She glanced back at him. “I will not be long. I need to relieve myself.”
He flushed, but his mouth remained a firm line. “Still, someone should go with you.”
“I will do it,” said Shiun. She slung her bow across her back and went to Loren’s side.
They walked a road between two farms, their breath misting on the frosty air. A light fall of snowflakes danced around them, eddying in the wind of their passing. Snow lay in shallow drifts, and the people here waited for spring’s warmth to welcome new plantings. That would not be long now. The season’s turn was nearly upon them.
Soon they had reached the outskirts of the forest. Loren felt better the moment she stood beneath its boughs. She leaned back against a tree, folding her arms and staring into the far distance. Sidwan was reduced to the size of a candle, the lights of its homes shining in protest against the approaching evening. Loren blew another long sigh, enjoying the way it floated around her like smoke.
The impostor was troubling. How long had they been following a false trail?
Curse the visions from my dreams, she thought.
Her foresight should have come as they rode across Dorsea, giving some clue that they no longer pursued Damaris. Loren could not guess at the purpose of the visions, of course. Mayhap there was no purpose at all. But she needed every bit of help she could get, and if she must wrest that help from dreams and visions, she would. Yet she seemed to have lost even that advantage.
Shiun cleared her throat and turned away. “I will give you some privacy.”
“There is no need. I do not actually have to relieve myself.”
The Mystic’s eyes sparkled. “That was obvious, but I thought I might help you keep up the pretense.”
Loren’s mood did not lighten. She only frowned harder and scuffed her boot in the snow.
“I thought we had her this time. Now she has slipped away, and who knows if we will find the trail again?”
“We could not have done anything different than we did.”
Shiun’s tone was less reassuring than her words. She sounded irritated. Loren glared at the ground. No doubt Shiun blamed Loren for losing the merchant. And why should she not? Loren was in charge. Yet this whole expedition seemed to have become a flight from one disaster to another. Jormund had left them some time ago—albeit at Loren’s orders—and two other members of their company were dead. Worse, one of them had turned out to be an enemy in disguise. Loren should have known. Should have seen. Even without her visions.
“I will not rest until it is done. Until Damaris is in our hands and the hands of the King’s law, and order is restored to the nine kingdoms.”
Shiun was silent for a long moment. “That would be a great feat,” she said at last.
Loren flushed. She had spoken like a silly girl. When had Underrealm ever been a place of perfect order? Border squabbles raged and bandit squadrons roamed, creating a thousand conflicts great and small, and each led to bloodshed in the end. Yet they faced a far greater threat now—a war that might lay whole kingdoms low. Loren had not started it, but she had taken a solemn vow to help finish it.
But she did not say any of this to Shiun. “I suppose we have wasted enough time for them to think I did my business,” she muttered. “Let us return.”
She pushed off from the tree and strode north, Shiun at her side.
THE DREAM TOOK HER.
SHE stood on the High King’s Seat. Both moons hung full in the sky above her. The streets looked familiar, but she could not place them. Then she recognized the main road that crossed the city from east to west. She had passed this way when …
Again she looked up at the moons. Yes. It was the night she had followed a wizard’s trail across the Seat. She had found a lock of hair and burned it on her dagger. Its magic led her east, but she had found nothing there. Dejected, she had returned to the palace—but not before visiting a tavern.
She whirled. There was the tavern. A warm glow poured from the edges of its door, which was poorly mounted in the frame.
But now a man leaned on the door. He was tall, his shoulders broad. Many knife scars crossed his arms and face, and even his nearly-shaved head. He was clad all in black leathers, making it hard to see most of his body in the darkness. But his eyes were bright even at night. The glow was akin to magelight, yet Loren had never seen anything quite like it.
Before she could ask who he was, he laughed and pointed to her left. Loren caught a flash of movement at the edge of her vision. She turned and saw a woman in a red cloak. Her brown hair was cut short in a bob, and her sleeveless shirt and vest showed her thick, muscular arms.
