Holding the opening wide, Firekeeper motioned for Arasan to enter before her. He came obediently, then stepped lightly through.
“Wait,” came the barely audible words as Arasan paused. “There’s a crate or chest here. It’s not heavy. I can move it.” There was as slight grunt, then, “Come along but be careful. They’ve hung curtains between the tent walls and the interior, so the space is tight.”
When Firekeeper slipped inside the pavilion and let the slit fall shut behind her, her first thought was that the sorcerer had certainly not believed in what Derian would call “roughing it.” The pavilion had been lined with tapestries that fell straight, like the walls of a building. The fabric was thicker than a winter cloak and intricately patterned.
This arrangement enabled storage boxes, such as the one Arasan had moved, to be put out of sight, while still being near at hand in case their contents were needed. The heavy curtains also muffled some of the sounds from the camp, ensuring the sorcerer’s privacy. After listening and hearing no movement, with infinite care, Firekeeper parted the curtain in front of them just enough so they could peer into the pavilion’s interior. On the other side, a lantern turned low supplied enough light for them to easily see that the pavilion had been divided into two unequal portions. They were looking into the larger, which had been furnished as the sorcerer’s bedchamber. The other part—which was in the front of the tent—surely would be where the sorcerer’s servants, if any, awaited his pleasure.
For a brief, bright moment, Firekeeper allowed herself the hope that the focus might be stored in this narrow area behind the curtain, perhaps in one of these boxes. She did not waste imagination on such whims. Just as she never let her Fang away from her, this sorcerer would keep the weapon crafted for his next day’s battle near at hand, if for no other reason than to gloat upon it. Instead, she assessed the bedchamber and its furnishings.
The main furnishing was a bed, one surprisingly wide and well-appointed for one man who was camping. Indeed, the bedding was so rich and deep that even with the lantern’s light all Firekeeper could make out of the occupant was a lump. From the bed came the soft sound of sleeping breaths. Firekeeper listened carefully to the cadence, learning its rhythm so that if it changed the change would give her warning. As she did so, Firekeeper realized that more than one person breathed. The second set of breaths was lighter and less regular.
So the bed’s width was not only intended for comfortable rest. These humans mate to chase the fear of death from them.
So, at least two lay there. While one definitely slept, the other might be awake or lightly drowsing. The question was, how dangerous might the waking one be? Was it the terrible sorcerer who Laria had so vividly described, lying awake, unable to sleep on the eve of a contest upon which his fortune—his very life—rested? Or was it a lover, awake but unwilling to rise lest the terrible lord be disturbed?
As so many times before, Firekeeper wished her sense of smell was as keen as Blind Seer’s. The wolf could quite likely have answered these questions and others—such as whether there were weapons near at hand—but the light perfumes that pervaded fabrics and rugs were enough to confuse Firekeeper’s merely human nose.
Blind Seer is not here, but with Laria who will not be able to understand what he knows. Perhaps we were foolish when we divided our forces as we have.
But Firekeeper knew they had not been. Arasan could be trusted to abide by the course of action the group had agreed upon, but he was the far weaker of that strange partnership. If the Meddler panicked and decided to run, Arasan could not prevent him. Although Laria was showing promise, she could not be expected to dominate one such as the Meddler.
No, we were not foolish. I only miss the assurance that someone will protect my back. And—the wolf-woman’s fingers curled as if seeking to bury themselves in Blind Seer’s fur—I miss Blind Seer.
Firekeeper’s thoughts took only the few breaths needed to assess the room beyond the curtain, to give Arasan’s eyes a chance to adapt to the low light within the tent, for the lantern gave off only enough glow to keep a night-rising human from stumbling against one of the pieces of furniture scattered around the chamber.
Firekeeper twisted to face Arasan. She pointed to the bed and raised two fingers. Then she raised only her right index finger, following this by pillowing her head briefly against her hands, momentarily closing her eyes as if asleep. When Arasan nodded that he understood, Firekeeper clarified by raising her left index finger, followed by making “wide-awake” gestures next to her eyes.
