Thero shot him a sidelong glare. "After two solid days of rats and platitudes, I doubt he'd have been a great deal more gracious."

For appearance's sake they went directly to Wheel Street. Runcer met them at the door with his usual lack of surprise.

"We had word, my lord," he said gravely. "Your bath has been prepared, if you'd care to go up?"

"Thank you, Runcer, I will," Thero replied, attempting Seregil's easy manner. "Let me know the minute Nysander arrives."

Runcer's wrinkled face betrayed little as he watched Thero march off up the stairs, but Alec thought he caught the hint of a cryptic frown before the old servant doddered off toward the kitchen.

Upon their return from the Tower, Seregil and Nysander found the others just starting on a hot supper at Seregil's bedroom table.

Face-to-face for the first time since the exchange of bodies, Seregil and Thero inspected each other in silence.

Seregil slowly circled his counterpart, amazed by the sight of his own familiar face settled into Thero's guarded expression.

"Say something," he prompted at last. "I want to hear what I sound like with someone else doing the talking."

"This throat's been doing a great deal less talking since you've been gone," Thero retorted. "I suppose I'll be quite hoarse when I get my body back from you."

Seregil turned to Alec. "You were right. The timbre of the voice is the same, but the speech patterns make all the difference. What an interesting phenomenon!"

"But one which we have no time to explore," Nysander interjected. "You must both be restored to your proper forms."

Joining hands with the greatest eagerness either of them was ever likely to exhibit, Seregil and Thero stood motionless while Nysander performed the spell.

The magic was indiscernible, the effect instantaneous. Restored to his own body, Seregil went a clammy greenish-white.

Releasing Thero, he staggered to the fireside armchair and sank down, head between his knees. Alec grabbed up a bowl and hurried to his side.

Thero doubled over, too, grimacing as he grasped his leg.

"What have you been up to?" he demanded, pulling up his robe to examine the swollen knee.

"Up to?" Seregil managed a faint laugh between gasps. "It was more the down part we had trouble with."

Flexing his long fingers, he rubbed his hands over his smooth cheeks and hair. "By the Four, it's good to get back into my true form! And I've had a bath and clean clothes, too. I'm in your debt, Thero. I just hope you didn't enjoy the soaping up too much."

"You've little enough to be vain of," Thero shot back tartly, returning to his supper.

Still grinning, Seregil tugged at the lacings of his shirt. "I don't know why you have to wear everything so tight, though—"

Alec was the only one who noticed the momentary faltering of his friend's smile. Before the boy could ask what was wrong, however, Seregil locked eyes with him, discreetly motioning silence.

"What did the two servants have to say?" Micum was asking, impatient for details.

"They weren't there," Seregil replied, pulling the lacings shut again. Again his fingers brushed the rough tissue of the scar, which had somehow reappeared. The feel of it made his skin crawl.

"Now there's a surprise," Micum said glumly.

"Did you learn much from the others?"

"We had the same story from both households," said Nysander. "The footman Marsin and Barien's maid Callia had been lovers for some time. Their fellow servants assume they have run off together."

Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Bit too coincidental for my taste. What about the wife?"

"Even less helpful," said Seregil. "Lady Althia's a silly, harmless girl, still content after a year's marriage to be her husband's poppet. All she knows of his business is that it keeps her in jewels, gowns, and horses."

"Then we're right back where we started!" groaned Alec. "Marsin, Teukros, and that girl were our only connection, and now we can't find any of them."

"We should check the charnel houses next," said Seregil. "If any of them were murdered in the city, the Scavengers may have found them by now. Alec, Micum, and I will have to handle that since we're the only ones who know what they look like. And speaking of corpses, what's going to happen to Barien?"

Nysander gave a troubled sigh. "According to the law, he will be flayed, disemboweled, and hung on Traitor's Hill, then cast into the city pit."

Micum shook his head. "To end up like that after all the good he's done over the years. It's him I have to thank for Watermead; he suggested it to the Queen."

"At least he's already dead," Seregil said with a shudder, all too aware that he'd faced a similar fate only a few days ago without such benefit.

At the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern. "Before we all go our separate ways, Nysander, I'd like a private word."

Leading the way to the library across the corridor, Seregil closed the door carefully, then tugged open his shirt to show Nysander his chest. The circular brand left by Mardus' wooden disk stood out a sinister reddish-pink against his fair skin.

"The transference magicks must have disrupted the obscuration," said Nysander. "Though I have never known such a thing to happen before."

"There's more to it than that and you know it," Seregil said going to a small mirror on the wall for a better look. The patterns in the scar tissue were more distinct than ever.

"Could Thero have something to do with this?" he demanded. "That dream I had—"

"Certainly not!" Nysander retorted, reaching to touch the tiny ridges of stiffened flesh. "He would certainly have noticed it when he bathed, and told me of it. It must have happened as I performed the restoration. I shall have to cover it again."

Seregil caught Nysander's wrist and held it.

"What is this mark?" he said, searching the old wizard's face. "What does it mean that you want so badly to keep it hidden?"

Nysander made no move to free himself. "Have you recalled anything else of that nightmare? The one with the headless horse?"

"Not really. Only being in Thero's body and seeing the eye in my chest. And flying. For the love of Illior, Nysander, are you going to tell me what this really is or not?"

Nysander looked away, saying nothing.

Releasing him, Seregil strode angrily toward the door. "So, I'm going to go the rest of my life with this burned into my skin and you're not going to tell me a damn thing!"

"Dear boy, you would do better to pray that you never find out."

"That's never been any prayer of mine and you know it!"

Seregil spat back. For an instant anger made him reckless. "As it happens, I know more about it than you might think. I'd have told you already if it wasn't for—"

The words died on his lips. Nysander had gone ashen, his face a mask of anger. At his swift incantation, the room went dim and Seregil knew from past experience that Nysander had sealed the room against intrusions of any kind.

"By your honor as a Watcher, you will tell me everything," Nysander ordered and the barely suppressed fury in his voice struck like a blow.

"It was the night Alec and I left the Orлska," Seregil told him, his mouth suddenly dry. "Later that night I went to the Temple of Illior."

"Alone?"

"Of course."

"What did you do there?"

Seregil's skin prickled coldly; he could almost see the black waves of anger radiating out from Nysander. The room went darker still, as if the lamps were dying. Steeling himself, he went on.

"I'd made a drawing of this." Seregil pointed to the scar. "Before you obscured it that first time I used a mirror and sketched as much detail of the design as I could make out. At the temple I showed it to Orphyria. Nysander, what's wrong?"

Nysander had gone greyer still. Staggering to a chair, he sank his head in his hands. "By the Light," he groaned, "I should have guessed. After all I said—»