"You want to know the truth."

Sonea has learned much since she was but a penniless urchin possessing an awesome untapped ability. She has earned the grudging respect of her fellow novices and a place in the Magicians' Guild. But there is much she wishes she had never learned—what she witnessed, for example, in the underground chamber of the mysterious High Lord Akkarin . . . and the knowledge that the Guild is being observed closely by an ancient fearsome enemy.

Still, she dares not ignore the terrifying truths the High Lord would share with her, even though she fears it may be base trickery, a scheme to use her astonishing powers to accomplish his dark aims. For Sonea knows her future is in his hands—and that only in the shadows will she achieve true greatness . . . if she survives.

In ancient Kyralian poetry the moon is known as the Eye.When the Eye is wide open, its watchful presence detersevil—or encourages madness in those who do wrong underits gaze. Closed, with only a sliver of white to mark its sleepingpresence, the Eye allows hidden deeds of both good orill to remain unnoticed.

Looking up at the moon, Cery smiled wryly. This phaseof the Eye, a narrow slit, was the one preferred by secretlovers, but he was not hurrying through the shadows of thecity to such a rendezvous. His purpose was of a darker kind.

Whether his deeds were good or ill, however, was difficultfor him to know. The men he hunted deserved their fate, butCery suspected there was a deeper purpose to the work he'dbeen commissioned to do than just reducing the murdersthat had plagued the city for the last few years. He did notknow everything about the whole nasty business—of that hewas sure—but he probably knew more than anyone else inthe city.

As he walked, he considered what he did know. He hadlearned that these murders were not carried out by one man,but by a succession of them. He had also noted that thesemen were of the same race: Sachakan. Most importantly,however, he knew they were magicians.

As far as Cery knew, there were no Sachakans in theGuild.

If the Thieves were aware of any of this, they were keepingtheir knowledge well hidden. He thought back to a meeting of Thieves he had attended two years ago. The leaders ofthe loosely allied underworld groups had been amused byCery's offer to find and stop the killer. Those who askedslyly why Cery hadn't succeeded after so long might be assumingthere was only one murderer, or they might wanthim to think that was all they knew.

Each time Cery dealt with one of the murderers, anotherbegan his grisly work. Unfortunately, this made it appear tothe Thieves that Cery was failing at his task. All he could dowas shrug off their questions, and hope his success in otherunderworld activities made up for it.

From the dark square of a doorway the shape of a largeman emerged. Distant lamplight revealed a grim, familiarface. Gol nodded once, then fell into step beside Cery.

Reaching an intersection of five roads, they approached awedge-shaped building. As they stepped through the opendoors, Cery savored the heavy odor of sweat, bol and cooking.It was early evening and the bolhouse was full. Hemoved to a seat at the counter, where Gol ordered two mugsof bol and a dish of salted crots.

Gol munched his way through half of the beans before hespoke.

"At the back. Flash ring. What you say, son?"

Cery and Gol often pretended to be father and son whenthey did not want their true identities known—which wasmost of the time they spent in public these days. Cery wasonly a few years younger than Gol but, with his small statureand boyish face, he was often mistaken for a youth. Hewaited a few minutes, then let his gaze shift to the back ofthe bolhouse.

Though the room was crowded, it was easy to locate theman Gol had pointed out. His distinctive wide, brownSachakan face stood out among the pale Kyralian ones andhe was watching the crowd carefully. Glancing at the man'sfingers, Cery noted a glint of red in the dull silver of a ring.He looked away.

"What you think?" Gol murmured.

Cery picked up his mug and pretended to gulp a mouthfulof bol. "Too much rub for us, da. Leave him for another."

Grunting in answer, Gol drained his mug and set it down.Cery followed him outside. A few streets from the bolhouse,he reached into his coat, pulled out three copper coins andpressed them into Gol's large hand. The big man sighed andwalked away.

Cery smiled wryly, then stooped and opened a grille setinto a nearby wall....

Trudi Canavan lives in a little house on a hillside, near a forest, in the Melbourne suburb of Ferntree Gully in Australia. She has been making up stories about things that don't exist for as long as she can remember and was amazed when her first published story received an Aurealis Award for Best Fantasy Short Story in 1999. A freelance illustrator and designer, she also works as the designer and Art Director of Aurealis, a magazine of Australian fantasy and science fiction.

You can e-mail her at trudi@spin.net.au or find out more about Kyralia and the Magicians' Guild at www.spin.net.au/~trudi.

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