Yerrin: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 6)

by Garrett Robinson

  Loren folded her arms. “Oh?”

  Wyle flashed his easy grin. “You are an impressive woman, Nightblade, and your black cloak will do you many favors in capturing the people’s minds. I think King Jun is right, and his people have no great love for the usurper. Yet while the masses love to believe in a figurehead, they are reluctant to follow them unless they see their fellows already doing so.”

  “Speak plainly, smuggler,” said Loren. “I do not enjoy parsing the meaning from your words.”

  “He means that a crowd will follow a crowd,” said Annis. She turned to Wyle. “That wisdom is known to many. But how do you mean to use it?”

  “In the simplest way possible,” said Wyle. “When the Nightblade addresses the people, no doubt some of them will listen to her. But if some of them give voice to their support, and loudly, that will sway even more hearts.”

  Annis’ eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly. “Agents. Plants in the crowd to raise a cry.”

  “I do not understand,” said Loren.

  “Wyle will hire some few people—beggars, mayhap—to cry their support for you as you speak,” said Annis. “That will encourage others to do the same. It is one thing to whisper gossip in your own shop. It is quite another thing to shout down a king—even a false one—when his guards are close at hand, and armed.”

  “But even the meek will rise up if they think they have the support of their fellows,” said Wyle. “If we are agreed, then, I will see to the specific arrangements.”

  “More of your friends within the city?” said Chet.

  Wyle cocked his head with a smile. “But of course. The meaner sort—not quite beggars, as the Yerrin girl said, but close enough. They will require payment—but I do not doubt that King Jun will be willing to accommodate that. As well as a fee for business honestly conducted, of course.”

  Loren fumed. Wyle confused her sometimes, when he seemed so eager to help them—but only until she discovered how he meant to profit from it.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will speak to King Jun and secure your payment—once he has the city. In the meantime, send your messages and have your friends ready to act.”

  “My pleasure,” said Wyle, bowing low. “I imagine one of the Mystics will accompany me, to ensure there is no wrongdoing? Which one shall you send—the handsome one, or the quiet one?”

  Loren looked at Shiun. The woman barely restrained a sigh as she went off with Wyle. Loren turned to Annis and the others. “Let us return to the manor and tell the king our plan.”

  “Later,” said Annis. “Before we do, we have some goods to retrieve. Did you forget the tailor?”

  Loren’s eyes widened as she stared at her friend. “You cannot mean to fetch a dress now, Annis. There are more important things to be done.”

  “My dress is unimportant, but your new clothes are not.” Annis’ tone brooked no argument, and she stepped forwards to take Loren’s arm. “One cannot take too much care with one’s appearance when one is about to become a legend.”

  “She is already a legend,” said Gem brightly. Annis ignored him and led Loren northeast into the city.

  THE DREAM TOOK HER.

  LOREN was in the sewers, and the man was there. The one whose hair was cropped close, who dressed in black leather, who had scars along his arms. His eyes still glowed with that strange light, akin to magelight and yet somehow different.

  He leaned against the passage wall and put a finger to his lips, though Loren had spoken no word. She spun, looking around. They were in Danfon’s sewers, but she could not place their exact location. Then she thought she heard a noise—a great deal of running water. The river. They must be near the place where Wyle had first led them into the sewers.

  She turned back to the man with the scars. He still held a finger to his lips, but now he lowered it and stepped around the corner. Though she had not willed her body to move, Loren found herself following him. She stepped around the corner and almost bumped into his back. The man motioned her to silence and then stepped aside for her to see.

  There were Damaris and Gregor, just a little way down the tunnel. But there, too, was a woman Loren did not recognize. She had the look of a Dorsean woman, and she sat in a chair facing Loren. Damaris and Gregor faced her, away from Loren. Then Loren realized that the woman was bound and unable to move.

  For the moment, Damaris and Gregor seemed content to ignore their prisoner. Gregor strode up and down the sewer, studying its walls, its ceiling. “This is how Loren entered the city,” he said. “I know that she and her party came this way, but my agents could not discover her whereabouts above ground.”

