Thief of Lives

Chapter 14

As the light of the Burdock's flames faded in the southern merchant district of Bela, a different light shimmered unnoticed near the north point of the Outward Bay.

A large ship skimmed the water, rounding the point, long and sleek, its iridescent sails reflecting the crescent moon's light. Sails began to fold, and it slowed well away from the harbor to slip as close to shore as the bay's depth allowed. A small shape bobbed upon the water, moving away from the vessel.

Slender as its parent, the longboat glided into shore with four cloaked forms aboard-one to the stern, two at the oars, and the last at the bow. As the boat drifted to a stop, the forward passenger leaped out upon the gravelly sand.

His cloak was colored between charcoal gray and forest green. He wore a scarf around the lower half of his face and a cowl covering his head. Large amber almond-shaped eyes gazed back at the longboat. He raised a slender gloved hand.

His companion in the stern returned the gesture and called out, "D'creohk."

"To an end," he repeated back in the language of the land he now stood upon.

"And good hunting, Sgaile," his companion added.

The longboat drifted back toward the ship, and Sgaile fled into the shoreline trees.

A light rustle of autumn leaves and pine needles on the forest floor followed in his path, with no thump of footfall or crack of twig. When the nearest of Bela's outerlying villages was in view across the fallow fields, he settled upon the mulch carpet between the trees. He would wait and enter the city by daylight amongst its populace on the streets.

Sgaile sat still in contemplation. Word had passed to the homeland from the city's watcher, and then to the ship where he'd been assigned.

"A half-blood?" he whispered.

So few such aberrations existed in this world. He was mystified why this particular one distressed the watcher enough to call through the trees across the continent. Sgaile had never met a half-blood. Traitor, this one had been labeled, and in that there was possible sense. For the only one he heard of had been born years ago to another traitor to his people… a traitor to her people.

Aoishenis-Ahare-Most Aged Father-was wise beyond comprehension in ancient memories, and as leader of Sgaile's people, knew more reasons than his descendants why they should fear the humans. It was not Sgaile's place to challenge such wisdom, though it concerned him that he did not know how or why his target had been judged.

He untied the cloth strap running crossways over his chest and pulled its end until the narrow bundle it held to his back slipped from under his cloak and into his lap. He unfolded the cloth, arranging his belongings with care, and made sure each piece was in proper condition.

Picking up a tube of silvery metal and two double-curved lengths of polished, tawny wood, he assembled the short-bow and strung it. Five arrows with teardrop points also lay on the cloth. His stilettos were strapped to his forearms beneath his shirt.

Setting the bow across his lap, he reverently picked up his last possession, a plain but finely crafted wooden box as long as his forearm, wider than his palm, its depth less than the thickness of his wrist. When he opened it, he carefully inspected each item within, from the strangling wire to the bone-cutting blade, to the delicate struts, hooks, and implements hidden beneath a second panel in the lid.

Traitor, this half-blood had been called. The only other Sgaile knew of who'd borne such judgment was now dealt with. And her child, if that was truly who this one was, would not receive the mercy she had been granted by her people-or by her kind, the anmaglahk.

Magiere and Leesil trudged through the late-night streets to the front door of the sages' barracks. Lanterns to either side were extinguished, but Magiere banged upon the door anyway.

By good fortune, her breeches and boots were in the chest, so she hadn't had to walk the streets half-naked waiting for some guard to arrest them for indecency. She was certain her hair was a wild mess. Her shirt hung loose, black smears and spatters across it. There were no marks of her own blood, but her ribs and hip ached where she'd been kicked. She was about to pound on the door again when it cracked open.

To Magiere's relief, Wynn Hygeorht peered out, clutching her robe closed. She held up a lantern, its light somehow brighter than any Magiere had seen.

"Oh," she said, "it is you."

She took sight of Leesil's state of undress and his gashes, and the massive gray form of Chap in his arms. Magiere knew she didn't look much better. Wynn's eyes widened in alarm.

