~*~

"And you trust her vision?" Overcaptain Querlat Dols’ legendary stare bored into Dylara, but she refused to look away. "Not only will another false accusation end your career—which would be a loss—but we can’t afford to waste time on a false lead, not with the Servants at work."

"She says her vision of Lyrdath is literal, not the metaphor that confused her last time." Dylara swallowed. "I trust her. She found those metal pieces, whatever they are."

"True enough."

"And we can’t hold back if Lyrdath’s involved, or Panjad could end up a ruin like Tanoob."

"Have no fear of that." Querlat’s lip curled. "If Lyrdath brings one of the Elder Children here, the council will bow to him in a heartbeat. Tanoob’s folk were made of sterner stuff. Now, I’ve spread word of those items you found, hopefully someone in the force will recognize them. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.

"Don’t fail, captain."

Dylara nodded. Without another word, she returned to her chamber.

"...identified the earring as Thalach’s own," Evrain was telling Shalban as Dylara entered. "No one knows what the coil is for."

"Nor I." In the light of the lamps—the curtains still drawn tight against the Tyrant’s remaining heat—Shalban turned the coil over and over. She’d doffed the goldsilk robe, but the expensive jerkin beneath showed her off to equal advantage, giving Dylara a sudden surge of desire that she firmly set aside. "Purple enamel over copper. Not part of any ritual I know or—"

"Are we sure it’s anything to do with the Servants?" Dylara asked. "Did they drop it or—"

"I wouldn’t have seen it otherwise, but I didn’t notice where it came from, watching that man die.... " Shalban swallowed; Dylara slid an arm around her. "And the sigil’s power clouded the spirits’ sight somewhat during the ritual. If it’s Lyrdath, the sigil must be real, but it comes from outside the five paths we know of."

"If? You’re not sure it was him?" Evrain asked.

"I can’t imagine any Servant would dare take his name falsely." Evrain nodded reluctantly. "But I did the sketch like you asked, love—they’re passing it around so everyone knows to look for him. If they find him tonight, while the Liberator is still free of light, Lyrdath will have no power he can call on." Shalban grinned suddenly. "Art was another skill my mother said was a waste of my time."

"Is it true Lyrdath can see the future?" Evrain asked. "The way the mages did back when the Tyrant ruled everything?"

"The Age of Order died when his sister turned against light and liberated us," Shalban said. "Now chaos gives us the freedom to choose our own path—though if any Servant could still foresee, Lyrdath would be the—"

"Captain, captain!" Young Guardian Shyl Rinels bounced eagerly into the office—Evrain, Dylara noticed, lit up at the sight of her—then almost immediately caught herself. "I have a report. From Stonequarter. About the purple coil your lov—your wizard found.

"So she really can do magic?" Shyl turned and glanced at Shalban. "Some of my friends said—" Dylara cleared her throat, pointedly. "Ah, yes, sorry captain. The purple coil is the mark of the Traders."

"Traders?" Shalban repeated blankly.

"Smugglers," Dylara said. "They supply rare, hard to find items—"

"To your friends and family in Goldquarter," Evrain said. "Imported honeyfish, stolen sculptures, spider dust." He turned to Shyl. "Good work, Guardian—you see, sister, ordinary police work is all we needed."

"I found the coil," Shalban said.

"We’d have moved the body eventually."

"You wouldn’t know Lyrdath was involved. Or what he looked like."

"I don’t understand," Shyl said. "The Servants bring death to those who break their laws, why would the Traders—"

"Break their laws," Shalban replied. "Stealing from the Servants, taking up arms against their enforcers. I doubt smuggling disturbs the Tyrant much."

"Well, you’d best speak to Nord Alriks," Shyl said. "She’s a merchant deals much with the Traders, not that we’ve ever proven it."

"There’s no time to wait." Shalban picked up her robe. "Let’s go at once."

"We?" Evrain said. "This is Guardian business—"

"I can tell you if this woman was one of the Servants in my vision. And Nord is Goldquarter, I know how she thinks."

