by Paul S. Kemp
“Has you by the danglies there, Grathan!”
Grathan laughed along with the rest, even toasted Magadon with his tankard. When the group quieted, he said, “Done, sir. Such sum to you … or somesuch.”
Magadon appreciated the turn of phrase. He tipped his hat in a salute.
“But the added fee only if you share a drink with us,” called Tark, who had a much more commanding voice than his willowy frame suggested. “You abstain with such fortitude that Noss here,” he jerked a thumb at a burly man-at-arms near him, “claims you’re an ascetic Ilmaterite monk in disguise.”
Noss’s face wrinkled with puzzlement and he slurred through his beard. “Huh? Ascetic? What is that, a drunkard?”
More laughter.
“A drink, sir,” seconded Grathan, and the others around the fire nodded and murmured agreement. “Come, join us. Our journey is almost done and custom demands we share a drink with our guide while still on the road.”
Noss filled a tankard with ale and held it up for Magadon.
Magadon rehearsed an excuse in his head, prepared to offer it, but surprised himself by changing his mind. It was custom around the southern shores of the Inner Sea to drink with a guide while on the road; and more than that, he suddenly wanted company more than privacy.
He adjusted his hat, collected his bow and pack, and rose to his feet.
To the raccoons, he said, “I’m away, Mother.” To the merchants, he said, “I can put your minds at ease that I am no ascetic, goodsirs, not by a wide margin. I’ve had everything from homebrewed swill in Starmantle to firewine in Westgate. But these days, I have sworn off spirits.”
The merchants booed and hissed, but all held their smiles.
“You still must shed the hat,” someone called.
“Yes! The hat!”
“Yes!”
Magadon realized that his hat had become the focus of too much attention, albeit intended as jest. He had to do something to diffuse the matter or one of the men would grab it off his head as a fireside prank. And if the caravaneers learned that he was fiendspawn, the smiles and camaraderie would vanish as quickly as they had appeared. He had seen it happen before when someone discovered his horns, or the birthmark that marred his bicep.
As he approached the fire, he summoned some of his mental energy, used it to extend his consciousness, and lightly reached into the minds of the dozen caravaneers around the fire. None showed any sign of noticing.
He took a subtle hold of their visual perception, pulled off his hat, and modified what they all witnessed. Instead of horns, he caused each of them to see only a smooth brow and his long dark hair.
“Not even bald!” one of them shouted.
“You see?” he said, and fixed the hat back on his head. He released his hold on the caravaneers’ senses and offered a lie. “Neither scar nor bald head. I wear the hat because it belonged to a close comrade who fell to gnolls while we were on the road together. So when I am on the road, I rarely take it off. Well enough?”
The men understood that. “Well enough,” most said in more subdued tones, and all nodded. Two even raised a drink in a salute. Others cursed the gnolls.
Magadon drew tight the drawstring on the hat and took a seat by the fire. As the jests, tales, and insults flew, he held his conversational ground as well as any. For the first time in almost a year, he truly felt like his old self. He was pleased to see that his hands remained steady throughout the evening, even when his thoughts returned to the Source, as they continually did. The pull was weakening, albeit slowly.
As Grathan and another merchant debated the intricacies of Sembian contract law, Magadon’s mind drifted back to a night long ago, on the Plane of Shadows, when he and Erevis had shared a conversation across a campfire. Not banter or debate, but honest words between men. Magadon had admitted his lineage to Erevis and Erevis had admitted his fears to Magadon. Neither had judged the other. They’d become friends that night. Later events had only strengthened the bond.
Magadon missed Erevis and Riven, missed them both more than he missed the Source, more than he had missed the oak.
He realized all of a sudden that he had been foolish to isolate himself. His friends had not judged him for being born of a devil and they would not have judged him for his addiction to the Source. He had lost himself all the more easily for not having his friends around him. He resolved to find them as soon as the caravan reached Starmantle.
His mind made up, he allowed himself to enjoy the camaraderie around the campfire. After a few hours, the drink took its toll on the caravaneers. By the time Selûne passed her zenith, the merchants and men-at-arms had begun to wander to their wagons for sleep. A few, including Tark, nodded off where they sat. Grathan stood. “I’m off to sleep.”
