Nightglass

by Liane Merciel

  The truth, he knew, was not likely to be so sweet. Just as that paladin in Westcrown had been duty-bound to kill Velenne for her betrayal, so Isiem's mistress would be bound to finish him. Her position might be reversed, but the answer was the same.

  And yet the key to his survival might lie in that old heartbreak.

  Hadn't she said that the course of her life might have changed if only her lover had listened? She had been willing to turn for him, she'd claimed, and although Isiem doubted that Velenne was still so malleable today, he thought there was a fair chance that she might be willing to hear him out. To bend her sense of duty that far, at least.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "But what will you tell her?" Kirii asked that night when she came to visit Isiem at the small, hidden camp he set up a quarter-mile from Tokarai Springs. Neither he nor the strix wanted him to return to Windspire until his scouting was complete.

  "I'm not sure," Isiem admitted. The night was cold and vast around him. He felt very small under the desert stars. Pulling his sheepskin cloak closer around his shoulders, he huddled over his tiny fire, trying to will the smoldering dungpatty to produce more warmth than it did. "The truth, or some part of it. I doubt I could lie to her." It was Velenne who had taught him to read the lies on men's faces, and he was not fool enough to think he could deceive her.

  Kirii seemed unaffected by the cold. She squatted outside the firelight, alien and black-winged. "What part?"

  "The part she wants to hear," Isiem replied. "The secret to how she can win."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Entreaty

  That night Isiem could not sleep.

  Long after the moon had crested and begun to descend, he lay awake on the rocky ground, wrestling with the words he wanted to send.

  What could he say that would persuade Velenne to come, and to come alone? She had always been cautious, preferring to wait until her prey was unwary and strike from surprise, rather than meeting challengers on an open field. Above all, she avoided engaging on enemy ground—yet that was exactly what Isiem would ask her to do.

  And she would see him as an enemy now, standing alongside the strix.

  Could he make her believe otherwise in the space of a few whispered words? Was it worth trying?

  The moon fell into the claws of Devil's Perch, leaving the sky ghostly and lonesome as it waited for dawn. Isiem closed his eyes and prayed for enlightenment, but he had no god to pray to, and no insight came.

  In the end, the message he sent on the morning wind was a simple one: Come to the ravine of skulls outside Crackspike at noon, and I will give you the key to victory.

  Then he slept, relieved of the weight of uncertainty, while the early sun cast light without warmth over his bed.

  An hour before noon he woke and went to the appointed place. The ravine of skulls, although not formally named, was easily found. It was a shallow channel cut into the earth by flash floods, which had also washed the bones of foxes and desert hares into the gully. The people of Crackspike had sealed its name by using the ravine to dispose of their waste, including the bones of the animals they slaughtered or lost to hardship. The skulls of oxen and the small fine bones of chickens and geese littered the rough gray rocks, attracting scavengers as large as coyotes and as small as soft-furred mice.

  Some of those mice darted for cover as Isiem approached, but he saw no other living things. Somehow he hoped that Velenne would be waiting, even though he had come early to avoid exactly that, but she was not there.

  She had been, though. As soon as Isiem glimpsed a small gray mouse darting away with a bit of crumpled honeycomb in its mouth, he knew that. And he was not surprised—or not terribly so—when a smudge of white jade dust on the brow of a nearby horse's skull suddenly expanded into a small, fanged mouth. Isiem was inured to the strangenesses of magic, but it was nevertheless surreal to see a miniature devil's maw open in the fissures of that sun-baked bone.

  "No," the magic mouth said in Velenne's voice, a sound so familiar and yet so long unheard that it made Isiem's heart stop for an instant. "We can talk, but not here. Come to my tent at dusk."

  Its message delivered, the mouth faded away, leaving the shadowcaller alone in a valley of bones. He stood there a while longer, lost in a welter of thoughts, then shook off his confusion and walked back to his camp.

  Isiem spent the rest of the day in study, trying to guess which spells would be most useful to him. Invisibility would get him in, but if the conversation went poorly, no spell he possessed would get him out.

