred, but I know you’re here. Come out!” she cried, her voice, strong and steady, betrayed no hint of the growing terror that was creeping through her.

Silence, save for the rasping breath of the dying plains cat. Then that, too, ceased.

Dagmar, every muscle tense, waited. Nothing. “Show yourself!” she called again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. When she whirled to face it, she saw only shadows cast by the light of the torch. The shadows moved. They separated themselves from the natural, harmless shadows and advanced toward her. Two, three, five—frantically Dagmar swung her sword. It sliced through the air, harming the black, insubstantial shapes not at all.

They reached her swiftly, and the moment their cool blackness touched her, she felt weak, as if every ounce of energy had been sucked out of her. The sword fell from her suddenly numb fingers. The shadows groped hungrily along her body, and her knees buckled. She moved feebly in the dirt, but was having trouble even keeping her eyes open.

“That will do,” came a voice. Her lids felt heavy, but Dagmar forced them open. A man, wearing a death’s-head mask, peered down at her. At his command, the shadow creatures backed away slowly, reluctantly.

The man knelt and touched Dagmar’s face with a gloved hand. She found to her anger and horror that she lacked the strength to even turn her head. The fingers, knowing and surprisingly gentle, traced the scars. Tears of frustrated outrage poured from Dagmar’s eyes. It was the only gesture her enervated body could make in protest.

In one swift move, the man picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Standing over an open grave, he whispered, “Open to me.” A faint blue line began to emerge in the dirt, and the radiance grew, shooting upward like a flower toward the light. In an instant, there appeared a glowing door. As her abductor stepped forward, Dagmar tried to cry out. She managed only a faint, forlorn gurgle deep in her throat before they were swallowed up by the magical glow.

“Enough donations have come in for us to complete the temple within the month,” said Ivaar excitedly to Malken and Rozalia. The three were standing on what was to become the temple’s main terrace. “And best of all, Prince Othmar has given us permission to establish a small sanctuary in Stonegard, near his own private quarters! Now the ruler of the land is only seconds away from the advice and counsel of Sehkmaa!”

Malken chucked behind his golden cat mask and Rozalia beamed happily. “That is wonderful news, Ivaar,” said Malken. “And don’t think I don’t know the reason for Othmar’s fondness for our faith is your efforts in spreading the word and catching his ear. You have done wonderful things for us.”

Ivaar fairly glowed under the praise, but said modestly, “It is you and Sehkmaa who have done wonderful things for me. For me and for all of Nova Vaasa. Malken, I once had no outlet for my desire for change, for helping people. Now I do. And for that, I am forever in Sehkmaa’s debt.” The cat around his ankles rubbed up against her friend and purred loudly.

“We’ll see you at the meeting in a few minutes?” asked Rozalia. Ivaar nodded.

“The blessing of Sehkmaa be upon you, young Ivaar,” said Malken, laying a hand on Ivaar’s head.

Ivaar closed his eyes, drinking in the blessing. “Thank you, Brother Malken.” He smiled, his eyes alight as Malken and Rozalia took their leave, descending into the cool stone interior of the temple.

“Idiot,” said Malken disgustedly to his companion the moment they were out of Ivaar’s hearing. Rozalia stifled a snort of amusement. “But he’s doing splendidly. I couldn’t have hoped for a better dupe. That news about Othmar is wonderful indeed. Now he’s little more than a breath away from me.”

“You’re sure we should tell Ivaar?” asked Rozalia.

“Oh, yes. A little fear never hurt anyone. We don’t want him to feel too confident in his position.”

They descended into Darkhaaven. Tonight’s “special meeting” was to be held not in the dining room but in a larger meeting area elsewhere in the labyrinthine underground. Like all other chambers in Malken’s sanctuary, save for a few meant for darker purposes, this room was lush and comfortable. Some of the Claws had already arrived, accompanied by their familiars. Malken encouraged the Claws to take their felines with them everywhere they went.

A few Claws knew about the realities of the cult. Others were about to learn. Those in on the secret had grown to value the same debased pleasures their master did, and lounged comfortably on the plump pillows strewn on the carpeted floor. Grinning, the young and old, male and female Claws of Sehkmaa awaited Malken’s arrival, relaxing and enjoying the offerings of fruit, wine, and pastry served by Malken’s slaves—unfortunates kidnapped from “above.”

“Greetings, Brother Malken,” they called out. The unenlightened stood uncomfortably until Malken waved them back down with a magnanimous gesture.

“Please, continue to enjoy yourselves, my brothers and sisters,” he said. “We are not yet all assembled.”

When Ivaar entered a few moments later, Kesh following like a fur-covered shadow, his face plainly showing his confusion. Staring, he took in the decadent surroundings, his eyes roaming from the food to the cushions to, at last and with fear, the captives.

What was Malken doing? he wondered. When had he constructed this underground temple to vice and corruption, and why? He started when Raphael touched him on the shoulder. The fair-haired youth looked completely at ease. Before Ivaar could question him about the bizarre rooms beneath the holy temple, Raphael said softly, “Thanks for saving my skin, Ivaar.”

Ivaar frowned at him. “I shouldn’t have had to do it. We are the Claws of Sehkmaa, Raphael, and we’re supposed to be above such temptation. What kind of example does that set for the rest of the people?”

The expression on Raphael’s face changed subtly, going from concern to confusion and then settling into a sort of smug half-grin. “Why, yes, of course,” he agreed, but Ivaar did not like his tone of voice. “Thanks to you and the grace of Sehkmaa, my errant brothers and I have been forgiven.” There was definitely a note of contempt in Raphael’s voice. Before Ivaar could pursue it, Malken swept up. He laid a strong hand on Raphael’s blond hair, smoothing it, and the youth went abruptly sober. Fear again played in his blue eyes.

“I am glad you could join us for the meeting,” purred Malken to Raphael.

“I thank my lord for his forgiveness and grace toward me. I will do what I may to prove my loyalty,” replied Raphael, his voice in a higher range.

“Yes, of course you will. Ivaar, my boy, you are about to be initiated into the upper echelons of the Claws of Sehkmaa. Sit and learn.”

Wordlessly Ivaar dropped into a pile of pillows. Kesh curled up at his feet. The scene was beyond his comprehension. This must be some kind of test, he decided. The depravities on display here were too outrageous, too open, as if Malken were flaunting his misdeeds. It had to be an act. Either that, or Malken had wandered further away from the teachings of Sehkmaa than Ivaar could possibly have imagined.

A clinking of metal drew his attention back to the slaves. Muscular young men and curvaceous women, clad only in the barest of coverings, their faces hidden by outlandish masks, were shackled to the walls. They moved without grace, slowly, like the dead. It was eerie, almost unreal, and Ivaar shivered violently. He returned his attention to Malken and noticed Sister Rozalia watching him closely.

Malken stood in front of the room. He carried a cane familiarly under his arm. “My brothers and sisters in Sehkmaa, I bid you welcome to Darkhaaven. Here is the true temple to our loving and merciful god, whom you have pleased so well.”

There came a few chuckles, and Ivaar glanced around, angry, to see Raphael among those laughing.

“Some among you know the truth; others have sensed it.” Malken straightened as best his twisted spine would let him. The effect was somehow ominous. His voice rose. It was no longer the pleasant, fraternal tone with which Ivaar was so familiar, but the commanding voice of a king to his vassals. “You, my so-called priests—your power is undiminished if I dub you truthfully not the Claws of Sehkmaa, but the Claws of Malken! Mine is the only voice heard in these halls! Mine is the only will that matters!”

Ivaar’s heart began to thud painfully in his chest. Shock shuddered through his body, and for an instant he felt faint.

Malken had gone quite mad.

Even in his horror, he realized that Rozalia was scrutinizing him. He’d seen his father play diplomat many times, and knew how to play the game himself. Summoning his will, Ivaar kept his face from betraying his true emotions, even forced a smile. Look excited, Ivaar, he told himself. Look excited or die.

“You share in my wealth,” continued Malken. He spread his arms, reaching with his cane to touch the cool brass head to the silky skin of a slave. She did not move as the metal caressed her flesh. “You share in my pleasures, too, eh?” He laughed a little, and the Claws joined in. “But some of you have gone too far. I reward—but I also punish.”

The laughter trailed into tense, unhappy silence.

“There is an order I have given all of you that has been disobeyed by one.”

The crowd was definitely nervous now. Ivaar felt sweat on his forehead.

“One thing I have asked, demanded, required from those trusted with the true knowledge of Sehkmaa. One thing! Sir Tristan Hiregaard is not to be harmed.”

Father? Ivaar thought, blinking idiotically. What does Father—

And then, as Malken raised the beautiful cane above his head, Ivaar realized why the cane looked familiar. It was the same one he had given his father for Tristan’s birthday ten years past.

With a bizarre detachment, Ivaar recalled the event as Malken struck one of his followers. Raising the heavy brass head of his cane, Malken brought it brutally down in Raphael’s face. Blood, bone, and bits of brain spattered over the lounging Claws, who drew back, shrieking. Raphael toppled to the floor, dead at the single blow, but Malken did not stop. Wordless grunts and shrieks were accompanied by the sounds of bones breaking, both beneath the destructive blows of the cane and Malken’s feet trampling the corpse.

Malken’s inhuman snarls of pleasure were joined by the terrified cries of the Claws. Ivaar, still enveloped in his strange but ultimately protective detachment, noted with a certain satisfaction that the smug expressions on some of the faces had been completely obliterated by hysterical terror. They had just been reminded, forcibly, that no one was safe from Malken’s eyes—or anger.

Malken looked up from his murder. His robe was splattered with gore, and his golden cat mask had flecks of ruby red droplets. “Are you with me?” he cried. A murmur of frightened, hushed assent trembled through the room. “Are you with me? Do you follow me, my Claws of Malken?”

“Yes!” The response was louder, more fervent.

Malken laughed. “And I shall be with you! My eyes are everywhere, and I shall reward and punish!”

Ivaar sat and pretended to listen for the next hour as the “meeting” continued over Raphael’s brutalized body. Malken said something about donations, and contributions, and celebrations, and pleasure, and it all fell on Ivaar’s ears without his truly understanding it.

His mind raced. What has Malken done to Father? Is he all right? I must warn him, let him know—

Ivaar’s eyes fell upon the large, tawny cat curled up at his feet. Feeling his gaze, Kesh opened her large eyes and regarded him with frightening steadiness.

My eyes are everywhere.

And Ivaar suddenly knew with sickening certainty that he could never warn his father. Kesh was Malken’s eyes, and Malken would watch Tristan’s son like—well, like a cat at a mouse hole. Kesh yawned and stretched, flexing her sharp claws. Ivaar realized what a beautiful and deadly thing a cat was.

My eyes are everywhere.

Oh, Father, what have I done?

Fifteen miles to the northeast, Giles Guillaume paused as he passed Ivaar’s former bedchamber. He thought he heard a woman crying—crying as though her heart would break. For a moment, he thought about opening the door, but decided against it. If his imagination had the right of it, he didn’t want to know.

Inside her son’s room, Ailsa hovered a foot off the bed, sobbing bitterly for her only child, trapped alone and afraid in the house of his enemies.

When Sigfrid learned that Renfred had been murdered and Dagmar had disappeared, he was furious—and frantic. Next to Tristan, Dagmar was the closest thing Sigfrid had to a real friend, and the thought that he might have inadvertently sent her to her death, as well as Renfred, tore at his heart.

Tristan had not specifically told Sigfrid to cease investigating so, armed with new knowledge that must as yet remain solely his own, Sigfrid decided he would hunt for Dagmar—or her murderer—on his own.

That night, as he and Tristan had done many times before, Sigfrid selected a tavern in a rough part of Kantora. He lingered several hours. Just as he was ready to drain his beer and head home, one of the Claws entered the Red Horse tavern.

Sigfrid’s heart began to beat faster as he noticed, in addition to the three claw marks that marred the faces of every Claw of Sehkmaa, the priest who entered the Red Horse sported a jagged fourth scar that crisscrossed the rest. The sharp features and restless eyes also matched the description of the Claw who had come to see the now-dead child—and, perhaps, the man who had killed Renfred and possibly Dagmar. Sigfrid watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye. The man did nothing unusual; merely sat down, drank a pint of ale, then left. A few moments later, Sigfrid did likewise.

Fighting his excitement, he stepped out of the Red Horse into the cool night air. His quarry was a few yards away, the cloth-of-gold garb bright in the torchlight that faintly illuminated the main street. There was a rustle of movement ahead, and Sigfrid spotted a small form darting from an alley and carrying a large bundle. Quickly, with polished efficiency, the priest took the bundle, a large sack, and a nondescript gray cape. A rapid whirl, and the concealing garment effectively hid any trace of telltale cloth-of-gold. The movement also revealed something to Sigfrid. The priest naturally wore his trademark scimitar, but as he adjusted his cape, his sleeves fell back. The alley was bright enough to show that the so-called priest wore a pair of throwing daggers strapped to his arms.

The gray cape stirred a vague memory in Sigfrid, but he couldn’t call it to mind immediately. He concentrated on following the priest as the latter suddenly slipped around a corner.

In Kantora, as Sigfrid knew all too well, one could go from opulent storefronts to trash-littered squalor with one wrong turn. They were in an unsavory area now, the backs of homey pubs and inns that turned a clean and welcoming face to customers. The contents of various chamber pots made vile-scented puddles that gleamed in the scant moonlight filtering past the buildings. Worn wooden shutters and dingy doors opened onto this alleyway. As Sigfrid watched, taking care to keep well out of sight, the cloaked figure went up to the first door and knocked softly. A shutter opened quickly, and a small bag was tossed into the street. It landed with a clinking sound in a puddle of filth, and the priest swore as he bent to retrieve it.

The priest continued on, repeating the knock at the next door. Again, a shutter was opened and a pouch tossed out. The third door was, Sigfrid knew, the back door of the Red Horse. As the door opened to the Claw’s soft knock, Sigfrid caught a quick glimpse of the innkeeper’s wife as she handed over her pouch. “There’s yer money,” she hissed, defiance flashing out despite the evident fear on her face.

Sigfrid remembered the large bag of coins Ivaar had “donated” to Othmar at the banquet honoring the priests of Sehkmaa. Conceivably, the priest could be collecting voluntary donations, but that idea was so farfetched Sigfrid dismissed it at once. These people “donating” in secret were clearly terrified.

Over the next three-quarters of an hour, the priest of Sehkmaa wandered through the alleyways of the quarter. Only once did Sigfrid see him come away empty-handed. At one house, when the priest knocked, there came a muffled reply. Sigfrid could not catch the words, but there was anxiety in the man’s voice. Sigfrid did, however, hear the priest’s response: “I’m sure we can arrange something. Let me in and we’ll discuss it.” There was a pause, and then the door was opened from within. The cloaked figure slipped inside.

Sigfrid wanted to simply arrest the man on suspicion of murder and have done with it. He knew, however, that he would learn more about the Claw’s activities by following him rather than capturing him, and that information might lead to Dagmar and the downfall of the whole corrupt Sehkmaa cult. Sig waited impatiently, fidgeting in the shadows, wishing he could creep closer but forcing himself to keep his distance in case the priest came out without warning. After a few moments, the scarred man emerged. He was not carrying a small pouch as he had been before. When he continued on his way, Sigfrid followed with a curious glance at the closed door.

Despite his skill at tracking, Sigfrid lost his quarry near the temple. The figure stepped into a particularly dark shadow and, so it seemed to Sigfrid, simply vanished. Rage began to build in Sigfrid. He had the man, and had let him slip through his fingers! His hands unconsciously clenched into fists. He tried to take comfort in the fact that he had at least discovered something—what, exactly, he didn’t know, but he would write yet another note to Tristan about it. He hoped Tristan would emerge from this self-imposed exile soon. If he didn’t, Sigfrid wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait.

Rozalia stared disinterestedly at the new slave. Malken assured her the woman had been pretty, even beautiful, once. Her golden hair was still lovely, and her body firm and shapely. Still, bound at arms, wrists, and throat, the woman before her now bore a face that no sane man would ever again find attractive.

The eleven cats responsible for the progressive damage to the slave’s features sat just out of the tormented woman’s reach. Obsessed with cleanliness, they groomed one another and themselves, licking the slave’s blood from their claws and mouths. The Vistana prodded the captive with her toe. The woman stirred and raised her hideous, bleeding wreck of a face. Her eyes, per Malken’s orders, had been untouched. They stared now at Rozalia.

“Dagmar Valdisdottir, Sergeant, City Guard,” she mumbled. At least, Rozalia assumed that was what she said. The former soldier’s lips had been shredded in the latest attack by the cats. Dagmar had been tortured since Malken had brought her in last night, but all she would say was her name, rank, and unit.

“Honey,” said Rozalia, trying a new tactic, “all women are sisters here, whether they entertain or are entertained. Malken just wants you to dance for him. Then he’ll call off the cats. You don’t like them eating away your face, do you?”

For a moment, there was silence, and then Dagmar emitted a low, soul-shaken groan. Rozalia hid a smile.

“So, will you dance for him at the banquet?”

Dagmar was silent. Then her lips moved. “Dagmar Valdisdottir, Sergeant, City—”

Rozalia slapped the woman hard. The stinging blow against her lacerated flesh wrung a shriek of pain from Dagmar. Savagely, Rozalia smeared healing ointment into the bleeding, oozing wounds left by claws and teeth. It wouldn’t do for the new slave to become infected.

The salve burned and stung, and tears poured down Dagmar’s mutilated face. When she had finished, Rozalia left, closing the door behind her. At the sound of the slam, the cats became alert once more. Purring and rubbing along the length of the prisoner, they moved slowly up her body to again attack her face.

Dagmar began to scream.

“Is she coming around?” asked Malken as Rozalia entered the dining area. Rozalia jumped.

“Malken! What are you—” She had been about to say “What are you doing here?” but realized how offensive such a statement would seem. She had never before seen Malken at Darkhaaven for two nights in a row. “I am surprised to see you here,” she amended.

