by Troy Denning
The goddess pulled Adon’s body from the pool and clutched it to her breast. Then she saw his spirit draining through the pool’s cracked wall.
“Adon!”
“Forgive me …” The patriarch’s words were garbled and prolonged. The red-clouded current had stretched his spirit into a figment from a nightmare, and his ghostly face was as thin as a snake. “Cyric tricked meee.…”
“Adon, how can there be anything to forgive? This was not your doing.” Mystra kneeled beside the fountain and waited until her patriarch’s spirit pooled on the patio in a shimmering blob. “Speak my name and I take you back.”
Adon’s face broke into a crackled pattern; the water was seeping down between the paving stones, and his spirit with it. “Say … name?” The shattered voice was shrill with fear. “That’s what … he … wanted!”
“What he wanted does not matter!” shouted Mystra. Already, Adon’s face had become nothing but a pattern of ghostly lines. The goddess thrust a hand into the water to give his spirit something to cling to. “Call me to save you, and I shall return your spirit to your body!”
There came a strangled gasp, but even Mystra could not claim it for her name; the sound could have been a worm drowning as easily as the patriarch’s voice.
Adon’s spirit sank beneath the stones.
Mystra screamed, and there was such a surge of magic that spells misfired all across Faerûn. Now Adon would be lost to her until he reached the Fugue Plain, and that would be some time hence—after he found his way out of the elemental plane of water. The journey would not be as painful as Zale’s passage through the paraelemental plane of magma, but it would still be difficult, and Mystra vowed to have her vengeance.
A swarm of onlookers arrived to gape at the corpse in the goddess’s lap. Most were her acolytes, but a few were curious townsmen who felt no shame in invading the temple’s privacy. They were all too stunned to speak, on account of both Adon’s death and the miracle of seeing one Mystra on the terrace while another hunted the kraken in the lake. A few Faithful fell to their knees and opened their hands in the starburst sign of their goddess, and others ripped their cloaks in lamentation for the patriarch. But no one thought to offer any aid, or ask what had happened, until Prince Tang ran onto the terrace.
“Lady Magic, what has happened?” The prince cradled his broken forearm to his chest and carried his square-tipped sword in his other hand. “What have you done to Adon?”
Mystra scowled. “What did I do, Prince Tang?” As she spoke, her avatar grew larger and stretched forward, so that she was suddenly looking down on the prince. “I did nothing, except trust in you to guard him.”
Prince Tang paled to the color of ivory. “Please forgive me, Lady Magic; I have made a terrible mistake. But when I saw your statue speaking—”
“My statue, Prince Tang?” Mystra stood, still clutching Adon’s body in her arms, and now she was as tall as a verbeeg.
“Your statue from the wall carving.” No sooner had the prince said this than he perceived how easily he had been duped and began to prattle on without a trace of his usual composure. “Your statue ordered me to go, then slammed the door on my arm so I could not, then it put me to sleep, and when I awoke—”
“That is enough, Prince Tang.” Mystra spoke in a milder tone, for she was a weak-willed goddess who never punished her servants for a failure they were helpless to prevent. After Tang fell silent, she lowered Adon’s corpse into the arms of four waiting acolytes. “Care well for your patriarch’s body. He will soon have need of it.”
“We shall.” They took the corpse and started for the temple.
Mystra turned back to Prince Tang, then shrank to a height nearer his. “Now let me see to that break.”
“That would be most kind, honorable goddess.” The prince presented his twisted arm. “I regret my inadequacy in defending your patriarch, but before I realized what was happening, I was asleep and unable to call for help.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
Mystra took the prince’s arm above and below the break, then pulled in opposite directions. The bone straightened with a soft pop. Tang’s legs nearly buckled, but he was too vain to scream or faint, which any honest man would have done. The goddess placed her hands over the injury, then continued to absolve the prince of blame.
“You could not be expected to keep Adon safe from another god.”
“Another god?” Tang asked. “You doubt it was Cyric?”
