"03 - Song of the Saurials - Jeff Grubb & Kate Novak 2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finder's Stone)

Song Of The Saurials

By Kate Novak and Jeff Grubb

Map of Shadowdale

Map of the Lost Vale

1

The Nameless Bard

"Hear what you've denied the Realms, what you've denied yourselves," the

prisoner muttered as he raised the chordal horn to his lips. His breath flowed

through the instrument's chambers with the steady force of a trade wind, and his

fingers danced gracefully over the horn's holes and keys. Sweet music filled the

prison cell, slipped through the iron bars set in the cell door, swirled down

the hallways of the Tower of Ashaba, and entered, unbidden, into the courtroom.

The tune echoed along the bare stone walls of the chamber and danced about the

Harpers' courtroom. There, seated at a table before a tribunal of three Harpers,

sat Elminster the Sage, about to offer his own counsel concerning the prisoner.

Elminster paused before beginning his opening statement and closed his eyes to

listen to the tune. It took him only a moment to catch the gist of the spell it

was meant to weave. Ah, Nameless, will ye never change? he thought. A penitent

man would plead for his freedom, a righteous man demand it. Is seduction all ye

knowest?

Morala of Milil, the eldest of the three judges, scowled at the musical

interruption. Her eyes nearly disappeared in the wrinkles that creased her face.

A lock of her snow-white hair fell forward, and she shoved it impatiently back

into the gold hairnet at the nape of her neck. She, too, recognized the spell

wrapped within the melody, and when she caught Elminster's eye, she folded her

frail arms across her chest and smiled coldly.

Elminster smiled back, as if oblivious to the ancient priestess's hostility. He

thought with some annoyance. Why did the Harpers have to choose thee for this

tribunal? Ye could hardly be considered unbiased. Ye never liked Nameless.

Morala had been one of the judges who had sentenced Nameless at his first trial.

Of course, Elminster knew that was exactly why she was here now. Someone had to

represent the past, someone who knew the Nameless of old and recognized his

tricks, tricks such as the one Nameless was engaging in at this very moment.

"It wouldn't kill thee to enjoy the melody, Morala," the sage muttered under his

breath. "A mere tune could hardly corrupt a pillar of stone like thyself."

Morala gave the sage a harsh glare, as if she'd heard his remark. Uncertain just

how good her hearing was, Elminster shuffled a stack of scrolls across the table

as if he were preoccupied with his defense and did not hear the music. When he

sensed that Morala had turned her attention away from him, the sage sneaked a

glance at the other two judges.

Not surprisingly, Breck Orcsbane, the youngest of the three judges, seemed

delighted with the music. The ranger's head bobbed in time with the music,

setting his long plait of yellow hair swaying like a pendulum. Elminster

half-expected the brawny woodsman to get up and dance a jig. Morala had already

expressed her displeasure that someone of Breck's simplicity had been chosen for

the tribunal, but Elminster was relieved to discover that at least one of the

judges knew how to enjoy life.

Only the bard, Kyre, displayed a completely neutral reaction to the music. The

beautiful half-elven woman tilted her head to listen, but Elminster suspected

that her technical analysis of the tune precluded experiencing it on any

emotional level. The sage wished he could tell what she thought of it. He wished

he could tell what she thought of anything. Kyre was so remote and stiff

whenever he addressed her that Elminster felt as if he were speaking with the

dead, an experience with which he was not unfamiliar. As if to compensate for

her reserved nature, Kyre wore a vivid red orchid in her lustrous black hair. To

bloom in this climate, the sage realized, the orchid had to be enchanted, but

who, he was left to wonder, was she trying attract with it?

"Heth," Morala said, addressing the tower page assigned to the Harpers. "Request

the captain of the guard to do something about that noise," she commanded, "and

close the door on your way out."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Breck said. "The music's not half bad."

Heth hesitated at the doorway.

Morala's eyes narrowed as she looked to Kyre for support.

Kyre shrugged, indifferent to the priestess's annoyance.

"The sound does not disturb me," the half-elf said flatly.

"Elminster? Aren't you distracted by the noise?" Morala asked, hoping the sage

would at least have the decency to admit the inappropriateness of the music at

the trial. They had already agreed that Nameless should not appear before the

tribunal. Morala feared he might charm the younger Harpers with his wit, while

Elminster feared he might disgust them with his ego. It certainly did not seem

appropriate to the priestess that the man's music should be heard. It was just

such music that Nameless had used to justify his crimes, and the Harpers had not

yet repealed their original judgment that all the prisoner's music be banished

from the Realms.

"I'm sorry, Morala," Elminster replied. "My hearing's not what it once was.

Didst ye ask if I heard boys?"

Morala let her breath out in a huff. She motioned the page to sit. "Please,

continue with your argument, wise Elminster," Morala prompted.

Having gained the upper hand with Morala on so small a matter, Elminster

hesitated before moving on to the more important issue at hand. Do I really dare

speak on Nameless's behalf? he wondered. Nameless's ordeals don't seem to have

humbled him any. Is he any wiser for all his suffering? The sage sighed to

himself and shook his head in an attempt to clear away his doubts. He had said

he would speak on the prisoner's behalf, so he would. He could only hope that

the collective decision of the tribunal would prove at least as wise as his own

uncertain counsel.

The sage rose to his feet and cleared his throat. "At my request," he explained,

"the Harpers have agreed to reconsider the case of the Nameless Bard. They have

chosen ye from among their ranks to represent them and serve on this tribunal.

For the benefit of Kyre and Breck Orcsbane, who were not yet born when Nameless

was first tried, I will review the circumstances of his trial and the outcome.

If it please thy grace," the sage said, nodding politely in Morala's direction,

"feel free to add to or correct me at any point. Ye knew Nameless as well as I."

Morala nodded politely in return, but Elminster realized it was unlikely she

would interrupt him. His report would be scrupulously accurate, and Morala was

astute enough to know she would only look like a fussy old woman if she began

correcting him.

Elminster began his tale. "The Nameless Bard was born three hundred and fifty

years ago in a small village in one of the northern nations, the second son of

local gentry. At an early age, he completed his training at a renowned barding

college and graduated with highest honors. He chose the life of a wandering

adventurer, and his songs became popular wherever in the Realms he roamed. While

he relished his fame, he also put it to good use, attracting other young

adventurers to help in any cause he felt worthy. Thus he and his companions

became the founding fathers of the Harpers.

"With the blessings of his gods and such aid as magic can give, he lived well

beyond the natural span of years given to a human, yet there came a time when

his mortality began to prey greatly on his mind. The bard became obsessed with

preserving his songs for posterity. He was never satisfied with any other

person's performance of his works, so he would not settle for the tradition

among most bards of passing the work on orally or leaving a written record. He

began to experiment with magical means of recording his work and thus created a

most marvelous piece of magic—the finder's stone."

Elminster paused a moment and glanced at Morala, wondering if she would object

to his mentioning the name of the magic device. Morala, however, chose to ignore

Elminster's mischief and waved her hand impatiently for him to proceed.

"The stone was originally a very minor artifact that would serve any person as a

compass of detection. Basically its wielder needed only to think of a person,

and the stone would send out a beam of light indicating a path to that person,"

the sage explained. "It also protected itself from theft as well as it could

with a blinding light spell. Occasionally it was known to direct its wielder

without instruction, as if it had a mind of its own, so that the stone was said

to help the lost find their way.

"The Nameless Bard experimented with altering the artifact's nature, something

only the most skilled or the most foolish magic-wielder would dare to try. Into

the crystal's heart he inserted a shard of enchanted para-elemental ice. Having

survived such a risky undertaking, Nameless reaped a great reward. In his hands

or those of his kin, the stone acted as a rechargeable wand holding those spells

Nameless had acquired. Like the blank pages of a journal, the stone could store

other information as well. Nameless claimed it could recall for him an entire

library of tomes. It could also recall his songs and 'sing' them, as it were, in

Nameless's voice, exactly as he sang them. He added other enchantments so it

could project the illusion that he was actually sitting there, singing the

song."

"A little stuck on himself, wasn't he?" Breck noted with a grin.

Morala huffed in agreement.

"More than a little, good ranger," Elminster replied, smiling at Breck. The sage

was pleased that the young man wasn't afraid to speak out and even more pleased

that the failings of others amused rather than annoyed the ranger. "Despite all

that he had accomplished," Elminster went on, "Nameless still was not satisfied.

The stone's illusion of himself needed to be commanded when to sing and told

what to sing. It had no vital force to sing of its own will, or judgment to

choose a song appropriate to the moment, or ability to gauge an audience's

reaction and build upon their emotions. So Nameless abandoned the stone as a

failure. He planned next to build a powerful simulacrum of himself. The creature

was to have Nameless's own personality as well as all the knowledge Nameless had

placed in the finder's stone. So that none would shun it as an abomination,

Nameless researched ways to make it indistinguishable from a true human.

Finally, he intended to give it immortality."

Breck gave a low whistle of amazement. The priestess Morala shuddered, even

though she was already familiar with the story. Kyre's expression remained

neutral—interested, but emotionless. The tune from the prisoner's cell swelled

into a bold fanfare.

Elminster continued. "Having found it useful in his alterations of the finder's

stone, Nameless obtained another shard of para-elemental ice for the heart of

the simulacrum." The sage paused. It was easy enough for Elminster to speak of

Nameless's brilliance and daring, and even his obsession and vanity, but the

sage's heart ached to recall the bard's crime.

It was better he should tell it, though, than let Morala give the account. "Yet,

for all his brilliance and natural ability with magic," Elminster explained,

"Nameless was a bard, not a trained magic-user. He recognized his own

limitations and tried to enlist the aid of several different wizards, but

without success. There were not many people whom he had not offended with his

arrogance. Among those mages he counted as friends, many thought his project

silly, a waste of time and energy. Some did not believe it would even work.

Others thought the creation he proposed to be a heinous act. A few pointed out

that the creation could be copied and used by malicious beings for evil

purposes. They tried to convince him that he should be satisfied with the

finder's stone's recreation of his music. Whatever their opinion, every mage he

spoke with told him the project was too dangerous. It would prove fatal to

himself or some other."

"He went ahead and did it anyway, didn't he?" Breck asked, as eager as a child

to hear the outcome of Elminster's story.

The sage nodded. "Yes, he did. With the aid of his apprentices, he built the

simulacrum's body in his own home. As he began casting the spell that would

animate the creature, however, something went wrong. The para-elemental ice

exploded. The simulacrum was destroyed, and one apprentice died instantly.

Another lost her voice, and all attempts to heal her failed."

"She killed herself later," Morala interrupted with a trace of anger.

"Yes," Elminster admitted, then hastily added, "but that was after the time of

which I speak. When Nameless summoned help for his wounded apprentice, he freely

admitted how she had sustained her injuries. The other Harpers were appalled

that he had risked his own apprentices in so dangerous a task, all for the sake

of his obsession with his music. They summoned him to judgment and found him

guilty of slaying one apprentice and injuring another. They determined a

punishment to fit his crime.

"His music and his name were to be banished from the Realms. To keep him from

thwarting them in this goal, and also to keep him from trying his reckless

experiment again, the Harpers removed the bard's own name from his memory and

banished him from the Realms, exiling him to a border region of the positive

plane of life, where, due to the nature of that re gion, he would live in good

health and relative immortality. He was condemned, however, to live in complete

solitude." Elminster paused again.

Nameless's tune switched to a plaintive minor key as Morala, Orcsbane, and Kyre

sat contemplating their fellow Harper's crime and his punishment. It almost

seemed as if Nameless was aware of what point in his story Elminster had

reached. Morala glanced suspiciously at the sage, but he seemed not to notice

the tune at all.

Actually Elminster's attention at the moment was attracted to a fluttering

shadow behind the tribunal. The sage made no sound or movement to call attention

to the small figure he spotted skulking along the courtroom wall. It was only

the halfling, Olive Ruskettle. Elminster could see no harm in her unauthorized

presence. After all, she knew Nameless's story already. The sage made a mental

note, though, to chide Lord Mourn-grym about the quality of the tower guard. In

the courtroom, the halfling was nearly impossible to spot, adept as she was at

hiding in the shadows, but she should not have been able to pass through the

tower's front gate in broad daylight unchallenged by the guards.

Unaware she had been observed by the sharp-eyed sage, the halfling sneaked out

of the courtroom and down the corridor toward the prisoner's cell.

If ye have plans to visit thy friend Nameless, ye little sneak thief, ve are in

for a surprise, Elminster thought, suppressing a grin. He focused his attention

again on the judges. "Two hundred years have passed since the exile of the

Nameless Bard—"

"Excuse me, Elminster," Kyre interrupted, "but are we to continue calling this

man Nameless throughout this hearing? Surely we can be trusted with his name. It

would simplify things, would it not?"

"No!" Morala objected. "It is we who made him Nameless. Nameless he will

remain."

Elminster sighed at the old priestess's vehemence. "It is the purpose of this

tribunal to decide not only whether or not to free Nameless, but whether or not

Nameless's name should be restored to the Realms. Morala and I have both taken

an oath not to reveal the name unless the Harpers decide otherwise. So we must

continue to refer to him as Nameless, at least until the aid of this trial."

"I see," Kyre replied, nodding her head slightly. "Excuse my interruption."

Elminster nodded and once again began the second half of his tale. "Nameless

remained in exile for two centuries. Then certain evil powers deliberately

sought him out and freed him from his place of exile."

The tune coming from the bard's prison ceased abruptly. Morala's lips curled

ever so slightly in satisfaction while Elminster stroked his beard thoughtfully,

wondering just what Nameless was up to now.

*****

In his prison cell, Nameless lowered the chordal horn and glared at his cell

door. Something was jiggling in the lock. Elminster had given the guards

specific instructions to show the prisoner every courtesy possible, including

always knocking before opening his door. The prisoner scowled in anticipation of

delivering a scathing reprimand to whichever guard had been so foolish to

interrupt him in the middle of his composition.

The door swung open slowly. A female halfling stood in the doorway. Her hazel

eyes sparkled, and she winked conspiratorially as she slid a copper wire into

her russet hair. "Nice ditty," she quipped. "Has it got any lyrics?"

"Naturally," the prisoner replied, relaxing his angry face. "Would you like me

to write them down for you, Mistress Ruskettle?" he asked.

"That'd be great," the small woman said, stepping into the cell. She pushed the

door almost, but not quite, closed behind her. Her furry bare feet padded

silently across the plush wool Calimshan carpeting. She slipped off her knapsack

and her wet cloak and checked to be sure the back of her tunic and pants were

dry before seating herself on a tapestry-covered footstool.

