by Wendy Palmer
But her attention had gone elsewhere. She turned and lit out running for the stairs. Lithia, was his first alarmed thought, who he had left smiling, and he ran after her.
But Mizzle went down the stairs, sword still in hand as if it was not at all dangerous to run with a naked blade. He slowed. Mizzle had a disconcerting habit of remaining aloof from some things and interfering in others, and he could never predict which path she would take.
And what could make Mizzle run like that, away from danger or towards?
He got it then, at last, and started after her again. He almost lost her as she sped across the great hall, empty except for guards whose impassive faces turned to watch him chase after her. He saw her disappear down a long corridor, the gilt walls giving way to bare stone. This part was older than the rest of the palace, and not meant to be seen.
She waited for him at a solid door with a guard on either side of it. They watched her every movement but said nothing.
'Go,’ she said to Trick, in that same commanding voice she had used on Faustus, but Trick had no fear of her and she put no glamour behind it, so he didn't move.
'Crethen?’ he asked. That hadn't been his first guess but they stood outside the door to the dungeons.
She didn't answer, just opened the door and went down. Trick followed, and the guards did not try to stop them but Trick heard the lock click behind them. Mizzle didn't pause at that so he kept on after her. The stairs were slippery underfoot and dimly lit with flickering torches. The walls closed in on him and he had to stop himself from reaching for Mizzle's arm for support.
They reached the room at the bottom of the stairs, where another pair of guards sat playing cards at a table. One stood and started to say something but Mizzle held up a hand and he sat again, blank-faced. The other guard flinched and ducked his head down.
'Mizzle,’ Trick said in his mother's voice, and she shrugged and kept going down the corridor. Tiny cells were cut into one side, while the other was the great grey stone of the outermost palace wall. The place was dank and cold. Mizzle did not look to either side as she sped along.
Trick did, looking in each cell as he went past until he spotted one blanket-wrapped shape lying on the bench in one cell, and then, two further down, Crethen sitting up on the bench staring into space.
They went past fast, but Crethen came to the bars and called after them, his voice echoing and angry.
Trick could not make out the words and didn't want to. The corridor ended with another door, thick oak and locked when Mizzle tried the knob. She turned away from it and looked back down the corridor towards the guards.
'I can get it open,’ Trick said. ‘But is it DarkElves down there?'
He had guessed right, from the look she gave him. ‘But how do you know they're not coming up through the wine cellars or some other path?'
She said, ‘Kyugen,’ and her swords shrank. She tucked them into her tunic. ‘The DarkStone resonates with the stone around us. It sings of them below, I feel their path upwards.'
He remembered how she had been just before the DarkElves had caught up with them last time, surrounded by the rock of the mountain pass and then roofed under the stone of the cave. She let him force her into making camp in the cave although the DarkStone, bounded by stone and resounding to it and the movement of Elves through and past it, surely warned her otherwise. Either she had a distorted sense of irony or she had not trusted the impulse of the stone then, and had learnt to trust it now.
He decided in her favour on that one, and said, ‘Are you sure we should open the door then?'
Mizzle made a tiny shrug and he looked down to see she had the DarkStone in her hands. It glowed with that weird red light it had, and seemed to pulse and change shape between her fingers.
He realised then that she had stopped using the stone. How else had she displayed that touch of humour as she had put him to bed before? How else had she been able to be angry with him when she found him provoking Faustus outside his room?
She had stopped using it for a crutch for herself, and was taking Jarrett's advice about how the DarkElves could be made to stop chasing her.
'Mizzle,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?'
'I stayed too long,’ she said. ‘Lithia has DarkElves in her cellar because of me.'
So Mizzle could feel guilt after all, or something akin to it, a sense of taking responsibility. It was more than he could say for himself. He bent over the lock. He was out of practice at this kind of thing, but he got it unlocked.
Mizzle pushed the door open and slipped down the stairs but she could see in the dark.
