His eyes narrowed slightly. "The rat."

"The rat," she agreed.

"A moon rat," he added. "A creature that gains intelligence as the moon waxes."

The unspoken jibe rang loudly in Cavatina's ears. Her singing sword hummed a warning as she readied it. "Are you looking for a fight?"

The male stared up at her. That close, she could see the scar tissue on the left side of his face. Most of it was hidden by his mask, but what showed of the old wound gave his left eye an ugly pucker. "No need to look," he said in a level voice. He nodded at something behind her. "One's already found me."

Cavatina danced back, wary of trickery, and glanced around. A few paces distant, a figure stood in the forest, its body shrouded in an enveloping black robe. Though a hood hid its face, Cavatina could see hands as black as her own. A silver ring gleamed on each finger, marking the figure as one of Kiaransalee's priestesses.

"By all that dances," Cavatina whispered under her breath. "A Crone."

The male touched his mask. "Shield me, Masked Lady."

A haze of darkness blurred his outline-darkness shot through with sparkles of moonlight.

Cavatina sang her own protective prayer. Moonlight glowed briefly on her skin as it took hold-moonlight marred by motes of black. Then she hurled a spell. A ray of moon-chilled light sprang from her hand, striking the evil priestess in the chest.

Instead of retreating, the Crone flung up one ring-encrusted hand. Without so much as a glance in Cavatina's direction she addressed the Nightshadow. "You!" she screamed, pointing a finger at him. "Assassin!"

The cleric cringed, raising one hand to shield his eyes. His other arm swung up in a gesture that mirrored the Crone's and his hand-crossbow thrummed. A bolt streaked through the air, burying itself in the Crone's throat. The priestess clawed at the black fletches and made a strangled sound, but did not fall. Her cowl fell back, revealing a face with sunken cheeks and hollow, staring eyes. Her bone-white hair was matted and filthy. She yanked the bolt out of her throat.

"That… won't work, Karas," she croaked, flinging the bolt aside. "Not… this time."

The breeze carried the stench of death to Cavatina's nostrils. She grabbed the silver dagger that hung around her neck. She wrenched its chain over her head and thrust Eilistraee's symbol in the direction of the undead Crone.

"By Eilistraee's holy light," she shouted. "Return to the grave from which you came!"

Cavatina had her sword ready. Should the undead priestess merely turn away, instead of being destroyed utterly, she would slice the creature in half. The blade sang a high-pitched peal. Eager. Ready.

But the Crone neither crumpled nor turned. She strode toward the Nightshadow, a dry, half-strangled chuckle rasping out of the hole in her throat.

The male didn't move. He stood stock still, his arm not quite high enough to shield his eyes.

Paralyzed.

Cavatina blinked. What was this thing? Even something as powerful as a lich should have hesitated at the sight of her holy symbol.

Cavatina leaped forward, her weapon raised. The undead priestess turned toward her and sang a single, mournful note. Low as a shaum, it reverberated through Cavatina's mind.

Suddenly, Cavatina's mother was before her. Her long white hair whipped around her head as she spun with a dancer's grace. She flung up an arm to meet Cavatina's descending sword. Only at the last moment was Cavatina able to wrench the sword aside to avoid severing her mother's arm.

The singing sword shrilled a warning. The shrill, urgent note penetrated Cavatina's consciousness, shredding the veil that had clouded her mind. The illusion of her mother was replaced by the reality: a desiccated corpse that had been given a hideous semblance of life. White nubs of bone protruded through the tips of those grasping fingers. The cloak hung loose on bony shoulders.

One hand lashed out. Bony fingers brushed Cavatina's shoulder. A wound appeared there, as if a dagger had sliced it open. Not deep, but it stung.

"This is not… your affair," the Crone croaked. Its voice was stronger, and Cavatina could see that the wound the crossbow bolt had torn in its throat had already knitted together.

Cavatina blinked, surprised at the Crone's complete disdain. She raised her sword and swung-a powerful two-handed blow. The singing sword gave a peal of glee as it descended.

In that same instant, the Nightshadow moved. He lashed out with his own sword in an upward diagonal blow. Their two blades clanged together, throwing both Cavatina and the Nightshadow off balance. The Crone ducked aside, unwounded.

"Out of the way!" the Nightshadow shouted.

The Crone lunged, slapping at him with a bare, bony hand. Only by twisting violently aside was the Nightshadow able to avoid being disemboweled. He gasped as the fingers brushed across his hip and buttocks, opening a deep wound.

While the Crone's back was turned, Cavatina leaped and swung. This time, her sword connected. It bit deep into the Crone's neck, cutting through the tough, dry skin and severing the spine. The headless body folded, then fell.

The Nightshadow stared at it, his panting breaths fluttering his mask. One hand clutching his wound, he gasped out a prayer. Slowly, the bleeding stopped.

Cavatina waited, keeping an eye on the body of the Crone, making sure it wasn't going to rise again.

Instead of thanking her, the Nightshadow spat out a curse. "Next time, keep out of the way."

Cavatina stiffened. She couldn't believe what she'd heard. "And let her kill you?"

"She nearly did, thanks to you."

Cavatina's face grew hot. "You were paralyzed," she said. "Helpless."

"I faked it. To draw her in close."

He was lying, of course. It was only to be expected from a Nightshadow. Cavatina was already sorry she'd stepped in. But then she gave herself time to think about it, and realized the unlikelihood of the paralysis wearing off precisely at the moment the Crone came in close enough to kill with a sword blow. Maybe he wasn't lying.

"My apologies," she said at last. "If it happens again, I'll wait until I'm absolutely certain you really do need my help, before jumping in." She shrugged. "Of course, next time you might not be faking the paralysis."

The male met and held her eye in a flat, level stare. Then he turned his attention to the corpse. "It has to be burned," he said. "Before it knits itself back together again."

The head rocked back and forth, as if struggling to do just that. The Nightshadow rolled it away from the body with his sword. Without another word to Cavatina, he began gathering dried wood and placing it atop the dead torso.

"What-" Cavatina stopped herself before asking the question. As a Darksong Knight, her training had focused on hunting demons, and only to a lesser degree on the undead. She was loath to reveal her ignorance by asking about the creature. She nodded at the severed head. "She knew your name: Karas."

He nodded.

"Why?"

"I was one of her consorts. Briefly."

"Until you learned who she served?"

"Until I killed her."

"Ah," Cavatina said, suddenly understanding. "She's a revenant."

"Yes."

That made sense. The Crones' thirst for vengeance was unquenchable. Their goddess dictated that any slight, no matter how small, must be avenged. A fatal bolt in the back from the crossbow of a consort would rank right at the top of the list. Kiaransalee herself must have lifted it from the grave.

Cavatina used her sword to flick the robe away from what remained of the Crone's feet. They were mere stubs, the toes and front of each foot long since worn away. "Looks like she walked a long way."

Karas nodded. "All the way from Maerimydra."

Cavatina looked up. "Were you there-in Maerimydra? When it fell to Kiaransalee's cultists?"