20 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Of all the prisons that Geran had been in-and he regretfully had to admit that that was a substantial number-the Jailer’s Tower of Castle Cormanthor was certainly the least unpleasant. The furnishings were reasonably comfortable and there were no vermin at all. He was confined with Sarth and Hamil in the same roomy cell, which took up most of one floor of the tower. They even had a pair of slitlike windows that offered an excellent view over Myth Drannor’s treetops and spires. Unfortunately, it was still a cell, and Geran and his friends were not likely to leave it any time soon.
When their jailers locked them in and left them to their devices, Sarth sat down on one of the bunks, holding his horned head in his hands. “Far be it from me to say I warned you against acting in haste,” he growled at Geran, “but I seem to be in a prison because of your rashness. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for someone of my appearance to obtain even the slightest hope of a fair hearing? It will be years before I am released!”
“This was not how I hoped it would turn out, Sarth,” Geran replied. He threw himself down in the opposite bunk. “It might have helped if you’d avoided the earth-shaking thunderclaps and dazzling flashes of lightning when we were trying to slip in and out of the Irithlium ruins without being noticed.”
“You would rather I’d allowed the cornugon to slay you?” Sarth demanded. The tiefling glared at Geran, red anger flashing in his eyes.
For a moment Geran wondered if he’d presumed too much on the sorcerer’s friendship; he doubted very much that Sarth was used to being spoken to in such a manner. In the last few tendays, he’d persuaded Sarth to become a renegade, ignored his counsel about dealing with Aesperus, and finally disregarded the danger his friend worried about-rightly, as it turned out. He sighed and shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Forgive me. I haven’t listened well of late.”
The tiefling glowered a moment longer before his anger faded. “You’ve had many things on your mind,” he admitted. “I know this isn’t your fault alone.”
“Good,” Hamil interjected. The halfling looked from Geran to Sarth, and back again. “It would have been damned annoying to be locked up with the two of you not speaking to each other. Now somebody magic us out of here, and we’ll be on our way.”
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Geran said. He gestured at the chamber around them. “These cells suppress most forms of magic. I can’t speak for Sarth, but I know I couldn’t light a candle in here without a match.”
Sarth nodded glumly. “I will investigate carefully, but I fear it is the same for me.”
The three companions passed a good deal of time in the next day or two by searching for any weakness in their confinement. Castle guards came by to check on them frequently; Hamil prevailed on them for a deck of playing cards, which helped to alleviate the tedium. Neither Geran nor Sarth could muster anything more than a cantrip in the cell, while the bars and walls seemed to be in excellent repair. Geran finally had to admit that there would be no quick escape from the coronal’s palace. He’d have to hope that their hearing, when it came, would offer the opportunity to beg for leniency and perhaps get at least Sarth and Hamil released.
On their third day of confinement, the tedium was interrupted by the arrival of several Coronal Guards, who climbed swiftly up the steps to their cell. “Ho in there! You have a visitor,” the first guard cried. “Make yourselves presentable!” Geran exchanged glances with his companions, and stood to face the hallway outside the cell. A moment later, a slender elf woman in a dress of green and gold appeared. Her hair, a glorious autumn red in color, was bound at the brow by a gold fillet, and flowed to the middle of her back like a river of molten copper.
“The coronal,” Geran whispered to his friends. He lowered his head and dropped to one knee. Sarth and Hamil looked at him, more than a little surprised. Then Sarth put his arm across his waist and bowed stiffly, while Hamil swept his hat from his head and gave an extravagant flourish.
Coronal Ilsevele Miritar studied the three of them through the bars of the cell, and raised an eyebrow. “I am flattered by your courtesy, Geran Hulmaster,” she said in the Common tongue, “but I seem to recall that you are no subject of mine.”
Geran rose, and his friends straightened from their bows. “Old habits die hard, my lady,” he said simply. As a Coronal Guard, he’d pledged his sword to the coronal and served her to the best of his ability for more than four years. He would still be in her service to this day if his duel with Rhovann hadn’t happened.
