Anton glanced down at Stedd and was surprised to see a frown. “If you tell me Lathander didn’t really mean for us to come to Sapra after all,” the pirate said, “I swear, I’ll toss you over the side.”
Stedd smiled, but only for an instant. “It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“The god sent me here to end the famine. I’m sure he did. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
“You probably aren’t all by yourself. But that’s why we’re going to recruit some help. So stiffen your spine. If I learned anything as a pirate, it’s that the more dubious the venture, the more confident the leader needs to appear.”
The clerkish adolescent port official who met the Octopus reminded Anton just a bit of his younger self. He didn’t have quite the same martyred air of deeming his talents wasted on chores that were beneath him, but he didn’t appear overjoyed that duty had called him forth into the rain, either.
Anton took a deep breath and then climbed down onto the dock. The official didn’t shriek, faint, or snatch for a blade upon coming face to face with such an infamous malefactor. He simply recorded the names of the ship and its captain—Anton supplied aliases for both the pirate vessel and himself—and collected the mooring tax. Then he asked the ship’s business.
Anton saw no harm in giving a truthful answer to that question: “My passengers are here to seek an audience with the Elder Circle.”
The young man smiled a crooked smile. “Good luck.”
“Why?” Anton asked. “What’s the matter?”
The official hesitated. “It’s not my place to gossip about the Emerald Enclave. Just … don’t expect too much. And be careful passing through town.”
Anton grinned. “I never do, and I always am.”
Leaving the mariners to tend the Octopus, he, Stedd, and Umara headed into the city. The rain clattered down hard for a few breaths, then slackened for a while, then repeated the cycle. That, the gloom, the gaunt, haggard faces of passersby, and the empty marketplaces made Anton feel as if the city of his birth had never truly recovered from the night and day demons had burned and slaughtered a path through the heart of it.
But that was nonsense. Sapra had new problems now. He thrust thoughts of the past out of his mind and concentrated on watching for the danger the port officer had led him to expect.
Somewhat to his surprise, he didn’t see any chalked tridents or other signs that Umberlee worship was on the rise hereabouts. Perhaps the Emerald Enclave, druids of Silvanus all, and the secular authorities who looked to them for guidance had taken a stand against Evendur’s agents.
But he did see surly-looking outlanders loitering and sometimes even camped in public places. They all wore blue somewhere about their persons, and some periodically tossed powder into their campfires to make those burn a deep and unnatural azure.
Sitting on the rim of a fountain, five such fellows spotted Umara, Stedd, and Anton going past, conferred briefly among themselves, then rose and sauntered forward. Anton gave them a smile and put his hand on the hilt of his saber. Umara raised an arm gloved in seething shadow. The outlanders stopped short, then turned back around.
“Who are these people?” asked Stedd calmly. Apparently, after all he’d been through, he didn’t find street-corner extortionists especially intimidating.
“Scar pilgrims,” Anton answered. “Folk who willingly visit places like the tainted spot in Gulthandor for the wisdom and power they hope it will bring. Sapra is a way station for those who travel back and forth to the Plaguewrought Lands south of the Chondalwood. Turmishan merchants wring a lot of coin out of them, but we dislike one another even so.”
“Why?” asked Stedd.
“Turmishans worship the Treefather and therefore Nature. Scar pilgrims court a power that poisons Nature. It’s not a good fit.”
To Anton’s disappointment, it proved impossible to hire horses, mules, or even donkeys. Livery stables that still possessed such animals were keeping them close to make sure no one ate them.
He supposed it wasn’t a calamity. The hike was less arduous than some they’d undertaken together, and it remained so even after the Hierophant’s Trail commenced its climb into the highlands called the Elder Spires. Still, he was hungry and footsore when they reached their destination at dusk, and Umara looked as though she felt the same. Only Stedd, who’d walked thousands of miles since the day Lathander first spoke to him, was still fresh enough to gawk at the House of Silvanus with the appreciation the sight deserved.