Again, Arasan nodded. Then he asked a question of his own by rounding his fingers into a circular pattern that clearly asked “The focus?”
Firekeeper raised and lowered her shoulders in an elaborate shrug, then gestured toward Arasan’s own eyes and pointed toward the interior of the tent. The Meddler’s abilities had become erratic since he moved into a living body—or so he always claimed—but if any of them could see a magical aura it would be him.
He stared into the pavilion for long enough that Firekeeper was about to suggest that she go search. Then Arasan/the Meddler touched her shoulder, gently gripping as a warning not to move. He pointed to the bed, indicating the side farthest from where they stood. Just visible over the lumps of covers was a square chest that served as a nightstand. Arasan pointed to the chest, then angled his fingers down. Was the focus then stored within the chest? That made some sense—keep it near at hand, but not obvious.
Firekeeper nodded, then mimed herself belly crawling to the bedside.
“Me, too!” came the adamant gesture from the Meddler, fingers tapping his chest. He made a gesture as of casting a spell, then turning a key.
Firekeeper didn’t know if he was offering to magically unlock something or trying to tell her that he needed to come and check for magical locks or wards. As either would be useful, she only nodded, pointed to them both, then gestured low. Before dropping to the carpeted floor, she pressed her fingers to her lips in a reminder for silence, emphasizing this by repeating the “wide-awake” gesture.
Crouching, the wolf-woman raised the curtain from where it rested against the floor, then slid under, hardly touching the heavy fabric. Without looking back, she crept behind the headboard, then over to the far side of the bed. What she encountered when she rounded the corner might have caused her to jerk back in horror if she had not been aware that this would make her bump into Arasan, who was making his own careful way immediately behind her. Instead she rolled forward, so they both might see.
What Firekeeper had taken for a chest doubling as nightstand proved to be a pyramidal container resting on its point, kept from toppling over by being supported within an elaborate metal frame. The sides of the container were made from thick panels of translucent glass soldered together in intricate patterns. The container would have seemed nothing but a fanciful bit of furnishing except that something round glowed within, its light showing that—in defiance of reason—it floated about a handspan from the base. This was outré enough to startle the wolf-woman, who had no reason to like or trust things of magic, but what was horrifying was that the orb’s faint glow revealed that it drifted in an opaque tide of bright blood, spinning and rolling in grotesque delight.
Further examination showed that the orb shared its pyramidal container with a slender human arm. This had been thrust in from the side closest to the bed, above the level of the blood tide. The arm had been slit from palm to the midpoint of the forearm so the fresh blood ran freely into the pool below, assisted by the occasional pumping of the fingers. As the drops dribbled into the ruddy flood, it seemed to Firekeeper that they coalesced into a slimy tendril that slid viscous and serpentine toward the orb. The orb rubbed against the fresh blood, absorbing as much as it could into itself, while the remainder joined the surrounding bath.
Firekeeper froze. There was her target, in plain sight, but seeming as far away as if it hung in the sky, side by side with the moon. She was so absorbed by the gruesome
sight that when Arasan—in the course of moving around her to get a better look at the inverted pyramid—brushed against her, it took all Firekeeper’s wolf’s training to keep her from jumping and giving them both away.
After studying the orb and its container for a long moment, doubtless looking for fastenings or locks, Arasan faced Firekeeper. He pointed toward the bed, raised two fingers, made a sharp gesture with one hand, then pressed his eyes closed, letting his head fall limply to one side.
Firekeeper flashed a grin. Would she render unconscious both of those in the bed? Gladly! Could she do it without alerting anyone? That depended. Quickly she assessed her options. In the company of her foster brother, Edlin Norwood, and no-longer-little Citrine Shield, Firekeeper had taken lessons from the old Dragon’s Eye, Grateful Peace of New Kelvin, learning from him much about ways to make someone lose consciousness without causing them undue harm.
