by Ed Greenwood
“We would be grateful for your advice,” Piergeiron said gravely, with no hint of the patronizing tone Taeros thought he’d be more than justified in using.
“He’s not speaking of us,” Mirt growled. “He’s talking about him.”
The moneylender waved at Korvaun, a faint smile curling the corner of his untrimmed, food-hoarding mustache. “And mayhap—just mayhap—he might blasted well be right.”
The faintly giggling man on the slab beside Mrelder didn’t seem to know where he was or who was with him.
Setting his jaw, the sorcerer looked from his father to the beastmen standing over him, and said, “Do it.”
The two Amalgamation priests started chanting.
As one of them lifted a knife, Mrelder smiled. “Just don’t make me lopsided.”
The shining blade swept down.
Out of purple agony he swam up into ruby-red pain. Mouthless, he shrieked … eyeless, he wept … voiceless, he prayed—and shot into the light.
Flaming torches overhead, and pain, pain, PAIN.
Mrelder screamed.
A face swam above his, grim and somehow familiar, blotting out torchlight. Cruel fingers forced his jaws apart, pouring gurgling iciness that soothed … soothed …
He sank thankfully away from the pain and the light, sinking into shadows warm and welcome, that—
His head was struck into fresh fire. “Stop that! Rise, Mrelder of the Amalgamation!” The priest slapped him again, and Mrelder found himself blinking up at the torches. His throat was raw, his body ached and, yes, itched despite all the healing potions they’d poured into him … and he was still screaming.
Or, no, the shrieking wasn’t his. It was coming from beside him, and weakening into gurgles.
Golskyn of the Gods writhed on his slab, one eye socket empty and weeping, and a raw stump where his nearest arm ought to be.
Mrelder’s father was dying, literally drowning in his own blood as he thrashed feebly.
Mrelder looked back up at priests. “How well did it go?”
“Very well. If your grafts remain alive, you’ve gained your father’s fiery eye and his best arm.”
That was saying something, considering how many powerful appendages the man who’d called himself Lord Unity had sported. Mrelder glanced down at his new limb, strong-looking and promisingly ruddy. “Well, we’ll know soon enough.”
“We will indeed.” The beastman’s voice was flat.
Their eyes met. Both knew that if Mrelder’s grafts started to fail, the priests would slay him without hesitation. There was an old saying: Those who smite kings had best slay at first strike …
Mrelder struggled to sit up. Raw fire surged through him, and the only thing that kept him from weeping and vomiting was his body’s struggle to decide which to do first—and the awe and respect on the faces of the priests.
With a smile of satisfaction, Mrelder forced himself upright. “To come to Waterdeep was no mistake,” he announced to the dozen surviving Amalgamation faithful. He discovered that he was drooling blood but went on anyway. “Even so, Golskyn’s deeds have made this city a trap for us now. We’ll return here in time, but not before we are ready to triumph. Make ready for the journey back to the temple-cellar in Scornubel.”
“And this?” One of the beastmen pointed at the mutilated and dying Golskyn.
Mrelder looked down at the weakly mewing man who’d filled his entire life with terror and pain. “He no longer matters. It’s past time to leave him behind.”
Mrelder hugged himself against gnawing pain as the lurching wagon creaked and groaned.
He lived, and the spell he’d so carefully prepared burned in his mind like an overwhelming lust.
“Stop the wagons,” he ordered, thrusting aside the wagon-flap with his new arm. “This is far enough.”
He clambered out and down and walked a little way along the ridge to look back at the distant walls and towers of Waterdeep.
“The City of Splendors,” Mrelder murmured, and cast his spell with slow, deliberate care.
“There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine … and that day will come sooner than any think.”
The monstrous priest bowed his head. “Lord,” was all he said, but his voice was husky with reverence.
The beast-madness is a powerful spell, and during his time in Waterdeep, Mrelder of the Amalgamation had managed to touch or wound no less than six magists of the Watchful Order.
One of them erupted from quiet spell-study when the sorcerer’s words crashed into his mind. He raced out and over a handy parapet, to a wet and bone-shattering death below.
Another whimpered, stopped in mid-stride on a busy street, and then burst into roaring, capering madness. Merchants recoiled from the wild-eyed, foam-mouthed wizard, and when he clawed at a shopkeeper’s face, the frightened man snatched out his belt-knife and slashed the wizard’s throat.
The other four erupted into madness inside Watchful Order moots and spell-chambers, where alarmed colleagues kept maddened magists from harm. All of those four survived, lapsing into calm, forgetting-all-that-had-befallen normalcy after announcing softly: “There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine … and that day will come sooner than any think.”
For the next tenday or three, there was much debate in the Order over those words, and the fell magic that had brought them—but Waterdeep is a busy, bustling city, and the wonder of today is the old news of the morrow. That calm promise, like the Night the Statues Walked, seemed likely to join the fading memories only bards and sages recalled.
But then again …
Winter was coming. So promised the brisk morning wind tugging Taeros Hawkwinter’s cloak into a writhing amber semblance of flame as he reached the newest shop on Redcloak Lane.
It was smaller than the predecessor destroyed by sahuagin, fire, and playful nobles, but it was sturdily built of dressed stone. Its newly carved overdoor sign announced that Larksong Stories was open for business.
