Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm (22 page)

When he had come all the way around to the northern side, Jordel straightened and shook his head. Loren stepped closer, and the other guards craned their necks forward to see.

“See here,” said Jordel, looking to the guards and pointing. “A chink in the mortar. Very small, hardly more than a hair’s breadth. But water needs less than that to find a way in. This crack lets it run all the way through the walls and into the Lord’s chambers.”

Loren certainly did not expect the guards’ reactions. They recoiled, straightening before turning sheet white. One said, “The Lord has arrived? But I have heard nothing.
When
?”

Jordel raised his hands, shaking his head to calm them. “Apologies. I am new here, and tis an affectation from whence I came. I was footman to a minor scion in the royal family once. I meant the stronghold’s commander.”

The men sagged, like sealed sheep’s bladders with the air suddenly released. “The brute, he means,” said one, greatly annoyed. “Never call him by that name again, if you know what’s good for you. If any of the higher-ups heard … ”

Jordel ducked, as though vexed with himself. “I will not repeat my mistake. Apologies. Please, let me do you a service to make up for frightening you. Leave this sopping roof and go warm yourselves by a fire. Eat something, and banish the chill from your bones.”

The guards traded glances. Loren could read their eager eyes, but also their fear. “I have traveled with him for many a mile,” she said quickly, jerking a thumb at Jordel. “Once he sets to his stonework, he will be at it for hours. Tell the woman downstairs we shall be here till sundown at least. Or that is, what passes for sundown in this weather.”
 

Loren looked up, where the sun was not so much as a glow.

Still the guards hesitated.
 

“No one has given us relief.”
 

“The captain sent him,” said Loren. “Mention it if you must. Besides, what kind of watch can you be keeping? I can scarcely see my hand in front of my eyes.”

The guard who had opened the hatch gave a rueful laugh. “She speaks true enough. Tis fair. We shall thank you for your kindness, then, and once more advise you: never call another the Lord, unless you mean who you say.”

“I will not,” said Jordel. “And many thanks in return.”

The guards hurried through the hatch. Loren closed it behind them, then slid the wooden bar into place.

Loren lost her guardsman’s cloak and donned her black one instead. Immediately the rain seemed to lessen — the thick, velvety cloth kept the water from soaking through, while also lessening the pelting wind. Compared to before, she felt almost warm. Meanwhile, Jordel unfurled the rope, tied it around one of the northern ramparts, then lowered the rest of the length into the grey.
 

“The hatch is sealed. You could still come with me.”

“When stealth is required, fewer bodies are harder to see,” said Jordel. “Besides, what if someone came and wanted to open the hatch? How would it look if neither of us answered?”

“How will it look if you answer, and I am nowhere to be found?”
 

“I shall think up some excuse. Or throw them into slumber sooner than they wish.”

“But not kill them,” Loren said, looking into the Mystic’s eyes.

He met her gaze, blue eyes almost glowing in the faint light seeping through the clouds. “Not unless I have no other choice.”

“They are only soldiers, following orders.”

“I have told you, they are Shades. You cannot know the evil that drives them.”
 

“They have eaten with us. You have jested together. They seem to represent no more evil than any other we have met by chance upon the road. No doubt some are here only for coin. You know the Shades’ dark history. Do these men?”

“Enough, Loren. I promised when I took you into my service that I would not force you to fight, nor to harm another. I made no pledge for myself, and will only do what I must when there is another way. If you thought so little of me, you would not be in my company now. But you are, and now we have work to do.”

Loren’s jaw clenched. But the Mystic was right. Even now, Damaris might be in the hall below, meeting the stronghold’s commander — “the brute,” as the guard had called him.

She went to the wall and pushed herself up to sit on the edge. The height was dizzying, but she had spent half of her life in tree tops, looking down at the ground below. She gripped the rope, then slid from the rampart’s edge.

