Sand of the Soul

by Voronica Whitney-Robinson

  “But we have seen some signs of the Lurker in Darkness,” the priest argued weakly. “Not many signs, but there have been some.”

  He was desperate to cling to any hope that his god still lived.

  Ciredor smiled playfully and shook his head.

  “Always, it was Shar,” he explained. “She maintained the illusion that your Skulker was alive because it suited her whim, and helped her in her ongoing battle with Selûne. She is so very wise,” he added reverently.

  “There is no point for me to continue to live,” the priest told him.

  Being so close to death, he realized that he was truly dedicated to Ibrandul and tried to garner some peace from that knowledge.

  “I won’t argue that,” Ciredor agreed, “but don’t be too sad. Your death will have some meaning yet. In fact,” he added slyly, “I think it will have more meaning than your life ever did.”

  The Lurker could tell that Ciredor hoped he would ask the mage to elaborate, but in finding the strength of his faith the priest also found the strength to resist Ciredor’s final temptation. He maintained his silence.

  A slight frown creased the necromancer’s face when the Lurker grew quiet.

  “Afraid?” he asked sweetly. “You should be, for your soul is nearly the last that I need.”

  When the Lurker didn’t even bat an eye, Ciredor continued, “I have been collecting these facets for my goddess over the last few years. Within this gem”—he pointed to the stone still resting on the Lurker’s chest—“are ten souls. But these are not ordinary souls, by any means. These are the souls of beings who have all worshiped Shar in one aspect or another.”

  He walked around the Lurker, and the priest could see that the mage was caught up in his own narration.

  “Some of the souls knew they worshiped Shar, but not all. There is an elf in here who literally fell into my hands and did not even realize his deity was a part of my dark goddess.”

  So absorbed was the dark mage that the priest was sure Ciredor had forgotten that there was someone in the chamber with him.

  “Fannah shall be my crowning glory,” he continued, “for she and her family are priestesses of Sharess, and that goddess was completely under the influence of Shar for many, many years until she broke free. I shall unite these souls and make the ultimate gift to Shar: a gift of unity. I will give her … herself.”

  The Mysterious Lurker saw that Ciredor was nearly in a state of rapture over his plan. Though he knew he was near death, he found he was actually curious.

  “What do you get from this ‘gift’?” the Lurker asked.

  Ciredor looked down at the bound priest and said, “Shar will see that I, over all other mortals, understand her and know the secrets of her heart. Because of that, she will take me as her consort.”

  “This is what you have been planning for the Foreshadowing all along,” the Lurker deduced.

  “Clever in the end,” Ciredor complimented the priest. “The ‘Foreshadowing’ that will occur on the new moon is actually a night that has been declared a Kiss of the Lady by Shar’s true Temple of Old Night. Within my desert stronghold I will honor her with my gift: my heart, if you will, and Shar will honor me.”

  “You will not succeed,” the Lurker said. “I have made many mistakes in my life, and I shall pay for them all, but so shall you pay for yours. The Sembians will stop you.”

  Peals of laughter poured from Ciredor.

  “How delightfully entertaining you are,” the necromancer said. “I know my goddess will find you equally amusing as she has already enjoyed duping you these fourteen years. I think she will find you delicious.”

  Ciredor stepped back a few paces.

  The Lurker watched with detached fascination as Ciredor closed his eyes and began a low chant. He still found the dark mage’s voice sweet, even though his life was forfeit at the sound of it.

  It will be good, he thought serenely, to finally join Ibrandul.

  His serenity only lasted a heartbeat. As Ciredor’s litany reached its crescendo, the Lurker’s world exploded. Pain blossomed over every inch of his body, and he writhed in excruciating torment. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he wept tears of blood. He clawed at the stone floor until he reached the bones of his fingers and he ground those down too. He was beyond screaming, beyond any verbal expression. The gem pulsed on his chest.

  The last living sight he saw was Ciredor’s calm visage. The Mysterious Lurker felt his very essence ooze from each of his pores and vaguely saw a gray smoke rise from his body. That smoke was hungrily sucked into the waiting gem, and when the last wisp of his soul was seized, the Lurker’s body went limp.

