Petra gave her a quizzical look. He sat down beside her, gingerly arranging his cloak around his ankles. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I told you I didn’t intend to return from the Frostfell,” she said. “I didn’t tell you what happened afterward. I led my crew to their deaths, Petra. I knew they would die … and I didn’t care.”
Petra blinked at her, eyes wide. “How did you escape?”
“Good fortune,” she said. “Or perhaps the gods whose existence I’ve always denied weren’t quite through with me yet. I ran into an old colleague in pursuit of the same goal, though he was better prepared. He saved my life, helped me complete my quest, and returned me to Khorvaire.”
“What were you doing out there?” Petra asked.
“Believe me, you’re better off not knowing,” Norra said sadly. “This quest has taken everything from me. I think all that is left for me to do is to leave Tristam Xain and the Mourning Dawn whatever information I can before they finally catch up to me.”
“Radcul’s thugs?” Petra asked.
“No,” Norra said, smiling bitterly. “The ghosts of the men and women who died following me. Radcul’s thugs are just the instrument of their vengeance. I can’t keep hiding forever.”
“I can help,” Petra said. He clasped her hand. “Let me help, Norra.”
Norra pulled her hand away and stood, turning her back to him. “No, Petra,” she said. “Go back to your library. Treasure your boring life and forget you helped me. You won’t see me again. I won’t have them trying to get at me through you.”
“No,” Petra said plaintively. “No …”
Norra felt a quiet sense of pity for the lonely librarian. As rudely as she treated him, he had always been patient and kind. Perhaps if things had been different … she remembered the touch of his hand. She had never had time for men; her research had always kept her too busy.
She looked back at Petra, allowing the illusion that concealed her face to fade. “Farewell, Petra,” she said softly. “When Tristam comes, give him Markhelm’s journal.”
“I will, Norra,” Petra said, his voice cracking. A tear seemed to escape the corner of his eye. He quickly covered his face with a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose. “May Boldrei carry you home.”
Norra smiled at him and whispered a word of command, summoning her disguise again. She continued down the stairs, into the streets surrounding Dalannan Tower, heading for work. She had taken a job cleaning dishes in one of the seedy restaurants that clung to the university. It was a horrible job that barely paid enough to survive, but they didn’t ask any inconvenient questions.
She considered skipping work altogether. If Radcul’s henchmen knew about Petra, it wouldn’t be long until they discovered her. She might be safer exercising discretion and fleeing the city while she could. She could always find Tristam later and tell her what she had learned.
No. Not yet. There was still much to learn at Morgrave and Tristam did not know the library like she did. She had to stay as long as she could. She had to learn more. If what she already knew was true, then their entire conflict with Marth might be a moot point. A much greater danger waited to consume them all.
The sound of glass breaking in an alley to her left drew her attention. Just as Norra glanced in that direction, a cloaked figure leaped out of the shadows to her right, tackling her to the street. She cried out for help, but an oily gag was looped over her head and drawn tight. Her arms were twisted roughly behind her back and bound with cord. Rough hands seized her by the shoulders and dragged her into the alley, propping her against the wall by her throat.
Norra saw two men. The one that held her was lean and hairy, dressed in oily black leather armor. The other man was tall and thin. He dressed in dark blue silken robes and wore his hair in a finely styled ponytail. From the many reagent pouches that dangled from his belt, Norra guessed he was a wizard of some sort. The wizard studied a scrap of parchment, then looked at Norra’s face with a sour expression.
“It isn’t her, Morg,” he said.
“It is,” the other man said. He leaned close to her. His breath was warm upon her cheek and stank like rancid meat. He touched her face with his free hand, tracing jagged nails gently over her skin. Then he moved suddenly, tearing the cap from her head and removing her illusory disguise.
“A hat of disguise,” the wizard said. “Impressive.”
“I’m keeping this,” Morg said with a pleased growl. He tucked the cap into his belt and cackled in Norra’s face. She groaned through her gag and turned away, nauseated by the stench. Norra noticed that Morg’s ears and canines both came to sharp points. A shifter-savage humanoids who traced their lineage to werewolves and other such beasts. So that was how Radcul’s men had found her. While she used magic to disguise her appearance, they tracked her by scent. What a fool she had been.
“Miss Cais, please calm yourself,” the wizard said. “If you had not gone to such great lengths to avoid me, I would not have been forced to arrange such an abrupt appointment. My name is Silas Radcul. I believe you owe my uncle some money.”
Norra glared at him. Behind her, she could feel the ropes loosen, if only slightly. The wards woven into her vest were, bit by bit, causing her bonds to come undone.
“Good,” Silas said, as if she had answered him. “Now please hold still while I remove the rest of your magical trinkets.” He whispered a spell and began to concentrate. He took the pouch from her belt, where she kept her potions. He stooped and drew the magic dagger from her boot. He plucked an enchanted earring and then reached into her pocket, frowning curiously as he studied a small tree figurine. “I wonder what this could do.”
Morg looked over curiously, his grip loosening for a moment. Norra seized her chance, pulling her wrists free of the ropes. The two men looked up in surprise. She pulled a bead from her necklace and hurled it into Morg’s chest. It erupted with a fiery explosion, throwing her attackers against the far wall. The shifter struck the bricks hard and fell to the cobbles, his body wreathed in flames.
Silas gasped and shrieked at the dead shifter. Realizing his robes were on fire as well, he flailed about in an attempt to extinguish himself. Norra calmly plucked the tree figurine from the ground, and dropped it on the wizard.
“Tree,” she said.
The tiny tree erupted with sudden growth, its roots burrowing into solid stone. Silas grunted in pain as the full-grown tree’s trunk settled atop his chest, his arms pinned among the still-growing roots.
“You can’t run from us forever,” he said, wheezing.
“Maybe I can,” Norra said, kneeling beside him and leaning close. “Let me make you a deal. I’ll leave town tonight. I’ll make another disguise and I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again. Tell your uncle you killed me. No one can ever prove otherwise.”
Silas looked up at her, still wincing from the pain of the tree on his chest. “What do I get out of this?” he asked.
“Simple,” Norra said. “I won’t kill you like I killed your friend.” She reached into her vest and drew out another tiny tree figurine. She dangled it between two fingers, holding it over Silas’s head. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, yes!” Silas wailed fearfully. “Just let me live.”
Norra smiled, stood, and tucked the token into her pocket. She walked back out of the alley, stepping over the dead shifter with a disgusted grimace and stopping to collect her scattered possessions.
“Wait!” Silas called out. “How am I supposed to get this tree off my chest?”
“Figure something out,” Norra said, and kept walking.
Norra allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She was not a violent person, but that had been intensely satisfying. It didn’t really matter if Silas upheld his end of the bargain or not. She would be gone from Sharn by the time he recovered. That was, of course, assuming that he ever figured out a way to untangle himself from the tree.