The heavy door to the study suddenly burst opened. Startled, Ridge turned to see a woman he did not know standing on the threshold. Her travel cloak flowed around her as she walked into the chamber and closed the door. When the flames on the hearth illuminated the crystal green of her eyes, Ridge suddenly realized who she must be. No one moved in the chamber.
“Begone, Fire Whip,” Olara of the House of the Ice Harvest ordered. “He is not yours to kill. This is Great House business.”
Nineteen
Olara of the House of the Ice Harvest had once been a beautiful woman. Her proud bearing, silvered hair and brilliant eyes would still have been marked as handsome. But years of bitterness and an unfulfilled longing for revenge had taken their toll on her once serene face. Her gaze went briefly to Quintel’s impassive features, and then she glanced again at Ridge.
“So you are the bastard who seduced my niece and made her forsake her destiny. I saw the threat in you, Fire Whip, but I was foolish enough to believe I had raised Kalena to be strong enough to resist.it.”
“It was never Kalena’s destiny to kill Quintel,” Ridge stated coldly. “Get out, Olara. This is none of your affair.”
Quintel lounged back in his chair as if beginning to find a grim pleasure in the confrontation. “There would seem to be no lack of would-be assassins surrounding me tonight.”
Olara swung her glittering gaze back to his face. “You were the murderer who began this night’s work.”
“Of what particular murder are you accusing me, woman?”
“You know well what you have done. I am Olara of the House of the Ice Harvest. Once my clan controlled the trade on the entire Interlock River. But the men of my House stood in your way and you decided to get rid of them. You destroyed my House, and for that you will die.”
“The House of the Ice Harvest. I seem to have a vague recollection, but…Quintel shrugged, as if it wasn’t worth the effort to try to recall. “I am not easy to kill, Olara of the House of the Ice Harvest. Ask my Fire Whip.”
Ridge kept his fingers on the handle of the sintar as he sought for a way to get rid of Kalena’s aunt. “This is a matter between men,” he told her roughly. “I will deal with it.”
“There are no men left in my House,” Olara told him. “And this is Ice Harvest business. You are nothing more than a Houseless bastard picked up off the streets and dressed in expensive clothing. Leave us.”
Ridge set his teeth and took a step forward, intending to grab the old woman and throw her out of the chamber. But before he could touch her, Kalena threw open the door to Quintel’s study. Her startled gaze went from Ridge to her aunt and then back. Ridge’s growing frustration and fear for Kalena’s safety began to eat away at the inner control he needed.
“Kalena! Take your aunt and get out of here. Now!”
“No,” she whispered softly, her eyes pleading with him. “I don’t want you to kill him. He’s not worth it.”
Quintel laughed. “All this talk of killing is becoming a bore. None of you can touch me. Do you think I am so vulnerable that I can be killed by an old woman or a street bastard?”
Olara turned on him. “Tonight you will die!”
Quintel’s laughter faded abruptly. “No, madam. I think that you will be the one to die tonight. You can take these two with you when you go to the end of the Spectrum. I have no further need of a bastard and his whore.”
Kalena saw the flames of fury crackle to life in Ridge’s eyes. The sight sent a shock of fear through her, because when she had first entered the chamber, she had seen no emotion at all in Ridge’s golden gaze. He had come here tonight to kill Quintel; she knew that. But there had been no evidence of the red fury that was beginning to consume him now. Kalena suddenly realized that never on the horrific occasions when she had seen him kill had there been any sign of the familiar, flaming anger. The sintar he had used had turned red only with its victims’ blood.
With chilling certainty, she understood how Ridge had stayed alive all these years while doing his dangerous work for the trade baron. Ridge was at his most lethal when he was in total control of his fierce emotions. She had cracked that control by entering Quintel’s forbidden room.
“Kalena, for the last time, go back to the feasting ball. You shouldn’t have come here. Get your aunt out of here.”
