by Tim Waggoner
Standing in the open doorway was a bearded man in a ragged cloak. He held a bow at the ready, another arrow already nocked and trained on Ghaji. The half-orc took three hesitant steps toward the door before his knees buckled and he collapsed.
Leontis gazed at Diran, his expression unreadable.
“Greetings, my brother. Looks like I arrived just in time—as usual.”
As the artificers attacked, Tresslar wished he’d foregone the Tinker’s Room tradition of not entering with a weapon in hand. The Fury-crazed men and women would be on them in seconds—not nearly enough time for Tresslar to rummage around in his pack for a device to defend himself and his friends.
“Solus?” Tresslar shouted.
“The Fury has too strong a hold on them,” the psiforged said, sounding eerily calm in the face of the artificers’ murderous fury. “I cannot reach their minds.”
Tresslar was about to suggest Solus try telekinesis, but before he could say anything, Illyia spread her arms and the mystic bubbles that comprised her outfit burst outward in a shower of translucent spheres. Separate bubbles flew toward each of the attacking artificers, growing larger as they went. The spheres molded around the artificers’ heads without popping and sealed themselves tight.
The men and women stopped their attack, frowning and blinking in confusion, as if they had just woken from some manner of strange group dream.
Solus nodded in appreciation. “Very impressive.”
Tresslar looked to Illyia, who now stood completely and unashamedly naked. He opened his mouth to echo the psiforged’s comment—though with an entirely different meaning—but then Hinto, as if his short time as Solus’s companion had granted him telepathic powers of his own cut off the artificer.
“Don’t you dare say it!”
Tresslar scowled at the halfling while Illyia laughed.
Yvka prepared to send the mystic quill streaking into Zivon’s heart, and damn the consequences. Either the Grand Hierarchs of House Thuranni would understand or they wouldn’t, but whatever final judgment they might render upon her, she wasn’t going to die at the end of a glutton’s fork.
She danced aside as Zivon swiped his improvised weapon at her, but in so doing she lost her grip on the quill, and the enchanted feather fell to the floor. Zivon tried one more strike, this one coming closer to landing, and the elf-woman barely avoided being skewered.
“Bilge-rot!” Yvka swore, and reached into her pouch to find another weapon. But as her fingers rifled through the remaining objects within, Zivon lunged at her a third time, the tines of his fork aimed for her jugular.
Yvka prepared to throw herself to the side to avoid Zivon’s strike, but she felt a sudden burning sensation on the inner flesh of her left forearm, and she winced, momentarily distracted by the pain—but a moment was all Zivon needed.
But before Zivon could plunge the fork into Yvka’s neck, a patch of darkness appeared in front of the man’s face and sealed itself tight to his features, as if it were an ebon mask. Zivon broke off his attack, dropped his fork, and clawed at the darkness clinging to his face. He staggered backward. His foot landed on some kind of bright-red glop that Yvka thought might have once been sorbet, and his legs flew out from under him. He fell backwards and landed on his rump with a tailbone-jarring thud.
Yvka realized then that the sounds of fighting—angry shouts, cries of pain, blows landed by fists, feet, and utensils—had ceased. The Fury was over.
The dark mask covering Zivon’s face was gone, and he sat looking up at Yvka as if he didn’t quite recognize her, his expression no longer contorted by madness, his features calm, if confused.
The burning sensation on Yvka’s forearm had subsided somewhat, but it still hurt. She rolled back her sleeve to examine her forearm, and for a moment she stared in stunned disbelief at the stylized blue mark on her flesh.
Sovereigns! She’d manifested a dragonmark! She recognized it as the Mark of Shadow, one of the dragonmarks carried by both House Phiarlan and House Thuranni.
Zivon recognized the mark, too, and smiled. “Well, well, well … the Hierarchs will most definitely be interested in this development!”
Zivon held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Yvka reached out to help him up.
Two dagger wounds and an arrow in the back … and not one of the blows came from an enemy.” Ghaji shook his head in disgust. “If someone is ever foolish enough to write our adventures, Diran, I hope they leave this chapter out.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but I had no choice.”
