"Come on, you, move it," the small, wiry man known as Lak said, jabbing at Pilos's back with the butt end of his dagger. The priest grunted from the poke and tried to step faster, but descending the narrow, steep spiral staircase with his hands manacled behind his back was tricky work. The task was made even more difficult because of the limited light. The wizard in the magenta vest carried a single torch with her, but she was in the front of the procession. The other prisoner, Quill, walked behind the woman, with the big thug, Borth, keeping an eye on him. That left Pilos and Lak to bring up the rear, and in the narrow, crowded confines of the stairwell, not much illumination was reaching them.
Still, Pilos did the best he could, figuring if he did stumble and fall, he would land on Borth rather than tumble down the stairs. For a moment, he considered doing that anyway, wondering what the chances were of inflicting a few broken necks on his captors as they went sprawling. Those odds seemed better to the young priest than meekly being led to his death, but just when he was working up his courage to try the stunt, the stairwell began to give clues to their location.
The young Abreeant priest had noticed during the descent that the air was growing more humid and carried the odor of the harbor, and he suspected that they were nearing sea level. His suspicions were confirmed when he noticed that the steps and walls had abruptly turned slimy with moisture. The stairs also ceased then, leveling out into a straight and narrow passage. The entourage stopped as the wizard reached some sort of gate that barred their way.
The woman fumbled with it for a moment, presumably manipulating a lock, though Pilos couldn't see to know for sure. She shifted a huge bar, allowing the gate to swing open, away from herself. She passed through the barrier and the rest of the group followed behind. After perhaps half a dozen more steps, the route emerged into a much larger passage. Pilos was wary, wondering where the thugs had brought him.
The open space was actually a low-ceilinged tunnel, perhaps ten paces wide, that vanished into the distance, well beyond the light of the torch. It stank of waste and sea salt. Runnels of liquid poured down the walls or directly from small holes in the ceiling in various places, and the sounds of drips and splashes echoed in the distance.
The group stood at the end of the tunnel. At the time, only brown sludge covered the bottom of the passage, but Pilos understood that the water level sometimes rose up past the roof when-
When the tide comes in, the priest realized, his fears growing. This is the sewer, and it connects to the harbor!
As if sensing Pilos's desperate recognition, the wizard chuckled. "Lak, Borth, get them ready," she said, sitting down on one side of the gate and opening a bag she carried. "We don't have much time," she urged.
Lak grabbed Pilos's arm and shoved him forward, sending him sprawling into the nasty muck. Without his hands free to stop himself, the young priest landed hard against the floor of the tunnel with a splat, striking his chin and coating his face with filth. Spots swam in his vision. When he regained his senses enough to realize what had happened, Lak was sitting on top of him, locking the second cuff of a pair of leg irons around his ankle.
No! Pilos thought, grunting and thrashing, trying to shake the little man off and free himself. No!
Lak jumped up once he had finished, and Pilos turned to see that Borth had similarly secured Quill, who was mumphing through his own gag and jerking at the manacles still restraining his wrists behind his back.
"Consider yourself ready," the small man said, his tone smug.
"If you could swim fast enough," the wizard said with a smirk in her tone as she pawed through the contents of the bag, "you might reach the end of the tunnel before you drown." She laughed and looked at Lak and Borth, who stood chuckling. Pilos saw that she was examining Xaphira's and Emriana's belongings. "It's a shame to lose these fine things," she commented, examining the various blades and jewelry, "but we can't take the risk that someone will come looking for them. So I guess we'll tie the bag around your neck so it can disappear with you. The current usually washes the bodies out in a day or two, doesn't it?"
The two thugs nodded. "Yeah, sometimes the fishermen find them floating near the boats," Borth said with glee in his voice, "but sometimes they head out to the open water and no one ever finds them."
Pilos watched as Quill suddenly tried to rise to his feet and rush at the three of them, desperation perhaps lending him strength, but Lak saw what was happening and kicked him with one boot, sending the bound man sprawling into the slimy muck again. The mercenary landed on his side with a grunt and lay there for a moment, gasping for breath.
Pilos turned to stare at the three thugs, wanting to give them one last defiant speech, but he held off when he saw the wizard. She had a very strange, almost pained look upon her face. He watched her as she stared at nothing for a moment. Then she stood suddenly and turned her attention down the tunnel. "What's that?" she said.