"Spare a little bread for a few beggars?" Leesil jested.

Wynn jerked the door open. "Come-come inside."

It was then that Vatz stuck his head out from behind Leesil. Wynn's surprise grew, but she motioned the boy in as well.

"What happened? Why are you carrying Chap? Is he all right?" Wynn asked all at once.

"He's alive," Leesil answered, "but can't seem to walk on one front leg."

Without another question, Wynn ushered them down a hallway, then along another passage that emptied out into a kitchen. Magiere imagined the room probably looked similar to when it served the city guard, but now narrow wooden poles hung from the ceiling with a variety of harvested herbs arranged there to dry.

"Lay him on the table," Wynn said. "I must find Domin Tilswith. He has more medicinal knowledge than I."

Setting the lantern on the table next to Chap, her hand hesitated, about to touch the hound lightly on the head. Instead, she hurried away back down the passage.

Vatz walked up to Chap but didn't touch him either. "He won't die, will he?"

There was a bit of concern in the boy's voice beneath his general fuming. For half the walk to the barracks, he'd spouted a never-ending barrage of angry questions and foul exclamations over the fire at the Burdock. Magiere had bitten her tongue more than once. As much as Vatz had every reason to be upset, it wasn't helping matters. They could only apologize so many times in one night.

Leesil shook his head adamantly at Vatz. "No, absolutely not. You won't believe how soon he'll be up and around again."

"Good. I thought that vampire was gonna kill him."

At the word "vampire," Magiere closed her eyes for a few breaths. Small for his age, probably due to poor diet, Vatz couldn't be more than ten years old and yet spoke so matter-of-factly about something she'd only recently come to accept.

"Well, you saved him," Leesil said. "A good shot."

"I was aiming for the bastard's eye."

Leesil roughed up the boy's already frayed hair.

"Knock that off," Vatz snarled. "I'm not your dog!" But he remained at Leesil's side.

Magiere felt a stab of loneliness and the desire to see little Rose at the Sea Lion again. She'd never really paid attention to how children so easily attached themselves to Leesil-even those who didn't show it openly. Though in all honesty, Vatz didn't behave much like a child.

After they fled the inn, the boy roused the locals, and a fire brigade was organized faster than Magiere thought possible. The local constabulary arrived, and Leesil gave them a story about brigands raiding the inn. The Burdock's bottom floor was lined on the outside with stone, and one-story buildings bordered it. With enough people at hand, the fire was kept from spreading, and a portion of the ground floor might be salvaged.

So far, no one had located Milous, the innkeeper, and Magiere dreaded facing him. She planned to ask Lanjov for council money to rebuild the Burdock. If he refused, then the cost would come out of her and Leesil's final payment. Milous and Vatz couldn't be left homeless and without a livelihood.

Leesil knelt and took the crossbow from Vatz. Smaller than most, its length was two-thirds of the boy's height.

"How did you load this?" Leesil asked.

"I didn't," answered Vatz. "My uncle loads it for me whenever he leaves for a night."

"We're safe here," Magiere said. "You shouldn't need it anymore."

"Course I will," he answered. "I'm gonna help you fight vampires."

Leesil looked at Magiere.

"I don't think so," she said, putting an end to the subject.

"It probably pays better than sweeping floors or packing some fop's baggage," Vatz added.

Leesil frowned and sat on the floor next to the boy, showing him how to put his feet against the bow and use his legs to help pull the crossbow's string back to the catch.

The sound of trotting feet — flooded in from the hallway. Wynn reappeared, followed by an older sage of medium build and close-cropped silver hair and beard with a few hints of black remaining. His bright green eyes appraised the room's occupants. Like Wynn, he wore a simple gray robe, and his expression was somehow calm and concerned at the same time. Magiere guessed this was the head of Wynn's order, Domin Tilswith.

