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Chapter Eleven – The Dark River

Jaiyan sat on the boat rail, her sword unsheathed across her knees, and a cleaning rag in her hand. Ferron's face had been peaceful, almost serene, when she had handed across the power source. He and his followers would make their way to Lith My'athar, as promised, and lend their strength and numbers to the Seer's cause.

Her sense of achievement – the first, if she admitted to herself, since she had arrived in Lith My'athar – had been marred when the duergar camped outside the dungeon had tried an old-fashioned ambush. She attempted to palm them off with a handful of coin, but the temptation of the treasure found in the dungeon had proved too much, and they had found themselves fending off another attack. She had felt almost sorry at the speed with which the duergar were cut down – they had been scavengers, not predators, and their fatal mistake was to challenge a tiefling who mowed through them like last year's wheat.

"My lady?"

She tilted the sword, and Valen's reflection swam into focus. "Yes?"

He stepped up beside her, held out a plate with cut bread and cheese and cold rothe meat. "Supper?"

"You read my mind." She sheathed the sword, let it fall beside her pack. She joined him on the deck itself, her back against the rail.

He sat beside her, his knees drawn up, and his tail curled lazily up against his ankles. "I…wanted to thank you."

She tore into the bread. "For what?"

"Talking the golems into an alliance. It will…mean a lot to the Seer."

She shot him a sidelong glance through her eyelashes. His gaze was fixed on the plate, and his brows were knotted. "Good," she answered lightly. "I hope the Seer will be pleased with me."

He coughed. "I was wondering…you told me of how you left your home."

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if you would tell me what happened after that?"

She broke off part of the crust and regarded him. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." He turned his head finally. "If you would care to tell me."

"Well." She leaned forward, grabbed her pack. "For this, we're going to need a drink or two." She rummaged around until her hand closed on the neck of the brandy bottle.

Valen's eyebrows rose. "Have you been carting that around?"

She gave the nearly full bottle an experimental shake. "Yes..?"

"Should I ask what else you're carrying in that pack?"

"I'm not the one lugging around a flute, a lute, a harp, a tree's worth of parchment, six ink bottles and the gods know what else."

"How does he manage that?"

She shrugged and yanked the cork out. "I don't know, and I don't want to know." She sniffed the brandy and winced. "This may not be the good stuff, but it is the strong stuff."

"What is it?"

"Peach brandy." She gulped down a mouthful and held on as her eyes watered. "Want some?"

He sighed, but accepted the bottle anyway. After spluttering through a hefty swallow, he prompted, "So, after you left your home?"

"I never thought of it as home," she said thoughtfully. "It was where I slept, ate and grew up, but it wasn't home. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes." His voice held a strange, unreadable note. "Yes. I do."

"I lasted all of six months in the next town I came to. I served drinks at a tavern, and spent too much time getting into screaming arguments with drunk farmers who thought it was acceptable to stick their hands up my skirt because I brought them their ale." She shrugged, and realized that it still felt brittle.

"You were…hurt?" he asked carefully.

"Oh, gods, no. Never that. Just wandering hands, or the occasional smack on the behind." She shrugged, and tried to ignore the sudden flare in his eyes. "One night, there was this group of mercenaries."

Tall and lean and strong, she remembered; or at least they had seemed that way to her. In gleaming armour and carrying swords with elegant ease, and they had paid for all their drinks and food and left her a handful of coin for herself, without expecting anything more from her. They had been boisterous without being rowdy, and their leader had been a broad-shouldered man with coal-black hair and piercingly green eyes.

"You wanted to be like them?"

She laughed. "I suppose. I didn't think of it like that at the time. After the innkeeper finally had enough of me in the taproom, he sent me into the stables. One night, I got into a fight with a soldier who didn't like the way I was with his horse."

Valen frowned. "I can't quite picture you being unkind to a horse."

