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Chapter Two

The noonday sun warmed Romik’s neck and bare head as he urged his horse up the slope of a hill. This close to Cievers, they were too far south and east to be in the foothills, but Romik could feel the gradual increase in grade as the road wound its way north.

His mount could feel it too, and she tossed her head in annoyance.

“Settle down now, Bay,” Romik said, patting the side of the mare’s neck. “It’s not much farther. Look, you can see smoke coming from just beyond this rise. I bet that’s our place.”

He touched his heels to Bay’s flanks, and she moved obediently into a trot. Sure enough, as they crested the rise, Romik could see the low-slung outline of a building on the next hill ahead. Just for fun, he urged Bay into a run, and let her have her head as she raced toward the sweet feed he would have bet a hundred Imperials she smelled in the tavern’s barn.

Romik let her charge past the tavern with the thin ribbon of smoke rising from its chimney. She ran all the way up the slope toward the stable yard before he reined her to a stop. She stamped her feet as he dismounted and looked around.

“I don’t see anyone, do you?” Romik asked the mare. She ignored him in favor of sniffing at the overgrown grass that ringed the stable yard. Romik snorted a soft laugh—whether at himself or at Bay, he didn’t know—and clicked his tongue to lead her into a walk around the yard.

A few minutes later, once Bay had cooled down, Romik led her into the ramshackle barn. A swaybacked nag looked up from the feed bucket hung on his stall door. The stall next to his was empty, as were the tack hooks on the wall. Despite the rough appearance of the roof and the daylight Romik could see through some of the wall slats, the stalls appeared well-enough constructed, and the feed was full and fresh.

“This will do for an old wargirl like yourself, won’t it, Bay?” he murmured softly as he led her into the stall. “Nothing wrong with taking care of you myself, I suppose. Let me get you brushed down and we’ll get some feed and water for you. Then I’ll head down to the tavern and . . . Well . . . I guess we’ll see.”

Bay snorted, but she stood docilely enough as Romik groomed and cared for her. Once she was settled in her stall with a full feed bucket and clean water, Romik dusted off his hands, adjusted his weapons belt, and walked to the barn’s exit.

He glanced back at Bay, but the mare had her nose buried in the feed bucket and didn’t seem to notice or care that he was leaving. Romik shook his head at his own sentimentality and stepped resolutely back out into the stable yard.

The tavern itself sat just down a wide slope from the barn. As he approached, Romik caught the scent of roasting meat and frying onions, and his stomach gurgled in response. He squared his shoulders and pushed the heavy wooden door open with one hand, then stepped in out of the noonday sun.

The food scents were stronger inside and mingled pleasantly with the aroma of barley and hops. Out of habit and self-preservation, Romik let his eyes sweep the place before he entered further. Patrons sat at several of the tables, eating and drinking and carrying on enough conversations to produce a low, burring murmur of sound. Mostly working men, by the look of their clothing. Probably locals—

Romik’s gaze collided with a figure in the far corner wearing a dark cloak and a hood that shadowed his face. The figure lifted his head, and a shaft of light from a nearby window fell upon his mouth and chin.

The figure smiled, and Romik felt like he’d taken a spear to the gut.

“Vil,” he whispered. Before he realized that he meant to move, Romik had crossed the tavern floor and stood staring down at his childhood friend.

Slowly, Vil raised a pale hand and pushed back his hood, revealing the white-blond hair and shadowy dark blue eyes Romik remembered so well.

“Hello, Romik,” Vil said, the corners of his mouth deepening in the tiniest of smiles. He offered a hand for Romik to clasp.

“Red Lady’s ruin . . . Vil!” Romik grabbed Vil’s long fingers and hauled him up to his feet. His other arm came hard around the slighter man’s shoulders in a tight embrace as Romik squeezed his eyes shut against the emotions that threatened to engulf him.

“It’s been the better part of twenty years,” Romik ground out, his throat thick with the tears he refused to shed. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Likewise,” Vil said, pounding Romik on the back. “By the Shadow, it’s good to lay eyes on you up close.”

Romik let go of Vil and cleared his throat, trying to ease the tightness there. “Up close?”

“Good day, sir. Some food or ale for ye, then?”

Romik blinked rapidly to dispel the wetness threatening to flood his eyes and turned to look at the woman who’d spoken. Then he blinked one more time and took a better look in appreciation.

She had honey-colored hair, braided back from her face and coiled against her skull, but heavy enough that Romik knew it would fall to her waist when unbound. She was buxom, with a delicious curve at belly, hip, and ass. She angled her body away from Vil and returned Romik’s look boldly, her tongue flicking out to wet her bottom lip before she smiled in unmistakable invitation.

“Romik, this is Mirandy,” Vil said, his tone dry with what Romik recognized as amusement. “Mirandy has been taking care of me while I’ve been waiting.”

“Fancy having me take care of you, too, sir?” Mirandy asked, adding a saucy wink.

Sudden joy bubbled up within Romik, curling his lips and escaping in a deep, appreciative chuckle. “That I would, Mirandy,” he said.

“We’ve business just now,” Vil put in. “And we’re waiting on our other friend. So, we’ll be here quite a while, and probably spend the night.”

“I could bring you some ale and food,” Mirandy offered, her eyes still boldly locked on Romik’s.

Romik nodded. “Perfect,” he said. Mirandy returned the nod, her smile growing. Then she spun slowly and sauntered away. Romik didn’t miss the swing in her hips when she walked. The look she threw back over her shoulder said she noticed him noticing.

Vil chuckled darkly. “Well, that didn’t take long.”

Romik returned his attention back to his boyhood friend. “She’s nice,” he said, with half a smile. Vil snorted and lowered himself into a chair, waving a hand to indicate that Romik should do the same.

“I see you’ve come a long way from the big farm boy too shy to talk to girls,” Vil said.

“I see you haven’t lost a bit of your smart mouth,” Romik shot back as he took a seat. Vil laughed, a dark, almost bitter sound.

“I’ve lost many things, but never that,” Vil agreed. “A lot can happen in two decades. I imagine we both have stories . . . as will Daen, when he arrives.”

“By all the Divines,” Romik leaned forward and held his head in his hands for a short moment before pushing his fingers through his short hair and meeting Vil’s eyes again. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe you found us both.”

“I’m just glad you came. I hope—” Vil broke off and looked up as the tavern door swung open. Romik followed his gaze to see a lanky man with wide, muscular shoulders step into the tavern. He wore a green hood and a brown leather jerkin. For the second time that day, Romik fought the urge to let his eyes fill with tears. Moving as one, he and Vil pushed up to their feet once again.

Romik took a step forward. “Daen,” he whispered through the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears.

* * *

Daen stood just inside the door to the tavern, letting it swing shut behind him. He surveyed the crowd, taking in the rough edges, the scent of cooking meat and onions, the sound of myriad conversations over generous tankards of ale.

Common folk, midday gathering. Ten gets you twenty that more than half of the men in here are poachers. That kind of crowd. Not my business, not anymore. A man has a right to feed his family.

With that thought, Daen stepped further into the room, letting the heat from the crowd and the large hearth in the corner wash over him. Two men stood up at a table close to the fire. The taller of the two had dark hair and eyes and a nose Daen remembered being straight and fine. It had obviously been broken several times since. The other man wore a dark cloak hanging from his shoulders and had a shock of short, white-blond hair.

Vil. And Romik. Daen kept himself motionless as his heart pounded wildly in his chest. Romik took a step forward, and Daen recognized the compact grace of a warrior in the way the bigger man moved.

“Daen,” Romik said. He sounded dazed, unsure. It didn’t fit with the overall competence of his fighter’s mien. Daen took a breath and threaded his way through the tables until he came face-to-face with his childhood best friends.

“Hello, Romik,” Daen found himself saying. “Hello, Vil.”

Hello? The sarcastic voice that inhabited his mind sniped. You haven’t seen them in twenty years. The last time you did see them, the three of you screamed at each other. You’ve dreamed of this moment for decades and all you can say is “Hello”?

“Hello, Daen,” Vil said, his smooth voice empty of emotion. “Will you join us? Romik has made friends with the barmaid, and she’s headed this way with ale and food.”

Daen glanced over his shoulder and saw a buxom woman carrying three tankards of ale, atop which she balanced a tray holding three plates of stew and a loaf of brown bread. Despite her load, she put a little sway into her hips and winked at Romik as she approached their table.

“So, you’re the third friend, hmm?” she said in a saucy tone. She deftly maneuvered the tray onto the table, set down the tankards, and began passing out the plates.

“Seems that way,” Daen said, amused despite himself. “And you are?”

“Mirandy. This is my place, and it is my pleasure—” She paused and smiled at Romik before continuing. “—to serve you boys. Sit down now and eat while it’s hot. I’ll keep your ale coming.”

“Thank you, Mirandy,” Romik said.

“Thank me later,” she shot back with another wink, before she turned and sauntered away.

Daen snorted, and then gave up any pretense of decorum and laughed outright. “My, my, you did make a friend, Ro.” Romik’s boyhood nickname crossed his lips before Daen could think better of it, and he decided just to let it go. Sure, there was a lot to dig into between the three of them, but there was also hot stew and ale. And he was hungry.

With a shrug, he unslung his quiver and leaned it and his bow up against the nearby wall, then eased himself into a chair while the other two did the same.

“So, what did you mean, Vil?” Romik asked as Daen grabbed the loaf of bread and tore off a section.

“When?”

“When you said it was good to see me up close. Have you seen me from afar?”

“A few times,” Vil said. He tilted his head slightly until he met Daen’s gaze with his own. “A few times for both of you.”

“I figured as much when you left that letter in my quiver,” Daen said, scooping up a mouthful of stew with a shrug.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Romik asked.

“I did,” Vil said. “I invited you here.”

“But—”

“You want to know what took me so long?”

“Yeah,” Romik said. “Almost twenty years . . . if you knew where we were the whole time—”

“Not the whole time,” Vil said. “I first saw you about eight years ago, when you came to Cievers on the Imperial Champions’ Tour. Publicity for the tour was full of ‘The Demon of Zandrine’ who had decimated the southern arena champions. You were by far the odds-on favorite to take the final melee in Cievers. The day after you arrived, my boss sent me to talk to your employer—”

“Owner.” Unlike his easy tone of earlier, Romik’s voice had gone hard and almost as emotionless as Vil’s. Daen looked up from his stew, but Romik kept his gaze locked on Vil’s.

