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  Honor Among Thieves

  ( Tales of Sevrin Starsingers - 1 )

  Elaine Cunningham

  Elaine Cunningham

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Book of Vishni’s Exile: Prologue

  Not long ago, in a land of nightmare and dreams, afairy maiden committed an unspeakable crime. In her defense, itseemed like a good idea at the time.

  She received the usual sentence: Exile to the mortalrealm until she could record enough entertaining tales to balancethe scales of fairy justice.

  Alas, her arrival in the land called Sevrin cametwenty years too late. Had she been caught in some earlier bit ofmischief, she might have witnessed the fall of a powerful sorcererin a summer of bloodshed, heroism, and, from all accounts, highlyentertaining explosions.

  To her dismay, the land into which she came borelittle resemblance to the realms described in fairy tales ofold.

  Magic was dead, or so the adepts who now ruledSevrin

  would have people believe. The old races hadwithdrawn deep into the forests, the seas, and the stone-so deepthat many mortals believed them gone beyond recall.

  And what did this reborn land offer in return?

  Alchemy, an Art that sought new names for thingsthat always were and always would be.

  The greatest of these alchemists, the adepts, didnot stop at philosophy. They declared the gods dead and embarkedupon their own frenzy of creation.

  They created potions that healed or destroyed on agrand scale. They created new weapons, useful machines, clevertoys, and wondrous metal creatures that owed their semblance oflife to clockwork and alchemical mysteries.

  These innovations brought wealth and fame to theadepts, who shared their fortune with those they ruled. As aresult, the land was prosperous and peaceful, the people ascomplacent as cows.

  In short, it was no fit place for a fairy.

  Without conflict there can be no story. If the exilehoped to return to the fey realm, she would have to find trouble orcreate it.

  Fortunately, there were in this land mortals whorefused the new ways, and members of the old races who were notcontent to fade into legend.

  The fairy found them. And she soon learned, to herperil and delight, that neither adepts nor rogues were everythingthey believed themselves to be, nor were they all they hoped tobecome.

  This was promising indeed. As every storysingerknows, the more brightly a hero shines, the darker the shadow hemight someday cast.

  Chapter 1: Honor Bound

  The elf had never slept, not once in a hundred years,so her first awakening was a thing of mystery and terror.

  Something was dragging her from unfamiliar depths,away from horrors she could not quite recall. She understood nowwhy the drowning child she’d pulled from the river some years backhad fought and flailed about in blind panic. She would do the sameif she could move.

  The elf became aware of the distant murmur of voicesand a plodding metallic heartbeat. That sound was familiar. Aclock, the humans called it.

  Humans! Here, in the deepest part of the forest!

  Sorrow came swiftly on the heels of shock. Until now,she’d denied any suggestion that the forest might shelter atraitor. Not in centuries, not since Pharimen the Red last awokeand took wing, had any elf betrayed another. But she could think ofno other way any human might find the Starsingers Grove.

  “You’re awake!”

  The voice was male, the tones deep and rounded withdelight.

  “Try to open your eyes.”

  She consulted her eyelids and found them willing. Forseveral moments her vision swam with colors that should not be: patches of bright red and blue and yellow and a strange biliousgreen never found in the forest. Light glinted from what appearedto be metal trees decked with leaves ranging in hue from silver toiron grey to the dull green of old copper.

  The strange sleep-mist faded. She found herself inthe center of a cluttered room, lying on a raised platform that wasnothing like the low, cozy beds she’d once seen in the forester’scottage.

  A metallic monster, a thing more clock than man, bentover her, regarding her with empty silver eyes.

  Instinct prompted her hand toward her dagger. To herhorror, she could not move.

  “That will do, Feris,” said that pleasant malevoice.

  The creature straightened and spun about. Metalwhirred and crunched as it strode away, its motions stiff butprecise.

  Gentle living hands helped her sit. She bore thehuman’s touch and, to her surprise, found him as pleasing to beholdas he was to hear.

