Sister of the Dead

Chapter 11

L eesil awoke well past dawn and felt like he hadn't slept at all. He rolled over beneath the wool blanket to find he was alone.

Magiere was already up and examining the wagon's dislodged wheel. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, unbraided since the night before when they'd faced Vordana. The small cuts on her face were nearly healed, but the left side of her chin was still tinged red.

The damp air bothered Leesil more than usual, and it was difficult to put on a cheerful front as he got up. They needed to get the wagon fixed and be on their way. He crouched beside Magiere before the axle's exposed end.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"The wheel is intact," he answered. "But I don't see how we're going to lift the wagon enough to remount it."

Wynn and Chap gathered beside them.

"How is Port?" Magiere asked.

"Doing well," Wynn replied. Her eyes were sleepy, and she had not braided her hair either. "The salve helped, and he is not even limping."

"Any ideas?" Leesil asked her, returning to the wagon's wheel.

Wynn led the way into the woods until they found a fallen log. Leesil helped her drag it back. After Magiere hacked it clean with her falchion, Leesil scavenged a stout branch long enough for a lever. They rolled the log up to the wagon, set the branch in place, and all three of them put their weight on it.

The wagon's corner lifted, but when Leesil tried to set the wheel to the axle, it was clear they wouldn't get the axle high enough. More scavenging followed, as they tried to find a way to lift the axle higher. By midmorning, they stopped in frustration for a late breakfast, settling together on a blanket with apples and biscuits.

"If we can't fixed it soon," Magiere said, "We'll have to pack up Port and walk, take turns riding Imp."

"Now wait just a-," Leesil began.

"Listen," Wynn said.

A chattering carried from a distance, almost like the sound of birds. Leesil stopped to listen, and me more he paid attention, the clearer the sound became. The tones took on a distinct tune, and a voice carried lightly above chords both joyful and melancholy.

Leesil got up from the blanket. "Singing?"

The music carried up the road from behind them. The first thing he saw was a small house being pulled along by four mules. It was more of an enclosed wagon with walls and a roof overhead. Dark-haired people hung out of shuttered windows or sat atop its roof or walked beside the wagon. Faded and worn, their clothes were a motley array of colors and patterns.

The man atop the roof strummed a tamal, a narrow-necked four-stringed Belaskian lute, and the boy beside the driver bowed upon a well-worn fiddle. A woman walking beside the mules alternately hummed or sang in a language Leesil had never heard, though it sounded akin to Droevinkan.

'Tzigan!" Wynn said with her usual eager curiosity. "I mean Mondyalitko… like Jan and his mother, from the keep above Magiere's village. They have to be."

There were times Leesil found Wynn's need to label everything a bit tiring, but it was more bothersome that they'd run into these vagabonds in the middle of nowhere. He'd lifted a few purses in his days, but only when necessary and not out of habit. Who better to spot a thief than a thief? Any help was better than none, but somehow this seemed like putting out a fire without knowing if there was water or whiskey in the bucket.

The house wagon slowed at the sight of the stranded trio and their broken rig. Leesil made his best effort to appear gracious as he stepped into the road and raised a hand in greeting.

"Can we beg a bit of help?" he called out in Belaskian.

"I don't know about this," Magiere muttered behind him. "There are quite a few of them."

"Do you see anyone else coming our way?" Wynn asked.

Most of the Mondyalitko appeared as openly friendly as had Jan, and in a blink, they climbed from the windows and the back of the wagon in a flurry of chatter. When the fiddle boy tried to hop down and join the gathering, the driver grabbed him by the breeches and pulled him back onto the wagon's bench.

The man from the roof came to greet Leesil, slinging his tamal over his shoulder by its strap. He had a bushy mustache that nearly hid his mouth and trailed to his cheeks like the tips of wings. His hat was little more than a yellow felt sack that flopped to one side, its bottom edge sashed to his head with a mottled blue kerchief.

"I am Giovanni," he said, as if expecting them to recognize him immediately. Only his bottom teeth showed beneath the mustache when he grinned, and he swirled a quick hand through the air at those around him. "Of the Lastiana clan. And you seem to have damaged your home."

Leesil raised an eyebrow as he looked back at their broken wagon. Two men already inspected it closely, one scooting on his back beneath the tilted vehicle.

