Everyone stared on, open-mouthed, as Friedrich relayed the events of his time in the Abnar’s Hand guildhall. With each sentence Friedrich spoke, the wider their eyes grew. Stealing from the vault of one of the most influential men in town at the behest of a thieves’ guild?

  When he was finally finished, Marina spoke up. “All in favour of removing Friedrich’s ability to make his own decisions?” She held up her hand.

  Teleri shut her eyes tightly and massaged her temples. “How could you be such a fool, Friedrich?” she asked, her voice low. “You barely know Ilyria, and you signed a blood contract under penalty of death to help her?”

  “It would have been nice to know that was the penalty,” muttered Friedrich.

  Ilyria bit her lip and looked down. “This was not what I had in mind when I came to you for help,” she uttered, her voice barely a whisper.

  “I am not accusing you of being reckless,” said Teleri. “I have come to expect Friedrich to act before thinking and this time he has taken things well beyond what I could have imagined.”

  “I know it was a terrible idea!” shouted Friedrich, slamming his fists on the table. “But if I can pull this off, I’ll have helped Ilyria keep those wood elves off her back. Not only that, I’ll have earned the favour of the ones who really run this city. This will keep us all safe while we live here. I understand this is a massive risk, but I’ll make sure it pays off. You understand, right, Pheston?”

  The Northman sighed. “I understand, but I do not think you made the right decision. You are trusting a thief to be honourable, lad. In my experience, they’re anything but honourable. You know where their guildhall is and they’re just as likely to kill you once the contract is fulfilled than they are to let you walk away unharmed with that knowledge rattling about in your head.”

  “At least we know it’s Caldorin and Corick behind the attack on Ilyria’s church,” said Marina weakly. “Redd of the Vale confirmed as much to you, based on what you said.”

  “If he was being truthful,” scoffed Teleri.

  Everyone sat in silence. Lord Gaerfyrd had not said a word the entire time, his gaze alternating between his son and the table. There were many times he wanted to speak up, but he refrained.

  “What is it, father?” asked Friedrich. “Your silence only makes me feel worse.”

  Lord Gaerfyrd shook his head. “As much as I want to reprimand you for your actions, son, there is precious little time to do it with only a week to fulfil the contract. And not only that, but I fear that I would be wrong in admonishing you so if I were to do so.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” asked Lord Gaerfyrd, the astonishment on his face palpable. “After everything you have achieved while I was being held prisoner and you’re asking me why I would be wrong to punish you for your decisions? You’ve faced near impossible odds a few times over, from your awakening of several soul masks to escaping Keldracht. Let’s also not forget where you rescued me from.”

  Ilyria held up a hand. “Excuse me, but did you say Keldracht?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Pheston with a grimace. “To keep it brief, I was trapped there for a few decades and Friedrich helped break me out after a short stint of his own. It feels like a lifetime ago already.”

  “Onto more pressing matters,” said Marina, clapping her hands together. “We need to come up with a plan to steal this mask. We can make our wrongs right after Friedrich is freed from this contract.”

  “Agreed,” said Teleri, shooting Friedrich an irritated glance. He did not protest her ire, feeling as though he deserved it this time.

  “Indeed,” said Lord Gaerfyrd, arising. “Marina, I need you to go to the library and dig up what you can about this mask or Louis Fontaine. I will speak to the city planning office and see what I can learn about the manor’s construction. Teleri, you are to see Lord Fleur’s manor for yourself. Every detail from the number of doors to how many guards you see is important. Pheston, keep an eye on Friedrich so that if more trouble comes knocking, you can knock it out.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” asked Ilyria. “I want to help however I can.”

  “Pray for our good fortune,” said Lord Gaerfyrd, grabbing his cloak from the hook by the door. “I will return in a few hours and, tonight, we will begin devising a plan.”

  Marina and Teleri left shortly after, both of them giving Friedrich looks of concern as they exited.

