Honor Bound

Chapter 8: Starsong

Nimbolk strode along the fisherman'swharf, the hood of his cloak pulled low over his forehead. This didnot made him conspicuous, for the sea wind nipped sharply and mostof the humans covered their heads with hoods or knitted woolencaps. Like them, he walked with hunched shoulders and an awkwardheel-to-toe stride. The clatter of his own boots against the woodenplanks offended him. No wonder humans crashed through the forestlike drunken trolls.

He skirted a group of men who weresorting through the contents of a herring net and a pair of doxieswho watched the incoming fisherman with inviting smiles and hard,coin-counting eyes. An old man wrapped in a tattered cloak crouchednearby, using a barrel filled with brine as a windbreak. He mightas well have been invisible for all the attention the others paidhim. This filled Nimbolk with sorrow and outrage. He had heardhumans allowed their elders to go cold and hungry, but knowing thisdid not prepare him to confront the reality.

Was there something in the brine,Nimbolk wondered, that pickled the humans' brains along with theirfish? Or were they actively taught to ignore the world around themand the people in it? It didn't seem possible that any sentientbeing could be born as oblivious as these humans.

He lifted his gaze to the cliff-sidefortress, the keep that until recently had been held by the adeptMuldonny. A single road wound up the steep approach to thefortress, but many more lay hidden beneath the streets andbuildings. Long before any human set foot on these islands, dwarveshad called them home. They'd been gone for a very long time, butonce their tunnels had linked the islands' system of caverns andprotected secrets so old that dragons had forgottenthem.

Were any of Stormwall's humans awareof the ancient civilization beneath their feet? Would they care ifthey knew?

The humans of Sevrin struck Nimbolkas being every bit as contrary as they were oblivious. They hadmany good things to say of Muldonny, whose alchemical weapons hadplayed an important role in ending the harsh rule of the sorcererEldreath, but oddly enough, few people condemned Fox Winterborn forthe raid that killed the island's ruler and war hero. In fact, theStormwall fisherfolk seemed reluctant to say anything at all aboutthe red-haired thief.

People on Kronhus had been full oftalk of this City Fox, full of outrage over the death of theiradept. But they seemed equally upset at the attempt to use Tymion'sdeath to discredit Fox and his followers. Nimbolk's attempts tolearn what this Fox's goal had been and what his followers hoped toachieve had not been well received.

He glanced down at his knuckles. Ifhe'd been in the forest with his fellow elves, the scrapes andbruises from yesterday's fight would have healed by now.

It occurred to him that he wasexperiencing life as humans did-cut off from others, dependent uponhis own strength, living out a singled-minded purpose with onlyscant regard for those around him.

Perhaps he judged Sevrin's humansunfairly. He wasn't sure an elf would do much better in a worldwhere everyone regarded himself as an island, linked only byfragile bridges of blood or choice or necessity.

Is this what had happened to Honor?The elf woman who's stumbled into the Starsingers grove thatmidwinter nice had looked so frail, and she'd aged more than ahandful of years could explain. It was almost as if she'd beendenied the renewal of a springtime Greening.

Was that even possible? How couldany elf endure that and live?

Nimbolk quickened his pace, suddenlyanxious to leave this crowd of humans behind.

The wharfs gave way to an open-airmarket, a small village of tables and tents and wagons where onecould purchase fresh fish, pot-ready rabbits and fowl, rootvegetables, baskets of summer berries, and a bewildering variety ofhousehold goods.

A plump woman was tossing nuggets ofsalt bread to passersby to tempt them into buying her strangeloaves-thin ropes of bread twisted into knots. Nimbolk caught thepiece she threw his way and munched it as he worked his way throughthe crowd.

Up ahead a path disappeared into theshadows between two rows of warehouses. Nimbolk veered away fromthe crowd and slipped gratefully into the treeless shade. So muchsun, so many days at sea, had bleached any hint of summer greenfrom his hair and skin and left him as pale as a northlandhuman.

