Wynn was already asleep under her blanket in the wagon's back, and Chap curled up against her. Even sleeping, the little sage's presence brought some comfort, though he felt uncertain what her place was in all this. It would have been far easier to keep his secrets without her constant curiosity about him. He no longer had complete faith in his own actions, but he had come to one decision of which his kin might not approve.

Although he could simply force Magiere from this path, he would not. And it was clear that he was unable to dissuade her. In spite of nightmare visions while under the undead sorcerer's spell, or perhaps because of them, he would help Magiere complete this journey.

At the very least it was the quickest way to remove her from this land and give them all a little more time before events started moving forward too quickly. And if they found Cuirin'nen'a-Leesil's mother, Nein'a as he called her- this might help to balance things as well.

The enemy was aware and watching. This was one of the few certainties left to Chap.

He would go with Magiere, face whatever came of her discoveries, and do what was possible in the aftermath. He would finish what he had started when he had connected Magiere's path to Leesil's.

Chap would have to trust Magiere, and trust Leesil… or at least trust in what he had created between them.

Chapter 13

T he patron in Welstiel's dreams sensed that he had fed, knew he was stronger, and whispered to him throughout his dormant hours.

The sister of the dead will lead you.

Welstiel was roused by Chane's soft knock on the door. He awoke disoriented, as he always did when communing with the roiling serpent coils. He looked about before remembering they had procured rooms at a decent inn. His door was locked, and he climbed from the bed to let Chane in.

His companion was already dressed in a white shirt and midnight-blue tunic. His height filled the doorway. He took in Welstiel's disheveled appearance and stepped back. "Forgive me. I assumed you were up."

"Come in," Welstiel said. "I will scry for the dhampir. It is possible she has not given up yet, stubborn as she is, but I prefer to keep track of her presence. You will not mind a few more nights here?"

"This isn't Bela, but any city is a pleasant change nonetheless."

Welstiel retrieved the brass dish and his knife, and sat at the table. Replenished as he was, all recent scars from cuts had faded, leaving the stub of his left little finger smooth. He cut it again and allowed a drop to strike the center of dish's dome as he chanted.

The droplet shivered. It slid and stopped a thumbnail's distance down the dome toward the east.

"No," Welstiel whispered, staring at the tiny trail. "Why would she head farther east?"

The direction was more disturbing than the fact that Magiere had slipped away again. Welstiel knew of nothing east of Keonsk connected to her past. Only he had a history back in that accursed place.

There was no way she could have found a lead to take her there-to him-even if that withered madman was still there after so many decades.

Chane walked over. "What has happened?"

"She is going to Apudalsat, the village of Water Downs," Welstiel said, only vaguely aware of his companion's question.

Magiere was headed into the Sclaven province. In Welstiel's youth, it was the first noble house his father had served upon arriving in this country, this continent. At the keep near Apudalsat, on the edge of the vast swamps of the Everfen, Bryen had come home one night with a withered old Suman in shimmering charcoal robes and an eyeless mask.

Magiere was headed straight for Ubad.

"What are you talking about?" Chane asked.

"Quiet and let me think," he snapped.

Welstiel stared at the droplet's trail. How could Magiere have learned of Ubad?

Chane crouched down by his chair, following his gaze. "Should I try to slow her down again? Do you need to reach this place first?"

Welstiel pondered this. No, it would do no good to race her to this destination. Such frantic activity would only alert Ubad, and Welstiel had no intention of giving his own presence away.

"No, that will not help this time," he answered. "Nothing will dissuade her, but we need to catch her and stay close. Magiere heads for a danger she has no way to deal with."

He looked at Chane.

"From within the shadows, we must protect her," Welstiel added, "as you protected your little sage."

At this pointed mention of Wynn, Welstiel thought he saw a flicker of pain on Chane's face. If so, it quickly passed.

"Of course," Chane answered, and headed for the door. "I will pack the horses."

Welstiel knew his companion's prime concern was the young sage. The mere suggestion that Wynn was in peril was enough to secure Chane's compliance. But only Magiere mattered, and she was determined to seek her answers to a ruinous end. However, Welstiel knew Magiere, and Ubad did not. She was not easily manipulated. All Welstiel could do now was to be there in the shadows and shield her from Ubad as best he could.

Chane's preparations would take a short while, and Welstiel sank down on bed, his mind drifting back to a night at the keep above Chemestuk. He looked at the orb of three flittering lights upon on the desk. It had been with him from the beginning of this existence. He remembered fear from long ago… fear of his own father.

Several nights after he'd watched his father and Ubad cut the dwarf's throat and drain his blood into the vat, Welstiel sat in his upper-floor room of the keep, trying to study.

Ubad repulsed him, but over the many years, Welstiel played the game of master and disciple with his father's lackey, increasing his skill in conjury through artificing. Spells, though versatile, were of such limited nature. Ritual, though powerful, was not as lasting as the making of an object. On his desk sat his most recent creation, a frosted glass globe resting in an iron pedestal. Within it flittered three sparks bright enough to illuminate the room in a dim glow. It required no oil or flame but instead imprisoned conjured elements of the simplest nature. Not Fay but lesser bonded elemental of Fire and Air, subdued to the command of the orb's possessor. If one Fay were the sun, these pricks of light were but winking distant stars in the night sky.

Still, he was pleased with it.

Leaning against his four-poster bed was one of his first creations, a falchion, its blade imbued with an essence deadly to the undead. Given his father's blind trust of the necromancer, Welstiel felt the need for protection. He had learned in private to depend upon himself alone.

Focusing on his notes was difficult with images of the crates' bloodied contents slipping into his thoughts. Magelia was locked in one of the smaller cellar rooms below and would have heard the struggles and wails from her chamber. Before retiring, Welstiel made certain the servants brought her water and food, but he did not stay to see her himself.

He avoided the cellar, as his father had conscripted a stone mason and three workers from a neighboring town to wall off the passage's end and the seventh room. When the workers finished, they would not return home.

A knock sounded on his door, but he did not wish to see anyone. "Who is it?"

"I need to speak with you," came Lord Bryen Massing's voice from out in the hallway.

Welstiel reluctantly arose and opened his chamber door.

His father looked worn and wild, hair disheveled around his pale face. His white shirt was soiled and untucked, hanging loose over his breeches, and he wore no tunic or sword.

"Are you all right?" Welstiel asked, though it was now difficult to even fake concern.

His father had not come to this room since they arrived at the keep, and his presence was unsettling for some reason. Bryen stepped in, and Welstiel backed out of his way before closing the door.