by Dave Gross
With Lady Illyria the boss had someone who could talk both magic and high society. Maybe I should have been happy for him, even if the two of them weren’t exactly cozy since the boss called her out on conjuring ghouls. Maybe I was just jealous.
Maybe I needed to spend more time with Arni. He still looked up to me.
9
The Therassic Spire
Varian
For days I haunted the labyrinthine avenues of the Therassic Spire, a towering repository of lore nestled in the Highside Stacks of Kaer Maga. The library housed countless ancient texts, including one of the greatest collections of Thassilonian lore in existence. It was one of the best possible places to seek knowledge of the runelords.
Much of the time I spent browsing, pausing now and then to ponder the logic of a system that placed bawdy tavern songs beside chronicles of the saints. Previous visits had taught me that a subtle method lay beneath the seeming chaos, but I had yet to comprehend it. Now was not the time to spend unraveling that particular mystery.
Fortunately, the venerable librarians could guide visitors unerringly to shelves devoted to any subject, from the reports of Varisian naturalists to the poetry of ancient Vudrani philosophers. They had already led me to a trove of chronicles about the runelords, including some of the oldest records I had ever perused.
My heart pounded when I first saw an unfamiliar language etched on bronze plates. The tarnished sheets had worn thin over the ages. Because my sorcerous spells inclined more toward war than divination, to decipher the script I depended on my dwindling wizard spells. Thus, I spent a morning alternately inscribing riffle scrolls and retching into a bucket in my room at the Seven Sins before returning to the library. There I released a scroll allowing me to apprehend the meaning of any language. Unfortunately, sifting through records of crop production, road expansion, births, deaths, and tax collection did little to expand my existing knowledge, but perusing them allowed me to organize what I had already learned of Zutha and his domain.
The runelord reigned over Gastash, a region now held by the orcs. In ancient days, Gastash served as the breadbasket of Thassilon, exporting food to all the other regions. Selling to both sides in times of conflict, Zutha profited from every war between his fellow runelords, none of whom dared threaten his territory for fear of starving their own troops.
On a few points I might have admired this lord of a bountiful land. Ancient scholars speculated that Zutha was the original subject of one of my favorite aphorisms: that the quill is more powerful than the blade. Among the rulers of Thassilon, Zutha was known for scholarship, diplomacy, and exquisite penmanship. If his was the hand that composed the Kardosian Codex, I could attest to the latter virtue. The scythe was his sigil, although with his many rings and magical Azlanti stones he could raze villages with a gesture or render armies to dust with a glance.
In defiance of natural mortality, Zutha performed the rituals necessary to become a lich, but not the emaciated mummy popular in Avistani art. A massively corpulent man in life, he retained his obese stature in death, continuing to feast and stuff a body that no longer needed to eat. Reveling in his gluttony, Zutha never dined on the same meal twice. As the last of his humanity evaporated, he turned his appetite to “meal-slaves,” indulging his cannibalism with victims from every tribe of Golarion.
I noted certain parallels between Zutha’s chronicle and my own life, although most were common to the noble class. The gluttonous curse from the Kardosian Codex was troubling. The circumstances of my own extended life troubled me even more. I had lived as long as Benigno Ygresta, yet rather than succumb to old age I felt more vigorous—if perhaps not as fit—than I had in thirty years. The divine source of my rejuvenation—the heart of a celestial dragon, given freely as a reward for valor—bore no resemblance to the occult art of necromancy, but I could not help wondering whether I would resort to the same methods Zutha had employed if the alternative was death.
Since I had paid the exorbitant entrance fee, the venerable librarians guided me through the twisting avenues of six great floors of tomes, compendiums, dictionaries, codices, and books of all varieties. The history of the runelords had been a popular subject in recent years, especially among Pathfinders and other explorers. They cautioned me that previous visitors might have mislaid some of the volumes for which I searched.
