Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes

by Dave Gross

  Whether by misfortune or fate, I had come to a transformative moment.

  I caused my own disability by rejecting necromancy. Now I could change that choice. Upon my fingers and brow rested the Crest and Crown of Zutha. And in my mind, as often as I cared to set them there, I could now hold any sort of spell.

  I prepared all the spells I could manage, investing a few in riffle scrolls. By doing the same each day, I could expand my arsenal over time—although I feared I would not have much more time before I must face Ygresta or, if I were too slow, Zutha himself.

  The thought of the runelord reborn reminded me of the goddess whose worship the runelords corrupted from an exaltation of virtues to an embrace of sins. I went to the shrine of Lissala that Svannostel had installed in her gallery. There I sat in lotus fashion and contemplated the icon of the goddess.

  The snake-woman resembled my mother’s astral messenger but for her six wings and the sihedron star where her head should be. I thought upon the conundrum of a deity whose teachings degenerated from seven virtues to seven sins. If Lissala could not sustain her own virtues, what hope was there for mortals? What hope was there for me?

  Seven virtues. Seven sins.

  Among the wealthiest families in an empire of wealth, House Jeggare funded artistic and charitable endeavors, from the grand opera to orphanages—but we hoarded more wealth for ourselves. Many pointed to House Jeggare as a bastion of greed.

  Childless, I had long before arranged contingencies of succession. My cousins reveled in the knowledge that my holdings would one day fall to their offspring and sustain the lineage, yet they spied upon my every assignation for fear that I would beget an heir in a moment of lust.

  Although some think me oblivious to my pride, it is but one side of a noble’s sword; the other is honor. If sometimes I had turned the blade to the wrong side, one must consider on how many occasions the coarse or provocative tested a man of my station.

  While I enjoyed great abundance, in no way could I be accused of common gluttony—not before falling into Ygresta’s trap. One might, I suppose, tally the quantity of drink I had enjoyed as a related fault.

  And if I often took my leisure abroad, such sojourns were often married to an embassy for the court or an excursion for the Pathfinder Society. Perhaps sometimes I lingered for too many weeks alone in my house. But was it sloth? I did not like to think so.

  So many times I had been angry, usually with just cause. On the battlefield or in the face of violence or cruelty, I too had been violent and cruel. Surely it is not a sin to be so when circumstances require it.

  My competitive spirit seldom manifested as envy. A few Pathfinders—Eando Kline among them—had reported discoveries I wished I had made. But could Pharasma judge me jealous?

  She could, I feared. She could condemn me for every one of the seven sins.

  Looking back over a century-old life, I could spy my sins like road markers. Much as I might strive toward virtue, like the later worshipers of Lissala I fell inevitably to sin. Perhaps that was the lesson of the goddess: there is no virtue without sin.

  I thought of my mother’s obscure martyr’s death. Had she earned a place in Desna’s realm only through sacrifice? I could never go back to a time in my first life when I was as innocent as she. What use then was a second life? Had I no path to redemption?

  Unjust! The Shadowless Sword was in my hand. A wrathful impulse propelled my arm. I stabbed the statue of Lissala. The blade sank to the hilt, screaming in a shower of red and white sparks.

  “Trickster goddess! Deceiver! Seducer!”

  My fury evaporated as quickly as it had formed, replaced by shock at my profane act. Fearful that someone would witness my sacrilege, I pulled at the sword, but it would not budge.

  What use were my apologies upon waking if I were only to sin again so soon?

  Setting my foot on the statue’s hip, I pulled with both hands. The sword budged, first with a squeal, and then with a blaze of forge-hot light. Blinded, I held the sword at arm’s length.

  “Sweet Tender of Dreams.” My relief drained away as the light faded. The blade’s once-fair surface had been stained and scarred by the heart of Lissala. Thassilonian runes glowed on either side of the blackened blade. On one side they spelled the Thassilonian word for FEAR. On the other, HOPE.

