Curallisong Prologue 530, Age of Ascent, Early Summer The last shrieks of the dying gradually faded, and peace returned to the large glade outside the curalli city of Shadows. A slender shape shifted in one of the large black hyleas that grew near the city, and then dropped to the ground with the grace of a cat. Eying the thick, enjoyable darkness around him, Echelli Durillo regretfully decided that it was time to return home. The fifteen-year-old part-curalli, keeping his hands easily near his dirks, slipped toward the large gate of dark silver that was the main entrance to Shadows. However, he had hardly reached it when he noticed a familiar figure pacing agitatedly near its bars. A silent hiss wrinkled the young shadowed Elwen's ebony lips. The last person he wanted to meet right now was his father. He seemed to flow up the wall of sivleth, or black silver, rather than climb it. At last he dropped quietly into a deeply hidden alley and trotted down it. His hands rested more tightly on his dirks now, for he knew Shadows for what it was. Echelli kept his head constantly up, his dark eyes darting from corner to corner, his nostrils flaring to catch the slightest change in the usual smells of sivleth and hylea. Consequently, he was not at all surprised when the slim figure dropped in front of him. Echelli's dirks hissed free of their sheath with almost magical swiftness, and he tensed, ready for battle. The figure, a full curalli with shining silver skin and glossy dark hair, hesitated, but then sneered and drew a small dagger. "I would put your weapons down, little one," he snarled in Melli, the beautiful, poisonous curalli language falling from his mouth like acid. "Or, better yet, give them to me!" Echelli did not relax from his tense position, did not move his hands an inch. Rather, it was his attacker who moved, stepping backward at the sight of the quiet rage in the dark, diamond-shaped eyes of his victim. He spoke again, hefting the dagger and letting his hand creep toward his boot to draw another weapon. "Surrender, or I shall have to kill you. I just cleaned my weapon, and it would be a bother to stain it with the blood of a half- bre-" A swift, soft passage of an arm through the air was his only answer. And it was the only answer Echelli truly needed to give. The curalli, wiping the sticky white blood on the sivleth beneath his feet, eyed the attacker with distaste. He muttered, "I really must learn to be more neat. That hole in the throat, now- disgraceful." Finding the blade free of blood, he replaced it on his hip and continued on his way, crooning to himself in Melli. Echelli's thoughts were not on the curalli who lay still in the alley behind him- such defense was an accepted practice in Shadows. He knew the stars would reclaim the body by morning. No, his mind raced along the course of the battle that had been fought before the city's walls. Silly of him to get captured, really. He had been training as a forester for five years. Just being a little more silent would... Would have kept him from making the friend he'd made tonight. The curalli smiled, an expression unusual in Shadows. Even more unusual was the grin's lack of malice. His new friend was a land Elwen, one of the people who had a blood-hatred against his kind. Echelli chuckled at the irony, then quickly sobered as he realized what might be watching him in the shadows. His hometown was well named. Being a little more alert now, the curalli guided his thoughts back to Keren. The blood-hatred wouldn't be troubling that one again. Echelli had removed it, and his curalli magic was strong enough that it wouldn't return. Yes, a mocking voice in his head answered him, at least you have enough of that ability. The part-curalli's fists clenched. He lifted them to stare at them, his silver-white skin shimmering in the aura that his excellent nightsight allowed him to see. Silver-white. Not silver. A noise on top of a wall made him whirl, his temporary rage forgotten as he became alert to danger. He had not yet drawn his blades, his eyes and nose scanning the sivleth of the walls in an effort to find the intruder. He didn't have far to look. The watcher stared at him from the top of the alley. He was a male curalli, perhaps two thousand years old- about the age of the one Echelli had killed. His hair was dark, though not as raven-black as the young curalli's, and his steady gaze emanated from two deep-set, dark blue eyes. That gaze was somehow inherently repugnant, like the look of a farmer running his eyes over an animal at auction. At length the watcher spoke, his voice melodious but as cold as the unliving sivleth he balanced upon. "Very impressive," he purred. "I'd like to have you as my own." Echelli frowned, not entirely sure what the other curalli meant. "Well, you won't have me," he snapped, his fighting will rising to the top. His slender fingers closed about his dirks. "Not that someone like you could control anybody anyway." "I would watch what you see, quarter-munth," spat the curalli, and was gone like a part of the night before Echelli could react. The young forester hissed deeply in anger, before continuing his slow walk home. Of all things in the world, he hated nothing more than being reminded that he was one-quarter land Elwen. Chapter 1 A Person To Trust 535, Age of Ascent, Early Spring "Father?" Echelli's voice was tentative, as it often was when he was speaking or calling to Kormunth Durillo. He slid quietly over the sivleth floors of the simple house where they lived together, wincing automatically at the sound his feet made on the dark silver. "Father, I've got something to tell you!" A pause, then his father's soft, melodic voice answered. "I'm in the kitchen, my son. What is it?" The twenty-year-old curalli did not reply, but threaded his way nimbly through the house until he reached the large room where his father sat, gazing out one of the dark glass windows with his usual gentle, distant expression. Mustering all of his skill, the young curalli approached Kormunth from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. His tall, slim father leaped a foot in the air, then twisted to land in a fighting crouch, hand darting for the dagger he wore belted to his waist. But almost instantly he caught his son's scent, and relaxed enough to give Echelli a warm smile. "I should have known you would try something like that. Welcome home, Echelli." He reached out a slender hand, more silver-white than his child's, to ruffle Echelli's hair. Echelli glided smoothly from under it. His father and he did not often touch, and besides, the young curalli was a natural loner. He peered deeply into his father's expectant indigo eyes. "I've been approved to take a new class in forestry." His half-curalli father smiled with a flash of onyx teeth, but it seemed somewhat strained. "That's wonderful, son. When do you start?" "Next week," Echelli replied absently, glancing about for something to eat. Running all the way from the school compound, when he had fed on nothing all day, really caused him to work up an appetite. At length, he selected a darkfruit from an onyx bowl on a table carved of ashwood and bit deeply into it. The acent and taste, spicy and slightly sweet, made him close his eyes in rapture. He hungrily finished the food, opening his eyes and reaching for another. His father's hand closed over his wrist, stopping him. "No more until later," he said sternly. "Or you'll just want darkfruits for vespermeal." Echelli did not complain- it was not his way- but he quietly removed his father's hand from his arm and sank into a cushion woven from the wool of black sheep. Idly, he gazed out the window into the eternal darkness of the city- a darkness curalli sorely needed. He didn't understand why his father insisted on eating vespermeal at the same time. In the deepness of the magical night that wrapped the shadowed Elwens' business, noon and midnight were practically a matter of choice. "So, tell me more about this forestry class." His father's voice shook him out of an idle speculation about what it would be like to watch the sunrise without pain. Echelli's curiosity slowly grew as he turned to face his father, who was gazing at him from the black bench. Normally, his father did not take this great an interest in his affairs. "Oh, I suppose it's not much different from the other classes I've taken. But the master said it's a great honor to be chosen. Supposedly, only the curalli who show a true passion for the woodlands and their protection are chosen." His father nodded, then abruptly raised his eyebrows. "Echelli, what's wrong? Your words seem designed to conceal pain." His melodic voice was warm with a strange touch of fatherly love. Echelli quietly averted his gaze, so that his father could not probe into his heart. He greatly loved Kormunth, but the reason for his greatest anger in his life also came from him. He scratched the back of his hand lightly with a forefinger. Scratched the back of a silver-white hand. Scratched it, and tried not to let the mocking words of Essmon, the master of Natural Education classes, ring in his ears. "It is indeed an honor, especially for a little half-breed like you," he'd sneered, the drool that was his trademark bubbling down his face. "Although I can't see why the Council would choose you, I am bound to accept their decision. I simply hope the class will not be contaminated by your light blood!" Echelli barely felt his lips pull back in a deep, feral snarl. He had as much darkness in him as any other curalli. He did not feel compelled to prove his loyalty to his people, but his loyalty to his alignment was another matter. If necessary, he would prove that good was not the alignment that called him. His father's hand came to rest on his arm once more. "Echelli?" he whispered, hesitantly and sadly. "I can't help you. But I do wish you would tell me what's going on. I can at least listen." Echelli nodded slowly, then raised his eyes to his father's. "A- master," he said roughly, for he was not foolish enough to reveal the identity of this master, "told me that he hoped the class would not be contaminated by the threat of light I carry inside me." His father did not react the way Echelli had expected. Instead, he let out a hoarse, throaty cry, and flung his arms around his son. His words came out in sobs, sobs all the more frightening because Echelli had never before seen his father weep. "Echelli, it's your choice, and I have no right to tell you what to do with your life." His father's voice was rough with suddenly released emotion. "But I do want you to consider one thing." Kormunth lifted his head now, his indigo eyes staring deeply into Echelli's. "Whatever your choice of alignment, never be ashamed of it." "Ashamed?" Echelli felt highly uncomfortable. "I don't understand, Dad. I have already cho-" "Have you?' His father's gaze continued to be keen. "You have forsaken the light completely, and never intend to return?" Echelli responded with a laugh that sounded forced, even to him. "Of course! That is what a curalli should do, after all." Kormunth's eyes were sad. 