Satisfied that Drollo's toys would remain undiscovered, the druid strode south toward the Reach. He intended to have a chat with the sea elves of Mercea about selling water spiders to people who haven't the foggiest idea of how to use them.
THE CURSE OF TEGEA
Troy Denning
From the look of things, times were hard for the Inn of the High Terrace. Although the supper hour had long since arrived, the veranda was deserted. In the center of each rough-hewn table sat an overturned bread basket and an old wine bottle filled with wilted poppies. The chairs were scattered haphazardly around the patio, as if the person who had last swept the floor had seen no purpose in returning them to their rightful positions.
"It appears you haven't had many patrons of late," Adon observed.
"Let's just say that tonight the best table in the house is yours," grumbled the innkeeper, leading the way across the patio. Myron Zenas, for that was his name, was a brawny man as hairy as a bear, with steady black eyes, a huge nose lined with red veins, and a beard that hung down to his chest.
"Does your trouble have anything to do with the curse on Tegea?" Adon asked.
Myron stopped. "It's not my fault," he snapped. "Who told you it was?"
"No one," said Corene.
Like Adon, the young woman belonged to the Church of Mystra, though she was a novice and he was a cleric of high standing. The black-handled flail hanging from her belt seemed curiously at odds with her golden-haired beauty, for she had brown doelike eyes, a button nose, and the gleaming smile of a goddess. "In fact, we've heard very little about the evil afflicting Tegea, save that you need help."
"It's best that you don't know more," the innkeeper said, an expression of relief crossing his face. He led the way to the far corner, where the veranda overlooked the entire village. "Tegea's problems aren't your concern."
"We've come a long way to offer help," Adon objected.
"Then you've wasted your journey," Myron replied. "Even if there was anything you could do-and there isn't-our village's grief is its own. The last thing we need is a pair of outsiders sticking their noses into our misery." With that, the innkeeper moved two chairs to the table and waved his guests to their seats. "I'll send your meal out."
As Myron returned to the kitchen, Corene whispered, "This is going to be harder than we thought."
"Not at all," Adon said, removing his mace from its sling so he could sit comfortably. "The people of Tegea will be happy for our help-once we've won their confidence."
"And how are you going to do that?" demanded the novice.
"I'll think of a way," Adon said. He looked out over the village he had come to rescue.
Located in the southern reaches of the Dragonjaw Mountains, Tegea seemed idyllic enough. The mountains surrounding it were covered with towering cypresses, as slender and pointed as spearheads. Closer to the village, the terraced slopes supported huge groves of strangely gnarled olive trees. The warped boughs were laden with silvery leaves that danced in the evening breeze and seemed to whisper the soft songs of pastoral life. In the town itself, the muffled clang of a goatbell occasionally echoed off a stone wall, but no other sound rose from the narrow lanes running through the labyrinth of whitewashed huts.
On the far side of the village, the local duke's dusky castle squatted upon the edge of a thousand-foot cliff. Its craggy towers were silhouetted against the distant waters of the Dragonmere Sea, where the sun was just sinking below the turquoise horizon.
Normally Adon would have been staying in the citadel instead of the local inn. As an important cleric in the Church of Mysteries, he could expect most nobles to extend their hospitality to him. However, the patriarch had been warned that the duke of Tegea disliked all priests, so he hadn't bothered to call at the castle.
Adon felt Corene's warm touch on his arm. "Here's dinner-at last," she said.
The cleric returned his attention to the veranda. A serving girl had just stepped out of the kitchen with a heavy tray in her hands. Her bountiful figure was accentuated by a tightly laced bodice and a billowing skirt just clingy enough to hint at the slender legs beneath. She had skin the color of ginger, with black hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders in silky waves. Her almond-shaped eyes were as brown as topaz and lined with kohl.
It was impossible to see the rest of her face. From her cheeks down to her collarbone, the maid's visage was hidden by an unsightly veil. Brushing against the skin of such a beautiful girl, the shroud seemed sorely out of place. It was made of coarse, black wool and suspended from a strand of rough twine.
