by Ed Greenwood
Sarasper’s sigh of relief at her words came much faster than Hawkril’s slow, doubtful one. “The gold I saw was along here,” he said briskly, leading them around a comer, to a spot where the passage was broader, and several wall stones bore protruding coffins, beneath inscriptions surmounted by relief carvings of the Silvertree arms. A long crack ran down from the ceiling across one tomb, and the end of its coffin lay shattered on the ground, among a few yellowed scraps of bone, a shattered skull, and a flood of still-bright coins. The armaragor hung back until his distance from the healer’s light became too great, and he took a few reluctant steps forward.
By then, Craer was already probing among the coins with his short sword, looking for traps or small biting and scuttling things. Finding none, he looked up over his shoulder at Embra, who nodded her approval.
Hawkril’s sack shortly received a pile of seventy-odd gold coins—some so old that they bore the ax of the trading baronies that had preceded Aglirta—and Craer asked almost eagerly, “Will that be enough, or do we need more?”
A smile plucked at the corner of Embra’s mouth, and she said, “I hesitate to counsel you to further danger, but I’ve heard that Sirlptar can be an expensive place.”
“So whom do we … borrow from?” the procurer asked, waving at the row of inscriptions. “Vaedrym?”
“He was a mage who did much work with the dead,” Embra replied. “Probably ’twould be better not to look therein.” She took a few steps along the wall, and then said, “Try here.”
“Chalance Silvertree,” Craer said aloud, reading the inscription. “He died young. Hmm; ‘Prince Royal’?”
The Lady of Jewels shrugged. “Silvertrees have thought themselves rulers of Aglirta before now.”
The procurer sat down and tugged at the heels of his boots. Both came away in his hands, revealing themselves to be stubby daggers, with the boot heels as their hilts. Hawkril sniffed in amusement at the awkward weapons, but his mirth ended in amazement as Craer snapped a metal prying-wedge out of each heel and applied them to the edge of the casket lid, humming nonchalantly.
The armaragor held his sword tensely ready as his three companions huffed the lid askew, but nothing emerged from within.
Craer peered into the dust and bones, and smiled.
In a surprisingly short time their store of gold had more than doubled. By then the armaragor had seen several gliding apparitions—dark-eyed warriors and one gowned woman whose head was hidden within raging flames—and was anxious to move on. Sarasper obliged, leading them down hidden stairs and past a place where they could hear the murmur of moving water through the dripping walls.
“The underways,” Sarasper said. “I came this way once, in another shape. I fear I remember little about what awaits us, other than that there is a way through.”
There was a weird glow in the passage ahead, which proved to come from eerily pulsing glowworms crawling along muddy side ledges. Spiders as large as human hands danced and scurried aside as they went on, up a worn stone stair into another burial hall, where a row of stone plinths rose from the floor.
Hawkril eyed them dubiously. Helms and shields that had been hung on them long ago had rusted away to brown powder and crumbling shards.
Craer drifted closer, until Embra said quietly from behind him, “Things left undisturbed have a habit of not disturbing you. Words every procurer should live by.”
The spiderlike man gave her a sour look. “And what words do Silvertree sorceresses live by, Lady?”
Embra closed her eyes, looking pained. “Craer,” she said slowly, “I’m sorry if I’ve offended. None of this comes easily to me. I’m used to living alone, in caged luxury. I don’t even know what I’ll do when I have to relieve myself, in front of all of you.”
The armaragor looked at her and said abruptly, “It’s hard for us, too. We’re afraid of you—and if your father can reach us, through you.”
The Lady of Jewels turned slowly to meet all of their gazes. Her face was bleak. “So am I, Hawkril. So am I.”
They stood looking at each other in awkward silence for a time, and then, wordlessly, Sarasper led them on.
Their way rose again, passing through chambers where many coffins lay under thick draperies of cobwebs, and into a place where the light from Sarasper’s stone grew dim.
