CHAPTER 64

Too tired to bathe before bed, I wake to the smell of smoke and soot wafting from my skin, permeating the room. I blink in the full light of day making its way through the window. Something has changed. Something minute, almost imperceptible, but whatever it was it caused an avalanche of other changes that, together, make this a completely new day.

My nightmares, I realize.

Every morning since the Challenge I’d jolted awake, carried by a river or falling through the air, being eaten or chopped up, and always pursued. The dead stared at me through glassy eyes, Tale, Edd, Dako, Verra, Gaun, and sometimes Katha, Rev, Dala, Medrein would join them their choir calling me home under the earth, where I belonged. What did I dream about last night?

Nothing. All I remember is warmth and aimless drifting, suspended, peaceful. And the beating of great wings.

I raise my stump to look at it in the light. The bandages have come loose in the night, and when I pull at one end the entire thing comes off, revealing the gruesome sight of my missing hand and the mangled stump that was left behind. Or that was what I expect to see. When I look more attentively, I realize mangled isn’t the right word: the cut was expertly made, painful to the extreme but quick and precise. The scars have formed nicely, much quicker than they would have before my levels. It is a stump. It does represent the missing hand that I still feel. But for the first time in a long while, I look at it and feel more inclined to accept it than to run from it. I flex my vanished fingers and breathe in deep, eyes closed. The new air brings new energy into me. It fans a fire I had believed gone.

After a quick wash, I descend and follow the voices of Amelia and Gedden to the kitchen. They start when I enter, Gedden unfolding into smiles, Amelia stiffening, rising immediately to ladle something in a steaming pot.

“Malco,” Ged says, observing the drum of his own fingers on the tabletop. “Heard you had fun last night.”

The scraping of the ladle against the walls of the pot accelerates.

“I’d like to apologize to you both,” I say, surprising even myself. “Ged, I’m sorry I lied to you yesterday. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Amelia, I’m sorry I made you worry, and I’m sorry I missed our training session. Thank you for letting me sleep when I needed it.”

My words hang in the air, mixing with the swirl of the stew and Gedden’s open mouthed drumming.

“You’re different,” he says accusingly. “The Malco I know would be a lot more sullen than that after a fuck up of this magnitude. Who are you, really, and how did you get into his skin?”

“I just realized a couple of things,” I say, shrugging. “And had a good night’s sleep. That helped.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. I was expecting you to mope around all the way till your trial.”

“I don’t mope.”

“There’s the Malco I know!” Gedden slaps the table next to him. “Come on, sit down.”

Joining him and chatting about inconsequential things seems like heaven right now. Instead, I look to Amelia’s back, still methodically and stiffly ladling her cooking.

“Amelia,” I say. “I’d also like to thank you for last night. For your help. I don’t know if I’d be here right now without you.”

The ladling stops. Amelia turns suddenly, and I see the bags under her eyes, the tiredness in her posture. Gedden is looking from one to the other, a worried smile plastered in his face.

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for,” she says. “My foolish actions were my own.”

“Foolish?” Ged interjects. “The kid is saying you saved him!”

“Malco made his choice,” Amelia says, and her cold eyes remain trained on mine. “I shouldn’t have interfered with it, for better or worse.”

I nod.

“I’m glad you did. It was a strange night, and many stupid things were done. But interfering wasn’t one of them.”

“A nice sentiment. I wonder if the people I killed feel the same way,” she says.

I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. Gedden turns awkwardly to look down at his hands. By starts, his drumming slows and finally stops.

“Do you know,” Amelia says, calm and collected. “Why it was you slept well tonight? Because I was awake. I am a Night Witch. My sleep calls and causes nightmares. It gathers them to make what you call my shades, the very ones that you claim saved you. I keep a tight leash on my creations, Malco. Last night, I released that hold in my worry, in my panic—” she hesitates, purses her lips, looks from me to Gedden and back. “I do not relish death. If your foolish actions were to cause it, there was no need for my hand to be involved as well. I accept your thanks. It’s not you I’m disappointed with, but myself.”

With that, Amelia turns around again and resumes swirling the stew, releasing a cloud of steam that fogs the high windows. Finally, the ladle scrapes against the side of the pot, Amelia trembles all over, and then excuses herself, darting quickly out the kitchen. I hear the clink of keys outside, and the swishing of the door to the basement open, close, and silence.

