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“Yes,” Faolain went on. “You decide. Will you reject me or reject these so-called friends?”

“If you take her from us,” Rytlock growled, “you will not leave this place alive.”

Faolain’s black eyes blinked placidly. “If I take her from you, Rytlock Brimstone, none of you will survive this day.” She drew off her cloak, dropping it to the workshop floor and revealing a suit of black leather over a leanly muscular frame. Faolain brushed silver hair back from Caithe’s pale face. She was sweating again. “You cannot oppose me, Eir Stegalkin, onetime sculptor; Logan Thackeray, onetime mercenary, and Snaff and Zojja, formerly of Rata Sum—”

“Formerly?” Snaff objected.

“Rootless, all of you are. You do not belong in the lands that gave you birth. Now you belong to no one and everyone,” the sylvari said with a smile. “You are killers of the Dragonspawn—slayers of dragon champions.”

“And she’s one of us,” Eir said. “Take away this infection!”

“If she chooses,” Faolain said, leaning in to gaze at Caithe. “What do you wish, dear heart?”

Tears were streaming down Caithe’s face, and her head whipped back and forth. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Let me show you!” Faolain’s black fingernails sank into the festering wound over Caithe’s heart.

Caithe jolted, her back arching up from the workbench.

Sohothin moaned above the sylvari’s shoulder, but Rytlock stayed his hand.

Faolain spoke words that slashed the air.

She was there when the man and the charr killed the ogre chiefling.

Faolain was there. They certainly know how to kill things. They could aid the Wyld Hunt.

You hate the Wyld Hunt. You hate the Ventari Tablet and all who follow the Dream.

No, Faolain said, clinging to her like a shadow. The tablet twists the Dream. The tablet is corruption. Would that we could draw it from the sylvari, and the Tree herself . . .

She was there when Caithe sat on her bunk in the jail of Lion’s Arch.

Faolain was there when Sangjo arrived to buy their freedom. You see, now, how they work. They buy each other and sell each other. You are a commodity.

At least we fight the dragons.

You must do what you must do. . . .

She was there when the Dragonspawn was a cyclone of ice crystals and stone in the heart of the glacier.

Faolain was there when it engulfed Sandy and enclosed the mind of Snaff and then brought down the roof. Jormag will not like this. Not one little bit.

That’s the whole idea.

Yes, it is.

She was there when Eir sent the iron shaft of the Destroyer of Life back to him, elemental fire to elemental fire, to blast the champion from the world.

Faolain was there as the companions obliterated an army of destroyers. And now, you slay a champion of Primordus himself.

We do.

How you flail at the branches of evil while the roots grow fat.

She was there, clutching Caithe’s head and heart as the sylvari’s companions hovered behind them, their weapons ready.

Faolain was there to spread the blackness through Caithe. It is a fool’s errand you are on. You have killed dragon champions but have not faced a true dragon. And, even now, another is coming into the world. It will destroy you unless you join me!

Caithe lurched, hurling Faolain’s hands back from her heart. She looked wildly around, then locked eyes with Faolain. How can you know this? How can any mortal?

Faolain blinked. The same way you know. We watch. We see the new dragon’s champion preparing for it. A champion by the name of Glint.

A new champion?

An old one, her loyalties long concealed.

Then take the poison from me, so that I can fight it.

Faolain’s mouth dropped open. The poison is your love for me.

“Take it! Turn it to hate!” Caithe said. “I will fight the one who rises!”

Faolain stared long, drawing a deep breath. “I will take it,” she said aloud, but then added, “It is not over between you and me.”

Faolain’s black eyes grew wide, and her mouth twisted. She lunged forward, once again gripping Caithe’s heart. Nails sank into Caithe’s flesh and drew out beads of blood. The black infection drifted beneath Caithe’s skin, coalescing around Faolain