  “Well,” said Pheston with a chuckle, “now that the mood murderers are gone, we can get down to more important business.”

  “What’s that?” asked Friedrich glumly.

  Pheston walked over to the kitchen cabinets and opened them. He grabbed a bottle of wine and three pewter cups from inside and set them on the table. He poured half a cup for the Mercian and Balmorian, and a full one for himself. He sniffed it, winced, and then downed it in one mouthful.

  “Why are we drinking?” asked Friedrich. He took a small sip of the wine and winced too.

  Pheston pointed at Friedrich. “You signed a blood contract with a thief.” He pointed at Ilyria. “And your church was ransacked by members of the same organisation. I think a drink is appropriate.”

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  Ilyria cocked her head to the side. “And why are you drinking?”

  Pheston let out a booming laugh. “I’m from Corobath, girl. My people can drink wine like it was water.”

  Ilyria picked up the cup. “Very well,” she said. She threw back the wine as easily as Pheston had, however, she did not wince like either of the humans did. “It is rather nice, I must say.”

  “It tastes like someone dropped grapes in vinegar,” said Friedrich, wrinkling his nose.

  Pheston poured more wine for himself and Ilyria. “So tell us, Ilyria. What brought you to the City of Thieves in the first place?”

  “I go where I am told to go by the church elders,” replied Ilyria. “I was sent here some time ago because so many others refused and they desperately needed someone to aid Brother Tyrus. It is not a bad place to live if you know how to handle yourself. Sadly, I bit off more than I can chew this time.”

  “Any family back home? I’ve got a bunch of kids and grandkids myself, you know. My parents are long gone, sadly. They died while I was trapped in Keldracht.”

  “I have a large family back home, but it has been some months since I have received as much as a letter. It is not easy finding a courier willing to travel between Mercia and Balmoria, especially in this city.” Ilyria looked between Friedrich and Pheston a few times before speaking again. “How did you wind up trapped in a place like Keldracht? And how did you survive there for so long?”

  Friedrich and Pheston exchanged a grin. “Well,” said Pheston and launching immediately into his tale. He told of his first hearing about the Orb of Valskythe, his many adventures—both underplayed and exaggerated at various parts—of his time in Keldracht. When he reached the point of Friedrich’s arrival, the young Mercian chimed in. All the while, Friedrich sipped his half-cup of wine while Pheston and Ilyria polished off the rest of the bottle.

  “And then,” said Pheston, leaping onto the table and drawing his hammer. “That miserable bastard flew down on his daft imitation dragon. Lord of Horns, my rear end! He was a chump. A weasel of a demon who thought he was the king of the whole realm.”

  Friedrich snorted. “You were afraid of him.”

  “I was not!” barked Pheston, twirling Vigr around. As loud and as brash as he was now, he was coherent. “I was afraid of the forces he commanded, sure, but we got inside his lair the easy way.”

  Ilyria’s eyes were almost rolling back in her head, but she blinked hard and refocused. “And what…” she put her hands on the table to keep herself stable. “My apologies. And what happened?”

  Pheston thrust a fist in the air and swung Vigr hard, almost taking a chunk out of the ceiling. “I crushed his minions while young Friedrich here ripped the lord’s head off by the horns. We thought his massive reinforcements would show up and slaughter us, but the gals broke into Keldracht and pulled us through the portal.”

  “You wanted to stay behind!” chortled Friedrich.

  “Can you believe that, eh?” asked Pheston, hopping onto the floor and dropping back into his chair. “What a fool I was to even consider that. I thought I’d never adapt to how the world had changed without me, but I was being a coward. The second I saw my son, Bjorn, I knew that coming home was the right decision. Great lad, he is. And his oldest boy, Alf. I love that little man to death. Got to spend a lot of time with him while I was away.” Pheston lifted his tunic and showed a small scar on his muscular torso. “See that? He did that with an axe when we were sparring last month. Couldn’t have been more proud of him. Through my defences, as fast as lightning.”