  Not a young man, nor precisely an old one, he stoodtaller than most elves. His garments were simple but dyed a richdeep blue her people favored for starlight rituals. He kept hiswheat-gold hair pulled back from a narrow, clean-shaven face. Hissmile failed to reassure, but she found his gaze soothing, for hiseyes were bright with intelligence, and the color, a blend of greenand brown, was similar to the wood-hazel hue her own would turncome summer.

  Thinking of the Greening made her aware of the room’sMidsummer warmth.

  She glanced at her hands. They were still winterpale, and the thick braid of hair draped over her shoulder wasstill the color of snow and shadows. No hint of green spoke ofcoming spring.

  Relief surged through her. She couldn’t have lostmore than a few days to her first sleep.

  “My men found you in a forest clearing, gravelywounded,” the human said. “They brought you to me for healing.”

  The memory of that night flooded back-the reason forthe starlit gathering, if not the attack that must have endedit.

  “Your men.”

  To her ears, her voice sounded flat from lack of use,devoid of music or meaning. But something of what she was feelingmust have sung through. For a long moment the human stared at heras if trying to recall the name of an elusive tune and hoping theanswer might be written on her face.

  His eyes widened in understanding.

  “Empty night!” He spoke softly, but with the peculiaremphasis humans gave to their oaths and curses. “You believeI was responsible for that appalling slaughter.”

  For one terrible moment, her mind envisioned thescene his words painted.She thrust the image away.

  “If not you, then who?”

  The man turned and reached for a decanter on a smalltable, a long-necked bottle fashioned of blue glass and beaded withmoisture. He poured a small amount of pale gold liquid into a cupand handed it to her.

  “Small sips,” he cautioned.

  She sniffed at the liquid. It was some sort of fruitwine, sweetened with honey and diluted with a tisane of healingherbs.

  The herbs surprised her. She had not expected cityhumans to be so civilized.

  The first sip sent a cooling wave through her. Herparched body demanded more. She allowed herself two more sipsbefore setting the cup aside.

  “Tell me.”

  He took a moment to refill her cup before answering.“You are in the city of Sevrin. Have you heard of it?”

  She brushed the question aside with a flick of onehand. “Tell me of the forest, and your purpose there.”

  “It may reassure you to learn that I have as littleinterest in the forest as you do in Sevrin. My men entered inpursuit of rogue gatherers.”

  For a moment, she was tempted to ask what separated“ rogue” gatherers from the everyday sort-men who hunted rarecreatures and members of the old races for reasons too grim tocontemplate. Elves killed such men on sight. She had not known,however, that some humans tried to limit their activities.

  “Did your men catch them?”

  “Everyone who attacked you is dead,” he said in atone one might use to reassure a fearful child.

  She resisted the ur
ge to hurl the cup at his head.“So. You have stolen my revenge as well as my freedom.”

  The man had the nerve to look affronted. “Do you seechains on your wrists? Bars on the door? This is not a dungeon, andI am no barbarian.

  “I am Rhendish,” he said, naming himself in tones ofsolemn majesty. “I am one of seven adepts who rule the city ofSevrin. As such, I share responsibility for keeping order andseeing justice done. Justice,” he said, tapping his forehead withthe fingertips of one hand. He moved that hand down to rest overhis heart. “Not revenge.”

  Clearly, his understanding of such things differedfrom hers. Revenge required thought and planning. Elven justice, onthe other hand, tended to be swift and certain.

  She took a deep breath and steeled herself to hearhard truths.

  “And the others?”

  Regret washed over the man’s face. “Only yousurvived.”

  Later, she reminded herself. Later shecould mourn.

  “The ground was frozen too hard to permit burial. Mymen gathered the bodies beneath a single stone cairn.”

  She nodded. That was not their way, but it wouldsuffice for now. No elven secrets would be revealed by tooth andworm and weather. No elven bones would sing to the touch ofstarlight.

