“It always matters what kind of impression a person creates at Court,” said Kovor, “at least if he wants anyone to pay attention to him. Particularly ‘in a time of crisis.’”
Pavel felt his nervous irritability twist into a twinge of shame. He owed his former master far too much to grouse at him.
Kovor’s most recent kindness had been to arrange an audience with the queen for his long-lost protégé, and flying across Damara, even by night, had convinced Pavel just how urgently he needed to speak with her. Fires dotted the ground below as the Vaasan horde plundered, and burned whatever they didn’t covet or couldn’t stuff into their sacks. Cries rose up to grieve him, brutish voices howling with glee and human ones wailing in anguish. It seemed that only Heliogabalus, the royal city itself, remained unscarred by marauders. Maybe that was because a goodly number of troops still garrisoned the capital. Or perhaps the goblins hoped the absent “Zhengyi” would reemerge from the shadows to lead the assault.
The doors leading to the throne room, tall panels of polished green, red-speckled bloodstone that were plainly the product of enchantment, swung open, jarring Pavel from his broodings. A herald thumped the butt of a staff on the floor and announced, “Kovor Gemetsk, Patriarch of the Temple of the Dawn, Pavel Shemov, priest of the Morninglord, and Wilimac Turnstone, hunter.”
The three advanced into a hall spacious enough to hold scores of petitioners. Paladins of the Order of the Golden Cup, armed with halberds and swords, stood guard along the walls. Gonfalons agleam with gems hung from the rafters, but by far the most impressive jewels were the two high-backed thrones, also sculpted from chalcedony, on the dais at the far end of the chamber. The larger of them—the king’s—was vacant. Christine Dragonsbane, his queen, sat in the other. Half a dozen dignitaries clustered around the pedestal to attend her. With one exception, those gentlemen wore trappings indicating that they too were either paladins or clerics sworn to the service of the Crying God, and that was as Pavel expected it to be. Ilmater was Damara’s principal deity. Lathander too received a measure of the people’s devotion, but not nearly as much.
The newcomers bowed, and held that posture until Christine bade them rise.
“Welcome,” said the queen, a comely woman in her middle years with clear blue eyes and plaited auburn hair. With its upturned nose and dusting of freckles, her heart-shaped face seemed made for joy and laughter, but held only care and sorrow. She wore a brooch shaped like an oak leaf that, to Pavel’s knowledgeable eye, revealed her to be an initiate in the druidic mysteries rather than a worshiper of Ilmater. “Master Shemov, Goodman Turnstone, you’re both strangers to this hall. But Kovor vouches for you, and says you have important information to report. If so, then tell me, please.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Pavel said, “and I pray you’ll bear with me if my account seems strange, digressive, or even wholly irrelevant at times. The threat facing Damara is a more complicated matter than you may suppose, and I seek to explain it in such a way as to make it comprehensible.”
Christine sighed. “Time presses, Master Shemov. A hundred matters demand my attention. But give us your tale.”
Employing all his rhetorical skill, Pavel proceeded to offer an abbreviated version of it. He avoided all mention of Brimstone, though. He’d have to speak of the undead dragon soon enough, but he wanted to enlighten his audience as to the basics of what had befallen Damara—and all of Faerûn—first. When he finished, the queen, her officers, and even Kovor, who hadn’t known what his student meant to say, regarded him with manifest astonishment. And skepticism.
“So you claim,” said a white-haired but robust-looking knight, “that it isn’t Zhengyi who led the goblins against us, but another lich impersonating him?”
The speaker bore the emblem of the Golden Cup on his surcoat, and Pavel, who’d been told whom he might expect to find advising the queen, inferred that he was Brellan Starav, commander of the order of holy warriors.
“Yes, Milord,” Pavel said.
“That’s preposterous. Every foe we’ve captured vows that the Witch-King himself oversaw the taking of the Gates.”
“That’s why they call it ‘impersonating,’” said Will. When Brellan shot him a glare, the halfling blandly added, “Milord.”
