Lies of Light

by Philip Athans

  “All you’ve talked about for months is how ‘they’ will eventually win,” Devorast reminded him.

  “In the name of every god in the steaming Astral, Ivar, I didn’t really think it would happen. I mean, honestly. Marek Rymüt is dangerous—but he’s dangerous to people like me, not to people like you. And Willem Korvan?”

  Devorast shrugged at that.

  “I should thank you, still,” Surero said. “You’ve been very kind to me, in your own way. I won’t forget that you’ve supported me all this time since the … since we came back to the city. I can never forget that. If I’m alive today it’s because of you.”

  “Why did the Thayan have you released?”

  Surero almost gasped, he was so startled by the question, but he answered, “I have no idea. And don’t think that question hasn’t plagued me.”

  “He would have done it for some reason,” Devorast went on. “You think you’ve been beaten now, but what of then? He had you in the ransar’s dungeon. All he had to do was say one word in the Chamber of Law and Civility, and they would have hanged you.”

  Surero rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, heaved a great sigh, and said, “No, they would have beheaded me.”

  “In Cormyr, you would have been hanged.”

  Surero laughed and said, “Six of one …”

  Devorast went back to his soup, and Surero picked up his own spoon, thinking he might give it a try, but he just didn’t want it.

  “I can’t even feed myself,” the alchemist said, his voice quiet, his heart heavy. “I have no means to keep myself alive but the mercy of others.”

  “Your smokepowder is unrivaled,” Devorast said. “I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

  “I wonder how far away I will have to go before someone will be willing to risk buying it from me.”

  “Marek Rymüt’s power doesn’t extend beyond this city,” Devorast told him.

  “So at the very least he’s driven us out.”

  “Leave if you want to,” Devorast said, then paused to finish his soup. “I still have work to do.”

  “No, Ivar, it’s over. The canal is theirs.”

  “No,” Devorast said, and Surero almost fell out of his chair, driven back by the weight of Devorast’s self-confidence. “That canal has never been anyone’s but mine, and it always will be.”

  53

  29 Eleint, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

  THE NAGAFLOW

  Though the water in the wide river was muddy and brown, from a thousand feet in the air, details were revealed. Insithryllax soared on a warm updraft, his huge wings unfurled. The warm air rushed along their surface, and the great wyrm reveled in the sensation of flight. It had been too long since he’d allowed himself to truly fly—too much time spent in the form of a human, contained in their claustrophobic buildings, or in the sharply delineated confines of Marek Rymüt’s pocket dimension.

  He dipped down to avoid disappearing into a low cloud where he wouldn’t be able to see the river below him. He would be easier to see from the ground, but no one was expecting him, so there was a good chance they wouldn’t be looking up. Even then, there was little anyone could do from still nearly a thousand feet—not to a creature as powerful as he.

  As much as Insithryllax enjoyed the freedom of the air, he longed for the thrill of the hunt as well, and it was that longing that kept his attention on the river. He saw a promising shape, but quickly realized it wasn’t slithering the way it should—it was just a log. The outline of a boat revealed itself from under half a dozen feet of water near the eastern bank. It had been there for at least a year.

  He beat his mighty wings once as the cloud passed overhead, and he gained altitude. He’d come almost to the northern end of the river where it widened into the long, narrow lake, and so he tipped his right wing down to make a gentle turn in that direction. He kept his eyes on the river, and before he was able to turn all the way back around to the south he saw it.

  From over a thousand feet it just looked like a snake. The thing slithered through the water, twisting and dipping in pursuit of something he couldn’t see from so high up—a school of fish, most likely.

  The dragon moved his wings in subtle ways and turned in a series of ever-narrowing spirals. Flapping his wings again would have helped him align himself in the air better, but it would have made a lot of noise—maybe even enough noise to be heard from the river below. To avoid that he continued to soar, changing the shape of his wings to move in the air.

  When he was properly aligned, his lips curled up into a great toothy grin. Eyes still on his prey, he angled his head down at the swimming creature, then tucked his wings to his side. He fell, and fell fast.

  The air whistled in his ears. His fifth eyelid slipped over his eyes to protect them, but the transparent membrane still allowed him to see. He arrowed at his target, coming at it from behind. The creature didn’t turn to look at him. It continued on its way, not diving deeper, or trying to avoid the enormous black dragon in any way.

  Insithryllax opened his mouth and worked up a full volume of acid in the glands on either side of his lower jaw, under his tongue. It felt as though his face was swelling—and it was an unpleasant sensation. It made him want to empty the acid, spray it over his prey in a deadly black rain, but he resisted the temptation. From so high up and into the water, the acid would be far less effective than it would be when he was closer to his prey.

  He was nearly there when he caught motion out of the corner of his eye: another naga swimming toward the one he dived at. The second of the two snake-creatures looked up and over at him. They didn’t quite make eye contact, but the naga’s eyes widened in surprise—it saw him.

  It was too late for Insithryllax to change direction, so he smashed into the river water with a spectacular splash. The naga he should have bitten in half the second after he hit the water had been warned by its companion, and it squirmed out of the black dragon’s path.

