Realms of Valor a-1

by Douglas Niles

  Beyond that, your fate is your own."

  I am ready. Almost fearful at what I will see, I flick a few drops of kumiss toward the woman and utter the Sunlight After Storm sutra, the words which clear the mind from illusion. My hostess recoils slightly in surprise. Then, as I watch too startled to move, her golden hair grows dark black, banded by a golden circlet. Her body ripples and her face changes as the mask of femininity falls away A white glare, like a furnace that gives no heat, blinds me temporarily. When my eyes adjust, a man stands at the heart of the light, stocky and straight, in a tunic and cloak of purest white.

  "By the great and mighty Furo!" I gasp, quickly looking away. This is no sorceress or even a spirit, but a power greater than any mortal, living or dead.

  "Koja of Khazari, you have seen what I am." The voice is symphonic, strong chords resound within the words. "Know that I will not harm you. I am Denier, Lord of Glyphs and servant of Oghma, the patron god of bards. I am Denier, in whose temple you have toiled. Now, lama, will you swear my oath'"

  The voice from the fire is powerful yet soothing, so that even in the god's mighty presence I feel no fear. Shielding my eyes from the corona that encases him, I am able to look on the spirit once more. "Immortal radiance, what do you demand of me, an unworthy scholar?"

  Denier, demipower of words, waves his hands toward the still-dark walls of Procampur. "Write for the outlanders so that they will be encouraged to learn. Stay in the West and become a muse for them. Do this and you need never despair."

  I stop at the scope of this oath. "Then I could not go home."

  "Not until you are ready to die, lama. I have given you the taste of home you longed for. Would your homecoming now be as sweet as you imagined?"

  I look at the food before me, spilled over the carpets and awash in his radiance. With Yamun dead, the Tuigan have no reason to welcome me back into their lands. And what kind of return could I expect in Khazari, a land Yamun conquered while I rode at his side? Sadly I admit what I have always known-my memories have become illusions, ephemeral dreams of places I can no longer call home.

  "I accept."

  "Then it is done." There is a flare of light, and I am blinded. I stumble forward, my senses fleeing into the dark and cold. My eyes burn, my skull throbs with pain. The soft cushion of the carpet vanishes beneath me, and suddenly I fall to the stone, cold and wet.

  Finally the brilliant sparkles fade from my vision, giving way to fog-clad night. The garden and soft carpets are transformed to leafless branches and chill stonework. On the gray cobblestone before me is a small bag. Taking it, I unwork the strings and pour a small stream of dazzling gems into my hand, worth no less than ten thousand golden lions, I would guess.

  "Master!" It is Foxe's voice. I turn as the fog swirls away to reveal the portico to Denier's temple before me. Foxe is hurrying down the steps, still hastily dressed, just as I had left him an hour or more before. I suddenly feel foolish, sitting in the darkness in my limp, damp robes. "Master, what happened? I warned you not to go. Are you safe?"

  What can I tell him of this night? Surely he would believe me possessed or charmed. Were it not for these gems, I myself would doubt the tale, and yet I have to give him some answer. "I've been home and back again."

  "What?"

  "Later, Firstborn Foxe. I am tired. Help me back to the temple. Tomorrow we can pack." I look around, just to make sure I am where I think I am.

  "You're still leaving us?" His voice is sad as he slips a strong, thick hand under my elbow to help me up. I stand a little unsteadily, still disoriented by my sudden appearance in front of the temple.

  "Yes and no, Foxe. I think-" I roll a few gems in my hand, trying to guess how many books they might purchase. "I think there is business to attend to here before I do anything. And after that…. Have I ever told you how much I should like to visit Waterdeep?" We slowly climb the temple steps. "I could use a good secretary, if I make such a trek. You don't know where I might find one, do you?"

  A VIRTUE BY REFLECTION

  Scott Ciencin

  Penn Othmann couldn't explain why he felt so nervous as he closed up his small, exclusive shop. The day had been uneventful, and, following his usual routine, he had worked well into the evening cataloguing antiques. Yet as Othmann was about to pull the door shut behind him, lock it, and speak the word that would have engaged the shop's magical wards, a terrible fit of anxiety overtook him. He wanted to go back inside and hide. That would be childish, he told himself. There's nothing to fear from the night in a civilized city like Arabel. Nothing at all.

