Dangerous Talents (52 page)

Angrim blinked, jolted out of her cowering trance, and scurried to comply. She hardly seemed like the same woman who had strutted her allure so confidently in the past.

Jorund took the small wooden box from Angrim and turned away from her, oblivious to the pleading look in her eyes. Dahleven had little doubt that the Firestarter would discard her now that her usefulness to him was finished.

In a few moments, Jorund had assembled the contents of the box. He drew fire from a lantern to light the two bowls of incense he’d put on either side of the geode. He grinned at Dahleven, his eyes both bitter and gloating. “That’s the last time I’ll have to do
that
,” he said. “Soon my Talent will be hot again, and it shall not burn alone. What shall I do first? Tumble Quartzholm to its foundations with an earthquake, or burn her? What will Kon Neven be Jarl of then?” He turned away again and drew a small purple bag from under his shirt. From it he took an amethyst crystal.

A priest’s talisman
! Dahleven looked on in horror. The last of his hope that Jorund would fail in the necessary ritual faded.

Jorund held the crystal in one hand and the Staff in the other, raising both over his head. He began to chant in the priests’ tongue. His words echoed in the stone chamber and the amethysts started to glow. Throughout the cavern, the crystals imbedded in the walls answered, returning and amplifying the purple light.

From nowhere, three tall men and two women came forward. Dahleven startled. The men were strong warriors, the women lush and willowy, and all as finely clad as Jarls and their Ladies on Feast Day.
Elvenkind
! Jorund was oblivious to them. Nor were Eirik or Angrim reacting. Dahleven had heard of such things in fearful tales of the Fey-marked. The Elves used their glamour to hide themselves from mortals.
But why do they show themselves to me
?

One of the men came toward him and Celia, while the others moved into the vanishing shadows. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, as were the lashes that framed his pale eyes. Dahleven’s heart thundered in his chest. He strained against his bonds, but Eirik had done a good job of binding him. Were these Light Elves, or Dark? Did it matter? No man encountered the Elves and remained whole and unchanged.

“You’re back,” Celia murmured beneath his chin.

Dahleven wished Celia had removed his gag. Had she seen the Elf before? When?

The Elf knelt with impossible grace and drew a dagger that looked like sunlight on ice. He sliced through Dahleven’s bonds as if they were strands of hair. Dahleven pulled the gag from his mouth, and the Elf put a finger to his lips. The touch was gentle, yet firm as a command. And with that touch came the knowledge that these were
Lios Alfar
, Light Elves.

Dahleven clamped down on the questions he wanted to ask. Why would the Elves free him? What were they doing here, in the deep underground of the Dark Elves? But then, why did Elvenkind do anything? A man erred dangerously if he thought he could understand such things.

Eirik’s back was turned to him. Jorund seemed unaware of the Elves presence, murmuring the words of the ritual. Dahleven looked around. The closest weapon was a sword clutched in a dead man’s hand five feet away. Dahleven thought his odds of killing Jorund pretty good—if the Elves didn’t interfere.

The Light Elf shook his head. “This is not for you to do. Your Lady has chosen wisely.”

Dahleven frowned, not understanding.

“Light must answer Dark,” the Elf explained. “We felt the Dark Ones shift the balance, but the cause was hidden—until we saw your Lady’s beacon. You have our thanks. Now leave the Dark Ones’ tool to his fate.”

It went against his nature to put his trust in Elvenkind, but he had little choice. He wanted to crush Jorund with his own hands, but with their glamour, the Elves could trick a man into killing his best friend if they chose. Defying the Elf’s command bore too great a risk. He wrapped his arms around Celia and she leaned against his chest.

The Elf looked at his companions standing at the edge of the shadows. Figures within the shadows surged forward as if they would go to Jorund’s aid, then retreated as the Light Elves pushed them back with upraised hands that glowed golden in the dark.

The light from the crystals grew as Jorund continued his chanting. Tears stung Dahleven’s eyes and he winced at the brightness. The Elf turned back to him. “You are too fragile,” he said and stretched his fingers toward Celia’s eyes.

Celia blinked when he touched her, then her eyes widened. “Oh!”