The noise of the port fell away,muted by thick stone walls. Since there were no eyes to see him,Nimbolk abandoned his attempt to move like a human. For a moment,he reveled in the ability to move without being deafened by his ownfootsteps. His expanding senses caught the muffled thud of fistsagainst flesh, the soft grunts of pain.

Judging distances was difficult inthese human-built caverns, but Nimbolk guessed the fight was takingplace behind the tall wooden building to his right.

Curious, he veered off along apassage littered with old crates. At the end of the alley he turnedonto a rock-strewn strip of land between the warehouses and thecliff overhead.

Four men stood behind the tallwooden building. One of them, a yellow-bearded man wearing afisherman's knitted cap, sagged in the grip of two men sportingidentical tunics of blue-dyed leather. A third uniformed man thrusta coin at his victim's battered face. Even in the dim light,Nimbolk could see the tell-tale shine of fairy gold.

"There's no sense denying it, notwhen this was found in your boat."

The fisherman spat a mouthful ofblood at the man's boots. "There might be white spatter on thehull. That don't mean I'm on friendly terms with the seagull thatdropped it."

His tormenter raised a short cluband jabbed at his chest. The fisherman's gasp of pain ended in agurgle.

Nimbolk frowned. He wondered if thethugs realized they'd broken this man's ribs and driven a jaggedbone into one lung. The fisherman was as good as dead. If thepurpose of this beating was extracting information, these men wereas stupid as they were brutal.

The club-wielded man poked himagain. "That's not the answer I'm looking for."

"Only one I got," gasped thefisherman.

"Maybe you'd rather answer toCaptain Volgo? Because I feel obliged to tell you that he's nothalf as pleasant as we three fellows."

Volgo.

For a moment Nimbolk stood frozen,his mind filled with the image of Asteria lying face-down in bloodysnow, a man with a club standing behind her.

The fisherman spat blood into hiskiller's eyes. The man swore and rocked back a step as he swipedone sleeve over his face. His blood-streaked features twisted insomething almost like joy as he lifted the club high.

The man who'd killed Honor had wornthat very smile.

Nimbolk threw the knife before herealized he'd unsheathed it. The blade spun three times before itsank to the hilt in the man's exposed armpit, paying him his owncoin for the death he'd given the fisherman.

The man stumbled, and the downwardswing meant to end the fisherman slammed into the face of one ofthe thugs holding him.

Their comrade yelped in surprise. Hedanced aside, letting the fisherman fall as he pulled a sword andlooked around for an enemy to fight.

Nimbolk drew two daggers and obligedhim.

He walked down the alley, bladesheld at his sides. The last man standing raised his sword high andrushed forward, roaring like a charging boar.

Nimbolk lifted both daggers andcaught the descending sword in a cross parry. A quick twistwrenched the blade from the man's hand and sent it clatteringaside. He stroked one dagger across the human's throat and keptwalking.

The club wielder was sitting on theground, one hand clamped to his wound. His eyes widened as he tookin Nimbolk's approach and he scuttled backwards like a crab. Thescent of blood and fear rose from him, mingling with the tang ofsalt and sharper mineral odors.

Nimbolk pursued, bloody daggerleading.

"Where is Volgo?"

"Heartstone Island!" the manshrieked. "Works for the adept Rhendish, he does! They're coming toStormwall tomorrow. I can take you to them."

He'd be dead long before dawn. Ifnot for the human ability to ignore truths they didn't wish tocontemplate, the man would know this.

Nimbolk toed the fallen club. "Whereyou there? Was it you that killed the queen's champion?"

"I. . I don't know what you'retalking about."

Nimbolk reached for his hood andjerked it down. An elf with pale skin and brown hair might pass forhuman, but only if he took care to hide his distinctiveears.

"Dead gods," the human swore. "Iknow you. You were with that fancy elf bitch."