“She has no duty toward me,” Olara said scornfully, not bothering to look at her niece. “She has foresworn her honor to her House. She is no better than you, bastard. She chose to lie on her back sweating beneath you rather than die honorably.”
Ridge wasn’t looking at either woman any longer. His wary gaze was on Quintel, who still sat at his desk watching his visitors with relentless, predatory hatred.
“I can’t leave you alone with him, Ridge,” Kalena said softly. “You’ll kill him.”
“It must be done,” Ridge said roughly. “Leave us!”
Quintel flicked a raging, scornful glance at Kalena. “You see how it is with women, Fire Whip? You can never control them. Not as long as you let yourself be weakened by them. And you have done just that, haven’t you? The fire in you should have been mine to use, but you tied yourself to this stupid female and the weapon I had forged was ruined. I should have been the one born with the affinity for fire. By all the power in the Stones, the gift of the steel should have been mine. Given that talent combined with what I have learned over the years I could have mastered the Dark Key and destroyed the Light. With the power of the Dark Key I could have controlled this whole continent. With it I could have unlocked the Secrets of the Stones. Instead, I was forced to search the streets of Countervail for years to find a flawed tool that failed me when I put it to the test.” Quintel’s violent eyes swung to Kalena. “Damn you, trade whore. This is all your fault! You should have paid a thousand times over in the caves. You escaped then, but I swear you will pay this night!”
“Shut up, Quintel, or I’ll slit your throat here and now.” The sintar was in Ridge’s hand as if by magic. The tip of the steel blade was already changing color as Ridge’s self-control slipped.
“His life is mine to take,” Olara proclaimed. She withdrew a large packet from her cloak.
“Ridge! You must stop.” Kalena started forward, her arm outstretched to touch him, but she halted as the first wave of cold struck her. She swung around in horror, searching for the cause of the soul-eating chill and saw the first tendrils of black mist swirl forth from the ventilation ducts in the wall behind her. As if attracted to Kalena only, the mist flowed toward her.
“Come any closer, Fire Whip, and she’ll die.” Quintel hadn’t moved from his chair, but his hand rested on a strange device that had been built into his stone desk. “The mist will kill her. I invented it and I can control it.”
Ridge started toward Kalena as the mist thickened around her. He reached through the black fog, grasping her arm to pull her free of the heavy darkness. As the light around her began to dim, Kalena saw the flames in his eyes flare higher. She wondered in panic if the black stuff would have the same effect on him as it had in the shelter.
She cried out in relief when she felt his hand close around her arm. As soon as he touched her she knew that the mist was not going to be able to turn him into an enemy.
“I said don’t touch her!” Quintel’s command echoed through the room and instantly the tendrils of black cold tightened around Kalena.
Helplessly, Ridge released her and stepped back. He whirled to confront Quintel. “Let her go. This is between you and me. It has nothing to do with her.”
“It has everything to do with her. She is the reason you were unable to complete the task for which I had prepared you all these years.”
“Blame yourself, then. You found her. You signed the trade marriage contract. You brought about your own disaster,” Ridge snarled. “It was your fate to be the source of your own destruction.”
“I am the source of his destruction,” Olara intoned.
Kalena could no longer s
ee the men or her aunt clearly. Even their voices were growing dim. The swirling mist was shrouding her more and more tightly. It coiled around her, imprisoning her in a darkness that was growing colder by the second. She caught a last glimpse of the flames on the hearth, and somehow the sight of the fire got through to her.
Fire. Fire to release the power of the Sand, a power that came from the Light Key.
She fumbled with the small pouch at her belt, almost dropping it. Grasping the tiny brazier in one hand, she moved the little switch that released the catalyst into the firegel. At once she felt a reassuring warmth beneath her fingers.
The mist seemed to writhe with a new, more restless energy as Kalena sprinkled the first pinch of Sand onto the heated firegel. When the white smoke wafted upward she held the brazier aloft. She had no intention of inhaling Sand smoke. She hoped that tonight it would be useful in other ways.