The young woman rested the serving tray on the edge of their table. "I'm Sarafina, Myron's daughter," she said, placing a goblet of golden wine and a steaming bowl in front of Corene. "Tonight, we have plum wine and lamb stew. I hope you'll enjoy it."
As Sarafina turned to serve Adon, her eyes fell on the left side of his face and remained fixed there. Although the patriarch was a handsome man with a patrician nose and a cleft chin, he often elicited such stares. During the Time of Troubles, when the gods had walked Faerun in the bodies of mortal avatars, his good looks had been taken from him by a zealot. Now a red scar traced a crooked path from his left eye down to his jawline. Adon self-consciously turned his face away so the young woman would not have to look upon his blemish.
After placing the patriarch's wine and stew on the table, Sarafina asked, "Is there anything else you'd like?"
Adon continued to look away and shook his head without answering. He was not angry with the girl for staring, merely ashamed of his appearance.
"Please, Your Grace," said Sarafina. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. If you could see beneath this veil, you'd know that I'd be the last to mock another's scars."
Adon looked back, touched by the sincerity in her voice. "I thought it unusual for a woman to wear a veil in this part of the world," he said. "Perhaps you should let me have a look at your affliction. I may be able to heal it."
"I don't think so." Sarafina wiped sudden tears from her eyes. "Many priests have tried, and each time they've only made matters worse." "But I'm no ordinary cleric-"
"Please don't ask again," said Sarafina, still looking away. "Can I bring you anything else?"
"Some bread would be nice, if you have any," said Corene.
Sarafina nodded. "My mother has just taken a few loaves out of the oven. I'll bring you some as soon as it's cool enough to cut."
As the young woman returned to the kitchen, Adon shook his head in frustration. "Why are these people so reluctant to accept our help?"
"You can't blame the girl for being cautious," said Corene, pointing at the crooked blemish marring Adon's good looks. "Why should she think you can mend her face when you haven't bothered to heal your own?"
"Our travels together have made you too familiar," Adon snapped. "You'd do well to remember who's the novice and who's the patriarch."
The cleric's threat did not intimidate the young woman. "So why haven't you mended it?" she pressed.
"Don't you think I've tried?" Adon retorted. "I've been praying to Midnight-er, Mystra-since she became the Goddess of Magic."
"And she hasn't answered?"
"Not in this matter," Adon said, sipping the powerful wine Sarafina had placed in front of him.
"I can't believe Our Lady of Mysteries would deny such a thing to someone she once called friend, someone who fought beside her during the Time of Troubles."
"That was before she became a goddess," said Adon, then paused. "Now that she's an immortal, I suppose she must behave as one. She doesn't even like me to call her Midnight. That's the name of my avatar,' she says. The Midnight you knew exists only as a memory.' "
"She calls herself Mystra to honor the goddess of magic before her," Corene noted dogmatically.
"The reason she hasn't healed me is a bit more complicated than an occasional breach of divine etiquette," Adon murmured into his wine.
"Meaning?"
'That she's angry with me
for more important things," Adon answered, looking away in embarrassment. "Her church has stopped growing in the last two years, while others continue to flourish."
"Because Mystra doesn't resort to buying worshipers with misleading dreams of wealth and power, as do the other gods," Corene objected. "You can't be blamed for that."
"Perhaps not, but that doesn't change facts," said the patriarch. "Before allowing the gods back into the planes, their overlord made it clear their status and power would depend upon the faith of the mortals who worship them.
Mystra's church is smaller than Cyric's. And that means I've allowed Our Lady's foulest enemy to outstrip her power."
"But you've always said that the Goddess of Magic is special-"
"I know what I've said, but the truth is that I'm failing," Adon replied. He turned his scar toward Corene and pointed a finger at it. "And this is the symbol of my inadequacy."
"If what you say is true, what are we doing in this forlorn place?" Corene asked. "We should be back in Arabel, converting the masses to Our Lady's cause."
