PRISM PENTAD
THE VERDANT PASSAGE
THE CRIMSON LEGION
THE AMBER ENCHANTRESS
THE OBSIDIAN ORACLE
THE CERULEAN STORM
Prism Pentad • Book 3
The Amber Enchantress
©1992 TSR, Inc.
©2008 Wizards of the Coast LLC
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover art by Brom
Map by Robert Lazzaretti
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6116-0
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v3.1
DEDICATION
To Bill, Anne, Matt, and Josh
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
One - The Closed Gates
Two - Separate Ways
Three - Caravan Dancers
Four - The Ancient Bridge
Five - A Bargain
Six - Silver Spring Oasis
Seven - The Dancing Gate
Eight - Prince of Nibenay
Nine - The Bard’s Quarter
Ten - Sweet Wine
Eleven - Sudden Departure
Twelve - Tile Emporium
Thirteen - The Dead Grove
Fourteen - A New Chief
Fifteen - Cleft Rock
Sixteen - The Wild Lands
Seventeen - The Pristine Tower
Eighteen - Song of the Lirrs
Nineteen - Borys
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PROLOGUE
THE GAUNT FIGURE OF KING TITHIAN I CREPT ACROSS his antechamber on all fours, his limbs splayed to the sides and moving in the disjointed rhythm of an insect. The lower mandible of his jaw worked constantly, as if gnawing a stalk of thornstem, and his glazed eyes remained fixed on the stones of the floor. The king reached the corner, then clawed his way up the wall until he stood more or less upright. He spent a few moments trying to pull himself higher, then abruptly fell back to the floor and continued his journey in a new direction.
Two disembodied heads followed the king across the room, hovering a yard off the ground and studying his actions with worried frowns. One was shriveled and ashen-skinned, with sunken features and cracked, leathery lips. The other was bloated and gross, with puffy cheeks, eyes swollen to narrow dark slits, and a mouthful of gray, broken teeth. Both wore their coarse hair in topknots. The bottoms of their necks had been stitched shut with thread.
The beast’s mind has overpowered Tithian’s, surmised the bloated head, using the Way to mentally broadcast his thoughts. I told you he wasn’t ready for something so dangerous, Wyan.
Liar. You said nothing, countered Wyan. But it hardly matters, Sacha. If Tithian can’t escape the kank’s mind, he would be no good to us anyway.
Though he realized the heads were conversing, Tithian did not understand the meaning of their words. Ten days ago, he had used the Way of the Unseen to establish a mental link with a kank, intending to spy on an adversary who would be riding it out of the city. When he had expanded the contact, the beast’s bizarre senses had disoriented him, allowing the creature’s natural essence to overpower his mind. Now, the most primitive part of Tithian’s intellect believed him to be the kank: an insect twice the size of a man, with six canelike legs, a jacket of chitinous black armor, and a pair of bristly antennae on its head.
Tithian felt a strange rumble beneath his armpits, where, on a kank, a pair of drumlike membranes served as ears. The sounds rolled through his torso in muted tones that he dimly recognized as the voice of Sadira, one of the three people upon whom he was spying. As with Sacha and Wyan, the words seemed a meaningless garble.
The rational part of Tithian’s mind, the tiny spark of intelligence that knew him to be a monarch instead of a kank, wanted to comprehend what was being said. It was for that reason that he had originally joined his mind to the beast’s, and, despite his setback, the king remained determined to see his plan through.
Tithian focused his rational mind on the core of his being, that space where the three energies of the Way—spiritual, mental, and physical—converged in a tempest of mystical force. He visualized a cord of golden fire running from the nexus into his mind. An instant later, he felt an eerie tingle rise through his body. Though he knew it would fatigue him, the king continued to draw until even his fingers and his toes burned with energy. If he wished to overpower the beast’s instincts, he would need all the power he could marshal.
When he felt as though he would explode, Tithian used the energy to picture himself inside his own head: a gaunt, sharp-featured man with a hawkish nose, his long auburn hair encircled by the golden diadem of Tyr.
The insect immediately countered the maneuver, raising the image of a kank from the mucky gray terrain of the king’s mind. The beast struck quickly, opening its mandibles and darting forward to seize its prey. Tithian leaped away and hit the ground rolling. By the time he returned to his feet, the creature was turning to attack again.
The king visualized a pair of wings growing from his back. His body tingled as more energy rose from his nexus, then the appendages appeared. The kank lunged, and Tithian flipped his new wings wildly. He rose off the murky ground, barely avoiding its pincers as they clacked shut beneath his feet.
Before the dim-witted creature realized where he had gone, the king lowered himself onto its back and grasped its antennae. The kank sprang into the air, trying to throw off its unwelcome rider. Tithian held tight, pulling hard on the bristly tendrils in his hands.
