The Veiled Dragon

Twelve

A sliver of pearly light split the midnight gloom between the gate towers, and Ruha realized the guards of Moonstorm House were opening the gates for her. She lashed her mount with the ends of her reins, urging the exhausted Shou prancer into the ragged semblance of a gallop. The two packhorses behind her snorted in protest, but had little trouble adjusting to the new pace. They were both larger than the witch’s mount and, loaded with four sacks of ylang blossoms each, far less heavily burdened.

From behind Ruha came the clatter of firing crossbows, followed instantly by the ringing echoes of iron bolts skipping across cobblestones. One of the packhorses screamed, and the witch’s prancer stumbled as the train slowed. She twisted around and saw the last beast hobbling badly. Like the animal ahead of it, its chest was covered in lather, and its eyes were bulging with fear and exhaustion.

Thirty paces down the deserted street, two dozen of Hsieh’s guards lashed their mounts madly, making a last desperate effort to catch Ruha. As planned, they were closing the distance and doing everything possible to make it appear they truly wanted to succeed. The lead rider accepted a loaded crossbow from the man at his flank, then raised the weapon and fired. A dark streak flashed between him and the hobbling horse. The beast screeched and would have fallen had the other animals not dragged it along, stumbling and staggering.

Cursing her pursuers for heartless killers, Ruha blew a sharp breath in their direction and uttered a simple wind spell. A howling gust tore down the street, blasting the first three riders half out of their saddles. As they struggled to regain their balance, they were overtaken by the galloping throng at their backs; two more soldiers raised their crossbows. Hsieh had commanded his men to make a convincing show of the chase, and Shou were nothing if not obedient.

A chorus of strumming bowstrings sounded from atop the gate towers. The leading Shou riders sprouted arrows in their chests and fell from their wooden saddles. The rest of Hsieh’s men whipped their reins around, guiding their horses into a sheltering alleyway.

Ruha’s prancer clattered through the dark gateway of Moonstorm House into a spacious, hexagonal courtyard of ornamental trees and twining garden pathways. The witch reined in her mount, bringing the entire train to a halt and drawing a relieved nicker from the wounded packhorse. The enormous garden was enclosed by a milky wall, with slender, cone-roofed towers standing at each of the six corners. The castle had no central keep, nor, as far as the witch could tell, any sort of inner defensework at all.

Despite the excitement of the phony chase, Ruha found herself completely and utterly exhausted by the long ride from the Ginger Palace. This was her second night without sleep. She kept yawning behind her veil, and her eyes were burning with the need to close. She braced her hands on her saddle pommel and fought to clear her head; she could not allow herself to even think of resting, not until she had laid her trap.

Captain Fowler rushed from a gate tower’s narrow doorway, followed closely by Vaerana Hawklyn, Tombor the Jolly, and Pierstar Hallowhand. Though the hour was well past midnight, they were still dressed in jerkins, tunics, and trousers. They had, no doubt, been up planning tomorrow’s assault on the Ginger Palace.

Fowler stopped beside Ruha and took her mount’s foam-covered reins. “Are you well, Witch?” The half-orc scowled at the lather on his hand, then wiped it on his pants. “And what have you done to this poor beast?”

“Galloped him all the way from the Ginger Palace, by the looks of it,” said Vaerana, joining them. She turned to Pierstar. “You’d better have someone rouse John the farrier and his boys. These horses need some attention.”

Pierstar stopped beside the wounded beast and winced at the two bolts lodged in its rump, then turned toward a tower in the back of the castle.

“I’ll do it myself,” he said. “And I’ll send a patrol of Maces after those riders. I doubt we’ll catch them, but I don’t want them in the city. Those Shou can be sneaky.”

Tombor the Jolly went to the first horse and stood on his toes so he could reach the knots. “Perhaps we should unload. Since Ruha risked her life to bring us this cargo, I assume it is of some importance.”

“It is.” The witch glanced at the cleric just long enough to nod, then stifled a yawn and dismounted. ‘It’s the last ingredient the Cult of the Dragon needs to steal Yanseldara’s spirit—ylang blossoms. They arrived on the Ginger Lady with Minister Hsieh.”

“Then you’ve saved Yanseldara!” Fowler’s outburst was as much question as exclamation, but that did not stop him from folding Ruha into his arms. “Maybe now you can get me my gold.”

“Not so fast.” Vaerana went to help Tombor unload the pack train. “As I understand things, stopping the cult’s not the same as saving Yanseldara.”

“That is correct. I have bought us more time, but Yanseldara is still in danger until we recover the staff.”

Vaerana tossed a sack of ylang blossoms on the ground. “I don’t suppose you can tell us where it is?”

The witch shook her head. “I am sorry. Lady Feng’s familiar was gone. It was all I could do to return with the ylang blossoms.”

Vaerana sighed wearily. “I guess I’ll have to do this myself.”

