There was a sudden fire in Letius's belly as the halfspear jammed down, skewering him to the ground, right through his midsection. Letius gasped, falling back, his good hand closing around the shaft of the halfspear in a vain effort to pull it free. He blinked repeatedly, feeling tears welling up in his eyes, both from the burning pain in his stomach and the bewildering fear that washed through him. He just didn't understand, and his mind was having trouble recognizing that he had been wounded.

"I-" he started, trying to make sense of what had just happened. "My captain," he mouthed, his voice a mere croak. "Parlay," he whispered, feeling the pain in his belly spreading.

Tempus, it hurts. Please.

"Leave him," the northerner said to his companions from a distance, his accent thick. "Let the others find him like that." Then the man leaned down from his saddle and peered at Letius. "If you live to see your brethren again," he said, his voice filled with contempt, "tell them that Reth claims this section of the Nunwood for its own and that the greedy, scheming folk of Hlath, of all of Arrabar, are no longer welcome here." Then the northerner spun his horse and, leading Letius's mount by the reins, rode away, his companions following.

Letius lay gasping, staring at the brassy blue sky overhead, clutching feebly with that one hand at the halfspear pinning him to the ground. He knew a man could linger for days with a belly wound before dying. Maybe someone would come. He prayed to Tempus they would. Flies began to swarm around him in the sweltering heat of the day.

"But why?" Lobra Pharaboldi asked with a choking sob from behind a black linen handkerchief she held delicately to her mouth. Occasionally, she dabbed it at her intensely dark eyes, red-rimmed and glistening with tears. The color of the fine cloth matched the heavy black velvet dress she wore, a cumbersome funereal outfit that made her uncommonly porcelain skin glow like summer moonlight, even though there was little enough illumination in the chamber at the moment.

Servants had draped the entire sitting room of the Pharaboldi estate in black, suitable for mourning, and had set up a handful of flickering candles.

The periphery of the solemn chamber seemed to shift and waver in their glow, which cast their uneven light haphazardly upon the pair of caskets arranged near the great fireplace. The effect made the shadows at the corners of Falagh Mestel's vision seem alive and restless. The tall, slender man did not much care for the dimness of the chamber, but the elegantly dressed woman huddled against him on the overstuffed couch had insisted they meet there. In the interests of getting her to agree to hear what Grozier Talricci and his partners had to say, Falagh had acquiesced.

Might as well humor her, he thought idly, running a single index finger along his thin black mustache. There's nothing worse than crossing a grieving wife.

"Who knows the dark thoughts of the greedy and grasping among us?" Grozier answered solemnly, pacing back and forth in front of the couple, his cape swirling about the somber doublet of black brocade he wore with each turn he made. A matching hat, rather ridiculous in appearance but of suitable style for the occasion, was canted at an angle atop the man's tight gray curls.

He looks like a burned peacock, Falagh decided, though he could hardly blame the man. Mestel's own outfit was hardly less foppish, though he had thankfully abandoned the jaunty hat, choosing instead to leave his perfectly trimmed blue-black hair uncovered.

Grand Trabbar Lavant, whose bloated bulk spilled over the sides of the high-backed chair he occupied, sat off to one side, letting Grozier hold center stage for the moment. The priest of the Temple of Waukeen seemed to be the most self-assured of the three, studying his own slipper-adorned feet in a knowing way. Falagh began to understand that Lavant, and not Grozier Talricci, was the true guiding force behind all that had transpired before Lobra's involvement.

Both the Waukeenar and Grozier seemed to ignore the wizard they had brought with them-or rather, who had brought them both there. Grozier had called him Bartimus, right before telling the man to find a quiet spot and stay out of the way. The paunchy fellow sat in a corner in the shadows, constantly pushing his spectacles up his nose and muttering to himself with a foolish half smile on his face. Every time Lobra sobbed aloud, Bartimus winced and stared, as though she had interrupted some deep contemplation.

Falagh chuckled very softly to himself, finding the wizard a bit amusing, in a ridiculous sort of way.

"Why did he have to kill them?" Lobra asked, flopping back against the seat next to Falagh, sweeping her lustrous black wavy hair behind one ear with her other hand, her face a look of helpless pain.

At the earnestness of her second question, Grozier Talricci turned and knelt down in front of Lobra. "Perhaps Vambran Matrell somehow considered his family superior to yours and in his arrogance, could not bear the thought of what he considered to be some lesser scion courting his sister. Or perhaps he simply wished to sabotage the alliance his uncle and brother had made, desiring control of House Matrell for his own, and found murder"-and with that word, he motioned in the direction of the twin coffins resting in state-"to be his most reliable and straightforward tool. Whatever the scurrilous dog's reasons, he has affronted all of us."

Lobra glanced toward the caskets and shook her head miserably. Falagh reached over and gently took his wife's hand in both of his, giving it a comforting squeeze and pat. The gesture caused Lobra to turn back to him, staring into his eyes desperately, as though she needed him to tell her that it was all going to be undone, that Anista and Denrick weren't truly dead at all. Falagh had already tried every imaginable soothing gesture he could think of to assuage her pain, but she would not be placated. So he only returned her gaze, saying nothing. She fell against his arm, buried her face against his shoulder, and succumbed to her sobbing again.

"We all grieve for your loss, of course," Grand Trabbar Lavant said from his high-backed chair. Falagh turned to look at the heavyset priest, who had his hands folded together, his fingers interlaced across his ample stomach. The Grand Trabbar continued to stare at the floor in front of him with that thoughtful, if somewhat distant, mien. "To have both a mother and brother taken from you at the same time is a terrible tragedy… simply terrible. And with the man most directly responsible for it running free, well…" Lavant said, leaving the thought hanging.

Lobra sat up again, wiping the fresh tears from her cheeks with her handkerchief. Falagh could see her visage of misery transformed into one of hatred, and she shifted away from him and toward the front of her couch, sitting regally. The woman settled her hands into her lap, though she held them clenched into delicate fists.

Very good, Falagh thought, recognizing the priest's subtle manipulations. Move past what's done, and address what is still to be done.

The Grand Trabbar rose ponderously from his seat and carefully smoothed his gem-studded cream and crimson robes about himself, then he moved to stand next to Grozier, who still knelt in front of Lobra.

"If you want to see justice done, consider our cause," the priest said, resting one hand on the kneeling man's shoulder so he could bend forward slightly and emphasize his words. "With your help, we can not only see your mother's and brother's vision continue to move forward, but we can take steps to rectify this horrible grievance committed against you by House Matrell."

"But I cannot make these decisions!" the woman wailed. "I know nothing of managing these affairs. Mother always-" and Lobra choked on her words, her body shuddering in another silent sob as she covered her face with her handkerchief again. Falagh patted his wife's back as she shook in sorrow.