“No, I don’t,” Geran answered. “Many of the old ruins in the city have been covered over by newer buildings, and I suspect that the Irithlium might be one. We’ll have to determine where it lies, and then see if we can slip into the ruins without notice.”
“Correct me if I am wrong,” Sarth said, frowning, “but I seem to recall that the captain at the gate specifically warned us that we were to rummage around in no old ruins without the coronal’s permission. I would feel much better about this if we observed the legalities.”
“Unfortunately, I doubt that we can,” said Geran. “First, it could very well take tendays to obtain a writ—there are dangerous things still sealed in some of the vaults below the city, and the elves are very careful to make sure no one breaks wardings they’ve created to lock them in. Second, and perhaps more importantly, the Coronal Guard very well might confiscate anything that we remove, such as the Infiernadex pages.”
The tiefling frowned, but subsided. Hamil helped himself to another slice of apple from the depleted dinner tray, and looked back up to Geran. “I don’t like this idea of dangerous things sealed in vaults, but other than that, your reasoning seems sound. What are the odds that we can do what you say without being caught in the act? And how do we go about finding this Irithlium place, anyway?”
“The odds depend on where exactly the Irithlium lies. If it’s in the outskirts of the city, we have an excellent chance to avoid being seen. If not, we might have to rely on Sarth’s invisibility spell or some other means to get in and out,” Geran replied. “As for finding out where the vault lies, well, I intend to ask.”
He took a slip of parchment from a writing desk that stood in the suite’s front hall and scratched out a short note with the quill and ink. He blew on it to dry the ink, then rolled the note into a tiny tube and pinched it closed with a little candle wax. Then he walked over to the suite’s window, opened the clear glass, and gave a long, trilling whistle. Sarth and Hamil stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, but he just smiled at them and repeated the whistle. A moment later, there was a sudden flurry of wingbeats at the sill, and a small blue-feathered songbird appeared. It chirped once at him.
Gently, Geran pressed the tightly rolled slip of paper into the bird’s talon. In Elvish he said, “Please, take this to Daried Selsherryn. You will likely find him in House Selsherryn or at Swordstar Hall.” The bird chirped again, and flew off with the note in its grasp.
“Did you just speak to that songbird?” Hamil asked in amazement. “When in the world did you learn to do that?”
“It’s not what I learned to say. It’s the birds that have been taught to listen.” Geran gazed out the window until the bird disappeared from view, enjoying a smile at his friends’ expense. Then he turned away and reached for his cloak. “Come on. We’ve got a little bit of a walk ahead of us.”
FOURTEEN
13 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
A cold mist clung to the waters of Lake Glaerryl at dusk. The soft snow-fall of the day had finally ended, replaced by dense fog; from time to time the towering treetops of the lake’s far shore emerged from the drifting vapors like the battlements of some vast castle. Geran, Sarth, and Hamil waited in the shelter of an elegant pergola that stood on a small islet amid the dark waters, linked to the shore behind them by a slender bridge. In the fading light, the spires and domes of the elven city behind them were invisible; for all they could tell they weren’t within a hundred miles of Myth Drannor.
Hamil drew his cloak closer around his small frame and shivered. He hailed from the lands south of the Sea of Fallen Stars, and he did not care at all for northerly winters. He scowled at Geran, who stood wrapped in his own cloak a short distance away, and said, “You realize that there’s no retreat from this little island? If your friend has an attack of conscience, we’ll be trapped here like foxes in their den.”
“I didn’t give away much in the note I sent him,” Geran answered. He doubted that Daried would turn him over to the Coronal Guard without seeing him first, but he could understand that Hamil wouldn’t be reassured by his confidence in his old mentor. “But if we were found out, well, our chances to escape Myth Drannor wouldn’t be terribly good anyway. Given that, I thought we might as well choose a spot where we can speak in privacy.”
“Someone is coming,” Sarth said. Geran exchanged a look with his friends, and the three of them turned toward the bridge; he stepped back to hide himself behind Sarth in case it was somebody other than Daried who might recognize him. He heard a light footfall on the wooden boards, and a tall, slender figure in white and pearl gray appeared through the mists—a golden-haired elf swordsman whose clothes were embroidered with leaf and vine designs in silver thread.
