by Mark Anthony
When the small dish was full, Snake dipped a finger into the dark blood and drew an intricate rune upon the old thief’s forehead. Then he held a splay-fingered hand over the dish.
“Azahk el gahzrabak!” the lord steward hissed.
With a swift motion Snake turned the dish on edge and pressed its bottom against Tembris’s chest, directly over his heart. A mild look of surprise crossed Ravendas’s pale face. The blood did not spill out of the dish. Instead it seemed to be frozen in place, a smooth, dark circle absorbing all light.
“Ask him your question now, my lord,” Snake instructed.
“Who came to visit you in the guildhouse, Tembris?” she demanded. “And what did they want of you?”
Tembris shook his head, his expression defiant. But Snake’s magic did its work. The dark circle of blood began to glow with an unearthly crimson light. An image appeared within it, a bony hand holding a lump of charcoal, scrawling something upon a piece of parchment. A word. Malebdala.
So whoever they were, they too were seeking The Book of the Shadows, Ravendas thought. Of course, they would not find it. She possessed the only copy, stolen by Tembris from the library at Elversult. No one else would learn the secrets within its pages. No one.
The image flickered and changed. Now it showed a woman with red-brown hair. Her heavy cloak had shifted just enough to reveal a silvery pin on her jacket, wrought in the shape of a crescent moon encircling a harp.
Rage flared hotly in Ravendas’s cheeks. She turned her sharp gaze to Snake.
“I thought you said all the Harpers in the city had been dealt with,” she snapped furiously.
No emotion registered on Snake’s thin face. “Apparently this one escaped, my lord.”
She clenched her fine hands into fists. “Apparently,” she said acidly. She was about to say more to berate her lord steward for his failure when the image wavered and changed again. Ravendas froze. The image showed a man with dark hair, pale green eyes, and angular, wolfish features. It was a face Ravendas would never mistake. She should have known she would not be rid of that one so easily.
“My lord steward,” she said, her voice calm but deadly. “Find the captain who reported to me that Caledan Caldorien had been driven from the city.”
Snake nodded deferentially. “Shall I bring him to you, my lord?”
“No. Just his heart will do.”
“And what of the old thief, my lord?”
Ravendas tapped her chin thoughtfully with a slender finger. “I shall think of something,” she said.
A low, wordless sound of fear escaped Tembris’s lips.
* * * * *
Dawn was still only a silvery glimmer on the horizon as Mari, Caledan, and Tyveris rode from the courtyard of the Dreaming Dragon. They kept the hoods of their traveling cloaks up, concealing their faces. Iriaebor’s streets were empty at this hour, but all the same they took care not to be seen.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?” Ferret had asked as they made their farewells at the inn.
“Thanks, Ferret, but not this trip,” Caledan had replied. “We thought we’d try asking the monks to see the book first.”
The thief had shrugged his thin shoulders. “Suit yourself,” he’d said in a slightly wounded voice, fidgeting with a sharp-edged dagger. “It just seems like a waste of time to me, that’s all. Asking is so … so indirect.”
Tendrils of mist crept from the ground as they made their way down the Tor into the New City. When they rode into the wide plaza of the free market, Caledan laid a hand on Mari’s arm.
“Look above that archway,” he whispered softly, “but don’t be obvious about it.”
She did as he instructed, and her breath caught in her throat. A spear had been wedged atop a stone wall bordering the plaza. Thrust upon the tip of the bloodied spear was a human head. It was a man with empty, wrinkled sockets for eyes.
Quickly Mari averted her gaze from the awful spectacle. “Tembris,” she whispered. “But why …?”
“It’s a warning,” Caledan growled softly. “Ravendas must know now that we’re still in the city. But obviously she doesn’t know where. Otherwise we’d both be up there with him.”
A sick feeling settled in Mari’s stomach. Serving Ravendas had first cost Tembris his eyes. In the end it had cost him his life. There was nothing to do now but ride onward.