  There was a kind of freedom in that knowledge. It lifted away his worry. He would steer across the seas of chance as best he could, but ultimately all his skill and prudence were insignificant against the whims of fate.

  Not that he had any intention of surrendering. Isiem chose his spells and prepared each one with care, counting out the components he'd need and tucking them into concealed pockets. Over his frayed shadowcaller's robes, he wore the warmer furs and hides the strix had provided. He tied a small knife to his belt; it was the only weapon he had. Then he packed up his tiny camp and walked a mile away.

  Behind a rocky outcropping, the Nidalese wizard sat with his back against a dead tree and listened to the wind until it was time to go. He heard no messages in the arid breeze, as the itaraak claimed to receive before their own battles. But then, he did not have the desert in his blood.

  What he found instead was a glimmer of serenity. This land was ancient, far older than he, and whatever happened in the Chelish camp tonight, it would outlast him. Men were not its masters; they might have claimed it, and in the ages of Azlant and Thassilon even believed it, but those empires were long gone to dust, while the spires of Devil's Perch endured.

  The months of his exile had given him a glimpse of freedom. He'd slipped out from under the shadows, and that was more than he'd expected to have in this life. If he failed, it wouldn't be the end of the world, or even of the strix. Only of himself, and that was a fate Isiem had accepted since he was a child passing the doors of the Dusk Hall.

  Sunset came.

  Under a cloak of invisibility, Isiem approached the Chelish encampment. He went cautiously, trying to avoid brushing against vegetation or crunching on loose gravel. In the bustle of a crowded camp, such small disturbances might go unnoticed, but Isiem wanted to take no chances.

  Walls of striated red stone screened Tokarai Springs, shielding it from the worst of the desert wind but causing the remainder to eddy unpredictably around the gaps and crevices in the formations. Small trees swayed in the rock walls' shelter, a few yellowed leaves still clinging to their winter-stripped branches. Somewhere out of sight, water gurgled quietly. The smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat mingled with a whiff of stink from the latrine pits.

  Soldiers, and occasionally a signifer in an iron-brooched red cloak, walked regular patrols around the camp. Isiem's spell hid him from their sight, but one of the Chelish knights had a pack of four huge, brindled mastiffs chained by his tent, and the spell did nothing to conceal his scent.

  The mastiffs had been staked at the periphery of the camp, as far from the army's horses as possible. Moving carefully, aware that the wind might shift at any moment, Isiem waited for the next patrol to pass, then slipped through their lines midway between the animals. He was not worried—yet—about triggering protective spells, but as he inched forward he sent cantrips ahead, searching for any hint of wards.

  Velenne's tent had no guard. Its entry flap was pinned open, allowing a hint of smoky incense to escape. Red candles burned in the depths like embers dropped by the dying sun. Nothing seemed to move, save a loose thread stirred by the breeze.

  Feeling like a mouse braving a lion's den, Isiem crept inside.

  Three steps in, she paralyzed him.

  Still stooped and facing the carpet, he felt the magic seize his limbs. Isiem struggled to resist, but it was useless. He'd gotten stronger in the years since their last meeting, but it appeared Velenne had as well.
Her spell overwhelmed him, and he froze, locked in ensorcelled immobility.

  "I'm glad you came," Velenne said. "I didn't really expect you would." Her voice drifted from somewhere beyond his view. Small, clawed hands patted Isiem down, rifling through his clothes and belongings with inhuman deftness. Within seconds the searcher had found all his spell components, removed his flint-bladed knife, and dropped everything on the carpeted floor in a symphony of soft thuds. Then the unseen searcher guided him to a chair, pushed his unresisting body into the seat, and was gone, sweeping up all his dropped belongings in its wake.

  "Pardon my precautions." The diabolist dropped into a nearby chair, almost but not quite opposite. The years hardly seemed to have touched her. Perhaps her clothing was a little more sumptuous, the jewels in her ears a shade larger, a few strands of silver in her dark hair ...but she herself was unchanged. Isiem would have caught his breath, had her spell not already caught it for him. The sight of her was like a gut punch to his memory.

