Tymora's Luck Page 27

  Suddenly there was silence all about them, and bright light and clean, fresh air. They raised their heads and looked about. The carpet sat in a field of thistle and burdock. Overhead, the cloudless sky was bright blue, though there was no sun to be seen.

  “I don’t think we’re in Gehenna anymore,” Holly said after a long pause.

  “But where are we?” Jas asked.

  “Who cares?” the paladin said with a laugh. “Breathe that air. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Indeed, the air was not only fresh, but it also seemed to make Joel’s skin tingle. The feeling was a familiar one to the bard. “We’re in the Outlands,” he said.

  “How’d we get here?” Jas asked.

  “I brought you,” a soft, girlish voice said from somewhere overhead.

  The adventurers looked up.

  Beshaba hovered above them, her feet grazing the thistle flowers. She was no longer a giant, but the size of a normal human woman. “Bringing you here has cost me more power than I thought it would. In payment, you will serve as my bodyguards on our journey to the spire.”

  Eager to keep the goddess on the path Finder had requested, Joel bowed his head and said, “We would be honored, Lady Beshaba.”

  Beshaba looked at Holly and Jas. “Does he speak for you as well?” she asked.

  “Joel is our friend,” Holly said. “We trust him to speak for us.”

  “Your friend? Well, that is a good thing,” Beshaba said. “You will protect me the better for it. For if my person comes to any harm, I will hold your friend Joel responsible and he will forfeit his life.”

  Opera? I loved the opera. So much jewelry, so much profit … The music? I was too busy to listen.

  —His Royal Highness Pinch I

  Intermezzo

  “She really is a mean old witch, isn’t she?” Annali Webspinner commented as she watched the goddess Beshaba threaten the Rebel Bard’s life after all he’d done for the Maid of Misfortune.

  “It’s no wonder Walinda worshiped her, is it?” Bors Sunseed retorted with a dry tone.

  The bariaur made a face at the paladin. She had been prepared to argue to the death her admission of Walinda into the Sensates. That was before they’d learned Walinda had betrayed a secret she had sworn to keep. Annali had felt a trifle embarrassed, but she wasn’t going to take criticism lying down from the snotty paladin.

  “I think perhaps this would be a good time for a break,” Cuatha Da’nanin said. “Ayryn, you have exhausted yourself for us, and we thank you, but now you must rest.”

  The genasi scryer covered her crystal ball, and the vision of the goddess and Joel and his companions and the thistle field in the Outlands faded from view.

  The wizard Quellig took up the crystal ball and proceeded to summon a view of Joel’s party. Quellig’s sensations were not as incorporeal as Ayryn’s, so the rest of the Sensates in the room were not treated to Quellig’s vision, but the tiefling wizard held a recorder stone so that everything he saw could later be shared with the others should any of it prove interesting.

  The Sensates had scried upon the Rebel Bard nonstop since he’d reached Arborea, and many of those hours had been tedious. There was nothing quite so boring as watching a man sleep. Erin Montgomery had been adamant, however, that they record Joel’s journey to Fermata to meet with Finder.

  When it looked as if Joel’s party would pay a visit to Tymora, Erin had insisted the watch continue. At Da’nanin’s suggestion, she had agreed to halt once they’d witnessed Tymora exorcising the dark stalker from the winged woman, Jasmine.

  For that event, Ayryn had been asked to scry once more, and the Sensates who’d shared the first viewing of the gods had been asked to return. All but Walinda, who could not be found, had come back for the experience. Since Joel, not Tymora, was the target of Ayryn’s scrying, the genasi’s vision had not been misdirected. The Sensates witnessed Joel’s meeting with Lady Luck with mild interest. Many of them had actually visited Brightwater and had already seen the goddess from afar. Finder’s charm had impressed more than a few of the ladies. Ultimately it was the goddess’s seizure that had made it a night to remember.

  After witnessing Tymora collapse, nothing in the multiverse—not even her lover, Da’nanin—could have convinced Factol Montgomery to cease watching over the young adventurers who had agreed to risk their lives to discover the cause of the goddess’s weakness.

