Page 62

He was more than seven feet tall, and next to Heiler—who was small even for his age—he seemed even more monstrous; he was too big to be real. Sister Nan-Tamé knew that this was untrue; he was tall, yes, and he was large. But he was not gigantic to the point of not being allowed.

The child soldier next to him simply lent an illusion to his size.

Aric left the scene; Captain Milford arrived. He strode forward. “Sentinel!”

The boy with fire in his hands snapped to attention and mashed the knuckle of his right thumb against his forehead. “Sir!”

“Tell the commander what you told me.”

Heiler turned his attention to Sister Nan-Tamé. “Commander. An associate of my mother’s introduced this man to me. She said that he would be a good fit for our fold.”

Sister Nan-Tamé was well aware that Lady Anna Heiler was much more well-versed in the arcane arts than most. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who is this associate, my son?”

“Lady Sithe Breckenridge.”

The priestess’s gaze snapped wide, and she eyed the big man with renewed interest. “Personally recommended by a Breckenridge. Quite the impression you must have made. What is your name?”

The giant frowned. “Sythius,” he growled.

“A hunter from Tera Acerbis,” Heiler said. “He ... doesn’t talk much.”

“Mm. I see. If Lady Breckenridge thinks he’s fit to wear a hawk, there must be a reason. What can he do?”

Heiler gestured for Sythius to lean down; the giant dropped to one knee, and Heiler whispered in his ear.

Page 61

Sister Ai Nan-Tamé returned to her barracks, outside the main walls of the city, with too many thoughts for one mind. She ran her slender fingers over the flame-drenched hawk embossed upon her golden breastplate, and found a sigh.

Captain Aric Milford glanced up from his desk. “... Dare I ask?”

“Lisbeth is dead.”

Aric flinched violently. “Lorat bested Sister Cartwright? You can’t be serious.”

“It wasn’t the city,” Sister Nan-Tamé said slowly, hesitantly. “It was the forest.”

“The Godswake hasn’t stirred in decades. How could—” Aric stopped, collected himself, and turned his attention back to the sheaf of parchment on his desk. “What will be done? We can’t . . . leave this. Can we?”

“Her Majesty certainly doesn’t believe so.”

The Captain stood. “This may not prove fortuitous, but we may as well.” He gestured. “Come with me. Heiler has a new prospect. You’ll want to see this personally.”

Sister Nan-Tamé blinked, surprised. “A new recruit? Now?”

“Just come with me.”

Captain Milford was a big man, a born warrior who never would have made rank in the magic-specialized Third Guard if not for the fact that he defied nearly every expectation of a man his size. He never would have seemed like a lifelong scholar to anyone who looked at his muscular frame and his wickedly bladed mace.

Despite his brutish appearance, though, there was no one who understood the theory of magic better than Aric Milford. What he lacked in practical ability, he more than made up for with strategy.

The first thing that Sister Ai Nan-Tamé thought, as she stepped onto her Guard’s training field, was that the man standing next to Sentinel Heiler made her captain—with his huge, hulking frame—look like a child.

Page 60

Sister Naya looked stunned beyond recognition. “... Oh.”

Big Olrec gestured dismissively. “Listen ter me, Naya. It’s been long and long since I took on students.” He said the word mockingly, as though he had no business using it. “I’m nae much fer takin’ on royal students, aside. But if’n it brings solace and honor ter the Guards, then who am I ter refuse?”

This brought the faintest of smiles to the priestess’s face. “I ... I’ll bring it to Her Majesty’s attention.”

The grizzled old veteran bowed deep at the waist. His beard scraped the ground. “Ye do that.”

Naya saluted, resting the knuckle of her thumb against her forehead, and turned back toward the tower. Olrec looked up at the huge, spiraling edifice that was rumored to have stood for a thousand years. Selena’s Walk, the tower that had inspired him to join the Ten Guards so many years ago.

Some malaise, some miasma of gentle discontent draped over the old man’s shoulders, as he remembered one woman who would never see that tower again. He glanced to one side, at the cart that held her silver-laced armor. Armor crafted by Lorith, the greatest godsmith to ever step into the White Walls.

Olrec said, “Ya seem ter’ve moved past Milady’s passing right quickly, Naya.”

Sister Belmont turned, and revealed the soft smile on her weathered face. She said, “It wouldn’t do to grieve, when a Sister of Aca falls in her service.”

Olrec smiled sadly.

“... Good. Good girl.”

She saluted again. “Thank you, Master.”

Page 59

“Whatcha mean, ‘after a fashion?’ Either he’s fit ter fight or he ain’t.”

“Sentinel Heiler is an exceptional mage,” Sister Belmont said, “but he hasn’t much stamina. Most mages in the Third Guard are like my archers.” A smirk reached her face. “Heiler is a ballista.”

“Aha,” said Big Olrec. “Takes time ter prime, but when he lands a hit ... summot’s gonna die.”

“You have it.” Toying with one of the feathers in his hair, Olrec stewed on this information for a while. Sister Belmont watched him. She chewed on an idea of her own for a moment before she said, “... You could train him.”

Olrec blinked. “What?”

The young priestess’s eyes were sparkling. “Yes! Of course! You’ve trained so many of us! With a pedigree like yours, there’s no possible way Her Majesty could say no! Just the trip back to Callistora would teach His Highness more than our training grounds ever could!”

It was almost terrifying to see Naya Belmont so excited. Big Olrec hadn’t seen her in years, yet he knew without conscious thought that the expression on her face, to say nothing of the tone of her voice, was supremely foreign.

“And what if I ain’t goin’ back ter Callistora?” Olrec asked slowly. “What’f I came back here ter tender me resignation, so ter speak?”

The excitement sloughed off Sister Belmont’s face in half a blink. “You—of course. Yes, you would more than deserve to retire. After ... after so long.” She bowed. “I’m sorry.”

Big Olrec snorted. “Silence that squabbling, girl! Ye should know better! I’ll die with hammers in me hands! Do I look like a mewling cripple?”

Page 58

Sister Belmont lowered her head like a girl of twelve who’d upset her Papa. She sighed heavily, adjusted the cowl that covered her face, and looked up at the sky.

“This talk of the princeling,” Big Olrec said. “Selbin, aye?”

“Aye,” Belmont replied without thinking, then flinched. “Yes. Prince Selbin. He was named Captain of the First Guard on his last dawning day. But the boy’s only seen ten summers, and hasn’t had any training whatsoever. The best we can say for him is that he knows how to read.”

