Not now — any time but now. Garin tried to drown out the vague song, if such noises could be called a song, with memories of Wren once again. And though the song grew louder with every step toward the Smallstage, his eagerness eclipsed it. Soon, her hand would hold his, her lips brush against his, her body warm against his.
He was at the doorway, turning inside, searching for her in the corner where they'd lain on top of the drapings. But as he searched, a sound came from the backrooms that made him freeze.
Her father, was his first thought. He's waiting. His feet shuffled back down the hall he'd come from. Though Falcon Sunstring hardly seemed the type of father to harm a young man for kissing his daughter, Garin had no desire to confirm it.
But no matter what his head said, he found himself turning back toward the room and entering through the doorway, drifting on silent feet through the chaotic room toward the entrance to the backrooms, where the strange sounds came echoing from.
Other than hiding a tun of Jakadi wine, the backrooms were used for creating stage props, mending or sewing costumes, applying paints, and crafting other mechanisms of deceit and disguise. This late at night, even the most dedicated trouper would have usually abandoned it for the sleeping quarters further down the hall. One, however, seemed to be burning precious oil to prepare for the upcoming performance. But what they could be doing to make such strange noises — the moans, the almost painful gasps — he could only guess. His cheeks burned hot.
But a dangerous curiosity had hold of him now. Reaching the doorway, Garin found the door slightly cracked. No surprise there — the door had no latch and swung open if something wasn't propped against it. Whispering a silent prayer, he pressed on the door and found it soundlessly opening to his touch. Emboldened, he pushed it open further and cautiously poked his head in.
A single candle illuminated the crowded room, set at the opposite end. Its small flame made the shadow of the figure bent before it dance across the ceiling and the numerous articles that leaned against the walls and were scattered about the floor. Thirty feet away, Garin couldn't distinguish any identifiable features.
Suspicion joined his curiosity now. The man — or so he guessed from the deepness of the grunts — sounded deranged as he labored over the desk. The troupers of the Dancing Feathers were eccentric, but this went beyond what Garin knew them capable of.
Then a thought came upon him like a blaze of light, and his breath caught in his throat. The Extinguished. Why a Night-touched warlock would be here, in the depths of the Smallstage backrooms, he couldn't begin to guess. But he knew that if he truly meant to help Tal and find the Extinguished, he had to move closer and see who this was.
Dizzy with fear and amazement at his daring, Garin stepped through the doorway.
As he once more slipped through the halls of the Coral Castle undetected, Tal couldn't recall a more incompetent body of guards. He'd always respected the Master-at-Arms for being a stolid, dependable sort, but he found his respect for the half-dwarf slipping with each successful late-night rendezvous.
"While the cat sleeps, the mouse feeds," he muttered to himself as he reached the door.
It wasn't his only repeat visit to Aelyn's small workshop. In his hunt for the Extinguished, he'd often dropped by to either taunt the mage for his lack of progress or, if he was luckier, bask in his success. But thus far, he'd mostly been able to make good on the former. Aelyn was usually bent over the desk in the corner, while Tal would settle in his usual chair by the fire and watch him, all the while sipping on a goblet of Jakadi red. A more cramped room had never existed, and the Gladelysh emissary seemed to be molding to it, becoming thinner and more sallow with each visit. It was incredible what failure, a severe lack of sleep, and an all-consuming need to vindicate oneself could do for a body's health.
Now here it was, the night before the Sendeshi entourage arrived, and Tal was sure that Aelyn would have still made no progress.
But as he pressed a hand to the door, he paused. Something sounded from within, a repetitive noise — moaning, he realized a moment later. He hesitated, wondering whether it would be embarrassing or amusing to interrupt whatever Aelyn was doing in there. But, as he'd once told Garin, what was life without the spark of risk?
He pressed open the door, a smile tugging at his lips — then, just as quickly, it fell away.
Aelyn sprawled on the floor, something dark and shapeless looming over him. His eyes told him it must be silhouetted, its features in shadow, but the angle of the light was wrong, the hearth situated so it should have unveiled the figure's face. No — it wasn't in shadow, but formed of shadows, a nameless monstrosity bred of hidden fury and sent in the dead of night.
Once, he'd met a similar monster, and knew that if it meant to kill, he'd be hard-pressed to stop it.
The elf groaned as the shade stabbed its limbs into him, over and over. No blood covered the floor, but Tal knew the wounds went deeper; a Nightborn creature could do far worse than destroy the body.
In an instant, he'd drawn Velori and was swinging at the shade, the glyphs on the silver blade shining a brilliant blue. Where the blade passed, the fell creature dissolved into a dark mist, but it reformed immediately after. He hadn't harmed the phantom, only provoked it, for it rose from the prone mage to loom over Tal.
He backed away, sword raised, mind turning through his available cantrips. Raising one hand, he called, "Fuln!" and light shone brilliantly from his hand. The shade flinched back, but the werelight did little more than give it pause. If anything, the shade grew even larger, the shadows cast from its black body melding with the rest.
Tal kept up the light, hoping to stay it while he thought of another plan. He could try to draw it away, but as the shade had been sent to kill Aelyn, it would likely go back to leisurely stabbing him as soon as Tal ran. None of his cantrips promised any result, either, and he lacked the equipment for more involved spells, if he could even remember the proper words after all these years.
The shade drifted forward, and a long, black arm formed from it to stab at him. Tal twisted out of the way and held up Velori — if it had avoided it once, it might do it do so again. Sure enough, as the blade intercepted the arm's path, it dissolved into mist, floating back to rejoin the monster.
But three more arms formed now, and the shade thrust forward with all of them. Tal spun the sword in his hand in an arc, trying to hit all three, but one darted through to stab into his shoulder. Cold pain, like he'd been impaled with a knife formed of ice, raced down his arm and across his chest. He gasped with it, his lungs suddenly struggling to breathe, and backed away.
The arm was stiff and numb, though it was quickly coming back to life. The shade advanced, four more arms forming and menacing him. He had to kill it now, or he'd soon be laid prone like Aelyn.
"Tal..."
Tal's gaze wandered to the floor and saw the mage staring at him, the bronze in his eyes stirring sluggishly. The word wheezed through his parted lips.
No time to wonder at it — the shade attacked again, all four arms jabbing forward at different angles. But even with a near-useless arm, Tal was gaining the measure of his enemy. Dodging to one side, he sliced two arms to mist, then the last two as they slowed and curved around to follow him. He was closer to the shade itself now, and without slowing his movement, he chopped at it, again and again.