Authors: R.A. Salvatore
Still, for all the cooperation and all the understanding on both sides of St. Belfour’s imposing wall, Haney and Dellman remained miserable prisoners, sealed in by the sounds of suffering, by their own helplessness.
Every day and every night, they heard them.
“I cannot suffer this,” Dellman advised his abbot one morning. He had just come from the wall, from viewing the bodies of those who had died the previous night, including two children.
Abbot Haney held up his hands. He had no answers, obviously; there was no darker and more secluded place to hide.
“I will go out to them,” Brother Dellman announced.
“To what end?”
Now it was Dellman’s turn to shrug. “I pray that you will afford me a single soul stone, that I might try, at least, to alleviate some of the suffering.”
“Ye’re knowin’ the old songs, I trust,” Abbot Haney replied, but he was not scolding. “And ye know where the Church stands concernin’ this.”
“Of course,” Dellman replied. “The chances are greater that I will become afflicted than that I will actually cure anybody. I, we, are supposed to lock the gates and block our ears, sit within our abbeys—as long as we do not contract the plague—and speak of the higher aspects of life and of faith.” He gave a chuckle, a helpless and sarcastic sound. “We are to discuss how many angels might kneel upon our thumbnails in ceremonies of mutual prayer, or other such vital issues.”
“Brother Dellman,” Abbot Haney remarked, before the man could gain any momentum.
Dellman relented and nodded, understanding that his friend was as pained by all this as he was.
They stood facing each other quietly for a long while.
“I am leaving the abbey,” Brother Dellman announced. “I cannot suffer this. Will you give me a soul stone?”
Abbot Haney smiled and turned his stare to the room’s only window. He couldn’t even see out of it from his angle, for the opening was narrow and the surrounding stone wall thick; and even if he could have seen through it, the view was of nothing but the trees of the hills behind St. Belfour. But Haney didn’t actually have to see outside to view the scene in his mind.
“Do not leave the abbey,” he said quietly.
“I must,” said Dellman, shaking his head slowly and deliberately.
“Ye canno’ suffer this,” said Haney, “nor can I. Don’t ye leave the abbey, for we’ll soon throw wide our gates and let the sufferers in.”
Dellman’s eyes widened with shock, still shaking his head, even more forcefully now at this unexpected and frightening proclamation. “Th-this is something I must do,” he stammered, not wanting to drag his brethren down his own chosen path of doom. “I did not mean …”
“Are ye thinkin’ that I’m not hearin’ their cries?” Haney asked.
“But the other brothers …”
“Will be gettin’ a choice,” Haney explained. “I’ll tell them me plans, and tell them there’s no dishonor in takin’ a boat I’m charterin’ for the south, for the safety o’ St.-Mere-Abelle. Let them go who will—they’ll be welcomed well enough by Abbot Agronguerre in the big abbey. And for St. Belfour, we’ll make her a house o’ healin’. Or of tryin’, at least.” He rose from his seat and came around the desk, nodding his head for every shake that Dellman gave of his. When he got close to the man, Dellman broke down, falling over Haney and wrapping him in a hug of appreciation and relief. For Holan Dellman was truly terrified, and Haney’s bold decision had just lent him strength when he most needed it.
“Y
ou should not be here, my friend,” Prince Midalis said to Andacanavar when the ranger arrived unexpectedly at Pireth Vanguard. “Our fears have come true: the plague is thick about the land. Run north to your home, my friend, to the clean air of Alpinador.”
“Not so clean,” Andacanavar said gravely, and Midalis understood.
“I have no answers for you,” he replied. “We have recipes for salves and the like that will ease the suffering, so it is said, but they’ll not cure the plague.”
“Perhaps the winter, then,” Andacanavar said. “Perhaps the cold of winter will drive the plague from our lands.”
Prince Midalis nodded hopefully and supportively, but he knew the grim truth of the rosy plague, and he suspected that the fierce Alpinadoran weather would
only make the plague even more terrible for those suffering from it.