“What is it? What did he do to you?” Dahleven raised a hand to push the Elf away even though he could barely see.

“Be at peace. No harm has come to your lady.”

Dahleven hesitated, and the Elf placed his palm on her head. She breathed deeply. Her trembling stopped. She straightened as though suddenly stronger. Then the Elf reached for Dahleven’s eyes. He pulled back, but the Elf’s touch was lighter than a breath of air.

He could see again, without the light hurting his eyes. Startled, Dahleven sucked in a sharp breath.

The Elf had changed. No longer was his appearance that of a human warrior. The raven hair remained, but now it flowed like midnight down the Elf’s back to his waist, and his eyes slanted sharply over high cheekbones. Lithe and strong, his body moved with a strange cat-like grace. He was beautiful—and completely
other
.

The Elf withdrew his long slender hand and nodded, meeting Dahleven’s stare with a calm steady gaze. Then he turned to join his companions.

The violet light continued to grow, reflected and multiplied a thousand times by the crystals embedded in the walls. It obliterated everything but the silhouettes of the Elves, but now Dahleven could look at it without wincing.

A sharp, loud
Crack
! made both Dahleven and Celia jump. The light flared and Dahleven’s arms tightened around her.

Then Jorund shouted triumphantly, his wild laugh echoing through the chamber.

CHAPTER TWENTY~SEVEN

Dahleven’s throat closed, choked by despair. Now that Jorund Firestarter had the Troll’s Talent, no one would be able to stand against him. His capricious will would rule Alfheim.
Why didn’t Fanlon destroy the Staff when he had the chance
?

Jorund screamed.

Raw agony tore from the Firestarter’s throat. Dahleven shuddered as the horrific shrieks echoed throughout the chamber. He couldn’t see what was happening to Jorund. He didn’t want to. The excruciating wails clawed and cut. Dahleven winced and ground his teeth, hunching his shoulders against the sound of torment. He pulled Celia close, pressing her head against his chest, trying to muffle the sound of more pain than a man or woman should ever imagine. Celia moaned and clenched her fists on his byrnie.

The screaming stopped abruptly. The light faded. The Elvenkind were gone.

Angrim shrieked, “My eyes! I can’t see! I can’t see!” Eirik merely stared about him with blank horror.

Jorund lay on his back by the split geode, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth twisted in a rictus of pain. His arms bent tightly to his chest, fingers claw-like. Blood trickled sluggishly from his ears and nose. He was unmistakably dead.

*

Cele let Dahleven pull her to her feet. She stared at Jorund’s body, his tortuous screams echoing in her mind. In all her time on the phones, she’d never heard suffering so horrible. And she’d caused it by pointing to a particular rock. A rock that Jorund had asked for, demanded, as the price of Dahleven’s blood and body. Now the Outcast was dead, along with the chance he’d offered her of returning home.

Cele shook her head, ashamed of her gullibility. She still grieved for that lost hope, though not for Jorund. He’d manipulated her from the start. He’d never intended to send her back, but she’d wanted it so badly she’d let herself be deceived.

Dahleven turned her away from Jorund. She became aware again of the fallen men and the wails of Angrim and Eirik. Here was something she could do, something more useful than dwelling on the betrayal and anger Dahleven must feel toward her. “We have to see to the injured,” Cele said, pulling out of Dahleven’s arms.

With an arm around each of them, she guided Angrim and Eirik to sit by against the wall, knowing they’d feel more secure with something solid at their backs.

Angrim’s sobbing subsided to whimpers. She looked older and duller, diminished. Eirik was babbling and staring wide-eyed at nothing in particular. There was nothing Cele could do but speak soothingly. They clutched at her desperately, and she had to pry their fingers free to move on to the other injured. Cele felt Dahleven watching her and tried to ignore it, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

*

Dahleven watched Celia for a moment, her face devoid of emotion.
She’s holding her heart at arm’s length
. He’d seen men react that way after a battle. She moved deliberately, efficiently checking for life in the nearest of the fallen warriors. He didn’t like the shadow in her eyes, or the way she avoided looking at him. She’d seen too much death—and he’d failed to protect her from it.

