Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

“I know.”

“I didn’t come here for a lesson, apprentice. I came to see how you were.”

The girl looked up, eyes shining. “Poth came to visit me.”

“I see that.” Keleios picked the cat up and stroked her. “She attends to my duties better than I do sometimes.”

Alys tossed the yarn at the cat. Poth threw a reproachful glance to Keleios then went to chase it. Poth hadn’t even liked chasing yarn when she was a kitten. Keleios hid her smile as best she could. It was terribly obvious to Keleios that the cat was only pretending to enjoy herself. But the child was fooled.

“Alys, we must talk about last night, but it can wait until you feel like talking about it.” Again she wouldn’t look at Keleios. “I don’t want to talk ’bout it right now.” She looked up

quickly. “I mean about, about it.”

“All right, apprentice, get some rest, and I’ll try to look in on you just before dinner. Come along, Poth.”

“Oh, can’t she stay?”

“No, we have work to do.” Seeing the look on the child’s face, Keleios added, “But perhaps she’ll come visit again soon.” The cat looked thoroughly disgusted but gave Alys a last body rub and then hopped down to the floor. She padded noiselessly at Keleios’ heels.

When they were out in the hall, Keleios said, “That was a very nice gesture on your part.”

The cat didn’t answer but bounded ahead, white-tipped tail held high. She vanished through the door to Keleios’ room without waiting.

Keleios opened the door and went after her. “All right, what’s wrong with you?”

The cat sat on the bed and licked a delicate forepaw and stared at Keleios.

“You think I could have avoided the challenge with Lothor.”

The cat concentrated on grooming her back and pointedly ignored Keleios.

“You think I’m going to get myself killed. We can win tonight.” Keleios went down on her knees by the bed, eye level with the cat. The golden eyes stared at her, hostile, distant.

“I will win tonight,” Keleios said.

The cat gave a small sneeze and went back to grooming, swiping one paw over her face.

There was a knock at the door. Belor entered without being asked. He wore a charcoal-grey jerkin, cut short, over brown trousers. White linen showed at rounded collar and sleeve. He stopped. “What’s wrong? Not more exciting news, I hope.”

“No, Poth’s mad at me. She thinks I was foolish, like Poula, and you.”

Belor said nothing but leaned against the bedpost. His blue eyes said everything for him.

Keleios stood and paced the room. “All right, all right, I let my anger best me. But who could have known he would challenge me? He did come here to marry me, after all.”

“It was not entirely unexpected.”

“All right, he has had two duels since he entered Astrantha. But he lost the second; if Glairstran hadn’t taken a vow of mercy, we might have been rid of him then.”

“That is awfully cold for a follower of Cia.”

“Our vows say only we cannot murder. When someone is trying to take our life, we are not bound to give mercy.” It was a matter of disagreement between them. He had fought in the arena twice, once by steel and once by magic. He had been victor both times. He had killed both times, but he was not comfortable with it.

“What are your plans, Keleios?”

“To use what herb spells I already have made up. To strike viciously and completely.” “What spells do you have made up?”

“At least two sleep spells, a ward of pain, a ward of fire, a spell of dragon summoning that I’ve been working on, and one for demon summoning.”

He raised a pale eyebrow. “Do you think it wise?”

“I was curious; I haven’t used it yet.”

“Curiosity such as that, you do not need.”

She ignored him and went on. “I have a potion to bring pleasant dreams and some powder of illusion. The powder is very unpredictable, though.”

“There’s no substitute for a good illusionist.”

Keleios smiled. “Not yet, anyway.”

“The sleep spells, yes; the ward of pain and fire, yes. I don’t know what good dragon summoning will do. He might be able to gate in a demon of his own, so demon summoning may be useful. But for Magnus’ sake be careful what you bring in. The illusion powder could be useful as a distraction.”

Keleios agreed with his assessment. “So much for planning.”

“Now wait, Keleios. You need more of a plan. Remember, if he kills you, I fight him.”

“I absolve you of it, Belor. You are my second, but this is not your fight.”

He stepped close to her and spoke softly. “If he kills you, it will be my fight.”

She smiled. “I suppose if things were reversed, I’d do the same.”

“You know you would.” He pulled a slip of paper from the bed where it had been pinned.

It was a note from Fidelis. She had retired to the stillroom for the rest of the day. She would not be interrupting them. Belor said, “That was very considerate of her.”

“Very. She plans on killing me tomorrow night, so why should she worry?”

Keleios stretched arms over head and said, “I must spend some time in the hall of gods this afternoon.”

“Quite a bit of time. How many gods do you normally worship now, four?”

“Three, but I will have to waste something on Zardok and Loth.”

Belor raised a pale eyebrow. “You are going to make an offering to the black prince’s god?”

“He doesn’t own him personally; he is merely a priest. And Loth is the god of war, bloodshed, and battles. You do not enter the arena without first offering something to the god who can control it.”

Belor shrugged; he didn’t make sacrifice to Loth, regardless of circumstance.

As if reading his mind, Keleios said, “And before you go all self-righteous on me, illusionist, you worship the Shadow Lady. She isn’t exactly good.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “No, but she is the only illusionist among the gods.”

“That is not true. There is Shalinelle, the elven goddess of beauty, truth, and music. She is an illusionist.”

He smiled. “And you have to be at least partly elven to worship her.”

“Not always.”

Keleios left it at that. If Shalinelle wanted him, she would have him. If not, all the sacrifices on the island wouldn’t make him a worshipper.

The midday meal was tense and short. Rumors like wind moved round the dining hall. All the voices fell silent as Keleios passed, but the wind of buzzing voices trailed her.

The hall of gods stretched cool and shadowed. A thick haze of incense nearly choked her as she entered. The vast pillared hall was cluttered with altars and carven figures of gods.

It had been Zeln’s idea that people would prefer to send their children to a school where they could worship as their parents chose. He had been right.

There was something about the hall of gods. Perhaps it was the presence of so many holy items, or the magic, or just the emotions of the worshippers, coming in their endless line. Or the presence of lonely students first away from home, crying to their gods. The place had a claustrophobic feel to it, the stones weighed down, the pillars looked too frail to support. The chanting and the cloying sweet incense tried to hide it, but underneath was the neck-ruffling scent of blood. This was a place of sacrifice, and things died here. Everyone passed through the double doors, everyone. When the gods can reach out and punish, there is no disbelief.

The elven gods were here, tucked away in a cramped corner, nearly touching one another. Keleios made her first sacrifice to Elventir, god of agriculture. He had been the first god that she had chosen for herself.

When Keleios was seven, a sprig of mint that she had grown herself sprouted on his altar and grew into a tremendous plant before her eyes. People had come for miles around to get a start off of that mint plant. Keleios had worshipped Elventir ever since, even if she was not an earth-witch and had little time for gardening.