"What?" Lak asked, looking where she did. "What do you see?"
"I thought I saw something shiny," she said, pointing. "Way down there."
"Shiny like what?" Borth asked, craning his neck to get a better view.
"Maybe a bit of jewelry, glittering in the light of the torch. Go see," she ordered.
"Aw, there's nothing down there," Lak fussed, turning back to gloat over Pilos. "You're imagining it."
"What if there is something? What if it's a tiara covered in rubies? Part of the lost treasure of Narneth Elor, washed out of some secret hidey hole for us to find? Don't you want to make certain? Here," she said, holding out the torch for Lak. "Go check."
Lak looked at the wizard for a moment, his expression doubtful, then he sighed and grabbed the torch. "Come on," the small man grumbled at his larger companion, trudging down the tunnel. "Let's go see what she's talking about."
The two men took the light with them, leaving the wizard and her two prisoners in the ever-deepening darkness, and splashed through the slime. Pilos noticed it had risen slightly and had become shallow water.
Now, the young priest thought as he struggled to his feet, my only chance.
Pilos was up on one knee, trying to decide whether to slam himself into the wizard first to incapacitate her and stop her from using magic, or if doing so would give the two men too much time to return and catch up to him. Then the woman was beside him, her mouth close to his ear. Pilos wanted to bash his forehead into hers, possibly stunning her, but her words stopped him.
"Don't move," she whispered. "Let them get a little farther away first, or they will hear us."
The Abreeant gaped at her, though all he could see was the silhouette of her head. He opened his mouth to ask her what in the Nine Hells she was talking about, but she placed a finger on his lips, shushing him.
"Trust me," she said.
"Where is this thing?" Lak called from the distance. "We don't see any treasure!"
"I don't think you've gone far enough yet," the wizard called. "It was really a ways down there."
Pilos wasn't sure, but he thought he caught the sound of some disgruntled swearing. He waited, though, his heart pounding, wondering what the woman intended.
Finally, after another interminable moment, his captor said, "Now. Head for the stairs, as quietly as you can. No matter what happens, don't stop, don't turn around."
Pilos still didn't understand, but he didn't object as she helped him to his feet. He began to walk in the direction of the stairs, feet shuffling. His blind movements made splashing sounds like a roaring torrent in his ears.
In the distance, Pilos heard Lak shout, "Hey!" and he made the mistake of turning to peer over his shoulder. He could make out the silhouette of both Maquillon and the woman directly behind him, their outlines illuminated by the glow of the distant torch, which was growing stronger. "What are you doing back there?" the small man shouted.
"Damn," the wizard said from right behind Pilos. "Move it, you two," she muttered. "Get up those steps."
Pilos turned back to the task at hand, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest. He tried to take a few more steps, then slammed face-first into solid stone. He sat down with a grunt of pain, tasting blood on his lip and realizing that he had missed the smaller opening at the end of the tunnel. Right behind him, Quill nearly toppled over him, and the wizard collided with both of them.
"Don't stop!" she said, scrabbling around in the dark, trying to help them to their feet. "Get through the gate!"
Pilos could hear running footsteps behind them, but he was too afraid to turn around to see how close their pursuers were. Instead, he felt his way along the stone wall, sensing Quill frantically shoving him from behind. When he suddenly felt space in front of him, he darted forward, fighting against the water, which was nearly up to his knees. Three or four paces beyond the barrier, he crashed against the partially open gate, badly bruising his shoulder. He grunted in pain again as the gate creaked and swung almost completely shut. Quill bumped into him again from behind, and the man gave an urgent, almost frantic grunt, urging Pilos to keep moving.
Blessed Brightwater! Pilos thought, trying to wedge his shoulder between the gate and its frame so he could slip past it. Hold your ever-loving horses!
Finally he shifted enough to nudge the gate open and stumbled past the barrier, Quill right on his tail. Blind, Pilos continued forward until he struck the first submerged step with his toe and lost his balance, careening forward and slamming himself against the rough edges of the stairs.
Gods! the priest swore as he wailed in pain, for Quill tumbled on top of him once more, multiplying the injury. Next time, he thought miserably, you can go first.
The priest heard the harsh clang of the gate closing behind him, and he struggled to sit up and look back. Lak and Borth were perhaps thirty paces away, charging as fast as they could toward the three of them, fighting against the deepening water. The wizard was fumbling with the lock, trying to seal the barrier shut against the two men.