"She thinks you’re an idiot!" Evrain set himself an inch from Shalban’s face. "An idiot who plays at being a Guardian, plays with my sister—"

"I play at nothing." To Dylara’s surprise, Shalban then smiled... "Or at everything. And yes, Nord undoubtedly thinks I’m an idiot and worse, unfashionable."

"And yet you don’t change."

"Why should I care what she thinks?" Shalban said. "I can afford to do as I choose, so why not?"

"And if my sister is humiliated in the process?"

"After we capture Lyrdath, what people think of Shalban will change," Dylara said. The words rang with a confidence that she didn’t entirely feel.

~*~

Nord Alriks had dark, tastefully perfumed hair, an expensive starsilk robe, and she faced Dylara, Shalban and Evrain from behind a desk of imported wood. Nothing screamed wealth like imported wood.

"Captain, bad enough you rouse me in the middle of the day—" Nord sipped from her silver goblet of date wine. Undoubtedly aged in wood, Dylara thought. "—but after your last visit to Goldquarter, can you really afford to make more wild accusations? To imply I’m some sort of a smuggler—"

"She takes it back," Shalban said, before Dylara could speak. "I’m the one implying what you are, which is a Servant of Light who sacrifices innocent souls to the Tyrant."

"Oh, I do hope you’ll repeat that somewhere more public," Nord said. "When the judge finds in my favor, I think I’ll request that your skin be lashed. Heavily. Be a pity, though, some of my friends have so enjoyed stroking it. Tell me, captain, is it as silky as I’ve heard?"

"Lyrdath performed a sacrifice in Dustquarter last night," Dylara said refusing to take the bait. "He has some involvement with the Traders, and you ... were suggested as a knowledgeable source."

"A Guardian." Nord purred the word, tilting her head as she studied Dylara. "Last year, Shasarra was begging for your affections, Shalban. Don’t you think you could do better than a swordswoman?"

"Than Dylara? Not possible." Shalban stepped closer to her lover. "And surely you’d agree there’s no better cause than fighting the Tyrant."

"Fighting with what? Your deep, dark eyes?" Nord’s full, berry-reddened lips broke into a smile. "Surely you don’t think you’re accompanying the captain because you’re useful outside of bed? Obviously your magic can’t identify me or—"

"It can do a great many things besides that," Dylara said, fighting the impulse to strike Nord’s nose. Beside her, Shalban conjured her sphere of darkness. "Particularly to one who’s been touched by Light. But be careful with your spell, love, we can’t afford to harm her—"

"Oh, sandstorms take you." With a laugh, Nord stood, reached forward and thrust her hand into the sphere. "I’ve hired other mages to entertain at my parties. I know perfectly well you’re harmless."

"I thought you might," Shalban said. Dylara felt like an idiot for suggesting it.

"And I doubt you can shape shadow into much in the way of erotic sculpture like Alynar or Toros can." Nord resumed her chair and took a leisurely swallow of wine. "While this has been delightfully amusing, I’m afraid I have work to do."

~*~

"How dare she?" Dylara hissed, scowling as they walked back down the well-swept street. "To insult you, to laugh at you—"

"Darling, I already told you I don’t care what she thinks: Why should you?" Shalban kissed her cheek but Dylara was too mad to take pleasure from it. "I know my choices are right, that’s what counts."

"Sometimes I wonder if the chaos you deal with hasn’t disordered your brain," Evrain muttered. "What are we without a name that commands respect?"

"And I can set the spirits to watch Nord and whisper where she goes. She won’t be able to tell, so she won’t have any objections, will she?"

"Do it," Dylara said, promptly. "Don’t let that sweet-smelling salt toad out of your sight—their sight—whatever it is."

She kissed Shalban’s cheek, then, and prayed to the Liberator that trusting her lover’s magic again wouldn’t prove as big a mistake as it had in the past.

As soon as the Liberator’s dark face rose, curtains across the city opened on the cool night air and crowds flowed into the street, drinking, shopping, eating, working, and hunting for prey or partners.

