misjudgment, he thought, for there were clear targets and then there were clear targets. Bahzell’s knife had traveled twenty yards through rain-filled darkness to arrive exactly on its mark…thrown left-handed. He raised a thoughtful eyebrow and wrenched the heavy blade from the grisly ruin of Alwith’s throat.
“No, he won’t be making any mistakes again,” Wencit agreed, sitting back on his heels in the rain, but his expression was…not precisely worried, but perplexed , perhaps. “There should be something more than the ash of his staff, but I don’t see what.”
“How could you expect to find it if you don’t know what it is?”
“Are you a wizard?” Wencit asked patiently, and Kenhodan shook his head in quick disavowal. “Then don’t ask me to explain the art on a moment’s notice.” He puffed his lips and Kenhodan had the definite sense that the unseen eyes behind his witchfire gaze had just rolled. “You can’t imagine how many times someone’s asked me to do that! But my point at the moment is that I just can’t believe the shadows were all Wulfra sent with him. Her henchmen could’ve managed the earlier attack alone, with her to coach them and provide the information they needed to target it. But she clearly realized it might fail, which is why Alwith was ready to follow it up, and I can’t accept that she gave him and the other two no special aid beyond the shadows! I was hoping for a clue to whatever else she might’ve given them. If I’d found it, I would’ve recognized it.”
“Suit yourself.” Kenhodan shrugged.
“It doesn’t suit me a bit. Something’s missing, and that bothers me as much as whatever’s behind her new tactics. There’s been an addition or change, and I want to know what it is and how it happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“If anyone had asked me, I would’ve said it was impossible for her to summon something like the shadowmage even with her students’ power joined with hers. On top of that, it’s not like her to give such a weapon to another. Especially not someone like Alwith, who might turn on his teacher. It worries me to find her doing unanticipated things.”
“Don’t most wizards know about these shadows? How can you be sure it’s beyond her strength?”
“The art isn’t a campfire you build higher or lower with a stick of wood!” Wencit turned suddenly snappish. “ Someone —Alwith or Wulfra or one of the others—must’ve rummaged through the shadow lines for our opponents. You never know what you’ll meet out there, and moving something like the shadowmage increases the odds of attracting some very powerful entities between the worlds. Some of them, like Tomanāk, would simply obliterate someone like Wulfra with a thought. Others would take their time devouring her soul one inch at a time.” He shook his head. “Taking chances like that isn’t like the Baroness.”
“But would it be impossible for her?” Kenhodan asked.
“Whatever she may have told the world, she practices blood magic,” Wencit said grimly. “That means she could raise the power, but controlling it—that’s something else entirely. It’s her will I question. She’d have precious little margin for error, and if her will wavered even for an instant there’d be a smoking crater where her castle stands. That means it took more courage than she normally displays.” He stood and frowned. “No, that’s not really fair. She’s willing to take risks if she has to, but she’s cautious. She wouldn’t take such a chance unless she thought she absolutely had to. That’s what’s so strange about it.”
They reentered the tavern, wiping rain from their hair, and Wencit leaned over the bar for a squat bottle and two glasses. He poured pungent, cinnamon spiced Belhadan rum and handed one glass to Kenhodan, who sipped the strong spirits thoughtfully.
“So how do you explain it?” he asked finally.
“I can’t.” Wencit leaned one elbow on the bar
“No, he won’t be making any mistakes again,” Wencit agreed, sitting back on his heels in the rain, but his expression was…not precisely worried, but perplexed , perhaps. “There should be something more than the ash of his staff, but I don’t see what.”
“How could you expect to find it if you don’t know what it is?”
“Are you a wizard?” Wencit asked patiently, and Kenhodan shook his head in quick disavowal. “Then don’t ask me to explain the art on a moment’s notice.” He puffed his lips and Kenhodan had the definite sense that the unseen eyes behind his witchfire gaze had just rolled. “You can’t imagine how many times someone’s asked me to do that! But my point at the moment is that I just can’t believe the shadows were all Wulfra sent with him. Her henchmen could’ve managed the earlier attack alone, with her to coach them and provide the information they needed to target it. But she clearly realized it might fail, which is why Alwith was ready to follow it up, and I can’t accept that she gave him and the other two no special aid beyond the shadows! I was hoping for a clue to whatever else she might’ve given them. If I’d found it, I would’ve recognized it.”
“Suit yourself.” Kenhodan shrugged.
“It doesn’t suit me a bit. Something’s missing, and that bothers me as much as whatever’s behind her new tactics. There’s been an addition or change, and I want to know what it is and how it happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“If anyone had asked me, I would’ve said it was impossible for her to summon something like the shadowmage even with her students’ power joined with hers. On top of that, it’s not like her to give such a weapon to another. Especially not someone like Alwith, who might turn on his teacher. It worries me to find her doing unanticipated things.”
“Don’t most wizards know about these shadows? How can you be sure it’s beyond her strength?”
“The art isn’t a campfire you build higher or lower with a stick of wood!” Wencit turned suddenly snappish. “ Someone —Alwith or Wulfra or one of the others—must’ve rummaged through the shadow lines for our opponents. You never know what you’ll meet out there, and moving something like the shadowmage increases the odds of attracting some very powerful entities between the worlds. Some of them, like Tomanāk, would simply obliterate someone like Wulfra with a thought. Others would take their time devouring her soul one inch at a time.” He shook his head. “Taking chances like that isn’t like the Baroness.”
“But would it be impossible for her?” Kenhodan asked.
“Whatever she may have told the world, she practices blood magic,” Wencit said grimly. “That means she could raise the power, but controlling it—that’s something else entirely. It’s her will I question. She’d have precious little margin for error, and if her will wavered even for an instant there’d be a smoking crater where her castle stands. That means it took more courage than she normally displays.” He stood and frowned. “No, that’s not really fair. She’s willing to take risks if she has to, but she’s cautious. She wouldn’t take such a chance unless she thought she absolutely had to. That’s what’s so strange about it.”
They reentered the tavern, wiping rain from their hair, and Wencit leaned over the bar for a squat bottle and two glasses. He poured pungent, cinnamon spiced Belhadan rum and handed one glass to Kenhodan, who sipped the strong spirits thoughtfully.
“So how do you explain it?” he asked finally.
“I can’t.” Wencit leaned one elbow on the bar
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