  But there remained one way the forest people could beundone. Speaking of it was dangerous, but she saw no otherchoice.

  She took a moment to observe her surroundings,seeking clues to Rhendish’s nature.

  A dizzying array of colors assaulted the eye, comingfrom a hodge-podge of bottles, books, and countless oddly shapedpieces of metal. Shelves lined the white-stone walls. Scrolls andstacks of parchment littered a long writing table fashioned frompolished wood. Richly embroidered hangings covered the windows andrippled in muted winds. The overall impression was wealth andchaos.

  There was, however, a sense of purpose underlying theclutter. Books stood in neat rows. All the bottles and vials andbeakers bore tidy labels. Some of the metal objects appeared to besmall tools, and the high, narrow platform on which she’d sleptseemed more akin to a worktable than a bed.

  She’d heard that some humans were like ravens,filling their nests with a hoard of shiny things for no betterreason than the urge to possess them. Rhendish, she sensed, was notsuch a man. Perhaps he would not covet what was hers.

  “I had a curved knife,” she said, speaking asdiffidently as she could. “Fashioned of pale metal, with a roseetched onto the blade. A pretty trifle.”

  This was a lie, of course. The weapon was beyondprice, grown from a rare and powerful crystal, and the rose withinit bloomed when fed a traitor’s blood.

  “Your sister spoke of it before she died. It wouldseem-”

  His words were lost in a sound like winter’s cruelestwinds. The room spun in a mad whirl of color and chaos and griefand the scent of herbs meant to drown pain in oblivion.

  “Drink this.”

  She pushed away the cup Rhendish held to her lips.Elves used such herbs when cutting arrows from flesh or tending achildbirth gone wrong-pain of great intensity but short duration.Sorrow passed too slowly for such remedies.

  “A thousand pardons,” he murmured. “I spoke abruptlyand without proper care. It is no easy thing to hear of a lovedone’s death.”

  This was true, but elves accepted death in wayshumans did not. What shocked her to the core was that Asteria wouldtell any human about the Thorn.

  But then, wasn’t she doing precisely that?

  “What did she say?”

  “She did not speak the trade tongue as well as youdo, but as I understand it, the knife had some ceremonialimportance. She was most insistent that it be returned to herpeople.”

  This did not ring true, either. Asteria would burythe Thorn in her own belly before she’d entrust it to a human.

  “It was taken by one of the attackers,” Rhendishsaid, almost as if he could read her mind, “and sold before my mencaught up with them.”

  He spoke on, but his words could not part the tangledvines of her thoughts.

  The grove defiled, the judgment circle destroyedbefore the traitor could be uncovered. The Thorn lost among humans!She had to recover it, and soon.

  No solution came to her. After a time she becameaware that Rhendish stood silent, a wry smile on his face.

  “I doubt you heard one word in ten. Here it is inbrief: I have determined the knife’s whereabouts and conceived of away that you might retrieve it.”

  She regarded him for a long moment. “Why would you dothis?”

  “I won’t try to convince you of my altruism,” he saidwith dry humor. “The answer to your question is complicated, but itbegins with this: Seven adepts rule this city-seven, becauseno single man can be trusted with too much power, andadepts, because no man can be trusted with magic.”

  She began to see the path ahead. “You have men atyour command. The other adepts must also. You think one of themsent gatherers to steal elven magic.”

  A burst of startled laughter escaped him.“That far I had not gone! I suppose it is possible, but morelikely Muldonny’s agents merely purchased the dagger after thefact.” His gaze sharpened. “Why? What magic does the daggerhold?”

  She lifted one shoulder in the dismissive gestureshe’d seen humans use. “I spoke of intent, not result. The daggeris finely crafted and very old, but that is all.”

  “I suspected as much,” he said with satisfaction.“Muldonny fancies himself an expert on elven matters, but I’ve longsuspected that any genuine knowledge he possesses could bepainlessly inscribed on his thumbnail.”

  “So you suggest I trade ‘genuine knowledge’ forit?”

