The Rite

by Richard Lee Byers

  Dragonsbane wheeled his horse and ran. Brimstone gave chase. The Vaasans howled to see their nemesis fleeing for his life.

  Actually, though, Dragonsbane was simply achieving the distance required to use a weapon other than his sword. He turned his mount again, pulled a luminous javelin from its sheath on the charger’s saddle, and hurled it.

  The spear pierced the puppet through the torso, whereupon the skeleton instantly caught fire, flailed, shrieked, and toppled from Brimstone’s back. To all appearances, Dragonsbane had slain the Witch-King with a holy relic, or a weapon charged with his own god-granted magic.

  The Vaasan cheering died, and a moment later, a Damaran shout of triumph filled the air. Dragonsbane charged Brimstone, and his warriors surged at the goblin kin and giants.

  The king beat at Brimstone with his sword. Brimstone cringed away, spread his wings, and leaped into the air. Once he climbed high enough that no one was paying any attention to him anymore, he circled above the field to witness the result of his deception.

  When he’d bolted, the Vaasans around him had too, and as they blundered backward, jamming into the ranks of the creatures behind them, sometimes lashing out with scimitars and spears to force their way through, they communicated their panic to even those goblins who hadn’t enjoyed a clear view of the mock duel. In a matter of minutes, the entire host was routing, and for the Damarans who rode in pursuit, killing them was as easy as slaughtering sheep.

  Brimstone reckoned Dragonsbane’s men still had months of campaigning ahead before they fully purged their realm of invaders, retook the Gates, and sealed Bloodstone Pass. Still, in truth, they’d already won back Damara, or rather, a vampire drake had done it for them. He grinned at the irony.

  The sickroom smelled of medicines and myrrh. The silvery glow of the magical crescent-shaped lamp was too dim to sweep the shadows from the corners. Perhaps the gloom was supposed to help Rilitar rest.

  Sureene had wrapped the wizard in bandages, and surely used all the healing magic at her disposal to help stanch the flow of blood from his wounds. Still, red spots stained the white gauze, the bed linen, and the mound of pillows propping him up.

  Inwardly, Taegan winced to see it, but resolved to keep his distress from showing. He was certain Rilitar didn’t want a display of pity.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “We came as soon as the stupid priestesses would let us in,” Jivex said.

  Rilitar laboriously turned his head toward his visitors. “Our enterprise …?” he wheezed.

  Taegan realized what he meant. “None of your fellow mages died, and Firefingers saved most of the books and papers.”

  Rilitar smiled feebly, the quirking of his ashen lips just visible between two strips of bandage. “That old man knows how to talk to flame.”

  “Naturally, the Watchlord—speaking for the old families, I assume—wasn’t happy about us fighting a sunwyrm in the street. But I pointed out that we did kill it before it harmed any of the citizenry, and that with our traitor unmasked and eliminated, we could absolutely guarantee there would be no more such incidents. Firefingers reminded him just how vital you wizards are to the security of Thentia, and the upshot of it all was that he grudgingly agreed to let you continue your investigations.”

  “Then we truly did defeat Phourkyn.”

  “You deserve the credit. Thanks be to Lady Luck that you noticed me reciting the charm of frenzy, and realized what it meant.”

  “Luck had little to do with it. I’d been watching you closely for a while, because you were acting strangely, going to absurd lengths to play the frivolous rake, insisting on fancy new clothes but clinging to those worn, drab, ill-fitting boots. At first, I couldn’t determine what it meant. Phourkyn’s enchantments were so subtle my magic couldn’t detect them. But I was sure it indicated something.”

  “I’m fortunate his curse made me peculiar.”

  “I suspect it was your own mind, your own will, resisting him and signaling for help, even though you weren’t conscious of it. It isn’t easy to enslave an elf.”

  “Or a master-of-arms, perhaps.”

  Rilitar drew a ragged breath. “Sureene did everything she could to mend me, but says that even so, I’m unlikely to see the sunrise. Will you keep me company until the end?”

  “Of course,” Taegan said.

  He pulled a chair away from the wall. Jivex furled his wings and lit on the corner of the bed.

