That got his attention, and Twilight saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eye.
“I wonder,” she said. “The grandson of a demon prince, a servant of archdevils, who takes his power from both the Hells and the Abyss? Which was it, by the way—Graz’zt or Orcus? I’m curious. The latter, I bet. You look like the son of a corpse.”
Unsurprisingly, no reply was forthcoming.
Twilight knelt down to stare into Davoren’s eyes. “Hear this now,” she said. Her voice was soft. “You cannot comprehend what it would mean to cross me. Your master does not frighten me—I have spat in his eye myself.”
Silence for a heartbeat. Twilight knew he believed her. The truth of that mattered not at all.
“And if you think for a single moment that your power frightens me, you are making a fatal mistake.”
He offered no response but a hateful glare.
“Now then, to the real business at hand,” she said. “I know you had something to do with Asson’s fall. I heard the magic, the word of command. I could have been mistaken, perhaps, but if it were just me, I’d gut you right now and leave your entrails for the scavengers, just to err on the more pleasant side.”
Twilight paused, allowing Davoren to drink in her entire meaning.
“But it’s not just me. I have to think of us all, and if we’re going to get out of here alive, we need to work together. We all need allies to survive this, and you’ve got none—not even your own tongue.” Her eyes narrowed. “So let me make this clear—from here on, you’re either with us, or you’re dead. Savvy?”
Twilight could tell from the way the color began to bleed out of Davoren’s face that the poison was starting to dilute through his blood, and he could feel his body once again. Soon, he could speak. “Ye-yes,” he managed. “Yes, that’s clear.”
Twilight slammed him against the wall again. Though she was not a big woman, or a strong one, she knew exactly what angles to ply for sufficient leverage.
To further emphasize her point, she stabbed him again for good measure.
“Aack—” Davoren managed. Then he could only look at her, stung and furious.
“I wasn’t finished,” she said.
She wrenched the dagger out, causing Davoren’s eyes to water, and raised it before his face. His dark blood mingled with an amber jelly smeared along the blade. Then she reached down and pulled out the vial of poison, to wave it in front of his face.
“I carry more of this than you might think. If you try something like that again—if you even think it—I’ll pump you so full of venom you’ll be able to do nothing but lie helpless while the vermin of this hellhole start with your eyes and work their way toward your brain.” Her eyes bored holes into his face. “How does that sound, Lord Hellsheart, servant of Asmodeus?”
Davoren could do nothing but stare daggers at her. She saw a touch of pain in his eyes, and she took it for fear. So he was just a bully.
“Remember,” she said. “You betray us again, and I won’t bury you.”
The warlock kept silent. He could speak again, but he could barely move, Twilight knew. She left him then, and Davoren could not follow.
“Twilight?” his voice floated after her. It was pained—broken. “Twilight!”
She rounded the corner, losing sight of the half-paralyzed warlock. Try as he might, Twilight knew that he could not catch up, not for a while. Long enough, hopefully, to make her point sink home, like a finely crafted blade between a certain pair of ribs.
Twilight shook her head to clear the image. One could dream.
Davoren’s despairing cries echoed as she went farther down the tunnel, just loud enough for her to hear, but not for the others to do so.
“Twilight!” he shouted. “Come back here! Don’t leave me alone like this! Help! Please! He—” Then the sound faded. He would catch up.
Probably.
Twilight’s grin widened.
When Twilight found her, Taslin was sitting alone, in a chamber far from the others. Wrapped in a grimlock cloak, her acid-eaten armor removed, the priestess sat with knees pulled up to her chin. She was on the edge of a chasm in a great chamber where many sewer passages met. The place probably smelled foul centuries before, when waste flowed through the sewers, but the cool emptiness of the deep underground had replaced it. Only a slight mustiness hinted at the filth that filled these halls in an era long dead.
As though the priestess sensed her, Taslin spoke as Twilight crept up behind her. “You would have loved Asson as well, had you known him as I did—as he was once.”
“He was not always such a noble old man?” Twilight sat and pulled her knees to her chest, as Taslin did.
