Vera was hurled into the riverwall. The rough edges of the bricks gouged her back and her head glanced off the paving. Her eyes jerked, out of focus; spots darkened her eyes. She panted for air. Vera tried to push herself back toward the fight, but her knees buckled and she sagged down onto the stone of the street.

Across from her, she could see the outline of Sorrow’s body underneath her disguise, an uncertain mass of dark Jendarthi clergy robes. Between them stood the mage, made taller by the spell he had just cast. His eyes, what she could see of them underneath the hood of his cloak, were dilated and bloodshot. He’s on something, harri? He must be. We hit him and hit him; he seems to feel nothing.

The mage turned away from her, toward Sorrow, who was not moving. Vera cursed quietly in her own tongue, then thrust out her hand with a grunt. Arcnon would hardly call it a spell, she thought wryly as the mage’s own cloak wrapped itself around him. But I don’t have the energy for much else. He tipped to the side with a howl but did not fall.

Vera's side burned as she struggled to stand. "Sorrow! Move!” she shouted weakly.

The pile of fabric twitched with a groan. Sorrow’s head emerged from the robes. The head scarf of the mókmol had pulled loose, and Vera could see her pale face, crowded with familiar scars. She looked dazed.

The mage shouted again, and the cloak unscrambled itself. Sorrow’s eyes widened, and she tried to scuttle back, crab-like, but the mage thrust out a hand, each finger splayed, his power crushing her to the ground. Vera could hear a wheeze in each breath Sorrow took as she tried to force air into her lungs.

Vera found her feet and stumbled forward. Drained as she was, she did not attempt a spell. Instead, she let her momentum carry her into the mage’s back. They went down together, but Vera heard the snap as his spell was broken.

The mage growled, incoherent, and rolled on top of her. His fingers found her throat. Vera struggled against his wrists, but something made him stronger. His weight pressed into her. She tried to speak, to summon her power, but no sound emerged. Her tongue felt thick, swollen. Darkness blotted her vision.

The spring of Sorrow’s bow at close range sounded almost musical. The mage fell against Vera, heavier than ever, but his fingers loosened their hold. She pushed against him, her arms still tingling and weak.

The weight suddenly lessened as the mage’s body was rolled off her own. She closed her eyes, gasping. Her body felt light, unworldly. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even form the thoughts that might become words.

“Vera.” Sorrow’s voice was close.

She opened her eyes. Sorrow hovered like a bird, her white hair damp with sweat, blood oozing generously from a gash on her temple. Vera tried to thank her, but all that emerged was a croak.

Sorrow smiled painfully, then pulled Vera into a sitting position. She fumbled at her robes, fishing around for a long minute before, with a triumphant grunt, she pulled free a waterskin. Uncorking it, she tipped it toward Vera.

Vera swallowed, her throat sore. A short distance away, she saw the dark cloak of the mage twitch.

Sorrow saw it too. She stood quickly and edged toward him, prodding his body with her boot. He groaned.

Vera could see Sorrow’s arrow lodged solidly in the man’s arm. Sorrow would not have missed a more vital spot, and certainly not at that range. “You didn’t kill him?” she managed hoarsely.

Sorrow pulled out her dagger, cut loose her arrow from the muscle below his left shoulder. Blood spurted and the mage groaned again. Using the dagger like a knife, she cut a strip from the man’s own cloak, pulled it tight above the wound and tied it. The bleeding slowed. “You told me not to,” she replied, her voice low and accusing.

“That was,” Vera coughed, “before he almost killed us both, harri?”

Sorrow forced out a laugh. “Well, he’s yours, then.”

Vera winced. Even thinking hurt. She pressed her brown hands to her temples. She and Sorrow had literally bumped into this fight on their way back from concluding the business that had brought them to Jendarth. In a heartbeat, it was as if the streets were in riot. I did not realize at first that we were dealing with only one man.

Sorrow rolled the mage onto his back, pulled back his hood. Even from her angle, Vera could tell that he was Jendarthi. His long hair was pulled into a dozen braids, solid black stripes against the dilute brown of his neck. He groaned again, a terrible sound, long and deep. She could see his hands curl, then clench.

“Be careful,” Vera warned, but Sorrow had already taken a step back. She pulled out her bow and moved the bloody arrow she had removed from the mage to rest loosely the bowstring.

Vera got to her feet, her whole body protesting. She swayed, dizzy, but the moment passed and her head cleared. She swallowed again, fighting down a wave of nausea that followed.

A noise brought her attention back to the mage. His eyes were open; his mouth gaped. Vera limped closer. “We mean you no harm,” she began to say, but the rest of the sentence died on her lips.

The mage stretched backward, his neck curved as if it might break, his legs jerking wildly. His arms pounded against the hard street, drawing blood. Foam reached the corner of his lips, and a moan like that of a dying animal crept from his throat.

Sorrow jerked back as if bitten, her eyes wide. “Vera?” she looked over, and there was a note of panic in her voice.

Vera understood the reason, but she didn’t have time to comfort Sorrow. This—Pashtar bless, I don’t understand. She knelt by the man’s head, tried to steady it between her hands. The thrashing intensified for a second, his body held rigid, his back arched, not even touching the street. He groaned again. Then he fell silent.

Sorrow joined her at his side, her fingers reaching for his pulse. Her voice caught. “He’s—gods. Vera, he’s dead.”

Vera didn’t reply. She kept searching the man’s face, looking for answers.

“Vera?” Sorrow touched her shoulder. “What is it?”