"We're off to Keonsk for the autumn festival," Giovanni continued. "The last of the squash and pumpkins are in, and people will pay well for entertainment."

"Really?" Wynn said. "Magiere, could we observe this celebration? Domin Tilswith would be so interested."

Leesil suppressed a groan, and Magiere glared at the sage.

"We could use some help," Leesil said, still keeping an eye on those gathered close to their wagon and belongings. "If you can spare a bit of time."

"When the world puts something in your path," Giovanni answered seriously, "best face it as fate rather than trip like a fool rushing on."

"What?" Magiere said.

Leesil grabbed her hand and squeezed it sharply. "Most kind of you," he answered politely.

Soon five men helped lever the wagon up. When it was high enough, they braced it with cut logs scavenged from the forest, and all grabbed hold to lift the wagon's side again. When Magiere stepped in to assist, several of the men exchanged surprised smiles.

Bit by bit, pushing braces farther under the wagon with each lift, the axle rose high enough for the wheel to be mounted. All the while, the Mondyalitko spoke little of the task at hand, as if each knew what to do without discussion. It was clear to Leesil they were used to dealing with such things as part of daily life. Instead they chatted about the coming festival in the capital, or asked questions of Leesil and Magiere. They studied both with curious amusement, until Leesil grew concerned over Magiere's mounting irritation made plain by her curt answers. Tools were unloaded from the little rolling house and, just past noon, the wagon was roadworthy once again.

Leesil traded some of their apples and extra jerky for a bit of spice tea and a few other supplies, while Wynn chatted amongst the Mondyalitko. Chap was more than occupied with children circling about him. Two young girls tried desperately to get him to fetch a stick, for which he showed no interest at all. But both dog and sage appeared equally disappointed when Leesil announced it was time to move on.

Leesil offered their thanks to Giovanni. "We're grateful you happened by."

Magiere pulled two silver pennies from their purse. "Please take this for your trouble."

Giovanni held up a hand in refusal. 'To help a traveler is good luck. This time, threefold."

"I insist," she said.

Leesil tensed. Magiere hated being indebted to anyone, and he worried that she might be insulting them. Giovanni searched her pale face for a moment and then took the coins.

"Our thanks," he said.

"Can we reach Keonsk by nightfall?" Leesil asked.

'Tonight? No, too far. Perhaps tomorrow."

Concealing his disappointment, Leesil nodded. After cheerful farewells, he clucked Port and Imp into a brisk trot. Wynn sat in the wagon's back, scribbling on parchment as she watched the Mondyalitko's rolling house fade in the distance behind them. She was quiet for a while and then closed her journal to gaze wistfully down the road.

Leesil counted them lucky that the bucket they'd been blindly handed held water instead of whiskey. But with trouble averted, there was little to keep his thoughts from wandering once again back to the nightmare forest and his mother's dust.

Welstiel had ridden hard through the previous night and then slept in their well-hidden tent all day. He awoke precisely at dusk and stepped from the tent with his pack in hand. He needed to scry for Magiere, check her direction and distance, and realized there was neither time nor opportunity to do so outside of Chane's presence.

Watching Chane conjure the wolf's spirit had altered Welstiel's evaluation of the tall undead. Chane's resourceful nature was matched with notable skill, making the creation of a large familiar appear effortless. Welstiel knew better.

Allowing Chane to see how he tracked Magiere would give away none of Welstiel's true secrets. And few others of his acquaintance had studied the arcane arts to the degree that Chane clearly had. He took out the brass disk, turned it over on the ground, and cut the stub of his little finger. Chane paused from packing to eye the brass dish as a drop of Welstiel's fluids struck the center of its dome.

"What are you doing?"

"Scrying," Welstiel answered, and he chanted softly until the droplet shivered and moved west. "We're still ahead of her. We will reach Keonsk first."

Chane crouched down, examining the disk more closely. "How does it work?"

"You primarily use ritual, but I work my conjury through artificing, creating useful tools. I created one amulet Magiere wears and this brass disk. A drop of my fluids forms a connection. It is dragged in the direction of the amulet."

Chane clearly wished to inquire further but did not. "We should go."

