Tymora's Luck Page 9

  A tall figure stepped forward and loomed over the servant. “Open the box,” the figure ordered in a deep voice.

  The servant flipped up the lid of the box. Within, embedded in white velvet, was a small crystal sphere of the deepest blue.

  “Take up the sphere,” the figure commanded, “and hold it between the rose and the coin.”

  The servant drew out the sphere with a trembling hand and held it over the center of the altar of stone. On one side of the sphere, suspended magically in midair, was a white rose, still sparkling with crystals of ice from the Desertsmouth Mountains of Toril. On the other side, also held in the air by magic, was an old platinum coin stamped with the profile of an elven woman on one side and the sigil of the ancient and long since ruined kingdom of Myth Drannor on the other. The servant released the blue crystal sphere, and it hovered between the rose and the coin.

  “Now it is time to begin the spell,” the looming figure said, pulling the servant away from the altar. And time, the figure thought privately, to drink of Tymora’s power.

  Offstage

  Somewhere in the Prime Material Plane on the world known as Toril in Realmspace, the renowned mage Volothamp Geddarm, known simply as Volo to his friends, was sweating profusely. It was alarming how quickly the friendly game of table dice with the barbarian mercenary leader had turned ugly. Not that Volo was losing. If he were losing, he could extricate himself with a smile and an excuse. No. Volo was winning, winning against an ogre-sized man with a hairy back and a deer-skinning knife that could serve a halfling as a short sword.

  On his first roll of doubles, Volo allowed himself a chuckle. When his next roll also turned up doubles, the mage merely smiled. By his fifth consecutive roll of doubles, Volo felt the first trickle of sweat dripping down the side of his face. His opponent’s scowl had grown so deep that his heavy brow shadowed half his nose and turned his eyes into deep black pits. On Volo’s sixth roll of doubles, the barbarian pulled out a whetstone and tugged at the clasps of his knife sheath. On Volo’s seventh roll, snake eyes, the barbarian pulled out his knife and began running it across the stone.

  Volo was sweating so hard he felt as if he was steaming away and wished that he could. It would be a clever escape, to turn to vapor and drift away, too insubstantial to pursue. The barbarian reached for the dice cup. He, too, looked hot, but not from terror. He rolled a five. Enraged, he flung the ale in his mug to the floor and slammed the dice into the emptied ale mug, obviously convinced Volo was using an enchanted dice cup.

  “Perhaps we should leave this for—” Volo began.

  “Roll,” the barbarian growled. He tested his sharpened knife blade by whittling off a layer of the maple dicing table.

  Volo rolled … double sixes. There were tears in his eyes.

  The barbarian cursed Volo and Volo’s gods as he snatched up the dice and rattled them around in the ale mug. He slammed the mug down and lifted it. A one and a three. Making an ugly declaration about the ancestry of Volo’s father, the barbarian pushed the mug back toward Volo.

  “I don’t understand how—” Volo squeaked.

  “Roll, damn your bones!” shouted the barbarian. Volo could swear he saw a fire glowing in the pits of his opponent’s eyes.

  Volo slid the dice into the mug, gripping the handle as if it might escape. He hesitated for a moment, then flung the mug full force at his opponent as he dodged sideways.

  The barbarian raised a hand to fend off the missile and threw the deer knife across the table. The knife buried itself several inches into the door, but Volo had made his exit through the second-story window.

  The barbarian stood up and retrieved his knife. That’s when he spotted the dice on the floor beside the ale mug. Double sixes.

  With a roar, the barbarian ran from the room, determined to chase down and destroy the fiend before it wreaked worse havoc.

  Limping on a twisted ankle and shivering in the warm Elturel night, Volo whimpered a chiding prayer to the goddess Tymora. “Lady, what were you thinking, to waste so much good luck on me?”

  Act Two

  Scene 2

  Once Joel, Jas, and Emilo had bathed and changed into clean clothes, they joined Finder out in the garden for a light supper. Over the meal, Emilo asked to journey with them to meet Tymora, and Finder acquiesced. When they finished off the wine, they made a chain with their hands, and Finder teleported to Brightwater with them.

