Depths of Madness (8 page)

“Davoren,” she said. No reply. “I have come to heal you. Corellon’s gifts…”

“Are neither required nor desired,” the warlock said icily. He spat, and blood dripped from his lips. He shifted and winced in pain. “Be gone, and take your feeble tricks with you. I care nothing for the whimsy of a naive, spoiled god or his whores.”

The blasphemy rankled, but Taslin suppressed her anger. She turned on her heel and walked two steps, then stopped.

“I… I’ve also come to… thank you, Davoren,” Taslin said. “You saved Asson and myself, and for that you have my grat—”

“I don’t want your sniveling gratitude.” He still stared at Twilight.

Taslin stiffened. A hand went to her sword, but it would be dishonorable to draw on a foe in such pitiable state. “What do you desire, then?” she asked.

“Your respect or your fear,” Davoren said. “I -don’t much care which.”

“You shall have neither,” Taslin said. Her hand tightened on the hilt. “Ever.”

There was a pause.

“Well, then,” Davoren said. “Go back to your decrepit sack of bones, and leave me in peace from your whining. Have I earned that much?”

As Taslin walked away, she decided she hated him.

They made camp in the ruined mausoleum where they had fought the wights. They could have pushed on, but all were tired and Asson needed rest badly. He also begged for time to study his grimoire.

Leaving Taslin in charge, Twilight and Slip—the least

wounded and stealthiest of the bunch—searched the other rooms of the crypt, but found them cleared of any residents. They chose not to disturb any of the sarcophagi, lest they discover more defenders. Had Twilight been alone, she might have done just that to see what treasures she might find, but she had a band of squabblers to look out for. And after Arandon, her heart wasn’t in it.

In their search of the crypt, the women found little more than dust and ash, a great many claw marks, and a series of runes carved on the walls and sarcophagi, filled in with something that looked like dried blood. They looked much like the symbol they had seen earlier on the stairs, but Twilight prevented Slip from springing any traps.

By the time they return, Twilight and Slip found the others engaged in a familiar activity: bickering. A part of her supposed it wasn’t so bad—they couldn’t be panicked and fearful if they were busy. Still, it grated.

“If not for me, none of you would be alive,” growled Davoren. His face was still horribly cut, but the bleeding had subsided. It made him even uglier.

“And if not for Corellon’s might,” countered Taslin, “the first rush of those creatures would have overwhelmed us and slain you. Your art could hold only so many.”

Davoren seized on the approaching elf and halfling for more bolts to loose. “If your accursed cave shrimp had paid attention, I would have destroyed them all.” He clenched his fist. “If you blade swingers knew your role and served your purpose—”

“Hey,” cried Slip. “I’m no one’s accursed cave shrimp but my own!”

Twilight wasted no breath protesting the argument.

Instead, she walked into their midst and shoved Taslin bodily away. The sun elf staggered, dumbfounded. Twilight put a finger in her face. ” ‘Twas your insults that took us off our guard,” she said. “Asson’s injury is your fault. Take responsibility for your own actions, sun.”

Taslin stared.

“And Davoren,” Twilight said. “Try and focus, if your little

mind can stand it, on the matter at hand, lest something more than scarring befalls you next time.”

His gray face went red. “How dare you lecture me, you—”

She unsheathed her dusky blade in the blink of an eye and leveled it at Davoren’s throat. The others flinched at her speed.

Twilight stared at him. “Care to finish that bit?”

The warlock backed down with a scowl.

“The next one of you who insults another of us loses a tongue,” Twilight said sharply. “Then a nose, then an eye, then the other. Then I get creative. Understand?”

Davoren nodded, smirking.

Twilight drew the blade away and looked at Taslin. “And if anyone doubts I have the sand to do it, as we say in the Shining South, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate.” She traced tiny circles through the air with her blade.

No one spoke. Oblivious to their camaraderie in it, Taslin and Davoren both stared at Twilight with shock and loathing. Slip looked horrified. Even Asson, who had struggled to his feet again with many coughs, fixed Twilight with an angry look.

“We survive together, or we die apart,” said Twilight. “If those wights are any indication of what’s waiting, we need everyone. Understand?” She stared hard at Davoren. “Everyone.”

