by J. C.
After helping Magiere to settle the chest, Wynn placed her lantern on the table, sliding the one there closer. She removed its tin cap and frosted glass, and as she reached toward the exposed light, Magiere almost called out. The sage's slim fingers closed about it and were stopped firmly before pinching out the illumination. When she lifted her hand, the light came with it, perched between her fingertips.
"What are… what is that?" Leesil asked, stepping closer.
Wynn smiled. "It is a cold lamp."
Opening her hand, the light rolled down her fingers and into her palm, and though it was still painful to the eyes, Magiere saw the glimmering outline of a clear crystal against Wynn's skin. It was no longer or thicker than one joint of her finger.
"With all that we keep here—scrolls, books, and other precious knowledge—open flame is a risk we cannot tolerate," she explained. "Some of our people are thaumaturgical artificers, mages of making, and create the crystals we use in our lamps." She held it out. "Here, feel it."
Magiere set down the salve jar on the chest and took the crystal with some hesitancy. It was cool to the touch.
"Now rub it between your hands," Wynn instructed.
She did so gently, and when she opened her hands, the light was indeed too bright to look at.
"That is all you need do if it dims," Wynn explained. Taking the crystal again, she returned it to the lantern, replacing both glass and cap. "Sleep as late as you wish and come to the kitchen when you wake."
She slipped out and back the way they had come.
When Magiere was certain the sage was gone, she whispered, "Vatz?"
The boy only grumbled and shifted, seemingly lost in slumber, and Magiere turned to Leesil.
"It was him, the one in my vision. He was the one in my room tonight."
For a moment, Leesil appeared uncertain what she meant. But then, instead of eagerness over finding their prey, he closed his eyes and slumped on the edge of the bunk across from Chap.
It was Magiere's turn to wonder in confusion.
"Are you certain about this?" Leesil asked.
"Dressed like a noble in a well-tailored black cloak," she answered. "He wasn't in the council chambers that first day we arrived." Her voice grew firm. "But he wore black gloves, well fitted. How many other undeads do you think we can find like that?"
"Oh, this is more twisted than even I can deal with," Leesil muttered.
"What?" Magiere asked. "I've seen him now. This is what we're here for."
"No, it isn't," he whispered.
She crouched down with some effort, the side of her chest aching even more. When she looked into Leesil's narrowed eyes, he stared back at her, unblinking.
"It was Ratboy… in my room," he said.
His words washed all else from Magiere's thoughts. "Ratboy?"
"He was different… dressed like a wealthy elite," Leesil went on. "And wielding a sword this time, like some half-pint warrior. But it was him."
This was far beyond anything Magiere had anticipated. She shook her head slowly. "Please don't tell me he was wearing black gloves as well."
Leesil shook his head as well. "I don't recall."
Confusion and fatigue snuffed the last of Magiere's fury at seeing the nobleman's black-gloved hands. Sly and cunning, Ratboy, Rashed, and Teesha had concealed themselves among townsfolk—but in an out-of-the-way place, not the king's city. So why would Ratboy now keep company with a demented dead nobleman murdering the city's elite citizens… and not even for their blood? She tried to stand again but doubled over halfway, pain slicing through her side.
Leesil snatched the side of her shirt and lifted it. In reflex, she swatted his hand aside.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, stop playing the prude," he growled. "You didn't get out as unscathed as you look. Now sit down."
Magiere was too tired to argue. It wasn't the first time they'd tended each other's wounds. She settled on the bunk's edge, and he lifted the side of her shirt again.
"Ah, I see you're finally getting some color," Leesil said with a frown.
Magiere pulled the shirt up enough to see for herself. A large patch of her pale torso was mottled and yellowed. There was still a hint of black and blue beneath the skin, but the bruise looked days old instead of a quarter night.
"You and that dog." Leesil sighed, and reached behind her on the bed to gather the folded blanket against the wall. "Still, the salve should take away some pain. Lean back."