  Ciredor’s laughter echoed throughout the abandoned temple.

  “What do you mean I can’t go with you?” Steorf demanded.

  He, Tazi, and Fannah had escaped from the false Temple of Ibrandul and navigated their way back into Hook Ward. Though Fannah was distressed to learn that the Children of Ibrandul had been misled, she was not entirely surprised.

  “You and I know how sweetly deceiving Ciredor can be,” she had reminded Tazi.

  Though she had been loath to admit it, Tazi recalled how infatuated she had been when her mother had first introduced her to the dark mage.

  “There is something compelling about him,” she grudgingly acknowledged. When she saw Steorf’s stern glance, she hastily added, “Even though he is a monster.”

  Fannah had brought them to the Festhall of Eternal Delight, despite their blushing protests.

  “This is the only place to rest in seclusion,” Fannah had informed them, “for a number of reasons.”

  Tazi noticed that her Calishite friend hadn’t used the word “hide.”

  “Since he is a minion of Shar, this temple of Sharess is our only choice,” she had told them. “Shar’s influence can not reach us here and we can fully prepare for the coming storm.”

  Fannah had spoken to an old acquaintance and secured rooms for them all. Steorf mumbled something about Fannah’s old friends and traps, but Tazi sharply reminded him that Fannah had only said she knew of the Children of Ibrandul; she had never claimed any allegiance with them as she did the priestesses of Sharess. Tazi was content to trust her sightless friend once more.

  With most of their gear, including the sacred book, safely stowed in their rooms, Fannah led Tazi through many halls of debauchery to a special room down in a lower level. Steorf adamantly refused to leave Tazi’s side any longer and followed along, though the sights in the halls brought a rosy flush to his face. When they reached the door, however, Fannah placed her hand on his broad chest and told him he could go no farther.

  “I am sorry,” she explained at his shocked question, “but this is a place only for women. You can not enter.”

  She crossed her arms firmly. It was the first time Tazi had ever seen Fannah take a stand on an issue. She could see that her friend was resolute in her statement.

  “Steorf,” Tazi said as she pulled him aside slightly, “I will be safe here with Fannah. If you’re not allowed, then you can not break their customs.”

  Steorf shifted his weight from one foot to the other but was as steadfast as Fannah. Tazi tried something else.

  She pulled out of her satchel the scrolls she had stolen from Ciredor all those many months before—what felt to Tazi like a lifetime ago—and with a certain amount of gravity, placed the scrolls in Steorf’s hands.

  “I’m not exactly sure what Fannah has in mind for us two,” she explained, “but we can’t afford to waste any time. While I am involved in this”—and she motioned to the closed door—“I need you to decipher Ciredor’s writings. I’m certain that what we need to stop him is in those scrolls and that false book of his.”

  Steorf tucked the scrolls into a fold of his cloak and stared at Tazi. She could see that he reluctantly agreed with her logic. She took a step closer and leaned up to whisper in his ear.

  “There is absolutely no one else I would trust more with
this task than you.”

  She stepped back to look him firmly in the eye.

  “I won’t disappoint you,” he replied.

  With a quick look at Fannah and the forbidden chamber, he turned back to their rooms.

  “I’m ready,” Tazi told Fannah after Steorf was gone from sight.

  “No, you aren’t,” Fannah informed her gently, “but you will be.”

  With that enigmatic statement, Fannah opened the door to the chamber and stepped inside. Tazi followed suit.

  The chamber was spacious and steamy. The entire floor and walls were covered with tiny tiles that formed incredible mosaics. Tazi had heard that parts of Calimport were decorated with this form of art, and she had caught glimpses of some of the famed Calishite talent during their first, rapid pass through the city, but nothing compared to this.

  The tiles were fine, and Tazi marveled at their number. It must have taken years, a lifetime for this room to be so adorned, she thought.

