The Medusa Plague tdom-2

by Mary Kirchoff

  Apparently the sahuagin heard the voice as well, because they immediately released their net lines and paddled away from Lyim and into the shadows of the rubble.

  Come to me, the voice commanded. This time it clearly came from the palace. Lyim freed himself from the slackened net and paddled through the broken sections of columns, swimming toward the palace. Rubble filled the courtyard within the colonnade, but Lyim floated above it unaware, eyes and thoughts focused on his destination. He set his long flat feet upon the right side of the crumbling staircase, stopping upon the balcony. Just beyond the seven archways was a towering central double door. He approached it slowly, walking instead of swimming across the undulating mosaic floor. Lyim was mildly surprised when the mossy doors swung open smoothly though slowly with only a light push.

  The room beyond was round, not unlike the rotunda of Lyim's villa in Palanthas, which he appropriated after Belize's death. In the center of the vast room was a dais, and upon it a throne, its carved marble back to Lyim. He kicked his scrag legs and swam around the dais. What he saw upon the seat of majesty made him gasp, bubbles hissing in a torrent through his razor- sharp teeth.

  Seated in the throne was a woman-assuming she had once been human-pinned to the marble seat-back by a harpoon through her chest. Hundreds of slender tendrils of living orange coral wrapped around the entire throne, as if the stuff had been dripped over the oracle like candle wax. Her head was unfettered, but it was as pale as death and bloated like the zombies. Her hair looked to be made of barnacles. Amurchin had dubbed her the Coral Oracle.

  "I thank you for your aid," Lyim said smoothly, "though I could have managed the situation myself."

  I think not, said the vaporous voice inside his head. That form severely hampers your magical abilities, Lyim Rhistadt. Though she resembled a zombie, the oracle's eyes shifted with a light the undead did not possess as she evaluated the scrag.

  Her familiarity startled him. "How do you know my name?" Though she spoke telepathically to him, his words came out in bubbles. When the woman didn't respond, only continued to stare, Lyim realized the answer himself and was encouraged. A legitimate seer would know who he was, and much more.

  "I've come," he said, "to ask you to reveal the cure for my mutated hand."

  I know. The oracle slowly blinked. Hold the limb in question to my cheek, she instructed. I must draw a sense of it.

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  Reluctantly, the mage-turned-scrag swept his colorful snake hand up to one of her belly-white cheeks. To his surprise, the snake, though usually driven into a frenzy by others, was uncharacteristically calm and content. Lyim derived no sensation through the snake's flesh, but he had a good imagination; she must feel like a bloated corpse.

  The woman's expression softened slightly, as if the contact were pleasant for her as well. Abruptly she blinked again. I have the answer you seek.

  Lyim glided backward to a four-foot remove from the oracle and waited anxiously for her to continue, his bulbous scrag eyes searching her bloated face. "Tell me, please!"

  First you must do something for me.

  Lyim dropped back still farther, his fist clenching at his side. He had done more "favors" for self-serving informants and doddering mages over the last five years than he could remember, all in exchange for vague, often useless, snippets of information. "What is it you ask me to do?"

  A human must remove the harpoon from my chest to lift the curse that holds me here.

  Lyim paddled around to get a closer look at the encrusted weapon. "This"-Lyim indicated her predicament with a graceful sweep of his elongated left arm- "was the result of a curse?"

  My entrapment here was, yes. My ability as a seer came to me naturally and was, in fact, partially the cause of the curse. It is a long tale-the story of my entire life-but 1 will tell it to you simply. I was Potentate Sullento's favorite concubine, for more than the usual reasons.

  "1 read about you!" exclaimed Lyim.

  She continued as if uninterrupted. From the start Sullento believed in and relied heavily on my skills as a seer- ess to manage the city. However, I was not his first or only mistress, but his fifth. The other four, old and fat shrews, grew more and more jealous as he turned all his attention away from them and entirely upon me. For a time I alone satisfied his every need. Not maliciously to deny them, I will tell you, but because it was my duty and my honor.

