LIARA grimaced as she gingerly turned another page of the book she was assessing. It was a strange old thing. Its age-brittled folios were made from some sort of pressed leaf that gave off a faint sweet odor, and the contents written in a curious, slanting hand. Since discovering it in Nagarath's library, she'd never harbored hopes of replicating the unique materials, and hence preserve the book's inherent magick, but it was worth copying the text and noting the construction, should the opportunity ever later arise for her or Nagarath to make the work anew.

Though she exercised care, a zigzag fissure split the page in her hand, reaching the bottom edge with an audible snap. With a heavy sigh, Liara placed the severed half-page into the growing pile at her elbow.

Across the table, Nagarath flicked his eyes to her progress briefly before returning to his own volume.

Neither of them touched their breakfast.

Pursing her lips, Liara fixed her attention back on the damaged book. It was tense work, to be sure. Especially under the watchful of a mage who had clearly forgotten how much damage had come to books at his own hand.

But it was a tension born of concentration and care rather than that of the fear that Parentino had lived under of late. Though he'd meant the gesture kindly, Nagarath had taken to sharing, and it was driving Liara's imagination into all sorts of dark corners.

He shared his workings and the results—disappointing, more often than not. He confessed his fears: it turned out that Liara wasn't the only one questioning what had really tripped Parentino's defenses, though Nagarath had come to blame himself. Together, these revelations had served to raise tensions within the castle and force both wizard and ward to stay inside the keep's protective stones. The mage still hadn't found any sign of the missing soldiers from Dvigrad, leaving greater and more terrifying what if's hanging over their heads.

What if the soldiers had been attacked? What if whatever killed Dvigrad came back? Nagarath maintained that there was something unnatural in the way plague had taken the village. It was so sudden, so absolute.

What if it was all a trap, a manufactured excuse to come down upon the magick users of Limska Draga with the might of the Republic? Or, perhaps it was something infinitely more sinister, the workings of a rival mage, intent on the wonders of Nagarath's library now that the collection was slowly being restored. He could even believe that rumor of Limska Draga's recluse mage had reached far-off ears. Questing magicks, being blanket enchantments, could very well account for both the death in Dvigrad—a sort of poisoning or curse—and the triggering of Parentino's outer defenses.

This latest theory was Nagarath's favorite. The mage explained to Liara that the wizarding world was small. Most every sorcerer of pedigree knew from where his fellows hailed. And many of them stole the secrets of his or her magely brethren. It was how the craft advanced, in fact. Fear of theft provided no better impetus for honing one's skills in hexes and counter spells. And Nagarath's secrets were most definitely worth stealing.

But now, nearly a week after the discovery of the tragic circumstances in Dvigrad, none of the mage's dire predictions had come true. Not that Liara wanted a troop of soldiers or an avenging wizard storming Parentino, but it made being stuck inside the castle seem . . . silly.

Although of course, the recent events were no laughing matter. Even now, Liara had yet to bring her profusion of tears under control, but these she took great pains to conceal from Nagarath. And so they had entered the days of hidden tears and brave smiles . . . and working at the breakfast table. Another page cracked under her gentle fingers. She had to grit her teeth to stop herself from cursing aloud.

A loud crash rattled the table, and Liara looked up just in time to see Nagarath darting towards her. Reaching out, he grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. She was halfway through the door and into the hallway within the space of a breath. But she had little time for annoyance at the manhandling.

"Liara, please, as you value your life, I beg of you to go to the topmost floor and hide yourself in one of the rooms. Do not come out until I call for you. And please, for the love of all, do not even think of doing that trick with the warding spell again. For I might be called upon to do some serious hexes, in a moment, and do not desire having to adjust to unexpected magicks."

Eyes on Nagarath's face, Liara's indignation dissolved into profound fear. The wizard's wand was out. And his hands were shaking. He did not have to ask her again. Fleeing, she hitched up her skirts, taking the stairs two at a time, trying not to think about what had frightened Nagarath so deeply.

Gaining the topmost landing, she turned and looked back, hesitant. But the urgency—the desperation—in Nagarath's face, his voice, had followed her up the stairs. She ran to the nearest unlocked room, her heart pounding so that she could hear nothing outside its panicked hammering.

Standing alone in the dark, she looked to the shuttered and draped window. Her fingers fairly itched to tear open the coverings. And yet she could not, lest her action be noted by . . . By what? What is out there?

Fretfully, she paced in silence, ears straining for any clue as to what was going on below.

The hissing scrape of metal on metal lanced through her spine, unnerving her. Muffled grunting followed, and Liara hurried to the window. Another clank of metal confirmed it. She knew those sounds. Swords being unsheathed, the hard slap of wrist or shin guard striking stone—these were signs she knew from countless times spent slipping in and out of Dvigrad for clandestine visits to her tree. Soldiers.

Men who had torched that selfsame tree. And no Father Phenlick to defend her this time. Liara could just see them now, hard-faced men eager to finish what they'd started months before. A squad of four—no, she recalled, five—soldiers, worn but intent as they marched on Parentino's ruins, scrambling along its tumbled border stones, alert for any sign of the wizard.

