A Dance of Mirrors Read online

  “Watcher?” Alyssa asked, as if to confirm just in case.

  “Haern,” he said, standing before them. “That’ll do for now.”

  Zusa offered her hand, and he took it.

  “To Angelport?” he asked as he sat across from them.

  “Indeed,” Alyssa said before calling out the order for their driver to begin.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Eravon used the cover of night to hide his exit as he put the walls of Angelport far behind him. Spring had officially come, but the air still had a bite to it, and he kept a thin cloak wrapped tightly about him as he followed the path north. Though he’d lived for centuries, for the first time he experienced the sensation humans called “feeling old.” His joints throbbed in the cold, and the days seemed to pass ever faster. Though his elven skin was smooth, he knew that in another hundred years or so he’d start to get a few wrinkles on his face, and his time among the humans would be at an end.

  Not that he’d miss them.

  The signal was subtle, just a few leaves placed in a specific way, with pebbles atop them to ensure they did not scatter in the wind. Eravon left the path, climbing up a nearby hill. On the other side was a tent, without a single torch or fire to give away its location. He tightened his cloak, then approached. The tent was large, the front flap open. When he stepped inside, he bowed to the two elves waiting for him.

  “It is good to see you again,” said the first, a young elf barely a hundred years old. His hair was short and golden, his eyes a vibrant green. Eravon accepted his embrace.

  “You as well, Maradun,” he said before turning to the other, who remained seated. “Does your leg trouble you so much that you cannot stand, Sildur?”

  The silver-haired elf waved a cane, the only sign that he walked with a limp and that he was even older than Eravon.

  “We have much to discuss, and little time to do it,” Sildur said, motioning to an empty seat before them. “Sit, and tell us what the spoiled children of the brother gods have to say.”

  Eravon sat, and he accepted the cup and pitcher Maradun offered. He drank, purposefully delaying his report. Sildur might have outranked him back in Quellassar, but they were in human lands now, and Eravon was their ambassador. His importance could not be denied. That, and Sildur was always a dour one, as if Celestia had made him with mud in his veins instead of blood.

  “Talks are yet to officially begin,” Eravon said, setting down his cup. “What I know is only bluster and promises, which humans possess an infinite capacity for. But in this, I do not feel they will back down. Either we grant several of the human lords access to our forests for hunting and chopping, or prepare for bloodshed.”

  “Blood has already been shed,” said Sildur.

  “More blood, then.”

  “Can we not come to some sort of compromise?” asked Maradun. He glanced at the two of them. “Surely they do not desire war.”

  “Humans always desire war,” Sildur said, fire in his voice. “You know what they did to our Dezren brothers. Chased them halfway across the continent and burned Dezerea to ash. Their desire for war runs deep in their veins. All our talks are nothing but a waste of time.”

  Eravon sighed. Sildur spoke the truth, no matter how harshly. He only echoed what they all knew.

  “I see little choice,” Eravon said. “We must cede parts of the forest to them. It should be enough to sate their appetites, as well as calm their lord.”

  “Ingram is a fool who pales at the very sight of us,” said Sildur. “He will not be calmed until we are dead and gone from all of Dezrel.”

  “But what else can we do?” Maradun asked. “I have slain several who came to our forests with axes, yet every week their numbers increase. What do I tell my masters in Quellassar? We continue to overlook many excursions, hoping to prevent escalation, but we must come to an understanding soon. Humans cannot trespass upon our lands forever, not without consequences.”

  “There is another way.” Sildur’s eyes sparkled. “Instead of running from war like frightened children, we embrace it. Turn our bows and blades toward their cities. The humans are like animals and will learn only when struck.”

  The three fell silent. Eravon put his hands upon the table and forced himself to keep calm. Sildur said nothing he had not heard a thousand times before over the last decade. Against that, he had the same tired argument, but no matter how tired, it remained truth.

