A sound like rushing waters closed over Honor’s head.As much as she wanted to refute the adept’s words, she could not becertain that he was wrong. There was much about that night that waslost to memory. It might have been as he said.
“So when I say that you need not return to theforest, I’m offering you an alternative. You could stay in Sevrin.Volgo has faced elven swords before. He’s very eager to add one tohis company.”
“Not every elf is a warrior.”
Rhendish took her sword hand and turned it up,displaying the row of nearly bone-deep calluses across the top ofher palm and the scar along the pad of her thumb.
His eyes narrowed and he pushed up her sleeve. “Youremoved the bracers.”
“They were uncomfortable.”
“To you or to one of the Fox’s band of thieves?” heasked slyly.
She kept her gaze on his and her face impassive.“Obviously you’ve never worn armor of any kind.”
“But the scars. .”
She glanced down at her forearm. Pale silver linesran the length of her arm, crisscrossing older scars she’d won inbattle. None of the marks were unsightly. Elves healed quickly andvalued signs of valor.
“What about them?”
He shook his head in astonishment. “Most women of myacquaintance-and most men, for that matter-would consider suchmarks disfiguring.”
“You don’t know many warriors, then.”
“All the more reason for me to secure your services.I promise you, this arrangement would suit us both,” he saidearnestly. “Whatever you sought to achieve in the forest is lost.With me, you can gain wealth, a position of command, whatever youdesire.”
“What if my desire is to return to my people?”
“Only to die over some failed plot or unrealizedambition?” He shook his head. “You might think honor requires thisof you, but isn’t there greater honor to be found in keeping yourpeople safe and at peace? I’m offering you an alliance that puts inyour hands all the resources necessary to protect the forest fromthose who would despoil it.
“And who knows?” He turned his hands palms up andspread them out wide in the manner of one presenting vastpossibilities. “In time, you might achieve whatever it was thatbrought you to trial.”
“Or prove myself innocent.”
“Or that,” he said in a bland tone that contradictedhis words.
Honor studied him for any sign of duplicity. To allappearances, he sincerely believed her a traitor who might be wonto his cause. Why, she could not begin to fathom.
“I will think on it,” she said. “May I go?”
He swept one hand toward the door in a graceful arc.Honor rose, grateful to find her body back under her command.
Somehow she found her way through the walls of booksand out onto the street. She walked for a long time, playing thehuman’s words over and over in her mind.
He could be right. It was possible. If for somereason Asteria thought her capable of treachery, the Thorn wouldconfirm her suspicions.
On the other hand, it was possible that someone hadaccused Honor of wrongdoing, and Asteria knew that only theceremonial dagger would prove her innocence beyond doubt.
The more Honor thought about this, the more likely itseemed.
There was, of course, one other possibility:
Rhendish was lying to her because he wanted the Thornfor himself. What better way to learn of its power than placing itin the hands of an elf he so obviously controlled?
And if he was lying about this, what else might he bekeeping from her?
She turned off the street and walled through the archleading into a city park, one of the small green spaces that dottedthe city. Perhaps standing under the shade of these trees wouldlend her a moment of peace and clarity.
The tumult of her thoughts began to wane as shewalked along the paths. A lone songbird called from a butternuttree. She stopped and whistled back the little fragment of melody.The bird flitted down to a lower branch and hopped closer, itslittle head tipped inquisitively to one side.
She held out one hand and repeated the bird’s call.Tiny black eyes regarded her as if taking her measure. Honor calledagain. The bird leaped into the air and winged off toward the farend of the park.
Honor stood in stunned silence. No forest bird hadever fled from her before.
“Have you city birds forgotten the elves?” she saidsoftly. “Or has Rhendish changed me beyond recognition?”
She headed toward a small man-made pond, halfwondering if the reflection in it would be familiar. A stand ofmeadow flowers near the pond caught her eye. She moved over for acloser look.
