Finder's Bane

by Kate Novak

  Ultimately the crack formed a perfect rectangle exactly where the window had been in Joel’s dream. Had the dream actually been a vision? the bard wondered.

  Joel cast a glance back down the corridor, but it was empty. His jailers, trusting the strength of the cell, hadn’t posted a guard.

  Joel pushed gently along the seam, but the rock didn’t move. The opening could be mortared shut, secured with some secret mechanism, or merely stiff from disuse.

  The Rebel Bard placed his shoulder against the stone and pushed with all his weight. Something made a rusty, grinding noise, and the wall shifted, just a fraction. The seam was now a clear divot, an inch deep, with a similar-sized rise on the far edge of the doorway. The section of wall pivoted about a central post.

  Joel pushed harder, and now the wall moved more easily. Black dust showered down from the top of the door, creating a dirty waterfall that billowed in clouds near the floor before settling. Joel brushed the black dust off his tunic before poking his head into the space he’d just discovered.

  Behind the door, the air was fresh and cool, which could indicate there was another exit. It was dark, though, pitch-black, and full of cobwebs, which could mean no one else used the door or even knew about its existence. Wrapping his cloak around his hand and sweeping the air before him, Joel half stepped, half crawled into the passage beyond.

  Something glittered on the floor just beyond the door. Joel bent over and picked it up. Black dust had drifted into the finely carved lines, delineating each tiny feather. It was a tiny set of golden wings, no bigger than his palm—the same talisman Jedidiah had held in Joel’s vision!

  Joel considered the source of the vision. Could it really have been Finder who sent him the dream of Jedidiah? With a sense of embarrassment, the bard recalled how he had questioned whether his god could get him out of this predicament. A sense of awe crept over him to think that the Nameless Bard might actually be paying attention to him, a priest who doubted his own calling and hadn’t the sense to avoid being kidnapped by Xvimists.

  “Thank you, Finder. Thank you very much,” Joel whispered, hoping fervently that his god heard his gratitude as readily as he’d listened to his doubts.

  The Rebel Bard blew the dust from the talisman and slipped it into an inner pocket of his tunic. Then he began to feel his way through the darkness behind his cell.

  Beyond the secret door was a corridor going off in the same direction as the one that led to Joel’s cell. The priestess, Walinda of Bane, had declared that the Temple in the Sky had once been a temple of Bane. Apparently when the floating rock had changed owners, many of the old passages had been closed off and forgotten.

  The illumination from the cell extended only a few yards into the passageway. Beyond that, darkness reigned. Joel was forced to hug the wall, brushing away cobwebs, testing each footstep carefully before moving forward. He reached a corner in the corridor. It formed a T branching off to the right and left. Joel chose the direction in which the cultists had dragged Holly. Then the corridor turned again, and ebon blackness, like a velvet hood, fell over his eyes. His movement slowed. Then his foot sensed a void.

  Joel knelt and reached down with his hand. The floor dropped only a few inches. It was a step down. Beyond the step, Joel felt another step. But how many were there? And what was at the bottom of the steps? These corridors could be a maze, the bard thought, with traps and pits. Maybe there were rats and giant spiders.

  Despite the cool breeze moving through the tunnel, Joel began to sweat, perspiration beading on his forehead and carving thin rivulets down his dusty face. I really could use a light, he thought.

  Then he remembered. He could make light. Jedidiah had taught him how. He’d never needed to use it before. Now was probably a good time. The bard composed himself and began the prayers that would bring him the gift of spells from his god. When he had finished, he ran his hand over the wall until he’d broken off another chunk of rock. Joel focused on the rock as he hummed a scale in C-sharp. The rock lit up like a lantern wick, and Joel leaned back with a sigh of relief.

  A few moments later he was on his way down the staircase, continuing roughly in the direction Holly had been taken. There were other intersections, but the corridor he was in now was larger than the corridors that connected to it, and Joel sensed they were merely tributaries. If he didn’t find some sort of room or exit, he could always go down one of the smaller corridors when he reached the opposite side of the temple. With a grin, the bard imagined himself pushing open another secret door into a cell containing Holly.