  I stared at the blade, my horror that I had spoiled the gift from a princess gradually turning to awe that a goddess—or some servitor spirit invested in her likeness—had answered my profanation of her shrine.

  But was it with a blessing or a curse? And did it come from Lissala? When one stands before the icon of one goddess and prays to another, the answer might come from either—or neither. I gazed at the runes on the blade, HOPE and FEAR, trying to remember whether those terms meant something slightly different to the Thassilonians.

  “Which do you choose?”

  I froze, for an instant fearing the statue had spoken. Yet the voice came not from a goddess but from the dragon Svannostel, who crouched behind me. Her gravest injuries had been healed, no doubt by the last of the shaman’s spells.

  “Does one choose?” I said. “Or are fear and hope inseparable?”

  Svannostel nodded with an expression of approval. “So you do have some wisdom. Did you gain it in the afterlife? Or was it muted by the curse?”

  “I will not guess your age,” I began.

  “More wisdom.”

  “Yet likely you have seen more years than I, and I have seen more than most of my countrymen. Benigno Ygresta is one of a scant few cohorts I have remaining.” I knew only two other humans who had lived a century, both granddames of Chelish houses. I had not seen them in over four years, so I did not know whether they survived. “Perhaps Ygresta is the last.”

  “Are you building to a point or obscuring the fact that you have avoided my question?”

  Her natural assumption of command reminded me of myself. I smiled, feeling a moment’s kinship with the wyrm. “If I have learned nothing else in my hundred years, it is that things—and people—are never one thing or its opposite. Good and evil, civilized and savage, kind and cruel, dignified or arrogant … these are extremes, not naturally occurring conditions. Am I a human or an elf? Yes. Am I a wizard or a sorcerer? Yes. Do I hope to stop Ygresta from gaining the powers of Zutha, or do I fear that I will fail?”

  Svannostel nodded. “Yes.”

  “Are the people in your library my servants or my friends?”

  “They will do whatever it takes to help you. So will I.”

  “Ygresta’s powers were already enough to defeat you and Kazyah, two of the most formidable beings I have met. The others cannot hope to survive another battle, even before he unlocks the powers of the Tome.” I held up my hands and looked up to see my halo of Azlanti stones. “I have the only weapons capable of defeating Ygresta.”

  “I swore to prevent the return of the runelords,” she said. “Even if it costs my life.”

  “I swear to do the same—but not at the cost of my friends’ lives. You and I are bound by oath. Will you take me to the Cenotaph? And will you fight beside me there until we or Ygresta are dead?”

  “Without telling the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “They will loot my hoard.”

  “I fear we are likely to die at the Cenotaph. Will your hoard matter then?”

  “You don’t understand anything about dragons.”

  “You said you would know if even a coin was missing.”

  “I might have exaggerated to awe your friends.”

  “They believed you.”

  She nodded. “Very well. As you said, we’ll probably die.”

  “Let us go now. Once we are well away, I will cast a spell to instruct Radovan to await us in Korvosa.”

  “So you still hope we might live?”

  “So I hope,” I said, saluting her with the Shadowless Sword. “And so I fear.”

  18

  Seraph’s Ladder

  Radov
an

  Miles behind us, I saw the dust plume again. I couldn’t tell which way it was moving, closer or farther off. I hoped it was Kaid coming back to say she’d changed her mind, but that wasn’t likely. She’d had two days to catch up.

  As soon as her mercs saw the boss flying off on the dragon, they started having second thoughts about the whole business. By the time the rest of us came out of the dragon’s lair, they were ready to ride home.

  “I signed a contract for an escort to the Sleeper,” she said. “Not a full-scale invasion of the Hold of Belkzen.”

  When she put it that way, I couldn’t hardly blame her.

  Kaid invited Janneke to come with her. I was sure she was going to take her up on it, but Janneke said, “When I take a job, I finish it.”

  “Have it your way.” Kaid put on her helmet.

