by Dan Fish
You stick to the shadows and corners. You wander the halls, the great room, but you do not see the elf. It bothers you. Nags at you. Was it nerves? The need for further preparation? Why come now? You walk upstairs to Nisha Davrosh’s bedroom. It is guarded. Of course it is. The elf couldn’t get inside. Not now. None of this makes sense. You ponder as you stare at the mage guard. Dark hair, violet eyes, gamine features. She is lovely, but then most elves are. Most choose solitude because it holds no real threat. If an elf wakes up with a desire for company, he can find a lover by nightfall. He can take his pick. He can choose from almost anyone he wants. Male, female. Dwarf, goblin, half-born. You laugh. A short, barking admonition of your own blindness.
It makes perfect sense. The human. The simple laws of attraction and lust. You shake your head. Foolishness. But harmless enough. The elf is here because the human is supposed to be here. But the human is late, and you don’t see the elf anywhere. Probably they missed meeting by two or three minutes. Such is life. Days and years and decades pass by, but the moments which matter most are often shaped by mere seconds. If the human had left for the manor a little earlier; if the dogs had run a little faster; if the elf had lingered a little longer. If all that had happened, you might have come upon the elf watching the human. But none of it did, and so you don’t. You leave the lovely mage guard sitting in her chair. You turn to leave and realize you’re not alone.
✽✽✽
A HUNTER KNOWS when another predator stalks the woods. Something in the silence pricks at his ears. It is not a silence caused by the hunter. It is a silence he walks into, like stepping from warm sunlight into cold shadow. It lifts the hair on his arms. It takes the slack out of his muscles. He walks softer, listens harder, searches the woods more intensely. Sorrows had come across mountain lions and wolves often enough to know the feeling of being watched, measured, and considered. He’d come across bears and dragons often enough to know when it was his scent being smelled, tasted, and tested for signs of fear or weakness. His hand slipped from the handlebar as the sled slowed. His fingers found the hilt of the blade hanging at his hip.
The front door was open. Light and sound and smell spilled into the night. Fire and music and spiced cider. Lanterns and laughter and mincemeat pies. The air was cold, and he was mostly sober. Mostly alert. Davrosh showed no lingering effects from their afternoon at the tavern. Dwarf magic of a sort. They left the dogs to be fed, watered, brushed. They went inside to eat, drink, stand guard. Davrosh’s father greeted them, then her mother, then Nisha. Davrosh followed her stepsister into the great room, and Sorrows followed Davrosh.
It could have been Shealu Hallovel’s dance, or Nimola Kravel’s, or any number of Maiden Dances he’d attended in the past week or the past months. The same songs were played by many of the same musicians. The same food was served, the same drinks washed it down. Variations on a theme. Elsewhere in Hammerfell, three other parties were filled with the same laughter and dancing. Oray would be at one, sitting alone, making everyone around him uncomfortable. Ga’Shel would be at another, standing aloof, making everyone around him feel insignificant. Sorrows and Davrosh stopped following Nisha and moved into a corner where they stood, neither aloof nor alone, and everyone looked at them.
Everyone looked at them for a moment. A glance, some sideways, shy; some unguarded, blunt. Some waved, and Davrosh waved back. Some nodded, and Sorrows nodded in return. They’d been expected. Now that they were there, they were accepted, and if there had been any undercurrents of tension before they arrived, there were no traces remaining now. Within minutes they were as much a part of the gathered family and friends as anyone, as though they had been there all along. And Sorrows wondered how different the next morning would be if Jace chose tonight; if Jace chose Nisha Davrosh.
“What are you thinking about?” Davrosh asked. “Gods, you look near ready to start a fight again.”
“Was thinking about Jace,” Sorrows said.
“Well, in that case, I don’t mind the look much at all. If she comes and sees that face, she’d likely turn around. So, keep scowling, orchole.”
Davrosh grinned, elbowed his ribs. He eyed her, lifted an eyebrow.
“For someone who would find reasons not to attend these parties, you seem to enjoy them.”
“That so?”
“Just an observation. You seem to know everyone, and everyone likes you well enough. Maybe more than well enough.”
