"What's happening here?" Stralana demanded.
Myrmeen took off her cloak and draped it around Siobhan's shoulders. "A dark miracle."
The beautiful cat lord regarded Myrmeen with reddened eyes and asked, "How much have you guessed?"
"Some," Myrmeen said. "It would be better if you told me."
Siobhan looked to Lord Zacharius. "Do you trust her?"
“Yes," he said.
She nodded. "Twelve years ago, I was attacked by two men. It happened in your gardens, at that gazebo. They knew somehow that I was a cat lord. They considered me less than human and treated me as such. The mage used an amulet to trap me in my human form, then he and the other man forced themselves on me.
"I came back the next day to punish them, but Othmann carried a weapon of some power in those days. He hacked my leg off while I was a cat and stabbed me a dozen times. He thought I had bled to death and dumped my body in the trash. The leg he kept as a souvenir."
Myrmeen shuddered. "You survived and sought revenge."
"Lord Zacharius helped me. I would never have found him again on my own, since both men changed their names and employed magic to alter their appearances after the murder." She grinned wickedly, and her eyes flashed. "Maybe they thought I'd only used up one life and might come back to haunt them."
Zacharius frowned at the woman, then turned back to Myrmeen. "Some time ago Othmann learned of our quest for Satsuma's remains-which is quite genuine, I assure you. He claimed to have some information we required, but refused to part with it for a reasonable price. In truth, he tried to extort us. And when the negotiation got out of hand, he threatened my envoy, using Siobhan's leg as an example of his past dealings with our kind. Word reached me, and I put the two together. You've seen the rest firsthand."
"What about Volney?" Stralana asked.
"Volney and Othmann had a violent parting several years ago," Walcott replied. "I had to search Arabel for nearly a year before I found a sorcerer who bore the scent of Siob-han's blood."
"I don't understand," Myrmeen said. "Years have passed since the assault. Her blood had been washed from his body."
Walcott cleared his throat. "From his body, yes. But not from his soul."
"Walcott can sense such things. He's one of our most powerful mages," Zacharius said. "He befriended Volney, then guided him to your employ, where we could involve him in the murder investigation. Though the arrival of the cat lords made him nervous, Volney had no idea that it was his former partner who had been slain-after all, both had changed their appearances. And if all had gone as planned, we would have framed Volney for the murder."
Stralana rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So, what happened?"
Siobhan answered this. "I needed my paw back as much as I needed revenge. Walcott has a spell that will restore me, you see." She rubbed the grisly prize lovingly. "Anyway, Othmann died without telling us where the paw was. We hoped Volney knew. When it became clear he was ignorant, we killed him and returned to Elhazir."
"She claimed not to know," Lord Zacharius said, "but she was using the child's powers to hide some objects from your men-including the paw-which she'd stolen from Othmann's shop. She figured the paw must be worth money, since we were searching for it, then decided it was dangerous. I suppose she thought that as long as she held onto what we wanted, we wouldn't harm her. Tonight, when several of my people went through this place in search of the paw, she snapped. The fear was too much for her."
Myrmeen glanced at Siobhan's locket. "There's one thing more, isn't there? The reason why the bodies resisted all forms of divination and spirit magic?"
"Yes," Siobhan said, fingering the locket. "How could you contact their souls when they were safely locked away?"
Myrmeen looked at the brilliant red halves of the heart-shaped locket. They seemed to pulse slightly, like a living, beating heart.
Lord Zacharius knelt before Andreana. "You're free, you know. If you like, you can travel with us for a time. We'll see that you get back to your parents."
"What about the gold Elhazir was giving me? That's what interested my parents. They didn't want me."
Confusion clouded Zacharius's handsome face. "I thought you wanted to live with them again."
Andreana bit her lip. 'They'll just send me somewhere else. I might have to work for someone just like Elhazir again. Maybe even worse."
"But your concern for them-"
"I didn't want them hurt. I still don't. That doesn't mean I want to go back there."
Walcott stepped forward. "I could use some help. She could apprentice to me."
Lord Zacharius raised one eyebrow. "Would that suit you?"