Trick had to tarry long enough to take a torch out of its sconce before following her. He left the door ajar and shoved a stone in the gap so it could not close and lock them down here. The torch cast a sickly orange glow on the walls and steps, with dust thick in the air. Doors were set into the very wall. Trick opened one, to find a room full of decaying furniture. Another one held old paintings. These were long-forgotten storage rooms.
The stairs went switchback once and twice and then suddenly the walls rose away and the stairs twisted sharply to find a new wall. Trick pressed back against the solid stone and looked up. The roof was solid above them, buttressed stone, and the stairs they had come down crept up into its belly. He looked down and saw only darkness, pierced by firelight that floated in the blackness. His eyes adjusted and he realised the fire was on the floor of the cavern far beneath them. A glint beside it might have been water—Livana's Haven seeping its insidious way in.
Mizzle slipped the stone under her cloak. She turned and took the torch from him, and rolled it under foot until it was extinguished. Now that flickering light was his only reference, and he almost toppled forward. Mizzle pressed herself against him as if she too were dizzy.
'Why?’ he began, and she said, ‘Look.'
If she was pointing he couldn't see it. He looked away from that light in the centre and saw torches, dimmer than the campfire and flickering wildly. It was a while before he got his bearings and realised they were higher than the campfire and still moving up.
DarkElves were coming up the stairs towards them.
'An advance party,’ said Mizzle. ‘The rest stay below awaiting its report.'
Something clicked in his head. That roof above them was the floor of Lithia's palace, and the bottom of its outer wall. ‘So it's true,’ he said. ‘The Dwarves did make it so the palace can go underground. This is the cavern it sinks into.'
In the darkness, Mizzle slid her cold hand into his and led him back up. ‘Do you know where the controls are?’ she asked.
'Legend says the throne room.’ He tried to focus, despite the dark and his own weariness. ‘Are there many of them?'
'Less than last time.’ Her voice held grim satisfaction.
He sensed they had moved back up into the bowels of the palace as weight and dust and closeness settled about him and he sagged with relief. Mizzle pulled him onwards, helping him like he had helped her when she had been blind. As they went further up, he even thought his eyes might be adjusting, as some light filtered down from the dungeon level.
But before they reached it, she pulled him aside into one of the tiny storage rooms, shutting the door behind them. In the darkness she pushed him against the wall and pressed up against him again. His heart skipped a beat, now he was not in terror of falling.
He stood in the dark with Mizzle leaning full-length against him. She said in his ear, ‘I will let them go past, but you must be silent.'
Trick immediately needed to sneeze and fought it off. He buried his face against her shoulder—unforgivable familiarity—but she just held him still.
He strained to hear them, and wondered if he would, and every second moment thought he did. At last, he heard a sound that was real.
He must have tensed for Mizzle held him tighter.
He stopped breathing.
They were just outside the door. He heard them pause, was sure they were turn
ing to the door of their hiding place.
But they went on up, and he softly exhaled. Mizzle released him and he realised he had his arms around her. He had to force himself to let her go, and then she took him by the hand again.
In the darkness he smelt the scent of her hair and felt her softness against him. He felt his face heat. Fortune's eyes, that she would be looking only to the advance party now. This moment was going to haunt him for more than one reason.
She led him out of the hiding place and up the final few steps, letting go of his hand as they reached the light spilling from the corridor.
The DarkElves had left the door flung wide. She looked out and Trick looked over her shoulder. The guards at the end of the corridor were dead, spilled across their table, cards sprayed all over. They had not drawn their swords.
'You didn't have to let them die,’ he said softly.
'I did not think of them.'
She was ambiguous. Deliberately so, he suspected.
But he followed her as she went soft-footed down towards the dead guards. He glanced into the cells again as they went past. Crethen had not got back from the bars quick enough, and sprawled on the floor with a grisly sword wounds gashed into him. Yury had never even woken up, lying still wrapped in blankets. Darts, the DarkElves’ close-range weapon of choice, stuck out all over.
