“Such as the fact that the necromancer Akhlaur had a hand in our order’s creation?”
It was a shot into the clouds, but it found its mark. The color drained from Ferris Grail’s face. “Come to the college,” he repeated. “I will do what I can to help you. And may Lady Mystra have mercy upon us both.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tzigone stared at the green marble tower, trying to imagine her mother living there, doing the things that Dhamari Exchelsor and Halruaan law said she had done. She gave herself a brisk shake, tucked away her troubled thoughts, and marched to the gate. The servant there took her name and her request for audience. When he returned, a slight, balding man came with him.
The unimpressive newcomer did not look like the lord of a tower, but he held out his hands in the traditional greeting of one wizard hosting another.
So this was Dhamari Exchelsor, the monster she had known all her life as her “mother’s husband.” Before she could say a word, the wizard stopped dead and stared. He quickly regained his composure and inclined his head in the bow that acknowledged a wizard of lesser experience, but greater rank.
Tzigone was not sure what impressed her more: that Dhamari Exchelsor obviously recognized her as Keturah’s daughter or that he did not immediately press the matter. An effusive greeting, any sort of claim on her, would have sent her sprinting down the street. Tzigone had learned caution from her mother. Maybe this man understood Keturah well enough to give this meeting real value.
She removed Keturah’s talisman from her bag and held it up.
Dhamari studied the medallion in silence for a long moment. When he turned his gaze back to her, his eyes were gentle. “Come to the garden, child. I’m sure you have many questions.”
She followed him through fragrant paths, listening as he spoke of the uses of this or that plant He seemed exceptionally learned in herbal lore and considerate enough to grant her time to adjust herself to his presence. Tzigone was reluctantly impressed.
“I’m ready to talk,” she announced abruptly.
“Talk we shall.” He gestured toward a bench in a small alcove and sat down beside her. “Ask what you will.”
“Keturah left the city the same day a greenmage was eaten by starsnakes.”
He nodded sadly. “That is so.”
“Do you think she did it? Called the starsnakes?”
“In all honesty, I do not know.”
Tzigone’s eyes narrowed. “Did you join the search for her?”
Dhamari hesitated. “Understand that in answering freely I put my life in your hands. If you harbor any ill will toward me, you could use what I am about to tell you. Yes, I sought Keturah,” he continued, not even waiting a beat to gauge her reaction and thus his own safety. “I employed rangers to comb the wilderness, diviners to cast spells and to read the auguries in the flight of birds. A hundred trusted merchants carried messages to every part of the land announcing a reward for her return. But I acted only for love of her. Had I found her, I would have seen her safely away from Halruaa and into the best care the Exchelsor fortunes could purchase.”
“Care?” Tzigone echoed. “She was ill?”
“She was preparing herself to bear a jordaini child,” he admitted readily. “We were matched for that purpose, but Keturah was never one to leave things to chance. She took potions to ensure that the child she might bear would be among the most powerful jordaini known.”
Tzigone’s heart thudded painfully. She, a failed jordain? Well, why the hell not? She’d been a pickpocket, a street entertainer, a behir tender, and half a hundred other odd jobs over the course of her short life. There wasn’t much new territory to explore.
It made a horrifying sort of sense. Her resistance to magic, her quick mind and nimble tongue. Unlike the true jordaini, though, she also had a wizard’s gift. The result yielded a potential wizard who could use magic and yet was nearly immune to counterspells. No wonder a wizard’s bastard was considered dangerous!
“The process was disrupting her magic and stealing her memory,” Dhamari continued. “I begged her to stop, but she was determined. A very stubborn woman, my Keturah.”
Yes, that also made sense. Tzigone’s last memories of her mother included her diminishing and unreliable magic. The potions given a jordain’s dam could do that. Even so, Keturah might have lived, had Kiva not intervened.
“You knew Kiva,” Tzigone said. “Did you hire her to find my mother?”
Dhamari was silent for a long moment. “Yes, to my eternal shame and regret. She had skills I thought useful. No human knows forest lore like an elf.”