He stepped close to Chap and said something to Wynn, though Magiere didn't understand the words he spoke. Wynn retrieved a small jar from a shelf behind the table and handed it to the domin, but her gaze was locked upon the dog.

"Can you fix him?" Vatz asked in a challenging tone.

The elder man smiled down at the boy. "Yes, but not know he need me." The accent of his broken speech was like Wynn's but thicker. He turned toward Magiere. "I Domin Tilswith, head of new branch of guild. Your dog heal now."

Magiere peered to where the domin gently fingered Chap's fur. A narrow cut along the hound's right shoulder was no longer bleeding and had closed. Wynn also studied the wound, and her lips parted, speechless.

"What about his front leg?" Magiere asked. "Is it broken?"

Tilswith felt gingerly along the limb, and Chap let out a low whine.

"Bone feel right, but…?" He paused to speak again to Wynn in their strange, guttural tongue.

"Fractured," she added for the old man. "It might still be cracked."

She quickly poured a liquid like brewed tea from the jar onto a large wooden spoon. She was about to lower it to Chap's muzzle but stopped. Looking to Magiere, she held out the spoon.

"This will help the pain and allow him to sleep. Perhaps you should try. He seems to listen to your words most."

"Not lately, he hasn't," Magiere said, but she took the spoon.

Putting one hand under Chap's jaw, she tilted his muzzle up. Leesil put his hands around the dog's shoulders to hold him steady. Oddly enough, Chap didn't struggle and lapped the fluid from the spoon.

"Good boy," Leesil praised.

Chap licked his jowls and laid his head down.

Domin Tilswith looked from Magiere to Leesil to Vatz and then chuckled.

"We not see visitor at night much. I have… salve? Yes, salve for wounds." He stopped suddenly and examined Leesil's cuts more closely. "Claws?"

"Fingernails," Leesil answered.

The domin raised one eyebrow and picked up another jar. Wynn fetched a bowl, filling it with water from a clay pitcher, and began washing Leesil's throat and shoulder with a clean cotton cloth. She worked gingerly, but Leesil still flinched, and Magiere tried to see how deep the cuts were.

"They're not bad," he assured her.

Once Wynn finished, the domin liberally applied white salve to Leesil's wounds.

"Good stuff," Leesil remarked with a soft smile. He rolled his wounded shoulder a little, but didn't wince at the movement.

"May I take that with me?" Magiere asked, pointing to the jar. "I may need some myself… later, in private."

The domin merely nodded and handed her the salve.

"What happened to all of you?" Wynn asked. She glanced up briefly from stroking Chap's back.

"Blazes and bloodsuckers is what happened," Vatz grumbled.

Before Leesil could add anything, Magiere presented a less colorful and somewhat sketchy account of the night's events. When she finished, the domin spoke with Wynn. The elder had some trouble with the Belaskian tongue, and it was annoying not knowing exactly what he now said. With a nod to her elder, Wynn turned to Magiere.

"You must be tired, and we have a room for you."

"A room?" Magiere asked, somewhat startled. "We just needed to get inside and didn't know anyone else in the city. We'll stay in the kitchen until sunrise and then find an inn."

"We know Lanjov," Leesil suggested dryly. "Perhaps he could put us up?"

Tilswith chuckled again. Wynn tried to scowl disapproval at him but couldn't hide her own smile. The two knew the council chairman well enough.

"Domin Tilswith says you should stay here," answered Wynn, "with us-for the remainder of your time in Bela. We have quarters set aside for scribes or visitors. You will be safe here and able to save your coins for other needs."

Magiere was uncertain but relaxed a bit more. These sages reminded her of Karlin back home, who still thought his own generosity of spirit was commonplace. She looked to Leesil to see if he agreed.

"Thank you," Leesil said to Wynn. "We do need the rest."