"Damn it, Laithe, what are you doing?" Lak demanded as he splashed along, closing the gap.
"Open that gate!" he yelled. "This isn't funny!"
Just as the wizard managed to snap the lock shut, Lak reached for her, Borth a few steps behind. The small man grabbed for the wizard but just missed her as she leaped back, out of reach. His face wedged between two of the bars of the gate, Lak stared at her, looking demonic in his rage. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but open it, now!" he snarled.
Borth reached past his companion and grabbed the bars of the gate, rattling them furiously. "Laithe," the bigger man said, a different edge to his voice. "Laithe, please unlock this gate. Whatever game you're playing, it's time to stop and let us through."
Pilos felt the water rising against him where he was still sprawled out on the steps. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of leaving the men locked behind that gate, but he banished it. They were ready to leave us there, he reminded himself.
Laithe moved to help Pilos and Quill to their feet, removing their gags as she did so.
As soon as the wad of cloth was out of his mouth, Quill began demanding an explanation. "What's going on? Why are you helping us? Unlock these manacles!"
"Hush, Maquillon!" Laithe scolded. "Be thankful I let you come along at all," the woman said, nodding her head toward the two men, who were frantically trying to yank the gate free. "After what you did to Xaphira, I had half a mind to leave you back there with them."
"Laithe!" Lak screamed, shaking the gate with his entire body. "Laithe, please!"
The wizard studiously ignored the two men and said, "I don't think they brought the keys for those manacles, I'm sorry to say. I guess they didn't expect to need to unlock them ever again. You'll have to manage as best as you can on the stairs until we find a way to get them off." Then she turned to Pilos and said, "Can you conjure up one of those magical lights Vambran and Kovrim are so fond of? Otherwise, we'll be climbing the stairs in the dark."
Pilos gaped at the woman, realizing at last. "Hetta?" he said softly, suddenly overjoyed.
The wizard smiled. "Yes, child. It's me." And she held up her hand, showing the ruby ring on her finger. "She started playing with the ring, and I took a chance. She's trapped in the stone, mad as a hornet, but she doesn't get her body back until I say so."
"Laithe or whoever you are, please!" Lak begged.
"Hetta!" Quill gasped. "It's actually you?"
The woman turned and glared at Quill. "Yes. Now hush. I don't want to speak to you for a good long time. Now," she said, turning back to Pilos, "how about that light? Time's wasting."
"I need my coin," Pilos said, relief flooding through him and making his voice waver. "It should be in the bag with the rest of Em's and Xaphira's things."
Hetta, in Laithe's body, fetched the holy symbol from within the bag and quickly enough, Pilos enchanted it to glow with soft, pearlescent light. She hung it around his neck and they turned to climb the stairs by its illumination, leaving Lak and Borth pleading in terror not to be left behind.
Their voices echoed up the spiral stairwell for a long time after Pilos, Quill, and Hetta left them, then without warning, the echoes were gone.
The climb was awkward and painful with the chains locked about their ankles, but the threesome made steady progress to the top. The route back to the prison was not far, and the trio returned to the chamber where Pilos and Emriana had first been captured.
The mirror was gone.
"There are too many of them!" Vambran yelled, yanking his sword free from yet another twitching, quivering zombie. The undead thing dropped in a heap at his feet, but two more shuffled closer to take its place, pressing the mercenary officer back. Even more of them, visible in the glare of the magical flare he had launched to help his tiny group see and fight, swarmed around the periphery of the battle. He slashed at the nearest one and lopped its arm off, but with every swing of his sword, the blade felt heavier. "We can't keep this up!"
"We should fall back," Arbeenok said, fighting on Vambran's left. "But the path is cut off in both directions."
Behind him and to the other side, the lieutenant heard Elenthia gasp, and he risked a quick glance in her direction to see what had upset her. Though she continued to swing the light mace they had found for her to use, pounding with both hands on anything that got close, her eyes were wide with unsuppressed horror, staring at something in the gloom. He shoved his blade out, skewering the nearest zombie, and stole another quick glance away from his fight, in the direction she had been staring.
Four more of the creatures were ambling out of a building on the far side of the street, distinct enough in the glow of the flare that Vambran recognized the identical cut and color of their clothing.
