Part of his decision not to tell was vindication. Ven felt a certain satisfaction in thinking that the brother who had grown up pampered and happy and loved should fall victim to a mercenary little vixen. Ven expected this feeling to be stronger. Instead, it was uncomfortable. Ven couldn’t say that he loved Marcus, but he liked his brother, and that was unexpected. Ven had looked forward to hating Marcus, who’d been given everything in life, while Ven had been given the back of life’s hand. Instead, Ven found someone who understood, someone who shared his pain.

And, after all, maybe his not telling Marcus came down to the simple fact that Ven disliked interfering. He’d said what he’d needed to say to Marcus and to Evelina. Let the two of them sort out their lives. He had his own problems.

He was thinking all this as he stood on the bank, staring at the water, when his thoughts were jolted back to earth. Voices, heading this direction.

Grald must have finally lifted the illusion that hid the city gates of Dragonkeep from the world outside. The monks were coming, somewhat late, to chase after Marcus. This meant that Grald knew Marcus had escaped. Did the dragon know how?

“Perhaps the monks aren’t after Marcus,” Ven said to himself in alarm. “Perhaps they are after me.”

Ven had to retain Grald’s trust. The only way to slay the dragon was to take him by surprise, catch him off guard. Grald mustn’t suspect that Ven had anything to do with Marcus’s escape.

Ven had been careless—that’s what came of giving way to emotion. Prints of his clawed feet were everywhere, leading in and out of the water. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to cover his tracks—Bellona would have made him stand in the corner for a week in punishment. Hastily, he raked his claws over the telltale signs, rubbing out the traces that he’d been here.

He didn’t have much time. The voices were growing louder, and he could hear the monks bumbling through the woods. He ran lightly and easily on his clawed feet into the trees, jumping from one grassy hillock to another, making certain that he left no more tracks.

Once safely hidden in the wilderness, he paused to consider his next move. His first thought was to race back to the city, but then the idea came to him that he might learn the answers to his questions by spying on the monks. He crouched among the foliage and waited.

Blood trickled down his side, tickling him. His wound was still bleeding. He pressed his hand over it and willed it to stop.