Magiere reclined, and if she had any reluctance at being tended like an invalid, she lost it in another aching stab.
Leesil unbuttoned her shirt to the base of her breastbone. She suppressed another urge to push him away and do it herself. He lifted the shirt side to expose her ribs and then dipped his fingers into the salve sitting on the chest. She winced hard as he gently worked the salve into her side, but her thoughts were still on the puzzle that had grown more baffling this night.
"What is Ratboy doing here?" she asked. "He's more savage than Rashed or Teesha were, but that's not the same as butchering bodies without feeding. It's not his way."
"I told you when we left Au'shiyn's home, someone's on the game here." There was a hint of exasperation in Leesil's voice. "I just didn't know it was that little wretch until now."
His fingers worked along the edge of her rib cage around her white stomach. It was possible she'd cracked a few ribs, but the pain began to dull. She felt numb beneath the salve, which made the occasional brush of Leesil's hand against her stomach more acute.
"Make some sense, please," she said tiredly.
"Put it together," he answered. "The killer left Chesna dead on Lanjov's doorstep but never contacted Lanjov or the council. So why? Intimidation? Fair enough, but for what reason? And what did Lanjov and the council do?"
"They sent for us," she answered.
"All the missing people, a few bodies, and then Chesna… as if someone felt he wasn't getting enough attention and needed to be a little more obvious."
Magiere hesitated, not even wanting to believe where he was leading her.
"Bait," she whispered.
Leesil nodded.
"Yes, and we walked right into the snare, no better than the peasants we fooled all those years on the road. Tonight was Ratboy's worn-out way of throwing a welcoming party, complete with his new family."
"But why Au'shiyn?" she asked. "That doesn't fit, if murdering nobles was just to get us here. He died after we arrived."
"I don't know." Leesil shook his head. "It's a large city, and perhaps they couldn't find us either and needed us to show ourselves. Even in daylight when we went to Au'shiyn's, Ratboy could have found a way to track us."
As Leesil finished a stroke of salve down her side, his wrist brushed the crest of her hipbone. Magiere flinched more from pain than the flurry of nerves she felt inside. Leesil pulled away and frowned again.
"Looks like he grazed the hip as well."
"No, it's fine," she said, and began to sit up.
"Stop being a child," he snapped. With one quick hand to her shoulder, he shoved her back. "We hunt tomorrow, and even your rapid healing needs all the help it can get."
Resentment got the better of Magiere's nervous discomfort. She leaned back on her elbows, as he uncinched her belt and carefully peeled the side of her breeches down enough to expose her hipbone. Discolored like her side, the skin was also scraped raw from the nobleman's boot.
As Leesil worked the salve in, she refused to flinch and give him an excuse for another remark. But when the numbness settled in, it was followed by the same mix of uneasiness and contentment that spread from Leesil's fingertips.
Magiere watched him, still naked to the waist, and their conversation slipped from her mind.
"We need to find you a shirt," she said quietly.
"You don't look so neat and tidy yourself," he replied. "Unless those black stains are some new badge of honor for dhampirs. Guess you finally got me out of my old rags."
Every nerve in Magiere's body tightened in a rush of panic, and she stood up, buckling her belt with some difficulty.
"Thanks… it's better now," she said.
Leesil sat tight-lipped, as if she'd just insulted him.
"You'd better take the bottom bunk, in case you need to get up in the night," he said.
With that, he hauled himself into the top bed and flopped back to stare at the ceiling.
Magiere settled on the lower bunk. It didn't matter how much she might want Leesil closer, because the closer he came, the more danger he would be in. She was still a dhampir, and nothing would change that.
"Leesil?" she asked, wondering if he were still awake.
"What?" he said from above.
"If it's a trap, why are we playing into it?" She didn't really expect an answer, and just wanted to hear his voice. "Shouldn't we wait?"
"No, not on my life," he said harshly.
The pause that followed was so long, Magiere was about to speak when Leesil abruptly continued.
"He's mine. That filthy little whelp is mine. I'm going to finish what I should have… what I couldn't that night outside of Miiska."
