“I have to sleep now,” he said finally.

“Fine,” Gammon declared, rising. “But before you do, I have something for you. Wait here for me.”

He went out and was gone for perhaps five minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a package wrapped in cloth and bound with string. The size and shape caused the boy’s heart to quicken. He took the package from the tavern owner and swiftly unwrapped it.

A new elleryn, its burnished wood gleaming brightly, lay in his hands.

“She’s beautiful,” the boy whispered. He looked up at Gammon. “But I can’t afford her.”

“You don’t have to pay anything. It’s a gift.”

“But I’m not playing for you anymore. I can’t take this.”

Gammon laughed. “You made me enough money over the last two years to pay for this ten times over. I owe you this. You take it. Keep it.” He shrugged. “If you would agree to leave here tonight, I would pay you something extra to help you on your way. But I can see your mind is made up.”

Reyn smiled. “I won’t ever forget this.”

“I should hope not.” Gammon stuck out his hand. “Luck to you, Reyn. Whatever you decide to do. Luck always.”

The handshake warm and firm. Reyn wished once more that things could have worked out differently. Then Gammon released his grip and was out the door.

It was several hours later when Arcannen heard footsteps on the back stairs leading up to the bedroom in which he waited. The footsteps were clumsy and uncertain. There were frequent stumbles. He could tell that the man coming up was drunk and unsteady, anxious to reach his room and tumble into bed. It would make his task just that much easier, if not quite so satisfying. He would have preferred the other sober and fully aware of what was about to happen. He would rather the fear reflected in his eyes and voice not be dulled by drink.

But you couldn’t always have things the way you wanted them. If you could, the events that created the reason for his being here would never have come to pass.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairway. Soundlessly, Arcannen rose and moved to stand just behind the door. The man without fumbled with the handle, and the door swung inward. When the man was inside the room, Arcannen quietly closed the door behind him. The man turned back unsteadily, peering at the dark shape behind him, unable to focus.

“Who is it?” He slurred his words, swayed unsteadily. “What do you want?”

“I want you, Desset,” Arcannen answered.

Desset tried to scream, but Arcannen grabbed him, muffling his cries with one hand, bearing him backward onto his rumpled bed, pushing him down until he was pinned, his eyes wide with fear, his body quaking in the sorcerer’s strong grip.

“Shhh, shhhh,” Arcannen whispered. “There’s no point in trying to scream. I took your voice so we wouldn’t be disturbed. Do you know what’s going to happen to you, Desset? Of course you do. It’s what happens to all traitors sooner or later. I hope the last few weeks of your life was worth what you did.”

Climbing atop the other man, he pinned his arms and took his head gently in both hands, lifting it so that they could see into each other’s eyes clearing. Desset was thrashing feebly beneath him, and tiny whimpers were coming from his throat as he fought to scream for help.

Arcannen smiled down at him as he cradled his head. “You knew the price you would pay for betraying me, didn’t you? Or was it just bad luck that it worked out this way? Were you only interested in destroying Arbrox? No, they wouldn’t pay you well enough for that. Something, for certain, but much more for me. You couldn’t pass up the chance to get your hands on that kind of money. All you had to do was make certain I died along with all of the others. Those people were my friends, Desset. They sheltered and protected me. They helped me when no one else would. And now, because of you, they are all dead.”

Arcannen paused. “And now you can join them.”

Tightening his hands on Desset’s head, he wrenched it sharply to one side and then quickly the other way. He could feel the neck bones giving way; he could hear them cracking and snapping. Desset shuddered and clenched and finally went still.

Arcannen released the dead man’s head and stood up. That wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he would have liked, but killing seldom was. It was a task performed out of necessity, and while the act itself could be fulfilling, the aftermath seldom induced any sort of euphoria. It was so here. The sorcerer was already thinking beyond what he had just done to what still needed doing.

He pulled a length of cord from a pouch at his waist, tied one end tightly around Desset’s neck, and formed a loop at the other end. Then he shouldered the dead man, climbed atop the chair to gain the necessary height, and, after removing the lamp, slung the open loop over the ceiling hook and left Desset hanging.

Then he seated himself, printed a few words on a piece of paper, and attached them to Desset’s body. He studied his handiwork for a few moments more, watching the dead man swing gently from the ceiling hook as a breeze through the window caught his body in a twisting motion.

Now we will see, he thought.

Then he went out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.

It was shortly after dawn the following morning when Dallen Usurient, Commander of the Red Slash division of the Federation army, climbed those same stairs behind the officer who had summoned him and entered Desset’s quarters. Desset’s body still hung from the ceiling hook, lifeless and beginning to smell as the day’s heat reached it. Usurient saw the note pinned to the body right away and walked over for a look.

He read the note carefully and stepped back again, his face dark with anger.

“Do you know what it means, sir?” the officer who had summoned him asked quietly.

Usurient nodded. He knew exactly what it meant.

WE ARE COMING FOR YOU.

ARBROX.

He looked at the officer. “It means Arcannen is still alive.”

NINE

ARCANNEN, IN THE MEANWHILE, STOOD OUTSIDE A LARGE RESidential building that was colorful and ornate, its wooden siding and trim painted in soft pinks and greens. It sat on the outskirts of the village of Hennish, which was not far from the much larger city of Wayford where Arcannen had made his home until the Druids had driven him out. It was several hours after sunrise, and he had flown all night to get here. He’d had no sleep and he was tired, but his visit couldn’t wait.

He could see the girls moving about inside the pink-and-green building and hear their chatter and laughter. Some of them, at least, were up early. Perhaps they had chores. Perhaps suitors. Business would commence whenever a customer came calling, and assigned chores must be completed before then.

Yet this was not a pleasure house and these girls were not here to be used. This was the House of Rare Flowers. The sign over the veranda boldly declared it, and everyone who knew of its existence knew its purpose.

He watched awhile longer, readying himself for his encounter with Corussin, who was the proprietor of this establishment. They had done business before, and they knew each other well. They were friends, after a fashion. But both possessed strong personalities and harbored grand ambitions, and each wanted to feel in these business transactions that he had gotten the better of the other.

Arcannen could not see the guards, but he knew they were everywhere. Corussin was not the sort of man who took chances. It was easy enough to walk into the House of Rare Flowers, but if you broke the rules or did anything inappropriate while you were there, it wasn’t always so easy to walk out again.

Finally, Corussin stepped through the doorway onto the veranda and stood looking at him for a moment, hands on hips. The proprietor was a small, slender man, well groomed and finely dressed. His long black hair was an affectation he had embraced years ago, his tresses falling in waves to his waist. For a time, he had worn a beard, as well, but he appeared to have abandoned that.