The Nightblade Epic Volume Two: A Book of Underrealm, page 80
“And I am leaving,” continued Loren. “I must go off on my own again. Because I need to kill Damaris.”
Annis sagged. She sank down on the bed, sitting on its edge. Her hands were shaking. Gem took them quickly, holding them between his own. “Loren—” said Annis.
“She killed Chet, Annis,” said Loren. “And not quickly.”
“No, I know,” said Annis. “I … I understand. And I will come with you.”
Loren shook her head slowly. “You should not. This is not like our journeys before. I am no longer running. I am looking to right a wrong.”
“But none of our journeys have been like another,” said Annis. “Yet we have always been together. I … I know what you must do. Gem and Kerri told me about Chet. I want to go with you.”
Loren found it hard to speak past a sudden tightness in her throat, and her voice broke. “Then I welcome your company. It would be an emptier road if I did not ride it with you.”
“I suppose it need not be said that I am coming as well,” said Gem.
Somehow, Loren found the strength to smile. “Of course not. I was going to ask you to do so.”
He smirked, but it died quickly. Loren looked past him to Wyle. At once the smuggler spread his hands, shaking his head.
“No. I have enjoyed your company, Nightblade, but I have ridden quite a bit farther than I had ever planned to. I believe I will remain here, reaping the gratitude of the new king.”
“You can collect that gratitude easily enough by letter,” said Loren. “I am certain Senlin will accommodate you. But we need to travel by secret ways that no one else knows. And we would pay you handsomely. Why not also earn yourself the gratitude of Underrealm’s greatest … greatest thief?”
Her stomach turned. She had almost said assassin.
Wyle eyed the door to their room and pursed his lips. “I suppose it is true that I would rather not be in Danfon just now,” he muttered. “I trust Senlin, but that Kal fellow …” He sighed and held up a finger. “Very well. But you will pay me full rates. I never give a discount, even to friends. It only cheapens the friendship.”
“Fair enough,” said Loren. “And thank you.”
Wyle stood and bowed to her. “You are welcome, Nightblade. I am at your disposal—for a while, at least.”
“Then let us not delay,” said Loren, pushing herself up off the bed. “The road is long, and we should begin.”
“Now?” said Gem, eyes widening in surprise.
“There is no better time,” said Loren. “Damaris already has a head start.”
“I think you are right,” said Annis.
Loren nodded, then turned to Kerri. “Farewell, Keridwen. I am glad to have known you, even for a little while. Look after Senlin for us. He will need friends in the days to come.”
Kerri’s eyes flashed. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she tilted up her chin.
“No.”
That gave Loren pause. She frowned at Kerri. “No?”
“No. I will not stay here to look after a boy. I mean, he may be king, but …” She took a deep breath and released it in a rush. “I want to come with you.”
Loren’s frown deepened, furrowing her brow. “With us? Why?”
“You know why. I want to do more. More than I can do here, even if I were to help Senlin.”
Slowly Loren shook her head. “No, Kerri. You are a healer, a chemist. On the road we travel, I must … I must be a killer.”
Kerri cocked her head. “I have never believed that killing was always wrong.”
Loren opened her mouth to argue again—and then she closed it. “Very well,” she said, shrugging. “You may come if you wish. But it must be now.”
Kerri did not answer, but only fell in behind the children as they followed Loren out the door. Loren led them down the hallway, towards the back entrance to the inn. But as they passed one of the last doors, Gem came to a stop.
“A moment,” he said, and opened the door.
“Gem—” said Loren. But then she froze. It was Prince Senlin’s room. Jo had leaped to his feet as the door opened, but when he saw Gem, the bodyguard dropped his hand from his sword. Prince Senlin stood to greet Gem, dumbfounded.
“Master Noctis,” he said. “Can I … can I help you?”
“I … I only wanted to say,” said Gem. A flush crept up his cheeks, and he took another step into the room. “I cannot explain everything now, but I think—after tonight, I mean. I think you will be a very good king.”
A small smile crossed Senlin’s lips. “Thank you. That is reassuring to—”
His words died as Gem leaped forwards and kissed him. Senlin’s eyes widened, and next to them both, Jo froze in shock. Then Senlin closed his eyes and gripped Gem’s shoulders. For a moment, all of time seemed frozen, and Loren thought even her heart must have stopped beating.
Then at last, Gem drew away. Senlin took a small, sharp breath.
“That is all I wanted to say,” said Gem. Then he fled from the room as fast as his feet would carry him. He seized Loren’s arm and drew her along after him. “Sky above, hurry, before he has a chance to say something.”
Loren only caught one brief glance of Senlin, standing there with his fingers on his lips, before she passed from view of him.
They reached the back door. By some stroke of fortune, Uzo was on guard duty again. But then, Loren did not much believe in fortune any longer. No doubt this was some design of fate as well—the same fate that had brought her visions, curse and blessing that they were.
But time enough for those thoughts later.
