Sea of Death

CHAPTER SEVEN

So this is a Tinker's Room," Hinto said. "Looks like a trash heap tossed about by a hurricane."

The halfling's comment might have irritated Tresslar if it hadn't been so apt.

The cellar of Illyia's gallery was crammed full with wooden tables, so many that there was barely room to walk between them. There were no chairs or other furnishings of any kind, simply for the fact that there wasn't any remaining space. Row upon row of shelves lined the walls, and the room was lit by a dozen or so of Illyia's bubbles that floated near the ceiling, glowing with greenish-yellow phosphorescence like some kind of spherical deep-sea creatures. Mounds of junk covered every flat surface in the cellar-tables and shelves alike. Fragments of metal, chunks of minerals, pieces of wood, jewels and gems in a variety of colors and sizes-including a few small dragonshards here and there-along with bits of string, twisted lengths of wire, nubs of wax, an assortment of nails, screws, bolts, and nuts… There were tools as well, everything from mundane hammers, wrenches, and chisels to exotic objects designed to help balance magic matrices, bind minor elementals, and merge incompatible energy sources.

A dozen men and women of various races were present, either working alone at tables or standing in groups of two and three, chatting and, in more than a few cases, arguing good-naturedly.

"— impure dragonshards do have their uses, I agree on that point, but you have to concede the danger in-"

"— crazy? If you try to bind an elemental that way, the containment ring will blow up in your-"

"— and then she said to me, 'I didn't realize artificers could build things like that!'"

Laughter followed that last comment, and Tresslar couldn't help smiling himself. He'd spent so many years working on Dreadhold, hiding from the monster Erdis Cai had become, that he'd forgotten how much he missed the simple camaraderie of other artificers. Oh, he hadn't been the only artificer working at Dreadhold. Far from it. But the dwarf artificers of House Kundarak had never really accepted him as one of their own. Or perhaps, Tresslar mused, he had never accepted them. Perhaps things would be different now, if he were to return to the prison island.

Most of the artificers in the room were too involved in their work or conversations to notice the newcomers, but a few glanced their way and immediately fixed their gazes on Solus. They stared at the psiforged with undisguised interest. Tresslar was certain they were eager to come over and inspect the construct, but the protocols of Tinker's Rooms everywhere discouraged approaching new arrivals unless they made it clear they were open to socializing.

Illyia led them down the stairs into the cellar and stood next to Tresslar, a little closer than was strictly proper-not that he was complaining.

"Are you here for anything in particular," she asked, "or is this just a recreational visit?"

One of the duties of a Tinker's Room host was to help artificers find the tools and materials they might need if they'd come to tend to a specific task, such as repairing a magical device or even building one from scratch.

"Please tell me you're not going to feed her another of your moldy old lines, Tresslar," Hinto said. "They stink worse than goat cheese that's been left out in the sun too long."

Tresslar glared at the halfling before turning to Solus. "I don't suppose you would consider psionically suppressing his so-called sense of humor."

The psiforged cocked his head to the side. "I find his wit amusing."

Tresslar couldn't tell if Solus was being serious or not. He'd never heard a warforged laugh or tell a joke, but that didn't mean the constructs didn't appreciate humor in others.

Tresslar decided to ignore the halfling and the psiforged and answer Illyia's question. "Actually, we've come in search of information. One of my devices-a very special one-was recently stolen. I'm hoping to find some leads as to where it might be so I can get it back."

Illyia frowned. "This is a Tinker's Room, not a place where stolen good are fenced."

Tresslar held up his hands. "Please, I mean no offense. But if your Tinker's Room is anything like the others I've visited over the years, more than information is exchanged here. Tinker's gossip is what they used to call it."

Illyia's frowned faded and she smiled. "And they still do, at least here in Kolbyr. But you have to know just how reliable that gossip often is."

"Not very," Tresslar admitted. "But I have to start somewhere."