The three companions made their way out Iriaebor’s west gate, then left the main road shortly after midmorning, cutting overland to the northeast toward the distant, gray-green peaks of the Sunset Mountains. The mist had burned off the rolling plains, and the day had grown fine and warm. Mari pulled a felt-covered bundle from a saddlebag and carefully unwrapped it, revealing a very old-looking baliset. It was a beautiful instrument, built of ash inlaid with darker maple and reddish cherry. She strummed the four strings and smiled at the pure sound. The baliset’s voice was as true as the day Master Andros had given it to her.
She had not played in several weeks, but her fingers plucked the strings with practiced ease, and she began a simple song. Tyveris, riding close by, smiled at the music. After a while, Mari added her rich, burnished voice to that of the instrument, singing one of the first songs Master Andros had taught her, a rollicking air about a sparrow in flight, and a man returning home to his true love.
“I spy her far above me,
Against the wide blue sky.
She’s whirling swift and graceful,
A sparrow soaring high.
But my love is no less lovely.
Her eyes are just as bright
And while she may wear no jesses,
She’ll be my bonny bird this night.
Aye, fly my love, and sing your song
Like a sparrow on the wing.
Don’t be shy, for I won’t be long,
And I’ll bring your wedding ring!”
When she finished, Tyveris applauded enthusiastically. “Truly, the gods have blessed you with the gift of music, Mari,” the big loremaster said, smiling broadly at her. “Why, Caledan himself couldn’t play a better tune than that, could you Cal—” Tyveris stopped short, his dark eyes going wide as he realized what he was saying. Mari bit her lip and cast a glance at Caldorien, who rode on in silence, gazing at the far-off mountains.
Mari played a few more songs as they rode, but soon she packed the baliset away. She found she had little heart for it, at least not that day.
* * * * *
It was verging on midday when the attack came.
They had just crested a low, rocky ridge. Below them at the foot of the ridge rushed a small river, muddy and swollen with the runoff of melting snow from the nearby mountains. The ridge was crowned with a jumble of massive granite boulders. As Caledan rode by, something dark dropped down from above them, knocking him from Mista’s back.
He fell hard to the ground, the assailant on top of him. Caledan tried to struggle, but he was tangled in the assassin’s heavy black robes. He didn’t even have the chance to shout out to the others. Smooth gloved hands closed swiftly about his neck. In moments he was gasping for air, white hot sparks buzzing before his eyes. He tried to pry the assassin’s hands off his throat, but his fingers might as well have been scrabbling against stone. The pain was terrible. Darkness began to close around him.
Suddenly a cry of rage shattered the air.
The assassin’s hands were ripped from Caledan’s neck. He watched in dulled amazement as Tyveris picked up the attacker bodily. The Tabaxi lifted the assassin above his head and hurled him through the air. Dark robes fluttered like strange wings. The assassin struck a boulder with a sickening thud, rolled to the ground, and then lay still.
“Caledan, are you all right?”
It was Mari, helping him to his feet, her face white with fear.
He nodded weakly. “I think so,” he said. He swore to himself. After seeing Tembris in the free market they should have expected an ambush. Most likely the assassin had followed them out of t
he city. But why had Ravendas sent only one?
“Is he dead?” Caledan asked, climbing back onto Mista. The others remounted as well.
“I think so, Cale—” Tyveris halted. All three watched, stunned, as twenty paces away the black-robed assassin stirred and then slowly rose. Face lost in the deep shadows of the hood’s cowl, the figure took a step toward Caledan. Then another, and another, each one faster than the last.
A hiss like a viper cut the air. An arrow abruptly appeared in the mysterious assassin’s chest, stopping the figure dead in its tracks. “That should finish the job,” Mari said grimly, lowering her short bow.
But instead of falling, the assassin slowly reached down with a black-gloved hand, gripped the shaft of the arrow, and pulled it out, casting it aside as if it were a piece of straw.
Ten
“By all the bloodiest gods,” Caledan whispered, a chill prickling the hairs on his neck.
Tyveris muttered a hasty prayer.
Mari slung her bow over her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here!”
The three whirled their mounts and cantered down the steep slope of the ridge toward the frothy river. The assassin pursued them with a strange, fluid swiftness, black robes billowing out behind.
