Jason Valentine woke up late, and hungry. Of course, going out for a meal had worked so well last time, he thought to himself, but there was really nothing else to do. His coat was still dry inside, and his boots had dried out enough to be merely uncomfortable.

A glance out his window confirmed his worst fears. A thin haze obscured his view. Though the room was warm, his breath fogged the glass. The mist would only grow thicker as the day progressed. The cause, or part of it, was hidden under Jason’s bed.

Sighing, he fished the katana out and looked it over. The weapon was old, but well maintained. The scabbard and hilt were both wrapped in black silk cord. The hilt was capped with a silver plate where a European blade would have a pommel. The tsubo had been removed, if the sword had ever had one. Instead, a narrow band of silver metal with a smaller ring of crystal dust in the center, formed the transition between the silk-wrapped hilt and the blade. In the light, the tiny fragments of crystal produced a rainbow effect.

The sword had once belonged to a Knight of the Circle. The silver metal marked him as a member of the second rank, the equivalent of a minor officer. The style of the weapon indicated that the former owner had been a scout, rather than a full soldier. It was slender and light, though not fragile, a weapon designed to be hidden at need. Warriors carried larger weapons. This Knight might have been a magus of some kind. Though he was not actively using his powers, Jason could feel a tingling sensation of the weapon’s aura. Enchantments had been woven into the steel.

Jason partially drew the blade, careful to observe protocol, and saw that intricate runes had been etched into the metal. Though far from fluent in the language of Magick, he was able to pick out the words for strength and sharpness. It was a Wizard’s sword, then, rather than a Sorcerer’s. A Sorcerer would have needed only the name of the creature he wanted to bind into the blade. Even that would probably be in a different script than the runes Jason read.

The man he'd killed last night was no Knight of the Circle. There were plenty of Knights who wanted to kill Jason, but none of them would strike from ambush. Besides, the dead man had said Jason wasn't his target. Jason wanted to know more. He was beginning to believe that he'd walked into something big.

Taking the lotus position on the hotel floor, Jason opened his senses to the sword. One hand tightened on the hilt, while the other lightly brushed the blade steel. The feel of the silk cord and the folded steel quickly gave way to deeper sensations. For Jason, to touch something was to understand it. He didn't allow his touch to go very far. There was no reason to see what the iron ore saw, even if he could reach that far back. The blade's psychic impressions were played in reverse, first his, overlaid with those of the previous wielder, then the previous wielder's alone.

The warrior had been a mercenary, one of hundreds more who lurked in the Netherlands, making a living by their wits. Jason wanted to know who had hired the man, and which of the Valentines he’d been hired to kill. There were very few places he could go to get answers.

On his way out of the hotel, Jason settled his coat about his shoulders. The weight of the shotgun was not quite balanced by the weight of the katana. The two were adequately concealed under his wide coat, as long as he didn’t have to sit down. He ignored his motorcycle for the present, taking a subway terminal, and riding in the direction of Central Park. During the day, it was hard to find an unoccupied train. Jason used one stop to step behind a pillar, and make his way past the safety guards, into the tunnels. The Transit Authority wouldn’t be happy with him, but they weren’t likely to notice.

The tunnels under New York were more extensive than anyone knew. Jason turned down an access passage, a simple archway blocked by a door with an ancient, corroded lock.. The latch was not difficult to force, and Jason stepped through the hatchway. Working from memory, with several wrong turns, he made his way to the Old City. When night fell, the Goblin Market would come to town, and someone there would have the information Jason wanted.

* * *

The Grand Façade, by night a magical fairyland of flashing lights and seductive shadows, was worn, commonplace, and a little tawdry by the light of day. The woodwork was cracked in places. Most of the posters on the walls were old and faded. The velvet of the Victorian style furniture was patched.

Gabriel Rider rested, draped across one of the battered divans, shielding his eyes against the glare of the work lights. He could see the iron light grid, suspended from the ceiling with thin steel cables. The ellipsoidal lights and the strobes were all turned off, not making the very air dance now. He had never been inside the Façade before this afternoon, when his friends had badgered him into leaving his apartment with them. He could imagine what it would look like, though. Without even closing his eyes, he could superimpose the dream image over the mundane reality.

At night, the harsh halogen lights would be dimmed to nothing. Illumination would come from the lekos with metal cookie plates breaking their red and blue and amber light into crazy patterns, and from subtle lights set into the floor and walls, glittering like stars. That dim radiance would be shattered by strobes from every direction.

The phantasmagoric display would dance across the dark, wood walls, and be shattered into a million pieces on the mosaics made of shards of colored glass and mirrors that decorated the wall panels and support pillars. More lights, these pointed carefully away from the club's denizens, would cast ultraviolet radiance at a series of recessed panels, making the fluorescent murals inside dance.

The best part would be the central dance floor, a huge expanse of Plexiglas panels over an even larger aquarium. At night, the lights would be turned on, and the dancers would appear to be walking on water, suspended as if by magic over a coral reef. The floor would be a monster to maintain, of course. Just a few minutes ago, one of the club's staff had finished scrubbing it by hand, and carefully removing any streaks.

The janitor dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, had pretty much ignored Gabriel, who was lounging on a raised platform positioned to give a good view of the dancers. Gabriel saw no reason to disturb him.

Gabriel's friend, Sabrina Lucas, was working on one of the murals. The club's owner liked for them to be changed periodically. Sabrina had enlisted the aid of Max Duvall, mostly because he owned a van, and the pair of them had rousted out Gabriel.

Of course, Max had gotten bored and left hours before, and Sabrina worked best alone, so she had very subtly asked Gabriel to leave the corridor where she was painting. He spent some time watching the staff as they erased the signs of last night’s revelry in preparation for the night to come. He caught some speculative glances from a couple of the girls, but he had long ago perfected the art of being unapproachable.

Finally, he was left alone in the central chamber, except for the weight of his grief. With hardly any effort at all, he could imagine Crystal dancing on the magical dance floor, and the image was killing him.

“Hello, Gabriel Rider.” The voice that drew him from his revere was smooth and soft, a hazy soprano if she was a singer.

He looked up to see the club’s owner; a woman named Julie Alexander. She was dressed to fit the club’s decor, in a sheath of dark blue silk, cut in the oriental style. The dress had no sleeves, or back, based on the cut. It showed off an incredible tattoo. Vines of black, rendered like Celtic knotwork, were studded with stylized roses in various colors. The vines traced down her arm, and circled her neck. One of the roses decorated her left cheek.

“Hi.” he said.

"I'm surprised to see you here. This isn't the sort of place you frequent anymore."

