Mistress of the Night

by Don Bassingthwaite

  When he left the laboratory, less than half of the magesbane dust remained in the crystal vial but the chances that Roderio would be reaching for an ingredient treated with the dust were much higher. For good measure, Keph had even sprinkled a little of the dust into a couple of the vessels waiting on the workbench—to his delight, the dust vanished against glass just as easily as it had melded into the moss.

  Let’s see who’s sneering tomorrow, Roderio, he thought as he staggered toward the south wing and his bedchamber.

  Keph woke to the sounds of hideous screams and horrified shrieks. It took a heartbeat before a name passed from the shrieks to his brain.

  Roderio.

  He thrashed free of the bed sheets, jammed himself into a pair of trousers, and wrenched open the door of his chamber to peer down the hallway. Servants were crowded around the arch of the north wing, kept back by the wards. The sharp odor of acid stung his nostrils. Keph’s heart jumped from his chest into his throat. Snatching up a shirt, he pulled it over his head and charged, still barefoot, down the hall.

  “Move!” he shouted at the milling servants. “Move!”

  Maids and underbutlers leaped out of his way. He careened through the wards and into the north wing.

  Roderio lay stretched out on the floor of the hallway, surrounded by those few trusted servants able to bypass the wards on that wing. Dagnalla cradled his head and Malia was kneeling down at his side. Keph stared at his brother. His face was blistered and red. Fragments of broken glass were embedded in the skin of his face and neck as well. His eyes, clenched shut, were the worst. Blood oozed out from under the lids. His upper robes had been ripped away, exposing his chest and arms—they were burned too, though not so badly as his face. One servant clutched scalded hands, while another was thrusting the torn robes away with a stick. Saturated with a bilious yellow-green liquid, the ruined fabric smoldered and steamed.

  “All gods have mercy …” Keph gasped.

  Malia glanced up at the sound of his voice. “He’s alive, Keph,” she said quickly before turning away again. She had two vials clutched in one hand. “Tilt his head, mother,” she ordered.

  Dagnalla arched her son’s head. Malia pushed a finger between his lips and forced Roderio’s mouth open. Pulling the stopper from one vial with her teeth, she poured a thick, pale blue liquid into his mouth, then pushed his mouth closed. Roderio swallowed convulsively and his body trembled, but some of the redness seemed to fade from his skin.

  “Use the other potion,” Dagnalla urged under her breath. Her face was pale. “That may be enough until a priest gets here to heal him properly.”

  Malia nodded and pulled the stopper from the second vial. The door to Roderio’s laboratory stood open beyond them. Keph edged around his mother and sister toward it, his eyes fixed on the horrid sight of his brother’s burned body.

  “Keph!” said his father.

  His voice broke the moment of terrible fascination. Keph looked up. Strasus Thingoleir stood in what was left of the laboratory. One gnarled hand held his staff in much the same way Keph would have held Quick in the face of possible danger. His other was spread wide in warning. His eyes were hard and stern. Keph swallowed.

  “Father—”

  “Just stay at the door. There’s acid and broken glass everywhere.” Keph blinked and Strasus pointed a finger at Keph’s bare feet.

  “Oh,” mumbled Keph in surprise. “Right.”

  He surveyed the ruins of the laboratory from where he stood. Afternoon sunlight streamed through a window, lending an almost unnatural sharpness and clarity to the scene. The yellow-green liquid that had saturated Roderio’s robes seemed to have splashed everywhere. Droplets smoked and steamed on the floor, on the walls, on workbenches—Roderio’s lizard familiar crouched in its case, hissing violently at the acid that streaked the outside of the glass. A smear of the stuff marked where Roderio had been dragged across the floor and out of the room. The workbench that had been set up by the rack of jars and pots was flooded with it, the books of Elvish script so completely soaked that they were already shriveling and turning black.

  Among the devastation on the bench lay the remains of not one of the jars Keph had treated with the magesbane, but four. Of the two vessels he had treated, there was no sign. He could only guess that they had given birth to the shards of glass that littered the laboratory floor and pierced his brother’s flesh.