S
he went at the plague again, and was again overwhelmed. She tried different gemstone combinations—and many of the previous ones—and was again and again overwhelmed. They used the salves and the syrups and their prayers, all to little or no avail. Pony quickly came to realize that she would not save Dainsey, and also strongly suspected that this infection, so brutal and complete, would be the one to get her, that her attempts with Dainsey would spell her doom. And yet she understood that she could not stop trying. Every time she looked at Roger’s heartbroken expression, she knew that she had to try.
One evening after her latest miserable attempt, the exhausted Pony rode Greystone out of Dundalis to the north, to the grove and the little hollow she used for Oracle. She was going to Elbryan this night, as much to inform him that she believed she might soon be joining him as to garner any particular insights. She just needed his spirit at that moment, needed to know in her heart that he was close to her.
Such a dark night was coming on by the time she got to the hollow that Pony had to set a candle just outside the opening, using its meager light to give her enough of a view of the mirror to recognize the shadowy images within that other realm. She sat back and half closed her eyes, her focus solely on the mirror, her heart leaping out in a plaintive call to her Elbryan.
And then she was comforted, for he was there, in the cave with her.
And then she was confused, for Elbryan’s shadowy silhouette faded, replaced by another indistinct image, one that Pony could not make out for a long, long while.
And then it came clearer to her, combining with memories of a long-ago time in a faraway place.
Avelyn’s hand.
“S
he’s clear to the stream, and that’s where ye should be settin’ yer camp,” Bradwarden said to Pony.
“And you will look beyond it tonight, while I am at work with Dainsey?” the woman asked.
The centaur gave her a scowl. “Ye get yerself some sleep tonight,” he demanded. “Ye been runnin’ yerself straight for the five days since we left Dundalis. Ye got Symphony tired, and that’s not a thing I’ve seen done before.”
Pony started to argue, but wound up just nodding her head, for his words were true. She had gone straight back to Dundalis after her vision at Oracle, had roused Roger and Dainsey, and then had gone out from the town, sending her thoughts wide and far for Symphony, magnificent Symphony, the only horse in all the world strong enough to get her and Dainsey to the Barbacan and Mount Aida in time to save poor Dainsey.
The horse had come to her almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for this very moment, as if Symphony—with that intelligence that was not human
but seemed in so many ways to be beyond human—had known that he and Pony would make this journey.
Perhaps that was exactly it, Pony dared to believe. Symphony had been intimately connected to both Elbryan and Avelyn through the turquoise gemstone. Perhaps those same spirits that had imparted the image to Pony at Oracle had done the same to Symphony through the continuing magic of the turquoise.
Pony had to believe that, for the sake of Dainsey and of herself and of all the world.
They had set out that same night—and wasn’t Roger heartbroken when Pony explained without room for debate that he would not be joining them, that Greystone, for all his strength and desire, could not begin to match the pace they needed to set with Symphony. Two days north of Dundalis, Pony had found unexpected assistance when they had come upon Bradwarden; and the centaur, with the strength and stamina of a horse and the intelligence of a human, had agreed to scout the fields and trails ahead of them long into each night, then report back to her on the best and fastest course.
And how swiftly Symphony, though carrying both Pony and Dainsey, had run that course. Pony had aided Symphony’s effort with the malachite—magically lightening the load—and with the hematite—spirit-walking and leaching some of the strength from creatures, deer mostly, along the road, then imparting it to the stallion. Now, five days out, they had covered hundreds of miles. The ring of mountains that marked the Barbacan was already in sight.
It was a good thing, too, Pony knew. For though she had spent every night with Dainsey, using the soul stone to try to beat back the edges of the encroaching plague, and though she had coated the woman in salve, Dainsey was nearing her bitter end. She couldn’t even reply to Pony anymore, spent her days and nights in delirium. Her eyes rolled open and closed, unseeing; her words, when she said anything, were jumbled and confused. Dainsey could die at any moment, Pony knew; so she could only pray that the woman would live long enough to get to the flattened top of Mount Aida, and that Pony’s interpretation of the vision would prove correct.
The thought of going back to Roger with news that Dainsey had died nearly broke her heart.
They traveled to the stream and set camp. Bradwarden lingered about the area for a while, then disappeared into the forest to scout the road ahead. To Pony’s surprise, he returned a short while later, looking none too pleased.
“Goblins,” he said. “Ye knew we’d meet up with the scum.”