He picked up Chap, and Wynn grasped her lantern to lead them back through the passages to the far end of the building. Along the way, Wynn assisted Magiere in retrieving the chest. She showed them to a simple room with no door and two identical sets of stacked wooden bunks. Blankets had already been laid out, and another of the brilliant lanterns rested on a table at the room's rear.

"Will this do?" Wynn asked, as she led them inside.

"It'll do fine," Magiere answered.

Leesil laid Chap on the lower bunk to the left and gestured to the bed above it.

"Up you go, Vatz. We'll find your uncle tomorrow."

Vatz stood outside the doorway. His normally dour and serious expression had given way to worry as he glanced up and down the dark hall at the row of openings to similar rooms. Perhaps he'd expected to be placed in a separate room. At Leesil's words, he appeared openly relieved and scrambled into the bunk above Chap.

Leesil pulled a blanket over the boy and added, "Hunters of the dead stay together at night."

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Vatz pulled the blanket under his chin and closed his eyes. Magiere wondered how often the boy was left on his own and what had happened to his parents.

After helping Magiere to settle the chest, Wynn placed her lantern on the table, sliding the one there closer. She removed its tin cap and frosted glass, and as she reached toward the exposed light, Magiere almost called out. The sage's slim fingers closed about it and were stopped firmly before pinching out the illumination. When she lifted her hand, the light came with it, perched between her fingertips.

"What are… what is that?" Leesil asked, stepping closer.

Wynn smiled. "It is a cold lamp."

Opening her hand, the light rolled down her fingers and into her palm, and though it was still painful to the eyes, Magiere saw the glimmering outline of a clear crystal against Wynn's skin. It was no longer or thicker than one joint of her finger.

"With all that we keep here-scrolls, books, and other precious knowledge-open flame is a risk we cannot tolerate," she explained. "Some of our people are thaumaturgical artificers, mages of making, and create the crystals we use in our lamps." She held it out. "Here, feel it."

Magiere set down the salve jar on the chest and took the crystal with some hesitancy. It was cool to the touch.

"Now rub it between your hands," Wynn instructed.

She did so gently, and when she opened her hands, the light was indeed too bright to look at.

"That is all you need do if it dims," Wynn explained. Taking the crystal again, she returned it to the lantern, replacing both glass and cap. "Sleep as late as you wish and come to the kitchen when you wake."

She slipped out and back the way they had come.

When Magiere was certain the sage was gone, she whispered, "Vatz?"

The boy only grumbled and shifted, seemingly lost in slumber, and Magiere turned to Leesil.

"It was him, the one in my vision. He was the one in my room tonight."

For a moment, Leesil appeared uncertain what she meant. But then, instead of eagerness over finding their prey, he closed his eyes and slumped on the edge of the bunk across from Chap.

It was Magiere's turn to wonder in confusion.

"Are you certain about this?" Leesil asked.

"Dressed like a noble in a well-tailored black cloak," she answered. "He wasn't in the council chambers that first day we arrived." Her voice grew firm. "But he wore black gloves, well fitted. How many other undeads do you think we can find like that?"

"Oh, this is more twisted than even I can deal with," Leesil muttered.

"What?" Magiere asked. "I've seen him now. This is what we're here for."

"No, it isn't," he whispered.

She crouched down with some effort, the side of her chest aching even more. When she looked into Leesil's narrowed eyes, he stared back at her, unblinking.

"It was Ratboy… in my room," he said.

His words washed all else from Magiere's thoughts. "Ratboy?"

"He was different… dressed like a wealthy elite," Leesil went on. "And wielding a sword this time, like some half-pint warrior. But it was him."

This was far beyond anything Magiere had anticipated. She shook her head slowly. "Please don't tell me he was wearing black gloves as well."

Leesil shook his head as well. "I don't recall."