The Nameless Bard lay the chordal horn down on the table. "Come in. Mistress

Ruskettle. Have a seat and make yourself at home," he said, though he knew

sarcasm was wasted on half-lings in general and on Olive Ruskettle in

particular.

"Thank you. Nameless," Olive replied. "Nice quarters you have here," she said as

her eyes inspected the polished furniture, the velvet drapes, the brass-bound

clothes chest, the silk bedspread, the gold candelabrum, the crystal wine

decanter, and all the other luxuries Nameless's captors had provided for his

cell. "You're looking well," she added, grinning at the fine silken shirt,

fur-trimmed tunic, wool pants, and leather boots he wore.

Nameless grinned back as he seated himself cross-legged on the bed. He never

could remain annoyed with Olive for long. She had, after all, rescued him from

the dungeon of the cruel sorceress Cassana and also helped him free his singer,

Alias, from Cassana. It wasn't just gratitude, however, that made him fond of

the halfling thief; Olive's brash nerve amused him. It reminded him of himself.

"What have you been up to?" the bard asked. "It's been over a year since I've

seen you last."

"Yes. Sorry about that. This summer's been rather chaotic, as you've probably

heard. I was staying with friends in Immersea, who talked me out of traveling

until the trouble died down. If I'd known you were wasting away in prison, I

would have come sooner," the halfling said. From a silver bowl piled with fruit,

she plucked a large, juicy plum and ate the delicacy in several dainty, but

quick, bites.

"My imprisonment is a mere formality until the new trial is over," Nameless

said. "That door wasn't even kept locked until that old bat Morala arrived and

caused a stink."

"She's the priestess of Milil?" Olive asked. "The one who has it in for you?"

"You've met?" Nameless asked.

"I've seen her around."

"Have you seen Alias?"

"Actually, I came to see you the moment I hit town," Olive said. The halfling

didn't care much for Alias. Olive realized, however, that Nameless thought of

the singing swordswoman as a daughter, so in an effort to be polite, she asked

the bard, "How is dear Alias?"

"I don't know," Nameless huffed. "She and Dragonbait arrived in Shadowdale a day

after Morala, and Morala won't allow me any visitors. How did you get past the

guard at the tower gate?"

"You know," the halfling said, pulling out a silver pin from her cloak pocket,

"it really is amazing how much respect the local constabulary has for this silly

harp-and-moon symbol, even when it's pinned to the breast of a short person with

no visible weapons."

Nameless grinned at the irony. He'd given the halfling thief his old Harper's

pin. According to custom. Olive would need him to vouch for her until she was

accepted by the other Harpers, but he was a disgraced Harper. Now she'd used the

pin to break a rule made by Morala—a Master Harper. There was nothing like the

chaos a halfling—or a woman—could cause, Nameless thought, and Olive is both.

"You realize," Nameless asked aloud, "you'll have some problems being accepted

by the Harpers until I have reestablished myself?"

"You realize," Olive retorted, "that I'll have some problems accepting the

Harpers if they don't get off their high horses and forget this banishment

business. In the meantime, you can't stay in this dump. I've got a horse and

provisions for you hidden at the edge of town."

"Why, that's awfully thoughtful of you. Mistress Ruskettle."

"So let's go," Olive said, hopping up from the footstool and standing beside the

bed, tapping her foot in mock impatience.

Nameless leaned forward, reached out a hand, and stroked her hair. Ordinarily

Olive couldn't stand having humans patting her on the head, but Nameless hadn't

actually patted her, and she liked him more than any other human she'd ever met,

so she could forgive him a good deal. She looked up at him, puzzled that he'd

even touched her at all.

"Oh, Olive," he said with a rueful smile.

"What's wrong?" she asked, not failing to note he had used her given name,

something he'd never done before.

"Did you think me incapable of arranging my own escape, Olive?" Nameless asked.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Olive pointed out, growing annoyed.

"Yes, but not due to any lack of skill with locks," Nameless said, holding out

his hand and presenting the halfling with the copper wire he'd just slipped from

her hair. Dexterously he twirled the shining metal strand through his fingers,

then made it vanish so quickly that Olive couldn't be certain if he'd flipped it

away or slipped it up his sleeve.

"All right, I'm impressed. Can I have my pick-bone back?" the halfling asked.

"It's in your hair, Olive, right where you put it," replied Nameless.

Olive ran her fingers through her hair and found the wire lodged behind her ear

exactly where she'd put it. "An illusion, right?" she guessed.

Nameless did not reply. Instead, his eyes twinkled with mischief.

"I hate it when you do things like that," Olive huffed.

"You love it when I do things like that," Nameless countered. "You just hate

that you can't do them yet."

"All right. So you didn't need my help to escape. Why are you still here?" she

demanded.

"Because I have no desire to become a hunted fugitive when I don't have to. The

Harpers will come to their senses and release me."

"That's what you thought when you turned yourself over to them two hundred years

ago," Olive argued. "What makes you think this trial's going to end any

different from the first one?"

"Elminster is speaking in my defense this time," Nameless replied confidently.

"You put a lot of store in that old coot."

"The Harpers have grown accustomed to abiding by Elminster's counsel."

Olive sniffed. "And you expect them to forgive all, to take you back into their

fold and restore you to your position as a Master Harper?

"Naturally," the bard said coolly.

"What then?" Olive snapped. "Engagements at all the royal courts? A few noble

titles granted in honor of your talents? Wizards begging for your secrets?

Flocks of apprentices ready to serve under you?"

"Why should it be any different than it was before?" Nameless asked with a cocky

grin.

"You're dreaming, pal!" Olive shouted, completely frustrated with his vanity and

unrelenting certainty. "Wake up and smell the bacon! Not even the great

Elminster is going to bring Morala around. As for the other two, the ranger

might take pity on you, but that half-elf bard's got all the compassion of an

iron golem. You need—" Olive halted, alarmed at the way her voice echoed through

the cell and annoyed that this stupid human had made her lose her self-control.

"You need a contingency plan," the halfling whispered. "Just in case I'm right

and you're wrong."

"I have too much to lose if I flee now and you're wrong," Nameless retorted

heatedly.

"You have too much to lose if you don't. Security isn't going to get any more

lax if they condemn you, you know. Since you've already broken out of the

Citadel of White Exile, they'll have to find some place even worse—if you can

imagine any place worse than that."

Nameless fought to control a tremor in his lip. For two centuries, he'd lived in

the Citadel of White Exile, able to scry on the happenings in the Realms but

completely unable to participate. It had been torture for him, but he could

imagine worse things. He had other objections to trying to escape, though. "You

forget we're talking about the Harpers," he said. "They'll have no trouble

tracking me down. "

"You're a Harper yourself," Olive pointed out. "If you weren't so eager to rest

on your laurels, you could keep a step ahead of them. I've got a place where you

could hide, too—somewhere you'll be welcome, and no one would ever be able to

detect you magically."

"You want me to hide behind Alias's shield," Nameless replied, referring to the

misdirection spell cast on the swordswoman, a spell which made her and anyone

she traveled with completely undetectable by magical means. "Forget it,"

Nameless said vehemently. "I'm not getting her involved in this."

"I wasn't talking about Alias," Olive said. "Give me credit for some sense.

She's too obvious. I wasn't talking about a magic dead zone, either. That's too

obvious, too; besides, there's too much riffraff in places like that. I have

someplace even better in mind. With any luck, the Harpers will waste their time

checking out Alias and the dead zones and miss us altogether. The Harpers aren't

perfect. They make mistakes. Why do you give them so much power over you?"

"Because," Nameless hissed angrily, "they have my name."

Olive shrugged her shoulders and helped herself to another plum. "Big deal. So

do I. It's Finder. Finder Wyvernspur, from the clan Wyvernspur of Immersea, in

Cormyr," she said nonchalantly. She stifled a mock yawn before adding, "Your

older brother was Gerrin Wyvernspur. Your mother's name was Amalee Winter, and

your father was Lord Gould. Your grandfather was the Paton Wyvernspur. Sound

familiar?"

The bard leaned back against the wall, staring at the halfling with undisguised

amazement. Silently, with his eyes closed as if he were reciting an oft-repeated

prayer from childhood, the bard mouthed the names Olive had given him .

"Surprised?" Olive asked, unable to keep from grinning.

The bard looked at the halfling and nodded, still dumbfounded.

"I've got something else for you, Finder," Olive said, pulling something from

her cloak pocket. She laid it down on the bed in front of the bard. "Recognize

this?"

Finder looked down at the halfling's gift. It was a sparkling yellow crystal,

multifaceted and roughly egg-shaped, somewhat larger than a hen's egg. The bard

gasped. Then he whooped once with pleasure, leaped from the bed, snatched Olive

up in the air, and swung her around, laughing with delight. "You stole the

finder's stone! You incredible halfling! I could kiss you!"

"Well, I suppose I deserve it," Olive said, turning her head and pointing to her

cheek. Finder pressed his lips against her flushed face. Then he laughed and

spun around again, with Olive still in his arms.

"I'll lose that plum I just ate if you don't set me down," Olive threatened.

Finder lowered the halfling gently to the bed. Olive bounced once on the

mattress and snatched up the crystal. "Is this thing still loaded with magic?"

she asked, tossing the stone to the bard.

Finder caught the crystal with one hand. He sang a short, clear G-sharp and

peered into the stone's depths. "Yes!" he announced. "I don't believe it.

Elminster didn't give this to you, did he? You did steal it, didn't you?"

Olive grinned. "No and no. Elminster gave it to Alias last year. Maybe he felt

she had some right to it, seeing how she's related to you. We lost it outside of

Westgate, but I ran into the man who found it and convinced him to part with

it."

"And my name? Who parted with that?" Finder asked.

"That's a longer story. Why don't we save it for later? Let's go, huh?"

Finder sat down on the footstool. "There's no hurry now," he insisted. "We can

leave anytime. There's a teleport spell in the crystal."

"Which won't work if Elminster's cast some sort of anti-magic shell around this

cell," Olive argued.

"The finder's stone is an artifact. Not even Elminster's magic can stop spells

cast from it," Finder declared. He picked out a plum from the bowl and took a

bite, slurping noisily. "I want to give Elminster the chance to argue my case

before the Harpers as he should have done the first time. If he fails to

convince them to pardon me, then we'll leave."

"I have a bad feeling about this, Finder. Let's go now, please," Olive pleaded.

"Relax, Olive. I have everything under control. Here, have another plum." Finder

held out the silver fruit bowl toward Olive.

Olive crossed her arms, determined not to encourage her friend's indifference to

his own peril.

Finder waved the bowl enticingly under her nose. Unable to resist the smell, the

halfling chose a second plum.

"Finder. Such a proper name," the bard mused as he set the bowl back on the

table The halfling suppressed an unexplainable shiver and bit into her plum.

*****

While Olive Ruskettle was trying her best to convince the Nameless Bard that

Elminster might fail to get him freed, the sage himself was explaining to the

Harpers how the alliance of evil beings that had freed Nameless had managed to

trick the bard into building a new version of his simulacrum for them.

Morata shook her head and bit her tongue, but she could no longer hold back her

annoyance. "This is just what I warned him would happen when he was planning the

first simulacrum. Evil cannot disguise itself from good unless good looks the

other way. Nameless's own arrogance blinded him to their nature."

"That may be, thy grace," Elminster replied, "but he did not hesitate to act

against these evil beings when he finally recognized their true nature. He did

his best to keep them from gaining control of the simulacrum. He freed her so

that she and her companions were able to return and destroy all of the members

of the consortium, the sorceress Cassana, the lich Prakis, the Fire Knives

Assassins Guild, the Tarterean fiend Phalse, and even Moander the Darkbringer."

"She? You mean the simulacrum?" Breck asked.

"He succeeded in animating it, then?" Morala asked with a defeated sigh.

"Actually, she's more than animated. She's very much alive and possessed of her

very own soul and spirit. Not even ye, thy grace, could tell she was unborn."

"Impossible!" the priestess declared.

"Impossible for Nameless and the evil beings who backed him, but not impossible

for a god."

"Moander is the Darkbringer. He could not give her a soul," Morala insisted.

"I did not speak of Moander," Elminster said.

"What god, then, Elminster?" Kyre asked.

"I'm not certain. The fiend Phalse kidnapped a paladin from another world to

supply the simulacrum with a soul, but the paladin still lives. Somehow his soul

doubled, and a shard of his spirit broke off. Both grew inside Nameless's

creation. It is possible one of the paladin's gods made this possible. I also

suspect that the goddess of luck, Tymora, may have interfered in the creation.

Nameless still invokes her name on occasion, and the simulacrum seems to have an

affinity for Lady Luck. Perhaps it was a joint effort of these gods. Whatever

the case, the woman lives."

"Why did Nameless make this creation a woman?" Breck asked.

"For her own vile reasons, the sorceress Cassana insisted it be made in her

image," the sage explained. "Perhaps that was for the best. Nameless gave the

simulacrum much of his personality, but in an effort to make her a more 'ideal'

woman, in his own view, he created in her a tender and nobler side Nameless

himself had never displayed. She has already made a name for herself as a brave

and clever sell-sword. The paladin I mentioned before, a noble saurial known

here in the Realms as 'Dragonbait,' travels in her company, totally convinced of

her goodness."

Breck gasped. "You don't mean Alias of Westgate!"

"The very same, good ranger," Elminster replied. "You have met the lady, then?"

"Well, not exactly," Orcsbane admitted. "I've seen her down at The Old Skull

tavern, though, and listened to her sing. She has a voice like a bird—sings some

of the most moving songs I've ever heard."

"She sings!" Morala shouted angrily. "She sings his songs, doesn't she,

Elminster? And you've done nothing about it!"

"What could I do, thy grace? She is a free woman who has committed no crime. The

people of Shadowdale consider her a hero. The time is long past when the Harpers

could intimidate ordinary folk into obedience, let alone demand it of heroes."

Elminster could tell Morala was struggling to control her rage. The priestess

was breathing deeply, with her eyes closed and her jaw set. The sage had no

desire to anger Morala, but he would not be reprimanded for behaving in a

civilized fashion.

"Perhaps we should meet this woman," Kyre suggested calmly. "Will she speak with

us if she is summoned forth?"

Elminster nodded. "She is eager to speak if there is a chance it will help

Nameless."

"Ah-ha!" Morala cried. "She is his creature indeed."