The sun elf paused, his eyes bright and sharp as he studied Sarth and then Hamil. “I do not know you,” he said aloud. “Who are you, and why did you ask for me?”
Geran stepped forward, lowering his hood from his head. “Well met, Daried,” he said. “I see my note found you. My apologies for not giving my name, but it seemed better to remain anonymous.”
Daried’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Geran?” he said. “What are you doing here? You’re still under the coronal’s judgment! Are you mad?”
“No, only desperate. I’m afraid we need your help.” Geran indicated Hamil, then Sarth. “This is my old Dragon Shields colleague, Hamil Alderheart. You might remember that I spoke of him sometimes. And this is Sarth Khul Riizar, a sorcerer of no mean skill and a new friend. We’ve shared many dangers together in the Moonsea over the last few months. Hamil, Sarth, allow me to introduce Lord Daried Selsherryn, my tutor in swordmagic.”
“A pleasure,” the sun elf said politely, nodding briefly to Hamil and Sarth. But his eyes swiftly returned to Geran’s face. “Geran, you must leave at once. If you are caught defying the coronal’s law, the consequences will be drastic. You risk your life merely by setting foot here! And you place me in a very difficult position.”
“I know it. I don’t intend to stay an hour longer than I must. But, as I said, I’ve got an urgent errand in Myth Drannor.”
The elf frowned. “What could possibly be urgent enough for you to flout the coronal’s will?”
“There’s a fragment of a magical tome hidden somewhere in the city ruins. It’s become vitally important to retrieve it—the sooner, the better.”
“So you intend to break the coronal’s laws against pillaging the old ruins as well as defying her edict of exile?”
Geran shrugged. “I can hardly get in any more trouble with the coronal by adding the second offense.”
“No, but your friends could,” Daried pointed out. He put a hand to his brow and moved over to the balustrade overlooking the lake. Geran waited, allowing the sun elf to think. After a long moment, Daried sighed and glanced back to him. “What do you need this tome for?”
“To defeat Rhovann.”
“Both of you are in exile, but still you indulge your enmity?” Daried shook his head. “Is there no end to it?”
“No, you misunderstand me,” Geran answered. “When I left Myth Drannor, I wanted nothing more to do with Rhovann. I would’ve been happy to never lay eyes on him again. But Rhovann came to Hulburg in secret five months ago, and arranged the overthrow of my uncle, the harmach. He now rules Hulburg through a puppet, while my family and I have been banished.” Geran’s gaze fell to the wet flagstones of the pergola, but he forced himself to finish. “My feud with Rhovann has cost my family the realm they’ve ruled for centuries. I have to undo what Rhovann’s done to Hulburg to set things right. And I’ll need the missing pages of the tome to do that.”
“It’s true,” Hamil added. “Rhovann allied himself with the enemies of Hulburg—mercenaries, pirates, slavers, even priests of Cyric. Geran didn’t even know that Rhovann was moving against him until he deposed Harmach Grigor.”
“I believe it, Master Hamil,” Daried replied. “I have never known Geran to be untruthful
. And there was always a spirit of spitefulness in Rhovann Disarnnyl that must have been sharpened tenfold by the indignity of exile, no matter how well it was earned. But some truths are hard to hear, and I have little liking for this one.” The elf glanced back at the misty shore behind them, reassuring himself that no one else was near, and looked back to Geran. “Very well. What do you know about this tome you seek?”
“It’s a piece of a book called the Infiernadex, which was once the property of Aesperus, the wizard-king of Thentur. We’ve been told that it lies in the vaults below the Irithlium. I’ve never heard of that, but I hoped that you might know more.”
The sun elf nodded. “It was once a wizard’s school, back in the days before the Weeping War. It was in ruins when we retook the city from the daemonfey in the Year of Lightning Storms, but the old ruin was rebuilt—you would know it as the building that houses the Celestrian Theater, Geran. Whether there is anything in the vaults below, I couldn’t say.”