“I know him,” Vera said heavily. “Pashtar bless—his name was Cinel Orwin. He was a Traveler, a member of my order.”

“The Path?” Sorrow asked, surprised.

She nodded. “I have not seen him in years. The Travelers—they are,” Vera frowned. “They are trained mages of the Path—of my school, harri?—but they have yet to take their place as full members of the order. We give them time to see the world. Some take a year or two; others, decades.” She swallowed. “He has been away for some time.”

“You aren’t a Traveler, then?” Sorrow wondered. “I had thought—I mean, Loressa told me that she was one, and I assumed—”

Vera’s breath caught. Too close. I must be more careful.

Before Vera could answer, Sorrow hissed. “We have company,” she explained curtly, reaching for her face scarf and winding the mókmol deftly around her head.

The street had cleared when the mage’s rampage began. They were in a quiet section of the Facing Cities. This close to the river, at least on the Jendarthi side, many roads turned a corner to dead-end against the back of the riverwall or a warehouse. They had driven the mage this way on purpose, to trap him.

And now we ourselves may be trapped, Vera thought as she saw the Laeshor, the Jendarthi police, turn the corner.

“Let’s go,” Sorrow stood, then turned back when Vera didn’t immediately follow.

Why? Why did he do this? Her eyes sought Cinel’s, as if for answers. None came. She sighed, reached down underneath his cloak, and pulled out the neck pouch most Travelers wore to secure their most important possessions. She pressed a hand against his chest for a moment, closed her eyes. Pashtar bless you. Inoli náeta. May you find peace. She whispered the words with her mind, then opened her eyes.

“Hold!” the closest officer called in Vera’s native Jendarthi. His dark blue uniform seemed almost black in the shadows between the tall buildings.

Vera stood. Sorrow was halfway to the wall. Her eyes, the only part of her face still visible, widened urgently.

“I said—Hold!” the officer repeated, this time in the Sundered Tongue.

Vera turned from him, and hurried after Sorrow, who had reached the corner where the riverwall met the corner of a building. There, in a recess not obvious from the street, was an entrance. Sorrow tried the handle, then backed up a step. She aimed a kick at the center of the door. The wood held and she stumbled back. Vera heard her muffled curse, “Gods above, Berk! I can’t walk through walls!”

The name clutched at Vera’s heart. So she still can see Berk. He must be guiding her. Berkis had been a scout for the Wolves for longer than Vera had been with them. When he had died, several moons back, Sorrow had confessed her secret to Vera.

“I’ve seen them, Vera. I keep seeing them. In dreams, mostly, but now—I see him, in waking day.”

“Berkis?”

Sorrow had nodded, then added in a whisper. “He’s here, now, watching us. He never leaves me.”

Vera reached the entrance and held her hand over the simple metal handle. The lock clicked, and she pulled open the door. Sorrow pushed her through the opening, then shut the door behind them, drawing the bolt quickly. A moment later, Vera heard the shout as the officers reached the other side.

“Open up!” The order was repeated in Jendarthi.

Sorrow turned around. “We don’t have much time.”

As if in answer to her words, the officers began pommeling the door with something heavy. The wood groaned.

They were not in a building, as Vera had expected. This door led into a narrow alley, open to the sky, that ran between the building and the riverwall. Sorrow started forward, brushing past Vera, ignoring the door on her left that led into the building on the corner. Vera glanced up. Only a few windows. Probably a warehouse. I hope the Laeshor can’t use the building to bypass the gate. A few paces farther, an archway stood to the right in the wall facing the river. Sorrow pulled back a bolt identical to the first, then pushed open the door.

Vera stopped, surprised. Stairs had been cut into the steep and rocky hill that led down to the Falling River. The Odogil, it is also called, at its valley source, deep in the mountains. River of seven stars. Afternoon light slanted over a small pier that jutted out into the thick, muddy water at the base of the stairs. Vera thought about what else originated in that valley and shuddered. The League of the Dark Star have their oldest temple there. How appropriate that what comes out of their land carries an odor like rotting fish. Her lip curled involuntarily.

Instead of heading for the river, Sorrow jumped a short wall, scrambling onto the rock, then held out her hand for Vera.

“Wait,” Vera paused, then turned back, palm outward. With a click, the lock slid into place. She concentrated, and a moment later, followed Sorrow. The Laeshor will find that lock more difficult to open than they expected. Her eyes narrowed, determined.

Sorrow caught her wrist, helping her up. Vera glanced around. They were halfway between two bridges, on a bend of the river that sheltered the small pier from view. Huh. I wonder what that is used for. Nothing official, I suspect. She had to look down, to watch the thin path Sorrow seemed to be following. The rocks fell off sharply to her right, and twice, as Vera’s foot slipped, she imagined herself plummeting to the muddy depths. Trust Berkis to take us this way. He always preferred the more difficult path.

The trail ended at another door in the wall. Sorrow stood aside while Vera held her hand against the lock. She grunted; the bolt finally slid back. That took more effort than I expected. That fight took more out of me than I thought. They entered a walk space similar to the first, and at the end of it was a door that opened onto another dead-end street.

“Pashtar bless,” Sorrow breathed. “I give Berk highest marks for this one.”

At the end of the block, where their street met a cross road, was the sign for the inn where they had left their gear.

Sorrow pulled the Jendarthi robes over her head. “Gods, I hate these things. They’re cumbersome, and they’re hot, and I think you suggested them just to torment me.” She retrieved her pack from under the bed in the room they had rented, stuffing the mókmol into it.