"No, Morala," Elminster snapped back, fighting hard to keep his own anger in

check. "She is her own creature. She is fond of Nameless, though, as any

generous and good woman would be of a father who nurtured her as best he could."

Morala looked down at her hands, fearing that she had aroused the sage's wrath.

As old as she was, Elminster was many years her senior, and he was the Harpers'

most powerful ally and advisor. "We should hear her speak," she agreed softly.

Kyre signaled the page and ordered him, "Find Alias of Westgate and request that

she come before this tribunal."

Heth stood up, bowed before the tribunal and hurried out of the courtroom to

fetch the Nameless Bard's singer, Alias.

2

The Singer

The patrons of The Old Skull applauded enthusiastically as the singer finished

her song. Even the innkeep, Jhaele Silver-mane, paused a moment from her duties

at the bar to show her appreciation. The singer bowed once to her audience and

then to the songhorn player who had accompanied her.

The rustic common room was full of farmers who only half an hour ago had been

grumbling and cursing the rain that kept them from the season's haying. Now,

instead of nursing their first drink for two hours and worrying about how they

were going to feed their livestock all winter on moldy hay, the farmers were

ordering their second pint and cheering for the singer to give them another

song.

The singer, the sell-sword Alias of Westgate, also known as Alias of the Azure

Bonds, smiled gratefully. She sang to keep herself occupied, since the Harpers

would not let her visit her father, the Nameless Bard, and she sang to defy the

Harpers, who had tried to wipe out the bard's music. Mostly, though, she sang

because she knew the bard would want her to, no matter what happened to him.

Secretly, though, she was struggling to think of a graceful way to decline

singing any further this day.

"Please, Alias," the songhorn player whispered to the singer. "They need

something to keep their minds off this weather."

"Han, I... I think I'm losing my voice," Alias whispered back.

"Your voice sounds just fine," Han insisted.

"One more at least," a deep voice rumbled from a table beside the musicians'

platform, "or I'll have to have the watch haul you off for denying the happiness

of the good people of Shadowdale."

Alias laughed good-naturedly at the threat. The speaker was Mourngrym Amcathra,

lord of Shadowdale, and the swordswoman counted him among her friends. She

tossed her red hair behind her shoulders and flapped the bottom of her green

woolen tunic in an effort to cool off. "Then I suppose I'd have to sing for the

watch, wouldn't I?" Alias asked Mourngrym.

"That's right," Mourngrym replied with a twinkle in his eye. "And then" he

added, "I'd have to sentence you to sing lullabies to my son for a year." His

lordship bounced the aforementioned baby on his knee and asked him, "You'd like

that, wouldn't you, Scotty?"

Although he was far too young to understand the question, Mourngrym's heir

responded to his father's enthusiastic tone of voice by laughing and clapping

his hands.

"A fate worse than death," Alias said with mock terror.

The farmers laughed and Scotty shrieked happily. Still Alias hesitated. She'd

been singing at the Old Skull for three days in a row, and the audiences loved

every song she sang. Four times since spring, however, she'd lost control of her

voice and had begun singing strange words and changing Nameless's melodies. She

was sure it was only a matter of time before it happened again. Here in

Shadowdale, though, she risked more than shocking her listeners. If Nameless

heard about it, he would be greatly displeased with her.

From the back of the room, she caught Dragonbait's eye. The saurial paladin

motioned encouragingly with his hands. Alias sighed inwardly. Nothing's going to

go wrong, she told herself. Stop being such a ninny and face the music.

Trying to focus her thoughts on her audience, Alias chose a farming song, the

lyrics of which were an old folk rhyme that Nameless had set to music. Han knew

the rhyme, but he was unfamiliar with the tune, so he stood silently beside

Alias, listening carefully, hoping he could pick up the melody with his horn by

the second or third verse. Alias sang out clear and strong:

  "We till the soil, we spread the grain,

  We shoo the birds, we pray for rain.

  The rain comes down, the shoots spring out,

  But so do weeds, and then comes drought.

  We haul the water till our backs are sore;

  The weeds grow richer, but the crop stays poor.

  Then one day Chauntea ends our strife,

  And our grain takes root in the river of life.

  "The river of life, the river of life:

  Every woman's man, every good man's wife.

  We should all drink deep from the river of life.

  "The river of life, the river of life:

  Every woman's man, every good man's wife.

  We should all drink deep from the river of life"

Everyone joined in singing the repeat of the chorus. Han played softly, not

wanting to spoil anything should he guess a note wrong, as Alias began the

second verse:

  "We scythe the grains, we pluck the fruits,

  We gather the nuts and dig up the roots.

  The days grow cool, the birds fly away,

  The beasts grow fur, the pastures turn gray.

  We eat our fill and store what's left,

  Then the snow comes down and the fields rest.

  The darkness grows inside our souls,

  And our labor's turned to evil goals"

Han fumbled with his fingering. The songhorn player had never heard the last two

lines before. The version he knew told of preparation for midwinter revels. But

something disturbed Han even more than the unfamiliar words Alias sang. The

young singer had suddenly switched to a new, eerie-sounding key. Then, without a

repeat of the chorus, the swordswoman launched into a third verse with still

more lyrics Han did not recognize.

  "We hack the vines, we cut the trees,

  We trample the roots and burn the seeds.

  When the rain comes down, the soil washes away,

  Leaving barren rock and heavy clay.

  We wear chains of green till our bodies rot;

  The corpses still move, their minds without thought.

  Soon the great dark will devour the Realms;

  Death is the power that overwhelms"

At the first four lines, the farmers began scowling and muttering among

themselves. This certainly wasn't farming as they practiced it. It might be the

way of those in lands under the sway of evil, like those to the north,

controlled by the Zhentarim, but here in the dales they tried their best to live

in harmony with the land. At the last four lines, the farmers shifted nervously

in their chairs and peered into their ale, confused by the direction the song

had taken.

Although Alias had failed to note that Han had ceased accompanying her, she

recognized now that she no longer held her audience's attention. She knew all

too well what was wrong and her voice failed. Oh, gods, she thought, shaking

with fear I've twisted this song the same way I twisted the others.

She felt Han's hand on her shoulder. "Alias, are you feeling well?" the songhorn

player asked quietly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so tired. I've forgotten the words," she lied.

"I think I'd better go sit down."

Han squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and patted her on the back as she walked

away. Anxious to spare her from the stares that followed her, Han raised his

horn back to his lips and began playing a reel to distract the audience.

Equally protective of the singer's feelings and eager to break up the unpleasant

atmosphere the song had created in the common room, Jhaele nudged her son Durgo

and whispered for him to get up and dance with his sister Nelil. Durgo, a

middle-aged farmer with little sense of rhythm, had as much love of dancing as

he had of crows and weevils, but he was a dutiful son. He grabbed Nelil's hand

and tugged her to her feet The other farmers shook off their uneasiness and

began clapping to the beat. A few joined Durgo and Nelil in the energetic dance.

As Alias threaded her way through the tables to the back of the common room, she

kept her eyes on the floor, too embarrassed to look at anyone. She wanted to

rush up the stairs to her room and lock herself inside, but before she could get

past the table where Dragonbait sat, the saurial paladin grabbed her wrist. He

pulled her toward him, slowly but firmly. Alias yielded to his strength and sat

down heavily beside him.

"That's the fifth time this has happened," she growled through her clenched

teeth, made angry by her own fear. "I'm not singing again. You shouldn't have

encouraged me."

Ordinarily the pair communicated with a sign language that Alias had taught

Dragonbait. It was a variant of the thieves' hand cant, which the swordswoman

had learned magically from the assassins who had helped create her. The visual

language was capable of conveying quite complex ideas, but it still was

inadequate when the paladin needed to comfort the swordswoman. Dragonbait

reached out and stroked the inside of Alias's sword arm with his scaly fingers.

It was far easier to remind her how much he cared for her by touching the

magical blue brand on her forearm—the brand which had bound his life to hers.

Alias felt her brand tingle at the paladin's touch, and her irritation subsided

somewhat. His touch there always filled her with the paladin's own inner calm.

Alias laid her fingertips on the front of Dragonbait's tunic, where a similar

brand scarred his chest scales beneath it. Alias knew that, despite the layer of

fabric, he would experience the same tingling sensation she felt. Considering

the misery she still felt, though, she couldn't help but worry that her touch

would only disquiet him.

"What's wrong with me, Dragonbait?" she whispered, struggling to keep from

crying. "Why can't I sing a simple song without ruining it?"

The saurial paladin shook his head. He didn't know.

Alias sniffed and caught a whiff of the odors the saurial emitted in response.

The sell-sword smiled ruefully. She knew the acent of honeysuckle was

Dragonbait's expression of tender concern. The honeysuckle scent, however, was

intermingled with the tang of baked ham, an odor that indicated the saurial was

worried. Like a human's body language, the saurial's odors often gave away more

of his true feelings than he would have chosen to reveal.

Someone nearby coughed politely, and the sell-sword and her companion looked up.

Lord Mourngrym stood before their table with his son squirming under one arm.

His lordship looked down at Alias quizzically and asked, "Is something Wrong,

Alias?"

"Nothing important, your lordship," Alias said hastily. "I'm sorry I spoiled the

song. I've just got a lot on my mind, I guess."

Mourngrym would not be put off so easily, however. Alias looked pale and

frightened. With Nameless in jail and no one to care for her but the peculiar

lizard-man, his lordship felt protective of the sell-sword. He sat down beside

her, balancing Scotty on the table before him. "I'm the one who insisted you

sing," Mourngrym reminded her. "I'm the one who should apologize. Now, show that

you forgive me and tell me what's wrong," he said, patting her hand.

"I don't know," Alias said, trying to hide her fear with a shrug of her

shoulders. "Sometime this spring I just started to sing strangely. I can sing a

few songs just fine, and then one song suddenly turns into something about death

and decay and darkness. I don't even know I'm doing it until. . . until people

start to stare at me as if I'm a monster. I thought I might be cursed or

possessed, but three different priests told me there was nothing wrong with

me—except that I was arrogant, headstrong, and disrespectful."

Mourngrym smiled. "Well, they got that part right," he teased.

Scotty reached out and grabbed a lock of Alias's shiny red hair. The swordswoman

picked the child up off the table and helped him stand on her thighs. Scotty

bounced up and down, chortling with delight.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Alias said quietly. "What will Nameless

think?"

"Alias, it wasn't a bad song," Mourngrym argued. "Just, um . . . different."

Alias lowered her eyes guiltily. "I was upset that the Harpers wouldn't let me

see Nameless, but to tell the truth, I was a little relieved, too. I'm afraid

the next time he asks me to sing for him, I'll change the song, and he'll be

upset. He doesn't like the least little change in his songs."

"Alias," Mourngrym replied, "you can't spend the rest of your life doing

everything exactly the way Nameless wants you to. You have to live your own

life."

"I know that," Alias said unhappily, "but I don't want to disappoint him by

ruining his songs. If I was improving them, I could argue with him about it, but

I'm only making the songs ugly and grotesque."

Despite her claim to the contrary, his lordship didn't believe Alias understood

his advice. The bard's enchantment of her went deeper than any magic. She loved

Nameless, and she sang to please him. Trying to reassure her, Mourngrym said,

"Sometimes we need frightening songs, whether we like them or not. They remind

us what we stand for or against and give us the incentive to take action."

"But I don't know even know what these new songs are about, even though they're

coming out of my own head," Alias objected. "How am I supposed to take action?

Against what?"

Mourngrym had no answer. These were questions for sharper minds than his own.

"Have you discussed any of this with Elminster?" he asked.

Alias shook her head. "I don't want to bother him until he's finished helping

Nameless."

Mourngrym shook his head. Alias was losing control of her voice, something that

obviously frightened her, but she was more concerned about Nameless's plight.

His lordship wanted to tell Alias to forget Nameless for once, but he knew the

sell-sword would not heed his words.

Dragonbait chirped and pointed toward the doorway. Alias turned to see a group

of travelers entering the inn. There were a dozen or more of them, pulling off

their rain-drenched cloaks and shouting requests for drinks and food and rooms

to the inn's staff. From their clothing, Alias guessed they were merchants and

caravan guards from Cormyr. One man, however, had to be from much farther south.

His skin was the dusky hue of a southerner. He wore silken red-and-white-striped

robes, and a golden cord banded his curly brown hair. He stood taller than the

other merchants and many of the guards.

"It can't be," Alias muttered. She craned her neck impatiently until the man

turned around. In the manner of a Turmishman, he sported a square beard, and to

indicate he was married, he wore a blue sapphire in his earlobe. The three blue

dots on his forehead indicated he was a scholar of reading, magic, and religion.

But these things hardly registered on Alias now. It was the familiarity of the

man's face that excited her. "It's him!" she gasped. "Dragonbait, it's Akabar!

He's come back to us!"

Alias rose to her feet, thrusting Scotty back at his surprised father, and ran

to the door of the inn, crying out the Turmishman's name.

A few heads swiveled to see who the swordswoman was calling to, but most of the

inn's occupants kept their attention on Han's songhorn music and the dancers on

the floor.

Akabar Bel Akash held his arms out to greet the sell-sword in a traditional

handclasp, but Alias threw herself into his arms and embraced him like a

long-lost brother. From where he sat, Mourngrym could tell from the look of

surprise on the Turmishman's face that Akabar hadn't expected quite so warm a

reception

Mourngrym exchanged glances with Dragonbait The saurial shrugged and turned back

to watch the newcomers. His scaly brow knit with concern when he spied a woman

standing behind Akabar

Tugging on the southerner's arm, Alias led Akabar back to her table. She didn't

seem to notice the heavily veiled woman who followed several paces behind them.

Mourngrym did however, and he rose to his feet with Scotty seated in the crook

of his arm

"Mourngrym, you remember Akabar bel Akash?" Alias asked. "He was a member of my

party when I first visited Shadowdale."

"The 'mage of no small water,' " Mourngrym said, recalling the phrase Akabar had

often used.

Akabar bowed low "I'm honored you remember me, your lordship," the Turmishman

said.

Mourngrym grinned. In his experience, it was seldom that a mage lived long

enough to prove his boasts. Alias had told his lordship the story of how the

Turmishman had defeated the evil god Moander. Akabar was indeed a 'mage of the

first water,' as his people would say. "And who is the lady?" Mourngrym asked,

finally drawing Alias's attention to the woman standing behind Akabar.

Akabar stepped to one side. "Your lordship, Alias, Dragon-bait," Akabar said,

"may I present, Zhara, Priestess of Tymora."

