Icelin stared at the old man. She thought she’d ceased being surprised at the suffering endured by those the plague had touched, but she was wrong.
She looked at the holy symbols. “You were a priest of all these gods?”
“Over each of my ‘lifetimes,’ and sometimes more than one,” Aldren said. “I served them all, faithfully, not realizing at first that they, like Lady Mystra, had passed on. How could they cease to be when I could not? It was one of the more horrifying truths I’ve had to face: to accept immortality when the gods were dying around me. When I realized that none of them would be able to grant the long sleep I desired, I dedicated myself to what the Art had lost—to Mystra’s memory.”
“How does your magic function?” Ruen asked. “From whom do you receive your divine power?”
“The gods are silent to me,” Aldren said, “even those I know to be alive and thriving. I don’t know why. Fortunately, the magic in this staff has remained strong. It is my only link to the power that once was Mystra’s, and so I will watch over it, this small shard of the unbound weave that no longer has a weaver.”
“But why stay here?” Icelin asked. “Why not live in the city?”
“Because I feared the day I would be struck down. I imagined awakening in a sealed crypt, enduring a slow death over and over until I descended into madness. And I couldn’t leave him.” Aldren touched the side of Darvont’s head. “He saved me and shares my curse. I suspect part of his mind dwells forever in the heart of that arcane storm.”
“So you’ll live here forever, custodian of the same magic that scarred you,” Icelin said, “venerating gods who won’t answer your prayers?”
The old man shook his head. “You should not anger yourself on my behalf. Many others suffer greater trials. You yourselves are touched, are you not?”
Icelin and Ruen exchanged glances. “How do you know that?” Icelin asked.
“Because we are all the same, now,” Aldren said. “Weavers—custodians of the Art that was lost.”
“Only Mystra could control the weave,” Ruen said. “We aren’t gods, and we aren’t immortal.”
“Then what is magic, without its caretaker?” Aldren challenged. “Lost, ungovernable. Yet in some few individuals it finds a vessel. You’re quite right: we are not gods, and most of us do not survive the blue flame that burns our flesh and bores our minds. But without the Lady, where can the Art go? It’s been too long mastered. I say it cannot survive on its own, so it clings to the mortal realm and threatens to destroy what it loves most.”
Ruen snorted. “You can think that, if you find it comforting. The truth is magic doesn’t have a soul. There’s no beauty left in the Art. The only thing it can do is burn.”
“Is that why you gave Fannie the quill?” Icelin asked softly. “Why you stole a collection of magic at amazing cost to yourself? Did you risk your freedom because you believed there was no beauty left in the Art?”
Ruen stared at her. He pressed his lips into a hard line, but his expression wasn’t exactly angry. “What has the Art ever done but bring you misery?” he said. “Why would you defend it?”
“I would defend you,” Icelin said. “I don’t know if what you say is true,” she said to Aldren, “but my friend and I must leave soon. We’re being pursued by a group of men. I led them here, thinking only the wraiths would be disturbed by our presence. I would lead them away—”
“But there is no better place than here for confronting demons, real or imagined,” Aldren said, “Please don’t fear for my safety. Darvont and I will be protected within the Ferryman’s hold. You are welcome to share its sanctuary, but I suspect that would defeat your purpose.”
“It would,” Icelin said. “Yet I would beg sanctuary for my friend Bellaril. I’ve no right to ask, and I have nothing to offer you in return. But if I live long enough I would find a way to repay you.”
“She’s true to her word,” Ruen said. “Stubbornness has never known a more faithful lover than Icelin Tearn.”
Icelin shot him a look, but Aldren said, “Of course your friend will stay. No one will harm her while I keep watch.”
“My deepest thanks,” Icelin said. She looked at Ruen. “Are you ready, clevermouth?”
Ruen nodded. They made their way to the gap in the hull. Icelin paused by Bellaril’s pallet. The dwarf was still unconscious, her skin the color of the moon, but she breathed evenly and deep.