“They wouldn’t be hot if you didn’t insist on wearing an Ithirian tunic underneath them,” Vera replied absently, rubbing her neck. She could feel bruises rising, ten marks, one for each of Cinel’s fingers. She had dumped out his neck pouch onto the threadbare bed linens. She ran her fingers through its contents.

Sorrow picked up a rag and began wiping blood off first her dagger, then her arrow. “We should go, Vera. If the—what did you call them? Laeshor,” she fumbled over the Jendarthi word, “discover the second door, they’re sure to search this inn. I don’t want to leave anything to fate.”

Vera didn’t answer. She had spotted what she had hoped she wouldn’t find: a small dark vial full of a gray powder. She uncorked it and sniffed cautiously. Ellsroot.

“What’s that?” Sorrow stopped cleaning the arrow.

“A drug,” Vera said flatly, recorking the vial.

“Like chivvi?” Sorrow wondered.

“Chivvi?” Vera was surprised. Sorrow barely drank wine, and had come to the Wolves with little knowledge of Jendarthi customs, much less the slang terms for illegal drugs. She’s not the type to use such things. “How do you—?”

“Berk,” Sorrow interrupted with a smile. “He told me about it, before he died.” She looked up. “I think it was the punch line to one of his jokes, and I didn’t get it.” She shrugged. “He decided to educate me. Gods, that was a long trip.”

Vera smiled, then sobered. “Do you see him often?”

Sorrow replaced the arrow in her quiver and sat down on the bed, the bloody rag still in her hands. “Not as much, now. He was always there, at first. But now—” she looked away. “Now I see him in dreams sometimes, and even less often as I did today, as a—” she shrugged. She seemed reluctant to use the word ghost. Her eyes grew distant. “He’s always there if I need him, though. He’s never let me down.”

A quiet moment passed between them. “So,” Vera held up the vial. “This is not chivvi. It’s Ellsroot. It doesn’t work unless you’re a mage.” She shrugged. “Normally, it simply enhances the magic that is worked, gives heightened perceptions and awareness, but in Cinel’s case, it did much more than that. I have never seen a mage’s powers so distorted. It wasn’t us, Sorrow, that killed him. It was the Ellsroot, I’m sure of it.”

“You think he just reacted badly to it?"

"Perhaps." Vera looked down again, at the items from Cinel’s pouch. She picked through coins absently. A wooden token caught her eye; she reached for it.

“Vera?” Sorrow’s voice had changed completely. She sounded drained. “Vera, I have to ask you something.”

The mage jerked. “What is it?” she asked, forgetting about the token. Pashtar bless, I hope she doesn’t return to the subject of my status among the Travelers. I was careless to have brought it up.

“Did I—” Sorrow stopped, grappling with the words. She turned the rag over in her hands, picked at a fraying edge. “Did I look like that—before?”

Vera felt relieved. She means the fits she used to have. I’m not surprised seeing Cinel disturbed her. “Yours were not so bad as that,” she evaded. Most of the time, she added silently to herself.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize what I looked like, during—” she trailed off.

“Don’t let it bother you, Sorrow. The Wolflord understood.”

Her eyes snapped up sharply, then dodged back down to the rag. “The Wolflord,” Sorrow repeated Vera’s words. Her jaw worked for a moment, and when she continued, her voice sounded normal again. “And speaking of the Wolflord, we should be leaving. This inn isn’t safe, and we completed the mission before the—” she paused, fumbling for a word, “the distraction.” She tapped a small cylinder at her hip suggestively. It held the documents they had intercepted.

“Perhaps, yes,” Vera agreed. Her eyes narrowed in thought. Sorrow sounded agitated when I mentioned the Wolflord. I suppose we each have our own concerns with him.

Pushing aside her musings, Vera reached to sweep the items back into the neck pouch. She noticed the token again, wooden, larger than the coin. She picked it up. On one side was etched a design. It looks like a starfish. This must be a tavernmark. Her lips narrowed again. They use these for gambling. She rolled the piece over in her hands, then came to a decision. “We’ll never get through the tradestops to Ithiria before dark. I think we should find a place to sleep on this side of the river.”

“Did you have some place in mind?” Sorrow asked.

Vera traced her finger over the image of the starfish. “I might.”

Vera paused beneath the wooden sign. This starfish was better carved than the one on the token, but the two matched well enough. Noise and light spilled out of the busy tavern onto the street.

Sorrow wrinkled her nose. “You must be joking. We’ll never get any sleep here.”

The mage held the door open. “Perhaps I am not looking for sleep.”

“I don’t like crowds, either,” Sorrow started to protest, then looked thoughtful. She pulled her hood further over her face and walked ahead. “You found something. In that pouch,” she said quietly.

Vera only nodded. She had pulled up her own hood as well, on the theory that if she could trace Cinel here, so could the Laeshor. The tavern was loud, and crowded indeed. Shouts and laughter competed for dominance. The air clung with smoke, some of it from the fire, the rest from cloying censors spaced around the large room. As they skirted a barmaid balancing ale on a tray, Sorrow winced a little, her hand rubbing her eyes. She headed directly for the darkest corner in the place.

“Slow down,” Vera put a hand out to catch her arm. “Let me look from here for a minute.” She scanned the room carefully, systematically, her eyes lingering on each face as she went. Cinel had a good friend; they were always together. What was his name? He had a mark on his face, an old burn. She paused over two men dicing, then panned to the left.

