Midnight's Daughter
Page 38

Chapter Sixteen
Branches whipped across my face with a sting like tears. The hard-packed snow slid under my feet as I ran, but I couldn’t stop or even slow down. The sky was a pale, leaden gray overhead, but darkening rapidly. There was worse weather coming. I should turn back, return to the dismal but warm interior of the tavern, but I couldn’t. I would never go back there, to that malodorous, ill-lit, cramped little place. I couldn’t stand to see fear in the eyes of the men, to have them shrink back when I passed, to listen to them whisper about the evil that had come among them. Even though it had been the whispers that told me of what I would find.
I paused on the top of a steep, rocky slope, drawing clear, cold air into my starved lungs. The wind that keened down crags and across frost-armored trees was bitterly cold, but it was blowing the other way. I could see the smoke, but not smell it. Not yet.
The valley stretched out in front of me in wave after wave of white, broadening and finally merging with the plains below. A few snowflakes drifted down, catching on the ends of my hair. There was a haze of white in the air over the other end of the valley. Soon, it would consume the smoke, and what I sought would be lost until spring revealed the tattered remains. No. I had to get there first.
I plunged down through the trees, leaping, stumbling, and half fell into a rough clearing. Now I could smell the smoke. The air was filthy with it, its acrid taste in every breath, coating the inside of my throat, my lungs. I knelt down on the hard-packed snow in front of blackened ruins that in no way resembled the village they had once been. Already, delicate crystal flakes were trying to cover the ugly, smoking remains, as if the forest resented the mar on its beauty. Soon, they would succeed.
I cautiously picked a path through the smoking ground toward the only heap that had yet to collapse. It didn’t look much like a house—it could have been a storage shed or even a shop—but I didn’t have time to search through the entire charred landscape for clues. I tugged on the few intact boards and they fell inward, disintegrating even before they hit the floor.
They left a hole big enough for me to slip through, but there was precious little to see. A few scorched pots, a scrap of cloth that suddenly burst into flame, crumbled to ash and blew away on a breeze. Nothing else.
I crouched among the ashes, sifting through the still-warm remains with my fingertips. What had I expected? The bodies were outside, scattered charred bones and wisps of hair crisped by the heat. Indistinguishable. I could have walked over hers on the way here, unknowing. There was nothing to show that this had once been her house, no object left intact that might have been hers, no familiar scent on the breeze. No memory, however vague, from the time I must have spent here.
Nothing.
Wet flakes melted on my face, running in cold rivulets down my cheeks. A wisp of bitter smoke curled from the rubble, extinguished almost immediately by the plop and hiss of a wet clump of snow. I looked up and realized that it was falling more heavily now, piling up in soft drifts against the black lumps outside. The wind was picking up, too. I should leave—now, before I was trapped in this white hell.
I lingered a few minutes longer anyway, strangely reluctant to go, to admit defeat. But, the cold was running chilly fingers along my body, leeching my heat, making me shiver. I backed out of the tiny space, and immediately the wind and snow reached out to grab me. The village’s remains were only dark shapes now, dimly visible through a heavy snowfall. Fierce, bitter cold wrapped around me, and I stumbled over a protrusion, falling flat on my face. A quick pain pricked my palm. I looked down and saw nothing, but my hand closed over a hard, metal shape, long and sharp. My numb fingers recognized the familiar feel of a dagger.
The wind howled around me as I stumbled to my feet, but I made it to the trees and the scant protection they offered. I glanced down at the weight in my hand, and it was a treasure, the blade so bright it reflected the white-flocked canopy above me almost like a mirror. The hilt was engraved, a complex rendering that must have cost a fortune. No peasant’s protection this. A grim-looking dragon, obviously carved by a master’s hand, clutched a cross, its slit, angry eyes staring outward in obvious challenge.
I shoved it into my belt, glad to have the protection it offered. Even more valuable, it was something to prove to myself that I had been here, that it hadn’t been just a dream. I had come, even if it was too late.
I woke up to the shrill sounds of a very unhappy Duergar. When he saw I was awake, Stinky stopped the caterwauling and crawled into my arms. I hugged him, feeling his tiny chest rising and lowering in frightened breaths. As with Caedmon, I couldn’t get a clear scent reading on him, but he picked up so many smells it would have been difficult anyway. At the moment he smelled like soap and dirt and raw beef. It was oddly comforting.
I sat staring into the darkness as Stinky slowly quieted. I must have made some kind of sounds in my dream to so upset him, but I couldn’t imagine why. It hadn’t quite been a nightmare, although it had the flavor of deep sadness, of important things left undone or done too late. And it had been unbelievably real. I could almost smell the charred wood and feel the sharp sting of pine needles across my face. In a warm bed in a well-heated house, my body shivered from biting cold and bitter loss.
