Mistshore

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “What do you think it was?” Icelin asked.

  “I think he dabbled too closely in dangerous magic and paid the price,” Kredaron said. “We’ll likely never know the full story.”

  “But if he deals honorably in business, why should he be judged for his appearance?” Icelin said. “Whatever mistakes he made, his scars have more than paid for them.”

  “You are right, of course,” Kredaron said. “I shouldn’t have doubted his character. But if I had not”—his eyes twinkled—“I would never have met and conversed with you. So you cannot fault me too harshly.”

  “True, I cannot,” Icelin said, smiling.

  The merchant glanced up as evenpeal sounded. The bells in Castle Waterdeep’s turrets could be heard all across the city. “I’ve kept you too long. My apologies. May I escort you home? It will be dark soon, and I don’t want your great-uncle to be distressed at your absence.”

  “Thank you, but I know the way well. I can be home before gateclose,” Icelin assured him.

  She parted ways with Kredaron at Caravan Street and headed in the opposite direction, back to The High Road. As she walked, she slipped the brooch from her coin-purse and examined its surface in the dying sunlight.

  The woman in lace had a stunning profile, and the blue agate of the cameo gave her face an ethereal quality. Her delicate eyes held secrets Icelin could not begin to guess. Pressed silver bounded the piece in a teardrop design, forever capturing the woman’s enigmatic beauty.

  “You are an elegant lady,” Icelin murmured dryly, “just as I am not. But I am practical, as many elegant ladies are not. You will keep Brant and I well fed, though I hate to part with you.”

  She slowed when she approached The Way of the Dragon. Normally, she would have cut between buildings and walked the alley, but dusk was imminent and the brooch too precious to lose to thieves. On impulse, she decided to stay on the Way and stop at the butcher shop at the end of the street. Brant would be glad for fresh meat, and they could afford the luxury, just this once.

  She picked up her pace, excited at the prospect of surprising her great-uncle with a sumptuous meal. She was so absorbed with her thoughts and plans that she didn’t hear the first scream.

  She heard the second; the sound made every hair on her neck stand up.

  It was not unusual for horses to neigh and cry on the Way. The caravan traffic brought animals that were in as many and varied conditions as their handlers: robust, sick, starving, even dying.

  But everyone in South Ward knew the sound of a mad horse’s scream. It was the scream that caused drivers to bring their carts to a dead halt in the middle of the road. Mothers yanked children up into their arms, and anyone who stood on foot near the dusty Way found cover with haste. The crowded road was unforgiving to those who walked it unawares.

  Such was the man cutting across the Way twenty feet in front of Icelin. He walked with his head down, shoulders hunched. Impossibly, he didn’t appear to have heard the horse’s scream.

  The animal, a brown velvet streak in the sunset gloom, reared and broke from its handlers. A coil of rope dangled from its neck. It bolted down the Way, heading straight for the man.

  People were screaming, Icelin among them, but she was running too. She charged down the Way, her hair flying, and launched herself at the man’s back.

  She had a brief impression of orange sunlight and a horse’s hooves flashing over her head. Four deadly clubs, poised to strike, Icelin thought. She closed her eyes, waiting for the weapons to come down and crush her skull.

  Cerest Elenithil had never been in South Ward on foot before. He’d never liked the notion of walking here, having no strong desire to plod among draft animals and caravan lords. But he’d had two exchanges in the Ward today, and one of them had required his wagon to haul the goods. It was a simple transaction of silver for two antique tables.

  The seller had insisted the markings on the edges were arcane. Cerest had sent three of his men to confirm the claim and transport the tables, leaving him alone to conduct the affair with Kredaron. If he’d had more men—or more wagons—he might not have had to breathe the dust and detritus of Caravan City at all. Perhaps, if one of those tables did have arcane powers, he would never have to breathe here again. But after years of merely scraping by in the City of Splendors, Cerest doubted his luck would be running that high.

