He felt movement beneath his cloak at the back of his saddle. Xilly crawled out from where she’d been sleeping, climbed up onto his saddle horn, and stretched out her body along Shaddeth’s black-maned neck. She yawned with a mouth of tiny teeth. She took a few moments to look around and then turned toward Rellen.

  Time to eat? She sent the drowsy but insistent thought.

  Rellen reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a thick piece of jerky.

  Here, he said, offering it too her. Chew on that.

  She snatched it out of his hands with a snap of her small jaws and then drew back, clutching the jerky in her claws as she gnawed on the tough, seasoned meat with a good deal of enthusiasm.

  Yum! Xilly’s delight came through loud and clear.

  “And there’s more where that came from,” Rellen assured her.

  When the edge of town came into sight, he pulled on the reins and brought Shaddeth to a halt. “Time to report in,” he said out loud. He pulled out a small sheet of vellum and a piece of charcoal from one of his pouches.

  Tell the king I said hello, Xilly said, lifting her head from the jerky.

  “I will,” Rellen replied out loud and began writing.

  “Arrived in Svennival, damp but safe. Will meet with Corwyk and hopefully Mygal today. Will keep you appraised of progress. Also, Xilly says hello.”

  He pulled a black feather from a pouch on his bandoleer and stuck the quill through Shaddeth’s mane. Closing his eyes, he tapped lightly into his majea, feeling the energy swell within his breast. He made several motions with both of his hands as he uttered the familiar incantation. The tattoo on his shoulder tingled. Energy flowed down through his hands to coalesce in the space before him. He poured that magical energy into the feather, causing it to glow an unearthly blue. He spoke the incantation again, focusing his will. When he finished, the feather glowed white. In a flash, it was consumed by dark swirls that twisted about, forming into the shape of a bird. Within moments the swirls solidified and transformed into a living crow. The bird, perched upon Shaddeth’s head, turned toward him and blinked several times.

  Rellen rolled up the small piece of vellum and let the bird bite down upon it. The crow leapt from its perch and flew off. It adjusted its course and headed northwest, quickly rising above the trees as it disappeared into a patch of fog.

  With that out of the way, Rellen shook Shaddeth’s reins and continued into the city. The streets of Svennival were mostly empty. One and two-story buildings slid past, as a morning fog ebbed and flowed around him. He passed a portly man guiding a donkey that pulled a cart full of milk cans. A baker stepped out the front doors of her bakery, shaking out a small carpet. Occasionally, Rellen passed doors and windows that held the distinct shape of a Kuriositarri wreath. Each one, set out during the Manifestation Festival or Kuriositar, indicated someone inside, usually around the age of puberty, had manifested their majea and would be participating in the festival.

  It was one of Rellen’s favorite holidays: three days set aside for young, burgeoning kurioi to show off their powers and, hopefully, get picked up by a tradesman or artisan looking for an apprentice. The festival, celebrated by most of the people of Pelinon, involved mostly teenagers, but there were younger kurioi—some much younger—as well as older youths with as many as twenty-one seasons behind them. After that, if one’s majea hadn’t manifested, it usually wasn’t going to. Only about one in ten humans ever manifested, and of those, only a handful possessed it in any meaningful way. The rest were capable of simple tricks and tasks, like lighting fires, controlling insects, or shaping metal. Few outside the nobility ever made it to a magic academy, but those of exceptional talent and little means were sometimes given scholarships.

  He guided Shaddeth through the center of Svennival, taking in the wide ribbons and wreathes that decorated the city square. His brother had been right. It looked as if Svennival went all out for the Manifestation Festival.

  Rellen continued through the city, taking in the feel of it. Every city had a different combination of sights, smells, and sounds, and it had been years since he’d been here. As he continued, foot traffic picked up, forcing him to navigate around one carriage or wagon after another. He rode past the main docks, where two large sailing ships and an oar-driven barge were tethered at the far end of the pier. Several hundred yards out on the lake, another sailing vessel approached. Its sails were furled, but two heavy ropes stretched out away from her bow. The water along both ropes churned and rippled out of cadence with the waves, as a clan of Bhirtas’Vuoda—water goblins—towed the ship in. It was how many of their race earned their living near port cities.