I had no idea what it meant. My dreams usually involve things jumping out at me from dark alleys, dragging me off, ripping me open—my subconscious isn’t exactly subtle. The things that frighten me tend to be tangible, like the knife. But although it had borne the family symbol, it hadn’t been menacing. No one had attacked me and I’d suffered no physical pain, unless you counted the slight sting of the blade’s point. And if that was the worst injury I suffered on this job, I’d throw a party.
After a few moments, I gave up and tried to return Stinky to his nest of blankets on the floor. Despite the bath, I suspected he had fleas, and didn’t want him sharing my bed. But he resisted, and those sticklike arms were stronger than they looked. I got a good look at him and realized that it hadn’t been my distress that woke him up, after all. His little stomach was hugely distended. The whitish gray skin under the lighter fur on his belly was pushed out like he’d swallowed a softball.
Pitiful brown eyes stared at me, round as coins, begging me to make it better. I looked helplessly back. I’m pretty good with battlefield wounds and emergency triage, but nothing in my long experience taught me what to do with a sick Duergar. Then he got that look on his face, and I snatched him up and pelted for the bathroom.
Stinky was very sick. Very, very sick. And by the time I got him and the bathroom cleaned up, I wasn’t doing much better. I’d been sleeping in my T-shirt, which had been laundered while I was at dinner, but it was unsalvageable. I threw it and the bath towels in the laundry chute and fell into bed, only to feel silken skin slide luxuriously along my own.
I sat up in time to keep Caedmon, who’d appeared out of nowhere, from taking a swipe at Stinky. To be fair, the Duergar had been trying to scratch out his eyes. I snatched Stinky away and scowled at the Fey. “He doesn’t seem to like you.”
The moonlight spilling in through the lattice-covered windows painted silver diamonds across the Fey’s chest but left the rest of him in darkness. Light reflected in those startling eyes for a moment, causing them to gleam like a cat’s caught in the beam of a flashlight. Then he moved and was again all silhouette and shadow. “It needs to learn to distinguish friend from foe.”
“And you came by in the middle of the night to tell me that?”
Caedmon stretched out on the bed, his silver dressing gown falling around him in perfect folds. He ignored the spitting and hissing fur ball a few feet away and gave me a limpid look from under a pale sweep of lashes. “I heard the commotion and feared for your safety.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Heard it how? The door is solid oak.” Louis-Cesare might have managed it, but I hadn’t expected the Fey’s senses to be quite that sharp. “Are you next door?”
“Alas, no. Your uncle placed me in an entirely different wing. Judging by the smell, I believe it to be near the trash heap.”
“And you didn’t complain?” Caedmon had struck me as someone used to the best. And he certainly wasn’t shy.
He shrugged, causing the neckline of his robe to slide off one shoulder. It was obvious that he hadn’t overdressed for the occasion. “I saw no need, as I do not intend to use it.”
“The Fey don’t need to sleep?”
He laughed, and the old stories are true—it really was like the sound of bells. “Why waste the night sleeping when there are far more pleasant things?” He traced a pattern in the air and a stray moonbeam bent itself into the shape of a flower. It floated slowly down to rest against my hand, and I swear, for a moment it felt as if it had actual weight, before dissipating like smoke.
Stinky didn’t seem impressed. He gave a tremendous heave, pushing long, twiglike toes into my abdomen, and launched himself at the Fey. A second later, he was tied securely in the blanket and tossed back in the bathroom.
I hadn’t even seen Caedmon move, but there he was, casually leaning against the bathroom door. That robe was thin enough to be declared illegal in most states, I decided, slightly dazed. Then something hit the door behind him with a thud, and he sighed. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to dispose of that creature for you?”
“I’d think two members of the Fey would get on better than you.”
Caedmon tilted his head slightly, regarding me somberly. “I will ignore that,” he finally said. “But I would strongly suggest that you never again compare a member of the high court with a dirty half-breed. It is rather like comparing a human to a particularly mangy cur. The nobles who know less about your world would almost certainly . . . take offense.”
I sat up. “I’ve been called a dirty half-breed myself on more than one occasion.”
Caedmon didn’t reply. In fact, I doubt he even heard me. I looked down and realized that the sheet that had been covering me had slipped when I moved, and that I was currently providing him with a free show. I snatched up the coverlet and his expression tilted perilously close to a grin. I suppose gold velvet wasn’t particularly off-putting.