Клейтон Эмери - The Halls of Stormweather

“A golden morning to you, Diurgo,” she said in a choked voice. “When… when did you get back?”

“Ten days ago.”

Ten days ago, and he hadn’t once thought to inquire as to Larajin’s well being or even to let her know of his return.

Larajin intended to say no more to him, but curiosity burned inside her. “Was Lake Sember as beautiful as they say? Did you see its crystal towers?”

Diurgo made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I was forced to turn back before I could reach the lake. The elves would have killed me had I tried to continue.”

“You knew that before you set out.”

“Knowing and seeing are two different things.”

“Yes they are,” Larajin said, seeing him even more clearly than before. Several months ago, in the flush of spring, she’d been caught up in his quest: a pilgrimage to famed Lake Sember, a body of water sacred to both Sune and the elf goddess Hanali, Sune’s rival for worshipers of beauty. Larajin had stolen away from Stormweather Towers to follow Diurgo but had traveled only a short distance before agents sent by Master Thamalon the Elder had forced her to return to Stormweather Towers. She’d pleaded with Diurgo to persuade them to let her accompany him, but he’d refused to speak on her behalf, sharply reminding her that she was only a serving girl, and a hindrance to his quest. Now it seemed he’d given up his “holy pilgrimage” as soon as the path became too steep for him.

Larajin stared at Diurgo, not bothering to hide the hurt she felt. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I saw a faint pinkish aura around you just now as you were gazing into the pool,” Diurgo said. “I’m certain it was a manifestation of the goddess. I thought I could help you to channel it into—”

“A manifestation,” Larajin spat back at him. “Like my rust-colored hair? Your lies worked on me once, Diurgo, but I’m not listening to them any more. You can find another naive young woman to conduct your ‘holy revels’ with.”

The young priest had the good grace, at least, to look uncomfortable. Even so, he persisted. “I’m not lying, Larajin. I saw the aura clearly.”

“Just as I see you clearly, Diurgo.” Larajin folded her arms across her chest. “And I no longer like what I see.”

Haughty annoyance flashed across the young priest’s face. He waved a finger at her. “You shouldn’t talk that way to the son of a noble house, girl.” Without another word, he splashed angrily away.

Furious with herself, Larajin waded back to the edge of the main pool. Ignoring the towel Jeina offered, she jerked her slippers onto her feet, then picked up her cloak and strode out through the temple’s main door.

She’d gone nearly two blocks before she noticed that her arms and legs were no longer stinging. Stopping, she untied the bandage on her wrist, and found to her amazement that the bite there had completely healed.

As she walked toward Kremlar’s perfume shop, Larajin clutched her cloak tightly around herself. The sun was just rising over Selgaunt’s eastern wall, and snow drifted down out of a leaden gray sky. Larajin pushed the thoughts of Diurgo out of her mind. Unlike him, she would complete her quest. Today, no matter what foul creatures lay in wait for her in the sewers, she would sneak into the Hunting Garden and rescue the injured tressym.

She was nearly at the shop when someone hissed at her from an alley. Instantly on the alert, Larajin poised herself to run. When she saw the person who beckoned to her from the shadows, she faltered to a stop.

It was as if Larajin were looking into a mirror. The woman was in her early twenties, and wore the turban, vest, and serving dress of the Uskevren household. She had the same height and slender build as Larajin, and the same angular features. She even stood with the same awkward posture, aping Larajin’s surprise. Then she winked and pulled off the turban to reveal short, dark hair.

“It’s me: Tazi,” the double said. “Pretty good disguise, don’t you think?”

“Mistress Thazienne,” Larajin gulped. “Why are you dressed in a servant’s uniform?”

“Call me Tazi,” the mistress said: a reprimand that had become automatic between them. She chuckled. “I was just having a little fun. Remember the day when I caught you in my room, dressed up in leather armor and posing in front of the mirror? You looked so much like me—aside from the clumsy way you held my sword—that it gave me an idea. I wanted to see if I could pass as you.”

Larajin blushed, embarrassed to be reminded of her transgression. She’d always admired Mistress Thazienne for her boldness, and when Larajin had set out after Diurgo, she’d pictured herself an adventurer like the young mistress. In the wake of her one adventure’s disastrous ending, Larajin was even more aware of the vast gulf that separated the two of them. Thazienne, she was certain, wouldn’t have even blinked at the malformed rats in the sewer.

Which reminded Larajin of the injured tressym.

“I have to go,” she said, glancing up the street in the direction of Kremlar’s perfume shop.

Thazienne’s playful expression instantly sobered. She caught Larajin’s arm. “Not that way,” she said. “There’s three elven gentlemen just up the street that I don’t think you want to meet—much as they’d like to make your acquaintance.”

Larajin’s eyes widened. “Is one of them a wild elf?”

Thazienne’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’ve run into them before?” she asked. “They look like pretty tough customers. They nearly succeeded in grabbing me—and I’m a pretty slippery eel. What do they want with you?”

“I don’t know,” Larajin said with a shiver. “Maybe they’re members of a rival house who want to kidnap an Uskevren servant.”

Thazienne shook her head slowly, her green eyes sparkling. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I understand a bit of the elven tongue—enough to have overheard one of them say, ‘Is it her?’ and the other answer, ‘She’s the one. I could smell it.’ It’s you they’re after, Larajin.”

Larajin glanced around fearfully. “Where are they now?”

“I pretended to run away, but then I followed them. They’re lying in wait outside your friend’s perfume shop.”

Larajin didn’t know which surprised her more: the fact that the young mistress knew about Kremlar, or that the wild elves knew her movements.

“You shouldn’t go back to Stormweather Towers either,” Thazienne advised. “Is there some other place else you could lie low?”

Larajin thought for a moment, then nodded. “I could go to Habrith’s,” she said. “Or do you think they’ll be waiting for me there, too?”

A strange look crossed Thazienne’s face; it was almost as though she knew something Larajin didn’t. “Habrith’s bakery should be safe enough,” she said. “Go there now. I’ll distract the elves and lead them back to Stormweather Towers, so they’ll think you’re there.”

Larajin felt a rush of relief. “That’s very kind of you, Mistress Thazienne.”

“Think nothing of it—I haven’t had this much fun in tendays,” Thazienne said. She winked. “And for gods’ sake, call me Tazi, would you?”

Larajin peeked out the window of Habrith’s shop at the busy intersection. Wagons rumbled past, shoppers hunched along through the snow, and nobles in all their finery rolled past in glass-enclosed carriages, high above the dung-splattered slush in the street. She saw Kremlar stride past under a multicolored snow parasol, followed by a servant of the Soargyl family who was laden with boxes of Kremlar’s perfume samples. But there were no other figures she recognized—and she was especially relieved to note there were no green-cloaked elves in sight.