For the first time in over a year, Raomar stepped into Deverath’s streets in the light of day. Walking through the morning gloam with his friends, he found no comfort in their company. His mind dwelt on his goddess and his heart wept.

  She had cast him aside for no reason, and there was nothing his friends could do to give him comfort for that.

  “Master,” Ghost began, when they had walked several blocks in silence. “Where—”

  “I am no longer a master,” Raomar snapped, cutting her short. “I am no man’s master, now.”

  To the companions’ surprise, Ghost’s features darkened into a frown, and she wrapped a small strong hand around Raomar’s wrist. While her fingers weren’t quite long enough to encircle it, she took a firm hold and jerked him to a near halt.

  “You are my master,” she snarled, keeping her voice low as she jabbed him in the lower ribs with her free hand. “Remember? You chose me! I might have been one of the guild’s runners, but I was apprenticed to none, and you chose me. I called you master, then, and you are my master still.

  For a second, Raomar stared at her, then he yanked his wrist out of her grip with a growl of frustration. He lost it to a gasp as a large hand descended on his shoulder, drawing him deeper into the shadows of the alley in which they stood.

  “She has you there,” the Northman assured him. “You never did complete the paperwork to apprentice her to the guild, so she’s officially your apprentice and no-one else’s.”

  “I…”

  Dart snickered.

  “You offered the girl an apprenticeship, and not as the guild.” She patted Raomar’s arm. “You have obligations, my friend.”

  Raomar snarled something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, and Grunwol chuckled, making sure Ghost stayed close, when his kevarag friend continued down the alley.

  “Where to, Dart?” he demanded, and with a brief smile at Ghost, the shadow thief continued to lead the way.

  They traveled for another half a block, before she turned into an alley whose entrance was concealed by a low wall built at such an angle that the small gap allowing access past it was hidden by a trick of the eye.

  As they stepped behind its shelter, Raomar glanced down at Ghost with a look of total consternation, then at Grunwol, Brianda and Varan. His heart clenched at the thought of what he’d lost, and at what they’d lost right alongside him.

  Grunwol caught his look and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “Never mind,” he soothed. “I’m sure a good day’s rest will help us get a better perspective.”

  Raomar froze.

  “A better perspective?” he choked out, turning to seize his friend by his collar and pulling him down until he could look the Northman in the eye. His voice was harsh as he continued, “There is no perspective in all the realms that will ease the emptiness she has left.”

  He released Grunwol’s tunic, thrusting the big man away from him.

  “None,” he added with barely contained savagery.

  How long he might have stayed staring at his friend, he didn’t know, but Dart intervened, taking his arm and leading him gently through the narrow space.

  “We’re almost there,” she coaxed, adding with forced brightness. “Let’s not dally in the alley when we could be drowning our sorrows before a friendly fire.”

  Raomar slapped Grunwol’s chest with the flat of his hand, and followed Dart to another well-concealed alleyway entrance. A few twists and turns later, and she came to a halt in front of a section of wall partly obscured by garbage.

  She didn’t hesitate, but waded through the miasma as though it didn’t exist. Her cloak and the shadows by the wall hid exactly what she did, but they all heard a click. The sound was followed by a pause, then the wall slid aside to reveal a dimly-lit stone passage.

  The shadow thief stood beside the opening, watching as the rest of the small company waded through the reeking garbage. She found it interesting that only Varan moved as though the noisome mess wasn’t there.

  As soon as they were safely through the gap in the wall, she followed, palming another section of stone on the other side until a second click echoed in their wake. The wall slid back into place, grinding across the cobbles to shut out the garbage pile, the alley, and the growing light of full day.

  As the last of the wall slid into place, Grunwol let out a low, rumbling growl, and Dart stiffened in alarm. Grabbing the Northman by the arm as she passed, she moved around the others and pulled him down the hall.

  Raomar watched as the big man shivered at her touch, then tensed as he saw the Northman’s hand come to rest on the hilt of his sword. His companions grew tense at his touch, but said nothing, waiting, instead, for him take the lead.

