“Me?”
“I can’t very well leave you here. Do you know how much trouble I went to rescuing you?”
Myreon beckoned Tyvian closer with one finger. “Come over here, please.”
Tyvian blinked, but came closer and sat next to her on the bed. He grinned. “No need to thank me, but— OW!”
Myreon’s knuckles stung where she clocked Tyvian in the jaw. It was a gratifying feeling. “Let us establish one thing, sir: there is no you and me, understand? I am not going anywhere with you.”
Tyvian was now sitting on the floor, rubbing his face. “Understood. Fine. But if you get caught again, you’re on your own. I’m not burning down Keeper’s Court a second time for you.”
“Fine.”
Tyvian nodded. “Good.”
“Agreed.”
Silence. Myreon noted that her heart was beating far too quickly. What was she afraid of, exactly? Tyvian? Certainly he was dangerous, but that wasn’t it. She was still angry—still violently angry—that he had interrupted her sentence. Yet, another part of her knew that having already lost her staff and her position in the Defenders, there wasn’t much worse that could happen to her. What did she have to lose by letting Tyvian help her? Why was her pulse racing?
She took a deep, steadying breath—what a glory to be able to breathe again—and tried to clear her head. What she needed to do was regain her strength, escape this room, and . . . and . . . what? Turn in Tyvian to the Defenders as a means to commute her further sentence? Stop Gethrey Andolon, whatever it was he was doing? Turn herself back in? Her head spun—she needed time. Time to think. Time to plan.
For the time being, she was stuck here. With him.
Myreon looked around the room—a bed, an armoire, a single shuttered window, a tiny fireplace, a seaman’s trunk. “Where will you sleep?”
Tyvian smirked. “Well, since you just destroyed the only chair . . .”
Myreon’s eyes shot open. “No. No way in hell.”
Tyvian sat on the bed next to her, but not too near her. “I promise to be a complete gentleman.”
“I promise to lode-bolt you into an icicle if you so much as brush against me. You sleep on the floor.”
He held up his right hand to show her where the ring still rested. “When I say I’ll be a perfect gentleman, it isn’t as though I have any choice in the matter, you know.”
“You still sleep on the floor.” Myreon pointed to the ground. “You can have the quilt, if you like.”
“Kind of you.” His tone did not convey much in the way of gratitude.
Silence. Tyvian turned away from her, and she found herself examining his profile, remembering the strength of his arms around her. She needed to change the subject desperately. “What is Andolon planning? I assume you know.”
“Oh, that?” Tyvian brightened. “He’s going to crash the Secret Exchange and buy up the wreckage. If it works, he’ll own a quarter of all of the Arcanostrum’s wealth. The whole economy of the West will fall into chaos. Well, assuming it works.”
Myreon felt like ice water had just been poured down her shift. “WHAT?”
Tyvian blinked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“And you aren’t going to stop him?” She threw her pillow at him. “Not even try?”
Tyvian shrugged. “What do I care if that tasteless weasel robs the Arcanostrum? I’m a smuggler—economic chaos is good for business. Besides,” he said, waggling his ring hand at her, “not a pinch. Not so much as a tingle—how about that?”
Myreon felt heat rush to her cheeks. “Tyvian, a collapse like that would lead to half the city starving within the year! Eretheria would drop into all-out civil war! Gods, it would be a worldwide disaster! You can’t be serious about just leaving!”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” Tyvian sighed. “Shall we keep arguing, then, or would you like a nap first? You look terrible.”
Myreon glared at him. Had she the energy, she would have lit his hair on fire right there and then.
Tyvian smiled, nodding. “Arguing it is, then.”
CHAPTER 22
SEEING AND BELIEVING
Hool woke up to the sound of birds and the heat of the sun on her back. As she often did, she was struck with the possibility that she was on the Taqar again; that all this had been a dream. She clung to it for a few moments longer before, inevitably, she needed to breathe in. The scent of Glamourvine and its pervasive sorceries dispelled all illusions.