Situated atop a sort of plateau, the supreme sanctuary of the Emerald Enclave was a structure of rough-hewn granite and wood, roofed but open at the sides. It sat on a little island in the middle of a pool pocked by plummeting raindrops. Hissing, the water plunged away in three places to become waterfalls that in turn gave birth to the Calling, Elder, and Springbrook Rivers.
Accompanying his father, Anton had twice visited the House of Silvanus as a boy, and despite his general boredom with religious matters, the scene had impressed him with its intimations of harmony, serenity, and hidden power. In and of itself, it still did, but the armed company camped near the pool struck a discordant note. A disparate lot, some wore the tabards of Sapra’s city watch, some, the jupons of the Turmishan army, and some, the green and brown of the rangers who patrolled the wild lands in the enclave’s service.
Anton turned to Stedd. “Does Lathander have any information to share about that crew?”
“What?” Stedd said absently. He was still gazing across the water at the sanctuary, and the pirate realized he had yet to notice the warriors.
Anton flicked the tip of his index finger against Stedd’s temple. “Wake up! I know the view looks interesting, and probably more to you than it ever did to me. But there’s something here we didn’t expect.”
“Right.” Orienting on the men-at-arms, the boy frowned. “I don’t know. Nothing’s coming to me.”
Anton sighed. “Of course it isn’t.”
“I see two options,” Umara said. “Walk right up to the warriors and ask why they’re mustering in a sacred, secluded place, or head on into the sanctuary. Either is better that waiting until a druid or ranger accosts us demanding to know why a Red Wizard is lurking about.”
“I agree,” Anton said, “and we came to confer with the chief druids, not their retainers. So …” He walked to one of the strings of steppingstones that meandered across the pool and then, despite himself, hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” asked Stedd.
Anton grinned. “There’s an old story that a guardian spirit will kill anyone who tries to cross with evil intent.”
Stedd cocked his head. “You aren’t evil.”
“Maybe not at the moment. But suppose the water spirit judges folk by their past deeds. Or the color of their mages’ robes.”
“Stop blathering and go,” Umara said.
The stones were flat and close enough to one another to make the crossing easy, and no guardian rose from the water to bar the way. But a druid with a bronze sickle hanging from his belt and a staff in his hand emerged from the interior of the temple to watch the newcomers approach. The staff had ivy coiling up its length.
As Anton stepped onto the island, the druid said, “What do you seek here?”
“An audience with the Elder Circle,” Anton replied.
The druid grunted. “You’ve come at a bad time. They aren’t receiving.” His eyes shifted to Umara. “I mean no offense when I say I doubt they’d want me to admit a Red Wizard at any time.”
“You may have heard something about Lathander’s boy prophet.”
Anton indicated Stedd. “Here he is.”
The druid’s eyes widened, but then he frowned. “Anyone could claim that. I’ve heard of wandering charlatans with child accomplices who have claimed it.”
“You’re a priest,” Anton said. “I trust you recognize holy power when you see it. Do something, Stedd.”
Seemingly seeking permissio
n, the boy looked up at the druid, and the Oak Father’s servant nodded. Stedd stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around those gripping the staff.
Golden light glowed from the point of contact. The druid gasped, and, rustling, the ivy wrapping the staff put forth new leaves.
“Convinced?” Anton asked.
The druid swallowed. “I felt something, certainly. Something … bracing.”
“Good,” Umara said, “because Stedd’s here to help you. As am I, who protected him on his journey.”
“All right,” said the man with the staff. “All three of you can come in.”
Candles and watch lights illuminated the interior of the House of Silvanus. There were no doors or truly enclosed spaces, but the seemingly haphazard arrangement of stone slabs and wooden pillars and screens created something akin to discrete chambers and the possibility of privacy even so. It also made the place mazelike.
Fortunately, the travelers’ guide knew all the twists and turns. With him leading the way, they soon reached a space that might have been a bard’s living quarters, with a collection of musical instruments occupying much of the space and a carving of Silvanus presiding over an altar in the corner. A male half-elf and a human woman sat at a round table drinking from wooden goblets.