'Ah, my son, my son," he murmured, releasing Echelli at last. "But you have a freedom of choice not normally granted to shadowed Elwens." Bile welled up in Echelli's throat. Must his father, too, remind him of the land Elwen blood he carried? Echelli held deep loyalty to his land Elwen friend, Keren, but he felt differently about the idea that he partially belonged to a race that was as good as the curalli were evil. He was supposed to be a curalli! Didn't he fit anywhere? "My son," came Kormunth's gentle voice. "I know you find it hard to understand, but I want you to think carefully about the dark and the light, the Dug and the Li. Please don't make the same mistake I did." "The same mistake, Dad?" Echelli's bitterness was dying, and his natural inquisitiveness was taking over. "I always thought you advocated the dark side." His father laughed, teeth gleaming harshly. As if for the first time, Echelli noted that his father had black and white teeth. "I did, son, I did. But I was mistaken." He shook his head. "My heart lies with the light, and all its beauty and pain. I learned that long ago, but I chose to ignore it. Then, when I lost Kanara..." His melodic voice trailed into silence. Echelli felt uncomfortable again, as he always felt when his mother was mentioned. Kanara- beautiful, lost Kanara. His mother, a pure curalli, who had died bearing him. He had always accepted the idea that his birth was responsible for his mother's death, and his father, because he was evil, hated him for it. He had always accepted that idea, but now that he had learned his father favored goodness... Echelli sought Kormunth's eyes. Even if the answer was the same as he had always suspected, he had to know. "Father, do you blame me for Mother's death?" His father surprised him into the air by hugging him fiercely. "No, son, of course not! I loved your mother, mostly because she was so different from me, but-" "That doesn't mean you blame me?" Echelli finished, trying- and utterly failing- to quell the hope and relief rising in his heart. "Exactly." Kormunth smiled affectionately at his son, though his eyes were laden with the indescribable pain of losing someone. "Yes. Although I miss her so much..." His melodic voice trailed into silence. Echelli startled himself by clasping his father's hand. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I'll consider what you said." He rose to his feet with a swirl of the sable cloak he wore. "Now I want to go get something to eat." He had heart-read his father enough to realize that Kormunth would want to be alone tonight. Kormunth gave him a silent look of gratitude, then likewise rose and pressed several wirthas, or gypsum coins, into his hand. "Here. Buy whatever you like. I'll.. just eat whatever's in the house." His deep violet eyes suspiciously bright, the half-curalli ducked into the hall that led to his private room. Echelli was left, bouncing the wirthas in his hand thoughtfully. He was truly glad his father had been so open with him, but he was curious. Why this sudden outburst of emotion? Kormunth was normally calm and patient. He had passed the former trait onto his son. For a moment, foreboding slid its clammy hand up the young curalli's spine, but he dismissed it. Ignoring the chills that shook his body next, the forester started to exit his home, but paused when he heard his father call out. "Echelli, part of being good is trying to see the light as much as you can. I look for light here in Shadows, and there's at least one good thing in curalli evil- loyalty. If..." His voice faded for a moment, then continued. "I just want you to remember that, if anything ever happens. Our people take care of their own." Echelli responded calmly, wondering at the sudden sting of tears in his dark eyes. "I understand, Father. I will remember your words." "Good." The voice fell silent, and Echelli was gone, running lightly into the dark silver streets as he wrestled with new, disturbing thoughts. One characteristic he didn't like about his father: The half-curalli made him think too much. ---------------------------------------------------------- Echelli sauntered easily down Melli Street. By the darkness on the horizon, he could tell it was night in the world outside Shadows- real night, not conjured darkness. A pain inside made him start. He was suddenly wishing he could bear the light, instead of suffering the crippling effects it had on all shadowed Elwens. Shaking his head to clear away such blasphemous thoughts, he ducked into a small inn where he often ate when he found the passive, distant company of his father too stifling. The sign swinging above its masterfully carved door proclaimed it to be the Singing Spider. Wonderfully evocative name, thought Echelli with a flash of dark humor. He walked briefly to a small ashwood table- the room was dotted with them- and laid his wirthas on it. The sound had the desired and predictable effect, and a female curalli who worked as a maid for the owner of the inn appeared. "Do you want something to eat, sir?" she asked with an overly charming smile, tossing her long dark hair flirtatiously over her shoulder. That hair, Echelli noted absently, was not ebony, as it appeared on first sight, but a deep green that was almost black. Aqua eyes, with the green predominating over the blue, looked at his silver-white hands intently, and a pair of feathery dark eyebrows rose. But one look at Echelli's deadly eyes stopped her from making any comment. "Yes, please," said the curalli, astonished to hear his voice speaking Melli as acidly as a true citizen of Shadows. "A small bowl of darkfruits and bread made of ground meat." The female curalli nodded hastily, but she never left off staring at him as she scooped the money from the table. Then it was Echelli's turn to focus a wide-eyed gaze on her. There was a deep white mark on the back of her hand, showing up against her silver skin oddly. It looked to be a nasty burn- deliberately inflicted. The female saw where he was staring and hastily swept the sleeve of her loose-fitting dark tunic over the burn. "It's nothing," she murmured, clasping the wounded limb tightly to her chest. "I... got hit by fire from a wizard, that's all. It was a complete accident!" Her voice on the last statement was purely defensive, for Echelli himself could feel the doubt on his face. He watched in sympathy as she drifted melodiously away, his curiosity awakened. It looked as though she had been branded, but who would do such a thing? He relaxed into the obsidian, wool-padded chair and glanced about. The inn's customers showed a wide variety of heritages, for the curalli city welcomed anybody- save their hated cousins the land Elwens- who had extra money or was handy with a weapon. Indeed, you had to be handy with a weapon just to survive. Shadowed Elwens were everywhere, of course, but there were also humans, whose light clothing and deeply tanned skin proclaimed them to be of the southern regions of Arcadia. A few Elwens of other races- such as umbirs, or cobra Elwens, and xanmarae, or nightmare Elwens- sat by themselves, talking in voices so low, with accents so strange, that the words were meaningless. There was even a darkness Elwen, whose table was avoided by all but the stupid. Bones lay under his chair already, and he was yawning, licking fangs that dripped a shiny white fluid. Echelli noted a cloaked figure near the fire that had been lit for the benefit of the night-blind humans. This figure seemed to huddle, although he looked to be tall. (The scent was definitely male). Echelli stared because of the heavy, iron-sweet scent that clung to him. The scent of blood. The dark-eyed curalli put one hand on his weapon in a fluid, deft movement. It paid to be alert and skilled in fighting in a city whose laws were often the laws of nature. "Here you are, sir." The curalli maid's sweet voice startled him out of his contemplation of the strange figure near the fire. He smiled gratefully at her as she set the small dark wicker bowl of fruit and the bread on the table. "Thank you," he said sincerely, plucking a darkfruit from the bowl and biting into it hungrily. "My pleasure." Her soft voice was also full of feeling, and he sensed her gazing strangely at him before gliding away. Shaking his head over the oddity of the world, Echelli consumed the bread and fruit hungrily, then leaned back and stretched. Casually, he whipped a dirk from its sheath and tossed it through the tunic sleeve of a man who'd been eying him with an undoubtedly greedy expression on his face. The human subsided at once. "I'm hungry." The voice, a whispering hiss that carried the promise of a threat, temporarily stopped all conversation. Heads turned toward the cloaked figure in front of the fire. The maid who had served Echelli, looking distinctly uneasy, hurried over. "But we've already fed you!" she protested in a hiss that nearly matched the figure's in malice. Almost at once her face paled and she shrank backward, as the figure rose to his feet and smiled sweetly at her. Everyone saw that smile, for the firelight flickered like blood on fangs. Echelli slowly eased his remaining dirk from its sheath and began to focus his telekinesis on the other, while keeping a wary eye on the scene unfolding in front of the fire. Powerful hands darted from the folds of the cloak, turning the curalli girl's head until she gasped. The figure's head nodded once, and Echelli could feel the satisfaction emanating from him in waves. As he nodded, his hood slipped off. Royal purple skin shone. Fangs bared, the sunset Elwen dove for the maid's neck. A ring of steel, and a wet smack into the viaquia's neck, caused the aggressor to shriek in pain and release the girl. She scrambled, trembling like a rabbit, for the back of the inn. The vampire crashed to the ground, clawing the dirk embedded in his throat. The other, flaking with white chips from where it had met the viaquia's fangs, gleamed triumphantly in the wall. With a silent and deadly grace not totally out of place in the stunned shock, Echelli rose to his feet and advanced smoothly on the viaquia. His own mouth was twisted into a snarl, appropriately expressing the rage that whirled within him. And yet, in his core, the quarter-land Elwen was deeply surprised. By all right, he ought to have exulted in the evil of the act as the sunset Elwen tore open the girl's throat and drank. He ought to have accepted it as part of the brutal code of the darkness. And yet, he had not. What did that say about him? He put the disturbing question aside for later, instead addressing the vampiric creature whose blood stained his weapon. "I don't think you ought to have done that," he purred, keeping a careful eye on the other patrons, ready to move if they did so. "It- upsets people." He heard the muttering, and a quiet panic began