Therin scowled at the space that the infuriating spirit had just occupied and lowered his fist. His breath was ragged and fast, his mind a mess of the implications of the return message. He had to get Sally and Mrs. Jones out and away from the house. He double checked that he was put back together and presentable and left the drawing room, taking out the blank sealed letter from his pocket. He slid the seal open but kept the letter folded.

He didn’t spend long looking for Mrs. Jones as she was in the kitchens finishing Sally’s earlier task. He felt his stomach drop in guilt as he entered and saw the elderly woman kneeling and rearranging the badly stacked wood.

“Mrs. Jones,” he said kindly, kneeling beside her and taking the sticks of wood from her hands and piling the wood neatly. He struck the firestarter and quickly had the fire going.

“This girl gets lazier every day,” said the older woman as he held his hand out to her to help her up.

“Where is she?” Therin asked, avoiding her gaze and looked around the kitchens unnecessarily. “I need to speak with her.”

“Dinner needs to be started soon or it will be late for you and your guests,” Mrs. Jones said. “She’s in her room, I think.”

“I’ll let Sally know to see you,” he said, making up his mind that he would talk to the housemaid first and hope she would help persuade Mrs. Jones to join her on a short holiday. He didn’t actually want to see her again just yet but he had to get her out of the house. Hrulinar’s words had sunk in and he was, if not ashamed, then at least a little regretful for his actions.

He went up a small service stairway and down the narrow hall toward the servant’s quarters. He had only been up here a handful of times, all of them to find Mrs. Jones to bother her for something trivial. At the end of the hall were three doors. He stared at his choices. The middle one, he knew, would take him to Mrs. Jones’ private suite. The two flanking it were for her undermaids: one was Sally's, the other was…

He chose the door to the left and knocked softly.

“Sally?” He muttered quietly and waited. When he didn’t hear anything, he turned the knob and the door sprang open, creaking on its hinges.

An old, dusty smell drifted out of the room and he knew he had chosen the wrong door. But the curiosity was too great and so he threw a look over his shoulder and slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him.

Mara’s room was hot and stuffy, the air close and clinging to him as he entered. He noted that the windows were draped in heavy fabric but sunlight seeped around the edges of the curtains, giving him a little light in the tiny room. The walls were bare and the small single bed was stripped, the mattress naked and lumpy.

The small room was tidy but dusty, the floor being the only part of the space that wasn’t covered in a thick layer of grey. The work table and chair near the entrance had a dusty stack of papers on it with a quill and a dried up bottle of ink. He picked up the top sheet. The paper was plain, unmarked, but of fine quality. He set the sheet back down and turned to face the room. He frowned as he saw the edge of the curtain flutter, as though a soft sigh had caught it.

Two strides took him across the small room and he brushed aside the curtain, bracing for a cloud of dust as he pulled it away from the window. Not only was the curtain dust-free but the window was open. He leaned down and saw that the sash was open about a hand’s width, enough for him to get his arm through it to his elbow. He frowned again as he pulled his hand back into the room and tucked the curtain back so the sunlight fell across the dusty chamber.

Who had been airing out this room? Who had swept the floors? Surely if Sally or Mrs. Jones had ever been in the room they would have dusted the table, beat the dust out of the lumpy mattress.

He closed his eyes, the skin along his back and neck rippling in unease. He whispered a prayer and let the Light soothe him. He breathed in deeply, letting the unease play across him and slowly fade.

Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see the now-familiar glow of purple coming from a crack in the floor under the small table. The unsettled feeling crawled across his flesh again and he stood motionless for a long moment before kneeling beside the crack and running his fingers along the edge of a loose floorboard. It came up with ease and as he lifted it, the glow faded so he said another prayer and the purple flared again.

Inside the small gap he could make out the shape of a long black feather, a stack of papers, and a small collection of other things. He let the Light wash down his arm and picked up the feather, blue-black and dust-free. It looked a lot like the Witch Quill he had taken from Devan. He gently set it down beside the hole and pulled out the papers.

The papers were bound in a stack with a thin leather cord but he could see that the top one was a deed. Blazoned across the top was “Transfer of Ownership” followed by a flowing official script. He caught the words “upon death”, “winery” and “vineyard”. His eyes stopped, looking at the line, trying to work out the location, something familiar clawing to get into his memory. He scanned the signed names and nearly dropped the paper in shock.

“Erin and Galvyn Burke?” Therin whispered aloud. “What the hell?” He re-read the document and it crashed upon him. This was the deed to Mara’s father’s property, made over to Erin and the fallen Paladin. The date indicated that this had been drawn up before he was born.

A loud caw startled him, and he turned, looking over his shoulder. Sweat was sliding down his temple and as he turned, the slick wetness of it turned to ice. A blue-black raven sat in the window, crouched low to get into the open sash. He stood and the bird hopped into the room, holding one wing awkwardly. Therin noticed that the feathers were disrupted, ruffled in a way that suggested that the animal had seen better days.

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He stood and waved at the bird but instead of flying back out the way it had come, it shimmered and became a man, painfully thin, his silver-blond hair in disarray. His clothing was torn, the shirt hanging off him in a way to show strips of bruised and scratched flesh. He lifted his head to Therin, pleading and pain etched across his scarred face.

Noran looked dreadful.