Adon shook his head. "That isn't Mystra's will," he said. "In a dream, she made her wishes clear. I must lift the curse afflicting this village-whatever it is."
The novice shook her head. "The will of the gods is difficult to comprehend."
'True, but in this case I think I understand Our Lady's design," Adon said. "We cannot hope to contend with the priests of the other churches. Chauntea gives her worshipers bountiful crops. Helm protects his followers from harm. Lliira promises her devotees a lifetime of bliss. As clerics of Mystra, we have nothing to offer except a lengthy and difficult study of the mysteries of magic."
"But the rewards-"
"Are a long time in coming and difficult to grasp," Adon interrupted. "No-if I've learned one thing since becoming a patriarch in this church, it's that we won't earn worshipers for Mystra by competing with other religions. Instead, we must try something different-something like what Our Lady sent me here to do."
'To lift a curse?" Corene asked.
"That's only the beginning," Adon said. "What's most important is what happens later."
Corene looked puzzled. "Now I'm having as much trouble understanding you as I do the gods."
The cleric smiled. "That's because I haven't told you the most important part of Mystra's plan," he said. "After I remove the curse, we'll convert the villagers to the Church of Mysteries. I've selected you to administer the priory we'll build here-if we succeed."
Corene looked flattered for a moment, then an expression of understanding came over her face. "You mean stay behind?" she gasped. "We're over a hundred leagues from anything that could be called a city!"
"Relax," Adon said. "The assignment isn't permanent. I'll replace you in a few years-"
"Years!" the novice screeched. "You can't do this!"
"I've done it already," Adon said. "There's no use arguing. This is where Our Lady needs you, and this is where you'll stay."
Corene downed her wine in one swallow. "Are you doing this because I mentioned your scar?" she demanded, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her robe.
"It has nothing to do with anything you've said during our journey, though you've certainly given me reason enough to chastise you," Adon replied. "I selected you for this task before we left Arabel. "
Corene narrowed her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me then?"
"Because I know how much you love the city," he said. "You would've complained for the whole journey, and maybe even tried to avoid it altogether."
"I might have," she agreed. "Throwing myself into the Starwater doesn't seem an unreasonable alternative."
"I'm sure there's no need to remind you of your vows," Adon said.
"I couldn't forget them if I wanted to-which, at the moment, I do," sighed Corene, though both knew she really didn't mean it.
Despite her disappointment, the novice remained as radiant as ever. His heart softened by her beauty, Adon tried to console her. "I know this assignment will be difficult for you," he said. "But it requires someone with an independent spirit. That's why I chose you."
Corene did not answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the far edge of the veranda. Adon turned to see what had captured her attention. There, standing just inside the cafe's entrance, was a handsome newcomer. The man had striking features, with high cheekbones, a dark brow, and a roguish mop of auburn hair that hung down to his collar. His figure was trim and solid, with broad shoulders covered by a fur-lined cape and a narrow waist entwined by a cummerbund of the finest purple silk. Ignoring Aden's presence, the fellow flashed a scoundrel's smile at Corene.
The newcomer moved toward the back of the veranda. At the same moment, Sarafina stepped out of the kitchen with a covered basket. As soon as her eyes fell on the stranger, the basket slipped from her hands, spilling slices of dark bread over the floor. She backed toward the door, yelling, "Father, come quickly!"
"What's wrong?" Adon asked, rising to his feet. "Do you need help?"
The stranger paused to sneer at him. "If you know what's good for you, traveler, you'll tend to your own business."
Myron came bustling out of the kitchen and placed his brawny form between his daughter and the stranger. "Tell your master no, Broka," said the innkeeper. "The answer was no yesterday, and tomorrow it'll still be no."
"I must hear that from your daughter's lips," said Broka. He bent down and began gathering up the bread Sarafina had dropped. "Why don't you take this to your guests? I'm aware that you've a shortage of customers these days, and it wouldn't do to let these go hungry."
