Twain lifted his finger off the earring and nodded at Spar. “All ready to go.”

Spar nodded. “I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m happy to help.”

Abruptly, Twain furrowed his brows. He reached out to the map of blight he’d created earlier, and the silver spooled out in his mind’s eye once more. Faintly visible, thin silver lines traced the loosest outline of the castle. The sparse lines left few details, but, nestled deep in the castle, a beacon of blight burned.

Is that the demon princess? I know she carries blight on her. Or… is that whoever’s allowing the demon princess to peddle her wares? Both of them?

He turned the map in his mind, drawing the castle closer. I shouldn’t have cancelled the spell when the blight in town startled me. I don’t have enough details on the castle to tell if the blight is where it was last time, or somewhere else.

Twain bit his lip, then nodded at Spar. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Spar asked.

“Out on the town. I want to see the blighted part of town in person, in case there’s something there. If we’re lucky, they’re running their blight-dealing operation out of there, and we can shut it down single-handedly.”

“And if we’re not?”

Twain shrugged. “We lose nothing by looking.”

“Fair enough.”

--

Walking down the cobbled streets, Spar tossed his mohawk out of his eyes. “Could your spell miss blight?”

Twain nodded. “It does all the time. Low level blight often doesn’t light up unless you’re relatively close. On the opposite side of the equation, a powerful source of magic—especially light-elemental—can mask blight.”

“So it’s possible there’s blight you’ve missed?”

“It’s more than possible, it’s even likely. The blight-detection spell is useful, but it’s not a perfect solution. It makes mistakes. It can be fooled. For example, they’re storing the blight somewhere. It could be in the Arena or where’re we’re going. It could be out of town, beyond the range of the spell. Or it could be… near the humans’ famous College of Wizardry, for example,” Twain said, gesturing at a madcap, haphazard tower that thrust into the sky, side rooms and lesser towers branching out in unlikely directions without any structural support. The air around it thrummed with magic, the heat-shimmer distortion visible to the naked eye. “All the magic there… I don’t know that any spell could get an accurate reading around that mess.”

Spar nodded. “Magic is complicated, huh?”

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“You’re a magical beast. Don’t you use magic all the time?”

“It’s all feelings for me. There’s no… spells or anything.” Spar waved his hand dismissively. “That complicated nonsense is for you bipedal races.”

Twain rolled his eyes. He paused at the corner and called the map back up into his memory, comparing it to the streets. “Right here. We’re almost there.”

“Is it just me, or have we been here before?” Spar asked, looking around.

“You wander the city all the time, don’t you?”

“No, I mean… last night. We were here last night.”

Twain frowned. “We were?”

They turned the corner, and Twain stopped in his tracks. Taken aback, he pulled up the map, spun around, pulled the map up again, and stared. “No way.”

“Yeah, see? There’s the bar, right there.”

“Spar, this is where the blight is.”

Spar gave him a look. “That’s not good.”

Twain shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

“Did you… er, I mean, you had that blight on you the whole time, right?”

“No, it shouldn’t be…” He looked at his hands, then at the bar. “I’m not contagious now. Blight isn’t contagious until it’s visible, and those vials… the demon princess’ rooms in the castle were clean last time I ran the spell.” Even this time, honestly. That blot… it isn’t in the princess’ wing. It’s in the center of the castle. The heart of it.

“Are you sure? I mean, that stuff is nasty.”

“I’m sure! I’m sure, Spar, the hell,” Twain snapped.

Spar put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, just asking.”

Scowling, Twain shoved past him. His own shoulder flew back rather than his featherweight budging Spar’s bulk. Unsatisfied, he scowled deeper.

Behind his back, Spar raised his eyebrows. “Ooo…kay.”

Twain shook his head, brows furrowed furiously. Spar needs to catch up already! How stupid is he? Does he even have a brain in his head, or does he do all his thinking below the belt?

He huffed out, then took a deep breath. Blight. Remember the blight, Twain. This is the blight speaking. Calm down.

“You done with your huff, princess?”

Twain whipped around. “Call me princess one more time.”

“And what? Come at me. Let’s see who wins, huh?” Spar cracked his knuckles.

He started to square up to Spar, but forcibly stopped himself. It’s the blight. It’s the blight. It’s not me. Twain shook his head, hard, and slapped his cheeks.

Spar gave him a look. “You alright over there?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Fine.” He turned a circle in the alley he found himself in, taking everything in. Tight and dim, slime dampened one of the walls and moss grew on the northern face. Empty beer bottles, some of them shattered, scattered across the sparsely-cobbled mud underfoot. A puddle of unmentionable substances gave off a distinctive reek near the worn back door of the bar, and rotting food piled against the wall down a ways. Insects and rodents feasted on the piles, some scurrying away as they approached, others eyeing them warily while they hunched over the refuse.

Something prickled at the back of Twain’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place it. “This look familiar to you?”

Turning, Spar took it in as well. “Huh. It’s that alley we threw what’s-his-face into. Zalazar? Spider-guy.”

Twain pointed at him. “Yes! That’s what it is.”

“The hell did all those spiders come from, anyways? Were they in his clothes or some shit? Yuck.” Spar shuddered.

“Not a fan?”

“Who’s a fan of that many spiders?”

“Fair enough,” Twain allowed. “I mean, probably Zalazar is, I guess. Unless…”

“Unless?” Spar prompted.

Twain shrugged. “Speaking as an illusionist myself… could have been an illusion.”

“Nuh-uh. I felt those suckers. Crawling up under my clothes…” Spar wiped down his sleeves and shivered. “I hate when things get under my clothes. It’s the worst part of clothes.”

“I thought you loved when things got in your clothes?” Twain asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not bugs. Anything but bugs. Ugh, I’m getting itchy just thinking about it."