Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness Read online

  With a noise of exasperation, his father sidled up to the door. “Who comes upon my door at this late hour? What reason do you have for disturbing our slumber?”

  “I doubt there’s any slumber going on,” a feminine voice replied, “as I can hear you argument through the door.”

  Terian’s eyes narrowed, darting back and forth as he tried to place the voice. “Is that …?”

  “Harken to the voice of your wife, Terian,” said Kahlee Ehrest as Amenon swung the stone portal wide to reveal her there in dark cloak, her pure white hair layered over her shoulders, “for I have come to bring you home.”

  9.

  Aisling

  Aisling slipped out of Cyrus Davidon’s quarters the next morning before even the first light had begun to break over the horizon. The sheen of perspiration that had dried on her flesh gave her a sticky feel, though that was hardly the worst of it. She could smell him on her skin, and though it made her slightly ill, she pushed that into the pit with all her other feelings, resolving to bury it as deep as everything else, if not deeper.

  She walked down the corridor of the officers’ quarters at a simple tiptoe, careful not to make noise enough to waken any of the other residents. She crept down the stairs in a slow spiral, all the way to the second floor, catching the hallway that ran the perimeter of the main building to the southeast tower. It was early yet, on the morning after what had clearly been a banner event. Silence reigned in the guildhall, soft snores audible to her ears, the sounds of an exhausted army at rest. She doubted that sleepy quiet extended to the foyer or the Great Hall, but resolved to keep clear of that as best she could. The better to avoid that twit Verity.

  The stairs in the southeast tower were a smaller set, one that threaded inside the interior of the large circular stone structure. It rose only half as high as the main tower of Sanctuary, and her quarters were only up two landings, along with the doors of fifteen other members of the guild. There was a numbering system at place here, iron numerals mounted in the center of each door. She remembered hers by heart, pushing open the door to find the place much unchanged. She had not returned here the night before, nor in the days before that, as the siege had raged.

  A simple bed and desk stood in the middle of the room, wooden furniture covered by dusty linens and little else. An armoire stood in the corner, a cloudy mirror on its outer door. She brushed past it to see her hair much longer than when she’d last looked. She opened the door and found her clothes much as she’d left them; only two spare sets and nothing else, for she had nothing else of value save coin, and she did not dare to carry that with her in much quantity. The majority was locked safely in a bank in Fertiss, at the heart of the dwarven lands.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve come with your diary already in hand,” a voice came from behind her, prompting her to turn swiftly, a dagger already drawn.

  Verity stood in the shadowed corner past the only window, nearly invisible in the dark. She wore a smile, and her hat was doffed, held in the hand opposite her staff. Her grey, straw-like hair fell across her shoulders in long coarse strands, reminding Aisling of a device a servant girl had used to clean her family’s floors when she was a child.

  “I don’t suppose you thought to stay out of my quarters,” Aisling replied in a growl, unsurprised but reacting the way she predicted Verity would want her to.

  “Hem!” Verity said, a noise that came from her throat, deep and guttural. “Do you assume that you have any privacy at all? Because that would be a foolish thing to even consider. Shrawn owns you, part and parcel, body and soul, and allowing you even an inch of leash would be naught but an illusion.”

  That, too, is expected, Aisling thought. “Sometimes a good lie is better than the truth,” she said, seasoning her reply with a moody resentment, barely expressed.

  “There will be no space for lies between the two of us,” Verity said. “You will tell me everything. I am to be your handler, the one who keeps your leash for Shrawn.”

  “An elf working for the dark elves?” Aisling asked. “A curious thing.”

  “Asking that question tells me that you are the curious thing in this room,” Verity said darkly. “And my reasons are my own.” She straightened. “What do you have to tell me this morning?”

  “I bedded him last night,” Aisling said casually. “Do you need me to go into details?”

