Realms of Magic a-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  Endris, too, helped pass the time. He was a jovial fellow, and it seemed every other day he had a new joke to tell his friend. From him, Jander learned about the day-today events that occurred in Oakengrove Abbey, only a short walk away over a small green hill. Jander could even glimpse its stone walls when the branches moved in the wind. But as far as the vampire was concerned, the abbey might as well be as distant as Evermeet, for he would never move a single step closer to it.

  One twilight, Jander waited longer than usual for the customary arrival of Endris. But the oakbrother did not come. The night wore on, and Jander became concerned.

  It was then that he heard the bell tolling and saw the night sky lit up with an evil, orange hue.

  Fire!

  Jander's first impulse was to run and help. He almost reached the edge of the circle when he skidded to a halt. If he left, he would never be able to return. He hesitated, torn between his concern for his friend and his blessed peace. At last, angry with himself but seeing no alternative, Jander turned and went back to the spring, hoping miserably that his aid was not needed.

  Shrieks pierced the night. Jander tensed. A fire was frightening, of course, but self-assured monks wouldn't panic and cry out in terror-would they?

  "Please, Silvanus, protect your own," he murmured. His golden hands clenched and unclenched, reflecting the war that raged within him.

  Abruptly, joining the shrieks of terror and pain, came the sound of raucous laughter. The vampire leapt up and raced to the limits of his sacred space, pacing like a caged panther. Unable to help himself, he cried aloud, "Endris? Anybody?"

  "Jander!" The voice was weak but recognizable. It was Endris, and after a few seconds that seemed agonizingly long to the agitated elf, the oakbrother stumbled into view.

  His face was covered with blood, and he cradled his left arm awkwardly. Jander, who had seen a hundred fights in his day, realized at once that it was broken.

  Jander cringed, thinking he knew what Endris was about to say. The oakbrother had no idea-could have no idea-of the real depth of the evil that had haunted Jander Sunstar. He couldn't know that if Jander set one foot outside of the grove, the maddening bloodlust would return, that he would be driven to hunt and harm; that he would again become one of the undead. And Jander knew Endris was about to ask for aid. What would he say? What could he say?

  He braced himself for the plea, but Endris's words shocked him-and moved him.

  "Jander," gasped the young monk, "hide yourself! Marauders have come to the abbey. They posed as pilgrims, and once they were inside… they will surely slay you if they find you!"

  "But," said Jander, "my help…"

  "You are only one elf, with no weapon," Endris replied, wincing as pain racked him. "You cannot stand against six such as they!"

  Jander began to feel a dreadful, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Six?" he repeated. No, surely it could not be-there were many ruffians out in the woods…

  But he had no time to question further. From the direction of the burning abbey came a chorus of laughter and whooping. Endris turned horrified eyes on the four men who emerged from the shadows, cried once more, "Hide yourself!" and charged, weaponless, at his enemies.

  It was perhaps the single bravest gesture Jander had ever witnessed in several centuries. For a moment he stared, dumbfounded. He recognized these men. They were the band of six killers upon whom he had attempted to feed a few weeks ago. He realized, with a dreadful shudder, that they had followed him. In all ignorance, he, Jander Sunstar, had led them to this place, had caused them to butcher the innocent priests, had given them the opportunity to defile the grove that had succored him.

  They were busy beating Endris. They did not bother using weapons; they could draw out the pleasure longer if they slew Endris with bare hands and skilful blows. The men, their faces burned into Jander's brain, had not seen him. Not yet. He could do as Endris had wished him to- hide in his protective cairn, wait out the storm, and emerge whole, sane, his soul still reprieved.

  But that would mean letting Endris, and all the other good men who had shown him only kindness, die senseless, brutal deaths.

  Tears stung Jander's eyes as his heart broke. '

  With a cry of mingled outrage and deepest grief, Jander charged the group of thieves and murderers. He transformed into a gold wolf as he left the protective circle, the quiet place, and felt the full weight of his curse resettle upon him. The red thirst raged, more powerful than he had ever known it. Strength flooded his limbs, and his rage knew satisfaction when the eyes of the nearest man fastened upon him and widened in horror.

