Death Sworn(9)

But even as she rubbed the back of her other hand against her gritty eyelids, she knew it was a foolish thought. She might not have time to adjust to anything before she became the next Renegai to die in these caves. Absalm had been here ten years, Cadrel only two months; who knew how long she had?

Ileni reached beneath her tunic and pulled out a square of silk, which she shook out into a gossamer-thin cloth that shimmered in the magelight. She draped the cloth over the stone floor, twined her fingers into its corner, and took a deep breath. Her fear of being discovered was so strong that even shouting silently felt wrong. She shoved the fear away and screamed the words of the spell into the void.

Like the protection-stones, the magic for this spell had been prepared by others, allowing her to call upon it with a minimum of her own strength. Even so, the effort drove Ileni to her knees and almost knocked her sideways. She pressed her knuckles to the stone and held herself up, forcing her eyes open and hoping some part of the cloth was touching a spot where Cadrel’s blood had been.

The cloth turned black-red, and the stench of rotting flesh assailed her. She gasped with relief. The cloth disintegrated, falling apart in a sprinkle of blood-black ashes, and in its place was a dead man, flat on his stomach with his head twisted to the side.

She had seen Cadrel several times before he left, and this was him. The deep-set eyes were bulging, the thin mouth open. He lay on his stomach, dressed in brown breeches and a tunic that was, in places, still white. But most of it was covered with a dark, jagged stain. A long knife hilt jutted from his back.

He fell. Ileni snorted under her breath and crawled to the side of the body. The knife hilt was simple and unadorned, carved with a spiral design. She reached for it, and her hand went right through it. She kept her hand there, her pale skin cutting through the straight line of steel. She could think of half a dozen spells that would tell her something about who had held it last, but not one that she had the strength for.

Shame rose in her throat. She pushed it away. She could try to call up the shadow reflections of Cadrel’s last moments—but that would take everything she had, and leave her drained for the next few days. She couldn’t risk it, not when she had dozens of killers to teach the next morning, not when her life was in danger every second.

She knew an easier spell, one that would help her find the real knife. Once she had that, she could use another spell to discover who had thrown it last. It was frustrating to have to work through such small, incremental spells, but she had no choice.

She opened her mouth to begin chanting, and something slammed into her from behind.

She cried out, trying to change the words into a defensive spell as she crashed face-first into the dead man’s image. It shattered around her, and she braced herself for the knife thrust into her own back. Pain shot up her wrists as she rolled over and looked up into two glowering brown eyes and a mouthful of sharp teeth.

She bit off a scream and lay very, very still. The dog let out a low, rumbling growl. It was large and black, with pointed ears laid flat against the sides of its head.

Not a knife thrust, then, but teeth tearing into her throat . . . Ileni half-sobbed. Animals were difficult to control with magic. Even if she hadn’t just drained most of her power, she wouldn’t have dared try. She brought one arm up to shield her throat. Still, the dog didn’t move.

Ileni sucked in a long, shaky breath and forced down her panic, trying to think. It was guarding her, waiting for . . . what?

For its master. Ileni flexed one hand—slowly, so as not to startle the dog—and said softly, “Azkarabilin—”

“Don’t!” Sorin said sharply. “Don’t hurt him. He’s not going to attack you.”

Ileni didn’t move, not even to glance toward the assassin’s voice. She knew how hunts worked. The dog brought down the prey, and the hunter finished the job. “If you don’t want him hurt,” she said, “call him off.”

Sorin was silent for so long that Ileni feared he would call her bluff. Then he said, “Down, Fang.”

The dog sat back on its haunches, mouth still open. Ileni curled her fingers into a fist and turned her head in Sorin’s direction. She could make out his shape in the shadows. “Is he yours?”

Sorin stepped into the glow of the magelight, his body a harsh outline against the dim light. His angular face was completely without expression. “That’s not the most important question right now.”

“It is to me.” Ileni did her best to sound unafraid—as unafraid as she could while flat on her back with terror coursing through her. He had caught her sneaking through the caves, here where death must be the punishment for any infraction. The only reason she was still alive, probably, was because he had questions. Once she answered them . . .