8

Love and the Looking Glass

"Why did we have to be born apart? I didn't want that! I hate it! If we could have been one person, we could have saved them all. I…I remember how it was before we were born. In the dark… I was stronger than anyone has ever been. But someone split me half and made me weak by taking you away from me. I don't want to be apart, anymore, Iona. I just want to go home. It isn't fair! Why can't I go home?"

Isla Chandler, a survivor

"—Baal's left arsecheek is this?!"

Lyndon stumbled as his feet hit the ground of New Tristram, and Iona squeezed his hand tightly to keep him upright. He was a head and a half taller than she; his center of gravity was higher. Her first experience with Waypoints had made it clear enough that without her help, he would fall, and they had both spent more than enough time in the dirt.

"You should not use the names of the Lords of Hell so freely," Iona admonished him, taking her glove from his pocket and sliding her hand into it with two swift, efficient tugs. She flexed her fingers. "Baal is dead. Let his name rot with his carcass."

He did not appear to have heard her. He was still staring at the blue ring on the ground. "What was that? How did you do it?"

"I conjured a Waypoint. Deckard Cain taught me how. Show me the crown."

Lyndon's eyes, lashes still bejeweled with beads of rain, made an unsuccessful effort to hold hers. "You look a bit peaky, my dear," he observed with an enticing smile. "Why don't we ask for a room at the Slaughtered Calf? We can share supper, perhaps a bit of wine…"

"I do not drink with strange men," Iona retorted, flashing his own smile back at him.

The scoundrel sighed dramatically. "How dreadful! But surely you eat with them. If not, I suppose we could sit at opposite ends of the tavern. I'll ogle you from a distance and you can feign disdain and continue to pretend you find my advances repulsive. I don't mind."

"You haven't any money."

"I always have money. I merely leave it in other people's pockets until I'm ready to use it."

Iona felt her temper splinter. "Do not even think of robbing these poor people," she hissed. "They have suffered more bitterly than you can possibly imagine."

"I doubt it," Lyndon muttered darkly. "Very well, then, let us go and fetch your little treasure. But then, we eat and drink and sleep, and you must agree to take me with you when you leave this place."

"Why?"

He looked her up and down. "Because you're a demon hunter, dearest, and you lot never stay in one place for long. There's bound to be loads of treasure in the grottos and cultist hideaways through which you will be shooting your not-so-merry way, and that means jewels, gold, and precious artwork ripe for the taking… You are my means to seek my fortune, at last, Iona."

"I prefer to work alone." She began to walk toward the mayor's cart.

"And I prefer to get my own way," he said affably, trotting beside her. "Now, since I've decided to follow you, regardless, there are two ways about this. You can work with me willingly, help me fix old Sophie so that I can be of use to you as a partner, or you can spend your days forced to protect an unarmed man from every demon you encounter."

Iona sighed in hopeless exasperation. Was there no reasoning with this man? "The way I have chosen to take is perilous enough for one. If you go with me, you will very likely die, Lyndon."

"Ah, but I will die rich, and if the gods are good, the last thing I see will be your incomparable backside."

She ignored him. They had reached the cart. The mayor was sleeping, now, curled up on one of his luxurious rugs on the ground. The sight was a painful reminder of Iona's own weariness, but she could not rest. Not yet.

"Show me," she said simply.

Lyndon gave the cart a cursory glance, reached in, and lifted a pouch of coins from the depths of the junk heap. Iona smacked his hand sharply and he dropped it with a sheepish grin. Her feelings about the mayor did not preclude her morals; she would be damned if any man, woman, or child went without a single copper because she had brought a thief back into their fold. The scoundrel's hand dipped into the cart once more, seeking…

"Ahhh," he pronounced, adding his other hand and standing on his toes, reaching deep. After a moment, he settled back on his heels and brought out three pieces of metal, rusted and jagged. "Have a care, darling. One knick from this little antique and it will be goodbye romantic supper and hello lockjaw. They will cut a hole in your fair cheek and feed you on milk and honey until the disease closes your throat."

He dumped the pieces into her outstretched hands. They were heavier than they looked and unnaturally cold, even through her gloves. She felt a flash of despair as she rolled them over her fingers. Flakes of rust fell from the broken crown like dandruff. She could only hope that Haedrig Eamon would be up to the task of mending it. She could only hope that it could be mended.

"We must seek out the smith and see what he can do about this," she said grimly, stowing the pieces in the largest of her leather pouches. "I will pay for the repair work you require for your crossbow as compensation for my assault on your person. Then I must insist that you leave me to my work."

"It is only assault if it was unwelcome," Lyndon purred, flicking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "In honesty, Iona, the only thing you can do to make me leave you alone is to fall madly in love with me."

She began walking again, making for the corner of the road that led to the cellar. Haedrig would almost certainly be there; his vigil for his wife would not end until her death, barring some miracle cure. The High Heavens knew that there were precious few miracles in the world, now. "I suppose you had best come along, then, because I can think of no greater folly than to fall in love with you."

