I head out of the housing as soon as the elevator grinds to a halt.

Amber spears cut through the clouds beyond the brown arch of the aqueduct and the close, crumbling walls on the side of the cliff, blinding eyes that spent an hour too long squinting in Blighttown. It's day up at Firelink, but somehow just as chill as below.

I'm not relishing reporting Shiva and Kirk and all the rest to the Darkling. It's been months since she and I worked a case together, but not nearly long enough since the last time I had to hear her say 'I told you so.'

The Darkling's not where I left her, by the old Fire Keeper's cage—she probably walked back up to the bonfire. I can't blame her.

More than anything I want to sit down. Maybe fall by the fire to close my eyes until the things I've seen today fade from the insides of my lids, just for a short while.

But the guilty can't be allowed to escape their sins. Not even in Lordran.

A voice comes down from the stairs to the shrine—a woman's, sounding nervous. "My lady…such a thing is unprecedented. To be summoned to the city of the sun for an audience with the goddess, in my condition, in my station... I am not worthy. Perhaps some other of my order would be more appropriate."

Then another woman's voice, quiet and clean but very clear and firm. "Your timidity does you no credit, nor does it pay homage to the Lords. But very well." I recognize the Lady of the Darkling and lower my sword. Her next words catch me off guard. "Hold a moment—do any of you smell that?"

"I do, lady." A large but lilting male voice. "Whatever it is, it smells of the swamp. Perhaps something from Blighttown has ventured here."

"That is why I alerted you, dolt."

Grinning, I reach the top just in time to see the three people around the bonfire draw their weapons. One is the Lady of the Darkling, and the other two are open faced men in heavy cleric's armor, hefting deadly looking long axes. Not one of them stands down when they see me.

There's one more person there: Rhea of Thorouland, her priestess's whites smeared with ash, her face pale beneath her hood but not as young as it used to be. When she sees me her eyes go wide, her hand leaping to her lips. Her humanity is almost glowing through her skin.

I stop at the top of the stairs and watch them carefully. "Didn't think I was that bad."

The Lady of the Darkling twitches, then sheathes her blades. "Solaire? I thought you'd—"

"Died?" I eye her swords. "Only nearly. No thanks to you."

She ignores the complaint. "I thought you were a hollow. Have you seen yourself?"

"Didn't take you for a delicate." I check. My lower portion is black with swamp filth, streaked with dust and cobwebs. Both my hands are bloody up to my elbows, and the front half of my hauberk is singed so much that I can barely make out what used to be my sun heraldry; looks like Kirk's blade got closer than I thought.

And my sword has found its way into my hand, somehow. I put it back in its scabbard with a final *click*. The clerics don't do the same.

One of them thumps the end of his axe into the ground. He's been around since the days of the prophecy, though we never spoke enough to get his name straight; clerics and the undead don't get along, especially now. "What a stench. You know this 'man,' my lady?"

The Darkling waves his words away with the back of her hand. "Nico, you idiot—it's Solaire of Astora. He's one of my brothers."

The other guard, the brown haired one, grunts wordlessly. I've never heard him speak.

"I'm Vince, my lady," says the first, the blonde one. "But that creature over there cannot be a Darkmoon Blade. In point of fact, he was the leader of the Sunlight Warriors. They were an odd bunch, that's for sure. Can't say I was sorry to see them go."

I move to the Darkling's side. "That's some gratitude, pretty boy."

"You see, my lady? He's mad." Vince moves closer to his silent counterpart. I've seen these two guarding Rhea lately, while she tends to the Firelink bonfire—I guess they didn't want a repeat of what happened to the last Keeper.

The Lady of the Darkling sounds like she's had enough of Vince—her and me both. "I know my friends, fool—tell me otherwise again and you'll not be one of them." She gives me one more look, as if confirm her own words. I want to lift my helmet and smile at her. Somehow it seems impossible.

Rhea touches the Darkling's arm. "Forgive Vince and Nico, my Lady. They are only doing their duty."