“No small feat,” Olrec said, smirking. He chuckled. “Heard talk of another fledgling done taken the oath. On the road back home, this was. Folk callin’ him ‘fire-waker.’ Y’know, after the old song.”

“Junior Sentinel Heiler,” Sister Belmont said.

“What of his training, then?”

“Nearly complete. He will be fit for duty within the next parcel of days.”

“How old’s this’un?”

“A year more than the prince. You can see our concern, I trust. This hasn’t anything to do with the fact that he’s a boy. He’s a pampered boy. A spoiled boy. If he can’t be hammered into shape, there is no reason for him to hold rank. But Her Majesty is ...”

“Stubborn as an ox cast in iron?”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Well. Nae for me ter question the princess. But if I’d guess, the army’s none ter pleased havin’ a boy in command. Aye?”

“Aye.” Big Olrec eyed Sister Belmont suspiciously, as though checking to see if she was mocking him. “Sentinel Heiler has proven himself time and again that he’s fit for battle ... after a fashion. But His Highness can barely heft a shortsword.”

Page 57

Sister Belmont followed Big Olrec outside, and they both maintained a tense silence as they descended from the top of Selena’s Walk to the bottom. By the time Olrec set his thick, heavy boots onto the sculpted lawns outside the tower, his breath was rasping; men far younger than he had been known to retire from campaigning, specifically due to their age, with no shame whatsoever.

The commander of the Serpent’s Sting, by strictest contrast, was dead silent. There was no sign that she had just made the same trek as Olrec had.

“... Why would you go into the Godswake?” she asked, when the old veteran didn’t move for a long moment—apparently a sign that he was willing to speak with her.

“I won’t pretend ter know Her Majesty’s political weavin’, so I wouldn’t guess why we been cast off across the Estron in the first place, but where would ye think a threat would come from, out there by the cradle?”

“You did it to help Lorat?” Sister Belmont guessed.

“Front lines or no, we’re still the first shield, Missy. O’course we’d help Lorat. That’s our assignment.”

“I’m sorry. You and Lizzy deserve better than this. But I’m only one person. They call us the Voice of the Moon. But we aren’t all-powerful. We can’t just ignore the will of the people. And considering ... what happened ...”

“Let’s not talk about that,” Big Olrec cut in. “It’s nae important.”

“But ... if not for that ...”

“Milady would’ve died in the Wastes, instead of a forsaken forest. Ye might think it different, but . . . dead’s dead.”

“But perhaps ... with the rest of us at your back ... where we should be—”

“Naya. Stop. Don’t ye feel guilty now. There’s nae ye could’ve done.”

Page 56

The entire council chamber was dead silent, quiet enough to echo.

Sister Belmont was the first to speak. Her voice had lost its quiet rasp; in its place was the quavering timbre of a lost girl. “... Lizzy’s fallen? How?”

Big Olrec closed his eyes. “How else? As a shield.” He looked around at the commanders again, and they could all see the lightning in his eyes. “Seems even th’ quiet streets o’ Lorat keep room fer threats. Threats enough ter topple a tower.”

“There’s no one in Lorat with half the balls it’d take to knock Cartwright!” Commander Burke snarled. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Olrec’s eyes narrowed. “Ye’ll forgive me, lass, if I keep silent. Don’t ye dare make orders on me. Ye aren’t my Commander.”

The fact that one of the old warrior’s heavy, gloved hands moved to rest on the pommel of one of his huge hammers was not lost on Lysandra Burke. She stepped back; where Princess Selena had caused her to remember her decorum, Big Olrec seemed to have caused her to remember something else entirely.

Something that put honest fear into her overly-bright eyes.

“I’d not desecrate this holy chamber with the marks of the dead,” Olrec intoned quietly. “Milady’s armor is waitin’ outside the chamber. Her weapon’s been lost.”

“Lost?” Princess Selena asked. “How could ... ? Where ... ?”

“The Godswake,” Olrec said slowly. “Y’know. The real threat down in Callistora. The one you fancy guv’ment dandies keep thinkin’ ain’t real.”

This done, he turned on a heavy heel and left the chamber.

Page 55

The other commanders all stared at each other for a moment. Commander Burke was the first to speak up: “Big Olrec? Stoutfeather? Where the hell did that come from? The day His Highness becomes a field medic is the day I turn in my armor for a cook’s apron!”

Princess Selena shook her head, and gestured.

At some point during the discussion, the door had opened; standing in the now-open doorway of the princess’s private council chamber atop Selena’s Walk, was a man.

A short man. A stocky man. A compact frame wrapped in corded muscle. This man would have fit without any reservations into Commander Burke’s berserkers. Considering the state of his clothing, however—tattered, dirt-streaked leathers—anyone would have been forgiven for thinking that he belonged to Sister Belmont’s scouts.

He had long white hair and an equally long beard—grey streaked with white, braided, with feathers woven in at seemingly random points.

Princess Selena strode forward, very nearly ran, to the man. She seemed to remember herself at the last moment, and drew herself up. “Senior Sentinel,” she said, clearing her throat.

“Aye,” said Big Olrec; his voice was gruff, low. Haggard. “So they tell me.”

The other Commanders stood. More than a few looked concerned, and a couple looked offended, that a mere officer would infringe upon a private meeting of the First Guard, but since the princess herself—the Commander of Commanders—had said nothing about it, neither would they.

“What is it?” the princess asked, staring down at Big Olrec—despite his nickname, he was by far the shortest man in the room. “What news from Callistora?”

Big Olrec sighed, shook his head, and straightened himself. He looked around at the other commanders. The pillars of Moonguard’s government. Specifically, his gaze leveled on the three ordained priestesses in the room: Sister Dalton, Sister Belmont, and Sister Nan-Tamé.

He said: “Milady is dead.”

Page 54

Prince Selbin was ten years old, and the only “soldier” in the Ten Guards who was younger than Loki Heiler. Despite this, however, he was a captain. The adjutant to the princess—his sister—herself, with an ego to match.

“If arrogance were cause for removing a soldier’s rank,” the princess had said, when Commander Burke had first brought forward her less-than-subtle issue with the prince’s attitude, “you would have been cast out of this city before my brother were ever born.”

“If this was about him being arrogant,” Commander Burke had replied, “I wouldn’t be talking about it! I’d be teaching him how to do it right!”

“You must admit,” Sister Belmont said now, so many hours later, after ignoring and returning to the subject of Selbin more than ten times in the same day, “that His Highness is reaching the age when proper training would be ... beneficial.”