Uzo glanced down at Loren in surprise as she approached, and then he eyed her companions. A grim look came into his eyes. Loren thought for a moment that he would try to stop them. Instead he merely reached over and opened the door for her.
“Thank you,” said Loren quietly. “Fare well. Say good-bye to Shiun for us. She should understand.”
“She will,” said Uzo. “Fare well, Nightblade. It has been the greatest honor of my life—so far, anyway. Whatever you must do, make them pay.”
“I will,” said Loren. And she took her first step into the darkness—a darkness that she had fully embraced for the first time.
DAMARIS SAT AT HER WRITING desk, penning a letter bound for the Seat. Her room at the inn felt … empty somehow. It was strange. She had spent many years of her life without Gregor at her side. Why did this time feel different? Why did she feel his absence so keenly?
She shook off such thoughts. It would not be long before he came to join her. Indeed, it was only his paranoia that had made him send her out of the city in the first place. The dear man wanted to take every precaution, now that they knew this disturbing business about Loren’s dreams.
Her quill paused on the parchment. Dreams of the future. It was a terrifying prospect—but also it seemed to her to be an incredible opportunity. What might she do if she could see what was to come? But the boy had told her the dreams came after Loren met with Elves, and Damaris was not so great a fool as to trifle with them in hopes they would give her the same gift.
A tremor of fear ran through her as she thought of Gregor back in Danfon. Alone.
She shook her head. Fear was ridiculous. Knowledge of the future could not help Loren. Eventually Gregor would figure out a way to draw her within reach. What good would foresight be then? At best it would show her just how Gregor would dismantle her piece by piece. Indeed, it seemed Loren had dreamed of it already, if the boy was to be believed.
And Damaris had used all her skill with a knife to ensure that, indeed, he could be believed.
Sighing, Damaris stood from the desk and crossed the room to refill her wine. Foresight was a power indeed. Loren was certainly misusing it. But it explained how she had always remained on Damaris’ trail, always just one step behind her. What a myopic, uninspired use for such a gift.
Damaris rolled a knot from her neck as she sipped her wine. Some things, sadly, could never be changed. That was a fact of the world that she had had to accept long ago. Loren’s great weakness was that she refused to accept it. Why, if Damaris acted the same way, her life would be spent in constant terror of the Necromancer and their—
The thought pained her. She shied away. Never mind the Necromancer. That thought must be stowed until she had devised a solution for it.
A knock came at her door.
Damaris paused. It was no attack, that much was certain. She had been fleeing across Dorsea fast enough that, even knowing where she was bound, Loren would never be able to catch her. Gregor? But no, the knock was not heavy enough for that.
“Enter.”
The door opened. A messenger came into the room, stopping for a deep bow.
“Good eve, my lady.”
“Good eve,” said Damaris. “What is it?”
“I …” The messenger stopped. Her lips twitched, fighting for words.
A tremor passed through Damaris’ breast. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her goblet.
“What have you come to say? Spit it out.”
“It is Gregor, my lady. He … he is dead.”
The goblet fell from Damaris’ fingers and crashed to the floor, sending its wine to soak into the fine rug at her feet.
“My lady,” said the messenger, leaping forwards to pick it up. “I will fetch a—”
“Silence,” said Damaris. The messenger froze. “Was it the girl?”
The woman’s skin went a shade paler. She nodded.
“Thank you,” said Damaris. “That will be all.”
The messenger opened her mouth as if to say something else. But she thought better of it, turned, and left the room.
Only then did Damaris let herself collapse into the chair by the writing desk.
Gregor. Her oldest friend. Her closest companion. Theirs was the greatest love she had ever seen or heard tale about—not the love of those who share a bed, but of those who share their lives together, their every innermost thought. Indeed, he was worth more than every man she had taken to bed all put together. He had saved her life, had been there as she raised Annis.
And now he was gone.
She did not weep openly, but she could not stop the tears from slowly leaking. Her grip tightened on the back of the chair until her knuckles had gone very nearly white.
And for the first time since she could remember, a feeling wrapped its deathly fingers around her heart. An emotion she was not at all familiar with. A pure, cold, unrelenting fear.
The dream took him.
The girl in the cloak knelt over Gregor. She leaned down to whisper something in the giant’s ear, but she spoke too softly to hear. The man in black could only watch as the girl leaned farther over, drawing her dagger across Gregor’s throat. The giant’s blood splashed across the carpet. It gave the man in black a sense of grim satisfaction. The girl in the cloak had succeeded where he had failed.
The girl slowly stood and turned to him. Her eyes had that glow—akin to magelight, and yet different. He had never seen anything like it before—and that was not something he could say for most things under the sky.
The girl drew closer. The man tensed. He had not felt fear for a very long time, but he felt … awareness. Caution. His every sense strained, ready to react if she should attack him.
“I killed him,” said the girl in the black cloak. “But I will need to kill many more.”
“Then do it,” he said. “No one can stop you.”
“I am not ready,” said the girl in the black cloak. “Not yet. Help me.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I am no nursemaid. Get someone else to draw the knife for you.”