They rode hard through half the night, tiring their horses, until Welstiel spotted lights ahead. He felt relief that at least he had arrived ahead of Magiere.

Although Welstiel was not fond of Droevinka, his father had served the most ancient house of Sclaven in the eastern province for many years before they had schemed their way into the good graces of the Antes. He knew well the history of Keonsk. It was the largest city in Droevinka, less than a third the size of Bela and less developed, and surrounded by a thick wall of rough mortared stone. Its position on the Vudrask River allowed for ease of trade and commerce. Barges from Stravina and Belaski brought goods inland from those countries' main ports.

The stone wall was less than a hundred years old. The castle keep had been constructed centuries before, and the city had slowly spread outward around it. In long-gone days, any prince who managed to take the throne would rule for life, or until the next house waged a successful insurrection. Although civil wars were less frequent then, they were brutal and extensive, and all houses fought to take power. If a weak prince lead a victorious house, the nation had been known to suffer for decades-should he live that long.

Then a gathering was called between the five strongest houses. It was agreed that a ruling grand prince, rather than a king, should be selected by the consent of all. He would serve nine years or until his death, whichever came first. A successful solution overall, though small-scale upheavals still occurred from time to time, especially if an overzealous house tried to keep its prince on the throne rather than surrender power.

The unlanded house of Varanj was a notable exception, and most other houses barely recognized its noble status. Descended of mercenary horsemen in service to the first invaders of the region, they served as the royal guard and city contingent for whoever held the throne. They were denied the opportunity to place their "prince" on the throne or establish a province of their own. They served as peacemakers and policed the nation, occasionally quelling disputes between houses that boiled into open bloodshed.

As Welstiel and Chane approached, they had three choices. The road curved gently, one side going around the city, and the other leading to the riverside docks. A short path led straight forward to the huge arch and rounded wooden gates of Keonsk's west entrance. Guards in light armor manned the entrance, all wearing the bright red surcoats of the Varanj, marked with the black silhouette of a rearing stallion.

Chane pulled his horse up, and Welstiel turned his own mount in puzzlement.

"What's wrong?"

"Do we need to offer a tale about our business here?"

Chane asked. "Or will they just let us in so late at night?"

"I haven't been here in many years," Welstiel answered. "Prince Rodek of the Antes currently holds the throne, and we need to see his prime counselor, Baron Cezar Buscan. My father served the Antes in our final days. I think we can present ourselves as messengers bearing a report. Our appearance is enough to mark us as better than commoners, but do not speak-your accent is too pronounced."

Chane nodded, and Welstiel headed for the open gates.

A young guard with a shaved head and no helmet raised his hand to stop them, a casual gesture of polite protocol and no more. It was past midnight, but this was a large city, so it stood to reason that some people arrived late and others left early. Enormous torches lit up both sides of the entrance, their heads shielded by large cups of iron mesh.

"Your business, sir?" the guard asked.

Welstiel offered his story of bearing reports for the baron, and the young guard shook his head.

"You're welcome in, sir, but Baron Buscan sees no one he doesn't ask for himself. And there are already gangs of nobles from various houses trying to get his attention."

"And Prince Rodek?" Welstiel asked. "Surely he sees servants of his own house?"

"Not here," and the guard lowered his voice. "He's gone back to Enemusk and the Antes keep. It's rumored there's some family issue at stake. Baron Buscan is the only authority at the castle, and he's not seeing nobody."

Welstiel was perplexed. Rodek was not at court, and Bus-can was not seeing representatives even of his own house. It made no sense, but the Varanj guard welcomed him into the city just the same.

They entered the open cobblestone market area. It was quiet and still, with canvas tarps covering scores of booths and carts that would come alive at dawn with hawkers selling goods to the city's population.

"Do we find an inn?" Chane asked.

"No, we must see Buscan tonight. This cannot wait."

"He'll be in bed."

"Then we wake him. He will see me, in spite of our young guard's account."

They passed beyond the market and entered a district of inns and taverns where the night was not so quiet. Bargemen, prostitutes, and gamblers kept late hours. Welstiel caught Chane staring at a slender woman in a doorway. She smiled and held up a hand, rubbing fingers and thumb together to indicate that coin was needed for good company. Welstiel was thankful his companion had fed on the boy only last night.