Malken had been guzzling a glass of wine. His mask was that of a woodland satyr, and red liquid trickled from its thin-lipped, grinning mouth. From behind its slanted eyeholes, Malken’s own eyes sparkled with mirth at her consternation. “I’ve been able to take more time away from my other duties recently,” he explained. “Is she coming around?”

Rozalia shrugged skinny shoulders. “A day or two more, and she’ll dance on the table if you want her to.”

“Permission to enter, Lord Malken?” came a smooth voice. Startled again, Rozalia glanced up to see one of Malken’s most trusted servants standing in the doorway. Galbrai was smiling slightly, the gesture crinkling the crisscross of scars on his face and illuminating his restless eyes. “I have the week’s donations—and something you should see. If I may?”

Malken waved the henchman forward. Galbrai shrugged out of his gray cape, leaving it in a pool on the rich carpeting. One of the cats common to Darkhaaven, a small tortoiseshell, hastened to him. Purring, she rubbed his leg. He picked her up, carrying her in one hand, a large sack in the other. Approaching Malken, Galbrai plopped the sack on the table. Malken smiled at the sound of coins resettling.

“Poor Seetah,” he said, indicating the cat. “She misses you so when you are gone. Why don’t you take her with you on your collection rounds?”

Galbrai scratched the purring creature behind the ears. “She wants attention too much. She distracts.”

“Ah, but she is an extra pair of eyes and ears. Had Raphael and his group of careless fools had their cats to keep watch, they might not have been surprised.”

Galbrai grinned malevolently. “My own eyes and ears do just fine.” He set the cat down. Opening the sack, Galbrai rummaged around and came out with a small pouch. He handed it to Malken. “That is the baker’s donation for the week.”

Malken slowly opened the pouch. A frown crossed his features. “Let’s hope he does better next week.” Disgustedly, Malken withdrew the item in the pouch and glared at it. It was a still-bloody finger, with a simple gold wedding band on it.

Malken worked at the band, managing to get it off. He tossed it back to Galbrai. “This should be worth a little something, at least. Have it melted down. As for the baker, next time it’s the hand. A third time, and he won’t have to worry about paying us at all.”

He spared the severed digit a final, annoyed glance. Turning to one of the great cats chained to the walls, Malken smiled. “Here, girl—catch,” he said. The finger flew through the air to vanish in the cat’s hungry mouth. A pink tongue crept out to lick silver whiskers.

Greedily, Malken rummaged through the sack. “Excellent, excellent,” he approved as he found the rest of the pouches filled to his satisfaction. “You have such winning ways, Galbrai.”

Smiling, Galbrai bowed mockingly. Malken withdrew approximately half of the small pouches; the rest he left in the sack. He retied the sack, which was still heavy with coins, and rose, jingling it slightly. With a reluctant glance at the half-empty bottle of wine, he gestured to Rozalia. “Come, my dear. It’s time for us to visit the mayor. And then—some sport.”

Tristan couldn’t see. A thick substance caked his face, gluing his lashes to his cheeks. He swore softly and scraped at the caked-on fluid, wondering what it could be. He must have dozed in his laboratory, he told himself, and toppled a bottle of some sort of potion.

But no, that wasn’t it—now that he had come more fully awake, he realized he was in bed. Then what—? He worked his face, feeling bits of the substance flake off until he could blink his eyes open. He gasped softly.

He was in a bedroom, but not his own. Several candles smoked in chipped and dented holders, giving off the reek of cheap tallow, which mixed with an overwhelming scent of equally cheap perfume. Neither odor did much to cover the smell of stale sweat. The room the candles illuminated, a boudoir, was small and cramped, the furnishings battered and painted with gilt that was already peeling off. The bed was soft, far too soft to provide any support, and smothered in sheets that bore old, yellowed stains.

Tristan glanced down at himself and received another shock. The material that had caked his eyes shut and crusted his clothing was dried blood. Rolling over, he gasped in revolted horror and scrambled backward, falling off the bed in his terror.

Sprawled on the bed was a corpse, the grisly source of the blood that had sealed shut his eyes. Her eyes had been savagely sliced out, along with her nose, ears and lips. The bloody features were arranged in a horrible parody of a face on the pillow beside her—the pillow on which Tristan had slept. Tristan recognized the monstrous mutilation as the traditional “signature” of the killer—of Malken—of Tristan’s own unaware, unwilling body. The knife, the weapon that had removed her organs of sight, sound, scent, and speech with diabolically surgical precision, was now buried to the hilt in her white throat.

Tristan covered his mouth with his hand and willed himself not to vomit, but his stomach rebelled. He staggered over to the window and emptied his stomach into the alley below. Pale, shaking, he forced himself to look back at the girl. As he turned around, he saw the message his dreadful enemy had left for him.

A large but low-quality mirror had been turned to face the bed. The one word message, five-inch letters written in blood, sneered: SUPPRIZE!

Tristan cried out brokenly, angrily, and reached for a something to hurl at the offensive letters. His hand fell on a smooth heavy object. He raised it, intending to smash the mirror, then stared at his reflection, realizing the item he clutched in his white-knuckled hand was his own walking cane.

A sharp knock came at the door. Tristan’s heart leapt.

“Raina?” came a female voice sharp with fear. “Honey, everything all right in there?” A pause. Tristan froze, his heart pounding. The rapping was repeated, with more urgency. “Raina? Raina, answer me!” The doorknob rattled, but the luckless prostitute had locked the door. Malken, no doubt, had promised to pay handsomely for privacy. The sound broke Tristan’s paralysis, and he leapt for the window.

He knew he hadn’t killed the girl, that Malken had done it, but the law did not recognize such distinctions. They would condemn him for the murder at once if he were found in here with blood quite literally on his face. Tristan paused only to tear off the blood-soaked tunic—a bright green monstrosity he had never before seen—and abandon it. He slipped out the window. Behind him, he heard voices outside the door and then a mighty crash as the door was forced. The knight fled, running swiftly and silently, casting fleeting glances at the ill-lit street signs in a desperate attempt to figure out exactly where he was.

One sign proclaimed the street “Candlewick Way,” and Tristan realized he was in the Merchant’s Quarter. He was trying to place the street in his mind when he heard the reedy sound of a whistle—a guard’s whistle. He risked a look backward to see a guard climbing out the same window from which Tristan had just emerged. “There he is! Heading down Candlewick Way!”

Tristan ducked into an alley, merged with the shadows as best he could, clutched his cane tightly to his chest, and quickly muttered an incantation with the feverishness of a prayer.

When the three guards skidded around the corner scant seconds later, they were faced with the unthinkable. The alley ended in a blank wall after ten yards. They had lost sight of their quarry for only an instant, and he had certainly gone in here. All that met their baffled gazes, however, were piles of rotting trash and one irate pigeon, which whirred up at their approach to perch on the neighboring roof.

The lieutenant in charge of the party sighed and sagged against the building. “Captain Skolsson isn’t going to like this,” he moaned. “We nearly had him! We were that close!”

One of the sergeants put away her sword and began to tentatively probe the sides of the buildings. “Maybe a trapdoor?” she hazarded. The commanding officer brightened, and he and his second-in-command joined her in the search.

“Are we even sure it was him?” asked the second sergeant, dropping to all fours to inspect the ground.

The lieutenant nodded miserably. “Definitely. That’s the second corpse I’ve seen, and the markings were the same. Gods, what a sick thing he is.”

“Could be an imitator,” said the first sergeant, finishing her inspection. “The man we chased didn’t fit any of the descriptions.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. Only thing I know is we let a murderer escape, and it happened on my watch.”

The pigeon listened with interest and watched them continue to futilely explore the empty alley. At last, they gave up. With relief, Tristan watched them go. So intent was he on what was happening below, he failed to notice his own peril until it was almost too late. Just in time, he caught a glimpse of the black-and-white cat directly behind him, crouched to spring. His heart leapt, and he surged forward into the open air. The cat hissed angrily, its ears flat and tail lashing.

Twice tonight I’ve cheated you, Malken, Tristan thought with satisfaction. Tristan dived and swooped, finally rising above the rooftops of Kantora and heading north toward Faerhaaven.

Mahai 9th: Malken orchestrated this terrible, tragic display to frighten me, Tristan scribbled in his diary after a few hours’ sleep, but it has had precisely the opposite effect. I may not have the knowledge—yet—to divorce myself from this fiendish creature, but I do know how to keep him unaware of me.

Tristan flipped back through the diary, mentally going over the spells he had tried thus far—all without success. The spell interrupted by Sigfrid’s arrival had proved not to work at all. It had been a spell that would show Tristan’s true nature. Upon looking at himself in the mirror, he found that nothing had changed. The one consolation was that he now knew with absolute certainty his true nature was, at least thus far, still that of Tristan Hiregaard—not Malken the Cat. Provided, of course, the spell had worked. He had also cast a magical ring of protection around himself before sleeping. Obviously, that had not worked either. It would have protected Tristan from outside attack—but Malken appeared inside the circle, and the spell failed.

He rose and began to dress. Just as he reached the door, a folded piece of parchment was slipped underneath it. Tristan opened the door to a startled Guillaume. “Good morning,” Tristan greeted him, bending to pick up the note.

“Oh—good morning, sir,” replied the servant, recovering his customary poise. “Captain Skolsson was just here; he gave me that note for you. It’s the fifth one he left, I think.”

“Fifth?” Tristan didn’t remember receiving any. When at Faerhaaven, Tristan worked with single-minded intensity; when not … “Is he still here?”

“He just left, sir. Someone could ride after him; he won’t have gotten far.”

“Yes, send someone after Captain Skolsson. I’ll meet him in the main receiving room.” Good timing, Sig, he thought. While he was still intent on continuing his quest for a spell to separate himself and Malken, he could take a few minutes to see what Sigfrid had come up with. He hastened to dress and drink his magical tea before going to meet Sigfrid. If the young soldier had information for him about the Claws, Tristan wanted to be sure Malken didn’t know about it.

“Sig, you look dreadful,” he exclaimed as he entered. “Care for something to break your fast?”

“You don’t look so good yourself,” Sigfrid retorted. It was true. Both men looked pale and tired, as if they had aged years in the last week. “And yes, thank you, I’ll have something to eat.”

Sigfrid, despite his words, barely touched his food as they talked. “Have you read my messages?”

Slightly embarrassed, Tristan answered, “Honestly, no. I’ve been too caught up in my projects.” Sigfrid said nothing, but his mouth thinned in disapproval.

“You’d better read them before we start talking, then.” His tone was not the one usually assumed when he spoke with Tristan, either in public or in private, but Tristan put it down to the strain evident on the younger man’s face. Whatever he had been involved in recently, it had taken a harsh toll.

He was eating an apple when he picked up the first note, but the words grabbed him and he continued reading, the fruit still held in his hand.

Tris—

The Paw of the Cat is a rookery, not an orphanage! Captured a girl—hope she’ll talk.

—S.

Tris—

We need your help—don’t know if I can handle this on my own. While I was here last night, a Claw visited the prison. Later, a cat with poisoned claws killed the girl. Horrible poison—more later. Contact me soon.

—S.

Tris—

Renfred was killed and Dagmar is missing after they buried the girl. Found the Claw who came to visit the orphan in prison—tracked him—need to talk to you NOW!

—S.

TRIS—

For mercy’s sake contact me!

—S

Tristan raised shocked eyes to Sigfrid. “I was growing a little impatient,” understated Sigfrid. “I know you’re busy.…”

Tristan had originally planned to continue his search for a spell, but he knew where he was needed. The quest could wait a day.

“Fill me in, Sigfrid,” he said.

The night was thick with mist, and a steady drizzle pattered down on Tristan, Sigfrid, and Luath. No doubt, thought Sigfrid glumly as he adjusted his rain-heavy wool cloak, the flowers would be blooming on the plains tomorrow, enjoying the rare rain. He, however, was thoroughly uncomfortable. The great hound, too, looked as if he wished to be home before a blazing fire.

They were standing in the back of the Red Horse, the pub where Sigfrid had gotten his first look at the Claw with the scars and the restless eyes. Earlier that afternoon, Tristan had contacted Sigfrid. When Tristan arrived with his hound trotting happily at his heels, Sigfrid had raised an eyebrow curiously. Tristan had smiled, a hard, satisfied smile. “Cats don’t like dogs very much. I hope Luath’s scent will keep them away.”

“They certainly bothered me when I was a dog,” protested Sigfrid.

“Ah, but you weren’t a dog. You had the scent of a human. That would be enough to attract Malken’s attention. Luath, however,” he said, wrinkling his nose as the scent of wet dog wafted up to them, “smells entirely like a canine.”

Sigfrid pointed down the alley. “That’s where the child handed him the gray cloak. He seemed familiar, somehow, but I don’t know what he reminded me of.”

“I do,” said Tristan shortly. “We pursued three or four similarly cloaked figures outside the Merry Mermaid the night Enoch and Hannelore were killed.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Sigfrid. “And only the coins of highest value were taken. I remember now.”

“Why clutter yourself with copper if you’ve come collecting for gold?” said Tristan in a hard voice. “Come on. I want some answers.”

Luath was well trained, and for all his hulking size, stayed quiet as his master and Sigfrid went from pub to pub, store to store. They did not go by the back alleys, but entered the buildings properly, by the front doors. When questioned, expressions ranged from uncomfortable to terrified, but everyone professed ignorance. Sigfrid expected as much, but was surprised at how swiftly Tristan’s temper seemed to rise.

As they walked out of the seventh shop with no more information than they had had when they started, Tristan swore under his breath. “They have to trust us. The only way we can put an end to this extortion is if we have information, damn it!”

“Easy, Tris,” Sigfrid soothed. “You’ve got to remember these people are frightened for their lives.”

They had reached the local bakery. “This is where the scarred priest went inside for a little bit. He came out empty-handed,” said Tristan.

“Any sounds of a struggle?”

“Nothing.”

Tristan pounded heavily on the door. “We’re closed,” came a voice thin and high with fear.

“I know,” snapped Tristan. “This is Sir Tristan Hiregaard and my second-in-command, Captain Sigfrid Skolsson. We have some questions for you. Open. Please,” he added.

They heard the sound of locks being pulled back, and the door eased open a crack. “What do you want?”

Tristan was in no mood to pamper a frightened baker’s fears and stepped boldly forward, forcing the door open with his shoulder. Sigfrid and Luath followed. Tristan got right to the heart of the matter. “Were you visited last week by a man dressed as a priest of Sehkmaa?”

The baker, a pale, round man with a face as doughy as the bread he worked, went even paler. A small gasp escaped him. “Why, no,” he said, stammering. “I make donations, of course, as do all who honor Sehk—”

Tristan’s eyes, almost as restless as those of the man he was pursuing, swept the area. He saw nothing out of order—a large table in the back upon which the bread was worked, ovens, their fires cooled now, and various other implements necessary to a trade in baking. He scrutinized the baker himself with equal alertness, observing the fact that, late as the hour was, the man was still dressed. Tristan’s eyes narrowed as his gaze fastened on the man’s left arm. The baker was very careful to keep it behind his back as he spoke.

Without a word, Tristan’s hand shot out and seized the baker’s arm, grasping it painfully and bringing the hand into view. “What happened?” The extremity was swathed in bandages, and Tristan could see that the fourth finger was missing.

“Ah, nothing, nothing, sir, just a little accident, sharp slicing knives and all—” Even in the light of the lone candelabrum flickering on one of the wooden tables, Tristan could see the sheen of sweat on the baker’s fat forehead.

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve been lied to all night, and I’m getting tired of it. I don’t think it was an accident at all. I think someone cut that finger off as a warning. Someone wearing a cloth-of-gold robe!” Tristan increased the pressure on the man’s wrist, knowing that the pooling of blood in the area with the severed digit had to be painful.

“Commander Hiregaard—” began Sigfrid.

“Sir, I know nothing, I swear!” Tristan squeezed tighter, and the man gasped. “They’ll kill me if I tell you anything!”

It was a start. “I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me anything,” threatened Tristan coolly. “Look, we can’t help you if you don’t help us, all right?” His strength of purpose amply demonstrated, Tristan let the baker go. The man’s pudgy right hand went to comfort his maimed left.

“It’s been going on for a while,” he gasped. “The priests of—”

Luath’s growling bark reached Tristan’s ears a fraction of a second before the knife whizzed past his cheek. The blade buried itself to the hilt in the baker’s throat. His words ended with a terrible gurgle. Tristan spun around just in time to catch a flutter of cloth-of-gold as the murderer turned to flee.

“Chase, Luath!” Tristan commanded, and the beast obeyed. Barking furiously, the hound exploded into action. Sigfrid and Tristan were out the door almost immediately afterward, swords drawn.

It was not a long chase. Luath had speed that belied his size, and the fleeing priest had very little of a head start. He knew it, too, and ran only a short distance, ducking down an alley, before turning. Another knife sliced through the darkness. Luath saw it coming and leapt, but the blade nicked the beast’s shoulder. Luath ignored it and sprang, striking the priest squarely in the chest and knocking him heavily to the cobblestones.

When Tristan and Sigfrid reached the scene a few minutes later, Luath was standing over the prone body. He growled whenever the man moved. “Good boy,” Tristan praised, gently moving the dog aside. He placed the blade to the killer’s throat. “Get up—slowly. And keep your hands out of trouble.”

The priest did as bid, rising slowly, his hands raised in clear view. As he fixed Tristan with a stare full of hatred, Tristan could see the network of scars on his face. “This your priest from last week?” he asked Sigfrid, never taking his eyes off his prisoner.

“That’s him,” said Sigfrid, moving in and beginning to search for weapons.

A slight whimper caught Tristan’s ear, but he didn’t glance down until the whimper faded into a phlegmy hacking. He risked a quick glance to Luath, and his eyes widened.

