The Sorcerer

by Denning, Troy

  “Where else would Malik lay a secret tunnel?” Yder said.

  Aris’s heart fell. He had Amararl in his hold just as Malik had taught him, but that would do him no good with a prince of Shade standing there.

  Yder glared at Amararl and said, “Why did you not tell me about this trapdoor, guard? Are you also a Cyric-worshiper?”

  “Never, my prince!” Amararl spat on the floor and said, “That is all I have for the Mad One.”

  Yder remained silent, awaiting his answer.

  “I—I knew nothing about the door,” Amararl said. “I was not guarding the giant when he built the altar.”

  The prince looked to Aris, who confirmed the claim with a nod.

  “Gelthez was with a different group that day,” Aris lied. He was beginning to think he had spent too much time in Malik’s temple; the lies were beginning come as easily as his own breath. “That was when Malik converted them.”

  “You will give me these names, giant.”

  Aris shrugged noncommittally, then finally saw how he was going to get what he wanted.

  “If you like, but they will be no good to you if you do not beat Malik to his treasure vault.”

  Yder’s eyes brightened in alarm.

  “He has escape magic there?”

  “He doesn’t need it,” Aris said. “He has a blessing from his god that helps him hide. That’s how he—”

  Aris had no need to finish. Yder was already rushing into the nave, calling back over his shoulder for Amararl to stand watch on the slave.

  No sooner was the prince out of sight than Amararl braced himself against a black column and sank to the floor, his legs trembling and his brow dripping with sweat.

  “Well done, giant,” he said. “What is it you want?”

  “Nothing that will get you in trouble,” the giant replied. Feeling nearly as relieved as the guard, Aris started for a dark corner. “Only a few minutes alone.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1 Eleasias, the Year of Wild Magic

  Malik pulled himself up inside the false coffer in his treasure vault and kneeled there in the cramped darkness, his breath coming heavy and fast, his throat raw and aching where Yder had nearly crushed it. An alarming rasp and rattle was building behind him as his pursuers scurried up the tunnel, and even with the gifts of stealth and endurance bestowed on him by the One, he would need to hurry if he wished to stay ahead of them. It would not be easy, not when every gasp of air fanned the anguish burning in his crushed gullet, but he had to reach the palace before Yder and inform the Most High of the prince’s treachery. In circumstances such as these, a ruler’s findings were always dictated by the one who arrived first.

  Voices began to whisper up the tunnel, and Malik knew he would be doing well to gather even the bags containing his most valuable gems before they entered the vault behind him.

  “Accursed giant!” he hissed. Only Aris knew about the secret tunnel, as Malik had made him construct it secretly at night, when everyone assumed he would be sleeping. “Why am I vexed with friends who never think of anyone but themselves?”

  Vowing that the giant would pay for his selfishness, Malik released the latches that held the coffer closed. Using his back to lift the lid, he rose to a crouch. The vault was dark, quiet, and enormous. Save for perhaps two dozen coin boxes and gem bags, it was also mostly empty. Building a temple was expensive—even when wealthy converts donated much of the material in exchange for Aris’s statues—but Malik had no doubt the investment would prove worthwhile. Once the interior frieze work was completed, he planned to start charging a hefty fee to come and stand in the narthex. Any who wished to see the sublime work in the rest of the temple would be required to convert—a process that would require a substantial offering as proof of the novice’s sincerity.

  A Shadovar helmet thunked into the low lintel where the tunnel crossed the treasure vault’s foundation. Reminded of the urgency of his situation, Malik slipped out of the coffer and lowered the lid as quietly as possible. The latches clicked softly as they reengaged, and he began to fumble for the magic lamp he kept on the floor at the corner of the coffer.

  Instead of the smooth loop of a lamp handle, his hand found what felt like the scuff-roughened toe of a veserab-hide boot. Malik’s mouth went instantly as dry as dust, and he reached for the curved dagger hidden inside his cloak. A strong hand caught him by a horn and lifted him off his feet. A second hand, still shaky because of the tendons Malik had slashed but more than strong enough to hold him motionless, clamped hold of his wrist.

