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He was not difficult to spot. The assassin towered over most of the market crowd. He was taller even than Garion, and paler besides. She guessed him to be of the far north—Calidon, or perhaps the Jyd. He had the look of a snowborn raider, with his white face, giant frame, and golden hair.

He barreled on with singular focus, his great strides closing the distance between them.

Savoring the taste of fruit, she tossed the peach and slid the lock, throwing open the gate to the bulls’ pen. A nearby man grabbed her arm, but she broke his hold without thought, sending him howling into the dirt with a mouthful of missing teeth.

Ten feet away, the assassin’s eyes widened.

Sorasa cracked her whip over the pen.

The herd burst forth, heavy as a thundercloud, with hooves and horns like striking lightning. On and on they poured, the great flanks and shoulders jostling against their fence, threatening to break loose. They rolled toward him in a black tide, bucking and frothing mad with every crack of the whip.Opportunity,she thought, satisfied.

She expected him to run. Or dodge. Or simply be trampled, his bones shattered beneath a hundred pounding hooves.

Instead the assassin set his feet and put out his hands. It was a truly ridiculous sight, but Sorasa’s breath caught in her teeth.

His hands closed around the horns of the first bull, his knuckles turning white, heels digging into the dirt. He tossed the beast with a grunt, sending it sprawling onto its side. Its head lolled, the neck snapped. Sorasa gaped as the rest of the herd broke around him, a wave around a pillar in the sea. He stood firm and unafraid. His eyes never left her, alive with green fire.

Elder,her brain screamed in realization.

Immortal.

She ran as she had never run before. Through alleys, over rooftops, between walls so tight even the sun could not reach the ground. Cloak after cloak fell from her shoulders, in all colors. Anything to confuse him, to slow him down, to steal another second out of his hands.

She circled, trying for the docks, but he was always there, keeping her from her ship, fromanyship. Her pouch of tricks was nearly empty, leaving blue, white, and green smoke trailing the streets of Byllskos. She dared not try the black.

Unyielding, unbeatable.The few things she knew of the Elders came rushing back from a lesson learned long ago.Unbelievable beings born of a lost realm.

Her body burned with exertion. Her nails tore on brick and wood; her fingers bristled with splinters. She felt little pain, most of it trained out of her. Adrenaline and fear ate the rest. She climbed; she leapt; she tumbled and spun. Fruit carts and barrels of wine exploded in her wake. Dedicant priests cursed her as she parted their ranks. She even debated sprinting back to the villa of the murdered merchant, to the guards and watchmen, who would make a fine shield between herself and the immortal monster.

None of the guild had ever killed an immortal. None had been foolish enough to try. Few had even seen them.How did Lord Mercury manage to wrangle one into his service?

She racked her memory for anything that could be of use. Whispers heard about the Elder kind, their strengths, their weaknesses. In the Guild, the masters and mistresses were not so concerned with folk of legend, nor creatures of Spindles lost. No one ever took out a contract on a dragon. Guild assassins did not cross paths with the immortal ghosts still haunting the Ward.

Until Mercury somehow sends one to kill me,she sneered to herself.

She was faster, smaller; she knew the city. But those things only bought her minutes.

And her minutes were quickly spent.

He fell on her too quickly, unstoppable as a rockslide. She loosed her sword before he could, slicing with a backhanded blow. The next strike met steel, his longsword bracing against her own.

Again she wished for Garion, if only to shove him into harm’s way.

But I am alone. It’s the road I’ve chosen.

He was immovable, his blade locked with hers at the hilt. It was all she could do to hold him off, arms and legs screaming beneath the pressure. She had no logical hope of overpowering him and did not try. When he opened his mouth to speak, she spat in his face.

“By the Spindles—” he cursed, dropping back in disgust. He had the manners and idiocy to wipe the spittle away.

She kicked a spray of dust into his eyes and pounced, winding herself around his torso until she was on his back. Her dagger rose, aiming for the spot where neck met shoulder, to pierce muscle and vein.To kill and kill quickly.One arm locked over his throat, squeezing tightly. Sorasa could not count how many men she had choked this way.

To her delight, she could feel him gasp for air.Even immortals need to breathe.

He moved as she stabbed, the strike glancing. Blood welled up at his shoulder, but not enough.

He seized her by the collar and pulled her free, throwing her off with ease. She landed hard against an alley wall. She bled too, her face scraped raw by brick. Out in the streets, the whistles and trumpets of watchmen echoed. Between a stampede and a dead man, they had their hands more than full.

“We’ve caused some trouble, you and I,” Sorasa gasped out, her eyes on the street. Her entire body howled in pain.