A/N: Sorry. My betareaders have been ill, and I've been on vacation. But I'm back with a new chapter and a whole new story.

Chapter Four

Jarlaxle watched as Entreri stormed out of the room, Nyx following close behind. Humans could be so exasperating, and yet the drow did understand why Entreri was angry.

You betrayed me.

The assassin hadn't said it, but he might as well have. Jarlaxle frowned, caught somewhere between his impulses for profit and survival and his growing feelings of friendship for Entreri, the man who had always fascinated him and who had chosen to save him from his treacherous lieutenants and the Crystal Shard. Jarlaxle admired the man's intelligence and poise as well as his rigor of self-discipline and self-denial that drow society completely lacked.

Jarlaxle sighed profoundly. Entreri underestimated what the drow was capable of, what he could achieve even in the face of the Stonars' resistance. Yet at the same time, he knew he had to apologize and take Entreri's rebuffs seriously, unless he wanted to end up in a life or death battle with the man.

"I compromise more for you than any other I've ever met," Jarlaxle murmured to himself as he started after the humans. "Why do I alter who I am to retain your company?" He found it perplexing at best, but he couldn't deny that Entreri's anger concerned him. He had to find the man and vindicate himself—to explain that betrayal had not been his intention. Yet when he reached the hallway and looked up and down it, he saw no sign of his companions.

"A magical trap," he reasoned, examining the crimson tile floor, the walls with the endless mural depicting dragons, gorgons, and chimera, and the arched ceiling which created an upside-down V. Should he turn right or left? He hadn't paid enough attention to Entreri's retreat to remember. "Artemis?" he yelled. His voice echoed down the hallway, but there was no answer. Jarlaxle exhaled heavily, unsurprised. If his calls weren't being defeated by magic, then Artemis was being incredibly stubborn as usual.

Left, then. Jarlaxle walked to the end of the hallway and carefully entered the next room, searching for traps as he did. The room promised trouble, Jarlaxle decided, so he stayed near the doorway and glanced around.

The torch-lit room seemed to expand beyond him. The arching ceiling sparkled with thousands of crystals which shone mauve, lavender, and blue, while the white marble floor reflected the crystals. All four towering walls were made purely of mirrors. Jarlaxle narrowed his free eye, trying to determine what the catch was. Another doorway presented itself on the far side of the room, but the place simply screamed "trap."

Tiny goosebumps raced across Jarlaxle's skin like a thousand ants, and he stepped backward, certain he was in mortal danger. The doorway, however, had vanished, and all he achieved was bumping into the mirrored wall. Jarlaxle spun to face the mirror, and when he did, the room spun with him, spiraling around him like a whirlpool. It shrank as it swirled, closing in upon him and then snapping itself straight. The drow felt nauseated, but he shook it off when he realized the room had shrunken to a four-foot by four-foot space. Four mirrors surrounded him, each one illuminated by either the mauve crystals or the lavender ones. The pale blue crystals had stopped glowing.

His reflection in the mirrors began to change shape, first in the mirrors to his sides, which shone with mauve light. He glanced right and saw not his face but rather a memory: his mother and siblings hovering over him and smiling at his newborn cries as he lay on an altar. Purple fairie fire lit the corners of the room, but the altar was shrouded in darkness, causing his family's eyes to glow like red pinpricks in the dark. His mother, still covered in sweat from birthing him, approached the altar and raised her spider-shaped dagger and drove it at his chest. He screamed all the louder, but the dagger failed to kill him. His skin had reflected the blow, and his mother panicked, thinking her sacrifice was being rejected. Shrieking, she stabbed him over and over, not realizing that her mortal enemy was using telekinesis to shield her sacrifice and scare her. The infant before her shrieked, waving his tiny fists helplessly, terrified by his mother's violence and by the thuds being rained upon his chest.

Jarlaxle growled, disgusted by their treachery and the rite itself. Bands like iron spider threads wrapped around his lungs, constricting his breath and his heart alike. Seeing his mother trying to kill him hurt and angered him despite his life-long attempts to brush it away as the Drow Way. Lolth had spent too long torturing him with the memory he otherwise would not have remembered.

Jarlaxle pressed his hands against his temples, trying to push away the image, then glanced sharply to his left only to be confronted with another memory: the scene before him now was himself as a six-year-old child. His wean mother had her arm raised high, her writhing snake-whip hissing in her grasp, and before Jarlaxle could close his eyes, he saw her bring the whip down on his exposed back. Blood flew across the obsidian floor. Jarlaxle squeezed his eyes shut then, not wanting to watch what he knew would happen. Because of another child's lies and betrayal, he would be beaten skinless by her rage-fueled whip, the white of his ribs exposed to the air.