"If I was getting paid," she whispered. "And if no one calls me a halfwit."
"Demanding, aren't you?" Zacharius said with a smile. "Very well. Your skills as a negotiator show you are a girl of rare intelligence, Andreana."
The girl's face lit up.
Myrmeen looked at the crowd of cat lords outside the doorway, then stared into Zacharius's emerald eyes. "I may not be able to stop you from leaving here tonight, but you cannot seriously expect there to be no repercussions. The lot of you have confessed to premeditated murder. There are laws to be upheld."
"Yes," Lord Zacharius said. "There is justice and there are laws. The two are not always the same. The choice is yours, Myrmeen. You can turn us into fugitives, or you can keep what has transpired within this room a secret. We have done what should have been done a long time ago. I have no regrets."
Myrmeen looked to Stralana. He was staring into Siobban's gray-blue eyes. "Evon?"
"If we had caught Othmann and Volney-or whatever they were calling themselves-at the time of the assault, their sentence would have been death," Stralana said. "They got what they deserved."
Siobhan nodded silently. There was gratitude in her eyes.
Stralana regarded the woman lying at Andreana's feet. "As for Elhazir," he noted coldly, "I have too often been called upon to have my men collect the bodies of children who have been beaten, then discarded by such as this woman. I have no sympathy for her, either."
"You've described my feelings exactly," Myrmeen said. "Lord Zacharius, you are free to leave, on one condition: I want you to never return to my city. Is that understood?"
"Damn," he hissed. "I was going to recommend Arabel as a vacation spot for my kind."
Despite herself, Myrmeen almost smiled.
Lord Zacharius lowered his gaze. "I am sorry for the pain this ordeal has caused you."
"So am I," Myrmeen said.
The knowledge and shared pain of Siobhan's ordeal now tainted her memory of her once-beloved gazebo. Like the blood on Haverstrom's phoenix, she knew it would never quite fade. The sanctuary it had once offered was gone forever.
On the walk back to the palace, after Zacharius and his people had departed, Myrmeen came upon a cat who had trapped a bird and was slowly torturing it to death. She stopped and stared at the gruesome spectacle. Evon Stralana, who was walking beside her, touched her arm.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Myrmeen thought of the agony Siobhan had suffered at the hands of her attackers and recalled the slight glow in each half of the woman's amulet. Penn Othmann and Russka Volney had not only wounded the cat lord, they had also taken something private and extremely precious away from Myrmeen.
She felt nothing but hatred for them.
"It's strange," Myrmeen said as she watched the cat slowly tear the life from its prey, "but somehow I feel comforted by the knowledge that all cats like to play with their kills…"
King's Tear
Mark Anthony
The spirits of the three sages writhed in the flickering, poisonous green flames rising from the copper brazier. The necromancer Kelshara prowled catlike about them, here in the highest chamber of her tower that stood among the dark, jagged peaks of the southernmost Sunset Mountains.
"Please, sorceress, we do not know the answer you seek!" one of the spirits moa
ned.
"We beg you," pleaded another. "Release us from this torment.1"
"Very well," Kelshara hissed. Her features were pale and flawless, her long hair as dark as polished onyx, yet she was anything but lovely. Rage was never beautiful. "And for your worthlessness, this is your reward."
She tossed a handful of dark powder onto the brazier. Brilliant sparks, red as rubies, crackled about the pale apparitions as they shrieked in agony. The magical flames flared to the ceiling, then died down in a puff of acrid smoke. The spirits were gone, the last echo of their wails ringing off the chill stone walls.
Kelshara smiled in cruel satisfaction for a moment, but the expression soon faded. She still had no solution to the mystery. From a golden box on a table she drew out two small objects. They were jewels, teardrop shaped and as clear as winter ice. King's Tears such stones were called. Legend held that they were the tears of ancient kings magically turned to stone. Legend also told that if you looked into the heart of a King's Tear, you would see an image of what the ancient lord had loved most in life. And the legends were true.