“Someone wants me to believe it was Cyric.” Mystra made no mention of who that “someone” was, for she did not want to say the name before so many onlookers. “And when someone wants me to believe one thing, I am inclined to believe another.”
Here, Mystra was thinking of the battle between the Hlondethar and their enemies, when Mask had bragged about duping her into proving her own guilt. She saw how it would serve the Shadowlord to start a fight between her and Cyric, and how Mask often favored such duplicity, and how the God of Thieves might steal Adon’s sanity instead of using spells or curses to wreck it. She decided this was exactly what had happened and resolved to have her vengeance on the Shadowlord.
When Mystra removed her hands from Tang’s arm, the swelling had gone, as had the purple color and every other trace of injury. Prince Tang flexed his fingers and smiled.
“A thousand gratitudes, Lady Magic.” He bowed his head, but only briefly. “The arm has healed.”
Mystra smiled. “Mending your injuries is the least I can do. Pass me your sword, and you shall have a true reward.”
Prince Tang’s eyes grew bright, and he passed the sword over at once. The hilt and scabbard were encrusted with rubies and sapphires and diamonds, but when Mystra removed the sheath, it was clear the weapon had been made for combat. The silvery blade gleamed with the legendary sheen of hundredfold Shou steel, which kept a better edge than any metal worked by mortals.
The goddess ran her finger down the blade, coating the edge with a film of her sparkling red blood, and spoke a mystic syllable. Her blood sizzled away in a wisp of brown smoke, and then a crimson light gleamed deep within the Shou steel. So beautiful was this sheen that the onlookers all gasped in delight.
Mystra slipped the sword into its scabbard. “This blade will slay any hound it strikes, whether the creature was born from natural or unnatural loins.”
Though he was as inscrutable as any Shou prince, Tang could not keep his brow from rising. “Any hound, Lady Magic?”
“Yes, Prince Tang.” A bewildered murmur rustled through the crowd of onlookers. Mystra ignored it and kept her attention fixed on the prince. “And while you hold it in your hand, no beast can follow your spoor, whether the creature be of this world or any other.”
“Ah, yes … how very nice.” Tang accepted the sword and lowered his brow, yet his eyes betrayed his confusion. Shou princes were more accustomed to fleeing assassins than hounds. “This will be most useful. I am certain it will save my life … someday.”
“It is but a small token of gratitude for the care you showed Adon. May it serve you well.”
Mystra led Prince Tang back into the temple, leaving the onlookers to whisper among themselves. She could have heard every word if she wished, but there was no need; she knew her plan would work.
The thieves of the Purple Mask had been stealing sheets of alabaster and cartloads of marble from her temple since the day construction began, and their spies had certainly been among the onlookers who watched her bless Tang’s sword. Those same spies would report the gift to their guildmasters, and the guildmasters would see at once how the weapon might benefit their divine patron. Before Prince Tang reached his palace, Mask himself would know of the weapon’s special powers—and then Mystra would have her vengeance.
Or so the stupid Harlot thought.
Thirty-One
After my audience with the One, I took leave of Arabel at once and galloped north through Tilverton and Shadow Gap into Shadowdale, home to a nation of igno
rant farmers and an irksome old twaddler named Elminster. Ruha, who had stopped in Arabel overnight to have a healer care for Silvercloud’s injured eye, followed half a day behind, as unshakable as a bad reputation. Every so often, as I crested a mountain pass or crossed a vast bottomland, I glanced back and saw a speck in the southern sky and knew she was still there, dogging my trail as the Chaos Hound dogs Mask’s. And then I cursed her for a hellhag and raised my eyes to the Heavens and asked what I had ever done to her, though of course I never received any answer. The truth was she hated me not for any wrong I had caused her, but on account of my place in the many terrible visions and dreams she had been suffering of late, and because she feared these mirages would drive her as mad as Cyric if she did not stop me.