Davoren sneered, but nodded curtly. He moved away, presumably to find a soft spot to rest. The other adventurers followed suit.

Twilight stood for another long moment, then sheathed her rapier. When no one spoke, she whirled away and padded off.

Before she had taken two steps, Taslin caught her by the arm. Twilight expected a rebuke, but instead the sun elf s eyes revealed shame.

“You were right,” the priestess said. “I apologize for my foolishness.”

Twilight eyed Liet, watching her surreptitiously from a distance, as she answered.

“I don’t want you to apologize,” she said evenly. “I want you to obey.”

Taslin gaped.

With that, Twilight shook herself free of the [priestess’s grip and sat down on one of the overturned sarcophagi. She pulled a knee up to her chin and rested her head on it watching the others. Silence reigned. The others ignored her, txcept Gargan, who stared. Once again, that odd sense of eternity manifested in his eyes. She had seen that gleam of wisdom before, and knew enough not to trust it.

Twilight looked away for a time, then back. Gargan was still gazing at her. Was that esteem in his strange eyes, or disdain for her methods?

Either way, at least someone understands, Twilight thought.

Then she looked down at the cut on her arm. She tore a strip from her precious blouse and cleaned the wound. It would have to do. She wiped the blood from her cheeks and forehead as best she could.

She was the captain of this band, and damned if she would show any sign of weakness. They would absolutely follow her lead—they had no alternative. Twilight hated the responsibility, but she knew they had no choice.

Watching the disjointed band and ignoring her growling stomach, Twilight slowly drifted into reverie. At least, she hoped so. She did not think she could stand another night of the barbaric human sleep she had been finding so often lately.

For some reason, she couldn’t keep a certain laugh out of the back of her mind.

Gestal stood over the slumbering Twilight, watching the way her sweat-streaked face gleamed in the torchlight. Only one of them stood guard, running her fingers gently over the brow of a sleeping, withered man. She was completely oblivious.

It mattered little to Gestal. His gaze stayed upon Twilight, who slept apart from the others, where no guard could see her easily—or admire her, for that matter.

Twilight’s eyes flickered under her lids, the eyes of a girl caught in violent nightmares. After a single candle’s burn, she

had dipped into true slumber. It surprised Gestal that the she-elf slept like a human, rather than lying in trance like most of her people.

How innocent she became when asleep, how frightened. Perhaps this was why she stayed away from the party—to keep such fragile, vulnerable beauty to herself.

Gestal, on the other hand, would have none of that. He bent down, fingers extended. Twilight shifted in her sleep, recoiling as though she sensed the hand coming.

Lord Divergence ran his fingers through her raven locks. She shivered. They stretched out their thoughts with the softest chant of magical power, and…

Nothing.

Gestal had expected as much. Through that sapphire amulet, he could not see into her mind. Nor could he divine her location or watch her from afar. Only through the eyes of others—or his own—could Gestal see her.

He could take it now, but why? He enjoyed her pretensions.

Gestal smiled. This trifle added to the game.

Twilight awoke in a groggy murk. Sometime during the night, she had slipped once again into the sleep of humans. In that unnatural chaos, she had experienced dreams as humans do—uncontrolled, nonsensical visions that would have frightened her to wakefulness had she not been used to them. Most of the dreams had been nightmares—as usual. She had wanted desperately to awaken, but as always, she had not. And some dreams, even stranger, had been the kind she hadn’t wanted to wake from.

Many of those visions had centered on the young Liet Sagrin, of all folk.

She sniffed and rolled her eyes. Barbaric. Enjoyable, but simply barbaric.

Twilight dismissed the dreams as more of the unpleasantness she encountered with greater frequency than others in her profession. Most elves, she well knew, never slept more than twice or thrice in as many centuries, but Twilight was not like most elves.

Like most, though, she desired to eat at sunup—and, of course, to relieve herself.

As she made her careful way into a chamber removed from the huddled band in order to do just that, Twilight met Slip coming from the other direction. The little thief, wearing her

mace and a dagger that she had apparently found somewhere, smiled when she saw the elf.

“Good morrow!” the halfling said brightly.

“Yes,” Twilight managed. The halfling wandered alone? “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just a morning walk.” Slip’s smile didn’t fade.

Twilight’s suspicion did not fade either. “A morning walk,” she repeated.