to rise in him. If he said anything else like that, he might reveal his sympathy for good. He quickly added, "I gets blood on the floor, and that can be extremely messy to slip in." The muttering subsided. The sunset Elwen sat up, pulling the dirk from his throat as he stared resentfully at Echelli. "I was simply going to kill her," he growled, "not drain her. You know that my kind cannot drink the blood of yours. White, foul-smelling stuff." "That hardly matters, it still would have been a mess," Echelli snapped. Several people behind him chuckled, and one applauded. Echelli kept his eyes bent on the deep violet ones of the wounded Elwen, doing some pretty fast mental footwork. "And I don't think you would have appreciated it much, if our blood is as foul-smelling as you say. It would hurt your nostrils, and everyone knows what a delicate sense of smell viaquia have." He tossed the barb, couched in tones of syrup, like a heavy pancake. The viaquia's roar shook the inn. He sprang to his feet and rushed Echelli. The young curalli was a bit startled, but not for nothing had he taken forestry classes and practiced long nights with his weapons. Reflexes from those classes and nights sent him into a roll toward his weapons, since he didn't have the mental energy to spare for telekinesis. He needed all his concentration solely on the battle at the moment. The viaquia missed, and by the time he turned, Echelli had regained his feet- and his weapons. The young curalli felt the soft, hot glow of battlerage coursing through him, and gulped down the rising excitement. If he was truly being sympathetic to good, he could not kill the viaquia. A pity, mused the purely curalli part of him. The viaquia had one hand on the side of his neck, stanching the flow of blood from the wound that Echelli's thrown dirk had caused- the violet blood that was almost indistinguishable from the rich purple skin it poured across. He was slowly, but surely, healing it. Echelli didn't give him the chance for a full recovery. The young swordsman spun into one of his most favored battle techniques, a tight spin that guarded every available opening with weapons, and let his speed carry him closer to his enemy. He heard the sharp intakes of breath around the inn, and, as always, was puzzled. His skill in combat was good, but not that remarkable. Surely older warriors could do better. Still, his fluid movements gave him a sense of absolute exhilaration and joy as he launched a dirk toward the viaquia. The sunset Elwen had drawn weapons of his own, although his kind generally preferred to fight using their fangs. There would be no chance of getting close enough to Echelli, though, to do that. He blocked the young curalli's weapon with a slender sword, and returned the throw with a deftly hurled dagger. Echelli leaped and caught the weapon easily by its blade, reversing it and throwing it back toward the sunset Elwen. He only dodged it by a hair's breadth. When he caught his breath, he looked back at the young curalli. "Impressive," he growled, violet eyes lighting with reluctant admiration. He caught Echelli's dirk up from the floor and tossed it back- not as a threat, but as a gesture between equals. He then retrieved his own dagger from the floor. Echelli could hardly hold himself together in the face of the viaquia's grudging praise. His father had long ago taught him what a precious gift respect was, especially respect from one's enemies. The young Elwen, who hadn't had much directed at him in his lifetime, almost pranced with pleasure. But he did not forget to keep his guard up as the viaquia rushed him, blocking the sunset Elwen's attacks coolly and not letting the praise go to his head. A good fighter ruled his emotions- at least, among the curalli. The sunset Elwen finally threw down his weapons in defeat and raised his hands. He and Echelli were evenly matched enough that the contest might have gone on four the whole night. "I have an appointment to keep," he growled with a flash of fangs, "and you seem to have proved your mastery of the blade as well as of sarcasm. I propose we each go our own way. What say you?" Battle was Echelli's element, and he shook visibly as he banished the rage that carried him through it and inclined his head. "I accept." No matter what some creatures of the light may think, he thought, creatures of the darkness have their own honor. As the viaquia nodded shortly and strode toward the door with his weapons, a soft voice behind Echelli said, "My thanks for my life." Echelli turned slowly around, meeting the shy eyes of the curalli maid whose hand was branded. She looked at him briefly, gratitude in her beautiful eyes, then blushed and looked quickly away. Her voice faltered as she continued. "You're right. It would have been a mess to clean up." Echelli chuckled softly. Her repetition of his statement showed that the girl was a true curalli. "Yes, it would have been, although I wager you wouldn't have liked dying either." The woman shook her head, then flushed again. "Where are my manners?" She extended her hand. "My name is Dala." Her voice pronounced the last syllable with a gentle ripple. "Well met, Dala," responded Echelli, clasping her hand briefly. He was suddenly wary of her for some reason he couldn't explain. "My name is Echelli Durillo." Dala smiled, her teeth even darker than her hair. "It really is nice to know the name of my savior." Echelli felt heat creeping up his neck. "Are you a citizen of Shadows? Or are you passing through? I hadn't thought our people trained the young to fight so well." Echelli felt irritation and new embarrassment at her compliment, but he secured his impulsive tongue. "I was born in Shadows, yes," he responded. "And I've had some fine teachers." Dala nodded, her eyes friendly and open. In spite of being evil, she didn't seem envious of Echelli's skill in any way. "You must have. I've never seen anybody fight like that." Suddenly she did look pained, and turned her silver-skinned face swiftly away. Echelli was glad to press onto a new subject. "What's the matter? Does your hand hurt?" Her burn was in sight again, and almost seemed to be throbbing. "No." Dala sounded impatient. "I told you, it was wizard's fire. It happened a long time ago." But her voice faltered, and Echelli was astonished to see tears in her green-blue eyes. "It didn't," he said, noting her distress with sympathy but also curiosity. "That mark's recent, and besides, I know when people are lying." Dala threw a look at him that was so pained Echelli started back, and she nodded briefly. "You're right." She again pulled her tunic sleeve back from the brand. "You see, I-" "Ah, so you have found my daughter." The smooth, vaguely familiar voice stopped Dala mid-sentence. "I'll see that she gets safely home." A male curalli stopped behind Dala and gripped her elbows. "My thanks for her life," he said to Echelli in a voice laden with malice- and appraisal. It was the later emotion that made the young forester glance at him. Blue eyes, dancing with mockery, touched his. The curalli dipped into a deep bow, so obviously fake that he didn't even pretend to be sincere. Echelli felt a small chill creep up his spine. The curalli was the one who had watched him from the top of the sivleth wall five years ago. The expression in his eyes did not seem to have changed. The cruelty and lines of hatred about his mouth had deepened, perhaps, but his gaze was still gauging, still unpleasant. His voice was cold, smooth with polite lies. "My name is Brannard Frenth. Yours." It was a command, not a question. Echelli simply smiled at him and spread his arms wide. Such a gesture was a double insult: it told the questioner that the answerer did not consider them worthy of even the most basic courtesy, and it got the hands away from the weapons, telling the questioner that the answerer was not overly concerned about any threat they might present. Brannard's face darkened, and his fist clenched. His next words flew like bullets from human guns. "I would appreciate it if you would remove yourself from my presence." Still not answering, and keeping his hands far away from his weapons, Echelli met the older curalli's gaze head on, a small sarcastic smile playing about his lips. Curalli society was based on individual strength of will to a large extent. Brannard could not force Echelli to do anything. His opponent broke the gaze first, and released Dala, giving her a little shove toward Echelli. "Unlike you, I know common courtesy," spat Brannard. "It is courteous for her to thank you for saving her life. I will let you do that." He turned and stormed away from the tavern. Dala was still pale beneath the gorgeous silver of her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered, humiliated. "He acts like that whenever he sees somebody he thinks would make a-" She broke off suddenly, and shook off her apathy with a considerable effort of will, straightening her shoulders. "Thank you again." Her voice was coolly distant. "My honor." Echelli was not comfortable with the attention he seemed to be attracting this evening. "It was-" He broke off, aware of her staring at him. "What's the matter?" he asked as casually as he could, folding his arms across his chest to bring his hands near his weapons. More attention! he cursed himself silently. If this is what being good does, maybe I ought to stick to the night! "You said the h-word," murmured Dala, her eyes wide with wonder as she studied him. "What are you? No other curalli I ever heard of could say that word without stumbling on it! You are different, indeed!" Echelli felt anger flame, but the tone of her voice- curious, not derisive- stopped him from expressing it. "I'm one-quarter-munth," he admitted, using the curalli word for land Elwens. It was basically equivalent to the word for offal. "That's why I could say it." He hesitated, wondering if he wasn't getting himself into hot water with his next statement. But then, he had already proved he wasn't exactly a typical shadowed Elwen. "I happen to admire the concept," he plunged in, then leaned against the wall of the inn and watched her reaction. He was prepared for the disgust that spread across her face, but winced inwardly anyway. His voice was heavy as he turned. "I really should get some sleep. It was nice to meet you, Dala. Maybe-" "No, wait." There was such intrigue in her voice that he halted. He knew what it was to be prey to such curiosity. "Maybe, if we see each other again," offered the maid, moving in front of him so that he was forced to meet her brilliant blue-green eyes, "you could teach me about honor, and I could teach you some things about the dark side." Her voice was challenging, teasing, full of suppressed laughter- though not mocking laughter. There was also a subtle undertone he couldn't identify. "I would enjoy it. I do owe you my life, after all," she added, seeing him hesitate. Echelli was patiently trying to hold onto his excitement. He had