He hooked an arm around her waist and swept her back. She tripped over his leg and fell on her side on the walkway. Her head smacked the wood, and her teeth clamped painfully together. She bit her tongue and tasted blood. Dazed, she tried to get up, but the world swam in and out of focus.
“Don’t worry, lass,” she heard Sull cry, “I’ve rolled bigger hunks of beef than this lout. I’m comin—” He took a punch to the jaw. Plucking the giant’s fist out of his cheek, Sull gleefully bit the pudgy fingers.
Icelin saw Trik stand up, his shadow blocking out the torchlight across the walkway. He drew a knife from his belt and waded into the tangle of legs.
No, no, Icelin thought. She lunged for Trik’s ankle, missed, and lost her breath again when she came down on her chest. Forcing herself to her knees, she bit into the knots binding her hands. She managed to loosen them enough to slip the rope off, but Trik had moved out of reach.
I’m not going to make it, she thought. “Sull, Sull!” she screamed. “Get back—Ruen!” Where was Ruen? And Bellaril?
“Hold him,” Trik yelled.
The giant rolled onto his back, pulling Sull on top of him. He locked his arms in an arrowhead across Sull’s chest. The butcher wheezed, his face turning bright red. He couldn’t break the grip.
“You want to… get… ’fectionate… with me… do you?” Sull jammed his elbow into the giant’s gut. The giant grunted, but he didn’t let go. Sull drove the elbow in again, and again.
Each blow contorted the giant’s face. He coughed, blood dripping down his chin. Both the men panted furiously, but the giant maintained his grip.
“Hurry… Trik,” the giant moaned. His head lolled to one side. His eyes were black glass.
Icelin tried to call a spell. Ice. Fire. Wind. She couldn’t find them. Pain and fear took her down twisting corridors in her mind, places that led to songs and stories and visions of her great-uncle, dead in her arms, and Sull’s face, his wild red hair.
Concentrate!
But the magic wouldn’t answer. The pain in her head blocked it all out. Her body was trying to protect itself, to preserve the few uncorrupted parts she had left.
Icelin gave up. She was searching blind. Instead she concentrated on Trik’s dagger. He held the weapon crosswise in his hand. He wanted a quick slash to the throat. A quick cut, and Sull would be gone.
A quick cut. She repeated it, and suddenly everything crystallized in her mind. The alternate paths fell away, leaving her a clear line to the tower. She ran for the door, threw it off its hinges. The spell was waiting, had been waiting, for her to get past the fear. It appeared as a glowing tome of light in the middle of the room.
“Sull, roll him!” she cried. “Keep moving!” She whispered the spell, her voice cracking.
Over the arcane phrases, she heard more footsteps charging down the walkway. Shouts, Bellaril’s voice. So far away. They might have been coming from the other side of the city.
She risked a glance at Sull, but kept her concentration fully on the spell.
He wasn’t moving. He knew the knife was coming, but he wasn’t struggling anymore. She saw a strange, peaceful expression settling over his face. He gazed over Trik’s shoulder at her, and the look in his eyes held such a boundless affection and acceptance that Icelin felt her heart tearing open.
Go, his eyes told her. I’m fine, now.
Trik came forward. Icelin screamed the rest of the spell. The words were fire in her throat. She felt the spell hold, and the scene erupted in shadows of torch and spell light.
Icelin’s world lost focus. The pain was unbearable. The spell burst from her like something newly born. She could only crouch on the walkway and hope that she lived through it.
Streams of metallic force shot from her outstretched hands. They quivered and solidified in the air. Passing each other, they encircled Trik at the chest and legs, tightening into two confining bands.
His balance gone, Trik pitched forward, collapsing half on Sull and half on the walkway. The magic held him immobile.
“Sull!” She came up to her knees, forcing her body to move. There was blood running down her forehead. She must have hit her head harder than she’d thought. Everything was tilting, the torchlight was too bright, but Sull…
The giant let go, freeing one of Sull’s arms. The butcher reared back, trying to get a hand on the giant’s throat. He didn’t see the giant pick up Trik’s discarded knife, or turn it toward Sull’s chest.