“I know he is young,” put in Commander Breckenridge, still seated, “and you wish to protect him. But if he is to hold rank, he must earn it. Royal blood or not.”

“Proper training can only help him, Your Majesty,” Sister Belmont said. “It would be no different from any other apprenticeship. You would not have our prince, the next in line for succession, claim the title of Socialite, would you? Is that what our city deserves?”

Princess Selena still looked thoroughly nonplussed, but her anger had cooled.

Somewhat.

“Who should train him?” came a new voice, belonging to Commander Joleen Dalton.

Silence reigned.

The princess finally spoke again, in tones of quiet finality.

“... Big Olrec.”

Page 53

Commander Burke seemed to remember herself. Her breath came out in clouds as the air continued to crystallize about them all. She sat back down. “This is turning into a damned pissing contest,” she snarled, glaring at nothing in particular as she ran a hand over her head; like she was trying to run her fingers through hair that she didn’t have anymore.

Sister Naya Belmont, still hooded even in the presence of her closest companions, rose silently to her feet. “Your Illustrious Majesty will of course be forgiven for worrying after her only blood heir,” she said, in her soft, scratchy voice. “Perhaps a compromise is in order.”

Princess Selena raised a slow eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“We have been returning, ever and ever again, to the topic of the young prince’s credentials. I believe that even Your Majesty must admit that he is not currently fit for Captaincy. He has only recently seen his tenth dawning day. There is not a one of us here who would expect such a fledgling to take the field.”

All eyes flitted toward Sister Ai Nan-Tamé, even if no one was conscious of it. Because, of course, she had lain claim to the only true child soldier in all the Ten Guards.

Sister Ai stood next, taking her fellows’ unconscious attention as a platform. “You are suggesting, I assume, that we address His Highness’s lack of training, rather than rescind his title.”

Sister Naya smirked, but it was a friendly smirk. However that was possible.

“Precisely,” she said.

Page 52

Princess Selena was not her name; it was much easier to say that it was her title.

Very, very few people knew her real name, and it struck her as surreal and almost laughable that none of the people in front of her right now could be counted on that list. Yet here they were, in their gleaming armor with their heavy weapons, trying to tell her how to do her job.

When the meeting had started, that morning, no one had been able to tell that she was irritated. But here they were, after nearly a full day’s worth of deliberation and debate, and there was no question: the reigning monarch of the most powerful city-state in Phila was irretrievably angry.

“This conversation is over,” Selena said, rising from her high chair with an air of absolute authority.

It was no surprise that Commander Lysandra Burke was the first to speak up. “The hell it is!” She threw herself upward, very nearly vaulting over the table at which they had been sitting for the past fourteen hours, her scarred face twisting in fury. “You may be the head of the snake, but don’t you dare think you can just snap your fingers! Not this time!”

The very air around the council chamber suddenly went cold.

Princess Selena stood still as a statue. Her light grey eyes were flashing like the constellations of a forgotten sky.

When she spoke next, her voice was a deathly chilled whisper.

“... Do not mistake me for a figurehead.”

Page 51

“The covens can’t do that,” Lady Heiler breathed, watching as the giant bear wandered about the garden, docile as any house-cat. “This isn’t just some skill he picked up. Where did you find this man?”

Sithe shrugged. “Happened across my door some nights ago. You see why I’ve brought this to your attention, Sentinel? I thought your commander might be ... interested in this sort of thing. And, of course, that you would.”

Loki was barely paying attention. His eyes kept wandering back to the bear. “... Huh?”

Sithe winked at Lady Heiler, gesturing to Sythius. You see? she mouthed. Lady Heiler nodded.

“You’ll want to report this to Sister Nan-Tamé,” Lady Heiler said to her son, who looked up at her dazedly. “She’ll want to know, and better it come from you than a civilian. She’s like to be busy. But there’s no better time than now to start recruiting. If he fights as well as he looks like he can, she might have him trained and ready by next spring.”

“Assuming he wants to fight,” Loki said slowly. “Does he want to join the Guards?”

“He’s a born defender,” Sithe said. “Tell him he’ll be training to protect the children. He’ll go along with it.”

“He’s a simpleton, isn’t he?” Loki asked. The bear was now trotting, head held high and clearly pleased. He looked like a trained parade horse, cantering about a town square. Lady Heiler laughed quietly.

“He understands more than you might assume,” Sithe said, “but ... for the most part, yes.”

Page 50

It wasn’t until night had fallen that Sithe called Lady Heiler back to the Children’s Home. Sythius had done precisely as she’d asked, and watched the children as they broke nearly every house rule Sithe had ever come up with. They were safe, to be sure; he’d kept them from injuring each other well enough, resorting at one point to actually lifting up Daniel and Leon by the collars of their shirts, and holding them several feet in the air until they stopped trying to kick each other.

But aside from that, Sithe learned a lesson that afternoon: do not trust wild men to babysit.

Once everyone was asleep, including the moon, Sithe brought her large compatriot out to the back gardens, and Lady Heiler arrived some twenty minutes later. As requested, she'd brought her son along with her. Campaign season was over, meaning that Junior Sentinel Heiler spent at least a few nights every ten-day at home with his mother. At her insistence, Sithe was sure. The boy had the countenance of someone who would have much preferred to sleep in his barracks with his brothers and sisters.

Loki Heiler was thin, short, with shoulder-length blond hair that was remarkably well-kept considering his profession. Sithe thought that all he would need to do was dye it, and he’d look like a fashionable young dandy.

She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from chuckling, or at least smirking, as the Heilers approached. Loki also had the look of someone who would have taken immense offense at being laughed at.

The boy saluted, holding a knuckle against his forehead, when he saw Sithe. “Goodeven, Lady Breckenridge,” he said. His voice was soft, archaically polite.

Sithe responded with a low bow. “An honor to meet you, Sentinel. Thank you for coming.” She turned to Sythius, whose eyes were centered on the child. “Introduce yourself,” she said, elbowing the giant in the midriff. “Tell them your name.”

Sythius blinked. “My name ... Sythius.” He mimicked Sithe’s bow.

Loki frowned. “He’s not from here,” he said. “His furs aren’t from here, either. What ... accent is that ... ?” The boy looked down, frowning, and eventually said. “Acerbian?” He looked up. “Are you from Aubrith, Sythius?”

“From ... north,” Sythius said. “Cold. Dark.”

“Tera Acerbis,” Sithe said; Loki was already nodding. “His coven’s name is Sil’nathin.”