“Kalena!”
Ridge’s voice was clearer now. Kalena heard his desperation and tried to respond. “I’m all right, Ridge. I’m burning Sand. The mist is receding. It can’t touch me.”
For a frantic few seconds she was afraid it was only her imagination that detected the faint withdrawal of the black fog, but soon she realized her senses weren’t deceiving her. The mist was retreating. She tossed another pinch of Sand on the small brazier and watched the thin plume of white smoke swirl into the thick fog that surrounded it. Everywhere it came in contact with the darkness, the mist thinned. Kalena held the brazier in front of her, and a few seconds later the mist had cleared enough to allow her to see Ridge, Olara and Quintel.
Ridge was holding the sintar as he stood halfway between Kalena and the trade baron. The steel of Countervail was glowing as fiercely as the flames in its owner’s eyes. Olara stood poised with the large packet in her hand. She stared at Kalena. Kalena realized it was the first her aunt knew of her niece having discovered the Talent within herself. Olara looked stricken as she took in the significance of Kalena’s ability to burn Sand.
“You’re all right?” Ridge’s voice was as brutal as the blade in his hand.
“I can control the mist with Sand.” There was no point mentioning how little Sand there was in the pouch and how short a time it would last.
“Damn you!” Quintel raged, leaping to his feet. The fury in him filled the whole room. “Damn all Healers to the far end of the Spectrum.” He stretched out his arms as if he would reach into the thinning mist to grab Kalena. “I will kill you with my own hands, little whore!”
Ridge stepped into his path, the glowing sintar in his fist. He said nothing, merely waited.
Quintel snarled and launched himself at the sintar, instead of Kalena. “It should have been mine! I can control the steel. I’ll prove I can control it.”
Kalena saw the tendrils of mist begin to alter their course as Quintel threw himself toward Ridge. The darkness flickered outward, as if attracted to a new target.
“No!” Olara screamed, hurling the contents of her packet into the flames on the hearth. “Leave him, bastard. He is mine to take.”
At once great quantities of white smoke began to billow out into the room. Kalena remembered what the High Healers of the Valley had once said about Sand smoke being dangerous in large amounts. Already there was an acrid taste in her throat and her head was swirling with a sick, dizzy sensation. She knew suddenly that this much of the smoke could kill.
The black fog reacted violently to the white smoke, roiling toward it in great, seething whorls. Dimly through the gathering black and white haze, Kalena saw the glow of the steel of Countervail. Both smoke and fog were circling toward it as if it were a focus of some sort.
“Ridge, let go of the steel! Let Quintel have it!”
Ridge never did understand why he obeyed Kalena’s urgent command. All his instincts and training directed him to stand his ground and use the sintar as it had been designed to be used. Instead, he loosened his grip on the handle just as Quintel’s fingers touched the glowing steel.
In that same instant Olara screamed as if in agony and leaped to clutch at the blade.
“The steel is mine!” Quintel shouted, trying to shake off Olara’s clinging hands. “I will prove I can hold it when it glows. I am its master. I was born to master it.”
“You were born to pay with your life for what you did to my House! You killed my brother.” Olara clawed at his wrists even as the smoke and fog whirled toward them in tighter and tighter eddies.
Within seconds both Quintel and Olara were lost inside the tightening vortex. Ridge and Kalena fell back, staring at the writhing energy and listening to the anguished cries from the center of the mingled smoke and fog.
Quintel’s scream of agony and rage was enough to make Kalena’s blood run cold. But it was her aunt’s choked cry that made Kalena start forward. Ridge held her arm, forcing her to stay beside him. She shuddered, the brazier still clutched in her hand as the trade baron and her aunt both fell to the floor. The smoke and fog flowed around them as if seeking to feed. Through a brief break in the mist she could see that Quintel still held the flame-hot weapon in his fists, struggling to control the fire in it.
“Olara, let go of him,” Kalena pleaded. There was no response. Olara and Quintel were locked in a death struggle from which there would be no escape.
