Stardeep

by Bruce Cordell

  Kiril gave a slow nod, her eyes still fixed to Nis’s darkling span. She believes, imparted the blade to Telarian.

  The diviner continued. “But Delphe’s reach has grown long. With the Traitor’s help, she roused the relic consciousness entombed here.” Telarian made a wide gesture across the chamber. “If you hadn’t come when you did, it is possible that I and the last of the Knights would have died, thus ensuring the Traitor’s escape.”

  The swordswoman looked down at Angul, still sheathed at her side, then back up to Nis, and asked, “Can the two halves … ever be reunited? Can Nangulis live again?”

  “It is more than mere possibility. In order to see Delphe destroyed and the Traitor’s escape quashed, I believe that we must combine the blades at the edge of the Well—combine the two halves of Nangulis’s sundered soul. The combined blade will possess the soul-forged traits of both weapons, and I suspect, possess more power than the sum of its parts.”

  Kiril smiled through sudden tears. Telarian returned her smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Like the Knights he’d already slain, and Delphe, whose death was now assured with Angul wielded against her. Kiril, too, would find herself a corpse, kicking out her last strength on Nis’s cruel length. Only such sacrifices could avert the far greater disaster his vision foretold.

  He gave a small sigh. Being the unacknowledged savior of Faerûn’s mortal races was soul-trying work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Stardeep, Underdungeon

  Gage’s third and last alchemical light was nearly exhausted. The thief gave the glass another shake anyway. A sickly yellow radiance seeped from the cold, egg-shaped vessel, less than a candle’s glow. Light or dark, he was well and truly lost. He wandered caverns whose hollow ways didn’t even run through the stones of the earth, but instead, through a metaphysical realm Gage did not and probably could not fully comprehend. Friendless, too, and likely hunted.

  “Pity your poor adherent, Akadi.” He grunted. Could the Lady of the Winds even hear his prayer? He doubted she who ruled the high places of Faerûn listened to the pleas of those who scurried through its subterranean tunnels, let alone through tunnels of an echo plane.

  After another hundred or so steps down the smooth, white passage, the bulb’s light noticeably weakened. Hardly bright enough for him to see more than a few paces ahead, but likely a perfect waypoint for giant stone spiders or demons nurturing a grudge …

  When the radiance failed utterly, Gage returned the bulb to its pouch. He sighed, and hoped his anxiety over the light failing was worse than the reality.

  He extended his left hand until his fingers brushed the cold, silky passage wall. In his right he clutched a dagger, ready to plunge it into whatever beast emerged from the unrelieved darkness that smothered his eyes. He could almost imagine the lightlessness was a whisper-thin blanket, covering him but not hindering his movement. If he could just rend it or wipe its sense-depriving swaddling from his eyes …

  He shuffled along the tunnel, perhaps covering miles, perhaps far less. He chuckled, recalling how difficult it was to estimate time and space in the starry realm. He hadn’t known how easy he’d had it then.

  Ahead, a gleam not unlike a star’s sparkle arrested his progress. He paused only a moment, then with his heart in his mouth, he doubled his pace, one hand yet sliding along the wall for guidance. The tiny light was moving. Throwing caution to the winds, he began to sprint. Perhaps the Lady of Winds was with him after all—despite his speed, he managed to catch himself when the tunnel ended suddenly in the side wall of a vast abyss.

  He’d seen the reflected light of lanterns moving along the floor of the huge space. Lanterns! People moved far below on the floor of the cavern, wending between collapsed and disintegrating structures. He’d discovered a buried city. More importantly, he’d found people! A dozen of them, at least, by the number of lanterns.

  Humanoids in shining armor, a few on horses … he sucked in his breath. A contingent of Knights, like those that attacked from across that misty Causeway!

  Gage allowed himself a tight-lipped smile of satisfaction as he prepared to descend the slick walls to the level of the Knights. It was clear he’d nearly reached the edge of Stardeep proper, or at least those who could lead him to it. And ultimately, back to Kiril.

  Perhaps she numbered among the milling figures below, who picked their way across a debris field composed of … broken and blood-stained statues?