  He watched as Grunwol followed Dart to a bend in the hall, then led the others after them. Dart’s quiet urging drifted back to them.

  “Quick Grun. This way. Hurry, now. Let’s get you out of reach of the magic.” She glanced back at the turn. “I forgot to warn him about the wards.”

  At her words, Grunwol shuddered, but managed to keep his blade in its scabbard as he followed her around the bend.

  The wards! Raomar shook his head, leading the others in their wake. Of all the things to forget.

  Dart knew Grunwol well enough to know what was likely to happen if certain types of magic were activated around him. Such things were too dangerous to let slip. As he rounded the corner after them, he saw Dart hadn’t stopped moving.

  She took the Northman quickly out of the area affected by the warding magicks, taking the steps she needed in order to deactivate her usual array of traps along the way. The corridor continued downward until they reached a small wooden door set in the stone wall at its end.

  Dart quickly opened the portal, leading the group in to the large, simple room beyond. It contained a single long table paralleled by two benches, a fire burning sullenly in a wide hearth, and three other doors leading to unseen spaces.

  “Have a seat,” Dart instructed, crossing to a door tucked to one side of the room. Withdrawing a key from her pocket, she locked it, before moving to the one beside it and pushing it open.

  “Kitchen,” she explained, going through it.

  Raomar scowled, wondering how he’d ended up in what was obviously the woman’s private residence, instead of the tavern she’d promised.

  “And a cellar beyond,” the shadow thief hastily added, catching his expression. “Now, take a seat so I can fetch you a drink.”

  On hearing her words, Raomar settled himself on the bench at the end of the table closest the kitchen door. It was a good enough perch. From it, he could watch the entrance, observe the other two doors and stare into the fire…or all three, if he so desired. It was good enough.

  He sank into himself, barely aware of Ghost as she climbed onto the bench next to him. Resting both elbows on the table, he ignored her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  She snuggled under his elbow and pressed herself against his side, ignoring the way he tensed at her touch before accepting her presence. It was odd for her to get so close, but he didn’t push her away.

  If the child wanted to adopt him, who was he to reject her? He knew what it was like to have nowhere to belong. Resisting the urge to drape his arm around the elfling’s shoulder, he sighed. He also resisted the urge to look at Grunwol, when the man took a seat opposite him.

  One by one, the others joined him at the table, but beyond taking note of where they chose to sit, Raomar paid them no mind. He was trying to work out just how much he had to drink to numb the aching hurt he felt inside…and how strong it had to be.

  As he did, Dart returned with a tray of glasses, mugs and bottles, which she set in the middle of the table. Raomar watched her open a bottle of wine and set a glass of it before him.

  He saw her wince when he downed the glass in a single gulp, and was relieved when she refilled it a second time. Her tolerance didn’t stop him from draining the glass again, although he was sure he heard her sigh.

  Pushing aside a twinge of guilt, Raomar held his glass up once more. This time, he didn’t down the contents in another single swallow. Instead, he wrapped both hands around it, reconsidering his need to find oblivion despite, the agonizing numbness weighting his chest.

  After all, the pain would still be waiting when he sobered.

  He took a long, slow sip of his drink, ignoring the way the room relaxed around him. Turning in the seat, he set his elbows on his knees and continued to sip as he stared into the fire. Dart started serving the others around the table, and some of the tension in the room eased.

  No one spoke as Dart stoked the fire to a comfortable blaze and vanished back into the kitchen. She returned a short moment later with two more trays, one laden with bread, butter and condiments, and the other with an assortment of fruit, preserved meat, and cheese.

  “Eat,” she said, and her guests obliged, settling into companionable silence as they satisfied their hunger.

  As intent as he was on the fire, Raomar still caught the looks they exchanged, and the glances they kept tossing his way. He said nothing, and was relieved when they continued to allow him to sit in silence.

  There was nothing they could say to comfort him…and he had no words with which to allay their obvious concern. Instead of speaking, he continued to sip his wine and stare into the leaping flames, letting his mind drift where it would.

