by J. C.
What did he mean by inspiration? Nausea threatened to creep in upon the tail of Magiere's bewilderment.
"You arranged this?" she asked, a sickening awareness growing. "And what happened in Miiska as well?"
"A simple matter," he answered, "of making sure you were the one to purchase the vacant tavern."
Confusion began to feed slowly into outrage.
The council of Bela, Chap's hidden manipulations, the elves seeking Leesil's life, and now Welstiel. How many had played Leesil and herself like puppets, tugging their strings from both near and far?
Welstiel waved his hand, apparently growing frustrated with her. "All but a means to an end, and you have nearly reached that end. The rest you will learn on our journey, and so I've come for you. The conjuror is unpredictable, and I wanted to be present in case he became a true danger."
He was mad, but Magiere was uncertain what to do. Her gaze kept returning to the black gloves.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.
"You haven't heard where we are going," he responded.
"I don't care."
The torchlight flickered off his smooth face.
"I watched you at your game on the open road. Not often, but enough to follow your progress—and ambition. You are not like other mortals—you do not think like a mortal. When forced, you do what is necessary. What you earned from those peasants was a pittance. What the council offered you is nothing compared to what I seek, and that which I trained you to achieve."
Magiere flinched as he pointed a black-gloved hand at her.
Her shoulder still bled, but the wound was not threatening. Her thigh was more of a concern, as she couldn't put full weight on her leg. Looking at Welstiel, she remembered how undeads seemed to heal themselves through sheer will once they had fed. She focused her thoughts on the slash across her thigh.
The bleeding stopped, though she could still feel the open wound, and she tentatively settled more weight into the leg.
"I am not speaking of money," he went on. "But power. In the ice-capped mountains of this continent is an object long forgotten, guarded by ‘old ones'—possibly the oldest vampires in existence. You were bred to be a hunter, but you will learn nothing more battling these city-dwelling Noble Dead. I must teach you how to truly use the raw skills you have acquired."
His voice, words, and manner recalled her visions and the sensations of Chesna's and Au'shiyn's final moments.
"I know you," he said. "You take risks if the reward is enough, but you have no idea what I offer to make you a part of."
After all she and Leesil had been through to track down the murderer, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly pointed elsewhere. It should have been Chane. The gloves, the dark cloak, and the noble bearing all fit. Even the voice she'd heard in her vision could have been his. Perhaps even the formal words were but a coincidence.
A moment, if you please.
Magiere looked into Welstiel's composed and stern face and remembered the impressions she'd felt in Chane's presence. The mage undead reveled in the kill, enjoyed the death of his victims.
But the killer had not.
Magiere looked to the crossbow's quarrel. Like all those prepared by Leesil before their hunt, it smelled faintly of garlic. There was one way to settle this mystery.
* * * *
Leesil ran behind Chap, and the tunnel again seemed endless. He had to trust that Chap could pick up Magiere's trail once they reached the house of the undeads. How the dog could follow anything in this stinking sewer was baffling.
Chap pulled up short, and Leesil stepped past him before stopping. The hound stood poised, staring down the tunnel, and before Leesil could speak, he took off again at a run. From a distance ahead, Leesil heard splashing footfalls. When he saw Wynn coming, relief filled him.
Glowing crystal in hand, she stumbled to a stop and let out a shallow whimper before rushing toward them. Robe soaked to her thighs, she gripped Leesil's arms with her small hands.
"Hurry," she gasped out. "I think Magiere is in trouble."
"Chane?" he asked.
"No—he escaped."
A rush of panic struck Leesil.
"What happened to Magiere?" he asked more harshly.
"She is all right," Wynn replied. "But there is someone else." Her hands squeezed tighter on his arms. "It is Welstiel, and I think Magiere is troubled. She told me to run and find you."
"Welstiel?" Leesil answered with puzzlement. What was that deluded man doing in Bela, and why had he followed Magiere into the sewers?
"Come quickly," Wynn urged. "She is down this tunnel."
