Sarella stepped off the boat onto the stone quay and sniffed. So, this was Stormgarde. A rough, uncultured city if she ever saw one. The streets, the ones near the docks at least, were dirt, sometimes mud. The roofs were red and blue tiles, no dark timber building rising more than three stories, except the castle on the hill, or course. She grimaced at it. Stormgarde Keep, the seat of House Raith. Yet another upjumped Westerling House that needed to be torn down.

  She saw no elven influence in the city architecture, only in the tapering spires of the castle itself. Stormgarde had once been the seat of House Celwyn, a relatively minor elven House, but they had held the entirety of the island for thousands of years under the Istarion Dynasty. House Celwyn had been a staunch supporter of King Talathan, right up until the bitter end. Lord Anders Celwyn had lost his head for supporting his rightful king, and House Celwyn had lost its seat and half of Tol Morad, including the only port, Stormgarde. Anders' daughter Astoria and her lord Castien ruled from Ravenwood, once a summer castle set high in the mountains, far to the northwest. House Raith kept a stranglehold on the trade routes to and from Ravenwood, and tensions often ran high. They had gone to war with each other no less than five times since the Goding Rebellion, and they might be close to a sixth, if the heavy military presence in the city indicated anything. Soldiers streamed on and off the flat-bottomed riverrunners in constant streams. Battalions of armed and armored men walked the streets near the docks, headed for any number of taverns more often than not, each wearing the surcoat of House Raith, black bordered in silver, with the crossed battleaxe sigil on the chest.

  Cyril came puffing down the quay, her personal bags slung over his shoulders. Bull and Boar, her bodyguards, would do most of the heavy lifting, but she always made sure he did at least some of the carrying. It kept him humble. He looked about in dismay. “Do you truly believe you'll find that demon here?” he asked quietly.

  “Your contact in Belfalas seemed rather convinced that we would,” she said. “He's been living here for quite some time, apparently.”

  “Where do we start, then? We can't exactly go searching door to door.”

  “He won't be living in the city,” Sarella said confidently. She knew Amon too well for that. He was ever a creature of the forest, and if all demons were like him then it was no wonder that they were sometimes called Wildlings. She had taken to keeping the book close to hand, and flipped it open to a map of the island. It was sadly lacking detail. There were a few scattered villages along the Aelwyll River, it seemed, but not much else. “We need a better map than this.” She scanned the storefronts in sight of the docks. A butcher shop, a cobbler, a sail mender. Finding a mapmaker in this end of the world place would prove difficult. Finally, her eyes settled on the castle on its high hill. “We'll pay a visit to Lord Raith. I assume you can get us into the castle?”

  “There may be some difficulty in that,” Cyril said carefully. “I doubt we will be well-received here. House Raith has never had good dealings with elvenkind, and if the rumors are to be believed, they will be at war with House Celwyn within a moon's turn.”

  “Not easy, but you can make it happen,” Sarella said, irritation creeping into her voice. He was supposed to make things happen, not argue and explain why they were difficult.

  Cyril inclined his head. “It may take a few days, but I will see what I can do.”

  ***

  Sarella waited impatiently in a small sitting room in Raith Castle. Cyril had managed, through his usual means, to get her an audience with Lord Raith. Or so he had said. Lord Raith had so far kept her waiting since early that morning. It was well past midday now, and her patience was at its end. It didn't help matters that every inch of the sitting room was draped in tapestries depicting “heroic” scenes from the short history of House Raith. She paused in her pacing in front of a faded tapestry showing the first Lord Raith valiantly defending Ulric Goding from Istarion forces. She glared at it. The battle of Valan Ford. If the Istarion forces had prevailed that day, Ulric Goding would have been slain and the Goding Rebellion would have been crushed and recorded as yet another failed uprising, if at all. Varic Raith had taken a wound that day, and for that, when the war was over, the new King Ulric had granted him a lordship, half of Tol Morad, and Stormgarde as his seat. He would pay for his ill-gotten gains. Or his great-great-grandson would. Another name for the list.

  She turned back to Cyril, who was seated in an armchair, reading a book. “You're certain Lord Raith agreed to see us?”

  Cyril looked up from his book, holding his place with a finger. “His steward assured me we would be seen.” He had answered the question half a dozen times already.

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  “This is an insult, to make me wait this long, and in this room!”

  “Of course it is,” Cyril said. “You know how these Goding supporters are. Patience, Sarella. He wants to put you off guard. Don't let him.”

  “I know what he's trying to do,” she snapped.

  The heavy oaken double doors swung open. Sarella turned. Cyril set his book down and rose. Lord Raith's steward entered, dressed in a black velvet doublet bordered in silver, the colors of House Raith. He bowed slightly. He was a small man, balding, with what was left of his gray-streaked brown hair cropped short above his ears.

  “If you will follow me, I believe I can assist you,” he said.