However, even though he could close his eyes, Jarlaxle couldn't escape the sounds:

"How dare you disobey me!" The priestess's yells echoed in the obsidian chamber, bouncing off the ceiling to pound into his head over and over.

The sound of leather ripping through flesh accompanied another scream.

"You're worthless! Meaningless! You exist merely to be canon fodder, to die in service to us."

The words seemed to hammer through Jarlaxle's brain. He shook his head, trying to force the memory away, but the screams and sobs only intensified, underscoring how small, helpless, and powerless he'd been then—and never wanted to be again. He even felt the burning strikes against his back, felt the hot tears on his cheeks, felt the stinging rawness of his throat from his screaming.

Realizing he would have to look into another mirror in order to stop the image, Jarlaxle faced straight forward and opened his eyes. The momentary silence was a relief, but an image began forming as the new mirror shone with lavender light. When the picture formed, Jarlaxle decided he was seeing the future. He barely recognized himself: he looked to be nearly 1000 years old, his skin wrinkled and hanging from his bones. He was sitting alone in the dust of Calimport, surrounded by hovels and horse dung, and he wore only a loincloth. He was so starved that his ribcage and joints protruded from his body and his cheeks had sunken into his face. A gilded carriage passed him by, and he lifted a shaking arm toward it. Curses flew from the window, leaving the starving elf to drop his arm and shake with dry tears.

Jarlaxle could feel the sand biting into his bare skin and feel its scorching heat burning him. He could hear the flies that buzzed over the horse manure that stung his nose. He could feel the pain in his stomach, the humiliation tingling in his cheeks, and the dry coughing of his sobs.

Bile rose in Jarlaxle's throat, and the tang of acid burnt the back of his tongue and his sinuses. Twirling away, he closed his eyes again, not wanting to see what the final mirror showed him. What was this? His future? A possible future? A prediction that he would return to his previous state, just like he was as a child—helpless and powerless, hated and abused? He'd rather take his own life than live such an existence.

Behind him, he heard an aged, croaking version of his own voice begging for scraps of food. The sound wouldn't leave unless he opened his eyes again, he realized, but he feared what the final mirror would reveal.

It's just a torture device, he reasoned to himself. None of it is real. You would never allow yourself to sink so low. Girded by this reassurance, he opened his eyes and gazed upon the final, lavender-tinted mirror. Once again, he was met with the image of an ancient, shriveled version of himself. This Jarlaxle, however, was sitting on the throne of House Baenre, wearing a set of priests' robes that were ridiculously large for him. He was holding two handfuls of gems—rubies, sapphires, bloodstones, and diamonds—and he cackled insanely. The most disturbing part, however, was not the insanity, nor the absurdness of the scenario itself, but the words that his mirror self spoke next.

"Mad spider am I!" he was babbling in drow. "Gems pretty and dark! Life in water lovely. Lolth slave is me, pretty and spider! Gems mad is lovely me."

"Hells!" Jarlaxle gasped, nausea constricting his stomach. He was both insane and hideously ugly, his skin hanging off his face to create floppy jowls and his inner ears sprouting white hairs. He looked like a dried up husk—like an undead mummy alone in his tomb. The mere thought that the Spider Bitch would control and warp him sickened him; the idea that he would grow ugly and isolated terrified him. To be left alone in his madness, unable to reach out of his twisted mind and make contact with another living creature, was a fate worse than death. To be unable to speak or move freely, unable to make decisions and control his own fate . . .

Jarlaxle turned away again, only to find the other three mirrors glowing with blue light from the third set of crystals. The shape of a gigantic black widow was forming, and a spike of fear rammed through Jarlaxle's spine at the sight. If Lolth or one of her servants could actually be summoned here . . . Surely it was impossible, but—

Pulling out one of his swords, Jarlaxle struck the front mirror with the hilt, pouring every once of his strength behind the strike. The mirror shattered, cutting his hands and revealing a hallway beyond. Without a second thought, he fled.

Since it was his turn to be rear guard, Darvin was stuck following behind Tai and Miri and watching them flirt. The only good thing about this day was that he and Miri had apologized to each other for their earlier fight. Everything else was in shambles: They were following dirt paths through the forest instead of the main road to Zelbross, Tai had proven to be the most capable fighter during both of their confrontations with the Zhents, and Miri was blatantly attracted to Tai. It was a nightmare! Miri had been his for as long as he could remember, and now this newcomer was trying to steal her away?

