Honor Bound (12 page)

"And how do you know I'm worthy of
this trust?"

"Well. . . You're an
elf."

"Ah, well. We're all noble, shining
being who can do no wrong." He sniffed. "You know
nothing."

In response, Fox slipped a bit of
amethyst from a pocket and hurled it at the elf's head. He flicked
one hand to the right. The missile followed suit, veering off so
that it just skimmed his hair rather than hitting him squarely
between the eyes.

"Elves draw magic from the forest,
the rain, the stars," Fox said. "But elves who are cut off from
their kin can't access starsong magic. Starsong magic has something
to do with crystals. If you'd been a rogue, you couldn't have
deflected the amethyst."

The elf studied him with narrowed
eyes. "How do you know this?"

"My mother was a green witch. We
lived on the edge of the Glimmergold, and she had dealings with
elves from time to time. So I do know a few things." He lifted one
eyebrow. "Your name is not one of them."

"I'm called Nimbolk."

"Sorry to hear that," Fox
murmured.

A sour expression crossed the elf's
face. "Where is the Thorn?"

"It's with someone I trust. I
couldn't keep it with me since there's a possibility that someone's
tracing me through the amulet. And before you ask, no, I can't get
rid of it."

Nimbolk pulled a knife from his belt
and scratched several runes into the metal. The amulet flared with
light, then went as dim as old pewter.

"What was that?"

"Temporary," Nimbolk said shortly.
He tossed the amulet to Fox. "A simple unbinding spell known to
most elves. If you wish to rid yourself of this thing, do it
quickly."

Fox surged to his feet and took
several running steps toward the sea. He hurled the amulet with all
his strength. It felt into the water with a faint plunk.

"The tide is going out," he said.
"If I'm lucky, they'll think I've drowned. Again."

"Then let's go to this trusted
friend."

Fox shook his head. "No offense, but
there's a lot of things going on right now. It's probably not a
good idea to bring a stranger into my lair. And before I pass along
the Thorn, there's someone I need to talk to."

A wry smile twisted the elf's lips.
"You have chosen an inconvenient time to start showing good
sense."

Fox shrugged. "It had to happen some
time. There's a forested island in the center of the Sevrin
archipelago. It's probably the safest place for you."

"I know of this place," Nimbolk
said. "Long ago, elves walked beneath those trees. But the veil
between this world and Faerie is thin there, and tattered. There
are more fairy gates in the forest than there are black
squirrels."

"That's the whole point. It'll be
easy for one of my friends to get the dagger to you."

"So the stories are true?" he said
incredulously. "You really have befriended a fairy?"

Fox folded his arms. "You don't know
Vishni. If you did, you'd understand."

"I understand perfectly," Nimbolk
said. "And I suspect that I know this fairy, even sight unseen, far
better than you do."

Vishni strolled past the
Cat and Cauldron, her fingers casually brushing
the ivy that climbed the stone wall. Her fingers traced the hidden
indentation where some of the mortar had worked loose. If Fox had
sent a message, one of the street urchins who ran errands for them
would have pressed a small flat stone into the gap. A drop of clear
liquid, another of Avidan's small marvels, would reveal the message
written on it.

But there was no message.

A burst of laughter spilled through
the open window. Vishni sighed. She was supposed to go right back
to the Fox Den. It was too dangerous for her to be out, now that
they knew there was a sorcerer about.

On the other hand, if she went into
the Cat and Cauldron, she'd no longer be
out
.

This excellent reasoning brought a
smile to her face. She pushed through the door into the pleasant
chaos of Heartstone's most famous storyspinner tavern.

Several people called her name as
she entered, and someone caught her hand and pulled her into the
circle of dancers forming in the center of the room.

She spent a happy hour or so
whirling and skipping to the music of a wheel fiddle and hand drum.
Dancing was good. Like stories, it had pattern and purpose. It kept
chaos at bay.

By the time the fiddler finished his
set, Vishni was ready for a cup of mead and a story. To her
delight, Black Svaria took the stage.

Most people in Sevrin had fair
hair, ranging from pale blond to light brown. Red hair was
uncommon—or at least, it was uncommon until the City Fox's admirers
discovered herbal dyes—and truly dark tresses were exceedingly
rare. Black Svaria's short cropped, raven-wing hair was only one of
the reasons she stood out. She stood only slightly above average
height, but her warrior's frame made her appear tall and imposing.
And she was, beyond doubt, the best storyteller Vishni had ever
heard, even if the fairy didn't quite understand some of the bawdy
ballads that made the humans nudge each other and snicker. But
Black Svaria was also a traditional skald who could declaim ancient
tales in ringing, rhythmic speech. Oddly enough, Vishni liked those
best.

The skald settled down, a
wire-strung harp on her lap, and struck a chord.

"In the depths of a winter whiter
than death, the wolves came.

"Over the frozen sea they came,
running, running, too many to count.

"In the village the people ran who
still had strength to run.

"All but one: Hronolf stood to
sword-greet what the wolves fled."

Vishi sank into the tale with a sigh
of pure bliss. After Hronolf met his destiny, she clapped until her
hands tingled.

A stocky man dropped into the empty
chair. He put two cups of mead on the table. "Rindor Finn or
Shenmist?"

"You named the cups?"

He chuckled and tipped his head
toward the group of storyspinners sitting at a table near the bar.
"Guess you didn't hear the talk. They say Rhendish has the
northland's greatest bard as a guest. I've heard lots of names
tossed around, but those folk say it's got to be one of those two.
Rindor Finn or Shenmist."

