Erphele looked herself over in a body length mirror, then turned to do it again. Smoothing her white lace dress, she ran a hand over the creamy, pearl opals stitched into the neckline. “Did you sleep well? Those clothes fit nicely on you,” she said.

Grevail looked down at the brown trousers and comfortable wool shirt Ophin brought him, wiggling his toes inside new shoes. ‘My servant would not dress in rags’, is what Erphele told him when he asked her why. “I slept well, thank you.” It was no lie. He’d never lain in a bed as fine as that which Erphele gave him last night. Feather pillows, a feather mattress, and blankets so soft they felt more like a mattress themselves. He’d been anxious about sleeping under the same roof as the Sifters, but he made it clear if they tried anything he wouldn’t utter another word about that relic.

Erphele spun in a swirl of dress to a nearby table and the selection of jewelry atop it. She snapped a silver bracelet on her arm and returned to the mirror, inspecting her appearance. “How do I look?” she asked over her shoulder.

Grevail didn’t know what to say. It wouldn’t do to insult her, especially now. Would she be angry at what a lowly mudrat thought? Ophin brought him to Erphele’s dressing room a short time ago with Grevail under the impression they would discuss the party, but so far the woman had not spoken about it at all.

She studied him in the mirror with a secretive smile. “You don’t think I’m beautiful?”

Grevail closed his mouth and averted his eyes. He would not let himself be amusement for some noblewoman. “Why do you want the relic?”

A soft laugh bubbled from Erphele at his embarrassment. “Why do you?”

“I don’t. I’ve told you that. Why Xylen? Why go through all this trouble? What is it?”

“Curious, are you? I suppose it is only natural given the connection you claim to have with it. I ordered Ophin to guard your door last night so Articia couldn’t sneak in and interrogate you. She is very interested in what you’ve said.”

As if the mention of his name had been a summons, the door opened to emit Ophin. “Lady Erphele,” he said in a solemn voice, “you will be late if we wait any longer. The carriage is ready.”

Erphele rolled her eyes but made soothing sounds at the man. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Ophin bowed in acknowledgment, then straightened and swept suspicious eyes across Grevail before closing the door.

“He hates to make a bad impression,” Erphele said as if Grevail should understand.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Erphele sighed. “I suppose I didn’t.” After a short pause and one final check of herself in the mirror, she waved Grevail toward the door. “They say the Emberfolk used the stones to travel to Eldimirian. Did you know that?”

“I’ve heard. Do you believe it?” Grevail followed her from the room and into a hallway of white stone with a fine blue rug running down the center of it.

Erphele issued an unapologetic shrug of her slim shoulders. “Yes, I do.”

“You’re not afraid to tell me that?”

“Would you tell someone? And if you did, who would they believe?”

He supposed she was right. Cythraul or Dawnbreaker accusations weren’t uncommon, but most people didn’t pay much mind, unless the accused were someone a lot of people didn’t like or it was a Thavan doing the accusing. Nobody would believe anything someone like himself had to say about a lady like Erphele. “That’s it? You think the Emberfolk used these? That’s why you’re willing to do all this?” It was difficult to believe someone with so much would risk it all on the speculation of what these Emberstones could do.

Erphele turned a corner and descended a staircase that widened at the bottom like a wave spilling across the floor of the entry hall. “What if we could find out how they did it? What if we could cross the oceans like they did?” she said, a hopeful light in her eyes. “What awaits us on the other side? I’ve dreamt about it since I was a little girl—venturing into the oceans like Luscien and Spasian. If the Emberfolk used these stones to travel beyond the storms at sea, maybe we can too?”

Ophin was waiting in the foyer at the bottom of the staircase with a proud smile for Erphele, and as she descended, scurried ahead of her to the door.

“Who is Articia? What is her story?”

Ophin struggled to prop open the gigantic door, but Erphele stopped short with a grin for Grevail. “That’s enough questions for now. For the rest of the night you are my servant.” Her smile brightened and she gave him a wink. “Maybe for a while after too?”

Grevail prepared a coarse rebuttal, but Erphele floated past Ophin, who scowled at Grevail before scrambling after her. Grevail caught the door as it closed and walked after them across the terrace. The young woman from the dream was not there, nor had he seen her again. He doubted Erphele would tell him who she was either, like Articia.

