Thieves of Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Interesting?”

Diran looked up from the large book spread open on the table before him. Makala stood on the other side, leaning forward, hands pressed to the smooth, polished surface of the table. She was wearing a low-cut white dress, and the way she was standing afforded Diran an excellent view. He tried not to look, especially because he suspected Makala wanted him to look, but he couldn’t help sneaking a quick glance. Makala smiled.

“It’s diverting enough,” Diran said, instantly regretting his choice of words. Ever since he’d passed his final test almost a year ago, Makala had taken to teasing him in ways that made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to make it any easier for her by providing straight lines like that.

For once Makala let the opportunity pass.

“What is it?”

“A history of the Lhazaar Principalities where I spent my early childhood. I suspect much of it’s hyperbole, especially the more recent sections devoted to the exploits of the explorer Erdis Cai, but…” Diran trailed off as Makala burst out laughing. He scowled. “What’s so amusing?”

“You,” she said, her tone half-affectionate, half-teasing. “You always were something of a bookworm, but you’ve been spending so much time in here lately that you’re starting to talk like one of these musty old tomes!”

Diran couldn’t help smiling. “I like it here in the library. It’s quiet and peaceful, and it provides an opportunity for me to gather my thoughts. It’s somewhat like meditation for me, I guess.” He shrugged. “Besides, you know Emon encourages us to spend as much of our spare time reading as possible.”

“I know. ‘There is no such thing as useless information, my darlings.’” She did a passable imitation of Emon’s voice, and though Diran had heard her do it before, he laughed just as he always did.

“Sometimes I think you’re more suited for the life of a scholar than that of an assassin,” Makala said, clearly teasing now.

Diran didn’t rise to her bait this time, for truth was, he sometimes thought the same thing himself.

The library was the second largest room in Emon Gorsedd’s manor home, the first being the room where the warlord’s charges trained in the deadly arts of assassination. Emon was a firm believer that a well-honed mind was an assassin’s most important weapon, so he collected books and scrolls on every subject conceivable, and he expected his disciples to master the knowledge contained in the written word just as he expected them to master their blade work.

The library’s walls were lined with bookshelves that reached all the way to the room’s high ceiling almost thirty feet overhead. Numerous ladders were stationed throughout the library to provide access to reading material stored on the higher shelves. Painted on the ceiling was a detailed mural of the great dragons that represented the three parts of the world: Siberys, the Dragon Above; Khyber, the Dragon Below; and Eberron, the Dragon Between. Polished mahogany tables with soft leather chairs were spread throughout the room, but while there usually were at least two or three others present reading and doing research, today Diran and Makala were the only ones. In the middle of the room was a round table with an intricate map of Khorvaire carved into its surface. Whenever an assassin’s mission took him or her far enough from the manor grounds, Emon would always brief them on their travel route using the map table. Though he’d passed his final test, Diran had never been assigned a mission that took him that far away from home, but perhaps one day soon…

“I bet I can think of something more interesting to do than reading history.”

Makala came around to Diran’s side of the table and sat on the arm of his chair. She crossed her legs, the motion revealing that her white skirt was slit up the side to her mid-thigh. This time Diran didn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t interested in the sight of Makala’s bare leg.

“What sort of things?” he asked.

Makala leaned forward and closed the book Diran had been reading. She then turned back to him and said, “I was thinking of something like this.” She put her arms around Diran’s neck and kissed him. The kiss was long and slow and altogether wonderful. Diran had no idea how long the kiss lasted; he only knew that he was sorry when it was over.

Makala pulled away, but she kept one arm draped over his shoulders.

“You’d better be careful,” Diran said. “Quellin might suspend both of our library privileges if he catches us like this.”

Quellin was an elderly scholar whom Emon employed to oversee and maintain his collection of volumes. He was a quiet man with a sour disposition who acted as if Khorvaire would be a much finer place if all the people vanished overnight so there’d be no one to get fingerprints on the vellum pages of his precious books or mis-shelve them once they were finished reading. There was something else about Quellin that bothered Diran, though he couldn’t quite pin it down. Sometimes Diran would catch the elderly scholar looking at him with an expression of dark amusement, as if the man harbored a secret that he couldn’t wait to share.

Since Diran was quiet and always careful with the books, most of the time Quellin left him to his own devices. Sometimes, like today, he’d even step out of the room for a time while Diran read. Where the old scholar went and what he did, Diran didn’t know and didn’t care. He was just grateful not to have Quellin hovering about, just waiting for him to crinkle or, Sovereigns forbid, tear a page.