  Almost reverently, she traced her hand along the surprisingly cool tiles and admired the exquisite designs. There were writings—Tazi could only guess at the language—and fantastical creatures done in incredible detail. No windows broke the patterns along the walls, but Tazi did notice several discreet vents placed strategically in the room. Running alongside the walls were benches tiled in the same style and gleaming brass fixtures next to them. The majority of the room was taken up by a large pool of steaming water.

  “Please,” Fannah said, motioning to one of the benches.

  Fannah sat down herself, and Tazi took her cue from the blind Calishite. When Fannah began to disrobe, carefully folding her clothes in a neat pile beside the decorated bench, Tazi did the same with her leathers. She noticed that beside every bench was a small pail filled with soapy water. She saw Fannah reach for a similar bucket and a piece of cloth. Using the rag, Fannah started to scrub the filth of the past few days from her body.

  Tazi did the same and noticed that the water had a tangy smell of spice and the ocean. She inhaled deeply of the aroma. Everywhere she scrubbed, Tazi felt her skin tingle, and she was glad to be free of the dust and blood of the Muzad.

  After a suitable period of cleansing, Tazi watched as Fannah took a second pail of water and poured the contents over her head, rinsing away the last vestiges of dirt.

  While Tazi sluiced off the grime, Fannah moved to stand near a special niche in the wall. She removed a small basket filled with dried herbs and walked deftly over to the edge of the pool.

  “Tazi,” she said softly, “it is time for you to enter the sacred waters of Sharess.”

  Tazi padded slowly over to the pool and saw that there was a series of steps into the water. She slowly entered, gasping at the intense heat of the water. She could feel her face flush because of the overwhelming warmth, and it was nearly too much for her, but she realized that this was significant to Fannah and forced herself to stand on the bottom of the pool. The water covered her to her shoulders, and the room was shrouded in the tangy steam.

  Tazi wasn’t sure if Fannah was speaking or chanting because her melodic voice was so low. She didn’t recognize the language though she believed it to be Alzhedo.

  Tazi watched as Fannah started to throw handfuls of the herbs into the water between breaks in her chant. Tazi merely stood in the water and slowly swirled her arms back and forth, finally starting to relax her limbs in the intense heat, waiting for whatever came next. When her basket was empty, Fannah set it back in the niche and entered the water as well.

  When she was only a few feet from Tazi, Fannah stared hard at her with her ice-white eyes.

  Finally, she said, “You are about to face your greatest evil. If you are to succeed, you must be purified for the coming battle. You must come to understand the various faces you have worn in your life. You must unite all of your selves and become whole if you are to defeat him and emerge triumphant.”

  With that, Fannah fell silent.

  Tazi wasn’t quiet sure what Fannah expected her to do. She noticed that the steam was growing and Tazi wasn’t even able to see Fannah anymore through the heavy vapors. Tazi knew her friend was within arm’s reach but the entire chamber was clouded by great billows of steam. Sweat started to pour into her eyes, and she blinked at its salty sting. The more she blinked, however, the more Tazi thought that the warm haze was lifting somewhat. She was even able to make out Fannah’s outline again in the mist. As Fannah’s shape grew sharper, Tazi jerked back in surprise.

  The face in the mist was not that of her friend, but her own staring back at her.

  It was not entirely a mirror image, it was the face she had worn at the age of six. There was a glint in her younger self’s eye that the older Tazi recognized. It meant she had just pilfered something and was immensely pleased with herself, with her jet black hair in soft curls, tongue peaking out, and her young face screwed up with determination. The older Tazi felt like giggling at the sight before her, but she wasn’t sure if the giggles she felt welling within her were because of the vision her younger self presented, or because that was how she had felt at that precise moment in her young life.

  “I’m going to make you pay for that, you little rat,” a voice threatened the girl-child.

  The older Tazi suddenly found herself standing in the same hallway as the girl and she turned just like her younger self at the sound of the voice. The older Tazi recognized the owner of that voice. It belonged to her older brother, Tamlin, and she could see him storming down the hallway. Obviously, her younger self had done something to aggravate him.

