by Jean Rabe
Ragh had seen her holding that particular flask before on and off during the journey here. Sometimes she cradled it like a baby, other times she studied her reflection in its polished sides and cocked her head toward it, as if she were listening to something. At no time did she let the sivak take it in his own hands.
“Hey!” Ragh quickly caught up to her, pointing at the flask. “What’s so important about that flask? What are you going to do with it?”
She slowly let out a deep breath. “I keep telling you, what I’m going to do is none of your…”
“Concern? Business? I’m tired of your attitude. You bet it’s my concern, elf, because it concerns Dhamon. He’s the only friend I have, and I want him to be human again as much as you want it. He needs to be human before whatever’s left of his humanity slips away, and it is slipping. You can see it, if you’ve a care to look, so you don’t need to be keeping secrets.” He pointed again at the flask.
“You have no secrets, sivak?” Her eyes seemed to float inward, and she ran the fingers of her free hand across the stopper. “Do you really want Dhamon to be human? Would he still remain your friend? You can’t go everywhere with him, you can’t fly around with him, sivak, if he becomes a man.”
A meaningful silence passed between them, and when, after a long pause, the draconian spoke again, his whispery voice came from somewhere deep inside him. “Dhamon was the only man ever to treat me fairly. He never treated me… never talked to me… like I was a monster. He treated me, still treats me, as an equal.” His voice contained a mix of pride and pain. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I trust we will remain friends, no matter what. Whatever you’re going to do with that flask—if it concerns Dhamon—I want to know about it.”
Feril stood motionless for several moments, then nodded. In the light of the late morning sun her wide eyes had taken on a hard blue shine. Those eyes were severe, forbidding. Ragh stared, as though seeing her for the first time—noticing faint lines around the corners of her eyes and also at the corners of her mouth, a thin crease on her forehead. Those facial lines were something new, something she’d acquired since her dives to the bottom of the Lake of Death.
The Kagonesti had aged considerably since they first met, the sivak realized. Something in the Lake of Death had added more than a few years to her look. Those added years were noticeable. Her eyes, with hard bright edges, had seen something terrible, or she’d been through something that stole part of her life.
“What happened down there… in the lake?” he found himself asking.
She glanced back at the rock and the assortment of magical treasures she’d collected from Qualinost at the bottom of Nalis Aren. She didn’t answer; Ragh heard only the stream flowing along at a fast pace, churning white around the knobby roots of a long-dead willow. The sunlight sparkled gold against the water and cut into the stream, illuminating patches of dark greens. In other places the stream looked clear as glass, with colorful pebbles strewn under the shallow water.
Feril was gazing at the stream, but Ragh wondered if she was staring at something remembered from the depths of Nalis Aren. She still didn’t answer. All right, then; he changed the subject. “Are you going to tell me what’s in that flask? A magical potion? Some arcane elixir Dhamon’s supposed to drink?”
Another length of silence.
“All right,” she said finally. “You deserve to know. It’s nothing like that.” Feril returned to the rock and sat cross-legged. She waited for the sivak to join her before, watching his reaction, she pulled the stopper off the flask.
The air shimmered and a face formed between Feril and Ragh, looking like a cloud settling to the earth. Ragh edged back and the muscles in his arms tensed. The misty face grayed to take on the substance of smoke, then details appeared—pronounced wrinkles, long pointed ears, deep-set eyes that looked more like vacant sockets. Thin lips parted and a pale blue wisp snaked out.
The misty face broke into a wide grin.
“Glory be, elf-fish, I am free of the lake!” The spirit face brightened. “Mountains! Magnificent land! Trees! It worked, my pretty puzzlement! Free!”
Wide-eyed, Ragh tentatively reached to touch a clawed finger to the apparition, then quickly pulled it back, shivering. Cold, he mouthed to Feril. Like ice. “What in the deepest levels of the Abyss is that thing? ”
“Ah, a draconian! In life I was never close to one, only saw one of gold from a considerable distance once. You are a sivak, right?” The spirit didn’t wait for an answer. “Yes, obviously a sivak, but I thought your kind had wings.”