  “I will ask Lord Shrawn if he requires specifics,” Verity said with a nasty grin that told Aisling the elf was not at all squeamish. “Perhaps, for now, though, you should plan to relive your encounters in exacting detail in your diaries.”

  “Yes, well,” Aisling said, casually, “perhaps I’ll run out today and get a journal, then.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Verity said, sweeping a hand toward the plain wooden desk in Aisling’s corner and a small leather-bound volume upon its pitted surface. “I’ve already taken care of this.”

  “Aren’t you a helpful one,” Aisling said, strolling over to the desk on catlike feet. She slipped from her leather shoes, kicking them into the corner nearest the door as she lingered over the book, opening the first page and finding blank parchment carefully bound within the book. She glanced up and saw that the inkwell had been refilled, a spare bottle sitting just beside it, a quill already in place for dipping. “You’ve set the table for me.”

  “Now eat up as though you didn’t have your fill last night,” Verity said, sweeping out to stand beside her. “I will be checking every day, without fail. Record everything you hear from both Cyrus Davidon and the officers around him. Include even seemingly insignificant details, and make certain you preface them in terms of your feelings about the entire matter.”

  Aisling raised an eyebrow. “My feelings?”

  “A diary is not a straightforward recounting of events and gossip, fool,” Verity said, as though she were speaking to the simplest mind in all of Arkaria. “It is a journal to one’s self about thoughts and feelings. Many the spy has been caught writing missives bereft of any emotion, their intention plain to all but their own stupid selves. You are to take your time, to take pains to mask the purpose of this work.”

  “Are you simply going to tear the pages out once done?” Aisling asked coolly. “Because it occurs to me that a diary empty of all pages but the current one might look suspicious.”

  “I will copy your pages by hand onto other paper and take them to Lord Shrawn,” Verity said, “so take care with your penmanship.”

  “I’m told I have a very lovely hand,” Aisling said coolly.

  “Well, keep it occupied with Cyrus Davidon,” Verity said. “And take care to make everything legible. Remember, I’ll be watching.” She snapped her fingers, and it was as though a veil had fallen over her, the wall behind shimmering for only a moment before she was gone.

  “Invisibility?” Aisling asked, trying to discern if Verity’s presence was still in the room. She could have sworn she heard breathing …

  “Indeed,” Verity said from by the door, causing Aisling to whip around. She moves with a quiet of her own; not bad for a wizard. Probably useful for a spy.

  “Isn’t it an unpredictable spell?” Aisling asked, staring at where she thought the wizard might be. “Doesn’t it tend to fade at inconvenient moments?”

  “I have practiced with this spell for some thousands of years,” Verity huffed. “I can remain invisible for thirty minutes at a stretch with ease. Lesser-practiced spellcasters may experience unpredictable results, but those of us who have put in the effort to learn control of their craft need not fear it. Now open the door and then look out, as though you heard something in the hall.”

  Aisling followed her instructions to the letter, opening the door, looking around the circular hallway that wended to her left and right, and then left the door ajar for a moment. She heard a soft footstep as Verity slipped from her quarters, gave it an extra few seconds and then closed the door once more.

  That puts a wrinkle in things, Aisling thought
, trying to keep from darting suspicious looks around her quarters. She could still be in here, watching me. Well, I have a task before me in any case, might as well get it done now as later …

  She pulled out the chair from in front of her desk with a sharp scuff of the wood leg against stone floor, a short, earsplitting screech that made her cringe. She sat in the chair and scooted it back, taking greater care not to produce the noise this time. She placed her elbows on the hard wood edges of the desk and started to ponder her course.

  The torches burned on her walls, the hearth lively and dancing. Its sweet smell mingled with the sharp scent of the ink, and she ignored the call of her belly in favor of at least completing something. Verity will expect me to get right to work, thinking she’s laid her intimidation upon me. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her.