  “We might slay ten to our one,” he said. “But our numbers dwindle, while the humans spread like insects. We must not forget the lesson of the Bloodbrick, where our greatest died. Despite the thousands our casters killed, the humans have recovered, while we will never see those ten replaced in our lifetimes. No matter our skill, there is little we can do when they come with fire and pitch, outnumbering us over a hundred to one. You cannot stop a swarm of ants with an arrow or a blade. If we come as the aggressor, their king will send troops from every corner of Neldar. Our people, our loved ones, will die for nothing.”

  Sildur’s eyes flared wide, and he opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped. Eravon felt a chill pass over him, and he turned, following his companion’s gaze. A man was hunched at the door, his body covered with dark clothing and a long cape. A sword hung from his belt. Despite Eravon’s excellent night vision, his eyes could not penetrate the deep shadow across the intruder’s face. Only his mouth and chin remained visible. He was smiling.

  “Who are you?” Sildur asked, his hand drifting to the long dagger at his hip. “Speak your name!”

  The intruder let out a chuckle. “I’ve heard many amusing names given to me, but if you insist, I will choose one of them for you. I am the Wraith.”

  “Wraith?” said Sildur, hardly impressed. “What brings you here with your face masked and your identity hidden?”

  The Wraith jumped from where he stood, landing atop the table with a clatter of cups and silverware. A hand on the hilt of his sword, he grinned at them all.

  “Why do you discuss in secret?” he asked. His voice was strangely soft, and would have been charming if not for how coldly amused he sounded. “Do you fear the ears of man? Do you plot his downfall, or wonder for a way you might go crawling to lick their boots while somehow maintaining your dignity?”

  Eravon prepared to draw his own sword. He would endure no insults from such a disrespectful whelp.

  “I don’t know how you found—”

  He stopped as the Wraith whirled on him, staring with unseen eyes. The intruder grabbed his face with his fingers, in a movement so fast Eravon did not have time to react.

  “I found you by following the stench of cowardice. You leaked piss all the way here from Angelport, like a frightened dog.”

  Maradun stood, a sword flashing in his hand. “Let him go,” he said.

  The Wraith laughed. “As you wish.”

  He shoved Eravon aside, then spun atop the table. His foot lashed out, the heel smashing Maradun’s face before he could lift his sword to block. Eravon drew his sword and slashed, but the Wraith pulled his own blade. As the sound of steel rang out, the elves fled from the table, standing at the far reaches of the tent. Only the Wraith remained in the center, turning so his back faced none of them for long.

  “Do you fear me?” he asked. “Good. Then perhaps you will remember the message I bring.”

  “What is that?” Eravon asked, stealing a glance at Maradun, who clutched his face with his free hand, blood dripping between his fingers from what Eravon guessed was a broken nose.

  “Do not ask as if you don’t intend to listen, Eravon.”

  The Wraith leaped, his body changing from relaxed to taut in an imperceptible moment of time. Eravon blocked his brutal chop during the descent, but his skills were with words and schemes, not blades. He parried the next few swings, then overextended to block what turned out to be a feint. Before the other two could come to his aid, the Wraith’s sword pierced his side. Gasping in pain, Eravon fell to one knee. When the Wraith pulled the blade free, blood poured across the grass.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” the Wraith said, turning on the other two. “I will kill you all if I must.”

  “Speak,” said Sildur. “Give your message.”

  Eravon tried to stand, but his head felt light, and his muscles refused to cooperate. He collapsed onto his side. Beneath him the grass warmed from his own blood. With fading vision, he watched the Wraith approach, his footfalls frighteningly silent.

  “You are not wanted,” the Wraith said, grabbing Eravon by the hair and lifting his head back so they might see eye-to-eye. “Leave, tonight. The people here do not need your meddling. Stick to your forests. One day, axes and fire will come for your borders. Remember that the next time you think of returning to Angelport.”

  Eravon’s vision was nearly dark, but he still saw Maradun launch himself into an attack. The Wraith let him go, then twirled, his sword a blur. Eravon felt something wet splash across him, and then Maradun fell clutching a bloody stump, his arm gone from the elbow down. Trying to stand, Eravon succeeded only in rolling onto his back. The Wraith stood above him, looking down. Still smiling.

