Mistshore

by Jaleigh Johnson

  Icelin thrust her elbow into the man’s ribs. The pressure on her back slackened. She ripped the gag aside and screamed at the top of her lungs. The shrill sound pierced the night, and even the dark-haired man shrank back in momentary fear.

  Several things happened at once. Her captor recovered and pushed her onto her side, backhanding her across the face. Dazed, Icelin flopped onto her back. She tasted blood on her lips. Her face felt hot. At the same time, footsteps were approaching rapidly from somewhere in the distance. Icelin’s heart lurched—had Ruen and Sull come for her?—until she heard Cerest’s voice.

  “Strike her again, Greyas, and I’ll split your tongue down the center,” the elf promised. “Shenan, would you mind?”

  “Of course,” said a new voice, feminine, and as peacefully melodic as Cerest’s. How many had the elf set upon her? Icelin thought. Hopelessness seized her, and with it came a hysteric frenzy.

  She struck out, and by chance caught the dark-haired man in the throat. Icelin screamed again.

  “Sull! Ruen!”

  “Quickly, Shenan,” said Cerest calmly over the noise.

  Icelin heard the honeyed voice speaking in an even, arcane rhythm. A cold mist stole over Icelin’s mind. Her body felt heavy, and her eyes burned as if she had not slept in days.

  “No,” she cried. But the word came out slurred, feeble. Icelin trembled, fighting to stay awake, but it was no use. She went limp on the cold ground, and all the melodic voices receded.

  Ruen’s fist glanced off jawbone, and the latter of Sull’s opponents turned his full attention to Ruen. His arm still dripped blood freely from the wound Sull had dealt him. Ruen tipped his hat to the side and smiled before launching a flurry of numbing blows to the man’s torso. The ring on his hand burned silver; Ruen felt its magic coursing through his bones, propelled on by his natural speed.

  In his peripheral vision, he noted the tracks Icelin’s captors had left in the sand. They were not the tracks of the Watch. He’d known it as soon as the ambush hit them. If he hadn’t thought it was Tesleena’s party pursuing them, he could have outrun the men easily. He should have known when she didn’t answer his summons through the pawn.

  Sull dodged a thrust from his opponent’s broadsword. The butcher was quick enough, but the sword still whistled close to his ear, too close for the man to last much longer in the fight.

  Ruen aimed his next blow at the man’s sword arm, putting all the force he could behind the punch. The man’s arm spasmed; his sword fell from nerveless fingers. Ruen punched again. The man went down and did not rise.

  Sull threw his weight backward to avoid another sword thrust. He landed on his backside in the sand. Scooting away, he kicked sand, spraying the air and creating a meager shield between himself and the flashing sword.

  Ruen came at the man with the broadsword from behind. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and turned him. Locking a hand on his wrist, Ruen twisted until the bones cracked. The man’s sword fell to the sand to join his friend’s. Ruen jammed his elbow into the man’s throat, and he fell, unconscious next to his companion.

  Ruen looked briefly to see if Sull was bleeding more than necessary and, satisfied he wasn’t, began disarming the unconscious men. He took a dagger from one of them and slid it into his belt. He much preferred the fish knife—it was his favorite—but the wraith had stolen that from him.

  He stood up and saw a red blur charging at him. He managed to dodge the bull rush, but Sull’s fist still found his cheek. One side of Ruen’s head erupted in pain.

  Ruen danced back, retaining the presence of mind to raise the dagger before Sull could come at him again.

  But the butcher seemed uninterested in continuing the attack. Instead, Ruen saw tears leaking from the man’s wild eyes.

  “You damn fool!” Sull bellowed. “You let ’em get away.”

  “I saved your life,” Ruen said calmly. He tucked the dagger away and rubbed his jaw. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to let you die.”

  Sull hiccupped and seemed to consider this. His eyes were still furious. “You led us right into their trap. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to her? They’ll—”

  Ruen shook his head. “They want her alive. They took a lot of trouble to remove her from the battle unharmed. We can track them now.”

  “How?” Sull demanded.

