GILLIAM SAW A SLIGHTLY bent old man, leaning against a smooth, dark staff with one hand, while in the other he carried a heavy tome with a thick brass latch and two cracked leather covers. He wore robes, those dark and gray ones that the Priests of the Hunter often wore, and his head, hands, and throat were unadorned. His hair, long and white, fell past his shoulders, gathering in the hollows of his stooped shoulders, and a beard trailed into the mist.
But his eyes were not gold, not any living color; they had a depth to them that eyes should not have. Were it not for the towering height of the God, Gilliam might have mistaken him for Zoraban, Master of the Order.
Stephen saw differently.
Age was a thing for mortals, and this tall, inscrutable Lord of the Heavens bore no such taint. He wore robes, yes, long and fine, but they had no colors and all colors as they shimmered to the unseen ground. His perfect forehead was cut by a circlet of light; his face was smooth, his hair drawn tightly, completely back. In Stephen’s vision, the staff was no staff, but rather a fine and perfect blade, edged along both sides, pointed into rising fog. But he carried a book, and in it, Stephen was certain that the knowledge of the cosmos was writ.
He met the God’s eyes for a second, no more, and then looked away. He did not trust the ground beneath his feet, and so bowed instead of dropping to one knee in deference.
“You are not the ones who called me,” the god said, his voice filling their ears, although it was mild, even soft.
“No, Lord,” Stephen said. His voice was quiet as the God’s was loud.
“Then follow,” the God replied. “We are close to the one that did.” He raised a delicate brow and looked down his straight, slender nose. “You walked without him.”
To that, there was no answer. Stephen nodded.
“Brave,” was the only reply. The God began to walk, and as he did, the mist cleared behind him, forming a path wide enough for two men to walk abreast. In grateful silence, the Hunter and the huntbrother did just that.
They did not have long to walk; ahead, standing on what appeared to be a little hill or groundsheet, stood Zoraban; at his side stood the girl.
“Lord,” Zoraban said, his voice oddly resonant.
“Zoraban.” To Stephen’s surprise, the God bowed low. “It is good to see you again so soon. Why have you called me?”
“To ask the right question,” the mage replied gravely. He bowed as well, although there was nothing as majestic or grand in his gesture. Then he straightened, and his eyes widened. “Lord Elseth, Stephen.”
“I found them wandering the mists,” the God said. “Will you take them in?” The words were formal, almost ritualistic.
“I will, as my responsibility,” Zoraban replied.
“Then they are your care.” He looked down and then lifted the arm that held the sword. “Go and stand beside him.” Although there was no light above, or anywhere in sight, the blade cast a cutting shadow.
They reached the side of the mage, chastened but unbowed. “You will let me speak,” Zoraban said. They nodded, and Gilliam didn’t even show rancor at the severity of the tone. “Teos, it is your light and your labor that has granted man vision beyond the seen. To you, all knowledge is eventually brought, and from you, the desire for knowledge is kindled and burns yet.
“I come to you with information; it is my hope, my supplication, that that information will return to me as understanding, if you will it.
“And if you do not will it, Lord, I will be content, and I will continue to seek information in both your name and my own.”
Gilliam rolled his eyes. “Why can’t he just say ‘I’ve got a question?’”
Stephen planted his elbow sharply between the two ribs his reach was most familiar with. He did not speak his disapproval, for fear of interrupting either Zoraban or Teos, the Lord of Knowledge—but he sent it sizzling along their bond.
The girl raised her head and looked back at Gilliam while the mage continued to intone the prologue that the Hunter Lord found of such little interest. Then, at last, Zoraban stopped.
Teos, meditative, looked down upon the four with his endless eyes. Then, if possible, the corners of his lips turned up as if in a smile. “Yes,” he said softly, “you may present your case and ask your question.” The mists curled up around him, becoming thicker and more dense. They took on shape and form, like water hardening to ice, until they at last held the appearance of a huge, if simple, throne. The god sat, laying his sword across his legs, and his book across the sword.
“This is an echo,” Zoraban whispered, “of all that he is in the heavens.” Golden eyes met endless ones without so much as flinching. If there was affection between the immortal and his son, it was not obvious, not noticeable.
“My lord, I bring you a mystery. This woman.”
Teos studied the girl for a moment, and then inclined his head. Unlike a human monarch, he was not at all distressed by the state of her clothing, hair, or skin; these things rarely interested the Gods.
