Bryen approached the desk and perused its contents, though he touched none of it. He stood in silence so long that Welstiel wondered what troubled a… man… who could commit the kind of butchery done below the keep.

"It's time, my son," Bryen said, his back still turned. 'Time for you to join me."

"Join you? It's rather late to be going out."

Welstiel saw him nod distractedly, still staring at the desk.

"Yes, late," Bryen agreed, and reached out to brush the globe of lights with his fingertips. "Late for what should have been done long ago. But you were always so connected to the things of your world. Now, I need you to join me in mine."

Welstiel's disquiet grew, and he stepped toward his bed.

"Do not try to draw that falchion," his father said without turning around. "I understand why you made it, but leave it now. My gift for you makes it unnecessary."

"I do not want your gift. " Welstiel shook his head. "I have no intention of becoming like you."

"I… Our patron needs you. He whispers his plans, and you play such a part, my son. You are so honored."

In less than a breath, Bryen suddenly stood between Welstiel and the bed… the falchion. His irises were clear and crystalline, and disquiet turned to fear in Welstiel. He bolted for the door. One step was all he took before a strong hand gripped the back of his neck.

Welstiel twisted and swung, and his knuckles collided with cold flesh and bone that did not flinch. "No!" he shouted, swinging again. "Father… no!"

Bryen clamped a hand around Welstiel's arm like a manacle, pinning it down. Air rushed out of Welstiel's chest as he was slammed to the floor.

He remembered yelling for the guards, clawing out for the falchion, kicking wildly to throw his father's weight off. The chamber door open again, and Master Ubad slid in to stand above him.

"Remember, Bryen," Ubad rasped out. "Forget the old superstitions. You need only drain him so quickly that his essence is trapped as his body dies. That is all. Your close presence as he dies will pull him beyond death and-if his will and spirit are strong enough-he will rise by next nightfall."

Lord Massing's face was savage and cruel. Welstiel saw extending fangs and thickening teeth press his father's jaws apart. They slipped from sight as Bryen leaned down and bit into Welstiel's throat. Welstiel bucked again, still trying to throw his father off.

"Don't!" was the last word he managed to speak.

"Our patron has great plans for you," Ubad said to him. "A bride and a daughter."

Pain smothered awareness until it, too, numbed in a growing chill that filled Welstiel's body more quickly than darkness filled his sight.

When his eyes opened again, he was lying on the floor of his room in his own feces and urine, stinking like an unwashed peasant after his dying body released its waste. It took moments for him to realize he no longer breathed, and panic made him suck in a mouthful of air.

Breath brought no calm-or any effect at all. His body felt cold and distant as the stone walls of his room.

Heightened anxiety widened his senses. He heard the thrum of a spider as it worked its web in the ceiling corner. He sat up, clothing sticking to him with filth, and he saw his father and Ubad by the door, watching him. At their feet was a grimy peasant girl, bound and gagged, eyes wild with fear. How long had he lain in this room?

Welstiel felt the girl's body heat.

The sight of her… the scent of her warmed flesh made him feel… starved.

"Come, my son," Bryen said. "Instinct will guide you. Put aside thought of last night. There will be time enough for that. Now, you must feed."

Welstiel could not remember his father ever speaking to him with this mild taint of compassion. The night before, he would have given much for a kind word. Now he did not care for anything…

… only the warm flesh beneath the girl's jaw where it flexed with the soft rhythm of her pulse.

He crawled at first, forgetting the stench of his own flesh, and then scrambled like an animal on all fours, rushing across the room. The girl squirmed in her bonds. She tried to scream through the gag as he fell on her, sinking his teeth into her throat until blood flowed into his clumsy mouth.

Strength and comfort filled him, and then a peace that was wholly unsettling. He stopped gulping and slowly swallowed the pleasure on his tongue.

When Welstiel could take in no more, he raised his head to look down at the body clenched in his arms.

The girl's eyes were open. Her jaw slacked around the gag. Her throat was a torn and mangled mess, and blood had run across her face and soaked into her loose dress. Her heart beat twice and stopped.

Welstiel looked down at himself. His shirt was soaked with blood. His heightened sense of smell took in its coppery scent amid the stench of his own wastes. He dropped the corpse and rolled away to huddle on the floor by the bed.

"What have you done to me?" he cried.

But Welstiel knew the answer. There would be no return to light and life. Nothing in his arcane arts could ever rectify this.

"How could you?" he whispered.

Ubad glided to Welstiel's desk and poured fresh water into a basin. He picked up clean towels and came to Welstiel.

"Remove those clothes and clean yourself. Your father needs you."

"Get away from me. Both of you."

"Do as he says," Bryen ordered. "Your bride is waiting."

Chapter 14

W inter was not far off, and dense muck upon the roads made the journey to Apudalsat longer than expected. Or so it seemed.

The first time Wynn insisted upon taking her turn at the reins, Leesil was surprised, and Magiere was openly concerned. Did they think her so helpless that she couldn't drive a team of gentle, well-trained horses?

"I'm not so sure-," Leesil started.

"I have spent more time with horses than you have. " Wynn cut him off. "And with far less complaint about them."

Leesil scowled at her and crawled into the wagon's back to give her room to come forward. Wynn climbed onto the wagon's bench, taking the reins Magiere held out. When Magiere stayed upon the seat beside her, Wynn shot her a glare…

"I will be fine," she said in an overly polite tone. "You should take some rest, as well."

"I'm not tired," Magiere answered, eyes ahead on the road.

She had barely spoken those words when Wynn jumped as Leesil wrapped his arms around Magiere's waist.

"Hey!" Magiere snapped, but it was too late.

Leesil heaved, and Wynn ducked aside as Magiere tumbled backward into the wagon's bed.

"Leesil, dammit!" Magiere snarled. "What do you think?"

That was all she said, and Wynn did not look back to see how Leesil had silenced her. Leesil's mood, if not Magiere's, had oddly improved since the morning they left KЈonsk.

Chap scrambled up on the bench beside Wynn and settled there with a low grumble.

Aside from this one moment, their passage was peaceful, though the nights grew colder and the roads more troublesome as they reached the marshy region of eastern Droevinka. They pressed on for several days, sometimes starting before dawn and not stopping until well after dusk.

Like Leesil's, Chap's demeanor had altered. He was not his old self, begging or grouching about meals, but he had become more compliant. No longer growling each time Magiere mentioned their journey's purpose, he remained silent. Wynn was uncertain what disturbed her more, his change of attitude or his constant watchfulness as he gazed all day into the thickening wilderness. She often tried to discern what he watched at any particular moment. She saw little, hearing only croaking frogs, an occasional plop of something surfacing in a pond or marsh, or the far-off screech of a bird. The stench of a bog assaulted her nose now and again.