He heard Caelen shouting directions but paid no attention. There were still three more. “One ’f them pesty furrin mercs. Headin’ for town t’ drink. Near th’ gate, I think. Damn fool.” He had never quite realized how brutal and how crude these men were until he got a glimpse of their thoughts. His lip curled with distaste as he heard more from that mind than he wanted to. There was a Herald in the gatehouse, with the Guardsmen on duty there. “I got that one.”

He had never done this before . . . he hesitated a moment, then realized that if he waited for Dallen to do the contacting, he might lose some details. He did a kind of mental cough, and—well it felt as if he was tapping on the outside of the other’s mind, as if on a door.

The reply was instant, if wordless. Shields dropped; he got the feeling that the Herald’s Mindspeaking ability was minimal. But it was enough. He “showed” the other where the mercenary bodyguard was, and got a sense of thanks before the shields came back up again.

“All right. Herald at gatehouse an’ three Guards’ll fetch ’im in.” He tried not to chuckle with a certain nasty satisfaction. Because the idiot refused to heed the warnings, now instead of spending the storm in luxury with the rest of his fellows, he would be spending it sleeping on a stone floor and eating the trail rations that the Guards had stocked in the gatehouse.

He moved on to number four. “Cook’s helper, gettin’ wood, slipped an’ fell an’ the wood fell on ’im. Collegium kitchen, so many people in there he ain’t been missed yet.”

He heard Caelen relaying the orders, and he checked briefly back with the Guard and the gardener. He found the gardener already back inside, and three people picking the Guardsman up out of the snow.

He moved on to the last one. “Bardic Trainee, wants t’ get snowed in w’ his girl; she’s a Heraldic Trainee. He’s halfway between Bardic and Heralds’ an’ he just ran out ’f strength. He’s set down in th’ snow an’ he don’ know if he don’ get up now, he never will. That’s all.”

He was about to put up all of his shields again, when—something—brushed against his mind.

His throat closed on the scream he wanted to utter, choked silent with fear. This—this was the thing in his dreams, the thing that pursued him, or pursued something he needed to protect! It was cold, it was evil—and it was not sane.

Dallen sensed it in the same moment, but Dallen’s reaction was not fear, but fury. He felt Dallen gathering all his mental power, like a thunderbolt, and aim it ready to strike this vicious thing down where it stood—

Too late. Whatever it was . . . was gone.

:What—was that?: he managed to get out.