The boy darted away, snorting. “Oh, sure, rip my throat out then pet me like your lap dog. Don’t fret, Lady, my manhood’s unscathed. If you’re going to do this, give me your boots before you go in.”
“My what—why?”
“Just hurry!”
Rolling her eyes, Meisha pulled the buckles loose and braced herself against the door as Talal yanked off her thigh-length boots. Her stockinged feet instantly went frigid when they touched the floor.
“You’re welcome,” she muttered as the boy darted off down the passage in the direction of the voices.
Meisha pulled the door shut, sealing it securely from the inside. She stood a moment with her ear to the wood, listening for approaching footsteps, but she heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face the room and whatever doom might await her.
Varan was asleep. She’d looked in on the wizard from behind the door a handful of times since coming to the Delve, and each time he’d been awake and active, building his mysterious items. She’d never seen him at rest.
He lay in a half-slump in a corner, clutching sheafs of parchment in limp fingers, far away from the pallet Haroun had made for him. Meisha suspected he worked himself into exhaustion and simply collapsed wherever he happened to be sitting.
His pile of magic items had been depleted. Talal or one of the others had collected the tribute.
Moving along the wall, Meisha sat down a safe distance from the wizard. His breathing was deep and regular, but his arms and legs twitched erratically, like a dog in the throes of some disturbing dream.
“What are you seeing, Master?” she whispered aloud, knowing he could not hear her. “What is tormenting you?” Was it the fire beast? Meisha had always sensed a wrongness, a feeling of malevolence lurking at the edges of Varans underground sanctuary, but remembering the ghosts warning and her own strange dreams, she felt the sensation intensify a hundredfold.
And now the Shadow Thieves were here. Meisha ran a hand down her back, over the ridge of healing flesh. She hadn’t been strong enough to take them on when she was whole. She had no chance now. All she could do was pray to the Lady that Kall had gotten her message. The ghost had said only that he would deliver it. He hadn’t appeared since to confirm or deny its receipt.
Sighing, Meisha traced a circle in the dirt and sediment in front of her. “Chareff” The familiar power kindled—the first spell she’d ever learned.
Always have a candle for the rats, Shaera had chided her.
She placed the tiny flame in the circle. Meisha lay down on her side, curling around the fire so she could watch Varan sleep.
He continued to toss and turn fitfully. Meisha bit her lip as she felt power stir anew, magic awakened by the wizard’s violent trembles. It called to the sorcerous power within her, raking over her skin like hot coals. She shuddered.
Then why not end it? Give him a quick, merciful death.
The memory came out of nowhere, the words biting at Meisha’s heart. The woman who’d spoken those words to Kall was unrecognizable to her now. She had no desire to be reminded of the person she’d once been.
“Kall,” she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes as she remembered the young man who’d stood defiantly in her path and watched his death smolder in her eyes. “I understand now.”
She could never kill Varan. Even had she the magical might, she had no will for the task. Not when there was a chance he might be saved.
She closed her eyes against the memories, retreating instinctively into a meditative trance. Varan had taught her that, as well. She would need to conserve as much strength as possible for what lay ahead. She’d been wrong—she couldn’t rely on Kall getting her message. Something had to be done to get the refugees out of the Delve before Varan became any more volatile. For if the fire beast didn’t kill them all, Meisha knew, deep in her soul, Varan would.
Haroun walked beside Talal to the front of the warrens, where the refugees stood herded together. The crowd stood tense and wary, fighting desperately to keep the guilt off their faces as Balram questioned each about Meisha.
“I don’t remember you.” Balram held the back of his hand to his nose as he spoke to Talal, but the boy only grinned innocuously.
“I was smaller when you were here last, sir,” he said. His voice was chipper and polite, as if he were trying to sell Balram goods on a street corner. “Cleaner too, I’ll warrant.”
Balram didn’t answer but looked back to where Aazen leaned against a wall. “You’re sure she was a Harper?”
Aazen shrugged. “She wore the pin. I left her body beneath the portal. Only the bloodstain remains.”
“I see.” Balram grasped a fistful of Talal’s dirty hair. He didn’t pull or shake the boy; he simply held the tender strands straight out behind his left ear, sifting them through his fingers. Talal stiffened, and the vacant smile on his lips slid away, replaced by a taut line as fear battled with anger.
Aazen waited. He’d been on the receiving end of this punishment when he was younger than Talal. He knew what would happen if the boy displeased his father.
“What did you do with the Harper’s body?” Balram asked. “These people—your friends—say you’re a scavenger. Did you scavenge her corpse? You don’t look like a vulture, though you’re filthy enough to be one.” He leaned closer, still holding Talal’s hair. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Your breath stinks of refuse. You’d eat your own droppings, wouldn’t you, if you thought they’d nourish you. Did you eat the Harper too?” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Are you so very hungry? But that’s ungrateful. Don’t we feed you well enough down here—provide for your every need? Only an animal eats its own leavings.”
“I didn’t eat her,” Talal said. His voice trembled with suppressed rage. “I took her boots.” He pointed to his feet.
A pair of brown leather boots bunched up awkwardly around his knees, straps and buckles dangling. Scorch marks from old fires bruised the leather.
“They’re hers,” Aazen said. “I remember sitting on them.”
“Oh-ho.” Balram chuckled. “Straddled her like a two-taran whore, did you?” He clucked his tongue. “Isslun will be disappointed in you. Or is it Aliyea?”
Talal stirred. Balram snapped his hand straight out from the boy’s head without looking away from Aazen’s face.
Talal screamed out in pain and fell to his knees. He clutched at the patch of bare, bloodied skin behind his ear. Tears streamed from his eyes.
Haroun started forward, but Aazen caught the woman’s arm, roughly drawing her back. “You will only worsen the pain,” he hissed in her ear.
She glanced up at him, surprised, but kept her silence.
Balram calmly sprinkled bits of loose hair over Talal’s whimpering form. “It certainly sheds like an animal. What a mess you are.” He crouched down, snagging Talal’s chin. “If you’re truly the heartless vulture, why should you care what insult I give the Harper?”
“I don’t care,” Talal said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, but it seemed like you did, just then. The look on your face was terribly affronted. I’m warning you, boy, if you value these people’s lives, you will give me truth. Where is the Harper?”
“We brought her here!” Talal shouted. Jerking away from Balram, he climbed back to his feet and stood defiantly before the gathered Shadow Thieves. Behind him, the refugees, though far greater in number, stood in stunned, terrified silence while Balram regarded the boy.
“Why?” he asked.
“We tried to heal her,” Talal said, calmer now. He wiped his running nose as blood dripped down his neck. “So she could help us escape.”
A collective tremor went through the crowd, but still no one spoke.
“Did you expect we wouldn’t try?” Talal asked mockingly, his eyes daring Balram to come at him again.