She panicked as a branch snapped behind her. Whirling, she saw her father. An arrow was buried in his chest, just below the collarbone, so deep that the head of it protruded from the flesh in the back. Blood from the wound ran all the way down his body, and from the squelch he made when he moved, she knew his boot was full of it.
But I did not shoot you in the chest! It was the leg! She thought the words, but she could not say them aloud.
When she saw his face, she gasped. It was twisted in hate, and his flesh had begun to rot. Something had eaten away most of his left cheek, and his the teeth showed through the hole. His eyes were sunken, for the meat around them had wasted away. A few fingernails had torn off. Dirt was caked deep beneath the ones that remained, dirt from his attempts to drag himself back to their village.
“You ungrateful wretch!” he screamed, so loud that she jumped. He spat at her feet. “You were never my daughter.”
He leapt for her, and she cried out. But in midair he vanished, and the world around her dissolved to mist and shadow. Then the shadows took form, and the light turned silver. She looked up to see the moons peeking at her between the rooftops of Cabrus. The alley she was in seemed familiar. A figure in a deep green cloak stood only a few paces away. Loren stirred at the sight, and her breath quickened, for the figure’s shape was familiar to her.
The green cloak rippled in the moonslight as she stepped forward, hips swaying. Her movements were every bit as enchanting and seductive as the first time they had met, and Loren’s heart fluttered just as it had then. In the waking world, of course, she knew that Auntie was a sadist, a murderer, and worse beside, but in the dream she knew none of these things.
Auntie stepped around and pressed up against her back. Delicate fingers traced along Loren’s arms, and she shivered, her chest tight, her skin aching for the touch to linger. She could not force herself to move.
“It is the way you hold yourself,” whispered Auntie, her breath brushing Loren’s ear. A hand took Loren’s hip firmly, and she released a shuddering sigh. “The way you put one foot before the other—just so.”
She placed a foot before Loren’s, so that now they were pressed even closer against each other. But then the foot moved quickly to the right, and Auntie pushed her hard. Loren yelped, tripping over the woman’s ankle. She rolled quickly onto her back, but Auntie was atop her, her fingers grasping for Loren’s throat.
“This is not vengeance,” she hissed. “It is justice.”
Loren fought, trying to wrestle herself away, but then the world dissolved to nothing again.
There was wood beneath her hands, and warm air blasted her face. She was on the deck of a riverboat. Upstream, a ship pursued her, but no crew manned it. The captain, Brimlad, was nowhere in sight, and neither were Gem or Annis. But Xain sat against the wall of the riverboat’s cabin, his hair thin and wispy, withered arms wrapped around himself. Loren shuddered as she saw the black glow in his eyes.
The ship had seemed at least a league away, but suddenly it appeared only a few paces behind them. Looking up, Loren saw a small figure in a red cloak. Vivien’s eyes glowed with magelight, and she raised her arms.
“Abomination!” she cried. Black burns rippled along her skin, turning her into a twisted, mangled thing.
Loren turned to see Xain, but the wizard had gone. Had he gone below? But then she saw her own hands. They were wasted, the skin almost transparent, just as Xain’s had been. She clutched at her hair, and it came away in her hand. A scream ripped from her throat, thin and feeble and blood-curdling.
She fell to hands and knees, and the world vanished again.
Now her fingers scraped on stone. Loren feared to look up, but something compelled her to.
Damaris stood before her.
They were in a cavern—Loren knew not where, for unlike all the places she had seen thus far, this was nowhere she had been in real life. The edges of the room were dark, with not a torch to be seen, and the only light fell from a hole in the ceiling far above to pool around Damaris in a perfect circle. Loren’s body had returned to health, so that she could have stood, but her limbs shook far too much with fear. Damaris’ eyes were filled with an icy fury, and Loren cowered before it, certain that the merchant was here to take her revenge at last.
“Get up,” said Chet. “We are with you.”
His hands took her shoulders, and with his help she found her feet. He stood to her right, and looking to her left she saw Gem and Annis. Gem had his sword out and held forth, as though ready to do battle, while Annis’ fists were clenched at her side, as though she might try to box her own mother.
