City Under the Sand: A Dark Sun Novel (Dungeons & Dragons: Dark Sun)

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Yes, what was his name?”

  “Aric, I believe.”

  “Right, Aric. What of him?”

  “He has apparently had some misunderstanding with your wife Kadya. She intended to kill him, but he found out and ran away. Now he’s on his way back here, with some sort of story. Kadya wanted Siemhouk to know, so that she could prepare you with the news that his story would be a lie.”

  Nibenay scratched his bulbous cheek. “Which can only mean …”

  “That it’s the truth,” Dhojakt finished.

  “Or that it resembles truth.”

  “So when Aric returns, whatever he tells you about Kadya might be true. But Kadya—and Siemhouk, for reasons of her own—don’t want you to believe it. Were I you, I would make sure that whenever Aric arrives in Nibenay, he is brought to you forthwith.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. Thank you for this, my son. This is good to know. I will think on it, and give your suggestion every consideration.”

  “The most I can ask. Thank you for your time, my sire.” Dhojakt backed out of Nibenay’s presence—not only the polite thing to do, but the safest, he had learned. Anyone who turned his back on the Shadow King was asking to be struck down where he stood.

  Dhojakt had no illusions that mere blood relation made any difference at all in that regard.

  3

  You all know, of course, that the potential for psionic power, an affinity for the Way, exists within each of us, within every being who tastes the breath of life on our world.” Tenavry Ki’ot’shon, Corlan’s instructor at the Academy of Fierce Purpose, paced when he lectured, most frequently with his hands clasped together. He wore a long silken robe, even on the hottest of days. He was one of the thinnest human beings Corlan had ever seen, with limbs like the branches of a sapling, and his face seemed to have been artificially widened by the long, wispy white hair that grew from nearly every surface: cheeks, chin, lower lip, eyebrows, and of course from the top of his head. He knotted that hair in several places, and he had given the class some explanation of what those knots meant. Corlan had long since forgotten it. Sometimes it was all he could do not to burst out laughing at the man’s appearance, even though he knew Tenavry was a skilled and powerful psionic who really did impart much wisdom.

  “You further know,” Tenavry went on, “that to truly harness the power within—your power, the power that is your birthright, it is not enough to want to practice the Way. You must deserve the Way. To deserve it you must live the right kind of life; a life of service, a life of dedication, a life of commitment. Psionic abilities are available to all, but those who misuse those gifts often find that their abilities wane with time. Those who use the Way properly, in the process of living in accordance with the principles you’re being taught here, are those who continue to develop and strengthen their gifts as time goes on.”

  Tenavry stopped pacing and unclasped his hands, lifting them toward the ceiling of the vaulted chamber. The students sat cross-legged on the stone floor, with small, sculpted creatures before them. Suddenly, hovering an inch above Tenavry’s hands was a ball of golden light. Just as suddenly, that ball of light broke into a million shards. They scattered, and there where the ball had been was a creature not unlike the sculptures sitting in front of each student. Tenavry’s had scalloped wings, a birdlike head, a set of tiny, muscular arms that could have been human but for their size, and rear legs with powerful haunches, like a beast that jumped long distances. It was covered in fur of a bright purple, spotted with yellow and red rosettes. It floated above his hands for a moment, then flew away from him, cutting lazy circles above the class.

  “A psionicus is not, may I say, the ultimate expression of your psionic abilities,” Tenavry said. “For many, it’s little more than a plaything. But if you live right and truly follow the Way, it can be not only a companion but a source of information, a messenger, a friend and sometimes a lifesaver. It is an indication that you are on the right path, not that you have arrived at any destination.” He folded his hands again, regarded his students, and harrumphed. He was good at that. Coming across as both condescending and demeaning at the same time was, in Corlan’s experience, a rare skill at which Tenavry was a master. “For some of you, I’m sure that’s the best one can hope.”

