Mistshore

by Jaleigh Johnson

  Icelin was silent for a long time. She knew exactly how to answer him, but she couldn’t at first, because she’d never admitted it outright to herself. It felt strange to do so now.

  “The first time I cast a spell, it was agony,” Icelin said. “My head hurt; my stomach felt like it was being yanked inside out. When it was over, my teacher told me not to worry, that the pain would not always be so debilitating. I knew even then that he was wrong. I didn’t care. I cast spell after spell; I learned every magic he taught me.”

  “Why?” Ruen said. “Why put yourself through the pain?”

  “Because it made me forget,” Icelin said. “In that breath when I called the magic, the pain made me forget everything. Me, who can forget nothing. It was a miracle. All the memories I couldn’t bury disappeared when the magic engulfed me. Their weight was gone. For that short time, I was free. Give up magic? I couldn’t conceive of it, not until the fire. Even after I killed those people—”

  “It was an accident,” Ruen said.

  “When I swore I would never use magic again, I broke my promise almost immediately. I locked all the dangerous spells away, yes, but even the little magics caused me pain. I kept those spells close, and cast them often. It was the only way I could forget.”

  “It’s not so easy for the rest of us to forget,” Ruen said. “The worst and the best memories stay with you. Some things you’re supposed to experience, no matter how painful.”

  “Do words like that aid you, when you touch a man’s bare flesh?” Icelin asked. “When you learn when he will die?”

  “No,” Ruen said. “But I still say the words. It’s all I can do.”

  He turned his head away from her and tipped his hat down over his face. Icelin started to say something else but let it go.

  She pulled the letters out of her pack and laid the bundle in her lap. The first she’d already read. She folded it carefully and laid it aside.

  The second letter had dirt caked around the edges of the parchment. Icelin fingered the stains. This letter had come from outside Waterdeep. She wondered what it had gone through to make its way to her great-uncle’s house.

  Breaking the brittle seal, Icelin unfolded the pages.

  Dear Granddaughter,

  I wish you could be with me as I pass through the Dalelands. You would love this country. The sun is rising, the air is crisp, but the dying hints of campfire keep me warm. If I listen closely, I can hear the most remarkable sounds. Brant would call me sentimental, but I imagine I can hear the voices of those who walked these roads long ago. What stories would they tell, these brave phantoms, if they could stop a while by my fire? Would their adventures be of storming perilous castles or tilling fertile fields? Would they slay dragons or raise daughters? All these things I wonder, as I sit by my fire and think of you.

  Icelin clutched the parchment in her hands. This letter and the handful following all came from a different land or city—some she had never heard of. Four years went by in a bell as she read. The only thing she could conclude of her grandfather, besides his affection for her, was that restless was too weak a word to ascribe to him. He never stopped moving.

  Dear Granddaughter,

  Today I looked for the first time upon the city of Luskan. I pray you never have cause to enter this den of depravity and violence. There is no law but that of the thieves’ guilds and street gangs. Ever at war with each other, they take no notice of a lone man seeking shelter.

  I sat upon a rooftop and looked out over Cutlass Island, at the ruins of the Host Tower of the Arcane. The locals say it is a cursed place, and I cannot help but agree. The restless dead walk that isle, sentinels to its lost power. In my younger days, I would have longed for the challenge and promise of treasure to be found in such a forgotten stronghold. I can see the magic swirling under shattered stone. It drifts among the bones of the once mighty wizards who ruled here. The riches tempt me even now, but my strength would never hold out long enough to reach the isle, which seems as distant as gentle Waterdeep. No, tonight I long only for a warm blanket and unspoilt food. Strange how one’s priorities shift with age.

  Icelin stopped reading. Hatsolm rolled onto his side, bumping against her leg. He coughed once, deep in his chest, then again. A fit overtook him, and he curled upright into a ball, his body shaken by the hacks and wheezes. Icelin pulled his blanket up over his shoulders. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “I’ll get you some water,” she said.