Ghaji brushed Diran’s apology aside with a gesture. “Of course you didn’t. I would’ve been upset if you’d done anything else. I am, however, grateful that you took the time to heal me before I bled to death.”
While divine magic could raise the dead, priests of the Silver Flame refused to perform that particular feat and nothing could get them to consider otherwise. The Purified believed that once a spirit departed the world of the living, it joined with the Silver Flame. That joining was, in the view of their religion, the Ultimate Good and much to be desired—though of course one’s death should never be intentionally hastened to fulfill this destiny, wondrous and beautiful though it might be. Ghaji knew that as much as Diran cared for him, the priest would never raise him from the dead, and while Ghaji didn’t share Diran’s religion, he respected the priest’s views and accepted them.
Diran, Ghaji, and the rest of their companions stood outside in the inner courtyard of Calida’s palace. Though the air was chilly, the sky was clear and the sun bright. Statues of rabbits being chased by a fox encircled a fountain. Clear water burbled from the top of the fountain to splash into the basin below. Despite the temperature, the water remained warm so that it wouldn’t freeze. According to Tresslar, this was due to the presence of a minor fire elemental that was contained within the fountain. The animal statues were tall as halflings, and they stood on their hind legs, as if they weren’t true representations of a fox and hares, but rather people wearing costumes. Ghaji hadn’t seen any books during his time growing up in the Eldeen Reaches—who would waste time trying to teach a dumb half-orc to read? But the statues made him think of the illustrations one might find in tales written to delight children.
The animals certainly seemed to amuse Taran. The boy—dressed in a fur-lined doublet, trousers, boots, and a warm cloak—ran laughing from one statue to the next, climbing this one, pretending that another spoke to him in words only he could hear, running to the edge of the fountain’s basin and scooping a handful of water to splash on another. The boy played as if he’d never played before in his life, and Ghaji supposed that he hadn’t.
Calida stood watching her son, smiling, her eyes moist with tears. The woman had begun crying when Diran first brought Taran to her, and she hadn’t stopped since. Ghaji was surprised that she still had any tears left to shed. But then, Calida had been storing her tears for a long time.
“Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude, Father.”
Ghaji was taken aback to hear Calida refer to Diran that way, though as a member of the Order of Friars, the appropriate honorific for Diran was Brother. Sometimes Ghaji forgot that his friend was a priest, and that his position inspired a certain amount of deference from others, even from the non-Purified.
“Words aren’t necessary,” Diran said gently. “Your tears of joy and your son’s laughter speak more eloquently than words ever could.”
Calida still appeared tired and weak, but her color had improved, and she was no longer listless. She wore a long fur-trimmed robe, with a hood and large sleeves that, when put together, functioned as a muff. There were no guards within the inner courtyard to keep watch on the Baroness and her son. The courtyard was completely enclosed, and Calida—though she hadn’t said so directly—obviously trusted her visitors to ensure the safety of herself and Taran.
Ghaji glanced at the others. They stood a dozen yards from where the half-orc and the priest spoke with the Baroness, w
atching Taran play and speaking in low tones. Ghaji had been relieved when their companions reached the palace unharmed. According to reports from the city watch, many people hadn’t been so fortunate when the full, unfettered force of the Fury had been unleashed on Kolbyr. The watch was still tallying the number of dead. Ghaji had been especially glad to see that Yvka had suffered no injuries, though he’d tried his best not to appear unduly concerned about her when she’d arrived at the palace. Yvka could take care of herself just fine, and she expected Ghaji to respect that—and he did, but he’d still felt like giving her a fierce bear hug when she’d entered the courtyard unharmed.