Nimbolk's boot slammed into theman's jaw and knocked him flat onto his back. He hooked one toeunder the club and flipped it up, catching it by the handle. Theworst insult one fighter could offer another was to end him withhis own weapon.

"Stand," he commanded.

The thug struggled to his feet."You'd kill an unarmed man?"

"You were armed when I killed you.That's more than you can say for the elves you murdered in theforest grove."

The man dipped one gloved hand intoa pocket. As the fabric gaped open, the smell of salt and mineralsgrew stronger. Nimbolk waited until the man drew out a fistful ofpowder and started an underhand toss.

Nimbolk swung the club, catching theman's hand and driving it up into his own face. A cloud of greenishmineral salt surrounded him. Crystals melted and sizzled as theymet flesh.

The man fell to his knees, shriekingand clawing at his eyes. Nimbolk poked him in the ribs with theclub in deliberate imitation of his treatment of the fisherman. Hemust have sensed the elf's intent, for he flung both hands over hishead and cringed away from the coming blow.

But Nimbolk hesitated. This man didnot deserve to die the same death as the queen'schampion.

He broke the club over one knee anddrove the jagged edge up under the thug's ribcage.

Behind him, the fisherman gave achoking cough. It occurred to Nimbolk that the man might belaughing.

He turned and knelt beside thefisherman. The grim mirth faded from the man's face as his gazelocked onto Nimbolk's elfin ears. Terror glazed hiseyes.

"I didn't say anything. . aboutyour people. The boat, the fairy girl that took it. I swear it! ButDorn. . he pulled the Fox out of the water. Knows he's alive.They'll find Dorn. He's got no love for the adepts, but he won'tbleed. . to keep the thief's secrets."

Nimbolk sat back on his heels,surprised by this sudden outpouring. "You could have saved yourselfa beating if you'd told that to Volgo's men. Why tellme?"

"All Volgo's men can do is killme."

The fisherman slowly lifted one handand to his heart and with great effort traced a circle-a wardingagainst evil. He tried to say something more, but blood spilledfrom his mouth and ran in crimson streaks down his beard. A tremorran through him and he lay still.

Nimbolk rose, staring at the deadman in puzzlement. Perhaps these humans knew so little of elves andfairies that they thought them the same people?

The fisherman had been right aboutone thing, though. The harsh death he'd suffered at the hands ofVolgo's men was quicker and kinder than a fairy's mercy.

Nimbolk tipped his head back tostudy the cliff. It curved out over the sea, dropping off in asheer rock wall. The fortress overlooked the port-the onlydeepwater harbor on any of Sevrin's islands-but it also sprawledalong the crescent-shaped cliff. Toward the end of that curve stooda round tower, an ancient stone keep that reflected the light ofthe first evening star.

He walked along the base of thecliff until the incoming tide left him nowhere to go but up.According to the gossipy fisherfolk and their speculation about theFox's raid, climbing the rock wall was impossible. By the time themoon rose, Nimbolk was beginning to think they were more right thanwrong.

Hours passed before he rolled ontothe ledge and staggered to the base of the tower, shaking withfatigue.

No guards patrolled this part of thecliff and no lights shone in the windows placed high on the towerwalls. Nimbolk tried the door, but the locks on the iron grate heldfirm. Again, the only possible path was straight up.

From a distance, the tower mightlook perfectly smooth, but hundreds of years of sea wind and saltair had worn away at the thick walls. Finding handholds in therough stone took time, but it was not impossible.

Finally Nimbolk's hand closed on awindow sill. He pulled himself up and edged aside the unlatchedshutter.

His gaze swept the starlit room fordanger. Dozens of weapons hung on the walls or in cases, but noguards stood ready to wield them. After a moment, it struck Nimbolkthat the chamber was more like a shrine than an arsenal.

The stone walls had been plasteredand painted to resemble the trees surrounding a forest glen. Pottedplants added to the illusion, which was crude but clearlyheart-felt.