  And he surely deserved it, Tazi thought, but he’ll make me pay for it. He always did.

  Aloud, she shouted, “Run!” to her six-year-old version.

  As though the girl-child could hear her, she tore down the hallway. The older Tazi found her heart pounding and a wicked grin spreading across her face.

  “That’s not right, Thazienne,” Cale chided her.

  Tazi turned to see herself when she was thirteen or fourteen. Teenage Thazienne was bent over a chest with a finer set of lockpicks in her delicate hand than the set she had first owned. Cale was standing beside her in his pantry, scrutinizing her actions carefully.

  The older Tazi watched in fascination as Cale reached over and covered her young hand with his long fingers. Tazi could feel her heart skip a beat as though he was touching her hand now.

  “There is a certain finesse to what you are doing,” he told her in his deep voice. “You must trust your feelings.”

  Tazi watched as the teenager gazed up at Cale with admiration and the beginnings of something more. Tazi swallowed hard at the scene that was played out in front of her.

  “I’ll show her,” Tazi heard herself say.

  She turned and found herself in her bedroom in Stormweather Towers. The version in front of her now was from only a few years back. She watched as the young woman stomped around before sitting in front of her dressing table. Tazi pursed her lips together angrily and knew what her other self was about to do.

  “You show her,” she egged the younger Tazi on.

  The young woman grabbed a pair of shears from her collection of bottles and sundries on the dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror.

  “Try to explain your daughter’s latest shenanigans to that circle of hens you call ‘friends,’ Mother,” she spat.

  She gathered up a handful of her waist-length hair in one hand and held the shears in the other. In one snip, the tresses fell to the floor. After only a few moments of hacking, the young Thazienne sported the hairstyle Tazi wore ever since, highly unfashionable in the ever fashion-conscious Selgaunt.

  “Good work,” she complimented the young Thazienne, and the two women wore the same expression in the mirror.

  When Tazi turned away from herself and the dressing table, she watched as a still older version was by the window, dressed entirely in black leathers. Tazi could see down through the window a younger Steorf anxiously waiting for
Tazi to join him. He was also suitably dressed for a late night wilding, and Tazi could feel her heartbeat quicken in anticipation of the night’s events. She could see that her younger self felt the same way.

  A scream tore through the room. When Tazi turned again, she found herself in the cellar of Ciredor’s tallhouse. Her blood turned to ice. She saw her other self hammered to her knees by Ciredor’s magic. As she watched herself struggle with Ciredor, Tazi ran her hands through her hair, momentarily surprised that it wasn’t waist-length again. When she fought Ciredor then, he had toyed mercilessly with her. One of the things he had done was to restore her hair to its former length. The process had been excruciatingly painful, as Ciredor had meant it to be, and Tazi rubbed her scalp as she watched those horrible moments from two years in the past once again unfold.

  Her past self gazed from the view of the young boy Ciredor had disemboweled to feed his dark magic to Steorf manacled to the cellar wall. Tazi’s heart was pounding, and her mouth was devoid of moisture as her other self whispered the word inscribed on the emerald ring that Durlan had given her.

  She gasped as Ciredor’s bolt was deflected by the gray shield that had formed around her other self. Tazi, near to tears observing the old battle, realized that she didn’t feel the resolve that she had felt in that moment. As she watched herself pull a small dagger hidden in her boot and expertly strike Ciredor just below his heart with it, she was not able to remember what her other self so obviously possessed: courage.

  “No!” Tazi yelled, absolutely terrified.

  She hoisted herself out of the sacred pool and stood shivering at its edge. Someone placed a calming hand on her shoulder, and Tazi wheeled around, breathing hard.

  Not knowing what to expect, Tazi had to calm her beating heart. It was only Fannah who stood behind her, holding out a large, white towel. Tazi accepted it and wrapped the towel around herself with shaking fingers. Fannah motioned for her to sit on one of the benches and joined her there.

  Tazi blotted at her face and tried to control the wild beating of her heart, not saying a word.