Krayson listened to the rattling of the tracks beneath his feet. With his eyes closed, he focused. Breathe. Concentrate. Maintain the ward. Someone might sense him locking the spell, and being noticed was the last thing he wanted.

    He sat alone in a compartment within the seventh car. The late morning train that ran between the palace's Evermist Station and Westrun Gate had few passengers. Aside from a handful of train yard crewmen and farmhands on their way to Westrun's botanical towers, there weren't many others aboard the train.

    The tracks ran on the seventieth level, the highest elevated rail line in the city. Out of concerns for safety and the passengers' comfort, the Westrun train took an easy pace. It would be another hour before Krayson reached his destination.

    After the attack on the throne room, Captain Falar and Princess Maya escorted Krayson to a lower level of the central spire. He was taken to a suite maintained for the Order, where he was able to equip himself in a manner appropriate for a blood runner.

    The dark red half-robe he now wore was slightly too large, its fabric new and unweathered. The coat, shirt, and trousers beneath it, however, were finely made and fit as if they'd been tailored for him. They felt good on his skin, freshly bathed. Krayson hadn't cared about Maya's impatience as he washed the weeks of prison filth from his body, nor did he hesitate to feed himself more properly before leaving the Palace of Towers.

    It had been an uncomfortable meal. Maya watched him eat while Falar left to begin looking into the attack. Krayson thought he must have impressed upon the princess just how much food a blood runner could pack away.

    His stores had been low. Ether could sustain a blood runner in lieu of food and water, but it wasn't an eternal wellspring. His body had been ravaged by the weeks of neglect, and eating enough to feed an orc clan was only the first step in repairing the damage it had done to him.

    When Falar returned, Krayson was cleaned, dressed, and had eaten his fill. He was then taken straight to the train station.

    And so, Krayson found himself aboard a train leaving the heart of the city. His concentration was fully engaged in maintaining a ward around his compartment. His hope was that the spell would at least partially conceal the bloodsong he carried.

    The door to his compartment slid open. Krayson tensed and prepared to speak an incantation at a moment's notice. His witch sight traced over the pair of men.

    The one in front was a daanman. No wisps of ether leaked from his body that Krayson's eyes could see. The other hadn't sold his ether, but the traces of magic in his body were weak and all but atrophied. Not a daanman, but Krayson could tell that he'd never attempted to cast a spell. The ether he carried was unfocused. Wild. It hadn't been tethered to one of the five pathways.

    The men looked into the compartment, stood in place, then shut the door before moving on. Neither looked Krayson's way or otherwise acknowledged his presence. Krayson let out a shallow breath. His spell was working as intended.

    Those who came within its boundary would feel a vague sense that what they needed was elsewhere. It also kept Krayson from registering in their consciousness. A tricky spell, but one within his capabilities.

    Such precautions were necessary. Even a daanman wouldn't be blind to the bloodsong forever. Arcanists and those more attuned to the Ethereum would sense it sooner and from a greater distance. Krayson wouldn't breathe easy until he was within the Sanguine Tower.

    Outside his compartment's window, the mists that cloaked the Spired City began to thin. Mist was rarely so thick at this altitude as on the lower levels, and even less so in Westrun. Many of this district's spires had moisture-repelling sigils carved into them. The practice kept the skies more or less clear and allowed sunlight to reach the rooftops and greenhouses where much of the City of Althandor's produce was grown.

    The towers of Westrun were awash with greenery. Hanging gardens draped down the sides of many of the spires. Spellwrought overhangs reached out into the sky, supporting broad pastures where livestock could graze. Below, the sigils couldn't fully dispel the mists, and it gave the sense of farmland floating above the clouds. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Krayson could still see the diffused glow of gaslights far below in the depths between the towers.

    The deeper one went into the Spired City, the scarcer sunlight became.