  “Not this time, my behorned friend,” said Yder’s hissing voice. “Not even you surprise me twice.”

  The prince bent Malik’s hand back until he screamed and let the dagger fall free.

  “The One will not stand for this!” Malik warned. He thought for a moment that Mystra’s curse might actually permit the threat to stand, but soon heard more words tumbling from his mouth. “He will certainly punish me terribly for allowing you to interfere with the completion of his—”

  The prince released Malik’s wrist and brought his fist up. The blow drove Malik’s jaws together with a tooth-shattering crack, and he had just enough time before sinking into darkness to wonder what would have happened to him had Yder hit him with his good hand.

  Wet, pale, and tiny, the Chosen looked like a trio of newborn whelps—like a trio of stillborn whelps, as motionless and silent as they were. Worried that the fall to the vestry floor might have been too long for such small creatures—even on his hands and knees, the distance was more than six feet—Aris reached down and nudged Khelben with the nail of his index finger.

  Nothing happened, except that Khelben flopped onto his back.

  Aris placed a fingertip on Khelben’s chest and felt nothing. Of course, given their size differences, searching for a heartbeat was akin to a human feeling for the pulse of a locust.

  “Wake up,” he whispered. “You must be tougher than that—you’re Chosen!”

  When Khelben remained motionless, Aris sighed and rolled first Storm, then Laeral onto their backs. When neither moved, he placed them side-by-side and checked for signs of life as he had with Khelben.

  “Hey—watch those fingers!” warned a tiny female voice.

  Raising his brow in surprise, Aris put his hands down and lowered his head to within a yard of the floor, now squinting in an attempt to keep the Chosen in focus at such a close distance.

  “My apologies,” he whispered. “I was only feeling for a—”

  “We know what you were feeling for,” chuckled a second tiny woman. “And I thought an artist would be different!”

  Aris turned his head from side to side, trying to get a better view of the three figures stretched out beneath his head. None of them seemed to be speaking or moving, but considering that they were Chosen, that meant very little.

  “Up here, big fella,” said the first voice. “Beside you.”

  Aris turned in the direction of the speaker and found himself looking into a pair of tiny, ivory-colored blurs. He leaned away, and the blurs slowly resolved themselves into the beautiful faces of Alustriel Silverhand and Dove Falconhand. Still only half the size of his thumb, the two Chosen were dressed in flowing black cloaks that, as they hovered beside him, gave them the appearance of some sort of shadow sprites.

  “Where did you come from?” Aris gasped.

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on you,” Dove said, chuckling at his surprise.

  “This is no time to play games,” Aris complained. He glanced down the passage to make certain that his guard, Amararl, was still out in the nave as he had promised—and to be sure that there were no other Shadovar approaching the vestry. “Yder is here with a small army.”

  “I’d call it more of a strike team,” Alustriel said. “When we realized where it was going, we thought we’d better tag along and see what was happening.”

  “A good thing we did, too,” Dove said. “This is the first time we’ve found you alone.�
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  “It’s the first time I’ve been alone—as you can see.” Aris waved a hand at the motionless Chosen on the floor. “Was it too long? I didn’t eat anything, but I don’t think anyone expected it to take this long.”

  Alustriel’s voice grew reassuring. “They’ll be fine, as soon as I wake them.”

  She flew down to the floor and kneeled beside Khelben, then began to slap his face and whisper his name into his ear.

  “They went into a magical hibernation.” Dove explained. She hovered near Aris’s head, watching down the passage with him. “After the third or fourth day without food—earlier, if they refused to drink water you’d already drunk—their bodies would have started to draw on the Weave to sustain them. Even a giant could not have withstood that much magic flowing through him for very long, so they used a spell to shut down.”

  “Like bears when the snow comes.”