Niya.
Rage filled Loren, a rage more terrible than she had ever felt while awake. She launched herself after Niya, who ducked into an alley. Loren plunged into the darkness, pulling a magestone from her cloak and eating it to gain night vision.
Auntie stood there, no longer disguised as Niya. Her clothes had changed as well. Now she wore black robes in a style that looked somehow familiar. Yet it was Auntie’s thin, svelte form, her smooth brown skin and dyed blonde hair. And her eyes, which Loren knew she could never forget.
“You!” cried Loren. “You live!”
Auntie frowned at her. There was no recognition in her expression, no anger—only confusion.
“Who are you?” she said.
Loren screamed in rage. If the witch thought to escape by deception, she would find that a folly.
Loren raised her dagger and leaped. Darkness take her vow not to kill. Auntie had died already, but Loren would kill her again in her dreams. She would do it a thousand times, and relish each kiss of the dagger.
Auntie cried out in fear. She raised a hand, and her eyes glowed.
Loren froze in midair, held in place by mindmagic.
But … but that was impossible. Auntie was a weremage, not a mindmage. A wizard could only command one branch of magic.
Just as Loren was about to scream her frustration, Auntie vanished. The magic released her, and Loren fell hard to the ground. A hand took her shoulder, and she almost recoiled—but the hand was gentle, and it raised her up.
Before her stood a young woman of surpassing beauty, mayhap a few years older than Loren. But this woman had none of the raw, animal seduction of Auntie. Hers was a softer, gentler grace, a promise of great love and great kindness. She was clad in wispy, silky blue. Loren wondered how the winter air did not freeze her to the bone.
But it is not winter, she realized suddenly. She had visited the Seat in early autumn.
Recognition crashed in upon her. She had seen the woman before. Not in true life, but in another dream. Loren had seen her in a house of lovers, and she had wept for a man Loren did not know. But now she did not weep. She only gave Loren a sad smile.
“That was not the one you fear,” said the woman. “The one you fear is dead. You must remember that when you see her.”
“When I—what?” said Loren.
The woman smiled and leaned forwards to kiss Loren’s cheek. Her sweet and pungent scent penetrated the air, and Loren’s heart went skipping.
“You shall have such a hard time after he goes,” said the woman. “But you will carry on. Because you must.”
“Please,” said Loren. “Please, tell me what you mean. I do not understand.”
“That boy Chet,” said a voice behind her—a voice she knew. “He will leave, you know.”
Loren whirled as she shot to her feet. Her surroundings shifted, and now she shivered in bitingly cold wind atop a mountain. Snow covered the landscape in all directions. Loren’s stomach lurched as she tried to place herself.
She was in the Greatrocks. The knowledge came crashing upon her, the way it does in dreams. Her peak overlooked a mountain pass. They had taken such a pass through the mountains only a few weeks ago, chasing Damaris into Dorsea. She studied the mountains, trying to find something familiar, but she could see nothing.
And then, there was Mag.
The woman stood in the snow, wind gusting around her. She wore a shirt of chain with thick, fur-lined leather beneath it. Fresh blood covered a mighty spear in her right hand, and a battered shield hung on her left arm. A mournful expression pulled at her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. She stooped, seemingly weary beyond reckoning—nothing like the proud barmaid Loren remembered from Northwood. Where she and Albern had sacrificed themselves so that Loren might live.
Loren fell to her knees. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden.
“Mag,” she whispered. “Mag, is it really you?”
“I cannot come with you,” said Mag. Her eyes, too, glistened with tears. She sank to the ground and seized Loren’s shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. “Darkness take me, Loren, I cannot come with you. And I cannot tell him.”
I cannot tell him. The lover in blue had once spoken the same words. Did they speak of the same man? Who was he?
“Who, Mag?” said Loren. “Please, tell me.”
Mag only tossed her head, indicating something over Loren’s shoulder. Loren turned to look.
