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F RELL CROSSED HIS arms and inspected Tykhan’s body and face, both transformed again into a new configuration. The resculpting of his bronze form had been both disturbing and fascinating to watch, like a candle melting of its own volition.

Frell squinted as he circled the ta’wyn. He intended to make sure every detail looked correct. There could be no mistakes from here.

Without turning away, he pressed Llyra again. “And you’re certain nothing in the abbot’s features has changed since I left a year ago. No grown beard? No new scar or scab? No change to the style of his hair?”

“Nothing,” Llyra confirmed. “That haughty bastard strikes me as a man who does not stray from the expected.”

That was certainly true.

Frell had known Abbot Naff for two decades. For the entire length of Frell’s study at Kepenhill, the abbot had served as the speaker of the Council of Eight, the four alchymists and four hieromonks who oversaw the school. From his lofty position, Naff had guided Kepenhill with a steady hand and an unyielding commitment to protocol, rules, and tradition. The only detail that changed in the man was the expanding circumference of his belly.

Frell circled Tykhan one last time and pointed to the ponderous midriff. “Naff’s girth is a touch wider, I believe.”

Llyra nodded. “When last I spied him, he looked more toadstool than man.”

Tykhan rested a palm on his belly. “Alas, I can do no better. I only have so much bronze to work and shape.”

Frell cocked his head. To achieve even this girth, Tykhan had shrunk a full head in height, which matched Naff’s squat form. “It’ll have to do. Hopefully, the looseness of your robe will disguise the difference.”

Llyra had supplied them with hieromonk’s white robes and crafted the crimson sash that marked Naff’s position in the council. Tykhan had donned it and allowed Frell to make final adjustments.

Frell lifted the robe’s hood and drew it atop Tykhan’s head, which with paint and a wig looked remarkably like the abbot’s. “As a precaution, keep the hood up. You look enough like Abbot Naff that none should question you, especially if we do our best to stick to the shadows.”

“A recommendation that applies to all of us.” Tykhan turned to a door that led into the neighboring room, where the others had been outfitted with guises of menials who often accompanied the abbot, a mix of scribes and servants.

Frell had another role to fill. He had changed out of his alchymist’s black robes and donned the gray attire of a Shrive, one of the rarefied few who had achieved the Highcryst in both alchymy and religious scholarship. He had also been supplied with a wig, speckled with gray, and braids that tied under his chin. The final touches required a swath of black paint across his eyes.

His role was to play a visiting Shrive from Ironclasp, a cloistered school in the stone forest of Dodwood in the Guld’guhl territories. Tykhan, in his disguise as Abbot Naff, would act as the local guide for this newly arrived scholar.

Frell tugged at the leather cryst hung across his chest. A part of him chafed at this ruse. He had not earned the honor to wear such attire.

Maybe in some ways, I’m as trapped by tradition as Abbot Naff.

Llyra grunted her impatience. “Enough tinkering. We’ve wasted a full bell, far longer than we should’ve. The king and his forces will soon return to Highmount. Afterward, with his queen poisoned, they’ll quickly lock everything down. We best be in and out before that happens.”

Tykhan headed toward the door. “Let’s hope this gambit proves fruitful. If the head of Eligor is truly hidden in the depths of the Shrivenkeep, we must discover where and how it’s guarded. Only then can we determine a method to secure it.”

“Getting those answers will be challenging,” Frell said. “The Iflelen guard their secrets well.”

“Fear not. I have ways to loosen a tongue.”

Frell eyed Tykhan as he followed the ta’wyn out.

I pray you’re right.

Their goal seemed simple enough: travel as deep into the Shrivenkeep as possible and reach the fringes of the Iflelen lair, where the sect of Shriven who worshipped Lord ? reyk hid their most loathsome studies. The group intended to grab an Iflelen and, away from prying eyes, interrogate him. Depending upon what they learned, the group would then either retreat and plan a method to steal that bronze bust—or, if opportunity and circumstance afforded, nab it this night.

The latter seemed unlikely, but Frell had no wish to cross into that lair more than once. Still, the most critical element to this mission could prove the most difficult of all.

Our trespass must not be discovered.

If they triggered an alarm, they’d never have another opportunity to breach the Shrivenkeep. Knowing this, Frell studied the others as he and Tykhan joined them. Rami still wore the garb and medallion of a Gjoan scribe. Kanthe and Cassta wore the modest shifts, leather sandals, and demure headscarves of school servants. They carried with them flasks of wine and baskets of fare to satisfy any cravings of their charges.

Llyra, along with Jester and Mead, had changed into the blue-and-gold livery of Guld’guhlian guards. They would pose as escorts to the scholar from their lands. To complete this look—and to help in their efforts ahead—the trio carried short swords in scabbards at their hips.

“I have a wagon and horses waiting in the rear court,” Llyra said. “It’s a short ride to Kepenhill from here.”

They followed the guildmaster down the stairs to the back of the dressmaker’s shop. In short order, the group ducked through the drizzling rain and piled into the sealed wagon. With a crack of the drover’s whip, they were off.

Frell took a seat by a window. As the wagon climbed a series of switchbacks, he got a view of the towering heights of Highmount. But his gaze settled on the school outside its walls. Kepenhill rose in nine massive tiers. Its topmost level flickered with twin pyres that were always lit, one representing the discipline of alchymy, the other the scholarship of gods and histories. The smoky glow shone through the veils of rain, beckoning him home.

Frell wondered if his private scholarium was as he had left it a year ago, full of books and lensed instruments to study the movement of the stars and moon. A melancholy longing ached through him. A part of him wished he’d never noted the growing face of the moon, a discovery that had warned him of the doom to come and set him on this dangerous path.

In this moment, he recognized a lesson he wished he had learned sooner.

Ignorance can be its own blessing.

Still, knowing he could not turn aside, he lowered his gaze from the school. Their goal this night would be found not among those nine tiers, but far beneath them. The Shrivenkeep lay buried under Kepenhill’s foundations, delving as deep as the school rose high—possibly even deeper.

Frell swallowed hard.

He had only ventured down there a few times, to visit the Black Librarie of the Anathema, the great archive hidden in the Shrivenkeep. Among its stacks, he had recovered ancient records of the moon, accounts from other scholars that showed the slow and incremental changes to its silvery countenance.

And now I must delve deeper into the Shrivenkeep.

To where a secret was locked in bronze.

A secret perhaps as dangerous as moonfall itself.