“Well,” Tavyn said with a sly grin, “I suppose the answer is yes.” He got a fond look in his eyes. “It was a while back, but I’d definitely have to say we spent a long, agreeable night together.”

  Mygal nodded. He suddenly felt more comfortable with Tavyn. Having informants susceptible to his influences just made life… easier.

  “He’s here,” Tavyn said, his eyes flicking toward the door. “That’s Dancer.”

  Mygal didn’t turn his head, but he assessed the young man that had just entered.

  Dancer was around twenty, with a braid of silky, black hair down his back. He stood almost six feet tall and had a well-defined physique. He wore black leather pants tucked into leather boots laced up to his knees. His tunic was the color of blood. He had a black leather vest, a rapier at his hip, and a long dagger in a horizontal sheath across the back of his belt. He also wore a leather satchel over one shoulder and across his body, its strap strained with weight.

  He walked up to the end of the bar, away from the other patrons, and waited for the barkeep to serve an ale to another patron.

  Moments later, the barkeep reached beneath the bar and strode over to Dancer, who smiled in a friendly way. The two had a brief, hushed conversation, Dancer nodded, and the barkeep handed over a small leather bag with the telltale bump of coins within. Dancer opened it and scanned the contents. With a nod to the barkeep, he dropped the bag into his satchel.

  “Protection money?” Mygal asked.

  “Protection money,” Tavyn echoed.

  “Out in the open like that?”

  “It’s not like it’s a secret around here.”

  The whole thing still bothered Mygal. Something felt out of place. “Why would local thugs, protection racket or not, slaughter a duke’s family? They like secrecy, not blood splashed on walls. Such things beg the attention of the authorities.”

  “Maybe the duke was in on the racketeering? Made a false step somewhere. Corruption at the highest level here in Svennival?” Tavyn met Mygal’s gaze. “Maybe he got greedy.”

  “This doesn’t feel right. It feels like… I don’t know what. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Dancer turned and headed for the door.

  “I’m going to follow him,” Mygal said as the front doors closed. He rose out of his chair. “Stay here.”

  “I really should go with you,” Tavyn said. “What if he’s not alone?”

  “I told you,” Mygal said, turning back. “I’m not planning on grabbing him. I’m going to follow him. I need more information, and I can do that better alone.”

  “Are you sure?” Tavyn said, rising out of his seat.

  Mygal tapped into his majea again, sending a calming feeling into Tavyn’s mind that he then tweaked to carry a feeling of passion for the barmaid.

  “No, you should stay here and enjoy the evening.” He reached into his vest and put a few silver coins on the table. “The rest of the night is on me. Maybe you can arrange for another meeting with that lovely lass.” He spotted the barmaid headed in their direction. “Here she comes now.”

  Tavyn glanced at her and sat back down. “If you say so,” he replied with a wicked smile.

  Confident his majea had worked, Mygal walked out the front doors. The cobbled street, illuminated by magic lanterns, had little foot traffic at that time of night. He saw Dancer a block away, headed in the general direction of Svennival’s riverfront area. He set off after his quarry.

  Dancer went into three more establishments—a tavern, a blacksmith, and another inn. Each time, Mygal faded into the shadows and kept an eye on the front doors. For the next thirty minutes, they made their way through the darkened streets and finally to the wharf district, where the air was cooler and more humid. As they drew nearer, Mygal picked up the smell of fish and ship oil.

  Dancer turned down a side street off the main thoroughfare. Mygal quickened his pace, running as silently as he could. When he reached the alley, he peeked around the corner to see Dancer turn left at a cross section set between the brick buildings of the riverfront. He made several more turns like that, moving deeper and deeper into the shadier part of the city. Mygal found himself in a wide labyrinth of waterfront warehouses and realized he’d lost his quarry. He took note of where he was, with the idea of putting on a disguise and coming back as a dockworker to start poking around.

  Dancer had a satchel full of money, and if he was here, then he was going to deliver that money to the people he worked for. It meant the protection racket was based out of the riverfront. No great surprise, but it only gave Mygal an area to keep searching, not a location to spy on.

