by Jenna Rhodes
Perhaps it was the coppery tang of blood from the man’s boots or apron that set it off, but Sevryn caught that for which he searched. He stopped in his tracks, Bregan bumping into him. The trader winced as he caught his elbow. “Are we near?”
“The Shrine of the Lovers? Nay, it’s a good alley or two behind us . . .”
Sevryn leaned close to Bregan’s jaw. “Fool. Are we close?”
Another quiver ran through the trader. He swallowed once or twice as if unable to speak, and then ground out, “In the shadows ahead. To your right hand.”
Sevryn stared. He had not seen the boil of darkness before but now that Bregan directed him, he saw it clearly some paces ahead, the townsfolk and those who came to worship skirting it uneasily. He let his mind spill over it. What had been there no longer was, but its cloud lingered with a greasy, repellent feel, meant to turn people away. Another day and the sheer wash of humanity through this street and its side feeders would not even know this place existed, if they could even detect it now, beyond the feelings it projected.
Sevryn gave a whistle as he steered Bregan toward the cloud. Rufus came up short in his position as point and fell in at Sevryn’s flank instead. The Bolger wrinkled his nose as they drew near.
“Stinks.”
“Oh, and that’s the turtle calling the tortoise slow,” Bregan said lightly, nervously, as Sevryn propelled him into place. He stopped as if he had hit a wall.
Sevryn caught the same sense of it that Rufus had, it stank, not in an aromatic way, but in a skin-prickling, nerve-tugging way. With misgivings, he nudged at Bregan. “Is this the shrine?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Is it?” He edged them closer and then he could actually scent its odor, a bare but distinctive one. Sevryn felt a surety in his bones; he knew the smell now, faint though it was, the drug a potent hallucinogenic which left its victims in a highly suggestible state. It was exceedingly rare and expensive, and few would know of it. He would not except for Gilgarran’s expansive teaching, and he doubted anyone outside of the Kobrir might use it since Gilgarran’s death except . . . except who? A thought dangled just outside his capture of it, taunting him. He shook it off when Bregan shrugged out of his hold.
But it was not to flee. The trader went to one knee, his golden brace folding fluidly with his movement, and he put a hand on the small, ceramic shrine that sat with its back to a thin chapel stall’s wall. The haze Sevryn had seen and felt roiled around them as Bregan did so, a disturbance in its veil.
“A street vendor pushed a stick of incense in my hand,” Bregan murmured, his head bent in memory. “He was full of—like they all are—hope for the shrines. He begged me to honor the street with my prayers. The market had begun to drop off a bit for the shrines, and I knew it could use a boost. Why not show some piety? I thought it might be fitting to light it and set it somewhere. These . . .” and he gestured vaguely at the one shrine and then out at all the others littering the street, “these came out of my enterprise. So why not? I don’t believe in them, I never did, but they needed to.” He dropped his hand back onto his leg. “There is always money to be had by selling what people need.”
“Or by convincing them they need it.”
“You try to give me guilt, but I won’t take it. The Gods used to speak to us. We were not often left to wonder what we should do or where we should go with our lives when we stood at a crossroads. We did not feel adrift. Now, we do. You might be thankful for that. If the Gods had spoken to us and told us to destroy you, we would have risen up, every one of us, with whatever we could wield to do so. But they remained silent, and are silent still, so you live amongst us for centuries with impunity.”
“Do you threaten that state?”
“Not I.” Bregan looked up at him. “But you, with half a Vaelinar heart and half a Kernan heart, have heard the whispers. You know that even after all the time has passed, the elven are still strangers at our doorsteps. Sometimes welcome and sometimes not.”
Sevryn did not answer that. He looked at the wall. How would the Kobrir have known which shrine Bregan would choose to do his homage at? Could it have been as simple as having made this one undesirable to all others as it was now, and a busy trader, oblivious to the distaste and in a hurry?
“Rufus, think you can get behind that wall?”