“I suppose,” she said. Someone waved, and she smiled, waved back. “Maybe once all this is done and we’ve caught that elf whore, I might find my way to one or two of these. If I fancy. And what about you? What will you do next? Will you stay in Hammerfell?”
“Probably. I need to figure out the box, which probably means finding a dagger. Meanwhile, I need to collect Ju—to finish the bow, which is just as easily done here as anywhere. Hells, with the amount of time I’ve spent in one place, there might be a pilgrimage of Seph standing at the city gates.”
Davrosh nodded, then frowned. “Why’d she take it? I understand the bow, but why steal the amulet?”
Sorrows thought of the Grimstone, of the souls held within, of the names and abilities of those he’d collected.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Orcpiss,” Davrosh said. “I can see the answer in your eyes, but you’re keeping it off your lips. Fine. I won’t pry. But I thought we were friends.”
“So, we are friends now? You weren’t so sure at the tavern.”
“You were half-drunk on whiskey,” she said. “I didn’t want you falling in love with me.”
He looked at her. Studied her. She’d managed to capture all her hair in her elf cords. Her jerkin was facing the right way, and she’d undone enough of the top buttons to show a glimpse of fair skin and collarbone. Her skirt was smoothed, her face still flushed from the cold. Her eyes sparkled and her smile was easy, natural.
“Can’t promise anything.”
She snorted, slapped him on the back. “Go back to scowling. Make sure Jace knows she isn’t welcome at Davrosh Manor. As for me, Nish is waving me over. I’ll find you later.”
Davrosh left, and Sorrows wandered the great hall. Ga’Shel had said slipping the god-stream left traces of magic. Sorrows looked without knowing what to look for. A Weaver might leave ripples in the air, like the warping of light above a fire. A Weaver might cause a humming, or she might create a faint sound like the breaking of glass. But Eldrake and Oray had created illusions without so much as a glimmer. It was safe enough to assume Jace knew how to hide her tracks, else she wouldn’t have escaped the eye of the Mage Guard for so long.
Sorrows considered this as he wandered the main level of Davrosh Manor. The din faded behind him. Voices and words muddled together, threads of conversation, became a tapestry of muted sounds. Sorrows found himself walking a dim hallway. Glowstone sconces, half-shuttered. Pale light illuminating paintings of the Davrosh matriarchy. Wooden frames carved into vines, blossoms, clusters of fruit. Hammered gold, with gold flecks in the oil painted onto canvas. Nisha then her mother, Garia, then a dwarf Sorrows didn’t recognize, then another. He walked silently, continued deeper into the hall, further into the past. Generations became centuries. Centuries became a legacy that spanned a millennium. And then darkness. An empty doorway. He remembered Cheshki Ellebrand and Ellebrand Manor. He remembered an ambush. But he didn’t remember soon enough.
Something or someone crashed into him. He remembered Jace doing the same. Remembered stumbling into a sitting room.
Hands gripped his hair, pulled at him. He remembered falling backward, remembered Jace falling on top of him.
Lips found his lips. Soft, urgent, desperate. He remembered Zvilna Gorsham, pale and dead on a cold stone slab.
He stopped remembering. Started reacting. His heart pounded. Chemical. A physiological response. His muscles tightened, swelled. He was angry. He was strong. Stronger than Jace by a good measure. He grabbed her arms, held her fast. Knew he wouldn
’t get a second chance. Didn’t need one. He was big. She felt like nothing in his grasp. She struggled, started to speak. He spun, threw her across the room. Hard. It was dark. He heard a crash, heard her cry out. Heard the ring of steel behind him. Turned. Light flooded the room. Davrosh stood in the doorway, glowstone lamp in one hand, blade in the other. She squinted, hurried past him. Sorrows followed. Stopped.
“Is it Mig?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“She wasn’t dead?”
“No.”
“I didn’t kill her, did I?”
Davrosh looked up at him, swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
✽✽✽
YOU SAW THE goblin watching you from the stairs. One foot on the landing, one foot frozen on the step below. She was as surprised as you were. Her eyes grew wide. She ran. And though you had other things to worry about, you didn’t mind adding one more. She’d made herself prey. And you’re not one to pass up playing the predator. You gave chase.
