Cyrene’s arrow leapt from the string and struck him in the chest, but bounded from the robes as though they were stone. The Dark Lord blinked, momentarily put out, and then grinned. “Fast, very fast. Fast and futile, alas. Of course you had to see if I had inexplicably bared my vulnerable spot at you.” He scooped the arrow from the floor and held it up. A word came from his lips, like the words he had spoken to repel their earlier attacks. Once spoken, Cyrene could not recall it, nor could she ever have said it, but she knew its meaning: it meant arrow, in some quintessential way that the mere word “arrow” did not. Then he looked at Cyrene and spoke another word, and a great invisible fist smashed her to the ground, hard enough to knock out two teeth and send her vision out of focus for a moment. The terrifying thing was not the attack, but the word. The word had been her, the essential nature of her in a single utterance.

“It’s all right,” Darvezian assured them as though nothing had happened, turning the shaft this way and that. “I don’t have a vulnerable spot. I don’t have a weakness. I am the master of all things. You can’t hurt me—why are you snickering, rogue?” He cocked an eyebrow at Lief.

The thief swallowed, and then squared his shoulders and faced Darvezian full on, an act of more courage than Cyrene would have credited him with. “I thought you looked like the sort of person who didn’t have any vulnerables,” he got out through clenched teeth.

“Hah!” Darvezian grinned, and then a single syllable had Lief rolling over and over, cursing and clutching at ribs that had just been cracked.

Cyrene struggled to her knees, and then a hand found her arm and helped her up. She turned to see Enth, whose face was almost refreshing in its lack of emotion. Of all of them, whatever revelation was about to come would not touch him. Why should he care about the faith that despised him on sight?

Darvezian looked about brightly, grinning. “So tell me,” he addressed them, “who was paying attention in theology class? Who can tell me the story of Armes—my story? You, O faithful one?”

“I will not give you the satisfaction of mocking my faith,” Dion growled.

“I think you mean my faith. How about you, Gaptooth the Archer? No? Or the magician? Or… or your thing. Is that…? It’s something of the Dark…” He squinted. “Is that a spider in there? You bizarre people.”

Enth just stared at him mulishly, and then helped Lief to his feet as well.