The dog staggered, turning in a slow, tight circle. Froth dripped from his jaws, and the whiplike tail was plastered between his legs. Luath shivered violently and raised pleading eyes to his master. “Watch him,” Tristan ordered Sigfrid. The captain ceased his search and resumed a hostile stance over the prisoner while Tristan fell to his knees beside the ill dog.

“Careful, Tris,” Sigfrid warned. Just in time Tristan stayed his hands that itched to pet and reassure his canine friend. Luath shuddered again, and his legs gave way. He fixed a last, puzzled gaze on his master, choked again, and died.

Tristan stared. The cut on the animal’s shoulder was nothing, but Luath was dead. “Poison,” he breathed. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Anger rose slowly in him as he stared down at Luath’s body. “You bastard. You put poison on your blade, didn’t y—”

He turned his eyes back to the prisoner in time to see the priest, heedless of the pain, knock Sigfrid’s sword away from his throat with his lower arm. The blade bit and blood flowed. Before Sigfrid could recover, the man had drawn some knives. Sigfrid, remembering the murdered child, hesitated just a fraction of an instant too long in recovering. The next second, he was contorting his body as the priest slashed at him with the knife.

The priest’s hands were a blur, but Tristan, knowing what was coming for him, dived and rolled to the side. The knife whizzed past and embedded itself in the wooden windowsill where Tristan’s head had been.

The anger that had been building inside Tristan for the last several weeks finally erupted. Swallowed by its white-hot energy, Tristan knew nothing other than the desire to destroy this man. He drew his sword and charged the priest, stabbing cleanly through the man’s abdomen with minimal effort. Gasping, the dying Claw drew his final poisoned dagger and struck at Tristan with it. Tristan easily gripped the hand and twisted it savagely. It broke with a sharp crack, and the knife clattered to the cobblestones. The priest’s eyes rolled back, and he slid slowly to the ground. With an oath, Tristan jerked his sword out of the body.

“What have you done?” Sigfrid’s voice, shrill with his own anger, penetrated Tristan’s heat. “We could have brought him in, questioned him—”

“He used poison,” said Tristan shortly.

“Luath was a fine, good dog, but damn it—”

“It was self-defense! He was attacking us!”

“Tris, you could have beaten him with one hand and you know it! What’s gotten into you?”

“The desire to stop a killer and his whole cursed underground, that’s what.” The two men exchanged hot glances. “I have an idea,” said Tristan. “Come on, help me get him out of here.”

Sigfrid did not reply. He was looking around. Normally, the curious or the bloodthirsty would have formed a small crowd around the dead man and his killers by now. There would be at least a few people peering out their doors or windows. But to Sigfrid’s surprise, no one had come to investigate the fight.

“There’s no one watching, Tris,” he said slowly. “Nobody wants to be incriminated in anything that happened. The people around here aren’t just scared—they’re paralyzed with fear.”

“My point exactly. You buried the girl, didn’t you? Without reporting her death or the cause? We’re just doing the same thing here.”

“Come on, Tris, that was different. That was an unnatural death, and if word got out, it could cause a panic. This man—”

Tristan whirled on his friend. “Who’s in charge here, me or you?”

“You, of course, but the regulations—”

“Are being waived.” Tristan continued, making his voice patient with an effort. “You yourself just commented—nobody wants to get involved. Everyone knows what’s going on, but nobody wants to point the finger. And we can’t point the finger yet, either. We have no hard evidence! We’ll be laughed out of the courtroom and get a poisoned knife in our ribs for bringing this to light. The only way we can destroy Malken and everything he stands for is to infiltrate his system. From the inside out, as it were. I’ve got a plan on how to do that, but I need your help. Now.” Tristan straightened to his full imposing height and gazed at his second. “You can blow the whistle if you like, drag our Claw here to the authorities. I won’t stop you, and I agree that you would be following regulations. But I’ll know who my friend is—or isn’t.”

Anguish filled Sigfrid’s brown eyes. He was torn between loyalty to the man who had pulled him out of the gutter and the laws that same man had taught him to respect and uphold. At last, he capitulated. “All right, Tris, but I don’t like it.”

Tristan’s face eased into a smile. “Good lad. Here’s my idea.”

Mahai 11th: I see a pattern to Malken’s appearances. At first, he came every five days. Recently, it seems to be every four. It seems limited as to how often he can take over my body. It is disturbing, however, to see these limits pushed—with success. I feel, though, there is a wide enough margin of safety for me to undertake the task I have set for myself tonight.

The priest with the scarred countenance stepped outside the Red Horse. It was well after dark, and the narrow lanes were filled with orange torchlight and the dancing shadows thrown by flame. For the moment, darkness was the priest’s friend. The bloodstains had been removed from his tunic, and the jagged hole through which Tristan’s sword had plunged was mended.

Tristan’s eyes were restless, constantly scanning the street as he walked, alert to attack from things hiding in the shadows and from the shadows themselves. The three days since he had slain the Claw of Sehkmaa had provided him ample time to study the dead man’s visage. Tristan was convinced his disguise was perfect. His plan was not overly daring. He would simply travel the path the priest had trod and see if any new information revealed itself.

He had waited the extra few days so he would not arouse suspicion from the “donors.” He turned a corner, expectant. According to Sigfrid’s account, Tristan would be contacted shortly. Sure enough, there came a slight movement in the darkness, and a small hand extended a thick gray cloak and an empty sack. Tristan accepted both, tossing the cloak over his shoulders. The bracers on his arms, like the cloth-of-gold tunic, had been taken from the dead man’s body. The knives encased within, however, were Tristan’s own, as was the scimitar. He was fortunate in that his weapons collection included scimitars, picked up decades ago when traveling with Kethmaar. Unused to dealing with poisoned weapons, the arms of a coward, he opted to use his own weapons. The discrepancy would be noticed should he need to produce them. However, he told himself grimly, if that need arose, he would leave no witnesses to report the mismatch.

With the cloak wrapped warmly about him, Tristan felt even safer. He pulled the hood down and went to his first destination, knocking softly at the door. It opened a crack, and he was handed a small purse. When the door closed, Tristan paused to count the money. Five gold pieces, seven silver. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Protection from the Claws apparently did not come cheaply.

He continued his route, collecting the same amount of money at each place. Tristan skipped the baker’s door, which bore a sash of bright mourning green. No doubt the Claws would track down the poor widow and demand payment, but for tonight, at least, she would be shown mercy.

After a little less than an hour, Tristan’s sack was heavy with coins. He did some quick calculations. The area he had covered was only a small part of the quarter, perhaps a third. Multiply what he carried by three—and that amount by four, for the other parts of the city—he stared at the bulging sack. Malken was pulling in a small fortune each week! Othmar and all his tax collectors couldn’t hope to see this kind of money in a month … not even two.

Tristan felt a brief twinge. He was the head regent, but it was impossible for him to do right by Othmar. It was clear to Tristan that the prince was being bought. The boy was so dense, though, he probably had no idea what was going on. The same probably could be said of Ivaar. At least, Tristan hoped so.

He had come to the end of his circuit as reported by Sigfrid and stood facing the High Road. His path had taken him to the back of the temple. The moon was nearly full, and by its ghostly light, the partially completed temple looked both ominous and pathetic—not yet a temple, more than a simple bathhouse. Tristan hesitated, then walked around to the front. His disguise would protect him, he was sure.

For a long moment, he gazed at the yawning cavern that was the entrance to the temple. His eyes hurt from the strain of peering into the darkness all night. He rubbed them, sighing. It was late. He needed to be getting back to Faerhaaven. The evening’s activities had taken longer than he had expected, and he dared not wait to take his next serving of tea. He turned to leave. He would find a dark spot where he would be unseen and teleport back—and brew himself a cup of the magical concoction immediately upon returning. Whatever information he might hope to gather here paled compared to Malken’s discovering his doings.

“Galbrai, what are you doing out here?” came a sharp female voice. Tristan whirled to see a woman standing on the steps. She carried a torch and ran lightly down the stairs. It was Rozalia. She was even thinner, more haggard, than she had seemed before. What was she doing, hiding in the darkness of an unfinished temple?

“I wasn’t expecting you, but come on. I suppose this means he’ll be here soon.” Impatiently the Vistana gestured. Tristan hesitated for only an instant, then hurried up the stairs to meet her. When she saw he was following, she turned brusquely and strode back into the temple. Tristan let her lead the way, pulse racing. What was the name she had called him? Galbrai, that was it. He followed her, confused and yet excited as she took him to a hidden door and down a winding stair that seemed to go on forever. At last, it suddenly opened up, its dull gray leading into a room that exploded with bright, violent colors. The sniffing, rumbling sounds of plains cats reached his ears. He was relieved to see they were securely chained. Several small cats drowsed in a corner. One of them glanced up and fixed Tristan with slitted amber eyes as he entered. Tristan looked around as unobtrusively as possible, trying to observe everything.

Rozalia seemed distressed. “He’s not usually late,” she pouted, walking over to the long table and seating herself. Unsure as to what he should do, Tristan followed her example, easing himself into the seat next to her. He was totally unprepared for her angry reaction. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s the master’s chair!” Hastily Tristan rose, but her snapping dark eyes followed him. “You’re lucky he didn’t see your impertinence, or he might feed you to his pets!”

Tristan mumbled an apology of sorts and placed the sack on the table, hoping to distract her. It worked. Her face glowed with avarice as she leaned forward. “He’ll be pleased. Did the baker have the money tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I wonder how he managed that. I’d heard he closed up shop for no reason a couple of nights ago.”

“Maybe he had a good night of gambling,” Tristan ventured. She looked at him oddly. Tristan knew that the longer he tarried the more likely it would be that he would give himself away. Besides, if “the master” Rozalia was waiting for was Malken, well, he wouldn’t show if he kept to the schedule he appeared to follow.

Inwardly Tristan winced. He needed just a moment alone to teleport himself back to Castle Faerhaaven, to the potion that had brought him this new peace. “I’ve delivered the goods,” said Tristan, trying to sound hardened and rough. “Time for me to be going.”

Rozalia’s suspicious look deepened. “No one leaves without the master’s permission.” Her cat jumped into her lap, and she stroked it gently. She turned her face up to Tristan and smiled for a second. Then, slowly, the smile faded, and the hardness returned to her eyes. Her cat was staring at Tristan, and had begun to tremble. “He’s frightened of you.”

Tristan’s mind raced. Was Galbrai a priest whom cats disliked? He had no idea how to respond.

“Where’s yours?”

The question caught him by surprise. “Around, I suppose.”

“Call her,” she ordered.

Tristan had had enough. No longer able to bluff his way through this encounter, he bolted for the door.

“Stop him!” Rozalia shrieked, leaping to her feet. The cat in her lap hissed as it tumbled to the carpet.

Malken’s combination of extreme punishment and equally extreme rewards had honed his servants well. Tristan hadn’t even reached the door before his way was blocked by four scimitar-wielding priests. His first impulse was to fight. Four to one were fair enough odds for an experienced swordsman, but he remembered Luath and stayed his hand. One scratch and he’d be dead. He couldn’t simply teleport, either; they’d attack once they realized he was casting a spell. Reluctantly, he raised his hands away from his body. Two of the guards searched him for weapons, retrieving his scimitar and daggers, while the other two kept their deadly swords beside his throat. Tristan permitted himself to be redirected into the room.

Rozalia was now seated on the table. Three other Claws had joined her. Her quarry disarmed before her, she was gloating. “You are not Galbrai,” she stated. Tristan remained silent. Rozalia rose and came to him. Though her eyes were sunken and her cheekbones jutted through her dark skin, there was a hint of the alluring woman she used to be in her expression. Her perfume teased his nostrils. “Who are you, then?” Red-nailed hands fingered his face. “Very good. Not just a simple cosmetic change. I know magic, too, my friend—and how to negate it.” Her hands dropped to a pouch that hung about her waist.

She withdrew a vial and checked its color carefully to ensure that she had the desired potion. “Wouldn’t do to get the wrong one, would it?” she laughed. “Hold him,” she told the priests.

Tristan exploded into action. He wrenched free of the guards, his clenched fist slamming into a priest’s mouth. Teeth shattered. Tristan seized the man’s tainted scimitar and whirled. A few seconds later, one of the Claws was staring at two bloody stumps that had been his arms, and a third was clutching at a wound in his abdomen. Two others were drawing their poison-dipped weapons, but Rozalia raised a commanding hand. “Don’t kill him!” she cried.

Confused, the Claws didn’t know what to do. Tristan turned to flee up the stairs, but stumbled over one of the smaller cats. The misstep gave one of the Claws enough time to bring the hilt of his sword crashing down against the back of Tristan’s head. The knight found himself flat on the floor, his limbs immobilized by strong, angry hands. Those same hands clenched in his hair, jerked his head to one side, and forced his mouth open. Before he realized it, Rozalia had emptied the contents of the vial into Tristan’s mouth. He coughed and tried to spit out the liquid, but several hands now clamped his mouth and nose shut. He had no choice but to swallow. His vision swam for an instant, then the world righted itself.

Even as Tristan’s vision blurred, so did the features of Galbrai that he wore like a mask. They melted, changed, shifted, the scars smoothing out, the eyes changing hue. Galbrai’s slender frame filled out to Tristan’s large form. Rozalia stared at him, her face blank with shock. Her mouth hung open. “Sir Tristan Hiregaard,” she managed. Shock faded to a smile, then to hysterical laughter. She leaned against the table as her body shook with peal after peal of vicious mirth. At last, wiping the tears away with the back of one hand, she fixed Tristan with a hate-filled stare.

“You killed Amasa,” she snarled. “It was because of you that I became an outcast! Now you’re here, all alone, trapped like a rat in the den of the cat. Oh, yes, Tristan ‘High Regard,’ I’m going to enjoy this.” She knelt beside him, slowly drawing her dagger. The blade, its cutting edge blackened by poison, glittered dully in the light.

Again Tristan’s vision blurred. Nausea gripped him, and suddenly he felt jabbing pains in his abdomen. Weakness flooded his limbs, and for a second he felt as though he were about to void his stomach. Dimly, he heard Rozalia gasping in shock. He cried out, once, sharply, before his vision faded to black.

Rozalia backed away, wondering with alarm what was happening to Tristan. Could he possibly be able to resist her potion? The Claws, too, seemed frightened, but kept their grip on Tristan as his body writhed in their clutches. The knight’s handsome, regular features were twisting as if they had a life of their own. His frame shriveled, contorted. A hump appeared in his back. His hands crooked, fingernails growing long and sharp.

The hideous creature Tristan had become stared angrily at Rozalia, who had frozen with the blade in her hand. He looked up at the Claws who held him captive. “Whoreson idiots,” he spat in a voice that they recognized, “Leave me be!”

“M-Malken,” Rozalia whispered, staring upon Malken’s hideous face. Bile rose in her throat.

The Claws, startled, let go of their master. “Leave us alone!” he demanded. Staggered by the revelation they had witnessed, they fairly ran from the room. Furious, Malken rose on his knees, savagely backhanding Rozalia across the face. The power of his blow laid her prostrate on the carpet. “Bitch!” he screamed. “Do you think my rules do not apply to you? Would you destroy the body that houses me?”

Rozalia continued to stare, though her ears were ringing and blood dripped down her chin from the force of Malken’s blow. This monstrosity before her was nothing like the handsome if cruel nobleman she had imagined Malken to be. He saw the loathing in her dark eyes, and his anger escalated. He dared not hit her a second time. He knew if he did, he would kill her, and he didn’t want that—not yet.

Growling like one of his cats, he strode to the table and seized the heavy silver candelabrum. He hurled it at a small statue of a pipe-playing satyr, smashing the delicate porcelain figure. He took slight comfort in the shattering crash and tinkle that ensued.

Behind him, lying on the carpet, Rozalia had eased herself up on her elbows. Her hand went to her mouth, dabbed at it gingerly. Red wetness stained her fingers. Then, unbelievably, she began to laugh, although it hurt her injured face. It began as a quiet gasping sound, then gathered strength. Soon her peals of mirth were racking her skeletal frame as she shuddered through paroxysm after paroxysm.

“Shut up,” Malken mumbled.

With an effort, Rozalia got unsteadily to her feet, wobbling a little as she stood. “Oh, that is rich. So the evil lord of Nova Vaasa is really Sir High Regard, the noblest, nicest knight of them all!” Her voice was full of sarcastic scorn. She began to laugh again, wiping at the tears that streamed down her face.

“He is my vessel, nothing more.” His quick anger ebbing, he brooded instead on Tristan’s recently discovered ability to block his thoughts. He suspected that the old Vistana woman had a hand in that, but was unable to prove it. He now had to rely on his network of spies, both human and feline, for information about Tristan’s activities. Admittedly that network was vast and thorough, but Malken did not like having to trust so precious a duty to underlings. If it had not been for the eyes of the cats in the room and Rozalia’s ministration of the magic potion, he might not have returned to Tristan’s body in time to prevent an injury. It was a sobering thought.

Rozalia’s laughter was an irritant. “Go,” he ordered her. “I wish to be left alone.”

Her mirth faded. She frowned. “Go? But—”

A dozen cats moved slowly, almost casually, to form a circle around her. The great cats, too, straightened almost imperceptibly. Rozalia bowed, the laughter in her soul extinguished, and left.

He stared after her, then went to pursue his own amusements. A slow pleasure was starting to spread through him. He had been able to force himself into Tristan’s body when it had literally been a matter of life and death. With time, perhaps his power over Tristan Hiregaard would grow.

He did not know how long he could remain in this body until Tristan returned. He decided to make the most of it. Malken debated donning a mask, then rejected the idea. Now, tonight, he would terrorize wherever he chose. He grabbed a wine bottle, uncorked it, and took a deep draft. Carrying the wine with him, he strode purposefully through Darkhaaven until he came to the room with the caged girl.

He knew she was beyond terror when her eyes fell upon his distorted features. He drank deeply, then regarded her with a vague shudder of disgust. Her face was, if such a thing was possible, even more hideous than his own. The cats had done their job. The former soldier’s face had been practically eaten away entirely.