  The tunnel ended in a cavern that Joel guessed must have once served as a temple to Bane. Within, rows of benches faced an altar on the left-hand wall. On the opposite wall was another corridor leading away from the temple.

  Joel moved down the center aisle of benches up to the altar. There were rings set in the four corners of the altar stone and troughs running to a hole at one end of the stone. Even in the dim light, Joel could see bloodstains in the stone.

  Behind the altar, carved into the rock wall, was a giant bas-relief of a man’s face. Unlike the rough-hewn statue of Iyachtu Xvim below, this figure was the work of a skilled artisan. The face’s smooth, sharp features were handsome but hostile, a traditional representation of the god Bane. There were two divots in the eye sockets that traditionally would hold giant red gems to represent the icon’s eyes. No doubt someone had looted this icon’s eyes.

  Thinking of people who might have the nerve to desecrate a temple to Bane, Joel was reminded of Holly. It occurred to him he’d better continue searching for her before the night wore away. The bard gave the icon of Bane a little slap on its rocky cheek and turned to leave. Just as he was stepping off the altar, he heard a sneeze behind him.

  Joel started and then froze. He could hear his own heart pounding in his chest. It was several moments before he gathered his wits about him and reacted. Pocketing his magically lit rock, he ducked behind the altar and listened.

  A few moments later he heard two more sneezes. They probably were soft and stifled, but in the echoing rock chamber they might as well have been thunder. On his hands and knees, Joel crept around the altar in the direction of the sounds.

  To the right of the altar was a curtained alcove. Light slipped out from beneath the curtain and through rotted holes in the fabric. He’d missed it before because his own light stone had outshone it. This light was not as bright as the magical light that lit the corridors used by the cultists, nor was it the flickering light of a torch or a lantern. Rather, it was a soft, constantly glowing luminescence, like his own light stone but even less bright. Someone else was down here, someone with magic.

  Joel crawled up to the curtain and put his eye to one of the holes. Beyond the curtain was a small alcove housing a massive tome chained to an iron stand. Leaning over the book was the familiar form of Walinda of Bane. Using a gemstone enchanted with a light spell for illumination, the priestess skimmed page after page with an impatient look on her face.

  Joel was just about to back away when a waft of breeze brushed the curtain up against his face. The priestess’s head jerked up, and she turned to stare straight at Joel just as she had twice before. Joel froze. She’s in the light; I’m in the dark. She can’t possibly see me, the bard thought.

  The priestess leapt toward the curtain with a curse on her lips. Still on his hands and knees, Joel tried rolling sideways into the darkness, but to no avail. Carrying her light with her, the priestess cornered him against the altar. With a curse on her lips, she held out her right hand. A blue flame flickered in her palm.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Joel cried out. “I was just looking. No harm done.”

  “Oh, it’s only you,” the priestess replied. The hostile look on her face was replaced with one of cool indifference, and the flame in her hand died out. “I thought you’d be dead by now,” she added.

  “Who, me?” Joel asked, feigning nonchalance. “Whatever gave you that idea, Walinda of Bane?”r />
  Walinda’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It occurs to me you have the advantage of knowing my name. Might I know yours?”

  The bard stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands. “I’m Joel,” he said, offering his hand. “Joel of Finder.”

  The priestess ignored the bard’s hand. “Finder,” she said with a nod. “Ahh … of course. The poppinjay bard who slew Moander to become a petty god.”

  The priestess stepped back. “As a priest of a rival god, albeit a petty one,” she noted, “you will be sacrificed by the Xvimists in the dark of the moon beside the harpy I offered to them. You may have temporarily escaped your prison cell through these tunnels, but eventually the cultists will find you. Swear fealty to me, and I will help you escape the cultists,” Walinda offered. The expression on her face softened, and her tone of voice was suddenly warm and sincere.

