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Chapter Text

After the last of the adventurers had crawled into their tent, and an hour or so of night had passed in still silence, Trick pulled himself up from his hiding place and crept stealthily toward the camp.

The dying embers of their cook fire gave just enough light to see by. A copper pot sat nearby, the wooden handle of a spoon poking out of it. Trick peered inside hopefully, but the adventurers had cleaned it out. Oh, well. Maybe one of them would have a snack in their backpack.

Remember your objective, boy.

Trick flinched, as the voice took him by surprise, and then he scowled. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered under his breath.

He surveyed the camp. Three tents, each quite small and plain. His objective was in the last of the three, where the bard and the druid slept together.

He paused outside the tent, listening intently for any sign of stirring from within, before unbuttoning the flap and peeling it slowly aside.

It was pitch-black inside the tent. Trick could hear the slow, gentle breathing that assured him the inhabitants were fast asleep, but it was impossible to tell where the ground ended and their bodies began.

Trick touched the ring on his left-hand finger. In the softest whisper he could muster, he said, “Glow.”

The ring gave a small shudder, and the opal gemstone set into its band began to glow. Gradually, Trick’s hand was surrounded in soft, silvery-blue light.

Trick pointed his ring downward, scanning slowly. He could now make out the bedroll quite plainly against the packed earth of the forest floor.

One bedroll, he couldn’t help but note. Trick had gathered that these two might be a couple, but this pretty much confirmed it. It was a temperate night; he doubted they were huddling together for warmth.

Pushing away thoughts of what he might easily have walked in on, Trick climbed into the tent, stepping carefully around the bedroll to the backpacks piled in the corner.

From a distance, the bard’s backpack had been indistinguishable from those of the other members in his party. Up close, Trick could see that, while they weren’t identical, they were both made of sturdy canvas and secured with leather straps. One of them looked a little more scuffed-up, like it was a bit older than the other, but that didn’t tell him much.

His heart lifted when he noticed that one of the packs was decorated with a charm: a wreath of twigs woven with the bones of a small animal. That had to be the druid. But when he saw the other pack bore a matching charm, he had to stop himself from groaning.

They were a couple, all right.

There was nothing for it. He’d have to check both packs.

Trick started with the scruffier-looking bag. He’d observed the bard to be a bit more careless than his girlfriend. Perhaps he didn’t take good care of his things.

Trick began to go through the smaller pockets around the outside of the bag. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for—the voice had assured him he would know it when he saw it. All he knew was that it was some kind of mystical artifact, that the party had found it recently, and that the bard was holding on to it.

For a being that seemed to know every detail about what Trick was doing and thinking at all times, the voice could be confoundingly vague about what it wanted from him.

You know what you need to know, said the voice.

Trick jumped. It was a miracle he didn’t lose his footing.

He said nothing in response, but his mind filled with every colorful swear word he could think of, and he focused hard on the fact that he wished the voice wouldn’t speak to him while he was working.

Trick returned to the bag. He hadn’t found much of note in the outer pockets: a pocket knife, a few potion vials, a pouch of scattered stones and plant matter that looked like spellcasting components, and a handful of wooden trinkets. Trick inspected one. It was no bigger than his thumb, and carved in the shape of a rabbit. Cute, but it didn’t scream mystical artifact.

He moved on to the main pocket. Here he found a bone flute, several bundles of herbs, a wooden hairbrush, some fruit, and a leather coin purse.

The coins were tempting, but Trick knew from hard experience just how loud a pile of coins could be when you were trying to go undetected. Even now, as he pulled one of the apples free, the coins in the pouch jangled treacherously.

Trick felt his heart race. He froze for a long moment until he was sure he could hear both sleepers breathing, undisturbed, before he pocketed the apple and closed up the bag.

No mystical artifact. He reached for the second backpack.

He found another of the carved animals in this bag—a fox—along with a few thin books, a journal, some precious stones and…

A box.

Trick pulled it out. It looked like a small jewelry box, the size of a small melon and about as heavy. It was polished wood that shone almost violet in the glow of Trick’s ring, and it was secured with a little gold lock on the front.

The voice in his head remained silent. This box definitely held something important, but was it the artifact? Trick couldn’t afford to guess wrong. The party would reach Neverwinter tomorrow, where they planned to return the artifact to its owner. According to the voice, this must not be allowed to happen.

Trick had to know for sure.

A perfunctory tug confirmed that the box was, indeed, locked. Trick pulled out his lockpicks and got to work.

He’d been half-expecting the box to be locked by magical means, so he was a little surprised when the lock clicked dutifully open under his pick. Heart thumping, Trick thumbed the latch, and the lid of the box popped open.

Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was a dark, opalescent orb.

Found you, said the voice.

And then, before Trick had time to study his find or even begin to feel victorious, the orb began to scream.

That was the only way to describe what was happening. Trick froze in shock as the thing in his hands let forth an ear-piercing siren, a single-pitched wail, many times louder than any noise a human could make.

For a long moment, Trick could only stare in horror, his senses scrambled.

A voice nearby said, “What the…?”

That broke the spell. Trick dropped the orb—he wouldn’t get far with it screaming at him like this—and split from the tent like a spooked rabbit.

He burst out into the dim glow of the campsite, but he didn’t stop there. He sprinted past the cook fire and leapt into the underbrush, letting the dark forest swallow him up. He didn’t have to see where he was going. He just needed his pursuers not to see him.

He’d no sooner had the thought than he felt a hand clamp down around his wrist.

“Gotcha!” A male voice. The bard.

Trick had been here before. One quick jerk of his arm, and he was free. He ducked around his assailant and took off in a new direction, hoping to scramble the man.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

This time, the bard caught Trick by the back of his collar.

Easy enough. Trick started to slither out of his shirt.

“Calm down,” said the bard.

Trick felt something funny at the words, like a tickle in the back of his brain. He shook his head. Why was he struggling?

The bard took him by the elbow, and this time, Trick let him lead him back to the camp. Who was this man? A friend? What did he want with Trick?

When they reached the clearing, the man turned Trick to face him. He was slender, of average height, with pale, yellowish skin and pristine elven features. His golden eyes sparkled.

“You’re just a boy,” he noted. “That’s fine. I know how to deal with naughty boys.”

“I’m fifteen,” Trick protested automatically.

The man wasn’t listening. He planted one foot on a tree stump and pulled Trick swiftly over his knee. As Trick dangled, the tickle in his brain began to subside.

This man wasn’t his friend. He was… wait a minute… wait a minute…

And then the man began to swat his backside, and the spell was broken. Trick came sharply to his senses, and his senses were telling him…

“Ow!”

It was only the man’s hand, and Trick was wearing his breeches, but the man swung fast and hit hard, and in any case, it was the indignity of the thing.

“Ow!” Trick cried again, in case the man hadn’t heard him. “Let me go! Let go! Augh!”

“What were you doing in our tent?” replied the man, as his hand continued to fall. “What did you take?”

“Nothing!”

“Ha! Try again.”

Trick kicked and squirmed, but pinned as he was, he could only flail helplessly as his rear end was smacked over and over again.

“What’s going on out here?”

The ground beneath Trick’s nose was suddenly bathed in warm, bright light. He had to assume the surrounding area was also bathed in light, but he couldn’t see past the tree stump, the bard’s propped-up leg, and his own kicking feet.

The bard stopped spanking, and Trick deflated over his knee.

“This kid was in our tent,” said the bard. “Looks like he was going after the stone, but didn’t manage to get it. I was just asking him what he did take.” The bard swatted him, hard, and Trick let out a yelp.

“All right, Errol,” said the new voice. It was deep and male and sounded tired. “Put him down, and let’s get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh, I’m getting to the bottom of—”

A female voice said, “Errol,” and the bard—Errol—fell silent. Mercifully, he lifted Trick off his knee and stood him back on his feet.

The second his feet hit the ground, Trick ran.

And a split-second after that, he was face-down in the dirt, unable to move a muscle.

“You see?” said Errol’s voice somewhere behind him while Trick struggled in vain against invisible bonds. “He can’t be reasoned with.”

Someone came to crouch down before him. Trick recognized the druid. Her silvery-blond braid fell over her shoulder as she knelt, and she regarded him with concern and mild curiosity. “Hello there,” she said. Her features were soft in her olive-skinned face. “There’s no need to run. We won’t hurt you.”

Errol’s voice said, “Maybe you won’t,” but the druid shot him a steely look, and he shut up.

“Please don’t run,” she said again. “Errol is going to let you go now. Aren’t you, Errol?”

“Oh, if you insist.”

A moment later, Trick felt his muscles relax. He patted the ground experimentally, then tentatively pushed himself to his knees.

“There we are,” the druid said as he sat up. “Are you all right?”

Trick eyed her warily. He turned his head to survey the rest of the group.

There was Errol, arms crossed and watching him with an expression between suspicion and amusement.

Behind Errol were two more figures. The smaller was only about half the size of his companions—a halfling, Trick thought, though he was much slighter of frame than any halfling Trick had ever met. He was a wizard, Trick knew, and likely responsible for the bonfire now burning brightly in the firepit.

The last figure was a human, and the only one Trick knew by name. Hendrick Pelmore. Sir Hendrick Pelmore, as he used to be called. He’d been a knight in Neverwinter, but he’d given it up for the life of an adventurer. Nobody seemed to know why.

Sir Hendrick approached them now, and every instinct in Trick’s body told him to get out of there.

“It’s all right, lad,” said the knight. He knelt down beside the druid. “What’s your name?”

Trick swallowed. “Trick.”

The man nodded. He put a hand to his own chest. “I’m Hendry,” he said. “Sir Hendry, if you like. My companions seem to prefer it. This is Ariadne. You’ve already met Errol. And that’s Milo,” he said, gesturing toward the wizard.

Trick said nothing. Sir Hendry was solidly built, with dark hair that was beginning to gray, and deep gray eyes. His face was scarred and unsmiling, though he spoke gently. “What were you looking for, Trick?”

Trick wondered what would happen if he said, “There’s a voice in my head that told me to steal a mystical artifact from you.”

The voice’s response to this hypothetical was a searing flash of pain that shot between his temples. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut.

Ariadne the druid touched his shoulder. “Poor thing,” she murmured. “He looks half-starved.”

A light went on in Trick’s head. He remembered the apple in his pocket, and he pulled it out. “I’m sorry,” he said, mustering what he hoped sounded like repentance. Ariadne clicked her tongue sympathetically.

“There,” she said. “You see? He’s just hungry.” She put her hand over Trick’s and pushed the apple back into his chest. “You keep that,” she said. “And we’ll give you a proper dinner.”

Sir Hendry nodded. “If you were hungry, all you had to do was ask,” he said. “We’re more than happy to share.”

Well, who was Trick to turn down a full meal when it was so freely offered?

He let Sir Hendry help him to his feet and lead him to sit by the fire, as Ariadne spurred the others into action, gathering cookware and ingredients. Even Errol, though he voiced his indignance, did so with a playful smile and obediently set to slicing the vegetables Ariadne handed him.

Sir Hendry sat across from Trick. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The sensation that he was being studied made Trick uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat.

The ensuing prickle across his backside reminded him of another uncomfortable sensation. He grimaced.

If Sir Hendry noticed, he didn’t mention it. He only asked, “Where are you from, Trick?”

Trick considered before answering, “Neverwinter.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Don’t have any.”

Sir Hendry nodded. “How long have you been on your own?”

Trick shrugged. “Long as I can remember.”

“You make your way by stealing?”

“When I have to.”

Errol, freed from slicing duty, plopped down in the grass across the fire. He had brought out his lute, and he plucked at it now, a gentle, comforting tune.

Milo and Ariadne had set the copper cook pot over the fire—Trick didn’t know where they’d gotten the water to fill it—and every few minutes, one of them dropped in another pile of veggies. Soon, an irresistible aroma had filled the campsite. Trick had to catch himself before he started drooling.

When Trick had been outfitted with a bowl of stew, a hunk of bread, and a cup of wine, Sir Hendry asked, “What are you doing so far from home, Trick?”

That was trickier to answer. Instead, Trick shoveled down two more mouthfuls of stew.

Ariadne said, “Oh, ease up, Sir Hen. Let the boy eat.”

Sir Hendry frowned, but he held off on further questioning until Trick had polished off two bowls of stew.

Trick couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten so well. He leaned back on his hands and sighed contentedly.

“Well?” said Sir Hendry after another moment. “What are you doing here?”

Trick hesitated. He waited for Ariadne to come to his rescue, but this time, she stayed silent. It was a valid question, after all.

“I… followed you,” he admitted.

Sir Hendry raised an eyebrow. “You followed us? Why?”

The voice in his head hissed a wordless warning.

Trick grimaced. “I… was curious. I wanted to see what you do. Adventurers.”

Sir Hendry tilted his head. “You want to be an adventurer?”

That wasn’t exactly what Trick had said, but if that was the conclusion they’d reached, it was easier to go along with it. “Yes, sir,” he said, feigning enthusiasm. “It seems so… exciting.”

That was true enough. The life of an adventurer sounded thrilling to Trick, who hadn’t been more than a few miles from Neverwinter his entire life. Seeing exotic places, discovering ancient treasures—and to be paid for it? It would be a dream for any common thief, and Trick was no exception.

Of course, no adventuring party in their right mind would ever want a skinny, twitchy pickpocket like Trick, and anyway, Trick preferred to work alone.

Well… mostly alone. He was never really alone anymore. Not since the voice had moved in.

“Exciting,” the knight was saying, and he gave a brusque half-laugh. “It can be, I’ll warrant you that. But it’s no life for a boy like you.”

Trick bristled. “I’m not a child,” he said. “I’m fifteen.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.” Sir Hendry was still giving him that appraising look. “What we do is dangerous, lad. It’s not as glamorous as the stories make it sound. We do the jobs other people can’t do, or won’t do. We run errands the errand-boys won’t run. We kill monsters the guards can’t kill.”

“I’m not afraid of danger,” said Trick.

“Then you’re a fool,” said Sir Hendry, and there was an edge to his voice. “Or else you don’t value your life.”

Trick couldn’t see his own face, so he had no way of knowing what Sir Hendry saw in his eyes at that moment. Whatever he saw, though, it gave the knight pause, and his hard expression softened.

After a moment, he addressed the group. “Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “Do we have an extra bedroll for the boy?”

Trick looked up in surprise, and Sir Hendry’s eye twinkled. “You didn’t think we’d turn you out on your own, did you? You’ll stay the night, and tomorrow, you’ll return to Neverwinter with us. That is, unless there are any objections.”

All eyes went to Errol, who put up his hands. “Fine by me,” he said. “But if he touches my things again, I’ll tan his hide, and I won’t be so gentle this time.”

Ariadne smacked his hip with the back of her hand, but Sir Hendry said, “Fair enough,” and turned back to Trick. “We don’t steal from one another. Think you can manage that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Trick, hardly believing his luck.

A bedroll was procured, and Milo offered to share his tent. “I don’t take up much room,” he said with an easy grin.

The cookware was cleaned and put away, the fire was stamped out, and the party dispersed for bed once more.

As Trick climbed into his bedroll, he heard the voice.

They are not your friends, it said. Use them. Take the artifact. And return to me.

Trick shuddered. But what choice did he have?

“Tomorrow,” he whispered.

This seemed to satisfy the voice, which fell silent, leaving Trick with his own restless thoughts to lull him fitfully to sleep.

Chapter Text

Trick was suffocating.

His whole body was burning up. He tried to put a hand to his head, but something had his arm restrained, and it was a struggle to get it free.

When he touched his hair, he found it damp with sweat.

Trick opened his eyes.

He was… under a blanket?

No… in a tent.

He blinked away the last remnants of sleep and looked down at himself. He was tucked snugly into a bedroll, which may as well have been a furnace.

He wriggled himself free and breathed a sigh of relief at the cool touch of the morning air on his skin.

When was the last time he’d slept in a bedroll? For that matter, when was the last time he’d slept through the night?

As he listened to the birds chirping in the trees outside, the previous day’s events came rolling back to him.

The artifact.

Sunlight twinkled through the canvas walls of the tent. What time was it?

There was a second bedroll in his tent, but it was empty. Milo.

Trick felt a surge of frustration. He’d hoped to awaken before the rest of his companions, to have one final shot at swiping the artifact—the thing they called the stone —while everyone was asleep. It would be a far more difficult task in broad daylight.

Trick chewed his lip and rolled up to his knees. Maybe it wasn’t too late. If Milo was the only one up, maybe Trick could snag the artifact while the wizard was out for a piss. It wouldn’t take him long, now that he knew where the thing was, and he wouldn’t need to open the screaming box, this time. He’d just grab the whole thing and run. Clumsy, but effective.

Trick started to push back the flap of the tent, but something caught his eye.

Milo’s backpack, unguarded, tucked into the corner beside him.

Trick’s heart skipped a beat. What was that saying about always picking the pocket in front of you?

He wasted no time rifling through the pack. Like his companions, Milo carried an assortment of potions and snacks—a fingerful of hazelnuts found their way into Trick’s pocket.

Apart from that, it was mostly books. Wizards carried spell books, didn’t they? Trick didn’t know how it worked, but he’d heard a wizard’s personal spell book could go for hefty sums of gold.

He didn’t have the first clue how to recognize a spell book, though. He thumbed through a couple of the volumes before moving on to the other contents of the pack. Surely there was something good in here…

Then he found it.

A leather pouch, which he assumed would be filled with coins, until he jostled it. Instead of the telltale jingle of small metal pieces, it made more of a tink ta-tink , like small stones clacking together.

Trick undid the drawstring knot and peered inside the bag. His eyes lit up.

Gemstones.

They were small, and there weren’t very many, but any one of them would sell for a small fortune. Trick licked his lips. Milo would certainly notice if his entire stash of gems suddenly went missing. And if he were smart—which was not always the same thing as intelligent when it came to wizards—he would have already tallied the exact value of the gems in this bag.

But he might not notice right away if one went missing. He probably didn’t count his stores every day. Why would he? And by the time they were in the city and he could find an appraiser, Trick planned to be long gone.

He decided to pick something unassuming. He pushed past the gleaming rubies and emeralds, and he came up with a pearl—a big one, almost the size of Trick’s fingernail, but just a pearl.

Giddy, Trick tucked the pearl into his pocket. The secret one, on the inside of his sleeve.

Enjoying yourself?

The voice sent an icy shock up Trick’s spine. “I’m going, I’m going.”

He buttoned up the wizard’s pack, double-checked that his prize was secure in its pocket, and stepped outside the tent.

A fire was crackling, and Milo sat with his back to Trick, hunched over a book. His spell book, Trick wondered? He made a mental note to investigate it, if he could.

No one else was in sight. Trick saw a glimmer of hope. While the wizard’s back was turned, could he sneak into Errol’s tent?

He waited a few moments. When the wizard didn’t turn around, Trick began sidling along the edge of the camp toward the tent shared by the two half-elves.

“Good morning!”

Trick nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped around to see Milo looking over his shoulder, staring straight at Trick, and smiling pleasantly.

The wizard beckoned him over. Stifling a groan, Trick joined him by the fire.

“How did you sleep?” asked Milo.

Trick gave a sullen shrug. Then, realizing he shouldn’t let his disappointment show, said, “Fine.”

“It’s not exactly luxury accommodations,” said Milo apologetically.

“Better than what I’m used to,” said Trick, which was the truth. He looked around the empty camp. “Are the others up?”

“All but Errol,” said Milo. “As usual. Ariadne and Sir Hen are out getting breakfast. They should be back any minute.”

Trick nodded. Up close, he could make out Milo’s features in more detail. His skin, the color of cinnamon, and chocolate-brown hair tied back in a velvet bow. His eyes, cheeks, and nose were soft and round, but his chin was pointed. His ears were pointed, too, Trick realized suddenly. He had never in his life met a halfling with pointed ears.

Milo was still smiling at him, and Trick jumped. “Sorry,” he said quickly.

“No need,” said Milo cheerfully. “Never met a gnome before?”

Trick blinked. “A… gnome?”

“We’re not that common around human cities,” said Milo. “Even in Neverwinter, I doubt there were more than ten of us there at a time. My family comes from the forest.”

Trick raised his eyebrows. “You lived in Neverwinter?”

“Oh, yes,” said Milo. “Along with Sir Hen.”

“He was a knight once, wasn’t he?” said Trick.

Milo’s smile didn’t waver, but something flitted across his eyes. “Yes,” he said, and Trick thought some of the cheer had gone from his voice. “That’s right.”

“Do you know—” Trick began, but he was interrupted as a monster came crashing out of the forest.

A bear, to be precise. An enormous, lumbering, brown bear.

It held a pair of silver-scaled fish clamped in its maw, there was a feral look in its eye… and it was heading straight for them.

Trick’s instincts took over. In the blink of an eye, he was halfway across the camp, sheltered behind a large stump, dagger at the ready. He peered up over the stump, heart hammering, and saw Milo blinking at him in surprise.

“Milo!” Trick cried. “Look out!”

The bear loomed up behind the hapless wizard. Trick gripped the dagger until his knuckles turned white and prepared to watch the first gnome he’d ever met be mauled to death by a bear.

And then…

It wasn’t a bear, anymore.

It was Ariadne.

She stood with her shoulders hunched and her arms extended, like she was struggling to balance. The fish dropped from her mouth, which was no longer large enough to hold them.

The ferality went out of her eyes, and she shook her head.

“Trick?”

Trick was staring, gobsmacked.

“Trick, it’s me!” She waved at him, but didn’t approach. “Oh, I’m sorry, Trick, I forgot you didn’t know!”

“You’re… you were…”

Ariadne smiled. “A bear,” she said. She scooped up one of the fish at her feet. “It’s easier to hunt that way. Are you hungry?”

Trick nodded dumbly.

Ariadne collected the other fish. Then she frowned and looked around. “Where’s Errol?”

“Still asleep,” said Milo.

“Still?” With a huff, Ariadne pushed the pair of fish into Milo’s arms and stomped off toward her tent. “Errol!”

Only once the druid was safely out of view did Trick venture out from his hiding spot. He slid his dagger back into its hidden slot in his boot.

He knew druids could shapeshift, of course, but he’d never seen it happen.

He rejoined Milo at the fire as the pounding in his chest gradually slowed.

Sir Hendry had returned, as well, with a collection of foraged herbs and berries. “Good morning, lad,” he said, with that unsmiling joviality of his. “Sleep well?”

Trick nodded.

From the half-elves’ tent came the sound of rising voices, though their words were muted. There was a loud smack , and Errol’s voice gave a yelp, followed by Ariadne’s sharp, “Get up!”

Hendry and Milo chuckled knowingly, and even Trick cracked a grin.

The three of them set to preparing breakfast. After a few minutes, Errol sauntered out of the tent, completely unabashed, followed by a harried-looking Ariadne. They shared a kiss and joined in the preparations.

It was Trick’s second real meal in under twenty-four hours, and the first time he’d had meat in… well, he should probably stop counting “firsts.” He could go on forever.

As they sat down to a breakfast of grilled fish and sweet berries, the others recounted Trick’s reaction to bear-Ariadne for an amused Errol.

“You should have seen him move,” said Sir Hendry with an appreciative laugh. “One moment, he was here, beside Milo… the next, he was halfway across camp—” he pointed at the stump— “holding a dagger he’d procured from somewhere…!”

They all looked expectantly at Trick. Feeling sheepish, he flipped the dagger out of his boot. The party oohed and ahhed as though he’d just done an impressive bit of magic. Trick’s cheeks flushed, and he rolled his eyes, but he smiled as he tucked the dagger away.

When the breakfast dishes were cleared—with a wave of Milo’s hand—Hendry recruited Trick to help pack up the supplies, explaining that the magic users had their various morning rituals to complete.

“Ariadne likes to spend some time communing with the environment,” he said, indicating a spot near the treeline where she had settled into meditative silence. “Milo usually needs to study his spells. And I think he and Errol were planning to identify that artifact we picked up yesterday.” He cocked an eyebrow at Trick. “The one you were apparently so interested in.”

Trick felt his ears prickle. “I’m sorry,” he said, because it was the thing he was expected to say.

Hendry clapped him on the back. “It’s quite all right, lad,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

Trick said, “Identify it? You mean, you don’t know what it is?”

“Not exactly,” said Hendry. “We know it’s valuable. It was stolen from its owner in Neverwinter. We were hired to retrieve it for her. Milo has a spell he can use to find out more.”

Trick nodded. “So if it’s very powerful, you might not give it back?”

Hendry paused in the middle of lashing the copper cook pot to his backpack, a surprised look in his marble-gray eyes. “Not give it back!” he said. “Whatever gave you that idea? If it seems dangerous, we might have more questions for her upon our arrival, but we were hired to do a job, lad, we’re going to uphold our end of the bargain.”

“Oh,” said Trick. “Sure, that’s what I meant.”

Hendry was studying him, now. “What about you?” he asked. “What will you do when we get you back to the city?”

“Oh… um…”

What could he say? That his first stop in Neverwinter would be at the forgotten temple, where he would make an offering to the voice in his head? That he didn’t intend to arrive in Neverwinter with this party at all, since he hoped to have given them the slip with the artifact in his possession well before their arrival?

He settled on, “Dunno.”

Sir Hendry didn’t seem to find this answer satisfying. He furrowed his brow, but he ceased the line of questioning there.

When they’d packed up camp, and Ariadne had finished her commune, they convened on Errol and Milo, who had hit some hangup in whatever they were attempting to do.

They had the artifact out of its box. It sat in the dirt between them, the dark violet orb glimmering as though filled with a thousand microscopic stars.

Trick’s pulse began to race. It was so close. Within arm’s reach. All he had to do was reach out and…

Take it.

No. Trick shook off the voice. Not here. Not now.

“What’s the problem?” Hendry was saying.

Milo looked concerned. He was pawing through a leather pouch—a leather pouch Trick recognized, he realized with a jolt. The pouch of gemstones.

No. There was no way.

“I need a pearl,” Milo was muttering. “There was one in here, I know there was. We picked it up at the temple.”

Trick’s hand closed involuntarily over the secret pocket in his sleeve. He watched the unfolding scene with mounting terror. What were his options? Reveal the pearl and say he’d found it in their tent this morning? Just start running now?

Not without the artifact.

Trick gritted his teeth. The party knew exactly one thing about him, and that was that he stole things. And he’d slept in Milo’s tent last night. Gods and hells, how could he have been so stupid?

The gears turned in his head. He had to act fast.

He bent down over Milo’s shoulder to peer into the bag of gems. “What are you looking for?” he asked innocently, pretending to study the contents.

Errol grabbed the front of his shirt and pushed him back two paces. “Easy there, little thief,” he said, a glint in his eye. “I don’t suppose you know anything about this, hmm? Been going through our packs again, have you?”

Trick put up his hands. “No!” he cried. “No, I swear! You all have been nothing but kind to me… I would never—!”

Ariadne’s voice cut in. “Is this it?”

All eyes went to her.

She was crouched beside Milo, pointing at something by his feet. She picked it up.

It was the pearl.

Trick resisted the urge to smile. He kept his eyes bugged out and his mouth pouting, the picture of innocence.

Errol narrowed his eyes. He scanned Trick once up and down, then released him. “Milo, you klutz,” he said. “You must have dropped it while you were rooting through that bag.”

Trick breathed a sigh of relief. He regretted the loss of the treasure, but there would be other opportunities. More important that he stay close to the party.

Milo took the pearl with a grateful smile and began drawing out his ritual. Errol and Ariadne began to take down their tent. And Sir Hendry…

Sir Hendry was looking right at Trick.

Trick’s blood ran cold. The old knight’s eyes were hard. His jaw was set.

“Trick,” he said quietly, and there was none of the usual cheer in his voice. “A word?”

Chapter Text

Milo was focused on his ritual, and Errol and Ariadne were busy with their tent, so no one paid any notice as Sir Hendry led Trick to the edge of the campsite.

Trick followed warily, unsure of what to expect. Was Sir Hendry going to shout at him? Beat him?

They stopped. Sir Hendry stood with his arms folded and looked Trick in the eye.

“Suppose you tell me how that pearl came to be tucked inside your sleeve?”

So he had seen. Trick cursed his own sloppiness.

Sir Hendry wasn’t an especially tall man, by human standards. He was taller than Trick, though, as most people were, and he carried himself with a steady poise that underscored the difference. He wore a simple leather jerkin over a cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing tanned skin and toned muscle. In fact, Trick noted, the man had muscles everywhere. Every minute movement sent a ripple through some part of his body. Even his face, from his graying hair to his neatly trimmed beard, look as hard and unyielding as an oak tree.

Sir Hendry was watching him expectantly.

Trick wracked his brain for a lie, but there was nothing for it. He’d been caught red-handed. Better try a different tack.

“I took it,” he said.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” said Hendry. “When?”

“This morning. I took it out of Milo’s pack.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

Trick hunched his shoulders. “It’s… a habit,” he said meekly. “When there’s an opportunity to take something, I just… have to take it. You never know when you’ll get another chance.”

Hendry was silent a long moment, perhaps deciding whether to believe him.

“And ransacking our tents last night,” Hendry said, “I take it you weren’t just looking for food?”

Trick didn’t like where this line of questioning might lead, but what else could he say? “No, sir,” he admitted.

“Did you take anything else?”

“No!” The indignance in his own voice surprised him, and he felt his face color.

“But you tried to.”

“I… got caught before I could grab anything good.”

“I see.”

Trick fidgeted. Where was all this going? If the man was going to beat him, Trick wished he would just get it over with.

Hendry rubbed his beard. “I have to say, I’m worried about you.”

Trick blinked. What was that supposed to mean?

“You’re clearly very skilled at what you do,” said Hendry. “You’re quick, and you’re stealthy. You could be an excellent addition to an adventuring party, if that was what you wanted to do. Instead, you choose to waste your talents lifting trifles from people who show you kindness.”

Trick’s mind was racing. He had never considered that his… talents… might actually be adventurer material. Adventurers were strong, brave, honorable heroes. Trick was a scrawny, slippery coward. Was Sir Hendry really suggesting…?

These people are not your friends, hissed the voice, and Trick jumped. Remember your objective.

“We’ve known each other for less than twelve hours,” Hendry was saying, “and you’ve stolen from us twice. I would not recommend a third attempt.”

He looked like he expected a response, so Trick said, “No, sir.”

“And I would recommend apologizing to Milo.”

Trick scowled. He would do no such thing. “Yes, sir.”

Hendry studied him a moment longer. “I promised we would accompany you to Neverwinter, and that’s what I intend to do,” he said. “With any luck, we’ll arrive sometime this afternoon. Then I’ll bring you to the adventurer’s guild, and we’ll see about setting you up with a party.”

Trick stared at him.

“Provided,” said Hendry, raising a finger, “that you give me cause to vouch for you.”

“I… I will.”

“Good.” Hendry didn’t smile—Trick had yet to see an actual smile from the man—but he twitched his beard and clapped Trick on the shoulder. “Let’s get moving, then.”

Sir Hendry strode back to camp. Trick replayed the conversation in his head, pinched his arm, winced, and finally hurried after him.

An hour later saw the party following the road through Neverwinter Wood. Ariadne and Sir Hendry were up front, scouting for danger. The woods were home to all manner of creature they would rather not come up against. Wild animals like bears and wolves could be dangerous enough if they were hungry. But the woods held nastier creatures, as well. Goblins. Gnolls. Errol swore he’d seen an Owlbear out here, once.

Trick followed at the back of the group. He was still trying to get his head around the situation.

He’d been caught stealing. Twice. From the same people. And apart from Errol’s somewhat violent reaction the night before, he hadn’t even been punished. On the contrary, he’d been given food, shelter, and an armed escort back to the city.

His companions knew he was a thief, but they seemed to be buying the “down-on-his-luck street urchin” act. Granted, it wasn’t a complete act. He was a down-on-his-luck urchin. But they hadn’t yet worked out what Trick was really after, and that was the important thing.

They seemed to believe he wanted to travel with them. Observe them. Get a taste of the adventuring lifestyle. And then get back to the city so he could resume his life of petty crime.

As soon as they realized he was only hanging around so he could get his hands on the artifact, they’d abandon him in a heartbeat, he knew. If they didn’t kill him outright.

Trick shuddered. He couldn’t let his guard down.

There was another option, too. One that he wouldn’t let his mind settle on. The idea Sir Hendry had brought up.

The adventurer’s guild…

Not an option, snapped the voice.

Trick, in his mind, changed the subject.

The artifact. Milo’s ritual had told them something about it, but not much.

It was apparently a vessel of some kind. Milo had referred to it as a phylactery —a kind of magical device that was used to store powerful relics, often of religious nature. This one was empty, which was a bit puzzling. Genuine phylacteries were quite rare, according to Milo, since making one was expensive and required a great deal of skill. But at the end of the day, a phylactery was just a container, presumably for contents that were even more valuable.

Why would someone go to such lengths to get their hands on an empty one?

That is none of your concern.

Trick changed the subject again.

He had learned about the screaming alarm, as well. It was another spell of Milo’s.

When the ritual was finished, Trick had watched him pull a green stone from his pouch, grind it in a mortar and pestle, and sprinkle the dust over the phylactery. (What Trick had taken to be a random assortment of gemstones were apparently actually spell components, and Milo did, in fact, have the exact inventory committed to memory.)

Then Milo had drawn in a long breath and let it loose in an ear-splitting scream.

“The spell is triggered any time someone opens the box,” Milo explained, packing the phylactery away as Trick twisted a finger in his ringing ear. “I have to dispel it if we want to examine the phylactery without getting a headache.”

So Trick would have to find a way to dispel the alarm himself. He’d worry about that later. Step one was to get his hands on the box and get away from the party.

It was in Milo’s backpack, now. Trick stayed close to him as they walked, eyes peeled for an opportunity.

Up ahead, Ariadne stopped short. She held up a hand for silence.

Sir Hendry drew his sword, and the others braced for combat. Trick tensed. He reached for his dagger.

Something went whff past Trick’s head. It struck Milo, knocking him to the ground.

Trick dove into the underbrush as another projectile whizzed by, barely missing Sir Hendry.

They appeared to be nets. Milo struggled on the ground, his small body almost entirely cocooned in one of them, while another had taken Errol out at the knees. Hendry and Ariadne whirled around, scanning wildly for their attackers.

And then the attackers made themselves known. From all directions, in a whirl of green skin and yellow teeth, and accompanied by a shrieking battle cry, a horde of goblins descended on the party.

Trick couldn’t tell how many there were. Easily five or six; possibly more.

One of them beelined for Milo. It carried a crude wooden club with nails hammered into the end. It giggled horribly as it advanced on the gnome.

It didn’t see Trick until the boy’s dagger had run it through, protruding from its midsection, glistening with ichor.

“Thanks,” wheezed Milo, as Trick freed his dagger and set to work on Milo’s bonds.

“Don’t thank me,” Trick muttered.

The ropes were thick and wiry, and it took Trick a long moment of sawing to get through one of them.

Around him, the shouts of the party intermingled with the whoops and cackles of the nasty creatures. Trick couldn’t tell which side was winning.

He managed to cut through a couple strands of the net, leaving a hole wide enough for his purpose. He flipped his dagger away, dug both hands into Milo’s backpack, and came up with the box.

And he ran.

The sounds of battle faded quickly away as Trick darted through the trees. He looked back a few times to check that no one was following him, but they remained pretty squarely preoccupied. He had no idea how long that would last, though, so he kept running, the violetwood box hugged securely to his chest.

He didn’t head for Neverwinter. That was where the party expected him to go. Better to pick a random direction through the woods.

Trick wasn’t particularly strong, and he wasn’t especially smart, but he could do a few things well, and one of them was run.

He’d had plenty of experience in the streets of Neverwinter, sprinting down winding alleys, hurdling storage crates, and sliding under market stalls. It was one area where his short stature and slight frame were an advantage: less opportunity to bonk various flailing body parts on various solid obstacles.

It had been tough, in the early days, before Trick learned how to run. Most of his pickpocket attempts ended with him no richer, save for the bruises gifted by his irate would-be victims.

But he was good at it, now. He knew the twists and turns of the River District like the back of his hand, and even on the rare occasion that he was spotted, he could outrun most of the city guards. Trick could outrun anyone. He hadn’t been caught in years.

…Well, except for last night. But that hardly counted. There had been magic involved. The alarm on the box, and then the bard had put some kind of charm on him. In a footrace, a real race, Errol wouldn’t stand a chance against Trick.

When he’d run for long enough to feel absolutely and totally unfindable, Trick found a comfortable-looking hiding spot at the foot of an enormous tree. He climbed in among the sprawling roots and settled down to wait.

They’d look for him. The phylactery was valuable, and Hendry in particular had seemed adamant that they make good on their promise to return it to its owner.

Trick considered what they would do. They’d guess he was headed to Neverwinter. When they ruled that out, they’d double back into the woods. Trick just had to wait long enough for them to get properly lost. A few hours, maybe. That should still give him time to get to the city before nightfall, and he wouldn’t have to worry about camping out in the wilderness.

Trick studied the box in his hands. “Got it,” he murmured.

You’re not out of the woods, yet, responded the voice.

Trick snorted. “Was that a pun?”

There was no response.

After a moment, Trick asked softly, “Who are you?”

Again, nothing. Well, it was worth a try.

In the months since he’d first stumbled upon the ruined temple on the outskirts of the River District, the voice had kept him firmly in the dark as to who—or what —it was.

The tasks had started small. A trinket here. A pendant there. Trick would leave the requested item on the temple’s crumbled little altar and return the next day to find a pile of coins worth twice the item’s value. He hadn’t questioned it. It was a fun game, and he was good at it.

The phylactery was the most valuable thing the voice had requested. It was also the trickiest job. It would require him to leave the city. Trick had been dubious, but the voice had assured him that he had the talent to pull it off. It had promised an unfathomable reward. Enough to buy a house. A lifetime of comfort. Trick might never have to steal again.

Trick rolled the box over in his hands.

They are not your friends.

The voice? Or just his own thoughts? Sometimes, it was impossible to tell.

A twig snapped nearby.

Trick froze. He couldn’t see much through the gnarled roots of his nest. That meant he was well hidden, which was a good thing. He held stock-still and listened.

The leaves rustled. Then again, closer. Trick began to hear a faint snuffling sound.

Something was out there. Something big.

Trick thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He forced himself to slow his breathing, counting the seconds between each inhale and exhale.

Several moments passed without any further rustling. Trick strained his ears. Nothing.

Carefully, quietly, he lifted his head to peer over the tops of the roots.

An enormous pair of yellow eyes looked back at him.

The eyes were surrounded by wiry gray fur and a snout that ended in a glistening black nose. Two pointed ears stood straight up on top of its head, like sentinels, all of their attention on the human boy who was feeling especially aware of just how small he was.

Trick steadied himself against the sturdy wood of the tree. He’d seen wolves before, from a distance. They roamed the borders of the farms east of the city. He knew they were larger than dogs. But he’d never seen one this big before. It was almost as tall as he was, and nearly twice as long. Its head was the size of Trick’s entire torso.

Trick ran his hand back along the roots. He took a very slow, cautious step to the side.

The wolf growled, and Trick froze.

“Nice doggy,” he said.

It lunged.

Trick dove into the roots before the wolf could sink its teeth into him. Its paws landed heavily on the branch above Trick’s head, and the wood gave a tremendous creak.

Trick scurried through the gnarled branches like a mouse dodging a cat. The wolf pounced again, and this time, the whole tree seemed to heave under its weight.

Trick drew a deep breath. He would have to run.

He peered up at the monster bearing down on him. “Sit, boy,” he said, and he drove his dagger up into the pad of one of the massive paws.

He shot out of the massive roots, and he could hear the wolf’s agitated yelps as it stumbled in the tangled wood. Trick had bought himself some time, if only a split second.

He sprinted away from the tree, legs pumping as fast as they ever had in his life. He’d left the phylactery behind. He’d come back for it—he just had to save his own skin, first.

He scanned wildly for a tree to climb. The trees that grew here were enormous, and most of the branches were too high up to reach.

He heard heavy thumping footfalls behind him. The wolf had gotten its bearings. It would be on him in a matter of seconds.

Trick leaped for the nearest tree, grabbing at the bark and praying to whatever gods were listening that it would hold his weight.

Go back!

Trick gritted his teeth. He clambered up the side of the tree, finding hand and foot holds in the whorls and imperfections of the trunk.

He reached the first branch about ten feet off the ground, just as the wolf caught up to him. It reared up and slammed its paws against the trunk of the tree, making it sway dangerously. Trick held on to his branch for dear life.

The wolf snarled up at him, its glistening maw less than an arm’s length away. “Good boy,” said Trick. “Who’s a good boy?”

The wolf made a few vain attempts to snap at him. When it realized it wouldn’t be able to reach, it sat back on its haunches and let loose a howl that shook Trick’s stomach. Great. It was calling for its friends.

Trick climbed farther up the tree, for good measure. He didn’t want to go too high, preferring the sturdy lower branches in case the wolf tried to ram the tree again.

Go. Back.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” said Trick.

Go back, said the voice. Now!

Trick’s temples throbbed with pain as the voice made its displeasure known.

“I will!” he gasped. “I will, I promise!”

The voice seethed in response.

It was in situations like this that Trick couldn’t tell whether the voice was missing some details of what was going on around Trick, or if it simply didn’t care about his well being.

“If I get eaten by a monster, you’ll never get your stupid phylacta-whatever,” he snapped, “so just give me a minute, okay?”

That seemed to calm it down. For the time being, anyway.

The monster, meanwhile, was doing a curious thing. It no longer seemed interested in shaking Trick out of the tree. It was just sitting there, licking its paw, and watching him calmly out of the corner of its eye. Trick had the sudden, unsettling sense of intelligence from the creature. Was it going to try to starve him out?

And then the wolf’s friends arrived, and things got a whole lot worse.

Because Trick had assumed the friends would be more wolves. But what he saw jogging toward them through the foliage was not a pack of wolves.

It was a human, a half-elf, and a gnome.

As the figure of Sir Hendry emerged from the trees, Trick did everything in his power to avoid looking at him. But somehow, magnetically, he found his gaze drawn to meet the old knight’s eyes. His expression was steely, and Trick felt his stomach twist.

Despite himself, he noticed that one of the party was missing. Where was—?

Oh…

Oh.

Errol had strolled up to the foot of the tree. He stared up at Trick with an expression that plainly said, We got you, you little shit. Errol rested a hand on the big wolf’s neck, and it nuzzled him in response.

“Good girl,” he said.

Chapter Text

Trick crouched on his branch, peering anxiously down at the adventurers gathering at the foot of the tree.

“All right, lad,” called Sir Hendry. “Come on down.”

He didn’t sound angry, though Trick knew he must be. His voice was steady and crisp, carrying clearly up into the branches where Trick sat hunkered like a cornered animal.

“I’m fine up here, thanks,” said Trick.

“You’ve caused us a good deal of trouble today,” said the knight. “It’s time to answer for it.”

Trick chewed his lip. Where could he go? Maybe if he climbed a little higher, he could reach the branches of the next tree over, and get away like that?

It would be treacherous, and though Trick was a fast climber, the adventurers on the ground would outpace him easily. Besides, Ariadne would probably just shapeshift herself into a monkey or a bird or something and knock him out of the branches.

“Come on down before one of us has to come up there and get you.”

Trick looked down again. Errol was beside the wolf—no, Ariadne, in wolf form. He held her paw and was studying the wound where Trick had stabbed her.

He felt a pang as he watched them. He hadn’t meant to stab Ariadne. He’d thought he was defending himself against a monster.

Milo was there, as well, looking uninjured, if a little dustier than he’d been before the goblin attack. Trick found himself feeling relieved.

Relieved? Relieved that they were all right? That the people who stood between him and a lifetime of riches had caught up to him?

Trick shook his head. He had to get a grip.

“Trick,” called Sir Hendry.

Trick tried to guess what the old man wanted with him. He didn’t sound murderous, but that was hardly anything to go on. For all Trick knew, Hendry enjoyed calmly slaughtering troublesome urchins.

Trick gripped the branch. “What are you going to do?”

“You’re coming with us,” said Sir Hendry. “Clearly, we need to keep a better eye on you. And I think you could use a reminder about our position on stealing.”

Another lecture? Who was this guy?

It didn’t sound like they intended to kill him, at least. Of course, Hendry could be lying, but somehow… Trick didn’t think so.

“Okay,” he said, seeing no better option. “I’m coming down.”

That turned out to be easier said than done.

Scrabbling up the tree, driven by adrenaline, Trick had moved his limbs without thinking. Handholds had appeared beneath his fingers as he let his instincts drive him upward.

Coming back down, Trick felt suddenly unsure. He couldn’t see below him to find footholds. He moved slowly, unsteadily, toeing out each knot and carefully letting it take his weight.

And then his toe slipped off its hold, and Trick was falling.

Along with running, hiding, and sleight of hand, Trick had a lot of experience falling.

He’d jumped out of more than one second-story window in the middle of the night after an angry homeowner had awakened to find him holding a purse full of coins.

Trick knew how to roll as he landed to distribute the impact over his whole body. He might wind up bruised all over, but he would avoid breaking an ankle.

Falling wasn’t quite the same, but it was similar. As he felt the bark of the tree give way, Trick flung his arms to the side and went limp, preparing for impact.

“Oof! Got you!”

Instead of hard earth, Trick’s body collided with… another body.

Strong arms clamped around him, like a cradle of steel, and pulled him in.

Sir Hendry steadied himself, then set Trick on his feet.

Trick’s instincts kicked in.

He ran.

Hendry caught his upper arm, and Trick jerked to a stop. Gods, the man was strong.

“Sorry, lad,” said the knight. “I’m afraid you’re not getting out of this one.”

The party surrounded them. Trick avoided Milo and wolf-Ariadne, inexplicably terrified of what he would find in their expressions.

It was far easier to match Errol’s gaze. The half-elf glared at him, golden eyes narrowed, a hand on Ariadne’s muzzle.

“What do you want?” said Trick, returning Errol’s glare with a scowl of his own.

Errol folded his arms. “Where’s the box?”

Trick pressed his lips together, searching for a lie.

But Ariadne gave a low woof and tossed her head in the direction of the giant tree where she’d sniffed Trick out.

The others seemed to understand her meaning.

Sir Hendry said, “Why don’t you three go on ahead? We’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

Errol scanned Trick up and down and snorted derisively. Milo gave a little sigh. The two of them turned to follow the druid into the thicket.

When they were out of sight, Hendry returned his attention to Trick. “You’ve got a thing or two to learn about respect, my lad,” he said, and though his voice didn’t ring with fury, it turned hard. “You’re shown hospitality, and you repay it by lying and stealing. That’s hardly a way to behave.”

“I didn’t ask for your hospitality,” said Trick.

“No,” said the knight. “But you gladly accepted it. I think we’ve been quite patient with you, but I, for one, have reached my limit. I warned you not to try this again.”

Trick’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed.

Sir Hendry wrapped an arm around his back, hiking Trick deftly forward and pinning him to his hip.

There was no point in struggling. Trick tried it anyway, on principle. His arms were mostly free, though the awkward angle meant the best he could do was knock his fist weakly against the back of Sir Hendry’s leg.

“Stop it!” he protested. The words came out in a tinny whine. “I’m not a child!”

Sir Hendry gave a humorless laugh. “Well, you’re certainly not an adult.”

The flat of his hand connected smartly with the seat of Trick’s breeches. Trick yelped, then he shut his mouth and ground his teeth together. He would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

Besides, Trick could take a spanking. It was hardly a new experience. Growing up a thief, Trick had been swatted, cuffed, kicked, and slapped on an almost daily basis. The few times he’d been caught by the city watch, he’d been young enough to escape very severe punishment.

The worst—and the last—had been at twelve, when he’d been unlucky enough to run afoul of the same guard twice in one week. The guard had hauled him to the Hall of Justice, where an acolyte had bent him over a bench and thrashed him soundly with a leather strap before tossing him into a dungeon cell for the night.

As Trick had fallen asleep on the cold flagstone, cramped and sore, he’d vowed never to repeat that particular experience.

Errol’s outburst last night was the first time Trick had truly been spanked since that memorable occasion. It had been a sharp surprise, but it hadn’t hurt all that much, and it had been over quickly.

Sir Hendry was a lot bigger than Errol, though. He was much stronger. And, by the feel of things, his hand was made of something more than skin.

The blows landed fast, each one covering most of Trick’s backside and landing before the previous sting had had a chance to subside. They snapped off his thin leather breeches in quick succession. In no time, his bottom was burning, and the stinging swats began to take on a prickling heat of their own.

Hendry layered blow upon blow with no sign of tiring.

Trick groaned. He toed at the ground, scrambling for purchase, but it was just far enough away to evade him. He wriggled, shifting his legs and torso, but Hendry had an iron grip on his midsection. Trick wasn’t going anywhere.

Trick squeezed his eyes shut as the heat continued to grow. He could feel a sob working its way up through his chest. He willed it down, furious with himself.

What was wrong with him? It was just a spanking. He’d taken far worse beatings in his life, at far less gentle hands.

Sure, it was a little undignified to be upended and smacked like a naughty little boy. But Sir Hendry hadn’t sworn at him. Hadn’t beaten him. Hadn’t even shouted at him, not once, through all Trick’s skullduggery and deceit.

So what was this knot in his chest? Why did he feel so…

…ashamed?

Hendry was still laying into him, and Trick’s resolve was unraveling fast. His backside was thoroughly warmed, and each new swat landed with a burst of bright fire.

At least with the Neverwinter guard—and with Errol, last night—Trick had felt a sense of injustice. His assailant had been reacting out of anger in a manner totally disproportionate to the crime. Trick had felt abused, and that sense of martyrdom had carried him through the lion’s share of ill treatment throughout his young life.

But now…

The sob wrenched itself free—one short, strangled gasp—and Trick clamped his mouth shut, fighting hard against a traitorous pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He would not cry. He would not.

Every few swats elicited a sound from him, now. A grunt or a groan, muffled through his resolutely clenched lips.

Sir Hendry paused to say, “We want to help you, Trick,” and then resumed his relentless pace. “But we can’t do that if we don’t trust you.”

Trick balled up his fists. “I—don’t need—your help,” he gasped, hitching at every blow.

“No, indeed.”

Trick made a frustrated sound that would have been a scream if not for his clenched teeth. Instead, it came out sounding like, “Hmmmmgg!”

“In any case,” said Hendry, still swatting away with excruciating consistency, “we have a job to do. And we cannot afford to be waylaid every few hours by an impertinent pickpocket who doesn’t know when to cut his losses.”

There was one last barrage, through which Trick squirmed and gasped and kicked feebly at the ground. And then Sir Hendry finally let up.

Trick’s whole body sagged. He released muscles he didn’t know he’d been tensing. He blew out a long, dismayed hum through his nose, still not trusting himself to open his mouth.

“Now then,” said Sir Hendry’s voice above him. “We’re going to continue on to Neverwinter. You’re going to come along so we can keep an eye on you. We have some questions for you, and you’re going to give us some answers. And if there is any more nonsense, you will find yourself right back in this position. I guarantee the experience will be no more pleasant on an already-smacked bottom.”

He punctuated his point with a swat to the undercurve of Trick’s rear. Trick said, “Mmph!”

“Have I made myself clear, lad?”

“Mm-hm,” said Trick.

Another sharp smack.

“What was that?”

Trick drew in a deep, shaky breath. In a subdued tone, he said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Trick hung there a long moment, steadying his breathing. Hendry hadn’t put him down, yet. Trick wished he would.

But then… no, he didn’t. It was confusing.

He couldn’t even feel resentment. Apart from toasting his rear end to its smoking point, the man hadn’t really done anything. He’d been so confoundingly calm about the whole ordeal, and Trick couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

The old knight still held him firmly, and Trick wondered for a gut-twisting second if he meant to resume the spanking. But, no. He was just… holding him.

This was ridiculous. Trick wriggled to free himself.

Sir Hendry acquiesced at once, as if he’d been waiting for Trick’s signal to let him go. He stood Trick on his feet and put bracing hands on his shoulders. “There we are,” he said. “Are you all right?”

A prickle of heat skittered across Trick’s bottom. He nodded once, curtly.

“It’s over, lad. All’s forgiven.”

Trick felt something rise in his chest, and it took everything he had to shove it back down. He sniffed once, to clear his eyes.

Sir Hendry tilted his head. “There’s no shame in tears, lad,” he said gently.

“I’m fine,” was Trick’s hot response.

Hendry didn’t look like he fully bought that, but mercifully, he didn’t press the issue. He only said, “All right. Let’s join the others. Do I need to keep hold of you, or will you refrain from running?”

What was the use? They just kept catching him.

“I won’t run,” he muttered. He’d really bitten off more than he could chew.

Hendry nodded. He motioned ahead of him, and Trick led the way.

They found the rest of the party waiting patiently, and Trick realized with a surge of embarrassment that they must have heard the whole thing.

Nobody commented—not even Errol, who seemed to have calmed down some and was plucking idly on his lute. It was not a wolf but the familiar half-elf figure of Ariadne that sat beside him, twisting his auburn hair back into its usual half-braid. She hummed along with his lute as she worked.

Ariadne had located the phylactery where Trick had dropped it.

When Hendry asked where it was, Errol said, “In one of our packs,” with a very pointed look at Trick.

Hendry nudged Trick. “Is there anything you’d like to say, lad?”

Trick blinked up at him. “Uh…”

The knight raised his eyebrows. “Do you think you might owe everyone a bit of an apology?”

Trick’s face burned—not as badly as his backside, though, which served as a stark reminder of his predicament. Biting back a grimace, Trick mumbled, “Sorry.”

“For…?” Sir Hendry prompted.

Trick hunched his shoulders. “For stealing the phylacta… artifact thing.”

“And for rooting around our things,” said Errol.

“And for rooting around your things.”

“And for leaving Milo face-down in the dirt to be harrassed by goblins,” said Ariadne.