"For now," he allowed, falling in beside her. "For now. They always give in in the end."

"Gods above but you do love the sound of your own voice."

"You have no idea."

They found Haedrig almost precisely where Iona had left him, but now he was standing, wringing the handle of a hammer in his big, fire-darkened hands. His face was waxy and pale, beaded with sweat that stank of fear and anger, a sharp, reddish smell. When he saw them, the leather grip creaked in protest within his tightened fists.

"It's you," he said hollowly, and Iona could not be sure who he meant.

She went to him immediately. "Tell me."

"It's my wife," he moaned, and Iona's worst fears were confirmed by the puffiness around his eyes. The man had been weeping.

"Her fate has been sealed, then?" she whispered.

He nodded. "Aye. Orders from Rumford. The cellar has been locked. I'm to put them all down." He wrung the hammer again, staring at it as though it was something vile that might bite him, like a snake. He looked up again and gazed beseechingly at Iona. "But how can I kill my own wife?"

"Sometimes death is the only mercy we have left," the huntress said quietly. "I will help you carry out this task." She glanced at Lyndon, who looked uncharacteristically grave. "So will you."

"Will I?" he asked faintly.

Iona unsheathed her longest knife and held it out to him. "You disturbed the ashes of this man's forebear. You owe him a debt. It is time you paid it."

To his credit, he took it without much hesitation and nodded. "Right. Well, let's not stand on ceremony. Best to get this over and done with."

"Yes," she agreed. "Haedrig? Are you prepared?"

The big man sighed deeply, as if expelling his very soul into the death-smoke all around them. "No. But the boy is right. It's time."

He drew a ring of keys from his pocket. His fingers fumbled clumsily over the smooth brass, and he nearly dropped it twice before selecting the right key. With the air of a man consigning himself to the Burning Hells, he opened the lock with a smart twist and flung the cellar doors wide. A dark maw gaped before them like a well. With a last look at the sky, he raised his hammer and began to descend the stairway. Iona and Lyndon followed cautiously, weapons ready.

The reek assaulted them immediately. Iona's nostrils flared. It was the stench of illness and death. Sickbed sweat, bile, putrefaction…. It was the smell of the Cathedral cemetery, the smell of the Risen. She moved ahead of Haedrig and Lyndon, holding up a hand when they reached a doorway which had been hastily boarded up. She put an ear to the damp wood, listening hard. What she heard shook her deeply. The moans of pain and absolute despair coming from the next room were horrifically human. The sick had not yet turned. But they would, and soon.

She placed a finger to her lips, then spread her fingers and slowly counted down from three. When she reached one, she raised her foot and kicked the poorly-erected barricade as hard as she could, ripping the squealing wood from its nails. The moment she entered the dimly-lit room, the dozen or so men and women who occupied it clutched their heads or bellies and let out awful, agonized screams. Their fluids sprayed from every orifice and the screams turned to malicious snarls. They turned and made for her, and she stepped to the side to allow her companions to enter the melee.

"My friends!" Haedrig cried, felling one with a crushing blow from his hammer. "I'm sorry!"

"Sorrow will not save your town," Iona said harshly. The man could not afford to go soft in the middle of battle. It would cost him his life. She took careful aim and shot bolt after bolt, ending the unholy Unlives of half a dozen men.

Lyndon's blade flashed with uncanny precision as he moved gracefully through the creatures' ranks. When all was done, it was he who held the highest body count. Iona felt new respect for the man. He was certainly no amateur. He had led a hard life, indeed.

There was little time for ruminations, however. Haedrig let out a sound that was somewhere between a howl and a sob, running toward a solitary figure at the end of the hall.

Iona tried to catch hold of his shirt but missed. "Wait!"

He would not hear her. In his world there was only the woman, dressed in a plain cotton dress and shawl. "Mira!" he moaned. "Oh, Mira, my love!"

"Haedrig," she gasped weakly, panting with pain and sweating through the thin cotton of her dress. She held her stomach tightly in her hands, her once-lovely face gaunt and ashen. "Haedrig…uhhn! Help me!"

She pitched forward and vomited. All the light had gone out of her eyes, and Iona knew she would speak no more. There was nothing left of Mira Eamon, now. She lifted her handbow and aimed for Mira's heart.

"You see, this," Lyndon remarked dryly to Iona, "this is why I never married."

"Haedrig?" Her eyes held the smith's, seeking direction. Shall I or will you?

He shook his head as if in a daze. "Mira… Mira…."

Iona squeezed the trigger.

Mira Eamon's corpse was blown backward, colliding with the wall behind her. She slid down bonelessly and lay still, a black bolt lodged so deeply in her chest cavity than only the feathers showed. There was a loud, metallic clash as Haedrig's hammer fell from his numb hands. He knelt beside his wife's desecrated body and stroked her matted hair. Her eyes were wide and staring, and he closed them gently before standing again.

