Elessa Lannedes had left him an opportunity in a green glass bottle. To take advantage of it, he’d have to act before anyone realized he was capable of doing so.
Therefore he’d have to seem incapable of acting.
Kestar hid the bottle under his pillow and took up his mandolin. His teeth gritting at what he was about to do, he tuned one string on every source slightly off from its mate. If he could move the fingers of his wounded hand, he could play—and so he settled that hand a fret too high on the neck, praying that the gods would forgive him on top of everything else for the injustice he was about to commit to the complex, layered rhythms of “Merrodrie’s Lament.” He couldn’t bring himself to bend the hymn’s words to his purpose. Mangling its melody and chords grated enough on his nerves.
Doing it a dozen times through an interminable hour was worse. Continuing through a thirteenth pass while footsteps sounded through the slit in the cell door was the hardest yet.
“I thought you told me he was a musician, my son.” Enverly, paternal and soothing, subtle disbelief laced through his words.
“This isn’t right. Gods, he’s better than this! I’ve heard him play so many times...”
The naked worry in his partner’s voice nearly undid Kestar, but he couldn’t risk calling out, not when the priest was in Celoren’s company. In case Enverly was watching through the door he kept a languid pose upon the cot, tilting his head down to his instrument and allowing himself only a swift peek through the swath of hair that fell across his eyes. That got him a fleeting impression of movement, just enough to suggest that Enverly had placed a hand on Celoren’s shoulder.
“The girl’s influence grows stronger. There can be no other explanation.”
Kestar had to strain over his own soured notes to hear Celoren’s miserable reply. “He wouldn’t butcher the ‘Lament’ like that if he had all his senses.”
“I’d hope not.” Enverly’s words held an edge of disdain beneath their comforting veneer. “Especially not twelve times in a row. We’ll pray for him tonight at vespers, but you must persuade him to be silent—or by the Mother’s mercy, at the very least to tune his instrument! Bring the key when you’ve settled him. Don’t be long.”
“Yes, Father.”
Those two words unnerved Kestar more than anything he’d ever heard Celoren say before. Where was his partner’s confidence? There was no trace of it in his defeated reply, and none in his bearing as he unlocked the door and edged into the little chamber. For an instant Kestar’s hopes flared at the thought of winning Celoren back to his side where he belonged—and then they died once more as Celoren addressed him.
“What’s that you’re playing, Kes?”
It would have been the most natural thing in the world to look up, meet Cel’s eyes and tell him all. It should have been easy. But the brittle cheer in Celoren’s greeting left Kestar no such choice. He hit what should have been the ringing A minor resolution of the hymn, and without pausing for a beat, swung into a fourteenth repetition. “A new arrangement of ‘Merrodrie’s Lament.’ But I fear it’s not quite right yet.” And he lifted his head at last to see Celoren mustering a wavering smile.
“That’s excellent, Kes...truly...I’m glad you’re passing the time.”
“I needed to do something.” Kestar softened his playing along with his voice, slipping more true notes into the chords than he’d strummed before. “I know none of this is right.” A level gaze and calm words had assured the doctor he still had his reason. Perhaps it would work again. He couldn’t risk anything more obvious, not when the priest might yet lurk within earshot, out of his line of sight. Let it work. Gods, you know me, look at me, my friend.
“Good, that’s good,” Celoren said, his voice too hearty, no gleam of comprehension brightening his face. “But look, maybe you should rest your fingers a while?” He flicked a nervous gesture at the mandolin. “Your hand must be hurting and, um, we can hear you upstairs. And it’s almost time for vespers...”
Kestar’s heart sank.
“Ah,” he murmured. “No, it wouldn’t do to disturb the service.” He stilled the melody at last on as pure a chord as he could manage with mistuned strings, and inclined his head toward the water pitcher. “Refresh yourself before you go to worship, and sing a prayer for me, will you?”
Celoren’s face flooded with a jumble of emotions, and for an instant, Kestar thought he saw a telltale wetness dampening his friend’s eyes. “I will. I promise you.”