  The docks disappeared from view, and within minutes, Rellen found himself in front of the ducal keep. It was a tall, blocky structure of gray stone, with a ten-foot wall and six towers arranged around the central part of the main building. More festival banners decorated the outer walls. The iron portcullis was open, and no soldiers manned the walls. He guided Shaddeth to a hitching post outside a stone livery beside the keep.

  Nobody came out to tend his horse, but that wasn’t unusual.

  He swung his leg over Shaddeth’s withers and set his boots upon the ground. Xilly leapt off the saddle and landed on his shoulder, coiling her tail around his neck to steady herself. Something made him pull out the Eye of Tuluum. The black sphere dangled on the chain before his eyes. He expected it to either do nothing or point in a random direction. To his surprise, the jewel leaned forward, away from his body, and straight toward the main doors of the keep. He scratched his head, confused. Normally, when he knew where he was going, the artifact didn’t do anything. There was no indication of why it was guiding him inside, although even that was an assumption. It might just as well be pointing toward something five hundred miles away.

  “There’s no telling what this thing will do, eh, Shaddeth?” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “Well,” he added, slipping it beneath his tunic, “it doesn’t matter. I know where I’m going for a change.”

  He lashed Shaddeth’s reins around the hitching post and took a quick inventory of his gear. His spell books were still secured upon Shaddeth’s withers, along with his saddlebags, bedroll, and oilskin shelter. He drew upon his majea, uttered a brief incantation, and felt a faint surge of energy flow from his outstretched palm to surround Shaddeth. The protection spell would send a severe shock into anyone who touched his belongings. He knew Shaddeth would stomp anyone who tried to steal something, but he’d learned long ago to be thorough.

  “Let’s go meet Corwyk and the Thirteenth Guardian,” Rellen said, looking at Xilly. He remembered his brother’s warning about Mygal’s propensity for magic mischief. He pulled a small crystal from a pouch at his belt. Holding it firmly between his fingers, he made a quick gesture and muttered a short incantation not too dissimilar from the one he’d just cast. A soft white glow momentarily encompassed his body. He felt a tingle across his entire body that quickly subsided. He knew the spell would remain effective for several hours in case Mygal decided to play with him.

  Rellen strode up the wide, stone steps of the keep, grabbed one of the large, iron knockers, and banged it against the door twice. Moments later, he heard a heavy bar lifted away. The wide, double doors swung inward, revealing five bored-looking guards in the ducal livery of red and blue. They wore chain mail and steel cap helms. Longswords were strapped to their hips.

  “State your business,” the one in the center said with only a bit of grit. He wore a lieutenant’s insignia on his collar. His eyes flicked to Xilly, widened slightly in surprise, and then focused on Rellen.

  “I’m Rellen of Corsia. I’m here to—”

  “See Lord Corwyk and his guest,” the lieutenant finished for him. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “I made good time.”

  The lieutenant turned to the sergeant beside him. “Might as well keep the doors open for today’s business,” he said. “If that beggar, Thomar, comes around looking for table scraps again, toss him out the front gate on his ear.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” a grizzled, old-timer with a salt-and-pepper beard and stern eyes replied. “And with pleasure.”

  The lieutenant turned back to Rellen. “Follow me. I’ll take you to them.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Rellen replied.

  The lieutenant turned crisply on his heel and marched off with Rellen in tow. They crossed a grand entry hall, with several banners draped down the walls, a large painting of what Rellen assumed was Duke Belvenim and his family, and an assortment of arms and armor. Wide staircases curved up each side of the hall, meeting at a large balcony on the back side, with hallways stretching to the left and right. The wall beyond the landing was a series of glass doors and windows.

  The lieutenant took the right-hand stairs, and as they climbed them, Rellen heard the distinct, metallic clicking of fencing blades clashing together. Beyond the glass was a wide patio of sorts with a low stone railing, a view of the lake, and a stretch of marsh grass in between.