The Lady removes Rhea's hand from her shoulder, not unkindly. "I bid you remind your friends that the undead hunts of old are over. And that they now stand in the presence of servants of the Dark Sun. Now hold a moment." She seems to dismiss the clerics from her attention. "Solaire: I have something to tell you, before you go wandering down into another death trap."

"I was thinking the Abyss next."

Again she stares at me. I can feel her eyes boring holes in my chest, as if checking to make sure it's not empty.

I brush it off. "One of my famous jokes. Ha-ha."

"Very amusing. You'll want to know that Lady Gwynevere and Lord Gwyndolin have agreed on a meeting to the purpose in Anor Londo, along with any faithful followers of Gwyn." She nods to Rhea. "Rhea has been requested as the representative of the clerics of the Way of the White, though due to her…condition, she shall send a proxy." I can hear a faint note of contempt in her voice. The clerics shift uncomfortably, though Rhea only bows her head. "I shall be there as the proxy of Lord Gwyndolin," continues the Darkling. "For your rather unique history, Solaire, they thought it best that you attend as well."

"What's this about?"

She shakes her head. "Best if we all keep silent on that until the time is right."

"They must be big plans to get all three holy Covenants together for a chat," I press. "I assume Gwynevere's representing her Guards. Who else is going to be there?"

A note of warning enters her voice. "Stay away from Ornstein, Solaire."

Vince and Nico stiffen for a moment, and Rhea looks away from us again; the name of Ornstein is always followed by another name, even if no one dares to speak it out loud.

I stand up taller. "I'm not afraid of him. Of either of them."

She raises the hand with our covenant ring on it, a silent reminder of her rank. "Which is much the problem. That reminds me: tell me that you've come back from Blighttown with more than that delightful smell."

I pick my words carefully, let's say for the Fair Lady's sake. "Sure. I got an alibi from the Knights of Thorns, and I don't think the Servants are in any condition to make a grab for the surface. They're not…" I try to find the words to explain what I saw, but nothing seems to fit. "…things are worse down there than we thought."

The Darkling just stares at me. "And? Anything else? Any guesses on the burns you were so keen about?"

I shake my head. "This thing is air tight, lady. Shiva was right: the Covenant leaders can't account for everything their people are doing. I need to—"

"Shiva?" The Darkling's hands inch towards her swords again, some sort of unconscious urge. I've never seen her so jumpy at Firelink. "You met with Shiva of the East? Tell me that you took him down."

I run a hand over the top of my helmet—it's flat. How long has the feather been gone? I remember I plucked it out years ago, but not when or why. "He got me at a disadvantage, Darkling. I didn't have the chance."

"You didn't even try?" she shakes her head at me, disgusted. "You know how much sin he's accumulated. It was your duty as a Blade to punish him."

I could say I thought of trying. It wouldn't exactly be a lie. "Now look here—"

"Damn it, Solaire!" I can hear real anger in her voice, and something else—a frustrated hunger I heard from behind another bronze helmet a long time ago. I can understand the feeling, especially when it comes to bastards like Shiva. And if you get a little of their humanity along with the ear, well…

I give her a cold smile. "Well. Now you get to be in on the hunt, don't you?"

She misses my tone. "Where did you see him?"

"He took me to the Valley. That was where we parted ways—"

She brushes past me, drawing her swords. "He's taking the back way to the Darkroot—he'll have to sneak past the drakes, though. We may still have time." She dismisses me from her attention. "Vince, Nico, come with me. Old Gwyn can spare a few soldiers for his son's justice, I think."

The two clerics look at each other, then at Rhea. The young girl nods at them. "Petrus is here as well, and Knight Solaire can escort me to him. With all that his happening, this is more important than I."

"I'm going with the Lady," I say. Maybe I'll make Shiva walk the bridge first, this time.

The Darkling rounds on me. "You've done enough today. Stay with the girl—with Rhea, until you're sure she's safe. Then meet me at Anor Londo in the Princess's chambers."