In this particular circumstance, Firekeeper didn’t particularly care whether she harmed her targets or not, but surely the less violence the better—at least in the minds of those strange Rhinadeians who had set themselves to judge her and her companions. Besides, if the sorcerer died, that might be detected by his acolytes. The question was which one to take out first? As those steadily flexing fingers showed, the owner of the arm was the one who was awake. Would she care to call warning if someone attacked her bedmate? Certainly the sorcerer was the more dangerous. However, he slept unharmed beside one who seemed to be his victim. Best not to trust in her neutrality. She might approve of what he did to her.
Motioning for Arasan to remain where he was, Firekeeper crept to where she could reach over the elegantly carved headboard that served to keep the mounded pillows from tumbling to the floor. Slowly, she raised herself so she could—for the first time—get a clear look at the two within the bed. To Firekeeper’s left lay a woman—not young, for time had graven lines in her face—but not old either. The woman had rolled to her own left, the better to view where her bleeding arm rested within the pyramidal container. A flexible leather sleeve attached to the container and continuing up the portion of the woman’s arm that was not in the box sealed the bleeding limb away. This explained why Firekeeper had not caught the odor of freshly shed blood.
Unaware of the watching wolf, the woman pumped her hand so that the flow of blood, which had been slowing, sped up again. Her manner was as detached as if it were not her own life seeping into the pool below.
Before moving against the woman, Firekeeper inspected the other occupant of the bed. The man slept deeply and peacefully. Firekeeper wondered if the sorcerer was sated by more than the sex and spiced wine of which she was now close enough to catch the scent. Whatever the reason, she did not think he would wake without prompting. Then the woman must be Firekeeper’s first target, for not only was she awake, she was clearly a willing participant in this sanguinary rite.
Swiftly snaking one arm over the headboard, Firekeeper caught the woman over her mouth so she could not scream. With the same hand, the wolf-woman pinched shut the woman’s nostrils. Getting a hold on the points Grateful Peace had taught her was easier than Firekeeper had dared hope, for the woman was unwilling to struggle lest she do anything that might unsettle the careful arrangement that kept her arm within the glass pyramid. Nonetheless, Firekeeper held both the point and her hand over her victim’s mouth until she was certain the woman was truly unconscious.
Next the wolf-woman attacked the sorcerer. Whether he was even aware when he passed between one sort of sleep and another, Firekeeper did not know—nor did she care.
She signaled to Arasan that the pair would not be troubling them, then set about using an assortment of ties and cloths brought for the purpose to further secure her victims. It would not do to have them awaken and give alarm before Firekeeper, Arasan, and their prize were well away.
That left the problem of how to remove the orb from its bloody bath. Lines of worry etched Arasan’s face. He motioned to Firekeeper to keep watch.
“That was the easy part,” his expression made perfectly clear. As he set himself to working through the puzzle involved in opening the box, Firekeeper was forced to content herself with watching and worrying about Blind Seer and his small pack.
Blind Seer might not be able to speak after the fashion of humans, but he was experienced in communicating with humankind. When Laria would have crept closer to the camp, Blind Seer moved to block her with his body, then sat—an action that Laria had been told meant “wait.” When Laria held still, she felt her shoulder lighten as Farborn took wing. The merlin couldn’t see in the dark as might an owl, but would employ what he knew of humans and their ways to judge the situation. When he returned from assessing the sorceress’s camp, Farborn wouldn’t be able to tell Laria what he had learned, but he would tell Blind Seer who would—in turn—use it to refine their plans for entering the camp. Somehow, wolf and falcon would let Laria know what she needed to do.
Content in her newly self-defined role as a beast, no better, no worse, than her companions, Laria settled to await orders. That, at least, as the child of slaves, slave herself, she had plenty of experience doing. Indeed, although Laria had never admitted it, even to her mother, freedom was proving a greater challenge than she’d ever imagined. Learning the new ways of the Nexus Islands would have been tough enough in any case but, combined with her disconcerting newly acquired magical talent, freedom could be overwhelming.
When Farborn returned, there was a pause while merlin briefed wolf. Then Blind Seer stretched, sniffed the air, and nudged Laria, swinging his head to indicate that she should follow him. There was moonlight enough for Laria to see the silver-grey of the wolf, a mixture of shadow and delusion, as he led the way into deeper shadow. Through these, Laria must follow him, making as little sound as possible as they picked their way toward the well-lit encampment.