The Order of the Sapphire Crescent.
By the Bitch Queen, Vambran silently swore, recognizing them, naming their names in his head automatically: Hort Blogermun, Blangarl and Tholis, and the lad Velati. He wanted to retch.
Vambran stared for only a moment, but it was long enough for one of the nearest zombies to swing a fist near his head. He barely ducked in time, then anger and grief made his next swing vehement. The two halves of the zombie tumbled apart as they flopped to a street already slick with blood.
I kept hoping, the mercenary realized, that maybe they were still alive, imprisoned but safe. Damn! Damn them!
The lieutenant tightened his grip on his sword and slashed at the next zombie to stray near, and the next, and the next. His swings were vicious, driven by fury and grief. Chunks of bruised and decaying flesh flew in all directions, accompanied by spatters of cold, congealed blood. Undead bodies fell to the street, shorn apart by the mercenary's bitter rage. He waded in among the nightmare creatures, relentless. With every one he destroyed, he prayed to Waukeen, and to every other god he could think of who might care.
He prayed for the spirits of the people he was freeing from their already-dead bodies. Prayed for their families and loved ones.
He tried not to see their faces, not to see them as actual people. Some of them, sadly, were short and slight, after all. He kept cutting and slashing, trying to destroy the taint of the plague, driving forward, clearing a swath through the undead as tears rolled down his cheeks.
He didn't even let up when his blade sliced through the white and blue of a soldier he once knew.
What seemed like a long time later, exhausted, Vambran Matrell could find no more zombies to destroy. All around him, the tattered and broken remains of undead lay sprawled on the blood-slick cobblestones. None moved. Somewhere along the way, the magical light of his flare had vanished, and he had continued to battle by the light of Selune's sliver. The night was unnaturally still.
The mercenary let his blade drop then felt the overwhelming weariness in his arms, his legs, and his broken heart. He almost sat down right there, in the middle of the street. He didn't want to look at the bodies. If he looked at the bodies, he would see people-merchants, midwives, and children who were both horrific and all-too-human and fragile at the same time. So he stared at nothing for a while. Stared and panted and felt nothing but numbness.
Finally, Vambran remembered that he was not alone. Two people, alive, had been with him. He looked around.
Arbeenok was near the garden wall where they had started fighting. He watched the mercenary-a grim look was fixed on the alaghi's face. Elenthia was beside the druid, kneeling, her arms folded and resting across her raised knee. She also watched him, her eyes wide, staring. She seemed aghast.
The lieutenant began to walk toward the pair, and he thought Elenthia recoiled the tiniest bit. He held up his hand to show her that he was all right, and what he saw nearly made him stumble. He halted in mid step.
The mercenary's entire arm was sheathed in thick, black blood.
Vambran stared down and saw that he was drenched in gore from head to foot. The realization chilled him despite the warm, humid evening. Blood clung to him and ran in rivulets down his arms. It was matted in his hair. Somewhere, he knew, the blood of his soldiers was mingled in that mess.
"Water," Vambran said, filled with the urge to wash it away. "I need water," he repeated. He came closer, his arms spread out, unable to abide touching the slick wetness all over himself.
Elenthia said nothing, merely stared. But Arbeenok nodded. "On the other side of this wall," the alaghi said, "I can hear water running. Let's find a way inside."
Vambran nodded and stumbled after the druid. Elenthia rose and followed the two of them, but she kept her distance from the mercenary.
Vambran glanced over at Elenthia once and caught her staring at him. In her eyes he saw sorrow and repulsion. "It will wash away," he told her. He wondered if he meant it for himself, too.
"You-" she said, faltering. "I watched you-" Elenthia shook her head, unable to continue. She sped ahead, running to catch up to Arbeenok.
Vambran started to call to her, but he understood that words could not undo what he had become in her eyes. He recognized that haunted look all too well.
The druid led them to the side of the garden wall and discovered a gate set into it near the corner. It was locked, but the alaghi threw his shoulder into it a couple of times and broke through. Beyond the portal, the garden was filled with thick, flowering vines and meandering paths. Lush greenery rustled in the gentle sea breezes, blending the scent of their blossoms, and the trickle of running water came from near the middle of the enclosure. Arbeenok pushed through the dripping foliage and headed in that direction. Elenthia followed right behind the druid, leaving Vambran to bring up the rear.
