The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  The mist let her see only a yard or two ahead, not enough to make out the large stone street signs fastened to the corner walls of buildings. They were impossible to read until she was standing next to them, and Kelda didn’t trust her memory in this deceptive swath of gray. Though tonight more than ever she desired to reach home swiftly, she would have to slow down to reach home at all.

  Sounds, too, were delusive. Some, like the sound of horses’ hooves on adjacent streets, were muffled and furtive. Others, like the cough of a passerby hastening homeward across the street from her, seemed to occur right beside her. Kelda swallowed and pressed onward. She was only two streets away now.

  Something brushed her leg. For a wild, panicked instant, Kelda thought that the fog had solidified and was twining about her body. She gasped and stumbled, her fingers losing their hold on the dagger and her foot stepping on the small cat that had chosen her for its object of affection. She trod heavily on its tail, and the beast yowled, startled. A quick, slashing scratch on Kelda’s leg, and the cat vanished, a gray swirl in the blacker swirl of the mists.

  Kelda put her hand to her breast as if to calm her frantically pounding heart. She cursed quietly and knelt, groping gently for the dropped weapon on the moisture-slick stone. She frowned and expanded her search. Where had the thing gone? Fear began to seep through her. Rising, Kelda hastened to the nearest torch a few yards down the street, uprooted it from the earth, and carried it back to better examine the area. The small dagger was nowhere to be found.

  “I’m afraid the cat and you startled one another,” came a smooth voice by her ear. Someone slid a proprietary hand under her elbow.

  Kelda gasped; it was the disguised wellborn she had seen at the Clever Gray Malken. The man was clearly following her. “You startled me worsen’ the cat did,” she accused nervously. “Who are ye, anyway, an’ why are ye down in this part of the city?”

  “Oh, my name’s not important. In honor of your taproom, you may call me Malken. As for why I’m here, I’d like the privilege of walking you home.” He pulled her closer. The scarf had slipped, not enough to reveal his face, but enough to release the smell of ale on his breath. “And of … entertaining you once we get there, hmm?”

  Angered, Kelda wriggled out of the stranger’s grip. Malken’s eyes, glittering in the dim, flickering light, narrowed with displeasure. “Cats scratch when their affections are rebuffed,” he reminded her. It was only then, as he raised his hand, that she saw the knife—her knife—glitter in the torchlight. “And my claws are rather sharp.”

  Kelda shoved the torch at Malken’s face. He stepped backward with unnatural speed, the silky voice going harsh with cursing. His hat fell off as he brought his arms up to shield his face. Kelda dropped the torch, which sizzled and went out immediately upon hitting the vapor-damp cobblestones. She fled. This close to home, she knew her way, and there was no more light to be seen. There was no way Malken could follow—

  A brutally strong hand closed on her upper arm, spinning her around. She could see nothing, only the swirling black fog and a darkness blacker still immediately in front of her. “Cats can see in the dark, too,” hissed the cultured voice.

  And now, somehow, Kelda could see as well, and what she saw shocked her beyond speech. Malken’s eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure, an expression so powerfully evil that Kelda was overwhelmed, and when he smiled, her sanity fled. She struggled now only as the mouse with the cat, mindlessly, futilely, and the scream that ripped from her throat was the cry of prey as it falls to the predator. The animal wailing pierced the thick fog, turning into a gurgle as the blade slashed her throat.

  Tristan awoke with a start. For a second, he was completely disoriented, then he remembered that he and Sigfrid had sought lodgings in Bergovitsa when the strange, enveloping mist had so abruptly descended. He regretted not being able to ride straight home, for he knew how worried his retainers would be. Still, to attempt to reach Faerhaaven through that kind of vaporous mess would be tantamount to suicide. Navigation was impossible, and the hungry plains cats, Nova Vaasa’s most dangerous predators, needed no light to scent their prey.

  He yawned and stretched. Perhaps it was the strange bed or the strain of the previous two days, but his dreams had been disjointed and jarring. Tiredly, Tristan pulled off the covers—and immediately pulled them back up to his chin. The room was far colder than it should have been. Drawing back the drapes that shrouded the bed, Tristan saw why. The fire had gone out and the window was wide open. Tristan frowned. Had he opened it during the night? He didn’t think so.

