CHAPTER ONE

Uldane hopped up into a chair and leaned over the table. “Have a look at what I found,” he said. The halfling held out a dagger, a fine weapon long enough that it verged on being a short sword. The steel blade had acquired a fine sheen from long and careful honing, but faint and elegant curves of Elven script inlaid into the metal were still visible close to the hilt. The pommel was elf-work, too, an intricate knot of carved ivory long since yellowed from age and handling.

The sight of it made a mist of ale spew from Albanon’s mouth. As other patrons of the Blue Moon Alehouse looked around at the sound—seldom heard in one of Fallcrest’s better drinking establishments—he threw one of his robe’s broad sleeves over the dagger. “Went down the wrong way,” he said by way of excuse, mopping at his mouth with the other sleeve. When they turned away again, he bent his head closer to Uldane’s. “Tell me you really just ‘found’ this,” he whispered.

“Of course I did.”

“And nobody else had it when you found it?” Albanon asked pointedly.

“Well, I suppose you could say that. It’s not like he was using it, though.” Uldane turned in his seat and pointed across the room. Albanon choked and snatched at his hand, but Uldane just twitched it out of the way. “Easy there,” he said. “Nobody likes a grabby eladrin.”

“I know who it belongs to.” Albanon looked around, allowing the long silver hair that he normally tucked back behind his pointed ears to fall forward over his eyes. Through its screen, he found a heavyset man with wolf-gray hair, a coarse face, and a so-far-unnoticed empty sheath on the belt that was looped over the back of his chair. “That’s Kossley Varn, one of the richest farmers around Fallcrest. He’s rich, influential, and not someone we want to have mad at us.” Trying to keep the dagger hidden, Albanon slid it back to Uldane. “You have to put it back.”

“But I just took it!” The halfling stared at him with big, pleading eyes. “At least tell me what the writing on it says. You can read Elven, right? If it’s on a dagger, it must be something good.”

Albanon had never figured out the vulnerability humans and other races had to the wide-eyed expressions of children and halflings—eladrin eyes were solid orbs of color without whites, irises, or betraying pupils—but faced with Uldane, he could almost understand it. He hardened his heart. “It says ‘Put me back!’ ”

Uldane made a sulking noise of disappointment and slid out of his chair, dagger tucked along the inside of his arm. He paused to look back up at Albanon. “I don’t see why you’re afraid of a farmer,” he said a little too loudly. “After all, you killed a dragon.”

He turned away and marched off into the crowd, leaving Albanon to face the stares of the townsfolk and farmers crowding the alehouse. “He’s … exaggerating,” the eladrin said. “You know halflings.”

Most of the audience turned away—revealing a number of halflings, traders from boats that plied the Nentir River. Albanon winced, but they just turned away, too. Whispers and furtive glances gave away traders, townsfolk, and farmers alike, however. They hadn’t lost interest in him, not by the length of an arrow’s flight on a windy day. He grimaced, picked up his tankard, and tried to lose himself in his ale.

If only they really were just curious at the idea that he’d killed a dragon. Or if only they actually believed it. Albanon had an unpleasant certainty that it was just one more suspicion for the people of Fallcrest to hold against him. Bad enough that he was one of the very few eladrin in Fallcrest or the surrounding area. Even after living in the town for seven years he still felt out of place. Bad enough that as a wizard, even one barely out of his apprenticeship, the dangerous spells at his command set him apart. Bad enough that he’d taken up with adventurers like Uldane. People liked hearing stories of wild exploits and they were eager enough for the help of adventurers when there were dangers to face, but to have them idle around the town was something else. As he’d overheard the baker telling her husband when she thought Albanon had been unable to hear, “Well, they’re just not normal folk, are they?”

All of that was bad enough without the additional suspicion that he’d murdered his master, Moorin of the Glowing Tower. Torn the old wizard apart and left pieces of him scattered around the chamber at the top of his tower, if some of the rumors his sharp ears had caught were to be believed.

The rumors were right about the manner of Moorin’s death—the town’s guards had loose lips—but Albanon certainly hadn’t been the one to do it. His master’s murder had, however, led him directly into the company of the band of adventurers he was now proud to call his friends. The tiefling, Tempest, and the dragonborn, Roghar, had joined him in the pursuit of the true killer, a weird crimson and silver blob of a creature that called itself Nu Alin and was capable of possessing the bodies of others. When Nu Alin had seized control of Tempest, Albanon and Roghar’s efforts to rescue her had brought them to Uldane and his companions, Shara, a warrior, and Erak, an undead servant of the god of death and fate, as well as the young cleric, Falon, and the old dwarf, Darrum.