never had a friend who was a curalli before. Most of his own people despised him. But he was also slightly afraid of what his father would say about him having a friend allied with evil. Then Echelli pushed the notion away. His father had, after all, told him it was his choice. So he nodded. "I would like that," he replied. Dala smiled, a flash of onyx teeth. "Good! The next time I'm off duty, I'll come looking for you. No need to tell me your address!" She laughed at his sudden wariness. "I'm not quite the kind of person who expects somebody- especially a fellow curalli- to trust me at the first meeting. Farewell!" She skipped off, her gait a delight to watch. Echelli waited until he was alone before letting out a soft, "Yes!" Then he went home, feeling as though the darkness around him were lit by the huge smile on his face. ---------------------------------------------------------- His house was silent when he slipped inside, probably meaning his father was asleep. Echelli would be sorry to awaken him, but he really felt the need to tell him. Meeting Dala was a big step to choosing his alignment. With light steps, remaining silent out of instinct, the young curalli made his way to his father's room and tapped on the door. Receiving no answer, he chuckled and nudged it open. Kormunth had a way of sleeping heavily- or at least faking sleep, to lure enemies close. Echelli slid into his father's room, and then flung an arm over his eyes, muttering curses at the lit lamp on the ashwood table. When his sight had adjusted, he suddenly saw the words, carved deeply into the sivleth: Good luck on choosing your path, Echelli. The light of the lamp dimmed as water obscured Echelli's eyes. He turned and ran from the room, trying to block from his mind the image that would forever remain imprinted there. The still form of his father on the bed, surrounded by a widening pool of blood. Chapter 2 If Anything Ever Happens The young curalli started to his feet, wiping his dry, painfully throbbing eyes. It was only after a moment that he managed to keep his balance. He was in a black hylea not far from the gates of Shadows. Driven by grief, he must have exited the city and climbed the tree without even realizing it. Then again the full memory hit him- his father had committed suicide. Echelli moaned, a low, tearing sound of despair that abruptly became choking sounds of anger and agony. Howe could his father have done this? There was no question in Echelli's mind that Kormunth had committed suicide. He would have smelled the scent of any murderer the instant he entered the house. In a way, the young curalli thought fiercely, trying to stifle the shudders shaking him, I would almost welcome a murder. Then I would be able to do something! Above all else in the world Echelli hated two things: having someone aware of his weaknesses, and not being able to do anything. This was a case of the latter, and he was helpless against it. Why? his heart screamed. "Moons above, why?" he moaned, rocking back against the reassuring solidity of the tree's trunk. Then his words faded, as he covered his face with his fingers and sobbed into them, pouring his emotion free for the first time in many years. Racking sobs tore his slender frame. Echelli finally calmed down enough to feel a stab of pain. He looked to the east automatically. Out of the concealing cloak of darkness that hung over Shadows, he was vulnerable to light, and now the sun was soaring aloft. Echelli turned his eyes from the brightness, feeling them already beginning to water. Part of his soul wanted to accept the pain and beauty of it, in hopes that it might ease the raging grief and shock in his heart. But the dark part of him was the stronger. He slipped from the tree and bolted for the city, sighing in relief when cool shadows washed his face once more. He automatically started to head for home, but then whipped around and bolted for the headquarters of the city's guards. Someone had to know about this. ---------------------------------------------------------- The commander of the watch was a heavy-set curalli with indigo hair and brown eyes who didn't seem to believe a word Echelli said. He stared down his nose at the young curalli, every now and then sniffing haughtily. "If he committed suicide last night, why didn't you tell us then?" he demanded. Echelli let a low growl of exasperation roll out of him. He hated the small, enclosed room with its table, chair, and window of sivleth. He didn't like the commander particularly either. "I was stricken with grief," he growled. "I left the city and slept in a hylea. Otherwise I would certainly have come." "You are telling the truth," admitted the commander reluctantly, "but I still find it difficult to believe. I find it hard to think of such grief. He was only your father, after all. What's one life, more or less?" A silvery flash cut through the deep darkness enshrouding the room, and Echelli, trembling with rage, held one of his dirks to the commander's throat. The young fighter's words were cool, though, and he took immense satisfaction in watching the commander pale. "You're right. What's one more life?" Echelli drew his dirk teasingly across the other curalli's throat, watching it cut through the perfect silver skin they were all so proud of. "I could take yours right here, and who would know or care?" Echelli sheathed his dirks with a lightning-like movement, forcing down a chuckle at the panic in the older one's muddy brown eyes. "But, because I understand some things that you obviously do not, I won't. Now, I want to know what you plan to do with the house? Obviously, I won't be living there anymore." "Where will you be living, then?' The commander challenged him. "Certainly not in the school's barracks. You would be a drain on the school's re-" Echelli made a not-so-subtle movement toward his belted blades. The commander's eyes widened accordingly. "What I meant to say," he rephrased hastily, "is that the school would probably be h-honored to have you." "Isn't it a better world when we all tell the truth?" purred the young curalli, and turned away, striding easily out of the room. "I'll want your plans for the house very soon," he called over his shoulder as he departed. Once out on the street, however, he let his grin fade. He had needed the game with the commander, to keep his spirits up. But now, they drifted gently down into the sea of despair once more. What was he going to do? The school took care of children whose families had died, or so he had heard. His father's words echoed in his mind- "if anything happens, the system will take care of you." Why hadn't he seen the suicide coming? And why had his father done it? The anger and guilt and sorrow tore at him like feeding vultures, until he could no longer tell one vicious beast from another. "Echelli! What happened?" The young curalli stiffened at the sound of the voice, half-closing his eyes. He was not sure if he could face its owner, not after what had happened. "is something the matter?" asked Dala, coming up to him and peering, worried, at his face. Echelli shook his head, a tight smile on his lips. Judging from the reaction of the watch commander, the curalli did not consider death a great thing. He couldn't be sure how Dala would react. "My father committed suicide," he whispered at last, struggling to keep the suppressed tears from his voice. The curalli girl stepped around to face him, her eyes wide in a genuine expression of pity. "Oh, Echelli, I'm sorry," she whispered earnestly. "Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?" Echelli appreciated the unexpected sympathy, but he simply shook his head once more. "No, nothing, Dala. Thanks for your reaction." He knew courtesy just as well as any curalli. Which you're not, sang the mocking voice that had long been a part of him. He sent a thought to quell the mocking little voice, and felt it shut up. Then he started as he felt Dala's hand on his shoulder. Quickly he pulled away from her grasp, feeling the fighting instincts in him urging him to attack her. He almost drew his weapons, but stopped at the sight of her sorrow-ridden face. "Echelli, Echelli," she sighed, her shining eyes full of sorrow, "do you still mistrust me?" Echelli avoided her eyes. He liked the girl, but he wasn't sure of her intentions. Just yesterday she had said that she didn't expect him to trust her, and now- He sighed. "Not yet," he said candidly, lifting dark eyes to meet her bright, curious ones. "I'm working on it." Dala seemed satisfied with that answer; in fact, had she not been satisfied, she wouldn't have been a curalli. "Fine," she said, recovering her usual teasing demeanor. "You said that you were going to teach me about honor, and I'd teach you about the dark side." "I'm- too caught up to give a lesson right now," Echelli shrugged. "But I could listen. Go ahead." He started to stride toward the low, long schoolhouse, eyes hopeful. Perhaps they could find a place for him in the barracks. Dala hurried along behind, her mouth going as fast- or faster than- Echelli's legs. "Well, first of all, the dark side is truly freedom. I mean, what's the point of following all the rules and regulations insisted upon by the Li? In the Dug, you don't have any of that. You do whatever you wish, and the others can go jump down a chasm for all you care. After all, evil is just good seen from a different perspective." Echelli frowned, not sure if he agreed with that last statement. He had witnessed the horror of the curalli town all his young life, and did not particularly consider it good no matter how hard you looked at it. "Surely," he protested mildly, "good is just evil seen from a different perspective, then." Dala snorted. "No. Evil is freedom, the essence of freedom. Good is a cage. They really aren't interchangeable in what they are, only in their intentions. "Evil only seems evil to someone not aligned with the dark. Good only seems good to one blinded by light. Darkness shields the eyes and comforts the soul. You don't have any of this nonsense about truth and beauty. Freedom and wildness are the answers." "Answers to what?" Echelli purposely made his voice challenging. Despite himself, he was being drawn into Dala's net of words, listening with respect- and skepticism. Some things about evil would never seem reasonable to him. "Answers to the mystery of existence, of course!" Dala's voice was amused. "The greatest riddle of all time. Its meaning." Echelli snorted. "Life doesn't have a meaning. People make their own." Dala opened her mouth as if to answer, then paused. It gave Echelli time to continue. "If curalli value freedom and strength of will so dearly, why don't they forge their own lives? They've certainly got the tools to do it." "Because," snapped the female, "it's harmony that makes society function. Chaos doesn't work at all. Where would we be if everyone just did what they wanted all the time?" Echelli didn't justify her ridiculous question