All of nature seemed to plan together to increase Darvin's ire: puffy clouds floated lazily through the azure sky, cardinals hopped from branch to branch eyeing worms on the ground, and a gentle breeze whispered through the leaves. Happy squirrels skittered up tree trunks, and butterflies flitted through the warm air.

Darvin had an overwhelming urge to slaughter every living thing in sight.

No. Nature wasn't the worst of it. What absolutely infuriated Darvin was the revelation he'd received while communing the night before. Tai was the Chosen of Hoar, and Hoar had ordered Darvin to keep the brat safe! It had struck him as so absurd that he wouldn't have believed it had Hoar not told him directly. The half elf clenched his fists. Surely, surely Hoar would not choose such a boy to be his Chosen. The boy didn't even fight with a javelin, when every follower of Hoar knew that was Hoar's favored weapon! And he had never heard of the Assurian Codex, much less read it!

Darvin punched one fist into the palm of his hand. Didn't Hoar realize that he was the better choice? He'd been trained in the priesthood since he was seven years old. He fought with a javelin, and he'd memorized the entire Codex word for word! He carried out every single Code to the letter, and he often forewent sleep in his diligence to vengeance. Why had Hoar not chosen him instead? It would make a mockery of the entire religion if someone as backwards, unschooled, and countrified as Tai Vatoshie were the Chosen.

Darvin was distracted from his inner rant by Miri's trill of laughter. Tai was grinning at her like an idiot—he could see that silly smile from here—and Miri was patting him on the arm! Darvin growled. What was this? A strategic overthrowing of his entire life?

Darvin glared at Tai all the harder and wondered that Tai didn't feel his back sizzling. What did Miri see in him? He was sissified! With that shoulder-length glossy hair and royal blue cloak, he looked like a woman! And those slanted eyes and that swallow complexion—he obviously had some questionable blood running in his veins. And he was fully human! What did Miri possibly think she could have in common with someone who didn't understand the elven half of her heritage?

Clenching his jaw so much his neck hurt, Darvin growled again. He had no idea what game Miri was playing, but he knew there had to be one. She had always been the bubbly type—demonstrative, charismatic, and ready to talk the ear off of everyone she met. She also got bored easily, jumping from friend to friend. That she had maintained a lifelong relationship with him told Darvin all he needed to know: they were destined to be together.

"Yes," Darvin muttered to himself. Why was he so upset? She'd bore of this country boy soon enough and return to him as she always did. That she was more goo-goo eyed than normal meant nothing.

"Absolutely nothing," Darvin repeated to himself. In the end, he would save her life, not Tai. So the Stonars could send all the devils of the nine hells at him if they wished! Darvin would defeat them and prove to Miri that he was the only one who deserved her affection. Maybe Tai would even die in the attack.

All the better.

Entreri stormed out of the room without paying any attention to his direction. Without a thought, he turned right at the last moment and whisked down the hallway into the next room. He didn't hear Nyx following him—she was too quiet for that—but he felt her pacing him, keeping close to his back without stepping on his heels.

He was beginning to understand the type of person she was: the kind who protects others from life's pitfalls and tends to the wounds of their hearts; he also recognized that she was drawn to him, as though she sensed his inner anger and understood it. Most importantly of all, he knew she would always choose him over Jarlaxle in any disagreement. Perhaps that, over other things, made him appreciate her.

Entreri entered the new room with only a precursory check for traps and then retreated to the far edge so he could pace. His rage couldn't be contained, and for a reason he didn't stop to ponder, he didn't bother to hide it from Nyx. She leaned against the wall and watched him while he paced and stared at his surroundings with suspicion.

"I know there's a trap," he said, avoiding the real topic of his thoughts. The place looked like a ballroom; with a thirty foot ceiling studded with diamond chandeliers and an expansive wooden floor of a checker design, it promised space for twirling ladies and gentlemen. No furniture marred the area other than a few plush chairs against the walls, and a small stage presented itself in the left-hand corner. "Too normal," he muttered.

Nyx pointed to the series of marble statues that dotted the peach-colored walls. "I don't trust those."

Entreri stopped and considered the detailed forms, most of which were dragons. "I don't either." He began pacing again. "Nor do I trust drow."