Most of the flowers were yellow and blue blossomscommon to the northland meadows. A pang of remorse struck Honor asshe remembered the sprite Rhendish had forced her to kill. Sheglanced down at the palm of her sword hand, half expecting to seeit stained with gold and blue dust from tiny crushed wings.
Honor pushed this thought aside. Some instinct haddrawn her to the meadow flowers. She closed her eyes and stilledher mind.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell upon a patchof wild carrots. The large, lacy white flowers swayed on delicatestalks longer than Honor’s arm.
A light began to dawn in the back of Honor’s mind.She didn’t dare hope that the idea taking shape would gain her herfreedom, but it might enable her to do her duty.
She stooped and snapped off several of the flowersnear the base of the stem. Bouquet in hand, she headed toward theFox Den, and the fey-touched madman who might become her mostvaluable ally.
Fox sat on the edge of Avidan’s worktable, eyeing avase of meadow flowers with a mixture of curiosity and concern.That the alchemist would keep a bouquet of wild carrot blossoms inhis workroom was strange enough. His motivation for keeping them inblood red liquid was something Fox didn’t care to contemplate.Whatever the reason, the color had worked its way up the narrowstems, dying the lacy white blossoms a deep shade of rose.
The alchemist sprinkled a handful of green crystalsinto a bowl of water and attacked them with a whisk. Crystals brokeapart, sending blood-red streaks swirling through the water.
Fox was beginning to sense a disturbing theme.
“Should I be worried about that concoction?”
“It stings a little, if that’s a concern,” Avidansaid without looking up from his work. “This is an aqueous solutionof mercury. It prevents wounds from going septic.”
The alchemist’s tone was confident and his movementsprecise and practiced. At moments like this, Fox could envisionAvidan leading a successful foray into Muldonny’s mansion. Theywould walk in through the well-guarded gates without a qualm,Avidan would discourse learnedly with the adept, Fox would switchthe daggers, and they’d be back on Sevrin’s main island before thetaverns opened.
“The mercury solution is also effective in earlystages of the pox,” Avidan said. “Naturally, it must be applieddirectly to the site of initial contact.”
This image effectively dispelled Fox’s optimisticdaydream. “That’s more information than I need.”
“I have heard, however, that some women find thebright orange color a bit off-putting.”
“To say nothing of the pox,” Fox muttered.
“Of course, you’ll need a larger codpiece toaccommodate the bandages.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
Avidan lifted the bowl. “Are you sure? I haveextra.”
The thief sighed. “Let’s just get this done.”
The alchemist dipped a cloth into the bowl andclucked like a brooding hen as he dabbed rust-colored solution ontoFox’s forehead.
“What did you do to anger her?”
“Who?”
“The fairy, of course.”
Fox’s laughter was cut short by a stab of pain fromhis split lip. He winced and prodded at it with one finger.
“Vishni didn’t do this.”
“If you say so.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but realized thealchemist
was probably more right than wrong.
“I will go alone to meet with Vishni and thealchemist whose place I am to take,” Avidan said.
The combined weight of everything that could go wrongwith that plan hit Fox like a fist to the gut. “That’s notnecessary.”
Avidan reached for a polished metal tray and held itin front of Fox’s face. The thief grimaced at the reflectedimage.
“It’s necessary,” Avidan said. “You cannot walk intoa fest hall looking as you do. Since there is no crime in Sevrin,people might wonder how you found yourself on the wrong side of abrawl. You can stay with Delgar and help our new friend return tohis lodgings.”
Fox accepted this with a nod. Playing the role of acharming courtesan should offer Vishni enough diversion to keep herattention from straying. And if it did not, they had a reliableescape route in place.
“Just so you know, I’m not letting you walk intoMuldonny’s alone.”
“I will make unguents to darken your skin and hidemost of the damage to your face. In the meanwhile, this willhelp.”
Avidan reached into a metal box and removed a cube ofraw meat. A droplet of blood splashed onto the alchemist’sworktable.
Fox leaned away from the offered tidbit. “Nothanks.”