“Goodeve to you,” Magadon said. “We’ll reach Starmantle in a few days.”
Grathan nodded and started off, but turned back to Magadon. He came close and said in a low tone, “Woodsman … I’ve seen worse than your horns.”
Magadon was too shocked even to stammer a denial. He felt himself flush. His mind raced. Before he could frame a reply, Grathan went on, “If a man keeps his word and cares for his own, I don’t care what his appearance may be, or his bloodline. There are some here you could have trusted. And we could have managed the rest.”
Magadon looked quickly around to see if any of the few remaining caravaneers were watching or listening. All were sleeping, or nearly so. Magadon looked up at Grathan.
“I hear your words,” he said softly, studying the merchant’s jowly face, “and appreciate them. But how …?”
The merchant smiled and touched his silver cloak clasp. “This shields me from whatever trick you used on the rest. A valuable gewgaw for a merchant, no? I picked it up from a Red Wizard in Daerlun.” Grathan sat down beside him.
Magadon stared at him and asked, “What now?”
“Now, nothing. You’ve naught to fear from me. If you wish the horns and whatever else a secret, a secret it shall remain. And I’ll ask no more questions. I meet all sorts in my travels and here’s what I know: All men keep a coffer full of secrets in their souls. It’s what makes us men. You are no exception to that. But I will tell you this. You must open up that coffer and show the contents to another sometimes, or it rots in you.”
Magadon heard wisdom in his words. He extended his hand and said, “You have my gratitude, Grathan.”
“And you have my respect,” the merchant answered, clasping Magadon’s hand. “That cannot be an easy load to cart.”
“Easier some times than others.”
“Or somesuch?” Grathan said with a grin.
“Or somesuch,” Magadon answered with a nod and smile.
“Goodeve to you, woodsman,” Grathan said, and patted Magadon’s shoulder. “Remember to take off your hat sometimes.”
He rose and walked toward the wagons.
Magadon stared into the dying fire, thoughtful, playing with the drawstring of his hat. He reminded himself that he should not always assume the worst of men. He had grown so accustomed to thinking so little of himself that he automatically thought little of others.
The realization lightened his mood. He resolved again to contact Erevis and Riven—
Sudden motion near the oak drew his eye. The mother raccoon and her young scrambled up the tree. The young climbed awkwardly but fear lent them speed.
Frowning, Magadon scanned the area near the tree for a predator, but saw nothing unusual out to the limits of his nightvision.
A cloud bank swallowed the crescent of Selûne and the drone of insects immediately went quiet. The horses and train mules, tied to the wagons, snorted and pawed at the ground. The temperature dropped noticeably. A tingle tickled Magadon’s exposed flesh. He felt magic in the air. The few snoring men around the fire stirred restlessly and waved a hand in the air, as if fending off nightmares.
Magadon’s heart began to thump. For a moment, he feared that he had fallen asleep, that Gra
than’s words had been a dream, that the walls he had built in his mind had crumbled and that he would soon hear his father, see the men around the fire burst into flame. His hands started to tremble but he steeled himself, told himself that it was no dream.
He took up his bow, rose to his feet, and with difficulty, nocked an arrow. The familiar movement steadied him. He turned in a circle and looked out on the plain but saw nothing to alarm him—just rolling grass, the old oak, and few other scattered trees. He stepped around the fire and nudged Tark, who was sleeping.
“Up,” he ordered. “And the rest. Be quick and quiet. Something comes.”
Tark did not move. Neither did anyone else.
“Up!” Magadon said, and kneed him hard.
Tark fell off his barrel, but neither he nor any of the other caravaneers around the fire stirred.
Magadon cursed. Tark and the other men had been enspelled. He weighed whether to raise the alarm and tip off the attackers that he knew of their presence. He decided there was no other way.
“Is anyone awake?” he shouted at the wagons. “Grathan!”
His shouts agitated the pack animals further, but no one in the caravan answered his call.
