Guelder woke in an unfamiliar bed, with a faint headache, a burning feeling around her neck, and the taste of stale blood on her tongue.

  She kept her eyes shut and furrowed herself deeper under the blanket, refusing to face the facts that made her mouth reek inside. This was the most hateful aftereffect of moon frenzy, one she seldom experienced. Usually, there was only the taste of edelcup root, the only soporific that worked on elves (with a flavour like a good mouthful of soil), and the feeling that she looked like an idiot, unable to regulate her face. Whenever she'd run out of edelcup root, there was no taste at all, just an itchy, painful rash where the silver collar had touched her neck.

  Blanket or not, there was nowhere to hide from the certainty that she had killed last night. And, since this was the first time she'd purposefully weaponised her curse, she had no way to tell if she'd killed the right people.

  After breaking out of the Stag Lord's captivity, it had been easy to deal with the feeling. There, she'd known for certain that every swipe and bite she'd dished out had been well-deserved, and the cold water of the Shrike had carried away the taste of blood. Since the defeat of the Stag Lord, she hardly ever thought of that time. Unlike another fateful night, many years ago, one she'd buried in herself deep, but not deep enough to avoid its echoes that haunted her ever since she'd spotted Jaethal's dagger among Enneo's wares. The fall of Nightvale Grove. For a moment, she was there again, resting by the little creek that ran by the grove, exhausted by the frenzy and her wounds, with shreds of flesh stuck between her teeth and a little cub poking at her belly in search of a teat to latch on...

  Pangur?

  A meow came from under the bed, followed by a surge of reassuring comfort. Pangur couldn't help with her tattered memories, but he could let her know that nothing too bad had happened last night... at least from a leopard's point of view.

  Guelder gathered her courage and opened her eyes.

  She was in a guestroom, probably in the inn of Shambling Steps, a quickly developing settlement of the Kamelands at the bank of the river Gudrin. A cosy fire was burning in the fireplace. Her clothes from yesterday lay in a crumpled heap under an armchair, in which Tristian was sitting, his head bobbing up and down in his sleep. Her bleary eyes soon found Hazel as well: they were enjoying their night rest, leaning their back against the wall next to the door. The silver chain lay beside them, neatly coiled up.

  The baroness breathed deep, relieved that her worst fear had been unfounded. Now she dared hope that the rest of her companions were unharmed as well.

  A glass of water stood on the nightstand. Guelder crept out of bed, silent as a mouse, rinsed most of the foul taste out of her mouth, then set out on a quest to find her backpack and get a fresh set of clothes.

  The clean shirt she wiggled into chafed at her sore neck, which felt weirdly reassuring. The silver chain had done its job. And all five vials of wolfsbane juice she'd brought along for the sacrament were still neatly lined up in her backpack, untouched.

  But what was Tristian doing in her room? Did the task of keeping her in line require two companions?

  Memories from the previous day, before the moon frenzy, started to seep back, and made her cringe in embarrassment. Tristian's three vials of restoration potions, given as a thank you gift for her intervention in the prison. Afterwards, Guelder had heard Linzi ask him whether he'd finally opened up about his feelings for her. What a stupid idea. Why would Tristian make a move on her when he had—

  Guelder's hands froze amidst an attempt to buckle her belt, as a hazy shred of memory featuring a frightened Amalia resurfaced in her mind.

  Have I killed her?

  "Good morning, Guel," whispered Hazel in Elven, making her jump. There was no telling for how long they'd been observing her from under their eyelashes.

  Guelder sneaked over to them and sat down by their side, careful not to wake Tristian.

  "Thanks for watching over me, Hazel. I trust I did not bite you."

  "You did not. You were quite a handful, but nothing a skilled ranger cannot handle. That said, you might want to consider getting yourself a silver muzzle as well. I had a hard time convincing the innkeeper to allow you upstairs."

  "Did I infect anyone?"

  "No. You were extremely thorough in killing those who got between your jaws."

  "The cultists?"

  "The smarter ones escaped, including Remus and the First Faithful. The stupid ones stayed, came at us, and got themselves killed."

  "Casualties?"

  "Seven cultists. None on our side."

  "Phew." Guelder was relieved to hear that. Out of forty or so participants, it was not that bad, but still more than it should have been. "I thought it would be dozens, what with Kassil intervening with his troops."

  "Well... Kassil did not show up."

  "WHAT?"

  Hazel shrugged. Tristian twitched in his sleep at her loud whisper.

  Guelder hid her face in her hands, as her headache intensified. This was far from being over. The leaders of the Cleansed were still abroad (including Remus, unfazed by trifles such as banishment on pain of death). Some of the common believers would perhaps lose their enthusiasm and go back to tilling the soil and worshipping Erastil, but the angrier ones would remain out there to get the baroness or her supporters in a random encounter. And since Tristian hadn't joined their flight, he would be hunted, too. Cults were known to retaliate against disillusioned members leaving their ranks, even more so if said members had betrayed them. Was that why Tristian was sleeping in her room?

  "What is his deal?" She jerked her head towards the cleric napping in the armchair.

  "I asked him to stay close to you, so that he would not escape."

  So many questions... Why did every single elf in Guelder's entourage mistrust this lovely, maladroit young man? And whatever had happened to Kassil? If he'd ignored her instructions and run off to take on that linnorm...

  "Go now, please," she whispered. "I expect a detailed written report on last night's events from yourself, Valerie and Linzi. Amiri is allowed to deliver it orally. As to Tristian, I am going to interrogate him."

