Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

The guards shifted uneasily, drawing nearer to each other like frightened children.

A smooth voice came from the forest. “There will be none of that, not unless you want to give me a reason to kill you all.”

Longbowmen stepped from the concealing trees. Given a reason, they would kill all who

stood in the clearing, except Eroar. It would be a miraculous shot that penetrated his scales by firelight. The wind shifted, and Keleios caught the sharp scent of crushed dragon’s bane. Eroar blew another breath of smoke and stared at the men.

Nesbit stepped into the clearing. The archers did not step down. “Be reasonable, Keleios.”

“I am ready to be reasonable, Nesbit. What did you have in mind?”

He motioned for an old peasant man to come forward. His blue eyes were faded to grey and his short body had bowed with age. He held chains in his hands. They rattled and clanked as he made his way across the ground. “You and all your magic friends wear these while we transport you to exile.”

Keleios narrowed her eyes and hissed, “I will not wear those foul things.”

“It is that or...” He let it trail off, but the alternatives were clear.

Breena asked, “What is wrong with the chains?”

Lothor answered, rising from where he had slept. “They are covered with runes of binding. No magic may be used against them. If you wear them, you are impotent.”

Breena said, “Runes of binding are forbidden magic.”

Nesbit simply smiled and stared at Keleios.

“Nesbit, I cannot; I am half-elf. The things will near kill me.”

“That is the only safe way to transport such as you, and you know it.”

“If I give my word not to escape, you can trust it.”

“Your word is not good enough; no one’s is.”

“Not even your own.”

Nesbit waved it away and said, “We waste time. Do you agree to exile, or do we kill you here?”

Tobin rose and stood beside Keleios, “What you ask of her is unfair, and you know it.”

“I know old wives’ tales; nothing more.” He waited only a moment and said, “Decide, Keleios, decide now.”

She realized that he wanted an excuse to kill them all. Martyrs or not, he was nervous now and wanted it taken care of one way or another. Perhaps he had overstepped his bounds, and other council members were rebelling, other aristocrats. “Very well.”

Nesbit motioned the old man forward. He came tottering near, weighed down with chains. Eroar snaked his neck out, forcing the man to brush his fearsome jaws.

The old man hesitated, unwilling to pass the dragon.

Nesbit gave a short barking laugh. “These little games only waste time. The dragon will not hurt you, old man. Go on!” The old man shuffled forward, more afraid of Nesbit than any dragon. After all, dragons did not torture a man when you displeased them.

Keleios folded her arms, afraid. The runes of binding excluded all magic. Elves were by

nature magic, not merely spells, but substance. Nesbit called it old wives’ tales, but those tales said runes of binding could kill elves.

“Come, Keleios, have you decided or not? Live or die.”

She held out her hands slowly, fists clenched. The man’s thin blue-veined hands held out a set of bracelets too big for her small wrists. The silver metal slipped round, clicked shut, and Nesbit spoke a word. The metal shrank to fit her. They snapped into place with a second spell, and Keleios was alone. Her magic was gone. She gasped, trying to bring air into her lungs. The cat screeched. Eroar bellowed, and the chain carrier stumbled backward. He fell to the ground in a clatter of chains.

“We can still kill her, dragon, so hold yourself in.”

“I control myself, but there will come a day, human.”

“I think not.” He watched the man struggle to his feet and said, “Manacles.”

“But, Lord Nesbit, she is but a girl.”

“That girl could crush your skull with one hand.”

The old man looked doubtful but shuffled forward and snapped them into place. Keleios was aware of it, but it didn’t matter. Was this how it felt to be merely human? No, this was awful; this was a part of herself gone missing.

It was as if the world had shifted, leaving Keleios behind. She stood where she had been and yet was far away. The air was close, heavy, and hard to breathe.

Tobin was bound. He stared around at the trees as if seeing them for the first time. He whispered, “It’s like being blind.”

Keleios’ voice was the faintest of sounds. “Worse.”

Lothor stepped forward. His skin was its normal snowy white; his silver eyes caught the fire like glass. “I am going with her.”

“There is no need. You are a diplomat caught in unfortunate circumstances and are free to go.”

“I cannot.”

“What do you mean, cannot?”

“I am her consort. Where she goes, I go.”

A look of amazement passed Nesbit’s face. “Consorts.” He walked to stand in front of Keleios. “Consort with a black healer, Keleios, I would never have thought it of you.”

Keleios struggled to answer him, trying to draw herself back. The runes were trying to chase her from herself.

He motioned for the man to put chains on Lothor. “You do understand my position.”

“Of course.” A bead of sweat broke on the half-elf’s brow when the chains were in place. Nesbit turned back to Keleios. “If I had known your taste in men, we could have arranged

something.”

Keleios found her voice. “We could never arrange something, Nesbit.”

“Don’t be too sure.” He came close, caressing a finger down her cheek. “I’m sure you would be just as pleasant to bed as your sister was.”

She stared at him, brown eyes gone black with anger. “Methia has always had poor taste in men.”

His hand traveled downward, and Breena was there jerking him backward. His sword drew with a hiss of steel, and hers answered it.

Malcolm stepped into the firelight. “I thought you had come to arrest the traitors, not harass the healers.” The dwarf stepped between the two and motioned Breena back.

She spoke through clenched teeth. “He was touching her.”

Nesbit said, “She is a prisoner.”

Malcolm turned to Nesbit, his face blank, too blank. “Nesbit, I am allowing you to take her without a fight, but if I find that you have touched her in any way, I will challenge you to the sands.”

He began, “Challenge me, dwarf,” and Lord Garland stepped out of the dark.

He was naked above the waist, covered in grime and carrying a small cloth-wrapped bundle. His best-scenting hounds trailed round his legs. Garland had found few survivors. He stood beside Nesbit and forced the man to take the bundle. Nesbit held it clumsily, sword still free of its scarab. The bundle hung awkwardly, heavy in the wrong places, limp and hanging. Nesbit yelled and dropped it, leaping back from it. It hit the ground with a smack, and the cloth wrappings came loose. A child’s face stared out of it, blue eyes staring impossibly wide.

Nesbit had dropped his sword and was trying to scrape at his arms as if to cleanse himself. Astranthians considered it very bad luck for a sorcerer to touch the recently dead. A stain of blood began to soak through the cloth, spreading until the child lay in blood-soaked wrappings.

“That body did not bleed while I carried it, Nesbit. You touch it but a moment, and it bleeds.”

“No, I didn’t kill her.”

Malcolm said, “The dead always know who to blame. They are very good that way.”

For the first time Nesbit looked frightened, as if expecting ghosts to appear screaming in the night.

If Belor had been there, they could have arranged something for the High Councilman, but the illusionist wasn’t there, might never be with her again. Keleios had lost too much in the last few hours.