  Fully awake now, Tristan wrapped the bed sheet around him and rose, looking about sharply. He went over to the wardrobe, and then truth hit him. He had been robbed during the night. His clothes and his money pouch were missing. He swore softly, then resignedly gathered the sheet more tightly about his muscular frame and went across the hall.

  Tristan knocked on Sigfrid’s door. “It’s Tristan. We’ve got a problem.”

  “Come on in,” Sigfrid invited. “Door’s unlocked.” Tristan let himself in.

  Sigfrid was already up, dressed and shaving. As he drew the freshly stropped blade across his cheek, he glanced casually in the mirror. His eyes widened when he saw Tristan clad in nothing but the white bed sheet, and he nicked himself. Red merged with the foamy white of soap. Sigfrid tried not to laugh at his superior, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Tristan, however, did not join in his amusement. “You shouldn’t have left your door unlocked,” he said coldly. “They could have gotten you, too.”

  Mirth fled Sigfrid. Quickly he splashed water on his half-shaved face and roughly toweled it dry. “The inn at Bergovitsa is one of the most reputable in the country,” he said. “I didn’t think I needed to lock the door.”

  “Well, I locked my window and somebody still managed to break into my room.”

  Together they returned to Tristan’s room. Completely professional now, Sigfrid made a careful check of the lock and the windowsill. They leaned down and looked out on the quiet alley that would be pitch-dark after twilight. Their eyes met.

  “A perfect job,” stated Sigfrid. “Not a scratch on this lock. Obviously done by someone who knows his business. What did they take?”

  “My purse and my clothes.”

  “Not your weapons?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Nor my armor.”

  “How much money did you bring?”

  “Enough to travel comfortably. Not a king’s ransom, by any means.”

  “But, perhaps, enough to salve a Vistana’s wounded pride?” Sigfrid suggested.

  “That’s what I think. A Vistana would have no problem scurrying up to a second story window and picking the lock. He wouldn’t take the armor or weapons—too easily identified and too bulky to carry. As for the clothes,” Tristan concluded grimly, “no doubt it would amuse him to think of the mighty Sir Tristan Hiregaard wandering about in a sheet, at least for a while.”

  A hint of a smile touched Sigfrid’s lips. “Well, actually …”

  Tristan too had to laugh a little. “Well, they’ve had their joke. Little enough real harm done. I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t kill me as I slept.”

  The owner of the inn was so dismayed at the thought of such an esteemed guest being robbed that he waived payment. “Which is a good thing,” Sigfrid commented, “as I have only a few copper and silver pieces on me.” While Tristan and Sigfrid ate breakfast in Sigfrid’s room, Tristan still robed in the bed sheet, the humiliated innkeeper scurried about trying to locate clothes for the knight. He succeeded, and shortly thereafter Tristan and Sigfrid were on their way back to Kantora.

  There was no trace of the curious mist that had inhibited their progress the night before. Indeed, the day was fresh and clear. Tristan, however, was out of sorts. “I kept a few magical items in my pouch,” he explained as the wagon rumbled along. “I was hoping to use them to speed our way back to Kantora.”

  Sigfrid frowned at this new
s. “Nothing very powerful, I hope?”

  “Nothing at all that’s useful by itself, just some ingredients for spells—a little bottle of mercury, certain stones and roots.…”

  “Be thankful we have Vistana-tamed horses,” reminded Sigfrid. “They’ll get us there in good time.”

  Nonetheless, it was well into the early afternoon before Tristan reached Faerhaaven, having parted from Sigfrid in Kantora. As he approached, his watchful guards raised his standard, and it began to snap in the breeze. A joyful bark reached his ears, and he soon saw Luath racing toward him.

  “Hello, boy,” Tristan said fondly. Luath rose on his hind legs and planted his large paws on Kal’s saddle. Tristan affectionately rubbed behind the dog’s silky ears. “That’s enough, Luath. Down, fellow.”