“Impressive,” Loki said, “but I don’t understand why you brought me here. I guess you’re thinking he should be recruited?”

Sithe inclined her head. “Something like that. He’s been a help to us here, but not so much of one that he’s worth the cost of repairing the floors. And the walls. And the dishware.” At Lady Heiler’s questioning look, Sithe winked. “Figured that a boy this big would fit right in.”

“Probably,” Loki said, “but he looks like a better fit for the Tower, or the Dreadnought. Why talk to me?”

Sithe held up a finger. “Allow me to ... explain. Or, perhaps it would be better to show you.”

She glanced up at the giant, gestured for him to kneel down so that she could whisper into his ear.

Sythius nodded, smiling his odd smile, then he frowned and cracked his knuckles. The crunch echoed in the night air, and he looked thoroughly pleased with himself; his grin turned devilish. Sithe wondered where he’d picked up that particular intimidation tactic.

Then he knelt down, and pulled the bear pelt over his head.

Page 49

Sithe waited a moment, then frowned. “... Okay. You've swayed me.”

Lady Heiler blinked. “What?”

“I wanted to know how serious you were, before I agreed to this,” Sithe explained. “You might think that the rich and affluent would be more than willing to pay a diamond-monger’s ransom to get what they want, but you would be wrong. That you would so willingly offer up your newfound wealth to enlist my help ... well. It’s more convincing than anything else you might have said.”

“You ... you don’t want payment?”

“Have you forgotten who I am? I'm a Breckenridge. I have all the resources I could ever need. Perhaps we’ll talk later about a donation to the cause, once this business is concluded. It’s important for us to remember the plights of the young and helpless. If you wish to express your gratitude that your child is safe and cared for, by doing your part to help those who are not ... I won’t stop you. But let's make sure he's safe and cared for, before we talk about that.”

Lady Heiler smiled. It was a lovely smile, untouched by bitterness or fear or cynicism. It transformed her face. “Thank you, Sithe Breckenridge. You are a credit to your family’s legacy.”

Sithe winked. “So my sire tells me. My uncles are less convinced.”

“They believe you fit for a ‘higher calling’ than what you have chosen?” Lady Heiler guessed.

Sithe shrugged. “I suppose. I’ve never bothered to ask.”

Page 48

Lady Heiler gave Sithe a strange, searching look. “He prays for, what, three hours each morning? What do you mean, he’s not a Son of Vilaya?”

Sithe shrugged. “He would be able to tell you far better than I. Suffice to say, I think the point’s been made. Just because he officially holds reign over his own decisions doesn’t somehow absolve you from worrying for him.” A silence stepped in for a long moment. “... I must ask, why have you come to me about this? Why not speak to Captain Milford? Or ... Sister Ai herself. Surely she would sympathize with your plight, and certainly she’d be much better equipped to actually help.”

Lady Heiler smirked. “... Better equipped, but not better able. I’m looking for something more discreet than that. You know discreet ... do you not?”

Sithe chuckled. “Hm.” She wondered why she wasn’t surprised that this woman from a fishing villa somehow knew her ... secret mission. Why not? She defied all other expectations. Why shouldn’t she be the only rich woman in the entire city to actually pay attention?

“Surprised?” Lady Heiler asked, as though she’d read Sithe’s mind. Then she flinched. “My apologies. I shouldn’t be so flippant. We’ve all our reasons for secrecy. Yours are more noble than most. Certainly more noble than mine.”

“I’ll admit that this is a first,” Sithe said. “Those few who know what I do make a habit of telling me when they find children in need of my ... intervention. However, your boy has the backing of the most irretrievably powerful woman on this continent.” Lady Heiler’s face screwed up into something derisive—clearly there was no love lost between this woman and Ai Nan-Tamé—but it turned neutral again bare seconds later. “Surely he doesn’t need my protection ... from anyone.”

“Will you help me or not?”

Sithe shrugged. “I can’t deny a certain curiosity. But ... I don’t work for free. This is a unique case, after all, and there’s far more danger involved than usual. If this gets back to me, I’ll have the feather-snakes on my ass faster than an Eastwharf gull during fishing season.”

Lady Heiler frowned. “Anything. What do you need? It’s yours, if you’ll help my Loki.”

Page 47

“Understand,” Sithe said, as she stepped away from the pot and glanced at the open doorway, leading back into the common room. “that I can’t ... guarantee anything. You know that, right? If this were a civilian situation ... well. But this is military business. My influence is limited.”

“I know,” Lady Heiler muttered. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. It’s just so ... fast.”

“When the Guards want someone,” Sithe said slowly, “they stop at nothing. I’m guessing that’s how you completely bypassed the Middle Ring.” Lady Heiler nodded. “From copper tabs to diamond cuff-links. I can see why you would be concerned.”

“It’s not just that,” Lady Heiler said. “Loki is still a student. He barely knows how to use his gifts. I barely know how to teach him. They’re grooming the greenest of soldiers to take a spot on the front lines.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Sithe said. “Milford doesn’t recruit someone whose abilities he doesn’t understand. And what he lacks in practical affinity, Sister Ai has in spades. If anyone on this continent is going to teach your boy how to use his power, it’s them.”

Lady Heiler grunted, and stared down at her lap. “I hate this. I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. It’s not ... it’s nothing that I can control. It’s not even my choice anymore. As soon as he accepted that badge, he became an adult. I’m not even his guardian anymore.”

Sithe smirked. “Losing a title doesn’t mean losing the job,” she said. “You’ve met my sire, haven’t you?”

“Commander Breckenridge? Yes. I have.”

“He hasn’t been an ordained Son of Vilaya for seven years.”

Page 46

Sithe stared openly. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“Protect him,” Lady Heiler said, as fervently as the first time. “He’s barely eleven years old. He hasn’t a hair on his chin, and they’re making him an officer! This based purely on his skill with heat. The eventual benefit he’ll provide for the army is enough for them to bend over backwards to give him everything he wants. And what he wants, more than anything, is for a chance to advance. To prove himself.”

Sithe crossed her arms over her chest. “Surely he has that.”

“Yes, and he’s drunk on it.” Lady Heiler’s eyes flared. “Junior Sentinel Loki Heiler. Do you know how intoxicating a title like that is for a little boy who’s spent his entire life in exile? You know about his affliction, don’t you?”

Sithe frowned. “... Seizing sickness.”

