Swords Against the Shadowland

A fine layer of dust covered everything. Waving a hand carefully over a table near the door, she found the remains of a single dead rose, drew it from its vase, and hugged it to her heart. It crumbled to pieces. The brittle petals fell from her fingers to the carpet. Another wave of sadness washed over her. Drawing a deep breath, she groped toward a thorn-wood chest at the foot of her bed. The hinges of the heavy lid creaked as she opened it.

Folded neatly within lay her wedding trousseau. Despite her resolve, tears came freely now, saturating her blindfold, leaking down from the edges of the cloth. With loving care, she lifted the items and spread them upon the bed. Then, she removed her blindfold, unwrapped the swaths of pale linen from about her body, and dropped them upon the floor.

One by one, she pulled on her wedding garments. The underskirts rustled crisply, and the white dress glittered with diamond chips sewn into the weave. She ran her hands over it, smoothing the folds and creases, pleased to find it fit her as perfectly as on that distant day when Sadaster took her for his wife. Setting the sheer veil over her head and face, she fixed it in place with a silver circlet that blazed with sapphires.

Slowly, she closed the trunk and approached a nearby table. Among the many trinkets sat a small chest. Opening it, she groped among strands of pearls, rings, and silver chains, pins and brooches, and lifted a slender dagger in a jewel-encrusted sheath. Carefully she inserted it beneath a tight-fitting sleeve.

Tears ceased; her mouth drew into a tight, determined line.

Returning to the library, she sat down once more upon her velvet-cushioned chair. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she put a hand beneath the veil. Touching her face, she explored fine new wrinkles, and old ones that had deepened, and skin that had lost its softness—the price she paid for leaving her elaborate sarcophagus.

Closing her blind eyes, she gathered her strength and planned magic. The night exhaled a soft breath, sending a wind that blew through the open window and fluttered the pages of a book on a table. When the wind ceased, silence and stillness dominated the room.

Laurian rested, letting her head roll back against the chair. Patience, she had learned, was sorcery's paramount virtue. The mist that perpetually filled her sarcophagus caressed her like a soothing friend, coolly kissed her, reassured her with its presence. When she lifted her head again, it spread itself before her feet.

Once more, Laurian turned her inner sight upon her handmaiden and her guest. Their tender coupling touched her heart as the fervency of their passion suffused her home and filled it with a radiance only she could see. With tender care, not wishing to disturb them, she distilled the essence of their desire and collected it as a fine moisture in her cupped hands. Then, leaning forward, she shook the glimmering droplets into the mist, which rose up and seemed to lick her fingers. "Go," she whispered.

Over the carpet the mist flowed, turning gray and thick as it oozed out the window and poured down the side of her house, thicker still as it crawled across the lawn and climbed the wall to reach the street.

Not far away, the fog that hovered upon the waters of the River Hlal turned toward the shore. Thickening, it engulfed the ships moored at the docks, swallowed the wharves, poured eastward into the city. In the north, more fog moved in from the Inner Sea, extinguishing the street lamps that lit the roads in the Nobles' District, obscuring the lights of the Rainbow Palace as it drifted inexorably southward.

Fafhrd cradled Sameel's head on his arm and stroked her throat lightly. Lying on her back, gazing toward the ceiling, she caught his hand and entwined her fingers with his. Her expression, so recently filled with rapture, reflected a thoughtful worry, and when she spoke her words seemed tiny and distant.

"Do you fear the decay in our bodies?"

Fafhrd sat up and swung his legs out of bed, turning his back to her. "No," he said in a quiet voice.

Sitting up, Sameel hugged her knees. "I guess I'm not as brave as you."

The lamp flame glimmered steadily, and the samovar sighed as it poured out a soft, fragrant steam. He stared into the shadowy corners of the room where the small light did not reach, as if the darkness might somehow show him his future.

"Malygris's curse won't have the chance to rot me," he said grimly. "His heart's blood contains the cure, and I'll kill him to obtain it. Or he'll kill me. Either way ..."

Sameel put a hand on his back. "I try to be brave," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "But I remember my master, how thin and weak he grew, and I see myself in a corpse's skin, struggling against the grave."