This news encouraged me. I dared to hope that I was not alone in seeking the missing portions of Zutha’s Gluttonous Tome. When I noticed upon my third day of research that someone had disturbed the volumes I had set aside for further study, I realized I had a rival for the information. There are no coincidences.
Thus, whenever I heard another approach, I concealed myself and spied upon him. Usually the intruder turned out to be one of the librarians escorting a guest to the desired materials. Others wandered the stacks in an effort to comprehend the repository’s organization. The library’s holdings were vast and varied, but not always selective. One might as soon happen upon a fawning biography of a living merchant as a chronicle of Azlant. The librarians were known to shelve the great Chelish operas beside cheap romances of the sort Lady Illyria concealed behind her fan.
At the sound of another person on the stair, I left open the book I was studying and stepped behind a shelf. Peering around the corner, I drew the Shadowless Sword an inch from its scabbard and watched.
I recognized the man immediately. Sheathing my sword, I saw that it had revealed no illusion or disguise. He was as he appeared, a human of perhaps thirty-five years. Since I had last seen him, a scar had cut across his right cheek and brow but spared his eye. He still kept a beard neatly trimmed along his jaw, and a thin braid dangled behind one ear. The most significant change was his skin, which had faded to a ghastly pallor.
Noticing the lamp I had left burning, he went directly to the spot I had vacated. When he saw which book I had left open, his head snapped up, scanning the aisles. I stepped out to reveal myself.
“Eando Kline,” I said. “It has been too long.”
He tensed but kept his hand from his sword. “Not long enough if the Ten sent you, Venture-Captain.”
“I assure you they have not. In fact, I no longer serve in that capacity.”
“In that case, well met.” He cast a skeptical look at me. “Did you quit, too?”
“My standing with the Society has become ambiguous.” That was as much as I cared to share until I resolved my misgivings about the Decemvirate, the secretive inner circle of the Pathfinder Society. Their enchanted masks concealed their identities as effectively as their private councils cloaked their motives. “I am here to conduct an investigation of my own. Is it possible you are researching the same matter?”
“You’re researching runelords.”
“One runelord in particular.”
“Which one could that be, I wonder?”
I wanted to know more about what he knew before I shared details, so I changed the subject. “You look pale.”
“You look younger than I remember,” he said. “A bit fatter, too.”
I tried not to bristle at that remark. “I suppose you have found the Bone Grimoire. Or is it the Black Book?”
He smiled without mirth. “The Grimoire. You must have read the Kardosian Codex.”
He knew more than I dared hope. “We have much to discuss.”
“Yeah, but not here. The librarians…”
I nodded. “I have a tower at the Seven Sins. My associates should return—”
“Until I know more about what you’re really after, I’d rather this stay between just you and me.”
Despite my respect for his work, I considered how much I knew about Eando Kline. That he had left the Society after a dispute with the Decemvirate was a mark in his favor, in my revised opinion of the Pathfinder inner circle. Yet I could not forget that Kline also appeared to suffer the effects of a curse. In that regard, at least, we were both compromised. The situation called for some measure of trust. “Very well. Where shal
l we go?”
“I know a place. You leave first. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Wary that he meant to abandon me, I considered my options. Eando Kline had always appeared to embrace the values of the Pathfinder Society: explore, report, and cooperate. Obviously we both continued to explore. For our individual reasons, it appeared neither of us obeyed the second duty. I hoped we would both embrace the third.
Arnisant awaited me outside the Therassic Spire. While the librarians accepted my word that I would not smuggle out any of their books in my satchel, they remained adamant that no non-familiar animals were permitted inside. I wondered how Lady Illyria fared in her attempts to entice Amaranthine to become her familiar. She could hardly conceal her jealousy that the drake had perched on my shoulder when we arrived. When I left the Seven Sins, Illyria declared that “we girls” were going shopping while “you boys” went to the library. I did not voice my opinion that Amaranthine would soon be immobile if Illyria did not stop bribing her with cheese and butter, much as I wished to point out she should devote more energy to minding the drake’s diet and less to bothering with mine.
