Harald felt his heart lurch.

  Thracos.

  “We do, yes.” He fought for composure. “I meant to find you sooner. But I was… indisposed.”

  “So Countess Sonora has informed me each time I’ve visited.” Thracos appeared neither frustrated nor upset. “At first I thought she was merely stonewalling me, and then I thought perhaps your injury was so grievous you might die. But I should have known better.”

  “Regardless. I’m feeling better. Let’s talk.”

  “Let’s.” Thracos rose and strode from the room, turning only to bow smoothly to Countess Sonora. “Thank you for the hospitality. But the day is beautiful. I will excuse myself, Countess, so that Harald and I may talk while we walk.”

  The countess caught Harald’s eye and raised an inquisitive brow. There was clearly much she wished to know, but he could only shrug in response. She frowned, then inclined her head, dismissing him.

  None of this was to his liking. Thracos was already walking out the front door. “Sam, please share with the countess what Pastoric said. I’ll… I’ll be back. Shortly.”

  Sam clearly wanted to object, but Harald squeezed her arm and slipped out the door after Thracos, and jogged to catch up.

  They quit Sonora Manor in silence, Harald stealing glances at the other man, unsure as to whether to say something or stay quiet. The other man’s slight smile had him off-balance. What was so amusing?

  They turned toward a small park.

  “So,” said Thracos at last. “Forty hobgoblins? Level… 15? 16?”

  “16,” confirmed Harald. “Not an ideal situation.”

  “All the better.” Thracos linked his hands beneath his shifting cloak, oblivious to the curious stares from passersby. “Our unique gift hates it when events proceed as planned.”

  There it was. A bald admission that they were similarly corrupted.

  “Yes. I’ve noticed.” The man seemed in the mood to talk. “How long have you had yours?”

  “A little over a year now.” Thracos frowned, considering, then nodded. “How time flies. Yourself? Just a month?”

  “Two. I was really far behind when I received mine. Had a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Not as much as me, I’m sure.” Thracos glanced sidelong at Harald. “I couldn’t walk at the time. Had spent most of my youth bound to a wheelchair. The gift, as you can imagine, was quite liberating.”

  Harald stared at the other. “You…? But how did it…?”

  “Our gift is incredibly powerful. You know this.” There was a faint air of admonition to the other man’s voice. “But perhaps you don’t yet appreciate just how powerful. We are like clay in its hands. In time it can mold us into just about anything you can imagine.”

  Harald resisted the urge to glance down at himself. Since receiving the Seed he’d gained 6 Strength, 6 Dexterity, and 8 points of Constitution. His body had changed to reflect that; he was trim at the waist, bulkier in the shoulders, deeper in the chest. A layer of fat still coated his frame, but there was no denying the muscle beneath it now, and he’d never felt so light on his feet, in possession of such endless reserves of energy.

  And all within two months.

  The Seed truly had reshaped him.

  “Oh,” said Thracos, as if reading his mind, “we do have to do our part. It rewards, it does not bestow. But I was motivated. As, dare I guess, you have been.”

  “Yes.” Harald glanced around. Nobody was particularly close. “But that motivation itself… I always wanted these results, but could never achieve them before. The… the gift, it raised my ability to execute my desires.”

  “Hmm.” Thracos bowed his head and closed his eyes, continuing to walk with calm assurance along the sidewalk. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  A smile. “You have the most curious effect on me, Harald Darrowdelve. You make me want to believe you know nothing about our condition whatsoever.”

  “I know precious little. My, ah, patron, hasn’t been the most forthcoming.”

  “I suppose it’s been only two months. He no doubt wants you to prove yourself worth his time.”

  “Was yours like that?”

  “Mine?” Thracos inhaled, considering. “Mine is… well. I thought him inscrutable at first, like a granite cliff or a mountain lake, but I was wrong. He’s as scrutable as an avalanche. You can’t debate one, but you can see where it’s going and know better than to try to stop it.”

  “He’s doing well, I’ve heard.”

  “Yes.” Another subtle smile. “But there’s so much at stake, and so many variables at play, that I feel like a child watching masters fence with rapiers. But as far as I can tell, yes. I seem to have been chosen by the winning team.”

  “And do you support… your team? Are you rooting for your patron to win?”