“I figured he’d be fine,” said Trick. “You all know what you’re—”

Sir Hendry cleared his throat.

Trick heaved a sigh. “And for leaving Milo to be… what you said. I’m sorry, I…” he felt the tips of his ears go red, but he said, “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

Sir Hendry seemed satisfied, but Trick saw the others exchange a dubious look.

They do not trust you.

He’d been wondering when the voice would turn back up.

As you should not trust them.

Milo said, “The phylactery is a powerful artifact, Trick.” He looked genuinely curious, his wide blue eyes staring up at him. “What do you want with it?”

Trick started to shake his head, but Ariadne interrupted.

“He doesn’t want it for himself,” she said.

Trick’s stomach did a somersault. The voice buzzed low in his head.

“Oh?” said Sir Hendry.

Ariadne turned her bright, hazel eyes to meet Trick’s. He swallowed.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked. “In the tree?”

Trick thought back. “Who was I…?”

“You said something like, ‘I can’t get you your phylactery if I get eaten by a wolf,’” said Ariadne. At Trick’s stunned expression, she added, “Yes, the dire wolf’s ears could hear you quite clearly. Your phylactery, you said. Whose phylactery?”

Lie, hissed the voice.

Trick shut his eyes.

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie!

“Trick?”

“I… can’t tell you,” he said.

Errol said, “Like hell,” and got to his feet, but Ariadne stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Trick,” she said, and though her eyes remained locked on his, her voice softened. “If someone is forcing you to do this, we might be able to help.”

There was that offer of help again.

They cannot help you, said the voice. Only I can help you. Do not betray me, boy.

Trick put a fist to his temple. “No one’s forcing me…” he said, trailing off.

Ariadne gave a short nod. “Okay. He’s obviously under duress.” Some of her previous night’s sympathy returned to her eyes, and Trick felt some relief. He immediately recoiled. Why did he care so much about pleasing these people?

“Duress? By who?” demanded Errol.

The voice buzzed with fury. Trick shook his head.

Sir Hendry put a solid hand on Trick’s shoulder. “We can worry about that later,” he said. “For now, we should focus on getting back to the city.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

As they hefted their packs, Errol said, “We should tie his hands.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Sir Hendry. “Trick is going to cooperate with us from now on.” He leveled Trick with a stare. His dark eyes seemed to gleam in the dappled light of the forest. “Aren’t you, lad?”

Trick heaved a sigh. He was running out of options. They’d thwarted him at every turn. He had to get the phylactery—he had to, that was non-negotiable—but he’d already failed twice, and now the whole party was on high alert. It was going to be virtually impossible.

“Yes,” Trick said sullenly. “I’ll… cooperate.”

“There you are,” said Hendry, as if that settled everything. “We’ll keep a close eye on him. No need for bindings unless he gives us a reason.”

Trick didn’t miss the threat, cheerfully though it was delivered.

And so, once more, the party set out for Neverwinter, each of them with one eye trained on the thief in their midst.

Inside Trick’s head, the voice had gone eerily silent.

Somehow, this did not make him feel better.

Chapter Text

They spent the better part of an hour picking their way out of the forest.

Nobody addressed Trick the entire time, and Trick wasn’t about to invite more questions by starting up a conversation. They passed the hour in complete, awkward silence, the party members taking turns shooting him furtive glances.

They’d been careful not to voice aloud which one of them was carrying the phylactery, but it was obviously Milo. The gnome kept reaching a hand back to make sure the pockets of his backpack were still secured, and after about twenty minutes, he swung the pack forward and carried it the rest of the way like a baby in a sling.

It was almost laughable, except that with every step igniting a whisper of flame in the seat of Trick’s breeches, he wasn’t overly inclined to humor at this particular moment.

They must have figured he wouldn’t expect them to give the phylactery back to Milo immediately after Trick had lifted it off of him. Not a bad tactic, but it would have worked better if Milo was a little more subtle. The wizard looked as jumpy as a field mouse. Trick almost felt sorry for him.

They should really just give it to Ariadne. She didn’t miss a trick. And when she shapeshifted, Trick had observed, her belongings melded magically with her, reappearing when she resumed her regular form. If she was wearing her backpack when she became a bear, the most talented pickpocket in the world wouldn’t be able to relieve her of so much as a copper piece.

For that matter, Trick wondered why Ariadne didn’t spend more of her time as an animal. Wouldn’t her dire wolf form conserve more energy traversing the rugged forest floor?

And yet, even as she scouted ahead of the party, it was as round-limbed, petite half-elf Ariadne; sure-footed and graceful in her own way, snaking through the underbrush in smooth, aquatic motions. A bit like the furry, cat-like creatures Trick had seen splashing in Neverwinter River on his way out of the city.

Ariadne wasn’t slow by any means. But if Trick could change into an animal, he thought, he’d do it in a heartbeat. A dog, he decided. Not the big ones that terrorized the streets of his neighborhood; a friendly little terrier with a wagging tail. Like the ones kept by rich old ladies in the Bluelake District. That always had plenty to eat, and a warm place to sleep, and a gentle lap to curl up in…

Trick became aware of a low shushing noise. He perked up just as Ariadne signaled back to the party and called, “The river’s just ahead!”

Upon her word, the group picked up its pace. What had been a trudging, tedious slog through underbrush turned in an instant to an anticipatory canter.

Trick was nearly left behind as Milo and Errol picked up their pace, jogging to meet Ariadne.

Sir Hendry hung back, matching Trick’s stride in a way that was either companionable or—more likely—supervisory.

Trick jogged after the others and tried to ignore the old knight. The sight of him made his backside ache.

Oh, wait, no— that was due to the fact that the man had flipped him over and spanked him like a child. An excellent reason to avoid him at any cost.

Trick glowered at the ground and forged doggedly ahead.

Neverwinter River ran down from Mt. Hotenow, the volcano that rose from the depths of the forest, reportedly inhabited by fire elementals. It led west to the Sword Coast by way of Neverwinter, cutting the city neatly in two.

Now following the sound of the rushing river as much as Ariadne’s guidance, the party plunged all together past the tree line. They blinked, acclimating as their surroundings went from dappled green to blinding white.

In sight was the river, gleaming in the midday sun. It snaked through lowlands and then checkered farm fields, and in the distance, they could see it disappear at the foot of a city wall.

Neverwinter.

Trick felt a surge of hope upon seeing it.

He’d never been this far from home, before. Home was maybe a strong word, in his case, since it tended to evoke the image of comforting hearthsides and tender families, which was about as far from Trick’s experience as you could get.

Still… he knew how to navigate the city. He’d spent only a few days in the wilderness before joining up with these adventurers, but it had been a few onerous days of foraging for food, scraping out meager shelter, and hiding from wild animals. Life wasn’t exactly easy on the streets of Neverwinter, but at least he knew how to find a scrap of food in a pinch; knew which innkeepers would offer the occasional bed, if only grudgingly.

Did that make it his home?

Up ahead, someone had declared a race, and the vanguard was now running full tilt, laughing and shrieking. Milo’s legs were short, but every few seconds, he popped out of existence and reappeared at the head of the pack, while Errol and Ariadne fell over each other to keep up.

Beside Trick, Sir Hendry chuckled. “No match for you, are they, my lad?”

Trick shrugged.

As a child, his favorite pastime above anything else had been racing with his friends. The other kids in the neighborhood—many of them orphans like himself—had formed a scrappy sort of gang in the River District. Trick had been among the smallest in stature, but any would-be bullies had learned early on not to bother with him. Trick was just too gods-damned fast to make it worth their while.

Trick watched Errol lunge at Ariadne, taking her out at the hips in a whirl of limbs and dust. Milo trotted easily to the finish line while Ariadne locked a leg over the back of Errol’s knee and swatted his rump in playful indignation.

The paused on the bank of the river to have something to eat and to wash some of the dirt out of their hair.

Ariadne disappeared around the bend to take a private swim. Errol followed her “to help.”

The rest of them were content to splash the warm river water over their faces.

The waters of Neverwinter River were famously warm year-round. Trick hadn’t found this strange growing up. It wasn’t until he’d gotten older and overheard tourists marveling at the perpetually moving water and the faint steam that rose from it in winter that he’d realized not all rivers ran warm. Most of them were usually quite cool—icy, even.

Trick wondered what the city would be like if their river froze over like others did. Where would he sleep in the winter, if not curled up at the walls of the Cloak Tower, or under the ruins of the Dolphin Bridge, where the earth was always warm, and the sound of the river eased his dreams? What did urchins in other cities do?

Sir Hendry pulled off his jerkin and shirt to scrub at his bare shoulders.

Milo gave himself a cursory rinse, then unfurled a sheet from his pack and started setting up a little picnic. “I’m looking forward to a proper bath tonight,” he said. “Lady Lariel’s accommodations were nothing short of immaculate.”

“Lady Lariel?” said Trick. “Is that the person you’re working for?”

Milo hesitated, but Sir Hendry, pulling his shirt back on, said, “Yes, that’s her.”

“What does she want with the phylactery?” said Trick.

He didn’t miss how Milo tightened his grip on his pack. “I’m not sure, exactly,” said Milo. “She’s been my mentor for many years. She’s something of a curator of interesting artifacts. She keeps them in a… vault, of sorts. I don’t know how this one came to be in her possession.”

“You said it was stolen from her?”

Milo nodded. “They took nothing else,” he said. “We think they wanted it for some kind of ritual.”

“Hey, aren’t we supposed to be asking the questions, here?”

Trick looked up to see Errol, dripping wet and naked from the waist up, followed by an equally wet but fully clothed Ariadne.

Errol plopped down beside Milo and snatched up a hunk of bread the gnome had just put out. He brandished this at Trick. “Who do you work for?” he asked. “And what do they want with the phylactery?”

Trick matched his glare. “Why should I tell you?” he retorted.

“I can think of a few reasons,” said Ariadne, kneeling on the picnic blanket and helping to set out fruits and nuts. “Number one: we’ve been pretty friendly with you. So you might try being friendly with us.” She sent him a wolfish smile. Trick shuddered.

“Number two,” she said, “and please correct me if I’m wrong, but it does sound like you’re doing this… somewhat against your will.” She looked around at her companions. “Nobody here wants to see you taken advantage of. Even if you’ve tried to steal from us. On multiple occasions.”

Trick bristled. “I can take care of myself,” he said. “I’m not—”

“A child?” said Ariadne. “Of course not. You’re fifteen, as you’ve said.”

Trick flared his nostrils.

With deft fingers, the druid picked apart an orange. She held out the peeled segments, and after a moment’s hesitation, Trick took one.

“Child or not,” she said gently, “you seem like you’re in some trouble. And thief or not, you’re allowed to ask for help.”

Trick stared at the orange wedge in his hands. He shifted on the blanket to ease the stubborn tingling in his backside.

His jaw worked.

“There’s… a voice,” he said at last.

He waited for the voice to make itself known.

It didn’t.

Maybe it wasn’t listening…?

“A voice in my head,” he said, with a little more confidence. “It started a little while ago. It tells me to… get things for it.”

Errol said, “To steal things, you mean?”

Ariadne nudged him with an elbow, but Trick nodded. “Usually.”

Sir Hendry said, “It asked you to get the phylactery?”

Trick nodded.

“Did it say why?”

“No.” He popped the orange wedge in his mouth and reached for another.

He’d never told anyone about the voice, before. Not that he’d had many opportunities to tell people.

As he spoke, he felt lighter, like a weight was being lifted. He continued without being prompted. “It just said I’d be rewarded. And I am. Whatever I bring it, it pays me.” He took a third orange wedge. “Way more than I’d get trying to pawn it off. It started small. Just trinkets and things. I think it was testing me. The phylactery seems to be what it’s really interested in.”

Ariadne nodded along. “How much is it going to pay you for the phylactery?”

“I don’t know,” said Trick. “A lot. It never says, exactly, but it’s going to be a lot.”

Sir Hendry furrowed his brow. “And you have no idea who or what this voice may be?”

Trick shook his head.

“Male or female?”

“Hard to say,” said Trick. “It doesn’t sound like a voice, exactly. More like… I’m thinking someone else’s thoughts.”

Milo asked, “When did you say this started?”

“A few months ago, maybe. I found—” He stopped, suddenly aware of how much he’d given away. Should he tell them about the ruined shrine? What would they do? Try to destroy it?

Trick narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you don’t have me under some kind of spell?” he asked.

The four of them had been listening intently. They blinked and exchanged looks. Then they started laughing, almost in unison, and Trick felt his face flush.

“You’re not under a spell,” said Ariadne. “But I guess you wouldn’t know until it wore off.”

“Like last night,” supplied Errol. “I charmed you to get you back to camp. You felt it when the effect lifted, right?”

Trick had felt it. He hadn’t realized at the time, but the moment his senses had returned to him, it had been like waking out of a dream.

Now, on his sixth orange wedge and looking around at the four jovial faces, he didn’t feel like he was under a spell… but still…

“Why should I trust you to tell me if you have me under a spell?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t,” Milo said earnestly. “Maybe we take a break from the questions, for now?”

The others agreed, and the conversation shifted away. Errol fetched his lute, and Ariadne started telling Milo and Sir Hendry about some herb she’d found growing on the river bank.

Trick felt even more baffled than before. If they’d enchanted him, shouldn’t they be trying to get as much out of him as possible? He didn’t know much about magic, but he knew enchantments wore off. And… it was hard to put his finger on it, but he didn’t feel enchanted.

Could it be he simply wanted someone to hear what he had to say?

“Um,” he ventured.

The others looked up.

“Do you think…”

His ears burned. He barely knew what he was asking, but he forged ahead anyway.

“Do you really think you can help me?” he blurted out.

No one responded right away.

“I don’t know what it is,” Trick went on. “The voice. But it won’t let me give up. I don’t know what will happen if I try. And I…” Gods and hells, what was this feeling?

Staring directly into the cup of travel wine he’d been handed at some point, and in a very quiet voice, Trick said, “I don’t want to steal from you anymore.”

There was a long silence. Trick dared a glance upward, uncertain what he would find.

Milo and Ariadne looked like they were about to burst into tears. Sir Hendry smiled wistfully, like he was lost in a distant memory.

Errol, cool as ever, was the one to break the silence. “Well, good,” he said, hitting a few chords on his lute as he tuned it. “It’s dangerous business, fucking with us.”

“What he means,” said Ariadne, “is that we’d rather have you with us than against us, Trick.”

“That’s right,” said Milo. “I don’t know about this voice of yours, but we’ll do everything in our power to figure it out.”

Trick looked to Sir Hendry, unsmiling as always, but with a crinkle to his eyes that was not at all unfriendly. He nodded. “We’ve seen what you can do,” he said. “And if you’re inclined to make yourself useful…” He looked around, and the others nodded encouragingly. “We’d be happy if you joined on.”

Trick stared back at him, stunned. Join… on?

“I am,” he said quickly, lest they realize what they were offering and change their minds. “Inclined, I mean. To… be useful. Um. To you.”

He was met with broad grins all around. Milo and Ariadne clinked their wine cups against his. Errol rolled his eyes, but his fingers played a victorious riff on his lute.

And Sir Hendry’s beard hitched up in a real, honest-to-goodness smile.

“Welcome to the party, Trick,” he said.

Chapter Text

Their lunch was an assortment of bruised fruits, hard cheeses, dried meats, and a loaf of bread two days stale.

It was the best meal Trick had ever had in his life.

He had never felt like this, before. Like he could just sit idly on a picnic blanket, munching to his stomach’s content, while he listened to the chatter of the people around him. Not on constant alert for guards. Not fighting to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He had never felt so relaxed.

He’d never felt so safe.

They rested for an hour or more on the riverbank. When they finally packed up and resumed their trek toward the city, Ariadne moved to take point.

Trick asked her, “Shouldn’t you be a wolf?”

She blinked in surprise, and Trick added, “Or a horse, or something? You’d be faster, wouldn’t you?”

“Certainly,” said Ariadne with a little smile. “But what about the rest of you?”

Trick shook his head, uncomprehending.

“It does me little good to be fast if my party can’t keep up,” said Ariadne. “And it takes a lot out of me. I like to save it for when it’s needed.”

There was a cool silence as everyone immediately recalled Ariadne’s most recent use of her wild shape. When she’d needed it to sniff out an impertinent thief.

Trick dropped the subject.

It was a relief to be walking along the river after days spent in the plaguechanged tangle of Neverwinter Wood. Soon, the overgrown footway widened into a cart path. They started passing fishing docks accompanied by ramshackle little huts.

The huts grew closer together and tidier in their appearance. The road sprouted cobblestones, and as a bend in the river peeled away from them, the party found themselves surrounded by the lush, vibrant fields of Neverwinter’s farms.

Sir Hendry and Milo had fallen in beside Trick while Errol and Ariadne strolled ahead, hand-in-hand.

Milo in particular was curious about the voice in Trick’s head. “Is it there all the time?” he asked. “Can it hear you if you respond?”

“It can hear me,” said Trick. “Some of the time, anyway. And it’s not there all the time. Or… if it is, it’s not talking. If I try to talk to it first, it doesn’t always respond, but I think it can still hear me.”

In fact, he hadn’t heard from the voice all day. Not since that morning up in the tree. For days, the voice had been so adamant that Trick retrieve the phylactery, and now it had just… stopped? Trick found it hard to believe.

Then again, he knew so little about the voice’s motivations. Maybe it had simply given up and found a different thief to employ.

Milo rubbed his chin. “Doesn’t sound like any spell I’ve heard of,” he said. “Has this ‘voice’ given you anything? A trinket or potion it could be using to communicate with you?”

Trick thought back to the ruined shrine where he’d first encountered the voice. He hadn’t taken anything. There had been nothing there. He’d slipped behind a ruined temple to hide from the guards, and he’d found the cracked little altar all but buried in rubble; beside it, the little carving of an unfamiliar figure.

“There was a little statue,” Trick mused. “A figure of a cloaked… man, I think. But I didn’t take it.”

“A cloaked man?” said Sir Hendry, frowning. “An idol of some kind, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” said Trick.

“Where did you say you found it?”

Trick felt a sudden, powerful conviction that he did not want the party to know about the shrine. That was Trick’s place. His secret place. The place where no one could find him.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “Somewhere in the market.”

The Market District was an ever-changing jumble of hastily constructed stalls and traveling merchants. An easy place for a small, nondescript statue to get well and truly lost.

Milo gave a humph of displeasure at the dead end.

Sir Hendry, however, said, “Where do you bring the things it asks for?”

“It… tells me,” said Trick, inventing wildly. “Each time. It tells me someplace new.”

“Maybe there’s a pattern,” said Hendry. “Where has it taken you so far?”

Trick held firm under the uncomfortable line of questioning. “I can’t really remember,” he said. “Random spots.”

“Always in the city?”

“Yes.”

“And when you return to each spot, some money is waiting for you?”

“Yes, exactly,” said Trick, relieved that Hendry was doing some of the lying for him.

“So you’ve been to each of these ‘random spots’ at least twice, but you don’t remember where any of them are?”

Trick nearly stopped in his tracks as Sir Hendry locked eyes with him.

Ice flooded his veins. Sir Hendry’s expression was calm. Still.

Dangerous.

“I…” said Trick, heart hammering. “Well…”

Milo reached up to put a hand on Hendry’s arm. “Now, Sir Hen,” he said with an easy smile. “Are we interrogating the boy?”

Hendry seemed to shake himself. His tight expression softened, and he gave Trick an apologetic look. “Forgive me,” he said. “The more we know, the better we can help.” He scratched his beard. “Is it speaking to you now?”

“No,” said Trick, as his insides thawed in relief.

“I think you’d better tell us the next time it does,” said Hendry. “See if we can find out more about it.”

Milo nodded fervently. “Whatever it is, it’s using powerful magic to communicate with you the way it does. It can clearly interact with the physical realm—you’re getting your payments, somehow. And it wants this phylactery. Whatever it is, it sounds dangerous.”

“Agreed,” said Hendry.

He looked again to Trick, and though his expression was kinder now, there was a perpetual firmness to him that made it feel like he could read Trick’s mind.

“I have your word?” said Hendry. “You’ll tell us the next time you hear from it?”

Trick nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The road carried them past a final row of farm buildings. They rounded the bend, and suddenly, there was the city.

The walls of Neverwinter loomed tall in the waning late afternoon sun. The river had caught back up, running alongside the road until it vanished beneath the city wall up ahead.

The cobbled road veered south to join the High Road, currently teeming with traffic. Trick and the party fell in with the merchants and travelers arriving from Waterdeep and other cities on the Sword Coast.

They flowed with the throng of incomers through the southern gate and were met with the bustling chaos of Neverwinter’s Market District.

Something lifted from Trick. A sense of unease he hadn’t been aware of until this moment. It dropped from his shoulders like a physical weight, and he felt as light as a feather.

He was home.

As they picked their way through the clusters of haphazardly placed market stalls, Trick kept an eye out for anything worth stealing. The Market District was always packed with people, often carrying large sums of coin, and that made it an ideal environment for pickpockets.

That also meant there were guards everywhere. But Trick had found that they mostly focused on the market patrons, nabbing the pickpockets that were too greedy or too inexperienced to go undetected.

The guards rarely watched the stalls themselves.

Trick scanned the crowd until he located the nearest watchman: a stout human in the telltale blue cloak of the city watch. Sure enough, the man gave the party a cursory glance as they passed by, then turned his attention elsewhere.

That was another, more unexpected benefit. Petty thieves didn’t normally travel in groups. Trick had never felt so delightfully unnoticeable.

The current of traffic had them sidling between two stalls placed at an awkward angle to each other.

One of them was a jewelry stand. Every inch of it was dripping with precious stones and fine metals.

The other was selling skewers of spiced meat.

Trick tugged on Hendry’s sleeve and pointed at the stall, where clouds of smoke and steam sent wonderful aromas billowing forth. “Can we get a snack?”

Hendry looked where Trick was pointing. “Sure,” he said, turning back—too late to see Trick’s hand flash out toward the other stall.

A moment later, Trick had a skewer in hand and a shiny new treasure in his pocket. He took an appreciative bite of meat, pleased with himself, and moved to follow the party.

Hendry blocked his path. Ignoring Trick’s protestations, he corralled the boy back toward the jewelry stand.

To Trick’s horror, he addressed the owner.

“Excuse me,” he said. “My young friend here was interested in something of yours.” He looked down at Trick, deep gray eyes glinting traitorously. “What was it you were eyeing, lad? A bangle?”

Trick matched his gaze, every muscle tensed. Sir Hendry knew. He knew. How in the names of all the gods…?

There was no time to deliberate. Moving stiffly, grateful that his hands beneath the counter were out of sight of the shopkeeper, Trick pulled the piece of jewelry from his pocket and held it out.

He hadn’t even gotten a good look at it, yet. One of the first rules of pickpocketing was to avoid looking at the thing you were swiping. It didn’t matter so much what you got, as long as you got it without being seen.

And yet, he had been seen. How? When? Gods and hells, did the old knight have eyes in the back of his head?

The shopkeeper took Trick’s treasure and held it up. It was an ivory bangle, decorated with delicate bands of gold filigree. “A rare beauty,” the merchant mused. “Understated, yet exquisite in its craft.” He gave Trick an oily smile. “Your boy has excellent taste,” he said. “Is it for a young lady?”

”My mother,” said Trick, slipping easily into a familiar charade.

“Oh, how sweet,” said the merchant. “In that case I’ll let you have it for a mere two hundred gold.”

Trick swallowed a scoff. He doubted he would be able to pawn the bangle for a fraction of that price. He felt a twinge of envious anger at the swaths of people milling about who would so casually drop such an absurd amount of coin. If it weren’t for them, this swindler could never get away with prices like that.

Hendry hummed at the steep number. “That’s a bit too rich for us, I think,” he said. “What do you think, lad? You don’t really need it, do you?”

Lips tight, giving Hendry a mutinous glare, Trick jerked his head no.

“Thank you for your time,” said Hendry. He put a firm hand on Trick’s back, steering him away from the merchant’s hurried offers to lower his price.

Eventually, the party emerged from the hubbub on the north side of the Market District, where Neverwinter River rushed past, dividing the city between north and south.

Trick sulked at the back of the group, fuming over his lost treasure, and at his suspicion that, for some inexplicable reason, he was in trouble. Who was Sir Hendry to deprive him of a hard-earned prize? What did he care if Trick lifted one lousy bracelet from one conniving merchant?

They crossed the bridge over the shimmering, steaming waters of the river. The Bluelake District rose up before them, with its neatly paved streets and stately manor houses.

It was the wealthiest part of the city, and therefore the one Trick was least familiar with. The houses were built like fortresses and penned in with tall walls, and the residents knew better than to carry their significant wealth around with them on the streets.

The taverns could be fruitful, as they tended to draw both tourists and drunkards. But that was true anywhere, and the taverns elsewhere in the city were both more populous and less well guarded.

Milo was anxious to see Lady Lariel as soon as possible, but Errol insisted on a drink and a wash-up, first.

“Look at us,” he sniffed, tucking a stray lock of his own auburn hair behind one ear. “We are not descending on that poor woman like a band of unkempt ruffians. I would be mortified.”

“And you want a drink,” Ariadne teased.

“And I want a drink.”

Milo sighed, but he agreed to one drink before they reached their goal.

Errol steered them toward a local tavern: a small place, tucked among a row of townhouses, and less likely to be noticed by tourists.

As they approached the door, Hendry put a hand on Trick’s shoulder. “We’ll be right in,” he said.

Errol sent a suspicious look at Trick, who glowered at the pavers beneath his feet, dreading the half-elf’s commentary. But Errol only shrugged and led the others inside.

When they were alone, Trick blurted, “I didn’t steal from you!”

Hendry blinked, taken aback. “No,” he said when he’d regained himself. “But I don’t like you stealing, in any case.”

Trick crossed his arms. “I never promised that,” he said. “I said I wouldn’t steal from you. I never said I wouldn’t steal from miserable stinking rich merchants.”

Hendry considered this. “You’re right,” he said. “We haven’t talked about this. So let’s talk.”

Trick peered up at him, suspicious.

“If we’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” said Sir Hendry, “there are a few things you should know about me.

“The first is this: I try to be a compassionate man. I understand why a person in your position would need to steal in order to survive. I wish with all my heart that nobody would ever have to suffer such a life, but I understand that they do, and I feel for them. Fortunately, as a member of this party, you no longer fall into that category.”

Trick swallowed. Stealing was his life. It had always been that way. He didn’t know any other way to be.

“And a person in your new position,” said Hendry, “has absolutely no business taking what does not belong to him. From anyone.” He leveled Trick with a stern look. “Our business is helping people. Not stealing from them. Are we clear on that?”

Trick let out a huff through his nose. He nodded.

“Good. While we’re discussing expectations, I should let you know that if I have little patience for thievery, I have none at all for liars.”

Something fluttered in Trick’s stomach.

“Again, I can concede that certain circumstances may justify some degree of dishonesty,” said Hendry. “And we are all entitled to our privacy. I won’t ask you to bare your soul. But I promise that I will always be truthful with you. And I expect you to return the courtesy.”

This was even worse. Trick had grown so accustomed to throwing casual lies around that he sometimes caught himself lying even when he didn’t need to. It was more than a habit, at this point. It was just how he talked.

Instead of answering, Trick said, “You lied to that shopkeeper.”

Hendry raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

Trick glared up at him. “Yes! You said…” He wracked his brain. Had Hendry said anything that was untrue? “Well… you deceived him, anyway.”

“Not ideal,” Hendry conceded. “I suppose you would have preferred I tell him the truth?”

“I would prefer you to leave me alone,” Trick snarled.

Hendry didn’t rise to the bait. He only raised an eyebrow. “I will leave you alone, if that’s what you want,” he said. “Once the phylactery is returned to its rightful owner. I will move on with my party, and you may remain here, and lie and cheat and steal to your heart’s content.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Trick muttered.

“No, indeed,” said Hendry, his voice hardening. “What you meant is that you want to follow us, benefit from the security of being part of a team, enjoy the thrills of adventure, and carry on however you please without being held accountable for your actions.”

Trick scowled.

“Let me make something clear.” The knight leaned in, eyes flashing, and it was all Trick could do to stand his ground. “If you join our party, you are no longer yourself, alone. You are part of the us. Your actions reflect on your teammates, just as theirs will reflect on yours. If I am going to vouch for you, I am allowed to hold you to my expectations. Just as you are allowed to hold us to yours.”

Trick’s nostrils flared. “My expectations? Seems like you’re the one making all the demands about other people’s behavior.”

“You can expect me to do everything in my power to keep you safe and whole,” said Sir Hendry. “You can expect access to food, clothing, and any other necessary supplies. I will help you put your skills to constructive use, and perhaps teach you a few more.” He was ticking off his fingers as he went. “You can expect that I will treat you with kindness and respect. And that whatever it is you’re searching for, I will help you find it.

“In return,” said Sir Hendry, “you will not lie to me. You will not steal from me—or from anyone. And, in general, you will show your team the same kindness and respect we show to you.” His eyes shone brightly, and Trick thought he saw something rueful behind them. “Does that seem fair?”

Trick stared at his feet. Of course it was fair. It was more than fair. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of.

“Trick.”

He looked up. Sir Hendry put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“I want to help you,” he said sincerely. “We want to help you. Because you need help. Nothing more.”

Trick swallowed thickly. He nodded.

“The rules seem fair to you?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“I won’t catch you stealing again?”

Trick grimaced, but he said, “No, sir.”

“Good.” The knight straightened up and put his hands on his hips. “Shall we see what Errol is getting up to?”

Trick followed him into the tavern. He felt shaken. He hadn’t been punished, but his stomach was in knots, all the same.

He’d made a lot of promises just now. He wondered how long he’d be able to keep them.

Chapter Text

After Errol had gotten his drink, and everyone had had a chance to rest and clean up a bit, It was finally time for the last leg of the journey.

It was a short walk from the tavern to Lady Lariel’s home—a three-story manor on Blue Lake, at the heart of the eponymous district. A white plaster wall decorated with swirls of jade mosaic curved around the property.

Milo stepped up to the gate and rang the bell. They were greeted by a young half-elf dressed in simple but well-made robes of soft sage green. His face lit up when he saw who it was.

“Milo!” he said, ushering them through the gate. “Everyone! You’re back!”

Milo grinned up at him. “Hello, Felix.”

“You found it, then?”

Milo put a hand on his pack, possibly without realizing it, and nodded once.

“That’s wonderful! The lady will be so relieved.”

Felix led them along a footpath of round stones through the landscaped yard.

Trick couldn’t help but gawk at his surroundings. Hedges lined the paths that snaked around the property. The tidy shrubs were trimmed into complicated spirals and whorls that seemed biologically improbable.

To Trick’s left, a path led to a gazebo that looked to have been intricately carved out of glistening white marble. Trick was no stoneworker, but to even his limited knowledge, some of that detail shouldn’t have been possible.

Milo caught him looking and gave a little chuckle. “Lady Lariel is a powerful mage,” he reminded Trick. “With an eclectic sense of style.”

Trick noticed a few others milling about the yard. They had their noses buried in books or scrolls, and they were dressed in the same green robes as Felix. “You said she was your mentor?” said Trick.

Milo nodded. “She usually keeps a host of students around. We would do chores, help tend the grounds.” He gestured around. “In exchange, we had resources to help us in our studies. A built-in study group, for one,” he said with a grin. “As well as access to Lady Lariel’s personal library, and some of the more restricted areas of the House of Knowledge. Not to mention practice space. And occasionally, one of us would be called to help the lady herself with some project or another.”

Trick furrowed his brow. “It sounds…” Like a lot of work. “Interesting.”

“To put it mildly,” said Milo, looking wistful.

They followed Felix up a curving staircase shaped directly from the mossy earth and through the front doors of the lady’s manor.

In the front hall, Felix turned with a smile. “You all must be tired,” he said. He extended a hand. “I’ll run the artifact up to Lady Lariel. You can go and get some rest.”

Milo began to shrug out of his pack, but Errol cut in, curling his fingers around the gnome’s shoulder. “We’ll bring it to her ourselves, thank you,” he said with a wide, humorless smile.

Felix matched his gaze. “She’s very busy this afternoon, and—”

“Felix,” said Errol, and the honey lacing his voice was anything but sweet. “We. Will bring it to her. Ourselves. Thank you.”

There was a short pause, and Trick might have only imagined the icy tension, because Felix threw up his hands with a laugh and said, “Of course, my apologies! I completely understand. I’ll see if she’s available.”

He disappeared up the grand staircase—more mosaic, this time with pale gold worked in among the green—and returned a few minutes later accompanied by the most beautiful person Trick had ever seen.

He had never met an elf. He’d heard they were fair-featured and graceful, but that description hardly did justice to the creature who was practically floating down the steps.

Her skin was a deep blue-violet, almost black. The color of a moonless sky, and stark against silvery-white hair that reached almost to the floor.

She was small—only as tall as Trick, though clearly much older. Her age didn’t show in her face, which was as smooth and symmetrical as carved marble, but rather the way she carried herself. She stood straight as an arrow and moved in small steps, her round eyes blinking slowly, as if whatever she was thinking about had cosmic implications.

She wore robes of pale green, like Felix’s, but with delicate celestial patterns picked out in meticulous silver and gold embroidery. As she reached the bottom of the steps, she smiled wanly and spread her arms.

“Milo,” she said. Her voice was clear as a bell. “You’ve returned.”

Milo shrugged off his pack and reached inside. There was a brief, tense moment as everyone had the same collective thought—what if it wasn’t there?

But a moment later, Milo withdrew the familiar violetwood box, muttered an incantation (to dispel the alarm, Trick remembered), and popped the lid open.

There was the orb, safe and sound.

Trick relaxed along with the rest of the party. If, by some disaster, it had gone missing, the party would surely blame Trick. They would have had every reason to. Just the thought of it sent a shudder down his spine.

Milo handed the box over to Lariel, who took it gently. “Thank you,” she said, addressing all of them. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see this safely returned.”

“It was our pleasure,” said Sir Hendry with a gallant nod.

Lariel removed the phylactery from the box, inspecting it. As she turned it this way and that, its dark surface reflected the light in a dazzling array of colors.

“What are you going to do with it?” Trick asked.

The party looked surprised to hear him speak. Lariel regarded him as though seeing him for the first time. “And who might you be?”

“This is Trick,” said Milo, reaching up to put a hand on Trick’s elbow. “A new addition to the party.”

Hearing himself introduced like that made Trick’s face go warm.

Lariel nodded. “I will not do anything with it,” she said. “I will return it to my collection, where I will keep it safe.”

“Safe from what?” said Trick.

“It is a tool for powerful magic,” said Lariel. “I will keep it hidden so that it does not fall into the hands of one who would use it for ill.”

Trick thought of the voice in his head. It still hadn’t spoken to him.

“But somebody already stole it once,” said Trick. “Coudn’t somebody just steal it again?”

He was aware of the eyes on him from all sides. He looked up at Sir Hendry. “I’m just saying,” he said. “It obviously wasn’t very well protected the first time.”

Sir Hendry looked about to say something, but Lariel gave a little laugh—a soft, delicate sound.

“A good question,” she said. “I have my suspicions about how it came to be liberated from my possession. I believe I can take measures to ensure against a reoccurrence.” She turned a slight smile onto Trick. “You will forgive me if I do not go into detail.”

“Of course,” Sir Hendry said quickly.

“Ah,” said Lariel, remembering something. “Your reward.”

Trick’s ears perked up. Reward? No one had said anything about a reward.

Lariel shut the phylactery back inside its box. She made a complicated series of hand gestures. Then she plunged the box into the… nothing in front of her. Her arm disappeared up to the elbow.

Her shoulder moved, as if she was rummaging around inside an invisible bag. After a moment, she withdrew her hand.

The box was gone. In its place was a sizeable leather pouch. It made an unmistakeable jangling sound.

She handed the pouch to Milo. Trick followed it with his eyes, vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Milo, gripping the pouch in both small hands.

“I’m sorry I can’t give more,” said Lariel. “Milo, if you would like to study with me later, I would be happy to let you copy from my spellbook.”

Milo looked like she’d just made him the king of a flying castle. “Th-thank you, my lady!” he squeaked.

Wizards and their spellbooks, Trick mused.

Lariel offered them rooms in her home for as long as they needed. Trick figured they could stay for a month. A couple of weeks, at least. But Sir Hendry insisted that she was too generous, and they would be out first thing in the morning.

In any case, Trick got to enjoy the comforts of a manor house for the first time in his life.

Felix showed them to their rooms, which were magnificent. Trick had one all to himself, with a bed and a chest of drawers and a little writing desk tucked in the corner. He even had his own bath. As Felix held the door for Trick, he apologized for how small the room was. “It’s outfitted for the students,” he explained. “There are a lot of rooms, so they’re all rather small.”

It was finer than any place Trick had ever spent the night.

They were treated to a fabulous dinner in the banquet hall, and Trick stuffed himself with venison and quail until he thought he might burst. They chatted with Lady Lariel, and Milo regaled them with fond stories of his time studying with her. Wine flowed freely, and everyone was in a pleasant mood, their mission finally complete.

But the best part, Trick thought, was the bath.

One of the attending students drew it for him, heating the water magically and filling it with foaming bubbles and exotic fragrances. As Trick slid into the luxurious water, it was like every muscle in his body relaxed at once.

Trick had had baths before, but not recently, and never like this. He usually just sponged off in the river waters, when no one was around to shoo him off. The last time he’d had an actual bath, it had been at the boys’ home in the River District, as far back as he could remember, in a lukewarm tub shared with two other boys, while a snappish woman scrubbed them raw with a coarse brush.

Now, in the comfort of a private room, Trick draped his arms over the side of the tub and shut his eyes as the heat permeated his entire being.

There was a knock at the door. “Trick?” It was Ariadne.

“Umm,” said Trick.

“Don’t stay in there too long! You’ll shrivel up!”

“Mm-hmm,” said Trick.

He heard her laugh, muffled through the door. “And get some rest. Sir Hen wants to be out early tomorrow.”

“Kaayyy,” said Trick.

Eventually, the charm on the bath water wore off and began to cool, and Trick pulled himself reluctantly out of the bubbles. His fingers and toes were as wrinkled as dried fruit, but he didn’t mind at all. His belly was full, he was warm inside and out, and he was about to sleep in a bed.

He found a nightshirt folded neatly on the dresser. He pulled it over his head, climbed into the bed, and had just started to think about what to think about when he fell into an immediate and thorough sleep.

When he opened his eyes, he was at the shrine.

He could tell that was where he was, even though it looked… very different. Instead of the caved-in corner of a vacant building, Trick stood in a high-ceilinged room, with gleaming black stone walls and narrow pillars that stretched far overhead.

The shrine itself was before him, set into an alcove in the wall. Above it, the cloaked figurine, wrought in jet-black obsidian, peered down at him from under its hood.

Only the figurine was much larger than Trick remembered. As tall as a man. Taller.

And then… it moved.

Trick stumbled backward as the figure grasped the stone wall with long, curling fingers and pried itself forth. It stepped out of the wall to float some four feet in the air. Its cloak moved gently around it, though Trick could feel no breeze.

“I think we should have a talk,” it said.

It was the voice, of course. But it wasn’t the whisper inside Trick’s head. This was a man’s voice, audible, and silky smooth. He spoke softly, placing each word with careful precision. The sound of it sent chills up and down Trick’s spine.

“Who are you?” Trick whispered.

“You told them about me.”

Trick shook his head, trembling as his heart pounded in his chest. “How could I?” he said. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The figure was silent for a long moment, perhaps considering how to answer. Finally, he said, “I have gone by many names. Fateless. The Dark Sun. The Prince of Lies. I was called Sirhivatizangpo by the Gugari and N’asr by the Bedine.” He inclined his cloaked head. “Your righteous friend would know me as Cyric.”

“Sir Hendry? He… he knows you?”

“Do not speak of me to him,” Cyric said icily. “You have already told them too much. To think that you would betray me so easily. After everything I’ve done for you.”

It was a knife to the gut. Trick cringed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was… afraid. They said you might be dangerous.”

“Hmmm,” said Cyric. “Dangerous. Yes, I am dangerous. You are right to fear me.”

“What do you want?”

“I have told you what I want.”

“But… why?” Trick hugged his arms around himself, as though he might shake apart. “What are you going to do? The phylactery… Lady Lariel said—”

“Lariel.” Cyric gave a derisive snort that racked the air between them. “Lariel is a coward. Tremendous power at her fingertips, and she squanders it. Hides it. Fears it.” Cyric held out a hand and curled his fingers into a fist. “What good is power if you are too afraid to wield it? She is a disgrace. I am surprised that someone like you would seek to follow her.”

Despite himself, Trick bristled. “I’m not following her,” he said.

“You brought her my phylactery.”

“I didn’t—”

“YOU FAILED,” bellowed Cyric, his voice suddenly thunderous. It rang through the temple like the clang of a terrible bell, and Trick cowered in terror. “YOU FAILED TO RETRIEVE IT. YOU LET THEM TAKE IT TO HER. YOU ARE NO THIEF.”

“I tried!” Trick squeaked. “They were too powerful!”

The ringing in his ears subsided. When Cyric spoke again, it was in the calm, soft voice, as if the outburst hadn’t happened. “You desire power,” he said. “You will not find it from them.”

Trick shook his head, but he found himself considering the terrible man’s words. There was truth to what he said.

“Do you think they will make you rich?” Cyric went on. “Do you think they will give you what you want? Vengeance on those who have wronged you? Wealth and power beyond your wildest fantasies? Lariel the coward, Hendrick the just… You think they care about a wretched thief? The knight told you himself—he despises your kind. They do not want you. They will not care for you. You are no longer a threat to them, and so they will abandon you. Everyone abandons you.”

In a blur of whiplike motion, Cyric appeared in front of Trick, who tried to step back but found himself rooted to the spot.

Cyric coiled his fingers around Trick’s face, as if to caress him, but not making contact. “Except me,” he said, an uncanny lilt in his voice. “I keep my promises. Do I not?”

His voice hoarse, Trick whispered, “You do.”

“Do you not believe I will keep this one?”

“I… I do.”

“Then your path is clear.”

Trick was trembling from head to toe. “What if they catch me?”

“Do not fear them,” said Cyric. “They are weak. I will protect you.” His figure floated back a pace, and Trick released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You are capable of great things, young thief. Take pride in your calling.”

The vision began to fade. The temple walls dissolved in a swirl of gray mist, and Trick felt the fog of sleep wash over him again.

The last thing he heard was Cyric’s voice, whispered, distant.

“Do not betray me again.”

Then he was gone.

Trick awoke with a physical lurch, as though he’d been dropped into his bed, the wooden frame creaking beneath him.

He was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, blood pumping loudly in his ears.

It was dark, and the house was still. Through the open window, Trick heard the distant bells of the Hall of Justice as they clanged four o’clock.

The memory of his dream swam in his head.

No, not a dream. Too real to be just a dream. He’d been… transported. He’d spoken to the voice.

To Cyric.

Trick sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. The voice had spoken to him. He’d promised to tell Sir Hendry, and now he had more information. A name. And that space… a temple of some kind. Which meant this Cyric was…

…a god?

Surely a god wouldn’t need someone like Trick to run errands for it.

But then, the gods had all sorts of mortal servants. Acolytes. Paladins. Clerics. Maybe their influence was more limited than one might expect.

He should tell Sir Hendry.

But… what if Cyric was right?

Hendry had said it himself: they’d accompany Trick to Neverwinter so they could keep an eye on him. To stop him from stealing the phylactery. Sure, they had made a lot of attractive promises since then. But what was a promise? Just words.

Trick had always been on his own. He liked it that way. He knew how to be a thief, and he was good at it. Sir Hendry was trying to change him into something he wasn’t. Cyric, frightening and mysterious though he was, appreciated Trick’s talents. And he had delivered rewards. Real gold, not clothes and honesty and whatever else the old knight had babbled on about.

Trick dressed himself, tugging on his leather breeches and well-worn cotton shirt. On the desk, he found a satchel filled with fine parchment, ink, and quills. He emptied the bag and slung it around his shoulder.

Okay, he thought. Where am I going?

For once, the voice—Cyric—was quick to respond.

The House of Knowledge, he said. The lowest level. Enter through the back, and be unseen.

Trick nodded. Heart pounding, gripping the empty satchel like a safety net, he slipped through the bedroom door and made his way out into the night.

Chapter Text

The House of Knowledge stood on the south bank of the river. Its domed roof rose up over the city, dwarfing the buildings and stalls of the surrounding Market District. It was a temple to Oghma, the god of knowledge, and one of the two grand temples in Neverwinter.

The other, of course, was the Hall of Justice. Trick had been inside that nightmarish place only once—when he’d been soundly thrashed in the name of Tyr—and he had no interest in ever returning.

He’d never been inside the House of Knowledge at all. Enormous though it was, Trick found it less imposing than its Tyrran counterpart, whose imperious turrets and massive stone courtyards seemed to declare, “Tyr is watching, and he does not like what he sees.”

The House of Knowledge seemed somehow gentler. Perhaps because most of the civilians who found themselves inside were there on purpose, and not because they’d crossed the city watch. It was a library at its core, curated and attended by the Oghmanyte priests.

Trick knew it held a lot of books. Supposedly, it was second only to Candlekeep for troves of knowledge on the Sword Coast, though that wasn’t much of a frame of reference. Trick had never been to Candlekeep. He’d never been anywhere.

The front entrance was lit with ever-burning braziers, casting a welcoming glow over the portico.

Trick crept around the perimeter of the courtyard, one eye on the blue-cloaked guard posted at the entrance, thankful for the lack of moon tonight. The darkness provided some cover, as long as the guard didn’t look too hard in this direction.

Once out of sight, Trick hurried along the side wall and slipped around the back.

He found a narrow staircase that led down to a door, which was unguarded. He made quick work of the lock and, careful to avoid any creaking hinges, pushed his way inside.

He was met with utter blackness.

“Glow.”

His ring eased obediently to life. Trick crouched down and held it close to the floor, scanning back and forth as he inched carefully forward.

He appeared to be in a storeroom. Crates and barrels were stacked against the walls, and the sweet smell of cured meat was thick in the air. He must be near the kitchens.

At the thought of food, Trick licked his lips impulsively. He was surprised to find his stomach still felt full, though it had been several hours since dinner. He couldn’t remember ever having had so much to eat in one sitting. Perhaps it was still fueling him.

Still, he couldn’t pass through a roomful of food without taking something for the road.

In one corner, he found a wheel of cheese, half as tall as he was, sealed in thick wax. A quick investigation nearby revealed a basket of cloth bundles, each containing a soft, white ball with a mild odor.

Trick dropped three of them into his satchel.

You waste time. After tonight, you will never want for food again.

Trick believed him. But old habits died hard.

He located the storeroom door, but he passed it by in favor of the smaller door beside it. This one was the size of a cupboard, set into the wall a few feet off the ground.

A dumbwaiter.

Trick swung open the door and shined his glowlight inside.

Instead of a cupboard of shelves, he was met with an open, vertical shaft. The cupboard must be on a different floor.

He reached to the back, searching for the cables of the pulley system, but he found only the stone wall of the shaft. Confused, he leaned in for a closer look.

Aha. There. A tiny glyph had been etched into the far wall. Under the light of Trick’s ring, it seemed to shimmer.

So this was a magic dumbwaiter. Fantastic.

Trick checked the walls surrounding the door for some sort of calling device, but he was out of luck. He groaned in frustration. Leave it to wizards to design something only they could use.

Trick leaned back in and peered downward. The shaft continued, which was lucky, at least.

Seeing no better alternative, Trick checked that his satchel was secure, then hoisted himself over the door frame.

There were scarce few benefits to being small for his age, but this was one of them.

The shaft was just wide enough to contain him. Trick eased himself in, maneuvering so that he held the lip of the door frame. He anchored his feet and pressed his back against the opposite wall.

Slowly, using the friction against his feet and back to hold him in place, he moved first one hand and then the other to press his palms into the wall, as well.

He took a few steadying breaths.

Very carefully, Trick moved one foot down. Then one hand. Then he eased up the pressure just enough to slide his back down along the stone wall, just a short distance. Then he locked himself back in and repeated the process.

Ever so slowly, he began to descend.

No one would have said Trick was a strong person. Not even Trick himself. But he was also not a tall person or a heavy person. He didn’t have to be strong to support his own weight.

And he was a very good climber.

It was an arduous process, feeling his way in the darkness, inching down through the dumbwaiter shaft. But Trick could be patient.

At last, his foot bumped against something solid beneath him.

He tested it, then eased his weight onto one foot and then the other. His muscles relaxed, grateful for the reprieve. He ran his sleeve over the sweat beading at his hairline and took a moment to catch his breath.

Then he raised his glow ring and looked for the door.

There wasn’t one.

A stab of panic shot through him before he realized the logical conclusion: he must be standing on the cabinet.

Sure enough, looking down, the “floor” was made of wood, not stone, and there was a two-inch gap between it and the surrounding walls. And—yes, there it was! Peering down along the front wall, he could make out the door jamb just below. Perfect. If he could just get into the compartment, he’d be able to access the door.

So. He just had to get into the compartment.

…Somehow.

Trick tapped on the wood beneath him. It felt unhelpfully solid. His dagger would go dull long before sawing through it, let along cutting a hole wide enough for Trick to pass through.

Maybe he could break through it? Bash the hilt of his dagger against it, then try jumping on it until it gave? That wasn’t exactly the stealthiest strategy, but it might be his only option. He shone his ring around the wooden surface, studying for anything he’d missed.

There was nothing special. The ceiling of the cupboard was plain hardwood planks, nailed to the supporting walls at either end.

Wait.

Nailed. From the top.

In a flash, Trick had his dagger in hand and was shimmying it under the flat head of one of the nails. It took some doing—the gods only knew how long ago this thing had been made—but with some jiggling, the nail began to slide free.

A few minutes later, Trick had a new collection of slightly bent iron nails in his pocket (you never knew when something like that might come in handy). He pried the plank of wood free with a satisfying pop, slid into the empty compartment, kicked out the shelves beneath him, shouldered through the door, and stepped into another pitch-black room.

It was much cooler down here. Trick noticed the musty smell of wine before he saw the barrels stacked neatly along one wall. He edged around tall shelves of dusty bottles, wondering distantly how much money any one of them would go for. He tried not to think about it. A bottle of wine would be difficult to steal, buried as he was two stories underground.

Trick was getting close. This was the lowest level of the House of Knowledge. Lariel’s “vault” would be around here somewhere.

He found the door to the storeroom. It was locked, but that was hardly a meaningful obstacle. A moment’s fiddling, and it clicked open under Trick’s practiced hand.

After so much time squinting in the dark, Trick was nearly blinded by the dimly-lit hallway he stepped into.

He was at the foot of a narrow stairwell. Torches on the walls above him burned with an unnatural light—magical flames, enchanted to always stay lit.

There was another door. An engraved metal label declared STACKS in tidy letters. The door opened freely under Trick’s hand.

The “Stacks” appeared to be rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. The room was long and narrow, and similarly lit with torches. This made Trick uneasy. Why keep torches burning through the night? Who did they expect would be down here?

He picked cautiously around the shelves, half-expecting someone to jump out at him, and ready to dart out of reach.

At the center of the room was a small desk. The chair was empty, but there was an open book on the desk, and a half-drunk mug of coffee.

It was still warm.

Trick plastered himself against the nearest set of shelves and held his breath, listening. What had drawn the librarian away from their post? Had they heard Trick creeping about?

Silently, Trick proceeded through the shelves, every muscle tensed, every sense on high alert.

He rounded a corner.

He found the librarian.

Trick stared in horror at the body on the floor. Paralyzed? Unconscious? No… there was something telling in the elderly woman’s expression. Her rigid, slack-jawed face. The glazed-over eyes.

Trick backed away. He had to get out of here. He had to run.

There now, came Cyric’s voice, oddly soothing. You are in no danger.

Trick shook his head. “Who… what…”

You’re nearly there.

Trick looked up to see a doorway in the wall ahead. It was unlike the others he’d encountered. This one was a marble archway set into the wall, inscribed all around with arcane glyphs. It led to another room. As Trick looked closer, he could see a faint shimmer over the entrance, like a reflective film.

A pocket dimension, said Cyric, as if that explained anything. The witch is clever. Go on, boy. It’s perfectly safe.

Trick tried to make out what was through the door. The image of a room danced at the corners of his vision. He could see into the room, but as soon as he tried to focus on any details, the shimmering film seemed to obstruct his view, like trying to see through a window on a sunny day. He ducked his head to try to get a better angle, but the picture continued to evade him.

Trick swallowed hard. He approached the doorway and raised a hand. He felt the thrum of magical energy against his palm.

Go. In.

Trick’s hand passed through the portal with no resistance. A second later, the rest of him followed.

He was in a round room. It had to be a room: there was a floor, and walls, and a ceiling. But they were of no material Trick could identify. They were colorless, yet solid, and they rippled with the same iridescent sheen as the portal in the doorway.

There were doors in the walls, Trick realized. All different sizes, but none of them very large. Like a series of small, disorganized cupboards.

That was as much as Trick took in before he noticed the other prominent feature.

There was another person in the room.

A half-elf in sage green robes.

“Oh,” said Felix with a vacant smile. “It’s you.”

Trick stared, stupefied, as Felix dug a keyring out of his robes.

“What are you doing here?” Trick finally managed.

“The same thing as you,” said Felix. He inserted a key into the padlock securing one of the smaller doors. “Lariel thinks she’s clever with her warding glyphs,” he said, gesturing at the floor beneath Trick’s feet, just inside the doorway. Trick could make out the faint outline of arcane runes chalked in blue. “As if I wouldn’t expect her to heighten security after last time. Don’t worry,” he added lazily as Trick leapt out of the magical circle like it had burnt him. “I’ve already dispelled it.”

“What are you doing here?” Trick asked again.

“This would have been easier at the temple,” said Felix. “A host of servants eager to give their bodies and souls for the benefit of our Dark Lord.”