“Owner, then,” Vil said, inclining his head. “If that’s what you prefer to call him.”

“That’s what he was. I wasn’t there by choice. Best to call it what it is.”

“As you say. In any case, I was sent to talk to him and offer him a deal to have you throw the tournament in favor of Cievers’s champion.”

Romik’s eyebrows went up, and he snorted derisively. “No one would have believed it. I remember him: big bruiser of a man, but no finesse with a blade. But even if they had, I’d never have cooperated.”

“My boss didn’t intend to offer you the option,” Vil said with a tiny smile. “Which was why when I recognized you, I went back and persuaded him that rather than poisoning you and making a fortune off the upset, he was better served to spread the rumor within the underworld that the melee had been fixed in Cievers’s favor . . . and then make a fortune when you actually won.”

Daen blinked. “Who, exactly, was your boss?” he asked around a mouthful of stew.

“No one of relevance to this conversation,” Vil said smoothly. “He’s dead now anyway.”

“I know who it was,” Romik said, his voice a low growl. “Only one man in Cievers ever had the power to do what you describe: Bezier Tanithil, Soft Hand of the Thieves’ Guild.”

Vil smirked, and inclined his head forward, but didn’t say anything else.

“You were a thief?” Daen asked, feeling like he was trying to catch up with the words the other two weren’t saying.

“I am a thief,” Vil corrected. “A very good one. But Cievers is no longer my home, which is why I’ve asked you both here to meet me. I have a prop—”

“No.”

Daen heard the hard edge in Romik’s voice and looked over to see that same hardness in the man’s eyes.

“You haven’t even heard the proposition,” Vil said mildly.

“That’s not what I’m saying no to,” Romik said. He took a deep breath, and Daen heard the tiniest shudder in the inhale. “I’m saying no to your diversionary tactics. I’ve been a mercenary long enough that I recognize a feint when I see one.”

“I’m with Romik,” Daen said, not realizing he meant to speak until he did. “Like he said, it’s been almost twenty years. We each need to know where the others have been, what we’ve done. The last time we were together . . . ” He trailed off, remembering the shouted insults that had scarred that terror-filled morning so long ago. Daen sucked in a deep breath, and blew it out, shaking his head. “We were kids, and scared. But maybe if we’d actually talked to one another instead of flinging insults and blame, we wouldn’t have been separated. And then Romik wouldn’t have ended up in an arena pit, and Vil wouldn’t have ended up working for a ruthless criminal. And I wouldn’t have lost the only brothers I’ve ever really had!”

He closed his mouth with a snap. He hadn’t meant to say that last bit, but with every word, the constant loneliness of the past almost twenty years weighed heavier and heavier on him, until it was a struggle just to breathe.

“What about the Foresters?” Vil asked, his voice dropping softly into the silence that followed Daen’s outburst. “Don’t they consider themselves a brotherhood?”

“Themselves maybe, but never me,” Daen spat. He leaned back in his chair, hefted the tankard of Mirandy’s ale, drained half of it, and then set it down with a heavy thunk. “Fine,” he said. “I wanted open speech, I guess I’ll start. After losing you both in the woods, I wandered for about three days, surviving on wild berries and onions. A Forester named Bormer found me. Bormer was a good man. He raised me as his own son and when I came of age, he sponsored me into the Foresters. He tried to warn me that it wouldn’t suit me, but I’ve always been hard-headed—” Romik let out a slight chuckle, and Daen met his eyes with a little smile. “—so I didn’t listen. He was right, though. The Foresters aren’t the heroes we told stories about as little kids. Not anymore. The organization is corrupt from top to bottom, and only ever concerned about appearances and the relative nobility of one’s birth.”

“Which you don’t have,” Romik said, his tone sympathetic. Daen shrugged.

“No, I don’t. I only have my hard-earned skills. For a long time I thought—I hoped they would be enough. If only I was good enough, skilled enough, accurate enough . . . maybe then my so-called ‘brothers’ would really, truly accept me. But eventually I learned the truth: they never would, no matter how good I got. In fact, the better I got, the more they hated and despised me, all because I was born in a cottage instead of a grand estate.” Daen raised his mug to his lips again and drank, lest the emotions rising up within him begin to spill out through his eyes.

“So, what did you do?” Vil asked quietly. Daen lowered the mug and wiped his mouth, then gave his blond friend a small, savage smile.

“I got even better,” he said. “I decided to shove their upturned noses in their own inferiority and outworked them all. Maybe they were never going to embrace me, but by the Green Lady’s rut, they would notice me.”

“And did they?”

“Yeah. And yeah, they hated me even more. Your note was a dead-on bull’s-eye, by the way. I was close to burning the whole Outpost down out of spite when I got it.”

Vil snorted a laugh, and even Romik, who hadn’t seen the note, chuckled. Daen remembered his childhood fascination with the art of fire making and joined in as well.

“So, that’s where I’ve been,” he said as the mirth died down. “And now I’m here. Older, probably no wiser, but rutting glad to see you both. And maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t care. I’ve missed you both. ‘Bare is the back that has no brother to watch it,’ someone said that . . . or wrote it down, or something. I don’t remember who. I just remember that when Bormer taught me that line, it wasn’t the Foresters that came to mind, it was you two, and may the Green Lady rot my limbs if I’m lying.”

Rather than think too hard on that, Daen drained his mug and set it down again, then twisted around in his seat to look for Romik’s friendly barmaid. “Call your girl over, Ro. I need a refill.”

Romik leaned back in his chair, and apparently spotted Mirandy, because he jerked his chin slightly, and then smiled. “She’s on her way,” he said, satisfaction in his tone. “So, did the Foresters grant you leave to come here, then?”

Daen shook his head. “I resigned.”

Vil snorted softly. “Foresters don’t resign. Did you desert?”

Daen grinned slyly and shook his head. “Nope. If I’d done that, I’d be hunted for the rest of my life. Not that any of them can track worth a damn, but everyone gets lucky sometimes.”

“So?” Vil pressed.

“So, I decided to think like you,” Daen said. “Little Villaume, always had a scheme or a plan running. I suppose I’m not surprised you ended up on the dark side of the law, but I still want to hear the tale.”

“And you shall, as much as I can tell,” Vil promised. “But first, tell us why the Foresters let you ‘resign.’”

“I got them to cast me out. I can be an arrogant, insubordinate prick when I want to be, and they already hated me. It wasn’t hard.” Not as hard as it should have been, may the Green Lady rot their bones.

“You’re not arrogant.”

Daen looked up from the scarred tabletop to meet Vil’s eyes.

“No?”

“No. Arrogance implies that your confidence is misplaced. From what I’ve seen, yours is not.”

“What have you seen?”

“I saw you put an arrow center target at a hundred paces—four times in a row.”

Daen opened his mouth to speak, but Mirandy chose that moment to bustle up to the table and plunk down three more brimming mugs. As she bent to gather up his and Romik’s empties, Daen could see that she’d loosened her chemise around her neck, putting her generous assets on display. Her eyes, though, were all for Romik, who thanked her with a smile.

“You’re a lucky man, Ro,” Daen grumbled, without any heat in it.

“That woman at the table near the door hasn’t stopped staring at you since you walked in,” Vil pointed out. “The one in the blue coat, sitting next to the older man.”

Daen glanced to his right and saw the woman Vil mentioned. She was, indeed, looking boldly at him. An inviting smile spread across her lips as his eyes met hers.

He considered, and then turned back to his ale.

“Bored townwife with a rich husband,” Daen said dismissively. “More trouble than she’s worth. I’d rather just drink and envy Romik.”

“Smart man,” Vil said, and clinked his mug against Daen’s. “So, Daen’s told us his story, Romik. What about you? How did you become the Demon of Zandrine?”

“Killed a lot of men and animals in the arena.” Romik’s short, blunt answer may have been intended to stave off further discussion, but it didn’t work. Daen sipped at his ale and waited. Vil sat silent and motionless. Finally, Romik let out a gusty sigh.

“Fine,” he said. “After we got separated in the forest, I found my way to a road. That night I got jumped by a bandit gang. They sold me to a slaver caravan who took me south. I’d fought the bandits, and tried to fight the slavers, and they liked that. So, they sold me to an arena stable down in Zandrine. The arena master was a former fighter himself. He saw potential in me—you know what a big kid I was—and so he trained me personally. It was either get good or die. I chose to get good.”

“And then—?”

Romik took a deep drink before continuing. “And then,” he said, “I got really good. So good I was able to win enough to buy my freedom. But once I’d done that, I realized I had a problem. I didn’t know anything other than fighting. Most fighters who win their freedom end up back in the arena, fighting for themselves, but still risking death for the entertainment of others. I didn’t want that. So, I took my winnings and bought myself a place in the Raiders mercenary company.”

“I bet that was a shock,” Daen said. “Mercenary battles are a different animal than arena combat.”

Romik nodded. “Yep. But I’d figured they would be, so I started at the bottom rank like everyone else. I was fit and had great endurance, and I did know how to swing a blade and a spear, even if the employment tactics were quite different. So, I did all right, rose through the ranks to become a lieutenant.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad life.” Daen lifted his mug again. Romik shrugged.

“It was all right. I liked leading men, and they liked me, or so I hear.”

“So, what happened?” Vil asked.

“Eh. Word got out as to who I was. I managed to keep it secret for a year or two, but someone found out and rumors spread. My fellow officers got real jealous of the attention I was getting, and eventually, it became clear that they were looking to get rid of me. So, I got your note, and I left.”

“I’d think having a celebrated fighter as an officer would be an asset to a mercenary company like the Raiders,” Daen said.

“Maybe it would have been, if I’d played their games. Mercenaries play politics just like Foresters. I made the mistake of keeping myself aloof—trying to keep my identity secret, you know—and so I never really made friends with my peers. If they’d liked me, maybe things would have worked out differently. They didn’t like me. They resented my fame, and they resented the way my men respected me.” Romik snorted softly and lifted his mug again. “Didn’t help that they thought respect only flowed one way.” He muttered these words softly into the mug, but Daen heard them, and judging by the quick flash of eye contact between them, so did Vil.

