A hideous shock ran up Cazaril's arm. Not just his belly but his whole body seemed to cramp, and his vision blurred and darkened. Within him, Dondo screamed in triumph. The death demon surged up like a whirling fire behind his eyes, eager and implacable. Cazaril convulsed, vomiting. In Cazaril's uncontrolled recoil, his sword ripped out sideways; vessels spurted, and dy Joal collapsed at his feet in a welter of blood.

Cazaril found himself on his hands and knees on the icy slates, his sword, dropped from his nerveless hand, still ringing faintly. He was trembling all over so badly he could not stand up again. He spat bile from his watering mouth. On his sword's point, as it lay on the stone, dy Joal's wet blood steamed and smoked, blackening. Surges of nausea swept through his swollen and pulsing abdomen.

Inside him, Dondo wailed and howled in frustrated rage, slowly smothered again to silence. The demon settled back like a stalking cat on its belly, watchful and tense. Cazaril clenched and unclenched his hand, just to be sure he was still in possession of his own body.

So. The death demon wasn't fussy whose souls filled its buckets, so long as there were two of them. Cazaril's and Dondo's, Cazaril's and some other killer's—or victim's—he wasn't just sure which, or if it even mattered, under the circumstances. Dondo clearly had hoped to cling to his body, and let Cazaril's soul be ripped away. Leaving Dondo in, so to speak, possession. Dondo's goals and those of the demon were, it seemed, slightly divergent. The demon would be happy if Cazaril died in any way at all. Dondo wanted a murder, or a murdering.

Sunk strengthless to the stones, tears leaking between his eyelids, Cazaril became aware that the noise had died down. A hand touched his elbow, and he flinched. Foix's distressed voice came to his ear, "My lord? My lord, are you wounded?"

"Not... not stabbed," Cazaril got out. He blinked, wheezing. He reached out for his blade, then jerked his hand back, fingertips stinging. The steel was hot to the touch. Ferda appeared on his other side, and the two brothers drew him to his feet. He stood shivering with reaction.

"Are you sure you're all right?" said Ferda. "That dark-haired lady in Cardegoss promised us the royesse would have our ears if we did not bring you back to her alive."

"Yes," put in Foix, "and that she would have the rest of our skins for a drum head, thereafter."

"Your skins are safe, for now." Cazaril rubbed his watering eyes and straightened a little, staring around. A sergeantly-looking groom, sword out, had half a dozen of the toughs lying facedown on the slates in surrender. Three more bandits sat leaning against the stable wall, moaning and bleeding. Another servant was dragging up the body of the dead crossbowman.

Cazaril scowled down at dy Joal, lying sprawled before him. They hadn't exchanged a single word in their brief encounter. He was deeply sorry he'd torn out the bravo's lying throat. His presence here implied much, but confirmed nothing. Was he dy Jironal's agent or acting on his own?

"The leader—where is he? I want to put him to the question."

"Over there, my lord"—Foix pointed—"but I'm afraid he won't be answering."

Bergon was just rising from the examination of an unmoving body; the grizzled man, alas.

Ferda said uneasily, in a tone of apology, "He fought fiercely and wouldn't surrender. He had wounded two of our grooms, so Foix finally downed him with a crossbow bolt."

"Do you think he really was the castle warder here, my lord?" Foix added.

"No."

Bergon picked his way over to him, sword in hand, and looked him up and down in worry. "What do we do now, Caz?"

The female ghost, grown somewhat less agitated, was beckoning him toward the gate. One of the male ghosts, equally urgent, was beckoning him toward the main door. "I... I follow, momentarily."

"What?" said Bergon.

Cazaril tore his gaze away from what only his inner eye saw. "Lock them"—he nodded toward their surrendered foes—"up in a stall, and set a guard. Whole and wounded together for now. We'll tend to them after our own. Then send a body of able men to search the premises, see if there are any more hiding. Or... or anybody else. Hiding. Or... whatever." His eye returned to the gate, where the streaming woman beckoned again. "Foix, bring your bow and sword and come with me."

"Should we not take more men, lord?"

"No, I don't think so..."

Leaving Bergon and Ferda to direct the mopping-up, Cazaril at last headed for the gate. Foix followed, staring as Cazaril turned without hesitation down a path into the pines. As they walked along it, the cries of the crows grew louder. Cazaril braced himself. The path opened out onto the edge of a steep ravine.

"Bastard's hell," whispered Foix. He lowered his bow and touched the five theological points, forehead-lip-navel-groin-heart, in a warding gesture.

They'd found the bodies.

They were thrown upon the midden, tumbled down the edge of the crevasse atop years of kitchen and stable yard waste. One younger man, two older; in this rural place it was not possible to distinguish certainly master from man by dress, as all wore practical working leathers and woolens. The woman, plump and homely and middle-aged, was stripped naked, as was the boy, who appeared to have been about five. Both mutilated according to a cruel humor. Violated, too, probably. Dead about a day, Cazaril judged by the progress the crows had made. The woman-ghost was weeping silently, and the child-ghost clung to her and wailed. They were not god-rejected souls, then, just sundered, still dizzied from their deaths and unable to find their way without proper ceremonies.

Cazaril fell to his knees, and whispered, "Lady. If I am alive in this place, you must be, too. If it please you, give these poor spirits ease."

The ghostly faces changed, rippling from woe to wonder; the insubstantial bodies blurred like sun diffractions in a high, feathered cloud, then vanished.

After about a minute Cazaril said muzzily, "Help me up, please."

The bewildered Foix levered him up with a hand under his elbow. Cazaril staggered around and started back up the path.

"My lord, should we not look around for others?"

"No, that's all."

Foix followed him without another word.

In the slate-paved courtyard, they found Ferda and an armed groom just emerging again from the main doorway.

"Did you find anyone else?" Cazaril asked him.

"No, my lord."

Beside the door, only the young male ghost still lingered, although its luminescent body seemed to be ribboning away like smoke in a wind. It writhed in a kind of agony, gesturing Cazaril on. What dire urgency was it that turned it from the open arms of the goddess to cling to this wounded world? "Yes, yes, I'm coming," Cazaril told it.

It slipped inside; Cazaril motioned Foix and Ferda, looking uneasily at him, to follow on. They passed through the main hall and under a gallery, back through the kitchens, and down some wooden stairs to a dark, stone-walled storeroom.

"Did you search in here?" Cazaril called over his shoulder.

"Yes, my lord," said Ferda.

"Get more light." He stared intently at the ghost, which was now circling the room in agitation, whirling in a tightening spiral. Cazaril pointed. "Move those barrels."

Foix rolled them aside. Ferda clattered back down from the kitchen with a brace of tallow candles, their flames yellow and smoky but bright in the gloom. Concealed beneath the barrels they found a stone slab in the floor with an iron ring set in it. Cazaril motioned to Foix again; the boy grabbed the ring and strained, and shifted the slab up and aside, revealing narrow steps descending into utter blackness.

From below, a faint voice cried out.

The ghost bent to Cazaril, seeming to kiss his forehead, hands, and feet, and then streamed away into eternity. A faint blue sparkle, like a chord of music made visible, glittered for a moment in Cazaril's second sight, and was gone. Ferda, the candles in one hand and his drawn sword in the other, cautiously descended the stone steps.