“You still don’t want to dance for me.”

For a moment, there was no response. Then the woman muttered an unintelligible string of words. Malken frowned, tempted to strike her, then hesitated. He went and retrieved one of his discarded masks. Placing it over her eyes, he said, “If you dance for me, no one shall ever again see your face.”

The head, covered by a bizarre butterfly mask, lifted slowly. Blue-green eyes stared through the eyeholes. There was a flicker of life in them. She stirred in her chains, but did not seem to be fighting them. She spoke again. The words, rendered nonsensical because of her deformity, sounded somehow different than before, placating, almost crooning. Malken took the key that hung tantalizingly out of the woman’s reach and undid her manacles. She rose, moaning at the pain of stiff muscles, and moved her weight on her legs. One foot lifted, dropped. The other did the same. Her hips lurched from side to side. She was dancing like a zombie, but she was dancing.

Malken threw back his head and laughed.

For the second time, Malken deposited the unfortunate knight in an uncomfortable place. Tristan came to his senses in the chill predawn hours to find himself lying facedown in a puddle of fetid liquid. He gagged and hastened to sit up. That was an unwise move, he found out almost immediately; a tight band of sharp pain encircled his head like a malicious crown. Malken had apparently gotten very drunk last night and left Tristan with the hangover. Tristan muttered under his breath. The small alley in which he had been dumped—that was the only word for it—was deserted. He softly murmured the words to the teleport spell he had been using so often, and manifested in his chambers. His bed had never looked so inviting.

After a few hours of sound sleep and a hot breakfast, Tristan felt restored. There was still a whisper of a headache left, throbbing deep within his skull, but he ignored it. If Malken was becoming strong enough to force his way into Tristan’s body when the need was great enough, as had apparently happened, Tristan could not afford to spend any waking moment not working on separating himself from the monster.

There were more spells to be tried, and he would attempt them all. He busied himself with brewing a cup of the tea, the wonderful tea that shielded his thoughts from the evil fiend who stalked him from within, and sipped it as he went through various books. With grim humor, Tristan realized that, if he survived the present danger he would have more magic at his call than anyone he had ever known.

If he survived.

He returned one book to the shelf and searched for another. Pulling one at random, he perused it as he finished the tea. He frowned. This one seemed to house darker spells than the others, spells that called for blood as an ingredient. Few positive enchantments were found within its black covers; most concerned themselves with murder, power, and curses.

Curses. What was it Madame Terza had said? A terrible thing was done, that was it. Tristan examined the words. Terza would not speak carelessly. Each word was chosen. A terrible thing was done. Not happened—was done.

“I’ve been cursed,” Tristan whispered softly. His flesh erupted with goose pimples, and he knew he was on the right track. Filled with a renewed sense of urgency, he examined the spells. There were many spells to bring about curses, but none to cure them. He was beginning to despair when his eyes caught an addendum to a curse spell. It told how to reverse the “evil eye of the curse.” He breathed a sigh of relief; if he had indeed been cursed, he could cure himself. At least, he desperately hoped so.

He practiced the hand movements, which seemed sharp and disharmonious to him, and mouthed the strange words until he felt comfortable with them. At last, as prepared as he could be, he stood erect. He closed his eyes and began to chant. His fingers fluttered, clutched, his arms swayed and straightened.

Pain shot through his chest, and his limbs went numb. Horrified, Tristan tried to gulp air, but his lungs wouldn’t work. He was having an apoplectic seizure. The next instant, he was looking down on his body. His skin was pale, his frame rigid. Then it began to jerk spasmodically. Two clearly colored nimbi were flickering wildly over his heart. One was a palpitating, healthy colored blue. The other was a violent, bloody red. Tristan knew somehow, with a knowledge he couldn’t fathom, that his … soul, for lack of a better word, was doing battle with the evil force that sought to subdue it.

The two glowing radiances fought fiercely, their hues waxing and waning, darting and chasing one another about Tristan’s seemingly dead body. Slowly, the red deepened to an almost magenta hue, at the same time changing the other aura from a bright blue to a sluggish, bruise-colored purple. Then, as abruptly as he had left it, Tristan had returned to his body.

A sense of failure washed over him, sickening him. He had indeed been cursed, but had been unable to dispel the malediction. He was unspeakably weak from the battle his good side had apparently lost, and yielded to an exhausted slumber. When next he woke, he was ravenous. He rose unsteadily and went on wobbly legs to ring for Guillaume.

He fell upon the good food the loyal servant brought as if he hadn’t eaten for days. A chill passed through him as he wondered just how long he had been unconscious. “I’ve been very busy in here, Guillaume,” he said cautiously.

“Yes, sir. I was quite relieved when you rang.”

“How long have I been working?” Tristan didn’t want to just come out and ask, but there was no other way.

Guillaume looked at him strangely. “Why, two days, sir. Give or take a few hours.”

Inwardly, Tristan groaned. Two full days of work gone. If today was the fourteenth of Mahai, and if Malken kept to his schedule of reappearing every four days, he would take over again tomorrow. That meant more innocent women dead, more webs woven about the hapless citizens of Nova Vaasa.

He would have to make this next day count. “I’m sorry, Guillaume, what did you say?”

“There are a few notes for you, sir, should you care to look at them.”

Tristan shook his head. “No. Not right now. I’m too busy. That will be all.”

The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Immediately after he had gone, Ailsa appeared. Her face was a horrific sight, caught between the beauty of her living days and the monstrosity she occasionally became. She was wringing her hands and floating three feet above the floor.

“Ivaar’s in trouble, Tristan,” she said in a voice that trembled.

For an instant, he believed her. He was reaching for the rope to call Guillaume back, ask him if Ivaar had sent the messages, but Ailsa’s next words stilled him.

“He’s broken my favorite goblet.”

Tristan closed his eyes, sympathy warring with exasperation. Ailsa was not speaking of present danger, only of a decades-old incident. “I’ll take care of it, darling,” he said, forcing himself to speak tenderly. “Go and rest, now.”

Her face brightened, and the hideousness left it. Again, she was her beautiful self. “You will? He’s in so much trouble!”

“I’ll take care of it,” he repeated. Smiling, reassured, Ailsa faded and disappeared.

Tristan returned to his magic books. On the table, ignored, sat a letter from Ivaar.

Malken blinked awake, enjoying the feel of the smooth sheets against his face. One thing he and Tristan shared was an appreciation for luxury, though the knight lacked Malken’s keen joy in destruction. He rose and dressed in Tristan’s too-loose clothing. He would change into his own clothes and mask once he reached Darkhaaven. As he shrugged into a shirt, he noticed Tristan’s journal lying on his desk.

Excitement raced through Malken. Tristan, the bastard, usually hid his journal. Now that he no longer had access to Tristan’s thoughts, Malken hadn’t been able to find it. Apparently, though, the knight had gotten careless tonight. Eagerly Malken reached for the book.

As his gnarled fingers touched the binding, a flash of light exploded in his face. The world turned upside down. Gray mists suddenly manifested, reaching for Malken with greedy, grasping tentacles. Horrified, he realized Tristan had placed a spell on the book, a spell to exorcise him to the nothingness whence he came.

Tristan blinked dazedly. He was standing in front of his desk. Had he walked in his sleep? Then he realized that the warding glyph had vanished from the journal’s cover. “I’ve done it!” he cried as he realized what had happened. “I’ve cast him out!”

Then the room spun. Helpless, Tristan fought in vain to retain his own identity.

Malken drew a shuddering breath. “Good, Tristan, very good,” he said aloud. “You almost did it that time. I’ll punish you for that one.”

He turned to the mirror, passed his hand over it, and stepped into the swirling mist.

Ivaar stared for the thousandth time around at the small room that had become his prison. Unknowingly, he hugged the threadbare pillow to his chest as he had done with rag toys when he was a little boy.

From her nearly permanent perch at the foot of his bed, Kesh stared back at him with eyes that glowed in the dim light of a single candle. He now loathed the animal as much as he had once loved her, and she sensed the change in him. Kesh now watched him constantly, hissing and scratching whenever he came near her. Somehow, he knew, she was reporting his every move to Malken. He had done nothing that would arouse suspicion. He had boldly written his father in full view of Kesh, knowing the letter would be opened and read with an eye toward betrayal by men he had once called brothers. He had written in a desperate, makeshift code subtle enough to pass the Claws but, he hoped, recognizable to his father.

When the note drew no response, Ivaar assumed the letter had never been delivered. Silently, he cursed his own gullibility. He had been played for a fool from the moment Malken had arrived to charm the Lights of Liberty. Malken had used him and his connections. The youth paled suddenly when he thought of the “inner sanctuary” in Stonegard, next to the Prince’s rooms, which he, Ivaar, had instigated and established.

A knock came on his door, and he started violently. Kesh hissed at the disruptive movement and scratched his leg. The door opened, and the sharp features of Sister Rozalia peered in.

“It’s time,” she said.

It was the first banquet to be hosted in Darkhaaven, and Malken was determined that the celebration be long remembered. The large feast hall, like the spider in the center of the web of Darkhaaven, was the focal point of Malken’s underground stronghold. Previously left empty save for roaming cats, Malken had ordered it decked out in its most gilded finery.

He stood, clad in a sumptuous outfit of silk and black velvet, and surveyed with satisfaction the work of several days. Dozens of torches blazed, illuminating the room. Each of the ten long tables in the hall had several small oil lamps on it for more light. The benches and tables were of fine wood, polished to a high shine. Tapestries—even more complicated, colorful, and obscene than those in his receiving room or private chambers—adorned the stone walls. Statues depicting satyrs and nymphs in lewd and violent activities filled every corner and alcove. Above the tables, providing further degenerate entertainment for Malken’s guests, hung twenty cages. Inside were dancers of both sexes, naked save for a few scraps of clothing, the complicated masks that held their faces, and the chains that adorned their wrists and ankles like sadistic jewelry. The high table, unlike the others, was covered with a gorgeous linen cloth. The places were being set. Soon, the guests would arrive.

Malken chuckled to himself. He could hardly wait.

The first few guests arrived. Like Malken and the slave dancers, they wore masks, for tonight’s revel was a masquerade. Malken maneuvered smoothly through the growing crowd, greeting each reveler who entered through the secret passageway by which he had told them to arrive. He noticed young Ivaar among them. The boy tried not to show his fear, but his large eyes gave him away. Malken smiled to himself.

Tidbits and wine on silver platters were passed around by masked Claws. The guests sipped and nibbled. In time the last of them arrived, and all was in readiness. Though Malken’s place, clearly marked, was yet vacant, Rozalia took her accustomed place at his left, and Ivaar seated himself at his right. The others at the high table were Lord Bevis, Mayor Laars, Othmar’s chief advisor Hadwinsson, and Lord Adal.

Ivaar glanced up, trying not to give himself away as Malken swept over to the table.

“Ivaar, my boy, you will feast tonight on a little richer fare than is your wont,” Malken promised, seating himself. He clapped his hands. At once, a quartet of minstrels in a corner of the room began to play. The gentle sounds of lute, harp, and recorder proved to be accompaniment for the dancers. The cages were lowered until they hung little more than a yard above the seated diners.

Ivaar felt ill as he watched the undulations of the performers. There was no grace, no skill in their movements—only lewd gyrations performed without any real passion. Yet he seemed to be the only one not enjoying the display. The guests, from noble to soldier, whooped and applauded, standing up and sticking hands through the bars to fondle bare flesh.

Ivaar lowered his gaze to the meal in an attempt to distract himself from gazing with horrified fascination at the so-called entertainment. He found that he had lost interest in peacock stuffed with game hen, in rich sauces and seasoned vegetables. Course after course came. He ate a little of each, to not attract attention.

As plates of sliced fruits and bowls of cream were being passed at the meal’s end, Malken rose and went to the front of the table. The noises of idle conversation halted abruptly, and the musicians ceased their playing. The dancers stopped moving and stood still in their swaying cages, as if they were mechanical toys that had suddenly been turned off.

“My brothers and sisters in Sehkmaa, my friends and patrons, I bid you welcome. Those here tonight have been part of the most successful criminal operation in the history of Nova Vaasa. Donations pour in at an astounding rate. The orphanage is full of impressionable young minds; the temple is nearly complete. And we have all benefitted.

“However,” and he began pacing back and forth, his hands closing and unclosing, “there is a tainted thread marring this beautiful fabric.” He paused, and listened with a slight smile to the anxious murmuring that rippled through the crowd. “And we all suffer for it. Each one of you,” he stopped pacing and ran piercing eyes over the crowd, “has dealt with me on one level or another. But I’m not sure how well I can trust you.”

The crowd was definitely nervous, and Malken drank in their fear like nectar. His eyes wandered from face to face. Each guest, he could tell, thought Malken meant him or her; they were desperately searching their memories for mild infractions. Some recalled what they had done and quailed away from him. His heart was beating with excitement now, and it was with an effort that he restrained himself. Not yet; not quite yet.

“Is there anyone here who doubts that his heart is visible to me? That I know his thoughts and misdeeds, and that I shall punish those who have betrayed me? No? Then let us drink together and unmask, to seal this pledge of mutual trust.”

He raised his goblet, filled with nothing but the blood of the vine, and waited until all assembled copied his gesture. Then he brought the liquid to his mask’s lips, and again paused until his guests removed their masks and drained their own cups.

Now.

Malken tore off his death’s-head mask to expose a face far more frightening. He gulped his wine, careless of the red fluid spilling down his beautiful velvet doublet and ruining it. As he drank, he heard the cries and gasps of horror. For once, he didn’t mind that all were repulsed by his appearance. Soon enough, they wouldn’t care what he looked like.

Smacking his rubbery lips in exaggerated satisfaction, he drew a white sleeve across his mouth. Then the sounds and expressions of horror and abhorrence changed subtly, became more personal and intense. He watched, vastly amused, as the handsome, slightly arrogant faces of his guests melted like candle wax. The features changed, reformed. Pustules erupted and broke, pouring pus down suddenly scarred skin. Strong, slim limbs twisted, cracked; straight backs humped; delicate hands contorted into claws.

Malken laughed aloud. The magic brew he had given his guests was not permanent. When the self-satisfied, posturing fools who had thrown in their lot with him rose in the morning, the only marks they would see on their faces would be the ones they themselves had inflicted in their terror. But they didn’t know that now, and at this sweetest of all moments Malken, like one of his cats, could smell their panicked fear. He knew it was twofold—first, at the hideous changes wrought upon them, and second, that they now realized just how deeply mired they were in Malken’s machinations.

He glanced triumphantly down the table to see the reactions of his most honored guests. The regents, their pompous dignity crushed utterly, gibbered madly, tears of mindless terror mixing with the pus on their faces. But Ivaar was gone.

Malken turned his fury on Rozalia. “Where is Ivaar?”

“I—I don’t know, he—”

“Stop him!” Ivaar was not to leave the brotherhood of Sehkmaa, not if Malken had to tie him up to keep him. Ivaar was the best card he had in this vicious game he and Tristan played with one another, and Malken was not about to let his ace escape. Immediately Rozalia rose and hobbled out.

As if her exit were a cue, some of the guests stampeded for the doors. Their way was blocked by several Claws. They had been instructed to draw their scimitars and be prepared to use them.

They were. When a half-dozen bodies covered the floor, the guests realized just how trapped they were. Malken threw back his head and laughed.

Ivaar’s body shook convulsively as he stumbled along the dark hallways. The sight he had just witnessed had shaken him badly, though he himself had been careful only to pretend to drink. The ensuing chaos had given him something he had ceased to hope for—a chance to escape Darkhaaven.

Darkhaaven was vast and intricate. Some of the Claws swore that certain rooms appeared and vanished at the whim of their master. Malken never bothered to contradict these whisperings; sometimes it seemed as if it were the truth. Ivaar briefly wondered if he were dooming himself to wandering in this cold damp labyrinth forever, but continued. Even that fate was preferable to the wretched existence he’d been living for the last few days.

At last he came to a stairway that led up, and he began climbing. Time was distorted, and Ivaar couldn’t tell whether a month or a minute had passed when he found himself slowly, cautiously, opening a door.

He let go a sigh of relief that was almost a sob. He had found his way into the orphanage. The hallway was empty, its cool stone illuminated here and there by a torch. The doors, heavy wooden things with the head of a black cat painted on them, were all closed. Behind these doors slumbered the orphans. There was no sign of adult presence here. Ivaar was certain all the other Claws were down in Malken’s impromptu hell.

He paused as he entered the main foyer. To his left was the terrace and the first step to freedom, but he couldn’t get the thought of sleeping children out of his head. Ivaar glanced longingly toward his left, at the cool night that beckoned with ineffable sweetness, but instead retraced his steps. He couldn’t leave innocent children with that monster, now that he finally understood just what Malken was.

He eased open the door and gasped slightly. Dozens of glowing eyes peered up at him. He had forgotten that many cats slept beside the children. But the cats merely stared curiously. Malken, whatever he was, obviously had power over the creatures’ minds. Equally obvious was the fact that he had not instructed the cats to beware of Ivaar. For that, Ivaar was silently grateful. Ivaar woke the children gently, and they sat up, rubbing sleepy eyes.

“Brother Ivaar, what’s wrong?” asked a little girl named Leah. Her question was echoed by the others.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he soothed. “But you all need to come with me tonight.”

“But I don’t—”

“What about—”

“Shh, shh, I’ll answer your questions later, all right?”

The children were used to obeying those who wore the cloth-of-gold robes. Sleepy as they were, they dutifully rose and began dressing.

There came a loud meow, and something launched itself at Ivaar. It was Kesh, and she was angry. Hissing, she clawed, trying to reach his face. He managed to tear free of her and kick her hard. The wounded animal lay in a small heap, gasping for air. A pang of guilt came and went in Ivaar’s heart. He had loved the cat, but she had betrayed him. He owed her nothing.

