Sand of the Soul

by Voronica Whitney-Robinson

  More and more, Ebeian was sure Rorsin wasn’t ready for leadership. He seemed to be the kind of boy who simply followed. Ebeian was so caught up in his analysis of the young Soargyl that he almost didn’t catch the tread of footsteps in an outer hallway. Luckily for the elf, Lord Rorsin was a lumbering clod and the elf was able to skitter back out of the room as soon as he heard the sound. Ebeian started to shut the door, but an icy voice froze him in mid motion.

  Through the tiny sliver of space between the doors he afforded himself, Ebeian peered into the sitting room. He could see Rorsin nearly stumble in, so intent was the young lord on his visitor. The blond-haired Soargyl kept peering over his shoulder at the dark figure behind him. From his vantage point, what he saw caused Ebeian’s heart to skip a beat. If the figure was whom he thought, Ebeian understood why Rorsin hadn’t bothered with any magic inside the house. He wouldn’t need it tonight.

  That silky voice spoke again and was unmistakable to Ebeian, even from a distance. Though he had only seen the man, to use the term loosely, from afar on a few occasions, Ebeian didn’t need to see the dark, close-shorn hair or the goatee to know it was Ciredor.

  What is he doing back with the Soargyls? Ebeian wondered.

  The elf didn’t know much about the mage—Tazi had preferred to tell Ebeian very little about her last encounter with Ciredor—but what he did know was enough.

  At one point nearly two years past, Tazi’s mother had tried to match her wayward daughter with this man. It was not her first attempt at matchmaking, but as far as Ebeian knew it was the first real error in judgment the Uskevren matriarch had ever committed. Shamur had been under the mistaken impression that Ciredor had the potential for a good match with Thazienne. Playing the dutiful daughter, Tazi agreed to meet with him, as she did with all her mother’s selections, and, as was her way, Tazi proceeded to steal something from him.

  On the night of a celebration to Lliira, Ebeian couldn’t remember which one, Tazi had set out to steal a diamond stud from Ciredor that she had presented him with on a previous occasion. What happened beyond that Ebeian never found out for certain. All he did know was that Ciredor disappeared and Tazi was a changed woman. She immediately dismissed her closest companion and refused to speak to Steorf since. Ebeian had tried a few times to ply her with drinks and find out the whole story, but the icy looks she shot him stopped him dead in his paces. The only piece of information he ever got was from Steorf.

  The mage-in-training let it slip out that Tazi nearly died at the hands of that necromancer and wouldn’t say more. Ebeian didn’t pursue the matter, secretly glad that Steorf was no longer a part of Tazi’s life—he detested competition of any sort—but if Ciredor was back, that didn’t bode well for Tazi.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” a nervous Lord Rorsin asked his guest.

  “It’s not what you can offer me that intrigues me this evening,” Ciredor replied smoothly. “It is what I might be able to offer you.”

  A slow smile curved his lips. Ebeian watched as Ciredor motioned Rorsin to sit, as though it were the mage who was master of the house.

  And perhaps he is, mused Ebeian.

  “I have something for you, something special.”

  With that, Ciredor reached into a hidden fold of his dark red doublet, and pulled out a crystal flask. He placed it carefully onto the teak table beside the couch with the slightest hint of a flourish.

  Lord Rorsin studied the amethyst-hued flask for a few moments. Ebeian thought he was probably not looking at it so much as trying to work up the nerve to speak to Ciredor again.

  “What is it?” the Soargyl finally asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” came Ciredor’s easy reply. Ebeian sensed that the mage was simply toying with the slow lord and enjoying it.

  “It is something your father hired me to do, before his untimely demise. His last wish, so to speak.”

  Ebeian watched as Lord Rorsin’s head dipped slightly at the mention of his father’s death and saw how that reaction did not go unnoticed by the dark mage.

  The bastard, Ebeian thought.

  “Within this crystal is something very unique. One might call it a one-of-a-kind piece.”

  The elf could see Ciredor lift the flask off of the table and allow the firelight to play on its many facets.

