Sand of the Soul

by Voronica Whitney-Robinson

  As they walked past a stall, Tazi gasped in awe. A very elderly man with long, white hair, with a moustache and a beard to match, was deep in a serious conversation. It was his companion that had startled her.

  The man was talking to a very large, very angry black dragon. Tazi was able to catch bits and pieces of their discussion.

  “I don’t know how Storm Silverhand convinced me to try and deal with thee,” the older man sputtered, “but I do have a hard time denying her any request, even one like this.”

  The dragon flexed its wings furiously.

  Before Tazi could hear the obviously irate dragon’s reply, the Gray Caller subtly moved her along. As soon as she was unable to see the two, their words became undecipherable again.

  “I would have liked to have heard what a dragon had to say about anything,” she told the Caller a trifle wistfully.

  The wraithlike figure was silent. Judging by that response to her curiosity, she figured that unless she was an active participant in the discussion, she wasn’t allowed to linger. Nevertheless, it was still hard to resist.

  As she progressed deeper into the Dark Bazaar, she found that there were many sights to distract her. Some of the dealers were humans and creatures that she was able to recognize, but not all of them were. Tazi saw several humans arguing over what looked like an infant no more than a few tendays old, and she couldn’t resist slowing her pace to see more, regardless of what the Caller might think.

  The baby was on the center of the table and at first Tazi thought the child had very strange tattoos all over her body. As she approached the debating consortium, Tazi realized that the baby was not lying on the table so much as she was reclining on it, and it was the tiny creature who was directing the flow of conversation.

  A closer inspection revealed that the marks on her body weren’t tattoos at all. Every place on her body that should have had a fold of skin had a rosy crack instead. Her entire torso was crisscrossed with the bloody lines. The creature’s eyes and lips, as well as her eyelids, were a bright red. Tazi shivered at the odd spectacle.

  “Who is able to make all of this possible?” Tazi asked in awe.

  “That is not for me to say,” the Gray Caller advised her. “I and the others simply lead those worthy enough here and maintain the sanctity of the Dark Bazaar.”

  “But you must answer to some power,” she continued.

  The Gray Caller stopped and raised its hand.

  “We are a part of something Faerûn does not even have a name for yet. Save your questions for your own bargain, Thazienne Uskevren,” it warned her, “and don’t waste them on me. I do not deal.”

  Chastised, Tazi moved from the Caller’s side and walked farther along. Each step she took revealed more and more stalls and intimate nooks. Tazi noticed that the Gray Caller continued to follow her discreetly. She gave up questioning her companion for the time being and realized that she was on her own.

  Passing another heated discussion between a distinguished looking man with a receding hairline and a beard with a single gray streak and a woman whose crimson cloak announced her as a Red Wizard of Thay where the only word Tazi heard was “Waterdeep,” Tazi saw an old woman sitting alone behind a rickety table in another stall.

  Tazi thought she looked a little like the fortunetellers that performed at the fairs that occasionally played in Selgaunt. The woman’s abrupt movements reminded Tazi of a bird, and she was struck by the familiarity of the gesture.

  Where have I seen that before? she thought.

  She filed that away for future pondering.

  She looks like she’s from Calimport, Tazi reasoned, so perhaps I should start here.

  “Well,” she said to the Gray Caller, “she’s the only person I could say I even vaguely recognize and connect with.”

  “The choice,” the figure replied, “is always and only yours, lady.”

  She nodded curtly to the figure and strode over to join the woman. Tazi realized that she had grossly underestimated the woman’s age. The misty effects of the Dark Market had softened the stranger’s features. As Tazi approached the woman, she was shocked to see that the stranger was covered with lines, but these were common wrinkles, albeit plentiful, nothing like the crimson lines on the infant she had passed earlier. The woman’s hair was mostly white, with only the occasional strand of black, and it hung loosely below her waist. Her skin had a leathery appearance, and Tazi thought it might split open at any moment. Her clothing was decidedly Calishite but was extremely faded and even torn in a few places. The only word that came to Tazi’s mind as she sized up the woman was “weathered.”