  Then the figure leaped out of the shadows. Othmann felt an explosion of pain in his upper arm, and he cried out. He had been stabbed. Futilely he wished he had trusted his instincts, but it was too late to chide himself. Survival was all that mattered now.

  Before Penn Othmann could make another sound, his mouth was covered by his assailant's hand. Othmann was forced back with incredible ferocity, his head slamming into the wall. A burst of pure white light filled his vision.

  His attacker gripped his arm and spoke into Othmann's ear in a low voice. "Run. If you scream, I'll gut you."

  The merchant desperately wanted to tell the dark, misshapen figure that he was a wealthy man, that he could pay any price for his life, but the tone of that threat told him such pleading would gain him nothing.

  Instead, Penn Othmann ran, just as he had been told. He raced through the darkened streets of the city, darted into alleyways, leaped over gates, and plunged down deserted avenues. The flaxen-haired merchant prayed his heart wouldn't give out. He wanted to stop, to catch his breath and rest, but his pursuer was never less than a few paces behind. The physical regimen he had endured as training for the city's weekly footraces had kept his body hard and lean, but the cold night air bit deeply into the bloody wound in his arm. Othmann's proud, handsome features were screwed up in pain and exertion. His sky-blue eyes were fixed on the continuous maze before him.

  He wasn't aware that he was being driven along a chosen path, toward a particular destination, until he turned a corner and saw a dark green wall of foliage ahead. A nightmare-black gap was carved into the shrub wall, a dark archway that served as entrance to the beautiful gardens of the Citadel. Two guards lay on their chests. They might have been dead, but Othmann couldn't tell for sure.

  Suddenly he knew exactly why he had been brought here. He stopped, and the footsteps behind him ceased. The cold realization that escape had never truly been possible flooded into him, accompanied by a fear unlike any he had ever known. Trembling, Penn Othmann turned and looked into the face of his executioner.

  The dark figure grinned in delight and advanced.

  A delicate whisper moved through the fabric of Myrmeen Lhal's dreams, causing the lithe, sensuous brunette to stir gently awake. "Myrmeen," the voice said in rich, melodic tones, "it's time to begin your day, my dearest."

  Her dark blue eyes, tinged with slivers of gold, fluttered open. It was morning. The voice repeated its message, and Myrmeen reached over to the ornate nightstand beside her bed and allowed her hand to drift to a beautiful crystal phoenix.

  "Myrmeen, it's time to-"

  The voice was abruptly silenced as her fingers grazed the small statue. The phoenix was a gift from an admirer, a magical construct that had the ability to capture sounds then release them once again at a time of her choosing. The voice that had woken her had been her own.

  Myrmeen sat up in bed and turned to appraise the quality of the light streaming through the large window to her left. The radiance was delicate and soft, filtered through pale blue curtains that fluttered ever so gently, though the windows were closed and there was no breeze. Myrmeen smiled at this. The curtains had been charged with several spells of protection-as had many of the objects in the vast, opulent bedchamber-and the energy moving through them caused them to sway. If an intruder were to somehow break through the glass, the curtains would rap themselves around the unfortunate fellow and slice him to piece
s. Brutal, yes, but such protective measures were not uncommon or unnecessary for the ruler of any large city in Cormyr.

  And the traps and wards might be hidden anywhere in the room. The wall behind the bed was decorated with a bronze mural of barrel-chested fighting men grappling in various death-duels. The metal reverberated with a low, rhythmic thump, not unlike the beating of a human heart. A sunken bath with rapidly churning scented waters lay a few steps away. On the walls, between paintings of startling elegance, weapons of arcane origins were mounted. Any of these might prove to be far more than the trappings of wealth.

  Myrmeen frowned, fell back upon the bed, and tried to go back to sleep. She had been burdened by nightmares that were already beginning to fade, and she worried that the effects of the restless night she had endured would plague her the entire day. If she could get an hour or two of proper rest, she might be able to face the day without yawning in some dignitary's face.