  But they, of course, did not see the diminishment of their power that way. Together, they whispered in his ear, whenever they were near enough, that I was no prophetess at all. They told him I was betraying him with a mage who made my predictions come true. The prophetess shrugged away a span of time and truthlessness with a blink of her eerie eyes. It was only a matter of time before Sullento, who for all his power was no more confident than any man, came to believe their lies, instead of my truthful denials.

  "You tried also to warn them of an approaching cataclysm," interjected Lyim.

  She blinked again as if nodding. By then, Sullento no longer believed in me. To punish me and warn all others that no one was beyond his wrath, he bade his court wizard cast the curse whose first step imprisoned me thus. In a public ceremony Sullento himself inflicted the harpoon that sealed the curse. You see, he could not bring himself to kill me outright, and yet he knew no human would dare remove the harpoon and free me while he was ruler, for fear of retribution. And then the cataclysm struck, as I predicted, and there were no humans left alive to free me.

  "Surely I'm not the first to come seeking answers?"

  The first to seek me, no. Many have arrived over the centuries, but Itzan Klertal's underwater inhabitants are even more inhospitable than the surface dwellers of Klertal were. Only two survived to reach me before you. One was a clever little dark-skinned elf named Amurchin, and the other was a denizen of the Abyss in the service of a human mage master. Neither could lift the curse. But you can; the curse will recognize your true human form.

  Lyim could certainly appreciate her desire to have the curse lifted, but he was reminded again of the useless leads for which he'd paid dearly. "Give me my answer first, and if it is adequate, I will gladly do as you ask."

  I will not, she said firmly, the first true inflection in her voice.

  Lyim's lips pulled back in a scowl that exposed his needlelike teeth. "I could destroy you with one spell!"

  That would be punishment for you and liberation of a kind for me, she said without guile.

  "What if 1 refuse?" he demanded, feeling backed into a corner.

  Then I will remain here, and you will still have no hand.

  Lyim heaved an inward sigh and briefly pondered his options, which were slim to none. He would never willingly leave without his answer. He consoled himself for giving in with the thought that he could always obliterate her afterward, if her words proved pointless.

  Planting his webbed feet at the base of the slick, kelp-covered throne, he wrapped the long green fingers of his left hand around the smooth harpoon shaft and tugged. It didn't budge. Surprised at the difficulty, Lyim tucked the pole under his arm more firmly and pulled with all his might. The lance shifted. Summoning even more strength, Lyim was rewarded for his efforts when he felt the weapon shudder slightly. Probably a barb breaking off, he thought. And then it slid back, slowly at first but gaining speed. At last he wrenched the harpoon from the oracle's chest. The effort sent Lyim spinning away from the dais. He dropped the harpoon and righted himself so that his eyes locked on the oracle in the throne.

  The vivid coral that crawled across her pale form, pinning her, cracked like glass and sank to the dais at her feet; the bloated woman broke free of the throne. Whatever dress she had once worn had disintegrated during more than three hundred years in salt water. Her hideous, blue-white body spun away, circling the room with a slow, jerky motion.

  I had forgot what it felt like to move, she breathed softly, examining every nook and cranny of the room with a child's delight. The oracle paddled slowly, stiffly to
ward the wide-open door that led out to the sunken city, eager to see what was beyond.

  "Wait!" cried Lyim, swimming after her. "I freed you. Now pay me what you owe me!"

  The oracle paddled halfway about and regarded him over the hardness of her barnacle locks. You have been searching for a cure without knowing the true cause of your malady. The answer, and your arm, still lie within the dimensional bridge where it was lost. Seek the builder of the bridge.

  "Belize?" cried Lyim. "But he's dead!"

  The dead are not beyond the reach of those who wield magic. The oracle's eyes were focused over Lyim's shoulder, at the world that lay beyond this room. No one knows that better than I, who have waited more than three centuries to punish the spirits of four shrews. Fare- thee-well, Lyim Rhistadt.