There stood the man in black, the one she had just seen outside the tavern on the Seat. Now he leaned against a different building. It looked like a smithy. The sound of ringing hammers came from within, and smoke poured from its chimney. Its door was plain wood, but above it hung a blue sign with a yellow hammer.
What was a smithy doing in the mountains?
“Your boy,” said the man.
“My … boy?” said Loren. Then she realized he might have answered her question. “Do you mean Chet? Is that who you all keep speaking of? Mag, what do you wish to tell Chet?”
She turned. Mag was gone. Only the dark man remained.
“Your boy,” said the man again. He gave a leering smile. “He is leaving—but then, you have known that for some time.”
Grief coursed through her. “You are lying,” she said, striding towards the man in black. “You know nothing of Chet. Or of me.”
“Ask him yourself.” The man pointed over her shoulder. Loren did not want to turn, to find herself somewhere else again with questions still unanswered. But the dream took hold, and her body moved without her intent.
Chet stood a pace away, in the vast entry chamber of a grand palace. Its beauty nearly rivaled that of the High King’s palace itself. But no one walked the halls, and no guards stood at the doors. Red plaster formed its pillars, and the roof peaked in two great curves. Just next to them stood wide doors leading outside. Beyond those doors, Loren heard voices.
She ignored them and took a step towards Chet.
“Chet,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I am leaving you,” he said. “You cannot follow me anymore.”
Loren balked. “What? What do you mean?”
“You cannot follow me anymore.”
“Chet, I have not followed you anywhere. You have followed me, no matter what I—”
He ignored her, stepping out the palace’s front door. That door had been closed a moment ago, Loren was certain.
She followed Chet, expecting to find herself in another strange place. But the world did not shift around her. Before her, a massive staircase led to a wide courtyard. The stairs were wider than some ships she had sailed on. On the other side of the courtyard stood a white wall, and beyond that, a grand city. She could see manor houses and military strongholds, as well as countless smaller homes and shops. Nearly all of them had the same sort of curving, peaked tile roof as the palace, barely visible under snow.
But at the bottom of the steps sat Damaris and Gregor.
Loren panicked, looking for Chet. She must not let Damaris find him. But Chet had vanished, and Damaris did not look the least bit interested in finding anyone. In fact, she and Gregor did not seem to have noticed Loren. They sat at fine chairs beside a fine table, furniture that seemed more at home in a merchant’s study than out here in a palace courtyard. They had a bottle of wine, and Damaris took delicate sips from a pewter goblet.
“Sidwan?” she said.
Gregor shook his head. “A failure. They overcame the wizard and captured or killed the rest.”
Damaris’ eyes sharpened. “But we gave Unwe magestones. How did they overcome her mindwyrd?”
The bodyguard’s glower deepened. “I do not know. She was never very strong with the gift.”
“Yet the magestones …” Damaris sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Loren’s stomach did a turn. She had seen Annis make the same gesture countless times. “I suppose we should not have expected it to be so easy.”
“No. It appears they have more wit than I gave them credit for.”
“Forgive me, but that is no surprise,” said Damaris. “You have always hated Loren, and it blinds you to her many admirable qualities—of which her resourcefulness is among the greatest.”
Gregor’s jaw clenched. “Just because she is cunning—”
Damaris chuckled and leaned over to pat his hand. “Oh, do not get so angry. We knew Sidwan might not be the end of it. This is not even a setback. It was planned for.”
Loren thought she had gone unseen. But now Gregor looked up the steps at her. She quailed at the hatred she saw in his eyes. Suddenly his face changed, becoming the pale, decaying corpse she had seen in dreams before. His throat gaped from a wide wound drawn by a terrible blade. Loren shuddered to think of a warrior who could best the giant in a fight and inflict such damage upon him.
His throat rasped hideously as he spoke. “And when the plan is complete, I shall have her at last.”