  Beshaba’s ivory arms, he cursed silently, what have you gotten me into, Jarull?

  Strasus was turning around in the midst of the chaos, examining everything but especially the ruined workbench. Keph’s mouth was dry. He scarcely dared to breathe. His father was sure to find something; nothing escaped his sharp-eyed gaze. And if he detected the magesbane.…

  But Strasus only grunted and stood up straight, stroking his gray beard as he turned away from the workbench. Keph’s stomach twisted. He licked his lips, forcing moisture into his mouth again.

  “What happened?” he asked, cautious.

  The old wizard grimaced. “An accident,” he said. “Roderio must have made some kind of mistake in his brewing.”

  He held out his staff and murmured a spell. With a sound like the edges of a hundred knives drawn across slate, the broken glass and crockery that had been scattered across the laboratory scraped itself together into neat piles. He wiped his free hand through the air and the smoking puddles and droplets of acid hissed and vanished. Strasus lowered his staff slowly to the ground and paced out of the room with a sigh.

  Keph only barely managed to hold in a sigh of his own as his father stepped past him. An accident?

  Out in the hall, Strasus knelt beside Roderio. “How is he?” he asked.

  “Unconscious,” said Dagnalla, “but I don’t think he’s getting any worse. A priest should arrive soon. We’ll know better then.”

  Her voice was thick with tension. Strasus reached out and patted her on the shoulder, then helped her to her feet.

  “It would be better if he were in his bed rather than lying on the floor,” he said. “Malia—?”

  “I’ll see to it, father.” She spread her hand speaking the words of a spell. Roderio’s battered, unconscious body shuddered slightly, then rose up off the floor to about waist height. Malia gestured and Roderio glided down the hall toward the south wing. The watching servants parted before him. Strasus, Dagnalla, and Malia followed in his wake. Keph could hear his niece Adrey down the corridor, crying and asking what had happened to her uncle.

  “Tymora’s own luck,” he breathed.

  Keph wasn’t quite sure how or why Strasus could come to conclude that what had happened was nothing more than an accident, but Keph wasn’t going to question his good fortune! As his family followed Roderio’s floating form and the crowd of servants dispersed, Keph ducked into the laboratory. His brother’s familiar hissed at him.

  “Quiet, you!” he hissed back, and darted to the rack of jars, hastily grabbing those that remained of the ones he had dusted with the magesbane. Tucking them carefully into the crook of his arm, he darted back to the door and peered along the hall.

  The servants were gone, his parents and sister all apparently in Roderio’s bedchamber keeping watch over his brother. The hall was empty except for Adrey’s disembodied wailing. Keph trotted down the hall to his own bedchamber and closed the door softly behind himself.

  “Keph! Hey, Keph!”

  Keph halted his brisk pace and swung toward the sound of Jarull’s voice so quickly he almost fell over. The big man was leaning back in the shadows of a stone wall, well out of the heat of the afternoon sun. He gestured for Keph to join him, but the friendly smile he offered faded after one look at the glower on Keph’s face.

  “Dark, Keph, what’s wrong with you?”

  Keph stalked over to him. “That damn magesbane almost killed my brother!” he spat quietly. Like Jarull, many Yhauntans were seeking shelter from the heat, but there were still some people out and about. As much as he felt like shouting
at his friend, he didn’t dare. He shook the satchel that he carried over one shoulder. “I’m getting rid of what’s left!”

  “Killed him?” Jarull’s eyes went wide. “Keph, what did you do with it?”

  Biting off each word in anger, Keph told him. When he was finished, Jarull stared at him for a moment—then started laughing.

  “It isn’t funny!” Keph snarled.

  He threw a punch at the big man. Jarull’s hand snapped up and caught his fist. The laughter vanished from his voice.

  “It is funny, Keph,” he said softly.

  “Oh, really?” Keph tugged his fist free of Jarull’s grip. “What was the magesbane supposed to do?”

  Jarull shrugged. “Explode.” A strangled sound found its way out of Keph’s throat, and Jarull added hastily, “A little bit, Keph. Only a little bit!”

  “You said it wouldn’t do anything permanent!”

