Edge of Destiny (31 page)

“Too bad,” he echoed darkly.

The companions came to a stop before the Arcane Council.

Councilor Thud waddled forward and lifted his hands, calling for silence. “On behalf of the Arcane Council and empowered as I am by the Arcane Council, I, Councilor Thud—”

“They’re going to stick me with pest control,” Snaff hissed to Zojja. “I just know it. Thud’s been looking for a patsy for months.”

“—do hereby welcome the genius Snaff and his apprentice, Zojja—”

“I built those cockpits!” she whispered peevishly.

“—and their allies from lands far removed—”

“He can’t find the end of this sentence,” Snaff noted.

“—to Rata Sum and confer upon such genius the highest honor—”

“Wait just a moment!” shouted Master Klab, inventor of the flying puffball and, most recently, the caldera plug. “What did Snaff do to deserve this honor?”

Councilor Thud’s eyebrows fluttered like moths. “He . . . well, he designed a golem and marched it out to defeat the Destroyer of Life before his destroyers could attack Rata Sum.”

“Yes, yes, all that. But in a matter of weeks, perhaps days, another army would have spilled from that hole in the ground. Whose invention stopped that? Whose invention ensured peace for years to come?” When Councilor Thud mistook this for a rhetorical question, Master Klab exasperatedly said, “
Mine!
That’s whose!”

“I thought you were working on a magic icebox,” Snaff offered innocently.

Master Klab whirled on him. “
Not
the icebox, but the cold-stone crystals that drive it—the bundle of cold-stone crystals that I gave you to solidify the volcano—the
caldera plug
!”

“Oh,
that,
” Snaff averred. He turned to a nonplussed Councilor Thud and said, “He’s quite right. His volcano stopper—”

“Caldera plug!”

“Yes, that thing—it really did save the day. Whatever honor you were about to bestow on me should instead go to genius Klab.”

Master Klab shot a look of astonished suspicion at Snaff.

A moment later, the suspicion was vindicated when Councilor Thud reached up to the mantle that draped his shoulders, lifted it, and said, “On behalf of the Arcane Council, I hereby appoint Master Klab to the role of director of pest control.”

“And iceboxes,” added Snaff.

“No. That would just be silly.” Thud said as he lowered the mantle around Master Klab’s neck.

Klab’s red face went green, and he suddenly realized he’d been had—a fact made obvious when Thud and Snaff heartily shook hands, congratulating each other.

The new director of pest control swayed unsteadily.

But the one who actually swooned was Caithe. She grabbed her heart and fell to the ground.

Logan knelt down, seeing that her face looked as white as paper. A cold sweat dappled her skin. “Heat exhaustion! We need water!”

As asura scrambled to get water, Caithe blinked at Logan and shook her head. “No. It’s not the heat. It’s Faolain. She’s poisoned me.”

“What?”

“She serves the Nightmare Court, and her touch has poisoned me.” She reached to her collar and pulled down, showing that a hand-shaped tumor had formed above her heart. Tendrils of rot reached out from it across her skin. “As I fight the Nightmare, the poison spreads. I must join her, or die.” And with that, she collapsed in Logan’s arms.

DRAWING THE POISON

W
hile the rest of Rata Sum celebrated across the bridges and walkways of the city, Eir and her companions gathered down below in the quiet darkness of Snaff’s workshop.

Caithe was not doing well. She lay on one of the smaller workbenches, a pillow cradling her now feverish head and woolen blankets piled on her shivering form.

Eir was cleaning the infection, using work rags and a bottle of spirits she had hijacked from Councilor Klab’s victory table. “She kept this illness secret from us for so long. I only hope it’s not too late.” Eir tossed an infection-laced rag in a nearby brazier, where it flashed and burned away.

“Don’t give up hope,” Zojja offered. “They’re sending for the chirurgeon—Madame Dort.”

Snaff shook his head miserably.