“But my mother was captured in a city!”
“That is true, but the search was long.” Dhamari did not offer further comment There was no need, for Tzigone’s early life had been defined by that long search. “Kiva betrayed my trust and killed your mother. She told me that she had killed Keturah’s child, as well. She taunted me about it and gave me the medallion as proof.”
“Did you seek vengeance?”
“No.” The admission seemed to shame him. “By then Kiva had become an inquisatrix of Azuth—a magehound. I might have prevailed against someone of her high office, but more likely I would have met failure and disgrace.”
Dhamari sighed wearily. “In all candor, I will never be numbered among the great Halruaan wizards. Keturah would have been, had she not died at Kiva’s hand. I measured my chances against a better wizard’s failure.
“The laws of Halruaa are a powerful safeguard, but sometimes they are also a dark fortress. Occasionally a tyrant such as Kiva hides behind them as she rises to power. The laws supported and aided her, at least for a time.”
“Well, that time’s done and over with,” Tzigone said.
“Thanks in no small part to you. Keturah would be proud.” Dhamari gave her a wistful smile.
Tzigone rose abruptly. “I should be going.”
The wizard’s face furrowed in concern. “Are you happy in Lord Basel’s tower? He is a fine man, do not mistake me, but I wonder if a conjurer’s path is most suited to your talents. Your mother was a master of the evocation school. You may wish to explore many branches of the Art before you settle upon one.”
“Good idea,” she said noncommittally, knowing full well what was next to come. More than one wizard had tried to lure her away from Basel’s tower.
He shrugged modestly. “I am a generalist wizard of moderate talents, but I learned many spells from your mother. If you wish, I would be happy to teach them to you. Not as a master—I haven’t Lord Basel’s talent for instruction—but as a gift, in tribute to your mother.”
“I’ll speak to Basel.”
Her agreement surprised both of them. Dhamari blinked, then turned aside to surreptitiously wipe away a tear.
All her life Tzigone had viewed Keturah’s loss as her private pain. Never once had she considered that this burden might be shared by her mother’s husband.
“Is tomorrow good?” she asked abruptly.
Dhamari’s eyes lit up. “If it suits your master.”
Something in his tone set off warning bells in her mind. “Why wouldn’t it? Does Basel have any cause to object?”
“Not really,” he said slowly. “Basel and Keturah were childhood friends. I thought he fancied himself to be something more than that. It is hard to fathom, looking at him now.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Actually, Tzigone could see how a young Basel might have been a fine companion and conspirator. “Why did nothing come of it?”
“Wizards do not chose whom they will wed. Lord Basel comes from a long line of conjurers, and it was assumed that he would continue the family tradition with a woman from his school of magic. I heard a rumor that he appealed his assigned match to the council and was denied. If he bears me a grudge, I would not blame him.”
Dhamari paused for a wistful smile. “Wizards are rarely as fortunate in marriage as I was. I loved your mother, Tzigone, and it took many long years before I could reconcile to t
he fact that she was gone. But her daughter lives. That brings me more happiness than I ever expected to know again.”
He asked nothing of her and offered nothing but her mother’s spells. That pleased her.
“Most of Keturah’s spells involved the summoning of creatures,” Dhamari went on. “We would do better beyond the city walls, where we don’t run the risk of summoning behir guardians and wizards’ familiars. It has been quite some time since I left this tower. A short journey would serve the purpose, but I’m not sure how to go about arranging the particulars.”
This was something Tzigone knew well. “I’ll be back in the morning. Get yourself a good pair of boots and send to Filorgi’s Hired Swords for some travel guards. Leave the rest to me.”
“You can prepare for a journey by tomorrow morning?” he marveled.
“Sure.” Tzigone grinned fleetingly. “Usually I have a lot less notice than that.”
The wizard caught the implication, and an ironic smile touched his lips. “It would seem that I am partly responsible for your resourcefulness. Mystra grant that from now on our association will be an unmixed blessing.”
“That’ll never happen,” she said as she rose to leave. When Dhamari raised an inquiring brow, she added, “I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. I might as well be honest with you: ‘Mixed blessing’ is about as good as it’s likely to get.”