  “What a strange question.” Thracos eyed him. “You’re not?”

  Almost Harald went to answer, but then he caught himself. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Sharp. I feel… liberated, I suppose… from having to make such basic decisions. Need a spectator root for an avalanche? No. The avalanche will wash away whatever it impacts regardless of the spectator’s feelings.”

  “You’ve still not answered.”

  Thracos laughed. “Persistent, Harald! What do you expect me to say? That I don’t support my patron, and risk you running to yours with this gobbet of information? I can only say that I do, which may be true, may be false, and makes of your question a worthless thing to ask.”

  “I see. You’re right.” Harald frowned at the flagstones they strode over.

  “But the fact that the question even occurs to you reveals much,” said Thracos. “Let me give you some unsolicited advice. Don’t fuck with avalanches.”

  Harald glanced at the other man, who winked at him and closed his eyes again.

  “Why do you do that?” Harald frowned at Thracos. “Walk around with your eyes closed?”

  “To annoy people.” Said with complete sincerity and a shade of amusement. “It disconcerts them, makes me look superior, but also then makes them underestimate me.”

  “Underestimate you?”

  “Of course. It makes me look like a vain fool who likes to flaunt his mysterious powers. Fools like that are shallow and predictable. So by walking around with my eyes closed, I intimidate those weaker than me, and annoy those stronger, resulting in an edge over both.”

  “Huh.” Harald studied the man’s profile. “One of your Abilities?”

  “I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

  They strolled over the grass and walked for a stretch in silence. Harald tried to marshal his thoughts. This was Thracos of House Thornvale, who was beholden to Silenthros, and whom he’d have to soon duel to the death. Were they supposed to be chatting like this? Was this a ploy on the other man’s part? To disarm his suspicions?

  They stepped onto a winding path that ran between the trees.

  “So.” Thracos glanced at him. “We’re supposed to duel, you and I, in the near future. I don’t quite understand why your patron proposed this match.”

  “Because he thinks it’ll goad me to greater heights of power,” said Harald bitterly. “That I’ll train all the harder given how far ahead of me you are, and if I win, I’ll have proven myself a worthy investment.”

  They passed through a screen of hanging willow fronds and emerged into a large dell whose verdant face rose and fell with the ground’s undulations. A bench was placed before an ornamental pond in the near distance; Thracos made for it.

  “But I am Level 7 and possess both alarmingly potent Artifacts and Servitors. You are - what? Level…?”

  “4.” Harald fought the urge to boast of his recent advancement. “But not for long.”

  “No, not for long. Still. If we set the match to take place within a month, you’re cooked.”

  “So let’s give me more time.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because I don’t think you want to just kill me in cold blood.”

  “Are you so sure?” Thracos smiled. “After all, it’s my life on the line.”

  “You’re in no fear of dying.” Harald grinned. “You’re just trying to decide how much of a challenge you want to take on.”

  “Is that so?” They reached the bench and sat, gazing out over the lily pads and flowers that floated on the emerald waters.

  “Sure it is. Otherwise why all this chit chat?” Harald relaxed, placing one arm over the bench’s back, and kicked out his feet to cross them at the ankles. “You were told from up on high that you’d duel me in the near future, and were no doubt puzzled. I mean, just a few weeks ago you were trying to recruit me into House Thornvale. Now you’re being told to put me down like a dog? Strange. But who are you to complain? You don’t question avalanches, do you? So instead you decided to go on a stroll with me and try to puzzle out this situation. See if there’s a hidden angle you’re unaware of. But there isn’t. It’s just me, Harald Darrowdelve, and so what’s left for you to decide?” Harald glanced sidelong, and saw that the other man was studying him. “All that remains is how fun you can make this.”

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  “Fun can be dangerous, when Demon Seeds are involved.” Thracos’ tone was pensive. “If I give you too much time you’ll invariably surprise me.”

  “You won’t train hard?”

  “The stronger one grows, the less desperate one becomes. The Demon Seed feeds off desperate acts. So I, being far more powerful, need to perform ever more extreme acts. But you, being only Level 4? You can still impress your Seed by just throwing yourself at problems on Level 16.”

  “What level do you tend to hunt?”

  “Recently? I’ve been enjoying 36, 37.”