  Joel was taken aback, not only by the priestess’s offer, but by the sudden urge he had to accept it just to please her. Had she tried to ensorcell him with a charm spell? But if Bane was dead, she couldn’t cast any spells … unless she had used some sort of magical amulet. But why? Why betray her hosts to help a priest of what she considered to be a minor poppinjay god?

  Joel grinned with sudden insight. “I will if you will,” he retorted.

  Walinda glared at him. “What folly do you speak?” she demanded.

  “Well,” Joel replied, “if you were really a guest of the cultists, you wouldn’t need me and my fealty. You’d just give a shout and have them put me in another prison cell. When I sneaked up on you, though, you had no idea I wasn’t a cultist, yet you were prepared to attack me. Now that I think about it, the deal you made with the Ruinlord of Xvim only guaranteed you access to this place. Nothing was said about granting you passage back down to the ground. You’re a prisoner here, too. Not much of a deal maker, are you?”

  “I’m a Dreadmaster of Bane, the Dark One, first among his priests,” Walinda replied haughtily, “not some merchant scum. You are wrong. I am not a prisoner. I wheeled to attack in case you were some fell beast left wandering these passages as a guardian of this abandoned temple. Now accept my offer, or die soon regretting that you did not.”

  Joel chuckled, unable to hide his amusement. She was good at bluffing, but she still had no reason to help him unless she needed his help. “Thanks, no,” he replied. “I’ve seen how little you value those who’ve sworn fealty to you.”

  “My followers,” Walinda said softly. Her lip quivered, and she turned away.

  Joel was surprised. He’d expected her to react with contempt for her people, or even anger that he’d raised the subject. Instead, she acted as if she genuinely grieved their loss. Of course, the bard reminded himself, she could simply be a good actress.

  After a moment the woman straightened and replied proudly, “You would not think I sold them so cheap if you knew how great was my goal.” She turned again to face him. “My god demanded I gain entry to this place, and I obeyed. Even though their sacrifice brought power to Bane’s bastard son, they have earned the favor of Bane. Their loyalty and the price they paid for it will not be forgotten.”

  Joel shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “I know this must be a sore point, and I really hate to have to bring it up, but isn’t Bane, um, dead?”

  Walinda smiled. It was a smile of great joy, and it made her face positively lovely. “Bane is a god. Death can have no power over the gods. He will return.”

  “All right,” Joel said slowly, beginning to sense this was not a topic they could sensibly debate.

  “You doubt me, Joel of Finder,” Walinda said. “Tell me, if everyone told you Finder was dead, would you believe it?”

  “For me it’s different. I have proof Finder lives; he grants my spell prayers.”

  “Are you so certain that Bane does not grant mine?”

  Joel remembered the blue flame at her palm. “You probably just have some sort of magical talisman.”

  “That is a possibility. At any rate, suppose Finder did not grant you spells, yet still he spoke to you?” Walinda asked.

  Joel took a deep breath, then breathed out. Hearing the voice of her god might be some madness of Walinda’s, but having just received a vision from Finder, Joel hardly felt in a position to argue with her. Still, the alternative, that Bane might return, was too unpleasant to think about.

  “It is true,” the priestess admitted, “that I have been made a prisoner by the cultists, yet Bane foresaw this when he bade me to come here. This temple was once his, and he has told me all its secrets. It was a simple matter to escape from my cell to search for the information my god bade me to seek.

  “Which is?” Joel asked, curious despite himself.

  Walinda smiled again, and her eyes glittered with excitement. Once again her face appeared quite lovely. Then the smile faded to a smirk. “You are most curious, little poppinjay,” the priestess noted. “No doubt your curiosity led you to find a way from your cell.”

  “Maybe Finder told me how to escape,” Joel suggested. “The same as Bane told you.”

  Walinda glared at the bard, obviously finding the comparison between her god and his distasteful. “Perhaps I should simply betray you to the cultists in exchange for my freedom,” she said.

  Joel leaned against the bloodstained altar, appearing as casual as he could. “You could try,” he agreed amicably. The priestess had been prepared to attack him with some sort of spell. Whether Bane had granted it or not was moot at this point. He had no combat magic or weaponry at his disposal, which she probably guessed. Still, if she didn’t subdue him quickly with magic, he could no doubt overcome her with brute strength.