Tresslar, Hinto, and Solus were also none the worse for wear, though for some reason the artificer seemed distracted, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Probably worrying about his lost wand, Ghaji decided. Ironically, of all the companions, only Ghaji and Asenka had sustained any serious injuries during the Fury. Ghaji had taken dagger blows from Diran, and then an arrow in the back from the priest who’d arrived to help at the last moment. The man sat by himself on the edge of the fountain’s basin, looking down into the pool of water within, lost in thoughtful solitude. Ghaji wondered if the priest, who evidently was an old acquaintance of Diran’s, was praying. The man, named Leontis, seemed too grim, and somehow too sad to be praying, though.
Asenka had also suffered a number of wounds: the first batch from the palace guards she’d attacked when the Fury had taken hold of her, but the last and most serious injury was delivered by an arrow strike compliments of Leontis. The priest had been forced to disable Asenka to gain entrance into Taran’s chamber. Ghaji had expected Leontis to make amends by healing Asenka, but he’d left that task to Diran, who’d also healed the guards that Asenka had come near to slaying. Ghaji had only ever met a few Silver Flame priests besides Diran, but he’d never known any of them to not give aid to others when it was needed. He was puzzled by Leontis’s reluctance to heal Asenka, and he intended to ask Diran about it when the two of them were alone.
“If there’s anything you need,” Calida said, “anything at all …”
“There is something you could do,” Diran said. “Not for us, but for your people—and the people of Perhata. The enmity between your two cities originated from the curse, but now that the Fury has been dispelled, there is nothing to prevent you and Baron Mahir from making peace. Together, your two cities could take full advantage of all the Gulf of Ingjald has to offer, and the Gulf could become an economic power to rival any in the Principalities.”
“Not to mention the fact that your people wouldn’t have to kill each other anymore,” Ghaji added. “Unless they felt like it, that is.”
Calida smiled at the half-orc’s joke. “A hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge. I’ll send an envoy to begin talks with Mahir, and we’ll see how things go from there.” Before she could add anything more, Taran came running up to her and began tugging on her sleeve.
“Mommy, come splash in the fountain with me!” He lowered his voice and cast a sideways glance at Leontis. “The man in the robe scares me a little.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” She looked back to Diran and Ghaji. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Diran and Ghaji nodded and the Baroness allowed her son to lead her to the fountain—on the other side from where Leontis still sat brooding. As mother and son began playing in the mystically heated water, Ghaji turned to Diran.
“What’s wrong with your friend? I’m not always the most sociable man myself, but even I find it odd that he’s keeping apart from the rest of us like that—especially after making such an effort to help us fight the demon.”
“I’m not certain,” Diran said. “Leontis and I trained with Tusya, and afterward attended seminary together. Although we were once close as brothers, we drifted apart over the years. I haven’t seen him since the day I took my vows. It’s obvious that something is troubling him, and I suspect it’s no coincidence that he is here in Kolbyr the same time we are. I shall speak with him alone later.”
Leontis wasn’t the first person from Diran’s past to turn up since Ghaji had begun traveling with the priest—there was Makala—but the fact that Diran said the two men had once been like brothers made Ghaji feel a twinge of jealousy. He knew it was ridiculous of him to feel like that, and more than a little embarrassing, but Diran was the only true friend the half-orc had ever had in his life. The priest was the closest thing Ghaji had to family, and childish though it might be, Ghaji didn’t like the idea of sharing his friend with someone else. Plus, there was something about Leontis that bothered Ghaji on an instinctive level. Something that told the half-orc that the grim priest was more dangerous than he appeared.
Ghaji wanted to dismiss the idea, to put it down to another manifestation of the jealousy he felt, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something was profoundly wrong with Leontis. And from the tone in Diran’s voice and the concerned way he looked at Leontis, the priest sensed it too.
“Let’s go talk to the others and see how they fared in their separate missions,” Diran said.
Ghaji nodded, gave Leontis a final glance, and then the two men walked over to where their companions stood talking. The others turned as Diran and Ghaji approached and made room for the two men to join them.
“So what news do you have for us?” Diran asked.
