Gabrielle left Vale’s rooms, disquieted by the man’s lack of faith in Roland’s return. She wondered what he would say to her, do to her, if he knew that she had been the one that had walked the Mists to return the keys to their rightful owners.

But it had to be done! The castle wouldn’t survive much longer without them.

She decided that he was probably just upset that time was flowing once again. After all, Vale was so much closer to death than her. He was surely jealous of her youth, her vitality, her beauty. But what more could he want? Was four centuries of The Still not enough for him and his studies?

Reassured by her own rationalizations, she tossed her flowing hair and marched confidently toward the narrow steps of the tower. She never noticed the figure crouching in the shadowed niche.

“Don’t make a sound,” hissed a voice, a serrated blade pressed against her exposed neck as her arm was twisted behind her back. She could sense the presense of a key.

“Jacque!” she gasped.

What madness was this?