Pryce smiled with a certain pitying compassion. “There are diviners, illusionists, invokers, generalists, abjurers, conjurers, necromancers … and then there’s you,” he said with harsh calm. “There is the magic of Geerling Ambersong … and then there’s yours.”
The perplexed inquisitrix could only try desperately to salvage some vestige of pride from her nearly unpardonable affront. “Your magic … is awesome,” she marveled, unable to completely eliminate tones of envy from her voice. “To have so much, yet to reveal none!”
Covington stared directly at her, trying to penetrate her mind. All he saw was blustering ambition … and it was that ambition that led him to a blinding insight. “Of course!” he cried.
His shout made Lymwich jump and raise her arms to defend herself. But instead of retaliating, he flashed her a knowing smile.
“Ask me again,” he invited.
“Wha—what?”
“Think of what you brought me here for,” he said. “Think of what you want from me. You asked me before—several times. All will be forgiven if you ask me again.”
She couldn’t deny him, not after what she had done. Only this time she wasn’t so much asking the question, but asking if this question was the right question to ask. “Where … where is Geerling Ambersong?”
Pryce clapped his hands together with satisfaction. Then he asked her the one question he should have been asking her—and himself—all along. “Why?” he exclaimed in exultation.
“What?” she repeated.
He enunciated each word carefully, reveling in his understanding. “Why … do … you … want … to … know?”
She was truly confused now. “Didn’t I already tell you that? The inquisitrixes of Mystra need to know so the security of the city can be assured.…”
Pryce waved that contention away impatiently. He was beginning to enjoy shouldering the responsibilities—and wisdom—of Darlington Blade. “Not them … you! You already admitted you were assigned to me. Assigned … or did you ask to be assigned?” He could see by her reaction that he had hit upon the truth.
“I was impressed by your dedication to your job,” he continued casually, walking nonchalantly toward the globes that lined the far wall. He stood before the one that showed the quay outside. “Still watching me at such a late hour? Practically obsessed with your assignment, I’d say. Even willing to unleash magic on an untried, unconvicted person ‘with a clear heart and good intentions.’ Why? Why is it so important that you, personally, know where Geerling Ambersong is?”
Her earlier shame disappeared before his eyes, leaving only bitter rivalry. “You’re the great Darlington Blade,” she said darkly. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He showed her his open, empty hands. “Why does the great inquisitrix Berridge Lymwich do anything?” he theorized. “Why is she so jealous of Dearlyn Ambersong? For her youth and beauty?” He made a clucking sound and dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “That’s a secondary motive. Your primary reason? You’re jealous of her proximity to Geerling Ambersong. Why so distrustful of me? Security concerns?” He waved that idea aside with his other hand. “A subsidiary consideration. Your principal envy? My affiliation with Geerling Ambersong. What does he have that you want so badly that you would risk unleashing magic on a person you thought was totally helpless?”
“All right! All right!” she screeched, retreating, her hands up to her ears. “Stop toying with me! You know what I want! You know what every aspiring primary mage in this city wants!” Just before she disappeared through a dark doorway beneath the orbs, she turned back and pointed at him accusingly. “You know that even the great Geerling Ambersong can’t choose his successor without the approval of the council!” she cried. “It’s not over, Darlington Blade! You may know the location of Ambersong’s secret workshop, but I’ll discover it yet!”
Then she hurried through the doorway, her words echoing in the chamber around him.
Berridge Lymwich had run away from the power of Darlington Blade, leaving Pryce Covington to find his own way out of the castle. He wondered whether the inquisitrix was going to explain her actions to a superior who might have been watching, or was going to gloat over how lost the “great Darlington Blade,” as everyone seemed to enjoy calling him, was about to get.
Pryce warned himself not to get lazy. He was in the Mystran castle devoted to illusion, so, by all rights, he knew he was about to do an impersonation of a mouse lost in a maze. The important thing was to have fun, appreciate the things he was about to experience, and not scream like a frightened child if any dangerous image threatened to eradicate him.
It wasn’t easy, even with that forewarning. Pryce soon discovered that the illusions were not limited to snarling Shipgrave Isle buccaneers plunging their sabers into his gullet or Outlaw Waste barbarians separating his head from his shoulders. The illusions were sometimes as simple as a doorknob or a loose floor tile. There wasn’t a single thing Pryce could take for granted beyond the end of his nose … and perhaps not even that.
He decided to act as Darlington Blade would act. Darlington Blade would undoubtedly be superior to the illusionary dead ends and would simply march past them until he reached the single door on the reef. There was only one problem: He wasn’t Darlington Blade. There was only one thing to do, he decided. He didn’t want to look like an incompetent idiot, unless looking like an incompetent idiot accomplished his goal.
Lymwich and her superiors were doubtlessly watching, and he decided to treat them to an amusing sight, designed to further embarrass Berridge. The great Darlington Blade exaggerated his caution to make fun of any illusion that confronted him.
He grabbed a door latch, which turned into a snake, which bit him. That was bad enough, but then he watched his skin turn different colors and his arm puff up. Finally he realized he wasn’t feeling faint because he was poisoned, but because he had been holding his breath. He blinked and shook his head, and his arm was as before.