  Insithryllax arched his back so that he was almost bent in half, and he swooped through the cold water. He broke the surface with the naga—which one of the two he wasn’t sure, but didn’t much care—only a few feet to the side of him. He twisted his neck and bit, but the huge snake-creature slithered out of harm’s way fast, and the black dragon’s jaws came together on nothing but dirty river water.

  Though frustrated by the failure to make quick work of the naga, Insithryllax drank in the smell of the river water, which was so like the swamp back in Thay where he’d spent the first ninety-six years of his life—before Marek Rymüt found, charmed, then befriended him.

  The dragon’s next instinct was to flood the water in front of him with his caustic acid, but he stopped himself. He had to make it look as though—

  Pain flared in his side, and the dragon clawed out with both left legs. He twisted his great neck around and saw the shimmering after-effects of some sort of Weave energy sparking along the ebon scales on his left side.

  Movement from the corner of his eye, and he whipped his head at an approaching naga. The thing growled out an incantation as it slithered toward him, and against his better judgment Insithryllax let loose his acid breath. A cloud of what looked like black smoke clouded the water and rolled over the naga. Its words sputtered to a halt and turned into a reedy squeal as the caustic liquid, diluted as it may have been, began to eat at its face.

  The flesh fell away from the naga’s skull, and its eyes dissolved into the water. Its long, snake’s body spasmed, cramping and twitching in a ghastly death-dance that kicked up soot and floating debris—including strips of the naga’s own burned flesh and bone.

  Though the naga was dead, in an effort to salvage it for his own purposes, Insithryllax turned in the water and sliced the top quarter of the serpent-creature clean off with one swordlike claw. The body drifted on the river current, and the dragon started to reach for it, but changed direction again—fast—when the second naga passed close enough to be seen in the murky
water.

  “What do you want here, wyrm?” the naga asked in Draconic.

  Insithryllax found her voice pleasing somehow—maybe it was just because she spoke his native language, and it had been so long….

  He turned, floating, still submerged in the cold, murky water. He drew in a great lungful and relished it. It had been a long time, too, since he’d spent any time underwater.

  Facing the naga, he bared his great fangs in a sneer. The naga twitched in the water and backed off. She began to rattle off a spell, and Insithryllax snapped at her, his long neck closing the distance between them with a single pulse of coiled muscles. The naga managed to slither backward in the water so that the dragon’s jaws came together only inches from her.

  She finished her spell, and the water pounded against Insithryllax’s face so hard it curled his lips off his teeth. He had to slam all of his eyelids shut, and still it felt as though the water moved so fast it might scoop them from his skull. Water was forced up his nose, and he coughed out a spray of bubbles—but the bubbles instantly popped. The water pushed his head back and to the side, and it took all of the great black wyrm’s considerable strength to keep his neck from snapping.

  He unfurled his wings in the water and brought them down and forward once, pushing as hard as he could. Though he didn’t quite manage to counteract the fast-moving current, magically generated by the naga, he did lift himself up and out of the focus of its effect. He was at least able to open his eyes.

  Insithryllax’s head lay just a few inches beneath the surface. He twisted his head around first right then left, and saw the naga floating, her lips moving, her eyes burning at him.

  He pulled together the energy for a spell of his own, feeling the power coalesce in his throat.

  The naga finished her spell first, and she shot up out of the water like an arrow loosed from a bow. Insithryllax had only to lift his head above the water to trace her path—straight up, trailing water beneath her like a wake in the sky.

  She arced over the surface of the river, slithering in the air as though struggling with the sensation of flight. Insithryllax drew in a breath and roared.

  The spell he’d cast augmented the already deafening sound into a physical force. The naga cringed at the sound and dipped in the air. Her tail splashed in the water then she curved back up and away, skillfully avoiding the hammerlike effect of his enhanced roar.

  Insithryllax’s spell effect faded as quickly as it had manifested, and the naga slithered and twisted until she stood almost perpendicular to the surface. She shot straight up again, then turned for the far bank.

  Insithryllax beat his wings once, generating great waves that crashed against the riverbank, swamping the thick vegetation.

  He watched the naga fade from sight as she flew away by the power of a spell. The naga was smart enough, then, not to face him. But she was a witness. Insithryllax wondered if that would matter—and if it was worth chasing her down.

  With his version of a shrug the wyrm sank back into the water and followed his nose to the three-quarters of a dead naga he’d left floating in the current. When he found the body he wrapped a huge, handlike claw around it, beat his wings over and over again until they not only broke the surface but had shed most of the water that clung to them. He took to the air, shook himself dry—or dry enough. His scales still glistened with river water when he turned south toward Innarlith carrying the dead naga. He cast a spell that rendered him invisible so the poor little people of that petty city-state wouldn’t come to a complete halt while they watched a dragon land in their midst.

  54

  1 Marpenoth, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

  THIRD QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Marek wondered at the feeling of familiarity, being in a temple where he knew he was unwelcome. Not that he was particularly unwelcome at the Cascade of Coins. Maybe it was the location, in the Third Quarter among the tradesmen and workshops….

