This was his father’s sword.

IT IS COLD. THE WOMEN HAVE ROSY CHEEKS IN PALE FACES; A FEW HAVE COVERED THEIR BLOOD-RED HAIR WITH SCARVES OR HOODS. THEY STAND IN A CIRCLE, HOLDING HANDS, EYES CLOSED. ALL CHANTING THE SAME WORDS, OVER AND OVER. ONE OF THEM APPEARS TO BE HERSELF, OLDER, BUT WHERE IS HER MERCENARY BADGE? SHE TREMBLES…

AND SEES THE FIRE. THE MOB MILLING ABOUT IN FRONT, THE FLAMES LICKING AT THE WINDOWS. THERE ARE CHILDREN INSIDE, AND UNLESS SOMEONE ARRIVES IN TIME TO SAVE THEM-

Blood. And. Demons. Dhulyn turned on her side, hugging herself in the feathery warmth of the bed. That was the Finder’s fire in Navra, certain sure, so why should she be Seeing that now? And as for the circle of women… Espadryni women. Herself older she’d Seen, many times, but never without her tattoo. Dhulyn blinked. Not herself without her Mercenary badge, but her mother.

Not the future, but the past.

Could this be the work of the fresnoyn? Or had she been having Visions of the past all along, and never known it? Dhulyn laughed aloud. No wonder the Sight had been of so little practical use to her-she’d have to look at each one more carefully than before. She squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps the fair-haired boy she’d seen was not Parno’s child, but Parno himself?

Dhulyn shook her head and took another, deeper breath. She had no time to fully consider these questions now. First things first. They had looked for her, old One-eye and his leashed Scholar. Looked for her specifically because she was who she was… what she was.

Dhulyn’s eyes flicked open. Because the women of her Clan-no, of the Tribe were Seers. She frowned, digesting this information. So the Mark had not fallen on her from the clear blue sky, as she’d always thought. Her mother had been Marked as well, and the other women of her tribe. Seers all.

And I have seen your face, Mother.

Gone. All gone. Not just her mother, her father, aunts, uncles, cousins. Her Clan, and likely her whole Tribe. Everyone who might have helped her when her Mark came. Everyone who might have had some answers. Why hadn’t the Sight helped them?

Why hadn’t the Sight helped her? Kept her out of Lok-iKol’s hands? Dhulyn rubbed at the still-numb skin of her face. Had they asked her anything else? For a moment the smoky darkness, the face of a man turning purple as he choked to death threatened to rise again, but she gritted her teeth against it.

The Tarkin, she thought, remembering the color of his tunic and the golden circlet around his brows. The Tarkin of Imrion was going to be poisoned, by the Sun and Moon, and she knew who would gain by it. Though not for long. This was information she should take to Alkoryn Pantherclaw-if she could think of a way to explain how she came by it.

Dhulyn blinked. The important thing right now was escape. She pulled her hands out from under the warm covering and ran her fingers over her head. Contrary to how it felt from the inside, it was in one piece, though her scalp, like her face, felt numb. That was the fresnoyn and the poppy still in her blood. Her hair was untouched, neither unbound, nor cut nor shaved. She started to sit up and stopped abruptly, hissing at the throbbing of her head. This was not good.

She gritted her teeth. Pain or no, she had to get up, get out, find Parno. And all without finding herself again in that chamber, with the fresnoyn fresh inside her, when they’d thought of better questions to ask her.

The shape of the present room told her nothing. Alkoryn’s floor plans had shown dozens of squarish rooms. Heavy hangings covered the walls entirely, the only furniture her bed, and, just within reach on the floor, a glazed pitcher with a matching cup. She scrubbed her hands over her face and again ran her fingers over her hair, this time feeling carefully at the beads and baubles, ribbons and thongs, all intact, tied and woven through it. She touched the wire she was looking for and released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

All right. She must put aside her fear, her anger, and be patient. Her Clan might be gone, even her Tribe, but she was not alone. As Dorian the Black Traveler had once promised her, she had a House, Brothers, a place to stand in the world. She would hold fast to that and she would not fail them. Nor would she fail herself.

As soon as this cursed drug wore off, she would find Parno. She would free him. They’d kill the One-eye. And maybe his Scholar boy as well. Then she and her Partner would return to their own House.

Lok-iKol, Kir of House Tenebro, signed his name to the bottom of a letter, adding the glyph that indicated he had indeed signed it himself, and not given it to one of his clerks.

“Just these three more, my lord,” Semlin-Nor, Steward of Keys murmured, selecting another sheet of paper from the sheaf she held in her hands to place on the table in front of him. Lok glanced over the list on the paper before him, mentally comparing figures and amounts to what his Keys had already reported to him. He did not trouble to look up when the door opened.

“My lord Kir, the priest Beslyn-Tor-”

Lok raised his eyebrow as the Jaldean did not wait to be further announced, but entered the room before the page had finished speaking. Lok pressed his lips together, but stifled the major part of the annoyance he felt. His need for the services the Jaldean and his fanatic followers had been providing, and were still to provide, brought him to his feet, and turned what could have been a gesture of dismissal into a signal for Keys to bring another chair that his guest might join him at his worktable.

“It has been some days since I have heard from you, my lord Kir,” Beslyn-Tor said, standing in front of the chair brought for him.

Lok repressed another grimace at the sound of the Jaldean’s honeyed voice, the kind of honey that caught unsuspecting listeners in a golden trap. Surely the priest must know by now that Lok was anything but unsuspecting. He took up his pen and, leaning back in his chair, began to turn it over in the fingers of his right hand, making it dance down toward his smallest finger, and back again.

“I have not sent for you, Beslyn, no,” Lok said, deliberately using the diminutive of the man’s name. “But now that you are here, will you not sit?” Lok allowed himself a small smile. The chair that Semlin had brought forward for the priest was the very chair that Dhulyn Wolfshead had been sitting in. Two of the silk scarves which had been used to bind her wrists were still draped over the left arm. Lok lowered his eyes to the papers in front of him and without turning to her said, “Semlin, would you be so kind as to bring our guest some wine?”

The Jaldean’s raised hand stopped her when she had only half turned toward the door.

“I have very little time this evening,” the honeyed voice said. “I was the more surprised not to hear from you, Lord Kir, given the arrival of your recent guests.”

At moments like these, Lok welcomed the advantages of his injury. It was almost impossible to register any emotion at all-even when he wished to-and equally impossible to give anything away. So he could be certain that the shock that struck him like a blow to the heart at the priest’s words never showed on his face. Who among his household was selling information to the Jaldean?

“If our guest needs nothing, Semlin, perhaps you might return to your other duties?” The woman’s well-trained face remained expressionless as she made her courtesies and left the room.

“We have an agreement, Lord Kir.”

Lok turned to the Jaldean, setting his quill pen down to the right of the documents on his table. Beslyn-Tor was sitting on the forward edge of the chair, statue-still, as he always did. The man didn’t fidget, didn’t scratch, didn’t chew his nails or rub at his hands. It seemed at times as though he didn’t sweat.