The beast returned to the ground squealing in agony and alarm. Its antennae were attached directly to the nerves in its head, and any attack against the crucial appendages was a devastating one. The kank tucked in all three of its left-side legs, attempting to roll over and crush its rider.
Tithian was ready. Again drawing energy from within himself, he visualized the terrain inside his mind turning from ground to fog. His stomach felt as though it had risen into his throat, then he and his mount found themselves tumbling through gray haze. The king continued to pull on the kank’s antennae steadily, assserting through the constant pressure that he was the beast’s master. The kank struggled only a few more moments before resigning itself to Tithian’s domination.
The king did not have to wait long to know that he had overpowered the creature’s instincts. The kank had barely stopped struggling before its ear membranes resonated with a familiar voice. This time, with his own mind fi
rmly in control of his perceptions, Tithian understood the words.
“What’s wrong with your kank?” It was Rikus, one of the men accompanying Sadira.
“I don’t know,” Sadira answered. “It went mad and tried to throw me. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Unable to distinguish between what was happening inside and outside its head, the kank had reacted physically to Tithian’s attack. Hoping to soothe Sadira’s concerns about her mount’s behavior, Tithian lightly tapped the antennae of the insect trapped in his mind. Both it and the true creature, the one that Sadira was actually riding, started forward.
“Whatever upset it seems to have passed,” observed Sadira’s second companion, the nobleman Agis of Asticles. “Let’s push on. Kled must be near, and I’m anxious to meet Er’Stali. From Rikus’s stories, he’s as learned as any sage in Tyr.”
“I’m no judge of that,” Rikus said. “All I know is that he’s the only man alive who’s read the Book of Kemalok Kings.
“You’re sure he’s still in Kled?” asked Agis.
“Of course,” Rikus assured his friend. “His knowledge of the book is all that remains of the dwarves’ history. The whole village would die before giving him reason to leave—or letting something kill him.”
Though the two men were only a few yards from Sadira’s mount, Tithian saw them as little more than a blur. A kank could focus only upon nearby objects—customarily the rocky ground over which it walked. Everything else seemed part of a hazy curtain of shapes and colors, with even the slightest movement causing a flash of light to sparkle in its eyes.
Because a kank’s range of vision did not include its rider, Tithian could not see Sadira at all. Still, he was far more aware of her presence than that of either Rikus or Agis. Through the kank’s mind, he felt her weight on his back, spread along its entire length by the section of chitinous shell covering the beast’s thorax. He could also smell her, for the insect’s bristly antennae were loaded with the scent of sour human skin, carefully masked with the fragrance of silver-thorn blossoms.
After the trio had ridden in silence for a few moments, Sadira asked, “Are you sure there’ll be something in the Book of Kings to help us, Rikus?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s our best chance,” the gladiator grunted. He shrugged, and to Tithian it appeared that bronze lights were twinkling around his shoulders. “We’ll never stop the Dragon unless we find a weak spot.”
“Er’Stali’s knowledge is our only hope,” Agis said. He nodded in agreement with Rikus, and bursts of black light appeared around his head. “If he can’t help us, we may not be able to prevent Tithian from giving the Dragon his levy.”
“Never!” answered Sadira. “I won’t send a thousand peope to such a gruesome death.”
“Then what will you do, if the Dragon cannot be stopped?” demanded Rikus.
“Call all of Tyr to arms,” Sadira answered. “We’ll stand as one.”
“Then we’ll die as one,” snapped Rikus. “Some evils can’t be destroyed with force—I learned that in Urik.”
“So you would surrender?” Sadira asked bitterly. “The man I remember from Tithian’s gladiatorial pits would never have considered such a thing.”
“Because he fought nothing but men and beasts—and if he lost to them, it was only his own life that was forfeit,” Rikus countered, his voice booming sharply through the kank’s—and Tithian’s—body. “Now we have a greater responsibility, one that cannot be taken so lightly.”
“That’s true, Rikus,” agreed Agis. “But neither can we sacrifice a thousand lives without a struggle. If we have even the faintest hope of saving them, we must try.”
With that, the noble used a small switch to tap his mount between its antennae. The beast broke into a trot, its sticklike legs clattering over the rocky ground as it continued toward Kled.
When it became clear that the conversation had come to an end, Tithian withdrew most of his attention from the beast’s mind and focused on his own antechamber.
“By Ral!” he cursed, his angry voice echoing off the stone walls. “I should have them all killed!”
“So we have told you many times,” said Sacha, the bloated head.
“It isn’t difficult to arrange,” added Wyan, a light of anticipation burning in his sunken eyes.
The two disembodied heads drifted around to face Tithian, staying at eye level as he returned to his feet.
“What have they done to bring you to your senses?” asked Sacha.
