by Eileen Wilks
Nice teeth, though. They looked real sharp.
Then Gan saw her eyes and üthered her density and her hearts fell out of rhythm. "Eldest," she whispered. And that was all she said. All the questions she longed to ask, the ones she knew and the ones she didn't have words for, pushed up into her mouth and packed her throat so tightly she could barely breathe.
The Harazeed Eldest gave her a glance out of gray eyes swimming with secrets. "You are called Gan."
Gan nodded, terror and thrill mingling in a jellied mass.
"You will be quiet, Gan, until I am finished speaking."
Gan nodded again. She would. She would do whatever this one wanted.
The Harazeed Eldest spoke to the humans. "I am called First Councilor. I will tell you of the medallion."
She moved slowly, as if her bones hurt, but she settled onto her cushion easily enough. "At the end of the Great War, the realms were in chaos. Much had been destroyed. Much knowledge was lost. Your realm," she said to the humans, "was entirely sundered, of course, save for its tie to Dis. The others were all but cut off one from another, also. The Great Gates were gone, and few remembered how to erect even the small gates.
"The Harazeed remembered. And so the medallion was given us, and we came to a realm which wild magic had made impossible to settle before. Our numbers were few. At first we lived here alone, save for the beasts. Even the sidhe did not linger in Edge in those days. Gradually the medallion settled patterns onto the realm. Even in the areas of high magic, day and night had meaning and season. Near the river, order strengthened its hold. We prospered, and others came to Edge.
"Then, as now, Edge was seen as a refuge for the outcast, the criminal, or the lost. In the early years there was much fighting, but Harazeed, like most gnomes, prefer trade and wealth to war. Eventually we settled into alliances which stabilized the distribution of power much as the medallion had stabilized the magic. But envy and covetousness can outshout reason. You will hear from the envious that the medallion does not have to be held by the Harazeed to work. Some who say this are merely ignorant. Others know this for a dangerous partial truth. Theoretically, the medallion imposes order no matter who holds it… but the type of order depends on the holder, and medallion and holder must form a true bond first. Very few are capable of forming such a bond with the medallion. In four thousand years, only Harazeed have been capable of this."
The Eldest paused, folding her hands together on the table in front of her. "There have been many attempts to steal the medallion. A few times one or another thief succeeded—but never for long. The medallion does not wish to be parted from its holder. This theft is different. When the power winds blew, the bond between the medallion and its holder was broken. One of the half-halfs who works at the Chancellery saw that this had happened, and seized what she believed was a gift from the gods. She took it."
"You know who took the medallion?" Ruben Brooks asked.
"Oh, yes." The Eldest looked at one of the other councilors. He got up and went to the main door, the one sized for humans and other biggers. He opened it and said something to those on the other side.
Fist Councilor spoke again. "Since the medallion was stolen, there has been a flood in Rhanjan and earth tremors in the Northern Mountains. A tributary of the Ka has changed its course."
Ruben Brooks asked, "You believe these things were caused by the loss of the medallion?"
"I do not believe. I know." She looked toward the door. "Hare is the medallion's first thief."
The half-half the guards escorted through the door was one of those with bits from lots of species. She was taller than a gnome, smaller than a human, colored like the Ekiba, but furry on her neck and shoulders and arms. She was thin and naked, with the large eyes of a Makeen and the heavy jaw of an Ahk.
She was drooling.
Her body was empty, or as good as, according to Gan's üther sense. It was as if someone had eaten her without eating her flesh. Gan almost forgot and asked what had been done to her.
The humans hadn't been told to be quiet. "What did you do to her?" Cynna Weaver demanded.
"We did not destroy her. She did that herself when she laid hands on the medallion."
After a moment Cynna Weaver said, "I guess the chancellor isn't really ill."
"He died within hours of the theft. His mind was unable to recall how his body functioned. The medallion is reshvak."
Oh, that was bad. That was really bad.
Ruben Brooks shifted slightly. He reminded Gan a little of cautious old Mevroax, part of whom she'd eaten back when she was a really young demon. Ruben Brooks always put his words together carefully. Only she thought Ruben Brooks had more sense than old Mevroax, who after all had been stupid enough to get himself eaten by a really young demon.
"My charm was unable to translate that word," Ruben Brooks said in English. "Reshvak,"
Cullen Seabourne answered before the Eldest could speak, which was rude and not smart. "She means it's alive, more or less. And a parasite. Madam." He did have the wit to speak with respect when he addressed the Eldest directly. "This medallion is one of the Great Artifacts, isn't it?"
The Eldest leveled a look at the young lupus. "You think you know what that means, sorcerer?"
"Not precisely, no. But they are said to be hungry."
Her mouth quirked up as if he'd said something funny. "Hungry. Yes. The medallion hungers for order. It is supremely able to create order because of that hunger, but it cannot order itself. For that, it requires the mind of its holder. Unless the fit is very good, however, it cannot form a permanent bond. Without that bond, it eats the minds of any who hold it."
"Madam," Ruben Brooks said slowly, "you are telling us that the medallion possesses a degree of sentience, but an essentially disordered sentience."
"Precisely. From the moment its bond with the chancellor was broken, the medallion has been insane."