“I think Quellin has more important tasks to attend to right now than come check on his favorite reader. C’mon.” Makala slid off the chair arm, then took Diran by the hand and pulled him onto his feet.

“What are you up to?” Diran said suspiciously.

Makala gave him a sly smile. “You’ll see.”

She continued pulling Diran by the hand, leading him toward the back of the library. He had no idea what she had in mind. There was nothing in the back of the room except a wall of bookshelves crammed with reading material, but Diran didn’t care. He felt a mounting excitement with each step further that Makala led him, and he knew that at this moment he’d follow her into a nest of basilisks if she asked.

When they reached the back row of shelves, Makala stopped and released Diran’s hand. “You see that thick volume on the middle shelf… the one with the gold filigree on the spine?”

“Yes.”

“Remove it.”

Diran’s earlier ardor began to wane. The last time Makala had led him somewhere was during his final test. There were no other rites of passage for Emon’s students, at least none that he knew of, but this situation was starting to feel all too familiar. Still, he did as Makala asked and pulled the volume she’d identified off the shelf. As he did so, he glanced at the title: From Beyond: Extraplanar Entities and Otherworldly Manifestations. He didn’t recognize the author’s name, but the title was intriguing.

Makala reached past Diran and slid her hand into the space the book had occupied. She reached all the way to the back of the shelf and then pushed. There was a soft click and she quickly withdrew her hand.

“Step back,” she warned, doing so herself.

Diran did likewise, and the bookshelf swung slowly outward to reveal an open doorway beyond, with stone steps leading down into darkness. He supposed he should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t. He’d been a ward of Emon Gorsedd too long to be surprised my much of anything.

“I take it we go down,” he said.

“Of course. Put the book back on the shelf first, though. We don’t need it anymore. The door will close when we set foot on the third step.” She smiled. “Besides, Quellin would have a fit if you left it lying on the floor or worse, brought it with you.”

Diran slid the volume back into its proper place on the shelf then followed Makala through the doorway. As soon as Makala’s foot touched the third step from the top, the door-shelf began to swing closed. There was no light in the stairwell, and when the door closed all the way, they were left in complete darkness.

“Too bad I don’t have a lantern on me,” Diran said.

“We don’t need any light. The way is safe and we don’t have far to go. There’s no railing, but it helps if you put both hands on the walls as you go down.”

He heard Makala’s footfalls as she started down the stairs. As she’d advised, he stretched out his arms, touched his hands to the walls on either side of him, and followed. Diran counted the steps, something that had been ingrained in him by Emon’s training. After the thirteenth step they reached the bottom.

Makala’s hand found his in the darkness and she gave him a gentle squeeze.

“We have but a short hallway to cross, then we’ll reach another door. I can’t tell you what lies behind it, but I can tell you this: be strong.”

Diran felt her lips brush his, then she released his hand and started down the dark hallway. After only a second’s hesitation, Diran followed. Twenty steps later, he caught up to Makala. He heard the click of a door latch, then bluish-white light spilled into the hallway. Diran squinted to keep his eyes from being dazzled after walking through total darkness. He didn’t close them all the way, though. He’d been trained better than that.

The light was soft but enough to reveal the details of the hallway, the open door, and Makala, who stood in the doorway, a solemn expression on her face. The hall was made of gray stone, the door oak with thick iron bands around the edges. Diran knew this place lay beneath Emon Gorsedd’s home, but as to what it was, Diran hadn’t a clue. He’d never heard anyone speak of an underground chamber, had never suspected its existence.

He looked at Makala for some hint as to what he should do next, but she just continued looking at him without expression. No real help there, but then, he supposed he didn’t need any. He walked past Makala and through the open doorway.

Inside was a large chamber with smooth rounded walls and a domed ceiling. Light came from globes of mystic energy that hovered in the air near the walls. Curved wooden risers lined the walls on both sides of the chamber, and sitting on them were men and women, all looking at him with the same impassive expression Makala had worn. Many of the people were unfamiliar to Diran, but there were many that he recognized. All of them were older than he-some quite a bit so-and all of them were Emon’s “children,” as the warlord liked to call them: assassins who plied their trade for whatever clients Emon chose. Emon himself sat among them on the right side of the room, front row, center. There was an empty place beside Emon, and Diran had a good notion whom it was reserved for. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard the door close, then Makala walked past him and sat down next to Emon. The master assassin, unlike all the others, didn’t affect a neutral expression. He was smiling broadly, looking for all the world like a proud father.