  On the patio, a young man with an athletic build fenced with an attractive woman wearing the ducal red and blue. Her hair was tied up, and she handled the light rapier with remarkable skill. The young man wore a loose-fitting tunic of white, baggy slacks, and had a long mane of black hair that danced in the light breeze as they fenced. Rellen could just make out bandages around his left shoulder beneath his tunic. A decanter of juice sat on a nearby table, along with a half-full glass of juice and a plate of yellow stakka fruit.

  They seemed to be only sparring, perhaps even stretching the man’s injured muscles out a bit.

  As Rellen and the lieutenant reached the top of the stairs, a tall man roughly Rellen’s age appeared from the hallway on the right. He had angular features, intelligent hazel eyes, and wore a fine, tailored suit of indigo that fit his slim frame perfectly. He carried himself with confidence, but there was something in his stride that belied a more-than-capable readiness for conflict.

  “Rellen Falcoria!” Corwyk shouted with a smile. “It’s been what? Twelve years? It’s good to see you, old friend.” He stepped up and grabbed Rellen’s extended forearm in a warrior’s grasp.

  “Far too long, to be sure,” Rellen said. “It’s good to see you, too, Corwyk.”

  Corwyk turned to the lieutenant. “That will be all, Fantyn. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. He gave a crisp salute and marched back down the stairs.

  Corwyk’s eyes turned to Xilly. “And what do we have here?” He cocked his head to the side, examining her at a safe distance. “I’d heard of dragonettes, but I’ve never seen one, and certainly not as a companion of any kind.” He raised his hand and then hesitated. “Does it bite?”

  “Only when she’s hungry, which is most of the time, I’m afraid.” Rellen scratched her side, eliciting a soft cooing sound. Corwyk reached out, and Xilly extended her neck, sniffing his offered hand. She licked it once, and he scratched the back of her neck, drawing out more cooing from her.

  “Is she intelligent?”

  “Very,” Rellen replied. “Remarkably so, in fact. Allow me to introduce Xilly. Xilly, this is Corwyk Belvenim, Duke Regent of Svennival,” he added as gently as possible. He knew Corwyk well enough to know that the new title would be a reminder of why he had that title.

  Corwyk stiffened, drawing his hand back quickly. A pall of pain and anger filled his features as he turned his eyes to the floor and gritted his teeth.

  “I was very sorry to hear about your uncle and his family,” Rellen offered, placing a hand on Corwyk’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Corwyk replied softly. “I’ll never forget the sight of them.” He clenched a fist. “They were butchered.” He lifted his eyes slowly, and they were haunted by something Rellen knew his old friend would never be able to unsee. “I suppose you have questions.”

  “I do,” Rellen said gently, “but I thought it might be easier to question Mygal. He saw the aftermath too, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll grill him, not you.” Rellen glanced out the windows where the two fencers still went at each other. “Is that him?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. He’d told his brother he’d do his best as a mentor, but he still resented it.

  Corwyk turned and nodded. “Yes. A rather agreeable fellow, I must say.” Corwyk turned back to Rellen. “He seems a bit young to hold the post he does.” As duke regent, Corwyk knew Rellen and Mygal were Guardians, but it was customary to not mention such things in public, unless there was a good reason to do so.

  “Or maybe we’re just getting old,” Rellen offered.

  “That too.”

  “Who’s that with him?” Rellen asked, watching the woman with an appreciative eye. Her sword play was as fluid as water and lightning fast.

  “Lieutenant Savarre,” Corwyk said. “She’s been assigned as my personal bodyguard.

  “She seems quite capable with that thing.”

  “You have no idea,” Corwyk replied. “She got assigned because she’s the best in the keep with edged weapons.”

  Rellen placed a hand on Corwyk’s arm. “Before we go out there, I want to ask you something unrelated to what’s going on here in Svennival.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you left university, you joined the staff under the old Duke of Mallorand, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Corwyk replied, a curious expression on his face.

  “Do you still keep in contact with people there?”