“Bare is the back without a brother to watch it,” Vil murmured. Romik took a deep drink, then set his mug down.

“You said it,” Romik agreed. “So, what about you, Vil? What happened to little Villaume?”

“It’s not a pretty story.”

“You think being cast into a stable of arena fighters at twelve years old is pretty?”

“No. But I thought it fair to warn you.” Vil shrugged, and then reached back to pull his hood up over his head, leaving his face in shadow as he wrapped his cloak around himself.

“After we got separated, I wandered in the forest for a day or so before I, too, found a road. I stayed hidden, but I followed it until it got to a bigger road, and a bigger one. By then I was close to starving, since I hadn’t dared stray too far from the road to find food. In my hunger-dazed state, I found myself picking through the midden pile of a large house on the outskirts of a city—Cievers, although I didn’t know it at the time. Anyway, the mistress of the house caught me. But she was sympathetic, and kind. She took me into her home, fed me, bathed me, gave me clean clothes. And then she drugged me with a soporific and sold me to a brothel keeper inside the city. This particular brothel was notorious for skirting the age laws. When I woke up, I was informed that it was my duty to service the client, and that if I did not, I would be violated by force, locked up, and starved into submission.”

“Red Lady . . . ” Romik breathed. Daen swallowed hard against the nausea that rose within his throat.

Vil took a sip of his nearly full mug.

“Anyway, I agreed, as it seemed the safer option. The client came in . . . he was the rich son of a merchant family, as I recall. Big, burly man with an arrogant sneer. He never expected me to steal the knife from his boot and sever the artery in his groin. I took his clothes and boots and escaped out the window. They looked for me, of course, but they didn’t find me because instead of dropping down to the ground, I climbed up and escaped across the rooftops, deeper into the city.

“I sold his clothes and used the money he’d had on him, but that only lasted a few weeks. Before too long, I was destitute again, with no place to live. I started begging . . . and that’s when they found me.”

“Who?” Daen asked, enthralled by his friend’s storytelling.

“The thieves. At first, they roughed me up for begging on their corners without permission, but when I fought back, I must have impressed someone. They took me to meet the Soft Hand.”

“Tanithil?” Romik asked. Vil nodded.

“He asked me if I was the one who’d murdered the merchant’s son at the brothel. No one had put that together yet, as far as I knew. But he knew it. He asked me if I’d been at the brothel willingly, and when I told him that I hadn’t, he nodded, as if it confirmed something. It seemed the brothel keeper had been playing fast and loose with the laws—not Cievers’s laws, Tanithil’s laws. He offered me amnesty for the murder on the condition that I come to work for him and join his family. Others call it the Thieves’ Guild, but for Bezier, it was always ‘his family.’”

Vil got quiet for a bit, his eyes shadowed by his hood. Daen shared a glance with Romik, who seemed to echo his own cautious concern.

“In any case,” Vil said, moving on as if he’d never paused, “I joined the family, and I learned. Tanithil liked my trick of escaping over the rooftops, and so he taught me second-story skills—”

“The Villain!” Romik snapped his fingers, sitting up straight in his chair. “You’re the Villain of Cievers!”

Vil’s mouth twisted into a curve under the edge of his hood, but he only lifted his mug and sipped at Mirandy’s ale in reply. Daen felt his eyebrows rise in spite of himself.

“Even I’ve heard of the Villain of Cievers,” he said, keeping his voice low. “That was you?”

Vil set his mug down. “Once, maybe. Like you both, I’ve left my former employment. I, too, found that my back was bare without someone I trusted to watch it.”

“I never should have left you both, that day in the forest,” Romik said, his voice soft with regret.

“We were just kids,” Daen said, tilting his mug to tap the rim against Romik’s. “You included. We were all scared and angry. But we survived.”

“I aim to do more than just survive,” Vil said lowly. “That’s why I invited you both here. Of all the people in this world, the ones I most trust . . . are you two. Twenty years notwithstanding.”

“There wasn’t a single day in the Foresters that I didn’t think about you both,” Daen said, surprising himself. He swallowed hard, and then shrugged and plunged on. “Every day I’d look at the mewling pustules—my peers—and think how either of you would be worth two, or three, or four of them. You two knew the meaning of friendship, of loyalty. They knew nothing but how to kiss the Lord Leader’s arse.”

“I never wished you both beside me in the arena pits,” Romik said. “I wouldn’t want to see you in that situation. But in the Raiders . . . Yeah. I missed you two. I always hoped we’d find each other, eventually.”

“And now we have,” Vil said.

“Rut yes, we have!” Daen said. He took a deep swig of his ale and plunked it down on the tabletop slightly harder than he intended. A tiny bit sloshed out the top, but he barely noticed. He stretched out his arm and laid it, palm up, on the table as a sudden fierce, ebullient energy surged through his frame. Words from long ago stories and games floated to the surface of his memory, and somehow, he found himself speaking them as he bent his arm at the elbow and raised his forearm, hand open in invitation. “And I don’t intend to ever be brotherless again. By the Green Lady’s grace, I swear to stand shoulder to shoulder with you both. May She bless our hunts through forest and field and grant us rich quarry!”

“It’s been decades,” Romik said slowly, “since I’ve seen either of you. But I still know you. My gut says you’re still the friends I would have died or killed for, back before we got separated in the forest that day. And in twenty years fighting and killing, my gut hasn’t steered me wrong yet. So, I’m in.” He leaned forward, planted his elbow, and clasped Daen’s hand in a meaty grip. “By whatever tarnished honor I hold, I swear to stand shoulder to shoulder with you both as my brothers. May Fortune, the Red Lady, smile on us and fill our purses with gold.”

The restless, reckless feeling inside Daen intensified. He found himself grinning savagely as he gripped his friend—his brother’s hand, and turned to look a challenge at Vil.

Vil, too, leaned forward. He lifted one hand to push back the hood that shadowed his face, and then clasped both of his hands around theirs.

“By my own wits and cunning, I swear to stand shoulder to shoulder with you both as my brothers. May Darkness witness our bond and hold us hidden under Her mantle.”

Something surged within Daen. A ringing horn—no . . . A forest wolf’s howl—no . . . The sound of thunder in the trees—somehow, a sound that was all three and more besides echoed through his mind, sweeping up all that reckless energy and twisting it, braiding it together with something searing and hot, and something icy cold.

He blinked and saw his chosen brothers through a green haze. A fierce warrior with braided, blood-soaked hair stood with her mailed fists on Romik’s shoulders. A vaguely female shape cloaked in shadows loomed over Vil. And above him . . . 

Daen looked up to see his divine patroness’s savage smile and fur-cloaked but otherwise naked body as She looked down at him.

“Brothers you have been,” She said. Or maybe it was the Red Lady, or maybe the Dark. Or maybe it was all three of Them.

Daen shifted his gaze to see Romik staring back at him, red fury and fortune in the scarlet pools of his eyes. Vil, too, looked out at them through eyes gone unrelieved black.

“Brothers,” They said again, “you shall be. From this day forward, by your own choice and oath, brothers you are.”

The sound returned, ringing through Daen’s ears as the green haze solidified in his eyes. The center of his palm tingled with icy fire that seared into him. Daen gasped, fought to draw a breath of the leaf-scented air . . . 

And blinked.

Someone called a farewell as they departed the tavern, letting the heavy door swing shut behind them. Someone else cursed at the sound of a metal tankard hitting the floor with a dull thunk. The scent of frying meat and onions intensified. The fire crackled, sending a spray of sparks leaping from the hearth not far away.

Everything was normal again.

But he and his brothers—brothers indeed!—still clasped hands in the center of the scarred, ale-stained table. Slowly, Vil unclenched his fingers first, followed by Romik. Daen lowered his hand and turned it palm up on the table. All three of them looked at the mark sitting directly in the center of his palm.

Three crescent-moon shapes intertwined to form a knot in the center of his hand: red, green, and black. They looked like the kind of fancywork tattoo he’d heard was popular in certain cities in the south. But he knew deep in the marrow of his bones that this was no tattoo that would fade with age and use.

“I suppose that’s what we get for invoking the Divine,” Vil said. “You never know when She might decide to pay attention.”

“Three of Them, no less,” Romik said. He ran his thumb over his own palm, and then angled it to show them his mark. Daen wasn’t surprised to see that it was identical to his own. Vil’s right hand, too, showed the same mark.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this happening, though,” Daen said. “The brotherhood oath in old stories, sure, but . . . Divine visitation?”

“Does it change anything?” Vil asked.

“Yes,” Romik said. “And no. They said it. We were brothers before by choice, we’re brothers now by choice and oath. . . . And Divine recognition.”

“Exactly,” Vil said, and for the first time since Daen had walked in, he saw his dark brother’s lips curve in a genuine smile. “We all said we didn’t want to ever be alone again. Looks like we got our wish.”

With that same lightning quickness as before, Daen felt his mood shift from reverent awe to irreverent glee. “By the rut, we did, didn’t we? Ha! I’d say this calls for a celebration, wouldn’t you?” He nudged Romik under the table with his knee, and slowly, Romik joined them both in a smile.

“Mirandy,” Romik called out, getting the buxom barmaid’s attention. “Another round, please! My brothers and I are celebrating!”

* * *

Romik wrapped his hand around the battered tankard and lifted it to his lips. He’d had plenty of Mirandy’s ale, but that wasn’t the reason his head felt like it was spinning. Plus, drinking it gave him a moment to try and shut down the treacherous shining hope threatening to bloom in his chest. If life in the arena and in the Raiders had taught him anything, it was that hope was a dangerous, addictive thing, best avoided at all costs. Just when you let yourself start to hope, that’s when bad things started to happen.

But seeing his brothers again—and the sudden Divine recognition of that relationship—had rattled him enough that the persistent brightness of hope had begun to break through the walls he’d built to keep it out.