"That's the point. He was, I wasn't, and I was very vocal about how I didn't like the way he whipped the poor creature all the way into the stable yard. Well, I was young and angry and tired of being the stable girl, and it turned into a fight." Her cheeks were warm, from the brandy, or the memory, or both. "He had a sword and a riding crop, and I grabbed the hay fork from the rack, and tried to feed him his own teeth."

Valen laughed, not forced, and startlingly loud above the soft rushing of the river. "Did you succeed?"

She grimaced. "Not really. He laid me out flat and was about to really hide me when those self-same mercenaries appeared. Coincidence, chance, whatever you want to call it. They saw the whole thing, and hauled him off and gave him a royal thrashing. After that, the man in charge asked me if I'd ever heard of a place called Hilltop."

She had been barely seventeen, and looking for any way out; handed directions and a name, she had spent the last of her gold on a borrowed horse and fled further north, making for the small township of Hilltop, and the academy governed by the Harper agent, Drogan.

"He was a good master," she said quietly, remembering. "He put up with me for a good two and a half years or so, teaching me how to actually use the sword my mother had given me."

"You cared for him?"

"Yes, I did. He drove me mad, and I think I did the same to him. But in the end, we could sit and have a talk and a drink together, and laugh." She swallowed past the sudden thickness in her throat. "I used to hate him after he put me through sword drill. I remember once, I shrieked at him that I was too small – he had me paired up against a friend of his, a big part-orcish mercenary who was even bigger than you. But he made me go through with it, and afterwards, I was glad."

He took the brandy back, tipped it up. "Did you win?"

She giggled. "Hah…no. I was beaten black and blue. But I matched most of his strokes. I hit him almost as much as he hit me. The problem being, of course, that he could hit a lot harder." She pressed her lips together as more giggles escaped. "And afterwards, Drogan scraped me up off the floor, dusted me down, patted my face, and told me to be ready at dawn to go out into the woods and kill goblins." Her shoulders shook with inappropriate laughter. "Gods. I hated him that winter."

Valen gave her a strange look. "Are you…alright?"

"Yes." She nodded briskly and snatched the bottle from him. "Yes…sorry."

"What happened to Drogan?"

"Oh." She took another swig. "He died."

"I didn't know him, or you when it happened. But, if it's worth anything, I'm sorry."

She shrugged and blinked. "Thanks. So, what about you? Going to tell me anything in return?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "What do you want to know?"

She raised the bottle to her lips again, giving herself time to think. She did not want to push him too far, but nor did she want to remain entirely ignorant. "Well…if you wouldn't mind answering, I'd like to know what a tiefling is."

"I'm sorry?"

Her cheeks reddened. "And now I sound completely stupid. I'm actually being serious. I don't know what a tiefling is."

He gazed at her through those unreadable blue eyes. "You don't?"

"No." Her hands tightened around the bottle, and she stared at the planks on the deck. "I'll admit, I spent most of my time in Hilltop bashing things with a sword rather than reading books. Stories, yes. But lore books about who is who and why they're like that? I preferred to hide in the library and re-read that one about the hero who killed a dragon by running up its spine and ramming his sword through its neck."

Valen's gaze did not shift away. "You truly do not know what a tiefling is?"

She grinned at him. "Someone with a handsome set of horns?"

"You're joking, my lady."

"No. You're really quite handsome." She leaned her chin on her hands, hiding her smile as he flushed. She was aware that the brandy lent her the courage to say such things, but the colour in his cheeks was worth it.

"Thank you, my lady." He appeared lost for a moment, eyes fixing on the empty air in front of him. "My mother bore the child of a cambion. A creature that is half demon; that makes me part demon, myself." He looked piercingly at her. "Does that bother you?"

"No. Should it?" She swallowed, let the drink sear down her throat. "I prefer to judge a man by his actions, not his blood."

His smile was slow in response, as if he had expected a different answer. "Thank you, my lady."

She passed the brandy back across, and felt the brush of his fingers against hers. "So what does that mean for you? Apart from the horns and the tail, I mean?"