  “Something like that. Except there’s still been a little magic flowing through your body. It gave you the strength to work at Malik’s tempo, but it’s also done some damage—affected your coordination and perception, made it difficult to do things that should be easy.” Dove pointed at a lopsided likeness of Cyric on the wall. “As soon as you burn off the last of that energy, you’re going to fall asleep for a very long time. Before that happens, you should eat. Eat as much as you can keep down.”

  “As much as I can keep down?” Aris’s mouth began to water at the prospect. “When can I start?”

  “Soon,” Dove laughed. “but first, keep watch while I remind the Blackstaff where he is.”

  She gestured at the floor, where Khelben’s eyelids were fluttering and his chest rising at regular intervals. Alustriel had moved on to Laeral.

  Khelben’s eyes opened. He took one look at the images of madness decorating the vestry and scowled in alarm.

  “You had better hurry,” Aris said. “One look at these walls, and he’s liable to think he’s gone to the Nine Hells.”

  Dove was already dropping to his side. She pulled her hood back and let her silver hair spill free, then took Khelben’s arm.

  “Now don’t start hurling spells around,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Of course there’s something to worry about—” Khelben pushed himself into a seated position—“can’t you see what Aris has been carving?”

  Out in the nave, Amararl peered into the vestry passage with a beetled brow.

  Aris looked down at the five Chosen, gestured in the direction of the nave, and said, “My guard’s patience is coming to an end.”

  “Let’s risk a few moments longer, in case we have need of your knowledge,” Khelben said. He turned to Dove and Alustriel. “What progress have you made? Given that the city still floats, I take it you have not destroyed the mythallar.”

  “We haven’t even found it,” Dove confirmed. “Asking Galaeron’s help is out of the question. He’s been locked inside the Palace Most High since we arrived, and we can’t go inside.”

  “Dare not go inside,” Alustriel corrected. “It seems to be a nexus in the Shadow Weave. The closer we approach, the weaker our connection to the Weave. If we were to enter.…”

  “No use in getting ourselves killed,” Khelben agreed.

  “But we have made this,” Dove said as she produced something from inside her cloak. It was so tiny that it took a moment for Aris to recognize it as a folded sheet of parchment. “This shows most of the city, save for what’s within the walls of the Palace Most High.”

  Khelben took the parchment and began to open it.

  “Maybe Aris can help us,” he said.

  “I fear not. I’ve never been to the mythallar.” Aris peeked out into the nave and found Amararl starting toward the vestry passage. “I should go, before—”

  “I said help.” Khelben spread the parchment on the floor and continued, “Even if you don’t know where it is, you have a better idea of where to search than we do.”

  Aris regarded the parchment dubiously. Though it had opened to the width of Khelben’s arm, it was little larger than a thumbnail to him.

  “How can I read a map I can barely see?” he asked.

  “Try,” Dove said.

  Aris glanced back to find Amararl coming down the side aisle toward the vestry, then he sighed and stooped down to obey. The instant his eyes fell on it, the image floated off the parchment and began to expand, growing so large he could barely take in all he could see.

  Amazed, Aris diligently studied the map, systematically running his gaze along each street and down every service passage. It didn’t take him long to realize that the image was adjusting itself to his scrutiny, sliding past beneath him to keep centered the object of his attention, growing larger or smaller depending how long his eyes remained fixed on a certain area.

  Amararl’s voice came down the passage, “Aris?” He sounded more worried than demanding. “What are you doing in there? What’s that light?”

  “Our bargain was for privacy!”

  Though the voice that boomed this sounded like Aris’s, it was from Alustriel’s tiny mouth that the words came.

  “Our bargain was for a few minutes of privacy,” Amararl corrected. “It has been ten—and I heard voices.”

  “Echoes,” Alustriel retorted. “The temple is filled with Yder’s warriors.”

  Amararl considered this a moment, and said, “Warriors who will be returning soon. If you’re not here, I’ll say you ran off.”

  “And I that you allowed me to,” Alustriel said. “Therefore, I suggest you return to your post. Tell me when you hear someone coming.”