So, Romik drank, and ate, and swapped stories with his brothers. And he fought that feeling, hour by hour. And as darkness rose around the tavern and the moons began to shine through the windows, Romik began to suspect that it was a losing battle.

Meanwhile, Daen was, of course, talking.

“ . . . so, we’re tracking this wounded aurochs bull through the woods, hoping to get close enough to bring it down and put it out of its misery. But the thing had the Green Lady’s own toughness, and it just kept going, through the entire day and into the night. The whole time, our Point is saying ‘just a little bit further, it can’t go on much longer . . . ’ Derfin. He was an idiot,” Daen shook his head and paused to take another long drink. Romik had to give it to him, Daen could hold his ale. Twice, Mirandy had brought trays of food along with her dark, bitter brew. Each time, she winked at Romik in invitation and gave him a look that tightened his body in anticipation. But she seemed in no mood to hurry them along, so the three of them stayed, and drank, and laughed, and talked, and drank some more.

Romik didn’t know when he’d ever been happier. And therein lay the problem.

“ . . . so, the bull busts through the wall of this rickety, tumbledown cabin, sending timber and dirt flying everywhere, and we hear, of all things, a woman’s scream!”

Romik blinked and focused on his ex-Forester brother’s face. “A woman?”

Daen nodded, mischief bright in his eyes. “And not just any woman, but Lord Ulito’s youngest daughter!”

“What did you do?” Vil asked. Romik turned to regard his thief brother. What an odd concept, he thought idly as Daen took another swig, letting the tension in his story build. That I would have a thief for a brother. But I suppose it’s no stranger than an arena slave turned mercenary lieutenant turned . . . whatever the hell we are now.

“I shot the bull,” Daen said. “He was stunned from the impact with the wall and the surprise of having the entire roof come crashing down on him, so I put an arrow through his eye and dropped him . . . which is what I would have done in the beginning if Point Derfin wasn’t such a pompous arse. But anyway, the bull was dead, and the girl was screaming, and I’ll be a wet briar toad if it wasn’t Lord Thiren himself, naked in bed with the girl. Who was also naked, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Vil said, dry amusement threading through his tone.

“To the man’s credit, though, he kept his aplomb. I hate to say anything good about the nobility, but Thiren seemed all right. He invited us to wait outside while he calmed the girl, and then came out and thanked us for saving them from serious injury. He also paid us handsomely to forget we’d ever seen them there . . . ‘for the lady’s privacy,’ he said. I guess I didn’t forget, but I doubt anyone here cares about Lord Thiren’s indiscretions with his neighbor’s lovely daughter!”

“Wait, Lord Thiren, he’s a young man, right?” Romik asked then, as a memory percolated.

“Younger than old Lord Ulito. Probably no more than five years older than us, why?”

“Yeah,” Romik said with a slow smile. “I remember him—the Raiders took a contract with him one summer. Harrying his neighbor’s outposts, if I recall. He needed to make a point but still be able to deny our actions, is what he told us. I do remember, though, the terms of engagement. We only attacked guard posts, stole only gold, weapons, and horseflesh. And under no circumstances were we permitted to harass the local civilian population.”

“I imagine your Raiders didn’t like that,” Vil observed dryly. Romik shrugged.

“My men were fine; I kept a tight leash on them anyway. Some of the others balked, but since Thiren threatened to withhold all pay to the whole company if a single one of our men stepped out of line with the local women . . . well. Let’s just say my peers had more incentive than usual to enforce proper discipline.”

“See,” Daen said, and Romik suspected that his usual enthusiasm had been amplified by the ale. “He might be a noble, but he’s got some honor.”

“Did he pay well, Romik?” Vil asked.

“Very,” Romik said, lifting his mug to drink. “Otherwise, the commander probably wouldn’t have given a shit.”

“Perhaps the three of us should go see if he’s got any other needs for work that could be eventually denied,” Vil said. “I believe I could meet his conditions.”

“What do you mean?” Daen asked.

“I mean, that’s the kind of thing we could do. Together. This is what I wanted to talk to the two of you about. The proposition. A business venture, between the three of us. I think we could make a good deal of money helping people like your Lord Thiren with certain things they may or may not want to be linked to.”

“So, you’re saying we just . . . strike out together and . . . what? Do odd jobs?” Daen snorted a soft chuckle as he spoke, but his dark eyes were serious. It was surreal how instantly and well Romik could read his childhood best friend’s mannerisms, even after so many years. But from the moment he’d walked into the dingy roadside tavern and seen Vil, the heart Romik hadn’t known he still possessed had lurched with joy so painful and profound, he’d had to lock it away.

Just like he had to lock away that bright, treacherous hope. Hope was the fastest way to get hurt. He couldn’t afford to forget the lessons of the arena, of war.

But the Divines Themselves blessed our fraternity. That has to mean something!

“Odd, perhaps, but lucrative.” Vil leaned forward, his hood shadowing his white-blond hair and dark blue eyes. He tapped the scarred tabletop with long, slender fingers. “Think about it. Between the three of us, we’ve got contacts in every major city and several smaller towns throughout the empire. With our varied skill sets, we’re in a position to make money hand over fist doing jobs for the highest bidder.”

“What skill sets?” Romik’s voice came out rougher than he’d intended. Daen looked at him with a shadow of a frown, but Vil’s wide mouth curved in a slow smile. Romik feared no man, but a cold shiver of foreboding whispered up his spine at the darkness in his friend’s eyes.

“Well,” Vil said, drawing the word out. He sat back in his chair and kept that intense, sardonic gaze locked on Romik’s. “We’ve got you, who was once known as the ‘Demon of Zandrine.’ Zandrine’s favorite son, famous for single-handedly defeating ten other gladiators on the sands.”

“That was a long time ago,” Romik said, his words a low growl.

“Indeed,” Vil continued, apparently unperturbed by Romik’s glower. “Since then, you’ve managed to earn enough to buy your freedom and then earn a commission in one of the empire’s most well-known mercenary companies. So, what sorts of skills might you have then, hmm? Melee combat? Hit-and-run raiding? Training and doctrine?”

“Supply and logistics,” Daen added, leaning forward on his elbows. “Siege warfare.”

“All of those,” Romik conceded, speaking slowly. Vil’s smile grew, and he nodded.

“And Daen,” Vil went on as he turned his attention to the third member of their trio. “As an Imperial Forester—”

“Former Imperial Forester,” Daen said, raising his mug. “I ‘resigned,’ remember.”

“Still, you’re the one who split your competitor’s arrow in the regional semifinals for the Imperial Games two summers ago.”

Daen lowered his mug enough to look over the rim of it at Vil. “How did you hear about that?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Like I said, contacts. You should have won that purse. You should have gone on to the Games.”

“I was disqualified.”

“On a spurious charge of tampering with your bowstring. Except that I know all the match fixers in that region. If anyone had tampered with anything I’d have heard about it. Your string was legitimate, and so was your shot. They just couldn’t countenance an orphan nobody beating out all of those second sons of minor houses to compete for the Emperor’s Cup.”

Daen said nothing, just lifted his mug again and drank deeply.

“So,” Vil went on, “besides being deadly accurate and fast with that bow, you know every length of the imperial forest lands . . . which means all the caves, crevices, and hidey holes.”

“No one knows all of them,” Daen said. “And even if they did, things change. Trees fall, streams flood, things like that.”

“Yeah, but that’s my point.” Vil stabbed a finger across the table and leaned forward again. “You know these things. Better than any one of those no-talent lordlings in the Foresters, unless I miss my guess. And like you, my talented friend . . . I never miss.”

Daen snorted softly, and then inclined his head with a smirk, conceding Vil’s point.

“What about you?” Romik asked, letting his earlier aggression creep into his tone.

“Simple,” Vil said, turning his gaze back to Romik. “I do the dirty work.”

“The Villain of Cievers,” Daen said, speaking as if he were a minstrel telling a tale. He waved a hand in an exaggerated flourish at Vil’s form. Vil’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t otherwise move. Daen snorted another laugh, then lifted his mug once more and drained it. Then he set it down with a thud on the tabletop.

“What’s in it for you, then, Vil?” Romik asked. “What’s in it for all of us?”

“I thought that was obvious, Demon,” Vil said. “Money. The empire is vast, my friends, and while the emperor upholds the rule of law . . . he can’t peek into the shadows in every corner of every city, now, can he? There will always be jobs to do that require our skills, just as I’ve said. Mark my words, within four, five years? The three of us will accumulate enough of a fortune to make several noble houses salivate.”

“And what would we do with that fortune?”

“Hells, man, whatever you want. That’s what’s so great about money. It doesn’t care what you use it for.”

“Equal shares?” Romik asked, his voice low.

“Of course. We’re brothers now, as we always should have been,” Vil said softly, rubbing the thumb of his left hand across the palm of his right. He looked from Daen to Romik and back again.

Daen, too, lifted his gaze to meet Romik’s.

“I’m in,” Romik said. He hadn’t even realized he meant to speak until he heard the words coming out of his mouth, but as he did, that treacherous gleam of hope surged within him.

Gods above and below, I’ve missed them! This has to be real, right? With the blessings of three Divines, it has to be real. I can’t lose them again. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Romik realized he’d curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist, as if to protect the brotherhood mark that had appeared there.

“Me too,” Daen said. “As long as we’re together. I won’t be brotherless again.”

“None of us will.” Vil smiled once more. He held his hand out across the table, in an echo of their earlier oath, and Romik found himself clasping it—and Daen’s, as he joined in too—without hesitation. This is real. This is true. I can trust this. By the Red Lady Herself, I really think I can!

“I say we stay here tonight, sleep it off, let Mirandy entertain Romik, and then in the morning we can discuss business strategies,” Vil was saying when Romik refocused on the conversation.

“Eminently practical,” Daen said, not even slurring a little bit.

Romik wanted to agree, but the confusion of hope and joy swirled dizzyingly in his mind. I need some air. “I’ll be right back,” he said as let go of his brothers and pushed up to his feet, careful to make sure he was steady before he stepped away from the table. “Need to drain away some of this ale.” Caution and habit had him fastening his sword belt around his hips as he tossed a smile toward Mirandy at the bar and headed out into the night to piss, and think . . . 