The rope swayed beneath her, and for a moment Loren spun out of control, her left shoulder slamming into the stone wall. She gritted her teeth and let the swaying rope bring her around. Once stilled, she planted her feet on the stone and lowered herself hand over hand. She whispered a silent prayer of thanks for years spent climbing and the strength it had given her arms.

But climbing a tree with branches was quite different from a rope made slick with rain. As she went further and further down, the rope grew ever wetter, soaking up the rain that had been unable to reach it beneath Jordel’s cloak. Her hands slipped once, but she swiftly recovered, wrapping her body around the rope. But moving her feet from the wall swung Loren, and she thudded painfully into the stone. It was a moment before she could steady herself with her feet, and by the time she did, her hands had gripped the rope so tightly they were almost frozen.

She leaned forward and breathed on them a few times, trying to imbue them with warmth — a fruitless act against the biting chill. Her best hope was to quickly descend, while her fingers still had feeling. She slid down faster, but it was harder to grip the slick line.

Disaster finally struck. Loren’s boots slid out from under her, and she swung toward the wall, striking it with a crash, fingers loosened against her will. Air screamed in her ears as she fell, and without thinking she seized the rope. It sliced through her palms like a knife, and she yelped from the pain.

The roof soared to greet her, and she slammed into it on her back. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and left Loren gasping, but she had no time to recover — the slope was slick with rain, and she began to slide toward the roof’s edge.
 

Loren scrabbled to catch a hold, but the shingles went sloppy beneath her bloodied palms. Splinters stabbed her flesh.

She rolled, flipping onto her back. Her thick cloak slowed her descent — but not nearly fast enough, for the edge still sped toward her. She planted her soles: a mistake. Her boots caught, but Loren’s speed made her flip, so she was standing for a moment before pitching forward again. She slid toward the edge, head-first.

Loren tried desperately to twist around, but only managed to turn sideways before striking the roof’s edge. That saved her life. There was a tiny lip, no more than a few inches high, and she struck it with her body. Still she nearly spilled over, but managed to hang on with one arm and a leg wrapped around the stone lip. Her cloak dangled into the empty air, weighing her down. She groaned hard, barely pulling herself back up, flopping onto her back at the edge, tucked against the lip.

She lay there, trying to still her hammering heart. Images flashed in Loren’s mind, of her body spinning out into empty space and slamming into the courtyard floor. Even if she survived the fall, surely the guards would have seen her, and all would be lost.

Through the rain’s dim haze, Loren thought she could glimpse the Mystic peering down upon her. She raised a limp hand in a small wave and face disappeared.

Enough rest
.
 

Loren still had work to do. She forced herself to get up, though in truth she wanted to lay there forever and never rise again. Kneeling at the roof’s edge, she peeked cautiously over the side. There was a window in the wall beneath her, easily large enough to slip through. But it was four feet down, and its sill was not wide.
 

She would have to risk it. Much time had passed, and who knew but that Damaris was already within the great hall, speaking with the stronghold’s commander. Loren tried to still her shaking, bloodied hands, wrapping them around the stone lip at the edge with a grimace. Then she kicked off. Her body swung around and toward the window, her body slamming into the wall just above it, her feet but a few feet from the sill. She would have to drop.

A terrifying thought found her.
 

Once I get down, how will I get back up?
 

Loren’s nerves failed her, and she hung, terrified to drop, and too exhausted to pull herself back up.
 

Her arms were in agony.

She had no choice. Slick rainwater on the stone finally made her lose her grip, and Loren fell with a lurch in her stomach.
 

Her feet found the sill, but she was still leaning too far backward. She teetered, and for the second time pictured herself falling lifeless into the courtyard.
 

Fortunately, Loren’s hands acted when her mind could not, snatching the window’s edge, and scrabbling at the stone. One of her nails ripped off in a chink between stone and mortar, but she found her grip and pulled herself inside and out of the pouring rain.

