The woman was not intent on testing those. She drew a short sword that came near to dazzling the WeavePasha’s magic-sensitive vision, matched the draw with a parrying blade in her left hand, and leaped-not at him, but at Corvus.
The kenku’s unreadable black eyes, the WeavePasha found, had not shifted their gaze from his own when the halfling launched her insane attack. The only movement the assassin made was a light cock of his head, as if puzzling over something. Then he was lost in the shadows that swirled around him, and the charging woman became lost in them as well, as they both faded from view.
A vast explosion wracked the chamber. The WeavePasha felt the warp of reality buckle, and he cursed. He would have to take a moment to see that the mystic energies boiling around him did not entice some otherworldly threat to descend on the city, which bought the kenku a little time.
Summoning his power, the WeavePasha wondered at the kenku’s luck in managing this distraction. Then he chuckled, remembering that Corvus Nightfeather never relied on luck.
“Contingencies, indeed,” he said, and went to his weaving.
As they made their way back to the tents, Cephas imagined that nothing would ever make him let go of Ariella’s hand, even though the clasp of their intertwined fingers was light. As it turned out, all it took was the strike of a wyvern, diving at speed from on high.
Trill closed her great claws around the windsouled pair, barely slowing before she beat on, gaining altitude and wheeling toward the fountain, which Cephas could see below. The impact of Trill’s gathering them up had knocked the breath from his lungs, but as soon as he could speak, he said, “Are you all right?”
Ariella nodded, dazed by the sudden, unexpected flight.
In his new body, Cephas was still heavily muscled, but not as broad of shoulder and hip as when he was earthsouled. He learned this when they dressed in the glade, and Ariella laughed at his baggy shirt and how he held his trousers up with a gather of cloth in one fist. Cephas made short work of adjusting the straps of the patchwork scale armor in his satchels, and was glad he wore it since Trill took less care with her grip of him than she did with Ariella. In fact, the wyvern seemed troubled by him.
They lurched to one side as Trill performed a wingover roll and ducked her snakelike neck down and in so that her enormous face studied Cephas briefly before she had to straighten to maintain their flight. In that instant, her tongue darted out and its tip struck Cephas full in the face, as solid as a blow from a quarterstaff. His head snapped back.
“Ah!” he cried, and would have brought his hands up to wipe the wyvern’s stinging spittle from his face, except his arms were pinned by her grip. “Why did she do that?”
“She’s confused by your new appearance!” called Ariella. “You are you but not you, so she had to check!”
“I hope none of the others use the same technique!” he said as Trill dropped them a few arm spans above the courtyard. Matching Ariella, Cephas found the wind in himself and floated down to the ground.
Their smiles died when they saw Mattias, coolly holding an arrow nocked and ready, his canes twisted into their form of a curving greatbow. The old ranger narrowed his eyes on seeing Cephas, but other than that, his only reaction was to say, “Of course. The elite of Calimport are windsouled, so Corvus and el Jhotos must have a windsouled.”
Before anything else could be said, a swirl of shadows twisted out of nowhere by the fountain, and Shan came rolling out. Like Mattias, she was fully armed and armored, blades bared like her teeth, casting about for an enemy. When she did not recognize Cephas, she charged, rejecting the twin’s usual flourished rolls and spins in favor of a full-on sprint, blades extended.
“No!” The cry came from two directions, Ariella at his side drawing her sword and Corvus behind Shan, holding out one hand.
“Shan, it’s me!” Cephas said. “It’s Cephas.” His tone was gentle, which sounded odd to his own ears. Ariella had told him that the changes in his body and abilities would be mirrored by changes in his mood and feelings.
Shan skidded to a stop, forgot his presence, and ran for the tent she shared with her sister the previous night. She stopped when Mattias called after her.
“She’s gone, Shan. So is Tobin.”