  The dreams were of her troubled childhood, her disastrous first marriage, and the death of her second, beloved husband, Haverstrom Lhal. She knew that she should be used to the nightmares, but they disturbed her with renewed power each day. She was no longer certain they would ever leave her alone.

  A warm, comforting wave eased through her body as she settled upon the bed, her bare back exposed to reveal the network of scars she had gained in her days as an adventurer. Suddenly she felt a hand gripping her shoulder, as hard and cold as bronze. She snapped instantly awake and turned to look at the mural behind her. The warriors were locked in their familiar poses.

  Shaking her head, Myrmeen untangled herself from the twisted mass of sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. As she faced the sunlight, the shards of gold within her dark blue eyes sparkled.

  The phoenix sculpture by her bed trembled and delivered another message: "It is time, milady. The delegation has arrived. I, for one, do not envy you. On the other hand, all I have to worry about is getting a good night's sleep. Fare thee well, and enjoy the delegation."

  "Another delegation," Myrmeen muttered. "Kill me now." A knock came at the door. "One moment!"

  Myrmeen reached to a spot in midair, as if she were pulling apart an invisible set of curtains. A shining rift appeared in the air, and, from that opening, a sparkling black gown leaped over her shoulders, slimming itself about her thin waist, generous breasts, and perfectly proportioned hips. Her headdress followed, along with her gloves, jewelry, and shoes. Another mage had given her this gift-a beautiful dresser that existed half in this plane of existence, half in another. She could also use the dimensional rift to make a hasty retreat from her quarters if the Citadel were overrun by attackers. The amorous sorcerer had assured her that only she could open or close the gate.

  "Enter!" she called.

  The door opened, and Myrmeen turned to face Evon Stralana, Arabel's minister of defense. The tall, wiry, dark-haired man seemed quite troubled. His already pale skin had gone pure white.

  "The delegation," Myrmeen said, smiling. "I'm late."

  "It's not that," he said gravely.

  Her stance changed suddenly. This was no trivial matter, she sensed. Something was terribly wrong, something that had broken through Stralana's cool, reserved shell.

  'Tell me," Myrmeen snapped.

  "There's been a murder."

  "Who was killed?"

  "A merchant. Penn Othmann. I don't believe I've ever seen his name on your appointment schedule."

  "No, the name doesn't sound familiar." She waited. There had to be more. Stralana wouldn't have been this concerned over a murder. Arabel was a large city and violent death was not uncommon. "What else?"

  "The body was found in the gardens."

  Her hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms with enough force to draw blood. "Was the man killed there, or was the body dropped there?"

  "He died in the gardens."

  Myrmeen felt her skin grow cold. "What about the guards?"

  "They were found this morning, ensorcelled but unharmed. They have no memory of what occurred."

  "The spells protecting the gardens?"

  "Stripped away."

  "I want to see."

  "Yes," Stralana said. "I thought you might."

  The fiery tongue of sunlight darted between the leaves high above the central gardens near the Citadel. Gazebos, rose-entangled archways, and topiary renditions of various gods and demigods surrounded the two figures who stood at the center of the gardens, where Othmann's head had been discovered. Soldiers had been posted to keep out the curious.

  "By all the denizens of Hades," Myrmeen whispered as she turned to Stralana. "There are pieces of this man strewn from one end of the garden to the other. Whoever- or whatever-did this obviously hated him with a passion."

  "Yes," Stralana said flatly.

  As she studied the carnage, Myrmeen began to shake; the gardens had once been a private retreat for her and her husband. "I want to know who did this."

  "I understand. Procedures have been followed, but the body resists all forms of divination and spirit magic. His soul has taken flight and cannot be reached."

  “Then other means must be applied. Have our hunters gone over the tracks?"

  "Of course. They claim the murderer-or murderers- covered any traces they may have left behind. It's impossible to tell how many were here, if they were men or women, if they were even human."

  Myrmeen frowned. "He was a merchant you say?"

  "Yes. He sold artifacts. Some magical, some not, His shop was near Elhazir's Exotica."

