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Horses' Move, 7


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#1 Guest_Ananke_*

Posted 11 May 2007 - 06:49 PM

(7)

Eleventh day of Mirtul, 1369, Vyatri’s Pub, Trademeet

The candle is spluttering. I should probably go conjure some light, or something
It’s
That bastard.



“Like dawn,” the woman’s voice echoed incredulously.

“Yes,” the man affirmed matter-of-factly. “Rosy-haired, like dawn. Are you sure that you are not the future Goddess of Dawn?”

The woman laughed. “A Child of Lathander? Afraid not.”

“The two-faced goddess…” the man mused. “The grim, exigent huntress and the playful dawn. Death and renewal. Subsistence and change. The deer and the swan—”

“Cernd!” the woman protested, slapping the man lightly on the shoulder; then, with a slight frown, asked, “Is that how you see me?”

The man shrugged lightly. “I would, if you were a goddess. But you are a human. I think that he’s asleep again,” he added, rising from the bed lithely to put his son into his cot.

She watched him as he was standing over the little crib filled with deerskins treated so that they would be soft like wool and fluff: the tall, naked, long-haired man covered in a spider-web of blue tattoos, almost black in this soft, subdued light of dawn; and a small smirk crossed her own face as she remembered that last night’s moment of quite girlish curiosity when she had been wondering whether he was really tattooed all over; before she had learnt the answer.

There really was a knot of them over the stomach, she now knew; and, perhaps, it was a significant spot; but, in a way, it did not really matter whether Sarevok had been right, or wrong, in that, too. There were more important matters.

Cernd was quickly revealing himself to possess also a viciously sentimental streak, in addition to all the other things that he was; and, before she left, she must make sure that, when the proper time came, it would not trump his practicality. He needed a woman, someone to share his life; and, however good a father he might be, she would rather her godson had a mother. (She had been quite surprised when the thought had first occurred to her: where did it come from? She did not know her own mother, and, between Winthrop and Gorion, there had been no shortage of affection in her childhood.)

And that woman—a slight pang of jealousy pricked her heart at the thought of that unseen, unknown, for now unrealised face—she must be fair to her, too. She must have Cernd whole, not pining for the memory of a night spent with a—she snorted—goddess.

Cernd turned around and frowned lightly; and she realised that she had snorted aloud.

“Nothing,” she said. “Come back to bed. It’s cold. I was just thinking,” she said, as he did, “that I had better not have to enlist Celina into finding you a wife.”

Cernd looked at her oddly. “I told you,” he said, with some small shame. “It was…”

“…affection, not love,” Imoen finished, with a mixture of relief and regret; or, possibly, regret and relief. “It’s just that you do affection the good way. Although,” she smiled, kissing him lightly, “I could have done without being woken up at dawn. Not that it’s not a nice dawn,” she added quickly.

Cernd looked at her, and laughed; and then, quickly, hungrily, kissed her again.

-----


It had been Ashdale who had woken them up, turning and tossing and crying in some private nightmare; and Cernd had decided not to spell him into sleep, and, instead, had tried to calm him down with his touch and his voice and the heat of his body; which had not worked immediately, as a spell would have.

This meant that, for the second morning in a row, Imoen had been woken up early; and the morning before that had been the morning she had first met Cernd, after that night in the cave, after that day when she had killed Edwin Odesseiron, her brother, and murdered Viconia deVir, her enemy. It seemed, somehow, like a much longer time; perhaps because it was full of all sorts of odd memories: happy, and sad, and simply… odd.

Still, life went on: all flowed, as the druids here would say—and when, quite some time after dawn, Cernd said calmly, “You will be leaving after breakfast,” she took his words as they were intended, as neither discharge nor disappointment; and replied only, in the same tone, “Yes, I will.”