  “In a house with five powerful wizards, how much is there that’s really permanent?” He spread his hands and raised his eyebrows. “Besides, how much do you have to hate someone to do what you did, just to make sure they got a little punishment?”

  Keph blinked. “What?”

  “How much of the magesbane did you say you used, Keph? Half a bottle? Without really knowing what would happen?” Jarull’s voice dropped even lower and he leaned forward. “Tell me you regret it.”

  Keph stared at his friend. By daylight, Jarull looked even paler than he had the night before, his eyes even brighter. Something was wrong with him, Keph realized. Something more had happened in Ravens Bluff than Jarull was saying.

  “Jarull …” he said, starting to take a step back.

  Jarull caught his arm. “Answer me, Keph. Do you regret what you did to Roderio? What was your first reaction when your father said he thought it was all just an accident?”

  “I …” Keph opened his mouth—then shut it again. What had been his first reaction? Really?

  Relief, he realized. Not regret for what he had done, nor dismay at what had happened to Roderio, but relief that he hadn’t been caught. And more than that.

  A sick feeling of elation had warmed him. He had knocked Roderio off his pedestal, not just physically, but in his father’s eyes as well. The sigh that had escaped Strasus as he walked out of the laboratory—Roderio’s apparent accident had disappointed Strasus. Disappointed him deeply.

  It felt wonderful.

  Keph sank down beside Jarull, the magesbane-contaminated jars in his satchel clanking together roughly. He turned his head to stare at his friend.

  “You were never in Ravens Bluff at all, were you?” he asked. Jarull shook his head. Keph leaned back against the cool of the wall. “What’s going on, Jarull?”

  “I met a woman,” murmured Jarull. He held up his hand and unfolded his fingers to reveal a symbol. Keph stared at it. A simple disk, painted black with a rim of deep purple.

  The symbol of Shar, the Mistress of the Night, the Lady of Loss.

  Fear shivered through Keph’s guts.

  “Jarull.…”

  The big man clenched his fist around the disk, hiding it once more.

  “I’m not taking it anymore, Keph,” he said. “I’ve had it with my mother trying to control everything I do. I’ve had it with people looking down on me. I’m going to take what’s mine.” He glanced down at Keph. “You’re sick of having your family and people like Lyraene walk all over you, aren’t you, Keph? I know you are. We can do something about that.”

  He paused and cocked his head just a little bit. Keph looked away from his friend’s too-bright eyes. Jarull was silent for a moment, then added, “I’ll help you get rid of the last of that magesbane and I’ll introduce you to some of my new friends. What do you think?”

  He held out his fist, the one with the black and purple symbol wrapped inside. Keph stared at it. Shar.…

  But it had felt so good to bring down Roderio, at least a little bit.

  He reached out and bashed his fist against Jarull’s.

  CHAPTER 3

  Colle Shoondeep, the chubby high priest of Tymora in Yhaunn, droned on and on about the great shame that came when temple competed with temple. Would it be a great shame, Feena wondered, if she were to stuff an apple from the nearby fruit bowl into his gaping mouth to shut him up? Glancing around the table, she was fairly certain that the leaders of Yhaunn’s other major temples would support her. Their eyes were beginning to glaze over as well. He’s dull, thought Feena, he’s methodical—Moonmaiden’s grace, has there ever been a more unlikely priest of the bold goddess of good fortune?

  Maybe not, a part of her responded, but is he any more unlikely a high priest than you are a high priestess?

  She grimaced deeply. Mifano, seated just behind and to the right of her, leaned forward.

  “What’s wrong now?” he murmured in her ear.

  “He’s driving me crazy,” Feena murmured back. “I can’t even tell what he’s complaining about!”

  “The Lady Monstaed’s late husband had leased several prime properties in the city to Ladysluck Tower,” Mifano explained patiently. “Lady Monstaed recently rejected the renewal of those leases and transferred them, and the rents they provide, to another temple.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, you have an appointment with Lady Monstaed tomorrow to thank her for her generosity.”

  Feena twisted around to stare at him in angry surprise. Her sudden, sharp movement drew the immediate attention of everyone else in the room. Colle broke off his tirade to scowl at her.