  Sarella followed him from the room, Cyril a few strides behind. “I was told Lord Raith would see us,” she said.

  “Lord Raith is rather busy,” the steward said. He led them down a columned hall. The floor was pale marble, the walls paneled in polished redwood. “I'm sure you're aware with the mounting unpleasantries with House Celwyn?” He led them into a dark-paneled study with a broad window that looked out over the bay. A massive writing desk covered in maps and parchments dominated the room. “My name is Balen. I am Lord Raith's personal steward. I will be assisting you in Lord Raith's stead. I understand you are seeking information regarding a certain individual you are searching for?” He addressed his question to Cyril.

  Sarella put her hands on the desk. “You will address me, not my associate. I was told Lord Raith himself would see us, not his steward.”

  “My apologies Lady...”

  “Alderwood. Morwen Alderwood.” She often used assumed names when dealing with stewards and lordlings. It wouldn't do for her royal heritage to become known to the wrong ears, least of all these Goding-supporting Raiths. They would turn her over to Ulfric Goding in an instant if they suspected she was the Istarion heir.

  “Lady Alderwood. Of House Alderwood?” Balen asked with a tilt of his head. “I don't believe I am familiar with that particular House.”

  Sarella fixed him with a withering glare. If the miserable little worm wanted to bandy clever words, he would soon find out what happened when her patience ran out. She flexed her arm to feel the slim stiletto blade she had hidden up her sleeve. “It is a rather small House,” she said with a forced smile. “You said you would be able to help me?”

  Balen smiled a slimy smile. “Indeed. Your associate mentioned you were looking for a certain...individual who may be living on this island. I must ask, Lady Morwen, why did you not call at Ravenwood and seek out Lord Celwyn? Surely he would be a bit more...receptive to you and your associate.”

  “We are freshly arrived from Belfalas,” Cyril said before Sarella could answer. “As this is the only port on the island, it seemed prudent to inquire here first. And with the military presence and the rumors, it seemed the safer choice as well. Who knows how dangerous the roads between here and Ravenwood are, for two traveling alone?”

  “Growing more dangerous every day,” Balen said. “We have experienced some aggression from Celwyn forces of late, and we must respond accordingly. We found one of our patrols not a moon's turn ago slaughtered along Rose Creek. If Celwyn wants to start a war, we will protect what is ours.”

  “And the person we're seeking?” Sarella cut in. She had no interest in listening to this steward prattle on about ‘Celwyn aggressions.’

  “From your limited description, I believe the individual you seek is a ranger,” Balen said. “There are several such types living on Tol Morad. Creatures of the Wild, they are, living on the outskirts of decent society. It makes one wonder, doesn't it, what would drive a man to take up such a life? There is one in particular you might seek out. If he is not the one you are looking for, then he may know of him. He goes about hooded and cloaked, riding a black horse. The village folk around Big Lake call him the Nightwolf. A real mystery type. Comes and goes after dark and the like. He comes into town to collect bounties on demons, beasts, whatever we're paying on, and leaves just as quickly.”

  Sarella glanced at Cyril. “Sounds familiar, doesn't it?” He nodded. She turned back to Balen. “Anything else?”

  “You will know him when you see him. He keeps a wolf as a pet. You may try at Ravenwood. I have reason to believe that he may be in the employ of Lord Celwyn.” He selected a map from the pile, rolled it up, and handed it to her. “Do be careful. This Nightwolf is reportedly a dangerous man. Lord Raith wouldn’t be amiss to see him hanged.”

  ***

  Two days later, Sarella, Cyril, and her two bodyguards rode out of Stormgarde through the main gate. Cyril had secured horses for them, and she was mounted on a fine bay mare with a white blaze, good-tempered and responsive. At her side, Cyril rode a sorrel gelding with one white foot. Bull and Boar brought up the rear, on rough horses of far less quality than their mounts, though sturdy enough for the road. Could the ranger called the Nightwolf really be Amon? It stood to reason that he might have turned ranger and bounty hunter in the decades since their parting, if he was even still alive. She would make Balen regret the day he was born if he had sent her haring off on some wild hunt. Still, there were clues that gave her hope. The affinity for wolves made sense, Amon had always liked the beasts, and they him. If it was him, though, it was hard to believe he was as dangerous as Balen said. He was no murderer, at least not when she knew him. She had always had to push him to kill, back when he worked for her. Time did have a way of changing people, though.

  “Shall we ride for Ravenwood, then?” Cyril asked.

  Sarella looked at the distant mountains. She shook her head. She recalled the map the steward had given her; she had poured over it until she had it thoroughly memorized. “In time, but there are dozens of small towns and villages between here and there. We'll stop at each and inquire. Folks like to talk about outlandish things, and a cloaked rider with a wolf at his side is quite outlandish.”

  Cyril nodded.