"It means that I fight against rage and the fear of losing myself to it. It means that my nature is to hurt, and kill, and lose control, but I do not want to."

There was a low, husky note in his voice that wrenched at her. "Always..?"

"Yes. It is better, now. Controllable, for the most part. But…it was not always so."

"I…don't know what to say." She stared at him, at the shadows in his hooded blue eyes. "Saying sorry seems patronizing. Not saying anything would seem like I don't care."

His head turned, and he pressed the bottle into her hands. "And you do care?"

"I care," she said, softly. "I may not understand, though. What does it feel like?"

"A compulsion." The distance returned to his gaze. "A compulsion to hurt. Do you know what the Blood Wars are?"

She shifted against the rail. "Not really."

"Demons and their ilk are known as Tanar'ri," he said slowly. "Devils are Baatezu."

"And they're at war."

"Yes. Eternally, brutally, and to the point where those of us who carry their blood are called into it. My blood knows what I should be doing."

She searched his pale face, saw only pain. "What is that?"

"Killing. Killing Baatezu for preference, but I don't think demons are all that picky."

She frowned. "But you're…what, quarter demon?"

"Yes."

She tried to make sense of it, and could not quite. "If you're only quarter part demon, why does it feel so strong?"

He laughed, without much humour. "I don't know. I only know that it does."

"So…where are you from?"

This time, the tone of his laughter changed, became real. "Sigil," he answered. "The City of Doors."

"See? Was that so hard?" Another gulp of brandy, and she shuddered. "Maybe sometime you'll tell me about it?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I'd like that."

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Curled in blankets below decks, Jaiyan turned over and tried to sleep. She could hear Deekin snoring at the foot of the bunk, and the occasional leathery sound as his wings rustled. She flopped back against the pillow and sighed. She could feel the pull of the dark water beneath the hull, and the knowledge of the black river and the endless caverns above chilled her.

Every time her eyes closed, she saw Valen's face, and his expression as he confessed his heritage; the sharp challenge in his eyes as he asked if it mattered.

Does it? Even now, after stewing sleeplessly for the gods knew how many hours, she was not sure.

She had long ago decided the world was a place of strange and bizarre things, and generally considered herself fairly accepting. Her opinions of people tended to be based upon whether or not they planned to kill her, rather than where they came from, or what their heritage might be.

And besides, she had traveled with Deekin for months.

She smirked to herself and turned over again.

Still, he was part demon. Every tale she remembered from childhood painted such creatures of infernal blood as inescapably, irrevocably evil.

No, he's not evil, she thought. He's infuriating, surly, arrogant, and bad-tempered, but not evil. And besides, most scary stories with demons in don't mention that they have ridiculously red hair and that they can sulk like children.

Stop it. Stop justifying.

Frustrated with herself, she kicked the blankets off, and froze as Deekin snuffled. Cautiously, she edged off the bunk and padded barefoot to the door. Still clad in the old tunic and leggings she liked sleeping in, she ventured back out onto the deck, into cool, slightly damp air.

Valen was still sitting at the rail, his head tipped back, and his eyes half closed. She approached him, and noticed that he still had the bottle of brandy, and that it appeared somewhat diminished. "Have you burned out the back of your throat with that yet?"

He jumped and glared through loose red hair at her. "You move quietly when you want to."

"So do you." She sat beside him, hooked up the bottle. "Couldn't sleep."

"Bad dreams?"

"No. I never even got that far." She stared at the pale brandy. "Tell me about Sigil."

A faint smile turned his mouth. "It is the city of cities. Ruled over by the Lady of Pain herself, and a city of many mysteries. There are people and demons, monsters and slaves, creatures and wizards, all walking its streets and staring at its sky that is not truly a sky. A planewalker is not a true planewalker until he has seen the winding streets of Sigil."

She took a pull from the bottle. "It is a wondrous place, then?"