When Vambran caught up to his two companions, he found them standing very still. They were at the edge of an open courtyard partially lit by a few lanterns hanging from poles around the perimeter. A fountain had once stood in the midst of the tiny plaza, a sculpture of a deific being bearing a shield and a horn and posing regally. But it was knocked over, and water flowed out of its basin and spilled onto the paving stones. There, a pair of great battles had been fought.
The first was all in miniature, an elaborate setup of children's blocks made to look like a city, all walls and towers. Tiny toy soldiers were scattered through the city, many of them fallen, as though a great and terrible dragon had arrived and blasted them all from their defenses. The water from the ruined fountain spilled into the miniature city and flowed along its streets before draining away into the grass beyond.
The second battle was far more real. A contingent of what appeared to be House guards lay dead, scattered about the plaza. Intermingled with them were others, citizens, their skin pasty and blistered in the pale moonlight. It was clear to Vambran that the plague had visited that house, and no one had survived.
"Will any of them rise?" he asked Arbeenok as he stepped around Elenthia. "Perhaps we should not tarry here."
Arbeenok said nothing, though, so Vambran moved to the fountain, stepping among the toy blocks as he did so. He knelt down next to the basin and began to wash himself, rinsing away the film of blood as best as he could. He dunked his head in the water, swishing his hair about, trying to cleanse both his body and his mind of the terrible crimson taint that covered him. He didn't even care that the three blue dots inked on his forehead, his symbol of his education, were little more than pale turquoise smudges by the time he finished.
"I don't understand," Arbeenok said.
Vambran wiped water from his eyes and looked at the druid. "What?" he asked.
"My vision," Arbeenok said. "I see you there, as it was in my vision, but I still do not understand what it means."
"Your vision? What vision?"
"In the days before this journey, I foresaw this image. A man of blue and red, standing over a drowned city, a city surrounded by twelve swords. But I did not understand it."
Vambran looked around at himself, at his position. All the elements of the druid's description were there. He was in the middle of it all, partially washed clean so that his blue tunic showed through, and partially still tainted red by countless people's blood. And the soldiers' swords that lay scattered about the periphery completed the scene. It was not a pleasant image.
"Twelve swords?" Elenthia asked, seeming at last to come out of her stupor. "I don't count twelve. There are only nine dead guards."
Arbeenok nodded and pointed at the fountain. "There is a pair upon that shield," he said, and Vambran saw that the symbol engraved on the stone was indeed a set of crossed swords.
Then he looked down. "And my own blade makes twelve," he breathed. "But what does it mean?"
"It is the means of stopping the plague," Arbeenok said. "It is salvation for this city."
"What? Me, here? In this garden?"
"I don't know," Arbeenok replied, looking doubtful. "I don't think so. I-I don't know," he finished, shaking his head.
Elenthia bent down then, staring at the tiny city. "You said it was a drowned city?" she asked. "As in, covered in water?"
Arbeenok nodded. "Yes," the alaghi said. "But I do not know what that means."
"I think I do," the woman replied. "The Cities of the Twelve Swords."
"What?" Vambran asked, standing and shaking water from himself. He felt cleaner but still tainted.
"Ancient Jhaamdath," Elenthia replied. "The cities of Jhaamdath were called the Cities of the Twelve Swords."
"But Jhaamdath is at the bottom of the Reach," the mercenary said, doubtful of her interpretation.
"Exactly," Elenthia said, nodding. "Washed away by the wrath of the elves over fifteen hundred years ago."
Arbeenok nodded eagerly. "We must go there. Now. The secret of stopping the plague can be found there."
Vambran turned to look at the druid askance. "That's an awful lot of water to swim through," he said. "Do you have any idea where we should start?"
"No," the alaghi answered, smiling, "but you do."
"Me?" Vambran said, shaking his head in denial. "I don't have the smallest notion," he insisted.
"You are the man in my vision," Arbeenok said.
"Just because I had a little blood on me does not make me the figure in your portent," Vambran argued.
"It does," Arbeenok insisted. "I thought at first it symbolized a man who was at odds with himself, struggling between two paths-the blue and the red-and would find himself somewhere in between. But I was not taking it literally enough."
Vambran sighed. "Blue and red at odds, you say?" he asked. "As in my struggle between my duty to the Crescents and to my House?"