"It was kind of forced on me. Someone thinks I don't get out enough."

"She's probably right. If you hide from the world for too long, it might never come looking." She smiled and moved past him, to the lobby door.

Gabriel watched her go, not above the free entertainment. Her backless dress was cut a bit lower than it really had to be, not that the skintight silk hid all that much to begin with. The tattoo was most extensive on her back, where five roses formed the points of a pentacle, with the upper most point at the base of her neck. The vines transcribed the circumference. Though the work was in the European style, it easily matched any of the Japanese work Gabriel had ever seen for detail and workmanship. As the taut muscles of her back rippled with some kind of tension, it was as if the vines were shaken in a breeze.

At the door, she met someone Gabriel couldn't see, other than to note that he was somewhat taller than Ms. Alexander, and wearing a dark coat. His voice was a low rasp. Gabriel could not make out what he was saying.

Ms. Alexander hissed something back at him, and tried to slam the door in his face.

The man caught the door, and Gabriel was able to hear what he said to her before leaving. "She will come here, and you will tell me where she's going. You know the price of crossing me, Julie."

Ms. Alexander stared at the door for several seconds before turning to go.

"Is something wrong?" Gabriel asked as she passed him.

"No. Nothing." He knew she was lying. "My world has come looking for me. I didn't hide well enough."

Gabriel watched her go, wanting to say something. Her pain was visibly obvious, as if the thorns of her elaborate tattoo were growing up out of her bones. The weight of his own his own fears and doubts paralized him. Words formed in his mind, but none left his lips. He walked into the next room to check on Sabrina.

Sabrina was perched on a stool, with her legs drawn up under her. She had a brush clutched in her teeth and another in her hand. Her long, brown hair was drawn up to keep it out of her way. She was delicately applying paint to the mural.

"You almost done?" he asked her.

He was able to translate "A few more minutes" from the garbled syllables that escaped from around the edges of the paintbrush.

"I'll just wait in the next room."

Back in the central chamber, Gabriel had intended to resume his original seat. However, his eyes were drawn to the stage up at one end of the dance floor. The club frequently featured live music, and there were several instruments on the stage. He'd been largely ignoring the ensemble, but something drew him to the stool next to the black guitar. He thumbed on the amp, and was rewarded by an almost subliminal humming.

The guitar was nothing special, old, but serviceable. Gabriel could tell from the feel of the strings that it was out of tune. The pegs were worn enough that it would need re-tuning often. He worked his way down the scale, tuning by intuition more than anything else. Like many musicians, Gabriel had perfect pitch.

The strings were uncomfortable against his fingers. It had been a long time since he'd played at all. The first time he touched an instrument after Crystal's death, the sound had torn through his chest like a hot chainsaw.

He poured that memory across the strings of the guitar, weaving it with the fingers of his left hand while his right strummed the strings. The guitar wailed in response to his ministrations. The power to make sounds like this was more addictive than any drug. For a little while, Gabriel was lost in the sensation, something he'd missed. Gradually, the song wound down. Gabriel could have found ways to keep varying the pattern of notes, but the urge that had brought him to the stage was passing.

He looked up from his playing to see Sabrina standing at the foot of the stage. Her face was streaked in paint, and decorated with a radiant smile.

"Gabriel, that was awesome," she gushed. "I didn't know you'd written anything new."

"I didn't…" Gabriel started. He hadn't really been playing anything, only stringing chords together in a pleasing pattern.

Sabrina circled around behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "It was really amazing. Max will be sorry he missed it."

One of her hands came to rest over the mass of scar tissue where doctors had removed two bullets almost a year ago. Three others had not passed all the way through Crystal's body. When her hand touched the old wounds, Gabriel felt all the pain again.

He stood up abruptly, shaking loose from Sabrina's embrace. The guitar slid from nerveless fingers, first to rest against the amplifier, then to finish a slow descent to the floor.

"I need some air," Gabriel said.

He stumbled from the club, still able to feel Sabrina's gaze on his back. Outside, he found the day almost gone. The shadows were at their longest, and the sun's fading light couldn't take the biting chill from the air.

Gabriel turned up the collar of his coat, and started walking into the wind, not really thinking about where he was going.

* * *

Gwenivere sat in an overstuffed leather armchair with Key sitting stiffly next to her, wrapped in a blue afghan. Gwenivere's staff was leaning against the wall, but she kept the Sword close by her. It had been a long time since she’d seen the Thorn Queen, and she wasn’t sure how well their friendship had weathered.

Julie entered the room, looking older, and a little tired. She’d been little more than a child when Gwenivere left her. Her tattoo had grown over the years. It enveloped more of her face, and a new rose had emerged over her left shoulder. She still dressed to show it off.

“Gwenivere.” Julie smiled warmly. “Don’t get up.”

“We’ve been having a bad day,” Gwenivere admitted. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I suspected that it would take more to draw you into the City of Shadows than a desire to see me.” Julie took a seat opposite Gwenivere. “Amber, bring us some refreshments, please,” she said to the girl who had entered with her.

"Yes ma'am." The girl nodded and left.

“Covenshire is free of the wards we set,” Gwenivere said without preamble.

“How long?” Julie’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair. She had suffered more than many from Mordakai Coventry’s lust for power.

“I’m not sure, at least a month, probably more. They’ve restarted the Foundries. Elliot may have recommissioned one of the ruined ones. I encountered Alistair and a troop of soldiers armed with rifles, pistols, and cannons. They were out in one of the lesser Shards, and they attacked the Simonites just outside the city. I left before the battle ended, but I doubt that Alistair left any survivors.”

“They’re that close?”

“I don’t know if they intend to enter the city or not. Alistair wanted a copy of the Simonite Grimories. Unless the monks managed to destroy theirs, he has one now. I need to figure out what he plans to do with it.”

“What Mordakai plans, you mean,” Julie interjected.

“More than likely. I’m just trying to take one crisis at a time.”

“So, what do you need from me?” Julie’s tone was guarded, but Gwenivere sensed that the club owner was willing to give aid.

“Not much. I need to know where the Circle Knights keep their chapter house. I gather that the Circle here isn’t very big, but they need to know what happened to the Simonites. I also need a way to get in touch with my family.”

“Neither will be all that hard. I could not run my business as I do without some contact with the Knights of the Circle. They don’t trust me enough to tell me where the chapter house is, but I can get word to them, and to one of your siblings.”

“One of the others is here, who?” That was a real surprise. Gwenivere had run across the trails of a few of her relatives in her travels, but none had come near the City of Shadows. The haunting ruins at Belvedere Castle made the city uncomfortable.