  Montgomery had presented three arguments in defense of continuing to spy upon Joel and his party. First, Tymora’s realm, Brightwater, being so close to the Gilded Hall of the Sensates, was a favorite spot for Sensates visiting the plane of Arborea. Tymora was a desirable neighbor. Her loss could change the area about the Gilded Hall in an unfavorable way. The Sensates needed to be informed should Lady Luck’s power be about to fade. Secondly, if the Sensates could uncover useful information to pass on to Tymora’s allies, it would gain them the favor of those powerful allies, so they needed to follow Joel to see what information he and his companions might need. Lastly, the Sensates could use their magical recording stones to chronicle the entire crisis from beginning to end, whatever the end might be. Such a saga could end up making the Civic Festhall sensoriums a fortune when peddled to the masses of Cagers eager for entertainment of a heroic bent.

  Privately, Cuatha Da’nanin knew that Erin’s true reason for continuing was simple, insatiable curiosity. He held his peace, though, bowed to his lover’s reasoning, and did not hold her to her promise to cease the scrying.

  All the resources at the factol’s disposal, and these were considerable, were brought to bear on the mystery of Tymora’s weakness. Forty mages and seven priests were kept on call at the Civic Festhall, and two other crystal balls were located and purchased so that Joel’s party could be monitored. Sages were hired to determine how the goddess was being drained. Any persons known to be in Sigil with knowledge of the gods of Realmspace were brought in and interviewed. Envoys were sent out to Realmspace to gather information on the effects of the crisis on the people of the Realms. Once the connection to Xvim was known, Xvim had been scried for—unsuccessfully. Thus spies had been dispatched to discover if the church of Xvim had any insight into the whereabouts of its god.

  Ayryn had been brought back to scry for Walinda’s entrance into the Bastion of Hate. Very few were interested in the battle. The endless Blood War between the tanar’ri and the baatezu, which often included the yugoloth mercenaries, had made such combats seem monotonous to the experienced Sensates. All assembled, though, had been more interested in watching the traitor Sensate Walinda awaken her goddess. Witnessing Walinda’s death had proved even more satisfying to some.

  Da’nanin looked unhappily about the sensorium, which had become the center of the investigation. The air had become stale with the odor of unwashed bodies. Dirty dishes and empty cartons of food were strewn about the floor. Since Ayryn was no longer broadcasting her sensations, several of the Sensates got up to leave, but just as many remained. Some sat down beside Quellig and listened as he described the activities of the Rebel Bard. A few curled up in a dark corner of the room to nap until someone woke them to tell them the next important development. Others hurried off to search for sources of information that might solve the mystery. The mystery had become a shared obsession.

  The factol was standing off to one side of the sensorium, speaking in hushed whispers with Annali and Bors. The half-elf returned to Erin’s side. A servant entered the room and handed a note to Annali.

  Annali perused the missive and shared the information with the others. “One of my sources claims this god, Sirrion of the Flame, has his realm in the plane of Limbo. He is a power of complete neutrality.”

  “Well, if he’s in Limbo, that could explain why Quellig failed in his attempt to scry for him,” Da’nanin said. “It’s nearly impossible to discern anything in the chaos of Limbo.”

  “The rest of the information concerns the kender,” Annali reported. “My source insists they do not have the p
ower to become invisible naturally. Emilo must have some sort of magic artifact, probably a ring.”

  “I have watched very closely. The only ring he has is the one that protects him from fire,” Cuatha insisted.

  “That is, assuming Emilo really is a kender,” Bors said.

  “Finder would know if he weren’t, wouldn’t he?” Annali asked somewhat uncertainly.

  “Whatever he is, I’m prepared to wager that he is hiding something,” Bors replied.

  “Any explanation why the manifestation of Sirrion misguided the party by sending them into the fetch’s lair?” Erin asked.

  “No,” Annali admitted, “but Sirrion may have allied himself with Xvim in some effort to restore a balance between good and evil.”

  “We have no proof the flame manifestation was really Sirrion. The flame did not even actually claim to be Sirrion. It got the kender to guess, as if the flame could not lie,” Bors pointed out.

  “Or was afraid the kender would recognize an outright lie,” Cuatha Da’nanin suggested.

