The Howling Delve (3 page)

“All back! All back!” Dhairr tried to pull away, but Kail held him tightly. Spittle flew from his mouth, and he trembled

wildly, slashing his sword at invisible foes. “Guards, to me! Bring one alive, damn you! Bring one alive!”

Bootfalls pounded from the direction of the main hall. Dhairr made an ugly sound in his throat. Kail turned, expecting another enemy, and saw Haig running out to them.

“Fathet!” Kail stayed the lord’s arm as he swung his gaze and blade to the man. Recognition came slowly into Dhairr’s eyes, and he lowered his weapon.

“Haig,” he said hoarsely. “What happened?”

Kali spoke first. The words tumbled over each other to get out. “Isslun, Dencer…” he named them all, describing Aazen’s wound and Haig’s rescue.

Dhairr had both hands on Kail’s shoulders, but he looked at Haig. “How many in total?”

“I can’t be certain, my lord,” Haig replied. “As it stands, I would trust none of your guard and appeal to the Esmeltaran militia for help.”

Dhairr nodded, taking it all in. “Where is Kortrun?”

Boots scraped on stone, and all thtee of them looked up. Balram stood at the edge of the garden, near the stairs to Dhairr’s office. He was watching them, a speculative look in his eyes as they fell on Haig.

“Captain,” Dhairr said, relieved. “We were nearly overrun.” He noticed the blood dripping from Balram’s hand. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” Balram said, walking slowly out to them. His sword trailed unsheathed at his side, its emerald winking in the sunlight. “Thank the gods you’re both alive.” The words held no inflection.

Haig’s blade came up, but he stayed at Kail’s side. He laid a hand on Kail’s arm, as if he might draw him away from his father. “Your captain was one of those who betrayed you, Lord Morel,” he said calmly. “Do not trust him.”

Dhairr glanced sharply at Balram. “That can’t be,” he said. “Kortrun—”

“The accusation is fair,” Balram replied, cutting him off and

surprising a frown onto Dhairr’s face. “But you should know its source before you judge.” He raised his blade. Haig batted it aside with a clang that was loud in the stillness of the gatden. Balram merely smiled and pointed with the sword’s tip at Haig’s collar. A small silver pin glinted there, barely visible from the folds of cloth. Its crescent moon surrounded a harp and tiny stars. “A piece to rival even your finest work, my lord, if you’ll forgive my saying so.” His smile melted into a sneer. “We have a Harper in our midst.” “Hatper?”

Dhairr started at the sound of his son’s voice, as if he’d forgotten Kail was present. Kail stared at Haig, his hand outstretched to the man, too many questions pressing into his throat.

Balram continued, “There are traitors in your house, my friend,”.he said to Dhairr. “This one, I warrant, is Alytia’s wotk.”

“Is this truth?” Dhairr asked. “Speak!” he shouted when Haig hesitated.

Haig met Kail’s eyes briefly. “I was asked by the Harper Alytia Morel to see to her son’s protection when she was forced to leave this house. I honored her request… and continued to do so after her death.”

“No,” Kali shook his head in denial even as the words sank into him like a cold kiss, through the heat, the buzzing of insects, and the tension of raised blades all around him. His chest seized up. His mothei… a Harper? Sent away? That was impossible. His mother died giving birth to him. His father told him the story long ago. Haig was confused, he was lying… .

Beside him, Dhairr stood in a similar state of shock, but Haig’s words did not have the same paralytic effect.

His gaze still on Kali, Haig never saw the attack coming.

Dhairr hit the Harper from the side, driving him to the ground. Haig’s skull struck the fountain’s edge, and Kali could see the whites of his eyes as he went limp. Dhaitr hauled him

over and plunged him up to his neck in the fountain, jolting the man back to semi-consciousness.

“Not yet, not yet,” Dhairi growled. The sudden outpouring of rage transformed him into a creature Kail did not recognize. Stunned, he fell back a pace.

“Before you die, you will tell me who hunts me!” Dhairr screamed. “Do you hear?” He shook the senseless Harper, plunging him beneath the water again. Haig’s hands came up, spasming weakly. “Did Alytia send you to kill me? Is this her revenge?”

“Father, stop!” Kali grabbed Dhairr’s shoulder, trying to wrench him off Haig. He pulled, gasping, pounding with his fists, but the lord’s muscles were clenched balls of heat and strength. A boy couldn’t hope to overpower him.