“I am sorry I failed you.”

Vaerana shrugged. “I’m sure you did your best.”

The Lady Constable probably did not mean to be insulting, but her patronizing tone vexed Ruha and made the witch burn to expose Tombor’s treachery. Unfortunately, vindication would have to wait. Until the cleric was gone, Ruha could not tell Vaerana about his treachery, or about her plan to trick him into leading them to Cypress’s lair.

“What are you planning to do?” Ruha tried to sound genuinely sorry for her failure. Once she sprang her trap and exposed Tombor, it would be Vaerana’s turn to apologize. “Perhaps I can help?”

Vaerana rolled her eyes, but managed to make a civil reply. “Why don’t you get some rest? You look like you need it, and this is better done alone.”

“Then you’ll try to snatch a member of the cult?” asked Fowler.

Vaerana nodded and reached across a horse to untie another sack of ylang blossoms. “I know a couple of likely places to find one.”

Tombor shook his head. “Even if you’re lucky enough to catch someone who knows where the lair is, he won’t tell you. If you want to make him talk, take me along.”

“Sorry, Tombor. We’ll be moving fast tonight.” Vaerana patted the cleric’s stomach. “I don’t think you can keep up.”

“You’ll have to torture them.”

Vaerana nodded grimly. “I won’t enjoy it.”

Somehow, Ruha suspected the Lady Constable of being less than honest.

“Vaerana, before you go, we should talk.” Ruha could hardly explain why in front of Tombor, but the last thing she wanted was for Vaerana to leave Moonstorm House. “I should tell you of some other things I learned in the Ginger Palace.”

“Then talk.” Vaerana continued to help Tombor unload. “I don’t have all night.”

Ruha forced herself not to look in Tombor’s direction. “First, Cypress is back.”

Vaerana’s jaw fell, and she let a sack of blossoms slip from her grasp.

“I saw him in the spicehouse,” Ruha explained. “He was smaller than the first time I saw him. He could not speak or use his magic, but it was definitely Cypress. By kidnapping his cult members, you may be drawing his attention to you.”

Vaerana turned back to the pack train. “Better to face him in Elversult than in his lair.” There was not much conviction in her voice. “What else?”

“Cypress is not stealing Yanseldara’s spirit so his cult can control Elversult.” Ruha was frantically trying to think of something that would keep the Lady Constable inside Moonstorm House without arousing Tombor’s suspicions. “The dragon wants her spirit for himself.”

“For himself?” Vaerana echoed.

Ruha nodded. “I think Cypress is in love with Yanseldara, or believes he is.”

Tombor raised his brow. “You seem to have learned quite a lot during your visit!”

Behind her veil, Ruha bit her lip and wondered if she had said too much. Her mind was as weary as her body, and she found it difficult to be subtle when her thoughts were so sluggish.

“I overheard a conversation between the prince and the dragon.” Then, doing her best to sound indignant, Ruha said, “I am not entirely inept.”

“No one said you were—er, at least not lately.” Vaerana motioned Fowler over to hold the wounded packhorse. “But Cypress doesn’t have any reason to love Yanseldara. She’s the one that killed him!”

“You don’t know much about men, do you Lady Constable?” Fowler gave her a roguish, yellow-fanged grin. “There’s a fine half-elf tavern wench over in Saerloon who slams an ale tankard against my head every time I see her, and I keep coming back for more. What’s that tell you?”

“That you let your orcish blood get the best of you,” Vaerana growled. “You ought to know when to quit.”

Fowler shrugged, trying not to look hurt. “Maybe, but what I’m saying is that I don’t quit. I keep wanting what will never be mine. Seems like that’s what Cypress is doing. Yanseldara killed him—maybe Sharee’ll kill me with that tankard someday—and now he’s trying to steal her, just as he stole all that treasure that belonged to someone else. He wants what he can’t have. It’s part of being male.”

Vaerana pulled the last of the ylang blossoms off the wounded horse. “Fair enough. Let’s say I don’t understand men—not that I’d want to—what does it matter?” The Lady Constable dropped the sack on the ground. “It doesn’t change anything I’ve got to do tonight.”

Vaerana turned to walk toward one of the towers, and Ruha, desperate to keep her from leaving, caught her by the arm.

The Lady Constable frowned at the witch’s hand. “What now?”

“Do you have an oil press?” Ruha asked.

“In the kitchens,” Tombor answered. “Why?”

The witch hesitated. She had already baited the trap, and she worried that in her exhaustion, she would explain too much and alert Tombor to her trap. On the other hand, if she did not explain, Vaerana would not stay to see the traitor take the bait.

“The members of the Cult of the Dragon are not the only ones who need the ylang oil. After we recover the staff, we must pour the ylang oil over Yanseldara to draw her spirit back into her body.” Ruha continued to hold Vaerana’s arm. “But if the oil is poured over a vessel containing the spirits of both Yanseldara and Cypress, the two will be joined together forever. That is why I believe the dragon is in love with Yanseldara.”