He was alone. Perhaps his mental abilities had spared him the effect of whatever spell had rendered the rest of the men unconscious. He licked his lips, swallowed, and focused his mind on his arrow tip, charging it with mental energy. Power filled it and it shone red. It would pierce plate armor.
Magadon scoured the terrain with his eyes. He controlled his breathing, steadied his hands, and held his calm. He drew on his mental power, transformed energy into a physical force, and surrounded himself in a translucent barrier that would deflect incoming projectiles. Wrapped in the power of his own mind, he turned a slow circle and sought a target.
“Father?” he shouted, nervous as the word left his mouth. “Show yourself!”
A sound like rushing wind filled his ears, though there was no wind. He scanned the night for the source but saw nothing. The sound grew, louder, louder, until—
At the limits of his darkvision, a mass of squirming tendrils seeped into view. As thick around as the oak, as black as ink, they wormed sickeningly over the terrain. Their motion reminded him of the kraken’s tentacles, of the grotesque limbs of the darkweaver that he had faced on the Plane of Shadows.
The tentacles brought a fog of darkness in their wake.
Two pinpoint pairs of light formed in the darkness above the tentacles, one pair the cold gray of old iron, the other pair a dull gold.
Eyes.
The rushing sound grew still louder, as loud as a cyclone. Magadon thought his eardrums would burst. The horses and mules panicked. Two snapped their lines and sped off into the night.
“Who are you?” Magadon shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar.
The tendrils drew closer; so did the eyes.
“Show yourselves!”
No response, so Magadon loosed an arrow at one pair of eyes. The missile streaked from his bow, leaving a red trail of energy in its wake. When it hit the darkness, it vanished with no visible effect.
Screaming, Magadon fired another arrow, another. The rushing sound ate his battle cries; the darkness ate his arrows.
The rush reached a crescendo, so loud Magadon felt his head would explode. How could the caravaneers sleep through it? It was like a pair of knives driven into his eardrums. He dropped his bow and clamped his hands over his ears. He screamed in pain but the roar swallowed the sound.
Without warning, the roar ceased.
But for his gasps, silence ruled the night.
Magadon’s ears rang; his temples throbbed. He looked up and saw that the tendrils were gone, the eyes were gone. He was alone. He looked at his palms to see if there was any blood, saw none.
He almost collapsed with relief.
“Tark,” he nudged the young merchant. “Tark!”
Still no response.
A rustle from above drew his gaze. He looked up and what he saw stole both strength and breath. His hands fell to his sides.
“Gods,” he mouthed.
The night took him.
Elyril wore a false face—that of a solicitous young niece and trusted political advisor to Lady Mirabeta Selkirk—and stood beside her aunt next to the bed of the dead overmaster. They had traveled by common coach rather than carriage across the streets of Ordulin, and both wore heavy, plain, hooded cloaks. After hearing what the messenger had to say, they had not wanted their passage noted. The city was in enough turmoil. All of Sembia was in turmoil.
Kendrick Selkirk the Tall lay cold, pale, and very dead between his sheets. The overmaster’s balding, gray-haired chamberlain, Minnen, stood in the doorway behind Elyril and her aunt, wringing his age-spotted hands. Beside him stood the bearded house mage, Saken, arms crossed over his ample belly, chapped lips pressed hard together. The circles under his eyes looked as if they had been drawn with charcoal.
Seeing the dead overmaster for herself, Elyril felt an uncontrollable urge to smile. She masked her mirth with a hand before her mouth and a feigned cough.
“I have sent for priests of Tyr, Countess,” Minnen said to Mirabeta. “To certify the death and prepare the body.”
Mirabeta nodded. “Well done, Minnen. You have sent word to Selkirk’s family?”
Kendrick Selkirk’s immediate family consisted of only his two sons, Miklos and Kavil. His wife had been dead almost a year.
