“It’s the right decision for you,” Corlan said. “As I told you before.”
“Corlan’s been just wonderful about it,” Rieve said. “I meant to tell you sooner, Aric, but …”
“But I didn’t want to see anybody for those few days. You wouldn’t have wanted to see me. I was a mess.”
“You’re still a mess!” Mazzax said.
“I know.” Aric’s face remained puffy and bruised. Sellis’s flesh was colorful, but Aric’s had more hues than all the birds in the cages around them. Pain lanced from his ribs when he breathed too deeply or laughed or rolled over in his sleep. The gouges from Tallik’s claws were scabbed over, but the scorch marks where his tentacles had wrapped around Aric were still black and sore. “I wish you the best, Rieve. I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful experience for you.” He had thought himself used to the idea that he couldn’t be with her, since the night of Myklan’s confession, but it still stung.
Corlan reached toward Myrana, who sat beside him, and took her hand. “The truth is, Myrana and I have … well, we’ve comforted one another,” he said. “Out in the desert, we were drawn toward each other, and since being here in Nibenay that feeling has deepened.”
“I don’t know if it’s love,” Myrana said. “But it’s close enough for now.”
Aric was astonished by this revelation. He had seen Corlan and Myrana, lost in conversation, at times, but hadn’t known anything like this was in the offing. This stung as well. He had been attracted to Myrana from the moment they met.
“You’d best take good care of her, Corlan,” Mazzax said. “I once thought taking care of Hotak’s shop was the most important thing, but now … now I think it’s Myrana, taking care of Myrana. She’s special, that one, and I want no harm to befall her.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t harm her,” Corlan said.
“Not and take two breaths afterward,” Mazzax countered.
“Good luck with that,” Aric said, to general laughter. “All three of you!”
“Will you be staying in Nibenay?” Rieve asked them.
“All I’ve ever wanted is to settle someplace,” Myrana said. “I’m so tired of wandering.”
“And everything I have is here,” Corlan said. “The academy, my family … I think we’ll stay.”
“Good,” Rieve said. “We can visit, once in a while.”
“Anyone else leaving?” Ruhm asked.
“I am,” Amoni offered. “I thought perhaps Tyr. Maybe I’ll join the Veiled Alliance there. Keep enjoying freedom—now I’ve had a taste, I find I like it. Maybe I can help free others.”
“I could go with you, Amoni,” Sellis said. “If Myrana has no more need of me.”
“I’ve been in touch with the family, Sellis,” she said. “You’ll be paid, and well, for your service. I like to think I won’t need a bodyguard any longer. I’m not sure you ever did.”
“It’s Nibenay,” Aric said. “One never knows.”
“She’ll have me, demonslayer,” Mazzax reminded them. “What more could she need?”
“That’s right, Mazzax,” Myrana said. “I’ll have you.” She seemed to take the dwarf’s single-minded interest in good spirits. He could choose some other interest later on, Aric knew, and then again, he could trail her around until his last day—you just couldn’t tell, with dwarves.
“I’m staying,” Ruhm said. “Nibenay’s awful, but it’s home.”
“Staying, and keeping the shop,” Aric said. “Mazzax, he might need a hand now and again.”
“If the lady wills it, demonslayer.”
“I’m sure I can spare you sometimes, Mazzax.”
“Very well, then.”
“But if Ruhm gets the shop,” Amoni asked, “then what of you, Aric?”
“I don’t know that the city has suffered from my absence,” Aric said. “And with Ruhm and Mazzax working together, there’ll still be a smith of uncommon skills. So …”
He didn’t finish the sentence, because he didn’t know what the end of it was. His journey had been hard, dangerous, but he’d caught a taste for travel—like Amoni’s, for freedom, he supposed. He had nothing in particular to hold him in Nibenay, and plenty of reasons to leave, like the memories spawned by so many street corners and buildings and neighborhoods. He could always return; he had the closest thing to a family now that he had ever known. The knowledge that they would always take him back gave him the courage to leave them behind.