Chap bolted ahead. Leesil followed, pulling Wynn along behind him as he called out, "Chap, stay in sight."
The dog paused, yipped once, and continued at a slower pace. Wynn's fatigue and soaked robe slowed them too much, but Leesil wouldn't leave her behind. The three of them moved as quickly as possible.
"Not far now," Wynn panted once.
Ahead was an opening in the runnel that flickered faintly with torchlight.
Chap stopped there, staring off to the right. But it was from the left side of the wide crossing of tunnels that Leesil saw Magiere inching forward through the shallow water, crossbow pointed in the direction the hound gazed.
She was soaked, and her hauberk had been severed near the left shoulder. The wound bled, and there was another gash across her right thigh.
Leesil handed off his torch to Wynn and pulled both his blades as he came up behind Chap. To the right on the far-side walkway stood Welstiel. His striking face, dark hair, and white temples were unmistakable even in the dim light.
Magiere's eyes flicked briefly in Leesil's direction and then back to Welstiel.
"It's him," she breathed. "He killed Chesna to get us here."
Leesil didn't understand any of this. An undead had butchered Lanjov's daughter, not this obsessive man who babbled about the Noble Dead. Leesil glanced at the topaz upon his chest, but there wasn't the faintest glow coming from the stone. Chap didn't react as if a vampire were present and merely stood with his head swiveling between Magiere and the black-clad gentleman.
Welstiel looked at Leesil with a slight frown.
"She is distraught. I was simply here to make certain she was able to handle the conjuror. I have assisted you in the past. Now, I am here to make you both an offer."
Wynn listened as well, but she hung back as Leesil stepped into the intersection toward Magiere, watching her closely.
Her eyes were intense and unblinking as she watched Welstiel. She gripped the crossbow so tightly her fingernails were whiter than her skin.
"Magiere," Leesil said, stepping closer. "He's not the one. It was Chane."
She sidestepped away from him and took another advancing step toward Welstiel, who began to back away.
"Magiere…" Leesil said gently, and pointed to the topaz with the tip of one blade. "No light, see? And Chap, he would know."
Her eyes flicked only briefly toward him and the hound.
"One way to be certain," she said, and her grip closed on the lever.
"No!" Leesil shouted.
He slashed at the crossbow, but the quarrel was already away. It struck Welstiel in the chest. In panic, Leesil turned to rush toward the man.
Smoke curled up from Welstiel's chest as he stumbled back against the tunnel wall.
"No," Leesil whispered.
"Take his head!" Magiere shouted, her voice echoing through the sewers. "He murdered Chesna."
Chap snarled, crystal-blue eyes turning to Leesil.
How was this possible? Leesil had seen no glow in the amulet. Chap hadn't sensed this. Even Magiere wasn't afflicted with the rage she succumbed to in the presence of an undead. But only an undead burned at the touch of garlic.
Leesil rushed at Welstiel as he shouted to Chap.
"Take him, now!"
Chap lunged out, splashing past him. Welstiel's hand clamped over the quarrel, and he jerked it out. Leesil
saw Welstiel's lips move, and strange words buzzed in his head. Welstiel's free hand snapped out, scattering a fine white powder into the air. The smoke around the man grew in a billowing cloud that welled out to fill the tunnel.
It thickened around Leesil until he could no longer see beyond an arm's length. He tried striking at Welstiel's last position, but his blade only clanged against stone. Then he saw what looked like the quarrel floating in the smoke, and it suddenly shot past him.
A cry of angered pain came from behind.
"Magiere!" Leesil shouted, and he spun about, thrashing his way into the clearer air of the intersection.
Magiere had dropped the crossbow and now gripped her upper arm below the wounded shoulder. She was still on her feet, but slumped as he reached her, head dropping upon his shoulder. Leesil quickly lifted her hand. The quarrel had grazed her, leaving a bleeding gash in her arm.
Gray smoke boiled from the tunnel, and he heard Chap choking inside of it.
"Get out, Chap," he shouted. "Back the way we came."