This was no time for vengeance, and Magiere felt an angry rebuke rising in her throat. Then she remembered her rage upon seeing the nobleman in his black gloves.
"With the four who attacked us," she said, "there should be a clear trail to follow. Except Chap is too injured to track."
"We may not have to search anymore," he whispered. "They're coming to us now. And that suits me."
"We have to find the lair," she insisted. "This won't be over until we're sure we've gotten them all."
He didn't answer, and in a little while, his breathing deepened.
The cold lamp burned brightly from the table. Magiere wasn't certain she'd be able to sleep. She lay listening to Leesil's deep, slow breaths and the occasional creak of the bunks when he shifted. She closed her eyes against the light.
* * * *
Blind in one eye, his body trembling with exhaustion and lost fluids, Toret shoved open the front door of his house, and he, Chane, and Tibor staggered into the foyer.
Sapphire sat in the parlor in her mustard silk gown. Her jaw dropped. Toret knew they were an ugly sight.
Tibor had long gashes all over his arms and face. There was a blackened hole in the middle of his throat, and his dirty clothes were a shredded mess. Chane wasn't wearing his cloak. Something sharp had slashed through the shoulder of his vestment and shirt, leaving a black oozing mess down his sleeve. The wound wouldn't close.
Toret was the worst of all. In place of his right eye was a gore-seeping cavity. His upper chest was split open, his ribs and severed breastbone exposed in the wide wound. The whole front of his split vestment was soaked black like Chane's sleeve. But he was home now, and Sapphire was waiting. Toret stumbled toward her.
"My sweet," he managed to say.
Her horror grew as he closed the gap between them and put his hands on her shoulders for support. She stepped back and pushed him away.
"Toret! This is real silk."
Toret leaned on the divan in confusion, sending fresh black fluids trickling down one arm. Why didn't she comfort him?
"That's a velvet divan," she said. "Chane, do something! And don't you dare let that sailor in here."
Toret stared at her through his one good eye. "Sapphire… my love. We're in a bad way. We need your help."
She frowned, as if this scene were simply too much, and whirled out of the room without a word.
Toret watched Sapphire's departing yellow-clad backside in disbelief. He could order her to stay. He could order her to help him, but he didn't. She should be caring for him, as Teesha had cared for Rashed, yet now she walked away in disgust because he was bleeding.
Lacking his usual grace, Chane stumbled in to assist him.
"You need rest," he said flatly. "So does Tibor."
"I need to feed," Toret answered. "Can you find me something?"
Chane moved to the window, lifted the curtain aside, and looked out.
"Dawn is too close, but rest will help, and I will go out the moment the sun sets tonight." He looked at his own open wound. "This is not closing. What do you know of the dhampir's sword?"
Toret sank upon the divan and leaned back. "Enchanted—or cursed," he replied. "I've felt its sting myself."
Chane pointed to Tibor standing in the foyer. "What about his throat? A quarrel should not do that to one of us."
"Simple trick. It was soaked in garlic water… poison to us." Toret closed his eye. "Send Tibor up to rest and then assist me."
It shouldn't be Chane helping him but Sapphire. Through the nightmare of making their way home unseen, Toret's mind was filled with images of Sapphire's concern for him, of how she would care for him as he had cared for her.
He felt strong hands pulling him up, but he pushed Chane away.
"Go downstairs and rest."
"Yes… master."
Toret walked to the stairs and grabbed the railing. As he climbed, he hoped feeding later would restore his mutilated eye. The half-blood had used mundane weapons, not like the dhampir's sword, so time and life force should heal his wounds completely. But when he saw Sapphire's closed door, he wondered if all wounds would heal.
He went to his room alone.
* * * *
Welstiel sat at a small table in his room, thinking. At the bedside in the frosted-glass globe on its plain iron pedestal, the three dancing sparks dimly illuminated the small room. It was the oldest thing he possessed, having been the first thing he'd ever created in his long studies. That seemed so very long ago.