When they came to the end of the garden they found a carriage waiting in the center of the wall lined courtyard. It was white with blue trim, and even the horses were white with blue harnessing. Remembering Carbathe’s obsession with Erphele, though she apparently didn’t return the man’s feelings, Grevail couldn’t help but wonder if she supported Carbathe’s efforts to unseat Daryn as Khos. He shook his head, tossing Alisia’s suspicions of a coup from his mind.

The ring of keys Aritane claimed to have bribed out of Seirod’s servant were tucked away in his pocket. His goal was to steal the relic, and in doing so, avenge his friends. Nothing else was important as that, though he would try to uphold his end of the bargain with Alisia if the opportunity presented itself. He supposed there was no harm in doing so if something Alisia might find valuable fell out of the sky onto his head.

Erphele climbed into the carriage with a hand from Ophin and sat beside Articia, who was already waiting. Ophin waved Grevail inside with a grimace. “In with you.”

Grevail stepped into the carriage and sat opposite of the women on the leather bench. Blue cloth upholstered the walls and ceiling where delicate patterns of leaves and vines in white thread wound around the windows or curled above the seats. Grevail could count on one hand the number of carriages he had ever been inside, fewer still with the owner’s permission, and none were so fine as Erphele’s.

Outside, Ophin clamored into the driver’s seat. “Shall we proceed, Lady Erphele?”

“We may,” Erphele called back to him.

The carriage jolted into motion. Grevail stuck his head out of the window and observed Kaeno opening the gate for their departure.

“Sit back,” Erphele commanded.

Grevail pulled back into the carriage, raising an eyebrow at her.

Erphele arched a blond eyebrow in turn. “If you want your disguise to be believable, you won’t speak unless spoken to, and you won’t do anything unless asked. You are to be invisible until I’ve given you a purpose. If needed, your name will be Phedor, but I shouldn’t have need to say your name if you are waiting on me as you should.”

“Not what I’m used to…but if it helps.”

Unlike Erphele’s expensive dress, Articia’s was simple wool, though the tight stitch and pattern of flowers across the shoulders said it was of quality make. The old woman frowned at him as she might a coiled snake. “I hope you are right, Erphele.”

“What do we have to lose?” Erphele had retrieved a pair of white silk gloves from somewhere and was busy pulling them on. “I believe him, and if he acquires the Emberstone, it will be worth it, will it not?”

“I only hope this is the best way to go about it,” Articia grumbled.

Grevail hoped the same thing. The itch still pulled him north, just as it had been. “Where are the Sifters?”

Erphele wrinkled her nose at the question in disapproval, as if already he was disobeying her orders to remain silent unless spoken to. “They will arrive later. Iphik and Grix have special instructions.”

With Ophin snapping the reins, the carriage rolled out of the compound and bounced down the highway toward the north gate. Grevail was surprised to hear an occasional cheer directed at them as they went. A young woman appeared at the carriage doorway, skirts swishing around her legs as she ran beside. “Lady Erphele! Lady Erphele! Bless you and the memory of your husband!”

Erphele responded with a wave and a laugh. “Thank you, dear!”

The carriage trundled onward, leaving the young woman behind, and turned onto Seirod’s street just as dusk gave way to night. As they clattered down the cobbles, drawing closer to the party, a feeling of unease settled upon Grevail.

It was hard to concentrate on anything else but the scratching in his head. Would he be able to find the relic? What would happen if he didn’t find it? Would he give it to Erphele as he promised? Would he see the stableman? He didn’t know answers to these questions, or many others. He was as ill-prepared for this as much as one could be, but he had to do something. If I had done something earlier my friends would still be alive.

The carriage slowed. Grevail moved to look out the window to see what was going on until Erphele growled at him to sit back.

“Who goes there?” a man called when the carriage lurched to a stop.

“The Lady Erphele and her guests,” Ophin announced.

Grevail flinched when the metallic shriek of an opening gate peeled into the night air. An older man with an untrimmed beard peeked inside the carriage, offering Erphele a smile. “Good evening, my lady,” he said. Grevail recognized him as one of Seirod’s guards, and though the man did not look his way, released an uneasy breath when he disappeared.

The carriage shambled forward a short distance before stopping again. Ophin jumped from the driver’s seat in a crunch of gravel to help the women down. Grevail climbed out after them, catching the door just before it hit him in the face. Ophin returned to the driver’s seat at a word from Erphele and snapped the reins to lead the carriage away.

