"By sheer coincidence," Ergluth told the ceiling casually, "we should be riding along the same stretch of road, at just about that time, watching for arrows from the trees, brigands … that sort of thing."

"Sort of thing, indeed," Renglar agreed, and went to the door. "Thanks again."

The boldshield shrugged, and demonstrated that it was his turn to clap a comrade on the shoulder. "Whenever you need folk hacked to the ground, just call on the Purple Dragons. We also do parades, stand around beside doors looking menacing, and trample crops into the fields, given the slightest encouragement."

"So I've heard," Renglar said. "How are you at replacing slain young lords? Or dragging folk who killed them behind your horses at a fast gallop for a mile or so? My Athlan should not lie in ashes now. He should have served Cormyr until he was as old and fat as you and me."

"I hear you," Ergluth muttered. "If the spellhurlers miss somehow, call me back in for a few more glasses of wine-and we'll turn Firefall Keep and everyone in it upside down and inside out for you."

He went out into the passage. The two veterans stood looking at each other for a breath or two, not smiling or speaking. Then the boldshield raised a hand in salute and went back down the stairs. The guards fell in before and behind him, as an escort of honor. When the seneschal heard the thuds of their boot heels joining those of his guest, he closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed heavily.

Athlan, gone forever. His fingers tightened suddenly around the glass in his hand-and it sang and shattered, spilling in shards between his fingers.

The seneschal watched the slivers bounce, dark with his blood. He set his jaw. Not bothering to stop the bleeding yet, he crossed the room to a certain closet door, and spoke to it.