“You must send me after her, Master,” Pandora insisted. She followed quickly after Aion, the third of the Council, Head Enchanter. He was an ancient man with hair whiter than winter clouds and a beard that might have reached to his knees, if only he could walk. He couldn’t, now; instead he floated. He sat in a great throne adorned with shimmering blue Manastone at its base and he levitated down the halls. Floating frictionless through the Tower.

When Pandora was a girl, this was who she envisioned when she imagined a great Magister. Not capricious elves. Not idiot revenants. Old, wise men.

“The Council has issued its decision,” he croaked. “The matter is settled.”

“Master! After what they did to Lukon—and the failure of the Kynigos—how can you say that?”

“There are more rogue magicians to contest with than a single runaway. We will speak no more of this.”

She stopped as Aion’s throne continued down the hall. She clenched her jaw. Even he had gone insane. After everything that had happened. After what Antinaz and Nerimante had done. After what Eris had done to Lukon. But there was only one thing to say:

“Of course, Master Aion.”

“Now,” he continued even as she didn’t follow, his voice distant, “there is a Magister who has gone missing near Antipalos, Peros of Pyrthos. Can I trust you to look into this matter?”

He turned toward her. The whole throne twisting her direction. Her voice was quiet even across the vast distance as she whispered, “Of course, Master Aion.”

The Council could hang themselves, Aion included. They repaid years of loyal servitude and decades of training with callous disregard. She had no option. She couldn’t let this stand.

Pandora had let herself get too close to Lukon. She knew that. But they had known each other since they were children. They had grown up together, trained together, hunted mages together—and while a Seeker could never marry, she had loved him, and he loved her back. Now she would never know his touch again.

And it wasn’t just Eris’ fault. Yes, she was to blame, she was the one who needed to die—but there could have been some way to restore his soul. They might have been able to save her lover yet. And what had the Council done instead? Slit his throat and sacrificed him. Killed him. Offered him to a demon, and for nothing. Eris was still alive. Aletheia, too. Sworn to service, and what loyalty was he shown in return?

Pandora could have endured the disregard for Lukon’s life. She could have even let Eris go. But the decision to summon the Kynigos turned her against Antinaz forever, doubly so for the plan’s failure.

She twisted the ring on her finger. A silver band. Enchanted to know when another was near. Lukon had given it to her. For the first time in years it was numb.

She needed to take matters into her own hands.

A Seeker couldn’t resign. She served for life. To execute a magician without orders from a Councilor was grounds for being inducted into the Servitors. To do so against the orders of the Council would see her tortured to death, or worse. She would never be able to escape. They had too many failsafes to ensure the capture of rogue Seekers. But she no longer cared. She would turn herself in, once the matter was settled. This wasn’t just for herself, nor for Lukon; a terrible slight had been performed against the Seekers. She needed to restore their dignity. Eris and Aletheia could not go free. Their lives were an affront to the Tower and the order she swore to defend.

“Every vial, Seeker Pandora,” the Servitor said. She stood in the Arcane Vault. Before her were rows and rows of shimmering manaserum phylacteries. “Several more were also destroyed.”

“That can’t be. What about emergency storage?”

“We have checked already, Seeker Pandora. Seeker Lukon accessed emergency storage and located every vial for Eris of Katharos.”

The Vault was a chilled library. Its shelves were twelve feet tall. This was one dome of dozens, maybe hundreds. It housed millennia worth of records for countless thousands of magicians.

“Then you must have records for Aletheia of Snaiga.”

“Records for Aletheia of Snaiga were kept in the Tower of Snaiga, maintained formerly by Magister Antigone.”

“You have nothing for her in emergency storage?”

The Servitor didn’t know the answer. He led her to this dome’s emergency storage, where a redundant vial was kept in a more secure vault, and he did locate one for this Aletheia.

It was a green vial in which was suspended a droplet of blood. But the green made no reaction at Pandora’s touch, and its light was completely out. She held it in the air and found it inert no matter where it was pointed.

“Damn it!” Pandora swore. “Why doesn’t it work?”

“According to our records, Aletheia of Snaiga was re-seared golden. She is no longer attuned to this phylactery.”

She threw the vial on the ground. It shattered. The Servitor regarded this with dead eyes. “I am sorry for the mess,” he said. “Please step aside while I fetch janitorial staff.”

“Kill yourself, you useless abomination.” She pushed past the Servitor and left the Arcane Vault.

She would have to find them some other way.

The role and the title were the same. The loss of a phylactery did not spell the end of a hunt. Pandora had served Aion for fifteen years as a Seeker; she had never lost her quarry.

The trail was cold by the time she set out. Eris had a month of head-start. It would be a long chase. Pandora spent two weeks tracing the area outside Castle Korakos with a spell called the Eye of the Aether, an ability that let her see into the recent past with the careful expenditure of mana. She refused to give up.

She caught the scent at the start of the third week. On the top of a hill she saw a hazy vision of two young women looking back toward Katharos, then setting off east, avoiding the highways.

Pandora had only seen them once. A brief glimpse. One was tall and curvaceous, the other more petite. But she recognized the sword at the girl’s side.

Lukon’s sword.

Eye of the Aether was challenging to maintain. She followed it to one village, then another, unsure how long had passed since the visions she saw occurred, and in more crowded areas so much noise—the comings and goings of dozens of people over weeks—rendered the spell unusable. Pandora fell back on more primitive means of tracking.

That led her to a village called Athos. She asked everyone if they had seen two girls that fit her vision, vagrants, one unusually tall. She asked some if they had seen magicians and others if they had seen mundane women.

A man told her he had. “Striking lass, she was,” he said. “Sisters I think they said. A man isn’t soon to forget them.”

