Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (33 page)

Loren waved her off.

The stairs seemed an insurmountable obstacle, a mountain clawing the heavens. Loren climbed anyway. Every step came like dragging an anvil up a tree trunk. The well-carved bannister, which she had found smooth before, felt like a cat’s tongue on her palm.
 

She reached the second floor.
 

An eternity later, the third.
 

Finally, Loren came upon the fourth landing, where she recognized the hallway leading to Damaris’s room.

Where was Damaris? Guards stood at the end of the hallway, staring. Loren realized she must look a sight. She put a hand to her cheek and pulled it away to see. Her fingers were a ghostly white, like when they’d found young Alden’s body in the Birchwood river.
 

The Birchwood, her home.
 

This was not the Birchwood.
 

What is this place?

Loren fought for clarity, and it came crashing upon her. The Wyrmwing. She stood before Damaris’s room, with two nervous guards edging toward their weapons. But they had not attacked or taken her—they must not know of her betrayal, which told Loren that no messenger had come since dawn’s attack on Auntie’s hideout.

Clarity stood like a lighthouse in her mind, and Loren swam like a drowning sailor. She stood straighter and harshened her voice.
 

“Why are you still here? Did the messenger not come to retrieve you?”

The guards looked at Loren like a ghost. One of them mumbled, “What messenger?”
 

Loren gave an exasperated sigh. “There was a fight. Your captain was grievously wounded, and your lady’s daughter stolen from the city. Even now, she lies beyond the walls of Cabrus, and Damaris musters all her men for search. You should be among them.”

The guards traded an uneasy look. “No one told us of this.”

“I am telling you now. In the pauper’s district there lies a tavern.
The Princess Pig.
You will find your lady there, but I do not suggest you tarry.”

Again, they traded gazes before looking at Loren. “Who will stand our posts? If our lady finds her room unguarded . . . ”

“If her daughter remains unfound, and Damaris takes it into her head that two more men in the party might have swayed matters, your punishment for leaving will seem paltry. If it will make you feel better, lock the door after I have retrieved what I have been sent for.”

“And what is that?” said one of the guards.
 

Loren did not like how his eyes grew narrow and mean.

“That is the lady’s business, and not yours. Let me pass, and we may all three be on our way.”

Loren drew herself up to full height, but the posture left her woozy. Her mind was drifting—she could not maintain this for long. Wisdom dictated flight. Let the guards stay for all she cared. But with clarity had come an idea, a sudden and certain knowledge. Just as Loren could not have left Cabrus without her dagger, she could not leave the Wyrmwing without taking care of one last piece of business within Damaris’s room.

But her words were worthless. If anything, the guards grew more resolute while holding their ground.
 

“If that were the case, Damaris would have sent another guard to tell us, or the captain,” said the one with the mean eyes. “Not you.”

Loren growled. “I have told you, Gregor is wounded. The trap fell on him as he tried to open the door.”

The guards blinked. “What trap?”

Loren shook her head. Everything grew fuzzy.
 

“Nothing. I am injured, and the day grows ever longer. Stand aside and allow me within, and be quick about it, before you suffer Damaris’s wrath. She will be most displeased with me. With you, I mean.”

The men looked at Loren like a madwoman, drawing closer together in front of the door.

She had no time for this. She must play one last gamble, and if it failed she would turn and flee as she knew she should.
 

Loren used the last of her focus and turned it to words. “Listen, you witless cretins. Do you know what this is?”

She reached into her cloak and drew the dagger with a flourish. The meaner guard placed a hand on his sword hilt and half drew it, but the other’s eyes widened when he saw the blade’s designs. His gloved hand restrained his companion’s fingers on the sword.

Loren focused on him. “Yes. You know it, if your dimwitted friend does not. Tell him what it means.”

“Nicas, stay your hand,” said the guard.

“Why? For some shiny knife?”
 

“It is not only that. Her words carry power.”

Nicas drew back, pressing himself against the door. “A wizard?”

“No.” The other shook his head. “You must trust me. If this girl says that the lady has called upon us, we may believe her.”

Loren let a small smile play on her lips. “One of you, at least, has some wisdom. Thank you for your support, and for knowing how displeased my . . .
masters . . .
would be by any delay. What is your name?”

The man shuddered as she said the word
masters
, and when Loren finished speaking he bowed low enough to polish the floor.
 

“Solon, if it please my lady.”
 

“It gives me neither pleasure nor displeasure. But I will remember. Off with you, then. Already Damaris will be impatient with your delay.”

Nicas still looked uncertain, as well he might, but he allowed Solon to lead him away. Loren watched them go until they vanished around the first bend in the stairs. Then she looked down at her dagger, studying the lines etched across its shining steel. Again, she wondered at such a power that seemed to reach everywhere.

One day, it would be a problem. Today, it proved to be her answer.

What was I doing?

Her burning stomach climbed toward her heart. Loren could feel it in her chest, singeing her insides with every breath.

She looked around at the hallway for a long moment before she focused again on the door. Of course. She had come to the Wyrmwing to find Damaris.
 

Or had she?
 

It seemed that Loren had come for another purpose, one she could no longer recall.

No matter.

She opened the door, taken aback again at the room’s size. Her eyes grazed the setting.
 

Empty.
 