Erphele stood adjusting her dress and jewelry, waiting for Grevail to join her. “Open the door for me,” she whispered at him when he came close. Seirod’s mansion lay in front of them. Rectangular in shape, like a three story brick, it sat hunched in the dark, some of the many windows glowing warmly.

Grevail clenched his jaw at the order but did as he was told and ascended the stone steps of the looming building, pulling open the door. Erphele floated past, leaving a light and flowery trail of perfume in her wake. Articia came at her heels, tugging the wool dress around herself with yet another scowl for Grevail.

Inside, in the center of a well-lit marble foyer, a beady eyed man in gray and black livery with Seirod’s rearing horse on the breast took them in with a raised brow. After a moment, his eyes widened in recognition and he bent in a deep bow. “Lady Erphele! We’ve been expecting you!” The man straightened and gestured at a nearby hallway filled with the echoing murmur of a crowd. “Right this way! Seirod will be so pleased you’ve arrived!”

Erphele inclined her head and let the man lead the way. Grevail followed, already searching for any clues that might be useful, though the polished walls revealed little. The further they went down the hallway, the louder the chatter of conversation grew until they entered a huge hall. Beneath gleaming chandeliers, a thick crowd mingled atop a hardwood floor layered with luxurious patterned carpets. Nearby, a large hearth filled with blazing logs crackled and popped. Grevail’s eyes rose to the roof three story's above. Party-goers on a second floor looked over a carved railing to watch them enter, many with a goblet in hand.

“I’ll inform Seirod of your arrival,” said the servant over the din of the party, then disappeared into the crowd like a frog jumping into a pond.

Grevail felt more out of place than he ever had. A woman wearing a necklace worth more than most common folk scraped together in their entire lives mingled with others dressed just as richly. A fat man in an obvious wig joined them, waving a hand glittering with diamonds. Drunk rich people wearing their most expensive jewels to impress each other? A pickpocket’s dream, he thought. He and Tessyn could have made a fortune out of a place like this on a good night. If she was still alive…

“Can you sense it?” Articia whispered at him, diverting his attention from the bejeweled party attendees and the memory of his friends.

“I can.” The scratching was overpowering, and now accompanied by a throbbing headache. The itch rolled back and forth whenever he turned his head but he thought the relic was somewhere above them, on the upper floors. His gaze traveled up the wall. “It’s somewhere upstairs.”

Articia narrowed her eyes, then glanced over her shoulder at Erphele who was engaged in conversation with a woman in a dark riding dress and bedecked in more jewelry than a Tayori merchant. The other patrons, bored with the newcomers, went back to talking amongst themselves.

“See if you—” Articia began but Grevail’s attention was drawn to a man wading through the crowd behind her.

The man, sporting a well-groomed brown head of hair and beard, wore a dark gray coat with a rearing horse on the breast. “Lady Erphele!” he exclaimed and spread his arms as if she were an old friend. His intent brown eyes passed over Grevail as if he were furniture. “I’ve heard so much about you, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am Seirod.”

Erphele inclined her head as she would to an equal. “The pleasure is mine, Seirod.”

An older, stocky man with long graying brown hair and sharp blue eyes appeared at Seirod’s shoulder. Grevail stopped himself just short of gasping.

Upon sight of Grevail, surprise flashed across Arxaro’s face. He leaned and whispered into Seirod’s ear, just as the host was about to say something to Erphele.

Seirod paused, flicking his eyes to Grevail, but only for a heartbeat before he continued. “Carbathe will be elated you are here, Lady Erphele. He should arrive soon.”

Erphele emitted a pleasant laugh, though it seemed somewhat forced. “Very well. Carbathe is the life of a party after all.”

The shock of coming face to face with the stableman did not last long. Grevail’s blood boiled. Sweat popped onto his brow and his heart thumped against his chest as if he’d ran all the way here. The knife hidden in his coat felt as if it weighed twice as much and were on fire. Even if he were to draw it now, he doubted he would escape Seirod and his guards alive.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Care to introduce me?” Seirod said to Erphele, gesturing toward Grevail. Erphele hesitated, then turned to Grevail, forehead creased with worry.

Grevail prepared himself to draw the knife, even if it was futile. He would at least see some blood in vengeance for his friends. This fool plan failed before it even began. He reached inside his coat to grip the hilt, waiting for his name to leave Erphele’s lips.