    The track curved on its final approach to Westrun Gate, and Krayson was given a view of the Sanguine Tower. Unlike the nearby spires, the home of the Order didn't use the mist-repelling sigils. Rather, it used magic that attracted moisture. This was ostensibly to assist the agricultural centers to receive more sunlight during the day, but Krayson couldn't help but admire the secondary benefits.

    Like a pillar of white smoke, the Sanguine Tower rose out of the bright surroundings. Only glimpses of the black stone edifice could be seen through the gathered mist. Gaslights leant the tower an unearthly luminescence at all hours. An imposing structure, one that would encourage the rest of the district to turn away and pretend it wasn't there.

    That was how the blood runners preferred it. Westrun had relatively few permanent residents. No one sought the tower out without a purpose. It was as removed from the world as one could get within the capital.

    For the last ten years, Krayson had called it home.

    "I seek Brother Joshuan the Krayson."

    The small voice at his ear echoed as if from a great distance. A woman's voice. Krayson twisted his head around out of reflex, searching out the source. He was the only mortal within the compartment, but that didn't mean he was alone. His witch sight found a speck of ether hovering in the air next to his head. He had a visiting wind spirit, a weak one and unlikely to have a will of its own. Such beings functioned on the spiritual equivalent of instinct or, as this one, at the behest of an incantation. Krayson was being given a sending.

    "To whom am I speaking?" Krayson asked. He closed his eyes again, splitting his concentration between his ward and the sending.

    "Heron Algara, Blood Runner. Perhaps you recall me from the throne room?"

    "I do."

    Between speaking and receiving the reply, the spirit flashed briefly out of sight. Sendings were simple spells when cast by a witch; the invoked spirit did all the legwork. Krayson had been unaware that there were royal assassins who weren't sorcerers.

    "Good," Heron said. "That saves the effort of reminding you. There are things you should know."

    Krayson closed his eyes again, and his brow knit together. "Why would you aid me?"

    "I am not my cousin," she replied. "House Krayson paid for their crimes a dozen times over already. I don't like executing young men who weren't even born when it happened."

    "Forgive me if I remain skeptical, my lady."

    "It is forgiven, but you would do well to listen. The former warden of the king's dungeon is dead."

    Krayson felt his grip on his ward falter. He took a moment to gather his wits before replying. "How?"

    "His throat was cut, and the royal guards who were to watch him have both disappeared from the palace. Between these incidents with prisoners and the recent assassination attempt on the king, Falar is on the warpath and out for blood."

    "The man sent to silence me has been silenced," Krayson said.

    "Which begs the question." Heron paused, as if gathering her courage. "My cousin's paranoia is being vindicated. Someone seems to plot against him, and they've stopped being subtle about it. What is it that you know, Blood Runner, that they'd risk exposing themselves to stop you from speaking it?"

    "Cathis' dirty laundry," Krayson replied. "If you want to know, you should talk to Maya."

    "Maya no longer speaks," Heron said, and there was an unexpected note of sadness to it. "Whether she is in mourning or something else is difficult to say."

    Krayson considered that. Giving a vow of silence out of grief was a bit archaic, but Algaras were nothing if not dramatic. "Fine. I will tell you but on one condition."

    "Name your price."

    "I want to know why you're helping me. The real reason. No one in Althandor does anything out of simple goodwill."

    "Are all blood mages so cynical?"

    "It's possible. Trust was the first piece of humanity I lost to blood magic."

    Heron was silent for a moment. When she spoke through her wind spirit again, her voice was steady. "I believe the king is behind the attempt on your life. That is why I want to help you. I need to know how far my cousin has fallen."

    The king? Krayson thought. If anyone has a motive, I suppose. But no, it doesn't fit.

    "His Grace has had numerous opportunities to kill me with his own hand."

    "Indeed," Heron said. "His own hand. If he killed a Krayson in their cell out of rage, it wouldn't surprise anyone. No one would speak against him. Nor would we take his ravings of plots and traitors as seriously as we are now."

    Krayson hissed. "Are you suggesting that the Highest King orchestrated the attack on the throne room?"