Where was Damaris? Hadn’t Loren come to find her?

Her gaze fell upon the chest sitting near the bedroom door, and Loren remembered her purpose.

She picked up an iron fork that lay on a nearby table, and by sticking it in the doorjamb she bent off all but one of the tines. The final tine she twisted before approaching the chest.

It took her a long while to fiddle with the lock—much longer than it should have. Her head swam. She closed her eyes to save them from the sunlight pouring through the window. By feeling alone, she probed for the tumblers, tripping them one at a time.

The lock opened with a solid
thunk.
She seized the lid and lifted.

A mountain of brown cloth bundles met Loren’s eyes.

The merchant’s secret cargo. The black crystals Damaris hid from all but the most trusted eyes. Stolen outside the gates of Cabrus and brought here to wait until she made ready to move them again.

Loren scooped out the crystals and scattered them across the room. She flung them into the walls and slid them along the floor. Gleaming black rocks spilled everywhere, some cracking open against the stone tile and turning into a fine dust.

She threw a few into the hallway outside for good measure, ensuring they spread across the entire floor. Some tumbled down the staircase at the far end. Finally, Loren went to the wide balcony and threw a trio of bundles into the street. She heard a cry of alarm as one nearly struck a passerby. Then silence.

One bundle remained. Loren tucked it in her belt and slipped out the door, making sure to swing it shut behind her—it would not do to be a rude guest, after all.

The stairs echoed with hollow thuds under her boots, and many crystals crunched to dust beneath them. Her business was done.
 

She must leave quickly and . . . and what?
 

Where would she go?
 

Where
could
she go?
 

The poison spread deeper.
 

She passed the third floor and reached the second.

“Loren?”

The voice sounded a dozen leagues away, and no further than a whisper in her ear. It was gone in a moment and echoed for an eternity.
 

Her eyes wandered, her head swinging around like a drunk.

A man stood four steps below, looking up in astonishment. She had to stare at him a while before she remembered his face.

“Jordel,” she said in a soft whisper. “I forgot that I came here to find you.”

Jordel’s lips split in a soft smile. “It is as I have told you, often and again. We are bound by more than common purpose.”

Loren’s head scrunched tight. “Oh, still your tongue, you great buffoon.”

Then she collapsed down the stairs.

Jordel caught her on the second bounce and scooped her into his powerful arms. Loren cradled against him like a child. She tried to wrap her arms around his neck, but they refused to move. She saw his nose wrinkle at the smell of her cloak.

“Loren, what has happened?” For the first time, his voice did not sound soothing.

“A snakebite,” Loren said.
 

Had she spoken? She could not be sure. That voice sounded too tiny.
 

“It has spread to my heart. Deadly, Damaris said.”

“I must get you to the apothecary.”
 

Jordel took the stairs two at a time and ran through the common room, ignoring the barmaid who asked if he wanted something to drink.

Outside the Wyrmwing, a cluster of people had gathered, studying the black crystals scattered across the ground, many throwing doubtful glances at the inn. Jordel ignored them, pressing through the crowd into open air.

“Forgive me,” he said.

Before Loren could ask him what for he pulled her hood down over her face. The urine had grown pungent, and Loren thought she ought to drink more water.

He whispered, “Did you have aught to do with the magestones?”
 

“What? Oh, the crystals. They are not mine.”

Jordel shook his head. “Never you mind. I should not have asked you to speak. Still yourself until we reach the apothecary.”

“I will pay for him myself. I have many coins.
Many
coins. I am a thief. I stole them.”

Darkness descended, and Loren knew nothing more.

forty

Blinding light pierced Loren’s eyes.
 

She rolled away with a groan. Her head, her body, every inch hurt. Only stillness kept the pain from lancing back through her, so still she remained.

“You’re awake.”

Loren recognized the voice a moment before Gem rolled her on her back and cool water splashed her lips. It spread across her face, and she pushed him away with a cough.

“Well, open your mouth then,” grumbled Gem.
 

Loren obeyed, and he poured enough water into her throat to choke her.

“Leave
off,
Gem!” It hurt to push him away, but still it seemed better than drowning.

Gem sniffed as he backed away. “I should fetch the apothecary in any case. A moment.”

He vanished through the door.

Loren groaned again and slumped back onto the straw pallet. A short while passed before she could keep her eyes open long enough to study the room.
 

The blinding light that had woken her proved to be the dim glow of a torch set in the wall. Its fire licked a red stone ceiling and made the shadows dance. She was probably underground, in a cellar or basement. And indeed, Loren could see many barrels stacked in the room’s dark corners, no doubt filled with the noxious chemicals apothecaries always kept on hand. Above the barrels hung many racks of herbs, bound with string. Their odor filled the air and burned her nose.

Gem returned with the apothecary, a surprisingly young man in the white robes of his trade. He came to Loren, shaved pate glinting in the torchlight, and without a word seized her face, pulling her eyelids wide open.

“Get off!” she cried.

But Loren proved too weak to push him away, and the apothecary went on undeterred. She suffered his ministrations in a sullen silence. After her eyes, he opened her mouth, looking over her teeth and gums with concern. Then he took her hands and inspected, of all things, her fingernails. Finally, he dropped Loren’s hands and sat back with a clucking of his tongue.

“None the worse for wear,” he said easily.