Ged looks up at me resuming his drumming and adding a new layer to it with the second hand.

“That went well, I thought,” he says.

“Why is she…”

“Complicated past,” he says with a sigh. “I’ve known her for a year now and I still don’t know all about it. Do you know she used to work for your Dark Lord Something?”

“Dark Lord Obrein?”

“That’s the one.”

Gedden observes my shock with amusement.

“Come on. A Night Witch controlling shades, dabbling in necromancy, perfectly fearless in the face of the almighty Godtouched,” he says with a smirk. “You thought she’d been ladling stew all her life?”

“I… I just didn’t think…”

“She doesn’t ‘relish death’ because she’s seen more than her share of it. That’s my guess. Man,” Ged says, leaning back and interlacing his fingers behind his head. “Lysander knows how to pick them. Alright. Let’s get out there in the sun. Moss says you’ve gained new abilities and I want to know what they are, and then to hear all about your adventures.

His easy-going enthusiasm is infectious. But even in the sun, as I explain the night’s journey to Ged and create a small fire as illustration, to which Gedden responds with a dazzling display of light in his hand, my mind keeps flying to Amelia in the darkness beyond the forbidden door, Amelia who was once in league with Dark Lord Obrein, Amelia the Night Witch.

*

That night, as we’re all gathered around the kitchen table, bowls emptied of stew piled up in the center and a contented, satisfied glow drifting over the table, Lysander announces that in the afternoon tomorrow we’ll leave for the trial.

“I thought it was in two days,” I say, unable to hide a little trepidation.

“It is. But the artifact is charged enough to transport us, and I want to make an entrance and test the air in the keep. Plus, I have a surprise that I want you to have time to explore.”

I nod without comment, though inside I’m burning with questions.

It can’t be Katha. Not so soon. Rev? Do I trust Lysander not to waste time with surprises if he finds my sister?

Rue’s image snakes into my mind. It’s been a week since I’ve seen the little guy and I’m anxious to know he’s alright, that the Black Sword people didn’t harm him. If Rue can be harmed, that is. His pliable, blobby body has proved to be more resilient than what should be possible.

“…you realize that while we’re in the keep we will be in Valkas’ territory, surrounded by his allies, watched by his spies,” Lysander continues.

“He also has his share of enemies, and his throne has more pretenders than the man has friends,” Delos says. “Giantsblood hasn’t set foot in the keep in ages, for one. Valkas’ power slips a little more every day.”

“All true, dear,” Lysander says. “But he’s not beaten just yet. This year’s Challenge’s patrons are still on his side, preparing for the next round of dungeoneering. And Madame Keys says many others hold true, for promise of gold or position, or just love of the status quo. We must be careful and assume he will play by his own rules.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Amelia asks quietly.

“Then protecting Malco and getting him out of the Harbor becomes the main priority. One which I trust you’ll follow.” Lysander casts his eyes around the table. “Seeing the rest of the gentlemen in the room are immortal, while he is not. Questions? Yes, Malco?”

“You said the patrons were preparing for another dungeon?” I ask, dropping my hand.

“Ah. Perhaps you’re not aware, but the second lap of the Challenge is going to happen in a few short weeks. The survivors from Black Sword and Dumas’ Pack – that’s another guild, Malco, one whose ambassador was sadly skewered during your escape from the keep.” Delos smiles to himself at this, reminiscing. “The survivors, I was saying, from those two dungeons will delve again, and four more Champions will be found.”

I nod, biting my lip. Imagining Hilde, Essa, Wyl in that darkness again for the amusement of Godtouched the world ‘round. My feelings were mixed on Wyl, but Essa, and especially Hilde worried me.

“Will I be going as well?”

A sharp intake of breath from Amelia. Her eyes remain steady on Lysander as the elf nods at my question.

“A good question. Strictly speaking, there is no reason why you shouldn’t, after we clear out your trial.” Lysander pauses, looking around the table before indulging in a smile. “I haven’t strictly told Valkas where I think he should stick his Challenge. I’m hoping that if the guild believes you’ll run for them they’ll be more lenient. The question is: do you want to run the dungeon?”

The very thought grips my intestines with an ice-cold hand.