“Why would Aesperus have told us to look in the Irithlium?” Hamil wondered. “If he meant the theater, he should have said so.”
“His information about Myth Drannor is likely dated,” Sarth replied. “He might have divined the location of the pages by using an old map of the city.”
The elf glanced sharply at Sarth. “Any king of Thentur should be long dead. You are retrieving this tome for some ghost or lich?”
The tiefling grimaced. “Against my counsel, yes. However, Geran feels strongly that we will need the aid Aesperus can lend us against Rhovann’s servants.”
“Rhovann’s created an army of constructs, animated with shadow magic of some sort,” Geran explained. “Sarth and I encountered them a couple of tendays ago; they’re an impossible obstacle to any attempt to retake Hulburg from Rhovann. Aesperus knows their vulnerabilities, but he demands the fragment of the tome as his payment for aiding us.” He paused, watching Daried’s concern deepening in his face.
“You trust this Aesperus?” Daried asked.
“Not entirely, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe him in this,” Geran replied. “Do you know of any access to the ruins of the Irithlium? Is there some connection between the Celestrian’s foundations and the older building?”
“There are scores of old doorways, cellars, stairwells, and such scattered all over the city. I can think of a couple near the Irithlium that might lead you in the right direction.” Daried fell silent, considering the challenge.
Hamil shivered in his cloak again, and folded his arms over his chest. “Something about this confuses me,” he remarked. “This wizard’s school would have been destroyed in the Weeping War, which was about seven centuries ago, correct? So how did any spellbook of Aesperus wind up in the Irithlium, when he ruled over Thentur two hundred and fifty years later? Did someone try to hide his book in the past? Is that even possible?”
“It is, but such magic is incredibly difficult,” Sarth replied. “It’s more likely that simple accidents of fortune and coincidence conspired to bring the book to this spot. Things such as spellbooks might change hands dozens of times over a couple of hundred years, leaving a long and confusing trail across time and distance. I have followed such trails before. In all likelihood, the pages removed from the Infiernadex were sent from Rosestone Abbey to some center of scholarship, from which they were lost or stolen, only to pass through the hands of one wizard after another. Hundreds of adventurers came to this city in the years that it was abandoned. My guess would be that some unfortunate mage came to Myth Drannor with the pages we seek stuffed into his own spellbook, and met his end in the chambers below the Irithlium.”
“A plausible explanation, Master Sarth,” Daried said. “Before the Crusade, the Irithlium was infested with powerful devils. Before that, it was within the territory claimed by the phaerimm nest that haunted the ruins. Either would have recognized the value of a powerful spellbook and preserved it.” He turned his attention to Geran. “Allow me to look into the question of how to gain access to the Irithlium. I know elves who are much more familiar with the ruins than I am; I’ll see what I can learn with a discreet inquiry or two, and send word to you.”
“Thank you,” Geran said. “We’re staying in the Swan House.”
“I advise you to remain in your rooms. Each time you go abroad you risk discovery.” The bladesinger hesitated a moment, and then asked, “Do you mean to see Alliere while you are here?”
Geran felt his heart skip. He’d longed for Alliere for the better part of two years after his exile; in fact, his banishment from the city had been nothing compared to the sudden ending of their love. Her perfect face had haunted his dreams, driving him almost half mad with heartbreak, and he couldn’t deny that he’d spent more than a few hours during the long journey to Myth Drannor playing out in his mind what he might say or do if he were to meet her again. Would she still shy away from the violence, the black anger, that was lurking in him? Did she miss him as much as he’d missed her? Part of him still ached to find answers to those questions; he supposed that perhaps it always would. “How is she?” he asked Daried. “Is she well?”
“She is. She still lives in the tower of the Morwains, tending her gardens.” He allowed himself a small smile. “It seems that half the young lords of the court are falling over each other, hoping to catch her eye.”