A cold prickle began to run up Trick’s spine. “You mean… Cyric?”

“Of course, we don’t need dozens of inept peons if we have one arcane mind, honed to perfection—” Felix tapped his own temple— “and the soul of one extremely capable thief.”

Trick didn’t know what any of that meant, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

He turned to run.

The ground came up to meet him. He landed with a thud on the strange, hard floor, paralyzed from head to toe.

“I don’t think so,” said Felix.

Trick watched him unlock the cabinet and withdraw the small violetwood box. On the inside of the door, Trick saw the glint of something like metal—a trip wire, he thought for a fleeting moment, and Felix would be shot through with poison darts, or engulfed in choking fog…

But nothing happened except that Felix clicked open the lid of the box, withdrew the phylactery, and placed it on the floor beside Trick’s incapacitated body.

“Now, we begin,” said Felix.

He drew a knife, sliced it across his own palm, and drizzled his blood over the phylactery.

Then he picked up Trick’s hand.

Stop it, Trick begged, unable to move his mouth to speak. Cyric, help me!

Cyric responded, his shadow of a voice as cold as ever. Be joyful, he said. You have been chosen to supply the life force of the One and the All, the Highest of High, the Dark Prince, the Almighty. My reign will be absolute, and my return to power will be all thanks to you. Be honored, little thief.

Felix’s knife flashed. White fire bloomed across Trick’s palm. He couldn’t move to squeeze it shut, or even scream to lessen the pain.

I didn’t want this. Please, let me go.

Having applied Trick’s blood to the phylactery, Felix was now muttering an incantation. A low chant in an evil-sounding tongue. Words Trick didn’t recognize but could sense the meaning of all the same. It was a spell to summon. Siphon. Bind.

Rise.

As the half-elf chanted, Trick felt the world around him slowing and speeding up all at once. The voice layered over itself, echoing discordantly, out of sync with itself, and yet in perfect sync. Everything was wrong, and its wrongness was perfection.

Felix stopped chanting. He took the phylactery in both hands, shut his eyes, and raised it above his head.

Trick’s heart began to race. It beat faster and faster until it felt about to burst from his chest. His body convulsed. He tried to breathe, but he found it laborious, like his airway and all his blood vessels were constricted. As he inhaled, instead of filling his lungs, the breath seemed to rush straight through him, suctioned out through a vacuous hole in his chest.

Within the phylactery, a dark, swirling mist began to form.

There was a flash of brilliant, silvery-white light, and Trick lost sight of both Felix and the phylactery. He could barely distinguish reality from the dreamlike visions swimming before him. There was a cloaked figure, spinning the world on his finger. Sir Hendry rushed past, longsword in hand, slicing through. Here was Felix, insanity and fury competing for purchase on his face. He became a dark-skinned elf, surrounded by glowing symbols that burned searingly white.

Trick blinked his eyes. He twitched his hand. He could move again.

He tried to call for help, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. He couldn’t hear anything. He felt cold, and the spot in his chest was still gushing, still pouring his life force into the glass orb.

“Help…”

The voice was distant. Was it his? Did he recognize it?

“… Trick… … hear...”

Another flash of light.

Too many things happened in too short a span of time. Everything around him distorted, stretching long, then contracting with a snap like elastic gum. Images. Sounds. Every one of Trick’s senses left him, reoriented itself, and then slammed back into him all at once. The rushing in his heart reversed, and the force of it seized his entire body.

He came to with racking gasps—deep, desperate heaves, pushing the air into his lungs, pumping through his blood, fanning the dying embers of his brain.

He was looking up into a face of midnight, wreathed in stars and moon.

Lariel took her hand off his chest. “There,” she said. “It’s broken.”

Trick pushed himself up on his elbows.

On his other side, Sir Hendry was crouched like a panther, sword drawn against an unseen foe.

“Trick!” he cried. “Are you hurt?”

Trick shook his head. He was disoriented, but not hurt. “I’m fine,” he said. Even as he spoke, the dizziness began to subside, and the images around him sharpened.

From somewhere across the room, he heard Felix bellow in rage.

“Stay behind me,” said Hendry.

Trick pushed himself back against the wall, sitting up so he could take stock.

Felix was slinging gobs of black energy as fast as he could conjure them, holding Milo, Ariadne, and Errol all at bay.

Trick could see the phylactery, abandoned in one corner, the mists still swirling inside.

Sir Hendry charged in sword-first, aiming a blow at Felix and narrowly avoiding a dark ray of magical charge.

Lady Lariel got to her feet. She swung a wand in a wide arc, and Felix’s magic was doused by a shower of silver.

“You cannot defeat Him!” Felix cried, mania rising in his voice. “He is all-powerful! He will rise again! He will rise!”

Hendry swung his sword.

Felix moved to dodge it.

From behind, a spear of ice erupted from Milo’s palms. It struck Felix in the back, exploding over him in a shower of frost.

Felix teetered for a moment, a sick grin still plastered over his face, before he keeled over.

He hit the floor.

He didn’t move again.

Then, Cyric’s voice.

“Fools,” he hissed. “All of you, fools.”

Trick jerked upright. The voice wasn’t in his head. He had heard it. Out loud. And from his companions’ expressions, they had heard it, too.

It was coming from the phylactery.

Lariel approached the gleaming orb.

Cyric’s voice laughed up at her. “This is not the end,” he said. “Everything is in motion. I will rise again. I will return.”

The voice devolved into a maniacal cackle.

Lariel raised her wand over the orb. She closed her eyes, drew in the air, and muttered.

There was a flash of silvery light and a loud CRACK.

Cyric’s voice went silent mid-laugh.

The phylactery sat on the floor in two neat pieces, split down the center. The dark mists escaped, dissipating into the surrounding air.

Trick sat holding his head in wonderment.

The voice was gone.

Chapter Text

Ariadne was on him in an instant.

“Trick!” She engulfed him in a crushing hug that threatened to topple him over. “Oh, Trick, you little idiot!”

She stayed on the floor with him, his body wrapped in her arms.

Sir Hendry approached, and Trick felt his pulse quicken. Hendry knelt before him and reached out a hand. Trick flinched away, but Hendry said, “Easy, lad,” in such a calm, gentle voice that Trick stilled and looked up at him.

The old knight’s eyes were creased with worry. He cupped the side of Trick’s head in one callused hand and thumbed aside a curl from his forehead. Trick felt a dull ache where the thumb made contact.

“Just a bump,” said Hendry. “You’ll have quite the bruise, I imagine. But nothing serious.” He moved Trick’s head this way and that, inspecting. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Trick. His senses had cleared, and he was breathing freely again. Except for the bump on his head, it was as though nothing had happened.

“You’re not injured?”

“No, sir.”

Hendry regarded him another moment. Then he placed his other hand on the side of Trick’s head, cradling it like a precious gem, and bowed his head. “Thank the gods.”

Across the room, Errol was stooping to retrieve the broken phylactery.

“Stop,” said Lariel, and Errol froze in place.

Lariel extended an arm. Something misty slid off her hand like a glove and formed a second, translucent hand that hovered in mid-air in front of her. It took Trick a moment to remember that Lariel was a mage, and that he wasn’t necessarily hallucinating.

The magic hand prodded one half of the phylactery, presumably testing to see if it would explode. When it didn’t, the hand scooped it up along with its pair and deposited the two halves into the violetwood box, which Lariel held open.

She snapped the lid shut with a click.

“So,” said Errol, casual as always. “It talks. That’s… new.”

“Or someone was talking through it,” said Milo.

“Cyric,” said Trick.

He was struck with the surprising sensation of hearing the same word come out of someone else’s mouth at the same time as his. He looked around to see who had spoken.

It was Sir Hendry.

There was a pause as they stared at each other, eyes wide. The rest of the party was looking at Trick now, too, and he had the distinct impression he’d said something wrong.

Trick swallowed. “How… how do you know about Cyric?” he asked.

“How do we know?” said Errol. “How do you know? I’m quite sure we haven’t mentioned it.”

“Mentioned what?”

Sir Hendry raised a placating hand. To Trick, he said, “After the phylactery was stolen the first time, Lady Lariel tracked it to a temple in Neverwinter Woods.” He raised his eyebrows. “A temple to Cyric.”

Trick felt a chill. “Oh,” he said.

What had Felix said about a temple? The ritual would have been easier there. “It was him,” said Trick. “Felix is the one who stole it the first time. He wanted to do this... ritual… there, at the temple… but you all must have gotten there first.”

Errol snorted. “Hard to perform a ritual when none of your cultists are left alive.”

Meanwhile, Milo was putting two and two together. His wide blue eyes stared up at Trick. “The voice in your head,” he said. “That wanted the phylactery. That was… Cyric?”

Trick felt the piercing gaze of five pairs of eyes around him. He nodded slowly.

Hendry blew out a long, low breath. “By the hand,” he murmured. “Of course. We should have guessed it.”

Lariel was watching Trick with particular scrutiny. Her bright eyes narrowed into crescent moons. “It would appear,” she said softly,”that some critical piece of information has eluded me.” Trick had the sudden, horrible sensation that he was in extreme danger.

Milo said, “We met Trick on the road. On the way back from the temple. He—um…”

There was a short pause, during which Lariel scanned the party with the kind of measured patience that said somebody had better answer her soon.

Ariadne, arms still draped over Trick’s shoulders, said, “He found us because—well, it wasn’t his fault, you see...”

Lariel looked at Trick, who turned to jelly under her glare.

“I tried to take it,” he said in a soft voice. “The phylactery. I tried to take it from them.”

Lariel stared, unblinking. “Why?”

“Because… the voice told me to,” said Trick. “Cyric’s voice. I didn’t know who he was. He said he’d reward me.”

“How long have you been in contact with the Prince of Madness?”

It was terrifying to hear it put that way. The Prince of Madness. He’d been speaking to a god.

“A few months,” said Trick. “It started when—the shrine!” He looked to Sir Hendry, suddenly remembering he’d omitted this information. “There’s a shrine in the River District. A shrine to Cyric. That’s where I found him. Or… he found me.”

“Where in the River District?” asked Lariel.

“On the east side,” said Trick. “Near the Cloak Tower. There’s a strip of ruined buildings along the river.”

Lariel produced a small stone from somewhere in her robes. “Can you be more specific?”

Trick pictured the area. “There’s a butcher across the street,” he said. “And a pawn shop next to that.”

Lariel nodded. She held out the stone, and her eyes went milky for a moment.

When she blinked them clear again, she said, “It is there. Well hidden. We shall investigate in the morning.”

She turned back to Trick. “Tell me your purpose here tonight.”

Her voice was soft, but it was so cold and direct that Trick quavered under it. “I…” He took a steadying breath. “I was going to steal it,” he said. “The phylactery. Cyric came to me. In a dream.” He stared resolutely at the hem of Lariel’s gown so that he risked no chance of meeting Sir Hendry’s eyes. He could feel the old knight’s gaze upon him, just the same.

“He told you to meet Felix?” said Lariel. “To complete the ritual?”

“No!” Trick looked up in horror. “He didn’t say anything about a ritual. He said he would reward me. I didn’t know about Felix, I swear!”

Her eyes narrowed, deciding whether to believe him.

Behind him, Trick felt Ariadne grip his shoulders. “He didn’t know,” she said resolutely. “He was tricked. He only wanted to sell it. He didn’t know what it was for. None of us did.”

Sir Hendry, on his feet now, said, “My lady, Cyric is a god, and a powerful one, at that. I hardly think he would share his malevolent designs with an orphan he found on the streets.” He put one hand on Trick’s head. It was comforting. Protective. “The lad is my responsibility. I assure you, he meant no harm.”

Lariel seemed to consider this. After a long moment, she addressed Trick.

“You have contributed to the loss of an incredibly valuable artifact,” she said, “and you nearly helped give rise to something far more sinister. The Hall of Justice holds criminals for lesser offenses.”

Trick’s heart plummeted.

“However,” she added, “you were coerced. And you are, after all, only a child. I see no reason to be harsh with you.”

Trick opened his mouth to object to being called a child. Good sense caught up with him in time, and he snapped his mouth shut again. As much as he dreaded the prospect of facing Sir Hendry, anything was better than the cold justice of the priests of Tyr.

“I expected some degree of risk, in any case,” Lariel was saying. “I suspected Felix might have been responsible for the original incident.”

Trick furrowed his brow. “He had a key,” he remembered.

“He had access to the vault,” said Lariel. “One of few who did. Hence my suspicions.”

“But then why…”

“I had no proof,” said Lariel. “I wondered if he might make another attempt.”

Ariadne hummed under her breath. “You set a trap,” she said. Then she turned to Milo. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

Milo grimaced. “Yes,” he said. “I promised the lady I’d keep it a secret.”

“I implored him,” said Lady Lariel. “I imagined Felix would be ready for a trap of my own.” Her eyes went to the faint runic symbols on the floor inside the door, and Trick shuddered to think of what would have happened if Felix hadn’t disarmed them before Trick stepped inside. “He is familiar with my magic. But less so with Milo’s.”

Milo reached inside the empty cubby in the wall, where the phylactery had been stored. He pulled out a thin, silver wire. “A simple alarm,” he said with a half-smile. “Basic, but effective, and easy to miss. I was alerted the moment he reached inside.”

“Suddenly, he’s hauling the rest of us out of our beds in the dead of night,” Errol grumbled. “Come quick, grab your weapons, no time to explain!”

Trick looked around at the party, taking in their disheveled, half-dressed state for the first time. Hendry had worn a chain shirt during their journey from the woods, but now, he wore only a shirt and trousers. He must have decided it would take too long to don the armor.

And it was a good thing he did, Trick realized.

Lariel was studying Trick, again. It made him uneasy the way she seemed to be searching for something just behind his eyes. “Cyric’s voice,” she said. “Can you still hear it?”

Trick shook his head. “It’s gone,” he said. “For good, I think. It feels… different. When you broke the phylactery, it stopped.” He regarded Lariel cautiously. “Is he… destroyed?”

“Highly doubtful,” said Lariel. “I suspect the Cyric we’ve been dealing with—the voice in your head, and the entity inside the phylactery—was only a fragment of Cyric himself. This shrine you discovered may have enabled this fragment to inhabit you until it could find a more permanent home.”

The thought set Trick’s skin crawling. “Inhabit me?”

“Only a theory,” she said. “Further research is required.” She looked around at them. “You have been deprived of a night’s sleep, yes? It can wait until morning. I will explain this to the priests here.” She gestured around at the battle-scarred room and Felix’s lifeless body. “Milo, your assistance for a moment. This way.”

She led them from the room—a pocket dimension, Felix had called it—through the Stacks, and into an open reading space, where she and Milo began chalking runes in a wide circle on the floor.

“Thank you for your help tonight,” said Lariel, ushering them into the circle. “We’ll speak in the morning. Rest well.”

Trick allowed himself to be herded in with the rest of the party, wondering vaguely what was going on. Lariel muttered an incantation and flicked her wrist.

The space around Trick burst into vibrant, multicolored light. Something seized the pit of his stomach and yanked downward. He felt like he was spinning, but his feet were rooted firmly to the floor, even as the world around him blurred.

Before he could reach out to steady himself, it was over.

They were standing in Lariel’s front hall.

Ariadne held her head. “I’ll never get used to that,” she said.

Trick blinked, orienting himself. “Wow.” He turned to Milo. “Is that how you got here—there—so fast?”

Milo grinned and pointed at the floor. They were standing on a circle of runes nearly identical to the ones Milo and Lariel had drawn on the floor of the library. These were not made of chalk, however. They’d been engraved into the marble and filled with silver filigree. It could have been a decorative pattern. Trick hadn’t even noticed it when they’d first arrived.

“It’s a teleportation circle,” said Milo. “There’s one in the House of Knowledge, as well. You draw a circle anywhere you want, and you can teleport to one of these permanent ones.”

Trick stared in awe. “Can you do that?”

“Oh, no,” said Milo with a laugh. “Not yet, anyway. It will be some time before I’m as skilled as Lady Lariel.”

The gray of twilight had just begun to creep through the tall, curved windows in the foyer.

It suddenly occurred to Trick how tired he was. A wave rolled up through his chest, and he let loose a tremendous yawn.

The others didn’t look much better. Errol’s hair was loose around his shoulders and mussed from sleep. Ariadne had both arms wrapped around his waist and was nodding into his shoulder.

Sir Hendry surveyed the group. “Well, we’ve certainly been given a lot to think about.” His gaze landed on Trick, who stared at the floor, cheeks flushing. “I say we finish our rest and reconvene over a late breakfast.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and they ambled sleepily toward the students’ wing.

Trick stopped at the door to his room, one hand on the knob, as the others continued down the hall.

“Sir Hendry?”

The old knight stopped. He turned. Trick tried to read his expression, but it was impossible. The man was a stone fortress.

Trick swallowed. “I just… I’m sorry…”

Hendry held up a hand to stop him. “I know, lad,” he said. He sounded weary. “Thank you. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

That didn’t bode well. Trick heaved a sigh, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said. He turned to the door.

“Trick.”

His shoulders twitched. He looked back.

Sir Hendry’s brow was creased. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said.

Something squeezed in Trick’s chest. He nodded quickly and escaped into his room.

Chapter Text

Trick lay in the gray darkness. There was no intruding voice in his head, but his own thoughts chattered so loudly at him, he worried he’d never get back to sleep.

Gradually, mercifully, sleep crept up on him.

When he was very small—before the boys’ home, before the streets—there had been an old woman in Trick’s neighborhood.

The adults had called her Goody Pritcher, but Trick and the other scattered children of the River District had known her as “Mare.” Trick hadn’t thought about her in years.

Tonight, he dreamed of her.

The ramshackle hut she kept by the River District’s ruined north gate. The spicy scent of her kitchen. The way she always had a fire burning and an open seat by the hearth, and how it was always warm inside, no matter how bitter the winter got. Fleeting memories, on the cusp of forgotten, and yet so real and pure they would always be with him.

Mare used to say that sleep scared away the demons of the day. Trick didn’t know if that was true or not—he’d never seen a demon before, in daytime or otherwise, and he couldn’t imagine they would be that easy to frighten—but things always did seem to look a little brighter waking up than they had been falling asleep.

When he awoke this time, the sun was streaming cheerily through his window, carrying with it a gentle breeze from the lake. Outside, Trick could hear the sounds of morning business being conducted. It was a different sound than you got in the Market District, which was largely people yelling about prices, or in the River District, which was so deathly silent, every odd skittering noise sounded like a threat.

Here, though… this was the steady hum of friendly people greeting one another, the lazy hoofbeats of ponies trotting past, the giggles of children playing in their walled-in yards.

Trick loved it. And he hated it.

It was easy to be law-abiding and genteel when you were handed all your needs on a silver platter. Trick thought he’d be the most gentlemanly gallant in the book if he could have a daily bath like the one he’d had last night. These things were transformative.

As he lay under the covers—not a discarded, threadbare overcoat, but real cotton sheets and a quilted duvet—Trick tried to capture this moment in his mind. The sights and sounds from the window. The sunlight falling across the little desk. The softness of his pillow. Even the smell of everything. Crisp, clean, and orderly.

Perfect.

There was a knock on the door.

“Trick?”

The sound of Sir Hendry’s voice brought the memories racing back. The House of Knowledge. The phylactery.

Cyric.

Trick tugged the blankets over his head, as if they could shield him. The bed was warm, and it did make Trick feel a little bit better, like a tiny bug snuggled down in his cocoon.

Was this how rich people felt all the time?

The knock came again. “Up you get, lad.”

Trick poked his head up above the duvet. “I’m up,” he called.

“Let me know when you’re dressed,” was Hendry’s response. “I have breakfast.”

Trick sighed. The old knight was nothing if not persistent.

He pushed down the covers and obediently dressed himself, wincing slightly as he pulled the shirt over his head.

It occurred to him to look in the mirror.

It hung over the dresser, a small oval that showed his head and shoulders and not much else.

Trick leaned in toward his reflection. He’d seen it before, of course, but never paid it much mind. It was more or less how he expected. Skinny. Short. Ears too big for his head.

He pushed up a tuft of brown curls to study the mark on his forehead. His fingers found a raised lump, and there was a smudge of purple where his head had hit the floor. Just a bruise. He’d had worse.

Sir Hendry knocked again. No words, this time. He just pounded firmly and steadily on the door until Trick groaned and called, “Okay, okay! I’m up!”

The door opened, and Hendry poked his head through, as though ready to duck back out again. Finding Trick acceptably arrayed, he pushed the rest of the way inside.

He was carrying a small tray, on which were neatly positioned a bowl of porridge, a plate of toast, and a goblet of juice. There was something so comically domestic about the image that, despite himself, Trick had to stifle a little giggle.

“How are you feeling?” asked Hendry, setting the tray carefully on the bedside table.

“Fine,” said Trick.

Hendry approached him and raised a hand toward his head. “May I?”

Trick stiffened, but he nodded, and the old knight leaned in to scrutinize the bruise.

“I’m fine,” Trick repeated.

Hendry didn’t respond. His eyes flicked back and forth, as though seeing something Trick had not, before he straightened again, declaring, “Could have been worse. But no real harm done.” He put his hands on his hips and stared down at Trick. “There’s breakfast in the parlor,” he said. “But you and I need to have a talk, first, and it shouldn’t be on an empty stomach.” He gestured at the little tray.

Trick bit his lip. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

Sir Hendry shook his head. With an outstretched arm, he guided Trick to the bed.

Trick sat.

Hendry handed him the bowl of porridge and a spoon off the tray. “Eat,” he said.

Trick dipped in the spoon. It looked like porridge, and it smelled like porridge, but it was a thicker consistency than he remembered from the boys’ home. There was something else, too. Trick closed his eyes and sniffed. Spices. Cream. He didn’t know what it was, but it was more than watery groats. He lifted a tentative bite to his lips.

Oh, gods.

It was good.

While Trick ate, suddenly greedy, Sir Hendry pulled over the desk chair and sat watching him.

When Trick had finished the portion and was picking at the straggling oats that clung doggedly to the side of the bowl, Hendry said, “Shall we talk?”

Trick had known this was coming. He screwed up his face, but there was no getting out of it. He set the empty bowl aside and looked up into the old knight’s dark eyes.

His expression was impassive, as always.

“You said Cyric came to you in a dream?” said Hendry.

Trick nodded. “Last night,” he said.

Hendry leaned in, fixing him with an imploring look. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because… you were asleep?”

“Try again.”

Trick fidgeted. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Cyric promised me money. Just steal one thing, and I’d have all the money in the world. It seemed…”

“Easier?”

Trick nodded.

“It is rarely so easy to get what we want,” said Hendry. “What we really want. Tell me: if you’d succeeded, and Cyric had kept his promise, and you had all the money you could dream of, would you be happy right now?”

Trick looked around at the tidy room. He thought of last night’s dinner, which had kept him so full, he hadn’t heard a peep from his stomach since he’d woken up. He thought of his bed, so soft and warm he’d been inclined to stay in it forever. He thought of that immaculate bath and wondered how much a single bottle of perfumed foam must have cost.

And then he thought of Ariadne, securing him in her arms, defending him to Lady Lariel. He thought of Milo, enthusiastically explaining the intricacies of his craft. Even Errol, who didn’t love Trick so much as tolerate him, but treated him fairly, all the same.

He thought of Sir Hendry, with his damned expectations. Checking him for wounds. Making sure he ate. Hunched forward in his chair, gray brow furrowed, all attention on the skinny thief who’d caused him nothing but grief from the start.

Trick looked into his lap.

With all the money in the world… would he be happy?

In a small voice, Trick said, “…No.”

Hendry nodded. “No,” he agreed. “I don’t think you would.”

Trick played with his hands.

“Yesterday, when you told us about this voice,” said Hendry, “we said it might be dangerous. You agreed to let us know if you heard from it again.”

“I know.”

“Then you did hear from it again. And instead of telling us, you did exactly what it asked you to do. You had an opportunity to get help, and instead, you ran toward the danger. I can’t begin to describe how foolish that was.”

Trick felt his shoulders hunch up around his ears. Of course Cyric had sounded dangerous. He’d said it himself: Trick should fear him. “I thought if I did what he wanted, he’d leave me alone,” he said. “It would have been dangerous to disobey him, too.”

Hendry nodded slowly. “That’s fair,” he said. “But in the future, I want you to consider: facing danger with your team to back you up, or facing danger alone. Which one do you choose?”

Trick’s ears burned. “I didn’t know it would be dangerous,” he said, with the tiniest flicker of indignation. “I didn’t know about Felix. Maybe if Milo had told us…”

Hendry raised a hand to cut him off. “If you had told us about the voice, Milo and Lariel would have rethought their strategy,” he said firmly. “We would have had a much better idea what we were walking into. Lariel thought Felix wanted the phylactery for personal gain. Your information would have changed the situation drastically.”

“But Milo kept information from you,” Trick insisted. “Why is it okay for him to keep secrets?”

“Because I trust him,” said Hendry. “Lariel asked Milo for help with a sensitive matter, and I understand why he agreed. I have known Milo for a long time. I trust him to tell me when there’s something I need to know.

“You, on the other hand, disobeyed me. You were taken in by a master of lies, and I don’t fault you for that. But you made me a promise, lad, and you went back on your word. That I will not abide.”

Trick wrapped his arms around his torso. He was being stubborn, he knew. Delaying the inevitable.

“Why am I the only one who has to follow rules?” he muttered.

“Because you’re a child,” said Hendry. “Don’t look like that,” he added, seeing the fire in Trick’s eyes. “I know you don’t like to hear it, but it’s the truth. You’re fifteen, Trick. You’ve spent your life taking care of yourself, but that doesn’t make you a man. You’re still growing, and you’re still learning.” His eyes shone in the sunlight from the window. “You have people who care about you, now, and you can rely on them for help. I’m determined to get that through.”

Trick’s jaw worked. Hendry was right, of course. Everything he said was right. It was infuriating.

“Now then,” said Hendry. He got to his feet, and Trick felt a swoop in his stomach. “I will keep my promise to you.” He approached the bed and held out a hand.

Trick saw exactly where this was going. He made one last attempt to save his skin. “You never promised you’d spank me,” he said. He hated how petulant the words sounded. He may as well have stuck out his tongue.

“It was implied,” said Hendry. “Up you get.”

He took Trick by the elbow and swapped places with him on the bed.

He patted his knee.

Trick stood awkwardly, heart racing, rooted to the spot.

“Come on, lad. Let’s get it over with.”

He reached out, and despite all his self-preservation instincts, Trick stepped stiffly forward and allowed himself to be guided over Hendry’s knee.

There was a bit of shifting as Hendry made himself comfortable, hiking Trick forward so that his bottom turned a little farther upward.

Trick buried his face in the duvet and wrapped his arms around his head. He felt Sir Hendry lay an arm over his back and take hold of his hip. He held firmly, but as always, his touch was gentle.

“I don’t do things by half,” said Sir Hendry, “and that includes tanning hides. You will feel this, and I hope you remember it for a good long while.”

Trick couldn’t help but grumble, “You’ve tanned a lot of hides?”

“Apart from yours?” said Hendry. “One.”

Before Trick could get his head around that somewhat unexpected answer, Hendry had laid down a handful of swats, and the speed and snap with which they were delivered had Trick yelping at once.

“Ow! Oh, ow…!”

“Settle in lad,” was the patient response. “We’ll be here a moment.”

Trick groaned in distress. His attempts to “settle in” were interrupted by the reports against his backside: fast, rhythmic, and relentless. Sir Hendry had set him aflame in a matter of seconds, and Trick knew he had a long way yet to go.

His legs kicked up, and he twisted this way and that, trying in vain to get his bottom out of firing range.

Sir Hendry held him firm. Nothing Trick did could throw off his aim even a little. He landed blow after blow, alternating sides, his broad hand stinging even through Trick’s breeches.

“Oww!”

His cries were muffled by the duvet. He squeezed an armful of it, clutching it like a stuffed toy and not even caring how childish he must look. He could feel the damp cloth pressing back against his cheeks. He was already in tears.

“S-stop!” he cried. “Please, I’m s-sorry… ow! Oww!”

“I hope you are,” said Hendry, calmly, without missing a swat. “And I hope you’re starting to understand that your actions have consequences.”

“I understand!” Trick gasped. “I do, I—ah! Please let me go! Ah-howw…”

“Hush, lad. We’ve barely begun.”

Trick moaned into his arms as Sir Hendry continued to roast him. What would his punishment have been at the Hall of Justice? Ten strokes with that blasted strap? Twelve? At least it would have been over quickly.

How did Sir Hendry do so much damage with just the flat of his hand? Trick’s legs were hopping under every blow. He kicked at the floor. He yelped into the duvet. But the old man refused to let up.

“In case it wasn’t clear,” said Hendry, when Trick had given up on sobbing for the moment in favor of low, self-pitying whimpers, “I have no qualms about giving you a thorough hiding whenever you need it. I know it’s asking a lot of you to put your trust in me, but that’s what it means to be on a team. We have no choice but to trust one another.

“So if you’re going to break your promises to me, mark my word, you will find yourself in this same exact position. Every—single—time.”

He put a little extra sting into those last few, and Trick gasped.

“Are you understanding me, Trick?”

“Y… yes, sir!”

“Good.”

Trick thought the lecture meant Hendry must be close to winding down, but apparently, he was wrong. If anything, the damnable man seemed to have picked up his pace.

The ensuing flurry of brisk smacks were bright and hot against the dull warmth permeating his rear. Trick loosed a throaty howl into the bundle of covers.

“Stop!” He couldn’t keep the tears out of his voice. “Stop, please! Ah! I u-understand! I—I’ll keep my word! Ow!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sir Hendry.

Trick started to say something else, but it was hard to do anything but cry out. He squeezed the duvet in one fist and pounded at the mattress with the other, gritting his teeth. He writhed and squirmed over the old knight’s knee, unable to escape the torrent of blows that just would not let up.

It went on like that for what felt like an eternity. Then a few slow, powerful smacks, right across the center, and Sir Hendry finally dropped his hand.

Trick sagged into the bed. A small whine escaped his lips, as though it had been trying to get a word in edgewise and finally had the opportunity. Then he drew a slow, shuddering breath and let it out in a long hiss.

His bottom was thoroughly warm. It hurt less, of course, now that it wasn’t being actively smacked. But every few seconds, a dozen tiny needles went dancing across, keeping the surface tender.

He felt Sir Hendry’s hand rest on the small of his back. It was heavy. Stabilizing.

Hendry gave him a long moment to catch his breath.

At length, he said, “I’d rather not have to do this again.” His gruff voice was gentle and low.

Trick made an indignant noise. “Then don’t.”

He could hear the smile in Hendry’s voice as he said, “That will be entirely up to you, my lad.”

Trick grunted.

“Well?” Hendry prompted. “What do we need to do to avoid this in the future?”

Trick sighed. He pulled his face out of the covers, folding his arms under his chin. “I… I won’t go back on my word,” he said.

That shouldn’t be so hard, he reasoned. He’d just have to be more careful about what he promised.

Sir Hendry gave a grunt of approval. “When you make a promise, lad, you keep it,” he said firmly. “Especially with me. Are we very clear on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Hendry. “And the stealing?”

Trick made a face. He didn’t answer.

“Trick?” Hendry patted him on the hip, dangerously close to the sore area. “This one’s hard for you, eh?”

Trick shrugged his shoulders, slightly awkwardly in his prone position. He tried to imagine walking past an unattended coin purse—or, especially a morsel of food—without helping himself to at least a small concession.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong about it,” he mumbled. “Especially from people who can afford it. That bracelet, yesterday. That jeweler wouldn’t even have missed it.” He furrowed his brow. “And he’s gonna make a fortune off it. It’s not fair.”

He remembered too late that he was still in an extremely precarious position. He tensed, wondering with a stab of panic if Hendry would decide he hadn’t quite learned his lesson well enough.

But Hendry only hummed thoughtfully in response. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not fair. But two wrongs don’t make a right, Trick. Vengeance may bring some catharsis, but it’s rarely going to fix what’s broken.”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Trick said hotly. “It’s not mine to fix.”

Hendry gave another, decidedly non-committal hum. Instead of responding, he patted Trick’s back and said, “Ready to get up?”

Trick eased himself backward. Sir Hendry helped him to sit on the bed beside him.

The plush mattress was comforting under Trick’s abused backside. At least, it didn’t make the lingering burning sensation any worse.

Sir Hendry had a hand on his back, solid and warm between his shoulder blades. He met Trick’s eyes.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I won’t let you get away with stealing. If I catch you, I will make you put it back. But,” he added, raising a finger as Trick’s expression soured, “as long as you’re honest with me, and you don’t try to hide it from me, I won’t thrash you over it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sound fair?”

Trick peered up at him. It felt like a trap. But it was better than nothing.

“Okay,” he said.

Then he sniffed.

Tentatively, he leaned in.

Hendry wrapped an arm around him, and Trick let himself be pulled close. He buried his face in Sir Hendry’s jerkin, taking in the earthy, slightly sweet scent of old leather.

As Hendry cupped one hand firmly around the back of Trick’s head, the boy’s shoulders started to tremble.

“That’s it,” said Hendry, as Trick gave in to one last round of quiet sobs. “Easy, now.”

“I’m sorry,” said Trick, his voice hoarse. “I really am.”

“I know, lad.” He cradled Trick’s head in one hand. The other rubbed slow circles on his back. “You’re forgiven. It’s behind us.”

Trick gave a low sigh that was many things—weary, anguished, contented, relieved. Sir Hendry held him until long after his shoulders had stilled and his breathing slowed.

Trick took a deep breath and pushed gently out of the embrace.

Hendry kept a hand on him as Trick wiped his eyes.

“Feeling better?”

Trick nodded.

“Shall we get a proper breakfast into you, then?” said Hendry. He slapped his knees and stood up. “Lady Lariel doesn’t cut corners. There’s some kind of imported sausage—it’s yellow as the sun. I’m deadly curious.” He looked Trick in the eye. “I’ll give you a moment to wash up?”

“Yeah,” said Trick. “I’ll be right there.”

Hendry leaned down to clasp him by the shoulders.

“You’re a good lad,” he said. “Do you hear me? You’re bound to make mistakes. I’ll be here to help you through.”

Trick swallowed. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. A heat behind his eyes threatened to spill more tears. He blinked them away.

Hendry’s eyes crinkled in the friendly, not-quite-smiling way of his. He gave Trick one last pat on the shoulder, then left the room.

Alone, Trick drew a long breath through his nostrils and huffed it back out again. He ran his fingers through his hair. His curls felt softer than usual after last night’s bath.

He eased himself off the bed, careful not to aggravate his backside any further.

He reached back to rub, though much of the sting had already gone. Funny how something that was so intolerable in the moment could dissipate so quickly after the fact.

As if in response, a twinge of heat flared up, making him wince.

Okay… not that quickly.

There was a little wash basin in the corner. Trick found that the jug beside it had been filled with fresh water. A student must have come in this morning.

He shook his head in wonderment as he poured it out into the basin.

One day, he thought, splashing the cool water over his face. One day, this would be his life. An enormous house with more rooms than he would ever have use for. Servants to fill his bath, cook his meals, make up his bed. Silk sheets. Marble floors.

Trick sighed. He dried his face on the downy towel folded neatly on the dresser top, and he studied his face in the mirror. There was a tiny hint of pink in his eyes, maybe, but it was barely noticeable.

He had a sneaking suspicion the rest of the party knew exactly what was taking him so long to join them, even if Hendry hadn’t said a word—which Trick knew he hadn’t, honorable man that he was. Still, he could do his best to appear composed before he ventured to face them.

He shuffled into his boots, noticing the worn patches and loose threads as if for the first time. He worried at a hole in his shirt sleeve, where the hem had long since come apart.

One day. He’d wear silks, velvets, and furs. His boots would come up to his knees. He’d have twenty pairs, each for a different occasion. He’d have one servant with nothing to do but to keep them polished. They would positively gleam.

One day. He was sure of it.

Trick smoothed out the wrinkles on his shirt and tugged it straight. He left his room, nose-first, and followed the smell of sausages.

Chapter Text

When Trick stepped into the parlor, he expected to find the whole party there waiting for him. Instead, it was only Ariadne and Milo, both looking a bit groggy as they explored the array of breakfast foods laid out on the sideboard.

Trick looked around for Hendry, surprised to find him not there. Hadn’t he said to meet in the parlor? This was where breakfast was laid out, clearly.

The room smelled incredible. Last night at dinner, Trick had eaten more than he usually got in an entire day. Between that and the bowl of porridge in his room, he was absolutely not wanting for sustenance.

And yet, as the smells of coffee, pork sausages, mushrooms, stewed fruits, and uncountable herbs and spices wafted toward him, Trick’s mouth began to water, and his stomach began to rumble.

Just because he didn’t need food didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take it.

As he joined Ariadne at the buffet, she gave him a tired smile. “Morning, Trick,” she said pleasantly. “How’d you sleep?”

Aside from being jolted awake to be harangued by a literal god, Trick had slept beautifully.

“Second half better than the first,” he mumbled.

Ariadne laughed, but not unkindly. “I imagine,” she said.

Trick piled his plate with a little bit of everything, and the three of them took seats in the plush armchairs surrounding the central coffee table.

Trick sat gingerly, grateful for the cushion beneath his aching rear. If Milo or Ariadne noticed the flicker of a grimace across his face, neither of them said anything.

A moment later, Errol joined them. He announced his presence with an enormous—and, Trick felt, unnecessarily exaggerated—yawn.

The half-elf settled in with his breakfast, and after some cursory “good mornings” all around, the conversation dwindled. It was the mutual silence of people who had not had an entirely restful night’s sleep.

Hendry still hadn’t arrived. Trick furrowed his brow. “Where’s Sir Hendry?” he asked. “Isn’t he usually the first one up?”

The others glanced about, as if they hadn’t noticed his absence.

Milo shrugged. “I’m sure he’s awake, by now,” he said. “He might be praying.”

Trick blinked. “Praying?”

“He does every morning,” said Milo. “I’m guessing he got a later start of it today.”

Trick imagined the old knight kneeling beside a bed, hands clasped, reciting platitudes and gazing beatifically upward. The Hendry in his mind had a long nightgown, cap, and slippers. Trick nearly snorted at the image.

“Didn’t know he was religious,” he said.

“No?” said Errol. He seemed genuinely surprised, and a little amused, by Trick’s reaction. “He was a knight in Neverwinter. Of course he’s religious.”

Trick stared at Errol, not comprehending.

Errol rolled his eyes. “In most places, the army belongs to the Queen, or the Duke, or whoever’s in charge, yes? But you all don’t have a ruling family, here. So who keeps the peace?”

Trick felt an unpleasant realization creeping up on him. “The Hall of Justice,” he said slowly. The Hall of Justice… which was also the Sword Coast’s most prominent temple to Tyr. “He’s… Tyrran?”

Errol snapped his fingers. “Huzzah! The brat can be taught! Ow,” he added as Ariadne flicked him on the ear.

“Not everyone in the City Watch is devout, of course,” said Milo. “But the title of Knight is bestowed by the temple. Sir Hen has been a follower as long as I’ve known him.”

“But… but he’s not a knight anymore,” said Trick, fighting to keep the desperation out of his voice. “What happened? Did they kick him out?”

There was a pause, and Trick realized too late that this might have been a bit of an insensitive question. “Sorry… I just…”

Errol snorted. “If you’re curious, you should ask him,” he said. “We’re all dying to know.”

Ariadne glared at him. She started to say something, but at that moment, the sound of voices arose from the hallway, and Hendry walked in, accompanied by Lariel, and the conversation halted.

Trick narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Hendry as if he could tell from looking what the man had been up to. He wasn’t even sure what it was he was looking for—then, with a shock, he saw it.

Hendry reached to his collar, where a thin white chain hung around his neck. The pendant on the end was small, but even from across the room, Trick recognized it.

It was the same symbol emblazoned on the shield and tabards of Neverwinter’s knights. It adorned the walls of countless shops and homes throughout the city. It was wrought into the stone façade above the doors of the Hall of Justice.

The scales and hammer. The symbol of Tyr.

Hendry tucked the chain into the front of his jerkin, idly, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Trick set down his half-finished plate of breakfast, no longer in the mood.

Of course Sir Hendry was a follower of Tyr. Of course he was. Trick must be the biggest idiot on Toril.

Tyr, the god of justice, champion of truth, who despised thieves and liars above all else. Hendry—Sir Hendry—a knight of Neverwinter, and therefore a product of the Hall of Justice. Of the Tyrran church.

Trick began to wonder if Hendry had been there that day, when Trick had been arrested. He tried to remember the acolyte wielding that terrible strap. Trick hadn’t gotten a good look at the man’s face—and, anyway, he’d been a little distracted, what with having his backside blistered to high heaven.

He’d had dark hair, Trick remembered. And a beard.

Could it have been…?

“Trick?”

Trick jumped out of his skin. His prickling bottom complained at the sudden movement.

Hendry had his eyebrows raised. “Can you show us?”

The others were getting to their feet.

“Uh…” Trick climbed out of his chair, trying frantically to replay the bits of conversation that he had apparently been tuning out. “Show you… what?”

Milo gave a sympathetic little smile, and Errol rolled his eyes. Trick felt his cheeks go slightly pink.

“The altar,” Hendry said patiently. “Where you found Cyric’s idol.”

At the mention of the shrine, Trick felt a cold tickle at the back of his mind. He waited for the voice to pipe up.

But—no, he remembered now. The voice had been Cyric. And Cyric was… gone.

“Sure,” said Trick. “Yeah, it’s in the River District. I can show you. Um…” He looked around, still feeling he had missed something important. “Why are we going there?”

Hendry chuckled. “We’ll explain on the way, lad. And we’ll make sure you get a better night’s sleep tonight, eh?”

The others joined in with gentle laughter. Trick forced himself to smile. It was thin, but no one seemed to notice.

Outside, the air was pleasantly warm, and the sun shone cheerily in a brilliant blue sky.

They’d been delayed for several minutes as Lady Lariel wrapped a scarf around her head, covering much of her face and neck, and then applied some kind of magical ointment to the very few bits of blue-black skin not concealed by her floor-length robes.

When they finally got on their way, Lariel had popped open a green silk parasol before stepping out of the front door. Trick didn’t realize he was staring at her until Milo tugged on his elbow. “Lady Lariel is from the Underdark,” he said in a low voice. “Her skin is extremely sensitive to the sun.”

It was a fair distance from Lariel’s home in the Bluelake District to the shrine, which was almost all the way on the eastern edge of the city.

As they walked, Lariel explained the theory she’d been developing. Apparently, elves didn’t need to sleep as much as most people, and she’d been up most of the night researching something she called a lich.

“A lich is a powerful undead entity,” she explained. “The idea came about as a way to extend one’s life: a mage performs a series of rituals to seal their own spirit in a phylactery, which then takes control of a host body. In this way, a sufficiently powerful arcane practitioner need never completely die, as their spirit may live on in their undead progeny.”

Ariadne shuddered. “It sounds terrible.”

“It is,” said Lariel. “It is some of the most forbidden magic I have ever come near to encounter. I could find no specific information about the rituals employed in the process. I gather it may be done in a number of ways, but the dark knowledge required is, so far, beyond my findings.”

“You think Felix was trying to turn himself into a lich?” said Milo.

“Not himself,” said Lariel. “Cyric.”

Trick frowned. “I thought Cyric was a god,” he said. “Why would a god want to be a… an undead lich thing?”

“I do not know,” said Lariel. “Why would a god need to bribe a young boy into stealing for him? Why deal with earthly pawns when he could simply take what he is after and be done with it?”

“Maybe he can’t,” Trick mused. “Maybe he’s… weak, or something.”

Hendry said, “According to legend, Cyric was destroyed, many ages ago, in a battle among the gods. Perhaps he wasn’t completely destroyed, but only weakened.”

Lariel nodded slowly. “As I mentioned last night, I suspect we have not been dealing with the whole of Cyric, but merely a fragment of some sort. His motive remains unknown. However, in studying the phylactery, it seems to have been designed for this express purpose. Last night, in the safe room… the requisite components were there: Felix’s body; the fragment of Cyric’s consciousness; the phylactery, of course; and the ritual we were fortunate enough to interrupt.”

“And me,” said Trick, feeling faint. “Felix said he needed… the spirit of a thief? Something like that.” He screwed up his face. “That fragment of Cyric,” he said to Lariel. “You said he… put it into me, somehow.” He shivered at the memory.

Lariel nodded. “I suspect it had to do with this idol you found.”

“We’re going to destroy it,” said Hendry. “So it can’t afflict anyone else.”

Trick felt a bit queasy. Cyric’s voice had gone from his head, and Trick did feel different than he had felt in months. Even when Cyric wasn’t speaking to him, Trick had always somehow known he was there, as if he had someone constantly watching over his shoulder. He felt different, now. Free.

But what would they find at the shrine? Was Cyric—or the fragment, or whatever—really, well and truly gone?

He dreaded what they were about to find.

Lost in thought, Trick almost didn’t notice when they passed the tiny placard on the corner that declared they were entering the River District.

Not that you needed a street sign to tell you that. The difference in landscape was stark enough.

Forty years ago, Neverwinter had been rocked by the eruption of Mount Hotenow, deep in Neverwinter Wood. The resulting earthquakes had destroyed much of the city, leveling the southeast quadrant and leaving the rest of the city in shambles.

The Bluelake District alone had escaped relatively unscathed, and the affluence of its surviving families had made for quick rebuilding of its three-story manors and mosaic walls.

The River District, by contrast, had shaken apart, and nobody could afford (or care) enough to put it back together. Even today, hardly anything stood taller than a single story, and ruins still littered the streets.

And so, as the neatly cobbled street of Bluelake gave way to sparse pavers, and the colorful buildings shrank and dulled to a uniform yellow-gray overlaid with moss, Trick began to recognize his surroundings, and he gestured to the company.

“Welcome to the River District.”

It was a disorienting feeling to stroll casually through the streets of the River District surrounded, as it were, by an armed consort. There was little chance of running into anyone he knew—most of the kids he’d known growing up had dispersed to other parts of the city, and the lucky ones had left entirely. Those that remained kept largely to themselves, and Trick, for his part, preferred it that way.

If anything, the risk was to be accosted by bandits, and Trick was always on high alert as he roamed these streets. He knew, though, that no bandit would be foolish enough to try their luck on a group of so many capable-looking individuals. These streets were familiar, but it felt strange to walk them so freely.

They had entered on the south end of the district by the river. There was generally less activity here—and in the River District, less activity was usually a good thing.

Any actual habitable buildings here were scarce. On the side of the road that abutted the river, there was little but ancient rubble. The occasional low wall was draped with cloth in a makeshift roof. Trick used to dream of someday securing one of these hovels for himself, but they tended to go to larger families and bands of criminals that outnumbered him… and outfought him.

Ariadne was taking it all in with increasing dismay. “It’s been like this since the cataclysm?”

“Yup,” said Trick. Then, spurred by some unfathomable regional pride, he added, “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”

Not even Errol was tactless enough to attempt a response to that sentiment.

Lady Lariel seemed to notice something, and she gave a small hum. “This is the area you described,” she said.

Trick nodded, remembering how Lariel had done some sort of magic last night to locate the shrine.

At his prompting, she showed it to him. “A scrying stone,” she explained. “It helps me see a location, as long as I have an idea of what to look for.”

The shrine was just around the next corner of rubble. Trick marched forward, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

Sir Hendry cocked his head at Lariel, who was standing still, gazing straight toward the shrine, even though it wasn’t yet visible from this angle.

Milo was looking that way, too, his mouth in a little round O.

“Can you sense it, Milo?” asked Lariel.

The gnome nodded, crinkling his blue eyes in concentration. “Abjuration,” he said. “And enchantment. Transmutation. Or is it… conjuration?” He frowned, looking alarmed. “I’ve never seen so much magic on one artifact.”

“This is divine magic,” said Lariel. “And it is ancient and dark. I would be surprised if it conformed neatly to our modern arcane schools.”

Trick looked back and forth between them, trying and failing to parse the gobbledegook. “So…” he said. “Should we destroy it?”

Lariel nodded to Milo, who stepped forward.

Trick moved to follow him, but Hendry pulled him back.

“This could be dangerous, lad.”

Trick frowned. He’d been dipping in and out of this shrine for months, and nothing had happened to him.

Well. Cyric had happened to him.

But he hadn’t come to bodily harm. And, as he thought about it, it already felt different. Just as his head felt clear without the god’s presence, the shrine, which Trick had always been able to feel, seemed to have lost its pull.

“Cyric’s not here,” said Trick. “I can tell.”

“Stay back, just the same,” said Hendry.

Trick gave a little huff and folded his arms, but he obeyed.

Milo crept around the pile of rubble. He had the leather pouch containing his spellcasting components, and he held it out before him like some kind of ward.

He peered in.

“It’s here!” he called.

Trick rolled his eyes. Of course it was here.

Leaving Milo and the shrine a wide berth, the party sidled around in a semi-circle until the shrine came into view. If you didn’t know it was there, you would easily miss it—Errol spotted it first, a glint of ebony amid the muted gray rubble, and pointed it out to the others.

Milo was digging through his component pouch. He pulled out a shard of some flat stone or metal, muttered something, and waved his arms.

There was a sound like a boulder being cracked in half, and Trick threw his hands over his ears.

The spot where Cyric’s idol stood appeared to explode. The little shrine, and several loose rocks in the vicinity, all cracked at once, sending up a spray of pebbles and earth.

Milo recoiled, holding his head. He took an unsteady step backward before sinking to the ground.

“Milo!” Ariadne reached him first. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Lariel drew a slow breath. “Arcane recoil,” she said. “There are powerful protections in place here. Look.”

She gestured to the wreckage. As the dust settled, Trick’s eyes went wide.

The idol was easily visible now, unobscured by the stone that had previously concealed it. It wasn’t large—about as tall as the length of Trick’s hand. That familiar figure of Cyric concealed in a billowing cloak.

It was still standing. And it was still in one piece.

Errol gave a low whistle.

Milo was groaning, but conscious. “I’m fine,” he offered woozily.

Lariel nodded. She extended her wand toward the idol.

“Careful!” squeaked Ariadne, hunkering down before Milo in a protective stance.

“I am only probing,” said Lariel. She closed her eyes in focus.

The tip of her wand began to shake. Trick thought he saw a bead of sweat form at the elf’s temple.

After a long moment, her eyes snapped open, and she inhaled quickly, as if she’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

“I cannot divine the exact nature of the abjurations,” she said, “but there are several, and they are all potent. It would be best to abstain from attempting to destroy it until we are confident we know how to do it.”

An uneasy silence fell as the group mulled this over.

Trick said, “How do we destroy it?”

Lariel shook her head. “Further research is required.”

For such a prodigious mage, she seemed to say that a lot.

Trick looked up at Hendry. “You said Cyric was destroyed, once. Could we try… whatever they did back then?”

Hendry gave him a wan smile. “Not likely,” he said. “He was destroyed by another god.”

Trick’s face fell. At the same time, a cold suspicion crept up on him.

“By... Tyr?”

Hendry raised his eyebrows. “That’s right,” he said. “As a champion of thieves and trickery, Cyric was Tyr’s mortal enemy. Or, is, I suppose would be the better word.”

Trick’s jaw worked. “Cyric told me he went by many names,” he said, remembering the frightful conversation from last night, “but he said you would know him as Cyric.” He fixed Hendry with a steely look. “Is that because you worship Tyr?”

Hendry looked taken aback by the intensity of Trick’s expression, but he responded pleasantly. “I imagine so. When I was training as an acolyte, we learned to reject Cyric, and to be on guard for his workings. He does go by many names—most deities do. Cyric seems to be the most common, in our language, at least.”

Trick narrowed his eyes. “You were an acolyte?”

Ariadne shot him a glance, and Milo looked suddenly uncomfortable.

Hendry said, “Of course. All of the knights started as acolytes.”

Trick hesitated before plunging down the next line of questioning.

Milo took his brief silence as a chance to change the subject. “So! We have to find a way to destroy the idol!”

Lariel nodded. “I will investigate our options.”

Errol said, “So, what do we do with it in the meantime?”

“It can’t stay here,” said Ariadne. “What if Cyric comes back?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Where can we leave it, then?” asked Hendry. “Somewhere secure, away from people.”

“But if Cyric does come back, we’ll want to know about it,” said Milo. “Maybe we should bring it with us?”

“So he can pop into one of our heads like he did Trick’s?” Errol scoffed. “No, thank you.”

“Well, we can hardly leave it unattended,” said Ariadne.

Trick’s eyes widened.

“I’ll take it,” he said suddenly.

All eyes went to him.

Errol burst out laughing. “Oh, fantastic idea. Really.”

“I mean it,” said Trick. “I know what it felt like to have Cyric… around. Not just in my head,” he added. “I know what he felt like here, in the idol, at the shrine. I think, if he were to show up again, I would know right away. Even before he could jump into anyone’s head.”

Ariadne said, “Absolutely not.”

Hendry, too, was shaking his head. “It would be far too dangerous,” he said. “We already know you’re susceptible to this… fragment. It seems foolish to put you right back in the same position.”

Trick looked around, frustrated, imploring them to see the logic. “We know what to watch out for, now,” he said. “And he never forced me to do anything. I mean, I was always in control of my actions. Even if he does talk to me, I can just tell you what he says.”

After a small pause, Milo said, “It’s not a bad thought.”

Ariadne looked at him incredulously. “You can’t be serious!”

“Trick can sense Cyric,” said Milo. “He knows what he sounds like. Feels like. He’s the only one who knows. Cyric might get the jump on someone else, including any of us. If Trick can truly sense him the moment he turns up…”

“If,” said Errol. “If he’s telling the truth about that. About any of this.”

Trick glared at him. “Of course I’m telling the truth. Why would I make this up?”

“Because you’re a liar,” said Errol. “Isn’t that why Cyric wants you so badly? A good little thief to do his bidding.”

