“Then tell it now,” said Loren.
Chet sighed, pushed himself from the rock, and sidled over to sit in front of Loren, his eyes fixed on hers, until she turned her gaze away.
“His corpse was a league south of the village when we found it. He lay facedown, head turned to the side, eyes open and staring. There was no blood in his spittle, but it had greatly frothed and gathered around his lips.”
Loren swallowed, knowing what would come next: the tale of his wound, the one that had slain him, there in the same forest where they now sat. Chet watched, gauging her reaction while she kept her face still.
“He had bled to death; we could see it at once. Though the fletching had broken from the arrow, the shaft still stuck from his thigh. It had hit a vein or nicked it as he crawled, and the lifeblood had drained from his body. Its trail stretched far south, mayhap half a league. We followed it and found the signs of a struggle. Between him and, I guessed, you, but also a third person we did not know. I thought it might have been the wizard sought by the constables.”
“You were right in that,” said Loren, glad her voice left steady and not in a croak. “That was Xain. My father nearly strangled the life from him.”
“He would have had you not stopped him,” said Chet quietly. “And he might have killed you, too.”
Loren remembered the fight as though it were happening again, the spite that filled her father’s eyes, the spittle that left his lips with every hateful word. Now she imagined him crawling north after the fight, the shaft protruding from his flesh, life soaking the dirt beneath him. She saw him shuddering and convulsing as he finally died, and wondered if he had spent his final words cursing her; his flesh and blood, whom he had never given anything so wasteful as love.
“Likely my words cannot help you. But you should not blame yourself, Loren. You restrained your hand beyond all reason. You might have planted your arrow in his eye, or his heart. You did not. You tried to show mercy. And mayhap, if he had stayed where he was, he would not have died in the end.”
But Loren knew better, remembering when she would chop her father’s logs how he would employ threats to make her work faster. And she remembered how, if he thought she were being lazy or disobedient, he would take her into the woods and beat her, his thick and meaty fists leaving bruises beneath her clothing that would linger for weeks. And she remembered going back to chopping his logs, gripping the axe tightly in her hands and picturing it lodged in his skull, or in his back, between the ribs to still his heart forever.
Loren’s breath rose ever faster with her racing thoughts. One after another flashed through her mind: the corpse, the arrow, the axe and the corpse, the spittle and the blood. Again, the corpse.
Then the corpse became Jordel’s, and she saw the Mystic’s twisted body sprawled upon the valley floor.
Loren fought her vomit and fell doubled up on hands and knees.
“Loren!” Chet kneeled beside her side and placed a hand on her shoulder. She pushed him off, breathing faster until stars danced before her eyes and her head was spinning. She lifted her gaze to stare upon the sky but could see only black where there should have been blue.
Black and blue, like my bruises.
She screamed and slammed a fist into the earth. She struck again, and again. Her fist flew sideways, into the boulder. Her knuckles split and spilled an ugly gush of blood.
Pain gave her focus, and Loren clutched her hand close. At last she could sit back without her gorge rising. Rage turned to hot, bitter tears, leaving trails of grief upon her cheeks. Chet sat with an arm around her shoulder, the other cradling her mangled hand.
“It was not your fault,” he kept murmuring. “It was not your fault.”
Soon, she felt herself regain some control. As she had so often, Loren took her rage and grief and hid them deep, inside her soul where no one could see. At last she looked up at Chet with a wan smile.
“I am all right,” she said softly. “Come. The children will have risen, and are likely driving the others mad.”
Still trembling, Loren stood with his helping hand. Together, they slowly set off into the trees. Loren no longer saw the green leaves nor the clear water of the bubbling brook as they crossed it. She saw only black and blue, and the red of blood.
three
Gem had been a street urchin when Loren found him on the streets of Cabrus, hungry and picking pockets in the service of a guild of young thieves. Annis had been a daughter of wealth and plenty, her every whim tended to by the comforts of her mother’s coin. She had grown much in body and mind since Loren met her, but still she carried a haughty air and often expected others to service her needs.
