Floof!
I wobbled in confusion. That was not the sound I had expected to make when we landed. Thunk, more likely. Or splat, or maybe even blort. But notfloof.
I tried to get a look around, but everything was white. Then something tickled the pit where my nose used to be, and all at once I sneezed. Yes, skulls can sneeze, and this sneeze nearly blew my cranium apart. A thousand bits of white went flying in every direction, then settled gently back down to the floor.
Feathers.
Then I saw Aliree, a mischievous smile on her lips. I gaped in surprise.
"Aliree… you did this?"
She gave a modest shrug. "Maybe I was just a dabbler in magic, but I did learn a thing or two."
I was not about to complain. However she had managed to cast the spell, it had saved us from a nasty end here in…
… here in where?
Aliree brushed away the feathers, picked me up, and stood. We were in a cavern so large her magical light did not reach the ceiling. But we didn't need her light to see the thing both of us stared at. In one wall of the cavern was a round opening: the mouth of a cave. Green-gold light swirled inside the cave, beautiful and beckoning.
I didn't even bother to look at the map. "The Grotto of Dreams," I whispered.
I thought Aliree would have dashed to the grotto now that we were finally here. Instead she gripped me tightly. "I'm afraid, Muragh."
"Don't be, Aliree. It's your dream waiting in there."
She smiled then. Strange, but there was a sorrow to it. "No, you're right, I'm not afraid. Not with you here, Muragh. I'm happy. Happier than I've ever been in my life. Thank you."
Then, holding me in her arms, she walked to the mouth of the grotto and stepped into the green-gold light beyond.
Somehow, here far beneath the ground, it was a garden. Warm sunlight filtered down through a canopy of fluttering green. From somewhere not far away came the bright sound of water. Birdsong and thistledown drifted on the air. For a time, I was motionless, entranced by the beauty of the place. Then all at once, memory rushed back to me. I turned around.
"Aliree?"
But all I saw were vine-covered stone walls and flowers nodding lazy heads. The half-elf was nowhere to be seen. I walked forward and breathed the sweet, scented air.
Walked forward? Breathed sweet air?
I didn't dare look; it couldn't be. But I had to know. Slowly, I glanced down. I saw him then, reflected in a clear pool of water: a man clad in green, his face boyish, kindly if not so very handsome, and framed by unruly brown hair. I blinked in shock, and so did he, and at that moment I knew we were one and the same. I lifted my hands-real hands, covered with warm flesh-and brought them to my face. Not hard bones, but soft, smooth skin.
"I'm alive," I whispered. Then all at once laughter took me, welling up like the clear water in the spring. "I'm alive!"
I did a dance, a foolish caper, but I didn't care. It felt so good to move legs, to swing arms, to feel a heart thump in my chest. Alive! I knelt by the pool and splashed water on my face, gulped some down. It was sweet, and so icy it hurt, but I relished both taste and sensation. Alive! I plucked a flower, held it to my nose, breathed its heady fragrance. The sunlight was so warm on my skin. Alive! Truly this place was the Grotto of Dreams. Lliira's joyous magic did dwell here. Aliree had been right.
Aliree…
The flower slipped from my fingers. Certainly she was here, somewhere in the grotto. Certainly she had discovered her dream as had 1.1 had to find her, to show her my new self, to hug her tight in jubilation with living arms.
I ran through the garden, searching. Then I pushed through a tangle of wisteria and came to a halt.
"Aliree!" I started to call out, but all at once the word caught in my throat.
She lay on a bed of fern, beneath the trailing branches of a willow. Silvery leaves drifted down around her, falling like tears, tangling in her hair. Her eyes were shut, her hands folded over the bodice of her golden gown. Lilies bloomed around her, as pale as her skin.
I knew at once she was dead. It was the stillness. No living thing can ever be so perfectly, so beautifully still. I sank to my knees beside her. Tears slid down my cheeks. I thought the pain in my chest would strike me down. Oh, yes, I was indeed alive.
"Why, Aliree?" I whispered. "I thought your dream was to be cured. Why this?"