  “No! Muldonny is. .”

  He paused, considered.

  “Persistent,” he said, in the manner of one who hasconsidered every word that dwelt within the realm of truth, only tochoose the palest and weakest. “Muldonny would not be content withsmall bits of history and lore. In fact, it would be best if he didnot learn of your presence in Sevrin. Elves, you see, do notofficially exist.”

  “Nor do our handiworks, I suppose.”

  He spread his hands, palms up. “You begin to see theproblem. No one denies the existence of elf-crafted items, but itis widely supposed that any artifact of the old races must holdancient and dangerous magic.”

  “If such magic is bad, why would any adept want topossess it?”

  “Why indeed?” he said darkly. “That is an importantquestion. It is not, however, a question that can roam free amongthe general populace.”

  “So you are protecting this adept, even though yoususpect him of doing wrong.”

  “I am protecting Sevrin,” he snapped. “The Council ofadepts stands between the city and any who might use sorceryagainst it. Can you imagine what might follow if the peoplebelieved one of the adepts was smuggling weasels into the henhouse?Muldonny cannot be accused. Your elven trinket must be acquiredunofficially.”

  “Stolen.”

  A smile flicked the corners of his lips. “Yes,stolen. I know of a thief who’s elusive enough to handle the joband foolish enough to take it on. For reasons that will soon becomeclear, he must hear of your need from your lips.”

  She noted the twitch of chagrin on the adept’s faceas he spoke of this thief and began to understand.

  “I get the knife, you get the thief.”

  Rhendish bowed. “Succinctly put.”

  “And if I refuse to betray a man who would do thissimply because I ask it of him?”

  “I don’t believe you will,” he said hesitantly, “butthat is a question we both need to answer.”

  He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers. One ofthe window hangings slid open. The clockwork servant emerged fromthe curtained alcove and clanked toward her, leaving the curtainpushed to one side.

  The hideous thing approached unheeded, for she couldnot tear her gaze from the windows lining the curving wall of thealcove, and the late summer garden beyond.

  This could not be. The judgment circle had gatheredon Midwinter
Night. How could season after season slip awayunnoticed?

  And what was wrong with her, that she retained herwinter colors?

  “Take the meadow sprite in your hand,” Rhendishsaid.

  His voice broke the spell. She dragged her attentionto the small metal cage the servant thrust toward her. Inside atiny winged creature cowered, its blue and yellow wingstrembling.

  The silver-grey cloak that could make the spriteappear to be a simple butterfly had been torn away, revealing aslender, winged maiden no taller than a child’s thumbnail.

  The elf looked at Rhendish with horror in her eyes.He nodded.

  Before she could tell him that she would sooner diethan do this thing, her hand stretched out and unlatched the cagedoor.

  Traitorous fingers reached for the sprite.

  Tightened.

  And came away dusted with blue and gold.

  For a long moment she gazed at the tiny, crumpledbody of the fey thing she’d been forced to kill. Cold, murderousrage filled her heart. No words came to her, but she lifted hergaze and let Rhendish read what was there to see.

  The adept winced, but held his ground. “We bothneeded to know, beyond question, that you will do what must be doneto further both our causes.

  “Come now,” he said when she made no reply. “Iunderstand this is strange to you, but surely your devotion to yourpeople is large enough to house all necessity. We can work togetherfor mutual benefit, perhaps in time become friends. Can we notbegin now? With your name, perhaps?”

  Whatever Rhendish’s opinion of magic might be, surelyhe must know that names held power. She dared not yield morecontrol than he’d already taken from her.

  To her relief, the strange compulsion that enslavedher hand could not reach into her thoughts or command her tongue.She could defy him in this, if nothing else.

  “Honor,” she said, naming the one thing she wasdetermined to retain.

  He lifted one wheat-colored brow. “An unusualname.”

  “Honoria, if you prefer formality,” she said evenly.Since a clan name was expected, she embroidered the lie with,“Honoria Evenstar.”