The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (31 page)

“You think this is where we’ll find Hugal?” Daine said, reaching for his sword.

Greykell caught his hand and pushed the blade back into its sheath. “Maybe. But what I meant was ‘watch your step.’ The floors on some of the upper levels have been known to give way. How are you with structural engineering, Lei?”

Lei shrugged.

“They call this place Dolurrh’s Doorstep,” Greykell said, leading them through the shattered doorframe. “It’s one of the oldest Cyran enclaves in the district. A tent in the square would be safer, but the people here have their own sense of community. You’ll see.”

The hallway reeked of sweat and urine. There was an emaciated old woman dressed in a rotting robe stretched out on the floor of the atrium, and for a moment Daine thought she was dead. When she turned to look at them, her eyes were glazed and staring.

“Dreamlily,” Greykell whispered. “Aureon only knows how the people here afford it.” She walked over to the old woman and pulled her to her feet. “Syllia,” Greykell said. “Why don’t I take you back to your family?”

The old woman gazed at Greykell without recognition. “I’m comfortable,” she said in a cracked, reedy voice. “Nothing touches me here.”

Daine glanced at Lei, who shrugged. He wondered if Jode could do anything for the woman. He doubted it. The power of Jode’s dragonmark had little effect on mental afflictions.

“Come along, Syllia,” Greykell said, taking her arm. “Let’s get you home.”

“You’re always willing to lend a hand, aren’t you?”

Daine turned to face the new voice. Three people had just come in from the street. The speaker was a massive man, almost as large as Pierce. Daine guessed he had some orc blood in his veins, though it didn’t show on his features. All three were dressed in stained and ragged clothing, and the leader was carrying a club of polished wood.

“We take care of our own,” he said, and his deep voice was a live with anger.

He gestured and one of his companions came forward—a shifter, her fur filthy and matted, her fangs showing signs of rot and decay. She pulled Syllia away from Greykell and dragged her down the hall.

“Doras!” Greykell said cheerfully. “Just the person I wanted to see.” She walked to the angry man as if to give him a hug, but Doras moved his cudgel between them.

“I’ve told you before,” he said. “I don’t want you here.” He glared at Daine and spat at his feet. “Or your pathetic lapdogs.”

Daine moved forward, but Greykell stopped him.

“Is there a problem?” Daine snapped.

Doras pushed Greykell aside and stepped up to Daine. He
was at least four inches taller than Daine, and heavily muscled. Contempt surrounded him like a cloud.

“Yes, there is a problem. Our homeland has been destroyed. Our world could be coming to an end. And you, soldier—you who failed in your sworn duty to protect our people—dare to come into my home and pretend you can help us now?” He looked over at Greykell. “You and your kind had your chance to protect the people. Instead, your little war destroyed our land. And you think you can make it better by helping a man get a job making swords for Brelish soldiers? You disgust me.”

“And where were you when my men were dying on the Brelish border?” Daine said. Greykell kept her hand on his arm, holding him back.

“I was tending the fields that fed your armies. And I never failed in my duty. Can you say the same?”

The third man—a lean half-elf with terrible burns across much of his exposed flesh—stepped forward. “We trusted you, soldier,” he said. “And this … this is what you did for me. The end is coming. And you bloodthirsty fools opened the door.”

Greykell moved in front of Daine, raising her hands. “Fine. You’re right. We should have won the war. But what does this anger get you, Doras? Where will it take you?”

For a moment, Daine thought Doras was going to hit her; his knuckles whitened against his club. Finally, he loosened his grip. “What do you want? I told you I never wanted to see you here.”

“I’m looking for someone,” Greykell said. “I’m sure you remember Hugal? Or Monan? Either one will do.”

“I haven’t seen either in over a day,” Doras said, his eyes narrowed. “Why? Have you found them work as street performers?”

“Actually, you’d be surprised,” Greykell said. “I think they’d have a real knack for it. But I was wondering … did they have any friends? Other people who haven’t been seen recently?”

“No. There are no friends here. Only survivors.”

Greykell rolled her eyes. “Life is miserable and hard. You’ve lost everything. I hear you. And you know what? I’ve lost everything too. But whatever you may think, it’s
not
the end of the
world. We just need to let go of the past and embrace the future. To begin again.”

“Very inspiring. But have you been to the ruins of Cyre? Have you seen what the war has left behind? If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d understand. We’ve seen the end, and it’s only just beginning.”

“Well, it’s always a pleasure, Doras. If you don’t want to see us here, I suppose we had best be on our way. Just one more thing. Do you know old Hila, the seamstress? Has she ever come around?”

Doras’s eyes were as cold as stones. “No.”

“Great!” Greykell took Daine’s arm and pulled him out to the street. “And please, do something for Syllia, will you? She can’t keep on like this.”

Doras said nothing.

“So what did you think?”

Night had fallen, and Greykell was leading the way back to the Manticore.

“Do you think that man is working with Hugal?” Lei asked.

“It’s possible that Doras
is
Hugal,” Greykell said. “Changelings, remember? But truthfully, I don’t know what to think. I’ve known Doras for a few months now. He has a loud voice, and the people of Dolurrh’s Door adore him … but I don’t know. He likes to provoke, but I’ve never actually seen him take the first swing in a fight—and he seemed to have both his hands.”

“I wish Jode had been there,” Daine said. “He’s got an amazing sense of people.”

Greykell shrugged. “Well, he certainly seemed suspicious. I just didn’t think that it was going to help to press the discussion. I’d rather try to go back sometime when he isn’t around, sometime when we can take your Jode with us.”

Daine nodded.

