But … here was something odd. Both the rough Celestial Nadir crystal and her keystone seemed … murky. Usually, she could see right through the crystal, but tendrils of darkness seemed to cloud the center of both pieces—only very slightly in her keystone, but noticeably in the raw chunk of Celestial Nadir crystal. It reminded her suddenly and uncomfortably of her nightmare.
“Bastard dream,” she murmured. “You’d better not be responsible, or …” Or what, she didn’t know, but her blood was hot with anger. Far better, though, than the fear that sang through her when she’d woken. She was more familiar with emotions of anger and annoyance than fear and uncertainty. But more than anything else, she was tired. Fear and anger both fell away, leaving a dull ache. And truth be told, the creeping warmth on her face and hands galled her. The day before had been a long day of travel, and she’d gotten too much sun.
She usually sat on the exterior of the wagon, coach style, driving the horses from beneath a protective sunshade. The Giant’s Belt mountains rising to the left had drawn her gaze like a magnet. Beyond its towering peaks lay Raurin. Now a desert, the once fertile land had been ruled by Imaskar. Raurin was certain to be rich in ruins, but the desert sands were lethal. Her decision had been to first locate every portal she could outside Raurin. Despite her resolve, the barrier peaks still captured her imagination, and in her day-dreamy contemplation of what lay beyond, she failed to stay safely in the shade. The sun was something those of Deep Imaskar had forgotten. A sunburn was an affliction she had packed no balm or magical ointment to soothe.
Ususi finished the tea. She stood, rinsed her utensils with water from a hanging jug, and put everything back in its place. Morning’s light was close enough. She might as well get a start on the day since sleep had left her behind.
Dawn chased away the night’s obscurring haze. Morning’s first light found Ususi standing outside her coach, putting together her expeditioner’s pack. Ususi’s great-jacket was cinched by a service belt to which were strapped all manner of needed things, including six leather scroll cases, three on each hip, written with utilitarian magic. The keystone dangled on its chain around her neck, and a slender leather satchel hung at her side, holding her purse filled with personal oddments, including the Celestial Nadir crystal from Two Stars. About her head revolved a free-floating delver’s orb of her own design—a tiny piece of white granite wrapped in silvery wire.
The expeditioner’s pack lay at Ususi’s feet. It paid to be prepared when entering an unknown ruin for the first time. Extra food, slender tools for jiggling old locks or deactivating traps, rope, water, lantern oil…. The pack, with all its pockets and storage straps, was like her travel coach in miniature. She hefted it, estimating its weight. It would be a burden to her, but not to her uskura.
She whistled, and an unseen presence ruffled her hair as it moved past.
“Carry this,” Ususi said. Obediently, hidden hands lifted the pack and waited patiently for further instruction.
Back in Deep Imaskar, nearly every citizen could craft or purchase a minor uskura to act as a general, all-purpose bearer of burdens, opener of doors, and retriever of objects. For a wizard of Ususi’s talent, an uskura was considered a necessity, though she’d gone long years without one since she’d left the refuge behind the Great Seal. That time was past. During her days of coach travel over the last year, she’d fashioned an invisible companion using the methods of her people. Each uskura was something like an enchantment and required a physical object to serve as its focus. Ususi had bound her uskura to her delver’s orb. As long as she had her delver’s orb, the uskura would never stray far.
Not unlike the simple, horselike entities she’d bonded to the travel coach’s yoke, she mused. She didn’t have the time, talent, or patience to see to the needs of actual living draft animals.
“Follow,” said Ususi. The wizard turned and set out for the jumble of ruins visible within the cluster of brown hills. The uskura obeyed.
The edge of the first knoll was less than a hundred yards from where she’d stopped the coach last night, though the ruins were probably a half mile farther. The mounting sun touched the hilltops with gold, giving the brown grass a luster it probably didn’t deserve. Many of the broad hills were crowned with dark slabs of stone, some standing lonely vigil, others clustered in small groups, and several fallen, as if lying exhausted from centuries of labor.