That’s him. She recognized the young man and started forward. His name returned, now that she could see him. But even if I didn’t recognize his face, I would know him as a Traveler anywhere. Her senses tingled recognition.

“Laeshor,” Sorrow warned in a low voice.

Vera stopped cold, her eyes darting around. Sorrow thrust her chin to the side, indicating two men in uniforms by the bar. They were talking to the innkeeper. But they are not watching the room.

She took that slim opportunity. Vera moved forward quickly, slipping between tables. The young Traveler looked up as she neared the table. He seemed to realize she was coming for him, and stood, a look of fear in his eyes.

“Prevni, I need to speak with you. It’s about Cinel.”

Prevni’s eyes widened. “Lady Ver—”

She made a hushing sound. “Not here.” She indicated the Laeshor at the bar. “Upstairs. Do you have a room?”

He nodded, and led the way. One of the Laeshor glanced over but turned back to the bar after a moment. Vera exhaled, continuing up the stairs. Prevni’s room was on the third story, toward the back, and he opened the door for them.

Once he had shut it, Sorrow spoke. “How long do we have?”

Vera pushed back her hood, considering. “Less than a quarterglass, I expect. Prevni, was it generally known that you and Cinel were friends?”

He nodded assent. “My lady, what is this about? I hardly think a little gambling warrants a visit from one of the Sc—”

Vera held up her hand, aware of Sorrow’s sudden interest. My place in the Path is my own secret among the Wolves. I trust Sorrow, but I don’t want to take any chances that this might get back to the Wolflord.

“You and Cinel were into more than gambling.” She met his eyes. “Where did he get the Ellsroot, Prevni?”

Prevni scoffed. “Oh, come. A little Ellsroot? That’s what this is about?”

“Cinel’s dead, Prevni.”

“What?” He stopped, holding perfectly still as if he couldn’t believe her words. “You aren’t serious, are you?” he finally asked. There was a vulnerability in his voice, pain inside denial.

Vera held his gaze, her eyes sympathetic. “I know you and he have been friends for a long time—”

“Oh gods,” he sat heavily on the bed, hands to his eyes. “No—no, there must be some mistake.”

“I saw him, harri? I saw him with my own eyes. Prevni, listen to me. He was on something. I think it was Ellsroot. I think it killed him. Tell me, where did you get it?”

Prevni cried silently. Vera could see the bright tracks of tears on his cheeks. “Impossible,” he said, his voice tight. “He’s used it before, many times. He’s careful.”

“He might have used too much.”

“No!” Prevni practically shouted. He seemed to startle himself with the pitch of his voice and continued more quietly. “No. Lady Vera, he measured it every time. And he never took any without me.” His voice quieted further. “He was going to get a new shipment today.”

“Who?” Vera asked in a hard tone. “Where?”

Prevni looked up. “I don’t know—Goer, I think the name was. Down by the river.” His mouth twisted. “They have a warehouse. I guess they must smuggle it in by water, at night.”         

Sorrow’s eyes met Vera’s. They exchanged understanding. Vera turned back to Prevni. “Listen to me carefully—did he bring you any?”

The younger man hesitated, then reached underneath his tunic. He upended the pouch and held out a vial identical to the one Vera had found on Cinel. She took it from him and glanced at the contents. “Huh. Looks the same. This,” she held up the vial, “is no longer yours. When the Laeshor come to question you, you are not to tell them anything of our visit, nor of the source of the Ellsroot.”

“Why would Laeshor question me?”

“Because you knew Cinel, and they may believe him murdered. They are downstairs as we speak,” Vera explained.

“Did they see you? What if they did—what do I tell them?”

“Tell them we were women of dubious virtue, that you couldn’t afford us. That you don’t know where we went,” she said flatly.

Sorrow suppressed a giggle, and Vera glared at her. “Do I have your full cooperation?” she asked, focusing on the Traveler again.

Prevni hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, Lady Vera.”

“You are not to touch Ellsroot,” Vera indicated the vial, “ever again, harri? Unless you want to wind up as dead as Cinel.”

He blanched. “Clear as water, Lady Vera.”

“Good.” She knew her words were hard, hated it, but realized that it was necessary. She softened a little. “You will report Cinel’s death to Lady Ureena at your earliest opportunity, as I cannot do so.”

Prevni's eyes fell to the floor. “Of course.”

“Your sadness is mine as well,” Vera said formally, in Jendarthi. “I am sorry that he is dead, harri?”

“Harri,” he replied.

“We should consider that this might not be the warehouse. Prevni had no details,” Vera began in a whisper.

“I’m sure,” Sorrow replied quietly.

Vera knew better than to question Sorrow’s instincts. She stepped off a curb and onto cobblestone. No lights brightened the dead-end street. Vera rubbed her neck again and winced. The injuries of the day had accumulated, leaving her feeling older and more tired than she had in years.

Sorrow touched her arm gently. “We should leave the packs.” She had been the one to insist they bring their gear with them rather than waste time checking into another inn.

“Huh. Good idea.” Vera shrugged off her own, her shoulders aching.

Sorrow took it. “I won’t be long. Wait for me?” She backtracked down the street. After a few paces, Vera lost sight of her.

Seconds dragged into minutes, and she waited with growing concern. What is taking her so long? She oriented herself, started to reach inside, to see through her magesight instead of her eyes. She heard footsteps approaching in the dark and paused.

Why did she go all the way across the street? Vera wondered. Then her senses tingled a warning. That isn’t Sorrow—

A pinprick of pain flared against her neck. It felt like the bite of a nis nis, and her hand jerked in reflex. A moment later, magelight flashed in her face, brilliant, white, and blinding.