Then, suddenly, her eyes lit up. “I think that I have the best farewell gift for my godson! It’s a helm… Its previous wearer— Well, no, that was Sarevok, but—”

She fell silent; because she had mentioned a name; and now, the mood was shattered and gone. Cernd shifted himself in the bed, in that casual, relaxed half-sitting, half-leaning sprawl which made it so easy and so simple to snuggle next to him, and said slowly, “Yes. Your brother. I will kill him.”

At which, Imoen first, blinked; then, started; finally, asked, “What?!”

Cernd looked at her with a small frown. “I will kill him. I know that you have to go. That you want to go, or that you feel that you have to go… But, at least, you will go alone.”

“I won’t,” Imoen shook her head. “You won’t.”

“I will,” Cernd disagreed with her simply. “The bond with the grove is almost dissolved… Nilthiri is free, and herself again. But I am much stronger now myself, like an adult bear is much stronger than the cub. I will win the fight easily.”

“But he’s mine!” Imoen protested. “Mine,” she repeated, frightened by what she saw.

There was now an edge to Cernd—or, better said, all Cernd was now changed, much harder, much more pointed, all sharp angles and sharp edges, no longer as easily falling in with the background as he usually did; even if, physically, he remained completely unchanged.

When you returned, you were cold and he was changed, she heard the echo of her brother’s voice. Do you know how cold your other self is, sister?

“Is there a reason why you have to be the one who kills him?” the sharp man asked meanwhile, again with a small frown; as if he were pondering an unexpected setback.

“He hurt me,” Imoen replied automatically. “He killed my sister and my friends.”

The man’s brow smoothed out. “Then it is not a material difficulty? In that case—”

“But he’s mine!” Imoen repeated stubbornly. “Don’t you understand it, Cernd? He’s mine. Mine to kill. When I want to.”

Cernd mouthed a small, bitter grimace; and, pulling himself under the wall of the room, so that their faces were again at the same level, asked calmly, looking her straight into the eye, “But will you want to?”

“It is… like an herb. A narcotic. Black Lotus,” he said, for a moment slightly gentler and almost the old Cernd again, when Imoen, indignant, did not reply to the accusation. “It grows on you. You become accustomed to it. And, after a time, you do not realise how harmful it is. Want more of it, even.”

“I am not Ashdale, Cernd,” Imoen said pointedly, shaking her head again. “I am not your son. I am not a child. I am not defenceless. You do not have to protect me. And I know my mind. We would not be having this conversation if I did not,” she reminded the man, who immediately grew much sharper and much more pointed.

“But until the time you decide to kill him, he will hurt others,” he said sensibly; and it hurt when he did so; and not only because he was telling the truth, or because he was throwing back her own words about Faldorn at her; and not even because she knew that if she had killed Sarevok back there, in the cave, all the things which had happened since that time would not have happened—because, just as easily, other, much worse and darker things might have happened instead, and she had had no way of knowing then which ones these would be—but because, and this, she did say aloud, desperately, “But why you? Why you? Why does it have to be you? He likes you. He did nothing to you.”

Her brother, perhaps, took nothing but a passing fancy to a man who had helped them and a man who, he might have thought, in no way would stand between him and his destiny, and was thus safe to take a passing fancy to; and he had, perhaps, not done much good for him, at that; but he had done nothing evil, either. If anything, it had been she who had messed with Cernd; and out of pure sympathy. But, she thought bitterly, not tempered by control.

“I like him, too…” Cernd was replying as she thought so; and then, quickly correcting, “Liked. But there is this aggression in him, this fire which is like Faldorn’s, this… You did say that he was mad, was he not?” he asked, suddenly looking back up at Imoen; who just now only realised again that she was sitting naked in a bed; and that, though it was already long after dawn, she was cold.