Ragh glowered at him. “What are you, wrinkle-face?”
“Obelia,” the apparition said proudly. “I once was a Qualinesti sorcerer of considerable renown. I died in the heart of Qualinost’s Old City when the great dragon Beryl descended on us and ruined our good and noble home. Now, freed from Nalis Aren, I have a new purpose. I am going to help the friend of my elf-fish become human again, then she is going to help me find my dear sister Elalage.” He hovered excitedly inches in front of Feril. “We have much work to do, my pretty puzzlement.” To Ragh’s astonishment, he then read over her shoulder as she carefully pulled the first scroll out and smoothed it against the rock.
For the next hour or so, Feril and the spirit went through each object and scroll, discussing various magical theories and spells. Ragh, keeping at arm’s length, listened carefully. Though Feril was only passingly familiar with the kind of magic that Obelia and his peers had practiced in life, Ragh boasted more understanding, having associated with several sorcerers over the centuries, so he paid attention and learned to heed the words of the ghost sorcerer.
The ghost of the old elf went on at length about diverse patterns of magic in the world and where they lay the thickest, discoursing on all sorts of ancient places such as the Window to the Stars, where the magic was more substantial than the very stones that comprised the ruins. Ragh intently listened. In all his centuries on Krynn he’d seen some very unusual things, so he told himself the spirit of a dead Qualinesti sorcerer shouldn’t rattle him. The spirit did not seem malicious like other undead creatures Ragh had come across. Still, the sivak decided not to entirely trust the entity, and he could see that Feril didn’t either.
Though Dhamon turned up in the late afternoon, he kept far enough back and stayed down wind so the three barely noticed him. The elf sorcerer gave the dragon a quick look, and Feril nodded to him, yes, that’s the one, but they were preoccupied with their discussion. As for Dhamon, he didn’t look surprised to see a ghost conversing with Feril and Ragh. Ragh wondered if he didn’t already know about the spirit sorcerer; perhaps, the sivak thought resentfully, it was another one of the many secrets between the Kagonesti and his old friend.
Truth to tell, for the first time in a long while, Dhamon was truly tired. With a pleasantly full stomach, he felt bleary-eyed. He tried to listen to the magical discussion, the sweet taste of bear tarrying on his tongue. It wasn’t long before he was dozing.
Obelia became even more transparent as he put his energy into his voice rather than his form. “Elf-fish, do you remember when the gods were absent and magic was a memory? Some thought there was nothing arcane left on Krynn. The famed human sorcerer Palin Majere discovered a way to weave certain enchantments. He relied on magical swords and daggers, magical talismans that would power his spells. The magical items were often destroyed in his casting, but they made his spells possible. We can learn many a lesson from Palin Majere…”
Feril nodded. She was familiar with Palin’s expertise, having spent quite some time in his company. It was hard to follow some of Obelia’s circular logic. Her eyes searched the pale mist for the expression on his wizened features.
“Magic is vibrant again, elf-fish, but we will need something especially strong to break the spell that turned your friend into a dragon. The scroll you first looked at, we can use that as counter magic, and all the talismans you’ve gathered…”
“What about Sable�
�s scales?” the impatient Feril cut in.
Ragh’s eyes grew wide and he cast a quick glance at the sleeping Dhamon. He opened his mouth in protest. A stern look from Feril kept him quiet.
“Yes, the Black’s scales. We should get two, just to be certain. Three, four if we can, whatever we can manage, just to be certain. Since it was an overlord’s scale that began your friend’s woes—as you tell the tale—such a scale will be a vital component in the breaking of it.” He drew an insubstantial finger up to rub the bridge of his nose. “For the best chance of success, we should perform this spell…”
“At one of the temple ruins, where the greatest magic persists.”
The spirit beamed. “You are an excellent student, bright beyond words, elf-fish. Much of this work will fall on your shoulders, as my hands can, of course, hold or carry nothing. Death robbed me of many ordinary abilities.”