  He let out a frustrated breath. With the Guardian's Conclave only eight days away—seven of those days would be traveling to the palace in Corsia—there was little chance of him breaking the case before then. The thought of standing in front of the king, empty-handed, made him cringe.

  Looking around to make sure he was alone, he reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a slim sheet of vellum and a piece of charcoal. Using the brick wall beside him as a surface, he wrote a quick note:

  “Have identified and am following suspect in duke’s murder. Reports of sedition in Svennival as yet unconfirmed. Remote possibility the two may be related. Suspicion only. Nothing concrete.”

  He rolled up the note tightly and then focused his thoughts, placing his hand where the tattoo had been inscribed on his forearm only a few months earlier. Normally, the spell took several minutes when cast using the material component of a red feather. Doing it that way didn’t tax his own majea at all. He was in a hurry, however, so he would have to draw upon his own energy. He tapped into his majea and whispered the incantation he’d been taught. Holding out his left hand, he made several motions in the air with his right.

  As he combined the magic stored within the tattoo with his own, wisps of crimson swirled in the palm of his hand. The tattoo hidden beneath his tunic tingled. Within seconds, the wisps took on the outline of a small bird. He concentrated, willing the conjured avatar to take on solid form.

  Within moments, a small red bird with a tall crest and black streaks on its wings stood in the palm of his hand, blinking at him. He held the rolled piece of vellum in front of the bird, and it gently clasped its beak around it.

  “Now fly,” Mygal said, lifting his hand.

  The bird blinked once and then leapt into the air, rising into the darkness above with a flutter of small wings. Mygal watched it disappear and then turned, looking down the alley, wondering what he should do next. He contemplated searching for Dancer, but he saw little hope of finding the suspect.

  Something shifted on the rooftops.

  “Good, it’s done,” a grim voice called from above.

  Mygal froze as three shadowy figures dropped from rooftops on either side of him. Another stepped into the alley from a darkened doorway twenty feet behind. They were all hooded, masked, and dressed in black. They also held swords.

  Assassins!

  Mygal’s rapier and fighting dagger leapt into his hands. “You don’t want to do this,” he said, moving his head side-to-side, stretching his neck muscles out. He glanced at the furthest assassin, thinking that path might be his best way out. He wanted to escape, not fight four killers at the same time. As cocky as he was, he knew he was in trouble.

  The furthest assassin stepped back a pace, as if he had no intention of fighting, but the three nearest him raised their weapons and came in.

  Mygal tapped into his majea, deeply this time, and sent tendrils slashing out at the minds of all three. Doubt, he willed into their minds. Doubt caused hesitation, and he needed to reduce the number of blades coming at him simultaneously.

  The first assassin halted in his tracks, probably because he already had doubt flowing thorough his thoughts. The other two, however, kept coming.

  Mygal parried the second assassin’s swing with his dagger and slashed at the third with his rapier. That assassin parried. Mygal side-stepped, putting the second assassin between himself and the third. He parried another swing from the second assassin and shoved up and out to create an opening. He stepped in close and drove his dagger to the hilt in the second assassin’s chest. A shock ran up his arm as the blade pierced bone and heart.

  The assassin grunted and sagged on Mygal’s dagger arm.

  Mygal jerked his blade free and kicked out, sending the dying assassin flying back toward the third as his blade clattered to the ground.

  Mygal pushed hard with his majea, sending thoughts of fear into the third assassin’s mind as the man dodged the body of the second assassin. He slashed three times in a wide X, driving the third assassin back and forcing him to parry each blow in rapid succession. Mygal felt the fear growing within the third assassin’s mind, so he added to it. The man staggered back, holding up his weapons defensively, his eyes wide with fear.

  The first assassin, who had succumbed to doubt, growled, “He’s a blood-cursed heartbender!” His anger burned into the doubt as he charged.

