Resentment could not stifle Chane's curiosity. He drew close, watching.

Welstiel climbed in a slow, forced gait, as if bearing a weight that grew with each step, until he slipped into the upper passage beyond sight. A door creaked above, followed by a dull thump.

Chane's suspicion sharpened, but he felt compelled to follow Welstiel's orders not to pry-at least for now. He scanned his surroundings.

A passage ran along the building's front from left of the front door. The stairs were set farther back on that same side and ran upward in the same direction. An old bench stood against the opposite wall, with three cloaks and a long-haired goatskin coat hanging on wooden pegs. In the rear stone wall, between the small hearth and the stairwell's base, was an opening leading deeper into the structure.

Chane was in no mood for poking about, but he did not care to just stand there, waiting, so he stepped through the rear opening.

The passage immediately turned left, ended in a right turn, and spilled into a wide chamber behind the entry room. A lantern on the nearest table offered enough light for Chane's hunger-enhanced sight.

Bundles of drying leaves, flowers, and branches hung from cords strung loosely across the ceiling. Below the dangling harvest, pottery and glass jars sat atop wooden tables along with rolling pins stained from long use, polished marble pestles, knives, and other instruments. It was the priests' workshop.

Chane stepped back and retreated down the passage, and as he reached the entry room, a muffled clatter sounded from above.

He looked up the dark stairs, wondering again what Welstiel was doing. Curious, he climbed until he was high enough to peer over the last step. He saw the doors along the upper passage. A sharp squeal of panic came from somewhere behind one of them. Silence followed, and Chane crept farther up. He smelled the rich, salty blood even before he saw it.

Smeared trails led from a dark pool at the passage's far end to the second door on the left. Chane's longing began to build as he stared at one door after another, trying to discern which cell Welstiel was in.

The wood brace was missing from the second and third doors on the left.

The third door jerked inward and Welstiel emerged.

His cloak, shirt, and sword were gone. He braced one hand on the door frame and gagged with his mouth tightly shut. Fresh blood seeped from between his clenched lips and ran down his chin to drip upon his bare chest.

Welstiel had been feeding, while Chane had been denied a chance to do so himself.

Welstiel's eyes rolled up, and his clear crystal pupils vanished, leaving white orbs. He faltered, wavering near collapse, then turned back to heave something from the cell's floor. Welstiel dragged a young priest to the first door on the left, and kicked it open.

The dead youth's eyes were frozen wide in astonishment above the red mess below his chin.

Welstiel tossed the corpse in and jerked the door shut, not bothering to reset a wood shard in the door's handle. Instead he staggered away until his back struck a door on the passage's opposite side. Small startled whimpers answered from within that cell.

Chane took a step, unable to hiss even one resentful word, and then Welstiel stumbled.

He fell to his hands and knees and crawled to the passage's far end. His back arched as he vomited out blood, heaving violently. Finally, in a shadow of living habit, Welstiel drew a breath into his dead lungs and toppled.

He tried to fall clear of his own mess, but there was too much blood. It spattered across him as he landed, convulsing in the pool spreading down the passage floor. Finally, he crawled into one far corner and propped himself up against the walls.

Chane couldn't fathom what was happening. His mind was too clouded by the smell and sight of the red trails creeping down the passage, as if seeking him out.

"One… mine!" he rasped. "One should be mine!"

"Get out," Welstiel whispered and lifted a hand to hide his face. He recoiled at the crimson running down his bare arm.

"No," Chane answered. "No more drinking from your filthy little cup! I want one of them… now!"

He bolted for the door across from where Welstiel had tossed the dead priest. Before Chane's fingers touched the handle, Welstiel was there, and his hand closed in a crushing grip on Chane's wrist.

"I said no," Welstiel growled.

Chane lashed out for his throat.

Welstiel's head twisted aside like a serpent weaving upon its coiled body. He heaved on Chane's arm, turning it back and behind, and pulled it taut with a crack.

"Already twice raised"-Welstiel hissed at him-"in your first year of death!"

A fist struck the back of Chane's skull. His head snapped down, driving his chin against his chest. The blow's power buckled his knees, and the passage dimmed in his sight.

"And still you do not listen," Welstiel added, "to your better!"

Pain spread through the back of Chane's skull. He saw only the blurred, dark shape of Welstiel's leg. He strained against his locked arm and sank his teeth through the thick canvas breeches.

No tang of warm blood filled his mouth-no salty sweetness or tingle of life flooded his throat. Only thin, bitter cold seeped from Welstiel's breeches. It flowed quickly through Chane's teeth and a taste like rancid seed oil coated his tongue.

Chane's shoulder cracked again as his jaws tore free and his knees lifted from the floor. He kicked wildly, trying to find footing, and then his whole body spun in the dark and slammed sideways into a stone wall. At the same instant, something struck hard into his chest.

His spine ground into the wall, making his throat clench in reflex. Before his body slid down, he was jerked through the air again.

A second impact, and a third, and he heard but did not feel the fourth. Only half-aware of the grips around his throat and twisted arm, he cried out as both released suddenly.

Chane felt an instant of weightlessness as he tumbled through the dark. He collided roughly with the floor, edges of stone scraping at him as he flopped over and over. When all motion ceased, he weakly rolled his head.

He lay in the entry room near the bottom of the stairwell and firelight flickered off the stone walls. A deeper shadow in blood-soaked boots stood at the top of the stairs.

"Servant beasts should obey," it whispered in Welstiel's voice. "If they want to be fed… and have their wishes fulfilled."

Chane's eyelids sagged closed. Something inside him cowered in anguish, like a chained beast with hands instead of paws. It had fed on gristle and joints for too long, while its master had just feasted on fresh meat.

Chane opened his eyes when a cold breeze rolled across his face.

Firelight danced over a stone ceiling above him. When he turned over, he found a congealed puddle of viscous black fluid where his head had rested, and he touched the back of his skull, wincing.

Looking about the entry room, his gaze passed over the withered remains of the young priest.

How long had he lain here unconscious?

The hearth's fire still burned as if recently fueled. A tin kettle rested near it, faint wisps of steam rising from its spout. And the cold breeze…

The front door was ajar.

Chane glanced up the dark stairwell. Not a sound came from above. All was silent but for the crackle of the flames and the cold air spilling around the open door. He struggled to his feet.

Twice risen, Welstiel had said, only in his first year of death. Less than a full season past, Chane had been beheaded, and Welstiel had somehow brought him back. The only evidence that it had ever happened was the scar line around Chane's throat-and his forever maimed voice. Some among the dead would say he had been fortunate indeed.