  Lyim's dark scrag eyes watched her vaguely as she slithered out the door and disappeared into the murky city. The answer that had eluded him for so long had been under his nose from the start. Strangely, the realization left him with more questions than he'd had before coming to blasphemous Itzan Klertal.

  Chapter Three

  Dear Maladorigar.

  I am writing this without knowing if I will ever be allowed to send it. The rules regarding communicating with people outside Bastion are unclear. Perhaps this will help me sort through my thoughts, at any rate, and then 1 won't feel so lonely.

  Zagarus and I arrived five months ago, although you would be able to calculate that better than 1. Time is an odd thing here. There's neither sun nor moons to mark the passing days. I am estimating time by the growth of my hair: one index finger joint every two months. With nowhere to go, it matters very little anyway.

  The Council of Three teleported Zag and me to the courtyard, or inner bailey, my bags in hand. It was as dark as ink, for there were no stars above. 1 felt dizzy, and it took several minutes for my eyes to adjust-to the darkness, I thought

  first. The immense building before me looked flat and seemed to waver as if in a summer heat wave. I closed my eyes and willed my body to stop swaying, as fustarius had instructed me. I opened them again when 1 could stand still for at least three heartbeats.

  The sight took me back five years, to a mountain valley in the morning shadows of Skullcap. 1 couldn't help thinking of Esme and the time we had spent helping to build this marvel. I still miss her.

  Bastion's outline fit the pattern in my memory: a short, flat-faced facade leading the way to the disparate designs of the three wings behind it. The facade is made of a mosaic of fired white porcelain, red granite, and black onyx to symbolize the working harmony of the three orders of magic. I could see that gargoyles-real, live ones-had been added to every ledge and arch on all three sections. Topiary trees and odd statues, carefully designed to cast realistic and frightening shadows in the odd, angled light, were also new to my eyes.

  One other new feature that I must comment on was almost imperceptible in the wan light until I got very close to Bastion. The entire edifice is covered, top to bottom and front to back, with runes, sigils, and mystic etchings of every variety. I've since spent much of my free time studying their design and have them nearly unraveled. The challenge of it kept me interested and active when I otherwise might have begun seriously missing my home and familiar sights.

  Seeing Bastion again after so long brought to mind something unexpected and long forgotten. Many years before the building of the stronghold, while I was an apprentice in justarius's house, Esme had talked me into watching my first theatrical production. I had not even heard of such things before coming to the big city of Palanthas. What impressed me most was not the story, or even the players, for I can remember nothing of either, but the backdrop that had been created for the stage. It was a street scene, with false shop fronts and homes that looked quite real in the odd green- white glow provided by the bowls of powdered lime and water that served as footlights.

  I realize this seems a long digression, but I tell you because if you have ever seen such a sight, you will understand how the exterior of Bastion looks now. Not dark, exactly, but very dimly lit from the bottom up. 1 felt as if I stood upon a stage, though I knew the building before me was not false-fronted, nor the darkness beyond the edges of my vision merely stage wings hidden by heavy curtains.

  I knew, too, that the frightening sounds around me did not come from actors in the ivings, waiting to play the parts of hounds. Plaintive baying echoed from beyond the lacy wrouglit-iron fence that surrounds the stronghold. I could see red eyes glowing at an unknown distance, oddly shaped and placed; one here, three there, not like any wolves 1 had ever seen.

  Zagarus was pressed against my leg, for once speechless. To our mutual great relief, the enormous, arched door before us swung open on creaky hinges, flooding the courtyard at our feet with yellow light. I remember it only because 1 had not felt like such a rube since I arrived as an apprentice at Justarius's villa those many years ago. My mouth hung agape, I am sure.

  "You're here. Come in. I have too much to do to be standing in the doorway." The voice was brisk, yet unmistakably female, and had the hint of an accent 1 still have been unable to place. Her face was entirely in shadow.

  There was no question of not complying with that voice, however. I could feel Zag paddling up the slick, porcelain steps next to me and can only imagine how incongruous he must have looked to her, a sea gull with no sea in sight. The silhouetted woman pointedly ignored him.