By far, the most common inhabitants moving in the night streets were soldiers. Most were small patrols of Varanj, but there were occasional groups wearing the light yellow surcoats of the Antes. Prince Rodek had left a behind a visible contingent. No noble house was permitted active troops inside the walls of Keonsk, though as citizens they were not barred from partaking of the city's offerings. These men appeared armed and fully outfitted for duty, and it would not be the first time a grand prince had considered his own men an exception to the rule.

Welstiel rode directly toward the city center and the gates of the castle. A dozen Varanj soldiers in red surcoats guarded the courtyard's entryway, and more patrolled the ramparts and walls. He remained mounted, approaching at a leisurely pace. A grizzled and scarred man, perhaps as old as fifty, was cursing at two subordinates.

"You," Welstiel called. "Come here."

The old soldier paused midsentence and turned his head. He did not appear impressed by Welstiel's tone and approached slowly, thumping the butt of his spear with each step.

"Yes, sir?" he replied.

"I am here to see Baron Buscan-now. "

One of the younger subordinates snickered.

The old soldier answered politely. "I'm sorry, sir. The baron doesn't hold audiences at this hour."

Welstiel leaned forward in his saddle and pitched his voice low so that no one but the old soldier would hear him. "My name is Lord Welstiel Massing. My father was Lord Bryen Massing. Do you know that name?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and Welstiel heard his breath catch. He straightened himself with a curt nod.

"Announce me quietly," Welstiel said. "Our business is private."

The old soldier signaled his men to open the gatehouse portal. A few hesitated in surprise but obeyed him. He walked toward the entrance, and Welstiel and Chane rode in behind him.

"If you are known in this country," Chane whispered,

"why haven't we used that ploy all along? We could have traveled in better comfort."

"Quiet," Welstiel answered.

The front entrance was an enormous cedar door three times the height of a man. More portcullis than portal, it opened by cranking upward into the wall on heavy chains. When lowered, the door's bottom edge set into a shallow trough of stone. No one questioned the old guard as he led Welstiel and Chane inward through the gatehouse's tunnel to the courtyard beyond.

In Bela, this stronghold would not have measured up as a castle. It was originally built as a large military keep by whichever house's ancestors had first held this plot of land. It lacked the extensive spread of the Belaskian or even the Stravinan royal grounds, having never been expanded. Perhaps the houses feared it would become a more fortified location, should a grand prince try to keep the throne through force. Still, it was built of solid basalt and granite that had lasted through the centuries.

"Leave your horses here, sirs, and follow me."

They dismounted and tied up their mounts at a rail inside the keep wall. The old soldier led them on through the keep's small and unimpressive main door to the large entry hall. The place was chill and dark, and there was mud on the floor as they stepped in. The sparse rushes in the entryway had not been changed recently. Welstiel had spent too many years living in Droevinkan keeps with his father, and these walls felt distastefully familiar.

"Please wait here, sirs," the old soldier said. "The baron may still be up, but I will need to announce you."

"Of course," Welstiel replied.

He paced, staying clear of the walls and forcing down visions of his father in places such as this. He wanted the entire ordeal to be over. If not for Magiere's foolishness, he would never have been forced to come this far.

"Are you are all right?" Chane asked.

"I'm fine."

"I don't know what you're after in here," Chane said. "So I cannot play out this game for you."

Welstiel straightened. "Be ready to act when I do."

"In what sense?"

"I need to procure documents. Unfortunately, we cannot leave anyone alive who heard my name."

"Then why use the name at all?" Chane asked with some annoyance. "There must have been another way to secure an audience with Buscan."

"We do not have the time to search for him ourselves and kill every guard or servant along the way who sees us. No. We must be granted a private audience, accomplish what is needed, and then leave quietly."

Chane crossed his arms. "Is this Buscan an old friend of yours?"

"Hardly," Welstiel answered. "He has served the Antes for many years. By the time my father requested a specific fief, Buscan granted it, out of fear as much as anything else. Everyone was terrified of my father. " He paused. "Was your father feared?"

"Not by the nobles," Chane answered. "Most of those in Belaski found him charming."

The old soldier trotted back down the hall, lantern in hand, and gestured to them. "This way, sirs."