  For all their personal failings, Tenavry—and his fellow instructors at the academy—were brilliant and accomplished psionics, which made the tuition worthwhile. Or so thought Corlan, who struggled with his classes sometimes but genuinely wanted to learn.

  The psionocus before Corlan, sculpted during previous sessions, was eleven inches long and stood eight inches high. He had given it a maned head, not unlike an aviarag, but with a more pronounced and pointed snout and a lower jaw that curved to meet the upper, as if his created beast might have wanted to carry smaller animals around inside its mouth. Its torso was smooth and sleek. Eight limbs extended from it, the upper two with humanlike hands, the others clawed. It stood on its bottom pairs of legs, and a long, sinuous prehensile tail stretched out behind it. Birdlike wings were folded along its back. He had chosen a bright color scheme for the thing, bright green for limbs and torso, crimson for the mane, cobalt blue for the face and the wings. Its tail was also green, but with a series of black and yellow stripes ringing it. The students had designed and sculpted their own individual psionoci, using clay and paint provided by the academy.

  Today—if they were ready, or so insisted Tenavry—they would bring the beasts to life.

  Tenavry walked among the students, examining their creations. “Good,” he told one. “Not very aerodynamic, but it’ll fly,” he said to another. “Don’t let that thing bite you,” to a third. When he got to Corlan’s, he picked it up, turned it around. “That’ll be noticed wherever it goes,” he said.

  When he concluded his inspection, he returned to the front of the room. “Very well,” he said. “Now the time has come. You created these beings with your own hands, so you have already established a mental link with them. You need to open your minds to your psionoci, find that link, and will life into them. Let’s begin.”

  Corlan picked up his creature. He stared at it for a minute, then closed his eyes, trying to picture it in every detail. He searched his mind for that mental link. But concentrating proved difficult; his mind wanted to dance around from one thing to another to a third, without reason or warning. The psionocus of the girl next to him, who had been sculpted so unevenly it almost fell over every time she set it down. The breeze that had blown through Nibenay that morning, cooling and sweet-scented. An argument with his father, two nights before.

  He opened his eyes again when he heard squeals of delight and the rapid flapping of many small wings. All around the room, psionoci had taken flight. Some crashed in midair, others swooped and soared with graceful ease.

  Corlan’s sat in his hand, immobile.

  He knew what the problem was. Not the breeze, or the other students, or the fight with his father.

  He couldn’t concentrate, and he knew full well the reason why.

  “I’m sorry.” He rose, psionocus in hand, and made for the door, ducking beneath the swoop of someone else’s small, animated beast. “I have to go.”

  “I knew you would,” Tenavry said. “Remember, Corlan, wherever your path takes you, to deserve every gift you receive.”

  Good advice, Corlan supposed as he hurried out the door. He had no idea what it meant, but it sounded smart. Maybe if he had time someday, he would try to figure it out.

  XVIII

  MAGIC

  1

  Three days later, the sword was done.

  Aric had polished it with stones of ever-decreasing grit, and finally with a stiff cloth. He had cut fuller grooves most of the way down the blade, decreasing its weight and making it stiffer, and making it easier to withdraw after stabbing someone. The blade was two inches wide, with edges as keen as any he’d ever honed, and it tapered to a sharp point. The cross-guard was straight across the
blade, then curled down at the inner end. At the outer, it curled up and joined the hand guard, forming a protective basket around Aric’s hand. The hilt was wrapped in soft leather, with fine wire twisted around it.

  By this time, the steel had lost any traces of those who had handled it before. When Aric held it, his only psionic connection was to himself, a mental loop that allowed him to “communicate” with the sword. He knew where every inch of it was at every moment; however fast it sliced through the air, he was in absolute control. He had never before known a weapon so thoroughly, or had one so responsive to his will.

  Myrana had bargained with a leather worker in the village and had a custom scabbard made, according to specifications Ruhm provided her, and when the sword was done so was its new home.

