Jarull grunted and shook his head. “They can’t sniff out Sharrans,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that. Cyrume was on the goddess’s business. The Selûnites ripped him apart to stop him.” He spat into the dust. “They didn’t have to. They could probably have just taken him to the guard. But they killed him.” He squinted, glaring at Keph through narrowed eyes. “Never trust a Selûnite, Keph.”
Keph nodded slowly.
“What now?” he asked. “Will you have some kind of memorial?”
Jarull shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t been part of the cult that long.” He twisted around and rose to his feet. “Come with me. I sent you that note because there’s someone who wants to meet you.”
“Who?” Keph stood as well.
“Bolan.”
Keph drew a sharp breath and dashed after Jarull. Of the big man’s Sharran friends, there was one name Keph hadn’t forgotten, even if he hadn’t yet seen a face to place with it. Bolan was the closest thing to a high priest that the followers of Shar in Yhaunn had, the leader of their secretive cult.
And Bolan, Keph had quickly gathered, didn’t meet with just anybody.
Jarull set a brisk pace through the heat of the afternoon. Though they stuck to the relative cool of the shadows, Keph was sweating heavily before long. Jarull, however, barely seemed to notice the heat at all. Not a drop of sweat stood out on his pale skin. When Keph suggested a break in a nearby cellar tavern, a respite from the heat, the big man barely gave him a glance.
“When Bolan wants to see you,” Jarull said over his shoulder, “you don’t keep him waiting.”
Their destination was halfway across the city, in one of Yhaunn’s poorer neighborhoods. Jarull stopped and nodded at a narrow, unassuming house. The building was modest, in slightly better repair than those around it. Keph noticed, however, that the children playing on the street gave it a wide berth, and that a group of old men sitting on a plank bench nearby offered dark looks when they saw him and Jarull pause. Keph resisted the urge conceal his face.
“Do they know about Bolan here?” he whispered to Jarull.
“They don’t know what we know.” He went up to the door and opened it without knocking. Keph followed him through.
The air inside the house was blessedly cool—but it also stank. Keph’s nose crinkled immediately. The smell was almost like his family’s laboratories, but at the same time different. Wizards’ laboratories tended to smell dry and faded, like old herbs, or else wet and rancid like rotting meat. Bolan’s house had a different scent entirely: dark and heavy, a little bit metallic, a little bit like minerals. Keph could smell the sting of vinegar and the burning stench of sulfur, along with other odors he couldn’t quite identify.
“Alchemy.…” Keph muttered.
“Yes.”
A man stepped out from a curtained doorway and Keph resisted the urge to stare. Short legs and a bullish neck made the man look as squat as a dwarf. His shoulders were round and thick, his chest and belly fat like a barrel. His appearance might have been comical if not for the porcelain smoothness of his face. He had no wrinkles or stubble, and Keph was reasonably certain the sun hadn’t touched his face in months. His head was bald on top, but a long fringe of unnaturally black and glossy hair was gathered in a tight braid that hung down his back. Jarull offered him an obeisance. After a heartbeat, Keph did the same.
Bolan grunted and said, “He’s quick, isn’t he?”
Jarull nodded silently. Keph waited as the squat alchemist looked him over then held out his hand.
“Let me see your rapier,” he said.
Keph glanced at Jarull. His friend gave him a pointed glare and jerked his head toward Bolan. Keph drew Quick and handed her to Bolan. In contrast to the eerie perfection of his face, the alchemist’s fingers were stained yellow and purple-black. He plucked Quick out of Keph’s grasp and held her up, examining not the blade as a swordsman might, but rather the metal itself. After a moment, he grunted, then took the tip of the rapier between rough fingers and flexed the blade. Keph winced.
Bolan’s dark eyes shot to him immediately.
“Too concerned with material things,” he said. “Illusion. The Lady of Loss teaches otherwise.”
He flexed Quick several more times, watching him closely. Keph struggled to keep his expression neutral.
Bolan shrugged and said, “You’ll learn.”
