No, it was more than that, Meisha knew. There was something wrong with the Delve, something Varan chose to deny or ignore. She didn’t know which state of mind was the more foolish.
Pushing herself back up to her elbows, Meisha began dragging herself forward again.
Ahead of her, a rock outcrop burst into soft glow. Before she could react, a cold hand closed around her ankle.
A scream ripped from Meisha’s throat. The sound echoed down the tunnel. Power flared involuntarily in her mind.
She flipped to her back and splayed her fingertips. Fire rolled down her body, an inch-thick gout of flame that lit up the passage.
When the flames died, the glow had gone, and the only sound was Meisha’s ragged breathing. The passage sat empty behind her.
“Show yourself!” Meisha shouted.
The answering silence mocked her. Meisha threw her hands up against the curved stone ceiling, emptying her fear and the fire into the rock. Orange clouds of flame licked along the tunnel in either direction until her anger spent itself.
When the flames grew cold, she regarded the blackened stone above her. Meisha felt some small satisfaction knowing she could leave a mark on the Delve’s impenetrable armor.
Reigniting her light source, Meisha squinted into the distance ahead of her, and saw that the tunnel dropped off sharply ten feet ahead of her. She hadn’t seen the precipice earlier.
She crawled to the edge and saw a steep, angled drop of roughly fifteen feet. Crawling blindly, she might have fallen over the edge and broken her neck.
Cold sweat pricked her scalp. Meisha closed her eyes and pictured a dwarf’s face, for she had no other explanation for her mysterious rescue.
“My thanks,” she whispered.
She still had to navigate the steep drop. Feet first, the fall might have been manageable, but Meisha had no way to reverse her position in the tiny space. Shaera, an air savant, would have bypassed the drop easily. Meisha knew few such spells, but would have to learn more, she thought. She’d never trusted magic that did not involve fire. Flame felt natural to her—rendering her body light enough to float down a fifteen-foot drop, did not.
Calling the little-used words to her mind, Meisha cast the spell. Outwardly, she felt no change, but she could sense the release of magic from her spirit, and knew the spell had worked. Still, as she shimmied to the edge of the drop, she felt a hint of trepidation.
She grasped the stone ledge and somersaulted, releasing the ledge before she hit her back against the rock. Slowly, lighter than the stale air in the cavern, she drifted to the floor below.
What seemed like a tenday later, when her feet touched the ground, Meisha sank into a crouch, grateful for the chance to bend her knees. Her spine cracked as she swiveled around to loosen her sore muscles.
By her light spell, Meisha could see the passage angled off to the right, the formerly smooth tunnel walls pockmarked with crags and fissures.
She drew her hand along the ground and found what she had hoped to find. Shaera’s footprints hugged the wall. They moved steadily, and Meisha saw no traces of blood or torn clothing to indicate injury. She breathed a little easier as she continued on down the tunnel.
In the quiet, with half her mind alert on the trail and watching for danger, Meisha’s thoughts drifted at random. Varan’s words came unexpectedly into focus.
You’ve never shown any indication of friendship.…
She’d grown up on the streets of Keczulla, running in packs with other children of the same age and situation: a perpetual state of half-starved viciousness. She would never have risked her life for any of the other Wraiths, not when a loaf of bread was worth killing for. Why did she care about the future of a nobleman’s daughter like Shaera? Why was Shaera worth risking her life for, when the Wraiths were not?
They had nothing in common. Shaera was refined and educated as Meisha never would be. The girl had never experienced the kind of hunger that was an acid in the belly, blighting any other rational thought.
Perhaps it was simply that Varan didn’t care. Her teacher had the capacity for kindness; she had seen glimpses of emotion behind his power, but ultimately, the will was not there, Meisha thought.
Twice now, she’d been disappointed by those she’d chosen to trust. Yet here she was, groping in the dark after a stupid girl who hadn’t sense enough to take a companion on her fool’s errand.
Meisha picked up her pace, aware of a downward trend to the passage. At first she hadn’t felt it, and if the rate of descent didn’t change, she might have miles of tunnel to cover before she reached the bottom.