“I will introduce myself, Lady Erphele.” Articia said beside him, stepping forward with a dark smile and eyes that did not pretend to be amiable. “Seirod…” she said carefully, as if pronouncing it for the first time. “I am Articia.”

Seirod’s practiced smile slipped, and confusion or perhaps alarm sprang into his eyes. “Welcome, Articia.” He stared at her a moment longer, as if he wanted to say more, but swung back to Erphele, recovering his composure just as quickly as he’d lost it. “Make yourselves comfortable. I look forward to the conversations we will have, Lady Erphele. The night is young and there is much to talk about!” With that, he twirled on his heel and walked into the crowd. The stableman was immediately at his shoulder and the two put heads together as they were swallowed by the patrons.

Erphele was taken up in conversation by a man with a gigantic yellow plume in his hat.

Articia placed a hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” she whispered. “More guests will arrive, they’ll get good and drunk, then you should go. Whatever you’re going to do, be careful…and if you get caught, don’t you dare implicate either of us or…” The old woman left the rest unsaid.

Grevail nodded at her words, but it was the surprise on Seirod’s face when he saw Articia that occupied his thoughts. The man clearly knew her, and she him. None of that matters, fool! I am here to find the relic! Articia and Seirod could have a dance and reminisce for all it mattered to him. He wasn’t sure what a servant did when they weren’t fetching something, but observing the plainly dressed, solemn people trailing the nobility, it seemed to mostly involve remaining invisible until summoned, just like Erphele said.

Erphele and Articia moved away from the door and Grevail kept close, but not so close that he’d draw attention. He belonged here as much as he did at the bottom of the Spasian, and if anybody spent any time talking to him, they’d realize it. Erphele and Articia both grabbed fancy glass chalices of chilled wine from the tray of a passing servant while a steady stream of people approached Erphele to discuss a wide range of subjects. One woman asked Erphele if she supported Carbathe, which Erphele answered vaguely. Another man asked if he could send his daughter to stay with Erphele. She had attempted to run off with a young man and he hoped Erphele could teach her how to be a lady. She declined.

With the itching throb in his head, Grevail half-listened to the conversation for anything Alisia might value, and spared the other half of his attention to scan the crowd for any sign of the stableman’s whereabouts or other clues he could gather. The longer it went on, the harder it became for him to stand by when he should be doing something. After some time, Erphele moved up the stairs to the second story.

Grevail thought the Emberstone must be on this floor. The scratching pulled him toward a row of doors at one edge of the expansive lounge crowded with chairs and settees that Seirod’s guests mingled around, drinks in hand. He spared a furtive glance at Articia, but she was preoccupied in conversation with a man so drunk he sloshed wine over the edge of his cup and onto his wrist. If I stand around here any longer, I might go grey from waiting. He took a step toward where the scratching led him.

“Lady Erphele!” announced a booming voice. A tall man with silver-white hair and stinging blue eyes like ice walked toward them through the parting crowd, trailing a purple cape so long it dragged on the ground behind him a few paces.

Erphele issued a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Carbathe…”

Carbathe took in Grevail and Articia, but his gaze snapped back to Erphele as if afraid she might vanish. “It is such a pleasure to see you. Only Volera herself could bring more light and beauty to a room than you.”

“Oh…thank you...” Erphele muttered with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Carbathe appeared not to notice Erphele’s indifference to his compliment. “Lady Erphele, you must understand, I could use your aid in so many ways. The people…they adore you, and…so do I,” he said, stepping closer. “There is no one better to be at my side when Daryn ultimately concludes, as we all have, that he has no business being Khos of Tamirra.”

Erphele nodded as if she’d heard it all before. “I will consider your offer, Carbathe.”

Carbathe’s brow furrowed, though his voice remained smooth. “What else could be more important? I will do whatever it takes to make you see it from my point of view, Lady Erphele. Daryn—”

“—is not here to defend himself,” Erphele interjected.

“Yes, well,” Carbathe said, ruffled by her interruption. He raised his voice. “Daryn calls himself a leader, but why is he hiding in the Council House instead of mingling with his people here tonight!”

A few cheers of agreement from the surrounding crowd put a confident smile on Carbathe’s face. “Perhaps you will visit my estate tomorrow and we could talk more openly,” he leaned close and inclined his head, “without all the prying ears around.”

Erphele tilted backward and averted her eyes.

