A troupe of five colorfully dressed musicians steps aside to make way for Ronin’s retinue. They bow low, blowing notes into their reed pipes and jaw harps as we pass.

The Dead Wood remains always at our left. Ahead, the road veers into the trees. Ronin leads us through, the path wide enough for a couple of wagons driving abreast. The boisterous sounds die off quickly. Our group presses tight in the middle of the road.

Within minutes, the path leads to the gates of a bone palisade. Unlike the one at Spinner’s End, there is no additional webbing to shield against the trees.

Ronin’s manor house is an ornate, four-story behemoth, with the extravagant tiered roofs and intricate sculptural accessories that were lacking at Spinner’s End. I suspect the house’s whitewashed walls and golden traceries are more for the benefit of its guests than for Ronin. Additional buildings stand perpendicular to the main house, extending farther back into the property. Staff rush in and out of the open front doors, hauling luggage from newly arrived dignitaries and directing drakes to the inner stables.

“You’ve been here before?” I ask Phaut.

“Twice. Each time, the trees have moved a little farther out. Once, long before I came into Lord Ronin’s service, the manor stood well outside the Dead Wood.”

As we pass through the gate, my body grows slack and weak, as if I’ve spent the entire day training with Kendara. I glance at the others, but they appear unaffected. Saengo gives me a concerned look. Is this an echo of her discomfort or something else? I grip the saddle with faintly trembling arms as I dismount, although it’s more like a controlled fall. When my feet touch the ground, my legs nearly fold.

“Welcome to Vienth Manor. I’ll show you to your room,” a servant says after handing my drake off to a stable hand.

“What’s wrong?” Saengo whispers as we link arms and cross the yard. We lean against each other, keeping the other upright.

“I don’t know.” My knees waver as I cross the threshold. I grab the door frame to keep from dragging Saengo down with me.

“My lady?” The servant’s hand hovers over my arm, uncertain.

Phaut nudges the servant aside. She puts her arm around my waist, gathering my weight against her. “Tired?”

“You know me better than that,” I snap.

“It’s the troll bones,” Ronin says, appearing in the foyer. Servants stream around us in an efficient sort of organized chaos, with Ronin at their center, an unflappable fixed point.

“What?” I look down at Saengo’s wrist where the talisman is hidden beneath her sleeve.

“I desecrated the only troll graveyard in Thiy to build this structure. The masons mixed the crushed bones into the mortar. The house weakens all magic users who enter.”