She stopped briefly to eat cold meat and a biscuit she’d taken from the stores. Before discovering the lower tunnels, Varan had kept a well-stocked food supply that often included fresh fruits and vegetables Meisha had never seen before. She hadn’t thought to ask where they came from, until they were gone.
When she resumed her walk, Meisha discovered an abrupt end to the tunnel after roughly twenty feet. The passage fell away again, but this time, instead of being sheer, jagged rocks riddled the drop-off.
Meisha leaned over the edge to touch one of the rocks with her fingertip. Filed, she thought, to a razor edge. She drew her hand back and smeared the dot of blood away.
The architect of the Climb had gone to a great deal of effort to make the descent from the spider to the star as long and as treacherous as possible. If it were the work of the Howlings, to guard their stronghold, how had the dwarves ever traversed such a passage? Surely, there must be an easier way to move between both sets of caverns.
But if such a path existed, Meisha thought, even Varan did not know of it.
Removing a length of rope from her pack, Meisha tied one end around the nearest protruding stone spike. She looped the other end through her belt and slowly fed out the rope as she walked down the slanted wall.
At the bottom of the short climb, she found the remains of the trap.
A pressure plate smeared with blood sat crookedly at the base of the wall. Meisha touched the plate and found it sticky. The trap had triggered recently. She examined the immediate area. Following a line of fissures in the rock, she saw that the release of weight had caved in a false ceiling directly above the plate, spilling a hail of large rocks down on the passage.
Meisha crawled amid the rubble, shoveling stones aside with her bare hands. Dust rose in dry clouds. Her eyes burned and watered. Meisha scraped an arm across them and worked mostly by touch.
Finally, her hands encountered something soft. She uncovered a spill of red hair, and gradually Shaera’s upper torso came into view. Blood had dried in a mask over half her face. Meisha put her fingers against the girl’s neck and found a beat. Miraculously, she had survived the trap.
The heat from Meisha’s hands seeped into Shaera’s cold flesh. The girl stirred, moaning when she tried to lift her head.
“Be still,” Meisha hissed. She ran her hands along Shaera’s spine. “Your back is broken, at least. I don’t know how many other bones.”
She hadn’t expected injuries this extensive. Varan would be able to tend her, but Meisha didn’t think she could risk moving Shaera far. Even with magical aid, the jostling would likely kill her.
“What do I do?” she whispered, gazing back and forth down the empty tunnel. She didn’t know if she were speaking to herself, Varan, or the ghostly presence that had aided her. In any case, she received no answer.
Meisha sat down beside Shaera, who had lapsed into unconsciousness again. Meisha listened to her breathing in the silence and detected a faint gurgle she didn’t like.
“Where are you, Master?” she said. She realized then how much she’d hoped for Varan to follow her. No matter what magical experiment he was juggling, he wouldn’t let Shaera die here. For all his selfishness, he was not a monster.
Meisha wrapped her arms around her knees, intending to keep watch. The wizard would come, she was certain of it.
As soon as she allowed herself to relax, exhaustion st
ole over her. She dozed in fits, tucked between a wall studded with jagged spikes and the pile of rubble.
The only pocket of life for miles, Meisha thought faintly, and a fragile one it was.
She roused to darkness and stinging pain in her fingers. At first, Meisha thought it was the cold, but then she felt fur under her hands. Revulsion shook her instantly awake. She chanted the words to bring back her light.
Two rats crawled on Shaera’s chest. Meisha swatted them viciously into the wall, impaling one on a spike. Her hands shook as she adjusted Shaera’s bloody shirt, covering the ugly bites.
“Forgive me,” she said haltingly. She’d forgotten Shaera’s long-ago lesson, that light was the only thing that kept away the rats.
She brushed the hair back from Shaera’s face, wondering how long they’d been asleep. The apprentice’s eyes fluttered open and looked blearily up at her. She opened her lips a crack, but only air escaped, a thick wheeze that Meisha feared was Shaera trying to breathe through blood.