Nimbolk slipped into the room andmoved from one case to another. Most of the weapons wereelf-crafted, and those that were not were similar enough to foolthose who had no ear for the magic they held.

Another case held jewelry; yetanother, elaborately tooled leather bracers. Books filled a row ofshelves. To Nimbolk's surprise, some of them were filled withElfish runes.

Muldonny had amassed a remarkablecollection. Even more astonishing, it appeared that the adept'sintent was to honor elfin culture rather than plunder it. Placingthe treasure at the keep's highest point showed that the adept hadbeen familiar with elfin custom. Dwarves buried their wealth, whileelves kept things of value atop ancient trees and in the highesttowers of mountaintop keeps.

Nimbolk wondered if the adept hadunderstood why.

Stars sent vibrations into the nightsky. Elf-crafted items resonated with it, captured and magnifiedand stored it to be released later in a burst of speed or power ormagic. Starsong might be as constant as air, but on clear, brightnights an elf could feel it in his blood and bones.

An echoing melody came from the seabeyond. Nimbolk went to the window. In the open sea south of theisland, a whale breached and blew. Its eerie, plaintive songshimmered across the water. As Nimbolk watched, more whales joinedthe singer.

Only elves and whales could hearstarsong. Only whales could sing it back to the sky.

Watching the pod brought Nimbolkalmost as much pain as comfort. They had their shared song, andwhatever rituals they enacted in the ocean depths. He had only thehealing to be found in these stolen relics. It was almost a reliefwhen the whales sank beneath the waves.

He'd been away from his kind for toolong.

The old man huddled in the curtainedalcove in a corner of the adept's workshop, torn between exhaustionand exhilaration. The trip to Khronus had taken more strength thanhe could spare. Still, it had been good to leave Rhendish Manor.He'd haunted this place for so many years that some days he wasn'tentirely certain that he was not, in fact, a ghost.

But the trip had been well worth thestrain. Relying on another man's sorcery had taxed his pride, butwhat else could he do? His own magic was long gone.

The murmur of voices in the workroom grew louder. He leaned closer to listen.

"Are you quite certain you don'tknow the dwarf's whereabouts?"

The adept's voice was deep andpleasant, despite the serrated edge of irritation in hisquestion.

"I have told you that I do not," theelf said. "I left Muldonny's workroom moments before it exploded.That was the last I saw or heard from him."

"What part did he play in theattack?"

"He led the way up the oublietteshaft. They came in from the sea caves."

"Are there tunnels beyond thesecaves?"

"Yes, but I doubt anyone could findthem. The tunnel openings will be blocked and the stone walls willbe seamless. Dwarf masons do extraordinary work."

"How many dwarf masons are wetalking about?"

"Nine."

"That's all?" Rhendish soundedrelieved. "Did you find out why they were working with thethief?"

"Fox and the young dwarf werefriends. I don't know the how and why of that. The other dwarvesfollowed the youth."

"I see," he murmured. "And what doyou suppose they'll do now, assuming their leader isdead?"

"If they stay, they'll clear a fewold tunnels, eke out an existence. More likely they'll return tothe mainland."

"Did he tell you what broughtdwarves to Sevrin?"

"No."

"But you know, don't you?" the adeptpersisted. "I sense there's more to the tale."

The old man shiftedimpatiently. And I sense that both of youare stalling.

"Some years back, I heard rumors ofa scandal," the elf said. "A dwarf lord, king in all but name,rules the vales and mountains on the sunrise side of the forest. Hehas five sons. Another king sent his daughter to wed one of thelord's sons in an alliance between their two clans."

A bitter smile curved the old man'slips. Dwarves and elves took alliances very seriously. No one knewthis better than he.