“I liked him,” Cernd repeated as his bedfellow was guiltily thinking about arguing that, whatever Sarevok’s affinity for Faldorn, in the end, he had stood on Cernd’s own side; but the sharp, pointed man was already saying something else, “But I saw him, and I can believe that all you say is true, and that he is nothing but a cuckoo’s egg mimicking a bird’s own until the fledgling hatches and throws his foster siblings out of the nest. He did nothing to me; but he had murdered elsewhere, you say, and there was a druid among those he murdered. I liked him; but he is a powerful man, both in strength and in skill and among people. I am more powerful than he is; but where will he next find his equals, willing to fight him? Even you cannot fight alone an army,” he said, smiling at Imoen. “Here, it is he who is alone. It is the perfect—”

-----


—opportunity, the sharp, pointed man who was Cernd said; and finally, the second word that morning had been spoken; and there was no more escaping the fact that, as Sarevok had been lying elsewhere, unsuspecting, asleep, a-dream, however restful—they were both sitting here, naked in the bed, planning his murder.

She would bring Cernd to murder, her brother had foretold; and he had been correct; he had only been wrong about the time and the victim. She had, step by step, delivered the means, the motive and the opportunity for this murder: and in this time, this time of relieved tension after the story was over and the strangers had helped its hero, which was the time when it was the easiest to commit some foolishness for pure lack of attention—now, the murder would happen. And her brother would be its victim.

It had been a very slow, insidious murdering, she thought lazily; and, how much of this opportunity for it had come on purpose, and how much by chance, there really was no telling. One thing was certain, though: a god who had planned his resurrection before his death must have been a very patient man. Perhaps she had not found the deeper place, the place where she had found the power to heal Cernd, completely on her own.

What did Father have against Sarevok? she thought. What did Bhaal have against Sarevok that he—that instinctive, intuitive, barely sentient residue of him that her Father now was—was willing to let Cernd live, to forego all the potential deaths of Trademeet towards which he must naturally gravitate—for the sake of this one death? But the answer was ready and obvious, now that she had seen her brother in his restless dreams and in his murderous healing: they were, to put it simply, at odds. The father resented the son the—failure to comply, possibly: the failure to die at the set time, back in the Undercity of Baldur’s Gate; or, possibly, his ambition—because if there were one person she could really see reaching for the Throne of Murder, it would certainly be Sarevok. And the son certainly resented the father—he had even told her this, and how he had put it then?—being played for a fool?

The two bastards were quarrelling; and she was, once again, caught in the middle of this family argument. In a way, they had never left that cave, Sarevok and she.

In a way, though, they had: this time, Cernd was here, trapped as she was; or, possibly, trapped more than she ever would be; and this, because of her own intemperate sympathy.

Note to self, she thought angrily: until you really, really know what you are doing, stay out of other people’s heads. And never, ever mix compassion with murder.

As for you, Father… Perhaps I should not be so picky. But when I say, ‘not like this,’ I mean it!

Father had underestimated her once; he will not underestimate her a third time; but—

She set out to searching for the thin, silvery moonlight thread.

-----


The thread was much wider now, and much stronger; and she could not help wondering whether her father, now nothing else than an instinct, enjoyed or was simply forced to act through normal human instincts: ambition; the desire to protect one’s offspring; to do justice; love… or, at times, mere affection.

Possibly, it was both: both necessity and willing inclination.

The thread was much wider now, and much stronger; and it would not let go; not the least, perhaps, because she was afraid of what would happen if it did. But, in the end, she was stronger, too, than she had been even in that cave; and, when she looked with her human eyes at Cernd, lying there, naked and untouched, and unaware of what she was thinking, in the bed; and when she looked at him with her other sight, and saw how pointed and sharp and angular he now was—

—the thread suddenly snapped, leaving behind only a trail of silver droplets scattered in the darkness, not unlike scattered beads; and she felt lonely again; so terribly, terribly lonely.

-----


“I don’t want you to kill him, Cernd,” she said quietly. “Not you. It’s all true what you are saying, but there are others, who have a better claim. Me, for one thing. And… I don’t think I really like saying this, but, for what it’s worth, I think that he liked you. Likes. As much as he can like anyone, and that’s not saying much. And you say you liked him, and he really didn’t do anything here… It’s like… He’s a bastard, but that doesn’t mean that we should be, too. It’s not about him. It’s about you. Even if he would not think twice about killing you, I don’t want you to be the one who kills him.”