  “It could be that I’m uncomfortable with temples in general,” he said.

  Pristoleph nodded, and Marek could detect at least a trace of sincere camaraderie. It was a strange sensation.

  “I never had a religious upbringing,” Marek went on, “and a life of study in the Art has taught me not to rely on the whims of gods and goddesses, but to force power from the eternal Weave.”

  “Careful,” Pristoleph said, pausing to sip wine from a gleaming gold cup, “that kind of talk might attract thunderbolts in a place like this.”

  Marek winked and said, “I’ve risked worse.”

  “Why come then?”

  “It is the sort of social gathering one needs to attend,” the Thayan replied, “whether one likes it or not. I’d like to think I’m not the only one here under false pretenses.”

  “Waukeen seems the type to forgive and forget,” Pristoleph said. “For the right price, anyway.”

  “You’re circling him,” the Red Wizard risked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Salatis.”

  Pristoleph smiled, and declined to answer directly. “So, who will you honor tonight?” Marek asked. “Wenefir?”

  “Marthoon is a festival honoring guards,” Pristoleph said.

  “And isn’t he—?”

  “Wenefir is my friend,” Pristoleph cut in, his gaze cooling rapidly.

  “Of course,” Marek replied with a curt bow. “I apologize if I suggested otherwise. I meant only that it’s well known in the city that he … looks after you.”

  “As I look after him.”

  “Of course,” said Marek. “Is it true that they have a dozen of these?”

  Pristoleph nodded and said, “But not all in honor of guards. And you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who are you here to honor?” Pristoleph asked. “Surely not Salatis.”

  “I suppose one could say that I’m here to honor guards in general.”

  “A fine answer,” said Pristoleph. “I wonder why you feel I’m circling him.”

  “The priests here are calling themselves ‘Waukeenar,’” Marek said. “I could have sworn they were ‘Waukeenites.’”

  “No, I think it’s always been ‘Waukeenar,’ but I could be wrong,” said Pristoleph. “Apparently I’ve been too busy circling the ransar to study church protocol.”

  Marek smiled and said, “We’re all very busy, aren’t we?”

  “It’s always good to have one’s day full.”

  “I wonder how much more full a ransar’s day is,” Marek said. “Of course, should he find he was able to trust his friends, a certain amount of pressure could be set aside.”

  “Trust?” Pristoleph asked. “Really?”

  “I know it can be difficult to imagine, but let’s say that if he should decide that a new aqueduct is required, say,” Marek explained, “perhaps the ransar would trust his closest allies to make sure that the right people are allowed to supervise its construction.”

  “Speaking of construction,” Pristoleph replied, his eyes roaming the space above them, “what do you call this?”

  Marek followed the senator’s eyes up the length of a tall marble column. The column, and seven more just like it, supported a triangular roof that protected the wide front doors of the temple. The festivities had spilled out into the street in front of the building, and the doors had been left open and unguarded—the guards were being honored within, showered with gold and silver coins, with like sums being thrown into a deep well that served as the centerpiece of the temple proper.

  “That would be a portico,” Marek replied.

  “Portico …” Pristoleph repeated, as though he’d never heard the word. “I suppose it’s important to have an entrance that conveys a sense of power.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why Salatis?” the senator asked.

  Marek blinked at the question, and took a step backward. Pristoleph raised an eyebrow and stared at him, waiting for an answer. In order to simply have something to do while he thought, Marek
laughed. Pristoleph smiled, but didn’t join him in laughing.

  “It’s terrible in there, isn’t it?” Marek asked. “All the colors … it confuses the eye.”

  Pristoleph glanced through the open doors at the garish decorations, rugs with intricate designs, everything gilded and overly decorated.

  “I keep trying to focus on one thing,” the Thayan said. “I think if I can pay most of my attention to one thing among many, I might be able to put up with the confusion around me.”

  “But when there is so much detail,” Pristoleph said, “so many colors, and all this embarrassment of riches, it can be difficult to choose one thing worthy of attention. Certainly it’s not something that should be selected at random.”

  “I will admit, though with some reluctance,” said Marek, “that I too often act with some impetuosity. But then one always hopes he’ll think through every decision with care, but time and circumstances don’t always allow that luxury.”

  Pristoleph smiled and tipped his chin down in the tiniest bow. His bright red hair moved in a way that seemed unnatural, as though it had a life of its own. Marek couldn’t look away from it.

  “Perhaps,” the Red Wizard said, his voice low and coming from deep in his throat, “a little impetuosity might do me well tonight.”

  “Risking a thunderbolt,” Pristoleph said, looking Marek in the eye and slowly, infinitesimally shaking his head, “I wonder what you think of the persistent rumor that the Merchant’s Friend has actually fled her worshipers.”

  “I have heard that,” Marek replied, forcing his face to mask his disappointment.

  “That she was killed, or fled Toril’s sphere, a decade ago?”

  “During the Time of Troubles,” Marek said. “But then, here we are.”

  “Could the Waukeenar simply be putting up a brave front?” asked Pristoleph.