Mistress of the Night (23 page)

He shook his head in desperate denial, but his sister was already rising. Her staff was in her hands, a shimmer of force surrounding it. Dagnalla held a staff as well. Krin was drawing a wand.

Jarull held out his fist. From between his fingers, black grains of magesbane sifted down. He opened his hand and flicked his wrist. Dust scattered through the air like a wave of shadow. Keph sucked in a breath.

"Mali!" he shouted, straining forward. "Don't—"

Too late. Malia held up her staff, spoke a sharp word, and the magesbane exploded.

The blast was deafening. It slammed Keph back into his chair and hammered against his chest. He felt dry grit, like wind-blown sand, sting his cheeks, but he couldn't see anything—the explosion was dark and cold, without heat or light. Keph screamed against it, flinging up an arm to protect his face—pure reflex—but it was already too late.

Variance and Jarull swayed, their grip on him firm.

Silence followed. Keph lowered his arm and stared at the devastation. Black dust hung thick in the air. The dining table was gone, with only a few scattered splinters to mark its passing. The walls of Fourstaves House were broken stone, the roof and upper floors blasted away. Keph could see the black sky looming close above.

There was no sign of Dagnalla, Malia, Krin, or the foul ooze that had been Roderio.

Or of Strasus. His father was gone.

Keph sat back. His heart felt... dark. And empty.

"Shar's blessing," said Jarull. "The Lady of Loss touches you."

His hands were gone from Keph's shoulder. So were Variance's. Keph rose unsteadily and turned around to find them facing him, silently watching" He swallowed.

"This isn't what I wanted," he said.

"You made the sacrifice," Variance replied. "Your family for Shar's embrace." She held out the sacrificial knife, the same one Bolan had put into his hand in Shar's temple only five nights before. Keph stared at it. Blood stained the blade. Adrey's blood.

"No," he breathed. "That was an illusion. Adrey—"

Doors banged open behind him. He spun around.

A woman in a swordfighter's costume strode through the ruins of Fourstaves House. Lyraene. No, Keph realized with a start, not Lyraene.

Adrey. Grown up.

"I want to be like you, Uncle Keph," she said. "I want to fight like you."

Shar's disk hung around her neck.

--- --- <§>-

It was over in an instant.

The glare of Dhauna's magical moonlight vanished with Feena's attack. Conscious thought returned with a slap of clarity. Feena opened her jaws in shock. Dhauna's arm slipped free, and the old woman dropped to the

ground and curled up around her torn arm. Footsteps pounded in the hallway outside. There were voices:

"What's going on?"

"I don't know!"

"Did you hear that? Moonmaiden's grace—" "It's locked!"

"Stand aside! Bright Lady of the Night, lend me your strength!"

The clergy were coming in. Feena reached into her spirit. The wolf gave no resistance as she drew the woman back to the surface. The transformation felt like nothing at all—she shook herself back into human form just as the door of Dhauna's chamber groaned and tore out of its frame. Mifano shoved it out of the way and stumbled into the chamber—then froze. Clustered at the door, other priests and priestesses stopped as well, all of them staring in horror.

In the midst of shredded scrolls and torn clothing, Feena rose up above Dhauna's huddled, shivering form-naked, blood-smeared, and completely numb.

She drew herself up and moved toward the door. Mifano stood aside. Selune's clergy leaped to get out of her way. Feena walked past them all and out into the corridor, turning toward her room in silent, brittle dignity.

Blood dripped from her chin onto her breast. She stopped and turned to the nearest person—Jhezzail—and said, "Younger sister..."

Jhezzail made no reply. Feena continued anyway.

"The High Moonmistress must be taken to the infirmary immediately and given a sprig of belladonna to eat. A fresh sprig. It will prevent her from becoming a werewolf." She focused on the girl. "Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, elder sister," Jhezzail stammered.

Feena turned away.

Sounds forced their way into her haze. Shouting. Screaming. Crying. Her name—Julith was calling her. Feena didn't answer.

She reached her room, opened the door, stepped through, and closed the door. Noises still reached her,

including Julith's frantic calls. Footsteps raced along the hall outside, drawing nearer—Julith again, she was certain of it. Feena shot the bolt on the door, then sagged down against the rough wood as Julith began to pound against it from the other side.

