Rocked gently in the snug little coach for hours on end, Royce had watched as all the others succumb to sleep. Their eyes closed, opened, then closed again. Heads drooped, only to pop back up. Eyes fluttered, a hand might wipe lips, then the process would begin again. Finally, breathing would grow deep and regular, then heads would stay down swaying side to side looking limp as if the neck was broken. At this point, even the biggest bumps and sways couldn’t wake them.

Royce didn’t like the idea of sleeping in general. He saw no reason for it. Eating and breathing all made sense. Like a fire, he needed fuel and air to keep burning. But what purpose did sleep serve except to make everyone helpless and vulnerable for several hours everyday? If he needed the rest, that might make some sense, but most often he grew sleepy as a result of doing nothing at all. He ought to be able to sit motionless indefinitely—for a month at least. The arbitrary compulsion to sleep, whether he liked it or not, was a forced constraint, and another reminder that he was a pawn in a game he didn’t want to play. The whole thing was stupid.

At least he thought so until Gwen fell asleep, and her head settled on him.

It came down like a feather resting in the hollow valley between Royce’s shoulder and neck. Her hair brushed the lobe of his ear and cheek and rocked with the motion of the coach such that he was fearful her head might slide off its perch. This concerned him far more than he was comfortable with. He mentally argued that his anxiety was entirely due to his desire for her to rest and was unrelated to how it made him feel. He twisted and dip his body, leaning into her to form a safer headrest. The position was awkward and untenable. His muscles would soon cramp, his neck ache, but no power on Elan would make him move.

Because she deserves a good sleep. I owe her that much, don’t I? A little discomfort is nothing compared to all she’s done—an amount measured by comparison with how much others had not.

The coach continued to roll and sway. The windows were hopelessly fogged. All Royce could determine by then was that the sunlight was weaker, the day slowly fading. This soft illumination filled the warm interior, made warmer still by Gwen’s body pressing against him. With everyone asleep, Royce no longer felt exposed, or watched, and for that blessed moment he experienced a strange sense of peace. Unable to shift, straighten, or even willing to cough, Royce resigned to just sitting. He tried to look at her, but couldn’t risk turning his head that far. Instead he stared at her one exposed hand that rested on her lap near the knee. It wasn’t much, but oh so better than looking at Arcadius whose was starting to drool with his head cocked against the seat padding.

Royce had never before studied a hand, never examined or appreciated one. He judged hers to be perfect and wondered what it might be like to place his upon it, to intertwine his fingers with hers.

His eyes drooped.

Gah!

At that moment, more than ever, he didn’t want to sleep. He gritted his teeth and in his head cursed the name of every god he knew.

His head dipped. He pulled it back up in defiance, forced his eyes to remain open.

It makes no sense.

It makes no…

Royce awoke when the coach stopped.

The jostling caused Gwen’s head to slide off his shoulder. She caught herself and jerked up. Sleepy eyes looked at him, then widened. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

Royce wiped away the moisture on the window with the heel of his hand. Outside it was dark, but there was a light. In the center of a yard rose a pole where a lantern hung drawing a swarm of whirling insects. Its lonely gleam revealed the common clearing between buildings but made seeing beyond them impossible. The lamp on the pole was a bullseye style carriage light same as those mounted on the coach.

“Wake up folks,” the driver called lightly clapping the roof. “Stretch your legs. Get something to eat.”

Albert scrubbed his face with both hands and made smacking noises with his lips. Arcadius continued to sleep until Gwen reached out and shook his knee. In response the old professor lifted his head. “I wasn’t sleeping, dear” he told them. “Just resting my eyes.”

Gwen leaned forward peering out the window. “Where are we?”

Albert yawned, and stretched his arms out as wide as the coach allowed. “Another stage stop, I suspect.”

Royce opened the door and climbed out feeling unpleasantly stiff. He was instantly greeted by the damp night air. While chilly, it wasn’t cold, and there was no snow on the ground. Crickets and frogs chirped, and the air smelled of grass, dirt, and the distant suggestion of a dead skunk. Royce’s feet landed on the rut scared lawn. A darkened stable stood to the right, a workshop of sorts was to his left, and straight ahead lay a modest, single story, wood framed house.

Hadrian climbed down landing beside him looking haggard.

Royce yawned and wiped his eyes.

“You slept?” Hadrian sounded surprised.

“Nothing else to do. How about you?”