The three pushed their mounts into a gallop, a perilous move on such a steep slope. The horses snorted, their nostrils flaring. The assassin—even though on foot—was gaining on them.
Caledan swore another oath. What kind of being did not feel the pain of an arrow’s bite? Perhaps some fanatic of a dark god, caught in a religious frenzy. He had heard of such things but never expected to witness them firsthand.
Just as Caledan felt a gloved hand grope his heel, Mista plunged into the turbulent river. Muddy water swirled wildly about her flanks. The mare nearly lost her footing, then recovered. Spray slickened Caledan’s face and the roar of the water deafened his ears. The other two struggled to keep their mounts upright to either side of him as the current carried them all downstream.
For a moment all thoughts of his strange attacker were forgotten. There was only the rushing of the river, angry and frigid with water from the spring snowmelt. Once Mista rolled onto her side, and icy water closed darkly over Caledan’s head. His lungs began to burn. Then he was thrust back above the surface as Mista fought to stay upright, and air filled his lungs. The gray mare scrabbled up the slick stones of the opposite bank. Astride their own mounts, Mari and Tyveris followed.
Caledan leaned against Mista’s neck, shivering and coughing up gritty water. The gray mare’s flanks were heaving. The others were in a similar condition. He turned around, expecting to see the black-robed assassin fording the raging river, ready to close dark-gloved hands about his neck.
There was no one in sight.
The three galloped hard across the rolling terrain, letting the warm sun dry them as they rode. But the spring sunlight could not counteract the chill in Caledan’s chest.
* * * * *
The three companions stopped for the evening as the golden orb of the sun dipped toward the horizon. They made camp in a low hollow beneath a hill and took turns keeping watch throughout the night. But they saw no further sign of the mysterious black-robed assassin.
They reached the monastery of Oghma late in the afternoon of the following day. The road leading into the foothills was simple enough to find. Two tall, weatherworn standing stones marked the way like sentinels at the mouth of a narrow, wooded valley. The road climbed steeply through sun-dappled groves of aspen and pine until finally the trees gave way to a grassy meadow at the foot of a sharp, iron-gray peak still tipped by snow.
“That’s a monastery?” Caledan asked in astonishment, staring at the massive stone edifice hulking on the rocky mountain slope above them. “It looks more like a fortress.”
“It is a fortress,” Tyveris said with a deep laugh. “This was wilderness only a short time ago, remember, and monks have to protect themselves too, every bit as much as ordinary folk. Ravendas wouldn’t hesitate to attack this place if she knew a copy of The Book of the Shadows was here.”
The steep, winding path that led to the monastery’s gate was too narrow for the horses, so the three climbed up the last part of the trail on foot. Caledan let fall the massive bronze knocker, and after a long while a panel in the gate opened, revealing the face of a wizened old loremaster.
“Hail, brother,” Tyveris said, holding his palms open in greeting. “Hallowed is the name of Oghma, the Binder of all things.”
The wizened old loremaster smiled and nodded. “Indeed, hallowed is the Binder’s name.”
The old loremaster opened the gate and led them across the tiled courtyard into the monastery. Despite the starkness of the outside of the stone building, inside it was warm and comforting, its walls paneled in dark wood and its floors covered with finely woven rugs. The loremaster left them in a small receiving room.
Minutes later the abbot of the monastery shuffled forward to greet them. Abbot Derevel was a tall, gray-haired man with bright eyes and a kind smile. Derevel sent a pair of monks to see to the companions’ horses, then led the three to his study, offering them wooden cups of warm, spiced wine. They accepted gratefully. The air was crisp and chilly in the mountains despite the advent of spring.
Tyveris did most of the talking, bringing Abbot Derevel up to date on all of the happenings in the Realms which might be of interest to the disciples of Oghma.
“I appreciate your patience in telling me all the latest news, Loremaster Tyveris,” Derevel said finally, “but surely you did not journey all this way simply to pay a kind visit to an old loremaster who does not travel as much as he used to. Is there some matter in which I might help you?”
Tyveris nodded. “Indeed there is, Abbot Derevel. You see, we’re looking for an ancient book, one written in Talfir.”