Illyia considered for a moment. "Perhaps it would be best if you allowed me to make inquiries on your behalf. I'm someone they know and trust. They'll be more forthcoming with me."

"I'd appreciate that," Tresslar said. "The object I'm looking for is a wand with a golden dragon's head affixed-"

"Tresslar," Solus interrupted. "Something is happening."

Tresslar looked to the psiforged, but before the construct could explain further, the conversations in the room rose in volume. The voices not only got louder, they took on a harsh, angry edge. Soon the gathered artificers were shouting at one another, gripping tools in clenched fists and waving them about as they yelled, almost as if they intended to wield the objects as weapons.

Tresslar felt a wave of anger wash over him. He was about to rebuke the impertinent psiforged for interrupting his conversation with Illyia, but before the artificer could speak, the emotion faded, though it didn't completely vanish. Tresslar still felt irritated, but his level of anger had diminished to the point where he could handle it.

"The Fury is growing stronger," Illyia said. The enchanted spheres that formed her dress began to glow, and Tresslar knew their magic was protecting her against the curse of Kolbyr.

"Why would it suddenly get worse?" Hinto asked. "You likened the Fury to weather, Illyia, but it can't be like a storm that blows weak one moment then strong the next… can it?"

"Not in this case, my friend," Solus said. His artificial eyes shimmered with green light, and the multicolored crystals embedded on the surface of his body pulsed with psionic energy. "Diran and Ghaji are confronting the creature responsible for the Fury, and it's fighting back-not only by striking out at our friends, but by attacking the entire city. Illyia has her magic to protect her, and I can continue to shield the three of us from the worst of the Fury, but that's all I can do."

"If Diran and Ghaji are in trouble, then we should go to the palace and help them!" Hinto said.

Tresslar regretted splitting off from the others to go in search of his dragonwand. The mystic object was undeniably powerful, but in the end it was just a thing. Diran and Ghaji were good men, good companions, good friends, and they mattered far more than any number of magical artifacts ever could.

"You're right," Tresslar said. "We might not be able to reach the palace in time to be of any assistance to them, but we have to try." He turned to Illyia to make his farewell to her, but his words died in his throat before he could speak them.

The room had gone completely silent.

They looked to the artificers who had only moments before been arguing amongst themselves. Every man and woman now glared at them, eyes wild with hate, teeth bared in animalistic snarls. They clutched a variety of objects in their hands-mystic tools, magical devices, even metal rods that they gripped like clubs.

Then, as if obeying some unspoken signal, the artificers bellowed like mindless beasts and came running toward them.

Yvka didn't know how to respond to Zivon's pronouncement-more like a warning, really-that she was expected to deliver both Solus and Tresslar's dragonwand to the Shadow Network. She desperately tried to think of a way to stall Zivon until she could come up with an appropriate answer, but she was so stunned by this development that nothing came to mind.

Zivon popped a well-seasoned mussel into his mouth and chewed while he waited for Yvka to speak. She knew he would gauge her level of compliance and, more importantly, its sincerity by the amount of time she took to think before responding. She had only seconds to speak, and whatever she said, it had to be good.

"You ask a great deal," she said. "I'm not sure that simply remaining in the Network's good graces is payment enough."

Zivon looked at her while he swallowed the last of the mussel. Then, though it appeared he was trying hard not to, he smiled.

"Spoken like a true operative. Of course, whether you mean what you say or are merely putting on a front to protect your friends"-he sneered as he said this word-"is debatable. But then, a little mystery is the spice of life, is it not?"

Yvka gave Zivon a sly smile before reaching across the table to take his wine cup. She raised the cup in a toast, then lifted it to her lips and drank. But as she started to put the wine back down in front of Zivon, she felt a cold, prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She'd worked many years as an operative for the Shadow Network, longer than a human lifetime, and that experience had sharpened her survival instincts to a keen edge. Now those instincts were screaming at her that there was danger nearby. She glanced quickly around the room but saw nothing that could account for her feeling. The sensation of danger didn't dissipate, though. Instead, it continued to grow worse, until it felt as if the threat were all around her, as if the Culinarian itself were the danger.