I face her dead on. "What am I, a babysitter? I've still got a case to solve. And if you were right, I should be going after Shiva too."

"No." The Darkling leans towards me. "You're off the hunt for the Parish killers."

"What?"

She holds up three fingers, one of them ringed. "You disobeyed me by going to Blighttown, and you disobeyed Lord Gwyndolin, and you almost got yourself killed—don't try to lie to me, Solaire; you're a mess, and I can see battle fatigue."

I clench my hands to stop them twitching. "It was a lead. We still don't know if—"

"The only lead you got out of this was from a damn Forest Hunter. You do realize that they're the prime suspects, yes?" She throws her arms out. "And you let their top man go."

I point at her heart. "I get it. You expected me to just wait for Gwyndolin's go ahead, like a good little lap dog. I don't know about you, sister, but I'm not the one who thinks our lady-lord shits golden snakes."

"Vulgar." I can hear her breath whistling through the slots of her visor. "Watch your mouth, Solaire. And remember who took you in when everything seemed lost, and who your friends are now."

"I fucking remember." My hands sting against the bronze when I push her off, almost a blow. "But I'm not Gwyndolin's gods damned charity case. Or yours."

She steps back into her balance like a dancer. "I've had enough of this. I'm going to catch Shiva and do what you couldn't be bothered to—be at Anor Londo today or throw your Covenant ring in the Abyss. And then jump in after it for all I care."

"You're not going to catch anything, huntress." I grab her arm as she turns."He's got that silent bastard with him. Watch your back."

"I don't need the advice of a fallen Knight." She jogs down the stairs, regal bronze blurring away around the corner. Vince and Nico lumber after her excitedly, casting torn glances back at Rhea and me—but they go all the same.

I go to the cliff side and kick a brick out of the ruined all. It shoots through the air for a few feet and then disappears into the fjord. I wince; the kick reopened the puncture in my foot.

Thanks, Kirk.

Sighing, sagging, I lean against the wall and raise my heel for a few moments. Black drops plink into the grass.

"Are you wounded, sir?" Rhea approaches with her hands clasped beneath her sleeves. "I know a few minor miracles of healing."

"Don't bother." She's kept a good distance and kept her hood low, and she's staring at the ground. Is shame something the Fire Keepers inherit? Just like how Anastacia of Astora was—the three of us, her and Oscar and I, all born in the same land and come to die in the same land. I wonder how much they would remember of Astora now.

When she died, Oscar made me swear not to speak her name aloud. Not ever again.

The cold is a mantle of lead. I put my foot back on the ground and stand. I start to talk to keep my blood flowing. "I haven't seen you and your boys around lately. Where've you been?"

Her head bobs. "Vince and Nico have become restless these past years, since I rekindled the bonfire here. They swore to protect me, even when we were children, but…" she stares even harder at the ground "none of us thought events would transpire as they have."

She's talking about Oscar's prophecy. Right. Of course, that's all clerics ever talk about. "Disappointed, huh?"

She flinches. People tend to be nervous around my type—I can't say that I blame them. "It is not my place to pass judgment. It is my hope that I may still be of some use to those who hold fast to this world."

"I suppose that I should be thanking you for giving us sods a second chance. Your friends don't seem too pleased, though. You didn't say where the three of you have been going off to lately."

"Nico and Vince have had me accompany them on hunts in the catacombs. Most of the necromancers' servants have been cleansed, but there are still taints left to be excised."

I think of Patches. I suppose she has a point. "You've gone that far away? I didn't know Keepers could leave their bonfires"

I'm not looking at her face—strange how being undead makes it harder to look the living in the eye—but I catch a flash of surprise. "Of course, sir. Do you not know? The Darkmoon Knightess is also a Fire Keeper."