“And how did you learn so much about the uses of ylang oil?” Tombor asked.

“I am a witch,” Ruha replied, trying to dodge the question with a cryptic reply. “So is Lady Feng.”

In fact, Minister Hsieh had explained how to use the ylang oil. He had also provided Ruha with another Shou potion, one with which she was to send a message through Yanseldara to Lady Feng.

Vaerana studied Ruha for several moments, then asked, “So, you’re saying we need to press the oil ourselves—and be damned sure the cult doesn’t steal it back?”

“Yes.” Actually, this was only what Ruha wanted Tombor to believe. The blossoms in the sacks were the old, unsuitable ones; the fresh ylang was still in the Ginger Palace, being pressed in the spicehouse refinery. “That is what I’m saying.”

“Fine.” Vaerana looked to Tombor. “See to it that the blossoms are pressed and well guarded.”

If there had been any lingering doubts in Ruha’s mind that Tombor was the spy, they vanished when she saw the delighted twinkle in his eye. “The oil will be ready when you get back.”

Vaerana turned back to Ruha. “If you’re satisfied, now I’ve got to go.”

With that, Vaerana pulled her arm out of Ruha’s grasp and started across the courtyard. The witch stared after her in bewilderment, then scurried to catch up.

“Wait, Vaerana! There is one more thing.”

The Lady Constable stopped beneath the dark branches of a fragrant sweetbay tree. “What is it?”

Before the witch could explain, Tombor called, “There’s no need to delay Vaerana. If you need something, I’m sure I can help.”

Ruha glanced over her shoulder and saw Tombor coming after them, his jolly face bent into a mask of solicitous concern. The witch cursed under her breath and turned her back on him.

“Before you leave, you must visit me in my chamber,” she whispered to Vaerana, “alone!”

Vaerana shook her head. “I don’t have time—”

Ruha took her arm again. “You must! Promise me.”

Vaerana glanced down at the witch’s hand. “Then will you let me go?”

Ruha nodded and removed her hand. “It is important.”

“If you say so.” Vaerana looked past Ruha’s shoulder to Tombor, who was already upon them. “Lodge the witch in Pearl Tower.”

“Pearl Tower?” Tombor echoed, clearly surprised.

“Pearl Tower.” Vaerana turned to leave. “Are you having trouble with your ears?”

The cleric took Ruha’s arm, gripping it more tightly than was necessary. “I’ll show you to a chamber as soon as we’ve seen to the blossoms.”

“Perhaps we could go to the tower first,” Ruha suggested, worried she would not be there when Vaerana came to see her. “I have not slept in two days.”

Tombor shook his head. “You said yourself we can’t let these blossoms fall into the hands of the Cult of the Dragon. Besides, the kitchen is on the way to Pearl Tower. It’ll take only a few minutes to stop and set up the press.”

Ruha accompanied the cleric back to the horses. She removed a small satchel of supplies from her saddle, then helped Fowler and Tombor gather up the bulky sacks of ylang blossoms. Leaving the beasts with a guard, they walked down a chain of meandering pathways to a thatch-roofed shed against the back wall of the fortress. The place smelled of animal grease, smoke, and fresh Heartland spices.

Tombor stopped at the entrance and banged on the wooden door. “Up with you, Silavia! I’ve business in your kitchen!”

“The cook bars the door when she sleeps,” explained Fowler. “Otherwise, the night guards pilfer her breakfast tarts.”

They had to wait several minutes before a sleepy voice sounded on the other side of the door. “Go away, Tombor. I won’t have you calling in the middle of the night. You only want something to eat.”

Tombor looked slightly embarrassed. “I’ve—uh—guests with me, Silavia. We need the oil press. It’s for Lady Yanseldara.”

Silavia hesitated a moment, then asked, “Truly?”

“Truly,” replied Ruha. “The matter is urgent, I assure you.”

“Very well.” Silavia sounded more put-upon than curious. “Let me throw on an apron.”

From inside the building came several moments of bustling and whispering, which elicited a resentful scowl from Tombor. When a muffled thump finally announced the withdrawal of the bar, the cleric pushed the door open and stepped inside, where a stout, tousle-haired woman stood in a nightshirt and crisp white apron. The flickering taper in her hand illuminated an ashen, moon-shaped face with a bottle nose and plump-lipped frown.

Tombor dropped his sacks inside the door, then snatched the candle from the cook and went to light several others. A flickering yellow glow soon filled the room, revealing a neatly kept chamber filled with cutting tables, kneading troughs, and spice barrels. The embers of several spent fires glowed in three different fireplaces, one with a roasting spit over the hearth, one with soup cauldrons sitting in the firebox, and one built beneath a brick oven. Silavia’s sleeping pallet lay behind a dough bench, where a burly, black-bearded man stood looking down at a half-eaten honeycake and two empty mead pitchers.