Then he turned with such alacrity to the pitcher that Kestar could think only that the doctor had never put her medicines into the water, or at least that she’d never told his partner she’d done so. As Celoren lifted the pitcher and drank, the younger Hawk closed his eyes in grief.
It didn’t take long for the laudanum to work.
“Doctor Lannedes said you needed fresh air,” Cel said as he set the pitcher down. “If you’re feeling up to it, I could ask if you could...come up to join...” He staggered, lifting a hand to his head in shocked confusion. Then he dropped heavily to his knees. “Kes...what have you done?”
“I won’t be going to the service with you, Cel,” Kestar whispered, conscious of an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his wound. “I’m sorry.”
When Celoren crumpled into an insensible heap, he moved. Reverently he laid the mandolin against his pillow, and rose. His muscles protested, as did his head; he had to endure the tilting of the cell around him as he wriggled into his doublet, coat and boots, then hunkered down to strip off Celoren’s sword belt and blade. Kestar didn’t let the dizziness halt him. He had no time to spare.
With a taut curl to his mouth, he fetched the laudanum bottle from beneath the pillow and thrust it into his coat pocket. He didn’t want it, but Doctor Lannedes had been right. He was still a wounded man.
And he had nothing else to take. He gave Celoren’s inert form a last sorrowful look and then fled, out into the cellar and up the stairs. The gods or perhaps fortune gave him a clear path, and he saw no one as he stumbled outdoors into the early evening light. Organ music wafting through the air and far-off voices spoke of the folk of Camden gathering for vespers. On the rear side of the church, though, not a soul was in sight. No one, therefore, saw Kestar nearly leap out of his boots at the sound of a familiar whicker.
Celoren’s horse, saddled and bridled, was tied to a mounting ring set into the stone of the church’s wall. A few other mounts, presumably those of townsfolk arriving at the church, were lined up along the wall beside him—but only the one horse mattered.
“Pasga,” he whispered, relief at this last small blessing stabbing through him along with regret at yet another necessary theft. He took only a moment to loop his arms around the horse’s neck, while the creature turned his head to snuffle complacently at his hair. Why his partner’s mount was here rather than stabled nearby he didn’t consider. Instead, with a prayer for forgiveness, he untied Pasga’s reins from the ring. Then he pulled himself up into the saddle and rode.
And as he made it out of town, pushing Pasga into a long, loping gallop, the bell that pealed a counterpoint to the rhythm of the chestnut stallion’s hooves changed from a summons to worship to the tolling of alarm.
Chapter Sixteen
On the second night after their arrival at the rag-and-bone man’s home, Aenghis’s pigeon came back with a reply from the elves—and Julian had never been so relieved to see a scroll of Elvish moon-script in his life. Rab’s hostility was riding high, and Faanshi, obviously leery of him, lurked in out-of-the-way corners of the house. She brightened only when their host spun her tales of how he’d acquired half the oddities in his hoard, and offered her a gaudily painted puzzle box to keep for herself.
Between them all, as well as his own lack of distance in the entire cursed affair, Julian’s temper was in tatters. Nor did it help when he informed Aenghis that the elves would meet them, and the old man shot him an all-too-canny look.
“You don’t sound exactl
y pleased about that, boy.”
He wasn’t, though Julian no more wanted to admit that out loud than he wanted to hurl himself in front of a rampaging bear. “It’ll be another few days we’ll have to haul the girl around with us,” he groused, “and we’re assassins, not nursemaids. Keeping her with us is dangerous.”
Aenghis sniggered. “For her, Rook, or for you?”
There was no way he could answer that; Julian didn’t try. Yet the rag-and-bone man’s challenge haunted him clear into the following morning when they took their leave, with fresh provisions in their saddlebags and Aenghis’s curt “Be off with you then” by way of farewell. Rab rode with a vengeance, as if both he and Tornach were eager to conquer this next leg of their journey. Julian couldn’t blame him. He would have given much for some charm or spell that could have moved them, supplies and mounts and all, back to that hidden waterfall—not that the elves would share such a magic with his kind, if they had it. So far as he knew, no living elven mage had that kind of power. Not even the girl.