Had I forgotten? The first time Oscar and I ever met the Darkling, she was standing by that bonfire in Anor Londo. She must have mentioned it was hers. But every other Keeper I've seen has never left their charge, and I've been working with the Darkling for years. I must have forgotten. It gives me an ill feeling inside.

I ask Rhea how she knows for sure.

"Every Fire Keeper is marked by the flame….and it is not a pleasant thing, the burden of the Lord's fire. It is easy for one who has suffered to sense that suffering in others, to guess its nature."

'Marked by the flame.' I think of the Fair Lady; is all of her illness due to the poison in her? And Anastacia—the last Keeper—Oscar says her hometown, her own father, cut her tongue out.

Is it the bonfire that gives them the pain? Or the pain that draws them to the bonfire? I should know the answer to that question.

"And what's your suffering?" I take special care not to look her in the eye.

"It is a difficult thing to describe. I would rather you not ask me to do so."

"Have it your way." My foot seems better now. I raise my hands, offering a change of subject. "What about the Lady of the Darkling? What'd the flame do to her?"

Surprise, again. "You do not already—ah—I" she stops for a second, flustered, and speaks more carefully. "By the tones you took with each other, I had assumed that you…Are you not a friend to her?"

"Sometimes."

"And you have never seen her face?" She sounds surprised.

I suppose us undead get too used to wearing armor. "No. You don't take your helmet off on the job. Does she have cat's lip or something?" I force a chuckle.

Rhea looks away from me. "You should not jape so. But I have spoken out of turn as well. You must ask her if you wish to know."

"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea." I push off and head up the hill towards the Firelink ruins.

Rhea shuffles behind me. "I should not have said anything. Here, please, I beg that you replenish yourself before we go on."

"Thanks." Stupid of me—I'd almost forgotten I was out of estus. I cut towards the fire on my way to the chapel and dip my estus flask into the flames. The heat is only distant. I tilt my helmet to take a few sips while I'm there and then refill the bottle, but the feeling wicks away in seconds. Rhea's been watching me again. I nod up at her before straightening.

She bows. "It…gladdens me to be of some use. Few have come this way these past few years. I fear that there are not many undead with the will even to reach this place."

"Maybe that's for the best." I head towards the broken chapel: there's a pool of rainwater there that I'd like to make use of.

"Where are you going, my lord?"

"To get this smell off. Petrus should be up by the elevators, right?" I manage a smile, though of course she won't see it.

She doesn't answer. When I stand before the door-less mouth of the chapel I realize that Rhea is still with me, standing silently a few feet off to my right.

I take the steps. "Was there something you wanted, cleric?"

I can hear her take a few breaths. "If you must ask, yes. I wished to speak to you, for I have had questions for you for some time, if you would not mind answering them."

"Let me guess."

Her voice rushes a little. "Let me explain myself, sir. If not for the Chosen Undead—"

"You would have died in the Tomb of the Giants, I know." I wade into the pool of rainwater. It's been sitting there without sun for days. If I was still alive I would be shivering like a fool.

Rhea leans over the edge of the water, probably intent on catching my words through the splashing. "How did you know of that?"

"Oscar. That was his name, you know." The water around me is turning black as I douse myself.

"Yes, I…I had heard you were a great friend to him." For the first time she sounds excited, even pleased.

I lift up my bucket helmet and wash my face, then slide it back down. Rhea lets out a little gasp. I must have splashed her.

"Yeah. I was a great friend."

"You…you assisted him on his quest?"

"Most of the time. Other times he told me what he'd done, later."

She's standing with her hands behind her back, staring down into the rippling pool. "I did not know him long, but he seemed to be a good man. What was he like?"

Dried blood flakes from my hands and into the water. "He liked to laugh. He trusted people. He didn't enjoy violence."

"Thank you." Her voice is like a child's, so small, so like the Fair Lady's, like so many men and women who I've passed by in Lordran. The land of the giants knows how to make you feel small.

"Were you there when it happened, Knight Solaire?"

