It was over.
Her body loosened so quickly and so completely that she collapsed. Vomit poured from her, and her vision was a swirling blur. Her eyes watered, her nose ran, and she came within half a second of wetting herself.
That was over too.
Danifae was shaking as she stood. She mastered the barrage of emotions that assaulted her—everything from humiliation to homicidal rage—with a single thought:
I'm free.
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and stepped away from her own sick. Zinnirit followed, reaching out to steady her in case she fell again, but she avoided his touch, and he seemed as reluctant to touch her.
"I can't feel her," Danifae said even as she realized that the connection was truly gone.
"She won't feel you either," said the mage. "She'll probably think you died. . wherever she is."
Danifae nodded and collected herself. Part of her wanted to shriek with delight, to dance and sing like some sun-cursed surface elf, but she did not. There was still one more thing she needed. The battle-captive turned free drow blinked the tears from her eyes and looked at the old mage's hands.
Zinnirit wore many rings, but Danifae was looking for one in particular, and she recognized it immediately. On the second finger of Zinnirit's left hand was a band of intertwined platinum and copper traced with delicate Draconic script.
"You kept it," she said.
He looked at her with narrowed eyes and shook his head.
"That ring," she explained. "My mother's ring."
Zinnirit nodded, unsure.
"You enchanted that for her yourself, didn't you?" she asked.
Zinnirit nodded again.
"Wherever she might go," Danifae mused, "that ring would return her home to her private chamber in House Yauntyrr in far Eryndlyn. I remember she used it once when we were in Llacerellyn. The ring took us both home when an idle threat turned into an assassination attempt and someone sent an elemental after her.
"You've never used it? You've never tried to go back?"
"There's nothing there," the mage answered too quickly. "Nothing to return to. I retuned the ring years ago to bring me back here."
"Still, have you ever had necessity to use it?" she asked. "Has it ever brought you back here from some distant cave?"
Zinnirit shook his head.
"Never stepped through your own gates?"
The old drow shook his head again and said, "I have nowhere to go."
Danifae tipped her head to one side and let the tiniest smile of appreciation slide across her lips.
"You poor thing," she whispered. "All these years … so lonely, waiting for one last chance to serve a daughter of House Yauntyrr."
Danifae reached out and took Zinnirit's hand. The mage flinched at her touch but didn't pull away.
She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. Considering she'd just thrown up all over his floor, Zinnirit winced at the gesture, but still allowed it. Danifae pressed the old drow's hand to her cheek. It felt warmer, less dry.
"Dear Zinnirit," she whispered, looking the old mage in the eye, "what has become of you?"
"I'm a thousand years old," the mage replied. "At least, I think I am. I have no House, just these three gates and whatever meager tolls I can charge. I'm a stranger in a strange city, with no House to protect me, no matron mother to serve. What has become of me? I can barely remember 'me'."
Danifae kissed his hand again and whispered, "You remember me, don't you, House Mage?"
He didn't reply but didn't take his hand away.
"You remember our lessons," she said, punctuating her words with the gentle brush of her lips against his hand. "Our special lessons?"
She took his finger into her mouth and let her tongue play over it. The old drow's skin was dry and tasteless then there was the tang of metal against her lips.
"I didn't. ." the mage mumbled. "I don't. ."
Danifae slipped the ring off his finger, slowly teasing his flesh with her lips all the way. She tucked the ring under her tongue before kissing the back of his hand again.
"I do," she said.
Danifae twisted the old drow's arm down and around hard and fast enough that more than one bone snapped in more than one place. Zinnirit gasped in pain and surprise and didn't even try to stop Danifae from turning him around. She brought her other hand up and cupped his chin. She was standing behind him, his broken arm twisted painfully behind his back.
"I remember," she whispered into his ear. Then she broke his neck.
For any mage, the preparation of a day's spells was part experience, part intuition, and part inspiration. Pharaun Mizzrym was no different.
From time to time he looked up from his spellbook to refresh his eyes and let a particularly complex incantation sink into his memory. What he saw when he looked up was the still, quiet deck of the ship of chaos. Larger patches of sinew and cartilage and ever more complex traceries of veins and arteries embellished the bone ship. It lived—a simple, pain-ravaged, tortured, insensible life—and when it was quiet and the others were still in Reverie, Pharaun imagined he felt the thing breathing.
The uridezu captain lay in his place, visited only by the occasional rat. He was curled into a tight ball, his body wrapped into itself in a way that made Pharaun's back ache to look at it. His breathing was deep and regular, punctuated by the odd snore.
Jeggred sat opposite the captured demon, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head down. Unlike Pharaun and his fellow dark elves, the draegloth slept. Obviously that was a trait carried over from his father, Belshazu.
Well, the Master of Sorcere thought, you can't chose your parents.
Quenthel sat as far away from the rest of them as she could, at the very tip of the demon ship's pointed bow. Her back was turned to Pharaun, and she sat straight and stiff, meditating.
Can you talk? a voice echoed at the edge of his consciousness—a voice he recognized.
Aliisza?he thought back.
You remember me, the alu-demon's voice echoed more loudly in his head—or was it more clearly? I will consider that a supreme honor.
As well you should, Pharaun sent back, instinctively attaching light, playful emotions to the thought. Where are you?
On the ceiling, she replied, right above you.
Pharaun couldn't help but look up, but even with his fine dark-vision, the gloom of the Lake of Shadows hid the ceiling from his sight.
How did you find me? he asked.
I'm a resourceful, intelligent, and talented woman.
That you are, he replied.
If you levitate straight up, she sent, you'll come right to me.
Well,Pharaun returned, in that case. .
The wizard closed the book he was working on, the spell still not fully prepared, and tucked the volume back into his pack. He stood and touched the brooch that held his piwafwi on his shoulders.
Straight up? he sent.
I'll catch you, came the alu-demon's playful reply.
Pharaun's feet left the deck, and he accelerated, the ship falling rapidly away beneath him. When it was lost—or more properly when he was lost—in the pitch-dark shadows of the ominous cavern, he slowed.
"A little more," Aliisza whispered to him, her voice barely audible.
Pharaun came to a stop slowly, a defensive spell hanging on his lips in case the alu-demon turned on him—she was a demon after all, so there was always some possibility of that.
There was a surprisingly loud rustle, and Pharaun looked up. Aliisza, her batlike wings spread out behind her, was slowly sinking toward him. He turned so they were facing each other.
They were almost together when Aliisza asked, "Can your levitation hold me up?"