Authors: Elaine Cunningham
A steep cliff rose along the path. Up ahead, not more than a dozen paces, was a shallow cave. Shadows collected there like rainwater in a ditch, but the shadows breathed, and moved, and came forward to claim substance. The battle-trained jordain’s mouth went dry.
Three warriors, deadly females armed with curved swords and spiked flails, paced steadily toward them. All were tall, beautifully formed, and formidably muscled. ?ll wore leather armor, all had wild mops of curly gray hair and large almond-shaped eyes in angular faces the color of smoke.
“Crinti!” he shouted as he drew his sword. He reached out to slap the flat of it against the flank of Kiva’s steed, hoping the horse would run and carry the elf to safety.
The horse merely snuffled indignantly. Kiva glanced at the shadowy trio, then back at Andris. “So they are. Greetings, Shanair,” she called out.
To Andris’s astonishment, all three warriors dropped to one knee before Kiva. The tallest elf balled her right fist and pounded it once against her left shoulder.
“Shanair reports,” she said in a curiously harsh, sibilant voice. “The foothills are ours, the treasure is great.”
“What of the gate?” Kiva said anxiously.
In response, Shanair removed a leather thong from around her neck and held it up for inspection. A dozen bone-colored objects hung from it, long and curved and as barbed as fishhooks. After a moment Andris realized that they were talons.
“When the Crinti guard,” Shanair said with fierce pride, “nothing passes.”
Kiva slid down from her mount and accepted the gruesome tribute. For a long moment she studied it with an unreadable face. Andris watched as the ghost of a smile touched her lips, and the unmistakable light of battle lit her amber eyes. What that meant, he could not begin to say.
She gestured for the three Crinti to rise. “Nothing passes,” she echoed, then she smiled and added, “Nothing we elves cannot handle.”
The Crinti leader threw back her head and laughed with wild joy. She threw her arms around Kiva, nearly crushing the delicate elf in her strong embrace.
“Come, elf-sister,” she said when they fell apart. “My warriors and I will take you to the floodgate.”
Throughout that morning, Procopio Septus received supplicants, read reports-many of which brought disturbing news from diverse corners of the land-and presided over meetings. However, his recent conversation with Matteo insistently played through his mind.
When the sunsleep hours put a halt to city business, Procopio returned to his tower to send a message to Ymani Gold, a priest of Azuth.
The diviner locked and warded the door of his most private room and settled into a comfortable chair. He began the chant that would put him deep into a wizard’s trance and send his sentient image to the priest’s study.
Procopio’s vision went black, then slowly brightened into swirling gray mist. The scene took on shape and substance, if not color, and settled into an austere chamber suitable to an Azuthan priest.
The entire room was a study in gray. Cedar paneled the walls, aged to a silvery sheen. The writing table was carved from somber marble, the chairs padded with smoke-colored silk. Even the carpet was patterned in shades of gray. Procopio noted, however, that it was a fine Calimshan carpet, a work of art that would cost most men a year’s wages.
Ymani Gold sat behind his table, absently decimating a pile of sugared figs as he read a messenger’s scroll. His plump hand moved steadily between plate and mouth, and the plodding movements of his jaw brought to Procopio’s mind the image of a cud-chewing rothe cow. The priest was not yet in midlife, but his bulbous nose was a map of broken veins, and deeply shadowed skin sagged in tired crescents beneath his eyes. He wore beautifully embroidered gray silk, cut in flowing layers to conceal his bulk. In short, Ymani Gold was visibly fond of fine things. Procopio knew of other, less readily apparent indulgences. Since a priest’s wages could hardly begin to satisfy Ymani’s various appetites, Procopio found that Ymani was quite willing to serve the lord mayor of Halarahh-for a price.
Procopio quickly cast a spell of divination, hoping to 11 the scroll’s message from Ymani’s mind before the priest discerned his presence. The pilfered news startled an involuntary gasp from him, which he covered by pointedly clearing his throat.
Ymani Gold leaped to his feet, noisily upending his chair. The befuddlement on his face would have cheered Procopio considerably, had not the stolen information been so grim.
“Greetings, priest, and peace to this house. I pledge not to work any magic within these walls unbidden.” Any further magic, he added silently.