Minnen fiddled with the flare at the end of his shirt sleeve. “I have dispatched messengers, but contacting Miklos or Kavil is always difficult. As is their wont, they are away from Ordulin. No one seems to know their current location. That is why I hurried a messenger to your estate, Countess. You are the overmaster’s cousin, his only family in Ordulin. Despite your …” he cleared his throat and looked embarrassed, “… political differences, you must speak for the overmaster’s needs until his sons arrive.”
Mirabeta and Elyril shared a glance and Elyril could read her aunt’s mind: If the overmaster’s sons arrive.
No doubt it amused Mirabeta that Kendrick Selkirk’s body and estate were in her charge, if only temporarily. Most of Ordulin saw Mirabeta as a respectful rival of Kendrick. Elyril knew better. Mirabeta had thought her cousin little more than a weakling and dolt whose incompetence had led Sembia in the direction of disaster. Probably Mirabeta would have had him killed herself if she had thought she could have avoided suspicion.
The countess ambled around the chamber, eyeing the rugs, the sideboard, the swords and shield over the large fireplace. “That was well conceived, Minnen. Kendrick and I disagreed on political matters, but he was ever my beloved cousin.”
Minnen wisely held his tongue.
“Should we examine the body, aunt?” Elyril suggested, an idea born of a desire to provide political cover for her aunt, and a desire to touch something dead.
The old chamberlain looked appalled. “Why, Mistress?”
Before Elyril could answer, Saken unfolded his arms and said to Mirabeta, “There is no sign of violence, Countess. The wards on the room were intact and my preliminary divinations have detected nothing untoward.” The mage looked pointedly at Elyril. “There is no reason to examine the overmaster’s body.”
“A skilled assassin would leave no sign,” Elyril said to the room.
Minnen frowned. “The mistress seems to know much of the quiet arts.”
Elyril smiled politely to hide her hatred.
Minnen looked to Mirabeta. “None passed his door last night, Countess. Of that I am certain.”
Mirabeta looked from Elyril to Minnen. “And I am certain of no such thing. As my niece observed, a skilled assassin would leave no sign, magical or otherwise.”
Elyril was pleased. Mirabeta’s political instincts, honed through years of maneuvering in Sembia’s capital, were as sharp as ever. The countess did not know that Selkirk had been murdered. But she did know that she had not been involved in the murder, i
f murder it was. She therefore realized that she would be best served politically by insisting on a zealous and thorough investigation. She could only gain from it, whether she found a murderer or determined that Overmaster Selkirk had died of natural causes.
Elyril knew the truth, of course, and the secret she held made her smile.
“My cousin was as healthy as a cart ox,” Mirabeta said. “I saw him just two days ago. He showed no signs of illness, yet we are to believe that he just died in his sleep?”
“Men die,” said Saken with shrug.
“And men are murdered,” Mirabeta said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I will determine which occurred here.”
Without waiting for permission, Elyril bent over the overmaster’s corpse, pried open his mouth, and examined his gums. Finding nothing—as she knew she would not, for the Nightseer would not use poison—she peeled back his eyelids and studied the eyes. Then she lifted his arms and looked in his armpits.
“Mistress!” the chamberlain said, appalled.
Elyril let the overmaster’s arms drop to the bed and spoke a lie. “I have heard of poisons that discolor the skin for only a short time before all signs vanish. I do not want evidence to go unnoticed.”
“Poison!” Minnen exclaimed.
Saken nodded thoughtfully. “I, too, have heard of such poisons.”
“As have I,” Mirabeta said.
Overruled, the chamberlain quieted.
Elyril went through the motions of thoroughly examining the body. Touching the cold, dry flesh of the corpse aroused her, but she kept her face expressionless. Attuned as she was to the Shadow Weave and Shar, she felt the squirming, dark thing hidden within the corpse.
“I can find nothing,” she said to her aunt. “But that means nothing.”
“Who else knows of this, Minnen?” Mirabeta asked.
Minnen answered. “The messengers I dispatched, but they are all trusted men. The priests of Tyr, by now. No others.”
“Keep it so for now,” Mirabeta ordered. “Do not let the household staff leave the grounds. All are to be questioned under spell by the priests. Including both of you.”
Both reddened, but both nodded.
