A Dance of Death (4 page)

“I see little choice,” Eravon said. “We must cede parts of the forest to them. It should be enough to sate their appetites, as well as calm their lord.”

“Ingram is a fool who pales at the very sight of us,” said Sildur. “He will not be calmed until we are dead and gone from all of Dezrel.”

“But what else can we do?” Maradun asked. “I myself have slain several who came to our forests with axes, yet every week their numbers increase. What do I tell my masters in Quellassar? We continue to overlook many excursions, all seeking to prevent escalation, but we must come to an understanding soon.”

“There is another way.” Sildur’s eyes sparkled. “We seek war instead of running from it like a frightened beast. We embrace it, and turn our bows and our blades toward their cities. The humans are like animals, and will learn only when struck.”

The three fell silent. Eravon put his hands upon the table and forced himself to keep calm. Sildur said nothing he had not heard a thousand times before over the last decade. Against that, he had the same tired argument, but no matter how tired, it remained truth.

“We might slay ten to our one,” he said. “But our numbers dwindle, while the humans spread like insects. We must not forget the lesson of the Bloodbrick, where our greatest died. Despite the thousands our casters killed, the humans have recovered, while we will never see those ten replaced in our lifetimes. No matter our skill, there is little we can do when they come with fire and pitch, outnumbering us over a hundred to one. You cannot stop a swarm of ants with an arrow or a blade. If we come as the aggressor, the King will send troops from every corner of Neldar.”

Sildur’s eyes flared wide, and he opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped. Eravon felt a chill pass over him, and he turned, following his companion’s gaze. A man was hunched at the door, his body covered with dark clothing and a long cape. A sword hung from his belt. Despite Eravon’s excellent vision at night, his eyes could not penetrate the deep shadow across the intruder’s face. Only his mouth and chin remained visible. He was smiling.

“Who are you?” Sildur asked, his hand subtly drifting to the long dagger at his hip. “Speak your name!”

The intruder let out a chuckle.

“I’ve heard many amusing names given to me, but if you insist, I will choose one of them for you. I am the Wraith.”

“Wraith,” said Sildur, hardly impressed. “What brings you here with your face masked and your identity hidden?”

The Wraith leapt from where he stood, landing atop the table with a clatter of cups and silverware. A hand on the hilt of his sword, he grinned at them all.

“Why do you discuss in secret?” he asked. His voice was strangely soft, and would have seemed charming if not for how coldly amused he sounded. “Do you fear the ears of man? Do you plot his downfall, or wonder for a way you might go crawling to lick their boots while somehow maintaining your dignity?”

Eravon prepared to draw his own sword. He would endure no insults from such a disrespectful whelp.

“I don’t know how you found-”

He stopped as the Wraith whirled on him, staring with unseen eyes. The intruder grabbed his face with his fingers, in a movement so fast Eravon did not have time to react.

“I found you by following the stench of cowardice. You leaked piss all the way from Angelport, like a frightened dog.”

Maradun stood, a sword flashing in his hand.

“Let him go,” he said.

The Wraith laughed.

“As you wish.”

He shoved Eravon aside, then spun atop the table. His foot lashed out, the heel smashing Maradun’s face before he could lift his sword to block. Eravon drew his sword and slashed, but the Wraith pulled his own blade. As the sound of steel rang out, the elves leapt away from the table, standing at the far reaches of the tent. Only the Wraith remained in the center, turning so his back faced none of them for long.

“Do you fear me?” he asked. “Good. Then perhaps you will remember the message I bring.”

“What is that?” Eravon asked, stealing a glance at Maradun, who clutched his face with his free hand, blood dripping between his fingers from what Eravon guessed was a broken nose.

“Do not ask as if you don’t intend to listen, Eravon.”

The Wraith leapt, his body changing from relaxed to taut in an imperceptible moment of time. Eravon blocked his brutal chop during the descent, but his skills were in words and schemes, not the blade. He parried the next few swings, then overextended to block what turned out to be a feint. Before the other two could come to his aid, the Wraith’s sword pierced his side. Gasping in pain, Eravon fell to one knee. When the Wraith pulled the blade free, blood poured across the grass.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” the Wraith said, turning on the other two. “I will kill you all if I must.”

