mess with the Eschaton could make our lives much easier in the coming months.”
“If you insist.”
He opened the door and was about to leave when Tarlak halted him again.
“Oh, by the way, will the half-orc be ready by then?”
Haern shrugged. “He is ready now. All that is left is years of polishing.”
“Well, try not to beat him too badly that morning. We’ll need him healthy for the assassination trap.”
“Whatever you say,” Haern said, offering a mock bow. He shut the door as quietly as he had entered. Minutes later, a loud banging startled the wizard from his task of copying spell scrolls.
“Come on in,” he shouted. “I’m never doing anything important in here, just picking my nose and scratching my bum.”
“Sounds important to me,” Brug grinned, shoving open the door. “A whole lot better than your pansy spell crap.”
“My pansy spell crap can make you a pansy mudskipper,” Tarlak threatened.
“Mudskipper?” Brug asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just came to me. What is it you need?”
“Wondering if you finished the scrolls I asked you for.”
Tarlak grabbed two capped cylindrical containers and tossed them to Brug. “I take it those are for the ox?” he asked.
“Actually, no. I’ve been talking to the elf, and she says she’s not too bad with that staff of hers. Figure if she plans on whacking things with it, it’d be nice if things noticed.”
“Explains the first scroll. And the illusion?”
Brug chuckled, tucking both tubes underneath his arm.
“She’s got nothing but a stick. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking there’s more to things than just function. You gotta look good at what you do.”
Tarlak chuckled.
“Fine. I’ll give you free reign. Just don’t spend too much of my money.”
Brug winked. “Of course.”
The door shut with a resounding thud. Tarlak sighed, his fingers rubbing his temples.
“Paranoid antisocial assassin with a secret identity, a bipolar blacksmith, and half-orc brothers hanging out with a girlie elf, and I’ve got to use them to keep chaos off the streets. Lathaar old buddy, I sure hope you’re having a better time than I am.”
At that time, Lathaar was deep in a haunted forest, battling against an ancient demon composed of pure darkness. If asked, the paladin would have shaken his head and refused to switch places. There are worse things in life than demons.
H ey, Qurrah?” Harruq asked that night.
“Are these late-night conversations going to become common?” his brother muttered into his pillow. They finally slept in beds, although crates and supplies still surrounded them. Tarlak had said the portable hole would be longer acquiring than he thought, given his underestimation of their rarity. The beds, however, he had carted up the stairs with a few tricks of shrink and enlarge magic. The sheets, pillows, and blankets were all white, courtesy of Delysia. Stitched across their lengths was a golden mountain.
“What’s that?” Harruq had asked her.
“The symbol for Ashhur. It’ll help you sleep better, I promise.”
The symbol didn’t seem to be working, so instead he stared at the ceiling and talked to his brother.
“Do you…do you like it here?” Harruq asked.
Qurrah sighed, and his weak voice grew greater in volume and tone.
“Let’s address this right now, shall we?” he said. Harruq squirmed uncomfortably. “You are happy, and enjoy this place, but since happiness is a rarity for us, you worry something is wrong, and if it is not you, then it must be me. I don’t fit in well, brother, but the people are mostly kind, the food is grand, and our beds are padded and warm. What better accommodations have we ever had? None. So stop worrying about my happiness. And that goes for Aurelia as well.”
“Not sure if Aurry is worrying too much about you,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Don’t be stupid. You know what I mean, or will, given time.”
Again Harruq squirmed. Yes, he knew what his brother meant.
“I love her, Qurrah,” he whispered into the quiet. It seemed an eternity before Qurrah responded.
“I know. Go to sleep.”
He did. Qurrah followed him into slumber, but only after kicking the blanket with the golden mountain to the floor. Only then could he sleep peacefully, the black-haired girl returning to his dreams.
5
B oth were awake before the dawn. They spoke little. Qurrah assumed, correctly, that his brother prepared for practice. Harruq assumed, incorrectly, that his brother did the same. They parted, the warrior circling north around the tower, the necromancer heading southeast.
The center of Veldaren was blessedly empty. Qurrah sat on the edge of the fountain, dabbing a hand in the water. Nervousness gnawed at his heart. She had power, how much he didn’t know, but for her to dive into his mind and twist his own defenses against him showed a mind sharper than the blades his brother carried. Time passed, and the sun crawled its way above the walls of the town.
“Why do you delay?” Qurrah muttered. “Surely by no fear of me.”
More and more people passed by, giving him curious glances as they did. Still no Tessanna.
After an hour, he felt a very familiar thorn enter his mind.
You wait for me, he heard inside his skull, the voice delicate and shy.
I wish to speak with you, he replied silently.
It is more than that. You border on obsession.
His anger flared. Do not say what you know is untrue.
A resolve hard as iron overtook the delicate voice in his head, banishing any trace of weakness.
I have drunk from your mind, Qurrah Tun. I know what you are, but I will come. I, too, am curious.
Tessanna stepped into view, walking slowly up the southern road. She had cut her ragged dress even higher than before, exposing much of her thighs. For the first time, she and Qurrah met face to face, and the chill running up his back gave credence to the words of the baker. Only a shred of white encircled the outer edges of her eyes. The rest was completely black, both her irises and pupils. Her stare was blatant and powerful. She could see through him, and he knew it.
She approached, her dagger in her right hand. Qurrah could not move, could not even speak, as she stopped less than a foot in front of him. He felt like an old, lumbering giant compared to her. Her forehead only came up to his chin.
“Hello. I am Tessanna Delone,” she said, her voice cruel and hard. “You wished to speak with me?”
Qurrah wondered where the soft, giggling girl of the day before had gone.
“My thoughts refuse to waiver,” he said. “I had to see your face, lest I lose my mind forever.”
“You should let it go then,” she said. “I did years ago. The freedom is a thrill.”
She outstretched her left arm over the fountain. The dagger pressed the underside, just above her elbow.
“Why do you bleed yourself?” he asked her. “Why the runes? Why the pain?”
“You ever ask people why they fuck?” she shot back. “Feels good. Feels normal. Anyone ever ask you why the scent of the dead riles your blood?”
Red anger filled his pale face. “How dare you…”
“You want to speak to me? Fine. Let’s see how obsessed you really are.”
The dagger slashed, quick and vicious. This was not like her previous days of carving, instead she cut one long, open wound that poured blood like a crimson rain into the fountain. Tessanna closed her eyes and inhaled