The Bolger scratched his pate. He moved away from them, crowds shifting to avoid him as he did so, despite the fact that a sparse number of Bolgers moved among the acolytes and temples, doing odd jobs of manual labor. One stopped to watch the clan chieftain curiously, and then dropped his gaze quickly and moved back to his sweeping when a young Kernan snapped a few words at him. In moments, Rufus disappeared and then, he could hear a knocking along the wall that stopped only when Sevryn knocked back when he reached a position.
“That was clear enough,” Bregan said dryly. “Think they sat back there and waited for me, or anyone, to pay homage?”
“I think it’s likely they did. Can you smell what you burned here?”
The other leaned forward slightly and took several deep inhalations, before shaking his head. “There is something, but I can’t quite make it out. Can you?”
“Yes, but it’s faint. When it was freshly burned, you would have not noticed it much more, it’s an inconspicuous little herb but one that can give quite a kick. We call it dreamspark.”
“A well-laid trap, for anyone.”
“No. Just for you, Bregan, I think.”
“Why so?”
“There are not many people who could lure me as you did. They needed a person of some reputation, and power, position, and of value to the queen. This person had to catch my ear and have a good chance of succeeding in having me follow their lead.”
“So I was the lucky fellow.”
Sevryn made a diffident gesture. “They would have had better luck getting to you than to my lady Rivergrace or one of the Farbranches.”
Bregan’s lip curled. “And they bent my will easily.”
“Not they, the dreamspark. As for that, you have certain habits that make it easy to lead you down this particular lane. You drink a bit, and you’re more susceptible when drunk than you like to think you are.”
“I drink a bit.”
“Yes, sorry, was that not common knowledge?”
Rufus rumbled from behind the thin patchwork wall, “Fancy boot empty many jugs.”
Bregan straightened. “If you want to count the numbers of gutters I’ve seen to those you’ve crawled in, I’d be more than willing.”
“I was standing in those gutters and it was not my choice,” Sevryn corrected him and skinned his lips back from his teeth in a slight smile. “At least we both made it out.”
“Did we?” Bregan stared down at the small shrine, his face etched in disgust. “Truth is only as good as the men who profess it while lies prosper off any tongue.” He kicked the ceramic sculpture in disgust. “I pandered to this deception.” His voice rose. “All false. Lies! They needed a fool, and they found one!”
In the streets people began to slow and murmur, gazes fixed on them. Sevryn could feel a wave of uneasy attention as they jostled into position to watch. Bregan seemed oblivious to the attention he attracted. He kicked the shrine again, rebounding it off the wall, and it broke into three pieces, ash from incense scattering as it did. Rufus made a noise from behind as the object shattered. Muffled as it was, the growing crowd heard it.
“What was that?”
“I heard something . . . did you?”
“The Gods speak!”
Sevryn turned abruptly to spot whoever uttered that last, but the crowd had grown so dense and fluid that he could not catch sight of any one face. Bregan’s voice rose harshly as he attacked another shrine, smashing it, sending pieces skittering over the alley’s cove. A rising wail followed the shards.
“My s
hrine! My shrine! My prayers for my wife, my sister! What are you doing? That was my shrine. What are you doing?”
“Drunken fool . . .”
Bregan whirled at that, pointing a finger at the curtain of townsfolk. “It doesn’t take too much wine to know that this is a piece of pottery, nothing more! Are you idiots? What do you believe? If I told you this . . . this worthless piece of clay could raise the dead, would you believe me?” He toed a piece at his foot and then stomped his boot heel onto it, grinding it down into poorly fired clay dust. “It’s dirt! Nothing more!” His voice rose with that of the inconsolable wailer who fell onto his side, weeping.
Sevryn whistled sharply for Rufus as distraught people pushed closer, surrounding them, pressing them toward the walls. His fine-tuned senses lightninged over his body in protest at the closeness, and he swung about, taking stock of the situation. Agitation rose through the observers like a tide, crashing through them and carrying others off into shouts of protest against Bregan’s action as well as those who cried in sympathy with the prostrate man now lying in the alley. His gut clenched at the emotional waves rising like a flood tide about them. He gathered his Voice and spoke, but his own words remained unheard, drying in his throat, falling from his mouth like useless, nonexistent sounds. Sevryn stepped back in surprise. Never had his Voice failed him. Never.