Ususi ascended the nearest hill. The grade was hardly noticeable—a lucky break. The rising sun and cloudless sky promised another overly warm day. She hoped the ruins would reveal structures with roofs, or perhaps subterranean pockets. She’d had enough sun for a while.
So far, so good—she saw no trails, animal or otherwise, among the hills. With even more luck, she might find the site undisturbed, though she knew that to be unlikely. In all the centuries since the outpost had been abandoned, numerous intrusions could have occurred. Looters were common, and were trained to expect ancient treasure in the bones of fallen civilizations. But no looter before her had a keystone.
She crowned the first hillock and looked down the gentle slope into a curved valley bounded by two adjacent ridges. Besides the occasional dolmen, scrub brush erupted from the earth in scattered dots. A warm breeze blew across the hilltop, and the scent of a jasmine reached the wizard’s nose.
There. A central dome of faded stone. Another outpost promised by the ancient map she kept safely in her travel coach. The outpost looked like a hill itself, or perhaps a large boulder exposed by years of erosion. It was bald, cratered, and home to a colony of opportunistic lichen. In the few places where the stone of the station was visible through the covering detritus, Ususi astutely noted the faintest purplish tinge.
The wizard hastened down the slope toward the structure, a smile ghosting across her lips. Still no evidence of any recent disturbances.
When she reached the dome, the illusion of its solidity broke. Great cracks meandered across its surface, and large holes gaped where portions of the wall had collapsed. What had been the entrance—two dolmens surmounted by a third to form an arch—was similarly collapsed, and the passage was filled with solid earth, the runoff of ages.
Since taking up her quest, Ususi had investigated twelve or so lost sites of the ancient Imaskari. While only the first had harbored one of the twenty gates, she was becoming something of an expert on the styles favored by her vanished ancestors. To Ususi’s eye, this dome promised a larger subterranean structure, if she could penetrate the stony cap.
She circled the dome once, slowly, taking note of every possibility. Every so often, she gave a quick glance at the tops of the surrounding hills. She’d run into few travelers and fewer tenants in this empty borderland between Veldorn and Estagund, but keeping a lookout was smart. The hilltops remained reassuringly clear of intruding silhouettes.
Ususi completed her circumnavigation of the structure. No paths or clear entrances presented themselves. On the other hand, several of the larger cracks revealed tufts of animal hair caught in rough edges. Evidence that beasts of the grassland used the cavity to shelter from the day’s heat, the night’s cold, or the rainy season’s torrential downpour. Or so she supposed.
The wizard debated calling on one of her many prepared spells, which, like obedient soldiers, waited patiently, even eagerly, to be called into existence. A brief existence, but long enough to enact a startling change upon the world of the real.
Better to exhaust mundane approaches first, Ususi decided. Each prepared spell represented an expenditure of time, and in some cases, expensive resources. She approached the largest fracture that split the dome. The morning sun rose from the other side, and the cavity was dark. She reached up and brushed her finger against her circling delver’s orb. Steady white light woke in the stone and poured forth in a concentrated, directed beam. The illumination shone in whatever direction she willed. Crouching down on elbows and knees, she wormed her way into the side of the dome.
No mud—Ususi was grateful
for that. With the light of her orb, she easily crawled forward. The space remained wide enough, and she made her way into a large pocket, where she could stand.
A flurry of tiny wings sent her reaching involuntarily for a spell, even though Ususi had expected to disturb wildlife. The dome made a perfect place for the large southern bats to roost during the hot days. She was sorry to bother them. The sharp smell of guano was all they left behind.
The dome’s central feature was a five-sided obelisk of rough, puce-colored stone. The obelisk’s significance was enhanced by the elaborate symbology inscribed on every surface. Runes; pictograms; and depictions of idealized emperors, gods, and demons—typical images for the ancient Imaskari. The wizard had spent years learning the language of the ancients and automatically interpreted the meaning behind this elaborate façade: “Entrance restricted to authorized agents of the empire. Intruders will be punished by automatic safeguards. Expect no mercy.”