“Sull.” The name framed her lips, but there was no sound. The dagger went into Sull’s chest and pinned his leather sash to his body. He fell back, and the giant fell on top of him.
In the same breath, Icelin felt the backlash from her spell. There was a distant drumming, the blood forcing its way through her body. Her skull felt tight. Would the vessels burst and her mind go dark? Yes. She welcomed it.
Sull’s lifeblood dripped between the planks, crimson on the brown water. The colors were just like Ruen’s eyes.
Icelin felt herself fall, half-curled into a ball. She could see Sull’s face. He was looking at her, the fear intense in his gaze.
Not for himself, Icelin thought. He didn’t care at all that he was bleeding to death from a chest wound. He was trying to get up, to get to her. To see if she was safe.
She could hear Ruen’s voice now. He came into view, running full out down the walkway. She saw his floppy hat bobbing. He grabbed the giant, peeling him off Sull like a fly. Before he could raise the dagger, Ruen grabbed him from behind, pushed his knee into the small of his back, and used both hands to pull the giant’s head back.
There was a soft popping noise, and the giant went limp.
His spine, Icelin thought, snapped in one movement. Such a small sound on such a big man. But Ruen had known exactly what he was doing. He dropped the giant’s body and went for Trik, a bland expression on his face. Same intentions, his course set.
He grabbed the spell bands that held the smaller man. When he was sure they were secure, he dragged Trik to the edge of the walkway.
“No, please!” Trik cried, when he realized what Ruen intended. He kicked and struggled, but Ruen kept dragging him. His expression didn’t change. “Not the water, don’t!”
“Ruen,” Icelin said, but it was too soft for him to hear. He gazed at Trik’s frantic expression reflected in the water. “Ruen,” she said, louder.
The monk paused and turned to look at her. His face visibly softened. He started toward her but checked himself. He looked from the water to Icelin, as if he were suddenly waking from a dream.
“Leave him,” Icelin gasped. The blood pounded a sick rhythm against her temples. “Check on… Sull.”
Ruen nodded and left Trik at the edge of the walkway, facedown toward the water.
He crossed to Sull and examined the butcher’s wound. When he saw all the blood, he turned to the giant’s body. He fisted his hands in the giant’s baggy shirt and ripped the fabric down the middle. The tearing was loud in the darkness. He stripped the giant to the waist and left the body where it was.
“Help me,” he told Bellaril.
The dwarf came around to Sull’s other side. Together they hoisted the butcher into a half sitting position. Bellaril put her back against Sull’s to prop him up.
Ruen looped the ruined shirt around Sull’s middle, tying off the end under his armpit to try to slow the flow of blood. Bellaril gently laid him back horizontal.
“He’ll live for a while,” Ruen said.
Icelin put her head down to quiet the spinning, the roaring blood. She heard Bellaril’s footsteps, a short, heavy tread that stopped behind her.
“She’s almost as far gone,” the dwarf woman said. Icelin felt Bellaril gently roll her onto her back. She probed her chest for wounds, then started on her arms and legs. Icelin started to tell her not to bother, but she didn’t have the strength.
“Well?” Ruen said when she was done. He hadn’t come any closer. He used Sull’s body as a buffer between them.
&n
bsp; “Whatever’s hurting her is going on inside,” Bellaril said. “She needs healing, and even that might not be enough. Her eyes are strange—glassy, like yours.”
“Ruen.” Icelin sat up, gripping the dwarf’s shoulder for support. “Tarvin’s dead.”
He followed her gaze to the Watchman’s body. “He shouldn’t have tried to take you alone.”
“Ruen, can you call the Watch?”
He hesitated. The pain twisting his face was all the answer Icelin needed. “What do you want to tell them?” he said.
“Give them our exact location.” The tide of pain was slowly leaving her. Icelin felt strangely calm, her body inert. She had no more reserves of strength to lose. This was where everything settled. She had to start the slow climb back up. “I assume they’re still searching for me somewhere in Mistshore. Tell them we have wounded and need immediate aid. Go quickly, please.”
Ruen stood and walked a little distance away. He removed something from his pouch and spoke a word Icelin didn’t hear.