“Speak,” said Sildur. “Give your message.”

Eravon tried to stand, but his head felt light, and his muscles refused to cooperate. He collapsed onto his side. Beneath him the grass warmed from his own blood. With fading vision, he watched the Wraith approach, his footfalls frighteningly silent.

“You are not wanted,” the Wraith said, grabbing Eravon by the hair and lifting his head back so they might see eye to eye. “Leave, tonight. The people here do not need your meddling. Stick to your forests. One day, axes and fire will come for your borders. Remember that the next time you think of returning to Angelport.”

Eravon’s vision was nearly dark, but he still saw Maradun launch himself into an attack. The Wraith let him go, then twirled, his sword a blur. Eravon felt something wet splash across him, and then Maradun fell clutching a bloody stump, his arm gone from the elbow down. Trying to stand, Eravon succeeded only in rolling onto his back. The Wraith stood above him, looking down. Still smiling.

His sword sliced into Eravon’s flesh, never deep. The sharp stings were nothing compared to the deep ache in his side, but still his anger grew.

“We’ll kill you for this,” he said, coughing.

“Many will try,” the Wraith said, his sword twirling in his hand, flicking blood all across the tent. “But not you.”

The blade descended straight for his eye.

“T
here it is,” said Alyssa, hopping down from the wagon. “Angelport.”

Haern followed, and as the rest of the travelers set up camp, he looked out over the city. It was smaller than Veldaren, but not by much. Three walls formed concentric circles enveloping the city, all of them stretching out into the water. A sprawling port lined the far side, and in the light of the setting sun the boats shifted about like ants. Guessing at least a hundred, Haern was stunned by the sight. He’d never seen a single ship before, so to find so many coming into port or sailing out for the far reaches of Dezrel, impressed him greatly.

“Why do we camp here?” Haern asked. “The city is not far.”

“Because I want to make sure you know your part in this charade,” Alyssa said, looking him over, then sighing. “Gods help me, you couldn’t appear more uncomfortable if you tried.”

Haern rolled his eyes and then went to help the others unpack. They’d kept a small supply of kindling and firewood, replenishing it as needed during their journey. Once their bonfire was roaring, and tents set up for those who would not sleep in the wagons, the servants began cooking their meal. One continued on the path, sent to receive word on the state of the city.

All the while, Alyssa drilled Haern on customs.

“Deepen your bow depending on their station relative to you,” Alyssa said, smoothing out his silk shirt. “Since you’ll be a distant relative of mine, that means nearly every member of nobility and the Trifect is significantly higher than you. If in doubt, bow low and avert your eyes for only a brief moment. Just make sure you don’t ever tip your head to a commoner. Kind words in greeting are fine, but don’t overdo it.”

“I’d rather stick to killing people,” Haern said. “Can I do that instead?”

She gave him a look he’d seen many times on their journey. The first had been when she realized he had packed a single set of clothes to wear for months at a time, his dark gray shirt and pants coupled with his cloaks. Wishing he’d heeded Delysia’s advice, he found himself inheriting a wide assortment of outfits from Alyssa. They were poofy, silken, and more expensive than anything he’d ever owned in his life. And they itched.

Alyssa continued grilling him, seemingly determined not to risk the slightest error.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“Haern Gemcroft, third cousin by marriage.”

“And Zusa is?”

Haern rubbed his eyes.

“My wife. Zusa Gemcroft, originally of the Gandrem family line, having fallen for me at a ball celebrating the appointment of the new head of the Connington family.”

“And why are you here?”

Haern muttered through his answer, wondering for the hundredth time why he’d agreed to go. As nice as it felt to get away from the dark streets of Veldaren, he was completely out of his element amid the wealth and traditions of the Trifect.

“It’s our…honeymoon,” he said. “You agreed to take us so we might see the port and buy presents from afar.”

Alyssa sat down beside the fire, accepting a bowl of soup, and frowned at him as she sipped.

“I hope you can put on a better act when we’re inside the city.”