  They arrived in the middle of a broad avenue and were nearly run over by a pair of horses, each ridden by a young woman in a nightgown. Finder pulled the adventurers off to the side in the nick of time. One of the horses, startled by the sudden appearance of the adventurers, fell a length behind the other.

  Joel gave a low whistle of relief. He looked around in astonishment as he followed Finder up the street.

  All about them, the town of Brightwater glittered in the setting sun. Joel couldn’t remember having seen so much gilt in a city before. Great mansions sported golden domes like the Gilded Hall. Each of the stores and taverns featured some architectural aspect to attract the eye—gaudy statues, magnificent fountains and archways, charming stained-glass windows, structures with unusual, even impossible shapes. Even the meanest of shacks displayed some touch of trim that gleamed with the look of a precious metal or stone.

  His eyes wide with wonder, Emilo whispered, “Even the streets are paved with gold!”

  Finder chuckled. “It’s only an illusion. Gold streets wouldn’t last long. Gold is too soft a metal. Here we are. The Hall of Chance.” The god stepped through a marble archway and seemed to disappear. Hastily the others followed.

  They found themselves in a vast room opulently decorated with red carpeting and crystal chandeliers. Crowds of people stood or sat about tables of polished obsidian playing every game of chance known to the Realms, including some games Joel had never seen before. Their ears were assaulted with the din of the gamblers’ voices. Some were calling out wagers; others announced the outcomes of freshly rolled dice; still others called for extra cards to be dealt. Within a minute, though, the din had subsided to a hushed murmur as the gamblers turned their attention from their games and focused on Finder and his party.

  As Finder moved forward, people stepped aside until there was a clear path between him and a table at the back of the room. Seated at the table, on a high stool, was a slender woman with short, dark hair. She wore a short, gold-trimmed tunic of white satin, a brown leather vest, and high leather boots, which hugged a pair of shapely legs. A slender silver coronet encircled her head and glittered in the light. The woman turned about on the stool as Finder approached.

  Joel would have known her for the goddess of good fortune were she dressed as a scullery maid. The songs of her grace and charm were not exaggerated. The bard could understand immediately why Finder put so much faith in her. Joel himself was instantly smitten, and he halted in his tracks a little afraid of how eager he felt to approach her. Jas remained beside Joel as Finder continued forward. Undaunted, Emilo followed close on the heels of Joel’s god.

  Three paces before the goddess, Finder stopped. He made a very low and formal bow, then stepped up to accept the hand that Tymora held out to him. He brushed his lips against her fingertips.

  “Finder, you reckless fool,” the goddess greeted him. She ran her hand over the god’s beard and tugged playfully at it. “What mischief have you been up to? I have heard the most alarming and unbelievable stories,” she teased.

  “Since you know me, lady, you no doubt believe them,” Finder replied.

  “Oh, yes,” Tymora agreed.

  Emilo laughed.

  Tymora leaned to one side to get a better look at Emilo. “And who is this gentleman?” she asked.

  “My lady, allow me to present Emilo Haversack of Tengrapes,” Finder said.

  Emilo imitated Finder’s bow. “Pleased to meet you, lady,” he said when he’d risen.

  “And how did you come to be in the entourage of this godling rogue, M
r. Haversack?” Tymora asked the kender.

  “Well, first I stepped through a magical vortex to the city of Sigil. That’s where I met Jas and Joel. Joel offered to bring me to Finder so he could help me to go home, but when Joel and Jas said they were coming here, I asked to come with them so I could see you, too,” Emilo replied. “I’d never met a goddess before—that I know of, anyway. But having met you, I realize it would be hard not to know, since you just seem to shine.…”

  Tymora laughed softly and the babbling kender’s voice trailed off.

  “Does Mr. Haversack refer to Joel the Rebel Bard?” Tymora asked Finder. “Your very young and very talented protégé?”

  Finder motioned for Joel to step forward. The bard joined his god and bowed before the goddess. “I am Finder’s very charmed protégé, lady,” Joel said.

  Tymora laughed with delight. “Finder has told me so much about you,” she said, “though he failed to mention how very handsome you are.”

  Joel felt his cheeks warm as they flushed with color.

  “And the last member of my entourage I believe you know,” Finder said, motioning toward Jas.