“Once the snow stopped I got some sleep. I think. Hard to tell, really.”

“How lovely,” Arcadius declared stepping out with all the nimbleness of a man trying out stilts for the first time. “It’s like we’ve jumped ahead three months, skipping the rest of winter and the worst parts of spring.”

Gwen climbed out. She squinted, her hair up on one side, her face still stiff from sleeping. “It’s a lot warmer here.”

“Leave your stuff and go on up to the house, folks,” Shelby told them as he worked to unhook the coach from the team. “We’ll be a short while. Briar and Gus will feed you. They’re a nice couple, and Briar is a fine enough cook. They should be awake.”

The door to the house clapped and Heath came running out.

“They awake?” Shelby asked.

“Are now,” he said as behind him a light appeared beyond the curtains.

The first things Hadrian noticed upon entering the coaching house were the bright fire in the hearth and the smell of bacon. Before the fireplace was a large sturdy table surrounded by chairs, with more stacked against the back wall. Above it all, hanging side by side from the roof beams were a strange duo: a wagon wheel and a ferry boat wheel. The two were nearly the same size. Just below them, burned into a rough board that served as the mantle to the hearth were the words: Wheels of Dreams.

Already there were plates and spoons set out. A man who was so tall and thin that he appeared stretched, was busy lighting the candles on the table. “Hullo, Ladies and Gentlemen!” He said brightly. “I’m Gus. Come in, have a seat. My wife will be—“

A short ragged women burst into the room backward holding a blackened pot with towels on each hand. “Hot dish!” she announced, bustling her way to the table and slamming the pot in the center. She straightened up, took several short breaths while wiping her face with one of the towels. “Sit down and eat. There’s more coming.” With that she ran back out through the same door she entered from.

“That’s my wife,” the man said. “That’s Briar Rose, and you might not of caught it, but she’s very pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you as well,” Gwen said, then yawned as they all spread out around the table.

“Indeed,” Arcadius agreed. “It’s a lovely place you have here.”

“Oh, the coach house isn’t ours,” Gus said as he moved to the next candle. “Shelby built it. He’s got two, along with a string of little stables running from Tur Del Fur to Ervanon.”

“Had two!” Briar shouted from the kitchen.

“That’s right, he had two. The other one was up in Chadwick, in Fallon Mire. That used to be the main one. He got rid of it. But we’re hoping to take this one over one day—make it into a proper inn. Heath thinks they’ll have a dozen or more coaches working this route. That’s a guaranteed revenue stream.”

“I want to be a coachman,” a young girl announced as she entered from the same door as Briar carrying a basket of steaming rolls that she reached up and set on the table. She displayed round cheeks decorated with freckles and a big smile.

“This is my daughter, Copper,” Gus said.

“Her real name is Dorthy,” Briar explained bursting back in, this time with a sizzling skillet of bacon, the contents of which she scrapped into the previously delivered pot. “But we’ve always just called her Copper. Don’t have a clue why.” Briar paused looking at all of them bewildered. “Sit and eat. Won’t take the Hanson’s more than a hoot and a giggle to get rolling again. Those two are as dogged as hounds on a trail, and you won’t be stopping again for hours.” Then once more she was gone, her daughter chasing after.

They all took seats.

“Go ahead and dig in. Eggs are in the pot too, I think.” Gus shrugged. “Being out on the edge of Avryn as we are, we don’t profess much in the way of formality here, and regrettably have slipped into heathen ways that the rest of our Maranon neighbors would shame us for, but honestly we just don’t have the time, and most of our customers don’t either.” He smiled as if he’d made a joke. “A’course if you want I could say a blessing?”

“Oh, I doubt that will be necessary,” Arcadius said as he reached for the bacon dish. “We are a barbaric lot ourselves I’m afraid, and given we’re headed across the border to the land of the godless, I think it’s best we don’t start practicing now.”

Gus nodded, not the least bit surprised.

“Milk!” Copper shouted, returning with a pitcher. “Still warm!”

“Goat or cow?” Arcadius asked.

“We have three goats,” Copper replied.

“Lovely! Cow’s milk gives me indigestion. Bring it around here, my dear.”

Royce remained standing near the door to the courtyard. When Hadrian looked over Royce walked out.

“Excuse me,” Hadrian said, and got up. “I’ll be right back…I hope.”

Outside, Royce was walking slowly and without any urgency toward the lantern pole. Despite the chill, his hood was down.