Zhara took a step forward. She was as tall as Alias, but her green eyes and

slender brown hands were the only parts of her body not covered by the blue

robes of her calling or the long blue and white veil draped across her face. "I

am honored to meet you," Zhara said softly. She curtsied low, but she did not

remove her veil.

Mourngrym bowed and Dragonbait nodded, but Alias eyed the priestess with

annoyance. She didn't like clerics or priests. Dragonbait was always trying to

convince her that she felt this way because Cassana and the swordswoman's other

evil makers had enchanted her, but Alias rejected that idea. She didn't like

members of the clergy because, as far as she was concerned, they were a nearly

useless bunch of fools—even those who served Tymora, Lady Luck, the goddess of

adventurers. Why in the world is Akabar traveling with a priestess? she wondered

As if he read her mind, Akabar explained, "Zhara is my third wife."

Anger and disappointment stabbed at the pleasure Alias had felt at seeing Akabar

again A moment ago, she had imagined their reunion would be just like old times,

but the presence of one of his wives put a damper on that hope. With the

exception of Dragonbait, Akabar was the swordswoman's oldest friend in the

world. He had helped Alias on her quest to discover her origins, but if Alias

had had her way, she'd have never met this woman.

To avoid just such a meeting, Alias had once claimed that she was unable to

stand the heat of the south and declined an invitation to accompany Akabar to

his home in Turmish. The swordswoman hadn't wanted to face the scrutiny of his

wives. Though she'd never been south, Alias had heard how insufferably proud

southern women were of the way they lived: their modest dress, their subservient

soft speech, their efficient households and businesses, their innumerable

children. They were all greengrocers. Alias's term for boring nonadventurers,

and Alias couldn't imagine them welcoming a wandering sell-sword with no real

family. Even more unbearable than the thought of their disapproval had been the

thought of sharing Akabar's company and attention with women he was closer to

than he was to her.

"I was under the impression that southern women didn't travel away from home,"

the sell-sword said coolly as she sat down at the table and motioned for Akabar

to take the seat beside her.

"My sister-wives, Akash and Kasim, have charged me to protect our husband from

the barbarians of the north," Zhara replied matter-of-factly, slipping herself

into the chair that Alias had intended for Akabar. Akabar seated himself between

Zhara and Dragonbait.

Uneasy because of the tension he sensed. Lord Mourngrym turned toward the door

of the inn. "If you'll excuse me," his lordship said, "I think I'd better head

back home before the rain starts falling harder. I'll leave you to rehash old

times." He bowed once again to Akabar's wife, then strode off, with Scotty

balanced on his shoulder.

Akabar sighed inwardly as he glanced from Alias to Zhara. He hadn't expected

Alias to get along with Zhara. Although the sell-sword was too proud to admit

it, he believed she was jealous of tug wives. He hadn't expected Zhara to show

jealousy, though, but then Alias was special to him, and Zhara knew that. At

least the women's coolness toward one another would give him time to explain

about Zhara to Alias.

Akabar glanced at Dragonbait, who was watching Zhara curiously The saurial

paladin gave Akabar an inquiring look. He can smell what Zhara is, the

Turmishman thought. Will he have the wisdom to keep it to himself? he wondered,

Dragonbait shrugged and looked down at his teacup. Akabar, he realized, thought

Alias loved him and would become enraged with jealousy if she knew all that

Zhara was. The paladin knew Alias far better than the merchant-mage, and he knew

that Alias did indeed love Akabar, but not the way Akabar thought she did.

Despite Alias's adult body and brilliant mind, Dragonbait had come to understand

that her emotions were no more mature than a child's. The paladin suspected that

the Nameless Bard, who denied his own emotions as a matter of pride, had been

unable to give Alias skill controlling her feelings when something upset her.

Like a child, Alias grew jealous easily, and it wasn't easy for her to accept

that she couldn't always be the center of attention. Akabar was right to worry

about her reaction when she learned of Zhara's true nature. What the

merchant-mage did not realize, however, was that Alias wouldn't react as a woman

but as a child.

Still, it would be bad to put off explaining about Zhara, the paladin thought.

He would give Akabar a day to work up to it, but no more.

From the unpleasant, but fortunately weak, stench of brimstone that wafted from

Dragonbait, Alias could tell there was something about Akabar's wife that

interested the saurial. Nevertheless, Alias ignored Zhara and focused all her

attention on Akabar. "So what brings you this far north so late in the year?"

she asked the Turmishman.

Instead of answering Alias's question, Akabar asked one of his own. "Have you

been well since I saw you in Westgate last year?"

Alias's brow knit in puzzlement. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be? Akabar, what's

wrong? Why are you here?"

Akabar drew a deep breath. "I came to Shadowdale to seek Elminster's advice. I

also hoped to find you here, in order to warn you."

"Warn me?" Alias asked, more confused than alarmed. "What about?"

"The return of the Darkbringer," Akabar said.

"The Darkbringer! You mean Moander?" Alias asked.

Akabar nodded.

"Akabar," Alias reminded the mage, "after you destroyed Moander's body, most of

its worshipers killed themselves. Cassana had the Fire Knives assassinate those

who didn't, so she wouldn't have to share me with them. Dragonbait and I spent

the past two summers checking out all the Darkbringer's temples. They've all

been abandoned. Without worshipers in the Realms, it could be centuries before

Moander can regain enough energy to make a new body and return here from the

Abyss"

"I have been troubled by nightmares of late," Akabar explained. "Zhara tells me

they are warnings from the gods of light."

Alias sighed in exasperation. "Akabar, after all Moander put you through, of

course you're going to have nightmares about it for a while. It's only natural.

The gods don't have anything to do with it."

"The dreams did not begin until this past spring, nearly a year after Meander's

death," Akabar countered.

Alias shrugged. "Spring is when you destroyed Moander. Maybe the weather just

reminded you of him," she suggested.

"Spring weather in Turmish is nothing like spring weather in the north or even

in Westgate, where Moander died," Akabar persisted.

Dragonbait rapped on the table for attention. Alias watched the saurial's paws

flutter about the tabletop, then move to his lips. Finally he pointed at her and

Akabar.

Alias shook her head. "They're not related at all," she told the paladin.

"What's he trying to say?" Akabar asked curiously.

"Nothing important," Alias said.

Dragonbait shoved his elbow into Alias's side. The sell-sword glared at her

lizard companion, and Dragonbait glared right back at her. The contest of wills

lasted only a few moments, but it astonished Akabar. He'd never seen Dragonbait

challenge Alias before. When the mage had traveled with the pair, Dragonbait had

been as submissive to Alias as a Turmishwoman was to her husband in public.

Obviously the relationship between the saurial and Alias had changed in the past

year. Alias looked away from Dragonbait, muttering, "All right. Think what you

want, but you're wrong."

"What is it?" Akabar demanded.

"Dragonbait thinks I should tell you that it was last spring when I started

singing strangely."

"Singing strangely? I don't understand," Akabar said, his eyebrows arching.

"Somehow the melody and the lyrics of songs I was singing came out twisted. And

I didn't even realize I was doing it," Alias explained, obviously disturbed.

"Do you have dreams about Moander?" Akabar asked.

"I wouldn't know," Alias replied. "I never remember my dreams when I wake up.

Dreams are for sleeping."

"You remembered the dream you had about Nameless in Shadow Gap," Akabar reminded

her.

"That was different. That was a magical dream caused by the witch Cassana, sent

in order to distract me from the ambush she was laying."

Akabar stroked his beard thoughtfully, then suggested, "Since you do not

remember your dreams, it could be that the gods are trying to warn you through

your songs."

"Akabar, why should the gods go to all the trouble to send you dreams and ruin

my songs when they could just send a letter?" Alias asked skeptically.

"If you do not believe Zhara and you do not believe me," Akabar said, "you

certainly would not believe a letter, Alias. The gods know the way to your heart

is through your music."

Alias sighed. She'd known, of course, that Akabar was a scholar of religion, but

this sudden devout belief that the gods were speaking to him and her made her

uneasy. It was this new wife's influence, she was sure. "Well, if the gods are

causing me to sing this way," Alias said, "they certainly have lousy taste in

music. And they could work on making their lyrics a little less obscure, too."

Zhara, who had been silent for a long time, spoke out suddenly, with anger and

passion. "You cannot expect the songs of the gods to be of the same simple sort

you northern barbarians delight in," she said.

Alias glared at the priestess. "My songs are the best in the Realms," she

growled.

"They are nothing compared to the words spoken by the gods," Zhara replied

heatedly. "Our prayers to them are the most suitable music we can make."

Realizing that it was futile to argue with a religious zealot, Alias turned her

attention back to Akabar. "I don't suppose the gods have given you any details

about what you're supposed to do about this return of Moander," she said.

"Yes, they have, as a matter of fact," Akabar replied, and his face looked

suddenly haggard. "I must find Moander's body in the Realms and destroy it

again. Then I must find its body in the Abyss and destroy it there. Only then

will Moander be destroyed forever," he explained.

Alias looked at her friend with astonishment and fear. He was absolutely

serious. He meant to fight the god again. If Dragonbait hadn't recruited the

help of an ancient red dragon, who had died battling Moander, she and Akabar

would still be under the god's domination now, unable to fight the abomination's

awful power to control their minds. Now Akabar not only wanted to fight Moander

in the Realms, but also in the Abyss, where it would be surrounded by numbers of

powerful minions. The swordswoman was sure the mage couldn't have come up with

such a dangerous idea on his own. She glared across the table at Akabar's new

wife, and as she so often did, she channeled her fear into anger.

"This is all your doing, isn't it?" Alias snarled at Zhara. "You lousy priests

are always trying to convince some nice, noble soul to go out and get killed

trying to destroy some great evil that no one in their right mind would want to

run into. Not even the mighty elven kingdom of Myth Drannor, in the height of

its powers, could destroy Moander. You softened Akabar up with sweet talk and

then start blowing his nightmares out of proportion. I'll bet you even used your

priestly magic to set him on this stupid quest, didn't you?"

Alias looked back at the Turmishman. "Don't be a fool, Akabar," she pleaded.

"You've done more than your share. You should never have married this priestess.

She doesn't care about you. She's only interested in what you can do for the

glory of her goddess."

Akabar's jaw trembled and his face went livid. Instinctively Alias backed her

chair away from him. Zhara laid one of her slender hands on her husband's arm

and said something in Turmish that Alias didn't understand. Akabar closed his

eyes and calmed his temper with several long, slow breaths.

Beneath the table, Dragonbait's tail slapped warningly at Alias's knee. The

swordswoman shot an angry glance at the paladin. Dragonbait was rubbing his

chin. He was asking her to apologize to Zhara, but Alias remained adamant. She

didn't care how Akabar felt about Zhara. Zhara was obviously using him.

A youth dressed in a page's uniform, his hair dripping wet from the rain falling

outside the inn, interrupted the uneasy silence that had settled over the table.

"Excuse me, lady," the boy said timidly.

Alias looked up. She knew the boy. His name was Heth, and he was one of Lord

Mourngrym's pages. She smiled to put the boy at ease. "Yes? What is it, Heth?"

"Alias of Westgate, the tribunal of Harpers requests that you come come before

them," Heth said formally.

Alias started. For a short while, she'd forgotten her anxiety about Nameless.

Now it returned with double force. Her face went pale and her lips trembled.

Nameless's fate was in her hands. If she said or did the wrong thing, they would

exile him again, send him away from the Realms, away from her.

"What tribunal?"'Akabar asked.

"The Harper tribunal that is rehearing Nameless's case," Alias said, rising to

her feet. "I asked to speak to them on his behalf."

Despite his offended pride and the insult she had just delivered to his wife,

Akabar couldn't help but feel sympathy for the warrior woman. Alias had always

had difficulty trusting other people and growing intimate with them, but she had

accepted Nameless as her father. Akabar didn't like to think of the grief she

would suffer should the Harpers be so merciless as to recondemn the bard.

"I would have thought the Harpers had taken care of that last year," Akabar

said. "What's taken them so long?"

"It took Elminster all last year to convince them that they should rehear the

case," Alias explained. "Now I have to go."

Akabar stood up in front of the sell-sword. "I'll go with you," he said. "I,

too, will speak on his behalf, for he saved my life."

The page looked confused for a moment, uncertain how to respond to this

stranger.

"Heth," Alias explained to the page, "this is my friend, Akabar bel Akash. He

knows all about Nameless. May he come with me?"

"He is welcome to accompany you, lady," Heth replied, "but I do not know if the

tribunal will hear him."

"Then I shall speak very loudly," Akabar said.

Alias looked up at Akabar with a grateful smile. At least Zhara's influence was

not so complete that the Turmishman could not spare time from his insane quest

to help a friend.

Dragonbait chirped, and Alias turned her head to watch him sign. "Dragonbait

says he'll look after Zhara for you," she explained to Akabar. Though I'm sure

the shrew can handle herself, she thought, but she managed to resist saying so

aloud. She wished the paladin would come along with her instead of remaining

with Zhara, but she didn't want to argue with him in front of Akabar.

Akabar motioned for the page to go ahead. Alias went to speak to Jhaele for a

moment, then grabbed her cloak from a hook and joined Akabar and Heth at the

door. The swords-woman and the Turmishman followed the boy from the inn out into

the drizzling rain. They walked in silence down the main road that led west

toward the Tower of Ashaba. Over the tops of the trees, they could make out the

tower's peculiar off-center spire, which gave it the nickname "the Twisted

Tower."

Despite its notoriety, Shadowdale was a small town, but the Tower of Ashaba was

a massive and impressive structure nonetheless. It served as a home to not only

the Lord of Shadowdale and his family, but also to most of his court and

household staff, not to mention numerous adventurers friendly to his lordship.

Mourngrym had invited Alias to winter there, but Alias could only think of the

tower as Nameless's prison, and she had declined. She wouldn't have accepted at

any rate. As much as she liked Mourngrym, becoming his guest would have meant

giving up some of her independence. She felt more comfortable paying Jhaele for

a room at the inn.

As they passed Elminster's tower, Akabar glanced sidelong at Alias. She looked

nervous. Having already swallowed his anger at her earlier behavior, the mage

was determined to reestablish their friendship. He began with what northerners

called "small talk."

"Have you heard anything of Mistress Olive Ruskettle since she took her leave of

us in Westgate?" the Turmishman asked.