The kenku gestured for Cephas, Ariella, and Shan to approach. When they all stood together, he said, “I was attacked by a djinni skylord of Calimport. I know him to be the vizar to the pasha of games there, the man the WeavePasha believes is Cephas’s father. The djinni threatened to capture a halfling and a goliath from among my companions.”
“He’s done so,” said Mattias. “The firesouled Cabalists were his agents. They used magic far beyond what they should be able to wield, some combination of fire and air I have never seen. Cynda fought, but she and Tobin were taken. Where, I cannot say. The firesouled left by sorcery. El Jhotos had to have known they brought powerful items with them onto these grounds, Corvus.”
The kenku shook his head. “I don’t think so. Or if he did, I think their nature was disguised. Appearances deceive, functions change.” He looked at Cephas, taking in his silver skin and the short strings of crystal that served as hair where he was smooth-pated before.
“But it makes no difference,” he added. “The WeavePasha is no longer our ally and seeks to prevent us from mounting a rescue. Cephas, I have placed your life in danger, and I will offer explanations and apologies soon. For now, we have only enough time to attempt escape, and you must accept that as amends.”
Cephas did not know what to make of this swift change of circumstances, but something inside him welcomed it. He looked to Ariella, who gave him a curt nod.
“I can get out of the city on my own,” Corvus said. “Old man, can you and Trill win past whatever the WeavePasha sends against you?”
Mattias did not hesitate. “Yes. Shan can ride behind me. And Trill can carry Cephas and Ariella, at least for a time. That is, if the lady is accompanying us.”
“Even if I did not have other reasons,” Ariella said, “it is my duty to track down Lavacre and Flamburnt. If they acted at the direction of a Calimien djinni, as you say, then they acted for the enemies of my queen and stewards. The swordmages of Akanul are trained to deal with traitors.”
A long blast sounded from a brass horn atop one of the minarets of the palace. A hum rose in the air, and the tiny crystals in Cephas’s hair caught a vibration that churned his stomach.
“The WeavePasha comes!” said Corvus. “Mattias! The petrified delta of the Quag!” Shadows boiled around the kenku.
“He will know we flee in that direction!” shouted Mattias.
Corvus said, “But he dare not follow there,” and disappeared.
Mattias cursed and signaled Trill to lower her head. “But of course we dare go there. Shan! Where are you?”
The halfling came running from Ariella’s tent, a bundle strapped to her back.
Cephas kept a wary eye on Trill’s launch and approach after Shan leaped up behind Mattias, aiming to have some influence over where her claws closed around him this time. “I guess Shan thinks you’ll want your armor!” he called to Ariella as they were caught up again.
“I’m beginning to wonder if I should ever take it off around you!” she shouted, and then, despite the circumstances, when she saw his crestfallen expression, she laughed.
Many hours later, bells rang three times in the WeavePasha’s darkened inner chamber, indicating that his high vizar sought permission to enter.
He waved a hand and the woman, eldest of his grandchildren, materialized before him. She looked exhausted, and her boots and cloak were coated with dust. Before she spoke, he pointed at the decanter and crystal goblets on a nearby rosewood table. The vizar’s thanks were in her sigh, and she trudged across the room to pour a glass.
After she drained the wine in a single draft, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Mattias Farseer,” she said, “is a devil. And Corvus Nightfeather does not exist. At least, my mages can fin
d no trace of him on this or any other plane of existence.”
The WeavePasha chuckled. “Mattias is a human man. One of tremendous talents and extraordinary dedication, perhaps, but I have begun to wonder if it isn’t unshakable fidelity that defines humanity. Or at least its heroes.”
The woman across from him had heard the WeavePasha say such things every day of her life, and she was approaching her one hundredth winter. “Your dedication to the city is unshakable, Grandfather,” she said. “His dedication is to a wild animal and a handful of criminals. It is you who are the hero.”
The WeavePasha heard the note of fanaticism in her voice and sighed, knowing he’d planted it there. He trusted she would grow out of it. They always did-all but him.
