by Paul S. Kemp
He placed his hand over hers and she held her smile despite his sweaty palm.
I wish to devour his balls, Kefil projected.
The thought pleased Elyril but she commanded the mastiff to heel.
Kalton caressed her hand. “I am pleased to hear that. Your aunt is an impressive woman. As are you.”
She smiled and gently disengaged her hand from his. “Would it be possible to speak to the Watchblades who were guarding the Hole the night of the attack? My aunt is interested in determining the specific identity of the attackers who freed Endren Corrinthal.”
He smiled and bowed. “We have already questioned them, as well as the corpse of the raider we felled, but you are welcome to speak to them again. The Watchblades I will put at your disposal. The corpse we preserved in anticipation of further investigation. I will arrange for all of that tonight, if it suits you.”
“It does. Thank you, Kalton.”
He smiled. “But before any of that, I insist you join me for a meal. It is already late afternoon and I am spoiled by your company.”
Kefil circled around to Kalton’s shadow and tore it to shreds. Kalton did not notice.
“You flatter me,” Elyril said, and faked a smile. “Of course I will dine with you.”
Later, prior to the meal, she stroked Kefil and inhaled an extra snuff of minddust, which helped her endure Kalton’s babbling and his storm of boring stories. She laughed aloud when a swarm of flies burst from his mouth. He gagged and spat and she laughed all the harder. He seemed puzzled by her mirth and she did not bother to explain.
Afterward, she returned to her official residence—a well-appointed, two-story home and office near the Roadkeep that housed official guests of the Nessarch.
Did you murder him? Kefil asked. The mastiff lay stretched before the stone fireplace, faking sleep.
“Of course not,” she said. “I am an ambassador. He is the Nessarch’s son.”
You are mad, Kefil said, and began to snore.
Elyril ignored the dog and prepared for her interrogations. She clothed herself in spells from Shar that allowed her to detect lies and that made her words supernaturally persuasive. She had the steward send for the guards from the Hole and interrogated them, one by one, in a small study.
Her spells made all of them deferential and cooperative but most had seen little. Moments after they had first heard the kraken attack, magical darkness had shrouded the interior guard post. They had never seen their attackers. The guards at the top of the lift had caught only a glimpse of the raiding party before they had been rendered unconscious by attackers who emerged from the shadows behind them.
Shadovar, Elyril assumed. She wondered how involved in events the Nightseer might have been. She pulled idly at the magical amethyst ring on her finger.
None of the guards had been complicit, Elyril determined, and none of them were lying. She had expected as much. The Nessarch’s priests would have ferreted out any traitors.
The raiders numbered less than ten, by all accounts, but had moved so quickly and quietly that the guards had been unable to organize an effective response. By the time the guards had responded in number, Endren had already been freed. The guards had pursued, but one of the raiders sacrificed himself to give time for his fellows to escape; he killed seven guards with his hands before the other guards finally cut him down. His magically preserved body remained in the possession of the Nessarch’s charnel keeper, in the bowels of the Roadkeep. Priests of Waukeen had questioned his corpse at the Nessarch’s request, but learned nothing. They intended to try again, or so thought the guards.
The raiders never made it back to the lift. Instead, they fled down an old mineshaft. Stones and bolts had knocked them from the walls but no bodies had been found at the bottom. Importantly, Elyril learned that the Hole’s zone of dead magic ended before the shaft hit bottom.
And that was how the raiders escaped, she assumed.
After hours of discussion with the guards, Elyril had learned little. Two tasks remained to her: an interview with a former guardsman named Phraig—the same Phraig who had been forced by the attackers to lead them to Endren—and an interview with the dead raider. Priests of Waukeen might not be able to compel the corpse to speak, but a priestess of Shar would.
While the steward sought Phraig—he had quit the guard recently—Elyril arranged for a carriage to transport her back to the Roadkeep.
When she arrived, she found that Kalton had instructed the staff to extend her every courtesy. A guard escorted her deep into the Roadkeep’s lower levels. There, an elderly charnel worker in a stained leather apron met her.