“It would explain why Zhengyi vanished afterward,” said the one officer not wearing religious regalia, a handsome, foxy-faced man, of mixed human and elf blood by the look of him, with a belt of pouches encircling his narrow waist. It was the sort of garment favored by wizards to hold spell components, or by expert housebreakers like Will to hold the tools of their trade. If the tales were true, that fellow, Celedon Kierney, Damara’s spymaster, was both. “What could the genuine Witch-King possibly have to do more important than completing the reconquest of Damara? But if he isn’t really Zhengyi and his true concerns lie elsewhere … it makes sense.”
“So all the slaughter and destruction across our realm were just a ploy, a single gambit in a greater game a madman is playing with all the dragons in the world?” Brellan shook his head. “That’s … unimaginable.”
“It certainly tweaks our Damaran pride,” Celedon said. “But consider something else. Sergor Marsk and his fellow traitors attained positions close to the king because I put them there, an error for which I will never forgive myself. I had my reasons, though. The dastards enjoyed remarkable success gathering intelligence and conducting strikes against the bandit army. Perhaps they managed that because someone was feeding them information about the brigands. It’s questionable that the real Zhengyi would have so betrayed his allies. But an impostor, who cared nothing about preserving Vaasa’s strength over the long haul, might well have done it.”
“For the moment,” said Drigor Bersk, “let’s imagine this tale is true.” Huge and scar-faced, plainly a warrior by nature if not vocation, the high-ranking cleric gave the lie to the popular notion that all priests of Ilmater were skinny from fasting and mild as milk in their demeanor. “Does it change anything?”
“Believe me, Milord,” Pavel said, “it’s of the utmost practical importance. Thus far, I’ve been vague as to how I know Sammaster usurped the mantle of the Witch-King.”
Celedon smiled and said, “Yes, you have. I intended to get into that.”
Pavel took a deep breath then said, “We—Karasendrieth, her circle, and the folk who’ve pledged to aid them—have an ally I haven’t mentioned yet. Long ago, he was one of Sammaster’s associates, and understands the lich’s mind. He’s a master scrier, and spied on developments in Damara and Vaasa. He is, in fact, a smoke drake and a vampire, who calls himself Brimstone.”
Christine, her officers, and Kovor all gawked at Pavel. Then several of them started to speak at once, but Will raised his voice to cut through the babble.
“Brandobaris’s knife, idiot, you left out the important part! Brimstone may be a vicious, bloodsucking wyrm, but he can wake Dragonsbane!”
“Is this true?” asked the queen.
“He says so, Your Majesty,” Pavel replied, “if certain requirements are met. For starters, it will be necessary to allow him into the presence of the king.”
Brellan peered intently at Pavel, and the hunter realized he was using his paladin powers of discernment.
“You have a taint on you,” said the knight. “I’m surprised that I didn’t smell it before. The question is, does it simply come from consorting with the undead, or does the rot run deeper? Are you merely a dupe, or have you deliberately set your feet on the path of evil?”
“I’m a Damaran,” Pavel said, “who’s willing to get his hands dirty to help his liege lord and preserve his native land from devastation. I’d hoped all of you would feel the same.”
“I might,” said Christine, “if I were certain of this undead wyrm’s intentions. But Gareth slew dragons, and was a tireless destroyer of vampires and their ilk. How can I assume this Brimstone truly means him well?”
“Your Majesty,” Pavel said, “I beg you to believe
that I am by no means naturally inclined to credit whatever Brimstone tells me. But it’s plain that for the moment, his intentions are benign.”
“So you say,” Brellan said, “but who are you? A stranger, who forsook his temple and homeland so long ago that only Kovor remembers you. How can we trust you? Besides, if he could give us his counsel, the king would never consent to our trafficking with an undead wyrm, whatever the vampire’s intentions. No paladin of Ilmater would ever make common cause with a creature as foul as any demon, or use unclean means to achieve even the noblest end.”
Celedon frowned. “I’m not quite so certain of that. With respect, Milord, you weren’t with His Majesty in the old days, when we fought to drive out Zhengyi. I was. I recall him turning a blind eye to one or two instances of petty wickedness when it was necessary to strike a blow against the greatest evil we knew.”
