Mistress of the Night p-2

by Dave Gross

  "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 morethere 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 lashV 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 wineand 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 carrying 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. F
abric torehis 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.

  Between two braziers and before an altar draped in black velvet stood Bolan. Something had changed in the strange, stunted man. His porcelain smooth face seemed to glow in the dim light, while robes of black trimmed with purple hid his bulky body. An aura of faith suffused him, lending him just a little of Shar's glory.

  At his side, however, stood a woman of Calimshan who didn't borrow Shar's glory so much as radiate a dark power of her own. Black hair flowed loosely against dusky pale skin and black clothes embroidered in shimmering, deep purple thread.

  "Her name is Variance," Jarull had said. "Power flows off her like a shadow. I trust her more than Bolan."

  Variance was watching him. Keph tore his gaze away from her.

  Bolan didn't seem to notice anything. The priest spread his arms wide and said, "A man comes before Shar. He has drunk the Elixir of the Void from the Cup of Night. Can we accept him?"

  "Shar welcomes all into her embrace," murmured the cultists.

  Keph stared at them. Maybe it was just the echoes, but there seemed to be far more people standing in the shadows than just those who had led him in.

  "Let all be welcome," said Bolan, "if they grieve or mourn or hate. Let all be welcome if they desire vengeance or know bitterness."

  "Shar welcomes all."

  Bolan held out his hands to Keph. "Shar welcomes you into her embrace. Do you embrace Shar and welcome her?"

  Keph nodded slowlythen emphatically.

  "The Lady of Loss gives you voice," Bolan said kindly. "Speak."

  "I embrace Shar," Keph croaked.

  He could taste vomit and wine and whatever bitter substance had been mixed with the wine. The numbness on his lips had spread up his face and across his scalp.

  "Stand and approach her altar."

  Keph pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward Bolan, Variance, and the velvet-draped altar. The distance was misleading. What looked like it should have taken only a few steps to cross seemed to take many. Bolan and Variance swam in the shadows. Keph stumbled on until finally Bolan's hands grasped his. Even though Keph knew that he was taller than the alchemist-priest, Bolan appeared to tower over him. Keph squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again. Bolan was his proper height once more, though he looked up at him with eyes that were as deep as the night sky.

  "Shar is a simple goddess," Bolan said. "The Mistress of the Night is direct. Other deities require followers to pledge themselves in long trials and tests. Service to Shar requires only one simple act."

  Bolan released Keph's hands and turned around to seize the black velvet that covered the altar. He pulled it off with a flourish.

  A young girl dressed in a pretty white nightgown lay on the altar, arms at her side and eyes closed in sleep. Keph stared in shock.

  It was Adrey.

  Bolan put a heavy-bladed knife into Keph's hand. "Kill her," he said.

  The hilt of the knife was cold in Keph's hand. He couldn't move. He couldn't take his eyes off his niece, just as he hadn't been able to take his eyes off Roderio's injured body after the accident. It wasn't right. Could Bolan really want him to kill Adrey? The only member of his cursed family he couldn't bring himself to hate?

  "Kill her," Bolan said again. "Prove your devotion to Shar."

  "Hail to the Mistress of the Night," chanted the cultists. Keph raised the knife slowly.

  It couldn't be right. How could Adrey be here? When he'd set out for Wedge Street, she'd been safe within Fourstaves House. Anywhere else and he might have thought that the Sharrans had kidnapped herbut not from Fourstaves House. The wards that Strasus had woven and re-woven around the house made that virtually impossible. Additional wards cast around Adrey's room by her parents and grandparents made it more secure than any other chamber save Strasus's own study. Keph gritted his teeth, trying to force back the muddling effects of the Elixir of the Void. There had to be another explanation for Adrey's presence. If Adrey was actually there.

  He looked at her sleeping form again; so still, so perfect. Too perfect. He tried to recall what shape the black velvet had concealed on the altar before Bolan had whisked it away. Had there been any shape at all?

  No. There hadn't. Keph clenched his teeth. That wasn't Adrey on the altar. It wasn't anyone or anything at all.

  Dagnalla had soothed and entertained all of her children with magical illusions. Ironically, Artless Keph had been the one to see through the apparitions at the youngest age. The girl on Shar's altar was no more real than Dagnalla's flights of whimsy, he realized. It was just an illusion.