The draconian snorted. “I have good hands…”
“Such sorcery is foreign to me,” Feril interrupted. “My magic comes from nature and by Habbakuk’s grace.”
“You do have magic about you,” Obelia argued. “We will work from your strengths, coupled with all of these magical items, a scale, and my wisdom.”
“I know some magic, too,” Ragh said sulkily, “not much, but some. I can help too, but I think we should find a different overlord to snatch a scale from and not pick any ruins in the swamp to execute this ritual of yours. There’s the Window, the Silver Stair on Schallsea Island… I know of a few more.”
Obelia gave Ragh a thin smile. “The three of us will perfect the spell together, then. We’ll work on it during our journey to the dragon’s swamp. When your friend is human again, elf-fish, you will keep the other part of our bargain and take me on a search for my sister Elalage. I will scry on her to discover where she went. Oh, she will be most surprised to see me.”
Ragh growled softly. “Another overlord, Feril. Not the Black. Not Sable. This would be suicide. There’s the White in Southern Ergoth. They say that beast’s not as large. I don’t think Dhamon or I would mind the cold, and I think your undead friend would probably like the cold. Dhamon could fly us there and…”
The Kagonesti shook her head, the sunlight touching the ends of her hair and making her locks look afire. “No, my instincts tell me that Sable is the one. Besides, this place is closer, the swamp. Dhamon knows this territory.”
Ragh stood up, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Elf, I don’t think you understand how formidable Sable is. Sable hates Dhamon. He’s taken pieces of her swamp, killed her creatures, taunted her by his very existence, and she will kill all of us if we even get near enough to try to pluck a single scale from…”
“You don’t have to take the scale from the dragon,” Obelia interjected. He was looking down his overlong ghostly nose and talking in a condescending manner. “All you need is a scale… one, two preferably… they might have dropped off the dragon somewhere. Dragons shed, you know, like a common reptile. I suppose… uh, your kind even sheds skin from time to time.”
Ragh glared first at Feril, then at the specter before hopping off the rock. “Fine, fine, fine. You want one of Sable’s scales, I’ll get you one. Try to get you one, even if it kills me. I’ll crawl right into her damnable lair and…”
Suddenly the ghost opened its misty mouth and emitted a low whistling sound that caught Feril and Ragh off guard. It was a high-pitched, haunting noise that raised the hairs on the Kagonesti’s neck and caused the sivak to shudder. They exchanged wary glances. The sound went on for some time, quieting the birds and leaving only the splashing of the water around the half-submerged willow root.
“No,” Obelia said at last, closing his mouth and ending the strange whistling. “Sad to say I can’t manage it.”
“Can’t manage what?” This came from Ragh, somewhat angrily. He was standing so close to the specter that the cold it gave off caused the sivak’s breath to puff away from his face. “Just what can’t you manage, dead one? Helping us?”
A shake of the gossamer head. “I tried to cast a useful spell just now, a relatively simple one that would allow me to look for Sable’s lost scales. Scrying, the magic is sometimes called. Too bad, because if I can’t locate a scale, I don’t know how I’ll be able to find my sister later on.” Obelia let out a wheezing sigh. “Perhaps I can figure out how later. I certainly won’t give up on helping you.”
Feril touched the raccoon figurine. “Maybe I can help you, Obelia, calling on my own magic.”
The lines deepened along the edges of the specter’s eyes. “Elf-fish, what a splendid notion! Carry me close to that stream over there, and we’ll use the water for a window. Find a quiet spot if you can. Your wingless friend may join us.”
“I don’t understand all this.” Ragh sounded dubious.
“We’ll use the water like a crystal ball, right?” Obelia said, beaming. Feril nodded.
The sivak looked no less skeptical.
Carefully holding the flask, Feril stood and walked over to the stream. The current was swift, but there was a spot near the headwaters where the stream slowed around a fallen elm long since stripped of its leaves and small branches.
“A pond would have been preferable,” said Obelia, who had followed Feril, trailed by Ragh. “Quiet water is the best, but this will have to do.”
Feril knelt on the bank and Ragh followed suit behind her, dropping his voice conspiratorially.