Illyria had been my sole source of intelligence from the Acadamae since my expulsion, leading me to wonder whether she had ulterior motives for helping me. Did she act independently or as someone’s accomplice? Had Benigno Ygresta entrusted her with some task after his death? Was she, in fact, his murderer?
My disgust at her sowing ghouls’ teeth tainted my opinion. In many ways, Illyria seemed too ideal, presenting herself as the sort of woman I find most appealing. Yet if she designed herself for me, why did she not conceal her affinity for necromancy, which so many knew I found repellent? The longer our association, the deeper her mystery.
Kline appeared as he had promised, dispelling my suspicion that he meant to slip away. With a glance over his shoulder, he led the way out of the Highside Stacks and into the Ring districts, where the streets and shops were hollowed directly out of the city’s massively thick walls, and often completely enclosed. Arnisant followed at my heel.
We cut across Cavalcade, an industrial district where the sun slanted through gaps broken through the ceiling. A metallic percussion from the ironworks accompanied a drone of waterwheels, grain wheels, timber mills, and forge bellows. Coal smoke stung my nostrils before the breeze swept it away with the steam. At our feet, all the streams of Kaer Maga congregated to form a miniature archipelago before falling from the cliff to plunge into the lower Yondabakari River.
We stepped aside to make way for a pair of kiln-fired golems bearing loads of bolts and gears. We followed them into the district of Bis, its cavernous space lit by thousands of lamps hanging from the ceiling far above. While the floor where we walked was crowded, the grandest homes and businesses rose up the district walls on shelf-like balconies, some hanging directly overtop others. In Bis, I knew, the height of one’s dwelling generally correlated to one’s social status.
The Kiln was a prominent exception. Inside the noisy fortress, the Ardoc Brotherhood oversaw construction of their arcane-mechanical creations, from winged spy-eyes to massive steeds and war-golems. As we passed the entrance, Kline nodded at a pair of men wearing chisels as a badge of office. The men smiled back at Kline and eyed me with suspicion. I received the message: Eando Kline had friends in Bis.
He led me to a narrow wine house across the street from the Duskwardens’ Guildhouse. I directed Arnisant to stay beside the door. He sat facing the street, poised like a Tian guardian statue.
The moment we crossed the threshold, the smell of roasting meat started my mouth watering. I swallowed so hard that Kline laughed. “Hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
His smile faded. “That’s not a good sign, you realize.”
“I am aware. Still, if I do not eat soon…”
“Say no more.” He showed the barkeep two fingers. We went directly to the back of the establishment. There we settled into a private booth and drew the curtains.
I spoke first, recounting the tale of my unexpected bequest, the revelation of the Codex’s hidden text, and our pursuit of the thief Zora. The proprietor arrived with the wine, and we paused to let him pour our first goblets.
After he departed, Kline asked a few keen questions as I resumed my story, reminding me of why I held him in high regard among Pathfinders.
As my story finished, our host presented a pair of sizzling aurochs steaks with grilled tomato and herbed rice. He opened another bottle of wine and left us to enjoy our meal.
“About a year ago, I came to Kaer Maga looking for the books,” said Kline. “I’d heard stories that a taiga giant had gathered all three somewhere in the Hold of Belkzen. Using the secrets of the book, he made himself a lich, raised an undead army, and declared himself Zutha reincarnated—but that boast seems unlikely to have been true.”
“Why?”
“Because a band of fortune-seekers destroyed him.”
“And a true runelord could destroy armies with a wave of his hand.”
Kline nodded. “About fourteen months ago, some of those fortune-hunters came to Kaer Maga to sell a pair of ancient tomes. I followed them. No one in Downmarket or the Promenade could pay their price. They were starting to make appointments with wizards from Widdershins and the Stacks when one day they started asking after a thief—someone had stolen one of their books. With only one left, they went into the Undercity to negotiate with some faction of creatures dwelling in the depths. With no clue where to start tracking this thief, I followed the fortune-hunters instead.”
