Rosa and Anton gave short and sometimes incoherent answers to the monk’s questions. Both sat on the edge of their chairs, as though waiting for something to jump out of the shadows at them. After a while, however, when nothing did jump out at them and Brother Leopold seemed truly interested in hearing what they had to say, they both started tentatively to relax. They had no idea what was going on, but, reason told them, if the monk was going to do anything dire, he would have done it by now. He wouldn’t have been sitting by the fire watching Rosa and Draca mending clothes and darning socks.

Eventually, bewilderment and tension gave way to exhaustion. Anton endeavored to stifle his yawns, but he’d been up with the sun and worked past sunset, and he cast longing glances at his bed. Rosa actually nodded off over her mending, waking with a jerk when the monk spoke her name.

“I’m sorry, Brother Leopold,” she said, blushing deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sitting too close to the fire, I believe. It makes me doze off.” She moved her chair back from the dying blaze.

The monk said something polite and continued to talk. Eventually Rosa’s head lowered, her chin sank to her chest, and her work fell from her hands. Anton had already gone to sleep in his chair. He snored and mumbled in his sleep as he always did. His hands twitched.

Brother Leopold didn’t move. The bell rang for curfew, and still he stayed. He no longer talked, however. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Draconas kept darning. The sock in his hands looked like no sock in the known universe, but, fortunately, the monk wasn’t paying attention. He began to grow restless. He stood up, walked to the window and peered out, his gaze going in the direction of the Abbey. Brother Leopold walked back, resumed his seat, and stared hard at Draconas.

Draconas plied his needle, his eyes on his work. The monk wanted to ask him if he knew what had happened, but he didn’t dare. That would show weakness. As for Draconas, all the while he’d been darning, he’d been watching Ven work his magic, watching Marcus defend his brother. He’d watched the dragon, Grald, crash down dead on the bloodstained floor.

And now Maristara was coming. He saw her, and she saw him. She knew he was in Dragonkeep. He couldn’t help that. He’d been forced to open himself up to her and the other dragons when he reached out to Lysira and asked her to help, when he’d reached out to Ven.

She had come searching for him, and she wouldn’t be as squeamish as Grald about destroying a few hundred humans to get at him.

Draconas’s usefulness in Dragonkeep had ended.