But it didn't sound as if they were attacking so much as exploring. And arguing. Puzzled, she settled in the window ledge to listen, hugging her arms tightly.

"Nothing here. Like I said."

"Keep searching."

"Does this pile of stone look like somewhere a man could live?"

In her hidden alcove, a thrill fluttered up from the soles of Liara's feet. She recognized those voices. Men-at-arms she'd lived alongside in Dvigrad. Were they here for her? Or Nagarath? She allowed herself a secret smile. Weed choked and collapsing in on itself, she'd thought much the same thing when she'd gazed upon Parentino her first night as an exile, had felt the same foreboding that surely flickered over the men's helmed faces.

"Well, the witchcraft has to have a source. With evidence of his black doings all over Dvigrad, and since the only man who used to come a-callin' on the wizard is dead . . ."

Piotr, Dvigrad's apothecary. A lump rose to choke her as Liara remembered Nagarath's illusory but snug cottage, the last time Liara had seen anyone from town alive and well.

"Sorcery or not, remember the mage will have the girl with him."

"In any case, with no one left to tell of what we found in that village, I say we ought to report—" A man's terrified scream cut the sentence short. The sounds of boots scrambling on rock mingled with the rallying cries of the small patrol. Swords and shields raised, the soldiers rallied, crossing Parentino's tumbled borders, closing in.

"Fly at him, men!"

"The black devil!"

Nagarath!

Liara mouthed the name in the dark, raising her hands on impulse, ready to cast the spell that would give her Sight. No. Nagarath needed none of her distractions. But if he had been discovered by the soldiers, there was little point in keeping hidden. She had to know. She had to see. Grasping the heavy curtains, she leapt back as something hit the shutters, hard.

"Witchery! See how my arrow was stopped in midair?"

Quaking, Liara backed away from the window, her mind filled with the images of the angry men, their hatred of her and of her mage. Grateful for the wayward arrow that had stopped her hasty actions, she clasped trembling fingers together.

She could see altogether too well with merely the sounds drifting up from below. The men were gaining the inner courtyard. They were now past the stone column that stood at its center. The violent scuffle ended in the twanging of another bow. And then nothing.

Nagarath! Only her hands, pressed hard against her mouth, could keep her from screaming his name aloud. Horrified, Liara could only wait in the darkness, willing her heart to stop thumping so loudly so that she might hear more.

"It was naught but another of those damned birds. Natural causes, you'd said? Bah! The whole valley is bewitched. I bet it is that girl, mark my words. She's come back to make sure we all feel her wrath."

The rumble of sliding rocks and more muttered curses drifted up, background to Liara's shuddering relief. The soldiers were retreating, picking their way gingerly back to less rocky terrain having done little more than terrified themselves over an impetuous crow. Another of the men grumbled his discontent, "Should have gone to the cottage, not this tumbled heap of stone."

Leave Krešimir out of this. Dead or no, his friendship to her was no crime. Finish them off, Nagarath. I want them gone. Liara's fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides, anger burning away her fear.

The crashing clang of metal came accompanied by the dull roar of yet another small rockslide. "I'm down!"

Venice's finest, and they cannot navigate a rock pile without falling all over themselves. Liara smirked.

Pandemonium broke out in the yard below, drawing Liara once more to the dark and shuttered window, her smug smile buried under rekindled fears. Incoherent shouting rose to her strained ears. Not a retreat then, but a rallying cry: fearful and desperate men, rushing to the aid of their fellow soldier.

They had to be stopped! Didn't Nagarath see that? Her own nerves frayed to breaking, Liara sank to her knees, listening hard as the soldiers' bold challenge became a blubbering groan, punctuated with the clanking of arms being thrown aside. Dear God, what had the wizard done to them?

Somewhere downstairs, a door banged open within the castle.

In the skirmish, Nagarath had missed one of the soldiers!

Jumping to her feet, Liara ran for the hallway. The soldiers' noise faded behind her as she reached the top of the stairs. Another sharp report reverberated through the stones of Parentino, adding further to her urgency.

"I told you to stay put until I called you!"

Nagarath's angry rebuke drifted up at her over the frantic patter of her footsteps. She could see his pale face and the gem atop his staff, glittering in the magelight that flickered at his side. She froze, moving only when he beckoned an instant later.

With a cry halfway between a sob and a hiccup, Liara flung herself into his arms. "I was afraid. I heard the soldiers. I heard them talking. They said I did this. They said the valley is bewitched. They—"

A comforting hand stroked her hair. He smelled of sorcery. And rage. It was calming, to be in the presence of that much power. Reluctantly, Liara extracted herself from his arms.

Something didn't feel right. He seemed upset. Or, more accurately, bewildered. She hurried to make amends. "I'm sorry."

"Hush. They will not return, I can promise you that. We are safe."

~*~

Can you promise safety, mage? You've been doing that for years. George Phenlick's protection from military prosecution in exchange for keeping Dvigrad safe, hidden from those who might take interest in their strange fey child. And look at all that has happened. Like the girl, you have a knack for—a history of—attracting trouble—and put countless others in danger as a result.