Hool rolled to her feet. The hedge maze was still closed to her. Somewhere, not too far away, she heard the gardener clipping the funny little trees that lined some of the paths. She did not remember falling asleep.
At the edge of the pool, sitting in a mageglass chair before a small table, Lyrelle Reldamar was sipping tea and paging through an old, iron-bound book. She wore a great, wide sun-hat and a dress of warm hunter green and white lace. On her nose were perched a pair of orange-tinted spectacles.
Hool’s hackles rose. “You betrayed your own son.”
Lyrelle glanced at her and then back at the book. “And what? Now you intend to kill me? Are you certain that’s entirely wise, given your situation?”
Hool displayed her teeth and stalked closer, her weight resting evenly on all four limbs. “You are a liar. Why should I listen to anything you say?”
“Whether I lie or whether I tell the truth is completely inconsequential. Everybody fails to understand that—very frustrating. I need only reference last night—I misled you, and yet I achieved my aims. It would seem that ‘truth’ is, at best, an indifferent motivator of other people’s behavior. At the very least, it is certainly no more persuasive than falsehood.”
Hool pounced with a roar, her hands set to seize the sorceress by the neck and crush her. Instead, she met only air and tumbled onto the ground. When she rolled to her feet, Lyrelle was located in a slightly different part of the clearing. She hadn’t bothered to look up from her book. “Now, consider your current situation, Madam Hool: did I move myself using sorcery, or was I never where you thought I was to begin with? In other words—was the scene the truth or a lie? Does it really matter now? The effect, as you see, is identical.”
Hool grabbed a great stone vase from the ground and hurled it at Lyrelle. It passed through her with a flash, and again Lyrelle was somewhere else in the clearing, still sitting and reading her book. The sound of the vase smashing apart on the ground did cause her to look up, though. “Really? Was that entirely necessary?”
“Where is Tyvian?”
Lyrelle fished a circular, ticking brass device out of a hidden pocket and consulted it. “If I know my son, he has recently escaped Keeper’s Court. After swimming through some greasy canal, perhaps with a dagger in his teeth, he emerged to rescue his lady love from her prison and is now fighting with her in some little bolt-hole he’s got squirreled away in Crosstown.”
Hool blinked. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“This is the morning of the second day since Tyvian’s arrest.”
Hool laid her ears back. “You enchanted me!”
Lyrelle smiled. “No, the ham was enchanted. You merely ate it.”
Hool snorted—lousy sorceress. She decided to change the subject. “You knew Tyvian would escape?”
Lyrelle pulled down her spectacles to look Hool in the eye. “Are you trying to tell me you cannot predict the behavior of your own children? Come now, Hool—how many pups do you have?”
“Four . . . no.” Hool felt Api’s loss again in that instant. It was like a knife to the heart. Her hackles lowered and her ears drooped. “Only three.”
Lyrelle nodded, pursing her lips. “My condolences. Forgive me, however, if I press you on my point: what is Brana doing right now?”
Hool thought. “Brana is wherever A
rtus is.”
“And where is Artus?”
“Doing something to make Tyvian angry because Tyvian doesn’t pay him enough attention.” Hool sighed. “They fight like roosters.”
Lyrelle smiled. “There, you see? It isn’t all that hard, now is it? A solid understanding of individuals is the basis of all manipulation.”
Hool sat on the ground. “Why are you telling me this? Why did you call the Defenders on Tyvian if you knew he would just escape?”
Lyrelle laughed lightly. Hool didn’t see what was so funny. Hool didn’t like this woman, who was never quite what she seemed. She considered just running away, but she had a feeling that Lyrelle’s sorcery would keep her there in that garden until she was done with her. “Hool,” the sorceress said, “if I made a habit of telling any given gnoll my plans, where would I be?”
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Hool announced. “I want to find Tyvian and Artus and Brana and get away from this terrible city and never come back.”
Lyrelle nodded. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do, my dear, so don’t fear. I must show you something first, though, or you might not destroy the right people when you go.”