Even now she could see the visions flickering within the jewels: parchments scribed with strange glyphs and books bound with gem-encrusted covers. It was the library of King Everard Farseer she was glimpsing. Once he had ruled over a realm that stretched for leagues along the banks of the great River Chionthar. But his kingdom had crumbled to dust long centuries before folk from Cormyr crossed the Sunset Mountains and raised the shining Caravan Cities, strung like gems along the necklace of the river. But though Kelshara had gazed into the Tears for hours on end, she never saw what she sought, the book Everard had prized above all others: the Tome of Midnight. Within its covers lay the key to life eternal.
"Toz!" the necromancer shouted. "Toz!”
Kelshara heard the scrabbling of claws against stone behind her. "Mistress?" a voice croaked tremulously. She spun to see a small, malformed creature hobble into the chamber on two gnarled and twisted legs. It blinked its red, bulbous eyes, snuffling its warty, canine snout.
"Come, Toz," Kelshara said in her icy voice. "Speak the future for me. And do not dare lie, or I promise you'll lose more than just your tail this time."
"Yes, mistress." The kobold fawningly approached the table. Its features were caught up in a mask of mock-contrition, its bulging eyes cast down to the floor. A foul odor followed in its wake, and the ratty brown piece of sackcloth it wore like a tunic looked as if it was ready to rot off its scaly back.
Once the creature had been a man, a diviner of such skill that he had told the fortunes of emperors and queens. But Kelshara had wanted him for her own. She had arranged his murder. Then, with her dark powers, she wrought his reincarnation into this new, loathsome form, bound by magic to do her every bidding.
Clumsily, the kobold opened a small ivory box, drew out a deck of ornate cards wrapped in black silk, and shuffled them. "You must draw three," it instructed the necromancer in its croaking voice, and Kelshara quickly did so.
With a misshapen hand Toz turned over the first card. The Three of Gems. "This signifies the heart of your quest. It symbolizes great riches, but some of them are lost."
"Of course," Kelshara crooned, her violet, gold-flecked eyes glittering with understanding. "I have been a fool, Toz. The image of the Tome is not within the two Tears I possess, and there can only be one answer. The Three of Gems. There must be a third Tear. Go on."
The kobold turned the next card. The Priest, reversed. "This signifies the forces of your allies." Toz moved to the last card. "And this signifies the forces that will oppose you on your quest." He turned the card. The Warrior, also reversed.
"What do they mean?" Kelshara demanded.
Toz's pointed ears wriggled in confusion. "I am not certain, master. Somehow, a priest who is not a priest will help you gain the jewel. But a warrior who is not a warrior will stand against you."
'"A warrior who is not a warrior?'" Kelshara said mockingly. "That doesn't sound like one I need fear."
"But, mistress," the kobold protested, its snout wriggling in agitation, "these cards speak of powerful forces at work. You must-"
"Quiet!" Kelshara snapped, striking the kobold and knocking it to the hard floor. It yelped shrilly, but she paid the creature no heed. "All I have to do now is find where the third Tear is hidden," the necromancer whispered exultantly. "Then immortality will be mine."
Things were in a bit of an uproar at Everard Abbey, and Tyveris knew he was the cause.
He dashed up the spiral staircase, his sandals slapping hollowly against the worn stone steps. The abbess had sent for him, and one did not keep Melisende waiting. He hesitated for a few heartbeats before the paneled mahogany door that lead into her chamber, then knocked as softly on the dark wood as he could with his massive hand. The sound boomed like thunder. Tyveris winced.
"Come in," came the crisp reply from beyond.
With a deep breath Tyveris opened the door and stepped inside, though he was forced to turn sideways a bit to squeeze his broad shoulders through the portal. He was not a tall man, but his sheer size was astonishing. The thin brown homespun of his simple robe did little to conceal the thick, heavy muscles that were roped about his powerful frame, and his dusky brown skin marked him as a foreigner in these lands. Altogether, he was a rather remarkable individual for the backward Everard Abbey.
And that was a great part of the problem.
"Oh, do stop standing there filling up the doorway and come sit down," Mother Melisende said in her typically brisk tone. The abbess was a tiny woman, with bright, dark eyes and wispy white hair. She sat before a fireplace, clad in a simple but elegant robe of soft dove gray. Despite her diminutive stature, a mantle of authority seemed to rest comfortably upon her small shoulders.