“Strong magic,” he and Embra murmured in unison, and the sorceress laid hold of the bracelets on her arm. There were suddenly faint glows ahead of them, points of light flickering in a silent circle that stretched to the walls of the room, barring their way. There was a dark bulk—a casket, or stone block—at the center of that ring of radiance. Small glows were gathering atop it, quickening and brightening as they approached.
“Should we go back?” Hawkril rumbled.
“And fight our way through all Silvertree, with my father’s mages hurling spells at our backsides with every step?” Embra replied. “I don’t think so.”
The glows atop the tomb suddenly coalesced into a ghostly figure—a bald man in robes, perhaps, though its hands looked barbed and scaled—which raised spectral arms to trace a glowing pattern in the air.
The Lady of Jewels stared thoughtfully at the floating symbol for a moment, and then lifted her fingers to shape a sign of her own.
The spectral figure responded by pointing at her—and lightnings spat blue-white from its fingers to strike her.
The bolts veered to one of Embra’s upraised hands and then snapped to the other. Her companions saw her wince and waver, and there was pain in her face as the sorceress gathered the lightning in a nimbus around her shoulders, adding something of her own that put rosy flickerings into its blue-white coilings and then hurled it back.
In the roaring that followed, they saw the ghostly guardian become a faint shadow. Embra snapped quickly, “All of you—raise no weapon against it! Spread apart! Set down blades and other metal!”
Then she raised her hands and hurled something else at the figure—a soft, shimmering wave of force that seemed to drink the radiances ringing the casket as it swept over them. It passed over the ghostly figure and washed back from the far wall of the chamber, and when it receded again into Embra’s hands, there was nothing atop the tomb but empty darkness.
The Lady of Jewels staggered and almost fell.
Before her companions could reach her, she’d stumbled forward to lean against the tomb where the guardian had been only moments before.
Embra clung to the worn stone for support and turned haunted eyes to meet their concerned gazes. “Whatever sign of recognition it was looking for, I guessed wrong,” she gasped. “This tomb must be older than I thought.”
Sarasper put his arms around her. She tried to shake him off, reeled, and almost fell. As she recovered, leaning against the tomb again, two of the bracelets on her arm crumbled away and fell. They were dust before they hit the floor.
Hawkril looked down at them and then at Craer and Sarasper. “Drained by Embra’s magic,” they said in unison, and lifted their gazes to look again at the palefaced Silvertree heiress, leaning wearily against the tomb.
“Drained by Embra’s magic,” Hawkril repeated. Magic that also seemed to be draining her.…
Sarasper, looking troubled, stepped forward to put an arm around Embra, helping her to walk. After a few steps, she turned her face into his shoulder and shook silently; they knew she was weeping.
Wordlessly, Hawkril extended one hand, holding it out to Sarasper palm up and empty.
The healer looked at it, then at the sorceress shivering against his shoulder, and lifted his eyes to the armaragor’s face.
Hawkril nodded slowly, and Sarasper reached out and took the proffered hand.
A moment later, the healer’s skin began to glow as life energy flowed through it, from warrior to wizard. A few moments later, both of them gasped in ragged pain … but neither moved to break the flow.
Twice more they saw ghosts gliding in the ways before them, but none hurled spells at the
m—for which the white-faced and stumbling Lady of Jewels seemed grateful. It was a grim and weary Band of Four that halted in a chamber empty of all but dust and lacking any visible doors or side entrances. In their haste, they’d brought neither food nor water, but sleep was one thing they could find, and did.
The exhausted Embra fell asleep at once. Craer, Hawkril, and Sarasper stood over her for long enough to agree on watches, and the healer took the first one.
He was alone with sighing and snoring in a very short time but knew better than to sit or lie down beside his companions. Leaving the glowstone in their midst, he strolled back and forth around the room, listening for distant sounds in the dark passages.
After a time, he cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something only he could hear. He nodded slightly, as if agreeing to words spoken in his head—and then looked over the other sleepers to where the Lady Silvertree lay. As his eyes dwelled upon open mouth and beauteous face, his own face slowly acquired a smile. A truly evil smile.