The barmaid put a mug before him and he drank deep, thankful for the excuse not to speak. He had no idea where he would go. Athas was a big world, full of perils but also splashes of great beauty, and there might be a place in it for a half-elf with an affinity for steel.
He would have to find where that place was.
Searching for it?
Now, that would be an adventure.
JEFF MARIOTTE is the award-winning author of more than forty novels, including the Age of Conan: Marauders trilogy, horror trilogy Missing White Girl, River Runs Red, and Cold Black Hearts, (all as Jeffrey J. Mariotte), The Slab, the Witch Season teen horror quartet, and others, as well as dozens of comic books, notably Desperadoes and Zombie Cop. He’s a co-owner of specialty bookstore Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego, and lives in southeastern Arizona on the Flying M Ranch. For more about him, please visit www.jeffmariotte.com.
SIGIL
The joy of the Chained God was a wild thing, fierce and manic, straining against the bounds of his prison. The merest hint of freedom, a whiff of possibility, filled him with savage delight. He could almost taste the annihilation of the world.
Through his mortal servant, he felt the power of the Living Gate. Even such a small piece of the crystal made the space between worlds thinner. In his servant’s hands, the fragment would open a window to his prison.
But the Chained God would not be able to escape through a window of that size. Even though his power filled the desolate universe that was his prison, he could only send a fraction of his might and majesty burrowing between worlds if the Living Gate opened the way. And the Progenitor would be the vehicle for that shard.
Like a wind that whips the sea’s waves into foam, he swept over the surface of the Progenitor, sending ripples and shivers through the liquid crystal. With a thought, he lifted a portion of its substance into a sphere that hovered in the void. Red and silver lightning sparked and crackled around it as the Chained God exerted his will, infusing it with a tiny portion of himself.
“We will soon be free.” The voice was his, and it was the whisper of the Progenitor. “Free to consume and destroy.” It was all around and it was distilled in the hovering orb. “Free to drown the world in blood.”
The ruins of Bael Turath had already proven dangerous—just a few hours earlier, Miri and Demas had come across a group of treasure hunters engaged in a fierce battle with a bone devil and its minions. Miri shook her head at the memory—the adventurers had fled while she and Demas fought the devils. Even the one Demas had saved from certain death had run off without a word of thanks.
Footsteps crunched on gravel somewhere close by in the ruins. Miri held up a hand to signal a stop.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Demas said. “Ioun has sent us aid.”
She turned and arched an eyebrow at him. His pale face was serene and confident—as always.
“A champion of Pelor and two companions,” Demas said. “They will help us find the Staff of Opening, if it’s not too late.”
“Ioun told you this?” Miri asked.
“Of course.”
Miri smiled. Demas was so enlightened in some ways, and so naive in others. He accepted Ioun’s gifts of prophecy without question, and apparently without even recognizing how unusual they were. “Shall I hail them, then?”
“Yes. His name is Brendis.”
Nowhere stopped in his tracks and gaped at the young woman who’d just emerged from the ruins, smiling, waving, and calling out to his paladin friend. He
slowly turned and looked at Brendis. The paladin looked bewildered.
“You know this woman, Brendis?” Nowhere asked.
“Never seen her before in my life.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at the woman.
“She could be a devil,” Sherinna whispered. “Reading our minds to learn your name, ready to beguile and manipulate us all.”
“I don’t think she’s a devil,” Brendis muttered, absently touching the sun symbol of Pelor he wore at his chest.
Nowhere scoffed and found a position behind a crumbling wall where the woman—devil or half-elf or whatever she was—couldn’t see him. If she couldn’t see him, she probably couldn’t touch his mind, he figured, and he preferred to be out of sight when a fight broke out anyway.
He heard the woman walking closer, and another set of footsteps behind her.
“That’s far enough,” Brendis called. “Who are you?”
“My name is Miri,” the woman said.
“And I am Demascus, the Sword of the Gods.” His voice was loud and pure, as much the blast of a trumpet as it was the speech of a man.