"Yes, Mother Melisende." Though he made an effort to speak softly, Tyveris's deep voice rattled the glass in the windowpanes. He sat down. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth to drive back the autumn chill. Melisende poured steaming tea into a pair of delicate porcelain cups and handed one to Tyveris. He stared at the fragile teacup worriedly, holding it with exaggerated care in his big hand. He swallowed hard.
Melisende sipped her tea, regarding Tyveris with a wise expression. "I won't keep this from you," she said after a moment's quiet. "Several of the loremasters have come to speak to me this past tenday. They have asked that I dismiss you from the abbey."
Tyveris's dark eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Have I done something wrong, Mother Melisende?"
The abbess sighed. "No, Tyveris, it is nothing you have done." She smiled fleetingly. "In fact, I daresay we've never had a handyman about the abbey who was as useful as you. The chapel ceiling no longer leaks onto the pulpit, the new hinges on the gate open without a creak, and the drains in the kitchen are working properly for the first time in a century." Her smile faded, replaced by a scowl. "No, it's not what you've done that some of the loremasters don't care for. You wear a monk's robe now, but I'm afraid that doesn't change what you are in their eyes-a sell-sword, a man dedicated to violence, not knowledge."
"But they have nothing to fear from me, Mother Melisende," he boomed earnestly. "I can control myself. I swear it!"
There was a clear, delicate snap as the teacup shattered in Tyveris's hand. He stared down at the broken shards in horror. "I've ruined your cup," he said despairingly.
"Forget the teacup, Tyveris," Melisende said, taking the broken pieces from his hand and setting them aside. "It is simply a thing. Completely replaceable." She took his big hands into her tiny ones. He almost pulled away in surprise, but she gripped him tightly. "Look at these, Tyveris. What do you see?"
Unsure what she meant he looked down at his hands. They were huge, big-knuckled, the dark skin crisscrossed with even darker scars and welts. They were a fighter's hands. Hands that had taken more lives than he could count. He told her so.
"Really?" the abbess answered. "That's peculiar. For I see a pair of hands that ar
e gentle even in their strength. I see hands that have embraced children, hands that have freely given alms to those in need, hands that have held a book for the first time as their owner learned to read in this very room. No, Tyveris, I don't believe these are a warrior's hands at all."
He pulled away from her. "But the other loremasters don't believe that, do they?"
"Some don't," Melisende answered solemnly. "A few. Loremaster Orven speaks loudest among them. I'm afraid they fear that one day you won't be able to control your temper, and that violence will result."
"Maybe they're right," Tyveris replied, his voice just slightly bitter. Why not? he thought. It had happened often enough in the past, when he had been both slave and soldier and the only thing that had mattered was to kill his foe, so that he wouldn't be killed himself.
Melisende's eyes flashed brightly with anger. "I don't expect to hear any more such nonsense from you. I don't let just anybody into my abbey, you know. You're here because I believed you belong here. That hasn't changed." She picked up her teacup again. "I'll speak with those who have been troubled by your presence. Perhaps I can allay their fears."
Tyveris's heart leapt in his chest. "You will?" he rumbled gratefully.
"Did I not say so?" Melisende snapped. The abbess didn't like having to repeat herself.
"But what about Loremaster Orven?" he asked tentatively.
"I will concern myself with him. You may go now. Attend to your work." Tyveris knew that one didn't hesitate when dismissed by the abbess. He hastily stood and bowed before hurrying from the chamber.
"And, Tyveris," Melisende called after him. "Do try to stay out of trouble."
Tyveris spent the rest of the day repairing cracks in the abbey's outer stone wall. After he had finished the day's work he made his way to the dim, dusty library to read for a time in the quiet chamber. Outside the window the day was fading to twilight as the deep tones of a bronze bell sounded Vespers. The shadowed plains rolled southward into the far purple distance, toward a single twinkling gem on the horizon-the Caravan City of Iriaebor.
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