“Barbarian?” laughed Ward, pushing his exotically pale hair out of his eyes. “Tisala, we’re stubborn, obnoxious, and coarse. But we’re hardly barbarians. We evencookour food  . . . if it’s convenient.”

Ward of Hurog. She had a sudden vivid image of him the last time she’d seen him, his sword red with Vorsag blood. He was strong, strong enough to stand up to King Jakoven if need be. Moreover he wasnot involved in the king’s half brother Alizon’s rebellion. He lived in a keep on the coast, not too far from the Tallvenish border. Surely she could find it.

Better yet, she had information for him—a payment of sorts for helping her.

She slipped on the old man’s shoes to protect her feet and took his cloak off the wall. She would have taken his clothing as well, but death had released more than just blood. Wrapping the cloak around her nakedness, she decided she could steal clothing before she left the city.

She opened the door and climbed up a long flight of stairs to another door. She opened it, too, expecting to find a hall or another room, but there was fresh night air and a set of stone steps that led up into a tidy alley.

The guard who stood in front of the door didn’t even turn around, his eyes scanning the rooftops and the shadows.

“He’ll learn, Master Edelbreck. Boys grow up,” he said in the flat, nasal tones of an Estian native.

He didn’t live long enough to understand that it hadn’t been the torturer who’d opened the door behind him. The knife was very sharp, and Tisala took the guard’s belt and sheath to carry it. His knife was crude, an eating utensil rather than a weapon and she left it on the ground beside the body. Leaving the sword was a more difficult decision. She longed for the reassurance of its weight, but in Tallven, only armsmen and nobles carried swords.

Swordless, Tisala disappeared into the maze of Estian, leaving no trail for the king’s men to follow.

2
WARDWICK AT HUROG

I’ve found that after the harvest is finished, I have time for renewing old acquaintances and discussing politics.

“YOU’RECHEATING,”OREG SAID, AND PAIN SEAREDdown my vision, weakening me until the flame I’d lit on the bowl of water flickered a sad, faded yellow and died. “I told you not to draw on Hurog—you might find yourself somewhere else when you need magic, and then where would you be?”

I wiped sweat off my forehead and glared at him. He looked more like a young man with dark hair and pale violet eyes than an old dragon, but appearances often lie—something I’ve found to be useful myself. Oreg looked young and vulnerable, and I looked big and dumb. Neither happened to be true.