Tombor glared at the embarrassed man for a moment, then growled, “You’d better get yourself to the gate, John. There’s a wounded horse there, and Pierstar’s looking for you.”

“My thanks for telling me so, Tombor.” The farrier, looking happy for any excuse to leave, started toward the door.

Tombor watched the man leave, then turned to Silavia. “What was he doing here?”

“It’s none of your concern who I give my honeycakes to!” Silavia retorted. “Not that there wouldn’t be some for you, if you ever came around at a decent hour.”

“It’s this trouble with Yanseldara’s catalepsy!” the cleric protested. “I’ve been busy.”

“So have I,” Silavia snorted. She led the way to a small storage pantry and unlocked the door with a key from her apron. “The oil press is in here, if you want it. Don’t expect me to help you with it.”

Tombor motioned to Fowler, who dropped his ylang blossoms beside the cleric’s and followed him into the little room. Ruha put her own sacks on the floor and tried not to yawn as Silavia glared at her.

“You a friend of Tombor or Tuskface?” the cook asked.

“I am closer to Fowler. I do not know Tombor very well. Is he an important person in Elversult?”

“You could say that,” Silavia replied proudly. “Tombor’s the one who saved Vaerana when the assassins first got after her. He’s done the same twice since—at the risk of his own life, I might add.”

The witch smiled, anticipating the apology she would be due when she exposed Tombor’s heroism as a cult ploy. “I had not realized he is so well thought of.”

Fowler emerged from the storage pantry, carrying a small oil press in his arms. The device was a mere fraction the size of the screw press in the spicehouse at the Ginger Palace, being small enough so that a single cook could move it without help. Tombor followed a moment later, holding a small, empty cask beneath one arm. The two men set their burdens on a vacant table, then the cleric motioned Silavia to his side.

“How do I work this thing?”

Silavia fetched a large bowl from a shelf, then set it beneath the drainage spout. “It’s simple enough. First you put the raw goods in here.”

She pulled the handle, raising the platen and displaying a small wooden box. The bed had a grid of channels cut into the bottom, and it was tilted so that the oil would run into a collection trough at one end.

“Then you lower the top plate, and it squeezes the oil out.” Silavia demonstrated, then stepped aside. “And when you’re done, you clean up after yourself.”

Tombor cast a wary eye at the eight bags of ylang blossoms, then looked to Ruha. “How much oil do we need?”

“Enough to cover Yanseldara from head to foot,” she replied. “I suggest you press all of the blossoms.”

Silavia smiled at the cleric. “It looks like you’re going to be here a while. Maybe I can find some honeycakes for you.”

Tombor’s eyes lit up. “That would make our task more enjoyable.”

“If I may be excused, I shall leave it to you to press the oil.” Ruha did not bother to stifle the yawn that came over her. “I am very tired. Perhaps Captain Fowler can show me to Pearl Tower.”

Silavia raised her brow. “Pearl Tower? I think not. Jarvis isn’t likely to let a pair of strangers in there.”

“No, but you can take her, Silavia.” Tombor tried to remove a gold ring from his chubby finger, but had to moisten the knuckle with saliva before he could tug it off. “Show this to Jarvis, and he’ll know you speak for me.”

Scowling at the imposition, Silavia accepted the ring and threw a cloak over her shoulders. Ruha retrieved the small satchel she had taken from her horse, then waved at Fowler to come along and followed her guide into the gloomy courtyard. They passed several dark sheds similar to the kitchen before turning onto a serpentine path of white crushed rock.

The witch paused there and allowed Silavia to march a dozen paces ahead, then whispered to Fowler, “You must return to the kitchens and help Tombor with the blossoms.”

The half-orc frowned. “You couldn’t tell me that before we left?”

“I could not. Tombor is a cult spy.”

“What?”

“I lack the time to explain, but I am certain. He and Wei Dao were working together.” Ruha pushed the half-orc back toward the kitchen. “Now, return to the kitchen. When he opens the last sack of blossoms, come get me.”

Fowler did not move. “Why?”

“So we can follow him to Yanseldara’s staff, of course,” Ruha whispered. “Go!”

“We?” he grumbled, starting back toward the kitchen. “Collecting the gold you owe me’s getting to be as much work as stealing Storm Sprite in the first place.”

“You stole your ship?” Ruha gasped.

Fowler frowned. “Aye—you don’t think I could’ve bought a ship like her, do you?”

“Truthfully, I had not given the matter much thought.”

Ruha turned to find Silavia waiting fifteen paces up the path, hands on hips.

“Are you coming or not? I thought you were tired.”