  “No need.” He wiped the blood from his mouth. “It’s over.” He pulled the blanket over his head and laid back down, his face turned away from her.

  Icelin looked at the letter in her hand. Hatsolm had come to Waterdeep seeking refuge from the world, and he’d found it, in a way, through Kaelin and his ghostly troupe.

  Elgreth spoke of being old. The tone of this letter was much different from his earlier messages to her. Perhaps he wasn’t sick like Hatsolm, but he seemed in no fit condition to travel in Luskan. Her great-uncle had always said the city was not a city at all, but a damned place where only the desperate sought refuge.

  She went back to the letters. They continued in Luskan for a year, all written from the same perch on the rooftop. Elgreth had constructed a rough shelter from abandoned slates of tin and wood, in the ruins of a condemned tavern. The more she read, the more Icelin suspected that her grandfather’s adventure would not continue beyond the hellish city.

  At the bottom of the pile, Icelin found an especially thick bundle. The seal was cracked; the wax had not been sufficient to hold the folded parchment. Was it a memoir? A deathbed request? It was the last letter. Icelin’s fingers shook as she unfolded the sheets.

  Dear Granddaughter,

  The time has come. You are old enough now to be told the truth. But even if you were not, I have no time left to delay this tale. I pray it never happens, but if Cerest comes looking for you, you must be prepared.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ruen watched Icelin reading her letters. Her attention was completely absorbed by the writing on the page. He sat up quietly, slid into the shadows, and climbed the ladder. When he got to the dock he glanced down to be sure he hadn’t been followed. He slipped the illusion cloak from his shoulders and moved through the shadows in his own form.

  When he was safely out of earshot of the beggars, he pulled the sava pawn from his pouch and warmed it between his fingers. He felt the connection at once.

  “What is it, Morleth?”

  Tallmantle’s voice. “Where’s Tesleena?” he asked. “Has she tired of me so soon?”

  “She walks in Mistshore, seeking Icelin,” the Warden said. “Know that if Tesleena comes to harm through your delays, none of the squalor in Waterdeep will be able to hide you from me.” The Warden’s voice was polite, even conversational.

  “Your wizard will be fine,” Ruen said. “Icelin is another matter.”

  “What’s happened?”

  Ruen hesitated before plunging into the tale. He left nothing out—his battle in the Cradle, Icelin’s letters, her unique memory, and every instance of her spells going wild. He gave a detailed account of what Arowall had told him about Icelin’s gifts. When he’d finished there was a long silence.

  “Are you certain?” the Warden asked. “Certain she is dying?”

  “I haven’t touched her,” Ruen said. “Nor will I, so do not waste breath in asking. “But I see the evidence of my eyes. She needs help. Perhaps Tesleena—”

  “Are you saying you’re willing to bring her in?”

  Ruen clenched the pawn in his fist. “Can you aid her, if I do?”

  “Tesleena and I will do everything in our power. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a patrol to get you.”

  She won’t forgive me, Ruen thought. But she’ll be alive.

  “Not yet,” Ruen said. “It has to be her decision.”

  “Ruen—”

  “Thank you, Warden. I’ll be in touch. Give my regards to Tesleena.” He severed the connect
ion.

  In the end, there was no choice. Perhaps, if he let the Watch capture them, the Warden would take pity on him and not reveal his identity to Icelin and the others.

  “So it’s the coward’s way, as always.” He shook his head. Soon he would be well and truly hidden in the Watch’s skirts, a tamed dog they used for their own amusement. Or was he already there, and he just didn’t realize it? If that was so, what more could the opinion of one dying woman matter to him?

  Tarvin couldn’t believe his luck. Ruen Morleth, expelled from the bowels of the beggar ship by the gods’ own sweet blessing.

  He considered subduing the man, but thought better of it when Ruen spoke into the sava pawn. Tarvin recognized the Watch Warden’s voice, though he could make out little of the substance of the conversation.

  If Ruen Morleth was here, then Icelin Tearn was somewhere nearby. Tarvin looked down into the ship, but he could see nothing except rag-cloaked bodies.

