by Mel Odom
“The ones who claimed that a great horror had risen in the seas to the south and destroyed their village,” Hroman said. “I remember. Piergeiron kept the City Watch on double shifts for a time afterward.”
Pacys nodded and asked, “Do you think I am a good bard?”
Hroman seemed surprised by the question. “Of course. Any time you showed up in Waterdeep, taverns requested you. Lords and ladies. You had a hearth and a home anywhere you wanted. Why you chose to spend so much time with a poor priest of Oghma used to astound my father.”
“Your father and I were kindred spirits,” Pacys said. “A slight tilting of the past of either one of us, and it might have been us filling the other’s shoes. Your father had an excellent voice, but he chose to serve Oghma more directly than I, though I felt the pull of the priest’s robes as well. Felt it most strongly.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do, and now you’ll know why I see that I am not the bard everyone believes me to be.” Pacys kept strumming the yarting, playing the melody over and over, wishing more might come to him. “Any bard might sing the songs of another, or tell the tales once he has heard them. It’s a bard’s gift to tell any tale, sing any song that he’s heard. Most can even offer their own rendition of that tale or song, but none may approach the original singer’s or teller’s power for that song or story.” He plucked the strings, gathering the crescendo that lurked in the back-beat of the tune he played. “To know true power as a bard, there must be a tale or a song that is always and forever acknowledged to belong to the composer.”
Hroman nodded. “It’s like that with treatises written by those inspired by Oghma.”
“Yes.” Pacys turned his melody to bittersweet memory. “I’ve covered the lands of Faerûn, sang and orated in castles and palaces, relayed bawdy tales in the crassest of coast dives among the harshest of men, and given voice to some of the most spiritually uplifting music in temples scattered across those lands. I’ve traveled and seen things that most men only dream of, had adventures that fire a young boy’s heart as he listens to the tales his fathers and kin tell around a campfire at night, or by the safety of the home hearth, but never—never—in that time have I crafted a song that will be remembered as mine.”
Hroman remained silent.
“What about you?” Pacys asked. “Are there treatises in Sandrew’s Great Library that you have authored? New ways of thinking about old things? Or old ways of thinking about new things?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have been gifted,” Pacys said in a dry voice, “and you should never forget to give thanks for that. In some distant time, a young priest will open a scroll you have written and know your thinking.”
“That doesn’t mean hell agree with it.”
In spite of the darkness that threatened to quench his spirit in the night of the city and after all the miles he’d walked that day, Pacys smiled. “Whether they lay accolades at your feet or descry everything you’ve put on paper, they’ll remember and know you. That’s immortality of a kind.”
“You feel that’s what you’re missing?”
Pacys broke the bittersweet melody and went back to the haunting one again. They were part of the same thing, he knew that in his heart and in his talent, but how to bind them? What words went with the music, he had no clue.
“How much did your father write, Hroman,” he asked, “that’s going into Sandrew’s Great Library?”
“Tomes.”
“Exactly. Your father was a man of letters, a man who thought well and deep, a man I treasured as a friend. I could lay my soul bare on several levels and trust him to have a care with it.” Pacys paused a moment, listening to the music he made. “I wanted to talk with him again and see if he could offer any direction for this melody that haunts me so.”
Hroman waited in silence a moment before saying, “Would you mind talking of it with me?”
“Over a bottle of the temple’s finest vintage?” Pacys asked. He shook his head. “I’d not mind at all. I couldn’t imagine better company.”
“When you played tonight, during a couple of the old songs I remembered from times past when you were here, I could almost see my father sitting in the shadows. Your music always soothed him.”
“I worked very hard for it to.”
“Then why isn’t it enough that you brought so much happiness to people?”
“Because,” Pacys said, his voice thickening in spite of his skill, “I want a part of me to live forever. I want bards years from now to say that they have this song, whatever it is, by way of Pacys the Bard. I want it to be a song of such magnitude that it brings tears to the strongest of men and brings strength to the weakest of men. I want a story of love so pure and unfulfilled that it will truly hurt all who hear it. I want to fill the listeners with fear when they hear of the villain.”
“That’s a difficult request.”
Pacys smiled gently. “I could settle for no less.”
“You’ve written songs before, written tunes.”
“Nothing like that,” the bard said wistfully.
“You said a quest drew you back to Waterdeep.”
Pacys drank from the bottle again, wetting his throat with the wine. “Fourteen years ago, I felt the touch of Oghma on me. When I watched those mermen swim into the harbor, I knew. The first notes came to me then and wouldn’t leave my thoughts. Your father was at a table with me down on Dock Street.”
“And nothing has happened since?”
Shrugging, Pacys said, “A chord here, a note there. In the early years, I followed my heart, desperate to find out why I’d been given that much of the song but nothing else. I traveled more than ever, going into places I’d never thought I’d go, and into countries I’d never even heard of at all. I increased my repertoire considerably.”
“Never finding the song?”
“No. A tenday ago, I was in Neverwinter as a guest of Lord Nasher. I was talking to him, strumming my yarting as I am doing with you now, and a large section of one of the bridging sequences was given to me.” Pacys turned his attention back to his instrument and played it. He knew the power of the piece when he saw Hroman sit back in slack-jawed amazement.
