"Mighty Sarenrae, please have mercy on Your wayward servant..."

  Tristian knew it wouldn't work. If anyone, he recognised an undelivered prayer. He could sense the words piling up around him, filling the central chamber of the keep, with nobody coming to collect them. It had been so ever since Nyrissa had captured him. He'd never known whether Nyrissa was so good at shielding him from the penetrating sight of his goddess, or he had become so despicable that the Dawnflower's other angels avoided him like the plague (and rightly so), or it was Sarenrae who'd rejected him completely. Still, he repeated the words, again and again, with minimal variation. If nothing else, they would annoy his jailers into making a mistake or killing him quickly.

  Something was prickling him.

  His fingers brushed the ground under his knees, and soon found the culprit: a piece of metal wire. It smelled like copper. Something to fidget with, instead of his rosary, the symbol and token of his captivity he used to turn to whenever he'd felt scared, embarrassed, ashamed, guilty or threatened... that is, practically all the time. Blessedly, he didn't need to fidget anymore. The web of lies had been cut through, the thread broken, the beads scattered. By now both Guelder and Nyrissa knew that he'd been taking turns betraying them. There were no more secrets to worry about.

  He twisted the wire around his finger and thought of his pouch of spell ingredients, the first thing that Nyrissa's cronies had taken from him. He'd always kept some copper wire in it, as per Guelder's instructions. She could need a Sending spell anytime.

  Oh. A Sending spell.

  He stopped his mantra for a moment, savouring the realisation, then quickly resumed it to avoid raising suspicion. He was going to die anyway. Then why not initiate a Sending and contact a loved one for the last time?

  Guelder, I love you since I first saw your face at the Temple of the Elk. Ever since that moment, I have been between a –

  No, that confession required a lot more words than a Sending could take. Worse, he wasn't even sure if what he'd felt was been love, or just the desperate effort of a drowning person to hold on to someone who could save him. And cowering at a distracted Nyrissa's feet was not the best time to sort out this complicated issue in his heart.

  Maybe he could reach out to Darlac instead. During their time in Vordakai's tomb, he'd started to regard her as a sibling. A big sister he'd never had, always ready to hammer some common sense into his head, and if he was lucky, she only used her words to do so. Without her, he wouldn't have been able to turn around and step on the right path. Yes, Darlac would it be. While repeating his mantra again and again, he started to compose another message.

  Darlac, this is goodbye. I did the right thing. Now I will be killed for it. Thanks for keeping me on the path of righteousness.

  Exactly 25 words, but didn't it sound sarcastic or passive-agressive? It probably did. And the last thing he wanted was to stress her out. She probably had it bad enough, mourning for her love killed and defiled by the lich. Also, was Darlac's mind not inaccessible to Sending? Best not waste that precious piece of copper wire on a message to be inevitably lost in the ether.

  Anyway, what would Darlac do in a similar situation, if she had access to Sending? She wouldn't use it to say corny goodbyes, that was for sure. She would probably forward some intel about the enemy to her comrades... And why not? Even if Tristian couldn't understand a word of Nyrissa's whispered Sylvan conversation with the Defaced Sister, he could still provide some hints. Alas, his remaining senses couldn't as yet make up for his missing eyesight, but any information could turn the tide in Guelder's favour.

  Guelder, prepare for the following enemies. Nyrissa, a Defaced Sister, two or three redcaps. They are expecting your arrival. Be careful. Sarenrae bless your footsteps.

  He whimpered and muttered to himself for a while, as his tormentors would expect him to, then took a deep breath to start the spell. Finally, he would see Guelder's face again, something he couldn't achieve anymore with his wrecked physical eyeballs.

  A loud creak and a hard slap on the back of his head dispersed his hopes and fond feelings. He fell forward, his skull a blazing furnace of pain, his face crashing into the flagstones, and braced his head with his hands in case there were further blows to follow.

  Sod it, he thought. I forgot about the golems.

  He palmed the piece of wire. It could prove useful later... if there was any later for him.

  As he lay on the floor in a whining heap of misery, he heard something thump at the door, reminding him of a heavy boot kicking ancient wood. He curled up in a ball, pretending he didn't exist, imagining himself a piece of grey stone, a pebble, too insignificant for anyone to look at, and praying that the golems wouldn't step on him.

  "So we meet again, my spider." It was Guelder's voice. "Give me the Skylark, and I may spare your life."

  What a bluff. Nyrissa was not some cowardly beast Guelder could scare away by looking bigger than she was, and she knew it.

  Tristian stopped his ears to shut out the evil laughter of a brook running through the rocks. Nyrissa had no place in his head anymore. If she killed him, so be it, but he would not listen to her lies. And the best way to avoid that was by not letting her voice in at all.

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  Instead, he tried to guess or sense what companions made up Guelder's current team. Harrim was probably a given, as Guelder seldom dared to take full responsibility for the party's health. It was also very unlikely that Hazel would ever let their beloved baroness out of their line of sight. Back at Candlemere Tower, he'd caught a whiff of what must have been Nok-Nok's smell (the little rascal couldn't get into the habit of personal hygiene for the life of him), and detected the already well-known disturbance of energy that was a hallmark of Jaethal's presence. Who else? Had Guelder learnt from poor Amiri's apparent death in Vordakai's tomb and relaxed her strict party limit of six people? If only he could fight by her side once again. But alas, there was no way in heaven or hell for Nyrissa to give him free access to his restricted abilities – and hitting the closest golem with his fist would probably not make much difference.