“Bring me my pack,” Ususi murmured, and the uskura silently offered her its burden. Ususi opened and rummaged through it.
“Here we go.” The wizard produced a lilac-tinged stone shard that was a little shorter than her hand in its diameter, and about the width of her thumb in thickness. The shard was a fragment of a larger, heavily inscribed tablet, though many symbols remained on the broken piece. Ususi checked the fragment, then started searching the obelisk for matching symbols. The tablet chip, which Ususi thought of as a reference list, was something she’d unearthed about six months earlier in a crumbling spire in southern Mulhorand. Since then, it had proved invaluable.
The wizard located the runes she sought, the ones matching those on her list. She pressed each one on the obelisk, hoping the order was correct.
The ground shuddered and the dust of centuries rained down from the ceiling. The inscribed runes she’d activated lit up with brilliant blue light. Ususi stepped back, poised to flee in case she’d guessed incorrectly. Another shudder accompanied a familiar grating sound of stone on stone, and the obelisk slowly slid upward. A hiss of equalizing air blew a spray of milky dust in all directions. When it settled, a smooth-sided shaft angling steeply into the earth was revealed. A narrow stairway was chiseled into the side of the shaft, descending in tight loops out of the reach of Ususi’s light. Demonic sculptures squatted at the head of the stair, one on each side of the shaft, their claws raised threateningly but immovably.
Ususi stood her ground for a hundred heartbeats, waiting to see if any summoned guardians or ancient countermeasures against intrusion would be deployed. Time trickled past and, as far as she could sense, her way remained clear. After another similar span of time, she stuffed the pale purple shard back into her pack, handed the pack to her uskura, and started down the newly revealed stairs.
Warian Datharathi studied his hand. With just three cards, his choices were few—a three of silver, an eight of silver, and a Bahamut. A six of silver he’d just revealed lay on the table; a three of black and a four of white, which his two remaining opponents had simultaneously played, lay next to his card.
The hand had gone around the table once, and one card lay before each player. Everyone would have two more chances to lay down a card, until each showed three cards.
Shem said, “I’ll take this,” and pulled a couple of coins from the pile at the center of the table.
Warian frowned. He’d forfeited the activation of his first card by playing a higher value card than either of his opponents. Shem, who’d played the lowest card, a three-point black dragon, was able to take money out of the stakes. Black dragons were thieves in cards as well as in life.
Warian’s turn again. Warian slapped his eight of silver down on the table. Since he got to play first this time, his card was automatically the lowest value; its ability activated. Everyone with a good dragon in their flight got to draw another card. He grinned and drew a card from the shuffle deck. Silvers were moral paragons, after all.
Next came Shem, who played seven of black. Shem got to steal a couple more coins from the stakes. Warian stifled a groan. He was already possessive over the pile of coins—he was certain he’d win them and didn’t want to see their value leak away.
Yasha played a ten of red. The card was too high to use, but Yasha’s total score of fourteen between his two cards was respectable.
But the hand would be won by whomever showed the highest total after each had played three cards. Such were the rules of the tavern game Three Dragon Ante.
It was one of Warian’s favorite games. Like many such games, Three Dragon Ante required a financial contribution to the stakes before each hand was played. Warian found that he could win the stakes more often than not, even when pitted against experienced players, as long as he didn’t overdo it. If he stayed at a table, a tavern, or even in a particular town for too long, stories of his “luck” tended to spread, and the locals started taking a dislike to his winning ways.
“Hey, Glass-arm! Did you bathe today? You smell like an outhouse!” Tentative snickers bloomed around the bar. Warian glanced away from his game, even though he recognized that grating voice: his local nemesis, Bui the Hog. The big woman was a sore loser who’d gone too far into debt to continue playing for the evening. “Too long in one place” may have already snuck up on him, Warian realized.
Warian’s right hand, his glass arm, tightened its grip on his cards. Not glass—crystal. His prosthesis was a wonder, no argument there. It almost accorded him the mobility and agility of his natural limb. But it also marked him as different. The arm and his gambling prowess were a combination that sometimes worked to his disadvantage among strangers.