  We stopped next to her in the doorway, and I squinted, still unable to see her features. "I'm Guerrand DiThon," I said, knowing as 1 did how foolish I must have sounded.

  She looked meaningfully at my red robes. "Do you think I open the door for just anyone who happens by?"

  I looked toward the red eyes beyond the fence. "Has anyone just happened by?"

  "Not yet."

  "And your name is-?"

  "My business." She waved us through the door impatiently. "Dagamier." The bright light fell across her face, and at last I could see her. She looked young, perhaps of an age with my little sister Kirah, except around the eyes. Though her skin was unlined, there was a depth of experience, a cynical sadness, even, in orbs the dark blue of an angry, storm- tossed sea.

  Dagamier was-is-a study in contrasts. Skin as white and unblemished as unveined marble, more polished than pale. Straight, shoulder-length hair the same midnight black as the silk robe she always wears. She's one of those people who looks good, sensuous even, in black, with her sharp, compact angles and a woman's soft, graceful moves. She's smart as a whip, with a tongue to match. I am ever on eggshells with her. Frankly, I haven't figured her out yet, and I'm not sure a lifetime of study would help that. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  "I will show you the nave area that is common to us all and to the red wing," Dagamier said, leading us into the apse. "Ezius will likely give you a tour of the white wing when he has completed his shift in the scrying sphere. You will have no need to see the black wing."

  "I have seen it," I said abruptly, involuntarily. "I've seen them all, at least from the outside."

  She looked over her shoulder, one brow arched skeptically.

  "Didn't the Council tell you?" I felt compelled to ask. "I was among the twenty-one mages who helped build Bastion before it was moved herefrom the Prime Material Plane."

  Honestly, Maladorigar, I don't know what made me tell her all that. I should have known it would annoy her.

  Dagamier's firm-lipped silence confirmed that it had.

  "Then you will not be requiring a tour." She took a step to leave, and I instinctively reached out a hand to her forearm. I thought I had touched fire.

  "Oh, but I do need one," 1 assured her quickly, pulling my hand away. "Nothing inside looks as I remember it. My involvement in the construction ended with the raising of the walls. The interior was completed by the Council of Three after they sent the other eighteen representatives from the site. Even the gargoyles, the fence, the creatures beyond it, the runes tluit surround it, are all new to me." />
  "The runes were drawn upon Bastion by the Council of Three to send Bastion here. The creatures are hell hounds, other-dimensional flame-belching monstrosities with fangs and claws, brought here by LaDonna as the black order's contribution to security. They patrol outside the fence." She continued in her bored voice, as if reading the information from a handbill. "The gargoyles were conjured by justarius for the red wing; they watch the forecourt for unwanted visitors."

  Catching the pattern here, I asked, "And the fence was Par-Salian's doing?"

  She stared at me for long moments in a most disconcerting manner. "No."

  Dagamier walked through the apse to the soaring central nave. It, too, was new to me, and seemed to serve no other purpose than to connect the three wings that join it at equidistant points from the towering front door. Actually, nine doors lead away from this area: one each to the white and red wings respectively, seven into the black wing, seven separate and distinct rooms that can only be entered from the nave.

  In the center of the room is a wide, round column that stretches from floor to ceiling. A support pillar, I supposed, not recalling it from the construction. The column is ringed by a narrow, fish-filled gurgling stream, like a miniature moat, whose source is a mystery.

  "That column houses the scrying diorama, Par-Salian's contribution to defense," Dagamier said pointedly. "Each of us takes a shift inside, watching Bastion and this entire demiplane for signs of intrusion."

  "Of course," I said lamely, wishing I sounded more like the new high defender than some sheepish apprentice. Glancing around, I was struck by the whiteness of the walls, the natural-looking brightness that seems to filter down from the ceiling, as if it's a glass pane that faces the sun. Par-Salian's influence here is obvious, as is justarius's. The snowy whiteness is broken only by man-sized lush, tropical plants. There is little evidence of LaDonna's hand here, except, perhaps, in the shadows.