She looked to Zivon to see if he felt it too, but before she could broach the subject, the man bared his teeth at her, snarled like a wild animal, and lunged across the table, hands twisted into claws as he attempted to grab hold of her. Yvka leaned back in her chair, pressed the soles of her boots against the edge of the table, and pushed with all her strength. Though she was petite and slender, she was an elf and far stronger than she appeared. The table slammed into Zivon's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Yvka's chair fell backward, and just before it struck the floor she performed a graceful reverse somersault and finished standing on her feet.

She reached into the pouch that dangled from her belt and withdrew what seemed to be a simple goose feather with tiny arcane symbols etched into the quill. Zivon still sat, face red, gasping for breath, but despite his discomfort, he continued to glare at her with undiminished hatred. She knew that he intended to kill her and that nothing would stop him-nothing except the mystical weapon she held in her hand.

Anger took hold of her. How dare Zivon attack her like that? He might rank higher on the Network hierarchy than she, but that didn't give him the right to treat her with such disrespect! She was Yvka w'Ydellan, member of House Phiarlan by birth, now member of House Thuranni by choice. She allowed no one to lay hands upon her person-no one!

She began whispering the charm that would activate the poison-tipped quill-dart and send it flying straight into Zivon's heart with all the swiftness and force of a crossbow bolt. But before she had gotten halfway through the spell, her voice died away. She saw that the room had descended into total pandemonium. Diners and servers alike were attacking one another, using utensils, bare hands, even morsels of food as weapons. They fought with wild-eyed ferocity, yelling with incoherent fury as they struck blows frenzied and savage.

Where had this sudden rage come from? It wasn't like her to become so emotional, especially in the midst of a hazardous situation. It was her ability to think calmly and rationally during moments like these that had kept her alive for so many years. How…

Then it hit her. Sudden rage.

The Fury.

Something had happened to make the Fury intensify, and she had a good idea what: Diran and Ghaji had reached the palace of Baroness Calida and had begun their attempt to remove the curse on the House of Kolbyr. If that were the case, and the Fury was this intense here, how much worse would it be in the palace, the center of the curse? She feared for Diran, but most of all, she feared for Ghaji.

Gods be with you, love.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that her anger was false, forced upon her by foul magic. Perhaps it was the cool rationality that she had cultivated and relied on for her entire life. And perhaps it was simply concern for the safety of the man she loved. Whichever did the trick, the Fury lost its hold on her, and she no longer felt a burning desire to send a mystic missile shooting into Zivon's heart.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean that Zivon had abandoned his desire to slay her.

The man had caught his breath at last. He grabbed hold of one of his utensils-a fork-and with a growl, he overturned the table, leaped to his feet, and charged.

Armed only with a magical quill she no longer wished to use, Yvka steeled herself to meet his assault and wondered how-or even if-she could stop Zivon without killing him.

The man in the ragged cloak stood in the street outside the palace home of Baroness Calida. He had tracked Diran, Ghaji, and Asenka here, but-as he had no excuse to allow him entrance-he had been forced to remain outside. He'd overheard enough of the three companions' conversation as he'd followed to know what Diran intended to do, and he also knew that Diran, strong as he was, would have difficulty dealing with the evil that dwelled within the halls of the palace. And so he waited outside, bow in hand and strung, quiver slung over his shoulder, waiting for the moment his aid would be needed.

It didn't take long.

He could sense the evil the palace radiated, could almost see it as a foul black cloud spreading outward in all directions from the building. More, he could smell it: like the carcass of an animal that had been gutted and cast into a sewage pit to rot. The stink offended him on a primal level, and-though it shamed him to acknowledge this-it excited a part of him, too. His mouth began to water and without his realizing it, a soft growl of desire began rumbling deep in his throat.