The coronal regarded him coolly for a long time, and he did his best to meet the measuring gaze of those emerald green eyes without flinching. Finally she sighed and said, “What am I to do with you? I have to confess that it never crossed my mind that you would simply defy my banishment. On those few occasions in which I have had to impose that punishment, it was understood quite clearly that there was to be no return. And I know that you are well acquainted with the laws against delving into the ruins without permission. Do you have so little regard for my authority that you feel free to do as you please in my realm?”
He winced; having attended Ilsevele’s court even for the brief time he’d been in Myth Drannor, he recognized that she was about as angry as he’d ever seen her. “I only did so in desperation, my lady,” he said. “My homeland is in grave danger, and the key to setting matters right happened to be here.”
“I am familiar with your reasons. Daried Selsherryn has already come before me to argue for you. Unfortunately, your belief in the necessity of your actions does not free you of my judgment-or free me to set aside the laws of the realm.”
“I am sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, but I promise you this: Release my friends and me, and I’ll never set foot in Cormanthor again. Or allow us to go our way now, and I’ll return to face your judgment when Hulburg is no longer in peril. If you can’t release me, then at least release Hamil and Sarth, and let them finish my errand for me. I led them to the Irithlium; it’s my fault that they broke Myth Drannor’s law.” He met her eyes, hoping that she could see the sincerity in his words. “Please, don’t delay us here.”
Noble of you, but I don’t care for the idea of whistling up Aesperus without you around, Hamil observed. You’re the one he bargained with, and I think he keeps track of things like that.
“It is not as simple as that, I fear.” Ilsevele sighed. “If matters were truly so desperate, you should have sent word to me. Some arrangement might have been possible. Now, my hands are tied.”
Geran fell silent. He hadn’t really thought it would be as simple as asking, but he had to try. As he searched for another argument, Sarth cleared his throat and spoke. “I am not familiar with your customs, my lady,” he said to Ilsevele. “What is to be our fate?”
“Our Council of Justice will deliberate on that when next they meet,” the coronal answered. “That will be on Greengrass. You and Master Hamil will likely be sentenced to a year and a day of service in restitution for your offense. Geran’s fate is more problematic.”
Sarth gave Geran a sidelong glance, but said nothing more. Greengrass was a little more than two months away; even if they were released with nothing more than a stern warning, they’d miss Kara’s march against Marstel’s soldiers.
“Is there anything else?” Ilsevele asked. Geran stopped himself from trying once more to beg for release; it would only annoy her even more. The coronal nodded to the guards and left, leading her small entourage down the stairs again. The heavy door at the base of the stairs clanged shut and locked.
“What do you know about this Council of Justice, Geran?” Hamil said. “Are they likely to be reasonable? Can they be bribed?”
Geran shook his head. “It’s hard to say. I’ll have friends on the council. I’ll have enemies too. I would guess that the Disarnnyls and their allies are more than a little embarrassed by Rhovann’s actions. I doubt they like being reminded of the dishonor he’s brough
t on their House, and they may judge me accordingly.”
“So we just wait?” the halfling demanded.
“What else can we do?” the swordmage answered. He returned to his bunk and stretched out, trying to imagine some ploy or stratagem that might win back their freedom, but nothing came to him.
Two nights later, Geran was lying awake, still brooding over the impossible situation, when a stealthy footfall on the steps outside their cell caught his attention. He sat up quickly, peering into the gloom; it was not completely beyond possibility that the Disarnnyls or some other rival from his days in Ilsevele’s service might strike at him while he was held in the coronal’s tower. But he saw only a slender gray-cloaked figure stealing softly into the chamber. The visitor hesitated a moment, as if uncertain whether or not to go any farther. Geran glanced across the cell; both Sarth and Hamil were asleep. Slowly he swung his feet to the floor and stood up. “Who’s there?” he called softly into the shadows.