Then Loren’s gaze drifted past Damaris, to a man standing just behind her. He had the brown-skinned, dark-eyed look of a Wadeland man. His black hair was cropped short, and a scar split his chin. He wore the blue and grey clothing of a Shade. She knew she had never seen him before.
“Who is that?” she asked Annis, but when she turned, the girl was gone. Gem and Chet, too, had vanished—and then she saw that they all knelt before Damaris, facing Loren. Chet was chained, and his eyes were mad with fear. Damaris held a dagger at his throat, but it was an old, rusted, twisted blade, nothing fine like Loren would have expected the merchant to have.
“You take my daughter?” said Damaris, her voice a harsh rasp. “Foolish girl. I will take everything.”
The dagger hissed as it laid Chet’s throat open. His lifeblood splashed across the stones, and his mouth worked silently as he tried to cry out.
Loren screamed and fell on her knees before him, putting her hand to the wound, trying helplessly to hold it closed. But she could feel his life slipping away from him. Her shouts could not save him. Nothing could.
“No!” cried Loren. “Gem! Annis! Help me!”
But when she looked up, she found that they were not chained after all. They never had been. A hungry light was in their eyes as they regarded her. Gem bared his teeth with an animal’s snarl, and he pounced upon her. She felt his teeth sink like needles into her neck.
Loren woke at last, screaming and thrashing in her bed.
“Stop! Stop! Loren! Someone help!”
Hands seized her in the darkness. Loren swung a fist in the dark, screaming louder.
She struck Chet right where the dagger of a Shade had wounded him. He screamed in pain, and the sound of it was like agony in her heart. At last her mind was dragged to the present.
“Chet! No, no, no. I am sorry, I—”
The door to their room crashed open. Xain and Gem ran in, stopping just on the threshold. Xain’s eyes glowed white with magic, and Gem brandished his sword. At the sight of the boy, fear seized Loren, her mind returning to the dream and his bared teeth.
“What is it?” cried Xain. “What is wrong?”
“I—I …” Loren shook her head, forcing herself to speak. “It is nothing. Nothing. A nightmare.”
Xain’s brow furrowed, and the light did not fade from his eyes. He ran to the balcony door and opened it, looking outside as though for a prowler. Then he rushed to the closet at the other end of the room and peered within.
“I am fine, Xain,” said Loren, growing exasperated. “There is no one there. It was a dream.” When he knelt and looked under the bed, she got to her feet and lifted him back up. “Stop. It is nothing.”
“Nothing?” said Chet, still rubbing his chest where she had struck him. “It did not sound like nothing.”
Xain stood, and at last he doused his magic. But his frown remained. “You sounded as though skilled torturers had you under their knives.”
“Mayhap they did,” said Loren. “But only in my mind. Look at me. Do you see any wounds?”
Without answering, he went to the wall, where two robes hung on hooks. He pulled one down and threw it to her, and she put it on gratefully. But no sooner had she covered herself than he seized her face, and she yelped as he pried at her eyelids with his fingers.
“Your eyes are wild,” he said, ignoring her attempts t
o escape. “Gem, fetch an apothecary, and tell them to fetch us dream-wine.”
“No, Gem,” said Loren, finally forcing Xain’s hands away. “Sky above, Xain, I tell you I am all right.”
The wizard’s frown deepened. “I am not sure of that, though I will allow that you seem to be safe. Have you been eating?”
“The same as you.”
“Have you been … how much wine did you drink?”
Loren forced a laughed. “I am no drunkard.”
“So says every drunkard.” But she could hear the tension leach from his voice.
“I could fetch more wine, if you wish,” said Gem from behind him. “I feel I could use a cup myself, for your screams still ring in my ears.”
Loren’s spirits dampened at once as she looked at the boy. Gem looked the same as always, and the same impudent smirk tugged at his lips. Yet the memory of her nightmare would not leave her mind.