So it went for seemingly every step. Using all his concentration to appear unimpressed, eventually Pryce was casually conversing with malevolent beholders, depraved deepspawns, and even degenerative, axe-wielding Derro dwarves.
“Hey, how are you?” he confronted them. “How are things at home? Killed anything interesting lately? What’s new in the ninth bowel of hell?”
It was quite a performance, but the finale was surprisingly serene. Eventually Pryce came to a long hallway lined to the ceiling with bookshelves. The hall led to a large room, which was lined with tables, around which sat many worshipers of Mystra and inquisitrixes, all reading.
“Marvelous,” Pryce murmured, peering closer to see the titles of the tomes nearest him. Much to his frustration, the titles were out of focus no matter how hard he looked. He turned to the reader nearest him, an angelic creature in a cowled robe. “Say, I wonder if you could—”
She put a perfectly shaped forefinger to her full lips. “Shhhhh!”
“Oh,” he whispered. “Sorry” He knelt beside her youthful, shapely redheaded form. “I wonder if you could tell me what you are reading.”
She turned her sweet, gentle freckled face to him and smiled, and suddenly he felt better than he had all evening. Her voice was like a heavenly song. “It’s a secret, outsider,” she said, not unkindly.
“Oh!” he said, disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized earnestly. “It was not my intention to belittle you by calling you an outsider. It’s merely a statement of fact. I have been created to speak honestly to all who pass here.”
“Ah, so you are not an actual inquisitrix or a worshiper of Mystra.”
“Oh, I am indeed a true follower. Illusions can worship Mystra as well as tangibles, you know.”
“Tangibles?”
“Humans. Like you. I am an honest worshiper of Mystra, as is my middle-aged self.” She motioned toward a woman beside her. When the woman turned, Pryce was staring at an older version of the young lady.
&
nbsp; “Hello,” said the middle-aged version of the young illusion. Pryce nodded and smiled in greeting.
“… And my elderly self.” An old lady beside the middle-aged lady looked toward him, her mouth drooling. “She’s too old now to take care of herself,” the young illusion whispered to him in confidence. “No less a follower of Mystra, however.” She leaned over and wiped the old woman’s salivation with a handkerchief she removed from her sleeve. She patted the elderly woman reassuringly before returning her attention to Pryce.
Pryce frowned and nodded. “Of course.”
“In fact, we are perfect followers,” the young lady continued with undeniable pride. “Ever constant, never changing, with the purest possible love for our deity”—she turned her clear, bright blue eyes toward Pryce—“and for you.”
“Me?” By rights, he should have been concerned over the way this meeting was going, but her purity practically emanated a tangible aura.
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “You are able to converse with me, so that means you have circumvented all the other obstacles designed to repulse you. It proves you are a man of pure heart and good intentions.”
Covington nodded with satisfaction. “That has been said,” he acknowledged. “So many times, in fact, that I’m beginning to believe it myself.”
“Oh, good!” she said effusively. “You know, this castle appears different to each person who visits it. If you come again, you will not find it thus.”
“Really?”
“Truly. The exterior remains relatively constant, but the interior is always changing. Its image is influenced by the eyes that perceive it, and it alters its appearance accordingly, depending upon the strength, will, ability, and mood of the individuals within at any given moment.”
“Fascinating,” Pryce said honestly. “Then these books, too, are illusions?”
“Oh, no. The books are real. That is why you cannot read them. They are but a few of our books on the subject of illusion.”
Pryce glanced down the wall. There had to be, at a minimum, more than ten thousand volumes in this room alone. No wonder the inquisitrixes had enough power to constantly change every centimeter of the place. Setting aside that mind-bending reality for the nonce, Covington returned his attention to the vision beside him. “In that case, I will be all the more sorry to leave.”
“Because you will not be able to add to your fountain of knowledge?”
“No,” he said. “Because I will not be able to see you again.”
Her smile was bright enough to light up the Nath. “If you should ever return to our modest citadel,” she promised him, “I would like to talk with you again.”
“Thank you …” He groped for a fitting name.
“Call me Chimera.”
His smile grew as wide as hers. “Thank you, Chimera.” Then he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you the truth. I am a bit tired of all these mirages, and anything I experience after meeting you will be an anticlimax, so I wonder …”
She turned her head to whisper back in his ear. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”
“Would you, please?”
Her answer sounded, to his ears, like the ardent acceptance of a marriage proposal. “Of course!” she cried. Then, to his surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
It was a kiss the likes of which Pryce Covington had never experienced. Firm, yet yielding. Soft, yet passionate. Physical, yet emotional. At first his eyes popped open, but then they slowly closed as the library around him began to shift and separate like a pile of dry leaves blown in the wind.
Alone in the darkness of his brain, he realized that he was experiencing the perfect kiss … perfect because it came from inside his own mind. The very moment of that realization came with the disappearance of the kiss and the sound of water slapping against the soles of his boots.
He opened his eyes to find himself literally in a fog. Almost immediately, however, the fog began to dissipate, and he could see the tail end of the dragon turtle slipping into deeper water. He was back where he had been attacked: twenty yards from the simple, single door of the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle.
