Magiere sat there for a long time. Leesil kept quiet as well, waiting.

"It wasn't your life," she whispered. "Just the one forced on you by birth."

As Leesil watched, her gaze became empty and hollow. Her words came from somewhere other than this moment. She shook herself, clenching her eyes briefly as she did.

"Your mother married a human," she said. "Do you know how strange that sounds? Elves keep to themselves for the most part, and I've never even heard of one working for a human lord. Not as an assassin, let alone a slave."

"My parents never talked about that, though a few times I tried to ask. I don't know much beyond what I've told you."

"So they're still there and…"-she stopped and then spit out the words-"killing for Darmouth. Why didn't they leave as well? They no longer needed to protect you. Or is there something else they stayed for?"

"Magiere…" he began, and then dropped his head, frustrated.

She'd never fully understand the world he'd come from. He kept his words quiet and detached.

"Slaves, remember? And always under a watchful eye-hostages. That was the chain Darmouth used to bind my family. You don't think about what you do. You just do it, and stay alive, and keep those who depend on you alive. But I couldn't kill anymore, and I ran."

This time he was the one to turn away, sitting on the bedside with his head down and eyes closed. For all the lives he'd taken, the last two were the ones he locked away so carefully they'd not even entered his nightmares.

"You did the right thing," Magiere offered.

"The right thing?" Leesil spit without looking at her. "They're dead, Magiere! My parents… I ran. And so now they're dead."

That was the end of it. He'd never spoken this to anyone, yet he'd told the one person who should have never known.

Where would he go, now that this life with Magiere was at an end?

He sat with eyes closed, not wanting to see her leave. It was better that when he opened them again, she was simply gone.

The sound of tapping metal reached his ears, and he realized she'd picked up her sword. He listened to her footsteps around the bed as she headed for the door. There came another soft tap of metal on wood, closer.

Fingers slid lightly up his cheeks to comb through his hair until palms settled upon his temples.

Opening his eyes with his head still down, Leesil saw the tin basin resting on the floor at Magiere's feet between her crouched legs. He heard her breath close to his face as her forehead touched his.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for telling me."

With his wrist bandaged tightly, Chane stepped from a coach into one of the poorer areas of the outer ring. He preferred not to be announced by the clatter of a coach rolling through a district where no one could afford such luxuries. Paying the driver, he walked down the street toward what Domin Tilswith and Wynn referred to as Hovel Row.

Only a short while ago, he'd left the house to find sustenance for the wounded Sapphire. She had related small parts of what happened to her, how a half-elf had outmaneuvered her through sheer speed and ability, and a white-skinned woman had shown more strength than was possible for a mortal. Toret's face had nearly glowed with anxiety.

More questions formed in Chane's mind as Toret ordered him out into the night on this errand of mercy. These two old enemies of Toret's might indeed be the key to Chane's freedom. He decided a brief detour was in order, but he must hurry. If he was gone too long, Toret would not only be infuriated over Sapphire's prolonged suffering but might become suspicious. Still, with Toret's recent erratic behavior, there was no telling when he would have another opportunity.

The hour was late, and Hovel Row had been aptly named.

Street gutters smelling of rot and decay, the shabby dwellings pushed against one another. There came an infant's cry of hunger and a man shouting obscenities. A woman's answering shout turned to defeated weeping.

Chane sped on toward his destination.

Wynn had told him of an elf living in the secluded squalor of Hovel Row. Strangely, she had interacted with elves in her homeland and spoke their language fluently. She had heard of one here in Bela, somehow, and was eager to meet the elves of this continent. But upon her visit, she'd met with quiet hostility and hadn't gotten past the front door.

Chane was not aware there were elves anywhere other than the far northeast, past the Warlands over the Venjetzf Rozpatje-the Crown Range. He'd heard through his father's friends of how the elves were reclusive to the point of paranoia. Now he had questions concerning them, or at least pertaining to one half-blood. He wanted answers, and he didn't really need to get past a front door.

He never forgot anything, and Wynn had kindly told him where to look. Six streets in, he found the correct abode. It was old, but some of the planking and roof shakes had been replaced or repaired in recent years. The place looked completely sealed up.

He'd asked Wynn why an elf would live in such a place. She grew thoughtful before answering.

"I cannot say, but I had the strange feeling he was waiting or perhaps just watching. For what, I do not know."

Chane felt oddly calm when remembering her oval face. It had been many nights since she had sat next to him, speculating upon the ancient parchment sent for translation. He glanced at his bandaged wrist, remembering the feel of Sapphire's mouth upon him. If it had been Wynn… but the thought that he had given of himself to save Sapphire swelled an angry revulsion amidst his thoughts.

He approached the oak door and knocked hard and let his senses open fully, though the smell of the district instantly assaulted him for it. No one answered, but he hadn't expected an answer right away. He knocked again and kept on knocking.

There was no sound of movement, but he heard the heartbeat approach from within even before a soft but bitter voice called from behind the closed door.

"Go away."

"I have information," Chane replied, "regarding one of your kind newly arrived in the city."

After a moment, the door cracked.

Chane stared at a loaded crossbow held by a man standing back in the doorway's shadow. He was thin with sharply peaked ears and sand-colored, tangled hair. He wore a long cloak of faded dun-colored fabric that hid the rest of his attire. His tan skin looked unhealthy, as if he ate poorly and had not seen daylight in some time. His long face was triangular, and he was taller and more slender than the man Tihko had seen.

"I am the only one of my people living in this city," he spit out. "Now stop pounding on my door and go away."

"You are mistaken. There is another."

"Nonsense," he rebuked, and was about to slam the door.

"If you won't share information, then I will, for there is a half-blood here in the city. Younger, agile, with exceptional fighting skills. Stilettos are his favored weapons, and he travels in the company of a woman warrior and a dog. I have questions. Do you have answers?"

The crossbow did not waver, but Chane saw the barest widening of his bloodshot amber eyes, and heard his pulse quicken briefly.

"You are mistaken," the elf said quietly.

The door slammed shut, and Chane heard the metal bolts slide home.

Chane was anxious now. Too much time had passed since he had left to find blood for Sapphire. Toret would be pacing in fury by now, but there was still more to be learned here, and he might not have a chance to come back. He would contrive some story of delay and deal with the consequences later. Turning back down the road and around the nearest corner, he settled into the shadow of a wattle and daub hut to wait and watch.

A short while later, a soft and faint rhythm reached his ears. Footsteps.