Just then, a clatter at the head of the stairs announced the arrival of Madame Dort, genius of malaises and melancholia. She trundled down the steps, her metal toolbox rattling against each one as she came. “Never fear! Madame Dort is here.”

The companions looked at each other, eyes tinged with dread.

Madame Dort waddled over to the workbench, clanked her toolbox down beside it, flipped the heavy metal latches, and flung the thing open. The box held an assortment of bone saws and cranial drills, and what must have been an artificial hip. Madame Dort stared avidly at Caithe. “What can I amputate?”

“Get out!” Snaff growled.

Madame Dort stared at him in shock. “But I’m a genius of malaises and melancholia—”

“And misery.”

“Well, now—”

“Get out!” Snaff raged, his face turning red. “You’ll not lay a finger—let alone a saw—on our friend.”

Madame Dort huffed, slamming the lid of her toolbox. “Pray that
you
never need my services.”

“Excellent advice, madame,” Snaff said, eyes blazing. He hoisted the toolbox and nodded toward the stairs. “Most excellent.”

Madame Dort took her toolbox and stomped away.

As the woman ascended the stairs, Eir stared down at Caithe’s feverish form. “What do we do now?”

“It’s all right,” Caithe murmured. “She’s coming.”

“You’re awake!” Eir said, kneeling beside her. “Who’s coming?”

“The one who did this to me. The one who can undo it.”

“Who?” Eir said as she brushed silver hair back from Caithe’s face.

“The Grand Duchess Faolain of the Nightmare Court.”

It was midnight before Faolain came, and she was so silent that she stood among them before any of them realized it.

Garm was the first, leaping up from his blanket and standing with fangs bared and a low growl in his throat. At the sound of it, Eir startled awake and grabbed her mallet. Next moment, Rytlock and Logan were at the ready, too, weapons surrounding the stranger.

Despite the heat, Faolain wore a thick, black hood and cloak that covered all but her long, thin face. Her eyes were black, reflecting the fires of Sohothin, and her voice was unnerving. “One dear to my heart is here.” Attenuated fingers emerged from the cuffs of the woman’s cloak and reached up to pull her hood back. A shock of black hair spilled out. “I am the Grand Duchess Faolain.”

“Of the Nightmare Court,” Eir supplied.

Rytlock snarled, “
You
did this to her.”

“Her love did this,” Faolain said, staring at the black infection spreading above Caithe’s heart. “She wants to be with me.”

“You have to
un
do it!” Rytlock hissed.

“
She
must decide that. I have laid my hand upon her heart, and her heart has received me. Her love for me is poisoning her to you. Her presence with you is poisoning her to me.”

“Faolain!” gasped Caithe, her head turning on the workbench where she lay.

Faolain’s eyes grew wide, and she swooped past the companions to sit on the workbench where Caithe lay. “Yes, Caithe! I am here.”

Caithe riled on the workbench, half-awake and half in dream. “You have gone to darkness.”

“And you are coming with me.”

“
She
decides!” Eir said.

“Yes,” Faolain went on. “You decide. Will you reject me or reject these so-called friends?”

“If you take her from us,” Rytlock growled, “you will not leave this place alive.”

Faolain’s black eyes blinked placidly. “If I take her from you, Rytlock Brimstone, none of you will survive this day.” She drew off her cloak, dropping it to the workshop floor and revealing a suit of black leather over a leanly muscular frame. Faolain brushed silver hair back from Caithe’s pale face. She was sweating again. “You cannot oppose me, Eir Stegalkin, onetime sculptor; Logan Thackeray, onetime mercenary, and Snaff and Zojja, formerly of Rata Sum—”

“Formerly?”
Snaff objected.

“Rootless, all of you are. You do not belong in the lands that gave you birth. Now you belong to no one and everyone,” the sylvari said with a smile. “You are killers of the Dragonspawn—slayers of dragon champions.”

“And she’s one of us,” Eir said. “Take away this infection!”

