The spectral attendants guided each guest to their place at the long table, the seating clearly arranged in advance. There was an undeniable sense of purpose to the arrangement, though whatever logic guided it was lost on Hunter.

  The seat at the top of the table was reserved for the Sage. To the right sat Sister Ursa, then D’Alcyian, then the girl, Ilwi. Last on that side was Antonetta, the older woman. Hunter was shown to the first seat on the left, directly beside the Sage. That came as a surprise; he’d expected Aumir to sit there, not himself. Instead, Aumir was placed in the next seat, to Hunter’s left. Next to Aumir sat Gauffrey, the grim-faced warrior, and beside him, two empty chairs remained, their intended occupants nowhere to be seen. Fyodor, Klothi, and the ravens had also been included, their own plates set a little apart near the door.

  At the back of the hall, two Callanthines glided into view. They halted before a gilded door, opened it wide, then bowed low and raised their voices as one, solemn and formal.

  “Her Excellency, Jadzia Iqbal, Sage of Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits, Lady Protector of Taravus.”

  Whatever expectations or mental image Hunter had unconsciously formed of the Sage, they fell wildly short of the woman who stepped through the door and entered the hall.

  The Sage cut a figure both regal and otherworldly. Her long, form-fitting gown was a shade of violet so deep it looked almost black, made from a fabric that flowed over the curves and contours of her silhouette like liquid shadow. A high collar and a mantle of great peacock feathers framed her shoulders in an iridescent crown of plumage. Upon her head rested a striking headdress, a lattice of argent filigree that arched outward in spines like a halo.

  Her lips, painted a slightly lighter shade of violet to match her gown, only sharpened the severity of her beauty. She wore jewelry of silver and jet, intricate pieces that glittered faintly in the chandelier light: coils of bangles at her wrists, and a heavy pendant at her throat shaped like a crescent.

  Still, her own natural features eclipsed the splendor of her attire by a long shot; her face was sharp and angular, patrician and beautiful in a way that held the same majesty as a storm. Her pale skin seemed to glow against the darkness of her gown and midnight-black hair, and her eyes were a piercing, otherworldly blue.

  At her entrance, the hall fell into reverent silence. Everyone rose from their seats, and the Callanthines bowed low in deference. It was as if the Sage’s very presence drew the air out of the room. Her gaze swept across the table, resting on each of the attendees for a fraction of a moment.

  Then, at last, she smiled, and the impossible weight gave way to a warmth so disarming it felt almost like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

  “A good evening to you, my faithful friends,” the Sage of Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits said, her voice melodic and sonorous. She shared the same exotic, lilting accent as Sister Ursa. “And to our honored guests, a heartfelt welcome. It is a great joy to finally see you at my table. Please, sit.”

  She took her seat at the head of the table, directly beside Hunter. Her aura as electric; he felt as though he were sitting next to high-voltage power lines.

  “Aumir,” she said, turning to the huntsman. “What news from Aernor?”

  “Nothing new, I’m afraid,” he replied. “It has only been three weeks since we last met, after all.”

  “Of course, of course.” She smiled, revealing bright, perfect teeth. “Time flows differently for us in Taravus, as you know. And you,” her gaze shifted to Hunter, “you must be the famous Hunter.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposedly famous for, Sage,” Hunter tried to play it cool, “but I’m certainly grateful for your hospitality.”

  “Please, call me Jadzia. That ‘Sage’ nonsense makes me feel old, and I’m not even two hundred and seventy yet.”

  “Two hundred and seventy? You carry it well. I’d never have guessed more than twenty-seven.”

  The Sage turned to Aumir and shot him a flat look, though the faintest curl tugged at her lips.

  “You neglected to mention he was smooth as well,” she said.

  “Aumir has yet to see anything that would suggest such a thing,” the huntsman replied, matching her deadpan tone.

  For a beat they held each other’s gaze in silence—then both broke into a short chuckle.

  “You’d be surprised what having a literal spark of divinity in your core can do for your skin,” she said, turning back to Hunter. “In any case, thank you for your compliment. I find such candor… refreshing, I dare say.”

  “Uh, Sage?” D’Alcyian interjected. “A moment of your time? I was hoping to discuss my research. The latest findings show some promise—“

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  “Later, D’Alcyian.” Her tone brooked no argument as she cut him off with a single wave of her hand. “We have guests to entertain, and I fear your research may prove a touch too dry for the occasion.”

  “As you wish, Sage,” the scholar murmured, bowing his head. But Jadzia’s attention had already returned to Hunter.

  “You must tell me everything,” she told him. “What your world is like, how you ended up on Aernor, what you’ve been up to since then.”

  The idea of refusing her never crossed Hunter’s mind. The Sage was absolutely magnetic. He started talking about this and that, regaling her with various stories, and she hung on his every word. Time slipped away; all that mattered was the way those icy blue eyes stayed fixed on him, the way her laughter bubbled up at the little jokes he peppered the retelling of his misadventures with. Her attention was more intoxicating than any drug, and he found himself craving more, always more.

  An hour passed before someone finally interrupted them, breaking the spell.

  “Not to imply that the Transient’s tales are anything less that titillating, Sage,” Sister Ursa said, “but I believe we should save some for later. I’m sure our guests must be starving by now, after the day they had.”

  “Of course, of course,” the Sage said. “As I said before, things can get awfully slow in Taravus.”

