As her fingers flew and her mouth uttered, “Khalayan ut matithat,” her mind became a mirror. And in that mirror stood Sutler. Also in the reflection, standing behind him, was the very thing to augur his doom.
A shadowy cloud, its edges tattered and bleeding wisps of smoke, appeared between Tythonnia and Sutler. He finally saw it, his crazed eyes unable to register it at first. He glanced at Ladonna then snapped back to the shape. His mouth dropped open, and the lunacy evaporated from his face. The shape remained the same as far as Tythonnia could see, but to Sutler, it took on terrifying dimension and weight. The details became clearer, and it turned into that thing in the mirror, the thing that would undo him.
Tythonnia couldn’t see it, but she knew it was something stitched together from the fabric of all Sutler’s fears, a patchwork monster to embody his every greatest terror. Ladonna slid to the ground as Sutler stepped back. He tried to raise his blades, to fend the creature off, but his arms barely budged. The daggers clattered to the cobblestones, and a strangled cry escaped Sutler’s lips.
The shadowy form darted forward; a tendril touched Sutler. He clutched his chest and inhaled a terrible, ragged gasp. He dropped to his knees, his fingers scrabbling over his heart as though seeking to tear it out. The look of horror deepened, and there he died, on his knees, the fear forever etched on his face.
The two other Tythonnias instantly vanished, and both the real one and Par-Salian hobbled over to Ladonna. Her eyes were open and staring up past them to some distant point in the night sky.
“Ladonna, hold on,” Par-Salian said, “please hold on. We’ll find help.”
Her gaze drifted to Sutler, dead and still upright. “Not fair,” Ladonna whispered. “I wanted to be the one who killed him.”
“Don’t you dare die on us,” Tythonnia said. “I haven’t taught you my best illusions.”
Ladonna nodded. “I think … that last one was … nice.”
“Shh, shh,” Par-Salian said. He turned toward the inn and cried, “Help! Help us!”
Nobody appeared and the pool of blood around Ladonna’s body kept growing. Par-Salian fumbled for his chest and pulled out a golden sun medallion that Tythonnia had never seen before. He stared at it then at Ladonna, caught in indecision.
Tythonnia stood and ran for the inn door. It was locked, the windows dark and the shutters on the ground floor closed. She hammered on the door, but nobody answered. She knew what was happening, and it enraged her enough to hammer even harder. They’d angered the Thieves Guild. They were on their own. She caught a glimmer of candlelight inside through the gap between the door and its frame.
“Please,” Tythonnia cried. “She’s dying! Help us, damn you!”
Nobody responded, though the light inside seemed to grow stronger.
The Journeyman watched quietly from the upper story window, assessing the situation. In the history he knew so well, Ladonna would live. Ladonna would go on to greater things. And yet there she was, bleeding from two killing strikes that had likely ruptured her kidneys. She looked to be dying and needed help.
The Journeyman pulled an ampoule from his pouch and walked out the door of his room. The inn was dark, the lights in the tavern extinguished. The innkeeper and his redheaded wife-he had forgotten their names-stood in the darkness. The innkeeper carried a cheap-looking sword, and she clung to him. They both stared at the door, hearing as clearly as he did the desperate hammering outside.
The innkeeper pointed his blade at the Journeyman. “You there, back to your room!” the innkeeper said in a whisper. “This don’t concern you.”
The Journeyman opened his hand and whispered, “Shirak lingkaran.” A floating orb of fire appeared in his hand, driving the shadows away and startling the couple.
“Please,” Tythonnia cried from outside. “She’s dying! Help us, damn you!”
With a nudge, the orb drifted toward the frightened innkeeper and his wife. They cowered before it, even though it lacked the strength to harm them. For the purposes of the Journeyman’s bluff, however, they didn’t need to know that.
“Help them,” the Journeyman instructed as he walked down the stairs.
“But the guild will slit our throats,” the innkeeper said. He waved his blade fearfully at the ball of fire.
With another mental nudging, the Journeyman willed the orb to separate and turn into four blazing spheres. They surrounded the innkeeper and his wife, who had started weeping.
“Please don’t,” the innkeeper begged.
“Help them or I swear by all that is holy you will become ash and cinder.”
The innkeeper raised one hand to show he meant no harm and lowered his sword. “All right, all right. Just don’t hurt my Bessie.”
The Journeyman held out his hand and motioned for the innkeeper to take the ampoule resting in his palm. The innkeeper did so reluctantly and practically wrenched his arm stretching over to grab it. He didn’t want to approach any closer than necessary.
“Go outside,” the Journeyman instructed. “Give this to the injured woman. Tell them it’s something the Vagros left you as a gift.”
“What does it do?” the innkeeper asked, suspiciously eyeing the amber-colored liquid inside.
“It’ll save your life. Now do as I tell you, and say nothing of me, do you understand?”
The innkeeper nodded. The Journeyman dissolved the orbs and stepped into the darkness. He didn’t wish to be seen. With a glance to his frightened wife, the innkeeper unlatched the door and opened it. Tythonnia, pleading for his help, pulled him outside.
The Journeyman went to the window and opened the shutter a touch. He glanced at the nervous wife, and mused, I thought only cows were named Bessie.
Tythonnia almost cried out in relief as the door opened. She grabbed the innkeeper’s hand and practically dragged him out.
“She’s bleeding badly.”
The innkeeper appeared rattled; the blood was drained from his face. He glanced back at the inn but followed her to Ladonna.
“Hold on, Ladonna,” she cried.
Ladonna was barely conscious. Her eyes seemed to roll loosely in their sockets, and she was moaning in pain and delirium. The ground around her was soaked in a pool of her blood, and Par-Salian’s pants were filthy with it. He held Ladonna’s hand and whispered in her ear, trying to keep her with them. The medallion was resting against the outside of his tunic, its purpose forgotten.
The innkeeper didn’t seem to know what to do; almost absently, he shoved the amber-colored ampoule into Tythonnia’s hands.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A gift from the Vagros,” he said. He was already turning to dash back to the inn.
Tythonnia stared at the innkeeper in shock and back at the ampoule. What was she supposed to do with it? Feed it to Ladonna blindly? What if it did more harm than good?
She’s dying! A thought seemed to scream in her head. Do something!
Unable to think properly, Tythonnia snapped off the top of the ampoule.
“What is that?” Par-Salian whispered, his voice rough with grief.
“I don’t know,” Tythonnia said. “Hope?”
Par-Salian didn’t argue. Instead, he helped lift Ladonna’s head while Tythonnia tilted the ampoule into her mouth. The amber liquid seemed to vanish as soon as it touched her lips.
Ladonna’s moans slowly turned into soft breathing. She blinked; her eyes seemed to clear, lose focus, and clear again. Some of the color returned to her face.
“What-what happened?” Ladonna asked, she tried to raise herself up, but was too weak to move.
“You were stabbed,” Par-Salian said.
“I still am,” Ladonna replied. She smiled weakly.
“Gently, roll her to her side,” Par-Salian instructed.
Her back and long hair glistened with blood. The two puncture wounds on her back, however, were partially closed with the beginnings of thick scabs. They bled still but not enough to kill her.