    "I'm not discounting the possibility out of hand. Now, you know my reasons, so tell me what the king doesn't want anyone to know."

    Krayson told Heron everything he had given to Maya and Falar. Lady Tarlen's contract, Garret and Elise, and how he delivered Cathis' order to kill Princess Jin. The last part caused Heron to mutter a number of vile curses under her breath. Royal or not, the assassin had a filthy mouth.

    "It's no wonder Cathis pronounced judgement on you so swiftly in the throne room. He'd never give you the chance to speak of this."

    Krayson wasn't so sure. "If so, I'd be dead whether I was the only one able to preserve the Merovech's bloodline or not. If he believed I knew that, I'd never have left the palace alive."

    "What do you mean, 'if he believed'?" Heron asked. "How could he not?"

    "I'm beginning to have my doubts that Cathis is behind the order to kill Princess Jin, and it never came up during my interrogations. I wasn't about to tell him unsolicited, and I assumed he already knew. I no longer believe the Lady Tarlen was working on His Grace's behalf. Nor do I accept that the king is behind the attack on the throne room. Thunder, but the warden may have been told to keep me from telling Cathis that his youngest daughter has been targeted by murderers."

    Krayson clenched his jaw. He should have said something, but his thundering fear had convinced him to hold his tongue. Even now, he couldn't be sure but wondering what might have happened if he told the king would only drive him mad.

    Heron grunted. "Then you think it really is the Courtesans behind it all?"

    "I'm even less convinced of that. As far as I saw, none of the attackers were of the Nadian race. They were all Althandi."

    "The Courtesans weren't exclusive to Nadia even before the war twenty years ago. They're everywhere now."

    "True, but their goals are always the same. Death to Algara. If the attack was an attempt to kill King Cathis, it was poorly conceived and even more poorly executed. The king was never in any real danger."

    Heron didn't respond. She was considering what Krayson said.

    "Three of them came after me," Krayson continued. "I was more of a target than Cathis was, and don't forget who was the first to be attacked."

    "The Merovech," Heron murmured. "I assumed he was targeted merely to remove him as one of the king's most powerful attendants."

    "It was an assassination attempt," Krayson said. "But the simplest way to hide your intent is to stand your true target next to the king of Althandor. Whoever is behind the attack had only one goal, and that was destroy the Merovech's bloodsong. To kill him, his preserver, and all other blood runners in the room."

    Heron swore again, something more crass than merely invoking wind spirits. "If you're right, you have more problems than avoiding the Merovech's disgruntled apprentices. This seditionist will come after you to stop the bloodsong from reaching its recipient."

    "Believe me, that's foremost on my mind."

    "And you have no intention of telling me who the Merovech chose."

    "The fewer who know, the better my chances are. It's best for me to keep my cards close to my chest."

    "Probably wise," Heron agreed. "You've impressed me, Blood Runner. No one else has seen any of this."

    "I had a unique perspective of the incident," Krayson said wryly. "A question, my lady. Captain Falar mentioned bad blood between the Merovech and Prince Vintus."

    "I'll stop you there, Krayson," Heron said. "Vintus plotting against his brother doesn't make sense. He's almost as bad as Gain in his disinterest towards wearing the Blade Crown. And he's been the most vocal when it comes to Cathis naming Kiir Algara as the new crown prince and heir to the throne."

    "New crown prince?" Krayson asked. "What of Dasher?"

    "Dashar," Heron corrected.

    "Apologies. I don't keep abreast of news of the royalty. I wouldn't know him from a stranger."

    Heron chuckled. "If you ever saw him, you'd remember. Dashar was... unique." Her tone went grim. "It hasn't been made public yet, but Prince Dashar was killed."

    "Was it suspicious?" Krayson asked.

    "Of a sort. He fell during the recent trouble in Altier Nashal."