  “That is no matter,” said Damaris. “Maintain a guard so that they cannot escape the same way. But I do not think she will try to flee. I think she came here seeking us. If that is true, then it is only a matter of time before she reveals herself, and that is when we may strike.”

  Loren’s knees shook. Damaris knew she was in the city. Of course she would know eventually—Loren meant to reveal herself to the whole populace the next day. But how had she found out in advance? Or was this a vision of the future?

  Her terror increased tenfold as Damaris turned to look into her eyes.

  “Hello, Loren,” she said softly.

  “I … this is a dream,” said Loren.

  How did she know that? She had never realized it before—not while she was in the dream, at least. Or had she? Her mind was muddled.

  Damaris did not acknowledge Loren’s statement. She only came forwards, walking up until she stood less than a pace in front of Loren. Gregor did not follow, though Loren could almost feel the bodyguard grow tense.

  “Thank you,” said Damaris, “for bringing Annis to Danfon.”

  Loren wanted to flee, but she could not move. “She is not here. You have been misled.”

  The merchant smiled. It was a sad, lonely expression, but her eyes were warm. She stepped forwards. Loren tried to jerk away, but she still could not move.

  Damaris embraced her, arms wrapping around her back to rest on her shoulder blades. She laid her head on Loren’s shoulder, face turned away, and squeezed her tight—not to harm, but only to give comfort. Loren had almost forgotten that the merchant was nearly a hand shorter than her.

  “You have taken such good care of her,” said Damaris softly. “I know now that if she had joined me in the Greatrocks, I would have regretted it. Everything had happened so fast. My hasty decision would have been my ruin. The Necromancer would have taken her from me. They have leverage over me already, but they always want more. Thank you for seeing to her safety.”

  Despite herself, Loren relaxed in the merchant’s embrace. Why did she feel so safe? She knew Damaris’ evil—knew her love of others’ pain, her desire for control.

  Yet after a moment, Loren recognized the truth. This was not the embrace of a friend. It was the comfort of a parent. It was something Loren had no memory of. Jordel had given her only a pale shadow of it, more akin to a battlefield commander than to a father. Loren was always expected to look after Annis, after Gem, to console them when the world was cruel, to see to their safety. Now, for just a moment, a part of her mind could pretend that Damaris’ embrace promised the same. Reassurance. Security. Protection.

  “Do not forget what happened at Wellmont,” whispered Damaris.

  Then she pulled away, and Loren’s wits returned. It was the dream. It made her see things—think things—that would never happen in the waking world. This was another lie. Another trick.

  Damaris stepped back until she stood by the woman in the chair. The woman’s head had hung, but now she lifted it. Loren studied her. Sharp and severe features, thin eyebrows and regal lips. But she had been beaten terribly, and one eye was almost swollen shut. Far worse than that, her clothes were soaked in blood. Loren knew it came from a thousand torturous cuts, the sort that Damaris liked to give her victims as she pried information from them.

  The woman tried to speak, but a bubbling cou
gh came out instead. She hacked for a moment and tried again, her voice like steel.

  “Never again will Jun sit the Dorsean throne.”

  Damaris drew a dagger and cut the woman’s throat. The dagger was—had been—Auntie’s.

  Loren took a step back, horrified. Then she heard a noise behind her and turned. The man in black had gone, but someone else stood there.

  Kal.

  The grand chancellor was resplendent in his red cloak, which was free from any of the sewer’s grime. Behind him were many Mystics, all of them armed and armored.

  Loren almost melted in relief. “Damaris is here!” she said. “We can capture her!”

  Kal did not answer. He raised his sword and leaped to attack her.

  She barely scrambled out of the way in time. At the last moment she fell and struck the wall—but then she fell through it. Loren looked up in shock. What had seemed a small alcove was actually a side tunnel entrance. It led off into utter darkness—but in the main tunnel were Kal and his bloodthirsty Mystics.

