The four of them sized one another up, and all the time Alishia’s gaze was on Rafe. He was an attractive boy, maybe three or four years younger than her, but he looked tired and worn, as if time had suddenly caught up to show him what the world was all about. His eyes reflected the fire, but only reluctantly. It was the death moon that cast its color into his hair. Maybe if I can take some fledge I can look inside, see what is more than a mind. The idea was frightening—her last experience with fledge had made her sense something awful—but it thrilled that shaded part of her as well.

“I don’t mind if you want to join us,” Rafe said at last. He threw the branch back into the fire, raising a splash of sparks. His eyes never once left Alishia’s. He backed away from the flames and sat down, and Alishia followed suit. They smiled at each other as the witch cursed and spat again.

“Rafe, we have no idea who they are! They might be after . . . something. Anything. You know what I mean.”

A secret! Alishia thought, and she almost laughed. Something tickled at her consciousness like a name on the tip of her tongue, a fact locked deep down in her mind and willing itself to be shown.

“They don’t look like Monks to me,” the boy said.

“Monks?” Trey had sat with his back to the fire, and he mumbled something else into the dark.

Monks, Alishia thought. What sort of Monks did he mean? There were the bands of moon worshippers—life or death—that still practiced their religions, long gone though the magic of the land was. And there were . . .

There were Red Monks. Red Monks like the bastard that had burned down her library, stolen something away, charred her dreams and memories to cover whatever he may have left. Red Monks. Sworn destroyers of magic.

Magic! The shout was so loud in her head that she thought they must have all heard, but the boy’s eyes did not falter, the cursing witch did not let up in her litany. And Alishia, staring steadily into the flame, felt the darkened place in her mind open up.

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

KOSAR’S FINGERS HURT like the Black. Yet now more than ever he needed his delicate touch, the gentle manipulation that years as a thief had bestowed on him, even after his self-inflicted branding. His fingertips were raw and bleeding, but the fresh blood was all his own. He did not appear to be infected with the slayer venom.