by Kate Novak
“Who was it, Shend?” Mourngrym asked.
“That halfling Harper,” Shend replied.
“What halfling Harper?” Morala asked.
Shend’s eyes wandered up to the ceiling, as if the halfling’s name might be written there.
Alias felt her heart skip a beat. It can’t be, she thought.
“You know the one, Lady Alias,” Shend said. “The bard what helped you and Dragonbait kill the kalmari two years back. Tree name she ’ad … Peach or Maple or—”
“Olive,” Alias supplied, rubbing her temples with her fingers.
“That were it. Olive Rustiepan.”
“Ruskettle,” Alias corrected.
“Who?” Breck asked.
“There aren’t any halfling bards,” Morala pointed out.
“She’s a rogue,” Alias explained. “A thief … a minstrel … an adventuress.”
“Olive Ruskettle,” Breck murmured. “I don’t recall any Harpers by that name. Who was her sponsor?” he asked.
Alias swallowed. “Nameless,” she said softly.
“Nameless!” Morala exclaimed. “You mean he gave her a Harper’s pin?”
Alias nodded.
“Of all the reckless, arrogant—The man is impossible!” the priestess declared.
“Olive freed him from Cassana’s dungeon in Westgate, then helped him rescue Dragonbait and me,” Alias explained.
“She could be the Princess of Cormyr and we still wouldn’t accept Nameless’s sponsorship of her,” Morala insisted. “Nameless was exiled in disgrace. He has no business—”
“Excuse me, your grace,” Breck said, “but we might yet reverse our decision, in which case this Ruskettle might be of some use to us—that is, providing she wasn’t involved with this Grypht creature. Is it possible she might have allied with Grypht in the hope that it would rescue Nameless?” the ranger asked Alias.
Alias paused to consider. After the close call Olive had had with the pseudo-halfling Phalse, who had turned out to be a fiend from Tarterus, one would have thought that the halfling had learned her lesson about dealing with strangers. Still, Olive could be awfully unpredictable. She might do something truly foolish if she believed it would help Nameless. She had seemed exceptionally fond of the bard last year in Westgate.
On the other hand, Olive’s affection might work the other way. Alias had also noted that as long as Nameless’s attention had been fixed on her, the halfling had seemed to behave with unusual civility and honor. “She wouldn’t suggest a plan to Nameless that she knew he’d disapprove of,” Alias answered.
“Where could she have gone?” Mourngrym asked.
“She would have tried to see Nameless,” Alias said.
“She would have been trapped inside Nameless’s cell, then,” Mourngrym said. “She could still be in there, hiding behind the curtains or something.”
“Unless Grypht took her along with Nameless,” Breck suggested.
“Kyre didn’t mention seeing a halfling,” Mourngrym pointed out.
“A halfling could easily hide behind such a beast,” Breck replied. “Kyre might have missed seeing her in the excitement of the moment.”
“Or perhaps Kyre mistook Olive for an imp,” Alias said with a hint of sarcasm.
Breck glowered at the swordswoman. “Grypht was a denizen of the Nine Hells,” the ranger growled. “It had horns and scales and claws and a tail.”
“I think,” Morala interjected calmly, “that whatever Grypht is, it is not as important as where it took Nameless.”
“If your grace will excuse me,” Mourngrym said, “I’m going to have a second look at Nameless’s cell. Alias, do you want to come along to see how Akabar is doing?”
Alias glanced anxiously at Morala.
As if she could read the swordswoman’s mind, the priestess said, “I think Alias should stay here to keep me company until I recover sufficient strength to scry for Nameless. Breck, why don’t you accompany Lord Mourngrym? Maybe the halfling left some tracks you could follow or something.”
Breck sensed Morala was dismissing him, but he shrugged indifferently. Searching for a halfling would be far more interesting than watching the old priestess fuss and chant over a bowl of water.
The ranger and the guard, Shend, followed Lord Mourngrym out of the courtroom.
When the two of them were alone together in the room, Morala motioned for the swordswoman to have a seat near her.