  “My sister is an aide to the court,” Corwyk replied. “Why?”

  Rellen hesitated for a moment, not certain he should broach the subject. If Corwyk was involved in sedition here in Svennival somehow, Rellen could be showing his hand. He decided to trust his instincts in the man he’d known at university.

  “I was wondering if you’d heard anything of late… maybe grumblings from the nobles there?”

  “I got a letter from my sister just last week. She works closely with Duke Arrivar. From her letters over the past few months, everything seems to be running smoothly, although she did mention Arrivar is at least a little unpopular with the old guard, but that’s to be expected. He is, apparently, quite popular with the younger barons.” Corwyk looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Arrivar stirs up trouble for the old guard to either get them in line or drive them out, but that’s a long way from sedition. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious… something I’d heard recently. It’s most likely nothing for anyone to be concerned about. Duchy politics are the same all over, eh?” Rellen hoped Corwyk’s sister wasn’t somehow involved. With Faleesh Namarre investigating, she would follow the king’s orders to the letter and likely kill everyone involved.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Corwyk said, letting out a long, weary breath.

  “Come on,” Rellen said, nodding towards Mygal. “I want to find out what the king sees in this fellow.”

  With Corwyk leading the way, they walked out onto the patio to find Mygal still fencing with Lieutenant Savarre. The woman noticed Corwyk and Rellen approaching and stepped back, holding up her hand. Mygal froze mid-thrust and looked over his shoulder. He turned back to the woman, raising his rapier in salute, and she returned the gesture.

  “Nicely done,” the woman said. “I think you’re recovering nicely.”

  “Thank you, Veraiya.”

  “Don’t you two ever quit?” Corwyk called out.

  “No,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “And I needed to get back in shape as quickly as possible,” Mygal added, laying the rapier on the table. He then faced Rellen. “Rellen Falcoria, I presume?”

  “That’s right.” Rellen held out his hand, and they exchanged a handshake that bordered on unnecessarily firm. Rellen gave more than he got. “Mygal… Durintur? Did I say that correctly?”

  “Perfectly.” Mygal flashed Rellen a friendly smile. “I’m honored.”

  “No trouble at all, especially considering our mutual friends.”

  Mygal’s eyes lit up at that, as if the acknowledgement as a Guardian was somehow profound to him.

  “And this is Veraiya Savarre,” Corwyk nodded to her, “Captain of the Ducal Guard and Master at Arms.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Rellen said, bowing slightly. “I must say, your bladework—both of you—is commendable.”

  The lieutenant nodded her thanks.

  “Again, I’m honored,” Mygal said, and as he said it, Rellen felt the tingle of Mygal’s ermajea brush against his protection spell. It was like a cobweb sliding over his arm. If he hadn’t cast his protection spell, he’d have never felt it.

  So it begins, Rellen thought.

  He locked eyes with the younger Guardian, a bland expression upon his face. For a fleeting moment, he felt Mygal’s ermajea press harder, ever so slightly. Rellen gave the young man a superior smile and raised an eyebrow. Mygal’s jovial smile wavered for a flickering instant, and his eyes went just a hint wider. The tingle of magic jerked away.

  Rellen gave the faintest of satisfied nods. If he was going to be Mygal’s mentor, he had to put him in his place from the outset. “Shall we get down to business?” He motioned for everyone to sit down.

  Mygal swallowed once and straightened his back. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

  “Good,” Rellen replied.

  “I won’t be able to join you,” Veraiya said. She looked at Mygal and then Corwyk. “Besides, there’s nothing I know about the murders that either Corwyk or Mygal don’t.”

  “Very well,” Rellen replied, glancing at her. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “The pleasure was mine.” She gave a stiff bow, and as she strode away, the three men sat down at the table.

  Rellen never took his eyes off Mygal, pleased with the younger Guardian’s discomfort. It was a perfect way to begin. He caught Corwyk glance at him out of the corner of his eye, the obvious question there.

  Rellen scratched his cheek twice, using an old court signal to wave Corwyk off.