  Obediently the dog dropped to all fours and padded alongside Kal as Tristan continued to approach Faerhaaven. Guillaume greeted him inside the courtyard. Relief was plain on his face, but he spoke in his usual cool, steady voice.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Tristan. We were rather worried. I trust all went well with … those people?” Like most Nova Vaasans, Guillaume disliked the “uncouth, filthy Vistani.”

  “Well enough,” replied Tristan, swinging down from Kal and handing the horse’s reins over to a groom. He and Guillaume walked across the courtyard to the side entrance of the main keep. “How are arrangements for Perryn’s burial coming?”

  “Fine, sir.” Guillaume hesitated.

  “Out with it.”

  “Well, sir,” began Guillaume, “let me say first that nobody blames you for Perryn’s death. But it is a topic of conversation among the servants, much as I have attempted to discourage it. They’re concerned, sir. Do you have any idea … what happened?” he finished lamely.

  Sighing and rubbing his tired eyes, Tristan shook his head. “No. It’s a fine little mystery, but I’ll do my best to solve it. In the meantime, I’m filthy and famished. I’d like a hot bath and something to eat.”

  “Shall I serve your meal in your room, sir?”

  “No, in the secondary dining hall, I think. Is Ivaar here?”

  Again, Guillaume hesitated before replying. “Yes, sir, but he’s still abed. Shall I wake him?”

  Tristan frowned. “Asleep? At this hour?”

  “Well, sir, he didn’t come home until very, very late. He said the fog delayed him.”

  “That fog didn’t start until late last night,” Tristan answered. “What was he doing in Kantora till all hours?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. He did seem rather agitated when he returned home.”

  “Wake him up, Guillaume. I want to talk to him.”

  Tired and irritable, Tristan bathed, his mind not on the steaming hot water but on his unfathomable son. He shaved, dressed, and went down to the secondary dining hall. He thought sourly that sharing the meal with Ivaar would probably spoil his appetite.

  Ivaar was already seated, staring at his empty plate and glancing up furtively when his father entered. The table was laid with cold ham and mutton, sweet ripe pears and fresh tangy berries, a round of cheese and bread fresh from the oven, and pitchers of both wine and water.

  “You waited for me, I see. Thank you,” said Tristan, carving a slice of mutton. “Mutton or ham?” he asked.

  “Neither, thank you,” the young man responded, not looking up.

  Tristan sighed. “Don’t tell me that cold mutton is too elegant for you.” Ivaar did not respond. Tristan took a closer look at the boy. His eyes were hollow, his unhandsome features blunter than usual. It had been a late night indeed. “You are not a child,” Tristan said as he reached for the bread and tore off a hunk. “You are free to come and go as you will. I’ve no objections to your spending the night in the town, Ivaar, but I do like to be informed ahead of time.”

  “You weren’t here,” Ivaar replied.

  An unexpected flare of anger made Tristan’s eyes flash. “That’s right. I wasn’t. I was down at the Vistana encampment, put on trial by a group of thieving gypsies. If they’d found me guilty, I wouldn’t be here sharing this pleasant repast with my son. Just what were you doing in Kantora that was more important than wondering about your father’s life?”

  Hot color flooded Ivaar’s face. It was more than just shame, Tristan thought, suddenly worried. He had unexpectedly stumbled on to something. “By the gods, boy,” he murmured, invoking deities that had long since abandoned Kantora, “what have you gotten yourself caught up in?”

  Ivaar shot his father a look that was stricken, guilty, and angry. “You are all that is wrong with this place! You are the reason there’s disease and death and, and—we’ve got to get rid of what’s dirty and wrong and make everything clean again, and—” Ivaar almost choked on the words. Frenzied, he seized one of the crystal goblets from the table and threw it across the room. It shattered with a crash against the far wall. The sound seemed to sober him, and he blinked rapidly, then stared at his father. “I—” With a little moan, he rose, knocking the chair down, and fled from the room.

  Tristan hurried after, but the boy eluded him. A few moments later, Tristan heard the sound of activity in the courtyard. Rushing to a window, he looked down to see Ivaar clambering atop his mare and racing off.

  “Ivaar! Come back here! Ivaar!” Tristan slumped against the cool stone of the wall. He glanced back at the still-laden table and shook his head. As he had gloomily predicted, the encounter with Ivaar had sickened his soul and destroyed his appetite. He strode out of the room, seeking refuge in his private quarters.