Staring out her window, Dylara reflected that any other night, her concerns would have been quickfingers working the crowd, Dustquarter cutthroats, a crooked fivedice game or two. Then home to Shalban before moonset.

Picking up her robe, she slid it over her breastplate, shaped from a crab-lion shell to fit her wiry frame. All two dozen Guardians in the room were armored.

"Remember, we don’t want to draw attention," Dylara said. "Keep your robes on, travel by twos or three, we’ll rendezvous two streets over from Nord’s warehouse."

"And we know Lyrdath is there how?" Shyl said, a little nervously.

"She visited the warehouse right after we left her," Shalban said. "Merchants don’t leave the house by day, they send their factors. And she’s there tonight, instead of at the Ruskall party." Adjusting his armor, Kosk scowled disbelief. "Trust me, if there’s one thing I know, it’s the rich.

"And the spirits couldn’t find her once she stepped inside. Either there’s not a single shadow in there, or the place has been Tyrant-touched."

"Or you’ve misinterpreted the spirits again," Evrain said, then adding quickly before Dylara could speak, "But of course, we can’t chance that. Not if Lyrdath might be hiding there."

Shalban grinned. "Ev, I look forward to your apologies after we enter the warehouse."

"We?" Dylara said. "Shalban, you will stay here."

"Of course I won’t. You need me—"

"You’ve said yourself, Lyrdath has no power under darkness. That means this is a job for warriors, not mages."

"Indeed?" Shalban raised an eyebrow. "And if I choose to walk there on my own? Or hire a chair and bearers, for that matter?"

"You won’t." Dylara saw the other Guardians watching her, smirking at her inability to control her pet. "Because I’m asking you not to. As a favor to me."

Indignation and outrage chased themselves over Shalban’s face. But Dylara knew she’d agree.

~*~

"It’s funny, isn’t it?" Dylara stared at Nord’s warehouse, watching the Guardian patrols and a few wagonloads of goods cross the street in front of it. "I used to complain about so many Guardians being assigned to protect trade goods when crime elsewhere—"

"But everyone who sees us will assume there’s an extra-valuable load of water-eye crystal or something coming in," Evrain said. "Even if Nord has her own guards, they won’t suspect anything until we’re close."

"I don’t see any guards." Kosk stood by them, studying the building. "And it’s the windowless style they were building a decade ago, when that was supposed to make them impregnable."

"Then came rot-lock." Dylara hefted a small, hard leather vial of the solvent she’d obtained from the Guardian’s resident alchemist. "If we’re wrong, remember—"

"You mean if Shalban’s wrong," Evrain said.

"—our story is, we were warned about Traders burrowing into the warehouse from their infamous tunnels, had to move fast and had no idea whose it was. Nord won’t believe it, but it’s plausible enough to protect us." But we won’t need an excuse, because Shalban’s right this time. I have faith in her.

When they reached the warehouse’s nearest door, no one was in sight but a Guardian patrol that, having been alerted, nodded silently and moved on. Dylara started to uncork the rot-lock, then reached out and jiggled the handle. To her surprise, it opened.

A long, unguarded corridor stretched into the center of the warehouse. Beckoning the others, she stepped inside, hearing conversation from somewhere not too far ahead.

No sooner had the door closed behind the last Guardian than light, blinding as the Tyrant at the summit of his path, filled the hall. Dylara felt her body collapse to the stone floor, limp as a clump of suckweed.

~*~

Am I worthy of her? Sitting on Dylara’s desk, Shalban stared up at the lightless moon. Am I the lover she deserves?

Three generations before, nobody would have wondered. Dark mages, few in number, had been mystics, respected visionaries, probing into shadow for the essence of freedom and truth. Then rich dabblers had latched onto dark magic as a novelty, sculpting magedark for party decorations, unleashing the spirits for chaos pranks.

To practice dark magic today defined you as frivolous.

To claim it had serious use defined you as a fool.

[Bad enough the way her brothers sniggered about what the "brawny swordswoman" must be like in bed, but the thought loving Dylara hurt her standing as a Guardian....] She’s so proud, and pride is so easily wounded. Sometimes I wonder if I don’t bring her more pain than joy.