7
No Pressing Shortage of Mistakes
The Ornentarn warriors in the lead were veterans of the hunt, to say nothing of chases after outlaws and adventuring forays. They knew stonework when they saw it—even under a thick green cloak of creepers and thorny bushes. One of them held up a hand and called back, “Do we know of any other ruins in this forest?”
“None,” two of the wizards replied sourly, more or less in unison. Neither paused in his enthusiastic slapping at stinging insects. Bright ribbons of sweat coursed down their faces, and dripped slowly from their chins. It had been a long time since either of those faces had worn anything that might be described as any sort of “pleasant” expression.
“Then we’ve found Indraevyn,” the warrior announced calmly. “Or what’s left of it.”
The rest of the band crowded around him. Several of the wizards wore looks of open dismay, and one of them was even moved to ask, “Are you sure?”
No one bothered to answer. There were shapes among the trees—which stood more thinly here than elsewhere—that might have been buildings, and here and there stone showed through the clinging greenery. Ruined Indraevyn was no neat expanse of grand buildings untouched by time but a sea of vines and shrubs and saplings spreading out before them cloaked in trees. A bird whirred past, ignoring the cluster of men amid the busy flies.
Several of the mages were scrabbling in belt or breast pouches for maps, then looking around very slowly and gloomily. From where they stood, it was impossible to know which crumbling, overgrown mound was the library. Nothing seemed to match their fragmentary maps and descriptions. “Are you sure this is Indraevyn?” the querulous wizard asked again.
The warrior Rivryn gave him a look of contempt and said, “While we’re exploring, bear in mind three things: those who split away to explore alone tend to die soon, we need to find drinking-water most urgently, and then a shelter we can defend, to sleep in. Libraries, right now, are optional.”
“Explore?” one of the wizards asked in bewilderment. “How?”
“Take out your knife and start hacking and peeling back,” another warrior grunted. “When and where one of us tells you to, and only where and when you’re told. You’ll be working with everyone else. You may find that last detail a novel experience.”
The mages stared at him.
One or two of them slowly drew belt knives and joined the armaragors, who were pointing at one or two of the larger mounds and discussing whether it was best to find a brook or pond first—which was sure to have bestial visitors, after dark—and work outward from there on finding shelter or whether it would be best to get a shelter and then explore for water.
The others strolled off on their own, to stand and stare around and shake their heads. A few came back to join the band, which was slowly moving forward through the overgrown ruin, looking at everything but keeping together.
“Watch your feet,” Rivryn told the mages behind him. “We’ve stone underfoot, and that means easy ways to trip or break an ankle. It also means snakes.”
“Snakes?” one of the wizards cried. “You didn’t say anything in Ornentar about snakes!”
The dark-haired warrior shrugged. “You were sitting in a room full of them,” he said in dry tones. “I thought yon were used to them.”
The wizard’s eyes flashed angrily, but there were chuckles here and there among the band of slowly advancing men.
“The land seems to fall away yonder,” another of the warriors said, pointing through the trees. “Water there, d’you think?”
Another armaragor nodded. “We could tr—”
There was a scream of terror, and a roaring, off to their right. “Find good footing!” Rivryn roared to the mages, as the warriors hefted weapons and spread out to give themselves room to fight.
One of the straying wizards burst into view over a mound of creeping greenery, sprinting hard. He promptly slipped, fell on his face with a cry of despair, slid a few stones down, rolled over frantically, and clawed his way on down the slippery green slope. Behind him loped a huge bear, yellowed teeth bared. It caught sight of the scattered band of men, roared a challenge, and came charging down the hill, clawing its way right over the shrieking wizard without stopping.
“Let it get into our midst,” Rivryn called, “and surround it. If it comes at you, fade to one side. Watch your feet first, and the bear second!”
As the armaragor’s shout ended, one of the other warriors could quite clearly be heard to say wearily, “Stupid, stupid mages …”
“Oh, by the Dark One!” said the wizard Huldaerus disgustedly. “Stop all this brave shouting, and stand aside!”