  He is a good showman, I’ll give him that, Ebeian grudgingly admitted to himself. He knows how to work the angles. Lord Rorsin is very much out of his league here.

  As Ebeian predicted, the blond man could not outwait Ciredor. He didn’t grasp the rules to this undeclared game.

  “You still haven’t told me what it is,” he said, with a touch of petulance.

  “I would have thought you would have guessed by now,” Ciredor answered, and as though he couldn’t resist the twist of the knife, he added, “and I would have thought your mother would have taught you better manners when speaking to a guest.”

  The elf realized that Ciredor was not someone he wanted to be on the opposite side of. Ebeian could see that he had an unerring ability to find his opponent’s weak spot and dig in. He wondered even more what this mage had done to Tazi and what it had taken her to drive him away. He listened even more closely, the pain in his shoulder all but forgotten.

  “What I have here is both precious and useful. Mark my words, boy, that combination does not occur in this life very often.” He carefully placed the flask back on the table. “That”—he pointed at the container with one long finger—“holds part of Thazienne Uskevren’s soul.”

  It took all of Ebeian’s self-control to remain silent at that revelation. How could that be, he wondered. When and how would the mage have been able to take that from her? His fingers practically bit into the doorknob as he, like Lord Rorsin, waited for an explanation. Even as it came, Ebeian realized when Ciredor could have accomplished it.

  “I’m sure you recall the night your parents left this mortal coil,” Ciredor began.

  When this produced a nod from Rorsin and—Ebeian wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or not—what appeared to be a tear from his pale, blue eyes, Ciredor continued his narrative.

  “On that fateful evening, the Uskevrens,” Ciredor began, and Ebeian noticed the subtle insult to Tazi’s family name, “were hosting a party. As you know, many attendees were slaughtered just like your parents. The shadow creatures seemed to draw the very essence from their victims.”

  Ciredor paused for a moment, and Ebeian wondered if it was only for effect or if the necromancer actually appreciated the creatures.

  “I am also quite certain you would remember that the Uskevrens nearly lost their only daughter during the attack. Or were you too overcome with grief to assimilate that fact at the time?” he questioned solicitously.

  Ebeian could see that Rorsin was becoming flushed. The elf was silently rooting for the Soargyl to actually display a little backbone, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards. He could also see that Ciredor recognized he wasn’t going to get a bite from the lad this time. He hurried along with his story.

  “With Thazienne gravely wounded and the household in disarray after the evening’s slaughter, I saw my chance.”

  Ebeian watched in fascination as Ciredor continued as though he were alone.

  “I had been waiting forever, it seemed, for just the right moment to claim that little bitch. I owed her so much.…”

  Ciredor absently rubbed his chest for a moment before he realized where he was and regained his composure.

  “Word spread quickly among the survivors of the debacle that Thazienne had been gravely wounded and her father had sent for High Songmaster Ammhaddan. It was simple enough for me, disguised as that very priest, to intercept Thamalon Uskevren’s servant and be escorted inside. In they led me to poor little Tazi’s bedroom, begging me to save her.”

  Ebeian’s lips twisted in anger at the casual way Ciredor used Thazienne’s special nickname.

  “Her soul had been partially torn from her
body, but still it lingered nearby. It was a difficult decision, whether to simply send that part of her to the Abyss and help the rest to follow or to take what was lost for myself.”

  He glanced at Rorsin to see if his audience was still hooked, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “And all the while,” the mage continued, pacing back and forth before the fire, “she lay there, so very … vulnerable.”

  Ebeian noticed how Ciredor savored that last word, as a cat might some delectable morsel.

  “So I decided to take what was available for myself. I saw the value in it, and now I offer that to you,” Ciredor finished, turning to stare at Rorsin.

  Ebeian held his breath as he waited to hear what the Soargyl would say in response. All the while, his mind worked at how he could return Tazi’s soul fragment back to her. This is what had been wrong with her all along, he reasoned, and now the elf could save her.

