All That Glitters by Auston Habershaw Page A

probably would have extended the lad a bit more consideration, but he wasn’t in the adolescent-­development business. He was in the staying alive, free, and wealthy business—­three things that the ring seemed intent on ruining for him.
    Even though the Defenders weren’t pursuing him as aggressively anymore, there were any number of bounty hunters looking to collect Sahand’s reward for his capture, dead or alive, not to mention those assassins in the employ of Angharad tin’Theliara, who would love nothing more than to stab him in bed. If word got out about his involvement in robbing Cameron Thystal of Draketower, he could even imagine complicated political machinations that would make him a wanted man in any peerage or county in Eretheria, which of course meant all the good camping spots this side of Akral were now off-­limits, even assuming camping was an acceptable state of existence in the first place.
    Then there was the money. All of it, more or less, sunk to the bottom of a damned lake in the middle of nowhere. They were paupers. He now had a little shy of one hundred marks to get them from the north of Eretheria to the city of Saldor on the shores of the Syrin. He’d just pawned the Heart of Flowing Sunlight—­for all the grief and effort it had caused him—­so he could get a pair of Eretherian party shrouds for two gnolls from an enchanter who never would have given him the time of day had he not waved letters of introduction from a backwater peeress under his pointy nose. It seemed each day brought a new kind of low.
    Worst of all, his quest to excise the thrice-­damned ring from his life had also hit a dead end. He’d spent a king’s ransom on every ancient book of history, mythology, and sorcery he could get his hands on, searching for some mention or clue as to the location or identity of the Yldd, and he’d come up completely empty. Granted, he hadn’t finished all those stupid books, but still, if he hadn’t found any reference yet, he was beginning to think no such thing as the Yldd existed. The Artificer had probably been lying to him.
    That brought him back to Sir Banber’s gossip, and that brought him back to Myreon. He could still remember the feeling of her cold lips against his as the ring poured him into her, bringing her back from the brink of death. The memory was always there, not far from his thoughts. Myreon, it seemed, had taken up permanent residence in his thoughts and made herself as obstreperous and frustrating as possible. How very like her.
    Nevertheless, the Myreon rumor still bothered him—­it seemed too convenient, too tailor-­made for him. It was as though somebody had planted it as a ploy to draw him back to Saldor, and he could think of only one person in Saldor who would go to such lengths. For that reason alone he should have had every intention of steering well clear of Myreon’s petrified prison, assuming it existed.
    The thought of it burned, though. Tyvian could picture her on the floor of Keeper’s Court, head held high, while the rabble booed. He remembered the icy calm of those blue-­gray eyes—­the eyes of a woman that always knew what should and should not be done. He imagined her staring injustice in the face, knowing she was soon to become so much stone in some penitentiary garden. It made him surprisingly angry.
    And knowing somebody had done that to her on purpose just to lure him made him want to stab something. Maybe several somethings.
    Then again, maybe he could turn this Myreon lure to his advantage. Maybe there was a way to turn the scheme back upon the schemer and perhaps restore a little bit of his self-­respect. Maybe . . .
    While he sipped his bad rum and thought dark thoughts, a man slid into the booth across from him. At first Tyvian scarcely noticed—­the man was without clear edges, without recognizable form. A shadow shaped like a man.