  And yet she looked so much like Adrey. The knife trembled in Keph's hand. "Shar awaits," Bolan hissed.

  Keph looked down. It's only an illusion, he thought. It's all part of Shar's test. You're not really doing anything wrong. Nobody even realizes you've figured it out! He glanced up into the darkness.

  Do it, he told himself.

  "Hail to the Mistress of the Night!" he shouted and plunged the knife down.

  The only resistance it met was the altar itself. Steel hit stone and skittered across it with a horrid shriek. The girl wavered and vanished. The knife fell out of Keph's fingers and he staggered backthe shock he felt might as well have been real. Inside his chest, his heart was thundering like a smith's hammer.

  Bolan stepped forward and Keph dropped down before him.

  "Your intention proves your devotion," the priest said. "Your sacrifice to Shar is your own illusion of love." He rested his hands against Keph's head. "Mistress of the Night, a new follower enters your embrace," he prayed. "Bless him and cleanse him that he may continue in your work."

  Cold darkness poured into Keph's body, searing away the haze of wine and scouring him clean of fear and doubt. He gasped at the touch of the goddess and when Bolan lifted his hands away, he rose. The alchemist-priest held something out to him: Shar's black and purple disk. Keph took the symbol, wrapping trembling fingers tight around it.

  Terrible screams ripped through Moonshadow Hall. In the central courtyard, Feena's headand the heads of everyone else who stood listening as Velsinore sang the moonrise prayersnapped up. Velsinore gasped in shock, her song shattered.

  Against the big windows of Dhauna Myritar's sitting room, a silhouette reeled.

  Feena reacted on instinct alone, charging across the courtyard and through the cloisters, back into the temple and up the ramp to the High Moonmistress's quarters. The screams were even louder inside, echoing through the halls. Every priestess and priest she passed seemed stunned to silence.

  "Dhauna!" Feena shouted as she ran. "Julith!"

  "Here!" Jul
ith shouted back.

  The door of Dhauna's chamber had been flung open. Julith's call came from inside. Feena caught herself at the door and choked on her breath.

  On the floor of the sitting room, Julith wrestled with Dhauna, trying to pin her down. The old woman was thrashing like a demon. Her face contorted and she screamed as if all the hordes of the Abyss were parading before her. Books and scrolls were scattered everywhere.

  "Help me!" Julith yelled.

  Feena leaped into the room, grabbing for Dhauna's flailing arms. One she caught, the other she missed. Dhauna's fingernails scratched a trail across her cheek.

  "Moonmaiden's grace!" Feena spat. She caught hold of both of Dhauna's hands and held them firm. "Dhauna!" she shouted at the High Moonmistress. "Mother Dhauna… calm down…"

  Dhauna fixed her with burning eyes. "Too late!" she howled. 'Too late"

  Her voice soared up into a renewed shriek. Feena glanced at Julith, then at the door. Crowded into the doorframe, Velsinore and Mifano stared back at her.

  Dave Gross

  Mistress of the Night

  Cultists squeezed around Keph, slapping his shoulders and shaking his hand for all the world as if he had just won some contest at a Midsummer fair.

  A few slipped back their cowls to reveal men and women he had already met through Jarull. Keph couldn't recall any of their names. They seemed completely wiped from his mind. The best response he could manage was a stunned smile and a slow nod. His heart was still racing. He clutched the disk of Shar, its edge hard against his palm.

  Fuel was added to the smoldering braziers and they flared up with new light, pushing back the darkness just a bit more. With a start, Keph realized where they were the temple of Shar lay in the tunnels that laced the rocky cliffs surrounding Yhaunn. At an intersection of tunnels, most likely. Firelight glimmered on a number of irregular arches of rock, though it didn't penetrate the shadows beyond. There was still no sign of the ceiling overhead.

  Nor was there any sign of Jarull.

  Bolan had turned away from him. The other cultists were beginning to as well, breaking off into their own little groups like merchants at a party. One cultist, however, brought him a basin of water and a sponge. His eyes flickered distastefully over the torn remains of Keph's vomit-soaked, wine-stained shirt. The first emotion to penetrate Keph's fogged mind was embarrassment. The symbol of Shar was strung on a black cordhe looped it around his neck, took the basin, and retreated to wash himself.