That solved a problem Lithia had never admitted to having. She did not want to have to order their execution, and could perhaps bless the DarkElves if only Mizzle stopped them now.
They had already gone up the stairs. The guards had locked that top door out of some reflex, but if there were women in this raiding party, a locked door would be no defence against siren song.
Mizzle said, ‘Get behind me,’ and took out the stone.
He did, swinging around so his back was to her and the stairs. He had not needed to be afraid. She had hid to let them go past not because they were dangerous to her but so she could ensure she got all of them.
Light and noise flashed out from behind him, directed up the stairs. Shadows played against the wall and obscured all his vision, but he thought he saw movement in Crethen's cell.
Trick had been sure Crethen was dead. He walked back towards the cell, tempted to let the bastard lie until he did die. Or even to take out his sword and make a more merciful end to it. He stood outside the cell, still undecided, and saw that Crethen lay as he had been, rent with wounds.
Trick had to swear at himself then, for being so on edge that he was seeing things. He was turning away when he saw the movement again and turned back to see a DarkElf step up to the bars.
He stood frozen, safe with the iron between them. He drank in every detail and was struck again by how different Mizzle seemed, hovering so close to human.
This one looked at him with bright violet eyes, a single curved sword held loosely in one hand. A tiny scar accented one cheekbone as curved as her blade. She set her bare hand to the iron door and swung it open, the tip of the sword coming up to his throat.
He was dead and knew it, and drew his sword anyway.
'Brave little mortal, are you not?’ she said. ‘I threaten you only because you stand in the way of my retreat.'
She surprised him. He backed away and she came out, watching him in that way that Mizzle had, as if she were about to snap and shove the sword through his throat. Then suddenly Mizzle pulled him back under her protection. He had not heard her coming.
'Jacoby,’ she said. ‘Mother.'
The other DarkElf stopped and nodded. ‘You stayed too long.'
'I know.'
'You must run now, daughter,’ said the other. ‘I always told you so. The Dark is looking for you.'
And she turned and went out the door at the far end, closing it behind her. That would lock it once more. Mizzle took Trick's hand again, even though he had enough light to see by now, and ran up the stairs through a cloud as fine as dust. That was ash, Trick realised, all that remained of the advance party Mizzle's mother had detached herself from.
The guards had opened the door, and peered down. Mizzle pushed past them. ‘Lock it,’ she said, ‘And then get away from it.'
She did not wait to be obeyed, though Trick had no doubt of it.
She went back through the great hall and through the banquet hall where they had had their feast, and into the throne room. Lithia would hold formal council in here, and hear complaints and petitions. Now it was dark and empty.
Mizzle hunted around the throne and dais. He understood what she was looking for but could not believe she would use it.
She, sliding her fingers along one arm of the throne, produced a distinct click, and a panel in the arm slid across and a lever popped up.
Mizzle examined this while Trick sat on the throne. ‘You're going to drop the palace on their heads?’ He finally put words to it.
Mizzle nodded.
Footsteps sped towards them. He expected one of the guards, perhaps running to warn Lithia her pet DarkElf had gone insane. ‘Your mother's down there.'
'She knows what she raised,’ Mizzle said, as she had said once before.
Her hand tightened on the lever and Trick put his fingers over hers to stop her. She pulled her hand away as if his touch burned like iron should. He had not known he would do that until he had done it and now he was horrified at himself.
She looked at him. Then those footsteps thundered closer and Jarrett ran in. ‘They're coming,’ he said. ‘You fool, you stayed too long.'
Trick had never known a DarkElf to be so noisy and realised Jarrett was truly distraught. Mizzle stared at the DarkElf without answering
Jarrett came closer, and Trick leant away from him, a shadow in the darkened throne room.
Mizzle laid a hand on Trick's shoulder and he realised both she and Jarrett could see him flinch, no matter how dark it was.
'I see,’ said Jarrett. ‘Pull it.'
