Chapter 14

Coldhope Holding, the Imperial League

Solis was high and full, and Lunis was nearly so. It was a concordance, though not a great one. The aligning of all three moons was two months away—an important detail for the folk who lived along the Run, who still had time to prepare for the tidal flooding. It was not as important for Shedara. Nuvis would not affect her magic. What mattered to her were the white and red moons, and their combined phases were a blessing and a curse. The magic was strong, but the night was bright. A moon-thief had it easiest when the moons were full, but hidden behind clouds.

There were no clouds overhead that night, though something ominous was beginning to boil across the Run to the north and east: a storm, it seemed, the likes of which she had seldom seen. Anvil-shaped clouds piled atop each other over the strait's far shore, burning green and gold with swallowed lightning. It was a strange thing, to see such a violent-looking tempest when the sky above was clear, with the stars shining down. Unnatural was the thought that occurred to her. Unpleasant. The hair on her neck prickled. Watching the storm seethe—still growing, not even broken yet—she knew she wasn't the only wizard at work that night. Something was happening over there, something big. Those clouds were magic-born. She had no doubt of it.

The bright moons, the strange tempest… bad omens. Ordinarily, the answer would be to wait a day. Weather was volatile along the Tiderun. It could well be pouring rain by the next night. But nothing was ordinary any more. Shedara had no time to waste. She knew she was ahead of her shadowy foe. The chance to seize the Hooded One lay before her. She wouldn't squander that by dawdling.

Coldhope Keep was simple and stout-walled, with a tall inner house. There were little castles like it all over the League, particularly in the northern provinces: old human structures from the years before the minotaurs came. She knew these types of places well and had plied her trade in them before. There would be guards, but not many… maybe a dog or two. Certainly no tylors, like Ruskal had kept. The lord of the keep would be a warrior, too, but chances were that he was away south, on one side or another as the minotaurs squabbled over the throne. Ambeoutin's death, while unfortunate for relations between the League and Armach-nesti, had proven a boon for Shedara. There were far fewer soldiers patrolling than was normal in peacetime.

She watched the castle from the forest's edge for an hour or more, hidden among the white-barked pines and darker bentwoods. Shedara was all but invisible in the dark, dressed in blacks and browns. Her dark mask was pushed back on her head so she could see clearly. She never took her eyes off the keep as she got used to the rhythms of the men who kept watch, looking for weaknesses in their patrols and finding them: times when a length of wall went unmonitored, if only for a few minutes. Another sign the lord was away, that slackness.

She was just gathering herself to move on the keep when she felt a faint pressure at her throat, a warm pulse as though of a living heart. She put a hand up to her neck and felt the pearl medallion beneath her tunic. The magic coursing through it left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. To one skilled in the Art, she would stand out like a beacon in the shadows. She doubted any of Coldhope's sentries were skilled in magic and she couldn't ignore the amulet's call. Thalaniya wanted to talk, and one did not keep the Voice waiting.

Retreating into the shadows, she pulled out the medallion and clasped it tight in her fist, reaching with her thoughts across the miles to the elven kingdom. She spoke no words, nor did she have to. The proper spells were being worked on the other end, back in Armach-nesti. She shut her eyes for a breath, focusing inward on the strange mind-itch the amulet gave her. Thalaniya's mind brushed hers—soothing, calm yet majestic, like some vast-winged eagle. A silvery image flickered to life before her, bright in the center and dimmer around the edges. As she watched, the image grew more solid and more real. It shimmered in the moonlight. There stood the queen of the Silvanaes, radiant as ever.

"Highness," Shedara murmured. "It is well you chose to speak now. Another hundred-count and I would not have been able to reply."

"I apologize, child." Thalaniya's smile was soothing. "You have found this keep you seek?"

Shedara nodded. "I was about to enter it, with your blessing. If Solis smiles upon us, the statue will be in our possession tonight."

"Good. I have not been able to sense the shadows you fought on the pirate's ship." A thin line appeared between the Voice's brows. "I do not think they are near you. There should be no difficulty from them tonight."

"I hope not, Highness." I hope I never see them again, she added silently. "What of what I told you… what I saw when I beheld their faces?"

Thalaniya raised an eyebrow, the rest of her face deceptively mild. "That they appeared to be kender? It is possible. I have sent your brother on an errand to the Marak valleys, to see if there has been trouble there. I do not expect him back for several days."