  Some time later, someone tugged gently at his arm. At first, he tried to shrug it away, but they were persistent, and the tugging came again. He glanced down, scowling and ready to reprimand Ghost for disturbing him.

  Instead, he found Ghost still curled against his side, her soft breathing showing she was almost asleep. The intense blue eyes of Alessia’s youngest apprentice interrupted his gaze as the boy tugged once more at his sleeve.

  “They arrested my mistress,” the boy began, before Raomar had a chance to say anything. “And they took the other apprentices away.”

  His expression dipped into a worried scowl.

  “I think they’re going to hurt them.”

  That goes without saying, Raomar thought but did not say.

  Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze from the fire, feeling the words driving a wedge through the numbness surrounding his soul.

  “Who is they?” he asked.

  “The king’s men,” the boy… Raomar’s mind scrambled for his name…Varan…replied.

  Fear formed a secondary layer of ice through the grief inside Raomar’s chest. It almost split the numbness dragging at his soul.

  “The who?” he asked, trying to wrap his head around the importance of the boy’s words.

  “The king’s men,” Varan repeated. “Please…”

  “When?” Raomar demanded.

  “The morning just gone,” the boy replied. “We were going to ask you for shelter.”

  “For shelter from what?” Raomar asked, ignoring Dart’s sigh.

  “The king,” Varan answered. “Mistress Mistlewood said we needed to seek shelter with you.”

  “Then why didn’t she come?” Raomar asked, taking a deeper draught from his glass, and reaching over to lift the bottle from the table.

  No one admonished him, but Varan’s face threatened to crumble.

  “She… We weren’t ready when they came,” he explained, his voice quavering. “They came…and…”

  His voice caught.

  “They came and we weren’t ready,” Varan repeated, his eyes filling with tears as his face reddened. “She… She sent me to o…o…open the gate in the wall. Sh…She told…told me to give you this.”

  He reached into his tunic, fumbling around inside it until he was able to pull a piece of rolled parchment from its depths. The parchment appeared slightly worse for wear, but was sealed closed with a familiar sigil.

  Across the table, Brianda gasped.

  Feris continued as though she hadn’t made a sound.

  “She said you would know what it is.”

  Raomar took the parchment, examining the seal and glancing over at Brianda.

  “I know why the boy has this, but of what interest is it to you?” he asked the girl.

  She blushed, as she explained, “It’s what brought me to Deverath. Alessia retrieved it for the Tillerman.”

  Varan nodded to confirm her story, then gave Raomar a pleading look.

  “Please, Master, can you save her?”

  Dart stopped, her hand halfway to her mouth with a piece of cheese. Grunwol coughed into his wine glass, caught mid-sip, and Ghost stirred restlessly against Raomar’s side.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Raomar met the boy’s eyes, and covered the child’s hand with his own.

  “I don’t know where she’s been taken,” he told the boy, adding in defeated tones, “and I can no longer scry her.”

  “I can,” Varan told him. “If I can find her, will you try to get her back?”

  Seeing the hope in the boy’s eyes, Raomar felt a sudden swell of despair.

  “I would, but the goddess…” He let his words trail into defeat and looked away. “I cannot.”

  He raised the bottle to his lips and drank it dry, before looking to the table for more.

  Dart was not quick enough to stop him seizing another…this one a fortified wine that had taken her some trouble to find. She stifled a groan, and rolled her eyes.

  “I know of someone who can help,” the shadow thief told him, settling her hand over Raomar’s and drawing his gaze with her own. “Ghost can fetch her, and we can have her in the city by nightfall, if we hurry.”

  Ghost became fully awake, shrugging herself free of Raomar’s arm. She looked up at the shadow thief, her eyes bright with excitement and hope.

  “The crone, Lady Dart?” she asked.

  Dart nodded, allowing herself a small smile at the child’s sudden wakefulness.

  “The crone,” she confirmed, “but first we should have Varan scry Alessia’s location, so we can tell the crone as much as we can.”

  “She will want to do her own scry,” Ghost said, knowingly.

  Dart shrugged. “True, but she will want to hear all she can, first. The more we can tell her, the more likely she is to help.”