But even had the witch been farther behind, I would have stopped no longer than it required to sate Halah’s hunger. Cyric’s visit had renewed the zeal for my sacred pilgrimage, as I had no wish to send my unfaithful wife to the City of the Dead—or to join her there, which would certainly be my destiny if I failed to recover the True Life and cure the One of his madness. With my holy devotion thus renewed, I rode day and night, giving no thought to rest or food or any need that could not be answered in the time it took Halah to gulp down her meals.
And such was my fervor that when I galloped into a muddy little village and saw the One’s sacred starburst and skull openly flying from the flagpole of an imposing black fortress, I stopped only long enough to demand a meal for Halah and myself. As usual, the acolytes were at first reluctant to feed me when I said I would not pay, but this changed as soon as they sensed Cyric’s presence in my person. Halah was shown to the goat pen, and I was taken into a great hall and seated at the head of a long banquet table. Like the rest of the temple, the entire hall was shuddering and trembling from the effects of Mystra’s unjust assaults on the One, but I was too weary to let this trouble me.
As I waited for my food, two Believers came and stood at my sides, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. One, a brawny man with flinty eyes and a narrow face, wore a purple robe trimmed in black silver. The other, whose shoulders were as wide as Halah’s, was dressed in armor of red leather, and it was he who addressed me.
“Who are you to come into Voonlar and insult Gormstadd”—here he jerked a thumb at his silk-robed companion, then continued—“by ordering his monks around in his own temple?”
I replied without rising. “I am Malik el Sami yn Nasser, and I am on a sacred pilgrimage for the One. It is a great honor for Gormstadd”—and here I jerked my thumb at the man in silk—“to aid me in any way he can.”
This caused both men to raise their brows and remove their hands from their weapons, for like any True Believer, they were quick to sense the One’s presence. Then a monk happened to arrive with a tray piled high with food and drink, and Gormstadd himself took the platter and held it out toward the red-armored man.
“Why don’t you serve, Buorstag?”
Buorstag nodded, then set the mug on the table before me and filled it with mead from the pitcher. This did much to restore my spirits, as it reminded me of the great honor and power that would be mine after I saved the One.
“You look tired, el Sami,” said Buorstag. With his own dagger, he cut a piece of bread for me, then smothered it in honey. “Perhaps you should stay and rest in Voonlar.”
I shook my head. “I am being pursued by a Harper witch, and if I let her catch me, I will never cure the One of his madness.”
I did not know whether it was my own weariness or Mystra’s spell that caused me to add these last words, but as soon as I spoke them, I realized what a blunder I had made! Buorstag and Gormstadd scowled and stared at each other and dropped their hands again to their weapons.
I leapt up to flee. Gormstadd clapped a hand on my shoulder, and Buorstag grabbed my arm, and I thought they would certainly throw me in chains and denounce me to Our Dark Lord.
But such was their awe of the presence they sensed in me that either they thought it wiser to ignore my blasphemy or did not notice it at all.
“This Harper—can you describe her?” asked Buorstag.
I saw by his white knuckles that he liked meddling Harpers no more than I. “Of course. You will recognize her by the hippogriff she rides and by the veil she wears over her face.”
“Good,” said Gormstadd, pushing me back into my seat. “Finish your meal. Buorstag will make certain that Harper never catches you.”
Thirty-Two
Prince Tang passed the day gathering his company of bodyguards and riding home to the Ginger Palace, which lay about a half day south of Elversult. He finished the trip so exhausted that he commanded his servants to wash him and put him straight to bed. He did not stir until late in the night, when he was roused from a dead slumber by a strange and ghostly baying. The howl sounded at once distant and near, as though his bedchamber had stretched to a length of many li.
Tang thought of Mystra’s gift and sat up. His bed formed its own room, covered as it was by a silk canopy and enclosed by lacquered panels depicting all manner of leering monsters. These were the guardians of his sleep, which prevented evil spirits from stealing his soul as he slumbered. When the prince heard no sound from his night servant, who sat beyond the panels at the foot of his bed, he wondered if the baying had been a dream.