Warian waited for Yasha to play a third card. Warian knew that his smartest move would be to make a joke, fold, and leave. The signs were all present—the bantering could easily turn ugly—ugly, as in physical. Bui was a lot of things, but “opposed to violence” was not on that list.
But Warian wanted to play his Bahamut. Since he’d played a middle-value card for his opener and second card, letting the advantage temporarily shift away from him, he knew he would win this hand with his last card, unless one of his opponents was holding a thirteen-point dragon scion, just like Warian. The stakes stood at one hundred sixty gold. That amount would go a long way toward seeing him to the next town along the trade road—maybe all the way to the city of Delzimmer, which bordered Eastern Shaar. He wouldn’t mind leaving Crinti-controlled Dambrath behind.
“I asked you a question,” Bui’s voice blared. More laughter, less restrained this time, chased the heels of the woman’s taunt.
Studiously ignoring the provocation, Warian merely looked at Shem and Yasha, saying, “Let’s finish this hand and call it. What do you say?”
Shem nodded, but Yasha the Weasel folded his cards and put them down.
“No,” said Yasha. “Why don’t you answer Bui’s question first? I can’t concentrate with her yelling.” Yasha smiled a knowing smile.
Warian tensed. He had one chance to deflect the gathering attention onto Bui. If he could make her look a fool, perhaps the rest would just laugh her down.
“She’s loud, isn’t she?” Warian asked. “Not so loud as when she lost her stake to me a little while ago. But …”
“Hey!” boomed Bui, closer now. Too close.
“Guess she had enough copper wedges in her pockets to pickle herself in ale. By what I can smell,” continued Warian, “she forgot how to find the outhouse to let it back out.” While he spoke, he scooped his stake into an open pouch, wistfully eyeing the unclaimed pot. “She must be smelling herself.”
A few patrons laughed … but not enough. Warian understood he’d miscalculated.
“Why, I’ll…!”
The sound of something breaking heralded Bui’s furious approach. That woman must have some orc blood in her, Warian mused ruefully. That, or she was a berserker from the north. Either way, time to run.
Warian put his cards down on the table, stood, and whirled. He’d left his sword up in
his room, peace-tied in its sheath. It looked like he’d be kissing that, and whatever else he’d left up there, good-bye.
Rough hands grabbed him from behind before he could make good his escape. Yasha’s voice purred in his ear. “Stand still, outlander. This’ll go easier if you don’t make a fuss.” Yasha’s laugh revealed his words for the lies they were.
Catcalls and more laughter answered from the room at large. Just over a dozen customers patronized the inn, none of whom seemed the least bit concerned about Warian’s situation. That he’d failed to gauge the growing dislike for himself was a surprise. Warian fancied himself a skilled diviner of others’ intentions—after all, he relied on the same skill to excel at his games.
Bui reached him, her face red with anger, and her right hand gripping a broken chair leg. Things had gone much further than they should have. Warian regretted his jibes all the more—they had spectacularly backfired.
“Bui, I’m prepared to return everything I won from you,” stammered Warian, fear threatening to break his normally cool demeanor.
“Damn right you will … after I smash that glass arm into splinters!” Bui screamed in his face. She was drunk on beer and fury.
Reasonable talk died a whimpering death, a casualty of the dire situation. He shifted his weight and ground his heel on Yasha’s toe, simultaneously shrugging his arms free of the man’s ungentle grip.
Bui brought down the chair leg in a brutal snap.
Despite his arm’s imperfect control and slow response to his desires, he managed to wrench his prosthesis up to block her blow. His artificial arm was crystal, far tougher than glass—Datharathi crystal, mined by his own family and enchanted to move almost like a regular arm. Datharathi crystal, so enchanted, was stronger than bone and sinew. The chair leg struck the translucent, violet-tinged crystal with a sick thud. The painful jolt traveled up Warian’s crystalline arm into his living flesh.
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