  So when the elf found himself crossing The Way of the Dragon after evenpeal, he paid no particular attention to the traffic around him and the shouts and conversations of the predominantly human throng. He wanted only to get back to his men and his wagon.

  A few folk ceased their chatter when he came near. They met his good eye and then quickly looked away, not wishing to offend him. He was dressed near enough to nobility that they paid him deference, but they could not keep their reactions to his scars in check.

  Cerest wanted to be home, back in his stone house with its quiet garden. None who served within those walls would ever remark on his disfigurement. He’d seen to that a long time ago, at the point of a sword.

  “I’m tellin’ ye, that horse won’t take a whip crack more than a fly’s arc from its rump,” he heard someone saying. “’It’s not right in the head. Too jittery.”

  Cerest turned, and so didn’t hear the horse master’s reply. The damage to his left side was immutable. There were too many scars to salvage his hearing in that ear. Sound simply died when it came to him from the left.

  “Clear the way! Move!”

  The scream came at him from the right, and a shower of black suddenly exploded in Cerest’s face.

  Blinded, Cerest lost his balance as a dead weight slammed him from behind. The force knocked him completely off his feet, and he went down on his stomach in the dirt. Numbness shot up both arms. Cerest thought he heard bones crunch. The weight landed on top of him and stayed there.

  For a long time Cerest tried simply to breathe. The air had been completely knocked from his chest, and a black curtain blocked his vision. He could hear more shouts and screams now, all filtered to the right. The effect unbalanced him. He felt sick to his stomach.

  Breathing through his mouth, Cerest forced his arms to move. He levered himself up and slid the offending weight off his back. He turned and sat down in the road, ignoring the pangs from his protesting bones.

  When he looked up and saw the black curtain again, he realized it was a woman’s hair, dangling loosely from a ruined braid. She pushed the strands out of her face and massaged her neck gingerly.

  Gods, a human lass had brought him low in South Ward. There was no pride left in the world.

  “Are you all right?” the girl asked. She appeared to be about twenty, with milk blue eyes and pale skin. He recognized her. Where from?

  Kredaron—that was it. She’d been his security. He’d tried not to be insulted by her presence and ignored her during their transactions—a gesture that had been rendered pointless now she’d planted her rump on top of him and ground his bones into the dirt.

  Cerest coughed. “I think you broke my back.”

  “Oh no. You wouldn’t be hacking like that if I’d done any such thing; you’d be screaming,” the woman said, and she offered him her arm.

  Cerest reluctantly let her pull him up. She was a petite thing, half a head shorter than he. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen her before.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why what?” She cocked her head. “Why did you almost break my back?”

  Her expression slid from tight concern to full-blown incredulity. She pointed over his shoulder. “I hoped to do you a favor, and that’s why.”

  Cerest turned and saw the carnage for the first time.

  A broken wagon was twisted around a crushed archway that had once been a storefront. Blood splattered the otherwise pristine windows. A dead horse lay among the wreckage. The tall stud had been brought down near the wagon. An arrow jutted from the beast’s neck. Foam still dripped fr
om its lips. Its eyes were open, frozen in half-crazed fear.

  “It went wild and broke its reins,” the girl explained. “Everyone could see it going, but the fool with the whip didn’t. He won’t last long in South Ward with a whip hand like that, and neither will you, the way you wear your head so low on your neck. You have to look up when you walk, or else you’ll be trampled.” Her words crowded together. She shuddered, clearly unsettled by what had happened.

  “I didn’t hear it,” Cerest said. “I don’t hear well, from the left side.” He turned back to the girl. “My deepest gratitude,” he said. “You saved my back, and the rest of me, such as I am.” He smiled wryly. “My name is Cerest Elenithil. We met earlier, though not formally. May I know you?”

  The girl hesitated. “My name is Icelin Tearn.”

  “Icelin Tearn,” he repeated. The shadow of familiarity snapped abruptly into a picture—a memory—and the elf lost his breath.