Taeros stepped inside and looked around with his usual pleasure. Bright new books lined the polished shelves. Comfortable chairs and heaps of cushions welcomed those who stopped by after tools-down to hear hired taletellers spin stories of Waterdeep.
This was a home as well as a business. Through a window he could see the neat herb-garden, and beside it a small kitchen flanking the old well house. Above the window, a staircase curved up to two rooms above; all the abode an independent tradeswoman needed.
Lark came out of the small back room to greet him. Respectability sat well on her shoulders. She was dressed as simply as the small brown bird she resembled, but there was pride in the lift of her chin, and some of the wariness had faded from her bright brown eyes.
“The ‘Queen of the Forest’ chapbook did as well as I thought it would,” she said, without preamble. “But where, pray tell, is ‘The Guild’s War?’ ”
“And a fair morning to you, Taskmistress!” Taeros replied with a grin. “Long finished, and yestereve Roldo promised me two hundred copies would be delivered here within a tenday. Lady Thongolir’s so pleased by the success of your venture that she nearly smiled.” Taeros shuddered a little at the memory.
“I’m happy for Lord Thongolir,” Lark said briskly. “When next you see him, tell him I’ll need four hundred. Nigh every tutor in the city has been in here asking for it. A ‘cautionary tale,’ they’re calling it. ’Tis high time people paid attention to stories of their past. Mayhap they’ll be slower to start New Days if they know how the old ones ended!”
Her words echoed Taeros’s private thoughts rather too closely for comfort. Instead of saying so, he asked, “There’re four hundred tutors in Waterdeep? Ye gods, no wonder we drove the sahuagin back into the sea! I’d retreat at the sight of that many sour-faced men with foul breath and sharp-edged ferules!”
“Not just tutors have been asking; many are interested in tales of the common folk,” Lark replied, adding a sly smile. “Don’t take that as an
excuse to ignore Deep Waters.”
“You know about that, too? Is nothing sacred?”
“Business is, and judging by the success of your herotales, I can sell several hundred copies. Lady Thongolir is complaining about parchment costs and the wisdom of investing in a Dock Ward shop, but I’ll have my own rag-paper soon. A deal with the Dungsweepers, another with a woman from Amn who knows the craft, and I know a suitable warehouse for hire in South Ward. By mid-spring we could—”
She broke off abruptly as Taeros lifted one of her hands to his lips. She tugged it hastily free. “What was that about?”
“Better become accustomed to it. With your wits and drive, you’ll soon be ruling us all.”
Lark’s scowl became a sly smile. “Just why are you so certain, Lord Hawkwinter, that I’m not?”
They laughed together, and when he kissed her hand a second time, Lark stood proudly, not pulling away in the slightest.
The fall wind was growing stronger, and Taeros put his head down and hastened. He’d promised to meet Korvaun at the Dyres’ house for the highsunfeast.
It was a hectic place these days, what with Naoni preparing for her wedding and training a new housekeeper, and Faendra busily creating a wardrobe worthy of her sister’s new station. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she was making tiny garments, too.
So Korvaun was soon to be a father. Strange, to someone who’d known him since boyhood, but no doubt the surprising Helmfast would rise to this challenge as well as all others he embraced.
Since Beldar’s death, Korvaun had devoted himself to studying Waterdeep’s laws and history, and to the amazement of his family, their formerly reluctant student was now the shining pride of sages, not just tutors. Korvaun now spent most of his days attending magisterial courts or working at the Palace, learning the daily business of governance.
Well enough. Taeros hoped Lord Piergeiron would live long and rule well, but the day would come when other men and women would have to rule, masked or openly, and they’d need a counselor they could trust.
Until then, Taeros had his own work to do and—for the first time in his life—he was quite content. He could leave the governance of Waterdeep to its masked Lords. As Korvaun often said these days, some stories were great only if they remained untold.
Taeros wondered if this was Korvaun’s kind caution to a tale-writing friend, his commentary on the system of secret Lords, or something deeper and more personal. Secrets rode his friend’s shoulders, and sometimes Taeros sensed odd, unsaid meanings in Korvaun’s simplest utterances.
Of one thing he was certain: The value of untold stories was not a sentiment one Taeros Hawkwinter would repeat in Lark’s hearing!
About the Authors
Ed Greenwood has been telling stories in the FORGOTTEN REALMS® setting since he created it more than thirty years ago. During those years he’s also found the time to maintain a career as a librarian, accumulate a collection of 50,000 books at his home in Canada, and grow a full beard. He’s also written hundreds of novels, game products, short stories, and articles about the continent of Faerûn but maintains that any resemblance between him and a certain old mage of Shadowdale is pure coincidence.
Elaine Cunningham is the author of the Songs and Swords series, the Starlight and Shadows trilogy, and the Counselors and Kings trilogy, all set in the FORGOTTEN REALMS. She’s also written Dark Journey, a STAR WARS® novel, for Del Rey and Shadows in the Darkness for Tor Books. She lives in New England with her husband and sons.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.
©2011 Wizards.
STAR WARS © Lucasfilm Ltd. & TM. All rights reserved.
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