It was out in the open. Not that they could avoid the discussion; Jarlaxle had betrayed Nyx as well. Still, the monk didn't reply. She seemed to be reining in her own emotions and then holding her silence, as though she had decided just to listen.

Entreri accepted the unspoken invitation. "He should have told me—us. I understand the concept of 'playing close to the chest,' but I'm not his enemy. We're his allies, and he took a bet on our lives without informing us."

"Yes." Nyx took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. She raised one finger. "But we knew that we were entering danger when we came," she continued in the tone of one playing devil's advocate. "We knew we were in mortal danger long before we reached this castle."

"Fair enough," Entreri admitted. "But who said I wanted to join or conquer the Zhentarim? Who said I wanted to live in this area or set up business here? We're supposed to be on our way to Waterdeep, but every time we head that direction, Jarlaxle gets us embroiled in something new." It was an unfair accusation, since their first detour had been at the request of Tai, but Entreri wasn't feeling fair.

Nyx smirked, but when she spoke, her tone was still one of devil's advocate. "Perhaps Jarlaxle is looking for a business of his own and simply hopes you will be interested as well."

Entreri snorted. "And if I'm not interested? Will he force my hand or attempt to manipulate me into staying?"

"He cares about you," Nyx replied flatly. "Don't misunderstand: I don't like what he did here. But he does like you. He shows it terribly, as though he has no idea what to do with the emotions, but the feeling is genuine."

Entreri stopped in his pacing and snapped around to face Nyx, startled both by her words and her audacity at saying them aloud. He stared at her hard, in the way that made most people flee his presence, but she didn't take the bait. "If he likes me, he should respect me. Not use me like a pawn."

"Do you respect him?"

I admire him, Entreri thought, and shocked by the answer, he turned away. "I wouldn't double cross him unless he put me in severe danger out of his own greed." He snorted and crossed his arms. "Like right now." He glanced back at Nyx, wondering what the goodly monk of Hoar made of all this treachery. She was hiding her feelings well, and Entreri wondered if she were simply biding her time until she were free of the maze. Would she leave with Tai as soon as the mission was complete? Entreri didn't yet know her well enough to predict her decision.

Nyx seemed to be watching him carefully. "I don't know that either of you sees the other as a person. Or rather, you both do and don't. You are drawn to each other out of mutual veneration, but you distrust each other on a level that means you don't see the other one as flesh and blood, capable of feelings and pain." She smiled as though to take the sting out of her words. "It's an easy thing to do when you're busy trying to defend yourself."

Entreri scowled. It seemed a particularly humanist thing to say, but then again, the difference of perspective was valuable. If talking to himself could solve all his problems, he wouldn't have any, as he'd learned from his time with Dwahvel. "If you're right, then it would seem we are at a stalemate."

"And if one of you breaks the stalemate? Could you move forward?"

"I'm unsure." Entreri dropped his arms and threw up his hands. "And I'm unsure that I want to move forward. None of this changes the fact that he planned our business for us, without our approval. I've warned him off that course of action many times."

Nyx raised her hand in a hold on gesture. "If I read the situation correctly, you warned him off of manipulating people on a personal level. An emotional one, if you will. What he did this time was purely business, and you suspected him of it long before we arrived here, did you not?"

Entreri stopped pacing, internally surprised by her words. She paid more attention than he had given her credit for. "The question is still the same: are we his partners or puppets?"

"Or something in between?" The corner of Nyx's mouth twisted up into a half-smile. "Maybe he's in a state of transition between the normal drow code of conduct and something more human."

Entreri tilted his head and smirked. "I'm not the savior of his soul."

"But in purely business terms, we need his help to escape from this place."

And there is was: the double-edged sword. He had used Jarlaxle as well, and he would again in this situation. Could he condemn someone for behavior he committed himself? They both currently operated by the same code of mutual benefit, and in the end, Jarlaxle had been seeing to lining their pockets with gold. It was not so different than something Entreri himself would do—it was simply executed in a different style.

"True." He returned her half- smile, realizing she understood the way he thought. He also realized he understood her as well: she wanted to help and save others, even complete strangers, and yet she was unafraid of the darkness in others. She faced whatever she met head on. He almost laughed. "Very well. Let's go round him up."

Nyx nodded, and they carefully crossed the floor. When they stepped through the doorway into the hallway, however, Entreri felt like they'd crossed a magical barrier of some kind. The assassin paused, aware that a breeze blew down the hall that they hadn't felt before leaving the room.