  “Thank you,” the wizard said. “Perhaps you know a prayer or hymn, for when the moment comes.”

  The avariel hesitated then said, “I remember a chant from my days with my tribe. But I imagine it’s a plain, crude thing compared to what true elves use in Cormanthor.”

  “That’s fine. It will speed my spirit on its way better than any human words.”

  Like all the others, the final battle left countless tasks and duties in its wake. It was late before Cantoule could slip off by himself to collect his thoughts.

  As he walked the monastery grounds, the pale statues and shrines gleaming in Selûne’s light, it grieved him to behold all the destruction. Yet the stronghold was enormous, and more of it remained intact than otherwise. The rest could be rebuilt.

  He realized it was the same with the inhabitants. Many had died defending their holy sanctuary and the precious archives, so many that he could hardly bear the sorrow of it, yet not all. The Order of the Yellow Rose survived, and in time, other men would hear Ilmater’s call and come to swell its ranks.

  Meanwhile, because the brothers had endured the worst the besieging dragons could do, it was even possible that Kara and her comrades would avert a doom threatening all Faerûn.

  But that was a matter too vast and mysterious for a tired man to contemplate for long. Soon enough, his thoughts returned to smaller matters. Indeed, to a petty one.

  He knew that in the aftermath of the agonies the monastery had weathered, in the midst of the myriad needs that still remained, it was unworthy of him to think of himself at all. Yet he believed the Crying God would forgive him for taking a moment to recognize the truth that, in the darkest of times, his stewardship had proved sufficient. Perhaps he hadn’t led his followers as ably as Kane would have, but his best had been good enough. He found a vacant chapel and kneeled before the altar to whisper a prayer of thanks.

  Midsummer-20 Eleasis, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  Despite the dread that had engulfed the world, the burghers of Thentia celebrated Midsummer with gusto. Or perhaps, Taegan reflected, it was precisely the knowledge that a flight of rampaging dragons might descend on their town at any moment that made them embrace the pleasures of the festival with such enthusiasm.

  The warm night rang with raucous music. The taverns were full to overflowing, and in every square and plaza, people danced fast, whirling, stomping dances, or watched them while ladling beer and wine from open barrels. Lads and lasses eyed one another, teased, flirted, and whispered, until eventually the couples stole away from the rest of their companions to find some privacy. Some of them didn’t require a lot of it. A shadowy doorway sufficed.

  To Taegan’s sophisticated eye, Thentia’s revels had a crude, bucolic quality compared to the lavish, elegant Midsummer entertainments he’d enjoyed in Lyrabar. But he didn’t miss the latter as much as he might have expected. It was pleasant to stroll the boisterous streets with Jivex, Dorn, Raryn, and Will, observing the flushed, bright-eyed girls in their paint and finery, and regaling the hunters with the tale of his recent adventures. Even if the telling recalled the sorrow of Rilitar’s death, and he realized, required a certain amount of explaining at the end.

  “Firefingers believes,” the bladesinger said, “that at the start, there was a real Phourkyn One-eye. But Sammaster arranged his murder and replaced him with an impersonator. At that point, he couldn’t know for a fact that the mages of Thentia would become involved in an effort to quell the Rage. You fellows hadn’t yet ventured into Northkeep, then traveled here to ask for their help
. But he was aware of their reputation for learning, and deemed it prudent to have a powerful, resourceful agent in place to ruin any such endeavor if, in fact, they undertook it.”

  Will nodded and said, “The Cult of the Dragon has spies and assassins lurking in all sorts of places. We knew that already. But let’s hope they don’t have many as dangerous as this. A wyrm and a mighty spellcaster … with a demon living inside him?”

  “According to Jannatha Goldenshield,” Taegan said, “certain drakes augment their strength by fusing tanar’ri with their own hearts. Generally, the spirit just stays inside them afterward, quiescent, but Phourkyn—I suppose we might as well keep calling the sunwyrm that, for want of his true name—discovered new ways of using the magic. He could separate from the chasme for brief periods of time, and send it forth to kill.”

  “And a fine weapon it was,” Raryn said, sidestepping to avoid a running, happily squealing girl and the grinning youth pursuing her.