Faanshi remained withdrawn behind him on Morrigh as they traveled deeper into the Garmbinn Range, though she took Julian’s earlier orders to heart. When she required food or rest, she asked for it. When she didn’t, she remained as watchful as he could wish. But occasionally he glimpsed in her something beyond her unassuming demeanor: a delight that seemed fueled by the trees and mountain peaks, or the passage overhead of the sun and moon and stars. Soon she sat up taller in the saddle and lifted her attention from her feet and hands, directing it along the trails they followed. Whether it was her slave’s life or some instinct rising in her elven blood that made wilderness seem wondrous, he couldn’t discern. As close as they were to parting ways, he told himself, it was better than he didn’t know.
It disturbed him deeply that he wanted to.
On the second morning after leaving the rag-and-bone man, when circuitous riding brought them into the forest beyond the mountains, Faanshi asked, “Will it be much longer before we arrive?”
“Midday. Earlier if we press on faster.”
“Can we?”
“Are you anxious to leave us so soon?”
“No,” Faanshi said, and Julian frowned ahead through the leaf-greened light as disappointment he didn’t want to acknowledge eased at that single word. “It’ll just be good to see if they’re like me. And if they really will need me.”
Wistful as it was, that trace of eagerness in her voice gave her more of an air of life and vigor than he’d seen out of her yet. “Well then,” he answered, nudging his stallion into a swifter pace, “we’ll see how fast we can get you there.”
“Thank you, Julian. For taking me to the elves, and for setting me free.”
She spoke no more loudly, and—praise Tykhe—didn’t shift the gentle grip of her arms about his frame. Yet all at once he was grateful that he couldn’t see her face. He could withstand much. In that moment, however, he was certain he wouldn’t withstand the sight of Faanshi’s smile.
“Just hold on, girl. You’ve got more hands than I do.”
She held on. They caught up with Rab, and as the morning wore on, they rode. At their faster pace, Julian had to work harder to keep his partner in sight. He’d memorized their route, but they’d only traveled it twice, the last time in darkness, without sunlight or a sad-eyed slave girl to bedevil him.
With such distractions, he never saw the ambush coming.
A sharp whistle from above was his only warning before something crashed into his skull. Faanshi shrieked. But before he could shake his head to clear it or bellow for Rab, a burst of explosions like miniature firecrackers ripped through the air before them. Morrigh screamed, reared and threw his riders. With bone-jarring impact, Julian slammed against the earth. His every drive urged him upright again, but for a few seconds he could only lie stunned where he’d fallen, gasping for air.
Somewhere beyond the miasma of pain Faanshi cried out his name. He heard Rab shouting, the horses whinnying their fright, and the clamor of blade against blade. Before he could rally the wits to move, just as his sight and hearing refocused, someone dropped down hard upon his prone form and pressed a knife against his throat.
“Move a single muscle or breathe too loudly for my liking, human, and your corpse will feed this wood for years to come.”
Shock and fury ripped through him, for he recognized his attacker. Green eyes shot through with silver and gold. Hair like burnished copper. A set to her otherworldly features that meant business and blood. Tembriel. He thrashed beneath her, trying to throw her off onto the ground, but the she-elf clouted him hard across his brow. A second wave of pain crackled through him, and he couldn’t muster the strength to push her away.
“What the hells are you doing?” he demanded instead.
“Delivering your payment.” Tembriel’s knife scraped against the skin of his throat. “Did you really think you could play slave trader and sell us one of our own?”
“For Lady’s sake, girl, don’t fight me! We’re trying to help—” A voice he didn’t know rang out nearby, before cutting off with a strangled Elvish curse.
“Julian! Let me go—you’ve hurt him—I have to—”
Faanshi, fighting?
Sounds of a scuffle closer than the clashing blades reached his ears, but he had time for only a moment of surprise. Golden light flared, startling Tembriel, who twisted atop him to shoot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Hold her, Virden! Don’t hurt her—”
Then a bowstring twanged, an arrow whizzed by overhead and another voice pealed like an angry bell.