He tossed the rapier back at Keph, who started to reach for it then snatched his hand back out of the way of the tumbling blade. Quick clattered to the floor. He scooped it up—and found Bolan nodding.
“Sensible enough to know when you could be hurt.” His eyes glittered and he asked, “If your rapier had been falling into a pool of acid, would you have tried to catch it?”
He’s testing me, Keph realized. For a heartbeat, rage at being manipulated flashed through him. He held it in check, forcing his face and his eyes to remain calm. Bolan’s fine eyebrows arched slightly.
“Well?” he asked. “Would you risk injury to save your sword from destruction?”
If he said yes, it would contradict Bolan’s comment that material things weren’t important. But no seemed too obvious an answer as well.
“That depends,” Keph said finally, “on whether I needed it to defend myself.”
Bolan’s eyebrows rose higher. Keph waited for an answer. The alchemist, however, didn’t give him one. He just turned and stepped back to the curtained doorway.
“Come through,” he said, holding the curtain aside as Keph stepped past him.
The mineral smell was even stronger beyond the doorway, the hot stink of a burning furnace underlying it. On shadowy shelves around the room boxes, bins, and jars peered down. A variety of heavy glassware was meticulously arranged on a long, marble-topped workbench. A low rack held books. Keph couldn’t help but think of Roderio’s laboratory. He froze, the image of his brother’s burned face—now bandaged and healing after the attentions of priests—washing over him.
“Ah,” said Bolan from behind him. “How insensitive of me. This room must have unpleasant resonances for you.”
Keph turned around. Bolan was watching him. So, from behind the alchemist, was Jarull. His friend must have told Bolan about Roderio’s accident.
“No,” Keph said firmly, hardening his heart. “Nothing unpleasant at all.”
Bolan’s flawless face didn’t shift, but somehow he managed to convey the impression of a prankster disappointed at the failure of a trick. He gestured with his stained fingers, summoning Keph back.
“Do you know where Wedge Street is?” Bolan asked. When Keph nodded he continued, “There’s an alley off its north side. Wait there at full dark after sunset tomorrow night.” The alchemist swept an arm toward the door to the street. “You can go now.”
They were back in the bright heat of the afternoon before Keph even had time to blink. Squinting against the sudden glare, he twisted around just in time to see the door slam behind them. He looked up at Jarull. The big man was smiling grimly.
“Good job,” he said. “It isn’t easy to rattle Bolan.”
Keph rubbed his eyes and said, “Jarull, was that what I think it was?”
Jarull nodded. “An invitation.”
Down the street, the old men were staring at them again.
Jarull led Keph away from Bolan’s house, strolling more casually, as if pleased that his friend had met with the alchemist’s approval. Keph took a last look over his shoulder.
“That was … faster than I expected.”
“Bolan isn’t a patient man,” Jarull replied.
“That’s not what I mean,” Keph said. “I thought it would take some time before the offer was even extended. You just told me about the cult a few days ago!”
Jarull was silent for several paces, then said, “Maybe it has something to do with Cyrume’s death. Maybe Bolan is recruiting for a war against the Selûnites.”
Keph choked. “He would do that?”
Jarull shook his head and replied, “I don’t think he would. But I’ve heard from some of the others that Bolan hasn’t been himself lately. He’s normally very cautious—he has to be or the Selûnites would have uncovered us months ago.” Jarull shook his head. “There’s a woman,” he said. “A visitor to the cult. She’s only been around a little more than a month. Some of the others don’t like her, but I trust her more than Bolan.” He clenched his fist. “Power flows off her like a shadow.”
“Do you think she’s pushing him to bring in new worshipers?”
“I think she’s pushing him to do more than that. The mission Cyrume was on last night—that was her idea.”
“What’s her name?” Keph asked.
“Variance. You may meet her tomorrow night.”
“Maybe I will,” agreed Keph. “Are you going to be there?”
“I’ll wait with you in the alley,” Jarull promised.
