It wasn’t how Cadel had envisioned his last kill, but he hadn’t survived eighteen years in this profession by being stubborn. Clearly, this would make things far easier for him, and that alone made Dario’s suggestion attractive.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. You take the Qirsi, and I’ll watch your back.”

Dario gaped at him, as if Cadel had offered him all his gold. “Really?”

The singer gave a shrug of his own. “As you say, killing the white-hair will be the easy part.”

For all Qirsi, Pitch Night in the turn of Qirsar, god of their people, was a night of uncertainty and fear. Any Qirsi with even a bit of sense understood how much the Eandi hated the sorcerer race. Most of Shurik’s people believed that only their magic protected them from constant persecution.

For one night each year, perhaps as a test of their strength and courage, perhaps as a cruel joke, Qirsar took away their power, their shield, and forced them to face Ean’s children unguarded. The vast majority of Qirsi passed this night in the sanctuaries. There were few shrines devoted to Qirsar anywhere in the Forelands, but as the last bastions of the Old Faith, the sanctuaries of the other ancient gods offered some solace and comfort. They were considered sacrosanct, even by nobles whose courts had long ago turned to the Path of Ean. The Qirsi knew they were safe in the shrines. Even Shurik, who rarely visited the sanctuaries any other time of year, had spent Qirsar’s Pitch Night in Kentigern’s Sanctuary of Bian every year he served in Aindreas’s court.

This year, however, he had no intention of leaving the castle. Not with two Weavers after him. Yaella had tried repeatedly to convince him to join her when she went to Elined’s Sanctuary in the north quarter of the city, but he wasn’t going to change his mind. If anything, the approach of Pitch Night only served to heighten his fears. By the last morning of the turn, he could barely bring himself to leave his chamber in order to have breakfast.

He couldn’t say what he expected to happen. He had slept soundly the night before, without any thought of the Weaver, much less a dream of him. And the Mertesse guards weren’t about to allow a strange Qirsi man and an Eibitharian lord into the castle. But as a gleaner, Shurik had no choice but to trust the sense of foreboding that hung over him like a demon’s shadow.

He took his meal in the castle kitchen, eating quickly and retreating immediately to his chamber. Almost as soon as he returned to the dark confines of his room, he wished that he had forgone his breakfast. His stomach felt heavy and sour, and he expected to be ill at any moment. He had often heard of Qirsi fasting on this night and he wondered if this was the reason.

A knock at his door made him start and his heart race.

“Come,” he called irritably.

Yaella stepped into the room. The sight of him brought a frown to her face.

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’ll be glad when this night is over.”

“It would do you some good to get out of this chamber, maybe even out of the castle. The sun’s shining and it’s not very cold. How about a walk in the gardens?”

He had to smile. “The gardens? In Qirsar’s Turn?”

“Why not? There may not be much to look at, but at least you’d be doing something.”

Shurik considered this for a moment, but then shook his head. “No. Thank you, but I’m happy to stay here.”

She smiled coyly. “Well, would you like some company then?”

“That’s a nice offer, but I think I’m better off alone.”

The frown returned. “Now I’m really worried about you. You’ve never turned me from your bed before.”

“I’ve never had two Weavers wanting me dead. Forgive me, Yaella. I’m not myself today. I’ll be fine after tonight. I promise.”

“You still won’t come with me to the sanctuary?”

He gave a small shrug. “I’m sorry.”

The minister tried to smile, but failed. “All right. Try to…” She shook her head, as if unsure of what to say. “I’ll stop in later, before I go to the city.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Finding himself alone once more, Shurik sat on his bed and picked up a volume of fables he had been reading the night before. He had purchased it from a merchant shortly after Rowan paid him for his betrayal of Kentigern. It had been a luxury, but one he could easily afford, and in the turns since, it had often rescued him from the boredom of his exile. On this day, the tales gave him little comfort, but at least reading passed the time. Occasionally he rose to put more wood on the fire in his hearth, but mostly he read, hearing the city bells toll in the distance every few hours. His stomach began to feel better late in the day, but he thought it best not to eat until morning.

Sooner than he expected, another knock broke the silence in his chamber.

“Come in.”

Yaella pushed the door open and stuck her head into the room.

“You look better,” she said, a smile on her lips.

“I told you I’d be fine. I just need some time alone. Come the morning you won’t even recognize me.”

“You’re certain about the sanctuary?”

He nodded. “Quite.”

“I’ll see you in the morning then.”

She pulled the door closed, the echo of her footsteps in the stone corridor receding slowly. For just an instant, Shurik considered hurrying to the door and calling for her to wait. Certainly the sanctuary would be safe, and he dreaded spending the entire night alone in his chamber. Still, his fear of the city streets overmastered his desire to be with her. Before long, he couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore. He hadn’t moved from the bed.

For some time he continued to stare at the book, though none of what he read reached him. Finally, he put the volume aside, stood, and crossed to the window. Staring out through the narrow opening in the stone wall, he shivered at the cold air that seeped into his chamber. The last faint glimmer of daylight still clung to the western corner of the sky, an orange so deep it was almost red. Above the castle, the first pale stars had begun to emerge in the gathering darkness.

Shurik tried to summon a flame, reaching for his power as a starving man grasps at offered food. He felt nothing. He could conjure nothing. For tonight at least, his magic was gone.

He turned from the window and began to pace the small room, pausing at the hearth to stir the fire and add another log. Once more, he thought of going to the sanctuary, but at this point he would have to make the journey alone, in the dark. He couldn’t bring himself to try.

Instead, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves.

He was awakened by a loud voice in the corridor, a man’s voice. He was singing poorly, as if drunk. After a moment Shurik heard pounding on the door next to his.

“Shara!” the man called. He battered the door again. “Shara!”

Shurik sat up, rubbing his eyes. He had no idea of the time.

His door shook with the force of the man’s knocking. Too late, the Qirsi realized that he hadn’t bolted the lock before lying down.

“Shara!” came the voice again.

The handle turned and Shurik’s door swung open, revealing an Eandi man who held a lute in one hand and a flask in the other. He was young, his face clean-shaven, his hair yellow. He stood in the corridor a moment, tottering in the glow of the torches. Then he took two unsteady steps into Shurik’s chamber.

“Is Shara in here?” he asked loudly.

Shurik fumbled for his dagger, his hands trembling. “Get out of here!”

“I’m just looking for Shara.”

“She’s not here! Now get out!”

The man raised the flask to his lips and took a long drink. “Do you know where she is?” he asked a moment later. “I wrote a song for her. Would you like to hear it?”

He bent over and carefully placed the flask on the floor, nearly toppling onto his back as he did. Straightening, he began to pluck tentatively at the strings of the lute.