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Vereumene, I went into the ossuary to beg Vileoux — his spirit, if it remained — to help Chachant. To instill tranquility into his heart, lessen his hunger for revenge.” She touched my shoulder, as if for support, or perhaps to steady me. “I bent over his sarcophagus, nudged the top ajar so I could see his face… there was nothing, Astul. It was empty. He had left.”
    “Or someone had taken him,” I pointed out.
    “Semantics,” she said. She lifted herself out of the water and onto the ledge, airing out her naked body.
    “Well, those are quite different things, you know. Leaving on your own accord, or being forced to—”
    “Listen to me,” Sybil said seriously, cutting me off, “I saw something the night Vileoux — or his body, whatever — went missing. You’ll think I’m mental, but… I saw fire in the sky. It was a bird bathed in flames.” Her eyes narrowed, and she forced a heavy swallow down her throat. “I swear upon my life.”
    “Which way did it go?”
    “This way.”
    Silence captured us. Prior to about ten years ago, claiming you spotted a flaming bird in the sky was enough to have a savant start chiseling into your skull, hoping to pop whatever strange fungus or parasite had clamped onto your brain. But then the conjurers arrived, or rather appeared, and with them unnatural abominations that they both created and controlled. Mostly ridiculous things, really — two-tailed squirrels, lions with the teeth of a man, rotund ravens who couldn’t soar for more than a few seconds without having to perch and catch their breath. Hadn’t ever seen or heard of a flaming bird, but if it existed, it was undoubtedly born into this world from the minds of conjurers.
    After a while — long after her body had dried and her hair began to frizz — she spoke. “Dead or alive, what would they want with him?”
    “Dead? Not a whole lot. But alive?” I chuckled as a way to cope with the thought. “If you could take the mind of a king presumed to be dead, imagine the chaos you could unleash if he would happen to show up at, say… oh, I don’t know, the gate of Edenvaile three weeks from now, eyes swollen, shirtless, rags for pants. Claims he was given a concoction to slow his heart to an undetectable pulse and then kidnapped. If war was your thing, that’s the route I’d go.”
    Sybil frowned. “But why ? What motivations would a couple of conjurers, or even a small colony, have for doing that?”
    “None at all,” I said. “Unless they’re working with someone.”
    There was that face again. As cool and unmoving as stone itself.
    “I got wind of a couple conjurers near here,” I said. “It was a while ago, and my Rots disturbed them, so they likely moved. But it’s not far from territory my brother patrols. He may have a lead on them that’s helpful. Might not be the conjurers we’re looking for, but it’s something.”
    Sybil picked her feet up out of the spring, spun around on her butt and trudged over to her clothes. “Mm. So the tragic life of Astul — from the abusive father to the estranged brother — isn’t quite so true, is it?”
    “We haven’t talked in several years. But I’ve kept eyes and ears on him. He may make poor choices, but he still shares my blood. That’s got to count for something, right?”
    Sybil began bouncing up and down, initiating the tried-and-true method of persuading your thighs to fit inside your pants. “I’m joining Chachant in Vereumene. I hope he’s still there when I arrive. I’m worried he’s not going there for a peaceful meeting.”
    “If he’s expecting Serith Rabthorn to join him in a silly conquest against Braddock, he’s going to be disappointed. Only way that bastard joins anyone is if there’s a clear route to victory.”
    She combed a soothing hand through her snorting horse’s mane. “My father detests Braddock, so Chachant already has an easy ally on his side.” She paused and added, with emphasis, “Dercy will be in