19

Sheraza ducked out of that fetid dark alley, leaving the mortal rogue to her fate. They’d exchanged garments in a terrible rush, and Sheraza was no longer hindered by sweeping skirts and luxurious cloth. Now, she wore plain leather armor, climbing gloves, boots, a grey tunic and breeches.

She also carried a fair bit of temple coin (the mortal girl having been busy that night). There was also a surprisingly heavy, cursed gem. A chilly star-ruby pried from the crown of some idol. Sheraza could not access her own faerie pockets or work many spells. The gem was dangerous, and she ought to have dropped it in the nearest offering box… but the young fugitive didn’t believe in coincidence. She was in need, and willing to bargain.

“I will return you,” she whispered, gazing into the ruby’s crystalline depths, watching her breath mist and fade on its polished surface. “…If you will transfer your curse and your wrath to those who seek me. With these two hands I will place you back in your setting, Blood-Star. Only, help me to escape capture.”

The gem pulsed in her grip. Next, it changed forms, becoming a deep-red serpent that flowed to encircle her slender right wrist. There it dug in a hundred sharp thorns, but no curse. Sheraza gained senses, instead. She gasped as her mind flashed out of her head in bursts to touch wet stone, splintered wood, gritty pavement… and three skulking guards. Mortals, by the feel of them, patrolling a city awakened to sudden noises and lights in the sky. The trio were alert but distracted by the arrival of Magister Serrio’s fair. They proved easy to dodge, now that she knew where they were, and how many.

That oddly flaring red vision also highlighted certain objects and doors for her, making dangers appear to be limned in black flames. The safest routes glowed a deep, sullen crimson, helping Sheraza evade arrest. She darted and ran, ducked around corners and into dark thresholds, much like a shadow herself.

Sometimes those narrow quarters brought on near collision, though. Fifty feet down a crooked, dim lane, she was overtaken by a gang of stalking half-orc thugs. Avoided that lot by crouching behind a group of stone water jars. The gang shambled past her hiding place, snuffing the air and growling; their senses dulled by Blood-Star’s curse magic.

Two alleys over, in a dusty and reeking flood tunnel, Sheraza was warned of approaching guards by the gem-snake’s sudden prickle. “Saw” them a moment later but had no place to go. Couldn’t retreat… no side tunnels or alcoves… and forward meant only capture and death. So Sheraza went upward, instead. She scurried along the culvert’s rough stonework and braced herself flat to its roof with her splayed hands and feet, holding her breath. Willing herself to absolute silence. The tramping guards did not look up as their helmets and chainmail and pikes clattered past underneath. Just laughed and insulted each other, boasting of liquor swilled and mates bedded. Sheraza gave them plenty of time, waiting until they were far down the tunnel before she dropped like a cat to the trash-littered ground. Close call.

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Other than that, she kept moving, drunkenly changing direction to throw off pursuit. And always, always, Sheraza followed the lure of that beckoning sword. She had to get there first, or else battle its other claimant (some hulking imperial champion, the girl reckoned). Fortunately, time was disposed to be helpful.

Low Town was far from the center of Karellon, yet her traversal seemed not to take very long. Just over a candle-mark later, Sheraza reached Five Points, where the fair was opening like a field of bright, chiming flowers. It wove itself into the city’s normal background music (which Sheraza mostly ignored). She did not rush across the broad space between her hiding place and Magister Serrio’s fair, though. Not yet.

“I follow a summons,” she whispered, pausing for thought and to catch her breath. Dawn was approaching. Twice she’d managed to conceal herself from patrolling guardsmen. Here, though… Sheraza measured the distance from alley to fair with her narrowed blue eyes and the senses provided by Blood-Star. Fifty feet of open space, she reckoned, filling rapidly with gathering folk and tramping guards. Beyond them lay Karellon’s crystal and marble main square, where tents rose, and banners unfurled. There was no real cover. She would have to be very fast, or else utterly unremarkable.

“I must go where the call leads me, as Fate has decided,” she told the departing night. “And not even Magister Serrio may prevent it.”

Bold words, but she sensed their truth and was so very near to her goal. Blood-Star pulsed at her wrist, then, warning Sheraza to duck into shadow as a half-elven guard turned her way. He did not look at her, though. Instead, the fellow had alerted to the trotting arrival of a tall, burly human male and a part-elf woman. Sheraza did a fast double-take, for those two glowed in her altered sight like a pair of magical torches.

She gripped the alley’s chipped pour-stone threshold. It was out of place. Did not belong there in the bright, shining center of Karellon, but Magic was rife that long night, as logic and sense bent like obedient twigs.

“There is the fated sword,” murmured Sheraza, spotting a glittering line in the air by that big, dark-haired mortal. The blade was not yet a fully physical object, she guessed. It was hiding itself from everyone else but its bearers and fated wielder… who needed to act, and soon.

Heart thudding, Sheraza pulled her green velvet cloak from its magical pouch and draped the long garment over herself. Raised its hood with slim, steady hands, concealing all but her chin, boots and climbing gloves. Started forward, when two things happened almost at once.

First, a scruffy mortal wizard and scowling ruffian caused a commotion by hurtling out of a side street. Not Golden Way or the Lane Imperial. Between them, somehow. Behind that unlikely couple raced three dirty mortals, hurling daggers and razor-sharp darts. All their riot and clamor drew guards like flies to a battlefield, which was good.

Sheraza stepped forward, feeling the alley behind her vanish away as she crossed onto Five Points, near the triumphal arch of Palace Street. Sheraza concentrated on looking as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, she cut across to follow that sword and its tall mortal bearer. Its call seemed almost to choke her, driving everything else out of Sheraza’s hearing and mind. But then, the other thing happened.

A mighty shockwave rumbled through Karellon, from the direction of its beautiful mountainside palace. Windows shattered, people were knocked sprawling. Tents deflated and banners snapped perfectly straight. Music and chatter cut off entirely, as one thought, one awful truth hit everyone at the same time. Vernax the Golden was dead. Their emperor, fallen out of the hands of the gods.

…And Arvendahl’s curse was beginning to strike.