  At the hushed sound of Tazi’s footsteps, the wizened Calishite looked up. Her eyes were a dull brown, but Tazi detected a hint of shrewdness in them.

  “May I join you?” Tazi asked.

  “For now,” the aged woman answered.

  Tazi drew up a chair and looked hopefully at the woman across from her. A few moments passed, and Tazi realized her companion was not going to speak first.

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,” Tazi finally admitted.

  “Then perhaps you should leave,” the Calishite suggested in a cracked voice.

  Just listening to her speak made Tazi thirsty.

  “I’ve traveled a long way,” Tazi informed her. “Too long a way to turn around and leave now.”

  “Little girl, I don’t think you know the meaning of a long way,” the crone cackled.

  “Maybe I don’t,” she conceded, “and again, you could be wrong about that.”

  The aged Calishite nodded.

  “I could be,” she told Tazi ruefully, “and it wouldn’t be the first mistake I’ve ever made.”

  “So you’re saying that you’re open to possibilities?” Tazi said.

  The older woman leaned her head back carefully and began to laugh. Buried beneath the arid chuckle, Tazi could hear a lilt to the other woman’s voice that was almost beautiful.

  I wonder what she looked like when she was younger? Tazi speculated.

  “You’re staring,” the woman noticed.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just curious,” Tazi answered.

  “Curiosity can be a curse,” the Calishite said in a parched tone, “and one often pays enormously for the luxury.”

  “Sooner or later,” Tazi replied ominously, “we all pay, don’t we?”

  The elder woman regarded Tazi carefully.

  “You have learned a few lessons, haven’t you?”

  “A few in my lifetime, and they’ve been costly ones,” Tazi told her in a voice absent of bravado.

  “It took me an eternity to learn mine,” the Calishite said mostly to herself, “and I only had to give up the thing I loved best.”

  She seemed lost for a moment, and Tazi wasn’t sure how to proceed, but the woman soon shook herself from her daydreams.

  Or are they nightmares? Tazi pondered.

  “So, little girl, have you come for a story, perhaps, or have you come to learn the secrets of the Calim desert?” she crackled.

  “I have come for something very important,” Tazi began, “but I don’t know what form it will take.”

  “The rules are simple here, gharab,” the Calishite explained. “You get to buy one treasure. What form that treasure takes depends on you. It can be a map, a gem, a dagger—” she paused and leaned across the spindly table to whisper—“or a secret.”

  Tazi thought the elder woman had sand lodged in her throat, the last part was so raspy.

  “I’m not sure what it is I need,” Tazi offered lamely.

  The woman sat back abruptly and snapped, “Move along then, little girl. This market is not for tourists but those who come to deal. I don’t have time to take you by the hand and lead you to water.”

  “Look,” Tazi snapped, “this is life and death I’m dealing with, and all I want to do is not make a mistake. I want to do the right thing.”

  “All of this,” the woman gestured to the room and beyond
, “is about life and death. Sometimes you can make all the right choices and still lose. You’d do well to remember that.

  “Now,” she continued rapidly, “tell me quick: What is it you want?”

  “There is a necromancer I believe is from Calimport. You might know of him and you might not. His name is Ciredor.”

  Tazi paused to see if the woman showed any sign of recognition. The wrinkled woman’s face gave nothing away.

  She grew frustrated and blurted out, “I need to know what he’s up to!”

  She waited breathlessly, but the woman didn’t answer her question.

  “You will have to pay for that,” she informed Tazi.

  Tazi was once again reminded how dry the woman sounded and looked. It was as though she had weathered a lifetime in the desert. The old woman looked at her expectantly.

  Tazi rummaged through the small, outer pocket attached to her leather pants near her thigh. She withdraw a handful of “suns” and stacked them on the table. The metal made a muffled thud when it struck the wood. Tazi once again marveled how everything about the market sounded hushed. The older woman spilled the column and sifted through Tazi’s coins with a withered finger before leaning back in her chair.