“I have never,” the priest whispered, “heard anything so beautiful.”
“Nor have I.” Stating the truth almost broke Pacys’s heart because the music was unfinished.
“Can’t you finish it?”
Pacys shook his head. “I’ve tried. Everything I’ve tried to graft onto it sounds false.”
“Why come here if you were given that piece in Neverwinter?”
“Lord Nasher’s interested in magic,” Pacys said. “That’s no secret. Of late, he’s been counseling with a young woman who’s caught his eye and claims some clairvoyance through a deck of cards she uses to tell fortunes. She laid out a pattern for me and told me I’d find the next piece of the secret of the song back where it first began for me.”
“Waterdeep?”
Pacys nodded. “There can be no other place.”
Hroman was silent for a time. “The music you played, it was beautiful, but it spoke of war to me. Of violence and anger, and men dying by the handfuls.”
“Yes,” Pacys agreed reluctantly.
“That can’t happen here. This is the safest place along the Sword Coast.”
“That’s what I thought too, Hroman, but this music is like no other I’ve ever encountered. It’s mine, crafted by the gods and given to me.”
The priest hesitated. “Which gods, my friend? Have you stopped to ask yourself this?”
“I’ve prayed,” Pacys said. “Since I first heard that music fourteen years ago, I’ve prayed every day to Oghma to reveal the secrets of it. The pattern the girl laid out for me in Neverwinter showed Oghma’s hand in what was going on. There’s no evil working here. Not in my part of things.”
“Then I will pray for you as well, and for this city should such a thing ever touch her shores.” Hrom
an drank from the wine bottle and passed it back.
A hurried knock sounded on the door as Pacys drank down the dregs of the bottle.
“What is it?” Hroman asked.
“The city’s under attack,” a young, bearded priest announced as he stuck his head around the door, “out in the harbor. Sahuagin and sea monsters have been called in from the deeps. A storm the like of which no one has ever seen before. They’re saying … I’m told the guard are all but decimated out in the harbor. There’s a fear that the sahuagin will push on into Waterdeep herself.”
Pacys pushed himself from the bed. “Do you have horses?” he asked Hroman.
“Yes.” Hroman gave orders at once, striding out into the hall. His voice crackled like thunder through the hallway, waking priests and clergy from their beds.
The old bard trailed after the priest, his heart beating with excitement. He took only his yarting at first, then reached back for the staff that had been his constant companion almost as long as the instrument had been. The fragments of the song filled his mind, pushing out the fear and wonderment of the attack. For the moment, nothing else mattered but the song.
XI
12 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet
“Can you make it?” Malorrie asked.
“Aye.” Jherek took another shuddering breath, straining against the blood-bloat in his injured lung. Crimson spilled over his chin now as well and stained the back of his hand where he wiped it away. “Just need—a moment—get my second wind.”
Widow’s Hill, like Captain’s Cliff, separated the affluent from the common in Velen. The houses in the area ranged in all sizes and architecture. Madame Iitaar’s home, and Jherek always thought of it as such even though it was also his home, stood two stories tall, with a widow’s walk stretching out from the top floor to overlook the harbor. A high-peaked roof with a handful of different surface slants jutted up toward the dark skies. Lights burned behind the multi-paned glass windows but the house remained dark. The shutters still hung on the house because of the seasonal storms.
He stumbled along the partially overgrown trail made by children sneaking back and forth to the harbor without knowledge of their parents. At times the grade grew so steep he had to lean into it with his hands and force his way up. His blood-filled lung weighed him heavily.
Malorrie followed along at his side. As usual, the phantom’s feet never even stirred the grass. He didn’t try to help. “Gods, but you’re an obstinate boy.”
Jherek ignored him and grabbed a sapling. He pulled himself up further, then seized branches and used them to make his way. Spots swam in his vision by the time he reached the crest.
A four foot high wooden fence painted a pristine white surrounded Madame Iitaar’s front yard. Upkeep of that fence had been one of Jherek’s first chores after he’d gone to live with the woman. Over the years, he’d painted and mended it several times, taking pride in what he’d been able to accomplish. Rose bushes and flowers filled crushed clamshell beds, and a small pond occupied the northeastern corner. Tall steps led up to the front porch where handmade rocking chairs looked out to sea.
Jherek staggered across the narrow and rutted wagon road that wove up through Widow’s Hill. He paused at the gate, unable to focus enough to work the simple lock that held it closed.
“Allow me.” Malorrie flicked it open, then shoved the gate aside.
As Jherek walked past the small pond, a watery coil slithered up from the mossy depths and thrust itself in his direction. Instantly the cold chill he always got when the water weird’s full attention settled on him cut through him like a knife. He’d never liked the creature, but Madame Iitaar maintained it as a guardian against footpads. He kept his eyes on the creature’s wedge-shaped head as it stared at him while he went up the steps to the porch.
Perspiration filmed his face by the time he reached the top step. His vision was so blurred that he thought he was seeing things at first. In the shadows laying across the expansive porch, the table and chairs weren’t immediately noticeable.