“Good, I hope,” Ghaji added. He smiled at Yvka, but though she returned his smile, there was something hesitant in her gaze, as if she were having a hard time meeting his eyes. She rubbed her left forearm as if she’d sustained an injury there, but when Ghaji raised a questioning eyebrow, she dropped her hand from her arm and looked away, as if he’d caught her doing something she’d preferred he hadn’t seen … something almost shameful. Yvka’s reaction bothered Ghaji, but now wasn’t the time to make an issue of it.
Tresslar shrugged. “I suppose it depends on what you mean by good. We’ve compared notes, and we’ve managed to learn a few things, though I’m not certain they’ll ultimately be of much help to us. We’ve confirmed that Makala took the Zephyr, and that my dragonwand is aboard, along with the infernal barghest who stole it.”
“We also know that they sailed the Zephyr out of the Gulf,” Yvka said. “But beyond that, we have no clue as to their destination—or even why they would want the Zephyr and Tresslar’s wand in the first place.”
Hinto frowned. “What I can’t understand is why Makala would be working with the barghest. I mean, I know she’s a vampire and all, but she’s still Makala, isn’t she? Why would she do these things?”
Diran let out a weary sigh. “When Makala bit Aldarik Cathmore within Mount Luster, the dark spirit that shared his soul entered her, and she became its new host. The spirit tainted her even further, and I fear she had become a true creature of evil, with little or nothing of the Makala we know remaining.”
An uneasy silence fell over the companions after that. It was Asenka who finally broke the silence. “This makes things simpler, doesn’t it? The wand and the Zephyr are together: reclaim one, you reclaim the other.”
“Simpler, perhaps,” Diran allowed, “but not easier. We don’t know where the Zephyr is bound, and we have no way of tracking her across the Lhazaar. Unless Tresslar has managed to discover a way …”
The artificer reached around into his backpack and withdrew a small device that resembled a miniature sundial. “I began work on this in Perhata, and I was able to find the parts I needed here in Kolbyr to finish it. It should allow me to detect the dragonwand’s thaumaturgical energy signature—but only within a radius of a mile or so.”
“Which puts us right back where we started from,” Ghaji said. “Without a way to locate the Zephyr.”
“I don’t believe that’s entirely accurate,” Solus said softly.
All eyes turned to focus on the psiforged.
“Tresslar has informed me that it isn’t good manners to read the thoughts of my friends without their permission.”
Yvka’s eyes wi
dened for an instant as if she were startled, but her expression quickly returned to one of calm neutrality. The elf-woman’s reaction had occurred and passed so swiftly that Ghaji doubted anyone else had noticed it. But then, no one in their group knew Yvka the way he did. What is she worried about? he wondered. Did she fear Solus might ferret out all the Shadow Network secrets she kept locked up in her head? That would make sense, but Ghaji couldn’t help thinking that it was something more than that.
“I have taken my new friend’s advice,” Solus said, “so I do not know for certain, Diran, but I believe the answer to where the Zephyr is headed lies within your mind.”
Now it was Diran’s turn to look startled. “What makes you think this?”
“The palace was the center of the Fury, and extremely strong psychic turbulence occurred here. Traces of this turbulence yet remain, and I have examined them, primarily out of curiosity.”
Ghaji wanted to ask examined how? He hadn’t seen the psiforged actually do anything. But then he realized Solus didn’t have to take physical action to use his psionic powers. The construct had probably examined the traces—whatever they were—while the others had been talking.
Solus continued. “The strongest psychic residue was left behind by your struggle with the demon, allowing me to piece together what I believe is a fair representation of what occurred during the exorcism. The demon attempted to take possession of your corporeal form, did it not?”
“Yes, but the demon failed,” Diran answered.
“No matter. For during the few moments you were joined, the demon tried to coerce you into letting it inhabit your body by showing you visions of past and future events—including the location of the Zephyr.”
This revelation was news to Ghaji, but then he and Diran hadn’t had much time to discuss how the exorcism went—and the Fury-possessed half-orc had been too busy trying to kill his friend at the time to pay much attention to the actual rite itself.
