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protective wards. He moved slowly, twisting his head in all directions before each step, zigzagging his way toward the center of the circle where he expected to find Bolverkr’s citadel. Though abundant, the spells gave Taziar little difficulty. Wiry and agile, he slipped between magics that Bolverkr needed to place to accommodate his own larger frame and bolder gait. Certainly, no one ignorant of the ways of viewing magic could take more than a few steps without triggering one of the wards. But, as soon as Larson was taught the trick of indirect sighting, Taziar believed all of his companions would have the necessary training and dexterity to maneuver past Bolverkr’s obstacle course. So long as we don’t have to do it too fast.
    When Taziar judged he had crossed half the radius of Bolverkr’s circle, he paused to climb a tree. The “thieves’ moon” drew a glittering line along Bolverkr’s catwalk. Leering gargoyles lined the outer wall of the keep, meticulously cleaned though the castle they protected lay in a state of disrepair. Jagged breaks gashed three corners, and crumbled piles of stone, once towers, lay at the base. The fourth tower pointed arrow-straight at the sky, though rubble on the ground below it revealed that it had once been destroyed as well. The design confused Taziar. It seemed odd that Bolverkr had taken the time to completely renovate one full tower while the others gaped open, admitting rain. Glancing at shattered stonework before the outer wall to the keep, Taziar realized Bolverkr had also chosen to repair the decorative masonry and statuettes before working on the major structures of the castle.
    As Taziar stared, a figure emerged onto the wall. Moonlight revealed fine, white hair that had once been blond and a stale gray tunic and breeks covered by a darkly-colored cloak. Tall and slender to the point of frailness, the man paced the stones with a brash, solid tread that belied the apparent fragility of his frame.
    Bolverkr? Taziar watched, intrigued, certain this could be no one else.
    Yet, the way the man on the wall moved seemed somehow alien. On the streets, Taziar had obtained much of his food money through con games, pickpocketing, and entertaining the masses. His survival had depended upon his ability to read wealth, motivation, and intention through word and action. Bolverkr’s movements, though fluid, fit no human pattern Taziar could define. It inspired the same deep discomfort that he felt in the presence of the most unstable lunatics, from the type who might stand in a state of statuelike quiet and stillness one moment then lash out in violent frenzy the next, to those who slaughtered in the name of imaginary voices, or the kind who muttered half-interpretable nonsense while violating every social convention.
    Suddenly, Bolverkr froze. He whirled to face a gargoyle that rose to the height of his knee and shouted a garbled word, unrecognizable to Taziar.
    The gargoyle jumped, torn from its granite foundation, then shattered in a fountain of chips. Stone fragments rained into the courtyard.
    Bolverkr resumed pacing as if nothing had happened.
    Taziar stiffened, wrung through with chills. The sorcerer’s casual power shocked him, and he could not help imagining himself in the gargoyle’s place.
    “Who am I?” Pain tainted Bolverkr’s shout, but it still rang with power.
    Taziar was so caught up in the display that Bolverkr’s voice startled him. He stiffened, slipping sideways on the limb. An abrupt grab spared him a fall, and he clutched the branch tightly enough to gouge bark into his palms. Balance regained, he watched in awe as Bolverkr stilled, head tipped to catch the echoes, as though he expected them to give him an answer.
    The Dragonrank mage lowered his head. His hands twitched, as if he carried on a conversation with himself, but Taziar’s perch was too far away for him to see if the sorcerer’s lips were moving.
    Taziar gauged the distance between himself and