"Did you sense that?" he asked.

"Yes." Nyx's hand hovered over her nunchuku. "Were we magically cut off from the hallway?"

Entreri had a strange thought concerning dimensions that lay parallel but separate to each other. "Jarlaxle?" he called, and he cursed himself for feeling such worry on top of legitimate anger. He ran into the room where they'd left the drow, but he wasn't there. "Jarlaxle?"

"Did he turn left instead of right?" Nyx asked, for the room they had been teleported into only had one exit.

Entreri jogged out of the room and down the left side of the hallway to the doorway of another room, which was larger than the ballroom. Pastel-colored crystals, shining mauve, lavender, and blue, protruded from the ceiling, and mirrors covered all the walls.

"A room of mirrors," Entreri said as Nyx joined him. "I can only imagine what traps fill this place." He searched the doorway for traps, and finding none stepped across the doorjamb.

Nyx followed and pointed at the glass shards lying in the floor. "I would say he's been in here."

Entreri frowned. That the shards were in the middle of the floor, away from the unmarred mirrors, suggested extreme danger. "Be very careful."

Nyx gasped, and when he turned to look at her, Entreri realized why. The doorway behind them had disappeared, leaving only mirrors and an exit on the far side of the room.

"I think he hates me," Tai said, allowing Miri to loop her arm through his. They were resting on a creek bank after refilling their canteens, and Darvin had wandered off to relieve himself. Miri's wolf, Stormrider, sat a few feet behind them, keeping watch.

"Darvin is just over-possessive," Miri replied, her gaze trained on the water sparkling in the sunlight. "It makes me insane. I don't believe in arranged marriages, dowries, or bride prices. I'm not 'goods', and when I marry, it won't be an economic transfer of property. Therefore, it goes without saying that I won't let anyone—friend, father, or husband—treat me like a thing to be owned."

Tai's brow wrinkled. He'd never stopped to consider the symbolism of things like dowries, bride prices, or 'giving away' the bride at a wedding ceremony. Now that he considered it . . . "I don't blame you."

Miri sighed and slumped. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to insult Darvin. He has always been my best friend. Like I told you the other day, he just has this over-protective streak that gets on my nerves at times."

Tai wondered if he should warn Miri that he and Darvin might come to blows over the matter. Darvin's seething glares told Tai all he needed to know about the situation, and Tai didn't feel compelled to back down.

"Still," Miri said, her gaze returning to the trickling creek, "I'm no one's property. I'm not some dog to be fought over, waiting to see which fighter kills the other first."

Tai flinched, Miri's words hitting too close to the violence that might erupt if Darvin couldn't calm himself.

"Let's not talk about this anymore," Miri said suddenly, pulling away her arm. "This topic angers me."

"Certainly," Tai said, staring to the clear water himself. Smooth brown stones littered the creek bed, and minnows darted between the rocks. A single green leaf floated past, dancing with the current.

In truth, Tai wanted to ask Miri more questions about Darvin—not ones about his feelings for Miri, but rather ones about Darvin as a priest. The half elf's hypocrisy bothered Tai. Granted, the issue with the Assurian Codex may have merely being Darvin trying to make himself look better in front of Miri. But Tai suspected Darvin's horror had been sincere. If so, then he had missed the whole point of their religion! He had immersed himself in surface rules and regulations and didn't understand Hoar's personality and desires. Tai shook his head, deeply disturbed. How could one follow a god—even become a priest of a god—and still so utterly misunderstand who that god really was?

Tai glanced at Miri, wondering how he could politely inquire about Darvin's religious attitude, but she frowned suddenly and spoke first.

"Why?" she asked, her brown furrowing.

Tai scrambled to remember their previous conversation so he could figure out what she was asking, but nothing came to mind. "Why what?"

"Why blood?"

Tai deduced that she was talking about the prophecy. "It's always blood. We were created out of dirt, our blood nearly the same color as clay. Blood gives us life, creating a circle through our body that matches the cycle of the seasons, the cycle of the moon, and the circle of the gods. Our blood intact allows us to live, and spilled it's inevitability a sacrifice, a death. It can never be anything other than blood."

Miri nodded, but her gaze seemed to look past Tai into a realm he couldn't see. "All of time is a cycle, a circle—damnation or salvation. And my blood spilled can do either. I can destroy or save the world."

Tai squeezed her hand. "We'll make sure that it saves instead of destroys."