The visitor did not answer at first. But then she approached the bars, pushing back her hood to reveal long hair of raven black and eyes that gleamed a rich violet hue in the dim light. “It is I, Alliere,” she whispered in Elvish.
“Alliere?” Geran repeated in amazement. She was the last person he would have expected to call on him during his imprisonment. After all, he’d been certain that she would never wish to lay eyes on him again, but here she was. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was; her fine, delicate features were simply flawless, and her eyes were entrancing. In fact, she looked exactly the same as the last time he’d seen her, but that was no surprise-a couple of years were nothing to one of the Fair Folk. He moved to the cell door, gripping the iron bars in his fists. He slipped back into Elvish without even realizing it. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you. We never spoke before you had to leave Myth Drannor. That was my doing, and I’ve come to regret it.”
He shook his head in the darkness. “It might have been for the best,” he said softly. Losing Myth Drannor had been hard, but losing Alliere had almost destroyed him. Before he’d returned to Hulburg, he would have done anything to see Alliere again and beg her to come away with him into his exile. Now he realized that perhaps fate had been kind to separate him from her so completely and quickly. The wound to his heart had been swift, giving him time to begin his healing. If he’d had some reason to cling to the idea that they might be together again, he never would have been able to leave her behind-or find another heart as dear to him as hers.
She looked down at the floor. “Still, you deserved better of me. Words of parting, at the very least, but I could not bring myself to face you.”
“It was never my intention to hurt you.”
She stood in silence for a time before she spoke again. “Daried told me what you’d told him about Rhovann’s vendetta against you, about how he’s ruined your homeland. I bear much of the responsibility for that.” She sighed. “My indecision, my confusion, led Rhovann to hope for things that were not in my heart. He came to believe that you had in some way stolen me away from him. There must have been something I could have done to avert the feud that grew between the two of you.”
He nodded. “I played my part in it, too, and I’m sorry for it.” She reached over to rest her hand on his. After a long moment, Geran stirred and smiled. “As far as I know, I’m permitted visitors. You didn’t have to sneak in to see me in the middle of the night.”
Alliere laughed softly. “I’m sure you’re allowed to have visitors, but I doubt you’re allowed to have assistance for your escape.” She reached into the folds of her cloak to draw out a small jar and a stylus with a slip of paper rolled tightly around it. “Daried gave these to me to give to you. The guards would never allow you to have them if they knew, so hide them well.”
He took the jar and the stylus from her, frowning in puzzlement. “I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?”
“The jar contains a magical pigment. With it, you can create a moon-door. Simply use the stylus to scribe the diagram shown on the paper upon one of the walls, and when the moon appears in the proper phase, the magic of the door awakens. It will become a portal that you can use to escape.” She nodded at the small slip of paper in Geran’s hand. “As I understand it, the next opportunity is the night after next, a little after midnight.”
“Where will this portal lead us?”
“To a clearing a couple of miles outside the city borders. I will cache your belongings for you there tomorrow, and have mounts waiting.”
He grimaced. “We can’t leave without the manuscript we removed from the Irithlium.”
“Daried said that you would say that.” Alliere glanced about, listening for any sign of guards approaching before continuing. “It’s with the rest of your belongings. I’ve already removed them from the guards’ vault and replaced them with illusory copies. With any luck, you’ll be many miles away by the time anyone discovers that you are missing.”
He looked down at the jar, paper, and stylus in his hands. An ember of hope arose in his heart, and for the first time in nearly a tenday, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that his foolish quest hadn’t been so foolish after all. I told Hamil and Sarth I still had friends here, he reminded himself. It seemed he had even more than he’d thought. “What will happen to you when we escape with your help?” he finally asked.
“I hope no one will be able to prove that I had anything to do with it,” she replied. “Daried is under suspicion, of course, so he couldn’t do anything openly, but no one knows I slipped into the guard’s vault, and no one knows I’m here now. But I cannot stay long-I would much prefer not to be caught at this.”
