Cart looked down at her and was struck again at the expressiveness of her face. Shadows and lines beneath her eyes, which he hadn't noticed before, told him how tired she was. Creases in her brow spoke of worry and anxiety. The hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth, and something in the warm brown of her eyes whispered of what he was coming to recognize as her affection for him, mixed with something else-something else that made her want to smile, or made her think of a reason to smile.
"I think that's largely up to us," Cart said. "Now come on!" He stepped up his pace again, and Ashara had to let go of his arm as she hustled to keep up.
"What's the hurry? Do we have to save the world right now?"
"We might."
Ashara gave up asking questions after that, saving her breath for running as he led the way back to Havrakhad's apartment.
As he walked, Cart imagined his footsteps-the steady beating of the metal and leather in his feet against the cobblestones-as one beat in a larger cadence, as if he were part of an army marching toward the kalashtar's home, an army of truth and light marching forth to do battle against the darkness. It comforted him to think in those terms, as if the axe at his side could help him against the nightmare monster he'd seen, as if the age of darkness were an enemy army he could stand against. As if he and Ashara were not alone in the dark streets of Fairhaven, cut off from what few allies they had.
But if his steady strides were a marching cadence, a steady drumbeat impelling him forward with determination and resolve, Ashara's steps were a fluttering descant that lent a hint of panic to the march. They reminded him of the frightened mobs he'd seen fleeing from the quori or screaming at the barbarians' approach in his visions. Part of him wanted to join his steps to hers, to run from the threat they faced, to pretend there was nothing they could do but wait for the age to turn.
Then his steps brought him into the small immigrant neighborhood where Havrakhad lived. There weren't enough kalashtar in the city-or members of any race native to their homeland of Adar-to form a district of their own, the way that dwarves had established a community around the Kundarak enclave or Karrns clustered around Drake Street on the east side. Instead, the kalashtar lived in an apartment building of Aundairian construction, which would have blended perfectly with the white plastered buildings on either side if it weren't for the colorful banners that streamed from balconies and windows on every one of its four stories. On their previous visits, Ashara had mentioned another distinguishing feature that he was blind to-the aroma of Adaran cooking, which made use of spices and seasonings unfamiliar to Aundairian nostrils.
"Cardamom," Ashara said. "Oh, Cart, I wish this were all over and I could just go home and cook a good meal, relax in front of the fire, and sleep in my own bed."
The yearning in her voice made Cart melancholy. She was longing for simple comforts and pleasures that meant nothing to him, and he couldn't imagine what it would be like to share them with her. When this was all over, would there be room in her life for him?
He pushed open the door to the apartment building and started up the stairs. Ashara trailed behind him in silence, perhaps lost in her reverie, perhaps wondering why he hadn't answered her. He took the stairs slowly, one at a time, so she could keep up. And, he told himself, so he didn't make as much noise.
At the top of the stairs, Ashara broke her silence. "What will you do? When it's all over?"
Cart shrugged. "I don't know. I've always been a soldier. Already I'm feeling my way in the dark, but at least I have a purpose. I suppose it's just a matter of finding a new purpose."
"One mission after the next."
"Something like that." Cart reached the door to Havrakhad's home. Ashara started to say something else, but he held up his hand and she stopped. The door was open.
"Havrakhad?" he called quietly.
The door didn't look like it had been forced, and peering into the dark room beyond he didn't immediately see any sign of violence. Even so, the situation felt wrong. He slid his axe from his belt and called out again, a little louder.
Hearing no answer, he glanced at Ashara, who nodded, and stepped softly through the open door. A dim glow filtered from an inner room, giving him just enough light to distinguish the general outline of the room.
"Havrakhad? It's Cart."
Ashara gasped, and before he could turn around, he felt a stab of pain in the back of his head, right where it rested on his neck, and his vision went black.
"Please don't fight me, Lady d'Cannith," Havrakhad's soft voice said.
Clutching his axe, Cart turned, trying to fix the voice in front of him so he could defend against another attack. Havrakhad was moving as well-Cart could hear the soft rustle of his flowing clothes.
"What did you do to him?" Ashara's voice came from the doorway. Cart tried to visualize the room, remembering his other visits, and place the three of them in it.
"It was regrettably necessary," Havrakhad said. "He carries an eye of the quori in his mind, and they must not see me. So for the time being, Cart must not see me either."
"An eye of the quori?" Cart said. He put his free hand to the back of his head. The nightmare creature had touched him there, right where Havrakhad had-what had the kalashtar done? In both cases, it had felt like the stab of a dagger, but a real blade there would have killed him.
"Come in, please, and close the door," Havrakhad said, as gracious a host as he had been before.
Cart heard Ashara move, and he shifted nervously.
"Easy, Cart," she whispered. "Maybe you should put your axe away."
"What's happening?" Cart said. He had fought in the dark before, straining to see his foes in the barest of moonlight filtered through a cover of clouds. But there had always been something to see, some shred of light he could use to find his foe or at least ward off attacks. This was different, and terrifying. It wasn't just blackness-it was as though his mind had forgotten that there was such a thing as sight. As though he didn't have eyes and never had. Worst of all, though, was the fact that his enemy-if Havrakhad was now his foe-could still see him.
"It's all right." Ashara's voice was closer now, and soothing. She touched his arm and he flinched. "It's all right," she repeated, and took his arm, and he started to relax. "Here, let me take your axe." Her soft hand was on his, and he started to relax his grip.
"No!"
He pulled away and stumbled toward the door again. What if it was all a trick? A quori or another mindbender could fool him so easily, could make him think he was hearing Havrakhad's voice and Ashara's, disarm him and capture him. He tightened his grip on his axe and tried to put his back to the door, uncomfortably aware that he had lost track of Havrakhad.
"Cart, please!" There was a note of desperation in Ashara's voice that made him even more suspicious. Did Havrakhad or some other enemy have a knife at her throat?
That thought put a new edge on his fear. If the voice he was hearing really was Ashara's, she could be in deadly danger. He could be endangering her with his actions. He couldn't do that. He let his axe clatter to the floor, then followed it down, dropping to his knees.
"I yield," he said. "Please don't harm her."
"I assure you," Havrakhad said, his voice right at Cart's shoulder, "Ashara is unharmed, and I mean you no harm either." Cart felt the kalashtar's warm hand on his shoulder. "Please come and sit with me. We have much to discuss."
Ashara moved to his other side, and together she and Havrakhad helped him stand and guided him farther into the apartment. They turned him sideways to go through a doorway, then wheeled him full around and backed him up against a couch.
"Sit," Ashara whispered, and he slowly sank down onto the soft cushions behind him.