As Alias pulled out a chair from behind the table, the priestess sat with her eyes closed, absentmindedly humming an A-minor scale, at the same time brushing her fingertips along the golden embroidery of her robe. Alias noticed specks of gold flaking from the robe. Suddenly Morala started visibly and snapped her eyes open, as if she’d been napping. Alias wondered if perhaps the ancient priestess’s wits weren’t beginning to flake away like the embroidered decorations on her ceremonial robe.
“How much longer until you’re rested enough to scry again?” Alias asked the priestess.
“Not long,” Morala replied, smiling at the swordswoman’s impatience. “Perhaps, in the meantime, you could tell me if you know anything about these disappearances.”
Alias stiffened. “You think this was a plan of mine to rescue Nameless, don’t you?” the swordswoman asked, unable to keep the anger from creeping into her tone.
“No … not really. I’ve been told you are a good woman. However, we must investigate every possibility before we can rule it out,” Morala replied calmly. “So tell me, child, did you have anything to do with Elminster’s or Nameless’s disappearance?”
“No, I didn’t,” Alias answered hotly. “If I had wanted to free Nameless, I certainly wouldn’t have involved Elminster, and I wouldn’t have needed help from some wizard or whatever this Grypht is. And I wouldn’t admit it to you, anyway.”
“Yes … I can believe that,” Morala said with a chuckle. “But then, I’ve cast a detect lie spell on you.”
Alias’s eyes narrowed angrily. She was unaccustomed to having her word questioned, let alone magically analyzed. She was even more annoyed that she hadn’t caught on to Morala’s spell. The old priestess hadn’t been drifting off to sleep after all; she’d been concentrating on her spell. “I should have realized. Milil is the lord of all songs. Music is a language, too. That humming was actually your spell chant, wasn’t it?” the swordswoman asked.
Morala nodded. “Nameless taught you well,” she said. For a few moments, she studied Alias’s face. “You may look like Cassana, but there is nothing of her in you,” she said.
“Did you know Cassana personally,” Alias asked, “or are you merely comparing me to the character in the opera about her and her lich lover Zrie Prakis?”
Morala chuckled. “I knew her. I wrote that opera.”
Alias’s eyes widened. “You did? I … I didn’t know. I’ve never heard it sung. Elminster told me about it. Why did you ever want to write an opera about Cassana?”
“At the time, Cassana’s evil was a danger to us all,” the priestess explained, “but she had many powerful friends, and the Harpers didn’t have the strength to drive her from the north. The opera made the details of the sorceress’s life common knowledge. Cassana couldn’t stand ridicule. The gossip following the opera’s performance caused her sufficient embarrassment to leave the region,” Morala said. A grin lit up her wrinkled face.
Alias grinned back. She found herself liking the foxy old woman, even if she was a priestess and one of Nameless’s judges.
“I have something else I want to show you,” the priestess said, holding out a lump of what appeared to be ordinary red mud. “I picked this up from the floor. Grypht held it when he first appeared. It’s clay—of very high quality and rare color.”
“Maybe this duke of the Nine Hells is a potter,” Alias joked.
Morala smiled gently. “The clay was glowing when Grypht first appeared … as would a spell component,” she explained.
“Don’t creatures from the lower
planes have a natural ability to cast magic without spell components?” Alias asked.
“That’s what I’ve always been told,” Morala answered. “Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Kyre knocked the clay out of the beast’s hand and ruined its spell before it was cast, so we don’t know what the beast intended. In clerical spells, clay is a component that affects stone, though I’m sure it has other uses in spells for wizards. Elminster might have been able to identify such spells for us. Could your friend Akabar Bel Akash do so?”
“Akabar’s pretty clever,” Alias replied. “When he recovers, we can ask him. So you think Kyre made a mistake?”
“In elvish, Kyre means ‘flawless,’ ” Morala said, shaking her head. “She has a reputation for not making mistakes. I think it more likely she wanted us to believe that Grypht was something evil.” Morala smiled slyly.
“You mean you think she lied?” Alias asked with surprise. “Why would she do that?”
“She may have put some personal goal ahead of her duties as a Harper,” Morala suggested. “Kyre is a bard, after all.”