  “Amazing,” said Ilyria, her eyes wide. She clutched her mouth, looking like she wanted to vomit. She let out a small burp and relaxed.

  “Drunk as a skunk in an elven bunk,” laughed Pheston. “Something tells me you’re not helping yourself to the ceremonial wine, my dear dark elf.”

  “I would never!” insisted Ilyria. She cocked her head to the side. “I have not touched a…a drop of alcohol since leaving Balmoria. It appears my…eurgh…my tolerance has diminished.”

  Friedrich was amused by how drunk the priestess has gotten. At the same time, he felt immense pity. She was far from home, her church had been destroyed, and the only other priest of Myrofyr in town had insisted she was at fault. After how he had lost his family and home, he understood her desire to drink away her sorrow for an evening.

  “Ilyria,” said Friedrich, remembering his first meeting with her and what she had said to him before he entered the thieves’ hideout. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “No, I will not come to bed with you!” she screeched in shock. Pheston laughed so hard he slammed his forehead against the table. “Friedrich, we barely know each…each other. Besides, if your wife was to come home…no, it would be a terrible idea!”

  “That’s not what I was going to ask you at all! And my wife? I don’t have a wife.”

  Ilyria cocked her head to the side and then shook her head as her eyes rolled around. “Oh, that’s right…you are not married to the Alaurian or the Mercian. What did you want to…to ask me?”

  “Maybe I’ll ask you tomorrow…”

  “No, no! Ask me…ask me now!”

  Friedrich knew he was best holding off, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know what she had meant before. “What did you mean when you said I’m soul torn?”

  Ilyria sat bolt upright. “I meant what I said. Your soul is being ripped to shreds from the inside.”

  “I don’t understand what that means.”

  “It is rather simple. The human body is not meant to have so many…so many souls dwelling within it. Especially not one who has no talent for or training in soul magic. Soon, your soul will be so weak that your body will be overtaken by one of the souls battling for dominance within you.”

  Friedrich was greatly alarmed. “But I awakened the souls. They serve me.”

  Ilyria slumped over the table and looked at him like he was a toddler. “No, they do not serve you. They are…they are independent souls you are the host of. One is controllable if you are strong, but three? I am surprised you are still sitting here before me, seemingly fine. I am curious as to why…”

  Pheston slapped Friedrich on the back, almost knocking him off his chair. “He’s a tough lad,” said the jovial smith. “You’d think he’s from Corobath, the way he handles himself. No fox, minotaur, or goblin is going to claim his body. Not a hope!”

  “I am still curious,” said Ilyria, arising and staggering over to Friedrich. She held out her hands to him. “May I?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking,” said Friedrich, “but sure. Do what you must.”

  Ilyria put her hands on his head, almost poking him in the eyes with her thumbs. She concentrated, forcing herself to remain upright as she stood before Friedrich. He half-expected her to start chanting some sort of prayer, but she was feeling for something. She wasn’t feeling with her hands, but with her own divinely touched soul.

  “I see,” she said after several minutes. She released Friedrich and then sat on the table. “Is there any more wine?”

  “All gone,” said Pheston, lifting the bottle. He threw it in the air and it spun, flinging several droplets onto the table. He nimbly caught it and slammed it back down.

  “See what?” asked Friedrich, looking at Ilyria.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling at him. “While you are indeed soul torn, there is something within you keeping you whole. A force that holds you back from the malevolent creatures you permitted to dwell within you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The soul of the fox. He is the only one truly on your side, and he keeps the others at bay. So strong for such a little creature. I bet he is soft too. Like a pillow.”

  Ilyria started giggling to herself and then fell back onto the table. She stared up at the ceiling as Pheston mumbled something about lightweights.

  “Kitt?” asked Friedrich quietly. “You’re the one keeping me…me?” He received no answer, nor did he expect to.