Confusion and fatigue snuffed the last of Magiere's fury at seeing the nobleman's black-gloved hands. Sly and cunning, Ratboy, Rashed, and Teesha had concealed themselves among townsfolk-but in an out-of-the-way place, not the king's city. So why would Ratboy now keep company with a demented dead nobleman murdering the city's elite citizens… and not even for their blood? She tried to stand again but doubled over halfway, pain slicing through her side.

Leesil snatched the side of her shirt and lifted it. In reflex, she swatted his hand aside.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, stop playing the prude," he growled. "You didn't get out as unscathed as you look. Now sit down."

Magiere was too tired to argue. It wasn't the first time they'd tended each other's wounds. She settled on the bunk's edge, and he lifted the side of her shirt again.

"Ah, I see you're finally getting some color," Leesil said with a frown.

Magiere pulled the shirt up enough to see for herself. A large patch of her pale torso was mottled and yellowed. There was still a hint of black and blue beneath the skin, but the bruise looked days old instead of a quarter night.

"You and that dog." Leesil sighed, and reached behind her on the bed to gather the folded blanket against the wall. "Still, the salve should take away some pain. Lean back."

Magiere reclined, and if she had any reluctance at being tended like an invalid, she lost it in another aching stab.

Leesil unbuttoned her shirt to the base of her breastbone. She suppressed another urge to push him away and do it herself. He lifted the shirt side to expose her ribs and then dipped his fingers into the salve sitting on the chest. She winced hard as he gently worked the salve into her side, but her thoughts were still on the puzzle that had grown more baffling this night.

"What is Ratboy doing here?" she asked. "He's more savage than Rashed or Teesha were, but that's not the same as butchering bodies without feeding. It's not his way."

"I told you when we left Au'shiyn's home, someone's on the game here." There was a hint of exasperation in Leesil's voice. "I just didn't know it was that little wretch until now."

His fingers worked along the edge of her rib cage around her white stomach. It was possible she'd cracked a few ribs, but the pain began to dull. She felt numb beneath the salve, which made the occasional brush of Leesil's hand against her stomach more acute.

"Make some sense, please," she said tiredly.

"Put it together," he answered. "The killer left Chesna dead on Lanjov's doorstep but never contacted Lanjov or the council. So why? Intimidation? Fair enough, but for what reason? And what did Lanjov and the council do?"

"They sent for us," she answered.

"All the missing people, a few bodies, and then Chesna… as if someone felt he wasn't getting enough attention and needed to be a little more obvious."

Magiere hesitated, not even wanting to believe where he was leading her.

"Bait," she whispered.

Leesil nodded.

"Yes, and we walked right into the snare, no better than the peasants we fooled all those years on the road. Tonight was Ratboy's worn-out way of throwing a welcoming party, complete with his new family."

"But why Au'shiyn?" she asked. "That doesn't fit, if murdering nobles was just to get us here. He died after we arrived."

"I don't know." Leesil shook his head. "It's a large city, and perhaps they couldn't find us either and needed us to show ourselves. Even in daylight when we went to Au'shiyn's, Ratboy could have found a way to track us."

As Leesil finished a stroke of salve down her side, his wrist brushed the crest of her hipbone. Magiere flinched more from pain than the flurry of nerves she felt inside. Leesil pulled away and frowned again.

"Looks like he grazed the hip as well."

"No, it's fine," she said, and began to sit up.

"Stop being a child," he snapped. With one quick hand to her shoulder, he shoved her back. "We hunt tomorrow, and even your rapid healing needs all the help it can get."

Resentment got the better of Magiere's nervous discomfort. She leaned back on her elbows, as he uncinched her belt and carefully peeled the side of her breeches down enough to expose her hipbone. Discolored like her side, the skin was also scraped raw from the nobleman's boot.

As Leesil worked the salve in, she refused to flinch and give him an excuse for another remark. But when the numbness settled in, it was followed by the same mix of uneasiness and contentment that spread from Leesil's fingertips.

Magiere watched him, still naked to the waist, and their conversation slipped from her mind.