“Kesh missed you after you left early. I thought I’d let her come find you,” came Rozalia’s voice. The Vistana woman leaned against the door frame. She was silhouetted by the flickering torchlight from the hall. The light was not kind to her, throwing her jutting cheekbones into sharp relief and emphasizing the leathery texture of her skin. She looked more like a mummy than a living being, something unnatural wreathed in desiccated flesh.

“Sister Rose!” cried the children, who hastened to their caretaker. Absently she let them cling to her, her stick-thin fingers caressing the hair of one little boy. Rozalia moved inside, closing the door behind her and leaning on it. She detached herself gently from the eager children and lit several candles.

“Are we going to play a game?” asked Leah happily. “Is that why you and Brother Ivaar came?”

“No, children, it’s not a game,” said Rozalia. She looked with feigned sorrow at Ivaar. “Poor Brother Ivaar has … fallen.”

The children gasped, horrified. They remembered Sister Evania’s fall. Someone had to be very, very bad to fall. Now they turned from Rozalia to gaze with horror and sorrow at Ivaar. “Poor Brother Ivaar,” said Leah softly. Her eyes filled with tears, and her pink mouth quivered.

“Yes,” echoed Rozalia in a fair imitation of true regret, “poor Brother Ivaar.”

Ivaar had somewhat recovered his wits. The cats still seemed disinterested in him, but Rozalia had blocked the doorway. Keeping his eyes on her, Ivaar made a mental note of the layout of the room. His back was flat against one of the walls. The chamber, located on the ground floor, was spacious, with several large windows lining the wall on his left. Twelve of the twenty beds were placed under the windows. The other eight were lined up on the opposite wall, where the only door was located. Toys were piled at the far end.

He now knew the children were lost. They had been too completely indoctrinated by the Claws, fed so many lies that they thought them truths. Maybe if someone heard the noise—

It was a fool’s dream and he knew it, but he had to try. He leapt onto the nearest bed and sprang for a window. Covering his head with his arms, he dived partway through. The sharp fragments of glass sliced his forearms. He would have made it through had not a few of the children seized his belt. Ivaar was pulled off balance.

“Ivaar is a blasphemer!” Rozalia shrieked. “He says Malken is cruel! He says Sehkmaa does not exist! Kill him!”

The children obeyed without hesitation. Ivaar was not a big man, but any one of them, any five of them, he could have beaten off. Twenty, however, subdued him entirely. They pummeled him with their tiny fists, digging sharp nails into his flesh and clawing. Their faces, contorted with righteous fury, showed no sign of mercy. They clawed and bit and scratched, reaching for his eyes. Leah drove fingers into his eye sockets, and Ivaar shrieked as the world went dark.

In that terrified darkness, the army of children came with more weapons. They beat him with hard, cast-iron toy soldiers, lacerating his skin with miniature swords. One little girl pressed a fragment of a broken doll’s head deep into his abdomen.

As Ivaar died, torn to shreds by children who were convinced they were doing their god’s work, he thought of his friends. Theogar, devoured by cats, and Raphael, bludgeoned by Malken, had had easier deaths. His final thought as he fainted from loss of blood was of his mother. Somehow, he thought he could hear her crying.

“You did what?”

Malken’s voice was laced with the fury that had propelled him earlier.

Rozalia’s smirk faded. “You asked me to stop him.”

Malken was silent, eyes blazing. Rozalia licked her lips. His unmasked face always disturbed her.

“He was trying to leave, trying to take the children with him—what was I to do, let him walk out the door?”

“I told you,” and Malken’s voice was no longer piercing but silky smooth, “to stop him. I did not tell you to kill him.” He rose and strode to where Rozalia sat by the fire in the receiving room. One strong hand closed on her neck. Her eyes went wide. Malken knew she had poison on her fingernails, but she made no attempt to claw him. Smart girl. “I have had enough of this from you. Push me no farther, Vistana girl, or else you, too, might fall from Sehkmaa’s grace.”

He released her, and she fell backward onto the pile of soft fur, gasping for air and rubbing her bruised throat. The linked necklace she wore had cut into her flesh from the pressure, and there were small cuts on her neck as well. She watched him with venom in her eyes as he strode from the room, his back toward her.

Malken had had the children removed from the room in which they killed Ivaar. The corpse lay in a puddle of blood. There were small red foot- and handprints all over the room. Malken stared down at Ivaar, sighed, and shook his head.

“You really were more use to me alive than dead,” he said regretfully. “Your papa was beginning to get pesky, but I didn’t think he’d go too far as long as I had you in my corner. Now, I’ve got to figure out what to do with you.” He paused, and a slow smile began to spread across his brutish features. “You may yet be of some use.”

He picked up the mangled body and turned toward the door. He sent a silent command, and mist materialized out of nowhere. It floated upward from the crack beneath the closed door, hiding the heavy wood from view. The mist began to glow, as if from an inner light. When its ghostly gray tendrils reached the top of the door frame, Malken strode through the portal he had created.

He was surrounded by pulsating gray. The evil powers responsible for his creation, bless them, had enabled him to travel through the mists. Openings in the misty walls showed him various locales. All he needed to do was step through, and he would be there. He smiled a little to himself as he located the brothel where Tristan awoke beside a dead girl, and the alley where Tristan awoke hung over. No, those wouldn’t do for the trick he planned to play on Tristan tonight. He kept searching until he found the place he wanted. Malken’s smile became a grin. Carrying his grisly burden, he stepped through the portal.

Tristan awoke alert and ready for whatever terrible place Malken might have left him this time. He was surprised to find that the fiend let him awaken in his own bedroom. Remembering the dead girl he had found himself next to once before, he whirled to his other side. Blessedly, he was alone in his bed. Tristan closed his eyes in relief. He rose, bathed his face, and turned to ring for Guillaume.

His eye fell on the portrait of his wife, and he groaned aloud. Malken had vandalized Ailsa’s picture. Slowly, Tristan walked to it. The canvas was sliced three times—the ritual cuts of the Claws of Sehkmaa—and splotched with dark red paint as though Ailsa were bleeding from the cuts. He reached to touch the paint, and his fears were confirmed. It wasn’t really paint. He hadn’t truly thought so. His eyes dropped to the journal. Malken had scrawled in the now-dried blood: HE HAZ HIS MUTHERS FACE, EH TRIS?

Tristan went cold. He grabbed his robe and fled the room, hastening through the drafty hallways and taking the stairs of the Master’s Tower two at a time. He grasped the doorknob, realized he had neglected to bring the key, and opened the lock with an incantation instead. Flinging the door open, he stumbled inside.

Tristan fell to his knees on the hard stone floor. His eyes were transfixed by the horror he beheld.

His son lay on the table in a grotesque parody of a corpse laid out in a coffin. Ivaar’s body was a mass of small but fatal wounds. What skin that was still whole was pale, all the blood having escaped through the hundred small gouges and tears. Stumbling, in a daze, Tristan made his way to the table.

He saw that Ivaar’s eyes had been gouged out, his nose removed, his lips and ears.… Malken had left his sadistic signature on the body of his enemy’s son.

Something inside Tristan broke with a cold shattering. Crying incoherently, he tore the blood-drenched remnants of the cloth-of-gold robe from his child’s corpse and flung the tatters of fabric away. When the body before him lay naked, purged of Malken’s corruption, Tristan gathered it to him. Now that it was too late, he embraced Ivaar and called him son, sobbing into the lacerated neck.

“My boy, my boy,” he wept, “Ivaar, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.…”

There came a faint sound from under the table. Through the tears that blurred his vision, Tristan glanced down to see Ivaar’s small pet, Kesh, peering up at him. Anger sliced through Tristan’s grief. In one movement, he had lain Ivaar’s body back down on the table, dropped to his knees, seized the cat, and snapped its neck. He threw the limp, furry body hard against the wall. Bones cracked, and Tristan found the sound immensely satisfying.

Breathing heavily, he turned his attention back to Ivaar. His eyes widened. Ailsa had materialized and was floating beside the table. Amazingly, her face was tranquil, even smiling. She reached an insubstantial hand toward the body of her son and tentatively ran it over the mangled flesh. She began to hum. Tristan recognized the tune as a lullaby she had sung for Ivaar when the child had still been in his cradle.

“Ailsa, I don’t—”

The ghost put a finger to her lips. “Hush, sweetheart. Little Ivaar’s finally sleeping, and I’d hate to wake him.” She smiled at him. “Everything’s all right now. He’s finally home.” She resumed her humming.

Tristan watched in mournful revulsion as his dead wife, held fast in the grip of the madness that had followed her beyond the grave, sang to the mutilated remains of what had once been their only child. At last, she shimmered and faded slowly, and he knew he would not see her again. He bowed his head and let the tears come.

Tristan asked Guillaume to help him bury Ivaar, but the old servant refused. Guillaume’s face looked like a death’s-head, growing even paler as he looked at the body of the young master. He said a prayer and made a sign across his body—not the hooked finger blessing of the cult of Sehkmaa, but a gesture far older and long forgotten by most in Nova Vaasa.

“Master Tristan, my family has served you for generations. Faerhaaven was more than a place of employment for us—it was our home. Now, my family is gone. I am all that remains. This place is no longer a home—not for me, not for you, not for anyone.

“I have watched you these past dreadful months. I don’t know what’s happened—to you, to the country.… I’ve watched and I’ve mourned, for many, many things, including you. Now this. No, sir—I cannot help you bury your son. Ask someone else. You pay well for service and silence. As for me, you need not fear. No one shall hear aught from me against Sir Tristan Hiregaard. You treat me well, sir. I can’t complain. But neither can I stay on for another day. This place has a pall over it now, sir, and it’s choking the life out of me one breath at a time.”

A weight seemed to settle on Tristan’s shoulders. He hadn’t realized until now just how strong a link with happier times Guillaume was. When he left, he would be the last. “I wish you the best, Guillaume.”

Guillaume regarded his master steadily. “And I you, sir, although I confess I fear the worst.”

Tristan decided not to enlist other help. Alone, he cleaned the body, covering the scent of decomposition with sweet-smelling herbs. He dressed Ivaar in the youth’s old clothes, the simple garb Ivaar had donned in a desperate attempt to link himself to a different class of people. “Why didn’t I listen to you, son?” Tristan whispered. “Why didn’t I see?”

He bore his son to the family burial ground and dug the grave. As he covered the roots of the thyme plant he had placed at the head of the newest grave, he paused. Kneeling, he placed his hands on the mound of clean-smelling soil and made his son a promise.

“Thyme is for courage. I’ll need it if I’m to do what I must. I took too long, and the price for my hesitation was your death. Malken seduced you, led you away from me, but he shall not escape me. I’ll somehow find a way to disconnect him from me. And when I do, I’ll tear him apart. I swear I will.”

He picked up a handful of earth. One thing he didn’t have in his vast inventory of items was earth from a newly dug grave. He had never had the desire to work the sort of spells that would require such ingredients. Now, though, he was fighting a dark foe. He could not afford to exclude any option in so noble an endeavor.

He plucked a sprig of thyme and crushed it in his other hand, releasing the sharp, clean, peppery smell. He breathed it deeply, and it calmed him. Courage. He returned to his sorcery chamber, his sense of purpose renewed, and set about working on his journal.

All the spells I have tried have failed, in one way or another. Yet my time has not been wasted. There is a pattern to these magics, both light and dark. Knowing what I do now, I am hopeful I will be able to raise enough power to trespass into Malken’s plane of existence—the cursed mirror. There, where we can be two separate entities, I will be able to fight and destroy him.

Tristan ticked off what he knew about Malken: Killer. Part of me. False priest. Underground ruler.

Ruler. The word brought him up short. Could he perhaps enlist Othmar’s aid? At once he dismissed the idea. Othmar was an idiot. Besides, he wasn’t really a king. The regents technically ruled. Othmar was at this point a figurehead. “The real person at the head of Nova Vaasa now is Malken,” he concluded angrily. If only Kethmaar were alive. Tristan recalled the saying: The hands of a king are the hands of a healer. And surely the king, who was linked so closely with the land he ruled, would be the one to heal it best.

But Kethmaar was dead. He couldn’t call on—

Tristan bolted upright. The idea that had suddenly flashed in his mind gave him equal parts joy and horror. Rising, he went to the bookcase and removed a small, plain box. He opened it, and gazed at the key that lay inside.

The moon was new. Tristan was glad of it as he cantered out of Kantora that night The guards let him pass through the Eye of the Needle with no problem, and Tristan found himself alone under a sky crowded with stars. He had not been alone the last time he had followed this route; hundreds of mourners had accompanied him as he took his king and friend to be laid to rest. That rainy day seemed centuries ago.

He was not completely comfortable with what he had to do, but he realized it was the only course. He rode up to the stone wall that encircled the building and dismounted. The key glittered first faintly in the dim illumination of starlight, then brightly with a magic all its own as Tristan spoke the command words. He turned it, and the lock clicked open. With an effort, Tristan pushed the gate inward. He turned to lead Kal inside, but the horse refused to move. Kal’s attention was focused on the open door to the crypt, a gaping black hole. The beast whickered softly and began to prance in agitation. “Easy, boy, calm down,” Tristan soothed, but Kal would not be comforted. Surprising Tristan, the horse broke away from his grasp and galloped several yards away from the mausoleum. His mount would not come when Tristan called, but stayed, pawing nervously.

Probably the scent of decay coming from the tomb, Tristan thought. He quelled his own misgivings. He was a soldier and had seen death before. As for what he had come here to do, well, it was a necessary evil. He went back inside the gate, pushing it shut behind him lest some late-night wanderer stumble this way and notice something amiss.

He drew his sword in one hand and conjured a ball of dancing light with the other. The ball, a glowing radiance about the size of his head, bobbed up and down slowly, following him as he walked toward the crypt. He did not worry about being seen by the light’s glow. If anyone was watching, the superstitious Nova Vaasan would think it a ghost, not a grave robber.

He had almost reached the crypt when the temperature suddenly plummeted. His sword in his left hand, he reached for his pouch with the right, ready to fight with weapon and magic. The cold made his fingers ache, made his movements slow. The short hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he swallowed hard. “Show yourself,” he demanded to whomever—or whatever—was there.

In answer, the air before him wavered. Pale blue and silver shapes began to form. In a few seconds, Tristan was facing a line of spectral men. All wore either glowing armor or stately robes. Each carried a drawn sword. There was a similarity to their faces, which bore expressions of anger. Tristan’s heart twisted inside his breast as he looked at the figure in the center of the line.

“Kethmaar,” he breathed.

The apparition looked as he had in life before illness had destroyed him. The face was stern, the eyes disapproving. “Tristan Hiregaard,” said the ghost of Kethmaar in hollow tones, “this is sacred ground. You come to violate it.”

Tristan fought to keep his trembling from showing. If he displayed any fear, he was certain these apparitions would fall on him. “Kethmaar, I need your help,” Tristan answered, not addressing the accusation. In comparison with the echoing tones of the dead, his own voice, issuing from a living throat, seemed reed-thin and fragile. “There is a terrible evil afoot in Nova Vaasa. I have a way of confronting it, but I can’t do it without your help.”

The ghost shook its head. “We have passed beyond this world. There is no aid we can give.”

“But you must,” answered Tristan, becoming more agitated. “The hands of a king are the hands of a healer—you told me that. And the king is the land—its tragedies are his, its joys are his. I haven’t come here to rob you. I come with the utmost respect. But I need to take your hands—for the good of your land!”

“This is not a place for the living.” The hollow voice held a note of warning. “Go, Sir Tristan. Go back to the living and leave us to our rest.”

Tristan clenched his teeth. He had hoped Kethmaar would see the need, but no matter. He would proceed without the dead king’s blessing; he had no choice. Grimly, he stepped forward and walked through Kethmaar’s ghost, the magical light following him.

The cold intensified immediately, and Tristan shivered violently as his body attempted to warm itself against the unnatural chill. Tristan’s legs went almost completely numb, and it was with the greatest effort that he was able to continue moving forward, step by aching step. Fear rose inside him like a trapped beast, but he would not yield to the clawing animal. “I do not fear them,” he whispered between clenched teeth.

An instant later he passed through the wall of undead stewards. The chill vanished, and the forms of the dead coalesced into globes of pale blue light. With a whooshing sound, they whirled past him into the depths beyond. Then all was silence.

Tristan shuddered deeply and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. He had beaten the guardians of the crypt, driven them back to wherever they came from. They were not so terrifying, after all. The thought cheered him, and he remembered the thyme on his son’s grave. Courage.

That courage began to ebb slightly as he descended into the first chamber of the mausoleum and took a good look at his surroundings. The mausoleum was several levels deep. At this level, the niches in the walls were empty of their grisly occupants, but it was still a sobering sight. The corridor was long, about three hundred yards or so. The walls to Tristan’s right and left held eighty niches, and there were ten more flanking the door that opened to the next level. The light he had conjured was little better than a flickering torch, and it cast strange shadows on the vacant, cobwebbed alcoves.

“I didn’t choose to be the house of this evil creature,” he said aloud. There had been nobility on the faces of the guardians, and he somehow felt he had to justify his presence. “I have no choice. I must fight him. I am here for the cause of good.” His own words fortified him, and he strode down the long, echoing corridor and descended the stairs to the next level.

Now he moved more slowly. This level was occupied. No fewer than twenty kings slept in the niches in the stone walls. These hollows had inhabitants living as well as dead. As Tristan advanced, his magical light following, he heard the sounds of mice and rats skittering away at his approach. A spider who had made her web in the mouth of a skeleton waved her legs threateningly at him.

There was not as great a stench as he had expected. The mainly dry climate of Nova Vaasa desiccated rather than rotted, and the body of the most recent king was no exception. The features, dried and sunken, were still recognizable. The herbs Othmar had left on the coffin were gone, eaten by scavengers.