  “Indeed,” Taegan said. “The chasme and Phourkyn had become two aspects of a single being. By merging with its master, the demon acquired the halo of flame that echoed the pure destructive force a sunwyrm can channel through its breath and talons, as well as the ability to cast Phourkyn’s spells. What’s more, because it wasn’t purely a spirit anymore, but rather a hybrid entity, wards devised to hinder demons couldn’t hold it back, and since it spent nearly all its time hidden inside Phourkyn’s body, Jivex, Rilitar, and I couldn’t find it when we tried to track it down.”

  “Also,” said Will, “while the chasme was killing people, Phourkyn could let himself be seen elsewhere, doing something innocuous. That alone wouldn’t prove he wasn’t the traitor, but it would tend to make people think he probably wasn’t.”

  “But the drawback,” said Raryn, “was that, since Phourkyn and the chasme were one, if it died, so would he. I notice that after you, Maestro, proved you could hurt it—”

  “After we proved we could hurt it!” Jivex cried, wheeling overhead in search of mosquitoes and moths.

  The dwarf inclined his head. “Your pardon, my friend. After the two of you proved you could hurt it badly, it generally kept its distance, attacking you with spells, locusts, abishais, and the like, instead of its claws and spear of a nose. But here’s one of the things I still don’t understand. Didn’t you, Maestro, say Phourkyn drove it back when it was close to killing you?”

  “That was how it seemed,” Taegan replied, “but I was close to killing the demon, too. The encounter could have gone either way. The chasme broke away of its own accord, and Phourkyn seized the opportunity to make it look as if he was responsible by conjuring an impressive but harmless flash. It was one more way to create the impression that whoever the traitor might be, it certainly wasn’t he. He had a cool, quick, cunning mind, I’ll give him that. No wonder it took so long to discover his identity.”

  “How did you?” asked Will. “You said that when he held you prisoner, he appeared to you in the guise of Darvin Kordeion.”

  Taegan smiled. He’d hoped to save that bit of explaining for last, and conclude with something that made him look clever.

  “Yes,” said the avariel. “Once again, it shows how wily he truly was, how he sought to plan for every possibility. When I acted as his helpless thrall, I understood I was forbidden to hurt my master, Phourkyn One-eye. But if anyone broke my psychic bonds, as Rilitar ultimately did, I wouldn’t recall that anymore. Instead, I’d remember Darvin questioning me and laying his enchantment on me, and strike down an innocent man.

  “But here’s where Phourkyn erred,” the bladesinger continued. “He’d mastered the knack of shapeshifting into an exact duplicate of the man he’d replaced. As he spent his days in the company of shrewd and powerful wizards, no other disguise would serve for any length of time. But I gather such magic is difficult and demanding, and when he spoke with me in the cellar, he didn’t think he needed to bother with it. Accordingly, he simply masked his true appearance with a lesser spell, conjuring the mere illusion of Darvin’s face and form.

  “Happily, he still reeked of that fragrant pomade he used to slick his hair back. Firefingers thinks he may have used it to cover his true scent. A sunwyrm in human form with a demon bound to its heart may smell a little off. Be that as it may, he also still cocked his head sideways to peer straight at me with his single eye. I retained those details when Rilitar restored me to my right mind.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t see,” Dorn grumbled.

  “What might that be?” Taegan asked.

  “Biding here, Phourkyn was privy to all the information we brought to the wizards. That means he knew Sammaster himself brought on the frenzy that threatens all dragons, sunwyrms included. Why would he continue to help the lich after that?”

  “Conceivably,” Taegan said, “he’d long ago set his heart on reigning as a dracolich in the world Sammaster envisions, and decided he didn’t care what means the madman used to bring it about. Or perhaps he feared Sammaster too much to cross him, no matter what.”

  “Considering,” said Will, “how strong Phourkyn himself was, that last is not a happy thought. Here’s hoping we can wreck Sammaster’s plans without having to square off against the old bag of bones himself.”

  Taegan saw they’d nearly reached the edge of town, and in consequence, the last of the open-air parties. Zigzagging in flight to the beat of the bouncy melody arising somewhere nearby, Jivex flitted away, lit on the edge of a tun of wine, lapped at the contents with his long tongue, then wheeled to rejoin the group.