She was down the stairs fast, but you gained on her. You grabbed the dagger from your cloak. She turned down a hall. You were close. You almost had her, but you slowed. The human was there. She leapt into the gods-stream, crashed into him. You stayed slipped, and now you watch as the human reacts. He’s confused, surprised. He throws her like a stone across the water. She flies into darkness. Gods, the irony. You move to see more. You pass through the human into the room. You approach the goblin. She lays crumpled on the floor. A light shines behind you. You turn. The half-born stands in the doorway. But behind her…
You jump to the side, hide behind a sofa along the wall. The elf. Gods. Were you recognized? Gods shun it. Your heart races.
You take a deep breath, gather your thoughts. You creep up the wall, stick to the shadows, bring a shadow with you. The elf is gone. The human is staring at the goblin. The half-born’s face is taut and flushed. She’s screaming something at him, but you’re slipped. You don’t hear it. She moves across the room to the goblin. But you’ve seen enough death to recognize a corpse.
You leave through the doorway and search for the elf.
✽✽✽
IVRA JACE OPENED the hidden door, stepped into the hidden room, stopped. Looked. Frowned. She walked to a corner, knelt, passed her hand through empty air. Shook her head, turned. She wiggled the fingers on one hand, formed a series of shapes and intricate gestures, stared into the room. Her frown deepened. She lifted her hand, gestured again. Kept staring. Kept frowning.
“Not tonight,” she said to no one. “Gods, Mig, not tonight.”
She inhaled, wrinkled her nose, coughed, inhaled again. Left the hidden room, stepped into the alley, sniffed. Turned right, moved fast, kept sniffing. Pushed past barrels of refuse, pulled aside piles of scrap lumber, sent rats scurrying, set dogs growling. Kept moving. Worked her way to the end of the alley, to a set of stairs climbing to the backdoor of a bakery, to the pile of flour sacks piled underneath. Rifled through the sacks, winced, turned away, turned back slowly.
She reached, grabbed hold of a frozen green arm, tossed it aside. Pulled out the remains of a dog, another arm. Stepped back with a skull in her hands. Turned it over until it stared back at her with a single brown eye. Stared at it for a long moment, then shook her head, moved a hand onto her chest, clutched at something resting beneath her cloak, between her breasts.
“Gods shun it,” she said to no one. “Please, not tonight.”
She dropped the skull, turned, and walked back to the hidden door, the hidden room. Gestured again once she was inside. Waited. Sighed.
She was on the rooftops moments later, running, leaping, sliding. She moved fast. Kept hidden. Worked her way north toward the home of Nisha Davrosh.
Chapter 46
MIG WAS BREATHING. Davrosh was yelling. Sorrows was moving, then scooping, then cradling. Mig moaned, Sorrows moved faster. Davrosh yelled louder, rushed past Sorrows to a sofa, pushed away a low table, cleared pillows. Sorrows gently lay Mig down.
“She needs a healer,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” Davrosh said. “But first she needs medicine, for pain and swelling. There’s some in the sled. City Guard supplies. I’ll get it.”
“Hurry back, then get out of here. Get to the tower. Bring a healer.”
Nisha Davrosh appeared in the doorway. “I heard shouting. What’s going on, Remma? Who’s she?”
“A friend,” Davrosh said. She gave Nisha a small smile. “Go back to the party, Nish. We can handle this.”
“I know you can handle it. But I can help. I’ll get some blankets from my room.”
“Fine. Bring Garia, too. Have her find rags and cold water.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She left. Mig groaned. Her hair was loose and spread beneath her. She wore a gray cloak, smudged with soot and dust. Her skin was like moss left in the sun—pale, dry. Her eyes were shut tight. She arched her back and clenched her jaw.
“Gods, where have you been, Mig?” Sorrows asked. He brushed a strand of her hair from her forehead, tucking it over the point of an ear. She didn’t move. Took shallow, rapid breaths. He turned to Davrosh. “She crashed into me. I thought it was an ambush.”