  The wolfs jaws crunched down, severing the throat. Blood flowed down Jander's chin, and he almost forgot his true purpose in the overwhelming desire to lap up the crimson fluid. By sheer strength of will, he turned away from the dead man, found another victim, and again launched himself at the man's throat.

  Now it was the interlopers who screamed in fear. To terrify them further, Jander permitted himself to change back into his elven form. But no elf who breathed air looked like this; golden face covered with blood, long fangs extended, gray eyes snapping with fury.

  Two were dead. The other two fled, but Jander outran them with ease. One he slew with his dagger; the other's neck was snapped with a single twist of one powerful, sharp-nailed hand.

  Four were dead. That left two more, raiding and defiling and destroying inside the abbey. Jander tensed himself and prepared to run in that direction. A hoarse call from Endris brought him up sharply.

  "Jander!"

  The anger ebbed, to be replaced by fear. Others, knowing his true nature, had rejected him. What would Endris do? Slowly, the elven vampire turned around.

  Endris had been badly beaten. Jander tasted a sudden fear that perhaps his intervention-his sacrifice-had not been in time. But the young man struggled to prop himself up on his good elbow, a bloody, broken hand reaching out for the vampire. Jander went to him. If Endris wished to spit in his face, he had the right to do so.

  Endris coughed, struggled for breath. "You spoke… of evil… I did not know. Go back, Jander. You left… sanctuary for good cause… Go back in."

  Hope flared suddenly in Jander's heart. Would Eldath and Silvanus indeed understand why he had rejected their greatest of gifts? Would they give him another chance? Endris's words gave him new resolve. As gently as he could, Jander slipped his arms beneath his friend's body.

  "You need help," he said quietly when Endris protested. The young man, though strong and muscular, weighed next to nothing in Jander's grip, thanks to the return of his vampiric strength. Quickly, keeping his pace as rhythmic and steady as possible so as not to jar his friend, Jander ran toward the abbey. At the first few steps, Endris moaned and went limp in his arms. He was still breath ing; he had merely fainted from the pain. Jander thought to himself that this was probably for the best.

  He was met halfway by a crowd of angry brethren, brandishing powerful-looking canes. One or two of them were clad in the beautiful, oakleaf-shaped armor that was traditional among priests of Silvanus. When they saw the bloodied elf and the precious burden he bore, they at first thought him another marauder. One of them charged, staff at the ready.

  "No, wait!" came a voice. From the back, a tall, thin man with white hair pushed his way forward. Jander guessed this was the oakfather, Raylen. "I believe it is Endris's friend, the elf who was granted sanctuary in the grove."

  "Aye, Oakfather," said Jander. He held out Endris's limp form to the nearest priests, who gathered him carefully to them. "You need fear nothing more from four of the men who attacked Oakengrove. But there are two left-"

  "We have dealt with them ourselves. They have been captured and await our decree." Raylen looked at him keenly. Even in this dim light, Jander could see perfectly well. The man's face was chiseled with the passing of the years, but it was clear that his mind was still as strong as the oaks that grew in the grove.

  "The other four are… your doing?"
Raylen asked quietly. Jander nodded.

  "I left the grove to save Endris's life, and to protect your abbey. It was-a debt. I think perhaps that I unwittingly led these evil men to you. I needed to atone for that. Endris thinks I may be readmitted to the grove, because I left it for a good cause."

  Raylen's wise eyes roamed Jander from head to toe, taking in the blood and the dishevelment. The light was too dim, thank the gods, for him to see Jander's fangs. When at last he met Jander's gaze, his face was sorrowful. He shook his head slowly. Jander's heart sank.

  "But… Endris would have died… how could I not have helped him?" cried Jander.

  "That you chose to do so shows me why Eldath gave you sanctuary in the first place-your heart is good, however dark your deeds may have been. It was wrong of Endris to give you false hope. Few get even one opportunity such as was granted to you, my friend. No one receives such blessing twice, whatever good deed they may have done. Take comfort that you have not sacrificed your haven in vain- Endris will live. So will others, who might have died but for your actions." He raised a wrinkled hand and moved as if to give Jander absolution.