"Making the match was put in thehands of the second-eldest son, who acted as the heir's steward.Apparently this dwarf had little talent for his role. The fifthbrother was loyal to the heir but considered the stewardunreliable. To prove to the heir that his steward lacked judgment,the youngest brother challenged him to a game of chance. When allwas said and done, the steward had gambled away the princess'sdowry."

"Among humans, this would mostlikely lead to war."

"Among dwarves, it leads tomarriage," the elf said with dry humor. "The princess Hedvigdeclared that since the dowry had changed hands, a match was made.She declared herself betrothed to Delgar, the youngestbrother.

"The steward convinced the heir thatthis was evidence of Delgar's ambition. The heir took the secondbrother's advice and sent Delgar away. Hedvig remains in theclanhold. Everyone involved wants her to wed the heir, but she'ssaid to be stubborn even by the measures of dwarves. She declaredher intention to wait out the exile."

"So these nine dwarf masons willreturn to bring news of their young lord's death so that the clanalliance can be concluded."

"That is my assumption, yes. If helives, he'll finish out his exile and return to hisclanhold."

"Good."

Silence fell. Lingered.

Soft footsteps approached the oldman's alcove. He was about to dart back into the hidden passagewhen he heard the window latches snap. The creak of shuttersfollowed as the elf swung them open to let in thestarlight.

"The lamps are lit," Rhendishpointed out.

"Then call one of your guards andwe'll begin."

The old man edged the curtain asidejust in time to see the adept's jolt of surprise. "Why?"

The elf turned to face him."Removing the metal from my body will require time and effort. Youmight decide the process is more trouble than my service is worth.Once we start, you'll have a knife in my arm. One flick is all itwould take to sever the veins."

"If killing you was my intention, aclockwork guard couldn't prevent me."

"No, but it could make sure I don'tdie alone."

The adept huffed. "Few people dotheir best work with a sword pointed their way."

"Will you call the guard, or shallI?"

The adept gave a single terse nod.In moments a metal guard clanked into the room and drew asword.

Rhendish sent the construct adisgusted look and reached for a small, curved knife. The elf tooka chair and laid her arm on the attached metal table.

The adept dipped the tip of hisknife under one of the stitches on the elf's arm, flicking asidethe threads one by one. She did not flinch, and when the knife sankdeep into living flesh, she did not scream. Not when he clamped offthe veins to slow the flow of blood, not when he removed tiny boltsholding a metal bone in place, not even when he pulled the bar freewith what appeared to be more force than was strictlynecessary.

A metallic rustle filled the room asthe clockwork guard shifted, raising its sword for a sweepingcut.

"My arm, your head," the elf saidsoftly.

Rhendish removed a slender crystalbone from the skeleton, the smaller of the two forearm bones. Thestarsong humming through the crystal faltered. The elf's eyesglazed as the magic sustaining her fell silent.

The adept's head came up sharply,like a wolf scenting blood.

Metal clattered as the guard's swordarm dropped to its side. Its metal head turned from the elf to theadept and back, as if it were uncertain where its loyalties shouldlie.

Without thinking, the old manreached out to Honor.

Starsong filled the room with silentmusic. The elf gathered the silver threads and wove them intostrength and magic, life and youth. The old man doubted she wouldthink to ask what had repaired the severed connection. Starsongcame naturally to her kind, and like a beating heart requiredneither thought nor choice to do its work.

Color crept back into the elfwoman's pallid cheeks. Her eyes cleared, hardened. Her gaze flickedto the clockwork guard, and it raised its sword again.

Rhendish frowned and lifted hisknife. The wonderful, terrible work began anew.

The old man sank down on the windowledge, stunned beyond thought. His hands trembled, but when heregarded them by the light of the stars, they seemed less palsiedand frail than they'd been this morn.

For ten long years, he'd tried totake power and magic from the elf woman. It had never occurred tohim, not once, to give.

Starsong was a shared thing, flowingfrom one elf to another as need arose. The old man had known thatonce.

He'd been away from his kind for fartoo long.