  “Wait a second,” said Janneke. She gave Zora a hard look. “You can go with them if you like.”

  “What about your bounty?”

  “The count’s a rich man. If we get to him in time, I expect a handsome bonus.”

  “And if you don’t get to him in time?”

  “I caught you once,” said Janneke. “I can find you again.”

  Zora glanced at Kaid. “How do I know your friend won’t turn me in?”

  “I’ll never go back to Korvosa,” said Kaid. “Besides, you said something about valuable magic to trade. I’ll take that instead of your bounty.”

  Zora looked at me.

  “Go on,” I said. “Get back to Korvosa. And give your Sczarni buddies a message from me.” I showed her the tines.

  She hugged me around the neck and whispered, “Desna smile on you, hellspawn.”

  “You too, sweetheart.”

  Kaid’s Band put Zora on one of their spare horses, and they rode west. We took the Red Carriage east, right toward the heart of Orcland.

  For the whole next day, we kept our eyes open. The boss kept the spyglass in his satchel, so I couldn’t get a good look at what was stirring up the dust. We didn’t risk stopping during the day in case they were orc marauders, figuring we might outrun them.

  On the first night, Kazyah communed with her earth spirits and told us the land was lousy with creatures for a hundred miles around. She couldn’t tell us what was in any particular direction. Maybe it was orcs. It could just as soon have been some of those burrowers she’d sensed on the way from Kaer Maga.

  I swung from the back ladder to the carriage running boards and let myself back inside.

  Eando and Illyria sat on the front seat, comparing spellbooks or something. On the back seat, Kazyah snoozed beside Janneke. Arni put his head on the seat between them, hoping for scritches.

  Rather than squeeze in, I lowered a side seat and put my back against the little wall between the front and back doors. I wished I’d had something to give Arni under the table. Since he’d seen me hurt the boss, he didn’t come when I called.

  Something about the crowded carriage bugged me. It took a second for me to realize Illyria must have summoned another driver to give Janneke a break. It made me nervous to think that a spell was holding the reins.

  “You know, maybe the boss was right. We ought to have someone up top in case something happens.”

  “You were just out there,” said Eando. “What did you see?”

  I told him about the dust plume.

  “I’d feel better if we could see what’s causing that,” he said.

  “Varian has too much of a head start,” said Illyria. “We can’t stop to investigate every disturbance on the horizon.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” he said. “The most urgent thing is to reach the Cenotaph before Jeggare gets in over his head.”

  “If something’s following us,” I said, “we’ve got to be ready to put up a fight. Do we know a good place to stop tonight?”

  “How about the stairs?” said Eando.

  “What stairs?” I said.

  “They’re called Seraph’s Ladder because they rise up toward Heaven. I’ve heard tales of spirits walking up or down the steps.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  Kazyah opened one eye. I guess she wasn’t sleeping after all. “Only at midwinter,” she said. “Or so the elders say.”

  “The orcs shun the site, don’t they?”

  Kazyah spread her hands. “I cannot say. Beyond their raids in our territories, I know little of their ways. You know more than I.”

  “My exploration of Belkzen occurred in less than ideal circumstances.”

  “You knew it was safe to camp in that landshark drift,” I said.

  When we found what looked like a crater in the grassy plain the day before, Eando looked around until he found some melon-sized dung pellets. He broke one open to see it was still wet inside. He said that meant the creature wasn’t coming back soon, and other predators avoided the nests, making it a safe place to camp. Even Kazyah seemed impressed.

  “We aren’t likely to find another one tonight,” he said. “Unless Kazyah has heard of some reason we should avoid the site, I suggest we stop at Seraph’s Ladder.”

  “Good,” said Illyria. “I’ve always wanted to see that monument.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” said Eando. “If you climb back up top, you might see it soon. Look northeast.”

  I thought it ought to be somebody else’s turn as lookout, but I knew they were all as tired as me. I stepped out and swung up top.