with an answer. She had just contradicted her own argument, and he left her to figure it out. They were nearing the compound of the school. The School of Shadows- named both for the town and for the courses taught there- was situated in a compound seven miles long. This was mainly to accommodate the great, sprawling barracks and long, sprawling schoolhouse. Soft black grass grew rich and thick, shaded by black hyleas and midnight elms. Gates made of darkly glowing iron, and a fence of sivleth, barred free entrance. Guards patrolled their spiked tops, gazing impassively at the passerby in the street. Echelli tensed his legs, readying himself to spring, meeting the scornful gazes of the purebred curalli with a tiny smile. Then he soared aloft, landing lightly on a small ledge affixed to the gates. One of the guards immediately leaped down to meet him. "State your name and business, munth," snarled the guard. A flash of a dirk caused him to gulp and rectify his manner instantly. "What do you want, sir?" "That's better," purred Echelli, hands sheathing his blades and stroking their hilts absently. "My father committed suicide yesterday, and I wish to stay in the school barracks for now. I was assigned to a new forestry class of which Master Essmon is the teacher. My name is Echelli Durillo." The guard who had remained on top of the gate signaled in recognition, and the guards all around lowered their weapons. Echelli flashed them a smile, before continuing, "I wish to stay in the school, as I have said, and I can work to earn my keep." "What exactly do you-?" the purple-haired guard in front of him began, but then his eyes fell on Echelli's twinkling weapons. "Oh." "Yes, exactly," yawned Echelli. "Now may I enter?" He knew that, after impressing potential opponents, it was always best to show courtesy. Polite curalli society rules demanded it. "Certainly." The guard in front of him clasped his wrist in a traditional sign between equals. Echelli gave him an affable, menacing smile, and then leaped into the air again, the guard close beside him. In a series of dazzling leaps, the last one measuring twenty feet, they arrived at the gatetop. Then Echelli twisted to fall into the compound as lightly as possible. He could feel the eyes of the guards on him, and well knew that they expected him to fall, or not be able to complete the miraculous leap. Curalli life was a constant test of potential and ability, wit and skill. Any excuse would serve to slit somebody's throat. Echelli dropped gracefully to the branch of a midnight elm and disappeared into the thick, dark-casting leaves without a change in motion. He heard the suitably impressed murmurs of the guards behind him, and scowled. Echelli had no love for attention or fame. He simply performed as he did because it was necessary for survival. Clutching a slim bough, he swung out over the compound, and then let go. Flinging himself to the winds, he soared easily for almost a hundred feet before plummeting to earth. Scattered applause touched the air. Echelli picked himself up from the thick dark grass and absently brushed seeds from his dark leggings, his eyes on the schoolhouse. The pragmatic shadowed Elwens did not build animal and plant-shaped houses as their wistful cousins the land Elwens did. They always used what they found best suited for their needs. Thus the schoolhouse was simply a long, low building, with lots of windows. The windows came with it as a mixed blessing: the curalli desperately needed to feel freer than they would in an enclosed room, but that same freedom could encourage a tendency to daydream. The barracks were something else again: layers of rooms hanging gracefully from the great webs of giant silkworms. The webs themselves were strung across the spaces between sivleth poles. Each room also had a window. Echelli studied it with an appraising eye, then nodded critically. It would do. In fact, he thought it quite beautiful, but from what Dala had told him about evil's contempt of beauty... Dala. Where was she, anyway? Echelli turned toward the gate. The curalli maid should have perhaps been waiting on the other side of it, her expression forlorn. But she was nowhere to be seen. Trying to pretend he didn't care, the young curalli made his way toward the School of Shadows. ---------------------------------------------------------- He met Essmon, a trim curalli with deep blue hair and cheetah eyes, in the middle of a hall with doors branching from every side of it. Echelli was staring in fascination at a door in the ceiling when he heard the hurrying footsteps and saw the Natural Education Master coming toward him. Boldly he stepped out to meet the older forester. Essmon jerked to a stop, his golden, black-spotted diamonds flickering insolently over Echelli. "Welcome," he said in a voice that definitely held no hint of benevolence. "I heard about the cessation of your father. So sorry." He dipped into a bow. Echelli, because it was always a good idea to keep other curalli guessing, did not react with anger as Essmon seemed to expect him to. Instead, he smiled patiently, keeping his hands near his dirks, and sang in Melli, "Thank you very much. I'm here to see you about the forestry class." A very odd expression touched the older curalli's face for an instant, but was gone before the younger curalli could fully register it. "Of course." The melodic tones were chilly. "The other students know where it is being held, but of course you wouldn't, munth." Again Echelli turned a deaf ear to Essmon's words. "So glad for them," he whispered. "Now, if you can tell me where it is, you would be doing me an honor." He observed Essmon's reaction to his last word with sardonic humor. "You said that I would be perfect for the forestry class, even if I do have light blood." Essmon nodded, a certain humor lighting his own eyes. 'Yes, you will." He led Echelli rapidly down the halls until they reached a particularly darkened one at the end of a long maze of corridors. He swung open the door and gestured Echelli inside with polite insincerity. Echelli's nose warned him first; he caught the scent of decay and mold, and a sweet, sickly smell he could not immediately identify. He leaped back swiftly, only to bang against the closed door. Whirling, he clawed it, but the sivleth did not give under his fingers. "Essmon!" he cried, his carefully-restrained temper breaking free. "What have you done? And why?" Glancing around, he saw that the small room's only furniture was a chain attached to the wall. There was not often a window, and Echelli instantly began to shake. All curalli hated captivity. He turned back to the door, furiously squashing his rising panic. "Essmon," he hissed, his voice a threat, "I don't know why you're doing this, but you can't get away with it for long. And for what reason? My father is dead; he cannot pay ransom. I can't think why you would shut me up here, except for pure hatred. And you keep insisting on being pragmatic." He spat the words. 'Or have you turned against your much-flaunted-" Abruptly, the sickly-sweet smell grew stronger, and gas flooded the room. Echelli pulled his breath in, knowing smugly that his kind- both kinds- could do it indefinitely. But the gas seemed to get into everything. It coalesced into an almost-solid form and pummeled Echelli's chest, causing him to cough. Too late, he knew his error. Gas rushed into his lungs, bringing a sweet oblivion, the oblivion of sleep. Echelli clawed the air for a few moments, but it was no use. His body went limp, and he sank to the floor. His last conscious thought was that he'd kill whoever was responsible for this. ---------------------------------------------------------- "Yes, Essmon, I know. I've had my eye on this one for a few years. His fighting skills are wonderful. He will make quite a good one." Startled to wakefulness through the stubborn blur of drowsiness remaining from the gas, Echelli sat up- at least partly. Then he realized that the chains around his neck and hands prevented him from sitting up further. He snarled, eyes flying from one to the other of his captors. Essmon stood in front of him, looking unbearably self-satisfied. Beside him stood a curalli with an intense blue stare and malicious smile. Brannard Frenth! Echelli's sudden rush of rage made the chains creak. He threw himself at the acquisitive curalli again and again, caring not at all for the tightening hold of the steel links about his neck or the painful tug of the irons that had his hands pulled backwards over his wrists. He simply wanted to get to Brannard and wreck as much damage as he could. His ferocity made the unbearable shadowed Elwen chuckle. "Feisty, indeed! I cannot wait until he is mine!" Echelli forced himself to calm down, though he only wanted to sink his teeth into Brannard's leg. "Well, it seems I am caught," he said casually, "by a coward's trick. Were you so afraid to meet me face to face that you had to let gas do your job for you?" His face red with rage, Brannard stepped closer and lifted a hand. Echelli promptly and gleefully closed his teeth on his captor's flesh. Moving faster than any curalli had a right to move, Brannard wrenched his hand free of Echelli's jaws and swatted him across the head. Echelli reluctantly tumbled backward, since the force of the blow and the tug of his chains didn't leave him much choice. He heard Essmon trying to soothe Brannard, reassuring him that this was just a one-time incident. The other curalli replied in a snarl that ended in a gasp of pain. Echelli let a very tiny smile creep across his ebony lips. He made it vanish the moment Brannard stared down at him. "Well, Echelli," murmured the bitten curalli, face twisted in pain, "at least you have swift reflexes." Echelli didn't reply, knowing that his "lack of courtesy" would infuriate Brannard. He had the satisfaction of watching the blue-eyed Elwen's eyes narrow. He leaned close as though to hit Echelli again, then drew back, face thoughtful. "He is indeed precious," he said to Essmon, ignoring Echelli as if he were a thing. "He will make a good one." Echelli wished he knew what they were talking about, but he didn't think it a good idea to interrupt at this point. So he lay still and listened. Essmon nodded, a look coming over his face that Echelli didn't recognize instantly. It took him a moment to put a name to it: greed. "Yes, I thought so," whispered the teacher. "Actually, I'd long thought of simply capturing him, myself, but this is better. He is an orphan now; no one will notice or care where he goes." That last statement made Echelli start up, at least as far as his bonds would permit him. "I do have a friend who will notice where I go!" he snarled. "Dala." Brannard glanced at him, amused, then began to laugh. The mocking sound, halfway between a snake's hiss and a wail of pain, danced about the chamber as if searching for a way out. Brannard was still laughing when he began to answer Echelli. "Dala answers to me, and