  Ruen crouched next to the smaller of the unconscious forms. He nudged the man, but he did not stir.

  “We wait for one of these to wake up,” Ruen said. Sull made a noise of displeasure, and Ruen finally looked up at the big man. “They won’t get far—look.” He nodded to the horizon, where gray, pre-dawn light was giving way to sunrise. “They’re not stupid enough to move her out of Mistshore while it’s light. With the Watch patrols out, they’ll be seen. We’ll question these, rest and move on.”

  “What if they won’t tell us anythin’?” Sull asked, glancing pointedly at Ruen’s fists.

  Ruen shrugged. “We’ll have to be convincing.” He got to his feet. “Help me move them inside the ship’s hull. We’ll be sheltered there.”

  Together they hauled the bodies, the dead and the unconscious, through the torn gap in the ship. The interior smelled of must and mold. Driftwood and the tattered remains of hammocks were piled in one corner. Rats scurried out of the lumpy mounds.

  Ruen sat down on a pile of rigging next to the bodies. Sull moved around the ship with an air of ripe impatience. Ruen watched the chests of the unconscious men rising and falling. He had beaten them severely. He did not know when they would regain sense, and if they would be in a fit state to answer any questions.

  Sliding forward, he removed his glove and reached across the closest man’s prone body. He pressed his hand against the man’s open palm. He wasn’t sure what drove him to do it—he always avoided touching people when he could help it—but he needed to know. He ignored Sull’s curious expression.

  Faint blue light outlined the cracks between his fingers. Ruen curled his hand under the man’s, but he didn’t think Sull could see the light. The man’s hand stung with cold; it was like pressing his palm flush against a frozen lake. He’d expected some degree of chill, but not this. The feeling repulsed him. Ruen removed his hand from the unconscious man’s and put his glove back on.

  “What are you doin’?” Sull said.

  “Checking for signs of life,” Ruen explained. He turned his attention to the other man. “We’ll need to question this one. The other won’t survive. I hit him too hard.”

  “I didn’t see you feelin’ for a life beat—”

  Sull stopped. The man’s eyelids had twitched. A breath later they opened, and the man let out a rough moan. He focused on Ruen and the butcher with the bloody cleaver in his hand. His eyes widened.

  “Welcome back,” Sull said, smiling cheerfully. He seemed to have forgotten Ruen’s odd behavior. “We’ve a few questions for you.”

  Icelin knew she was dreaming. The scene was familiar. Barefoot, she walked on green grass, up the side of a wide, rocky hill. Shafts of sunlight shone on her white dress. There were wildflowers blooming, gold and purple, all around her feet.

  She stopped at the crest of the hill. A stone tower rose up before her. A single window had been cut into the curve facing her, a dark and unblinking eye. The western side had caved in, leaving a gaping hole into which birds flew and nested. Their cries were the only sounds on the hilltop. But Icelin felt she was not alone.

  There were other figures moving up the hill toward the tower, indistinct shadows darting in and out of her field of vision. She tried to grasp them with her eyes, but they had no more substance than the wind brushing her cheeks.

  I will follow them, Icelin thought. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to stride across the grass to the gap in the immense tower. She put her hands on the exposed stone. Warm from the sun, bleached with age, and ribboned with thousands of miniscule cracks, the stone held secrets. Someone had told her this.

  “All the anci
ent places of the world hold secrets. Who knows what manner of men walked here, be they beggars or kings—men who now lie in dusty tombs, their memories husks. Will the stones remember who touched them, when you lie beside these somber lords of the earth?”

  Icelin remembered the words vividly, but for the first time in her life she could not recall who said them. The thought was vaguely disturbing, but she pushed it to the back of her dreaming mind.

  She had entered the tower now. The stones blotted out the sun at her back. The tower’s wood floors had long rotted away, leaving the interior open from earth to sky. Crushed grass and the remains of a small human body were strewn on the ground.

  Icelin tilted her head as far back as she could, taking in the circle of blue rimmed by blackened stones through a gap in the ceiling. The tower had been damaged by fire; she could see the soot stains streaking the walls. Had this small human been the only person to die here? How had it come to be?