Wynn stayed close to the campfire that night as Leesil and Magiere crawled into the wagon's bed to sleep. Magiere insisted there was room for all, which was true enough, but Wynn preferred privacy for herself and for them. She assured Magiere that she would be fine by the fire with Chap beside her. Leesil and Magiere whispered to each other for a while. Wynn neither wanted nor was able to hear what they said, and shortly they settled quietly to sleep.

Wynn worked a little longer on her account of the Mondyalitko. It was distracting and less disquieting than her notes concerning Magiere. When she looked up from her work, Chap had crawled close, lying with his head on his paws. She closed up the journal, binding the parchments into their leather cover, and scooted next to him across her blanket spread upon the ground.

His crystalline eyes were full of sorrow.

"I wish you would tell me what is wrong," she whispered.

Chap blinked once but offered nothing more. His long fur was becoming matted, and she would need to brush him come morning. Wynn reached into her pack, pulling out a piece of smoked mutton she had saved from the last breakfast at Lord Stefan's manor.

"I do not care for meat," Wynn said. "I was saving this for your breakfast, but you might like it now."

Chap raised his head with a grunt, and she tore pieces for him to chew upon. When the snack was gone, he laid his head back on his paws. Whatever troubled him could not be fixed with a tasty morsel.

"I saw you in the forest before you healed my sight," Wynn said. "You were part of both worlds at the same time, your kin's and ours. I do not understand what you did to take this form, but it cannot be easy to be trapped between worlds all alone."

She gathered his head in her arms. He resisted at first, then shoved his entire face into her stomach.

"You do not have to be alone," she said. "Someday, you will tell us why you are here."

Wynn stroked Chap's head until the fire burned down to glowing coals of orange.

Chane expected the old soldier to lead them to some great conference hall and was surprised when they were escorted into a side passage and up a narrow staircase. At its top was a corridor running both ways. Directly across from it was a plain door. The soldier opened it and ushered them in before retreating, closing the door behind him.

It was a small room of polished wood walls, furnished more comfortably than what Chane had seen of the castle so far. Thick rugs of local weave covered the floor, and a painting of armored cavalry racing though the Droevinkan forest hung upon the rightmost wall. The sight of such artwork in this dismal country seemed garishly out of place.

Candles as thick and tall as his forearm were ht around the room upon small tables or stands of iron. Two large mahogany chairs sat by a small fireplace that must have been constructed in more recent times. Keeps this old rarely held more than the one hearth in a main hall. A small desk sat to the right of the hearth, and a narrow bookcase to its left. On a table beside the chairs were a quill and inkwell.

In those chairs sat a man and a woman. Chane assumed the former was Baron Cezar Buscan. He was enormous in height and girth, and wore a dark blue night robe that stretched around his middle. His bush of a black beard reached his chest, but his head was shiny and bald except for a circlet of dark hair running around back between his temples. His ruddy complexion reminded Chane of his father's wealthy friends who drank too much brandy.

The woman was such a stark contrast that she put Chane on guard. In both his mortal and undead existence, he had known many lovely women. Sitting near Buscan was the most striking beauty he'd ever seen. She stood up to greet the two visitors.

Neither slight nor voluptuous, her small stature was distinctly curved beneath a silk, coffee-brown dress, unusually light for this chill country, cut to resemble a robe and sealed down the front by a long row of brass clasps. A scarlet cord tied about her waist. The first two clasps were unfixed, leaving her exposed from her throat to the tops of her breasts. A teardrop bloodstone hung upon a brass chain about her neck and rested in the hollow of her cleavage. Her dark red hair was not dressed like a lady of court, but hung past her shoulders in a thousand spirals. Green eyes watched Chane below a smooth brow.

She smiled a greeting with one finger tracing the edge of her neckline, causing it to dip briefly.

Lord Buscan rose with some difficulty. He was older than Chane had guessed.

"Welstiel?" Buscan said.

The baron paused too long, eyeing Chane's companion, as if doubting his own eyes. Chane looked at Welstiel and realized what troubled the baron. If it had been many years since Welstiel's last presence in this land, how much had the baron aged since those days to now stand before someone who appeared not to have aged at all?