The half-elf had tawny skin, pale blue eyes, and curly brown hair touched with gray. A harp sat at his feet on the earthen floor.
The woman was tall with broad shoulders, fit- and formidable-looking despite her white hair and the wrinkles in her face. She wasn’t a native Turmishan, but a life lived mostly outdoors had weathered her skin to nearly the same mahogany color.
Both drinkers wore druidic robes, and both looked vexed at being disturbed. Their scowls only deepened when they spied Umara.
“I know,” Anton said. “She’s a wicked Thayan, and her mere presence profanes this sacred place. Get past it. What matters is that the boy is Stedd Whitehorn, Lathander’s Chosen, come to save Turmish in its time of need.”
The half-elf and the druidess looked at him as though they thought he was making an incomprehensible joke. Then, apparently realizing he was serious, they turned their gazes on Stedd, who, suddenly all prophet without a hint of childish shyness or uncertainly in his demeanor, stared back.
Neither drinker recited an incantation or brandished a talisman, nor did Stedd evoke Lathander’s light. But a heightening tension in the air, a feeling of crescendo without the actual sound, convinced Anton the druids were nonetheless using magic to scrutinize the boy, and he was opening himself to the examination.
And finally, the half-elf said, “It’s true.” His voice was a rich and resonant bass, and a little shaky now. “The Morninglord has returned.”
“So the lad keeps saying,” Anton drawled. “And presumably, you’re two of the three people who most need to know about it.”
“Yes,” the half-elf replied, rising. “I’m Ashenford Torinblow, elder of the enclave. My friend is Grand Cabal Shinthala Deepcrest.”
Anton introduced Umara and gave his new alias. Ashenford then thanked the travelers’ guide, sent him on his way, and urged his new guests to sit.
Anton found it was good to take a seat, even better to savor a first sip of tart white wine, and best of all to realize that, whatever happened next, he’d accomplished his purpose. He’d conducted Stedd to his destination in spite of everything Evendur Highcastle, vampire wizards, and fiery giant lions could do to stop him.
“If we’d been expecting you,” Shinthala said, “or if you’d simply come at a different time, we would have welcomed you as befits a Chosen. It wouldn’t have been like walking in on a pair of topers grousing in a tavern.”
“This is better,” Stedd replied. “If you had a ceremony or something, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Ashenford leaned forward. “Your friend here said you’ve come to save Turmish. Does that mean to end the famine?”
“Yes,” said Stedd. “I can’t draw down nearly enough light to do it all by myself. But when we … looked into each other, I saw you two are Chosen of Silvanus. If we work together, we can do something.” He faltered when he seemed to perceive that, contrary to his expectations, the two druids didn’t share his enthusiasm. Rather, the brief excitement his arrival had engendered was visibly wilting. “Can’t we?”
Ashenford raked his fingers through his hair. “The Spellplague … diminished the druids of Turmish, even the Elder Circle. And even if it were otherwise, we’d need Cindermoon—the hierophant—casting alongside us to have any hope of accomplishing anything so ambitious.”
Umara waved an inpatient hand. “Then get her. Stedd assumed he’d be collaborating with all three of you.”
“It’s not that easy,” Shinthala said.
Anton sighed. “Somehow, it never is. You’d better tell us.”
“The Blue Fire … burned Cindermoon on the inside,” the white-haired druidess said. “Or maybe rage and grief over the harm it did to the land wounded her. But gradually, through the hundred years since, she’s changed. She changed her very name from Shadowmoon to Cindermoon as if to proclaim that, so far as she’s concerned, nothing is left of the world but ash. Her way of thinking has become spiteful and suspicious.”
“In other words,” Anton said, “she’s crazy. But apparently, not enough that you felt moved to depose her.”
Shinthala glowered. “Silvanus raised her up. It’s not for us to cast her down.”