Expecting a second attack from the stewards, Tristan stepped forward cautiously, sword in hand, but Kethmaar’s body never moved. Tristan gazed at the beautiful robes of state he had seen Kethmaar wear so often. His gaze traveled to the king’s sword, Failnot, which lay by Kethmaar’s side. Tentatively, Tristan touched the great weapon. He had been knighted by this sword many long years ago when both he and the king were energetic, enthusiastic youths.

Tristan studied the dead face sorrowfully. The flesh was dry and leathery, almost mummified. Kethmaar’s eyes and nose had sunken into his face. The great king Tristan had known and loved was no more. “I’m sorry, Kethmaar,” he said softly. “But I have to do this.”

Sheathing his sword, Tristan drew his dagger. He reached into the coffin and took one of the dead hands in his own.

A low groan whispered through the confines of the crypt. Tristan jumped back, frightened. The sound came again, a long, soft, yet unspeakably terrifying noise. It took Tristan a moment to realize what it was. Bodies, as they decomposed, underwent disturbing changes. Blood settled, giving pallid corpses unnaturally ruddy complexions. Nails and hair continued to grow—and air escaping the lungs past the vocal cords made eerie sounds. These unpleasant facts of nature had given rise to superstitions such as vampires or the walking dead. I’ve let this place get to me, Tristan told himself. I’m becoming as superstitious as the rest of Nova Vaasa!

He bent again to his task. When the corpse shifted, Tristan reminded himself again that occasional movement was not unheard of in a settling corpse. He bent and clasped the hand.

The other one shot up to seize his throat.

Tristan shrieked. Despite his terror, his reflexes were good enough so that the dead hands merely scratched his throat. The next instant, the knight was spinning away and drawing his sword. The thing that had been Kethmaar bolted upright and roared its anger. The flesh that barely covered its skull cracked and flaked off with the movement. Glowing red dots appeared in the depths of its sunken eyes. Tristan had wondered briefly if the thing were animated by the spirit of the dead king, but one look at the rage in the eyes quelled that thought. This was not Kethmaar, and only its body had ever been Kethmaar. A clawed hand reached for Failnot, and the corpse leapt down from its resting place. With staggering speed, it fell upon Tristan.

Tristan, startled by how fast the thing could move, was forced into a crouched position, fighting upward. Stroke after stroke battered down on him. Grunting, he parried well until one knee, unused to the strained position, gave out. Tristan cried aloud as Failnot struck him a glancing blow to the right shoulder. He went with the force of the blow, rolling forward, turning despite the pain, and scrambling to an upright position.

Kethmaar was on him almost before he could turn around, and nearly struck him a second time. Blades clashed with a metallic, almost musical ring that echoed through the cavernous halls. Underneath that sound and the noise of Tristan’s own grunts and panting, Tristan could hear something else—something whispering, rustling, almost too faint to be sensed. The corpse of his king continued to rain blows upon him, and he dared not turn his attention to find the source of the barely audible sounds.

Tristan managed to get in one blow of his own, bringing his sword down on his adversary’s leg. The blade bit into the flesh, but did little damage to the desiccated skin and muscle tissue. It did not slow Kethmaar, who pursued his attack with the same speed, silence, and skill. Tristan’s injured shoulder clamored for attention. He was only grateful it was not his left, his sword arm. Sparks flew as Kethmaar renewed his attack. Briefly Tristan wished that he had cast a stronger light spell, or had thought to conjure other defensive magics. Now, it was too late. He could no more concentrate on a spell—let alone seize a moment to form the proper gestures—than he could abandon his quest to destroy Malken.

Tristan yelped again as Failnot struck home a second time. The blow this time was not as damaging, though, and Tristan’s leather armor proved sufficient protection. Hope rose in Tristan. He was certain his cause was just. He attacked with renewed energy, but Kethmaar fought on with the stamina of something both more and less than human.

Suddenly Tristan’s left arm was jarred all the way up to his shoulder by a blow. At that same instant, he saw part of his sword splinter off and go spinning to one side. Shards of broken metal flew into his face. Instinctively, Tristan threw up his right hand to shield his eyes. The pain of the gesture took him by surprise, and he gasped.

Just as the blow was about to fall, something clamped down on his leg and tugged him out of reach. Failnot clanged into the stone a scant two inches from Tristan’s head, sending a shower of sparks. Tristan wildly glanced down to see who his rescuer might be. A skeletal face grinned up at him. The thing was no savior, but another undead attacker. A second hand closed on his shoulder. Tristan writhed violently, breaking the hold both creatures had on him, and sprinted back toward the entrance of this level of the mausoleum. He jammed his hand in his pouch and searched furiously as he ran, finally coming up with the necessary ingredients. The things followed him swiftly. He took a precious few seconds to judge the distance and barely had time to toss the items in the air and utter the spell in a hoarse voice. He concentrated his attention on the door at the far end and extended his hands.

Fire erupted in a thin streak from his hands to speed down the corridor. A huge crackling sound rent the air of the mausoleum. Right before the giant fireball exploded at the base of the door, Tristan realized that he had misjudged the distance. The hall was too short.

He flung himself facedown on the cold stone, not cold for much longer. He dimly heard the clatter of his sword hitting the floor as he frantically covered his head. There came a whumph, and then heat seared his head and shoulders as the back draft from the fireball rushed up the hallway. Smoke filled the air and Tristan coughed violently. His scalp and hands felt singed, and his lungs stung. For a moment, his eyes were so filled with tears he couldn’t see. At last, he rolled over.

The fireball had destroyed most of the lumbering monstrosities, but not all of them. Those that had been farthest away from the flames still lurched toward him, what remained of their clothing and skin blazing brightly. Kethmaar, the closest, was also aflame, but he came on, his sword raised.

Tristan scrambled for his own sword, ignoring the pain of his injuries and the burns that covered his hands. Kethmaar had nearly reached him, roaring angrily amid the popping and crackling of his burning body, and raised Failnot above his flame-crowned head. Frantically Tristan swung. The blow was clean and strong, and it sliced the leathery body in half. Tristan harnessed the momentum of the blow and reversed it, severing Kethmaar’s head from his shoulders as the torso began to fall. The three parts of Kethmaar tumbled to the floor. Rotting organs slipped from their leathery-skinned encasements. The torso, still ablaze, continued to wield Failnot, while the legs kicked frantically and the head jabbered, the light in the eyes fading.

Tristan lunged again, his blade chopping the sword hand of the monster away from its arm. The hand ceased to struggle. Tristan glanced back down the corridor. The fiery zombies continued to come, their arms outstretched, their dry bodies all but consumed by the fire. They’d be on him in less than a minute. Tristan grabbed Kethmaar’s sword hand and pried the weapon loose. As he shoved the one hand into his pouch, he sliced the other one off and seized it as well.

He whirled and ran toward freedom, feeling the heat given off by the zombies at his back. The infuriated dead were faster than Tristan had expected. They were just a few yards behind him when he emerged into the clear, cool night. “Kal!” he cried.

The horse whickered anxiously to its master from the other side of the gate. Tristan hit the gate at a run. He leaned back, crying aloud with pain as he pulled the gate open. Breathing heavily, he darted through and heaved the gate closed. It moved slowly, reluctantly, as if it, too, wanted to catch the interloper. “Come on, come on,” Tristan muttered aloud. The heavy gate was too much for his injured arm, and it was hard to pull closed with his good arm. Whatever arm he used, his hands protested hotly.

The gate clanged into place as the walking dead stumbled out of their crypt, clearly visible by the hellish flames that consumed them with each step. With fingers that shook, Tristan inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The key glowed as the lock clicked into place.

Tristan stared, panting, a few inches away from the burning corpses. They moaned their agony and anger, reaching skeletal hands through the iron bars toward his throat. Safe from their vengeance, Tristan watched them for a long moment. “Rest in peace, you bastards,” he muttered.

He mounted Kal and galloped backed toward Kantora, leaving behind the wailing, shuffling Figures of the violated kings.

When no answers came to his letters, Sigfrid decided to go and investigate. As he rode up in the late evening, he sighed. He dreaded going to Faerhaaven these days, as much as he used to look forward to it. Tristan was seldom at home, and when he was, he was poor company. The new staff he had hired over the last few weeks was distinctly hostile, and Sigfrid was horrified to learn that loyal old Guillaume had recently been dismissed.

“When?”

The old woman who met him at the door shrugged. Her eyes were hooded, furtive. “This morning. Master’s not here. Y’just missed ’im.”

Sigfrid shook his head. He was becoming fearful for his friend’s safety. As the woman was about to close the door on him, Sigfrid stopped her, drawing a ring of keys from a hook on his belt. “Sir Tristan asked me to keep an eye on Faerhaaven.” It wasn’t an outright lie; Tristan had given him a set of keys to the old estate should anything happen to him.

The woman glanced cursorily at the keys, then nodded and opened the large wooden door to the hall. Filled with relief, Sigfrid entered. He had no plan, only to be here when Tristan returned from whatever foray he was on. He wandered aimlessly about, encountering dark looks from the men and women who were now staffing Faerhaaven. What on earth had possessed Tristan to let the older servants go?

There were more differences in the fine old castle than simply the cast of players. Faerhaaven had suffered from Tristan’s lack of attention. The rooms not in frequent use had been permitted to bear layers of dust and cobwebs. Even in areas such as the dining room and receiving room, the lack of care was felt. Silver and brass utensils and works of art were tarnished, and some had gone missing. The place felt—abandoned. Abandoned, but not quite empty.

Sigfrid made his way up to the Royal Suites, unlocking doors and peering into various rooms. He went to the window in one of the closed-up guest suites and looked out. Though the moon was new, the stars this far away from the smoke of the city provided ample illumination for him to see the family cemetery. He gave it a quick glance, then his gaze lingered. It took a moment before he realized what was wrong about the scene, eerily lit by starlight. Digging implements were strewn about, and there was a grave whose dirt was darker than that of its fellows.

This grave was fresh.

Neither Tristan nor any of the servants had said anything about a death to Sigfrid. He had enough presence of mind to take a lamp with him as he hastened down the endless stairs and through the castle. Running toward the cemetery, his heart pounding with apprehension as well as physical exertion, Sigfrid told himself that he was being too easily spooked, that it wasn’t Tristan, murdered, lying there; that it was a distant relative, or a servant who had broken his neck on the stairs, who now slept in the newly dug, herb-covered grave.

There was no fence around the cemetery. The herbs kept the plains cats from digging up the bodies. As for human scavengers, well, that was what Tristan kept soldiers for. Sigfrid ran straight for the new grave and fell to his knees.

A small stone with carved letters was mounted on the grave, its writing hidden by the long tendrils of thyme. His heart pounding, Sigfrid brushed them aside and read:

HERE LIES IVAAR HIREGAARD,

A VICTIM OF HIS OWN IDEALS.

“Ivaar!” Sigfrid breathed, shocked. He sank back on his heels. How long had he been dead? Not more than a day, judging by the relative freshness of the earth and the carelessly scattered shovel and pick. Why hadn’t Tristan told him?

Feeling suddenly very old, Sigfrid rose slowly, brushing off the dirt from his breeches and turning again toward Faerhaaven. He had not originally intended to violate Tristan’s confidences, but discovering Ivaar’s grave gave his task new urgency.

Upon entering Tristan’s private suite, Sigfrid found nothing amiss at first. The room was clean, the bed well made. The open window let in fresh air. Then he saw the picture. Tristan had mangled the painting of his beloved Ailsa, and there was dried blood on the canvas. “Oh, no. Oh, Tris,” mourned Sigfrid, staring at the portrait with sorrowful horror.

He glanced down at the ring of keys he held, suddenly realizing he was clutching them so hard that his hand ached. He knew where he had to go next. Praying that his trespass into the sorcery chamber would vindicate his friend, Sigfrid unsteadily ascended the stairs into the Master’s Tower.

Sigfrid inserted the key, then hesitated. Right now he had a jumbled, scarlet-colored confusion of suspicions. Did he really want to know what secrets lay behind that door?

Yes, he decided. If Tristan was in trouble, if he had gotten himself wrapped up with the killer, as Sigfrid suspected, he would need a friend who still loved him. No matter what Tristan had done, Sigfrid would try his best to help him. Thus renewing his strength of purpose, Sigfrid spoke the word of power that negated the magic ward on the door and turned the key in the lock.

The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door. Sigfrid gagged slightly and covered his nose for a moment, then forced himself to breathe deeply to accustom himself to the stench. He took the torch from the hallway and brought it into the room, lighting the candles with it. As he did so, he glanced around, fearful. At first, the place seemed well ordered despite the smell; there was no chaos here. Sigfrid permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He closed the door behind him and locked it. It was then, as he turned around for a second look at the room where Tristan spent most of his time, that he saw the entrails.

His brown eyes grew wide. This was what was giving off the scent of rot—the entrails of some small animal. They were placed on a silver tray on the table in the center of the room, and sprinkled with what seemed to be dirt.

“Tristan,” he whispered, “what are you doing?” He looked at the open jar next to the rotting guts and read in Tristan’s careful script: Dirt from Ivaar’s grave. He walked slowly around the table, noting that there were various jars of dried herbs laid out. One, marked Nepata, whatever that was, was open and almost empty. A cup sat nearby, crusted with the remains of what had obviously been a very strong concoction. Sigfrid picked it up and sniffed. The scent made his eyes water. Whatever this potion had been, Tristan had been taking a lot of it in very strong doses. Tristan’s cane was also on the table, and its brass head was stained with what seemed to be dried blood.

Sigfrid had fought and killed before. He was no stranger to blood or death. But this calculated perversity that now spread itself before him touched a deep-seated fear that he quelled with difficulty.

A book was on the table, spattered with ink from a quill that lay near it. Sigfrid picked it up, seated himself, and began to read, hoping against hope this would give him some information to vindicate his friend. But when Sigfrid touched the book, it fell open to an entry that, like the portrait in Tristan’s room, was stained with crusted blood. Sigfrid read with growing revulsion: HE HAZ HIS MUTHERS FACE, EH TRIS?

It was not Tristan’s neat, precise hand. This was a violent scrawl. Sigfrid, sick, recognized it. He had seen that handwriting in blood before—on the wall of a brothel where the signature killer had struck and fled moments before Sigfrid had arrived. That single word, “SUPPRIZE!” had been burned into his memory. Had the killer been here and murdered Tristan? Could one of the servants be the man he and Tristan sought?

He flipped back to the beginning entry. Today I bury my friend Kethmaar.…

While the candles he had lit burned low, Sigfrid read on. He followed the events of the last month and a half, from Kethmaar’s death through that of young Amasa, from the appearance of the signature killer through Tristan’s suspicions of his own son. One entry brought him up short.

Could there be someone who is not altogether on our side? The Vistana warned me of a traitor.… Perhaps, horrible though it is for me to think it, the killer is indeed my son. Or perhaps—and what gods there be forgive me—but perhaps the traitor is the other one who knows when the traps are being laid.…

“Tris,” Sigfrid moaned, wounded to the heart. “How could you doubt me?”

He read on, hungry and yet fearful at what he would discover. Tristan had convinced himself there was a being—I dare not call him a man—called Malken the Cat, and had come to the conclusion that Malken and I are, for want of a better word, linked in some bizarre fashion. The crimes, according to the journal, increased, even though Malken knew Tristan was aware of him.

Sigfrid was jolted when Tristan’s hand gave way abruptly to the vicious scrawl that had appeared on the wall of the dead prostitute’s room. He looked closer at the erratic writing that, at first glance, had borne absolutely no resemblance to Tristan’s small, careful script. Now Sigfrid, looking at this maniacal writing for the third time, compared the two hands. He swallowed hard. The killer’s hand—for so Sigfrid believed it to be—was really nothing more than an exaggeration of Tristan’s. The letters were less careful, more haphazard, and differently sloped. Clearly, though, both entries had been penned by the same hand.

Tristan hadn’t been killed or blackmailed by the signature murderer. He was the signature murderer. Unable to bear it, his mind had concocted a story that Tristan obviously believed, about the mysterious Malken and his realm of treachery. Sigfrid now thought he knew why Osric Laars had insisted that they stop the hunt for the killer. Somehow, Laars knew what was going on and, out of love for Tristan, didn’t want anyone else to discover the terrible secret. Sigfrid closed his eyes in pain for a moment, as if he were mourning one already dead. Then he continued.

He read Tristan’s interpretation of the Vistana Tarokka reading and shook his head. How could Tristan have missed the obvious? He read of Tristan’s awakening in the room with the dead girl—“Of course you woke up with her, you killed her,” said Sigfrid, unaware that he had spoken aloud—read of his obsession, of the appearance of Ivaar’s body.

Knowing what I do now, I am hopeful I will be able to raise enough power to trespass into Malken’s plane of existence—the cursed mirror. There, where we can be two separate entities, I will be able to fight and destroy him.

“Sigfrid! What are you doing here?”

Tristan’s voice was tired, tremulous, and yet full of blazing anger. Sigfrid was startled, but he did not flinch guiltily. Instead, he slowly raised his curly red head from the book and met Tristan’s bloodshot gaze. Tristan’s eyes fell to the journal in Sigfrid’s lap.

“You—know, then?” he whispered softly.

Sig nodded, slowly, cautiously. “Yes, I know. I know everything. And I want to help you.”

In his relief, Tristan didn’t notice the wary caution in Sigfrid’s posture. On the table, Tristan set down the sack he’d been carrying.

It was as he removed his cloak and dropped it carelessly to the floor that Sigfrid saw burns on his friend’s hands. “What happened to you?””

Grimacing, Tristan went to one of the towering shelves and perused its contents. Selecting a jar, he turned around as he tried to open it with his burned fingers. Sigfrid leapt to his feet to assist his friend. Tristan accepted the opened jar, scooping out a greasy gray ointment and rubbing it into the burns. “I’m sorry I doubted you, but if you’ve read that journal—”

“You doubted everyone, Tris; I understand why.”

Tristan smiled, and for a moment, he seemed like his old self to his heartbroken comrade. “I’m actually glad this happened. Now that I know I can trust you, and you understand how desperate the situation is, you can help me.”