  Raidon Kane buried Adrik Commorand in the common grave the surviving Knights prepared for their fallen brethren.

  Brief words of remembrance were uttered by the shocked and confused survivors, abrupt and unceremonious; Stardeep had fallen to the mad Keeper Delphe, and little time could be spared for ritual. Better to take vengeance against Delphe for her crimes than speak empty words at the edge of a grave. Time for proper grieving could wait until the dungeon stronghold was retaken.

  The monk appreciated the sentiment. He placed his store of Long Jing, tea so fine it would be suitable for an emperor, upon the pale but peaceful chest of Adrik. Raidon murmured, “You were a friend to me, and I …” His throat constricted suddenly, but he continued, “I shall miss you. I … apologize for not being able to defend you. Your memory will follow me all the rest of my days.” As he spoke, he wondered, for his sentiment rang with the force of prophecy.

  Then white stones were placed to cover the shallow grave. More and more stones were positioned, one atop the next, until a high mound was formed marking the final resting place of star elves sworn to protect Stardeep, and one human sorcerer who had strayed into a realm fey and lethal.

  Telarian intoned, “I christen this mound ‘Cállambëa.’ ” The attending Knights murmured their appreciation.

  Raidon whispered to Kiril, “Does that name have special meaning?”

  She replied, “It could be translated as ‘place of heroes’ in a Sildëyuir dialect.”

  Finally the Knights quit the chamber of the buried city. Kiril rode behind the vanguard in the company of Keeper Telarian, on a steed that had lost its rider to the undead aggression. Raidon followed behind, on foot.

  The monk observed the conversation between the estranged Keeper and the current. Both shared features Raidon realized must be common to star elves. He possessed similar features, diluted as those traits were by his Shou humanity. Mighty blades, too, each wore securely sheathed at their belts. Raidon mistrusted the darkness that blurred out from Telarian’s sword, but Kiril seemed to accept it.

  In fact, the swordswoman seemed overly eager to hear all Telarian had to say, so long as they touched on the possibility of Nis’s and Angul’s dissolution. This would somehow lead to Nangulis’s miraculous return. Nangulis, the man whose soul had been wrenched into two pieces to forge a modern artifact. Raidon wasn’t clear how Nangulis’s dead body might be conjured up and revived in order to contain and stitch together the two sundered halves of his soul. Nor was Raidon confident of the sanity Nangulis might possess if such a thing came to pass—his experience with Angul didn’t speak to mental stability.

  Telarian glossed over such details, and Kiril allowed him to do so, aglow as she was in the possibility. The monk supposed she knew more of the metaphysics behind reversing the transformation than he did. After all, as his master used to mutter in Xiang, “From form to formless and from finite to infinite.” He’d taken that mantra to mean that expectations should not be confined by the limitations of imagination.

  Raidon was put off by Telarian’s cold, emotionless tone and manner, especially when speaking of Nis, Angul, or Nangulis. Was the man devoid of emotion, or did he control his inner self so thoroughly? His voice wasn’t that of a master of focus, whose timbre implied calm confidence. No, it was a voice devoid of the least hint of empathy.

  The monk endeavored to watch Telarian with an especially sharp eye, despite the man wearing a uniform whose symbol was the duplicate of his forget-me-not. Kiril hadn’t thought to mention it to the Keeper in her enthusiasm o
ver Nangulis’s imminent return, and Raidon decided to let the issue lie for the moment. If the man proved his worth, the time would come to reveal his mother’s amulet.

  The returning Knights traveled without incident. When they had almost reached the cusp of the Outer Bastion, Delphe unleashed her counterattack.

  An elf of the vanguard, who Telarian had sent statues ahead, returned. He reported that free-running defender statues blocked further progress. The scout said the statues were willing to parley and would withhold their strength for the moment.

  Kiril began, “Free running? Does that mean—”

  “We’re too far from Stardeep for Cynosure’s intelligence to inhabit them. Free-running statues have only the intelligence of children, though apparently these bear a message from Delphe. Lies to slow us down,” concluded Telarian.