  With cold smiles, each priest eyed the other warily. Finally Walinda said, “Yet the cultists cannot be trusted to honor a bargain. Perhaps, since neither of us seems inclined to kill the other, we should ally with one another against the cultists in order to escape from this place.”

  Joel rubbed his hand against the stubble on his chin, debating the wisdom of such an act.

  “You are slave to a petty god who will one day be crushed by the Dark Lord,” Walinda declared, “yet I will swear by Bane that if you aid me, I will aid you, and not raise my hand against you until we have escaped from this rock.”

  “I have a companion I have to rescue,” Joel informed her.

  Walinda’s eyes narrowed. “The girl dressed in the colors of a Lathanderite?” she asked.

  “That’s her,” Joel replied.

  “Lathander is the sworn enemy of Bane.”

  “I’m not leaving without her,” Joel insisted.

  “When she looked at me, her eyes were full of hate,” the priestess said. “Would she be willing to honor our truce?”

  Holly, Joel realized, would not be happy about allying with Walinda, but she was a reasonable girl. Surely, he told himself, the paladin could restrain her enmity if it meant a chance to escape certain death at the hands of the Xvimists. He was sure he could convince her.

  Was he himself convinced an alliance was a good idea? There were several points in its favor. It was only temporary. Once he’d found Holly, the two of them would outnumber the priestess should she attempt to betray them. If Walinda really did know all the secrets of this place, she would be useful. Alternatively, Walinda was a woman who had willingly sacrificed her own followers. She was probably the torturer and murderer of the great black-skinned creature she had used as a figurehead on her ship. Joel knew he not only shouldn’t trust her, but he should despise her.

  Yet he held a grudging respect for the priestess. To walk into this proverbial dragon’s den had taken more than courage or foolhardiness. The woman was devoted to her god. Joel wondered if he would ever show himself as worthy of Finder as she had proven herself to Bane. Until he knew the answer, he felt a curious tie to the priestess, as if only she could help him discover it.

  “I agree,” he answered at last. “We have a truce, you and I, until we escape. We will aid e
ach other. You will help me rescue my companion, and I will ensure she keeps the bargain as well.” Joel paused, then remembered it was to be an oath. “I swear this in Finder’s name,” he added.

  Walinda bowed. Despite the plate armor encasing her figure, the bard couldn’t help being impressed with how slender and graceful the woman was. She replied, “And I, too, declare that we have a truce, you and I, and your companion, should we rescue her, until we are well clear of the Temple of the Sky and the Flaming Tower. I vow this in the name of the mightiest of gods, Lord Bane, who sleeps, waiting for his faithful to come to him.”

  And may he wait a long, long time, Joel thought privately. Aloud he asked, “So what now?”

  “Keep watch, Poppin, while I complete my research. I shall not be very much longer,” the priestess said. Then she returned to the book in the alcove.

  Joel watched her for a few minutes as she skimmed the pages of the book, apparently oblivious to his presence. Either she really trusted him now because he’d made an oath, or she did not perceive him to be any threat to her. The smile had returned to her face, and Joel found himself enchanted by the beauty of her features.

  A voice inside chided him. Stop being an idiot. The less you look at her, the safer you’ll be. The bard began pacing back and forth before the alcove, anxious to get going and free Holly. He thought of leaving Walinda to search for Holly himself, but realized it was far more reasonable to wait, since the priestess knew her way around.

  From the alcove, Walinda whispered, “Yes. At last.”

  Joel poked his head into the alcove. Removing a tiny blade from inside her bracers, Walinda began slicing pages out from the chained book. Something dark and liquid oozed from the cut edges that remained and pooled and clotted in the book’s spine.

  “It’s—it’s bleeding,” Joel gasped.

  Walinda looked up at the bard as she carefully folded the stolen leaves. “If you put your ear close,” she said, “you can hear it weep as well. A sweet sound … but we must go.” She slid the paper beneath her breastplate and swept out of the alcove.