The wind howled around me as I stumbled to my feet, but I made it to the trees and the scant protection they offered. I glanced down at the weight in my hand, and it was a treasure, the blade so bright it reflected the white-flocked canopy above me almost like a mirror. The hilt was engraved, a complex rendering that must have cost a fortune. No peasant’s protection this. A grim-looking dragon, obviously carved by a master’s hand, clutched a cross, its slit, angry eyes staring outward in obvious challenge.
I shoved it into my belt, glad to have the protection it offered. Even more valuable, it was something to prove to myself that I had been here, that it hadn’t been just a dream. I had come, even if it was too late.
I woke up to the shrill sounds of a very unhappy Duergar. When he saw I was awake, Stinky stopped the caterwauling and crawled into my arms. I hugged him, feeling his tiny chest rising and lowering in frightened breaths. As with Caedmon, I couldn’t get a clear scent reading on him, but he picked up so many smells it would have been difficult anyway. At the moment he smelled like soap and dirt and raw beef. It was oddly comforting.
I sat staring into the darkness as Stinky slowly quieted. I must have made some kind of sounds in my dream to so upset him, but I couldn’t imagine why. It hadn’t quite been a nightmare, although it had the flavor of deep sadness, of important things left undone or done too late. And it had been unbelievably real. I could almost smell the charred wood and feel the sharp sting of pine needles across my face. In a warm bed in a well-heated house, my body shivered from biting cold and bitter loss.
I had no idea what it meant. My dreams usually involve things jumping out at me from dark alleys, dragging me off, ripping me open—my subconscious isn’t exactly subtle. The things that frighten me tend to be tangible, like the knife. But although it had borne the family symbol, it hadn’t been menacing. No one had attacked me and I’d suffered no physical pain, unless you counted the slight sting of the blade’s point. And if that was the worst injury I suffered on this job, I’d throw a party.
After a few moments, I gave up and tried to return Stinky to his nest of blankets on the floor. Despite the bath, I suspected he had fleas, and didn’t want him sharing my bed. But he resisted, and those sticklike arms were stronger than they looked. I got a good look at him and realized that it hadn’t been my distress that woke him up, after all. His little stomach was hugely distended. The whitish gray skin under the lighter fur on his belly was pushed out like he’d swallowed a softball.
Pitiful brown eyes stared at me, round as coins, begging me to make it better. I looked helplessly back. I’m pretty good with battlefield wounds and emergency triage, but nothing in my long experience taught me what to do with a sick Duergar. Then he got that look on his face, and I snatched him up and pelted for the bathroom.
Stinky was very sick. Very, very sick. And by the time I got him and the bathroom cleaned up, I wasn’t doing much better. I’d been sleeping in my T-shirt, which had been laundered while I was at dinner, but it was unsalvageable. I threw it and the bath towels in the laundry chute and fell into bed, only to feel silken skin slide luxuriously along my own.
I sat up in time to keep Caedmon, who’d appeared out of nowhere, from taking a swipe at Stinky. To be fair, the Duergar had been trying to scratch out his eyes. I snatched Stinky away and scowled at the Fey. “He doesn’t seem to like you.”
The moonlight spilling in through the lattice-covered windows painted silver diamonds across the Fey’s chest but left the rest of him in darkness. Light reflected in those startling eyes for a moment, causing them to gleam like a cat’s caught in the beam of a flashlight. Then he moved and was again all silhouette and shadow. “It needs to learn to distinguish friend from foe.”
“And you came by in the middle of the night to tell me that?”
Caedmon stretched out on the bed, his silver dressing gown falling around him in perfect folds. He ignored the spitting and hissing fur ball a few feet away and gave me a limpid look from under a pale sweep of lashes. “I heard the commotion and feared for your safety.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Heard it how? The door is solid oak.” Louis-Cesare might have managed it, but I hadn’t expected the Fey’s senses to be quite that sharp. “Are you next door?”
“Alas, no. Your uncle placed me in an entirely different wing. Judging by the smell, I believe it to be near the trash heap.”
“And you didn’t complain?” Caedmon had struck me as someone used to the best. And he certainly wasn’t shy.
He shrugged, causing the neckline of his robe to slide off one shoulder. It was obvious that he hadn’t overdressed for the occasion. “I saw no need, as I do not intend to use it.”
“The Fey don’t need to sleep?”