He took something from his belt, held it up, and wove a swift spell. Whatever was in his hand slumped into black powder and trickled away from between his fingers, to be lost in the faint breeze—and from his other hand streaked a dark bolt of force that sped into the chest of the bear. Black flames and a horrible screaming arose together, and the bear staggered a few strides, convulsed, and crashed to the ground, flames soaring up from its blackening body.
The warriors took a good look at it and then formed a watchful circle facing outward. The wizard who’d first fled from the bear shouted in triumph, as if he’d slain it himself. Clambering back up the mound he’d so recently sobbed his way down, to get a better look at the burning corpse, he adjusted his amber-hued robe with a flourish, repairing the damages of his fall.
Huldaerus and Nynter of the Nine Daggers exchanged sour glances. “Adventure, it seems,” the bear slayer grunted, “is rather less glamorous than fireside bards have it.”
Nynter opened his mouth to reply—and there came another roaring from the mound. They looked in that direction, in time to see the bear’s mate tearing the head of the amber-robed mage clean off. Or rather, not so cleanly off.
Nynter plucked something from his belt, blew on it, snarled a word, and threw the tiny item at the bear. It dwindled to nothing, and he turned back to Huldaerus.
“Glamorous, no,” Nynter said, acquiring the ghost of a smile, as his hastily hurled fire spell exploded inside the second bear, hurling it all over the surrounding trees in wet spatters, “but every bit as exciting.”
“Bear stew, anyone?” Huldaerus grunted—and one of the nearby warriors bent forward and noisily began to be sick.
Silent servants conducted Markoun Yarynd into a room in the castle that he’d never seen before. A stately paneled chamber stretched out a long way before him, with sideboards ranged along its wall, surrounding a large, gleaming feasting table that seemed almost larger than the room could comfortably hold.
Yet the room also held Baron Silvertree, sitting at the head of the table with a glass in his hand. Steaming platters of food sat before him, a forest of slender bottles lay in an ice trench within easy reach, and an empty trencher was laid at the baron’s right hand.
“Welcome!” the Baron said jovially. “Sit and eat, most able mage!”
Ma
rkoun knew better than to hesitate or look uncertain. “My thanks, Lord,” he said, smiling broadly, and swept to the place set for him.
Faerod Silvertree passed him a platter the moment he was seated, and for a time they dined in easy silence, until the Baron sat back, glass in hand, and said, “I’m pleased with your plan, and I wonder if you have any other thoughts on … this matter of my daughter.”
To cover the fact that his only thoughts on that matter thus far had been to keep this man from flying into a fury and ordering all their deaths, Markoun took a sip from his glass, sat back in turn, and said, “Wizards all too often fall into favorite tactics, Lord, and act accordingly. To use the old saying, ‘To a horse tamer, all beasts are horses.’ I dare not make any plans until I know more. Who are these men who came to our isle and left with your daughter? What plans are they pursuing? Where precisely are they right now, and where are they heading? All these things I would know before I set about making plans as to what to do.”
The baron nodded briskly. “Wise enough. And how would you set about getting answers?”
“By scrying into the Silen—into Silvertree House. I took the liberty, when my fellow mages retired to sleep, of examining the records in your library of the wardings cast upon it. Many, of course, are unrecorded, but there is specific mention of a scrying key—that is to say, a spell that can slip tracelessly through the wards, without destroying or damaging them, to allow visual observation of what befalls within. By your leave, I would cast this key and learn more. I can, of course, so arrange the spell that what the ‘eye’ of the spell sees is shown to us both.”
“Do so now, if possible,” the baron bade his youngest wizard, in a deceptively mild voice that left Markoun in no doubt that he was being commanded. Yarynd bowed his head in acquiescence, moved two platters out of the way, and cast the spell with unhurried precision, avoiding any flourishes or attempts at a grand, mysterious manner. A floating oval of swirling hues, like a clouded mirror, appeared a few inches above the table, and Yarynd held his hands over and under it and spoke the secret words that he’d read in the records.