"It has been so long, we thought you dead," Buscan said. "You look… quite well. " He gestured to the woman, voice tinged with pride. "Osceline, my consort."

The woman smiled again, her tiny teeth white and perfect. She bowed her head slightly without taking her eyes off the visitors.

Welstiel stepped closer, picking up the feather quill on Buscan's chair-side table to examine it.

"A guard at the city gate told me Prince Rodek is not here, and that you hold no audiences with other nobles."

Buscan shrugged his bulky shoulders. "Uncertain times require extra precautions. When did you take up this new interest in the affairs of our state?"

"It is late," Osceline said. "Perhaps you could tell us why you've come?"

Her voice was clear and light, like notes from a flute. Chane watched the gently beating pulse in her pale throat.

Welstiel put the quill back down. "I am collecting records pertaining to my family. For the time we served the Antes, this was the place to begin, as your house currently rules the nation. If you have such, I need to see them."

"Is that all?" Buscan appeared relieved. "Oh, but I fear I can't help you in this. There are no records."

Welstiel folded his hands behind his back and beneath his cloak. The baron's answer was obviously insufficient, as he stared into Buscan's eyes.

"Any records are fewer than fifteen winters old," Buscan explained. "We tried to create a central archive to secure all documents. There was an insurrection by the Maghyar when Prince Demitri of the Serboe completed his term. A fourth of the city was razed, along with the judiciary building, and all the records inside were lost in a fire."

Chane couldn't tell if Welstiel was pleased or troubled by this news. Osceline wandered away to the polished round table below the painting.

"You are certain there is nothing left?" Welstiel asked.

The baron shook his head. "If that is all you came for, your journey has been for nothing."

Chane heard a hissing whisper, and turned his head toward the sound. Osceline was chanting, eyes fixed upon Welstiel and Buscan.

Before Chane could call out a warning, Welstiel's hand lashed out from behind his back at Buscan's chest. His hand jerked sideways, missing the baron entirely. There was a short dagger in his grip.

Buscan's teeth clenched, and his brow furrowed in anger.

He lunged for the hearth's mantel, and Chane saw a long war knife resting there in its sheath.

Chane swung out, catching a thick candle upon its stand, and slapped it toward Osceline. The wick snuffed, and the thick wax cylinder struck the side of her face. Her chanting ceased as she toppled against the wall and slid to the floor.

"Now!" Chane yelled at Welstiel.

Welstiel drove his blade through Buscan's back with enough force that the man's head struck the mantel's edge. When Welstiel jerked the blade out, Buscan stumbled back to crumple into the chair Osceline had been using. Welstiel closed on him, but the baron's eyes rolled toward his consort.

"Don't!" he cried out. "Not her… please."

Chane was already focused upon the floor beneath Osceline, and he began drawing the lines and figures in his mind to overlay what he saw. As her eyes met Buscan's gaze, she cringed in pain. Anguish marred her creamy features for an instant before they creased with hatred as she glared at Welstiel.

"No!" she shouted, and then her attention fixed on the low thrum of Chane's chant.

Through the encircled triangle Chane envisioned, he saw Osceline's eyes snap closed and her clenched fist raise before her face. She called out a single word Chane didn't catch, and her hand opened, fingers splayed wide.

Light exploded in Chane's vision, as if every candle in the room flared suddenly. Everything turned white, and the pain came too quickly for Chane to suppress. It shattered his focus and the rhythm of his incantation.

He rubbed his eyes, and slowly the dim swirling colors faded from his flash-blinded sight. Welstiel was in a similar state, but Buscan sat limp in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as he struggled to breathe.

Osceline was gone.

Welstiel shoved his blade through Buscan's chest.

The baron buckled under the blow, expelling a groan as air was forced from his lungs. Before his head dropped forward, Welstiel hurried to where Osceline had been. He thumped systematically on the wall's wooden planks. At a hollow sound, he stepped back and kicked out hard.

One plank snapped inward under his boot to reveal a space beyond it. He did not bother to look for a catch to open the hidden panel, and instead tore out the adjoining planks with his hands.

"Go after her," Welstiel said. "She must not speak to anyone!"

"And you?" Chane asked.

"I will deal with the old soldier. Kill her quickly, and join me in the courtyard."