He hadn't exaggerated when he'd explained to Liara how closely knit the community of magick-users was. One could find even the great Merlin—famously a recluse—if he looked hard enough. Nagarath had long acknowledged to himself that finding a way to hide from his brethren would be costly. But he hadn't counted on collateral damage, such as the fate Dvigrad had suffered.

He turned hooded eyes on his workroom, whispering the word that would illuminate the sole lamp upon his table. The components for dark magicks glittered in his Sight.

Temptation. Compromise.

What he'd done to Dvigrad's soldiers was going to haunt him. But then, he'd known that when he'd chosen to cast his first spell against them. Enchantments of the blackest sort; a part of him wondered from what dark corner he'd dreamed up the demons that he'd projected into the men's minds. Likely the same corner where fear for Liara lives.

Outside, a simple glamour shielded the castle's true state from prying eyes—admittedly, not an effective defense. Someone with a strong enough will could easily bypass the simple illusion. It was mere chance that the soldiers had lacked the conviction to see Parentino as it truly was.

"Though, I learned today that those men hadn't a single penetrating thought amongst them." Nagarath spoke through gritted teeth remembering the men's terror, his eyes squinting to read the dusty bottles deep within a recessed wall shelf. "But that may not always be the case."

If only they'd have just gone away. Again, Nagarath lamented his actions. It's their fault for having come upon us so suddenly, forcing my hand. He shuddered to think how closely he had come to attacking the men outright, the appropriate curses having come readily to his mind even as he'd ushered Liara up the stairs and out of sight. But then, mental distress can be as damaging as physical, he reminded himself, unable to look away from the spell components on his table, a glittering line of guilt.

What was done was done. No changing it now. And with as little information as he'd been able to gather in the town before flying back to Parentino in a blink, the knowledge he'd gleaned from the men's terror-struck minds had been most welcome. He'd had no choice but to send them away as gibbering idiots once he'd found that they planned on making for the coast to report Dvigrad's fall, implicating magick.

Not that they might have been far off. If the timeline he'd witnessed in the men's collective memories was correct, the plague that had hit Dvigrad had come and gone too quickly. The soldiers hadn't caught it, for example. Additionally, he'd been able to see once and for all just how isolated the town had been. There was no logical way for such a disease to have come upon the town. In some ways, he was grateful for having taken the tack he had with the assailants.

Compromise in the service of morality. Nagarath's thoughts circled around to his early days as a mage. At one point, he wouldn't have questioned, merely acted, entitlement and need guiding his power. But then, he'd been taught that way—he and his fellow apprentices. Archmage Cromen would scoff to see where Nagarath's delicate sense of fairness had taken him.

Of this I can be proud, even if my spells are a hodgepodge mess, uneven as a poorly knit scarf.

Nagarath despised the idea that he might have to bespell the woods around him, to do outside the grounds of Parentino what he had done on the inside. Interfering with the senses of mere passersby beyond straightforward illusion was too dirty a magick for his tastes. It was unwarranted meddling, an attack rather than a defense.

Much like what you just did to Dvigrad's last patrol?

At this, he hesitated in his casting, his hand poised above the pages of his spell book.

"No, nothing so drastic as that."

Hesitation, the weighing of right and wrong: that was the difference, what set him apart from the other mages, the dark mages who wouldn't think twice before performing such a curse and would laugh at him for his sensitivity.

"And it matters, damn it." Satisfied that he still could see the shadowy border between light and dark magicks—and could weigh the consequences of both—Nagarath had his answer.

Grabbing half a dozen of the tiny bottles—spell components that had traveled the world with him, exotics he hardly dared touch in his more mundane spellwork—Nagarath crossed back to his work table. He'd already started down this path; there was little he could do to change it now.

Uncorking various bottles and carefully setting the stoppers aside, he straightened. Thinking, setting aside all other concerns save magick, he sought the proper course. The enchantments would not be all that terrible to construct. Invisibility was easy, and he could use his labyrinth of spells from inside Parentino as a pattern for what he would spread outward into the nearby wood.

"Nobody, not a single person, will be able to find us, then," Nagarath intoned darkly.

Would it solve the problem? Would it set straight Dvigrad's soldiers, men who had leapt to disastrous conclusions and might very well expose the valley to Venice's wrath? Would it bring Dvigrad back? No. But it would keep Liara safe. And at the moment, that was all he cared about.

Would it explain what happened in the village?

Nagarath thrust the unwelcome thought from him. There would be time to sort through the soldiers' memories later. They were a fearful lot; perhaps some of what they'd sensed had been a product of inflamed imaginations, dull as theirs might be. Never mind that it played to the fears he already held.

Promises, Nagarath.

The work was slow, as he also had to maintain the old defensive spells while he wove the new. It would take some time to figure out how to remove himself from their direct maintenance later on. Right now, the important thing was Liara's safety.

Raising his hands to cast his first spell, another tremor of fear shot through him. A memory. One that refused to leave him be. That whisper of power against his own, a brush of foreign magicks as he had entered Dvigrad.