“Alliere … thank you.”
Alliere started to reply, but she heard something below and started. “I must go,” she whispered. She gave his hand a quick squeeze, then she hurried out of sight. Geran realized that he was standing by the bars with the jar and stylus in his hands, and quickly returned to his bunk. He hid the items under the pillow and climbed back into bed. A moment later two elves in mail entered the hall outside the cell door, one carrying a silver lantern with a soft blue glow. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep as best he could. The guards peered into the cell for a long time, until he was certain that somehow they’d realized he was hiding something from them … but just when he thought he couldn’t bear it for another moment, he heard the rustle of mail and light footfalls descending again. The faint blue light receded, leaving the cell still and dark again.
Mind telling me what that was all about? Hamil asked him silently.
Geran flinched, startled by his friend’s thoughts. He glanced over, and saw Hamil propped up on one elbow, looking across the cell at him. “I think we may have a way out,” he whispered.
It’s about time, Hamil replied. When do we make our excuses to the coronal?
“Two nights from now, if all goes well.”
It’s likely a plot to murder us while we’re trying to escape, the halfling answered with a snort. Oh, well, I hate waiting. He shook his head and burrowed under his covers again.
The next two days passed with agonizing slowness. Geran had Hamil explain to Sarth everything he could recall of Alliere’s instructions, keeping their speech silent to the greatest extent possible just in case they were being listened to in secret. The prospect of freedom dramatically improved the tiefling’s spirits, and for the first time he days he managed to look at Geran without glowering or scowling. As opportunity allowed, Geran did his best to describe Myth Drannor’s surroundings and the various roads and trails that crisscrossed Cormanthor to his friends, mulling over their options for flight once they got away from the city proper.
Finally the sun began to sink toward the horizon on the afternoon of the second day. As soon as their dinner plates were taken away, Hamil went to take up a post by the cell door, keeping an eye open for the guards who periodically came by to check on them. Geran and Sarth picked out the wall of an
alcove leading to one of their window slits as the best place to draw their door. It was nearly perpendicular to the cell door, so even if their guards came to the bars they’d have a hard time seeing the painted diagram taking shape on the wall. Geran unrolled the parchment, and studied the design carefully. Then he passed it to Sarth, and let the sorcerer have a look as well.
I thought you two couldn’t work magic in here, Hamil observed.
“We can’t, but in this case, the magic is contained in the paint,” Geran answered. He looked over to Sarth and offered the stylus. “Do you want to render it?”
“No, I think you had better do it,” Sarth replied. “Your Elvish is much better than mine, and this is an elven spell. I wouldn’t want to misdraw one of these symbols and send us all into some monster-haunted crypt unarmed, or strand us in some forgotten forest.”
“At least we’d be out of our cell,” Geran observed. Sarth’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile, but he smoothed the parchment out carefully and held it flat against the wall so that Geran could copy it more easily. Drawing a deep breath to steady his hand, Geran opened the jar, dipped the stylus into the thick silvery paint inside, and began to copy the diagram onto the wall, only much larger. It proved trickier than he would have thought-the magical pigment dried to a faint line of silver glitter within moments of its application, and he soon realized that some of the symbols he had to draw were very intricate indeed. He glanced at Sarth and said, “Watch me carefully to make sure I draw these glyphs correctly.”
The tiefling nodded, and Geran focused on his task. He drew a tall oval frame four feet high and two wide, and a second oval within the first. In the space between the parallel lines he painted the words of the spell, struggling to make out the faint lines as they faded from view.
He was three quarters done when Hamil’s voice lashed silently at him. Guards coming! the halfling said. Geran swore to himself and took a moment to mark his place as carefully as he could; then he tucked the stylus into his sleeve, capped the jar, and hid it in his pillow as he threw himself down on his bunk, making a show of folding his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. Sarth joined Hamil at the table, where the halfling had already laid out two hands of playing cards. The tiefling looked across at his small opponent and said, “It’s your play.”
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