“I will do what you think is best. But I wouldn’t want Hilde and Essa to die because they’re at a disadvantage.”

“No. The best course of action would be to keep them from it, agreed. I’ll do my best to see that happen. Any more questions? None? Alright. Sleep well. Tomorrow should be exciting.”

*

Preparations are complete. Morning training with Amelia consists only of her distantly making sure I know to follow Lysander’s orders and not to get myself in trouble for no reason. She wasn’t coming, the elf preferring not to stir the guild’s animosity too much by bringing in a powerful, and outlawed, Champion along. I tell her I’ll do my best.

“Then here,” she says, extending a package, cloth tied with twine. “In the old days it was traditional to give Challengers gifts on the day of their departure. I know this isn’t quite the same, but I’d call that nest of vipers in Red Harbor a challenge and a half.”

It takes me a while to open the package one-handed, and as the first flap of cloth finally comes off, I stop. A dagger, elegant and long, with a black pommel, sits on top. Under it, there’s a white shirt, simple but well-made. Dark trousers are tucked underneath, and under all a black coat, thick and warm, lies in wait.

“I thought you should have something a bit more formal,” Amelia says. “Godtouched love their parties and their elbow-rubbing, and as I recall this was fashionable back in—”

I hug her, touched by an emotion I cannot very well explain but which bursts forth from me. She gasps, freezes, and finally pats my back half-heartedly. When I release her, she’s stone-faced and silent.

“Thank you, Amelia. Goodbye.”

“If anyone gives you trouble, throw the dagger at them,” she says, a small smile the only hint of emotion. “You’re good at that. Take care.”

Mossgreen waits under an oak some way into the cover of the canopy.

“A little firefly remembers its promises,” he rumbles happily. “What a joy to see.”

“I wouldn’t forget,” I say. “I did as you said, incidentally. Right before the trial. Gedden and Delos have left already and Lysander is waiting for me to depart.”

“Let the elf wait a little longer, lest he thinks he’s king around these parts,” the troll says. “Now. Is the little firefly ready for its gift?” he asks, one conspicuous hand hidden behind his back.

“It is. I mean, I am.”

In truth, I can’t begin to guess what the troll has in mind. I just hope it isn’t poisonous.

“Then let it bate its little fly breath and behold.”

The troll curves reverentially, and in the same movement extends the hidden hand forward. In it, there’s a pile of moss.

“Ahh,” I say, barely hesitating. “I see. Because you’re Moss too.”

The troll shoots me a sharp, blind look.

“Does it recognize this thing?”

I look closer. The pile of moss remains mossy and stays in a pile. I reach my hand to Mossgreen’s enormous one, feel the deep, thick green-and-greyness of his gift, and pull on it to reveal the moss doesn’t come out in clumps, but in a wave. I furrow my brow and pull more, using the stump to help spread it out in the air.

It’s a cloak. The moss it’s made of is no illusion, but an actual plant, vibrant, strong, and, to my eye, still alive.

“A troll war mantle,” says Mossgreen. “Laced with enchantments and spider silk. Each troll makes his own, the secret passed over many generations and added to. His, Mossgreen wears for ages now, and it remains whole, it remains as good as the day he finished it,” he adds, tugging at his own cloak.

“It’s beautiful,” I say sincerely.

It really is. It carries along a smell, deep and rich and watery, and the moss behaves like fur under my fingers.

“Does it… do anything?” I ask, curious. “Is it magical?”

“Very magical. May it serve you well, Malco,” Mossgreen says.

“What does it—”

But as I look up, I find that Mossgreen, a troll as large as a tree, who just a moment ago was sitting an arm’s-span away from me, is gone.

Lysander doesn’t react to my appearance with anything but a raised eyebrow.

“New wardrobe,” he says.

The mantle is thrown over my shoulders and it covers me all the way to my feet without ever getting in the way of my movements. Amelia’s package is tucked under my arm, the dagger sheathed and belted around my waist.

“What do you think? It’s a troll war mantle.”

“Those are exactly the the words I would use,” Lysander nods. “And it will certainly make a splash. Ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

Lysander’s smile twinkles as much as the diamond in his breast when he mumbles an incantation. Only the last words are familiar to me, ringing loud and ominous as a gong.

“Black Sword Keep.”