It was the voice of the apparition that had dogged him through the Mycenian countryside; the one he'd fought through a fever dream the night Alec had torn the wooden disk from his neck.

But this time there was no black, misshapen specter. The voice issued from the writhing lips of

Cilia's severed head.

"Seregil of Rhiminee and Aurenen!" Her glazed eyes rolled in their sockets, seeking him. "We found you at last, thief."

Diomis' jaws gaped with the same terrible voice.

"Did you think we would allow you to escape? You have desecrated the sanctuary of Seriamaius, and defiled his relics."

"The Eye and the Crown." It was Rhiri now, who'd never had a voice in life.

"Thief! Defiler!" Thryis spat out, her withered lips curling back in a leer.

"Defiler! Thief!" the other heads cried in moaning, joyless chorus.

"Aura Elustri malrei, his gasped Seregil, watching the grotesque performance with a mixture of outrage and revulsion. "What have you done with Alec? Where is he?"

They made no answer, but Rhiri's head tumbled to the floor and rolled at him, snapping its jaws and laughing, followed by the others.

"Forgive me, all of you." Feeling as if he were trapped in the worst of nightmares, Seregil raised his sword and hacked at the heads until only a scattered mass of hair and brains remained. In the midst of it he found four small charms, charred human finger bones wrapped with nightshade vine.

Choking back a wave of nausea, he cast a suspicious eye over the bodies, still slumped together on the couch.

"You deserved better than this," he whispered thickly. "Somehow-somehow I'll make this right."

Going back to his bedchamber, he pulled out his old leather pack and thrust in a few essentials. Then he wrapped Alec's dagger carefully in a large scarf and slipped it inside his tunic.

In the sitting room he took Alec's bow and quiver down from their hook over the bed and put them by the door, not allowing himself to wonder whether they would ever be needed again. The sword he slipped into his own sheath; he had no plans for sheathing his own until he was well away from here.

Skirting the mess on the hearth, he pulled the box of loose jewels on the mantelpiece free front a puddle of congealed blood and upended it into his pack. The spoils of years of casual pilfering tumbled out, glittering in the unnatural light of the fire. Alec had sorted them recently during a lesson on gem appraisal. A layer of bright rubies slid into the pack to fill the spaces between clothes and pouches, then emeralds, opals, amethyst, a handful of gold and diamond buttons they'd used for gaming stones.

His hands were beginning to shake. A lord's ransom spilled over the lip of the pack but he left the stones where they fell. Cinching the pack shut, he carried it to the door, then turned for a last look at the home he'd inhabited for nearly thirty years.

He'd been happy here, perhaps happier than anywhere else in his life. Now all of it-the books, weapons, tapestries and statues, the shelves of accumulated relics and curiosities-all of it was nothing more than stage dressing for the mocking tableau centered around the mutilated corpses gathered at his hearth.

Taking a large lamp from the table, Seregil whispered a quick prayer and emptied the oil over the bodies. Then he gathered every other lamp within reach, flung them against the walls, and scattered a jar of firechips over the spilled oil. Flames sprang up, quickly spreading out into sheets of hungry, purifying fire.

Shouldering the packs and weapons, Seregil fled down the stairs, leaving the doors open behind him.

As he hurried past Cilia's room on his way to the kitchen stairs, however, a muffled cry brought him to a halt. Dropping everything but his sword, he dashed into the room and flung the overturned chair aside. There, tightly wrapped in thick blankets to keep him still, Luthas lay squalling in his small trundle bed.

Cilia had heard her attackers coming. In what little time she must have had, she'd hidden her child, overturning the chair and pulling the blankets down over the edge of the bed to cover him from view.

He must have been asleep when I was in here before, Seregil thought, gathering up the furious child.

And if he hadn't cried.

As Seregil turned to go, he caught sight of himself in Cilia's mirror. The image reflected there, white-faced, eyes black with rage, might have been his own vengeful ghost.

Smoke poured down through the ceiling boards as he hefted the pack and weapons again and carried Luthas downstairs. In the first, thin light of dawn, the familiar back courtyard had an unreal look, like a familiar place seen in a dream just before it transforms into something sinister. The weight of pack, swords, and child pulled at him, sapping his strength.

"Thank the Lightbearer, there you are!" a familiar voice called.

Turning in confusion, Seregil saw Nysander's young servant Wethis coming around the corner of the inn on a sorrel horse.

"I saw the smoke from up the street," Wethis told him, reining in. His clothing was torn and he had a bandage wound around one hand, Seregil noted with a fresh pang of dread. "When no one answered out front—"

"Everyone's dead," Seregil told him, his voice coming out thin and strained. "What happened to you? What are you doing here?"

"The Oreska was attacked last night," Wethis answered, his voice cracking with emotion. "It was terrible. Nysander— They found him in the lowest vault—"

"Is he dead?" barked Seregil.

Wethis flinched. "I don't know. Valerius and Hwerlu were with him when I left. They sent me after you. You have to go at once!"

Seregil dropped his gear and thrust Luthas up at the boy. "Take him, and have the rest of this brought to the Oreska. And see that the rest of the horses get out of the stable before the whole damn place goes up."

Leaving the boy to fend as well as he could, Seregil dashed into the stable and bridled Cynril.

Patch nickered at him from the next stall. Alec had taken the time last night to feed and cover her before going up, never suspecting what lay in wait.

Mounted bareback, Seregil rode out past Wethis and away from the burning inn without a backward glance.

The world seemed strangely muted as he galloped toward the Oreska. The streets, the pale morning sky, the sound of Cynril's hooves-all had a vague, muffled air, as if he were observing the scene from a distance through one of Nysander's magnifying lenses. But somewhere behind the protective barrier of shock, the anguish was building.

Not yet. Not yet. So much to do.

He pelted on through the streets, through the Oreska gate and the scented gardens, not slowing his horse until he reached the House itself. Reining in, he leapt from the saddle and took the steps two at a time.

The atrium reeked of smoke and magic. The mosaic floor was scorched and cracked, the dragon design nearly obliterated. Where the arched doors leading to the museum had been, there was now a gaping hole partially blocked by rubble.

Afterward, Seregil could not recall how he got upstairs, or who had let him into the tower, but when he finally stopped running, he was at Nysander's bedroom door and Valerius was blocking his way.

"Is he alive?" Seregil panted, heart hammering in his chest.

The drysian nodded, frowning. "Yes, for the moment at least."

"Then let me pass. I've got to talk to him!"

Seregil tried to shoulder past but Valerius grabbed his arm, holding him back with considerable insistence.

"Gently, Seregil. Gently," he warned.

"By all the medicine I know, he shouldn't have survived such an attack. A good many others weren't so fortunate. But all the same, he won't let any of us ease his pain as much as we should until he's spoken with you. Be quick and don't tax his strength. He's got none to spare."