Finally, they reached a large open space that spread away into the darkness. A high ceiling rose into shadow, and the walls were stripped and windowless. Furniture had been piled against the walls so that the center of the room was left bare and empty.
Lariana started ahead once more, but Paxon took hold of her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Wait a minute,” he said, his instincts suddenly on edge.
“What is it?” Avelene hissed.
The Highlander shook his head. “I don’t know. Something.”
Lariana freed her arm from his grip. He glanced at her questioningly, but she said nothing, just glared at him. “Avelene,” he said. “Can you detect anything?”
The Druid placed her werelight on his fingertips, a cool flameless glow that tingled slightly but otherwise left no impression. He held it up for her as she began making small gestures that caused the air to stir and fresh light to appear and then illuminate the dark corners of the box–like chamber. The blue streaks reappeared, weaving their way along the surface of the walls and across the ceiling. She continued her search for a few minutes more and then shook her head.
“There is something, but I can’t tell what it is. Or even where it is. Complex magic of an unfamiliar form–very sophisticated. But it doesn’t seem threatening. I don’t detect any edges or teeth to it.”
Lariana stepped forward. “We’re wasting time. If he’s here, he’ll be just ahead.” She pointed. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
She started across the room before either Paxon or Avelene could prevent it, her determined stride carrying her quickly beyond their reach. When she was perhaps fifteen feet ahead, still illuminated by the glow of the werelight, she turned.
“You should have listened to me,” she called over her shoulder. “Now you have to trust me, like it or not.”
Then abruptly the floor opened up beneath her, and she disappeared.
In a building deep in the heart of the city, Arcannen sat hunched over a small table, writing on a piece of paper. A smokeless lamp burned away the shadows that threatened to close in on him, the edges of its light reaching to where Reyn Frosch sat watching from across the room.
They had arrived in Sterne earlier that evening, and Arcannen had brought him straight here. But then the sorcerer had gone out again, explaining as he left that he had important preparations to make for Lariana’s arrival. On his return, several hours later, he had gone right to work on the invitation. It appeared to Reyn that they were inside a complex of living spaces, but it was hard to be certain because no one else seemed to be around. Their new quarters were spare, but adequate–a central living space, a room with two beds, and a few pieces of furniture.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked finally.
“Extending an invitation,” the other answered. He didn’t look up. “Are you hungry?”
Already impatient and agitated over what was happening–even without knowing for certain what that was–Reyn had become increasingly unhappy as the minutes dragged by.
“I don’t need to eat,” he snapped. “I need to know what’s going on. I need to know what’s happened to Lariana. Are you going to tell me any of this?”
“Soon. Why don’t you get some sleep? This might take a while.”
“What might take a while? What are we doing?”
Arcannen looked up now. “Waiting on Lariana. Didn’t I already tell you that? Didn’t I say she would be coming to join us later? Well, later isn’t here yet. Try exercising a modicum of patience. You’re tired and you’re not thinking straight. Get some sleep.”
Reyn slouched in his chair. “I’m not tired.”
“Just unhappy. A condition entirely of your own making. My regrets.” The sorcerer went back to writing. “Do what you choose. But stop complaining.”
The boy waited a few minutes, then he rose and walked over to the small pantry area and looked in the cold box. It contained cheese, bread, and a handful of dates that still looked edible, along with a container of ale. He found a plate and a glass in the cupboard. He still wasn’t hungry, but it was something to do. Carrying his meal with him, he returned to his chair, sat down again, and began to eat.
More than once he had considered trying to leave. Escape, he corrected himself, since by now he considered himself as much a prisoner as anything else. Arcannen was determined to avenge himself against Usurient and the Red Slash, and use Reyn to help him. Nothing the boy said to prevent his involvement seemed to help. The sorcerer’s plan, whatever it was, remained a mystery–and his own role equally so. Even Lariana’s purpose was shrouded in hints and suggestions of deceit and trickery. He could not shake his suspicion that she was leading him on. He could not help thinking her commitment was not to him, no matter what she said; it was to Arcannen. He even wondered if they were lovers, and that possibility cut at him with a knife’s edge. The idea of it was unimaginable, but it nagged at him nevertheless. Their relationship was clearly more than what either was telling him, and his relationship with both was clearly something less.
Across the room, the sorcerer had written out and thrown away three drafts of his mysterious invitation, dissatisfied with each effort. Too many words, the boy had heard him mumble earlier. Now he was at work on a fourth draft, his head bent to the task. Reyn wondered again what he was doing. It seemed to absorb him, his attention given over to it completely. Perhaps now was the time to work his way over to the door and simply slip out.
But that sort of thinking was not just foolish; it was dangerous. Lariana had warned him about going against Arcannen in even the smallest way, and while he might be questioning much of what she had told him, he was pretty sure of this.
Finally, the sorcerer finished a draft that satisfied him, and he lifted his head, leaned back in his chair, and stretched. “There. That will do. Now let’s get some sleep. We might have a few hours.”
Reyn grimaced, feeling petulant. “I’m not sleepy.”
“You weren’t hungry, either. But suit yourself. Just don’t try to leave the room.”
The sorcerer rose, walked into the bedroom, and lay down on one of the beds. Reyn watched him roll over until his back was turned and then listened as his snores began. He was asleep. This was the boy’s chance. Just get up, walk over to the door, and leave. No hesitation, no sounds.
You could do it, he told himself. You know you could.
Yet something told him he couldn’t. Arcannen wouldn’t have left anything to chance. There would be wards or warnings that any such attempt would trip. As tempting as the opportunity might be, he knew he should pass it up.
He slouched in the chair, his mind working, his doubts and fears roiling in dark waves, and wished he had never started any of this. He should have found another way, back when he was still in Portlow and there was a chance. Now he was trapped, not only by the sorcerer’s expectations and demands, but also by his attraction to Lariana. Even knowing she might not feel toward him as he had hoped, even believing it was all a game.
He was still worrying it like a dog would a bone when he fell asleep.