Alias looked at Akabar and grinned. Olive, at least, was something the two of

them had always agreed upon. The halfling thief had attached herself without

invitation to their adventuring party the previous year, only to make a

tremendous nuisance of herself, betraying them to Alias's enemies and only at

the last moment helping to rescue them from fates worse than death. Olive hadn't

actually taken her leave of them at the end of their adventure. She'd left in

the middle of the night with a good deal more than her share of the treasure

they'd taken from the sorceress Cassana's dungeon. To the halfling's credit, she

at least left them all the gold and silver coin, preferring the more portable

gemstones and jewelry for herself.

"I believe she's in Cormyr," Alias said. "Travelers who have passed through

there speak of a halfling bard who sings some of the best songs they've ever

heard and who claims to have been the mastermind behind the destruction of the

Fire Knives assassin guild, the Darkbringer, a red dragon, a lich, an evil

sorceress, and a fiend from Tarterus. She was aided, naturally, by her faithful

assistants, an anonymous southern mage, a little-known northern sell-sword, and

a mysterious lizardman."

"That sounds like our Olive Ruskettle, all right," Akabar agreed.

"I almost wish she were here now," Alias said. "If anyone was able to talk her

way around this Harper tribunal, it would be Olive."

Akabar chuckled, "Remember the saying, 'Be careful what you wish for.'" He

sensed the nervousness in her voice, and made an effort to reassure her. "Alias,

Elminster is speaking on Nameless's behalf. The Harpers will be influenced by

the sage's wisdom. Even if they are not, the Harpers are good people, They

couldn't be so cruel as to return Nameless to exile after what he has suffered.

They may not forgive him, but they will realize that isolating him serves no

further purpose. Don't worry."

"I can't help it," Alias replied in barely more than a whisper. "I know what you

say is true, but I have this tremendous foreboding that something awful is going

to happen to Nameless, that someone wishes him harm."

The mage shuddered inwardly at the woman's words. Alias had rejected so fiercely

his quest to destroy Moander that Akabar had been reluctant to tell her any more

about his dreams. She would learn soon enough, though, that he was not the only

one chosen to battle the evil god. Nameless, too, was destined to be caught up

in the final confrontation with the Darkbringer.

3

The Beast

While page Heth was fetching Alias, the Harper tribunal continued to discuss the

matter of the Nameless Bard.

"Even if this Alias is the paragon you say, Elminster," Morala said to the sage,

"her existence does not mitigate the bard's initial guilt. You would not speak

on Nameless's behalf at his first trial," she reminded him. "What has changed

between then and now?"

What indeed? Elminster wondered. "As ye know, thy grace, I was a good friend to

Nameless, but when he proceeded with his experiment against my advice, I felt. .

. betrayed. I was angry with him, so I did nothing to defend him. I now believe

I was wrong to do nothing."

"It is a master bard's sworn duty to protect his apprentices," Morala continued.

"Nameless was found guilty of recklessly endangering his apprentices, resulting

in the death of one and injury to the other. What can you possibly say in his

defense?" Morala asked.

"Nothing, thy grace," Elminster said.

"Nothing?" Breck asked with surprise.

Kyre tilted her head in confusion, but Morala's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The

sage had some trick up his sleeve; she was sure of it.

"Nothing, good ranger," Elminster said. "But then," he added, "there is also

nothing I can say in defense of the punishment meted out by the Harper tribunal

that sentenced the bard." Elminster's tone deepened with anger and contempt.

"How long did they sentence Nameless to exile?" The sage answered his own

question. "Forever. Two hundred years he has spent alone. Like barbarians who

slice off the hands of a thief, the Harpers have given him no opportunity to

atone for his crime. And what was done with the best part of the man, the

beautiful music he composed despite his vanity and thoughtlessness, music which

might have proven there was some good in him? The Harpers tried to wipe it out,

just as barbarians wipe out the innocent children of their enemies."

Kyre raised her eyebrows at the sage's analogies, and Breck blushed with shame,

but Morala rose angrily to her feet.

"Nameless knows nothing of atonement!" Morala insisted. "He was adept at

charming others into spending their lives on his schemes. Not even the deaths of

his apprentices stopped him from attempting to build a second singing

simulacrum. If not for the intervention of others, who knows what evils Cassana

and her consortium would have set this Alias to accomplish? We exiled Nameless

alone so he could never again harm another with his recklessness. As for his

music, he was unwilling to have his songs passed from one generation of bards to

the next, so we honored his wish."

"It is not justice to imprison someone for what he might do, Morala," Elminster

replied. "Tomorrow you or I might cause some great harm. Should we then go into

exile this very day? And as for his music, if the Harpers had only imprisoned

Nameless for a few years but allowed his songs to be passed on in the natural

way, Nameless might have learned to accept the way his music would evolve and

change. Instead, the Harpers exascerbated the bard's fears."

"We could not afford your fine sense of justice, Elminster," Morala said. "We

had to protect others from Nameless. A few years would not have changed his

attitude. I doubt that two hundred years has done so. Even now that he has his

singer, Alias, is he any less likely to use people? Can you offer any proof that

Nameless himself has changed?"

Elminster considered the question carefully, searching his memory for any speech

or action by Nameless that would demonstrate the bard's redemption. "Yes," he

said finally.

The Harpers waited impatiently for the sage to continue. Elminster rose to his

feet and circled around the table till he stood directly before the tribunal.

"Three things ..." he began. Then suddenly his face went pale. He gasped and

clutched at his chest.

"Elminster?" Morala cried, rising to her feet.

"Are you all right, sir?" Breck asked, leaping from his seat to come to the aid

of the sage. Some invisible force, though, repelled the young ranger. He bounced

backward onto the dais at Kyre's feet.

In the span of three breaths, Elminster's body seemed to turn to clear crystal.

Then, in a flash of bright light, the sage was gone. In his place stood a huge,

hideous beast.

The creature stood as tall as a hill giant, towering over the three Harpers. The

long red robe and fur cape it wore couldn't hide the inhumanness of its form. It

was covered with sickly green scales, and its eyes glittered red in the

torchlight. Two sharp ivory horns sprouted from its head, and a third, even

longer, horn rose from the tip of its long snout. Around the back of its head

grew a bony frill, edged with spikes and decorated with arcane magical symbols.

A muscular tail curled up from beneath the hem of its robe and swished back and

forth like an angry snake.

In one clawed appendage, the beast clenched an iron staff tipped with a yellow

orb, and in the other claw it held out a small blood-red object vaguely

resembling a large chess rook. The red object began to glow, and the Harpers

could feel heat emanating from it.

Kyre shouted, "Kill it!" Without a second's hesitation, she drew a dagger from

her boot and hurled it. The dagger struck the red object in the beast's hand,

knocking it to the stone floor, where it landed with a soft plop.

The beast looked up at Kyre and growled menacingly.

"Kill the monster, Breck!" Kyre cried. "Kill it before it's too late!"

The ranger lost no time in picking himself up from Kyre's feet, drawing his long

sword, and charging the beast.

The creature was just as quick, holding out its staff with both clawed

appendages to block Breck's blow. Sparks flew where the ranger's steel sword

ground along the length of the iron staff. The beast's heavy tail lashed

forward, struck Breck's left shoulder, and knocked him backward. Breck stumbled

back into the dais, grunting from the pain that shot down his arm and back.

Meanwhile, Morala rose to her feet, drew a vial of holy water from the sleeve of

her robe, and began singing a series of increasingly higher-pitched musical

scales, praying to Milil, the god of bards, for his aid. Kyre stepped from the

dais, circling cautiously around the beast until she stood at the periphery of

its vision. Then she began a magical chant of her own, one far more harsh and

guttural than that of the priestess.

Breck recovered enough to close in on his opponent again, searching for an

opening in the beast's defenses. The creature grabbed Breck's injured arm and

lifted the ranger several feet off the floor. Breck heard a pop as his arm

dislocated from its shoulder joint, and he howled in agony. In a fury, he

brought his sword down on the beast's head, but the blade got caught on the bony

frill protruding from its skull.

Crimson blood oozed from the skin covering the beast's frill, and the creature

roared. It hurled Breck through the air, straight into Morala, knocking her off

balance.

The ranger and the priestess tumbled from the dais. Breck's head hit the stone

floor with a sickening thud. Morala was able to soften her own landing with her

hands, but her vial of holy water smashed on the floor, and her concentration

shattered with it. Her spell, which would have sent the beast back to whatever

foul plane it had come from, was ruined. "You may just have destroyed our only

hope, ranger," the priestess snapped.

When Breck failed to reply, the priestess turned to face him. The ranger lay

still on the floor. Morala knelt to examine him. He was still breathing, but the

impact to his head had knocked him unconscious.

Indifferent to the fate of her fellow Harpers, Kyre completed her own spell

before the beast could turn its full attention to her. A fan of flames shot out

from the half-elf's fingers. The assault caught the beast in its midsection, and

immediately its robes burst into flames. The creature roared, dropped to the

ground, and rolled to extinguish the flames.

Kyre drew her own sword and approached the beast until she stood over its prone

form. She raised her blade up to strike, but she, too, neglected to watch out

for the beast's tail. The serpentine appendage lashed out suddenly and slapped

her legs out from under her. As she fell to her hands and knees, she lost her

grip on her sword. Her weapon slid across the stone floor, but quickly she

rolled toward it and grabbed it.

The beast picked itself off the floor, leaning heavily on its staff, and

lumbered from the courtroom and down the hallway.

Kyre stood up and turned to Morala. "Alert the guard!" the half-elf ordered.

"I'm going after the monster!"

"Breck's injuries are serious!" Morala called to her. "Alert the guard while I

tend to him." Morala looked up when Kyre did not reply. The half-elf was already

chasing after the beast. "Kyre! Come back here!" the priestess shouted after

her, but the half-elf did not return.

Morala set her jaw angrily. "Foolish girl," she muttered. As the priestess of

Milil laid her hands on the ranger's pale face and began humming a healing

spell, she noted a peculiar mix. ture of odors wafting through the room. The

smell of burning cloth, she realized, was the result of Kyre's burning hands

spell. But where, Morala wondered, did the smell of fresh mown hay and baking

bread come from?

*****

Olive stood at the door to Finder's cell, fidgeting nervously. I know what I

heard!" she insisted. "Something roared out there."

"Olive, this is the Tower of Ashaba," Finder reminded the halfling. "The home of

Mourngrym, Lord of Shadowdale. The guards aren't going to allow any wild beasts

to roam the halls.

"How do you know? After all, they let me roam the halls," Olive argued.

Finder grinned at the halfling's indirect comparison of herself to a wild beast.

"Come away from the door, Olive," he said patiently. "We don't want the guards

to see you in here."

"I'm just going to take a peek," Olive insisted, opening the door a few inches

more. She tried to slip out of the cell, but an invisible barrier across the

threshold blocked her escape. "It's blocked!" Olive hissed angrily. "It's a

one-way door. Why didn't you tell me I was walking into a trap?"

Finder raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I didn't know. Olive. Really." He began

to laugh.

"What's so damned funny?" Olive demanded.

"The irony of it all," Finder explained. "I thought Elminster trusted me, but he

knew me well enough to take extra precautions. He must have made the door

one-way to catch anyone who might try to help me escape from the cell."

"I still fail to see any humor in it," Olive said coldly.

"Olive, Olive, Olive. I told you. The finder's stone can get past any barrier

Elminster may have cast to try to prevent me from leaving this room. In his

wildest dreams, the sage couldn't have imagined you'd find the stone and bring

it to me."

"You could put my mind to rest by using the stone to get us out right now,"

Olive said.

Finder shook his head from side to side. "We'll leave after the Harpers have

made their decision. Not a measure sooner or later," he said. He laid the

finder's stone down on the table and picked up his chordal horn.

Olive leaned back against the wall beside the prison cell door and slumped to

the floor. Finder began playing a soldier's inarching melody.

Olive sniffed the air. Although exit from the prison cell was magically blocked,

the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted into the cell. The halfling's stomach

rumbled in response. "I should have eaten a bigger breakfast," she muttered.

Something in the hallway clomped toward the door. "Would the guards be bringing

you something to eat about now?" Olive whispered.

Finder lowered his horn from his mouth. "What are you talking a—" The bard

halted in midword as the door of the prison cell flew open. A huge green lizard

in charred robes bent low and squeezed through the doorway. The creature was

dripping blood from a shallow wound on its head, and the scales on its hands

were black and blistered.

Olive stood cautiously, trying not to attract the beast's attention, while

Finder grabbed the finder's stone from the table and backed away from the door.

"Don't come a step farther!" the bard ordered the beast.

The smell of baking bread was overwhelming. Olive gasped. A flicker of memory

burst into enlightenment.

Alerted to the halfling's presence by Olive's gasp, the lizard turned to face

her. It pointed a clawed finger at her.

"Don't touch her!" Finder barked sharply. "Back away from it slowly. Olive," he

whispered to the halfling.

"It's all right," Olive said, showing more courage than Finder would have ever

credited her with possessing. "At least, I think it's all right," the halfling

added softly. She reached out slowly with one hand and touched the beast's

robes. "Are you a friend of Dragonbait's?" she asked tentatively.

The beast looked down at the halfling as if it were concentrating on trying to

understand her, but it made no reply.

Olive sighed. "Of course. Dragonbait could only understand us because of his

link to Alias." The halfling turned to Finder. "I don't suppose you speak any

Saurial, do you, Finder?" she asked.

Finder eyed the creature suspiciously. "What makes you think this monster's a

saurial? He doesn't look anything like Dragonbait."

The halfling raised her eyes to the heavens and muttered "Humans'" She looked

back at Finder with disappointment."I don't look anything like you, either," she

pointed out. "And you don't look anything like Alias, yet we're all from the

Realms What makes you think all saurials have to look like Dragonbait?"

Finder conceded Olive's point with a slight nod. "I grant you that it could be a

saurial. What makes you think it is?"

"Only two things smell as good as fresh-baked bread," Olive explained. "Fresh

baked bread and angry saurials."

"Because that's the smell they use to communicate their anger," Finder said,

recalling now all that Alias had told him about Dragonbait's scents.

"He doesn't smell quite so much like bread anymore. I hope that means he's

calming down," Olive said.

"Yes, but what got him angry in the first place?" Finder asked. "And what's he

doing here?"

"It looks like someone tried to roast him," Olive said, indicating the beast's

charred clothing and hands. "I imagine that could make him pretty mad."

From the sleeve of his robe, the beast pulled out a silver medallion on a silk

cord and handed it to Olive.