  Jas remained frozen in place. Joel could sense the anxiety and anger in her.

  “Yes,” Tymora said softly, sliding off her stool. She strode forward and stopped just before the winged woman.

  Uncertainty gripped Joel. Although he’d told Jas that making this visit was her decision, he’d given her every reason in its favor without really knowing how Tymora felt about Jas.

  Then Lady Luck kissed Jas on the forehead and said, “Welcome to Brightwater, Jasmine. You have grown since last we met.”

  Joel breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Jas bowed her head and muttered a reply that Joel couldn’t hear. Tymora took the winged woman’s arm. “Let’s go out into the garden, shall we? Finder, you can follow behind with these gentlemen,” the goddess said, nodding at Joel at Emilo. “Winnie, will you bring us refreshments?” she requested of a halfling priestess seated at a nearby table.

  “My pleasure,” the priestess replied. She laid down her hand of cards—four queens and a goddess—and hurried off.

  Tymora led Jas from the Hall of Chance. Finder followed in Lady Luck’s wake, and Joel and Emilo brought up the rear.

  The garden was a hodgepodge of plantings, as if someone had just thrown seeds anywhere and left them to thrive or not on their own. In the deepening twilight, Joel could discern no real paths. Tymora just picked her way through some of the shorter growth. Tymora stopped beside a wooden bench beneath a birch tree. The tree’s white bark seemed to glow in the light of the rising moon, and the stars twinkled through the slender branches. Fireflies sparked all around them. The goddess sat down on the bench, with Jas at her side. Finder settled on the ground at Tymora’s feet, and Joel and Emilo did likewise.

  “Your parents were great favorites of mine,” the goddess told Jas. “So passionate, so daring. It really irritated me to learn that their daughter was traveling with a weasel like Chaos Carter.”

  “Well, the wings got rid of him fast enough,” Jas noted. Her tone was completely neutral. Joel couldn’t even fathom a guess at what she was feeling.

  “But you still ran from your grief,” Tymora noted. “Saerloon wasn’t far enough from Waterdeep, so you had to leave Realmspace and travel to other spheres.”

  “I tried going home a couple times,” Jas said. “Things just kept coming up.”

  “And when you finally returned to Realmspace, your crew was murdered and you were abducted by a mad priestess of Bane,” Tymora added, “who delivered you to the priests of Iyachtu Xvim for sacrifice. You escaped, but then you were recaptured and transformed into a dark stalker.”

  “I guess Finder’s told you everything,” Jas said, giving the god a sharp look.

  “No,” Finder said. “I kept your confidences, as you asked.”

  “My ability to sense things is even more powerful than Finder’s. I am aware of what occurs around the worshipers of my allies as well as my own worshipers,” Tymora explained. “Lathander is one of my allies,” she explained.

  “You know all this from Holly?” Jas realized aloud.

  And from me, Joel realized silently. Since Finder was also an ally of Tymora’s, the goddess would sense things that happened to Finder’s worshipers.

  “I know you’re here to rid yourself of the dark stalker. But since Holly wasn’t with you when the priests of Xvim captured you, I don’t know how they came to transform you,” Tymora said.

  Jas stared into the darkness for several moments without replying. Then she sighed and began. “The priests of Iyachtu Xvim gave me a choice—die or agree to be transformed into a dark stalker. I let them transform me. Then they sent me to Sigil to hunt down Walinda, Joel, and Holly. The priests told me once I killed someone, the transformation would be complete and I would be able to sense the power of my prey. But I didn’t want to kill anyone. Except Walinda.”

  “So you attacked Walinda, and Holly got in the way, and you thought you’d killed her. Is that the first time you sensed the dark stalker in you?” Tymora asked.

  Jas closed her eyes, trying to remember back. “I think so, yes.”

  “Even though you hadn’t killed anyone yet?” Tymora asked.

  “If Holly’s friend Bors hadn’t healed her, Holly would have died,” Jas insisted.

  “When the priests of Iyachtu Xvim transformed you, how did they do it?”

  “They used a spell,” Jas said.

  “A mage spell or a priest spell?” Tymora asked.