  “These coins,” she motioned to the pile of gold, “are not the things you value.”

  “It’s all I have with me,” Tazi apologized, suddenly fearful that she had traveled this perilous route for naught. “I don’t have anything else to offer.”

  “That’s where you are wrong,” the old Calishite answered with a glint in her brown eyes. “The rule is equal treasure for equal treasure. What you ask is invaluable to you, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s my only hope,” Tazi replied honestly.

  “Then you do have one item to barter with,” the older woman told her.

  She tapped Tazi’s left hand.

  “My ring?” Tazi whispered.

  “That is all I will accept,” the other woman said. “It is the only material item of value you possess that I truly desire.”

  Tazi looked down at the emerald ring on her hand. Durlan, a moon elf, had given her the ring of protection when she was a small child growing up on the streets of Selgaunt. She had used it once successfully against Ciredor. The pain the ring caused her had been nearly unbearable, but she was certain the band was the only thing that had stopped the dark mage two years past.

  How will I stop him now? she thought plaintively.

  “Tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock. Time is running out,” the white-haired woman reminded her. “This night is only so long.”

  Tazi clenched and unclenched her left hand a few times. Finally, with a quick movement, she pulled the ring off her finger and laid it on the table, but she kept her fingers on it.

  “Well, little girl, are you going to strike a bargain here or not?”

  Tazi chewed her lip and said finally, “I have never parted with this ring but if it’s all you’ll take, then take it.”

  Tazi removed her fingers from the gem.

  With a speed that contradicted her advanced years, the elderly woman snatched out with her clawlike hand and pocketed the ring. Tazi already regretted her actions, but it was too late. The older woman looked Tazi directly in the eye and tilted her head like a bird. Tazi was once again bothered by the familiarity of the action but dismissed the thought for later.

  “Do we have a deal?” Tazi asked her.

  “We most certainly do,” she answered.

  Ciredor idly thumbed through one of the Lurker’s tomes. The man had generously donated his inner sanctum to the necromancer for his private meditation, and Ciredor secretly suspected that the senior priest was a tiny bit terrified of him and had given him the space because he wanted to escape the mage’s company. Whatever the reason, the solitude suited Ciredor perfectly. He used the time to savor his situation.

  “It is almost time,” he whispered and idly rubbed a medallion he normally wore under his clothing but had now exposed. The black disc gleamed amethyst at its rim.

  There was suddenly a hesitant tap on the door and Ciredor slid the pendant against his skin, enjoying the feel of the cool metal next to his body.

  “Enter,” he commanded.

  The Mysterious Lurker opened the door slightly and looked at Ciredor.

  “Yes?” the mage asked after he realized the priest was going to continue to stare at him indefinitely.

  “I have some news for you, Lord,” the Lurker began tentatively.

  Ciredor smirked at the title, but was secretly pleased by the priest’s submissive behavior.

  “And it would be?” he led the conversation helpfully, waving his hand in a circular fashion.

  “Two of the Children of Ibrandul are back,” he said with some hesitation, “and I think they should speak with you.”

  “Send them to me now,” Ciredor ordered, starting to frown.

  The fact that the Lurker did not want to deliver the information indicated immediately to Ciredor that it wasn’t good news.

  The Lurker pushed open the study door fully, and Ciredor was able to see that two followers of Ibrandul were standing to the rear of him. They wore stricken looks similar to their senior priest and were trying to hide behind his flowing purple robes.

  “Get in here,” Ciredor growled.

  I’m too close now to waste time on these games, he thought.

  The Mysterious Lurker generously stepped aside and offered some mumbled, parting words before disappearing into the shadows of the antechamber. The two followers trudged in and hung their heads.

  “What has happened?” he demanded. Then he added icily, “My ire only grows the longer I’m kept waiting.”

  The two novices exchanged a look between each other before one stepped forward.