"Wondrous, and terrible." His blue eyes were distant, remembering. "It is a place where full-blood demons walk the streets alongside planar travelers and sorcerers."

"And you were born there?"

"Yes." Some shadow passed across his face, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry. You…wanted to hear about something magical, yes?"

"Not if it's not true," she said softly. "What were you going to say?"

"Sigil is beautiful," he murmured. "But also cruel. Enticing, and pitiless. I was…my mother was a woman who…worked for a female demon. A demonness, I suppose."

The brandy swirled down Jaiyan's throat. "What did she do?"

Valen's forehead creased. "She was a courtesan. She sold her flesh in exchange for some form of protection."

She wanted to squeeze his hand, but the set cast to his face convinced her otherwise. Instead, she merely passed the brandy across again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"I know," he said, too quickly. "She…I know my father was a cambion. I know he must have been a customer. That is all I know."

And my father was a drunk who drove two daughters away and beat my mother, she thought. "You never met him."

"No." His head turned, and he stared at her. "Does that bother you?"

"Valen…" She pulled the bottle out of his hands. "No more of this for you. It's making you maudlin. No, it doesn't bother me. I listened to my father beating my mother most weeks. Most nights, if I'm truly honest."

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. "Really?"

"Yes, really. My sister was the smart one. She left years before me." She eyed the brandy speculatively before pouring a good measure down her throat. "Clever girl sneaked out with a merchant train on their way south. I like to think that's she filthy rich in Calimshan and married to a nice boy who adores her."

And she's probably whoring herself out to nice boys not as far away from Calimshan, some treacherous, cynical thought suggested.

"What was her name?" Valen asked.

"Calienna. She was the pretty one. I was the one who was supposed to be a son, so I got the name not meant for a princess."

Valen laughed, a little strangled. "When did you last see her?"

"She left when she was fourteen, and I would have been…oh, almost twelve."

He said nothing, only pried the brandy bottle out of her fingers.

"So. Your mother." Jaiyan blinked, trying to clear her mind of old troubles. "What happened to her?"

"She died," he answered, flat-bland. "People do."

"Yes," she said, remembering Drogan, and the hacking coughs that racked him as he died in front of her. "Yes, they do. May I ask how?"

"She…was ill, for a month or so. I was very young…I don't remember exactly, but I was very young. She was not making enough money for her mistress, so she was killed, and I was thrown out into the streets."

"What..?" Suddenly, the trials of avoiding an angry father seemed trivial. "She was killed because she got sick?"

Valen shrugged, but the lines on his face were hard, his skin deathly pale. "Yes. Such is the way things happen sometimes."

"What happened to you afterwards?"

"I lived on the streets, mostly as a thief. Not a proud existence, but a necessary one."

"Which explains your sneaky knack with traps." She grinned at him. "You must've learned some things."

"Yes…I did." He shook himself. "When you went to Hilltop…"

"Yes?"

"Tell me about it," he said simply.

Deekin knew her past, knew how Drogan had taken in a hot-headed former farm girl and turned her into something resembling a mercenary or a fighter. The little bard had met her not long after she had left Hilltop following the kobold attack, and had stayed with her.

No one else – not even Durnan, she realized – knew as much.

"Oh…the end of the last winter at Hilltop, the town was attacked. By kobolds."

"Kobolds?"

"Don't laugh," she cautioned, not quite able to hide her smile. "According to Deekin, they're very dangerous in large numbers against inexperienced fighters."

Valen snorted scornfully. "Please tell me none of these kobolds got the better of you."

"Absolutely not," she retorted. "But they did make a mess of Hilltop's best tavern. And they stole some important things from Drogan."

In the strange night time of the Underdark, as the boat rocked underneath her, Jaiyan found herself telling him; no, spilling to him. How Drogan had sent her and Xanos out into the snow on the trail of the raided artifacts. How they had met Deekin, and helped him. How the elusive path their enemies had taken had led them to J'Nar, and Tymofarrar, and eventually to the mythal in Anauroch.