“Demascus …” Brendis said.
Nowhere peered around the corner of the wall to see the paladin, whose brow was furrowed. His hand rested idly on the sunburst symbol of Pelor he wore around his neck, and he seemed deep in thought.
Finally Brendis looked up. “Have we met before?” he asked Demascus.
“We have not, but I am known to my confidants as Demas. The urging you are experiencing is the voice of Pelor. Heed it.”
Nowhere still couldn’t see the newcomers, but he watched Brendis bow his head, as if trying to hear a distant voice.
Sherinna stepped up beside the paladin. “We are in a city haunted by devils,” she said. “What assurance can you give that you are not beguiling fiends who read our thoughts and sap our wills?”
Nowhere slid his dagger from his belt in perfect silence and stared at the razor-sharp edge.
“I can give no such assurance,” the man said. “Devils are creatures of deception. There is no truth I can utter that a devil could not feign. You must trust your paladin’s heart if he can listen to the voice of truth whispering in his breast.”
Sherinna looked to Brendis, but the paladin’s eyes were closed, his hand clenched around his holy symbol.
Nowhere padded to the other end of the wall and peered around the corner, trying to get a good look at the man who called himself the “Sword of the Gods.”
Demas’s skin was an unearthly pale, except where it was marked with jagged tattoos of scarlet. He was tall and regal in his bearing, and as Nowhere watched he took a few graceful steps closer to Brendis and Sherinna. He carried a smooth golden staff, but a heavy greatsword hung sheathed on his back.
“What does Pelor tell you, Brendis?” Demas asked.
Brendis opened his eyes, but his brow remained furrowed and his speech was hesitant. “That you are indeed the Sword of the Gods,” he said. “That we share a common purpose in these ruins.” He shook his head. “And that you are chasing your doom.”
For the first time, Demas looked ruffled, and he shot a glance at Miri. “Speak no more of that,” he said. “Ioun has shown me the path I follow.”
Brendis regarded Demas for a moment more, then extended his hand. “I’m glad to find you in this godsforsaken place, friend.”
Demas clasped the paladin’s hand. “Not godsforsaken, paladin. You and I carry their presence with us, even here.”
“My companions,” Brendis said, nodding toward the eladrin. “Sherinna and … Where is he?”
“Behind that wall.” Demas turned and his gaze fell on Nowhere. There wasn’t an instant of searching in his gaze—he’d known exactly where the tiefling was before he even turned.
Nowhere stepped out from his hiding place, stunned. “How long did you know I was there?”
“Nothing hides from the searching gaze of Ioun, my friend.”
Miri, at least, seemed surprised at Nowhere’s sudden appearance. She started when he emerged from his hiding place, and her brow furrowed as she took in his horns, his jagged jawline, the reddish cast of his skin, and the long tail that snaked behind him. He scowled back at her, then turned it on Demas.
“Few call me friend until they’ve proven it,” he said. “The divine whispers that only you two can hear mean nothing to me.”
Miri wheeled on Sherinna. “You accuse us of being devils while keeping company with him? A devil walking in mortal flesh?”
Sherinna shrugged. “I neither know nor care what’s in his heart. He has proven himself reliable and trustworthy. I ask only for similar proof from you.”
Nowhere ignored the twinge in his chest that her words provoked. “I won’t stab you in the back unless you give me a reason to.”
“A reason or an excuse?” Miri asked.
Nowhere took a step toward the half-elf, clutching his dagger tightly. “That depends on how long you continue being an arrogant, self-righteous—”
“That’s enough, Nowhere.” Brendis interposed himself between him and Miri, putting a hand on the tiefling’s chest.
Nowhere batted his hand aside and turned away. “We have more important things to do,” he said. “If the gods want these two to help, let them help. But while we stand here arguing, those cultists are getting closer to opening the Living Gate.”
“Cultists?” Miri asked.
“The ungrateful wretches we helped earlier, no doubt,” Demas said.
Nowhere wheeled back to the newcomers. “You helped them?”
