The stronghold is by far the largest building in Heldra, and perhaps the largest I've ever seen. It spans at least five acres, forming a half-circle with a thick triangular tower at its center. Unlike the rest of the stark white structures in the city, the stronghold is made entirely of ebony stone blocks. Rows of guards line the sides of the building, standing at constant attention. None of them are armed with a weapon.

Garreg and I stride past them to the main entrance. I half expect them to stop us and ask questions, but they don't move. Even their eyes remain fixed straight ahead. Something else about them causes me to slow my pace and take a closer look.

They don't have auras.

They are Soulless. The Noble-lords use their mindless slaves to guard their headquarters. No wonder they don't have weapons. How many are from the same group that attacked us in the swamp? Shuddering, I catch up with Garreg, staying a step behind him. He glances at me over his shoulder.

“Not your fate, Crescent,” he whispers.

I give a nod, forcing myself not to look back at the Soulless puppets as we enter the building.

The spacious foyer with its sleek marble floor leads to a raised platform where three elderly men in gray robes sit in high-backed chairs. I frown at them. All three are identical.

“The triplets,” Garreg murmurs, holding out an arm to stop me. “The first of our obstacles.”

“What do they do?” I ask.

“Inspect the paperwork.”

This doesn't seem like a major problem, unless, of course, Garreg has no paperwork. As if reading my thoughts, the stone man reaches into his elaborate robe and pulls out three rectangular stones.

“Let's not keep them waiting,” he says striding forward again, his head raised importantly.

“Good morning,” he calls out, his low voice booming. All three men look at him.

“Papers?” the one in the middle croaks, his jowls quivering.

From where I stand I can see that the stones in Garreg's hand have been replaced by three long sheets of parchment. I cannot make out the words written on them, but I assume they identify Garreg as some noble, offering proof of his wealth and status. He hands them to the old man in the middle, who sets a pair of thick spectacles on his droopy nose. We wait as the false documents are inspected. The old man suddenly jerks, peering closely at something on the page and then looking up at Garreg, his eyes wide. He leans to the brother on his left, whispering something. He does the same with the brother on his right. All three, in unison, get shakily to their feet.

“It is an honor, Your Excellence, to finally welcome you here,” says the middle brother. Each bows his head. Garreg seems unaffected by their reaction. I, however, stare at them in confusion.

“I wish to see the High-Lord as soon as arrangements can be made,” Garreg says, taking back his papers.

“Of course,” says the left brother. “Someone shall take you to your quarters while you wait.” He motions for a young man, who stands at attention nearby, to come over. “Please take this gentleman to room four hundred twenty-two.”

Nodding, the young man turns and leads the way around the platform, heading toward the wide corridor beyond it. Garreg and I follow.

“What just happened?” I ask quietly.

“According to my papers, I am Frand Sosuman, Mid-Lord of Wellind in the southeast. If I remember correctly, I look like him as well. Only the High-Lord himself is above the Mid-Lords, so we should be able to gain an audience without much trouble and get any information we need.”

Impersonating a real Mid-Lord is either a stroke of genius or even more dangerous than if I were to remove my pendant and let the Noble-lords see what I truly am.

We move into the tower portion of the building. Distinguished looking men and a few women pass by, bowing their heads to Garreg and ignoring me, just as they should. A spiral staircase takes us upward.

Once we reach the fourth floor, the young man moves to a hallway and stops at the second door on the right. With a key he extracts from the folds of his robe, he unlocks the door and pushes it open.

“If you need anything,” he says, “send your man to the first basement where he can relay messages to our staff. I don't expect your wait to see His Eminence will be long.”

Garreg nods, shutting the door. Turning to me, he says, “I have your first assignment. If Syndel's identity has been discovered, she will be in the dungeons found on the lowest basement level. Do not ask for her by name. Make up some excuse, like you've been sent to see if a runaway servant of mine has been apprehended.”

His plan seems thrown together, with more potential problems than I care for. I'd be more comfortable with interrogating someone for answers. “And what will you be doing?”

“I'll start making subtle inquiries. Once I meet with the High-Lord, I can discover more.”

“You mean you'll just ask him for Syndel outright?”