"No," Wynn said. "To the ladder and up to the street."
"He'll get away," Magiere said, choking. "You can't lose him."
But Leesil stared into the billowing gray cloud rolling toward them and couldn't tell if Welstiel was even in the tunnel anymore.
Wynn waded across to the ladder, urging them to follow, and Chap came lunging out of the smoke. Leesil sheathed his blades and guided Magiere to the ladder. She seemed able to climb well enough with one hand. Leesil reached down and lifted Chap and proceeded to climb as well.
The shaft was tall, and its narrow width helped steady him as he climbed the rungs with one hand, holding on to Chap with the other. Three times the sack of heads at his back caught on the wall, and he stopped to twist himself free of the snag. When he reached the top, Wynn and Magiere grabbed hold of the hound and pulled him through the open grate, and Leesil crawled out to lie panting on the street's cobblestones. He gulped in mouthfuls of fresh air.
Magiere stared down at the ground, expressionless. The sound of running feet and voices traveled up the street, and Leesil rolled to his knees, hands dropping to this blades. But it was only three of the guard rushing toward them.
"Chetnik's men," he said in relief. "I'll have them fetch a wagon so we can get you back to the guild."
Magiere neither looked up nor answered.
* * * *
Chane limped through the shadows of the residential district near their home when he experienced an unexpected hollow sensation inside his mind. It was almost painful in its intensity, as if something had been ripped out of his head. Just as suddenly, it vanished.
His thoughts felt clear and crisp, more than he remembered in recent times. He paused for a moment, and even stepped out openly into the street to look about.
There was no one present. Even in his own thoughts, he was alone. He smiled and closed his eyes.
He had not had any conception of what freedom would feel like when it came. He had not known if he would feel anything at all, but the realization now settled upon him.
Toret was dead.
Chane's smile vanished.
He was injured and homeless and certainly unwelcome at the sages' guild. The dhampir and her people, as well as the sages, now knew his identity, and it would not be long before others would hear of it as well.
"Wynn," he whispered.
Chane wandered the dark streets. All that remained were belongings he could carry, if he reached the house. He could no longer stay in Bela.
Between the deep slash on his knee, the hole in his chest, and the burning wound in his back where Wynn had shot him, he could not face another conflict. His rat would still be in its cage on his desk. As he stood out back, near the servants' entrance, he reached into the animal's limited mind and listened. The house was quiet and still. Drawing his sword, he entered the open back door, and listened on his own.
Nothing. The house seemed to be empty.
He walked through the dining chamber, past Tihko's body on the table and around the wolf's corpse. When he came upon the parlor, there was Sapphire's headless, velvet-clad body lying in a pool of congealing black fluids. He turned back to the stairs and downward into the cellar.
He reeked of the sewers and so changed his clothing first, then quickly packed what belongings he could into a small chest and sack. He had hidden some money in a purse behind a drawer in his desk. On his desk sat a small cold lamp that Wynn had given to him. Taking the crystal out, he fingered it for a moment and slipped it into his cloak. He packed only his most necessary texts and materials, and remembered the day his mother had given him his first book on metaphysics. He wondered if it might still be in his room at home in their manor to north.
Tonight he said good-bye to the only existence he had known since the night Toret had raised him from death. He had never thought of returning to the family keep, but realized that as well was now left behind forever. Finally, he took the rat from its cage and slipped it into the cloak's pocket. With one hand, he grabbed both the sack and small chest, a strap about its girth, and left his room.
Out in the cellar again, he stared up the stairs as he heard booted feet walking slowly on the floor above.
Chane set his baggage down and drew his sword as he climbed the steps. Reaching the exit to the main floor, he slipped the rat out the door and directed it along the wall to the dining chamber.
Through the rodent's eyes, he expected to see city guards come to check on the hunter's story, or perhaps her half-blood returning for some reason. Instead, he saw that Toret's visitor with black hair and white temples stood examining the dead raven upon the table.
