Raomar was still staring into the fire when Dart returned.

  “She’s on her way,” she told him, her voice drawing his attention from the flames. “And I would only slow her down.”

  “How long?” Grunwol asked.

  “Close to dusk,” Dart replied. “Nine turns of the hourglass.”

  “That doesn’t leave much time,” the Northman observed, and she pressed her lips together.

  “I know.” She looked around the table, taking in the state of them.

  Raomar vaguely wondered what she thought, but it was hard to care through the miasma of hopelessness that threatened to engulf him. Nine hours was enough time for him to get drunk in, wasn’t it?

  He felt the heavy warmth of a somnolent Varan leaning into his side, and watched as Grunwol set an elbow on the table and rested his chin against his hand. Brianda was sitting upright, propped against the wall, as she tried to keep her eyes open.

  “You all need to rest,” the shadow thief decided. “Who knows what the crone will ask of us when she arrives?”

  Brianda pushed herself slowly to her feet.

  “What can I do to help, Lady Dart?” she asked.

  Dart indicated one of the other doors. “There are blankets in the cupboard closest the door. Bring two apiece. I have no spare beds to offer, but you’ll be warm enough in here.”

  She watched as Brianda returned and they each found a clear patch of flagstone to settle on, and her expression became almost regretful.

  “I rarely host guests,” she said, by way of apology, “And they don’t usually stay long enough to sleep.”

  Raomar pondered that as he drifted off…and the way she had avoided Grunwol’s gaze as she’d added that last. He remembered a time when Dart and the Northman had been close…perhaps as close as lovers…but something had happened.

  He tried to work out what that had been, but couldn’t. All he knew was that Dart had vanished and Grunwol hadn’t been able to find her…and when she’d returned, their relationship had been noticeably cooler.

  Grunwol had refused to speak of it—either then, or at any time after.

  Knowing what they’d been involved in during those by-gone days, Raomar wondered what had happened between the pair. Dart, always reserved, had grown distant, remaining an ally and still a friend, but she’d become a law unto herself, conducting her business, like her life, in secret.

  What did Grunwol do? he wondered as sleep overcame him.

  He was woken by an echoing whisper from the hallway.

  “Intruders! Intruders!” came the sibilant chorus, growing louder. “Intruders!”

  A wave of sound flowed out of the corridor, clawing its way under the door and into Dart’s main hall. When it reached Raomar, it felt like a myriad of fingers crawled across his chest and onto his head. They tugged at his hair and poked at his ribs until he rolled to his feet.

  Across the room, Grunwol scrambled to his feet, releasing his axe as he did so. Given his earlier reaction to one of Dart’s protection spells, the Northman seemed surprisingly calm.

  From where Raomar stood, the Northman looked alert but not enraged, the touch of this spell hadn’t triggered his usual reaction to magic. There was no sign it had set his blood alight, or lit his eyes with the mad need to erase its source.

  One of the far doors was flung open, and Dart hurried across the room and into the corridor. Grunwol moved swiftly behind her, and Raomar followed the Northman. She left the door open, but halted them with an upraised hand and signaled for them to stay back.

  Reluctantly, they obeyed, positioning themselves so they could see through the open doorway into the corridor beyond. They almost disobeyed Dart’s order, when a screech of hurt surprise sounded from around a bend in the corridor’s rise.

  A moment later, the reason for the alarm, and the source of the surprised screech came into view.

  An elderly woman was waving a stout staff and trying to shake Dart’s hand from her arm in an attempt to pull ahead of the woman.

  “You might be glad to see me,” she scolded, “but it is not you I have come to see.”

  “It is still my abode,” Dart insisted, “and, while you were invited, you should at least tell me how you gained entrance, when that shouldn’t have been possible.”

  “Very well.” The old woman huffed, coming to a halt and grinding the butt of her walking stick into the stone floor.

  A smell like the one preceding a thunderstorm filled the air and small glimmers of lightning flickered up and along the staff.