"I saw it happen, if that's what you mean." I step out of the water. Something weighs at me by the entrance, that lead weight again. I brace my hand against the doorway and wait for it to pass.

Rhea steps in front of me. Her chin is lifted for the first time, like she's about to go into battle. "I am sure that you did all that you could. I have not come to know you well these past years, my lord, but I believe that Oscar kept good company."

Her words pass through me like the touch of a ghost. Like the warmth of the fire, like chill of the water.

"Leave me alone."

I push off and start walking again.

Rhea follows in silence the rest of the way to the elevators, to where Petrus is waiting. When I go she bids me farewell, not meeting my eyes. "Vereor Nox," she says.

I keep walking. Good company. Good friends. I'm sick to death of Firelink.

Sick to death.

Ha-ha.

I have a feeling that the Lady won't find Shiva. I think she knew it too. Maybe that's why she was so furious, because she knew that there are some men you'll never catch and hated to hear me say it to her face. I can relate. There's a yellow knight who squats in the center of a spider web of debt and lies from behind a soapstone sign in Anor Londo; like a lot of us he's settled down some since Oscar's prophecy went bust. For him 'settling' means trading in secrets instead of blood.

That's a thought—an unpleasant one, one I'd swore I'd never fall back on. But maybe I'm not out of leads after all. I fish in my belt for my homeward bones. Looks like I still have one from the bonfire—the Lady's bonfire—in Anor Londo. Will she know if I use it?

But I'm going there anyways. I'll just make a little detour on the way to the Princess. No one has to know. Except Lautrec, of course. And maybe he knows something of his own. I think back on what Patches said, back in the catacombs. Does the Yellow Knight have his fingers in this after all?

Not that I need another excuse to beat the murderous bastard's face in.

I take a few minutes to think before I crush the bone. It gives me plenty of chances to change my mind, but I'm too tired to try; I have a feeling that he's my last chance to light this fire before the case goes stone cold.

After a flash of light, after a bone plucked from the Lady's charge (the fire's still going, so she must be alive), after a long walk across the sun baked bridge beneath the clouds of molten gold and the pointed sand colored spires, I watch my shadow bend ahead of me and slip through the crack in the palace gates. I'm guessing they're open as some sort of sign of goodwill to the Covenants. The sun spills in around me as I step inside, casting brands of light through the dimness, across the pillars, across the tapestries, across the statue-still armor of the sentinels at their posts. I duck into one of the side halls without being noticed. It only takes a few minutes to find the secret spot on the ground and clear its dust with the toe of my boot. Lautrec's signature glitters oily and spit-white around my foot, hidden in an alcove behind a vase. No one's around.

I crouch down and press my hand to the sign.

"Who's there?"

A dark world, a shadow mockery of Anor Londo sweeps in around me. I have no idea where this place came from and I don't care to. The echo I heard came from somewhere down a marble corridor, its exact source impossible to locate. The shadows reel and pitch when I lift my skull lantern again.

"I'm here to talk, Lautrec! Come out! Show yourself!" I know it's him. The bastard's going to make me wait. Another one of his petty games. Refusing to budge, my hand gripping the pommel of my broad sword, I stand my ground. "Come out!"

A sound barely human bounces back—a sort of cough and a choke and a giggle all in one breath. "I am indisposed. You will have to come to me, stranger. I'm up ahead. I can see your lantern—just a little closer." Something's wrong; it's his voice all right, but the words are slurred, strangled, as if something inhuman was trying to imitate Lautrec's usual husk.

I check behind me for any friends of his. Shadows and closed doors behind, pitch black beyond. The hallway's ceiling is tall enough for a giant and wide enough for one, too. I hope that this world doesn't have its own guards. Maybe the sign sent me to the wrong place.

My eye catches some spots on the floor. I shuffle closer, hand itching to draw my blade. Dark spots, three of them in a sort of trail. My breath catches. I push on. The trail gets thicker, more consistent, a long snake of black. My lantern's light catches the edges of an empty door frame as I step into a side room to see a form huddled on the far wall. A man in spotted armor.