Chane tried to sense him through his familiar but felt nothing. It was as if the man were an illusion, not truly there. He watched the stranger idly poke the wolf's corpse with the toe of his boot and then walk down to the parlor. Chane followed, sending the rat along the hallway wall. The visitor stared only a moment at Sapphire's body.
The stranger inspected the whole house, stopping only briefly to note Tibor's body and severed head on the second floor. When it was apparent he was heading for the cellar, Chane slipped quietly into the hidden door at the bottom of the stairs and waited.
It took more time for the rat to catch up, but when it did, the man was in Chane's room. He glanced at the empty cage, paged through several texts, and then picked up Chane's sewer-soaked clothes from the floor. He frowned and dropped them.
When the stranger's inspection was finished, he went back up to the parlor and studied Sapphire's body. Chane had no idea what this man wanted, but there was purpose to his inspection. When the stranger headed for the front door, Chane set a simple task into the rat's thoughts with an image of the man.
Follow— watch.
Chane pulled out of the familiar's mind and waited until he was certain the stranger was well away from the house. Then he climbed to the main floor and slipped through the rear kitchen door.
* * * *
Magiere sat numbly upon the sage's kitchen table, her armor removed and her ruined shirtsleeve cut away. Domin Tilswith carefully spread oily salve across her shoulder, arm, and leg. Neither the old man's comforting presence nor the salve did anything for the turmoil of her thoughts.
If this night's suffocating revelations settled in her mind all at once, she wouldn't be able to keep from screaming— or weeping.
Leesil hovered near, asking if he could do anything.
Wynn kept pushing him out of the way as she assisted the older sage. Chap sat at the floor before her, looking up intently. Every now and then, his tail twitched.
Apparently, Vatz was still at the guard barracks. Once he arrived with Magiere's message, Captain Chetnik had forced him to stay inside for his own safety. It seemed the captain had been more successful than she in getting the little whelp to obey.
Magiere gazed around the kitchen at the herbs and pots hanging everywhere, the fire crackling in the hearth, and the cold lamps hung a
bout for good light. She looked at Leesil's pleasant, tan face, and knew she should be glad, at least in part. They'd taken two undeads and managed to survive. Leesil had the heads for proof.
But proof of what? Chesna's murderer had escaped, as had Chane, making Magiere little more than the charlatan who once bedazzled peasants out of their last coins.
While Wynn dressed her wounded leg, the young sage talked feverishly with the domin in their own language. All wounds finally tended, Tilswith smiled at Magiere.
"Done," he said with confidence. "You heal soon."
Magiere looked tiredly into his eyes and lined face. She wondered if he was speaking of more than just her body. The old sage turned to Leesil.
"Teeth?" he asked, pointing to the base of Leesil's neck. "And bruise."
For a moment, Leesil appeared puzzled, lifting a hand up to feel. Then he winced. The domin motioned for him to sit beside Magiere, and Leesil became the object of ministrations. As Wynn helped Leesil remove his armor, Tilswith suddenly turned his curiosity back to Magiere.
"This man—Noble Dead—who kill Chesna. You know him?"
"Yes," Magiere said bitterly. "We know him."
Leesil looked at her in concern. "There's no way we could have guessed. None of this is our fault."
"Isn't it?" she asked. "Dunction, our tavern's previous owner, also mysteriously ‘disappeared' one night. Somehow Welstiel made certain I would buy the Sea Lion, and we would end up in Miiska, stumbling upon disappearing townsfolk and uncovering Ratboy, Rashed, and Teesha."
Realization spilled across Leesil's long features.
"He knew what I was before I did," Magiere added. "Watched us on the game. And I think he knows a great deal more about my past, about what I am, than he's told us. He's been playing us… like everyone else."
Tilswith was listening carefully as he dressed Leesil's wound. "Why? Why he know these and want you learn?"
Magiere remembered Welstiel's urgency in the sewers.
"Something he's after," she said thoughtfully. "Something old, a long-forgotten object that will give him power, and he thinks it's guarded by ancient Noble Dead. He's been preparing me for that task."