  Loren ran as fast as she could. Away from Damaris. Away from Kal and his Mystics who howled for her blood. But more red-cloaked warriors appeared in the sewers ahead. Again Loren had to turn down a side tunnel. She was hopelessly lost. Where was the city? Where was escape? She had no idea. She could only keep running.

  A figure leaped out of the darkness ahead, and Loren recoiled. But it was no Mystic—or at least, not a real one. It was Niya.

  Loren turned to flee again, but Niya snatched her arm.

  “Quickly! We must escape!” she cried.

  The Mystics were now close behind. Loren hesitated just a moment too long, and Niya’s grip was strong. Soon they flew side by side. They came to a junction.

  “Bent grate!” cried Niya, pointing. Loren saw it—twisted and bent, as though it had been struck by something heavy.

  “Left,” said Niya, and turned to follow her own direction.

  The cries of the Mystics were still close, but now at least they were out of sight. Loren almost stopped following Niya, but then the woman spoke again.

  “Bronze plate. Right.” She pointed again, and Loren saw a bronze plate set in the ceiling. It had drainage holes, but beyond that she could not guess at its purpose. Niya turned right, and soon they had reached a heavy iron door.

  “Help me get it open,” she said. She seized the door and grunted as she heaved at it. Once again Loren lost control of her own body, and she moved to help. Together they heaved the iron door open. Its hinges groaned.

  Sweet, fresh air rushed in to greet them. They darted through the doorway, and Loren found herself on a low wooden dock built on the river’s edge. Looking up, she could see they were in the city again. They had made it back to Danfon. But Loren had wanted to escape the city.

  “This is the wrong way,” she said.

  “It is the only way,” said Niya. “Come, or they will catch you.”

  Loren glanced back the way they had come. Many Mystics rounded the corner. Battle cries poured from their lips as they chased her. With no other choice, Loren turned to follow Niya. The woman climbed the riverbank and ran towards a small, nondescript shop nearby. She flung open the door and ran inside, with Loren only a pace behind her.

  She was in the king’s palace. Confusion struck her like a hammer blow, and for a moment she froze in her tracks. The halls and mighty pillars were familiar from the last dream. Turning, she saw the shop door behind her. It was set in the wall, and beyond it was the river. It was like a portal to another world, and her mind could not reconcile the difference.

  “They nearly killed us,” said Chet.

  Loren whirled. When had Chet appeared there? He was within arm’s reach. His limbs shook, and his eyes darted everywhere, mad with fear.

  “They … they were so close,” said Chet. Even his words quivered. “If any of us had made a misstep … if I had fallen …”

  “We are safe,” said Loren. “They did not catch us.”

  “How long?” said Chet. “How long can we keep running? How long before I stumble in the chase?”

  Loren opened her mouth, but no words came out. She only shook her head.

  “You cannot follow me anymore,” whispered Chet.

  “But you have followed me,” cried Loren in frustration. “And I know you cannot do it anymore. It is killing you, Chet. I can see it, and I know you can as well. I only wish you did not feel the need to try.”

  Unthinking, she stepped forwards and tried to embrace him. But he screamed and pushed her away. Loren recoiled, cursing herself as Chet fled weeping. Loren went after him, crying for him to wait, that she was sorry. But he kept running until he had led her to the passageway—the one she knew well, the one where her dreams always led her. Ahead was the dining hall. Chet fled through it. The way beyond was clear, and an open gate led to the city. Almost Loren followed him.

  Then she heard cries behind her and turned. The Mystics were there. They had found her again, and their swords hungered for her blood.

  She had to lead them away. Had to keep them from Chet’s trail. If she followed him, he would die.

  But if she went into the secret passageway, she would die. Gregor would see to that.

  Loren threw open the small iron door and ducked inside the serving room. She seized the cupboard and heaved—it fell to the ground with a crash, scattering broken dishes everywhere. Beyond was the dark passageway, and she ate a magestone so that she could see. There was the ladder, and at the top was the second hall. Soon she came to the tapestry and moved it aside.

  It was the apartment. The same as last time. She had half hoped the dream would play a trick on her again, that she would find herself somewhere else entirely. But it was the same. In the far wall was the door leading to the balcony, and before it stood Gregor. His eyes fixed on her, and she could not move as terror filled her body.