“Into the Undercity?”
He nodded.
“Alone?”
“I didn’t think of myself as alone as much as an uninvited member of their company.”
I raised my goblet to his courage.
“The hard part was staying close enough while remaining hidden. A few times they got ahead of me. Once or twice I had my own troubles and had to catch up. The last time I lost them, they had just fought off a mob of undead. The last time I found them, there was little left of their bodies, but their belongings were more or less intact.”
“You would have helped them if you could.”
“Would I?” said Kline. “I wonder, myself. They were happy to sell the Bone Grimoire to the highest bidder, even one of the monstrous dwellers beneath the city. I doubt they even warned potential buyers of the curse. Look at me. I scare myself every time I look in the mirror.”
“It could be worse,” I said, patting my growing belly.
“We need to find a way to break both our curses.”
“But how?” I took another bite of hot, juicy steak.
“By destroying the books,” he said.
I choked on the meat. “Destroy them, you say?”
“Yes, but there’s a problem.” Kline took a long sip of wine before elaborating. “I haven’t been able to harm the book—not with tools, fire, or acid. My research suggests that the three parts of the Tome are completely indestructible until recombined into the original whole. Even then, the methods for destroying it range from unlikely to ridiculous.”
“For example?”
“One source suggests that the only way to destroy the tome is ‘to burn it as fuel for a fire used to feed a king who has fasted from new moon to full.’”
“Is that one you deem unlikely or ridiculous?”
With a rueful smile, Kline tipped his goblet to me and drank. I finished the steak and mopped its juices with a crust of bread.
“Almost all the sources I’ve read seem more fabulous than factual. It’s impossible to divide the history from the legend.”
“No doubt Zutha’s followers intentionally muddied the issue,” I suggested. “After all, they were devoted to their master’s return, not to the destruction of his Tome.”
“Exactly.”
“You said these fortune-hunters came to the city with two books. Where is the third?”
“I was wondering whether you’d noticed that detail
. As near as I can figure, there never was a third book. Or rather, this giant lich didn’t have it. What he had was a forgery. Perhaps it was destroyed in the battle that finished him.”
“And so his killers had only two to sell. That seems likely enough.”
“Before you arrived, I sent a few messages to friends in Riddleport, Magnimar, and Korvosa in case the Codex turned up. But now you tell me that you have it.”
I nodded. “And you have the Bone Grimoire?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Agreed. But first, let’s summon the proprietor. That steak was delicious, but I need to fill in the corners. Let have the same again.”
He stared at me. “I’m stuffed to the eyes. You’ll make yourself sick.”
I began to protest, but of course Kline was right. Although I was ashamed to admit it, in the past week I had twice eaten to the point of regurgitation. At the time I blamed the incidents on my inscription of riffle scrolls, but I had to acknowledge that I had become a slave to my appetite. It was foolish to order more food. And yet …
“Shall we at least order dessert?”
* * *
As we passed through Downmarket, I paused to buy a skewer of fried cinnamon bread. Kline pulled me away before I could receive the order for which I had already paid. Arnisant woofed at him, resentful that I had no treat to share with him—not that I was in a sharing mood.
“We had no dessert!” Even to me the complaint sounded feeble.
“You’ll thank me later,” he said. “Or maybe this Lady Illyria will thank me.”
“Leave her out of this,” I snapped. In a cooler tone, I grumbled, “She watches my plate like a hawk.”
“Sounds like a keeper.”
“Did I mention she is a necromancer?”
“You said she was a benign sort of necromancer.”
“Her mentor was, surely. But she sowed ghoul teeth in our battle against the goblins.”
Kline hurried me along as I slowed to savor the aroma of roasting pheasants in honey. “Did the ghouls turn on you?”