“She is god-born, Lord—but I do not know the God who was her parent, mother or father.”
“Her place of birth?”
“She does not know it in a manner that I can repeat to you.” He paused. “And she does not speak.”
“I see.” The God lifted a hand. “Come, girl.” And on those two words, his voice changed. For a moment, it was indistinct, not a single voice, but a multitude of voices—high, low, deep, thin—all blended into a precise harmony of sound. Each syllable held the power and the mystery of command.
Stephen understood then that the bardic voice was an echo of the voice of the Gods. He was not certain that, had he wished it, he could have disobeyed Teos. The girl did not, but she did not seem troubled or even awed by the presence of the deity. The mists moved and parted at her feet; she traced a path cleanly and quickly, raising her face as she approached.
Teos reached down for her, and placed one hand upon her upturned head. Light lanced out from his fingertips, crackling in the silence.
“Lord Elseth,” Zoraban said, his voice even, “stay your ground. She is not harmed.”
But Gilliam had made no move, nor would he. Although he did not understand why, the girl was not afraid; had the God’s magic harmed her in any way, he would have known it the moment she felt any pain. Still, his breath was tight and loudly drawn between clenched teeth.
Stephen did not even look at his Hunter; his eyes were drawn and bound to the hand of the God, the eyes of the God, the face of the God. Even the girl, straight and supple, with no taint of fear or awe, and therefore none of mortality, was barely a flicker in the field of his vision. He did not know that he held his breath until he was forced to expel it, and even then, he would not look away. He did not know why.
The God looked up. “She is god-born,” he said, his voice once again a storm of voices. “But her mortal parent was no human.”
“Ah,” Zoraban said. “Which of the Gods was she born of?”
Teos’ brow furrowed. Minutes passed; his eyes flickered gray and then flashed light, the essence of storm. “The Hunter God.”
Gilliam closed his eyes and nodded. Stephen dropped to one knee; the mist rose to his chest. Only Zoraban dared to speak, and the word held only incredulity. “WHAT?”
“The God of the Breodani.”
“But—but, Lord,” Zoraban sputtered. “There is no Hunter God!”
“So we thought,” Teos replied, while both Gilliam and Stephen gave way in turn to incredulity, if for very different reasons. “So I thought. But she is that, Zoraban.” The God smiled suddenly, and the smile was a terrible, sudden change. “Ask the right question, my son.”
“What do you mean, there is no Hunter God?” It was Stephen who asked the question, and he didn’t care if it was “right” or not.
“Not a single Lord of Heaven has ever seen or met this God that Breodanir claims as its own,” Zoraban answered tightly. “Not a single one of the so-called Hunter-born, not one, has ever manifested any signs of the god-born. Breodanir is a mystery to the Order—why else do you think so large a group would live in your King’s City, away from the heart of Essalieyan, and the Order proper? But we have studied for years, and received no answers, found no records.
“Until now.”
“There were answers,” someone said. Stephen was almost shocked to find that the words were his own. “I have dreamt of them. Three times.”
Very slowly, the God’s gaze left the mystery of the girl and came to rest upon Stephen’s face. Stephen tried to look away. “Three times, Stephen of Elseth? Tell me of your dreams, then. I would hear them.”
“And may I then ask a question?”
“You are bold, but I am curious. Yes; you may ask.”
Very quietly, Stephen began to tell the God of the dream that, three times, had troubled his sleep. He spoke of darkness, and as he did, the mists shifted, the ground rocked. He spoke of the destruction of the temple, the killing of the Priests, and the appearance, each of the three times, of Evayne.
“Evayne?” Teos said, lifting a hand.
“It was what she named herself,” Stephen answered.
“You are wyrded.”
Stephen nodded. “But upon each of these occasions, I found this, and winded it. And the Hunter’s Death came.” So saying, Stephen reached into his jacket, and very carefully pulled out the Hunter’s horn.
In the half-world, it crackled with light and energy. Stephen nearly dropped it as it outlined his hand with its aura of power.
“Will you wind it for me now?” Teos asked softly.
Stephen lifted the horn to his lips at the command inherent in the God’s request. But before his lips made contact with the mouthpiece, the girl shrieked. His hands froze in midair.
For in that shriek, he heard two words: Not yet.