Cernd sighed deeply; and she could see how, with that deep sigh, he started to fall in with the background again, become again a part of all that he had chosen to be when he had left the city for the forest and the swamp. It was good, she thought. But it had been so completely, totally unfair to him what she had done to him before; and so easy. Far too easy than it should be possible.

“I do not know what came on me,” he said, rubbing his eyes; and Imoen’s heart clenched.

“I do,” she said simply. “And I’m sorry for this. It’s that… other kind of chaos, I’m afraid.”

The man looked at her curiously, and not a little sadly; and, in the end, said only, “I… do not entirely understand. But,” he smiled, and Imoen felt forgiven again, like that time when she had killed the swan; though, this time, there had been a reason— “you do, and this must be enough. Still…” His mouthed twitched bitterly. “It would not do not to see the shadow for the night. I will not kill a guest in my household, a companion at my table and a comrade in arms; but I cannot let a known murderer of a druid go unpunished.”

Imoen smiled briefly; suddenly, she felt like snuggling next to the man again. “You’re a druid chieftain,” she said as she did so. “Aren’t you people big on finding the middle ground?”

Cernd drew her close, and she felt much warmer again. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “The balance; hard to find, like the heart of shadow within the shadow.”

-----


He was to be banished, she thought miserably, picking on a blade of grass, sitting on the ground under a house at the edge of the village with Ashdale in her lap, watching the two men walking within the circle of the henge. He was to be banished: this was Cernd’s solution; and fat lot of good would it do to anyone: for he was to be banished from these lands, where he had not harmed anyone, into those others, where he might do great evil with equal ease.

It was after breakfast now; it had been during breakfast that Cernd had asked her brother to walk with him, because there had been some small words he had wanted to exchange with him in private. Sarevok had looked lightly, amusedly, in Imoen’s direction; and had agreed. And so, now they were walking on the scorched earth of the henge, the tall, dark-haired man in a cloak woven from grass and moss, leaning on a staff and summoning healing powers to the ground even as he spoke; and the taller, bald man with a cruel sword on his back and another at his side, listening closely to the first man’s calm, quiet words with an impassive face.

He was to be banished; he was free to go, but he must never set foot in these lands again; if he ever returned, they would be enemies. Here, he had killed only in self-defence; but he had killed elsewhere, and Cernd wanted no druid’s murderer among his kith and kin. It was all Cernd would do to the murderer; it was all he could do for the man he had liked, and a guest among his people, and someone whom, perhaps, he owed a bit. And so, without love or hatred, they would part; and they must never meet again.

And a certain part of Imoen’s mind understood the simple reason of this sentence; even as a different part wanted her brother to defy the verdict, attack Cernd here and now, on the druids’ lands, and die. For, if anything, this did hurt her: that Sarevok listened. Whatever passing fancy had once struck her brother to treat Cernd as a fellow, it was now enough to make him respect his rule.

In her short acquaintance of his, she had only seen him treat one man as he was now treating this quiet, unassuming druid chieftain; and that had been Aran Linvail, the Shadowmaster of Athkatla and his own lover.

-----


Her life was, for now, secure. Cernd would be sending two druids with them; there were peace negotiations to conduct and amends to be made between the city and the forest. And then, there was also the matter of the rakshasa.

“Rakshasa?” Sarevok asked during the communal breakfast, casting an amused look at Cernd and Cernd’s lap, where Ashdale was sitting. They had been introduced earlier that day; and Imoen, herself then amused, had been graced by the vision of a momentary light, perplexed scowl on her brother’s face as he had, no doubt, been wondering just what he should do with that insect which would not offend his father; before he had quickly changed the topic of the conversation.