“I am tired—extremely tired.” Ruha scurried to catch up. “That must be why it did not occur to me to leave Captain Fowler with Tombor. I’m sure his work will go faster with an assistant.”

“Not much,” snorted the cook. “You can squeeze oil only so fast.”

Ruha followed Silavia down the path, past several intersections to a slender tower faced with gleaming abalone shell. To reach the building’s entrance, they had to climb a detached stairway to the second story, then cross a small drawbridge to an open portcullis. A pair of Maces stood beside the entrance, fully armored in scale-mail and equipped with more weapons than they could have used with six hands. As the witch and her guide approached, the guards continued to stare straight ahead.

The largest, a swarthy giant of a man with brown eyes and dark straight hair, spoke in an officious voice. “By the order of Vaerana Hawklyn, household staff is no longer permitted in Pearl Tower.”

The two guards crossed their lances before the doorway; then the speaker scowled at the cook.

“You know that, Silavia—and especially at this time of night.”

“Don’t get haughty with me, Jarvis!” The cook produced Tombor’s ring and shoved it under Jarvis’s nose. “Take a look at that and do as I say.”

Jarvis pulled back so he could inspect the ring, then snapped his lance back to his side and returned to attention. The smaller man followed suit.

“You have a command from the Jolly One?” asked Jarvis.

Silavia smiled as though she were thinking of telling the huge guard to jump off the drawbridge, but she only stepped back and waved a hand at Ruha. “Tombor wants this woman shown to—” Silavia stopped in midsentence and scowled at the witch. “Not to his chamber?”

Ruha shook her head quickly. “No, and it was Vaerana who asked Tombor to see that I was lodged here.”

If Jarvis was impressed, he did not show it. He simply waved Ruha into the tower, then picked up a candle and lit it from one burning in a wall sconce. Shielding the flame with his free hand, he led the witch up a spiraling staircase. The passage was so narrow that his mail-clad shoulders rasped against both walls at once.

Once they were safely out of Silavia’s earshot, Ruha said, “I am expecting a—” she yawned, “—a visit from Vaerana.”

Jarvis missed a step and nearly fell, filling the stairwell with a ringing clamor as he thrust a hand out to catch himself.

“Is something wrong?” Ruha found the guard’s consternation puzzling. “Has she been here already?”

Jarvis shook his head and smoothed his tabard. “I haven’t seen the Lady Constable, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here. She might come through the passage from Moon Tower, and I would never know it.”

Ruha considered this worrisome possibility, then rejected it as quickly as it entered her mind. Had Vaerana already come and gone, she would certainly have left a message with the guards.

Jarvis stopped at a landing and opened a doorway into the main part of the tower, where a short corridor led to a vaulted alcove that served as one of the fortress’s exterior arrow loops. He escorted Ruha past three doors, two with loud rumbling snores reverberating through the wood, then opened a fourth. The chamber inside was as lavishly furnished as it was small, with wool tapestries on the walls, a true wooden bed, a small table with a pitcher and basin, and a stone bench built into the alcove of another arrow loop.

Jarvis lit a tallow pot hanging inside the door, then stepped aside to let Ruha enter. “I’ll tell Vaerana which room you’re in.”

“That is very kind. And do you know Captain Fowler?”

Jarvis’s eyes widened slightly. “The half-orc?”

“Yes. If he asks for me, please fetch me at once.”

The guard nodded, then backed into the hall and pulled the door shut. Ruha sat on the stone bench and peered out the arrow loop at the side of a wooded hill. She leaned her head back against the wall and felt her heavy eyelids beginning to descend. She did not have the strength to raise them.

* * * **

Tang lay facedown on the dark mountainside, his toes kicked deep into the slippery mud to keep from sliding through the ferns down into the swamp. Though he had his palms pressed tightly over his ears, he could not shut out the voices of the dead. The spirits of his soldiers kept wailing at him. Their words were incoherent, but he knew what they wanted. He could feel their craving, deep down in his abdomen where his own shrunken spirit cowered like that of a frightened peasant. They needed him to look at them, to acknowledge the futility of their sacrifice, to intercede with Yen-Wang-Yeh and tell the Great Judge that they had died bravely and well and that their mission had failed through no fault of their own.

Tang could not bring himself to utter the prayer. To concede their valor was to admit he had suffered defeat at the hands of a barbarian; worse, it was to admit defeat at his own hands. When his soldiers laughed at him, he had let his embarrassment dictate General Fui’s death. The price for that arrogance had been the failure of his assault, and the prince did not care to admit—to himself or his ancestors—that he been had such a fool. If that made him a coward, so be it; Shou princes were taught to be cowards, and forgetting that lesson had been the cause of his ignoble defeat.

Tang’s resolve only made the voices echo louder inside his head. He rolled onto his back and sat up. Midnight gloom filled the swamp below like a funeral pyre’s black smoke, spreading an oily, clinging ink over everything it touched. The darkness was broken only by a faint fox fire glow that illuminated the floating corpses of the screaming dead soldiers.