"We need to find you a shirt," she said quietly.

"You don't look so neat and tidy yourself," he replied. "Unless those black stains are some new badge of honor for dhampirs. Guess you finally got me out of my old rags."

Every nerve in Magiere's body tightened in a rush of panic, and she stood up, buckling her belt with some difficulty.

"Thanks… it's better now," she said.

Leesil sat tight-lipped, as if she'd just insulted him.

"You'd better take the bottom bunk, in case you need to get up in the night," he said.

With that, he hauled himself into the top bed and flopped back to stare at the ceiling.

Magiere settled on the lower bunk. It didn't matter how much she might want Leesil closer, because the closer he came, the more danger he would be in. She was still a dhampir, and nothing would change that.

"Leesil?" she asked, wondering if he were still awake.

"What?" he said from above.

"If it's a trap, why are we playing into it?" She didn't really expect an answer, and just wanted to hear his voice. "Shouldn't we wait?"

"No, not on my life," he said harshly.

The pause that followed was so long, Magiere was about to speak when Leesil abruptly continued.

"He's mine. That filthy little whelp is mine. I'm going to finish what I should have… what I couldn't that night outside of Miiska."

This was no time for vengeance, and Magiere felt an angry rebuke rising in her throat. Then she remembered her rage upon seeing the nobleman in his black gloves.

"With the four who attacked us," she said, "there should be a clear trail to follow. Except Chap is too injured to track."

"We may not have to search anymore," he whispered. "They're coming to us now. And that suits me."

"We have to find the lair," she insisted. "This won't be over until we're sure we've gotten them all."

He didn't answer, and in a little while, his breathing deepened.

The cold lamp burned brightly from the table. Magiere wasn't certain she'd be able to sleep. She lay listening to Leesil's deep, slow breaths and the occasional creak of the bunks when he shifted. She closed her eyes against the light.

Blind in one eye, his body trembling with exhaustion and lost fluids, Toret shoved open the front door of his house, and he, Chane, and Tibor staggered into the foyer.

Sapphire sat in the parlor in her mustard silk gown. Her jaw dropped. Toret knew they were an ugly sight.

Tibor had long gashes all over his arms and face. There was a blackened hole in the middle of his throat, and his dirty clothes were a shredded mess. Chane wasn't wearing his cloak. Something sharp had slashed through the shoulder of his vestment and shirt, leaving a black oozing mess down his sleeve. The wound wouldn't close.

Toret was the worst of all. In place of his right eye was a gore-seeping cavity. His upper chest was split open, his ribs and severed breastbone exposed in the wide wound. The whole front of his split vestment was soaked black like Chane's sleeve. But he was home now, and Sapphire was waiting. Toret stumbled toward her.

"My sweet," he managed to say.

Her horror grew as he closed the gap between them and put his hands on her shoulders for support. She stepped back and pushed him away.

"Toret! This is real silk."

Toret leaned on the divan in confusion, sending fresh black fluids trickling down one arm. Why didn't she comfort him?

"That's a velvet divan," she said. "Chane, do something! And don't you dare let that sailor in here."

Toret stared at her through his one good eye. "Sapphire… my love. We're in a bad way. We need your help."

She frowned, as if this scene were simply too much, and whirled out of the room without a word.

Toret watched Sapphire's departing yellow-clad backside in disbelief. He could order her to stay. He could order her to help him, but he didn't. She should be caring for him, as Teesha had cared for Rashed, yet now she walked away in disgust because he was bleeding.

Lacking his usual grace, Chane stumbled in to assist him.

"You need rest," he said flatly. "So does Tibor."

"I need to feed," Toret answered. "Can you find me something?"

Chane moved to the window, lifted the curtain aside, and looked out.

"Dawn is too close, but rest will help, and I will go out the moment the sun sets tonight." He looked at his own open wound. "This is not closing. What do you know of the dhampir's sword?"