“Shapeshifting Calishite spirits,” the druid Daria, who had returned that morning from Trademeet, explained; and Sarevok, Imoen and Cernd exchanged looks over the table. “The djinn followed them here. They have bought off all the food brought to Trademeet since that time, and refuse to leave until the humans bring them the rakshasa’s heads. Trademeet is on the brink of starvation, because of the…” she looked at Cernd nervously and finished, “insects. We have asked the High Merchant if we might not encourage plant growth around the city again, hasten the maturation cycles to provide at least some food… He allowed our help. But the patches are not enough for a whole city, and have to be watched over by the city guard; and the farmers, though most are honest, have sold off the food.”

“The djinn will have their heads today,” Cernd then replied. “Pauden had them brought here yesterday, did he not?” he asked Imoen, who nodded in response; she had just started to feel miserable. She wanted out of the meal, as soon as possible. What was coming was right and necessary; but it should not be preceded by a shared breakfast.

“Perhaps, like the fallen log breeds moss and humus to breed new plants, so hasn’t Adratha death come to be completely in vain,” Cernd said quietly. “The heads of her killers will help amend Faldorn’s crimes and bring back peace.”

Imoen put her elbow on the table, put her head on the palm of her hand, and looked at the long-haired man with the dark-eyed boy in his lap. He would manage, she decided. In times of peace, he would manage. On his own.

It was then that Cernd asked Sarevok to go for a walk with him after breakfast, in private; and that Sarevok agreed.

-----


Her life was, for now, secure, even if Cernd, in the end, had rejected his own idea to charm the horses to go wild if Sarevok threatened her. The horses had been treated well; they were not his, but another’s property; and such incitement would, in the end, be no better than stealing them outright, as Dalok had done, he had said.

The two men were returning from the henge, heading directly for the place where she was sitting; and, suddenly, almost belatedly, she realised that if Sarevok wanted to harm Cernd, he need not attack the man himself; only his son. She started from the ground, putting herself between Sarevok and Ashdale, and her hand on the hilt of her sword; defying the man to do something. Anything.

Her brother only looked at her, with such an expression as she had not seen him aim at her in a long time: unbearable contempt. Do you really think that, after I have gone to such bother to save that gnat’s life, I would now kill him, sister? the golden glimmer was asking her, as clearly as if her brother had spoken aloud; and she felt angry. The flint struck the steel; and she replied, with a look, It is only your own fault that, after you chose to refute your humanity, humanity wishes to have nothing to do with you, brother.

And, perhaps, her brother understood the reply; or, perhaps, he decided that the whole matter was not worth his time; because, suddenly, his face smoothed out and lost all expression. “I will prepare the horses, little sister,” he said. “Make your farewells.”

Imoen looked at Cernd, who had not moved during this whole silent confrontation, as if he had been completely convinced that, for whichever reason, Ashdale would come to no harm; who had only been standing there, between the siblings, like the tongue of a scales, holding the balance, as he ever had.

-----


“It’s this helm I’ve been telling you about,” she said when she found it in her bags, and then found Cernd in his house; he had asked her to come there when she did. “Sarevok wore it, but just for a little while. Before that, it was Khalid’s. And he was a good man.”

“Things, like dogs, have a habit of not caring for the habits of their owners,” Cernd said, shrugging lightly as he absently stroked the metal of the helmet. “It is enough that the owner cares for the thing… It may be part of why I prefer wolves over dogs,” he smiled. “I thank you. But you will forgive me if—”

“—you will not make Ashdale grow into it?” Imoen finished, knowing enough of the man by now to have expected this question beforehand. “Sure. Then, give it to Celina’s girl, or whoever wants it and you think will need it. But my godson gets first picks.”

Cernd grinned widely. “I have something for you, too,” he said. “I am sorry that your bow was broken. So, I thought that I might give you this… It bears no memories, and, if you sell it, you may have a better weapon to hunt with.”

It was not the most private of gifts, this Dalok’s flame blade; but that was perhaps a good thing, Imoen thought, taking the gift for what it was, a gesture of unassuming friendship; and she knew that Cernd must know that the sword would fetch her much more than the price of a bow; even a good bow, a fairly well-enchanted bow.