Dhamari’s smile spoke of great contentment. “Then you are your mother’s daughter indeed.”
A golden wedge of sun peeked coyly over the forest canopy, proclaimed that the morning was nearly half spent. In a mountain travel hut perched above the tree line, Matteo and Iago stood at the open door and gazed uncertainly at the road that led from Orphamphal, and into the wilderness known as the Nath.
“Themo should be here by now,” Matteo grumbled. “Perhaps we should go out looking for him.”
“We should await him here,” the smaller jordain said firmly. “If he has met with delay, leaving this agreed-upon place will ensure that we miss each other.”
Matteo conceded with a nod. “I’ll scout the area. You stay here and await him.”
He whistled to his horse—a black stallion he’d named Cyric Three—and mounted before Iago could protest. Slapping his heels against the horse’s sides, he headed up a path that wound steeply uphill through scrub pine and rock.
Earlier that day he’d wrapped the horse’s hooves, not only to pad them against the shards of dark rock that splintered off the cliff faces, but also to muffle the sound of their passage. This precaution paid well—he rode silently enough to catch the sound of a small-scale battle taking place a league or so ahead.
Matteo rode as close as he dared. He swung down from his horse, drew his weapons, and quietly walked the rest of the way to a small, level clearing.
Two strange combatants were locked in fierce battle. A gray-skinned female, looking less like a woman than a deadly shadow, bared her teeth in a snarl as she slashed with sword and flail at a male warrior even stranger than she. Sunlight glinted off the man’s crystalline daggers. Rivulets of sweat—or perhaps translucent blood—ran down the ghostly face.
“Andris,” whispered Matteo.
The moment of surprise passed quickly. Andris was among the best fighters he knew, but the shadow amazons were notorious for ferocious treachery. Despite her pointed ears and the high, sharp bones of her face, there was nothing of an elf’s delicacy about the Crinti. Matteo had seen barbarian warriors who carried fewer weapons and less impressive musculature.
Roaring out a challenge, Matteo surged to his feet and charged to his friend’s aid. The gray shadow wheeled to face him. Twin scabbards swung out from her hips as she spun. With three quick strides she was upon him, the promise of death in her ice-blue eyes. Her sword flashed down and around in a reverse circle, giving momentum to a stroke that whistled down in a swift, deadly arc toward his neck. Meanwhile her flail—a length of chain ending in a spiked metal ball—swung out wide and whipped in from the other direction in a rising arc. Working together, the Crinti’s weapons formed a deadly parenthesis that cut off evasion or retreat
Retreat was the last thing on Matteo’s mind. He leaped in close and slammed his dagger into the curved cross guards of the female’s sword. The heavy blow jolted through his arm and sang down his spine, but he did not allow the pain to slow his counterattack. With all his strength he heaved upward, first stopping the sword’s momentum and then forcing the enjoined blades up. At the same time he spun his body swiftly under the locked weapons, forcing his opponent to turn with him so that they stood back to back. With his longer reach he heaved the weapons high and broke the woman’s grip on her sword as his spin brought him inside the path of the flail.
The Crinti’s sword clattered to the rocky ground. Matteo gritted his teeth as the flail’s chain wrapped heavily against his thighs, but the real danger—the spiked metal head—slammed into his opponent’s leg with a wet, sickening thud.
Matteo quickly brought his dagger hand down and jabbed lightly at the gray hand grasping the flail handle. The Crinti snarled and released her grip. Matteo shoved aside the chain and whirled away, then lashed out behind him with one foot. The kick caught the Crinti just above the back of her knees. She fell heavily to her hands and knees. Recovering quickly, she pushed herself off the ground and leaped to her feet, ignoring the blood that poured from the holes the flail’s spikes had punched through her gray leather leggings.
The jordain snatched up her fallen sword, keeping his familiar dagger as a companion weapon. He’d already proven the value of a longer reach, and none of his own weapons matched the second sword the shadow amazon carried on her left hip.