Pryce looked toward the quay, but it was still shrouded in mist. He took a step toward it, but he realized there was still one thing left undone. He quickly ran the last twenty yards to the door, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled.
It was locked.
“Figures,” Covington said, then started making his way back to the shore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Pen Is Mightier than the Blade
It was a beautiful autumn morning. Gheevy Wotfirr had waited as long as he could stand it, but when Covington hadn’t shown up for breakfast by late morning, Wotfirr could contain his curiosity no longer.
Dearlyn opened the door of the Ambersong residence when Gheevy knocked. “M-Miss Ambersong!” he sputtered, surprised to see her at all, let alone looking so happy. “Gamor Turkal said that your father was securing you your own dwelling for the length of the Fall Festival.” He looked worriedly around her, as if half expecting to see Pryce Covington’s body strewn on the floor.
“Oh, that,” she said pleasantly, turning back toward the living room area. “I never took that suggestion seriously.”
“B-But—but Darlington Blade!” the halfling babbled. “Isn’t he supposed to be staying here?”
“He is,” she said over her shoulder as she moved away from the door. “He has his own room … as I have mine.”
With a sense of wonder, Gheevy followed her into the living room. Light shone brightly from the many tiny windows set in the tree walls. There the halfling found Pryce in his personal conception of paradise, sitting crossed-legged on the floor of Mage Ambersong’s library, surrounded, and nearly covered by, open books.
Dearlyn continued on by Pryce, while Gheevy stared, with bulging eyes and jaw agape, as they smiled at each other. “I’ll see you later, then, Mr. Blade?” she said.
“Indeed, Miss Ambersong,” he replied. Then Dearlyn went into the bedroom and quietly closed the door.
Pryce turned to find the halfling staring at him, his jaw still hanging wide open. “What is it?” Covington inquired. “Dearlyn? Oh, she still has a great deal to work out … in her mind and heart.”
Only then did Wotfirr find the strength to speak, barely able to contain his amazement. “Wha—what happened?” the halfling sputtered. “I thought she hated you!”
“She hated the thought of Darlington Blade,” Pryce corrected the halfling quietly. He gestured at his harmless-looking demeanor. “Not the reality.”
“But you’re not—” Gheevy started before Covington urgently raised a silencing hand.
“Yes … I … am!” he said intently. “I am now, and must remain so if we are to get out of this alive.” His declaration finished, Pryce leaned back and surveyed the pile of books around him with pleasure. “Besides, Miss Ambersong has been extremely helpful in directing me to the proper literature needed to study the art of detection.”
Gheevy blinked and shook his head. “De-tec-what?”
“Detection, being a detective,” Pryce stressed. “An ancient word, much more common centuries ago, before the wizards fleeing the Phaerimm settled here. The native shepherds had much more cause to use it when investigating a missing wild rothe or rustled auroch.”
“They were … detectives?”
“They were indeed,” Pryce assured him with disconcerting cheeriness. “They couldn’t just conjure up a rustler with a handy magic spell. They detected, using detection.”
“Did you get any sleep at all?” the halfling asked skeptically.
“Pfui,” Covington said, dismissing the question. “Too much to do. Too much to think about. Too much to learn.”
“About being a detective?” Gheevy asked cautiously. The man’s eyes were just a bit too bright for the halfling’s liking.
“Precisely. Detective. A person who obtains evidence.” He cocked an e
ye at the halfling, who swallowed some uncomfortable memories of the previous night. “A person who gathers information and investigates crimes. And what is the most important letter in the language to a detective?”
“I assure you I have absolutely no idea,” Wotfirr said with confusion and wonder.
“Y,” Pryce answered happily. “Pronounced Why. According to the great Netheril philosopher Santé, author of these texts, it is the letter, and question, that should lie at the heart of every decision—but especially on the lips of every future enforcer of that decision. For things may ever change, but the letter, and the question, should remain constant.”
“Goodness,” Gheevy said, taken aback. “You learned all that last night?”
“I should say so. Not only did I learn it, but I was also able to put it into practice and get it corroborated, all in the space of a few hours.” He told Wotfirr of his amazing adventure of the early morning in the Inquisitrix Castle. During his recital, the halfling’s eyes grew larger and his jaw dropped lower.
“Remarkable,” Wotfirr finally burbled. “What an adventure!”
“Nothing compared to the one we are about to embark on, my dear Gheevy,” Pryce assured him. “I made a promise to myself in the castle: to discover the truth, and I will do so, no matter whether it costs me my freedom or my life.”
“But—”
“It’s not as if I have a real choice,” Pryce admitted. “I can hardly just sit here and wait for the truth to catch up with me. More likely than not, when it arrives, it will take the form of a killing spell or an assassin’s knife. I don’t want to end up like Gamor or—” Pryce glanced in the direction of the bedroom—“well, you know, that other guy.”
Gheevy acknowledged Pryce’s desire not to mention the name, then nodded his head at the entrance to the sleeping quarters. “Does—does Miss Ambersong know about your decision?”
Pryce shook his head sadly. “No. I tried to tell her when I got back to shore, but she had to go and hug me.”
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