“The corpse of the dead raider taken from the Hole,” she said, and the small old man bobbed his head.
“Yes, Milady.”
As they walked, the old man said, “The dead without a family or temple are brought here and interred in the old mines. We have converted them to catacombs.”
Elyril nodded but paid little attention. The smell of death filled the air. She found it exciting.
Presently, they reached a small room. The elderly man fumbled with a key, turned the lock, and opened the door. Candlelight spilled out. The body of the raider, wrapped in grave cloth, lay atop a wooden table.
“Milady does not need to see the body underneath, I trust?” he asked.
“On the contrary,” Elyril said. “I do.”
The old man’s face fell and he grumbled, “I will have to rewrap it, Milady. Has the Nessarch approved this?”
Elyril glared at him. “I serve the Overmistress of Sembia, granther. And the Nessarch answers to her. You are not too old to be flogged.”
The old man paled and tottered to the table.
“No need to be hasty, Milady. No need for that, now.”
He produced a small knife and slit the cloth that bound the body. Stink filled the room, despite the preservation spells. He cleared away the wrap to expose the body and stepped back.
“That will be all,” Elyril said. “I need to examine his body for a certain mark. I will summon you when I have completed my investigation.”
The thin, gray-haired man eyed her with suspicion but dared not gainsay her. He bobbed his head and withdrew. The closing door flickered the candle flames that lit the room.
Elyril ran her fingers over the dead man’s purpling skin. An easterner, Elyril saw, from the eyelids and swarthy skin. But not a shade. Slashes from the guards’ blades gaped in his flesh like open mouths. They whispered secrets to Elyril.
Make the book whole, they said. The storm will follow.
She touched her invisible holy symbol and quietly incanted the words to a spell that would pull a portion of the dead man’s spirit back to his body. As she chanted, the room grew dark, the shadows long.
A soft purple glow emanated from the dead man’s wounds. His eyes creaked open to reveal black orbs.
“Name yourself,” Elyril commanded.
The stiff head turned awkwardly in her direction. The dead eyes fixed on her. “Return me to the night eternal, priestess.”
“Name yourself,” Elyril repeated.
The corpse’s mouth hardened, but Elyril’s spell pulled the words out. “I am Skelan.”
Elyril leaned over his body, let her invisible holy symbol lay against the flesh of his chest. “Who were you?”
Creases lined Skelan’s face as he tried to resist, but Elyril’s magic compelled an answer. “In life, I was a follower of the Twilight Path and servant of the Shadowlord.”
Elyril cocked her head. “Mask?”
The dead man nodded, once.
“What is Mask’s interest in Endren Corrinthal?”
Skelan’s jaw tightened. The tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to keep his mouth closed, but Elyril’s magic was the stronger.
“The Shadowlord charted a path for us across Faerûn to serve his Chosen, the Left and Right Hands of Shadow, the First and Second of Five. His purpose is their purpose. They wished Endren Corrinthal
freed.”
Elyril inhaled the stink of death, stared into Skelan’s eyes, and said, “What are their names?”
Skelan hissed and shook his head.
“Their names, Skelan,” Elyril purred.
“I will answer no more questions from you, Sharran. Release me.”
Elyril snarled and pressed her invisible holy symbol into Skelan’s forehead. He writhed. “Their names.”
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Nothing more.”
“Speak,” she said. “Speak!”
He said nothing. His body shuddered and his eyes closed, but she knew he was still there.
Angry, she put her mouth next to his ear and whispered, “Then sit in that rotting shell forever. The catacombs are cold.”
She stood, spat on the corpse, and strode out of the room past the startled old man.
“Milady?” he called after her. “Milady?”
“Leave me!” Elyril said, and waved him away.
Irritated, she ignored the carriage and decided to walk the city by night. Her temporary residence was not far. Foul Selûne had set and she paced under a blessedly moonless sky. As she walked, she pondered events.
What role had Mask to play in matters? And where was the ten-times damned book?
