The Rite (28 page)

Pavel chuckled. “Well, perhaps it won’t be so unbearable at that. After all, I tolerate your hideous face, boundless stupidity, and myriad other deficiencies. If I can do that, I should be able to endure anything.”

“Then shall we go and mount our trusty steed?”

Not quite yet. I want to tell you something first, about Brimstone’s collar.”

“Now you have my full attention.”

“When we first met him, I speculated that he could never stray far from his hoard, that he was bound to it as a common vampire’s tied to its grave or coffin. I still believe that’s true.”

“Then how did he fly all the way from Impiltur to Thar?”

“I think he can travel because the choker’s a talisman linking him to his treasure trove. On a mystical level, it is the entire hoard.”

“So it sounds like I’m not going to be able to talk him into presenting it to me for services rendered.”

“The point is that, this far from his cave, it’s vital to his existence. If he ever turns on us, remember that.”

Taegan woke from a nightmare of locusts to a reality, equally frightening and considerably more painful. He lay fettered spread-eagled atop a torturer’s table in what appeared to be a shadowy cellar lit by a couple of smoky, guttering tallow candles. He hurt all over from the insect bites, but that stinging was nothing compared to the throbbing agony in his ankles where the spikes of wood had pierced him, ripping flesh and splintering bone.

He cast about for Jivex, and flinched when he saw him. Their captor apparently hadn’t possessed any shackles sized to hold a faerie dragon, and had therefore restrained the reptile by stretching out his wings and nailing them to the wall. Jivex had countless bloody locust bites spotting his iridescent hide. His head dangled at the end of his long, flexible neck. He was unconscious, and perhaps that was a mercy.

Taegan heaved at the chains securing his wrists. The only effect was to drag his lacerated ankles against the metal cuffs encircling them. Despite himself, he gasped at the jolt of agony produced by the pressure.

Afterward, as he lay panting, footsteps clopped above his head. Perhaps he’d made sufficient noise to alert his captor to the fact that he’d awakened. He drew a deep breath, composing himself. A rake of Lyrabar was always dauntless and suave, even when caught at a disadvantage.

A pale figure descended the wooden stairs at the far end of the cellar. It shined as pale as a ghost in the gloom, though the steps groaned beneath its weight. Then Taegan blinked the tears of pain from his eyes and recognized that all the whiteness was simply the snowy, silver-trimmed attire clothing Darvin Kordeion’s pudgy form.

“Bravo, Master Kordeion,” the bladesinger said. “Could I rise, I would bow. Could I bring my palms together, I’d applaud.”

Darvin scowled and cocked his head. “You’re in no position to mock me.”

“I assure you, derision is the farthest thing from my mind. It was cunning of you to draw Jivex and me into another snare, and more artful still to mute the call that would have summoned Master Shadow-water to our aid. But when you intuited that Jivex was once again trying to blind the chasme with his golden dust, incorporated the effect into your illusion, and used it to maneuver us to precisely where you wanted us, that was a little stroke of genius.” Taegan smiled. “Or am I congratulating the wrong party? For it was the chasme the dragon and I were actually fighting. Does the demon make its own decisions in combat, or follow instructions given in advance? Or perhaps you control its actions from moment to moment, as if it were a rapier in your hand.”

Darvin snorted. “Still trying to find out all about me?”

“I like to satisfy my curiosity whenever possible. Particularly when it could be the last morsel of pleasure ever to come my way.”

“That’s unfortunate, because I’m the one who’s going to ask the questions.”

The wizard advanced to the table. Up close, he smelled of some sweetish soap, perfume, or unguent. He lifted his hands. On the middle finger of each was a steel ring with a little barbed point on the inside. When he clasped Taegan’s head between his palms, the blades pierced his temples.

It was only a little sting, but Taegan could somehow sense the magic burning inside the steel. He was certain the rings had the power to do something to him. Probably something hideous.

“Now,” said Darvin, “tell me about this avariel divination you claim to practice. Was it truly yielding information that eventually would have identified me as Sammaster’s ally?”

