somehow, she was certain would lead them to Ar-Deneth.
****
Gareth rolled over and sat up slowly. The pressure on his shoulder had eased with the slow fade of voices, but he hadn’t attempted to raise his face from the moss until the weight lifted completely. Now he ran a hand down his shin, feeling gingerly over a lump forming across it halfway to his ankle. There was a companion lump on his other shin. The mark of a tree root, he discovered as his hand explored the ground on which he sat.
The vapor of spruce pitch hung thick in the air. Needles pricked at his cheek when he shifted forward, and he brushed them away. He was in the trees now. He knew that well enough. What he didn’t know was how long he’d lain there. It seemed like hours, yet it couldn’t have been more than minutes since the intruders had awakened him, and even fewer since the Shadow Man had snatched him from the fire pit and flung him face down here.
A bit of breeze licked up his back. Gareth shivered. Under his cloak, his tunic stuck to his skin. He peeled the fabric away and shivered again. Shifting his weight, he tried to untangle his cloak and wrap it around his body.
“Are you hurt?”
Gareth turned toward the voice. The Shadow Man spoke from perhaps two arm-lengths away, standing, Gareth decided. “No, sir.” He rolled to his hands and knees and started to rise.
“Here.”
Something hard nudged his shoulder. Gareth grasped it, found familiar indentations in the wood under his fingertips, and recognized his staff. He clung to it for a moment, holding on with both hands, leaning on it like a child leans on his cottage door after a wild run home in the dark.
“Get up, boy, and saddle the horses.”
Gareth raised his head. “Do you—do you think they’ll be back?”
There was the clunk of tankard against pot, the delicate patter of sand grains drizzling from a lifted pack, then the Shadow Man’s voice paces away. “I don’t intend to wait and see.”
The shivers that had retreated to Gareth’s stomach and coiled there, broke over his body again. He was not home. He had no home. He was here in the dark, in the wild, terrifying place called the Wehrland, indentured to a shadow. He rose slowly, muscles he didn’t know he possessed aching in protest. “Yes, sir.”
****
The Imposter of Nolar woke with a start. He was sweating, and his nightshirt had molded itself to his back. Flinging off the bedclothes, he sat up. His heart galloped in his chest, pumping like that of a man in the throes of coupling. Tightness in his loins told him he’d been dreaming of just such a pastime. With the gem cutter’s daughter, no doubt. That randy cock, Rees, by practically mounting the girl, had planted in his mind the feel of her young body writhing beneath him.
For a moment, he wondered if he should have chosen Pumble as his medium. The Imposter of Nolar grimaced. That sack of gelatinous fat was too slow, too stupid for his purposes. Rees would have to do, for now.
A sensation of heat in the middle of his breastbone captured his attention. He tugged the pouch free of his nightshirt and shook the crystal into his hand. It lay in his palm like a coal, hot, dark, and glowing faintly orange at the ragged edges.
The Imposter of Nolar’s skin crawled. With a wordless gasp, he flung the crystal to the bedding. He scrabbled against the carved headboard and crouched, back pressed to the wood, staring at the knot of blackness filling the column.
It isn’t possible! He can’t have survived! No one could have. He himself had survived, but it was the crystal that had saved him—the crystal column and his knowledge of it.
The Imposter of Nolar straightened, emboldened by the thought. The sons of Koronolan were only human, after all—pathetically, stupidly human. Even if the Dragonkeeper had survived the destruction of Drakkonwehr and the fall of Herrok-Eneth, the curse should have made his life a living hell.
The Imposter of Nolar smiled. Even
****
Gareth rolled over and sat up slowly. The pressure on his shoulder had eased with the slow fade of voices, but he hadn’t attempted to raise his face from the moss until the weight lifted completely. Now he ran a hand down his shin, feeling gingerly over a lump forming across it halfway to his ankle. There was a companion lump on his other shin. The mark of a tree root, he discovered as his hand explored the ground on which he sat.
The vapor of spruce pitch hung thick in the air. Needles pricked at his cheek when he shifted forward, and he brushed them away. He was in the trees now. He knew that well enough. What he didn’t know was how long he’d lain there. It seemed like hours, yet it couldn’t have been more than minutes since the intruders had awakened him, and even fewer since the Shadow Man had snatched him from the fire pit and flung him face down here.
A bit of breeze licked up his back. Gareth shivered. Under his cloak, his tunic stuck to his skin. He peeled the fabric away and shivered again. Shifting his weight, he tried to untangle his cloak and wrap it around his body.
“Are you hurt?”
Gareth turned toward the voice. The Shadow Man spoke from perhaps two arm-lengths away, standing, Gareth decided. “No, sir.” He rolled to his hands and knees and started to rise.
“Here.”
Something hard nudged his shoulder. Gareth grasped it, found familiar indentations in the wood under his fingertips, and recognized his staff. He clung to it for a moment, holding on with both hands, leaning on it like a child leans on his cottage door after a wild run home in the dark.
“Get up, boy, and saddle the horses.”
Gareth raised his head. “Do you—do you think they’ll be back?”
There was the clunk of tankard against pot, the delicate patter of sand grains drizzling from a lifted pack, then the Shadow Man’s voice paces away. “I don’t intend to wait and see.”
The shivers that had retreated to Gareth’s stomach and coiled there, broke over his body again. He was not home. He had no home. He was here in the dark, in the wild, terrifying place called the Wehrland, indentured to a shadow. He rose slowly, muscles he didn’t know he possessed aching in protest. “Yes, sir.”
****
The Imposter of Nolar woke with a start. He was sweating, and his nightshirt had molded itself to his back. Flinging off the bedclothes, he sat up. His heart galloped in his chest, pumping like that of a man in the throes of coupling. Tightness in his loins told him he’d been dreaming of just such a pastime. With the gem cutter’s daughter, no doubt. That randy cock, Rees, by practically mounting the girl, had planted in his mind the feel of her young body writhing beneath him.
For a moment, he wondered if he should have chosen Pumble as his medium. The Imposter of Nolar grimaced. That sack of gelatinous fat was too slow, too stupid for his purposes. Rees would have to do, for now.
A sensation of heat in the middle of his breastbone captured his attention. He tugged the pouch free of his nightshirt and shook the crystal into his hand. It lay in his palm like a coal, hot, dark, and glowing faintly orange at the ragged edges.
The Imposter of Nolar’s skin crawled. With a wordless gasp, he flung the crystal to the bedding. He scrabbled against the carved headboard and crouched, back pressed to the wood, staring at the knot of blackness filling the column.
It isn’t possible! He can’t have survived! No one could have. He himself had survived, but it was the crystal that had saved him—the crystal column and his knowledge of it.
The Imposter of Nolar straightened, emboldened by the thought. The sons of Koronolan were only human, after all—pathetically, stupidly human. Even if the Dragonkeeper had survived the destruction of Drakkonwehr and the fall of Herrok-Eneth, the curse should have made his life a living hell.
The Imposter of Nolar smiled. Even
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