    Probably unrelated, Krayson thought. "If it's not Vintus, then I need as much as I can learn. Falar mentioned the source of the bad blood was that His Highness killed an Aleesh who was part of the Merovech's legion."

    Heron sighed. "This is an old matter, Blood Runner— before I became an assassin— so I don't know all the details. The Aleesh was the one known to us as 'the spearman'. He'd served under the Merovech for a time, and I believe he was instrumental to our victory at the Siege of Drok Moran."

    Krayson felt a tingling sensation along his spine, and his heart began beating faster. Five beats per minute faster. The Law of Five was manifesting. Krayson had learned to pay attention to what his blood told him, especially when he held a bloodsong.

    He was in immediate danger.

    The spearman, Krayson thought as he looked nervously towards the compartment door. A commoner, and if he served in an Althandi legion, he may have had a vocational surname of the Althandi goodfolk.

    Krayson's blood never warned him without cause. He hadn't heard anyone new enter the train car, nor did he sense any spell echoes. His witch sight revealed no new wisps of ether. He couldn't discern the reason for his sudden apprehension.

    "What was his name?" Krayson asked. "It might be important."

    "Yora Page," Heron said. "I only know because it's been discussed among the assassins lately. There was a recent matter that related to the incident."

    "A daughter," Krayson murmured.

    "Um... yes, actually," Heron replied. "We called her 'the sky woman'."

    "Called?"

    "Naturally, as soon as we learned she existed, Cathis sent royal assassins. It was Gain's coterie, but there was some commotion over Princess Jin being the one placed in charge of the contract. Her first command. Gain reported the sky woman was a slippery, little thing and nearly escaped. In the end, Jin killed her."

    Jin again. Things were becoming more connected by the moment. Also, the Merovech chose a dead Aleesh to receive his arcane power. Why? The Merovech must have been more angry over Yora's death than anyone suspected, but even so, entrusting his legacy to an enemy of the crown would be an extreme form of protest.

    The Merovech's motive remained a mystery.

    Whatever the reason the Merovech chose this sky woman, Krayson felt a measure of relief. The Order had protocols if the intended recipient was dead, and the matter of the Merovech bloodsong would no longer be his responsibility. He only hoped Cathis would see it that way.

    That is, Krayson thought, if the girl is truly dead. Whoever ordered the Merovech killed has been trying to kill Princess Jin as well. Too many coincidences, but I can't see what connects a princess, a hierarch, and an Aleesh girl.

    Then, Krayson felt it. Definite and strong. A spell echo above him. It was accompanied by the sound of heavy foot steps on the roof of the train car.

    "I have visitors," Krayson said in a low voice.

    "An apprentice or something else?" Heron asked.

    "Uncertain," Krayson said quickly.

    "Good luck, Blood Runner. Once you reach somewhere secure, use a sending. I've grown invested in your well-being."

    "Why's that?"

    "Think of it as Althandi goodwill, one half-breed to another. Don't die, Krayson."

    The wisp of ether marking the wind spirit's location faded away. The sending was concluded.

    Heron might have been genuine, but Krayson wasn't about to blindly put his faith in an assassin. In any case, he had a more immediate concern. The footsteps banged towards the rear of the car. They weren't being careful and must have known Krayson would hear them.

    He searched the compartment for an escape. Krayson's eyes fell on the window. It was large enough to allow him through, but the rail line was seventy levels above the ground. Even with magic, the fall wasn't survivable.

    Krayson stood and exited the compartment. He walked at a calm pace towards the front of the car, away from the footsteps. He dropped the ward as he left. It was no longer needed.

    Each passenger car had four compartments along the right-hand side. The passage running the length of the car was narrow to allow only a single person to pass through at a time. It was currently empty. As he passed by the other compartments, Krayson could see through the frosted glass on the doors that they were occupied. Two were at capacity while the third had only a single occupant. Krayson opened the final door.

    "Apologies, Goodwife," Krayson said as the woman startled. "Might I ask a favor?"

