Ravendas did not stop to watch. Marnok's words echoed in her mind. Face the sunset. She picked her way precariously along the jagged top of the wall, clutching the stone each time Gurthang convulsed, until she reached the western edge. She peered down but could see nothing in the gloom. The moon had set behind the mountains. There was no hope in light.

Give yourself to darkness. Yes, she thought. Wasn't that the choice she had made? Sounding a thunderous death knell, Gurthang's central tower began its slow, ponderous collapse behind her. Ravendas did not turn toward the grim spectacle. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath. And stepped off the wall.

For a moment, it seemed she was flying. Darkness en-cloaked her, cradling her gently within its soft, velvet folds. She laughed aloud. It was glorious! Then she plunged into deep, icy water, and the moment was shattered.

Ravendas huddled by a small fire in the scant protection of a wind-twisted cedar, wrapped in the woolen blanket she had retrieved from her pack. The Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan lay on a stone beside her. She grinned, the glow of victory far warmer than the fire. She had done the impossible. The Zhentarim could not refuse her now. Her path to power was clear before her.

She spread her clothes by the fire, drying them of the tarn's cold water. As she did, she noticed something in the pocket of her leather jerkin. She pulled it out. A card. Though wet and torn, azure magic still shimmered on its surface, tracing an intricate outline, the outline of a spiral. Below it was written, The Cage. Words echoed eerily in her mind. Power can be a prison.

"No," Ravendas whispered fiercely. "I make my own fate."

Shivering, she tossed the card onto the fire.

I hate my hands. The fingers are long-too long. And sickly thin. They look as if they'd splinter if someone applied the least bit of pressure between the knuckles. And the knuckles bulge like the knobby growths you sometimes see on trees. I've often thought I'd like to chop off my hands and grow new ones, replace the mealy things with the ruddy, powerful hands of a smith or a sword master. I've looked into the possibility, actually. A wizard in Thay, one of the Reds, said it could be done. But he wouldn't guarantee the results. Oh, I'd have working hands. But when I asked if I'd be able to perform the intricate work I do now, he hesitated before nodding and saying, "Sure, I think so." That wasn't good enough, so here they are.

I feel as if I'm someone else, watching from a few feet away as I use my hands to fletch the veins in the correct pattern on the arrow shaft. You see, the master counts on me to get these right. It makes a difference, you know, where I put the feathers, how far apart they are, how tightly they are bound, whether or not they are exactly the right size and shape.

The arrows and darts the master uses must fly true every time, without reliance on magic. The poisons he uses must be mixed to exact proportions in order to inflict death slowly or quickly, as the circumstances warrant. И they didn't, what reputation would he have? As it is, people come from the farthest reaches to find Renek here in this gods-forsaken fleck on the Sembian plains. You'd think he might move to Water-deep or Suzail, or at least Tantras. Imagine how much business he might do then. People would call day and night seeking his services. Already, they pay the highest prices.

His last job fetched three perfect one-carat rubies and a gold medallion nearly as big as the palm of my hand. His mark, Han, was a top-ranking member of the thieves' guild -highly visible-and that, of course, drove up the cost. Still, the pay seemed outrageous to me. After all, using one of my darts, the master could hit a victim from a long way off with a movement almost as subtle as stifling a cough. In Han's case, the means of death was even less obvious.

I question whether, considering all the help I provided, Han's murder or any of my master's assassinations have been worth the price people paid. For that matter, when you think about it, should anyone be paid for another man's misfortune, another human being's demise?

When I think of Renek and his profession, I wonder how he became-how anyone becomes an expert… a noted expert… at killing? Is it something you decide to do? I mean, did Renek wake up one morning and say to himself, "From this day forward, I'm going to devote my energies to murder. I will become a first-rate assassin."? I can understand wanting thugs and murderers-Renek's typical victims-dead. But I find the idea of wanting to kill someone difficult to comprehend. I suppose some people might question my own involvement in Renek's deeds. But my work has never required me to kill anyone. Really, I'm a craftsman-a researcher and a craftsman.

At least that is how I had always thought of myself.

The first time I saw Ashana, I was working in my apothecary. That's what I call it. It's really just a glorified shed in which I keep the various components I use for my work.' hang branches and leaves to dry in the room, and I have grinding stones and shelving there. I bottle various components and catalog them carefully-everything from octopus ink to zinc powder and a few gemstones.

I was dicing the tender branches of a sweet brandyroot plant into fine slivers for drying when I saw her through the open door. Her hair was dark auburn, and it glistened in the spring sun. She was tall like me, but with none of my ungain-liness. Neither did she crouch as some tall women do. She walked quickly and surely toward me.

“Tine?" she inquired.

I nodded. I should have been more polite, said something more, invited her in, but I stood mute, staring, admiring. She stepped toward me. I backed up against a long work table, taking in the elegance of her movement as she stepped past and then turned to speak to me.

"Bokun, a cleric in the village, suggested I come," she said.

I nodded again. I remember thinking I should smile or say something, but I'm not sure if I did.

"My father is ill. It's a growth the healers can't stop. I've talked with several of them. And I've read everything I can find in the library-" Her words spilled out with a sense of urgency. "I've tried everything… He has this, this mucous-" She put her fingers to her neck and moved them lightly up and down. "It builds up in his throat, so thick he has trouble swallowing." She gulped hard, moving her chin down and up again with the effort, imitating his struggle.

I was immediately taken with her intensity. She gazed at me, unblinking, and then spoke again. "Bokun said you have many herbs, rare ones. He thought you might have this…" She paused to unfold a paper that had been clutched in her left hand. She moved very close to me and smoothed the note flat on the table alongside us.

As I turned to look at the paper, I found myself so near to her that I was overwhelmed by her fragrance-a whispering cleanness that made me want to close my eyes and inhale deeply. I forced myself to look at the note. The cleric's prescription was penned in large, fluid letters: Hsin-feng ku gen.

"I have it," I said. "A small piece."

She stood still, watching as I scanned through my catalog and then the shelves of my apothecary, searching for the datelike root. She talked to me all the while-in the gentle, friendly tones of a neighbor or a close companion. That's when she told me her name and where she lived.

I marveled at how easy it was for her to keep up a conversation. I groped for words to say in response. "This is the herb. It's used by the Wa people. My notes say the name means "bitter root of the fresh wind."