  She turned to Alessia’s apprentice. “Varan, what do you need?”

  “I need an earthenware bowl and clean water.”

  Raomar watched them make their preparations and took a large swig from the bottle he’d taken. It looked like they had everything under control, so it wouldn’t matter if he drank some more to dull the pain.

  It didn’t take Dart long to fetch the bowl and water. Once she had placed it in front of him, Varan scrambled onto the table top, kneeling in front of the bowl as he spoke the words for the scrying spell as he settled.

  Raomar registered that the boy drew the magic to him as easily as he drew breath, and felt a small spike of interest at seeing such power in one so young. He also kept half an eye on Grunwol, in case the Northman’s natural aversion to magic rose, and he had to intervene.

  When Grunwol remained calm, he started to relax.

  The water in the bowl rippled outward as though a pebble had been dropped into its center, and a picture slowly formed. As the ripples died away, the picture grew clearer, and they saw a long hall lined by close-set heavy wooden doors, each one with a small barred window set high in its center.

  “The king’s dungeon,” Dart observed quietly, “But why would she have been brought here?”

  “Not his usual one,” Raomar observed, hearing a faint slur in his words.

  Dart frowned, but whether it was because of the slurring, or the fact his observation was correct, he didn’t know.

  Brianda looked from one to the other.

  “Really?” she asked, and they nodded.

  “I usually retrieve my people from somewhere better lit,” Raomar told her, and Dart nodded confirmation.

  “Those walls look…older, somehow,” she observed.

  “And there’s a crest on those windows I haven’t seen before,” Grunwol added, indicating a small heraldic device carved into the center top of each set of bars.

  They all craned forward for a better look, and Varan made an impatient sound.

  “If you don’t mind,” the boy dared to protest.

  They moved back so he had a clear view of the bowl, and the picture began to move. Varan guided them down the hallway, pushing the scry so they could peer between each set of bars to see who, or what, was trapped inside. It didn’t take him long to locate his household.

  Alessia, Sindra, Zarine and Xanthia each had a cell to themselves, and eight other female mages occupied the nearest seven. A man shivered in the twelfth cell, but he was not alone.

  Four dark-cloaked priests attended him, and he was terrified of each and every one of them. From the way his mouth moved, they spoke, and Varan spoke the word for sound to allow them to hear what was said.

  “Come, now, brother,” one of the black-robed priests soothed. “You have served the king well, thus far, but now your service will be much greater than before. Don’t be afraid.”

  He lifted a black-gloved hand and ran a gentle finger down the center of the man’s face, eliciting a moan of terror as the prisoner tried to escape the manacles chaining him to the cell wall. The priest closed on him.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the priest repeated softly, and they heard the magic in his voice.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the other priests echoed, taking up the soothing croon, reaching out to stroke his arms and chest.

  At first, he flinched away, but as they continued their soothing drone, and the magic did its work, he relaxed under their touch. Raomar caught sight of a tear rolling down one cheek, and wondered where the tension could have gone.

  Once he’d stopped his struggles, the priests gently released their prisoner from his chains, steadying him as they led him from the room. Another tear rolled down his cheek, but he followed as docilely as a lamb.

  Varan shifted the scry so that it stayed on them as they moved down the door-lined corridor, and Raomar watched the boy work, quietly impressed by the deftness of his control. He’d observed more than a few wizards scry, and there were very few who could follow a subject from one area to another.

  He could see why Alessia had sent the boy on ahead.

  “Watch for wards,” he warned, remembering Varan was still an apprentice and might not think of such things.

  The boy’s frown of concentration deepened, but the scry didn’t waver.

  It stayed centered on the prisoner, now walking with apparent calm between the priests who’d caused him such terror before. He seemed unperturbed by his surroundings and his captors, but another tear traced its way down his cheek, and Raomar had to wonder if the emotion had truly gone.

  Studying the scry more closely, Raomar saw the outlines of a multi-colored cloud forming above him. Images flashed through it, and Raomar caught quick glimpses of the man in flight, or faceless monsters, or…

  All the terror he must be feeling, Raomar thought, noticing the blurred image of a woman and a child, a young boy, an older couple with similar features.