Eyes wide, he met the girl’s agonized stare, and saw what he had never seen in her eyes: a human sentience, and a very human fear.
“I see,” the God said. “Very well, put it aside, Stephen of Elseth. Guard it well. It is your answer.”
“It’s what the followers of Allasakar seek.”
Teos lifted his fair face; the lines of his lips tightened; his pallor grew dark, and his eyes, darker still. “Why do you speak that name in my presence?”
“Because,” Stephen replied, “Zareth Kahn, a member of your Order, recognized the pendant that only Priests of the Dark God wear. Or so he named it.”
“I see.” Teos’ face became calm once again. “And yes. I do not know what credence to lend your dreams; they are Mystery given, and not even the Gods,” here he frowned delicately, “may know Mystery’s plans.”
“Mystery?”
“He is called the Shadowed One in the East, the Unnamed One in the North; to the West, he is called Teiaramu, and in a time long past, he was called the God or the Guardian of Man. We of his brethren call him Mystery, and not even the Mother claims to know his purpose. But his wyrd may have shown you a truth. The darkness hunts that artifact.” The God fell silent a moment, but lifted his hand for peace; it was clear that he had not yet finished. His eyes grew gray, and more dangerous, his brow furrowed. “Yes,” he said at last, although it was a reply to none of the four. “We must trust you with this information. Hold.
“The Lord of the Darkness is not in his seat in the Hells.”
“Not in his seat? Is he in the half-world?” Again, Stephen surprised himself, for the God was obviously used to a different ritual when receiving the questions of the merely mortal.
“No, Stephen of Elseth. This is what troubles us.”
“Then where?”
“We do not know. No, do not fear that. The Covenant of God of Man forbids the mortal lands to the Gods. But I fear that his absence is a danger to all.”
“Covenant of God of Man?” Stephen’s eyes narrowed. Something about those words felt familiar; he wondered if, in one or the other of the books he had read as a child, he had touched upon this covenant, this agreement.
And then Zoraban suddenly turned, his face pale, his hands clenched tight in fists. “Stephen,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “That pendant. The one you said Zareth Kahn recognized. What became of it?”
Stephen shrugged. “We brought it with us. Lady Elseth is its keeper; she has it for your inspection.”
Zoraban spoke in a language that Stephen did not recognize, and then met the eyes of his parent. “My lord, Stephen’s question to you, and my own, must remain unasked for this evening.”
“Understood,” Teos said, rising. The throne vanished as both of his feet touched the ground once more. “But what I have allowed, I will still grant.” Before either of them could move, he lifted his sword and swiftly brought it down upon Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen cried out as the flat of the blade pressed against his jacket.
A net of color sprang to life around him; the world spun, the mists grabbed at his ankles. He gave a strangled cry as he felt the Sword of Knowledge pass through him.
“Heed me, Stephen of Elseth. Although you are rash and impetuous, you have of me one question to ask, and I will answer it to the best of my ability. But you cannot ask it now; indeed, you cannot ask it at all if you travel to the halls of judgment. The darkness is gathering.
“But if you have the time, or the need, or the right question, you will be able to call as if you were, in blood, my own son. And I grant you the gift of vision in your fight against a most ancient enemy, even if you do not yet understand what it entails.
“Now, go. GO!”
Zoraban lifted his arms, and the mist began to flee him, almost scurrying in its sudden roll away from the swell at his feet. The girl scampered forward to join him, and held fast to the hem of his sleeve. The sky, if sky it was, darkened and grew indistinct and hazy.
Zoraban’s face grew troubled. He cast his hands wide, curling his fingers into his palms as if grasping at something invisible.
“What is it?” Stephen asked, raising his voice to be heard, although there was no other sound.
“I don’t know,” Zoraban said. He motioned for silence, his lips growing thin as the seconds passed.
And then, the mists exploded outward, fraying into air and nothingness. Above them, instead of endless gray, was a flat, stone ceiling; around them were those fine, well crafted chairs. Lady Elseth sat slightly forward in hers, and Zareth Kahn was likewise tense.
“Stephen, Gilliam!” She relaxed.
Zareth Kahn did not.
Without pause to greet them, Zoraban raced across the room and stopped only when he towered over Lady Elseth. “Lady, you carried a pendant with you to the King’s City. Where is it?”