“All of you hold!”
Tembriel jolted and went still. Nearby the scuffling sounds diminished, while the more distant conflict cut off with a cry of pain and a howl of protest. Julian drew in as much breath as he could manage, but allowed himself no other motion, for he knew the newcomer’s voice. So did the she-elf who pinned him.
“Alarrah, why are you interfering? We’re trying to save our cousin from these vermin.”
“I love and revere you as a sister, but if you and Jannyn and Virden don’t stand down we’ll shoot you where you stand, and I won’t heal you. Let the human up.”
Tembriel’s face reddened with resentment, and Julian thought she might challenge Alarrah’s order, but she launched herself up off him in one fluid motion. He got to his feet. His head throbbed, and he felt dampness in his hair. The sight that met his cautious glance, though, gave him far more concern than the blow. Elves clad in mottled greens and browns surrounded him. Two had intercepted Morrigh and Tornach, and were striving to calm the agitated beasts. Two more held Rab between them, and Julian stiffened in affront to see his partner bleeding from a slash across his cheek and two rents in his right sleeve. Scowling as blackly as Rab, Tembriel’s brother Jannyn edged back from the young assassin, moving with difficulty, one arm curled along a wet scarlet patch at his side. One more elf, a male with long dark hair who had to be Virden, wrestled with Faanshi—whose hands, Julian saw with a flare of disquiet, were wreathed in brilliant halos of light.
“She’s the one who healed me,” he said. “She can’t control her power.”
He needn’t have bothered. Alarrah had already rushed to Virden’s aid, and as she drew near she whipped up a hand to Faanshi’s brow. A look of profound amazement swept across the girl’s dusky face. Then she crumpled in her captor’s grasp, her hat tumbling from her head. Alarrah caught her, and only then, as the blaze of Faanshi’s power faded, did the softer glow around the she-elf’s fingers come into view.
“Astàllemerron, gilithilan re.” Alarrah shifted Faanshi’s inert weight into Virden’s lone hold. She stooped to retrieve the girl’s hat and gently set it back into place on her head. “Bear her with great respect.”
“Yes, Alarrah.” The other elf’s dark eyes were round with wonder.
“Tembriel,” Alarrah called, her voice growing cold as the glow around her fingers died, “assist Jannyn with his wound. Make certain he can return t
o camp under his own power. By way of punishment, he may go unhealed.”
Tembriel shouted out a burst of Elvish too complex for Julian to follow, and the healer hurled back a reply that drained the color from the other she-elf’s face.
Finally Alarrah turned to him.
“If your people couldn’t afford to pay for the girl’s escort,” he snapped, “you could’ve simply sent word.”
She didn’t apologize. “Your companion spilled my heart-brother’s blood,” she said, eying Julian’s head, “and so I won’t heal him either. But you I’ll heal, if you wish.”
“I’ll manage. What did you do to Faanshi?”
“She sleeps. It was the only way to quell her power. She’ll wake again once we’ve taken her to safety.”
“And what are your intentions toward us? Are we to be paid or made prisoners?” demanded Rab.
Alarrah slid him an unreadable look. “This action was Tembriel’s and Jannyn’s and Virden’s alone, and not sanctioned by the rest of us, so we came to put a stop to it. If you can pledge to constrain your blades, we’ll not constrain your movements.”
“You’re chastising the wrong person, my lady,” Rab sneered, nodding at Jannyn. “He struck first.”
Ignoring his sister as she went to work on his wound, Jannyn shot back, “I’ll strike last if I discover you’ve harmed the smallest hair upon the healer’s—”
“Jannyn!” Alarrah shouted, and when he flushed and subsided, she said, “Mother of Stars, your blind arrogance will destroy us all someday! You’ll be at peace, or you’ll be the next to sleep.” To Rab she added, “Will you stand down?”
“I’ll behave myself.”
It was enough for Alarrah. “Release him,” she ordered the elves who flanked him. Without a flicker of disturbance in their expressions or the slightest bit of noise from their footsteps, they slipped back out of arm’s reach.
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