“Did he kill anyone?” he asked, and stood, deciding that he, too, wanted a drink.
“The ranger? No.” She hesitated. “Though in truth, he could have.” A different note came into her voice, and the WeavePasha refilled her glass before pouring a half measure of ruby wine into his own. “In truth, Grandfather,” she said, “he could have killed me. The charms you sent with us dampened the enchantments of the bow, at least temporarily, but even after it was nothing but a length of heartwood casting mundane arrows … The reach of the thing. The speed he shot with. And he was prepared for the disenchantment. When the aetheric string failed, he pulled a length of gut from his beard-his beard! — and was shooting again instantly. That is a mighty bow you made, Grandfather.”
The WeavePasha inclined his head. “And yet,” he said, “when my magics were drained from it and its wielder faced the mightiest of my descendants, he still escaped.”
His granddaughter took a seat on a footstool, her shoulders slumping. “Yes. He and the halfling that rode behind him on the wyvern’s back. The genasi she carried dropped away in the scrubland along the coast, perhaps half a day’s ride west by horseback. I have sent out a company of the city guard, but …”
“But they will find nothing,” he said, gently finishing her sentence. “Because the windsouled will enter the Plain of Stone Spiders long before our horsemen arrive, and our commanders know they are forbidden to enter those lands.”
“Not that they would, anyway,” said his granddaughter. “Not that anyone sane would.”
“So you believe there will be deaths after all, eh?” he asked.
The woman shifted uncomfortably. “If they are fools enough to cross the old course of the River Quag, yes. But, my lord …”
“Ah,” he said. “We come to Corvus.”
“There were no deaths among those of us who flew in pursuit of the wyvern.” She saw his darkening features and rushed on. “And none of those who sought the kenku were harmed, either. But the summoners among them believed their spectral hounds had his scent near the docks and called up a chain of runespiral demons.”
“Within the city walls?” he demanded, anger in his voice. “The kin I set to guard against such things unleash them in my city?”
“In a district of empty warehouses, WeavePasha, in the Street of Stolen Stones. They judged the risk acceptable, and they never lost their grip on the leashes. The demons all converged on the same ruin, and … they all died, Grandfather. Six of them.”
The WeavePasha considered another glass of wine but decided against it. “A creditable effort,” he said dryly, “for a man you believe not to exist.”
She spread her hands. “I offer no apologies with these explanations, Grandfather. My daughter stands ready to relieve me as your high vizar.”
“Your daughter?” he asked. “You think I don’t feel old enough already?” He waved her closer and embraced her. “You performed well under circumstances I would have found challenging myself. The kenku threw the dice well-knowing what faces they would show when their tumbling stopped. He threw them on a table he believes I will not play at.”
“You believe them all to be gathering on the plain,” said the vizar. “You would go out and face them there yourself? I know you will send no others to that place.”
The WeavePasha sighed. “No, Granddaughter. I will not leave the city, as the kenku anticipated. Probably not ever again, unless the fleet your uncles build finds its ways to the waters we have dreamed of. No, Corvus Nightfeather has escaped, and he has taken a tool with him we might have used to keep the djinn occupied and away from our walls for quite some time. It might even have destroyed a few of the haughty bastards.”
The woman thought about this. “Grandfather,” she asked, “is this a tool that can be used against us? If your assassin takes the el Arhapan heir to Calimport, will he not one day be the leader of our enemies? From what you told me of the boy, he is far more formidable than his father.”
The WeavePasha nodded. “He is. And the djinn might even allow him freer rein in ruling his own people than they give that fool Marod. But I have spoken to Cephas, and while I do not know his fate, I sense that is a man who will always seek the righteous path. At least when he can see it.”
The vizar frowned. “And yet the possibility remains. He embodies a potential threat, either as a tool of the djinn or as someone who would dare to judge you unrighteous.”
“Enough!” cried the WeavePasha. “Are the threats to Almraiven we are sure of so inconsequential that you feel free to pursue one that exists at the far end of a causal chain even I can’t track?”