  “Dart!” Grunwol cried out in alarm. He leapt forward in an attempt to protect her.

  Raomar saw he was going to be too slow. The old woman’s lips kept moving and the staff’s glow intensified.

  Dart fumbled at the chain she wore about her throat, her fingers curling around the amulet that hung there, just as blue light washed out from the old woman and her stick, enveloping her. Raomar remembered that both chain and amulet had been a gift from Grunwol, and wondered why Dart had kept it when the two had gone from being partners to distant friends.

  Perhaps, she wanted something to remember him by? he mused, but had to wonder why.

  Whatever the amulet was meant to do, however, it offered no defense against the two giant arms that grew out of the air and solidified around Dart’s body. The shadow thief gave a frustrated shout, doing her best to kick free from the air elemental’s unforgiving grasp.

  The old woman didn’t give the shadow thief a second glance, but looked over at Grunwol, her expression daring him to come any closer. To give him credit, the Northman paused, listening when she spoke.

  “I have come to see Raomar Filameth,” she announced. “He who was once guildmaster of Deverath’s finest, and the Dark Lady’s high priest.”

  She paused, not taking her gaze from Grunwol’s face.

  “And who is guildmaster and high priest no longer,” she added, a note of finality in her tones.

  Grunwol stared at her, and she shifted her gaze, taking in his still upraised sword before shaking her head.

  “I will do your master no harm,” she assured him, “Or your friend, for she is my hostess, but I must insist on speaking with your kevarag friend.”

  She looked past him catching sight of Raomar’s stunned expression, before returning her attention to Grunwol.

  “Take me to your friend,” she instructed, stepping determinedly forward.

  Casting an anxious look toward Dart, Grunwol caught the shadow woman’s gesture instructing him to do as the old woman said.

  “This way, uh…” He hesitated, not sure how to address her.

  “Most call me ‘Mother,’” the crone informed him. “You may do the same.”

  “This way, Mother,” Grunwol agreed, retreating down the hall.

  Raomar didn’t move from the doorway, but watched them approach. When Grunwol reached him, he stepped aside to let the Northman pass, then he stepped into the old woman’s path.

  “Let my friend go,” he ordered.

  The woman looked up at him, her dark eyes sparkling with humor as she studied his face.

  “Very well, Master Filameth,” she said, making a simple gesture with her hand.

  The airy arms holding Dart off the floor, dissipated, but not before setting her feet carefully on the ground. Raomar watched, but still did not move from the old woman’s path.

  “And I’d like my apprentice returned to me,” he ordered.

  The crone nodded and snapped her fingers. The sharp crack of sound was immediately followed by the pitter pat of small feet, Ghost allowing them to hear her, just before she emerged from the shadows.

  “Is everything all right, Mother?” she asked, glancing from the crone to Raomar, Grunwol and Dart.

  “Your master requires your presence,” the old woman told her, “And I need to speak with him.”

  Ghost frowned, as though she couldn’t see why the crone wasn’t able to speak with her master, but she crossed the space between them to stand before him.

  “Yes, Master?” she asked, looking up at his face.

  Raomar pressed his lips into a momentary hard line and looked down at her. Taking a breath, he replied.

  “I needed to see you had returned safely,” he told her. “Now that you are here, we can meet with the lady.”

  The old woman snorted. “It’s been a long time since I was mistaken for a ‘lady,’” she told him.

  “She is not a lady, Master,” Ghost corrected. “Her correct title is The Crone. You should call her that.”

  Raomar gave the child a look of mock worry. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Where I come from it’s not polite to call a lady a crone—not even if that is what she is.”

  “Yes, Master. She is The Crone, and you should address her as such.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We don’t want to upset her.”

  The old woman tried to suppress a smile, and the twinkle in her eyes seemed to grow brighter.

  Raomar swallowed as smile of his own as he replied, “Very well. We will meet with your Crone and see if she will assist us.”