  The benighted countryside seemed particularly quiet after the noisy festivities in the city. In another minute, the five companions passed a guard, one of the Watchlord’s Warders, stationed on the road to keep dragon cultists, or the merely curious, from spying on the meeting Thentia’s spellcasters were convening.

  The wizards had little choice but to hold it in an open field, or somewhere outdoors, anyway. Too many of the dragons in attendance either lacked the knack of shapechanging or simply preferred to remain in their natural forms for them all to fit in even Firefingers’s spacious workroom. Peering about, aided by the silvery, sourceless illumination someone had evoked, Taegan spotted Nexus, who’d supposedly worked wonders interpreting the vital documents discovered in the Monastery of the Yellow Rose, Vingdavalac, none the worse for the burns he’d sustained, and dark, ember-eyed Brimstone in his ruby collar. Most of the company were keeping their distance from the vampire, but Scattercloak apparently had no such qualms. He and the smoke drake murmured to one another.

  As was generally her preference, Kara wore her human guise. Dorn smiled at the sight of her, though the unaccustomed expression looked as if it might pain his sullen, divided face.

  Pavel stood at the bard’s side, handsome as ever but looking a shade older and graver than when Taegan had met him in Impiltur. Around them were Firefingers, Darvin, Baerimel, Jannatha, and the rest of Thentia’s arcanists.

  Kara returned Dorn’s awkward smile with a radiant one of her own, then raised her hand for silence. Taegan inferred that he and his companions were the last to arrive, so the discussion could begin.

  When the drone of conversation faded, Kara said, “We’ve made considerable progress.”

  “Oh, bugger!” Will whispered. “After all our chasing about, the idiots still don’t have the answer.”

  He probably hadn’t meant for the assemblage as a whole to overhear, but perhaps he’d forgotten how keen a dragon’s hearing was. A dozen towering, wedge-shaped heads swiveled to glower at the interruption.

  Kara smiled wearily at her friend’s impertinence and said, “I think you judge us a trifle harshly, Will. You’re right, we don’t have the whole solution. But we believe we have half of it.”

  “We think we’ve reconstructed the rite the ancient wizards used to curse dragonkind,” Pavel said. “We don’t understand everything about it, including how it was possible for an undead human like Sammaster to alter elven high magic and mak
e it serve his will. We believe we’ve gleaned enough, however, to devise a counterspell that will wipe the enchantment away. Obliterating such a thing entirely is easier than tinkering with it.”

  “That sounds splendid,” Taegan said. “What, then, do we still require?”

  “Thanks to Master Shemov’s discoveries in Thar,” said Firefingers, “we now know that somewhere—in the far north, probably—in territory so forbidding and remote that the primordial dragon kings had no interest in it, their enemies raised a citadel where they could pursue their plans undetected. There, they cursed the wyrms, there, the magic lives on today, and only there can the spell be lifted.”

  Will sighed and said, “Right, and even after poring over all the information we seekers hauled out of Thar, Damara, and the rest of Faerûn, you sages still haven’t figured out where the stronghold is, have you?”

  “No,” Kara said. “The elf mages almost certainly warded it against scrying, divination, and the like, to keep it hidden from their foes. Like the mythal they guard, those defenses probably still function today. Still, we must locate the fortress, and have little time to do it. Nexus believes that by the turning of the year, perhaps even sooner, the Rage will grow so virulent that the antidote we found in the monastery won’t protect us anymore.”

  Taegan tried to feel resolute, as opposed to apprehensive, disappointed, and despondent. At that moment, he didn’t find it easy, and judging from the glum silence that enfolded the gathering, many of the others felt the same.

  Jivex, however, made a scornful spitting sound. “Are you all stupid?” the faerie dragon demanded. “Castles are big. How hard can finding one be?”

  On the Great Glacier, summer seemed no more than a lunatic’s fancy. The howling wind could freeze an unprotected man to death in a matter of minutes, and the sunlight glaring from the ice could blind him just as quickly. Tramping along, staff in hand, robe and mantle flapping around him, Sammaster had reason to be grateful that his withered flesh and desiccated eyes were immune to such afflictions.