The high, keening whine that welled up from deep inside Feena's belly belonged more to the wolf than to the woman, but the despair and horror behind it were entirely human.

Adrey moved across the rubble strewn floor like a serpent. As she moved, she reached across her body and drew her sword. It left its scabbard with a dry hiss. Keph gasped.

She was carrying Quick.

A dark smile flickered across her face as she saw his surprise.

"It seemed appropriate," she said. "You already have the knife you used to kill me."

Keph glanced down. Shar's sacrificial knife was in his hand. He jerked and flung it away.

"Adrey," he said, "I didn't kill you!"

"You might as well have." Her voice was as cold as a winter wind. She lifted Quick, holding the rapier in front of her face. "Storm's lash!"

The lightning that writhed around the blade, bitterly white, brought no light to the darkened hall. Fear trembled through Keph's belly. He raised his hand and the disk of Shar that dangled from it.

"Shar-" he gasped. "Shar-"

"Shar take me?" Adrey laughed. "Uncle Keph, she already has. Don't you know any other spells?"

Mistress of the Night, he prayed, guide me.

Keph didn't speak the words, but they echoed in the hall just the same. Keph's gut twisted. An orison. One orison. Shar's guidance had shown him nothing more than damnation.

Adrey sank into a dueling pose, and Keph stumbled back.

"Adrey, I didn't mean it!"

"False regret does not become Shar's chosen," she snarled.

"No!" Keph spat. "It's not false. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

"Too late, Uncle Keph!"

She lunged and he twisted desperately. Quick slid past his belly, close enough that he could smell the lightning on her blade. Keph grabbed Adrey's extended arm and pulled her off balance, using the momentum to leap past her.

Through the open doors where she had entered, there was light—twilight, the hot glow of sunset, the only true light in the hall.

Keph glanced over his shoulder. Adrey was back on her feet and coming after him. He turned back to the doorway, but Jarull and Variance barred his path.

"It's too late to back out now," Jarull said.

"The cult," said Variance, "must be protected."

He gulped—and dived between them.

For a moment it seemed like it might work. The light drew closer. He was almost there, almost out of the hall.

Hands closed on his legs. He hit the ground screaming and kicked out. Hands fell away but grabbed again.

"Too late," Variance chanted, "Too late."

Keph glanced up at her. She wasn't human anymore—her legs vanished in writhing darkness, while a dozen arms sprouted from her shoulders to twine around his legs. Her eyes were black. When she spoke, shadows escaped from her tongue in wisps.

When she smiled, deepest night itself shone through.

"Shar embraces you, Keph. She has plans for you. She's not going to let you go so easily."

She began to pull on his legs, slowly, irresistibly, dragging him back toward the darkness where Adrey waited with Quick and Jarull with Shar's knife. Keph choked and thrashed hard—

—and sat up in his bed, sheets twisted around his legs. The light of sunset lanced through a gap in the curtains over his window. Somewhere a fly buzzed slowly, back and forth.

He was drenched in sweat. His hair was soaked with it. When he rubbed his hands across his face, it ran between his fingers in fat drops.

She's not going to let you go so easily.

CHAPTER 11

Full night had finally fallen. Moonshadow Hall had slipped, if not into slumber, then at least into the uncomfortable quiet that followed in the wake of horror. Through her window, Feena could hear Dhauna's intermittent shrieks and inarticulate curses as they echoed up from the infirmary and across the inner courtyard.

She closed her eyes for a moment and murmured, "Forgive me."

Feena crossed to the door of her chamber—old sandals making no noise on the floor, homespun skirt and linen blouse whispering around her body—and opened the door.

Outside, Jhezzail started. Feena bit back a wince. She'd expected there would be someone watching her door. She'd hoped it wouldn't be someone she liked.

"Be at ease," she said.

One hand made a sign. The other touched

her medallion. Jhezzail's eyes widened for a moment as Selune's magic took hold of her, then drooped and softened, her fear washed away. Her arms fell down to her sides. She didn't move as Feena approached, but her eyes followed her closely.

"Velsinore commanded me to watch your door and summon her if you came out," the acolyte said with utter calm.

"I guessed that," Feena replied. "What's been happening in the temple?"

"I don't know. I've been here all evening. I think Velsinore and Mifano have been in the infirmary with Mother Dhauna."