  “The Elves told you.” Niya’s voice floated from nowhere. Loren was alone as Gregor stepped forwards, drawing his sword.

  The dream released her.

  Loren started awake in her bed and sat up. For half a moment she forgot where she was, and fear coursed through her as she imagined herself in the Danfon palace. But her wits soon returned. She was in the manor of the merchant Yushan, and Gregor was far away. Annis lay within arm’s reach, but the girl did not stir. Slowly Loren’s breathing returned to normal. She hung her head, resting it in her hands.

  The dreams were more vivid, more detailed, and yet they still brought less terror each time. That was good. Whether or not the dreams were meant to help her, she could do without the dread they always left behind. Mayhap soon they would leave none at all.

  But though the fear soon passed, it left her anxious and jumpy. She needed to move, to work out the sudden tension in her limbs. So she rose and dressed herself, wearing her regular, simple garments, and not the new clothes from the tailor. She did not bother to pull on her boots. The door opened silently, and she slipped out into the common room.

  To her surprise, she found Shiun there. The Mystic sat in a chair by the door that led to the rest of the manor. Loren paused for a moment, and the two of them stared at each other. After a moment, Shiun raised an eyebrow.

  “Can you not sleep?”

  “I … did, but something woke me,” said Loren. “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting watch,” said Shiun. “Uzo and I have done so since we came here.”

  Loren cocked her head as she went to one of the room’s armchairs and sank into it. “Do you suspect Yushan might betray us?”

  “I do not. But one can never be too careful. Call it an old habit—technically we are still on campaign, after all.”

  Loren sighed. “You are right, and I thank you for it. It is only one more detail I should have thought of.”

  Shiun sighed and looked away, picking at her trouser leg with her fingernails. Loren felt shame rise in her breast, and she, too, turned away. Shiun deserved better than her. The whole party did. Too oft
en, Loren forgot that she was only a girl. The next day—or, she supposed, later this day, for it was the small hours of the morning—Loren would play at being a legend, a master thief of great renown. Yet she could not even remember to do simple things like setting a watch.

  “I am sorry you were assigned to me, Shiun,” she said softly. “I know you would rather not have been. I am sure you and Uzo must be frustrated by me. I should have caught Damaris long ago. A smarter woman would have. I should never have followed her to Yewamba. Sometimes—that is, I do my best, but sometimes I feel as though I am just stumbling from one mess to another, and making each one worse as I do.”

  Shiun’s lips pressed tight. She turned back to Loren, studying her in the dim light of the room’s lamp. Then it seemed to Loren like she came to a decision, resolving something in her own thoughts.

  “May I speak to you openly, Nightblade?”

  “Of course,” said Loren. “I am your commander in name only.”

  “You are not,” said Shiun sharply—so sharply that Loren jumped a bit. “You are who I was assigned to follow, and the same is true for Uzo. Yet all the long while we have ridden together, you have … well, you have whined and complained and moaned to us. You speak too openly and listen too eagerly.”

  Loren straightened somewhat in her armchair. “I … you do not want me to listen to you?”

  “I understand your situation, at least somewhat,” said Shiun. “You are young. Few are given a command at your age, even in the Mystics, where we recruit some fine soldiers of your years. You are nervous that you will make a mistake. And before you rode with Mystics, you rode alone—or with a small group of friends. And you treat them as friends. You speak to them openly, sharing everything.”

  “Of course,” said Loren, feeling a little defensive now. “They are my friends.”

  “But I am not,” said Shiun flatly. “Do not misunderstand me. I think you are a fine woman, and honorable. I do not tell you all this only for my own sake and Uzo’s, but for everyone you may lead in the future. Sky above, act like a commander for once. Let those who serve you serve you. We do not need to hear the smallest details of every thought that crosses your mind. Some information can be helpful, but too much debate gets tiresome. Uzo and I are not your friends. We are here with one purpose: to carry out your orders. That is the lot of a soldier, and that is why we joined the Mystics.”