“Well, I’m dining with the Sorans in the square tonight,” Greykell said. “One of the benefits of being a professional busybody. There’s almost always someone having a meal
somewhere. The Manticore is just around the bend. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow!” She hugged them each in turn and then disappeared down one of the dark sidestreets.

The group turned the corner, and the Manticore came into view. A familiar figure was sitting on the doorstep—Hugal or Monan, Daine didn’t know, but it was one of them for certain. In an instant, Daine’s blades were in his hands. His companions paused, curious, but did not draw their weapons.

“Hello, Daine,” the twin said. “It seems we have some unfinished business.”

T
ake him down!” Daine cried to Pierce, but the warforged didn’t raise his bow. In fact, he didn’t move at all.

“I’m afraid that this is between you and I, Daine,” the twin said, standing up and walking toward him. “Your friends can’t help you.”

Turning to Lei, Daine saw that her body was completely rigid, her face devoid of expression. “What have you done to them?” he said, taking up a guard stance.

“It’s Monan, actually. I was lying last night. Greykell was right. We like doing that just to confuse people.”

He seemed unconcerned with Daine’s glittering blades. And with good reason. As Monan approached, Daine made a long lunge with his sword. The blow should have pierced Monan’s heart, but the twin moved with astonishing speed, swatting the blade aside with the palm of his left hand. Before Daine could react, Monan grabbed the blade with his left hand and struck at the hilt with his right, knocking it from Daine’s grasp.

While he was surprised by the changeling’s speed, Daine’s reflexes were honed by a lifetime of training. Even as he lost his sword, Daine thrust with his dagger. Monan struck the point of the dagger with the palm of his hand, and the blade—which could cut through steel as easily as cheese—came to a dead stop.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Monan said. Daine managed to step back before the changeling could grab hold of
the dagger. “None of this is really happening. Not physically.”

“What are you talking about?”

Monan smirked, the sadistic smile of a predator toying with his prey. “When you defeated my allies last night, I cast my spirit into your mind. This”—he gestured around them—” is dream and memory. Even now, you’re drooling on the cobblestones. In a few moments I’ll have disposed of you once and for all. I’ll use your body for as long as it suits my needs, and then I’ll leave you to rot in some madhouse.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Monan reached behind his back, and when his hand came back into view there was a sword in it—one Daine recognized in an instant. “Look what I’ve found here. Remember this, Daine? A gift from your grandfather. And look what you did to it.”

It had been a long time since Daine had really stopped to look at his grandfather’s sword—the damage to the blade and hilt, both intentional and accidental. He glanced at the blade, and in that moment, everything changed. He was in the courtyard of the family estate in Metrol. For a moment, it seemed he was a child again; the walls and doors towered over him. Then he realized that he had not changed. The buildings were simply oversized, scaled to the perceptions of a boy. His grandfather towered over him, tarnished sword in hand.

“Look what you’ve done,” he said, his voice filled with disappointment. “I believed in you. I knew you would uphold the legacy and the honor of my blood. And see what you have done with it.”

“Clever,” Daine said. “But I’ve fought your kind before.”

He made a quick thrust, dipping beneath the expected parry and darting forward, trying to close the distance between them. But even as he moved forward, his enemy slipped back. It was like trying to hit a ghost. The creature wearing his grandfather’s face laughed and raised his family sword.

“I’ve spent all day in your memories, Daine,” the changeling said. “I know how you fight. But it hardly matters. You can’t kill me with the idea of a sword. At best, you can force me into the shadows for a few more hours.”

Now it was Monan’s turn to go on the offensive, and even his movements were those of Daine’s grandfather, who had taught Daine the fundamental principles of defense. But this was a mistake. Dailan had been a master swordsman, one of the best in Khorvaire. Daine remembered those practice sessions as vividly as his last conversation with his father. Combining his memories of the past with the skills he had acquired in the intervening years, it was a simple matter to block each blow.

“You may be able to hold me off, Monan, but you can’t beat me with my own memories,” Daine said.

He was growing suspicious. Monan seemed surprisingly eager to talk about the situation. The changeling might be telling the truth, but he could just as easily be lying, trying to demoralize his foe.

“Perhaps I don’t need to win,” Monan said. “Perhaps I just need to wait. Every minute you’re trapped, my power grows. Soon I’ll depart, and I’ll take your body with me. But don’t worry, you’ll have all of your memories to keep you company. Soon enough, you’ll be no more than a memory yourself.”

Perhaps Monan was telling the truth; perhaps not, but the taunts were taking a toll on Daine. With every passing moment, he felt more detached, distant. It was becoming difficult to think, but he had to try. He launched a series of lightning-swift blows at the changeling, but his foe didn’t parry. He simply avoided. Each warrior knew the other’s fighting style perfectly.

And then Daine had an idea.

He was facing a deadly, highly skilled opponent. He only had one weapon left, and it was both his last defense and his only chance against his enemy. Every lesson he’d been taught, every instinct he had, told him that the dagger was his last hope.

He threw it away.

Monan was preparing for another pass when Daine hurled the dagger. Daine’s real grandfather might have been able to block the blade, but Daine had never thrown a weapon in their practice sessions, and he never would have thrown the weapon in real life. In all of Daine’s memories—the memories Monan was using against him—there was no precedent for such an act.
The blade caught Monan in the center of his throat. He sat down hard, and the mask of Daine’s grandfather slipped away, revealing the almost featureless face of the changeling. His sword fell to the floor and vanished as his hands rose up, trying to grab hold of the hilt of the adamantine blade. But he didn’t have the energy, and his hands fell back to the floor.