“Silence, I command!” Tang hissed. “Present yourselves at Ten Courts and leave me in peace!”

A gentle sloshing sounded below. Something broke the surface of the black water, sending a crazy pattern of rippling, ghost-faint lights bouncing off invisible cypress trunks. Tang froze, praying the disturbance had been caused by a restless alligator.

It was impossible to say how long the prince stared into the darkness. He was not conscious of breathing until long after the air had grown heavy with silence and the pond had returned to its glassy stillness. It occurred to him that the voices of his dead soldiers had fallen quiet; then he sensed a pair of long reptilian necks rising from the black water. He did not see the creatures so much as feel a pair of lighter, warmer presences among the cypress trees below, but he knew without doubt that his craven outburst of whispering had drawn the attention of Cypress’s wyverns.

Tang had not expected the two reptiles to emerge from the cave that night. They had both suffered a substantial battering during the destruction of the Shou assault party, so the prince had assumed they would lie up for the night and lick their wounds. Still, with a ready supply of fresh meat floating outside their door, it was not surprising they had come out to feed. Tang was glad he had decided not to hazard moving at night. If the creatures had been outside when he started rustling through the brush, they would surely have killed him.

No sooner had Tang finished congratulating himself on his wisdom than the ground trembled beneath his legs. He stifled a cry and, thinking one of the reptiles had landed nearby, reached for his only weapon, a pitifully inadequate dagger. Instead of feeling the sharp sting of a wyvern’s tail barb, however, he heard a series of faint, muffled knells—such as a distant bell or gong might make.

The tolling had hardly begun to fade before a loud purl rolled from the mouth of the grotto below. Cypress’s form—a huge, shadowy darkness far blacker than the surrounding swamp—emerged from the lair and seemed to pause outside the cavern.

The wyverns hissed in frustration and swam, rather noisily, back into the cavern. A loud, basal throb reverberated through the swamp as Cypress’s mighty wings beat the air. Visions of the dragon swooping down out of the darkness filled the prince’s mind, at least until he realized the pulsing was growing softer and more distant. The dragon was flying away.

Tang sighed in relief, then kicked his heels deep into the mud and felt something slithering across his leg. The prince remained motionless until he located the creature’s head, then calmly grabbed it behind the jaws and flung the writhing thing down the hill. He had nothing to fear from snakes—perhaps from the spirits of his dead soldiers, whose voices were again filling his ears—but not from snakes.

* * * **

Ruha slept without dreaming and awoke sometime later, lying on the soft bed with the heavy woolen quilt pulled high beneath her chin. Her first thought was not that she usually took off her aba before sleeping, or that she never pulled the blanket up to her chin, but that she had slept the night away. She threw the cover off and rushed to the alcove, where, to her relief, she saw the treetops still dancing in silver moonlight. Only then did she notice that someone had removed her veil and realized that the tallow lamp had been extinguished—she could not have been asleep long enough for it to burn itself out!—and it occurred to her Vaerana had already come and gone.

Ruha fumbled around in the darkness until she found her veil on the stone bench, then felt her way out the door, into the hallway, and down the spiraling staircase. Jarvis and his partner were leaning on their lances outside the portcullis.

The witch paused to put on her veil, then demanded, “How long have I been asleep?”

Startled by Ruha’s question, they whirled around with lance tips lowered. When she cautiously stepped into the flickering light of their candle, both men sighed and snapped to attention.

“How long ago did Vaerana put me in my bed?” Ruha demanded.

The two guards glanced nervously at each other, then Jarvis said, “Actually, I laid you in the bed.”

Ruha raised a hand to her face. “You removed my veil?”

Jarvis looked first confused, then embarrassed. “The Lady Constable commanded me to—er, she said that you deserved your rest—”

“Vaerana said that?” Ruha could hardly imagine those words coming from the Lady Constable’s lips.

“Yes, about three hours ago. She rushed up the stairs and right back down again.” Jarvis glanced at his companion, then added, “She ordered me to see that you rested comfortably, and to tell you she would look in on you when she returned.”

“Kozah take her for an impatient she-camel!”

Jarvis scowled at that outburst. “There’s no need for calling names. She was only trying to be considerate—and that’s a rare thing for Vaerana Hawklyn.”

“It would have been considerate to wake me!” Ruha retorted. “She was taking advantage of my fatigue. How soon will she return?”

Jarvis shrugged. “She was dressed for battle.”

Ruha cursed again, this time under her breath. “And what of Captain Fowler? I told you to fetch me if he asked.”

“He has not asked,” Jarvis replied stiffly.

Ruha sighed in relief. If Fowler had not come for her, she could still spring her trap. “I want one of you to come with me, so you can show Vaerana where I am hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“It is for the good of Yanseldara. That is all you need to know, Jarvis.”