And wonder if maybe, this time, that treacherous hope wasn’t a liar after all.

* * *

Aelys dragged in a ragged, desperate breath as the wind whipped her loosened hair across her face. The night air stung her clenched fingers, cheeks, and ears. Her hood had long since fallen back on her shoulders, and she couldn’t spare a hand to pull it back up again.

She needed both hands to keep from falling.

She let out a gasping whimper and bent lower over her galloping horse’s bobbing neck. The poor animal was slick with lather, his eyes wide enough that she could see the whites as they hurtled through the darkness. Something caught at Aelys’s cloak, yanking her backward hard enough that the horse reared, throwing her off and to the side. She twisted in midair as she fell, but her left side hit the roadside berm hard enough to make her vision disappear in a wash of gray sparkles. Nothing snapped, but agony erupted from shoulder to hip, and Aelys gasped as the air fled her lungs.

A horse whinnied. Booted feet crunched over the road’s sparse gravel. Aelys let out a groan as air whooshed into her lungs. She fought to marshal her limbs enough to roll over. She’d just managed to get her hands and knees underneath herself when a large, heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder and flipped her onto her back.

Flash.

She visualized a bright burst of light as she thought the word and desperately pulled at her pitifully weak, tiny reservoir of power. The magelight responded beautifully. It exploded into brilliance inches from the brigand’s face as he leaned over her with murder in his expression.

“Qunt!” He stumbled back, his hands clawing at his eyes.

She gulped in a hopeless sob and scrambled backward on her elbows and heels, trying to get away from his terrifying bulk. The soil of the berm crumbled under her weight, pitching her backward onto a softer, grassier surface.

“You’ll pay for that, bitch,” the brigand growled. Aelys looked up to see him shake his head, then squint at her before stretching his mouth in a leering grin. A terrified whimper slipped past her lips as she tried to coordinate her leaden feet and her slow, weak hands. Once more she reached for her power, but it was no use. One tiny burst of light and she had nothing left to call.

Some Bellatrix I am.

Her attacker’s chuckle cut through her like icy steel as he started walking toward her. Behind him, more horses arrived. For one desperate second, Aelys thought perhaps it might be someone coming to help her, but that hope died a quick death when one of the arrivals called out.

“All right then, Varryl?”

“Jus’ fine, Dem. Jus’ bleedin’ fine.”

“Remember, we need her alive.”

“Oh, she’ll be alive, all right . . . ” He let the words trail off suggestively and grinned even wider. Moonlight and firelight from a nearby building flickered over his face and Aelys realized that they were just outside the inn she’d been fleeing toward. She’d nearly made it.

Why is he chasing me? I don’t have that much money on me! Is he . . . he can’t be one of the Monterles! He’s so dirty and rough!

Varryl lunged, his big hand grabbing Aelys’s waist as his weight came down, knocking her flat into the dirt once more. She let out another gasping kind of sob.

“That’s it. Cry for me, bitch. Not so rich and powerful now, are you?”

The back of his hand impacted Aelys’s cheek, slamming her face to the side hard enough to wrench her neck and make stars explode into her vision. She fought to get her hands free of his pinning weight so that she could protect her face. More blows would come. She knew it. And then—

Unwilling to think much further, Aelys hunched in the dark with her forearms crossed over her face and waited for the pain.

* * *

The sky outside glowed deep blue with the rising Mother near the eastern horizon. It shaded into star-studded black overhead, with the bright silver crescent of the Daughter hanging just west of zenith. Romik sucked in a deep breath of woodsmoke-scented air and shook his head. That strange, hope-edged euphoria continued to gild his thoughts in a way that might have been alcohol-induced . . . but he didn’t think it was.

He was pretty sure it was just joy. And he had no idea what to do with such a feeling.

Romik let out a sigh and finished relieving himself in the small, unroofed outhouse he’d found set back from the tavern in a scraggly stand of trees. He straightened his clothing and stepped down off the platform into the crystalline beauty of the night.

How is this possible? Red Lady, I’m afraid to think on it too much, lest it shatter around me. To have my brothers again is . . . overwhelming enough, but now the prospect of a business venture? It’s like the dreams of my ten-year-old self coming true!

That thought startled him into a laugh as he made his way down the slope back toward the tavern. The light from the windows shone golden out into the night, and Romik paused for a moment to take in the sight, knowing that in the future, he would remember this night as the night everything in his life changed.

That moment of reflective pause was the reason he saw the girl.

She bent low on her horse, bright hair and dark cloak streaming behind her. Even at his distance, Romik could see the white lather that flecked the horse’s neck and chest glistening in the rising Motherlight. Behind her, three more horses thundered up, and as he watched the closest pursuing rider reached out and grabbed hold of the girl’s cloak, ripping her from the saddle and casting her down to the ground hard enough that Romik heard a distinct thump and a cry.

He didn’t think.

The blissful golden haze around his thoughts vanished as he drew his sword and charged silently—or as nearly so as he could manage—down the slope toward where the attacker and his two fellows converged on the hapless girl.

* * *

“ . . . see, I think we head south in the morning. You seem to want to bypass Cievers, which is fine, but we can take ship at Elocar or one of the other ports and head down to Zandrine or Ioletta or one of those big cities—” Daen broke off from his rambling as his pleasantly blurred thoughts suddenly sharpened.

He lowered his mug to the table and met Vil’s gaze. Vil, who had been listening with an indulgent expression and half smile shifted forward in his seat, his gaze going dark.

“Something . . . ” Vil said, his tone low in warning.

“Romik,” Daen said at the same time. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was absolutely certain. Romik was . . . not in danger, precisely . . . but he needed them. Now.

Daen pushed up to his feet, grateful that the effects of tankards of Mirandy’s fine ale seemed to have vanished. He slung his quiver, grabbed his bow, and bolted for the door.

And the whole time, he could feel his dark brother’s presence behind him.

Watching his back, just as he’d sworn to do. As they’d all sworn.

Romik . . . 

Daen kicked the outer door of the tavern open as he nocked an arrow and drew. He blinked to settle his eyes to the sudden change in light, but with the Mother rising and the Daughter high, he had no trouble making out the figure of his brother, sword drawn, charging down the slope toward a trio of men intent on an indistinct, lumpy patch of ground.

Daen took two steps out into the darkness and let fly. His arrow soared down the slope and thudded into the throat of the tallest man. Daen caught the edge of a strangled cry as his target stumbled backward and fell heavily.

He nocked and drew again, but by that time Romik was there, and he didn’t want to risk hitting his brother in the uncertain light.

A brief tussle followed, and one of the remaining attackers backed away, and then turned and lunged for the nearby horses. He got himself up into the saddle before Daen could take proper aim and let fly. His arrow thudded into the man’s thigh, just above the knee. The man let out a cry and the horse under him took off, hooves thundering down the dirt road in the opposite direction.

“Guard his back while he gets the girl. I’ll head back in and warn Mirandy she’s got bodies on the lawn,” Vil said softly. Daen nodded, nocking another arrow and holding it at the ready as Romik bent over the fallen body of his opponent. Only then did he realize that he had no idea what Vil was talking about.

Girl?

* * *

Varryl let out a weird grunt, and his weight made a sudden shift to the side. Something wet and hot pattered down her arms and hands, sending drops splashing onto her face. She flinched, and then his full weight dropped on her, his body going slack and boneless.

Aelys heaved upward, shoving at his shoulders, and managed to worm out from underneath him. Overhead, the Mother hung full and round, just rising over the trees. Her light revealed a wide black gash in the attacker’s throat. A slow-spreading, black puddle glistened beneath him in the Motherlight.

Aelys pulled in a breath and tried to quiet the ringing in her ears.

That’s not just ringing. That’s the sound of a man screaming.

Aelys blinked and scrubbed with unsteady hands at the tacky blood drying on her face.

A bowstring sang out somewhere behind her. Aelys flinched and ducked, and then looked wildly around. She couldn’t see who was shooting, or from where. Another scream brought her attention back to face the road, only to see one of the men who’d attacked her fleeing, crouched low over his horse’s neck. The third attacker lay nearby, letting out a high, gurgling whine as blood fountained forth around the arrow in his throat.

“Are you all right?”

Aelys whipped her head around again, letting out a tiny scream. While she’d been watching the fleeing attacker, a warrior had approached. His face was grim. His sword gleamed naked in the moonlight, dark liquid glistening as it dripped from the blade.

“Are you all right, demoiselle?” he asked again, stepping closer. He used the toe of his boot to nudge the body of the first attacker, the one who’d taken her to the ground. “Did this trash hurt you?”

“N-not really,” she stammered. Without meaning to do so, she raised her hand to brush her bruised cheek. “He only hit me.”

With the Mother rising full behind him, the Daughter’s quarter light high in the sky wasn’t enough to fully illuminate this warrior’s face, but Aelys could see his eyes narrow.

“That’s bad enough,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. There are rough sorts in these woods.”

“I know,” she said softly, guilt sinking deep in her gut. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“Well, you’d better come in and get warm, at least.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the inn. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“I-I can pay,” she said.

“The innkeeper will be glad to hear it.”

Aelys wasn’t really conscious of him pulling her to her feet or of starting forward, but somehow, she was walking beside this hulking man while he cleaned his sword and sheathed it. She watched him tuck the rag he’d used back into a pouch on his belt.

Then they stood at the door.

“—is she?—”

Another man stood in the open doorway. Almost as tall as the warrior, but leaner, thinner, except for his massive shoulders, a bow held loosely in his hand.

“Demoiselle. Demoiselle!”

Aelys blinked and forced her eyes to focus on the face of the warrior. Her rescuer.

“Yes?”

“She’s badly shaken up,” the other man said. Disgust ran thickly through his voice, and Aelys flinched.

Of course he’s mad at you, you’re stupid and weak! First you get robbed, now you’re not paying attention!

A hand on her arm, just above her wrist, interrupted her mental tirade. She looked down, wondering how the hand got there, and then looked up again into the face of the archer.

What she could see of it.

“Demoiselle, I think you should come with us.” He had a nice voice, not gravelly and rough like the warrior’s. Not overly loud. “We have a table near the fire. My name is Daen, and this is Romik. Our brother Vil is there. I give you my word that you are safe with us.”