His fingers laced, and he absently traced the stub of the severed smallest finger with his other hand. His plan was not proceeding smoothly, and he was troubled. Lanjov was ready to dismiss the dhampir, and this was not a contingency Welstiel had considered. Magiere was an excellent hunter. This alone should outweigh any of her social shortcomings, even in Lanjov's world. Or so he had thought.
In addition, the pathetic Ratboy—or Toret—was not proving the challenge Welstiel had hoped. Magiere required practice and training. She needed to learn to handle multiple opponents, and to expect that older prey might have additional skills at their disposal beyond the varied abilities and strengths of the Noble Dead. Ratboy's lackey, Chane, was obviously a conjuror, and perhaps more, and yet for all Rat-boy's efforts and resources, he bumbled about like a fool.
Welstiel leaned back, exhausted. He had used his own methods to keep the dreams at bay for several days now— to keep himself from the coils of his dream patron. But he had to rest, at least a little while, before anything further could be addressed. He rose, made sure the door was tightly locked, and collapsed on the bed.
He barely noticed the room. A typical inn, and suitable for the kind of man who frequented the Knight's House, but he had seen the inside of too many inns. In recent years, they'd all begun to look the same. He reached into his baggage under the bed and pulled out a pewter vial, sipped its content lightly, and murmured a soft chant. Willing himself not to sink into dreams and merely to lie down for a while, he closed his eyes.
But it had been too long since he'd rested.
The world around him shifted and rolled like tall desert dunes, the countless grains of sand threatening to bury or pull him under. But there was no sand. The dunes were black. Movement sharpened slowly into clarity and sand grains became the glitter of light reflected upon black reptilian scales. Scale-covered dunes became a mammoth serpent's coils, circling on all sides of him. They slowly writhed with no beginning and no end and no space between.
"Where?" Welstiel asked. "Where is it? It has been so many years. Am I closer?"
They were the same questions he always asked.
High… to the cold and ice, came the whispered answer that penetrated his thoughts. Guarded by old ones… oldest of predecessors.
"How do I find it?"
As always, he tried to peer
beyond the black coils to find what he sought, but he still did not know what it looked like—only what the coils promised it would do for him.
A jewel or gem—something unique and long forgotten to the world. It would be endowed with a divine essence able to free him of his current existence. He let his mind roll with the coils around him.
The old ones.
He did not know for certain, but he suspected what the coils tried to tell him. And to battle these guards was why he needed and prepared Magiere. She would be the most useful tool for his task.
The constantly roiling coils of his patron exhausted him, but he languished amid its dream. Words slipped like an echo through his mind. He could not tell if they came from his own thoughts or his faceless, scaled patron.
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Chapter 15
Sgaile neared the end of the district outside of Bela's third ring wall. He slipped off his cloak and reversed it. The inner lining, now outward, was evening blue and, though as dark as the rest of his gray-green raiment, broke the conspicuous monotone of his attire. His features would be eyecatching enough. He disassembled his shortbow, lodging the pieces in the back of his belt.
Humans moved about the street, but with his cowl up, few took notice of him. He slowed has pace as he approached the gatehouse through the outer ring wall.
Beneath the raised portcullis were four white-surcoated city guards, watching each passerby, and several other armed men in plain dress. Upon the wall top, more guards paced the rampart in both directions into the distance. There were more than expected, and he wondered what had forced an increase in the day watch.
A guard lowered a prong pike across his path. "What's your business here, master treeborn?"
The man was tall for a human, almost as tall as Sgaile, with a close-cropped beard spiking from his chin and small eyes beneath the ridge of his plumed helmet. Human facial hair had always been somewhat repugnant to Sgaile.
"I am delivering a letter to kin," he answered.
After a moment's appraisal, the guard held out his gloved hand. "Let's have a look."
Sgaile withdrew a folded paper from his vestment. The guard took it and roughly snapped it open with one hand, squinting as he stared at the inked scrawling upon it.