“He was not always so old, as humans measure the years,” said Taslin. “Asson lay in my arms for fifty summers and fifty winters. I knew that our parting would come one day. I have dreaded the moment of loss, but not the leave-taking itself.”
“You did not fear to lose your lover, then,” said Twilight.
“Not a fear that I would lose him—that fate I knew to be inevitable,” the priestess said. “Rather an acceptance of the truth and a choice to see past it.”
“See past death?” Twilight kicked a stone off the edge of the chasm, watching it disappear into the darkness. Hollowness spread through her. “You’d have to be dead.”
“Endings and leave-takings are of this life, just as meetings and beginnings,” said Taslin. “To fear losing what you love is to abandon loving it here and now. To fear losing one you know you will lose makes less sense still.”
“Life to be lived in the moment … I’ve heard it before. The life of a human.”
“The life of an elf,” Taslin corrected. “You are young, and do not understand what it is to live as we do. To know the joy of every moment, to release love of the past and fear of the future.”
Twilight looked at her. “No.” She meant to be firm, but her voice betrayed the slightest tremble. What was this she felt? And what did Taslin know of her?
The priestess met her gaze. “Asson and I knew many years of happiness together. And while they endured, each of us loved to the fullest, knowing that our time together would end. And now those years have ended, and I can be content, knowing that he rests. It has been the same for the four lovers I have known—all of them human.”
Twilight raised a brow at that. She looked into the chasm—its beckoning darkness comforted her. Or at least so she told herself.
“I lost a lover once,” she said. “His name was Neveren. He died in my arms. I understand how you feel.”
Taslin sighed. “You know what the greatest irony is? If we could recover his bones, by Corellon’s grace, he could be restored to me.”
Twilight’s gaze snapped to her. “You have that power?” she said, stunned. “Why not use it? Would Asson not answer?”
“He would return if I called him,” said Taslin. “But I would not call.”
“You do not grieve for him?” Twilight reached out and laid her hand, ever so lightly, on Taslin’s shoulder.
The priestess closed her eyes gently. “I do, in my heart,” she said. “But I …” She trailed off, her eyes soft. Her hand reached for Twilight’s.
Twilight eluded Taslin’s touch and brushed a lock of her golden hair away. With techniques long practiced, Twilight ran her fingers through Taslin’s golden hair and over her shoulders and neck. She felt the tension in the sun elf’s body—sensed the vibrations in the priestess’s bones that spoke of buried grief. Twilight shifted, leaning against Taslin’s back, and stroked her hair gently. She told herself to stop, but that self didn’t listen.
“Sometimes,” whispered Twilight, knowing the words, “grief can—cannot …”
Then, inexplicably, she stumbled. She couldn’t say it—couldn’t speak that lie. Who was this priestess, who had such power over her? Was this Erevan’s doing?
In a matter of heartbeats, tears began to fall down Taslin’s cheeks, through the acid-etched furrows like streams of pain
and sorrow. The priestess wept in Twilight’s arms for a long time, her strength and endurance bleeding away into a fragility not even Twilight would have thought possible. It staggered her.
Twilight knew that Taslin did not weep as a champion of Corellon Larethian, or as a mighty priestess, or even as an elf who had seen more than three hundred winters. In that moment, Taslin was merely a woman, crying from her heart for the man she had loved—still loved, though he was gone.
And through it all, Twilight felt again the terrible pain and anger in her own heart, boiling and festering like a sore, a canker that would never heal.
Never would she let herself weep for love. She had known too much treachery for that. It was an aptly named sword she carried, Betrayal, its blade dyed the dusk of stone after the darkness that had bled from her pierced heart into its steel.
Twilight was so lost in her rage that she almost did not notice when Taslin turned in her arms. She did notice, though, when the sun elf bent in and pressed her lips to her own. For a single, stunned breath, Twilight did nothing but let Taslin kiss her.
