Zoya kissed Marten lightly and turned away before he could say anything else, before she could change her mind. She slipped through the door into the study. The walls here were lined with books, most of them ancient and crumbling, many of them glowing with magical power. A chair, large and comfortable, waited patiently before an immense desk covered entirely with books and scraps of paper and parchment. What looked like an official scroll lay unopened on top of an untidy stack of arcane drawings, just next to the tiny island of order that contained writing implements - pencils, quills, ink, and sand.

Opposite the desk was a window which - if this place were to conform to the laws of space - should look into Zoya's sitting room, but which instead showed the starry sky reflected in the Dragonsmere. In the middle of the room, facing the window, was a short, padded bench. Next to the window was another door, this one small, plain, and unprotected by magic. The Tower staff kept it scrupulously clean, but it had the feel of dust about it anyway.

She stripped to the skin and pulled on the rough homespun she'd brought with her. She turned the focus-stone Glossaria had given her over in her hands a few times, smiling. The girl had promise - but the stone wouldn't be necessary. Zoya put it on a shelf.

She paused for a long moment by the window, looking out at the sea and the stars. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped over to the door, opened it, and went through. The small room she entered was lit by only a single candle, and had no windows. The walls were covered with colorful and elaborate tapestries and rugs. Etched an inch deep all over the stone floor were magical runes. Zoya padded slowly across the floor on bare feet, feeling the runes with her toes.

Much of the Tower was left from Erdian's day. Zoya, all her life a wanderer, was comfortable in almost any surroundings, and so had changed little of what she found. But this room, she'd asked the Tower to make for her, and had hung the tapestries collected with her own hands, and etched the runes into the floor one fingerwidth at a time herself, aware that the slightest mistake would mean starting over again. Since she'd finished the room and tested the theory that had led to its creation, she hadn't been back to it.

She stopped in the center of the room, standing on the only unworked section of floor, and knelt, composing herself in meditation and reflection. She took several deep breaths, and began to clear her mind.

It would not clear. The distractions of the Tower, of those under her care, faded away with the ease of long practice. But she could not divest her mind of Marten. Every search for quiet brought to her the feel of his lips on hers; every attempt at peace showed her his warm eyes; every reach for stillness echoed with his laughter. Worse, fighting for calm was only frustrating her further.

Angry with herself, she shifted her position. It had been years since she'd been so flustered she couldn't meditate. And the danger was- She had to be in trance, or it would be too much, and all would be for nought. She took another breath, embracing each restless thought and then pushing it gently away, muffling its din.

Finally in trance, Zoya did not so much ponder the situation as allow its facts to saturate her mind. There was not a question to answer, but only a process to follow. She accepted the danger of what she was about to attempt, and with equal acceptance understood the ramifications if she succeeded. When she was certain that the knowledge and need of what was to follow had penetrated to the deepest levels of her subconscious, she opened her eyes and began to chant.

Magic she'd been storing for days flowed out of her as if eager to escape, and pooled in the etched runes. When every rune was glowing silver with unshaped magic, she set the spell, and locked it. She looked over her work with care and nodded in satisfaction.

Breathing slowly for calm and to suppress her instincts, she shifted carefully in the center of the floor, then focused her will on her right. As she watched, silvery claws sprang from her fingertips, growing to six inches in length, sharp as any blade. Resolutely, she set her teeth and locked her jaw. She lifted the ethereal claws to her throat, and with one last breath pushed them in.

Knowing at least some of the further efforts of will awaited her, she wasted no energy attempting to fight the scream of pain, but she was briefly grateful she'd thought to set a sound barrier into this room's spells. Marten or Lisl, one, would almost certainly have ignored her warnings and broken through her wards if they'd heard. Hanging onto consciousness by iron will alone, she searched for the hook and sliced free the part of her that should never have been.

As the claws pulled out, warm orange glow wrapped around them, she fainted. When she opened her eyes, the claws were gone, and the orange glow had expanded into the shape of a man. It was pacing in a circle around her, restless and impatient. Her master's voice, for so long lodged in her own throat, echoed in the air around her, whispering her name with mild urgency.

Zoya's own voice, unheard for more than ten years, issued raspily from her throat. "Master?" The man-shaped glow sat on the floor next to her, folding into position with movements well-remembered.