  “I’m your guard, not your servant!”

  “There is no difference, now,” Alustriel shot back. “Unless you wish to meet the same end as Gelthez or Karbe.”

  She raised her tiny hand and flicked her fingers in a spell, then said in her normal voice, “Never mind him, Aris. We can still hear if he sounds an alarm, but now he can’t hear or see anything in this room.”

  Aris spent another five minutes studying the map, then finally looked through the translucent image at the Chosen below.

  “I just don’t know,” he said. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was inside the Palace Most High.”

  “That was our first thought too,” Dove said, “but during the battle Galaeron described, the phaerimm were using magic. Unless they’ve learned to tap into the Shadow Weave—”

  “We’ve seen no sign of that,” said Laeral, who was standing with her sister Storm at Khelben’s side, “but it still doesn’t mean you don’t have to go through the palace to reach it.”

  “Yes, it does,” Storm said. “The phaerimm got there.”

  “With the aid of a malaugrym,” Dove pointed out. “It might have been able to sneak them through the palace.”

  “Would you trust your life to a Malaugrym?” Storm countered. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “If the phaerimm can get there, so can we.”

  “If we can find it,” Laeral said. “If Galaeron can’t help us—”

  “We’ll have to ask Vala,” Khelben finished.

  “Her, I can help you find,” said the giant.

  Aris shifted his scrutiny to the great plaza of gloom sculptures that surrounded the Palace Most High, then slowly moved his gaze along the edge until he came to a huge, many-spired mansion with a procession of flying buttresses and a long tunnel of barrel vaults.

  “You will find her here, somewhere inside Escanor’s palace.”

  The Chosen studied the map from below for a moment then Khelben said, “It would be nice if any of us had actually met her. The Shadovar were obviously trying to lure Galaeron back with all those rumors about her being Escanor’s slave. What if they’re just that—rumors?”

  “A good point,” Storm agreed. “Vala and her men were in service to Melegaunt, and I have it on good authority that she slew three phaerimm for them in Myth Drannor.”

  “Vala and her men served Melegaunt in order to k
eep an oath their ancestors had sworn,” Aris said. “Their duty was discharged when Shade returned.”

  “But that does not mean she is Escanor’s slave,” Storm pressed. “Ruha said that it was her choice to remain with the prince.”

  “So Galaeron would escape before his shadow took him,” Aris said. Storm’s aspersions were beginning to irritate him, and he let it show. “She loves Galaeron as a crane loves its mate. If she is with Escanor now, it is not by her choice.”

  Storm raised her brow at his tone, but shrugged and gave a little nod.

  “If you say so, Aris.”

  “I do,” he said. “If you wish her help, all you need do is say you are friends of Galaeron’s.”

  “Good,” Khelben said. He began to fold the parchment, and the map went dark. “That’s just what we’ll do. My thanks for your help, Aris. We’ll try to fetch you before the city falls, but that may be—”

  “We are all risking much,” Aris interrupted, “but only Galaeron’s sacrifice is certain. If you value that, save Vala first. The rest of us are here by choice.”

  “If that is what you wish, my friend.” Khelben met his eye and nodded. “We will do what can be done.”

  Malik awoke to the sound of snakes hissing into both ears. Judging by how he felt, they had bitten him a dozen times, a hundred times. His head throbbed and his back ached. There were pins of light piercing his eyes and rivers of fire coursing through his veins, and he had a bladder that felt like two gallons of wine in one gallon of space. The snakes were about to draw him into quarters. They had him by each wrist and each ankle, and they were all pulling in opposite directions. His arms were ready to pop from his shoulders and his legs to divide what no man ever wished to have divided.

  As Malik’s head began to clear, the hissing grew softer and more distant, and he realized it was not snakes hissing into his ears. It was voices, the whispering voices that filled the throne room of Telamont Tanthul.

  If he was in the presence of the Most High and in so much pain, there could only be one explanation.

  Yder had beat him to the palace.