He reached for Bregan’s elbow. “That’s enough.”
Bregan threw him off. He plowed toward other niches, other shrines, bellowing as he shoved his way through. “Fools, all of you are fools! The Gods are deaf and mute to idiots.” Incense sticks flew, smoking and still alight, as he kicked and booted the clay monuments to scattered shards. That quickly, the situation went from dangerous to explosive, as if Bregan had lit a fuse.
The crowd surged. Blows and kicks went flying. Sevryn grabbed for Bregan, getting only the sleeve of his coat and yanking him out of the reach of the people. Rufus appeared at his flank, out of breath and scuffed, as if he had fought his way through the outer ring of townsfolk to get to him, and perhaps he had. The noise of fisticuffs and breaking pottery filled the air, hoarse cries of “Blasphemy!” and worse roared against his ears, and Bregan fought his hold even as others fought to tear him free and bear him away. Pain stung along his ribs and someone stomped his boot toes hard and he cursed as he spun Bregan around into the arms of the waiting Rufus before using his body to simply block and bully their way out of the fray. Body already sore and bruised, he felt like a battered piece of meat as he hauled and bluffed his way out, knuckles stinging and his nerves strung tightly as he kept his hands from the hilts of his knives. No bloodshed. Grunts and curses echoed his shoves and body blocks, and when they emerged from the fray, it felt like he’d unstoppered a very stubborn jug.
Suddenly, they were free.
And just as quickly, a shout of annoyance and discovery sent the crowd at their throats.
He pulled his hand knives then, sparing as he could be, watching agitators spring back in dismay as they felt the sting and saw the blood. Improvised weapons came to hand as he pushed Bregan and Rufus down the street ahead of him. One man pulled off his rugged boots and flung them about by the laces. Awning poles were stripped loose and plied about head and ears, missing Sevryn as he ducked lithely away but landing blows on many another head. Rufus stripped free a pair for himself. The Bolger applied it where he thought it would do the most good and, leaving a trail of bloody noses, thrashed ears, and sliced arms behind them, they made it off Temple Row and into the relatively clear passage of the main thoroughfare of Hawthorne. They looked back over their shoulders to see the mob chasing after them.
“Run,” muttered Sevryn, jerking at Bregan’s collar. He jabbed a thumb in Rufus’ direction. “Get the mule, horses. Meet me outside the town gates.”
Rufus dropped his battered and splintering awning pole and ran in the opposite direction, leather apron flapping about his bandied legs. Bregan reeled in Sevryn’s wake as they ran, with the howling mob at their heels. With little or no hope of the City Guard intervening, Sevryn guided his charge through the winding streets as he remembered them, and by the time they made their way to a city gate at one of the seven bridges linking Hawthorne to the mainland, Bregan wheezed like a pipe player and Sevryn’s nose ran pink from a blow he’d taken and the heavy breathing he was doing. He wiped his upper lip dry on the back of his hand.
Rufus had the horses and mule. One chance in seven he’d find the right gate, but Sevryn knew that the Bolger had an eerie sense of direction, and he’d charted his course based on Sevryn’s initial path of escape.
He threw Bregan on his horse. “Get home. Can you ride?”
“Always.” The trader struggled upright. He’d taken a blow to the forehead that left a small gash in his brow, and purpling to the side of his neck.
“I’ve business elsewhere.” Sevryn mounted in a flying leap. “Try to stay out of trouble, then.”
“Without argument.” Bregan turned his horse about and put a heel in its flanks, sending it into a gallop through the gate and thundering onto the bridge.
Sevryn pointed to the southernmost gates and bridges. “That way.”
The lane circumnavigating the city boundaries was narrow, but they could still ride two abreast, and so they did, kicking the city gate shut behind them, startling both guards who had been staring, mouths open, at them since they’d burst on the scene. Evidently they’d been trained to keep invaders out, not in.