She shook her head and tried to smile. “No, Gem. I only need sleep, and I would wager you do as well. Off with you both.”
Xain did not move, not until she took his shoulder and ushered him gently out. Gem went more readily, and was already yawning by the time he reentered his room. Once they were gone, Loren closed her door and turned to the bed.
Chet sat up, his bare chest glistening in the moonslight, one hand still on the scar of his dagger wound. He studied her in the dim silver glow through the window.
“Loren, what is wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said lightly. She cast her robe on the floor and gave him a moment to take her in before sliding beneath the covers. But it did not distract him.
“You can fool Gem and Xain, but I know you are lying.”
She was not so sure she had fooled Xain, for the wizard’s eyes had been troubled. But still she kept her smile and ran a hand up his arm. “That is a strong accusation. How is your wound? I did not mean to hit you. I was not myself when I woke.”
“It is all right,” said Chet. “The pain is fading.”
She bent to kiss the scar, and as her other hand squeezed his shoulder, she felt him relax. “Good. It is a mark of honor. I would hate for you to regret earning it.”
Though his eyes were still grave, that forced a chuckle from him. “As though that is why I would regret it.” His frown returned. “Are you certain you are all right? What did you dream of?”
Loren felt her smile grow strained. “I do not remember,” she said. A sick feeling grew in the pit of her stomach at the lie. “Mayhap it was the battle of the Seat. That was no happy memory.”
He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he would answer. But he only shook his head, and turned away to lie upon his side.
Soon he was asleep once more. But Loren lay awake all the rest of the night, until the silver of moonslight gave way to the pink blush of dawn. And she felt that eyes watched her in the darkness, the eyes of every enemy she had left behind her between the paths of the Birchwood and the palace of the High King.
five
AS THEY ATE WITH GEM the next morning, Loren could sense Chet’s concern for her. It fairly radiated from him, like heat from a flame. When she tried to reach for more food, he would offer to fetch it for her, and he kept asking her if she would like any more water to drink. She avoided his gaze all the while, and spoke lightly of small matters, but his worry remained—until a thought seemed to strike him, and he cocked his head.
“Where is Xain?” he said.
Loren glanced towards the wizard’s room. “Sleeping, I imagine.”
“Normally he rises earlier than any of us,” said Chet.
Loren and Gem gave each other a dark look. That had not always been Xain’s way, and had only begun after his battles with magestone sickness. Sometimes Loren wondered if the wizard slept at all any more. But now her thoughts were drawn to the night before, and her dream.
A chill went through her. She had recently consumed magestones—once, in Dorsea, when the Elves had forced her to do it, and then once again here upon the Seat when she sought an agent of the Shades. The fact that she had them, and had eaten them, was unknown to anyone but Chet, and even he only knew of the first time.
Could the magestones be linked to her nightmare? She could only find out by asking Xain, and that was not something she could do carelessly. She knew that if the wizard found out she possessed magestones—indeed, if anyone other than Chet learned of it—her very life might be in danger, for it was a dark crime under the King’s law.
She shook off such thoughts and rose, going to Xain’s room. Cautiously she tapped on the door and, when she heard no reply within, pushed it open. Xain’s bed was empty, the covers tousled, and his clothing from yesterday lay upon the floor.
“Gone,” she said, shrugging. “Off on some business as the new Dean, no doubt.”
But she proved to be wrong, for Xain returned to them before they had finished eating. He stepped through the door wearing something that looked utterly foreign upon him: a full and beaming smile.
“What under the sky are you grinning about?” said Loren.
“I have a surprise for you,” said Xain. “Or rather, the Lord Prince has arranged it, and he has allowed me to present it. Come with me.”
Loren glanced at Chet, but he only shrugged. They rose, along with Gem, and followed Xain out into the hallway. The wizard led them to a part of the palace they had rarely visited, where many of the High King’s guards were stationed, as well as a great number of Mystics. Soldiers watched them pass with great interest. Loren’s cheeks flushed as she realized that many of them were looking at her. She fought the urge to raise her hood and instead held her head high. As the Nightblade, she would have to grow used to this, she supposed.