One eye was bruised, nearly swollen closed and his lip was split. He had a long scratch down his cheek that stopped at the line of his jaw and his neck was raw and red, as though he had had something wrapped tightly around it.

“Therin,” croaked the man and he put his hand to his throat, as though it was painful to speak. The taller man drew the small utility knife he kept in his pocket and flicked it open with a soft, deadly snick.

“Wait–” Noran said and his voice broke. He put his hands up to deter his angered brother and collapsed backwards against the wall below the window. “Listen to me.”

In one long stride he had the knife to his forsaken brother’s throat and the other clasped his shirt, which was already torn in a few places. Up close, Therin could tell that some of the tears were actually burns. Noran’s hand wrapped around the fist that clenched around the small knife. His skin was cold and clammy.

“No, you listen to me.” He put his face closer to Noran’s glaring with deadly darkness at his once-brother. The fright in Noran’s eyes was far greater than the moment warranted. Something was wrong, Therin could feel it.

“Where is your mistress?” he growled and pressed the tip of the blade into the other man’s flesh. Noran’s hand tightened against Therin’s.

“I don’t know,” admitted Noran and Therin pressed the tip further into his skin, drawing a small line of blood.

“I don’t, I swear. She left the Temple when she found out I had received your message.” Therin watched the smaller man suspiciously and clenched his jaw, thinking. He took in the beat up appearance, his withered flesh and skeletal thinness.

“You’ve displeased her,” he said finally and Noran nodded once, his throat bobbing against the blade.

“How?”

But Noran shook his head once and blinked. Therin’s eyes darkened and the memories of his relationship with this man, who used to be such a beloved member of his family, flooded him. They had been boys together. They had shared secrets and jokes at their father’s expense. Noran would bring Therin snacks he had snuck from Mrs. Jones. Therin had lied to Devan for Noran, taking the blame for unfinished chores. They had once had a bond.

Therin roused himself from the memories. That boy was dead and the man who had replaced him was no longer a direct line to the woman he was truly after. He pressed the knife into the man’s throat before him and saw acceptance bleed into his eyes.

“If you kill me you’ll never find what’s in the vineyard,” whispered Noran and Therin’s hand stilled. He searched the man’s eyes and frowned.

“What do you know about the vineyard?”

“There’s a secret there,” Noran said and Therin’s eyes danced between the other man’s eyes, searching for falsehood.

“What is it?”

“I can show you. You need a witch to access it.” The tension between them mounted, and Therin could swear he could hear the thudding of the other man’s heart. His brother’s eyes softened at him and with a shudder of anger, Therin’s blade was suddenly gone from Noran’s throat. He gestured to the door.

“Let’s go,” he said and Noran struggled to his feet. Therin noted the long angry line of a burn down his arm as he grabbed it and stopped him from passing by. “Give me your blade.”

Noran grimaced but drew a long thin dagger from a sheath at his waist. It had a dark pommel and no other gems, plain and rather boring for a Witch Knife. Therin didn’t recognize the blade and Noran looked away from him, not meeting his gaze. He tucked the blade into his own belt.

“I have to get my mail and hammer before we go. My things are in the stable.”

Noran nodded his understanding and limped to the door. He cracked it open a fraction, peered out and then pulled up on the door as he opened it, silencing the loud hinges. Therin understood, suddenly, who had kept the floor clean in Mara’s room. Noran had been a very busy boy.

They slipped outside without meeting anyone and as they darted into the stable, Noran tripped, falling into a heap beside Therin’s pack. Therin quickly saddled Sabra, one eye on Noran. Watching his wounded brother, Therin pulled on his mail and hefted the mace onto his shoulder.

“What did she do to you?”

“Too many things to list,” Noran groaned as he straightened his leg and rolled his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have flown.”

“You must have really done something upsetting, then,” Therin said not expecting a reply.

“You have no idea,” Noran whispered and Therin turned to look at him. He jerked his head toward the horse and Noran groaned.

“I don’t think I can mount,” he said.

“Fine,” Therin said. He held his hand out and yanked the slight man to his feet.

“Do you have a code you write to Devan in?”

“Of course,” Noran said between gritted teeth as he stood. He dusted his hands off and winced as he brushed a finger that was swollen and purple. “And when you didn’t reply with the right phrase when she sent ‘Hierophants Linger’, she knew an imposter was writing.”

Therin climbed into the saddle and held his hand out again, helping Noran into the saddle behind him. Sabra baulked at the extra weight but he soothed her with a shushing sound and clicked his tongue. Noran cringed away from his back as he sat behind him.

“What was the response?”

Noran didn’t answer right away but seemed to decide that it didn’t matter because he shrugged lazily and sighed.

“It’s a complicated cipher.”

“And I’m too stupid,” Therin said and set Sabra at a slow pace down the drive.

“No, it just has a lot of variables. It doesn’t matter,” he insisted.

They fell silent and Therin thought about their situation. He had not forgiven the man behind him. He had not even contemplated what it would take for him to begin that process. The apparent rift between the witch and his mistress didn’t change how he felt about him.

Does it? He asked himself. His lies had been the catalyst to so much suffering. He had meddled when he could have looked the other way. Therin rolled his shoulders under the mail and mace and felt the pull of his scars.

It did not change how he felt about his brother, he decided.