“She truly would have been killed,” Icelin said to Ruen, “if you hadn’t made her come with us. Cerest killed the master of the Cradle—such a mad action even someone so well protected as Arowall couldn’t have predicted it. And Bellaril wouldn’t have abandoned her master to save her own life.”
“Doesn’t mean she’ll live any longer than she was meant to,” Ruen said.
“Maybe,” Icelin said. She looked at Aldren. “Do you think your fate can be changed?” she said. “That one day the plague will allow you to die?”
“That is my fondest hope,” Aldren said. “Until then, I will live as best I can.”
“You and I are two halves of the same curse,” Icelin said. “The plague lives in me. It causes my memory to be nigh perfect, for a price. Ruen says it will take my life before age does. The more I use my own magic, the quicker that fate will come for me.”
Aldren’s soft green eyes reflected the spell light. “I am sorry for your burden,” he said.
Icelin shrugged. “I am sorrier for other burdens—loss and pain done to my friends because of my own fear. I think you’re right. We, all of us, can only live as best we are able, and hope to change our fates—” She stopped as something took hold inside of her.
Memory came, this time uncalled. With trembling fingers, Icelin removed her pack from her back and dumped its contents on the floor. The deformed man skittered out of the way.
“What are you doing?” Ruen said. Seeing her face, he crouched beside her and helped her gather the scattered letters from Elgreth. “What’s wrong?”
“He tried to live as best he could,” Icelin said. “Just like us, like Aldren, retreating to this place.”
She found the letter she was looking for and practically tore it in her haste to unfold the old parchment.
“Cerest isn’t after a perfect memory,” Icelin said. “Elgreth’s scar was different from mine. Here!” She read part of the letter aloud. “I sat upon a rooftop and looked out over Cutlass Island, at the ruins of the Host Tower of the Arcane. The locals say it is a cursed place, and I cannot help but agree. The restless dead walk on that isle, sentinels to its lost power. In my younger days, I would have longed for the challenge and promise of treasure to be found in such a forgotten stronghold. I can see the magic swirling under shattered stone. It drifts among the bones of the once mighty wizards who ruled here.”
Icelin stopped reading and looked at Ruen. “Do you see?”
Ruen shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I can see the magic swirling under the shattered stone,” Icelin repeated. “He could detect powerful magic, through stone and earth, just with his eyes. What gift would tempt a treasure hunter more?”
“Cerest will be disappointed when he finds out you inherited a very different gift,” Ruen said.
“Yes,” Icelin said. “A perfect memory is of little use to him. His hunt was for nothing.”
It was all a tragic jest. Icelin was grateful to have the one mystery solved, but there were still missing pieces. “I have to know why he betrayed my family,” she said. “If Cerest won’t confess it… how do you remember something you’ve managed to forget so thoroughly that even the spellplague can’t penetrate the defense?”
She’d meant the question rhetorically, and was surprised when Aldren answered, “If your mind has seen fit to bury something so deeply that even the spellplague can’t touch it, I would count the power a blessing.”
“Blessing?” Icelin said. “I don’t see how. If I had this memory, it would explain so much about my lif
e. Why would I want to bury it?”
“You mistake me,” Aldren said. “I didn’t mean it was a blessing that you be denied a piece of yourself. I meant to say that if you could find within you the same power that pushes the plague back from this one, vital memory, you might find the power to change your fate.”
As Icelin digested this, she noticed Ruen looking at the old man intently. “Can you help her?” he asked. “Is there any priestly magic in that staff that can help her remember what she needs to know?”
“There are ways of bringing memories to the surface, if you truly want to relive them,” Aldren said. “When dealing with the spellplague, such methods are never certain to work and carry their own cost. I have stored the memories of each lifetime I’ve lived,” Aldren said. “I don’t know if I can impart such a thing to your friend, but if she is willing, I would try.”
“At what risk to yourself?” Icelin said. “No. We’ve caused you enough grief.”