Xain stopped at a heavy door, pausing before he opened it to ensure they were gathered behind him. Inside was a sort of barracks, with a row of beds around the walls, each with a small chest at the foot. In the center of the room was a long wooden table, and around it sat several Mystics, their red hoods cast back from their faces. Loren stood in the doorway, wondering why Xain would bring her here. Then the Mystics looked up at her, and stood from their places at the table. A smile broke out on her face, wide enough to match Xain’s, and she laughed.
“Weath! Jormund! Gwenyth!” she cried.
The three Mystics came forwards to embrace her, laughing—even large Jormund, who had hardly ever said a word to her. They had met her in Brekkur when Loren was fleeing east across Underrealm, and Kal had sent them to the Seat to help deliver his message to the High King. Now they clapped her on the back and shook Chet’s hand, and Jormund even picked up little Gem, who squealed like a pup. But as she released Gwenyth’s wrist, Loren looked past her to the other Mystics at the table. They studied her with interest, but they had not risen, and she did not recognize their faces.
“Where is Erik?” said Loren.
The room fell silent. Jormund and Gwenyth looked at each other solemnly, and Weath cast her gaze to the floor. Loren’s breath caught in her throat.
“In the battle?”
“On the eastern docks,” said Gwenyth quietly. “We pursued the armies of Dulmun there, and pressed the assault as they tried to board their ships and escape. Erik fought like a madman and killed three of them on his own. But an archer, darkness take them, fired from the stern of a ship as it fled, and the arrow pierced his heart.”
Loren bowed her head, blinking hard. “I wish I had been there.”
Weath put her hand on Loren’s shoulder. “Do not be sorry. From what we have heard, you were more sorely needed in the palace, and the nine kingdoms are grateful for your actions.”
She forced a smile. The other Mystics stood from the table—three of them, and none looked alike. One by one they came forward to be introduced. First was a short, slim woman of middle years, whose narrow eyes were quick and unsmiling. She was called Shiun. There was a tall, broad youth named Uzo, whose shaved head was darker even than Annis’. He squeezed Loren’s wrist harder than
he needed to, and she fought away a grimace as she tried to do the same. He smiled at that and clapped her shoulder. Gem gaped at Uzo, his mouth hanging open, and did not seem to hear when the young man offered him a hand to clasp.
The last Mystic was called Niya. Though she was only a finger or two taller than Loren, she was far more heavily muscled, so that Loren felt minuscule in her presence. Beneath a shirt of chain she had a leather jerkin with a high collar that covered her neck, but its sleeves were short, so that her thick arms were on display. She wore a secretive smirk as she approached Loren and held forth her hand. When their wrists clasped, her skin was smooth and warm, and the hairs on the back of Loren’s neck tingled.
“The Nightblade,” said Niya. “I suppose this is supposed to be an honor. The High King holds you in high esteem. That is impressive indeed, for such a young woman.”
Loren’s cheeks flushed. “Not so young,” she said.
“Not too young, I suppose,” said Niya.
“Niya has been appointed the captain of our squadron,” said Weath. “She fought beside the former Lord Chancellor at the eastern gate, and took a wound in the battle.”
“It sounds as if you are a hero,” said Loren.
“Mayhap,” said Niya. “It was only a small cut, and it was not the High King who raised my station for it, unlike you.”
Loren realized that they had not released each other’s wrists. She did so at last, though her hand seemed reluctant to obey. “There is time yet.”
Chet eyed the woman as they shook hands. “I did not see you in the fighting,” he remarked.
The smirk she had worn for Loren vanished, and Niya raised her eyebrows. “And did you take count of every Mystic before the gate? You have a cool head for battle, it seems. What is your position, by the by? Other than bedfellow of the Nightblade, I mean.”
His jaw clenching, Chet opened his mouth to reply, but Loren barked a laugh despite herself. He turned his glare on her and held his tongue. “Oh, come, Chet,” she chided him. “Do not be so serious. It was a joke.”
Weremage: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 5) Page 3
