Key of Stars

by Bruce R Cordell

  The Lord of Bats narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

  Tamur’s hackles rose.

  “Then pay attention,” said Malyanna. “I’ve dropped enough hints. But since you seem too thick to put things together …”

  The man motioned for her to continue.

  “I thought I had to rouse the Eldest so he could take up the Key of Stars,” she continued. “You remember?”

  “I believe you said it was something the Sovereignty made,” Neifion replied.

  “The Key of Stars was a relic forged when the Abolethic Sovereignty fell into the world. When the Eldest finds and takes up the Key, it can travel to the Temple of the Outer Void. There, with Key in hand, the Eldest can usher in an age of wonder and glory unlike Toril has ever seen.” Her eyes sparkled like the light of a dying star.

  “But you can’t rouse the Eldest—,” said Neifion.

  “And I may not need to,” replied Malyanna. “I’ve had an insight. I aim to bypass the craggy old aboleth. Let it sleep. I shall find the Key of Stars myself!”

  “I see,” said Neifion. “I hope you’re not playing me for a fool. Because I get the impression there is much you’re still not telling me. For instance, what’s all this with temples and outer voids, and ages of wonder? You’ve never mentioned that before.”

  “All I have said is true,” the woman said. She closed the book and smiled.

  The hound judged its owner and Neifion would not immediately go for each other’s throats, and returned to its snacking. It kept one ear cocked just in case.

  The room shuddered. A distant call of horns, high and pure, sounded somewhere overhead. Despite the stone and iron that encased the secluded reading room, the notes clearly penetrated.

  “Better hurry,” said the Lord of Bats. “Something gathers against us above. I sense a force more potent than scribes and children in librarian’s garb.”

  “I’m done,” Malyanna replied. “This tome has the answers I sought. Already it’s given me something to go on. The Key of Stars is in Faerûn! Or at least it lies in a splintered echo … And I know where.”

  “Splintered echo?” the Lord of Bats said. He shook his head. “Never mind, because I just had a grand idea, if you’ll indulge me?”

  Malyanna waited.

  “Since you know where to find your Key,” continued Neifion, “let’s visit the warlock on the way. No, let me finish—If it turns out this crumbling book is out of date, and you can’t actually locate the Key of Stars, your original plan will return to the fore; with the Dreamheart rejuvenated, you’ll be able to rouse the Eldest with no time wasted.”

  “You don’t care about the Sovereignty or the Key,” accused Malyanna.

  “No. Why would I? You’ve kept too many secrets, my lovely. I suspect you hold close even more, none of which I’m likely to find comforting when they come to light.”

  “You should show more reverence for what the Sovereignty offers,” the eladrin said.

  “I am your ally; that’ll have to suffice,” Neifion replied. “Let us find Japheth, end his life, and we’ll both be the better for it. I’ll have a favorite new homunculus to play with, and you’ll be able to give the Sovereignty its lord, if necessary.”

  Malyanna frowned. “Perhaps my pride has obscured my oaths,” she said. “If I, rather than the Eldest, open the Far Manifold, the benefits I shall reap would be unthinkable, compared to what I could expect as a simple intermediary. But … I am pledged to the Sovereignty. Your logic may be correct.”

  “Of course it is.”

  The eladrin tucked the codex into the crook of one arm. Her other arm shot up. A fingtertip brushed Neifion’s forehead.

  A smell of flash-cooked meat drew an instinctual growl of yearning from Tamur. The Lord of Bats also growled as claws ripped through the ends of his fingers. His voice dropped an octave as he said, “You dare!?”

  “Your argument has convinced me,” said Malyanna. “I have given you the means to track Japheth. The mark will lead you to him. Now we can split our efforts. Better yet, you’ll no longer be underfoot. Your presence annoys me.”

  Tamur edged closer, readying himself to spring between the half-transformed Lord of Bats and his mistress.

  A greenish symbol writhed on Neifion’s forehead. He raised a clawed hand and rubbed at the mark. It squirmed away from direct contact.

