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.It mimics the shapes of things that already are, just as its power is merely a reflection of the strength of its maker and the darkness.There is no reliable way to determine the presence of a sceadu, though one account of the death of Allevian Tobry—Who was Allevian Tobry? Nio had always wondered about that, for he had never come across any other mention of the name.—records that a stranger appeared at his gates, cloaked and hooded despite the summer’s heat, and so brought death to that lord with a touch of his hand.Everyone of his household felt an intense cold emanating in waves from the stranger, as ripples do spread out around a stone tossed into a pool.After the stranger had departed, all fell sick of a lingering fever.The wizard of the household claimed it had been no man, but a sceadu.I cannot vouch for the truth of this account, as there is little other firsthand knowledge of encounters with sceadus.There is no known way of killing the creatures, though they themselves feed on death and will kill for no reason at all.They need death in order to live.This is not surprising, as they are the oldest servants of the Dark.CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTLISS GALNESThe following day, Ronan made his way to the Street of Willows in the Highneck Rise district.It was still raining.It had not let up through the night.The gutters ran with water.The worst of his injuries had faded to dull aches over night.Except for his ribs.He’d have to be careful there.He had always been a quick healer.His mother had said that came from her side of the family.A sour smile crossed his face.He could only hope the children wouldn’t breathe a word of what they’d done.If anyone found out about it, he’d be the laughingstock of the Guild.But those children would be thinking hard on what they’d done.Especially when they were alone.They’d be looking over their shoulders for a long time.He’d been the Silentman’s Knife for seven years now, settling matters in alleys and in back rooms where his prey had nowhere left to run to, except into the tired arms of death.Death.Like a shadow always on his heels, treading closer over the years until it was almost like his own shadow.But they weren’t friends, even though he had handed over many souls into its embrace.No, it was a working relationship, begun in distaste and dulling over the years into numbness.He didn’t dream anymore.His memories no longer troubled him, for they also had numbed.But it would be different when he went to Flessoray.It was too late to go back home, but he could go to the islands.If he could get the Silentman to release him from his duties.Maybe he would have to sneak out of the city.The Flessoray Islands were north, off the coast of Harlech.They rose up out of the sea, made of stone and scrub pines.Folk lived apart there, content with their lives and having no interest in the outside world of Tormay.Life was measured by the patience of the sea and by the wind wearing away the days until stone and man alike were scraped clean to their bones.Perhaps then, there, things would be different, and he would let the wind blow through him until he was empty.The Street of Willows was lined with manors, complacent behind their high walls.Gates were locked against the weather and thieves such as himself.The trees from which the street took its name stood in rows of drooping branches on either side of the cobblestones.He stood underneath one and considered the wall a few yards further down.Water dripped down from the leaves onto his head.Under normal circumstances, without broken ribs, the height of the wall would not have been a problem.He scowled.Children!Ronan wasn’t getting any warmer, or any drier for that matter, so he climbed the wall.Just as Arodilac had said, the tree outside the Galnes wall provided an easy ascent.He crept out onto a branch that reached toward the top of the wall and listened for a moment.But he heard no wards whispering, no rustle of invisible threads tightening, ready to snap around him.And then he was over and down, wincing as his ribs grated, a dark shape in the rain that melted into the darker shadows of the shrubbery.It was a small garden, filled with bushes and trees that crowded about a patch of grass.The rain had stripped the flowers from the bushes, and everywhere the ground was dappled with white petals.Lights shone in the windows of the manor beyond.And there were the apple trees.He reached out and plucked one.Tart and sweet.Good, but certainly not good enough to warrant this mess.There were better apples to be bought in the city
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