Part 12 (1/2)
”Now you seek a patron to print your history. Tonight you visited Duke Piniago.”
My replies grow softer as my caution returns. ”I made a bad judgment in doing so. The duke was not interested in my work.”
She laughs like water over stones. ”I understand he was all too interested, that it was you who said no. Some say you were rude to the duke, but from what I know of that boor, there must have been some cause.”
”You have quick and accurate sources.” I answer, wetting my mouth with a swallow of tea. ”It is true I refused the duke, but only because he wished to hide the work from others. My pride is my failing, great lady. I could not accept his terms, when others might gain some small knowledge from my work.”
She c.o.c.ks an eyebrow at my claim. ”You care so strongly to spread learning, yet you are ready to quit and go back to your homeland.”
”How do you know this?” I carefully sidle away from her. The woolen carpet pulls at my robes as I move.
”My man heard you speak with your servant when I sent him to fetch you.”
I do not believe her, especially while I sit in this spring garden, green like none other in Procampur. The fact that she knows this, though, only suggests further the extent of her power. Prudently, I do not challenge her lie.
”Koja of Khazari, there are some who think the world needs learning, but there are far too few who will seek it. If you give up, the world has one less seeker. Soon there would be no true scholars left, just men like Duke Piniago.”
The memory of a charm slips into a corner of my mind, a way to see things as they truly are. I remember the verses and the ritual, but I need something to activate the sutra.
”I have come,” my hostess continues, ”to make you an offer. I am willing to be your patron, see your book printed-for a service. I, too, have an interest in knowledge.” Her lips part to show the hint of white teeth as she waits for my reaction.
k.u.miss, I note silently. I could trigger it with a sprinkle of k.u.miss. ”What service would you require of me, great sorceress?” I try the tide to gauge her reaction.
She laughs again, icicles breaking into a frozen brook. ”You honor me with your t.i.tles, lama. I am just a lady.” She slides effortlessly across the carpets to sit by me once more. ”An oath, binding and unbreakable. Will you do that?” Her eyes are fired with eagerness.
”An oath?” I dally with the k.u.miss bowl before me, surrept.i.tiously dipping my finger in the white fluid. 'There is no sin in this oath?”
”Sworn of itself, it causes no ill to you or any other.
Beyond that, your fate is your own.”
I am ready. Almost fearful at what I will see, I flick a few drops of k.u.miss toward the woman and utter the Sunlight After Storm sutra, the words which clear the mind from illusion. My hostess recoils slightly in surprise. Then, as I watch too startled to move, her golden hair grows dark black, banded by a golden circlet. Her body ripples and her face changes as the mask of femininity falls away A white glare, like a furnace that gives no heat, blinds me temporarily. When my eyes adjust, a man stands at the heart of the light, stocky and straight, in a tunic and cloak of purest white.
”By the great and mighty Furo!” I gasp, quickly looking away. This is no sorceress or even a spirit, but a power greater than any mortal, living or dead.
”Koja of Khazari, you have seen what I am.” The voice is symphonic, strong chords resound within the words. ”Know that I will not harm you. I am Denier, Lord of Glyphs and servant of Oghma, the patron G.o.d of bards. I am Denier, in whose temple you have toiled. Now, lama, will you swear my oath'”
The voice from the fire is powerful yet soothing, so that even in the G.o.d's mighty presence I feel no fear. s.h.i.+elding my eyes from the corona that encases him, I am able to look on the spirit once more. ”Immortal radiance, what do you demand of me, an unworthy scholar?”
Denier, demipower of words, waves his hands toward the still-dark walls of Procampur. ”Write for the outlanders so that they will be encouraged to learn. Stay in the West and become a muse for them. Do this and you need never despair.”
I stop at the scope of this oath. ”Then I could not go home.”
”Not until you are ready to die, lama. I have given you the taste of home you longed for. Would your homecoming now be as sweet as you imagined?”
I look at the food before me, spilled over the carpets and awash in his radiance. With Yamun dead, the Tuigan have no reason to welcome me back into their lands. And what kind of return could I expect in Khazari, a land Yamun conquered while I rode at his side? Sadly I admit what I have always known-my memories have become illusions, ephemeral dreams of places I can no longer call home.
”I accept.”
”Then it is done.” There is a flare of light, and I am blinded. I stumble forward, my senses fleeing into the dark and cold. My eyes burn, my skull throbs with pain. The soft cus.h.i.+on of the carpet vanishes beneath me, and suddenly I fall to the stone, cold and wet.