  Harald held the other man’s gaze, searched for some jest, some joke. “36, 37.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “That’s…”

  “Entirely appropriate for a Silver-ranked raider? Yes. Quite.” Thracos looked away.

  Harald felt everything go still. He’d known Thracos was far outside his league. Silver-ranked. Level 7. But to hear that the man was testing himself against such high dungeon levels…

  “What’s wrong?” Thracos’ tone was wry. “Getting nervous?”

  “Yeah, a little.” Harald fought to keep his tone calm. “I’m going to need a little more time to make this interesting for you. How much do you think you can give me?”

  Thracos shrugged. “That’s entirely at my discretion. My patron believes this is a neat opportunity to remove a piece of the opposing team from the board. As long as I guarantee your death, he won’t care. He’s got more pressing things on his mind.”

  “So it’s up to you.” Harald felt queasy. “What do you think? Shall we set the duel six years from now?”

  Thracos let out a bark of laughter. “Six years? Now that that just might be pushing it. No. I was thinking… a month?”

  A month.

  Generous. He could get a lot done in that time. But graduate from Level 16 to 34?

  “How about this.” Harald’s thoughts were racing. “Let’s not give it a fixed date just yet.”

  Thracos raised his brows skeptically.

  “Instead…” Harald sat up, trying to think of something. “Instead, we’ll make it a test of some sort. You… let’s say each week you set me a trial of some kind. I don’t know. Something easy at first. Whatever. And if I accomplish it, then you give me another week. If I fail, then we fight that week.”

  “Hmm.” Thracos considered him. “Interesting.”

  “You can calibrate it to be roughly a month, regardless. You know what someone at Level 4 can do, right?” Harald fought not to sound desperate. “So start it easy, and then each week make it more challenging. And if I find a way to surprise you, well, I buy myself a little more time. And you can escalate the difficulty as you see fit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Thracos narrowed his eyes. “But why?”

  “Why should you do this?”

  Thracos nodded.

  “Because it’d be… fun for you?” Harald wasn’t sure he was right. “You hunt alone, right?”

  “In the dungeons? Sure.”

  “You’re the rising star of House Thornvale. You’ve got a Demon Seed, and I’m guessing most of the others around you don’t. So you’re probably… I don’t know, not bored, exactly, but…”

  “Lonely?” Thracos grinned. “Please, spare me.”

  “Not lonely,” agreed Harald. “But looking for something interesting. You said it’s been a year. This would be a game. You get to decide what each challenge is, and how fair you’re willing to be. In exchange, I have to do everything I can to meet the challenge and buy myself another week of life. Because as soon as I fail?”

  “As soon as you fail, you’re dead,” agreed Thracos softly. “Hmm. Well, it is novel.”

  “Think of it this way: if you want the duel to take place at the month mark, just set me an impossible challenge four weeks from now.” Harald shrugged. “That way you still get what you want, and some amusement along the way.”

  “Hmm. You’re wagering that - what? I’ll grow enamored of your successes and become loath to crush you?”

  Harald grinned. “I’m deceptively charming. You’ll grow fond of me and want to keep me around just so you can torment me further.”

  “Ha.” Thracos smirked. “Well, it’s a clever bid to stave off death. And you’re right, I suppose: it’s more interesting than my solo forays into the dungeon have been of late. So very well. But you may not like the tasks I set you.”

  “If I refuse to undertake one, then we can call it my failing,” agreed Harald. “So only task me with killing children or abusing women or whatever if you want a swift denial and an end to this experiment.”

  “What manner of monster do you think I am?” demurred Thracos, but his amusement didn’t disappear. “Killing children.”

  “Maybe you’d just be curious to see how far I’d go to win myself another week.”

  “True. I probably would. But you’re too new at this to be pushed so hard. No, I think I have your measure. You still think there’s hope of winning out in the end, don’t you?” Thracos canted his head to one side. “Of outwitting your patron, mastering the gift, and becoming a hero?”

  Harald stilled. “You don’t?”

  The other man’s wry smile said it all.

  “But very well. Let’s see. Your first challenge. Something to warm you up. Something fun yet difficult for a Level 4 novice.” Thracos tapped his chin. “Level 16 is as far as you can currently go?”