    The woman wasn't Althandi. Perhaps Melcian, though even darker than was the norm in the north; her skin was the color of charcoal. The woman's hair spilled out from beneath her hooded shawl, and it was silver though she didn't seem near old enough to be graying. It was her eyes, however, that gave Krayson pause. They were a singularly bright green. The woman looked up at him and Krayson saw that patterned tattoos inked in scarlet covered her face.

    "A favor?" she asked, her voice rough and husky.

    She was much different than any woman Krayson had ever seen before, but he wasn't about to shame himself by being discomforted by her appearance. He took the seat opposite her after shutting the compartment door behind him.

    "If I might wait in here for a moment," he said. "There's someone I wish to avoid."

    "You do not want that, Blood Runner," the woman stated.

    Krayson arched an eyebrow.

    "I was placed here to stop you from escaping."

    Her hand moved, the first somatic gesture of a wizard's spellcasting. Krayson saw enough to identify the opening of a transmutation spell, earth essence.

    "—Spirits of stone, deny your essence.—"

    The woman completed her spell, but Krayson's hasty incantation warded him from its effect. She'd meant to transmute his robes into stone, binding him in place. As soon as the spell was thwarted, she began another. Krayson couldn't give her the chance.

    He held his hands ahead of him, middle and index fingers extended. He snapped his right arm out and struck his fingers against the inside of her wrist. A light tap, but sufficient. The tendons of the wrist were connected to most everything in the hand, and hampering them in even such a slight way ruined a wizard's gestures.

    The woman snarled in frustration and began another. Krayson used his fingers to thwart her somatics again. The woman was on her feet, and Krayson rose to meet her. He used his legs to attempt to trip her up, but the woman was ready for him. She shoved him back into his seat with surprising strength and held him in place with a foot. Krayson noted she wasn't wearing shoes.

    "I'm told to keep you alive. You're making that difficult."

    Not one of the Merovech's killers, then, Krayson deduced. She must work for one of his apprentices.

    She leaned forward and pressed a hand over his mouth. He couldn't breathe due to her pressing over his airways so hard. There was no way for Krayson to use an incantation in this position. The woman's other hand began working deliberately through a somatic.

    Krayson was faster. His spell used force, throwing her away from him and into her seat. She hit hard enough that the wooden wall cracked and deformed outward beneath the impact. The woman made a pained sound as the air was pushed from her lungs by the impact. Her eyes glared up at him, confused and wary.

    Back on his feet, Krayson worked his hands through another set of gestures. Two from each hand, a two-point double somatic. A light burst in front of the woman's face, hopefully blinding her while Krayson made his escape.

    He hadn't expected a pursuer to already be in place, let alone that the owner of the footsteps above on the roof of the car was intended to flush him into her net. Krayson amended his thinking. The Merovech's apprentices would of course be intelligent and devious. He needed to be twice as careful as he had been.

    Krayson was tackled from behind. The woman hadn't been disoriented by the flare spell for as long as he'd hoped. Barely longer than a heartbeat. She was much stronger physically than he was, also.

    "Blazing boy," the woman growled. "I was told you were a witch."

    I am, Krayson thought. He took a deep breath and shouted. "Hotan!"

    The wooden planks of the train car's flooring exploded. Splinters drove into the woman's face, and she cried out in agony. Even as she pulled shards of wood from her flesh, she wasn't slowing down. Her free hand formed the first gesture of a fire spell.

    Krayson knew somatics just as well as he knew the words of the Aeldenn Tones. He could deduce her intent before she completed. Incantations were usually faster than somatics and formed the core of his defensive spells. He invoked spirits with his voice to protect himself from her spellfire. At the same time, his hands prepared his counterattack.     Maya wasn't the only arcanist who knew a little astramancy.

    His lightning bolt blasted against the woman's thigh. She dropped to a knee but didn't fall. Remarkably tough.

    "You can't be a wizard," she snarled.

    "I'm both," he replied.