  “Still, I’d hear them, if only to gauge the deceit of the crazed Keeper.”

  Telarian frowned but nodded. He urged his mount forward. Kiril followed.

  They passed the Knights of the vanguard and saw ahead a meeting of several tunnels, which created a space wide enough for five figures to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  Iridescent sparks danced across the rigid forms of five humanoid constructs. Wearing thick metal plates bolted over their stone-sculpted bodies, their granite strength was obvious to any onlooker. Eight or nine feet tall, each of the defender’s hands were curled into gargantuan mauls.

  “Say your piece,” instructed Kiril. She was ready to draw Angul at any hint of betrayal. She murmured to her blade, “Remember, these constructs are under the thumb of a Keeper who’s betrayed her oath. Don’t hold back like you did at the Causeway, or the aberrations win.”

  The central golem took a pace forward and spoke. “Telarian, I know what you seek. Rethink your choice and your life can be spared. Let us resolve this as the friends we’ve been for so long. Continue on the path you’ve set, and you’ll find death your only reward.”

  Telarian glanced at Kiril and said, “Delphe is truly mad if she believes that such simple threats of bodily harm will persuade me to throw in with her and the Traitor!”

  Kiril nodded. It seemed a sad ploy. Did some hidden ambush wait in the wings? Best not wait for it. She stood in her stirrups, but before she could draw Angul, she was distracted by Telarian.

  His eyes were closed. One hand was out, the other resting on the hilt of his undrawn blade. From his mouth, words issued. He swayed in time to the words, now sounding like a chant. His pronunciation was deep and breathy, like the mournful cries of the wind through distant forest eaves. Tiny prickles needled across her scalp. The diviner was tapping strong magic.

  She looked at the defenders. They seemed oblivious to Telarian’s antics. Delphe had not overruled the constructs’ inborn sympathies for Keepers. Thus, they held their power until the first blow was struck. Kiril refrained from drawing Angul. Perhaps the diviner could unleash a spell strong enough to impair the free-runners.

  Still muttering arcane syllables, Telarian’s enigmatic eyes finally opened and a smile ghosted across his still-chanting lips.

  Several heartbeats passed, then several more. All the while, the sound of distant wind grew louder, as if approaching, merging more and more fully with the diviner’s cadence and pitch. The defenders repeated their offer, too dim-witted to understand that great forces gathered against them. Kiril wondered what Telarian was brewing.

  “What—” began Kiril. A scream of tornadic wind drowned out the rest of her question, but also served as an answer.

  All the fury of a summer storm was squeezed into a space that was orders of magnitude too small for it, pouring from the side tunnel to the golems’ left. Sight and sound were instantly shrouded in electric streamers of white and gray. The roar was a physical thing, pushing back Kiril and Telarian. Their hair and the steeds’ manes blew straight back, attempting to flee the lightning-laced vortex. Kiril backed her mount a few paces, though Telarian held his ground, his arms out, his words lost in the howl.

  Finally, the storm issued out of the chamber through a tunnel on the opposite side.

  The clearing air revealed eroded stone, blackened marks where lightning scoured the walls, and of the free-running defenders, no sign. The righthand passage echoed with the sound of fleeing winds, growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

  Kiril worked her mouth, as if to relieve pressure felt when descending a mountain, and said, “A nice trick.” She sat back in the saddle.

  Telarian relinquished his grip on Nis’s hilt, took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Lucky for the golems they are soulless artifacts.”

  “Why so?”

  “Else it would have blown their spirits clear of the flesh.”

  Kiril’s brow furrowed. “That smacks of necromancy.”

  “Kiril, as you know more than most, evildoers should not be spared their owed punishment.”

  “Where do souls taken go?”

  “The wind bears the souls for eternity across all the planes of existence. When you hear the ‘cries of the wind,’ you may be hearing the voices of those who already enjoy such redemption.”