She pulled herself up, sitting crosslegged on the stone floor. She touched her throat impassively, noting that blood was still slowly oozing from the wounds. She had been unconscious less than half an hour, she guessed.

The memory of her master gestured sharply in question. Zoya took a calming breath, letting the pain wash over and through her, and said, "I have called you to claim my Chains, Master." Quietly, calmly, as he had taught her, she explained: Marten, and the guild of assassins and kingmakers who hunted him for the crime of knowing their secrets. Marten's missing memory, which might be regained at any time - or never.

The memory of her master reached out one hand and laid it flat against Zoya's chest. Zoya, who had early to never lie to him, hesitated only briefly. "Y-yes, Master." The glowing figure folded its arms across its chest and sat in an attitude of waiting.

"He reminds me of Kevil and Darin both, a little. Intelligent and charming. He covers fear with anger, and can be impatient and argumentative. But Marten has put his life, his mind, and his soul into my hands. I can't... I can't imagine what it cost him to summon that trust."

A glowing hand touched Zoya's throat, where the bleeding was slowly subsiding. She shook her head. "Pain is not trust, Master. Concentration through pain was practically the first lesson you taught me. This is different. This... Master, I can't repay that trust with the Mask of the Unchained. I can't return his love with distracted affection." Zoya paused for a long moment. "I can't help him without my Chains."

The glow of her master's memory made a gesture. Zoya sighed and nodded. "Long overdue, yes, Master. I knew you were close to giving me my Chains when you were killed. I should have done this after you were avenged. I know that now... No. I knew it then. But... Losing Darin... I couldn't. I couldn't release you both, and I had nothing of Darin to hold onto."

The glowing figure made a reproving gesture. Zoya straightened. "Yes, Master. Memories. But I was-" A hand raised sharply, and Zoya sighed in acceptance. "Yes, Master. No excuses. I should have released you then."

As if relenting, the memory of her master relaxed its posture, gestured a question. Zoya forced herself to look at its face, to imagine the face of her master in the orange glow. "Darin's memory - and yours - have been my stumbling blocks for too long, Master. I have to make them into my stepping stones instead. I am faced with the very real possibility that I will lose Marten in this endeavor, Master. If that happens, then memories are all I will have, and I need chains that make me strong, not tie me down and hold me back.

"But I don't want to lose him. I want to fight with him - for him. To do that, I need to be at my strongest. I need my Chains. And last..." She bowed her head. "I can't... I can't tell him that I love him with your voice, Master. You loved Darin, and you loved Kevil, and they loved you. For them to hear me speak of love in your voice -" She smiled through remembered pain.

"But Marten...? You have never met him, to love him. And he has never even heard your name."

Slowly, she shifted her position, kneeling before her Master. With profound grace, she lowered her face to the floor, and folded her hands ritually before her. Calmly, she spoke the phrases she'd once prayed would never escape her lips. "Master, I come this day to beg your release. For the protection of all, I will accept the Chains you place upon me."

Though the glowing memory had no substance, Zoya felt old hands touch her formally at ankles, neck, and wrists. The echo of her master's voice spoke her name, and she straightened to accept the ceremonial kiss upon her eyes. The ethereal hand reached out and touched her at the base of her throat, and she tightened her jaw against a sudden spike of pain that smoothed almost immediately into a cooling sensation throughout her body.

"And my Chain, Master?" she whispered. The memory of her master bent over her and deposited a father's kiss upon her brow, a surprise which brought tears to her eyes. The glow was fading quickly, and when the voice echoed around the chamber once more, it was strained, and the single word it spoke spilled her tears even as it burned indelibly into her mind. She bowed once again to the floor, tears and slow drops of blood dropping on the rough stone floor as the whisper of her master's voice echoed once more around the room.

Slowly, she mastered herself, then gasped as the pain leapt fully back into her consciousness. Shaking with effort and reaction, it seemed to take hours to cross the now-inert floor, to open the door. She almost wept when she realized she'd have to cross the study's floor as well. But her friends - and Marten - were waiting for her on the other side. Resolutely, she crawled, groping her way across the warm wooden floor until her hand touched the warded door, and it swung open. Then, finally, she allowed herself the luxury of collapse.