All three groups had different quests. Albanon and Roghar pursued Nu Alin and Tempest, of course, while Uldane and Shara sought a green dragon, Vestapalk, who had slaughtered friends and family. Falon and Darrum, on the run from undead creatures intent on killing the cleric, were searching for a way to end the attacks. Erak was the lode-stone that drew their quests together, showing them how their goals intersected. In the tunnels beneath Thunderspire Mountain, they’d freed Tempest and driven off Nu Alin. Beyond the mountain, among the Old Hills, they’d descended into a vast, ancient necropolis. There, with Erak’s help, Falon and Darrum had fought a powerful undead wizard, a lich by their description, which meant that his defeat was no mean feat. Albanon and the others, meanwhile, had tangled with Vestapalk, ultimately sending the dragon plummeting to his doom in a deep crevasse.

And Uldane had been exaggerating: Albanon hadn’t killed the dragon. Shara had been the one to deliver the death blow. He had just helped. It had been exhilarating, though, an exhilaration that had lasted the entire journey back to Fallcrest—where he and Roghar were promptly thrown into the dungeons of the town’s keep for Moorin’s murder. They’d shivered in the dank darkness for nearly a week before their new friends had managed to persuade the Lord Warden of Fallcrest of the truth of the matter.

But the damage had been done. It was easier for the people of Fallcrest to cast suspicion on a disgraced apprentice and an unfamiliar dragonborn than it was to believe in a shapeless body-stealing blob of liquid crystal. Their whispers and glances had followed Albanon since the moment he was set free.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Albanon looked deep into his ale and sighed. Only a week after his release from the town dungeons, his companions had started drifting away.

Erak had never made it back from the necropolis beneath the Old Hills. The revenant had seemingly vanished and all of them assumed that the god he’d served had granted him a return to the peace of the grave. Falon and Darrum had been the next to leave, departing Fallcrest for the northern lake town of Nenlast, where Falon said he had to take care of “family business”—the young cleric, they’d all discovered, was actually the last heir to the fallen Empire of Nerath. He had declined offers of assistance, however, insisting that it really was just a family matter and promising to return when it was concluded.

Roghar and Tempest had left a few days later. Albanon could no more blame them than he could Falon and Darrum. At first, Tempest had seemed to recover fully after serving as unwilling host for more than a week to the foul Nu Alin. But then the nightmares had started, memories of the thing that had taken control of her body. Nu Alin’s alien thoughts haunted her. “It was a person once, I think,” the tiefling had said one night. “It thought of itself as a man—or at least, male. But that must have been a long time ago. It was old.” She’d swallowed hard. “It is old. We didn’t kill it, did we? I feel like it’s coming for me. It’s going to come back and take me again. I’m sorry, I just can’t stay here. I need to put some distance between me and it before I can even think about finding peace.”

She’d cried, and Albanon couldn’t help but think that it was the first time he’d ever seen a devil-blooded tiefling do that. Roghar, her closest friend, had folded her in strong arms. The next morning, they’d boarded one of the riverboats and headed downstream for the distant city of Nera, ancient capital of the fallen empire of Nerath. Tempest had waved from the deck, already relieved at putting distance between her and whatever remained of Nu Alin.

And that had just left Albanon, Uldane, and Shara in Fallcrest.

But not for much longer, if they could help it. Albanon risked a glance up and was relieved to find that the patrons of the Blue Moon had finally turned away from him—for the moment, at least. He sat up straighter and brushed back his hair. Two weeks had passed since Tempest and Roghar’s departure. Shara and Uldane were growing restless. Used to life on the road as adventurers and swords for hire, they were starting to find Fallcrest claustrophobic.

And after another two weeks of glances and whispers, he had to admit that he was, too. Before Moorin’s death, he’d sometimes contemplated a life of adventure, but even now the battle with Vestapalk seemed almost like a dream. Something that had happened to someone else. It had taken those weeks for him to realize that it was time to look beyond Fallcrest. The town would still be his home. The tower that had belonged to Moorin—and now belonged to him, it seemed—could still serve as a base. After what he had experienced, though, he was no longer, as the baker had said, normal folk.