  Kenda Fretterstag, having just left the sensorium a few minutes ago, reentered the room, with a smug look on her face. The statuesque blonde sauntered toward the group surrounding Montgomery. Bors had a strong suspicion he would not like whatever news the sorceress brought.

  Erin Montgomery was more welcoming. “Kenda, I know that look. What have you brought for me?” the factol asked excitedly.

  “There is a dark region in Lathander’s realm,” Kenda answered, “which defies all attempts to scry into it. Lathander goes in and out of it frequently.”

  “Perhaps that’s where they are keeping Tymora,” Bors suggested.

  “Yes,” Kenda agreed, “but why? What is it they don’t want anyone to see?”

  “That she is weakened?” Da’nanin suggested.

  “Everyone already knows that. Her church in the Realms has more or less admitted there is a problem,” Kenda countered. “Yet Lathander shields her from all eyes.”

  “What are you implying?” Bors asked suspiciously.

  “Why, simply that Lathander has something to hide,” Kenda insisted.

  “Are you suggesting Lathander has something to do with this?” Bors demanded angrily. “Holly Harrowslough serves Lathander. He is a god of goodness and light.”

  “Yes, I know, Bors darling,” Kenda replied. “I saw him hanging about Chauntea when we scried upon her. As I recall, she told him to get lost. That sort of suggestion always seems to annoy members of your sex. In my experience, men scorned in such a way either mope or try to get even.”

  “Not surprising, considering the kind of men in your experience,” Bors retorted.

  “Men are men,” Kenda declared. “And Lathander is a man whose lover just suggested he entertain himself with Tymora or Beshaba.”

  “That is pure coincidence,” Bors argued.

  “Is it? What about the other creatures that have been in and out of the dark region of Lathander’s realm?”

  “What sort of creatures?” Montgomery asked.

  Kenda held her hands out in a dramatic gesture. “Gnomes,” she said.

  “Gnomes?” Annali asked.

  “What do gnomes have to do with this?” Da’nanin queried.

  “What sort of gnomes?” Bors asked.

  “Ah, paladin. You always ask the right question,” Kenda complimented Bors. “Tinker gnomes, to be specific. The kind that originated on the world of Krynn. And all these tinker gnomes wore little red badges in the shape of a flame.”

  “As in Sirrion, the Flowing Flame?” Montgomery asked.

  “Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” Kenda commented.

  “What were the gnomes doing?” Bors asked.

  “Well, talking mostly, like all tinker gnomes, too fast and all at the same time. They carried eggs into the dark region.”

  “Eggs?” Annali asked with a laugh.

  “Eggs,” Kenda repeated.

  “And then what happened?” Montgomery asked.

  “Well, later, when they came out of the dark regions, they brought out something completely different.”

  “What?” Montgomery demanded.

  “Omelets,” Kenda replied soberly.

  Offstage

  In the Prime Material Plane on the world known as Toril in Realmspace, Amber Wyvernspur decided it was time to take charge of the situation. Handing Pars to Tavan, she slipped down the stairs until she stood between the other children and the kobolds. “We are very sorry to have trespassed,” she said, curtsying to the kobold leader. “We’ll be leaving now.” Without turning around, she ordered her cousins, “Go back into the crypt.”

  “But the orcs—” Ferrin began.

  “They can’t enter the crypt,” Amber snapped. “Now, go!”

  Behind her, Amber could hear the others hustling back into the crypt. Amber started to back up the stairs, then bumped into Cory, who had remained behind.

  “Halt or we fire,” the kobold leader said. “You must pay for invading our kingdom.”

  “I have some silver coins,” Amber said, pulling out the velvet purse Aunt Dorath had given her for her birthday. She tossed the purse down the stairs.

  One of the other kobolds snatched it up and looked inside.

  “Not enough,” the kobold leader said. “Your people owe for torture of my mother.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Amber replied. “No Wyvernspur would do such a thing.”

  “He means Uncle Steele,” Cory whispered. “Father told me about it. It happened a long time ago.”