  “I think I could push beyond it,” said Harald cautiously.

  “All right. Well, then we’ll start with something easy. Level 18. You’re to enter, alone, and fetch me a troll shaman’s wand. Bring that to me before a week is out, and you’ll pass.”

  “Level 18?” Sam had said something about that level. “The… Carnivorous Labyrinth?”

  “The very same. Honestly, the name is scarier than the level itself. It’s just a nasty jungle. You’ll be fine.” Thracos patted his knee. “Alone, mind you.”

  “All right. A troll shaman’s wand. How do I get in touch, after?”

  “Hmm. Good question. I do enjoy my privacy. Let’s… how about this: I’ll open a shared account at the Platinum Rose. They operate a sideline in secure storage. When you have the wand, deliver it to the Rose and ask that it be placed in our storage box. I’ll check it seven days from now. If it’s empty, I’ll come knocking.”

  “All right.” Harald tried to evaluate the setup, but he still felt too jittery to think clearly. “A joint account. I’ll have the wand in there before the end of the sixth night.”

  Thracos stood. “Excellent. If you do, I’ll leave your instructions for your second challenge in the wand’s place. Look for it on the evening of the seventh day. And if you try to run away, if you think you can just leave town and hide? I’ll know. And I’ll hunt you down and kill you regardless of your excuses. Agreed?”

  Harald also stood. “Sure. Agreed. And thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Harald.” Thracos smiled. “I’m your sworn enemy, your greatest rival, and quite possibly your nemesis. We can’t grow too fond of each other, for sooner or later this delightful exchange will end as I will be forced to hunt you on a level of my patron’s choosing.”

  “Right.” Harald rubbed his palms up and down the sides of his hips. “Greatest enemy, beast from the pit, the man that I’ll have to kill a month from now. Good reminder.”

  Thracos considered him then laughed again. “I’m happy you surprised me, Harald. You’ll find as time goes on that our gift makes us jaded to just about everything. Growth requires ever more extremes, and constant exposure to extremes makes us numb. I hope you do well at my challenges. I’ll be sad when I have to cut off your head.”

  “If you can cut off my head.”

  Thracos’ smile was fond. “Oh, there’s absolutely no doubt of that. Good day, Harald. I’ll be checking our storage container seven days from now.”

  “See you around, Thracos.”

  Harald stood there as the other man walked away. The House Thornvale prodigy strode into the woods and was soon lost amidst the dappled sunlight and shadows.

  Then, feeling exhausted, he turned and made his way back to Sonora Manor where he clacked the large brass knocker.

  A moment later Bosworth burst out from his gatehouse, planting his gleaming steel helm atop his balding pate and wrestling with his halberd as he strode up, only to freeze at the sight of Harald.

  “Hello!” Harald gave a little wave through the ornamental bars of the gate. “Good to see you again, Bosworth.”

  The man stared at him suspiciously.

  “I, ah… I’m Sir Harald Darrowdelve? I’ve been staying here these past few days? And I recently swore fealty to House Sonora?”

  “By the grape and iron!” barked the old man, snapping to attention with such vigor Harald was afraid he’d break a bone. “It is an honor, sir, an honor to welcome you back to the estate! I am Guard Bosworth, a sentinel of no-account, a lowly servant of the countess who has distinguished himself, if he has any claim to such an honor, only by means of his unswerving dedication to House Sonora!”

  “That’s… I mean, it’s great to meet you,” said Harald weakly. “Again.” Then saluted back.

  Bosworth relaxed his salute and hurried about opening the gate. “No. The honor is strictly mine. I shall remember this day for as long as I live, though I fear, yes, I fear it shall not be for much longer.” The gate screeched as it yawned open. “Our enemies,” said Bosworth in a low voice, his steely gray eyes full of implied meaning, “gather about us like storm clouds. Soon the storm shall break, and then shall these walls be besieged by all the knaves and scurrilous cowards who have sapped our strength these many long years, aye, and in that moment, that final hour, then shall all enemies discover our true worth, oh, you can count on that.” Bosworth laughed darkly. “Though they may claim our lives, they shall buy them with copious amounts of their own blood, such that the very lawns and rose bushes shall be painted red with gore, and their victory shall be made a hollow one.”