  Odds were she was hiding among the sick. It was brilliant, in a twisted way. The wench must be truly desperate.

  There was no chance in the Nine Hells he was going down there to search for her. He could go back to the Court and warn the others. They would come in force and root the beggars out, but in the meantime Icelin might leave her hiding place for a safer one. If she did that, he would lose his chance to capture her.

  Tarvin sank low in the shadows, hiding himself again behind the crates—abandoned food cartons, by the smell and the buzz of flies. For now, he would wait.

  He watched Ruen Morleth clench his fist and slide the pawn away in his pouch. He looked angry, perhaps at something the Warden had said. Was he upset that he was about to lose his wild little plaything?

  Go on and sulk, dog. The Warden will have you both. Tarvin smiled at the thought.

  Cerest watched Ristlara and Shenan work their magic. Arcane radiance lit up the ship’s cabin.

  Ristlara had Arowall’s hands pinned to his desk with two gold-hilted daggers. Magic pulsed down the blades into the man’s skin. The pale blue light ran sickly up his arms, creating new veins while pushing others out of the way.

  The man’s face twisted in agony. A steady stream of blood and spittle ran down his chin. His eyes were fixed on some unknown distance. He would not look at either of the females while the magic sapped his life energies.

  “I don’t understand,” Shenan said. She sounded like a parent disappointed in the performance of a beloved child. “We never have this trouble with the daggers.”

  “He’s strong-willed,” Cerest said, but Ristlara shook her gold tresses impatiently.

  “He’s human. He should have broken by now.”

  At her words, Arowall spat blood and a piece of what looked like his own tongue. He collapsed facedown on the desktop, his head between the glowing blades. Ristlara moved hastily out of the way.

  “Pull the blades out,” Shenan told her. When the magic faded from his skin, she rolled the man over and laid her head against his heart. “Dead,” she said.

  “Your daggers aren’t as effective as you thought, Shenan.” Cerest slammed his fist against the ship’s hull. A waste of time, all of it. He was no closer to finding Icelin than he was a day ago.

  “She’s obviously here. Half the crowd saw her, but strangely, none of them know where she went,” Ristlara said sardonically.

  “They fear Arowall,” Shenan said. She ran her fingers through the dead man’s thin hair. “He’s not so terrifying. Perhaps Mistshore has its own sense of loyalty. Incredible thought, isn’t it?”

  “Search the ships,” Cerest said. “The ones circling the Cradle must belong to Arowall. If she’s still here, we’ll find her.”

  The Locks exchanged glances. Ristlara nodded at her sister and went above. Cerest could hear her gathering her men.

  Arowall’s domain had been shockingly easy to penetrate, despite the guards stationed on deck. Cerest supposed Arowall had put the majority of his resources behind maintaining the Cradle instead of seeing to his own protection. A fatal mistake.

  Shenan stayed perched on Arowall’s desk. She folded her arms across her chest and gazed at him with that parental expression he loathed.

  “Well?” Cerest demanded. “Say whatever is on your tongue. I don’t have time to waste.”

  “Cerest, why not give this up?” Shenan said. “We’re all exhausted near to dropping, and we’ve come closer to the Watch patrols than any of us are comfortable.”

  “I never took the Locks for cowards,” Cerest said.

  The elf woman smiled faintly. “Oh, Cerest, sometimes I forget how young you are, how like a spoiled child who never gets his way. Do you believe those sorts of taunts will move either Ristlara or I to action?”

  “You’ve been compliant so far.”

  “We have, because the chase amused us, in the beginning. Also, we recognized the profit to be made by aligning ourselves with you and the girl. But you’re ruled by your impulses, Cerest. That’s why you will never make a proper merchant, because your emotion gives you away. People can always tell when you want something so badly it threatens to break you. Isn’t that why your father let you live but denied you your birthright, because he knew you valued it more than your own life?”

  She knew it would provoke him. Cerest could see it in her eyes. He obliged her. He strode to the desk and backhanded her across the face. She fell over Arowall’s body, her hair spreading wildly over the dead man’s face.