Their circumstances could scarcely have been more different, yet the children had surprised Loren since their arrival in Northwood, for they had both spent every spare moment working for Mag around the inn. From tending to the stables to running drinks and meals to visitors when the common room grew lively, they eagerly took to even the most menial task. Neither had been raised into a life of honest work, and yet they assumed their roles seriously and only rarely pried themselves away from the inn to explore the city. They had greatly enjoyed their time in Northwood, and Loren, when she thought of it, told herself that she had lingered in part to give them the rest they greatly deserved. Yet even to her own ears, the excuse sounded flimsy.
“With the cook’s compliments.” Gem arrived at the table with a tray—five bowls of stew balanced atop it.
“And the lady’s.” Annis swooped in with another tray holding five mugs of ale and two loaves of bread.
“Our blessings upon the cook and the lady.” Albern scooped up his bowl and mug before tearing the heel from a loaf and dipping into the stew.
Sun brushed the horizon outside, and many within the town had joined the inn’s tenants for supper and a drink. The common room buzzed with talk and occasional bursts of laughter. Loren could hear the plucking of strings from somewhere in back, the familiar sound of some minstrel aiming to earn enough coin for dinner. But still her mind lingered on terrible thoughts, and though her stomach growled at the smell of stew, it tasted bland as paper upon her tongue. Chet tried valiantly not to show his concern, but Loren could almost feel it flowing like the glow of a torch.
“None of you will be surprised, I am sure, to learn that I have spent another day proving my worth.” Gem spoke brightly as he ate. The food mashed loudly between his teeth as he talked around it. “Today, I cleaned the hooves of every horse in the stable and laid fresh hay for each steed. I found dishes stacked into a mighty mountain, so I cleaned them all, without request. I hardly know how this place managed before me.”
“Oh, they must have pined for a dishwasher like yourself, master urchin,” said Albern with smirk. “Poor Mag must have spent her nights weeping herself to sleep for want of such noble, scrubbing hands.”
“Just so,” said Gem, missing the jest in the bowyer’s tone.
Annis sniffed primly and dipped the corner of her loaf into the stew, nibbling with well-practiced manners. “Well, while you have been getting yourself filthy down here, I have been striving for cleanliness. I cannot guess when the upstairs rooms were last cleaned, and some stank of something that I am sure I would not like to know about. But they are clean now, and I have sore knees and hands worn nearly to the bone. Give me a few more days here, and I am sure to make the place fit for the High King herself, though why she should find herself in such a town as this I am sure I know not.”
Gem blinked and looked uneasily at Loren. “But . . . surely we will not be here that long. I should have thought we would be leaving any day now.”
Loren could see—or rather feel—Xain staring daggers at her from the other side of the table. She held her peace, excusing her silence with a mouth full of food, which she chewed slowly so as not to obligate her answer.
Albern caught Loren’s unease, and likely Xain’s dark look, for he shrugged and said, “You shall all set forth when you are ready. There is no great
rush. Certainly, Mag enjoys your company.”
“But she cannot enjoy the food we eat, the wine we drink, nor the rooms we sleep in without so much as a copper penny in exchange.” Despite his words, Chet took a deep pull of his ale before continuing. “Still, I do not know why she refuses our coin.”
“Mag and I have long been friends, and your comfort is her pleasure,” said Albern. “Do not inquire again, or she might bring her sword from retirement; then you would be doomed.”
“I can look after myself,” Chet muttered.
“Not against her,” said Albern. “Years might have passed since she wielded a blade, yet I would wager all my coin upon her if she were to fight any man across the nine lands. You would too if you were wise. When we were young, Mag was renowned as the greatest fighter in our company, and when she hung up her shield—”
“Every mercenary captain across the land poured a cup of wine into the dirt,” Chet finished. “As you have said so many times before.”
“And do you doubt the truth?” Mag had emerged from the crowd to stand over their table. Gem and Annis both turned toward the sound of her voice with delighted smiles. She fixed them with a stern look and gestured at the table. “Where is my plate? Where are my mug and chair? Surely, the two of you know better courtesy than this.”