Shedara nodded, understanding. The little kender were an innocent folk, peaceful but skittish around stronger races. They kept to their deeply wooded valleys, far to the southeast of her present location, at the feet of the Steamwall Mountains. Sometimes a few wandered free, but never more than a couple in one place at a time. Certainly nothing like the numbers she'd sensed aboard the black ship that night on the Tiderun. And never looking like the shriveled thing she had killed in Harlad's cabin. She shuddered at the memory of the skin like taut leather, the bony cheeks, the long yellow teeth, the staring, empty eyes… .

She clenched her fists, clearing her thoughts. Those eyes peered out at her from the dark, as they had every night of her journey to the keep. She told herself she was safe, that the shadow-kender would not track her to the keep so quickly. She meant it as a comfort, and it nearly worked.

"Is there anything you wish of me, before I begin?" she asked the Voice's image.

"Only that you are careful," Thalaniya answered with a smile. "I doubt I need to tell you that, though."

"No, Highness."

"The blessings of our people be upon you, then. We will speak again, when you have the Hooded One."

The image faded like mist in the morning. The pearl's pulsing stopped and the warmth faded. It became a dead thing again, inert. Shedara tucked it away, closed her collar, and moved back to the wood's edge.

Coldhope awaited, dark, silent. Shedara checked her knives and pouch, making sure everything was in place. Then, pulling down the mask to cover her face, she spoke words of magic and vanished.

Getting into the keep was as easy as she'd guessed. Inch by inch she hauled herself up the wall, finding cracks and chinks for her fingers and toes, until she reached the battlements. She thought she didn't even need the spider-spell to make it up, but she used it anyway. Why not? The moons were strong, and no risk was better than slight risk.

Soon enough she was over and in, landing in a pile of hay.

The courtyard was quiet; just a glow and a dull ringing from the far side, where the keep's smith was working late. She slid out of the hay, brushing it off her body as quickly as she could, then slunk back into the shadows, still unseen. No dogs after all. Good. They were harder to deal with than men, though not as bad as the hunting cats the richer nobles favored in the south. Or tylors. Or… .

She realized she was gripping the hilt of her dagger and made herself relax and put it away, temporarily at least. No need for that. In a proper job, perfectly planned and executed, steel was never bared. Jobs were so seldom perfect, though. Any thief who thought they were was asking for a quick end.

The ways into the keep—the front door, the servants' entrance, and the windows—were all quite high. She chose the front door. The kitchens would be full of scullions, working on the next day's meals, and the lady of the house—if there was one—would be asleep in her chambers, on the upper levels. At worst, the chamberlain would be in the front hall and might give her trouble. Chamberlains were easy, though—soft, and never really good at protecting themselves. It would be less of a bother… at worst, some quick blade-work.

She crept up the front steps and ran her hands over the carved oaken doors—there were reliefs of waves and sailing ships graven into the wood, but no traps that she could find, no odd catches or hollow places, or concealed gnomish clockwork. She tried the handle. It didn't budge. Burglars were uncommon in the north, but apparently nobles still bolted their doors. If she was lucky, it would only be a lock, and not a bar blocking from within.

A flick of her wrist, and her lockpicks dropped from a hidden sheath into her waiting right hand. She bent low, studied the lock a moment, and picked a pair, each bent in its own peculiar way. Shedara knew there was no point to this—she had spells to open locks, as did any mage worth his weight in moonlight—but she enjoyed picking by hand, the challenge of it. She was also very good. A few breaths of twisting and probing was all it took. With a soft click, the bolt sprung. She tucked the picks away, glanced around the quiet yard, and eased the door open, just wide enough to slip her slender body inside.

It was empty—no chamberlain, no boy lighting the lanterns, no maidservants up late gossiping. No one at all. She let out a sigh of relief.

She could feel the Hooded One's presence… near her, in the building. It might have been just her imagination, but she didn't think so. She'd been on the statue's trail for too long and come close to finding it too many times to indulge in false hopes. It was in Coldhope… waiting for her. Where?

The spell came to her lips with almost no bidding. Moving her hands through the air, she whispered the incantation, drew down the red moon's power, and felt it flow through her, warm as brandy. Then she forced it out through her fingertips. Eyes shut, she reached out with her mind, letting it roam the halls of the keep, searching. Her heart beat loudly in the dark, though her mind roved far away from her body.