Hendry’s voice rang out. “All right, that’s enough,” he said, as Trick’s hand began to close in a fist. The knight looked conflicted. He rubbed his beard. “I don’t like this idea, either, but it may be our only option. We can’t very well leave it with anyone else.”

He turned to Trick, put both hands on the boy’s shoulders, and leaned down to level him with a gaze that was so deadly serious, Trick felt a chill, despite the warm weather.

“Trick,” said the old knight, gray eyes piercing straight through to the back of Trick’s skull. “If you do this, you absolutely must tell us the moment you so much as suspect Cyric’s presence. I don’t care what else is going on. If we’re asleep, if we’re in the midst of battle, whatever else is happening, this is more important. If we allow him to get the drop on us again, it could mean—”

“I get it,” Trick snapped, surprising even himself. He hadn’t meant to take that tone. It was just so frustrating how many times he was having to explain himself.

Hendry stopped talking. His expression didn’t change. His eyes continued to bore into Trick’s.

Trick swallowed hard. “I mean… s-sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I know he’s dangerous. I get it now. I don’t want him in my head again, either.”

Hendry was silent for another long moment, and Trick began to sweat.

Finally, Hendry continued, and Trick blew out a sigh of relief. “There could be catastrophic implications,” said Hendry. “We don’t know the full extent of what we’re dealing with. This is not a good option, but it’s the best option we have. Maybe our only option. It’s not only a question of your being honest with us, Trick. If Cyric shows up again, you might count yourself lucky if he leaves you a hide for me to tan.”

Trick reddened at the open threat, but he squeezed his mouth shut and nodded.

“The instant you suspect, you say something.” Hendry squeezed the boy’s shoulders. “Do you understand me, Trick?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hendry stood up. “All right. That’s settled.”

Errol was incensed. “That’s it?” he said. “How do we know the kid won’t to betray us the moment we turn our backs?”

“Because we trust him,” said Hendry.

Trick felt a squeeze in his heart that was difficult to attribute to any one emotion.

Errol scoffed his displeasure. Beside him, Ariadne put a hand on his shoulder, but Trick was dismayed to find her frowning gently at him, as well.

He felt wretched. They didn’t have to worry. He had no intention of letting that monster back into his head. But Errol was right—why should they take Trick’s word? He’d lied to them at every turn.

Hendry collected the idol, wrapped it in a square of linen, and passed it to Trick, who dropped it into the satchel he’d taken from his room. It only occurred to him now that he had, technically, taken this particular accessory without asking, and his face grew hot with shame.

He really was just a hopeless thief.

Milo cleared his throat. “What we need to do is find a way to destroy this thing,” he said. “I suppose we should head to the House of Knowledge?”

“I have a better idea,” said Hendry. “I have a friend—a colleague—who might be able to help us. He’s a scholar of Tyr, and he was always particularly interested in Cyric. At least, he used to be. I don’t know what he’s up to these days.”

The party looked up, hopeful. “That sounds perfect,” said Milo. “Where do we find him?”

Sir Hendry looked pained. He heaved a sigh.

“We find him… at the Hall of Justice.”

Chapter Text

Sir Hendry’s “colleague” was another acolyte of Tyr, it turned out. His name was Aloysius. He was senior to Hendry, and they’d become friends during Hendry’s training.

“He was always a bit… eccentric,” said Hendry as they followed the river west toward the bridges. “He was fascinated with Cyric from a young age. He believed the best way to fight an enemy was to know everything you could about them… and I have to say, I see the logic. I’m afraid the obsession made him a bit of a pariah among the acolytes,” he added with a rueful smile, “but we always got along well enough.”

Trick was aware of a kind of tension in the party, as Milo, Errol, and Ariadne kept shooting glances at Hendry, who seemed oblivious.

At one point, Milo fell in beside the old knight, and Trick heard him say in a low voice, “Are you sure you want to go up there, Hen?”

Hendry sighed. “Of course I don’t want to,” he said. “But I think it’s the right thing to do. Aloysius might be able to help. And if the Prince of Madness is stirring up some plot in Neverwinter, I should think the Knights would want to know about it.”

“Still,” said Milo, “You don’t have to go. We could…”

“It’s really all right, Milo,” Hendry said, and the topic was dropped.

Trick stole a glance behind him. Lady Lariel was trailing the group, huddled under the shade of her parasol, apparently lost in cosmic contemplation.

Trick leaned in toward Errol and Ariadne. “Sir Hendry seems like he’s not looking forward to this,” he said. “Are the Knights mad at him, or something?”

Ariadne shook her head.

Errol said, “We don’t really know. He left the knighthood, for some reason, and it sounds like there’s some bad blood there. We’d heard he was excommunicated.”

“That’s only a rumor,” Ariadne cut in quickly. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, and we’ve been too polite to ask.”

“Milo knows the full story,” said Errol. “Ari won’t let me interrogate him, though.”

“It’s none of our business,” Ariadne said, a little too loudly, then brought her volume down to a hissing whisper. “If Sir Hen wants to share, he’ll do so. Until then, the two of you can keep your noses out of it.” She gestured from Errol to Trick. “Is that clear?”

Trick and Errol exchanged a glance. “Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison, which made Ariadne give an exasperated huff and turn away.

They had reached the ruins of the Dolphin Bridge. Trick gazed down at the base of what had once been one of the three great bridges over Neverwinter River. He’d spent many a cold winter’s night huddled on the bank beneath that wreckage, taking in what heat the warm waters could afford, letting the steam settle over him, lulling him to sleep.

It was one of the most luxurious spots to sleep in the city—and one of the riskiest, as it was so near the Hall of Justice. Trick had been awakened more than once by a blue-cloaked guard barking at him to clear out. If Trick wasn’t fast enough, there was a good chance he’d also come away with a thick ear.

Past the Dolphin Bridge was the Winged Wyvern Bridge. This alone of the three bridges was fully operational and, at this late morning hour, it teemed with people bustling between the Market District and their homes in Bluelake.

As they crossed the great bridge, the Hall of Justice came into view, and Trick’s stomach knotted at the sight of it.

It stood on a cliff at the west end of the Market District, overlooking the bay where Neverwinter River emptied into the sea. The Hall was often surrounded by a hazy seaside mist, and today was no exception. Its turrets loomed ominously over the pall of fog.

Trick found himself dragging his feet as they approached the stone staircase that would take them up to the temple.

“Need to rest?” he heard Milo ask, as Trick started to flag behind the rest of the group. “It’s a lot of stairs.”

Trick flushed. “No, no, I’m fine,” he said. He forced himself to follow. The idea of anyone having to wait for Trick to catch his breath was unthinkable. He’d never had a problem with endurance.

As they reached the top, Trick could see the temple looming up at the far end of a wide courtyard.

The top of the stairway was flanked by two statues: a man and a woman, one robed in purple, the other in blue, their features nondescript. In his arms, the man held an enormous set of balanced scales. The woman carried a warhammer. Each of them held their object with arms extended, as if in offering.

In the center of the courtyard was a third statue, wrought in pure white marble, and so tall, Trick had to crane his neck to see the figure’s head, currently wreathed in brilliant sunlight.

It was Tyr himself, of course. A bandage covered his eyes. A beard reached to his waist, intricate braids worked into the marble. His right arm ended in a stump at the wrist.

His left arm was extended, and he held a tremendous longsword, which he pointed at the onlookers at his feet.

Trick looked up the length of the sword. He was glad the god was said to be blind, and therefore represented with his eyes bandaged. Trick wondered what accusatory expression he might otherwise have seen in them.

Sir Hendry, following Trick’s gaze, said, “Did you know the Knights are taught to fight with our left hands?” He gestured at the hilt of his sword on his right hip. “It’s considered a bit sacrilegious to fight with your right, as if you would replace the very hand of the lord. If you’re very devout,” he added, “you do as much as possible with your left hand. I could never get the hang of writing that way, though.”

Trick found himself trying to recall which hand Hendry had used to smack him with that morning—and then immediately recoiled at the memory. He gave the knight a hmm of polite disinterest and hurried to catch up with the others.

The courtyard was outfitted with small shrines and benches for worship. Trick noticed a few sets of stocks as well as a pillory—all currently unoccupied.

A handful of followers in robes of blue or purple milled about. As the party made their way past them, Trick saw heads turning and heard whispers.

The great doors of the temple were just ahead, emblazoned with the symbolic scales and hammer.

Trick couldn’t help it. He stopped dead.

Hendry stopped, too. He looked to Trick.

Trick bit his lip. “I don’t know if… I don’t think I should go in,” he said.

Hendry furrowed his brow. “What is it, lad?”

“I’m a…” Trick felt his face go hot, and he looked away, embarrassed.

The old knight seemed to understand. He caught Trick’s chin and turned his head gently to face him. “You’re a good lad,” he said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Tyr is a fair judge. He does not punish wantonly.”

Trick wasn’t sure about that. He eyed Hendry up and down.

“I promise, no harm will come to you,” said Hendry. “All right?”

Slowly, Trick nodded.

Hendry chucked him on the chin and rose up.

At the door, they were met with a guardsman, who didn’t look at Hendry as much as leer at him.

“Well,” he said, and his words dripped with sarcasm, “if it isn’t Sir Hendrick Pelmore!”

“Gregor,” said Hendry, giving the guard a deep nod. “There’s been some trouble. I need to speak with the scholars. The high priests, as well.”

“Ha!” The guard—Gregor—folded his arms over his burly chest. “You know, the title of Knight carries certain privileges around here,” he said with a crooked grin. “Privileges that you no longer get to enjoy.”

Hendry sighed. “I’m not looking for special privileges, Gregor,” he said, and Trick marveled at how level he kept his voice. “Anyone may request an audience with the acolytes.”

Gregor snorted. “You’re welcome to request,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll be delighted to see you.”

“The feeling will be quite mutual.”

“What’s the matter, Gregor?”

They all turned. Someone was coming up the steps. It was a human man with bright hair tied back in a short braid and a curly red beard. He was taller than Hendry, and while he wasn’t quite as broad, he still looked plenty strong.

He wore a purple tabard with the scales and hammer embroidered in white, and he carried a sword at his right side.

Trick recognized him. His name was Sir Bernhardt. A few weeks ago, he’d led a squad to clear out a gnoll encampment that had been threatening Neverwinter’s farms, and there’d been a festival in his honor. Trick had made nearly ten silver off of its patrons’ pockets.

Sir Bernhardt smiled pleasantly as he looked over the group. “No need to harass our guests. All are welcome under the light of…”

He trailed off when he saw Hendry. His eyes widened.

“What have we here?”

Hendry nodded. “Sir Bernhardt,” he said. “You look well.”

“Hendrick,” replied the knight. His eyes skimmed over Hendry, taking him in. “What a surprise. How long has it been?”

“Just about a year,” said Hendry.

“Has it really?” said Sir Bernhardt. “Time certainly flies. The door, if you please, Gregor.”

Gregor snapped to attention. He pounded the portico floor twice with the butt of his spear, and the ponderous temple doors began to open inward.

“After you,” said Sir Bernhardt, with a gracious bow, and the party headed inside.

The main hall was grand, with columns stretching high to a ceiling criss-crossed with arches.

Ahead of them was the main chapel, a semi-circular space with alcoves dotting the perimeter, each featuring a statue of a different holy person. In the apse at the far end was another statue of Tyr himself, though not as gargantuan as the one outside. This time, he was carrying his warhammer, held upright like a torch, with the scales balanced on top, the way they appeared in the iconography.

To the right, a hall led off into the darkness. Hung on the wall were a collection of implements—Trick recognized the heavy strap, or one like it, that had been used on him the last time he was here.

His mouth felt dry.

Sir Bernhardt led them in the opposite direction. “So,” he was saying to Hendry, “What is your business with Aloysius?”

“I’d like a word with the high priests, as well,” said Hendry. “We’re looking into a matter involving Cyric. We recently came into contact with him, or something very close to him. We have reason to believe he’s returned.”

Sir Bernhardt gave a dry laugh. “What, here in Neverwinter! That certainly would be a problem.” He cast his gaze over the party. “What gives you the idea that you’ve been contacted by the Fateless God?”

Trick saw Hendry’s eyes flick toward him, and his ears grew warm.

Hendry said, “We believe he has the means to communicate with mortals. That he already has established contact. And the cults have been more active than usual.”

Sir Bernhardt gave Hendry a sideways look. “I don’t know what this is about, Hendrick, but posing empty threats about the coming of a dead god is hardly going to win you back your place in the temple.”

Trick felt a surge of heat. He glared up into the redheaded knight’s face.

“That’s not what this is about,” Hendry said coolly. “I believe there is real danger, here, and I thought the Knights would be interested. It’s worth looking into, is it not?”

They had reached a wing of the building where the hallways shrank and narrowed considerably. Doors lined the walls, putting Trick in mind of the students’ rooms at Lady Lariel’s house.

Sir Bernhardt stopped before one of these doors.

“Well, Hendrick, it’s been a pleasure,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck in your pursuits. I can’t tell you how to spend your time, but I’m not going to bother the high priests with the ramblings of a heretic. Good day to you.”

The knight turned to go.

At his retreating back, Trick cried, “He’s not a heretic!”

Sir Bernhardt turned slowly, regarding Trick as if for the first time. “Oh, no?”

Granted, Trick wasn’t entirely sure what the word heretic meant, but it was clearly not a good thing. He plowed forward.

“It is Cyric,” he said. “I talked to him. He told me to do things for him, and there was a whole ritual, and they were trying to… to turn him into a… a zombie, or something.”

“A lich,” Lariel supplied.

Sir Bernhardt was still eyeing Trick. “Who’s this?” he asked Hendry. “Raising up another rabble-rouser, are we, Hen?”

“I am not a—”

“Trick.” Sir Hendry’s firm voice cut him off. “Sir Berhnardt is a holy knight of Tyr. You will speak to him with respect.”

Trick whirled on Hendry, eyes wide. “But he’s not listening!”

“That is his prerogative.”

Trick flared his nostrils. He turned back to Sir Bernhardt, whose slightly amused expression only infuriated Trick further. “He wanted me to steal something for him,” said Trick. “So maybe you should—”

“A thief!” said Bernhardt. To Hendry, he said, “You bring a thief into these hallowed halls?”

“A reformed thief,” said Hendry. He took hold of Trick’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Trick couldn’t tell if it was in comfort… or warning. “Besides, all are welcome under the light of Tyr, are they not?”

The tall knight surveyed the group once more. “Of course,” he said. Then, to Trick, he said, “I thought I recognized you. Visited the temple before, have you, boy?”

Trick went cold at the reminder. He continued to glare up at the man, but he had nothing good to say in response.

Sir Bernhardt smiled thinly. He addressed the group once again, and his magnanimous demeanor returned. “Very well,” he said with a wave of a hand. “I will speak to the high priests and recommend we investigate any heightened activity to do with Cyric. The cults can always do with quelling.” He gestured at the door where they’d stopped. “Our scholars are busy people,” he said, “and devout acolytes of Tyr. I ask that you not detain Aloysius too much from his duties.”

“We won’t be long,” said Hendry. “Thank you, Sir Bernhardt.”

The knight gave a crisp nod. With one last look at Trick, he headed back up the hallway the way he’d come.

Trick watched him go. As the fire died down, he replayed the encounter in his head. His bottom still prickled from that morning’s “conversation” with Sir Hendry, and he realized with some trepidation that he should probably be more careful about annoying the old man in the near future.

He looked around sheepishly.

But Hendry wasn’t looking at him. Trick saw him heave a heavy sigh. He knocked on the door and, a moment later, pushed it open.

They were in a small study. Books filled the shelves and spilled out onto the floor, where they piled precariously high.

There were rolled scrolls, as well, some sitting in a dusty heap in the corner, others unfurled and tacked to the walls wherever there was space.

Some were of maps, and some were covered in minuscule writing. Others bore images. Trick felt a chill as he gazed at one. The paper was ancient, and the illustration crude, but it showed a cloaked figure crooking a finger toward a gathering of smaller figures, who seemed to be bearing various treasures in offering.

The depiction was unmistakeable.

There was a desk in the center of the room. Trick almost missed the person sitting there among the piles of books, but there was indeed an old man, poring over an enormous tome with the aid of a magnifying lens.

He waved a dismissive hand at them as they entered. “Yes, yes, what is it? What do you want?”

Hendry stepped carefully over an open book on the floor. “Aloysius?”

The old man lifted his head. He pushed a pair of spectacles up his nose and peered, eyes squinting, at the party.

“By the hand,” he murmured. “Is that young Hendry? Oh, my word—it’s Sir Hendry, that’s right, I keep forgetting. Young Sir Hendry, of course. By the hand! Sir Hendry!”

Before Hendry could correct him, the old man had hopped down from his stool, where he all but disappeared behind a stack of books. He was a halfling, Trick could see, barely as tall as Milo, with wisps of white hair wreathing his face so that he looked like a dandelion gone to seed. He wore a violet robe, more ornate and better fitted than the rather shapeless blue garb of the guards and other acolytes.

The man took Hendry’s hand in both of his and shook it vigorously. “Sir Hendry, my old friend! Welcome! Welcome!”

Hendry returned the gesture with a crinkle-eyed half-smile. “It’s good to see you, Aloysius. It’s been quite some time.”

“Indeed it has! Indeed it has! Oh, do come in!” Aloysius hoisted himself back up onto his stool and grinned around at the group. “Oh, you brought friends! Hello! My, my, my, young Sir Hendry. Top of his class, this one! Grade-A student, you might know! Oh—tea!”

He was immediately out of his stool again and busying himself with a tea kettle he’d procured from somewhere.

He invited them all to sit, gesturing at the landscape of books. After being expressly bidden, Trick sat carefully on one of the lower stacks, feeling like this must be some kind of terrible sacrilege, but too flustered by the halfling’s manic energy to protest.

When they’d all settled and been dealt mugs of steaming tea—Trick realized he hadn’t seen a fire to heat the kettle, and this amused, amazed, and concerned him all at once—Aloysius asked, “So, my good Sir Hendry and his esteemed friends, to what do I owe this impeccable pleasure?”

The halfling listened with rapt attention as they told him everything that had happened over the past few days, from recovering the stolen phylactery, to Cyric visiting Trick, to Felix and the dark ritual, to the shrine in the River District and the unbreakable idol.

At Aloysius’s behest, Trick brought it out of his satchel. As he unwrapped the linen square, the onyx statuette seemed to thrum, and Trick was more than happy to hand it over for the halfling’s inspection.

Aloysius brought it close to his eyes, tilted it this way and that, held it up to the light. “By his blindness,” he murmured. “This is a dark relic, isn’t it?”

“It’s protected by a good deal of magic,” said Milo. “We tried to destroy it, but—”

“Oh, I imagine that would be very difficult,” said Aloysius. “Very, very difficult. I would not attempt that again, no, I would not. Very dangerous, I’d wager. Impossible to kill a god, you know. Quite impossible.”

Trick’s ears perked up. “But I thought Cyric had been killed?” He looked at Hendry. “By Tyr. Wasn’t he?”

“Oh, no, no, no, nothing like that.” The halfling half-tossed the idol to Trick, who nearly toppled off his book stack to catch it, and went to one of the sets of shelves, where he began thumbing past titles. “We say Cyric was destroyed, colloquially, and for all intents and purposes, I suppose it’s a good enough way to think of it. For the purposes of faith and worship, yes, good enough, certainly. But what Tyr did was more like banishment than killing. Ah, here we go.”

He pulled a leather-bound tome from the shelf and opened it, passing it to Hendry. Trick and the others leaned in to see. The book was open to a set of illustrations. Trick recognized Tyr and Cyric. It seemed to be a depiction of a battle of some kind. Here was Cyric, portrayed with long, terrible teeth, clamping down on Tyr’s right hand. Here was Tyr, taking up his sword in his left hand and striking Cyric down. And… here was Cyric, falling, while Tyr—and presumably a host of other gods—watched from above.

“So… he wasn’t killed?” said Trick.

“The prevalent theory is that he was banished from the Celestial Planes,” said Aloysius. “To where? Unknown. But destroyed? Most assuredly not.” He looked at Trick. “If he was really dead, why would followers of Tyr still be on the lookout for his workings? Eh?” He tapped his temple and waggled his wispy white eyebrows.

Trick stared at the idol in his hands.

Aloysius was up again, this time rooting through a pile of scrolls and sending dust mites flying through the light from the window.

He came up with a decrepit-looking one. He dragged over a stand of some kind, plunked the scroll on top, and unrolled it.

“That idol of yours,” he said. “Curious artifact, indeed. I wonder… Aha! Yes, just as I thought. Look, here.”

The scroll was written in a language that Trick didn’t understand. Lariel was the first to give a little gasp of comprehension; the rest of them had to wait for the explanation.

Trick furrowed his brow. There was an illustration on the page. It showed a stylized rendering of Cyric with three images radiating out from him in a triangle: a cloak, a knife, and a round disc.

“See, here, here,” Aloysius said again, jabbing a gnarled finger at the yellowed paper. “The thief, the dagger, the coin. The Icons of Cyric.”

“Three relics,” said Lariel, reading. “Created by his worshipers as a means of communion.” She nodded. “That would explain how he was able to speak with the boy.”

“Yes, yes,” said the halfling. “You have one.” He pointed at the image of the cloak. “And you were able to draw him through it, yes?”

The party exchanged glances, and Aloysius sighed impatiently. “Cyric uses this—” he took up the idol— “to plant some fragment of himself into this one.” He knocked the statue against Trick’s head, who squawked and rubbed at it furiously. “Then your wayward friend—” he pointed at Lariel— “steals a phylactery and attempts to use our young host here to perform some dark ritual.

“This ritual causes the fragment to—shpewwww—exit the little thief and enter the phylactery.” He mimed with his hands, cupping them together as if he were holding a ball. “Then—!” He held up a finger, making eye contact with each of them in turn. He gestured at Lariel. “Your ladyship…?”

“…destroys it,” Milo filled in, catching on. “Lady! You destroyed the phylactery with Cyric inside.”

“A fragment,” corrected Aloysius. “Or so our theory goes. And if we can destroy one fragment…” He looked to Trick.

Trick’s eyes opened wide. “We can destroy them all!”

“Or, at least,” said Lariel, “we can destroy more.”

They considered this for a long moment.

Ariadne was the next to speak. “So you’re saying we collect the rest of these Icons, along with more phylacteries, and try to draw Cyric out and destroy him, bit by bit?”

“Will the other two Icons work the same way?” asked Trick. “The same as this one?”

“Unknown,” said Aloysius, looking gleeful. “Technically, I’m not completely sure what you have is one of the Icons. But it certainly would seem that way, wouldn’t it?”

“It certainly would,” murmured Hendry, and Trick noticed he was frowning.

“When you find them,” said Aloysius, “I would be very much in your debt if you would let me know how they work. Or what happens when they are all gathered together! My word, this could be monumental. If this truly is an Icon of Cyric… If you really can find a way to destroy him…!” The old man looked positively giddy.

Lariel said, “I will reach out to my network. Perhaps one of my colleagues will know how to obtain another phylactery.”

“Here!” cried Aloysius, and he retrieved yet another rolled parchment. “Perhaps this will help!”

It was a map of the Sword Coast, which he spread over the open scroll. He pointed at Neverwinter, which was circled in red ink.

“These are all known—or suspected—or mentioned—or hypothesized locations where there has ever been a temple to Cyric,” he explained. “They were all destroyed, at one point. Most of them were, anyway. Ages ago. But these things have a way of resurfacing.”

Trick’s eyes scanned the paper, which was covered in similar red circles. “There… sure are a lot of them.”

“Indeed there are,” said Aloysius. “Many, perhaps, just rumors. But you all found another temple, you said?”

“Yes,” said Errol. “In Neverwinter Wood, where they brought the phylactery the first time.”

Milo looked at Trick. “You said Felix had wanted to do the ritual there?” he recalled. “Do you think… could that mean…”

“There’s another Icon,” said Trick. “In the temple in the woods! There has to be!”

Aloysius clapped his hands together. “A lead!” he cried. “Oh, a true adventure! How exciting! By the hand, Sir Hen, I never would have dreamed I’d see you an adventurer, but here you are, roaming the land, dispelling the darkness! My, your family must be so proud!”

Hendry stood up. “I don’t like this,” he said, and the heaviness of his words quieted the excitement that had bubbled up in the room. After a pause, he elaborated. “To get Cyric into the phylactery… Felix was part of the way through a terrible ritual. A ritual that involved Trick. We were lucky to get there when we did. If we hadn’t stopped it…”

Trick swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought of that.

“But I’m fine, Sir Hendry,” he ventured. “You did stop it in time. We can do the same thing again. We know it works.”

“We don’t know anything,” Hendry said sharply. “We’re operating on theories.” He softened. “It sounds like a good idea to collect the Icons, in any case. But, Aloysius, there must be another way to destroy him. One that doesn’t involve risking the lives of children under my charge.”

There was that children word again. Trick bristled.

“Oh, there may yet be, there may yet be,” said Aloysius. “Perhaps once we have all three Icons together, we will find ourselves with expanded options. I’d be glad to look into it, Sir Hendry. Absolutely. Perhaps we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves.” He adjusted his glasses and rolled up the map. “Please, take this. You can start by investigating that temple of yours, see if you find anything.”

“At the very least,” said Ariadne, “if we can find the rest of these Icons, we can stop them coming into anyone else’s hands.”

“A very good point,” said Aloysius. “An excellent point.”

Trick found himself eyeing Sir Hendry. Why did he have to come stomping in like that? The moment Trick might have a valuable role to play in their plan, Hendry had to shoot it down. Because Trick was a “child.” It was maddening.

“Aloysius,” said Hendry, extending a hand once more to his old friend, “you’ve been incredibly helpful. Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” cried the halfling. “Don’t mention it, truly! Anything I can do to help, anything at all, just say the word!”

Lariel said, “As a matter of fact, there is a favor I would like to ask of you.” She alone among them had remained standing during their meeting, and she was now running her gaze across the treasure trove of reference material crammed into the tiny office. “Is all of this literature to do with Cyric?”

“Well… broadly speaking, yes, I’d say so, yes.” Aloysius rubbed his head. “There’s a good deal on the Tyrran faith, of course, and a handful of other theologies… and there’s at least one cookery book in there… and a series of novels that I must say are quite—”

“Would it be at all possible to share some of your research?” Lariel asked. “I would be very interested in reading through several of these sources. The context on Tyr and Cyric will, I think, prove quite useful in my own studies. In turn, I feel certain the House of Knowledge would be very happy to provide you with access to some of its more restricted areas. If it would be quite convenient, of course.”

Aloysius’s eyes were gleaming bright behind his spectacles. “Convenient!” he cried. “Yes, convenient! Most agreeable, I think, my lady! Yes, quite!”

Lariel was already thumbing through a small journal with a threadbare linen cover. “Wonderful,” she said idly, eyes fixed on the pages.

Leaving Lariel to glean what she could from Aloysius’s collection, the party said their good-byes—Aloysius looking deeply and truly honored to have made each and every one of their acquaintances—and finally filed back out into the hall.

“Well, that’s a lucky alliance!” Milo said cheerily as Hendry guided them back out of the massive Hall. “If I know the lady, she won’t stop until she’s read every word in that room at least three times over.”

“I’m sure,” said Errol, rubbing a temple. “If he doesn’t drive her to arson, first.”

Milo looked genuinely horrified by the suggestion.

As they passed through the courtyard and down the great stone steps, they began to plan for their departure. There was little time to lose. Perhaps they’d succeeded in weakening Cyric—if only slightly—but if Aloysius’s theory was true and there were two more Icons of Cyric like the cloaked idol Trick now carried, who knew how long it would be before he could make another attempt?

It was decided they should spend the day making preparations, enjoy one last night in the comfort of Lady Lariel’s accommodations, and set out first thing in the morning.

At the foot of the steps, they passed an old woman bundled in shawls, long hair matted, head bowed, holding out a tin cup.

Hendry nudged Trick with his elbow. “Perhaps you’d consider donating your winnings?”

Trick looked up at him, not understanding at first.

“I doubt Sir Bernhardt will miss the silver,” said Hendry, eyes twinkling, “and it would certainly make this woman’s day.”

Trick gaped. “You didn’t… how did you…!”

“Or, if you prefer,” said Hendry, “we can march straight back up those steps and return what you took from him. And perhaps suggest he keep a better eye on his purse, in future.”

Trick opened his mouth. He closed it again.

Two silver coins dropped into the old lady’s cup.

She didn’t look up, but she weighed the cup in her hand and sighed contentedly.

“Bless you,” she crooned. “May Tyr reward your spirit.”

Sir Hendry took her small, weathered hand in his. “Blessed are the sightless,” he responded, “for they perceive the world with all their soul,” and he dropped a few coins in her cup, as well.

Then he said, “Best not lag behind, lad,” dealt Trick a sudden swat that was just a little harder than it strictly needed to be, and sent the boy skipping to catch up to where the rest of their party was waiting.

Chapter Text

The party spent the afternoon roaming through the Market District, doing their part to bolster Neverwinter’s economy.

Finding what you were looking for in the Market District was not a straightforward process. The area used to teem with artisan shops, decorated in the same tiled patterns as the houses in the Bluelake District. The Cataclysm had left most of these buildings in dire need for repair, if not leveled entirely.

The Bluelake District had been top priority for repairs, and the Market District had been next on the list. Eventually, those shops that could be were fixed up, while much of the remaining rubble had simply been cleared away, leaving space for ephemeral stalls, which might go up one day and disappear the next.

The result was a chaotic mishmash of the occasional standalone building surrounded by clumps of colorful tents, wheeled carts, laden beasts, and solitary peddlers.

One shop that had an actual building to its name was a clothier that specialized in traveling gear. Being on the western side of the district, it had survived the cataclysm more or less intact. It even had a whole second-story apartment where the proprietors lived—a rarity in the Market District. It still bore the name “SORREL’s” picked out in beautiful gold mosaicwork over the door, and it remained both a thriving place of commerce and a popular landmark in the city.

It was here that Ariadne headed first, Trick in tow, while the others set about searching for spellcasting components and healing potions.

Trick had never been inside Sorrel’s. The idea of buying clothes was laughable. He’d had his shirt, breeches, and boots when he’d begged each of them off a passerby after the previous had worn through. As the seamstress tsked and tutted over him, Trick became aware for the first time that the breeches were about six inches too short on him, as were the sleeves of his shirt.

Trick assumed they’d throw his boots out with the rest of it, but the seamstress surprised him, marveling at how well they seemed to be holding up, in spite of a few very fixable defects.

“I can patch that up for you,” said the young dwarf. “These’ll last a lifetime, I warrant, if you treat them with care. Certainly until the young man outgrows them. Boys tend to grow feet-first,” she added. “But these still fit you well enough, if you like them.”

For all Trick’s dreaming about shiny knee-high boots, he found he was relieved to be able to keep these ones. At least for now.

Trick’s shirt and breeches were to be traded in for a tunic and leggings. He marveled at the linen tunic—it was soft, lightweight, and durable, all at once.

The seamstress took Trick’s measurements. For the set of clothes, repairs to the boots, adjustments to the tunic, and a few other articles of clothing, the sum was not insignificant, and when Ariadne inquired after a rush order, the dwarf looked skeptical. “Got a lot of orders today, miss,” she said. “I work fast, but I’m not a magician, you know.”

It would be an extra fee for a rush order. When Ariadne offered twice the quoted amount, the dwarf’s eyes went wide. “Top of the queue for you, ma’am,” she sang, making a vigorous note in her book. “It’ll be done this evening, no problem at all. Have it delivered right to your door. Bluelake, you said?”

She took the address—and a sum of gold that made Trick’s eyes water—and then Trick and Ariadne were on their way, Trick in a pair of loaner slippers after having handed over his boots.

The rest of the party had not been quite as successful. They had managed to scare up one potion of healing and some rudimentary spell components. Milo in particular was disappointed. He’d apparently learned a new spell from Lady Lariel, but they required components he’d been unable to find.

“I’ll have to ask if Lady Lariel if she has any to spare,” said Milo. “I’ll speak with her before we leave tomorrow.”

That evening, the party enjoyed a repeat of the previous night’s lavish dinner, which Trick nearly skipped in favor of extra time in the tub. (Between his porridge, the buffet breakfast, and a lunch of venison pasties in the Market District, he’d already eaten three times today, and how many more times could a body eat in one day?) He’d requested a tub be drawn as soon as they returned from their errands, and he had every intention of soaking there until bedtime.

Sir Hendry, however, seemed to think he required still more nutrients—something about “green vegetables”—and stood outside Trick’s room pounding relentlessly on the door until Trick toweled himself off, dressed, and allowed himself to be escorted to the dining room, dark curls still dripping with water.

After he’d ingested a sufficient quantity of (an admittedly delicious) spinach soup, it had been straight back to the bath for round two. This time, he was not interrupted.

It was lovely to sleep in the pillowy down bed again—and even lovelier not to be visited in the middle of the night by a demonic god who was supposed to be dead. For the first time in his life, Trick understood the definition of a “good night’s sleep.”

He was roused by a gentle knocking at his door—not Sir Hendry, for once, but Ariadne, who cooed through the lock that it was time to get up. The air was cool with morning, and Trick was so warm under his duvet, but today, leaving the warmth of his bed meant setting off on an adventure. With a bona fide adventuring party.

His party.

As Trick sat in his nightshirt, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Ariadne pushed open the door. She carried a large parcel, which she deposited on the dresser.

“Sorrel’s delivered last night, but you were already asleep,” she said. She had perched herself on the desk chair, and she was watching him with a grin. It was almost a mischievous look—one Trick was unaccustomed to seeing on the half-elf’s face. He eyed her warily.

Then he looked at the parcel. It was bigger than he’d expected for a tunic and a pair of hose.

Ariadne watched with mounting anticipation as Trick opened the parcel.

The new leggings were on top—simple, thin leather, not much different from his old breeches, but lighter in weight and dyed black.

Underneath was the tunic. The one he’d tried on in the store had been a marigold yellow, and if he hadn’t appreciated Ariadne’s generosity so very much, he might have said it felt a bit garish.

This tunic, however, was a charcoal gray, with simple black detailing around the neck and sleeves, and Trick felt a smile split his face as he held it out. He saw Ariadne’s grin double in size.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

But that wasn’t all.

There was a black leather belt for the tunic. There was a linen shirt, also black, with sleeves that could be worn long, cuffed smartly at the wrists, or folded back to the elbows for better ease of maneuvering.

As Trick picked this one out, he saw that there were two identical shirts beneath it, as well as extra sets of leggings.

“Miss Sorrel was adamant that you wash your smallclothes once in a while,” said Ariadne, seeing Trick’s quizzical look, “so she put in a few sets.”

Under the extra shirts was some additional bulk, which Trick had taken for some kind of protective padding. At Ariadne’s prodding, he unfolded it.

He found himself holding a wool cloak. It was hunter green with a long hood, and it reached almost to the floor.

He stared at Ariadne, open-mouthed.

“Try it on,” she breathed.

He did so.

The cloak was lined with black silk, buttery soft against Trick’s bare arms. If he held out his arms, it reached to his wrists and draped just past his knees. It was heavy and warm, but not stifling, like wrapping himself in a dear memory. He found he could slide his arms through “sleeves” in the lining, so the cloak followed his movements exactly.

“Miss Sorrel did this all in one night? By herself?”

“Oh, don’t let her fool you, she has an entire staff,” said Ariadne. “And it’s not like she made this all from scratch—it was just a few modifications. And she’s extremely capable. …And I paid her a lot.” She leaned forward. “Do up the clasp.”

Trick reached for the cloak’s collar. The clasp was a thumb-sized piece of carved wood.

A little rabbit. The little rabbit he’d found in Ariadne’s pack, that first night he’d come upon them.

“Ariadne,” he said, “this is… it’s too much, really…”

She put up a hand. “Don’t tell me it’s too much. It’s exactly right. I won’t hear a word otherwise. Oh—here are your boots.”

Trick hadn’t even noticed her bring them in. He could barely take them. They were his same old short, dark brown, scuffed-to-hell boots… but the left one was tacked firmly down where it had been coming away from the sole, and the hole in the right one had been patched smooth, and the buckles, which Trick had never known except by the frayed straps they’d left behind, had somehow rematerialized as burnished brass beneath the cuffs, and…

“Oh, Trick!”

His face was hot, his cheeks damp, and Ariadne had him in a viselike hug.

He sniffled into the sleeve of her tunic.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much.”

She squeezed him even harder, then pulled away, holding him by the shoulders. “A respectable thief should look the part,” she said. Her eyes were glistening, too. “Take good care of everything, all right?”

“I will,” said Trick. “I promise.”

And more than any promise he’d made to anyone in his fifteen years of life, this was one Trick intended to keep.

After Trick had washed his face, dressed, and emerged from his room, newly outfitted, Ariadne had to take a moment to compose herself.

“You just look so…”

At Trick’s pained expression, she waved her hands. “Okay, okay, I’m fine. It suits you, Trick. That’s all.”

Errol and Milo, for their part, had nothing to say at all about Trick’s new ensemble. This seemed to annoy Ariadne, who badgered Errol relentlessly until he fumbled his way into a compliment, noting Ariadne’s handiwork on the rabbit clasp.

Lady Lariel’s expansive property was rolling in early-morning mist. Trick could see the familiar sight of steam rising from the river to the south.

Ariadne said, “Are you all packed, Trick?”

Trick patted his satchel—he’d been sure to get permission from one of the students before taking it with him, this time. Not that he had much to carry. It was mostly food he’d squirreled away over the past week—the fruits and nuts from the party’s packs, and the cheese balls from the House of Knowledge—as well as the bent nails he’d pried out of the dumbwaiter cabinet.

Breakfast was quick and hearty: boiled eggs, sweet potatoes stuffed with herbs, and more of that delicious porridge. Ariadne made sure a pile of fresh fruit made its way onto Trick’s plate, as well.

“Get your nutrients while you can,” she advised as Trick obediently choked down a tart pink citron. “It’ll be days on the road, at least—there’s no telling when we’ll next have access to fresh fruit.”

As far as anyone knew, Lariel was still sequestered with Aloysius, where she would apparently read until her eyeballs gave out, so a pair of her students saw them off, instead.

Now that they were saying their formal good-byes, Trick realized they were a member short.

As they exited through the gate in the mosaic wall and poured onto the streets of the Bluelake District, Trick finally asked, “Where’s Sir Hendry?”

Milo said, “He had a few things to see to before we were off.” He glanced around. “He said he’d meet us…”

Right on cue, Hendry materialized around a corner just ahead. He was wrapped in a cloak and walking slowly, as though deep in thought.

“Sir Hendry!” called Trick.

He looked up, and while he didn’t smile, exactly, his posture seemed to ease, and he quickened his step.

He looked Trick up and down. “You look smart, lad.”

Trick shrugged, hoping to conceal the furious blush that threatened to bloom out of his face and pour out into the street. “Thanks.” He redirected. “Where were you?”

Milo looked about to say something, but Hendry put a hand on Trick’s shoulder, companionably.

“I had a few errands to run,” he said. “This is for you.”

He handed over what he explained was a piece of armor—a leather breastplate, which had been boiled in oil until it became firm. It was dyed black, like the rest of Trick’s new wardrobe. Clearly Hendry and Ariadne had been in cahoots.

“And this,” added Hendry.

It was a sheath for Trick’s dagger that buckled right on to his belt.

“So you don’t have to keep shoving that blade down your boot,” said Ariadne. “It makes me so nervous when you do that.”

In response, Trick grinned up at her and flipped out the blade from its hiding spot, making the half-elf gasp.

“Thanks,” he said, before she could clock him one. He meant it, too. “I never had a spot for it, before. Thank you. Really.”

This early in the morning, the city was quiet. They met almost no one on the Dolphin Bridge, and Errol and Ariadne insisted on pausing for a brief moment to take in the steady rush of the river below.

As they waited, Trick remembered Sir Hendry had never answered his question.

“So,” he said, “where were you this morning?”

Hendry was quiet for a moment. He drew in a breath, enjoying the crisp, clean air, and blew it out again.

“I went up to the temple to pray,” he said.

Trick blinked at him, and his mouth swung open.

“Only to the courtyard,” Sir Hendry added. “As I did yesterday morning. You may have noticed I’m not particularly welcome inside the temple.”

“Yeah,” said Trick. “About that—”

“Then,” said Hendry, “I went down to Neverdeath to visit my wife.”

This gave Trick pause. Neverdeath was the graveyard. It was on the east side of the Market District. The last bastion of civilization in Neverwinter before the barren Chasm. Nobody lived there; at least, not to Trick’s knowledge.

“Your wife lives near Neverdeath?”

Hendry didn’t answer. His eyes were on the half-elves. They were leaning over the edge of the bridge, Ariadne’s arm across Errol’s shoulders, his hand at the small of her back. He pretended to lean forward too far, pulling her with him, as if they were about to fall in. She shrieked, clinging to his shoulder until he pulled her back with a gallant flourish, which she rewarded with an audible swat on his hip.

Hendry said, “She’s buried there.”

Trick felt a prickling across his skin.

Oh.

Trick had been around death, before. Old Mare had died when he was five. He had never known his parents, so he didn’t really miss them, but losing Mare had felt like losing his whole world.

He didn’t know what to say. Hendry didn’t look sad about it, exactly. He was still watching the half-elf couple with that crinkled look in his eyes.

“She was sick,” he said. “A plague ran through the city that year, and it took her with her. There was nothing to be done. One day she was there, and the next…” He took a breath. “It’s why I became a Knight, you know.”

“It is?”

Hendry nodded. “I grew up hearing stories of the Knights of Tyr, and the few among them who were so devout and so righteous, our lord saw fit to grant them divine powers.” He gave a wistful chuckle. “It was a long time ago, when she died. Before you were born. I was much younger, then, too.”

Sir Hendry’s hand went to his collar, where Trick knew the symbol of Tyr hung under his shirt.

“It was a foolish thought,” said Hendry. “Paladins—those blessed Knights of Tyr—are few and far between. My reason for joining was quite selfish. I should never have expected to count myself among their number. But I’m glad I joined, nonetheless. I found it fulfilling, in a different way, to protect people in need.”

Trick was still fixated on the mention of divine powers. “Have you ever met one?” he asked. “A paladin?”

“No, indeed,” said Hendry. “They may well be a thing of legend.”

“So, Sir Bernhardt isn’t…?”

At that, Hendry laughed outright—a deep, throaty laugh. “No, lad, Sir Bernhardt is not a paladin. Tyr would not so punish us without just cause.” He sighed. “That’s unkind of me.”

But Trick grinned up at him. It was good to see the old knight be a little bit unkind, for once.

They passed through the Market District, not yet packed with its usual hordes of shopgoers, but busy enough with servants and lower-class folks perusing the farm stalls for first pick of the day’s produce.

They stopped at a fishmonger to pick up a pack of dried filets, and Errol picked out some steamed, leaf-wrapped bundles that would make a good cold lunch. And Ariadne couldn’t pass up the neighboring stall, overflowing with more of those sour pink fruits, which she called a pink pom. She ignored Trick’s wrinkled nose and bought two for each of the party.

Finally, they were at the city’s south gate.

Trick turned around. He gazed back over Neverwinter. It felt strange to leave like this: on purpose, on a mission, as part of a team. He wondered when he’d see his home again.

Beside him, Hendry heaved a sigh, and Trick wondered if he was feeling something similar.

Errol cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

Hendry put a hand on Trick’s back. Together, they headed through the gate.

They took the same path toward the forest that they’d walked the other day, winding through farms and fishing villages until the dwellings dwindled and the terrain grew rough.

Before heading into the forest, they stopped to arrange their various weapons and pieces of armor. Hendry donned his chain shirt and gave his sword a quick once-over. Ariadne checked the fletching on the handful of arrows she carried in a quiver and tested the tension on her bow.

Under the warmth of the sun, rising quickly over the forest ahead, Trick folded away his cloak. He fastened the new sheath onto the belt of his tunic, pulled his dagger out of his boot, and slipped it into its new home. He practiced taking it in and out of the sheath, pleased by how much easier it was to access.

“Lad, a word,” said Hendry.

He took Trick aside, a hand on the boy’s shoulder, while the others passed around one of the dried fish to snack on.

“We’ll be traveling through the wood, which you recall is a fairly dangerous place,” said the knight. “I want to make sure we’re clear on a few things before we proceed.”

Trick looked up at him warily.

“First of all,” said Hendry, “you’ll want to wear that breastplate. It will go a long way toward keeping you safe if we run into any trouble. Wear it as much as possible while we’re on the road.”

Trick pulled it out of his bag. It wasn’t as bulky as Hendry’s chain mail, but the boiled leather still felt heavy in his hands. He shrugged obligingly into it. The slight extra girth in his chest was disorienting, and Trick didn’t like it.

“And as long as we’re traveling,” Hendry went on, “you are to stay near the group. I don’t want you wandering off on your own, for any reason. Is that very clear?”

Still soured by the cumbersome armor, Trick gave a displeased huff. “You don’t have to babysit me,” he said. “I can take care of myself.”

“You can,” said Hendry, “to an extent. But we’re in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by danger, and you’re not practiced in combat.”

“I know how to fight!”

“I’m not asking, Trick.” Hendry’s eyes were steely. “Stay with the group. No exceptions. Am I understood?”

Trick glowered at the ground. “Fine.”

There was a pause, and Trick felt the ominous shadow of a prickle in his backside. At length, Sir Hendry only said, “Good. Let me get that,” and helped buckle Trick into his armor.

Ariadne led the way through the forest, following the river east. She moved easily, holding up a hand now and then to stop them as her eyes flicked back and forth after some barely audible sound, then motioning to proceed.

Trick learned that she was from another part of Neverwinter Wood, not far from where they were headed, in fact. When Ariadne’s clan had heard rumblings that a cult of Cyric had resurfaced for the first time in anyone’s memory, they’d grown uneasy, and they’d sent Ariadne to investigate.

Errol had accompanied her to Neverwinter, where they’d met Hendry and Milo researching the same sudden cult activity.

They’d been traveling together for a few months, now. The group had gotten along well from the start. Errol and Ariadne, who had been friends—and then lovers—for years, knew each other inside and out, and it showed in the way they communicated.

Likewise, Hendry’s friendship with Milo went back decades, and they had made an easy adventuring duo.

The four of them together had quickly meshed.

“Don’t worry,” said Milo when Trick complained about Hendry’s overbearing travel rules. “You’ll fit right in, yourself, before long. Sir Hen just wants to make sure you get some practice while we’re on hand to help you out. Just until you learn the ropes, so to speak.”

Yeah, right. If Trick knew Hendry, he suspected he’d be learning the ropes for the rest of his teenage years—of which, he admitted, there were still several to go.

“Anyway,” Milo was saying, “it’s a good idea not to split the party, no matter how experienced you are. You’ll notice we all tend to stick together. Much better to be safe than sorry.”

That was a good point, but Trick wasn’t in the mood to be placated. He turned his attention to the leather breastplate, which was stiff and hot over his beloved new tunic and shirt. He made a point of walking awkwardly, swinging his arms wide, making it clear how difficult it was to avoid chafing his underarms on the edges of the plate.

Sir Hendry did not look at him once, in that very pointed way of not looking at someone while still seeing exactly what they were doing.

The sun had reached its zenith and passed it before they stopped for a proper rest.

Errol handed out their bundled lunches. Trick took his and, gazing around for a good seat, spotted a gnarled tree a little ways off whose trunk had split, leaving a perfect crook for him to nestle into. He headed toward it.

“Trick,” called Hendry, almost as soon as the idea had entered into Trick’s head. “Not too far.”

Trick, facing away, allowed himself a monumental eye roll.

“I’m right here,” he called back, and hiked himself up into the tree.

Back with the rest of the party, Hendry was watching him, hands on his hips, with a slight frown. Trick could see now that the tree was a little farther away than he’d initially thought, and Hendry and the others were now partly obscured by the wispy fallen branches and undergrowth of the forest floor.

Well, he could hardly admit that now.

With stubborn nonchalance, Trick climbed a few branches higher to a spot that was less comfortable but, technically, a bit more visible.

“There,” he called back. “I can see you fine.”

Hendry didn’t look entirely satisfied, but mercifully, he left Trick alone to enjoy his meal.

Trick untied the twine from his bundle and began to unwrap it. It was one big, blue-green leaf, almost as long as his arm, and quite narrow. It didn’t look like the leaf of any tree he’d seen around Neverwinter.

When he finally got the thing unrolled, he found a ball of sticky grains studded with dried fish, bitter green veggies, and sweet nuts. The grains were fragrant and slightly spicy.

It was delicious, and after so much walking, it was extremely satisfying. Trick savored it.

When he’d finished, he considered tossing away the foreign leaf, but on second thought, he decided to keep it. With his dagger, he scraped it clean of sticky grains, then he rolled it up, secured it with the twine, and tucked it into his satchel next to the bent nails.

The party met Trick as he swung down out of his tree, and they resumed their trek.

The afternoon was likewise uneventful. Trick asked once or twice if he could run ahead to help Ariadne scout, or swap with her, but he was summarily dismissed and told to do his part keeping an eye out from the rear.

“An eye out for what?” he muttered, scuffing at the ground with a boot. “All those dangerous bunny rabbits?”

Hendry rubbed his temples.

When the sky had turned rosy and the various shapes of the forest had started to blur into twilight, they stopped to make camp.

Trick shucked off his breastplate as soon as he could. His torso was glad to be able to breathe again. He already dreaded putting the damnable thing on again tomorrow, but at least for now, he was free.

Trick’s moodiness was allayed for the moment when he remembered, in helping stake out a campsite, that during yesterday’s shopping excursion, the party had bought Trick his own tent, as well as a new bedroll. (The one he’d borrowed that first night belonged to Ariadne, and the party felt he had better have his own.)

Trick happily set to work putting up the little tent. He lay the bedroll out inside and propped his satchel up next to it. He couldn’t help but grin. A tiny little house, all of his own!

He was bidden to help Hendry and Milo gather firewood, which he did with little complaint, to the relief of all.

They got a fire going—a process accelerated a great deal by Milo’s magic—and they were met with Ariadne and Errol, carrying their bows and arrows, bunches of foraged greenery, and three fat rabbits.

Trick wondered why the half-elves bothered with a bow and arrow when they could just use magic.

Ariadne gave him a familiar answer: she often used her wild shape to hunt, but if she could help it, she liked to save her magic for when it was needed. “It’s good practice,” she added, running her hands along the bow shaft. “I wouldn’t want to get rusty.”

“That and it’s fun,” said Errol, sidling up beside her.

She grinned. “That, too.”

As the aroma of roasting rabbit wafted across the campsite, the plan recounted their progress. It was another few days before they’d reach the temple. So far, they’d been following the river due east, because it was generally safer to be by the water, and easier to stay on course.

Soon, though, they would have to diverge from the river and head south, at which point—Hendry was careful not to make eye contact with Trick as he reminded the party—the forest would start to get more dangerous. They’d have to remain on alert.

After dinner, Errol took up his lute and treated them to a song. It was a sweet ditty, a story about a pair of wood birds trying to build a nest, only to have it destroyed time and again by rain and wind. At the end of the song, they finally succeeded, and Trick smiled along with the rest of them at the mention of the three speckled eggs nestled safely in their crib.

After he’d climbed into his bedroll—his bedroll, in his tent—Trick’s mind went to the temple.

It gave him a thrill to think about what they were going to find. Sir Hendry and everyone had just been through there, and apparently cleaned out any cultists, so there was little chance of running into enemies.

That left a pile of ancient ruins, totally abandoned, with at least one powerful artifact supposedly buried somewhere in their midst.

What else might be buried there? Trick’s mind grew hazy, images of heaping treasure chests and brilliant gemstones floating past as he drifted contentedly off to sleep.

Chapter Text

They arose early the next morning. The sun was just peeking through the trees, and the dawn birds were still chirping.

Trick was stiff all over, which surprised him. He was used to sleeping in all manner of less-than-ideal conditions. A soft bedroll under cover of a tent was second in luxury only to the beds at Lariel’s house.

Achingly, he dragged himself to the fire, which was already lit, and whose cheery glow did make him feel a little better, at least.

Trick had been looking forward to more freshly-hunted game, but breakfast was a quick affair: dried fish and pink poms. The fish wasn’t bad, but the sour poms Trick was coming to loathe. Ariadne insisted that they were one of the healthiest foods in Toril, and apparently, it was important to her that Trick eat healthy.

Of everyone in the party, Trick thought he liked Ariadne the best. She was always so gentle with him, but somehow, it never felt condescending, the way Sir Hendry could be. And, anyway, Trick felt he owed her for the far too generous wardrobe.

Trick ate the pom, swallowing one segment at a time, chewing no more than was necessary to get it down. That way, he almost couldn’t taste it.

After breakfast, as Ariadne finished up her quiet commune with nature and Milo studied his spellbook, Trick packed up his satchel and carefully rolled up his tent.

He noticed Sir Hendry was nowhere to be seen. He remembered what Milo had said, that Hendry prayed to Tyr every morning. He must have gone to find a private spot.

Trick huffed. So it was all right for him to go off on his own.

Suddenly, Milo gasped and slapped his forehead.

“I forgot to talk to Lady Lariel!” he cried.

Trick looked at him quizzically.

“Diamond dust,” said Milo. “Lady Lariel taught me a new spell. I need diamond dust to cast it, and I couldn’t find any in the Market District. I was going to ask her for some before we left, but she was still up at the Hall of Justice, and I completely forgot.” He sighed. “Forget my own head if it wasn’t tacked down.”

Errol and Ariadne came up behind them, shouldering their packs. “We could make a stop in Briardale.”

A strange look came over Milo’s face.

Trick asked, “What’s Briardale?”

“A thieves’ village,” said Ariadne. “It’s not far from the temple. We’ll pass right by it.” She gave Errol a sidelong look. “It doesn’t have the cleanest reputation for safety.”