  “I-I don’t know what to say,” Rorsin stammered, obviously frightened to anger the mage.

  “Well, try, dear boy. I don’t have all night.”

  With that, Ciredor seated himself in a cloud of maroon velvet back onto the couch.

  “What I meant to say was that I wouldn’t know what to do with something so ‘precious,’ as you phrased it. I have to wonder why you would be willing to part with it to someone like me.”

  Ebeian smiled from his hidden vantage point. Perhaps Rorsin might have a backbone after all.

  “Here,” the mage began, “try to follow along. If you have possession of part of Thazienne Uskevren’s soul, you will have the ability to scry through her.”

  Both the elf and Ciredor realized Rorsin was confused.

  “A window through her eyes,” Ciredor explained. “You would have the inside view to all her family’s dealings. I think even you,” he added derisively, “can recognize what that could mean for you and your family.”

  “I guess I’m not making myself plainly understood,” Rorsin interjected. “I don’t understand why you would ever part with something that special?”

  Good question, thought Ebeian. The elf had been wondering that himself. If Ciredor hated Tazi so much for that mysterious, past offense, why sell her so cheaply? Surely the dark mage could come up with a more interesting fate for her than this.

  “I have to admit,” Ciredor grudgingly revealed, “that you pose a good query, boy.” He stood up and his maroon clothing turned black against the firelight. “I was never able to fulfill my bargain with your father and I find loose ends to be … annoying. As delightful a morsel as the splinter of little Tazi’s soul is, I cannot be bothered with fragments right now. They have no worth to me.”

  Ebeian saw that Lord Rorsin was curious, and that curiosity emboldened him.

  “No worth?” the lord asked.

  Ciredor turned to gaze into the fire, and when he spoke again, Ebeian recognized that he did it more for himself than anyone else in the room.

  “I have been collecting flasks such as these for some time now, and one like hers would be worthless. It would sully my offering. I wouldn’t risk that when I only need three more to complete my objective.”

  “You’ve got more of these,” Rorsin pointed to the flask on the table, “here with you?”

  Warming his thin, long fingers by the fire, Ciredor did not even turn around when he responded, “Not here, but in hot Calimport. I need only collect one more and I will be quit of this frigid city. Fannah’s is the last, and I need find only two other, minor souls.”

  Ebeian’s green eyes grew wide at the mention of one of Tazi’s only friends.

  “Though tonight,” Ciredor added as he turned to smile at Rorsin, “I find it quite comfortable here.”

  Rorsin made no reply, not knowing how to. His smile fading, Ciredor became brusque.

  “Enough dawdling, boy. Do you want what I have to offer, or has this evening been a waste of my time?”

  Ebeian could sense Rorsin’s fear of Ciredor coming off of him like waves. His own mouth was drying out at the prospect of this bargain and what part he would have to play.

  “I can’t refuse such an offer, can I?” Rorsin astutely answered. “But what amount could I possibly pay you?”

  Ciredor’s easy smile returned at the sound of acquiescence.

  “Don’t trouble your blond curls at this moment, dear boy. One day, I will come for my payment, and have no doubt, you will be able to pay.”

  With that, he reached for the flask, covered it with both of his hands, and closed his eyes.

  “A few words,” he told Rorsin, “and this bit of Thazienne Uskevren is yours.”

  Ebeian could feel his bowels turn to water as he watched Ciredor close his eyes. The pain from his shoulder was already a memory. This was the moment, and there was no turning back, even if part of him might want to.

  Ciredor had only spoken a word when the elf hurled himself from his hiding space. The double doors slammed open from the force of his explosive leap. Ebeian saw confusion register on both the faces of Rorsin and Ciredor, but surprise was his. Before Ciredor could react, Ebeian smashed the crystal flask from his grip. The momentum of that leap brought both necromancer and elf to the ground, upsetting the heavy teak table. The flask shattered on the floor.

  Ebeian watched as gold wisps rose from the shards of the broken container, and he almost laughed aloud at the picture Ciredor presented, scrambling over to the pieces and his hands closing on empty air. The wisps stole their way to the fireplace and, in a deafening roar, they were gone through the chimney, extinguishing the flames in their wake.