  His heart dropped as he said it, the fact he couldn’t go to his friends’ aid without asking for help a sharp reminder of what he had lost. If the crone noticed his suddenly sadder visage, she didn’t say.

  Instead, she stepped around Ghost and stalked past him, her staff making sharp tapping sounds on the floor as she went. Dart and Grunwol followed, with the latter stopping beside Raomar.

  “After you, Master,” he instructed, indicating the kevarag should follow the crone to where she was settling herself at the table.

  She looked around as though seeking something, then looked at where Brianda was standing uncertainly beside another of the doors leading out of the room.

  “Don’t just stand there, girl!” she snapped. “I need a bowl suitable for scrying. Earthenware with a plain glaze if you can find it, although wood would be better.”

  Brianda glanced over at Dart, and the shadow thief pointed at one of the unopened doors standing opposite the entrance to the corridor.

  “I need it brimful with clean water,” the crone called as Brianda took a step toward the door.

  “Yes, Mother,” the girl replied, hurrying to do the old woman’s bidding.

  Raomar took a seat opposite the old woman, and they waited. It seemed to take longer than it should for Brianda to return, but when she did, it was with a large earthenware bowl brimming with water, and Varan skulking along behind her.

  The boy was glaring up at her from behind his fringe, but as soon as he saw Raomar he hurried to worm his way onto the bench beside him. Fortunately, he didn’t try to take the side Ghost already occupied. Grunwol moved to give the boy room, amused at the child’s persistence.

  What took you so long?” the crone demanded.

  “I had to let Varan out of the pantry,” Brianda explained, carefully setting the bowl down before her.

  “Daughter of the Briar’s Thorn,” the crone addressed her. “Thank you.”

  Brianda gave the old woman a startled glance, then moved to take a seat beside Dart. The shadow thief ignored her, turning to address the crone.

  “Mother…” she began, only to have the old woman irritably cut her short.

  “Not now, ask me later.”

  “But…” Dart persisted, “Mother…”

  “Ask me later,” the old woman snapped irritably, “Or I will silence you with a spell!”

  The shadow thief subsided to silence, but the crone wasn’t finished.

  “And you,” the crone barked, turning her attention to Raomar. “I want a word.”

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  “So you have said,” Raomar acknowledged in mild tones. “What was it you wanted to say?”

  The crone held his gaze a moment longer, then waved a hand over the surface of the water Brianda had brought.

  “I wanted to show you this,” she answered, and Raomar sighed.

  He rose from his seat, but instead of coming around the table, he leaned across it.

  The water moved in the now-familiar ripple that heralded the start of a successful scry. When it cleared, they found themselves looking at the same corridor they’d observed in Varan’s scry.

  “It is a matter of life and death for one very dear to you,” the old woman informed him as she adjusted the focus. “She is held here, in the temple dungeons beneath the palace.”

  She looked up at him, her gaze encompassing the silent elf child beside him, before continuing.

  “Ghost tells me you have seen this place, before, that you saw the king and his priests preparing a sacrifice…”

  Her gaze strayed to Varan, and the apprentice nodded vigorously, his eyes wide as he watched the scene in the bowl. His face had gone milk-white, and his cheek muscles bunched as he clenched his jaw, but he kept his gaze on the scene within the bowl.

  A terrified scream echoed down the corridor in the bowl. It leached into the room in which they sat, and chilled their souls. The scream peaked before descending a scale of pure horror, every note hitting home with spine-raking clarity.

  The crone continued as though it hadn’t happened.

  “The king will sacrifice the wizardess Mistlewood, and her three apprentices in the temple beyond those double doors.” She brought the scry to focus on the doors, not going close enough to activate the wards her spell so clearly revealed. “When he does, his god will drain them of their power to wield magic, feast on their emotion and their pain, and finally use the energy released at their death to fuel his escape.”