Errol shrugged. “Not for a merchant caravan, perhaps,” he said. “I doubt we’d have much trouble, the five of us, armed as we are.” To Milo, he said, “They deal in gems and other valuables… as you might expect. I’m sure you could find what you’re looking for there.”

Milo waved a hand. “No, no,” he said hurriedly. “I wouldn’t want to divert us. It’s not that important.”

Errol shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said.

Hendry rejoined them at length, and—after a mild-toned reminder that Trick should put on his armor—they set out through the woods.

The second day passed much like the first. As they started walking, Trick realized why he felt so stiff, as his muscles all began to cry out in protest. How annoying. He could sprint like his life depended on it (which it sometimes did), and he could stay crouched for hours in a cramped, hidden spot—but he was less accustomed to the steady, slow exertion of walking for miles on end.

He was hardly about to complain, however. Sir Hendry didn’t need any more reason to believe he was struggling to keep up.

In the afternoon, when they turned south away from the river, Hendry repeated his caution about the increased danger. Trick remembered the goblin attack from the other day, and he felt the hairs raise on his skin. Admittedly, he wouldn’t want to face something like that alone.

They took pains to move more quietly. Trick found himself jumping every time a bush rustled nearby. Occasionally, Ariadne made them stop and hide among the fallen branches, and every time, Trick felt his heart pumping hard enough to burst out of his chest.

It wasn’t until the next day, though, that trouble finally found them.

They were picking their way down a steep slope when Ariadne pulled up short.

She gestured to Sir Hendry and pointed down the hill.

Six lumbering figures, oddly tall for men, and covered in leathers and furs, were traipsing along the valley below. They looked to be armed—the leader was hacking at the undergrowth with a short, jagged sword.

The sounds of their eerie laughter carried up the hill, with some strange language mixed in. It sounded to Trick more animal than human, and he shuddered.

“Gnolls,” whispered Ariadne.

The party stood stock-still, tensed, waiting for the gnolls to pass them by.

Their leader stopped, holding out an arm. It put its nose in the air—Trick could see two rounded ears on top of its head and a coarse, ridge-like mane down the back of its long neck. He realized that what he’d taken for fur clothing was, in fact, the creature’s own gray-spotted hide.

It seemed to be sniffing the air.

Trick held his breath.

Then the creature turned, and it was looking up the hill. It pointed straight at them and barked something feral.

“Shit,” said Errol.

The six strange marauders yipped and howled, and before Trick knew what was happening, they were charging up the hill.

There was a whizzz as Ariadne loosed an arrow, which stuck in the shoulder of one of them. The creature roared, but it did not slow its approach.

They’d been over what would happen if the party was attacked. Trick’s directive was to hide, not to engage an enemy on his own, and to fight only if necessary.

Luckily, that aligned perfectly with all of Trick’s instincts.

He sprinted for the nearest tree, threw himself behind it, and began picking his way across the hill, keeping low and out of sight of the oncoming band.

Hendry had his sword in hand—his left hand, Trick noticed—and strode out to meet the leader, while Errol and Ariadne regaled the rest of them with arrows.

Trick looked around for Milo and finally found him, sheltering farther uphill, busying himself with his component pouch. There was a sudden pop, and two of the gnolls yelped as the forest floor beneath them slickened with some shimmering, viscous liquid. A heartbeat later, they were downed by a pair of arrows.

Seeing their companions go down, two more of the gnolls turned tail and fled. A third snarled up at the half-elves, taking their arrows easily on its heavy shield as it closed in on them.

Hendry was still engaged with the leader, who was bigger than the rest and wielded two brutal-looking shortswords. Their melee was drawing close to Trick’s hiding place.

As he crouched, still undetected, Trick had a sudden idea. Carefully, sure-footed and silent in his trusty boots, he crept forward and drew his dagger.

The gnoll leader aimed a two-weapon swing at Sir Hendry, who caught both swords on his, but staggered backward under the force of the blow.

As he caught his balance, the gnoll reared up for another attack.

Trick got to him, first.

Dashing in from behind, Trick took aim and plunged his dagger into the soft flesh of the joint behind the dog-like creature’s knee.

It let loose an agonized shriek. The distraction was plenty for Hendry, who drove forward with his sword.

Trick saw the tip of it jut out from the creature’s back, shining with gore. He rolled out of the way as the sword was withdrawn and the gnoll toppled to the ground, lifeless.

Sir Hendry looked down at Trick. He reached out his free hand; they grasped each other’s arm at the elbow, and Hendry pulled him up.

“Well done, lad,” said Hendry.

Trick beamed with pride.

From uphill, Errol and Milo approached. A great brown bear loped casually behind them, and Trick had only a moment’s dire panic before remembering who she was.

“A raiding party, probably,” said Errol, toeing the body of the gnoll leader. “We must be close to town. Too bad they weren’t coming the other way. We might have gotten some loot for our trouble.”

The bear grunted her disapproval of this sentiment.

They crossed the valley and came up the other side. They were close enough to the temple that they decided to set up camp, so they could come upon it in the morning, when they were fresh. They weren’t expecting danger, necessarily, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

“Nearly there, now,” said Ariadne, who had shifted back into her half-elf form. “Milo, are you sure you don’t want to stop in Briardale?”

“No, no,” said Milo. Trick saw him dart a look at Hendry, who was preoccupied tying a bandage around a gash on Errol’s arm. “It’s really fine. I’d rather just get to the temple.”

“How far is it?” asked Trick.

Ariadne pointed through the trees along the valley to the east, in the direction the gnolls had been marching. “Not far. Ten, maybe twenty minutes?”

“Really, it’s fine,” said Milo, and there was an edge of desperation to his voice. “Maybe we can stop through on the way back.”

“All right,” said Ariadne, and she let the matter drop.

Trick found a spot that was relatively flat and covered with soft, springy grass. He peeled off the loathsome breastplate and packed it away, then set to pitching his tent.

It was mid-afternoon, the sun still bright in the sky. If the village of Briardale was really as near as Ariadne said, Trick mused, they should have plenty of time for a shopping trip. They could spend at least an hour in town and still be back well before nightfall.

Trick had to admit, he was deadly curious about what a thieves’ village might be like. Ariadne had said it wasn’t safe. Was that why Milo was so reluctant to go? Why didn’t he just come out and say that?

With his tent set up, Trick was summoned to help Hendry collect firewood.

As they meandered through the trees, inspecting likely-looking branches for rot and adding dry ones to their bundles, Trick said, as innocently as he could, “Once the fire’s going, I think I’ll take a walk into Briardale.”

Hendry nearly dropped the log he was holding. He gathered himself quickly, but his expression darkened. “What do you want in Briardale?”

Trick started to answer, then stopped. Milo hadn’t said what was bothering him about the village. Trick remembered the furtive look Milo had given Sir Hendry. Could it be something to do with him? Of course Sir Hendry would be distrustful of a thieves’ village, Trick realized. Maybe Milo knew better than to bring it up with him.

Trick decided not to give Milo away. Instead, he shrugged. “Just curious,” he said. “It sounds interesting.”

Hendry snorted. He bent down to add the log to his bundle, adjusting the leather straps to admit the new piece. “Nothing interesting about it,” he said brusquely. “It’s a hideout for bandits and marauders. They’ll rob the shirt off your back. It’s no place for a—”

He stopped himself just in time, but Trick knew exactly what he’d been about to say. His shoulders slumped. He thought he’d handled himself pretty damn well in the gnoll attack. Hadn’t he shown he could defend himself?

“It’s no place to wander about,” Hendry amended, though the damage had been done. “Certainly not by yourself.”

“I can take care of—”

“Trick.”

He closed his mouth.

Hendry put his hands on his hips, his gaze fierce. “This is not a game, my lad,” he said. “I’ve told you these woods are dangerous. You’ve seen that for yourself, firsthand. I know you’re capable, but there’s no call for taking unnecessary risks. I can assure you, there is nothing for you in Briardale.

“Now, I’m getting tired of repeating myself,” he added, and Trick’s ears burned. “You’re not to go off on your own. You are to behave yourself, and you’re to do exactly as you’re told, or the next excursion like this you may well spend home in Neverwinter helping Aloysius alphabetize his books. Nobody’s going to Briardale, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

Trick glared at the ground. “Yes, sir.”

Hendry nodded curtly and scanned him quickly up and down.

“And I see you’re not wearing your armor.”

That did it. Gods and hells, they were just gathering wood. What did the old knight think was going to happen?

But Hendry was clearly incensed, and Trick, to his credit, did know better than to keep poking. He glowered up at him until Hendry heaved a sigh.

“Come on,” said the knight, hefting his bundle of logs. “We’ve got enough.”

Trick spent the rest of the afternoon moping around the camp and avoiding Sir Hendry as much as possible. At one point, he overheard Ariadne ask Hendry about it, to which Hendry muttered something about “insufferable teenagers,” but didn’t go into detail.

Errol’s post-dinner song, which was apparently a routine occurrence, did manage to soften the mood somewhat. When Hendry came over to where Trick was sitting and crouched down beside him, Trick allowed it, only gathering his knees up to his torso in a defensive posture.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a bit harsh with you,” said Hendry. “I’m sorry. You took me by surprise with your question earlier.”

Trick didn’t reply.

Hendry sighed. “It’s fine if you don’t want to speak with me just now. I want you to know that this is all for your protection. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know,” Trick said flatly.

“If you like,” said Hendry, “we can make a stop in Briardale on the way back.”

Trick only shrugged. He was in no mood to be coddled.

Hendry watched him a moment longer. If he was hoping for an opening, he wasn’t going to get it. Trick was determined to sulk.

Finally, Hendry said, “All right, then. Get some sleep. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

Trick only grunted in response, and the old knight left him.

It was hard to be angry with the man when he spoke so calmly like that. But as Trick continued to replay the gnoll attack, and remembering how he’d stabbed the leader at that critical moment, he felt his anger resurface. He’d stopped that thing from striking Sir Hendry when he was off-balance. What if Trick hadn’t been there? Hendry would surely have been injured. Trick had been more than helpful—he’d been crucial. And this was the thanks he got? To be watched like a hawk? Told off for even suggesting he might not be mauled to death by monsters the second he was out of sight?

Even now, as everyone else had climbed into their tents, Sir Hendry was sitting up by the fire, gazing thoughtfully into its flames. He wasn’t looking at him, but Trick knew with certainty that he was waiting for Trick to go to bed. As if he couldn’t even sit here without supervision.

Well. Trick would show him a thing or two.

Trick got to his feet and headed for his tent.

“Good night, lad,” said Hendry.

Trick gave him a wave over his shoulder.

He crawled into his bedroll.

He held still for a long moment. Then, with two fingers, he pulled the tent flap open just an inch, and he watched.

Sure enough, the second Trick had settled in, Hendry got up and picked apart the fire, spreading the still-burning logs around and pushing dirt up over the coals so they would go out quickly and be usable again in the morning.

Then he made his way into his own tent.

Trick listened for the rustling to die down. He waited. Several minutes later, he began to hear the old knight’s breathing, slow, steady, and with a slight rasp to it.

The man sounded perpetually weary, even in his sleep.

Trick poked his head out of the tent. It wasn’t even completely dark, yet, but the party was up so early each morning and exerted so much energy during the day that sleep was tending to come early, too.

It was early enough, in fact, that there was a chance some of the shops were still open.

Trick stepped outside. His satchel was at his hip. His dagger was in its sheath. He threw the green wool cloak around his shoulders, fastened the little rabbit clasp, and pulled up the hood. Then, tiptoeing gingerly, lest an errant pebble skitter across the earth and give him away, Trick left the camp.

As he headed along the upper ridge of the valley, the red of the setting sun was just peeking through the densely packed trees to the west. The moon was up—still just a sliver in the deepening blue-black sky—but Trick didn’t need moon to see by.

“Glow bright.”

His trusty ring lit up the space before him, a good twenty feet out. He glanced back at the camp, where the dying embers were still just visible, but no one seemed to have stirred.

Trick felt like a weight had been lifted. It felt good to be on his own, again. Not just following along, but doing as he pleased. He breathed a contented sigh, and he set out in earnest for his destination.

If Trick was really, truly honest with himself, he was just the tiniest bit nervous as he hurried through the forest. He wouldn’t like to come across another gnoll raiding party, nor any one of the terrible beasts Errol liked to tell stories about. Trick felt a bit like a field mouse scurrying through a meadow, hoping he didn’t attract the attention of the hawks circling overhead.

As it turned out, he’d had nothing to worry about. Before long at all, he spotted a few pinprick lights down in the valley. As he walked, more and more lights appeared, and it was clear that Trick was looking down on civilization.

His heart leapt. He changed tack and headed downhill into the valley. Here, a simple road had been laid down. As Trick followed it, he extinguished his ring—a row of lanterns lined the way, which flared up magically as he passed them and died back down again behind him.

Up ahead, a stone bridge led over a thick patch of thorny briars, so conveniently located that Trick wondered if maybe they’d been planted there.

Beyond the bridge was a wooden wall, maybe ten feet high. There was a guard posted at the entrance, over which hung an iron-wrought sign.

Briardale.

Trick squared his shoulders. He crossed the bridge.

The guard hailed him, asked for his business. “Just passing through,” said Trick, which seemed to satisfy the guard, who bade him welcome.

Trick stepped through the gate. He could hardly believe it. He was actually here.

Now, to have a little fun.

Chapter Text

Briardale wasn’t a town so much as a series of cobbled-together shacks and lean-tos collected in a chaotic lump. It put Trick in mind of the Market District—it was hardly any bigger, if at all, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the layout.

The road from the valley continued through the front gate and immediately split in two, where it looped around the village on either side. Trick suspected it was all just one big circle, with shops and apartments alike stuffed in wherever they could fit.

It was properly dark, now, but the village was lit up bright with torches that hung at regular intervals along the street. Trick picked a direction and started walking. He wasn’t alone on the streets. Even at this hour, individuals hurried by this way and that.

Trick observed them as he strolled. Some were more finely dressed than others, but not by a wide margin. The more rugged-looking folks were dressed in work clothes and appeared to be laborers. Carpenters, Trick guessed, given the town’s proclivity for wooden structure. Trick caught a whiff of iron off of one particularly burly man. A blacksmith.

Occasionally, a pair of guards would amble past, conversing idly, heads turning as they scanned the crowd. Trick could tell they were guards by their demeanor, and by the shortswords that hung fairly consistently at their belts. When he finally got a closer look at one guardswoman, he also noticed a badge of some kind pinned to her vest: it was a circle of metal, painted black, and stamped with the image of a fox head.

The rest of the thronging populace were probably a mix of shopkeepers and their patrons, heading to their respective homes, or maybe to one of the taverns, of which Trick had already passed three.

Trick considered his strategy. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d made it to Briardale, and no woe had befallen him. He would poke around for a bit before heading back to camp. All told, he wouldn’t have been gone for more than an hour.

If he could find it, he could even pick up some diamond dust for Milo.

Most of the shops Trick encountered were, in fact, already closed. However, a few were just lighting the torches out front, which, Trick gathered, signaled them open for business.

Trick stopped into one small shop, whose torchlight flickered a mesmerizing cobalt blue.

A small, shriveled woman who looked to be at least two lifetimes old perched behind a tall desk at the back of the shop.

“Welcome, dearie,” she crowed as Trick let the heavy door swing shut behind him.

It looked like an apothecary of some kind. Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars, vials, herbs, pill bottles, and salves. Along the front wall, there were even some live potted plants.

Trick took a look at these. They were lined up at the sill of the dingy window, presumably to collect what meager sunlight they could. The plants were curious, like nothing he’d seen before. Instead of stems with leaves and flowers, they seemed to be tubular stalks, clawing toward the window like pale, hollow fingers in various sickly shades of yellow and green.

One was a pure, bone white, and it seemed to glow in the near-darkness. Trick reached a finger toward it.

“Better not,” called the old woman, making Trick jump. “Don’t take kindly to humans, that one. Not liable for any loss of limb. Says so right up on the wall, dearie.”

Trick pulled back from the plant. He excused himself politely and, feeling a bit sick, promptly exited the shop.

A merchant down the way had a small booth set up and was selling gems and amulets. This seemed promising. As Trick perused the wares, he found that most of the jewelry was labeled. Trick studied a pair of jasper rings. One label read, “WARNING: DO NOT WEAR WHILE DRINKING.” The other read, “WARNING: DO NOT NOT WEAR WHILE DRINKING.”

Trick likewise excused himself and hurried on.

It occurred to him that he didn’t actually know what he was looking for. Diamond dust? As in, the powder from a ground-up diamond? Did it need to be ground up in some particular, magical way?

And how much did Milo need? Diamonds were expensive—Trick certainly didn’t intend to pay for anything tonight, and how exactly did one go about stealing a pile of dust?

For that matter, he realized, even if he managed to get his hands on some of this dust, Milo was going to know exactly where he got it from. Maybe he’d be so grateful for the favor that Trick could convince him not to rat him out to Sir Hendry… but then, Milo couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. And Hendry wasn’t likely to go easy on Trick just because he’d been “trying to help.”

Ah, well. Better to give up on the pursuit, before Trick had his finger bitten off by some cursed alien tuber.

He turned back the way he’d come. The trek in the night air had done him some good. His head felt clearer than it had in days. When he’d set out earlier, he’d been fuming, ready to show that holier-than-thou Sir Hendry that he could handle himself for more than six seconds unsupervised.

Now, he wondered if all he’d really needed was a bit of alone time. And what glorious alone time this had been! Trick had never been to another city before, let alone a thieves’ village.

He wondered what that meant, exactly. He’d seen price tags on all the various goods, so clearly you weren’t supposed to just go around thieving. So, what, it was a village full of thieves who didn’t steal from one another? Where was the fun in that?

Well, Trick wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

The Whistling Weasel tavern was clearly the most popular of the various options. Patrons squeezed in and out of the door in equal measure. Many of them stood out in the street in clumps, tankards in hand, rather than fight for room inside.

And, indeed, as Trick squeezed his way through the narrow doorway, he saw there was very little room to be had. It was impossible even to stand without some part of him coming into contact with at least two other people.

Trick was thankful for Ariadne’s green cloak, which served as an automatic deterrent from any wandering fingers. He pulled his satchel forward on his hip and kept one hand firmly over its latch, just in case.

He began to move through the tavern, surveying his options.

Gold passed freely from all quarters. The bar was a perpetual flurry of coins and sloshing booze. A scantily clad half-elf in the corner was being showered in silver as he crooned sultry tunes for his onlookers. The tables—six round ones scattered about the spacious room—seemed to be given over to various games, all of which apparently involved more exchange of currency.

After rehoming a handful of coins from what seemed to be a bickering couple and collecting several sticky ones off the floor, Trick’s attention was caught by a raucous laugh from one of the tables, and he went over to investigate.

An enormous man was leaning back in his chair, red in the face, guffawing over a tankard of strong ale. His skin was an ashen gray, his head was clean shaven, and his bare chest was covered in tribal tattoos.

“Who’s next?” he bellowed into the gathering crowd. “Two silver to try your might! Anyone bests Ugmar, I buy their drinks for a week!”

Trick moseyed closer, feigning interest. Ugmar wore a purse at his belt, into which he dropped the silver pieces that had just been passed to him by a stout-looking dwarf. He didn’t do a particularly careful job cinching the purse back up.

“Let’s go!” he cried. “Two out of three. You choose the arm.”

As they pounded their elbows on the table and clasped hands, Trick nodded as if he’d lost interest. He turned to walk away, choosing a path that just so happened to take him right past the huge man’s unprotected purse.

Two silver pieces dropped into the pocket of Trick’s satchel.

“What the…? Oh, no you don’t!”

Trick’s cloak seized around his throat. Before he knew what was happening, he was yanked backward by the hood, and he felt his feet leave the ground. A wave of horror swept through him as he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Ugmar, who was looking decidedly less jovial than he had been a moment ago.

Ugmar leaned in, as Trick clutched at his collar and kicked helplessly at the air. “You trying to steal from Ugmar?”

Desperately, Trick shook his head. “I… I didn’t…”

The man’s face, already red from drink, began to take on a purply hue. “You trying to steal hard-earned money, what Ugmar scraped together, barely anything to Ugmar’s name… from Ugmar?”

Trick tried to protest, but he could only squeak.

Ugmar thrust Trick before him like a trophy and stormed through the tavern. Patrons nearly dove out of the way of Ugmar’s thunderous stride, clearing a path for them past the bar and out the door.

Outside, Ugmar released Trick—a relief which was short-lived, as Trick felt the air whipping past him until he hit the cobbled street, bounced once, and came to a stop in a disheveled heap.

Dazed, Trick began to pick himself up.

Ugmar helped, taking the front of Trick’s cloak in one meaty fist.

The other collided with Trick’s solar plexus.

Trick crumpled to the ground, lungs suddenly failing to function. He gaped like a beached fish, trying to remind himself how to breathe, and failing miserably.

There was a buzzing in his ears. Ugmar was saying something. Trick couldn’t tell what, but it didn’t matter. He saw the attack coming, and his instincts kicked in. He scrambled out of the way before the man’s gargantuan foot could connect with its target.

Trick tried to get to his feet, but Ugmar came in with another fist. It was all Trick could do to launch himself forward, rolling clumsily between the gigantic man’s legs.

His aching chest screamed in protest.

He couldn’t breathe.

He had to get away.

A crowd was gathering, now. If Trick could crawl among them, maybe they would protect him. He heard someone shout, “Connor! Where’s Connor?”

“Where you going, little thief?”

Ugmar had him by the cloak again.

“Please,” Trick wheezed, though the words barely sounded. “I’m… sorry… Give it… back…”

Ugmar gave a low, evil laugh. “Very good. Little thief will give it back. After Ugmar is finished teaching lesson.”

He pulled back a fist.

“Ugmar, drop him!”

Trick hit the ground with a thud. It felt like his brain was being squeezed inside his head. He curled into a ball, clutching his throbbing midsection, willing his obstinate lungs to open up before he passed out altogether.

Somebody was crouched beside him.

“You all right, lad?”

White stars popped behind Trick’s vision. It was Sir Hendry. Thank the gods. He was safe.

Finally, Trick’s lungs obeyed him, and he drew in an enormous gush of air.

He immediately wished he hadn’t, as a searing white pain drove through his lower ribs. Trick gave a strangled shriek of pain, then clutched an arm to his chest and willed himself to breathe more slowly.

He looked up at Sir Hendry.

Except… it wasn’t Sir Hendry. Not at all.

As Trick began to draw careful, rattling breaths, and the flow of oxygen returned to his brain, Trick realized what a foolish thought that had been. Of course it wasn’t Hendry. He was looking up into the face of a stranger.

His rescuer was a sandy-haired young man with a goatee and a short ponytail. He wore a crisp, blue tunic, and pinned to his chest was the black fox sigil of the town guards.

The guard blinked down at Trick. “Well! Can’t say I’ve seen you around here, before.”

Warily, Trick looked around for his assailant. Ugmar stood apart, glowering at the pair of them, while three more guards formed a barricade.

“Little thief,” growled Ugmar. “Took my silver.”

“Shoulda kept a better eye on it, buddy,” said the sandy-haired man. “We’ll take it off of him, but it’s going into the Fund.” He gave Ugmar a pleasant smile, but there was something very complicated going on behind his eyes. “I think you’d better go on home for tonight, don’t you think?”

Ugmar said something feral-sounding under his breath, but after a tense moment, he turned and stalked away down the winding street, muttering curses as he went.

Trick heaved a sigh of relief. The force of it seemed to split something in his chest, and he doubled over again, wincing in pain.

The young man gave him a sympathetic look. He put a hand on his back. “Can’t imagine that feels good,” he said. “Let’s get you fixed up, then you and I can have a little chat, eh?”

The man helped Trick to his feet. He wrapped an arm around Trick’s back, supporting him, and they set off at a slow walk, Trick hobbling along with one hand on his chest. If he breathed too deeply, he was treated to a searing pain in his lower ribs. He settled on a slow, shallow way of breathing that never quite filled his lungs, but was sufficient to keep him going.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Trick,” said Trick.

“Welcome to Briardale, Trick,” said the young man. “I’m Connor. Sort of the… de facto leader here, I guess you could say.”

Connor led him down a side street to the center of town. Trick hadn’t even realized there was a way to get in here. He’d assumed it was uninhabitable marsh, or more thorn bushes like the ones outside.

In fact, it was a kind of plaza, paved with cobbles, lined with benches, and even dotted with a few scraggly flower bushes.

A central building took up most of the space—largely wood, like the rest of the village, but a good deal of its construction was stone: broad, polished round rocks glued together with cement.

Connor walked him through a large double door. Inside was some kind of common room, with scattered tables and sofas, and a cook stove at the back.

Connor stopped to open a cabinet near the stove. Humming to himself, he flicked his fingers across the various bottles until he landed on one containing a shimmering, ruby red liquid.

“Last one,” said Connor, plucking out the bottle. “You’re in luck. Right this way!”

He led Trick down a set of spiral stairs.

When they reached the bottom, Trick understood where they were. He jolted to a stop, taking in the barred cells lining the walls, some of which housed sleeping inmates.

“What is this?” said Trick.

Connor looked caught between surprise and amusement. “You had a productive evening, didn’t you, my lad?”

Trick didn’t answer.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Connor. “Let’s get you settled.”

He gripped Trick around the back of the neck and steered him forward. Trick, with his lungs about to capsize, could put up little resistance.

Connor pushed him into the nearest cell. He followed him in and shut the iron door behind them. Then he held out the little glass bottle for Trick to take.

“Drink that,” he said.

Trick took the bottle. He eyed it dubiously.

“Potion of healing,” Connor explained. “Not the most potent, I’m afraid, but it ought to fix that rib up for you, or at least stop the worst of it. Drink it up,” he said again. “It’s quite safe.”

Trick studied the little vial. It looked just like the potion they’d picked up in Neverwinter. He unstoppered the bottle and sniffed the contents, as Errol had showed him to do when identifying potions.

With a wary look at Connor, who was waiting patiently, Trick tipped the bottle up and let the contents flow down his throat.

The potion worked immediately. Trick felt his rib knit up, and only now did he realize it must have been broken. It didn’t heal all the way, and Trick imagined a cough or a sneeze would still be quite painful, but at least now he could breathe properly without his torso threatening to tear itself apart.

He took a deep breath—a real one, filling his lungs all the way—and even though the air down here was stale and smelled of mildew, it was the best thing Trick had ever felt.

Connor was holding out a hand. Trick passed him the empty bottle.

“Thank you,” he said.

Connor nodded. “Now then,” he said. He took a seat on a stone bench and gestured for Trick to do the same. “Why don’t you empty your pockets?”

What could Trick do? Maybe if he came clean, Connor would take pity on him and let him go. Grudgingly, he slung his satchel off his shoulder and flipped it open.

He fished the stray coins out of the satchel’s various pockets. It came to a total of six silver, eight copper. Not bad for a half hour’s work—except, of course, that he’d been caught.

Connor collected the coins into his palm, counting them carefully. “What else?” he asked.

Trick shook his head. “That’s it.”

But Connor was eyeing the satchel, which clearly was not empty. “Are you gonna show me, or shall I reach in there and take it?”

Trick swallowed. “The rest is mine,” he said, but Connor shook his head.

“Just the same.”

Trick’s pulse began to race as he withdrew the rest of his satchel’s contents. Here was the last cheese ball (he’d generously split the others with the party over their past few meals). Here were the bent nails. The strange long leaf bundle knotted with twine.

Trick took a deep breath.

He pulled out the bundle of linen.

Connor raised his eyebrows. “What’s this?”

“It’s mine,” said Trick.

Connor reached out a hand, but Trick clutched the wrapped idol to his chest. “Please!” he cried. What would happen if this man confiscated Cyric’s idol? “Please, sir… The coins I took, but this… this one’s mine. I swear!”

Connor gave him a long stare, but just as Trick was beginning to lose hope, the young man shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. “All right,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere, so I suppose you can hold on to it while we sort this out.”

He counted the coins in his palm again, nodded to himself, and headed out of the cell.

Trick made to follow him. Connor stopped him with a wave.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Trick blinked at him.

“Ah, right,” said Connor, rubbing his head. “I forgot you’re new here. My lad, we have very few rules here in Briardale.” He held up a single finger. “But rule number one is that we do not steal from one another.”

Trick felt his heart plummet into his boots. Of course that would be “rule number one.”

Connor explained that things had been quite a bit less organized when he’d first arrived in Briardale. “They say there’s no honor among thieves,” he said. “Well, I disagree. I don’t think a person’s vocation is any excuse for bad behavior.”

Trick frowned, trying to understand. “So… you are thieves?” he said.

Connor smirked. “Resale of liberated goods does remain our primary source of revenue, yes,” he said. “Though we’re quite picky about who we steal from. Only folks who can afford it. Ideally folks who deserve it. And never—” he pointed a finger at Trick’s nose and raised his eyebrows— “from one another.”

Trick sighed.

Connor left the cell, closing the barred door with a metallic clang. He locked it with a heavy key he took off a peg on the nearby wall. Trick couldn’t help but observe that a jailbreak would be ridiculously easy—provided you had someone willing to break you out.

Trick stood up off his bench and came to the door, wrapping his fingers around the cold iron bars. “Connor, sir… Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know—I mean—I’d heard you were a thieves’ village, and I thought…”

Connor laughed. “Interesting logic,” he said, “but I see it. Don’t worry, lad. You’re not in any trouble. The council will just want to speak with you in the morning.”

Trick’s eyes widened. “In the morning?”

“It’s a bit after hours for us at the moment,” said Connor with a wry smile. “And we wouldn’t want you getting into any more trouble in the meantime, now would we?”

Trick shook his head frantically. “I can’t—! Please, sir, you have to let me go!”

He imagined Hendry and the others waking to find him gone, and his blood ran cold. “I… I’m traveling with a knight,” he said. “A Knight of Neverwinter! He won’t like you keeping me here like this!”

“A Knight of Neverwinter, traveling with a little thief?” Connor sounded amused. “Now, that would be a first.” He folded his arms. “Who’s your knight? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”

Connor didn’t believe him. He was trying to catch Trick in a lie, testing him to name any knight. Trick, for once, was proud to tell the truth. (Leaving aside, for the moment, that Sir Hendry wasn’t technically a knight.)

Trick lifted his chin. “Sir Hendrick Pelmore,” he said.

Connor blinked.

“Sir Hendrick?” he said. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh, of course,” he said. “Sir Hendrick Pelmore, devout of Tyr, sent his little squire into Briardale to do some thieving for him.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “You almost got me there, lad.”

Trick bristled. “It’s the truth!” he said. Then, feeling he should clarify which part of his story was the truth, he added, “I’m not his squire. And he didn’t send me to thieve for him. He…” He hesitated. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“No, I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“But he is nearby!” cried Trick. “With the rest of us. We’re camped—”

“The rest of us?” said Connor. “The rest of who?”

“Our adventuring party,” said Trick.

“Your adventuring party?” Connor gave another short laugh. “Well,” he said. “You are the little storyteller, aren’t you? Sadly, my lad, rules are rules. I can’t just let you go. Perhaps Sir Hendrick will be by to collect you in the morning.”

Trick had no doubt he would. The thought made his insides writhe.

“Get some sleep, lad,” said Connor as he headed for the stairs. “We’ll have a fresh start in the morning.”

“But…! Wait!”

But Connor was climbing the stairs, and he didn’t turn back.

In the dim glow of his cell—courteously lit with a magic torch set high out of reach—Trick slumped onto the bench.

The stone was cold and unyielding.

His rib was aching.

And unless he could find a way out of here now, he had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be an extremely unpleasant day.

Chapter Text

Trick didn’t have much of a plan. The best he had so far was, “Wait until the opportunity to escape presents itself.”

It actually might not be such a terrible plan. This wasn’t exactly the Hall of Justice. There was barely any security. They didn’t even have a night guard posted in the prison. And shortly after Connor had left, he’d come hurrying back, tapping his temple, to relieve Trick of his dagger, his satchel, and the green cloak.

“Almost forgot,” the man had said, as Trick handed over his satchel—and with it, the collection of lockpicks inside. “Wouldn’t want you jimmying your way out in the night. Don’t worry—it’ll all be right out here for you tomorrow.”

Connor had placed everything into a chest at the foot of the stairs and locked it with a small key before taking one last look around, running through a mental checklist, and then exiting up the stairs again.

Everything about this town had a similar, cobbled-together feel, and Trick might be able to use that to his advantage. If another guard came by, maybe Trick could snag a key off their belt. Maybe he could even convince someone that he needed to stretch his legs, and he could make a break for it that way.

For any of that to work, however, Trick needed to stay awake. And sitting in the low light of the quiet prison, listening to the steady breathing of his fellow prisoners, and coming down from the evening’s excitement, Trick started to feel a heaviness descend over his whole body.

There was a small cot in the corner—a thin mattress covered by a threadbare sheet, but at least it was clean, and there was even a little pillow.

He told himself he’d just shut his eyes for a minute. It felt good to rest his head, meager though the accommodations were.

He became aware of the sound of some activity outside his cell.

Groggily, Trick opened his eyes. It was brighter in here than he remembered. Looking up, he saw narrow window slots around the ceiling that he hadn’t noticed before. The sky outside was pale with twilight.

Trick groaned. There went that plan.

He sat himself up and took stock. He could feel a tremendous bruise over his left rib, which had healed a bit in the night but was still quite tender. He drew an experimental breath, and while it wasn’t comfortable, it no longer felt like his rib was going to splinter from the strain.

That little healing potion had worked wonders. Maybe when he got back to camp, he could take another one.

Back to camp…

Trick looked up at the windows. The morning light had doomed him. Hendry would be waking up any minute, if he wasn’t up already. Even if Trick wasn’t locked in a jail cell… even if he left now and sprinted all the way back…

He ran his hands through his hair. Things were not supposed to go like this.

To distract himself from his impending disembowelment, Trick turned his attention to what was going on outside his cell.

He recognized Connor’s short ponytail from behind. The man was crouched by an opposite cell, engaged in pleasant conversation with the halfling woman on the other side of the bars. She was munching on a stick of dried meat, and she had none of the world-worn look Trick was accustomed to seeing on the faces of other thieves. She even gave a friendly laugh at something Connor said.

After a few minutes’ conversation, Connor straightened up, leaving her to her breakfast, and turned to find Trick watching him. He met the boy’s gaze with a gentle smile and drew a meat stick out of the pouch he carried. “Morning, lad,” he sang. “Breakfast?”

Trick accepted the snack through the bars and sat down to eat it. Connor brought him a cup of water, too, from a pump in the corner, which Trick took greedily. Connor crouched outside his cell, as he had with the halfling woman.

“Trick, was it?” said Connor. “How’s the rib?”

Trick shrugged. “Fine.”

Connor watched him for a moment, as if making his own assessment. “Well, then,” he said. “Now that we’re rested up, why don’t you tell me what brings you to Briardale?”

Trick chewed on his piece of jerky. It was good—salty and satisfying, if a bit tough.

“Told you,” he said. “I’m with Sir Hendry. We’re… on a mission.” The word felt important, and Trick enjoyed it.

Connor was looking at him with an odd half-smile. “All right,” he said. “Let’s say I believe you. That Sir Hendrick has joined an adventuring party and taken a petty thief under his wing. What brings you to Briardale?”

Trick screwed up his face. “Just curious,” he said. “I heard it was a thieves’ village, and I wanted to check it out. So I did.”

“And your friends don’t know you’re here?”

Trick’s eyes snapped up in alarm. A thought had occurred to him, one sentence too late. They didn’t know where he was. And now Trick had just shared that with his captor. “They… they’ll probably figure it out,” he amended lamely. “You’d better let me go before they get here, or—”

“Don’t worry,” said Connor, holding up a hand. “We’ll get you back to them. If that’s what you want. We steal valuables, not humans.”

Trick knew he shouldn’t believe him, but the man seemed so sincere, he couldn’t help himself. He relaxed—just a little. “You’re awfully nice for a jailer,” he said.

Connor grinned. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Most of the people here were criminals of one kind or another in their past lives. Briardale has become a sort of haven for them. For us.” He winked.

“And that’s what you do?” said Trick. “Steal things? Like, as a village?”

“Yes and no,” said Connor. “There was a lot more of that when I first got here. A lot less organization, a lot more unnecessary violence. A few of us have been trying to establish some kind of order.”

He rubbed the back of his head and gave a weary half-smile. “It’s been slow going, but I guess we’ve made some progress. We send raiding parties out to the High Road now and then, usually with a specific target in mind. That usually brings in enough coin to keep us going for a while. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to get some local business going. We have our own blacksmith, now, which is going to make a huge difference.

“A lot of what gets sold to outsiders is still stolen goods, admittedly. But we’re trying to encourage folks to sell their own crafts and services.” He made a face and wagged his head back and forth. “With… mixed success.”

“And…” Trick almost didn’t dare ask, but he said, “you’re just going to… let me go? Don’t you punish your criminals?”

“You’ll have a meeting with the council,” said Connor. “And it depends on the crime, but for the most part, no, we don’t do much punishing. Partly, as you were lucky enough to learn, because there’s still a somewhat prevalent culture of victims taking their own revenge.”

The bruise over Trick’s rib pulsed, as if on cue.

“For those who choose to participate,” Connor went on, “we’ve set up a kind of apprenticeship system. Most of the people here aren’t bad people. A lot of them messed up once, a long time ago, and didn’t have anywhere else to go. A lot of the people here aren’t trying to be thieves. They’re just as happy to learn some other, more productive skills, as long as they have food and a bed.

“If you wanted to stick around, for example,” he explained, “we’d probably set you up with one of them. Someone older, usually, who’s been here a while. And you’d learn their trade, and they’d be responsible for keeping you out of trouble. If you’re shoving off with… Sir Hendrick, or whoever, I imagine the council will be happy enough to simply send you on your way.”

“And… that works?” said Trick. “The apprentice thing?”

“Oh, it’ll be a while before the whole village operates that way,” said Connor. “And, of course, if someone’s really dangerous, or a serial offender, they will find themselves locked up for some period of time. But we’ve had surprising success with our apprentices, so far.”

Trick shook his head, bemused.

“Where do you come from, Trick?” asked Connor.

“Neverwinter.”

“Aha,” said Connor, with a knowing nod. “The good old Hall of Justice. So that’s how you’ve heard of Sir Hendrick.”

Trick glared up at him. “I haven’t heard of Sir Hendrick, I’ve been traveling with him,” he snapped. “Like I’ve been saying.” He tore off another piece of jerky and said, chewing, “He doesn’t like that I steal things, but he puts up with it because I’m useful.” Okay, that was a bit of a stretch, but Connor didn’t need to know every detail of their arrangement.

Connor flicked his gaze up and down. He still looked doubtful.

Trick rolled his eyes. “Why would I make this up?” he said. “You asked how I got here. I told you.” He folded his arms. “How do you know Sir Hendry, if you don’t believe me?”

Connor blinked in surprise. Then he fell into his easy smile. “I’m also from Neverwinter, as it happens,” he said. “I’ve never known any of the Knights to be particularly forgiving. Thievery, if I recall, was one of the fastest ways to Sir Hendrick’s bad side.” He cocked his head, like he was deciding whether to share something.

“You know,” he said, “I never cared much for the Hall of Justice. The way they operated, I mean. They really seemed to have it out for thieves. Do you know what they’d do?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “They’d send someone into the River District, coins jangling in their pocket, and wait for some half-starved orphan or bereft parent to make their move. Then the guards would spring out of hiding, haul the poor soul up to the temple for a beating and a night in the cells, turn them out the next day, and pat themselves on the back like they were cleaning up the city.” A darkness came into Connor’s eyes as he spoke. “It was maddening. It felt like they were filling a quota. They never actually fixed anything.”

He gestured at Trick. “You must have spent the night there at least once,” he guessed. “It didn’t exactly reform you, did it?”

Trick shook his head mutely. It did not.

“So some people started talking,” said Connor. “We were perfectly civil about it, at first. We wanted to talk to Lord Neverember, himself. See if we couldn’t do something more constructive for our friends on the unfortunate side of the law. Something like what we ended up doing here in Briardale.” He shrugged. “Of course, no one would take us seriously. So we had to get creative.”

Trick was entranced. “Creative?”

“We needed something big. Something they couldn’t ignore.” A mischievous glint came into Connor’s eye. “We decided to steal Justicar.”

Trick’s eyes popped. Justicar was said to be the original sword of Tyr. It was one of the most valuable holy relics on the Sword Coast, and it was kept buried in the vaults of the Hall of Justice.

“We were going to replace it with our demands,” said Connor. “A list of improvements for the city.”

“Did you get it?” asked Trick. “The sword?”

Connor sighed. “Almost,” he said. “We got all the way down to the vaults before they caught us. Damned magical traps.” He shook his head. “Most of us got away, but my friend Aryn wasn’t fast enough.” He paused, looking grim. “When we asked for him in the morning, they said they were keeping him indefinitely.”

He paused for effect, then raised a finger. “So,” he said, “we broke him out.”

A light went on in Trick’s head. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I remember that!”

It had been huge news in Neverwinter. A jailbreak at the Hall of Justice. It wasn’t supposed to be possible—but Trick remembered the alarms sounding in the middle of the night, the bobbing torchlight across the river, the sounds of pursuit. It had been around this time last year. He’d been sleeping in his favorite spot under the Dolphin Bridge, and he’d wondered at the commotion.

The story the next day had been that a thief had broken out of his cell, with the help of a few delinquent friends. They’d been chased out of Neverwinter, where…

“That was you?” said Trick. “But… I thought the offenders were killed on their way out of the city.”

Connor grinned. “Nope,” he said. “We high-tailed it for the forest, and the Knights didn’t follow us in, the cowards. They must have assumed we didn’t make it.” He spread his arms, gesturing around. “We headed for Briardale. A bit of a rough place, as you’ve seen, and it was certainly rougher back then. But we’d heard they wouldn’t ask too many questions, and they didn’t. We found a space for ourselves, and we’ve been here ever since.”

“And… Sir Hendry…?”

Connor’s eyes flashed. He shrugged. “He was with the Knights that ran us out,” he said. His words took on a bitter edge. “Suppose he was glad to be rid of a few lawless miscreants.”

Trick was surprised to hear the emotion in Connor’s voice. Was there something he wasn’t saying?

“That doesn’t sound like Sir Hendry,” said Trick.

“What doesn’t?”

“I don’t know, I guess… just leaving you all for dead like that?” Trick furrowed his brow. “He’s really…” He searched for the right word. “He really has his way of doing justice, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t he want to, I don’t know… bring you back to the city? I just don’t think he’d abandon someone like that.”

“These are criminals we’re talking about,” said Connor. “The bane of Tyr. The lowest of low.”

Trick shrugged.

Connor started to say something else, but he stopped. Instead, he said, “Well, anyway, as much as I’d like to sit around and chat, I have other business to attend to.” He got to his feet and turned to go. “Someone will be by shortly,” he said over his shoulder. “To collect you for your meeting with the council.”

Trick had a thought.

To Connor’s receding back, he said, “He’s not actually a Knight, anymore.”

Connor stopped in his tracks. He whirled around. “What?”

The look on his face told Trick his theory was correct. There was more to this. Hendry wasn’t just some knight Connor had had the misfortune to cross—they had known each other.

“He stepped down,” said Trick.

Connor was staring at him, his expression fierce, green eyes piercing. “What do you mean? Why?”

Trick shrugged. “No one really knows,” he said.

“When?”

“Connor!”

Connor jumped. He looked up. A woman was jogging down the steps.

Trick recognized her as one of the guards he’d noticed last night, with the black fox pin tacked to her vest.

Her long braids spilled over the railing as she leaned down. “There’s a man asking for you at the gate,” she said to Connor. “Three of them, total. All armed. And there’s a great big wolf with them.”

Trick felt every muscle in his body go limp.

The woman on the stairs gave Connor a pointed look. “Man calls himself Hendrick Pelmore.”

Trick had the sudden urge to scoot to the back of the cell and burrow under the covers of the cot.

Connor, meanwhile, had frozen. He was staring up at the woman as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

“Connor?” she said. “What should I tell them?”

Connor shook himself. “Let them in,” he said, sounding slightly dazed. “We’ll meet them at the gate.”

As the woman jogged back up the stairs, Connor turned an incredulous look on Trick. Then he grabbed the great iron key from its peg on the wall. “I think you’d better come along,” he said. There was a ka-chunk, and the cell door swung open.

Trick’s heart hammered. “Maybe I could just… wait here…”

Connor paused. His expression softened into one of amused sympathy. “A word to the wise,” he said, and he gestured at the prison around them. “You might not want this to be where he finds you.”

Good point.

It took all his willpower, but Trick climbed to his feet and followed Connor out of the cell. Connor took hold of his arm and led Trick up the stairs, through the common area, and out into the misty morning.

Trick tried not to think about what would be waiting for them at the gate. His imagination was conjuring up all kinds of terrible scenarios, none of which ended particularly well for him. His ears burned as he hurried after Connor, trying to match his purposeful stride.

They rounded a corner, and suddenly, there they were. Trick’s stomach flopped all over again.

Errol looked gently annoyed, as always, by the latest detour.

He had a hand on the direwolf’s enormous head, scratching her idly between the eyes, which were locked on Trick.

Milo stood hugging himself against the chill of the morning air.

And there was Hendry, arms folded, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

When he saw Trick, he straightened in a brief gesture of genuine relief. Trick had half a second’s hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d be so glad to see Trick unharmed that he’d forget the whole “hide-tanning” business, just this once.

Then his eyes went sharp and cold as knives, and Trick knew he was done for.

Hendry flicked his eyes to Trick’s companion. The knives retracted from his gaze. He took in a deep breath.

“Hello, Connor,” he said.

So Trick had been right. They did know each other.

Trick might have felt clever for working it out, but he was too distracted by his heart trying to somersault out of his body by way of his belly button.

And then, Connor said the absolute last thing Trick was expecting.

He said, “Hi, Dad.”

Chapter Text

After a long moment, Trick realized his jaw was hanging open. He shut it.

He wasn’t the only one. Errol looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his skull, and wolf-Ariadne, who till now had been holding Trick in her feral yellow gaze, had perked up her ears and cocked her enormous head in Connor’s direction.

Even the guardswoman with the long braids looked stunned. She did about three double-takes as she glanced between Connor and Sir Hendry, trying to reconcile this new piece of information.

The sandy-haired man was Sir Hendry’s… son?

Connor put a hand on Trick’s shoulder. “This one says he’s with you,” he said to Hendry.

Hendry nodded. “He has a knack for putting his foot in it,” he said. “I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.”

Connor shook his head. “Picked himself a bit of an ill-favored fight, but no real harm done.”

Trick looked back and forth between them. At first glance, they didn’t look much alike—Connor’s light, wavy hair and green eyes to Hendry’s bristly black and gray. They were about the same height. Connor was more slender—but only just, Trick could see. He had the lean musculature of someone who spent more time running and dodging than swinging heavy things around, but now that Trick was looking, Connor had clearly inherited his father’s square jaw and broad shoulders.

His father.

Hendry was Connor’s father.

“Good to see you, Milo,” Connor was saying.

The gnome nodded up at him with a smile. “It’s been a while,” he said. “You’re doing well?”

“Well enough,” said Connor. He was watching Sir Hendry with a level expression.

Hendry sighed. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” he said. “We had better get going.”

The guard, who had been watching with wide eyes, straightened up. “Connor,” she said, nodding at Trick. “The council?”

“Ah—right.” Connor scratched at the back of his head. “Look, I’m sorry, but we’re going to need him for a quick meeting. It shouldn’t be too long.”

Hendry raised his eyebrows. “A meeting?”

“With the council,” said Connor. “He got into a little trouble last night. They’ll just want to have a word with him, then you can be on your way.”

Now Hendry was looking at Trick. His expression was impassive.

“I see.”

Something wriggled in Trick’s gut, and he remembered he was probably in a lot of trouble. Maybe after this “council meeting,” Sir Hendry would decide he’d been punished enough, and they could just forget the whole thing.

Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.

Hendry said, “You have a council?”

“Yep,” said Connor, offering no further elaboration. He checked the time and turned to the guard. “Thea,” he said, “would you gather them up? We’ll meet at the Rosebush. Tell them breakfast is on me.”

She gave a crisp nod and hurried off, black braids bouncing behind her.

Connor looked around at the group. “You’re welcome to join,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

He led them down the curving street—in the opposite direction, Trick was glad to see, from the Whistling Weasel.

As they walked, Hendry said, “So, what kind of trouble did he get himself into?”

He was addressing Connor. It should have irritated Trick to hear the adults talking about him while he was right there, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure he could summon the courage to respond if Hendry did speak to him.

Connor, meanwhile, was looking just as reluctant. “He got on the bad side of one of our less upstanding citizens,” he said. “I guess he lifted a couple coins off him.” There was something reserved about Connor’s demeanor. It was almost as if he were the one in trouble.

Amazing, thought Trick. Sir Hendry really did have that effect on everyone.

“He took a pretty nasty hit to the chest,” Connor was saying, and Hendry’s gaze snapped to Trick. “I patched him up last night,” said Connor, “but you might want to take a look at it.”

“I’m fine,” said Trick.

Hendry gave an unconvinced hmph, but he made no reply.

The Rosebush turned out to be yet another tavern. It was smaller than the others Trick had seen, and with a homier look to it. There was a little covered porch, and red-checked curtains hung in the windows. A frieze of sorts had been painted on the gable above the porch: a blooming red rose surrounded by curling briars.

Errol opted to stay outside with Ariadne, whose fearsome presence was encouraging passersby to give the party a wide berth.

The rest of them filed inside. A little bell tinkled when Connor opened the door, and they were greeted by the buttery sweet aroma of baking pastry.

There were only three small tables in here, all currently empty. Against the opposite wall was a short counter, on which a round young woman in a checkered apron—the same material as the curtains—was pounding a rolling pin into a floured disc.

She looked up when they entered, frizzy curls and flushed cheeks giving her a permanently surprised look.

“Morning, there, friends,” she called. “Connor, looking well.”

“Morning, Maeve,” said Connor. “Ah… sorry for the early intrusion. Do you mind if we take up a couple tables?”

Maeve scanned the party, still pounding away at the counter. “Depends,” she said. “You gonna introduce me to your friends?”

Connor took a deep breath, apparently steadying himself. He gestured to Hendry. “Maeve, this is… my father, Sir Hendrick. Of Neverwinter.”

Maeve stopped her pounding. She stared at Hendry with wide eyes.

Hendry put out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Maeve.”

Maeve recovered quickly, dusting her hand on her apron and reaching out to shake Hendry’s. “Pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,” she said. She gave Connor a quizzical look, which he pointedly ignored.

“This is Milo,” Connor went on. “Old family friend. And this is… Trick.”

“Trick has been working with us,” Hendry supplied.

Maeve smiled around at them. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you all,” she said. She returned to her rolling pin. “Mushroom pies, this morning. First batch should be coming out shortly, and I’ll send Bree around with coffee.”

Connor pulled two of the tables together, and they took seats around it.

Hendry, looking around, said, “This is where your council meets?”

“Wherever is convenient,” said Connor, sounding just a touch defensive. “We don’t have any big fancy meeting hall.”

Hendry nodded. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.

The next few minutes felt like an eternity. Trick chewed his lip anxiously, and Milo kept opening his mouth and closing it again, as if trying to think up a safe topic of conversation, and failing miserably each time.

The awkward silence was interrupted at one point when a lanky girl came bustling out of a back room with a tray of mugs and a steaming carafe.

She was older than Trick, he thought, as she passed out the mugs. Her mousy hair was cropped short, and she had the ghost of a scar on one cheek.

The girl set the carafe on the table, glanced around at them with darting eyes, and shuffled back out the way she’d come.

“Thank you, Bree,” Maeve sang after her. The girl grunted in reply.

The table busied themselves distributing coffee, and then Maeve came by with a pair of hot pies and a tureen of gravy, which provided a much-needed activity.

Trick had never heard of mushroom pie, but then, he supposed, you could put just about anything into a pie. And this particular recipe was delicious. The crust was absolute perfection—buttery, flaky, and crisp despite the tender, steaming filling.

Trick was halfway through his second helping when the tinkle of a bell announced the entrance of two newcomers. Guards, Trick saw at once, from the black pins and shortswords.

The man was a half-elf with wavy, dark blond hair that hung loose past his chin. The woman was human, taller than her companion. Her brown hair was cut close to her scalp on the sides, and the rest was gathered into a neat bun on top of her head.

“Ooh, mushroom pie,” said the man as they approached the table.

When they saw Sir Hendry, they both froze in place.

Connor cleared his throat. “Dad,” he said, “you remember Aryn and Liselle.”

Hendry inclined his head. “Of course,” he said. “It’s good to see you both.”

Liselle narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?” she said. “What’s a Knight doing here?”

Connor started to answer, but Hendry held up a hand. “I’m not a Knight, anymore,” he said. “I stepped down. Shortly after you all… departed.” It surprised Trick a little to hear him say this out loud. He’d gotten so used to everyone avoiding the subject.

There was a pause as Aryn and Liselle looked Hendry over, deciding whether to believe him.

“Dad’s an adventurer, now,” said Connor, with a glance at Hendry, who nodded his confirmation. “This is Trick. They’re traveling together.” He put a hand on Trick’s shoulder. “The lad had an exciting night at the Weasel.”

Aryn nodded slowly. “Heard about that,” he said. “Ugmar?”

“Who else?” said Connor.

Aryn took a seat across from Trick, studying him, but not in an unfriendly way.

Liselle, however, remained standing, still eyeing Hendry. “We don’t want any trouble,” she said.

Hendry raised his hands. “I assure you, I mean you no harm,” he said. “I’m here to collect the lad, and then we’ll go about our business.”

Liselle snorted. “Sure you will.”

Connor looked up at her. “Liselle.” His green eyes shone, and though he spoke calmly, his jaw was set firm. “My dad’s not a liar.”

There was a pause.