All they needed was a focus, a destination, and that’s where Shara was right now: following up leads in an attempt to locate something suitable to their skills. The warrior-woman was hardly much older than Albanon himself, but she had a certainty and experience that he couldn’t have matched. She had assumed leadership of their group even before the others had left. When she returned, she’d have a quest in hand, and then … then they would make preparations to put Fallcrest behind them.

The idea raised Albanon’s spirits. Soon they’d be leaving the normal folk to their normal lives and heading out in search of adventure, the stuff of bards’ tales. A smile spread itself across his face. He drained his tankard of ale and slammed it down on the table with a decisive, triumphant thump.

“You! Eladrin!”

Albanon looked up and flinched. Kossley Varn stood over him, one meaty hand gripping the ivory-handled dagger, the other clamped firmly onto Uldane’s shoulder.

The alehouse went silent. Albanon started to stand, but Kossley shoved his coarse face into the eladrin’s, forcing him back down. “This halfling,” he growled, “says you wanted him to give me this dagger.” He slammed the blade into the tabletop just past Albanon’s shoulder. To Albanon’s relief, he left it there, quivering metal flashing in the lantern light. “Is that true?”

Thoughts of adventure, fame, and fortune vanished from Albanon’s mind. The hero who had faced down a dragon disappeared, leaving only Moorin’s apprentice to fumble for words. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say—”

Kossley thrust his face close again, close enough for Albanon to smell onions and ale on his breath. “And just how did you manage to come by my dagger?”

Albanon shot a glance at Uldane. The halfling was grinning, enjoying this little confrontation. Of course he would. He’d already done his best to weasel out of it. Albanon clenched his teeth and said through them, “You don’t have the whole story, Master Varn.”

“Don’t I?” the farmer said. He turned Uldane loose and leaned down with his hands on either side of Albanon. “Tell it to me then. What game are you playing? Were you hoping to get a reward out of me? Something for finding my ‘lost’ dagger?” The spells that he had worked for so long to master rose in Albanon’s mind. Spells to burn, to hurl arcane energy, to call down bone-chilling cold. Any one of them could have driven Kossley Varn back in a heartbeat and left him hurting as well. Moorin’s lessons had been about more than manipulating magic, though. They’d been about controlling it—and himself. Albanon sat back and drew a slow breath. Revealing Uldane’s theft of the dagger wouldn’t do them any good. He needed to talk his way out of this on his own.

“I had no intention of asking for a reward,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I simply recognized the dagger and knew that you’d want it back.”

“Oh, and how did you happen to recognize it? Been sizing me up as an easy mark, have you? I know your type, boy.”

Albanon sat forward again, anger rising again. “I recognized your dagger because you show it off every chance you get, you foul-tempered—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Kossley stood straight and turned to face … Shara.

For a moment, his mouth hung open. Albanon had seen that reaction before from men confronting Shara for the first time. With thick red hair, a pretty face, and a subtly muscled, curvaceous body that was emphasized rather than hidden by her light armor, she was a stunning sight. She wasn’t afraid to take advantage of her appearance, either. Hands on her hips, she held Kossley in a strong, proud gaze, challenging him to challenge her.

Unfortunately, Kossley Varn was ornery enough to try it. The slackness left his mouth. “Stay out of this,” he said. He turned back to Albanon.

Shara put a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back around to her. Kossley’s mouth fell open for a second time. Shara’s muscles might have been subtle but her strength was very real. So was her resolve, as hard and sharp as the greatsword strapped across her back.

“These are my friends,” she said. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Kossley opened and closed his mouth several times, and his eyes darted around the room as if sizing up his options for dealing with this redheaded force of nature. A number of the other patrons of the Blue Moon were starting to look away and, leaning over the bar, the alehouse’s owner was having urgent words with a dwarf Albanon knew to be a sergeant of the Fallcrest guards. Kossley licked his lips, and Albanon could guess at the thoughts running through his head. He might have been rich and powerful but at that moment, he was the one shouting accusations and threatening a peaceful—if recently imprisoned—man for the slightly dubious crime of trying to return a lost dagger.

Albanon held back a smile as Kossley Varn gathered himself up and shrugged off Shara’s hand. “There’s no trouble,” he said. “Just a misunderstanding.” The farmer reached past Albanon, jerked his dagger out of the tabletop, and stomped back to his own table.