  He was not often caught so completely off guard, but at that moment, Cerest simply stared at the woman before him.

  Framed by swirling dust clouds and the curious onlookers who’d come to see the accident, she was a vision, a ghost given life.

  Memories surged through him, phantoms he could draw from the air: Elgreth, the fire, an opportunity lost forever, or so he’d thought. Yet here she was, standing before him like a small, dark angel.

  Icelin Tearn, he thought. You are all grown up. I would never have known you.

  An awkward silence had settled between them. Cerest recovered himself and hurried to fill it. “You must allow me to repay my debt. Please, I would like to escort you home. The Way of the Dragon is no place for a girl to be at night.”

  Cerest was careful to maintain a cordial manner. He didn’t want her to realize how off balance he was. Did he imagine that she looked at him strangely, or was it just his scars that unsettled her? Before he’d been maimed, it had been effortless to charm people, in business or in his bed. Now it was more difficult to get folk to trust him.

  “That’s not necessary,” said the girl. “I know the way well, and I like to walk.”

  An error. He’d been too forward. Cerest cursed himself. She was being cautious now, businesslike, just as she had been with Kredaron. He would have to snare the rabbit carefully, or she would run.

  “I’m afraid my home is a far walk from here, but I have a wagon somewhat closer.” He offered a mock wince. “I’ve learned my lesson. I shall never leave it to go on foot in South Ward again. I will retrieve the wagon and come for you here. Please, I could have you home to your family very shortly, and it would ease my mind to know you hadn’t suffered any injuries preserving my poor neck.”

  “You’re very kind, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

  She was starting to edge away. Cerest could see she didn’t trust him. He sighed inwardly. This was going to be more difficult than he’d thought. Ah, well. Perhaps his scars would serve him in this case.

  He slipped his hand over her nearer wrist, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, and not an intrusion in her space.

  “Does my appearance unsettle you so much?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

  That gave her pause. She flushed attractively. “I’m not troubled by your face, but by your sudden interest in me. You showed no such attentiveness before.”

  “Perhaps I am enchanted by the woman who just saved my life.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Your hands are cold and dry, when any other man’s should be shaking and clammy. You don’t seem the least bothered that there is a dead animal reeking in the street behind us, an animal that almost killed you in a grisly fashion. You look as serene and collected as if you were hosting a dinner party and I had suddenly become the honored guest. Please let go of my hand.”

  She jerked away and immediately began walking in the opposite direction. Cerest had to admire her quick wit. She would be difficult, just like Elgreth had been.

  “Wait, please.” The elf matched her stride easily. “Icelin. Icelin, listen to me. Please don’t run away. I don’t want our acquaintance to start like this.”

  “We have no acquaintance,” Icelin said curtly.

  Oh, but you’re wrong, Cerest thought. You don’t know how very wrong you are.

  He allowed her to pull slightly ahead of him before he fired his next shot, “Don’t you remember me, Icelin?”

  That stopped her cold. She spun to face him. “What did you say?”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have expected…”

  “Stop it.” But she was looking at him now, her eyes raking his features, searching for something recognizable. No one had ever looked at him so intimately after he’d been maimed. His heart sped up. Gods, she was beautiful, more beautiful than Lisra….

  She raised her hand to her mouth. Her chest heaved up and down. “Gods, no, it can’t be. No. I’m sorry, I have to…”

  She turned and fled, cutting down a back alley. Two carts jammed the way. She slid underneath the closest, ignoring the shouts of the drivers who had to steady their horses.

  Cerest watched her go. He was too shocked to follow. What had caused the reaction in her? A breath ago she’d been grinding his teeth in the dirt and giving him a dressing-down for carelessness, and now she was a frightened waif running away from him as fast as she could.

  He laughed out loud, startling the men who’d come to clean up the horse gore. Icelin was a strange woman and fascinating. Gods, he was almost glad she’d run. It made everything more exciting. Now he had to know her better.