He's squirming in a pool of crimson. The arms built into his cuirass cradle a weeping slit of red between them, and his lap is bathed in dried brown blood. His plated shoulders and hips rattle against the icy air as the faceplate of the crowned helm trembles up, its piss-yellow surface bulbous and many ported like the eye of a monstrous fly, searching for me.

"Lautrec." I don't remember crossing the darkness to kneel down beside him.

He slumps towards my voice. "Old cheerful Solaire of Astora? Didn't he say that he would kill me the next time we met?"

"It looks like someone beat me to it."

This can't be happening.

He hacks, and with it blood oozes from the lower pinholes of his helmet, dripping off its sharp edge and into the loosely cupped hands in his lap. The wall is the only thing keeping him upright. "I don't believe it. You must have stolen his clothes."

The air of this nightmare Anor Londo prickles my face as I lift my helmet off and set it aside, getting a close look the wound in Lautrec's chest. I don't dare move his arms out of the way; his body looks like it's been deflated somehow, imploded. The liquid coming out of that hole is thicker than blood is supposed to be. And there's blackening around the edges. The smell. The burns.

My mouth is dry. My throat is wool. "What happened, Lautrec?"

Lautrec doesn't seem to hear. "By the Lords, your face you…you really are slipping, Solaire. But I can help you, yes, I can. It's a good thing you came back…"

He reaches out, blindly, and I lean away. His fingers twitch as I repeat my question. "What happened?"

I can hear the blood bubbling behind his smile. "Too many secrets and I burst like a fat little fly. And my good fellows, my so called friends, I did not have enough. They don't make friends like they used to. But you know that, don't you?"

"The murders, Lautrec, you must have heard. In the Parish. You—" I tear my eyes away from the emptied, smoking space in his chest "…who did this to you?"

He chuckles. "That's a pricy tip you ask for."

"No. No deals. No bargains. I should have booked you years ago, I should have, so you owe me this. And all I need is the guilty one's name." I watch him quiver as I speak. Somehow it's nothing like how I imagined this would happen. I always hoped it would be me.

"Fine. Your guilty name, then." He looks up at me again, a vision of a dozen eyes with blood behind them. "Knight Lautrec of Carim. I cut the throat of Oscar's silent paramour. And dozens more saints like her, poor, lost, helpless, maiden souls. I took their humanity for myself. And you did nothing. Such a terrible shame."

I hear my knuckles cracking. "I shouldn't have helped him break you out of that Gods damned cage. But he could never see what you were."

"I often think…I often think the same thing of you, Solaire." He coughs his insides up again.

"Gods damn you." Blood drops from my fists, where my nails bite into my palms.

"Oh yes. Let me tell you how." Lautrec's helmet lolls back and forth. "She was quiet. Even when I cut her throat she died so quietly. She put her head against the bars and I could see the ash in her hair. Beneath it was the color of corn silk. It was like down, she was so young. I could have been her father, but I…I thought she was resting, you see, I had fooled you all. Fina forgave me."

His voice becomes a stone falling down a well.

"And I thought I was such a clever man."

I grab his shoulders and shake him, intending to scream at him, to hate him. The fluted shoulder guards are dimpling under my fingers, and now my voice is rasping like his, like two old ghosts shouting to each other across the Abyss. "I can't do this without help, Lautrec. I never could. Give me one of your blighted tips. Give me anything. It doesn't make sense anymore."

"My Goddess Fina, she forgives me for what I have done. Maybe she would even forgive you…" His glove quakes into the air, a mitt of red with a raised spot on his middle finger. "The ring. She loves me for the ring, my proof of my love…she loves me…"

His hand is the only part of him that's moving. I grab it and squeeze until I feel his bones grind together. "Help me, Lautrec, and I'll forgive you, I swear that I will."

Lautrec starts to shake. "You. Of all people. You." He's shaking—no, he's laughing.

He's laughing.