Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

“Behind you!” the sword yelled.

She dove to one side. Harque’s dagger thrust missed and sent the witch stumbling, blind

eyes following Keleios. The succubus grabbed Keleios’ ankle. Ache silvestri leapt to her hand. Keleios chopped the hand that held the dagger. It parted at the wrist and fell out of reach. Harque and the succubus screamed. Without thinking, Keleios allowed the sword to sink home in the demon and felt the power of the succubus creeping upward. She struggled to free herself, but it held.

She watched in a haze as Harque scrambled toward her, powder trickling from her remaining hand. An ax seemed to float into view, and the witch’s head spun out of sight. The powder flew harmlessly, sparkling in the air.

Keleios’ straining muscles pulled her and the sword backward as it freed them. She dropped the sword, but it made no sound through the roaring in her head. Tobin was there, kneeling, holding her, but only his lips moved. There was no sound but the surging voices in her head, the power of death, and a whisper of seduction.

The shapeshifting demon was there, all green now and small, the necklace winking in the lights. Keleios realized he wasn’t a demon at all but an imp. No self-respecting demon would accept imps as kin, so small and weak were they. He was pulling at Tobin’s arm. Lothor bent over her, but still they were far away.

A phrase slipped through. “It’s the sword ...”

Yes, of course it was. It was trying to take over, to steal her away from herself, the soul-sucking bastard. She tried to slam shields inside her mind and shut it out, but this time her sorcery would not come. Her head buzzed with the sword’s presence, and the essence of the demon they had just killed. Her sorcery was nothing before the combined power. Keleios did what had to be done, accepted the power that flowed round her and the sword, and swallowed the evil and the memories of rituals that no mortal ever sees.

Slowly the world was heard again, and the sword fell silent, pouting, so close, but not close enough. Tobin helped her to her feet, and she stumbled, realizing that she was hurt. Blood seeped from a side wound. The blurred fight had taken its price. Lothor cleaned and resheathed her blade and snapped the locks in place.

“Where is Eroar?” she asked.

“He is conversing with the golden worm.”

She looked a question at him, and Lothor said, “You came the easy way. We had to get by the watch worm.”

“Didn’t he,” she asked, pointing to the green imp, “aid you?”

“Yes, your little friend aided us. But the worm was suspicious, so Eroar showed his true shape. They are comparing notes for the last hundred years.”

“What of the demons?”

“They fled when Harque died. Can’t you feel it?”

Keleios could feel a freedom, a cleanness, and yet there was something wrong with it. The place had been evil for so long; it would take time.

They swept the desk clean and laid her upon it. Poth leapt up beside her with a questioning meow, but Lothor told her to get down. She did. “No more questions until I see to that wound.” Lothor’s slender fingers explored the wound and his face went blank,

his breathing slow and shallow. The familiar warmth flowed through her, and he bent with the pain of his new wound. He healed the deepest scratches and stopped the blood loss.

He stood straight, sweat beading his face. “You will live.”

“That is comforting to know, healer.” She sat up, carefully feeling the healed side. “We must free the dungeon prisoners.”

Lothor shook his head. “There is no time.”

“Harque is dead; the demons have fled. There is time. I won’t leave anyone to starve in the cells below.”

He was angry but hid it fairly well and stalked off to search the study. The green imp hopped beside her. “I did well, didn’t I, Master, I did well?”

“Yes, Groghe, you did well.”

He swelled his thin chest out with pride. “What do you want me to do next, Master?”

“Bring me the keys to the dungeon.” He turned to leave. “Wait. Can you guide us through the prison area? Do you know it well?”

He seemed ready to cry. “No, oh, Master, no, I do not.”

“It’s all right. Just bring me the keys and see if there is anyone left who would be a good guide. Do not bring the guide to us. Just look at the guide and tell us of him, or her. Do you understand?”

“Yes, oh, yes.”

“Then go.”

Keleios slid off the desk and began searching Harque’s bookshelves. Tobin leaned near the door, nervously gripping his sword. Poth had curled up on Harque’s thronelike chair, yellow eyes watching Keleios.

Lothor stepped up behind her, drawing an impossibly large suit of elven chain mail from his belt pouch. He held it out toward her. “Here. With this on perhaps you won’t be hurt quite so fast.”

She touched the lengths slowly. They sounded like rain when they fell against one another. “It is a generous offer.”

“I simply want you alive for our bargain, and you need better than ruined leather armor.”

She held the chain, caressing it, and went to the desk once more. As she began to take the remains of leather off, she realized just how little was left on under it. She turned to ask Lothor to look the other way, but he was already smiling. “The price for the armor. Call it a promise of things to come.”

“Urle’s forge, black healer, don’t you ever tire of baiting me?”

“No.”

Tobin stared at the door without being asked.

Keleios turned her back on them and began to change. Most chain mail would have chafed

and scraped without proper padding under it, but this was Vallerian mail. It felt light as cloth, as cool and good to the skin as silk. In the way of elven armor it fit to her body as if made just for her. Keleios belted the sword into place and she felt safer.

“It becomes you, Keleios.”

“Thank you, Prince Lothor.”

Tobin turned. “I have never seen such delicate workmanship.”

“Nor will you outside of the elven kingdoms.”

Something tugged at her magic. Something alien.

The shapeshifting imp returned with the keys dangling from his wrist. Keleios complimented him on his success.

“I shaped into Harque, and the head dungeon master himself gave me the keys.”

“Could you reform into Harque and maintain the shape?”

He nodded and began the change.

Again something called to her. It whispered, “Find me. Take me with you.”

A perfect replica of the witch stood before them. Keleios moved around the demon and walked to a small wooden cabinet. It was locked. Keleios smashed the wood in and opened it. Inside was a squarish bundle covered in grey silk. She took it out and drew a sharp breath.

Lothor asked, “What have you found?”

“I’m not sure, but it called to me. It didn’t want to be left behind.”

“Keleios, only the great weapons and relics take care of themselves.”

“I’m aware of that.” She laid the book on the desk and unwrapped it slowly. The binding was grey. There were no runes on the cover, no warning, no instructions, no hints. She opened the front cover carefully and met a strangely yellowed page with rust-brown ink snaking across it. Keleios stepped back, rubbing her hand and shaking her head, “I’m hurt; the book struck at me.” The world seemed to tilt, and she went to her knees, waiting for it to pass. When she could stand, she said, “It is The Book of Grey .”

“But that is legend.”

“Just as Ice was a legend, and the demon-slaying sword.”

He did not reply.

“There are entirely too many relics floating about lately.”

“You think someone is handing them out as rewards.”