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was late by the time they left the meeting. Inside the Chancellery all the lights had gone soft, as if they were on a dimmer switch. Outside, bells tolled. One of their escorts—three gnomes, none of them councilors—explained that the bells marked the "hours"—which weren't terrestrial hours, of course. Each bell-period was one-tenth of the sleep-wake cycle that made up a day in Edge.
The sound, muffled by the walls near the meeting room, grew fainter as they proceeded through labyrinthine halls. It had vanished entirely by the time they reached the wing that held the guest quarters. Their escorts left them with polite wishes for a good meal and a good sleep.
Gan hadn't come with them. First Councilor had wanted to speak with her, and the little not-yet-gnome had gone off with her, all atremble, like a devout Catholic granted a personal audience with the pope. Cullen was ahead of Cynna and McClosky, pushing Ruben's chair. He had a preoccupied look on his face, as if he barely knew the rest of them were there.
Cynna was pretty preoccupied herself. "Did we hear the truth this time?"
"Mostly, I suspect," Ruben said. "Gnomes may prefer misdirection and prevarication, but I'm inclined to believe that First Councilor wouldn't lie about anything significant when so much depends on your finding their medallion."
"So Bilbo will be our traveling companion if we have to take to the road." Of all the gnomes, why did he have to be the one deemed most likely to form a good bond with the medallion? Of course, he might be thinking the same thing, considering the consequences if the medallion decided he wasn't such a great fit, after all.
"Take to the road?" McClosky said. "You think they're right about it not being in the City anymore?"
Cynna shrugged, "I'll find out tomorrow, I guess."
They'd reached a wide place where three halls and a staircase converged. Cullen came to a stop. "I hope someone has been paying attention," he said, "or I'll have to Change and sniff out our trail."
"It's this one," Cynna said, and started for the right-hand hall.
"I gu
ess you don't get lost," McClosky said to her.
"Well, I can if I don't pay attention—knowing the direction doesn't tell me which road or hall or whatever will take me there. Or if I don't have a pattern for where I want to go."
He shook his head. "I don't understand how your Gift works." Then, as if the words had been pent up for hours, he burst out, "Can you do it? No one's asked that. Everyone assumes you can find this medallion. Can you?"
"Probably, I'm pretty good." It occurred to her that McClosky was the only one of them who had no idea how she worked. Since his life depended on her ability, she ought to explain. "Tomorrow I'll do the sorts. I'll need a pattern for the medallion, see—the better the pattern, the more likely I am to Find it. I'm hopeful there. A magical artifact as powerful as this sucker ought to leave strong traces."
"What does this sorting involve? Does it take long?"
"Sorting is a spell, not part of my Gift, but I learned from the best—an actual patterner." Cynna hadn't known that Jiri was a patterner back when she'd been Jiri's apprentice, but that was beside the point. "I expect it will take most of the morning. I'll have to sort the medallion's pattern from things it's been in contact with—"
"Like that poor female, whatever she is."
Or was. Cynna grimaced. "Yeah. And the chancellor's body. I'll be looking for a strong, magical pattern they have in common, see? Plus they've got an engraving of the medallion."
"And then you just go to it?"
"More or less, if we're lucky. If it's warded—which they think it is, since they can't locate it with their own spells—or if it's outside my range, I'll have to Find its trail instead of Finding it. That'll take longer."
"You can Find the trail even if you can't Find the medallion itself?"
"Probably. See, everywhere an object has been carries some trace of its presence. Inanimate objects leave so little behind, I can't Find 'em that way. A living being or something with a lot of magic leaves better traces. Something that's both alive and magical leaves the most. I can Find those if not too much time has passed."
"It's been missing for two months."
True. And that wasn't exactly optimal, but… "It's powerful enough to impose order on a whole realm," Cynna said firmly. "It will leave powerful traces. Speaking of which…" She glanced over her shoulder. "What's a Great Artifact?"
"A magical construct created shortly before or during the Great War," Cullen answered promptly. "By which I do not mean either of the piddly conflicts of the last century. The Great War was fought in multiple realms over better than a century by adepts and gods. Also lupi," he added. "We were created then to fight on behalf of our Lady."
McClosky's voice was thick with disbelief. "Created?"
Cullen made a graceful gesture. "All peoples have their creation myths. You will allow us ours."
The meal was served as soon as they arrived in the common room. The food was good. The first course was a porridge-like mush that looked awful but tasted like berries and nuts, followed by some kind of roasted meat that had not come from a cow. There were roasted vegetables, too—carrots, squash, something pale that looked like a potato, but wasn't.
The porridge went down fine. Cynna asked Adrienne to bring her some water, not wanting to drink the strong, dark ale they served with the meal. Pregnant women were supposed to avoid alcohol, right? She made herself eat plenty of vegetables—they were pretty good—and some of the meat while she talked with the others and listened to their ideas. There wasn't any dessert, but their servants brought them fruit at the end of the meal. Cynna grabbed an apple for later, yawned ostentatiously, and at last, thank God, she left.
Problem was, there was nowhere to go. Except her rooms.