  "I've heard several of the cleaning staff talk of Elhazir's. They display the fake jewelry they find there proudly, as if it were the real thing. Elhazir sells copies of my best dresses. She peddles trinkets she claims were blessed by the gods with fearsome power." Myrmeen paused. "Was Othmann in competition with Elhazir? Could this have been a case of professional rivalry?"

  Stralana shook his head. "I sincerely doubt it. As with everything else, the magic items Elhazir sells are cheap fakes. Othmann sold genuine objects of power." The minister cleared his throat and added, "On a related matter, several youths came upon the open door to Othmann's shop during the night. They went in, unaware that a series of magical wards had been set in place. Two of the boys were burned, but not fatally. Another was reduced to the mental level of infancy, and still another was transformed into a pale, brittle creature for whom the slightest movement could result in shattered bones and ruptured organs.

  "That's how we came to know Othmann was missing. We had been trying to locate him to ascertain the nature of the shop's wards, so that the mages hired by the parents of the children could have the spells countermanded. We also wanted to know why he had left the door open in such an enticing fashion. The boys had been wrong to go inside, but they had practically been invited.

  "One of the guardsmen who had been given Othmann's description was also one of the first men to arrive at the gardens this morning. That's how the victim was identified so quickly." Stralana gestured to a guard standing apart from the others. "I've asked the lad to wait until you're done here, in case you wish to speak with him." When Myrmeen shook her head, he shrugged and continued.

  "I sent two of our finest sorcerers around to Othmann's shop the moment we had the body identified, along with several of our investigators. Elhazir was upon them very quickly. She was filled with questions, and when she learned that Othmann was dead, she seemed genuinely grieved. The woman told our agents much of what we needed to know-that Othmann specialized in high-priced artifacts, magical and otherwise. His shop was open by appointment only. Elhazir gave him referrals whenever it became obvious that her clients knew what they wanted and would not be tricked by her fast tongue. In return for sending him clients, Othmann gave her a healthy commission."

  "Was Othmann a sorcerer?" Myrmeen asked quietly.

  "No one seems to know."

  "But he trafficked in items of power. I would wager that if he was not well-versed in t
he Art, he was closely affiliated with someone who was. That person may have been the one who subdued our guards, defeated the spells protecting the gardens, and killed Othmann."

  Stralana nodded. "That would make sense, but Elhazir made no mention of a partner. Othmann seemed to run his trade completely alone."

  "She's lying or ill informed. What did she tell your men of Othmann's personal affairs?"

  "Only that he kept them extremely private. They enjoyed a professional relationship and nothing more."

  Myrmeen paused to consider this. "I don't want anyone going into Othmann's shop until I'm through with the blasted delegation this morning. Then I'll join the men there. Oh, and I'll want to talk with Elhazir myself."

  The pale-skinned man waited patiently for her next command.

  "Evon, I need to visit the gazebo. It would be best if I did it alone."

  "Of course. But…"

  Myrmeen leveled a cold gaze on her minister. "But what?"

  "Nothing, milady," he murmured. Lowering his eyes in respect, Stralana left her and returned to his men.

  Alone, Myrmeen walked through the gardens until an elegantly adorned gazebo loomed before her. Carved into the far wall was a representation of a phoenix, her late husband's symbol. She thought of his funeral pyre and the vain, ridiculous hope she had nurtured that somehow he would rise from his own ashes. He had risen only in her heart, where a part of him would remain forever.

  But those mournful thoughts were quickly replaced in Myrmeen's mind by shock. Blood spattered the gazebo's walls, marring Haverstrom's phoenix. Whoever had murdered Othmann had left his body in the gardens as a message to her. There could be no other reason for this senseless vandalism.

  Anger flooded into her with renewed vitality. Since her husband's death, there had been many times when the pressures of ruling Arabel were too much to bear. She needed a place to which she could retreat, a place where she would always feel safe. The gardens-and this spot in particular-had been that sanctuary. Standing in this gazebo, Myrmeen had always been able to recall the joy, love, and comfort she had found in her husband's arms.