“Are you afraid, Icelin?” Ruen said.
Icelin could hear the challenge in his voice. “No,” she said, “I’m not afraid. But I’m tired of other people risking pieces of themselves for me. I think it’s time Cerest was made to answer for what he’s done. I will make him tell me.”
She stepped to the gap in the hull. She could feel an invisible presence. The old man’s magic formed a protective seal over the opening.
“Thank you,” she said to Aldren. “Whatever happens, I’m glad to have met you.”
“And I, you,” said Aldren. “The gods go with you.”
Icelin nodded and stepped through the opening. Ruen followed behind her.
She didn’t know what she expected to happen once she crossed the seal. An ambush, another monster, or a spray of magic from the elf woman who’d taken her on the shore? She got none of those things, but she sensed the change in the air as soon as the harbor scent hit her nose.
“Look above you,” Ruen said quietly.
Icelin looked up and lost her breath. She could see slivers of moonlight through the Ferryman’s tangled rigging. The skeletal forest canopy swelled with movement. Sea wraiths circled each other and the wreckage. More were floating up from various parts of the ruins to join the mass. The unearthly choir keened softly, as if singing to the moon or some other, invisible celestial body.
“You said there was wild magic here,” Icelin said, “that it draws the wraiths. Can they feel it—the three of us here together?”
“I don’t know,” Ruen said. “But it’s possible we’re stirring up whatever’s been lying dormant here since the Ferryman was destroyed.”
“Not just us,” Icelin said, “him too.”
Cerest sat cross-legged on Ruen’s raft. He was alone, and looked completely at ease beneath the canopy of swirling wraiths. Icelin knew his men would be nearby, but wherever they were, Cerest had them well hidden. She wondered if Ruen, with his sharper eyes, could detect them. The only illumination came from the lantern on Ruen’s raft and a torch Cerest had propped in front of him.
He looked up when they appeared, and smiled in genuine pleasure. “Well met, Icelin,” he said. “I received your message. I’m happy to see you are well.”
He didn’t seem to notice or care that there was a puddle of drying blood—leucrotta and Bellaril’s—behind and to his left. The copper scent combined with the leucrotta’s naturally pungent stink must have been overwhelming. But like the dying horse that day on the Way of the Dragon, Cerest took the horror completely in his stride. His pleasant expression never faltered.
Somehow, though, the sight of him amid the blood was less intimidating instead of more. Here at last he wasn’t trying to hide what he was, the deficiency of mind that had set him on her like a crazed hunting hound. She could see him in this true state and feel pity, though it was a fleeting emotion.
“Greetings, Cerest,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“I’m accustomed to being patient. I was more than willing to wait for you,” Cerest said. “In the end, I knew you’d come back to me.”
Icelin felt Ruen tense behind her. She reached back to touch him, but of course he moved just out of her grasp. She dropped her hand.
“Are we alone?” she asked, deliberately affecting a teasing tone.
“There’s at least one in the crow’s nest,” Ruen said. “Ten feet up.” He pointed, and Icelin heard the scuff of boots on wood, a figure hastening to conceal himself in the shadows. Ruen smiled. “I don’t think he enjoys heights.”
Cerest was not so amused. Hatred came alive in his eyes when he looked at Ruen, an emotion so intense Icelin wondered at its root. “I would be more than willing to dismiss my men, Icelin, if you would send your friend away,” he said. His voice was unsteady. He swallowed.
“But that’s hardly fair,” Icelin said. “I have so few friends left, thanks to you.” She reached into her pack and pulled out the stack of letters. “Do you know what these are?”
Cerest stood and walked toward her outstretched hand. Icelin allowed him to approach but kept her body squarely between Ruen and Cerest, noting the irony of her protection of the elf.
Not for long, she thought, as the viper took the letters from her hand. I won’t need you for long.