  His sword sliced into Eravon’s flesh, never deep. The sharp stings were nothing compared to the deep ache in his side, but still his anger grew.

  “We’ll kill you for this,” he said, coughing.

  “Many will try,” the Wraith said, his sword twirling in his hand, flicking blood all across the tent. “But not you.”

  The blade descended straight for his eye.

  “There it is,” said Alyssa, hopping down from the wagon. “Angelport.”

  Haern followed, and as the rest of the travelers set up camp, he looked out over the city. It was smaller than Veldaren, but not by much. Three walls forme
d concentric circles enveloping the city, all of them stretching out into the water. A sprawling port lined the far side, and in the light of the setting sun, at least a hundred boats shifted about like ants. Haern was stunned by the sight. He’d never seen a single ship before, so to find so many coming into port or sailing out for the far reaches of Dezrel impressed him greatly.

  “Why do we camp here?” Haern asked. “The city is not far.”

  “Because I want to make sure you know your part in this charade,” Alyssa said, looking him over, then sighing. “Gods help me, you couldn’t appear more uncomfortable if you tried.”

  Haern rolled his eyes and then went to help the others unpack. They’d kept a small supply of kindling and firewood, replenishing it as needed during their journey. Once their bonfire was roaring, and tents set up for those who would not sleep in the wagons, the servants began cooking their meal. One continued on the path, sent to receive word on the state of the city.

  All the while, Alyssa drilled Haern on customs.

  “Deepen your bow depending on their station relative to you,” Alyssa said, smoothing out his silk shirt. “Since you’ll be a distant relative of mine, that means nearly every member of nobility and the Trifect is significantly higher than you. If in doubt, bow low and avert your eyes for only a brief moment. Just make sure you don’t ever tip your head to a commoner. Kind words in greeting are fine, but don’t overdo it.”

  “I’d rather stick to killing people,” Haern said. “Can I do that instead?”

  She gave him a look he’d seen many times on their journey. The first had been when she realized he had packed a single set of clothes to wear for months at a time, his dark gray shirt and pants coupled with his cloaks. Wishing he’d heeded Delysia’s advice, he found himself inheriting a wide assortment of outfits from Alyssa. They were poofy, silken, and more expensive than anything he’d ever owned in his life. And they itched.

  Alyssa continued grilling him, seemingly determined not to risk the slightest error.

  “Who rules the city?”

  “Lord Ingram Murband. Pompous. Overconfident. Legally responsible for all the lands south of the Kingstrip known as the Ramere.”

  “Who actually rules the city?”

  “The six men known as the Merchant Lords. Over the past ten years they’ve slowly taken over Laurie Keenan’s shipping empire, and if not for Laurie’s control over the growth and sale of crimleaf, he might lose the rest of his vast wealth. Of course, I’m to be annoyed by such ridiculous rumors about Laurie going broke, since I’m a silly dumb relative of yours who cannot think for himself and would never accept the idea of someone else being wealthier or better off than us.”

  Alyssa rolled her eyes at his gross oversimplification of her original identity she wanted for him.

  “Tell me your name,” she said.

  “Haern Gemcroft, third cousin by marriage.”

  “And Zusa is?”

  Haern rubbed his temples. “My wife. Zusa Gemcroft, originally of the Gandrem family line, having fallen for me at a ball celebrating Nathaniel’s safe return. Apparently I was a skillful dancer.”

  “And why are you here?”

  Haern muttered through his answer, wondering for the hundredth time why he’d agreed to go. As nice as it felt to get away from the dark streets of Veldaren, he was completely out of his element amid the wealth and traditions of the Trifect.

  “It’s our… honeymoon,” he said. “You agreed to take us so we might see the port and buy presents from afar.”

  Alyssa sat down beside the fire, accepting a bowl of soup, and frowned at him as she sipped. “I hope you can put on a better act when we’re inside the city.”

