She tilted her head, weighing him. “You assume friendship quickly. I can’t decide if that’s a function of youth or naïveté or goodness or your singular powers. Not everyone can weigh a soul in a glance, Nameless.”

“Sorry for the presumption, my Lady.”

“Give me your sword hand.”

He extended his hand and she studied the palm. He saw magic swirling over it. He said, “It’s been three months since I—”

The magic died suddenly. The Seraph’s eyes snapped up from his palm to his eyes, and in her platinum eyes, Kylar saw fear. “You fool,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Between the intensity of her tone and her fear, Kylar felt a snake of terror twisting in his guts. What could make the Seraph afraid? “I lost my sword Retribution. It was my birthright—”

“Retribution? Was that Acaelus’ attempt at a joke?”

Kylar said nothing. What had he revealed here? She’d told him he was naive to trust her. How much did she know now? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said woodenly. “It’s a simple sword, inscribed with a word, either Justice or Mercy.”

“And it depends on you to dispense whichever is deserved.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I don’t suppose that reminds you of anything.”

“Uh . . .”

“You see the state of souls. You mete out justice or mercy, giving people what they deserve. What does that make you?”

Kylar remembered the Wolf’s words, laughing at his name, telling him Kylar Stern was a title. “A judge,” Kylar said quietly.

“And a judge decides the application of what?” the Seraph asked, equally quiet.

“The law?” Together, Jorsin Alkestes and Ezra created two artifacts: Curoch, the sword of power, and Iures, the scepter of law. “But it’s supposed to be a . . .” his voice trailed off. He’d seen Curoch shift into any shape it needed to be. He’d seen Retribution raise the words Mercy or Justice in different languages. Why not hide Iures as a sword? Where better to hide Iures than with Durzo, whose ka’kari concealed him? What better place to keep the ka’kari of concealment than concealing one of the greatest artifacts in history? Kylar should have known Durzo wouldn’t have retrieved Retribution simply to spare Kylar of the inconvenience of having his swords blunted. How many times had Durzo told him the blade was priceless?

“Do you know where it is?” Kylar asked.

Holding his hand, the Seraph closed her eyes and glowed golden. The light started in her forehead and expanded until it filled the room, then it whooshed. For an instant, Kylar swore the entire Seraph—the big one—was aglow. Then the woman opened her eyes.

“It is in Trayethell.”

“Trayethell?” Kylar remembered the name dimly. Acaelus Thorne had been the Prince of Trayethell. “It’s in Black Barrow.”