“How many?” she asked, scooping up her sword and buckling it about her waist, then checking her pouch of gemstones.
“Small tribe,” Bradwarden asked. “I might be finding a way around them.”
Pony shook her head. “No time.”
“Now what’re ye thinkin’?” the centaur asked. “If ye go in there throwin’ yer fireballs, then ye’re likely to bring hosts o’ the creatures down upon us. I’ll find us
another road.”
“No time,” Pony said again grimly. She tossed blanket and saddle on Symphony, tightened the girth, and mounted.
“Goblins killed Elbryan’s uncle Mather,” Bradwarden said suddenly. “As fine a fighter as—”
“He did not have these,” Pony replied, jingling her purse of gemstones—and she put her heels to Symphony’s flanks and the great stallion leaped away.
She wore the cat’s-eye circlet around her forehead and so had little trouble seeing in the dark. She followed the lone trail available and soon noted movement among the branches of a tree: a pair, at least, of goblins doing sentry duty for the campsite in a small clearing beyond.
Pony hit the tree with lightning, the resonating thunder shaking the stunned and blinded creatures from the limbs.
Pony rode right by them, into the clearing. “Begone from this place!” she cried. Symphony reared as she pulled Defender from its sheath—though, in truth, her other hand clutched the weapons, serpentine and ruby, that she intended to use.
“Begone! Begone!” she cried again in warning.
Goblins howled and shouted, ran all over and screamed curses at Pony, who was now, along with her horse, glowing blue from the serpentine fire-shield. And then one of the miserable creatures rushed out from the side and launched a spear Pony’s way.
The woman ducked and parried it with her sword, barely deflecting the missile harmlessly high. But the goblins gained confidence from the bold attack and came on, howling.
Pony loosed a fireball, the concussive force blowing goblins from their feet—charring some, setting others ablaze to roll roaring in agony and terror. Those not injured by the fire blast scrambled back to their feet: some running off; others standing still, confused and terrified; and still others stubbornly charging at the woman again.
Pony lifted her hand, her magical energies wrought of rage, and altered the magic of the gemstone, now shooting a line of fire at the nearest creature, engulfing it in flames. A shift of her arm and another goblin became a living torch.
And then a third, and now most of the goblins who had been charging skidded to a stop and wheeled about, running, screaming, into the forest night.
When Pony got back to her encampment, she found Bradwarden still standing on the edge, keeping watch over poor Dainsey.
“Subtle,” the centaur remarked, for even here, Pony knew, her display had been visible.
“Effective,” she promptly corrected. “You can go and scout out the northern road now.”
Travel was easy the next day, with not a sign of goblins—living goblins—anywhere to be found. Pony rode Symphony into the foothills before dark and found a campsite among a tumble of boulders.
Bradwarden caught up to her sometime later, though he remained far away.
“Are you to go ahead again this night?” she asked.
The centaur looked to the steeply inclining trail doubtfully. “Too many rocks, too many hills, and too many little ravines,” he answered. “I’d walk right by a host o’ the creatures and never see ’em. And I’m not for the climb,” he added, “nor should ye be bringin’ Symphony—he’ll slow ye down more than help ye.”
“Wait here, then,” Pony replied, “with Symphony. I’ll take Dainsey alone tomorrow.”
“Long way for carrying,” Bradwarden remarked.
Pony nodded. So be it.
They were long gone before first light, earlier than Pony had planned, for the night had been difficult on poor Dainsey. She was restless now, clawing at her clothing as if trying to escape somehow from that which she knew was coming.
And coming fast, Pony understood. She had seen people die—far too many people—and she realized after the turn of midnight that Death had come calling for Dainsey. And so she had set out, first on Symphony and then, when the trails became too difficult for the horse to serve any purpose, Pony turned him loose. She hoisted the woman onto her back and trudged on, forcing step after step as the minutes became an hour.
On she went stubbornly, pausing only for short rests. On one such break, she lay Dainsey down gently, thinking the woman asleep.
But then Dainsey’s eyes opened wide.
“Dainsey?” Pony asked, moving close, and she realized that Dainsey was not hearing her, was not seeing her. She waved her hand right before those eyes—oh, those eyes!