“Just as I maintain your confidentiality, I also keep fast the secrets of others.”

“I understand.” Even for a friend, Julie wasn't going to give away anything for free. Gwenivere just wished she had more to barter.

Amber returned, carrying a tray. "I hope green tea is alright."

She quietly unloaded a china tea service onto the cocktail table, and put a glass of milk and a bowl of cookies in front of Key. She grinned as the girl scrunched up her nose at the smell of the oriental tea.

"Thank you, Amber." Julie said, caressing the girl's arm as she bent over with the tray.

"Yes ma'am."

For the next few minutes, silence reigned, interrupted only by the almost musical, precise sounds of Julie serving tea. She moved with poetic grace, pouring the tea carefully. Gwenivere would have bet that a ruler would show that both cups were filled to exactly the same height.

Key waited until the women started sipping their tea before she picked up her glass. She ate a cookie and sipped at her milk while the older women enjoyed their tea. After a second cookie, she hopped down from the sofa and padded across the Oriental rug. On the opposite side of the room, a sloped panel held a wide, one way mirror. The silvered glass looked down upon the main dance floor of the Grand Façade. The girl climbed up onto an oak settee to get a better view.

The faint strains of music drifted up from below. Gwenivere put her saucer down and crossed the room to see what had captured Key's attention. The music was clearer near the window.

Down below, someone had taken a stool on the club's main stage, and was playing a guitar. The sound was melancholy and angry, as if the guitar was a wounded animal straining against chains.

Gwenivere looked the player over. His blond hair hung down in waves, obscuring his eyes. Even so, she thought she recognized him. There was something about the shoulders, strong even though they were sloped over the guitar, and something haunting about the music that bled through the glass.

"Who's that?" she asked, over her shoulder.

Julie came up between Gwenivere and Key, still holding her teacup. She smiled over the brim. "His name is Gabriel Rider. He used to be a professional. A little over a year ago, he was starting to really make it. I'd love it if he would play an engagement here, but he doesn't perform any more."

"Someone died. A girl? Not that one."

As Gwenivere spoke, a young woman walked onto the stage, she was wearing white overalls and a faded blue T-shirt. Both were splattered with paint.

"I'm surprised you knew that. You would have been traveling at the time. Gabriel's fiancée, a girl named Crystal Shaw was shot at one of his concerts. He was hit, too. A terrible thing."

"Who's that with him, then?"

"Her name is Sabrina Lucas. She's a local artist, one of his friends. She's working on one of the murals. I suppose he came along with her."

On the stage, the girl was smiling. She circled around the neck of the guitar and embraced the musician.

Gwenivere couldn't make out the words that passed between them. Their voices weren't amplified like the electric guitar. She watched as he stiffened and abruptly stood up. The girl reached out for the musician as he left the room, but he didn't seem to notice.

"He's still hurting, and feeling guilty for taking any enjoyment from life."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Gwenivere?" Julie asked.

"I suffered as much as anybody. I just prefer to live in the present. You can't change the past, at least not with any Magicks I know about."

"Speaking of the present, what do you intend to do now?"

"Actually, I figured I'd go visit the past. Today is the anniversary."

"Ah, I had forgotten."

"I also need to pick up a few things, some clothes for the kid, and for me."

"I could send Amber for you."

"Thank you, but I don't think that would be wise. The Coventrys probably already have an agent in the city. If they see one of your people running my errands, your reputation for neutrality could suffer. Besides, it’s Anniversary Day. Since I’ve come this close, I may as well go the whole way.” Gwenivere turned. “Come on, Key. We need to go now.”

The girl was still staring down at the stage area with a look of intense concentration. Gwenivere supposed that she had noticed the fish swimming under the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned from the window and followed her erstwhile guardian from the room.

“I will see you this evening, then.” Julie said, escorting them to the door.

Gwenivere and Key left the Façade’s warmth for the cold day outside. The sky was still overcast, but pale shafts of sunlight wormed their way through the edges of the clouds. The alley behind the staff entrance to the club was deserted.

“Come on.” Gwenivere held her arms out. “We have lots to do, and it will be dark soon.”

Key climbed into her arms, and they set off. The Threshold closed in on them, descending as a thick, cold mist, but Gwenivere kept to the main streets despite the difficulty. Anyone looking for her would probably concentrate their search in the larger, more accessible Domains of the Netherlands, like the Goblin Market or the Old City. If she could accomplish her ends in the Prime city, then she would avoid pursuit for that much longer. The Fog was like an infestation of fleas made of ice, but Gwenivere kept to her plan.

The first stop was an antique shop. Such places were frequently almost empty. With fewer distractions, Gwenivere thought it would be easier to get the shopkeeper to notice her. Besides the Fog, the Threshold had other ways to keep Netherlanders in their place. Given time, Gwenivere could cross the Threshold back into the Prime Realm, but not with the child, and not fast enough to be useful now. On the bright side, the mental invisibility imposed by the Threshold meant that nobody they met would take undue notice of how Gwenivere and Key were dressed, or the Sword in its cloth wrapped scabbard.

"Cumberland's Antiques and Treasures" was a four-story building made of dark red brick with grey stonework along the corners and the upper windows. The lower window was a large storefront behind a set of iron bars. Fortunately, Cumberland hadn't installed an electronic lock system in the past several years, so Gwenivere entered with no trouble.

The man behind the front desk paid no attention. Gwenivere walked past him, heading for a counter near the back of the showroom. Key looked with mild interest at the pieces in glass cases. Cumberland's collection had changed only a little. He still specialized in 16-17th century nautical material, with a smattering of everything else imaginable. On her way to the rear counter, Gwenivere passed a selection of swords from Germany and a case of tribal artifacts from Central and South America.

Isaac Cumberland had aged a bit. What hair he had left was more white than brown and his glasses looked a bit thicker. There seemed to be two lines across the lenses, as well. He was sitting on a high stool, reading from a catalog, and making notes in a little green notebook.

Gwenivere allowed Key to slip to the floor, and leaned her staff up against the counter. The child immediately rushed across the room to see a collection of porcelain dolls.

Mr. Cumberland and his assistant remained oblivious. Gwenivere hoped that the kid wouldn't break anything.

She tapped the "please ring for service" bell several times. The sharp, statico tones surprised Cumberland enough that he almost fell out of his seat.

"I'm sorry," he said, recovering, "I didn't hear you come in." He still seemed to be speaking less to Gwenivere than to the space she occupied. His eyes squinted, and he blinked twice.