He’s been connected to the Watch all this time, Icelin thought. Yet he never brought them roaring down on our heads. He and Sull had followed her, no matter where she went. They’d kept her safe.
The conversation was short. When Ruen returned, the familiar tightness was in his jaw, the only sign of concern he ever betrayed.
“They’re not far away,” he said.
“Good. Would you help me, Bellaril?” Icelin asked.
The dwarf helped Icelin to her feet. When she could walk steadily, she went to Sull.
He was unconscious, but he still breathed. His face had no color, and his skin was cold. Did it feel worse to Ruen?
“I never touched him,” Ruen said, in answer to the unspoken question. “I couldn’t know—”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Icelin said. “And I wouldn’t have listened, if you’d tried to tell me. I would have denied it until I was blind to everything else.”
Ruen removed his gloves and slid his silver ring off his finger. Replacing his gloves, he picked up Sull’s left hand. The ring would only fit on his smallest finger. Ruen slid it snugly into place.
“It’ll keep his heartbeat strong until the Watch gets here,” Ruen said. “He should live, if they hurry.”
Icelin nodded. “How long do we have?”
“Not long.”
“Then I need to get going.”
She kissed the back of Sull’s hand, folded it over his chest, and stood up. Her eyes fell on the bound man hanging over the walkway. The sense of detachment settled over her again as she approached him.
He watched her seat herself on the walkway so he could see her in his peripheral vision. She left him as he was, dangling over the water. The threat was there. She didn’t need to tell him.
“He was your friend,” Icelin said, pointing to the shirtless, dead giant. When Trik didn’t answer, she said, “Sull is mine. You don’t know how hard it was for me to tell that man”—she pointed at Ruen—“not to kill you. A tenday ago I could never have conceived such a thought in my mind, but time and hunger and desperation and fear work so many worms into the most pristine thoughts, and mine weren’t clean to begin with.
“You can’t imagine how much I want to kill you myself right now. It should matter that you’re helpless, that you can’t fight back. I know it should, but it doesn’t. I just want to punish someone, for all of it. Perhaps it’s the same for you, and that’s why you could kill Sull without even knowing him. I don’t care about that either.”
She put a hand in the air. He flinched, and she took a gross stab of pleasure in his fear. “I talk too much. It’s a curse Ruen warns me against, but I won’t waste much more of your time. I’m going to release you. You’ll go back to Cerest—you’ve got no other employment, or you’d have taken it by now. Go back to Cerest, and tell him that I want to talk to him.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ruen and Bellaril exchange glances. She didn’t look at them or try to explain. They knew this conversation was as much for their benefit as Trik’s.
“Do you know what the Ferryman’s Waltz is?” she asked Trik.
For a breath the man didn’t answer. Then he nodded, a quick jerk of the head.
“That’s good. That will make things easier. Tell Cerest to meet me in the heart of Ferryman’s Waltz.”
“You’re mad,” Trik said, breaking his silence at last. “No one—”
“No one goes there,” she said over him. “That’s why it has to be there. No one to hurt, no more friends to kill. Only enemies. If you come there, Trik, I will kill you, with no words preceding the deed. If Cerest wants me, he’ll have to come to the Waltz. Will you carry that message to him?”
Trik nodded again. Icelin flicked her hovering hand. The bands around his chest flickered and melted away. He exhaled sharply and slumped on the walkway. Until then, Icelin hadn’t realized how tightly the bands had constricted his breath.
She sensed Ruen stepping toward her. His protective shadow fell across her, seen clearly by Trik as he got to his feet and took off running down the walkway.
When his footsteps receded, Icelin stood and faced the others. Sull was still unconscious, his head tossing fitfully from blood loss and fever. She knelt, dipped her arm in the harbor, and smoothed her cool, wet fingers across his forehead.
“Do you approve?” she asked Ruen without looking up.
“Of your plan?” Ruen said. “I don’t know. It’s very possible that if Cerest doesn’t kill us, the wild magic at the Waltz will do the job.”
“I know. I am tempted to wait for the Watch, as I should have done back at the ship. I’ll be a long time regretting that.” Her voice broke, but she plowed on. “There are some questions I need answered. Cerest has the knowledge, and I think he’ll give me what I want.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ruen said, “in case he proves reluctant.”