  The swordswoman’s mouth hardened into a thin line. She’d killed innocents, to be sure, but those wrongly slain by Angul’s too-swift judgment were free of further consequence. What Telarian described sounded too cruel for any but aberrations, whose souls were unclean. She hoped he would never use such a thing on a live creature. But as he said, the golems didn’t suffer so.

  Kiril asked, “Where did you learn such a bastardly curse? Such spells do not lie within the constraints of the Cerulean Sign.”

  “Are you then a spellcaster?” Telarian snapped back, his gaiety suddenly evaporated in cold venom.

  She bit back the attack that teetered on her lips. Instead of calling him a vomit-stained cholera carrier who didn’t know his arse from his face, she said, “We’ll discuss this later, after I spit Delphe on Angul’s unforgiving tip.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Stardeep, Throat

  The mirror revealed three of Cynosure’s defenders in the spacious Parade Hall outside the Knights’ Barracks. Each defender faced east, looking through the high archway that opened on the downward-plunging paths of the underdungeon. Delphe wondered what had become of the five free-runners she’d sent into the tunnels.

  She glanced to the neighboring mirror, which showed an empty section of underdungeon tunnel immediately beyond the Parade Hall. If Telarian bested the five golems she’d earlier dispatched, he would return up this ramp. The moment she was able to scry him in the Throat was the moment she could begin to bring more substantial firepower to bear on the insane Keeper.

  Delphe sat in her crystalline control chair facing the mirrored walls, few of which reflected the actual contents of the Throat. Waiting. Watching. The fires in the Well were muted, as if also waiting. That which the fires contained would know soon enough whether its external agent, Telarian, would fail or succeed in his lunatic plan.

  “Something comes,” noted Cynosure’s voice from above.

  Light grew in the tunnel, and into that light rode the vanguard of the Empyrean Knights. The free-running defenders had failed to hold Telarian from returning. She sighed.

  The passage sloping up toward the Parade Hall grew wide, and the Knights took advantage of this feature to form up into a wedge.

  Telarian next rode into view. Seeing him, now that she fully realized his twisted actions and ambitions, was difficult. To see that blade riding so nonchalantly upon his hip and understand its true origin … Delphe couldn’t help breathing out a harsh, rasping breath. He looked so normal—how was it that his spirit had given in to darkness?

  Next to Telarian rode a star elf woman not liveried as a Knight, though she rode a Knight’s horse, and was herself armed and armored as a warrior.

  “Cynosure, who is that woman?”

  “Delphe, I know her, for I once served with her. She is Kiril Duskmourn,” replied the sentient idol. “S
he was Keeper of the Outer Bastion before Telarian. I aided her as I aid you and Telarian now.”

  Delphe’s eyes went round. “Kiril!” She had assumed the former Keeper long dead. What strange route had brought her to Telarian’s conniving side?

  The pitch of Cynosure’s voice rose slightly as he added, “And the blade sheathed at her side is none other than Angul, the Blade Cerulean.”

  “By the Sign!” she gasped. “If she yet carries that relic, why hasn’t she already sundered Telarian’s head from his shoulders? Surely Angul can scent an agent of the Traitor!”

  “They seem to have reached an accord.”

  “That makes no sense,” Delphe snapped.

  She saw Kiril speak, and Telarian nod in agreement. No sound came through, but it seemed Cynosure was correct; the two were on friendly terms. Delphe blinked, groping unsuccessfully for some explanation of the relationship the mirrors displayed.

  “Could it be,” wondered Cynosure, “that the proximity of Nis confuses Angul’s senses? The dark blade encompasses what was once a portion of itself. The dark, twisted portion, granted, but possibly enough to act as a mirror—Angul sees only itself in its amoral twin.”

  Delphe rubbed her chin, considering. Cynosure’s conjecture was a real possibility. And if true … then Kiril wasn’t truly in collusion with Telarian. Indeed, perhaps she rode with the diviner due to misinformation. Unless Kiril and Angul were now the Traitor’s pawns—an unlikely event—they believed whatever lies Telarian fed them.

  “Cynosure, I need to talk with Kiril. Immediately. Preferably without the Keeper of the Outer Bastion hearing our conversation. Is that possible?”