Before I go on, I must warn you that this tale is rife with both serendipity and misfortune. It is the both the blessing and the curse of the plane-touched, and in this regard, we might consider Soren Mallister to be most unfortunate. It is said that it is often best for mortals that they do not gain the attention of the gods, and for Soren to have drawn the gaze of the god of death himself suggests a most cruel fate.

  As for the matter at hand, I believe that the tragedy of this existence is that we are unable to understand others, whether it be their dreams or their hopes. Even when it explained to us, it slips through our grasp because the experience is not our own. This is the truth for but one life. What of many lifetimes? What of the truth that flits beyond our apprehension, then? Is it forever lost, forever out of reach, in that one moment of time when we might have held it? Or if we strive and seek, can we find it again? My hope is that the latter is possible. My fear tells me that this is mortal folly.

  We Kyburns toy with death. With our own, with that of others, as though it is a game. I have no doubt that each member of my dynasty has offended the Halflight King with some or other blasphemy.

  But I used to wonder what it would be like to reincarnate, to be reborn into a new life, a new experience. I thought of the knowledge that might be gained, standing atop all the knowledge that is to be regained. But then I think of how little we know the world and how little we know ourselves. If this experience is multiplied, then perhaps the only thing that is gained is loss.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it? The man I killed.’

  I could not begin to fathom what Soren’s thoughts were upon hearing those fateful words from this woman, this ‘Katerina’, the Red Anne of Dwinvale. Neither of those were her true names of course, but we will come to that shortly.

  Soren told me that what he felt in that moment was sheer numbness, a blankness that went beyond being simply devoid of thought and rendered speechless – it was as though this truth, spoken with uncertainty and guilt, had emptied out his soul in that moment, and left him transfigured into marionette with its strings cut.

  Even this feeling was terrifyingly reminiscent of something; a memory of an incarnation that had abandoned what it meant to feel, to dream.

  He regained himself a moment later and he looked into her eyes. He saw fear there, and guilt. And more than that, he saw doubt, as though having said the words she immediately became uncertain of them.

  For Soren the image in his memory had always been of a man striking that fateful blow, a hooded man, standing over him, while the sun set beyond the treetops, visible through the open door of a stone tomb. Yet as she said the words, he saw the image of the man replaced by her… and then he doubted it as well.

  ‘I don’t think-‘ they said, together, then stopped.

  “Katerina” bowed her head meekly. Meekness did not suit her, Soren thought then.

  ‘I recognize you,’ Soren said, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘But not as my killer.’

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ she said. ‘I was told to come here, and I was told to watch for travelers, and that one day a man I’d recognize would come, and he would be the man I killed-‘

  Soren’s eyes went wide at this. ‘Who told you this?’

  She shook her head. ‘He gave me no name – the man who woke me in that temple.’

  She frowned. ‘It’s strange. I remember every day since I woke up, but… I don’t know where that temple is, or how I got out of the forest surrounding it.’

  ‘This happened two years ago?’ Soren demanded.

  She nodded. Then this happened after he had awakened and left her. A memory returned to him, then, unbidden. A faint memory, a feeling, a need. The need to send help. Yes. He had meant to return for her. He didn’t want to just leave her, lying there. This made sense to him now. What didn’t make sense is how he forgot it, why he had just kept going until he had found the town of Shallan.

  ‘This man,’ Soren said slowly, trying to organize his thoughts, trying to make sense of the memories, ‘was he alone?’

  She paused. It seemed that she was having trouble remembering as well. Then she opened her eyes and they were clear. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was with two others. A tall, haunted woman, and a hulking… thing, hooded and cloaked. I don’t think it was a man. I remember looking at it and feeling afraid.’

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  None of this sounded familiar. But strangely, it felt like one of the missing pieces in his memories. These three figures… what role did they play in his death and reincarnation? What were they seeking, and what did they have invested in this woman?

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the moments after his awakening. Nothing made sense. He stumbled into the courtyard of the tomb. He remembered seeing blood everywhere, and the corpses of both men and horses, torn limb from limb, but he had no clue what had caused this. What had happened at that tomb? What had drawn him there to begin with?

  ‘How are we connected, you and I?’ Soren asked.

