"Yes, Kinase. Whenever the need arises, one of us volunteers to sacrifice his own life by casting a spell to provide the rest of us with food, water, or whatever else we might need. We gather and store everything that is produced." She let out a long breath, stood, and walked back to the bowl.
"Occasionally desert animals wander in and we have food for a while that does not require such a sacrifice."
Bronihim nodded and moved to stand next to the woman.
"Has anyone else ever joined you the way that 1 did?" he asked, moving even closer to her.
"You mean has anyone else just… stumbled in?" she said, turning to face him, obviously surprised by how close he stood.
Bronihim nodded and smiled.
"Small bands of people, no more than two or three at a time have joined us. Except once, an entire nomadic tribe, more than a hundred people in all, passing through Raurin, came about twenty years ago," she said, flushing slightly. "We have since adapted to one another's ways of life and now we are simply one with them, and they with us."
Bronihim spent many days meeting the other townspeople and getting tours of the facilities. Many of the innovations in use to avoid the need for magic were truly marvels, he thought.
The months passed and Bronihim settled into his life in Lliiress. After his new duties were completed each day, he sat beneath the Evise Jhontil, watching the orange lights course through it like blood pumping through veins. He felt compelled to understand the thing that had led him there. He had once sought the Evise for power. Now he sought freedom.
He felt that he'd come to understand Gerinvioch as well. The wyrm had seen in Aniolon Gruanthe the worst aspects of humanity, though Bronihim had to admit that, in his day, he had known many men more deserving of punishment than Gruanthe. Perhaps he himself had been one of those men. Gerinvioch had seen those things in him as well, Bronihim thought, and maybe the wyrm had been right. It was not so bad here. These people were now his people. His life held no important schedules or constraints. Other than leaving, he said, felt, and did whatever he pleased and was granted the space and social leeway to do so.
"Kinase, it is very late, you should get some sleep," Moriandro said from behind him as he sat in the center of town one evening months after arriving.
Bronihim took his eyes away from the spinning Evise and turned to face her. "Soon," he said with a smile.
She turned to leave but stopped. "There is no way out, Kinase. Is your life here so bad?"
He took her hand in his. "It improves every day," he said.
She flushed briefly and brushed his face with her hands. "Then why do you still sit here, staring at the accursed thing?"
"There is always a way, Moriandro," he replied as they set off.
He glanced behind him one last time for the evening, let- ting the light of the Evise Jhontil burn itself into his mind. He would dream of that light, he knew. He would dream of it just as he had every night for tendays.
"There's always a way," he whispered to himself.
POSSESSIONS
Flamerule, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)
The streets of Zazesspur were silent in the deep hours between midnight and dawn. Count Kelmar Dargren and his men waited patiently, sweltering in the summer heat that dominated even in the sun's absence. Kelmar's eyes were focused only on his quarry, his every nerve on edge for even the slightest sign of movement.
His men, all in dark clothing, wearing hidden weapons and used to long nights, watched him warily. Kelmar's demeanor had been erratic of late, secretive and prone to irrational bouts of rage. All of them were loyal to the count due to his allegiance with the School of Stealth, Zazesspur's guild of assassins, but lately they had begun to wonder at their guild's faith in the man.
Kelmar saw their searching looks, felt their untrusting eyes on him, and heard their whispers, but he didn't care. He knew as long as the gold of coin graced their palms, they'd perform their duties. If not, the assassins guild itself knew how to discipline its own. Any threat he could have made to them would pale in comparison to the methods of the School of Stealth.
Most of them wondered if a cleaner death might be gained by abandoning the hunt entirely.
The past tenday had seen a series of grisly murders in and around the Merchant District. The bodies were near unrecognizable as having once been humanoid, only their perfect faces remained unblemished by cut or bruise. Faces locked in expressions of unspeakable horror.
Seasoned soldiers of the civil war that changed the political geography of Tethyr, grew visibly ill viewing the bodies. They noted that the blood remained a deep red long after death. Sure sign of a prolonged murder, terrible moments or even hours of fear before finally ending. This was no assassin or ambush killer, no simple street thug or thief. Only a pure, cold-blooded murderer could perpetrate such acts.
The seasoned assassins, sitting on the still warm cobblestones of a darkened alley, looked into the count's eyes and knew he held some secret to the puzzle of random killings. They could see the familiar spark of death in the man's stare and most privately feared it.
Kelmar grew impatient. His hand gripped the basket hilt of his saber in quiet anger. His dark black hair was matted to his forehead and beads of sweat collected in his knotted brow. With swift, precise motions he signaled to the four assassins behind him, his mastery of their silent language apparent, telling them to spread out in groups of two. Each would take a street and patrol, taking care to avoid the civic guard, which had become more difficult as the guard's numbers had nearly doubled since the killings began.
The men nodded and quietly padded out, clinging to shadows, hands on daggers and poisoned short swords. Watching them go, Kelmar let out a long held breath, pain lanced through his head, spreading into his neck. The pain had been frequent lately, strong enough to bring him to his knees at times, and with the pain came the visions.
He tried not to think of the nightmares that plagued him when the pain was strongest, the images of blood, dead faces screaming their silent torment. Warmth flooded his chest as the sound of rushing blood thrummed in his ears. Reaching into his tunic he pulled out the amulet he'd found when this had all begun. Its large ruby heart glowed, beating in tune with some unknown rhythm. He closed his fist around its warmth, looking all around for some glimpse of the killer he knew prowled the streets at that very moment.
He couldn't help but recall the first of those nightmarish images. A vision of his own death.
He shuddered at the thought.
Borial was glad to be free of the count for a few hours. Kelmar's obsession with this killer business was strange and a little disturbing to him. Borial's companion seemed not to care much, Faerdral had ever been light of brains and even lighter of insightful speculation. They'd stalked the length of Ivory street on the western end of the Merchant District, shadowing another pair on the parallel Temple street, and had stopped on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse to survey the area from above before continuing.
"Faer?" He whispered.
"YeahBor?"
"What do you think this is all about?" Borial was being optimistic in expecting any real answer from his less than intellectual partner, but felt a need to make the attempt.
"All about? I just figured we'd have a better viewpoint from up here is all." Faerdral continued scanning the lengths of street available to his well-adjusted eyes. Many of his brothers in the guild suspected him of having some elf blood due to his excellent night vision.
"No not that, I mean, why does this new count seem so keen on stopping this killer? He's no stranger to blood as I've heard tell, even put his own brother, Count Lukan, in the ground himself, so the rumor goes."