  Sitting up, Shenan put a finger to her split lip. Blood welled against her hand. Her face would swell and bruise, but she smiled as if he’d kissed her mouth instead of punching it.

  “In the end, that’s why we love you, Cerest,” she said. “Allow me to be equally blunt: if you continue to pursue Icelin, you will likely be killed, by the Watch or by the allies Icelin has gathered. Perhaps Icelin herself will be your undoing.” She raised a hand to stop his argument. “You may continue to hunt her as long as you like. I don’t mind how many of the human dogs we lose—keep them and use them with my blessing—but I will protect my sister and our business interests.”

  “You would leave me?” Cerest said, and he realized he sounded very much like a bewildered child. But this was how it always ended. Everyone in his life had deserted him when he needed them most: his father, Elgreth, now the Locks.

  “Where did I go wrong with all of them,” he said aloud.

  Shenan slid to the edge of the desk so her knees were touching Cerest’s thighs. She put a bloody hand against his cheek. “You don’t have any notion of what a conscience is, do you? Of how to trace your actions to consequences? Your mind doesn’t work that way. It’s fascinating. You don’t realize what you did to them, to Elgreth and the others, do you?”

  Cerest pulled away, wiping the blood from his face. He felt unsteady in the knees, but he didn’t know why. Was Shenan right? Was there some part of his mind that functioned differently from other folk, beyond the differences that separated elf from human? He’d never considered it before. He’d always taken for granted that he was an oddity, an elf in a swell of humans. But to hear her say it gave him pause. “Icelin is different,” he said. “We can start over.”

  Shenan shook her head. “You killed her great-uncle—”

  “Brant is not her blood,” Cerest said. Why couldn’t they understand? “He lied to her about her family. She owes no loyalty to him.”

  “She loves him as she will never love you, Cerest. She will act precisely as Elgreth acted. She will resist you, or she will run. That is the truth.”

  “You’re wrong,” Cerest said. “I can convince her. I can make her see that it wasn’t my fault.”

  She searched his face, read the conviction there, and nodded. Standing on her toes, she kissed him on the brow, on his scar, and finally on his mouth. When she was done, she put her lips against his good ear so he would hear her whisper.

  “I wish you good fortune, my love, and I will mourn you when you are gone to the gods.”

 
; Cerest didn’t reply. He stood, stiffly, and let her have her way. When she’d gone, he remained at Arowall’s desk, staring at the dead man. Ristlara’s men, he knew, would be waiting for him on deck. To leave him such resources was more than generous, but he wasn’t feeling generous at the moment.

  His head ached, and his mind screamed with the implications of Shenan’s words. What if she was right? What if Icelin rejected him, as Elgreth had?

  Cerest acknowledged that Shenan was probably justified in her concerns. Between Icelin’s magic and the sheer number of hunters he’d had after her, they’d been attracting too much attention. Perhaps it was time for a different strategy.

  When he climbed the ladder, Ristlara’s men were waiting. “We’re going separate ways,” Cerest said. “The first man who sights the girl and returns to me at Whalebone Court will be paid in more gold than any of you have ever seen. Look, listen, but do not approach her. Follow her to whatever hiding place she’s using during the day. Once we know where she goes to ground, we’ll have her. Do you understand?”

  They nodded. Cerest dismissed them. He looked around the empty Cradle, but he knew he would not see Shenan or Ristlara.

  If Shenan was right, he wouldn’t be able to keep Icelin from deserting him. But there were options, magics that controlled the mind and made a person’s will pliable. Wasn’t he the expert in objects of such Art?

  Everything would work out this time. Shenan was wrong. He had it all under control.

  Icelin stared at the words on the page.

  I pray it never happens, but if Cerest comes looking for you, you must be prepared.

  I hope you will have no need of the tale I am about to impart. My absence from Waterdeep should dissuade Cerest from searching for you, and if it does not, he could hardly know where to begin in a city so vast. He did not know about Brant.