  Behind him, the table began to tremble slightly. One by one, the remaining goblets shattered, their contents oozing over the lace-covered table. The decanter, filled with red wine, exploded also, blood-red droplets flying. A few moments later, Guillaume hastened in and frowned at the mess. The master and his son often quarrelled, but never before had they broken anything in their arguments. He shivered, and noticed the room was much colder than it had been before. He strode to the window and pulled the shutters. It was careless of the master to leave it open—although, Guillaume reflected, it didn’t seem that chilly out today.

  Alone in his room, Tristan stared up at the portrait of his dead wife.

  “Ailsa, I keep trying, but I seem to lose him more and more each day. You were always so good with him. He always stopped crying when you held him.

  “He’s going wild now, he and his friends. They want to turn the world around, shake everything up, start it all over.” Tristan’s eyes were sober, and he glanced down at his hands lying, tightly clenched, in his lap. “Ivaar says that it’s my fault that things are bad. What he doesn’t understand is, if you just throw away everything that I and Kethmaar—all of us—have done, you throw away the good, too.”

  His blue eyes wandered back to the portrait. “I can’t reach him. Sometimes, I’m afraid for him. Today, I finally saw you in him, Ailsa. Too much of you. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear if he, too, went mad.” There came a knock at the door. “Enter.”

  Guillaume opened the door. “Sir Tristan, Captain Skolsson wishes to see you.”

  Tristan was surprised. “I’ll be right down.”

  Sigfrid was pacing in the main receiving room. The face he turned to Tristan was pale and agitated. “What’s happened, Sig?” Tristan asked, skipping the pleasantries. Sigfrid’s face told him it was serious.

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “Who?”

  “A barmaid named Kelda.”

  Tristan frowned. “Not to seem disrespectful, but that’s really not my area. You and the city guards handle the daily crimes—”

  “It’s not who she was,” Sigfrid interrupted—another sign, if Tristan needed it, of his distress. “It’s how she was murdered. This wasn’t some drunken lout or rejected …” He groped for the slang that the prostitutes called their clients. “Rejected tumbler. This man—you should have seen the body. Really brutal.”

  Tristan walked over to the table and poured himsel
f and Sigfrid some wine. The young man looked badly in need of it. “But that’s not all, is it?”

  Sigfrid shook his head and took a sip of the wine. “The bastard left us a message. Written in the poor girl’s blood on the side of a building.” He handed Tristan a piece of parchment. “Sergeant Valdisdottir found the body. She copied the message exactly as it appeared.”

  Tristan took the parchment. Scrawled across it was the threat: SHE’Z THE FURST. Tristan went cold.

  “I thought maybe, with your magic—”

  “We could find out who it is before he kills again,” Tristan finished. “Of course, Sigfrid. Come with me.”

  The knight kept all his magic items in one room, located in the far turreted tower unofficially dubbed the Master’s Tower. In addition to this particular chamber, the tower housed Tristan’s extensive private armory and library. Like the gate to the royal mausoleum, Tristan’s magic chamber was protected with both a lock and a magic ward. The knight spoke a word that was incomprehensible to Sigfrid, twisted the key in the lock, and opened the door. “I’m afraid it’ll be a bit of a disappointment. There’s very little in here that’s as mysterious as Vistana magic.”

  Sigfrid followed Tristan inside. With a wave of his fingers, Tristan lit several candles as Sigfrid looked about curiously. The few spots on the walls not completely covered by bookshelves were bare stone. The windows were sealed shut.

  “It’s a bit gloomy, but some of the delicate ingredients necessary for various spells are too fragile to endure daylight,” Tristan explained.

  Two small tables stood in the center. One made of wood served Tristan as a writing desk, complete with drawers for parchment, ink, quills, and vials of powder and sand for blotting and erasing. Sigfrid assumed the second, made of stone with a marble top, functioned as a place for experiments. Presently, its surface was bare. Tables, cabinets, and shelves groaned with magical tools, books, herb pots, and other items. Yet somehow, the clutter was orderly. Such organization, thought Sigfrid, was entirely typical of Tristan.