Rozt'a wouldn't blame Dru for anything. Her temper would take her to the brink of a
confrontation with her onetime lover, but never across it. They talked, as two members of a
trio had to talk, and sometimes at great length but when discussion grew heated, Rozt'a
became a woman of very few words.
Dru, who was their partnership's nominal leader, took advantage of her—and his own—
unwillingness to confront what had—and had not—continued to exist between them.
"We're not trapped yet," he continued patiently. "The locals say the dust storms don't
usually start until after the Eleint full moon and not always then. Last year the storms were
bad, and the year before. The old woman who sold me bread swore there'd never been three
bad years in a row. She said, too, that this past spring saw any number of merchant-
adventurers head out to trade with the Bedine. Surely some of them will make it back. If they
won't hire us as extra magic, then we'll pay our own way. Safety in numbers, Roz, just as you
said."
"What about Amarandaris?" she persisted. "What price are we going to have to pay to
him? Is this the season when we sell ourselves to the Network?"
There'd been no Zhentarim in Sunderath. Druhallen had grown up without ever seeing a
Network trade-mark or cringing in the face of Network brutality. Rozt'a had been less
fortunate and harbored a mistrust that bordered on hysteria.
"If Galimer says Amarandaris is a Darkhold man, then I believe him. He and I have dealt
with Sememmon and his vassals since we were boys in Ansoain's shadow. They're
honorable villains, for what it's worth, and know the value of honest trade. If worse comes to
worst, we can go down the new trail with Amarandaris and live to tell the tale."
Rozt'a folded her arms beneath her breasts. "I don't share your faith where Darkhold is
concerned. I got a look at this Amarandaris while I was scouting the resident muscle. I've
seen warmer eyes on a snake."
"Why not go up the Dawn Pass?" Galimer interrupted. "They've got sixty mules in the
stables right now, that's thirty more than they want. There'll be a mule train headed back to
Llorkh tomorrow or the day after. We can go with them. I can keep our noses clean with the
Zhentarim, but something's got the goblin-kin riled. Sweet Mystra—didn't you see them
camped outside the palisade as we came in? Something's put real fear into those little
beggars. Dwarves, maybe, or Underdark races who'd kill us as soon as they'd kill a goblin. If
Amarandaris pulled the Network out of Dekanter, Dru, I'm telling you I'm not eager to get one
step closer than I already am."
"Vengeance," Dru countered. "Your mother's vengeance."
"We've gotten vengeance. There were thirteen Red Wizards on that hilltop. We've learned
all their names and slain three of them without going to Dekanter. We'll slay the rest when we
can, if we can. Going to Dekanter won't get us closer to any of them. All Dekanter gets us—
gets you—is a chance to cast that scrying spell you've been cooking up for years. All right—suppose
you do scry something about the glass disk? Suppose you see a red-robed wizard carry it out of the
mines, then what? You've never been able to answer that question for me, Dru. Are you going to start
excavating with strangers around—Zhentarim strangers? Sweet Mystra, you've always said, 'Don't let
the Network know we think there's a connection between Ansoain's death and the Red Wizards'! If you
ask me, it would be easier if we were traveling with Amarandaris. At least then we'd know the thief—"
"Strangers! Red Wizards! Zhentarim!" Rozt'a erupted. "Gods! Take your pick and the Pit
take them all. We're all born little people and if we're clever well stay little people, beneath the
notice of the mighty for good or evil. You find what you're looking for, Druhallen, and our
troubles are just starting."
Dru defended himself: "If I'm right and the Red Wizards are kindling their spell circles with
Netherese magic and Netherese artifacts, then the rest of Faerun's got to know before the
Weave is torn. The Netheril Empire came down in a day because wizards got greedy."
"The Weave's not our responsibility. I've said it before: She was my mother!" Galimer
shouted. Galimer never shouted, but the heat and frustration had gotten to them all. "You've
spun a yard of conclusions from a single strand of suspicion, Dru. I say, sell that damned disk
and be done with it."
Dru opened his folding box—a different one than he'd carried on the Vilhon Reach—and
removed the disk. He held it up in the summer light.
The disk had not yielded its secrets easily. Ansoain had been dead for two winters before
Druhallen knew the inscription was written in the language of the ancient Netheril Empire.