Gem scuttled off toward the kitchen while Annis ran to fetch an empty chair—few and far between in the crowded room. She finally found a drunkard slumped unconscious over a table and tipped him from his seat.
“Our apologies, Mag.” Annis pushed the chair up to the table. “We thought you were busy in the kitchen and did not guess you could sup with us.”
“Sten finally rustled his useless hide out from the stables and came to relieve me. My company is yours, if you will have it.”
“We will, and gladly,” said Gem, who had returned with a bowl and a mug. He set them down with reverence, as if serving a king. “And mayhap you can settle a matter over which I have spent much thought. None of us doubt Albern when he calls you the greatest fighter he has known. But how can that be, when you look no mightier than most in this room? Why, your arms are not even so thick as the bowyer’s.”
Mag arched an eyebrow. “If you think me a weakling, mayhap we can wrestle.”
Gem stammered, stuttered, and finally fell silent, eyes to his lap.
Albern laughed out loud. “Come, Mag, leave the boy alone. You cannot blame the child for wondering when he has seen only the sort of fighting you get from common street thugs and the footmen of a city guardsman.” He leaned over to speak conspiratorially to Gem, as though confiding a great secret. “Not in strength of arm, little master, but more often in skill will you find the greater warrior. What use is a man’s brawn when his blade cannot come within a foot of our Mag? The most dangerous fighters are those who dance with their foes like lovers and can stay on their feet swinging long after the other man has soiled the ground with his vomit.”
“Surely, you have seen this truth,” said Loren with a halfhearted smile. “If all things depended on strength alone, you and I would have died in a ditch long ago.”
Albern shook a finger at Loren and nodded. “Just so. Why, once our company was fighting in the kingdom of Calentin, putting down the insurrection of some upstart who thought he could seize the throne with a flock of pretty knights at his back. One of these dullards came riding down on Mag with lance lowered, but she—”
A fist crashed on the table and threw their party into silence. Xain held his hand to the wood, eyes raking their faces. Loren’s heart beat harder, remembering his madness in the mountains, when he had cast thunder and flame with abandon, stricken with the magestone hunger as he was now.
She moved a hand under her cloak and rested it upon her dagger’s hilt. From the corner of her eye, she saw Albern’s hand steal beneath the table. The common room hushed around them.
“If I must listen to one more of your simpering tales, I will fling myself into the Melnar and drown.” The wizard stood and, seeing Albern tense, raised a hand. “Stay yourself, bowyer. I need only the girl. Loren, you have avoided this too long. Come with me, now, or do not expect to see me darken this inn’s doorway again. If you are determined to steep in sorrow until the nine lands fall, I will carry our task on my own.”
Xain stalked off, swept between tables without another word. Several men glanced at Mag with doubt, but she gently shook her head, and they allowed his passage. He disappeared into the darkness outside.
“Something gnaws at that man,” Mag muttered once he had gone.
“You speak truer than you know,” said Loren quietly.
Chet leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You need not go.”
Inside, Loren fumed. The wizard spoke to her as if she were a child, whimpering in the corner because she wished for seconds at supper. He had been there in the mountains when the Mystic had fallen and had openly wept with the rest of them. If his mood had darkened since, and if his cravings for magestones clawed at his mind’s edges, he had only himself to blame. How dare he mock her pain, speaking as if Loren had forgotten her duty?
She shrugged. “I should have had words with him days ago. If it will stay his foul temper, I will have them now.”
“I can go with you,” said Albern.
“No,” she said quickly. “Stay. Tell the children your story. Surely, they will enjoy it.”
Loren stood to follow Xain into the city.
She saw him standing across the narrow street, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a wall lamp hanging on a building across the street. He scratched furiously at his sleeve, his head darting about the darkness.
Xain saw her emerge and seemed to sigh with relief. Loren slowly approached him, in no hurry to grant the wizard’s desires.