While she had some semblance of his attention, Gwenivere focused her will and said {See Me} in the language of power. The spell was simple enough she could call the formula to mind without much effort.

Mr. Cumberland's eyes abruptly locked onto her. "Oh, my, I'm terribly sorry. How may I help you?"

Gwenivere fished into one of her pouches, producing a pair of gold coins. “I’d like to know what you could give me for these,” she said, placing the coins on the countertop.

Cumberland was all business, producing a magnifying glass and studying the coins intently. “Hmm, Spanish Doubloons, early 16th century. Remarkable condition. Not as valuable as they might be, the market is a bit depressed, as these are not all that uncommon.”

“In that condition? Most of what you have shows signs of decades of exposure to sea water or who knows what.”

“True, true... These are incredibly well preserved. May I ask where you acquired them?”

“A girl has to keep some secrets, Mr. Cumberland. I can assure you that I acquired them totally legally.” Gwenivere had no wish to explain that she had been to places where such coinage was the expected currency. She had another pouch with coins that weren’t even minted on Earth.

“Of course, I was just curious. I hadn’t heard of any recent salvages or excavations.”

“I’m selling a portion of my personal collection, which I acquired for just that purpose.”

“Ah. Would this mean that you have more pieces of this quality?”

“Yes it would. Whether or not I was willing to sell them to you, of course, would depend on how good your price is.”

From there, the barter began in earnest. When it was over, Gwenivere left without a much lighter pouch. She had almost two thousand dollars to show for her efforts. She could have done better, but time was pressing. The money she had would be enough to cover her immediate needs.

Her next stop would take her even deeper into the Fog, but there was no helping it. She needed supplies to replace what she’d lost with her saddlebags, and Key needed something more substantial to wear than a chemise and slippers.

Being on the wrong side of the Threshold made shopping an adventure. Night was falling by the time Gwenivere had acquired what she needed. A department store supplied clothes. Gwenivere decided to replace a good deal of her travel-worn wardrobe as well. A sporting goods store had shoes that would fit Key.

The girl took to modern clothing easily. Dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a denim jacket, she bore little resemblance to the peasant lass Gwenivere had first seen. Only her doll looked at all unusual, and that was a minor detail.

Besides new clothes, Gwenivere was also able to pick up a variety of supplies including a kerosene lantern and some preserved food. She had no idea where the next few days would take her, and wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. She chose the lantern over a flashlight because there were parts of the Netherlands where electrical devices could not be made to function. She had a backpack and a shoulder bag to hold her purchases in, and a smaller bag for Key. Her store of cash was down to less than fifty dollars, but she didn’t think she’d need much more. Her last purchase was a bouquet of flowers from a street corner dealer. Her mother had always loved roses.

As they descended the stairs to a subway station, Gwenivere asked, “Are you getting hungry?”

Key nodded. Even through all the shopping, Key hadn’t said more than a dozen words. She would answer if directly asked a question, but even then she would nod or shake her head rather than speak, if possible.

Something really terrible must have happened to the poor kid, Gwenivere thought. As soon as she wasn’t worried about the fate of the world, or her own life, she decided she’d try to find out what.

“OK, we’ll get something to eat soon. I just have one more stop to make. I doubt you’d like any of the food we can get here very much.”

The subway, while still very much a part of the Prime Realm, was considerably more comfortable to Netherlanders than the upper streets. Gwenivere and Key took a train to Central Park, and ascended to the surface level. The park loomed across the street.

The incessant Fog cleared slightly around Central Park, revealing the Netherland beyond the gates. The trees were thicker, and taller. Many of the man-made structures were missing. The most obvious difference was the Castle, gleaming like mother of pearl in the fading light, much larger than the transplanted structure of Belvedere Castle in the Prime Realm.

“Welcome home,” Gwenivere said to herself.

They crossed through one of the gates, and the cold mist fell away almost instantly. The constant murmuring roar of the city fell away, as well. Central Park’s Netherland was called simply “the Park,” by those who lived in the city. It bore little resemblance to its Prime Realm counterpart. More like a forest than a park, the Domain stretched out as far as the eye could see. From the Prime city, the only way to enter the Netherland was from Central Park East. A traveler walking to the west would find a tangle of trees, shrubs, and vines. Those vines twined around everything, finally climbing up the towers of Central Park West to create a higher forest in the upper reaches of New York’s skyline. To Gwenivere, who had been born in the Prime Realm, the sight was amazing.

Key seemed to be impressed as well. The girl looked around, entranced. She had probably never been this far into the city, if she’d been there at all. The Simonites’ outpost was a waystation between the nearer regions of the Shards and New York’s Netherlands. Key’s accent was difficult to place, but she might have come from the Summer Kingdom, a Shard similar in some ways to Earth in its medieval period.

As they walked down one of the cobblestone pathways leading through the forest, Gwenivere pointed out various features to her ward.

“The castle was once my family home. That’s where we’re going. The lake, under the right conditions, is a gateway to another world. The Sword I’m carrying is supposed to come from there.”

Gwenivere had hoped mention of the Summer Kingdom might get Key to reveal something, but the girl remained silent. She looked in the direction of the lake.

“Stay away from the water. It’s too cold for you to get wet tonight, and I’m not sure how the lake will react to the presence of the Sword, anyway.”

The gates of the Valentine ancestral home loomed up ahead of the two travelers. Gwenivere’s oldest relatives recalled stories of a time when the Castle was not connected to New York’s Netherland at all. Instead, it floated in the sea of nothingness as one of the Minor Shards. Somehow, the transplantation of Belvedere Castle had created enough sympathy to allow one of Gwenivere’s ancestors to connect the Valentines’ private realm to the Domain of Central Park.

A similar process, though reversed, had banished the realm of Covenshire ten years ago, at a terrible cost. Gwenivere stopped in front of the two grave markers that had been erected in front of the gate tower. There were no bodies in the graves. The stones were merely monuments, placed for the comfort of the living, rather than for the dead. From up close, the Castle took on a different aspect. The stones were not white, but grey. The pearlescent effect was created by the webs of hundreds upon hundreds of spiders. The entire castle, beyond the mote, was coated in spider silk. In the cold and dark, the spiders were sleeping. Otherwise, the massive structure would appear to be slowly crawling.

Key peered at the building with undisguised revulsion, obviously understanding what the silken coating meant.

“It’s Ok,” Gwenivere reassured her. “They can’t cross the moat. We’ll be done here in a minute anyway.”

Despite Gwenivere’s reassurance, Key slowly backed away from the Castle, and took a seat on a fallen log.