Trick shut his eyes and saw again that fire in the middle of the cavern, the safety of the walls so far away. It took more than an hour to walk from one side of this palace to the other. By the time the DarkElves realised the roof was sinking towards them, they could run for their lives and never make it. He opened his eyes again, sighing. They were not his enemy in the way the Cult and Mikcul had become his enemy. He could not condone it.
Mizzle's hand twitched on the lever and she looked to Trick again, her eyes shining silver like twin moons in the darkness. So he had become her moral guide, he who had never even known he had a conscience until Mouse had tweaked it.
He sensed Jarrett's sudden amusement. He hadn't wanted the DarkElf to catch him giving Mizzle lessons in humanity.
But Mizzle took her hand from the lever and walked from the dais, pushing past Jarrett coldly.
Trick had been convinced they had been lovers during her stay with Lithia, and now he would swear they had not, could not have.
'He is under my protection, Jarrett,’ she said as she went out the door. ‘Do not harm him.'
'You see how the females are,’ said Jarrett. ‘She thinks I might hurt you but she leaves you alone with me anyway.'
'The Dark is looking for her,’ he said.
Jarrett did laugh then. ‘You defend her? How far under you are.'
Trick decided he hated Jarrett. This creature bore no resemblance to Fingers on the ship who had befriended a lonely child. He got off the throne and headed out. He thought Mizzle had gone to look for the Dark or to double-check Lithia's defences. But he had had enough. He was going to bed. If he was to be slaughtered in his sleep by rampaging Elves, let Fortune deal with it.
Jarrett followed him. ‘The DarkStone makes her erratic. She is dangerous to you.'
Trick had his own opinion about exactly who was dangerous to him and who was fixated on the DarkStone. Why had Mizzle ever told Jarrett about it? ‘She's not using the stone.'
'No?’ Jarrett had stopped. Trick turned in time to catch a look of dismay on his narrow face. Then the smooth arrogant mask dropped
back into place.
Trick had to feel a little sick to realise he used that same mask and never had realised he had picked it up from a DarkElf. ‘I thought you didn't want her to use it.'
Jarrett said, ‘Of course.'
He was lying. Trick took a step closer. ‘Why don't you just admit you want the stone for yourself, Fingers?'
The DarkElf laughed again but it had that edge to it. ‘You always had more mouth than brains, didn't you?'
That hurt, coming from him. Trick turned back around and kept walking.
'I would help you free of her, Trick,’ said Jarrett, calling loud from behind him.
Trick wished he could encounter the Dark, with this blackness and killing rage about him. He might even win the fight.
Chapter Twelve
Kintore packs and re-packs. Seven days have passed since Jacoby faced the iron, and she has not spoken to him since. She has changed her habits so entirely that he has not even caught her in the hallway at dawn.
The LightElf sighs and tips his bottles and jars of medicines out on the bed again. His fingers sort through them without diminishing the chaos while he stares at his door. A knock comes.
Kintore leaps up with human-like haste and flings the door open. ‘Ja—’ He arrests himself. ‘Jennacubbine.'
'Kintore,’ says the LightElf female. She is tall, with the gold hair and gold and blue eyes of her people.
Kintore stands frozen. ‘Why are you here?’ he asks at last in LightElvish. He glances past her but the hallway is empty and Jacoby's door is firmly closed.
'I have come to ask the same of you,’ she says, hands on hips. ‘The time to confer with the king has come and gone, and here you still are.'
Kintore sends another quick glance over her head and sees Jacoby coming up the stairs. His eye widens slightly but he keeps a bland face. ‘I'll be home soon,’ he says distractedly.
Jacoby has stopped a few steps down from the landing, but now she comes very slowly up, hugging the wall. Kintore struggles not to watch her.
'You behave strangely.’ Jennacubbine starts to turn around.
Kintore takes a sharp breath and grabs her arm, pulling her to face him. ‘I must stay,’ he says. ‘The humans’ Goddess has spawned offspring. They are as powerful as the king, and I seek treaty with them too.'