A room. Rough-cut stone. Damp, cold. Niches with old bones. Runes she couldn't read upon the walls. Deep dark, the kind only found underground.

"Cellar," she murmured. She pulled her mind back, ending the spell.

She crept down the hall, silent as settling dust, trying to keep her excitement at bay. The door awaited her, just slightly ajar, the stone stairs curving down into the rock of the sea-cliffs. There was a glimmer of ruddy lamplight below, and the muttering voices of men, standing guard. She would have to find a way past them. Shedara drew a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. Then, swallowing, she pushed the door open—its hinges didn't squeak, Lunis be thanked—and crept down into the catacombs below the castle.

Two men loitered at the foot of the stairs in a little, dome-crowned room of fitted stone. They were common folk, not trained warriors, clad in simple coats of riveted leather, with a hatchet and cudgel between them, and both weapons leaning against the wall by the door on the far side of the anteroom. They had taken off their helms and were sitting on them, playing some sort of dice game. As Shedara watched, the taller of the pair won a throw and laughed as he scooped a pile of copper coins away from his scowling partner. They took turns drinking from a leather tankard—beer from the smell, and hardly the first they'd had since their watch began—then turned back to their game. It was the shorter man's turn. His brow furrowed as he shook the dice.

A knife slipped easily into her hand. Shedara knew thieves who would have knifed them in the back without a second thought. Sometimes she wished she could be so cold-blooded.

The big man was clearly the stronger of the two, but he looked slow, and was rather more drunk. She raised the knife, held it poised, then flung it at the shorter guard's head.

The spell of invisibility lifted from the knife first. To the sentry, it simply appeared in midair, hurtling toward him literally out of nowhere. He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening—then it hit him square in the forehead, pommel-first above the bridge of his nose. It made an awful cracking sound and he went down, senseless and bleeding. His partner blinked, then lurched to his feet with a roar, fumbling behind him for his club as he turned to face Shedara. She was visible now, too.

She was also fast. Even before the throwing knife hit the ground, she had begun to move. She leaped into the air and lashed out with her foot at the middle of the man's chest. He made a sound like a ruptured bellows, slammed back against the door behind him, then sat down hard. Shedara kicked him again, hooking around to strike his jaw. His head snapped back, and he fell on top of his partner and lay still.

She took their weapons—and her knife—tore strips off one man's cloak, and bound and gagged them.

The door they had been guarding gave way to a tunnel of older make, hewn into the living rock by hands long forgotten. Cold air spilled out, carrying the faint, spicy smell of old rot. Shedara shuddered. The closeness of tombs was hard to endure, and the stale air burned her lungs. And those within were not always quiet. In such places, the dead sometimes walked.

There was no movement in the tunnel, though; no sounds from within. She snuffed the guards' lamp, then waited a moment, her elvensight taking over. The walking dead were cold—she would see them as faint, dark shapes in the chill of the catacombs, unlike the warm red forms of the living. Drawing her dagger, she eased down the tunnel.

Cobwebs, dust, cloth-wrapped skeletons in niches: she noted them all, as well as the scuttling forms of beetles on the floor. The passage went on for what had to have been a quarter of a mile, the ceiling so low that she had to stoop to walk. Cobwebs hung in sheets and covered ancient runes cut into the rock, crusted at their edges with flecks of long-gone paint. Men had built this place, in some ancient age, though they had been smaller, then. And she was taller than most men.

The catacombs had to be trapped, as well. She knew this from experience. The old people, long lost to those histories that had survived the Destruction, had used all manner of tricks to safeguard their tunnels. She moved slowly in the dark, testing every step, waiting for the tile that shifted beneath her weight or the tug of a tripwire. She watched for tiny cracks in the walls and holes in the ceiling. Arrows, spears, swinging blades, spiked pits—all of these might be ahead. Gently she made her way along the passage… .

And there: the slightest depression in the floor, as if some part of the stone had settled crookedly. She wouldn't have even seen it if she hadn't been looking. She reached for a burial niche beside her, brushed away a large, hairy spider, and yanked a bone from the remains that lay there. The ancient muslin wrappings crumbled like chalk, and she came away with a femur, long and smooth and mantled with dust. She shook her head. Bending down, Shedara extended the bone and brought it down sharply against the floor.