“Varan is coming for us,” Meisha said urgently, even as the light in the woman’s eyes started to waver. “Do you hear me, Shaera? You have to hold on a little longer.” Her voice quivered; tears burned her throat. “I can hear them in the tunnel. Listen, they’re coming down the slope.”
Shaera licked her lips and whispered something barely audible. Meisha didn’t understand the language, but the rise and fall of the words was familiar—the rhythm of prayer. When the words trailed off, the light in Shaera’s eyes went dark.
Meisha sat perfectly still for a long time. Shaera’s cheek rested heavy and cold on her hand. Absently, she wiped the blood from the girl’s face with her sleeve. She should have done it earlier but hadn’t thought to. When her face was clean, Meisha laid the girl’s head back and closed her vacant eyes.
“He didn’t come.”
Meisha heard her voice, but the words seemed to come from far away. Dazed, she rose to her feet. Her movement awoke fresh scurrying in the shadows. The rats waited just outside the pale circle of her light, ready to dart in for a meal.
Meisha stared into the darkness. Fire awakened within her. Heedless of the danger, Meisha reached deep inside herself and found the untouched well of power Varan had warned her about.
She gazed down at Shaera’s corpse, half-buried in the rubble. Fire sprang up in quivering columns, forming a protective ring around the girl’s body.
Illuminated by the fire ring, Shaera’s face appeared peaceful. Meisha committed it to memory, then made a swift gesture with her hand.
The columns fell inward like spokes on a flaming wheel. Shaera’s body ignited, the fire burning so hot and fast that it consumed her flesh in less time than it had taken to cast the spell.
When the fire died, Meisha tried to slow her breathing. She quickly gave up. She would not find calm again. Only one thing would satisfy her now.
Kneeling among the stones, Meisha scooped up a handful of ash and put it in one of her empty pouches. Whatever else remained of Shaera would have to stay in the tunnel. Meisha prayed her spirit would find the halls of whatever god or goddess she’d been praying to.
Taking up her rope, Meisha started the long climb back to Varan’s sanctuary. She could feel the heat building within her. Darkly, she welcomed it.
He was waiting for her. Jonal must have warned him. Meisha made sure he felt the heat before he saw her.
She came around the corner at a leisurely walk. She projected no flame, but she could see Varan’s eyes watering as he beheld her. Swiftly, he cast up a barrier against her spell.
“Gods, you are magnificent to behold,” he whispered. “You are fire.”
She didn’t answer, only increased the heat. She would burn through the spell shield if she had to.
“Meisha,” Varan said calmly, “can you hear me? Are you all right, firebird?”
She stood like a statue. “Where is Shaera?”
“You went to look for her, Meisha. Don’t you remember?”
Meisha shook her head from side to side. The air rippled in the wake of the movement. “That is the question you should be asking. ‘Where is Shaera?’ ” Meisha saw the red glow now, the magic radiating in an aura around her. “Say it!”
“Where is Shaera?” Varan said.
“Burnt on a pyre,” replied Meisha. “She rests in the Climb alone.” Her voice turned deadly. “I think one of us should join her.”
“Do you want it to be you, Meisha?” Varan asked sadly. “Because it will be, if you persist in this. Powerful as you are, you are overwhelmed by grief and exhaustion.”
“This is all because of your discovery!” Meisha spat. “Whatever great treasure lies buried beneath our feet that’s more important than the lives of your charges!”
“I don’t expect you to comprehend it, Meisha,” Varan said, “but I thought you at least understood my own nature. I told you I was selfish. My Art is the only thing that brings me joy. You, the other elementalists, are a means to that end. I have no interest in being a father to any of you. The choices you make in the world are yours. The consequences of this, you alone will bear.”
He stepped back, dropping the barrier. Moisture sizzled on the tunnel walls.
“Make your choice, Meisha,” he offered her. “Use me—as I am using you—to learn what you can, and all Faerûn will be open to you. Or hurl your fire, and I will strike you down, grieve for a day at the horrendous waste of potential, and go back to work.” His voice was harsh. “What will it be?”