  She gave the order for dinner to be served, and the spectral Callanthines glided in bearing an endless procession of platters, saucers, and carafes. Roast pheasant with herbs and honey glaze, golden-brown and aromatic; braised lamb shank in red wine; venison stew with root vegetables; mashed potatoes, creamy, buttery, and peppered; rice pilaf with sweet corn and mushrooms; mulled wine, honey mead, ale and dark beer. And everything—everything!—was practically brimming with aether.

  Everyone dug in with gusto, save for the Sage, who only sipped her mulled wine and watched with a self-satisfied expression as the others enjoyed the feast. When the last of the plates were cleared, the Callanthines returned with tea and cake. Conversation soon bloomed around the table, the company easing into talk among themselves.

  This time, the Sage turned her attention to Aumir, and the huntsman seemed no more immune to her almost supernatural charm than Hunter. Not wanting to intrude on their conersation, Hunter used the chance to study the rest of the attendees.

  Across the table, Sister Ursa was caught up in some kind of argument with D’Alcyian, the scholar. They spoke in hushed tones; Hunter couldn’t hear what they were saying. Judging by their expressions and body language, however, the gloomy scholar seemed to be complaining about something, and the Sister seemed to be telling him to keep his trap shut.

  Next to them sat the gray-haired matronly woman, Antonetta, and beside her, Ilwi, the little girl. Antonetta was trying to keep Ilwi entertained and, as far as Hunter could tell, was doing a great job. To his surprise, what he’d earlier mistaken for an antler-adorned headband on Ilwi’s head were, in fact, actual antlers.

  Across from Ilwi, right next to Aumir, Gauffrey seemed lost in thought. The grim-faced warrior moved with the ease of someone well-acquainted with the savoir vivre of luxurious dining halls like this. Yet there was something cold and rigid about him. If he’d spoken to anyone during the dinner, Hunter hadn’t noticed.

  What he had noticed, however, was that Gauffrey, Antonetta, and Sister Ursa shared their same pallor. It was subtle, but once he’d seen it, it was hard to unsee. It reminded him of 16th-century portraits of European nobles, who painted their faces pale and immaculate with skin-whitening cosmetics. The Sage herself did not share that pallidness, and neither did D’Alcyian and Ilwi. An oddity, sure, but probably nothing really noteworthy.

  As Hunter was finishing his second cup of aether-infused tea, the little girl rose from her seat and walked up to him.

  “Hello,” she said, blushing.

  “Hello! I’m Hunter. Who are you?”

  “I’m Ilwi.” She gave a little bow, lifting imaginary skirts as though her modest brown felt dress was a princess’s gown. “Antonetta says the wolf and the ravens are your friends.”

  Hunter glanced toward the door, where Fyodor, Biggs, Wedge, and Klothi lay napping in a heap of fur and feathers, their plates already licked clean.

  “They are! And the little stoat there, Klothi, is Aumir’s friend.”

  “I know Klothi!,” said the little girl, as if stating the obvious. “We’re friends. What I wanted to ask was, can I pet your friends?”

  “Sure,” said Hunter. “Let me introduce them to you.”

  He rose from his seat and walked to his menagerie, giving a mental heads-up to Biggs and Wedge to make sure they played nice. Antonetta rose from her own seat and followed too, keeping an eye on Ilwi.

  “This is Fyodor,” he told her as the groggy direwolf stirred from his nap. “He’s big, but don’t let that fool you. He’s young, like you. And these two feathery windbags are Biggs and Wedge.”

  “Hello, Fyodor!” Ilwi gave another little bow. “Hello, Biggs! Hello, Wedge! Nice to meet you!”

  “Should I let her pet them?” Hunter asked the older woman in a low voice. “The ravens won’t hurt her. They’re my familiars. And the direwolf’s just an oversized puppy, too, but—”

  “Oh, don’t you trouble yourself over that,” Antonetta brushed aside his concern. “The little one has her way with animals. It’s in her nature. And besides, the Sage would never allow anything unpleasant to happen.”

  “That’s… good to know.”

  Biggs and Wedge, never ones to miss a chance to clown around, hopped up and mimicked the girl’s formal bow. Ilwi gasped in delight. Klothi leapt up as well, skittering to climb the girl’s leg and back before settling comfortably on her shoulder.

  “And hello to you too, Klothi,” Ilwi said, scratching under the stoat’s tiny chin. The two of them were clearly already well-acquainted. “Nice to see you too!”

  Eager for attention as well, Fyodor rose to his feet, gave the girl a few curious sniffs, then shoved his massive head beneath her hand for scratches.

  “See?” said Antonetta. “They’re fast friends.”

  Hunter and the older woman watched as Ilwi and the menagerie chased each other around the dining hall, drawing no shortage of annoyed glances from D’Alcyian. The Sage, however, seemed to have a soft spot for the girl, and so the scholar confined himself to silent disapproval.

  “Bless her little heart,” Antonetta said as she watched the girl. “Terrible thing, what happened to her and her people. She remembers little now, thankfully. But if not for the Sage’s enchantment…” She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

  “What happened to her and her people?” Hunter asked.

  Antonetta arched an eyebrow.

  “I thought you were here to hunt the godling.”

  “We are. But nobody’s bothered to fill me in on the details yet.”

  “I wouldn’t want to overstep,” said the older woman, pressing her lips into a thin, pale line. “The Sage will tell you herself in time, I expect.”

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