  She felt tired now. Icelin sat down in the middle of the tower, still staring up at the sky. The shadow shapes moved around her, but she wasn’t afraid of them. She felt that if they would only be still, she would be able to name them. It was the same with the tower—a living presence that, if she knew its name, would open its secrets to her and welcome her inside. Unnamed, it cast an immutable shadow over her dreams, dominating everything. “Have you found anything?”

  The voice, so loud in the peaceful place, made Icelin jump. The shadows flitted closer to her, and Icelin felt their urgency. Something was happening. The stones around her changed color and became bright orange and blue like storm clouds. The sun pouring through the tower roof was too hot, too hot.

  She looked down at her skin and found it melting off her bones. She was burning alive.

  CHAPTER 9

  Icelin awoke to darkness and more shadows moving around her. This time she felt real terror, for she knew where she was. The gag stank in her mouth, and voices floated around her.

  Cerest was there, somewhere in the darkness. She heard him say, “We’ll wait for gateclose. Bring her, if she’s awake. Be careful of her arm.”

  Icelin looked down and saw the clean bandage tightly wrapped around her injured arm. There was a dull ache where the pain had been.

  Two pairs of rough hands grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. The dark-haired man stood to her right. Her captors guided her over to the center of a large, rectangular room.

  Icelin looked up, just as she’d done in her dream. Timber beams crisscrossed above her head. Tin sheets formed parts of the walls. Wooden crates lined the whole building, some stacked as high as the ceiling.

  A warehouse, Icelin thought. She felt the floor slope down sharply; the ground the warehouse was built upon had shifted over the years. There was a good chance they were still in Mistshore, near the harbor.

  In the center of the room, Cerest and the female elf stood talking. The two men guiding her sat her on a crate before them. The dark-haired man removed her gag.

  Cerest faced her, a cloak hood tucked close around his face. He appeared to be keeping his distance from the human men. Did he fear their reaction to his scars? The thought came unbidden to Icelin, and she wondered why the murderous elf would be bothered to care how others saw him. He nodded to one of the men.

  “Wait outside,” he said. “Greyas, you remain here, but step back so we may talk.”

  With the men dismissed, Cerest focused his attention solely on Icelin. “Hello again,” he said softly. The female elf—Shenan, he’d called her—brought a lantern close and handed it to Cerest. The elf held the flickering flame close to her face so he could see her clearly.

  “What do you want?” Icelin asked.

  To her surprise, the elf went down on one knee in front of her, so that he was looking up into her face. She supposed he meant to appear non-threatening, but Icelin found the effort he took more unsettling than comforting. He angled his body so that the unscarred portion of his face was most visible.

  “I would like,” Cerest said, “for you to tell me how much you remember of your childhood.”

  The question was so bizarrely out of context with the situation that Icelin didn’t immediately answer. Cerest, intent on her expression, seemed to take her silence as defiance. He frowned.

  “Icelin,” he said, at the same time gesturing to the dark-haired man—Greyas, he’d called him. “I know you don’t trust me. That’s to be expected. You don’t remember who I am.” He smiled. “But I have known you for a very long time. Gods, I named you. I remember the night you were born—”

  Icelin lunged at him. Shenan caught her by the throat and pushed her back, but Icelin’s gesture had the desired effect. Cerest stopped speaking and stood back a safe distance. He regarded her with wounded curiosity.

  “Why do you behave this way?” he asked. “I’ve not hurt you, and I don’t intend to.”

  “You killed Brant,” Icelin said. Her throat burned. “All your lies, no matter how prettily spoken, won’t change that.”

  “I’m not lying,” Cerest said. “Brant cared for you. He was a good man. I know that.” When Icelin only stared at him, he went on, “But I think you’ll discover Brant had his share of secrets, especially where you were concerned. I’m confident he acted to protect you, but in doing so, he shortened his own life.”

  “Master.” Greyas stepped forward again, dragging a smaller figure. Icelin pulled her gaze away from Cerest’s face to see who it was. Her heart dropped.