She heard a sound, the faintest puff of wind, and felt something move through the air above the place she had touched. She saw nothing. There was a clack and a rattle as something hit the wall and fell to the floor. Shedara looked closely, trying to make out what it was: a small chain of bronze links, lined with tiny hooks of obsidian, each one sharp and barbed. She grimaced at the sight, at the wickedness that had designed such a trap. The chain had flown through the air, spinning as it went. Had she stepped on the trigger, it would have ripped into her eyes or her throat and stuck there, wrapped around her face. She would have been blinded, most likely. She would have had to turn back, had to try to feel her way out of the catacombs… back into Coldhope Keep, with no way out without being caught. If she didn't die from a cut jugular first.

Glaring at the chain, she stepped over the depression—some traps could be triggered twice, to fool thieves who thought they were safe—and went on down the tunnel, the bone still gripped tight in her hand. The catacombs began to branch out, weaving this way and that, splitting and merging again. It was a maze, perhaps following some long-forgotten pattern, or perhaps dug at random, according to whim and the vagaries of the rock. She had no map to tell, and kept to the widest of the paths—some of which were so narrow that she couldn't fit unless she squeezed through sideways. The thought of the statue, always before her, hidden in its vault, guided her on. She could sense it; could almost physically feel its presence, like heat radiating through the cold and dust-choked air.

She was nearly there. She could feel the Hooded One, close, calling to her. A gate of carved stone stood in her way. It was locked and the keyhole was old and rusted. She took out her picks, eyed the lock to make sure it wasn't trapped, then set to work.

It was easy. A twist, and another, and then a third, and snap. With the scraping rumble of hinges unoiled since the gods knew when, she pushed the door inward. On the other side was a cavern, naturally made, with fluted walls and a ceiling abristle with stalactites. Water dripped from the great stone needles and ran in rivulets down to a pool on her right—a milky pond that rippled in the dark. Metal gleamed within the cave—gold, silver, and even some platinum. Coins, mostly, but also a few cups and necklaces and other artifacts bejeweled with sapphires, emeralds, and topaz. A small fortune was piled in heaps on the dry patches of the floor. It had the look of old wealth that had belonged for many generations to whatever family owned Coldhope. Shedara gave it a quick glance, but no more. Gold wasn't why she was there.

She'd come for the statue. And there it was, on the vault's far side, perched atop the stub of what had once been a great stalagmite. It stood taller than a man, black stone carved into the likeness she had seen in Thalaniya's seeing-pool. Ruskal Eight-Fingers had died because of this artifact, as had Harlad the Gray and the nameless dwarves of Uld. Died, never knowing why. The murderous shadows were seeking the Hooded One even now. Maladar an-Desh. The Faceless Emperor.

Hers to claim.

She stepped forward, and knew even before she felt the rumble under her feet she'd made a mistake. Something clicked beneath her step and a slab of stone was dropping behind her, blocking the doorway, her escape. She turned to lunge for the stone slab, realized she couldn't get underneath it without being crushed, and watched it fall, helpless. It thudded to the floor, sealing her in. She didn't need to look around to know there was no other way out.

Stupid, she thought, her lip curling. Careless fool. Even an apprentice burglar should know better. Never be so dazzled by the prize that you forget yourself.

Then there was hissing, somewhere in the dark. Not the sound of a serpent, but of breath blown between pursed lips. She knew what it was even before the sweet scent hit her. She caught her breath and held it, knowing it was already too late. She looked up. There, clinging to the rock above the doorway, was the flower: a gigantic bloom the color of ashes, its petals drooping and its stamens heavy with white pollen. Motes of dust showered down from it, falling like rain around her. The gray lotus was a magical plant, so rare many thought it was only myth. It could grow in darkness and lived almost forever. It often guarded the tombs of kings, according to legend. The ancient vaults of the old empires. Vaults like this one. Dust from the gray lotus was rare and prized—though not so much as that of its black-blooming cousin. That lotus killed. The gray one only brought sleep.

Careless fool… .

Weariness weighed on her like a coat of armor, making it harder and harder to keep her eyes open. The bone she'd been carrying fell from a hand gone nerveless. She collapsed a moment later, her body no longer listening to the strident voice in her head saying: don't give in, don't let it work, find a way out.

The voice went away, and the world followed. With monumental effort Shedara turned her head and stared at the statue, shivering as unconsciousness crept over her. For a strange moment, she thought it was smiling at her. Then her sight failed, and there was only darkness.