Barb Hendee - Thief of Lives

"Did you follow Ratboy here, or did he follow you?" she asked.

He frowned as if such a question were childish.

"I am not one of them," he said. "I have been preparing you for what lies ahead. You would have never battled these creatures without inspiration, and now look what you've become. So much more than you were, even since your awakening in Miiska."

What did he mean by inspiration? Nausea threatened to creep in upon the tail of Magiere's bewilderment.

"You arranged this?" she asked, a sickening awareness growing. "And what happened in Miiska as well?"

"A simple matter," he answered, "of making sure you were the one to purchase the vacant tavern."

Confusion began to feed slowly into outrage.

The council of Bela, Chap's hidden manipulations, the elves seeking Leesil's life, and now Welstiel. How many had played Leesil and herself like puppets, tugging their strings from both near and far?

Welstiel waved his hand, apparently growing frustrated with her. "All but a means to an end, and you have nearly reached that end. The rest you will learn on our journey, and so I've come for you. The conjuror is unpredictable, and I wanted to be present in case he became a true danger."

He was mad, but Magiere was uncertain what to do. Her gaze kept returning to the black gloves.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.

"You haven't heard where we are going," he responded.

"I don't care."

The torchlight flickered off his smooth face.

"I watched you at your game on the open road. Not often, but enough to follow your progress-and ambition. You are not like other mortals-you do not think like a mortal. When forced, you do what is necessary. What you earned from those peasants was a pittance. What the council offered you is nothing compared to what I seek, and that which I trained you to achieve."

Magiere flinched as he pointed a black-gloved hand at her.

Her shoulder still bled, but the wound was not threatening. Her thigh was more of a concern, as she couldn't put full weight on her leg. Looking at Welstiel, she remembered how undeads seemed to heal themselves through sheer will once they had fed. She focused her thoughts on the slash across her thigh.

The bleeding stopped, though she could still feel the open wound, and she tentatively settled more weight into the leg.

"I am not speaking of money," he went on. "But power. In the ice-capped mountains of this continent is an object long forgotten, guarded by ‘old ones'-possibly the oldest vampires in existence. You were bred to be a hunter, but you will learn nothing more battling these city-dwelling Noble Dead. I must teach you how to truly use the raw skills you have acquired."

His voice, words, and manner recalled her visions and the sensations of Chesna's and Au'shiyn's final moments.

"I know you," he said. "You take risks if the reward is enough, but you have no idea what I offer to make you a part of."

After all she and Leesil had been through to track down the murderer, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly pointed elsewhere. It should have been Chane. The gloves, the dark cloak, and the noble bearing all fit. Even the voice she'd heard in her vision could have been his. Perhaps even the formal words were but a coincidence.

A moment, if you please.

Magiere looked into Welstiel's composed and stern face and remembered the impressions she'd felt in Chane's presence. The mage undead reveled in the kill, enjoyed the death of his victims.

But the killer had not.

Magiere looked to the crossbow's quarrel. Like all those prepared by Leesil before their hunt, it smelled faintly of garlic. There was one way to settle this mystery.

Leesil ran behind Chap, and the tunnel again seemed endless. He had to trust that Chap could pick up Magiere's trail once they reached the house of the undeads. How the dog could follow anything in this stinking sewer was baffling.

Chap pulled up short, and Leesil stepped past him before stopping. The hound stood poised, staring down the tunnel, and before Leesil could speak, he took off again at a run. From a distance ahead, Leesil heard splashing footfalls. When he saw Wynn coming, relief filled him.

Glowing crystal in hand, she stumbled to a stop and let out a shallow whimper before rushing toward them. Robe soaked to her thighs, she gripped Leesil's arms with her small hands.

"Hurry," she gasped out. "I think Magiere is in trouble."

"Chane?" he asked.

"No-he escaped."

A rush of panic struck Leesil.

"What happened to Magiere?" he asked more harshly.

"She is all right," Wynn replied. "But there is someone else." Her hands squeezed tighter on his arms. "It is Welstiel, and I think Magiere is troubled. She told me to run and find you."

"Welstiel?" Leesil answered with puzzlement. What was that deluded man doing in Bela, and why had he followed Magiere into the sewers?

"Come quickly," Wynn urged. "She is down this tunnel."

Chap bolted ahead. Leesil followed, pulling Wynn along behind him as he called out, "Chap, stay in sight."

The dog paused, yipped once, and continued at a slower pace. Wynn's fatigue and soaked robe slowed them too much, but Leesil wouldn't leave her behind. The three of them moved as quickly as possible.

"Not far now," Wynn panted once.

Ahead was an opening in the runnel that flickered faintly with torchlight.

Chap stopped there, staring off to the right. But it was from the left side of the wide crossing of tunnels that Leesil saw Magiere inching forward through the shallow water, crossbow pointed in the direction the hound gazed.

She was soaked, and her hauberk had been severed near the left shoulder. The wound bled, and there was another gash across her right thigh.

Leesil handed off his torch to Wynn and pulled both his blades as he came up behind Chap. To the right on the far-side walkway stood Welstiel. His striking face, dark hair, and white temples were unmistakable even in the dim light.

Magiere's eyes flicked briefly in Leesil's direction and then back to Welstiel.

"It's him," she breathed. "He killed Chesna to get us here."

Leesil didn't understand any of this. An undead had butchered Lanjov's daughter, not this obsessive man who babbled about the Noble Dead. Leesil glanced at the topaz upon his chest, but there wasn't the faintest glow coming from the stone. Chap didn't react as if a vampire were present and merely stood with his head swiveling between Magiere and the black-clad gentleman.

Welstiel looked at Leesil with a slight frown.

"She is distraught. I was simply here to make certain she was able to handle the conjuror. I have assisted you in the past. Now, I am here to make you both an offer."

Wynn listened as well, but she hung back as Leesil stepped into the intersection toward Magiere, watching her closely.

Her eyes were intense and unblinking as she watched Welstiel. She gripped the crossbow so tightly her fingernails were whiter than her skin.

"Magiere," Leesil said, stepping closer. "He's not the one. It was Chane."

She sidestepped away from him and took another advancing step toward Welstiel, who began to back away.

"Magiere…" Leesil said gently, and pointed to the topaz with the tip of one blade. "No light, see? And Chap, he would know."

Her eyes flicked only briefly toward him and the hound.

"One way to be certain," she said, and her grip closed on the lever.

"No!" Leesil shouted.

He slashed at the crossbow, but the quarrel was already away. It struck Welstiel in the chest. In panic, Leesil turned to rush toward the man.

Smoke curled up from Welstiel's chest as he stumbled back against the tunnel wall.

"No," Leesil whispered.

"Take his head!" Magiere shouted, her voice echoing through the sewers. "He murdered Chesna."