With a coolness that chilled Sigfrid’s blood, Tristan upended the sack and shook out a pair of human hands. The hands bounced on the hard wood and came to rest, the fingers rigid and reaching for the ceiling like an insect turned on its back. Rings glittered on the stiffened digits, and Sigfrid’s horror deepened as he realized to whom those hands had once belonged.

“It’s a bit grisly, but you know the saying—the hands of a king are the hands of a healer. That’s where I’ve been tonight.” Tristan fixed his friend with a piercing gaze. “Malken is slowly killing the land. I need to raise enough power to confront him, and the hands of Kethmaar will help me.” He frowned at the expression of shock on Sigfrid’s face. “Still squeamish? Can’t you see what I’m trying to do?”

“I see that you’re ill,” replied Sigfrid, choosing his words with care. “I see what you think is going on, and I want to help you stop it.”

“So it was you,” breathed Tristan, for the moment too shocked to be angry. “You are the Traitor!”

“No, Tris, I’m your friend, and I want to help you!” He hesitated. “You said in that journal that you and Malken were linked.” Tristan nodded. “Do you remember when—he takes over?”

“No. I have no memory of what he makes my body do. Do you think I’d condone these murders? What kind of a bastard—”

“And that tea,” continued Sigfrid, pointing desperately. “How much of it do you drink? What does it do?”

“I drink as much as I can hold, all the time,” Tristan replied. “I’m low on a certain herb, and I need to get more right away. The tea keeps Malken from knowing my thoughts.”

“Good, that’s good,” said Sigfrid. “Listen to me for a few moments.” He took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “There is no Malken. He’s not some monster that’s taken you over; he’s a part of your mind. Malken is you when you—the Tristan I know—isn’t there.”

“You think I’m mad.” The knight’s voice was calm, but Sigfrid didn’t miss the undercurrent of anger beneath the cool tone.

“Let’s just look at what’s been happening. You’re taking all kinds of herbs that have who knows what kind of effect on your mind. You see ghosts. You’re robbing the graves of your son and your best friend—”

“I needed Kethmaar’s hands for the spell!” cried Tristan.

“You may have killed your own son!” Sigfrid cried. A muscle in Sig’s jaw tightened. “I believe you when you say you didn’t know what you were doing when you killed those women. But you’ve got to stop, and I’m going to help you. You’re—you’re the closest thing to family I’ve got. I don’t want you to hang, especially when you weren’t truly responsible. Don’t worry, old friend. I’m not going to throw you to the cats.” He smiled, a kind of trembling, lopsided smile. “Now,” he said, collecting himself, “you stay here. I’ll get that herb—nepata, wasn’t it?—in town for you.”

“Then—you don’t think I’m mad?”

Sigfrid hesitated, answering carefully. “From what you say, and I believe you on this, there’s something in that brew of yours that works. We need to find out more about it and keep you safe when—you change. I’ll bring Hadwinsson. He knows a lot about herbalism. He’ll help us, I’m sure.”

Sigfrid turned to leave. He placed his hand on the door.

“No, he’s involved with Malken too! They all are!” Tristan could hear his voice rising with tension. Sweat started under his arms. “That’s just what they’d want, to have me—Tristan—locked away so they and Malken can control everything! Do you know what kind of a hellhole Malken will turn this country into?” His voice broke on the last word.

Now Sigfrid turned to face him, and there was a sorrowful pity on his open face. “What happened to your respect for the law? To the protection of innocents? There’s a traitor here, all right, but it’s not me. It’s you. Don’t you understand? This is all in your mind! There’s nothing wrong except that you’re ill, Tris.” He paused, then added, “I know you think I’m turning against you right now, but one day you’ll understand. I’ll help you get through this. I promise.”

He turned away from Tristan and took out his keys, preparing to unlock the door.

“Sig—don’t.”

Determinedly, Sigfrid inserted the key in the lock. “This is the only way. Just stay here and I’ll be back soon. You don’t have to fight this battle alone anymore.”

“Do not walk out that door, Captain Skolsson.” Tristan’s voice was hard, steely, the voice of command.

Sigfrid swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t hear that order.”

“I’m the only one who can stop Malken! You can’t keep me locked up! Please, Sig!”

Now the voice was openly pleading. Sigfrid had never heard Tristan beg for anything in his life, and it almost broke his will. Then he thought of the bodies of the dead girls, and how he now had the chance to stop that and restore his friend’s mind. There was no choice. He turned the key and placed his hand on the knob.

Tristan panicked. He was the only one who truly understood the diabolical depths of Malken’s malevolence, was the only one who had a prayer of stopping him. He reached out blindly, grasping for something, anything, to delay Sigfrid’s departure. His left hand closed on his cane.

In utter silence, Tristan fell upon his friend. With a muffled crunching sound, one strong blow landed on the back of Sigfrid’s head. The young man crumpled without a word of protest. Now, at least, Tristan thought to himself, he had bought some time. He reached down to pick up Sigfrid. He could place him in a corner, tie him up, and when he awoke—But as he looked at his friend’s still form, Tristan knew with an icy certainty that Sigfrid would never awaken. There was too much blood, too much shattered bone, too much—too much. “Sig?” he said, stupidly.

Grief and horror clutched at his throat with remorseless hands. The pain was hard and sharp, permitting no release through healing tears. Numbly, Tristan turned the body over to hide the violated skull. He arranged Sigfrid’s hair, wiped the spatters of blood off the pale face. He’d never seen Sigfrid’s face so still. That, more than the blood and the splinters of bone, made the young man’s death real.

Tristan had murdered his best friend.

He sat down heavily, staring at his murdered friend with anguish sharpened by too many days of living on the edge of sanity. Malken had done this to him. Malken had not only murdered Ivaar, but had turned Tristan into a killer as well.

“Too many have suffered for my inaction,” he said aloud. “It’s time. I want the one who started this. And then—” His blue eyes glittered with bridled rage. “Then I want Malken.”

There was no time to bury Sigfrid. That would have to wait until later, Tristan told himself grimly. Later, there would be time for burials and mourning all that was lost, for allowing himself the luxury of feeling grief and pain. Now there was only preparation, and the knight threw himself into it utterly.

He skimmed through his spellbooks, memorizing those he thought would be useful, and carefully prepared all necessary ingredients. He wished he could teleport into Kantora, but did not want to risk drawing attention to himself by using a spell, especially when Kal was fresh and could take him there in two hours.

It was midmorning by the time he arrived in Kantora. The market was beginning to close down already. Fearful he had missed his opportunity, Tristan hastened forward, leading Kal through the thinning crowd. “Any nepata left?” he inquired, hoping he didn’t sound too anxious.

The herbalist, a thin woman in her forties, checked her wares. “Plenty,” she said, to Tristan’s relief. “Not much call for’t, but them as needs it wants to ’ave it, I suppose.” She gave Tristan a large bunch of the dried, leafy plant. Tristan paid her handsomely, not waiting for the change. He hurried on to his next stop, the butcher’s. The large, jowly man shook his head in answer to Tristan’s inquiry.

“Nay, sir, all choice pieces are gone. Naught left but bones an’ fat. Not even stew meat today. Come back tomorrow and—”

“I’ll take some of what’s left.”

The man frowned. Then he brightened. “Ah, for your hounds then? A good dog deserves a treat now and then. I’ll not even charge ye for it—ye’re taking waste off me hands.” At Tristan’s request, he cut the chunks of glistening fat into fist-sized portions and placed them in the wax-covered leather sack Tristan had brought. Despite the offer of free goods, Tristan insisted on handing the man some coppers for his efforts. As he turned away, a small gray cat regarded him steadily.

A smile that had nothing of mirth in it touched Tristan’s lips. “That’s right,” he said to the little animal. “Go tell your master I’m here.”

He mounted Kal and continued on until he reached the High Road. Across the street from the temple and the orphanage was a very well-to-do inn. Tristan tethered his horse here, paying for the privilege, and went inside. He took with him the bag of meat, the nepata, and a large flask. There were no customers yet, so he was undisturbed as he sat in a shadowed corner. He pulled out the flask, uncorked it, then crumbled the dry nepata into the bottle. Recorking it, he shook the mixture well, then took several gulps of the liquid. He gagged but managed to choke the mixture down. He had brewed it especially strong this time.

He opened the bag of fatty meat and emptied the bottle inside, coating the chunks of white fat with the concoction. The innkeeper watched him with a hostile, confused look, but said nothing and brought a basin and pitcher for Tristan to wash his hands. The customer was always right—especially the customer who paid well, as Tristan now did.

“I’m going to visit the temple of Sehkmaa,” said Tristan as he handed over two gold coins. “Keep an eye on my horse for me.”

He reentered the bright midmorning sunlight. Tristan took a deep breath, crossed the High Road, and went into the walled courtyard of the Paw of the Cat. This time, a few curious children, little more than infants, looked up at him as he entered. Around them, lounging alertly, were many large and small cats.

Tristan threw the animals chunks of the meat.

For a long moment, the beasts merely stared. Tristan felt sweat beginning to dot his forehead. Then one black monster rose with liquid grace and strolled leisurely over to Tristan’s bait. It sniffed the fat for a few seconds. “Come on, you damned cat,” Tristan muttered beneath his breath. Then a pink tongue lolled. A moment later, the meat was gone. A few more plains cats entered the courtyard, drawn by the scent. Malken obviously kept them half-starved to ensure their obedience, for their ribs showed clearly. Tristan threw several more chunks of meat to the hungry creatures, then continued on.

He strode boldly up to the door and tried to open it. It was locked, of course. Tristan spoke a few words in a harsh, guttural tone and tried the lock again. This time, it opened for him. “Rozalia!” he boomed as he stepped inside. “You won’t be able to hide from me! I know what you’ve done!”

He had drawn his sword and was ready for an attack. Four Claws entered from the room to Tristan’s left. “Welcome to the Paw of the Cat,” one began in a deceptively silky tone of voice. His hard face belied the gentle greeting. “Good brother, put away your—”

“I want Rozalia.”

They exchanged glances. “I’m sorry, but she is not available.” Their hands crept to their swords. Tristan, tired of this interruption, stepped forward as if to go down the stairs. The men drew their swords, as he knew they would. He whirled with the speed and fury of one of their cursed plains cats. The first one he cut in half with a single strong stroke. The others drew back, then grimly pressed the attack. Tristan easily parried the blows. For all their size and malice, the men seemed strangely reluctant to actually hurt him. Their sword blows were more parries than thrusts—though in truth they had little opportunity to counterattack as Tristan bore down on them like a man possessed.

One charged, stupidly attacking with the scimitar’s pommel as if to knock him unconscious. The fool paid for his misjudgment with his life as Tristan ran him through. As another charged with an oath on his lips, Tristan turned and maimed him. The remaining Claw shoved the wounded man at Tristan and fled past him down the stairs. Tristan whirled, intent on following. Noticing that Tristan had no armor, the dying Claw struck out desperately with his scimitar. The blade made contact with Tristan’s leg as he continued down, but it bounced off harmlessly with a clanging noise, as if Tristan’s limbs were composed of stone, not flesh. The priest groaned in surprise. Tristan smiled grimly. The spell had worked.

“Rozalia!” he called again as he ran down the stairs, following the escaped Claw. He heard an angry noise behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was a plains cat. Without slowing, Tristan reached in his pouch for more tainted meat, tossing it back over his shoulder as he continued his descent.

When two Claws met him as he turned a corner, he barely even slowed. A few quick strokes and they were sprawled on the floor, gasping as crimson seeped from their wounds.

Others met him as he continued on. They were all poor fighters, and all again seemed frightened of actually hurting him. Tristan felt like a juggernaut as he plowed through the best Malken could send against him, easily defeating them and pressing on, crying Rozalia’s name all the time. At last he reached the bottom. It was cold this far below, and the torches that lined the hallways were vital for vision. The hall before him was lined with doors. He hesitated, wondering which to try first.

The first door past the corner stood open. From within, Tristan could hear a frantic tinkling of glass. “Rozalia!” he called, and stepped inside.

The Vistana woman stood in a room that looked like the herb garden of a madman. Jars, bowls, and bottles were everywhere. The floor and every available surface were covered by either bunches of dried herbs or pots of growing fresh ones. Herbs hung from strings in the rafters. Dangling among the herbs like so many plants were the carcasses of small animals, strung up by their legs. Some were skeletal, with only a bit of leathery dried flesh holding the bones together. Others were freshly dead, exuding the sick perfume of rot. More than a few were still alive, blood dripping slowly from holes in their bodies into cups below that caught the precious fluid. A brew was bubbling in a cauldron placed on the fire, and Rozalia paused in stirring it to stare fixedly at Tristan.

Fear flitted across her face like a bat at twilight, then it was gone. “What an unexpected surprise,” she said mockingly.

Tristan ignored her tone of voice. “You did this to me,” he panted, slightly out of breath from his exertions. “Somehow you’re at the bottom of this. You did it!”

“What do you mean? What did I do?” Her hand crept toward the dagger at her side. Tristan noticed, but did nothing. An instant later, the poison-tainted weapon was whirling through the air at him. He didn’t move. It struck him on the neck. While the blow caused a slightly painful pressure on his throat, the blade did not mar his skin in the slightest. Now Rozalia’s black eyes widened in fear, and Tristan’s smile grew.

As he charged her, she reacted quickly. She heaved the table over, effectively blocking him. Small bloodied corpses and vials of various foul substances crashed to the floor around Tristan. Fumes rose up, making him cough and gag. Desperately, the gypsy flitted past, trying to reach the door. Tristan was swifter. His right hand shot out and grabbed her long braid of silky black hair.

Rozalia shrieked. “Malken, help me!” she cried out, writhing.

“Not this time. I’m in control now,” Tristan hissed. He yanked hard. Hair ripped out of her scalp, but enough held that Tristan could drag her back toward him. She twisted like a wild thing and managed to turn around and face him. Shrieking like a banshee, Rozalia raised her hands, using her sharp fingernails as weapons. The spell Tristan had cast to harden his skin would protect him, but it was only good for a certain number of attacks. If Rozalia was clever enough to coat a cat’s claws with poison, Tristan had little doubt she had done the same with her own nails. Anger filled him, and he swung with his sword. It sliced cleanly through her wrist, and her hand, fingers still writhing wildly, soared through the air.

The woman screamed in pain and horror this time. Blood pumping from the severed wrist sprayed Tristan’s face with warmth. Shocked, staring at her nub of an arm, she was easy to catch off balance. Tristan had her pinned beneath him in an instant. He shoved his knee between her breasts and pressed down, bringing his bloody sword to her throat.

“Now maybe you’ll listen to me. I know what you’ve become. And I know what you’ve done to me. You brought Malken into this world with your hate and evil, and now you’re going to take him out the same way. If you value your life at all, darkling, remove the curse you put on me!”

For a long, agonized moment, Rozalia didn’t respond. She only continued to stare at her blood-pumping arm. He leaned on her more heavily. Any more pressure with his knee would shatter her breastbone. At last, groaning, Rozalia turned up her black eyes to him imploringly. Tears of absolute fear spilled down her tawny skin. She batted at him ineffectually with her bleeding stump of an arm.

“I can’t!” she cried.

Tristan’s brow darkened dangerously. “You murdered your own father and your own people cast you out for your crimes and arrogance! The herbs and magic you now use to poison you once used to heal.” He pressed the blade closer to her throat. Her eyes widened through tears. “I will kill you if you refuse me.”

“You giorgio bastard,” she wailed, “I don’t know how!”

He believed her.

He believed her and was enraged at her lack of power before the evil her own hatred had wrought. Fury swelled and burst inside him, and he ground his knee into her chest with a savage cracking sound, and at the same time he brought his sword slicing down on her throat. He would never know which injury killed her.

He rolled off the corpse, glancing around the ruins of her arcane magics. He spied—and on a sudden impulse seized—an empty glass bottle. Quickly he uncorked it and dipped it in Rozalia’s blood. She wouldn’t aid him in life, but her life’s blood would help him raise enough power to complete his spell. When the bottle was full of hot, red fluid, Tristan corked it and shoved it into his pouch.

The next instant he was on his feet and racing down the corridor. As he tore up the stairs, he heard a shriek. It was quickly followed by another, and another, until a vast cacophony of pain rose and swelled inside the Paw of the Cat. Thumping noises and the savage growls of plains cats punctuated the human screams. Tristan smiled grimly to himself. His plan was working beautifully.

One great cat had its jaws buried in the throat of one of Malken’s Claws. Four others, out in the courtyard, were feasting on the unrecognizable forms of the orphans. In the nursery, cats were knocking over cribs and devouring the helpless infants. More than a half dozen of the beasts had escaped and were racing down the High Road, attacking virtually anything that moved.

Tristan had not given the cats poison. He had given them the same concoction he himself used to block Malken. Now the famished giant cats were free to sate their appetites. Tristan sped like one possessed out the door. He raced across the street, noting with grim pleasure the destruction the cats were leaving in their wake. The area was chaos now, almost more frantic than the day when the cats had appeared during the parade. This time, they had no master tugging on a leash. This time, they were in truth ravenous wild beasts. Tristan had seen to that.

He had nearly reached the other side of the High Road when he saw that his plan had perhaps worked too well. His horse Kal was fighting for its life. Neighing shrilly, the tethered animal managed to land a blow on an attacking cat’s skull. But two more animals were streaking toward it with horrible speed, black-furred incarnations of death. They sprang, silently, gracefully, and Kal went down in a spray of blood from the throat.

One of the cats looked up from its feeding and drew its blood-slicked dewlaps back from its teeth. Its green eyes narrowed as the beast’s gaze fastened on Tristan. He saw the knotting of its shoulder muscles as it gathered itself to spring on him. Tristan closed his eyes and stilled himself as best he could. He formed a picture of his sorcery chamber in his mind’s eye, concentrated, and spoke the words.