"For me?" Olive asked, her eyes glittering with delight.

The beast tapped the medallion with a claw.

Olive's eyes widened in astonishment at the design inscribed into the shining

metal. "Finder, the picture on this medallion- it's Dragonbait!" Olive declared,

holding out the medallion for the bard to see. "It looks just like him. And

that's his sword-well, the sword he had last year before Alias lost it in the

battle with Phalse. This guy knows Dragonbait," she added, poking a finger at

the beast.

"Dragonbait's at The Old Skull with Alias," Finder said. "If this overgrown

saurial is Dragonbait's friend, why isn't he down there raising a mug with

Dragonbait? What's he doing here with us?"

"Maybe Alias and Dragonbait sent him here to rescue you," Olive suggested as she

casually slipped the creature's medallion into a pocket of her tunic.

Finder looked exceptionally doubtful. "Wait a minute!" the bard said, slapping

himself in the forehead. "We don't have to play guessing games. I have a tongues

spell in the stone." Finder laid his chordal horn on the table and held the

finder's stone out before him. He sang a scale in A-minor. Olive watched,

fascinated, as the stone glowed in Finder's hands and surrounded him with yellow

light.

The bard and the lizard stood staring at one another for what seemed to Olive

like an eternity, though it was actually no more than a minute. She could detect

a collage of scents rising from both the beast and Finder, but she grew bored

not knowing what they were discussing. "Well?" the halfling prompted, reminding

the other two of her presence.

"The creature's name is Grypht," Finder explained finally. "He's been looking

for Dragonbait, but he was unable to locate him magically."

"'Cause Dragonbait's with Alias, and they're both hidden by her shield of

magical misdirection," Olive said.

"No doubt," Finder said, nodding. "Grypht knows you're a friend of Dragonbait's,

so he's come looking for you, hoping you can tell him where to find his friend.

Grypht teleported into the tower directly from his native dimension, but

apparently someone here took him for an enemy and attacked him. He's put up a

wall of ice in the corridor to keep anyone from following him."

"Then let's take him to Dragonbait before the ice melts," Olive suggested.

"No hurry," Finder said. "I can explain to the guards that he means no harm."

"Suppose they don't believe you?" Olive asked anxiously.

Finder waved impatiently for Olive to remain silent as he resumed his

"conversation" with the saurial Grypht.

Olive huffed and slumped back against the wall, wishing fervently that this

strange friend of Dragonbait's could talk Finder into leaving, and leaving soon.

She was growing increasingly more nervous, though she couldn't say exactly why.

Just to be on the safe side, she pushed the door closed and relocked it with her

lockpick. If she was unable to escape, she was going to make it just as

difficult as possible for anyone or anything else to get in.

*****

Following the trail of blood drops from Grypht's wounds, Kyre nearly ran into

the wall of ice that the creature had cast to block the corridor. She was

especially susceptible to injury from cold—something that, unfortunately, Grypht

knew only too well. She backed away from the ice carefully, shivering

uncontrollably.

The half-elf didn't know precisely what had brought Grypht to the Tower of

Ashaba, but it was doubtful he'd come here looking for her. He'd seemed as

surprised to see her as she'd been to see him. She had to capture or destroy him

before it was too late.

After a minute, Kyre had warmed sufficiently to think clearly and control her

movements. She replaced her sword in its scabbard and pulled a magical scroll

from one of the pockets of her tunic. She'd meant to use the scroll to break the

Nameless Bard out of his cell, but dealing with Grypht had a higher priority.

She unrolled the scroll and held it out to read from it At that moment, Lord

Mourngrym and three armed guards came running up behind her. All four fighters

had their swords drawn.

"What's going on?" Mourngrym demanded. "I heard something roaring!"

"It's a denizen of the Nine Hells, your lordship," Kyre said. "Somehow it

teleported Elminster from the courtroom and appeared in his place."

"That's impossible. No monster from the lower planes can enter this tower.

Elminster has it warded against such evil," Mourngrym scoffed.

"Nothing is impossible, your lordship," Kyre replied. "I know this monster. It

is called Grypht, and it is very powerful, a master of lies. It works for the

Zhentarim. It attacked Breck; Morala is tending him in the courtroom. I chased

the monster down this corridor. It has sealed itself behind this wall of ice."

"Caitlin, go make sure Morala and Breck are all right," Mourngrym ordered one of

the guards.

The guard ran down the corridor toward the courtroom.

"Is there another passage leading to the corridor beyond?" Kyre asked.

"No," Mourngrym replied. "This hallway comes to a dead end. That's why Elminster

put the Nameless Bard in the room at the far—" Suddenly his face went white.

"Nameless! He's locked up in there . . . defenseless!" his lordship gasped. "We

have to get through this wall of ice! Thurbal, fetch a mage. Sar, get torches

and axes!" Mourngrym demanded.

As the two guards hurried to obey their lord, Kyre held out her magic scroll.

"You must get through as quickly as you can, your lordship," the half-elf said,

"but I cannot wait. I must use a magical door to get myself to the other side of

the wall."

"You can't go alone," Mourngrym argued.

"I must," the half-elf insisted. "Someone must protect the Nameless Bard from

that creature."

Lord Mourngrym nodded. There was no other choice. His lordship watched as Kyre

chanted aloud the words on the magical scroll she held in her hands. She read

quickly, but it took her a full minute to complete the spell. The instant she

had finished reading it, the scroll burst into flames, and Kyre was swallowed up

by a dimensional door and disappeared.

His lordship pulled out his dagger and began chipping away at the wall of ice,

unwilling to waste time waiting for an axe while the brave half-elf faced Grypht

alone.

*****

At the front gate of the Tower of Ashaba, Alias and Akabar halted as Heth

announced them. "Alias of Westgate and her friend Akabar bel Akash," the page

informed the four guards who stood at the entrance. The announcement was a mere

formality. The guards all knew Alias, and they weren't likely to challenge

anyone who accompanied her. She had served in the tower guard herself the

previous winter, and she was a trusted friend of Lord Mourngrym.

Just as Alias and Akabar stepped across the threshold, a balding, burly

man-at-arms came racing across the entrance hall toward the gate. Alias

recognized him as Captain Thurbal, the warden of the town of Shadowdale. Thurbal

looked anxious and distracted, and in his haste, he ran into Heth.

"Captain," the boy squeaked, "what's wrong?"

"Heth! Good—you're just the person I need!" the captain exclaimed as he grabbed

the page's shoulders. "Run to the inn and bring back any mages who may be

staying there! Hurry!" He pushed the page toward the door, then turned to Alias.

"Alias, it's good you're here. We may need you."

Heth looked annoyed and began to protest. "But, Captain, his lordship said that

today I was to page only for the trib—"

"No buts, boy!" Thurbal shouted. "This is an emergency!"

"Excuse me," Akabar said. "I'm a mage. What's wrong? Can I be of some

assistance?"

"Thank Tymora!" the captain exclaimed. "Come with me, please." He took the

Turmishman's arm and hustled him across the front hall toward the tower's main

staircase.

Hurrying behind them, Alias asked anxiously, "Thurbal, what's wrong, anyway?"

Without breaking his stride, Thurbal explained, "Some fiend from a lower plane

has broken into the tower."

"That's impossible," Alias interrupted. "Elminster has warded the tower

against—"

"So we all thought," Thurbal said. "The Harper bard Kyre says the creature is

from the Nine Hells, however, and it's barricaded itself behind a wall of ice.

The creature is in the same passage where the Nameless Bard is imprisoned.

Harper Kyre transported herself beyond the wall magically to help Nameless, but

the rest of us are stuck on this side of the wall. We may need a mage to take it

down."

At the mention of Nameless, Alias looked alarmed and began to race up the

staircase. Akabar and Thurbal had to take the steps two at a time to keep up

with her.

"Head for the west tower room," Thurbal huffed as they reached the third story.

Alias dashed off ahead of the two men, running past the doors to the Harpers'

courtroom. As she turned the corner of the hallway, she was forced to halt

abruptly to avoid running into the wall of ice.

The thing was dismally cold; it made the corridor feel like a fen in winter. Two

guards were piling burning torches at its base, but there was no indication

whatsoever that the wall was melting.

Mourngrym was hacking at the ice wall with a great axe. He had managed to chip

away several inches, but it had taken its toll on him. His face and ears were

flushed from the cold, his hands were red and raw, and the tips of his fingers

were white from frostbite. He looked exhausted. As Alias watched, the axe

slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor.

"Mourngrym!" Alias cried, taking hold of his shoulders and pulling him away from

the wall. "You've got to stop before you lose your hands."

Mourngrym looked back at the swordswoman with grim determination. "I can't,

Alias. Nameless and Harper Kyre are trapped behind there with an evil monster,"

he said.

"I know," Alias said, trying to keep her voice calmer than she felt. "I've

brought Akabar. He'll dispel the wall."

Just then Akabar and Thurbal turned the corner of the corridor. Akabar's eyes

widened at the sight of the wall of ice, and he swallowed uncertainly. The wall

was obviously very thick, indicating that it had been cast by a spell-caster far

more powerful than he. Without much hope, he began a chant to dispel the magic

ice.

Mourngrym, Alias, and the two guards moved away from the wall as the mage raised

his clasped hands over his head. Akabar finished his disenchantment spell by

unlacing his fingers with a flourish. Sun-yellow motes of light sparkled toward

the wall and scattered across the ice.

The specks of light faded, but the wall of ice remained. Akabar lowered his arms

and looked troubled. "I'll have to try to melt the wall with a fireball," the

mage said. "It's quite dangerous. The explosion will release very hot steam. You

must all take cover."

"What about you?" Alias asked.

"I cannot cast the magic from behind a wall," Akabar said.

*****

Back in Finder's cell. Olive began to fidget with the straps of her pack as the

bard's expression grew more serious. Finder shook his head at something Grypht

was "telling" him.

Olive's sharp ears caught the sound of someone out in the hallway picking at the

door lock. "Someone's coming!" she whispered anxiously.

Grypht spun about and growled. Finder tossed Olive the finder's stone, "take

this and your cloak and knapsack and stay out of sight," he ordered the

halfling. "Now!"

Olive picked up her gear and slipped behind the velvet drapes. Hastily she poked

a tiny peephole in the fabric with her dagger.

As the door swung open, Finder took a position at Grypht's side, prepared to

reprimand the guards for attacking the creature without provocation.

He was not prepared, however, for Kyre. The lovely half-elf stood in the doorway

holding out a rather large but innocuous looking walnut.

"I'm afraid we haven't had the pleasure of being introduced,' the bard said,

turning on his most charming smile. Kyre's face contorted in disgust, and she

turned her gaze impatiently on the giant lizard. Grypht hissed and raised his

staff.

"Darkbringer!" Kyre shouted. The round nut in her hand began to radiate a sphere

of darkness, which within the span of five heartbeats, grew as large as a

pumpkin, concealing Kyre's hand and forearm in an inky black ball.

Finder stepped protectively in front of the large saurial. "No," he said calmly.

"There's been a misunderstanding here. He's a foe of the Darkbringer, not an

agent."

Kyre ignored Finder. "Grypht," she said flatly. The sphere of darkness about her

hand began to shimmer like hot tar, then reached out a vinelike tendril of

glassy black that shot over Finder's head. The end of the tendril struck Grypht

in the face. The saurial stood motionless, paralyzed by the magic, as the dark

sphere around the nut oozed along the tendril toward its prey. When it reached

Grypht, the darkness poured down him like oil, covering every inch of his body

until the great lizard was nothing but a black silhouette. Then the darkness

constricted and shrank about Grypht until he was squeezed into a tiny black,

marble-sized sphere.

From behind the curtain, Olive watched in horror as the dark tendril contracted

back into the walnut, taking Grypht along with it. Then the darkness about the

nut dissipated, leaving the walnut as clear as glass.

"That wasn't necessary," Finder insisted angrily. "I told you he meant no harm."

Kyre pocketed the walnut and then turned her attention to the prisoner. "Master

Nameless, I'm so pleased to meet you at last," she said, smiling at Finder.

Behind the curtain, Olive shuddered. The halfling couldn't put her finger on it,

but there was definitely something creepy about the way the half-elf smiled.

4

The Half-Elf

Kyre took another step into Nameless's prison. "I've been so eager to meet you,"

the half-elf said to Finder.

"That's some sort of soul-trapping gem you used on the saurial, isn't it?"

Finder asked, ignoring Kyre's pleasantries. "I demand you release him at once."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, he's a very dangerous creature," the

half-elf replied. "But useful—not unlike yourself." Kyre reached her hand into

her pocket and pulled it out again. She held a second walnut. "Darkbringer," she

said. Once again a sphere of darkness emanated from the nut, just as it had

before. "The Nameless Bard," Kyre pronounced slowly.

The sphere shimmered, and a tendril of black began to rise from it. Suddenly the

tendril collapsed in on itself, and the darkness dissipated. Having failed to

suck up the bard's essence, the magical nut shattered, and shards of its shell

flew in all directions. The half-elf didn't even flinch. Instead, she stared up

at the Nameless Bard with interest, waiting for him to explain.

Finder sneered. "I am Nameless no longer, but you, woman, whoever you are, will

answer to the Harpers for this attack!"

Kyre laughed confidently. "I think not. You see, I am the Harper Kyre, and

Nameless or not, you, bard, are in no position to threaten me."

"Elminster would never approve of the cowardly way you've treated that saurial,"

Finder retorted hotly. "Have the Harpers degenerated so far in the past two

centuries that they attack innocent creatures and helpless prisoners?"

As Finder spoke, Olive could see Kyre slip a wand out of her tunic sleeve. The

halfling couldn't contain her anxiety a moment longer. She burst out from behind

the curtain, shouting, "Finder! Look out!" and hurled herself at Finder's legs,

knocking him to one side.

A beam of green light shot out from the tip of Kyre's wand, missing Finder by

inches. The light struck the silver fruit bowl on the table behind him,

enveloping it and the fruit in a sparkling green mist. After several seconds,

the beam of light went out and the mist dissipated. The silver bowl was

unharmed, but the plums, pears, and apples within had turned completely brown

from rot and their skins had collapsed on the decayed flesh within.

Finder's face registered fear now that he was finally aware of the danger he was

in. He stared wide-eyed at Kyre.

Olive took quick aim and hurled her dagger at the half-elf. The weapon hit

Kyre's wrist, causing her to drop the deadly wand. Kyre's eyes flashed angrily,

but she made no sound or movement to indicate the weapon had hurt her hand.