“Ah, Veramli,” remarked a dark figure who appeared against the light. “How nice of you to come. I trust you received my invitation?”

Vera tried to summon her mageshields, but her senses felt dull; her magic wouldn’t respond. She blinked, tried to focus on the face of the cloaked woman. I know her. She’s one of the Seven. Even Vera’s thoughts felt heavy, bogged down. Her hand groped at her neck, pulled out the small dart that had lodged there. It’s thin point held a drop of her own blood. Her eyes swam. Vera fell back against the wall, then slid down into darkness.

The door was unlocked. She pushed it open and left the dimly lit alley for complete darkness. After a moment, she saw a thin light, almost the shape of a short man, or a boy, wavering at the other end of the building. Its glow outlined wooden stairs. She followed, up one flight, then a second, to an empty room near the front of the building. She set down the packs, and turned to go, but the light had moved to block the only entrance.

“Berkis, let me pass.”

There was a sense of negation.

“Berkis,” she hissed. “I can’t leave Vera waiting.”

The light had an arm. It pointed.

She turned to the window. The darkness along the street flashed into unreal brightness. She hurried to the window, then paused, cautious. Down the street, near the corner where she had left Vera, a woman stood over a crumpled figure. Her cloak moved in the light, and where it parted, she could see points of yellow.

A voice was speaking. She could barely hear the words, but somehow she understood.

This was the League mage who had poisoned Berkis. The name floated across to her: Tikkari.

When she turned, the figure of light had a face. He looked at the door, and then up. She could see him clearly now, and seeing him again broke her heart.

Berk held up a single finger. He pointed to the roof. She heard the timbers creak as something moved across them.

Vera awoke to light. Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed painfully. Her eyes blinked.

“Lady Tikkari?” a voice spoke quietly. “He isn’t back yet.”

“Quiet,” came the reply. “She is awake.”

Perhaps it wasn’t a dream. Vera struggled to sit up, her head pounding. As her vision cleared, she realized that she was in a warehouse. Wooden crates littered one wall, but most of the floor was open. A single crate had been moved to serve as a table. On it, Vera saw vials identical to the ones she had found with both Cinel and Prevni. She could not see the mage, nor the other woman who had spoken first. Her hands were tied behind her. Cautious, she sent out a thread of thought, to untie the cord.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, tried to move a vial on the crate, tried to summon light. Still nothing.

“It’s as if you were never a mage, isn’t that a shame, Veramli?” A Jendarthi woman in a dress of yellow and jet stepped in front of her.

“Tikkari,” Vera glared up from her awkward position on the floor.

“Don’t you like your present?” the mage asked sweetly. 

Vera followed the woman’s gaze and looked down at her own chest. Suspended on a silver cord was a strange device, a misshapen orb that resembled nothing so much as an odd sort of locket. The more she concentrated, the warmer it felt, even through her tunic. I’ve heard of such things, artifacts of forgotten times. It must be blocking my magic.

Her eyes rolled up to meet the mage. She noticed that Tikkari was standing at a careful distance from her. Huh. I’ll bet it could block hers too, if she got close enough.

“So?” Tikkari asked, “What do you say?”

“It isn’t even my birthday,” Vera spat sarcastically.

“She is feeling better, isn’t she, Erialis?” Tikkari directed her comment to the other woman.

There was no immediate reply. Vera craned her neck. Erialis, clearly Tikkari’s inferior from the cut of her clothes, stepped closer. She had thin blonde hair, a pink complexion, and a perpetual scowl. She looks vaguely Belani, quite out of place in Jendarth.

“My lady,” Erialis said pointedly. “Tarevic?”

Tikkari turned, irritated. “Stay here. The one they call Sorrow will come on her own.”

“But—” Erialis began, then stopped with a frown. “At least let me send Goer to check,” she finished.

“Very well.”

Erialis disappeared behind some large crates toward the back. Vera heard a door open, then shut.

“Goer and his men aren’t long for this world of ours, are they, Veramli?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Vera held her breath.

“Oh, but you do. If Tarevic hasn’t returned yet, it means he has failed. A simple thing, to put you and Sorrow to sleep. But perhaps not so simple where your friend is concerned.” She laughed, and the sound echoed eerily off the warehouse walls. “I expect his failure is rather permanent. Sorrow has perfected her own brand of justice, hasn’t she?”

Vera glared her reply.

“Well, she wasn’t always so.” Tikkari walked away, waving her hand expressively. “She was once rather more docile.”

“You made her what she is.” Vera held her breath.

“Oh,” Tikkari feigned surprise. “You mean the scars? Nice work, that. I can’t take personal credit.” The mage pulled off her black gloves and studied her fingernails. “Velerian is so meticulous. He has plans for her, you know.” Vera recognized the name. Sorrow told me about him. She shuddered. I don’t think she told me everything, but what she shared fed my nightmares for days.

Tikkari turned, slapping the black leather against her palm. “He has plans for you as well. But those are rather shorter-lived, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll tell you nothing.” Vera kept her voice even, neutral.

“Of course not.” Tikkari stopped pacing. “Then again, I recall that Narat swore the same thing.”

Anger flooded Vera. Witch—she must know what he meant to me, what he meant to the Path— With force of will, she pushed her anger back under the trap door, where she kept it. She closed her eyes, willed her breathing to slow. My way is peace, she clung to the mantra of the Path, repeating it. My way must be peace. Náeta. Náeta.