“Thank you,” Icelin said. “I know it’s more than I deserve, after the way I’ve used you.”
“Don’t,” Ruen said tersely. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I never should have kissed you,” Icelin said. “I made you feel my death, and you weren’t ready for that. It was a very unromantic gesture.” She put her head on Sull’s chest. It took several breaths, but when she was strong enough, she looked up at Ruen. “How long have you known? You said you’d never touched me—”
“I haven’t,” Ruen said. “I only suspected. It was Arowall who confirmed it. He has a power to sense those touched by the spellplague, and how badly they’ve been afflicted.”
Icelin nodded, accepting it. “I hope Cerest can tell me that too—why I’m dying.”
“You don’t have to rush to your demise so soon,” Ruen said, his voice harsh. “You might have years yet, if you stop using magic now.”
“But I have to use it, if I’m ever to be free of him,” Icelin said. “One last time, that’s all I need.”
“No. We’ll do it another way.”
“You think you can change fate?” Icelin said.
He looked away. “Just yours.”
“That’s not true. You wouldn’t have brought Bellaril with us if you didn’t believe you could change things. I saw you touch her hands in the Cradle. You wanted her out of there, and not just to be my bodyguard. You knew her death waited in that place.”
“She’s stubborn enough I wonder if anything can kill her,” Ruen muttered, but he didn’t deny her words.
“You can’t protect me by yourself,” Icelin said. “Without your ring, we’ll need my magic.”
Ruen started and looked at his hand, as if he’d forgotten it was bare. He looked at Sull, at the ring keeping him alive. Defeated, he dropped his hand to his side and clenched a fist.
“Is your raft still intact?” Icelin asked.
“Enough to get us out to the Waltz,” Ruen answered. He looked at Bellaril, and a spark of black humor lit his eyes. “What’ll it be, Bells? Should I tell the Cradle you were too f
rightened to take on the fair folk, golden locks and all?”
“You won’t be telling any tales when I have your head underwater for the sharks to nip at,” the dwarf said, smiling sweetly. “But I’ll go to the Waltz, and gladly.”
“You don’t have to do this, Bellaril,” Icelin said.
The dwarf nodded curtly. “I do, but not for you, so don’t let your conscience prickle you. After Tarvin led you off the Isle, we got word from the guards that Arowall’s dead.”
Icelin was shocked. “How?”
“How do you think? It was the elf. The survivors said he had a pair of pretty elf princesses with him.” Bellaril looked at Ruen. “Might be you were onto something about my death waiting in the Cradle. I owe you thanks for letting me live long enough to get my revenge on the pretties. But in the meantime, do we leave the butcher here?”
Icelin didn’t know what to do. The thought of leaving Sull alone on the walkway was a physical pain. He would be vulnerable to any attack until the Watch arrived.
“I have to protect him,” she said to Ruen, half in defense, half in apology.
The spell had gone awry the first time she’d used it. For once, that would work to her advantage.
She put a hand in her pouch, grasping the cameo as she’d done in the Cradle. She pictured the woman’s face in her mind, the blue curve of her cheek, carved forever in stone. Letting the image float in her consciousness, she wove the spell.
Mist slid off her hands and coiled in the air. It took on the shape and substance of the woman in lace. She stood before Icelin in her vaporous gown, her face impassive.
Icelin didn’t know exactly what to do. The last time, the servant had automatically gone where her mind willed it. She remembered that she’d been mentally screaming for something to aid Ruen.
“Can you understand me?” she asked the strange apparition.
The woman didn’t answer. Her expression didn’t change. “She has no consciousness,” Ruen said. “There’s nothing in her eyes.”
“So she only has life when Icelin pulls her strings?” Bellaril asked. “Tell her to play guard dog, then.”
“It wouldn’t work,” Icelin said. She raised her right arm slowly out from her body. She concentrated on nothing except moving the appendage. The lady in lace mirrored the gesture until their fingertips were practically touching. “She only does what I directly imagine her to do. Once I’m gone, she won’t act independently.”
Mistshore Page 24