Sound returned to the crowd, though not quite in time to muffle the loud sigh of relief from the Blue Moon’s owner at a fight averted. Only Uldane seemed disappointed. “Nothing ever happens around here!” he said in complaint.

Shara’s hand caught him by the same shoulder Kossley had held and steered him to a chair. “Nothing that you don’t start,” she said. Uldane made a noise of protest, but Shara just glared at him. “I don’t want to hear it.” She turned her gaze to Albanon. “You kept your head. I’m glad I’ve got one person I can count on.”

“Thanks.” Albanon looked at the scar the dagger had left in the table and winced. “I think the sooner we’re out of Fallcrest for a while, the better. What did you find out?”

Shara sighed and took one of the other chairs. “We’re not leaving yet.”

“What?” Uldane yelped. He bumped his head against the tabletop. “No. No. No.”

Shara grabbed the back of his collar. “Calm down. It’s just temporary. Something’s going to turn up.”

Eventually, Albanon knew, something would turn up. It had to. Fallcrest stood at the center of the Nentir Vale, the largest town in the region. Under Shara’s brave expression, however, he could see the disappointment that haunted her face. She’d assumed leadership of their group, but she wasn’t filling the role. He’d learned enough of her background to discover that her father, killed by Vestapalk, had himself been an adventurer of some renown. He’d trained Shara. One of the others killed by Vestapalk had been a man named Jarren, a fighter of some skill. He’d also been Shara’s love.

She had a lot to live up to—in her own mind, at least.

“What did you find out?” Albanon asked. He knew a thing or two about trying to live up to expectations. The question would give Shara something to think about, a chance to remember what she had accomplished rather than what she hadn’t.

She shrugged and sat back. “Nothing new. Things are quiet just now,” she said. “There were bandit attacks not long ago east of Fallcrest, but they’ve gone to ground. There are goblins in the forest to the south, but they’re busy fighting the Woodsinger elves. The lizardfolk that hunt the Witchlight Fens are quiet. Even the kobolds in Kobold Hall over in the Cloak Wood are keeping their heads down.”

“Maybe they heard about what we did to Vestapalk,” said Uldane, looking up from his folded arms. “Maybe they’re afraid of us.”

“Wishful thinking,” Albanon pointed out.

“Killing a dragon has to count for something!”

“It does,” said a new voice.

They all looked up at the stranger who stood, a respectful sword’s length, back from the table. A big man, he stood at least as tall as Shara and maybe as tall as Roghar, with shoulders almost as wide as the dragonborn’s. His hair was dense and shaggy, touched with just a little gray at the temples. More gray like ashes stood out in the heavy stubble on his face. His eyes, sharp and focused, were gray as well, giving him the unnerving stare of the pale-eyed. Twin axes were slung over his hips, and although he wore no armor, he carried himself in a way that said he knew how to wear it. As he stepped closer to the table, Albanon caught the distinct odor of tar and muddy water that clung to him. The smells of a riverboat—one must have just arrived in town. The stranger met his curious gaze and held it for a moment, but his eyes moved on to Shara.

“Among those with the strength to test themselves,” he said, voice growling low in his chest, “fighting and besting a dragon will always be worthy of respect.”

“We didn’t do it alone,” said Shara. “We had the help of friends.”

“So I’ve been led to understand. One of the water rats on my boat coming upriver considered himself a bard, but he seemed more of a gossip. I’m happy to see he wasn’t just making it all up.” He smiled, showing startlingly white teeth. “Assuming you are, in fact, Shara, daughter of the ranger Borojon.”

Shara’s expression flickered at her father’s name, but her eyes narrowed as well. “If I am,” she said, “then you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

The stranger pulled out the fourth chair at the table and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “Raid,” he said. “Hakken Raid.”

His familiarity in joining them surprised Albanon for a moment, but there was something in Raid’s manner that soothed the irritation like salve on a burn. The broad smile, the piercing pale eyes, the confident voice—Hakken Raid, Albanon guessed, was a natural leader, born to take command. Not that Shara hadn’t been trying her best, but Raid was easy, almost casual about it.

“What brings you to Fallcrest, Hakken?” Albanon asked, only to be nearly drowned out by Uldane’s eager questions.