“You think she planned Nameless’s escape!” Alias guessed. “Grypht is just a smoke screen. Then Nameless is all right!” Alias said excitedly. “You don’t have to scry for him!”
“But I do,” Morala insisted. “Kyre might have made a foolish alliance. Grypht may not be from the Nine Hells, but he still could be an evil wizard. He might be holding Nameless against his will, threatening his life.”
“But suppose Nameless is all right?” Alias asked.
“He must still be brought back here for his trial,” Morala said.
Alias’s face fell. “Don’t you think Nameless has suffered enough?”
“You misunderstand, child. The Harpers did not send Nameless to the Citadel of White Exile to make him suffer. We sent him there in order to protect other innocents from his reckless behavior.”
“But you don’t have to send him back,” Alias insisted. “He’s sorry about the apprentice who was killed and the one who was hurt. He wouldn’t do anything like that again. Besides, now that he’s done creating his singer, he’s satisfied.”
“Is he?” Morala mused. She leaned forward and stroked Alias’s hair with a withered hand. “He would be a fool not to be pleased with you, child. Tell me, do you love Nameless?”
Alias lifted her chin and answered proudly, “Yes, I do.”
“As a daughter loves a father?” Morala asked.
Alias nodded.
Morala pursed her lips together and shook her head sadly. Alias could see that the old woman’s eyes were moist with tears. “He does not deserve your love,” the priestess whispered.
“Love is something people give freely,” Alias argued. “It’s not a commodity to be earned or forfeited.”
Morala sighed and clasped her hands together in her lap. “Yes. That’s the problem, all right. It doesn’t have to be earned, and it is not easily forfeited.” Morala was silent for several moments. Then she said coldly, “Maryje loved Nameless, though not as a father. Maryje was one of Nameless’s apprentices … the one who was wounded.”
“She lost her voice, then she committed suicide,” Alias recalled from Nameless’s tale. “Is that why you can’t forgive Nameless … because Maryje was a friend of yours?”
Morala took Alias’s hands in her own and squeezed them hard. “I cannot forgive Nameless because he lied, and his lie bound Maryje to her wounds, and her wounds bound her to her shame, and her shame bound her to her death. The truth would have set her free, and she would not have killed herself.”
“What lie?” Alias demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Ask him,” Morala demanded. “Ask Nameless to tell you the truth—the truth he would not admit to Elminster, the truth he would not tell the Harpers, the truth about himself that even he is ashamed of. If he will do that, he will set himself free and even I will forgive him.”
Alias pulled her hands away from the priestess and backed her chair away. Her heart was racing wildly, and despite her wool tunic, she felt chilled. “Suppose I don’t want to hear this truth?” she asked.
“I thought you loved him,” Morala said. “Would you have him bear the burden of his guilt to his grave?”
“All right, I’ll ask him,” Alias said defiantly, “and he’ll tell me, and I won’t love him any less, whatever it is he says.”
“I did not think that you would,” Morala replied.
“Why won’t you just tell me what it is?” Alias asked with a growing sense of frustration.
“I intend this test to remind Nameless of what he has already taught you about love but seems unable to remember for himself,” the priestess explained. Morala’s mood became suddenly businesslike. She slapped her hands down on her thighs and said, “First, though, we must find Nameless. I am rested enough, now.” She held her hand out.
Alias rose hastily to her feet and helped the old woman rise from her chair and return to the table. The swordswoman watched curiously while Morala cleaned out the silver bowl and refilled it with more holy water.
A growl came from across the room. Alias looked up. Dragonbait stood in the courtroom door with Akabar’s wife, Zhara. The saurial paladin pointed at a spot on the floor directly before him. He wasn’t in a patient mood.
“Excuse me,” Alias said to Morala. “I have to see what my friend wants.”
Morala nodded without looking up from her silver bowl. Alias hurried toward the lizard. Dragonbait thrust a dead, singed thistle at her and signed furiously.
“What do you mean, you were attacked by thistles?” Alias asked with annoyance. “What were you doing? Walking through Korhun Lherar’s old pastures?”
