Zalinara

Homecoming

She scowls at the lights burning in the windows of the estate, annoyed at herself for her surprise. The building had been half ruined after the incident, abandoned; she chides herself at her foolishness for supposing it would remain so. The location was too good and the remains of the house too intact for someone not to have bought it.

It was your fault, a whisper says and she shakes her head in denial.

Her bare feet make only the faintest whisper as she creeps through the shadows beneath the garden wall; there is a spot she could climb, but but she rejects it as too risky, too much danger of being silhouetted against the rising moon and the iron blades and broken glass which topped the wall are doubtless still there. Farther on, there is an opening in the wall, a small archway closed by an iron gate. It is locked of course, but her fingers find the right stone in the wall; two over, three up. She presses and there is a faint click as the gate unlocks. There is a faint tingle as she slips inside, the estate’s defenses are not merely physical, but the wards recognize her still.

The new owners have done little to the gardens and her feet follow the familiar paths by instinct and memory. She always liked the view from that bench just ahead, looking over one of the ponds in the morning. Under the tree there was where she and Darroc had made love one time.

You betrayed them. Everything you love dies at your hands.

“No,” she shakes her head and forces the memories from her mind as the whispers mock her.

All places, all things have souls … All souls can be devoured …

Not much farther. A statue of some forgotten Dawnfire ancestor stands in an alcove, she slips behind it and starts to dig a foot away from the pedestal. There is a sealed jar just below the turf, one she had carefully placed there years ago. She carefully scrapes away the dirt with her stolen spoon, silently freeing the jar from the soil’s embrace.

Her long ears twitch as she hears the sounds of boots on gravel and she freezes in place behind the statue as a lantern casts its light into the alcove. She dares a peak around the base of the statue when the light turns away.

A man stands by the pathway slowly panning his bullseye lantern around the garden, a watchman by his sword, lantern, and the mastiff at his side.

The dog whines and the watchman gives it a rough scritch between the ears. “I know; it’s spooky out here at night.”

Kill them.

She shakes her head. The man and his dog will be missed, there will be an investigation. Better to be patient.

They drink your fear: it is the blood of life …

The watchman raises his lantern and peers around once more, “C’mon, boy. We best keep moving or the boss will think we’ve been taking a nap.”

She waits until the light fades away down the path before she resumes her work. A few more minutes of digging frees the jar and she hefts it before placing it into her bag. Enough gold to buy some decent clothes from a second-hand dealer and pay the rent on room. She would prefer the anonymity of rags and her room in the slums but her plans, her Master’s plans, require her to move among people once again. There are other jars hidden away, she will retrieve those in time, and her workroom in a hidden and warded cellar in Old City. There is much to do, and little time.

We have tasted your soul, it is sweet.