Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [31]
As the adrenaline from the fight faded, the ache in her ribs and foot returned. She was bone-weary and bruised. Hungry too. What she really wanted to do was—
A rock caught her boot. The steel toe kept her foot safe from stubbing, but off-balanced in the blackness, she fell.
The pinch in her ribs expanded to become a fiery bar trying to lift free of her skin. Riltana gasped. Then she swallowed the curse that came so naturally to her lips. She didn’t want to attract the swarming bugs out of the hollow. Instead she lay in the dark, tears running from her eyes, until the new pain faded enough for her to sit up.
Too bad she hadn’t thought to double up on light sources. Her gloves, as fantastic a treasure as they were, could only hide away a total of five objects, and she always kept one space open, in case she “acquired” an interesting piece of artwork or other finery that required quick transport.
With the sunrod and alchemical flare gone, her hidden resources were down to a small yellow marble she called the Prisoner’s Stone, and the scarf.
She’d pried the yellow sphere from the eyesocket of a statue of the primordial named Karshimis. That escapade had nearly cost Riltana her life. But the stone had proved worth the risk. In the right situation, it was a lifesaver.
Unfortunately, with no prison bars, cuffs, or vault doors to impede her escape, this wasn’t one of those situations. Which left the pale length of fine cloth.
The scarf had to be more than a simple piece of fabric for her double-crossing client to go to so much trouble for it. What had that lying bastard claimed? That he’d only wanted it taken from Demascus at the “appointed” time? Crazy talk.
She sheathed her remaining dagger and produced the wrap. She couldn’t see it, but she was able to detect its slight weight across her palms when it appeared. Riltana wound one end around her left fist, and pulled the other end tight. Even through her gloves she could discern the scarf’s silky smoothness. She brought it closer to her face and sniffed.
The odor reminded her of a parchment shop. Without her eyes, touch, smell, and hearing were all she had to go by; she wasn’t about to lick it.
She said in a bare whisper, “Scarf, show me your power.”
Riltana felt stupid, huddled in the dark, talking to an inanimate textile.
No response.
“Damn it, if you’ve got something inside you, now’s the time to reveal it, or I’m going to stuff you in a roach hole!”
Hairline threads of light raced through the fabric, and she sucked in a quick breath.
More light gathered in bundles that traced through the scarf’s weave like tiny falling stars.
Riltana was rapt as the glimmers slowed, then letters like moonlight threads scrolled between her hands. Written on the scarf’s surface were the words:
Return me to the Sword, and I will guide you from this warren.
Relief surged through Riltana. She was going to live!
The scarf was an item of power, and it knew the way out. She whispered, “You bet! The Sword, I promise. Just tell me where I need to go!”
The scarf flexed in her hands of its own accord, like a snakeskin suddenly come under some sort of spell of animation. She let go of one end.
The loose end of the wrap rose in the air, reminding her even more of a serpent, and pointed. It produced a directed shaft of illumination like the beam of a bull’s-eye lantern.
She pulled herself to her feet and managed a pained grin. Her rib pinched and her left ankle complained, but hope was almost as good as a sip of magical balm.
The thief shuffled forward, and the scarf twisted to point the way.
The tunnel was more of a fissure than a walkway. Riltana shook her head. Had she attempted to feel her way along, it seemed inevitable that she would have caught her foot in the central crevice, or fallen into one of the many natural chimneys. Even with the illumination provided by the semisentient scarf, the going wasn’t easy. She hurt too much.
Time passed. She made progress, but her good spirits eroded with the jolting