“No honor, and not for him,” he said. “Remembrance, so I might never forget what I may one day become.”
“And what is that?”
He glanced at Graeven’s corpse.
“We’re men, not gods, regardless of how many lives we take. Can you run?”
Dieredon shook his head.
“Go on without me. Find your friends at the docks. I’ll not be far behind.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
No running, no leaping from rooftops. Haern carefully climbed down from the roof, put his feet on solid ground, and limped toward the docks.
26
Dawn was fast approaching, but that only meant the night was at its darkest as Haern slowly approached the docks. Even from afar, he saw a sight that made his heart ache. Clenching his teeth, he tried to hope for the best.
“No,” he whispered. “Please, Ashhur...no, it can’t end like this. It can’t be this way.”
Yet Zusa’s body lay so very still.
Holding his cloaks tighter, for he suddenly felt terribly cold, he kept walking. Alyssa was nowhere in sight. Even the many docked boats appeared empty. Haern could imagine where they’d gone, to Ingram’s most likely. Let them fight over the city, he thought. Far as he was concerned, they could have it.
At Zusa’s body, he knelt, and put his hand against her neck. He held his breath, and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the bloody wounded in her chest, not wanting to think about who had done it.
There was a pulse.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Tearing at his own cloak, he stuffed the cleanest parts he could find against the wound, to stem the soft blood flow. After that he tied it, careful when he lifted her. She grunted at the movement, and he saw her open her eyes. With tender care, he removed the wrappings from her face so he could see her better. A moment later her eyes came into focus, and she looked his way. Despite her obvious pain, a hint of a smile crossed her lips.
“Knew...you would,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Shush,” he told her, focusing on bandaging the wound. “Lie still until I can look at this better. Can’t believe you’re even alive.”
He heard the sound of soft footsteps on the wood, and he glanced back to see Dieredon arrive. He’d wrapped his wounded leg, and somewhere had found a long stick of wood to use as a crutch.
“Where is Alyssa?” he asked, glancing about the empty dock.
“They took her,” Zusa said, having to swallow repeatedly so her voice would not crack.
“Who?” Haern asked.
“Merchants...They’ll give her to the elves.”
Dieredon shook his head and muttered a few words in elvish.
“If we’re to save her, I need to act quickly. Can you escape the city on your own?”
“We’ll need to heal her first,” said Haern. “Give me an hour or so, and I think I can get us out.”
The elf nodded.
“I cannot be seen in here come daylight,” he said. “For obvious reasons, I don’t think the guards would take too kindly to my presence.”
Haern chuckled.
“Where shall we find you?”
“I’ll find you,” Dieredon said. “That’s what I’m best at. Just stay on the roads, and good luck, Watcher.”
He hurried away, moving at a remarkable pace for having to use a crutch. Haern watched him go, then turned back to Zusa. Her dark skin was growing pale, and he knew time was short.
“Should be used to this by now,” he muttered as he took her into his arms.
“Still don’t....like it,” she said, and despite the chaos of the night, he laughed.
Step by step, he told himself as he took her down the quiet street. Step by step.
At the entrance to the temple, he tried the door and found it locked. Beating on it with his fists, he waited, leaning beside the door to help support both his weight and Zusa’s. When he was met with only silence, he tried again, then a third time, refusing to be turned away. At last the door cracked open, first only a little, then wide as Nole realized who was there.
“We had nowhere else to go,” Haern told him. “She needs healing, and quickly. Will you help us?”
Nole chewed on his lower lip.
“You would trust me?” he asked.
“As I said...I have little choice.”
The priest nodded.
“Bring her in.”
Haern carried her into the empty temple.
“I sent Logan home when the fires started,” said the priest as he gestured to the nearest bench. “Thought it best he be with his family should something happen. This city grows worse with every day. What happened to Zusa?”
“She was stabbed by a blade,” Haern said, stepping away so he could lean against a wall. His breathing had grown short, and carrying Zusa had sapped what little strength he’d had left. Nole looked over the wound, a deep frown across his face.
“I’m not sure I can heal this,” he said.
“You better damn well try.”
“You don’t understand, my faith the past few days has been...weak. I fear this is beyond me. Ashhur may not hear my prayers.”
Haern took a step toward him, then suddenly lunged and grabbed the priest by the front of his robe and yanked him close so they could speak face to face.
“I don’t care,” he said. “You hear me? I don’t care what you did, that you betrayed me, or how badly you’ve failed before. You kneel there and you heal her. Don’t give Ashhur a choice to hear you, you understand?”
Nole nodded, and he looked visibly relieved when Haern let him go. Turning back to Zusa, the priest knelt, his hands on her wounds. He bowed his head and began to pray. Too scared to watch, Haern closed his eyes and waited. And hoped.
At last the prayers ceased. Still hesitant to look, he waited, head low, until he felt a hand touch his face. Opening his eyes, he saw Zusa standing there, her bloody bandages still on the bench, her revealed skin scarred but healed. Nole sat beside her, in tears.
“Thank you,” she said to both of them, gently resting her head against Haern’s chest as her arms wrapped about him. “Just...thank you.”