"I've never been so hot," she said, still horrified by the concept. "I dripped all the time. It was horrible."

Valen chuckled. "I take it my lady does not care for deserts?"

"Gods, no. Horrible places. Full of skittering scorpion creatures the size of an overfed carthorse, and tombs crawling with undead. Never going back there again."

"You found the mythal?"

They did, of course; and its trail and the trail of those searching for it wound deep into the shifting sands, to the Valley of the Winds. There had been the awful moment when she had been frozen in statue form, and the time when Ashara the slave-merchant had snapped a collar around her neck while the ancient Netherese city shuddered above them. There had been the shadow realms, and the strange towers within the flying city, and Deekin's incessant rhymes.

The brandy bottle lay forgotten on the deck, leaning over against the rail. Valen had turned, faced her with his hands clasped over his knees. "And Heurodis?"

"Was a cocky bitch who discovered that the business edge of a sword is more effective than hiding behind a faceful of tentacles."

He winced genially. "My lady, your way with words is…always concise."

"Thank you," she answered, only slight sardonic. "So…that's it. My grand adventure, much overblown and maligned by Deekin's searing epic."

"He wrote a book?"

"Oh, yes," she said wearily. "It sold very well, I'm told. And, from what I've read, made me at least six inches taller, and a good six inches wider at a certain point on my chest."

Valen's cheeks coloured slightly. "Poetic license?"

"Poetic lying, possibly. At least most of the spelling is correct." She leaned her head back against the rail, drew in a deep breath that tasted of wet moss. "Where to next, tiefling?"

She half expected him to bristle at such cavalier treatment, but he only smiled. "The ilithid slaver city. Zorvak'mur, they call it."

"Sounds like a delightful place."

His tone changed, became serious. "Do you know of the ilithid, my lady?"

"Only a little," she admitted. "I'm thinking lots of wriggling tentacles, and a tendency to eat brains."

His mouth curled upwards. "In a way. They trade though, in slaves and treasure, and their cities are not entirely closed off. As long as you appear to be a slaver."

"So we pretend. Alright." Her eyes slid shut. "How long?"

"Four days down river."

She wrapped her arms around her knees and shivered. "Do you know much about the ilithids?"

"Ilithid," he corrected. "One ilithid, two ilithid, I think."

"Thanks. I'll be sure to tell Deekin."

"They're merchants, at heart, despite the fact their wares tend to breathe." He shrugged, but there was a shadow in his eyes again. "They probably wouldn't march on Lith My'athar of their own volition, but with the support of the Valsharess, and with the promise of their pick of the survivors…"

"I understand," she said softly. "I do understand."

Valen's gaze lifted, burning pale blue. "My lady…I just…wanted to thank you. For talking to me…for telling me about Hilltop."

She smiled, aware that she felt strange, and blamed it entirely on weariness. She hooked up the brandy bottle. "You're welcome. And if you'll excuse me, I think I might go and try that sleeping idea again."

He inclined his head, and she saw the amused tilt to his lips. Aware of his gaze on her back, she meandered her way back into the small, cramped cabin. She found Deekin still snoring, and flat on his back, his wings splayed out and taking up far too much room. She gently pushed him over onto his side, and arranged one swept-out wing beside his shoulder. He grunted quietly and burrowed his snout against the bed.

Jaiyan crawled beneath the sheets and listened to the sound of the kobold's breathing slow down, and the sway of the ship beneath. Something creaked overhead, and she wondered if Valen was stalking across the deck. There had been much pain in his tales of Sigil, and she realised that she wanted to know more, and the why of it; how had he survived on the streets of so cruel a city, and how had he found his way to the Underdark?

And what terrible thing had created the coldness in his eyes?

She slammed a hand into the thin pillow and rolled over quickly. Somewhere near her feet, Deekin snorted and his tail tapped her ankles. As she finally drifted off into uneasy sleep, she recalled the tiefling's face, and wondered why she cared if he smiled or not.