  Amber huffed with annoyance. First Uncle Steele went and lost his key to Heather, and now they had to pay for the bad behavior of his youth. She unfastened the locket about her neck. Her mother had given it to her, and she was very unhappy to have to part with it, but it was better than being dead. She held it out to the kobold. “This locket is real gold,” she said.

  “Not enough!” the kobold leader growled. “Must give us slave!”

  “Now, see here,” Cory retorted hotly, “we are not about to give you a slave.”

  “Give me the wyvern’s spur,” Amber ordered Cory.

  “What?” Cory asked, aghast. “You can’t be serious. We can’t give the spur to a bunch of kobolds.”

  “Give it to me,” Amber snarled.

  Cory pulled out the spur from his shirt pocket. The family heirloom looked like an ugly chunk of moldy, dried meat. Amber snatched it from Cory’s hand. Then she turned around and faced the kobold leader again.

  “Don’t want your magic,” the kobold insisted. “Give slave or die.”

  “You will take the locket or you will regret it,” Amber growled.

  The kobold leader howled something in his own language. All the kobolds cried out something that included the name of Beshaba and fired their crossbows at Amber.

  Cory screamed, expecting to see his cousin collapse dead at his feet. Instead he saw a blur in the air. Then there was a large emerald-green, serpentlike creature, with two legs and wings for arms, and it was standing where Amber had been standing a moment earlier. Amber, Cory realized suddenly, had used the family heirloom to transform into a wyvern—a small wyvern, admittedly, only ten feet long, but a wyvern nonetheless.

  Cursed by Beshaba, every one of the kobolds’ crossbow bolts struck Amber, but only two stuck in her scaly wyvern hide. The rest bounced away and clattered to the floor.

  Amber hissed. The kobolds screamed and clambered back down the stairs. Amber turned around and nudged Cory with her scaly horned head. Cory raced up the stairs, with Amber trundling clumsily after him.

  The other children, who had not witnessed Amber’s transformation, cowered against the wall of the crypt when they saw the wyvern. The orcs at the other entrance to the crypt gave a shout and retreated up the stairs.

  Amber changed back into her normal form and immediately sank to the floor, whimpering softly. The two crossbow bolts, which hadn’t slowed her in the least when she was a wyvern, were far more painful
now that they were buried in human flesh. One missile stuck from her thigh and the other protruded from her shoulder. Blood seeped out from under the bolts, but at least it didn’t gush.

  Pars ran to his sister and threw himself into her arms, clinging to her dress.

  Cory looked at his older cousin with a mixture of jealousy and respect. Only one Wyvernspur in each generation was capable of using the spur. Naturally he had hoped it was he, but if it had to be someone else, he was glad it was Amber. He liked Amber best of all his cousins. He even liked her more than his own sister. He knelt beside Amber and pressed a clean handkerchief to the wound in her shoulder. “You knew all along that you were the one who could use the spur, didn’t you?” he asked her.

  Amber nodded. “Last summer I started having the same dreams Uncle Giogi has. He brought me down here to meet the guardian and showed me how to use the spur, just in case anything ever happened to him.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Tavan asked.

  “Would you have believed me if I had?” Amber asked.

  “No,” Tavan admitted.

  “Amberlee,” a sensuous, husky voice whispered through the crypt. The wyvern shadow that had destroyed the two orcs reappeared on the wall. The dark silhouette swayed back and forth above the children’s heads.

  “Hello, guardian,” Amber replied.

  “You have gotten yourself cornered,” the guardian noted.

  “But the kobolds and the orcs have fled,” Cory said.

  “The kobolds still lurk on the stairs to the catacombs, and the orcs still wait on the stairs to the mausoleum,” the guardian replied. “I can hear them. The orcs know you must come out eventually. The kobolds are praying to Beshaba to bring you ruin.”

  “We’ll just have to wait here,” Amber said.

  “Wait!” Toran complained. “Wait for what?”

  “When Uncle Giogi gets back and finds out we haven’t come home for supper, he’ll look for the wyvern’s spur so he can turn into a wyvern to search for us. When he sees the spur is gone, he’ll guess we took it and know where to look for us,” Amber said. “Then he and Uncle Sam and Aunt Cat can fight off the orcs and free us.”