"And Julith?"

"They shut her out. She's waiting in the winter chapel." A spark glimmered in Jhezzail's placid eyes and she added, "She asked me to let her know if you came out."

Of course, Feena thought. Julith would do that.

Feena raised her chin and said, "Thank you, Jhezzail. I'm sorry I have to do this." Before the acolyte could react, she thrust out her fingers once more. "Bright Lady of Night," she prayed, "hold her fast!"

The calm in Jhezzail's eyes flashed in alarm, but it was too late. The power of the spell locked her muscles and joints, paralyzing her. Feena acted swiftly, darting back into her room and emerging with the patiently torn strips that had been her bed linens. The calming spell had been necessary to draw information out of the acolyte, but neither it nor the spell of holding would last long. Feena gagged Jhezzail first, then swiftly lashed her arms to her body. Grasping her tightly, she dismissed the magic. Jhezzail's muscles sagged.

The girl struggled, but Feena hoisted her over one shoulder and carried her quickly into her chamber. She dumped her on the bed, then grabbed her legs, forcing them together so she could bind them. Behind her gag, Jhezzail was screaming. The torn cloth turned the wails into a high-pitched whine.

"I'm sorry, Jhezzail," Feena apologized. "I truly am. I admire your faith. Please tell Julith that I think you'll be a great priestess someday."

Long strips of fabric bound the acolyte to the bed frame so she couldn't roll off. Jhezzail's eyes were wild with fear. Feena turned away to avoid meeting them.

She shut the door of the chamber but didn't try to lock or block it. When other acolytes or clergy realized Jhezzail was gone from her post, it would be easy enough for them to rescue her. Feena prayed that the acolyte wouldn't be missed too soon—two hours, maybe more. That would be enough time.

The corridors of Moonshadow Hall were deserted. The clerics were probably either seeking solace in prayer or huddled with the frightened acolytes, trying to mend their faith in the face of the day's events. Feena kept a sharp watch anyway, creeping through the shadows to the refectory, into the silent kitchens beyond, and out through the stout door, into the little garden. She gave the old, mossy pillar a fond brush of farewell, then hopped over the wall and out of Moonshadow Hall.

She didn't want anyone to see a wolf running in Yhaunn's shadows again, so she didn't change form. Instead she stayed on two legs as she trotted through the silent streets of the city, climbing steadily up toward the city gates that she'd passed through fourteen nights before.

In the sky above, the moon was only the barest sliver of a crescent, as if even Selune were hiding her face in shame. Feena's chest ached. Sobs had wracked her through the afternoon, and through the long twilight of evening. Inside, she felt broken.

The water in the basin in her room was stained red with Dhauna Myritar's blood. Feena could still taste the tang of it in her mouth—and thinking about it only brought the taste back stronger than before. Sharp. Salty. Warm. Tingling like copper on the tip of her tongue, heavy like iron against the roof of her mouth.

Feena clenched her teeth and forced the memory away. No more sobs. No more tears. Her eyes were dry. She couldn't cry anymore. She might never cry again. Dhauna's betrayal felt like a void in her very spirit—Dhauna's betrayal and her own loss of control in striking down her old friend and teacher.

There was no point to staying at Moonshadow Hall any longer. High manners and elegant gowns wouldn't convince Selune's clergy anymore. The priests and priestesses, acolytes and devotees would shun her. Mifano and Velsinore would be merciless. There would be no more games or petty humiliations. At the very least, they would do to her exactly what she was doing to herself— banishment, exile—if she was lucky.

And if word escaped Moonshadow Hall of what had happened, the people of Yhaunn would shun the temple itself in horror. They might do more. Feena had a vision of a mob, Noyle and the other denizens of the Cutter's Dip at its head, descending on the graceful white walls and blackening them with the smoke of a thousand torches.

A wave of fear swept over her at the thought. She clutched for the nearest wall, holding herself up. When the moment passed, she drew herself up straight.

It was better to remove herself from Yhaunn before any of that came to pass. Dhauna's dreams, the dreams that had drawn her to the city and that had held her within it, were nothing more than the nightmares of a mad, old woman. The only heresy, the only danger, was in Dhauna's age-tortured mind. The New Moon Pact... a horrid coincidence, a tale encountered in chance that had taken root in madness.