“Are you sure? Vishni stole this from the butcher onRedcloak Street. He has an ice house. It’s good and cold.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
The alchemist’s lip curled in disgust. “You’re notsupposed to eat it. You’re supposed to put it on your black eye.The cold will bring down the swelling.”
“Why didn’t she just steal some ice? Wouldn’t thatwork as well?”
“Better,” Avidan said. “But there is very little foodvalue in ice.”
Fox started to respond, decided it wasn’t worth it,and hopped off the table. He took the cube of raw steak and pressedit to his swollen eye as he left for saner regions. The remedymight be disgusting, but he found it surprisingly soothing.
The gathering room with its ever-shifting mirror wasempty. Fox slumped into a chair and stared at an image of pale sandcurling around an inlet of bright turquoise sea.
Since he was alone, he had no need to temper hisfascination with the mirror. He devoured images of woodlandwaterfalls, distant cities glimpsed from mountaintops, painteddeserts. His favorite scene showed him a single wolf silhouettedagainst a rising moon, muzzle lifted in song.
There had been no wolves on the islands of Sevrin fora hundred generations. No one who lived in Sevrin could hope to seea wolf.
No one who lived in Sevrin could hope to see manythings.
Fox’s sigh came from the depths of his soul. None ofhis friends, not even Delgar, knew of his longing for distantplaces. But his work was here. So was his mother, even if she nolonger knew him.
He suddenly remembered the locket she’d handed himdays earlier. A quick pat-down of his pockets yielded nothing but astab of panic.
The green tunic he wore for his Gatherer disguisecame to mind. He tossed the meat into the hearth and hurried to thelittle stone-walled room where he slept and stored his things.
A bit of rummaging in his chest yielded the gaudytunic. To his relief, the locket was tucked in the hip pocket.
He flipped it open and looked inside, expecting theusual lock of hair or miniature painting of some long-deadrelative. Instead, a design of intertwined runes surrounded a nameeveryone in the northlands knew:
Eldreath.
Eldreath, the sorcerer whose long and brutal reignhad given way to the age of adepts and alchemy.
In Fox’s opinion, the new regime wasn’t much of animprovement. This belief stood at the core of his work, his life.He’d never thought to question why he felt as he did.
Until now.
He had grown up hearing stories of the sorcerer’satrocities. But those were just stories. No matter what Vishnisaid, no story could be as powerful as experience.
Fox had seen the work of the adepts and theirGatherers with his own eyes. He’d seen his village attacked, hishome burned. He and his mother had been captured, dragged to thecity, questioned, tortured. What became of his father was somethinghe might never learn.
He didn’t remember much from those terrible days, buthe doubted anyone could forget the tall, blond-bearded Gatherer whokept asking about a bloodline.
Fox had always assumed these questions sprung fromhis mother’s reputation as a green witch. Magic tended to run infamilies, so of course the adepts would want to round up herrelatives. But the locket opened a new door of possibility.
His mother told him it had been passed down in thefamily. Eldreath had lived long past the normally allotted span. Ifhe gave the locket to some lady as a token, she might have passedit down through several generations before it came into Fox’shands.
“A sorcerer’s bloodline,” Fox murmured, unsurewhether he should be appalled or thrilled.
This explained Rhendish’s abiding interest incapturing Fox, and the near-captivity his mother endured within thewalls of the adept’s domain. It also explained Fox’s passion formagic.
It might even explain his personal vendetta againstthe adepts and his determination to take part in their overthrow.According to Vishni’s stories, and for that matter nearly everyother tale Fox had heard, blood and destiny were inseparable.
The only outlying fact was his total lack of anymagical talent.
This revelation was too big for one mind toencompass. Fox pushed himself out of the chair and went looking forDelgar.
The heat hit him while he was still several pacesaway from the dwarf’s workroom. He plunged through a cloud of steamand stepped into the stone chamber.