They walked for a few blocks in silence. Keph watched Jarull out of the corner of his eye. The big man stalked from shadow to shadow with as much strength as Keph had ever seen in him. Maybe even more—there was a new determination to him, a fire Keph could feel every time they talked. At the same time, Jarull was different. More distant. Harder. Shar had changed Jarull. Keph bit his lip.
“Jarull, this invitation …?”
Jarull paused and looked down at him. “Keph,” he said, “if you’re having second thoughts, now is not the time. An invitation like Bolan’s is only extended once and if you choose not to accept it …” He gritted his teeth. “The cult has to be protected, Keph. It’s too late to back out now.”
Keph snorted and spun around to walk backward, facing him. “Jarull, when have I ever backed out of anything?”
Jarull smiled like a shark and said, “Never.”
“That’s right.”
Keph turned back around and swaggered onward.
CHAPTER 5
Wedge Street took its name from its shape: narrow and tapering, less a street than a long, dead-end courtyard. It lay on Yhaunn’s south side, not too far inland from the festering slums of the docks. The buildings surrounding it were large and had once been grand. Over the years, they had been either divided up into dirty, cramped rooming houses or given over to decay. The buildings left to rot weren’t necessarily uninhabited, however. As the last red of sunset faded over the Sea of Fallen Stars and muggy night descended, Keph could see firelight inside the old shells.
Keph kept his hand on Quick and tried to sink into the shadows of the alley, hoping no one would notice a man too rich for the neighborhood. And alone.
Jarull hadn’t come.
“Lying bastard,” Keph muttered.
He squeezed Quick’s grip, and stood his ground. Jarull or no Jarull, he wasn’t going to leave.
That afternoon, Roderio had ventured out of his chambers for the first time since his accident. Most of his bandages had been removed to reveal skin that was tender and baby pink, newly restored by the prayers of a priest. The only bandage still in place was the one that circled Roderio’s head, covering his eyes. Soon that too could be removed, the priest had promised, but in the meantime, it was better to leave it. Looking barely worse off than a child playing a blindfold game, Roderio had shuffled about Fourstaves House, chatting and even laughing with his parents, his sister, his brother-in-law, his niece, the servants …
But not his brother. Keph had been ignored.
The night grew deeper. Tucked into the alley, all Keph could see overhead was the narrowest sliver of black sky. The few stars that twinkled in that space were pale and weak. Somewhere not too far away, people were singing some interminable halfling song. Keph stalked back and forth in the shadows.
“Come on, Bolan,” he muttered. “Don’t make me listen to that drivel alone all night.”
“No one is alone in the darkness,” murmured a voice.
Keph spun around, tearing Quick free of her scabbard.
“Storm’s lash!” he spat.
In the moment that lightning crackled around the blade, its blue glow shone on half a dozen figures, their heads shrouded in dark hoods.
But his attackers were ready for Quick. Strong arms seized him from behind and hands pried open his fingers. Keph yelled and struggled, but the rapier was torn away from him. The sparks that lingered on the blade popped and vanished. Stained by afterimages of that brief light, the darkness seemed even deeper than before. Someone clamped a cloth over his mouth to muffle any further screams. Keph felt himself hustled forward. His heart thundered with panic.
The sounds of singing vanished and the sense of an open sky above him along with it. A door closed. He was inside.
Hands and arms released him. Keph panted in the darkness.
“Mistress of the Night,” whispered a different voice, “we are mortal and imperfect. We beg your forgiveness for our failings.”
There was a scratch and a burst of flame as someone struck a tindertwig and held it to the wick of a single candle.
Keph almost collapsed with relief at the sight of the black and purple disks around the necks of the figures in the dim light. It was the cult of Shar.
“Dark!” he gasped, “you gave—”
One of the figures slapped him.
“You have no voice in this place,” a woman said gruffly. “You have no voice until the Lady of Loss gives you one.”
Another figure held out a massive goblet carved from black stone and commanded, “Drink.”
Keph stared into the goblet. It was filled with dark wine. He could smell it. He could smell something else as well, though, something bitter. He glanced up, trying to see the face of the cultist who held the goblet.
Too slow. Hands grabbed him again and pulled his head back. The rim of the goblet knocked painfully against his teeth, then wine flooded into his mouth. He choked against it.
