Friends in the dark.
Kall lowered his weapon. “I had no idea the stones were linked.”
“No matter the language, the gems will translate. They have another power,” Laerin said. He dropped the second emerald in Kall’s open hand. “Anyone who possesses one of the emeralds can locate the other two at any time, no matter the distance.”
“Been tracking you since you left the hut,” said Morgan.
“What does the message mean?” Kall asked, still watching the half-elf. “Friends in the dark?”
“Means diggers,” Laerin said. He winked at Kall.
“Nothing wrong with digging,” Morgan agreed.
Kall looked up at the boulder, but Cesira had gone.
“She’s rejoined the druids,” Laerin explained. “But she’ll be back.” He pushed off the rock. “We should go. Garavin will be waiting.”
Kall held the sparkling emeralds in his hand. The forest was eerily quiet, tense and uncertain in the wake of the goblin battle. In the distance, fires still burned.
It would take a long time, Kall thought, but eventually the forest would look as it had before. Maybe it would be stronger for all the damage it had suffered. Kall wondered if he would see the mist stags again.
Turning, he followed Morgan and Laerin back to Garavin’s hut.
Chapter Eight
Three years later, the house looked exactly as he remembered it.
Kall expected to meet the bulk of the resistance at the door, but there was only one guard, a skinny, tired-looking man who stood by the window, with a fist stuck in his mouth to stifle a yawn.
Kall slid around the side of the house, beneath the windows facing the front hedgerows. He came up behind the guard and clipped him on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword. The guard crumpled; Kall caught him under the armpits and dragged him into the shadows behind the bushes.
Returning to the door, he took out the set of lockpicks Laerin had given him and set to work. He hadn’t nearly the half-elf’s skill, but what he lacked in grace he made up for with persistence. The lock gave way with a click.
Inside the entry hall, lanterns were dimmed for sleep, but Kall knew his house well enough to feel his way. He listened for signs that someone had detected his presence, but he heard nothing.
One inept guard at the door and no stirring in the house—it was too easy for Kall’s comfort. His father would never have permitted such a breach of his private space. A sinking unease filled Kall’s chest.
He stepped forward, passing between two twisted columns. He heard the second click a heartbeat too late.
Kall ducked, on the off chance the trap was aimed at his head, but the danger came from below. Metal spikes burst from camouflaged gaps in the marble floor, ringing him in a field of razors. If he’d been standing directly on top of one of them, Kall was certain he’d have lost a foot. A spike caught him in the calf, shearing away his boot like so much meat off the bone.
Kall resisted the urge to jump back, lest he should trigger more of the deadly spikes. Regaining his balance, he began moving forward again, watching the floor for holes. He made it to the other side of the hall without encountering any further traps.
In the shadows beneath the main staircase, Kall paused to listen again. He’d never known his father kept such deadly traps in his own home. Dhairr had always feared assassins—Kall had grown up with nightmares from listening to his father’s tales about shadowy, hidden foes—but this? It made his father seem a prisoner in his own home. What other secrets had Dhairr kept from him?
He pushed the thoughts away. He had to find Balram. Someone was sure to have heard the trap go off. He was running out of time.
The back wall by the staircase had only one door. It opened onto the garden between the main house and the towers. He could conceal himself better in the garden than the hall.
Kall listened at the door, hearing a faint scraping sound coming from the other side. He tested the lock, but it was open. Slowly, he eased the door inward a crack.
In the center of the garden, illuminated by faint moonglow, Dhairr Morel crouched in the fountain’s dry basin, digging at a jagged crack with his sword. The blade was dull and notched from repeated scrapes across the stone. A shrill, metallic screech filled the air as he worked.
Kall simply watched his father, unable to believe the changes wrought in his visage. Flesh stretched taut beneath his eyes and along his jaw. His lips were colorless and bore ragged crevices and gaps where he’d bitten them too deeply. His hair was thin and coarse, like a wisp broom. It hung past his shoulders and dragged the fountain bowl when Dhairr bent his ear to the crack. His eyes fell on Kall and narrowed.
“Who are you?” he rasped. He flipped his blade up, menacing Kall with nothing more than a blunt edge. “Begone, assassin! You’ll not have my family.”
“Father,” Kall said, taking a step forward. “Don’t you recognize me? I am your family—Kall, your son.”
“Kall,” Dhairr repeated, testing the name on his tongue. Slow comprehension broke over his wasted face. “So you’ve returned. Kall the traitor—have you come back to finish what you started?”
“No, Father,” Kall said. “I’ve come back to free you.”
“Lies!”
Dhairr lunged, aiming at Kall’s midsection. For all the changes, his father was still fast, and Kall was so stunned by the outburst he almost allowed himself to be impaled upon Dhairr’s notched blade. He backed away and tripped, landing awkwardly on his side on the walkway.
Dhairr smiled cruelly. “Don’t be careless, Kall. You think I won’t do to you what I did to Haig? That I’ll show mercy because you’re my son? You have no idea who I am, boy.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying—” Kall dodged another swing. His father was still caught in the grip of Balram’s spell; he still believed Kall had betrayed him. Kall arched his back, snapping his legs downward in a sharp thrust to get his feet under him. The quick, acrobatic move made Dhairr back off a step, long enough for Kall to bring his sword up at a defensive slant.
“You would fight me with a Morel emerald?” Dhairr slapped Kall’s sword, revealing the matching gems borne by both blades—one steeped in magic, the other caked with dirt. “You were never worthy of bearing that sword.” Dhairr sprang again, slashing in and up, trying to get under Kall’s guard.
“Father, tell me where Balram is. He’s the traitor.” Kall caught the notched blade and twisted to pry the weapon from Dhairr’s fingers. Obediently, Dhairr abandoned the sword and threw his fist instead, landing a blow hard above Kall’s ear.
Dazed, Kall shuffled back. His father flipped his sword back into his hands with the toe of his boot. “You’re going to lose if you don’t fight in earnest. Think carefully, Kall. You either mean it or you die.”
Kall shook his head to clear it. “I’m here to kill Balram, not you,” he insisted.
“Balram is gone,” Dhairr said. “He left me to face my assassins alone, but I’m more than able to weed the filth from my garden.”
“Father, please.” Kall blocked high and crosswise as Dhairr chopped downward mercilessly with both hands. The impact resonated along Kall’s blade to the hilt. Kall was reminded anew of how strong the man could be. Sick as he was, his father was right: Kall couldn’t afford to fight the battle halfheartedly.
“You can resist Balram’s control,” Kall said. He took a step back and to the side, circling Dhairr, waiting for him to take another lunge. He did not. He seemed to be listening. “Balram may be gone, but his evil is still eating away at your soul. Can’t you see?” It was a rhetorical question, for Kall immediately took the offensive, bringing his blade in high.