  Mygal poured even more doubt into the first assassin’s thoughts, trying to overwhelm the anger. He could feel it taking root, but the assassin was so enraged, he was able to fend off Mygal’s influences. Mygal parried a slash with his dagger and thrust with his rapier. The assassin blocked the thrust and riposted quickly. Mygal caught the riposte on his dagger, shoved the blade aside, dug deeply into his majea, and poured a torrent of fear into the man’s thoughts. The first assassin screamed. Mygal slashed down on his sword arm, opening a deep gash through cloth and flesh. He felt his blade drag across bone.

  The assassin’s sword clattered on the cobblestones.

  Mygal slashed again, drawing his blade deeply across the man’s throat. A fountain of blood spurted into the air. The assassin gurgled, clutching at his neck as he staggered back. He slammed against the wall and slid down.

  The third assassin regained his senses, but he looked at Mygal with doubt and fear filling his mind. He glanced at the two corpses on the ground, and then his eyes shifted to the figure still standing twenty feet away, watching the combat like a spectator at a gladiatorial arena.

  “You don’t think I’m going to let you get out of here now, do you?” Mygal snarled with a good deal of venom. He stepped in fast and slashed with his rapier. Simultaneously, he pressed hard with his majea, sending out another wave of fear.

  The man’s eyes went wide as he parried and struck back with a clumsy, almost haggard riposte.

  Mygal slashed, parried, slashed, driving the attacker toward the stoic figure watching them both.

  The man parried desperately.

  Mygal continued setting him up with one calculated slash and thrust after another.

  When they’d closed on the observer, Mygal parried hard with his rapier, stepped in, and drove the point of his dagger into the attacker’s belly.

  The man squealed in pain and dropped his sword.

  Mygal bashed the hilt of his rapier into the man’s temple. The assassin crashed into the wall and crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He’d question the assassin once he’d finished off the fourth.

  He stepped toward the last assassin, sending out tendrils of fear to incapacitate the man. To his surprise, the tendrils crashed and splintered against a mind prepared for the attack—the mind of a heartbender just like him.

  The masked figure chuckled and drew his weapons.

  In a flash, Mygal found himself distracted, his emotions calling forth memories of the barmaid and then the bird he’d summoned. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He raised his weapons, attempting to steel his thoughts against the potent assault from an exceptionally strong heartbender. Violent emotional swings hammered into his mind—his anger turned to fear.

  The last assassin stepped in, his weapon raised. He slashed. Mygal parried, dancing back as his mind went wild with a wash of mixed emotions. Distraction drew his eyes to the left and then the right, as if more attackers lurked in the shadows all around him.

  Slash—parry—slash… he couldn’t keep his thoughts focused.

  He staggered as a blinding, sharp pain lanced into his belly. He cried out. His arms froze, mid-air. He glanced down to see the assassin’s blade stuck through him halfway up its length. The assassin jerked the blade free and thrust again. Fiery pain flared in Mygal’s shoulder this time, spreading out. He dropped his rapier as his arm fell limp. The assassin’s blade protruded out his back.

  “How—” Mygal started.

  The assassin jerked the blade free. Mygal screamed. His mind became a maelstrom, emotions swirling toward a center of deepening agony. At the edge of his senses, he saw the glint of a rapier guard flash before his eyes. For a fleeting instant, he lamented not being able to make even one of the Guardian Conclaves. He wondered if his tenure as a Guardian would be the shortest in Pelinon history.

  Steel crashed into his temple and darkness took him.

  Chapter Two

  The Conclave

  Rellen was in trouble, and he knew it. His thudding boots echoed off white slabs of marble, deliberately out of cadence with the armed and armored guards escorting him through the king’s palace. The captain of the King’s Corsairs strode two paces ahead, and four Corsairs marched close behind. Their presence reminded him that the palace was a prison, and with every step, he fought that sense of confinement, the shroud that squeezed him with every measured step of the king’s troops.

  He hated the gods-be-damned place, what it was, and what it meant to him.