Another seven winters passed before he'd taught himself enough of that forgotten language
to attempt a translation ... Those who see me see darkness, while he who holds me casts
the sun.
In his heart Druhallen believed that the first part of the inscription described the disk's
function as a vault where several wizards could pool their potential magic; and the second
part described the might a wizard wielded when he unleashed that pooled potential. But other
interpretations were possible. There was no definitive concordance of Netherese with any
modern language. In other contexts, the word Druhallen had translated as darkness meant
death or blindness; and at least one elven authority insisted that casts the sun was a
metaphor for insanity.
Galimer and Rozt'a agreed with the elves and so, five years ago, Druhallen had spent the
winter at Candlekeep, where for a hefty price in gold a blind seer had plunged into a trance.
She'd vindicated a few of Dru's cherished suspicions. Before it fell into the grass on the
Vilhon Reach, the disk had belonged to a red-robed necromancer from Thay who
commanded the potential magic of twelve other wizards less skilled than himself. But the
Candlekeep seer had been unable to determine what precise role the disk had played in
casting the spells that slew Ansoain and so many others that day, or how a Netherese artifact
had wound up in a Red Wizard's hands.
Go to Dekanter, the seer suggested when her trance had ended. Go to the Mines of
Dekanter in the Greypeak Mountains. The Netherese mages congregated there after the
metal played out and the dwarves had moved on. They developed their most potent spells
and artifacts in those mountains, away from the floating cities. There is a distinct pattern to
objects forged at Dekanter—a taste of darkness, the scents of depth and weight. Go to Dekanter.
Your disk was born there, lost there, and found there not so long ago. A century or two, at most. If you
can find the chamber where the disk was fired, I can teach you a simple spell that will show you the
rest.
The seer's "simple spell" was more subtle than any spell Druhallen had learned before or
since. It had taken him three years to collect the reagents necessary to cast it and another
year—not to mention the lion's share of the reagents—to master it. Until this morning, he'd believed
he was less than a week's journeying from unraveling a triad of mysteries with a single spell: the
history of a polished disk of Netherese glass, the specific role it played in the ambush that led to
Ansoain's death, and the more general role it played in Red Wizard spell-casting.
In the Parnast room Dru rotated the disk until it angled sunlight onto the floor between
them all. "The Netherese wizards destroyed themselves, their Empire, and very nearly the
world." He recited a lesson he'd learned from the Candlekeep seer. "When Great Ao saw the
price of their foolishness, He commanded Mystra to thread a new strand through the Weave,
the strand of fate that limits the power of our spellcraft—because the nature of magic is reckless-
ness and self-destruction. That thread has held tight against good, evil, and all that lies between—until
now. I'm sure the Red Wizards are trying to recreate the forbidden spells that brought the Empire
down."
Galimer shook his head. "It doesn't follow, Dru. It hasn't ever followed. Yes, the Thayan
circles are dangerous and we don't know how the Red Wizards create them. And, yes, their
zulkirs are madmen, worse than the Zhentarim. But madmen fueled with Netherese artifacts?
Look at a map, Dru—there's half of Faerun between Thay and Dekanter. It's not as if they can just
appear and disappear—"
The gold-haired mage stopped himself, and Druhallen savored a long-awaited victory.
"That's exactly what they did on the Vilhon Reach," Dru said without gloating. "Why not do
it at Dekanter? Everything does follow. I'd just as soon go the rest of the way by ourselves—
the old trail must still be there and it's not as if we'd be looking for a fight with anyone—although,
have you considered the possibility that this supposed war below Dekanter is actually the Red Wizards
establishing themselves above?"
Dru watched Galimer's eyes narrow with thought, and he feigned a philosophical retreat.
"You plot our course, Longfingers. If you say we go to Llorkh, then we head east to Llorkh.
Gods willing, I'll get back here some other year."
Galimer, still narrow-eyed and thinking, said nothing.
Rozt'a began her opinion with a groan, followed by, "Spare me! Mystra's got nothing on
you, Druhallen, when it comes to weaving mismatched strands. Both of you would like
nothing better than to be cooped up for the winter with nothing to do but pore over a
spellbook. Gods know, Parnast isn't big enough for real trouble—"
It was an afternoon for misstatements—and not about a wizard's capacity for boredom. Their
trio was, in fact, a quartet and their fourth partner was loose.
