Elaine Cunningham - Honor Among Thieves

A terrible possibility stirred amid the whirl andtangle of Honor’s thoughts. What this her crystal shadow, born ofher bone?

“Ah, you see it now,” Rhendish said in tones roundedwith satisfaction. “But you’re not yet sure you believe.”

He reached for the skeleton and lifted one delicatehand as if he were a courtier about to honor a lady with akiss.

Honor’s hand lifted in a mirror-true reflection ofthe crystal bones.

The adept dropped both the compulsion and theskeletal hand. “I will restore your sword arm now,” he said. “Therest you will have to earn.”

Horror pounded Honor in crushing waves. She could donothing to resist this, nothing to fight against the magic thatheld her captive.

Magic. . .

Of course! Why had she not seen it before?

The strange compulsions, the crystal ring that placeda target on Muldonny, the grim experiments Rhendish had worked onher-these were not the work of alchemy. Whatever he claimed to be,whatever face he showed the world, Rhendish was a sorcerer.

And there was no magic that elven crystal could notfocus and magnify.

It occurred to Honor that there was a lot ofelven crystal in this room.

She darted toward the worktable and snatched upsharp, slender metal tool.

Perhaps Rhendish would force her to thrust it intoher own heart. Perhaps he would hit the tool with a burst ofsorcerous lightning and shock her into immobility. Perhaps shewould slip past his guard and plunge the metal into his eye, endinghis life and with it, her only hope of restoration.

Honor lunged at the adept, determined to break hishold on her whatever the cost.

Rhendish lifted one hand in a swift, sharpgesture.

Compulsion slammed into her, stopping her as suddenlyand effectively as an invisible wall.

Honor’s first impulse was to fight it. Instead, sheopened herself to the adept’s magic, drew it deeper into herbeing.

Agony seared through her, bone and sinew. Honordropped to her knees as the weapon fell from nerveless fingers.

She was wrong. Foolish. The sorcerer’s magic was toocrude, too harsh, too powerful, too alien. No elf could ever singin tune with such magic.

And yet, elves could gather energy from starlight.From bonfires, even blizzards.

She did not have to assimilate Rhendish’s magic. Sheonly had to use it.

The compulsion was still an overwhelming, discordantnoise, but surely it contained familiar notes. Honor found one,drew it out in a thin stream, and sent it toward the pale roseskeleton.

For a moment she was back in the Starsingers grove,among a chorus of elves attuned to starlight. She gathered energy,focused it, shared it and received it back in a cycle that went onand on until every elf in the clearing sang with silent power.

Slender crystal arms rose, delicate crystal fingersencircled the adept’s throat.

Tightened.

Rhendish’s eyes widened in shock. He tugged at theskeletal hands for a few moments-the instinctive struggle of anytrapped creature-before he remembered who he was, and what he coulddo.

Unseen threads of magic slipped from the room insearch of the clockwork guards. Honor gathered the threads into asingle cord and sent her own will coursing through it.

Four guards clanked into the room. They dropped toone knee before Honor and raised mailed fists to their chests in agesture of fealty.

Honor turned toward the blue-faced adept.

“Release him, sister,” she said.

Crystal fingers came away from Rhendish’s throat,crystal arms dropped to the skeleton’s sides. The gentle tinkle ofbone against bone sounded like distant, faintly mockinglaughter.

The silence that followed was broken only byRhendish’s rasping breaths. To his credit, he faced Honor withoutflinching, and he offered neither pleas nor blustering threats.

Of course, the effects of his near-throttling couldhave a lot to do with the latter.

“You need my help,” he said at last. “You haven’tbegun to understand how much, or in how many ways.”

Honor could find no words to refute this. “You willrestore my sword arm now,” she said, tossing his words back at him.“As for the rest, it would appear that we both have a great deal tolearn.”

Return the Thorn to the cabin where you were born.The elves will find you there and answer the questions you musthave.

Fox had read the note a hundred times since he foundit tucked in his mother’s locket. A hundred more before he showedit to his friends.

They responded with enthusiasm, each for reasons oftheir own. Vishni, of course, was eager to pursue a new tale.Delgar confessed that he was still shaken by his experience withthe Thorn, still drawn by the seductive lure of so much power. Hewanted the dagger safely away and in the hands of elves who weretoo stone-deaf to hear its song. Avidan put aside his new-foundclarity along with his blue alchemist tunic, returning to his palegreen clothing and his dreams of faerie lands.

Planning for a trip required far more than Fox wouldhave supposed, and he was more than happy to leave the details toDelgar.

He left his friends to their work and sought a quietplace to think. Several twisting tunnels later, he sank down to thestone floor and closed his eyes. Delgar and Avidan’s voicesfollowed him, mercifully muted to distant echoes.

“Who peed in your porridge?”

Fox jolted with surprise. Vishni stood over him, herBook of Exile tucked under one arm and a wry expression on herpretty face.

The fairy shook her head. “Human males,” she saidsuccinctly, “are idiots.”

Fox conceded the point with a shrug. Whatever thespecifics of Vishni’s observation might be, he had no quarrel withthe overall concept.

“She’s not worth mooning over, you know.”

He stared at Vishni for a long moment before hermeaning set in.

“It’s not like that.”

“It never is.”She plunked down beside him. “TellVishni all about it,” she crooned in a voice that, it seemed toFox, was only half mocking.

He’d wanted to tell the others about Honor, but hewasn’t sure how much he should tell them. Of all his friends,Vishni had the most creatively devious mind. If anyone could helphim sort through his tangled thoughts, it would be the fairy.

And his thoughts were very, very tangled.

They’d done a good thing, an important thing, ingetting the Thorn away from both Rhendish and Muldonny. EvenDelgar, who coveted the dagger on a physical level, believed thatreturning the dagger to the elves was a worthy quest.

On the other hand, they’d all been fooled andmanipulated by a clockwork elf, the half-living creation of theirmost determined foe. No matter how worthy the result might be, itgrated on Fox that he’d been doing the adept’s bidding.

On the other hand, this journey could save elvenlives. Knowing the adept as he did, Fox doubted Rhendish would becontent to stop with one clockwork elf.

A memory slipped into his mind like the suddenappearance of a ghost. He knew with chilling certainty that thosedelicate bones amid Rhendish’s curiosities were not, as he hadassumed, a macabre work of art, but the mortal remains of amurdered elf.

But what about the locket? The adepts had hunted downand slain anyone associated with Eldreath. If Fox was right aboutthe inscription on his mother’s locket, Rhendish needed no otherreason to seek Fox’s death. Fox might end up leading him to theforest elves. That was a risk too large to take.

On the other hand, the desire to learn the truth ofhis heritage and destiny burned in Fox like a three-day thirst. Forthat reason alone, he would consider all the risks of the journeyworth taking.

And, considering his possible ancestry, thatsingle-mindedness worried him more than a little.