In the center of the chamber was a large obsidian table. The blue-white light of the mystic globes gleamed off its highly polished surface, making the table seem to glow with its own internal power. There were runnels carved along each side, and Diran didn’t want to guess what they were for.

Standing behind the table was the librarian Quellin, though instead of his normal tunic and leggings he wore a hooded black robe. The old man usually displayed little emotion other than irritation or impatience, but the eyes beneath his bushy white brow shone with eager anticipation, and the mouth set in the midst of his full ivory beard was stretched into a dark smile. It was the first time Diran could remember seeing a smile of any kind on the librarian’s face, but the most striking feature in the chamber lay behind Quellin. It was an altar that rose nearly to the ceiling, carved out of the same black stone as everything else in the chamber. Six figures rose from the altar’s base, the statues rendered in crude detail, but no less recognizable for it. These were stone images of the Dark Six, gods of foulness and evil all: the Devourer, the Fury, the Keeper, the Mockery, the Shadow, and the Traveler. As with the table, the light from the globes played across the statues, gathering within their eyes and making it seem as if the Six were alive and staring at Diran, curious to see what he would do next.

No doubt the sensation the statues were watching him was solely due to his own imagination, but there were plenty of real eyes looking at him, Makala’s and Emon’s among them. Diran stepped toward the table and stopped when he reached it. He assumed he’d done the right thing, for Quellin’s smile grew wider and more sinister. Quellin spoke, his voice pitched at normal volume but nevertheless echoing throughout the chamber.

“Diran Bastiaan, welcome to the Chamber of Joining. Today you will take your last step toward becoming a full member of the Brotherhood of the Blade.” Quellin gestured toward the obsidian table. “Lie down.”

Diran knew better than to ask what would happen if he refused. He would be slain, perhaps even by Emon himself, but Diran didn’t want to refuse. Though he didn’t know what this ritual might require of him, whatever it was, it would be worth it to at last be accepted into Emon’s brotherhood. He climbed on top of the obsidian table and lay down. There was a smooth depression for the back of his head, and the cold, hard table made Diran feel as if he were a corpse laid out on a slab.

Quellin stepped around the table and stood by Diran’s head. “Today you are going to receive a great gift, Diran Bastiaan. After this day, you shall be stronger than ever before, your mind will be clearer, your senses sharper, your resolve more firm and your heart cold as frost-covered steel. After this day, you shall never again be alone.”

Obviously Quellin was much more than a simple librarian and scholar, Diran thought. Was he a wizard? A priest? A deluded madman? He supposed the next several moments would tell the tale.

Quellin turned and faced the ugly statues on the black stone altar. “We do the work of the Six, and to help us serve Them more efficiently, They imbue us with a small measure of Their own majestic darkness.” The old man turned back to Diran. “You have been deemed worthy of being granted the gift of the Dark Six, Diran. Do you accept it of your own free will?”

A part of Diran, perhaps the deepest part of him, wanted to say no, but the word that came out of his mouth was, “Yes.”

“Excellent,” Quellin said, almost hissing the world. He turned back to the altar and lifted his hands over his head.

“Here me, oh Six! Your servant comes before You once more and asks that You crack open the Gates of Oblivion and permit Your shadows to join with this willing vessel. Diran Bastiaan has proven himself worthy. Under his master’s tutelage, he has become a strong, swift, and cunning killer. All he lacks now is the touch of Your dark hands. I beseech You, reach out to this youth and grant him the fell blessing I ask, so that he might walk the face of this world as small reflection of Your own magnificence!”

As Quellin intoned his prayer, Diran had the impression of darkness gathering, pooling thickly around the base of the table, manifesting as a tarry black substance. The chamber grew colder, so cold that his breath came out as curling wisps of mist. Quellin stepped around to the table’s side, and Diran was able to look at him without craning his neck. The elderly man leaned closer and whispered, “Whatever you do, do not resist.”

Quellin straightened, reached between the fold of his robe and took out one of the daggers that hung from his belt. The old man pressed the blade’s hilt into Diran’s right hand.

“Two clean, quick cuts, one on each wrist,” Quellin said, “not too deep, but enough to open the arteries. Once you’ve made the cuts, return the dagger to me, then place your bleeding wrists into the runnels carved into the sides of the table. Do you understand?”