"Your house is red?" Arbeenok asked, puzzled.
"No, but the insignia is. A red four-pointed star, and all the guards wear that as a patch on their uniforms."
Arbeenok smiled again. "There, you see? You do believe it."
Vambran grimaced and nodded. "I still don't know how I'm supposed to find whatever it is we're looking for," he said.
"Let that take care of itself," the druid said. "The visions will guide us true."
"Vambran," Elenthia said, coughing.
"What?" the mercenary asked, turning to look at his counterpart.
Elenthia was holding her arm up in the air, staring at it. It was discolored, turning purplish blue. She coughed again, harder. "The plague," she said. "I think I've gotten it."
Being drawn back out of the mirror was just as unnerving as having been sucked into it. Emriana felt turned inside out, but just as soon as it washed over her, the feeling was gone again. She found herself huddled naked on the thick throw rug in the middle of Lobra's bedroom. Denrick stood beside her, leering down. The hunger in his eyes made her shiver.
On the far side of the chamber, Lobra sat upon a small couch, one leg drawn up beneath her. She regarded Emriana with what appeared to be mild amusement. "Well? Aren't you going to thank me?" she asked.
"For what?" she asked, disoriented.
"Why, for letting you out, of course," the woman replied. "Or did you forget your manners while you were tucked away in there?"
Emriana wasn't sure there was a correct answer to that question, but she didn't want to anger the woman before she even had a chance to get her bearings. "Thank you," she mumbled, huddling tighter. "Can I have my clothes, please?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Lobra said with mock dismay in her voice. "I don't think they got delivered along with the mirror. But you don't really need them, anyway," she added with a sneer. "I think my brother prefers you without them."
Emriana didn't want to look up at Denrick, but she did anyway, regretting it. He looked ravenous. You're dead, she insisted, jerking her gaze away again sharply. You aren't really here. I watched you fall!
"It's not really him," Emriana muttered. "I watched him die. Your tricks aren't going to work."
"Did you, now?" Lobra said coldly. "Are you certain? Denrick, did she watch you die?"
By way of an answer, Denrick frowned at Emriana and said, "That wasn't very nice, what you did to me, kicking me over a balcony like that. It really hurt."
Emriana gaped at Denrick. She wanted to attribute the dead man's presence to a trick, an act of illusory magic, one of the twisted perversions of Lobra's House wizards. But no one in House Pharaboldi knew what had happened that night, when the young man had tumbled over the side of the third-story railing.
He was too real.
"No," she mumbled, "They said you died."
Denrick took up a small wooden chair, one that matched the writing desk near the mirror, and placed it right in front of her so that it was facing backward. He straddled the chair and sat, staring at the girl, letting that wolfish grin that had haunted her nightmares in recent tendays return. "I think they made a mistake," he answered.
Emriana retreated from him, backing herself into a corner of the room. She drew her knees up and watched him, remembering exactly how he had cornered her once before, in her bedroom. "You tried to rape me," she said, hatred mixing with her fear. "I'm glad I kicked you over! You deserved it!" She shrank away, turned her head, tried to blot the boy out of her consciousness.
"I knew it!" Lobra crowed, standing and pointing an accusing finger at the girl. "It is all your fault!"
Emriana looked at the other woman, incredulous. "Didn't you hear me?" she said, nearly shouting. "I said 'rape.' He tried to rape me. He even had that nasty wizard Bartimus ready to help him! Charm me and make me like it!" She felt tears running down her cheeks. She wiped them away defiantly, but Lobra only chuckled.
"And now he's going to finish the job," the woman said, the ice in her voice making the girl shiver. She crossed the room to stand right before the girl, bending down to sneer at her. "You and your wretched family ruined me, ruined my House," she said, her lips drawn back in a rictus of hatred, showing her teeth. "Took away my family from me. So now I'm returning the favor. They'll always wonder what became of you. But they will still be the lucky ones, because they'll never know. You, however, will know. You'll sit in that mirror and remember it forever." With those chilling words, she moved back to the couch. As she passed Denrick, she added, "She's all yours. Whatever you do, don't go easy on her," she added, her voice dripping with hatred as she sat down again, adjusting her skirts while she watched.
Emriana couldn't help but look up at Denrick as he stood, slid the chair out of the way, and came at her. She balled her hands into fists, ready to make him pay dearly for what he sought.