“We have little time,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”
She nodded. Haern put his hand on Nole’s shoulder, squeezed it, and then left him kneeling there on the floor as they walked out of the temple and toward the city’s walls.
Lord Egar and newly named Lord Warrick were in the mansion discussing when the servant knocked at the door.
“Yes?” Warrick asked.
The servant came in and bowed low, looking incredibly nervous. He’d been one of many originally staffed by Ingram, and it seemed every single one, from top to bottom, thought they were a heartbeat away from being executed should they show a lack of skill at their position.
“Milord, we’ve received word from your messenger sent to the elves.”
“Already?” asked Egar. “But it’s hardly been an hour.”
“I know,” said the servant, licking his lips. “Your messenger said he was waiting outside the city, as if expecting him. The elf said he’ll accept your, uh, gift.”
Egar shrugged.
“Not entirely surprising. Shall I fetch her?”
“No,” Warrick said. “I must be the one to do this. It only feels just. You...”
“Jarl,” said the servant.
“Good, Jarl. Go tell this elf that we will be bringing Alyssa to him, if he will kindly wait for us.”
The servant bowed low, then hurried away. Warrick promised Egar he’d return soon, then ventured out into the mansion grounds. They’d cleaned away most of the bodies, but the blood still remained. The grass would grow strong next spring, he thought, feeling a bit of grim amusement. The understaffed servants hurried about, trying to put everything back in order as if the battle had never happened. They’d never succeed, of course. Warrick was in charge now. Things would never be as they were, and the city would be all the better for it.<
br />
At the entrance to the dungeon, the city guards bowed low, both men looking uncomfortable. Warrick knew Ingram was hardly loved among the city folk, but compared to him, Warrick was an unknown, a frightening entity suddenly come to power. He’d overlook their stuttered words and shifting eyes for a little while. At some point, though, he’d have to either win them over, or terrify them into submission.
“Go fetch me Alyssa,” he told them. “Make sure she remains unharmed.”
The first guard bowed low and then hurried inside. As Warrick waited, he called over another of his guards and requested an escort. He would not travel through the city without the support of shields and blades, not with fires and riots fresh in his memory. Course, he’d caused most of them, but that was irrelevant.
When the guard returned with Alyssa, Warrick bowed as low as his old spine allowed.
“I hope your stay has been pleasant,” he said.
Alyssa’s face and dress were covered with dirt, and she sported fresh bruises from the previous night. At his words, she smiled so sweetly, as if he’d brought her down from Veldaren for tea.
“A most exquisite locale,” she said. “I hope you yourself get a chance to sample its pleasures.”
Warrick chuckled.
“One day, perhaps, but I fear I’ll be dead before I return there.”
“We can only hope.”
“Save some of your charm for the elves. You’ll need it to keep your head.”
He nodded to his guards, and with Alyssa still in chains, they left the compound and headed for the gates of the city. As they walked, Warrick took in the sights with a fresh set of eyes. No longer were the various stores just his partners in trade, or the taverns places his underlings could fritter away their coin. They were his now, his protection, his servants. They would pay taxes to him, kneel at his feet, and show respect far beyond what he’d known as a lowborn man sailing the seas in search of wealth. Even the people seemed different, for after all, they were his people now.
Of course the other Merchant Lords would have their say in things, and each would obtain parcels of land in the surrounding areas. The Ramere was theirs now, after all.
At the gates, the soldiers saluted and gave way.
“Where is the elf?” Warrick asked as they paused a moment underneath the stone arch of the gateway.
“If your eyes are sharp, you can see him from here,” said the guard, pointing to a far hill. Warrick shook his head, unable to see but a blur, but also knowing his eyes were not the same eyes of his youth, when he’d sat in the crow’s nest, calling out banners of distant ships. He could see hills easily enough, though, and he and his escort headed out. The minutes passed, the only sound the clatter of his guards’ armor and the clinking of Alyssa’s chains. As they neared, Warrick saw the elf but failed to recognize him.
“Hail, elf of Quellassar,” he called out.
“Hail, Lord of Angelport,” the elf returned. Warrick smiled. At least he was polite enough. They closed the distance, and he took a better look at him. The elf had long brown hair, carefully braided so it would not interfere with his vision. His eyes sparkled as he bowed low, refusing to move from his spot atop the hill.
“I must apologize for all our misunderstandings,” Warrick said, offering a half-bow. “But I am Lord of Angelport now, and must try to make amends. I believe your people have been demanding Lady Alyssa for trial, and I have come offering her as a gift to start a new friendship between us.”
The elf nodded, his face somber.
“I accept, and will bring her to Quellassar where she may have a trial. Release her from her chains.”
Warrick raised an eyebrow.
“Would it not be better to keep her bound until she reaches your forests?”
“Do not insult me. I am not alone, and she cannot escape from us, not in the wilds.”
“Of course,” Warrick said, bowing again. He looked to his guards. “Release her.”
They unclamped the chains from her wrists and ankles. Alyssa absently rubbed the raw flesh as she took a hesitant step toward the elf. She had a strange look on her face, one Warrick failed to read. Was it fear? Relief? Did she have higher hope in elven justice than what she’d receive in his own dungeon? Whatever it was, she wasn’t his problem anymore. The Trifect was crumbling, and he and his comrades would spread north to pick up the pieces.