“But is it necessary?” asked Drigor. “His Majesty has Master Kulenov and some of the ablest healers in Damara working to lift the curse afflicting him.”
“How’s that going?” asked Will.
Drigor glared at the halfling. “The point,” said the scar-faced man, “is that I see no reason to abandon hope in people we trust and take a chance on an abomination simply because a pair of vagabonds recommends it. Who agrees with me?”
With the exception of Celedon, all his fellow officers clamored in support of their fellow servant of Ilmater.
Christine regarded the folk arrayed before her with troubled eyes. “I mean no disparagement to anyone here when I say I wish Dugald, Kane, and all Gareth’s comrades from the early years were here to advise us. But we’ve had no word of them since the Vaasans swept into the realm, and wishing doesn’t make it otherwise.” She sighed. “Of course, even if they were here, it would still be my decision, wouldn’t it?”
She turned her gaze directly on Pavel and said, “Master Shemov, I can’t look at a person’s spirit as paladins can. My gifts are of another sort. But I take you for a good man and a shrewd one, and it’s certainly true that nothing the mages and physicians have attempted so far has produced the slightest change in my husband’s condition. Accordingly, my counselors and I will meet this Brimstone, and if he passes muster, he may attempt his cure.”
Pavel bowed and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“As the queen commands,” said Drigor, “so be it. But Master Shemov, Goodman Turnstone, be advised that if your undead drake attempts any treachery, you too will answer for it. In full measure.”
Kara’s song echoed through the vaults and cellars. As Dorn would have expected, it was beautiful. He doubted the bard could sing a false note if she tried. But it was also chilling, a wild, mad wail of rage and anguish.
Several hours earlier, Sammaster’s dragons had attacked, and pushed the defenders of the monastery deeper into the tunnels. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Despite all the precautions Dorn had taken to keep his spellcasting allies out of harm’s way, Malazan had managed to shred two able priests with her talons and incinerate one of the most powerful magicians with her fiery breath before the monks finally turned their assailants back.
It was a catastrophic loss, and though Dorn knew it had only been a matter of time before the foe achieved such a success, he still couldn’t help feeling that if he weren’t a worthless fool of a freak, he would have found a way to prevent it.
Accordingly, hoping her company would ease his self-reproach, he’d decided to seek out Kara. By so choosing, he’d surprised himself. He’d never been one to reach out to others for solace. He’d always thought it better to hide his hurts behind a scowl, perhaps so other people wouldn’t exploit the vulnerability, or think him any more contemptible than they did already. But today he’d craved whatever comfort the song dragon had to give.
But it sounded as if she needed consolation more urgently than he did. His iron foot clanking on the floor, he raced through the archives until her lament led him into her presence.
Kara had scored her cheeks with her nails, and the tears from her amethyst eyes streamed across the raw red striae. She stood behind a long table covered with musty-smelling books and curling brown sheets of parchment. Motes of dust floated in the air above them.
“What’s wrong?” said Dorn.
Kara ceased her singing to draw a ragged breath. “Why, nothing,” she said in a bright, brittle voice. “I’ve found the lore Sammaster harvested from these libraries.”
Dorn tried to understand. “Then … that’s good, isn’t it?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, considering how many brave monks died to win me the time to do my studying.”
The hunter felt a surge of impatience. “Just tell me the problem straight out. Can’t you read the cursed things? Is it another cipher?”
“It might as well be,” she said. “The texts constitute a grimoire of sorts, but not in a straightforward sort of way. The authors recorded the spells, rituals, and explication of the underlying thaumaturgical principles in a series of obscure symbolic allegories. It would take months to derive the actual incantations.
“Which, obviously, means the material is worthless,” she continued. “Because we don’t have months. We’ll be lucky to hold out another tenday.”
“Then we need to carry the books out of here,” said Dorn, “and back to Thentia. That’s feasible. The caves are clear.”
She laughed. “Oh, but that’s the heart of the joke.” She pointed to one of the books. “Turn back the cover.”
