Darkvision (4 page)

Accepting the prosthesis was the only time he’d done as his family asked and found that the result was good.

Warian had been so overcome with relief after receiving the arm that he almost changed his mind about the business, and nearly accepted a position under his Uncle Xaemar, who sat at the head of the family council. If not for his sister Eined, who talked sense into him, Warian might have been sitting on the family council at that very moment.

After conferring with Eined late into many nights, Warian had skipped town. Eined had convinced her kid brother that he needed to see what the world was all about before becoming another cog in the Datharathi empire, however highly placed.

Thank the gods for Eined’s counsel. Free of Uncle Xaemar’s decrees, Grandfather Shaddon’s schemes, Uncle Zel’s unscrupulous deals, and Aunt Sevaera’s crazy impositions, Warian realized life was a far more wonderful and wide stage than he’d previously imagined. Eventually, he cut his ties with the family permanently. He never returned to Vaelan. In all the time since, the only thing he’d missed was Eined.

Warian shuddered. And now someone lay hurt, maybe even dead, because of his arm. Had he killed Yasha? He’d never before taken a life. For a moment, he comforted himself with something his old sword instructor had told him: To kill a person is far more difficult than is commonly believed.

But what about when mortal strength was overcome by crazy bursts of potency and perception?

“Why did you wake up?” Warian addressed his arm, as he had done before. His prosthesis remained dull and barely responsive, offering no clues. He tried to will it back to life, yet nothing happened, as if nothing had ever happened. All his attempts to elicit a response from his arm since he’d fled the tavern had proven equally fruitless.

“It must be something they’re experimenting with back in Vaelan,” Warian murmured. Something he needed to know about, and soon. If he accidentally hurt Yasha, who might he inadvertently harm next? Or worse, kill?

Was Xaemar pushing Shaddon to empower the crystal lode with power in some mad scheme to propel Datharathi Minerals to the top of the trade empire in Durpar? Or was Shaddon, always a sneaky bastard in Warian’s estimation, pursuing some crazy plot of his own? A plot that had momentarily woken a dangerous strength in Warian’s prosthesis.

A strength, truth to tell, Warian wished to wield again.

Thormud Horn used his moon white selenite rod to scribe a circle in the fine gravel. His grimy hands, thick with the soil of the world he so cherished, guided the rod with supernatural grace and accuracy. So it was when the dwarf geomancer immersed himself in the medium of his expertise. Thormud’s constant companion, a tiny replica of a dragon carved in opal, roosted on the dwarf’s right shoulder. Its name was Xet.

Kiril Duskmourn took a pull from her hip flask. The whisky hit the back of her throat like smoke, cleared her nostrils, and trickled down to warm her stomach. She watched the dwarf continue his methodical inscription in the loose soil atop the mesa. Kiril had watched Thormud inscribe similar circles nearly every day for the last ten years, or so it sometimes seemed.

Kiril’s sword was rarely required to protect her employer, thank all the gods of Sildeyuir. Yet she maintained her vigil. Thormud’s coin was good, but more importantly, few of her own elf race (or any race, for that matter) would put up with her. Kiril’s excessive cursing and bouts of near-alcoholism were traits elves generally shunned. As a rule, elves preferred the fruit of the vine, not the distilled products of root and fruit. But who could carry such a burden as hers without some comfort? Kiril’s ill-famed blade was her strength and her curse, and the whisky helped her through. She doubted any of her hidden kin would last a hundred days, let alone a hundred years, with Angul strapped to a hip.

Kiril upended her flask, her eyesight threatening to blur and her hand shaking slightly. She’d reached an accommodation with her fate that suited her.

Thormud paused for a time, then he spoke. “Again, the prognostication fails.” Thormud’s voice was low and melodious, a voice that belonged to a trained performer on the streets of Gheldaneth, not to a crusty dwarf geomancer who lived alone in the Mulhorand scrublands. Alone but for his surly bodyguard and diminutive familiar.

“Again, you say,” said Kiril in a lazy, I-don’t-much-care tone.

Thormud looked at her, one hand rubbing the chin hidden below his black and gray beard. Xet loosed a call like a chime and launched from the dwarf’s shoulder into the hazy sunshine. A few rags of white cloud fluttered in the otherwise vacuous blue sky.