Ashenford picked up his harp and set it in his lap. It seemed to ease him to feel it under his hands. “I’m not as convinced as Shinthala that that’s truly the Forest Father’s will. But either way, it would have been reckless to try any such thing, because for a long while now, Cindermoon’s magic has been stronger than ours. Maybe because she’s a pureblood elf. She’s still young, and although Silvanus’s blessing lengthened our lives, Shinthala and I are past our primes.”
“Look,” Umara said, “if your Hierophant is … ill, that’s unfortunate. But is she so addled she wants your land to starve?”
Shinthala scowled. “No, but she’s already working on her own supposed answer to the problem.”
Anton grunted. “Which brings us to the men-at-arms outside.”
“Yes,” the druidess said. “Hating the Blue Fire, she likewise despises the pilgrims who worship it, and at the moment, it’s particularly easy to see them as a menace and an infestation. They can’t buy provisions for the journey south, and even if they could, folk coming north report that the Plaguewrought Land isn’t even tainted anymore. So, desperate and bewildered, they bide here and do their best to obtain food Turmishans need for themselves.”
“So the obvious answer,” Umara said, “is to slaughter them.”
Ashenford nodded. “Starting with Sapra and working out from there.”
“But that’s wrong!” Stedd cried. “And it’s Umberlee’s way even if waveservants aren’t in Turmish preaching it. When the news goes around that that’s how your people are acting, it will help her win.”
“I don’t know Umberlee’s intentions,” the half-elf replied. “But I agree that massacring the pilgrims would be both evil and futile. Turmish would still be starving when the last of them lay dead.”
“Then surely,” Umara said, “Cindermoon will set aside her vendetta for another day if we can only persuade her that magic offers a genuine solution.”
“You’d think so,” Shinthala said. “And we’ll try our best.”
And fail, evidently, Anton thought. For he didn’t see a trace of genuine hope in either her or Ashenford.
“I’ll tell you how to ‘try,’ ” Umara said, the edge in her voice betraying that the druids’ negativity was starting to grate on her. “If your hierophant’s insane, cure her.”
“Do you think,” Ashenford answered, sounding annoyed in her turn, “that Shinthala and I haven’t offered time and again? It doesn’t matter how tactful or oblique we are. Cindermoon doesn’t believe anything’s wrong with her, and any offer to pr
ay over her or cast spells on her behalf only rouses the suspicious part of her nature.”
“Stedd doesn’t need her consent,” the Red Wizard said. “He’ll whisper an incantation, wave his hand, light will shine, and that will be that.”
“I doubt it,” Ashenford said. “Believing herself under attack, Cindermoon would resist the magic with her own power and will. It would be a struggle more like an exorcism than an ordinary work of healing.”
“And a work we couldn’t possibly perform unless we had her alone,” Shinthala said. “As we never do anymore, not since she’d grown leery of us. She always has some sort of protectors hovering close at hand.”
This is not my problem, Anton told himself. I did what I promised, and the boy and I are quits.
But it wasn’t that simple. It was infuriating to think that Stedd might have traveled so far and braved so much only to fail in the end, and despite his better judgment, that anger goaded him to speak.
“All right,” he growled, “we’re going to have a two-tiered plan. First, you holy people will make an honest effort to talk Cindermoon into helping us. Because it doesn’t matter if she’s crazy so long as she cooperates. But if she won’t …”
Arguing Ashenford and Shinthala past their misgivings as necessary, he told them as much as they needed to know. He confided the rest to Stedd and Umara after the druids departed to arrange a meeting with their counterpart.
When he finished, both the boy and the wizard looked upset. Their distress touched and irritated him in equal measure.
“It’s unnecessary,” Umara said.
“I hope,” Anton replied, “the whole second part of the plan is unnecessary. But if not, this is what makes it work.”
“But afterward—” Stedd began.
“What did I tell you after we seized the Octopus?” the reaver asked.
Stedd hesitated, not, Anton judged, because he didn’t remember the answer but because he didn’t want to give it. “That either Lathander’s cause is worth risking our lives, or it isn’t.”
“And apparently, I believe it is.” Anton grinned. “What do you suppose is wrong with me?”
The Reaver Page 25