Seirod materialized from the crowd to join them, sporting a slick smile. “The man of the occasion,” he said to Carbathe. “I should have known you’d find Lady Erphele so quickly, she attracts everyone in the room it seems.”

“That she does.” Carbathe clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “I owe much of my success to supporters like yourself, Seirod.”

“It is my pleasure. After all, we know,” Seirod said with a look that included Erphele, “Daryn is unfit to be Khos and you should rightfully have the title.”

“On the pillar!” Carbathe bellowed and clapped Seirod on the shoulder again. “A beautiful home you have for such a wonderful party, Seirod, but you must let me send you wine from my estates. It’s the best outside of Marchera, not that yours is all that bad. It’s expensive, but I know that of anyone, you have the coin for it.”

Seirod’s face soured. “I suppose I could make some room in the cellar,” he said, then cast a darting glance at Articia. “There is always some old thing left hanging around down there that is well past it’s usefulness.”

A small man with a delicate, bird-like nose emerged from the surrounding crowd to stand at Carbathe’s shoulder. “Evening,” he said with a bow of his bald head and an anxious smile. He wore a fine brown coat and pants that matched his eyes, embroidered with leaves in gold thread.

“Teral, I’m pleased you saw fit to arrive here tonight,” Carbathe said. “You have proved yourself a worthy ally, too. With supporters like yourself and Seirod, there is no way I cannot succeed against that layabout Daryn.”

Teral bobbed his head at Carbathe’s appreciation. “Yes, I would like to have a word with you—”

Carbathe waved a hand at him. “The night is young, Teral! We have plenty of time to talk business later. Where is your new wife! My niece must meet Lady Erphele.”

Teral’s mouth tightened at being cut off, but at the mention of Carbathe’s niece he brightened. “She is here, and eager to make the Lady Erphele’s acquaintance, of course,” the man said, bobbing his head.

Grevail realized the woman he had seen with Aramis was engaged to Teral. Alisia’s suspicions had been correct, it seemed, but he did not have long to think about what that might mean. Over Teral’s head, Grevail recognized a large man, several hands taller than the party patrons bending away from his towering form. Grevail’s breath froze in his throat. It was Noz, dressed in a fine coat, and beside him, the other man from the burial stroked the blond goatee around his mouth, studying the crowd. Even in expensive clothes moderately garnished with dashes of white lace at the cuffs or throat, they looked out of place among everyone else, like two wolves among a flock of sheep.

“Lord Carbathe,” the man with the goatee said, “would you please introduce us?”

Carbathe turned to eye the man. “Oh, yes,” he mumbled, sounding annoyed. “Seirod, this is…ah…Vaik! Vaik and his large friend here. Noz, I think it was? Yes, Noz. Interesting name, that. Is it from the west? Drossian, perhaps?”

Noz shook his head. Carbathe guffawed as if he found the response humorous and took a heavy drink from his cup. “A quiet one…but big! If only I had twenty more of him I could be in the Council House tonight!” The crowd joined him in laughter.

“Vaik,” Seirod said, giving the name a touch of incredulity. “Wonderful to meet you.”

Vaik issued a cold smile in return. “And to you, Seirod,” he said, repeating the Seirod’s name with the same emphasis.

Seirod turned to Erphele. “This here is the beautiful Lady Erphele.”

Erphele, apparently unaware of what had passed between Vaik and Seirod, inclined her head.

Vaik gave a slight bow to Erphele, then straightened and gestured at Articia. “And who is this?”

“Oh, that…is Articia.” Seirod said with a cold smirk, as if he were telling a joke.

Articia regarded them both with flat eyes and an unreadable face.

“Articia…” Vaik said with a grunt, then moved his eyes to Grevail where they began widening until they seemed ready to explode.

“Ah,” Carbathe intoned and stepped forward, blocking Grevail’s view of Vaik. The man clapped his hands together. “Now that greetings are out of the way, I suggest we really get to know each other.” He offered his arm to Erphele. “May I?” Carbathe did not wait for her consent and pulled the unwilling woman with him through the crowd like an angler with a fighting fish. “You must see the estate I acquired just a few days ago. A beautiful view of the Phantha…” whatever else he said was lost as they moved away.

Vaik and Noz put their heads together, staring at Grevail and whispering to each other.

Articia planted herself in front of him with her back to the men. “Do they know you?”

“Yes,” Grevail whispered. “Do they know you?”

Articia chewed at her lip. “How—” she began, but stopped with a curse. “Get out of here. I’ll keep them occupied. Go and get what we came here for.”