“Yes! He can’t walk without his magic. That’s why I taught him in the first place! I said we lived in a fishing village. I’m sure you know the type. There’s no room for leisure. No time for wastefulness. No tolerance for sloth. Loki was ... nothing there. Worse than nothing. He was a drain on them. They hated him. I brought him here to get away from that, and now all of a sudden the exact opposite problem has him dizzy and wild with delusions of power. He won’t listen to me. I can’t protect him anymore. I’m his mother, and I can’t ... I can’t ... !”

Sithe flinched. She said, slowly, “... The only way to help him now is within the ranks. Civilians hold as much sway over the Guards as a family of rats over a baker. And even if I had the fortitude to make it through training, I wouldn’t earn a Hawk.”

Lady Heiler sneered. “I might have known. I should have guessed. There’s nothing for it, is there?”

Sithe frowned. “Not ... nothing. I wouldn’t catch the good Sister's notice, but I think I know someone who would.”

Page 45

“What do you know of the Third Guard?”

Sithe turned, slowly. “Sister Ai’s hawks?” she asked. Lady Heiler nodded. “I know that they’re exceptionally ... well, they’re taken care of. Their salaries are head and above any of the other regiments.” Lady Heiler bristled at this; clearly, this was not the answer she had been looking for. “Their skills are rare. Unknown. Some would say unknowable.”

Lady Heiler’s stern expression softened. “Magic,” she said. “They’re magic users.”

Sithe shrugged. “I suppose you could put it that way. It’s roughly as specific as calling Captain Milford an ‘enthusiast,’ but ... fine.”

Lady Heiler chuckled. Aric Milford was the only member of the Third Guard who had no skill in arcane manipulation at all. He made up for this deficiency with an encyclopedic knowledge of his subordinates’ abilities. In terms of practical ability, he was less than nothing. In terms of theoretical ability, he was a savant.

“If I recall correctly, there’s a new rising star in the Fire-Hawk’s ranks,” Sithe said. “His name is Heiler, too, unless I’m mistaken. You’ll forgive me if I assume that isn’t a coincidence.”

“My Loki is more than a rising star,” Lady Heiler said, unconsciously swelling with pride. “Sister Nan-Tamé is convinced that he holds the key to victory in Moonguard’s fight against the Sorcerer Tribes. After all, can you imagine how dangerous a pyromancer could be in a desert?”

“Pyromancer, is it?” Sithe asked. “A bit flowery. I wouldn’t have expected you to dig up that moniker. So ... I can only assume you’re talking about this for a reason. If you simply wanted to compare children, I think I have you beat. Just on pure numbers.”

“His training is nearing completion,” Lady Heiler said. “He’s earned a silver badge. Captain Milford will start sending him on assignments within a ten-day.”

“Again, I ask, what can I do for you?”

“... Protect him.”

Page 44

Breanne and William came into the common room from outside and, as soon as Breanne saw the giant, she squealed. Like a bolt shot from an over-tight crossbow, Sithe’s traumatized little butterfly flew into Sythius’s arms, and perhaps the most remarkable part of it all was the fact that William—usually sullen and angry—didn’t seem bothered by this.

If anything, he looked ... relieved. As though this stranger who called himself Sil’nathin were the sire he and his baby sister never had.

“Seems they’ll be distracted a while,” Lady Heiler said, pointedly. Sithe drew her attention back to her guest, and quirked an eyebrow. “May we speak in private ... Miss Sithe?”

Something about hearing that name on those lips sent a shock of cold straight through Sithe’s spine. She stood. “Sythius!” she barked. The big man looked at her. “Watch them. I have business.”

Sythius nodded fervently. Up, down, center.

Sithe gestured. “Come with me.”

She entered the kitchen, saw Gloria at the fire, cooking stew for the house luncheon. She nodded to her matron. Sithe said, “Where are the boys?”

“Godric is teaching Vincent archery. They’re on the Sixth’s training field. Fuller is running an errand for your Lord Sire.”

Satisfied, the matron nodded. “Help Sythius with the little ones. I have a private meeting to conduct with Lady Heiler.”

“Oh!” Gloria curtsied. “Welcome, Milady!”

Lady Heiler tapped her temple in a jaunty sort of salute. It was surprising in its casual air, and Gloria had no idea how to respond to it. She simply curtsied again, and bolted from the room.

Sithe glanced at the bubbling pot over the fire and said, without looking:

“What can this humble servant do for you?”

Page 43

As Sithe and Lady Heiler talked, a hulking giant came into the common room. Sythius was carrying two of the younger girls on his massive shoulders, and they were currently braiding various flowers from the back gardens into his hair. He seemed not to notice what they were doing. His gaze was wholly inward.

With a grunt, and a thud that shook the building, Sythius sat on the floor. The other children all halted their various games and migrated around Unca Syth, who seemed to have a golden touch. Mostly, Sithe thought, it had to do with his own child-like temperament.

The big man was simply too stupid to be threatening, in spite of his size and strength.

And ... his gifts.

“Who’s this?” Lady Heiler wondered. “Surely he’s a touch older than your usual suspects, Madam Breckenridge?”

“Call me Sithe,” the matron said dismissively. “My hair may be grey, but I’m no older than you are.”

Lady Heiler smirked again.

“His name is Sythius,” Sithe said. “I hear tell from a minstrel who came here some time back that he’s a hunter from Tera.” Sithe could tell from the way Lady Heiler’s eyes widened that she knew the name, and wouldn’t need any further explanation. “Come to think of it,” Sithe continued, “I haven’t the foggiest where that damned minstrel got himself to. Hmph. Typical.”

“Yet this hunter stays,” Lady Heiler noted. “Seems he’s popular.”

Sythius was currently using his superhuman strength to carry ... everyone on his back. He stood smoothly, seemingly without effort, and grinned so broadly that his face cracked.

Lady Heiler laughed. “Very popular.”

Page 42

Moonguard, as the crow flies, was a giant pentagon—a fitting design for a religious community—separated into three districts known as its “rings.” The Inner Ring was the home of the nobility, the rich and affluent, those who funded the city’s projects and more often than not acted as the collective voice of the people. The Middle Ring, where Sithe reigned, was home to the merchant class. Smiths, tanners, tailors, matrons. Guild masters. If you weren’t born in the confines of the Inner Ring, then this was the highest you could hope to rise.

Then there was the Outer Ring, where dwelled the laborers, the disenfranchised. Those like William, and Vincent, who only had a single name to their credit, carved out a life in the Outer Ring.

Typically, newcomers to the White Wall started their new lives of peace and prosperity on the outside. If they were talented, they quickly moved deeper, under the Golden Gate and into the mid-range districts. If they weren’t, they floundered and died with the rest of the poor, or else left entirely.