Safe? How can I be safe when I ruin everything?

She must have nodded, or otherwise indicated assent . . . or done nothing and the archer—Daen—went ahead with his plan. Because next she was in the process of sitting down at table with yet another man. He looked just as rough and angry as the two who’d rescued her.

“So, who is this, then, Daen?” the third man asked, looking up from under the black woolen hood he’d pulled over his head. A wisp of white-blond hair peeked out, but most of his face remained shadowed.

“Romik found her being attacked on the road.”

“Not our problem.”

“Vil, don’t be an arse. She’s a young woman who needs help . . . and she said she has money. Maybe she’d like to hire us to escort her, hmm?”

The man in the cloak lifted his shadowed face and Aelys got the impression of dark blue, empty eyes as he studied her. A shiver started under her skin and radiated throughout her body, and the warmth from the crackling fire nearby did nothing to stop it. Those dark eyes narrowed, and the man called Vil leaned forward.

“Where is your Ageon, Bella?” he asked. His quiet voice held an edge of menace that made Aelys round her shoulders and duck her head, curling further into her misery. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Romik spin from his watch on the door to stare at her.

“Vil, what are you talking about?” Daen scoffed. “She’s not—”

“She is,” Vil said, his voice drawing out the last word in a sinister purr. “Look at her clothing, look at her throat. She’s wearing Lyceum livery, and only Bellatrices ever wear that type of choker stone.”

Before she could stop herself, Aelys looked down at her dress. He was right. In her haste to depart the Lyceum, she hadn’t bothered to change her ceremonial graduation gown. Firelight from the nearby hearth glinted off the black thread embroidery winding its distinctive pattern across the blue silk. She reached to pull her outer cloak closed.

Vil’s hand shot out like a viper. His long fingers wrapped around her wrist and pulled it forward, pinning it to the table while his other hand shoved her sleeve up past the elbow.

“You wear no bracelet.”

“I—I have no Ageon.”

“A Bellatrix with no Ageon? How is that possible?”

Aelys pulled against him, afraid to look away from the intense darkness of his eyes. He held her in his iron grip for a long moment, and then let her go. She sank back into her seat and buried her braceletless arm back within her sleeve before hunching further into herself. Stupid, stupid girl! Of course someone would recognize your dress, and your necklace!

“I don’t understand, Vil,” Daen said, his tone cautious. He took the wooden chair next to Aelys and spun it, straddling the seat and leaning forward with his arms crossed on the back. Aelys glanced sideways at him, absurdly grateful for his presence.

“She’s a Bellatrix from the Lyceum in Cievers—or at least she’s dressed like one,” Vil said. “But I’ve never heard of a trained battle mage without an Ageon protector . . . so, who are you really, girl?”

“Did your protector die?” The big man, Romik, had turned his attention fully back to the conversation. He leaned forward, putting hands nearly the size of dinner plates on the surface of the heavy oak table. His voice, though still gravelly and rough, sounded almost gentle.

But that can’t be true. Why would he be gentle with someone as worthless as you?

Aelys glanced up into his severe face with its hard lines and even harder expression and swallowed against the despair that threatened to drown her. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“No,” Vil said, drawing the word out like silk in the firelight. “If her Ageon had died, she’d still have the bonding bracelet on her wrist. I don’t think she’s a true Bellatrix at all. What’s the story, girl? Were you a servant? Or maybe a student who couldn’t take the training? Did you steal that gown and necklace and run away from the Lyceum?”

Despite the icy fear flooding her veins, something in the hooded man’s sneering tone ignited a tiny spark of defiance deep within Aelys’s brain. The same impulse that sent her fleeing into the night rather than be publicly shamed had her head snapping up, and she felt something like heat kindle in her eyes.

“I graduated,” she snarled. “I earned the right to wear this stone! I just . . . did not bond with an Ageon.”

“None worthy of your power, then?” Daen asked, laughter threading through his tone. He didn’t sound unkind, though. It was more . . . teasing?

Aelys’s sudden flash of defiance sputtered and died.

“Rather the opposite.” Shame had her half muttering, half whispering the words. She lowered her gaze to the scarred tabletop and hunched still further inward, listening to the fire’s crackle behind her.

“’Ere now, boys!” A woman’s bright, brassy voice cut through Aelys’s growing misery, and she peeked up through the wisps of her hair to get a good look at a truly impressive bosom as the serving woman—or proprietress? There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the place—leaned over the table to set down three wooden plates filled with some kind of stew. A board with a loaf of delicious-smelling bread followed, and then the woman straightened and pulled at the neck of her chemise, further calling attention to her assets. “Bit of a dust up, Vil says. No matter, I’ll have the stableman see to it, and you’ve my thanks for keeping it outside. And who’s this then? Another dinner guest?”

“One more plate of stew, please,” Romik said, his rough voice holding a friendlier note than Aelys had yet heard from the man. “And another round of your ale?”

The barmaid winked at him, her lips twisting in a suggestive smile. “Anything for you, big man,” she said. Romik snorted, but his gaze intensified, and his smile deepened just a touch as she turned, deliberately swaying her hips as she walked away.

Aelys snapped her eyes back to the tabletop. She hadn’t meant to pry.

Daen pushed his plate into her view. “Eat that,” he said. “You look like you’re about to pass out. I’ll have the one she brings.”

“I don’t want to take your food,” Aelys managed to whisper. Mother and Daughter, Listen to me! Helpless and mewling as a kitten . . . but what else am I supposed to say?

“Mirandy will bring another one in just a moment. She won’t leave Romik waiting long. Will she, Ro?” Aelys looked up at the archer, but once again, his words seemed teasing and lighthearted, not barbed at all.

Certainly, Romik didn’t take offense. He didn’t answer, just wrapped one of those big hands around one of the mugs that sat in the center of the table, lifted it, drained it, and put it back down. He swiped the back of his sleeve across his lips, his eyes steady toward the long bar across the room. Aelys peeked over that way, and sure enough, the barmaid emerged with three mugs in one hand and a fourth plate of stew in the other. She saw Romik watching her, and her smile grew.

Stop staring! What is wrong with you?

Aelys bit her lower lip and looked down again, this time finding the plate of stew that Daen had pushed in front of her. Since his was clearly on its way, she pulled her spoon out from the pouch on her belt and dipped it into the thick, meaty gravy.

She tried not to notice the interplay. She focused on eating the surprisingly good stew and keeping her head down. But her eyes seemed unable to resist peeking out, so she knew when the barmaid arrived and set down her burdens. Aelys saw when Romik wrapped his arm around the busty woman and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Aelys heard the barmaid’s throaty giggle at whatever he said and caught her saucy wink as she turned to do that same hip-swinging walk away.

“So, I take it you’re in favor of staying here the night, then?” Daen said dryly. Aelys did look up then. Had they been planning to leave?

Romik shrugged. “Might as well. Bandits in the woods.” He picked up one of the fresh mugs and tilted it in Aelys’s direction, as if to say that she was proof.

Which, I suppose, I am.

“Um, excuse me,” Aelys said before she fully realized she was about to speak. Her eyes went wide, and cold terror sliced through her as all three of the men turned the full weight of their attention to her. Behind her, the fire crackled and snapped, making her jump as her nerves flashed to life with a jolt.

“Ah, sorry,” she said, forcing herself to go on. “B-But Daen said . . . perhaps I would like to hire you? I would. To escort me. Home.”

“Would you, now?” Vil asked. Aelys fought not to quail as she met his dark, empty gaze again.

“Y-yes. I could clearly use the help in getting home safely. And I can pay.”

“Where is home?” Daen’s voice was kinder, less sardonic. Aelys felt a bit like a mouse turning its back on a mountain cat, but she switched her focus to him and took a deep breath.

“Brionne,” she said. “In the mountains. My family lives there.”

“Does your family work for the House?” Daen asked.

“Not exactly.”

“What, exactly, then, Bella?” Vil’s question cut through Daen’s polite interest like a blade, and the sneering way he said Aelys’s title made her stomach clench in fear . . . and anger.

She laid her spoon down beside her plate and turned back to face him, though it felt like all of her muscles might lock up and refuse to move. Vil continued to stare at her with that unnerving intensity. Next to him, Romik watched the interplay in between glances over toward where the barmaid had gone.

“My family is the House,” Aelys said softly. “My name is Aelys of Brionne.”

Vil didn’t move, but Romik turned his full attention back to the conversation. “As in Aerivinne of Brionne?”

Aelys nodded. “She is my aunt. My mother’s younger sister.”

“So, you’re related to the famous and most powerful Bellatrix in the past century, and yet you don’t have enough power to attract an Ageon?” Vil said. The clear disbelief in his tone sparked that tiny flicker of defiance in Aelys’s mind once more.

“Yes,” she said, straightening her spine. “My family has a long association with the Imperial Battlemage Corps and the Lyceum Belli, but not all of us are . . . born suitable . . . ” She trailed off as her throat closed up in shame and mortification. She swallowed hard and looked down at her meal, unwilling to let these rough men see her cry.

“Vil, what does it matter?” Daen asked. His voice carried an edge of exasperation. “Either she is who she says she is or she’s not. Either way, it’s a few days’ travel to take her to Brionne. We can leave her at the gate and let the House’s guards figure it out. But we could use the work.”

“And I can pay,” Aelys added.

“How much?” Romik asked. She looked at him and then glanced away quickly.

“I . . . I don’t know—”

“Fifty Imperials,” Daen said, making her jump again. Aelys blinked up at him. “Half now, half when we arrive at Brionne. Acceptable?”

It was extortionate. Aelys knew that. But she also knew that he’d inflated the price to help convince his friends to take the job. And really, what choice did she have? If they were going to hurt her, they could just as easily left her to the bandits.

They didn’t know I was rich when they rescued me, fed me.

“Agreed,” she said.

The three of them glanced at each other.

“Let’s see—” Vil started to say, but Aelys had already reached into the inner pocket of her cloak.

Open, she thought as she brushed her fingers across the enchanted seam. She pulled out the flat pack of coins she kept on her person and counted out twenty-five of the big silver Imperials. She called a hint of magelight to her fingers as she closed the wallet and resealed it back inside her cloak.

