Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The question still lingers. Still plucks at your nerves like a lutist plucks at his strings. Slow, steady. Hooking, snapping. You sigh, wander upstairs toward Nisha Davrosh’s bedroom. The door is closed. A mage guard sits on a chair, studies the hallway. It is a good approach. You might slip her free of the gods-stream, but then what? You’d need to return to open the door, which means she would need to return, either in one piece or many. One piece, and she’ll see you. Many pieces, and the others will know you are here. They’ll send runners for the mage guard Walker. And that will be a problem. No, it is better to wait and follow Nisha Davrosh into her room at the appropriate time. You had thought perhaps you were here for one last check of your morning preparations, but as you turn down the hallway, you know that was not the reason either. Not really.
You are in the upstairs library, staring at a painting of Nisha Davrosh’s parents, when your mind works out the answer. Her father stands, her mother sits on a chair. Their faces are stoic. Their eyes are steady, bright. He rests a hand on her shoulder. But the painter captured something in the moment. A small detail. So easy to look past. So significant. A pinch of fabric between index finger and thumb. More than a hand resting. A hand squeezing; to provide comfort or to find it, or both. And in that tiny imperfection, that faint line of shadow following the crease of fabric, you know why you are here. The answer, it turns out, is a very simple one.
You want to see him. Once more before your work begins. Before your mastery demands your attention. As the events of the evening unfold, your departure from Hammerfell will be hectic. It could be years before you see him again. Decades. When you two are eventually reunited, you could be a god. Things will be complicated. Is it too much to want one last uncomplicated moment with him? You decide it is not. Apparently, you’ve decided it some time ago.
You smile to yourself. Such a simple thing. A glimpse. A glance. A last, lingering look. Now that you’ve acknowledged it, you find peace in it. You’ll wait for him. You’ll sit on the stairs and watch the front door. When he arrives, you’ll follow him, stand beside him, pretend for a moment the two of you are close. Then, after you’ve had those last minutes together, you’ll leave. You’ll return later tonight, free of any regret. Able to focus on your mastery. It is a good plan. A necessary step.
But it begins to unravel the moment you step from the library into the hall.
Chapter 45
THE DAGGER RESTS against one hip, the sickle sword against the other. Your hood covers your head. The hem of your cloak brushes the tops of your boots. You walk in the wake of the elf’s magic, slipped from the gods-stream, though not by your power alone. Your own skill is modest. It does not come naturally. It was part of your training. It is a learned thing; clumsy, awkward in your grasp. You see the gods-stream as more of a gods-river. It intimidates you, and you are wise to fear it. Were you to plunge in, foolhardy and reckless, you might emerge in fragments scattered across an arc of time. But though you are impatient, you are rarely reckless.
The elf’s passing leaves a mere trickle of the gods-stream, and this is something you can manage. A pair of Walkers is always stronger than the individual. Even if one of the Walkers is not aware of the other. Even if one of the Walkers left for Davrosh Manor ahead of schedule, before the Maiden’s Dance had ended. Even if one of the Walkers is acting peculiar, unguided, unpredictable.
No matter. After tonight, there will be one less Walker to worry about. And one more weapon charged with a soul.
Still, you wonder at the elf. Why come now? It is too soon. Waiting is tedious work and, besides, there are other matters to tend to. Has something changed? Does the elf suspect you? You begin to doubt your own preparation. Did you hide your length of wire properly? Did you return the elf’s coil to its proper spot? Did you disturb anything else? You stand at the front door to Davrosh Manor and doubt creeps into your mind like a crack in the ice. You look down at your feet and wonder if you’ve made a mistake. You sense the depths below and wonder if you will plunge into the cold.
You are so caught up in your own worry you don’t notice the door opening. It moves slowly, still drifting in the gods-stream. A figure fills the gap. A goblin walks out the door and down the path, whistling a tune. Lips puckered, eyes staring ahead. He looks ridiculous. You don’t hear anything outside the gods-stream, but you know whistling when you see it. He turns the corner onto the street, waves at someone approaching. A pair of dogs appears, then another, then another. A team. You are in the house before you see the sled.
You stick to the shadows and corners. You wander the halls, the great room, but you do not see the elf. It bothers you. Nags at you. Was it nerves? The need for further preparation? Why come now? You walk upstairs to Nisha Davrosh’s bedroom. It is guarded. Of course it is. The elf couldn’t get inside. Not now. None of this makes sense. You ponder as you stare at the mage guard. Dark hair, violet eyes, gamine features. She is lovely, but then most elves are. Most choose solitude because it holds no real threat. If an elf wakes up with a desire for