  “A mage spell. They had this crazy wizard with them. He kept tearing off his clothes and throwing fireballs at monsters that only he could see. He talked to himself and to people who weren’t there. Just being near him was scary. They told me not to resist when he cast his spell. If I didn’t transform, then they’d kill me.” Jas shrugged. “Maybe I resisted a little, and that’s why I could partially control the transformation by keeping calm.”

  Tymora exchanged a glance with Finder.

  “I managed to transform Jasmine back to her true form,” Finder explained, “but she can still sense the dark stalker within her.”

  “I see,” Tymora said. Her brow furrowed with concern.

  “But I suspect that since you’re a far greater power than Iyachtu Xvim, you should have no trouble removing the curse from her soul,” Finder said to Tymora.

  The goddess raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” she replied.

  At that moment, the halfling priestess, Winnie, appeared, followed by two human servants carrying trays of food and drink.

  “Winnie, your timing is excellent, as always,” Tymora said. “Jasmine, drink some of the wine; it will make the ordeal to come easier to bear.” The goddess stood up. “Winnie, Finder, I need to have a word with both of you,” she said. She led the halfling and the god some distance away from the bench beneath the birch tree.

  The human servants set the trays of wine and food on the bench beside Jas, then left without a word.

  Jas looked at the wine as if it might be poisoned. Joel laughed. He stood up and filled three goblets. He sampled the drink and sighed. “Only the finest, as my grandfather used to say.” He handed goblet to Jas. “To your happiness, lady,” he said.

  Jas took a swallow from the goblet as if it were filled with water. A moment later she gasped and her eyes grew round. “It is good,” she whispered.

  “Told you so,” Joel said. He turned around with a goblet for Emilo, but the kender wasn’t there. “Where did Emilo go?”

  Jas looked about her, but not with much effort. “Don’t know,” she said. She took another deep swallow from her goblet, then held it out to Joel. “More, please,” she requested.

  Joel looked at the winged woman with surprise. He’d never seen her drink anything stronger than ale, and then she always nursed her drink carefully. It was possible that the quality of the wine was behind her current lack of self-restraint, but the bard suspect
ed it had more to do with her anxiety. He filled her goblet halfway. Jas took another long swallow.

  “I could learn to like this stuff,” the woman said. She smiled up at Joel. Her eyes already appeared unfocused.

  An uneasy suspicion seized the bard. He knelt down before Jas and put his hand around her goblet. “Jas, do you remember what you said about how Tymora reacted when you said you wanted to be able to fly. She gave you a sad little smile as if you were a kid who asked for cake for dinner? If it was a test, you failed, but she gave you what you asked for anyway.”

  “Yes … so?” Jas replied, tugging her goblet away from Joel’s hand and sloshing some of it on herself in the process. It looked like blood dripping down her leather vest.

  “I was thinking of those drunken revelers last night—the ones we hid from on the road to the Gilded Hall. They were fighting over the wine, remember? Finder called them the bacchae. They travel in mobs, with no purpose but to drink. I’m wondering if they all had a dark stalker.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jas asked, clearly confused by Joel’s line of thought.

  “Metaphorically speaking. They might all have something inside them that they can’t get rid of. Maybe that’s what made them more susceptible to the wine.”

  Jas stared at the bard for several moments, seemingly without comprehension. Understanding, when it came, caused her to start. She set the goblet back down on the tray. Her body shook. At first Joel thought it was from rage, until he saw the tears in her eyes.

  Joel set his goblet down as well. He took Jas’s hands in his own. “It’s going to be all right. Tymora will get rid of the dark stalker.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jas sobbed. Her tears fell from her cheeks and mixed in rivulets with the wine on her vest. “Arandes is dead. All the others are dead. I shouldn’t even be alive. I should have died with my crew.”

  “No,” Joel insisted. “They wouldn’t want you to feel that way. Your being alive means they’ll be remembered.” Joel hesitated for a moment. Reminding Jas of Walinda might only encourage her to renew her futile quest for vengeance, but it was a risk the bard felt he had to take. He phrased his words carefully. “Your being alive is a symbol of Walinda’s failure to resurrect Bane. Fighting off the dark stalker as long as you have is a symbol of the failure of Iyachtu Xvim’s priest to spread their darkness.”