“Can you see the future, little wolf? Can you?”

He was close enough to her. And she had an answer to give him. A true answer. “I can See your death,” she said finally, smiling her wolf’s smile. “But what does that prove?”

He reached out his left hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Dhulyn opened her mouth to scream as images blasted their way into her mind.

SHE SEES AN OLD DOG, PUSHING WITH HIS NOSE AT HIS MASTER’S SLACK HAND. THE DOG IS WHINING. HIS MASTER, A BEAUTIFUL MAN WITH LARGE BLUE EYES IS SPRAWLED ACROSS THE TABLE, ONE ARM FLUNG STRAIGHT OUT, HIS CHEEK RESTING ON THE ARM. HIS BEAUTY IS MARRED BY DARK DISCOLORATIONS IN HIS FACE, POINTS OF RED IN THE WHITES OF HIS EYES. THOSE EYES ARE WIDE OPEN, STARING, THE PUPILS TINY POINTS OF BLACK. THERE’S FOAM DRYING ON HIS LIPS, AND A LINE OF BRIGHT YELLOW DROOL HANGS FROM THE EDGE OF HIS MOUTH AND TOUCHES THE TABLE. THE DOG WHINES AND PUSHES AT HIS HAND AGAIN.

A PLATE OF KIDNEYS CONGEALING IN SAUCE SITS ON THE TABLE, JUST TO THE MAN’S RIGHT. THERE IS A FORK LYING WHERE IT FELL FROM THE MAN’S FINGERS, AND A PIECE OF BREAD BROKEN OFF FROM A SMALL LOAF HAS FALLEN TO THE

FLOOR. AFTER NUDGING THE MAN’S HAND ONCE MORE, THE DOG EATS THE BREAD.

THE DEAD MAN WEARS THE DARK RED SURCOTTE AND THE THIN GOLD CIRCLET AROUND HIS BROWS THAT MARKS HIM FOR THE TARKIN OF IMRION…

SEVEN WOMEN WITH BLOOD-RED HAIR STAND IN A CIRCLE SINGING. DHULYN BELIEVES SHE WOULD RECOGNIZE THE TUNE, BUT SHE CANNOT HEAR ANY SOUND. THEY HOLD EACH OTHER’S HANDS AND DANCE, FIRST ONE WAY, THEN THE OTHER, CALLING OUT THE STEPS, ENDING WITH A CLAP AND STILLNESS ONCE AGAIN. THE TALLEST WOMAN LOOKS UP, RIGHT INTO DHULYN’S EYES, AND SAYS HER NAME…

THE CARNELIAN THRONE. A ONE-EYED MAN SITS ON IT, HIS DARK RED SURCOAT OVER HIS TEAL-AND-BLACK CLOTHES. HE TURNS THE THIN GOLD CIRCLET AROUND IN HIS FINGERS, THEN REACHES UP TO TOUCH HIS EYE PATCH. BEHIND HIM STANDS A MUCH OLDER MAN IN RED WITH A DARK BROWN CLOAK, CASTING A GREEN SHADOW. THE MAN ON THE THRONE CASTS A GREEN SHADOW HIMSELF. HE LOOKS UP FROM THE CIRCLET IN HIS FINGERS AND LOOKS RIGHT AT HER, HIS EYE GLOWING A SOFT JADE GREEN. HIS EYES GLOWING GREEN. SHE TURNS TO RUN FROM THE ROOM, BUT THERE IS NO HERE, NO THERE TO RUN TO…

A CLOUDMAN WITH A TATTOOED FACE LEANS AGAINST A STONE PARAPET AND LOOKS INTO THE SKY…

SHE BEARS TWO SWORDS, THE LONGER IN HER RIGHT HAND. SHE PARRIES A BLOW WITH THE LEFT, CIRCLING AND PULLING HER OPPONENT’S SWORD FROM HIS GRASP AS SHE STEPS FORWARD, THRUSTING HER LONGER SWORD THROUGH HIS BODY WITH THE WEIGHT OF HER OWN BEHIND IT. THE GREEN FADES FROM HIS ONE EYE AS HE FALLS TO HIS KNEES.