Cerest shuffled through the letters, and Icelin could tell he recognized the handwriting immediately. “These are Elgreth’s,” he said, handing them back to her. “I never would have credited him with the strength to write them. He was in poor shape when I left him in Luskan.”
She thought she’d been prepared for anything, but at his words, Icelin felt a cold kiss on the back of her neck, as if one of the wraiths had drifted down to whisper hateful truths in her ear.
Anger bloomed in place of the cold, and the contrast made her tremble. She felt the letters flutter from her hands. They landed on the harbor’s surface and became tiny, worn boats carried away by the rippling current.
She had felt many things upon learning of her grandfather’s identity and subsequent fate: grief, confusion, loss, but always a place removed from her heart. It wasn’t that she was callous. It was simply that nothing could surmount the pain and anger that lived there after Brant’s death—until now.
“Why?” she said. “If you found Elgreth in Luskan, why didn’t you bring him home to Waterdeep? You said he was your best friend. How could you leave him in that godscursed place?”
“He was too far gone to walk,” Cerest said, “and I didn’t have enough men. I never would have made it out of the city with him. We would have been set upon—fresh carrion for the vultures.”
“Of course,” Icelin said bitterly. “You wouldn’t have risked yourself to make your old friend comfortable in his last days.”
“Whatever you think of me, Icelin, I was Elgreth’s friend,” Cerest said. “I would have given anything to have brought him home. He should never have gone to Luskan.”
“He went to protect me,” Icelin said. “He must have been terrified you would find me. What was it, Cerest? What did you do to betray my family’s trust in you so completely?”
“I never intended to betray them,” Cerest said, “just as I didn’t intend for Elgreth to run from me. You are too young to understand. My family was composed of artisans. They had centuries to hone their skills. My father could craft weapons that sang with arcane music. He only made a handful of blades in his lifetime, but they were named. If not alive, they were near enough to sentient that men in Myth Drannor craved the bond between sword and man more than they craved a mate. And it was all because my father could sense magic and make it bend to whatever shape he desired. It didn’t matter that the Spellplague was ravishing magic all over Faerûn. My father might have been a god. He was master of the unbound weave.”
“But his son did not inherit his ability,” Icelin said.
“No,” Cerest said. “I tried, but the gift never came. There were reasons, my father said. A question of birth.”
The naked longing in his eyes was o
f a kind Icelin had never seen except on a grieving person. Cerest had long ago realized what he could never be, but he refused to come to terms with his inadequacy.
“It was easier after I left,” Cerest said. “I comforted myself by thinking that this kind of gift was an aberration. I would never see it again, even in my long lifetime.” His voice was ragged, emotion breaking through at last. “I met Elgreth, and your parents, and everything was perfect. We would have continued together, year after year, explorers all”—his face contorted—“if Elgreth hadn’t wanted to explore the Rikraw Tower.”
These were the words Icelin had waited to hear. Cerest had given the tower a name, and names were power. She felt the bonds around her memories snap.
CHAPTER 20
As Cerest spoke, Icelin felt a kind of stupor descend upon her mind. The fog thickened and deepened. This was not like the other times she’d gone into her mind, seeking a stray piece of lost information. This was not in her control. She was being led down the twisting corridors by a hand that belonged to a person that was her and yet not her. This person was a child and yet possessed of more wisdom than her waking self.
Icelin was only half-aware, in this state, of Cerest moving closer to her and Ruen farther away. This repositioning made no sense to Icelin, but she had no time to consider the implications. The hand pulling her was moving faster, sweeping her along with its urgency.
The corridors turned to aged stone; dust and cobwebs clung to the corners. Was she going backward in time? An appropriate metaphor, Icelin thought. Brant always said her mind worked with the same practicality of a history text. Past was old, present was new.
She came to the end of the passage and found a swathe of green cutting brilliantly across the stone. Stepping out of the passage, Icelin found herself in a vast field.
At first she was afraid. The space was too open. The smells of the city were gone. She could only detect grass and the distant smell of smoke in the air.
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