  “Does the Moonmistress-Designate perhaps have an opinion on this matter?” he asked, eyebrow arched.

  “I …” Feena fumbled for words—then shot a beseeching glance at Mifano. He sighed and leaned forward once more, whispering words that she repeated out loud. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss, High Luck. Our temples should stand as united in Yhaunn at large as they do within this council.”

  If Mifano had spoken the words himself, they would have emerged gracefully, an acknowledgement of Colle’s complaint that was soothing without actually being an apology and thus a confession.

  From Feena’s mouth, they came out as wooden and stilted as a bad lie. Colle’s face turned red with rage. Feena bit her tongue. Again. She had been doing it frequently for the past several days.

  Dhauna Myritar had given no explanation for her actions at the Full Moon Blessing. She hadn’t even spoken to Feena—or Mifano or Velsinore—instead closeting herself in her quarters and refusing to respond to any and all protests. She didn’t even come out for meals, instead sending Julith down to the temple’s refectory to fetch a tray. She might as well have left Moonshadow Hall entirely. Feena felt like she wanted to crawl under a rock and hide. Velsinore and Mifano, she was quite sure, would be happy to hold one up for her. Preferably one that was very big and very heavy.

  But she had agreed to help Dhauna, hadn’t she? And no matter what opinions she, Mifano, or Velsinore might have had on the matter, the simple ceremony of succession had been performed. Dhauna had at long last named her successor. A successor undeniably responsible for fulfilling the duties that the High Moonmistress could not—or would not—carry out.

  Feena of Arch Wood village, Moonmistress-Designate of Moonshadow Hall. Bound by her word to Dhauna and her duty to Selûne. At least Mifano and Velsinore had the pleasure of seeing her fail miserably at every turn.

  The informal council of Yhaunn’s religious leaders was only the latest disaster. In spite of Mifano’s reluctant coaching, everything she did made her feel like nothing more than a backwoods yokel attending a high society dinner. She was fairly certain that most, if not all of the high priests and priestesses present had also immediately recognized that she was a werewolf. Colle had taken one look at her and flinched away, as if avoiding something unclean.

  It didn’t help that Velsinore had peevishly insisted on outfitting her in Selûnite high regalia. Moonshadow Hall’s seamstresses had hastily altered—drastically—some of Dhauna’s
old vestments to fit her. Feena had never worn so much fabric in her life. Layer upon layer of crinolines poofed out her skirts, a tight bodice made it difficult to breathe, and a high collar of starched lace scraped her neck every time she turned her head. Topping it all off, a coronet decorated with the mark of the approaching half moon dug painfully into her skull.

  The wolf in her longed to run back to Arch Wood with her tail between her legs.

  Just as it seemed Colle was about to heap another indignity on her already throbbing head, Mifano spoke up. “Your pardon, High Luck, but isn’t one of the teachings of Tymora ‘conduct yourself as your own masters, showing your good or bad fortune as confidence in the Lady’?”

  Colle turned his scowl on Mifano, but quiet snickers were already rippling around the table. At its head, Endress Halatar, the elderly high priestess of the goddess of joy, laughed out loud and said, “He has you there, Colle. Grin and bear your fortune—you’ve been beaten.” She nodded to Mifano. “Well played!”

  “But I …” Colle ground his teeth in frustration and spared one final glare for both Feena and Mifano, but sat down.

  Mifano leaned back with a smug look on his face. Feena held back a glower of her own. The silver-haired priest had turned her awkwardness to his advantage.

  “I believe that’s all of our business,” said Endress. “We meet again in one month at—” she rifled through some papers. A twitch crossed her smiling face—“Moonshadow Hall.”

  Uncomfortable silence fell across the table until Mifano broke it. “We look forward to welcoming you all.”

  He rose gracefully. Feena tried to stand as well, but the expansive volume of her skirts stuck between the arms of her chair and threatened to bring it up with her. Without looking down, Mifano offered her his arm while bracing one foot against the chair’s leg until she had managed to pull herself free. Chin held high, Feena took his arm, and they paced out of the room. She tried to ignore the renewed round of snickers that followed her.