  These were tinged by blues and grays.

  Sadness, Raomar acknowledged, as another tear slipped from the man’s eyes. And loss. He doesn’t think he’ll see them again, and he didn’t have time to say goodbye…or to warn them…

  He couldn’t be sure that was exactly what the man was feeling, but those were the impressions he was receiving. Threads of darkness spread through the images the further down the corridor the man progressed, and Raomar had the impression the priests hadn’t removed the man’s fear, but merely redirected it.

  No doubt he’ll feel it all when it suits them, Raomar thought, remembering there were also entities who grew stronger from emotions like fear, despair, and sadness, and wondering if the king’s deity was one of them. We’ll know soon enough.

  The group reached the end of the corridor, coming to a halt in front of the double iron-bound doors leading to the next area. Varan dropped a single syllable into the scry, and the magic guarding them, became visible.

  Raomar’s heart sank, and he got ready to disrupt Varan’s spell if the boy didn’t end the scry before the priests opened the doors. He had no doubt that, if the boy did not, then the scry would be revealed, and who knew what attention they’d draw?

  He was poised to intervene, when the leading priest turned to the door on his right, drawing a heavy ring of keys. They jangled as he moved his hands in the gestures required to dispel the wards guarding the smaller portal, then jangled again as he inserted one into the lock.

  The door unlocked with a heavy clunk, and magic sparkled between door and key as he pushed the portal open. Without the wards, Varan was free to follow the priests into the room beyond.

  Raomar craned forward, curious to see what lay beyond it—and stifled a gasp. The room looked like a scaled-down version of the temple Varan had described, save that the altar was central, instead of standing at one end, and there were only four pillars, each one set at a corner.

  A second set of double doors stood beyond the altar, and Raomar guessed these led to the temple proper. Varan’s gently spoken command saw them light with wards, and Raomar tensed, but the boy kept the scry focus well away from the wards, and Raomar relaxed.

  A tall figure was standing, staring down at the altar as the priests and their escort entered. It turned, its helmed visage causing Varan to tense. The scry wavered, but the boy pressed his lips together, and it steadied.

  “Steward.” The king’s voice was unmistakable, and Raomar stilled.

  “Your Majesty,” the prisoner replied in monotones devoid of the fear Raomar could see hovering over his head.

  The king extended a hand. “Come.”

  He stepped to one side so the path to the altar was clear, sweeping his hand toward it in clear command.

  The steward followed the king’s gesture, climbing obediently onto the altar top and letting the priests steady him as he turned to stretch out on its surface. Inside the cloud over his head, Raomar saw pictures of him screaming, and a frisson of unease ran through him.

  Glancing at the wards on the double inner doors, he caught the sense of a presence, something old and evil…and waiting. It reminded him of the dead powers whose temples he’d raided in his days of wandering, when Enshul had released him from the protection of her temple walls and sent him into the world beyond.

  After searching their temples, the idea that even one of those long-deceased powers might still live, sent a slow churn of fear through his gut, and he tensed, preparing to intervene, once more. There was no chance of them going unnoticed once the temple doors had opened.

  He leaned forward, trying to see everything in the room before the priests opened the connecting doors. Fortunately, they were still attending to the steward. Chains rattled and clanked as the priests drew the steward’s hands over his head and raised manacles to his wrists.

  Keeping their movements slow and their touch gentle, they continued to sooth the man as they worked, spread-eagling him, and securing his body in place before carefully cutting his clothing away.

  “Such things are not for you,” they soothed, drawing the chains tight.

  The steward turned frightened eyes to the king, but his face remained serene.

  “You have served me well,” the king soothed. “I would do you no harm.”

  Well, that is patently a lie, Raomar thought, but didn’t say.

  He watched as the priests made their final adjustments, then turned to their king.

  “He is ready,” they said, their voices no longer soothing.

  “And the priestesses?” the king asked.

  “They are being brought as we speak,” the priest informed him.