Then Liselle breathed out a long sigh and dropped into the chair beside Aryn.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.” She looked at Hendry. “What brings your party to Briardale… sir?”

Hendry raised his eyebrows. “As it happens, I have the same question.”

He looked at Trick, who wilted under his gaze.

“The lad was here on his own,” said Connor. “The others just caught up to him this morning.”

“Ah,” said Aryn. “You’re the folks with the wolf.”

Liselle turned to Trick. He met her eyes warily, and her expression gentled. “Trick?” she said. “We’re just curious, kid. People don’t usually swing through here just to pick a couple of pockets.” She tilted her head. “Were you looking for something?”

Well, technically, he had been.

“Diamond dust,” said Trick.

Liselle arched an eyebrow.

On the far end of the table, Milo gave a little gasp. Then, “Oh, Trick,” he sighed.

Hendry looked back and forth between them. “What is it?”

Milo was shaking his head. “Oh, this is all my fault,” he said. To Aryn and Liselle, who appeared to have just noticed him, he gave a little wave and said, “Milo Clearwater. I study the arcane.”

Milo gave Hendry a guilty look. “I need diamond dust for one of my spells. Errol mentioned we might find it here, but I… well, I didn’t think you’d… want to come.” He sounded apologetic. To Trick, he said, “You really didn’t have to go through all this on my account. If it was that important, I would have said so.”

Connor gave Trick a sideways look. “Is that really all you were looking for?”

Trick picked at the crumbs of pie crust on his plate. “Yeah,” he said. “And… I just wanted to see what it was like here.” His brow furrowed. “No one lets me do anything on my own,” he said. “I’m not a baby. I just wanted to be by myself for a minute.”

Aryn nodded. He was grinning. “I know how that feels,” he said. He looked at Liselle and shrugged. “Just a bored kid.”

She sighed. “Well, Trick, I hope you’ve learned something from your little adventure.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She snorted at that. “For me,” she said, “I don’t see a reason to keep you any longer.” She looked between Aryn and Connor. “Agreed?”

The three of them each held out a fist, then popped out a thumb, all pointing upward.

Liselle clapped her hands together. “Great,” she said. “Connor’s buying, yeah?” and she dug into one of the mushroom pies.

Trick turned a wary look up at Connor. “Is… that it?”

Connor grinned. “I told you,” he said. “You’re a free man, Trick.”

It was hard to believe. A night in a cell and a two-minute conversation with the friendliest guards Trick had ever met, and he was free to go. It wasn’t even a slap on the wrist. It was practically a handshake.

His victory was short-lived, as Hendry said, “We should get going,” and Trick was reminded of the blistering that likely awaited him.

They excused themselves, leaving Aryn and Liselle to enjoy their breakfast, and taking a small pie each for Ariadne and Errol.

Outside, Hendry gave Connor a sideways look.

“That was your ‘council?’” he said. “Three childhood friends?”

A pink tinge came into Connor’s cheeks. He straightened. “We’re recruiting,” he said stoutly, and then he raised an eyebrow in a show of innocent curiosity. “Are you interested?”

Hendry made a noise that was the shadow of a laugh, and Connor gave him a little smile in return.

Then Hendry took on a more serious tone. “There were five of you,” he said slowly. “The other two—it was Holly and Jasper? Did they…?”

“They’re here,” said Connor.

Hendry blew out a low sigh. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. They’re… not on your council?”

Connor shook his head. “They weren’t interested,” he said. “And they won the coin toss. Jasper’s been organizing hunting parties, and Holly… well, you know Holly. She could never settle on one thing.” He chuckled. “I think she’s taken up smithing, most recently.”

“That does sound like her,” said Hendry. Trick could hear the relief lacing his words. “I’m glad to hear it, Connor. I truly am.”

Connor met his father’s gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he settled on a quick nod, and the conversation dropped.

Meanwhile, Trick was looking around. They’d left Errol and Ariadne right outside the Rosebush, but now, they were nowhere in sight.

“Um,” he said, “where did—?”

Right on cue, the pair of half-elves emerged from around the corner. Thea was with them, looking harried.

“Sorry, Connor,” she said as they approached. “They insisted.”

Ariadne walked up to Trick and deposited a bundle in his arms.

His cloak, his dagger, and his satchel.

Trick felt his face go pale. He’d almost forgotten.

Ariadne pointed a finger at his nose. “I didn’t go through your bag,” she said, “so you had better make sure everything is in there that should be in there.”

Trick nodded. He dropped to the pavement to flip open his satchel.

He found the idol first, wrapped in its linen cloth, and his heartbeat returned to its normal rate.

He found everything else, as well. His lockpicks, and all his assorted odds and ends, exactly where he’d stored each of them.

Thank the gods. If he’d lost the idol…

Well, he hadn’t. He stood up. “It’s all there,” he said.

Connor shook his head. “I told you it was perfectly safe.”

But Ariadne gave Hendry a pointed glare and said, “They had this stuff balled up into a chest in the middle of their prison,” she said. “Right out in the open.”

“It was locked,” said Connor, but at the looks he got from all quarters, he sighed and rubbed his head. “Ah, you’re probably right. We can look into hiring a night guard.”

“Put your prisoners’ belongings where everyone can’t just see them, first,” said Ariadne. “Your town is ninety percent professional looters, for goodness’ sake.”

Connor put up his hands. “All right, all right! I’m figuring this all out as I go, you know.”

Ariadne gave him an annoyed huff in response.

Then she turned her attention to Trick. “And you got hit in the chest, is that right? Where?”

Trick grimaced. “It’s fine,” he said. “Really.”

She glared at him. Then she took him by the hand and slapped it, hard, right across the knuckles.

Trick’s eyes shot open. “Ow!”

At the sudden intake of breath, he felt a sharp stab in his chest as the injured rib made it known that it was not, in fact, fine. Trick groaned and doubled over.

“Hmph,” said Ariadne. “I thought so. Where is it?”

Gods and hells.

Feeling foolish, but not willing to risk furthering her ire, Trick let Ariadne run her fingers over his chest, feeling for the broken rib.

He winced when she found it. “There. Right there.”

Ariadne nodded. She reached into one of the many pouches she carried at her belt and pulled out a little bundle of herbs and flowers. Trick thought she was going to make a poultice of some kind, and he had a rush of embarrassment at the thought of being made to strip out of his tunic and shirt right here in the middle of the street.

Fortunately, however, Ariadne simply held up the bundle, pressed her free hand to the front of Trick’s tunic, and closed her eyes.

She whispered something Trick didn’t understand. Elvish, maybe? The bundle of herbs swayed gently, and Trick’s nose filled with the scent of wildflowers.

There was a gentle tingling sensation at his rib. As with the potion of healing, Trick could feel the bone readjust beneath his skin. It was an odd feeling, but when it had passed, it was as if the pain had never been there.

Trick touched the spot that had been bruised. He pressed. He pressed harder.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

Ariadne replaced her bundle in its pouch. When she looked at Trick again, her expression was fierce.

“I can only do that so often,” she said. “Don’t make me waste it on something so foolish again.”

“I won’t,” said Trick.

“And keep a better eye on your things.”

“I will.”

“And do as you’re told from now on.”

“I…” Trick hesitated.

Ariadne’s nostrils flared. She made another grab for his hand.

“I will!” Trick pulled his hand to safety, cradling it at his chest. There was a little pink mark where she’d slapped him. “I will, I will. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” said Ariadne. She straightened up. “We’re going to go look for diamond dust.”

To Hendry, and with an edge to her voice that felt downright wrathful, she said, “He’s all yours.”

Trick sagged. He watched her turn on her heel, Milo and Errol following as if compelled. Errol threw a look back over his shoulder that was actually borderline sympathetic, and the three of them disappeared into the growing crowd.

That left Trick alone with Hendry and Connor.

Hendry had his arms folded and was staring Trick down like he meant to melt him on the spot.

Trick looked to Connor, imploringly.

Connor met his gaze. He rubbed the back of his head.

He turned to Hendry.

“There’s, ah…” He pointed farther down the road. “There’s a little glen on the outskirts,” he said. “Where we do our hunting. There’s a shed up the hill a bit. They’re out much earlier in the morning—they’ll all have gone home by now.”

Connor met Trick’s look of betrayal with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, lad,” he said. “Seems you’ve brought this one on yourself.”

With a quick nod to his father, Connor turned and hurried after the others.

Trick glanced up.

At the steel in Hendry’s eyes, he looked back down.

Hendry said nothing. He only held out a hand, signaling for Trick to lead the way.

The boy screwed up his face. Seeing no better alternative, he set off down the street, cajoling his feet into every step.

Hendry, like a hovering storm cloud, followed.

Chapter Text

Trick and Hendry passed through Briardale’s back gate.

The valley sloped gently up away from the village, and they found themselves in a small green field, bordered by lush trees on all sides. As the sounds of morning bustle faded away behind them, Trick began to hear the faint sound of running water. It could be a distant tributary of the Neverwinter, or maybe there was a local spring nearby.

There was a small outbuilding on the far side of the glen, and they made for it directly.

Trick tried to enjoy the sweet smell of grass and the cool breeze on his face. He doubted he was going to find them as pleasant on the walk back.

The hunting cabin was a ramshackle hut with a tin roof. It was clearly ancient, but it seemed sturdy enough. It looked like the walls had been replaced several times over, one board at a time, as the old ones wore out.

A bit of roofing jutted out from one end of the cabin, supported by a couple of long branches jammed into the earth. There was a long table under the shelter, and the traces of bloodstained fur and feathers littering the ground let Trick guess what it must be used for.

On the other side was a little fenced-in area where an archery target had been set up—that is, a stuffed burlap sack with a red target painted on it had been mounted on a fence post, and the shafts of a few broken arrows stuck out at various angles.

As Trick’s mind was searching for anything to think about besides what awaited him inside the cabin, the arrows made him think of Ariadne. He wondered idly if he could get her to teach him to shoot. Errol had said it was fun, and it would definitely be useful in a fight.

Of course, that was if Ariadne ever decided to speak to him again.

As they approached the weathered wooden door, Trick cocked an ear. He could hear something coming through the open window.

It was a voice. Two voices. They were giggling.

Sir Hendry heard it, too.

Well. If the shed was occupied, maybe they’d have to put this off. And if they had to put it off, maybe Hendry’s palpable anger would die down, and he’d realize he was overreacting, and that they didn’t have time for this. He’d settle on a stern lecture, and Trick would live to see another day.

His hopes were immediately dashed as Hendry strode up and, to Trick’s horror, flung open the door.

The giggles turned to gasps, and there was a fluttering of motion from a small bed in the corner as two young men sat bolt upright, cheeks flushed, eyes wide at the intrusion. One of them was shirtless, and the other had the sheet of the bed pulled meaningfully up to his waist.

Hendry was undeterred. “Is there somewhere the two of you are supposed to be?”

The shirtless boy gave him a guilty grin.

“Then I suggest you be there.”

The one clutching the sheet squeaked a flustered, “Yes, sir.” The two of them hopped up, gathered an armful of discarded garments (and the bedsheet), and eased around Hendry’s solidly planted figure to hurry out the cabin door.

They glanced at Trick, who was staring at the ground, face in flames, but they didn’t linger. They scampered out across the glen, and their giggling resumed.

Hendry held the door open. He beckoned Trick inside.

The cabin was a single room, loosely divided into two sections. On one side, a small hearth was set into the wall, with scattered cookware hung from pegs and stacked under a small counter. Above the counter, a few narrow shelves were stuffed with miscellany: bandages, corked jugs, pens and paper, packs of dried meat, a jar of salt, knives of different shapes and sizes.

Near the hearth, a small table was pushed into the corner, and three mismatched chairs sat around it. The surface of the table was scuffed to hell, and one of its legs was being propped up by an old book.

On the other side of the room was a bunk bed (now less one sheet), a sparsely populated bookshelf, a deflated leather armchair, and a woven rug. A weapon rack mounted to the wall held a few long hunting bows, and the feathered ends of a cache of arrows protruded from a large upright case on the floor.

A sign on the wall, whose neat, painted letters looked much newer than the surrounding environment, read: “See Jasper for help with hunting gear.” Below it was an identical sign in a different language, and below that was a little pictograph of a bow and arrow crossed out, and beside it, a silhouette of a head inscribed with the letter “J.”

The latch on the cabin door clicked shut. Trick felt a chill.

He turned to face Hendry, who was still looking thunderous, but in that unfathomable, perpetually calm way that he had. Trick watched him knock his boots against the little rug by the door, take brief stock of his surroundings, then put his hands on his hips and settle his gaze on the boy.

The man was downright terrifying.

“Well,” said Sir Hendry, looking Trick up and down. “It sounds like you had an eventful evening.”

Trick peered up at him from under a darkened brow.

“I won’t take us through every rule you broke last night,” said Hendry. “For one thing, it would take too long, and we’ve already lost enough time this morning. Suffice it to say, you’ve earned yourself a damn good whipping, and you’re going to get it now.”

Trick hugged his torso and scowled at the floor.

“I hope you realize just how lucky you are to be standing here.” The old knight’s voice was hard, and it buzzed with an anger that he usually managed to hold at bay. “Whatever Connor has done to improve this place over the past year, it’s still an attraction for some very dangerous people. You might have been killed, three times over, carrying on the way you did. Do you understand that?”

Trick bobbed his head to the side in a noncommittal shrug.

“I have half a mind to leave you right here in Briardale while we go ahead to the temple.”

At that, Trick’s eyes snapped up in alarm. “You can’t do that!”

“I’m not going to,” said Hendry, “in no small part because I wouldn’t feel right saddling Connor with this current attitude of yours.”

Trick’s temper flared. The instinct to fight took over, and he went for the first thing he could think of. “You didn’t tell me you had a son,” he said.

The sudden change of topic made Hendry pause. “What?”

“That’s why you didn’t want to come here, isn’t it?” Trick stuck out his chin in defiance. “You were avoiding him. After you chased him out of Neverwinter and left him and his friends for dead.”

It had the desired effect. Hendry looked like he’d been slapped. He stood stock-still, gaping at Trick for a long moment.

The small, oft-ignored part of Trick’s brain that was invested in self-preservation was begging him not to poke the bear. Trick tensed, readying himself for the blowback.

When Hendry spoke again, his voice was gravelly and monotone, like he was struggling to string the words together. “I haven’t mentioned my son,” he said, “because, up until about an hour ago, I wasn’t entirely sure I still had one.”

Trick blinked. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

“I knew he might be here,” said Hendry. “I hoped he’d be here. But I doubted he would want to see me, in any case.” He gave a slow nod. “And, I suppose, I was afraid of what I would find if I sought him out. There is a story there, and I will tell it to you another time.”

Hendry’s voice hardened. “But Connor is not a part of this conversation,” he said, “and I do not appreciate you bringing him up to try to get a rise out of me.”

Trick swallowed hard. He dropped his gaze.

“You’ve been trying my patience for a couple of days, now,” said Hendry. “Something clearly has you upset. I’d like to know what it is.”

Trick furrowed his brow. “What makes you think I’m upset?”

“I had a teenager myself, Trick, as you so astutely observed. I can tell when a lad is acting up to get my attention. So. What is it?”

“I’m not upset,” said Trick. Sir Hendry’s attention was the last thing he was looking for right now. “I just wanted to see what it was like here.”

Hendry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think you know there’s more to it than that,” he said. “If we don’t talk about it, lad, it’s only going to get worse.”

“Why do you always have to talk about everything?” Trick snapped, balling his hands into fists. “If you’re gonna beat me, just beat me and get it over with!”

Hendry stared at him.

The self-preservation part of Trick’s brain buried its face in its hands.

Hendry sighed. “The hard way, then.”

Trick saw the threat too late.

He turned to dart for cover, but Hendry was already upon him. He caught Trick just above the elbow and pulled him up, half-dragging him toward the table in the corner.

“No!” cried Trick. He wrapped his free hand around Hendry’s viselike fingers, trying in vain to pry himself loose. “Stop it! Let me go!”

Hendry ignored him. He pulled out a chair from the table and took a seat, as leisurely as if he were sitting down to a cup of tea.

A moment later, Trick was flipped around and folded over, and now he was face-to-face with the gnarled floorboards.

He pressed his hands against the faded wood and squirmed over Hendry’s knee, desperate to escape, but the old knight merely locked his free leg over Trick’s ankles, pinning him in place.

“Stop it! Let me go!”

Trick felt the back of his tunic being pushed up and out of the way, leaving only the protection of his new leather leggings. They were lighter weight than his previous breeches, and only now was Trick seeing that there might be one major downside to this feature.

Indeed, the palm of Sir Hendry’s hand was smarter than ever against Trick’s woebegotten backside. There was the crisp sound of a slap, followed by a quick bloom of heat that Trick was becoming far too familiar with.

Of course, it wasn’t a single swat. It was a dozen or so, in rapid succession, each one stinging more than the last.

Trick cried out at the initial onslaught, then he clamped down his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. No way. He’d come close to being mauled to death by that Ugmar person last night, and he’d spent the night in a jail cell with a fractured rib. He was not about to start crying now.

Sir Hendry paused for a moment, readjusted himself, and then started right back in with another grueling set of blows.

Trick grunted through his teeth as the slaps rang out in the little cabin. Gods, but the man could hit. Trick gave a little jolt with every swat. As a pervasive sting built up, his hips started to wriggle. His bottom wanted out of the firing line, even if his brain was determined to remain stoic.

Hendry stopped. The sting faded quickly to a prickling burn, and Trick drew a series of huffing breaths as he tried to keep himself steady.

Above him, Sir Hendry said, “Anything coming to mind?”

Trick thought of the acolyte with the strap those years ago. He thought of the hammer and scales that Hendry still wore around his neck.

He clenched his jaw.

Trick couldn’t see, but he could practically feel the old knight shaking his head. He hiked Trick a little farther forward.

He hit even harder this time around. At least, it felt like it. The slap, the sting, and the ensuing burn, over and over, with ruthless, excruciating consistency.

“Ow!” cried Trick. “That hurts! Stop it!”

Sir Hendry did stop, but it was only to say, “It’s meant to hurt, lad,” and start right back in again. “We’ll stop when you’re ready to cooperate.”

“Hrrnngg!”

Trick tried to buck his legs, but Hendry had him clamped so firmly down, the best Trick could do was kick feebly from his knees and wriggle helplessly as little pops of heat burst over his bottom in a random scatter. The only predictable pattern was that every time Hendry’s hand made contact, there was a sudden sting and a flash of fire, and the cumulative effect was becoming unbearable.

“Stop!” Trick was gasping now. He could feel the tears welling, and it was all he could do to stave them off. “Stop it, please! Ow! Oww!”

Hendry finished his thought, which was another half dozen smacks, then lowered his hand to rest on the small of Trick’s back.

Trick wheezed over the man’s knee. The sting in his rear subsided once again to a prickling warmth—not a good feeling, but far preferable to what had come before.

Sir Hendry gave him a long moment to rest before he said, his voice low and rumbling, “Are you going to talk to me? Or do we need to continue?”

Trick gritted his teeth. “I… oh, oww…”

Hendry waited. The hand on Trick’s back was heavy and warm—comforting, even though it still presented a very real threat. As long as it was there on his back, Trick’s bottom was out of danger.

“Trick,” said Sir Hendry, once Trick had gotten his breathing under control. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Trick moaned at the floor. His eyes felt wet, and the humiliating position was not helping. He rubbed his sleeve over his face.

In a small, sullen voice, he said, “I didn’t know you were Tyrran.”

A pause as Sir Hendry tried to work this out. “I didn’t realize it was a secret,” he said.

“Milo told me,” said Trick. “At Lady Lariel’s house. And you said… you were an acolyte in the temple.”

“Yes,” said Hendry. After another moment, he drew in a breath. “Ah. You’d been up to the temple before, had you?”

Trick sniffed back a tear. “Not on purpose.”

“When?”

“Couple years ago.”

He felt Sir Hendry’s hand pat him gently on the back. “Stand up, lad.”

He helped him to his feet. Trick stood with his eyes canted down, bouncing a little at the burning in his rear.

Hendry looked up at him, and Trick was relieved to see most of the fiery anger was gone. He looked concerned, which was a much more familiar expression on the man’s weathered face. “What happened?”

Trick screwed up his face. He’d never told this story before. He’d never had occasion to.

“I like to sleep under the Dolphin Bridge,” he said. “Especially during the cold months. It’s always warm by the river. But you have to clear out early, or the guards will find you.

“So… this one guard, he found me there one morning, and he said that if he saw me there again, he’d have the acolytes at the Hall of Justice skin me alive. And I didn’t sleep under the bridge again,” he added emphatically. “At least, not for a while. But a couple days later, I took a whole sack of gold off of someone in the River District, and…” Trick remembered what Connor had said, about the guards laying traps to catch hungry orphans, and his face burned. “And he comes from out of nowhere. The same guard. Drags me up to the temple and throws me to the acolytes.”

Sir Hendry was listening, eyes crinkled in sympathy. “They thrashed you?”

Trick nodded. “With this… huge leather strap. I… I don’t remember it that well, but I know it was awful. Then they threw me in a cell. They let me out the next morning, but… it was just…” He trailed off.

“How old were you?” asked Sir Hendry.

“Twelve.”

Hendry’s nostrils flared, and Trick was taken aback a moment, afraid he’d said something wrong. But Hendry said, “I’m so sorry, Trick. I wish they hadn’t done that.”

Trick swallowed.

“So,” Hendry went on, “when you learned I had been an acolyte there, myself…”

Trick’s cheeks burned, and he looked back at the floor. “I wondered if… if maybe it was you that…”

“It wasn’t me,” said Hendry.

Trick glanced up at him. “How do you know? He had black hair and a beard. It could’ve—”

“Because I was never on Castigation,” Hendry said firmly. “There are a lot of duties to be performed as an acolyte, and while they always suggested we try our hand at all of them, there was never any requirement. And I always managed to avoid that particular duty.”

He gave a small shrug. “You may have noticed I don’t have the best relationship with the other members of the church. There’s one reason, for you. Not to mention,” he added, and he ruffled the graying hairs above his temple, “it’s been more than a few years since anyone would call this black, even if they were being extremely gentle with my feelings.”

Trick fidgeted. “You said you had a lot of experience tanning hides.”

Hendry gave a short laugh. “One hide, in particular,” he said. “Now you’ve met its owner, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of stories for you.”

Something lifted off Trick’s chest. He realized with a shock that Hendry had been absolutely right. This had been bothering him since Milo first mentioned the knight spent his mornings in prayer.

Hendry was watching him closely. “Is there anything else, lad?”

Trick could feel the tears gathering again. He felt suddenly miserable. “No, sir,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so…”

Sir Hendry nodded. “We might have saved ourselves a good deal of trouble by having this conversation three days ago, eh?”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Trick.”

Trick looked at him.

“We’ve entered into some dangerous business with Cyric and these Icons,” said Hendry. “I don’t know what we’re going to find at this temple, when we get there, but I doubt it will be as easy as walking in and taking what we came for.”

Trick nodded.

“When I tell you to do something,” said Hendry, “you absolutely must do as I say. At once. If a situation turns deadly, there will be no room for explanation or negotiation.

“Despite what you may think, I am aware of your skills, and I do believe they can be useful. But only when applied responsibly,” he added, “and that seems to be the detail you are having immeasurable difficulty understanding.”

Trick’s eyes were dampening, again. He wiped the tears furiously away. “I’m sorry,” he said, biting back the tremble in his throat. “Sir… Sir Hendry, I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have snuck out here. It was… a stupid thing to do.” He took a shaky breath.

“It was,” Hendry agreed. “I know you’re sorry, Trick. I do.”

It sounded like there was a but coming. Trick tensed, eyeing Sir Hendry’s decidedly grim expression.

“Thank you for talking to me,” said the knight, getting to his feet. “And I know you’re already smarting, but I did promise you a whipping.”

Trick’s heart sank.

And then Hendry undid his belt, and Trick’s knees almost gave out on the spot.

He watched, eyes wide, as the old knight slid the long piece of leather free. He folded it over and held it in both hands.

“It won’t be as bad as that strap,” said Hendry, seeing the expression on Trick’s face. “And you’re a bit older now, eh?”

That was true. Trick couldn’t remember much about what the strap looked like, but it had definitely been bigger and heavier than what Hendry now held in his hand.

“To be clear,” said Hendry, “it is going to hurt. And with any luck, it will stay with you a bit longer than the flat of my hand has managed to do.”

Trick hunched his shoulders.

“I promise, I wouldn’t whip you if I didn’t think you’d earned it.”

Trick sighed. “I know,” he muttered.

“Shall we get it over with?”

Trick screwed up his face. He nodded.

Sir Hendry picked up the chair he’d been sitting in, turned it around, and set it down with a thunk. He tapped the seat back, which came up just to Trick’s hip. “Bend over here, lad.”

Fighting against the fluttering in his stomach, Trick let Hendry guide him over the back of the chair.

“Hold the sides of the seat,” said Hendry. “Lean over a bit more. Right there.”

Trick took a deep breath. It felt odd to stand hunched over like this, knowing his bottom was an easy target, and leaving it there on purpose. Nobody was holding him down. He could probably make a break for it, if he wanted to.

And that was what felt so strange. He didn’t want to.

That is, there was still a tiny, obstinate part of his brain screaming that this wasn’t fair, and who did Hendry think he was. And, certainly, if they’d been interrupted at that moment with some emergency, and Hendry just forgot about the whole thing, Trick couldn’t say he’d complain.

But still…

He felt Hendry put a hand on his lower back.

“Make as much noise as you need to,” said the old knight. “I won’t make you hold perfectly still, but I do want you to do your best to stay where you are. Understood?”

The way he said it made it sound like that was going to be hard to do.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.”

Trick felt the leather tap against his tunic a few times. It moved slowly, in a steady rhythm, and it made a foreboding little clapping noise each time it made contact.

Trick winced to think of the sound it would be making in a few moments.

Hendry shifted his stance. His hand was firmly planted on Trick’s back.

“Ready?”

Trick steeled himself. “Mm-hmm.”

The leather tapped him again. Hendry was lining up his shot. One tap… two…

Trick heard a soft whoosh, and then there was the loud SNAP he’d been expecting as the belt connected.

A fraction of a second later, and the initial dull thud exploded into a brilliant streak of fire, right across the seat of Trick’s tunic.

Oh, gods—!

Trick’s body twitched forward—partly from the impact, but mostly from a reflexive desire to get away.

Hendry’s hand was still on his back.

“All right, lad?”

Trick drew a shuddering breath. He nodded and relaxed back into his stance.

“Ow.”

“I know it stings,” said Hendry. “It’s meant to be a lesson.”

The worst of the blow was already starting to fade, but it left behind a smoldering heat that prickled terribly, putting any of Hendry’s prior work to shame.

“How old are you, lad?”

Trick steadied his voice. “I’m… fifteen.”

“Ah, yes.”

The belt tapped against its target, again.

Tap… tap… whoosh—SNAP.

The initial impact hurt, but it was the lingering, fiery sting that made Trick twitch and try to dance away.

It took a moment, but Trick settled in again.

At the next stroke, he gasped, and tears sprang to his eyes.

“Ah!”

It wasn’t as bad as the strap. At least, not as Trick remembered it. Thinking back to that evening, as the blue-cloaked guard had practically carried him by the nape of the neck up all those steps to the Hall of Justice, wheeled him down a dark hall, tossed him over that bench…

The strap had hurt, to be sure. But more than the pain, Trick remembered the uncertainty and the fear. The hours of not knowing what was going to happen next—whether he’d be beaten again… whether he’d be allowed to eat… whether he’d ever be let go.

The acolyte who’d whipped him certainly hadn’t kept a steadying hand on his back, as Sir Hendry was doing now.

Trick wondered if that would have made the difference.

After another two strokes, as Trick blew out a whistling breath and hopped on his toes, Hendry afforded him a short respite.

“A lad of fifteen years should know when a rule is there for his own good,” said Hendry. “And he should know better than to break that rule. Especially when he’s been given ample warning. Yes?”

Trick took a couple quick breaths. “Yes.”

“He may be very capable, in his own right,” said Hendry. “But he should know when to strike out on his own… and when to rely on the people around him for help.” That strong hand was rubbing circles into Trick’s back. “Yes?”

“…Yes.” Trick felt his voice crack. He tried to slow his breathing.

“And a lad of fifteen should know how to talk through his problems,” said Hendry. “Not to bottle things up inside until he starts lashing out.”

Trick grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, lad.”

Another silent moment, and the belt struck again. Trick was getting the hang of this. He gritted his teeth and squirmed in place until the sting subsided. Then he caught his breath and settled in for the next stroke.

After ten, Trick’s rear end was properly ablaze. He gripped the seat of the chair till his knuckles turned white.

“Almost there, lad.”

At the next stroke, a sob broke loose. Trick tucked his chin into his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, but his composure was finally starting to unravel.

Trick did everything in his power to prepare himself. When the belt landed again, searing a fresh stripe straight through tunic and leggings, Trick gave a throaty howl and stamped a foot against the floor.

“Sir Hendry,” he gasped. His voice crackled with effort. “Oh, oww… please, stop…”

“Three more,” said Hendry, and Trick gave a pitiable moan.

Whether to end the ordeal quickly out of kindness, or else to more fervently drive his point home, Hendry delivered the last three in quick succession.

Trick yelped and hopped at each one. It was incredible how much more it hurt to have two or three of those blows laid down one after the other, and the sudden burst of heat sent Trick over the edge. A round of sobs wracked his body, and though he squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, the tears he’d been holding back finally worked their way free, trickling out from the corners and dropping onto the seat of the chair.

Sir Hendry’s hand was there on his back.

“It’s over,” said the old knight. “I know it hurts, my lad. You took it well.”

Trick pulled himself slowly up. His cheeks were damp, and his rear end felt so thoroughly toasted, he couldn’t imagine being able to sit properly again. He kept his eyes pressed into the back of his wrist as he took a few slow breaths, interrupted here and there by a hitching sob.

Hendry refastened his belt. Then he took Trick by the shoulders.

“Trick, lad,” he said. “When I woke up this morning and found you gone, I imagined the worst. I thought some fell beast had come upon you in the night. I thought blasted Cyric had gotten to you again. I thought…” He shook his head.

Trick wiped his eyes and looked up at Hendry, his vision still blurred with the remnants of tears.

“I didn’t know what to think,” said Hendry. “The last thing I thought was that you had deliberately disobeyed me and run off, by yourself, which you had promised not to do, to a place where you had promised not to go.” Hendry sighed. “You frightened me to death, my lad. Do you realize that?”

Trick looked down. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hendry leaned down so their eyes were level. “You must understand how serious this is, Trick. You’re fifteen years old. That’s plenty old enough to be treated like an adult—but only insofar as you behave like one.”

“I know.”

“The next time you’re upset about something, I hope you’ll talk to me,” said Hendry. “Before it reaches this point again, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.”

He curled a hand around the back of Trick’s head, pulling him in, and Trick leaned gratefully into the hug. It was a foreign feeling—the strong arms wrapped around him, securing him. He could feel Hendry’s chest rise and fall with his breath. It was slow, steady, and deep, just like him, and Trick found his own breathing slowed to match it.

“Um,” he said. “Sir Hendry?”

“Hm?”

“I’m only… well…” He took a deep breath. “I’ll be fifteen in… a couple of months.”

He wondered uneasily what the knight’s reaction to this revelation would be, but Hendry only chuckled. With Trick’s cheek pressed to the man’s chest, he felt it rumble through him.

“Duly noted.”

They pulled apart, and Hendry kept one hand around the back of Trick’s head for a final, comforting squeeze before letting him go.

“Take a moment,” said Hendry, going to the door. “I’ll be outside.”

Trick nodded, wiping at his face. “You can go back to town,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

Halfway through the door, Hendry paused and raised an eyebrow. “I think you’ve lost the privilege of going anywhere unattended for a little while, my lad.”

Trick grimaced. The only thing worse than facing the rest of the team at this moment would be facing them escorted by Hendry, but he didn’t argue. Hendry stepped outside and shut the door.

Trick’s hands flew to the seat of his pants, which was threatening to burst into flame. He rubbed furiously. It helped some, but the belt had stung much deeper than Hendry’s hand could do, plank-like though it was. What remained was a low simmer, and Trick groaned to think how uncomfortable the rest of the day was going to be.

He found Hendry outside, arms folded, looking out over the glen in contemplation.

He nodded to Trick. “Ready?”

As they made their way down the hill, Trick took in his surroundings. He’d never been in a place as green as this before.

“It’s really beautiful here,” he said.

“It is,” Hendry agreed.

“Sir Hendry?”

“Yes?”

Trick took a deep breath. “Why did you step down from the Knights?”

Hendry was silent a long moment, and Trick immediately regretted the question. “I’m sorry,” he said. “The others said you didn’t like to talk about it.”

“They’re right,” said Hendry. “I don’t.” He drew a slow breath. “It involves Connor,” he said. “And some actions on my part of which I’m not particularly proud.”

Trick nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “You don’t have to—”

Hendry held up a hand. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “It may do me some good. Connor should hear the story, as well. When we get back to town. All right?”

“All right.”

Sir Hendry put a hand on Trick’s back, at the base of his neck. The weight of it was soothing.

Chastened though he was, Trick realized he was glad he wasn’t making this walk back alone. He squirmed at the thought of meeting the team, but he was glad he had a team to meet. That, no matter what, he wouldn’t be spending his afternoon hunting down a scrap of dinner, or skulking in a dark corner while he scarfed it down. He wouldn’t be sleeping with his fingers curled around his dagger, one eye open in case of guards—or other enterprising thieves. He wouldn’t have to fend for himself, today. Because he was no longer alone.

Trick looked up at Sir Hendry’s grizzled face.

He didn’t ever want to be alone again.

Chapter Text

Connor was waiting for them at the gate.

As Trick and Hendry approached, Connor waved good-bye to a couple he’d been chatting with and jogged up to greet them.

“Your friends are still out shopping,” he said. “They’re going to meet us at my place when they’re done.”

He glanced down at Trick, who realized he was fidgeting and planted both feet firmly on the ground, despite the residual burning in his seat.

Connor gave him a once-over, then cleared his throat. “This way.”

They followed Connor to a block of small apartments not far from the back gate. It wasn’t a single building as much as individual rooms stacked on other rooms, some of which were sagging precariously, from age, or slapdash construction, or both.

Connor led them up a steep stair to one of the second-story huts. The blue door was painted with the black fox sigil of the guards, and underneath, Trick noticed with some surprise, was a second sigil: three white snowflakes. The emblem of Neverwinter.

Trick saw Sir Hendry looking around, taking in various details of their surroundings. Hendry’s gaze landed on the single, tiny front window of the apartment, and the handful of yellow flowers that bloomed in a box on the sill.

Connor let them in. The apartment was somehow even smaller than it looked from the outside. Trick was used to the townhouses in the Bluelake District. There, each unit was narrow to look at from the street, but might span two or even three stories, with long rooms that plunged inward from the front door like a matchstick box.

Connor’s apartment was low-ceilinged, and it was no deeper than it was wide. What furniture there was looked crammed-in, like the pieces knew there wasn’t space for them and were trying not to take up too much room.

The back wall was partitioned off by a faded yellow curtain, which was currently pushed open to admit the pittance of sunlight that had managed to make its way through a second, equally tiny window. It looked like a makeshift washroom—Trick could see the tub and basin peeking out from behind the curtain.

Hendry was looking around the room with some interest. He seemed to be studying each element, making some kind of complicated assessment.

“It’s… not much,” said Connor, sounding a little sheepish. He tossed his cloak over a chair, then quickly grabbed it back up and hung it on a peg by the door. “More of a dormitory than anything. No kitchen, but there’s a little pub a few units down.”

“I thought you were in charge here,” said Trick, eyeing the hammock that hung suspended in one corner in lieu of a proper bed. “Shouldn’t you live in a mansion or something?”

His genuine inquiry was met with a sharp clip to the back of his head.

He shot an indignant look up at Hendry. “What!”

Hendry looked like he’d surprised himself with the action. He cleared his throat. “That wasn’t very polite,” he said.

Trick gaped at him. “Polite?”

“It’s really all right,” said Connor, sounding, for some unfathomable reason, slightly amused. “There’s not much here in Briardale, Trick. Building materials are hard enough to come by without indulging in excess. And in charge is a bit of a loose designation.” He grinned. “If we’re still going strong in a few years, perhaps I’ll look into a mansion.”

“You’ve made it your home,” Hendry observed. “Are you comfortable?”

Connor shrugged. “Comfortable enough.” He looked around, as if casting about for something in the room and coming up short. “I’m afraid I don’t do much entertaining. Sit anywhere you like.”

A small table and two chairs were squashed into the corner.

Trick examined one of the chairs, noting with dismay the distinctly flat, hard wooden surface of its seat.

Connor caught his eye. He cocked his head toward the hammock in the corner. There was a clothes chest beneath it, and next to that, a poofy floor cushion. Trick took it gratefully, leaving Connor and Hendry the seats at the table.

With the pleasantries over, the room fell silent. Hendry’s gaze was on Connor—mildly, as if he didn’t realize he was staring. Connor, meanwhile, was looking anywhere else: at his hands in his lap, at Trick in the corner, at the ceiling.

“So,” Connor said at last. “An adventuring party.”

Hendry nodded. “I suppose we are, at this point,” he said. “We’ve been traveling together for a few months. Well,” he added with a nod toward Trick, “most of us.”

Connor gave Trick an appraising look. “How did you come to join the party, Trick?” he asked. “Is this some kind of diabolical new reform program the church has dreamed up? Pairing delinquents with hardened warriors to straighten them out?”

Trick blinked in surprise. “No,” he said. “We just happened to meet. Well—” He winced, remembering the events of those first couple days. “I… tried to steal something from them.”

“Ah,” said Connor. “That’s hard to do.”

Hendry was giving Connor a sideways look. He didn’t say anything.

“So, where are you heading next?” asked Connor.

“There’s a temple east of here,” said Hendry. “A temple to Cyric. There’s been a resurgence of cult activity, and we’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”

At the mention of Cyric, Connor’s expression darkened. “Well, that makes sense,” he said. “You can take the man out of the temple, but you can’t take the temple out of the man.”

The air changed. Trick felt it like a sudden halting of motion, as if the various particles that made up the tiny room all paused their various activities to turn their attention toward the father and son at the table.

Hendry took a beat before responding. “We’re acting independently,” he said. “It has nothing to do with the temple.”

“No, of course not,” said Connor, and though he spoke lightly, Trick didn’t miss the underlying sarcasm. “When I heard you’d given up the knighthood, I dared to imagine you might have left the religion behind, as well.”

“I may no longer be welcome at the Hall of Justice,” said Hendry, “but I swore an oath to Tyr a long time ago, and it’s an oath I mean to keep.”

“No longer welcome,” said Connor. “So they did kick you out.”

“I was asked to leave the church,” Hendry said evenly. “Yes.”

Trick watched, transfixed, his heart suddenly pounding. The two of them were sitting very still, not quite looking at each other. Neither had so much as raised his voice, and yet Trick had the distinct impression that somebody was about to throw a knife.

Connor scratched with a fingernail at the surface of the table. “So what happened?” he said. “Why were you… asked to leave the church?”

Hendry took a deep breath. “Put simply,” he said, “I defied orders, and I lied about it.”

Connor scoffed.

Hendry only shrugged a shoulder in response.

“Am I supposed to believe that?” said Connor. “That Sir Hendrick the Righteous would disobey the unimpeachable church? That the man who would tear me up for lying about the weather could ever be anything but brutally honest with his precious holy brethren?”

Hendry didn’t rise to the attack. Instead, he said, “I don’t think it was the lying as much as the fact that, as a result, I let a squad of dangerous insurrectionists go free.”

Connor’s nostrils flared. He finally locked gazes with his father, a silent tempest growing behind his green eyes. “That’s what Milo said, too,” he said. “You didn’t let anybody go. You were right there, on our heels, the whole way. I was there.”

Hendry ran a hand through his bristly hair. “Connor, lad,” he said. Far from angry, he sounded weary; even rueful. “What do you remember about that night? Stay, Trick,” he added with a glance at Trick’s corner. “This concerns you, too.”

Trick, who was halfway out of his seat in an effort to make a stealthy escape from the increasingly tense environment, lowered himself slowly back down.

There was a brief pause as Connor collected himself. “You tailed us into the woods,” he said. “You, Bernhardt, and a couple of new recruits I didn’t recognize.” His jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “You were right on top of us. We only got away because a bear or something showed up and distracted you.”

“An owlbear,” Hendry supplied.

“I remember you chasing after it,” said Connor. “Then I guess you’d lost us, because you turned back, and we managed to escape.”

Hendry nodded. “Four of us answered the call,” he said. “Sir Bernhardt, and two knights-in-training, as you said.” Something twitched in his jaw. “Our orders were to kill you on sight.”

Connor glowered at him.

“We pursued you to the edge of the woods, and then we fanned out to look for you,” said Hendry. “By Tyr’s mercy, or by sheer luck, I found you first. You had stopped, and you were trying to hide.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed.

“Holly had fallen,” said Hendry. “You were downhill a ways. I came upon you while you were helping her into the trees. It looked like she’d turned an ankle.”

Connor didn’t say anything, but his tight-lipped expression froze into a stony mask.

“The owlbear was farther off,” said Hendry. “Along the river. I called for the others and charged ahead.” He took a steadying breath, remembering. “When I met the owlbear, it had just finished its dinner—a pair of deer—and I gave it a nick on the arm to scare it off. I had just enough time to push the carcasses into the river before the men caught up with me.”

Trick understood first. His eyes went wide. “You tricked them!” he said. “You said the owlbear got them, didn’t you?”

Connor blinked as if he’d forgotten Trick was there.

Hendry nodded slowly. “Sir Bernhardt wanted evidence,” he said. “You remember him, Trick. From the other day. He wanted to see the bodies.” He drew a long, slow breath. “I told him I’d just witnessed my only son mauled to death by a monstrous creature. I showed him the blood on the ground, and on my sword. And I ordered him to turn back.”

“He believed you?” said Trick.

The corner of Hendry’s mouth twitched up. “You know, I’m not entirely sure he did, even then,” he said. “But I outranked him. And so we turned back.”

Trick frowned. “So how did they find out?” he asked. “That you lied, I mean.”

“Simple,” said Hendry. “I told them.”

Trick only gaped in response, so Hendry continued. “Not right away,” he said. “When we returned to the Hall of Justice, I gave them the same story I’d given Sir Bernhardt. They took me on my word, and that became the public story: that the Knights had pursued the criminals into the woods and slain them.”

That was the story Trick had heard, the next morning, as the news made its rounds through the city.

“I guessed they’d make for Briardale,” said Hendry. “They wouldn’t have had much choice. I gave it a few days. Then I went to the high priests.” He closed his eyes. “I told them everything.”

“Why?” said Trick.

“Because it was the right thing to do,” said Hendry. “I had broken my contract with the Knights. I was no longer the upstanding acolyte they knew. I couldn’t live with the lie. And after that night…” He shook his head. “Our orders were to kill. Not to bring the criminals to justice, but to strike them down by any means necessary. To show the church’s dominance. I saw it then, for the first time, and after that, I couldn’t continue to serve.”

“But they didn’t change their story,” said Trick.

Hendry raised his eyebrows. “No, indeed,” he said. “Frankly, I didn’t expect them to. It wasn’t a good look for them—particularly for Lord Neverember, whose interest in the Hall of Justice is rather more militaristic than religious. He couldn’t hide that there had been a breakout. I doubted he’d be keen to admit that the responsible parties had managed to escape, as well.

“The high priests offered me a deal,” said Hendry. “I was to remove myself from the temple. I would be stripped of my title, and of any privileges and responsibilities I thereby enjoyed. In return, the story of Connor’s escape would be kept secret. Sir Bernhardt was livid, as you might imagine, but he agreed to go along with it.”

“He called you a heretic,” said Trick.

“He’s not entirely wrong,” Hendry said wryly. “Dishonesty is one of the worst sins one can commit, in the eyes of Tyr.” He paused. “I think Sir Bernhardt understood,” he said. “He knew Connor. Most of the temple did. He agreed to keep the secret, and he has.”

Trick considered this. “But then… aren’t they still kind of lying?” he asked. “If they let everyone go on believing that Connor and everyone are dead?”

“It would appear that they are willing to bend the rules.” He inclined his head. “I am not without blame, myself. I pray for Tyr’s forgiveness every day.”

Connor was watching his father with a distant expression.

“You knew what we were going to do,” Connor said softly. “That night. You had to have known. Didn’t you?”

“I had a strong suspicion,” Hendry said. “Yes.”

“You could have stopped me,” said Connor. Trick could see his eyes sparkling in the faint light from the window. “Why didn’t you?”

Hendry raised his broad shoulders and lowered them again. “I didn’t like what they did to Aryn any more than you did,” he said. “I suppose… I was hoping you’d succeed.”

There was a long, heavy silence. The sound of Briardale’s morning business began to trickle up from the outside street.

Connor got up. He went to the chest in the corner, where Trick was sitting. A small key fished out of his pocket unlocked it, and he lifted the lid and pulled something out.

It was a ring of white gold, wrought in the familiar scales-and-hammer symbol of Tyr.

He started to say something, hesitated, then turned to show the ring to Trick. “Do you know what this is?”

“Tyr’s symbol,” said Trick.

Connor nodded. “Every Knight wears a ring like this,” he said. “And some of the senior acolytes. It’s a mark of their station, but it has magical properties, as well. Within the temple, it acts like a master key. It will get you anywhere.” He gave his father a sidelong look. “All the way into a jail cell, even.”

Hendry didn’t look surprised to see the ring. He only nodded along with Connor as he spoke.

“You’ve seen firsthand how difficult it is to steal from my dad,” said Connor, turning the ring between his fingers. “But he let me take it right off his bedside table. He knew exactly what I was going to do.”

Connor set his jaw. He drew in a long breath. Then he walked to Sir Hendry and held out the ring.

“Take it.”

Hendry’s dark eyes crinkled. “You keep it,” he said. “Sell it, even. The enchantments will have worn off of it, by now, and I have no use for it, anymore.”

But Connor shook his head, brow knit stubbornly. “I’ve never once regretted anything we did that night,” he said. “Except for this. It was a means to an end, and maybe there was no other way. But still.” He swallowed hard. “Please, take it. I… I want to be able to say I gave it back.”

A ripple of emotion passed over Hendry’s face. It was fleeting, and then he was back to his usual, stolid self.

He reached for the ring. When Connor held it out, Hendry caught his hand, cupping it between his two broad, callused ones.

“Thank you,” he said.

Connor’s lip twitched. He gave a quick nod.

Hendry pocketed the ring.

Connor cleared his throat, scuffed at his cheekbone with the heel of his hand, and shook his head. “Well,” he said, a trace of huskiness still lingering in his voice. “Think we have time for a card game before your friends get back?”

Hendry raised an eyebrow. “Barely two hours I’ve been here, and you’re already looking to get whipped?”

“Big words, old man.” Connor nodded at Trick. “Do you know how to play, lad?”

They set up at the table. Trick had never actually played the game, before, but he’d seen it often enough to know how it went.

His assumption that they’d be betting with coins was met with a brusque rebuff from Hendry. Connor emptied a bag of colored stones onto the table, instead.

“Um… Sir Hendry?”

The old knight looked at Trick.

Trick glanced at Connor. “Did you really whip him for lying about the weather?”

Sir Hendry snorted. “No,” he said at the same time that Connor cried, “Yes!”

Hendry looked at him in surprise. “What? When?”

“Don’t you remember?” said Connor. “That time Jasper and I were up on the roof of the Hall of Justice, and you said we could have been struck by lightning, and I said we hadn’t seen any lightning. And we only saw one bolt,” he added indignantly. “And the storm never even reached us.”

Hendry rolled his eyes and began to deal out the cards. “As I recall, lad,” he said, “that was less about the lightning and more about you climbing around on the roof of the Hall of Justice.”

Connor lifted his chin. “I remember it differently,” he said.

Trick grinned.

Hendry dealt out the cards, and they began to play.

A few hands in, it became clear that Trick had no idea what he was doing. His pile of stones had dwindled almost to nothing, and Connor and Hendry kept throwing conflicting tidbits of advice his way, which only served to confuse him further.

By the time Milo, Errol, and Ariadne returned from their errand, Trick had long since busted out and was sitting on his cushion with arms folded, watching the Pelmore men trade marbles back and forth.

When Ariadne came through the door, Trick jumped to his feet.

“Ariadne!”

She glanced at him.

Trick had been running this through his mind all morning. “I’m sorry I ran off,” he said at once. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just being stupid. I’m sorry I made you waste your magic.”

She came over to him. Trick tensed, unsure what to expect, but she only put a gentle hand on the side of his face and steered him up to meet her eyes.

“It wasn’t a waste,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. My magic is there to heal what’s broken, and that includes willful teenagers.” Her hazel eyes were shining. “I will never hesitate to heal you when you’re injured,” she said. “No matter what. However I can.” With a little smile, she added, “If it’s for a really stupid reason, you can expect more from me than a little slap on the hand. But not until after you’re back in one piece.” She tugged on his earlobe, and Trick wrinkled his nose. “Understand?”

He nodded.

“Oh, Trick.” She pulled him into a hug, and he squeezed her in return, the last bit of weight lifting from his chest. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Milo had managed to find his diamond dust, which was, as Trick had guessed, no more than a ground-up diamond. Errol and Ariadne had also picked up some salted meat and a variety of sweetbreads from Maeve.

Hendry cleared his throat. “I suppose we ought to get going,” he said.

There was a murmur of agreement, though it seemed to Trick somewhat reluctant.

The conversation turned to plotting their route. Despite the detour to Briardale, they weren’t much farther from the temple than they’d been at the campsite. If they went out through the back gate and up through the hunting grounds, Ariadne thought they could make it in under an hour.

Suddenly, Connor said, “Dad!”

The room fell silent.

Connor looked like he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say. He chewed his lip for a moment, then plunged ahead. “Do you have to leave right away?”

Of course they did, Trick knew. Hendry started to answer, but he faltered.

“Stay the night,” said Connor. “There’s always a few free beds, somewhere. Take the afternoon to rest, and you can set out first thing in the morning.”

Hendry hesitated. He looked around at the group. Maybe he expected pushback, but he found none.

He breathed a little sigh and turned back to Connor.

“Well,” he said, the hint of a smile threatening to peek through from under his graying beard, “I suppose we can spare one more day.”

Chapter Text

Trick got a bit more of that morning’s story. Sir Hendry, as usual, had been the first to rise. Finding Trick’s tent empty, he’d alerted the others, and Ariadne’s direwolf form had easily picked up his trail.

The team had left in too much of a hurry to complete their various morning rituals. Ariadne and Milo had finally found time in Briardale while Trick and Hendry had been otherwise disposed, but now that the excitement was over, Hendry was looking for a quiet spot to pray.

“We have a chapel at the Center,” Connor told him. “People have started donating various idols. There’s a little shrine for Tyr.”

Connor wanted to go to the Center anyway, to speak with Aryn about the question of lodging. The six of them standing upright barely fit in Connor’s little apartment. For all of them to sleep there was out of the question. According to Connor, Aryn maintained a register of everyone in the village and would know if there were empty beds in which the party could be put up for the night.

With a slightly disquieted cant, Connor added that he thought they should see Aryn again, and Liselle, now that he had more details around the night of their evacuation from Neverwinter.

“The Center” turned out to be the name of the large building in the center of town. Apparently, it was more than just a jail. In addition to the little common room on the ground story, there was a cramped office, a counting-house, and in the back, the little chapel Connor had mentioned.

They found Aryn and Liselle in the office, embroiled in some debate over allocation of funds. At Connor’s request, they put down their ledgers, and the group settled in to the common room.

Trick had been wondering how easily Connor’s friends were going to accept Hendry’s side of the story. Indeed, Liselle listened with her brow furrowed in doubt as Connor relayed what Hendry had told them.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” said Hendry. “You were right about a lot of things. I wish I’d understood sooner.”

After taking a moment to digest the story, Liselle said quietly, “Do they know where we are?”

“I don’t know,” said Hendry. “I only guessed, myself. I’m not sure where else you could have gone. However,” he added, as Liselle tensed, “they don’t seem interested in pursuing you. The story in Neverwinter is that you were killed, and I believe the Hall of Justice is perfectly content to uphold that narrative.”

Aryn nudged Liselle with an elbow. “What’d I tell you?” he said. “I knew Sir Dad would never sell us out.”

She nodded slowly. “Sir Hendry,” she said. “Do you think you could… When you get back to Neverwinter…” Her jaw was tight. “Could you let my parents know? Just that I’m… all right?”

Hendry took her hand in both of his. “Of course,” he said.

Connor made a pot of coffee, and they chatted for another hour or so, as the friends recounted stories of their childhood in Neverwinter. Many of them involved details that were a revelation to Hendry, who spent most of the hour with his face screwed into a kind of amused grimace.

Before they parted ways, Connor told Aryn the party would be staying the night. Aryn said he’d need to check on specifics, but he was confident he’d be able to secure a couple of rooms for them.

In the meantime, Connor wanted to take his father around to the rest of the “Neverwinter Five,” as the friends had come to be known.

After Hendry had had a chance to pray—and deposited a sizable amount of gold into the little donation box at the chapel door—the party took their leave from Aryn and Liselle and set out to find Jasper.

Connor led them to a shop on the north side of town. A painted sign over the door read, “The Spear and Stag.”

It was on the larger side, by Briardale standards. The main room held the wares for sale—hunting gear, including a variety of weapons that Jasper apparently made himself. A doorway at the back revealed what looked like a workshop, with bundles of wooden staves leaning against the edge of a high bench. There was even a spiral staircase behind the counter that led to Jasper’s room upstairs.

Jasper himself was the biggest human Trick had ever seen, with skin the color of roasted chestnuts, a cloud of coily black hair tied back in a bandana, and a full beard. He had an easy smile, and his rumbling laugh seemed to travel through the floorboards and reverberate in Trick’s belly.