Olive shuddered at the woman's indifference to pain. "Would you get us out of

here now?" the halfling shouted, shoving the finder's stone at the master bard.

Finder grabbed the stone with one hand and Olive's shoulder with the other, then

sang an E-flat. Olive sighed happily as a yellow light began glowing around her

body.

The halfling's relief was short-lived. Though the light continued to glow, she

and Finder didn't vanish from the cell as expected. Olive felt as if something

was pulling her in two, and she screamed in pain.

Across the room, Kyre laughed and held out her arms. Long, slimy green tendrils

shot out from her sleeves toward Finder. Olive cried out once more, this time in

fear. There was something terrifyingly familiar about Kyre's tendrils.

The tendrils reached over Olive's head just as Finder sang a second E-flat, this

time an octave lower than the first. The yellow light shimmered with the deep

resonance of the bard's voice and then glowed so brightly that Kyre, her

tendrils, and the room faded from his and Olive's view.

*****

Alias, Mourngrym, and his guards waited anxiously around the corner of the

hallway as Akabar chanted his fireball spell. The mage's voice rose sharply,

then a great explosion shook the floor and walls around them and echoed through

the corridors. A second later a burst of steam came rushing down the corridor,

past the side passage in which they stood. Clouds of hot, moist air billowed

around them.

Anxious about Akabar, Alias rushed around the corner and into the steam. The

floor was covered with water and the walls were dripping with moisture. Alias

spied Akabar in the dispersing mist. Not even the darkness of the mage's skin

could hide the flush of his face from the scalding he'd received, but he still

stood. He was drenched from the steam, and when he shook himself, drops of water

scattered from his beard, hair, and robes.

"Are—are you all right?" Alias asked.

"I think so," Akabar replied. "As a mage I have more immunity from the power of

magic than you. At any rate, the wall is melted," he said, gesturing at the

clear passage ahead.

Mourngrym and Thurbal and the two tower guards rejoined the mage and the

swordswoman.

"Good work, Akabar," his lordship said, clapping the mage on the back.

Assured that the Turmishman was all right, Alias prepared herself for combat.

Having brought no weapon with her, she retrieved the great axe that Lord

Mourngrym had been using to chip at the wall of ice. Then she started down the

corridor, silently hoping that Nameless was unharmed and swearing vengeance if

he was not.

His sword drawn, Mourngrym took the lead with Alias. Akabar, Thurbal, and the

two guards brought up the rear. A shadow fell across them, framing the doorway

at the end of the corridor. Mourngrym and Alias halted and raised their weapons,

poised to charge into combat.

A slender half-elven woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a silky yellow

tunic and fine elven boots; a sword in a scabbard hung from the black belt at

her hips, and a bright red orchid hung in her long, dark hair. The half-elf

stepped into the corridor.

"Kyre!" Mourngrym gasped. "Are you all right?"

The half-elf looked up at Mourngrym. "You broke through the wall of ice?" she

asked. There was a hint of confusion in her voice.

"What happened?" Mourngrym demanded, ignoring her question. "Kyre, where is

Grypht? Where is Nameless?"

Kyre lowered her head. "I'm afraid I've tailed, your lordship. I could not stop

Grypht from reaching the Nameless Bard. Grypht grabbed Nameless and teleported

away with him."

*****

For what seemed an eternity, Olive felt as if she were trapped in a golden web.

When the light from the magical stone finally dimmed, she and Finder stood

looking out over a grassy meadow on a sloping hillside.

Olive quickly sank to the ground, exhausted by the magical teleportation.

"Admit it, Finder," she murmured, "whatever spell Elminster used to keep you

inside that cell, it was almost a match for your rock, artifact or no."

Finder cursed angrily under his breath. The halfling looked up at the bard. His

face was drenched with sweat, and his complexion was pale. "What's wrong?" she

asked. "Are you all right?"

"Kyre snatched the finder's stone away from me just before we teleported,"

Finder growled with rage. "That bitch has my stone!"

"Oh," Olive said uncertainly. "Well, at least we escaped."

"But she has my stone!" Finder snarled irritably.

"She could have you, like she got Grypht," Olive snapped back. If you hadn't

been so stubborn about waiting for the Harpers' blessing, you would have escaped

before she arrived, Grypht wouldn't have been captured, and you'd still have

your precious rock."

"She said she was a Harper," Finder said incredulously. "She couldn't be a

Harper."

"She is," Olive said. "I told you—she's one of the tribunal judges."

"I can't believe she tried to kill me," Finder said. "She never would have

gotten away with it."

"She didn't care," Olive said. "You said something to her about Grypht being a

foe of the Darkbringer. That's Moander, the Darkbringer god, right?"

"Yes. Grypht said he was looking for Dragonbait because Moander was threatening

their tribe."

"Oh, great!" Olive muttered, slapping her hand against her forehead.

Finder looked at her blankly. "I don't see the connection," he said.

"Don't you get it? Kyre's one of Moander's servants."

"That's impossible. No Harper would aid the Darkbringer."

Olive huffed in frustration. "I recognized those slimy tendrils Kyre used to

grab the finder's stone. They're just like the ones Moander had all over its

body. Moander was probably controlling her mind, the same way it controlled

Akabar's mind last year."

"Akabar," Finder mused. The bard recalled the southern mage, Akabar bel Akash,

who had befriended Alias the previous year, and how he had been captured by the

Darkbringer when he had tried to free Alias from the god's clutches. "But Akabar

destroyed the body Moander used in the Realms," Finder argued. "There's no way

Moander could have possessed Kyre"

"Suppose Kyre visited a world outside the Realms?" Olive asked.

Finder considered the halfling's suggestion and frowned darkly. "It's possible,"

he admitted.

"We have to get back to Shadowdale and tell Dragonbait so he can rescue Grypht,"

Olive said. "Where are we, anyway?" she asked, tossing a pebble at a thistle.

"Home," Finder said.

"Home? It doesn't look like Immersea," Olive replied.

"It's not. Were you under the impression I lived at Redstone Castle with my

family?" Finder asked.

Olive grinned, thinking of all the Wyvernspurs she'd met and trying to imagine

Finder getting along with them. "I guess I should have known better."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Finder asked.

Olive chuckled at his defensiveness. "Did they kick you out?" she asked.

Finder's eyes narrowed to slits. "I left them. They never took me seriously"

"Never a prophet in your own land," Olive teased. Finder's face darkened, and

the halfling realized she might be pushing him too far. She decided to change

the subject. "So where is this home?" she asked.

Finder made a sweeping motion with his arm, indicating something behind Olive.

"Finder's Keep," he said.

The halfling turned around abruptly. The walls of a crumbling manor rose behind

her. Thistles and grass grew between cracks in the stone. Kudzu covered the

chimneys. Moss and fungus grew from the fallen roof beams. "I think you need a

new decorator," Olive quipped.

"The underground complex was sealed. It should be in good condition," Finder

said.

"Are we still in the Dales?" Olive asked.

Finder nodded. "The southern edge of the Spiderhaunt Woods."

"That's not too far from Shadowdale," Olive said, her mind racing. "We can walk

to the road connecting Shadowdale and Cormyr. There should be plenty of traffic

on it this time of the year. Then we can get a lift from a caravan going north.

We should be able to reach Shadowdale in about four days."

"Olive, you've been trying all morning to convince me to flee Shadowdale,"

Finder reminded the halfling. "Now you want me to go back and turn myself in to

the Harpers. Suppose Kyre isn't the only one in Moander's possession?"

"You are a problem, aren't you?" Olive sighed. "All right. When we get to the

road, we'll go south to Cormyr, and we'll send a message back to Dragonbait with

the first caravan we meet that's heading north to Shadowdale."

"No," Finder said. "I don't want to do that."

"Then how are we ever going to tell Dragonbait about Grypht?" Olive asked,

exasperated.

"We're not," Finder said simply. "If Dragonbait finds out about Grypht, he'll

try to help him."

"That's the idea, isn't it?" Olive asked.

"Alias, in turn, will want to help Dragonbait," Finder explained. "And I don't

want her going anywhere near Moander or Moander's minions. Moander wants her for

a servant. I won't have the god using her again."

"That's Alias's business, not yours," Olive replied.

"She's my daughter. I'll protect her as I see fit," Finder retorted sharply.

"Then don't you think you should warn her that Moander might be after her

again?" Olive asked.

"Moander can't detect her if she doesn't go looking for the god," Finder said.

"What she doesn't know can't hurt her."

Olive shrugged. "Whatever you say. No note to Dragonbait. We still want to get

to the road before dark. We'll catch a caravan going south to Cormyr. That place

I told you about, where we can't be detected magically, is in Cormyr."

Finder shook his head. "I'm not hiding anywhere. I've decided you were right.

I've credited the Harpers with too much power. Once I get access to my workshop,

they'll never capture me again."

Olive sighed. She had planned to send a note to Dragonbait anyway. It didn't

look as if she'd get a chance unless she left Finder.

The halfling didn't really want to leave the bard, though. Olive genuinely liked

Finder. He knew more about her than anyone in the Realms, yet he didn't condemn

her for her greed or her cowardice or her minor jealousies. He'd shown a lot of

patience in teaching her more about music in one month than she'd learned during

the rest of her whole life. In addition, he'd offered her a passage to

respectability by giving her his Harper's pin.

"You know," the halfling said, rubbing her chin, "I'm beginning to worry that I

might be a bad influence on you."

Finder chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm not influenced easily." He turned and headed

up the hill toward the crumbling manor house.

That's what I'm afraid of. Olive thought, but she held her tongue and followed.

*****

When Alias heard that Nameless had been kidnapped, the blood drained from her

face and she swayed alarmingly. Akabar put his hand on her elbow to steady her.

"Don't worry, Alias," the mage said softly. "We'll find him."

"Kyre, this is Alias of Westgate," Mourngrym explained to the half-elf. "Alias,

this is the bard Kyre, one of the members of the Harpers' tribunal."

After taking a few deep breaths. Alias had recovered from her shock enough to

nod politely to the Harper bard. Kyre nodded back at the swordswoman, but it was

Akabar who held the half-elfs gaze.

"This is Alias's friend, Akabar bel Akash," Mourngrym added, noting how Kyre

stared at the mage. "Akabar used his magic to destroy the wall of ice for us."

"A pity that your effort, though great, came too late," Kyre said to Akabar.

"I don't understand how anything from a lower plane could have gotten into the

tower," Alias said impatiently. "Elminster had it warded against entry by that

sort of creature."

"Elminster also had a no-exit spell cast on Nameless's room," Mourngrym said.

"How could Grypht teleport past that?"

"Such wards and spells sometimes deteriorate, your lordship, or they can be

broken by powerful magic," Kyre replied. Though she addressed Mourngrym, the

half-elfs attention was still fixed on Akabar. "As you saw, I just left the room

without any trouble."

Mourngrym frowned. "I've never heard of any spell of Elminster's deteriorating

or breaking. He's the most powerful mage in the Realms."

"Excuse me, your lordship," Akabar replied, "but the lady is quite correct. Such

things do happen on occasion. In fact, there is considerable evidence of many

spells having failed this past summer when the gods walked the Realms."

"Elminster took extra care to reset all the wards on the tower after that,"

Mourngrym interposed.

"Yet we cannot deny the evidence of our eyes," Akabar said.

"Speaking of Elminster, where is he?" Alias asked suddenly.

"He disappeared before our very eyes. Grypht appeared in his place," Kyre

explained. "Perhaps his absence weakened his spells."

That didn't sound likely to Mourngrym, but he had no training in magic. He

turned to Thurbal and the two guards. "Better have the tower searched, in case

something else has managed to sneak in."

Thurbal nodded and ushered the two guards off with him.

Still unconvinced. Alias asked Kyre, "What type of monster was it? What did it

look like?"

"Grypht is not a type of monster but one unique unto itself," Kyre replied

calmly. "Grypht is a duke of Caina, in the Nine Hells, The Zhentarim often use

Grypht for their evil schemes. It stands ten feet tall. Its hide is covered with

green scales. It has horns, claws, and a tail."

Alias walked into Nameless's former cell. Sigils and symbols were scrawled on

the walls and the windowsill and even the doorsill, evidencing the wards

protecting the room from entry by creatures from the lower planes. They looked

all right to her. "Akabar, what do you think?" Alias asked, motioning the mage

into the room.

Akabar stepped into the cell and began to study Elminster's wards. As she

watched Kyre's eyes follow the mage, Alias wondered if the half-elf recognized

the Turmishman from somewhere, but when the half-elf reached up to adjust the

orchid behind her ear, Alias realized that Kyre was physically attracted to the

merchant-mage. Akabar was, after all, a handsome man. Even Cassana, a

connoisseur of men, had lusted after him.

Alias turned around to survey the rest of the room. Elminster had sworn to her

that he had made Nameless as comfortable as possible. The old sage hadn't lied.

Everything about the room was lovely—the furniture, the curtains, the carpeting.

A well-crafted songhorn lay on the table beside a silver fruit bowl. "Oh!" Alias

cried out suddenly in disgust, revolted by the sight of the rotting, moldy

plums, pears, and apples within the silver bowl.

"What is it?" Akabar asked, hurrying to her side. Mourngrym was close behind

him.

Alias pointed at the bowl of fruit. "Is this some sick joke to taunt Nameless?"

she asked.

Mourngrym scowled angrily when he saw what had upset the swordswoman." I can't

imagine who would do such a thing," he said curtly, "but I guarantee I will find

out who is responsible."

"The sign," Akabar whispered.

"What?" Alias asked, looking up at the Turmishman. Even beneath his dark skin,

the swordswoman could see that the blood was draining from her friend's face.

Akabar's body trembled visibly.

"Akabar, what's wrong?" Alias asked.

"It's the sign of danger. From my dreams. The bowl of rotting fruit marks its

coming," Akabar said.

Alias shivered, momentarily frightened by Akabar's words. With a deep breath,

she cast off the ridiculous idea that Akabar's dreams were rooted in reality.

From the doorway, Kyre called Akabar's name. The half-elf's face was clouded

with concern. When Akabar looked up at her, she spoke a word to him that neither

Alias nor Mourngrym could comprehend, though it sounded to Alias as if it was in

Turmish.

Akabar didn't appear comforted by whatever the half-elf had said. He reeled

around and was forced to lean heavily on the tabletop to keep from falling over.

He began muttering, "The sign . . . the rotting," over and over again.

"Get hold of yourself, Akash," Alias demanded, placing her hands on Akabar's

shoulders.

