Besides, he lived in the ruins of a village to which no one came.

Or hadn’t before now. But come they would, and very soon. He had made sure of that—all part of his plan to provide Dallen Usurient with an irresistible opportunity to bring the Red Slash back to the coast to find him. Not that he expected Usurient himself would do so. No, Usurient would take a different approach, one less obvious to those watching for it. He would send someone other than himself, reluctant to make a return trip if it wasn’t necessary, believing that hunting down and killing off Arcannen could be achieved without his personal involvement. He would send men skilled at the sort of undertaking with which he would task them, their orders clear and their destination determined through the rumors and reports with which he had provided them.

And they would journey to their doom.

But that was all part of the game, and Arcannen loved nothing better than contests of wit and machinations and, ultimately, surprises.

He covered the Sprint with a canvas that was the exact same mottled gray-and-brown as the rocks within which it nestled and began the walk back to the remains of the village. All about him, the damp and the gray bore down in a heavy shroud. The wind whipped about him fiercely, constantly changing direction and force, a wild thing that nothing could contain. Ahead, the crashing of waves against the rocks was a steady booming that drowned out the rest of the world’s sounds.

By now, he was thinking, Usurient would have begun the process of choosing the men he would send and providing the equipment and supplies they would need. By now an expedition would have been mounted, and if it had not already been dispatched it soon would be.

He must prepare for them. He must anticipate their arrival and their intentions in ways that would allow him to dispose of them quickly.

The seeds were planted, he assured himself. He had planted them himself. It would be interesting to discover what sort of crop they would yield.

Arcannen was, at heart, a fatalist. He believed that most of what happened was predestined and that his own involvement was preordained. Life offered opportunities, and you made the choices that were demanded of you. To some extent, you influenced the results of what happened—but never completely and not always in the ways you anticipated. You had to accept that much of life was chance and luck, and so you rode that sea of the unexpected and unanticipated from the moment you were born until the moment you died. Sometimes the ride was smooth and easy, but often it was rough. The intangibles always dictated the outcome in ways you could not entirely predict or alter.

So it was that his plans for Usurient and the Red Slash were fluid. He would arrive where he needed to be, but the journey would not go entirely according to his wishes.

He wondered suddenly how things were proceeding with the boy and Lariana. She was clever, that one. She had already won the boy’s heart; he was so in love—even if he did not realize it—that his choices hereafter would begin and end with her. She was every bit as clever and manipulative as Arcannen had believed she would be. He was pleased enough with how she had handled herself that he decided he would give her instruction in the use of magic and perhaps even agree to take her on as his apprentice. He would have given that honor to Leofur had she not spurned him, but that was all water under the bridge now. And Lariana might prove the better choice in any case.

As he closed on the ruins, he saw nothing of the happy couple. Nestled inside, he imagined, perhaps sharing secrets in ways that he had given up on long ago. Young love—such a tender, wonderful thing. Such an attractive nuisance. It stole away your reason; it ensnared your common sense in euphoric dreams. Useful here, however. In the end, it would net him what he needed to fulfill his plans for revenge against his enemies.

When he reached the sealed door and released the locks, there was still no sign of them. Down the hallway and into his quarters he proceeded, listening for the sound of their voices. When he heard them, he slowed automatically to listen. But their words were low and indistinct.

On entering his quarters, he found them sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea and smiling at each other. Good enough, he thought. “Well met, young friends,” he said cheerfully. “Reyn, are you rested and fed?”

The boy nodded, sharing a look with the girl. Oh, rested and fed, indeed, the sorcerer thought.

“Is your business concluded?” Lariana asked. “Did things go well?”

He moved over to stand next to them. “Unfortunately, not all went as well as I had expected. Word has gotten out that I am living in these ruins or somewhere close by. I had hoped that a tighter lock might be kept on loose lips, but it hasn’t worked out that way. I expect I am compromised.”

Lariana gave him a direct look. “What does that mean exactly?”

“If means that Usurient and the Red Slash will soon know—if they don’t already—where I am.”

“They will come here?” the boy demanded.

“Not right away. And not Usurient. He will send someone else.”

“He will send assassins,” Lariana said.

He was pleased at how quickly she caught on. “I imagine so. He will choose a handful of killers to hunt me down, keeping at a distance so that no blame will attach to him. If that fails, then he will come himself.”

“Maybe we should leave,” Reyn suggested. “There are other places we could hide.”

“And other places we could be found. No, Reyn. Running away isn’t the answer. The hunting won’t stop unless we make it stop.” He was purposeful in using we rather than I. “We will make our stand here.”

The boy exchanged a look with Lariana. “How do we do that?”

Arcannen smiled reassuringly. “Well, in the first place, I’m not going to ask you to use the wishsong to help protect us. Not in a way that requires you to hurt anyone, at least. So you needn’t worry about that. Mostly, you need to keep your eyes open for the men Usurient will send. When they come, I will deal with them myself.”

“But if we are threatened,” Lariana interrupted quickly, turning now to the boy, “we may have to defend ourselves. So there is no guarantee you won’t have to use your magic that way. Does that frighten you?”

Arcannen could hear the challenge in her voice. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance. This was what made her so valuable to him. She anticipated everything so well.

“I will do what I have to,” the boy said at once. “But I would not like it if I had to hurt anyone.”

Lariana nodded. “I would not like that, either. But it seems we are fated to be hunted by these people.” She turned to Arcannen. “These are the same people who massacred the population of Arbrox, aren’t they? They will treat us the same way.”

Arcannen nodded. “And there are others we need to fear, as well. The Druids hate us, too. They fear my use of magic will somehow compromise them. They wish to stop me completely from using it. Understand. Not only do we need to protect ourselves now, but we also need to find a way to prevent this harassment—this persecution—from continuing. We need to persuade all of these people to leave us alone. Because once they find out the truth about you, Reyn, they will come after you, too. Just as they did in Portlow. You can’t allow that to continue.”

“I know.” The boy nodded slowly. He had already begun to come around to the mind-set Arcannen wished him to assume. “But how do we do that?”

“Can you tell us?” Lariana asked quickly, anticipating once again what was needed.

Arcannen stepped away from the table. “I can do better than that. I can show you. Come with me.”

Paxon Leah was exercising alone in the training yard, working his way through a series of complex defensive maneuvers, when Keratrix found him. He was stripped to the waist, sweating in the hot sun, enjoying the strain on his body as he whipped the Sword of Leah from left counter to right thrust, blocking and counterattacking, twisting and turning his shoulders and arms in a mock battle against an invisible enemy. Most of the moves he was employing had been taught to him by Oost Mondara over the past five years, skills he had studied, practiced, and finally mastered in his continuing efforts to make himself more deserving of his designation as the High Druid’s Blade. He was so deeply enmeshed in his efforts that it was some time before he noticed that the scribe was standing off to one side watching him.