The Brazen Gambit by Lynn Abbey

with scents he could not identify. His left arm, which had been
agonizing the last time thought had left an impression in his memory, was quiet. He could wiggle his fingers without
pain, feel their tips with his thumb, but when he tried to lift or bend his arm he met unyielding resistance: His elbow, it
seemed, had been sealed in stone.
    His eyes were still closed. He opened them, hoping to resolve the mystery of his arm, but the place where he
found himself was dark as a tomb. Indeed, he wondered if it was a tomb.
    Pavek's sense of who he was and how he came to be was hazy. There was an odd, metallic taste in his mouth; his
ears made their own ringing music. He guessed he'd been asleep for a long time, and an unnatural sleep at that. He
remembered a boy, a long walk through darkness, and a sickening collapse. The boy-Pavek could not pluck his name
out of the darkness-said they were going to a safe place, but he'd collapsed before they'd arrived. He remembered the
boy sobbing and the sound of his feet when he ran away.
    Had the boy been death come to collect his spirit?
    Had death abandoned him to the dark, demi-life of the tomb?
    Some sects said death was a beautiful woman; others said it was the Dragon. Pavek couldn't remember any sects
that personified death as a wiry lad with dark eyes and tousled hair. But then, he couldn't remember much more about
himself than his name.
    He lay still and, after a moment, heard the steady beat of his pulse.
    Tomb or no, if he had a pulse, he was alive and should try to remain that way. He thought about food and water,
the prerequisites of remaining alive, and found that, despite a heartfelt conviction he'd gone days without eating or
drinking, he was neither hungry nor thirsty.
    So-he was not dead, not hungry nor thirsty, and not in pain, despite the stone around his left arm. He decided he
could move his other limbs and, at the same time, discovered that he was stretched out on a thick, feather mattress that
was softer than any bed he'd ever slept on before. He tried to coordinate his limbs: to use their strength to free his left
arm from its prison. The fingers of his right hand scraped along a packed dirt wall when words that were not his own
echoed between his ears.
    Drink now?
    The words had not been spoken aloud: he was as certain of that as he was of anything. His first thought was
that he was not alone in the dark, dirt-walled chamber. His second, more cautious, thought was simply that he was
being observed. The cool air swirling faintly over his face was no longer pleasant or comforting. He thought of ghosts,
spirits and otherworldly haunting. An involuntary shudder racked the length of his body. A stab of remembered pain
lanced the imprisoned elbow.
    Not to worry. Everything is fine. Drink now? Eat? Rest?
    The slender fingers of a smallish hand brushed gently against his forearm. The boy? Possibly, though the boy
had seemed fully human, with eyes no better adapted to darkness than his own.
    Ahalfling?
    "Who are you?" he asked in an expectedly hoarse whisper. His throat was tight; it had been a while since he'd
spoken. "What are you? Where are you? Where am I? What's happening to me?"
    So many questions! The silent voice twinkled with bemusement. There was sickness throughout your blood and
body. You were brought here to heal; you are healing. You are safe. Is that not enough, Pavek? What more do you
need to know?
    His head sank into the feather mattress. There was much he wanted to learn, but nothing more that he truly
needed to know. He relaxed with a guilty sigh. "Water," he asked, then added, digging deep into memories of
childhood before the orphanage, "if you please."
    More merriment in his mind, like bubbles in the rare sparkling wines of Nibenay: I please.
    The spout of a delicate glass pitcher pressed against his lips. A slight, but strong, hand raised his head. He had a
momentary vision of his nurse: a halfling woman with an ancient child's