  “I’ll forgive this insult, Malyanna,” said Neifion. “Because … I can smell Japheth.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Year of the Secret (1396DR)

  New Sarshell, Impiltur

  Raidon Kane’s sandals crunched on gravel and dried dung. Tables, gaping doors, and overhanging balconies pressed in on either side of the cobblestone way. The morning sun lent the stone walls an eye watering clarity. Wine churned in Raidon’s stomach, trying to find its own equilibrium.

  How had it come to wine? Tea was the drink that used to bring him comfort. But last night even West Lake Dragon Well had left him hollow. Despite Angul’s punishing sparks, he’d ordered a bottle, and hit the city streets. How long ago had that been?

  A gale of music issued from a two-story inn to Raidon’s left. It was a simple drinking song, ridiculous on its face, yet scores of voices contributed.

  The sound of effortless happiness scraped at his ears. He frowned. He’d been wandering the “bad side” of town to avoid such reminders of normal life. With the bottle of red in his hand, he’d been trying to besot himself all the previous evening. For a while, the road had threatened to spin beneath his feet, and he thought he’d achieved his goal.

  But it had failed to blunt his despair.

  He’d been a fool to think it would help.

  As the tavern song meandered on, Raidon realized how far he’d really fallen. Was he to become a town drunk, suited for nothing better than staggering the streets of New Sarshell, chasing a chimera of equanimity?

  “No,” he whispered. With his free hand, he touched the hilt of the sword sheathed at his belt. With a snap of searing cerulean fire, Angul burned the confusion from him.

  Raidon’s mind cloud faded, but a headache smote him like a thunderclap.

  Angul did not care for wielders too far in their cups; the blade couldn’t apply its influence through a haze of alcohol. Which could have been why the blade’s previous owner was driven to drink … Raidon let go of the hilt.

  He dashed the wine bottle to the cobbles. The sound of its shattering glass went through his achy head like a spike. As if in a chain reaction, the first tendrils of nausea brushed the half-elf’s stomach.

  Raidon plunged down the nearest alley, seeking shadow and escape from the tavern song.

  In the narrow way, the street cobbles were broken and buckled from lack of maintenance. Blank walls frowned down on either side, so close that the sun failed to find any purchase. The monk paused, reaching for some semblance of his focus, but the sounds of conversation distracted him.

  A gang of humans and dwarves lingered at the alley’s far end.

  “This is a dead end, Shou,” said one. “You shouldn’t’ve come this way.”

  Raidon focused on the speaker, a dwarf in brown leather, bedecked with angular tattoos. The threat implicit in the speech wiped away Raidon’s nausea. He took a deep breath, feeling anger take the place of despair.

  “Did you hear me?” yelled the dwarf.

  “Yes,” Raidon said. “But here I am nonetheless.”

  “Then you got a death wish,” the dwarf replied. “Everyone knows this alley is ours.”

  “If I had a death wish, I’d seek foes instead of pimple-faced children like you,” Raidon said. The words spilled from his mouth like bitter dregs.

  The dwarf’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Raidon expected he’d roar, “Get him,” or utter some other ridiculous call to action.

  Instead, the dwarf drew two medium-length blades in a single elegant motion and stamped forward, while his sword tips executed a technically perfect figure eight through the air, each arc desig
ned to end in the monk’s neck.

  Raidon was adept at countering a single blade, even in the hands of an accomplished swordsperson. But overcoming a dual-wielding blademaster required greater delicacy. He backpedaled to give himself a chance to study his opponent’s style.

  The dwarf chuckled. He continued forward as his blades carried on their hypnotic dance. Instead of joining in, the thugs behind the dwarf were more interested in jeering and describing how they would divide up the Shou’s belongings once the dwarf dispatched the monk.

  Angul muttered in its sheath, drawing attention to itself. As if Raidon needed the relic’s help to dispatch a mundane threat! He faced a dwarf, though obviously one especially skilled with weapons.

  As his opponent shuffled closer, the half-elf dropped low and spun. His leg lashed out, his arcing heel crashing into the dwarf’s exposed calf.

  The dwarf stumbled to the side, his swords crossing. It was the distraction Raidon wanted.

