The Floodgate

Her agreement surprised both of them. Dhamari blinked, then turned aside to surreptitiously wipe away a tear.

All her life Tzigone had viewed Keturah's loss as her private pain. Never once had she considered that this burden might be shared by her mother's husband.

"Is tomorrow good?" she asked abruptly.

Dhamari's eyes lit up. "If it suits your master."

Something in his tone set off warning bells in her mind. "Why wouldn't it? Does Basel have any cause to object?"

"Not really," he said slowly. "Basel and Keturah were childhood friends. I thought he fancied himself to be something more than that. It is hard to fathom, looking at him now."

"Oh, I don't think so." Actually, Tzigone could see how a young Basel might have been a fine companion and conspirator. "Why did nothing come of it?"

"Wizards do not chose whom they will wed. Lord Basel comes from a long line of conjurers, and it was assumed that he would continue the family tradition with a woman from his school of magic. I heard a rumor that he appealed his assigned match to the council and was denied. If he bears me a grudge, I would not blame him."

Dhamari paused for a wistful smile. "Wizards are rarely as fortunate in marriage as I was. I loved your mother, Tzigone, and it took many long years before I could reconcile to the fact that she was gone. But her daughter lives. That brings me more happiness than I ever expected to know again."

He asked nothing of her and offered nothing but her mother's spells. That pleased her.

"Most of Keturah's spells involved the summoning of creatures," Dhamari went on. "We would do better beyond the city walls, where we don't run the risk of summoning behir guardians and wizards' familiars. It has been quite some time since I left this tower. A short journey would serve the purpose, but I'm not sure how to go about arranging the particulars."

This was something Tzigone knew well. "I'll be back in the morning. Get yourself a good pair of boots and send to Filorgi's Hired Swords for some travel guards. Leave the rest to me."

"You can prepare for a journey by tomorrow morning?" he marveled.

"Sure." Tzigone gri

The wizard caught the implication, and an ironic smile touched his lips. "It would seem that I am partly responsible for your resourcefulness. Mystra grant that from now on our association will be an unmixed blessing."

"That'll never happen," she said as she rose to leave. When Dhamari raised an inquiring brow, she added, "I've been called a lot of things over the years. I might as well be honest with you: 'Mixed blessing' is about as good as it's likely to get."

Dhamari's smile spoke of great contentment. "Then you are your mother's daughter indeed."

A golden wedge of sun peeked coyly over the forest canopy, proclaimed that the morning was nearly half spent. In a mountain travel hut perched above the tree line, Matteo and Iago stood at the open door and gazed uncertainly at the road that led from Orphamphal, and into the wilderness known as the Nath.

"Themo should be here by now," Matteo grumbled. "Perhaps we should go out looking for him."

"We should await him here," the smaller jordain said firmly. "If he has met with delay, leaving this agreed-upon place will ensure that we miss each other."

Matteo conceded with a nod. "I'll scout the area. You stay here and await him."

He whistled to his horse-a black stallion he'd named Cyric Three-and mounted before Iago could protest. Slapping his heels against the horse's sides, he headed up a path that wound steeply uphill through scrub pine and rock.

Earlier that day he'd wrapped the horse's hooves, not only to pad them against the shards of dark rock that splintered off the cliff faces, but also to muffle the sound of their passage. This precaution paid well-he rode silently enough to catch the sound of a small-scale battle taking place a league or so ahead.

Matteo rode as close as he dared. He swung down from his horse, drew his weapons, and quietly walked the rest of the way to a small, level clearing.

Two strange combatants were locked in fierce battle. A gray-ski

"Andris," whispered Matteo.

The moment of surprise passed quickly. Andris was among the best fighters he knew, but the shadow amazons were notorious for ferocious treachery. Despite her pointed ears and the high, sharp bones of her face, there was nothing of an elf's delicacy about the Crinti. Matteo had seen barbarian warriors who carried fewer weapons and less impressive musculature.

Roaring out a challenge, Matteo surged to his feet and charged to his friend's aid. The gray shadow wheeled to face him. Twin scabbards swung out from her hips as she spun. With three quick strides she was upon him, the promise of death in her ice-blue eyes. Her sword flashed down and around in a reverse circle, giving momentum to a stroke that whistled down in a swift, deadly arc toward his neck. Meanwhile her flail-a length of chain ending in a spiked metal ball-swung out wide and whipped in from the other direction in a rising arc. Working together, the Crinti's weapons formed a deadly parenthesis that cut off evasion or retreat.

Retreat was the last thing on Matteo's mind. He leaped in close and slammed his dagger into the curved cross guards of the female's sword. The heavy blow jolted through his arm and sang down his spine, but he did not allow the pain to slow his counterattack. With all his strength he heaved upward, first stopping the sword's momentum and then forcing the enjoined blades up. At the same time he spun his body swiftly under the locked weapons, forcing his opponent to turn with him so that they stood back to back. With his longer reach he heaved the weapons high and broke the woman's grip on her sword as his spin brought him inside the path of the flail.

The Crinti's sword clattered to the rocky ground. Matteo gritted his teeth as the flail's chain wrapped heavily against his thighs, but the real danger-the spiked metal head-slammed into his opponent's leg with a wet, sickening thud.

Matteo quickly brought his dagger hand down and jabbed lightly at the gray hand grasping the flail handle. The Crinti snarled and released her grip. Matteo shoved aside the chain and whirled away, then lashed out behind him with one foot. The kick caught the Crinti just above the back of her knees. She fell heavily to her hands and knees. Recovering quickly, she pushed herself off the ground and leaped to her feet, ignoring the blood that poured from the holes the flail's spikes had punched through her gray leather leggings.

The jordain snatched up her fallen sword, keeping his familiar dagger as a companion weapon. He'd already proven the value of a longer reach, and none of his own weapons matched the second sword the shadow amazon carried on her left hip.

The Crinti drew her sword-twin of the weapon Matteo held-and spun it in a deft circle. Though her gesture held the flavor of ritual, Matteo knew better than to mirror her move. The sword was heavy and strangely balanced: She knew the weapon, he did not.

Matteo stepped back and took several short cuts to get the feel of the weapon. Its weight leaned closer to the point than he was accustomed to-a choice that added power to a thrust or cut and that spoke of great strength and deadly intent. He did not relish the idea of fighting the Crinti warrior with such an unfamiliar weapon.

The elfblood exploded into motion. To Matteo's astonishment, she tossed her sword into the air. It flipped end over end and fell, point down. She caught the sword as it fell, her hands fisted at the midpoint of the blade. Blood seeped from between her white-knuckled fingers as she clenched the weapon. She caught Matteo's eye, sneered, and spat.