  That last caught Raomar’s attention.

  “His escape?” he wanted to know.

  The old woman bobbed her head.

  “Yes,” she told him. “The Old One is trapped, incarcerated, I assume, by the gods who came before, but my masters believe he is weakening his prison and, indeed, has weakened it enough to extend his influence into the world at hand, but until now, my masters had not known how.”

  She indicated the bowl.

  “Now, they do.”

  “The Old One?” Raomar asked, only to have the crone raise her finger in an admonishment.

  “Hush!” she scolded. “I will not speak his name, especially not when I hold a door wide open to an area under his control.”

  Raomar remembered Alessia’s fear as she’d recounted what Varan had seen. He also remembered the fear he’d felt the morning Varan had taken them down this same corridor to the small room on the right at its end.

  Raomar turned to glance at Varan, and the scream came again, pulling his eyes back to the bowl. The old woman returned the scry’s focus to the two double doors at the end of the corridor, and they watched as the great portals opened.

  Raomar drew a sharp breath, but the crone was already pulling the scry back, studying the doors intently as she did so. Frowning, she uttered another simple spell, and resumed her focus. When the scry revealed nothing new, uncertainty rippled through her expression.

  She turned the scry focus first one way, and then the other, moving it cautiously closer to the open doors. After a few moments of close examination, she sat back looking faintly surprised.

  “There are no wards,” she murmured, as though speaking to herself. She frowned. “There were strong wards set here, before.”

  Before Raomar could confirm that they, too, had seen the wards, the old woman had guided them through the doors and into the temple beyond. Again, the scream wailed around them, and this time they could see who made it.

  As they’d already learned, horror could only go so far and the scene that lay before them was well beyond its realm. Raomar felt the last of the apathy caused by his goddess’s rejection crack, but only enough to let him feel a faint sense of disbelief.

  The world swam before him, refusing to come into proper focus, and he wanted to reach into the bowl to steady himself, to prove that what he was seeing was truly real. The crone glanced up and glared.

  “Don’t you dare!” she snapped.

  Raomar blinked, but one of the apprentices beside him whimpered, and he wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them under the folds of his cloak.

  A small part of his mind railed against the old woman for not thinking of the children, but another part told him they’d see much worse before their journey was through—and they might as well learn how to deal with it. As if in agreement, both apprentices pushed their faces free of the cloak and stared into the bowl.

  Raomar might have scolded them, but he noticed that neither tried to escape the shelter of his arms. His sigh was answered by a hushed voice.

  “I have to see,” Varan insisted, even as he pulled Raomar’s cloak more tightly around his shoulders.

  On the other side of him, Ghost did the same. Like Varan, her eyes didn’t leave the scene being played out in the bowl, even as her body trembled at what she saw in its depths.

  The king’s victim screamed, again, and time seemed to pause as they watched the sacrifice continue. The presence of the power being worshipped in that black and blood-spattered place was like a miasma creeping into their souls.

  The king continued, drawing another agonized whimper from his victim, and the sense of terror thickened. Those watching sensed the abomination drawing the pain and emotion into itself, feeding on what the king was creating with the skilled use of blade and finger.

  Unholy delight threaded the sense of pleasure rising from the bowl, and there was a sense of the being that fed growing stronger with each piece of deviltry his servant completed. By the time the king had wielded his knife for the last time, lifting the blood-filled chalice before his victim’s gaze, Raomar was fighting the gorge that threatened to rise.

  He risked a glance around the table and saw his own nausea reflected in the faces of his friends. Grunwol had gone a faint shade of green, and Dart had raised the back of her hand to her mouth. Brianda sat, white-faced and still, but not looking like she was in any danger of being sick.

  There was a scramble of sound as the king raised the chalice to toast his victim’s dying gaze, then took a long, satisfied draught of its contents. Raomar glanced up long enough to see Dart leave the room with undignified speed.

  “Take us from this place.”