Kiril watched the tiny construct fly toward the edge of the mesa, then dip below its rim, out of sight. “Good riddance,” she muttered.

Thormud spoke. “Yes, Kiril. As you no doubt recall, all my recent prognostications have come to naught.”

Kiril sighed, then said, “And you still don’t know why? Maybe your wits are departing as age creeps up on you.”

Thormud considered and nodded. “I checked that possibility. Fortunately for your continued commission, I find my faculties remain as sharp as ever. The trouble lies elsewhere.”

“Trouble?” wondered Kiril, slightly interested despite her studied detachment.

“As you’ve heard me expound on more than one occasion, dear Kiril, the stone and mineral beneath the feet of all the quick green foliage enjoys an unhurried life all its own. Information flows through the earth in telluric currents and tides, but slowly.”

Kiril said, “I’ve noticed the slowness.”

Thormud shook off the elf’s subtle provocation. He continued. “Something has disrupted those currents. Something far to the southeast.”

“Disrupted currents of the earth? I’ve heard you yammer too much over the years not to learn a little—disrupting the flow would take a massive event, right? Another volcano? I hate those.” Kiril fingered an ugly burn scar on the back of her left hand as she spoke.

“No.” Thormud shook his head. “For all their fury, volcanoes are natural disturbances, and as such would only modify telluric currents, adding their voice to the flow of the earth. I’m experiencing outright interruption. Only something inherently unnatural, large, and powerful could disrupt my work.”

Kiril grunted.

The dwarf gazed into the headpiece of his selenite rod, his mouth muttering in time to some internal debate. The elf studied her employer, reading signs she recognized. A trip was in the offing, no doubt about it.

Thormud loved sight-seeing, especially when strange rock formations, lost canyons, earthquakes, and volcanoes were part of the expedition. The dwarf didn’t care for cities, or any of the artificial stonework or engineering of which his kin were so fond.

Neither did Kiril. Too damned many people.

The elf swordswoman glanced away, out over the wide lands visible from their lonely mesa top. Mulhorand was an empty land, especially east of the southern range of the Dragonsword Mountains. Kiril knew the dwarf had selected his stronghold, carved into the heart of a mesa, precisely for its isolation. Disruptions were few, and visitors unlikely. Thormud was able to devote all his time to his “delving meditations.” On occasion, his findings spurred a trip to confirm some theory the geomancer had cooked up. Kiril rarely appreciated the reason behind the trip, but she had to admit she enjoyed resting her eyes on new horizons every so often.

Kiril asked, “When do we leave?”

The lonely mesa was much tunneled and hollowed from Thormud’s long years of occupancy—the dwarf was a master geomancer. Libraries, halls, storerooms, galleries, and even balconies lay within the otherwise natural tower. Thormud hadn’t named his home, referring to it simply as “the mesa,” but soon after arriving, Kiril started calling the place “the Finger Defiant.” In his philosophical way, Thormud picked up the name and used it himself.

Ensconced within her own personal suite in the Finger Defiant, Kiril pondered whether she should actually go to the trouble of making up a pack. It wasn’t like her to err on the side of preparation. However, if they were headed toward Durpar, as Thormud hinted, not north or west across the Alamber Sea as in the past, they might be away long enough to require more than a single change of wardrobe.

She selected three outfits, all of which would fit comfortably over her mail of fine chain links. And an extra pair of gloves, of course. Not smart to be abroad without those. She always kept a pair folded into her belt. Midnight black and woven of fine Chessentan silk, her gloves were sometimes all that stood between her and folly.

Kiril had never been south of the Finger Defiant. She wondered what the wines, beers, meads, and harder varieties of spirit in Durpar might be like. Not that she was ever in danger of doing without. Kiril pulled forth her one constant friend during the last many years and heard the familiar sound of liquid sloshing within its metallic body.

The flask was forged of bronze, probably by elves outside her lineage. The greenish blue patina of verdigris obfuscated the deranged face carved into one side of the flask—some ancient god of the vine. She could never recall the god’s name—had she ever known it? In all the years she’d carried it, it had never failed to produce its potent drink. A bottomless flask to assuage her infinite shame.

Kiril took a sip for the road and stowed the container. The vitriolic taste wasn’t enough to deter her preparations, though, and she retrieved a well-handled skull from her shelf.

