He smiled, extending a hand to the duke. The cord of the garrote was still wound around his fist, but the duke didn’t seem to care. Chago took Cadel’s hand and let the assassin help him to his feet, smiling broadly, as if they were old friends. He started to say something, but Cadel, still gripping his hand, spun him around and in one powerful, fluid motion wrapped the cord around the duke’s neck and pulled it tight. The man’s neck snapped like a dry twig, and Cadel felt the duke’s body go limp.

He laid the duke down on the forest floor, pulling the garrote free as he did. Then he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small strap of leather that was frayed at one end and adorned at the other with golden trim and a carving of the Solkaran panther. It had been given to him, along with half of his payment, by an older man, a Qirsi merchant in Dantrielle. Cadel had not bothered to ask how the white-hairs had gotten it, though he wondered. There was little chance that the man knew, and less still that he would answer the question if he did.

He placed the strap in the duke’s hand, with the golden edging facing up so that it gleamed brightly, despite the grey shadows of the wood. Cadel even went so far as to break off one of the duke’s fingernails and bruise the man’s hand by squeezing his palm closed with the strap and its trim pressed awkwardly within.

They had said to make it look convincing, and given what they were paying him, he could hardly do less.

He stepped back, looking down on the body and the surrounding area to make certain that he hadn’t forgotten anything or left something foolish for one of the duke’s men to find. Satisfied that all appeared as it should, he started walking back toward the east, away from Bistari and the Scabbard Inlet. He had only walked a few strides, however, when he heard someone approaching. Concealing himself behind a broad tree, Cadel watched as a Qirsi rode into view on a small grey mount.

The man wore his hair shorter than did most Qirsi and the yellow of his eyes was so bright that they almost seemed to glow. He had on ministerial robes and his riding cloak bore the blazon of House Bistari. The first minister.

Cadel was so confident of this that he stepped out from behind the tree trunk. The man’s horse snorted and the minister’s eyes fell upon him. The Qirsi reined the mount to a halt and stared at Cadel for several moments. Then he glanced toward the duke’s body, faced the assassin again, and nodded.

Offering a nod of his own, Cadel turned and started walking eastward once more, resuming his song as he strode swiftly among the silver trees. He had three days to reach Solkara, and though the distance wasn’t great, he could ill afford to be late.

Solkara, Aneira

Yoli crossed her arms over her chest and stepped as close to the hearth as she dared. She was wearing the heaviest of her black robes and soft woolen undergarments beneath it. But they weren’t enough to keep the frigid air from chilling her frail bones, nor, she soon realized, was the fine fire built for her by the clerics.

She would have given nearly anything to be able to close the doors to the sanctuary. But this was Pitch Night in the turn of Bian, god of the Underrealm, and she presided in the Deceiver’s temple. She could no more close the doors than she could extinguish the candles that burned on the god’s altar.

It was early yet-the sun had been down for but an hour or two-and already she longed for this night to end. The cold, the constant stream of worshipers, the repeated offerings; it was too much. Yoli had never been a proud woman, and she wasn’t above admitting that she had grown too old for this. It was time to pass the robe to one of her clerics. Several of them had been with her for the requisite twelve years, and of those, at least two or three seemed ready to lead the sanctuary. Perhaps when the snows ended and the warm winds returned, she would step aside.

But that did her little good tonight. She had barely managed to warm her hands before she heard the next group of suppliants approaching the shrine, their footsteps and hushed voices echoing off the domed ceiling.

Visitors came to the sanctuary every Pitch Night of the year, for in Bian’s shrine, no matter which turn, one could always meet his or her beloved dead when both moons were dark. In the same way, on the Night of Two Moons in Bian’s Turn, one could encounter lost loved ones anywhere in the land. Pitch Night in the Deceiver’s turn, however, was unique. On this one night, the wronged dead roamed the land. This was not a time when young widows came to cry for their dead husbands, or bereft parents offered blood and shed tears for children taken from them too soon. This was a night of fear, rather than grief, a night when the dead sought vengeance rather than solace. Tonight, the sanctuary opened its doors to mercenaries, executioners, and brigands, healers whose errors had cost lives, and lovers whose passion inflamed their tempers to deadly violence. As prioress of the god’s sanctuary Yoli could turn none of them away, no matter how justified the wrath of their dead. On this one night she thanked the gods for her failing eyesight. For though she could sense the darkness in their hearts, she had no desire to see their faces.

She met them at the altar, raised her knife to spill their blood into the stone bowl, and gave them leave to pass the night within the walls of the shrine. Their dead could still reach them here, but many of them found comfort in the offerings and the presence of Bian’s prioress and the shared company of others who had killed.

The newest to arrive were mercenaries, broad-shouldered men with Caerissan or Sanbiri accents-Yoli had never learned to distinguish the two. They had white hair and their arms, once thick with muscle, had grown flaccid with the years. Still, they endured the edge of her blade stoically before moving off to a distant corner of the shrine to cry like babes at the sight of those they had cut down in some long-forgotten battle.

Yoli watched them walk away from the altar, dark, blurred shapes in the candlelight that vanished into the shadows beyond the flickering flames. She swirled each bowl so that the blood covered the entire surface, then left the altar once more for the warmth of her hearth. She hadn’t gotten very far when she heard another footfall in the shrine.

“Mother Prioress,” a man called to her gently, his voice accented as well.

She turned wearily and forced a smile as she watched him approach. He was tall and lean, with long dark hair. Her eyes were too weak to see more than that. He stopped a few paces from where she stood and bowed to her.

“You wish to offer blood?” she asked.

“I do.”

Something about him-the accent, the gentle voice…

“You’ve been here before.”

He hesitated then nodded. “Yes, several times.”

“Come,” she said, returning to the altar. The bowls were already empty; the god had a mighty thirst tonight.

The man pulled up his sleeve and turned his arm up to her blade.

“Is it my skill with the knife that brings you back?”

“You have a deft touch, Mother Prioress. But it’s your beauty that draws me here.”

Yoli laughed out loud. “Serves me right for asking.”

She thought she saw him smile.

“Is there anyone in particular for whom you would like to make this offering?” she asked.

Once more he faltered, and in that moment she understood the true reason why he returned to her shrine. She shivered again, though not from the cold.

“No, Mother Prioress.”

She nodded, but would not look at him again. Instead she raised the stone knife.

“Hear me, Bian!” she said, closing her eyes. “A man comes to you offering his life’s blood. Deem him worthy and accept his gift.”