Riot kicked one of the stones from the pile that remained of the arcanist’s tower. It seemed like a regular stone, but some art had made it impenetrable enough to stand for hundreds of years. Sumner Nixton had real power, but was that power that the Leybound could ever hope to use? More likely they would always be bound, a poor mockery of real arcanists.

  This was the last place that anyone had seen Natalia Quinn, and though he knew she wouldn’t be there, he had still returned each day to check.

  “You don’t have to go back, you know, my offer still stands,” Riot said, keeping his voice low.

  Loic glanced at the four guards in grey arcanum uniforms that waited by the gate. “You’re still going?”

  Riot nodded. “I figure I do better when I stand and fight.”

  “Then I’ll go back. If they let us fight, you’ll be dead by summer without me. What did you get out of Moran?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve been granted an audience today.” It had taken two days for the arcanum officers and the wikkan to bring order to the citadel, and another day before Riot could walk without his wounded thigh splitting back open. Even after all that, Moran had still kept him waiting a week.

  “It was good while it lasted and the lads got to stretch their legs. I’ll make sure they save you a nice damp cell.”

  The northman saluted, and two of the guards took him toward the tall ships masts that swayed gently over the tops of the buildings.

  Riot was escorted up to the larger houses in the west of the citadel until he reached the one that had the symbol of the sun cresting a tall tower. Two of the survivors from the hard trek over the hills guarded the mansion and greeted him warmly enough.

  Walden Moran was on the large balcony that overlooked the city, the view seeming strange without the dark Arcanists tower. Moran had looked out of place trekking through the hills, trying to play the part of a soldier and Riot had always imagined that this would be where he belonged. But the fine jacket and soft shoes didn’t match the weatherbeaten face. He sat like he was alert, a sword within reach.

  “Sergeant! You are looking well. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you, but I have been rather busy. I have no doubt you have questions. Please sit.”

  Riot sat and stretched his leg, sighing at the tug of the other wound Price had left him with.

  “So the long ears have left?” Riot said.

  “For now, yes. After they lost their commander, their appetite quite deserted them.”

  "You really killed your own brother?”

  “Half-brother.” Moran frowned, his lips pressed against his steepled fingers. “I didn’t want to, but he pressed me. I did tell you I was a rather talented duelist.”

  “I thought you meant with a sword,” Riot muttered.

  “I’m not some common thug. Which reminds me.” Moran called for a valet, who brought him the long, Faelen blade that Price had used.

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  “This blade was made in the Echo in the early years of the long incarceration of the Faelen. It’s not particularly valuable and frankly rather unwieldy, but for someone tall, it would serve for hacking away at things, and I immediately thought of you.” Walden passed the blade to Riot with a barely disguised smile.

  He took the sword. It was as heavy as he’d imagined, but well balanced. “Where’s Price?”

  Moran smiled. “What if I told you that he died from his injuries? Would that satisfy you? It is probable after all.”

  “I should have blown a hole in his chest.”

  Moran pouted. “Come now, he was prepared to spare you.”

  “He was going to cut my damn eye out! And how do you know he would have spared me?”

  Moran grimaced. “It seems I have let the cat out of the bag, doesn’t it? What I will say is that allies are found in strange places, wouldn’t you agree? After all, you and Loic seem to count each other as comrades now, and I would like to think that even you and I share some bond of fraternity.”

  “So Price works for you now?”

  “You know the man well enough to know that he does not work for anyone. But there might come a day in the future that we would be glad to have him fighting with us rather than against us.”

  It wasn’t an answer, and now Riot wouldn’t be able to sleep without a sharp blade in his hand.

  “Sumner Nixton is your father.”

  Another grimace. “Embarrassing as it is to admit, yes.”

  “Did he die in the tower?”

  “You’ve met the man; what do you think?”

  “Rats don’t go down with sinking ships.”

  Moran laughed. “An apt comparison. Sumner Nixton likely fled to one of his other lairs, but he held up his terms of the guild treaty nonetheless, and so I am Lord of Morbian, the ancient seat of my mother's house that he usurped.”

  A silence extended between them.

  “I sense we are nearing the subject you would most like to ask me about?” Moran asked.

  “Where is she?”

  “Natalia Quinn was last seen entering the tower base, moments later, there was an explosion, and the tower fell. Her body was not discovered among the ruins, though I feel we both know she is too astute to be killed. Her motives are unclear. I was wondering if you might shed some light on the matter?”

  Riot had thought of nothing else for the last week while he lay in the infirmary bed, his face causing him excruciating pain each time he blinked or tried to eat or drink. He had tried to recall each and every conversation with Natalia, anything she might have said during the hours of training, or the night spent together in the hills, but she had given nothing away.

  “Roveran and the witches wanted the tower gone, that's all I can think. It was too big of a risk to leave it standing.” Riot said.

  “I must say that I agree with you, and if my father was outsmarted then this lends me some satisfaction.”

  “Still, she betrayed us,” Riot said.

  “I would set the record straight on that point. How do you think I found you?”

  Riot blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. Moran had been fighting a duel and it would have made sense for him to go straight to the tower.

  “I ran into Natalia Quinn on my way to the tower, and she told me where you were. I didn’t much question it at the time, but she might very well have saved your life.”

  The information toppled all of the carefully constructed scenarios in Riot's mind. He had resolved to hate her, and now he didn’t know what to think. He stood and carefully tied on the straps of the new sword belt that hung at his waist as if it had always been there.

  “Leaving, Riot?” Moran asked.

  “I’ll go back with the others. If I hurry, I can still catch the ship.”

  “I think you’ll want to stay a moment longer, I have a few final gifts for you.”

  Moran produced a piece of parchment from his breast pocket. It was covered in thousands of intricate runes, delicately crafted, and they appeared to move across the page, sliding away from the eye. “This is leybound spellcraft, prepared for you by one of the preeminent arcanists on the continent.”