Toret sank upon the divan and leaned back. "Enchanted-or cursed," he replied. "I've felt its sting myself."

Chane pointed to Tibor standing in the foyer. "What about his throat? A quarrel should not do that to one of us."

"Simple trick. It was soaked in garlic water… poison to us." Toret closed his eye. "Send Tibor up to rest and then assist me."

It shouldn't be Chane helping him but Sapphire. Through the nightmare of making their way home unseen, Toret's mind was filled with images of Sapphire's concern for him, of how she would care for him as he had cared for her.

He felt strong hands pulling him up, but he pushed Chane away.

"Go downstairs and rest."

"Yes… master."

Toret walked to the stairs and grabbed the railing. As he climbed, he hoped feeding later would restore his mutilated eye. The half-blood had used mundane weapons, not like the dhampir's sword, so time and life force should heal his wounds completely. But when he saw Sapphire's closed door, he wondered if all wounds would heal.

He went to his room alone.

Welstiel sat at a small table in his room, thinking. At the bedside in the frosted-glass globe on its plain iron pedestal, the three dancing sparks dimly illuminated the small room. It was the oldest thing he possessed, having been the first thing he'd ever created in his long studies. That seemed so very long ago.

His fingers laced, and he absently traced the stub of the severed smallest finger with his other hand. His plan was not proceeding smoothly, and he was troubled. Lanjov was ready to dismiss the dhampir, and this was not a contingency Welstiel had considered. Magiere was an excellent hunter. This alone should outweigh any of her social shortcomings, even in Lanjov's world. Or so he had thought.

In addition, the pathetic Ratboy-or Toret-was not proving the challenge Welstiel had hoped. Magiere required practice and training. She needed to learn to handle multiple opponents, and to expect that older prey might have additional skills at their disposal beyond the varied abilities and strengths of the Noble Dead. Ratboy's lackey, Chane, was obviously a conjuror, and perhaps more, and yet for all Rat-boy's efforts and resources, he bumbled about like a fool.

Welstiel leaned back, exhausted. He had used his own methods to keep the dreams at bay for several days now-to keep himself from the coils of his dream patron. But he had to rest, at least a little while, before anything further could be addressed. He rose, made sure the door was tightly locked, and collapsed on the bed.

He barely noticed the room. A typical inn, and suitable for the kind of man who frequented the Knight's House, but he had seen the inside of too many inns. In recent years, they'd all begun to look the same. He reached into his baggage under the bed and pulled out a pewter vial, sipped its content lightly, and murmured a soft chant. Willing himself not to sink into dreams and merely to lie down for a while, he closed his eyes.

But it had been too long since he'd rested.

The world around him shifted and rolled like tall desert dunes, the countless grains of sand threatening to bury or pull him under. But there was no sand. The dunes were black. Movement sharpened slowly into clarity and sand grains became the glitter of light reflected upon black reptilian scales. Scale-covered dunes became a mammoth serpent's coils, circling on all sides of him. They slowly writhed with no beginning and no end and no space between.

"Where?" Welstiel asked. "Where is it? It has been so many years. Am I closer?"

They were the same questions he always asked.

High… to the cold and ice, came the whispered answer that penetrated his thoughts. Guarded by old ones… oldest of predecessors.

"How do I find it?"

As always, he tried to peer beyond the black coils to find what he sought, but he still did not know what it looked like-only what the coils promised it would do for him.

A jewel or gem-something unique and long forgotten to the world. It would be endowed with a divine essence able to free him of his current existence. He let his mind roll with the coils around him.

The old ones.

He did not know for certain, but he suspected what the coils tried to tell him. And to battle these guards was why he needed and prepared Magiere. She would be the most useful tool for his task.

The constantly roiling coils of his patron exhausted him, but he languished amid its dream. Words slipped like an echo through his mind. He could not tell if they came from his own thoughts or his faceless, scaled patron.

The sister of the dead will lead you.