Ruha started across the drawbridge without waiting for the guard to agree. Before she reached the other side, Jarvis’s heavy steps were booming across the thick planks behind her.

“We’re not supposed to leave our posts,” he complained.

“And Vaerana was supposed to speak with me before she left. Because she did not, we must now improvise.”

They descended the stairs and retraced the meandering path to Silavia’s kitchen. With the door and shutters all closed, the place looked as dark and silent as the other sheds built along this section of the wall. Wondering how those inside could tolerate the cloying smell of ylang oil without opening the windows, Ruha slipped beneath an unruly wax myrtle. She settled into a hiding place so deliberately uncomfortable that she would not fall asleep, then sent Jarvis back to Pearl Tower.

A long, bone-aching time later, Ruha began to debate the wisdom of going to check on Tombor’s progress. She had expected it to take him quite some time to press all eight sacks of ylang blossoms, but the first gray hint of false dawn had already appeared in the eastern sky. Household servants were beginning to trudge about their morning tasks, and it would not be long before some passing groom or maid discovered the witch lurking in the bushes.

Ruha heard the crunch of heavy boots coming down the path. She backed out from beneath the wax myrtle and saw Jarvis and Vaerana approaching. All thoughts of chiding the Lady Constable about last night’s departure quickly vanished from Ruha’s mind. Vaerana was limping badly, with one arm hanging slack at her side and the side of her face so swollen it looked as if she had been kicked by a horse. What remained of her tattered jerkin was black with half-dried blood, and even her boots looked as though someone had tried to cut them off her feet.

“What happened to you?”

Vaerana squatted beside Ruha. “Ambush.” The word came out mushy and difficult to understand. “They were waiting.”

“And I know who told them you were coming.” Ruha resisted the temptation to point out that Vaerana could have avoided the beating by awakening her last night. “The Cult of the Dragon has a spy inside Moonstorm House.”

A murderous glint flared in Vaerana’s eyes. “Who?”

Ruha pointed toward the kitchen, where a pair of scullery wenches were just entering the door. “The spy will reveal himself soon enough.”

Vaerana’s hand drifted toward the blood-smeared hilt of her sword. “What’s the sense in waiting? Let’s get him now.”

Ruha laid a restraining hand on the Lady Constable’s arm. “Wait. He is going to lead us to the dragon’s lair. That’s what I was trying to tell you last night.”

Vaerana scowled. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I would have ruined the trap,” Ruha explained. “The traitor was—”

The witch was interrupted by a muffled shriek from inside the kitchen. The door burst open and both scullery wenches came rushing outside. One woman held her hands over her mouth, while the other waved her arms at the door and yelled incoherently. With a sinking stomach, Ruha leapt up and raced toward the shed behind Vaerana and Jarvis. Vaerana pulled the crying wench out of the way and led Jarvis and Ruha into the kitchen.

The room was as dark as pitch, for all of the candles and tallow lamps had been extinguished. The cloying perfume of ylang blossoms lingered in the air, though not heavily enough to disguise a coppery, more familiar scent: blood. A few steps inside the door, the Lady Constable suddenly stopped and squatted on her haunches.

“Fetch a light.”

As Jarvis left to do his mistress’s bidding, Ruha knelt close to Vaerana and ran her hands over the floor. It did not take long to find Silavia’s plump, cool body lying facedown on the wooden planks. There was a soft, sticky mess where the back of her head should have been.

“Who did this?” Vaerana demanded.

“A cult spy.” Ruha no longer felt any joy in her coming vindication, in large part because they were going to find another body in the kitchen and she knew who it would be. “This is my fault. Had I not fallen asleep—”

“This is no time for blaming yourself!” Vaerana snapped. “Just tell me about this spy.”

“There were only two people in the kitchen with Silavia: Tombor and Fowler.”

“You think Tusks did this?” Vaerana scoffed. “And I was beginning to think you might not be such a bungler!”

Ruha bit her tongue. A sharp retort would do nothing to bring Fowler back, and even less to convince Vaerana of Tombor’s betrayal. The Lady Constable would realize the truth for herself soon enough.

Jarvis returned with a lit candle, which he promptly used to find and light several tallow lamps. As the flickering light illuminated the room, it became apparent that Silavia had been struck down as she fled, for she had left a short trail of bloody footsteps behind her. The rest of the kitchen looked normal enough; there were no tables overturned, the room was not strewn with utensils, and the walls were mercifully unspattered with blood.

Ruha took Jarvis’s candle and led the way toward the pantry. The oil press was not on the table where it should have been, but she quickly forgot about that as she stepped around the corner of the table and saw Fowler’s stout body sprawled on the floor. The captain was lying amidst a pool of dark blood, with the handle of a long butcher knife protruding from the middle of his back. His neck was turned at an impossible angle, and his astonished gray eyes were staring straight ahead.