“Where are you from? Where were you before this? I bet they’re not the same place—you don’t look like you stay somewhere for long. Do you fight with both your axes at the same time or is one for throwing—?”

Shara reached around and stifled the halfling.

Raid chuckled, a soft, rich sound. “The gods gave us two hands, so I fight with both. They gave us two legs, so that we can walk away from places we don’t like or that don’t like us. I am a wanderer, from everywhere and nowhere. The place where I was born means as little to me as the place where I will die. And the reason I’ve come to Fallcrest”—he looked to Albanon—“remains my secret for now. But let’s just say that it’s something a group willing to take on a dragon might be able to help me with.”

Surprise and elation tingled along Albanon’s spine. “Legs to walk away from places that don’t like us. By the moon of the Feywild, I like the song you sing, Hakken.”

“Call me Raid,” the big man said. “I knew I’d find a kindred spirit here.”

Uldane’s squeals of excitement were audible even from behind Shara’s hand. He spluttered and forced her hand away. “He wants us to go adventuring with him.”

“I figured that out,” said Shara. She looked at Raid. To Albanon’s surprise, she didn’t seem to share in their joy at this unexpected opportunity. “So you knew my father?” she asked.

“Knew of him,” Raid said. “Stories of his adventures had spread beyond the Nentir Vale. He wasn’t my only choice to approach, but I was definitely considering making the journey north to Winter-haven to look for him. At least until the crew of the riverboat told me he was dead. Discovering that his daughter and her companions carried on his work in Fallcrest was an unexpected opportunity, so here I am.” He spread out hands scarred by battle and still dirty from his journey.

“Why here?” said Shara.

Raid paused with his hands wide. “What?”

“Why come all the way here on your own? Why not find your help wherever you were?”

Her voice was blunt to the point of being rude. Albanon raised his eyebrows. “Shara, is that any—?”

“It’s a fair question,” said Raid before he could finish. He folded his hands and met Shara’s gaze. “There wasn’t anyone suitable where I was. Nobody I wanted to pay to travel with me, at any rate. And anyway, I want locals. People who know the region.”

“We know the region!” Uldane stood up on his chair and stretched out a hand to Raid. “I’m Uldane. That’s Albanon. Where you’re going—is it dangerous? Because we live for danger.”

Albanon wasn’t so sure he would have gone that far, but he was willing to let the halfling’s enthusiasm take over for the moment. Excitement brewed like a storm in his chest. This was the opportunity they’d been trying to find for two weeks!

Shara pushed down Uldane’s hand. “Easy,” she said. She didn’t take her eyes off Raid. “I think I’d like to know a little more before jumping into danger with you, Hakken.”

The big man’s smile faltered just a little. “Call me Raid,” he said again. “And as I told you, my reason for coming to Fallcrest is a secret I’d rather keep to myself. I’m willing to discuss conditions, but you’ll have to take my word that it will be worth your time.”

“I wasn’t asking about your business in Fallcrest.” Shara sat back. “I want to know about you. You’re a wanderer. You’ve heard stories of my father. Where have you been? Would I have heard stories of you?”

“Not likely.”

“Then tell me some.”

Raid’s eyes narrowed as he studied the red-haired warrior. The storm in Albanon’s chest turned into a tickle. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Shara gave him a glance so hard he closed his teeth on his words. For once, even Uldane was silent.

Raid lifted his head. “Ask me what I am,” he said, “and I’ll tell you that I’m a hunter. That’s how I started. Name a creature and chances are I’ve tracked it. I’ve probably even killed it. With that kind of wandering, I think it was only natural I’d turn to an adventuring life. I practically fell into it. Between hunting and adventuring, I’ve probably been everywhere. The Dragon Coast and the Two Rivers Gulf. The ruins of Bael Turath. The cities of the south and the lands of the far west. Jungles, deserts, mountains. I had companions.” His gaze swept the table. “Until they were killed. Sole survivor, that’s me. After that, I left off adventuring—until now. One last adventure. One last mystery that I’ve spent years unraveling. It all comes down to this.”

Uldane looked like he might burst if he had to hold his curiosity in much longer. Questions buzzed in Albanon’s head, too, but Shara and Raid still held control of the table between them. Shara’s expression hadn’t changed. “You’re avoiding the question,” she said.

Raid drew a hard breath. “Maybe I don’t feel the need to open up to people I only know by reputation.”