Then, like a sudden violent cloudburst, the dark energy emanating from the palace doubled, tripled, quadrupled in intensity. The cloaked man felt the evil power slam into him with almost physical force and then move past as it rolled like an ebon wave to inundate the streets of Kolbyr. For an instant, the cloaked man's spirit was almost swept away by the dark tide, but he resisted the call of the Fury. He'd had much experience resisting such urgings over the last few months, and though it had been an ordeal, that experience saved him now.

Unfortunately, the citizens of Kolbyr, though used to withstanding the day-to-day effects of the Fury, had no preparation for dealing with it at full intensity. The Fury grabbed hold of their minds, instantly transforming them into murderous fiends intent only one thing: shedding as much blood as they could as swiftly as possible. The air filled with shrieks of fury, maniacal laughter, and cries of agony as the ensorcelled Kolbyrites began a sickening orgy of pain and death. The cloaked man hesitated, torn as to where his duty lay. He didn't wish to abandon the people in the street to their fate, but if Diran and Ghaji failed to lift the curse, every man, woman, and child within the city would perish, and there would be nothing he, one lone bowman, could do to save them.

His duty was clear.

Leontis ran toward the palace's main entrance.

The throat and the heart, Diran decided. Slash one, pierce the other… do it at the same time, and even a creature as strong as a half-orc would perish within moments. He'd have to make sure to stay clear of the beast's flaming axe, but even if he did take an injury, as long as it wasn't a mortal blow he would be able to heal himself after his opponent had been reduced to a cooling corpse. Then…

The half-orc swung his elemental axe in a wide arc designed to separate Diran's head from his body. It was a clumsy attack, fueled by emotion rather than directed by skill, and Diran knew he could easily evade it and get in his planned strikes. But instead of lashing out at the half-orc with his daggers, Diran threw himself to the side, tucked in his right shoulder, rolled, and came to his feet. He spun around to guard against another attack by the half-orc, and-though his hands itched to hurl his daggers at the green-skinned half-blood-Diran stood and regarded his foe.

Something about what was happening bothered Diran. The situation seemed wrong somehow, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. On the surface, it all appeared simple enough: he hated the half-orc, the half-orc hated him, and each wanted the other dead. But…

You thought of healing yourself a moment ago. Your power to heal flows from the Silver Flame. You are a priest of the Silver Flame, one of the Purified. You do not kill without reason, and you certainly do not want to kill your friend.

Friend. It was a simple word, but a profound one, and as if it were a charm to counter to effects of the Fury, once he'd thought it, Diran found himself released from the demon's influence.

Ghaji moved in for another strike, features contorted into a mask of pure hatred. Diran wanted to speak to his friend, to try to reach the real Ghaji, but there was no time. The demon had unleashed the full force of the Fury upon Kolbyr, and Diran knew that at this moment men, women, and children throughout the city were in the grip of the Fury's killing madness. Innocents were dying, and Diran couldn't afford to waste any more time.

With a bestial roar, Ghaji swung his axe in an upward arc designed to gut Diran from stomach to throat. Diran sidestepped the blow-the heat from the elemental axe's flame stinging the skin of his face-then he moved in close and, wielding his daggers with surgical precision, he sliced through Ghaji's right bicep with one blade while at the same time that he rammed the second into the half-orc's right quadriceps, sinking the dagger into the leg muscle all the way to the hilt.

Ghaji bellowed in pain and released his grip on the axe. The weapon's flames extinguished the instant physical contact with its wielder was broken, and the axe fell to the floor. Without the illumination provided by the elemental weapon, the windowless chamber plunged into darkness. Before Diran could move out of the way, Ghaji-maddened with pain-head-butted him, and bright light flashed behind the priest's eyes. Diran staggered backward, struggling to hold onto consciousness, knowing that if he passed out, the demon would be victorious and dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Kolbyrites would die. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a small light gem. It wasn't very powerful, but when Diran activated it, the gem shone brightly enough for him to see.