He listened with a thoughtful expression to the explanation about Sir Hendry. Just as with Aryn and Liselle, he accepted the story easily, seeming almost relieved.

“I always thought, if Sir Hendry wanted us dead, he would’ve made it happen,” said Jasper in his deep bass voice. He shook Hendry’s hand, and invited the party to look around the shop, and that was that.

Trick had spied an array of hunting bows, and he found himself drawn to investigate.

They were all different sizes, from bows so small they looked like they were made for children to longbows even taller than he was.

Ariadne came up beside him, and Trick heard her give a little gasp.

“Oh, these are gorgeous,” she breathed.

Trick looked up at her. “Can I have one?”

She looked surprised. “You know how to shoot?”

“No,” said Trick. “But maybe you could teach me?”

At that, a glint of excitement came into her eyes. “I would love to,” she said. “Maybe this afternoon, we can spend some time out in the hunting glen, if Jasper doesn’t mind us borrowing one of his bows.”

“That’s what they’re there for,” said Jasper behind them. “As long as you allow me to supervise, at least your first time out. Town policy.”

Trick frowned, remembering the busted old bows he’d seen hanging in the hunting shed. “Those are all beat up,” he said. “I want one of these.”

Ariadne smiled. “First, let’s get you shooting,” she said. “Then we’ll see about equipping you.”

“Why?” said Trick. “We have money. Why don’t we just buy it now, and then I’ll figure it out, and then I’ll already have it?”

Ariadne and Jasper gave him nearly identical looks of mingled surprise and reproach, and Trick hunched his shoulders, unsure what he’d said wrong.

“Because it’s not a toy,” Ariadne said with measured patience. “And when we’re talking about something you need, it’s our money. When we’re talking about something you want, it’s my money. And I am not just going to spend my money on a weapon that you want until I’m completely sure you know how to use it.”

“I will learn how to—!”

“I said no, Trick.”

He opened his mouth again, but when Ariadne’s hazel eyes flashed in response, he shut it just as quickly.

Ariadne reached out to ruffle his curls. “We’ll go out this afternoon,” she promised. “We’ll borrow a bow from Jasper. If you get the hang of it, and if you do exactly as I say, we will see about getting you a bow of your own. All right?”

Trick still didn’t get it, but the conversation was clearly over.

“Yeah.”

She gave him an affectionate smile and thumbed his chin, then peeled off with Jasper to ask about hunting knives.

Trick stayed by the rack of bow shafts, feeling grumpy. What was the point of having money if you didn’t spend it?

He ran a hand along one of the smaller bows. It was a deep gray-brown, polished smooth and gleaming, with a simple, decorative pattern carved into the grip.

Trick glanced around. It wouldn’t be easy to steal something this size. He couldn’t exactly stuff it down his tunic, and anyway, the party had introduced themselves to the shopkeeper—Jasper would have an eye on them, however unsuspecting.

No… for something like this, Trick would have to break in.

He’d done it before, though it wasn’t his usual method. He far preferred to spend the day palming small trinkets and loose coins than to go to the trouble of breaking into a home. Occasionally, if he was feeling bored, or wanted a challenge, or just needed a respite from the day-to-day scavenging, Trick would steal into some Bluelake noble’s house and make off with some ornate candlesticks or jewelry left carelessly out.

It was risky. People tended to take it more personally when you invaded their homes. Trick had never been apprehended, but he’d had a couple of escapes that were a little too narrow for his liking.

And anyway, there was no guarantee you’d find anything of value once you got inside. Simply getting inside in the first place was a crime in itself. And even if you did find something worth swiping, you still had to sell it, or your treasure was worthless.

Trick remembered he’d once swiped a beautiful garnet ring out of a lord’s drawing room and taken it to his favorite pawn shop in the River District, only to be told that the design etched in the stone was the lord’s family crest, and that it was therefore clearly stolen and couldn’t be sold.

It had been devastating to deposit the ring, which could have been a small windfall, on the little walk leading up to the manor gate, where the lord might spot it later and simply assume he’d dropped it. Or, perhaps, take it out on a member of his staff. It didn’t much matter to Trick.

Briardale, though, was a different story altogether.

For one thing, the guards here were severely outnumbered compared to Neverwinter’s city watch, and there were few or no night watchmen. Many of the residents didn’t even seem concerned about locking their front doors.

Trick couldn’t imagine a shopkeeper would be so lackadaisical—especially Jasper, who had come from a place like Neverwinter—but still, Trick thought he would have little issue creeping out here under cover of night, picking the lock, and slipping out again with his prize.

And then…

Trick blinked. Then what?

Then he’d have an unstrung bow shaft. Even if he could find a way to get it strung, it wasn’t like he’d be able to use it. Sir Hendry would just make Trick give it back, and then Trick would be right back where he’d started—save, in all likelihood, for another sore backside.

Ariadne had said she’d think about it.

Trick stepped away from the bows.

He found Jasper, who had returned to his post behind the counter and was chuckling at something Connor had just said.

“Hey there, little buddy,” said Jasper. “Need help with something?”

Trick looked back at the bows. “I was just wondering… That one in the middle, the dark one… Do you think you could make sure nobody else buys it?” Trick felt his ears flush. “Just in case.”

Jasper grinned down at him. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll hold onto it.”

Well. That was something, at least.

Their next stop was to see Holly, at the smithy on the other side of town.

Connor had said it was new, and he wasn’t kidding. In contrast to Jasper’s well-established shop, the forge was little more than an anvil, a roaring fire, and a free-standing pegboard displaying wares, all gathered under the open air.

Trick recognized the blacksmith. He’d pegged him last night—the brawny man with an apron, smelling of smoke and iron. As the party approached, he was also covered in soot, and leveraging a large pair of tongs into the fire.

The blacksmith had an apprentice—a stocky young man with sunken eyes that seemed to skulk through the various tasks that his master barked at him.

There was also a young halfling, covered in soot like everything else, with a mane of leaf-green hair wrangled into a braided knot and secured with an iron pick.

She was wrestling with a bucket of water half her size. When she saw Connor, she beamed up at him, and when she saw Hendry, her eyes widened in surprise.

Holly was as quick as anyone to forgive Sir Hendry. Connor had barely expressed the sentiment that they’d been wrong about him before Holly’s face melted into tears.

Hendry, heedless of the soot and sweat, anticipated her hug. He crouched down to meet her properly, and she launched herself into his arms.

“I knew it,” she sniffed. “I knew you would never… I just knew it.”

There wasn’t much for sale here, yet, apart from some rudimentary tools, so there was nothing for Trick to do but stand around impatiently as Holly caught Sir Hendry up on everything she’d done over the past year.

Trick fidgeted. He looked to Ariadne, hoping she might be willing to split off with him and head to their shooting lesson, but Ariadne was listening to Holly’s chatter, apparently engrossed. Trick crossed his arms and looked around.

His fingers itched, but there was so little here, he couldn’t spot even a single stray coin to try and swipe.

Anyway, Trick remembered, Hendry would probably spot him, uncanny as his senses were.

Eventually, Holly ran out of things to say, or else she finally paused for air, and Hendry declared that they should be going.

Holly gave him another hug. The back of Hendry’s jerkin was now covered in tiny, sooty handprints, but he made no attempt to brush them off.

“Oh!” said Holly after they’d pulled apart. She reached up to her hair and pulled out the iron pick. Her hair sprang loose, seeming to double in volume, as she did so.

She handed the pick to Hendry. “Take this,” she said. “It’s the first thing I made.”

Hendry took the pick. It was a thin piece of iron, several inches long, and mostly straight, but for several obvious divets. One end had been worked into a helix spiral, and the other had been pounded thin—not quite enough to be dangerous.

“It’s lovely,” said Hendry. “Well done, lass.”

He palmed the top of her head. His hand disappeared into the mess of green.

Trick wondered what Sir Hendry planned to do with a girl’s hair pick, but something told him he should probably keep his mouth shut.

Their business finally concluded, the party left the smithy, and Ariadne shared her plans to teach Trick to shoot.

Trick watched Hendry anxiously for his reaction—he wouldn’t put it past the man to decide it was too dangerous, or Trick was too inexperienced, or any number of reasons to put a stop to the fun—but Hendry seemed to think it was a marvelous idea.

But first, said Ariadne, they should stop for lunch.

Trick’s shoulders sagged. “I’m not hungry,” he insisted.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than his stomach loosed a traitorous growl.

Hendry, however, understood his meaning. “We’ll be quick, lad,” he promised. “You’ll do better on a full stomach, eh?”

Trick sighed his assent.

They headed up the street toward the back gate, which Connor said was not far from a little pub. Trick trailed at the back of the group, swaying as he walked with thinly veiled restlessness.

An incredible aroma of spiced meat wafted past them, and Trick noticed a shop front with its counter piled high with golden pastries.

A moment later, they’d passed the shop, and Trick was slipping one of the treats into his satchel, pleased with himself.

About ten seconds after that, and he stopped in his tracks.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Trick fished it back out of his satchel. He stared at it blankly. It was a little golden-brown semicircle, crimped around the edges and pricked with a star-shaped vent. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand.

He hadn’t meant to take it. They’d just been walking past the counter, and the shopkeeper’s back had been turned, and it had smelled so good…

Trick wrinkled his nose at his own flimsy arguments. He doubted they’d be enough for Sir Hendry.

Sir Hendry…

Dreading what he would see, Trick slowly turned his gaze up to meet the group.

They had stopped a few paces ahead, and they were looking back at him, wondering at the holdup.

It didn’t matter that Sir Hendry’s expression was as unreadable as always. Trick could tell, by now.

He knew.

“I’m sorry,” Trick stammered, holding out the pastry. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t thinking, and…”

Beside Sir Hendry, Connor’s eyes went wide, and his expression turned grim. He looked between the two of them like he was about to witness a murder.

Hendry approached, and Trick’s legs went to jelly.

The old knight put a hand on Trick’s shoulder.

“That’s all right, lad,” he said gently. “Thank you for telling me. You remember our agreement?”

No stealing, Trick thought, feeling wretched.

But—wait. Hendry had amended the rule. As long as Trick told him what he’d done…

Trick turned wide eyes up at the man.

Sir Hendry gave a little nod, silently confirming that Trick, who could still feel the stinging traces the belt had left under his leggings, was not about to be torn up for a second time that day.

“Good lad,” said Hendry. “Let’s go give it back,” and Trick was overcome with relief.

He let Hendry guide him back to the little storefront. An elderly halfling woman was tending the small stone oven behind the counter.

“Excuse me,” said Sir Hendry.

Trick, feeling awkward, held out his treat.

The woman looked up in surprise, which quickly turned to annoyance. She had a few sharp words for Trick about twitchy youths with sticky fingers, and Trick’s ears burned as he stared at his boots.

But Sir Hendry, one large hand holding firm to the back of Trick’s bowed head, absorbed the woman’s diatribe. He apologized gallantly, assuring her Trick was very sorry and that he was working on getting his impulses under control.

“I can hardly take it back, now that he’s touched it,” sniffed the woman.

In response, Sir Hendry drew out the copper pieces to pay for the pasty—plus a silver coin for causing her grief. This finally seemed to satisfy the woman, who nevertheless gave Hendry her unsolicited advice about what she would do if she caught her own boy stealing.

With a final expression of gratitude for the woman’s patience, Hendry steered Trick back toward the group.

It didn’t feel good to be scolded by a stranger—but, Trick decided, it was far better than a spanking, and Trick was grateful for the way Sir Hendry had stood over him, shield-like, and handled the confrontation. Still, the woman didn’t need to have been quite so snippy.

When they were out of earshot, Trick mumbled, “Grumpy old hag.”

That did get him a cuff upside the head.

Connor was watching them as they met back up with the group. His eyes flicked between Trick and Hendry, perhaps waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Sir Hendry, true to his word, only gave Trick a final squeeze of his shoulder, and the party resumed their walk.

Connor hung back to talk to Trick and spoke casually, in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. “That was bold of you,” he said. “I have to imagine you’re still smarting. Or didn’t he whip you, after all?”

Trick’s cheeks went pink. He looked sideways at Connor, trying to decide if he was being mocked.

From Connor’s easy expression, it didn’t seem like it, so Trick mumbled, “No… he did.” He shrugged a shoulder. “He says as long as I give it back, I won’t get in trouble for stealing.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, but as he had just seen the evidence of this play out, he could hardly express his doubts. “That’s generous of him.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to,” said Trick. “It’s just a habit, I guess. I’m… I’m trying not to do it, so much.”

“Huh,” said Connor.

Trick thought of something. “Connor?”

“Yes?”

“He’s… he’s really…” Trick struggled to come up with the appropriate adjective. “It’s really hard to steal from him.”

Connor gave a little laugh. “Impossible,” he agreed. “I would say he had eyes in the back of his head, except that sometimes, he doesn’t even have to be in the same room to know what you’re up to.”

“Really?”

Trick thought of the coins he’d taken off of Sir Bernhardt at the Hall of Justice. It was right when they’d entered the temple. Sir Bernhardt had ushered the party forward, and Hendry had gone in first. Trick had lingered at the back of the line and swiped the coins when Bernhardt had turned to say something to one of the posted guards.

There was no way Hendry could have seen.

Trick looked expectantly up at Connor. “Do you know how he does it?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Connor. “To be honest, I’m not even sure he knows. He manages to turn up at just the right moment to spot you, every single time.” He shook his head. “It’s as if he can tell it’s about to happen.”

Trick frowned. “So… he can tell you’re about to do something bad?”

“He can tell you’re about to steal,” said Connor, holding up a finger. “I had a girlfriend when I was around your age, and sometimes—” He shot a quick glance up at Hendry, who was chatting animatedly with Milo.

Connor lowered his voice and continued. “Sometimes, I would sneak her up to my room to spend the night. This was definitely not allowed,” he clarified, at Trick’s searching look. “And it definitely happened multiple times. But the only time Dad caught us was the time we decided to sneak a bottle of firewhiskey up from the kitchens.” He cocked an eyebrow pointedly. “To steal a bottle of firewhiskey. Do you see? He was waiting for us on the stairs. Said he had a feeling he should check on me.”

“In the middle of the night?” said Trick. “He was asleep?”

“Not asleep,” said Connor. “But he was in his study, with the door closed, across the hall. And we were quiet.” After a thoughtful moment, Connor added, “Did you know, they say Tyr can always spot a thief in his midst?”

Trick didn’t.

“We used to say Dad was Tyr incarnate,” said Connor, his eyes sparkling. “Not to his face, of course, unless you wanted a lecture on blasphemy.”

“Aren’t you Tyrran?” said Trick.

“Not exactly,” said Connor, taking on a strange expression. “Not anymore. I was brought up to be, as you might guess. But after the Hall of Justice… after everything I saw done in the name of Tyr…” He shook his head.

“But you put up that shrine to Tyr,” said Trick. “Didn’t you? In your chapel.”

Connor gave him a sideways smile. “What makes you think that was me?”

Trick shrugged. “Just a guess. Seems like a weird choice for a thieves’ village.”

“We get all sorts, here,” said Connor. “But you’re right. I did. It’s… a bit complicated, I suppose.”

He didn’t offer more. Trick tried to wrap words around the questions he wanted to ask, but before he could do so, they’d reached the little pub, and his attention was diverted by what was, in all honesty, an extremely welcome lunch.

Trick ate quickly, not even bothering to complain at the pile of wilted greens Ariadne heaped in front of him. He was the first to finish, and then he sipped on his portion of thin barley beer, staring intensely at Ariadne’s gradually diminishing plate, fairly bouncing in his seat.

Errol watched him with amusement. “Oh, take him, already,” he said to Ariadne. “Before he shakes himself apart.”

With a look of affectionate exasperation, Ariadne got to her feet. “All right, you’ve been very patient,” she told Trick, who was already halfway out the door.

Milo and Errol got up to follow. Hendry gave them a wave. “You go on ahead,” he said. He nodded at Connor, who had also remained seated. “We’re going to stay for a bit.”

The adults seemed to register some kind of emotion at this. Whatever it was, it was beyond Trick, who was picturing himself back at the ravine, firing arrows down at the squad of oncoming gnolls.

And so, the four of them headed out, and Sir Hendry stayed behind, to have a drink with his son.

Chapter Text

“Rule number one,” said Jasper. “Never, ever point your bow at another person. I don’t care if the string is taut. I don’t even care if the arrow is nocked. You have a bow and arrow in your hands, and I see you point it at someone, you lose the bow. Indefinitely.”

Trick nodded vigorously.

They were out by the hunting shed. Jasper had picked out one of the loaner bows—a long one, nearly as tall as Trick himself—but he hadn’t let Trick set hands on it yet.

“Rule number two. You do not shoot unless your teacher says so.” He nodded at Ariadne. “That means you do not touch your bow unsupervised, you do not pick up an arrow unless you are instructed to do so, and you do not loose an arrow until you are told to fire.”

“Got it,” said Trick. “Can we—”

“Rule number three,” said Jasper. He didn’t raise his voice, exactly—it was more that the deep rumble intensified for a brief moment, encouraging Trick to silence. “You do exactly—exactly as your teacher says, exactly when she says it. That’s really rule number zero, since it should be a given. And it goes for either of us. That means: we tell you to freeze, you freeze. We say drop the bow, what do you do?”

“I drop the bow,” said Trick.

“Good,” said Jasper. “Why don’t you repeat those back to me?”

Trick squeezed his eyes shut to keep them from rolling in impatience. Instead, he said, “Don’t point it at anyone, only shoot when you tell me, do what you say. I got it.”

He reached out, but instead of giving him the bow, Jasper thrust a large finger forward. “This is a weapon,” he said, his expression dire. “It’s used to kill. Animals, monsters, people. In time, you will learn how to do that, but not until we’ve made damn sure you know how not to.”

Trick nodded.

“Are we absolutely clear on that front?”

“Yes,” said Trick. “Yes, sir.” He reached for the bow again.

Jasper held it out of his reach. He glanced at Ariadne, who nodded.

Finally, he handed Trick the bow.

It was nothing like the beautiful specimens in Jasper’s shop. This bow was weathered and dull. Flecks of red paint clung to the shaft at either end, but the center grip was worn to gray, and it was rough under Trick’s hand.

He tried not to let his disappointment show. Ariadne had said: he couldn’t have his own bow until he learned to shoot.

So, he’d just have to learn to shoot.

Jasper let Ariadne take over instruction, observing with arms folded as she guided Trick up to a line in the dirt, ten paces from the makeshift target. It seemed a paltry distance to Trick, who had watched Ariadne and Errol take out the attacking gnolls from at least three times this range.

He was determined not to complain, though.

Ariadne showed him how to place his feet relative to the target. She adjusted his grip on the bow.

“No arrow, yet,” she said.

Trick bit his lip.

“Extend your left arm toward the target,” said Ariadne. “Pull back the string, but don’t release. All the way back to your ear. That’s it.”

It was harder than Trick expected to pull back on the string. He felt the tension through his arms and across his chest, in muscles he wasn’t used to using.

Ariadne made him repeat the motion several times, pulling back the string and then returning it to rest, making small adjustments to his form.

Once he had the motion down, she pulled three arrows from her quiver and set them at his feet.

Trick bent to retrieve them.

“Stop.”

He froze and looked up at her.

“Did I say to touch those?”

“…No.”

At her meaningful look, Trick straightened back up.

“You don’t touch an arrow until I say,” she reminded him, and Jasper, behind her, inclined his head. “Right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Behind him, Trick heard a snort of laughter. He looked back with a glare.

Errol and Milo were sitting in the grass, Milo with his spellbook open in his lap, Errol reclining languidly and watching Trick with a playful expression.

Errol raised his eyebrows at Trick. He mouthed the words, Yes, ma’am.

Trick stuck out his tongue.

Ariadne snapped her fingers to get his attention, and Trick turned back with a huff.

Ariadne drew an arrow from her quiver. She showed Trick the tiny notch in the butt of the arrow, and she slotted this onto the string of her bow. “See how the feathers are placed?” she said. She pointed out the three feathers: two white, one brown. “The odd color faces out—to the right.” She rotated the arrow. “So the other feathers won’t hit the bow shaft as the arrow flies forward. See?”

Ariadne pulled back the arrow, pausing to let Trick study her posture. “When you let go,” she said, “simply release your fingers. Move nothing else.”

She demonstrated.

The arrow whizzed through the air, striking the target just off-center.

“All right,” said Ariadne. “Pick up an arrow.”

Trick felt a thrill roll through his body. He picked up one of the arrows at his feet.

“Nock it to your bow.”

He did so, aligning the feathers carefully, setting the string into the notch, and resting the shaft of the arrow on the forefinger of his bow hand, as Ariadne had shown him.

“Take aim,” she said. “Pull back to your ear, remember, and look down the arrow at your target.”

Trick did his best.

“Hold.”

He obeyed, and Ariadne came up behind him to make some adjustments. She pulled on his drawing arm and pressed against his back, forcing him more upright and opening his chest. The bowstring stretched even farther.

“There you are,” said Ariadne. “Take aim, and… fire.”

At her command, Trick released.

The feathers whipped past his cheek. The string snapped against his left wrist.

The arrow flew.

It struck the target. That is, it hit the burlap sack bearing the red-painted bullseye, but instead of sticking in, as Trick had expected, the arrow bounced off and landed in the dirt.

“Good!” said Jasper, in contrast to how Trick felt.

Ariadne said, “Your aim was good, but you moved your arm when you released. Stand up straight and steady, like an oak tree.” She demonstrated with her own bow.

Trick waited for her instruction before picking up the next arrow, nocking it, and pulling back the string. Now that she’d pointed it out, he could see his arm wobbling as he stared down it at the target.

He clenched his jaw and strained to hold still, but it only seemed to make things worse.

“Fire.”

This time, the arrow missed the target completely.

Trick gave a snort of frustration.

“You were too tense, that time,” said Ariadne. “Don’t forget to breathe. Try taking a deep breath in and releasing on your exhale.”

Trick did as he was told. This time, he took a series of slow, careful breaths as he held the string taut.

“Breathe in,” said Ariadne. “Now breathe out… and fire.”

Again, the arrow missed its mark—but this time, it sailed beneath the burlap sack that was the target and struck the age-worn fencepost behind it with a thunk.

Trick glowered at it, but Ariadne said, “That’s it, Trick!” looking genuinely pleased. “Your aim was off—you dropped your shoulders. Remember to stand up straight. But it flew true, see?”

Indeed, the arrow had stuck in the fencepost. Trick felt a glimmer of hope.

“Collect your arrows, and let’s try again.”

After an hour’s practice, the skin on Trick’s wrist was stinging and pink where the bow string flicked against it. His shoulders ached, and the fingers on his right hand were starting to cramp.

But by the time Connor and Sir Hendry joined them, Trick was hitting the target consistently, with only the occasional wobbly arrow veering astray.

“Good,” said Ariadne when Trick managed to stick two in a row into the outer ring of the painted target. “Very good. You’re a quick learner!”

Trick beamed. “Does that mean you’ll buy me a bow?”

Her smile wavered. “Oh… Trick, not until you’ve had a lot more practice.”

“Okay, then, let’s keep going.” Trick ran to collect his arrows.

Ariadne shook her head. “That’s enough for today. We have a big job to do tomorrow, remember? I don’t want to tire you out.”

“I’m not tired!” said Trick.

Ariadne folded her arms.

Jasper came up behind her. “You caught on quick, little buddy,” he said. “Practice a little bit every day, and you’ll be a sharpshooter in no time.”

Every day? How long was this going to take?

Trick scuffed at the ground with his boot. He didn’t say anything, and the matter was closed.

Reluctantly, Trick handed the bow back to Jasper. It might have been scuffed and creaky and a little unwieldy, but in the short practice session, Trick had just started to get used to it. He’d made it work.

And now, before they’d barely begun, he had to give it back.

He watched with dismay as Jasper, bow in hand, disappeared inside the hunting shed.

The sun hung low and golden in the late-afternoon sky. In an hour, it would be twilight. Jasper needed to recruit a hunting party, and the rest of them needed to check in with Aryn about accommodations for the night.

They made their way back down the glen. Connor and Sir Hendry led the way, chatting amiably. Hadn’t they just spent an entire hour alone together? What more was there to talk about?

And Jasper had noticed Ariadne’s bow, which was apparently made from a kind of wood you could only get in a certain part of the forest, and which Ariadne and her mother had journeyed for weeks to harvest when Ariadne had only been a small girl, and… Trick stopped paying attention, but Jasper remained rapt.

Trick hung at the back of the group, feeling neglected. He thought back to the bow at Jasper’s shop. The big man would be out hunting for the next couple of hours. Trick could easily—

No, he remembered. He’d been down this path, already.

But if Trick wasn’t allowed to steal something, and nobody would buy it for him, how in the world was he supposed to get it?

Milo, perhaps sensing Trick’s dejection, smiled up at him. “You were looking good back there,” he said. “Ariadne seems like a good teacher.”

“Tch,” said Trick, kicking at a dandelion head. “I guess I’m still not good enough for my own bow. So I guess she’s not that good a teacher.”

Trick felt a hand brush the side of his head. Then two slender fingers pinched his ear, tightly enough to hurt, and wrenched it upward in a sharp twist.

“I think what you meant to say,” said Errol in a silky voice, as Trick hitched up a shoulder and hissed in pain, “was: Why, yes, Milo, she’s an amazing teacher, and how magnanimous of her, to take an hour out of her day to teach a wretched ingrate like myself to shoot a bow, for which generous gift I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to properly thank her, which I fully intend to do at a later point this evening, unless I would like—”

“Okay! Okay!”

After another teasing moment, Errol let him go, and Trick gasped in relief. He rubbed at his ear, glowering up at the half-elf.

Errol gave him a thin-lipped smile, tossed back his auburn braid, and then strode ahead, to insert himself between Ariadne and Jasper and thread a lanky arm around her waist.

Milo patted Trick’s elbow. Trick steeled himself for some unwelcome words of wisdom—but Milo seemed to understand his mood, and only gave him a sympathetic little shrug.

When they got back to town, Jasper went off to make arrangements for the evening hunt.

“If you need an extra person, I’d be happy to join,” said Ariadne.

Jasper was delighted. He’d been doing his best to teach his motley squad of would-be hunters, but none of them had any prior experience, and the going had been slow. “It’ll be good to have an expert along,” he told Ariadne with a grin.

Errol narrowed his eyes. “I’ll come, too,” he said, in a tone that Trick thought was rather brusque, even for him.

They parted ways, the non-hunters veering toward Connor’s apartment, where Aryn had promised to meet them.

“TINY THIEF.”

Trick stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly, his instincts registering recognition before his brain had fully caught up.

When he saw who it was, the color left his face.

From down the street, pedestrians leaping out of his way, a gray-skinned behemoth of a man was storming toward them.

Ugmar.

Trick’s mind went blank. Somewhere in the back of his brain, a distant voice was shouting at him to run, but he couldn’t get the message to his legs, which felt thick and leaden and refused to move.

And then, Sir Hendry appeared beside him.

He threw out a protective arm. Trick managed to duck back, letting the arm shield him.

Hendry’s other hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Ugmar looked different in the daylight, Trick realized. For one thing, it was easier to make out certain details—like the white scars that peppered his face and stood out sharply against his tattooed skin. Or the fact that every inch of him was stone-carved muscle. Or that when he ran, the pebbles shook on the cobbled ground.

Trick cowered behind Sir Hendry. Ugmar was almost upon them.

The old knight squared his stance.

“Ugmar!”

It was Connor, racing forward. He dove between the would-be combatants, one placating hand raised toward each of them.

Ugmar, to everyone’s surprise, slowed to a stop.

“Ugmar, my friend,” said Connor, tossing a wide-eyed look back at Sir Hendry.

Hendry seemed to read something into the expression that Trick didn’t comprehend. Hendry stilled, but he didn’t drop his guard.

Connor turned a careful smile back to Ugmar. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Ugmar folded his arms. “I want to talk to tiny thief.”

Connor nodded slowly. “We talk with our words, Ugmar, yes?”

“Yes.”

Connor looked back at Trick, who was watching the scene from over Hendry’s outstretched arm.

“Trick,” said Connor. “Ugmar would like to speak with you.”

Trick looked up at Ugmar. The man’s hulking figure blotted out the sun, which was just starting to consider beginning its descent beneath the village walls.

Trick met Sir Hendry’s eye. Hendry still looked wary, but he gave a little nod.

He lowered his arm, and Trick stepped forward. Hendry put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Ugmar pointed at Trick. “I should not punch tiny thief,” he announced. His voice reverberated off the surrounding buildings.

Trick blinked.

“Um… what?”

“I do not have much money before I come here,” said Ugmar. “Connor gives me job. Gives me money. Connor promises: no one steals money from Ugmar. Then tiny thief comes along, steals money from Ugmar. So I get mad.”

Trick didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“I do not realize tiny thief is a baby,” added Ugmar. “Think tiny thief is only very small man.” He shrugged. “Everyone here smaller than Ugmar. Hard to tell who is baby and who is only very small man. I tell apprentice: be careful who he is punching.”

That gave Trick pause. Apprentice? Did that mean…?

Ugmar turned suddenly, and Trick noticed a dwarf standing behind him, his hair and beard braided neatly, watching Ugmar with a beatific expression.

“Look, apprentice,” said Ugmar. “Master Ugmar show you how to apologize.”

The dwarf smiled broadly and clapped his hands. “Well done, Master!” he said. “Truly impressive!”

“Heh. Apprentice is new to Briardale, so I am teaching him ways.” Ugmar pointed back at Trick. “You’re welcome, tiny thief.”

“Um,” said Trick. “Thank you?”

Apparently satisfied with the interaction, Ugmar turned to go. “Now, Master Ugmar show apprentice where to buy best meat for dinner.”

With Ugmar’s back turned, Connor sent the apprentice a little thumbs-up. The dwarf returned it with a wink, then turned to hurry after his master.

“Master,” Trick heard him say. “I’ve heard that you can haggle with the shopkeepers, but you’re not allowed to use your fists. Can you show me what that’s like?”

“Oh! Ugmar show you best haggling strategy.”

“Without fists, right?”

“Oh… Ugmar show you second-best haggling strategy.”

Trick watched them go, not entirely sure what had just happened, but glad it had somehow resolved peacefully.

There was a little click as Hendry, who had been holding his sword partially unsheathed, slid it back into its scabbard.

Connor was rubbing his head with a sheepish expression. “We haven’t known quite what to do with Ugmar,” he said. “He wasn’t keen on the idea of being someone else’s apprentice… and anyway, we were strapped for volunteers. Nolan arrived a few weeks ago. This arrangement was his idea, bless the man.”

“Ugmar said you gave him a job,” said Trick. “What does he do?”

Connor arranged his face very carefully. “He’s our librarian,” he said. “We don’t have many books, but they’re always returned on time.”

Back at Connor’s apartment, they met Aryn, who had secured two more of the little dormitory rooms for the party to share. There would only be one bed in each, but Sir Hendry waved aside Aryn’s apologies.

“We have bedrolls,” said Hendry. “It will be more comfort than we’re accustomed to simply having a roof over our heads.”

Trick didn’t know if he agreed with that sentiment—he wouldn’t mind sleeping in a bed, after the nights spent in the forest (and one in a prison cell). Perhaps he could convince his roommates to let him have the solitary bed.

The hunting party returned with a plentiful haul, which was distributed to the various taverns in town.

Dinner was at Connor’s local pub, again. They were joined by Aryn and Liselle, who spent the first twenty minutes dutifully talking business—and then Jasper and Holly joined, and the evening devolved into animated reminiscing and raucous laughter.

The five of them were all around the same age and had grown up as friends in Neverwinter. Trick was plenty entertained by their easy conversation, which was made of half-told stories, inside jokes, and good-natured ribbing.

From the sound of it, and from the way Hendry alternated between gazing fondly at his son and rubbing wearily at his temples, Connor’s childhood had been lively—riddled with misadventures, but comfortable, and generally happy.

He’d grown up in the Bluelake District. The Pelmore house was on the north side—in one of the more “modest” neighborhoods, according to Connor, but it still had two stories and a little garden in the back. Many of Connor’s tales involved clambering over the tiled wall in the dead of night and shimmying up the hickory tree to creep in through his bedroom window.

Some of these stories ended with Connor coming face-to-face with his father, at various degrees south of amused. These were the stories Hendry was familiar with.

Many more, however, Hendry was hearing for the first time. He listened with mingled amusement and chagrin, occasionally shaking his head and marveling aloud that either he or his son had survived the past twenty years.

Once they’d eaten their fill of grilled venison and wild ferns and Sir Hendry had firmly refused yet another round of beer, they left the tavern, said good-bye to Connor’s friends, and headed for their respective sleeping accommodations.

Connor invited his father up to his room for coffee and another game of cards.

Trick perked up, but before he could invite himself along, Milo took him gently by the elbow.

“You go ahead,” said Milo. “Trick and I will head back to the room.”

Sir Hendry looked hesitant, but at prodding from Milo and Connor, he acquiesced, climbing the narrow stair after his son, while Milo steered Trick back toward their own room.

As Aryn had mentioned, there was only one bed—a real one, at least, that stood on the floor, as opposed to Connor’s simple hammock.

Trick made for it, but again, Milo stopped him.

“Why don’t we let Sir Hen take the bed, hm?”

Trick turned down the corners of his mouth. “Why?”

Milo was laying out his own bedroll in the far corner. “He’s not so young, anymore, you know,” he said. “And he forgets to look out for himself.” He raised an eyebrow at Trick. “Do you think perhaps you could spare him just a bit of comfort, after what he’s shown you?”

Trick thought about the comfort Sir Hendry had shown him. The signs of the belt had all but faded—there was one niggling spot on the left side where it had bitten especially sharply. As Trick considered it, it flared up in angry protest.

“No,” Trick said flatly.

Milo chuckled. “Even so,” he said, and that was that.

Even curled up in the less-than-ideal bedroll, Trick had barely settled in before he was fast asleep.

He didn’t hear Hendry come in, but he must have, because he was there in the morning, the first one awake, as usual, turning up the sheets on the bed before he dressed himself and went out to pray at the chapel.

The muscles in Trick’s back and arms were speaking to him—not loudly enough to be a nuisance, and he realized he was grateful Ariadne had cut off their lesson when she did.

As everyone completed their various morning rituals, they gathered in front of Connor’s. There was no plan for a formal breakfast. They’d eat once they started off.

They were still waiting for Errol, who’d had some sort of errand to run. Ariadne had given him a funny look—it was early morning, and none of the shops would be open yet—but he’d dodged her questions, promising to be quick.

Someone came hurrying up the street. Trick recognized the apprentice girl from the Rosebush—Bree, her name was, with the mousy hair and the scar on her cheek.

With eyes downcast, she held out a small basket to Sir Hendry. “Made you these,” she said. Her voice was soft as a whisper and raspy with disuse. “Good luck.”

They divvied up the treats—hearty biscuits stuffed with braised venison—and Bree scuttled away again, blushing furiously, with the empty basket.

“She’s getting good,” Connor remarked, after a bite of his biscuit. “Maeve has been wonderful with her.”

Errol, as promised, had been quick, returning almost as soon as Bree had gone.

“All right,” he said as he approached. “Trick, I have something for you.”

Trick turned a suspicious look on him.

Errol held it out.

It was the bow.

The beautiful, shiny, dark wood bow from Jasper’s shop. Trick’s breath caught in his chest.

“I had Jasper string it last night,” said Errol. “It’ll be better for you than that rusty thing from yesterday.”

Trick started to reach out a hand.

Behind him, Ariadne said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Trick flinched. He looked back at her, but her attention was on Errol. She was glaring at him, hands on her hips.

Errol shrugged. “He should have a bow his own size to practice with.”

“He should learn the basics before he gets a bow at all,” said Ariadne. “And it will be easier for him to learn on a longer bow.”

“He’ll need a shortbow, eventually, quick as he is,” Errol protested. “Why not just give him the equipment he needs?”

“Because he doesn’t know what he’s doing, yet! Honestly, Errol, I don’t believe you!”

Trick gazed at the bow. “Please, Ariadne?” he said. “I’ll be careful!”

Ariadne pursed her lips. She sent a look at Sir Hendry. “What do you think about all this?”

The old knight had his brow furrowed. “Well,” he said slowly. “As long as he’s careful with it, and does as you say…”

“I will!” cried Trick. “I promise!”

Ariadne was silent for a moment. Then she took the bow from Errol and held it out to Trick.

He reached for it, but she pulled back, with a sharp, “Listen to me.” She drew a breath through her nose. “This is my bow,” she said. “If you would like to use it, you may ask my permission, and I may allow you to borrow it. You will not use it unsupervised, and you will do exactly as I say at all times, or you will not be entrusted with it again. Do I make myself very clear?”

Trick nodded. “Maybe I can… carry it, for you?” Before she could retort, he added quickly, “You already have so much to carry, and anyway, I don’t have any arrows. I can’t shoot it. I’ll just carry it.”

Ariadne closed her eyes.

“Fine,” she said. She pointed a sudden finger at Errol, who put his hands up defensively. “You and I are going to have a talk about this,” she said.

And she handed Trick the bow.

He took it in his hands, hardly able to believe it. It was as shiny and perfect as it had been in the shop—more perfect, now that it was strung and looked like a proper bow. It was smaller than the bow he’d tried out yesterday. Ariadne seemed to think that would make it harder to learn on.

Trick decided he would prove her wrong.

Connor walked them out through the back gate and up through the glen, past the hunting cabin, to where a dirt path picked up.

“This will take you out of the valley,” he said. “It’s a bit winding, so make sure you get your bearings once you’re up top.”

They said their good-byes. Milo took Connor’s hand in both of his and gave it an affectionate pat.

Connor turned to Trick and stuck out a hand. Tentatively, Trick took it, and Connor gave it a firm shake. “Take care of the old man for me,” he said with a wink. “And try to stay out of trouble, eh?”

Trick gave a little smile. “Yeah.”

Connor ruffled his hair.

He turned to Sir Hendry.

“Good luck,” he said. “Will we… see you again?”

Sir Hendry gave one of his rare smiles—subdued and close-lipped, but a smile, nonetheless. “Of course you will,” he said. “As soon as we can manage.”

Connor nodded quickly. His eyes were shining.

His father palmed the side of his head, then pulled him into a tight embrace.

“You’re building something, here,” said Hendry as they parted again. “I’m looking forward to seeing what it becomes. Keep at it.”

Connor grinned. “Yes, sir.”

Hendry gave one last, lingering clasp of Connor’s hand. Then he let him go, and the party headed up the narrow path, into Neverwinter Wood once more.

Chapter Text

Ariadne led the party, as usual.

She skipped nimbly through the undergrowth while the rest of them picked their way along some twenty paces behind.

Trick had shrugged into his armor without being told, this time. Ariadne, noticing his discomfort, had sympathized.

“The leather will be stiff, at first,” she’d told him, “but it will break in as you wear it.”

Now, trudging along at the back of the party, Trick rolled his shoulders experimentally. He had to admit he had a much better range of motion than the armor had afforded him for the first couple of days. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to wear it—for a little while at a time, anyway.

Trick couldn’t stop admiring his new bow. It was a shortbow—better for him in the long run, Errol had explained, because it would be easier to maneuver in tight spaces, and it would be quicker to fire. The tradeoff was that it would be less stable and, therefore, a little more difficult to aim, but Trick wasn’t worried about that. He just needed plenty of practice.

His bow-wielding privileges had come with a litany of rules from Ariadne, which Trick had dutifully yes, ma’amed his way through. Most of them had been covered by Jasper the day before, but Ariadne had thrown in a few more, like how Trick should never fire the bow without an arrow nocked, and how he should use the arrows Jasper had thrown in specially for him rather than borrow from her or Errol, because they’d “fly better.”

As they tramped along, Trick fingered the string of his bow. He’d been hoping to get in another lesson this morning, but the others were anxious to get to the temple and see what they could find. Now that they’d left Briardale, the urgency of their situation had set back in. They needed to find these Icons, if they could, and they really couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

There was always going to be something more important at hand. When was Trick supposed to find time to practice?

He looked up into the boughs of one of the giant trees of the forest. He paused at the back of the group and raised his bow arm, sighting along it at what looked like the nest of some enormous bird.

Trick pulled back on the string. He enjoyed the tension through his back as he did so. He could feel the power as the bow flexed, trembling to be set loose.

Something engulfed him from behind. Before Trick could react, a pair of strong hands had closed over his own, holding the string of the bow taut.

“Don’t do that,” said Sir Hendry.

He guided Trick’s hands back together, bringing the bow back to rest.

Trick turned a wounded look up at the old knight. “I was just practicing,” he said.

“You don’t practice without an arrow,” said Hendry. “Didn’t Ariadne tell you that?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“It’s dangerous. And it’s bad for the bow.”

Trick frowned. Ariadne had said that, too. “I don’t see what’s so bad about it.”

“The bow can shatter,” said Hendry. “And you don’t want to be holding it when it does. I’m sure Milo would be delighted to explain the physics, if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks.”

“Then do as you’re told. If it happens again, you will lose the bow.” Hendry raised a hand and twitched it meaningfully. “And you’ll get a little reminder about following directions. Are we very clear on this?”

Trick hunched his shoulders. “Yes, sir, we’re clear.”

Sir Hendry looked him up and down. Trick squirmed under his gaze.

“This was a generous gift,” said Hendry. “And you were generously allowed to keep it. I should treat it with more respect, if I were you.”

“I will.”

Sir Hendry fell in beside him as they resumed their walk.

Trick watched him out of the corner of his eye. Part of him felt grumpy that the old knight insisted on watching him so closely. Trick opened his mouth to remind him he didn’t need a babysitter.

He closed it again.

An odd feeling had come over him. In the blink of an eye, he’d gone from wanting to shoo the old knight away from his side to… not wanting that, at all.

When Trick opened his mouth again, he said, “I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t know how to shoot.”

Hendry gave a non-committal hum. “I don’t think Milo ever picked it up,” he said. “And—you do know how to shoot now, don’t you? Wasn’t that the purpose of yesterday’s lesson?”

That wasn’t what Trick had meant, and Hendry knew it. “Well, I’m not any good at it,” Trick said stoutly.

“Ah,” said Sir Hendry. “That is a different question, entirely.”

He didn’t elaborate. Trick wished he would. He couldn’t explain it, but he wanted to keep talking.

After a moment, Trick said, “How did you learn?”

“To shoot?” said Hendry. “I trained with quite a few weapons in preparation for the knighthood. I can manage a bow—though I’m not as deft as Ariadne. Or as you’ll be, I’d wager, once you’ve had a bit of practice.”

Trick felt his cheeks color. The thought of being better than Sir Hendry at something gave him a moment’s heady elation.

He quickly felt embarrassed by the little surge of pride. He affected a sullen tone. “Yeah, well, we’re too busy for me to practice,” he said. “So I guess I’m never gonna get much better.”

“An hour of experience under your belt, and already despairing,” said Hendry. He sounded amused. “How did you learn to pick pockets?”

Trick blinked. He looked up warily, suspecting a trap, but Hendry’s expression was neutral as always.

“I don’t know,” said Trick.

“No? Always been a master thief, have you?”

“Well—no, obviously.”

“You had to work at it, then?” said Hendry. “The more you kept at it, the better you got?”

Trick pursed his lips. It had been a trap.

“It’s not like I did it for fun,” he muttered. “If I wasn’t good at it, I’d get caught, or I’d go hungry. Usually both. So I got good.”

“I see,” said Sir Hendry. “Did you have a teacher?”

“No.” Trick had changed his mind. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

After a pause, Hendry said, “I’m sorry. It must be painful for you to talk about.”

“It’s not painful,” Trick grumbled.

Hendry gave a little hum. He dropped the subject.

They were approaching a little clearing. Ariadne stopped at its edge and let the rest of them catch up.

The center of the clearing rose up in a broad, shallow mound of earth. A set of gleaming black steps led up to a pile of moss-covered rubble at the top.

Trick wouldn’t have thought to call this a temple. He’d been expecting something grand and foreboding, like the Hall of Justice. Even the lesser temples in Neverwinter had a sort of regal quality to them—marble columns, decorated porticos, that sort of thing.

Trick looked around uncertainly. The grim looks on his companions’ faces answered his unasked question.

This was the place.

Sir Hendry took Trick by the shoulder. “You remember what I told you, lad?” he said. “Stay close. No wandering off.”

“I know,” said Trick. He would have bristled at the reminder, but something dark and cold had settled over the party, and at the moment, Trick found himself feeling distinctly glad for Hendry’s watchful eye.

“Stay alert,” said Hendry. “We don’t know what we’re going to find here. There could be traps. We could be attacked. If one of us gives you an order, you’ll do as you’re told, at once.” He squeezed Trick’s shoulder. “You understand, Trick?”

“Yes, sir,” said Trick. He could feel his heart pounding.

“Whatever it is we’re looking for,” Hendry added, “we missed it, last time. So we’ll be counting on those carefully-honed skills of yours.” He winked.

The thought of being useful, for once, did make Trick feel a bit better, despite the old knight’s teasing. He drew a steadying breath and gave a stiff nod.

The party took a moment to change from their travel array. Trick packed away his cloak, and Ariadne helped adjust his leather armor.

“It’s much quieter, this time around,” said Ariadne. “Last time, there were cultists coming in and out—we cut down a number of them, and the ones that fled seem to have gotten the message to stay away.”

Coming in and out of what, Trick wondered. There was no building that he could see—just those stone steps leading up to the top of the grassy knoll.

“Here,” said Ariadne.

She pulled something out of a pouch. It was the dried stalk of a plant, no longer than Trick’s thumb, brown and gnarled.

As Ariadne held it between her fingers, Trick felt the air move, and the twig began to unfurl. It grew before Trick’s eyes, softening as it went, until it was long and green and dewy with life.

Tiny buds began to pop up. In a few breaths, the dead little stick had become a sprig of something sturdy and vibrant, covered in minuscule flowers like tiny purple teacups.

Ariadne tucked the sprig into Trick’s armor. “Heather,” she said. “For protection.”

The cluster of purple poked out over the top of his breastplate. Trick looked down at it. “A spell?” he said.

“Not exactly,” said Ariadne. “Just a little bit of luck.” She smiled. “Magic of a kind, maybe.”

Trick couldn’t help but wonder how much use a little flower would be if they ran up against real danger, but he only said, “Thanks.”

Milo, meanwhile, was worried about the idol in Trick’s satchel—the Thief, it was called, according to Aloysius. Milo had voiced his concern at least a dozen times since they’d left Neverwinter, and he voiced it again, now.

“You’re sure it’s gone?” said Milo. “That fragment of Cyric? You’re absolutely positive?”

“Yes,” said Trick. “For the hundredth time, he’s not there. I would know if he was.”

Trick couldn’t explain how he knew—just that he’d been absolutely certain, from the moment Lady Lariel had destroyed the phylactery and that ominous misty black presence, that Cyric had gone with it.

“And if we do find this Icon…” Mile gazed up at Trick, blue eyes wide. “You’ll know if it’s carrying another fragment?”

Trick groaned in frustration. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think so. Can’t you do your arcane whatever and find out?” He waggled his fingers.

Milo, far from taking offense at the crude facsimile of spellcasting, gave a solemn shake of his head. “If it’s anything like the Thief, it will be replete with abjurations and ancient divine magic,” he said. “I should be able to guess whether it’s the Icon we’re looking for. But sensing anything further is likely beyond me.”

“Which is why we’ll need to be especially cautious,” said Sir Hendry. “Trick understands how important it is to tell us if he notices Cyric’s presence once we have the Icon.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even directed at Trick. Sir Hendry said it as though it were fact, and the rest of the party nodded their affirmation.

Yes. Trick understood. And he was well prepared to yell bloody murder if anything so much as smelled like Cyric. He had no intention of letting that insidious voice into his head ever again.

Errol plucked at his lute. A chord of impatience. “We’re as ready as we’re going to be,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Sir Hendry led the way up the stone steps—slabs of onyx pressed into the earth. They were worn smooth and shiny, where generations of boots had tread, and they had begun to droop and slope with the incline. Trick thought they would have been just as well off hiking up the mounded earth, itself.

At the top, Trick examined the ruins up close. It looked like this had been a structure at one point. The stone floor remained, mostly intact, as well as a few chunks of masonry that suggested there had once been walls.

In the center of the floor was an open hole plunging down into darkness. Trick peered inside, puzzled.

Errol, beside him, said, “A stairwell. Or, it was, before the temple was destroyed.” He gestured at the surrounding rubble.

Apparently, the floor they stood on used to be an antechamber of sorts, with a spiral staircase descending into the rest of the temple. Ages ago, every known temple to Cyric had been destroyed, including this one.

“They demolished the antechamber and caved in the stairs,” said Errol. “That should have been plenty to deter any would-be pilgrims. But when we got here, we found the stairwell had been cleared out. Someone must have been very determined.”

Trick eyed the torso-sized boulders pushed to one side, notably free of moss, suggesting they’d been placed there relatively recently. “And very strong,” he said.

With the stairs gone, they would need to rappel down into the temple. Errol and Ariadne set to fixing a rope around one of the massive stones, and Trick cast about for something to grab his interest.

Amid the ruins was a low plinth, cracked and green with age, that looked like it might once have supported some kind of statue.

At its base, the overgrown floor was heaped with a small collection: there were coins, mostly gold—but there were weapons thrown in, as well. Knives in particular, of all varieties.

The Thief, the Coin, and the Dagger.

Trick bent to study the treasures. He reached out toward a stiletto with a ruby-crusted hilt.

A heavy hand caught his arm.

“Let’s leave these,” said Sir Hendry, crouching beside him. “It looks like they were left in offering.”

Trick turned an incredulous look up at the man. “In offering to Cyric,” he said.

“All the more reason to leave it be,” said Hendry. “Stealing from a god of thieves seems a tad imprudent, wouldn’t you say?”

“Imprudent?”

“A bad idea.”

Trick’s gaze roved across the little mountains of precious items. “Maybe you’re supposed to take something,” he said. “Because it is a god of thieves. So maybe he’d like for us to take whatever we want.”

“In that case, I would prefer not to do what Cyric would like us to do,” said Hendry. “Trick, what did we say about following orders?”

Trick made a face. “You didn’t order me to—”

“Leave it,” said Sir Hendry. “That’s an order.”

Trick groaned, but he got to his feet. With one last longing look at the elegant stiletto, he let Sir Hendry corral him toward the ruined stair.

The half-elves had finished their task. With one end of the rope secured, Errol dropped the other end down into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Milo had found a pebble in the rubble. He took a bit of faintly glowing plant matter from his component pouch, muttered an incantation, and rubbed a phosphorescent smudge across the pebble.

It surged with a sudden bright yellow light. Trick put up a hand to shield his eyes.

Milo tossed the little stone down the hole. It plinked off of the wall and clattered to a stop at the bottom some distance below.

It wasn’t as deep as Trick had initially thought—the morning sun just wasn’t high enough in the sky for its rays to reach more than a few feet down. Now, though, the walls of the stairwell were clearly illuminated. Trick could see the pale marks left behind by the stairs that had once spiraled their way down the walls.

Sir Hendry gave the rope an experimental tug. With the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before, he took hold of the rope, swung himself out over the ledge, and began to ease his way down.

Trick watched him as he went, the light of the stone below flickering up around the old knight’s silhouette.

When he reached the bottom, Hendry disappeared for a moment.

Then his voice echoed up through the stairwell: “All clear.”

The rest of them followed.

Milo went last. He watched them from the top, a spell at the ready in case anyone should lose their grip, before shimmying down the rope, himself.

They were standing at one end of a corridor. It sloped gently downward and extended out beyond the radius of the magic light.

It had been cool up top, under the heavy canopy of Neverwinter Wood—but it felt colder down here. It wasn’t damp, exactly, but somehow, it felt a bit like getting caught in the rain, or trudging through slushy winter streets.

And the smell…

It wasn’t strong, but it was pervasive. Ash. Mildew. Something tangy and metallic.

Trick rubbed his arms. His daydreams of looting chests and uncovering buried treasures vanished, extinguished by the ensuing dark of the corridor. All he wanted was to find what they came for and get out as quickly as they could.

Sir Hendry knelt to retrieve the radiant pebble. He held it out to Trick. “You take this,” he said. “Milo can only use that spell on one object at a time. I’ll carry a torch.”

Obediently, Trick reached out, but then he stopped himself.

“I don’t need it,” he said. He raised his hand. “Glow bright.”

His trusty ring sprang to life. Its glow didn’t reach as far as the enchanted light from the stone, but it was plenty for him to see by, and Trick gave a satisfied smirk at the awed reactions of his companions.

“That’s a nice trick,” said Errol. His lips tightened into a thin smile. “Must come in handy while you’re skulking around inside other people’s tents.”

Trick lifted his chin. “It does, in fact,” he said. He waggled the fingers on both hands. “Lets me keep my hands free, so I don’t have to bother with a torch.”

Errol held up his own long-fingered hands in imitation. “Neither do I,” he said silkily. He tapped his temple, and Trick noticed his golden eyes were glowing just faintly in the low light. “Elf eyes,” Errol said smugly.

Trick noticed Ariadne wasn’t carrying her own light source, either. Nor was Milo, for that matter. All three of them had that same faint glow to their eyes, and they appeared to navigate through the dim light as easily as if it were day.

Sir Hendry nudged Trick with an elbow.

“A disadvantage of being human, I’m afraid,” he said, waving the little pebble that was his own light source. “But there are other things we’re good at, eh?”

Trick wasn’t sure about that. The ability to see in the dark sounded pretty damn cool to him.

The others had been down here before, of course: not a ten-day ago, to retrieve the phylactery, just before Trick had come upon them in the woods.

Now, creeping through the dark tunnels with their jet-black walls and their distant, upsetting odor, they forged confidently ahead, and Trick was glad to glue himself to Sir Hendry’s side and simply go where he was bidden.

