Blood Storm: The Books of Blood and Iron (8 page)

“What did you—” Ranadar began, but Talfi clapped a hand over the elf’s mouth.

“Don’t ask. He’ll tell you.”

Danr shuddered. “He was a bad, bad man. I don’t know why he wanted to talk to me. He was grateful, and that was the truth, but more than that I can’t say.”

“Will you eat the meal he bought?” Ranadar gestured at the table.

“Sure.” Danr shoved some bread into his mouth. “The food is good, even if the man is bad.”

“And will you take his advice as well?” Ranadar added archly.

Danr thought. The question didn’t require a true answer—there wasn’t one yet—so the words didn’t push themselves from Danr’s throat. “Maybe. If he’s right.”

“You’re the truth-teller,” Talfi said, still watching the door. “Can’t you tell if he’s right?”

“Usually not until it’s too late,” Danr said mournfully. “The truth doesn’t always tell you everything you want to know.”

“Who does know, then?” Ranadar seemed unwilling to let the point go. The damn elf always had to be right. It came of being Fae. Or a prince.

But Danr had to answer Ranadar’s question. “Death knows.” He rose from the table, his meal only half-eaten. When you were unsure what to do, move forward, and no sense putting it off. “Let’s go see her. Now.”

“Now?” Talfi stuffed more meat in his mouth and followed it with a gulp of ale. “Shouldn’t we wait for Aisa?”

“She doesn’t like going,” replied Danr.

“Does anyone?” Ranadar muttered.

“Of course not,” Danr was forced to say. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I only meant—”

Talfi put a hand over his mouth again. “Haven’t you learned anything in the last year, Ran? Never argue with a truth-teller.”

“I have a question of my own, Ranadar.” Danr leaned over the elf, using his height and bulk and the elf’s lifetime of mistrust for the Stane. Danr liked Talfi. Ranadar, on the other hand, he tolerated only because Talfi was in love with him, so he felt no guilt about pushing Ranadar around. Well, maybe a little guilt. But well within tolerances. “Can you Twist now?”

“I dislike doing it in the city,” Ranadar answered. “You humans”—his lip curled—“use so much iron, and it drains the ambient power away. Some days, it is painful to be here. With all this iron about, I can only Twist short distances, and my glamours are weak.”

“But you can Twist,” Danr pressed.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

“What, here and now?” Ranadar’s tone was halfway between jovial and serious.

“Only a fool would Twist in a roomful of people.” Danr spat the words like hornets. “You aren’t a fool. Except when it comes to your family.”

Ranadar sucked at his teeth and actually reached for the bronze dagger at his belt. Talfi put a hand on his arm.

“Danr,” Talfi said warningly. “You’re going too far.”

Danr sighed. It was always like this. He was surprised he had any friends left after this past year. It was probably another reason why Aisa didn’t talk to him about what was bothering her—whenever she asked a question, he
had
to answer, and it always seemed he had to answer with the harshest truth he could. He backed up a step. “I’m sorry. I can’t always help how the words come out. Talfi was right, earlier—don’t ask me a question if you don’t want a faceful of truth.”

Ranadar’s face relaxed, but with effort. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Danr said quickly with a glance about the tavern. It wasn’t particularly crowded at this time of day. “Let’s go back to Mrs. Farley’s and see what Death has to say.”

U
p on the slate roof of Mrs. Farley’s boardinghouse, the air was a little cleaner and the street noises were fainter. Heavy clouds had moved across the sun, and Danr was glad about that—he didn’t need a hat or cloak to shield himself against the damn headaches. A flock of pigeons flapped overhead, and Danr peered dubiously over the edge of the roof. Unsympathetic cobblestones lay a leg-breaking distance below, while the rough wall of Old City rose high and hard behind them.

“Explain to me again why we have to jump,” he said slowly.

“Up here, we are farther away from the iron.” A breeze teased Ranadar’s red hair. “What with all the pots and pans on Cook Street, I can barely work up a glamour, let alone Twist. Some days I wake up with a headache that won’t go away.”