Gwenivere laid her bags down, keeping her staff handy. As she knelt in front of the twin markers the Sword of Glass dug into her legs between her shins and thighs. Lightly, she brushed her hands across the words carved into the stones. “Richard Valentine, King in Exile, Hero to Us All,” read the right marker. “Margaret Valentine, Faithful unto Death,” was carved into the one on the left. The stones held effigies of those they honored. Gwenivere caressed the image of her mother, blinking away tears.

“I know I said I wouldn’t come back.” she whispered huskily. “I thought it was so stupid when you died. I hated you. I hated Jason for even suggesting what he did, but I hated you even more for going along with it. There had to be another way. Your sacrifice didn’t even do any good anyway. Mordakai has some way to get out. I found Alistair out in the Shards, then he attacked the Simonites in the bay. Everything is breaking apart... You should have let me do it. I knew the Words.”

The stones gave no answer, of course. Only the restless dead ever spoke to the living, and the leaders of the Valentine Clan had died at peace, knowing that their last actions would foil the clan’s enemies.

“After I left, I went to the Shards. I tried to find the Lands of the Dead, but it didn’t work. I learned a lot, though. I found the Sword of Glass. I never met the Lady of the Lake, though, even when I stopped in the Summer Kingdom. I have the Sword now. If I can find Jason, I’ll give it to him. Maybe it will let him use it.

“He took everything really hard. He stayed for a while. As far as I know, we still have the Aerie up in the high forest. The rest of the Clan wanted him to rule from there after we lost the Castle. He refused the coronation, though.

“Colwynn was even worse off. Uncle Marcus was taking care of her when I left. She was too young to really understand what was happening. A few days after... she decided to go looking for you. You know, everyone said you were ‘gone’ and she didn’t know what we really meant. It took us two days to catch up with her. She’d made it into the tunnels, and was well on her way to the Shards you can only reach that way. I used her course to start looking for the Lands of the Dead, since I’m pretty sure she was looking for you when she left.

“I miss you. We all do.”

Gwenivere laid the flowers between the two monuments, and slowly levered herself up from the ground. A noise off to one side made her look around.

“Very touching, Gwenivere. Isn’t it strange that on this, the anniversary of my family’s greatest defeat, and your family’s greatest triumph, I’m in an incredibly good mood, and you’re looking depressed?” The speaker was Dominick Coventry, looking sinister in a black suit and overcoat.

Two men, also in dark clothing, stood on either side of the Sorcerer. They carried short, ugly sub-machineguns fitted with sound suppressors. Prime Worlders then, Gwenivere decided. Dominick did not have the same levels of demonic power as some of the other Coventrys. What he did have was the ability to cross the Threshold at will, and sometimes to bring others with him. He had used that talent in the past to garner considerable influence in New York’s criminal underworld. Even his minor Magicks, coupled with the ability to use the Threshold to his advantage, gave him incredible advantages over mundane criminals. Evidently, even being trapped in Covenshire for ten years had not completely eroded his influence. Two more men moved into the clearing behind Dominick. These were dressed in the hodge-podge of clothing that marked them as Netherlanders. Dominick was leaving nothing to chance. The two Netherlanders were probably Gifted of some sort.

Smiling, Dominick continued. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you were carrying the Sword of Glass. If you would be so kind as to give it to me, I might consider letting you live.”

Gwenivere froze, trying to find a course of action. Key was hidden behind her log. Evidently, Dominick’s men hadn’t noticed her. That gave Gwenivere a plan.

She allowed her staff to fall to the ground, moving slowly. “Don’t shoot, Dominick. The Sword isn’t worth dying over.”

The two gunmen didn’t shoot. Dominick would rather take Gwenivere alive than just kill her and take what he wanted. The thought didn’t fill her with joy, but it did give her some room to maneuver.

Her leather cloak covered Gwenivere’s hands from view. Moving carefully, she unfastened the sword belt. She kept her head down. Her hair fell across her eyes, hiding the fact that she was keeping her opponents in view. She caught up the sword in her left hand. Her right slid into her pouch of cards. Midway down, she had some defensive spells. None of them would be completely useful. She counted down carefully; subtracting two for the cards she’d already used, and produced what she hoped was the one she wanted.

“Here it is.” she said, holding out the sword.

Dominick moved forward to take it, circling to one side so that his hired guns would have a clear shot.

Gwenivere felt the power from the Sword flowing through her, awesome and terrifying and reluctant. She focused the energy on the card in her left hand, activating the spell she had encoded there. The card ignited in her hand, burning her fingertips. She barely had time to notice as the spell took effect. Thunder rolled through the air and shafts of lightning stabbed through the ground.

The first blast blinded the guards. Their initial shots went wide of their mark. Bullets hammered into the grave markers. Shards of stone whined off into the night.

Gwenivere was already moving, running toward the cover of Key’s tree as torrential rain began to fall. Ordinarily, the spell she had used would have a far lesser effect, causing lightning to strike once, accompanied by a roll of thunder. It was a good distraction, rarely of any use in a fight. With the energy of the Sword added to what Gwenivere had already invested into the spell, things were getting out of hand.

Key looked scared. She was huddled behind the fallen tree trunk, curled into a little ball.

Gwenivere fished her cards, sheltering them from the rain with her cloak. She flipped through them until she found one of her Cloaking spells.

“Key, I need you to do something. Take this and hide.” Gwenivere handed the Sword of Glass to the girl.

The scabbard was almost as tall as Key was, but the Sword was lighter than a steel blade would have been. Gwenivere was pretty sure the girl would be able to carry it.

Dominick and his men fanned out, looking for their lost quarry. Between the darkness and the storm, there was almost no visibility.

“Gwenivere! You’re not going to escape me as you did Alistair,” the Sorcerer growled. “Find her. She can’t have gone far.”

Key held the Sword of Glass across her body, with her slender arms wrapped around it. Gwenivere focused on the girl and cast her spell of invisibility. It would only hold for a few minutes without Gwenivere’s concentration. She hoped it would be enough.

Over the sound of the storm, she could hear the soldiers moving. The scrape of metal on leather told her that someone nearby had drawn a sword. Gwenivere flipped to the top of her deck, producing another battle spell. She didn’t like running through her supply so quickly, but she had a feeling she would need to conserve her personal energies for a while. Her staff was on the other side of the clearing. She drew her dagger and got ready. The soldier was approaching slowly, cautiously. The cold rain poured down around Gwenivere. Her hood was down, so her head was soaked. She imagined that the man must be able to hear the trembling of her jaws. Through the chattering of her teeth, almost silently, Gwenivere mouthed the words for the Cloaking again. This time the energy drained out of her personal reserves. She leaned up against the tree to support herself.