  She crooked a finger, and the magic holding Isiem evaporated. "You must understand, I wasn't even sure you were you. Our source was not tremendously reliable."

  "Someone told you I was here?" he asked, unsurprised but manuevering for time to regain his composure.

  "Of course." The corners of Velenne's eyes crinkled in a suppressed smile. She had shaded them with kohl and silvery dust; the metallic powder shimmered in the dim candlelight. "The girl you saved. You gave her a potion to help her evade the strix. She survived, and returned to civilization. Where we found her."

  "And questioned her."

  Velenne shrugged. "We wanted to know what happened in Crackspike. That was the only survivor we found. Torchia's man never had time to complete his relay, much less send any messages through it, and your newfound friends make it difficult to rely on imps. She was our only source ...but now we have our answers, and we are here. As are you." She ran a fingernail along the hilt of his flint knife, studying its carvings. "I was not surprised that you feigned your own death and ran. I am surprised you allied yourself with the strix. How does that aid your ends?"

  "I wouldn't have survived without them."

  "I can see that." She clicked her nail against the hilt's carved antler and raised her eyebrows at the motley collection of hides and furs he wore. "And I suppose it should not startle me that you are grateful enough to them that you've come to broker some agreement on their behalf. You always were an optimist about the value of talk."

  "I think the value is obvious enough," Isiem said. "It's stupid to fight. The strix won't engage in a pitched battle. They'll raid and run. They'll sabotage equipment, poison livestock, chase off game—all the things they've been doing during your journey here. It's a long road to Devil's Perch, and a hard one. Surely you must know that, having traveled it yourself. And that was with, what, a dozen signifers and a hundred soldiers? Imagine how difficult it would be for a handful of miners. To keep them at bay, you'll have to station soldiers at the mines and send escorts with every wagon. Her Infernal Majestrix can do that, I know. But it's expensive. Doing it cuts deep into profits, and profit is all the throne wants out of these hills."

  Velenne watched him intently, her expression one that Isiem knew well: she was trying to decide whether to take the bait.

  "You can prevent them from raiding?" she asked, after a measured pause.

  Isiem bit his tongue to keep from betraying his elation. "Yes."

  "In exchange for what?"

  "Certain concessions. Nothing too onerous."

  "Specifics, please," she said acidly, and he knew the hook was set. But a hooked fish was not yet a landed one.

  Isiem smoothed out his embellished copy of the map Erevullo had drawn. "Here is where the silver lies in Devil's Perch," he said, pointing out the crosshatched areas on the paper. "The strix are willing to let you mine it, provided that you build no permanent structures on the land. The miners will have to live in tents and wagons. No more than two hundred Chelaxians may enter their lands at any time, and no more than twenty of those may be soldiers, spellcasters, or Hellknights."

  "Preposterous," Velenne scoffed. "A mine needs more hands—and proper security needs more swords."

  "That is their offer. I expect you will find it difficult to sustain greater numbers in Devil's Perch anyway. This land is not a welcoming one." Isiem went on, pointing to a new line he had sketched around Erevullo's finds. The line excluded Tokarai Springs by a considerable margin. "This marks the boundary of the strix's forbearance. Within it, the Chelaxians will be allowed to work. Outside it, they will be deemed invaders and treated accordingly."

  "Killed, you mean."

  "More likely tortured, then killed." Isiem shrugged. "The strix are a savage race."

  "Savages whose promises we should trust?"

  "Within the conditions they set, yes. Many would call the Chelaxians savages, and the Nidalese worse, for what we do in the name of law and faith. Yet none would doubt that our contracts bind. Would they?" He held her gaze until she gave an incremental nod. "If their terms are met, and their wishes respected, the strix will keep to their treaty."

  "If not, we go back to war."

  "A war that cannot win you what you want," Isiem cautioned. "Devil's Perch is cruel enough without adding to your foes."