“You do?” Talfi looked concerned. “I didn’t know that.”

“I did not want you to know,” Ranadar replied. “You like the city, and I like that you like the city. Iron and all.”

Talfi was looking agitated now. “But if you’re in pain—”

“I am an elven prince, even in exile,” Ranadar interrupted. “I do not burden others with small troubles. In any case, there is enough energy up here that I can Twist the four of us, but the gate will have to open there.” He gestured to a spot just below the lead gutter.

“This is wrong.” Kalessa spat over the edge. “Aisa should be here.”

“Aisa’s busy,” Danr said. “You yourself said. And I want to take care of this. Now.”

“You mean you want to take care of it without her around,” Kalessa contradicted.

Danr clutched his sack, a patched, ragged affair that had accompanied him across Balsia, under the mountain to Glumenhame, across the orcish lands of Xaron, and even to the elven land of Alfhame, and back. It had carried clothes, food, a golden torch, and a magic box. Currently, it carried the squid’s beak and the ink sac. Danr hoped the latter wouldn’t leak. Yuck.

“I don’t need to do
everything
with her,” he said. “And I want to handle this by myself. A betrothal present, yeah?”

Kalessa looked torn, as though she might dash away in search of Aisa. She had nearly done so when Danr came up to her and Aisa’s room to fetch the beak and ink, but Danr had stomped up to the roof before she could object much. After a moment’s hesitation, she set her mouth and stayed where she was.

“Do it, Ranadar,” Danr said.

“The Twist will only stay open a moment, so jump when I say.” Ranadar inhaled and made a series of gestures Danr couldn’t follow. No glowing lines trailed the air, no bell-like sounds chimed, no air rushed. There was nothing
at all that Danr could see. His heart beat faster. If Ranadar made a mistake—

“Jump!” Ranadar barked.

Kalessa leaped off the roof without hesitation, trailing her auburn braid. Talfi dove after her. Both of them fell, then vanished as if the air had swallowed them. Danr gulped and clutched his sack tighter. Shit. Stane were heavy, not well built for swimming or climbing—or falling. The street below him rocked dizzily. Even though he had seen Kalessa and Talfi disappear, his every instinct begged him, screamed at him not to jump. He would plunge to the stones, and they would crush his bones to—

“Jump!” Ranadar shouted again.

Danr forced himself to the edge. He hesitated half a second longer, one foot over three stories of empty air, then jumped.

He fell for a long, sickening moment. The ground rushed up at him, hungry and hard. Terror clawed at his chest. He had jumped too late. He had missed the Twist. He was going to hit. Then the world
wrenched.
Light exploded around him, and he felt as if he were being pulled in a hundred, a thousand, a million directions. He was every point in the universe, or every point in the universe was him. He was a great tree, branching in an infinite number of directions. He was near to losing himself in the diverse paths. Then a seed sprouted, one tiny bit of time and space that was stronger than the others. Gratefully, Danr grabbed it, used it to will himself forward. With another
wrench
, the world turned inside out, and Danr landed with a thud on a hard stone floor. A moment later, someone else thudded next to him.

Nausea squeezed his stomach, and his gorge rose. He swallowed hard, willing himself not to throw up. Not here, not now. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. He was in a
cave, one with a rough floor and earthen walls. Tree roots twined thick through the ceiling, some as small as a finger, others thicker than the squid’s tentacles. Soft light pushed through the roots, illuminating the cave, but not painfully so. The cave smelled faintly of fresh mushrooms, which Danr liked.

An unornamented door made of wood with stone lintels and a dark window of precious glass was set into one wall. Beside the door on a plain table stood two lit candles, one silver and one gold, and between them lay a scarred, rusty battle-axe. The Iron Axe. It looked as though it had lain there for centuries, but Danr happened to know the Axe had been there for little more than a year.