  That hoarse plea came from Grunwol, but Raomar denied it.

  “No.” His denial was as harsh as his friend’s request. “I need to see Alessia.”

  He turned to the crone.

  “Show her to me.”

  It was half-request, half-command, but the crone ignored its roughness.

  “Very well,” she agreed, and took them swiftly from the temple proper.

  They all breathed a sigh of relief to be back in the corridor outside the temple doors. The old woman navigated them along the corridor, only stopping when they’d almost reached the blank wall at the other end.

  “In there,” she stated, adjusting the scene so they faced another solid wooden door, this one with a small barred window set a third of the way from the top.

  She said nothing more, but walked them through the solid wooden portal and into the cell beyond, sharpening the picture’s focus against the dark. In less than a heartbeat, Raomar could see Alessia.

  She was curled up in the straw, a plate of untouched food lying beside her. As the picture came into focus, the wizardess stirred.

  “Roamer?” she murmured. “Roamer? What are you doing here?”

  “She senses us,” the crone observed. “That is very good.”

  Or very bad, Raomar thought, given if she can sense us, then something or someone else might be able to do the same.

  Not wanting to point out the obvious, he remained silent.

  “I don’t understand,” Brianda whispered. “How can she sleep with all that noise going on?”

  The crone focused on the woman in the straw. She stopped when it felt like they were bending over Alessia’s curled form. From down the corridor came another scream. At the sound of it, Alessia shivered, curling more tightly on herself.

  “Hurry, Roamer,” she whispered. “Please, please, hurry. Save my girls.”

  “She doesn’t sleep,” Raomar stated softly, half extending a hand toward the picture in the bowl. “I’m coming, Mouse. I promise.”

  They watched as the wizardess, pressed a fist to her mouth as though trying to muffle a sob. She tensed as another scream overtook them. The next sob was audible, despite her best effort to silence it.

  Raomar almost touched the water’s surface before he pulled his hand back, the urge to comfort her so strong he hadn’t registered the movement sooner.

  The crone turned the scry’s focus, and he bit back a cry of protest. Something was wrong, and they needed to see what it was. The scry’s focus followed the cell walls and ceiling, showing them something was indeed very, very wrong.

  At first, they saw nothing, but then the cell wall rippled, like water disturbed by a sea creature coming to the surface. The crone focused on the spot the ripple had occurred, and they held their breaths as the ripple became a bulge and the solid stone pushed outward, sending a hint of danger and impending discovery ahead of it.

  “Elemental,” Raomar whispered, looking at the crone, and Ghost stirred beneath his arm.

  “Your domain, Mother,” she added, in soft-voiced awe.

  The crone ignored them both. She was too busy studying the creature emerging from the wall, her expression changing from one of curiosity to one of sudden revulsion and fear.

  “There’s something wrong with it,” she murmured, horror edging her words, and softening her tone with distaste and disbelief.

  Raomar leaned forward to see what she meant. It didn’t take him long to see what she’d been referring to.

  The creature emerging from the wall was, indeed, an elemental, but not one from nature’s realms. This one was so warped and twisted it brought to mind deserted wastelands and defiled battlegrounds.

  As Raomar watched, this one lifted its malformed head, its nostrils flaring as it scented the air. Its tongue slithered in and out of its mouth, a grossly malformed thing that reminded him of an oversized slug. Slowly, its tongue flickering in and out, the creature moved its head, swaying back and forth as it investigated the cell.

  Grunwol rose, leaning across the table for a closer look.

  “It seeks us,” he murmured, just as Raomar lashed out and abruptly swept the bowl from the table.

  The crone gave a sharp cry of pain as the bowl hit the floor and shattered, sending water cascading over the flags for the second time that day. Her carefully woven spell shattered with it, just as Dart returned.

  She stepped out of the door behind which she’d sought refuge, and stopped. She took one look at the scene, taking in the shattered bowl and scattered water, as well as the pallor of the faces surrounding the table, and stalked over to the kitchen.