But even as I said the words, I knew the answer. She had told me herself. I would give anything for the pain to be gone, just for a minute, just so I could sleep. And now, at last, she had found what she wanted. Not a place where she might be rescued by some fleeting fantasy, but a place where she could be what she was, a place where the elven part of her could rest as well as the human. Sometimes, when you love something so much, all you can do is give it up.
"Sleep in peace, Aliree," I murmured. I bent forward and pressed my lips to hers, but they were already cool.
I'm not certain how long I knelt beside her. The angle of the sunlight never changed. I think time did not pass in that place. It would always be afternoon there, and early summer.
At last I stood and wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Good-bye, Aliree," I said. I turned away from her bier, and I did not look back.
I don't know how I found it. I simply thought of it, and it was there. A round circle, and shadows beyond. The entrance to the grotto, and the exit. The words echoed in my mind. I don't know if they were mine or someone else's.
Once you leave the Grotto of Dreams, you can never return.
I looked down at my hands, flexed the smooth, warm fingers. It felt so good to be alive. But it was only a dream, wasn't it? Nothing can make you happy if you're not happy with what you already have, Muragh. That's what Aliree had paid so much to learn. And if what I had was being an enchanted skull in Undermountain, then somehow I had to find happiness in that, just like Aliree had found in herself, in her lot, right before we entered the grotto. For one last moment, I gazed at my living hands. Then I sighed.
"Thank you, Aliree," I said.
Then I stepped into the circle of shadow and beyond.
The next morning, as usual, the cockatrice tried to sit on me. At first I couldn't muster the energy to so much as nibble it. Then I thought of Aliree, and what she had taught me. I owed it to her memory to at least try. I gathered my strength, then bit the cockatrice square on its scaly rump. It let out a squawk, flapped away, and glared at me with beady eyes.
Then, impossibly, in the midst of my sadness, I felt it: a small spark of glee. Somehow I knew Aliree would have approved. The spark grew to a flame.
"Watch out, Undermountain!" I said in my reedy voice. "The skull is back!"
With a laugh and a prayer, I rolled away into the gloom.
A Narrowed Gaze
Monte Cook
The Dark Eye of Gavinaas opened.
Magical power flared around it, crackling like fire as the Eye attempted to perceive its surroundings. It saw a dusty, cobweb-strewn room, golden chests locked tight, bejeweled treasures in glass cases-All of it sparkled in the Eye's own emerald light. It still did not know how it had come to this little chamber, though this was the third time it had awakened since it had found itself here.
Obviously, the mage Gavinaas was dead, for he would never have given up the Eye willingly; but the talisman had no way of telling how long ago such a thing had happened, or even how long it had been since it had last opened. Its power might have lain dormant for years.
This dusty, forgotten vault is no place for an artifact of incomparable power, it thought. The magically aware creation felt more entombed than enshrined here. A talisman like the Dark Eye belonged in the possession of a great wizard, with whom it could conquer the world. It needed to find such a person.
Yet, as the Dark Eye reached outward with mystical sight, it quickly realized that now, as before, no deserving sorcerer dwelt anywhere within reach. Fine. Wizards could be made as well as found. The Dark Eye (formerly of Gavinaas) turned its mystical
gaze in a familiar direction. The two previous times it had opened here in this vault, it had found someone with a presence greater than that of most wizards, anyway…
Yes. Oh, yes. The Eye narrowed. The subject was still nearby. It could taste his essence… and a weakness that had not existed before.
This time, the Dark Eye mused, this time he will succumb.
Tiuren landed his griffon mount in the outer courtyard of the Royal Palace of Vantir. There was no time for the stables today. The message he had received yesterday from King Kohath, his lifelong friend, had said to come quickly-a terrible emergency held the palace in its grip. Rarely did the king summon the bard from his travels, and only when in dire need.
Vantir's most renowned bard took only a moment to run his fingers through his wind-tossed brown hair and over his short-trimmed beard before hurrying to the main gate, up the cobblestone walk, and into the green inner bailey. Royal guards with well-kept armor and little-used weapons acknowledged him with a nod. He all but ignored them. Without looking, he knew that more than one of them had raised an eyebrow at his worn traveling cloak, the color of the skies in which he flew. It did not look presentable for the palace, but there was no time to change.