Between the table and door in a rocking chair sat a plump, motherly looking woman in a red dress with an ivory shawl thrown over her shoulders. Danr rocked uneasily, trying to control his nausea and show respect at the same time. Gray braids, pinned up, framed the woman’s face, though her features were somehow thrown into shadow by the candles. A soft clicking sound filled the cave. The woman was knitting. Her bone needles moved in and out, up and down, never slowing or ceasing.

The others, including Ranadar, were also getting to their feet. The woman watched in polite silence until they had managed it.

“I feel like I should offer you something. Hot tea or little cookies or the skulls of your enemies,” she said, and her voice was as low and rich as the liquid stones at the center of the world.

“No, thank you,” Danr managed. “It was quite a trip.”

“It amazes me that I got us here,” Ranadar said. His face was even paler than usual. “Usually, only the most powerful of trollwives can Twist someone to Death.”

The woman gave a gentle smile that didn’t chill Danr at
all, no, it didn’t. “I’m hurt that you don’t trust me. I told you last time that I would bring you here the next time you Twisted through the branches of Ashkame. Did you doubt the word of Death?”

“Not for a moment, great lady,” Ranadar said with a courtly bow, and Danr felt a twinge of envy. What a fine thing it would be to show good manners and lie like that again.

“This one’s a keeper, Talfi,” Death said, still knitting. “Don’t let him go.”

Talfi was leaning against a wall, working his jaw as he tried to keep his own gorge from coming up. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

“Can we get on?” Kalessa asked. Her arms were crossed, and if the Twist had bothered her, Danr couldn’t see it.

“Impatient,” Death observed. “But I understand. Even my time is limited. Did you bring them?”

“Yes, lady.” Danr fished the squashy sac and the sharp beak from his bag and approached the rocking chair. The stony floor felt rough under his bare toes, and the roots on the ceiling brushed the top of his head. It was both homey and surreal, comforting and awe-inspiring at the same time. He was walking toward Death herself, the end of all that lived, the final darkness, the guardian who watched the portal to Vik’s realm. But she looked like someone who might at any moment leap up to check the stew kettle or bustle off to milk the goats. Danr wondered if she really did milk goats somewhere, and what those goats might look like. He decided he was better off not knowing.

Danr had first visited Death last year, after the Stane had chained her up and she had asked Danr to find the Iron Axe, the only object that could cut her bonds. After he had helped her, she had given him and the others a fine reward
and then said she would call on them again, if they were willing. In the last year, she had called on them two other times, as it happened, and her requests had been instrumental in delaying their arrival in Balsia. This, the third time, was perhaps the oddest. Why had Death wanted parts of a giant squid?

“Set them on the table, dear,” Death said. “I don’t mind the squishy.”

A moment’s fishing in the sack brought out the smelly objects in question, and Danr set them on the table between the candles next to the Iron Axe. He shuddered at the sight of old blood on the Axe’s blade, remembering where it had come from.

“Why did you want these, ma’am?” Danr asked. “It seems like you could get this kind of thing on your own.”

“They aren’t for me, sweetie.” Death’s face was still in shadow, but Danr got the impression she was smiling at him. “The ink is actually a present for someone else.”

“I don’t understand.” Danr shook his head.

“That’s all right, I don’t mind.” She finished a row on her knitting and started another. “Where’s Aisa? I was looking forward to trading insults.”

“She was occupied, lady,” Kalessa said. “I could try insulting you, if you like.”

“Thank you, but it won’t be the same,” Death sighed. “That girl’s tongue can snap monkeys out of the trees. It’s no wonder you fell for her, dear.”

Danr nearly staggered at this unexpected hit. “Me? What?”

“Your mother had a sharp tongue, didn’t she?”

And Danr had to answer. “Because she was a truth-teller, like me. That’s a stupid observation. Sorry!” he added quickly.

“Haven’t you ever heard that boys fall in love with girls just like their mothers?”

“I have, and it’s a foolishly idiotic saying pushed around by idiotic fools—sorry!” Danr dropped the sack and clapped both fishy-smelling hands over his mouth in horror, though he knew the words would still come out if Death asked him a direct question. At least he truly was sorry—that much wasn’t a lie.