besides, she is allied with evil. Do you think she will care where you go, when she was the one who permitted us to track you in the first place?" Shock flooded Echelli, but he tried not to let any of it show on his face. Surreptitiously, he glanced at his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, a small tracking device shaped like an arrowhead, so delicate Echelli had never felt it grip, lay in the spot where Dala had touched him. Echelli turned around, almost filling his lungs to reply, but then stopped. If he said who his other friend was, they would probably blackmail him. "All right," murmured Echelli, affecting a broken, defeated sound in his voice. "What do you want me to do?" "That's better," murmured Brannard, his last chuckles fading. "Echelli, you will find out what I do soon enough- and you'll work, since you belong to me. But first, I must complete the transaction." He turned, dug a large handful of money out of his pocket, and passed it to Essmon. The blue-haired curalli accepted it eagerly, licking his dry lips. "You see, Echelli," Brannard continued, "I'm your master now. And I don't think you'll be running away." "Why not?" the young curalli asked, challengingly. He was half-afraid that the question would bring him another swat across the face, but he was infuriated at the smugness of his captor's tone. "Why," said Brannard, his lips widening into an even more smug grin, "you'll be branded. Any curalli who sees you will know you work for my- ah, business. And, besides that. if you attempt to escape, I'll hurt someone you care about." Echelli opened his mouth to snap back, but then closed his eyes. There was indeed someone he cared about. Brannard chuckled. "Fortunate, isn't it, that you 'saved' the life of Dala? Now she's endeared herself to you." Echelli groaned quietly. He should have realized that the scene in the inn had been staged! Someone had been watching him very carefully, to learn where he usually went to eat. Then Brannard had probably convinced the Singing Spider to take Dala on as a maid, and then convinced the viaquia to help him. You should have realized! Echelli scolded himself. He had learned enough about sunset Elwens to know that that one's behavior had been anything but typical. Viaquia rarely gave praise, and they fought to the death. They never hurried away to an appointment! He heard Brannard chuckle again, and say, "Essmon, you were right about this one! He just figured it all out, I can see by his face. He is clever, swift, a good fighter. He will make an excellent worker." Echelli's eyelids parted quietly. He looked at Brannard, and felt a malevolence light the dark depths of his eyes. Until this day, Echelli hadn't precisely known how strong emotions could be. His experiences with his highly emotional Elwen friend, Keren, had taught him some things, but curalli were generally cooler and more silent than their cousins. But looking at Brannard, Echelli felt the strongest emotion rise in him and fill him like water being poured into a vase. Hatred. ---------------------------------------------------------- "These will be your quarters," Brannard told him serenely, unbuckling the chains from Echelli's hands. "I expect you to return to these when the stargazer has lost its petals." He indicated the silvery flower perched on the table at his bedside. The plant could see the black stars through any barrier, and kept time by dropping a petal for every two hours the stars were out. Its cycle usually ended about noon, and then it would swiftly regrow new petals, to start dropping them again at nightfall. Echelli nodded understanding, automatically checking the stargazer. It had five petals left. That meant it was two hours after midnight. "You have good habits, I see, despite your haste to attack people," purred the curalli, unhooking the chain from Echelli's neck. "I think it would be a good idea to chain you to the bed for right now, while I go get the brand." The master looped a thick chain about the younger one's ankles, and secured the other end to the wooden bed clamped to the floor. He then exited. Echelli walked about the small wooden building, at least as far as his tether would let him, peering around with interest. If he didn't have any choice about coming here, he might as well get used to his new home. The only furniture appeared to be the bed, a few small shelves secured to the wall at the limit of Echelli's chain, and the ashwood table with the stargazer on it. There was, at least, a window, filled with panes of glass and gazing east. That feature, unusual in a curalli dwelling, cheered Echelli for some reason he couldn't explain. The door opened once again, and Brannard walked in, carrying a brand hot from the fire and a malicious smile. "Hold still," he commanded absently, aiming the brand at Echelli's cheek. "Usually, I do this on the hand, but I think you need it where it will be immediately apparent." Echelli looked at the glowing metal. It had a B, fairly intricate, entwined with a chain. Anger rose in his throat like bile- anger, and fierce pride. Brannard might force him to comply, but he wouldn't do it without putting up dome initial resistance. "I really don't think you can do that," purred Echelli, cautiously focusing his mind. "Watch me!" Brannard seized one of Echelli's wrists in a grip incredibly strong for a curalli, a grasp that made the younger shadowed Elwen gasp in pain. Then he aimed the iron once more for Echelli's face. Echelli continued to focus his mind, because Brannard was torturing him, moving the iron closer slowly, inch by half-inch. His telekinesis called. If he couldn't get his weapons (which he saw nowhere on Brannard's person) he could at least embarrass his self-styled master. The older curalli roared in rage as his leggings puddled around his ankles, and released Echelli's wrist to pull them up. Unfortunately, he also used his other hand to pull them up, thus dropping the hot iron. It landed on his foot. Of course. Some things are fated to happen, Echelli thought. He collapsed against the bed, howling with laughter, as Brannard leaped around, not even trying to control his curses and shrieks. Finally, however, the curalli recovered, tugged up his leggings, and snatched up the brand. He rushed at a still- laughing Echelli, holding the brand high. Echelli didn't give his tormentor the satisfaction of a scream as the white-hot iron sank into his cheek. Biting his lip, converting his pain into laughter that soared above the sizzle of his charring flesh, he withstood the burns. When Brannard withdrew the iron at last, Echelli simply laughed in his expectant face. The older curalli's eyes flickered with some emotion that he quickly covered up. 'Yes, well," he muttered, "Essmon certainly told the truth about you. I got more than my money's worth." Echelli let his chortles fade at that statement, and he hissed softly, expressing more of his malice in that sound than he could have if he'd spoken. His ebony lips drew back from teeth as dark as polished onyx. The sight seemed to unnerve Brannard slightly, for the older curalli stepped back. "Get some sleep," said Brannard shortly, striding- or rather limping- toward the door. "I'll bring some healing salve in a few hours for your wound." Echelli ignored him, and ignored the slam of the door, even though it jolted the whole cottage. He lay down on the bed and relaxed his body, though his mind ran in circles like a kitten who had just discovered its tail. What did Brannard do, exactly? Hire servants out? Why? The curalli town didn't seem to be that short of workers- indeed, Shadows was, at the moment, overpopulated. "Why?" Echelli whispered. "What could Brannard possibly be gaining from this?" He couldn't figure it out, so he gently sent the kitten of his mind to sleep and sank into slumber. ---------------------------------------------------------- A rude knocking jarred him awake. Echelli popped his eyes open, automatically glancing at the stargazer. Three petals left. That would make it close to sunrise. He had slept four hours. The shadowed Elwen stretched luxuriously. "Enter," he called absently when he realized that the knocker was still outside the door, and growing impatient. The wooden door flew open, and in stepped, not Brannard, but Dala. In her hands was a jar of silvery glass, containing a spongy white substance. Echelli promptly snarled, scrambling back against the wall out of pure defensive instinct. The fact that he had no weapons did not matter. Sometimes the cornered, wounded animal is more dangerous than the free, healthy one. Dala closed the door gently, and stood watching him with sadness in her eyes. "Dear, dear Echelli," she murmured, her voice a soothing warble, "what have I done to deserve this?" "Ha! What do you think?" Echelli was so angry, he switched from Melli to Aril, the common language of all Elwenkind. He saw the incomprehension on her face, and quickly switched back. "What do you think?" he repeated bitterly, glancing at the chain on his foot and the tracking device still on his shoulder. "You helped them catch me. And now, because of you, I'm held here." Dala's lovely eyes filled with tears. "No, Echelli," she protested in a whisper. "I swear it. I was only doing it because they told me I must. They threatened to hurt me- or kill me- if I didn't. You really did save my life by throwing your dirk." There was no lie in Dala's words, but then, they were carefully constructed. And Echelli himself had seen that Dala was a marvelous actor. "Pretty good, Dala," he spat. "But wasn't it you who said that evil is freedom, that evil creatures don't care about one another? You seemed so distressed that I value honor. Now I'm adhering to the darkness. Don't you want that?" He heard her move past him, set the jar on a table, and then move behind him. Every instinct in his body urged him to whirl, to face her, but he held himself still by pure force of will. He wanted to show her he was not afraid of any threat she might represent. A hand touched his elbow. Echelli did spring and whirl now, a flying leap and turn that carried him off the bed and to the limits of his chain. When he hit the floor, he turned, panting, and snarled, "Never do that again!" "I can't understand why you have such a violent reaction to a friendly touch," complained Dala, pouting. "Your touch was anything but friendly," sneered Echelli, pretending to brush dust from his arms. In a way he wished the quarters were dusty. That they were so clean indicated some degree of care for the person who inhabited them. And, if the person who inhabited them was well cared for, he or she could work harder and longer. Echelli did not like this living arrangement. It smacked far too much of abnormality, and, in a curalli city, abnormality could mean death. "If you won't let me touch you, then how am I supposed to put the salve on?" asked Dala in a reasonable tone of voice, recalling his wandering thoughts to the room. She once more