Kail felt a hand close over his throat, yanking him back. He glared hatefully up into Balram’s eyes. “Liar,” he gasped. Balram shook him.

“Now, now,” he said soothingly, stroking a thumb across Kail’s windpipe. “Leave them alone. You and I can entertain ourselves.” He raised Kail to his toes. “You say Aazen was injured?” His jaw tightened. “How cateless of them. It was supposed to be you. And where is Aazen now, Kail?” Balram asked, his voice rising. “Alone … wounded? Did you leave him to die?” He pressed down. Spots clouded Kail’s vision. Disgusted, Balram dropped him into the mud.

“He … alive,” Kail choked. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth. Using one arm for leverage, he dragged himself through the ferns as Balram stalked unhurriedly after him. “Haig!” he sobbed, watching the Harper’s body twitch as his fathet held him under the water for the space of a breath, two, three—too long.

“Father!” Kali screamed as he clumsily dodged a swipe from Balram’s foot. “Stop! Help me!”

Balram kicked him in the ribs, knocking the air from Kail’s lungs. He tried to curl into a ball, but Balram kicked him again. Kail’s arm went numb. He lurched back, reaching desperately,

but his father didn’t seem to hear anything going on around him.

“If you do not resist, I will tell your father you died defending him,” Balram promised, and the reassurance, the sincerity in his voice sent a horrible chill through Kali. He scooped up a handful of mud and hurled it into Balram’s face.

The guard captain staggered back, and Kail ran—out of the garden, through the main hall and the double entry doors. He stopped when he saw Haig’s horse standing on the track leading from the estate. His ribs burned—hard breathing sent a fire raging over them.

He stumbled to the horse and crawled up the animal’s back. It neighed and balked, but eventually settled as Kail draped himself over its back and kicked its flanks. The horse sprang to life, but Kail didn’t even glance at the direction it chose. He half-expected a hailstorm of arrows to follow him out the front gates. He buried his face in the horse’s dark mane and waited, but he felt only the fire in his ribs and an awful, searing pain in his heart.

Esmeltaran, Amn

12 Eleasias, the Year ofthe Sword (1365 DR)

Balram spat mud. The boy wouldn’t get far. He raised his sword to the east tower, signaling Meraik. The man saluted and disappeared from view.

“Captain.” Dencer hurried to him. He cast a wary glance at Morel, who crouched beside the fountain next to Haig’s body floating in the water.

“Speak,” Balram said, and added pointedly, “Kali yet lives.”

“Fotgive me, Captain,” Dencer said, and lowered his voice. “Haig interfered. My arrow missed the boy.”

“And found its way into my son,” Balram said grimly. “Forgive me,” Dencer pleaded.

Balram regarded the man for a long time. “Bring my son home to me, Dencer,” he said finally.

“I have already seen to it,” Dencer said, visibly relieved. “Someone has healed him.”

The Harper, Balram thought. “Begin a count of who is dead and who is merely wounded. If you find witnesses, silence them.”

Dencer nodded and departed. Sheathing his sword, Balram

went to Dhairr. The lord clutched the Harper’s pin in his fist and watched the body float in the fountain. He looked up at Balram like a lost child.

His mind is shattered, Balram thought. This will be easier than I could have hoped.

“Come away, my friend,” he said. “It isn’t safe for you here.”

Dhairr stood unsteadily. He allowed Balram to lead him from the garden, up the stairs to his office. He paused along the way, murmuring, “Kali?”

Balram fixed an expression of sorrow on his face. “I am sorry, my lord. I’m afraid your son was in league with the Harper. I cannot be certain, but he may have helped the assassins gain entrance to the house.”

“To kill me….” Morel’s face turned ashen. “He is only a boy. The guards—he said they were traitors—”

“A lie,” Balram said smoothly. He draped an arm over Dhairr’s shoulder and pressed the object he’d been palming into the cloth of the lord’s cloak and through, piercing the skin below his colfarbone with a needlelike point.

Dhaitr stiffened and tried to brush the stinging object off, but Balram held him fast, waiting for the magic to seep into his blood. When he was sure, he drew the object—a small, silver broach set with a square amethyst—out of Dhairr’s skin and pinned it neatly to his cloak, as if it were an ornament that had always been there.

He supported Morel the rest of the way up the stairs and into the office, putting him in a chair. He took the one across the desk and waited, watching the magic swirl like winter clouds in his friend’s eyes. Abruptly, Dhairr’s vision cleared, and he sat up.

