“I should have killed you in that bar when I had the chance,” Talon muttered, “but damn, you’re sexy.”*
Kihrin sat down on a small stool, the room’s only furniture, kicked it onto two legs, and balanced with his back against the wall. “Never mind Talon’s flirting. Why are we going to fail? The Emperor’s waiting, Thurvishar. He knows. Even if you try to use me as a hostage, he’s still going to stop Gadrith.”
“You’re going to fail for the same reason we were able to respond so quickly. Because time does move differently here in Shadrag Gor,” Thurvishar explained. “It may not take long for your friends to conclude something is wrong. But by the time they realize that the plan has gone awry, several weeks will have passed here. And you will already be dead.”
* * *
And then Thurvishar left. Which brings us full circle to now, doesn’t it? Several weeks have gone by, we’ve had a lovely time and … oh yes … I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Now it’s over.
Thanks for the rock, ducky. I’ll keep it safe.
PART II
THE SUNDERING
(Thurvishar—an aside)
There is a consensus held amongst most living beings that, given a choice between life and death, most of us will choose life. Life, with her bed mistress Hope, is laced with infinitely more possibility than her sister Death. People address her as Queen of the Land of Peace but flinch when her name is uttered out of turn. There is, always, that nagging suspicion that Death is a cheat, that the Land of Peace is anything but. Death offers no solace. Or worse, Death might truly be as the priests commend it: a place of justice where we get what we deserve.
And truly, few among us are willing to stare at that bright mirror and see our reflections. For all of us harbor that secret guilt, we shall be found wanting, shall be judged undeserving. Death is that last and most final of exams—and the majority of us, I suspect, would wish for a few years’ more preparation.
Not yet. Dear goddess, not yet.
I found myself thinking of this as I watched a boy of twenty years offer his life to save his family from certain death and oblivion. There were few in that room who would have volunteered to take his place. Darzin thought him a fool, no doubt. And Gadrith admired him as one might admire a strange, alien creature one could only study but never understand. I cannot say what I would do, were I given the same option as Kihrin.
But then, this is not my story.
79: BEGINNING DEMONOLOGY
Kihrin paused after he had finished telling his story to the mimic. He shook his head. “Juval had described my seller as someone who looked like Faris,” Kihrin said. “I never doubted it was him. His final revenge. He was always drugging people at the Standing Keg. But it was you, wasn’t it? You would never let me escape.”
“Never let you escape? Have you spent the last four years under Darzin’s thumb? I orchestrated your escape so perfectly even you were fooled.” Talon shook her head. “I suppose it is too much to expect a little gratitude from my own son.”
“I’m not your son!”
“You were Surdyeh’s and Ola’s son. And they are me. It’s close enough.”
Kihrin lunged at her, but the bars blocked his progress. “I was gaeshed because of you…”
“Shh,” Talon said. “Quiet. Let’s leave that as a surprise for the others, shall we?”
They both paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs above. Someone was whistling a jaunty tune. Kihrin’s gut tightened, recognizing who it had to be.
“Hello, Darzin,” he said.
The Lord Heir of House D’Mon grinned. “Hello little brother. Ready to die?”
Kihrin shook his head. “I don’t know. How long have I been here?”
“Three weeks, give or take.” Darzin smiled at Talon, grabbed her hand, and presented her knuckles with a kiss. “Did he give you any trouble?”
“He’s been a very good boy,” Talon said.
“No,” Kihrin said. “I’ve decided. This isn’t a good time for me. Why don’t you come back never?”
“Bring him,” Darzin said, and then wrinkled his nose. “Hm, he’s ripe, isn’t he?”
“Do you see a bathtub in this cell with me?” Kihrin snapped.
“I offered to clean him with my tongue but he said no,” Talon complained. She opened the prison doors and formed a large violet tentacle that reached out to wrap around one of Kihrin’s arms.
Darzin grinned. “Yes, well, I can’t imagine why.” Darzin grabbed Kihrin’s other arm and, while Talon still had him confined, bound his hands. “Let’s go. We have an appointment with an old friend.”
Kihrin gave him a bemused look and Darzin chuckled. “You remember Xaltorath, don’t you?” He laughed. “Oh gods, the look on your face, kid. I swear it makes everything worth it.”
Talon reached over and tore the necklace of star tears from Kihrin’s neck.
“I’m surprised you didn’t do that weeks ago,” Darzin told her.
“I was hoping you’d let me eat him,” she admitted, then shrugged. “But since that’s not going to happen now, I’ll settle for treasure.” She winked at Kihrin and tucked the necklace away before she followed behind Darzin. The three of them then walked down to where Thurvishar waited, next to the open gate.
“Thurvishar?” Talon asked.
The wizard looked toward the mimic, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Catch.” Talon tossed him a small stone, smooth and plain.
Kihrin’s eyes widened. He gave Talon a bitter, angry glare, but he didn’t explain why he found Talon’s “gift” to Thurvishar upsetting.
Thurvishar caught the stone and looked at it. “What’s this?”
“Just a keepsake to remember him by.” Talon winked at Thurvishar. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a good use for it.”
“Talon, you bitch,” Kihrin said.
“You were right,” she replied. “It was a sucker’s bet.”
She was still laughing when everyone walked through the gate, and Thurvishar collapsed the magical portal behind them.
* * *
Kihrin had never seen the other side of Galen’s hiding spot, the underground tombs built for a D’Mon High Lord. They’d been claimed by Pedron, his son Therin, and later, by Darzin. Still, he recognized the place. He knew it in his bones, prompted by the chill that settled there. The stench of ancient death and fresher poison gave it away. The tenyé of the room vibrated, ugly and evil. Every surface of the stone had been decorated with the tiniest of glyphs, forming whorls and eddies of bloodred paint.
Not paint. Of course, it was real blood.
Thurvishar followed behind, shutting off the gate from Shadrag Gor. Gadrith waited in front of a black stone altar lit by candles. Shackles sat at the corners of the altar. Gadrith himself held a wicked, evil knife, a multipronged, barbed contraption, which looked like its purpose was to drill through flesh and tear out chunks.
Darzin whistled as he dragged Kihrin into the final, prepared ritual area. “This is even more elaborate than last time.”