After making some inquiries, Tristan learned that he was to meet Sander Branimir at the singular marble castle in the heart of the city. The Beyaz Kale – translated as “White Castle” in the modern tongue – was an amazing feat of architecture, as old as Luca itself. For centuries it was the primary home of the King and Queen, until the demon plague drove the royal family east. Now it apparently belonged to the Uriel.

Tristan rode his horse up the steep ascent to the ancient castle. Up close, the Beyaz Kale glowed in the fading evening light, and gemstones inlaid in the white marble walls twinkled like stars. A groom awaited him at the top of the path, and Tristan handed him the reins to his horse reluctantly. The stables were in a small, separate building, making a quick escape impossible.

The arched doorway to the main building was open, and Tristan let himself in, though not without trepidation. The richly decorated vestibule was dimly lit, empty apart from a solitary man of above average height, his face half hidden in shadow. The man closed in on Tristan slowly, as if he were approaching a skittish cat.

Shadows shifted, and Tristan could see white teeth in a crooked grin and a misshapen nose that had been broken several times over. They belonged to a rough, handsome face, etched with the deep lines of a man who laughed regularly and often. Strands of silver and gray threaded through hair that was once dark red, tufts of white curling around his ears and temples. He wore simple but finely tailored clothes, elegant enough for polite company but not so elaborate that he couldn’t jump into action if the need arose.

The man extended a callused hand. “Sander Branimir.” His voice was low and gravelly, but not unpleasant.

Tristan blinked back his surprise and returned the man’s grip. He had expected to first meet with a servant or a lieutenant, not Sander straightaway. “Tristan Lyons.”

Hazel eyes searched the room. “Your trainees, they did not come?”

“No,” Tristan said. “Perhaps there are things you would say that I would not want them to hear.” He had learned long ago that the best lies were rooted in truth.

“You distrust me.” It was a statement, not a question.

Tristan lifted his chin. “So I do.” That was no lie, not by half.

Sander chuckled. “Honesty is always appreciated.” And damn if Tristan didn’t feel a pang of guilt at that. Sander said, “Dinner awaits us in the tower, if you’ll believe my promise that the food isn’t poisoned. It’s a long way up, so we can chat while we walk.”

Together, they climbed the timber treads of the staircase that wrapped around the entire interior. Sander had not exaggerated when he said the climb was lengthy; there must have been more than a thousand stairs to the top. While his leg muscles throbbed with a dull ache, Tristan had ample time to absorb his surroundings.

Tristan’s right hand brushed over the black balustrade. “When I had heard last, the earl of Luca resided in this building.” A nastier man there had never been, too.

“He passed on eight years ago.”

“Had he no heir?” Tristan asked. He wanted to know how the Beyaz Kale had fallen into Uriel hands.

Sander’s eyes took on a faraway look. “He had a daughter.”

“Ah yes, I remember her now.” Tristan had met the earl’s daughter once and recalled she was quite lovely, although a great deal older than he, and very kind. Nothing like her father. “A good woman.”

“Aye, it’s why I married her.”

Tristan’s hand stilled on the railing. Sander was married to an earl’s daughter? He had been under the impression that the Uriel was peasant-born. “I wasn’t aware you were of the aristocracy.”

Sander barked a bitter laugh, in sharp contrast to his previous good humor. “I’m not, not originally. Something her father never let us forget, not until the day she died.”

“I’m sorry,” Tristan said. “How did she die?”

Sander’s open face shuttered. “It was a long time ago.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You may as well know—she died in a demon attack, little more than a year after we married.”

“I also lost my family to demons,” Tristan said stiffly. He did not want to feel sympathy towards this man, but their common tragic pasts could not be denied.

Sander paused on the stairs. “I did not know that. You have my condolences.”

Tristan suspected there was little the Uriel didn’t know. He shrugged. “As you say, it was a long time ago.”

Sander resumed his climb. “Let us speak of happier things. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

Tristan followed Sander into the domed tower at the top of the stairway. A few men lingered just inside the entryway, including a familiar, scarred face. “Adelard.”

Adelard greeted him with a hearty backslap. “You came! Good to see you under less dire circumstances.”

“And you,” said Tristan politely, a little taken aback by the Uriel’s familiarity. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”

“Afraid I can’t. The wife will have my hide if I skip another night dining with her. I think she suspects I prefer Cook’s cooking to hers.”

The gruff, battle hard man was married? Tristan had difficulty picturing Adelard as a domesticated husband. “Another time.” Although after tonight, the Uriel was unlikely to look upon Tristan so favorably.

Adelard shook Tristan’s hand and headed for the stairs. “Stop by if you have a chance. Our rooms are on the third floor.” He gave Sander a shallow bow and waved his goodbye.

Tristan turned to Sander. “Adelard lives here, with you?”

“Aye, many of the men do. This castle is too damned big to live here by myself.” He led Tristan to the back of the circular room, where a small banquet had been spread. A beef roast, stuffed piglet and veal sausage were laid out across an oak refectory table, as well as quince bread and several types of fruit tart.

