Vraggen bent at the waist, grabbed her by the chin, and made her look him in the face.

"We need to get back into that house, woman. They'll be ready this time for whatever stratagem you used before. We'll need to do something else. I'll ask again—How did you get in?"

Elura's eyes blazed. She removed his hand from her face—she possessed surprising strength—and rose from her chair. Rather than erupt in rage, she smiled. It made her look feral. Vraggen saw that she, like Azriim, had perfect teeth.

"My methods are my own."

Vraggen wanted to slap her but restrained himself.

"Dolgan?" he asked over his shoulder.

The big man stuttered for a moment, as though searching for the right reply. At last, he said, "I'm not sure exactly. She cast a spell on us that made us look like guards."

"Crude," Vraggen said into Elura's beautiful face.

She reddened and said, "But effective. And we don't need to go back, mage."

Vraggen raised his eyebrow in a question.

"Cale will exchange the other half of the globe for the prisoner."

The prisoner. In his anger, Vraggen had forgotten the young house guard. When the team had returned with a captive, Vraggen had immediately used spells to render the man unconscious and undetectable by magic. They stowed him, bound, in a closet.

"Nonsense," he said to Elura. "No one would make that trade, not even in this nation of fool merchants."

Elura kept her gaze on Vraggen and smiled more broadly.

"Dolgan?" she prompted.

"He did seem fond of the guard," the big man said.

Elura left off Vraggen, walked over to the wine service, and poured herself a glass.

"Why would he trade the globe for a mere guard?" Vraggen asked her.

Elura laughed—a hard sound, with no mirth in it—and said, "Why? Because he thinks it's the right thing to do. And because no one in that house knows that the globe is valuable. It was sitting on the shelf like a paperweight."

That gave Vraggen pause. Could they be so ignorant? Could Thamalon Uskevren have bought it by chance and never learned what it was?

Possible, he had to acknowledge. Because it was crafted with Shadow Magic, a normal user of the Weave would have difficulty discerning its purpose. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it to be true. If so, that meant that he had unnecessarily involved Cale and Riven. Blast and burn! He probably could have bought the thrice-damned globe! He rebuked himself for seeing schemes where none existed. Too much time in the Network, he supposed.

"Vraggen?" Elura said.

Vraggen took a seat in the wing chair that Elura had abandoned, thinking. It wasn't in him to laugh at his mistake, but he came close.

"You may be right, Elura. Let's find Cale and arrange an exchange."

Elura nodded and drained her chalice in a single gulp.

"We'll still kill him if possible?" Azriim asked.

"Of course," Vraggen said.

To his relief, Cale learned quickly that all of the members of the family were unharmed. As he had suspected, the infiltration team had put down only those house guards whose identities they had taken or who had gotten in their way. They had never even ventured upstairs to the Uskrevrens' personal suites. Professional work. Impressive really. Had Cale not escaped the ambush at the Stag and returned to the manse, they would have been in and out before anyone knew of it.

The attack had exacted a high toll on House Uskevren: nine guards dead and one missing—Ren. And all for nothing more than a piece of art, albeit a piece of magical art, which Cale had cloven in two and about which he knew virtually nothing.

After seeing to the security of the house, Cale, Tamlin, Tazi, and Shamur—Talbot was away on family business—gathered in the main dining hall. It was sometime in the small hours of the night, but everyone was fully alert and awake. Tamlin sat at the large, polished dining table with a hastily donned cloak thrown over his nightclothes. The light from the twin candelabras set on the table danced on the lord of Stormweather's young face. He did not wear a weapon, of course, because he no longer needed one. Since the events in the otherworld, Tamlin had become a sorcerer of no small ability. His spells protected him, protected the family, protected the manse. But that night, his wards had not been enough and the realization obviously troubled him.

Shamur and Tazi sat opposite Tamlin. They could have been sisters. Both had changed into their leathers, both had pulled back their hair, and both wore slim swords at their belts. They sat closely beside each other, as though for comfort—something that would not have occurred a year earlier, when they could hardly be in the same room together. Thamalon's death had brought all of the Uskevren closer together, including Tazi and Shamur, while at the same time pushing Cale away from them.

Cale paced near the head of the table, Thamalon's traditional seat at family meetings. Tamlin deliberately had not taken the head chair, and the vacant seat was conspicuous. Thamalon's absence was conspicuous. Were Thamalon still alive, his bass voice would be barking orders.

Still, Cale fancied that he could feel the Old Owl's presence in the room. It inspired him, comforted him, brought him some much-needed calm. He had not yet taken the time to clean himself. Dried blood, Halthor's blood, Dolgan's blood, caked his trousers and vest. He reached into his vest pocket and rubbed his holy symbol between his fingers while he paced.

The half-sphere Cale had recovered from the courtyard sat in the middle of the table. It looked like nothing more than an unusual chunk of translucent gray quartz, albeit shaped as a perfect hemisphere. Cale's sword had sheared it as clean as razor. The innumerable gems within it sparkled silver in the candlelight. At Cale's urging, Tamlin had already cast a spell on the half-sphere that would prevent divination spells from locating it.

"They attacked this house—my father's house—for this?" Tamlin asked, gesturing at the half-sphere.

"Indeed, my lord," Cale replied. "The sphere seemed their only target. They knew the house and they moved straight for it. Other than the attempted ambush on me, they appeared to have no other interest in Stormweather or the family."

Tamlin drummed his fingers on the table and asked the question everyone was thinking: "What is it?"

"I don't know, my lord," Cale answered, "but I intend to find out."

Tamlin leaned forward in his chair and looked up at Cale with hooded eyes.

"And why did they single you out for an attack, Cale? Are you withholding something from us?"

"Tamlin!" Shamur exclaimed.

"It is a fair question, my lady," Cale said. Rather than make him angry, the question actually pleased Cale. At least Tamlin was thinking through the problem. He chose his next words with care. "I know only what I've already told you, my lord."

That he guessed much more than he knew was a fact that Cale kept to himself.

"Then why the ambush?" Tamlin repeated.

Before Cale could frame another answer, Thazienne spoke up in that patronizing tone of voice she sometimes took with Tamlin when he frustrated her: "Because they wanted him away from the house, brother. Isn't that obvious?"

Tamlin nodded and said, "Of course. But why Cale? Why not you? Or me? Or mother?"

Thazienne gave an audible sigh. She had never had patience for her brother's lack of acumen.

"Because he's the most dangerous," she said, "and they know it. We all know it, but no one ever says it. Gods, everyone in the city knows what he did with the ... demon." When she said those words, Cale could feel her eyes on him. "They knew he'd stop them if he was here. He almost did anyway."

For the first time that night, Cale met Tazi's gaze and tried with his eyes to apologize for their unfortunate parting. The corners of her mouth softened. In that moment, Cale felt his love for her grow but at same time felt his spirit separate from hers. He thought he could wish her happiness, even if it was not with him. He turned to Tamlin.