  “My Lord,” he started in a rich, baritone voice that didn’t match his thin frame, “we are sorry to bring you unhappy word regarding the foreigners.”

  He fell silent, closely studying his sandals for imagined imperfections, and Ciredor idly regarded his nails before continuing sweetly, “It seems that I didn’t make myself clear.”

  He flung his hand toward the novice like he would swat an insect. A bolt of green light tore from his hand and struck the young man in the throat. The Child of Ibrandul was thrown up against the rock wall and held by the green energy. Like a manacle on his neck, the spell held him a few feet above the ground. His legs kicked uselessly in the air, and he scrambled with his hands to hold himself up and relieve the pressure on his throat. Ciredor strode over to where he was pinned.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  The Child of Ibrandul sputtered and coughed but couldn’t choke out any audible answers.

  “Fine,” Ciredor replied and turned his attention to the beardless novice, leaving his partner to dangle.

  The other Child of Ibrandul had tried his best to melt into the bookcase but there was no hiding from the furious mage. Another green bolt blew the bookcase across the chamber, turning it into kindling and exposing the young novice. Ciredor crossed the room in two angry strides.

  “Your turn. What happened?” Ciredor hissed into the face of the frightened Child of Ibrandul.

  He shot a look at his companion before he answered in a small voice, “We weren’t able to kill them.”

  “What do you mean?” the mage asked, not unkindly.

  His courage bolstered by Ciredor’s sudden calmness, the novice continued, “We led them down the tunnel to the aranea, and they walked right into the trap, but the other Child of Ibrandul with us turned traitor and ran to help them.”

  “What occurred?” Ciredor prompted.

  The novice’s eyes wandered over to his fellow novice, whose face was going from shades of red to purple. His sputtering was becoming more sporadic. Ciredor made a disapproving sound at his lack of attention, and the Child of Ibrandul turned to face him again.

  “Asraf joined the two in battle and even helped free the black-haired woman from sure d
eath in an aranea web … but he was killed soon after. Obviously,” the student priest surmised, “Ibrandul was able to make him pay for his act of betrayal.”

  “And the foreigners?” Ciredor tried calmly to keep him on track.

  The novice licked his lips nervously and said, “They survived.”

  “Surprisingly enough, I deduced as much. Anything else?” The Child of Ibrandul grew white.

  “Yes, Lord,” he whispered, and stole a glance at his hanging comrade.

  The manacled Child of Ibrandul was finally silent, but some of his limbs occasionally twitched. Ciredor placed an icy hand on the beardless novice’s face and twisted him so that Ciredor could stare into his hazel eyes.

  “I won’t ask you again,” Ciredor warned him in a deadly tone. “What happened to the woman?”

  “A Gray Caller came for her to escort her to the Dark Bazaar.”

  Ciredor screamed in rage and in one motion used his powers to fling the Child of Ibrandul into the Lurker’s ornately carved desk, face first. The novice’s skull shattered with the force of the impact, and gray brain matter speckled the writing tablet set on the desk. Ciredor stormed out of the chamber into the tunnel.

  Just outside the study, the Mysterious Lurker waited, griping his robes tightly.

  “My Lord, where are you going?” he asked timidly.

  Ciredor whirled around and nearly struck him dead, but he decided the priest’s death wouldn’t serve his purposes, so he swallowed back his burning rage.

  “I am leaving,” he told the Lurker.

  Ciredor could see that the priest was in despair, fearful of his rage and also fearful of losing the lost words of Ibrandul.

  “Will you be back?” the Lurker asked.

  “As soon as I conduct a little business,” Ciredor replied, having nearly regained his icy composure.

  “Are you going to the Dark Bazaar?” the Lurker inquired shyly.

  “Since your Children failed so completely, I don’t really have any choice, now do I?”

  “But,” the Lurker told him, “everyone believes that market is controlled by the Temple of Old Night. They worship Shar, you realize. Are you sure it is worth the risk, considering your allegiance to the Lord of the Dry Depths?”