“What’s up?”

Royce turned. “A demon?”

Hadrian smiled awkwardly. “Would you rather I used your name?”

“Technically that is my name—at least one of the ones they gave me.”

“So…you’re mad at me?” Hadrian normally didn’t need to ask. When angry, Royce had two demeanors: quiet and brooding, or blood-lettingly violent. At the moment he was neither.

“Huh? No.” Royce shook his head. Then he looked up at the lantern on the pole that had a small cloud of insects swarming it. He continued to stare as if fascinated by the concept of illumination.

Hadrian thought he knew most of his partner’s moods and what they meant. This wasn’t a hard thing to learn. There weren’t that many. What made it challenging was how his attitudes indicated the opposite of normal people. Quiet, to the point of cold hostility, was actually his normal state and no cause for alarm. If he did speak, his words were curt and to the point, suggesting he’d already run through the conversation in advance and was only suffering the necessary obligation of letting the other person know how it turned out. Chattiness, however, was an indication of a problem. His needing to talk but failing to do so, was like seeing a fish floating upside down. “What’s going on, Royce?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Can I have a hint?”

Royce pointed at the light on the pole. “Look at all those moths.”

Hadrian gave it a glance. “Can I have a better hint?”

“The moths just keep butting the glass of the lantern,” Royce said.

“It’s late, Royce. I don’t even know how late—after midnight I’m guessing, right? I’m groggy and even standing here I still feel like I’m riding on that coach. And it’s not like I’ve ever been good at puzzles even when wide awake. So could you…”

“If there wasn’t glass on the lantern, the moths would kill themselves.”

“Uh-huh, they do that. We see it all the time with campfires. I actually think we’ve discussed this before. Can’t recall why. Likely you were explaining something to do with the stupidity of people. Yeah, that seems right.”

“The thing is, they can’t help themselves, and it’s not the light’s fault either. It’s just there. Bright and irresistible. You’d think the moth would know better, or should know better. Look at them hitting that glass over and over again, so intent on seeking their own death.”

“You’re starting to scare me now. What’s going on?”

“I think there’s a chance Gwen likes me.”

“Of course she likes you, we’ve also had this conversation before, too.”

“Yeah, but I mean now I think she…”

“She what?”

Royce took a deep breath and swallowed. His face tensed. “She slept with her head on my shoulder.”

“Okay, and?”

“And? What do you mean and? Did you hear what I said?”

“Did she say anything?”

“Of course not. I just said she was sleeping. You’re not listening to me at all are you?”

“I am, it’s just that—never mind. That’s—that’s great, Royce.”

“No it’s not!” He snapped and began to walk again, this time in a circle around Hadrian.

“It’s not?”

“No!”

“Don’t you like her?”

“Of course I do—that’s the problem!”

Hadrian looked up at the lantern. “Can we go back to the moths again, I think I missed something.”

Royce stopped moving and took a breath and let it out. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t?” Hadrian finally understood why he had struggled to grasp the meaning of his friend’s awkward rambling; this was a mood he’d never encountered before. Royce was seeking advice. “Okay, I get it. Not a problem. I actually have a decent amount of experience with women. It’s easy really. Not complicated at all. You only really have two options. It’s the same for everyone. You can express yourself, you know, tell her how you feel, and ask her how she feels.”

Royce visibly cringed.

“Or not.” Hadrian rubbed his hand together and regrouped. “You’re right, words are not your strong suit. Sure. So, go the other way.”

“What’s the other way?” There was no hope in that question. Royce looked at him with a face full of dread.

“Kiss her.”

The thief’s eyes widened.

“You do want to kiss her, don’t you?”

Royce’s face hardened, and he gritted his teeth as if Hadrian were performing field surgery on him. “Yes, but that’s…it’s so…”

“You have kissed a woman before, haven’t you, Royce?”

His answer was a violent glare.

“Oh! Oh really?” Hadrian stared off balance for a moment. “I suppose I really should have guessed that, shouldn’t I?”

“I’m…” Royce began then floundered into a series of short breaths. He turned away, once more being drawn toward the light on the pole. “I have no idea what to do. It’s like I’m trying to pick up a soap bubble, and I’m terrified that if I touch it, the whole thing will burst.” His hands clenched into fists. “I’d really love to slit Arcadius’s throat for this.”

“The professor? What’s he got to do with it?”