Dahleven knelt by Jorund’s twisted body. He regretted not having the chance to kill the Outcast himself, but this was a fitting end to his perfidy. His lip curled in distaste as he pried the stolen priest’s talisman from Jorund’s convulsed fingers. It was blackened like the geode. The Staff of
Befaling
was another matter. Its crystal was still clear, though a deep crack ran from base to tip. Dahleven gathered them up.
Ragni will want these. They should be returned to the priesthood
.

A groan from Fender drew Dahleven to his side in an instant. The gash to his scalp had left his friend’s face bloody, but the flow of blood had slowed, leaving a sticky mess.

Fender dragged himself to sit against the wall, and gently probed his cut scalp. “Having one’s head laid open leads to strange dreams, my lord.”

“Then keep your helmet on next time,” Dahleven jibed, relieved that his friend still had his wits—and his head.

Fender looked around and frowned at the bodies of their friends and foes. “Lady Celia?”

“Alive,” Dahleven answered, shifting so she could be seen.

“And that whoreson?”

“Dead.”

Fender nodded and winced. “I dreamed Elves were at hand.”

A cold grue slithered down Dahleven’s spine. “It was no dream.” Dahleven’s gaze locked with Fender’s for a moment in silent understanding. They both knew the world didn’t turn as it usually did when the Elvenkind were involved.

Celia appeared at his side then, and held her hand in front of Fendrikanin’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Fender answered accurately.

“Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I’m glad to see you well too, my lady.” Fender grinned. “But I’m sure there are others more in need of your attention.”

“A head wound is nothing to laugh at,” Celia said, her voice tightly controlled.

“Even for someone as thick-headed as me?”

Celia didn’t smile at Fender’s teasing.

Dahleven looked at her closely. “The others?”

Celia’s face was a stiff mask. She didn’t meet his eyes. “All dead. Two of Jorund’s men are still alive…but not for long.”

Dahleven closed his eyes. Five more of his men dead. Five more to sing to Valhalla. Five more families grieving.

“There’s nothing I can do for them,” Celia said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. None of you would be here if it weren’t for me.” She covered her face with hands bloodstained from checking the dead and injured.

Dahleven looked at Celia, startled out of his own pain.
Is that what she’s been thinking
? “That’s right. If not for you, Jorund might have found some other way to release the Talents, and we would not have known until he destroyed us. He might have taken more time, learned a better magic, and succeeded. Because of you, Jorund got careless. Because of
you
, the Light Elves are grateful to us.” He could hardly believe he was saying those last words.
Light Elves grateful to us
.

Celia dropped her hands. Her green eyes glistened with tears. “Your men are dead because of me! Because I believed that son of a bitch!”

“My men chose the warrior’s path and understood its dangers. They died honorable deaths, and they will feast in Valhalla tonight. The tale of this battle will be sung for generations.”

“If not for me, they’d be singing their own songs! I wanted to go home so badly I didn’t think about what I was doing or what it would mean to you. I Found the damn Staff for him! I should have known better, even if he did use Persuasion on me. I just didn’t want to see what was in front of my face all along, and
people are dead because of it
! Because of my stupid, selfish, gullibility.”

A slow cold anger moved in Dahleven. Neven had dangled Celia in front of Jorund’s nose and left her vulnerable to him, pushing her into the Firestarter’s web of lies. Neven’s plan had borne its fruit, their Outcast enemy was revealed and destroyed, and widespread ruin averted. But all Celia could see were the bodies of his men and her part in their deaths. Neven had brought her to this, but Celia was bearing the weight of it.

He grabbed Celia by the shoulders. “Listen to me! You didn’t make those mistakes alone. Jorund was an accomplished liar. He fooled us all for years before he got arrogant and burned Koll’s crofts. Even then he almost talked his way out of his punishment. Your
mistakes
saved thousands of lives. Don’t you understand? If not for you, everyone in Quartzholm might have been killed by that Oathbreaker!”

Celia clenched her jaw and looked away.

“I heard what Angrim said. It was she who told the Outcast where to look for the Staff. When it came down to it, you couldn’t do it, could you?”

Celia remained silent.

“Nor did you know when you Found the Staff that Angrim was Jorund’s agent, did you?” Dahleven lifted her chin so she had to look at him. “Did you?”