  While Tristian was busy staying out of Nyrissa's conversation with Guelder, the nymph protracted it with glee. She rambled on and on about her schemes involving another pawn of hers, a barbarian chieftain she called her wolf pup, flooding her foe with words but still remaining too vague to give away any important information. And Guelder was happy to keep her talking, asking more questions, bargaining, feigning to be offended. Why was she stalling so desperately?

  The floor trembled under Tristian's shivering body, heralding the arrival of something big and heavy. Like the giant owlbear on the main square of Tuskdale, but on a smaller scale. Nyrissa was quick to say goodbye and leave the mess to the Defaced Sister to clean up – and somehow Tristian found it easier to breathe. As if a boulder had been rolled off his trapped body, allowing his blood to circulate, his nerves to wake up. He was abandoned and thrown onto the midden heap, well and truly, and he couldn't be happier for it.

  But before he could indulge in the feeling, a gut-wrenching wail wormed its way into his stopped ears, making him push his fingers into his ear canals so hard that they cramped. That had to be the Sister setting the mood for the fight, like some twisted bard intoning a horrible dirge. Even Linzi's harmonica riffs felt off-key and uncertain when she tried to suppress the frightful sound with her own music.

  "Already mewling?" taunted Jaethal. "Bones and ashes, I have not even touched you yet!"

  Linzi giggled, and the foul magic of the Sister's keening began to shatter. Based on the sound of steel meeting steel and the high-pitched cackles, the redcaps attacked. Tristian pushed himself up to his knees, and murmured a prayer to the Dawnflower. Even if She ignored him personally, She would surely have mercy on those who'd once trusted him, and for whom he still mattered.

  Something hard and heavy smashed into his lower back, sending him sprawled on the ground, breathless with pain. He heard the stomping of heavy boots, then a big, ponderous object crashed into the flagstones, barely missing him. His curious fingers felt out a protruding nose, which slipped away as a pair of strong hands pulled him to his feet. Healing energy flowed into his body, clearing out the pain.

  "Stupid old things," grumbled Harrim's voice. "Long past their use-by date. Pray and heal, lad, no one will smack you anymore."

  And he was as good as his word: soon another crash was heard, which had to mean that the other golem was put out of operation. But apparently, that was the extent of their success. Based on the growls, Pangur (and maybe also Guelder) was busy with the redcaps. Linzi still had trouble hitting the proper notes, and Tristian couldn't hear any arrows whistling through the air. Whatever was happening to Hazel?

  "Trying to outstare an inquisitor?" sneered Jaethal. "Good luck with that, barkface!"

  Tristian felt suddenly glad that he was blind. He didn't have to face Jaethal's stern gaze anymore – and ostensibly, the Sister's infamous evil eyes had no effect on him, either.

  A wet and sticky substance bubbled up from the floor, soft and warm, pleasantly soothing. That had to be Guelder's work, probably preparing the site for a plant-based attack or the like. Or maybe making a refreshing bath for the others. Tristian could never follow her druidic way of thinking. Anyway, he sank his fingers into the mud, just because it felt so good, and unleashed a wave of healing energy. If nothing else, it made him feel better, mentally as well as physically.

  A generous dose of mud splashed into his face, kicked up by something huge passing by, accompanied by Nok-Nok's raspy little voice calling instructions in an unknown language and encouragements in Common.

  "Get the witch, Ironshank! Smash! Bash! Crush!"

  Tristian flinched at the sound of bones cracking under the blows of a big blunt object. Still, the pain didn't come. Either the mud was brimming with Nature's healing power, or it was someone else's bones being fractured. The cackles of the redcaps had died down. Now it was only the sickening thuds, then a splash and a creak, then silence.

  "Phew," announced Guelder, and Tristian established with relief that she was alive. "Once we make it back to Tuskdale, every last one of us will learn blind fight, myself included. It will not do for us to require a mud bath whenever a fey so much as looks at us, and let a golem do the heavy haul. We were incredibly lucky that Nyrissa left early. Regardless, good job, everyone. Linzi, remind me to have a medal welded onto Ironshank's chest for its stalwart combat performance today."

  Once again, footsteps splashed in the mud, closing in on Tristian, and a hand took him by the elbow to stabilise him.

  "As to you, Tristian," said Guelder's voice, now from close up, "looks like Nyrissa does not want you anymore. Which means you are free to come with me, answer all my questions truthfully, and start to redeem yourself by putting your heart and soul into the welfare of Nightvale and into our field missions. No more limping in two directions. Understood?"

  It couldn't be this easy, or could it? Was this another fey prank, an elaborate illusion soon to be dissolved, with only guilt and pain remaining in its place?

  "Guelder, I'm not sure if I deserve another –"

  "That is up to me to decide. I am your ruler, and I want you to serve me to the best of your abilities. Me and Sarenrae. Nobody else."

  Tristian lowered his head. Yes, it was happening. He was being forgiven.

  "Thank you, Guelder. I will do my best and more to repay your trust."

  "Good." She sounded as badly worried as she'd been at the onset of the Bloom. What was going on? "And now let us leave this place. I need some breeze on my face so that I can think."