Her brows furrowed, and her eyes widened as she glanced at his face; his tone was not one she was used to hearing. But it was clear that worry drove him. “I have it with me,” she replied, and sank her hands into the folds of her skirt. “Here.”
Zoraban stared at the pendant as if transfixed, and then his eyes caught fire. Burning with the heat of liquid gold, they flared so brightly that all in the room saw it.
The obsidian that formed the pendant’s heart began to melt. Lady Elseth gave a cry and dropped the chain, but it was not pain that moved her; the platinum remained cool against her fingers. “What are you doing?”
“Destroying a beacon,” the mage replied gravely. “I was careless; I was too absorbed with your question and not with your plight. I pray that I’ve not been too slow to act.” He drew his hand across his brow.
The door to his chambers buckled.
The wood warped in, as if some strange force had turned it to a thick, heavy liquid. For a moment, a fist far too large for a human hand could be seen pressing against the fabric that the door had become.
“Lady’s frown,” Zareth Kahn whispered. He rose, toppling his chair, and gripped the medallion of the Order in his right hand. His left weaved a complicated pattern in the air, his fingers deft, deliberate.
Zoraban joined him, although he wore no medallion.
Gilliam and Stephen rose as well, unsheathing their swords and waiting. Their movements were so dissimilar it was hard to see that the same hand had trained them, for Stephen was graceful, economical, and elegant; Gilliam wrenched his sword free with so much force, he stumbled back a step. But they acted in unison.
Even the girl fell to the ground in a low crouch, a feral growl in her throat.
“We—have the door.” Zareth Kahn spoke through gritted teeth. “Lady, you might wish to move to the far wall.”
Lady Elseth rose and drew a dagger. “If you have the door, it shouldn’t be a—”
The stones around the door suddenly cracked. An unseen hand pushed against a part of the wall, hard; it fell forward into the room. Shadow, although there was no light to cast it, began to spill in through the hole.
“I see,” Lady Elseth said. She moved. Quickly.
Something stepped into the hole in the wall. The shadows fell away from her, settling around her knees as if in homage. All that remained lingered against her body, supple, living raiment. Her hair was darker than the shadows, her eyes completely black. But her skin was pale and perfect, her chin a delicate point, her lips, unlined and full. She was not tall, yet even so there was nothing diminutive about her.
Before anyone could react, she lifted her hands, and the walls that framed her melted away, joining the darkness in velvet silence. Only the door, crackling blue, remained standing beside her, and it was not a fit companion.
“Zoraban,” she said, inclining her head gently. “You are known for your wisdom and your learning, even in my circles.” She smiled, and although there was no light upon her, her teeth glinted. “I bid you show it now. We have no interest in your Order, or any of your business. We want only the girl and her two companions.”
“I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you,” Zoraban replied. His eyes flashed, the rippling of almost liquid gold, and he added, “Giver of gentle death. Succubus.”
A perfect brow rose in a perfect line, and she inclined her head in approval. “But perhaps, Zoraban, that choice should not be yours.” She looked at Stephen, and her smile deepened, becoming at once full and soft.
Although only her face moved, Stephen felt a sudden lurch; he was at the core of her attention, her focus; everyone else in the room seemed to vanish. The shadows that curled around her feet and slid up her calves no longer seemed menacing; they were velvet, they were a midnight of promise and mystery. She stood at their heart, waiting. He knew then that he had never seen—and would never see again—so beautiful a woman.
His lips moved; he shook his head, as if in denial, but the sibilance of the single syllable shook the air. He knew, then, that he must look away; knew it, but could not bring himself to lose sight of her face, her eyes.
“Stephen!”
Lady Elseth’s voice came to him at a great distance; he stopped walking, aware then that he did so, but did not look back. The woman of the shadows raised one hand, palm up, and then raised her second, cupping them together as if she held something precious. He wanted to lower his face into those hands and rest there.
At his side, he felt a sudden flare of magic; the tingling, the uncomfortable ache, passed quickly, melting into the distance, just as Lady Elseth’s voice had.
“Stephen!”
It was a male voice this time—one he did not recognize. Distracted, he brushed it aside, lifting his hand in a gesture of annoyed impatience. He was almost there.
• • •
“Do something!” Lady Elseth said, her voice shaking. Mist left her lips; the tower was full of Winter night air, although the season would not come for months.