  He wanted to keep her forever.

  The elf turned and broke into a run down the Way. He had to find Riatvin and Melias. They were better trackers.

  His men would get her back. Now that he’d seen her, he didn’t want to lose her again. His hands trembled from an excitement that was almost sexual. Come back to me, Icelin. I’ll explain everything. I’ll make you remember.

  Cerest’s men were waiting for him at the wagon. Riatvin and Melias were gold elves, like himself; Greyas was the only human who served him. Cerest sometimes thought that, despite the inferiority of Greyas’s race, the human understood him better than most eladrin. On a more practical level, Greyas was the only human who possessed tact enough to avert his gaze from Cerest’s scars. A burly man with black hair sprouting from his head, chest, and nose, Greyas looked anything but tactful. He was sorely out of place between the two smooth-skinned elves.

  “I need you to retrieve someone for me,” Cerest told them.

  “Deal go sour?” Greyas asked.

  “The deal is in progress,” Cerest corrected. He turned his attention to the elves and described Icelin in detail. He would never forget her face now. “You two go and find her. Bring her to the house. Hurry!” he snapped. “She moves fast, but someone will have seen her on the streets. Question them if need be, but discreetly.”

  The elves nodded and took off, moving like glowing streaks through the crowd.

  She won’t outrun them, Cerest thought. “Greyas, I want you to find out where she lives.”

  “How?”

  “Go to Kredaron. He’ll still be in the ward.” Cerest’s mind raced. An idea started to unfold. “Ask him politely where Icelin Tearn dwells. Apologize, but tell him you bear unhappy intelligence. Tell him that Icelin has stolen the jewels he sold to me. Ask him to please give an inventory to the Watch of the items in the transaction, as I had no time to make a record of them before I was robbed. That will remove Kredaron from the situation and assure him that I have no ill intentions.”

  “Do we?” Greyas asked.

  Cerest looked at him, but his mind was still occupied with other things. “Find out if she has any family left. If she does, that will be problematic for what I intend.”

  “You want me to remove the problem?”

  That was why Cerest employed Greyas. He was unlike most humans, just as Cerest was different from other elves. His tone was businesslike; he passed no judgments, nor offer
ed any reassurances on the consequences of Cerest’s actions. For all his human frailties, Greyas was an instrument that cut quickly and without emotion. Cerest needed more men like that, but for now he could not afford them.

  “Yes,” he said. “Remove the problem, but do it tastefully. I don’t want Icelin to suffer more than necessary.”

  Icelin ran all the way back to Blacklock Alley, pausing only once for breath and to see if she was being followed.

  Rustling movements disturbed one of the trash piles in the alley. Icelin nearly swooned. But it was only a small gray dog, snuffling through the garbage. It raised its head, sniffed the air around Icelin, and went back to foraging.

  Shaking, Icelin pressed a hand to her stomach. She was nearly home now, but she couldn’t go to her great-uncle like this. She glanced in one of the glazed shop windows. Her hair stuck out crazily from her braid; her dress was caked in dirt from her tumble with the elf. She couldn’t let him see how wild she was, how terrified. And what if the elf still trailed her?

  Leaning against a building, Icelin hid herself in the shadows. She would wait, for a while at least, to make sure the elf wasn’t coming for her. In the meantime, she tamed her hair as best she could and tried to relax.

  Cerest and his scars floated in her memory. Gods, did the elf truly know her? Had he been there five years ago? She hadn’t known the names of any of the folk involved, except Therondol. She hadn’t wanted to know their names or faces. How could she carry them in her memory and survive? Nelzun had been bad enough. Her teacher.

  Don’t blame yourself.

  She heard his words again. They haunted her. If the elf came after her for what she’d done, she could hardly blame him, could she?

  Icelin pressed her forehead against the cool stone building. She would ask her great-uncle. Brant would know. He’d raised her, protected her, even after what had happened. He would know what she should do.