Taegan intended to say that yes, given a little more time, his mysterious powers would indeed have unmasked Darvin. At that point, he didn’t know what good the lie would do, but one deceived an adversary whenever possible. Then, however, the magic in the rings pulsed, creating a startling sensation of warmth inside his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m no seer. It was merely a pretense, to draw you—or at least the chasme—out of hiding. Master Shadow-water hoped that if I killed the fly, something of its essence would cling to my sword, and that in turn could be used to discover your identity. If not, we still would have deprived you of your weapon of choice.”

Taegan understood: The rings compelled him to tell the truth. He supposed it could have been worse—he’d assumed they were instruments of torture—but he dreaded the coercion nonetheless, dreaded where it might lead. Though that probably didn’t matter either.

Darvin scowled in manifest disgust at having been taken in.

“Please,” Taegan said, his voice honeyed with false sympathy, “don’t feel badly. You out-tricked me in the end.”

“Yes,” said the human with his round, pink face, “I did, and whether you practice divination or not, it’s worth the effort to be rid of you. Firefingers and the other fools didn’t even realize they had a traitor among them until you showed up to warn them.”

“Before you do something irreversible to me, may I point out that I possess a fortune in jewels. It’s yours if you spare me, and should suffice to buy you any life you care to lead. I daresay it’ll be superior to the existence Sammaster promises, lording it over your fellow men but groveling before dracoliches.”

Darvin sneered. “You understand nothing. Nothing at all.”

Well, Taegan thought, that isn’t quite true.

“But you needn’t worry,” the magician continued. “You won’t die tonight. I’m going to feed you and the drake restorative elixirs to heal your hurts, give you a pair of boots to replace the ones I ruined, and teach you a new spell before I release you.”

Taegan grinned. “How chivalrous. I sensed that underneath it all, you possess a gallant heart.”

Darvin shook his head. “As I said, Maestro, you truly comprehend nothing. You and your comrade will leave here as my slaves, your wills shackled, though you’ll have no memory of encountering the chasme, or me, tonight. You’ll go about your business as before. But the next time Karasendrieth or one of the other rogues pays a visit, and we wizards assemble to hear what the dragon has discovered, you’ll recite the incantation I’m going to teach you.”

Taegan felt a chill. He did his best to keep dismay out of his voice when he said, “The words of power that thrust a wyrm into full-blown frenzy.”

“Exactly. When the Rage erupts in his mind, your Jivex may run amok as well, slipping from my control. But you won’t, and you’ll have more work to do. As the drakes attack,

in the confusion, you’ll murder Firefingers, then Rilitar, then Scattercloak, then any other magician you can reach. Except me, of course. You’ll keep on killing until someone slays you in your turn. Having witnessed your prowess in battle, I think you may commit considerable mayhem before you expire.”

Taegan inclined his head. “You flatter me.”

Darvin glared as if irked by the bladesinger’s refusal to evince any distress at the ghastly picture he was painting.

“You understand what it will mean. More mages butchered. Another deranged dragon slaughtering humans in the heart of Thentia. The meddler who promised to keep everyone safe revealed as an enemy himself.”

“Alas, no,” Taegan said. “Someone will realize I was acting under magical duress. How could I be the Cult of the Dragon’s agent? I wasn’t even in Thentia when the first murder occurred.”

“Who’s to say when you actually sneaked into town? In retrospect, it will seem telling that you were in the workroom when Samdralyrion went mad.”

“If you’ll recall, I fought the brass, as I fought to save Rilitar and Sinylla.”

“You failed to protect the latter. Maybe you were merely putting on a show.” Darvin smiled unpleasantly. “It comes down to this The wizards will see you turn on them. Afterward, assuming any survive, they’ll be too full of horror and grief to think any deeper than that.

“In any case,” the man in white continued, “convincing everyone you were Sammaster’s ally all along, convenient as it will be for me, is merely a side benefit. The true objective is to eliminate the most learned wizards, demoralize any who remain, and motivate the Watchlord to command us to suspend our investigations. After that, it won’t matter what lore Karasendrieth and her friends unearth in ancient crypts. They won’t have anybody to interpret the information.”

“It’s an interesting strategy,” said Taegan, then he bucked, tearing the barbed points out of his skin, throwing his weight against his fetters, hoping the chains would at last break away from the wood.

But they didn’t, and Darvin simply caught hold of his head once more, jabbing the steel points back into his brow. Heat flowered inside Taegan’s skull, and he went limp.