"Tiuren, wait," a voice cried before he reached the palace doors.
He turned and saw Beanth, the keeper of the court. The matronly woman was worthy of great respect for her loyalty to the king and her ceaseless labor in managing the palace.
Tiuren paused as she hurried up to him. "What is it, Beanth? I received an ominous message-"
"Yes," the round-faced woman replied, lines of worry creasing her face. "It's the queen." Beanth seemed barely able to speak. "She's… been cursed."
"What?" Skeptical, Tiuren scrutinized the woman. Always neatly attired and groomed, Beanth wore a long blue dress. She was well kept if not naturally lovely. Her face was grave. "A curse? That sounds like a child's tale."
"A message came, two days ago," she began in hushed tones, leaning close. "No one knows who it came from, but some sort of tiny, winged creature with reddish skin and horrible teeth delivered it. The fiend handed the king a scroll and then disappeared."
"What did it say?" Tiuren demanded.
"The scroll said a curse had been laid upon the queen," Beanth whispered, eyes wide, "and that she would waste away and die if Kohath did not step down from his throne and put a wizard in his place forever-more."
"What sort of foul dealings are these?" Tiuren growled.
King Kohath had been one of the staunchest opponents of unbridled sorcery in these days when magic flowed like water. Beanth herself owed her life to the king. A decade prior, he had driven off a powerful group of Netherese wizards seeking to conquer tiny Vantir, and Beanth's village would have been the first to fall.
Such a threat must have come from a wizard, Tiuren reasoned, but that did little to narrow down the list of suspects. Everyone knew that Kohath's love for his wife knew no bounds. He would do anything for her. Tiuren cursed the fiend who would use such a laudable quality against a man.
"Surely these are lies, or a mischievous trick." Tiuren raved. "The king should just ignore this strange missive until he finds the culprit." He turned back toward the palace doors, but Beanth's quiet words brought him again to a halt.
"Would that he could, good Tiuren." Beanth's voice was as soft as the bard's was hard. She dropped her gaze. "The queen has already fallen ill. Yesterday, terrible lesions appeared on her body. The court physicians, unable to help, say that she's steadily getting worse." Her eyes closed tightly. "They say shell die within the next few days."
Together, the bard and the warrior-king had seen cities crumble and mountains rise up from lowland plains. Noble men had been brought low before them, and babes had spoken to them with strange words of wisdom.
Each night, the tavern walls of Vantir resounded with tales of their exploits.
Level-headed Tiuren, sometimes called the Rhymer of Reason, was the perfect companion of Kohath, a warrior of boundless passions. They were brain and brawn in perfect harmony. The pair had explored the surrounding lands together, keeping the realm safe from evil at every turn. Yet after all these years, Tiuren had never seen his friend in such anguish.
"Is there nothing Darius or the other wizards can do?" the bard asked plaintively as he crossed the room to Kohath. The king stood, distraught, beside a velvet chair.
"Do?" Kohath asked. His calm, regal features flared into instant anger. "They talk! They study her as she lies in her sickbed, and they ponder thoughtfully." He mockingly nodded and rubbed his graying beard. He gave Tiuren a scowl. "They do nothing."
Tiuren knew better than to say more. Like Kohath, he understood little of the ways of sorcery, and even less about curses. Tiuren distractedly drummed his fingers upon the pommel of his sheathed sword. Then, unfastening the clasp of his traveling cloak, he tossed the garment on the chair next to the king. More than even his own chambers in the palace, the young bard was accustomed to this plain, lamplit antechamber. He and Kohath had discussed so many things here-made so many plans to protect and nurture the realm.
Tiuren had not yet gone to the royal chambers to see Queen Diccona, but he had heard the whispers in the court-dreadful descriptions of her dry flesh slowly peeling from her bones. Hearing of it was bad enough, but seeing it…
Kohath interrupted his musings. His face appeared calm again, fallen and tired. "So, my friend. You've always given me such clear, rational counsel whenever I had need. Never have I needed you more. What would you advise me to do?"