  Once we got away from the mountains, the badlands eased down into plains. Grass hissed against the carriage’s belly. The phony driver held the reins in the seat ahead of me, guiding the horses around rocks and gullies. Behind us, the sun was headed toward the red horizon. Ahead, the green sea of grass was turning blue with twilight.

  Eando was right. I saw it right away.

  From a distance, it looked a little like a giant tree stump. As we got closer, I could see its lines weren’t natural but man-made. Or elf-made. Or giant-made. Something made it.

  Closer still, I saw pillars supporting a rising stone curve. Then I saw it was a staircase. At the bottom was nothing but the grassy plain. The top rose a couple hundred feet above the ground, but it wasn’t connected to anything. It just ended in open space.

  I couldn’t see any ruins where the rest had fallen. Maybe somebody had scavenged the stone for buildings. Or maybe whatever had been there got disintegrated, like the boss. I didn’t know. It had to be something magic. If the boss were there, he’d have told us all about it.

  He should have been with us.

  As we drew close, Janneke swung up to the driver’s seat and took the reins from the phantom.

  “Got it!” she called down to Illyria, who dispelled her guy with a snap of her fingers. He actually tipped his hat at Janneke before vanishing, which was kind of a nice touch, I thought.

  Janneke drove us once around the base of the steps before stopping underneath the stairs. The others got out, took a look around, and we all kind of nodded at each other. Since the boss ran off, nobody had taken charge. Sometimes Eando spoke up, and sometimes Illyria did, but nobody jumped to obey. We all just sort of thought it over and nodded, or else we put in our two coppers, and everybody else thought it over before nodding or speaking up.

  I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right.

  Janneke and Kazyah saw to the horses. Eando and I put together supper. Arni prowled the area before chasing some little critter that ran from him. Illyria conjured her magic cottage, making sure to keep it behind the wide base of the stairs, where it wouldn’t stand out against the moon or stars. We had shelter if it rained, and between the nearest column and the base of the stairs, we had plenty of cover.

  Illyria said, “Shall we risk a campfire?”

  The rest of us thought it over. Enough of us shook our heads that we ate a cold supper and sat in a circle between the carriage and the cottage. Arni sat near the rear of the carriage, out of arm’s reach. Amar
anthine perched on the top of the wheel above him, her reptile eyes moving from each of us to the next as we made our camp.

  Once we got settled, I asked Kazyah, “What’s so spooky about this place at midwinter?”

  “I have never seen it,” she said, “but it is said that on that night ancient spirits appear upon the stairs above us. Some are human beings. Others are unnamable things.”

  “Unnamable things?”

  “Creatures from other worlds,” said Eando.

  Illyria nodded like what he’d said jibed with something she’d read.

  Kazyah shrugged. “Whatever they are, these things walk among the human beings on the stairs, flickering in and out of sight. By dawn they have all vanished.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said.

  “One midwinter night, an old shaman and his granddaughter came to the stairs,” she said. “The shaman told the girl to watch as he climbed Seraph’s Ladder. He warned her not to follow him no matter what she saw.

  “He began to climb the stairs. With each step, he grew younger. His white hair turned gray, and the pouches beneath his eyes vanished. His gray hair turned black, and his crooked back grew straight. He turned to look back at his granddaughter, smiling in his youth.

  “As he looked down at the granddaughter, the young man saw the red stripe of a firepelt cougar stalking through the grass. He called out for the girl to run away. Frightened, she ran up the stairs toward him. He cried out for her to stop, but she was too afraid to hear his voice.

  “With every step she climbed, she grew younger. The shaman ran down to stop her, but before they met she dwindled into a child, an infant, and then into nothing at all. He stood alone at the bottom of the stair, an old man once more.”

  “Desna weeps,” I said.

  “Is that a true story?” Illyria asked.

  Kazyah didn’t answer. When Illyria looked at Janneke, the bounty hunter shrugged. Eando stared at Kazyah, probably trying to figure it out for himself by the look on her face.