25-26 Kythorn, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Kovor Gemetsk straightened Pavel’s red and yellow vestments, then stepped back to inspect the result. Will hooted.

“It’ll take more than that to make him respectable,” the halfling said. “You’ll have to do something about the slack-jawed look of imbecility.”

The stooped old priest with his bald, spotted pate, Pavel’s mentor from the beginning of his novitiate until the day he departed his temple forever–-or so he’d imagined—made a sour face at the gibe. “The truth is, the robes aren’t draping properly”

“I’m not used to such clothing anymore,’ Pavel replied. “But glories of the sunrise, does it matter how I look? I’ve come bringing help in a time of crisis.”

“It always matters what kind of impression a person creates at Court,” said Kovor, “at least if he wants anyone to pay attention to him. Particularly ‘in a time of crisis.’ “

Pavel felt his nervous irritability twist into a twinge of shame. He owed his former master far too much to grouse at him.

Kovor’s most recent kindness had been to arrange an audience with the queen for his long-lost protégé, and flying across Damara, even by night, had convinced Pavel just how urgently he needed to speak with her. Fires dotted the ground below as the Vaasan horde plundered, and burned whatever they didn’t covet or couldn’t stuff into their sacks. Cries rose up to grieve him, brutish voices howling with glee and human ones wailing in anguish. It seemed that only Heliogabalus, the royal city itself, remained unscarred by marauders. Maybe that was because a goodly number of troops still garrisoned the capital. Or perhaps the goblins hoped the absent “Zhengyi” would reemerge from the shadows to lead the assault.

The doors leading to the throne room, tall panels of polished green, red-speckled bloodstone that were plainly the product of enchantment, swung open, jarring Pavel from his broodings. A herald thumped the butt of a staff on the floor and announced, “Kovor Gemetsk, Patriarch of the Temple of the Dawn, Pavel Shemov, priest of the Morninglord, and Wilimac Turnstone, hunter.”

The three advanced into a hall spacious enough to hold scores of petitioners. Paladins of the Order of the Golden Cup, armed with halberds and swords, stood guard along the walls. Gonfalons agleam with gems hung from the rafters, but by far the most impressive jewels were the two high-backed thrones, also sculpted from chalcedony, on the dais at the far end of the chamber. The larger of them—the king’s—was vacant. Christine Dragonsbane, his queen, sat in the other. Half a dozen dignitaries clustered around the pedestal to attend her. With one exception, those gentlemen wore trappings indicating that they too were either paladins or clerics sworn to the service of the Crying God, and that was as Pavel expected it to be. Ilmater was Darnara’s principal deity.

Lathander too received a measure of the people’s devotion, but not nearly as much.

The newcomers bowed, and held that posture until Christine bade them rise.

“Welcome,” said the queen, a comely woman in her middle years with clear blue eyes and plaited auburn hair. With its upturned nose and dusting of freckles, her heart-shaped face seemed made for joy and laughter, but held only care and sorrow. She wore a brooch shaped like an oak leaf that, to Pavers knowledgeable eye, revealed her to be an initiate in the druidic mysteries rather than a worshiper of Ilmater. “Master Shemov, Goodman Turnstone, you’re both strangers to this hall. But Kovor vouches for you, and says you have important information to report. If so, then tell me, please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Pavel said, “and I pray you’ll bear with me if my account seems strange, digressive, or even wholly irrelevant at times. The threat facing Damara is a more complicated matter than you may suppose, and I seek to explain it in such a way as to make it comprehensible.”

Christine sighed. “Time presses, Master Shemov. A hundred matters demand my attention. But give us your tale.”

Employing all his rhetorical skill, Pavel proceeded to offer an abbreviated version of it. He avoided all mention of Brimstone, though. He’d have to speak of the undead dragon soon enough, but he wanted to enlighten his audience as to the basics of what had befallen Damara—and all of Faerűn—first. When he finished, the queen, her officers, and even Kovor, who hadn’t known what his student meant to say, regarded him with manifest astonishment. And skepticism.

“So you claim,” said a white-haired but robust-looking knight, “that it isn’t Zhengyi who led the goblins against us, but another lich impersonating him?”

The speaker bore the emblem of the Golden Cup on his surcoat, and Pavel, who’d been told whom he might expect to find advising the queen, inferred that he was Brellan Starav, commander of the order of holy warriors.