Song of the Saurials Page 8

  “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 will, 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 wife for lunch in the privacy of her room. The priestess of Tymora crossed the room and sat down opposite her guest.

  After all that Akabar had told her about Dragonbait, Zhara felt the paladin was like a brother to her. Showing her face to a brother would not be immodest, she decided, pushing back the hood of her robe. She removed her veil and laid it on the table.

  Dragonbait studied Zhara’s face curiously.

  “You do not seem shocked or surprised,” the priestess said.

  Dragonbait motioned with his hands.

  “Yes, I can understand your sign language,” Zhara answered.

  Dragonbait motioned with his hands that he could smell what Zhara was.

  “Oh,” Zhara replied, remembering Akabar had also mentioned the paladin’s refined sense of smell.

  Let’s eat, Dragonbait signed. Then we can talk.

  Zhara nodded in agreement. She said a short prayer in Turmish in thanksgiving for the food laid out before them and began serving the meal. They ate in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. After the paladin had eaten his fill of the venison and potatoes and peas, all northern dishes that were strange to Zhara, the saurial leaned back in his chair and signed that he was full.

  The priestess shook her head at the saurial’s plate “You haven’t eaten very much,” she said. “I thought warriors all had ravenous appetites.”

  With his fingers, the paladin explained that saurials preferred many small meals to a few large ones.

  “Akabar said saurial paladins have something called shen sight—that you can see into a person’s soul. Is that true?” Zhara asked.

  Dragonbait nodded.

  “I want you to look into my soul,” Zhara said. “Tell me, am I not a virtuous woman?”

  Dragonbait lowered his eyes, and the scent of vanilla wafted from him. Fortunately, Zhara didn’t realize it was a sign that he was amused by the priestess’s self-righteousness. Despite his amusement, the saurial paladin complied with her request and summoned his shen. He saw in Zhara exactly what he had expected to see—a soul of pure blue, which indicated grace, the state of being sanctified and loved by her goddess. He also sensed that the priestess’s spirit was strong and arrogant. She was not so very different from Alias.

  Do you have reason to doubt your virtue? Dragonbait signed, teasing the priestess.

  Zhara shook her head. “I only want to know if you believe, as Alias does, that I could be so evil as to lie to Akabar about his dreams? That I don’t love him and I’m only using him?” she asked.

  Dragonbait shook his head and signed to Zhara. Do not be offended by the swordswoman. She is still frightened by the Darkbringer, and her fear always makes her angry.

  “Your Alias has no respect for the clergy,” Zhara noted coolly.

  She was created that way, Dragonbait signed. She cannot help herself.

  “Only a barbarian would belittle the gods as she does,” Zhara said contemptuously.

  Barbarians also belittle beautiful music, as you did, Dragonbait pointed out.

  Zhara looked momentarily flustered. She hadn’t expected the paladin to chide her about her behavior. She replied defensively, “Akabar has told me much of Alias. For instance, I know she practically worships Nameless and his music. That is wrong,” Zhara insisted. “Nameless is only a man, and his music is but the creation of a man. Neither the man nor his creation can compare to the gods or their works.”

  Dragonbait sighed. I’ll tell you a little story, he signed. It’s a story I’ve never told anyone else. A story with a lesson.

  Zhara leaned forward and watched curiously as the paladin’s hands motioned over the table.

  Once there was a paladin who served the god of justice, the saurial explained. The paladin loved a priestess who served Lady Luck. The paladin was proud of himself and his service to his god. He felt there was no cause more noble than justice. He felt everyone should feel as he felt. Lady Luck was not always just however; sometimes she was fickle. Occasionally she bestowed her favor on those who did not deserve it, and withheld her favor from those who did. The paladin demanded that his priestess lover serve his god instead of Lady Luck. The two argued about it, and the paladin insulted Lady Luck and the priestess, but the priestess would not leave her goddess.

  Because the paladin loved the priestess very much, he knew that if he remained near her, he would soon grow to accept her decision and remain her lover despite her refusal to do as he wished. He thought that if this happened, he would be tainted by the priestess’s love for her goddess. In his anger and pride, the paladin was determined that these things should not happen, so he left his tribe to serve his god’s cause in the dark and evil region of Tarterus.

  There the paladin was captured by a fiend who intended to sacrifice the paladin for a very evil purpose. As the paladin hung from chains in a dank dungeon, very close to death, he had a vision, or perhaps it was just a dream, in which Lady Luck appeared before him. The goddess said that she did not care if she ever saw him again, but the god of justice had asked for her help in sparing the paladin’s life. If the paladin would agree to perform a service for Lady Luck, she would free him from the evil creatures who intended to kill him.

  The paladin wished to live, of course, and since his god had intervened on his behalf, it would be arrogant to turn down the goddess’s offer. The paladin had learned that even the cause of justice cannot always win against evil without Lady Luck’s blessing. He agreed to perform the service, and Lady Luck sent a human to free the paladin and tell him what service he must perform. So the paladin lives yet to serve the god of justice, but he pays homage, too, to Lady Luck or to any other god or goddess who can further the cause of justice.

  Dragonbait leaned forward in his chair. Zhara thought he was finished and was about to speak when the saurial began motioning once again with his hands. The paladin, Dragonbait signed, learned that the god of justice is also served by other worldly beings—merchant-mages, halfling thieves, arrogant bards—and even by the creations of worldly beings—commerce and government, history and tales, music and song. Thus the paladin learned to respect worldly things. Is it not possible that the goddess you serve is served by such things as well?

  Zhara huffed. “Even if Alias’s music serves the gods, it does not make it right for her to belittle them,” the priestess insisted.

  Dragonbait nodded in agreement. She has reason, though, he signed.

  “What reason?” Zhara snapped.

  Her taunts help her fight he
r fear of the gods, the paladin explained.

  “If she were virtuous, she would have no reason to fear the gods,” Zhara declared.

  If you had ever lain helpless in the Darkbringer’s power, as she has, you would know better, the paladin replied.

  Zhara lowered her eyes, chastened.

  After pausing several moments, Dragonbait chucked her gently under her chin. You’ve had a long journey, he signed. You should rest now.

  “Before I rest, I want you to tell me one thing” Zhara said. “Will the paladin in your tale ever return to the priestess he loved?”

  When he has finished his service to Lady Luck, Dragonbait signed.

  “When will that be?” Zhara asked.

  When the Darkbringer is destroyed for all time, Dragonbait signed, and the paladin’s sister need never fear becoming helpless again. Rest now. We will talk again. The saurial rose to his feet.

  Zhara smiled up at the lizard. “Do you promise?” she asked.

  The paladin laid his hand on his chest, bowed, and slipped out of the Red Room as quietly as a cat.

  The priestess sighed. Although she vowed to think more kindly of Alias, she doubted she’d ever really like her. The swordswoman was still a northerner and an adventuress, synonymous, in the priestess’s mind, with a barbarian. Zhara felt honored, though, that the paladin had divulged his story to her.

  She yawned. Dragonbait was right. She should rest. The priestess reached over to the window, unfastened the shutter latch, and pushed the shutter open. Cool, moist air wafted into the room, carrying a number of tiny tufted seeds. As Zhara stared sleepily out across the gray landscape, the rain started falling once again.

  She pulled off her sandals and threw them at her clothing trunk, listening with satisfaction to the thumping noises they made. Then she picked up her veil from the table and, for good measure, threw it in the direction of the trunk. It landed several inches short, but she was too tired to bend over to pick it up. Stupid veil, she thought. Let it lie there.