“We helped a group of treasure-hunters who were fighting a pack of devils. We didn’t know.… We still don’t know that they were the cultists you’re looking for.”
“Even with the aid of Ioun’s searching gaze?” Nowhere said.
“The important thing now is to find them,” Brendis said, giving Nowhere a stern look.
Demas nodded. “And keep them from claiming the Staff of Opening.” The self-proclaimed Sword of the Gods closed his eyes and turned away.
Nowhere slid his dagger into its sheath to make sure he didn’t slide it into Demas’s sanctimonious back. Miri and Brendis both had their eyes fixed on Demas as if they expected a divine pronouncement. Sherinna met Nowhere’s glance and rolled her eyes, smiling.
“Follow me,” Demas said, starting to walk back the way he’d come. Nowhere smiled despite himself as he fell into position.
Albric lifted the staff reverently from its cradle on the wall. He slid his dagger from its sheath and used it to cut the strings that suspended the reddish crystal in place at the head of the staff. Cradling it in his hands, he discarded the smooth length of yew, letting it clatter to the floor of the ancient alcove. His three acolytes started with surprise at the sudden racket, but he ignored them, gazing at the crystal.
He studied its complex facets and his broken reflection that stared back at him as his heart hammered in his chest. He held a fragment of the Living Gate, shattered at the dawn of time. More importantly, he held the key to freeing the Elder Elemental Eye, and the surge of joy in his chest was at least partly the fierce joy of his god, about to taste his first breath of freedom in countless ages.
“Now what?” Fargrim rumbled, wrenching Albric’s attention from the crystal.
Albric rose from his crouch to tower over the frowning dwarf, but Fargrim met his eyes without flinching. Albric toyed with the idea of cutting the dwarf’s throat right there—a quick slash of his dagger, faster than Fargrim could even see—but the ritual demanded more hands, not fewer. He fought down the violent impulse.
“Now,” Albric said, “we open a path to the City of Doors, where we’ll find a way to our destination.”
Fargrim crossed his arms, his scowl deepening. “Why not just open a portal directly to our destination?”
The urge to violence welled in Albric’s gut again, and this time he gave in to it. The Eye spoke through his urges, after all, and who was he to deny the will of the Eye? His dag
ger flashed out and cut across the dwarf’s throat. The scowl disappeared from Fargrim’s face as his eyes and mouth opened. He choked and tried to cough, spraying blood onto Albric and the crystal. Albric turned away in disgust, using the hem of his cloak to wipe the blood from the shard of the Living Gate.
He glared at Gharik and Haver, who were watching the dwarf die with undisguised horror on their faces. “Opening a portal to the howling wastes of Pandemonium is very difficult, especially in the absence of some object tied to the place. Opening a portal to the City of Doors is almost trivially simple—that’s why they call it the City of Doors. Any other questions?”
Gharik’s hand absently rubbed his own throat. He didn’t look at Albric, but Haver did, madness in his eyes.
“Victory to the Elder Elemental Eye!” Haver blurted.
“Victory and freedom,” Albric said. An echo of the Eye’s wild joy surged through his chest again, but it was tinged with a sense of urgency. “Now, the portal! Enemies approach.”
His two acolytes snapped into alertness, weapons in hand and feet ready to move. They took up positions on either side of the breach in the wall that Albric’s magic had opened in the midst of his waking dream. Albric turned to the wall where the staff had stood, closed his eyes in concentration, and drew in a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, in place of the wall he saw the weave of space, closely knit into an infinite and immutable tapestry.
He lifted the fragment of the Living Gate and traced it in a large circle, scraping it over the stone wall. Where it passed it cut the threads of the tapestry, and he felt the shifting currents of air in the room as the space changed. The great circle complete, he began tracing more intricate symbols within it, and other threads were drawn in to the weave, strands of a different weave from a distant space.
Almost finished, he heard Gharik’s growl of warning but didn’t let it break his concentration. He formed the last symbols in the circle, blinked several times, and looked upon the streets of Sigil, the City of Doors.
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