“You said!” Elgar gulps, hands up and around my wrists as if he fears I will move them onto his throat. “You just said that you wished that he was here! That you didn’t think you could . . . you could . . . I just can’t stand the waiting anymore.”
“Better than this!” I shout, my skin buzzing and my brain static and my ears half-stuffed with cotton. Betrayed! my mind screams. If Elgar had been one of my Shadow’s Men, I would have had him in the stocks in a trice.
“How dare you weaken us so! How dare you go behind—how dare!”
“I don’t want to die!” Elgar sobs, fingernails scratching at my wrists.
“You utter fool!” I repeat. “‘His magic was Deal-Maker strong’! Do you realize what you’ve done? What you’ve given back to him?”
“I didn’t—”
“You Wrote it, and you touched Pip, and you made it true. You called him strong! You called him powerful! You gave him everything that Pip took. If he had any binds left on his power, if he was constrained in any way before, you have removed those bindings!” I screech.
Behind us, the door to the main suite rattles, and Ahbni calls through the wood: “Is everything okay?”
“I never said—”
I release one hand and uncrumple the page. “‘A warlock in full possession of all the magic afforded to him by study and blood alike,’” I read. “Idiot!”
The knob clicks, and the door swings open. She must have a key.
“Holy crap!” Ahbni says, as soon as she sees Pip on the bed.
“You’re hurting me . . .” my creator whines.
“Good!” I snarl, and shake him again. “Our only hope, Elgar, our only hope was that Pip’s Deal had held, and the magics in his blood had been locked away. That his powers would be limited. But you have put paid to it with this . . . this . . . ill thought-out, selfish drivel!”
“Whose drivel?” a voice asks, and I realize that, in my fury, I have utterly ignored the spot of light. It is a voice I know well. Have known for over two decades. Have missed desperately. “And why in all the seven hells am I wearing this Shadow Hand nonsense?”
“Bev?” a second voice calls out. Another voice I never thought I would ever hear again. There is the sound of a shocked gasp being choked back, a deep gasp, and then my brother’s deep baritone saying my name: “Forsyth?”
I release Elgar, ball up the paper still in my hand and shove it into the pocket over my heart. Then I turn, slowly, to face Kintyre Turn and Bevel Dom.
Just as Elgar Wrote, they are attired for war. Kintyre is in his battle leathers, a chain mail kirtle under his customary Sheil-purple jerkin, Foesmiter at his hip, and seemingly every knife he’s ever owned strapped to his chest. Bevel, as he complained, is dressed in the full Shadow Hand attire—silver mask on his face framing his unhappy scowl, the cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He is in the process of jerking it off, revealing his own battle leathers, short-sword belted to his waist, bow slung over his chest, and quiver strapped to his back. They are both flopped on the carpeting, struggling to sit up, grasping at the bed and the dresser and whatever other furniture they can lay hands on for stability.
“Slowly,” I caution them both. “You will be a bit woozy.”
“Woozy?” Kintyre asks, and I can see the moment the crossing catches up with them both.
My brother staggers, reaching out for the television stand and missing. He crashes forward to his knees, and I dart forward to keep him from falling flat on his nose. Bevel has a better go of it, managing to sink himself onto the bed, sprawling backwards with a nauseous groan.
I set Kintyre carefully on his side, in case he vomits, and jump up to check on Bevel. I pull the Shadow’s Mask off his face, tuck it in next to the crumpled evidence of Elgar’s selfish betrayal. Bevel is panting harshly, but his eyelids are already starting to flutter open. He is coming back around.
Satisfied that my brother and brother-in-law are well, I turn back to my wife. Pip’s eyes are open, and she is sitting up, thank goodness. Some color has returned to her cheeks in ugly pink splotches, though the rest of her skin is still papery and strained. She has her hands jammed between her knees, trying to stop her shaking. Her eyes are wide, and dark, and trained on Kintyre and Bevel. Behind her, Ahbni is propping her up. Though the other young lady looks about ready to take her turn keeling over.
My fury surges back to the fore now that my protective concern has been satisfied. Elgar has curled himself into as small a ball as possible, shame radiating from him in near palpable waves.
“What just ha—? Who is tha—?” Ahbni chokes, but can’t seem to sort out all the questions crowding up behind her teeth.
Pip turns questioning eyes to me, and I fetch out the balled paper and hand it to her. Her eyes, already strained round, grow even wider as she reads what Elgar’s Written into being.
“Dear lord,” Pip breathes. “Elgar Erasmus Reed . . . what the fuck have you done?”
“Forssy?” Bevel asks, baffled and staring around him, still reeling. At least he’s sitting up now. “What’s . . . ?”
“You are at an inn,” I say, bringing the heroes up to speed as quickly as I can. “Our Writer, the fool, has drained Pip of what little magic has pooled in her and brought you here to help us defeat the Viceroy, who has crossed the veil of the skies to