“It’s all his fault. Let’s all go, he says. Gwen can come too, it will be a holiday, he says. Since I’ve known him, that old man has been nothing but trouble. I’ve killed whole families that were guilty of less.”

“Royce, you’re not going to kill Arcadius.”

“Of course not—Gwen would hate me if I did.”

“Ah…” Hadrian decided to let that go and take the win. “Okay.”

“Which brings me to the point.”

“It does?” Hadrian thought they’d already reached and plowed through that field, discovering they still hadn’t was surprising and a bit scary. “I mean, what is the point, Royce?”

“That whole demon thing you did. Your handling of those three tax collectors, that was smart. With Gwen inside? If they had opened that door?”

“I know. I know.”

Royce brushed the grass with the toe of his boot. “And Gwen would have had a front row seat for it all. She would have seen the demon at work. And if she had, after that…I don’t think she would have slept with her head on my shoulder.”

“Royce,” Hadrian put a reassuring hand on Royce’s shoulder. “After that I don’t think she would have slept at all.”

“Exactly, you get my point. Good.”

“So, are you thanking me?”

“No!” He looked aghast. “I’m merely pointing out that you did a good thing. I’m extending a compliment. Let’s not get carried away.” Once more Royce looked up at the lantern and the moths. “I know exactly how they feel. They hate that glass, but its all that stands between them and the abyss.”

“You are such a romantic, Royce. I would definitely avoid talking to her. Go with the kiss. Even if you miss, slam teeth, slide off, and fall on your face that will be better than comparing Gwen to a bottomless pit.” He turned. “I’m going to eat now before Albert consumes everything Briar Rose cooked.” Hadrian took a step. “Oh, and for your information, Gwen doesn’t like you.”

Royce spun in a panic. “You said she did.”

“The woman is in love with you, Royce. I have no idea why. I’m not sure anyone does. I don’t even think Professor Arcadius with all his knowledge can crack that one. But yeah, she loves you. So, relax. Talk to her, kiss her, murder a bunch of puppies in front of her—you can’t lose this one. I only wish I could be so lucky.”

“Dwarfs dwell in hollow mountains and underground—often in caves hidden behind waterfalls,” Arcadius was saying when Royce returned to the meal. The professor sat at the head of the table, his long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His fingers, slick with grease, held a strip of bacon like a baton and used it help conduct his lecture to the rest of the table.

“I’ve heard the lady dwarfs are ugly,” Copper said as she cleared the empty serving plates. The little girl had a poorly assembled stack and struggled with the unruly tower that threatened to topple.

The professor nodded, and once more wielding his bacon baton explained, “While often suspected to be stocky, and bearded, female dwarves are actually remarkably beautiful, made all the more so by their petit size. And despite their reduced place in the world today, the dwarf has a long and proud history and once fought with the elves for dominance of the world. That was back when their king ruled the entire peninsula of Delgos and they mined gems and gold by the wagon-full. But those days are long past. Still each and every dwarf hides a treasure beyond imagination, but…” He paused to wink at Copper. “Dwarven hordes are always cursed, so nothing good ever comes from stealing it.”

“Are they really made of stone? Do they really live forever?” The girl asked still hugging her shifting spire of plates.

The professor of problems is at it again, Royce thought. He doesn’t care whose life he ruins.

Arcadius had used a child’s curiosity to put the little girl in this jam. The kid had lingered too long at the table to hear the stories of a senile old man and now would break a fortune worth of pottery and suffer a beating for it. Her parents would pay as well, and maybe the family would go to bed hungry. They might even be removed from this cushy post and left homeless and destitute all because the old man doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Nothing lives forever except love and hate,” Arcadius said. “But dwarfs can live as much as thrice as long as a man. And while they aren’t made of stone, standing only between twenty-seven and forty-four inches in height, the dwarf possesses the strength of twenty men, though scholars believe this is due more to magical objects, which they themselves manufacture at their grand underground forges and workshops.”

“I thought the wee folk shunned magic, even more than the Church,” Gus said coming to the aid of his daughter and seeing what Royce saw, promptly took command of the reckless stack.

“That is indeed a strange paradox with them. Dwarfs are disdainful of magic but wield their own. Each and every one know full well how to make themselves invisible. They are rumored to be capable of traveling great distances instantly, and have wrought enchanted rings, cloaks, and belts that multiply their strength and protect the wearer from hunger, cold, and so forth. They know where to find stones that when placed beneath the tongue grant the ability to understand and speak previously unknown languages.”