He shrugs. “Why not? It's not uncommon for a Mid-Lord to makes lavish requests.”

I like his plan less and less. “What do you know about the High-Lord?”

Garreg grimaces. “Only that he has dedicated his life to the eradication of Soulless. So take care while you're out there.”

Before I can think about it too much, I leave the chamber and make my way back down the spiral staircase, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead as I pass more robed figures. More than once I reach up to my chest to feel for the slight lump beneath my tunic and vest, making sure the pendant that masks my identity is still there. It throbs with a persistent heat; it's been doing that since I entered the city, reminding me to find Bronek. For now, I ignore it.

The basement levels are cold and smell of mildew. The stairs come to an end at a long corridor leading to a thick metal door with a barred window. I try the handle, finding it locked. Peering through the bars, I see a large man seated in a chair, leaning back as he reads from a scroll.

“Excuse me,” I say, swallowing the sudden lump of nerves in my throat.

The man looks up at me and then back at his scroll. “State your business.”

My mind goes blank, forgetting the story I'm supposed to use. “I've come to . . . inspect . . . for rats.” The words are out. I have a faint hope that he didn't hear me and I might get a chance to say something intelligent. The man's eyes narrow. I'm certain he's about to call for assistance and have me apprehended. I'd have no choice but to fight back, revealing my true nature. And since I can't possibly defeat everyone in the stronghold, it would only be a matter of time before the Noble-lords got to me. Syndel would be lost forever. My muscles tense as I wait for my fate.

“'Bout time,” the man says, spitting a glob of tobacco against the wall across from him. “Prisoners keep complaining and I'm tired of hearing about it.” He hefts his ample body from the chair and waddles to the door to unlock it. The metal door squeals as it swings inward. Hardly believing my luck, I step through the threshold.

“Where should I start?” I ask.

“Don't know, don't care,” the man says, returning to his chair and the scroll.

I take a quick assessment. The majority of moans and groans are coming from the left, probably from those that have been here the longest. Which means Syndel would be elsewhere. I move to the right, following a torch-lit tunnel that takes me to the first set of cells.

Auras are almost non-existent. The absence of hope depletes a soul's brightness. As I pass one cell after another, I don't see Syndel's familiar glow. I know she isn't down here. Perhaps I've thought about this all wrong. A Sikari would be a major prisoner, unlikely to be kept in the general area of thieves and ruffians. So where would they keep her? I look up at the ceiling. Probably somewhere in the tower.

I return to the entrance where the large man is still looking at the scroll. I wonder if he has it just to give the appearance that he's doing something important. “There's a nest of rats in the southeast corner,” I say, adding to the story. “And holes throughout the walls. Are there any other prison holds outside the dungeon, like in the tower?”

“Nope,” the man says without looking up. “When can we expect the vermin to be exterminated?”

My shoulders slump. So much for my theory. “Next week,” I say. “Could you let me out now?”

Grumbling, the man struggles to his feet and unlocks the door again. I walk out and head to the stairs, planning my next move. It's time to see how invisible I really am to the high-class snobs in the stronghold.

On the ground floor, I wander from one area to another, finding chambers for training and teaching, meeting rooms with several round tables, and the dining hall. The latter is congested with people, snobs and servants both. I commandeer a tray of strange-smelling pastries and move around the enormous dining table, catching bits of conversations, most of which are not worth the air it took to utter them.

“The bathwater was too cold.”

“I've enjoyed a rare Gurnel egg for breakfast. Just don't tell my Mid-Lord. He likes them for himself.”

“So I had him beaten as an example to the rest of them.”

“I have two Soulless slaves now, though I rarely use them. Most of the time I keep them chained together where the sun can reach them. It amuses me to hear their whimpers.”

“Do you think His Eminence will finally make a choice? He's sent so many away already. I'm beginning to wonder if there's anyone out there who can make him happy. I guess we'll find out later today.”

Frustrated, I return the tray to the serving area and leave the hall.

No one pays me any attention as I move through the tower, relying on my senses to search. I carefully assess the souls I encounter, though most are in rooms, making it more difficult to distinguish if she's among them. As I reach the sixth floor, I suddenly halt as a strange sensation tickles the back of my head.

Cress, is that you?