“No matter. My potion,” Tikkari waved her hands over the vials of Ellsroot, “will see to the end of your little group. It’s such a difficult thing, tracking down each Traveler one by one. This is so much more effective, don’t you think? Most of them try it, don’t they? At some point or another.”

Vera felt her eyes go black with anger. The word she had been repeating stuck on her tongue. She couldn’t breathe. Berkis. Cinel. I wonder how many others she’s killed.

“Hit a tender spot, did I? Well—” Tikkari looked up, then out toward the door. Her eyes unfocused and her cheeks slackened. “Erialis, you fool,” she breathed suddenly.

Tikkari moved so quickly that the yellow of her dress seemed to blur. A moment later, an arrow thudded into the dirt floor, just in front of Vera. Sorrow’s arrow.

“Come down,” Tikkari called, somewhere behind Vera. “Or are you afraid, ishrae? Velerian is waiting for you. Come, little one, he’s missed you.” Her voice danced lightly around the warehouse.

Vera heard the spring of a second arrow, heard it thud uselessly into wood. Don’t let her bait you, she thought, but she knew it was futile. Sorrow has no logic when it comes to the League. She’ll walk right into Tikkari’s trap. She twisted, but could no longer see either Sorrow or the mage. She pounded her fists uselessly into the dirt.

Then her eyes fell on the first arrow, lodged in the dirt in front of her. She blinked. Sorrow didn’t miss. She dragged herself the few feet to the weapon, twisted her hands behind her and groped blindly. After a painful minute, her fingers touched the thin line of the shaft. Vera tugged, walked the shaft through her fingers until she felt the sharp prick of the arrowhead.

With a smile, she reversed the edge and sawed at the ropes that bound her. They loosened, then gave.

Suppressing a triumphant shout, Vera tore the artifact from her neck. She was about to hurl it away from her, into the dirt, but a thought stilled her hand. Her fingers closed over it. I have to find Tikkari before she reaches Sorrow.

Vera stood, but a blow from behind forced her to the ground. She panted for breath, edged her body up.

Erialis stood over her, her blonde hair disheveled, one arm held rigidly in front of her. She barked a word, and Vera rolled. The blast of power struck her at a glance, sending her spinning. Spots danced across her eyes, but she felt her own power gathering inside of her. Blinking dirt from her eyelids, she saw the artifact, knocked from her hands, at the base of the crate that held the vials of Ellsroot. I’m out of its range.

“Haaka!” Vera commanded, her fingers stretched toward the vials. One rose. She spun around, made a hurling motion.

The Ellsroot vial flew through the air and exploded in front of Erialis’ face. With a cough, the other mage fell back. Her eyes widened and she fanned the air in front of her.

Vera was on her feet, ignoring her protesting muscles. She conjured one dagger, then a second, sent them spinning against the younger mage’s shields. Erialis was forced back, close to the stack of crates. Vera reached up, and with a word, pulled.

Erialis was no adept. Her shields couldn’t hold. She crumpled under the force of the falling crates.

Vera whipped around. Where’s Sorrow? The warehouse was empty but for an open door toward the back, creaking in the night air. She walked carefully across the floor toward the crate of Ellsroot. She picked up the artifact. Her senses went dull the moment her fingers touched the strangely warm metal. She fought the urge to drop it.

Instead, she edged toward the open door. It swung out onto the narrow alleyway that she and Sorrow had used to escape earlier that day. Vera glanced carefully around it. The alley was empty, but she could see, a few paces to her left, that the door to the pier also was open. She could hear voices from beyond.

Tikkari’s voice. She sounds pleased. Not good.

Vera crept out into the alley and glanced out toward the pier. Tikkari’s back was toward her. She stood halfway down the stairs. Sorrow was a pale shape in front of her, crouched painfully on her knees. Her bow had been flung up against the rocks. Tikkari held her fist over Sorrow, a web of force trailing from her fingertips.

Sorrow’s body was cased in the web. As Vera watched, Sorrow’s eyes rolled back, and she saw the fine tremors emerge that signaled the beginning of one of her fits.

Vera didn’t think. She just reached back and hurled the artifact toward Tikkari. It caught in the open hood of the mage's cloak.

The web of force dissolved. Sorrow fell forward, her hands slapping the stone of the steps, her eyes dazed.

Tikkari turned. Vera released a word of power. The mage stumbled back, falling past Sorrow, landing heavily against the pier. She pushed herself upright, her cheek gashed and draining blood. Tikkari’s face registered fury, and she lifted her hand. After an absurd moment, she lowered it with a look like respect.

Vera hurried to Sorrow and grabbed her elbow, pulling her up.

The mage fumbled with the folds of her cloak, her fingers questing for the artifact. Vera smiled, lifted her hand. There is a river of blood between us. To the darkest gods with peace.

“Vera,” Sorrow’s voice was a cracked whisper.

She turned. At the top of the stairs stood Erialis, her eyes bloodshot, her fingers clenched.

Oh gods—

Vera shoved Sorrow to the right, over the wall of the stairwell and onto the rocks. The bolt hit her own shields with a sound like thunder. Vera reeled back. Cinel all over again. I can’t handle another fight like that. I’m drained as it is.

A hand reached down, secured her elbow, pulled her out of the trap of the stairwell. Sorrow dragged Vera back as Erialis plodded toward them. Vera fought to her feet as a second blow hit and returned one of her own. Erialis didn’t even sway. She absorbed the bolt as if it were air.