  Aisling picked up the first quill and dipped it into the inkwell, lifting it out and watching the excess drops drip slowly back into the well, like blood falling from a wound. The rich blackness of the liquid reminded her of the dark of Sovar on nights when the smoke of the evening’s fires hung so thick in the air that it occluded the phosphorescence of the cave ceilings. She regarded it with a strange indifference, struggling to find the right note to begin on.

  She rustled the pages of the diary to the first of them and considered well what she should say. It came to her in a moment, a simple disclaimer that she was voicing her tangled feelings on the matters of Luukessia and all she had seen there. She started with an encounter on the bridge, on the way to that dead and gravely silent land, putting in every last detail she could recall—and making up lies about everything she felt.

  10.

  Terian

  “It’s been a long time,” Kahlee said, sweeping into the basement dwelling with her cloak trailing behind her as a bulwark against the cold. Terian watched her enter the room with measured surprise; while they had not parted on unfriendly terms, he had certainly not expected her to seek him out upon his return, and immediately at that.

  “Ages,” Terian said, glancing back to see his father’s reaction. Amenon Lepos’s face was pale but still, as though he were dead with his eyes propped open. He did not even seem to be breathing. “What brings you to us at this late hour?”

  “I heard of my husband’s triumphant return,” Kahlee said, so straitlaced in her reply that Terian could not judge whether she was being serious or not. “Welcome news on such a dark day. As I said, I have come to bring you home.”

  “I can’t honestly tell if you’re being serious or not,” Terian said, regarding her with undisguised curiosity. “You were never very good at it before, but either you’ve gotten considerably more proper in my absence, or you’re here to make good sport of me at an inopportune time.”

  “Oh, is this an inopportune time?” Kahlee asked, still nearly expressionless, as she drifted toward Terian’s mother. “It is so good to see you, Olia.” She reached for the older woman’s hand and gave it a kiss. “How are you feeling?”

  “Ill but pleased,” Olia said.

  “Olia,” Amenon said, his face showing the first signs of what almost looked like distress to Terian, “perhaps you should to bed.”

  “No, no,” Olia said, her lips puckered. “I can’t. Terian’s returned.”

  “She is like this much of the time,” Amenon said, stepping up to Olia’s shoulder. “The healers can make no sense of it, not that they would know what to do with a natural ailment such as this.”

  “Terian,” Kahlee said, once more, “I have come to bring you home.”

  “You keep saying that,” Terian snapped impatiently, “as though I’m not already here.”

  “Your place is not here,” Kahlee said softly. “It is with me, and you know it.”

  “For the sake of—” Terian cut himself off as the hot anger ran over. “You expect me to leave them like this?”

  “What would you do?” Amenon asked with a thread of amusement. “Play nursemaid to us?”

  Terian ground his teeth together bitterly. “I would—” He cut himself off, no further reply coming to him that seemed sensible or suitable to the occasion.

  “Your house requires your attention,” Kahlee said gently.

  “I was gone too long,” Amenon agreed, rather forlornly for him.

  “I think you were expected to be gone somewhat longer,” Terian said. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “A first,” his father pronounced.

  “You’re an ass,” Terian said, giving him a lashing look. “Look, I found something to say.”

  “Terian,” Kahlee said, and her hand landed carefully upon his armor, avoiding the spikes. “We should go. You can return tomorrow if you wish.”

  “I suspect I’m going to be working tomorrow,” Terian said tautly, “and rather a lot from here on out.”

  “Is that so?” Amenon asked.

  “Look at the state of things,” Terian said, shaking his head. “Our house is in wreckage upon the shoals of failure. In the next month, will we even be in Saekaj? Or will Mother have to deal with the crushing reality of having to drag her possessions back to Sovar?”

  “Sovar?” Olia asked, head darting around in fear. “No. No, not Sovar. I haven’t … don’t want to go back.” Her voice was a whisper, horrorstruck and thick with pain.