Haern accepted his own food and ate. Alyssa finished, and while Haern took seconds, she went off to their wagon to see how Zusa fared. She, too, had been unhappy with Alyssa’s scheme to get them into the city unnoticed. Wherever Alyssa went, they would be able to follow, yet at the same time, they had a readymade excuse for when they needed to search the city. Of course, come nightfall, the real work would begin, and he could don his cloaks while Zusa covered herself with her wrappings…

Alyssa stepped back into the light of the fire, Zusa trailing. Haern nearly choked on a piece of potato. The slender woman wore a loose dress with a wide V cut between her breasts that ran all the way to the belt at her navel. Her skirt was long and violet, swaying about her legs. Apparently lacking Haern’s discomfort, Zusa twirled once, then curtseyed as if she’d been raised in court her whole life.

“It’s a bit…revealing,” Haern said, immediately realizing that was far from the compliment he meant to offer.

Alyssa looked ready to murder him.

“It’s the style there, brought over from Ker by their sailors. Be glad I dressed you in Veldaren fashion. You’d have half your body exposed otherwise.”

Haern scratched at his neck.

“Would it be less poofy?”

“More and more I doubt the wisdom of your assistance,” Zusa said. She ran her hands through her short hair. “At least you are handsome. None would believe me marrying you otherwise.”

“No one’s going to believe it anyway,” Haern said. “I’ve still got scars from when you tried to kill me.”

“You tried to kill Alyssa first, remember?”

“Such doe-eyed lovers,” Alyssa said, sounding the tired mother. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I brought either of you.”

Haern laughed. He’d feared awkwardness given her station, and his history, but she seemed sincere about her gratitude for what he’d done for her son Nathanial. Currently he was up in the north, under Lord Gandrem’s protection. Haern almost wished he’d come. It would have been nice to have a familiar face around, even if Nathanial had never been conscious when he carried him to safety after an attack by an ambitious lover of Alyssa’s.

Zusa left to change into clothes more suitable for sleeping. While she was gone, the servant returned from the city. At his sour expression, Alyssa urged him to speak. The servant glanced once at Haern, then continued.

“Lord Keenan has cremated them both, and delayed the burial for your arrival,” he said. “He is thankful for your appearance, and looks forward to your company. As for the city…the business with the elves has grown significantly worse. Not long ago, a cloaked man killed the previous elven ambassador and wounded those with him.”

Haern straightened, and he exchanged a look with Alyssa.

“This man,” she said. “Do they know who it was? Did he leave a symbol or name of some kind?”

“While the two survivors watched, he cut an eye into the ambassador’s chest. He calls himself the Wraith. That is all anyone would tell me, though I would not be surprised if Lord Keenan knows more.”

Haern swallowed, his mouth dry. Alyssa dismissed the servant, and when Zusa returned in a simple robe, they informed her of what they’d heard.

“First the Trifect, now elves,” Haern said, his voice low as he stared into the fire. “What does he want with me?”

“Have you ever heard that name before, this Wraith?”

Haern glanced at Zusa, then shook his head.

“No. I’ll need to speak with the elves who survived, learn anything I can of him.”

Another servant arrived, carrying a small cask of wine and a trio of cups. They all accepted, and then Alyssa led their toast.

“To a long life,” she said. “Something I feel none of us shall ever have.”

Haern clinked his glass against hers.

“A wonderful toast,” he said, trying to imitate Alyssa’s noble attitude while bowing low.

“Laurie will never, ever believe you are a member of my family,” Alyssa said, sipping from her glass. “Let’s pray he’s more understanding when he realizes you’re there to keep me alive.”

“And find his son’s killer.”

Alyssa downed the rest.

“That too. Good night, Haern. Tomorrow morning, we ride into the city. Try to sleep well. It will be a long day.”

She left Haern alone with Zusa. He shifted uncomfortably beside the fire. Zusa always made him feel awkward; he was never sure of what she thought or might say. She often stared at him, and was never self-conscious enough to hide it.

“Do you know where we might start looking?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“We start with Keenan’s mansion,” she said. “From there, the elves. After that, we listen for rumors, and search for others he might have killed that we do not know of. I found you, Watcher. We can find this pale imitator.”

“That servant said something about the business with the elves having grown worse. What did he mean by that?”