“Farewell,” the elf said, and he bowed deeply. He did not leave, though, only stood there with Alyssa at his side, as if waiting for Warrick. Warrick wondered if it was a custom he was unaware of, and resolved to learn more about the elves since his dealings with them would be of the utmost importance over the next few years. With Alyssa gone, he felt a great weight off his shoulders, and when he reentered Angelport, it was with a smile on his face.
Alyssa waited beside the elf until Warrick and his escort were far out of sight before stepping away from him and crossing her arms over her chest.
“I have refused elven justice once already,” she said. “Who am I to go to now? Will Laryssa hang me in secret, or do we head to Quellassar for a sham of a trial?”
The elf turned to her, and she noticed he did so with a poorly concealed limp.
“Not exactly,” he said, and a smile crossed his face as he put his fingers to his lips and whistled.
At the bottom of the hill, hidden from sight of Angelport, was a heavy gathering of brush, and from its center Haern and Zusa stood up from their hiding place. Relief flooded through her, the sight of Zusa alive and well enough to send her to tears. She ran down the hill at a breakneck pace, and when she reached Zusa she flung herself against her.
“Careful,” Zusa said, pulling back. “My wounds are still tender.”
Alyssa laughed, then brought her attention to Haern, whom she gave a hug and a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, both of you,” she said.
The elf joined them, and Haern bowed his head respectfully.
“We cannot thank you enough, Dieredon,” he said.
“I should be thanking you,” said the elf. “Ceredon will not enjoy hearing it, but he must learn of Laryssa’s misconduct, as well as Graeven’s manipulation of these events. I feel tensions between our races will never vanish, but at least this might pull us back from war for a time.”
Dieredon retrieved a cane he’d placed by the brush, saluted them all, and then started walking toward Quellassar. Alyssa watched him go for a moment, then called out his name.
“I never attacked Laryssa,” she told him when he glanced back. “But I know who did. It was Torgar, a mercenary who now rules the Keenan household. He told me so in mocking.”
Dieredon froze, and the look in his eyes was chilling. Without a word, he continued on. Feeling a little better, Alyssa began heading north with Zusa, toward home. To her surprise, Haern did not follow, instead climbing the hill toward Angelport.
“Where are you going?” she asked him.
He glanced back, and his gaze was disturbingly hollow.
“How can we leave like this?” he asked. “Walking home beaten, bloodied, having failed so terribly?”
Alyssa thought of setting foot in Angelport, and her revulsion was overwhelming.
“No,” she said. “Leave them be. There’s nothing left for us there, not anymore.”
“I disagree.”
Haern ran off, and Alyssa felt her heart ache at the sight.
“What is he hoping to accomplish?” she asked.
“We’ll give him a night,” Zusa said, watching him go. “Dieredon gave me enough coin to buy food and passage back to Veldaren, so we do not need to hurry. Let him find what he needs. He’ll return to us, though, I know it.”
Alyssa clutched Zusa’s hand, and they embraced once more.
“Never do that to me again,” she said.
“I’ll try.”
They walked north, gaining enough distance from Angelport to feel comfortable, then set up camp off the road to wait out the night, and give the
Watcher his chance to come back.
27
Despite the severe lack of the many comforts still to be relocated from his old home, Warrick stayed the night at Ingram’s mansion. His mansion, he tried to remind himself as he changed into a thick bedrobe. It’d take several weeks before he stopped thinking of it as Ingram’s, but he had to try. He was an old man, and change was not something he was well-accustomed to.
The bed was absurdly large, with curtains across the bedposts. At least it’d be warm in winter, thought Warrick as he washed his face and hands in a basin of cool water. As he dried his hands on a wool cloth, he heard a soft creak, faint enough he might have imagined it. When he looked back, he knew it was no trick of his ears. A man knelt by the window, swords drawn. He recognized that shadowed face, though he lacked his characteristic smile.
“What is it you come for, Wraith?” Warrick asked, trying not to sound afraid.
“No,” said the intruder, shaking his head. Warrick frowned, and he took a step closer. He knew if the man was skilled enough to make it past his guards, ascend the walls, and sneak in through his window, there was little chance he could escape now. He might as well see if he could learn something first.
“If not him,” Warrick said, thinking aloud. “Then...are you Veldaren’s Watcher?”
“I am,” said the man. His voice was a cold whisper, the harsh edge to it enough to convince Warrick what his plans were. His throat suddenly dry, Warrick tried to remain calm. He was an old man, and not afraid of death. It was just losing everything he’d accomplished, all on the night of his greatest triumph, that struck him most. Only a cruel world would allow something like that.
“Why are you here, Watcher?” he asked. “Have you come to kill me?”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
“And why is that? I have never met you before, and have committed no crime against you. Surely we can talk reason...unless you’ve been paid, and even then I might offer you a more advantageous sum.”
The Watcher chuckled, as if amused, but there was no amusement in the whites of his eyes that shone out from the hood.
A Dance of Death (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 3) Page 30