“And they are universally hated,” Royce said taking a seat across from Gwen who looked to be halfway through her meal of some sort of egg casserole and a slice of bread.

Royce hadn’t eaten all day but, looking at her, had no appetite. He imagined moths didn’t eat much either.

Arcadius put his bacon baton in his mouth and nodded while chewing. “They do suffer a good deal in the popularity department, that’s true. What with the mass circulation of such bedtime stories as The Dwarf and the Dairy Maid, and Little Wren and the Big Forest they face an uphill battle when trying to change the attitudes of adults who grew up with such gruesome stories. True or not, why parents wish to send their babies off to dreamland filled with tales of terror, I can’t begin to fathom. But it is interesting to know that once upon a time, children used to leave broken toys outside their front doors at night in the hope that a dwarf might pass by and repair it before dawn. And along with it, the optimistic tot would leave a sacrificed bit of food on a plate and perhaps a hat or pair of socks as a thank you in advance. Such were the bright and happy days before litrature murdered innocence in the cradle.”

“You want some of this?” Hadrian asked scooping the last of the egg dish onto his plate.

Royce shook his head.

“It’s good,” Gwen said.

“Sure is,” Copper agreed. “Mum is a great cook.”

“But you don’t want to cook,” Gwen said. “You want to be a coachman. Isn’t that right?”

The girl nodded. Freed of her monument to crockery, she stood between Gwen and Albert leaning on the table with both hands and swaying with excess energy. “That’s right. I’m gonna be like Heath, and have my own coach. Only mine will be a coach and six, and I’ll beat his time. Heath says ladies don’t drive coaches, but I don’t see why not. I’m good with horses, isn’t that right pa?”

“Certainly better then you are with clearing a table,” Gus replied.

“See!” the little girl gleamed.

“Well, don’t you listen to Heath,” Gwen said. “Don’t listen to anyone. You can do whatever you want. You just need to be smart and work hard.”

“That’s what I think,” the girl looked around. “What is it that you do, ma’am?”

Gwen hesitated and bit her lip.

“She’s the most successful business woman in the entire kingdom of Melengar,” Royce answered for her. “And I think it’s fair to say. That she started from even humbler beginnings and faced greater challenges than you can possibly imagine.”

Copper’s eyes went wide—Gwen looked stunned.

The girl stared at Gwen in awe. “What’s you name, Ma’am?”

“Gwendolyn DeLancy,” she replied, “But you can call me Gwen.”

Shelby entered carrying the driver’s box, and Gus quickly rushed over to help.

“Have Briar restock this,” Shelby told him. “We’ve still got a long way to go, and remind her that we’re going into warm weather. So nothing that will spoil easily. Have her check the cellar for nuts and raisins. Those are good on the road. We can eat them as we drive.”

“I think she’s already got sacks made, but I’ll tell her.” Gus took the box into the kitchen.

“Everyone having a nice meal?” Shelby asked. His face was red and weathered from the wind and wet.

“Wonderful,” Hadrian replied with a full mouth.

“Indeed,” Arcadius said. “This has been an extraordinary delight.”

“Good. Good.” Shelby nodded. “Heath is nearly done switching out the team and refitting the wheels for the next stage of our trip.”

“The wheels?” Albert asked.

Shelby nodded. “We’ll be crossing into Delgos in just a few miles, and dealing with less agreeable mountain roads for this next part, and there won’t be any more snow. Heath is putting on smaller front wheels to grant the coach a tighter turn radius to get through the narrow passes. He should be done in just a few minutes, then we’ll get rolling again. If anyone needs more blankets, just ask Gus or Briar. But honestly, from this point on, keeping cool will be more the challenge than staying warm.”

Outside the little front window of the coach house Royce saw something big enough to be a man moved. Royce guessed it was Heath, but as Shelby exited, he spotted Shelby’s son in the stable.

“How many people are here,” Royce asked Gus when he returned. “Besides passengers?”

“It’s just Briar, Copper, and me. Is there something I can get you?”

“No. I’m fine.” Royce got up.

Hadrian was still shoveling as much food as was left into his mouth as Gus hovered ready to take his plate. Albert sat back breathing deep and unbuttoning his vestments. Gwen was back talking to Copper, and Arcadius busied himself cleaning his teeth. No one noticed Royce leave.