Anna Heiler, miraculously, had slipped right past the Golden Gate and the Diamond Gate, and lived in one of the largest manses on the sculpted lawns of the inner sanctum.

“I’ve long wondered something,” Sithe dared to say, as she sat opposite Lady Heiler at the small wooden table where, not so long ago, she’d adopted a little girl with scars on her body and deeper scars in her mind.

“Do tell.”

“You don’t dress like a diamond,” Sithe continued, leaning forward in her seat. “For someone as rich and affluent as your illustrious self, you seem quite ... unconcerned with such things.”

Lady Heiler smirked. She was a tall woman, older than she looked if her dark blue eyes were any indication, with jet-black hair and a clean, crisp, but homespun robe. “Truthfully ... I’m not. Before we came here, my son and I lived in a rundown fishing village with barely enough copper tabs to run itself into an early grave. Affluence. Illustriousness. It’s all alien to me.”

Sithe smirked in turn. “Is that right ... ?”

Page 41

It was a universal truth that connections added clout to one’s desires and beliefs; which was to say that, if you had the backing of an official, or several, your desires and beliefs were somehow more important than the desires and beliefs of others. Sithe had learned this over the years, but more importantly she had learned to not feel guilty about this truth and instead focus her efforts on using that truth to ensure that her children were properly provided for.

Given that her own sire led one of the main contingents of the army, and was thus a member of the elusive First Guard—the city's central government—Sithe had gotten used to certain privileges. Most of these privileges centered around not having to bother with social graces. She was the cream of the proverbial crop, and no longer had to suffer through the usual scraping and bowing and “fair day to ye, Milord”-ing that most people had to do. Most people did that for her.

It added a certain level of ease to the work she did.

She had eventually found out, however, that having the ear of a Guard Commander was not the highest peak that a normal person could aspire to reach.

Having the ear of the reigning monarch, on the other hand ... was.

“Good morning, my Lady Heiler,” Sithe said, gritting her teeth, as she bowed her head and ushered her newest visitor inside. “Please. Sit. Tell me what I might do for you.”

To her credit, Anna Heiler seemed less than interested in acting like she was the most powerful person in the Inner Ring. She smiled, bowed her own head in turn, and sat down without asking for a drink or light meal.

A rarity, Sithe had found, in noble circles.

She supposed if she had to bow and scrape to somebody, an impatient, liberal-minded alchemist was better than she had any right to expect.

Page 40

There was a fire in Sithe’s eyes, from a place that had no name. Godric flinched, and looked like he suddenly wanted to bolt from the room. He bit his lip, squinted his eyes against a sudden dampness, and hung his head low.

“Listen to me. Both of you. Look at me.”

Godric lifted his head again, reluctantly. Fuller snapped to attention.

“What Gregor Abney would have done to that girl is far worse than ‘letting her die.’ You only saw a handful of public signs. Sythius and I ... saw the truth. Why do you think I handled this case myself, bringing in backup that I barely knew, rather than having you two at my back?”

Fuller shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Abney was a blood witch.”

Godric blinked. “Like you?” he dared to ask.

“No. Not like me. The man used his wives as breed-sows, and his children as currency. His twelve children. I interrogate demons. I manipulate demons. He traded with them. Do you understand what I’m telling you? He handed over twelve children, each of them Breanne’s age or younger, to creatures beyond mortal comprehension. Have you any idea what demons do to their sacrifices?”

Both twins shook their heads in unison.

“Ripped. Torn apart. Burned into horrid things. Bones, taken out and stitched onto other bodies. Eyes, gouged out for decorations. Any abomination you can conjure in your imagination, I assure you: they’ve come up with worse. The sorts of things that we humans think of, when we say the word ‘evil.’ Rape. Torture. Starvation. Murder. Those are the baseline. They’re warm-up exercises. You might think I’m exaggerating, or that I’m spouting off pixie stories. I’m not.”

Silence strangled, and daylight seemed to shy away from the room.

Sithe leaned forward, standing up and slamming her hands on her writing desk.

Both boys jumped.

“You need to understand: we didn’t just save that girl’s life. We took her from the brink of a void so incomprehensibly vile that to look at it would drive you gibbering mad. Maybe it will take time. More than the others. Maybe we won’t be able to give her back the life she had, with her brother and her friends. Maybe she will have nightmares for the rest of her life. But if you’ve never trusted me before, then trust me now: it’s better than the alternative. Don’t you dare think you’ve done her a disservice by guiding me to her.”

Godric bowed his head. “... Yes, Matron.”

Fuller followed suit. “Thank you, Matron.”

Page 39

“Are you sure we didn’t make a mistake this time?”

Sithe raised a thin eyebrow as Godric and Fuller strode into her private chamber. There was no propriety, no preamble. 

“Shut the door,” she said. 

This sense of ... rude urgency was one thing she always appreciated about these boys, and why they acted as her assistants; they were the only two of her children to know her true mission and this, largely, was the reason.

Fuller was first to do as his matron told him; he shut the door.

Godric drew in a deep breath. “... Matron. I’m serious. Did we fuck this one up?”

Fuller flinched.

“How do you mean?” Sithe asked, ignoring Godric’s choice of language.

“I mean—I mean she’s ...” Godric clearly had a hard time speaking, which told Sithe what this was about more than anything he might have actually said. “Have you seen the girl, Matron?” It wasn’t often that he called Sithe by title. “She’s like a rabid raccoon! Even her brother can’t keep her calm longer than a handful of breaths! Only one she quiets for is the giant, and he can’t stay here forever, can he? I mean ... he’s not staying, is he?”

Sithe blinked. The thought of Sythius leaving or staying hadn’t entered her mind. A man who hadn’t been part of her life until a week ago had suddenly become so familiar that he didn't even bear thinking about anymore.

“I don’t know,” Sithe said eventually.

“She hasn’t spoken once,” Fuller finally put in, looking ashamed to admit it. “She screams at night, jumps at every shadow. When Ricker touched her shoulder for a game of tag, she damn near bit him. Miss Gloria had to give her warm milk to calm her down.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Sithe said after a moment of stifling silence. “What do you mean, Godric, when you asked if we made a mistake?”

“You’ve seen her, Matron,” Godric said, agonized. “She’s traumatized beyond anything I’ve ever seen! I don’t know what he did to her in the ... three days he had her? But I have to wonder if she wouldn’t’ve been better off if we’d ... you know ... let her d—”

“Stop.”