lifted the glass jar from the table, this time uncorking it. A smell of fresh flowers filtered into the room. She waved the bottle teasingly. "This stuff feels really nice on wounds," she taunted. Echelli ignored her, although he moved a bit closer to her. Just because the chain is cutting into my ankle at this length, he thought. Not because I want to be healed. Not at all. "That's better," purred Dala, misunderstanding his gesture. She dipped her fingers into the jar, gathered a large lump of the sweet-smelling white substance, and started to walk toward him. Echelli promptly retreated to the farthest length of his tether again. "I mean it!" he snarled, baring his teeth warningly. It was not unknown for curalli to fight with purely natural weapons, if all blades and arrows and magic had been taken away from them. "I know you mean it," murmured Dala, but she did not stop walking toward him. "But, Echelli, I also think that you'll be doing yourself a favor by trying this." The younger shadowed Elwen shrank backwards a little more, never lowering his lips over his teeth. Though Dala was still dear to him, he truly did not trust her. "Come on, Echelli, there's a good boy," crooned Dala, as though talking to a dog. Step by slow step, she advanced, then suddenly darted forward with impossible speed. The substance covering her fingers brushed Echelli's burn. At once the pain in his charred flesh fled. Astonished, Echelli raised his hand to it, and felt the wound already closing. "What's that stuff called?" he asked, momentarily forgetting his anger. "Wouldn't you like to know," smirked Dala, corking the jar once more. She tossed her long, greenish hair over her shoulders. "I'm sure the Master will call for you soon. He's already found some work for you." "Would this Master be Brannard?" asked Echelli with contempt that surprised even him. "You are certainly quick on your feet!" Dala's reply was equally scathing. "Yes, but you must always call him Master. It annoys him to be called otherwise." "What exactly do we do?" Echelli ground out through gritted ebony teeth. "I suppose you have a right to know," Dala conceded, blinking her beautiful blue-green eyes in a mock pout. "But, before I tell you, understand one thing: you'll be treated a lot better here than you would be free." "That's for me to decide." Echelli met the girl's gaze evenly, challenging her to a battle of wills silently. He smiled sarcastically when she broke eye contact. "All right," she said calmly, still keeping her gaze on the floor. "The Master hires us out as menial servants, and all the money we earn, he collects. He calls us servants, but I suppose a better term would be slaves." Chapter 3 A Fragile Balance A shudder took Echelli's body, wracking him from top to toe. Shaking, he bent over and vomited. The sluggish white mess trickled slowly across the meticulously cleaned floorboards. Dala gasped in annoyance and shock. "How can you do that?" she demanded. "That floor was just scrubbed yesternight." Then she took note of the mess's source. "What's the matter with you, anyway? The Master doesn't like any of his slaves sick." Echelli was shaking from shock and horror. He knew slavery existed in Shadows, but he had not thought his people practiced it on their own kind. Already the desperate longing for freedom that was so much a part of his curalli soul had welled up in him. "You can't mean that!" he croaked through vomit-splattered lips. "To say that we live better as slaves than we do as free Elwens! It's nonsense." "Well, we do," murmured Dala, confused. "We get work, we get fed- better than what most of the town does, I might add- and we get a comfortable place to sleep at night. A fair sight better than the streets." "No," insisted Echelli hoarsely. "I've heard Shadows has an overpopulation problem, but it can't be that bad." "It's worse than mere bad," snorted Dala. "Our farmlands and woodlands produce enough food for fifty thousand curalli, Echelli- not sixty thousand. Commerce doesn't profit us much, because food carted over long distances can spoil, and the visitors and traders eat more food than they bring in. So, by our system of society, we can cut down on the surplus people and obey the laws of nature by insuring that only the fittest can survive." Echelli knew now why the society of his people placed such importance on individual strength of will and dazzling displays of physical and mental excellence. The surplus curalli must be stripped away for the strongest to live a healthier life. The surplus would include curalli not doing productive work. The thought almost made him sick again, but it had been a long time since the venison bread and darkfruits in the Singing Spider, and he had nothing left to bring up. Dala noted his failed attempt. "Hungry, eh?" she asked, with almost a touch of genuine sympathy in her voice. Echelli didn't trust that sympathy. He mumbled, "No," but his words sounded as a lie to his own ears. Dala smiled slyly. "I thought so." Reaching behind her back, she pulled out a small bowl of bread, cheese, and meat. A snap of her fingers, and a plump darkfruit appeared in her hand. The familiar tingle of magic filled the air, almost blocking out the scents of the food. But not quite. Echelli stared the other way and tried desperately to deny the clamor of his stomach. Curalli needed more food than any other type of Elwen, although, by other species' standards, even that wasn't much. Dala's eyebrows rose. "Hungrier than I thought," she said, surprise now evident in her tone. She extended the fruit teasingly. "Come on, now." "If I can defy Brannard no other way, I'll go on a hunger strike," said Echelli as calmly as he could. "I mean it." "Oh, I believe you," said Dala in tones that indicated otherwise, "but I doubt the Master will allow you to get away with that. You're far too important to him. He'll force-feed you if necessary." Echelli chuckled, though it was an effort. The scents of the foods were getting to him. "I'd like to see him try." Dala shrugged. "As you will." She gestured, and the basket and fruit disappeared into thin air. She walked past Echelli toward the door, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder before he could dodge away. "But I think you'll soon see this is a far better life than the one you would have had living in the school barracks. Not that that condition would have endured for long. They'd have hustled you off to productive work soon enough." "That depends on your definition of productive," replied the male shadowed Elwen smoothly. Dala threw back her head, laughing loud and long. "Oh, Eche- may I call you that?- you are so amusing!" She turned and fixed him with an amused glance. "I really don't think you'll be able to hold out against this sort of life for long. Sooner or later, something will compel you to do as the Master wishes." "I wouldn't want to do something as craven as allowing myself to work for Brannard because I wanted to live!" snapped Echelli. "That's not craven," whispered Dala, shock replacing amusement as she stared at him. "The will to live is a natural desire." And then she was gone. Fighting the mortal hunger gnawing his belly, Echelli sank onto the bed again and closed his eyes, willing himself into an almost comatose sleep. If something did indeed force him to eat, he could defy Brannard in other ways. ---------------------------------------------------------- The door opened without preamble eight hours later. Echelli, glancing through bleary eyes at the stargazer, saw that it had dropped all its petals and regrown one. Two hours after noon, then. Catching sight of Brannard's furious face, Echelli decided to play it up. He yawned and stretched with great dignity as he tumbled off the bed. "Master," he greeted the older curalli with a sarcasm that turned the title into a gross insult. "How may I slave for you?" Brannard came right to the point. "Dala tells me you won't eat," he said. Echelli nodded slowly, trying to remember the appraising look Brannard had raked him with, and imitate it. "Not bad, not bad. A very keen hold on the obvious. I like it." The blue-eyed Elwen tried to end Echelli's sniggering with a slap across the face. It didn't work. "Well, well, well," he snarled through the chortles of his captive, "I see that you hold sarcasm highly. I didn't know devotees of the light normally did that." Echelli felt shock wipe his laughter from his face. Brannard threw back his head and roared. "Ah, yes, Echelli!" he taunted. "You have yet to learn how to heartscreen effectively. I learned what you were in your soul from the moment I saw you, five years ago. Do you not understand what it means to be good?" "I have not yet chosen an alignment," growled Echelli through tight lips. "So noble!" Brannard could be as scathing as his slave when he wished to. "And yet, your words have some ring of truth. You have chosen an alignment, but your choice is weak. Your hold can slip. It is that hold I will try to change." He moved his hands in a complex curlicue motion, and the basket of food once more reappeared. Brannard circled it teasingly. "Do you not wish to live, so that you may serve good and bring some light to this tortured city?" Echelli wondered what the slavemaster expected him to do, but he could not heart-read him at this moment, that was plain. "I wish to live, but it's a craven wish." Now he wasn't so sure of his own words. "I don't think so. Otherwise why did you not lay down your dirks and let my viaquia friend kill you in the inn?" asked Brannard reasonably. "It is not cowardly to defend your life. In fact, it is cowardly not to." His words stung Echelli, so much so that the young curalli gave in to the promptings of his instincts. His silver hand flashed forth, seized a darkfruit, and flashed back. He munched hungrily, feeling the sweet, spicy tang of the juice run down his throat. "That's better." Smiling smugly, the slavemaster set the bowl by the bedside. "I'll be most displeased if you eat it all." His words were a lie, Echelli knew. Brannard simply wanted him alive. Because he knew that it would infuriate his new master more than any defiance, Echelli ignored him. He finished the darkfruit and started on a plate of bread, hiding his chuckle in the soft food when the door slammed behind his outraged master. Then he got down to the serious business of satisfying his hunger. ---------------------------------------------------------- "And, I want you to fight me." This remarkable sentence came out of Brannard's mouth as he led Echelli free of the cottage, unhooking his chain. He tossed Echelli's dirks to him from whatever hiding place he'd laid them in, and then crouched low, drawing a whip and slender blade. His poise was smug, his expression alert but confident. Echelli folded his arms and turned the other way. Brannard clucked his tongue. "You would not fight, munth, even to prove to me that you are not offal?" "Why would I want to prove anything to you?" snarled