"We've no complaints," said Adon. He moved toward the handsome stranger, intentionally leaving his mace behind. If it became necessary to intervene on behalf of Sarafina, there were more effective ways to do it than by resorting to weapons.
Myron raised his hand. "Stay out of this," he said. "I can protect my own daughter."
Broka returned to his feet and shoved the refilled basket toward Myron. "Protect her from whom?" he asked. "I've only come to ask a question of fair Sarafina."
"Then ask and be gone," Myron said. He slammed the basket onto the table next to him.
Broka smiled wickedly at Sarafina, "Are you ready to return the love of my master?"
"No!" she yelled. "I'll never be ready-even if he turns me into a harpy!"
"Are you sure?" Broka asked. He stepped past Myron, at the same time reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small mirror. "Have a look at yourself, and remember that all the women of Tegea share your fate."
He reached for Sarafina's veil, but Myron shoved him away. As Broka fell to the floor, the mirror flew out of his hand and shattered against a chair.
"How dare you touch me!" Broka leaped to his feet, a dagger in his hand.
As Broka stepped toward Myron, Adon smiled. The lout was providing him with a perfect opportunity to prove his power. Calling upon the magic of his goddess, the patriarch cast a spell that would make the dagger too hot to hold.
Nothing happened.
Adon stared at his hand in dumbfounded shock. Something was terribly wrong.
Broka grabbed Myron and pressed the blade to the innkeeper's throat. "Perhaps you'd remember your place if you looked more like your daughter," he hissed.
"Do something!" whispered Corene, stepping to Adon's side. Following her patriarch's lead, she had left her weapon on the table. "He'll be killed!"
Desperate to save the innkeeper, Adon attempted another spell. This time, a ray of green radiance sizzled from his fingertip, leaving a streak of white vapor in its wake. When the beam hit the blade, a high-pitched chime rang across the veranda. The knife shattered into a dozen shards.
Broka cried out in surprise, then tossed his useless hilt aside and stepped out of Myron's reach.
"Before you leave, I suggest you apologize to Sarafina and her father," Adon said.
Broka whirled around to face the cleric. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded.
"A bullyboy who torme
nts women and hides behind his dagger," said Corene. "And it's a real shame, too. Before you behaved so badly, I thought you rather handsome."
Broka ignored Corene's rebuke and pointed at the castle on the far side of the village. "I'm seneschal to the lord of that castle," he reported. "And at present, I'm conducting my master's business. I suggest you keep out of it-or you'll be answering to him."
With that, he turned back to Myron. "My instructions are to examine your daughter's face," the seneschal said, staring into the innkeeper's eyes. "If you deny me again, I'll have your whole family lashed."
"Let him, Father," said Sarafina, reaching up to undo her veil. "It will cause me no pain to have him look."
As Myron reluctantly stepped aside, Broka smirked at him. "If your daughter cared about the women of Tegea as much as she does her family, she would come with me to the castle," he said. "Then, perhaps, your customers would forgive you for Sarafina's stubbornness."
"She's done nothing wrong," said Adon. He grabbed the seneschal by the arm. "After you apologize, you'll return to your master and tell him to leave Sarafina alone."
"By whose order?" Broka scoffed.
"By the command of Adon of Mystra, patriarch of the Servants of Mystery," volunteered Corene.
This only made the seneschal laugh. "My master recognizes the authority of no churches here," he said, returning his attention to the innkeeper's daughter. "Now, let me see what my lord's curse has done to your beauty."
Adon jerked Broka back, and the seneschal came around swinging. No stranger to a fight, the cleric blocked the punch easily. He countered by driving a palm into his foe's chin, at the same time slipping a foot behind an ankle and sweeping Broka off his feet. The seneschal slammed into the floor with a resounding thump, his pained cry leaving no doubt that his impact had been a hard one.
Adon placed a knee on Broka's ribs. "Apologize."
The seneschal's only reply was to utter a colorful curse.
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