"But I can’t leave you. I won’t leave you! And once we capture Lyrdath, they’ll forgive you for listening to me last time. And he is there, Dyl, I know he’s—"

The next instant, raw, unbelievable pain knocked Shalban off the desk to the cheaply woven rug in front of it. Her goblet fell beside her, spewing scented water over the floor.

For what seemed like eternity, images of Dylara, paralyzed, being dragged down a hall and placed inside some vast sigil fluttered and jittered through Shalban’s pain-filled consciousness. When they faded, along with the pain, she staggered to her feet, cursing softly.

Ev’s right, I am an idiot. She’d set the spell three moons ago, to alert her if Dylara were in mortal danger. I thought the warning would be more—subtle.

Shalban imagined the reaction if she took a magic warning to the other Guardians.

To anyone.

"Sorry, Dyl, I think this lets me out of my promise." Shalban headed for the door, praying she could reach the warehouse before Dylara died.

Suspended from the Servants’ hands, Dylara saw the coldly-glowing bronze lines set into the stone floor, then her captors turned her face up and set her down. She guessed that the sigil maintained the spell that had left her too weak to move more than her eyes.

Glancing around, she picked out Nord in Servant’s red-and-gold livery. The woman looked at her, smirked, and whispered to her neighbor, who tittered approvingly, started to whisper back—then fell silent, stepping to one side.

Lyrdath walked through the crowd of his followers. Even without Shalban’s sketch, Dylara would have known him for a wizard: Power and arrogance radiated off his face and posture like heat from the mid-day sand.

He came to a stop a dozen feet away, but a strange mirage of light, his exact double, sprung from his body and kept striding forward.

Smiling cruelly, Lyrdath bent over. The mirage, standing before Merak Drulans, did so too. Lyrdath reached down and the mirage thrust its hand into Merak’s eyes.

Dylara heard him cry out in pain, then shock, and then start to sob—not with pain or fear, but horrible, wrenching cries of utter despair.

The figure grew brighter and despair seized Dylara too, a grim certainty her foolishness had cost the life of every Guardian around her.

To Shalban’s surprise, the warehouse door was unlocked, and no guards stood inside. They must have assumed no one else would come for them. How were they to know of my spell?

What she saw within stopped her heart. Piles of discarded sword belts and weapons dotted the hall, and light spawned of sorcery flickered from somewhere deeper inside the warehouse.

"Liberator save us." Lyrdath had triumphed over darkness.

If he can work magic, I can’t stop him. An abyss opened up in her heart, swallowing everything. I can’t save Dyl.

"But I can die trying." Shalban drew a long knife from one of the abandoned belts, then raced down the corridor, her speed only restrained by the need for silence.

The shining figure withdrew its insubstantial hand from Merak’s eyes.

Two of the Servants stepped forward and raise Merak’s body, so that Dylara and everyone else could see he was dead.

I was a fool. Tears flooded Dylara’s eyes, half-blinding her and staining her cheeks. To think I could stop something like this. Such a blind, weak fool.... A part of her mind whispered that the thoughts weren’t hers, that they had something to do with Lyrdath’s radiant double, but she couldn’t quite believe it.

"Where is the mage?" Lyrdath’s mouth moved, but his voice came from the figure of light. "Before I etched the sigil in Dustquarter, I foresaw her presence here tonight. Where is she?"

His twin gazed at her, even as it bent over another victim. Resistance, defiance, thinking for herself, all seemed suddenly pointless. "Well, woman?"

"I wanted her ... safe." The words seemed detached from conscious thought. "She’s waiting in my chambers."

"She’s following you." There was no doubt in Lyrdath’s voice. "She will enter this room with no difficulty, and here she will die. Despite the shadows unleashed by the Rebel Bitch, I can still trace the pattern ordained by the Master. She will come, she will die—and I will have the last of the power I need."

The second victim stopped sobbing; Dylara had no idea which Guardian it had been. Lyrdath and his twin straightened up.