Meisha’s eyes leaked tears that evaporated almost immediately on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and let out a strangled, miserable scream that echoed off the cave walls. Her head snapped back, and she poured her power into the ground. Still, there was no visible flame, but the stone at her feet bubbled, burning through the soles of her boots. The release of power wracked her body; her neck muscles pulled taut.
Varan watched her until gradually the convulsions diminished and ceased. She pitched forward, senseless.
Jonal told her later that Varan had gone down the Climb to retrieve Shaera’s ashes.
He kept a spell lock—his personal sigil—on Meisha’s door during her long recovery. At Varan’s behest, the water elementalist tended her basic needs, but left her chamber as soon as he could.
If the apprentices had not been sufficiently afraid of her before, they were certainly terrified now, Meisha realized.
Shaera had been the only one among them not truly frightened by her power.
When she’d healed enough, she went to Varan.
“Where will you go?” her master asked.
He stood in his workroom, as usual. Meisha stood in the doorway. She refused to enter the room ever again.
“To the Harpers,” she said.
“An interesting choice.” Varan had cleared the walls of magical writing. The room glowed with torchlight. “Much like wizards, the Harpers are not well thought of in Amn. You’ll find them eager to take you, if you can find them, though I wonder if they will understand you as I do.”
“I don’t see how that matters,” Meisha said. Her face was expressionless.
“Perhaps it does not. They may be able to give you what I could not, and that may be enough.” He walked to the doorway, and might have touched her, but Meisha stepped back, a warning shining in her eyes.
Varan sighed. “You must let me say good-bye, firebird, and give you some words of caution. If you let the fire consume you, or use it to lash out, the Harpers will never take you. My promise to you stands. You have a home here for as long as you need it. You have my ring,” he said, looking at her hand.
Meisha closed her fingers into a fist. The gold band pressed into her skin. She’d considered leaving it behind, and part of her wondered why she still wore it at all. She would never return to the Delve, even if the Harpers forsook her, and no matter how badly she might need Varan’s sanctuary.
“Farewell, Master,” she said.
“Good luck, Meisha Saira.” The wi
zard smiled at her, the same affectionate smile she remembered adoring as a child. Even now, the smile affected her, made her think he actually cared about her and her future.
Meisha forced herself to turn away, and she didn’t look back as he chanted the spell that would send her back into the sunlight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Amn
1 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Meisha listened to the rush of the river Vudlur beneath her feet and watched the man stride up the western bulge of the Star Bridge.
He wore tarnished chain mail and a plain but well-kept tunic of mud-brown, with gauntlets and a studded belt to match. Standing easily at six feet, he had broad, muscled shoulders. His hair and mustache were bronze; his skin burned Calishite dark, but his blue eyes belonged in the North. Meisha knew better on both counts. Kall Morel was a son of Amn, and up until a tenday ago, Amn had believed him dead.
“Well met, Kall,” she said, extending a hand.
“It’s been a while, Meisha.” Kall glanced at her bare fingers. “I don’t think so.”
The Harper smiled. “Still afraid I might burn, even after all these years?”
“Why do you think we’re surrounded by water?” Kall leaned against the bridge rail. “I take it you’ve heard the news?”
“There’s talk of little else,” Meisha said. “Dhairr Morel’s death shocked and saddened Amn, but she is inconsolable to learn his only son yet lives to claim his estate.”
“I’m not surprised.” Kall turned in the direction of distant Keczulla. “Thank you for making the journey. My father spent his last years in Keczulla. It’s the only city where Morel assets survived intact, after the war.”
Meisha nodded. In the years after Kall left Esmeltaran, humanoid armies led by two ogre mages—Sythillis and Cyrvisnea, allied with followers of the church of Cyric—had attacked the city and a fair portion of southern Amn. Amn’s defenders—Meisha among them—hadn’t been able to beat back their armies, and the port city of Murann had fallen to the new Sythillisian Empire. The cities of Esmeltaran and Imnescar had been devastated in the attack, and many of the merchant families lost their entire holdings. In the year since the war began, the humans and monsters had contrived an uneasy truce between them, but Amn had only just begun its recovery.
Howling Delve Page 10