    "That's impossible."

    "Quite right, my dear," a man's voice said from behind Krayson. It sent a chill through his entire body. He knew that voice.

    Krayson watched as the black-skinned woman lowered her head and knelt down. "I wasn't going to hurt him badly." As she spoke, the wounds on her face from the wooden shrapnel began to close, as did the electrical burn showing through her charred dress. Healed in moments.

    Thunder's mercy, Krayson thought. She's not human. He turned towards the new arrival.

    The newcomer's white, double-breasted coat was freshly pressed and clean. A matching bowler hat sat askew on his head, and a fashionable walking cane twirled in his hands. Garret Merovech-Deveaux, the legitimized bastard son of the Merovech, was a slender man in his late thirties, approaching lanky, and handsome in an angular fashion. His dark hair and narrow, black eyes paired well to his pale skin, and he possessed one of the most chillingly disarming smiles Krayson had ever seen.

    Garret addressed the woman. "Your mistress was quite adamant that our friend not be harmed. You wouldn't wish to displease her again, would you?"

    "Of course not," she replied. It came out through her teeth.

    Garret clucked his tongue. "She so detests it when you're willful, my dear. I wouldn't want to see you harmed again. As for you..." Garret looked to Krayson, a broad grin on his lips. "You've shocked me twice in as many meetings. Tell me, was it your ineffably indispensable fraternity that taught you to flaunt the Law of Five in such a way?"

    "If the blood runners know anything of what I am, they've kept it from me," Krayson replied. As he spoke, he searched for an escape route with his peripheral vision.

    Garret must have noticed and waggled a finger at him. "Perhaps you're worried of your fellow passengers. Fear not, dear sir. The spell echo that startled you so earlier was me placing silence wards over these two compartments. Wouldn't want curious onlookers seeing what they ought not see, would we?"

    "That's a lot of trouble you've gone to," Krayson pointed out.

    Garret shrugged. "Can't be too careful, particularly with the company I've been keeping lately. My mighty associate aside." He gestured to the woman with his cane. "You might recall my beauteous companion the last time we met. Such as her must walk carefully in the City of Althandor. You understand, of course."

    Krayson tensed. "Why are you here?"

    "Oh, don't be so bothersome, sir. I can feel the bloodsong you're carrying from a quarter-mile off." He smirked. "We're not at all interested in that."

    Krayson didn't believe that for a moment. At their last meeting, Garret's eyes had been alight with avarice at the mere notion that Krayson had come to deliver him his father's bloodsong. Was he saying that it no longer mattered to him?

    Did Garret even know to whom the bloodsong in Krayson's veins belonged?

    "You haven't been in Althandor long, have you?" Krayson asked.

    Garret shrugged. "Arrived late last evening. Why? Do you carry someone of note? Do please tell me it's Arkus the Vantalan. I would adore you if you did."

    "No," Krayson said. He forced his muscles to relax. "It belonged to Lord Fasimar Ulbrecht. He died suddenly this morning."

    Garret removed his hat in a parody of mourning. "Truly, a loss. Fret not, dear sir. I don't intend to keep you for long. Elise merely wishes to pick your brain, then you can return to your blood running. Believe me, it will be well worth your time."

    Krayson glanced behind him to the inhuman woman rising to her feet. Her expression was inscrutable, but definitely hostile towards him.

    I guess I don't have much of a choice in the matter. Krayson took in a breath and released it. "So long as I'm not overly delayed. My contract is with the Highest King personally."

    Garret's eyes lit up. "That's right. You do have a habit of working on His Grace's behalf. Just like us, once."

    Krayson could hardly miss the "once".

    "Let us be off." Garret turned on his heels and made for the back of the car. "Dear Elise has grown less patient than she was when you saw her last. I suggest we hurry."

    Krayson followed. "The train's next stop is an hour away."

    Garret grinned over his shoulder. "I'm aware. You're in for something of a treat. I expect you've never ridden on dragon back before."