Her damned, tiny rooms with the oily air. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to be with people, either. And they sure as hell didn't need to be with her. Wouldn't exactly reassure anyone to know just what a thin thread their lives all hung by, would it?
She paced. Anywhere else—back home in DC, or in any of the other cities she'd stayed in while working—she'd go out when she felt like this. She'd walk or run or go to a club and dance for hours. Or maybe she'd go to a gym and work out until she wanted to puke.
These days, she did the workout more often; the club, less. It was too easy, too tempting, to pick someone up at a club. Easy to get in a fight, too. And that's what she really wanted to do—fight or fuck. The nameless feeling scrambling her insides like a cat clawing its way out of a bag would settle if she did one of those things.
No gym here. No nightclubs. Not even a goddamn TV, a book, a DVD player. No, nothing at all to do in the garish little room.
Cullen was just down the hall.
No, she told herself. She'd made herself a promise, right? She was upgrading her taste in men, which meant no more desperate one-nighters. Not even on the bad nights, when she couldn't stand living in her own skin. Because she had nowhere else to live, did she? She had to find other ways of dealing with a really bad mood.
Cullen wasn't a one-nighter. He was a friend.
That thought made Cynna want to put a fist through the wall. He was a friend, and she couldn't go to him because… because he was part of the explosion building inside her.
Besides, what if that elf-lady had beat her to it? The mood Cynna was in, if she saw the two of them snuggled up, she'd try to kill them both. She'd fail, of course, and probably wouldn't be lucky enough to die herself, and tomorrow she'd wake up with post-insanity humiliation.
This will pass, she assured herself. She just had to ride it out.
But how? There was no gym, no club where she could dance, and it would be stupid to go walking the streets of the City when she had no clue what the dangers were. Especially when so much was riding on her and her Gift. She could not risk herself that way.
She shouldn't risk her tiny rider, either. Cynna stopped, her hand resting on her stomach.
Crunches. She could do crunches and scissors and lunges and work up a sweat right here.
Here? She wanted out. Out of this room, away from the oily air and the damned walls and—
Someone knocked softly at her door. She spun. Dragged in a breath, dragged both hands through her hair, and prepared to do her best impression of normal and sane. "Yes?"
The door swung open. Cullen stood in the doorway, wearing what looked like tight gray sweatpants. No shirt.
He held out some cloth. "Put this on. We're going to go spar awhile."
Cynna was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head, Cullen supposed that Rule would have worked out not just what to do, but why he was doing it. Not him. He was right to be here. He knew that instinctively, but the why escaped him.
"Expecting a different sort of invitation?" he said sweetly. "Not tonight, luv. Aggressive sex can be fun, but you'd brood later. Here." He tossed her the knit pants and shirt his servant had scrounged up.
She caught them. For a moment he thought she'd start their sparring session right now. She thought so, too.
She settled for slamming the door in his face. He smiled and leaned against the wall and waited. So far instinct was working out okay.
Cullen's servant had arranged for them to use a room near the guard barracks. It was small and bright and empty. No windows—gnomes didn't like them—but the floor was covered with something with some give. Cullen didn't know what, but it should cushion any falls.
He meant to make sure Cynna didn't take any. But soft was still preferable.
"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Cynna said. Her voice was tight.
Cramming it all down, she was. Not that he knew what "this" was, but he had some guesses. "No throws in tai kwon do, right?"
"No. Tae means kick; kwon means hand or fist. It's all about kicking and punching. If you don't know how to do it, though—"
"Good. Don't try any flying kicks. Everything else should be okay."
"I know what to do to protect the little rider," she snapped. "I'm not sure about you
. Have you ever practiced tae kwon do?"
Little rider, was it? "Some. We'll stretch first, then forms. Then we spar."
"Forms." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "So you do know something about it."
He hesitated. "Etorri is too small a clan to maintain a separate group trained as fighters the way Nokolai does. We all trained. Our practice included tai kwon do forms."
She was skeptical. "Long time ago. You were pretty young when you lost your clan, weren't you?"
"Twenty-six." She always spoke bluntly of his seco—no sympathy, no mincing around his delicate feelings on the subject. He preferred that. His voice still turned harsh. "And I sure as hell needed to be able to fight. Some lupi see a lone wolf as a target. I needed the discipline, too, until I found I preferred the discipline of dance. You aren't the only one with anger management issues, you know."
"This… this whatever's wrong with me isn't anger. I don't know what it is, but—"
Cullen snorted. "Keep telling yourself that. Stretch," he told her, and dropped to the floor to begin his own stretches.
Truth was, he'd fought often enough in the years since he trained with Etorri, but he hadn't practiced the forms in so long, he didn't clearly remember them. They'd come back. He had excellent kinetic memory. Besides, he didn't have to be good at her particular branch of the martial arts tonight. Halfway capable would do as long as he knew how to spar and was fast. He did and he was. Fast enough to let her work out whatever was brewing inside her without hurting either of them.
"I should see if they've got ice. Ice would help. Surely they have—"
"Shut up, Cynna." Cullen snagged her arm and tugged her back down.
They were sitting on the floor, breathing hard. He leaned against the wall. "It was a fine kick. A damned fine kick."
