"I said stay out of this, and I meant it." A dark expression clouded the shopkeep's face, one Ganelon had never seen there before. "Trust me. I'll handle this," he whispered.

Ambrose trundled to the foot of the stairs. "There's a sick girl up there, Markel. Azrael himself told me that she wouldn't be disturbed."

The politska regarded the door before him. "Which room's she in?" he asked. Before Ambrose could answer, Markel kicked in the door. "Not this one, I hope."

Shocked from sleep, Helain let out a terrified shriek. Ambrose was up the steps much faster than Ganelon would have suspected possible, though he was clutching his chest as he lumbered across the landing. If he's not careful, his heart will burst, the young man brooded. Another thought followed that, as disturbing as it was sudden: No, it can't. Ambrose is already dead.

A high-pitched scream from the store's shelving made Ganelon start. "The little girl," he hissed.

He found Markel's partner shaking her violently. "Why are you here?" the elf shouted. When she didn't respond, he slammed her against the heavy wooden shelves. The impact shook loose a box of iron nails; they rained down onto the floor like metallic hail. Keeping the girl pinned against the shelving with one hand, the elf reached down for a nail. The use he intended for the spike was clear in his hate-filled gray eyes.

"Leave her alone!" Ganelon shouted. "She's only a child!"

One eyebrow quirked in surprise, the elf regarded the young man. "Hey," he called out to his partner, "this bumpkin is interfering with my interrogation."

Over the sounds of Helain's frightened weeping, Ganelon could hear an argument building on the second floor. The interplay of murmurs had devolved into an exchange of barked insults.

"Markel?" the elf shouted. But the argument had become a scuffle. The politska tossed the child aside. He barely spared her a second look as she tumbled into a pile of Borcan cloth. "I'm coming," he called.

Too late. From the landing came a gasp of pain and a wet, lingering death rattle. A heavy thud, thud, thud told of a body bumping down the wooden stairs. Ganelon's heart stopped. They'd killed Ambrose!

When the young man emerged from the shelving, the elf close behind, he found not Ambrose but Markel heaped at the foot of the stairs. The shop-keep was crouched over the corpse. The silver axe clutched in his hand was dark with the politska's blood.

Ambrose gestured with the axe toward the two women. "Get them out of here." His voice was deep and resonant, unburdened by the constant wheeze caused by his accident. "Now!"

Kern and Ogier were as startled as anyone at the change in their usually mild-mannered friend, but they didn't hesitate to follow his orders. "An unfortunate accident," Kern said as he shepherded the women into the night. "The man tripped and fell upon his own weapon."

Ogier scowled. "But the wound's in the middle of his back."

"No more unusual around these parts than someone strangled by his own tongue," Kern replied with a sigh.

The elven politska shouted after the women, "You'll be called as witnesses. Don't think I've forgotten your faces."

"I'm sure they've already forgotten yours," Ambrose said. He raised the axe and started forward. There was something liquid to his movements, a grace he'd never demonstrated before. He swayed like a serpent, or a shadow cast by a flickering fire.

Ganelon found himself backing away along with the elf. "Ambrose," he said softly.

"Shut up," the innkeep hissed. "See to the girl."

"She's my prisoner," the elf said, though he never took his eyes off Ambrose. To lower his guard, to turn away for just an instant, would be death. He could see that in the shopkeep's grim face.

Head swimming, Ganelon hurried into the aisles to find the little girl. He found her lying in the midst of a jumbled pile of Borcan cloth. She was dazed and struggling to free herself. "Here," Ganelon said. "Let me help you up." He pulled her to her feet. As he did, the tattered hood fell away, revealing short blond hair and pointed ears. This was no little girl but a young elven boy. The tattoos curling from his temples down the sides of his neck-a scattering of triangles and swirls-marked him as belonging to one of the feral Iron Hills tribes. Ganelon looked again at the tattoos. Not triangles and swirls, he thought, thorns and stems.

The politskae had been correct. The stranger was a spy, a Thorn of the White Rose.

"Why are you here?" Ganelon gasped. "What do you want with us?"

"With you" the elf said. "I bring a message from the most holy and terrible White Rose."

Ambrose came around the corner, a silver axe in each hand, a trail of bloody footprints behind him. "What's this?" he boomed.

The Thorn's face went pale with fear. It wasn't the weapons or the blood that inspired that fright. Something else he recognized in Ambrose prompted him to whisper a prayer against evil and flee the shop.

"Wait," Ganelon shouted. "The message." 'Your hope lies with her," the Thorn called as he dashed out the door.

The young man crossed the room as quickly as his aching leg would carry him. Ambrose caught him well before he reached the door. "Where do you think you're going?" the shopkeep growled.

"I want to know what this is all about." Ganelon tried to pull free of the older man's restraining grip but found that he couldn't. In fact, Ambrose's fingers were digging painfully into his arm. "You're hurting me, Ambrose."

"You're hurting yourself," was the cold reply. Ambrose released his hold on Ganelon and turned away. "You're hurting Helain, too."

Crouched at the top of the stairs, Helain choked back a cry of despair. She clutched at her long white nightgown, at the flesh beneath, until half-moons of blood welled up. Her eyes displayed an overwhelming sorrow that seemed to stain her soul more deeply with each word the two men uttered. Ganelon covered his face with one hand. "You're right," he said. "Why shouldn't I be tempted to join the fight when all this is going on around me?"

"Because you promised her you wouldn't," replied Ambrose. "Because you love her, and she loves you."

With a howl of anguish, Helain raced across the landing and threw herself at a closed window. The glass shattered, its jagged edges claiming gory ribbons of flesh from her arms and back. Blood stained her white nightgown the same fiery red as her hair.

Helain dropped to the ground with a bestial grunt. Cringing in the light of the new white moon, she wondered if she had hoped for death. That was not to be, at least not tonight. Some terrible benefactor had spared her from serious harm. She could not hear his voice, as she thought she would, but she knew she must go to him. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she ran off into the night.

From the store's doorway, Ganelon caught sight of Helain just before she disappeared amongst the crooked towers and heaps of broken earth at the mine. She was heading over the hill. He didn't hesitate, didn't pause to ask for Ambrose's blessing or his help. Ganelon damned his aching leg and set off after his fiancee.

Ambrose watched him go, then closed the shop's shattered doors as best he could. Ogier and Kern would be back in a moment, to help him dispose of the bodies. There was no need for secrecy, but they wouldn't understand that. They did not know about Ambrose's pact with Azrael or his other, more terrible secrets. He would have to come up with some explanation for his actions tonight, a reason his infirmities seemed to vanish the moment the fight started and blood was spilled.

He glanced down at Markel's corpse and felt the fury well up inside him again. "This is your fault," Ambrose said through gritted teeth.

He snatched up one of the silver axes. With frenzied strokes he hacked at the body until it flew apart. When there was too little left of Markel to satisfy his rage, Ambrose started in on the elven politska. He did not stop until that corpse, too, had been reduced to gory lumps.