Magiere felt a small shame for part of her judgment of Leesil. He'd been willing to settle with her in the tavern but knew they couldn't. Not with the consequences of the path they now traveled. In Miiska, when she'd received the letter from Bela, she'd tried to hide from it, but he had not. He'd already known what was coming, and he was still here with her.

"The path I walk seems to narrow every day," she whispered, "and so little would matter if you weren't here to share it."

"It's the same for me," he said.

Magiere felt her mouth go dry. "But once we're in the hunt, I fear what could happen to you."

Because of me, and because of you, she thought.

At first he said nothing. Magiere felt an old, chill fear within the lingering salt memory of his blood in her mouth, his flesh in her teeth, his life seeping away into her.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," he said. "I'm not that easy to kill."

They sat in silence a long time by the fire. Chap licked the singed fur on his haunch.

"I think he's got a little more than scorched fur there," Leesil said.

The change of subject brought no relief. "Do we still have any of Tilswith's salve?"

Leesil climbed to his feet. "I should check on Vatz anyway. When I put him to bed, he was still hopping mad at you for ordering him to stay behind."

"Isn't his uncle worried about him?" Magiere asked. "Have you asked him anything about his family?"

"I don't think Milous cares where he is. I assumed his parents were dead or otherwise long gone. Vatz is strong. He can take care of himself."

Magiere wondered, if such were true, then why was Leesil tucking him in and checking on him?

"I'll be back," he said, and headed out the kitchen door.

Magiere had become fond of this odd tenderness in him, strange as it was when mixed with the cold-blooded nature of his past. She petted Chap's head and suddenly realized the dog was watching her intently, ears perked up.

He'd been listening to every word and yipped softly before butting his head against her side.

Leesil strolled back to their room trying to fathom what had-and had not-just happened. Magiere assumed he was unsatisfied with their life in Miiska. It was true he enjoyed being out and about, but mostly because he wouldn't let her face the future alone. Between the two of them, he better understood the consequences of their actions and the future that lay ahead. In this, at least, now she was perhaps more at ease, but there was more to her distance than the fear that he might want to leave. In fact, knowing he clearly wished to stay seemed to distress her as much as the alternative. The whole thing was worse than a hangover.

Down the hall came a glimmer of light from the open door of their room. He'd heated up the cold lamp's crystal before leaving Vatz to sleep. The boy acted tough enough, but he was still just a boy in the midst of nightmares come to life.

A softer light came from a doorway two openings closer than their room, and Leesil slowed his pace, curious as to who was there. It might be just another guild apprentice. He peered inside.

It was much like the room they'd been given: two sets of bunks on either side, with a small table and stools at the far back, but with no bedding or blankets. Instead of a cold lamp, a single, stubby candle was placed on the table's edge and burned dimly.

Leesil stepped in. Then he remembered.

The sages were terrified of open flame anywhere in the building. No sage would have lit a candle here, let alone without a holder.

A glinting line flashed down past his eyes and weight slammed against his shoulders.

Two knees struck his lower back, and he felt feet kick in behind his knees. He crumpled facedown on the wooden floor, and a wire cinched about his throat before he could get one of his hands inside of it.

As he curled his left hand to release a stiletto, something struck his elbow, and his hand went numb. Before he could try again with his right, the same blow landed again, and both his hands lay limp.

The wire closed tightly enough to press against his throat without constricting his breath.

A garrote wire.

"Cantasij tu aiche so aovarf"

The voice behind him was muffled. Leesil had heard this rhythm enough to recognize the words if not their meaning.

"I don't understand," he answered. "I don't speak your language."

The wire cinched slightly tighter, and a long silence followed.

"Tell me why you are here… in Bela," the man asked more softly this time.

Leesil felt knees press down his upper arms just above the elbows, pinning them to his sides. Feet hooked across his thighs, the man's weight evenly distributed. It was a very familiar arrangement, though he'd never fallen prey to it himself. He'd used it only to subdue others. There was a scent about his attacker-a strange mix of wild grass, pine needles, and sea salt. Leesil realized what if not who now held him at this severe disadvantage.

An elf-and assassin, trained as his mother had taught him.

Feeling began returning to his hands. As much as Leesil believed he could dislodge his captor with some effort, he couldn't escape the wire around his neck. If he told the truth, would this man even believe him?

"Hunting undeads," he answered.

The wire jerked tighter around his throat.

"You lie!" the elf hissed. "And what would the majay-hi want with the company of a traitor?"

"What… are you talking about?" Leesil managed to choke out. Traitor? And how did Chap fit into this? "Ask the hound yourself. He's not telling me much."

A familiar thrum sounded from the wire as it whipped free from Leesil's neck, leaving a hot, burning line. All weight lifted instantly from his back.

Leesil spun over and reached for the stiletto he'd lost, but it wasn't on the floor. When he scrambled to his feet, a dark figure stood beyond the doorway in the hall.

From cowl to cloak, hauberk to boots, and shirt and pants beneath, the figure was colored between char and forest green. The cloak's lower corners were tied around his waist, and his cowled face was masked below the eyes with a scarf or wrap. Beneath high, feathery eyebrows of dusty blond, two large and slanted amber eyes stared back at Leesil.

The elf held Leesil's stiletto in one hand, the handles of the garrote gripped in the other. When Leesil freed his remaining stiletto, the elf didn't even blink.

"Who taught you our ways?" the elf asked.

"First, tell me what you mean," Leesil replied. "Whose ways? The elves?"

For an answer, the elf flicked his wrist, and the stiletto spun through the air.

Leesil sidestepped and snatched the handle midflight. Before he'd righted the blade in his hand, the cloaked figure leaped through the door at him. He slashed crosswise with both blades to ward off his attacker. But the elf instantly ducked and rose up inside the arcs, palm striking out toward Leesil's face.

Leesil collapsed to the floor, and his right leg shot along the left of the elf's feet. He swirled his arms over himself, blocking the elf's descending fist, and slashing with the blades. Something lashed sharply across his right hand, tangled around the stiletto, and ripped it from his grasp. Leesil hooked his right foot behind the elf's ankle as his other leg shot up.

There was no impact.

Though Leesil's foot connected, it was more a touch than a strike, and the elf merely arced backward into the hallway. He landed, watching Leesil intently. The same stiletto he'd thrown a moment ago was now snared in the garrote wire's loops between his fingers.

"Who taught you Map am'a Fiar?" he asked flatly.

On his guard, Leesil stared blankly at him. "What?"

"Cat-in-the-Grass," he said. "The ground fighting."