In the center of the room, flames danced in a stonefire pit. The dwarf sat in a stout wooden chair, his stocky formdraped in a protective leather apron.
Delgar picked up a narrow bar of glass with an irontong and dipped it into the fire. He drew one of several long,slender tools from the coals, wiped it clean on the damp rag drapedover his leather-clad lap, and began to shape the blade. A fewstrokes, then back into the fire went the glass and the iron. Backand forth, bit by steady bit, the dagger took shape.
“This is like watching a river eroding stone,” Foxsaid.
Delgar glanced up. “I’m about to add the handle.Watch if you want, but don’t expect scintillatingconversation.”
“In this workshop?”
The dwarf snorted and reached for a delicately etchedcross guard. He lowered a metal dropper into a beaker sitting amidglowing coals and measured a few drops of clear liquid onto thehilt. Before the glass could cool, he pressed the heated bladeagainst the guard and held it in place.
“Looks like that would break easily.” Fox grimaced.“You know, that sounded a lot more sensible before I said it outloud.”
Delgar shot a quick glance in his direction.“Glassweapons can be surprisingly durable. Dwarves have several reasonsfor making them. But these daggers aren’t meant for fighting.They’re like costumes: meant for effect, not everyday wear.”
“These daggers? How many are there?”
The dwarf tipped his head toward a table. Fivefinished daggers rested on a soft, thick cloth.
Fox went over for a closer look. “Why so many?”
“Practice, for starters,” Delgar said. “I haven’tworked in glass for more than forty years.”
“They all look perfect.” Fox picked up one of thecurved blades, turned it this way and that to catch the light, andtraded it for another. “They’re also identical.”
“Not quite. Look more closely at the roses.”
At first glance, Fox assumed that the tightly furled,long-stemmed rosebud had been etched into the glass. But it lookedsomehow. . deeper.
He ran his fingertips over the blade to find that itwas perfectly smooth.
“The design is inside the glass! How did youdo this?”
The dwarf put down the cooled glass and stretched.“When you have a few years to spare, I’d be happy to show you. Putthat dagger b
ack and run your eye down the line from left to right.Concentrate on the roses.”
Fox did as he was told. The tight rosebud on thefirst dagger unfurled a bit on the next, and so on until the fifthdagger depicted a half-blown rose.
“The Thorn’s rose opens at sunrise and closes atsunset. There’s no telling exactly when we’ll get into Muldonny’scuriosity room. If you have to make the switch with someonewatching, you’ll have less chance of detection if the copy andoriginal match.”
Fox grimaced. “I should have thought of that. Goodplanning.”
“I’d take credit if I could. It was the elf’s idea.She’s got Avidan working on them, too.”
“Now there’s a frightening thought.”
“He was in here a little earlier. He said he’doffered to treat you for the pox but you declined, so he wasextending the offer to me.” Delgar lifted one eyebrow. “Clearly,Avidan misunderstands the nature of our relationship.”
Fox touched the cut on his forehead. “He made themedicine for this. He had extra.”
The dwarf’s lips twitched as he took in his friend’sbattered face. “Is that the fairy’s handiwork?”
“Indirectly,” Fox said. “She created what you mightcall a misunderstanding with a couple of fishermen. The older onehad a wicked hook.”
The dwarf snorted. “How long have you been waiting touse that line?”
“Oh, I’ve been casting about for an hour or two.” Foxpaused. “We could probably do this for hours.”
“Let’s not.”
The dwarf pushed his chair away from the fire pit andstretched his muscled legs. “Are you going to tell me what’s onyour mind, or do I have to fish for it?”
“I thought we were stopping.”
“Believe it or not, that one was accidental. Changethe subject before someone overhears and kills us both.”
Fox took the locket from his bag and handed it to thedwarf.
Delgar’s gaze went right to the broken clasp. “Thislooks like an easy fix. I’ll get to it tonight.”
“Never mind the clasp. Look inside.”
The dwarf flipped the locket open and studied therunes. Color faded from his forge-reddened face.
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