“But you want us to do the same.” Shara tilted her head. “One question. Answer it square. Are you after treasure, secrets, or revenge?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Treasure.”

“How much treasure?” Uldane asked. The words came out in an eager gasp. They brought a smile back to Raid’s face.

“Enough to get you out of Fallcrest and anywhere you want to go,” he said. “Enough to live like a noble when you get there.” He looked around at them again, then his eyes settled on Shara. “What do you say?”

She looked back at him. “No,” she said.

The storm inside Albanon dropped straight into his gut. He stared at Shara. So did Uldane, a little whine creeping up out of his throat. Shara, however, had her eyes solely on Raid.

The man with the twin axes sat perfectly still for a moment before repeating, “No?”

“No. We’re not the ones you want. Go try the Lucky Gnome Taphouse. It’s right off the Market Green.”

A dark look of anger flashed across Raid’s face. Before Albanon could say anything, he was on his feet. “I’m not used to having my offers denied,” he said.

“You didn’t offer us anything,” said Shara. “Consider it a frank assessment.”

Raid’s jaw tightened. “Then I thank you for your honesty. May your gods keep you.”

He turned and stalked off, sliding with angry grace through the crowd of patrons. Shara let out a long breath. Albanon rounded on her. “What are you doing?” he yelped. “That was what we wanted, wasn’t it?”

Eyes still on the crowd where Raid had disappeared, Shara shook her head. “No,” she said, “it wasn’t. I don’t think I’d go around the corner with Hakken Raid.”

“Are you insane?” demanded Uldane. “This was perfect!”

Shara’s lips pressed tight and a flush crept into her cheeks. “There was something about him I didn’t like,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell us where he wanted us to go.”

“You hardly gave him a chance to,” said Albanon.

“He traveled alone.”

Uldane slumped down his chair and crossed his arms. “Right now I can see why he’d want to.”

Shara looked between them. “Were you two that taken in? How much have you had to drink?”

“Not that much,” Albanon said hotly. “Maybe he didn’t want to tell a bunch of strangers all of his secrets straight out. What’s wrong with that? Why shouldn’t we have taken a chance with him?”

“For one thing, what would you have done if you’d agreed to help him, then didn’t like what he told you? Would you have walked away? Maybe keeping your word doesn’t matter that much to you, but it does to me.”

Her words stung. Albanon felt his cheeks flush. “I keep my word!” he protested, but Shara didn’t stop.

“He didn’t give us one piece of information of any significance. He dodged all of my questions, even when I gave him opportunities to answer openly. So he’s been a hunter and an adventurer. So he’s been to a lot of different places. He didn’t give us any specifics.”

“He said that he’d come to Fallcrest looking for treasure,” Uldane pointed out.

“And that’s all he said.” Shara looked straight at the halfling. “You should know that question, Uldane. It was one of my father’s favorites. Anyone who wanted to hire us, he’d ask that question. The answer doesn’t matter so much as what comes after it. Raid didn’t say anything about the treasure or why he wanted to find it—he just told us how rich it would make us.”

“Uldane asked how much treasure,” said Albanon. “Raid was just answering him!”

“What about how he reacted when I turned him down? He took it like a personal insult, as if I’d laughed in his face.”

“He came all this way looking for us and you said no. I’d be disappointed, too.”

“Would you be angry like he was?”

“Probably.” Albanon felt more than a little angry already.

“Trust me,” Shara said. “We’re better off staying right here.”

Albanon inhaled slowly and tried to call up the discipline that had kept him calm with Kossley Varn’s face shouting in his face. This time, however, it eluded him. A hot sense of disappointment burned in his belly. The feeling of isolation and displacement he’d managed to overcome only a short time before came crashing back over him. He looked back up at Shara.

“I don’t think we are,” he told her. “I think we need to get out of Fallcrest, but there’s nothing else to do unless we want to strike out on our own. You’ve just scared off our best chance at an ally.”

Shara scowled. “I don’t trust him,” she said curtly.

“Well, I liked him,” muttered Uldane. “I think Borojon would have felt the same. So would Jarren.”

Shara sucked air through her teeth and whirled on him. “You don’t know what my father or Jarren would have felt,” she said harshly. “You like everybody!”

