"In… the high… ice," Welstiel whispered. "Orb… never feed… again."

Chane's resentment wavered. For the first time since rising from his second death, he felt something besides rage or hunger or lingering fear- curiosity.

In their travels, he had occasionally caught a few words of Welstiel's dormant mumblings. Something assisted Welstiel in searching for whatever he sought. Chane knew little more, other than that Magiere was somehow essential. Never feed again? Did Welstiel seek something made for a Noble Dead? An "orb" to sustain him without a need to hunt and feed?

He crouched on the balls of his feet and stared at Welstiel's languid face. Would that be a desirable state? Never to feed again?

Welstiel rolled, and his eyelids half opened.

Chane backed away to his bed, picking up his vestment from where it draped over the footboard. Welstiel sat up.

"What now?" Chane asked, as if the previous night had never happened and this was but another monotonous night in their tagalong behind Magiere.

"For now, you do nothing," Welstiel answered, rubbing his face with both hands. "I have an audience with Lord Darmouth. If all goes well, I will turn you loose on the city. You can savage as much of it as you like. That will flush Magiere into the open, and perhaps give me an opportunity to end this wasteful search for the half-blood's past." He looked Chane over, inspecting him from head to toe. "We must alter your appearance to avoid anyone providing an accurate description of you. Oh, and I felt it safer to give myself a false name, so I used your family's. Do not forget."

Chane tensed. "You gave Andraso as your surname?"

"Yes, is that a problem? Has your little sage heard this name?"

"No… not that I remember."

Chane understood the need for secrecy. He did not know why Welstiel's use of his family's name bothered him.

Welstiel reached into his pack and took out a black knitted cap. When he put it on, it completely covered the white patches at his temples. He donned his cloak and fastened it at his throat, then glanced at Chane as he reached into the pack again.

"I bought something for you," he said, and pulled out fresh parchment, an ink bottle, and two quill pens. "You might document the people and land here, as I doubt much has been recorded on them. It might be of future value in trade with the Guild of Sagecraft. If that still interests you."

Chane stared at the parchment in Welstiel's hand. He did not reach for it. First, he was surprised that Welstiel made such an uncharacteristic gesture. Second, he was surprised that he had absolutely no interest in scribing a single word. Once such intellectual pursuits had been important to him.

"No," he said.

A flash of disappointment passed across Welstiel's face. He placed the items on Chane's bed. "I may be a few hours. Do not leave the room."

The thought of pacing and waiting in this shabby inn was almost more than Chane could bear. He nodded, and Welstiel pulled on his gloves and left.

Chane stood alone in the center of the room. Once contemplative about most anything, he now hated having time to think. His mind always slipped to the same moments.

Fighting Magiere in the wet Droevinkan forest, he stood above her with his sword in both hands, ready to run it through her chest. Wynn rushed forward to shield Magiere with her own body, begging Chane to stop. And he did.

Magiere rose up. Her blade bit through his throat, burning his flesh from the inside. The world blackened in his sight, and that darkness brought terror.

His next awareness was waking in a shallow open grave, covered in dead bodies. Their throats slit, blood spilling over him, soaking into him, saturating his clothing and flesh. Inside, he was drenched in his own fear. The pain still in his throat was so intense it made every muscle in his body spasm.

And from nearby he had heard Welstiel's voice. "Are you awake yet?"

Welstiel brought Chane back, but Chane had not come back the same. Too much of himself was still lying in that grave. And he couldn't even remember Wynn mourning for him.

Chane reached out and fingered one of the new quills Welstiel had left, wondering where Wynn was and if she was safe.

Darmouth walked into the council hall with Faris two steps behind him between two of Omasta's men. Darmouth had too many pressing matters and suspects to watch, and now Emel had begged an audience for some stranger. The baron was the last of his trusted ministers and rarely asked for anything. Dismissing the request out of hand would be rash, and somehow Hedi was involved. This was enough to convince Darmouth to agree.

The wall braziers were lit and fat candles glowed from the long table. Two heavy tapestries hung on the back wall, one depicting his family crest, and the other was a lone, faceless rider on a rearing horse against a black background. Darmouth cared little for art, but the rider appealed to him.

Emel stood waiting with a pale man in a knit cap. Darmouth crossed his thick arms and looked the stranger up and down.

"May I introduce Viscount Andraso," Emel said in a formal tone.

Darmouth offered neither his hand nor a curt nod. Andraso looked about forty years old, of medium height and build. His eyes were strange, nearly colorless, like worthless quartz, and a slight bump widened the bridge of his nose. His clothes were hidden beneath a knee-length cloak, but that was no concern, as Omasta's men would have searched him and removed any weapons.

"Why are you here?" Darmouth asked bluntly.

"Lady Progae was attacked last night," Emel said, "by a man with misshapen teeth. He bit her throat, but she is all right. We need to track down this creature, and the viscount believes he can help."

"What do you mean 'bit her'?" Darmouth demanded. Being confused wasn't something he liked.

Viscount Andraso held up a gloved hand. "Baron Milea is still distraught by the events of last night. I assure you that Lady Progae is well, her wound minor and attended. The baron's men intervened quickly, but she was attacked by a vampire."

Andraso spoke with a distinct accent, and Darmouth forgot his confusion. He distrusted foreigners almost as much as his own nobles. "You're an outlander. Where are you from and why are you here?"

"Droevinka,' Andraso answered politely. "Merely passing this way while searching for a friend."

Emel pushed a lock of thinning hair back and stepped closer to Darmouth. "Please, my lord, hear him out."

"He's mad," Darmouth answered. "Vampires? I'm no addle-minded peasant! Throw him out."

"No, please, my lord," Emel said. "The… creature… that attacked Hedi was not a normal man, and I tended what was clearly a bite on her throat. Several of my men saw him-saw his teeth."

Darmouth frowned. Emel possessed no imagination, which was largely why he remained trustworthy. He was not given to overstatement or nonsense. Faris stepped closer to listen, his slender fingers intertwined.

"I know something of such creatures," Andraso said, "as they've been seen in my homeland. A hunter of the dead, a dhampir, is needed to track one down and destroy it."

Darmouth glanced at Faris, who backed away, and then turned to ask, "And you're such a hunter?"

Andraso shook his head. "No."

"Then why waste my time? If such a beast exists, my soldiers can deal with it."

Even in concern for his future bride, Darmouth wearied of this stranger's prattle. He cared nothing for some madman loose in the city, as sooner or later his soldiers always found and eliminated any troublemaker.

Andraso stepped closer, his eyes moving from Darmouth's face to his breastplate and back up again. "How many noblewomen live in the city at present?"

Darmouth's frown deepened. "Why are you asking?"

"By legend and folklore, some undead develop habits… specific tastes. This one tried to take a noblewoman behind the finest inn in the city. How will your nobles react if their women are threatened? Unless their lord takes action."