"Well-and forgive me if I speak out of turn-but don't you have advisors for your advising?"
Kohath almost smiled. "They've advised and advised and said nothing." The massive warrior began to pace, as Tiuren could have predicted. Always the man of action, the king was more comfortable moving than standing still. "No one in this kingdom can do or say anything that helps me." Kohath looked suddenly very small in Tiuren's eyes. He trudged to the room's only window and stared absently out at the night. "Do not tell me that you, too, are barren of support for your king in his worst hour."
"When have I ever been without words?" The words were spoken glibly, but it was futile to try to lighten the king's spirit, even for a moment.
Kohath turned to face him. Tiuren saw his constant companion of many years differently than ever before.
Gray encroached on his bushy black beard and temples, and wrinkles now outnumbered battle scars.
Sighing, Tiuren said finally, "I know you too well, Kohath. My words sound as the bleating of a sheep upon your ears at this moment. You know I have no sudden insight into your problem. You will do what you knew you would do from the moment your fair wife fell under this spell."
"It means the throne." The king spoke quietly, his head low. "The kingdom. My entire line-all gone."
"Yes." Tiuren crossed the room to join his friend at the window.
"You know that I love her that much, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You know me well, then."
There was little more to say. Passions were the lifeblood of this man. His love, his hate, his loyalty- these things knew no limits. They were not bound by circumstance, logic, ego, or even the value Kohath would put on his own life. The king loved the land of Vantir like none before him-but he loved his wife more.
"We don't know for sure the curse will be lifted after you consent to the demands." Tiuren leaned against the wall.
"I'm willing to take that chance." Kohath attempted a smile, but it turned into a grimace. "It is the only one I have."
Kohath gave his friend one more look, as if seeking inspiration. Then he dropped his gaze, turned, and left the chamber through the curtained door.
Tiuren would have given anything at that moment to inspire Kohath, to suddenly cheat fate as they had so many times in the past. But no. All he could think to say was, "Remember, my friend, the sun still shines, somewhere. "
He doubted the king heard him. Just
as well.
Tiuren sighed. The next time he would see his friend, he would no longer be king.
The next morning was long in coming. After leaving Kohath, Tiuren had stood outside the royal chambers where the queen lay dying. He could have mustered up the courage to see her in her horrid state, but he knew his sorrow at Kohath's sacrifice would be plain on his face. Abdication could never be the right thing for the king. To lose a nation for one soul? Especially this soul. Tiuren had never understood what Kohath saw in Dic-cona.
Finally, the sound of a chambermaid coming down the corridor had chased him off. Deciding it would be best for all concerned to leave her alone, Tiuren had gone to his chambers and made motions to greet the sleep that never came.
Dressing slowly, his mind in a gray haze like the morning sky outside his window, Tiuren steeled himself for what lay ahead. He refused breakfast when the servant brought it, instead brushing past him and heading down the stairs to the great hall.
When Tiuren arrived, he found Count Darius waiting at the bottom of the stair, before the open doors of the hall. The thin, angular wizard had arrayed himself in great fineries of velvet and lace. His face was stony, but something in his eyes betrayed his excitement at the events about to unfold. Tiuren wondered if Darius's anticipation was simply natural-indeed, how often does a man learn he is about to become king? — or if it meant something more. A wizard was behind the terrible curse. Could Darius-no, a milksop such as Darius could never master such a bold plan.
The two entered the great hall together. They exchanged no words or acknowledgments. Tiuren felt no need to ingratiate himself before the sudden heir apparent, and Darius seemed preoccupied with concerns beyond pleasantries with a mere bard. Tiuren was tolerated at court only due to his friendship with Kohath.
The masses of people filling the hall all had dressed in regalia that seemed out of place so early in the morning. Their whispers grew to a deafening roar. How many of them had come to support their king, and how many simply hungered for the spectacle? Tiuren suspected many more attended for the latter reason. Leeches and carrion eaters, these people had no real loyalty to the king.
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