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that wretch of a cleric can hope to employ! For now, that cleric—and yes, even his ‘awesome’ deity—serve our purposes!”
    If Cyndre noticed the shudders of nervousness that passed among the members of his council he gave no indication. The master of the mages continued, as if talking to recalcitrant children.
    “The significant kings and lords of the Ffolk have been eliminated or neutralized. The way grows clear for our liege to rule all of the Moonshaes.”
    “Yes, master,” said Alexei quietly. “I am—”
    “Silence.” Cyndre’s single word came like music to their ears, but bound their lips like the ironclad order that it was.
    The master gestured, and the Seven knew that the door to their chamber had been opened. Soon they heard the whisper of soft leather boots moving down the black corridor, and then three men entered the room, standing awkwardly at the open end of the table.
    Actually, only two of them were men—the third was manlike, but stood taller than his companions. His arms were long and his face grotesque. Nervously licking his lips, he revealed wicked fangs.
    “Well, Razfallow? What is the word from Corwell?” Cyndre’s question was a formality, and no doubt the assassin knew it. The wizard’s powerful scrying mirror had shown him the results of the mission as it had happened.
    “We failed, master. The king sacrificed himself to save the prince. Then the prince’s bodyguard—a graduate of the Academy and former student of mine—intervened. I lost five of my finest—”
    “This is what I think of your finest.” Cyndre’s voice carried no trace of threat, but his left and right forefingers gestured at the men standing to either side of Razfallow. Spellbound, each instantly grabbed his throat and gasped. Choking, they staggered to their knees and then flopped to the floor. Twisting in agony, their faces growing slowly black, they died over a period of several minutes.
    Razfallow watched the executions impassively. Finally, the assassin turned toward Cyndre.
    “You only live because I have further need of you,” explained the wizard. “Serve me well, and you may be granted the right to live out your miserable life.…”

    “What is it, teacher? Why did you call?” Robyn clasped a hand to her mouth as she saw Genna’s haggard face staring at her from the depths of her bed.
    “Pain!” gasped Genna Moonsinger, collapsing into her soft quilt. Her eyes darted past Robyn, as if she feared that some apparition might appear in the doorway.
    “Can I help you? Tell me what you need!”
    “Leave me, girl! Go, now!” Genna’s voice was sharp—more harsh than Robyn had ever heard before.
    Confused and frightened, she stumbled from the cottage and banged the door shut. She saw the man—the “stranger” she still called him—watering the roses as she had requested. Robyn quickly turned away from him and went around the cottage. She felt a need to be alone.
    She heard a loud snuffle as she passed through the hedge that magically parted before her, and Grunt rose to his four feet. Absently, she scratched his broad head while she wondered about her teacher’s strange malady. Genna had been taciturn and unpleasant recently, and her health seemed to grow worse every day.
    Grunt suddenly rubbed against her, anxious for more attention, and knocked her to the ground.
    “Dammit, you clumsy oaf!” she shouted, and then winced as she saw the deep hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s not you—I shouldn’t treat you so.” Mollified, the bear nuzzled in for more scratching, and she absently complied.
    Her mind drifted to Tristan. She had been thinking of him a lot lately. Often she daydreamed about his sudden arrival at the grove. She pictured him galloping from the woods on his great stallion, Avalon. She liked to imagine his joy upon seeing her—and the crushing kiss he’d greet her with.
    She felt certain that something was terribly wrong—she feared that the king was indeed