Then hot blood flowed through her veins. She looked into green-gold eyes and saw there the light and hope she wanted—desperately needed. Her hands clasped both sides of the priestess’s face and pulled her deeper into the embrace. As though Taslin suddenly realized what was happening, she tried to break the kiss, but Twilight clung to her, pulling her and throwing them both to the stone.
Then the priestess let out a muffled gasp and Twilight felt her surrender. Supple arms wrapped around her back, and she felt nails through her blouse but she was hardly aware of the world outside the kiss.
All of Taslin’s fiery passions poured into that kiss—all her wrath and rage about Asson’s death, all her determination and love. She kissed hard, violently. Her hands gripped Twilight’s arms with white-knuckled force, the nails nearly drawing blood.
Then it was broken. Twilight rolled away to lie beside Taslin, both of them panting heavily in the murky torchlight. The two women looked at each other for many heartbeats, neither speaking. They merely breathed.
Twilight’s heart raced so fast it scared her. No, she thought.
No!
Then Taslin made a sound that made Twilight’s heart fall back into shadow. It was a mere giggle at first, but soon it became an outright laugh.
She laughed alone.
How much the mirth stung startled her. Twilight felt like weeping, for she had been wrong about Taslin, but no—no tears. Instead, she bound that hurt deep inside.
While the priestess seemed capable of letting it pass, Erevan’s servant was not so carefree. Perhaps the Maid was toying with her again, or even the Trickster himself. He had ruined everything else in her life, why not this?
“My thanks,” the priestess said. “Perhaps there is more to wisdom than holding it all within the heart.” Then she smiled innocently, and her eyes softened.
Twilight wanted to agree—she wanted to reassure Taslin, to tell her all would be well. She could see that Taslin needed only those words and her heart would be whole once more. It should have been so easy to give her those, to give her the comfort and love she needed. Even if Taslin did not want her as a lover, Twilight should have been able to take Taslin into her arms and let the sun elf weep on her shoulder, sharing the pain.
But it would’ve been a lie—an inward lie. She could not tell Taslin that grief had to be entrusted to others—she did not believe in trusting others. And the priestess, much as she possessed the warmth Twilight’s cold heart craved, did trust, and that made her a fool. More than that, she was stupid enough to want Twilight for a friend.
Twilight believed in only three breeds of people in the world: lovers, enemies, and those who were both. That left no room for something so naïve as friendship.
All trust and friendship had earned her, in her young life, had been more than her years’ worth of heartbreak and loss.
Without a word, Twilight stood and walked away. She didn’t look back.
She thought she heard Taslin say something behind her, but the words hurt less than those pained eyes, stabbing into her back.
“May Corellon guide you,” the sun elf said. “And may you accept his hand.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Liet breathed a sigh of relief when Davoren returned. His demeanor showed no aggression or wrath, surprisingly, and his eyes darted nervously. Liet wondered, with no small shiver, what could make the invincible warlock afraid.
A short time later, Liet saw Twilight gliding from the tunnel in the direction that Taslin had gone several bells earlier. “Take this night for mourning if you wish, rest if you do not.” Her tone made it clear she addressed them all.
Taslin, nude but for the cloak they had found for her, followed not far behind, and Liet had to look at her twice. He glanced at Twilight, wide-eyed, but she didn’t return it.
Twilight continued. Her voice sounded tired. “Tomorrow, we head south—circling back to the rising tunnel Slip found.”
They nodded solemnly. Gargan was the only one who made a sound.
“Goli lenamaka nae,” he said. Then he separated from the others, hand on the hilt of the sword he had taken, and disappeared into the tunnels.
Slip blinked out of her doze and watched the receding goliath. “Hey!” she called. “Hey, wait!” She got up and ran after him into the darkness. Gargan paused and waited until Slip reached his side, and they disappeared together.
Twilight stared after them. Taslin crossed to her side and laid a hand on her elbow. “He goes to keep watch,” she said, pointing to her earring.
Twilight seemed to accept the priestess’s words, though she looked decidedly uncomfortable. She shrugged, took up her sword, and wandered toward a tunnel.
