The sight pained him.

She had taken so long to accept that her dhampir nature was no threat to him. When it became too strong for her, he was the only one she recognized, the only one she let near her. But somewhere deep inside, a part of her still feared harming him.

Leesil grabbed her forearms and pulled her back against himself. She was shivering, and her skin felt cold and clammy.

"You're all right," he whispered.

"I saw it again…," she hissed out. "The ice… the castle… we have to go south."

Magiere's eyes wandered until her gaze locked on the shuttered window across their room. She got up, pulling one blanket around herself, and Leesil didn't try to stop her. She opened the shutters and leaned out, looking left.

Leesil knew she was staring at the harbored ship again, as she'd done a dozen times each day.

"When will we ever get out of here?" Magiere said.

"Soon," Leesil answered, desperate to give her ease. "Sgaile said just a few more days."

"I… we need to go," she whispered, and hung her head.

Leesil came up behind her at the window, not knowing what else to say or do. He pressed against her back and slipped his arms around her waist, his hands sliding inside the blanket across the curves of hipbones and stomach.

Magiere straightened, hands tight on the sill. Then she leaned back, and he buried his face in her hair. He finally lifted his face as she rolled her head to the right, and he found her staring into the dark-but not toward the bay. Her lips parted in one soundless word.

South.

Time slipped by like water rippling over stones. Chane woke upon the floor near the entryway's hearth. Welstiel would soon expect him upstairs to begin his nightly vigil.

Chane could not bring himself to go just yet. Pushing up on all fours, he listened to hungry cries rolling down the stairway from above. They always grew louder at dusk.

Longing for a hunt grew inside him at each muffled wail-and false hunger grew as well. He snatched a small twig from the hearth with a clinging bit of flame, climbed to his feet, and stepped through the passage to the back workroom. A lantern rested upon the nearest table beneath hanging branches of drying herbs. He lit it and then snuffed out the smoldering twig.

Several nights earlier, he'd noticed dark archways in the workroom's rear, but he'd felt no desire to pass through any of them to explore the monastery further.

Tonight, he could not bring himself to go upstairs just yet, so he turned toward the workroom's rear left corner and slipped through the dark opening in the wall.

Part of him recoiled from going farther and learning what he already feared… that this monastery might be more than some forgotten cloister of deluded priests.

Doorways lined the passage, but before he paused to open even one, his gaze caught on the darkness at the passage's end where his lantern's light did not reach. He saw a doorless opening, and a dark space beyond it.

Chane slowed with each step as his light pierced the portal and illuminated an old corner table. A rack anchored on the wall displayed rows of tiny bottles, vials, and clay containers, all of varied shape and height and sealed with cork stoppers or hinged pot-metal lids. A pile of small leather-bound books sat on the table, along with a scroll on an aged wooden spindle.

He froze at arm's length from the opening, staring at these bits of paraphernalia.

At first, the odor of the place, so faint and overmixed, made it difficult to pick out individual scents. Herbs, floral oils, burned wax, old leather, musty dry paper and parchment…

He did not want to enter, but he could not turn away, and finally he forced himself into the room.

Other small tables lined the side walls, each covered in a disorder of implements, metal vessels, and varied texts. Chane's attention fell upon a wide table at the room's left end with a worn, slat-backed chair behind it.

He was in a study, perhaps the chamber of whoever headed this place, and he spotted a grayed wooden door just beyond the bookshelf against the right wall. It stood slightly ajar, as if someone in a hurry had forgotten to close it completely. But Chane turned back to the makeshift desk, circling around beside its chair.

Loose parchments, aged bound sheaves, and even older scrolls lay scattered across the tabletop. He settled in the chair and opened a small text directly in front of him-a thick journal written in an old Stravinan dialect. As he turned page after page, reading entries that had little to do with practices of healing, he found whole chapters in other languages. Each such was written in a singular hand, as if the journal had passed from one person to another over many years.

This forgotten stone enclave housed an order of healers. More monks than actual priests, they followed the teachings of some long-forgotten patron saint, a healer who had wandered this continent long ago. This was the sanctuary of the Sluzhobnek Sutzits-the Servants of Compassion.

Chane stared about the room, and his gaze returned to the gray wood door left ajar. He had come this far and knew he could not turn back until he had seen all that lay here. He lifted the lantern, rounded the table, and pulled the gray door open wide. Dim light spilled into the space beyond.

Bookcases were arranged in rows with their ends against the back wall so that both sides of the shelves could be used, and their tops had been anchored to the stone ceiling.

The library was not large, little more than what he had seen in smaller noble houses during his living days. But he was not looking at handsomely bound volumes, most of which would never be read by the great lord or lady of the manor. No, everything here had an aura of age and sanctity, carefully preserved and arranged, from cylinders protecting scrolls to plain leather overlaps shielding the page edges of books. These were all meant to be used-had been used-treasured and guarded.

Chane's eyes passed over endnotes of sheaves, book spines, and faded labels on scroll cases, picking out what he could read in Belaskian or contemporary Stravinan.

The two easiest to catch were Process of Distillation and Infusion and Spices of the Suman Lands-Properties, Verified amp; Fallacious. With effort he deciphered The Early Works of Master Evar Voskoviskan, then… something upon the Meadow, and a thin book called The Seven Leaves of… its final word wasn't clear. The last thing he spotted was a multivolumed set in a case labeled The Antithesis Tome, with Commentaries, Volumes 1 through 8.

Chane backed up until his shoulder thumped the door frame. He spun away into the outer room, sliding down the wall to the floor, and the lantern slipped from his fingers.

It tottered over and rolled away. Melted wax spattered around its glass, spilled over the wick, and snuffed out the light.

How many moments had Chane fancied himself in a faraway place in Wynn's world, filled with intellect and knowledge? Someplace just like this small forgotten monastery-until madness and a monster broke in upon it one night.

Chane pulled up his knees, curling his arms up over his aching skull. Drowning in sorrow, he could not shed a single tear.

The dead could not weep.

Avranvard, the Meadow's Song, ran through the dark streets of Ghoivne Ajhajhe, her thick braid bouncing against her back as she hurried for her ship.

Twice since reaching harbor, the hkomas-the ship's master-had chastised her for dawdling while on errands. She had no wish to hear his tiresome rant again. Given any other option, she would tell him to find a new steward and keep his tedious lectures to himself.

Tonight, she had made good time in her tasks, procuring his precious quills, ink, and parchment-and at a reasonable trade of one short rope and six candles. That should keep him quiet this time. With a moment to herself, she stopped and anxiously scanned the streets.