"I think your friend is not well," Kyre said, hurrying into the room and taking

Akabar's hands in her own.

"What is it?" Mourngrym asked Kyre. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's in shock. He should lie down. Here, Akabar Bel Akash," the half-elf said

softly. She tugged gently on Akabar's wrists until she'd led him to the bed.

"Sit here," she ordered.

As if he were in a trance, Akabar obeyed wordlessly.

"Now lie down," Kyre said.

Akabar swung his feet up on the bed and laid his head down on the pillow.

"Perhaps we should fetch Morala," his lordship suggested, alarmed by the mage's

glassy-eyed stare.

"There's no need to trouble the priestess, your lordship," Kyre said. "I'm sure

he'll recover soon."

"I'm sure she's right," Alias said. "Akabar's been having these strange dreams,"

she explained. "I'm afraid he takes them a little too seriously."

"Perhaps I can help," Kyre said. "I have made a study of dreams. If he will

speak to me about them, perhaps I can tell him what they mean."

"Alias," Mourngrym said from the bedside, "I think he's trying to say something

to you."

Alias knelt by the Turmishman's side. "I'm here, Akabar. What is it?"

Fighting to get the words out, Akabar whispered slowly, "Take ... me ... to ...

Zhara." His eyes glittered and his breathing was too quick.

Alias looked up at Kyre.

"I don't think you should move him," the half-elf said softly. "Who is Zhara?"

"His wife," Alias said reluctantly. She stood up again and explained more to

Kyre in a whisper. "His third wife, a priestess. She's got him believing his

dreams are real."

"Dreams are only real in our heads," Kyre said.

"Can you convince him of that?" Alias asked hopefully.

"Perhaps. If you and Lord Mourngrym will leave me alone with him for a time, it

will be easier to speak with him about it," Kyre suggested.

Alias looked down anxiously at Akabar. Perhaps this attack of nerves, or

whatever it was, was a blessing in disguise, she thought. Kyre was a beautiful

woman, and Alias found herself hoping that if the half-elf was left alone to

care for Akabar, he would find Kyre as attractive as Kyre obviously found him.

It Akabar liked Kyre enough, Kyre might break Zhara's spell on him and convince

him that Zhara was wrong, that his dreams of Moander weren't some godly command

to place himself in the path of evil, but only the memories of old terrors.

Alias nodded her consent. "Summon me if you need me," the swordswoman said.

"I will let his wife know he is in my care," the half-elf said. "Where is she?"

"The Old Skull Inn. I asked Jhaele to put Akabar and his wife in the Red Room,"

Alias said. "There's no hurry. Zhara won't be expecting Akabar to return right

away."

Kyre nodded as she laid her slender hand on Akabar's forehead.

Mourngrym put a comforting hand on Alias's shoulder as they left the room.

"He'll be fine," his lordship said, pulling the door closed behind them. "I'm

told Kyre is quite clever."

"She seems very sensible," Alias said, but she couldn't keep from adding, "Do

you think she's right that this Grypht is a duke from the Nine Hells?"

Mourngrym shrugged. "I really don't know. You heard what she said about its

working for the Zhentarim. Whatever Grypht is, the Zhentarim would certainly

like to get their hands on Elminster. Still, I can't imagine that Elminster is

in any real danger. He has an evasion spell to take him to safety if his life is

ever seriously threatened."

"But Nameless doesn't have such a spell," Alias said. "The Zhentarim could be

holding him to force Elminster to stay with them. Nameless and Elminster were

once close friends. Elminster wouldn't abandon him. Suppose the Zhentarim heard

some rumor about me and decided to try to coerce Nameless into creating another

creature like me so they could use it as an agent? They might try to force

Elminster to help him."

Mourngrym's face clouded over with concern. Alias's theory was too sensible to

be discounted. "Why don't you pay a visit to the sage's scribe? If anyone knows

anything about Elminster, it would be Lhaeo. In the meantime, I'll try to find

some spell-casters who could scry for Nameless and Elminster."

*****

Immediately after Alias and Mourngrym left Nameless's former cell, Kyre crept to

the doorway and listened for a few moments as the swordswoman and the lord of

Shadowdale moved away down the hall. When their footsteps and voices had faded

into the distance, Kyre whispered a chant to hold the door closed so that

nothing would interrupt her talk with the Turmishman. With Elminster gone and

Akabar indisposed, it would take Mourngrym some time to scare up a mage capable

of forcing the door. By then she would be gone and Akabar would be gone with

her.

The half-elf crossed back to the bed and sat down beside Akabar. The Turmishman

rolled his head and shook, as if he were in the midst of a bad dream. It must

seem to him as if he were, Kyre realized. She had stunned him with a power word

right in front of the lord of Shadowdale and the swordswoman, but since Kyre had

spoken the word in Turmish, neither Mourngrym nor Alias had the slightest

suspicion that the merchant-mage's state of shock had been brought on by a

magical attack. Like most northerners, they had never bothered to learn Turmish

or any of the related southern tongues, and now the half-elf would reap a great

reward because of their ignorance.

For a brief moment, when Akabar had found the strength and wits to ask Alias to

take him to his wife, the half-elf had feared her scheme would be ruined.

Fortunately Alias had been more willing to trust a stranger than accept the

Turmishman's trust in his priestess wife. Cassana had done a good job

conditioning the swordswoman to dislike members of the clergy, Kyre thought with

satisfaction.

Kyre ran her finger down the sleeve of Akabar's robe. After she had spent months

of fruitless searching for the Turmishman, he had brought himself to her, and

now he lay here completely at her mercy. Before he regained his senses, she

would have to put him under a stronger enchantment. She could place him in a gem

of soul-stealing to carry him off to her master, but it would be easier and far

more amusing to convince him to come with her of his own free will.

"Please forgive me for casting a spell on you, Akabar," she said in his native

tongue, "but I can't permit you to tell everyone about your dreams." The mage's

brow furrowed in puzzlement. Kyre pulled a glass vial out from her tunic pocket

and unstoppered it. "Drink this down," she told him, raising the vial to his

lips. "It will help clear your head."

In his confused state it didn't occur to Akabar to resist Kyre's suggestion.

Dutifully he swallowed the liquid she poured in his mouth.

Kyre leaned over and kissed the mage gently on the lips. "Lie still a few

minutes and you'll feel better," she said in flawless Turmish.

"Zhara," Akabar sighed. Then, with more agitation, he cried out, "The bowl of

rotting fruit! Zhara, beware!"

Kyre frowned slightly. Aside from having too great a hold on the mage's heart,

this Zhara probably knew too much. Fortunately Alias had told the half-elf all

she needed to know to deal with the priestess.

Kyre stood up, padded over to the window, yanked open the curtain, and threw

back the shutters. "The rain has stopped for the moment. How convenient," she

declared.

From her tunic pocket, the half-elf pulled out a bit of thistledown with the

seeds still attached. "Darkbringer," she murmured in Realms common. The thistle

seeds in her hand began to glow. "Zhara, wife of Akabar Bel Akash, in the Red

Room at the Old Skull Inn," she whispered. Then she held the thistledown up to

her mouth and blew it out the window. The silky, seed-bearing strands danced

away from the window toward the heart of Shadowdale, moving against the wind.

Kyre stood at the window, staring blankly at the greenery surrounding Shadowdale

Akabar, hearing his wife's name spoken, turned his head in the half-elf's

direction. He began studying her profile with fascination. Her silky black hair

contrasted sharply with her fair skin, and her figure was lithe and muscular

like a dancer's. She's really very beautiful, he thought. Not to mention well

educated. She speaks Turmish well, with a soft-spoken voice like a true lady.

And her touch is tender, as a woman's should be.

Why, though, the mage puzzled, did she have to stun me just to keep from

speaking of my dreams? Akabar sighed to himself. No matter, he thought. She said

she was sorry. I must give her a chance to explain. She must have a good reason.

A few minutes later, just as the half-elf had predicted, his head felt much

clearer, his body felt rested, and the strength returned to his limbs. His heart

still beat a little too quickly, but he didn't notice. He sat up and took a deep

breath.

Kyre turned away from the window and smiled gently. "I'm pleased to see you

feeling better," she said softly, still speaking in Turmish. "You will forgive

me, I trust, for being so forward, but I must tell you, you are the most

attractive man I've ever met."

Akabar blushed deeply. Usually the immodest advances of northern women annoyed

him, but he felt inordinately pleased that someone as attractive as Kyre should

find him appealing. Still, he wasn't the sort to leave mysteries unsolved. "Why

don't you want me to tell about my dreams to anyone?" he asked.

Kyre crossed the room to his bedside, her walk graceful and sinuous. "I'm not

sure who can be trusted," she replied as she sat down again on the edge of the

bed.

"You can trust Alias," Akabar said. "She's a good friend."

"But I don't think I can trust Lord Mourngrym," Kyre replied. "However, I know I

can trust you, Akabar. You've been chosen." The half-elf ran her finger along

the curve of the Turmishman's ear and down along the artery in his neck.

Akabar felt his heart begin to pound and his blood throbbing in his head. "What

do you know of my dreams?" he asked.

Kyre slid her hands up inside the loose sleeves of Akabar's robe, lightly

touching the inside of his arms with her fingertips. "They are of the

Darkbringer's return to the Realms, are they not?" she asked.

"Yes," Akabar admitted. "They are." He grasped the half-elven woman's elbows,

and rubbed his thumbs along the silky sleeves of her tunic.

"And in your dreams, you must find the Darkbringer. Correct?" Kyre asked.

"Yes," Akabar said.

"I will help you," Kyre said. "Would you like that?"

Akabar pulled the woman closer to him. With amusement, he noted how the orchid

behind Kyre's left ear was held in place. Some magic, elven no doubt, had coaxed

the stem's tendrils to twist about several strands of her hair. The mage buried

his face in the half-elf's hair and breathed in the orchid's intoxicating scent.

"I would like that very much," he whispered, but something about the orchid's

scent left him feeling anxious. The perfume tickled at some unpleasant memory

that would not surface readily.

Kyre blew her warm breath into his ear. "I will take you to Moander's place of

resurrection," she breathed. Leaning heavily against Akabar's chest, the

half-elf forced him to fall back against the bed pillows. She placed her right

ear directly over his heart.

Akabar knew she could hear his heart pounding. "How do you know these things?"

he asked.

"The master told me" Kyre said. She raised her head and kissed the tip of his

beard, then his chin.

As the woman's lips moved toward his own, the Turmishman suddenly caught sight

of her orchid's tendrils, which twisted not about her hair but into her ear

canal. Others had pricked her temples. The tendrils twitched and writhed beneath

her skin, as if they were trying to get purchase on her brain. Akabar's stomach

churned with revulsion, and his heart began pounding with fear. finally he

recalled where he'd smelled the orchid's perfume before. It was the scent of one

of Moander's sleeping drugs. Akabar cried out and thrust Kyre away from him.

Three tendrils shot out from Kyre's mouth like snakes lashing out at their prey.

These tendrils, tipped with pea-sized pods, were far longer than the orchid

tendrils. As the green shoots curled and undulated in the air before the

merchant-mage's face, he realized with horror that they might have easily

slithered past his lips and down his throat if he had closed his eyes in

anticipation of the half-elf's kiss. Suddenly the pods at the ends of the

tendrils burst open, shooting tiny black seeds at Akabar's face. Then the

tendrils collapsed as Kyre sucked them back into her mouth.

"Those seeds were meant for you to swallow," the half-elf said when her mouth

was clear of the tendrils, "but don't worry. There are more."

Akabar sat up, shaking with terror, and tried to push Kyre away, but the woman

had an iron grip on his elbows. As he struggled to free himself, Akabar felt

other tendrils, incredibly slimy and as strong as rope, reaching inside his

sleeves and entwining his upper arms.

"There's no use resisting, Akabar," Kyre said, still speaking in Turmish, only

now her tone was cool and authoritative. "Your destiny is sealed." The half-elf

slid her hands out of Akabar's sleeves. Her victim remained trapped by the plant

appendages, which stretched from her wrists up his arms. The tendrils grew

steadily longer, giving Kyre the freedom to move her hands up to Akabar's face.

The merchant-mage closed his eyes, revolted at the way the tendrils protruded

from beneath the skin of her forearms.

"The Darkbringer desires to possess your body again and once more gaze into the

sharp-edged crystal of your mind," Kyre said mesmerizingly as she stroked his

beard. "You should feel honored"

"No!" Akabar shouted. He managed to rise to his feet, pulling Kyre along with

him. Terrified, he screamed, "Alias! Help me!"

Kyre cut off his cries with a choke hold to his throat. "The Darkbringer would

prefer that I deliver you alive," the half-elf snarled, "but if that is not

possible, the Darkbringer will be pleased enough with your corpse." She released

Akabar's throat, and, as the mage gasped for air, she drew out a slender dagger

from her sleeve and pressed its point against his neck.

"You wouldn't dare," Akabar whispered hoarsely. "If you murder me, Alias will

cut you to pieces."

"Alias will never know;' Kyre said. With her free hand, she pulled out an object

and held it up to Akabar's eyes. It resembled a crystal the size and shape of a

walnut, colorless but for a flickering dark flaw at the center. "Behold,

Akabar," Kyre said. ''Inside this stone is entrapped an enemy of the master, a

mage far more powerful than you. If you continue to resist, I will slay you and

carry you to the Darkbringer within just such a stone. If, instead, you

cooperate and come with me of your own free wil1, you will be rewarded well.

Moander will grant you such power as few men in the Realms have ever known."

Akabar stared into Kyre's eyes, thinking what a fool he'd been. Zhara had warned

him he would be in danger the moment he saw the bowl of rotting fruit, yet, for

all his faith, he hadn't acted quickly enough to defend himself. To add to his

folly, he'd trusted Kyre, a complete stranger, and allowed her liberties with

his body. Now he was tainted by her touch and helpless in her grasp. He was

doomed—worse, he had doomed all he loved and all who dwelt in the Realms.

"You will behave now, won't you?" Kyre asked sweetly, pricking painfully at his

throat with her dagger.

The mage's shoulders slumped and his arms went limp. With a deep sense of shame,

he realized he wasn't prepared to give his life just to keep Moander from

possessing his body and invading his mind again. He nodded his agreement to the

half-elf

5

The Young Priestesses

Zhara closed the door to the Red Room of the Old Skull Inn and motioned for

Dragonbait to have a seat at the table. The paladin had agreed to join Akabar's