Diran nodded and felt the familiar sensation of a dagger hilt resting in his right palm. He closed his fingers around it then hesitated. If he did as Quellin commanded, he might well bleed to death, but if he didn’t do it, then he certainly would be killed for his defiance. He turned his head and looked at Emon and Makala. The master assassin was still smiling, but Makala’s face remained expressionless, as did those of all the others nearby. Then Makala gave him a wink and he knew that, whatever was about to happen, it was going to be all fight.

He was surprised by how little it hurt to make the cuts.

Quellin took the knife, and Diran lay back, putting his arms in the runnels as he’d been told. Seconds went by without anything happening as he slowly bled out his life’s blood onto the obsidian table, but then he sensed the darkness pooled around table’s base become alert, almost scenting the air like an eager hound. He felt it sliding up the side of the table, ebon tendrils probing as it came. He looked down at his feet. The runnels ended in shallow basins at the foot of the table, and the blood flowing from his opened veins had already filled them halfway. Dark tendrils stretched up over the edge and dipped into the basins, as if tasting the thick, red fluid they held. The darkness must’ve found what it tasted to be sweet, for it flowed up the sides, over the edge, and into the basins, splitting in two as it did so. The darkness absorbed the blood in the basins and then, hungry for more, flowed up the runnels, following the blood trail to Diran’s cut wrists. He watched as tendrils emerged from the leading edge of the darkness to brush against his wounds, their touch freezing cold on his flesh.

On each side, tendrils wormed their way into his wounds, and Diran screamed as he experienced a pain more excruciating than anything he had ever imagined. It took several minutes for the darkness to finish entering his body, and he screamed the entire time, until finally his throat was too raw to make further sound. Then it was over.

Diran lay on the table, breathing slowly. The runnels were dry and clear; not a speck of blood remained on them. Diran sat up and examined his wrists. The wounds had healed with no sign of scarring. He felt healthy, strong, bursting with energy. He leaped off the table and landed lightly on his feet. He was hungry enough to eat a whale, and at the same time he felt ready to take on an army single-handedly, armed with nothing more than his wits and a sharpened stick.

He looked at Makala with new understanding. This was why she was seemed so different over the last year. She’d already undergone her Joining, and now so had he.

Emon Gorsedd stood and clapped. He was joined by Makala, then one by one all the other assassins. Even Quellin was grinning and clapping.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood of the Blade, Diran!” Emon shouted.

Diran smiled, and if somewhere in the midst of all the clapping and cries of congratulation he heard a small dark voice whispering to him from the most shadowy corner of his soul, he thought nothing of it. It felt natural, felt right…

Felt good.

Diran’s eyes opened. At first he didn’t know where he was, but that didn’t matter because for the first time in years he felt complete again. Like an amputee who’d gotten used to the loss of a limb, he’d forgotten how good it was to be whole.

All too soon the feeling began to fade. Diran felt wind rushing on his face, smelled salt in the air, heard the gentle whisper of soarwood runners cutting through water. He looked up, saw stars, moons, and the Ring of Siberys, all illuminating the night sky, and he knew that he had been dreaming. With that realization, the last lingering feelings of completeness vanished, and an empty space opened up in Diran’s soul. He let out a long sigh.

“Uneasy dreams, my friend?” A woman’s voice, coming from the stern. Yvka.

The last of the dream fog lifted, and Diran remembered everything: the Black Fleet, Onkar, the Zephyr, Flotsam and Nowhere, and most of all, Makala. He turned to Ghaji. The half-orc sat with his arms crossed, head down, snoring softly. Diran rose quietly so as not to wake his friend and moved back to sit cross-legged on the deck facing Yvka.

“At least Ghaji is having no trouble sleeping,” the elf-woman said.

“Ghaji and I are both veterans of the Last War. One of the first things a soldier learns is to grab any opportunity for sleep. You never know when-or if-you’ll get another chance.”

The night air had grown chilly, especially with the wind kicked up by the Zephyr’s swift passage. Diran and Ghaji had broken out their bedrolls and wrapped them around their shoulders like shawls while Yvka was content to make do with a light traveler’s cloak. She’d offered to let them sleep in the Zephyrs cabin, cramped though it might be for two, especially when one of those two was as big as Ghaji, but the two companions had declined. Not only did they want to remain on deck in case of trouble, they still weren’t sure how much they should trust Yvka.