Blood gushed from Ghaji's wounds, but the half-orc limped toward Diran, teeth bared, eyes burning with a hatred born of madness and evil. Diran still held the dagger he'd used to slice Ghaji's arm-the other was still embedded in Ghaji's leg-and he flipped the dagger into the air, caught it by the blade-tip, and hurled it directly at the point between Ghaji's eyes. The dagger hilt struck the half-orc a solid blow before bouncing off and falling to the floor. Ghaji stood, fighting to remain upright, but then his eyes rolled white and he collapsed.

"That's a surprise. I would've put my money on the half-orc."

Diran turned around to regard the demon. If Ghaji hadn't been under the fiend's spell and had been able to fight with a clear mind, Diran might well have died at the hands of his friend. It had been a near enough thing as it was.

Diran's vision was blurred and his head swam, but he managed to keep on his feet. He walked over to where his silver arrowhead had fallen. He bent down to retrieve the holy symbol. Once his fingers closed about its cool metal surface, he felt renewed strength, and when he stood again his vision had cleared and his dizziness was gone.

"It's over, Demon. Vacate the boy's body now or I'll eject you by force. This is your last warning."

The demon chuckled, but the sound lacked confidence. "I have plagued the House of Kolbyr for a hundred years, and I'll continue to plague it long after you've rejoined your precious Silver Flame, priest."

Diran hadn't expected a demon this powerful to give up easily. He glanced at Ghaji's unconscious form to make certain that his friend wouldn't rise and attempt to kill him while he worked to exorcise the demon, and then he started walking toward the naked scarred body of Calida's son.

The demon made no move to defend itself-no physical move, that is. The body it inhabited was no stronger than that of an ordinary boy. But the fiend redoubled its efforts to ensnare Diran's spirit with the force of its Fury. Diran felt as if he walked against gale-force winds, but he concentrated on the image of a silvery flame burning at the core of his being, and he continued moving step by tortuous step toward the demon. When he reached the boy, Diran knelt before him and pressed the silver arrowhead to his forehead. Silver light flashed bright as a lightning strike, and the demon let out an agonized shriek so loud Diran could feel the floor vibrate beneath his feet.

The priest began speaking the Rite of Exorcism in a strong, clear voice, and the demon's howling increased in volume, as if it thought it could negate the rite by drowning out Diran's words. But Diran continued praying aloud, silver light blazing forth from the arrowhead and filling the chamber with its pristine energy.

The demon's screams reached a crescendo, and Diran knew from long experience that the rite had almost done its work. Just a little longer…

"Fine!" shrieked the demon. "If I can't stay here, then I'll just have to find myself a new home, won't I?"

Diran felt a cold, foul wave of infernal power wash over him, and he knew that the demon had been forced out of the boy and was seeking to enter the next closest body available: his.

Such a nice strong, body… and there's already a place for me here! Once you've played host to darkness, it leaves a hollowed-out space inside your soul, Diran Bastiaan. All sorts of nasty things can find their way inside you and make themselves right at home.

Diran felt the demon's spirit attempting to wriggle its way inside him, like a worm invading the flesh of a potential host. But Diran wasn't without his defenses, and he fought back with all the spiritual strength at his command.

It goes both ways, demon, Diran thought. I once shared my soul with one of your kind, and that does make me more susceptible to possession. But I also know what it's like to resist evil and cast it out of my heart.

Diran closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the fiend as a cross between a spider and a squid, with a touch of boar tossed in for variety. He didn't recognize the demon's species, but that wasn't important. What was important was the thin dark thread that emerged from the demon's back and trailed off into the distance. It was this astral thread that connected the demon to the physical world, and more particularly, to the House of Kolbyr. The mystic connection had been created by the sorceress who had originally summoned the demon a century ago, and it was what allowed the fiend to continue returning generation after generation to possess one innocent child after another.