“They know about the Dragon’s visit,” Tithian reported.
“Hardly surprising, when you let them plant agents in your palace,” hissed Wyan.
“Better to suffer spies you know than those you don’t,” countered the king. “Besides, it’s not what they’ve learned that angers me, but what they intend to do with the knowledge.”
“Which is?”
“Deny the Dragon his levy,” the king answered.
“Let them try,” suggested Wyan, baring his yellow teeth. “They’ll all die, and no one will hold you to blame.”
“No,” Tithian answered, shaking his head. “I’ve my own plans for the Dragon—and they don’t include having him angered by such foolishness.”
Tithian’s chamberlain interrupted the discussion by stepping into the room. She was a blond woman, with a stately form that could not be hidden beneath her uniform of priceless chain mail.
“Excuse the intrusion, Mighty King,” she said, bowing.
“Who summoned you, wench?” demanded Sacha.
“Leave us, or you’ll pay a high price for your impudence!” snarled Wyan.
The chamberlain raised an eyebrow at the threat, then cast a steely gaze at the two heads. After a moment, she turned her attention to her king. “The halfling chieftain Nok requests the honor of an audience,” she said.
Tithian recognized the name, for Nok had supplied the weapons that Rikus and Sadira had used to overthrow Tyr’s last monarch, the sorcerer-king Kalak. “What is the nature of his visit?”
“He refused to say,” answered the chamberlain.
Tithian pondered the breach of courtesy for several moments, trying to decide whether the halfling had meant to insult him or simply did not understand civilized protocol. Finally, he said, “I’m unavailable for social calls until tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll suggest he return at that time,” the chamberlain said, bowing.
Tithian dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He did not believe Nok had come so far to make a casual visit, but he never received visitors without knowing what they wished to discuss. It was not so much a habit of arrogance as one of political acumen. A man who thought about his conversations beforehand was less likely to say something he regretted later.
As the chamberlain stepped beneath the archway leading from the room, she reached for the sword on her belt. “I said to wait in the vestibule,” she snapped, speaking to someone outside the room.
Before she could say anything else, a surprised scream erupted from her lips. A bloody splinter of wood sprouted from her body, shredding her chain mail as though it were cloth. She stumbled back toward the center of the room, gurgling in pain and feebly clutching at a burgundy-colored spear piercing her chest.
At the other end of the spear stood a halfling covered in greasy green paint and dressed in a cape of feathers. A crown of fronds encircled his tangled mass of hair, a golden ring hung in his nose, and a ball of obsidian dangled from a silver chain around his neck. Behind him were a dozen more halflings, adorned in simple breechcloths and carrying small bows with tiny, black-tipped arrows.
“An intruder and a murderer!” hissed Wyan, fixing his narrow eyes on the halfling leader.
“Kill him!” cried Sacha, licking his lips with a long red tongue.
The two heads split up to approach from different sides, but the king quickly waved them off. Even if he had not already guessed the halfling’s identity, the weapon in the chieftain’s hands would have warn
ed Tithian to be careful. It was the Heartwood Spear, the magical javelin that Nok had loaned for the purpose of killing Kalak. In addition to penetrating any armor, the oak shaft would protect its wielder from the Way—which meant that Sacha and Wyan would be as ineffectual as gnats against him.
Turning his attention to the halfling, the king demanded, “How did you get past my sentries?”
“The same way I passed your chamberlain,” answered the halfling, pulling his spear from the woman’s body. She collapsed to the floor and did not move. “Do you truly believe your guards strong enough to prevent Nok from going where he wishes?”
“Of course not. But I did expect you to show me the courtesy of not murdering them,” Tithian replied. Though it hardly surprised him that the halflings had dared to kill his guards, it was that they had done so in such silence that amazed the king. Apparently, the legends regarding their hunting prowess were not exaggerated.
When Nok made no reply, Tithian said, “Now tell me why you invaded my privacy.”
“The woman Sadira,” the halfling said, scowling at the king’s tone. “You must give her to me.”
“And why must I do that?” Tithian demanded.
Nok swung the Heartwood Spear around and pressed it to Tithian’s rib cage. The tip passed into the flesh with unnatural ease, sending a small runnel of blood trickling down the king’s abdomen.
“Because I demand it!” the halfling hissed.
Tithian reached down and guided the spear gently away. “You have much to learn about diplomacy,” he said evenly, meeting the halfling’s scowl with steady eyes. “But as it happens, Sadira is making a nuisance of herself. I’ll let you have the woman—providing you capture her.”
“I would not trust you to do it for me,” the halfling said, regarding Tithian disdainfully. “Where is she?”
The king gave Nok a condescending smile. “In the desert. A hunter of your skill should have no trouble tracking her down.”
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