A warning? A demonstration of what little power I do have?

Both, probably. It just felt like something she needed to do.

Vil’s hand shot out again, and the neat stack of coins disappeared. Neither Romik nor Daen protested. These three obviously trusted one another. Romik leaned forward, put down his ale, and reached his beefy hand across the table toward her.

Is that a tattoo on his palm? What kind of—

“We’ll take your contract, Lady Aelys,” he said.

Aelys swallowed hard and clasped his hand in the ancient gesture of a bargain sealed.

“Bellatrix Aelys,” she said, though she felt slightly ridiculous in doing so. But she had graduated, so the title was hers to use, even if it was little more than an honorific. She would be Lady Aelys as soon as she returned home to take up her new life as a noble breeder for her family, so she might as well be a Bellatrix as long as she could.

“Bellatrix Aelys,” he said. He squeezed her hand lightly, his thick fingers swallowing her hand whole. Then he let go and picked up his mug again. “We’ll leave at first light, if that suits you. Does anyone see Mirandy? I’ll see if she has a pair of rooms available.”

“One for the Bella, one for Vil and me?” Daen asked. He smiled widely and winked at Aelys. She felt her face flame as her sudden courage deserted her. She looked back down at her meal.

Stupid girl. What have you gotten yourself into with these three?

* * *

As the evening wound down, Mirandy’s ale spread a sunny warmth through Romik’s body, and he continued his earlier trend of feeling pretty good about things. Not only did he have his brothers back, but there had been a nice little fight and a chance to help someone desperately in need of it. Even better, it turned out that she was rich and wanted to hire their newly formed band to escort her home!

And to top it all off, he still looked forward to a long, comfortable night with the buxom, willing Mirandy to warm his bed. Maybe hope wasn’t a lie after all.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, the barmaid/innkeeper stepped out from the kitchen and approached the table, two keys dangling from her hand. Her gaze locked onto Romik’s and his body stirred in response to her knowing smile.

“Everyone else is gone, and I’m closing up. Big man ’ere said you lot wants to stay the night,” she said. “I’ve two rooms upstairs, both clean. Ye can have them both for two Townies apiece. And I’ll throw in hot water for a bath for free . . . since we’re such good friends and all.” She winked at Romik, and he lifted his mug in salute.

“Bring the water in the morning and you’ve got a deal, Mirandy,” Vil said. He produced four small copper coins from somewhere inside his jerkin and clicked them down on the table. Then he gave her a tight, tiny smile as she dropped the keys into his hand and picked up the coins in one swift motion.

“I’m going to go lock up,” she said, pocketing the coins into her apron and turning her full attention to Romik. Her eyes wandered over his chest and shoulders, and her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip. “I’ll be right back.” Her lips curved in a slow smile before she turned and sauntered back toward the kitchen.

“Here, Daen,” Vil said, holding one of the keys out across the table. “You can take our client upstairs and get her settled into her room.”

“Good idea.” Daen took the key and stood, then gently put a hand on the girl’s chair. She startled, as if she’d been half asleep, and shot to her feet. “Easy mi—Bella. It’s all right. I’m just going to see you upstairs to your room. So you can rest.”

The girl, her pale blue eyes wide and panicky, nodded. Daen gave her the smile Romik had seen him give to any number of young, frightened animals when they were kids and held out his arm for her to take. Next to Romik, Vil snorted softly, but Romik stayed silent.

Romik watched as she took Daen’s arm and let him lead her gently toward the stairwell along the back wall of the tavern. He had to fight the urge to shake his head.

“That girl is damned lucky I was outside,” Romik muttered. Next to him, Vil nodded.

“The world is no place for unsheltered, unescorted noblewomen. Which makes me wonder . . . why was she all alone?”

“Who knows? Running away from something, probably. She’s young.”

Vil grunted but made no other answer.

“So, probably three days—maybe four at most to see her home.” Romik went on. “Daen will know better, I don’t remember much about the roads around here. I’ve not been to Brionne, but I don’t think it’s farther than that. And afterward, where do you think—”

Vil shot to his feet, his skinny daggers flashing into each hand. Romik stood and reached for his short sword just as a scream ripped through the crackling sounds of the dying fire. He spun toward the kitchen where Mirandy had gone.

A man burst through the kitchen door, holding Mirandy across his body, his fist tangled in her pretty blonde hair.

“Mirandy!” Romik shouted, ripping the sword from its sheath. A feeling like cold iron settled in his belly at the sound of her whimper. The cloaked, hooded man holding her yanked her head back against his shoulder and set the edge of his knife against her throat.

“Give us the girl, and this one lives,” the brigand growled.

“Give us that girl, and we’ll let you live,” Vil shot back, his voice a silky purr of menace.

“Not the deal I offered,” the brigand said. “Too bad, sweetheart.” And he stabbed his knife into the side of Mirandy’s slim white throat.

White, sun-blasted rage roared to life inside Romik’s chest. The pleasant buzz from Mirandy’s ale vanished in a steam explosion deep in his mind. Romik kicked his chair, sending it sliding across the room, and leapt at the murderous bastard. He stabbed low, taking the brigand high in the groin. He screamed and fell, his body crumpling around Mirandy’s.

Some instinct warned Romik, and he ducked just in time to avoid losing his head as two men rushed through the kitchen door, followed by two more. Romik sidestepped, not wanting to get tangled up in the corpses or slip in their blood as it mingled and pooled in the rushes that covered the stone floor. He parried another blow and glanced around for Vil. He didn’t see him, but he did see a blur as a bowstring twanged and an arrow buried itself in the throat of the next man directly in front of him.

“Daen,” Romik shouted. “Get the girl out of here!”

“They’ve set fire to the roof!” Daen called back. “This is the only way out.”

Romik sliced his sword across another bandit’s unprotected face while he drew his off-hand dagger and stabbed still another one in the gut. That one cried out and crumpled, as did the one behind him, felled by Vil’s knife severing the tendons behind his knee.

More bandits came boiling in through the kitchen door. Daen’s bowstring sang out again and again. Romik kept hacking and swinging, trying to fight his way toward the front door, only to hear Vil yell that it was blocked and couldn’t be opened.

Sweat coated Romik’s hands and beaded along his hairline. Daen shouted something about the windows as he ducked a thrust and took off the arm of yet another black-cloaked assailant. He turned to look behind him, but smoke stung his eyes. Flames licked their way up the window shutters. Romik heard a breathy scream, and a small, lithe body stumbled into his back.

“Stay behind me!” he growled to the girl. He reached back with his dagger hand and felt her grip his arm to steady herself. On his left, Romik glimpsed Vil drawing nearer through the smoke. Daen’s bowstring sang out on the right.

The bandits broke off their attack, retreating through the kitchen just as a mass of flaming timbers fell from the ceiling directly in front of them. Heat blasted Romik’s face and he stumbled back, nearly taking the girl down underneath him. Daen grabbed his sword arm, helping him to stay upright as the three of them shuffled backward away from the flames.

“We’re trapped,” Vil said, his voice calm and completely empty as he spoke over the increasingly loud roar of the flames overhead. “That was our last way out.”

Soft sobs rose behind Romik. He lowered his sword to turn and see the girl kneeling on the blood-tacky floor. She had her arms hugged tightly about herself, her head down as she wept.

“Idiot,” she whimpered, rocking back and forth. “Too weak to break through. Break through!”

“We can’t, Bella,” Daen said, coughing. Holding his bow in his right hand, he knelt beside her and lightly touched her shoulder with his left.

More smoke stung Romik’s eyes, burned his throat. He, too, lowered himself to one knee, sheathing his dagger and holding his sword loose in his right hand. He pulled in a breath and coughed, but the air was marginally clearer down low . . . for now.

“Not you,” the girl whispered. “Me. Too weak . . . but I have to try . . . break through. Break through it!”

“She’s lost her mind,” Vil said. He, too, crouched below the building layer of smoke, his shoulder just touching hers.

“Can’t blame her,” Romik said. Vil looked up and gave Romik one of his rare, savage grins.

“Me neither, brother,” he said. He clapped Romik’s shoulder with his right hand, and with his left, he covered Daen’s hand on the girl’s other shoulder. Flames ran overhead, sending a wave of scorching heat cascading down. Another section of the ceiling collapsed, this one over the fireplace, crushing the table where they’d been sitting.

“Break through!” the girl cried harder, rocking faster and faster. Her head slammed forward into Romik’s chest. Some instinct had him reaching up with his left hand and cradling the back of her skull, holding her as if she were a weeping child . . . which wasn’t far from the truth.

“It’s okay,” he said, knowing it was a lie. Unable to help himself, he squinted over to the pile of bodies where Mirandy lay like a broken doll. Deep regret joined the smoke stinging his eyes. I’m sorry, sweet lady. You deserved better. “It won’t be much longer,” he murmured, half to Mirandy, half to the crying girl. “You’re not alone. We’re all here with you.”

Her rocking stopped. Her head snapped up, her tear-wet blue eyes glistening in the burning light of the flames.

“With me?” she gasped. “You choose to be with me?”

Romik couldn’t help himself. Of course, he wouldn’t choose to be trapped in a burning building with anyone, let alone some slip of a rich girl he’d never met before. But in that moment, knowing that it would be among the last things he ever did, he smiled. Maybe he couldn’t save Mirandy, but he could comfort this girl.

“Bella,” Romik said, grinding the words out against the smoke. “Right now? With you and my brothers? Absolutely.”

Vil let out a harsh laugh. “Same,” he said.

“Me too,” Daen added. Romik caught the white flash of his teeth as he grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“You all choose me,” she whispered, and it sounded more like a statement of wonder than a question. A shudder ran through her tiny frame. Romik lowered his hand to the back of her neck in concern, and her head snapped backward, her eyes falling shut.

A deep crack reverberated above them, like the sound of an axle snapping. Romik squinted up into the billowing smoke and flowing flames as the wood timbers overhead began to groan. The girl started crying again.

“Break through,” she whimpered. Romik tightened his grip on her neck and pulled her closer against his chest. His brothers crowded in close as well.

None of us want to die alone.