“Isn’t this excessive for two people?” Tristan asked.

“I thought your trainees might be joining us.” Sander grinned. “And this is a special occasion, is it not? I’ve never before hosted a Paladin guest.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Tristan muttered.

“Sit, sit,” said Sander, as he did the same. He poured them both a glass of red wine and gestured at the banquet. “Eat.”

Tristan scooped a few helpings onto his plate, but did not eat. “Why did you invite me here?”

“You don’t mince your words, do you?” Sander remarked, with a small, amused smile. “I’m interested in an alliance.”

Tristan toyed with his fork, moving around the food on his plate. Finally he asked, “Why me? Of all the Paladins, why did you want to meet with me?”

Sander tilted his head consideringly. “You’re very young, Paladin Lyons, but you command a lot of respect. One might say you’re the face of the new generation of Paladins. A generation, I hope, that is more open-minded than its predecessor.” He smiled again, this time with self-deprecation. “But, in the spirit of honesty, you weren’t the first Paladin I reached out to. I sent your High Commander several letters over a year ago, inviting him to parley, but he never responded.”

Sander had written the High Commander over a year ago? That didn’t sit well with Tristan, and he suddenly felt ill-prepared for this encounter. “I’m sure the High Commander had his reasons,” Tristan said icily. “Why should we ally ourselves with you? Who granted you permission to raise an army?”

Sander put down his wine glass. “May I speak candidly?”

“Don't let me stop you.”

“The demon landscape is changing, Tristan. The attacks have become more frequent and widespread. You saw Pirama – the rest of the West is as bad as that, and worse. And the nature of the attacks has changed, too. They’re regularly attacking en masse now, in coordinated efforts. I fear the demons are evolving, Tristan. We need to evolve with them.” Sander paused to take a sip of his wine. “The Paladins can’t be everywhere, not with the numbers you have. You’re ten, twenty thousand strong? That’s not enough, not anymore.”

“We’re adding to our numbers,” said Tristan defensively. “Every year we grow our trainee pool by a hundred.”

Sander snorted in disgust. “Begging your pardon, but that’s hardly enough with the rate at which the attacks are increasing. Frankly, the Paladins have too many barriers to entry to ever support more significant numbers. Your standards are admirable, but unrealistic.”

“You’re suggesting we lower our standards?”

Sander shook his head adamantly. “Not at all – that’s where the Uriel come in. The Paladins can provide the battle expertise, and we can provide the manpower to back you up. We can be in the places where the Paladins don’t have reach. Surely you can see that the West is hurting for able-bodied men.”

Tristan grunted. “I won’t deny we may need to reallocate our resources. But the problem has been acknowledged and is being dealt with. Why do you think the High Commander sent me to the West?”

Sander studied him with cool appraisal. “I don’t pretend to understand the actions of your High Commander. I see no reason not to accept outside help except for stubborn pride.”

Tristan bristled at the insult. “The High Commander puts a premium on law and order, as do I. We can’t have every man who fancies himself a swordsman running headlong into battle, without discipline or any foundation of obedience. And whom would they obey? You, or the High Commander?”

Sander’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Make no mistake, Paladin, I have no real interest in power. This mantle that I carry is one that fell upon me, not one that I chose myself. My only vested interest is that no man or woman or child will ever know the pain of losing a loved one to demon violence, like I did. Like you did.” He took a calming breath. “The Uriel are not some ragtag bunch of incompetents. We know how to fight and we want the opportunity to protect our families and our neighbors. And we’re accomplishing more than that, Tristan. Something I mentioned to the High Commander in my letters.”

The Uriel leader’s impassioned speech was stirring, but the High Commander’s warning was still fresh in Tristan’s head. “What’s that?” Tristan asked.

“We have scientists among us who are studying the attacks. There has to be a reason behind the recent spike, and they have already identified patterns.” Sander’s voice trembled with excitement. “Tristan, we’re close to uncovering their origin.”

“Impossible,” Tristan said flatly. “There’s no single point of origin.”

“Our scientists disagree. Did you know three centuries ago there wasn’t a demon in existence? Demons are only a recent phenomenon. Something – or someone – had to change that. We’re going to find out what.”

Tristan opened his mouth to argue, but a clearing of a throat interrupted him. A young man, a servant by his clothes, stood at the center of the dome, awaiting Sander’s attention. He bobbed in an awkward bow. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a young lady here to see you. She claims it’s urgent.” The servant shifted his feet uncomfortably. “She did seem rather frantic.”

Gods, Tristan had nearly forgotten the true reason he had joined Sander for dinner. No doubt the young lady the servant referred to was Sam, performing his part of the plan. “Shall we see to her together?” he asked Sander, twisting his fingers in his lap.

“Sure, I’d appreciate the company.” Sander asked the servant, “Where is she?”

“I told her to wait in the vestibule,” the servant said. “Be forewarned, sir, the lady was hysterically crying when I left her to find you.”

In spite of the delicacy of the situation, Tristan felt a grin tug at his lips. Sam, in hysterics? This he would have to see.