Damaris, too, turned to look at Loren. She smiled with teeth covered by a red stain. Loren took it for wine, until she realized it was blood.
“And you shall take your time with her.”
Loren tried to run, but her legs would not answer the call of her mind. The ground began to shake beneath her feet. Through the courtyard’s front gate poured soldiers in strange armor. More came marching from around the edges of the palace. They converged and made their way up the steps towards her—but they parted around the table where Damaris and Gregor sat, flowing like waves around a rock. They stared at Loren from beneath horrible, twisted masks.
A hand gripped Loren’s arm, making her jump. She turned and saw Niya. Loren tried to recoil, but Niya held her firm.
“There is only one way out,” she said. She was not panicked, but only solemn—even a little sad.
She pulled Loren back into the palace. They went at a dead run through the halls. Niya led her this way and that, past tapestries on the walls and fine urns on side tables, until Loren was hopelessly lost.
Finally Niya skidded to a halt with Loren just behind her. Ahead of them stood wide double doors that opened to a great dining hall. The other end of the hall had another set of doors, beyond which was a courtyard, and beyond that, a gate leading out to the city. No one blocked their path to freedom.
Niya pulled Loren away, towards a small iron door in the wall. Loren drew back.
“That way is safe,” she said, pointing through the dining hall.
“That way is for the others,” said Niya. “It is not for you.”
Loren looked around. There were no others. “What do you mean?”
“Come.”
Niya pulled her through the iron door. Inside was a small serving room with trays and dishes. There was no other exit.
Loren froze. Niya had trapped her.
But then Niya went to the other end of the room and pulled down a shelf of dishes. Pottery smashed on the floor. Behind the shelf was a passageway, open but utterly dark inside.
“What is in there?” said Loren.
Niya did not answer. Instead she pulled Loren close and kissed her. Loren’s knees went weak, and she shivered as she had when their lips met in Dahab. All the knowledge of what had come after, of Niya’s betrayal and her crimes against Chet, seemed for a moment not to matter. She gripped Niya’s shoulders, and they clung to each other for a few precious heartbeats.
&nb
sp; Then Niya pushed Loren into the passage. Loren stumbled and fell. Before she could rise, Niya had lifted the shelf to cover the way out again. Loren tried to push it away, but the shelf did not budge.
Beyond the shelf, Loren heard the room’s door crash open. There came the sound of many feet tramping in. The masked soldiers had found them—or rather, they had found Niya, for Loren was now hidden.
The Mystic’s battle cry split the air, a berserker scream that Loren had heard in the halls of Yewamba. She shuddered as she remembered how Niya had hacked down every foe in reach. Now she pictured the Mystic tearing into the masked soldiers that must be pouring into the room.
A blade pierced flesh with a sharp shunk. The berserker cry faltered.
Niya laughed instead, a feral noise. Loren heard still more soldiers dying. But at last Niya began to cough blood, and then her voice failed.
There came the sound of many, many swords sinking into a body.
Bitter tears ran down Loren’s cheeks. But she could do nothing for Niya now. She turned back to the passageway.
It was utterly dark, but a magestone still coursed through her veins. When she put her hand on her dagger, she could see as if by daylight. The passageway turned twice before ending at a ladder leading up. She climbed it and found herself in another passage like the one below. Again it turned, but she saw no branches to go in any other direction.
After a little while, she reached the end. Before her hung a tapestry, and below it came a gentle breeze. A room lay beyond, but Loren feared to enter it.
Her the only other choice was to return to the room full of soldiers—and Niya’s corpse.
Loren set her jaw and pushed the tapestry aside.
She was in a chamber with two doors on either side leading to bedrooms. A third door led out to the rest of the palace. A small table rested in the middle of the room, with a plush couch and two chairs surrounding it. Three lamps lit the place, but they were not on the walls—they sat on side tables at the edges of the room, and they cast many shifting shadows. Everything was of the finest make, just as Loren had seen downstairs.
Yerrin: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 6) Page 3