He disappeared just as the cat exploded into action. It landed, confused and yowling in disappointment, not on its prey but on the hard-packed earth of the inn yard. Hissing, it swiveled its ears in the direction of the screams from the tavern. Soft flesh would be inside. The cat forgot its disappointment and ran for the inn’s windows.

Tristan materialized in his magic room. Withdrawing the vial of Rozalia’s blood from his pouch, he hastened to the tray that bore the rotting entrails and the mummified hands of the king. Trembling, he uncorked the vial and sprinkled Rozalia’s blood over the gruesome ingredients, closed his eyes, calmed himself, and chanted the words he had found in an ancient tome during his research. Over several minutes, he felt the power of the spell building. Finally, opening his eyes, he turned to the mirror and demanded, “Show me Malken!”

He watched, devastated, as the mirror merely misted over, as it had done so many times before. Exhausted, his nerves raw and ragged and his injuries paining him, Tristan collapsed onto the floor. The spell simply was not strong enough.

He went again over the list of ingredients. What was the old Vistana saying about magic—“The greater the goal, the greater the sacrifice.” Tristan knew he would gladly give his life to defeat Malken, but he couldn’t be certain his death would make a difference. His eyes fell on Sigfrid’s corpse. For love of Tristan, Sigfrid had, unwittingly, sacrificed himself. Hope flickered in Tristan’s breast, faint as a candle flame. Here was the sacrifice.

“You wanted to stop the killing too, Sigfrid,” he said, rising with effort to his feet. He pulled his dagger, honed to razor sharpness, from his belt. Stumbling, he crawled over to where Sigfrid lay. “Forgive me, old friend, but you’re gone now. You can still help me stop him, though. Together, as we have always been, we’ll destroy the bastard.”

Steeling himself, Tristan cut easily through Sigfrid’s clothing, laying bare the chest. Tristan grimaced, then plunged his dagger into Sigfrid’s flesh. Sharp though the dagger was, Tristan grunted with the effort it took to slice open the body. Sigfrid’s blood had started to congeal. Tristan swallowed hard, then reached inside. He groped for a moment, and then his searching fingers found his friend’s heart. His left hand closed gently on the organ and his right cut it free.

If he had had any doubts that he was doing the necessary thing, they vanished at once. The heart of his friend suddenly grew hot in his hand. Unbearably hot. Tristan rose, slipping a little in the blood that had dripped, and staggered to the table. The heart was burning now, and beginning to glow with a white-hot radiance. Blood from the struggle with Rozalia trickled down his arm. Droplets of red sizzled as they touched Sigfrid’s heart.

His voice harsh, he rasped out the words of the spell, clutching the heart and holding it over the other ingredients. The heart began to pulse with a magical life all its own, growing brighter and brighter until Tristan had to squint. As he finished the final words of the incantation, the heart caught fire and burned to pieces in Tristan’s gore-covered hand.

He turned to the mirror. “Show me Malken!” he cried, and almost wept when the mirror shimmered and Malken’s nightmare face, twisted with rage, appeared.

He glared at Tristan, murder in his eyes. “Best me on my own ground, would you, Tristan?” snarled the fiend. “You can’t destroy me. Haven’t you figured it out?”

Tristan was not distracted by Malken’s taunts. He took the cane, the cane that had taken Sigfrid’s life, and brought it crashing down on Malken’s face in the mirror. Malken shrieked as the cane approached, throwing up his hands as if to shield himself. The mirror shattered with a violent, discordant sound, and shards of glass flew everywhere.

For a long, long moment there was silence. Tristan’s ears strained for sound. None came. He had done it. Slowly, he put the cane down on the table. In a daze, he stumbled toward the door.

He stepped over a large fragment of mirrored glass. There was a movement, something more than a simple reflection of his own motion. Shaking, Tristan bent down for a closer look. There it was again—a swirl of colors. “What …?” he breathed.

A claw-fingered hand shot up from inside the mirror. It closed on his ankle. Tristan cried out sharply, incoherently, and frantically tried to catch hold of the table leg, a chair, anything to halt his descent. But the thing clutching him was too strong, too swift, and Tristan was dragged into the world of the mirror.

Tristan floated unsupported in a silver, reflective space. There was a source of light somewhere, but he could not see it. He seemed to have company. Dozens of Tristan Hiregaards, all equally suspended in space, all looking equally ragged and frightened, surrounded him. There were reflections of reflections, and Tristan found himself clutching his own chest to reassure himself that he was indeed the true Tristan.

“Malken!” he cried. His voice was shimmery, silvery, a musical note in this unnatural, bizarre land of mirrored phantasms. “Malken, show yourself!”

“You wish to fight me in my world, eh, Tristan?” The voice was inside his head and sounded perfectly normal. “Then you must fight with my rules. I am part of you, Tristan Hiregaard, though you may deny that to your dying day—which could be imminent.”

Suddenly the force that kept Tristan suspended released its hold. Tristan spiraled downward, his limbs flailing in a vain attempt to halt his progress. Another struggling, frightened Tristan rushed up to meet him, and Tristan realized he was about to hit a mirrored surface. He braced himself for impact. Instead, he felt cold and wet, as if he had plunged into icy water from a high distance. He gagged, choked and sputtered as everything went dark. Suddenly he could see again.

He looked around wildly. As before, he was surrounded by his own reflection—but this time, the images were joined by hideous reflections of Malken as well. He drew his sword, his eyes frantically searching the images, trying to locate the real Malken amid the jumble of illusions.

“The cult of Sehkmaa could have gone on for years,” the hundreds of Malkens said. Many mouths moved to the words spoken by a single voice. Tristan tried to hone in on the sound, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. “Long enough for these children to grow up and have children of their own. You’ve trod upon generations, Tristan Hiregaard, with your heavy boots of so-called justice.”

“It was justice!” cried Tristan, nearly weeping. “What kind of life would you have given them? Raised them to be thieves and murderers like yourself?”

“Oh, no, into grave robbers, oath-breakers, and murderers like you,” Malken answered, grinning. “Come, come, Tristan, I know you better than you realize. Maybe that nasty experience with your wife and son and best friend was a little hard for you. I can understand that. But killing Rozalia, making my well-trained cats go mad, battling animated corpses guarding body parts they can’t use anymore—wasn’t that just a little, well, fun?”

Tristan exploded with fury and lunged for the nearest Malken. His weapon, swung with all his strength, shattered a mirror instead of living flesh.

“I thought so,” smirked Malken. Again Tristan attacked, and again struck only mirrors.

“Fight me, damn you, if you’re so sure you’ll win!” His voice was a hoarse yell now, and his eyes were wild as he glanced around at dozens of Malkens. As one, they threw back their heads and laughed. Then the figures winked out, one by one, replaced by a silvery floor beneath his feet and a single Malken standing in front of Tristan. Malken’s grin nearly split his diabolically ugly face.

“Come for me,” he invited in a voice that was almost a purr. He raised his sword.

Tristan needed no second invitation. Grunting, he launched himself at Malken, his sword a swift and deadly extension of his arm. He fought with even more desperation and skill than he had displayed with Kethmaar’s animated body, infusing into his fighting everything he loathed about Malken. Yet, unbelievably, Malken parried every strike almost nonchalantly. Blow after blow was dealt, and not a one scathed Tristan’s enemy. Nor was Malken, in his own attack, able to land a blow on Tristan. Blades locked, and the two faces, one snarling and sweating, the other calm and gloating, were within inches of one another.

Without warning, Malken’s face melted, changed, into Tristan’s own. But he wore an expression of gleeful malice that Tristan’s visage had never known. Tristan, startled, cried out and broke off, backing up to regain his composure. He and Malken circled one another in half-crouched positions.

“I know all your tricks, Tristan,” hissed Malken. “I know every blow you’ll make. And, naturally, you instinctively know what I’m about to do.”

He feinted, and of course Malken’s blade was there to stop the blow from striking home. He feinted again, thinking to trick his adversary, but again Malken knew where to strike. And when Malken suddenly surged forward with a barrage of sword blows that jarred Tristan’s arm, Tristan’s own sword met his evenly. They both leapt back. Tristan continued moving, panting, trying to forget strategy and surrender to simple and unpredictable instinct. Every time he tried, though, Malken met his blows with his own brutal wildness.

Again, they broke apart, circling like two wary plains cats. The hours without sleep, the stress, and his injuries conspired now to weary Tristan. He feared for the weakness of his body but saw that Malken, too, bore every injury and strain he himself had suffered.

“There is no winning this, Tristan, not for either of us,” growled Malken. “Even if you were to slay me here, in this mirror, the only place the two of us can meet face-to-face, you would lose.”

“Why?” snapped Tristan. “If killing you means I die, then that’s a price that I’ll gladly pay.”

“Oh, of course you would,” countered Malken, easily ducking Tristan’s sword. “That would be no sacrifice at all. But what about the Nova Vaasa whose protection you claim to be devoted to, hmm? With me gone, what will happen to your beloved country? Her people?” He leered. “The souls of her dead?”

“They’ll be free!” screamed Tristan in the tones of the righteous.

“Oh, no,” replied his nemesis. “I am Nova Vaasa, just as I am you. Make no mistake, Tristan, this land has changed since you last really looked at it. This place likes evil. It keeps it safe. Eliminate Malken, eliminate the part of yourself that revels in sin and corruption, and Tristan is next in line for my throne. You’ll rule with a far harsher hand than I do. You see, I have you to hamper my plans. You would have no conscience named Tristan to worry about. Is that really what you want?”

“You’re an evil thing, Malken! Why would I want to become like you? You represent everything I hate!” He had paused, laboring to catch his breath, unwilling to hear Malken’s reply and yet desperate for it.

Malken, too, did not press the advantage Tristan offered. Instead, his smile widened. “What is good without evil to combat? What are you without me to hate? Look at yourself, Tristan. You’re a murderer of your friend and of innocent children. You’re a user of dark magic. You’re a grave robber. Don’t you see that you need me?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Tristan Hiregaard, I’m all that keeps you good!”

Tristan’s mind reeled. Despair clutched at his throat, the kind of black, drowning despair that a suicide tastes the instant before the blade plunges home or the noose snaps tight. Was this fiend—this inhuman yet so very, very human monstrosity—right in the end? Could Tristan’s victory over Malken spell not a true success but disaster? Were his only choices to stay locked in a fight for eternity with a man who exemplified the dark corners of Tristan’s own soul or else become the very thing he hated? The thought weakened him, and when Malken began a volley of new attacks Tristan very nearly was bloodied.

Malken sensed a change in him and smiled in triumph. Instead of renewing his attack, however, Malken did something entirely unexpected. He tossed his blade away, spreading his arms in a mocking gesture of welcome. Taken utterly by surprise, Tristan hesitated, fearing a trap of some sort.

“Surrender, Tristan!” Malken invited, his voice speaking in Tristan’s own commanding tones. “End this senseless conflict. We cannot defeat one another, so why must we even try? Come to me, merge with me, let us become one whole entity at last. There’ll be peace in it for you. Rest, Tristan, rest. Lay down your burden. There is no Sehkmaa, but there is peace in surrender.”

He took a step forward, his horrible face now smiling, inviting. Tristan felt his sword arm grow heavy, and he swallowed hard. It was a terrible, powerful temptation. Malken continued talking, his voice gentle, persuasive.

“What do you have left to live for, anyway? Your wife is dead—well, in a sense. Your son certainly is. Your friends have betrayed you. Sigfrid is dead. Your rank means nothing to your stupid, gullible child-ruler. You’re a hero who’s outlived his age, my friend. Come, come, Tristan, you’ve fought the good fight. No one could expect any more from you. I certainly don’t.”

Malken’s words hung in the air, teasing and terrifying. Tristan could not surrender. Neither could he win the fight. He stared at Malken with bloodshot eyes, stared silently at the thing he now understood was no monster come to possess him, but was merely a part of his own dark soul.

Who was real? Tristan or Malken? Who was the true entity of this shared soul?

The questions screamed without voices in his mind as, his left hand still clutching his sword, Tristan stepped forward.

Tristan adjusted his cape to protect himself from the steady, chilly drizzle. It was a futile gesture; the rain found the warm nape of his neck despite his best efforts.

The Vistana torchbearers were having a difficult time keeping the lights lit. He hesitantly offered his magical services; they were politely refused. At last, well past the time allotted for the ritual, the torches were lit and managed to stay lit, though they flickered eerily in the wet wind. In the center of the ring of people was a blazing bonfire. Unlike the lesser lights of the torches, it defied the pettiness of the drizzle and burned brightly.

He had been privy to many Vistana rituals in earlier times, when he was a trusted go-between. Now, he sensed the hostility toward him, but his place at this particular rite was unquestioned. He did not truly wish to be here, but felt he owed it to Madame Terza and the few gypsies who still deigned to talk with him. He needed to face his responsibility in front of them. So, when the blanket that bore Rozalia’s mangled corpse was slowly brought into the circle, Tristan straightened, ignoring the trickling raindrops, and held his head high. Soft murmurs reached his ears, but he kept his eyes fastened on the approaching mourners. He felt rather than saw the heads turn to stare at him, hungry for his reaction.

Terza led the procession, but there was a young girl, still a child, really, who walked in a place of high honor beside her. As the girl, Carmilla, turned to whisper something to Terza, the torchlight caught the sparkle of a necklace—a necklace of three gold stars. Tristan’s eyes widened slightly. The necklace had belonged to Madame Terza. That she had passed it on to the child indicated that the old gypsy woman knew her time in this land was short. Surprised, Tristan felt a pang of regret. He would miss her.

Terza nodded at her young charge. Carmilla licked her lips hesitantly, then threw back her dark head and raised her hands to the sky. She began to sing in a clear, strong voice, and Tristan felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the child raised power.

Rozalia’s body, still bloody and broken as it had been when Tristan had taken her life, was passed around the circle. Tristan had half thought the Vistani might accept Rozalia in death as they had not in life, but the fear and hatred on the faces was mute evidence that such a gesture would not be forthcoming. Each gypsy looked on the face of the corpse, then turned his back. When the six men carrying the corpse reached Tristan, they halted, and the singing stopped.

“Tristan Hiregaard, are you the one who took the life of the Unnamed One?” asked Carmilla steadily.

“I am,” he responded in the Vistana tongue.

“Then you are the one who must appease her soul. Will you give her back her name, that she may not follow us in spirit, filled with hatred for our kind?”

“I will.” Stepping forward, he laid his hands on her crushed chest. The blood was caked and rough. “Trouble not those who named you darkling, Rozalia, daughter of Konstantin of the Twin Waters tribe.”

Slowly, the mourners moved away. The circle parted for them. They would take what remained of Rozalia a suitable distance away from the encampment and then bury her. The ritual performed, the soul was appeased. Rozalia’s ghost would not haunt the plains as some said those of other darklings did.

The ceremony was over. “She will not trouble us again,” came Terza’s voice at Tristan’s ear. “Not in body, not in spirit. Her malice and evil are dead.”

Her one eye caught the flicker of the flames as she gazed up at him. Was it his imagination, or did she lean more heavily on her staff than in the past? “You have done your duty here. Go home, Tristan. Go home and ease your soul in whatever way you may find.”

Home, Tristan thought with bitter irony. Faerhaaven had long since ceased to be a home and become merely the place where he lived. “Grandmama—”

“Aye?”

He smiled a little, a ghost of the smile that had played about his face in earlier times. “The tea was excellent.”

“Ah.” Her own face crinkled into a smile. Without another word to the giorgio, she turned and shuffled back to the fire.

Tristan watched her go, then went to his horse. This steed, too, was gypsy-trained. Leeka Nahira was its name, meaning White Rose. There was indeed a large white spot on its black forehead, which resembled a white rose, and its disposition was sweet. But it was not Kal. His heart heavy, Tristan mounted Leeka and rode off slowly toward Faerhaaven. He had no fear of plains cats—Malken would never harm him, and the ride was silent. The open plains, flooded by moonlight, held no ghosts for him. Those waited at Faerhaaven.

It was nearly dawn when he arrived, bone tired and heartsick. He forced himself to make careful note of what had happened in the gypsy ritual. He paused, and determinedly wrote what was in his heart.

I have never felt so alone as I did tonight. The Vistani have one another; I have no one. Malken was right. My family and friends are gone, some by my own hand. True, my plan to destroy the cult of Sehkmaa succeeded. Othmar has outlawed any practice of the faith and ordered all priests executed. They will not be hard to find, marked by the cats as they are. Malken, for all his gloating, has suffered a severe setback. It will take him years to recover.

I will put the time to good use. For although I am sure some of what he says is the truth, much of what he told me must be lies. Evil is not purely honest. That the land has changed, I believe. I must discover how it has changed, and why—and with this knowledge may come the information I need to finally lay that evil being to rest. I do not believe him when he says should he be destroyed, I will fill the evil void he has left behind. I cannot—or I should go mad.

My only comfort, my one reason for continuing this wretched existence, is the thought that I may be able to do some limited amount of good. What he does in the dark of night, skulking in the shadows, I may be able to undo by day in the all-cleansing sunlight. As long as I am my own man, I can fight him.

Yet—I seem to be my own man less and less. Will he, one day, simply outlast me and take over—as he put it, merge? No! I must not let myself despair! I must …

Tristan’s hand trembled. As he watched, helpless and horrified, he transferred the pen from his left hand to his right. His fingers, strong and callused, twisted into sharp-nailed, hairy claws. The right hand wrote in bold, scrawling letters:

COME ON, TRISTAN ME LAD, ITS TYME TO PLAY!

About the Author

Christie Golden is a University of Virginia graduate and has studied at England’s Cambridge University. She is known as Lady Ealasaid in the Society for Creative Anachronism. Married, she lives with her husband and their four demanding cats. She has published previously in USA Today and Orbit Video, and contributed a short story, “One Last Drink,” to TSR’s anthology Realms of Valor. Both of her prior RAVENLOFT® novels, Vampire of the Mists and Dance of the Dead, were national bookstore best-sellers.

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