Zareth Kahn raised his hands in gesture, and once again, a crackle of blue light snapped against Stephen’s side, only to be swallowed by the darkness.
“Zareth,” Zoraban said. “Leave it be. She has called, and he has come.”
“What?” The outrage in the younger mage’s voice was unconcealed.
“The lore of the summoned,” Zoraban continued, his eyes glinting. “He has ceded some part of himself to her keeping. Only he can disentangle it.”
Zareth Kahn turned his attention upon the Master of the Order. Something passed between them then, and the younger mage bowed his dark head. “As you will it, Master,” he said, but each word scraped against his throat.
“Gilliam?” Elsabet said, turning away from the mages.
“I can’t,” Gilliam whispered, his face pale, his sword shaking. “I can’t reach him.”
The shadows in the room grew thicker at the base of the wall, but they came up against a barrier a mere foot away. If Zareth Kahn and Zoraban were powerless to act in Stephen’s defense, they nonetheless had power. They used it now.
Light limned the walls not shadow-claimed, sealing out the darkness, sealing in what little warmth remained. It flared, brilliant and harsh, as it sought to take the walls and failed.
“There are others,” Zareth Kahn said softly.
“Are there? My power does not see them. How many?”
“Only one.”
Zoraban sagged against the nearest wall. “Its shape?”
The younger man’s brow creased as he concentrated. “I do not know it,” he said at last. “But this is its echo.” And he gestured, drawing light into a spiral that began to twist, ever faster, in the air before him. Like water draining into a deep hole, it swirled faster, and faster still, but instead of vanishing, it took shape; something hard and strange. It had arms and legs, and a head of sorts, but these were obscured by the spines that covered its body. Even its round, flat face was ridged with small, precise blades. Where fingers might have been, there were daggers or small swords.
“A blade-demon,” Zoraban said, and closed his eyes. “What does it do?”
“Nothing. I assume it’s waiting.”
“Don’t. Guard the walls well, if you’ve the power for it. Mine is spent.” He turned wearily and offered Lady Elseth a pained smile. “It’s not easy to enter the half-world,” he said, and that was all the explanation he offered.
• • •
“Come, Stephen. Rest. If you serve me, I will protect you; if you surrender unto me all things that I claim, I will even give you a measure of peace. Come.” She had not moved from her place in the wall, but now the shadow framed her, clothing that had almost, but not quite, fallen aside. He felt it, thick and cold, at his feet.
Run, run, huntbrother.
He was trying to. She was close. But each step was harder to take; he had almost forgotten the feel of his feet as they moved, one in front of the other, like leaden, awkward things.
But her hands were close. Only a foot more, an inch more.
Run!
Yes. He drifted into the shadows; felt them sting him with their icy, invisible teeth. He didn’t care. Very gently, and with infinite satisfaction, he rested his chin in the cup of her palms.
“Very good,” she said, and her voice was a benediction that kept the cold at bay. She shifted her fingers, tracing his chin softly and gently with the sharp edges of her hands. Then, still holding his face, she lifted her left hand. Blood—where had it come from?—trickled down her forefinger.
“Shall you serve me? I am Sor na Shannen. I will be your master.”
He tried to nod, but he could not move his head; tried to speak, but found his tongue heavy and swollen. There was only Sor na Shannen. There was only her.
And her smile, beatific, languorous, was the most beautiful thing in the world. She brought her finger down upon his forehead and began to trace a sigil there, with his blood as bond.
He heard her scream.
He screamed as well as a golden flash of light struck his face and sent him hurtling back across the room.
“It’s not possible!” The demon shouted, lifting her arms in fury. She snarled, and for a moment, although she was still beautiful in a way that only immortals can be, the glamour, with all its heavy sensuality, was gone. “Oath-bound!”
Zoraban’s eyes widened and he turned to stare at Stephen’s crumpled body. “Oath-bound?” His voice was a whisper. “That’s it!” And his eyes were like the sun suddenly stripped of clouds by a strong wind; they shone bright, completely eclipsing all memory of gray or night.
They were the last words that he ever spoke.
For although Sor na Shannen was succubus, she had not raised her arms for show; shadow limned them suddenly, and with shadow came an arc of icy blue. Mage-power, focused and tightly drawn, flared from her hands, thrown like expertly wielded daggers that left a bright trail across the air.
They took the Master of the Order in the eyes.