"Can you imagine how many souls I have taken in already to strengthen my own?" Lyrdath said. "To make it strong enough to stand outside my own body, filled with the Master’s holy light? Showing every one of you the folly of trying to live without divine order.

"Now, even with the Bitch’s darkness at its height, I still possess my magic. All I need is souls to feed it."

His twin turned toward Dylara. In that instant she knew everything was lost.

That’s not possible. Listening from a shadowed archway, Shalban started to shake her head, then stopped. It’s obviously possible.

It’s wearing on him, though; his face is drenched with sweat. Perhaps— Thought stopped as Shalban saw Lyrdath’s soul approach Dylara.

Summoning all the darkness within her, Shalban sent it billowing throughout the room. Drawing her knife, she prayed it would be enough.

Dylara saw darkness blot out everything except Lyrdath’s shining soul, and the glow rising from the bronze sigil below her. Hope surged, then died when she heard Lyrdath laugh, hearty and jovial. "At last."

Then she heard a commotion, a cry from one of the Servants, then Lyrdath again. "What? No! Hold her, fool!"

The shining figure froze. For just a second, the light from the floor vanished and Dylara’s strength returned.

Then light exploded from Lyrdath’s soul, dispelling the darkness, and Dylara’s weakness returned. She saw Shalban, struggling in the grip of two Servants, a dagger dropping from her hand.

"You broke the pattern, darkmage!" A piece of Lyrdath’s red robe now hung loose; there was no blood, but the words came from him, not his soul-double. "You were to attack my soul-self—not me!"

"It seems your foreseeing is overrated." Shalban’s words were calm, but she gave Dylara a worried glance. "The Tyrant’s design broke long ago."

"Oh, did it?" Lyrdath drew himself up and slapped Shalban’s face. "You’re here, I’m alive; the Traitor Bitch can blur the Master’s weaving, but she can’t change it.

"Now, I will drink your magic-steeped soul and strengthen my own to the utmost extent." His laugh came from his soul now, as it turned and stalked toward Shalban. "Do you feel the folly of defying the Master? The uselessness of life without order?"

"Folly?" Shalban laughed. "Light’s greatest mage sounds like my sister."

"Enjoy your mirth." Both Lyrdaths scowled. "I imagine it will make the pain of despair that much worse."

Dylara wanted to look away from Lyrdath’s soul, but as it stepped closer to Shalban she made herself watch, groping for some hope.

She couldn’t even imagine hope.

"Feel the futility of a wasted life," The cruelly shining hand thrust for Shalban’s eyes. "And then die of despair.

"Wasted life." A ragged moan ripped from Shalban’s throat—and then another laugh. "Now you sound like my mother. Except—for dying—of course."

"Impudent—!" Lyrdath started forward, and then caught himself as his double shifted position. "I’ll make you submit—"

"Then you’ll be unique—won’t you?"

She’s fighting it. But between the words, Dylara could hear Shalban beginning to sob. Even she’s not strong-willed enough to win. Nobody is.

Yet in the same instant, Dylara felt her strength return. The light from the bronze pattern had dimmed, restoring her, at least a little in both body and spirit.

Why? Dylara shifted her gaze onto Lyrdath, still guiding his soul—but with veins bulging in his neck, fists knotted in the torn flap of his robe.

"Liberator." He’s never had anyone fight his soul’s spell before. It’s taking its toll, draining his other magic.

But I’m still so weak. And weaponless. And if— She heard Shalban weep, the hopeless sound of someone about to break completely. And she heard Lyrdath laugh.

"Bastard!" Dylara was on her feet before she realized she was strong enough. "Guardians, take them!" Without waiting, she charged Lyrdath.

He swung around, startled, and his soul swung away from Shalban. With a curse, he made it turn back, while a Servant stepped into Dylara’s path and thrust a dagger into her chest.

The blade skated across her armor a second before she punched the man in the throat. As he fell, choking, she snatched the dagger from his hand.

"I told him we should have taken your swords for ourselves." Another man confronted her, wielding a long, saw-edged knife. "But I’ll have to make do, won’t I?"