Nine

MAR HAD LEARNED long ago that if you walked with a purpose, and nodded at the people you passed, everyone who saw you assumed you had business, and let you go without comment. She found that this was as true in Tenebro House as it had been in the streets of Navra. So far, none of the people in the passages, most wearing the livery of servants or guards, had done more than return her nods, and many not even that much. If anyone asked her, she planned to say she was looking for the Scholar to return his play, and she had it in her gown pocket for proof. But also in that pocket was a piece of drawing chalk she had pilfered from a box in Lan-eLan’s rooms after luncheon.

Every now and then she would make sure no one was looking, and chalk a mark low on the wall, pattern marks like weavers used to record how a pattern had been woven. Meaningless to anyone else, they would tell Mar which passages led toward exits, and which deeper into the House.

She didn’t have a plan, exactly, but Dhulyn Wolfshead had once said that you should always be sure of the way out.

She had just backtracked out of a passage that led only to bedrooms and was trying another turning when she saw there was someone sitting in the seat fitted into the window embrasure halfway up the passage on the right. She fixed a modest smile on her lips and prepared to stride purposefully by when recognition made her slow her steps.

“Gundaron,” she said, her heart beating faster. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at his clasped hands. He didn’t look up.

“Scholar.” Mar raised a tentative hand to touch him on the shoulder. He shuddered and straightened, showing her a pale face with dark circles under the eyes.

Gundaron blinked, for a moment not recognizing the silhouette, backlit by the branched candlesticks farther down the passage. Scholar, he thought, shaking his head and blinking again to clear the fog from his brain. This was Mar-eMar. He straightened. Had she asked him a question?

Mar motioned with her hand and Gundaron shifted over. The window seat was more than wide enough for them to share.

“I said, are you all right? You look very pale.”

“I don’t know,” he glanced around. “I must have dozed off. I… I don’t remember.”

“Did you hit your head? What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“Pasillon.” The word popped out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Oh, Caids,” he said, as the scene in the Kir’s workroom came spilling into his mind. What was he doing sitting here? How did he get here? The light spun, and he clutched at the hand Mar had placed on his arm to steady himself.

“Who is Pasillon?”

Could he tell her? Certainly he had to give her some reason for the fear he saw mirrored in her face.

“Not a who, a what. When I was a boy, in the Library at Valdomar, I used to sneak downstairs, late at night when I was supposed to be asleep, to read the books we weren’t old enough to read yet.” He swallowed, and a smile’s ghost rested a moment on his lips. “There was one in particular, the Book of Gabrian, that told of Pasillon.”

Mar-eMar settled herself, half-turned toward him, her face steady and unsmiling.

“It’s a plain,” he said. “Far to the west of here and south, in the country that’s now Lebmuin. The plain has another name now, but when it was Pasillon, there was a great battle there, between two city-states, Tragon and Conchabar. It was Tragon that won.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Practically no one has, but that’s not why people remember Pasillon.” Gundaron twisted to face her. “There were Mercenary Brothers on both sides-”

“Both sides?”

“They’re like Scholars, the Brotherhood, free of all countries, citizens of the world. And during battle-” All at once Gundaron was back in his midnight Library, shivering in the cold. Mar took his hands in hers and began chafing them. “During battle they’ll kill each other, if they come upon other Mercenaries on the opposing side. They think it’s the best way to die, at the hands of one of their own.”

Mar drew down her brows, nodding. “Yes, that’s what they would think.”

Gundaron took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could feel sweat on his upper lip. He freed his hands from hers and rubbed them on the smooth cloth of his hose.

“That day, the day of the battle at Pasillon, the lord of Tragon had been killed, or maybe it was his son-I only read Gabrian that one time, so I’m not sure. But, with this special grievance, the Tragoni fought harder and won.” Gundaron looked closely into Mar’s face, searching for the glimmer that showed she understood. “But their loss made it a sour victory. And the taste of it left them angry, so they chose to take no prisoners. The Tragoni killed the Conchabari as they fled, allowing no one to surrender.”

“Oh, no.” Mar raised her shoulders and drew her sleeves down over her hands.