  “She’s free,” Ebeian whispered, forcing himself to his feet in the darkened room. He knew his moment was at hand, but he had given Tazi a gift no one else could.

  Ciredor turned wildly in the elf’s direction. He stretched out his arms, and two green balls of light exploded from his fingertips. Ebeian was helpless before the spell and was flattened to the ground under its weight.

  In two angry steps, Ciredor was at the elf’s side. Through a haze of pain, Ebeian saw Ciredor raise his hand in what was sure to be a killing blow, but he hesitated.

  “What have we here?” asked Ciredor, almost gently, the glow from his hands having revealed the thief’s pointed ears.

  Ebeian could feel Ciredor’s icy hands on his face. Between the suffocating weight of Ciredor’s magic and the pain from his shoulder he was nearly unconscious, but the elf could tell that Ciredor had raised his head from the floor and was lightly turning it this way and that.

  “It is almost too impossible to be true,” came Ciredor’s shocked response. “An elf in this city … and one who bears the mark of Fenmarel Mestarine?”

  Ebeian watched as at the wave of Ciredor’s hand the heavy table righted itself. He could see that Rorsin had finally found his feet and was nearly to the door to the outer hallway, clearly out of his element. Ebeian could have laughed at the sight the boy presented. He looked for the entire world like a child waiting for the punishment of a schoolmaster, if he could have made any sound at all.

  Ebeian was rapidly losing consciousness. His thoughts drifted back to Tazi. He could see her green eyes and smiling mouth, and he could hear her joyful giggles.

  “You have no idea how special you are,” Ciredor said, “and what is in store for you.”

  Ebeian was startled awake from his dazed vision to see black eyes boring into him. Turning his head slightly, he realized he was stretched out on the heavy table. Almost against his will, tears slipped from his eyes to run their course into his pointed ears.

  In a low, melodic voice, Ciredor began a heinous chant. Pain exploded both inside and out of the elf’s body. Rorsin crouched in the corner, unable to look. Gut-wrenching screams tore from Ebeian’s lips. Outside, the sickly fog swallowed all light and sound.

  CHAPTER 1

  A TENDAY LATER

  “Dark and empty,” Tazi spat out.

  Her hair was plastered to her face, and the rain showed no sign of slowing. It wa
s difficult enough trying to keep her balance on the taut rope but the winds added another element she had to compensate for. She couldn’t even afford to wipe her hair away from her eyes. She needed her arms positioned right where they were for balance.

  “This seemed like such a good idea a few hours ago,” she shouted over the wind, to no one in particular.

  The only thing Thazienne Uskevren was not concerned with was discovery. In such foul weather, no one in their right mind would be out, let alone looking up between the tallhouses of this quarter of Selgaunt. There was nearly no chance she would be seen, let alone heard, balanced as she was on a thin rope stretched between two of the more reputable buildings in the area.

  She inched her way across the slick rope, with her night’s reward clutched tightly in her right hand. It was her first theft in almost a year. The glass figure Tazi had pilfered was meant to be a gift but was quickly turning into useful ballast. With that in one hand, and her sack of tools in the other hand, arm outstretched for counterbalance, she was nearly to the opposite tallhouse and relative safety. Her lips began to curl upward in a slightly demented smile as her “wilding” neared its successful end. If the wind hadn’t been howling so, she probably would have heard the telltale creak that rope makes just before it gives way, but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the wind.

  With only a few more paces to go, the line snapped near where it was tied off on the first roof. Tazi plummeted toward the ground with no time even to scream. Without thinking, she immediately let go of both her sack and the glass bauble she had so recently liberated. Using a move the family butler, Erevis Cale, had taught her a few years back, Tazi twisted to one side and curled herself into a tight ball. She began to tumble through the air in a more managed fashion and gain some control. She broke out of her somersault when she caught a glimpse of a pole screaming into view. It was fastened to the side of the second tallhouse.