Ymani gathered his composure and settled back in his chair. “Lord Procopio,” he said in a fluting, nasal tenor. “What brings so great an honor to my door?”
Procopio arranged himself in room’s best chair before speaking. “We have a mutual problem. Kiva the magehound has escaped.”
The priest blinked in surprise. A flicker of suspicion crossed his face. “You are well informed. I just learned of this myself.”
Procopio reasoned that the best way to cover one misdeed was to focus upon another. “It is difficult to hide such matters from a diviner, although the church of Azuth has certainly tried.”
“Apparently we have not done well enough, if you learned of it.” A sour expression crossed his face. “Don’t bother telling me what a powerful diviner you are, how nothing is hidden from you. The truth, now! How did you come by this knowledge?”
“I had a visit from a jordain who was once in my service, a youth known as Matteo.”
Ymani’s eyes took on a malicious gleam. “I have heard that name. His masters call him a shining example of everything his breed purports to be. They claimed that since he was instructed to keep his counsel on this matter, he would never speak of it. It is gratifying to know that such a paragon is capable of indiscretion and that the so-called jordaini masters are as fallible as other men.”
“The jordaini masters were more right about this than they know,” the wizard grumbled. “Matteo is persistent, dedicated, and honorable.”
The priest narrowed his eyes. “Am I to conclude that you have some power over this jordain that enabled you to divine this news from him?”
Procopio saw where this was going. “An unsound conclusion.”
Undaunted, the priest continued. “Only the inquisitors of Azuth have the ability to enter a jordaini mind. You may have promise. If you’d like to apply as a temple acolyte, I would sponsor your petition.”
The diviner let Ymani have his fun but noted the price of it for later reckoning. “The question remains: What’s to be done about Kiva?”
The priest’s smirk faded. He helped himself to another fig. “This is a grave matter but not the usual province of Halarahh’s lord mayor.”
“I have a personal stake in this,” the wizard said bluntly. “An elf jordain in my employ was in league with the traitor. I do not appreciate any stain upon my name, however small. I intend to see that the elf woman does nothing that might cause this stain to spread.”
“Most understandable. What would you have me do?”
“I want the magehound who examined Kiva before her escape. Bring him to Halarahh on some pretext, and I will take from his mind the details of his findings. Perhaps some small bit of information might be a trail marker.”
“If such existed, surely my fellow Azuthans would have found and followed it,” Ymani protested. “Partisanship aside, such spells are hideously illegal. I cannot be part of this!”
The wizard sniffed. “The Azuthans let a traitor to king and country slip between their fingers. Worse, you kept silent, valuing your reputation over the security of the land. You and I stand aboard the same skyship, my friend. We fly or fall together. Find a way to bring this man to me, and soon.”
“You are most persuasive. Of course, I will do what I can.” Ymani lifted one hand and formed the Azuthan blessing.
Usually Procopio would be insulted by so blatant a dismissal, but he had already spent too much time on the fat priest. He eased himself away from his projected image, pulling back along the threads of magic to his tower.
Procopio returned to his spell chamber to a body grown painfully stiff and chilled. Cursing himself for tarrying too long, he struggled from his chair and shuffled over to the hearth like a toothless old peasant. A quick spell conjured a blaze, and he chafed his icy hands as he considered the problem before him.
Kiva’s disappearance cast a grim light upon other, recent events. Just this morning he’d received word of the raid on the Lady’s Mirror. There were no survivors, but magical inquiry revealed that the attackers were wild elves. The Mhair savages had kept to their forests for over five human generations. Penalties for breaking the treaty would be harsh. Something unusual-or someone powerful and persuasive-must have urged the elves into this suicidal course. Elves scorned other races, so most likely their leader was one of their own kind. Yet who but a Halruaan-trained wizard knew the value of the stolen books and scrolls? The best use the elves could make of them would be to rip them up for privy conveniences, and Mystra knew they had leaves aplenty for that purpose! By Procopio’s reckoning, the person behind the raid was a wild elf and a wizard, someone who had an urgent need of magic, someone with very little to lose.