Uldane flinched as if she’d struck him, but Shara had already turned to glare at Albanon. “And what do you know? You think being a wizard’s apprentice then falling in with a bunch of adventurers by chance makes you a good judge of anything? I know what I’m doing.” Shara thumped her chest. “My father taught me more than just how to swing a sword. He taught me what to look for when I’m choosing my allies.”

The declaration was too much. Albanon’s face burned hot. “I wish he’d taught me, then,” he said, “because I’ve clearly made a mistake in choosing mine.”

He stood up, his chair scraping across the floor. Shara finally winced in recognition of her harsh words, but it was too late. “Albanon, no—that’s not what I meant.”

“Really? I wouldn’t know. I’m not a good judge.” He turned away from her and from Uldane, curled down in his chair and watching them in sullen silence.

“Stop acting like a child!”

Albanon stiffened and looked back at her. A wide swath of the alehouse had gone quiet again, listening in on their argument. Shara’s face was taut and hard. Albanon raised his chin.

“Don’t bother coming back to the tower tonight,” he said. “I’m raising the wards behind me when I go in.”

He walked out through the staring crowd with his head held high and his heart beating like a running dog.

A steep bluff cut through the middle of Fallcrest, dividing the upper town from the lower and creating the high cascade in the Nentir River that gave the town its name. The Blue Moon was in the lower town; the tower that had been Moorin’s was in the upper. Many times over the years of his apprenticeship, Albanon had used the climb up the crooked road along the bluff’s face as an opportunity to sober up after an evening at the alehouse.

Sometimes sobriety and second thoughts came whether he wanted them or not. By the time he was halfway up the bluff, his anger was already ebbing.

By the time he’d reached the top, regret was a gnawing hollow in his gut.

Albanon paused at the brow of the bluff and leaned against the well-worn rail that had been set there long ago for just that purpose. Fallcrest spread out below him, a few windows still lit here and there by late-night candles, but most of the town’s buildings were dark and quiet shapes under the moonlight. The Nentir River made a shining ribbon that rolled past the town wall and on into the shadowed countryside beyond.

There were adventures to be had out there—did it matter if the Lord Warden assigned them a task or Hakken Raid had some crazy secret plan? He and Shara and Uldane were a team. They’d find something for themselves. They’d beaten Vestapalk together. And maybe Shara was right. What did he really know of judging people? He’d gone straight from his father’s estate in the Feywild to Moorin’s tower. And in the wake of his master’s murder, he’d joined forces with Tempest, Roghar, and the others almost by accident. Shara had experience, even if she didn’t have tact. She knew what she was doing. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so eager to listen to Raid.

He screwed up his face, though, wrinkling his nose at his own weakness. Just because Shara was right didn’t mean he had to let her insult him. Let her spend the night somewhere else. Maybe even outside. It wasn’t going to hurt her. They could apologize to each other in the morning. Albanon turned away from the sight of the lower town. Farther along the brow of the bluff, the reflected brilliance of moonlight on white stone showed how the Glowing Tower had come by its name. Albanon tried to put Shara out of his mind as he walked, but it was hard not to dream of the morning; Shara, damp with dew and sleep-deprived, stinking of some cowshed where she’d taken shelter. It was almost a pity that the night was cloudless. A light shower of rain to add to the warrior-woman’s discomfort would have—

Albanon’s hand was on the handle of the tower’s door before he noticed something was wrong. He turned sharply and squinted into the moonshadows, searching for the subtle traces of magic. There were none.

But there should have been. Moorin had woven arcane wards around the tower long ago. Albanon took care to speak the ritual words that raised them whenever he went out.

The last time he’d come home and found the wards unexpectedly dispelled had been the night Moorin had been killed.

He hesitated before pushing the door open silently. Whatever had brought down the wards was probably inside. Only one suspect came to his mind: Moorin’s killer, the creature Nu Alin. Granted, they’d beaten it—him, if Tempest was to be believed—back deep in the tunnels of Thunderspire Mountain, but what if he had lived and managed to make his way back to Fallcrest?

On the other hand, what if there was no one in the tower? What if he had simply forgotten to raise the wards tonight? Or what if they’d only lasted so long without Moorin’s influence to maintain them? He hadn’t considered that possibility before. Either way, if he raised an alarm that turned out to be for nothing, his already damaged reputation would be completely shattered. He’d be laughed out of town.

Just a quick look, he promised himself. Just a quick look to be sure there really is someone. Then I’ll go get help.

He stepped inside.