  They had celebrated that night in the tavern—a celebration tempered with anxiety, because they knew they had to hurry back to Nibenay. Scouts had not reported any raider activity nearby for the last day, so they planned to leave in the morning.

  In the morning, they packed up what little they owned. Aric hung the new scabbard from his belt and shoved the sword into it. Did wearing it truly make him taller, stronger, more handsome? Probably not. But harsh reality didn’t change the way it made him feel.

  At the livery, they ran into Mazzax. He was dressed for travel, with a knapsack over his shoulders, and he stood among seven agitated kanks. “I’ve sold your erdlus,” he said.

  “You did what?” Sellis asked.

  “Sold ’em.”

  “Why? They weren’t yours to sell.”

  “Kank’s more comfortable for long trip. Plus they hold more.” He indicated one of the kanks, with bundles strapped to its back. “Plenty food on that one, more than a bird’ll tote.”

  “But Mazzax,” Aric said, “Sellis is right, they were not yours in the first place. And we don’t own kanks.”

  “Sure you do. Wasn’t my money bought these.”

  The dwarf was a hard worker, and Aric appreciated his contributions to the sword he wore. But the dwarf was also as maddening as ever. Nothing he said made sense, or it did but only after you figured out all the parts he wasn’t saying. He already knew those parts, so he assumed everyone else did too. “You bought these kanks with our money? Without asking us? We don’t even need seven of them. What were you thinking?”

  Mazzax pointed at each traveler, while he spoke their names. “Aric. Ruhm. Amoni. Myrana. Sellis. Mazzax.”

  “That’s the five of us, and I suppose one to bear supplies, if we had any, but—”

  “He’s going with us,” Myrana explained. “Or did you miss that part?”

  “You’re coming?” Aric asked.

  “Course I’m coming.”

  “But …”

  “Nothing here for me. Hotak’s gone. I’m apprentice, not master, not even journeyman, so can’t run smithy. What else keeps me here?”

  “Friends?” Sellis asked. “Family?”

  Aric already knew, from handling lots of iron that Mazzax had touched before, that he had no real friends in the village other than Hotak, and no family. “He’s alone here.”

  “Aric is right. All alone.”

  “Then you might as well come,” Myrana said.

  The meaning of the supplies on the kank’s back sank in. “You bought all that?” Aric asked.

  “Aye, food and water and shelter for long journey.”

  “With our money?”

  “Your money bought five kanks, no more.”

  “So you purchased two kanks and all those supplies?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well then, I guess you’d better come with us.”

  Aric thought Mazzax would be happy, but the dwarf simply shrugged. “I have been saying that.” As if that had been clear all along.

  “Right,” Aric said. “It appears we’re ready, then. Let’s get out of here. On to Nibenay!”

  “On to Nibenay!” Mazzax repeated.

  “Oh, and Mazzax?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thank you. For all this, and everything else.”

  The dwarf shrugged again, clambered onto a kank’s back, and started to ride.

  2

  The village was barely out of sight behind them when they saw a smudge of dust in the distance ahead. When they got closer, they could see riders, a small group of them. They didn’t look numerous enough to be a problem, so while they readied their weapons, they didn’t hide or change course.

  Aric didn’t recognize the riders until they were almost right on top of them. Then familiar faces swam into view.

  “Rieve!” he shouted as soon as he caught a glimpse of her coppery hair gleaming in the sun.

  “Aric, is it really you?”

  He jumped from the kank’s back and sprinted toward her. “It’s really me!” he cried. “You’re not a desert mirage?”

  Rieve pinched her own cheek, leaving a red mark there, like a kiss. “I don’t think I’m a mirage.”

  The rest of the family rode with her. Aric recognized her mother, her grandparents, her brother Pietrus. Another man Aric hadn’t seen before, but guessed he was Rieve’s father. Half a dozen soldiers accompanied them, armed and tense—two of them had started forward when Aric ran to Rieve, but relaxed their guard when it was obvious she knew him.