The swordsman was almost on top of her now. He was wearing a quilted coat over metal studded leather. His blade was a longsword, simple and serviceable.

Mustering her strength, Gwenivere rose up beside him in a single, fluid motion and drew the dagger across his throat.

The dead man got off one strangled cry, more of a grunt than any meaningful sound. His blood sprayed out, some soaking Gwenivere’s sleeve, and he fell.

Gwenivere was already moving away, seeking better cover. If she could make it back to the eastern gates, she could escape into the city again.

Behind her, she heard another hail of gunfire. Bullets ripped into the ground all around where she had just been. Some even struck the body of the swordsman, who had fallen backwards across the tree trunk.

“Fools, she’s invisible,” Dominick growled. “It won’t help you, Gwenivere. We’ll take you, and the Sword.”

Dominick hadn’t mentioned Key. That was good. He probably didn’t know about her. It was surprising enough that he knew she was here at all. Possibly, Alistair had told the rest of the Coventrys about the raid on the monastery, and about Gwenivere’s escape. Dominick must have had the Castle under watch, knowing that if Gwenivere came to New York that she would go there.

Now that she’d figured out how he found her, Gwenivere concentrated on keeping him from doing it again.

A knife flew through the air, whistling past Gwenivere’s head coming within three feet. Another one followed it, and clipped the flaring edge of her leather cloak.

She spun in the direction of the attack, and saw the second swordsman. He was pulling a third blade from a brace across his chest, and looking straight at Gwenivere.

“She’s making for the gates.” he called. “I will stop her.”

“Fat chance, cowboy.” Gwenivere muttered, pulling out another card.

Since her position was already compromised, she didn’t worry too much about a ranged attack. Her choice was a card for a lightning strike. The card activated with a flare of elemental fire. The parchment was consumed in an instant, and a bolt of blue-white power lanced out in the direction of the knife-wielding warrior.

But he wasn’t there. As Gwenivere’s vision cleared from the after-image, she saw him rolling away from the falling tree her bolt had struck.

That, though not the outcome she had hoped for, gave her some useful information. She’d first thought that his Gift allowed him to perceive invisible things. Had that been the case, though, he still would have moved too slowly to avoid a lightning stroke. Gwenivere had chosen the spell because of its speed. Now she guessed that his Gift was a sensitivity beyond vision. That accounted for the relative inaccuracy of his knife throws.

Of course, Gwenivere mused, that meant he’d probably be dangerous once her invisibility spell faltered. She was closing steadily on the eastern edge of the wood, traveling a course roughly parallel to the main path. The rain and the icy wind made it hard to pinpoint Dominick’s men. She was forced to change her course several times when she got too close to them. Her spell of invisibility was wearing off. The nature of the spell caused people to overlook her, rather than bending light around her. It was preferable in several ways to a true invisibility spell, not the least of which was that she was able to see out of it without leaving the ghostly image of her eyes floating in space.

With the rain, darkness, and dense trees, Gwenivere lost sight of Dominick. A noise to her left, near the path, attracted her attention. She turned to see the one of the gunmen working his way through the underbrush. She froze, making not a sound. Even so, the man’s gaze lingered over her for several seconds that were marked by the hammering of Gwenivere’s heart.

“Milady Valentine, if you move, I will kill you.” The voice was cultured, polite, and as soft as a serpent’s whisper. The speaker had the strange accent common to Netherlanders.

Gwenivere felt a thin sliver of metal up against her throat. Swallowing involuntarily, she allowed her knife to slip from her fingers.

“She is here,” said the knife-wielding warrior more loudly.

The other two closed in. Dominick stayed well back, in case his prisoner had any more hidden tricks.

Regrettably, Gwenivere did have tricks left. Some would even be effective against Dominick despite his precautions. None of them would work with her throat cut, though. Or at least, the ones that would also would lack a certain satisfaction.

The warrior behind her folded Gwenivere’s cloak out of the way and secured her arms. He produced a length of cord and tied her arms tightly enough that her hands began to tingle.

“Where’s the Sword, Gwenivere?”

“I don’t have it.”

Dominick hit her with a backhand. “Where is it?”

“Sorry, Dom. No clue.”

“I do not have time for these games.” Dominick’s hands curled through Gwenivere’s hair and pulled. “You, search the graves. You, take the gates,” he said to his men.

Responding with a nod, the knife-wielder turned back into the forest. One of the two gunmen moved down the path. That was what worried Gwenivere. Key’s invisibility had long since faded, and she would have next to no chance at all against a gun.

* * *

Gabriel almost fell after bumping into a garbage can. The sudden shock was like awakening from a troubled sleep. He looked around and realized that somehow he'd made his way uptown. He was on Central Park East, with a break in the solid wall of tall buildings coming up ahead. The last thing he clearly remembered was talking to Sabrina. He’d been playing. Sabrina had hugged him. She was just like that, very affectionate. Then everything had seemed wrong. The room had been too oppressive, crowded with a presence he couldn’t stand.

Of course, it followed him out of the club, wrapping around his throat and seeping into his bones. It had been with him, asleep or awake, to one degree or another, since he woke up in a hospital and learned that Crystal wasn’t in the next room.

A sudden storm, coming out of nowhere and filling the sky with driving, icy rain, snapped him out of his dark revere. The rain fell through a colder fog. Gabriel vaguely remembered seeing the fog rise up, but he hadn’t paid attention. He turned up his collar and looked around to get his bearings. He was standing in front of one of the gates separating the Park from the rest of the city. Nothing looked right, though.

Central Park really only looked heavily wooded to someone who had never seen heavy woods. In truth, it was as tamed and urbanized, in its way, as any of the skyscrapers. The park Gabriel was looking at now looked more like some sort of primordial forest shrouded in mist. The trees even seemed to stretch out into the city beyond the bounds of the park.

Gabriel blinked and shook his head to clear his vision, thinking as he did so that it was something a character in a movie would do before realizing that the hallucination was real. Most of them would realize the hallucination was real when some monster rushed out of the trees to eat them.

Someone was moving toward Gabriel out of the trees. It wasn’t a monster, though, unless eight-year-old kids counted. The girl had blond hair, plastered to her head in the rain. She was wearing a denim jacket, also soaked. In her arms was a complicated bundle, as long as she was tall, with some sort of straps hanging from the upper portion.

The girl looked scared. Gabriel increased is pace to intercept her. Whatever sort of trouble she was in, he seemed to be the only person around to help.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Gabriel dropped to his knees.