  At last, Hazel closed the door behind themself. Now it was safe for Tristian to open his eyes.

  He'd spent the last few minutes listening in on the two elves' conversation, silently bemoaning the fact that he didn't understand a single word. Once he used to comprehend every language people prayed to Sarenrae in. Now he only spoke Common, and also a little Kelish from a basic conversation textbook to support his backstory. As to Elven, he only knew the word ilduliel, and he wished he didn't know that, either.

  And now he was in Guelder's bedroom, alone with her. He wouldn't get any closer to fulfilling his original mission, and now that Amalia had introduced him into some matters of the flesh, he would perhaps be able to make it work. Too bad that mission had already been cancelled and replaced with another one, at which he'd royally failed, partly on purpose. There would be consequences. He couldn't hide in Guelder's shadow forever. What else could his mistress despoil him of? His healing powers? His eyes? His life? Or the life of someone he loved?

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  The bed creaked. Guelder probably sat down on its edge, watching him "sleep" in the armchair.

  It was time to wake up. He opened his eyes and met her gaze.

  "You seem troubled," she said softly, her voice laced with sorrow. "No wonder. You saw my wild soul last night. Do I scare you?"

  "No. As long as I'm by your side, I feel safe. Even if I saw what you're capable of in the moments of frenzy. Or maybe because of that."

  "Then what are you afraid of?"

  He lowered his head. If only he could tell her everything.

  "Failures," he muttered. "Innocents dying because of me."

  "Do not blame yourself, Tristian. One cannot reason with a furious mob high on religious fallacies, or with a moon-crazed werecreature. I am certain you did your best to mediate, but... you know. We cannot save everyone, and that will always hurt."

  Guelder reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, and drank deep. Tristian's body tensed in horror, but he regained his composure quickly. She was in no danger. Last night he'd informed the innkeeper that the baroness and her crew only consumed rainwater for religious reasons. He'd even winked and pointed his thumb at Hazel, who looked like an exemplary follower of Gozreh, lending weight to his potentially life-saving lie. After the incident in the prison with Amalia's holy water, which could still end badly, he was unwilling to take chances.

  "The First Faithful," he explained, "is not a bad person, despite all appearances. I trusted that the two of you could talk things through. I didn't expect him to try and sacrifice you. Not even Amalia did."

  Guelder's eyes opened wide in surprise, making Tristian realise that she had absolutely no memories of the last minutes before the onset of the frenzy.

  "Amalia? What happened to her?"

  "You let her go."

  "Did I?"

  "You attacked her, all snarls and growls, but as soon as she took the hint and fled, you gave up the chase and sought another foe to kill."

  Guelder looked away, sorrow in her eyes.

  "More like she was lucky. That is good enough for me, though."

  "In fact, you let most of them go," he continued. Of course, Guelder hadn't had much say in the matter, what with being wrangled by Hazel into the silver collar. Still, Tristian wanted to make her feel better about herself. "You did the right thing. These are good people. They're scared for their lives, and they don't know any better."

  "Scared of what?" snapped Guelder. She sprang to her feet. In the next moment, she winced and touched her right eye.

  "You're in pain," said Tristian softly, eager to change topic, which, in turn, filled him with guilt. Welcoming a beloved person's pain as a way out of a tight spot felt like a new level of vileness. Not that Guelder relented so easily.

  "I still know next to nothing about the background of this movement," she said, pressing the heel of her hand against her eye. "I went to the sacrament to learn more about the situation, but I am none the wiser ever since. Which leaves me with you. What have you learnt during your time with them?"

  Tristian stood up from the armchair and stepped beside her, gently ushering her to take his place.

  "Come, let me heal you. And also your neck, all chafed and bruised... Why didn't you tell me?"

  Guelder swept his hand off herself.

  "Who cares about pain? I want answers!"

  "Well, someone should care about your pain, since you obviously don't. You can't go on neglecting your own needs like that. Sit down here."

  After a few moments of hesitation, the headache convinced Guelder to give in. She eased into the armchair and tipped her head back, allowing Tristian to massage her temples and forehead, his hands warm with healing energy. A soft moan of relief indicated that the pain was letting up.

  "Claiming the land, claiming its pain, claiming its death," she murmured, indulging in the holy warmth. "The land is ailing. The Cleansed is not the cause but a symptom. And I feel so blind..."

  Tristian's hands slipped down to her neck, restoring the healthy smoothness of her skin. He took his sweet time to finish the job, relishing the feel of her body heat as it interacted with the healing warmth, the rhythm of her heartbeats pulsating in her carotid artery against the palms of his hands. By the Dawnflower, how he wished for more... and how wrong it felt.

  Also, Amalia would have deserved a proper breakup.

  The door banged open, revealing Valerie in the doorway. She didn't even have her usual veil on. Tristian met her stern, sparkling blue eyes, and heat suffused his cheeks, as if caught red-handed.

  At least Guelder acted natural, completely indifferent to the possible interpretations of the scene.

  "Is something wrong, Valerie? What happened?"

  Luckily, this time Valerie kept her head level, and instead of berating the baroness for something that was not her fault, she cut to the point.

  "Your Grace, our help is needed, and quickly! It's the linnorm!"

  Guelder sprang up from the armchair, looking around for her spear, and meowed to Pangur to follow.

  "Alert the others! I want everyone in the common room in two minutes!"

  Tristian scooped up his backpack and left the room, happy to be rid of Guelder's uncomfortable questions. Compared to telling the truth, a fight with a linnorm seemed a pleasant option.