She took the blade and thanked the man; and then, together with him and with his son, left the house into the warm, clear late morning.

There, Sarevok was accepting a gift of his own from the druid Pauden, who was saying, “There is nothing like a solid druid’s staff, my lad! Nothing like that toothpick you carry!” And Imoen thought that the druid Pauden must be very moved, indeed, if he admitted to the knowledge of a toothpick.

“Mistress Celina,” her brother then said, charmingly, to the middle-aged woman who would be Cernd’s ally in the village; if, that is, Cernd managed to rule her in. But what the woman replied, Imoen did not hear; because she was already beset by the druid Pauden, who was saying, “I thought I would give your brother something to remember me by, too, just to be fair, girl;” to which, Imoen smiled and said, “I’m sure he’s grateful, grandfather,” because that was just the right thing to say, and she did not know what she felt.

Then, there was only a quick peck on Celina’s face, followed by the woman’s admonition, “Take good care of yourself, girl. And watch over your brother,” as Imoen saw, in the corner of her eye, Sarevok and Cernd nod to each other: they must have said their farewells in the henge. Then, another peck, on Ashdale’s brow; and finally, the last kiss: an affable, affectionate kiss on Cernd’s cheek, such as happen between friends, not lovers.

“Fare well, Cernd,” she said, smiling warmly from atop the little rose grey mare.

“With nature’s blessings,” he replied, smiling peacefully, with his son in his arms.

And they were gone.

-----


There was a long, dark silence as they travelled, all four of them, Sarevok and she riding in the enchanted travel cloaks of the Shadow Thieves, and the two druids in shapes of deer running before them, scouting and showing them the path through the swamp and the forest.

It soon turned out that passage through a swamp on horses carrying heavy travel bags would take quite longer than on horses so unburdened; at some points, the siblings even had to dismount the beasts and lead them by the reins to pass through the treacherous, miry ground. And so, the travel took much longer than they had thought it would; and, by the time they finally reached Trademeet—the druids had shifted back into their human shapes not long before—it was already near sunset; and the hour improved no one’s moods.

Imoen had spent half the travel, watching her brother, and the other half, watching herself. He—was cool, and purposeful, and composed; and, on some level, she was convinced that he had already put away the memory of all that had happened in the forest into some tightly closed-off space in his mind, and would soon do all he could to forget it, because he had not left the druid village victorious; because, in the end, there had been nothing for him in Cernd’s win, and so, he had gained nothing off its consequences. In his mind, he must be already in Trademeet, in what, no doubt, would be a luxurious house: shaven, bathed, in fresh clothes and a waft of frankincense; and back to Aran Linvail’s and his own shady dealings.

And she—she had left a happy moment for an uncertain future. That was all.

-----


Tents of cloth billowing on the air stood by the city gates: tents so many-shaped, and so fancy-coloured, crimson and burgundy and azure and sapphire and emerald and wine-purple and amethyst and cerise and silver and gold, that, after several days spent among muted greys, greens and browns, her eye was drawn to them of its own accord. The sounds coming from between the tents were also loud: loud sounds of an alien speech, loud sounds of guttural laughter, loud sounds of unfamiliar music on the cool evening air. And the smell—or smells, rather—they were hot and spicy and foreign and—

It was an assault on all the senses; it was as forceful a reminder that she had left one world and was entering another—or returning to another; she could not really decide which one was which—as could be; and she felt like a swimmer who had taken a deep dive in the cool water of a lake, and was now resurfacing, panting, and in dire need of a deep breath, and dazed by the sudden return of the feel of air and sun on the face.

Two figures awaited them near the tents, wordless and sombre-faced; and she knew that these would be the High Merchant Logan Coprith and the Guildmistress Busya, here to lift the ransom off their city and then buy what food the djinn would sell before they returned to Calimshan; summoned to this meeting by the druids’ call.