Diran visualized a dagger forged from purest silver, a stylized flame etched into the blade. He imagined the dagger positioning itself over the ebon astral thread, imagined the blade rising to strike…

Wait! I wasn't lying when I said I can show you things! I can reveal to you important information about the present, even draw aside the veil that conceals the future…

New images flashed through Diran's mind, obscuring the demon, the astral thread, and the silver dagger. He saw the Zephyr, sailing across the choppy waters of the Lhazaar, an obsidian sarcophagus resting on the deck, its lid sealed shut. Sitting behind the elemental containment ring and guiding the vessel was an orange-skinned goblin wearing a gray cloak. No, not a goblin. A barghest. The one who served the lich Diran and the others had destroyed in the foothills outside of Perhata… the one who'd stolen Tresslar's dragonwand in the psiforge facility housed within Mount Luster. Diran tried to look up at the sky so that he might note the position of the sun and perhaps get an idea of which direction the craft was headed, but the image faded too soon. It was replaced by a vision of a dank cave where the skeleton of a dragon lay in final repose, and as swiftly as that image appeared, it was supplanted by another. A city at night: cobblestone streets, fine architecture, everbright lanterns illuminating the way for crowds of well-dressed pedestrians… Diran recognized the city as Regalport, the gem of the Principalities. And though he wasn't certain how, he knew he was looking at a scene not far off in the future.

Sudden alarm crossed the faces of the men and women in the vision, and though there was no sound to accompany the images, Diran could tell from the pedestrians' terrified expressions that they were screaming. He soon saw why: creatures emerged from the alleys and poured into the street, half-human monstrosities with smooth gray skin, mouths filled with rows of triangular teeth, and eyes black and cold as death. The monsters attacked anything that moved, rending flesh with sharp claws, tearing away bloody hunks of meat with their teeth… and though the vision showed one street only, Diran knew that the scene was being repeated throughout Regalport. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of the half-human creatures swarmed throughout the city, killing wherever they went.

One last image superimposed itself on the horrible scene: the face of a brown-furred wolf, teeth bared in a snarl, human intelligence shining in its eyes…

The vision faded and once more Diran saw only the demon, the thread, and the blade.

Let me in, and I'll serve you well! All these visions will I reveal to you in full, and far more besides! Think of all the good you could do, priest, with the knowledge I can provide!

Diran's only reply was to imagine the blade slicing downward. The astral thread was severed, and the demon's form faded with a last echoing cry of despair.

Diran opened his eyes.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him was Calida's son. The boy's skin was smooth and unmarked, his eyes clear but confused. Diran could feel the lingering taint of the Fury hanging in the air about them, but he could sense no evil from the child. The demon was gone; the curse of Kolbyr lifted.

Diran took his hand away from the boy's forehead and tucked the silver arrowhead back into his pocket. He then reached out and smoothed a lock of hair from the child's forehead. "Everything's going to be all right now, Taran."

The boy's eyes went wide as he stared at a point beyond Diran. The priest heard the faint scrape of boot leather on stone and turned to see Ghaji staggering toward him. The half-orc's right arm dangled useless at his side, and he dragged his left leg behind him, the dagger still embedded in muscle. He held his elemental axe in his left hand, though he had not activated its flame, perhaps because he lacked the presence of mind to do so. His face was contorted with furious hate, and Diran knew that even though the demon had been banished, the Fury had not released its hold on his friend.

"It's over, Ghaji. You don't have to do this." Diran didn't want to harm Ghaji any further, but if the Fury continued roiling within his soul unabated, he might well prove a danger to the child, and Diran couldn't allow that. More to the point, Ghaji-the true Ghaji-would want Diran to stop him.

Diran reached back into his cloak's inner lining and withdrew a dagger.

"Please…" Diran pleaded. "Don't make me do this."

Ghaji frowned in confusion and looked at Diran as if truly seeing him for the first time since being gripped by the Fury. But then the hate returned to Ghaji's face and he lifted the axe over his head.

Diran, his heart breaking, was just about to hurl the dagger toward the point just below Ghaji's throat apple when he heard the unmistakable twang of a bowstring. Ghaji stiffened, took a stagger-step forward, then dropped his axe. The half-orc turned around to face the chamber's entrance, and as he did, Diran saw the end of a feathered shaft protruding from between the half-orc's shoulder blades.