Behind her, Sorrow reached her bow and swung around. Vera heard the arrow whisper past her ear, saw it pin Erialis through her eye socket. The young mage crumpled.

Vera had time for a satisfied grunt before she noticed Tikkari. Below them, a light surged around the League mage. Vera reacted with a shout, but her spell bounced off the protecting vortex around the woman. She could make out Tikkari’s outline as if through churning water. She was holding the artifact in one hand, and in the other, a larger device that Vera never had seen before. There must have been a mechanical trigger on the artifact, one she knew how to disable.

The mage smiled.

Sorrow’s bowstring sang again, but her arrow flew through empty air to thud into the wood of the pier. Tikkari had disappeared.

Sorrow’s howl of frustration echoed in Vera’s soul.

After a moment, Vera extended her arm, touched Sorrow’s shoulder. The pale woman turned, and with an inscrutable look, pulled away from Vera’s hand. She was still twitching slightly, her body battling whatever force inside her created the fits.

After a moment, the shaking slowed, and Sorrow moved mechanically toward the pier. She bent down, pulled the arrow out of the wood and studied it for a long moment.

Vera eased herself down onto the stairs. Erialis lay crumpled against the wall, Sorrow’s arrow pointing to the stars. Vera tugged it free. Not a nick, she examined the point after she cleaned it. How extraordinary.

Sorrow reached her side and took the arrow without comment. She seemed distant.

Vera looked down. She didn’t feel like being comforted either. “Sorrow, we should—”

“HOLD!”

At the top of the stairs stood four Laeshor officers, Prevni behind them. His face was a dark, unreadable mask.

This cannot be happening. Vera turned a dumbfounded look on the heavily armed police. Two bore bows, their arrows trained on the two women. The leader had drawn his sword. Its curved tip glittered dangerously in the backlight from the open warehouse door. Vera felt more than saw the pale-eyed Jendarthi mage in the uniform of the Laeshor-idri who stood beside the leader. She could tell, just sensing him, that he was probably her match.

Vera was exhausted; she didn’t feel like running, or fighting. She glanced at Sorrow.

Sorrow shrugged, as if to say she didn’t care. Her eyes were dark, and Vera could tell that she was still in shock from her encounter with Tikkari. Sorrow held out her bow, then set it down on the wall and took a step back.

Vera held out her hands, palms up, a gesture of surrender.

Vera had been in worse cells before. This one had two simple cots. She sank gratefully into the nearest.

Dawn was creeping through the narrow bars of the tiny window to the cell. The Laeshor had kept them up most of the rest of the night, asking question after question.

Seems they convinced Prevni that we must have murdered Cinel. She was angry with him at disobeying her orders, but she couldn’t summon the energy to do anything about it. I hope I convinced them to take the Ellsroot threat seriously.

The gates opened again, and Sorrow stumbled through. Without a cloak protecting her, the thin light in the cell forced her scars into deep relief. She seemed translucent, insubstantial. She sat on the other bed and put her head in her hands.

“He isn’t going to be happy,” she said at last.

He meant the Wolflord. Vera shrugged. “At this point, I do not care.”

“You don’t have to care.” Sorrow sounded bitter. “This is just one more debt to him I will have to pay.”

Vera didn’t reply. Her mind turned over this last piece of information, fit it into what had been puzzling her about Sorrow. Huh. I never saw it before, how much she hates needing the Wolves—needing anyone's help—to get back at the League. I think she sees it as failure. She studied her fingers for a moment. And then, on top of everything else, the Wolflord is Ithirian. That must be the hardest thing. The Ithirians destroyed her country; she cannot have any love for them.

Sorrow stretched back on the small cot with a wince. “I hurt all over.”

“Harri,” Vera replied. “I also.” She felt her eyelids getting heavy. A sudden thought jerked them open again. The documents he sent us here to get—She dragged herself up on her elbow and glanced through the gate. The guards were out of earshot. “Sorrow,” she hissed. “What happened to the—”

She didn’t need to finish. Sorrow’s mumbled reply was unequivocal. “Safe.”

Berkis stood before her, shifting a little on the balls of his feet, as he had always done. He wore a strange, sad smile. He didn’t speak. She didn’t need him to say anything. His hands were wrapped around the cylinder and its precious contents.

The gate rattled, startling Vera. She jerked up.

She could tell, through the barred window, that she had slept the day away. The sky gathered color, nearing dusk. An officer unlocked their door. Behind him, Vera could see the blue-eyed Laeshor-idri who had been monitoring her use of magic ever since they took her into custody. His eyes tracked her, unblinking.

By their footsteps, two men were approaching from the interrogation room. She couldn’t see them, but their conversation heralded their arrival. She recognized the first voice as the captain who had interrogated her. “Traitors to the Ithirian crown, you say? You don’t mean that rebel group I’ve heard about, do you? Pashtar praised, I forget the name—”

“The Wolves.” Standing in the doorway, looking every inch an Ithirian officer, was the Wolflord himself. His hair was darker than she remembered, almost black, and he had sprouted a mustache and beard in the week since she had seen him.

How could he have come so quickly—? Vera hid her surprise, dropping a neutral expression into place.

“Yes,” the Wolflord said heavily to his companion as he stared into the cell. “These are the two I have been tracking. You have the papers, from my government?”

The Laeshor captain nodded. “It is clear your jurisdiction takes precedence. To be honest, their complicity in the matter is dubious at best. I have eyewitnesses who have come forward to testify that they acted to protect the public. Another source claims the mage in question was taking Ellsroot. We certainly found a large enough stash in that warehouse.”