  Rieve climbed down from her mount and met Aric, embracing him in a hug that took his breath away. Not just because it was firm, though it was, but because he had forgotten her scent and the way her orange ringlets tickled his nose, and the way her body swelled under her clothing. The depths of her light brown eyes, the warmth of her smile.

  His sword bumped her hip as he held her. “Is that new?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’ve just made it for myself.” They parted, took a step back, and he saw that she wore the sword he’d crafted for her. He drew his own—again, attracting the nervous interest of the soldiers—and showed it off. “How’s yours?”

  “I’ve been practicing with it. It’s wonderful.”

  “What are you doing so far from Nibenay?”

  Rieve took his hand. Her grip pleasantly warm, the skin so soft he could hardly believe it. “Pietrus has been accused of a terrible crime,” she said. “He is innocent, of course. I know he’s not like other people, but he isn’t bad or vicious. He’s the most innocent person I know. Anyway, we had to flee Nibenay before the authorities arrested us all—him for the crime, and us for harboring him. Grandfather was convinced we would all be enslaved.”

  “That’s terrible!” Aric said. He hardly knew Pietrus, and from their single encounter he had been left with the impression that the young man was sometimes gripped by sudden, inexplicable furies. But he didn’t know that Pietrus had ever actually hurt anybody, and at this moment, he would have believed Rieve if she had told him that the whole of Athas was under water, including where they stood. “Why would they—”

  “We know not. Someone made an accusation, obviously false because Pietrus was home with us while this crime occurred. But there were so-called witnesses. There was amob. They stormed our gates and sacked our house. We were lucky to escape alive. Apparently there’s been a rash of these killings, of human men and elf women, and now they’re saying that Pietrus must have done them all. Djena has some grudge against grandfather, so he decided we were best served by fleeing while we could.”

  “I am so sorry, Rieve. If there were anything I could do …”

  “I’m sure there’s not, Aric, but thank you.”

  “What of Corlan?”

  “Corlan’s still in the city,” she said. Her tone had turned glacial, its meaning unmistakable. For an instant, Aric felt like singing. He tried to downplay his enthusiasm, and the knowledge that he still had to rush toward Nibenay, not away from it, made that sadly not hard to do.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve no idea. Grandfather has some destination in mind, or so he claims. But he won’t tell us. He says it’s safer that way.”

  He might n
ever see her again. The idea was almost too much to bear, especially since she was no longer betrothed to another. By the time he finished his business in Nibenay, she could be anywhere. “There have been raiders active ahead, so warn your family, and make sure those soldiers stay alert. But … if I should want to find you …”

  She bit her lower lip and lowered her eyes. “I know, Aric.” Then she smiled and dug into a pouch hanging from her belt. “Wait, I have it.” She brought out a small, round pebble, almost as clear as glass. “Take this.”

  Aric took it. Everything was slightly distorted, but he could see all the way through it. “Why?”

  “Put it in a shallow bowl of water,” she told him. “It will show you an image of me, and tell you which direction to find me in. If I’m very far away, the image will be small, and it will grow bigger the nearer I am.”

  Aric closed his fist around it. He had never heard of such a thing, but he was glad it existed. “But … you do magic?”

  “Not myself,” Rieve said. “But grandmother … she does some preserving magic, when she needs to. It really is different from defiling, she has told me all about it. And if one has enough wealth—as we do—one can acquire all sorts of odd things. The clear stone is one of those. I had thought to leave it with Corlan, until he made clear that he wouldn’t be using it.”

  “Well, I will. That I swear.”

  “I hope you do, Aric.” She went up on her toes, pressed her hands against his chest, and planted a kiss on his lips. “I must go—my family’s patience wears thin. Find me.”

  “I will, Rieve.”

  “Soon as you can?”

  “Soon as I can.”

  “Good.” She broke away from him, ran back to her mount, and climbed on. The family and their soldiers were already moving by the time she was mounted, and she had to hurry to catch up.

  “Who was that?” Myrana asked when Aric returned to his group.