The Guildmistress was over forty, brown-haired, businesslike and concise in her dark high-cut dress; she was not a handsome woman. Nor was the High Merchant a handsome man: some ten years older than his associate, with short-cropped, greying hair and many a scar on his face, he gave off the distinct impression of being more a military man than a merchant. And there was a whiff of something out of the ordinary in him, a thinly shimmering aura of command which Imoen’s awakening divine senses could recognise, but which they could not yet interpret— Later, she learnt that Logan Coprith was as close to a paladin as a High Merchant could be.

They came out to meet the riders and their druid guides; and, for all their trouble, had to hastily step back as Sarevok reined in his golden horse the slightest bit too late, and almost rode into them.

“You—” the High Merchant said; and almost immediately fell silent as Sarevok lowered his hood.

The silence prolonged as both the High Merchant and the Guildmistress eyed the rider; as he, amused, eyed them in turn from the advantage of his horse’s back; and as Imoen wondered what her brother wanted to achieve through this impolitic confrontation, and whether she should allow him to follow with it.

“I,” the man on horseback said at length, sweetly virulent in that manner of his which connoted naught but utter contempt for his fellow human, “am Sarevok, Son of Bhaal and former Duke of Baldur’s Gate. And I bring you the heads of the rukh Ihtafeer and her spawn.”

He was, it was clear, pouring every last ounce of his cruel, arrogant self into this desperate display; and Imoen, even though no less than six or seven rejoinders occurred to her even as he spoke, chose, in the end, to respect this violent, brutal, hopeless pride; and said nothing.

He was sick of hiding, then; sick of hiding in the shadow of his powerful lover, in the cosy comfort of Athkatla’s underworld, biding his time resolving little squabbles between errant guild-masters as he waited for Aran Linvail to ensnare Bodhi, Irenicus’ sister. And he would not hide; not here. If Trademeet wanted to be saved, he was telling them, it would only be saved perfectly aware of who its saviour was. And its saviour, it would know, would savour every last bit of this awareness; he would not be the least bit gracious about it.

She saw him then… He, of all, was not much different to her other eyes, seen by that other sight: a brilliant, wild, blinding fire the kind of which burn in the hearts of stars, mad and all-consuming and kept in check only by a thin veneer of supercilious coolness, a crust of hoary cold, constantly melting and constantly rebuilt with the most meticulous care and patience; a deep, freezing cold which reminded her, somehow, only of—

What did Irenicus do to you, brother? she wondered; or would wonder, but that in the human world, a dull thud caught her attention.

The bag in which they had wrapped the rakshasa’s heads was lying at the feet of the two humans. It had opened, and one of the heads had spilled out of it.

“Have at them,” Sarevok said curtly, tiredly. “I am sick of the smell.”

And, painted gold by the golden light of sunset, he spurred his horse lightly and headed for the city gates.

But, of the two merchants, the Guildmistress, at least, proved herself to be a woman of high calibre. “There will be a celebration of sorts, tomorrow, once the djinn are gone and the markets are open,” she said sharply after him.

Sarevok reined in his horse, turning it back to face the tableau of still life. “Imoen?”

The girl, startled by her own name, blinked and said, “Yes. I think we’ll come.”

“Then, the matter is solved,” her brother said, suddenly amused again. “My little…” a slight hesitation as an advertent slip-up was realised, impossible to catch by someone who did not know the speaker well, and quickly averted by smooth recovery, “…companion will attend. I am leaving the city at dawn,” he added offhandedly, almost as if throwing a bone, at Logan Coprith.

Imoen frowned, thinking, reluctantly, a mixture of angry, resentful thoughts.

-----


The horses’ hooves clattered on the ornate pavement stones, skilfully assembled into abstract, arabesque mosaics of celadon, turquoise and marble; Imoen’s first sight of Trademeet was from the level of her mare’s back.

It was beautiful, was her first thought; and the second, It must be rich. The houses, most painted a pleasant shade of lilac, with high, steep roofs tiled with little, elegant tiles, and with hanging balconies and windows with indigo-stained glass panes and side towers standing here and there, almost at random, so that they should, by all means, clutter the streets and the view—and yet, somehow, impossibly, did not. If a whole city could be easy on the eye, Trademeet was. It was clean; it was smart; it was, in short, a love at first sight. She could not wait to see its shops and markets.