The Wolflord smiled, then looked back down the hall, toward the interrogation room, and waved his gloved hand.

Vera glanced over. Sorrow kept her gaze fixed on her boots; she wouldn’t meet the Wolflord’s eyes.

“I release them to your custody,” the Laeshor announced formally as two very familiar faces walked past the Wolflord and into the cell. Piern gave Vera a wink as he approached her with metal braces. She tried not to smile back, and pretended to struggle as he fixed the braces on her wrists.

Beside her, Sorrow stood quietly as Hollai secured hers.

The Laeshor escorted them to the street. In front of the building stood a transport, a large wagon blazoned with the Ithirian crest. Where did he get that? Vera wondered.

The captain stopped the Wolflord and pointed toward Vera. “That one—I expect you know she is a mage. We’ve had our Laeshor-idri watching her at all times. Are you certain you can handle her?”

“I came prepared,” the Wolflord gestured curtly. Arcnon, as if on cue, opened the back of the wagon and stepped out. He, like Piern and Hollai, wore the uniform of the Ithirian military, but his bore the cut of a ranking mage. Arcnon exchanged a polite nod with the Laeshor-idri before the pale-eyed mage returned to the building.

Arcnon escorted both Vera and Sorrow into the wagon while Piern and Hollai moved to the front. The Wolflord followed Arcnon inside. Vear heard Hollai give a chirp, and the wagon rolled away from the station.

The Wolflord closed the drapes at the back of the wagon and turned to the women. He pulled out a key, unlocking their braces with ritual slowness. Vera rubbed her wrists absently.

Arcnon reached underneath a bench and pulled out Sorrow’s bow and quiver, restored of its arrows. She took them without comment.

“So. Do you want to tell me about it?” the Wolflord began.

“No.” Sorrow answered almost belligerently. She refused to meet his eyes. With a jerk, she rose and moved away from them, toward the front. She whispered something through the heavy curtain to Piern, and a moment later, Vera felt the wagon turn.

The Wolflord's eyes found Vera’s. Vera shrugged.

They bounced in silence. This time Vera spoke. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Fast?” Arcnon interrupted. “It took us almost a day to make the arrangements.”

The Wolflord held up his hand. “I think she means from camp. We were already here, Vera, on other business. Business I had to conclude more quickly than I had intended,” he added darkly.

The wagon shuddered to a halt. Piern stuck his head back through the flap. "Sorrow?"

She took the cloak he offered her. Vera recognized the official purple and gold of the Ithirian uniform. Sorrow pulled up the hood, and without even a glance for the Wolflord, followed Piern out.

“Vera?” The Wolflord sounded testy.

With a sigh, Vera summarized the night’s events. She glossed over the details with Prevni. When she reached the point where she and Sorrow surrendered to the Laeshor, she looked down. “I apologize, my lord, for your inconvenience. We were just—” Vera sighed, then cursed in Jendarthi. “We were ikkin tired, my lord. I don't think we could have won fighting the Laeshor after everything else that day—”

He smiled, interrupting her. “I understand.”

If he meant to say more, he was interrupted by Sorrow’s reappearance at the back of the wagon, the cylinder in her hand.

Piern appeared behind her. “I’m sorry, my lord, that it took so long. We had to stop the wagon some blocks from the building where Sorrow had hidden the cargo,” the scout explained.

Without a word, Sorrow handed the canister to the Wolflord, then turned to help Piern pull her gear and Vera’s into the wagon.

The Wolflord upended the cylinder. A parchment slid out. The Wolflord grunted as he read. “Did Tikkari suspect you had this?”

“No, my lord,” Vera met his eyes.

“Good,” he grunted. “You did well. You did well indeed.”

“May I?” Sorrow sat across from him, her hand extended.

The Wolflord met her eyes with surprise. “Yes,” he said after a moment, passing the document to her.

She unrolled it, scanned its contents quickly, then reread it more slowly. Silently, she handed the parchment to Vera.

Vera read quickly, her eyes widening. She looked up. “Is this what I think it is?”

“You intercepted a document intended for the League’s temple in the Facing Cities, yes. I didn’t know what it contained when I sent you. I only knew that similar documents had been delivered elsewhere in Jendarth.” The Wolflord spread his hands in a gesture of innocence.

Vera rubbed her neck, picking at the scab where the dart had bitten her, and looked back down to the parchment. On it were instructions to keep the League’s mage inductees away from Ellsroot. At the bottom was a recipe.

This is the antidote to Tikkari’s poison. If I had only known—we had the parchment the whole time. I could have saved Cinel—

Sorrow seemed to interpret her expression. She reached over and took the parchment back from Vera’s limp hands. After a moment, she looked up. “It takes two days to prepare, Vera,” she said softly. “Two days.”

“Perhaps,” the Wolflord added in a gentle voice, “we should make a stop before we leave Jendarth. The Path should be warned, don’t you think? I expect they need as much time as we can give them.”

He would do this, despite how I have failed him in the past? It was a gift; she recognized it as such. Vera nodded, “I would like that very much, my lord. Very much indeed.” She met his eyes, saw understanding reflected there. Her breath caught. Does he know about me?

The Wolflord simply smiled, then turned to address Arcnon.

No. No, he doesn't, Pashtar bless. Vera exhaled, relieved. She swayed as the wagon made a right, followed the river for several blocks, then turned again, back the way it had come, into the heart of the city.    

Home

©2005, M. Frost

First published on Quantum Muse, October 2005