Stalking Darkness

had eroded steadily ever since. Even with the power of the Eye itself to aid him, he’d been unable to exercise sufficient power over the fugitives to stop them. The Aurënfaie had proven infuriatingly resistant to his magicks and when he’d finally succumbed to the
dra’gorgos
attack at the inn, the boy, that wretched
boy
, had outmaneuvered them, spiriting his partner away before Mardus and his men could reach the place.
    Still holding the vial between his fingers, Vargûl Ashnazai pictured the precious blood-soaked slivers of wood inside, slivers he’d gouged from the floor of the Mycenian inn where his
dra’gorgos
had overtaken them.
    The talisman he’d made with their blood was a powerful guide, so powerful that he’d almost caught them at Keston. But then they’d slipped on ahead by sea and another’s power was growing around them, occluding his own. He’d recognized the resonance of the magic at once. Orëska magic.
    And so Mardus and his men had tracked them by methods thoroughly mundane, while he, a necromancer of the Sanctum, rode along like so much useless baggage.
    Mardus had been sanguine. They already knew where the thieves were headed, result once again of Mardus’ cold-blooded methods rather than his own. One of the river sailors captured after the destruction of the
Darter
—this, at least, was Vargûl’s work—had screamed out with his last breath what they’d needed to know.
    To be sitting here now, no more than two days ride from the stronghold of his enemies, was maddening.
    So close!
he thought, closing his fist around the vial.
    Mardus saw, and guessed his thoughts. “Why not scry for them again?”
    Vargûl Ashnazai shifted uncomfortably. “It’s been the same for weeks now.”
    Mardus glanced over at him, much the way any man might look at another who’s said something mildly surprising. But Mardus was not just any man. As his gaze met Ashnazai’s, the necromancer felt a stab of fear. It was not madness he saw in his companion’s eyes—never that—but something worse, an obdurate purposefulness steeped with the shadow of their god. Mardus might not have magic, but he had power. He was touched, chosen.
    Held in that remorseless gaze, Ashnazai felt the blood slow in his veins. Clasping the vial more tightly, he placed his other hand over his eyes and summoned the image of the thieves.
    For a moment he felt the reassuring pulse of his own considerable power. The inner blackness flowed through him to the vial and beyond, using the essence of the blood to seek its source. Ever since the thieves had reached Rhíminee, however, a veil had dropped over them. Someone had placed a protective spell over them, and the resistance to his magic was fierce and decisive.
    This time was no different. The moment he focused his concentration on their location, he was blinded by a searing vision of fire and huge, leathery wings. The message was clear enough:
These people are under the protection of the Orëska. You cannot touch them
.
    Gasping, Ashnazai let go of the vial and pressed both hands to his face.
    “No change?”
    Ashnazai could tell without looking up that the bastard was smiling.
    “Then Urvay’s actor is truly a blessing placed in our path. Ifthese two are still under the protection of the Orëska wizards, where better to seek them?”
    “I hope you’re right, my lord. When I find them, I’ll crush their beating hearts in my hands!”
    “Vengeance is a dangerous emotion.”
    Looking up, Vargûl Ashnazai saw a familiar blankness pass across his companion’s face, the touch of the god.
    “You should be grateful to them for leading us to the completion of our quest,” Mardus continued softly, staring into the depths of his cup. “This actor and his sorceress are the seal on that. Patience is the key now. Be patient. Our moment will come.”

1
A L OUSY N IGHT F OR I T
    S leet-laden winds lashed in off the winter sea, racketing through the dark streets of Rhíminee like a huge, angry child. Loose shingles and roof tiles tore free and clattered down into streets and gardens. Bare trees swayed and clashed their branches like dead bones in the night. In the harbor below the citadel, vessels were tossed from their moorings to founder against the moles. In upper and lower city alike, even the brothel keepers put up their shutters early.
    Two cloak-wrapped figures slipped from a shadowed courtyard in Blue Fish Street and hurried east to Sheaf Street.
    “I can’t believe