Page 38

She realized rather quickly that this man meant no harm; it wasn’t his fault that most orphanages were human stables, built just sturdily enough to house future beasts of burden who just happened to walk upright.

Gloria, tasked with doing something about little Breanne’s clothes, followed her matron’s instructions without a word. She bowed deeply for Ulridge’s benefit, who clearly appreciated the gesture, as he smiled for quite a while afterward, despite the grim nature of his business this day.

Sithe asked Daniel, a slip of a boy just months out of swaddling clothes, to fetch Breanne a bedroll. She clearly hadn’t been sleeping well, and could do well with a nap. This done—eventually, after several repeated instructions—Sithe assured Ulridge that the girl would be well provided for, thanked him profusely for bringing her, and did her best not to seem too enthusiastic.

Sithe tempered her sense of triumph by reminding herself of the heinous events which culminated in her latest charge. Not just those, but also the fact that she knew, without bothering to research, that tiny, shaking, traumatized Breanne was her next charge. No family would be found for this girl. Except, of course, for William. They had no parents, no aunts, no uncles.

Just an orphanage matron, and a wild man from Tera Acerbis—called the Dark Lands by those too uncultured to know any better. Truly, she thought, a pitiful display of human decency: her Mama summoned monsters, and her Papa became one.

This line of thinking worked. Just like it always did.

By the time Junior Sentinel Weston Ulridge left her orphanage, Sithe Breckenridge had forgotten how to smile.

Page 37

Sithe noticed, as Ulridge gathered his thoughts, that Breanne was wearing a hand-me-down dress which may well have started its career as a burlap sack. Something would have to be done about that. No one seemed to think much about an orphan’s clothing. Though, she thought idly, Ulridge did seem honestly concerned for the girl’s welfare.

That was a fair sight better than she had any right to expect. Sithe suspected that this man was of common stock. He’d probably purchased his surname. He did look a bit old for his rank, after all, which pointed to an earned position, rather than an inherited one.

Sithe realized that she liked this man. She liked him a great deal.

The dance continued.

“You’ve found no family who can take her in?” Sithe asked, as she caught sight of Gloria and beckoned her over.

The soldier shook his head. “None, Missus. Some’n recognized her with Councilor Abney some days agone.”

Sithe put on a different sort of anger. “Has the good Councilor abstained from his duty to this girl, Sentinel?”

Ulridge raised an eyebrow. “Nay, Missus. Councilor Abney’s dead. Dead’n a way I’d not repeat here, where the littl’uns kin hear.”

This part was always tricky. Always dangerous. Sithe opted to say nothing, working her face into several different emotions. Ulridge confided in the matron that he had been trying to find Breanne’s next of kin, but as the girl was a commoner—and barely ever talked, besides—it was proving difficult. Might she stay here, with Sithe’s boys and girls, while the investigation continues? If a distant aunt, uncle, brother, grandparent could be found, then the poor girl would have a proper home. But in the meantime ... ?

Sithe bristled at the term “proper home,” but opted for continued silence.

It was better that way.

Page 36

“Please,” Sithe said, gesturing to a round table in one corner of the room, “would you care to sit?” She was now fully in Miss Sithe mode, gracious and accommodating, the dutiful matron with every social grace and nicety intact. “Ricker,” she said, to a small boy hiding underneath the table and playing with wooden soldiers, “get out from under there, please. Please, Sentinel Ulridge. Sit.”

Ulridge, pleased at the use of his title, grinned widely and sat.

“Would you care for a drink?” Sithe asked, because it was expected.

“Won’t be necessary, Missus,” Ulridge replied, because it was expected.

“What’s happened to the poor girl?” Sithe asked, glancing sidelong at Breanne, who had taken up a position at Ulridge’s side, one tiny hand clutching his shirt of chain-mail. “She looks frightened out of her wits.”

Ulridge cleared his throat. “Found ‘er on the street, Missus,” he said, gravely, shaken by whatever he was currently recalling. “Wearin’ naught but a cloak too big for ‘er. No smallclothes, no dress. Scars e’erywhere. Fresh’uns, too. Dunno where this mite’s been, but she’s none for bein' treated right.”

The man’s dialect seemed to thicken, the more uncomfortable he got.

Sithe pursed her lips, shut her eyes for a moment, and summoned a touch of the anger that possessed her when she’d looked at Gregor Abney. A tingle of fear ran up her spine, as she remembered what else she’d seen that night, and then she wondered where Sythius was. Likely enough he was in the back gardens. He seemed to like it there.

Too little emotion, Sithe reminded herself, and he would wonder why she wasn’t more concerned for the state of a lost child. Too much, and he would wonder just how much she knew. It was a rope she was used to talking, but there was always a thrum of anticipation, whenever she did it.

The thought crossed her mind that, if ever an interview like this happened with Sister Dalton, Sithe’s secrets would likely bleed out of her like oozing wounds.

Outsmarting a Sister of Ulria, after all, was never easy.

Page 35

“She’s ... pardon, Missus, but there’s no nice way to put this. Poor mite’s a mess. Scars all o’er her, can’t put a hand on her but she’ll scream fit to wake the dead. Hear tell you’re the best we got ‘round here, ‘n you don’t turn none away. Think you can do some for ‘er?”

Sithe Breckenridge rubbed her chin with the thin, dexterous fingers of her right hand. “Show me,” she said, calculating just enough reluctance; it wouldn’t do to make the Iron Wolves suspicious. The man at her doorstep had a silver badge—that made him a junior officer—and Sithe didn’t want to have to call in any favors to handle the subject of a fledgling girl.

The man, named Ulridge, brought the poor girl forward; somehow, he was permitted to touch Breanne. Sithe thought this must have been the man she found, that morning when she and Sythius had let her loose—so to speak—on the streets of the Middle Ring.

Ulridge’s sword was sharp, his armor clean, his tabard straight. He was the consummate soldier, with short-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. He had the face of a man who blended well into crowds.

Good for his job. Bad for his chances at advancement.

Sithe sat on her heels, gazing into little Breanne’s eyes, wondering if the girl would recognize her. It seemed she didn’t. Sithe smiled, relieved, and tilted her head to one side. “Good morning, little one,” she said in a soft, gentle voice; diametrically opposed to the declamatory whip-crack she’d used against Abney. Sithe held out a hand, waiting for Breanne to shake it.

She did, slowly.

The matron stood, stepped aside, and gestured for the pair to enter into the common room. The rest of the children were playing, and made no notice of the fact that another sister would soon be joining their midst. It was a common enough occurrence. No one noticed anymore.