Her green eyes pierced him, holding him in place. She lifted the dagger and pressed its point against his heart.
The man did not like threats. The man liked to end threats. But he could not lift his hands to pull her away. The dream would not let him.
“Help me,” she rasped.
The dream released him.
The man in black started awake in his bed.
The dreamsight passed almost at once. He took two deep breaths to calm himself, and it was gone. Gently he massaged his temples and then rolled his shoulders to relax them.
Moonslight through the window. Still night. That was odd. The dreams did not often wake him before morning. Not any longer.
He rose, drawing on his trousers and shirt and boots. He went to the door and opened it, stepping out onto the balcony beyond.
Talib was there, standing guard in the shadows. He glanced at her and frowned. “You should have gone. I do not need a caretaker.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “I did leave. I could not sleep. I came back.”
He snorted a brief laugh at that. How very like her. She was his best soldier, and he would hate to lose her—though he already knew he must. “Has there been any news about what happened in Wellmont?”
“None,” she said, shaking her head. “But then, you asked very general questions.”
“They will mean the right things to the right people,” he said. “Just keep your ear out. We must learn what happened there, before—”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Before what? It was getting harder and harder to tell. Something was changing. Accelerating. Increasing the presence of the dreamsight in the waking world, leaving him more and more confused about what he had seen in true life and what in a dream. And it all had something to do with what had happened at Wellmont.
But he still did not know what that was.
Talib still watched him, waiting for him to finish speaking. She was one of the two whom he let see him this way. The boy had to see him as all-knowing, sardonic, and certain. But with Talib—and one other—he felt he could let down his guard.
In fact, he knew he must. Or he would never get what he truly wanted.
“There is something else,” he said. “Someone else entering the equation.”
“Oh?” said Talib. “Who?”
“You have heard of the Nightblade?”
Talib snorted. “A few whispered stories.”
“Then that is an advantage, because she knows little enough of us. But she will. She is coming.”
Talib shot up straight in her chair. “Here? To the Seat?”
“I … I do not know.” He frowned as he realized it was true. He had never seen her in a location that he knew. Only in Dorsea. But he could not be certain that was where he would see her. “I only know she is looking for me.”
“And what do we care?” said Talib. “She is little more than a campfire tale. She cannot have done half the things they have said about her.”
“She has not. But she has done other things that no one speaks of at all. Not yet, at any rate.”
Finally Talib stood, coming to stand before him. “Mako, I do not understand. What does she have to do with anything?”
Mako grinned, his teeth glinting in the moonslight. “In truth, I do not know. But I very much look forward to finding out.”
OF THE ELVES
“If you see them, run.” — Dorren
Across the nine kingdoms, no creatures are more feared than the Elves, and rightly so.
Elves could be found in Underrealm before Roth, the first High King, ever landed his ships upon Southbreak. Indeed, they have appeared in tales as far back as may be traced by even the most diligent loremasters. They have been in the world far longer than humans, and they have always inspired the same terror.
Few humans have ever seen an Elf, but all accounts agree as to their general appearance. They are uniformly tall, taller than all but the largest humans. Their skin is as varied as ours, but their hair is always magestone-black, and they are always clad in white robes. Their eyes do not glow, precisely—any more than the rest of their bodies do, for Elves do appear to be bestowed with some strange glamor—but they are without pupil or iris that any human can see. Their robes float and flutter about them as though underwater, rippling in the wake of their movements, which are both quick and graceful.
No one knows where the Elves live, if indeed they have any permanent dwellings. They are only ever seen on the move, marching across the land alone or in small parties. They seem to prefer forests and woods and other places with green things growing. But they have been seen in the arid deserts of Idris, the high, snowy peaks of the Greatrocks, and even upon the three seas, where by some magic they walk upon the surface of the water as if it were a well-paved road.
Elves speak no tongue that humans have ever learned. On the incredibly rare occasions they communicate with humans, they do so by transmitting their thoughts directly into the mind. But some humans have heard the Elves sing, and they never forget the experience. The words are beautiful and melodic, imparting some of the Elves’ ethereal grace upon the listener and overwhelming them with rapturous worship. It is said that the echo lives on forever in the mind of those who experience it, always just beyond the edge of hearing.
But as has been said, when humans encounter Elves, it is far less often an experience of transportive joy than one of horror. Almost always, Elves bring only death beyond understanding or hope of rescue.
Human weapons are no proof against Elves. Their skin shatters blades and snaps arrows in two. They move with exceptional speed and can easily outpace a horse. It is impossible to say whether their minds, as alien to a human as a human is to an ant, feel wrath or vengeance. But when they descend into violence, they cannot be stopped by any mortal means.
Most often they strike at travelers encountered upon the road, though it is not known whether they happen upon such travelers by chance, or whether they plan their journeys to intercept their prey. Sometimes Elves will walk straight through a caravan, ignoring those who scream or flee in terror, and kill a single human before withdrawing into the mists that often accompany them. Other times they will slaughter an entire party, leaving their bodies to rot in the open air.