  ‘I can’t…’ she began, then paused, thinking. ‘I think I was hunting someone. I’m not sure that it was you. In fact, I don’t think so.’ It seemed that clarity was returning to her; something seemed to crystallize behind her eyes. Soren sensed something around her, an aura of magic, slowly dissipating. This only deepened the suspicions he had of some enchantment placed on the pair of them. Something that affected not only their memories, but their very will.

  At this moment, a song began to waft through Red Anne’s. Beautiful, entrancing, it drew Soren’s gaze towards the stage where he saw a hooded woman standing with her hands raised as she wove an aria of memory and loss. It was strange. A performance more for grand halls and nobility than the rank and file of Dwinvale. But there was no shouting at this song, no bawdy calls or wolf whistles.

  No, this song commanded attention with its gentle, lilting words, sung in a language Soren didn’t recognize. He was being drawn into it, away from the maddening memories of two years ago, and into the quiet oblivion of silent oceans, in vast blue depths, far from any shore…

  It was at this moment that “Katerina” stood up, looking down at herself and around Red Anne’s as though seeing it all for the first time; the suddenness of her movement, snapped Soren out of his trance.

  ‘By the gods, all the time I’ve wasted.’ Her brogue softened slightly, and her voice took on a slight edge.

  ‘I don’t know how you and I are connected,’ she said. ‘But I fear that those three people who did this to us are more interested in you than in me. I think they manipulated me to come here, to waste two years as I have. What’s more, they placed some kind of spell on me, suppressing my memories, my very sense of self.’

  Soren raised an eyebrow. The song continued. It tugged again at his attention, at his senses, but he was drawn by this moment of revelation from. ‘You seem to have a very good idea about this.’

  Her lip curled slightly. ‘I have seen such magic before. A compulsion, a geass, placed on my blood and bones until its conditions are fulfilled.’

  ‘And that condition was?’ Soren asked, though he already knew the answer.

  ‘You. Meeting you, speaking to you of the events of two years ago.’

  Soren sat back, folding his arms. He was the trigger? Why, though? What did these people know about him, about his reincarnations? Were they the ones who had killed him before? It wasn’t as though he had gone out of his way to move stealthily between towns – if they were out for his blood, they might well have been able to track him down over the two years. So they weren’t just looking to kill him. He looked at this woman, whose revelations had only brought more mysteries. How was she important in all of this? And why her?

  ‘Who are you really?’

  She sighed. ‘My name is Lucia,’ she said. ‘I am a Venator of the Lethean Orders.’

  ‘Right,’ said Soren. ‘Now, I know what most of those words meant…’

  Lucia’s face softened into a smile. It was quite a sight.

  ‘Venator’s an old word,’ she said, her voice losing some of its edge. ‘Really, it just means hunter. The Lethean Orders are devoted to studying the moment of death. We ponder the mysteries of the transition, and how it can be corrupted. We are inveterate enemies of necromancers and undead abominations. Similarly, we are curious about the mysteries of reincarnation, and why it seems some souls are blessed – or cursed – to return to their mortal existence.’

  At these words, Soren’s eyebrow raised. And she said that she wasn’t hunting or searching for him? What, then, had drawn them together? Was it truly something as trivial as coincidence? He had encountered another splinter of the Lethean Orders tonight, but thought it best not to mention the Third Moon. He suppressed a shiver coursing down his spine. Why did it feel like fate was, once again, toying with him? Was she another member of Third Moon, perhaps?

  Or was this woman, this Lucia, a possible ally?

  At this moment, the song being sung reached its crescendo, an aria of sorrow and hope that filled the room. It was at this moment that it finally caught Lucia’s attention.

  ‘She’s quite good, whoever this is-‘ she paused as she looked at the singer, who was, as it turned out, staring directly at their table.

  Distracted as they were by this meeting and conversation, they had failed to notice that the tavern had gone silent but for this singer. Gone was the laughter, the boisterous conversation. Everyone else had fallen asleep. Struck down by this song.

  An enchantment, woven in verse, sung with the voice of a siren.

  Soren hissed in sudden recognition, rising to his feet, knocking his chair away.

  It was Sannah!