  “I am a lieutenant,” Amenon said stiffly, “in a league brigade. Training new warriors for the Legion of Darkness. My students are not ready for battle yet, and thus there is little chance for glory in the immediate future.”

  “It’s on me, then,” Terian said, pushing his lips together as he finished speaking and casting his eyes downward. An intensity of heat burned within him, a desire to flagellate himself for his failures. I’ve done everything all wrong; if I were still in Sanctuary, they’d have a place they could be safe. And if I’d stayed here and risen, they’d be in a manor house instead of this … whatever this place is. Instead, I’ve betrayed my allegiances in Sanctuary and shunned my responsibilities here. And for what?

  To stab Cyrus Davidon in the eye for my father’s death? He glanced at Amenon, who was regarding him with a near-indifference. What a waste that turned out to be.

  “We should go,” Kahlee said quietly. The smell of some strange balm hung in Terian’s nose, some cream on his mother’s skin that smelled sharply of herb. “We should leave them be. You can come back.”

  “Yes,” Terian said as his mother went to withdraw her hand from his gauntlet and pinched it against a joint. She flinched, and a small stream of blue blood welled up on her hand as she thrust it into her mouth without protest. “We should.”

  Without another word, Terian let his wife lead him from the basement dwelling. He took a final look back at his parents, his mother still standing there cradling her hand, while his father watched him go with a sunken face that could not contain a strange, forlorn strain of barest hope.

  11.

  J’anda

  Six Months Later

  J’anda returned from a weeklong hunt in the western end of the Human Confederation to find another letter waiting under his door. His back hurt from being ahorse for days on end, for sleeping on the ground at night, and he wasn’t even sure he could cast an illusion that would dissipate the pain he felt from showing on his face. I do not see how sitting in a Council meeting, discussing our bizarre findings regarding the Daring’s disappearance, will do my back much good at this juncture.

  Stooping to pick up the letter was a difficulty in itself. I remember with longing the days when I didn’t feel these pains. When I could do something as simple as bend over without every joint from my knees to my shoulders protesting at the motion. He snatched the parchment up in stiff fingers that protested as he coiled them around the yellowed envelope. And you as well, fingers? You join the conspiracy against me? Be that way, then, ingrates, and after all I have done for you over the years …

  J’anda sighed and made his way over to the bed. It wasn’t as comfortable as his old one, or so
he thought. Then again, I was young the last time I slept in the old one. Perhaps it is the same bed, but a far different me …

  He regarded the envelope carefully, flipping it over, expecting to see the same symbol-less seal in the wax. But it was not there, instead replaced by something far, far different.

  The seal carried the symbol of an orb with a raven flying out of it to the right, with three wavy lines at the left side to represent the auras of magic put forth by the orb. The raven was not obvious in the small wax indentation, either, but J’anda had certainly seen the symbol enough times to be well acquainted with it and its meaning.

  It was nothing less than the symbol for the Gathering of Coercers, Saekaj branch.

  He stared at it only a moment before tearing it open. The envelope and the seal were matters of greatest concern for him; it marked it as different than the last one, lacking the careful effort at hiding its origin on the outside.

  And that was concerning.

  He slid the paper contained within the envelope up, unfolding it and placing it before his eyes. It took only a moment for him to be able to focus on the scrawl on the page. Not nearly as elegant as Zieran’s lettering, this was a hashmark of scrawl, a personal letter from someone unused to writing their own correspondence. As his eyes fell down the page, taking in more of the message, he realized that this was the sort of thing that had to be done personally, that the writer wanted to savor each word they’d written on the yellow paper.

  J’anda,

  I write to inform you that your last missive to Zieran Lacielle was intercepted in the course of delivery by the Saekaj Militia. Normally, I would not bother to take time out of my busy schedule to inform a traitor that his correspondence had been ferreted out before it reached its destination, but as this affords me the opportunity to close out our relationship by speaking a few unsaid things, I hope you’ll forgive me the indulgence.