Well now,
this
was interesting. Vishni had
improved enough tales in her time to know when someone was building
a new one from the ground up. When that happened, the real story
was not in the what, but the why.

"Rindor Finn," she said.

The man nodded. "That's what most
people say. It's odd, don't you think, that Rhendish isn't giving
out the man's name?"

"Not really. I don't suppose the
adept is obliged to provide the island with a guest
list."

"Ha! True enough. But word is he's
thinking of holding a storyspinning festival in the man's honor.
Maybe he's thinking the mystery of it will be more of a
draw."

"It might," said Vishni. "But more
likely?"

The man leaned in, his face alight
with interest.

"If there's any truth to the rumors,
broadsheets will be posted in all the taverns and the bard will be
named. By morning we'll know if I'm right."

He grinned. "Care to place a
wager?"

Vishni reached into her pocket for a
coin and came up empty. Odd. She'd left a coin in the boat they'd
borrowed for the trip to Kronhus. Usually humans spent gold as
quick as they got it. And since fairy gold did not
stay
spent, the coin
should have returned to her by now.

Oh, wait! She had some silver
pennies in the bag Fox insisted she carry. She dipped into the bag
and put three coins on the table.

The man added three coins and pushed
the pile toward Vishni. "You hold it. If there is a festival, we
can settle up then."

"I'll be there."

He raised his mead cup and they
drank to seal the bargain. As he rose to leave, Vishni caught his
wrist. She beckoned for him to lean down.

"If it's Rindor Finn, I hope
Tessalyn comes," she whispered.

"Another bard?"

She beamed and nodded. "Rindor's
former wife. They still sing together sometimes, but things usually
get ugly. It's very entertaining."

"We can hope," he said, and strode
off chuckling.

Vishni hid her smirk behind the mead
cup. Rindor Finn, to the best of her knowledge, had never wed. If
he ever did choose a wife, her name would not be Tessalyn. That was
a fairy name, and humans simply could not use fairy names. If come
morning broadbills advertising Rindor Finn and Tessalyn showed up
on the walls of storyspinning taverns, Vishni could know beyond
question that Rhendish was spinning a trap.

It was a good plan, except for the
waiting part. Vishni had never been good at waiting.

She could slip into Rhendish Manor
tonight. Delgar hadn't told Fox about the tunnel his minors had
starting building the day Honor returned to the adept's house. The
dwarf hadn't told her, either, but Vishni knew. Delgar wouldn't
like her going on her own, but if she didn't tell him he couldn't
fuss.

An hour later, or maybe a little
longer, she swung open the wooden door at the new tunnel's end. A
row of books blocked her path. She shifted one aside and peered
into the room beyond.

The bookshelf stood in a grand hall,
a room even larger and more stuffed with oddities than the public
museum Rhendish maintained. This, then, must be his personal
collection.

Excitement coursed through the fairy
as she moved aside books and wriggled through the opening. Where
there were curiosities, there would be magic.

She hurried past a row of portraits,
giving the painting of Avidan a little wave as she skipped by. More
interesting was the display of elven boots, the leather as soft as
silk and tooled with thousands of runes that interlocked in curving
patterns.

Vishni found a pair that fit her and
slipped them on. She picked the lock on a glass-fronted case and
rummaged through the jewelry until she found a ruby bracelet that
hummed with magic. That went onto her wrist. A pretty belt of
silvery links and crystal beads draped nicely around her
hips

She found several knifes that fit
into her boots and belt and pockets, several handfuls of tiny
bottles that still held drops of potion and echoes of powerful
magic. Giddy now, she took a handful of roc feathers and fashioned
a long, sweeping tail.

So much magic! This must be what
humans felt when they drank too much mead. No! This must be what a
phoenix felt just before it burst into flame.

In some part of her mind, Vishni
knew she should flee, but "should" had never been a concept that
held much resonance for her.

So she kicked off her boots and,
barefoot, sang and whirled and danced until she fetched up,
laughing and breathless, against a metal gate.

An
iron
gate.

Vishni jolted back, as close to
sober as any magic-drunk fairy could be. Angry red lines ran the
length of her arm and down the palm of one hand.

A sense of deep foreboding shifted
somewhere under the euphoria. She turned her gaze slowly to what
the iron bars contains.

Three imps, as dry as parchment,
hung suspended from wires. They'd been posed, with their tattered
bats wings stretched in a mockery of flight .

Vishni stared in horror at the dead
things. Before she could flee, her wings popped out of their own
volition. Their color shifted, not to suit her will or her mood,
but quickly, randomly, like a thousand sunrises squeezed into a
handful of moments.

One of the imps turned its head
toward her. Red light kindled in the empty place where eyes had
been. It hissed at her, the sound dryer than dust.

A bony hand darted between the iron
bars and its claws dug deep into Vishni's shoulder.

Frantic, she tried to peel it off
with both hands. Her wings beat the air, but instead of the airy
flutter of fairy wings she heard the leathery sound of sails
snapping in a changing wind.

Her wings were bat wings!
Imp
wings, scarlet as
molten brimstone!

A clump of short brown curls fell to
the floor. Vishni reached for it with one bare foot and wept to see
grey skin and talons sprouting from her elongating toes.

The imp was changing, too. Life and
color flowed back into the creature along with Vishni's stolen
magic. Golden ringlets spilled over bare pink shoulders. Madness
shone from eyes the color of new leaves.

A new horror struck Vishni.
She
knew
this
creature! Long ago, they'd flown together. Together they'd chased
fireflies, sung songs, plotted mischief. Too much mischief, and
then exile.