The skull was that of a child, delicate and elongated—an elf skull. Kiril kept it to remind herself of mortality, and as a remembrance of what stock should be put in ideology when reality intruded. It was incontrovertible evidence of the perils of wielding Angul. The peril, and the payment required—the cost of her own innocence. She would never forget.

A chime blared at the door. Startled, she nearly drew the Blade Cerulean, despite the fact that she recognized it. She fumbled the skull and it fell to the floor.

“Xet!” Kiril screamed. “You want to end up a pile of crushed sparkly dust? Surprise me one more time, I swear!”

The crystal dragonet chimed again and darted up the passage outside her door.

“Damned little shardling,” Kiril cursed. She’d gone more than a few months without loosing Angul from his imprisoning sheath. She didn’t want to start the trip by bringing out the sanctimonious blade. Angul was an unbending, saintly bastard in his steel incarnation—more so than he’d been in life, and far more powerful. Kiril swore again, but refrained from retrieving the nameless god from her hip. She’d blurred the edge enough for the moment. She could stand only so much unsteadiness and faded reality.

The elf warrior picked up the skull from the floor and looked at it closely. It had a few new cracks. Kiril growled and placed it back on the shelf. Reminders of mortality were not themselves immune to destruction. She gathered up her saddlebags and departed her chamber. The amber glow of the earthlamp sensed her absence, and after ten heartbeats, dimmed.

The sun warmed Kiril as she spiraled down the exposed staircase to meet Thormud, Xet, and a pile of bags at the Finger Defiant’s base. The morning was well along, and the elf didn’t have to worry about treacherous night winds blowing her off the side of the mesa.

By the time she reached Thormud, after first spying him from higher up, nothing had changed. The dwarf stood, eyes closed, holding the tip of his selenite rod to the ground.

“Daylight’s burning, Thormud,” Kiril said. “You can poke rocks later.”

The dwarf’s eyes opened, and he said, “The earth speaks, to those with the patience to hear it.”

Kiril sighed and dropped her saddlebags on the pile. “I’ve heard that somewhere.”

Thormud rubbed his chin. “The disturbance prohibits me from knowing exactly where or how far, or even the precise direction to go.”

“But we’re going to Durpar, right?”

“We are going southeast, yes. I think, although it is impossible to say for sure, all the way to Durpar. I must build up a picture of the topography from the echoes of the disturbance that reach me. A challenging task.”

Kiril waved her hand at the technicalities. “Is it a task you’re up to?”

“Yes, if left to it.”

The dwarf was the soul of patience, Kiril knew all too well. He was…

“You made a joke!” Kiril exclaimed. “All the gods of Sildeyuir, I thank you I was here to witness it.”

Thormud inclined his head a few degrees in agreement.

“All right. Think of me as one of your less-communicative stones,” Kiril said. “I’ll be over there, polishing my blade.” The elf had no intention of drawing Angul. It didn’t require sharpening or polishing—the Blade Cerulean was sufficient unto itself. Instead, she pulled a dirk out of her boot.

The hilt of the dagger was unblemished silver, and delicate green traceries graced the blade. The weapon was one of the few keepsakes of her home. She kept it for more than just its good elven steel, trusty in a fight—it was a reminder of her childhood in the enchanted Yuirwood. In truth, she used the dagger more often than her sword. Better to wield a minor piece of elven steel than a naked, bitter soul in the shape of a long sword.

She perched on one of Thormud’s chests and wiped down the blade with kuevar oil. Not for the first time, she wondered about procuring another long sword—sometimes the dagger, despite its incredible edge, was insufficient. Perhaps something she could use instead of drawing Angul that was dangerous in its own right. A magical blade, perhaps.

The sun moved a full hand’s span in the sky. Finally, Thormud said, “I have determined our route as best I can. I will try additional detailed divinations as we move along, but those must wait for proximity.”

Kiril stood, sheathing her dirk and packing her oil kit. She had traveled with the dwarf long enough to know what came next.

Thormud went to his knees and lay down, facing the earth. He spread his arms and legs wide, as if seeking to embrace the land. His fingers clutched and he crooned a gravelly tune. The sound went right through Kiril. The noise was less acute in her ears than in the soles of her feet—the ground vibrated in harmony with the dwarf’s call. Thormud beseeched the deep earth itself, and he was answered.