“Speaking of sleep,” Diran said, “you’ve been piloting the Zephyr without rest since we left Nowhere. I was raised in the Principalities. I learned to sail almost before I could walk. It’s been a while since I sat at a tiller, but I think I can remember enough to take your place so you can get some rest.”

“I’m holding up fine. My people don’t need as much rest as yours. Besides, I want to maintain our best speed. The sooner we reach Dreadhold, the sooner we’ll be able to track down Erdis Cai.”

Diran looked at the column behind Yvka, atop which sat the metallic containment ring that kept the air elemental bound and servile. The interior of the ring glowed with shimmering blue energy as the elemental continued producing wind to fill the Zephyr’s sails.

“Are you certain?” Diran asked. “I would think that an enchantment this powerful would take a great deal of energy out of the pilot.”

“Controlling the elemental takes effort, but the magic’s primarily in the ship itself,” Yvka said. “The ring, the column, this chair… the hand-link carved into the arm has been keyed especially to me, though the spell could be broken by a wizard or even an especially skilled artificer. All I have to do is remain in physical contact with the hand-link for the elemental to stay active. It would remain so even if I slept, though I would be unable to work the tiller of course.”

“Then I can take over for you,” Diran said. “It would mean my standing next to your chair since I couldn’t sit in it while you slept, but I-”

“Again, you have my thanks, Diran, but as I said, there is no need.”

“You don’t trust us, Ghaji and me, do you?”

There was enough moonlight for Diran to make out Yvka’s features, and he saw her sad smile.

“It was how I was trained,” Yvka said. “Trust no one. Surely you understand.”

Diran frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You and Ghaji have been traveling in the Principalities for weeks now, and your presence has not gone unnoticed by the people I work for.” Another smile, but one of amusement this time. “You and Ghaji don’t exactly keep a low profile.”

Diran couldn’t help smiling himself. “I admit we have a tendency to stand out at times, so… how much do you know about us?”

“One of the primary goods my employers traffic in is information,” the elf-woman replied. “It would be simpler for me to tell you what I don’t know about the two of you.”

“I see.” Diran paused for a moment before going on. “In that case, yes, I had similar training, but I’ve learned how to trust over the years.” He cast a glance back at Ghaji, but the half-orc was still asleep.

“You two make a good team,” Yvka said. “Is Ghaji also a follower of the Silver Flame?”

“Ghaji tends mote to the orcs’ belief in the divinity of nature, when he thinks about religion at all, that is.”

“I would think that might prove a source of conflict between the two of you.”

“Why? My order believes that the Silver Flame is the source of all that is Good in existence and that in the end, all good things will rejoin the source from which they came and become one with the Silver Flame. Ghaji’s belief in the sanctity of nature is simply a belief in one aspect of the Silver Flame. At least, that’s what I keep telling him. I don’t think he believes me, though.”

Yvka laughed softly. “I’ve never met a priest like you before Diran.”

Diran replied in all seriousness. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

They sailed on in silence for a time after that, and Diran found himself thinking again of his dream. Though he was glad to be free of the dark spirit Quellin had implanted in him, part of him still missed its presence within his soul and always would. Not for the first time he wondered if by devoting his life to the Silver Flame, especially with its belief in rejoining the source of all good after one’s death, he simply wasn’t trying to replace the loss of his dark spirit with a different brand of spiritually. He knew what Tusya, his mentor in the Church and the priest who exorcised the dark spirit from his soul, would say.

When in doubt, look to your heart, Diran. Your heart is your connection to the Silver Flame, and you’ll always find the answers you need there.

He also knew what Emon Gorsedd would say. You’ve just traded one addiction for another, Diran, that’s all. You’ve never truly been your own man and you never will be. You’ll always be one of my children.

To take his mind off these troubling thoughts, Diran resumed his conversation with Yvka. “Do you truly believe we’re on the right track?”

“If you mean, will we find an old artificer named Tresslar working at Dreadhold who supposedly sailed with Erdis Cai’s crew on their last journey, despite the fact that no other survivors had come forward, then yes. My employers have been aware of the man’s claims since before he joined the warders of Dreadhold, but did the man truly sail with Erdis Cai, and even if he did, does he have any idea of where Cai may be holed up today? I don’t know, but this is the only lead we have, so we must pursue it.”

If anyone could lead them to Erdis Cai, it would be Tresslar, assuming the man wasn’t a lunatic or a liar. The only way to know for certain was to sail to Dreadhold, the toughest, most isolated prison in Khorvaire, and see for themselves.