• • •
Stephen rose in time to hear Zoraban’s electric scream. He shook his head, clutching at his ears as if to halt the flow of noise.
Stephen!
Gilliam’s voice, carried by bond and urgency, jerked Stephen to the side as the walls shattered. Chunks of stone crashed to the floor; shards, thin and hard, embedded themselves into the wood. Stephen looked up and saw nightmare standing beside the woman who had almost been his death. He saw her clearly; she was still strikingly beautiful, still unearthly in her glory. But her glory was shadow and darkness, and in three dreams he had seen what these forces, twinned, had wrought.
At her side was a creature that not even Stephen could mistake for anything other than demon-kin. It was tall, and covered in what appeared to be shadow-tipped blades. Frantic, Stephen reached for his sword—and then saw it. It lay, only yards away, at the feet of Sor na Shannen; already shadow was rolling over it like mist in the lowlands. He could not remember dropping it, and as the blade-demon tensed to leap, he stopped trying.
It was almost unthinkable that something so large could move so quickly or so gracefully. But the demon-kin were not bound by the laws and the forms of the mortal; Stephen felt his jacket, shirt, and skin give way to three steel tines as they whistled past, brushing his back. He clamped down on a cry and reached for his dagger, staggering and turning on the same pivot.
The shortest of the creature’s fingers, if fingers they could be called, were double the length of Stephen’s dagger; as the demon flexed his hands, those blades rippled, incredibly supple although they must have been heavy. It leaped, Stephen dodged—and this time, the blades pierced his left shoulder.
Someone screamed in the distance. The demon stiffened before it could leap again, and then threw both of its arms back, exposing its chest. Stephen found no opening there, no way to attack—his dagger did not have the reach of the blades that bristled, more effective than plate armor, across the creature’s midsection.
He threw himself back as the arms came round again, reaching for him. Blood glistened on the blades that were fingers, and Stephen wasn’t sure whether or not it was his. He fell to the ground as the creature drove its fist through the wall. Rolled, as it kicked out, attempting to separate Stephen’s head from his shoulders.
• • •
Zareth Kahn’s forehead was beaded with sweat and human endeavor. His dark eyes were narrowed; the muscles along his thin jaw could be counted as they stood out in relief. He knew the “Givers of gentle death,” or knew of them, better than any of the order here would have guessed.
And he knew that this one, this Sor na Shannen, was no ordinary succubus. Her ability to wield magic, her uncanny threading of shadows and blue mage-fire, even the demon-lords did not always possess.
He had not acted in time to save Zoraban, and later—if there was one—he would mourn. He pressed his barriers, hard. They shimmered as he struggled to make them solid, more sure. Light crackled, describing their surface; shadows huddled, deeper and darker with each passing second, just at their edge. But through both of these, the light and the dark, he could see her eyes clearly.
A scream cut the air; he ignored it. If the blade-demon came for him, he would have no choice but death; he dare not let these barriers down for even a second. Where had she learned such power?
• • •
Lady Elseth was stiff against the wall; she made no move to aid either of her two sons, although she had traveled here to protect them. She saw the folly of that now. Her dagger, clutched tightly in white fingers, trembled against her skirts.
She had never looked at a death so certain, so close.
Is this what you send for our sons? She mouthed the words, eyes turned up to the heavens that the roof cut from view. Is this your Death, oh, Lord?
But no; this creature, whatever it was, was not natural—and it was obviously under the control, or command, of the woman in the wall.
Biting her lip, Elsabet lifted her arm, trying to look like stone, like wall, like anything that was beneath notice. All ladies were taught some weapon-skill. Hers had been dagger. Very carefully, she reversed her grip, seeking balance, narrowing her eyes as she tried to get the best possible view of her target. She hesitated a moment. If she threw this, she would have no weapon, no method of defense at all.
But if she did not try . . .
The dagger sailed, bolstered by the force of her throw. She bit her lip and froze in place, forgetting even to breathe. The demon didn’t seem to notice her.
Until the blade was a foot away, maybe two. A hand shot up, so quickly that its movement was invisible. The dagger changed trajectory in mid-flight. The shadows that pressed Zareth Kahn back faltered; the blade gathered momentum and speed.
It found its target, but it was not the target that Lady Elseth had intended. Horrified, she watched it strike and sink into Zareth Kahn’s shoulder.