“Elf-scrolls and jars, powders, a ghost, and an overlord’s scale. You continue to amaze me. How’d you bring a ghost up from the bottom of the lake anyway? I always heard that such lost spirits were held to where they died.”
“Fingerbones,” she explained. Feril was leaning over, studying her own reflection in a patch of relatively still water. “I have Obelia’s fingerbones in the flask.”
“And some water from my home,” the ghost volunteered. “I thought that would be enough. Blessed am I to be free of that lake. Even being tethered to an old flask is preferable to being imprisoned in Nalis Aren.” Obelia then directed Feril to stir the stream and concentrate. As she did so, the dead Qualinesti concentrated on bonding with her energy, doubling her magic with his own.
“Now tell me, sivak Ragh,” Obelia said in a hushed voice, “where would these dropped scales likely be? That is where we should start our search.”
Ragh stared at the patch of water, thinking he saw motes sparkle beneath the surface. “Shrentak,” he said after a few moments. “It’s a city in the swamp, a vile dark city. Underneath it sprawls Sable’s home. That is where you might start.”
The clear water darkened and swirled, and all of a sudden an immense cavern was reflected on its surface. Gems and jewels, gold and silver bars, weapons and armor glimmered faintly in the light of a few oil lanterns hanging on the walls.
“That’s it! That’s one of Sable’s lairs—her favorite, I believe,” Ragh announced in an awed voice. He was at once in awe of the wealth and afraid of the prospect of returning there. “I happen to know a way in,” he said hesitantly. “More than one way, there is. Can’t afford to go through the city, though. Dhamon caused quite the ruckus there a while back, and I was with him. Not safe to go through the city, but there are hidden ways. I’d stand the best chance of slipping in and out. If I fail, elf, you can always try it yourself. Dhamon can’t show himself in the city no matter what. That would alert Sable.”
Feril was pointing to different sections of the chamber. “Too dark to see it all clearly,” she muttered to herself. “Sure can’t see any loose scales.”
Obelia made a tsk-tsking sound. “Remember, we don’t know for sure if there are any scales, dear elf-fish. Maybe Sable isn’t like other dragons. Maybe Sable doesn’t shed. We have to consider that possibility.”
“Then why risk it?” Ragh growled, turning at a noise.
It was Dhamon edging forward. His nap had been brief but enough to refresh him. He’d been listening to the last of his companions’ exchange. The wi
nd shifted slightly at just that moment, and the smell of the swamp that still clung heavily to him assailed Feril and Ragh. Obelia beamed to see the dragon. Ragh grimaced to note the blood still staining Dhamon’s jaws from the bear meal.
“I’ll make Sable shed,” Dhamon announced. He tossed his head and snarled, revealing more blood on his teeth. “I’ll rip her scales from her bloody carcass.”
Ragh suddenly went weak in the knees.
15
“You can’t kill Sable, Dhamon, but she can kill you. You can’t scare her or pose even the smallest threat to her. You can make her mad… just like you were doing before we went searching for your elf.” Ragh was pacing on the bank, stopping just short of Feril before whirling on his heels and stomping back in the other direction. “I used to be Sable’s puppet, remember? I know just how powerful she is. You saw her, too. High, mighty, and huge! You told me all about it. You were human in those days, and one time you crept into the bowels of Shrentak and lost yourself. Ended up in her lair by accident and spotted her foul magnificence draped over mounds of coins. You were lucky she didn’t wake up. You wouldn’t be here now if she’d waken up, and now you want to go back?!”
Dhamon spoke calmly. “As you said, Ragh, I was human then, and I’ve seen her twice—there in her lair and at the Window to the Stars. I survived both times, and I was human then.” He dug his claws into the earth and his muscles rippled. He snarled again and his noxious breath spilled out, withering the plants on the bank and making Feril and Ragh gasp for fresh air. Obelia, chuckling, seemed to find the smell amusing. Dhamon exhaled again, seemingly enjoying his friends’ discomfort, then bent to drink deep from the stream.