“Wait, ’Light,” Liet said with a start, but the shadowdancer was already gone into darkness.
“Don’t need you,” Davoren murmured, huddled against the wall. Blood dripped from his mouth as though he had bit his lip. “Don’t need any of you.”
“Eh?” Liet said. “What did—?”
“Silence!” Davoren snapped, with more self-loathing than real anger. Still, it was enough to stun Liet. The warlock went back to muttering. “Don’t need you—any of you.”
The Dalesman bit his lip and suppressed a nervous shudder.
It occurred to him that Davoren was wrong. Each of them needed the others to survive, and not just for protection. They provided one another something else in the darkness: drive, or purpose, perhaps. Slip and Gargan had each other, it seemed, and Taslin had depended on Asson.
He looked at the scarred priestess, who meditated two paces distant. Would she die, now that she had no ally? No. Liet resolved that he would protect her. She had been kind to him, and he felt for her, with Asson gone.
Observing the shuddering warlock, Liet imagined that Davoren lived only because of Twilight’s protection. They were not friends, certainly, but allies? The two of them had entered this dungeon together as companions at arms, but was there any true connection between them?
What of Twilight? Who was her protection? Certainly not Davoren, and all the fire seemed to have gone out of Taslin. Gargan was an enigma, and Slip had enough trouble watching out for herself. Perhaps …
A hand fell on his arm, and he jumped. It was Taslin. Her scarred face may have lost some of its beauty, but her eyes had lost none of their intensity. He felt calm, peaceful, in that gaze.
“Go to her,” the priestess said. “She craves solitude, but she needs you. You and she are so alike—younger than this world demands.”
“What?” Liet asked, dumbfounded.
“Do you not desire her?” Taslin asked. In the corner, Davoren was a thousand leagues away. “You stand close to her, and your hand reaches for hers. You laugh just a touch too loud, and stare a breath too long.”
“I don’t …”
“Have you never had a woman, young master Liet?”
“Well, ah, um—” She put a fing
er to his lips. She reminded him of Twilight.
“My heart will mend,” she said. “Hers …” She gazed toward the corridor.
Liet hesitated. He wanted with all his being to go after Twilight. What he would say, he had no idea. But he couldn’t leave Taslin and Davoren alone, he told himself. Couldn’t face the monsters that could be out in the dark …
“Courage,” Taslin whispered. “You are older than the boy you act—be the man you are.” She kissed his cheek, softly.
He would do it.
Liet got to his feet. “I shall return,” he said. “I’ll bring her with me.”
“Go,” Taslin said peaceably. Her hand snaked out to caress bare stone beside her, though she didn’t seem to notice. “I shall be well.”
He looked from Taslin to Davoren, a bit nervous to leave them. But he pushed fear away. Liet wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t care—not more than he did about Twilight.
The passage yawned forbiddingly, but he was determined. He stole after Twilight, quiet without his boots, seeking where she might have gone. He heard the rapier scabbard clicking against the stone ahead, and followed the sounds.
He saw a flicker of movement. “Slip?” he asked, hesitantly. The figure froze, staring, then dashed around a corner. Hand on his sword, Liet hurried after.
He turned the corner and gasped, seeing a light glimmer on the far wall. There was movement. He dropped his hand to his sword and stepped forward, cautiously, straining to see. He couldn’t make it out clearly, but it looked like a black hand—he couldn’t count the fingers—extending out of the wall itself. As he approached, the hand snaked around and extended its palm toward him. He saw an eye in its midst.
His own eyes widening, Liet hurled himself into the shadows and froze. He had no power, no magic of his own—at least, none that he could use. What could he do against … whatever this thing was?
The arm twisted back toward the wall and searched along its surface. Then, as Liet watched, it dipped its fingers into the stone as though into pudding and reshaped it. The hand simply tore a gash in the wall, revealing a new passage. The stone bled drops of black onto the floor. Liet’s stomach rose. He looked back, fearful, wondering whether Taslin or Davoren could arrive soon enough to save him.
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