She bit her lip. "I've always resisted this whole concept. I always bragged about making the world a better place, rallying people to causes like protecting the forest. I walked boldly forward, defying the prophecy to ever come true." Tears stood in her eyes. "But now . . . now I'm running for my life, running from the curse." She suddenly focused on Tai's face, grabbing him by both arms. "I don't want to fail! I can't fail!" She squeezed harder. "I refuse to destroy innocent people and the land I promised I would protect."

Tai smiled at her, but he knew his expression was sad. He reached up with one hand and smoothed her long hair back from her face. "You don't have to make your stand alone. I'm here with you, and even if Darvin hates me, he will never allow anything bad to happen to you."

Miri released Tai's arms and rubbed the tears from her eyes. "I know. It's just—it's just . . ." She sighed and leaned forward, resting her forehead on Tai's shoulder. "I feel a sense of impending doom."

Tai wrapped his arms around her. "Don't give voice to that fear. The gods made the realms by speaking them into existence, and the mortals in the realms are made in the gods' likeness. That means our words have power to create and destroy, too."

Miri straightened. "But sometimes I feel so sca—"

Tai put his finger over her mouth, stopping her. "You won't make your stand alone—you'll have two mortals and a god on your side."

Miri blinked, then pulled his finger away and seemed to gather her courage. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "That's true. Wise advice, once again." She gave him a wan smile. "Plus I've trained in druidism all my life and built up my strength. I should believe in myself and my friends!"

Tai wasn't going to trust only in his own strength or Miri's, but he was glad she felt better. "That's the Miri-sen I know! Optimistic and self-assured."

Miri clasped his hands and squeezed them. "Well, it helps to have someone else who also believes in me."

Tai blushed.

With a smile, Lander stepped away from the scrying mirror Melcer had enchanted before he left. He dropped into his study chair and propped his feet on his mahogany desk, all the while humming an aimless tune. It was perfect. Perfect.

Turning his attention upon a pastoral painting, which showed a milk maid wandering along a dirt path, Lander lost himself in the peace of the picture and relaxed. Yes, his plans were proceeding nicely. With the drow elf having been assaulted by the Room of Mirrored Souls and the humans now facing the same trap, his opposition was effectively crushed. The Room of Mirrored Souls was Melcer's masterpiece—it had been created from an ancient magical item he had twisted for his own purposes, and it rarely left its victims sane.

"Destroyed by the darkness in your own heart," Lander mused aloud, then closed his eyes in preparation for a short nap. With things going this well, he could afford to rest, and since he'd just been healed of his wound, he needed the sleep. Beyond the stained glass window, he could hear bobwhites singing to one another, and he allowed the sound to soothe him.

. . . but what if Melcer fails? a quiet voice asked.

Lander opened his eyes and stared at the wrought iron chandelier above his head. "Not possible," he answered himself. "Melcer is more than a match for two young priests and a druid. He will bring back the sacrifice before nightfall."

The voice didn't bother to answer. Reassured, Lander closed his eyes again. The only thing in the universe that he trusted other than his own power was his twin's abilities. Melcer had been his sounding board and supporter, the one who found the holes in his logic, picked him up during his depressive slumps, and believed in his plans even when other Zhents laughed at him. It had been so since they were ten years old, when their parents had died. Left alone in a household full of servants, shunned by the rest of their family, the boys had nothing but each other and the butler, who was their legal guardian. At that point, their childish attempts to compete with one another had immediately halted, replaced instead with hours of hiding themselves away in the tower rooms, talking and playing only with each other. Then even the kindly butler had died when they were sixteen, and the young men had been truly alone, depending solely on each other to be both family and friend.

To Lander, the world had seemed a distant place since their parents had died, and seventeen years later it still seemed that way despite all his travels, Zhent training, contacts, allies, and enemies. No one could ever understand Lander the way his brother did—the one who had cried with him in the observation tower after their parents' funeral, the one who had shared his bed when he'd had nightmares in the months following the deaths, and the one who had grown up to be his number one supporter. Lander felt like he lived with his brother on the inside of a globe, with the world outside staring in. Now, though, the world would be inside the globe, and he and Melcer would hold that globe in the palms of their hands.

And this was exactly why Lander could never doubt his brother. His brother deserved nothing but his full support and confidence. Lander would never give Melcer anything less than Melcer had given him.

"Yes," Lander said aloud, as though affirming his beliefs to the watching gods. "Melcer will return with the sacrifice by nightfall. And when he does, this battle will be as good as won."