Vaerana slipped past Ruha and crouched down beside Fowler. “So much for your spy.”

“I did not say that Fowler was the spy.” Ruha’s tone was sharper than she intended, for she was boiling over with anger and guilt. “I was speaking of your friend, Tombor the Jolly.”

Vaerana’s jaw dropped. “You think Tombor …?”

Ruha nodded. “He was the only one in the room.”

The Lady Constable rose, shaking her head. “Not Tombor. He saved—”

“I know; he saved you from the cult’s assassins, more than once.” Ruha paused, giving Vaerana time to draw her own conclusions. When the witch saw no sudden gleam of understanding in the Lady Constable’s eyes, she said, “The attacks weren’t real. They were a trick to win your confidence.”

A look of humiliation flashed across Vaerana’s face, but it vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Ruha waved her hand around the kitchen. “Where are the ylang blossoms?”

Vaerana’s gaze roamed across the chamber, her complexion turning as white as alabaster when she did not find the eight bulky sacks. Finally, the Lady Constable whirled on Ruha.

“You knew he would steal the blossoms—and you let him?” Vaerana looked almost relieved to have someone upon whom to vent her anger. “You let him kill Fowler?”

“I did not let him kill anyone!” the witch snapped. Vaerana’s words hurt more than they should have, perhaps because Ruha feared there was more truth to them than she would have liked. “I had hoped we could follow him to Yanseldara’s staff—which we might have done, had you bothered to awaken me and hear my plan!”

Jarvis interposed his armored bulk between the two women. “Tombor was gone by then. I doubt he stayed much longer than it took him to kill the half-orc and Silavia.”

Ruha turned to the empty table and, seeing no mess upon the surface, nodded. “He was in a hurry to get out of here. He took the oil press with him.”

“The press maybe, but not even Tombor could sneak eight sacks of ylang blossoms out the gate,” said Vaerana, “The sentries would ask too many questions. They saw what you went through to bring those sacks to us.”

“Perhaps he took them out some other way,” Ruha suggested.

“Yes, and I think I see how,” said Jarvis. The burly guard took Ruha’s candle and went to the back wall, where a mass of roofing straw lay scattered around a butchering bench. He climbed onto the table and stuck his head up between the rafters, then raised the candle high enough to illuminate his shoulders sticking up through a hole in the roof. “He climbed onto the roof and threw the sacks over the wall.”

“Fowler’s trick!” Ruha gasped.

A long, heartsick groan slipped from Vaerana’s lips. She hung her head and braced her hands on the table edge. “I failed her.”

“Not yet.” Ruha went to the Lady Constable’s side and, rather uncertainly, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Tombor took the wrong blossoms.”

Vaerana raised her brow. “The wrong blossoms?”

Ruha nodded. “The ones Tombor took were only bait. They were picked in the evening, and they are not potent enough to serve the dragon’s wishes. Cypress needs blossoms picked in the morning, and those remain at the Ginger Palace.”

Vaerana stood up straight. “Then what are we waiting for?” She turned to Jarvis. “Find Pierstar and tell him to call out the Maces! We’ve got a palace to storm!”

Ruha caught Jarvis’s arm. “That won’t be necessary. Minister Hsieh has promised to give us the blossoms, in exchange for returning Lady Feng to him unharmed.”

“How are we going to do that?” Vaerana demanded. “Isn’t she with Yanseldara’s staff in Cypress’s lair?”

Ruha nodded. “When we recover one, we rescue the other. It costs us no extra effort.”

Vaerana considered this for a moment, then scowled. “That’d be fine—if we knew where to find the lair. And since you were trying to trick Tombor into leading us there …”

Ruha raised a hand to silence Vaerana. “There may be another way. In my room, I have a potion. If we can get Yanseldara to drink it, we can contact Lady Feng and perhaps discover the location of Cypress’s lair.”

Vaerana studied Ruha out of one swollen eye. “Where did you get this potion?”

“From Minister Hsieh,” Ruha answered. “Now that he is helping us—”

“Helping us!” Vaerana thundered. “It’s Shou magic that’s done this to Yanseldara!”

“Yes, but—”

The Lady Constable shook her head. “How do you know this won’t hurt her?”

“I do not,” Ruha admitted. “Minister Hsieh said that if the connection between Yanseldara’s body and spirit is too weak, we could sever it entirely—but that is unlikely as long as she remains strong enough—”

“No!” Vaerana shook her head vehemently, then stepped away from the table and started toward the door. “When will you learn? You can’t trust a Shou—ever.”

“What other choice do we have?” Ruha started after Vaerana, who did not even acknowledge the question. “Wait! Where are you going?”

The Lady Constable did not even slow down as she stepped through the door. “Where do you think? To have Pierstar wake his trackers!”