  The monk spun out of his low crouch, stepped in, and elbowed the back of the dwarf’s hand. One of the dwarf’s swords clattered to the street.

  Raidon shifted his hips so that his other shoulder angled toward his enemy’s chest. When the dwarf swung his remaining weapon, Raidon countered by chopping at the bearded man’s neck and the forearm simultaneously. He slid one hand down and captured the dwarf’s thumb where it gripped the sword’s hilt. He stamped down one foot on the dwarf’s toe, and simultaneously pushed and wrenched. Raidon’s foe finally toppled, and Raidon held his blade.

  The tattooed observers shouted in surprise. “Hemet?” said one.

  “This Shou knows his forms,” said the dwarf. He made to stand, but Raidon shook his head.

  The dwarf continued, “He probably studied in one of those fancy monasteries in Telflamm or Phsant. Thinks he’s better than me.”

  “No way, Hemet!” called another in the gang.

  “Damn straight!” said Hemet. “He just caught me by surprise. But there’s no way he’s better than all of us!”

  The gang roared and rushed the monk.

  Raidon spun his borrowed weapon to a new grip, then hurled it end over end. The blade spun through the air into the press. It drew no blood, but it did make the group pause for a heartbeat, giving Raidon time to leap straight up.

  His hands caught an overhanging lantern pole. He jerked his body up and around, managing to catch one of his attackers under the jaw as he did so. He lingered for a moment, standing on his hands on the bar, his feet high in the air overhead.

  Then he spun down and around, once, twice, the air shrieking in his ears; he released just after the third revolution. His momentum propelled him through the air in a curving arc that deposited him several dozen feet back up the alley, only a few steps from its entrance, leaving the gang far behind.

  His headache complained, as did Angul. The sword didn’t want Raidon to abandon the fight. It sensed how easy it would be to take out the entire group of ne’er-do-wells, probably even the dwarf Hemet.

  Raidon didn’t disagree. Rushing back down the alley was what he most craved. Because … For the duration of the much-too-short conflict, he hadn’t given a single thought to what he’d done.

  He hadn’t thought about how he’d killed the memory of a little girl named Opal in the nightmare city of Xxiphu.

  Raidon growled, a noise uncommon on the lips of half-elves and Xiang temple initiates alike. Hot needles seemed to prick his brain. His hands clenched so tightly his nails drew blood from his palms.

  A red fury trembled in his limbs—Anger at his own childishness. The damned alley gang had drawn Raidon’s attention away from his brooding, yes. But in doing so, they had laid bare Raidon’s own unconscious deficits. The meaningless fight showed the half-elf for what he was—a hollow man who couldn’t order his own thoughts without violence to distract him.

  Then … What was that odd smell? It wasn’t from anything present in the alley.

  Something sweet. Something familiar …

  The street ceased spinning. A scent like honey drew Raidon’s mind into the past in a twinkling. He was a child again, a boy of seven or eight years. His mother stood before him, kneeling down with one hand on his forehead. Tears were wetting his cheeks.

  His mother?

  Raidon tried to shake off the unbidden vision. But his ruined mind conspired with the aftereffects of the wine to blind him. The memory was too strong.

  His mother stood before him. Erunyauvë—the enigmatic star elf he’d sought for years but had never found, who had left him the Cerulean Seal that blazoned his chest like a tattoo.

  Her soft voice assailed him. “Poor Raidon,” she said. “You suffer so much. Give me your hand.”

  Warm, firm hands took his own.

  Then the memory dissipated. With it went the rage that had billowed him like a sail, and the headache too.

  Instead of charging back into the alleyway and murdering the lot of his accidental foes, Raidon turned and entered the main street. In place of the odd vision remained a twinge of conscious: regardless of the nature of the men in the alley, an initiate of Xiang Temple would not seek them out merely as an excuse to exercise his own failings.

  With his breath coming a little easier, Raidon turned his feet toward Marhana Manor.

  Anusha Marhana walked around fragments of broken mirror. The silvery shards littered the hallway, the thickest concentration near the open doorway at the end. Inside the doorway was an office, or the remnants of one. The desk lay on its side, papers spilling out of its drawers. The stuffed osprey she remembered from countless visits was no longer attached to its mount, and its feathers were everywhere. A thin stratum of dust covered everything.