  The vampire ducked back quickly. His identity as an unholy thing would be revealed the moment Raylen began speaking sacred words. Without another word, he turned and fled, racing down the green, grassy hill toward the grove. He slowed as he approached, fear rising up to choke him.

  "Please," was all he said as he stepped forward.

  And winced in pain as he encountered the invisible barrier that weakened him at once, the intangible but very real obstruction that prevented evil things from entering sacred space. He stared at the place that only a few minutes ago had been a goddess-granted sanctuary. His gray eyes roamed hungrily over the boulder upon which he had sat, the half-finished carving that had fallen from his hands and now lay quietly on the cool grass.

  Jander half-hoped Eldath would appear, so that he could speak with her, plead his case. But she did not, and as the long moments crept past, resignation slowly replaced grief in his heart.

  He could have made no other choice. He knew that he could no more sit by and watch an innocent friend be murdered than he could become a priest himself. Had he done so, the grove would have been tainted by his cowardice. He would have grown to loathe it, as he loathed himself; and one day, as surely as the seasons turn, he would have left the quiet place with more bitterness in his heart than he felt at this moment.

  Deliberately, Jander turned away and began to walk. Where, he did not know. Perhaps to Waterdeep, his original destination. The gods had tried to offer respite, but fate and Jander's own remnants of goodness had foiled that attempt at peace.

  The acrid scent of smoke still filled his nostrils as he forced a deliberate breath; but there were no more leaping flames. The injured would be tended, the destruction repaired. Life would go on as usual in the abbey-and at least some small part of that was due to his actions.

  His heart lifted slightly. Alone, friendless, with no hope offered and none to dream of, the elven vampire walked toward the east, a smile playing on his lips even as darkness and death haunted his footsteps.

  He had done the right thing. And in the end, when all the scores were tallied and all the chips of fate put away, that deeper peace would be worth all the quiet places in the world.

  THE EYE OF THE DRAGON

  Ed Greenwood

  Ambreene glanced irritably out the window as she hurried along the Hall of Clouds behind the politely insistent seneschal. Why did Grandmama Teshla want to see her just now?

  The deliriously cool breeze that slid around Hawkwinter House was dying away. Waterdeep would soon be cloaked in a damp, clinging haze that played Tymora's happy dance with lightning spells… Even if all the household slept, she'd dare not conjure a single spark. Awkward, unpracticed casting was all she could manage.

  Another tenday would pass in endless palace promenades; dull tutoring sessions on the honorable and very long history of the Hawkwinters; and idle chatter with the empty-skulled high ladies who were her sisters' friends-if such a cold-hearted, scheming, petty lot of cat's claws could truly be deemed the friends of anyone. Another tenday would pass in which Ambreene Hawk-winter-one more society beauty in a city that teemed with superior young she-nobles-would work no magic of consequence.

  Ambreene scowled at herself in a mirror as she hurried past. It would be so easy to just give in. She could banish to memory her secret sessions of sweating concentration and fearfully hissed spells, and just idle her days away, drifting inevitably into the boredom of marriage to the favorite lout, dandy, or stonehead of some noble family favored by the Hawkwinters. So gods-be-damnably easy. She tossed her head and glared at a startled servant as they turned into Teshla's Tower and began to climb the spiral stairs to the rooms Grandmama Hawkwinter never left.

  That ease is why it must never happen, she vowed silently. I'll not become another wisp-headed cat's claw. I'll see Hawkwinter House hurled down into its own cesspools first!

  The seneschal came to the door at the end of the worn red shimmerweave carpet and rang the graceful spiral of brass chimes that hung beside it. Unlatching the heavy door, he swung it wide, stepping smoothly back to usher Ambreene within.

  The youngest daughter of the Hawkwinters strode past him with the absently confident air that made the servants privately call her the Little Lady Queen of All Waterdeep. She walked into the dim, quiet apartments that were all the kingdom the once-mighty dowager Lady Hawkwinter had left.

