“You asked where we were going,” Dourin said. He gestured into the home’s dark entryway. “Well, you have your answer. We are here.”
TWO
Venick’s attention wasn’t where it should have been.
It was back with the conjurors in the street. It was listening to the sound of their cloaks in the wind, the light patter of their feet on loose gravel, there one instant and then just…gone. Like they’d given up the chase. Like their robes had turned to wings and borne them away.
Venick’s mind was absorbed by the puzzle of this. It was consumed, trapped between thewhyandhowof it, which was why—when Dourin led him into the mysterious house and pulled the door closed behind them—Venick didn’t notice the elf inside, or the dagger in that elf’s hand.
At least, not until that dagger was set to Venick’s neck.
Venick froze. His eyes dropped to the blade, then slid up the arm of the elf who held it. Fine white hairs, corded muscle, blue veins. Fingers easy on the dagger’s hilt, the wrist tilted just so, like this stranger knew exactly how to hold a weapon, and where to stick it.
He’s an elf, Venick. What’d you expect?
Hell. An ally? A peaceable citizen? A little mercy from the gods, maybe, just this once.
“Traegar.” Dourin’s voice came from Venick’s left. Coolly, and without any urgency. “Put the weapon down.”
The elf, Traegar, didn’t take his eyes off Venick. “What are you doing in my house?”
Dourin answered. “We encountered a bit of trouble.”
“And you came here.”
“Do not make me ask again.” Dourin sounded impatient. Venick might have cautioned him on the wisdom of goading an enemy, had he not been otherwise preoccupied. “Put the weapon down.”
This time—to Venick’s surprise—Traegar listened. He took a swift step back and lowered the dagger, folding his arms smoothly into the loose sleeves of his robes. Weapon sheathed and out of sight just like that, as if he hadn’t been about to spill human blood. As if he hadn’t looked eager to do it. Venick mimicked the motion, stepping back, folding his arms. He glanced around the room—a darkly-lit foyer, simply furnished, one shuttered window—and wishedhehad a dagger to hide up his sleeve. Something he could draw quickly if this elf happened to change his mind.
Or if the conjurors return. Think of that.
Traegar’s eyes cut to Dourin. “That door was locked.”
“It is good to see you too.”
“You still have a key.”
“I kept one, for just such an occasion.” Dourin was smiling. “Now, are you going to offer us a drink? A place to sit? Come, Traegar. Is this any way to greet an old friend?”
Traegar was handsome, even by elven standards. He was taller than most elves, artistically built, with a long face and full mouth. Striking, certainly, but also…different. Unlike many elves whose skin was pale, Traegar was deeply tanned. His hair, too, was unusual: shoulder-length and wavy, rather than sleek and straight. Yet his eyes were the same bright golden of all elves. And—Venick’s neck twinged to remind him—he knew how to wield a weapon.
“You should not be here,” Traegar said.
Dourin’s smile twisted. “I see your manners have not improved with age.”
“The Dark Queen has been looking for you.”
“Is that what they call Farah now? The Dark Queen?”
“It is not a joke.”
“I am not laughing.” Yet Dourin did not seem all that concerned either, for someone who had just escaped two of the queen’s conjurors. He leaned a shoulder against the nearest wall, crossed his arms and ankles. It was an easy posture. Relaxed. Opposite how Venick was standing, or how Traegar was: with guarded uncertainty. “Farah’s conjurors spotted us. We need a place to stay until our trail runs cold. And we need information. I was hoping you could provide both.”
Traegar appeared unmoved. “And what do I get in return for the trouble?”
“Is that how you want it to be between us? Favors exchanged for favors?”
“I want it to be like nothing between us.”