Then came another howl, louder than before and so eerie that it sent a prickle up his spine. The night servant did not open a panel or make any other move to wake him, and Tang thought this strange. He reached under his pillow and withdrew a dagger of silvery Shou steel, then crawled to the end of his bed, wondering if the goddess had foreseen this when she blessed his sword. He wedged the tip of his knife between two panels and slid them apart, moving so slowly they made no sound at all.
The night servant lay upon the floor, her eyes dead and wide and fixed upon the little lamp she kept burning on the night table. The purple cord that had strangled her remained wound about her throat, and the murky shape of the assassin stood a few paces beyond, facing away from the bed. In the flickering light, the intruder’s body seemed to curl and roll like smoke. He was staring at the freestanding sword rack where Tang kept his most cherished weapons. The rack resembled a ladder, each rung a bejeweled scabbard worth an entire caravan of frankincense. In the highest berth rested the chien Mystra had blessed.
Tang did not call for his guards; he guessed that the intruder had already killed them. Instead, the prince watched the dark silhouette in growing puzzlement. The thief was staring at the blessed chien, yet he seemed reluctant to take it.
Tang did not guess that the intruder was Mask. Nor did the God of Thieves sense Prince Tang’s wakefulness; the Shadowlord was consumed by thoughts of the chien. Even through the scabbard, Mystra’s magic radiated off the blade so strongly that it nearly blinded him. This made the thieving god more suspicious than ever, for he had known the instant he heard the guildmaster’s prayer that the sword was bait in a trap. Still, he had come. A weapon that could keep the Chaos Hound at bay—or kill him—was worth any risk.
Kezef’s plaintive howl sounded again in the distance. The Shadowlord shuddered, imagining what would happen if the hound’s poison-crusted fangs ever sank into his tenebrous flesh. He reached into his cloak and withdrew a piece of raw venison, and this he tossed into a dark corner. Then he took a half-starved wolf pup from his other pocket and set her on the floor to see if the sword’s magic would prevent the beast from finding her meal.
The pup looked around the dark room, then touched her nose to the cold marble and fell over dead.
Mask nearly screamed his delight, for the weapon was more powerful than he had hoped: it had killed the wolf pup without even touching her. All that remained was to find Mystra’s trap and disarm it, a task that the sword’s blinding aura of magic would render considerably more difficult.
From the same dark corner through which Mask had entered came another howl, this time so loud it rattled the lacquered panels of
Prince Tang’s bed.
Tang cringed, for he feared the sound would draw the intruder’s attention to his hiding place. But this did not occur. The thief—and the prince thought him to be simply that—ignored the baying and also the soft rattle of the panels, and he paced back and forth before the sword stand. In the darkness, the figure looked like an elf at some times and at others like a man, and once it even seemed to be an orc. These changes Tang dismissed as tricks of the dim light.
The prince could not imagine why the interloper hesitated, but he wished the man would find his courage. The strange howls convinced him that Mystra had foreseen the need for just such a weapon, and as soon as the intruder reached up for the chien, Tang meant to attack. Unfortunately, it was beginning to appear the hound would be in the room before the fellow made up his mind.
Tang kept his eye pressed to the crack between the panels, watching the intruder consider the sword stand. Twice more the hound howled, and this baying disturbed even the thief, who shuddered like empty cloth and glanced toward the sound.
A low growl rumbled through the room; then a pair of yellow eyes appeared in the dark corner. The eyes began to grow larger, and the prince dared wait no longer. He pulled the panel aside and flung himself at the intruder, dagger raised to strike.
The silhouette did not turn so much as ripple, and the prince found himself looking into the damson eyes of a towering gnoll. Like all Shou nobles, Tang had mastered the art of mortal combat, and in a blink, he stopped himself short and delivered a kick to the gnoll’s knee that would have snapped a ginkgo tree.