  As if to confirm his answer, a shriek echoed down the corridor, accompanied by another voice begging to be released and allowed to go. A single slap resounded in the halls beyond and cloth tore. A woman’s voice rose in protest and then in pain.

  The king removed his helm and his lips shifted into a smile that was not his own.

  Raomar shuddered.

  Whatever the king had chosen to serve, it had warped him to its needs, riding his body so that it smiled through him, using his lips to express its own hideous pleasure.

  More cloth tore and another scream echoed down the hall. The thing that was the king closed its eyes, clearly savoring the terror it heard. After a moment, it opened its eyes, once more, and moved to the altar. There, it stood, gazing down at the steward’s face.

  Ignoring the tears running freely down the sides of his face, the king reached out and stroked the flat of his palm down the steward’s cheek, pausing to cup it, before tracing the man’s jaw with a lingering finger touch.

  “You are a worthy gift,” he stated, the presence receding and the king returning to the surface. “A perfect appetizer for tomorrow night’s ceremony.”

  He moved his finger to the man’s chest, and laid the flat of his palm there, before uttering the word to release all the emotion the steward hadn’t felt.

  Raomar watched the cloud of feeling roll over the man, feeling a surge of pity at the mad struggle that followed…and its futility. The chains barely shifted, as the steward did his best to escape them, his body arching as his muscles strained to free him from his captivity.

  Through it all, the king observed him with quiet interest, like a cat watching a mouse impaled on one of its claws. When the man’s grunts of effort had subsided to sobs of despair, and his struggles stopped, he patted the steward’s cheek and turned away.

  The steward watched him go with desperate eyes.

  “Please,” he croaked, his voice rising in a breathless sob. “Your majesty… Please…”

  The king ignored him, moving to place himself in the center of the altar and lifting his helm back onto his head. Spreading both hands before him, he presented the steward to whatever waited beyond the doors.

  Streamers of color were siphoned away from the man’s body, and narrow ribbons of darkness seeped in around the edges of the doors, their presence not activating the wards. Raomar watched with apprehension as the streamers stretched into the room, twining together to form a single tendril.

  The steward turned his head to see what his master was looking at, and saw the tendril snaking its way toward him. He gasped as the tendril touched his head, shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to free himself from the its grasp.

  It didn’t work, and the tendril coiled around his skull and down his neck to slide around his body. The steward shrieked as it continued down his torso, and over his belly. It wound its way around his thighs, twisting from one leg to another and pinning him even more effectively than the chains.

  More gasps signaled the arrival of the priestesses, and their struggles renewed as the priests dragged each of them to a pillar, subduing them with a slap and chaining them in place before they could regain their senses. Soft sobs and whimpers followed, overridden by the deep timbre of the king’s voice.

  “Master,” he began, and the tendril stilled.

  Darkness thickened around the edge of the doors, as the priests closed the portal by which they’d entered. The king ignored them.

  “Another servant I need,” he intoned. “To serve you at your altar.”

  “The living make imperfect slaves,” came in chorus from the priests arrayed beside the pillars. “Let this one serve you better.”

  “I feel your hunger,” the king continued, and the priests gestured toward the pillars with their struggling burdens.

  “These have the power and strength you need,” they intoned.

  The king smiled, echoing their gesture but encompassing all four pillars.

  “Let these lives unspent, their talents untried, and their regret and anger, fear and unfulfilled potential, sate your hunger and ease your need,” he told the presence, stretching his hands toward the double portal, and making the first movements of the spell that would open them.

  Varan ended the scry, slapping the bowl to one side and sending it crashing to the floor, but not before the steward scream of denial was joined by a chorus of others. The sound lingered after the bowl shattered, and water cascaded across the table to the floor.

  “I’m sorry…” the boy whispered, sliding from his seat, and starting to gather the pieces. “Sorry, Master…so, so sorry.”

  Raomar moved to crouch beside the boy, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and pulling him close, as Dart brought a mop and a brush and dustpan and took over tidying the mess.

  “Sorry, Mistress,” Varan apologized, but she only shook her head.

  “You did what had to be done,” she reassured him. “Don’t apologize for that.”