Ulridge had to coax Breanne to cross the threshold into the building. He entered behind her, shut the door behind him, and bowed low. “Thank you, Missus,” he said. “You’re, ah ... you’d be Commander Breckenridge’s daughter, would y’ not?”

“I would be,” she said.

Ulridge smiled. “Trained by the Commander, I was. An honor to meet ye, Milady Breckenridge.”

“Please,” said Sithe. “‘Missus’ will do nicely.”

Page 34

By the time Breanne woke again, it was nearly dawn. Sithe, her hood drawn up to cover her face, stood like a ghost as the girl opened her eyes.

“Leave this place, youngling,” Sithe said, in a voice that brooked no argument. That voice ran entirely counter to everything her instincts told her to do. Every part of her wanted to remove her hood, to hunker down and present less of a threat. To scoop up the poor darling in her arms and sing her a lullaby.

There would be time for that later.

“Find someone wearing armor,” Sithe commanded. “Find someone with a wolf on their armor. Do you understand?”

Breanne nodded dumbly. “Wolves,” she repeated. “Second Guard. Wolves. Sure.”

She didn’t seem to understand the words she was repeating. Sithe wondered what William had taught her. But it would do. She knew enough. Sithe nodded, then gestured to Sythius. “Come with me,” she said.

Sythius seemed cast in iron, for all he intended to move. He stayed on his knees next to Breanne, and stared blankly at Sithe.

“Trust me,” Sithe said, holding out a hand. “It will all be for the best. She will be safe now. Trust me.”

Sythius let out a wordless rumble, like a moping dog.

Sithe sighed heavily, reached into a pouch beneath her robes. She held out a hand, made a sharp gesture, and bright lights danced from her fingers into the brightening air. Man and child sat, transfixed, eyes going wide and blank.

“Breanne, Sister of William,” Sithe said. “You will find a man in armor.”

Breanne nodded sleepily.

“Sythius Sil’nathin,” Sithe said. “You will follow me.”

The giant stood, stepped away from the child, and stared at her.

Sithe nodded. “Good.”

She turned on a heel, started toward home, and tried not to hate herself.

Page 33

Sythius Sil’nathin, once again a man, stood up and wiped the blood from his face. This done, he turned his attention to the girl. Little Breanne, still with the leather cord about her neck, stared up at the giant with wide, soft brown eyes.

She bore no fear.

She reached out and touched Sythius’s leg, ran her fingers along the fur on his pants. A soft little smile rose on her lips, and when Sythius reached down and picked her up, she let him do it without a sound. Sythius carried the tiny slip of a child as delicately as a goldsmith with a priceless broach, and turned to Sithe as though he’d finally remembered that she existed.

Breanne settled into the hulking miracle’s arms, and closed her eyes.

“Sleep,” Sythius said, smiling. It crossed Sithe’s mind that there was more to this unnatural affinity than there appeared to be. What child, no matter how battered, would come so readily to a creature like this man? After watching him eviscerate another human being, after watching him wipe blood from his chin, how could she just ... sleep in his arms?

Sithe realized that that was the least of her concerns at the moment.

“Why would you ... do that?” she asked. “I told you to save her. I told you that I would handle Abney. Why would you risk ... ?”

Part of Sithe reprimanded herself; why did that matter, either? This man could transform into the beasts he wore as clothing, and she was babbling on about pride?

Sythius, for his part, seemed to take no issue with this. He smiled. Sithe could still see blood on his teeth. The giant said, “Save her.” He ruffled little Breanne’s hair.

Then he reached out and patted Sithe’s head.

“Save her,” he said again.

Page 32

A beast barreled down the stairs, a creature unlike anything Sithe Breckenridge had ever seen. It looked like a fur-coated boulder with claws the size of a man’s head, and teeth like curved knives. It leaped upon Gregor Abney, all the while with that ear-splitting, earth-shattering roar.

It was a bear.

Not a man with a bear pelt; no. That, Sithe could have understood. Using a pelt to inflict terror on an enemy was something she could respect, understand, and appreciate. It would not shock her to her core. No. Sythius Sil’nathin, hunter from the north, had become the bear he wore.

Except this bear was twice as big as any Sithe had ever heard of.

Abney thrashed beneath the creature, screeching in terror and agony, thrusting his knife futilely into the huge animal’s flank. The bear’s claws sank deep into Abney’s fleshy shoulders, pinning him to the floor. Then, apparently tired of the game, Sythius dipped down, clamped his gigantic jaws onto Abney’s throat, and ripped.

The spells that had been dancing on Sithe’s tongue, to defend and to attack, withered. She watched with numb detachment as the object of her fury let out a last, gurgling breath, and died. Gregor Abney, all his monstrous sins with him, was no more.

The bear sat back on its haunches, and settled onto Sythius’s broad, but apparently human, back. The big man reached up and settled the bear’s head back into place on his right shoulder. He stood up, and glanced at his midriff. He was bleeding, but Sithe could tell even in the darkness that they were superficial wounds at best. Abney’s knife had barely been an afterthought.

The Avrok grizzly was too sturdy for such trifling things.

Page 31

“To the end, did you say? What end is that?”

Sithe’s voice was like a thunder-crack in a sunny summer sky; not in its intensity, but in its sheer impossibility. Abney whirled, ripping a curved dagger from the sash at his waist, and didn’t even see Sithe for a long moment. “Who said that?!” he demanded, his face going a splotchy, pinkish sort of red. “Show yourself! Intruder! Trespasser! What do you think you’re doing here?!”

“I said that,” Sithe murmured, almost gently, as she pulled back her dark hood. “Merely a colleague, Gregor. Think nothing of my being here.”

“What are you talking about?” Abney demanded. “Who are you?!”

“Come now,” Sithe said, gesturing grandly at their surroundings. She heard Sythius’s low growl; he hadn’t moved from the top of the stairs, and Abney hadn’t noticed him. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your instruments? I know the mark of you, Gregor.”

“I’ve not given you permission to be so informal with me!” Abney squawked.

Sithe shook her head. “That’s hardly the most important thing for you to be worried about. Tell me: what do you intend to do with that little girl? With spell-work as shoddy as this, it can’t amount to much.”

Abney’s face went slack, then reddened further. “You ... mock me?!”

He rushed forward, as ungainly as a drunk man in an alley. Sithe steeled herself.

The building’s entire foundation shook as Sythius, still atop his vigil, opened his jaws and let out a roar fit to shake the foundations of Heaven.