Dragonbait signed again.
“In her room?” Alias asked. “Of course I didn’t send them. What do I know about thistles?”
Where’s Akabar? the saurial signed.
“Resting,” Alias said. “He … uh, he wasn’t feeling very well,” she explained briefly, not wanting to give Zhara the details of Akabar’s attack. She’d heard enough of the priestess’s interpretations.
Take us to him, Dragonbait demanded.
“Morala is about to begin to scry for Nameless,” Alias explained. “He’s missing. He may have been kidnapped. Can’t you wait?” she asked impatiently.
No. Immediately, Dragonbait signed.
Alias huffed angrily, but from the garlic scent the saurial emitted, she could tell he wasn’t going to give in. “All right,” she growled. Just in case Kyre hadn’t yet made any progress in convincing Akabar of the folly of his priestess wife, Alias suggested, “Zhara, maybe you’d like to wait here.”
Dragonbait shook his head.
“She’ll be fine here,” Alias said, signing to Dragonbait that Zhara must stay in the courtroom.
The saurial ignored her. He stomped his foot.
“Fine,” Alias whispered angrily. “Have it your way.” The swordswoman looked back at Morala. The elderly priestess had aleady begun her chant, so Alias didn’t dare disturb her. “Follow me,” she said, striding purposefully out of the courtroom.
Morala was vaguely aware that Alias had departed, but she was too wrapped up in her spell chant to find out where the swordswoman had gone. Several minutes later, the water in the silver bowl began to sparkle and shine, and the priestess ceased her chant.
Squinting into the water, Morala could just barely discern the features of the Nameless Bard. His face was illuminated by a flickering torch, but everything else about him was masked in darkness. The priestess sighed. The bard could be anywhere—in a cave somewhere on the same world as Elminster, in the tunnels beneath Waterdeep, in a closet in the tower of Ashaba—anywhere.
Morala motioned over the water with her hands. Now she could see a second torch, held by a small figure walking beside Nameless. “Well, well. It must be our little halfling Harper,” the priestess muttered. As she turned her attention back to Nameless, an angry look swept over the bard’s face. �
��What’s wrong, Nameless?” Morala mused aloud. “Where are you, and what are you up to?”
7
Beneath Finder’s Keep
Finder cursed under his breath as he and Olive turned a corner of the underground tunnels and were forced to another halt. Olive sighed with resignation. Their way was blocked by a wall of rocks, dirt, and mud where the ceiling had caved into the passage. It was the fourth such obstacle they’d encountered. The first had been at the base of the stairs that led from the ruined manor house to the underground tunnels. It had taken them an hour to clear a hole through it. The second collapse hadn’t been as severe, and within half an hour they’d wriggled their way through. When they came upon the third collapse, Finder had decided to backtrack to the stairs and try a different route through the maze of twisting tunnels. Now they had no choice but to start digging again.
“If I hadn’t lost the stone, we could have taken a dimensional door into the workshop,” Finder growled, kicking at the base of the pile of rubble.
Trying to keep Finder from dwelling on the loss of his stone, Olive remarked, “Unless the roof in the workshop collapsed, too. Then we’d be transported beneath a pile of rubble and dead.”
“No,” Finder replied, shoving his torch into the base of the rubble. “Then the dimension door would leave us in the astral plane. The workshop will be fine, though,” he said. “Nothing could have gotten in there.”
“Half a ton of rock doesn’t need a key,” Olive pointed out, setting her own torch beside Finder’s.
“True,” Finder said, “but these ceilings haven’t collapsed from anything natural.” He pointed to a portion of the arched ceiling that was still intact. It was lined with quarried stone, perfectly fitted. “We haven’t found any of the quarried stone in the piles,” he said.
“It would probably be at the bottom of the pile,” Olive replied. “We haven’t dug that deep.”
Finder shook his head. “Some of it would be on the edges. It’s impossible for an arch to collapse unless some of the stone is removed.” The bard pointed to the top of the collapsed portion. “It wasn’t pried or chipped out, and it didn’t fracture in a straight line. See how circular the collapsed parts are—making an arc right through the stones?”