  Another mess, she thought, left behind by her half brother for her to clean up. “Behroun, you couldn’t just leave peacefully, could you?” she asked the air.

  The black dog at her heels leaned its head against the side of her leg. She idly patted it.

  Behroun had been living in Marhana Manor, up to his old schemes. The man had somehow learned that Green Siren was back in port, and had fled the manor before Japheth and Anusha had arrived. He’d ransacked his own office before leaving, apparently gathering up the most important contracts and who knew what else. Japheth wanted to go after Behroun, but Anusha had asked him to wait. The warlock had complied, though he said Behroun still owed a debt.

  She hoped her instinct for mercy had been the correct one.

  Yes, it had to be, she thought. Let Behroun go. Surely the man couldn’t do any more harm. Let it be punishment enough for someone on his way to becoming a powerful member of New Sarshell’s Grand Council to be rendered powerless, with no hope of regaining his former stature.

  She remembered when she’d accidentally spied Behroun while dreamwalking. He’d muttered something about wishing he could have her slain. The memory made the hair on her neck prickle.

  “I’m done thinking about my brother,” said Anusha.

  The dog’s tail wagged all the harder. “Don’t worry, Lucky,” she said. “I’m not talking about you, boy. You’re good, yes, you are!”

  She gave the dog a couple more pets, then righted the desk chair. She relished the smooth, hardwood feel of it. She’d spent so long in her dreamform, where her every interaction with the world required concentration. It was a pleasure simply to grab something and hold it without fear it would slip between her imaginary fingers.

  “Madam?”

  The manor’s steward stood in the office doorway.

  “Yes?” Anusha said.

  “Wouldn’t you rather let staff finish with this, madam?” asked the man. “You’ve made a great start. You must be tired by now.”

  “I just got here, actually,” said Anusha.

  “Ah, yes,” said the steward. “Well, in point of fact, tea is served in the salon, as you requested.”

  “Oh! Thank you for reminding me.”

  Anusha and the steward left Behroun’s office. Lucky gave a couple of sniffs t
o the stuffed osprey lying on the floor, then followed. They made their way through a long hall back to the main manor, through the entrance hall, and finally to the salon.

  The manor’s sitting room, built into the base of a corner tower, was decorated in themes of silver and cream. A table and several comfy chairs were arranged in the room’s center. High windows allowed pleasant views out into the garden surrounding the home.

  Anusha took her place at the tea service and called the dog over to curl up on the floor behind her.

  A total of five settings were arranged around the table. Steam puffed from the spout of a silver kettle next to a silver plate heaped with nuts, fried dumplings, and plums.

  “Where is everyone?” Anusha asked.

  “Captain Thoster and Mistress Seren are seeing to private business in the city,” the steward said. “Master Raidon never returned from his evening constitutional, I’m afraid. And Master Japheth continues working on his project down in the catacombs.”

  “I see,” Anusha said, hiding her annoyance. She’d invited everyone to stay in the manor when Green Siren returned to dock. She knew, intellectually, that her generosity didn’t give her the right to dictate their schedules—but everyone’s blatant absence rankled.

  Didn’t anyone but her care that a hoary old city of aboleths had breached the Sea of Fallen Stars?

  Like the others, she had been eager to rest in New Sarshell after they had escaped Xxiphu. More eager, probably; no one else had been drawn into the city against their will, as she had. What a relief to think only about day-to-day concerns for a while, and common pleasures. For her, food had come near the top of that list. And real sleep, uninterrupted by out-of-body adventures. Even simply walking down a hallway constructed of wood and stone was pleasing, as opposed to rough corridors coated in slime and patches of mind-stealing ice.

  Anusha relished being home and having a semblance of her life again. But the memory of a black splinter hovering over storm-lashed water was an intruder in nearly everything she did. As the days passed, the image became harder and harder to ignore.

  She had waited for Raidon or Japheth to broach the topic, or even Captain Thoster or the war wizard, Seren.