  Rellen looked down on his escort. They were tall, but not so tall as he, and every nuance of them was a reminder of what he’d turned away from. His close-cropped, brown hair set him apart from the long, braided queues worn by the king’s soldiers and most men in Corsia. His black leather armor made a stark contrast to their gleaming silver plate mail. Rather than the standard issue bastard swords all Corsairs carried, Rellen wore a gleaming, silver falchion upon each hip—the matched blades of Baladon. And his brown, leather bandoleer—each loop and pouch another component for his use of symmajea or Line Magic—identified him as something other than just a soldier, something much more.

  He was nothing like the Corsairs… not anymore.

  The guards escorted him along the grand hallway, where several small groups of nobles conversed in low voices. At first, their eyes were drawn to the small, black dragonette perched upon Rellen’s shoulder. Such creatures were rare in Pelinon and not known to bond with humans. The nobles looked surprised, intrigued, even impressed. Then they recognized the man carrying the small creature. When they did, they went silent. Their eyes filled with disdain, even contempt. They all knew him, and most resented him for, what many considered, a gross dereliction of duty.

  Rellen wore their disdain like a badge of honor.

  The dragonette shifted upon his shoulder. Feeling her discomfort, he petted her side to reassure her. The staring faces around them might have put her on edge, and despite the high ceilings of the grand hallway, he knew she didn’t like enclosed spaces. Truth be told, he felt the same way.

  It’s all right, Xilly, he said in the voiceless manner with which they communicated.

  I’m not worried, Xilly replied. The guards seem to hate you, though. As do those others. She turned her head toward a cluster of nobles and stared straight at them.

  They believe I betrayed them, Rellen replied. When in fact I served them. I serve them still.

  Served them how?

  I’d have made a terrible king.

  You were to be king?

  Rellen pushed a surge of guilt aside, hoping she wouldn’t pursue the subject. Even talking with Xilly about his past struck nerves, but she was sensitive enough to know when not to push. Instead, she nuzzled his neck to reassure him that she still loved him.

  As they approached the last group of nobles, he spotted Chancellor Vrelleth, military adjutant to the king. The gray-haired veteran, with hard eyes and chiseled features, was an exceedingly capable officer who had served the Crown for decades. The old warrior still taught the use of arms at the academy and was rarely bested. Vrelleth had been Rellen’s mentor once—and a friend of sorts—but Rellen’s decision had worn that relationship down to little more than polite disdain. The chancellor now gave Rellen his customary look of barely veiled contempt. The loss was one of Rellen’s deepest regrets, but even that had been for the best.

  They exited the grand hall into the great, black-marbled throne room that had served Pelinon’s kings for the past seven hundred years. Angling to the right, they moved around a tall wooden framework supporting Pelinon’s battle standard. The banner was twenty feet tall and six feet wide, with a white, winged sword suspended amidst a royal blue background trimmed in gold. Behind the banner, hidden in the corner of the throne room, stood two more of the King’s Corsairs.

  They were an elite guard, always seen in their bright, silver plate mail, winged helms, and black bastard swords. The two before him stood at attention, blades point-down on the floor, their hands resting upon the cross guard.

  Between them stood a heavy, iron door.

  The captain stepped up to the door, pulled out a large, heavy key, and twisted it in the lock with a clank. Pulling the door open with a faint squeal of hinges, he stepped aside and faced Rellen with a look not dissimilar to Chancellor Vrelleth’s.

  “It’s not appropriate to keep His Majesty waiting—even for you.”

  Rellen cocked his head to the side. “I can’t thank you enough for reminding me of that, Captain Fenrith,” he said smoothly. There was a time when he used the captain’s first name. They had served together during several campaigns, but that was in the past, beyond a bridge that lay in ruin. Rellen regretted that loss too, but his choice had been the only one he could make. “Perhaps you could teach me how to wield a blade sometime?”

  The captain stiffened and looked to Rellen’s escort. “Make sure he makes it to the Guardian’s Hall, and then return to your posts.” He tossed the key to one of the guards. Without another word or even a backward glance, Captain Fenrith strode past Rellen, brushing up against him just enough to make his feelings clear.