  “I… right,” said Harald, not sure if he was being asked to agree.

  “I have had a recurring dream,” said Bosworth, leaning in to whisper. “That the countess stands upon the lowest step of her manor, and the blood spilled by the edge of my blade laps up to the toes of her pretty shoes, but does not overflow the top of the step. And as I lie dying, partially submerged in the very gore that I have spilled, she gazes down upon my old visage, and only then does she understand the depths of the love I have for her and this august House I serve.”

  Bosworth stared out at nothing, eyes wide, his lower lip clenched between his yellowed teeth.

  “That’s a very intense dream,” said Harald, backing away down the drive. “Very, uh, vivid.”

  “It is nothing!” yelled Bosworth, and rapped his knuckles viciously against the side of his helm. “Nothing! It is nothing compared to what I would do for her!”

  And then he turned and ran back into the guardhouse.

  “Well, ah.” Harald glanced around, unsure of himself. But then fearing that Bosworth would emerge again if he lingered, he hurried up the drive to Sonora Manor.

  Vic and Sam awaited him in the front garden, walking together along the miniature shrubbery maze. At the sight of him passing through the gate, they both stepped over the knee-high walls and approached.

  “And?” Vic’s eyebrows couldn’t go any higher. “Sam’s brought me up to speed. Is Thracos dead? Did you stab him in the back at the most opportune moment?”

  Sam was pale, intent. “The duel. Is it happening?”

  “It is.” Harald glanced back in the direction of the guardhouse, then dismissed Bosworth’s antics. “But we didn’t set a date.”

  “No date?” Vic laughed. “You filibustered him!”

  “No!” Harald smiled weakly. “By the angels, the man almost tricked me into thinking he was just another raider. But he’s Silver-ranked. He hits the 36th Level by himself. I nearly panicked when he revealed that. So I temporized.”

  “Temporized,” said Sam, stepping closer, arms tightly crossed over her chest. “What does that mean?”

  “A challenge.” And he explained his terms, and Thracos’ surprising agreement to them.

  “Genius!” said Vic, putting his hand to his brow.

  “Only on the surface,” said Sam. “He can ramp up the difficulty whenever he pleases, making this entire exercise arbitrary.”

  “Not at all!” Vic began to pace. “There are many ways that a duel can be fought, and Harald just launched a winning salvo. This Thracos is both easily amused and craving entertainment. The longer Harald can amuse him, the better. Which means!”

  “Which means?” prompted Harald.

  “You can’t just accomplish the letter of each challenge. Oh, no. You have to seduce him with your wit and style. Not one shaman’s wand, but three. Or the singular wand and a delicious case of butter cookies.”

  “Butter cookies,” said Sam, deadpan.

  “Of course!” Vic grinned. “It’s outrageous, to think Harald could bribe him with such, which would in turn appeal to Thracos’ sense of humor. Whatever. It’s an example. But this storage case is now how Harald henceforth must duel with the man. He must surprise Thracos, delight him, intrigue him.”

  “I’ve got to pass the challenges themselves,” said Harald darkly.

  “Oh, that’s fine. Thracos won’t make them murderous if he’s having too much fun. Each time you receive a new challenge, we’ll brainstorm together how we can turn it to our advantage. Yes. This can definitely work.”

  Sam shook her head. “Your mind works in strange and mysterious ways.”

  “I know,” said Vic seriously. “It’s very impressive. But, oh! I almost forgot to mention. Nessa asked that I deliver something to you.”

  “Oh? How is she doing?”

  Vic glanced at Sam. “She’s… well. I did my level best, but I’m no gaoler. She’s been out and about these past few days. Nights. Blowing off steam, I suppose.”

  “Doing glory,” said Sam, tone flat.

  “But when we were hauling you out of the 16th, she hung back to collect scales. And she found this amongst them.”

  Vic drew a small wooden chest from his satchel. It was a rosewood antique, only a foot long and perhaps eight inches tall.

  “Here,” said Vic, holding it out. “If you don’t want it, however - which I would completely understand - I’m more than happy to take it off your hands.”

  “Just let him open it,” snapped Sam.

  Harald took the box, suddenly nervous, and lifted the lid.

  To reveal a floating black Servitor Crystal within.