“Absolutely!” said Slip. “Nothing gets the vim and vigor flowing like a good jaunt around the meadow”—she looked around—”er, crypt. Anyway, We take them all the time back in Crimel. Gets the body ready for the day, and makes breakfast at the Tumbling Troll taste even better!”

“Crimel,” said Twilight. “The village in Luiren?”

Slip blinked. “You’ve been there?”

Twilight’s suspicion deepened. “I’ve heard of it,” she said, truthfully. “I’ve passed through the Shining South.”

Slip nodded. “Have you heard of Arvor Brightbrows?” she asked gleefully.

“No,” said Twilight. “A relation?”

“He’s me da—the march warden of Crimel,” said Slip brightly. “And Denrin Lightstep Brightbrows? Revered Nurturer Hubin Sharpears?”

Twilight shrugged.

“Me brother, silly!” she exclaimed. “An’ me second cousin, thrice removed! He’s a priest o’ the Matriarch.”

Finally. Someone Twilight knew, of the divine variety. Yondalla, mother of the halflings. Slip’s mistress.

“How about Nola Treestump?”

“Your mother?” Twilight guessed.

“The quirky druid who’s spent too long in the woods!” Her eyes rolled and Slip scoffed. “Obviously.” “Obviously,” Twilight said.

Something flickered across Slip’s face. “Have you heard of Reeman Lightspinner?” she asked softly. “Though his full name would be Reethelmanath Ballufguts Bumper Lightspinner the twenty-sixth.”

“Ah, no,” said Twilight. “I’ve not.” She raised a brow. “A halfling? With such a name?”

“A gnome,” Slip said wistfully. “From Lantan. A magician— well, illusionist—brilliant. He and I were handfasted.” Her face turned up at the ceiling and softened.

That caught Twilight by surprise—a halfling, bound to a gnome? She had heard of humans and elves mating—experienced it on more than one occasion, in fact—but the little folk? Curious.

“I see,” said Twilight. “You ‘were’ handfasted?”

A cloud passed over Slip’s eyes then. “It didn’t work out.”

“Oh.” She ached suddenly for Lilten—his companionship, his wonderfully smothering embrace—and she shook her head to clear it.

Twilight realized Slip was still staring at her. She wondered if the little one could read her thoughts, so intently did she…

“Well, good morrow!” Slip said brightly.

With that, the halfling was off, scurrying toward the companions’ camp as though she had never stopped. There was a story there, and Twilight’s instincts told her it was important. She touched the Shroud about her neck, briefly.

Twilight watched, then went on her way, finding a good shadowed place and thanking providence she carried thareea cloths wrapped in her boot tops. Small comforts. From her belt of thieving supplies, she pulled out her hand mirror and looked at her face. Her eyes strained to hold up dark sacks and her features seemed shrunken—shallow.

She saw a smudge. A smear of blood across her cheek.

She looked closer, and there were two curls, almost like two snakes wrapped around each other.

Suppressing a shiver, Twilight wiped it away roughly.

The others were ready to go by the time Twilight returned. They ate a simple meal of white cheese and acorn wafers, along with a wine-colored jelly of mixed berries. When a spell of Taslin’s filled up a set of waterskins, even Davoren grudgingly admitted the cleric’s usefulness. Quietly.

The seven quickly found an exit. A set of stairs behind a half-collapsed wall led up to another level. Twilight wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed it earlier—perhaps she had just been distracted. As before, with caution, they crept up, Twilight and Slip in front, Gargan at the rear, the others in the middle. Asson hobbled, coughing. He made surprisingly little sound for one his age with such injuries, and Twilight respected that.

She could not dismiss a feeling of trepidation, as though they were being stalked. Something wriggled in the back of her mind: a frightening suspicion.

Halfling and elf passed through a half-open grate into a large, round chamber with corridors leading in six directions. Eerie light came from phosphorescent fungus that grew along the walls and ceiling. For a moment, she might have thought they were in the Underdark, but these tunnels were of human make.

Mad human, more like it. The room’s architecture curved, dipped, and swayed. In its center and leading down the six corridors, the floor formed a trough that might once have held water but had long since gone dry. The channels’ walls and gutters were stained brown and green, and not from paint.