Echelli, glancing back at him quickly over his shoulder. "Why, you could prove to me that I have no reason to take Dala's life." Echelli felt himself wince. No matter how awful Dala was, she did not deserve to die because of his pride and stupidity. Against his will, he drew his dirks. Brannard lashed out with the whip, at the same time bringing his sword down to block any strike. Echelli stared at the slavemaster in amazement that almost prevented him from parrying. Quickly he sent his dirk to block the sword, doing a quick shuffling dance to avoid the whip. How could any fighter be so obvious in his intentions? Before moving his whip out, Brannard had smiled slyly, and tensed the muscles of that arm. He had even twitched the whip a bit, glancing at it quickly out of the corner of his eye. How did he ever expect to surprise anyone? Echelli felt he must take the offensive now, perhaps to helpfully point out to Brannard how pitifully obvious he was. He launched his dirks in a swift one-two-three motion, experimenting with ways to strike without getting tangled in his opponent's whip. Fighting began to consume him. He felt so incredibly alive, so himself, in battle. Now he could release the tensions that had gathered in him during the past two days- his father's suicide, his imprisonment, his anger at Dala, his hatred of Brannard. Especially his hatred of Brannard. Echelli encouraged himself to flow as smoothly as water, each motion whipping into the next one with no break, no forewarning. Briefly he closed his eyes, feeling the ecstasy of living course through him. This was what it meant to be alive! Truly! He heard Brannard's snarl and hastily opened his eyes. He had come too close to the whip's strands, and they were starting to wrap around him. The slavemaster's face, bearing the marks of frustration, was now wreathed with glee. Echelli leapt three feet into the air, enough to free his arms from the encircling tendrils. When he came down again, he was wrapped tightly about the waist and ankles, but his upper body was free. More importantly, his weapon hands were free. Echelli saw Brannard's arm muscles tense in response to a silent signal, and turned the tables on his captor. Dropping to the ground, he rolled before Brannard could make him fall, tugging the surprised slavemaster after him. Brannard fell to the ground with an "Oof!" Echelli began to buck in the tight embrace of the whip, contorting his body to freedom. One dirk came down and sliced through a strand, twinkling. The other blade joined it, and soon Brannard lay by the remains of his weapon, while Echelli perched comfortably on his back, one short blade held to his throat. The young curalli paused, sighing, to let the warmth of battle leave him. Sarcasm needed a cool head. "Have I proved myself to your satisfaction, Master?" asked Echelli, not in a smug and sarcastic tone, but in a defeated and broken whine. His words were rendered more mocking because of their incompatibility with his tone. Brannard struggled to his feet- not an easy task, because Echelli obligingly sat on top of him to make the rising harder. Once he was upright again, simply sliding Echelli off, the young curalli's master gripped him by the wrist and hissed, 'You'll pay for this!" Echelli looked at him mournfully. "How could I? You've taken all the money I had away." Brannard began to shake him, causing his head to rock back and forth on his neck. "I won't tolerate sarcasm from a slave!" he roared. "You already have," Echelli pointed out helpfully, which got him thrown to the ground. Brannard stood over him like some angry god. His black brows drew together over those shifty blue eyes and wide nose. "How clear do I need to make it that you can't do this sort of thing to me?" he snarled. Echelli recognized true rage in his master's tone, and decided it was probably time to calm down. "Leave me alone," he stated simply, "and I won't be sarcastic." "Indeed." Brannard's voice could have cooled dragonfire. "As it happens, I've already got a job lined up for you." Echelli instantly felt on the defensive, and he growled to himself, knowing his "master" had placed him there deliberately. "What kind of job?" he asked in the most disinterested voices he could possibly manage. "One that will reinforce you true nature," replied the older curalli. "It will lift the shy black bud of evil into a growing tree in your soul, above the flower of the light." "Go in for poetry, do we?" muttered Echelli, but he kept it under his breath. Privately, he wondered what kind of job could make evil grow. "I'm sure," said Brannard, as if answering his thoughts, "that you have heard of the overpopulation problem of our city." Echelli nodded, eyes alert. He began to feel a bit sick, but he held still. "Good," purred the slavemaster. "Then you will have a greater understanding of the task I wish you to perform. You will be one of a select group chosen to decrease the drain on Shadows' resources. Lately, it seems, our society has been ignored by certain curalli who not only do no productive work, they steal food and money from other places!" Brannard's face was aglow with zeal. Echelli decided to risk a cautious comment. "I thought thieving was an accepted profession in curalli society." "Only in times of less population," replied Brannard, not seeming to take note of the scorn behind the question. "That's the key to survival in Shadows, lad-" Lad? thought Echelli. "-keeping on top of the population, knowing how many curalli we can afford to feed under the circumstances. If the population is lower, and a curalli cannot find work, thieving is perfectly acceptable. It can even be applauded because it hones stealth and quickness of mind and body. But these students are not only thieves with nothing else to do besides go to classes for a few hours, they are thieves dumb enough to leave a trail. It's as though they're telling the whole world that they want a knife in the throat." He paused, glancing keenly at Echelli. The young curalli grasped his master's meaning with a quickness that sickened him. "I won't be an assassin!" he spat. "What do you want me to do, kill them in their sleep?" "A quick, merciful death," Brannard promised. He paused, as if considering against telling Echelli something, then shrugged and went on. "Especially compared to what we will do to them if you refuse to kill them." Echelli's dark eyes locked with Brannard's azure ones. Even as the younger curalli said calmly, "Say on," their wills danced in a silent battle. "A monitor will follow you around, making sure you slit their throats with silence and precision," said Brannard casually. "If you refuse to do so, or attempt to wake them up or otherwise alert them, the other members of your group will wake them up and turn the acice on them." "The what?" demanded Echelli, feeling relief as confusion overcame his fear. "These." The master twitched his fingers, and a cage appeared in his hand. Inside the steel bars, scurrying mice with silvery coats of fur chattered and hissed. They bared long fangs that dripped with some sticky liquid, and their eyes blazed red. A sizzling drop of the liquid fell out of the cage and onto the ground. The ground seemed to shrink away as the burning stuff ate into it. Echelli recognized it with a turning stomach. Acid. "Acice," said Brannard in a monotone, as though giving a lecture, "are specially bred and specially trained. They can strip a curalli free of skin in two hours, and then they start on the heart. Having acice crawl all over you, industriously removing every inch of skin with their teeth and acidic saliva and charming little claws, is quite an experience." Echelli considered the pain such rodents could cause, and shuddered. He looked up to see Brannard smiling triumphantly. "Do we have a deal?" purred the slavemaster. Echelli nodded weakly. How could he condemn people to a painful death just because of him? It was clear that these students would die no matter what he did, and dying mercifully was much better than being flayed alive. "I'll do it," he whispered through lips numb with horror. Smiling, Brannard slapped him on the back. "Knew I could count on you!" he cried energetically. "This assignment is fun, I promise you! You're aiding Dala as well, you know. These curalli you're being sent to punish have stolen food from here as well!" Brannard's blue eyes seemed briefly to glow as red as those of the poisonous rodents he held. "I need the best food- the food we grow without help from anyone else in the city- to feed my slaves, including you. Otherwise, how would I get you into top form?" Echelli turned without answering and strode into the hut. For some reason, he felt compelled to pull his cloak about him. It was as though a rising wind, fraught with ice, were beginning to blow, despite the balmy warmth of the early spring air. And perhaps there was a wind. A breeze bearing evil to extinguish the dank, feeble light in Echelli's soul. ---------------------------------------------------------- Echelli lay on his bed in a contorted position, unable to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, horrible images of acice pouring over the slumbering bodies of students awakened him. He glanced at the stargazer. It had regrown its full bloom of eight petals, and was starting to drop one. The black stars were just rising. True nightfall, both within and without the city. Just as Brannard had promised she would, Dala tapped on Echelli's door. "Come on, Eche," she called in a low voice. "The Master says it's time for you to leave." The young curalli sagged against the bed briefly, summoning patience and whatever courage he might possess. When he felt he was ready, he opened the door. At least ten other curalli, looking as if they ranged from fifty years above his age to five years younger, greeted him as he stepped outside. They were all pure curalli, of course. After being despised for his blood for twenty years, Echelli tended to notice what race the people surrounding him were. Most were wearing tunics and leggings as dark as the magical blackness. So did Echelli, for that matter, but he also had a sable cloak, something these other curalli didn't seem to feel the need for. Only one or two bore brands. Not all of them were slaves, then. For some reason this sickened Echelli. Before he could explore his feelings too closely, Brannard stepped in front of them, his voice carrying clearly to even the youngest curalli. "I want you to understand that all the students in the set of barracks you've been assigned will die. Any questions?" "How are we supposed to disguise our scent?" asked one of the females. "I will cast a spell on you as you walk past," replied Brannard. "It will make you smell like steel and blood- the scents I think you'll find most prevalent tonight." He laughed a laugh of easy evil and casual malevolence, which was echoed by every student save Echelli. "Nobody will notice eleven more smells. And, if they happen to notice