"She's at peace?" he asked in a low voice.

Iona nodded. "I swear it. I am sorry for your loss, Haedrig, but you have done her a greater service than you know. And now the living have need of you."

"Do they, now?" He spoke without inflection, but it was not the voice of a beaten man. She would have staked her life on that.

"Yes," she said, placing the big pouch in his hand. "I have the Crown of Leoric. It is in pieces. Can you repair it?"

Haedrig blinked, as though coming out of a daze. He opened the bag, examined the pieces, and nodded. "Aye… But first, I have to…take my wife to the fires. Then I'll start the work. See me at the forge tomorrow. You look tired, lass. Go on. Get a meal and a bed. The Black King isn't going anywhere."

Lyndon sat at the far end of the Slaughtered Calf, playing at cards with some of the other patrons, but, as promised, his eyes almost never left Iona's face. He rocked lazily back on two legs of his chair and watched her over the rim of his mug, his expression inscrutable.

Iona made short work of her supper. Captain Rumford had cut all soldiers to half rations in light of the siege, and all civilians to one quarter. But Iona was small, and so was her appetite for food. She did not enjoy the act of eating; it was simply a necessary part of maintaining her strength. In the wilds between the Dreadlands and New Tristram, she had subsisted on whatever she could find, be it venison, roast horseflesh, or a mealy apple—and the worm inside it, if there was nothing else. She had not tasted her food in ten years.

Now she stood in Leah's rented room, unbuckling the clever layers of armor that covered her body. Her cloak lay at her feet where she had let it fall. Leah had gone to stay with her uncle and offered up her room, but Iona did not intend to sleep there. She never slept indoors if she could help it. But there was one luxury she would allow herself.

Carefully placing her crossbows beside the steaming bathing tub, she stepped into the water. Almost immediately, clouds of dark filth billowed to the surface, then sank slowly to the bottom of the tub. She scrubbed herself quickly, methodically, ridding herself of her unwanted second skin: blood, smoke, bile, dirt, dust… Ridding herself of the road and the graveyard.

Her skin was as fair as her hair was dark. Livid bruises covered much of her body; armor might keep sharp teeth from penetrating her skin, but it did nothing to ease the pressure of a good, solid bite. She scrubbed at the bruises remorselessly, not feeling the pain, nor the warmth of the water. In many ways, she was not in the bathing tub in Leah's room, at all. Her mind was with her sister.

"I found food, Isla!"

Iona, breathless, with color high in her cheeks from the chill, offered the contents of her knapsack to her twin sister. The night's haul was a slightly moldy loaf of bread and a wheel of goat cheese. There was wine, too, filched from an abandoned cellar. Iona poured a generous amount into a bent cup and nudged Isla's hand.

"This will help us sleep," she said gently, "and you have to eat."

Isla gave no reply. Her eyes were fixed on the evening sky. In the weeks since their escape from Dunvale, they had lost a stone each in weight. Iona could not bear to see the hollowness in her sister's eyes.

"Please," she whispered. "Eat something, Isla."

Isla lowered her gaze slowly. The look on her face made the cup tremble in Iona's hand. She was smiling, but there was something strange in her eyes. "The stars have been whispering to me," she said. "Do you know what makes a Nephalem?"

Iona tried to keep her brow from knitting with confusion. "They say they were the offspring of angels and demons. They were the most powerful men to walk the world. But…they're all dead, now."

Isla looked at her hands and chuckled ruefully. "It doesn't have to be that way."

"What do you mean?" Iona sat down beside her sister with their meager supper in her lap.

"Some bloodlines aren't as diluted as they seem. But in cases like those, there are sometimes…accidents." She placed a hand on Iona's shoulder. "Unnatural births."

Iona felt a thickening in her throat. She felt sick. "You're talking about us. Isla, I know you want to go after the demons—so do I—but we aren't strong enough. We are not Nephalem."

"No, we're not," she agreed in that strange, detached voice. "But we were. And then, something awful happened."

Her mind is going, Iona moaned inwardly. I'm losing her. All because of the demons. My sister is insane with shock and grief and I am losing her.

Isla looked up sharply, her eyes clearing. "No, Iona. I am not insane. I know what I know. There's something terribly wrong with us."

She began to cry.

Iona climbed out of the bath, leaving the awful memory to fester in the dark water with the other leavings of her past. As she stood, brown beads of water rolling down her body, she gazed into a looking glass above Leah's washstand and toweled dry. All she could see was Isla's face staring back at her. It was all she ever saw when she was clean. She lifted a hand to the mirror and tried to touch her sister's cheek. But her own reflected fingers blocked her way, just as they always had.

She turned away and reached for her clothes and armor. Without her second skin, without the blood of her enemies to stain her face, Iona could not recognize herself.