  Haern accepted his own food and ate. Alyssa finished, and while Haern took seconds, she went off to their wagon to see how Zusa fared. She, too, had been unhappy with Alyssa’s scheme to get them into the city unnoticed. But Haern could not deny the usefulness of the ploy. Wherever Alyssa went, they could follow, yet at the same time they had a ready-made excuse for when they needed to search the city unnoticed. Of course, come nightfall, the real work would begin, and he could don his cloaks while Zusa covered herself with her wrappings…

  Alyssa stepped back into the light of the fire, Zusa trailing behind her. Haern nearly choked on a piece of potato. The slender woman wore a loose dress with a wide V-cut between her breasts that ran all the way to the belt at her navel. Her skirt was long and violet, swaying about her legs. Apparently lacking Haern’s discomfort, Zusa twirled once, then curtsied as if she’d been raised in court her whole life.

  “It’s a bit… revealing,” Haern said, immediately realizing that was far from the compliment he meant to offer.

  Alyssa looked ready to murder him.

  “It’s the style there, brought over from Ker by their sailors. Be glad I dressed you in Veldaren fashion. You’d have half your body exposed otherwise.”

  Haern scratched at his neck. “Would it be less poofy?”

  “More and more I doubt the wisdom of your assistance,” Zusa said. She ran her hands through her short hair. “At least you are handsome. No one would believe me marrying you otherwise.”

  “No one’s going to believe it anyway,” Haern said. “I’ve still got scars from when you tried to kill me.”

  “You tried to kill Alyssa first, remember?”

  “Such doe-eyed lovers,” Alyssa said, sounding like a tired mother. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I brought either of you.”

  Haern laughed. He’d feared awkwardness given her station, and his history, but she seemed sincere about her gratitude for what he’d done for her son Nathaniel. Currently he was up in the north, under Lord Gandrem’s protection. Haern almost wished the boy had come. It would have been nice to have a familiar face around, even if Nathaniel had not been conscious when he carried him to safety after an attack by an ambitious lover of Alyssa’s.

  Zusa left to change into clothes more suitable for sleeping. While she was gone, the servant returned from the city. At his sour expression, Alyssa urged him to speak.

  The servant glanced once at Haern, then said, “Lord Keenan has cremated both Taras and Julie and delayed the burial for your arrival. He is thankful for your appearance and looks forward to your company. As for the city… the business with the elves has grown significantly worse. Not long ago, a cloaked man killed the previous elven ambassador and wounded those with him.”

  Haern straightened, and he exchanged a look with Alyssa.

  “This man,” she said. “Do they know who he is? Did he leave a symbol or name of some kind?”

  “While the two survivors watched, he cut an eye into the ambassador’s chest. He calls himself the Wraith. That is all anyone would tell me, though I would not be surprised if Lord Keenan knows more.”

  Haern swallowed, his mouth dry. Alyssa dismissed the servant, and when Zusa returned in a simple robe, they informed her of what they’d heard.

  “First the Trifect, now the elves,” Haern said, his voice low as he stared into the fire. “What does he want with me?”

  “Have you ever heard that name before, this Wraith?”

  Haern glanced at Zusa, then shook his head. “No. I’ll need to speak with the elves who survived, learn anything I can of him.”

  Another servant arrived, carrying a small cask of wine and a trio of cups. They all accepted, and then Alyssa led their toast.

  “To a long life,” she said. “Something I feel none of us shall have.”

  Haern clinked his glass against hers. “A wonderful toast,” he said, trying to imitate Alyssa’s noble attitude while bowing low.

  “Laurie will never, ever believe you are a member of my family,” Alyssa said, sipping from her glass. “Let’s pray he’s more understanding when he realizes you’re there to keep me alive.”

  “And find his son’s killer.”

  Alyssa downed the rest. “That too. Good night, Haern. Tomorrow morning, we ride into the city. Try to sleep well. It will be a long day.”