"Hurry up!" Soterius whispered, holding open a door. They followed him into the darkened room. Carroway lit a torch.

"So what's the plan?" Tris asked.

Soterius grinned as he unpacked his bag. Two large, heavy coils of rope tumbled to the floor. As Soterius laid it out, Tris could see two climbers' harnesses of leather straps and buckles. Soterius wriggled into one harness and passed the other to Tris. "Help me with this, will you?" he hissed.

"Now what?" Carroway asked skeptically. "Men aren't supposed to walk down walls like flies."

"Back in my father's lands, everybody climbs down walls like this," Soterius pointed out.

"Everybody?" Tris teased.

"Well, all right, mostly just the mountain people, because the cliffs are so sharp they'd never go anywhere otherwise. But we have a lot of mountain people and a lot of cliffs, so it's almost everybody!" Soterius replied. "Help me get this anchored before we get caught. If I'm going to get another tongue-lashing from Zachar, I want to earn it!"

"You have a pretty strange hobby," Carroway muttered as he cinched the rope tight around its anchor.

"Coming from a grown man who makes smoke ghosts for a living, I'll take that as a compliment," Soterius shot back. Now that he had secured his own harness, he turned his attention to Tris, double-checking the sturdy leather and testing the buckles. When both men were satisfied with the climbing gear, they secured the ropes to iron rings sunk deep in the stone walls near the fireplace. Soterius opened the window and leaned out to look around. He sat on the wide stone of the window ledge and swung his legs over the castle wall, then looked down to the flagstones four stories below. This was the tallest part of Shekerishet, with the lowest floors carved into the cliffside against which the palace stood. The oldest sections of Shekerishet were carved from the cliffside almost five hundred years ago. Made of the same gray granite as the cliffs, the old palace was an unadorned fortress, square and foreboding, with archers' slits and crenellations. Over generations, Margolan's kings built on to the old castle, adding whole wings and new towers, so that now, Shekerishet sprawled against the base of the mountain's sharp crags, a brooding presence above the city and farms below.

With a grin, Soterius patted, the ledge for Tris to join him. Tris fought a moment of vertigo as he looked down into the courtyard.

"All right, here goes." Soterius pushed off, spinning for a moment until he oriented himself with his back to the courtyard and his feet against the stone wall.

"We should have painted a bullseye on your back to make it easier for the archers," Carroway hissed.

"Funny," Soterius muttered. "Just keep that flag of yours handy, Tris, in case someone gets ideas."

Tris patted the pennon of the king's second son in his pocket. It was meant to identify him in battle, but tonight, if a guard spotted them, letting the flag unfurl might make the archer hold his fire long enough to identify the bearer.

"All right, Tris. Your turn."

Swallowing hard, Tris let himself over the ledge. "I just remembered how much I hate heights." He caught his breath sharply as he spun for a moment in the chill fall air, and fought the urge to close his eyes. Aware that his friends were watching, Tris nodded his readiness.

Soterius worked his way carefully down the smooth stone wall of the castle. Tris followed, trying not to constantly reassure himself by jerking on the rope. Although he and Soterius climbed the cliffs around Shekerishet frequently during good weather, Tris had not been out since summer's end, and he felt the lapse in his aching muscles.

It was colder than he expected, and the chill nipped at his face. Tris glanced at Soterius, but the guardsman grinned as the wind whipped his dark hair into his eyes. If the king were to look out of one of those windows just now, they would all have some explaining to do, but that was the beauty of Haunts. Nearly everything could be forgiven in the name of the night's revelry.

As he drew close to the windows of the second floor, Tris frowned. There was a light in the window, a strange, red glow that did not look like firelight. The light glowed from Foor Arontala's chambers, pulsing like a heartbeat. Ignoring Soterius's concerned glance, Tris worked his way over.

Tris eased closer to the window and felt the familiar prickle at the edges of his senses that signaled magic close by. But the magic here felt different from his grandmother's power, Tris thought, his breath steaming in the cold night air. Even an arm's breadth away from the window, there was an aura of dread that almost drove him back. He pressed on, though the foreboding was almost palpable, and while no physical barrier slowed him, he had the feeling of wading through deep, ice-cold water the closer he got to his goal. Forcing himself past his fear, Tris leaned in to get a glimpse through the window. The room was dark, but the embers in the fireplace made enough light for him to recognize the trappings of a wizard's workplace. Chalices and athames, cords braided from materials of all descriptions, a scrying bowl, chits and bones—the stuff of divination—and clusters of dried herbs crowded for space with vials of powders and potions. But only one thing in the sorcerer's room commanded his attention, transfixing him as if it knew he was there. On a pedestal in the corner of the room sat a crystal globe the size of a man's head, and from the globe pulsed light the color of blood. As Tris stared, the light seemed to focus, and for an instant, Tris could have sworn it oriented itself on him, like one bloody eye, aware of his presence. Tris's heart hammered in his throat, and he was suddenly unsure he could tear himself away.

"Have you lost your mind?" Soterius hissed from beside him, making him jump.

"Can't you feel it?" Tris murmured, backing away from the window.

Soterius looked at him skeptically. "I can feel my rump freezing, if that's what you mean." They heard angry men's voices from just outside the door to the wizard's room, and both Tris and Soterius swung back, flattening themselves against the wall as torchlight flared in the room and the voices drew closer. Jared and the king, Tris thought with a sinking heart. And this time, whatever the topic of their argument, it was more heated than usual, with Bricen almost apoplectic in his anger, though Tris could not catch the words over the din of revelry in the village. Edging his way close enough to see into the room, Tris caught his breath in horror.

It was magelight, not torchlight that lit the room. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Blue magelight glowed from Arontala's hands, pinning the king against the rough stone wall.

Although Tris could hear none of what was said, the expression on King Bricen's face needed no explanation, nor did the leer that distorted Jared's features as the heir closed the distance between himself and his father, his dagger raised. Commonsense and terror finally won out over shock. Soterius began to jerk at his rope with all the fright of a first climber, signaling for Carroway to begin winching them up. Tris's heart thudded in his throat as Jared sank the dagger deep into Bricen's chest. Just as Tris readied himself to kick through the panes, Soterius swung against him, slamming him into the wall hard enough for him to lose his breath.

"Are you crazy?" Soterius hissed. "You don't have a chance. We've got to get the guards," he argued, fighting against Tris's struggles with all his might. Just then, Carroway heeded his signal and began to hoist them skyward. Fighting shock, Tris found the presence of mind to begin to climb on his own the last few lengths and dove more than crawled into the window, gasping in fright.

"You look like you've seen the Avenger herself!" said Carroway, helping Soterius to his feet.