“Break through,” she said again, louder this time. For just a moment, Romik wondered if she was willing the ceiling to break, willing the torment to end. He supposed he could agree with the sentiment, but still . . . 

“BREAK. THROUGH!” she screamed, and her whole body tensed in their tangled arms. Something not cold, not hot, but somehow both flowed into Romik’s hand where it touched her neck. He grunted, and the scalding, freezing power—for that was what it was, though he didn’t know how he knew that—exploded out of his mouth and reached up for the flames dancing above their heads. Next to him, Romik felt Daen scream and Vil gasp, and somehow, he knew they felt it too.

This strange power that invaded their systems reached. Somehow, it gathered all the heat and flame of the fire and pulled it down, funneling it into three separate strands of pure energy which flowed right back the way it had come.

Through them.

Agony worse than anything Romik had ever felt wreathed each nerve. Someone screamed. Him? His brothers? All of them?

The girl?

With a wrenching exertion of his will, Romik forced his eyes open to slits to check on her. Sweat and blood ran down his face. She lifted her head to stare at him, though he could see her eyes were still tightly closed.

“Give it to me.”

He didn’t know if he actually heard the words or just imagined them, but Romik’s brain screamed its assent. Something opened between him and the girl, and the nerve-searing agony rushed toward her, flowing through the connection of his hand on her neck like water racing toward a drain.

Romik reeled, panting. His hand felt welded to the skin of her neck, but his body bowed backward away from her, breaking the contact. As he watched, Vil and Daen collapsed on either side of her as she lifted her hands toward the still-groaning, flame-damaged timbers of the ruined tavern.

“Break through,” she whispered.

And the night exploded.

* * *

Get up.

Long years of training had Vil opening his eyes without moving the rest of his body. He blinked, willing the picture to come into focus, but the Dark Lady lay thick and heavy over everything, and he couldn’t see for shit.

Vil inhaled, tasting smoke and death. It coated his nose and tongue, made him want to cough and spit. He forced the impulse down, for the moment. He couldn’t hold it off forever, but Darkness take him if he didn’t have enough control to wake silently after—

What had happened?

Images flashed across his mind, almost too rapidly to be recognized: Smoke on the ceiling, blood on the floor. Black-cloaked bandits pouring in through the kitchen. Mirandy’s white throat opening up to an attacker’s blade. Romik’s savage scowl as he attacked. The ceiling collapsing in flames and more black smoke . . . 

We fought, and were trapped, until the ceiling fell in, and we ended up all huddled around . . . 

The girl. The hapless noblewoman with the too-wide eyes and skittish nerves.

Bellatrix after all, I see. My mistake.

Vil heard nothing save the soft shushing of the rising wind during all those ruminations, so he pushed himself up to a seat. Every muscle in his body ached as if he’d been beaten by ten men with clubs . . . but he’d survived that before, so he should be all right now.

The girl knelt, centered between where he’d lain and where Romik and Daen still lay, radiating out from her position. She slumped forward, still on her knees, her head resting on Romik’s thigh. Daen let out a groan, his fingers twitching toward her form.

“Daen. Brother,” Vil called out, his voice raspy from the smoke. A fat drop of water splashed down onto his cheek. Another followed, and he lifted his aching arm to pull his hood up to shield his face. “Daen. Wake up.”

“Are we dead?”

The corner of Vil’s mouth deepened in a half smile. Daen was all right.

“Not yet. At least, I don’t think so. Check Romik. Then get the girl.”

Daen rattled off a string of rather creative profanity as he pushed himself up and crawled over to inspect their warrior brother. More drops pattered down, and Vil looked up to see the rising wind blow away the obscuring fog—no, not fog, smoke—that hid the Mother’s full, round face.

The tavern is gone. With this realization, Vil pushed himself up to his feet and looked around. Debris spread in all directions, stained here and there with the blood of the men they’d killed. But no structure stood taller than Vil’s knees, not even the stone hearth. No fragment of wood or stone that remained was larger than a hand’s span. Of the bodies, there was no sign but blood. It was as if it had all been . . . obliterated.

Vil turned back to look at the girl. She lay in Romik’s lap as Daen helped him sit up. Romik squinted in pain and held his left hand to his head, though his right hand still gripped his sword. That, too, made Vil smile. Daen’s bowstring had snapped, but the bow itself appeared unhurt, lying beside where he crouched.

“We should get moving,” Vil said. “We don’t know how many of those bandits there were.”

Romik and Daen both looked up at his words, and only Vil’s strictest training kept him from flinching as he met their gaze.

“Vil—” Daen said, sounding strangled. “Your eyes!”

Vil held himself to stillness, counting through the calming, freezing exercises he’d learned as a child thief hiding on the streets of Cievers.

“What about them?” he asked, keeping his tone even and empty. “Have they become a ghostly, almost glowing blue?”

“How did you know?” Daen’s words sounded sick, like he already knew the answer.

“Because ours are that way, too.” It was Romik who answered, turning back to meet Daen’s gaze. “See?”

“All of us?” Daen breathed. “What happened? Is this another brotherhood thing?”

“I don’t know,” Vil said. “But I know I don’t want to be sitting here trying to figure it out when those bandits return. Or when someone else comes to investigate the fire and explosion at the old tavern.”

“Right.” Daen shook himself and picked up his bow, frowning at the snapped bowstring. He sighed and pulled a spare cord from a pouch at his belt and restrung the weapon with neat, economical movements. Then he reached a hand down to help Romik up.

Romik hadn’t moved.

“What about her?” he asked, looking down at the girl lying on his thigh. Vil watched, something dark curling deep in his belly as Romik’s big fingers tenderly brushed a curl of her wispy, white-blond hair away from her cheek.

“Bring her,” Vil snapped more curtly than he meant to do. “She’s our client, after all.”

“Help me lift her.”

“Daen will help. I’ll go see if the bastards left our horses in the stable.” Vil knew that there was no way the bandits had done any such thing, but he couldn’t take another minute of seeing the look on Daen’s face as he bent to cradle the girl’s limp form close, or the way Romik had touched her hair . . . or the way the rain splashing onto her pale face had twisted like a knife in his own chest.

Especially not that last.

Instead, Vil focused on the dark shape of the stone stable set back amongst the trees. It occurred to him that while it was unlikely that the bandits had left the stable unplundered, there was a chance that one or more of them might have sheltered there from the inn’s explosion.

At least, I hope they have . . . 

The Lady Darkness wrapped the night’s shadows around him as he angled to the side and wound through the trees and around behind the back of the stable. This forest was quite old, so it didn’t take him long to find a tree that stretched high enough for his purposes. Vil pulled his hood close to hide his white hair and hauled himself up into the tree as easily as if it had been an open second-story window in Cievers’s merchant district. Darkness smiled on him, and a remaining wisp of smoke flowed over the Mother’s bright face as he reached the branch he sought. Vil seized the moment and leapt across the short gap to the small opening in the hayloft. He hit softly, as he’d trained for years to do, and pulled himself in.

Once inside, Vil crouched in the musty hay and listened for the stamp and whinny of horses, or the footfalls and voices of men. Nothing. The place was quiet as a tomb.

Well, of course the bandits took the horses. They’d hardly be proper bandits otherwise. Still, there’s something . . . 

Without a sound, Vil climbed down the ladder. It wasn’t until his soft-soled boot touched the packed earthen floor that he realized what he was sensing.

Or smelling, to be specific. Quiet the barn may have been, but it reeked of blood and shit—the scents of death. With a step, Vil faded back into the embrace of his Lady, sliding against the walls, avoiding the Mother’s light as she shone through the open barn doors.

The bandits had left men. Four of them lay roughly in a circle just outside the door. Enough dagger-sized shards of stone and wood riddled their bodies that they looked as if they’d been flayed. The debris from the inn’s explosion must have perforated lungs, arteries, and by the smell of it, bowels.

With nothing left to do, Vil sidled past the bodies and out into the night. Once he was outside, he could see the extensive damage to the front of the barn from the inn’s explosion. He didn’t backtrack fully, but he kept beneath the sheltering trees in the Dark Lady’s embrace down the slope for as long as possible and watched as his brothers carried the limp form of the girl toward him. Again, he pushed away the odd wrenching he felt at the sight of her.

Once they had come within earshot, Vil lowered his hood and stepped forward, letting the Mother paint him. Romik’s and Daen’s strange eyes seemed to glow in the Motherlight, and Vil spared a thought to wonder if his did the same.

“They took the horses and left four men, but they were dead before I got there,” he said without preamble as he skidded down the slick grassy slope toward them. “Shards from the explosion killed them.”

Romik blew out a breath and hitched the girl higher against his chest. He’d apparently taken her back into his arms after he stood up, though Vil noticed that Daen continually wound his fingers through a loose strand of her pale blonde hair. Vil’s own fingers twitched, and it took more effort than he wanted to admit to keep from reaching out to touch her for himself.

“Without the horses, we can’t get far,” he said, gritting his teeth at the effort it took to focus on what they needed here and now. The rain continued to pelt down, rolling off his woolen cloak—for the time being. “And we need to get her out of this storm.”

Her? Us! All of us—what is wrong with me? What is wrong with them?

“I know a place,” Daen said, his voice rough. He continued to play with her hair, his eyes locked on her face. “It’s not far.”

“Daen. Daen!” Vil snapped his fingers in front of his brother’s face until Daen blinked and looked at him. His ghostly blue eyes had gone glassy, but they sharpened again as they focused on Vil.

“Where is this place?” Vil asked.

“Not far,” Daen repeated, but this time without that eerie dreaminess. “A cave. Just a little ways into the forest. I can take us there.”

“Good. You lead, I’ll guard our rear. Romik, you’ve got her?” Vil leaned in until his warrior brother looked up and met his eyes.

“I do,” Romik said softly. “It’s the damnedest thing. I couldn’t . . . she’s . . . ”

“I know, brother,” Vil admitted, almost in a whisper. “Something’s shifted. We all feel it. Let’s just get to Daen’s cave and we’ll figure it out.”

At least, I hope we’ll be able to figure it out, Vil thought as he fell into place guarding Romik’s—and the girl’s—back.

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Framed