Standing in the open doorway was a bearded man in a ragged cloak. He held a bow at the ready, another arrow already nocked and trained on Ghaji. The half-orc took three hesitant steps toward the door before his knees buckled and he collapsed.

Leontis gazed at Diran, his expression unreadable.

"Greetings, my brother. Looks like I arrived just in time-as usual."

As the artificers attacked, Tresslar wished he'd foregone the Tinker's Room tradition of not entering with a weapon in hand. The Fury-crazed men and women would be on them in seconds-not nearly enough time for Tresslar to rummage around in his pack for a device to defend himself and his friends.

"Solus?" Tresslar shouted.

"The Fury has too strong a hold on them," the psiforged said, sounding eerily calm in the face of the artificers' murderous fury. "I cannot reach their minds."

Tresslar was about to suggest Solus try telekinesis, but before he could say anything, Illyia spread her arms and the mystic bubbles that comprised her outfit burst outward in a shower of translucent spheres. Separate bubbles flew toward each of the attacking artificers, growing larger as they went. The spheres molded around the artificers' heads without popping and sealed themselves tight.

The men and women stopped their attack, frowning and blinking in confusion, as if they had just woken from some manner of strange group dream.

Solus nodded in appreciation. "Very impressive."

Tresslar looked to Illyia, who now stood completely and unashamedly naked. He opened his mouth to echo the psiforged's comment-though with an entirely different meaning-but then Hinto, as if his short time as Solus's companion had granted him telepathic powers of his own cut off the artificer.

"Don't you dare say it!"

Tresslar scowled at the halfling while Illyia laughed.

Yvka prepared to send the mystic quill streaking into Zivon's heart, and damn the consequences. Either the Grand Hierarchs of House Thuranni would understand or they wouldn't, but whatever final judgment they might render upon her, she wasn't going to die at the end of a glutton's fork.

She danced aside as Zivon swiped his improvised weapon at her, but in so doing she lost her grip on the quill, and the enchanted feather fell to the floor. Zivon tried one more strike, this one coming closer to landing, and the elf-woman barely avoided being skewered.

"Bilge-rot!" Yvka swore, and reached into her pouch to find another weapon. But as her fingers rifled through the remaining objects within, Zivon lunged at her a third time, the tines of his fork aimed for her jugular.

Yvka prepared to throw herself to the side to avoid Zivon's strike, but she felt a sudden burning sensation on the inner flesh of her left forearm, and she winced, momentarily distracted by the pain-but a moment was all Zivon needed.

But before Zivon could plunge the fork into Yvka's neck, a patch of darkness appeared in front of the man's face and sealed itself tight to his features, as if it were an ebon mask. Zivon broke off his attack, dropped his fork, and clawed at the darkness clinging to his face. He staggered backward. His foot landed on some kind of bright-red glop that Yvka thought might have once been sorbet, and his legs flew out from under him. He fell backwards and landed on his rump with a tailbone-jarring thud.

Yvka realized then that the sounds of fighting-angry shouts, cries of pain, blows landed by fists, feet, and utensils-had ceased. The Fury was over.

The dark mask covering Zivon's face was gone, and he sat looking up at Yvka as if he didn't quite recognize her, his expression no longer contorted by madness, his features calm, if confused.

The burning sensation on Yvka's forearm had subsided somewhat, but it still hurt. She rolled back her sleeve to examine her forearm, and for a moment she stared in stunned disbelief at the stylized blue mark on her flesh.

Sovereigns! She'd manifested a dragonmark! She recognized it as the Mark of Shadow, one of the dragonmarks carried by both House Phiarlan and House Thuranni.

Zivon recognized the mark, too, and smiled. "Well, well, well… the Hierarchs will most definitely be interested in this development!"

Zivon held out his hand and, after a moment's hesitation, Yvka reached out to help him up.