Wasting no time, Grevail ducked into the crowd, heading toward the far end of the room and the doors he saw there. Looking over his shoulder, Vaik and Noz had disappeared behind the shifting crowd, but he still felt as if their eyes were following him.

Picking his way through the patrons, he paused to study the doors, spotting the open entrance of a hallway during a brief break in the partiers. He moved toward it, sidestepping clusters of nobles engaged in discussion, but a familiar face bobbing like a buoy in the crowd stopped him short. The stableman stood about thirty paces away, and as if by chance, his eyes met Grevail’s. Arxaro’s face hardened and he began moving in his direction.

Stifling a panicked curse, Grevail darted into the wall of patrons, bumping into a man who grunted an unkind word in return. He pressed on, shooting a glance behind at the stableman and collided with a woman. “Are you drunk?” she exclaimed, indignant. He ignored her and plowed forward, leaving a trail of perturbed nobles in his wake.

Arxaro’s large form helped part the crowd for him and he gained ground, now only a few paces back—the sound of his rumbling apologies spurring Grevail on. Grevail realized that if he left the eyes of the party attendees, there was no telling what Arxaro might do, but with plenty of witnesses he wouldn’t dare try anything drastic. Would he? Realizing he had little other choice, Grevail stopped and turned to face him.

The stableman came within arm’s reach, shouldering aside a man, but before a word left his lips, a hand gripped Arxaro’s shoulder, silencing him. “Hello,” Grix said, stepping from the crowd to stand beside Arxaro. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” The Sifter stood nearly a head taller, though Arxaro’s shoulders were a shoulder wider, but they stared at each other like two strange dogs with a bone between them. Arxaro tensed as Grix spread his hands and spoke. “A drink is all I ask. A drink and it’s all forgiven.”

Grevail scurried into the cover of the crowd again. Ducking low, he wove through the patrons, receiving a few odd looks for the behavior, but did not pause or chance a look behind until he reached the hallway he spotted earlier. Inside, he pressed himself against the wall and spent a moment gathering his thoughts. When he was sure he hadn’t been followed, he peeked back out into the party, glimpsing an angry Arxaro scanning the crowd. Grix, still at his shoulder, continued his efforts to distract the man. Swallowing, Grevail spun and walked down the hallway. I came face to face with the man responsible for killing my friends and ran like a coward. Shame bubbled up him as the sound of the party faded, as if they were talking behind his back.

Stealing the relic is what will avenge them, he reminded himself. The itching in his head had turned into a throbbing pain that pointed him straight ahead and he followed it. Further down the hallway, a door opened in front of him and he nearly jumped out of his trousers, but the maid in Seirod’s livery who looked up from the bundle of bedding in her arms only raised an eyebrow in confusion before moving around him. He waited for her footsteps to disappear before releasing a relieved breath and pressing on. The familiar goosebumps cascaded over his skin and a chill ran down his spine.

The hallway opened into a rectangular space, like a knot in a rope, and two doors lay at each end of the rectangle on either side of the hallway. A table surrounded by a few chairs huddled atop an ornate rug outside one door, and it was there that the throbbing in his skull pointed him. The smell of spoiled wine hung in the air, too, but so faint it had to be many days old.

After being sure that the hallway was clear, he walked around the table and tugged at the door handle, finding it locked. Freeing the loop of keys from his pocket, he set about trying each of them, stopping to listen every few moments for footsteps. Sweat slicked his brow by the time he tried them all, and he shoved the keys away with a frustrated curse. Picking the lock might take him the rest of the night, if he could do it at all. He didn’t have the talent for it like Tessyn…had.

He could try to brute force the door, but that would be far too noisy. He remembered the rows of windows he spent so much time staring at when watching Seirod’s house. This room probably had a window, and he might be able to climb across the outside of the building to reach it. He went back to the hallway and tried the handle of the next door only to find it locked as well. Once again, he went through the keys, and to his surprise, the third one worked.

He thought it might be a guest room, but it was hard to tell in the darkness; there were so many rooms in Seirod’s house he had to wonder if all of them were ever used for anything. The shadowy form of a bed occupied one corner, and what was probably a desk in another, but it was the night-filled window at the back wall that called his attention. Closing the door, he made his way to it.