Finally the brilliant sparkles fade from my vision, giving way to fog-clad night. The garden and soft carpets are transformed to leafless branches and chill stonework. On the gray cobblestone before me is a small bag. Taking it, I unwork the strings and pour a small stream of dazzling gems into my hand, worth no less than ten thousand golden lions, I would guess.
”Master!” It is Foxe's voice. I turn as the fog swirls away to reveal the portico to Denier's temple before me. Foxe is hurrying down the steps, still hastily dressed, just as I had left him an hour or more before. I suddenly feel foolish, sitting in the darkness in my limp, damp robes. ”Master, what happened? I warned you not to go. Are you safe?”
What can I tell him of this night? Surely he would believe me possessed or charmed. Were it not for these gems, I myself would doubt the tale, and yet I have to give him some answer. ”I've been home and back again.”
”What?”
”Later, Firstborn Foxe. I am tired. Help me back to the temple. Tomorrow we can pack.” I look around, just to make sure I am where I think I am.
”You're still leaving us?” His voice is sad as he slips a strong, thick hand under my elbow to help me up. I stand a little unsteadily, still disoriented by my sudden appearance in front of the temple.
”Yes and no, Foxe. I think-” I roll a few gems in my hand, trying to guess how many books they might purchase. ”I think there is business to attend to here before I do anything. And after that.... Have I ever told you how much I should like to visit Waterdeep?” We slowly climb the temple steps. ”I could use a good secretary, if I make such a trek. You don't know where I might find one, do you?”
A Virtue By Reflection
Scott Ciencin
Penn Othmann couldn't explain why he felt so nervous as he closed up his small, exclusive shop. The day had been uneventful, and, following his usual routine, he had worked well into the evening cataloguing antiques. Yet as Othmann was about to pull the door shut behind him, lock it, and speak the word that would have engaged the shop's magical wards, a terrible fit of anxiety overtook him. He wanted to go back inside and hide. That would be childish, he told himself. There's nothing to fear from the night in a civilized city like Arabel. Nothing at all.
Then the figure leaped out of the shadows. Othmann felt an explosion of pain in his upper arm, and he cried out. He had been stabbed. Futilely he wished he had trusted his instincts, but it was too late to chide himself. Survival was all that mattered now.
Before Penn Othmann could make another sound, his mouth was covered by his a.s.sailant's hand. Othmann was forced back with incredible ferocity, his head slamming into the wall. A burst of pure white light filled his vision.
His attacker gripped his arm and spoke into Othmann's ear in a low voice. ”Run. If you scream, I'll gut you.”
The merchant desperately wanted to tell the dark, misshapen figure that he was a wealthy man, that he could pay any price for his life, but the tone of that threat told him such pleading would gain him nothing.
Instead, Penn Othmann ran, just as he had been told. He raced through the darkened streets of the city, darted into alleyways, leaped over gates, and plunged down deserted avenues. The flaxen-haired merchant prayed his heart wouldn't give out. He wanted to stop, to catch his breath and rest, but his pursuer was never less than a few paces behind. The physical regimen he had endured as training for the city's weekly footraces had kept his body hard and lean, but the cold night air bit deeply into the b.l.o.o.d.y wound in his arm. Othmann's proud, handsome features were screwed up in pain and exertion. His sky-blue eyes were fixed on the continuous maze before him.
He wasn't aware that he was being driven along a chosen path, toward a particular destination, until he turned a corner and saw a dark green wall of foliage ahead. A nightmare-black gap was carved into the shrub wall, a dark archway that served as entrance to the beautiful gardens of the Citadel. Two guards lay on their chests. They might have been dead, but Othmann couldn't tell for sure.
Suddenly he knew exactly why he had been brought here. He stopped, and the footsteps behind him ceased. The cold realization that escape had never truly been possible flooded into him, accompanied by a fear unlike any he had ever known. Trembling, Penn Othmann turned and looked into the face of his executioner.
The dark figure grinned in delight and advanced.
A delicate whisper moved through the fabric of Myrmeen Lhal's dreams, causing the lithe, sensuous brunette to stir gently awake. ”Myrmeen,” the voice said in rich, melodic tones, ”it's time to begin your day, my dearest.”
Her dark blue eyes, tinged with slivers of gold, fluttered open. It was morning. The voice repeated its message, and Myrmeen reached over to the ornate nightstand beside her bed and allowed her hand to drift to a beautiful crystal phoenix.
”Myrmeen, it's time to-”
The voice was abruptly silenced as her fingers grazed the small statue. The phoenix was a gift from an admirer, a magical construct that had the ability to capture sounds then release them once again at a time of her choosing. The voice that had woken her had been her own.