His travel kit sat on the table, neatly packed and squared away. The backpack beside it bulged. Over the years, he hadn’t bothered to collect many personal things because anything that didn’t fit in a pack couldn’t go with him if he had to leave. He didn’t doubt that all of his possessions had been gathered on the table.
Seeing them there took away the last of his flagging strength and he sat numbly on the porch. His breath rasped hollowly in his ears.
He’d always thought of his stay with Madame Iitaar as transitory at best. He supposed he should have been surprised that his stay had lasted as long as it had. Obviously, now it was over.
Word from Finaren’s crew had already climbed Widow’s Hill.
XII
30 Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet
Laaqueel stared at the approaching black plague wagon, her heart hammering in her chest. She clenched the short sword in her fist as she said a prayer and prepared one of the spells that had been given her by Sekolah.
“Do not waste your fears or spells on that thing, my little malenti,” Iakhovas growled behind her. “What you see before you in all its gaudy trappings is an apparition, a bad dream without substance. This alley was named for that worthless abuse of power.”
Laaqueel drew back uncertainly. The wagon unnerved her, but so did Iakhovas’s knowledge of it. She’d helped prepare him regarding Waterdeep and she’d never heard of it.
“My time is wasting away,” the wizard told her. He waved an arm, drawing his wererats to him. “You’ve already stepped over the line this night by questioning that damned woman, little malenti; have a care not make another such mistake. Tolerance is a virtue and I am not a champion of virtues. I judge you on your worth, and it’s only outweighed by your frivolity or incompetence.”
Ducking her head to avoid the cold gaze of his eye, Laaqueel remained still as the plague wagon passed her. She thought she saw the bones of the dead littering the wagon bed, but it might only have been a trick of the moonlight. When the wagon reached the end of the alley, it shimmered once and disappeared, taking with it the mournful creak of the wheels.
Iakhovas took the lead again without hesitation. He passed the first building across the alley on the left and stopped in front of the door to the second.
Laaqueel stopped behind him. She felt the dryness of her eyes as the lids dragged across them. Her skin felt tight as the harsh winds from the storm out in the harbor whistled up through the narrow streets and alleys leading up the inclines. She glanced back at the harbor. From her position, she could barely see the harbor, but it spread out from the Dock Ward, the flatness of the water contrasting sharply with the rolling pitch of the hills the city had been built on.
Several griffons from Waterdeep’s air corps filled the air over the harbor. Their distinctive eagle wings and heads on their lions’ bodies made them stand out against the smoke-filled night sky. Catapults still threw flaming missiles into the water inside the harbor and further out to sea where more sea creatures had gathered. Fire spread along the Dock Ward, burning buildings as well as ships at anchor. Laaqueel knew Iakhovas had spoken the truth when he said Waterdeep would bear the scars of the night’s attack for years to come. It would become a symbol to her people that the hated surface dwellers could be driven from their own territory.
It would strike fear into the hearts of the humans.
She didn’t delude herself, though. She knew she wasn’t sure that Iakhovas was there because of Sekolah. The wizard had never denied knowing the Great Shark, but neither had he spoken of what relationship might exist between them.
The glyphs on the doors and wall surrounding them suddenly blazed with lambent emerald light. Laaqueel turned, raising her free hand in her defense with a spell at the ready.
“Be still, little malenti,” Iakhovas commanded.
He centered himself in front of the door and spoke in that language Laaqueel had never been able to identify. Tattoos on his ch
eek, neck, and left forearm glowed with a matching green light, then shot out in beams no wider than a forefinger. The tattoos’ beams touched the guardian glyphs built into the door and calmed them to dim glows.
Intrigued, Laaqueel glanced up at the battered sign hanging overhead: Serpentil Books & Folios. Constructed of sandstone, the shop’s exterior showed signs of suffering through harsh weather conditions and dozens of years. The wares window where goods were normally displayed to attract passersby was crudely boarded over, leaving her with the impression that the business had been closed for a long time.
Iakhovas gestured at the door. In response, it opened with a creak and a flash of hot, bright light. The stench of burned clams swirled through the air for an instant. Without hesitation, the wizard strode into the building. He waved the wererats into position at the doorway.
“Come,” he ordered Laaqueel.
The malenti followed him carefully, aware of the warning prickles running through her nervous system. The room was filled with books. Deep-hued bookshelves lined the wood-paneled walls and stood in stacks across the floor. Laaqueel had never seen so many books in her life. Only a few of the titles were visible to her, formed of raised gilt letters in gold, silver, and brightly colored thread. All of them seemed to concentrate on the hated field of magic.
A soft glow of blue light intensified in the back of the long room.
“You dare enter my sanctum unannounced?” a raspy voice challenged.
Turning, bringing her short sword up into the ready position, Laaqueel stared through the weak blue light.
A man sat at the other end of the long room. Piles of books occupied the shelves staggered all around him and stood in stacks across the rectangular table in front of him. The light came from glowing globes that floated behind him, leaving him only a featureless silhouette. Two empty chairs sat across the table from him.