Hool folded her arms. “Who said I was going to destroy anybody?”
Lyrelle pushed her spectacles back up. “I did.”
Hool growled. This time, instead of pouncing, she walked up to the table and stood over the sorceress. “I am not your slave! You don’t tell me what to do!”
“Of course I don’t—that’s the whole point. You, my dear, are going to do whatever your heart desires. Just not yet.” Lyrelle motioned to the seat across from her. “Would you care for some tea?”
Hool looked at the chair and then back at Lyrelle. “Won’t I just fall through it?”
“Don’t be silly,” Lyrelle said. “Please—sit. If not tea, then water? Something to eat?”
Hool sat. The mageglass chair felt cold and hard beneath her. “I want bacon. Bring me some bacon.”
Lyrelle smiled broadly, her teeth gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. “That’s the spirit! How lovely! Now, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? I’m just dying to hear more of what a gnoll makes of our mad little world.”
Hool folded her arms. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to act. Every moment sitting there while her pup and her adopted family needed her was enough to make her mad with frustration. She thought of Tyvian floundering in black water, of Artus getting stabbed by assassins, of Brana lost and alone. It took all of her self-control not to howl and roar. But that would be just what Lyrelle Reldamar expected, wouldn’t it—another dumb animal for her to trick into doing her bidding.
No. Not her.
Hool did not talk to Lyrelle, and the sorceress did not talk back. They sat in silence in the garden for hours. Lyrelle had bacon brought out by some invisible spirit, and Hool ate it all. It was delicious, but she didn’t say so. Lyrelle didn’t inquire.
Hool imagined that they were engaged in some kind of battle of wills, but she was at a loss as to what the stakes were. At one point she stood up and Lyrelle looked up at her, evidently surprised. “Planning on going somewhere?”
“I want to leave. Show me what you wanted to show me!”
Lyrelle pointed at the chair. “Not just yet, I’m afraid. Sit.”
Hool thought about flipping the table over or something, but there was so much sorcery in the air, she knew it wouldn’t work and she would just look foolish. Scowling, she sat back down. Beyond the chirp of the birds and the rustle of the breeze through the cypress branches, the only sound was the dry flip of the pages of Lyrelle’s book.
The sun began to set and Hool decided to take nap—she was tired of sitting in a chair, and, other than the stink of magic everywhere, the garden grass was lush and comfortable. When she slid onto the ground, Lyrelle (or the simulacrum of Lyrelle—who knew?) did not look up. Hool snorted, turned herself around, lay her head on her paws and closed her eyes.
There were dreams, but they were indistinct—the sound of Brana howling in danger, Tyvian laughing, and tangled streets of Saldor, wet with blood and filth.
Hool . . . Hooool. . .
Her eyes popped open.
Nightfall had again descended upon the garden. The archsorceress Lyrelle was again clad in glimmering white and silver, the fireflies floating about her golden hair like a halo. She knelt before the still waters of the pond, a staff in one hand. She waved Hool closer to her. “Come. Look.”
Hool sniffed the air. “Time is strange here—why is it so dark already? Did you enchant me again?”
Lyrelle pointed to the perfectly circular pond. “This is a power sink—similar in form to the one you saw beneath Daer Trondor, but much smaller, much younger, and much less . . . well . . . let’s say tampered with.”
Hool glared at the pond. Now that she was looking at it in that light, she noticed many similarities between it and the great fiery pool beneath the mountains—its seeming depthlessness, for instance, and the strong reek of sorcery. “What does it do?”
Lyrelle ran a hand across the surface of the pond, but rather than ripple, the water grew still, like a mirror. “Power sinks are just collecting pools for the Great Energies. They are built along ley lines and slowly accrue power. A sorceress can then tap into those stored energies to enhance the efficacy of their arts. This one I use when scrying, which channels the Astral a great deal. The side effect of all this Astral energy flowing around is that you and I are currently within what I like to call a ‘hiccup’ in time. Hence the nightfall.”