“I . . . I may have spoken harshly,” he muttered once Loren was in earshot. “Forgive me.”
“Mayhap. Still, you have me here now, wizard. What shall we speak of? You make it sound most urgent, though you yourself have had days to open the door. A conversation takes at least two always, and never just one.”
“What we have to say—what I must tell you—I would not utter in more than a whisper, and not where so many ears may overhear.”
Xain’s voice was no longer bitter, angry, or exasperated. Instead, he sounded afraid, and his words held a darkness that made Loren shiver in spite of herself. She tried disguising it as falling victim to the evening chill and drew her cloak closer about her.
“What, then? Do you mean to fly us into the air with your magic? For we are still within the city.”
“At my best, that would be no mean feat, and I am far from that. If it pleases you, Nightblade, let us stroll beyond the Northwood walls.”
She did not treasure the thought of walking unknowing into the darkness with the wizard, but his calling Loren Nightblade had served to mollify her. She had dreamt up the name as a child, when imagining her someday life as a great thief. Only her friends and a few others knew of it, though Gem tried spreading her tale wherever they went—an effort she found more annoying than endearing, though she rarely had the heart to stop him.
Xain pushed off from the wall and strolled down the street. She had little choice but to follow. Rather than north, as she had traveled with Chet, Xain took her east. The gate lay open, despite the late hour. Northwood had been removed from wars inside the nine lands for so long that she felt no need to lock her doors against them. The gate guard gave them a close look, peering at them from behind the weak light of his torch before finally letting them pass. Soon, they were in the farmlands beyond the city, wandering in the sprawling darkness with only the tiny glow of candlelight bleeding through the farmhouse windows to cut the inky black.
Loren saw the faint glow of Xain’s eyes and heard him muttering words of power. A small spark of flame found life in his hand, but almost immediately it guttered and died. He muttered a curse and tried again. This time, the fire hovered above his palm, thin and wispy compared to flames s
he had seen him cast before.
“You still have some command of your gift, I see.”
“It grows weaker by the day. Soon, even this small magelight will require all of my power and focus. It will be a long while before my powers return.”
“How long?”
“I do not know. I have never witnessed a recovery of one plagued by the sickness. They are, as you may know, strictly outlawed by the High King.”
The wizard barked a harsh laugh, and Loren found herself joining him. But she also thought, with trepidation, of the packet of magestones she carried in her pocket even now. Xain knew nothing of them, and Loren did not like to imagine what he might do with such a discovery.
Soon, even the farmhouse lights vanished behind them, and Xain’s was the night’s only flame. But the moons had already risen and gave Loren enough light to keep from stumbling most of the time.
The wizard finally stopped, turned to Loren, and without a word sat cross-legged upon the ground. With a furtive toss of his hand, he gestured for her to follow.
“A moment.” Loren stepped off into the darkness, searching around in the grass. Though green, it was mostly dry. From the hedge running beside the road she pulled some dead branches, piled them before the wizard, and waved her hand at it.
“Light this. It will save your strength, for if we must finally speak of dark matters, I would have all your concentration.”
“My concentration? I find it difficult to think of anything else.” But the wizard lit the tinder, and soon the branches caught. Soon they had a small fire, and Xain let the flame perish in his hands.
After a moment of silence, Loren spoke.
“I should tell you what Jordel said before he died, though I know little of its meaning.” She paused and scooted toward the now crackling fire. “The Mystic said that the dark master of the Shades had returned, and that Trisken was a captain of special significance. He said—as you and I saw—that magic is no proof against them.”
The Shades were a secret order that Loren had only recently learned of a few weeks ago, when she and her friends had become lost in the Greatrocks and stumbled upon their stronghold. Jordel had said precious little about them, only that they were an order somewhat like the Mystics. Except that great order, who wore red cloaks, preserved order and upheld the King’s law throughout the nine lands. Loren had never learned the Shades’ true purpose, though she had an uncomfortable feeling that would soon change.
Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm Page 2