Lost in thought, she found herself on a dark side street. How had she ended up in an alley? The buildings, standing close together, blocked the sky from her view. She stumbled over a drunk and nearly lost her footing. He grunted with pain, slurred something incomprehensible. She cursed him and continued on. Ahead, she saw the glow of street lamps from a main thoroughfare.
“The Shadowstorm is not what you hope,” the drunk murmured to her back.
The words froze her, sent a chill down her neck. She turned around and stalked back to the drunk, a hand on her invisible holy symbol.
He lay huddled against the wall, wrapped in rags and filth. His greasy dark hair was matted against his scalp. He squinted and held up a grubby hand for coin.
“Coin for a beggar, Milady?”
“What did you say to me?” she asked. “Just now. Speak it again. Are you a prophet?”
The man looked up at her and she saw cunning in his eyes. She liked it not at all.
“I am a prophet, of sorts. I said that a storm would bring hope. The city needs rain to wash it clean. Coin, Milady?”
Elyril stared into his eyes and saw no lie there. She smiled at her misperception. Lack of sleep was clouding her senses. She chuckled and kicked the drunk in the stomach. He groaned and curled up.
“Milady is a dark soul,” he said between gasps.
“Never address your betters unless you are addressed first.”
The man tried to unfold and crawl away. “Yes, priestess.”
Satisfied, Elyril turned and walked away.
Only after she had taken ten steps did she realize that the man had called her a priestess. She whirled around but he was gone, swallowed by the shadows.
Had she misheard him again? She decided that she must have.
She returned to the residence provided by the Nessarch to find Kefil sleeping and her doughy steward awaiting her.
“I have located the former Watchblade,” the steward said. He must have seen the lack of recognition in Elyril’s eyes. “Phraig, Milady. You asked me to find him. He awaits your pleasure in the side room.”
“Ah, yes. This late?”
“You asked, Milady. This watchman has … strange habits, it would seem.”
“Have him wait a moment.”
She retired to her room and snuffed a pinch of minddust before entering the study and ordering the steward to bring Phraig before her.
The young Watchblade entered the room and the lamplight dimmed for a moment. His movements appeared stilted, and Elyril wondered if he had been drinking. Or perhaps he was still recovering from wounds suffered during the raid. From his mussed hair and sunken eyes, Elyril deduced he had slept little. He wore no blade other than his eating knife, and he bore a large leather satchel over one shoulder.
“I am Phraig, Milady,” said the former Watchblade with a bow. His deep voice, coming from so small a man, surprised Elyril. And the tone struck her as vaguely mocking. His eyes shone in their sockets—the white was entirely too pronounced—and the intensity of his gaze made Elyril uncomfortable.
“Sit. I have questions for you about the recent raid on the Hole.”
Phraig sat.
Elyril felt warm, as if the boy radiated heat. She cleared her throat and said, “You were forced to lead the raiders into the Hole. Tell me everything. Omit not even the smallest detail.”
Phraig did, staring at her throughout. Elyril learned that one of the leaders was missing an eye and another was bald and unusually tall. Both served Mask, which was consistent with what Elyril had learned from Skelan’s corpse. She assumed them to be Mask’s Chosen, his Left and Right Hands. Phraig named them: Erevis Cale and Drasek Riven.
“They spoke their names to you?”
Phraig looked sly. “I heard their names, Milady.”
Elyril accepted that.
Despite the new information, Elyril still could not connect events. Was Mask’s priesthood allied with the Selgauntans and Saerbians? Had Mask taken an active hand in attempting to thwart Shar’s plans to cause the Shadowstorm?
Her frustration manifested in curt questioning of Phraig, who held an infuriatingly self-satisfied smile throughout the interview. After a time, Kefil padded into the study. He stopped just inside the doorway and sniffed the air suspiciously.
“My mastiff,” Elyril said, expecting Phraig to show the same discomfort everyone did around Kefil.