In short, Kiva. The thought that a former magehound possessed the treasures of the Lady’s Mirror and the possible uses she could make of this magic made Procopio’s mind spin.
He considered the reports of raids upon isolated monasteries and towers and caravans. The hills were always plagued by bandits, and it was generally accepted that these were random events, but what if they were not? Kiva had spent years quietly building an army of magic-resistant warriors for her assault on Akhlaur’s Swamp. What if she had also been stockpiling magical treasure? The result would be a staggering fortune, as well as more magical fire-power than most northern mages might see throughout a lifetime and a lichdom. What could one malevolent and undoubtedly insane elf wench do with such power?
It was a chilling thought.
It was also purest speculation, but Procopio was a diviner, and he felt the familiar prickle of premonition. Even if he were not correct in all the particulars, he was certain something dire was afoot.
He hurried up to Zephyr’s spartan room and flashed through the gestures of a seek-magic spell. No telltale azure glow resulted. Irritated, he doubled the power of his casting with no more success.
The wizard spun to stalk from the bedchamber. He was almost to the door when he saw threads of blue light outlining a portion of the wooden floor.
Excited now, he dropped to his knees and took a fine-bladed knife from his belt. He slipped it into the glowing crack and pried up a trapdoor. In a compartment beneath was a small crystal globe.
“Blessed be Mystra,” he breathed as he lifted the sphere. It was a scrying globe, of a sort used for private communication. Even a commoner or a magic-dead jordain could use such globes, which were attuned to one person and required no more magic than a touch. Surely this was Zephyr’s link to Kiva!
Procopio cupped the globe in his hands. He cleared his mind and quieted his heart. Few diviners had achieved his level of skill, but men such as he could perceive the magic that clung to certain objects like scent to a flower. He listened for the faint echoes of the attunement spell with wizard-trained senses as keen as a hunting hound’s nose.
A triumphant smile curved his lips when the spell was his. He quickly chanted the words and gazed deeply, expectantly, into the globe.
Clouds gathered deep within the crystal and swirled about like wheeling gulls, but they did not part to reveal an elf face. The magic was there, of that Procopio had no doubt, and the message sent, but there was no magic on the other end to complete the link.
Bitter disappointment assailed the wizard. Of course Kiva would not answer! If she had brought the twin to Zephyr’s globe into the swamp, the magic would have gone to feed the laraken. By all reports, she had been stripped of wizardly spells. She possessed no more power than a human toddler. Procopio considered the magical items taken from the Lady’s Mirror and the use that Kiva might make of them. The elf would learn quickly. Meanwhile, he had other inquiries to make, even riskier than speech with a treacherous elf.
Returning to his study, Procopio unlocked a hidden cabinet and took from it an exquisite bottle of transparent green glass. Within it was a luxurious room, and a tiny woman in the garb of a Calimshan harem girl.
The wizard took a bit of parchment and scratched a few runes. He rolled it into a small scroll, uncorked the bottle, and dropped it in. As it fell, it shrank to the scale of the room.
The tiny woman picked up the scroll and unrolled it Her head went back in a burst of delighted laughter, and she disappeared in a burst of glowing smoke.
Procopio removed a golden ring from the neck of the bottle, which he firmly re-corked. He slipped the ring onto his finger and closed his eyes.
The scent of anise and sandalwood and roses filled the air. Procopio opened his eyes to find himself in a world filled with green light. The bottle was not the abode of a genie servant but a window into another dimension, one Procopio had spent long years creating. The “genie” was actually a courtesan with a small talent for magic and a powerful hunger for adventure. She relished the challenge of luring men into this world at Procopio’s behest.
He poured himself a goblet of fruit nectar and settled down to await his guest. Perhaps an hour passed before mist began to rise like steam from the silk cushions heaped in a curtained alcove. The mist intensified, taking the form of a portly, black-bearded man entwined with Procopio’s servant.
The wizard cleared his throat. His “guest” sat up abruptly, eyes wide as he took in his new surroundings. The woman disentangled herself, adjusted her veils, and glided out into the garden.
“Greetings, Ameer Tukephremo,” Procopio said. “This is indeed an occasion. I seldom have occasion to entertain a wizard of Mulhorand.”