  Priceless glowstone sculptures drifted in slow dances as she passed. Enchanted, shimmering paintings of flying elven hunts and dancing lords and ladies flourished their endless animations. A fascinated Ambreene was a good twenty paces into the luxurious chamber when she realized she was alone. There was no trace of the three elderly chamberladies who always lounged by the central bedchamber stair, waiting to be summoned up into Teshla's presence. Ambreene glided to a graceful halt amid the empty lounges, uncertain what to do.

  An eye winked open in the smooth ivory sphere adorning one bottom stairpost, and a mouth appeared in the other, speaking in the familiar dry, waspish tones of Grandmama Teshla. "Come up, girl; I've not much time left."

  A little chill arose inside Ambreene at that calm state ment. Obediently she set foot on the curving stair. It was the summons she'd dreaded, come at last. She gathered her skirts and mounted the steps in haste.

  She should have visited Grandmama more often, and stayed longer, despite the watchful, overscented old chamberladies with their vague, condescending comments and endless bright, cultured, empty phrases about the weather. She should have told Lady Teshla-who'd dabbled in dark and daring magic in her younger days, they said-about her own fumbling attempts to master magic. She should have…

  Ambreene reached the head of the stairs and came to a shocked halt. Grandmama was quite alone, lying propped up on her pillows in bed. She must have sent the servants away and unbound her hair herself.

  A soft-hued driftglobe hovered above the bed, and Ambreene could see that Lady Teshla was wearing a black robe whose arms were writhing, leaping flames of red silk-robes better suited to an evil seductress than the matron of one of the oldest, proudest houses in all Waterdeep. She looked dangerous, and the glint in her old, knowing eyes made that impression even stronger.

  Ambreene swallowed. "Grandmama, I came as qui-"

  "Quickly enough, it seems," the dry voice said, with just a hint of weariness. "I breathe yet. Stand not there quivering like an unschooled courtesan, girl, but come and give me a kiss-or you may yet be too late."

  Numbly, Ambreene did as she was bid. The old arms trembled as they went around her, but the lips were as firm and imperious as ever. Ambreene looked into the black, bottomless pools of Grandmama's eyes-a falcon's eyes, her father had once called them-and said, "Grandmama, there's something I must tell you. I've been trying to-"

  "Weave a few spells," Lady Teshla finished the sentence almost impatiently. "Do you think I don't know
this, girl? What way does my favorite window face, now?"

  Toward Ambreene's own bedchamber windows, of course, but…

  "I'm glad you used the word 'trying.' A right mess you made of the darkshadow cloak," Teshla said dryly. "But you have all the grand gestures right, girl. Some young blade'll quake in his boots if he ever tries too much at a dance and you hurl the pig-face curse his way!"

  Ambreene flushed in embarrassment-how had Grand-mama, shut in this dim tower, seen that? She was sure she'd managed to restore the old war hound's rightful looks before his frightened yelps had…

  The driftglobe swirled and drew her eyes-and suddenly its heart flashed into a view of distant Castle Waterdeep, from above, as if she were standing atop Mount Waterdeep looking down on it!

  "That's how I see all," Teshla told her as the scene faded. Touch the sphere."

  Wonderingly, Ambreene did so. A tingling spread through her from her fingertips, and Teshla nodded approvingly.

  "The globe will follow you, now. When you go, all can think I was just bestowing a little magic on my kin before I went to the arms of the gods-but this is why I summoned you."

  A wrinkled hand moved with surprising speed, drawing up the fine chain that had gleamed down into Teshla's shrunken bodice for as long as Ambreene could remember-and bringing into view a delicate silvery metal dragon's head, in profile. Its single eye was a huge dark glossy gem of a sort Ambreene had never seen before in a lifetime of watching wealth drift languidly by at feasts and revels. She stared at it… and it seemed to stare back at her.

  "What is it?" she whispered as Teshla drew the chain off over her head with arms once more slow and weary, and held it out.

  The Eye of the Dragon, child," Teshla said softly. "May it serve you better than it did me-and may you use it far more wisely than I did. Take it."