“You thought she was Jace,” Davrosh said. “I understand. Wasn’t your fault.”
It was my fault. “Why would she show up now? Here. Tonight.”
“I don’t know. And why did Jace give you the pin? Why was Mig’s dress in that place the Seph led us to?”
“None of it makes sense. We need to talk to Mig. We need that medicine and a healer. Fast.”
Davrosh stood. “Right. I’ll go.”
She turned, running to the door as Garia Davrosh appeared.
“Good, you’re here,” Davrosh said. “I’m leaving to fetch medicine and a healer. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
Garia stared at Mig. “What’s going on? Who’s she?”
“There’s no time to explain. Come with me to the stables. You can bring the medicine back inside.”
“You shouldn’t leave the party.”
Davrosh patted the air with her hands. “I know, I know. I’ll be back before the dance ends. But I need you to come with me now. Leave the rags and water here.”
“What are you talking about? What rags?”
“Didn’t Nisha send you?”
“You’re not making any sense, Remma.”
Sorrows stood. “Did you see Nisha? Just now. You would have passed her in the hall.”
“I didn’t pass anyone.”
An arrow can’t hit two targets. Mig lay on the sofa, dying. But upstairs, Nisha Davrosh might be dying as well. They both needed Sorrows. He knew it. Knew his decision would kill one of them. Knew hesitation would kill them both. Davrosh was already moving. Sorrows moved faster. Flew past her with long legs and powerful strides. Glanced at the front door, open to the night. Gods shun it, he thought. Turned away from the door and headed to the stairs. Took them three at a time. Jumped over Caruvi lying in the hallway. Blood trickled from a wound on her forehead. He ran to Nisha Davrosh’s door. Closed. Took the handle, pushed. Locked. He took a step back, lowered his shoulder. He was a big man. Strong. He took two steps, crashed into the door.
Boom!
The sound filled the hallway, filled the house. But the music kept playing somewhere below. The frame was thick oak. The door was more oak. Heavy. It hung on iron hinges. It trembled but didn’t yield.
He stepped back to the wall opposite the door. Drinnegan Pine, he thought. Waited for the rush of strength to flood his body. Instead, felt the emptiness against his chest where the Grimstone should be.
“Gods shun it,” he said.
His heart pounded. He took a breath. Took three quick steps, lifted his right foot up and kicked hard against the door.
Boom!
Louder this time. The music stopped playing below. Voices, shouting. Davrosh arrived, ran to the door, pushed at the handle.
“Locked,” he said.
“Splitting hells,” she said.
He backed up again. Opposite wall. Ran forward.
Boom!
“Again,” she said. “I’ll help.”
They both backed up. Opposite wall.
“One,” he said. Held out a finger. “Two. Three.”
They ran. They kicked.
Boom!
Their feet struck at the same time. His high. Hers low. He was big, strong. He had long, powerful legs. She was half-dwarf, muscles like iron bands. The door yielded. Iron popped from the wood, clanged against the stone floor inside the bedroom. Sorrows pushed in. Davrosh followed close behind, shut the door fast. Footsteps in the hallway outside. A voice. Garia.
“What’s going on?” she asked, loud, anxious.
“This door stays shut,” Davrosh said just as loudly.
“Let us in, Remma,” a male voice said. Nisha’s father.
Davrosh leaned against the door. “Keep this door shut. I swear to the gods, I’ll put my blade through anyone who opens it.”
She screamed the words. Emphasized every syllable. Her voice rang against the stone walls, against the glass window looking out on mountains hidden by the night. Her voice echoed in the empty room.
“Nisha’s not here,” Sorrows said. “They’re slipped.”
“What do we do?”
Sorrows shook his head and turned in a slow circle. Chair, mirror, table, tray. Nothing that would force a Walker into the gods-stream. A knock sounded on the door. A new voice outside, calm, asking questions. Caruvi. Davrosh said something that sounded like, Send the runner for Ostev.
They needed time. Sorrows walked to the bed. Hoped that Jace might stop if she saw him. He imagined Nisha Davrosh lying down. Pictured where Jace might be. Knelt by the side, looked up.