Ridge stood grimly, holding on to Kalena so that she could not throw herself into the lethal fog in a vain effort to rescue her aunt. There would be no rescue for either Olara or Quintel. Ridge was certain of that. He could only imagine the pain Quintel must be experiencing as the older man continued to clutch the steel of Countervail. No one but Ridge had ever been able to hold the sintar when it was reflecting its owner’s fury. In those brief moments when he had grasped the glowing steel himself, all Ridge had ever been aware of was a curious warmth that seemed to match the heat in his blood. But it was clear the fire Quintel was trying to contain was unbearable. Ridge didn’t understand why the steel continued to glow. He was no longer holding it. But perhaps it still held the fire of his fury. Or perhaps the forces alive within the room tonight kept it on fire.
“The mist and the smoke are both attracted to the sintar,” Kalena whispered helplessly.
She stared at the horrifying sight in front of them. The white smoke and the black fog were writhing more tightly than ever around the two on the floor. And then, without any warning, the mists slowly began to dissipate. It was as if there was nothing left for either the smoke or the fog to feed upon.
As the tendrils began to fade, Kalena saw that neither Olara nor Quintel was moving. The room slowly cleared of smoke and fog and Kalena saw the frozen rictus of a painful death on Quintel’s face. Her aunt lay rigid, her eyes mercifully closed. The sintar lay on the floor where it had fallen. It no longer glowed red.
Ridge’s free hand was on the doorknob behind him. “Come on, we don’t know what the damned stuff is going to do next. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Kalena shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “The mist and the fog have run out of energy. It will all soon disappear.”
Ridge eyed the wispy mist uncertainly. It seemed to be fading like normal morning mist in the heat of the sun, leaving its unmoving victims behind.
Warily, Ridge went forward. Kalena followed. She didn’t need to inhale any of the last of the brazier smoke to know that Quintel and Olara’s stillness was the stillness of death.
“I don’t understand exactly how they died.” Ridge picked up the sintar.
“Look at Quintel’s hands,” Kalena said. His palms and fingers where Quintel had clutched the blade were badly burned. She knelt beside the prone figure of her aunt and sniffed delicately at the remnants of smoke that came from her small brazier. Closing her eyes she looked into the bodies of both the victims. “Their hearts,” she murmured. “Their hearts failed them. The strain was too great.”
“The strain of what? The sintar and the smoke and the fog?”
“Fire and ice,” she whispered
. “The sintar is a catalyst in some way I don’t understand. Quintel thought he could control it, but he was wrong. In the end he was killed by that which he sought to control.”
“And your aunt?”
Kalena got slowly to her feet, aware of tears burning behind her eyes. “Healers are not meant to kill,” she said simply.
The last of the mist had vanished. Ridge resheathed the sintar and got to his feet. He reached out to touch Kalena in silent comfort. “Call the servants,” he ordered quietly.
Without a word, she left the room to do his bidding.
Her new knowledge of the Healing craft told her that when a proper investigation had taken place, the professional Healer’s verdict would be death from heart failure. The burns on Quintel’s hands would be explained away as having been caused by the fire on the hearth when Quintel pitched forward in his death throes. In a way, the Healer would be right.
Two eightdays later, Kalena crouched on the narrow rainstone path that wound through her newly planted herb garden and gently patted rich soil over the last of the seeds. She straightened, brushing the dirt from her hands and glancing around the small, elegantly proportioned courtyard with deep pleasure.
The household had settled down well. The villa was easy enough to manage. The two people she had hired to cook, clean and garden were proving to be reliable and well trained. Kalena had ample time to study her books on the Healer’s art and tend to her medicinal garden.
Ridge awoke in the mornings to yant tea made by his wife’s hand and came home at night to a warm welcome and a smoothly functioning household. He had taken to the domesticated life of a husband and father-to-be with the enthusiasm of a man who knew exactly what he wanted, had found it, and intended to keep it at all costs.