The building he saw when scouting Seirod’s backyard greeted him, only forty or so paces away across a lawn. It was shrouded in night and not a light could be seen in the windows. The stable beside it was well lit, however, and there was movement inside. Some of the servants and liverymen most likely, waiting to deliver their tipsy masters home for the night and perhaps having a drink of their own.

Grevail unlatched the window and pushed it open. Cool, refreshing night air poured inside, accompanied by the sharp scent of flowers from bushes below and the raucous laughter of those in the stable. He leaned out the window, relieved to see the lawn empty. Another window a dozen paces down the side of the building must lead to that locked room. Grevail reached into the pocket of his coat, feeling for the pick Aritane had given him.

A thin, decorative stone bevel ran from the window sill along the wall on the outside—perhaps half a hand wide. Sitting on the sill, he bit his lip and studied the thing, envisioning how he’d use it to shimmy along to the other window. Sucking air in through his teeth, he tucked his knees close to his chest and swept his legs outside. He sat for a moment with his feet dangling and looked at the ground two stories below. It isn’t that far. I’ve fallen further out of bed.

Gripping the window sill, he lowered himself down the face of the building until he hung suspended, feet scraping along the stone in search of footing. His arms began to burn, and just as he thought about pulling himself back inside, his toe caught on something. Another bevel it seemed, though this one wasn’t nearly as wide; he couldn’t get more than the tip of a shoe on it.

He spent a moment resting his arms as much as he could with the aid of the bevel. As he hung there, he was struck by the absurdity of what he was doing. A surge of doubt consumed him, and he briefly considered returning to the hallway with the keys again. Maybe I missed one? The window to the locked room caught Lusin’s light, glaring, as if beckoning him onward. Not far at all, he assured himself. With a determined curse, he began moving along the dual bevels, pausing every so often to rest his arms and scan the lawn for anyone who might have wandered outside from the party. Luckily, even Seirod’s guards were likely enjoying a drink.

After what seemed an eternity of tenuous shuffling along the tiny ridges of stone, he was soon in position below the window. The scratching slither told him the relic was certainly in this room. He paused to catch his breath, then hauled himself up to peek in the window.

The dark room revealed very little of what was inside. He spared a hand to quickly slip the spring lock pick from his pocket, only now thinking he should have clenched it in his teeth instead. Gripping the bevel with one hand, he used the other to wedge the pick between the windows, then slid it upward until it hit the latch, and with a quick thrust, forced it open. The panes of glass floated outward and he ducked to let them pass before climbing inside.

Immediately in front of him in the small room sat a table surrounded by chairs, partially lit by purple moonlight. Bookshelves and paintings lined the walls, though they were little more than black rectangles in the night. He took a step and something hit his leg. He quelled the shout in his throat, realizing it was a footrest.

The itch pulled him toward a lump on the floor between two bookshelves; a chest, he thought. He crept around the table toward it, but as he did, something on the table caught his eye. It was a sheet of parchment covered in cursive writing, and in the bottom right corner beside a flowing signature was Carbathe’s purple rose. The deal Grevail had made with Alisia came to the forefront of his mind. He licked his lips, eyes straying back to the chest, but after a shake of his head, picked up the paper and bent toward the moonlight with it.

“I’d like to thank you for your support. As promised, you will be gifted my estates north of the Phantha. If ever you need my assistance do not hesitate to ask. You are my ally, and I will vouch for you as you have for me. To our future in a new, better, Tamirra. ~ Carbathe”

The letter might be proof of Alisia’s coup, but Grevail had much bigger things to deal with at the moment. He shoved the parchment into his coat and slunk onward to the chest. Running his hands over it in the dark, it seemed to be quite a gilded and luxurious affair with many swirling patterns and decorations that made finding a way to open it by hand difficult. Some chests of this kind would have latches, he knew, though did not feel any. He tried prying at the lid but it was stuck tight. After a little more blind searching his fingers stumbled upon a keyhole. With a sigh of exasperation, he again retrieved the loop of keys. He would be surprised if one worked, since none opened the door to the room it was inside.

He set about trying each key, fumbling with them in the dark. He had made it about halfway through with no luck when he heard voices in the hallway and froze. Shadows moved in the small crack at the bottom of the door and a moment later, the sound of the knob being jiggled sent his heart racing. He jumped to his feet and backed toward the table, searching for somewhere to hide. He crammed himself into a corner where a bookcase met the wall just as the door croaked opened, realizing as he did so that he’d left the window open.