The Crinti drew her sword—twin of the weapon Matteo held—and spun it in a deft circle. Though her gesture held the flavor of ritual, Matteo knew better than to mirror her move. The sword was heavy and strangely balanced: She knew the weapon, he did not.
Matteo stepped back and took several short cuts to get the feel of the weapon. Its weight leaned closer to the point than he was accustomed to—a choice that added power to a thrust or cut and that spoke of great strength and deadly intent. He did not relish the idea of fighting the Crinti warrior with such an unfamiliar weapon.
The elfblood exploded into motion. To Matteo’s astonishment, she tossed her sword into the air. It flipped end over end and fell, point down. She caught the sword as it fell, her hands fisted at the midpoint of the blade. Blood seeped from between her white-knuckled fingers as she clenched the weapon. She caught Matteo’s eye, sneered, and spat.
Then she raised the sword point to her chest and with both hands drove it into her own heart.
With her last strength she threw herself backward, as if determined not to fall prostrate at his feet. She landed hard, and her arms flew out wide. Her bloody hands spasmed into clenched fists, slowly opened, and fell slack.
For a long, shocked moment Matteo stared at the dead warrior.
“It is their custom,” Andris said softly. “A Crinti who feels herself disgraced will chose death over shame. They are a brutal people, but proud.”
Matteo slowly turned to his friend. “How did you come by this knowledge?”
Andris swept one hand in a wide circle that encompassed the high, wild country. “This is the Nath. If you wish to survive, you must learn of its dangers.”
“That does not mean you must join them!” Matteo protested. “Gods above, Andris, what are you doing?”
The jordain’s ghostly jaw firmed. “What I think is right. Go your way, and leave me to it”
“You know that I cannot. Kiva must be found and stopped. The Crinti bandits are my only link to her.”
Even as he spoke, he knew his words to be false. The shuttered expression on Andris’s ghostly face forced Matteo to admit the full and painful truth.
“You fight with Kiva again,” he marveled, “and with the accursed Crinti! Andris, what could possibly justify such an alliance?”
“Halruaa,” Andris said shortly. “My vows as a jordain. The wrongs done to my elf forebears.”
“Kiva is a traitor to Halruaa. How is it possible to serve the land by following one who betrayed it?”
“Do not judge me, Matteo,” Andris warned. “For both our sakes, do not hinder me.”
For a moment Matteo stood, torn by his own conflicting loyalties and by the plea in Andris’s eyes. Slowly he threw away the Crinti’s sword. A smile that was both relieved and sad touched Andris’s face, only to die when Matteo drew his jordaini daggers.
“Return with me, Andris,” he said quietly.
In response, the ghostly jordain drew a dagger of his own and dropped into a defensive crouch.
Matteo tried one last time. “I don’t want to fight you, my friend!”
“Small wonder. You usually lose.”
Andris’s hand flashed forward. His dagger stopped well short of Matteo’s lighting-quick parry, but the jordaini blade was not Andris’s true weapon. With his free hand he hurled a fistful of sparkling powder into Matteo’s face.
The powder struck him in an explosion of unimaginable pain. It burned him, blinded him. Matteo dropped his daggers and reeled back, both hands clasped to the white-hot agony in his eyes.
With a strange sense of detachment, Matteo registered the sharp blow just below his ribs. The pain was a whisper compared to his screaming eyes, but his body responded by folding over at the waist Two sharp, precisely placed blows to the back of his neck brought the ground racing up to seize him.
As if from a great distance, Matteo heard Andris’s voice speaking with what sounded like regret. “The powder’s effect wears off swiftly. Until then, try not to rub your eyes too much. But don’t follow me, Matteo. I might not be able to let you go next time.”
From a rocky perch high above the clearing, Kiva watched the battle between Andris and Matteo. Her lips curved in a smile as the troublesome jordain fell. As she suspected, Andris was hers. Like the Crinti, he put such value in his elf heritage that all other considerations paled. For Andris to turn against a fellow jordain, his best friend, made that abundantly clear.
The Floodgate Page 22