"You do not have to be alone," she said. "Someday, you will tell us why you are here."

Wynn stroked Chap's head until the fire burned down to glowing coals of orange.

Chane expected the old soldier to lead them to some great conference hall and was surprised when they were escorted into a side passage and up a narrow staircase. At its top was a corridor running both ways. Directly across from it was a plain door. The soldier opened it and ushered them in before retreating, closing the door behind him.

It was a small room of polished wood walls, furnished more comfortably than what Chane had seen of the castle so far. Thick rugs of local weave covered the floor, and a painting of armored cavalry racing though the Droevinkan forest hung upon the rightmost wall. The sight of such artwork in this dismal country seemed garishly out of place.

Candles as thick and tall as his forearm were ht around the room upon small tables or stands of iron. Two large mahogany chairs sat by a small fireplace that must have been constructed in more recent times. Keeps this old rarely held more than the one hearth in a main hall. A small desk sat to the right of the hearth, and a narrow bookcase to its left. On a table beside the chairs were a quill and inkwell.

In those chairs sat a man and a woman. Chane assumed the former was Baron Cezar Buscan. He was enormous in height and girth, and wore a dark blue night robe that stretched around his middle. His bush of a black beard reached his chest, but his head was shiny and bald except for a circlet of dark hair running around back between his temples. His ruddy complexion reminded Chane of his father's wealthy friends who drank too much brandy.

The woman was such a stark contrast that she put Chane on guard. In both his mortal and undead existence, he had known many lovely women. Sitting near Buscan was the most striking beauty he'd ever seen. She stood up to greet the two visitors.

Neither slight nor voluptuous, her small stature was distinctly curved beneath a silk, coffee-brown dress, unusually light for this chill country, cut to resemble a robe and sealed down the front by a long row of brass clasps. A scarlet cord tied about her waist. The first two clasps were unfixed, leaving her exposed from her throat to the tops of her breasts. A teardrop bloodstone hung upon a brass chain about her neck and rested in the hollow of her cleavage. Her dark red hair was not dressed like a lady of court, but hung past her shoulders in a thousand spirals. Green eyes watched Chane below a smooth brow.

She smiled a greeting with one finger tracing the edge of her neckline, causing it to dip briefly.

Lord Buscan rose with some difficulty. He was older than Chane had guessed.

"Welstiel?" Buscan said.

The baron paused too long, eyeing Chane's companion, as if doubting his own eyes. Chane looked at Welstiel and realized what troubled the baron. If it had been many years since Welstiel's last presence in this land, how much had the baron aged since those days to now stand before someone who appeared not to have aged at all?

"It has been so long, we thought you dead," Buscan said. "You look… quite well. " He gestured to the woman, voice tinged with pride. "Osceline, my consort."

The woman smiled again, her tiny teeth white and perfect. She bowed her head slightly without taking her eyes off the visitors.

Welstiel stepped closer, picking up the feather quill on Buscan's chair-side table to examine it.

"A guard at the city gate told me Prince Rodek is not here, and that you hold no audiences with other nobles."

Buscan shrugged his bulky shoulders. "Uncertain times require extra precautions. When did you take up this new interest in the affairs of our state?"

"It is late," Osceline said. "Perhaps you could tell us why you've come?"

Her voice was clear and light, like notes from a flute. Chane watched the gently beating pulse in her pale throat.

Welstiel put the quill back down. "I am collecting records pertaining to my family. For the time we served the Antes, this was the place to begin, as your house currently rules the nation. If you have such, I need to see them."

"Is that all?" Buscan appeared relieved. "Oh, but I fear I can't help you in this. There are no records."

Welstiel folded his hands behind his back and beneath his cloak. The baron's answer was obviously insufficient, as he stared into Buscan's eyes.

"Any records are fewer than fifteen winters old," Buscan explained. "We tried to create a central archive to secure all documents. There was an insurrection by the Maghyar when Prince Demitri of the Serboe completed his term. A fourth of the city was razed, along with the judiciary building, and all the records inside were lost in a fire."

Chane couldn't tell if Welstiel was pleased or troubled by this news. Osceline wandered away to the polished round table below the painting.

"You are certain there is nothing left?" Welstiel asked.

The baron shook his head. "If that is all you came for, your journey has been for nothing."

Chane heard a hissing whisper, and turned his head toward the sound. Osceline was chanting, eyes fixed upon Welstiel and Buscan.

Before Chane could call out a warning, Welstiel's hand lashed out from behind his back at Buscan's chest. His hand jerked sideways, missing the baron entirely. There was a short dagger in his grip.

Buscan's teeth clenched, and his brow furrowed in anger.

He lunged for the hearth's mantel, and Chane saw a long war knife resting there in its sheath.

Chane swung out, catching a thick candle upon its stand, and slapped it toward Osceline. The wick snuffed, and the thick wax cylinder struck the side of her face. Her chanting ceased as she toppled against the wall and slid to the floor.

"Now!" Chane yelled at Welstiel.

Welstiel drove his blade through Buscan's back with enough force that the man's head struck the mantel's edge. When Welstiel jerked the blade out, Buscan stumbled back to crumple into the chair Osceline had been using. Welstiel closed on him, but the baron's eyes rolled toward his consort.

"Don't!" he cried out. "Not her… please."

Chane was already focused upon the floor beneath Osceline, and he began drawing the lines and figures in his mind to overlay what he saw. As her eyes met Buscan's gaze, she cringed in pain. Anguish marred her creamy features for an instant before they creased with hatred as she glared at Welstiel.

"No!" she shouted, and then her attention fixed on the low thrum of Chane's chant.

Through the encircled triangle Chane envisioned, he saw Osceline's eyes snap closed and her clenched fist raise before her face. She called out a single word Chane didn't catch, and her hand opened, fingers splayed wide.

Light exploded in Chane's vision, as if every candle in the room flared suddenly. Everything turned white, and the pain came too quickly for Chane to suppress. It shattered his focus and the rhythm of his incantation.

He rubbed his eyes, and slowly the dim swirling colors faded from his flash-blinded sight. Welstiel was in a similar state, but Buscan sat limp in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as he struggled to breathe.

Osceline was gone.

Welstiel shoved his blade through Buscan's chest.

The baron buckled under the blow, expelling a groan as air was forced from his lungs. Before his head dropped forward, Welstiel hurried to where Osceline had been. He thumped systematically on the wall's wooden planks. At a hollow sound, he stepped back and kicked out hard.

One plank snapped inward under his boot to reveal a space beyond it. He did not bother to look for a catch to open the hidden panel, and instead tore out the adjoining planks with his hands.

"Go after her," Welstiel said. "She must not speak to anyone!"