  "Why should they concede anything, then?" Velenne asked. "Why give up their fight?"

  "Because I advised it," Isiem answered honestly, hoping she would read the truth on his face. "The strix value every one of their people's lives. Every one. That gave me some leverage in arguing that they should accept a treaty.

  "They can fight you, and they can win—what happened in Crackspike proves that—but they will lose lives in doing so. If Cheliax will respect the terms of their peace, then their warriors need not die, and so they are willing to offer this chance. But if they believe they've been tricked, every grain of silver you take from these hills will be bought by thrice its weight in blood."

  "Colorfully phrased," Velenne observed. She studied his map in silence for a moment, then smiled slightly and adjusted a ring. It was one he hadn't seen before, a brilliant red ruby. "I might be inclined to accept your terms on behalf of the Queen. Paralictor Cerallius, I fear, will not. He will insist upon a thunderous victory in battle, and the total eradication of his foe, to vindicate the pride of his order. The Hellknights' earlier defeats are not to be suffered, you see."

  Her tone made the invitation clear. Isiem inclined his head to show his understanding. "But if the paralictor were, regrettably, to fall in the course of that battle ..."

  "I am sure his successor would be more amenable to your proposal," Velenne agreed smoothly. "Maralictor Adarai is a much more reasonable man, and he values my counsel highly. I am certain I could persuade him to see the merit in your terms. Of course, to make any treaty palatable to the throne, it would have to be presented as something forced upon the strix after their defeat."

  Something in the way she described the maralictor made Isiem wonder if their relationship was more than professional. It was hardly a surprise; Velenne had always taken bedmates in part to establish useful loyalties. Wasn't that what she had done with him, and that Wiscrani paladin so long ago, and gods-knew-how-many in the years since? Why not a Hellknight maralictor, then, especially if the paralictor proved resistant to her charms?

  What did surprise him was the lack of rancor that he felt in response. True, it had been seven years since their last acquaintance. Long years for both of them, and he too had taken other lovers in that time. But she had been the first, and if what passed between them was not precisely love—Pangolais was inhospitable to such tender emotions, and Isiem recognized now that much of what he'd felt had been the turmoil of youth—it had been the closest thing to it in that dark period of his life.

  But that was over. Whether his guess about her involvement with Maralictor Adarai was accurate or not, it was clear that Velenne had no desire to rekindle whatever had existed between them. />
  And Isiem felt some regret at that, but in the main, what he felt was relief. Velenne had been his last bond and the last temptation to return to his old life, and she had relinquished that hold. He was free. Truly free, at last.

  She was waiting for his answer. Isiem hoped she had not read the reasons for his pause.

  "The strix won't put on a sham battle for the sake of salving Chelish pride," he said. "Especially if it means sacrificing the lives of their warriors. Saving those lives is, I will remind you, the only reason they're offering peace terms."

  "Oh, it won't be a sham." Velenne tossed the flint-bladed knife back at him. Isiem caught it clumsily. "Not at all. The battle and its stakes are very real. Either the paralictor dies and the conflict is hard-fought enough to convince the survivors to accept the maralictor's concessions, or we have no agreement. If Paralictor Cerallius wins, your strix are doomed. If the strix win, there will be no terms. Imperial Cheliax will not suffer another humiliation at the hands of inhuman barbarians. The next army it sends will not be inclined to negotiate. Nor, I suspect, will either of us be in any position to influence the outcome. No, this is not a sham, Isiem. It is your one chance to steer both sides toward the peace you want."

  "By assassinating your paralictor under the cover of an arranged battle," he said flatly.

  "And Uskonos," Velenne said.

  "Who?"

  She waved a slender hand in the direction of the ornamented, mute-tended tent Isiem had seen earlier. "The arcanist sent by the throne, to help keep tabs on the Hellknights. His grotesqueness offends me."

  Isiem raised his eyebrows. He'd known she had a petty streak, but... "You want me to kill him because he's ugly?"