The only drawback was the complete lack of plant life. It was Mirtul; the living lilac should be in bloom; it was not.

Their druid companions stopped ever so often by a bush or a tree or what should be a lawn, exchanging quiet comments on topics to her completely unknown, in such words that, for a moment, she thought that they were speaking a different tongue. She had tried to ask them what they thought of Faldorn, or Cernd, or her use of insects to wage her war, or his instruction for them to nurture the plants of Trademeet to hasten germination and budding, and what they thought was natural in it, and what was not, and where they thought the balance of it lay—but they would not speak to her.

In the end, she simply bade them farewell, left them by another patch of earth talking about restoring apical, or possibly, lateral, meristems, and hurried after her brother, who was looking at her impatiently.

Side by side, they crossed a large circular plaza with a fountain in the middle; then, entered one of the side streets; then, passed by two or three houses; to where the dwelling of the Lady Itona, the head of the Shadow Thieves’ operations in Trademeet, stood.

-----


The stable boy was tall and gangly, and had the cutest hazel eyes; and that was all Imoen managed to see of him as he leapt to help her get off the horse before Sarevok barked at him, “Out.”

Then, as they both dismounted, her brother asked her, “A moment of your time, sister?”

Imoen tensed. “Yes, brother?”

But the man said only, “I saw that the druid gave you that elf’s sword. Would you sell it to me?”

“Why?” the girl replied mechanically.

Sarevok shrugged lightly. “I will give you a good price. And it interests me. There is something odd about its grip… I should like to examine it.”

Dryly irritated, the girl said, “Yes. I’ll sell it. It’s too heavy for me, anyway. And it’s not exactly inconspicuous, either.”

“Very well,” her brother replied, reaching to his saddlebags, “What do I owe you, sister?”

I don’t know, his sister thought, in sudden, miserable honesty, looking at the broad back turned away from her, What is the market price for killing a lot of people I know, and a lot of people I don’t know, and planning a war? And what is the price for making me feel hurt when you are punished for it? What is the market price for listening when you should not listen, and being hurt when I don’t want to see you hurt, and—

“What can you give me?” she asked aloud.

“What do you want?” she heard.

“Gems,” she replied absently. “Two thousand in gold, at least.”

“So I thought,” Sarevok agreed amiably; and shortly, the deal was settled. The blade and the gems changed hands; and then, Imoen asked, “Is that all, brother?”

Sarevok looked at her with his inhuman eyes, and shrugged lightly. “What do you want, sister? A goodbye kiss? And a farewell, with nature’s blessings?”

And that one pointed question was, perhaps, enough.

-----


He had been decent enough to order the stable boy to help her take her things to the inn she chose; and, since she knew nothing of Trademeet, she chose the best inn. After all, she could afford it.

Tomorrow, after she made sure her brother was really, completely gone, she would go shopping. She did not want to wear the armour of a Shadow Thief anymore. And she needed a new bow. And it was time to pick up learning magic again. She must really learn to cast the spell of stone skins. That one would come in use against any fighter. And if she were to start learning the really complex magic, she would have to stop wearing armour at all, and that was a pretty frightening thought.

She would go to Logan Coprith’s little celebration, of sorts. She had earned it. She had killed one of those rakshasa, after all.

She would learn a bit about those Fentan Knights. Perhaps they were in the city. Perhaps she might join them.

She would ask someone to show her the way to the Windspear Hills. Even without a horse—but no, horses were a lot of bother, a lot of food and money and much too much bother, after all—even without a horse, the hills must be close. And she had a debt to repay there.

She would not dye her hair bright pink again, though: she would keep the colour as it was, bleached by the sun and the rain into rose. Rose… she would be rosy-haired, like dawn, she thought, and smiled.

All flowed; and tomorrow would be another day.

And—




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