Derevel nodded. “Our library is not large, but it does contain some rare tomes written in that tongue. What do you seek?”
“It’s called the Mal’eb’dala, The Book of the Shadows,” Tyveris said. “I’m told your Loremaster Erill might have made a copy from the original in the library of Elversult.”
Abbot Derevel raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That’s true. Old Erill did make a copy of the Mal’eb’dala. That was several years ago, not long before he passed on to Oghma’s halls.”
Caledan grinned eagerly. “Can we take a look at it? It’s important.”
The abbot stood up, a frown on his face. “I’m afraid not,” he said, shaking his head as the three companions stared at him. “You see,” Derevel went on, “the Mal’eb’dala is no longer here.
“It’s quite odd, really,” the abbot continued. “Had you come here asking for the same tome a month ago, I would not have even recognized the title. But just last tenday a traveler came from the city asking to borrow the book. He seemed a scholarly man and offered to leave us several rare volumes in trade. I saw no reason not to let him borrow the tome and take it with him.” Derevel looked at Tyveris in concern. “Have I unknowingly done some wrong?”
“I’m not certain, Abbot Derevel,” Tyveris said, pushing his spectacles up. “These are dark times in Iriaebor, and there are wicked folk who seem interested in learning about ancient mysteries.”
“Do you know the name of the one who borrowed the tome, Abbot Derevel?” Mari asked.
“I wrote it down. It’s here somewhere.” The abbot rummaged through the papers strewn across his desk. “Tall, quite stern-looking fellow … Ah, here we go.” He lifted a scrap of paper and held it up to the fading light coming through the window. “Yes, I lent the book to one Morhion Gen’dahar of Iriaebor.”
Caledan stood abruptly and snatched the paper from the abbot’s hand, staring at it with hard, unblinking eyes.
“Is this someone you know?” the abbot asked, taken aback.
“Yes, I know Morhion Gen’dahar,” Caledan said in a low voice, as if the name were a curse. “I know him too well, that treacherous mage.”
&
nbsp; * * * * *
“I won’t do it,” Caledan said in disgust, pacing the back room of the Dreaming Dragon. “I will not go begging at the tower of Morhion the mage. Not for The Book of the Shadows. Not for anything. Is that clear?”
Mari glared at him hotly, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. “You’re being utterly unreasonable, Caldorien. So far that tome represents our only chance to learn what Ravendas is digging for beneath the Tor. I don’t care if you and this wizard had some sort of fight years ago. What could he have done that’s so bad you’re afraid to see him again?”
Caledan shook his head and laughed, a hard, bitter sound. He ran a hand through his dark hair. “If I’m afraid to pay a visit to Morhion the mage, it’s only because I fear I will kill him the instant I lay eyes on him.” Caldorien turned and stomped upstairs, leaving her alone.
He had been like this ever since their visit to the monastery in the Sunset Mountains three days before. It had rained in heavy, cold sheets the entire journey back. At least they had not encountered the black-robed assassin again, but then it would have been impossible for anyone to follow their tracks in the torrential weather.
Mari sighed and sank into a chair by the fire, resting her head in her hands. Caldorien could make her feel so weary. Sometimes she wished she could forget him, forget Iriaebor, forget the Harpers and simply return to Elturel. But she had knelt on the cold earth by Master Andros’s tomb the day she had left, and she had promised her mentor she would be strong. How could she give up now?
Mari felt a hand grip her shoulder. She looked up in surprise to see Ferret regarding her with his dark, close-set eyes.
“Ferret, I didn’t know you were here. I thought … I thought Caledan and I were alone.”
The wiry thief smiled crookedly. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit. Sneaking around, that is.”
She tried to return his smile but failed miserably. His pointed nose twitched, his expression speculative.
“You heard?” she asked.
Ferret shrugged. “Of course.” He pulled up a chair and drew out a dagger, carefully sharpening the edge with a small whetstone. Mari regarded him curiously, wondering what the thief wanted. Of all the members of the old Fellowship, Ferret was the one she understood least. Why the rogue had ever thrown his lot in with a Harper in the first place she couldn’t imagine.