She was in the hall —
almost
. A rafter sat a few feet ahead, at the perfect height for her to step forward onto it. Almost she did, but then remembered her soaking wet cloak. The last thing Loren wanted was for it to drip onto the floor as she hid in the rafters. She reached up and untied the cloak from her throat, folded it quickly, and left it on the sill. Then she stepped onto the rafter, holding herself steady with one hand while sucking on her mangled finger to ease the pain. Her aching palms were now like a fire in the freezing air.

And then Loren saw her: Damaris, standing alone in the hall, some five paces from the throne. So near the ceiling, Damaris looked small to Loren indeed, and certainly not the imposing figure she had often made her out to be.
 

A large man stood just behind the merchant, broad and muscled, though not quite so imposing as the stronghold’s commander. He wore a breastplate and had a helmet under one arm, while his other hand rested on the hilt of a sword nearly as long as Loren was tall. Gregor, Damaris’ personal bodyguard. Where the merchant was a serpent with two faces, Gregor was a battering ram. He had disliked Loren since always, and nearly killed her even before she had stoked the merchant’s ire. Many of Loren’s most fearful dreams were of Gregor finally finding her. The other guards were unknown to her, but they stood close by their master, watching the room with wary eyes.

As Loren studied Damaris, her mind drifted back to the road where they met. The merchant had looked then as she did now; calm, serene, even kind — a worldly woman with a sharp eye and a quick tongue. It had not been hard to imagine them working together, and even becoming friends in time.
 

Loren shed the thought. She and Damaris would never be friends now. Not after Loren had seen her order the deaths of so many. Not after Cabrus, where she ordered Loren thrown into a cell with a serpent. For all Damaris seemed to be, Loren had seen her true colors far too clearly.

All thoughts vanished with a great groan at the head of the hall. Iron hinges screamed as a door opened, and from behind the dais emerged the commander, walking languidly to sit upon his throne.

twenty-six

WITH MORE OF A CHANCE to study the man, Loren realized that her first impression had not been wrong; he was as thickly corded with muscle as anyone she had ever seen, his face was covered with a great shag of beard, and his hair hung limp and greasy to his shoulders. But now she could better see the many tattoos etched across his skin, for he wore a leather vest lined with black fur. He held no weapon, but one leaned against his throne’s arm: a great hammer, as long as Loren was tall, and its head was as big as hers. Two guards filed in behind him, taking positions on either side of his dais. Both were musclebound warriors, but neither came close to the their master’s bulk.
 

The commander regarded Damaris coolly for a long, silent moment. She eyed him back. Loren wondered what they were waiting for, until Damaris finally collected her fine silk skirts and knelt in a deep curtsey that landed one of her knees on the floor.

“Hail, Commander Trisken, honored of the Lord, master of his forces in Selvan. I, Damaris of the family Yerrin, come before you, as was promised to your master.”

“My master and yours,” said the man — Trisken. His voice was deep and rumbling, and yet Loren had thought he would sound somewhat … stupider than he did. His deep baritone reverberated within her chest, but the tone and inflection reminded Loren of Xain or Jordel, whose tongues flowed with the easy graces one expected at court.
 

“Of course,” said Damaris, rising from her curtsey.

Her deference was so complete, so absolute. Loren had never heard her sound thus. Who was this man Trisken, and his master, that they could cow such a proud woman with ease?
 

“I greet you, Damaris of the family Yerrin, and bid you welcome to my keep. You have no need of your guards, and our further parley will be conducted in their absence.”

Gregor stiffened behind Damaris, but she turned her head and nodded. He hesitated then turned and approached the great hall’s door, calling the other guards to follow with a flick of his wrist. They passed through, and the doors swung shut behind them. Now it was only Damaris, Trisken, and the guards on either side of his dais.
 

And the Nightblade.
 

Trisken drummed his fingers on his throne. His nails were longer than Loren’s, and made a soft
tap, tap
upon the wood. “Your road here has been fraught with many dramatics, or so the Lord has told me.”

“Nothing more than I could deal with,” said Damaris, annoyance brushing her voice. “Often the more foolish dogs of the King’s law have snapped at my family’s heels. Always we have dealt with them swiftly, for after all we have much practice.”