The girl looked at him with white rimmed, grey eyes. Seeing Gabriel seemed to calm her. She thrust her burden out at him.

Not knowing what else to do, he took it. She’d been carrying a sword in a leather sheath. Thick fabric was wrapped around the handle, tied with leather cord. It felt lighter than he thought it should. Maybe it was some kind of prop. As soon as his hands closed on it, he felt a thrill run from his hands straight through his spine.

“What’s this for?” Gabriel asked.

“To battle evil.” The girl’s answer could have sounded hopelessly pretentious, but somehow it did not. “It’s for you.”

“For me? What do you mean?”

“I chose you. The Sword of Glass chose you. You need to come with me.”

“What were you running from? Is someone chasing you?”

“They’re after Gwenivere. They don’t know about me. If you want to help her, you need to follow me.” The girl pulled on Gabriel’s sleeve, drawing him toward the park.

Gabriel followed her. “Who’s Gwenivere? Your sister?”

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t have time to answer. A second figure loomed up in front of them both. Gabriel had a brief impression of a black coat and of the girl moving around behind him. Then his eyes focused on the gun. Before, with Crystal, it had been a pistol. This was sub-machinegun, but in Gabriel’s mind time shifted, and he was standing on a stage, with Crystal’s murderer in front of him. And he had a sword.

The weapon in his hands flared with heat and light, burning away its bindings. The blade he was holding looked and felt like crystal. It glowed as bright as a floodlight. He let the blade slip down, and grasped the handle, which was made of the same transparent material as the rest, yet did not feel slippery in the least. In truth, the sword felt like an extension of Gabriel’s arm.

The guy with the gun was saying something, an unintelligible buzz in Gabriel’s ears.

Gabriel charged toward him, totally without thought. He saw the man raise his gun. He saw the muzzle flash like a strobe light. In the back of his mind, he thought he was about to die. Futilely, he swung the sword in an imitation of the parries he’d seen swordsmen use on TV. A wave of golden light, painful to look at, washed across his vision. He tensed against pain that never came.

The gunman’s eyes widened. He tried to back away.

The fraction of Gabriel’s mind given to rational thought realized that somehow he had avoided all the bullets, or, to judge by the jarring sensation in his arms, blocked them. He brought the sword down like a hammer to the shaft of the gun.

The gunman cried out as Gabriel’s sword cut through his gun as though it was paper. Sparks flew. He dropped his ruined weapon and tried to escape.

Moved by mindless rage, Gabriel brought the sword up in a deadly arc. The blade struck with a hungry hiss.

Ruddy smoke boiled up for a moment, and the gunman fell, with a wound across his chest almost to the spine.

“Oh my god.” The blind rage that had moved Gabriel before left as suddenly as it had come.

His eyes were drawn to the dead man. The wound on the man’s chest was a smooth line, burned at the edges. Gabriel looked away from the gore, trying to find the girl who had led him here.

She was already moving deeper into the forest that seemed to have replaced Central Park. Her slender form was almost invisible in the darkness.

Gabriel rose on shaky legs to follow her. “Hey, wait up.”

The girl ignored him, and he was forced into a jog to catch up with her.

“I just killed that guy.” Gabriel wasn’t sure if he was talking to the girl, or to himself. “With a sword, I killed him with a sword.”

Events had moved far beyond the realm of Gabriel’s experience. He followed the child now as much out of morbid curiosity as from desire to protect her. Shock had dulled the edges of his panic, leaving him with a vague, but nagging desire to find out what was going on. The sword no longer gave off any light, but it was still slightly warm.

Voices carried over a small rise. Gabriel started moving more carefully to avoid attracting their attention. Key was already poised behind a tree, peering down at the people below.

“I’m losing patience, Gwenivere. Besides the fact that I hate the very sight of you, this little storm you conjured is truly miserable. If you don’t know where the Sword is, then you’re of no use to me. The only reason I haven’t killed you already is that Alistair would be so disappointed.”

Gabriel took in the scene. Gwenivere was a woman wearing a leather jacket and a raincloak. She was sprawled on the ground, with her back supported by a tree. Her arms were invisible under her clothing, but by her posture, they were bound behind her back. Few other details were visible through the gloom. The man who was talking to her was thickset, dressed in a long black overcoat. He paced restlessly as he spoke, clutching a cane in his right hand.

Two other men waited. One held a gun on the woman on the ground. The other was dressed strangely, in a loose tunic and a hooded vest. The hood kept the rain from his eyes, and hid his face from easy view. He held a knife, which he juggled carelessly.

The man with the cane knelt beside his captive. She turned to face him.

“Dearest Gwenivere, if you wanted to die, you would have stayed with your parents all those years ago. I sincerely doubt that you’ve changed your mind on that fact, so why don’t you just tell me what you did with the Sword of Glass, and we can all go home?”

“You didn’t believe me any of the other times.” The woman’s voice was warped with pain, but still mocking.

“Enough!” the man barked, lashing out with the cane.

The blow struck Gwenivere hard. To Gabriel, it looked as though she was able to ward most of the force with her shoulder, but even so, she was knocked sideways. She lay on the ground, not even struggling to rise.

“Alistair be damned,” the man said. “Kill her.”

The second gunman worked the action on his weapon and brought it to bear.

Gabriel didn’t even stop to think as he charged in. Light flared from inside the sword, bathing the small grotto with painful, white radiance.

The thug never stood a chance. He seemed to turn around in slow motion.

The gun tracked toward Gabriel, but he was already swinging. Light blazed between him and the gun as he swept his blade across. The sub-machinegun flew across the grotto, and Gabriel reversed his stroke, angling down as well. He sensed movement from the corner of his eye. As the gunman fell, he turned to see the knife-wielder ready a throw. Gabriel almost laughed. He’d dodged bullets. A knife was scarcely a threat.

The man with the cane, obviously the leader, was backing away. He held his cane in front of him, ready for defense.

“This situation has become complicated,” he said. His wrist snapped, and a pistol suddenly appeared in his grasp. He pointed it not at Gabriel, but at the woman on the ground. “I think I’ll just be going now.”

Gabriel said nothing. Mentally, he debated his options. Dark, red emotions urged him to attack, but logic was slowly reasserting itself. He couldn’t really be sure his sword would protect him again, and he was totally uncertain of whether or not he would be able to reach the woman in time to protect her.

The dark clad man backed down the path, followed by his knife-wielding ally. In a moment, they disappeared from view.

Only then did Gabriel lower his sword. The woman on the ground was stirring, and he rushed to her side.