"Speaking of trouble, Roz, where is Tiep?" Dru asked. "Shouldn't he be back by now?"
"I left him grooming the horses. I told him to scrape and rasp their hooves while he's at it.
Six horses, twenty-four hooves—I figured it would take him the rest of the afternoon. He's due
before sundown; and I reminded him that we hadn't forgotten what happened in Llorkh."
Dru raked his hair anxiously.
"He'll be all right," Galimer interceded. "The problem in Llorkh was that he got lost and
asked the wrong people for help. Parnast's smaller. There's only one street, one stable, one
tav—"
"Tiep's never gotten lost in his life," Dru shot back. "Tiep gets distracted and then Tiep
gets in trouble. The boy is nothing but distraction and trouble wrapped up in skin."
Rozt'a looked out the front door as she said, "He's sixteen. He'll grow out of it, the same
way we did when we were sixteen."
No mother could cherish a child more than Rozt'a cherished Tiep. The boy had shown up
in the Chauntean temple of Berdusk while she was recovering from her fevered pregnancy.
Scrawny as a nestling bird and just as hungry, Tiep had been the perfect target for Rozt'a's
thwarted instincts. The priests guessed he was about seven, meaning he was about sixteen
now. Druhallen suspected that he was closer to twenty; starvation had a way of stunting a
child's growth both in body and in conscience.
With his swarthy skin, curling sable hair, and startling blue eyes, Tiep had the look of a
foreigner wherever they traveled. Though charming and graceful, he had the defensive
nature of someone always under suspicion, but he'd been clever enough to see a better life
for himself when he first saw his reflection in Rozt'a's eyes.
From the start, Tiep had tried to earn his keep through chores and charm. He had his bad
days—rather more of them lately than there'd been for several years—but mostly the boy was good
company. Unfortunately, he was also an incorrigible thief.
Together, Dru, Rozt'a, and Galimer had been unable to erase the lessons Tiep had
learned in the alleys of Berdusk. They gave him all that he needed and more besides. He
repaid their kindness with stolen gifts. Folk who made their living by guarding the wealth of
others couldn't safely shelter a thief, but there was no sticking place in Tiep's memory for the
moral lessons they tried to teach him.
"He's got to be careful in Parnast," Dru said after a moment's silence. "He's gotten too old
for mercy. Amarandaris will hang him if he gets caught stealing here."
"I see him," Rozt'a said from the doorway. "He's walking beside a girl."
"Gods have mercy," Dru swore.
He surged to his feet but Galimer beat him to the doorway.
"It was bound to happen," Rozt'a whispered.
Predictably, Galimer saw the situation in its best light: "At least he won't get caught
stealing."
Tiep made a fool of his foster-father as he wrapped the girl in a surprisingly mature
embrace and kiss. She ran away the instant he released her. If Tiep was disappointed by his
light-o-love's bolt for freedom, he hid it well. When he realized he'd had an audience, he add
a swagger to his grin.
"Her name's Manya. Her poppa's a farmer here, and her brother's joined the garrison. She
tends the geese every morning, but comes into—"
"We're travelers, Tiep." Dru cut the lad short. "And this is a tiny village, a tiny Zhentarim
village. The fathers and brothers who live here won't take kindly to travelers paying court to
their young women. You'll wake up in a ditch, minus your most valued parts."
"I wasn't doing anything. I wasn't even thinking about doing anything."
"You kissed her." Rozt'a planted her hands on Tiep's shoulders, and he froze beneath her.
"Where I come from, that was enough to get you betrothed—or run out of town, if she was
already spoken for."
Rozt'a didn't often speak about her life before the road. The youth swallowed hard and
tucked his chin down so he didn't have to meet her eyes.
"Manya didn't say anything about that—and she was the one who started talking. There was
a bunch of goblins out behind the stable, beggin' and all when she was just trying to get to the
charterhouse. I saw that she was scared, so I grabbed a pitchfork an' chased 'em off. What
was I supposed to do? Turn my back? How would those brothers and fathers feel if I didn't—"