“Drink it!” spat the cultist holding him.
Keph managed to gulp down some of the wine—and to keep gulping as the goblet was tilted higher and higher. Finally it was empty and he was released once more. He staggered and wiped futilely at his face and shirt. Both were soaked. Wine dripped out of his goatee. His lips felt strangely numb.
The cultist with the goblet raised it high and intoned, “He has drunk the Elixir of the Void from the Cup of Night!”
“Hail to the Mistress of the Night!” chanted the other cultists in response.
Keph’s stomach roiled and churned.
“The Dark Goddess is within him!”
“Hail to the Mistress of the Night!”
“Dark Dancer, we honor you!”
“Hail to the Mistress of the Night!”
Keph squinted through the dimness of the candlelight. The cultists’ forms were beginning to spin in his vision. No, he realized, the cultists themselves were spinning. They were dancing, moving into a slowly swaying ring with him at its center. Keph’s eyes flickered at the sight and he nearly staggered. He peered at the cultists. None of the them had either Jarull’s height or Bolan’s odd stature. He turned, trying to catch a glimpse of those behind him.
“He dances!” called a voice.
“Hail to the Mistress of the Night! Hail to the Dark Dancer!”
Arms swept Keph up and whirled him into the dance. Someone was making a simple rhythm, the slap of hands and feet punctuated by ringing, clashing steel. Keph hoped it wasn’t Quick being used to make that noise.
The rhythm increased in tempo. The cultists began to spin and turn, pulling Keph with them. His guts lurched.
“Oh, dark!” he gasped helplessly. “Stop! Stop!”
No one ordered him to silence. Maybe no one heard him. Certainly no one listened to him. His head started to pound in time with the rhythm of the dance. He could feel cold sweat erupt on his skin, trickling over his eyelids and sliding down his back.
And they were no longer dancing in a circle. The shifting ring had become a procession that swayed through the darkness. The cultist car
rying the candle led the way. Keph could just make her out at the head of the line. He was somewhere in the middle, the cultists around him holding him up. Candlelight shone on descending stairs. He stumbled. The cultists caught him and thrust him forward. When the stairs ended, his legs kept trying to go down but the cultists caught him again, holding him up.
Keph turned and saw the instrument that kept the clash of the beat: a large metal ring being tapped, beaten, and stroked with a metal rod. There were two of them. No, three, all pounding into his spinning head. Keph clutched his ears and staggered against a wall. His stomach heaved once and a stream of vomit splashed across a floor of rough stone.
The cultists grabbed him and pulled him away before he could even stop gagging. He kept heaving as he stumbled. The cultists barely seemed to notice. They rushed him along, pulling at his arms and hands, at his shirt and sleeves. Fabric tore—his right arm was bare. Someone laughed hoarsely. Hands seized his arms and dragged him painfully onward. Keph staggered to his feet before the cold, raw stone of the floor could shred his trousers and the skin beneath.
“Stop!” he gasped again. “Please st—”
The candle went out. The clashing music stopped. A heartbeat later, the hands that held him vanished, and Keph was left to stand on his own in the darkness. The air was cold on his sweat-slicked skin. The panting of his breath came back to him in soft echoes.
“Where moonlight and sunlight have never fallen, we give praise to Shar.”
Bolan’s voice! Keph turned, trying to face its source, but echoes and a slow chant of response from the hidden cultists made it impossible.
“Mistress of the Night,” Bolan prayed, “we fear your beauty. Forgive us the need to shield ourselves from it.”
There was a clink of metal and the dim light of an uncovered brazier shone out. In the darkness, it was like a brilliant star. More braziers followed, uncovered by cultists, a magnificent constellation. Even so, they struggled against the darkness and as Keph’s eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that the braziers only made the shadows deeper by contrast. Wherever the cult had brought him, it was vast. He couldn’t see any walls or a ceiling. Beyond the light of the braziers, there was simply nothing. He choked and fell to his knees, driven down by the overwhelming power of the total, primal darkness.
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