Hool’s nostrils flared. “I don’t like it.”
Lyrelle motioned toward the surface of the pool. “Look.”
In the pond, floating below the surface where Hool expected to see her own reflection, she instead saw Artus walking down a shadowy corridor lined with doors, a double-edged dagger drawn. “The Cauldron,” Hool grumbled. “What is Artus doing?”
Lyrelle nodded. “Shhh. Listen.”
From one of the doors in front of Artus, Hool could hear a fight. A man was cursing and swearing. Hool recognized the voice: Gethrey Andolon. “You LOVE him, don’t you? DON’T YOU? SAY IT!”
Artus was at the door. It was slightly ajar, and he leaned against the wall to peer through the crack. Hool found that she and Lyrelle peered with him. There, lying on the floor, blood pouring from her nose, was Claudia Fensron. She was clad in a black silk robe that was bunched around her hips. Her pale skin flickered beneath the light of a fireplace. She spat blood on the floor. “I never said I love—”
But Andolon didn’t let Claudia finish—he kicked her in the stomach four times, each blow punctuated by a single word: “NEVER! LIE! TO! ME!”
“Pleasant fellow, don’t you think?” Lyrelle whispered. Hool didn’t answer.
Andolon’s voice cracked. Artus could see tears welling in the fop’s eyes. “After . . . after all I’ve done for you, Claudia, and this is how you betray me? Haven’t I protected you from the Prophets? Haven’t I given you anything you wanted? HAVEN’T I?”
Claudia dragged herself into a chair, wheezing. “You stupid, stupid boy. The same stupid boy you always were, Gethrey—in love with a whore. Age just made you vicious, like it does with everybody.” She laughed. “What are you crying about? You think I haven’t been beaten before, and by bigger men than you? Reldamar isn’t here, and even if he were, I’d never tell you where.”
Andolon loomed over her, hand on his sword. “You want me to call in the Quiet Men? They’ll turn this place upside down. How do you think it will look, having the Prophets’ muscle busting in on wealthy young gentlefolk in the midst of their jolly-time? What do you think will happen to this little whorehouse then?”
“Go to hell.” Claudia spat on the floor. “Kroth take my whorehouse anyway.”
Andolo
n grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head into the mirror of her vanity so hard it broke. He hissed in her ear. “Listen to me, you lying slut: this isn’t your business, it’s the Prophets’ business! You aren’t allowed to not care, understand? You and all your little two-bit harlots live and die at my recommendation! I know he’s here—you and Maude are the only two friends Reldamar has in this city. You don’t want to tell me, then fine—I’ll find him anyway, even if I need to burn the place down!”
Lyrelle shook her head. “Poor Gethrey—always such a sensitive boy.”
Hool snorted, her ears back. “He doesn’t look very sensitive.”
“Oh yes,” Lyrelle whispered, “Only a man with deep feelings can harbor such rage. He loved Claudia once—still does, in a way—and her refusal of him is too much for his fragile ego and hopeless affection to take. She poisoned his heart, and in her he sees the physical evidence of all his failings and troubles. Sad, really. Also incredibly useful for people like me.”
As Andolon brutalized Claudia, Hool could tell Artus was working up his nerve for something. He had his dagger pointed at Andolon’s back and slowly, very slowly, opened the door to Claudia’s room wide. He stepped upon the threshold of the room.
“No!” A new voice, half strangled with emotion, came from behind Artus. He whirled to see Maude, standing rigidly upright, her chin raised, her hands by her sides and bunched into fists. “Behind you!” she managed.
Artus turned back . . . and froze, his face bright with shock. He was bleeding from his chest—a knife plunged into his heart.
“NO!” Hool screamed at the water. “NO! NO!”
There was no assailant Hool could see. Blood fountained up from Artus’s throat. He fell to his knees.
Andolon turned from Claudia, his face wound up in a red-eyes sneer. “How many men are going to die for you tonight, Claudia? Make up your mind.”
Artus fell to the floor, facedown. The image faded.
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