“Respect, Pasha,” she said. “We guard against many ‘potential’ threats.”
The WeavePasha pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Potential is something you can measure. What you’re talking about is paranoia, which can expand beyond all reason and which I will suffer in none of my kin.”
The woman stiffened, then bowed. “As you say, WeavePasha.”
The old man sighed again. He had not slept in so long. “They seek to cross the Plain of Stone Spiders, Granddaughter, a journey only armies and elementals have survived in more than ninety years. Measure that potentiality, and be at ease. I go to seek some myself, in my bedchamber, if one of you hasn’t turned it into an alchemy laboratory since the last time I saw it.”
His vizar smiled. “It remains as you left it, Grandfather. Do you remember the way?”
He raised his hand, waving her back to her seat. “Stay. Finish that bottle. It’s a new vintage from the Turmish vineyards called Wyvern’s Tears. It has to all be drunk once it’s opened or the acidity becomes unbearable.”
After he left her alone in his inner chamber, the WeavePasha’s granddaughter sat for a long time, drinking and thinking, weighing potentialities and trying to remember if her grandfather had ever before been bested in the seat of his power. She thought about her father, missing for decades since an attempt to infiltrate the City of Brass, the extra-planar capital of the hated efreet. She thought of her fierce daughter, and of her myopic son, and of her one hundred cousins, and of all the other humans in this last human city of a land once home to millions of humans-this city she was literally bound to protect.
“I am sorry, Grandfather,” she whispered. “The potential has weight.”
Her nephews and their leashed demons came to mind. There were some leashes her family had held for a very long time, indeed.
The demon leaned against its bonds, pouring all of its terrible strength into the effort of breaking them. Black rivulets of sorcery spilled from its many eyes, their fetid ducts the source of a never-ending flow of power that splashed on the rotting stone. The demon lifted several of its enormous spiked feet, finding new positions in the slurry of waste magic and crumbled rock that formed the floor of its temple prison.
Otherwise, it did not move. It leaned. With its bloated nightmare body, yes, but also with its maelstrom of dark magic and its blasphemously ancient will.
And its hate.
The hate is what kept it leaning. The hate is what drove it to forever test this boundary, what fed the rituals of its bizarre worshipers on the plain above the temple, what had kept it pouring unimaginable strength and power against
its leash, from this immobile position, for one hundred and twenty-two years.
“Spider That Waits.”
At first, the demon thought it was more chattering from the warped creatures that attended it. The spiderfolk were still more or less mortal, and mortal languages all sounded alike to it.
An image appeared in the demon’s consciousness. It was the visage of a human woman, calmly studying it. She held a twist of leather in her hand, and when it saw that, the demon howled.
“Qysara!” it hissed. “Perhaps the shame I felt when you first banished me was misplaced if you have survived until now.”
The woman shook her head, and the demon noticed something. A quiver along the jawline, was it? Or an imperfect shade in the spectrum of the shields guarding her sanity? It was a weakness, whatever it was-something to sniff out; something to exploit.
“Qysara Shoon the Fifth is dead, Zanessu, and has been these twelve hundred years. I am her descendant and namesake, Munaa yr Oma. It is I who hold your leash now.”
The demon giggled, a sound like slow bubbles bursting through some hellish marsh. “The leash was lost,” it said. “I returned after the thousand years of exile your ancestor laid on me.”
“Yes!” said the human. “And you spun your webs again for a time. But my grandfather spent decades rebuilding our family armories, hiding behind secret names and acting from the shadows, as our family was forced to for much of the time you rotted in the Abyss, fiend. Then, when the gods walked the earth …”
“When the personifications of hubris you mortals call gods fell to Earth a century ago, a man came with the leash and imprisoned me here. I remember. El Jhotos …” The demon cast a dweomer of black bile at the woman’s will, but it was seared away to nothing before it could fall.
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