Chane slipped into the passage. Envisioning Osceline's throat was enticing. She was aggressive and sensual. He hoped she would fight.

He stood upon the narrow landing of a dark staircase and opened his senses to smell for blood, life. There were quick footfalls coming from below. Osceline was running, and that made Chane smile. A chase was always a welcome prelude.

The passage steps emerged well below in what appeared to be a prison beneath the castle. Chane stepped out into a passage of iron cell doors. At the passage's end was another hall running left and right. He no longer smelled Osceline and stopped to listen again. All was silent, and then a metal door grated softly.

Chane ran after the echo of metal against stone as he turned left at the connecting passage. At the end of this new path was a door left ajar. He jerked it open to find a chamber with a table and chairs, perhaps a guards' room. Across it, Osceline pulled one last time upon a locked door, trying desperately to open it. She gave up and turned to face him.

Chane was surprised by her countenance. She appeared small and mundane, no longer dangerous and desirable. And tired, as if her spell had taken much from her. Chane felt a twinge of disappointment.

"You don't need to kill me," she said. "I would only do myself harm by speaking a word about who murdered Cezar. My master will be displeased enough as it is."

Chane did not break stride as he stepped toward her, and Osceline held up her hand, palm outward.

A sharp pain sliced through Chane's temples and behind his eyes. His vision swirled to black for an instant. Disoriented, he blinked. The room returned to his sight, but it was hazy. Osceline stood before the door but shimmered in waves like summer heat upon an open field.

Irrational rage rose in Chane to smother all calculated thought. He wanted her dead and no longer cared how. He lunged and grabbed her by the throat.

At first he felt nothing, as if his fingers had closed on air. Then his grip tightened on warm and pliant flesh. Chane blinked.

Osceline's throat was in his hands, her swollen tongue pressing out between paled lips and green eyes frozen wide and vacant. He felt cracked vertebrae under her skin and muscle.

Chane blinked again, and she lay dead on the floor at his feet. He stepped back, a mix of satisfaction and fury clouding his awareness.

He vaguely remembered rushing Osceline as she raised a hand toward him. He snatched her throat, bore her down, and crushed the life out of her. Yes, that was what had happened. She was dead, and he could leave. He returned to the passage doorway but stopped and looked back.

Osceline still lay near the locked side door, and Chane looked down at his own hands.

He remembered the feel of her neck breaking, but he had not bothered to taste her life as it vanished, and he couldn't understand why. Perhaps in his anger and panic to reach her before she could flash-blind him again, his instinct had taken more expedient action.

Not wishing to wander the castle in retreat, Chane backtracked to the wood-paneled room and down through the passages the old soldier had guided them along. As he emerged in the main hall to head for the front entrance, Welstiel stepped from a side corridor.

"Did you find the old guard?" Chane asked.

"Yes… and the woman?"

Chane remembered that he had clearly seen Osceline's body. "Dead… I snapped her neck… and left her below in the keep's prison."

"Good." Welstiel nodded approval. "We will take the horses and walk them back out. I have seen no other servants up and about. No one will find Buscan until midmorning, as it appears he stays up late into the nights."

He reached out a hand to propel Chane toward the front entrance. Chane found this odd, as Welstiel rarely touched him.

"There is nothing more for us to do here," Welstiel said. "We wait for the dhampir to arrive. When she finds no records and no one to help her further, she will have no choice but to turn back."

A sudden connection occurred to Chane. Welstiel had come to hide records of his family, and Magiere searched for records of her own father.

"No records regarding the Massings," Chane said. "And none regarding her… How did that the captain put it, 'her family'?"

He turned and found Welstiel returning his steady gaze.

"Do not forget your place," Welstiel said in a voice stripped of all emotion. "You are here to serve the bargain we made, and that is all."

Chane's discovery would have to be handled carefully or he risked giving Welstiel further cause for conflict. He nodded calmly.

"We deserve some comfort," Welstiel said in a more sociable tone. "Let us find out if Keonsk boasts a decent inn. A bath and laundered clothing are in order, as well as comfortable beds for a change."

Welstiel's quick shift to placation left Chane wary as he followed his companion out to the horses. Again he pictured Osceline's body by the locked door with the smooth flesh of her throat still intact.

His own change of habit disturbed him.