But Death seemed unbothered. “Hmm. Perhaps not as foolish as you think. At any rate, I thank you for your service, dear boy.”

It seemed a dismissal, and Danr didn’t think that quite fair. Talfi had
died
to get those objects, for Vik’s sake. Well, not really died, and Death of all people knew Talfi was in no danger. Rather than let him walk through her door, Death had offered to give Talfi half of Ranadar’s remaining days, and Ranadar had accepted. But Aisa had been hit during the squid attack, and—well, it wasn’t right of Death to brush him off.

“I want to ask a favor,” Danr said quickly.

“Hmm,” Death said again.

It hadn’t been an invitation to talk, but neither had it been a refusal. Danr decided to hurry on. “I want a . . . solution to my problem with Aisa. You know what I’m talking about.”

“And I think you need to say exactly what you want, love.”

The others remained absolutely still behind him, whether paralyzed by unease or something stronger, Danr couldn’t say. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Death. “Please don’t. Don’t ask me.”

“You brought it up. What exactly,” Death asked relentlessly, “do you think will solve your problem with Aisa?”

Shit. Danr didn’t want to say. Even though Talfi and
Ranadar already knew, and Kalessa had probably worked it out, he didn’t want to say. The words seemed small in the presence of this large being. But they pushed themselves out of his mouth.

“I want to be fully human,” he said hoarsely, “so that Aisa won’t be unhappy when she marries me. It sounds small and stupid, I know that, but it’s what I want.”

Death continued to knit. “Very good, though I wish you had said it without being compelled by the truth-teller’s blessing.”

“Curse,” Danr muttered, looking away. His face burned.

“It all depends on your point of view,” Death said amiably. “But the world turns on petty desires. It always has done so.”

“What does that mean?”

“People think history is made when powerful princes and clever kings make long, careful decisions. Should I start my war this year or wait? Should I marry my daughter to my neighbor to the east or to the west? Should I try the duke for murder so justice can prevail, or let the matter drop because I need his army to defend our border? And so on. But really, it almost never works that way.” She leaned forward, though her face stayed in shadow. “Did you know there was a king named Alessander who conquered large swaths of Balsia and Xaron, but when he reached Irbsa, he turned around and went home because the chief general, who was also Alessander’s lover, died unexpectedly? One man couldn’t overcome his grief, and an entire empire faltered.”

Danr shot Talfi a glance. “No, I—”

“In another part of Balsia,” Death continued, “a little-known king and queen were seeking a wife for their son. They paraded three women in front of him and told him to
choose one. One of the women wore a yellow dress, and for the simple reason that he liked the color yellow, the prince pointed to her. They later had a son of their own and named him Bal.”

“Bal,” Danr repeated. “You mean Bal, the hero who—”

“Imagine how history would have gone if that woman had worn a green dress or if the prince had preferred blue. Meanwhile, you yourself are here because of small, petty decisions.”

Danr stepped back. “Me?”

“Of course. Aisa begged you to stay out of it when they were beating her for witchcraft, but you mixed yourself up in it anyway and got yourself exiled. Later, your aunt Queen Vesha—such a lovely woman—asked you to be the Stane emissary to the humans, and you were all set to refuse. You only agreed because you felt guilty over what you’d done to that White Halli boy. Such a petty thing. And then, when you found out your friend Talfi loved men instead of women, you very nearly wrote him off. But at the last moment you decided you wanted to stay friends with him, and thank the Nine you did. Without his friendship, you would never have found the Iron Axe. Petty, petty decisions decide how the world will go. It’s always been so, dear.”

“All right,” Danr replied slowly, unable to say that he understood—it would have been a lie. “But can you make me fully human? For Aisa?”

“I can’t make you fully human for Aisa, or for you,” Death replied, and Danr’s heart sank. “Only you can do it.”

Danr’s heart jerked. “I—what?”

“In the end, only you can decide to change,” Death said. “You know, Aisa herself said that if you give her enough time, she’ll probably overcome her little problem.”