“Tell me, Yvka, why are you helping us? I was under the impression that the Shadow Network was completely mercenary.”

“If by mercenary, you mean we look after our interests along with those of our clients, then of course. We’re a business like any other, and you’re not one to talk lightly about mercenary motives, Diran Bastiaan. Despite your earlier claim to be a soldier in the Last War, the truth is you were an assassin-for-hire.”

The elf-woman’s tone of derision stung more than her words.

“What you say is true, though for a time I deluded myself into believing that my actions served a greater good than profit. So you’re saying someone has hired the Shadow Network to discover the secrets of the Black Fleet?”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort. Your goals and my goals happen to coincide at the moment.” She glanced at Ghaji’s sleeping form. “Besides, I’m starting to grow fond of your cantankerous friend.”

Diran smiled. “He does have a tendency to grow on you.”

A large dark form broke the water’s surface a dozen yards off the port bow. Both Diran and Yvka tensed, for many large aquatic creatures swam the depths of the Lhazaar Sea, and precious few of them were benign, but the dark shape released a spray of water from a blowhole, and both the priest and the elf-woman relaxed. Just a whale. The animal continued swimming close to the surface as the swift elemental sloop left it behind.

When they’d put a good amount of distance between themselves and the whale, Yvka spoke once more. “I have another question for you, Diran, but given my own reticence to answer yours, I’ll understand if you prefer not to respond.”

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Back at Nowhere, when the thieves tried to steal the Zephyr…”

“Yes?”

“The way you killed that half-elf woman… given your former profession, I’m not surprised that you possessed the skill to slay her with such a dagger throw, but for a priest who supposedly reveres life…”

“You expected a little more mercy.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

Diran thought for a moment as he decided the best way to address Yvka’s concern.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming that you’ve received training similar to mine, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you had occasion to use it.”

Yvka didn’t dispute this, so Diran went on.

“Then you know that it’s much more difficult to subdue a foe than kill him. The half-elf was going to strike Ghaji with an arrow. If I could’ve stopped her without killing her, I would have, but at that range, and with her so close to releasing her arrow, I had to make certain she didn’t harm Ghaji. The only way I could do that was to slay her.”

“You don’t sound particularly remorseful,” Yvka said.

“The woman chose to attempt to steal the Zephyr, and she chose to draw her bow on Ghaji.” Diran shrugged. “I chose to protect my friend.”

“As simple as that, eh?”

A parade of faces flashed quickly through Diran’s mind, the half-elf woman’s the last in a long line. “Killing is never simple,” he said softly.

“Does your faith make it any easier to deal with?” Yvka asked. “Do you truly believe in absolute good and absolute evil?”

“It does and I do,” Diran answered.

“So certain creatures are just inherently evil and must be slain?”

“Since becoming a priest, I’ve encountered all manner of demons, spirits, and undead. Some were most definitely evil and had to be put down. Others fought the evil in their natures but ultimately failed, and there have been a precious few who, while suffering evil’s taint, were able to keep the darkness within them from dictating their actions. Were these latter creatures evil? Some of the more fanatical in my order would deem them so, but I’m not certain.”

“Have you ever spared any such creatures and later regretted doing so?” Yvka asked.

“Only once,” Diran said, “and it nearly cost Ghaji and me not only our lives but also our very souls.”

Once more, he heard Emon Gorsedd’s voice in his mind. You talk a good game, Diran, but we both know that deep down, you’re nothing but a killer. It doesn’t matter if you slay men or monsters, or whether you do it for money or for some abstract ideal called “Good.” You enjoy killing and you’re damn good at it. End of story.

“Enough of such talk,” Diran said, more to himself than to Yvka. “How much farther is it to Dreadhold?”

Yvka looked up at the stars and did a quick mental calculation. “I’d say another four hours, three at the earliest.” She sniffed the air. “A storm’s in the offing, though, and might slow us down some. In any event, you should try to get some sleep, Diran. You’ll need your full strength when we reach Dreadhold.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Yvka, I’d rather stay up. It’ll give you a chance to tell me what I need to know about Dreadhold.”

“As well as prevent your having any more nightmares?” the elf-woman asked.

Diran smiled. “That too.”

“Very well. Dreadhold was first established long ago by Karrn the Conqueror as a facility for exiling deposed rulers and courtiers that fell from favor. Over the centuries…”