Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [44]
Dag’s heated blood suddenly cooled. “Why should you care? You gave her into my hands willingly enough. I have kept my pledge. Few know I have a daughter, and no one knows who gave birth to her. No one need ever know, least of all Sememmon.”
Ashemmi’s smile was that of a cream-sated cat. “Ah, but perhaps I want him to know. Why should he care whom I bedded some ten years ago? It is of no consequence-unless, of course, the child that resulted is of the bloodline of Samular…”
Dag had been dreading this revelation since Ashemmi’s first mention of their child, but even so the implications staggered him. Why should Ashemmi want his daughter, unless she knew of the power the little girl could command? He fervently hoped that if Ashemmi had received this information from Malchior, it was by theft or magical spying. The thought of these two conspiring together was more chilling than a ghost’s embrace. If Malchior learned of the child’s existence, there would be no safety for her. But surely Ashemmi would not give up such valuable information, not when she could hoard the girl’s power for herself! Unfortunately, with a subtle, treacherous creature such as Ashemmi, there was no knowing for certain.
He decided to bluff. He closed the distance between them and his hands skimmed down her back, cupping her intimately and drawing her close. “Samular, indeed,” he murmured into her hair. His voice revealed nothing more than mild, derisive amusement. “What is some long-dead paladin to you and Sememmon? Perhaps you two are thinking of changing your occupation and allegiance?”
Ashemmi sniffed, but apparently did not deign that comment worthy of rejoinder. “There is power in the bloodline of Samular, even more than you realize.”
His hands stilled. Her bald claim stunned him, intrigued him. Given what he already knew-and his suspicion that Malchior had not told him all-he did not doubt the possibility that Ashemmi’s words held truth. He drew back a little and met her probing gaze. “What precisely do you want from me?” he asked bluntly.
An expression of distaste darkened Ashemmi’s golden eyes. “Must we spell out our terms? Haggle our way to agreement like vulgar merchants?”
“Indulge me.”
The elf smoldered, then shrugged. “Very well, then. I want the child brought here. I wish to explore her potential. Then we will see between us what use might be made of it, and her.”
This was more than Dag could bear. For years he had bided his time, not risking a possible revelation of his heritage until he was in a position to protect the innocent child who carried, unknowing, the bloodline of Samular. All this, Ashemmi could carelessly undo, and she would just as easily toss the girl aside if there was no benefit to keeping her.
He thrust the sorceress away from him. “It is a poor excuse for a mother who would so exploit her own child,” he said coldly.
“And a poor excuse for an ambitious warlord who would not,” Ashemmi snapped back. “Remember yourself, and while you are about it, bear me ever in mind. This situation presents opportunity to us both, provided we are clever and discrete in how we proceed.”
“And speaking of discretion, how will Sememmon respond, when he learns that you have been keeping this matter from him?” he retorted.
The blatant threat set Ashemmi’s eyes aflame. “If he or any other person in Darkhold learns of the child from you, it will be from conversing with your spirit. I will tell Sememmon, in my own way and at a time that suits my purposes. I! Agree, and you and your misbegotten brat might be permitted to live out your meager, allotted span. Am I understood?”
Dag Zoreth regarded the elf with a degree of loathing normally reserved for the creatures that occasionally oozed up through the fortress midden. “Of course, Ashemmi. I understand you very, very well.”
“Good,” she purred, drawing out the word. She languidly swept her arms high, and her gown dissolved into a swirl of crimson mist. The haze floated out to envelope Dag, as intoxicating as smoldering poppies.