He hesitated. He wasn’t used to handling books, and they were plainly old and fragile. He took hold of the sheet of flaking leather with the fingers of his human hand and lifted it with care.
But not enough care. The cover crumbled.
“They’re all in the same exquisitely delicate condition,” said Kara. She picked up a parchment and gave it a slight shake. It vanished in a puff of dust. “You would have laughed to see how slowly and cautiously I moved, just to shift them from their shelves to this table. They’d never survive any sort of journey across country, and thus, they’re useless.”
She cocked back her arm to lash the books and papers with the back of her hand.
Dorn lunged, caught her wrist in his iron fist, and wrenched her away from the table.
“Are you mad?” he said.
She laughed. “Of course I am. Frenzy’s eating my mind. If it weren’t, perhaps I would have found the lore sooner, or maybe I could interpret it quicker. But as it stands, Chatulio and all those valiant men have died for nothing, because what’s left of me isn’t clever enough to complete her task. I’ve failed you, my people, the whole world.”
“Enough!” Dorn shouted. “You haven’t failed yet, and you won’t. Just stop the self-pity, buckle down, and solve the puzzle.”
“It’s impossible.”
“I don’t care. Do it. Raryn, the monks, and I will buy you all the time we can. We’ll die to the last man if that’s what it takes. You just hold up your end of the bargain.” He tried to soften his tone. “I know you can. You can do anything you set your mind to. You’re the wisest, cleverest person I’ve ever met. Every day, I marvel at the things you know and understand.”
She sighed and said, “All right, my love. I’ll try.”
It had proved more expedient to carry Dragonsbane out into the benighted, torchlit courtyard than to accommodate a creature as huge as Brimstone inside the castle. Looking as if he were merely sleeping, the king lay bundled up in blankets on a couch with a goodly number of his retainers clustered protectively around him. All who were knights or men-at-arms stood fully equipped for battle. Pavel, who himself wore a new brigandine and carried a new buckler courtesy of the royal armory, had explained that some of his companions would require their weapons, but knew they would have brought them in any case, for fear of the vampiric dragon.
Seated on a sort of portable outdoor throne, Christine nodded to one of the paladins, who, his face a rigid mask of barely contained loathing, presented a rag d
oll for Brimstone’s inspection. Standing between the smoke drake and Will, Pavel saw from the puppet’s crown and beard that it was meant to represent the king.
“Yes,” said Brimstone in his sibilant whisper of a voice, “I was correct.” He loomed over the rest of the company like a child among his toys. “Sammaster and his lieutenants use fetishes like these to sunder a victim’s body and soul and imprison the latter on the Plane of Shadow.”
Pudgy Mor Kulenov regarded the dragon with skeptical eyes. “That seems an excessively elaborate way of eliminating an enemy,” the wizard said. “Why not just kill him?”
“Some men, indeed, most paladins, are resistant to death magic,” Brimstone said. His crimson eyes glowed a little brighter, and his breath stank more strongly of burning, at the wizard’s expression of mistrust. “But few folk can withstand this curse.”
“Besides,” said Celedon Kierney, who wore a short sword and light leather armor in addition to his belt of pouches, “if the Cult of the Dragon had murdered the king, we could have crowned someone else, who might just conceivably have rallied the barons to his banner. By simply crippling His Majesty, the traitors made certain the realm would remain in disarray.”
“At this point,” said the queen, “it doesn’t matter why our enemy chose this particular weapon. What’s important is whether we can heal the wound it inflicted.”
“I believe so,” Brimstone said. “Now that you’ve admitted me to your husband’s presence, I can use that proximity, along with the doll, to transport several companions and myself into the dark world. We should arrive close to the place where his spirit is imprisoned. But it won’t be easy to liberate him. We’ll have to contend with the guards.”
“What sort of guards?” asked Drigor Bersk. The brawny, scar-faced priest wore a full suit of plate and carried a long-handled warhammer in his fist.
“Dragons indigenous to Shadow,” Brimstone said. “Sammaster has a pact with them.”
The Rite Page 23