“
If
she chooses,” Faolain said, leaning in to gaze at Caithe. “What do you wish, dear heart?”

Tears were streaming down Caithe’s face, and her head whipped back and forth. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Let me
show
you!” Faolain’s black fingernails sank into the festering wound over Caithe’s heart.

Caithe jolted, her back arching up from the workbench.

Sohothin moaned above the sylvari’s shoulder, but Rytlock stayed his hand.

Faolain spoke words that slashed the air.

She was there when the man and the charr killed the ogre chiefling.

Faolain was there.
They certainly know how to kill things. They could aid the Wyld Hunt.

You hate the Wyld Hunt. You hate the Ventari Tablet and all who follow the Dream.

No,
Faolain said, clinging to her like a shadow.
The tablet twists the Dream. The tablet is corruption. Would that we could draw it from the sylvari, and the Tree herself . . .

She was there when Caithe sat on her bunk in the jail of Lion’s Arch.

Faolain was there when Sangjo arrived to buy their freedom.
You see, now, how they work. They buy each other and sell each other. You are a commodity.

At least we fight the dragons.

You must do what you must do. . . .

She was there when the Dragonspawn was a cyclone of ice crystals and stone in the heart of the glacier.

Faolain was there when it engulfed Sandy and enclosed the mind of Snaff and then brought down the roof.
Jormag will not like this. Not one little bit.

That’s the whole idea.

Yes, it is.

She was there when Eir sent the iron shaft of the Destroyer of Life back to him, elemental fire to elemental fire, to blast the champion from the world.

Faolain was there as the companions obliterated an army of destroyers.
And now, you slay a champion of Primordus himself.

We do.

How you flail at the branches of evil while the roots grow fat.

She was there, clutching Caithe’s head and heart as the sylvari’s companions hovered behind them, their weapons ready.

Faolain was there to spread the blackness through Caithe.
It is a fool’s errand you are on. You have killed dragon champions but have not faced a true dragon. And, even now, another is coming into the world. It will destroy you unless you join me!

Caithe lurched, hurling Faolain’s hands back from her heart. She looked wildly around, then locked eyes with Faolain.
How can you know this? How can any mortal?

Faolain blinked.
The same way you know. We watch. We see the new dragon’s champion preparing for it
.
A champion by the name of Glint.

A new champion?

An old one, her loyalties long concealed.

Then take the poison from me, so that I can fight it.

Faolain’s mouth dropped open.
The poison is your love for me
.

“Take it! Turn it to hate!” Caithe said. “I will fight the one who rises!”

Faolain stared long, drawing a deep breath. “I will take it,” she said aloud, but then added, “It is not over between you and me.”

Faolain’s black eyes grew wide, and her mouth twisted. She lunged forward, once again gripping Caithe’s heart. Nails sank into Caithe’s flesh and drew out beads of blood. The black infection drifted beneath Caithe’s skin, coalescing around Faolain’s fingertips. Then, like needles, her nails drew the blackness into them. Tendrils of corruption reached up through Faolain’s fingers and across the back of her hand and into her wrist and up her arm.

Faolain yanked her hand free. Black rot riddled her fingers, ascending through her arm. She flexed the limb, hissing with exquisite pain. “Oh, love turned to hate, to poison. It deadens me.” She staggered back from the workbench, nearly running into Rytlock.

The charr waved Sohothin behind her. “Remember this?”

“Let me go! I have released her!”

“Yes,” said Caithe, sitting up. “Let her go!”

“She’s a monster.”

“Let her go!”

Faolain stooped to lift her black cloak from the floor. She slid her rot-riddled hand into it and stepped past Rytlock. “This, too, will heal. My arm will be mine again.” She glanced at Caithe. “And so will you.”

“Get out!” Rytlock roared.

Faolain was visibly shivering as she walked up the stairs, out the blasted top of the ziggurat, and into the night of Rata Sum.

Logan lingered on the stairs, watching, but the rest of the companions gathered around Caithe.