  When she came back out, it was to hang a heavy iron kettle over the fire, and to set earthenware tankards before each of them. No-one moved or spoke as she turned and gathered the earthenware shards from the floor. At the sound of her dropping them into the bucket she’d retrieved from the kitchen, the crone stirred.

  “We are in danger,” she managed, then frowned, looking at those gathered around her. “Correction. You are in danger.”

  She scowled.

  “Now, why is that?”

  Before any of them could answer, she got up from her seat and moved to the open space before the fire, motioning for them to join her.

  “Come and stand together, and I will divine the reason.” She glanced over at where Dart was wielding a mop. “You, too, Dart.”

  She waited until they’d obeyed, including Dart, who set the mop aside with a sigh. Raomar made sure to bring the two apprentices with him, looking slightly bemused as they refused to come out from under his cloak. They ignored the damp splash of water underfoot and waited for the old woman’s verdict.

  When they were all arrayed before, the crone approached Raomar, reaching her hands toward his face. With a soft sight, he bowed his head so she could reach up enough to place her hands on either cheek and rest her fingertips on his temples.

  Unmarred silence filled the room as she closed her eyes, calling a quieter form of magic to her aid. The magic was so subtle that it barely rippled the air around them, although its touch was tangible against Raomar’s skin.

  He forced himself to relax beneath her touch, listening carefully to what she said, when she finally began to speak.

  “You,” she solemnly told him, “Are designated a watchman against the rising dark—but first you must contain it.”

  He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t, moving silently on to Dart when she divined nothing further for Raomar. Her stay in front of the shadow thief was short, and the hand she laid on the woman’s cheek gentle.

  “You, my lady,” she stated, sympathetically, “will forever be as much of the shadows as you desire to be.”

  As the shadow thief murmured her thanks, the crone moved to stand before Grunwol. She stood there a long moment, looking up at him, until he shifted uncomfortably, then moved to his knees, bowing his head before her.

  After another pensive moment of study, the crone reached out, resting one of her palms against each of his cheeks and lifting his head so she could look into his eyes.

  “You are the pillar at the watchman’s back,” she informed him. “You will be there when he most needs you…”

  She paused, and he was about to thank her, when she continued.

  “But, remember, Northman, change comes as surely as the north wind blows, and you must be ready to change with it.”

  Grunwol stared at her, and then bowed his head once more.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  The crone acknowledged his thanks with a dip of her head, then circled back to Raomar and the half-elven child sheltering under one arm. Taking one of Ghost’s hands, she drew the girl from her hiding place and set a knuckle beneath her chin, tilting her face until their eyes met.

  “You,” she said, catching the child’s eye, then frowning with momentary confusion before reaching for Varan and drawing him out to stand beside the girl.

  “You also,” she told him, then glanced at Brianda and signaled the spymaster’s apprentice should come to join them.”

  When she had them all gathered together, she went on.

  “You are all parts of this whole, but your sojourn in the Watchman’s circle are of different durations. You will all know when the time has come to leave the watchman to his duty. As with the Northman, the winds will change and you will need to change with them—and, as with the Northman, there will be others to take the places you must leave behind.”

  She paused, straightening to her full height, as unimpressive as it was. Taking a step back, she allowed the spell to fade.

  “You are all in danger,” she repeated, frowning in puzzlement. “How is it that this evil can sense you so easily? What has marked you in this way?”

  None of them answered. None of them could answer, and their puzzlement was writ large on each of their faces. The crone stamped her foot in frustration.

  “Think!” she snapped. “And quickly!”

  They flinched, blinking as though they’d been slapped, but for a long moment, none of them moved.

  It was Varan who broke the silence.

  “Mother?” he began, a though hesitant to draw her attention.

  “What is it?” the crone barked, turning on the apprentice.