“Good,” Geran answered, and he meant it. He’d come to realize as he neared the city of the elves that, despite the old longings, his heart was hers no longer. Each time he’d conjured Alliere’s face from his memories, he’d soon found Mirya coming to his mind. When he wondered how Alliere might greet him, he worried constantly for Mirya and anxiously awaited the day when he’d return to her. I’ve had strange fortune in my loves, he reflected. Alliere, Nimessa, Mirya … yet of all of them it was the strength and sincerity of Mirya that had captured him. “Is she happy?”
“It was difficult for her after you left, but now she fares better. The shadow on her heart has finally lifted. I think she would like to see you, if it could be arranged.”
“I’d like to see her too, but I don’t want to make trouble for her. It’s enough that I’ve put you at risk of the coronal’s displeasure. Better to keep Alliere out of this for now.”
Daried rested his hand on Geran’s shoulder briefly. “Perhaps you’ve learned a little wisdom since you left, then. I will send word to you when I learn something.” The elf nodded to Hamil and Sarth before he turned and hurried off into the cold mists.
Geran and his companions waited a short time, so that anyone who’d noticed Daried leaving wouldn’t associate him with the three of them. Then they made their way back to the Swan House on the city’s north shore. The weather gave Geran a perfect excuse to hide under his hood, but he still felt a shiver of nervousness each time they passed elves in the streets. When they reached their inn, he settled himself by the fire to wait, and encouraged his friends to go enjoy the city’s winerooms and taverns for the evening. He would have much preferred to show them some of the places he remembered in person, but it was simply out of the question.
The three travelers passed the next day and a half in much the same manner; Geran stayed in the Swan House, while Hamil made a show of looking through the wares of various craftsmen and merchants with Sarth at his side, playing the part he’d given himself. Then, late on the second day, Geran was startled by the appearance of a blue songbird by their room’s window. He rose quickly and let the small creature in; it landed on the table and held still while he carefully retrieved the tightly rolled scrap of paper it carried from its talon. It read:
Meet me in the woods south of the Celestrian at midnight. I have learned that there is an entrance there.
“My thanks, Daried,” Geran breathed softly. He scribbled a quick reply, and gave it to the same bird to carry back to his old mentor. Then he turned his attention to studying his spells, waiting for night to come.
FIFTEEN
14 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting
(1480 DR)
The Warlock Knight Kardhel Terov stood by his bedchamber’s narrow windows, gazing out at the gray winter morning and the snowy landscape. He’d conjured his small fortress atop a bare hilltop on the shores of Lake Hul, a little more than four miles from Hulburg. The magical tower was his prized possession, a stronghold significantly more spacious on the inside than it appeared. With an hour’s preparation, he could dismiss it into a distant dimension, only to summon it again wherever and whenever he happened to find himself in need of it. Not only did the iron tower provide him and his entourage with excellent protection against brigands, raiders, monsters, and other ill chances of the road, it also ensured a certain level of comfort in his frequent journeys. Terov was no stranger to privation, but he saw no particular virtue in it either.
He was interrupted in his reflections by a knock at the chamber door. “Enter,” he called, absently cinching his sleeping robes closer around his waist.
A tall, red-haired woman in gray robes let herself into the chamber. She wore a dark veil over her eyes—the emblem of the nishaadhri, the Bound Ones. In Vaasa, mages were permitted their studies only if they swore lifelong fealty to the Warlock Knights; Terov’s order was jealous of its power and had no intention of permitting anyone to wield arcane magic that they did not control in some manner. The Bound One bowed deeply before speaking, strictly formal even though she often shared Terov’s bed at his command. “We have word from Griffonwatch, my liege,” she said. “The harmach will receive us at noon.”
“Good,” Terov answered. “Have an escort of six armsmen made ready, Saavi. We will ride in an hour.” The veiled sorceress bowed and withdrew; a moment later Terov’s valets entered to assist him in dressing. That was another advantage offered by the tower—it could accommodate an entourage of a score or more, which only befitted a fellthane of his rank. They fitted him in his armor of black plate, chased with arcane sigils rendered in gold filigree, and then helped him don the long surcoat and surplice of red and black that went over the armor. A heavy broadsword was belted to his hip, and next to that a wand of black wood. As a rule, Warlock Knights did not appear in public unless armed and ready for battle.
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 18