“Are you well, my friend?” Balram asked.

“Aye,” Dhairr murmured, pressing both palms to his forehead. “What happened?”

“The wounds the Harper inflicted nearly overcame you,” Balram said, rising. “I will send a servant in to tend them.”

Dhairr touched the drying blood at his shoulder and temple. “The wounds, yes.” He looked up at Balram. “I killed him?” he asked uncertainly.

“You slew the assassins who stalked you twelve years ago,” Balram assured him. “Be at peace, my friend. You are safe.”

“Safe,” Dhairr repeated. He settled uncertainly in his chair as Balram strode from the room. When he was alone, he murmured, dazedly, “Kail.”

Daen sat at the bottom of the stairway, his legs tucked up against his massive belly like a dam holding the floodwaters at bay.

“It appears you’re finally learning, Kortrun,” he remarked as Balram stopped and glared down at him.

The guard captain gritted his teeth. “My attempt failed,” he said, “as you see.”

“Spectacularly,” Daen agreed, “but just as well. Now you can get on to the real business.”

Had Balram not held the faint hope that the Shadow Thieves might give him another chance, he would have sliced open the fat rogue’s belly where he sat. “What might that be?”

“Learning what it means to walk with us,” Daen said, his manner turning serious. “How long do you think we would be able to continue our operations if we conducted our affairs in the manner you just displayed?”

“The Shadow Thieves object to the use of assassins?” Balram scoffed. “On what grounds? Morality?”

“Gods’ laughter, no,” Daen said. “We kill without hesitation … and without flair,” he pointedly added, “unless the need arises. Only then do we draw attention to ourselves. Violent displays of death-dealing we do not require. We rely on Tethyr for that sort of high entertainment. I don’t mind admitting, I despaired of you learning this lesson before it was too late.” The rogue didn’t appear the least concerned. “But

rather than accept failure, you have turned your unfortunate mistake into a venture with promise. Lord Morel is now little more than a corpse, and you are holding his hand, directing him where to turn.”

The description, however apt, sent an unexpected shudder through Balram. “And you prefer this … state of being?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Daen said. “Morel can keep making his baubles and increasing his fortune; you will continue to siphon the excess to your cause and, ultimately, to ours.”

Balram pictured the look of childlike confusion in Morel’s eyes and suppressed a wave of revulsion. “For how long?”

At that, Daen’s gaze hardened. “As long as is required to convince me that you are worth my time and effort. Although, if it concerns you, I believe that Morel will perish of either the magic you used or the afflictions of his mind—perhaps both—long before his years catch up to him.”

Aazen opened his eyes to the slanted wood ceiling of his room. A dull ache was all that remained of the searing pain in his shoulder. Blinking sleep away, he slid to a sitting position and rubbed a hand over the wound. It had closed completely, leaving the flesh smooth—a pink blemish in the surrounding pale.

His room—he was home, in Morel house. Aazen listened intently for the sounds of battle, for wounded cries, but he heard nothing. What had become of Kali and the assassins?

Footsteps echoed on the stairs—the familiar, purposeful tread of his father. Aazen pulled the quilt up to cover his healed wound, realizing immediately it was a useless gesture. Someone—Haig?—had brought him home—washed the blood from his skin. Likely his father had already seen the evidence of the magical potion.

“He cannot fault me,” Aazen murmured. “I was unconscious. I was not responsible for what was done to me.” He repeated the

words like a protective charm. “He cannot blame me.”

“You’re awake.” His father entered the room and perched on the edge of the bed. “Much has happened that we must discuss.”

Aazen immediately sat up straighter. His father issued commands. He rarely offered to discuss anything with him, as one man would to another. “Kali and I were attacked at the lake,” Aazen said, “by Dencer and men of Morel.”

“I know,” his father said calmly. “I orchestrated the attack.”

Aazen opened his mouth, but no sound issued. He thought his father must be jesting, but by the look in Balram’s eyes, Aazen knew he was not. Fear uncurled in his belly like an oily serpent. He swallowed and asked, “Why?”

“To slay Lord Morel and his son, to show out strength to the Shadow Thieves, that we might eventually gain a place among them,” Balram explained. When Aazen only gaped, he went on, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I intended. I realize Kali is your friend. Dhairr was mine. Nothing about this decision was simple, Aazen, but I am trying to secure our future—your future. My actions were justified.”