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the corpses on my own. But that wraith…I have no spells to harm such a creature. Just as well you and your pet Magistria came along when you did.” 
    Calliande scowled, and Gavin stepped forward. “You should speak to the Lady Calliande with respect.”
    “Respect is a wage, boy, not a gift,” said the sorceress. “Yet…I thank you for your aid, both you, Gray Knight, and you, Magistria. Having a wraith drain away my life is not how I wished this day to end.” 
    “I suspect,” said Ridmark, “we can all agree on that. The undead seemed most interested in you.”
    “Vexingly so,” agreed the sorceress. “I was making my way south when the first band of corpses attacked me. I dispatched them all, and then decided to warn the fools of Moraime of the threat. Likely I passed too close to the ruins of the fortress, and drew the attention of the undead.”
    “They seemed most interested in you,” said Ridmark.
    “As if,” said Calliande, “you raised them and lost control.”
    The sorceress smirked. “Or as if they had been commanded to seek out wielders of magic. They hunted you, did they not? Perhaps you raised them.”
    “Do you have any idea who might have summoned them?” said Ridmark.
    “I fear not,” said the sorceress. “My guess would be a shaman of the orcish blood gods, but none have been seen in the marshes since Mhalek led the tribes of Vhaluusk to their doom in Andomhaim…” She blinked and smirked at Ridmark again. “But if you truly are the Gray Knight, you already know that.” 
    “You know who I am,” said Ridmark. “Might we know who you are?” 
    The young woman blinked and then laughed. “If you must. You can call me Morigna.” She gripped the edges of her tattered cloak and performed an elaborate mockery of a formal curtsy.  “And I am pleased to meet you, my lords and lady, in my humble palace, which I hope is to your liking.” She looked at Gavin. “Was that respectful enough?”
    Gavin opened his mouth, his face going red, but Ridmark spoke first.
    “I am Ridmark Arban,” he said. “This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the mendicant order.” 
    “A peculiar company,” said Morigna. 
    “Almost as peculiar as finding a sorceress in the Wilderland,” said Calliande, a hint of ice in her voice. “Where did you learn your magic?” 
    “Ah,” said Morigna. “So that is what you are doing, is it? The Magistria hunting for renegade wizards, outcasts from the Order, while her ragtag band of enforcers trudge after her?”
    “Ragtag?” said Gavin, his face turning red again. 
    “Given the state of your cloak,” said Ridmark, “that is a serious accusation to level.”
    She grinned at him. “And as for my magic, I acquired it in the usual way. I prayed to the forces of darkness for thirteen nights, and then danced naked around a ring of dark elven standing stones. On the thirteenth night, I conjured forth a hundred and one demons and coupled with each of them upon the altar, and in return they bestowed magical powers upon me.” 
    “Casual blasphemy,” said Caius, “is hardly a joking matter.”
    “Why not?” said Morigna. “Given that it amuses me to watch Gavin splutter so.”
    “And given that we just fought our way through a pack of undead,” said Ridmark, cutting off Gavin’s furious response, “it is a relevant question.” 
    “Indeed,” said Morigna. “My magic manifested when I was a child, and the Old Man taught me.” 
    “The Old Man?” said Ridmark.
    “He is a hermit who lives some distance north of Moraime, and he took me as a student.”
    “What is his name?” said Calliande.
    “That is his to tell you, not mine,” said Morigna. “And I do not know, in truth. He has claimed many names. But do not fear. The Old Man did not raise your undead. The man is so querulous he could not harm a fly, which is a pity, given that he lives in his own filth. But now that I have