  The movement reminded Raomar of a viper about to strike, and he wrapped a protective arm around Varan’s shoulders.

  “We… We scried the temple,” the boy told her. “Just this morning. We scried it then, and then again with you, tonight. Would…”

  He gulped.

  “Would that be enough?”

  “The truth?” the crone demanded, and the boy nodded.

  “Nothing else is going to help us,” he told her, and she regarded him for several heartbeats before giving her judgement.

  “The truth is that it shouldn’t have been enough for the power of that place to mark you.” She stopped thinking about it. “But it is a power that was millennia old when your gods were still emerging from the conscious needs of men, so who knows?”

  She closed her eyes, and Raomar thought he saw her lips moving in silent communication.

  He could only hope the powers she served had more of an answer than the one she’d just given. He waited, jealous of the fact her deities hadn’t deserted her as his had done to him, and hoping they had an answer.

  He’d almost given up, when she spoke.

  “I have some guidance for you,” she told them, and turned to Raomar.

  Touching his chest, she said. “You must go to Wildejun for when the tides turn and the rivers and ocean share their waters, so, too, do the gods share their servants, and it is for this purpose you have been set aside.”

  Hurt stabbed through Raomar.

  “But I don’t want to serve another,” he protested. “I owe my allegiance…my very life…to one. Why would I leave her.”

  The crone tapped him in the center of the chest with a bony forefinger.

  “It is not you who are leaving, and not she who is leaving you,” she informed him.

  “Then why—” he began, but she overrode him, continuing to speak until he held his tongue.

  “You are to take Bloodbriar’s daughter and the Green Wolf,” she instructed. “And your new apprentice is to remain at your side—It is imperative she survive, and learn all you can teach.”

  “But…” Raomar began, only to have her raise her finger and lay it gently against his lips.

  “You must go the Wildejun Meld with all speed. Tonight, would be best, and I can provide instruction on the path you must take…but it is imperative you hurry.”

  She took a breath, falling momentarily quiet as she surveyed the small group, and Raomar took the opportunity to interrupt her.

  “Mist…Mother,” he said, hastily correcting himself. “Forgive me…”

  He looked around, catching the expressions on his companions’ faces.

  “Forgive us,” he told the crone, “but you have shown us the fate that awaits Mistress Mistlewood, and we cannot leave her to it. Prove to me there is another power in the city able to save her, and I’ll leave immediately to fulfil the will of the gods, but if there are no others…”

  He let the words trail off, catching the agreement in his friends’ faces as they nodded. Drawing a breath, he continued.

  “If there are no others, if you cannot guarantee that she will escape that place without my…our…help, then we cannot go. It is my fault she is at risk, and I cannot depart with that debt unpaid.”

  The crone sighed, and laid a hand on his upper arm, drifting past him to reach the table.

  “I was told to expect no less, but to give you the option. Alessia’s rescue, and the rescue of her apprentices is something my masters say is imperative, but it is not something go be undertaken lightly.”

  She paused, becoming pensive as she considered what had passed in the scrying bowl.

  “And after what I have seen, tonight, and knowing the resources we currently have to hand, I believe we still have options.”

  Raomar indicated the packs, being retrieved and set by the door.

  “As you can see, we are ready to go whenever…and wherever you wish…provided the wizardess and her apprentices can be freed to go with us.”

  The crone turned to look at their hostess.

  “Mistress Dart,” she said, “I’m afraid we must leave your hospitality, if there is to be time for me to summon my masters before the king’s next ceremony.”

  “Now, Mother?” Dart asked.

  “Now, Lady Dart,” the crone reiterated.

  Dart looked troubled.

  “But full dark will have fallen,” she warned. “Leaving the city will…”

  She stopped as the crone laid a hand on her arm.

  “Be at peace,” the old lady instructed. “Full dark was an hour ago, and I have other ways of leaving the city. We must be beyond the walls by dawn, for the king will surely be searching. It will have been his dark god’s first command.”