That light had been a matter of much concern when they had laid their plans. The enemy sorcerers might be siblings, but they were little alike in how they had laid out their encampments. The male had penned his sacrifices along the field’s edge, convenient for the mass murder on the morrow. His encampment had been laid out in straight lines, neat as a ready-made town.
By contrast, his sister had spread her sacrifices in a long curving series of pens that created an eye-shaped oval that completely encircled the rest of the camp. Where the white of the eye would be had been left mostly open except for two bonfires or large cook fires. According to Firekeeper, Farborn—even as experienced as he was in human ways—could not be certain what purpose the fires served. In the center of the eye-oval, where the iris would be, was a ring of fine tents, doubtless meant for the sorceress’s acolytes. In the center—pupil to the eye—was an opulent pavilion. No one doubted that this would be where the sorceress herself resided.
The encircled encampment might have been impossible for Blind Seer and Laria to penetrate but for one fact: a border of future sacrifices, no matter how they might have been drugged or otherwise controlled, could not be completely trusted, especially as they surrounded those for whom they would hold no love. For this reason, four watchtowers had been set to oversee the camp—roofed platforms on stilt legs. These towers had two levels. The first was about three feet off the ground. This was not very high, but it provided a convenient base from which guards could prod any recalcitrant—or threaten them with bow and arrows. The next level of the tower rose still higher, to some ten or twelve feet—ample to survey the camp and its surroundings.
To Laria, viewing this on the map in their camp, the arrangement had looked impenetrable, but when she said this Firekeeper had laughed, Blind Seer laughing with her, his great jaws panting wide. Then the wolf-woman had pointed out that the undersides of each of the towers were untenanted except for some odds and ends of tent canvas, rope, and the like—items unneeded until the camp was broken. Nor, according to Farborn, were the guards paying any attention to what were effectively tunnels into their camp. Therefore, Blind Seer an
d Laria would slip in right under the towers. Farborn would provide a distraction when one was needed to pull the guards’ attention away during the most dangerous part—the crossing of the lit area outside of the camp.
Laria, Blind Seer, and Farborn worked their way carefully around to the side farthest from the prospective battlefield. From cover, they assessed the guard’s routine. This was less regimented than Laria had imagined it would be. The mood was tense, yes, but there was less of the dread she would have imagined on the eve of a battle in which at least a hundred people—for that was how many they had estimated the number of sacrifices to be—would die. The mood was more like…
Laria struggled for a comparison. Unbidden, she felt a memory of salt spray burn her cheek, the buffet of a freshening wind, the taste of grilled fish and fried root vegetables.
It’s like the night before the boat race day! she thought, remembering one of the few annual holidays that had livened the drear routine of the Nexus Islands. Some of the Once Dead had been from Tavetch, a land where the vast majority of the residents took some aspect of their living from the sea. The Tavetch had carried their traditions with them to the ocean-girt Nexus Islands, claiming that the gods they served—ominous forces of wind and water—would expect all appropriate honors to be paid to them, and promising dire consequences if these were not.
I wonder if the other Once Dead truly believed those ceremonies were necessary, or if they enjoyed having an excuse to hold a festival without seeming weak?
Whatever the reason, the boat race day had been a time of ample food, elaborate dances, the elevation of the Mermaid Queen, as well as games and races held to propitiate her consort, Drowning Doom. The night before boat race day had been like this: tense, alert, eyes watching the skies for any sign of a change in the weather.
Sure, there was the awareness that the losing team would be given to Drowning Doom, but those tears were held for the morrow. After all, your team might be victorious, and everyone associated would share the prizes. So often the losers were strangers brought in for the race, unfamiliar with the local currents. We were almost grateful for them being there to do the dying for us, rather than sorry. These guards are more excited than nervous, determined to do their job, to watch while their sorceress defeats her brother. I bet they even have bets on. They don’t know what I do—how much will go wrong tomorrow, how even though their sorceress will win, they will all be swallowed when her power rages out of control.
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