Phraig turned in his chair, smiling. “What a fine animal.” He held out a hand. Elyril saw that his fingernails were long and black—no doubt, he was afflicted with some illness.
Kefil’s hackles rose. He bared his teeth and growled.
“Here, pup,” said Phraig.
Kefil abruptly tucked his tail between his legs, whined, and fled the room. Phraig clucked his tongue and turned to regard Elyril with a smile. “Somewhat passive, isn’t he?”
“That is all, boy,” Elyril said, wishing for another snuff of dust before retiring. “You may go.”
Phraig did not stand.
“Did you hear me? I said we are done.”
“I did hear you, Milady. But …” He trailed off and looked away.
Elyril’s irritation turned to curiosity. He was holding something back.
“Is there something more? If you hold back from me, I will see that you are punished. Make no mistake—”
He looked up at her from hooded eyes and whispered, “I have a secret.”
The words elicited goose pimples on Elyril’s skin. Her hand went to her invisible holy symbol. She felt on the verge of an epiphany. She leaned forward and said softly, “Speak it, Watchblade.”
Phraig’s eyes were sly. “I took something from the dead shadowman.” He made a gesture that could have indicated anything. “She told me to.”
Elyril’s heart accelerated. Her body tingled. She licked her lips. “Whom do you mean by ‘she’?”
Phraig looked away. “You know. You must. The night itself spoke to me with the voice of a woman. It told me to take it, told me to keep it for you.”
Elyril was holding her breath. “Keep … what?”
“This.” Phraig rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a large book. Black scaled leather covered gilded vellum pages. Elyril’s breath caught when she saw it.
“The book,” she breathed. She held out a hand as if to touch it, but stopped just short, struck with the unreality of events. “How can this be?” she asked.
“She said to give it to you. Take it.” He offered it to her. “I have never opened it. Perhaps it can answer your questions.”
Elyril stared at it for a moment, finally took it in trembling hands. It was uncomfortably warm where Phraig had held it, as if the man were on fire, but she did not care. She ran
her fingertips over the rough cover, the way she might a lover.
“She told me it was unfinished,” Phraig said. “The middle is gone, she said.”
“The book to be made whole,” Elyril said, hushed, awed.
“This is yours, then, Milady?”
Elyril nodded, rapt. She was reminded of the first time she had ever partaken of minddust, the feeling of well-being, of transcendence.
“Mine,” she said. “Yes.”
“Then I will take my leave,” Phraig said. He stood, brushing her hand with fingers not hot, but cold as snow. “I feared I was going mad, hearing voices, seeing things. After all, if I were mad, how would I know?”
The words struck her and she looked up into his eyes. The light caught them strangely and she saw only whites.
“How would I know?” she echoed.
He smiled a mouthful of fangs, turned, and exited the room.
Elyril sank back into her chair, cradling the book against her breast as if it were a newborn babe. She bathed in its warmth, thanked Shar, opened it, and began to read from back to front.
It told of Shar’s creation from darkness, of her battles with her sister, Selûne, of her secret creation of the Shadow Weave in mockery of Mystra’s Weave. It told of Shar’s end, which was the end of all things. It hinted at more, at a moment of necessary weakness but ultimate triumph for the Lady of Loss, a time when she would devour the shadow.
Elyril pored over every word, every page, inhaling more and more minddust, and in so doing she learned the book’s secret. It lay between the words, in the empty spaces on the page. She laughed aloud at its import.
The emptiness spoke in its silence of a ritual—the ritual that would free Volumvax and summon the Shadowstorm. Elyril felt flush at the prospect.
But she could not learn all she needed to know. Some details of the ritual were missing. The book had been divided and the middle pages were gone.
It wanted a mate. It wanted to be made whole.
Elyril had to find the rest.
The late afternoon sun shone down from a cloudless sky. Abelar and Regg, accompanied by Beld and his two companions, rode beside a drought-dried stream bed across the grassy plains, toward the small village Abelar had commandeered to quarter his forces for a few days while he traveled to the Abbey of Dawn.