  Fannie stood in front of Greyas, looking like a doll in the man’s muscular arms. While Icelin watched, Greyas placed a hand on either side of Fannie’s head. Fannie quailed, but he did not exert any pressure on her skull. He didn’t have to. Fannie stood utterly still, held in place by the mere threat of what he could do to her with those large hands. She was gagged, as Icelin had been. Her eyes were huge above the scrap of dirty cloth. She looked beseechingly at Icelin.

  “We took her at the same time we took you,” Cerest said. He motioned for Greyas to bring Fannie into the light. He pushed her, stumbling and barefoot, into the small circle of illumination.

  “Shenan,” Cerest said, and the female elf stepped forward, taking Greyas’s place at Fannie’s back. She patted the woman on the shoulder, whispering comforting noises that made Icelin’s skin crawl.

  “What do you remember of your childhood, Icelin?” Cerest repeated the question slowly, glancing meaningfully between Fannie and Icelin.

  “I am an orphan,” Icelin said. She met Fannie’s eyes, trying to silently reassure her. “My parents were killed when I was barely two summers old. Brant, my great-uncle, raised me.”

  “Your great-uncle,” Cerest said. “What about your grandfather, Icelin?”

  “My grandfather is dead. I have no other living family,” Icelin said. “Why are you asking me these questions? If you want to revenge yourself on me, let this woman go and have your pleasure! What more can I possibly give you than my life?”

  Cerest’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Revenge?” he said, sounding almost amused. “My dear girl, far from it. I have no quarrel with you. What gave you that notion?”

  “I—” Icelin turned away. Her mind raced. He wasn’t after her. She’d been wrong this whole time. He hadn’t been in the fire….

  Relief and fear vied for control of Icelin’s emotions. She hadn’t injured the elf. But if it wasn’t revenge he sought, why had he killed Brant? Why had he hunted her so diligently?

  “Shenan,” Cerest said quietly.

  Fannie’s muffled scream snapped Icelin back to the present. She looked up in horror to see the female elf holding Fannie’s head back by the hair. She placed a gleaming dagger blade against Fannie’s arched neck. Blood welled where the blade pressed flesh. The dagger was so sharp, one slip and Shenan would slice open the prostitute’s throat.

  “Answer my question, please,” Cerest said. He sounded like a father coaxing a child. “I think it important I hear this tale, so that we understand ea
ch other.”

  Icelin swallowed. She looked at Cerest, letting him see the undisguised hatred. “I studied magic under the tutelage of Nelzun Decampter, a skilled wizard,” she said. “My great-uncle paid out most of his savings to apprentice me to the man because Decampter specialized in handling wielders of unstable magic. Such was mine. I studied under Nelzun for three years and acquired a reasonable level of skill in the Art.”

  “A reasonable level—did Nelzun believe you had the potential for greater power?” Cerest asked.

  Icelin’s jaw clenched at the eager light in his eyes. “Yes. He wanted me to travel with him, to test my skills out in the world. But I had no desire to leave my home. That mistake cost Nelzun his life.”

  “What happened?” Cerest said.

  “First tell her to move the dagger,” Icelin said, looking at Shenan but addressing Cerest.

  Cerest nodded to the elf woman. Shenan appeared disappointed as she removed the blade from Fannie’s throat.

  “Nelzun took me into the city to test my powers. He wanted me to be able to defend myself in the rougher districts. None of the spells I was to cast that day were dangerous, and Waterdeep is more stable than many cities when it comes to magic going awry.” Icelin knew she shouldn’t care what the elf thought of her, but the need to explain, to justify what couldn’t be justified, clawed at her.

  “We were in Dock Ward. A fight broke out at a tavern as we were passing by, and the brawl spilled into the street.” Icelin could see it clearly in her mind: the shattered door, the man being thrown into the street. Another pair of men followed, brandishing weapons. She’d thought…

  It didn’t matter what they’d intended. She never had the chance to find out.

  “I ran toward the fight. I left Nelzun. When I saw the man about to be attacked, I cast the only spell I knew that would hurt. I’d never called the fire before, but Nelzun had showed me how it was done.”