“Are you ok?” he asked, helping her rise.

She didn’t seem to be too badly injured, though Gabriel was no expert. She groaned softly.

“You were at the Façade.” She sounded confused.

Gabriel went to work on the cords binding her hands. “My name is Gabriel Rider. Who were those men?”

“Dominick Coventry, and people he hired. We need to be somewhere safe when he recovers.” She tried to rise, massaging her wrists tenderly. “He’ll try to kill you now that he knows you have the Sword of Glass.”

Gabriel helped her to her feet. “The Sword of Glass? This thing? I can see why he’d want it.” Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the corpse of the second man he’d killed.

“He can’t use it. No one but you can use it now. Come on, I’ll explain while we move.”

* * *

Though it was daylight in the city, and they were not policemen, the three men in dark coats had no fear that their investigation would be interrupted. They were Knights of the Circle, and denizens of the Netherlands. The few people in this part of the city who would be able to see them would not be foolish enough to molest them. For security, one man stood at either end of the alley, peering through the fog that shrouded the streets. Lord Roderick Kildare, older than any of those he commanded, bent down to converse with a young woman in a blue jacket. She wore a short sword on in a belt scabbard pushed to the back to keep it out of her way.

Colwynn Valentine had come into Kildare’s service only a short time ago. In that time, she had proven an invaluable resource. Gifts ran strong in her family, and hers was one of the strongest.

The girl’s hands, partially protected by fingerless gloves, played over the cold body of a man wearing tattered clothes and well wrought chainmail. Her eyes shied away from the wound in his throat, but she did not wretch.

“What have you discovered?” he asked. He reached out to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes, a gesture of possession as much as affection.

“I’m not sure yet. I don’t have much to go on. I’ve never met him before.”

“I understand, but this is important. A Prime Worlder died here at the same time, also killed with a pistol. It is reasonable to assume that the same gunman was responsible. If you can not tell me where this man came from, then we need to find the gunman. In fact, that may be more important.”

“I don’t have any trace of the man to follow, if he is a man. I think I can find the gun, though. If he’s a Netherlander, he won’t have thrown it away.”

“Of course, if he stands on the Threshold, he might not be so constrained.” The man straightened, and turned to his companions. “Take the body back to the chapter house for further investigation. Perhaps this dead man can be made to tell a tale.”

“Yes Lord Kildare,” one of the Knights answered.

The young soldier stepped forward and unceremoniously picked up the dead body. The other took up the lead, and the pair set off.

Kildare turned to Colwynn. "Do you have the impression?”

“I think so.” Her answer was distracted. Only half of her attention was dedicated to her current surroundings.

Colwynn started walking, initially in the direction from which the Circle Knights had come to the alley. She turned, almost at random, and entered a building through its rear door.

Kildare followed. The building was abandoned. The human inhabitants had given up the structure to the vermin. Garbage was piled in the corners. Water damaged crates formed a maze over the floor. The mists cleared when they entered the building. The place was falling from the memories of the Prime Realm. Soon, unless it was renovated, or destroyed, it would become a place of the Netherlands.

“What will we find here?” Kildare asked. Colwynn’s power of Finding mystified him. He didn’t understand it, and that lack of understanding was like a splinter under his skin.

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “Over there.”

Kildare followed her gaze. The crates had been concealing a stairway. Colwynn was already moving toward it. Kildare quickly followed. The stairs were a narrow, iron spiral around a pillar about as thick as a man’s arm. The pair descended the stairs, which groaned in protest.

“There’s a tunnel up ahead,” Colwynn informed him.

She proved to be right. There was a broken section of masonry in the basement. The opening led into the city’s sewer system, through a cramped, makeshift tunnel. The pair was obliged to crawl part of the way.

Kildare didn’t have Colwynn’s Gift, but his sense of direction was well honed. They were headed into the Old City. A moment later, his suspicions were confirmed when they slipped through a disused access hatch and climbed a ladder back to street level.

The Old City, surrounded by a high wall, was a slice of the distant past in the middle of Manhattan, even more so than the neighborhood of Greenwich Village that it overlapped. The streets were paved with cobblestones, and too narrow to admit most vehicles. The buildings were half-timbered, or made of mortared stone. The streetlights held oil lanterns, rather than electric lights. Most of the buildings were abandoned, and in disrepair. Though the Old City was one of the largest Domains in New York, it was one of the least populated most of the time. The resources necessary to support a village of this size were hard to maintain.

Colwynn set out immediately for the middle of the city. She was almost running.

“We’re getting close, I take it?” Kildare said dryly as he caught up.

She didn’t answer, instead stopping in front of a shop door.

Kildare took note of the shop’s sign, “The Fox and Falcon.” He smelled Faerie Magick on the air coming from the doorway. He also smelled ale.

“The gun is inside?”

“Yes.”

Kildare opened the door to reveal a dimly lit room. Several tables were clustered throughout the chamber, lit by candles. A few lanterns provided additional light. Only a few of the people seated at the tables looked up at the Knight entered.

Colwynn moved unerringly toward one of the back tables, where a dark haired man sat, listening to the minstrel playing mandolin on a small stage. The man was well built, clad in a dark coat. The way his coat fell around the edges of the chair told Kildare that the man had weapons concealed there.

Kildare caught her arm. “Perhaps I should speak to him.”

Colwynn stopped. “I can take care of myself.”

“No doubt, but there is no point in taking unnecessary risks.”

“Whatever you say.” She stepped back, and allowed him to take the lead.

Kildare stood over the man’s shoulder, positioning himself so his body was between the man and the nearest lantern. It took only a moment for him to get a reaction.

“Can I help you?” The voice was familiar, though it was delivered in a low, harsh growl.

“You’re carrying a weapon that was used to kill two people late last night. One was a Prime Worlder.”

The man stiffened, only briefly. “Did you know either of them, Kildare?” The last word was delivered after a pause, and laced with anger.

“Valentine? I was not aware you had returned.” Kildare kept the surprise from his voice, making the words as much an accusation as a question.

“So it wasn’t you who tried to have me killed? One of the assassins was using a Circle blade.”

“The Knights have no reason to kill you, none that we intend to act upon. In fact, I could make use of your talents, unless you have come to reclaim your birthright.”

“You’re joking.” Jason stood slowly. “You absolutely have to be joking. There’s no way any of my family would work for the Circle.”

“Um...Jason, one of us would.”

Jason Valentine looked beyond Kildare, surprise written on his face even though his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. “Colwynn?”

“Hi, big brother. It’s been a long time.”

To be continued…

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