  Varan nodded miserably and remained huddled against Raomar’s side. The guildmaster drew him back to the table and settled him beside him, watching as Dart finished her task.

  She set the mop to one side when she was done and pursed her lips. After a moment, she spoke.

  “I need to borrow your apprentice,” she told Raomar, indicating Ghost with a slight jerk of her chin.

  “We can’t let them die like that,” Varan whispered, and he didn’t mean those being sacrificed as they spoke…but those that waited, his mistress and fellow apprentices among them. Raomar’s grip on the boy tightened.

  “No,” he agreed, transferring his attention to Dart. “What do you need her for?”

  “She knows a woman who can help us,” she informed him, fixing Ghost with a gimlet stare. “It would be expedient if she went to fetch her.”

  Ghost tensed, her small face pinched with early refusal, but Varan caught her gaze, his face beseeching.

  “Please,” he whispered, and Ghost darted a swift glance at him, before returning her gaze to her master.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

  When Raomar didn’t immediately answer, Varan stirred restlessly beneath his arm.

  “Please,” he repeated. “We cannot leave her there.”

  Still Raomar didn’t answer, the loss of Enshul’s favor falling hard as he realized he didn’t have the skills to help his friend. Grief crashed through him, the horror of her fate tumbling him toward despair. He flinched as Dart touched his shoulder.

  “Roamer…”

  The old nickname only served to remind him of his days of wandering, the days when he’d walked the world, the goddess by his side, learning his power as his devotion improved, but now…

  “She’s gone,” he whispered, the hopelessness he felt, coloring his tones. “And she’s left nothing behind.”

  The feeling of hollowness grew, until it threatened to engulf him. He might have welcomed it, if Dart hadn’t pulled him back from the brink.

  “Your magic isn’t the only skill you have,” she reminded him, and Grunwol agreed from across the table.

  “You weren’t always a priest.”

  For some reason the Northman’s words stung, and Raomar snapped him an angry look.

  “None of that will save them from…” He gestured helplessly at where the bowl had fallen, ignoring the fact the pieces were no longer there. “That.”

  “The crone and Varan will help you fill the gaps,” Dart reassured him.

  “Sure, they will,” Raomar sneered. “And then I won’t be able to protect them, either.”

  Defeat threatened to engulf him.

  “She has abandoned me.”

  “But we haven’t,” Ghost declared, scrambling up onto the seat on the other side of him to where Varan sat. She wrapped her hands around his arm. “Please, master. We have to try.”

  Raomar glanced around the table, and saw every eye was on him, that those gathered still considered him their leader, even without the goddess aiding him. It made him want to weep.

  Now, he thought. Of all the times she could have left, now is the time she chooses to abandon me.

  He looked at Dart.

  “You’re sure she can help?” he asked, not meaning Enshul.

  Dart solemnly inclined her head.

  “I am sure,” she told him. “But she lives outside the city, and we have to hurry if Ghost is to return with her by dusk.”

  The feeling of hollowness increased and Raomar fixed the shadow thief with a defeated look.

  “And how do you know she’ll come?” he asked.

  The shadow thief contemplated him for a moment, her eyes taking on a faraway look as though she was remembering something. The look didn’t last long, and her voice was full of certainty when she replied.

  “She’ll come,” she reassured him, adding, “When she knows what we face, she’ll come.”

  Raomar met her gaze and held it, reading the conviction she felt. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, and looked at his apprentice.

  “Go,” he ordered her. “Be back as quickly as you can.”

  The child didn’t wait for anything more, but slipped off the bench and out from under his arm. Dart joined her before she could leave the room and step into the corridor beyond.

  “I’ll take you through the protections,” the shadow thief explained as they closed the door behind them.

  Raomar watched them leave, then turned back to the fire, staring into its depths as though trying to find the answers he needed in the orange glow of its flames.

  He didn’t see how this crone could make up for losing Enshul’s support and the power that came with it. He didn’t see how anything could make up for that…and he didn’t want to think about Alessia’s fate if his doubts proved true.

  By any god that cared, he wished he could spare her that.