The corridor ended at an intersection. Sir Hendry put out an arm, stopping Trick before he could plow forward.

Trick looked up at him. “What?”

The others were surveying the floor ahead with trepidation.

“It’s trapped,” said Sir Hendry.

He aimed his light up at the ceiling of the intersection. Trick could see the glint of something—several somethings. They seemed to be metallic. And sharp.

“The floor is loose,” said Hendry. “Stepping on it will trigger the trap. Luckily, Ariadne spotted it, last time, and we were able to get past it.”

Trick frowned. “If it’s trapped, how were the cultists getting in and out?”

“I imagine they would have disabled it,” said Hendry. “There may be some kind of hidden device—”

“Like this?”

Trick’s fingers had found a raised edge on the wall of the corridor. It was about elbow-height. Easy to find, even if you were feeling in the dark, as long as you knew what you were looking for.

At the gentle pressure from Trick’s fingertips, a slab of stone slid aside, revealing an alcove with a wooden lever inside.

Trick took hold of it. He pulled.

Hendry started. “Wait, Trick—!”

There was a heavy clunk, from somewhere within the walls.

Then silence.

The party waited a tense moment.

When nothing happened, Ariadne slung her pack off of her shoulder. She tossed it ahead onto the floor of the intersection.

Trick heard the click of the pressure plate as the bag landed. He peered anxiously up at the steel trap overhead, imagining its dozens of sharp spikes plunging downward to skewer the pack like a bit of grilled meat.

But the trap didn’t fall.

Ariadne put a tentative foot forward. She pressed down on the plate. Then she leaned her full weight over it.

She turned a grin back on the party. “All clear!”

She scooped up her pack and proceeded down the new corridor. Milo and Errol, after some testing of their own, hurried after her.

Trick peered up at Sir Hendry, who was looking slightly astonished.

Then Hendry said, “Ha!” and he clapped his big hand down onto Trick’s head, palming it easily. “Well done, lad!”

Trick swatted at the hand, but he was grinning, and he could tell Sir Hendry was, too.

The old knight gave his head a little shake, then pushed him forward to follow the others.

After Trick had cleared the trap and entered the new corridor, he paused to check the walls again, on a hunch.

As he’d suspected, his fingers caught on another lip in the stone.

“Look,” he said, sliding it open to uncover another lever. “I bet this one puts it back.”

“Let’s leave it disarmed,” said Sir Hendry. “We’ll thank ourselves if we have to come back through here in a hurry.”

Trick considered what sort of circumstances might make them come back through here in a hurry. The thought made him shudder.

The corridor they now found themselves in had a series of little niches running along one wall.

Trick scanned them as they went. Each bore a statue: the cloaked man, in various poses, all wrought from smooth, gleaming stone.

They took a moment while Milo investigated each little nook.

He needn’t have bothered, Trick thought. It was clear that none of these were the Icons they were looking for.

Again, it was hard to tell why he felt so certain. For one thing, the Thief in Trick’s satchel was made of onyx, like the temple steps outside. The statues in this corridor, though they’d been polished until they gleamed, were clearly made of a common gray stone.

More treasures had been left with these idols, as well. Trick stopped in front of one with a fairly sizable mound of coins.

There was a second figure here, beside the cloaked man. It knelt at his feet, clutching at one stumped wrist.

The statue of Cyric rested one hand on the head of an enormous hound. The other, proffered toward the sky, held what looked like… a severed hand.

Trick felt Sir Hendry step up beside him.

Trick groaned. “I’m not gonna take anything!”

“I think that’s wise of you.” The old knight put a hand on Trick’s back and steered him on toward the party.

The blackness seemed to intensify up ahead. They descended a set of shallow steps, and then the tunnel opened into a wide chamber.

A ring of torches ran along the circular wall. Ariadne pulled out her tinder-box and began to light them up, one by one.

“Why?” said Trick. “I thought you could see in the dark.”

“To an extent,” she said. “But not much farther than you can.” She gestured at the pool of light emanating from Trick’s ring. “It’ll be easier for everyone if we just turn on the lights.”

As more of the room came into view, Trick saw Errol casting about, looking concerned.

“Shouldn’t there be more, ah… bodies in here?” he said.

The others seemed to sober at this observation. Trick was puzzled for a moment, until he remembered what they had said: there had been cultists here, last time, and the party had taken them out.

Milo sucked in a little breath. “Has someone been through here?” he said, his voice dropping into a hushed tone. “Someone moved them?”

Sir Hendry said, “Stay on your guard,” and the others nodded grimly.

In the center of the chamber, a large circle of unintelligible runes had been drawn in chalk. Dozens of candles were arranged in clusters at various points.

Trick noted the bloodstains on the floor. He felt a chill and moved to study the walls, instead.

“What are we looking for?” he asked as he traced his fingers over the stone.

“Anything,” said Errol. “Probably something hidden. If it was obvious, we would have seen it the last time we were here.”

The walls were etched with grooves. In the growing torchlight, Trick could see they were images. More depictions of Cyric, stretching from floor to ceiling and all around the room.

In the pictures, he was surrounded by wealth. Here, he sat on a tremendous throne while small, robed underlings deposited treasure at his feet. There, he was plucking a single coin out of an unattended purse.

Trick furrowed his brow. Something was odd about that particular image. The rest of the markings had a crude feel to them, as might be expected from pictures carved into stone, but the etching of the coin seemed different. It was a little too perfectly circular.

The groove around the coin was thinner than the rest, too. Trick ran his finger along the perimeter.

It shifted at his touch.

Trick felt a flutter in his chest. He placed his fingers over the coin and pressed.

It gave under his hand, sinking into the wall with a soft click. Trick could hear the whirring of gears, and a grinding sound, like stones rubbing together.

Then there was a little pop and a spray of dust, and a whole section of the wall moved inward and began to slide aside, rumbling as it went.

A dark passageway extended out behind it.

“Found something,” called Trick. He shined his glowlight inside and stepped into the passage.

It was narrower than the tunnels they’d entered from. Wide and tall enough for a man, and with Trick’s stature, he fit easily. He wondered if the lanky Errol might have to duck his head. The thought gave him a little twinge of vindictive pleasure.

The passage branched off to the right. Trick peered around the corner, and he pulled up short.

He was gazing down into a deep, dark pit.

The walls were rough, with none of the aesthetic attention that had been paid to the rest of the temple.

Trick couldn’t see the bottom.

Heart hammering, he backed away from the ledge.

“Hey! Trick!”

It was Ariadne’s voice behind him. Trick could hear her footsteps as she jogged to catch up.

“Don’t wander off by yourself! We don’t know what’s—”

Under Trick’s foot, he felt the floor depress.

His stomach lurched. He snapped his gaze upward, terrified of what he would see—but there was only the smooth stone of the ceiling.

BANG.

“Trick!”

Then he saw it. Far, far too late.

The wall opposite the pit. It caught in his vision, a single instant, frozen in time.

A chunk of the wall had dislodged itself from its surroundings and was plunging toward him with impossible, deadly speed.

Something hit him—from the wrong direction. From behind him. It drove him forward, almost out of range of the massive stone plate.

Almost.

A second hit. A tremendous, concussive blast that ejected the wind from Trick’s lungs, rattled the teeth in his head, and sent him flying through the air.

It was the slab of wall—but the wall itself didn’t strike him. Trick felt the shock of it through… something else. Something soft and hard at the same time. Like a cushion, wrapped around him, but with iron underneath, clutching him firm as a steel trap.

And now he was falling. Down the pit. Too far. Falling forever.

And then—

Another shock wave surged through him as he hit the ground, damped again by the strange cushion.

Trick bounced, rolled to the side, and lay there, dazed.

A second?

An hour?

Time had stopped. He was dreaming. He was hurting.

He gasped—a single, long, crushing intake of breath. His glowlight still illuminated his surroundings, but his vision was blurred. He couldn’t make out any details. He was looking up. Up into darkness.

He’d fallen down a pit.

Above him, distantly, he could hear the grinding of gears as the stone plunger retracted into its wall, coiling up for the next devastating attack.

Trick tried to steady his breathing. His lungs burned with the exertion, and he recognized the familiar feeling of crushed ribs.

He grimaced. Terrific.

As the world slowly stopped spinning around him, Trick ventured to sit up. He rolled over and pushed himself to his knees, aching all over and wincing at every stabbing breath.

What had happened?

A trap. The wall. The pit.

He hadn’t taken the full force of the blow, he realized. Something had protected him. Wrapped itself around him.

He frowned. How could that be?

Trick felt for the wall and leaned against it for support, drawing slow, shallow breaths to avoid aggravating his broken ribs.

He looked around.

With a start, he realized he wasn’t alone.

Something—someone—was huddled on the floor beside him, unmoving.

The initial wave of panic gave way to a cold, creeping dread as Trick recognized the pale green tunic… the soft limbs… the olive-toned skin and the long, silvery-blond braid.

He crawled toward her, hardly daring to trust his eyes.

“Ariadne?”

She didn’t move.

Trick put a trembling hand on her arm. “Are… are you okay? Ariadne? Hey…!”

He could see something dark beneath her head, slowly spreading across the jagged stone floor. It shone slick and viscous in the light of his ring.

Trick heard footsteps overhead.

“Trick!”

Sir Hendry.

Before Trick could call to him, before he could even think to do so, the old knight had launched himself over the ledge. No rope, no pitons. He was simply swinging himself downward, moving with unfathomable speed, finding handholds in the rough-hewn wall of the pit.

But it didn’t matter.

Trick could see that.

His fingers went to the sprig of heather at his chest—the delicate teacup blossoms now crushed flat.

It had protected him. Just as Ariadne had said it would.

Trick could only stare numbly at her lifeless form, thumbing the dead little flower like he could somehow will it back to life.

It had protected him. And he…

…What had he done?

Chapter Text

It wasn’t real.

It was a bad dream. Trick was about to wake up, and they’d be back in Briardale that morning, preparing to set out.

It had happened so fast. It couldn’t be real.

Trick felt at his ribs, and they groaned back at him with a pain that felt real. The cold, stale air in the pit… the pervasive stench of death… it was too vivid to be a dream. As Trick stared at the druid’s motionless body, plainly illuminated under the light from his ring, it began to dawn on him that this might, horrifically, actually be happening.

Ariadne’s long braid lay coiled behind her on the jagged stone floor. It slowly turned color as it soaked up the red of the spreading puddle.

Trick was glad he couldn’t see her face. He didn’t want to know what expression was there.

Or… maybe he should look? If her eyes were open… if there was a chance she was still…?

Quaking, Trick slowly reached his hand toward the hunched shoulder, and the sweep of hair… the pointed ear, just visible… the cheekbone…

“Don’t touch her.”

Trick drew back his fingers as if they’d been burned.

He felt Sir Hendry land beside him with a heavy thud.

“Don’t touch her, lad,” he said again, his voice lower, but still sharp with urgency, as he circled around to crouch before her, shining his enchanted stone over her face.

The old knight looked pale in the harsh yellow light. Trick watched with wide eyes as he carefully pressed his fingers to the inside of one of the limp, green-sleeved wrists.

Hendry looked up, suddenly, and bellowed, “Milo!” His voice boomed up through the empty shaft, and Trick flinched away from the force of it. “Quickly!”

Trick swallowed hard. “Is… is she…?”

Hendry’s mouth was set in a hard, grim line. “She needs help,” he said tightly.

He didn’t elaborate, but Trick understood, and his blood ran cold.

If there was life left in Ariadne, she was hanging on by a thread, and she needed something beyond simple first aid. A potion. A magic spell.

Something neither of them could give her. And she needed it now.

Sir Hendry laid a hand on Ariadne’s chest. His touch was so soft—as if he feared the slightest jostle might send her over the edge.

“Hold on, lass,” he said.

His other hand went to the collar of his jerkin. He fished out the hammer-and-scales pendant, gripped it tightly in his fist, and shut his eyes.

“Lord of Justice,” he murmured, “please preserve this soul; by your light, strengthen and heal this body…”

He spoke quickly, deftly, rattling off the words as if he’d said them a thousand times before.

Trick could hear voices from overhead—Errol and Milo, frantically working out what had happened.

“Trick!” Milo’s voice. “I’m handing down a potion!”

Trick peered up. Sir Hendry’s light just reached the top of the pit, casting a faint glow into the open corridor. It seemed to Trick impossibly, sickeningly far off.

The seconds flew by. Trick could still hear Sir Hendry whispering fervently over Ariadne’s body.

His tone had changed. He was speaking more slowly, now. More sincerely.

Up top, something emerged from the dark passageway and hurtled downward. A tiny bottle, wreathed in misty blue light. A spectral hand, floating of its own accord.

“Can you reach it?” called Milo.

The hand stopped several feet above the ground. Trick pressed against the wall, standing shakily.

He reached for the bottle.

Sir Hendry’s voice croaked behind him. “Not yet,” he was murmuring. Pleading. “Not here, in this den of darkness. Please. Not yet.”

It was too late. It had to be. It was beyond too late.

Trick felt a gentle breeze.

As if a window had been flung open. A strange feeling, and unexpected, far underground as they were.

Trick turned to find the source of it.

He saw Sir Hendry’s chest rise as he took in a deep breath. He closed his eyes and exhaled, and the motion seemed to use his entire body. As if something more than air was radiating through him with invisible force.

The hair on Ariadne’s head stirred, wisps of it, freed from the braid.

Trick stared. Something was happening. Something had happened.

Sir Hendry was watching her face. His eyes went wide.

“Ariadne?”

There was a slight twitch in her body. The unnatural angles of her limbs corrected themselves, snapping swiftly into the proper orientation.

Her arm curled in to her torso.

She groaned.

Trick’s heart skipped a beat. He lunged for the floating potion and snatched it out of the hand’s grasp. His injured ribs seethed at him, but he gritted his teeth through the pain.

“Here!” he gasped. He thrust the potion toward Sir Hendry.

The old knight sat frozen, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Ariadne started to sit up. She gasped suddenly and looked around. “Trick—!”

Her eyes landed on him—bright hazel, as always—and she sighed in relief. “Thank goodness.”

Then she saw the look on Trick’s face. “What?” She looked to Sir Hendry, who was still looking as stunned as Trick felt. Ariadne frowned. “What is it? What…”

She put a hand to her head. It came away glistening red.

Her eyes widened.

“What happened?”

Trick watched her expression contort as she replayed the events in her memory. She looked at Trick. Then she gazed upward.

“You fell,” said Sir Hendry. “You… dove in front of Trick, and…”

Ariadne went a little pale, the gravity of the situation setting in.

She rolled one shoulder experimentally, then the other. She stretched her legs, feeling along her bones, wincing at a bruise here and there.

“I’m all right,” she said. She sounded surprised.

Trick started to say, “Sir Hendry—” but the breath died in his aching lungs. “…Healed you,” he finished in a whisper.

Ariadne’s attention snapped to Trick. In a flash, she’d dug the familiar bundle of healing herbs out of her pouch.

Trick didn’t protest. He loosened his leather breastplate so that Ariadne could feel for his broken ribs. It wasn’t lost on him—and nobody commented—how much worse off he might have been without the armor’s protection.

The druidic magic poured through him, mending his bones and washing away the pain. Trick took a deep, full lungful of air and let it out in a whoosh.

“Thank you,” he said, relieved to have full use of his voice once again. He winced, then, though not from the pain. “I’m… sorry it was for a stupid reason.”

He expected a rebuke, but Ariadne only threw her arms around him and squeezed tight. “You little idiot,” she breathed. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

There was a clunk from the passageway overhead that said Errol and Milo had finally found the switch to deactivate the trap, and their faces appeared over the ledge.

Errol was white as a sheet. “Ari!” he cried. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

She waved up at him. “I’m fine,” she said. “We all are. Just a little… dazed.”

“Hold on,” called Errol. “We’re lowering a rope.”

He and Milo disappeared to see to the task.

Trick looked warily at Sir Hendry. The old knight was wearing a distant expression.

Ariadne was watching him, too. “Sir Hen,” she said, her tone sober. “What happened? What did you do?”

Hendry shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he said. He was fingering the pendant at his neck. “I… didn’t do anything.”

“You were praying,” said Trick.

Hendry frowned. “That was the prayer we used with the healers,” he said. “At the temple. It never… it never did that.”

But Trick shook his head. “It was different,” he insisted. “After that part. You were talking about Ariadne. You… you really meant it.”

The three of them fell silent, considering the implications of this development.

There was the sound of shuffling overhead, and a rope began to descend.

Being the smallest, Trick was sent up, first, where he could lend his strength to support Ariadne’s climb.

When she reached the top, Errol dove at her.

“I’m all right, love,” she said, but she let him check her fastidiously for injuries.

Milo turned wide blue eyes up at her. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. He intoned a word and waved his fingers.

A sparkle of blue washed over Ariadne, taking with it the red stains in her hair and tunic. Errol had noticed them, of course, and he regarded Ariadne with a tight-lipped expression.

“I’m all right,” she said again. In a small voice, she added, “I’m sorry.”

Errol only shook his head and pulled her close.

The four of them on the rope were able to steady it for Sir Hendry. When he’d climbed up, and everyone had been thoroughly checked over, Trick offered the unspent potion to Ariadne.

“You should probably keep this,” he said. “In case you get hurt and… we can’t get it to you in time.”

Ariadne looked like she was about to object, but she thought better of it. Wordlessly, she tucked the little bottle into her pouch.

Errol frowned. “You healed yourself, though, didn’t you?” he said. “You must have. How else…?”

But Ariadne was shaking her head.

She looked to Sir Hendry. The others followed her gaze.

Hendry was deep in thought. He nodded slowly. “It was…” He stared at his hands, looking bewildered. “It was… Tyr,” he said finally. He explained what had happened, while Errol and Milo dropped their jaws in twin expressions of shock.

“Hen,” Milo breathed. “You did it. Healing magic! By the gods…”

“Tyr saw fit to save the lass,” Hendry murmured. “And I will be eternally grateful that he did.”

In the back of Trick’s brain, something unpleasant started to tickle. “It wasn’t Tyr,” he said. “It was you. I saw you. You touched her. You healed her. Milo’s right. You’re a… a palapa… whatever.”

Hendry gave a wan smile. “Tyr works through his paladins, Trick,” he said. “Today, he chose to work through me.”

“Yeah,” said Trick, “because you talked to him!” He gave a snort of frustration. “You make it sound like he just happened to swoop in,” he said. “You’re the one who decided to pray to him. If Tyr did show up down there, it’s because you told him to!”

Hendry gave him a look. “I would not presume to tell Tyr to do anything,” he said in a measured tone. “I prayed for his intervention, as I have done many times before. When or why he might choose to respond it is not my place to ascertain.”

Trick wrinkled his nose at the stone floor of the passageway. “Well,” he muttered, “you did something.”

The old knight frowned, but he didn’t reply.

In a soft voice, Ariadne said, “Do you… think you could do it again?”

Hendry started to answer. He stopped. His eyes flicked back and forth as he considered the question.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “If it were very important.”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt to try,” said Milo.

Errol sniffed. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, his grip tightening around Ariadne’s waist. “If everyone’s done trying to get themselves killed, can we hurry up and find what we came for so we can get out of this death trap?”

He was met with no argument.

They moved slowly and carefully through the narrow passageway. Trick kept his glowlight trained on the floor ahead, keen to avoid any more pressure plates.

He noticed Sir Hendry following beside him—not quite touching, but close enough to snag him should he start to pull ahead of the group.

Trick found himself annoyed once more. His injuries may have been healed, but he would never forget the sight of Ariadne’s lifeless body, soaking in that awful pool of red. Did Sir Hendry really think Trick was going to be so careless again after what he’d just been through?

Nevertheless, the old knight stuck to him like a flea as they inched forward. The passageway wasn’t long, but at their snaillike pace, it took an eternity to reach the end.

They came to a small round antechamber, just large enough for the five of them to spread out comfortably. At the far end of the room was a plain wooden door, flanked by two more idols of Cyric. More coins lay at the feet of the statues, though compared to the other offerings they’d seen, these ones were sparse.

Trick leaned in to study one of the eerie stone statues.

Strangely, the figure of Cyric was turned away. He was leaning in toward the back of the alcove, fingers outstretched as if to pluck something—or steal something—out of the stone wall.

Behind his back, on display for the viewer, Cyric was holding something: some kind of disk.

One of the remaining Icons. The Coin.

A depiction of it, anyway. The Coin as well as the statue were gray stone like the rest of the temple, and the Coin itself was smaller than Trick’s fingernail—hardly practical for an important magical artifact.

But if this statue was to scale, then the real Coin was unusually large. It appeared to be as big as Cyric’s palm—comparable to the size of the Thief idol.

Trick’s gaze went to the offerings. No daggers, this time, he realized. Only coins.

He reached toward them.

From out of nowhere, Sir Hendry’s hand clamped down on his wrist. Trick about jumped out of his skin.

Hendry gave a yank, and Trick stumbled backward, startled by the rough treatment. “Hey! What—”

“You have been told how many times,” said Sir Hendry, holding tight to Trick’s wrist, “not to touch these offerings?”

Trick’s jaw swung for a moment. “I wasn’t going to take one!” he protested. “I was just looking!”

“You look with your eyes, lad, not your fingers.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“Suppose you set off another trap?”

Sir Hendry looked positively angry, Trick realized, and the thought made his own face grow hot. Of course Trick hadn’t been trying to set off a trap. That was hardly fair.

Trick flared his nostrils. “If I do, your stupid god can just fly in and save us,” he said, miming a swooping motion with his free hand, “since he’s apparently keeping such a close eye on—hey!”

In a flash, he was pinned to Hendry’s hip, in an alarmingly familiar position. Before Trick could react, before he had even fully registered what was happening, Hendry had bent him over his outstretched leg, wrapped an arm around his back, and smacked him—twice, three times, and he kept on going.

Through Trick’s tunic, the blows didn’t sting as much as they might otherwise have, but they were certainly quite sharp enough to feel.

Besides the actual sensation, the rest of the team was right there, and Trick felt his cheeks color all over again to think of them watching.

He bucked in Hendry’s grip. “Stop it!” he cried. “Let me go!”

Of course, he couldn’t break free, and the old knight landed a full round of ringing swats before standing Trick back on his feet.

Trick stood stiffly before him, smarting and affronted.

Hendry took firm hold of Trick’s arms just below the shoulders and looked the boy square in the eye.

“You and Ariadne just had an extremely close call,” he said. “No one is blaming you,” he added before Trick could protest. “Accidents will happen. Dangerous ones. But I would have thought the experience would teach you to be a little more wary going forward.”

Trick’s eyes prickled. “It did,” he said.

“If you cannot do as you’re told, you may wait here until we’ve finished our job,” said Hendry. “You desire so very badly to be treated like an adult. I suggest you begin by acting like one.”

Trick clenched his jaw, but he said nothing.

Sir Hendry’s dark gray eyes bored into him—stern, imploring, and not a little cross. “Can you do that, lad?”

“Yes.” It came out sounding huffy and impatient. Probably because that was how Trick was feeling. But the old knight didn’t seem especially satisfied with the response, so Trick canted his eyes downward and, in a more subdued tone, said, “Yes, sir.”

“Another thing,” said Hendry, and his tone darkened. “I don’t care how angry you are; you will not disrespect my god in front of me.”

A chilling wave washed over Trick. He glowered at the floor and didn’t respond.

Sir Hendry let him go, then, and straightened up with a frustrated sigh.

Trick could feel the gazes of the rest of the party. He didn’t dare meet anyone’s eye.

Grumbling low, Trick said, “You never listen to me.”

Sir Hendry went a little stiff. There was a still, uncomfortable silence.

Trick felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe that wasn’t entirely fair. Hendry did listen to him. Thoroughly. Exhaustingly. It was what made him so damned unbearable. Trick couldn’t even be resentful about getting in trouble when Hendry took such excruciating pains to hear his side of every story.

Well, it hadn’t been fair of Hendry to smack Trick for something he wasn’t even about to do. And the man could stand to be a little less touchy about stupid hammer-of-justice Tyr, in Trick’s opinion. Maybe it served Hendry right that Trick was a little unfair to him back.

His left hand, Trick realized suddenly. Sir Hendry had pulled him over his right knee and used his left hand to spank.

Of course he had. A devout Tyrran did everything with his left hand, hadn’t he said?

Trick hugged his torso and stared moodily at his boots.

Milo broke the silence with a hesitant, “Onward, then?”

The others were quick to agree.

The door out of the antechamber appeared ordinary enough, but they took their time examining it, all the same.

At first, Trick hung back, still bitter about having had an audience for that show and not particularly eager to speak to any of them. Sir Hendry didn’t want him touching anything dangerous. Fine. This was him not touching.

But as the investigation started to drag on with no discernible progress, Trick’s curiosity got the better of him. As nonchalantly as possible, he edged forward to take a look.

It was just a door. Wooden with a latch and a simple locking mechanism.

“Trick,” said Milo, clearly angling for diplomacy, “this looks like a job for your skill set.”

Trick drew closer. He leaned down to examine the latch.

Then he stopped and raised an arch look up to Sir Hendry.

“May I?” he drawled.

Hendry locked eyes with Trick. He gave a single slow, unblinking nod.

Trick turned back to the door with a little huff.

Then he set to work.

He ran his fingertips along the edges of the door, feeling gently for a trip wire or any unusual protrusion.

A couple more tests had him reasonably convinced the door and latch were trap-free.

He tried the latch.

It was locked.

With a little sigh, Trick fished a lockpick out of his satchel. It had been days since he’d last had to use one, he mused. Not since he’d broken into the House of Knowledge, and…

He shook his head firmly. He didn’t need that particular memory replaying itself just now.

Trick listened intently to the sounds his lockpick made as he tried various combinations. The familiar tick-tick of the tool was soothing, and Trick let himself relax in the comfort of a puzzle he’d solved a hundred times before.

He was keenly aware of the others’ eyes on him while he worked. It felt strange to be able to take his time, to focus all his attention on the task at hand, and not have to keep an ear out for the approach of a guard.

This lock was far from the most complicated mechanism Trick had seen. After a few moments of concentrated jiggling, the lock disengaged with a little pop, and Trick tried the latch again.

The door opened.

The ensuing gasps of approval from the team were welcome, and Trick allowed himself a pleased little grin as he pushed open the door.

His spirits were dampened slightly when he caught sight of Sir Hendry’s expression, which while not at all disapproving wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, either.

Ariadne gave his hair a little ruffle, but Trick only frowned up at the old knight, who didn’t even seem to be looking at him.

As they stepped through the door, a pair of sconces on the wall flared suddenly to life, washing the room in a pale yellow glow.

The room was the same small, round shape as the antechamber they’d just left. It was similarly furnished—which is to say it was completely bare—with one notable exception.

Beneath the burning sconces, there was an ornate throne, wrought entirely in onyx.

Seated in the throne was a skeleton.

Trick’s pulse quickened when he saw it. It was dressed finely, in long black robes that pooled around its slippered feet. The hood of the robe was down, revealing its glistening skull. The scraggly hairs that still clung to it gleamed almost green in the low light.

A thin, golden circlet sat on the skeleton’s head, with details picked out in jet. It wore a similar black-and-gold chain around its neck.

Its bony hands were clasped in its lap. The gesture was peculiar, Trick noted. The palms were together, one over the other, and the fingers curved. Almost as if it were holding something.

A closer look, and Trick’s heart fluttered.

There was something held between the skeleton’s hands.

Something round, shiny, and black.

Trick swallowed. “I think we found it,” he said.

As he peered between the skeletal fingers, Trick became aware of a strange sensation. There was a sort of pulsing energy coming from his satchel.

He didn’t have to look inside to see what it was. The Thief was responding to something. Proximity to another one of the Icons.

Milo insisted on casting his magic detection spell. Trick folded his arms and watched with mounting impatience for the gnome to confirm what Trick already knew for a certainty.

“Crawling with divine magic,” Milo murmured as his spell probed the scene. “Just like our first Icon. Strange stuff. Terribly dark.”

Ariadne regarded the skeleton warily. “So… do we just… take it?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Trick stepped forward.

Sir Hendry put out a hand. “Wait, Trick—”

Trick whirled on him. “What?” he demanded. “Somebody has to. I’m the one who can sense Cyric, right? So it should be me.” He set his jaw. “Is that okay with you? Sir?”

Hendry drew in a slow breath. He let it out again.

“Everyone, be on your guard,” he said.

Trick turned back to the skeleton, feeling a little thrill at the small victory. The robed figure was creepy, sure, but at least it was dead. What could Sir Hendry possibly think was going to happen?

Now that he’d won the privilege, Trick didn’t dare hesitate. He squared his shoulders and stepped right up to the onyx throne.

He gave a quick scan for traps—see, Sir Hen, he could be careful. Finding none, Trick reached toward the clasped hands and the treasure encased inside.

He touched a knuckle.

Trick had been prepared for an unpleasant, slimy sensation. In fact, the bone was quite dry. It was cool, as was everything in this underground temple, and a bit dusty with neglect, but it was no more upsetting to the touch than a bit of mossy stone.

Trick attempted to push the fingers apart so he could reach inside, but they held surprisingly firm.

He changed tactics. He took hold of each of the hands and worked his fingers in between, prying the bony things apart like a skeletal clamshell.

The wrists creaked slightly and sent up a puff of ancient dust as the hands slowly parted.

There was the Coin. A disk of onyx the size of Trick’s palm. There was a hole through the center, and the edges were ridged slightly. It looked like a large black facsimile of a standard gold piece.

Trick released his hold on the skeleton’s hands. They stayed open.

He touched the Coin.

Immediately, he felt it. A fragment of Cyric, just like he’d felt with the Thief. That rush of cold and gloom prickling at the back of his mind. Another consciousness, just behind his own, waiting for the opportunity to surface.

Trick didn’t get the chance to say anything, or even withdraw the Coin from its hiding spot, because at that same moment, the skeleton’s hands snapped shut over his own.

“Ah!”

Trick pulled back, but his hand was stuck firm between the bony appendages. They were gripping him, he realized in horror, just before he realized another thing.

The skeleton’s head. Its eyes, which had been dark, empty sockets before, were suddenly glowing a brilliant violet.

The skull jerked downward, eyes staring right at Trick. Its mouth dropped open. The jaw was lined with teeth—long, gruesome-looking teeth, filed down to razor-sharp points.

The skeleton’s entire body gave a shudder. Trick could only watch, terror-stricken, as the creature reared back its head to strike.

A flash of steel, a strong hand around the back of his neck, and Trick was hauled out of the way just as the skull lunged forward, jaws snapping shut in the space that had very recently been occupied by Trick’s nose.

The skeletal hands, cloven from their arms, fell away to clatter on the stone floor, and Trick was left clutching the Coin between his own bruised fingers.

Sir Hendry had him by the scruff. He brandished his longsword at the skeleton, which was rising ponderously up off of its throne.

The creature swept one handless arm through the air, and the party jumped back.

The skeleton was large. It appeared to be human, as far as Trick could tell, but if so, it had been a much taller human than Sir Hendry, who was by no means a short man.

Hendry released Trick, only to thrust an arm across the boy’s chest. “Get back,” he ordered.

They all complied, gathering in the doorway behind Sir Hendry as he backed away from the looming skeleton.

The thing clattered as it moved. It stepped down from its throne, moving jerkily, like a puppet on a string.

It turned its head to face the adventurers.

Then it opened its mouth and let loose an ear-splitting roar.

“That can’t be good,” said Errol.

Sure enough, from the temple behind them, Trick was starting to hear a sound. It was faint, distant… but quickly growing louder.

It sounded like the clattering of a whole lot of bones.

Sir Hendry continued to herd them backward, sword still trained on the enormous skeleton, which had started to advance.

“Everyone,” said Sir Hendry in a low, urgent voice. “Run.”

Chapter Text

They ran.

Sprinting back along the narrow passageway, the party found it much shorter than it had seemed on the way in.

The disengaged pressure plate jiggled harmlessly under their feet as they pounded past, one after the other. They emerged in the cavernous ritual chamber. The torches Ariadne had lit were still burning bright, and Trick could see a number of corridors leading away to different parts of the temple.

Behind them came the heavy footfalls of the enormous skeleton they’d awakened as it lumbered after them.

Sir Hendry was last out of the passageway. “Keep moving,” he said, corraling them forward.

Trick was all too happy to obey. He hurried along with the party toward the tunnel that led back to the entrance—but they pulled up short when a trio of figures came shambling out of the darkness.

More skeletons. Two of them were armed with curved sickles. The third carried a shortbow.

At least they were human-sized, Trick observed.

Around the chamber, more figures were emerging from the various passageways. All of them wore black robes, similar to those of the giant on the throne, many of which were stained with blood.

Next to Trick, Errol drew in a short breath.

“Sweet Selûne,” he breathed. “I guess that’s what happened to the bodies.”

Trick gaped at him. “You mean those are the cultists you killed?” he squeaked.

“They’ve been reanimated,” said Hendry.

“What are we supposed to do?” said Trick. “Kill them again?”

Hendry shifted his grip on his sword. “Yes.”

The party was forming a clump, backs to one another, and drawing various weapons. Errol took up his lute, and Ariadne was knotting some greenery around the end of her staff.

Trembling slightly, Trick drew his dagger and fell in with the others.

There was a roar that shook the walls, and the giant skeleton emerged from the narrow corridor behind them.

As it came to a lurching stop, Trick heard a skittering sound. He watched as the skeleton’s two disembodied hands came scurrying up behind the behemoth, the bony fingers propelling them like the legs of insects.

The skeletal hands launched themselves up onto their body, and to Trick’s horror, they reattached themselves at the wrists.

The giant flexed its fingers. Then it reached up and pulled a sword the length of Trick’s entire body from a sheath strapped to its back.

It swiveled its skull back and forth.

Its horrible, flaming eye sockets focused on Trick. It raised the tremendous sword, pointed it straight at him, and gave another terrible roar.

Trick froze.

He looked at the onyx coin in his hand.

“It wants the Coin,” he said, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. He dropped the smooth black stone into his satchel. It did nothing to divert the skeleton’s attention.

Milo hummed softly. “I have an idea,” he said. “If we can get to the entrance, I think I can seal it up.”

“Great,” said Errol, as the hordes of skeletons slowly closed in, leering ominously. “And how do you propose we get there?”

Sir Hendry said, “Clear a path. Protect Trick. If it’s the Coin they’re after, they might not be focused on the rest of us. Use that to our advantage. Don’t worry about taking them all out. I’ll handle the big fellow. Trick?”

Trick found his voice. “Yeah?” he said shakily.

“Run as fast as you can.” The old knight’s eyes shone with resolve. “Don’t stop until you get outside. Defend yourself if you have to, but only if you have to.”

Trick nodded. The chamber filled with the sound of rattling bones.

The skeletons drew their bows.

“All right,” said Hendry. “Let’s go.”

At his word, the party scattered.

The twanging of bowstrings repeated through the chamber. Trick dove forward, dodging beneath a pair of arrows that whizzed over his head.

Ariadne was right beside him, staff raised. She swung it in an arc, and Trick could have sworn he caught a whiff of wildflowers as it plowed through two skeletons, knocking them both senseless.

The tunnel to the entrance was blocked by more of the shambling creatures. Trick tried to dip around them. One of them pulled a scimitar, and Trick dug in his heels just in time to avoid skewering himself on the tip of the blade.

He thrust his own dagger at the thing’s bony knees. He managed to cut through some stringy sinew that still clung to its tibia, but while the skeleton howled—in either pain or annoyance—it didn’t seem particularly slowed.

Trick cursed and rolled out of the way as the scimitar came slashing in for his head. He scampered back over the stone floor, peering up at the hollow eye sockets now burning with horrible, deadly fire. He thrust out with his dagger, but the skeleton caught Trick’s wrist with a backhanded blow that sent a jolt of pain shooting down Trick’s arm and knocked the blade out of his grip.

Trick watched with wide-eyed panic as the dagger spun away, far out of reach, beneath the advancing boots of the undead cultists.

Trick’s skeleton seemed to leer as it loomed over him.

A knob of wood connected with its skull, and suddenly, the head was gone, struck clean off its shoulders. The skeleton’s body collapsed.

Ariadne was hauling Trick up by his collar. “This way!” she called, beckoning the others as Trick scrambled to find his footing. “Go, Trick! Hurry!” And she pushed him ahead into the dark mouth of the tunnel.

Trick stumbled forward. His wrist throbbed from the bone-on-bone contact, and he cradled it to his chest, wincing.

He chanced a look back. Milo had thrown a gob of what looked like thick spiderwebs at the mouth of a tunnel, slowing the approach of a half-dozen skeletons from that direction. Errol’s voice rang through the chamber, blending with the music of his lute. He had words of encouragement for Sir Hendry, who was locked in combat with the giant and its tremendous sword.

At Ariadne’s call, Errol and Milo hurried to follow her. Sir Hendry nodded his affirmation and began to creep toward them, unwilling or unable to turn his back on the hulking skeleton.

The monster stopped him with a jab of its sword, which Hendry just managed to parry before it could spear his torso. Then the great blade came down in an overhead swing. Hendry dove to the side and rolled, and steel met stone in a resounding clang where he’d stood just moments before.

The skeleton lifted its sword. With it, a chunk of stone came away from the floor.

As slowly as the skeleton moved, Trick thought he would have be able to dodge its attacks with ease, but Hendry was not so nimble. Trick watched with mounting anxiety as the old knight ducked this way and that, avoiding each blow by a worryingly narrow margin, waiting for an opening.

Errol caught up to Trick. He took him firmly by the shoulder and steered him around into the tunnel.

“Move!” he barked, and his glowing eyes shone with such ferocity that Trick didn’t dare disobey. “Get to the entrance. Sir Hendry will be fine. Go, now!”

So Trick peeled his eyes away from the battle scene. “Glow bright,” he commanded, and the gleaming stone walls ahead were bathed in the light from his ring.

He took off running.

The others weren’t far behind, but he was outpacing them, he could tell. Trick couldn’t hold back a surge of pride. He was back in the streets of the Market District. He had his treasure tucked safely into his satchel, and he was racing between the narrowly packed stalls as a trio of guards blustered along behind him at an ever-increasing distance.

They would never catch him.

Trick came to the pressure plate he’d disengaged. It shifted harmlessly beneath his feet as he danced over it, and he couldn’t resist a wink up at the spike trap still suspended, harmless, in the ceiling.

More of the robed skeletons were approaching from a tunnel ahead, but as Trick rounded the corner, he saw the way to the entrance was clear. His legs carried him swiftly onward. He enjoyed the expenditure of energy. It was as though he’d spent too long bound up in a cocoon and was finally able to stretch his wings.

And stretch them he did.

Sunlight trickled down the shaft of the ruined stair. Trick found the rope still hanging where they’d left it, and he launched himself up it as nimbly as a squirrel.

His wrist complained, but his grip wasn’t compromised, and so he fought through the discomfort and forced himself to climb, spurred on by adrenaline and the promise of sweet, sun-dappled freedom.

Trick emerged at the antechamber on the hill.

The forest air was still—strange, after the chaos he’d left behind. It wasn’t an eerie stillness like the gloom of the temple. Trick could hear the rustling of leaves overhead, the drilling of a bird’s beak against the knot of a tree, the chattering of some distant rodent to its mate.

He paused, chest heaving, and realized it had been days since he’d had to run like that. His legs felt suddenly thick with lead. He didn’t mind the feeling. It was the ache of reanimation after too much disuse. Trick vowed he would never again let himself go so long without a good hard sprint.

It occurred to him to wonder when the rest of the party would join him.

He peered down the open well, listening for any sign of them. He could hear distant sounds: pounding footsteps, perhaps? The clattering of weapons—or were they bones?

Trick wondered with a start whether it would be friendly faces that emerged first, or the withered skulls of the dead. He gripped the edge of the well and shined his light down to illuminate the distant floor.

The obvious sound of stampeding boots sent Trick’s heart into his throat, and he nearly went limp with relief when it was Errol who burst forth, closely followed by Ariadne.

She posted up at the foot of the shaft while Errol took hold of the rope. Milo appeared shortly after, wheezing with exertion. He looked up at Trick, quipped some arcane syllables, and snapped out of existence.

The little pop of energy beside Trick nearly sent him keeling into the stairwell. There Milo had appeared, heedless of the start he’d just given the boy, and was now digging frantically through his component pouch for the diamond dust he’d been so keen to acquire.

Trick offered a hand to Errol, who grasped him at the elbow and heaved himself the rest of the way up over the ledge.

“Where’s Sir Hendry?” said Trick. He peered down. Ariadne still stood crouched at the bottom, staff readied against the tunnel beyond. Trick could hear the echoes of bones and boots mingling with wordless moans, and a dread began to creep through him. “Milo,” he demanded. “Where’s Sir Hendry?”

“He’ll be fine,” muttered Milo. “Here, take this.”

Trick turned to obey, but Milo had been talking to Errol, who was crouched beside him. Milo uttered some undecipherable instructions about scribing glyphs onto a fist-sized slab of rock. Errol apparently understood, because he set to work thumbing deft strokes of the glittering dust across the stone.

“A keyword,” Milo was saying. “So it will detonate precisely on cue.”

Trick turned back to the stairwell. The groans were getting louder. He saw Ariadne tense. Surely she didn’t mean to fend off the entire temple by herself?

He glared at Errol. “How can you leave her down there?” he said. After what they’d just been through, wasn’t Errol feeling even a little bit protective?

But the half-elf’s only acknowledgment of Trick’s question was to narrow his eyes. He went right on working. Trick scowled in disgust. “Hey!” he snapped. “Did you hear what I said?”

Errol did look at him, then, matching his look with an irritated glare of his own. “Ari knows what she’s doing,” said Errol. He gestured at where Milo was still scribbling furiously. “And this takes time. And concentration. You just sit there and don’t interrupt.”

Trick crossed his arms with a huff. His gaze landed on Milo—and he was startled to see a glint of frustration in the gnome’s eyes, as well. Trick glanced between the two arcanists. They had clearly made some kind of plan, which Trick was not privy to.

He didn’t have long to sulk over being excluded. The groaning from the tunnels below was suddenly much louder—much closer—and the sound of pounding feet was approaching at a rapid pace.

Sir Hendry burst out of the tunnel, and Trick blew out a quick breath to see him relatively unharmed. That is, he was obviously battered, and he sported a nasty-looking gash near his shoulder. But he was alive.

“They let me run right past them,” he told Ariadne. “They’re only interested in the Coin. Don’t let them through.”

Trick shivered at the reminder.

Over his shoulder, Sir Hendry called, “We’ll hold them off! Tell us when you’re ready!” and it took Trick a few bemused seconds to realize he was talking to Milo.

There was a crescendo of clattering bones, and suddenly, a pair of skeletons emerged from the tunnel to launch themselves at Ariadne and Sir Hendry.

Hendry took one of them out with a slash of his sword, while Ariadne’s hands glowed, and a gout of fire gushed forth to char the other, along with two of its buddies that had lumbered up behind it.

The efficiency with which they were dispatched helped put Trick at ease… but more skeletons surged out of the tunnel, and even though only two or three at a time could fit at the bottom of the ruined stairwell, Trick wasn’t sure how long the knight and the druid would be able to keep this up.

He turned back to the magic workers, readying a plea that whatever they were doing they would please hurry it up—but Milo beat him to it.

“Done!” he cried.

Done with what, Trick didn’t know, but at Milo’s signal, Sir Hendry kicked a skeleton off of him then jumped for the rope.

Ariadne stayed below as he climbed, torching the undead acolytes that shambled toward her. As each of them emerged into the sunlight, they looked up at Trick, locking eyes with him, set on their target. Trick felt their intent in chilling waves of dread.

Hendry heaved himself up with a grunt and crouched beside Trick. He held a hand over the wound on his shoulder, grimacing, and Trick realized the knight was in greater pain than he’d thought.

Sir Hendry, meanwhile, was looking Trick over. “Are you hurt, lad?”

Trick shook his head. “How many more of them are there?” he asked.

“A lot.”

“How are we going to kill them all?”

Sir Hendry nodded at Milo. The gnome had summoned the floating spectral hand, which was holding a pair of stones. They had both been marked all over with glittering diamond dust.

The hand whizzed down the stairwell and vanished into the tunnel. Milo jogged down the hill, directing the hand down the tunnel—he could only send it so far away from himself, Trick realized.

From the foot of the hill, Milo shouted, “Now!”

Ariadne raised her staff. A beam of silvery white light erupted in a column from where she stood.

The two skeletons advancing on her went up in wispy, ethereal flames. The next few paused, assessing the column of light.

Ariadne, meanwhile, had disappeared. Trick looked around in a panic, and then he noticed the large black shape skittering up the side of the wall. He leapt back. A spider as big as Trick himself and covered in spiny hairs climbed up and over the ledge.

Milo shouted something—some word Trick didn’t understand. Before he had time to ponder this, or to fully rationalize the sudden appearance of the spider, the tunnel exploded.

A hand wrapped around the back of Trick’s neck and hauled him to the ground. Sir Hendry was over him, nearly smothering him, as a shower of debris cascaded over their bodies. The sounds of moans and clacking limbs below were drowned out by the ponderous tumbling of rock and earth.

When the initial shock had passed, Trick finally understood the plan. Whatever Milo and Errol had written on those stones, it had caused an explosion that had rocked the earth—and caved in the tunnel.

Trick frowned. He’d thought Milo was carrying the explosive stones farther down the tunnel. He must have dropped one of them at the mouth. Then… what was the other one for?

He got his answer when Milo shouted another arcane word, and this time, instead of an explosion, a dull roar came from within the closed-off tunnel. It sounded like the rushing of water, but deeper, and more feral, and it was immediately followed by the shrieks and hisses of dozens of furious skeletons.

Fire.

For a long moment, they listened to the dying screeches of the monsters burning under the earth. Then the last one faded out, and they were left in calm, blissful silence.

Sir Hendry peeled himself off of Trick and sat back with a short exhale of breath. He was covered in a layer of gray dust, streaking in places with mingled sweat and blood. He gave Trick a little nod.

Then his eyes went wide.

“Trick!”

Trick heard the clattering of bones before he turned to see it. The skeleton was half-charred, silvery wisps of Ariadne’s moonbeam still dancing over it, crawling out of the pit.

It loomed over Trick and raised its scimitar.

Trick moved without thinking. His fingers closed around the hilt of a dagger. He’d barely registered it, gleaming red amid a pile of coins at the edge of his vision, before it was in his hand. He flipped it around with a practiced flick of his wrist, and he stabbed upward.

The skeleton wheezed over him, showering him with acrid dust and bits of cobweb. Trick held the ruby dagger firm, where it had stuck into the creature’s sternum. The thing was somehow still moving.

A heavy boot connected with its skull. It snapped to the side, and its jaw went flying. Then the blade of a sword plunged forward, driving through the skeleton’s chest up to the hilt.

The monster wheezed again, shredded vocal cords flapping visibly inside its rotting larynx. Then the light in its eye sockets went out, and it collapsed.

Sir Hendry caught it before it could land on Trick. He lifted it and pushed, and the decrepit body slid off the end of his blade and spilled down the ruined stair where it landed with a distant, echoing clatter.

Trick looked down at the weapon in his hand. It was the dagger he’d spied here earlier—the one Sir Hendry had stopped him from taking. Trick grimaced, preparing himself for a rebuke.

To his surprise, Sir Hendry wasn’t even looking at him.

As the knight turned, Trick hid the dagger behind his back.

“All right, lad?” said Hendry.

Trick blinked up at him. “Yeah.”

Hendry clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done.” His breathing was heavy. “Let’s get out of here.”

He led the way down the onyx steps, and the others followed suit, leaving Trick slightly perplexed.

Had Sir Hendry not seen him take the dagger?

Trick examined it, as if expecting to find something else—his own lost dagger, maybe, as though it had miraculously rematerialized in his hand. But, no, he wasn’t delusional. There was the ruby-crusted hilt, wrapped snugly in his own fingers, and the narrow stiletto blade that came to a lethal point.

He’d taken it from the offerings to Cyric.

He’d stolen it.

Trick looked back up. He’d had a good reason for the theft. Maybe Sir Hendry realized that, and so hadn’t commented?

Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.

Trick hurried to follow the others. Casually, he slipped the dagger into his satchel, one eye fixed on Hendry, expecting a backward glance and a knowing look. But the knight only kept on down the stairs. He didn’t even pause.

They met Milo at the foot of the little hill.

“That was a good trick,” said Sir Hendry. “Was that the spell you learned from Lady Lariel?”

Milo nodded, grinning. “I thought it might come in handy. It’s quite adaptable… as long as there’s time to cast it.”

“You pulled it off just in time,” said Hendry.

Errol sniffed. “Would’ve gone faster if the boy hadn’t kept interrupting,” he said.

Trick stiffened. “You could’ve told me what you were doing, faechaff,” he shot back.

There was a shocked silence, as if the air had been stricken from everyone’s lungs at once.

Trick noted the astonishment in Errol’s eyes. Trick smiled, pleased with himself.

Until he felt the sharp thwack of a palm against the back of his head.

Trick threw back a hand and turned a look of stung bewilderment up at Sir Hendry, who frowned down at him.

“There’s no call for that kind of language,” said the knight.

Trick replayed the words in his head. Faechaff… It was just another word for half-elf… wasn’t it? He tried to remember where he’d heard it before. It had felt right to use it like that, with a bit of spit behind it.

He looked at the half-elves. Ariadne, still in the form of a giant spider, gave a low chitter, and Errol glared mutinously at Trick.

To his boots, Trick muttered, “I didn’t know it was a bad word.”

Sir Hendry made a gruff noise that riffled the hairs of his mustache. “You might consider it unwise to use a word without knowing its meaning,” he suggested. “I don’t want to hear that one from you again.”

Trick pursed his lips.

“Clear, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

Trick’s cheeks flushed. He hadn’t known it was an insult. Gods and hells… what other common vocabulary might Sir Hendry consider offensive? Since when was it okay to smack somebody around just because he didn’t know the exact definition of one word?

As Trick stewed in his mistreatment, he found his eyes wandering to Sir Hendry’s pack. The knight had tied Holly’s knobbly iron stake of a hair pin to an outside flap. Trick couldn’t help but observe that the pin must be jostled quite a bit whenever Sir Hendry moved. Dangling from the pack like that, it might easily wiggle itself free.

“Enough bickering,” Sir Hendry was saying. “We found what we came for, and we got out alive.” He turned a kindly gaze to Trick, and Trick snapped his attention guiltily away from the hair pin. “You have the Coin, lad?”

An opportunity.

Trick felt it with every muscle in his body. A classic misdirection. All attention would be on the onyx coin as he withdrew it from his bag. For that brief instant…

He reached into his satchel. His fingers found the flat circle of stone. As he pulled it out, his other hand moved, almost without him willing it—and the Coin gave a knowing thrumm.

Trick held it out, heart pounding. He glanced up at Sir Hendry.

But the old knight’s expression hadn’t changed. His eyes were on the stone. He looked satisfied. Victorious.

He hadn’t noticed the hair pin.

He hadn’t noticed.

Trick balanced the stone on the palm of his hand and offered it up, away from his satchel, where his other hand moved unseen. “We got it,” he agreed.

Milo peered in at the little disk. “Are you certain?” he asked, as Trick had known he would. And then, “Can you sense Cyric in there?”

A heavy pause as the party waited for Trick’s answer.

Yes, he could. Like a shadow in darkness, black against black, but of a different quality. Something solid in the abstract of his own mind.

A presence.

And Trick realized something else in the same instant.

Sir Hendry hadn’t noticed the hair pin.

But the Coin had.

Trick deliberated a moment. To the others, perhaps it looked only as if he were reaching out with his senses, trying to be sure.

“No,” he said at last. He shook his head at Milo. “No, he’s not there.”

The party sighed in relief.

Only Sir Hendry looked doubtful. He gave Trick a little frown. “You’re certain, lad?” he said. “There’s nothing?”

“I’m certain,” said Trick.

He looked into the old knight’s deep gray eyes. For a breathless moment, he thought Sir Hendry would challenge him. Trick felt a twinge of indignation at not being believed—but then Hendry heaved a sigh and shook his head.

“Odd,” he said. “Why would Cyric put a fragment of himself into the Thief idol, but not the Coin?”

“Maybe he meant to,” said Errol, “but he didn’t get to it in time. Or his cronies. Maybe that’s what they were trying to do when we cleared them out last week.”

Sir Hendry nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said.

Trick looked around at his companions as they debated. They’d bought the lie.

But… why had he lied?

The thought struck Trick suddenly. He gazed at the Coin in his hand. It contained a fragment of Cyric. Trick remembered the voice in his head, and he shuddered. Would this fragment speak to him, too?

It hadn’t yet.

Perhaps it wouldn’t.

Slowly, Trick’s heart rate returned to normal. He had no desire to hear Cyric’s voice again. If it did turn up, he’d tell the others at once. That seemed reasonable. The little stone wasn’t dangerous as it was. And…

He thought of Holly’s hair pin, deftly freed from Sir Hendry’s pack and tucked into Trick’s own satchel. He thought of the dagger he’d snatched up from the offerings at the ruined antechamber.

He’d stolen twice, right in front of Sir Hendry, and the old knight hadn’t noticed.

It had to do with the Coin, Trick knew. And he didn’t need Sir Hendry confiscating it just because it contained another one of these fragments.

He’d just hold on to it for a little while, Trick decided. It had felt damned good swiping that hair pin off of unsuspecting Sir Hendry, and Trick was in no hurry to give up his newfound power. Oh, to be able to scoot a stray coin off a countertop like he always used to, without Sir Hendry swooping in to slap him on the wrist. Trick’s fingers itched just to think about it.

Once they found the third Icon, the Dagger, then all three of them would be given over to whatever ritual Aloysius and Lady Lariel came up with to banish Cyric, or destroy him for good… Until then, it was fine for Trick to have a little fun, wasn’t it?

Just a little while. Then he’d come clean.