Outside Royce was once more greeted with the cool night air and that lingering scent of skunk that wafted in from the surrounding forests. This time he avoided looking at the lantern, and moved into the shadows to the side of the house.

From the stables the horses were acting up, winning, snorting, and stomping.

“What’s with Jack and Rabbit?” Shelby asked from somewhere unseen, his voice carrying on the cool night air.

“Dunno,” Heath replied. “Seem spooked.”

But why? Royce thought.

He’d always had an intuition for trouble, a sense for when something felt wrong. Long ago he’d guessed it was his imagination, but decades of evidence had eroded logic. He’d come to accept it as a gift—at times he counted on it. At that moment, he fully agreed with the horses. Something wasn’t right.

But what?

The courtyard wasn’t large. Just the house, the stable, and a workshop. There was one other building not readily visible, and Royce spotted the little trail that led into the scrub toward the obligatory outhouse.

It’s over there. Whatever spooked the horses—and me—is hiding in the cover of the bushes and trees.

Drawing Alverstone, Royce began to hunt.

He followed the trail, then inched around the outhouse to where the thickets blocked the view from the stable and house. There in the radiance of the moon, Royce spotted a man seated on the body of a rotting tree within a ring of young pines. Royce realized, with no small amount of concern, that he knew this man. He was certain he’d killed him just three days before.

The man remained attired in that tattered gray cloak, hood up, sickly pale white face shining chalk-white in the moonlight. His long red hair and beard peeking out exhibiting the only color. He looked comfortable and relaxed as he watched Royce approach.

“We need our codex,” he said in that same raspy voice.

Royce peered at the man’s neck. A dark mark—proclaimed the place Royce had sunk his knife. Definitely the same guy.

This time Royce maintained his distance, studying the man trying to solve the bizarre puzzle. He should be dead, and how did he find him? And how had he managed to keep up with the Flying Lady? The man’s presence was impossible, but here he was.

Had he ridden on the back? Royce could think of no other solution. He followed me back to the Rose and Thorn, saw us enter the coach and when Hadrian and the drivers were all looking forward, he jumped on the back. This was the only plausible possibility, but plausible might not be quite the right word, and it only solved one of the haystack of problems.

“Dost thou have our book?” the man asked and Royce once again noted the odd accent joined now with archaic language, but even buried under all that rasp he clearly said book.

He thinks I’m someone else.

“I don’t have any books,” Royce replied. “I’m not a big reader.”

“Either thou possess it, or know the place it now lies?”

The man waited.

So did Royce.

“Thou need not be frightened of us, Royce.”

So much for a case of mistaken identity.

“We cherish thee. Thou art…” he thought a moment, then nodded. “In truth, thee art our only friend. Thou hast freed us from our eternal prison, a kindness for which we art evermore obliged. And trust thine efforts in restoring unto me the vessel of my tragic youth shall be an effort worth rewards beyond mere silver or gold.”

“Diamonds?”

“Eternal life.” The man smiled.

“I’d prefer diamonds.”

The man laughed at this. More cackled than laughed, really.

Royce advanced slowly. ”Are you genuinely offering me a job? If so, I’ll need to know exactly what you want and the price you’re willing to pay.”

“We must have our book, that which thee stole from Martel of Hemley Manor. In return we shall grant everlasting life.”

“You’re after the diary?” At least one piece in this puzzle made sense. Nearly two years before, Royce had stolen the diary of Lady Martel. The contract had been arranged by Albert through the Lady Constance. None of them knew the identity of the employer and it was presumed the employer didn’t know the identity of the thieves.

“The codex of our writing belongs to us.”

“And who are we?”

The ghost-white creature seated on the decaying log grinned revealing a full set of gleaming teeth set in black gums. “We were Falkirk De Roche.”

Royce knew the name. While not a history buff, he was aware that Falkirk De Roche had died a very long time ago. This meant the man before him was lying. He also knew far too much about too many things and had made the mortal error of following and spying on him. The red-headed wannabe ghost was also peerless among people walking the surface of Elan in that Royce had tried, but failed, to kill him. Anyone of these would have been sufficient, but combined made Royce’s response less a decision and more a forgone conclusion.

Once more Royce went for the throat, but this time he made certain to go the extra mile and decapitate his unfinished business. Alverstone, was no normal blade and able to cut iron and stone. Slicing flesh and severing bone was a breeze. The self-proclaimed Falkirk fell again, but this time in two parts.