"No, you won’t." As the other Guardians engaged the Servants, the man swung his blade for Dylara’s throat. She parried with the dagger then flung herself against him, stabbing him in the belly before he could defend himself. He screamed, dropping the knife as she flung him to the floor. "Lyrdath!"

Light streamed from Lyrdath’s soul, filling the room, and Dylara released the knife. It wouldn’t help. Nothing would help.

"You will not break the pattern." Lyrdath’s voice was shrill, ragged. "I will conquer all, I have seen it. Finish them, Servants, then the mage can be—"

"No." Shalban said it in a voice almost as ragged as Lyrdath’s. And then again, "No."

And shadows filled the room, jostling and warring with the light of Lyrdath’s soul, and Dylara could hear the spirits whispering defiance, refusing to let it dispel them.

One of the Servants seized Dylara. In the shadows, she found she had enough strength to hit back, grab the man, and hurl him into someone else. Around her, in the dark, a dozen or more brawls had begun anew. "Don’t let them reach the mage. I shall finish him, now."

Dylara started towards the light, stopped to grope for a knife, then reconsidered. Instead of the light, she charged for where she’d seen Lyrdath, swinging the knife wildly.

A moment later, it snagged in someone’s robe, jerking from her hand. She shoved whoever it was aside, strode past them, collided with another body and fell to the floor.

Lyrdath’s soul cried out in shock and fell itself.

It’s him! Beneath me! She felt him struggle to rise, reached for and found his face, then smashed his head hard against the floor.

His soul vanished.

In the next second, so did the shadows.

"Stand back!" Her back to the wall, Nord had a dagger clutched to Shalban’s tear-streaked throat. There were other fights around them, but Nord’s eyes were fixed on Dylara. "Unless you want your pretty toy to die, you’ll end this, and let us leave with Lyrdath by the tunnels. A reasonable trade, no?"

"No." Dylara took a step forward. Nord stared at her incredulously and dug the knife in a little. "If you kill her, there’s no way you’re going to escape, is there?" She took a step closer; Nord made a baffled squeal of warning. "And then I’ll avenge my lover.

"You have a wooden desk and a lot of money, but do you have the courage to face what I’ll do to you then? Do you?"

"I—I can—if you don’t—"

Nord’s hand began quivering so badly that it shifted the point away from Shalban’s neck. With a swift movement, Shyl—the closest Guardian—caught Nord’s arm, tugging the blade further away from Shalban.

Dylara caught the merchant’s wrist a second later. Nord screamed as her bones snapped.

After that, the end was swift in coming.

"Nord, Lyrdath, all of them are inside the Dark Hall at the Liberator’s temple." Stretched out naked on the bed, Dylara cuddled Shalban to her chest. They’d made it home with the Liberator slowly sinking in the sky. "Not even Lyrdath’s new powers will help him there. And Nord broke and told us enough to round up her fellow Traders."

"I imagine that will make you quite unpopular in Goldquarter." Shalban said with a giggle. "That will give us something in common."

"You won’t be unpopular when word spreads about this." Dylara kissed the top of her lover’s head. "Panjad will ring with your name, the woman who defied the power of Lyrdath—"

"I care nothing for that, only that I saved you." Shalban shifted to meet Dylara’s mouth with her own. "I mean, I care I saved Panjad, but I’d rather lose my own life than—"

"You almost did lose it tonight," Dylara said. "I’m not letting you—" Shalban kissed her again. "I know, I know, you’ll do what you want—" And again. "Alright, alright, but as long as I can draw sword, you’ll never come so close to death again!"

"I know." Shalban adjusted her position, kissed the tip of Dylara’s nose, and began nibbling on her cheekbones. "Do you know why I love you? From the first moment, you’ve accepted me for who I am, not who I’m supposed to be. Even if it’s hard for you."

"I’m proud of who you are, only—" Shalban stopped kissing in surprise. "Only you talk far too much sometimes."

Kissing her lover on the lips again, Dylara made sure she was too busy to say another word until long after the Tyrant rose.