Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

The wrist sheath was useless with the bracers on and she changed that throwing knife to a sheath that went down her back. The hilt brushed against her neck. The second stayed in its boot sheath. Inside the neck of her armor she tucked a garrote. The thin double strand of wire with its gripping places on both ends fitted snugly and invisibly into place.

She was sitting with Poth on her lap when there was a knock on the door. It would be Tobin to fetch her for the evening meal, “Come in.”

Most boys didn’t get their first set of plate mail until they had ascended to title or reached their full growth, but being a prince, Tobin had been an exception. For his last birthday he had received a suit of plate mail. It was glittering and gold like so much of Meltaanian armorwork, with flowers and beasts etched along it. The helmet tucked under his arm was scrolled with vines, and two lions battled on its top. Tobin was very proud of the gaudy suit, for he, like most Meltaanians, liked sparkle and glitter. It had a small magic dweomer on it because no wizard could wear that much normal metal and still be able to cast spells.

Keleios slipped on the helmet, cool, constricting, protecting. She hefted the shield to her left arm and tested its balance. A wrist strap needed tightening.

Tobin’s shield was large, almost as big as he, and strapped to his back. A short sword and dagger hung at his belt.

Lastly, she settled her spells and pouches round her belt. When it was as comfortable as it would get, she said, “Let’s go,” and led the way out the door. Poth trailed after them.

Neither spoke as they turned toward the stairs. Someone was running through the library, someone whose breathing was ragged and loud, a voice saying, “Mother help us. Mother help us.”

Tobin slipped on his helmet, and Keleios crouched forward, motioning him to stay put in his clanking armor.

She hunted through the shelves, shadowing the gasping stranger. It was Selene, leaning against a shelf, tears trailing quietly down her cheeks. “Selene?”

She jumped as if struck then turned and flattened herself against the books, moving away from Keleios. She muttered, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

“Selene, what has happened?”

“I didn’t understand, how . . .”

“Journeyman, tell me what has happened.”

“I...I gave tea to Master Draeen, the conjure master, drugged tea, spelled tea.”

“Selene, what sort of spell was in the tea?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know the tea was drugged?”

She shook her head.

“Who gave you the tea?”

“Master Fidelis.”

“Where is Draeen now?”

“She took him.”

“Fidelis? How, Selene, how?”

“She had a wand, and she changed him into a large black snake. He didn’t even wake up after he was shapechanged.”

Selene turned wide brown eyes to Keleios and said, “And Poula ...”

“What about Poula?”

The girl turned away and began to walk down the shelf isle. Keleios caught her and spun her round. “What about Poula?”

Tobin stood behind them, all gold and unseen.

Selene said, “She’s dead, she’s dead.” Once having said it, she kept saying it over and over again. Tears and laughter came in torrents. Keleios shoved Selene into Tobin’s arms. “Get her to a healer and send a healer to Master Poula’s room. Have Fidelis stopped and detained.”

Before he could answer, she was running toward Poula’s room.

Luckweaver snicked from his sheath as she eased open the door. Just this side of the table Poula lay face down. A wide pool of darkness was spreading from her back across the floor. The reeds had been scuffed clear, and the blood traced along the bare stones.

Her first instinct was to run to her, protect her somehow, but it wouldn’t help if she fell victim too. Keleios forced herself to search the room and see that nothing lurked. She sent a frantic call to Jodda, nearly knocking the healer into a wall with the force of the summons. All she could do was wait.

Keleios stood beside Poula and carefully knelt, setting her sword on clean reeds near at

hand. The bird helmet she took off and placed by the sword. She swept back the graying hair and touched the mask, but her fingers couldn’t find a pulse in the throat. Keleios’ chest tightened, her throat closing around unshed tears. She would not cry, not yet. Had Fidelis done this, too?

The flesh was still warm. The wound flowed slow but had not begun to clot. From the angle and size she judged the murder weapon to be a knife, straight to the heart. Not everyone could knife someone in the back and strike the heart; you had to know just where to enter.

She resisted the urge to hold the body; nothing must be disturbed. Healers were coming, but it was really too late.

Tears sparkled in the candlelight. Whoever had come had needed light, been welcomed in, betrayed her.

The light glinted off something—a small oval mirror that was propped on Poula’s table. What did a blind woman need with a mirror? Keleios sheathed her sword and went to the mirror. An envelope sat in front of it, sealed with wax and bearing Keleios’ name.

She hesitated. Where was Jodda? Keleios picked the envelope up; on the back was written, “Answers are inside.” She recognized the long swirled handwriting: Fidelis.

Keleios broke the seal and found one sheet of paper. “Half-Elf, If you want to know the how and why of it, repeat the words written below. The mirror will answer all your questions. The Witch.” There was a spell written on the bottom half of the paper. Keleios recognized it as a triggering spell; speak the words, add a little sorcery, and presto, magic. Keleios had to do it, had to know.

She placed hands on either side of the mirror and spoke, “Mirror, hear me. Pane of glass, oval seer of this room, hear me. I enchant thee; I adorn thee with magic. Show me what I show me what I need to know.”

Nothing happened at first, then the clear surface clouded as if her breath were fogging it.

Jodda entered the room with two journeyman healers in tow. Tobin was behind them, and he came to stand near Keleios and watch the mirror.

The fog vanished as if sucked away, leaving a mirror image of the room. The reeds on the floor were undisturbed, no body lay in the image.

Tobin called to the journeyman Feldspar. “We need two witnesses for this.”

Jodda nodded her permission, and the Zairdian healer stood and watched the images.

Fidelis passed in view bearing a tray with tea on it. Poula met her saying, “A new blending of mints. I’ll try it, but I believe I’ve tried them all.” Then they passed from the mirror’s sight.

The quiet murmur of their voices; the tea was good, but Poula had something similar.

Fidelis’ voice next, admiring the completeness of Poula’s herb racks. “May I borrow a pinch of dried tarrow root?”

“Certainly.” Poula, being blind, had a different system for knowing what was in the jars, so she would have to get it.

They came into sight, Poula walking to the herb shelves, her back to the woman. Fidelis brought a dagger that flashed in the light. Keleios whispered, “Poula, Poula, please see it, please see it.”

The tall, slender woman stepped close, peering over her shoulder. “How do you tell what is in all these?” Fidelis was almost leaning against the woman. An arm swung round Poula’s chest, the dagger flashing upward. Poula’s spine stiffened, and everything froze for an instant. The candlelight flickered over the scene. Poula’s hand stretched outward as if reaching for something, her spine bending backward, her leather mask. Fidelis’ grey dress, shimmered like silk, face buried in Poula’s unbound hair. Then she stepped back and pulled out the knife.