Winding his way along the twisted streets between the thatched houses and gardens, Guerrand was surprised at the number of villagers still wearing mourning clothes. He began to feel very self-conscious, as he and everyone else at the castle had ended their outward mourning the day before, at Rietta's order. She felt it was inappropriate to prepare for a wedding while shrouds still hung in the castle. Yet these townsfolk still grieved for his brother. Perhaps they understood better what had been lost.

Guerrand knew the way to Wilor's too well these days. He'd been there just a week before to help retrieve the impossibly heavy, elaborately decorated casket cover for Quinn. Hammered into the likeness of his brother, the beauty of the silver cover would have taken Guerrand's breath away if its necessity hadn't brought such sorrow.

Wilor didn't need a sign to advertise his product; the heavy door bearing its silver unicorn signified Wilor's trade and set his stall apart from the much more practical doors of the other merchants. Next to the door, a pair of shutters were opened up and down. Serving as an awning, the upper shutter was supported by two posts. A display counter by day, the lower shutter dropped down to rest on two short legs.

Guerrand could see Wilor's wife at a workbench inside the shop, polishing some recent pieces of work with a tan scrap of chamois. Guerrand counted eleven anvils of various size about the modest, hazy shop. Next to a small furnace, one of Wilor's two apprentices held a glowing piece of metal on an anvil, while the master hammered it with incredible speed and accuracy, never once missing the metal. The other young apprentice, his face red and glowing with sweat, held a crucible of softened silver in the furnace with a long pair of tongs, waiting for Wilor's practiced hammer.

Guerrand tugged at the ornate door and slipped into the stiflingly hot shop. Wilor looked up from his anvil and smiled at Guerrand. Sweat ran down his beet-red face, detouring around his upturned lips.

Wilor was a short but sturdy man who had developed immense strength from his vigorous life. His hairline had receded to the midpoint of his scalp, as if to get away from the ever-present heat of the furnace. The thick, red forearms exposed below his rolled sleeves took on a gruesome sheen that always reminded Guerrand of the film that formed over the fatty sections of roasted meat. What teeth Wilor still possessed looked white against the cooked expanse of his face. Whatever his troubles, Guerrand was instantly reminded that a tradesman's life was far harder than his. He was annoyed anew at a society that allowed Rietta to indulge in common thievery.

Guerrand would have been surprised to read the returned pity in the smith's mind at the moment. Guerrand, his sister Kirah, and their dead brother Quinn were too good for their family, thought the smith. Guerrand!" he cried, stepping forward to heartily clap him on the shoulder. "How are you holding up, lad?"

"Well enough, Wilor," said Guerrand with a smile more rueful than he realized. "What with the wedding preparations, we haven't had much time to think of other things."

"I've been wanting to tell you how sorry we all were about Quinn." The old smith's salt-and-pepper head shook sadly. "A finer lad you'd be hard-pressed to find."

"Thank you," Guerrand said softly, his head bowed slightly at the tribute. "I've been wanting to talk to you as well. About that coffin cover you made… It was… incredible. There's no one who can fashion metal like you, Wilor."

Wilor chuckled, his flush of pleasure unnoticeable in the ruddy, round face. "I know what you're here for today." Wilor rushed over to his wife, who was still polishing pieces of jewelry and several chalices. He held out his hand; she knew just what he was looking for. Wilor came back and unfurled his fingers. In his moist, fleshy palm lay the most exquisite piece of craftsmanship Guerrand had ever seen. Wilor smiled at the young man's indrawn breath.

"Do you like it?"

"Like it?" exclaimed Guerrand. "It's far too good for Ingr-for me," he quickly amended.

Ingrid's flaws would only be accentuated next to this exquisite necklace. The pendant was in the shape of a swooping falcon. Beneath it, a crescent moon was suspended by nearly invisible silver strands, so that the moon seemed to be floating by itself. The whole thing shone with the pale luster of moonlight.

"I took some liberties with the design," explained Wilor. "I hope Lady DiThon won't mind overmuch. She wanted the moon to be full and for the birdie to be attached to it solidlike, but I thought that would spoil the delicateness of it, don't you see. Other than them things, it's mainly the same as Lady DiThon requested."

"Don't worry, I won't let Rietta say a word against it," vowed Guerrand. He looked intently at Wilor. "That brings me to what I wanted to speak to you about. Have you been paid for the… for the work you did for Quinn?"

He knew the answer before he saw Wilor's shaggy head shake. "I'll see that you are, as well as for this stunning necklace, after the wedding." Guerrand flushed with embarrassment. "I wish I could pay you now, Wilor, but, well, I just can't." His voice trailed off. They both knew he had no funds of his own under Cormac.

Wilor's expression contained both relief and pity. "The promise of Rejik DiThon's second son will always be good enough for me." With a sly wink, he took the necklace from Guerrand's hand. "Marthe will wrap this securely for you. I'll not have my handiwork marred before it's delivered to the bride."

Guerrand smiled his thanks, but could not suppress a slight shudder at Wilor's last word. While Wilor and Marthe fussed over wrapping the gift Rietta would insist on rewrapping, the young man looked at Wilor's display of uncommissioned pieces available for sale. There were delicate necklaces, heavy armbands in the shape of intertwined serpents, brooches, and cloak fasteners. He picked up a dagger pommel in the shape of a boar's head.

"He has a way with metal, has he not?"

Guerrand jumped at the sound of the strange, yet somehow familiar, voice at his shoulder. He could hide neither his surprise nor his dismay at the sight of the man he'd last encountered outside Cormac's study.

Shorter and thicker than Guerrand, the mage was clothed entirely in blood-red robes from neck to booted feet. In the darkness of the keep's hallway, Guerrand hadn't noticed how deeply pocked was the man's face; nature had not been kind to him, nor likely his peers in adolescence. His complexion was ruddy, only several shades lighter than his robe; the skin hung loose upon the bones. The irises of his eyes were so large and dark they seemed to blot out any white, making them look as beady as a bird's. Above them were two thick, black, short, straight brows, like dashes. His chin was covered with the small, perfect triangle of a goatee. His pearl-shaped head was shaved smooth, though a shadowy stubble ringed his head in a perfect wreath.

"It's amazing what he's able to accomplish through skill and craft alone." Thin, tapered fingers with inch-long, red-tipped nails took the pommel from Guerrand's sweaty palm. "One can only imagine what Wilor could make if he could wield the powers we do."

The mage's voice was almost too soft for even Guerrand to hear. Still, the youth looked about the shop anxiously. "I don't know what you mean-I know nothing about magic," he hissed.

The mage's thick eyebrows raised. "Strange that you should assume I was speaking of magic."

Guerrand flushed. He hadn't meant to sound defensive. He knew he shouldn't be speaking to the mage at all. Guerrand looked toward Wilor and frowned. The smith and his wife were still fussing over his package. "I've some other errands to run, Wilor," he called, heading for the door before the smith could respond. "I'll just stop back later."