“Where did they stay?”

He directed her to an elderly widow’s house. “Some days, I think, but that was weeks ago. Kings, maybe near two months.”

Pandora did not thank the man. She proceeded to the widow’s house and knocked on the door. When, at length, a withered old woman pulled it open, she stepped within at once. She grabbed the widow by the fabric around her neck and raised a sizzling spell in her palm.

“Eris and Aletheia. Where are they?”

The widow screamed for help. Pandora stepped inside and used Hold Portal on the door, sealing it shut, and she cast Silence—the old woman was robbed of her voice. She stumbled backward in horror.

Pandora drew her sword. “Stop screaming and you might live. Eris of Katharos. Where?”

The widow shook her head. Pandora let off Silence. “I—I don’t know—I ‘aven’t met any girls called Eris—not in these parts—”

The sword was leveled toward the woman’s neck. “A tall woman. Dark hair. Golden eyes. A magician. Traveling with a girl, blonde. They stayed here. Where have they gone to?”

“I—” the woman started again, but her eyes went wide. “The man! The magician! He used that name!”

“What man?” Pandora growled.

“I housed two girls, sweet young girls, named Cleo and Atalanta—they wasn’t magicians! Kings, they wasn’t magicians! But a man, a boy came lookin’ for ‘em! Called one of them Eris, I remember now! When I told them what it was, they ran right out the window—I ‘aven’t seen ‘em since! I promise!”

Pandora lowered the sword. “Tell me about the boy.”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember, it was two months past. He was—near your height. No weapons. Had a big hat on, I think, and…he was a magician, I remember, his eyes—green, bright green, we don’t get many of them in these parts. I swear, I don’t know anything else!”

A boy magician. Yes. Lukon had told her about him. What was his name? A fellow runaway who consorted with Eris. He had left her company, but perhaps after the death of Korax they had rejoined…

Pandora knew her course in an instant. She left the widow and Athos without any further words. She put a stablemaster to Sleep and stole a horse, and within a week she was back in Pyrthos, ascending up the Tower to the Arcane Vault.

The Servitor there addressed her with blank eyes. “Master Aion has instructed me to ask how the hunt for Magister Peros proceeds.”

“Poorly. I need another phylactery.” She had taken one as a deflection—too buy her some time. But she had already been gone an eternity. The Council likely grew suspicious. She had to get in and get out quickly.

“Of course. Follow me.”

But she didn’t care for Magister Peros. Instead she sought the phylactery of the one known as Robur.

“Seeker Pandora,” the Servitor said as they passed through the third dome. “This way.”

“Be quiet.” Through shelf after shelf, the inventory system left an impression on her Essence: she was attuned to it. To find the vial she wanted, she needed only to think of who she was searching for, and she would be led the right direction. It was an eerie enchantment—albeit minor—for it worked flawlessly. Only those who knew how to use it, the Seekers, a few Servitors, and a handful of others, could ever hope to locate a phylactery for misuse, even if they gained access to the Vault.

And then she found it. A vial of red manaserum. She retrieved it and traced it through the air in a wide gesture.

To the northeast, its glow became more noticeable. Dim—but it had a trace.

She could find Robur with this phylactery. And where she found Robur, she knew she would find Eris, just as Lukon had. That was it. No more floundering with Eye of the Aether. Now she could do what she needed to do.

“Seeker Pandora,” the Servitor said. “You are not authorized to take that phylactery.”

“I’m taking it. I’ve been authorized.”

“I was instructed to allow you only to take the phylacteries of Magister Peros.”

“By whom?”

“Grandmaster Antinaz instructed me personally to allow you only to take the phylacteries of Magister Peros.”

“Damn that elf! I’ll kill him!”

The Servitor didn’t respond. “I will have to notify the Protectors if you do not return the manaserum, Seeker Pandora.”

“I need this! I’ll take Peros’ as well—show me where it is.”

Still his gaze was fixed ahead. “I will have to notify the Protectors if you do not return the manaserum, Seeker Pandora.”

She couldn’t afford that. “Do it, then.”

The Servitor paused for a moment. Then he turned to leave. Just as his back was to her, she drew her sword, and he made sure he could do no such thing.

It was a race now. They would be coming after her. She traveled on horseback overland, resting only when she had to. She stole a suit of enchanted chainmail from the Arcane Vault and bought a mundane helmet to go with it; that would be more than enough to render her safe against three magicians. Still, Eris was powerful, and Pandora would be outnumbered.

It didn’t matter. She would make do. Eris would die. Pandora would face punishment as was just.

The phylactery led her to the base of the mountains toward Voreios. Every day its glow grew brighter. At the House of the Silver Helm she asked a man if he had seen a party matching the description of the one she sought, and he had.

“The woman was pregnant, I think, though. Ate half a cow on her own.”

“Pregnant?” Pandora said.

“Told me she was a widow, if I remember. Can I ask why you’re looking for her?”

“She isn’t a widow. She’s a rogue magician. A slut and a seductress; her unborn child is the progeny of a mass murderer. You fell for her enchantments. They headed into the mountains?”

The man was stunned. “Yes, I think so, but the weren’t eager to talk to me.”

Pandora departed at once. Winter neared and she would have to ditch her horse soon; the terrain was too difficult for a beast of burden. With any luck this revelation—that Eris carried a child—meant that she would be slowed down. It explained why she had moved so slowly across Esenia to begin with. A journey that should have taken no more than a month, or little longer staying off the highways, had been extended to three.

It made no difference to Pandora otherwise. In fact it was good news—if the child was Rook’s, she could savor ending its life, too. Lukon would be avenged.

She set off into the hills, then the mountains beyond.