Theron Goldwhisper knelt in the ash where his home had burned three days ago. His parents and sister lay under the black timbers still. The killer who did this had fled into the Red Woods, and Theron meant to follow. But he had one problem. He had never seen the assassin's face. He carried only a torn strip of black cloth, snagged on a nail near the door. To him it was a scent, a thread, a start. To anyone else it was nothing. The Red Woods swallowed the trail by dusk. Strangers moved between the red-leafed trees. Hunters, peddlers, a woman gathering wild roses tangled with pink mushrooms. Any of them could be the killer. None of them wore a face Theron knew. He could not draw a blade on a stranger and hope. He needed proof, or he would murder the innocent and let the guilty pass. He found the information seller in a lean-to of bones and hide. Griswold Rattlebones was old, brown-skinned, and bent, his gray beard matted with grease. He sold names of killers-for-hire to anyone with coin. He looked Theron over with pale, greedy eyes. "A face, boy?" Griswold laughed and spat. "Faces cost. And I don't sell what I can't prove." He tapped the black cloth in Theron's hand. "But a nose might do what my mouth won't." Griswold whistled. A great bloodhound rose from the shadows. Blue lightning crackled along its brown flanks and dripped from its jaws. Its eyes fixed on the cloth like a hooked fish. "Let it drink the scent," Griswold said. "It'll run down whoever wore that. Then you'll have your face. But the beast costs your father's ring." Theron looked at the ring on his hand, the last thing his father owned. He pulled it off and dropped it in the old man's palm. "Take it." He held the cloth to the hound's nose. The dog breathed deep, and thunder rolled under its skin. It bolted into the trees. Theron ran after it, branches tearing his sleeves. The hound stopped at a camp fire. A cloaked figure crouched there, sharpening a curved knife. The dog snarled, lightning arcing. The figure looked up, and Theron saw the face at last. A narrow jaw. A pale scar splitting one brow. He burned it into his memory. Now he knew his prey. But the figure was not alone. Behind the fire sat an elder, black-skinned, gray-haired, robed in purple. Aldric Moonshadow. He set a heavy purse in the assassin's hands and spoke soft words. Theron's breath stopped. This old elf had hired the killer. He knew the true face all along. The assassin's eyes snapped to Theron in the brush. The face he had won was now a face that had seen him. Theron had his proof. And the hunter had just become the hunted.

Theron ran until the assassin's fire was far behind. He crouched under a red-leafed tree and forced himself to think. He knew the killer's face now. He knew Aldric Moonshadow had paid for the murders. But knowing was not proof. If he named the old elf tonight, no one would believe him. Aldric would deny it, hide the assassin, and vanish. Theron needed something a stranger could hold and understand. Then he remembered the ring. His mother had found a signet ring in the ash after the fire, dropped by the man who killed her. She died before she could tell Theron whose crest it bore. He had left it hidden inside the ruins of his home, thinking it worthless. Now he understood. A hired blade does not wear a lord's crest. The elder who hired him does. He reached an orange cabin wrapped in twisting blue vines. Smoke curled from its chimney. Theron had heard the man inside sold sworn testimony to the woods court. He knocked hard. The door opened. A broad archer stood there, red robe stitched with gold marks, bow slung across his bare chest. His blue eyes measured Theron like a target. "You bring blood to my door, elf," the archer said. "I smell it on you. Speak fast or leave faster." "Garrick Redwyn," Theron said. "They told me you carry a witness's word to the court. I have a crime and a crest. I need both sworn." Garrick did not move from the doorway. "Words are cheap. Crests are cheaper. Every liar in these woods owns one." Theron drew the signet ring from his pocket. He had gone back for it before the trail went cold. He held it up. The silver band caught the firelight. Its engraved face showed a crest of curling lines and a single stone. Garrick's jaw tightened. He took the ring and turned it in his thick fingers. "I know this mark," he said quietly. "Moonshadow. The old elf in purple robes." He looked up sharp. "You found this where?" "In the ash of my family's home. The killer dropped it. Aldric Moonshadow's own ring, in the hand of the man he hired." Garrick was still a long moment. Then he stepped aside. "Come in before someone sees you." He set the ring on his table and drew a strip of parchment. "I will swear what I saw. This crest, this witness, this account. The court cannot ignore a lord's own seal at a murder." Theron watched the archer write. For the first time, he held a thread no one could break. The ring tied Aldric to the killing. He had his proof at last. But Garrick paused, pen lifted. "You understand what this does. The moment I carry this, Moonshadow will know. He will send the assassin to burn it out of both our hands." Theron looked at the ring on the table. His proof was also a target now.