Swords Against the Shadowland

"To honor Nalgron," he said, opening his eyes again, speaking as if to the sword itself. "After his fatal fall on White Fang Mountain, I inherited his sword, which he called Graywand. An uncle presented it to me when I was only a small boy." He paused and crooked one arm under his head. "But my mother, Mor, despised my father. Fearing I would grow to be just like him, she took the sword, broke the blade, and ordered the pieces melted."

Old memories washed over him, and he imagined at that moment that his face looked not unlike the clouded, brooding face of his father. "When I grew old enough to claim my own blade," he continued, "I gave it the name of my father's sword to remember him—but also to spite my mother. And every sword I've owned since that day I've named Graywand."

With a long piece of straw, she took flame from the lamp and lit a small candle beneath a slender copper samovar. "I never knew my parents," she said softly. "Laurian found me living in the streets when I was very small and took me in." She hesitated, holding the straw's flame close so that it uplit her face. Then she blew it out. "Sometimes in my dreams, I see the shadow of a face that might have been my mother." She shook her head. "But I don't know."

Fafhrd watched her as she bent over the tray again and crumbled some herbs into a delicate white kerchief. Lamplight and gloom played about the soft lines and curves of her body, lending her an aura of mystery and beauty Fafhrd had not noticed before. He rose up on one elbow, the better to observe her.

Folding the kerchief carefully, she turned from the tray and approached the bed. "Breathe these fragrances," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed's wooden frame. "They will ease your pain."

Sameel lifted the pomander to his nose, but Fafhrd caught her wrist. Though she stiffened, she did not pull away. Their eyes met. For a long moment neither moved, and the only sound came from the soft sputtering of the lamp and the candle. Without taking his eyes from hers, Fafhrd drew her hand and the pomander closer. As he breathed in the woodsy aroma, he lightly kissed her fingertips, and when she did not protest, he drew her gently down beside him.

He shifted position, drawing her closer as he unfastened the brooches that held her simple dress upon her shoulders. She trembled against him. "I've never . . ." She bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears. She squeezed them shut. "My lord, I don't want to die without tasting love."

Fafhrd shushed her, putting a finger upon her lips as he gazed down upon her frightened beauty. "Death has no business here tonight," he whispered, stroking her cheek, "nor any thought of Malygris, or curses."

Easing aside her dress, he drew the sheet over their bodies. Again he hesitated, studying Sameel's face, noting the play of the light in the tears that hung upon her lashes. She was not Vlana, not his one true love, but he saw within her something rare and special, something courageous in the face of a terrible fear—and for that moment, at least, he loved her.

In her sarcophagus, Laurian saw with a sight beyond vision. Nothing transpired in her home of which she was not aware. She felt in her mind and heart, like a tide on her skin, the waves of emotion emanating from her guest and her handmaiden. Simultaneously she experienced joy for Sameel and intense sorrow for the loss of her own beloved.

The ornate box cracked open, and the strange fog, her constant companion, seeped about the darkened library. It radiated a faint, yellowish light. In that glow, Laurian rose weakly. For an instant, she hesitated, summoning her courage and strength. Then she stepped from the sarcophagus. A moment of uncertainty and dread shivered through her. Immediately, a cold determination replaced it.

The fog seemed to cushion her footfalls. Soundlessly, she glided across the floor and pushed open the library doors. Her blind gaze turned down the hall that led to Sadaster's room. An ache filled her heart, and beneath the blindfold, her eyes misted. Steeling herself, she blinked back the threatening tears and moved, instead, in the opposite direction toward her own suites.

The fog that accompanied Laurian swirled ahead, played over the knobs, and opened the doors for her. In its unnatural light, she entered her room with its clutter of treasures, whose value could be weighed only in memories—small figurines, delicate pillows embroidered with bright-dyed thread, trinkets, pieces of jewelry, and vases of colored glass, precious gifts all, tokens of Sadaster's love and their years together.