Sevryn lifted his reins, to urge a swift, running walk from his horse. Gilgarran would have had his hide for precipitating a riot. Could have been prevented, should have been foreseeable. Had he grown soft, in some ways, in the service of the queen? Thinking of the departed man brought up another thought, frothing to the top of his mind. Gilgarran would have used dreamspark, and had upon occasion. But so had Daravan. The machinations here, bringing Bregan to Temple Row and then exposing him to the drug and waiting to plant whispers in his hallucinating mind, yes, that was a labyrinth of planning not coincidence. Bregan had been the prey, and he’d fallen into the trap. Who besides Gilgarran might deal in such mental devices? Perhaps Daravan, who was more than a match for his old mentor in elaborate deceptions. But Daravan was caught up in the Ferryman’s journey, was he not? Unless, like the handfuls of Raymy spilled here and there, the man had been deposited back on Kerith and no one the wiser. That thought grabbed him for a long moment.
If Daravan had come back, and thought to threaten Rivergrace with a web of machinations, he would find a way to kill the wily bastard, come hell or high water.
A dry whirling sound came from behind them, atop the gate. Sevryn jerked about to see what it was. He caught the barest glimpse of an object sailing at his head before an explosion of pain, a darkness etched with sparks, was followed by musty nothingness.
RIVERGRACE EMERGED from the graying darkness of the cave, her eyes narrowed against the sun. From its slant, she’d been inside the cave far longer than she would have guessed. She drew in a long, slow breath, enjoying the clean air free of the smell of cold rock and lichen and dust. As she stepped farther out, something moved furtively in a line of shrubs, something unseen but heavier than just a scurry upon the ground. She turned to it, listening. All noise hushed. Not even the buzz of an insect wing. The lack of noise told her more than the sound before had. She was not the only one who paused, held their breath, and listened for an enemy. It was not her imagination unnerved by what she had seen and learned from the dark water. Lariel might have tracked her down. This ridge ran along the border of her kingdom, and Lara had a bonding with it that was laced tightly with her Vaelinar powers as well as the powers of Kerith itself. She knew who trespassed on her borders, and although Grace was near certain she stood beyond them now, she couldn’t be absolutely sure, and even if she did—she stood so close to them, that the land itself might betray her. How she might have to react to that betrayal shook her for a momen
t.
She would change; it was inevitable, and this must be the beginning of it. Rivergrace pressed a hand to her eyes, shuttering them for a moment, hoping for clarity when she reopened them. It might work. Chances were it would not. Yet, when she looked upon the scene again and swept her gaze about, she could see a multitude of threads in all the colors of the landscape, each one waiting to be plucked or braided or snapped—and thus altered forever. Did she dare take the responsibility? A failure to accept those consequences had destroyed the House of her father, or what had once been her father.
She took in a long, slow, soft breath as if she could taste any mischief on the wind, as an animal would scent trouble. A hush stayed over the area. The feeling that pressure built, swelling and expanding, until it exploded and inundated the surroundings, cloaked her. A storm gathered, but not a storm of electricity and rain. That she could handle, even draw upon, replenish herself as she replenished its essence. She was water and, in some little respect, fire, but she was nothing of what she sensed approaching. Grace took in another soft breath, deep and quiet, a gentle hiss between her teeth and through her nostrils.
She balanced her weight and brushed her cloak from her side, wrapped it about her left arm to shield it and slowly withdrew her short sword. With a certainty and fluidity she was not sure she really felt, she moved into a defensive position, keeping part of the broken rock of the cave entrance at her back. The steel glittered dully in her hold, a muted silver like a river in the high mountains just beginning to thaw from its winter ice.
She let her senses rove, wondering if Lariel had dared to send the guard after her. Perhaps something that ran feral through the ridgeline wilderness stalked her. She turned to her right and took three silent steps to where she had abandoned her mist form and where the cave had first welcomed her. Grass lay bent and bruised, its aroma wafting up. Something with heavy footsteps had trod here after her own foggy passage. She frowned.