One by one, the beholders’ eyestalks withered, then fell off like dried twigs. Death followed soon thereafter, either naturally, or at another beholder’s eyes.
The xenophobic beholders hated differences in their race and despised deformities so much that they would kill. After the Blinding Rot had destroyed half the population on the
Spelljammer
, most of the handicapped survivors were slaughtered by their brethren, for fear of the Rot and for hatred of the unfit. A handful survived, mostly on hatred and dreams of revenge against those who had brought this doom to their race.
And, of course, there were the... unspeakables...
Until now, they had only suspicions about who had infected the race with the Rot. Now an opportunity for blood revenge was at hand.
“You have proof?” Gray Eye asked.
Selura nodded.
“What do you want?”
“Only one thing,” she said. “Your word that the beholder nation will not harm the Long Fangs in any way during the coming war. You will leave us alone, in peace.”
Gray Eye considered. “That can be done,” he said. “It is agreed. Tell me.”
She approached the dais and said softly, “The neogi.”
The large, milky eye glared at her. “The neogi. We have long suspected that. What proof do you have?”
“A renegade neogi is with us at the Long Fangs’ tower. He admitted the neogi plot to a confederate of mine not long ago.”
“The neogi...” Gray Eye said. “How?”
“They infected a small portion of your food. The Rot was so contagious that it took only a few days to pass among you. By the time you learned of it, it was already too late.”
Gray Eye nodded his huge body. “There shall be a truce between us during the war for the
Spelljammer.
The neogi bastards will be ours.” He smiled. Light flickered off the shards that were his teeth.
Later, outside, in the warm light of the flow, Selura breathed deeply and relaxed. That went well, she thought. That went perfectly.
Soon war will break throughout the ship, and in all the chaos and lovely death, the Long Fangs will remain untouched. The fighting will be over, and the other forces will be ravaged when we finally reveal ourselves.
The ship will easily belong to the Long Fangs.
To me.
Chapter Nine
“... None shall be untouched by violence. The coming of the Cloakmaster shall end the cycle began by Egrestarrian, continued by Drestarin, Wrycanion, Ysaallian, Trisilliar, and the others. The end shall belong only to Creannon – the Spelljammer – and the end, as foretold, shall herald a new beginning, and a new birth, and life shall be as it always was....”
Scrying log of Sunholder, elf mage;
reign of Dwir.
The slim, curved blade was a flash of cruel light as it arced toward his chest. Teldin had just enough time to shout “No!” when a gray blur whizzed between them and struck Cwelanas’s arm with a loud crack. The elf cried out as the dagger was slung against the wall.
The gray shield rang sharply against the stone wall and clattered to the floor. Na’Shee ran past Teldin and took up her shield, then slipped the elf’s dagger into her belt.
“How...?” Teldin asked her.
“It’s broken,” Na’Shee said to Teldin. Cwelanas was gripping her wrist, and blood oozed between her fingers. “She won’t be killing anybody for a while.” The female warrior pressed Cwelanas against the wall with one foot, and the elf moaned in pain. Na’Shee drew her short sword and pressed the tip of the blade against the elf’s throat. “We better get CassaRoc,” Na’Shee said, and she shouted down the corridor.
“What are you doing here?” Teldin asked.
“CassaRoc is no fool. You have too many enemies on this
ship,” the warrior woman said. “He’s assigned you guards for as long as you’re with us.” She stepped back and called again for more guards. Within a minute, Teldin heard the rumble of feet rushing up the tower stairs, then CassaRoc was there, panting. His eyes were half closed; Teldin could tell he had been sleeping.
CassaRoc nodded once at Na’Shee. “What happened?”
Na’Shee adjusted the shield on her arm. “She wanted to see Teldin. I was stationed at the end of the corridor, and I let her pass, since I knew they were friends. I heard his door open, but I never heard her knock first. So I came up and watched from around the corner of the stairs. I heard Teldin call out a name, and she came running out. She started crying outside the door when Teldin came out. She turned around, and her eyes were... crazed, possessed. She pulled out a dagger and went for him.” Na’Shee grinned an angry, righteous smile. “I took care of her.”
CassaRoc smiled. “Good work. I knew this would happen. Didn’t think it would be so soon, though.” He turned to Teldin. “Are you hurt?”
Teldin shook his head. He could not take his gaze from Cwelanas. She sat huddled on the floor, crying, rubbing her shattered wrist. Her eyes looked hollow, fixed on some point in oblivion that only she could see.
CassaRoc’s warriors lifted her from the floor and tightly gripped her arms. “We’ll lock her up, you can count on that,” CassaRoc said.
Teldin went to her. Her eyes were empty; she could not see him, but focused instead on some point behind him, or somewhere else in her mind.
“Cwelanas...” he said.
He grasped her shoulders and tightened his grip. “Cwelanas, why?”
She blinked and slowly moved her head around, as though she were just awakening. Her eyes met Teldin’s. At first, they were blank with incomprehension; to Teldin, it looked as though she recognized no one around her, even him. Then her eyes widened as she focused on his face. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, then she thrashed violently against her guards and pulled her good arm away. Her arm went up, her fist clutching an imaginary dagger, and over and over she brought the dagger down into Teldin’s chest, moaning, “Teldin, Teldin... I love... no, Teldin –
Noooo
!”
She screamed as though the agony of killing Teldin was more than she could bear. The Cloakmaster grabbed her wrist and held her hand to her side. She screamed again and struggled hard against the guards. Na’Shee grabbed her from behind, pulling Cwelanas’s shirt tightly against her body. The material stretched and exposed her flesh. The top button snapped off, pinging as it hit the floor.
Teldin, curious, stared at Cwelanas. “Stop her,” he ordered the guards. “Hold her still.”
The guards clutched her tightly, and slowly her fighting subsided. He came forward and lifted her tear-streaked face in his hand. “Teldin,” she said unconsciously. She did not see him or anyone else; she was alone and adrift in the empty world of her mind. “Teldin...”
He reached up and gently pulled aside the collar of her shirt. He took a deep breath.
“What is it?” CassaRoc asked.
“Come look.”
The warrior craned his neck forward. Above Cwelanas’s right breast a spiked, colorful symbol had been tattooed. “Recognize it?” asked CassaRoc.
Teldin nodded slowly. To the guards he said, “Take her somewhere safe and have the healers examine her wrist.” To CassaRoc he said, “You have a wizard? Clerics?”
He nodded. “Leoster. We can get King Leoster to come from the Guild tower. But what is it? What does that mean?”
“She has been bewitched somehow,” Teldin said. “She tried to kill me, but she didn’t want to. Someone has forced her.” He gestured, and the guards took Cwelanas down the hall toward a cell. Teldin turned, his face grim.
“It’s a mark of bondage,” the Cloakmaster said. “I’ve seen something like it before... on the slaves of the neogi.” Cwelanas was taken to a spare room, and guards were placed on her door. A healer tended her broken wrist with bandages and strong spells, while CassaRoc, in the absence of clerics who could help, sent immediately for His Royal Majesty, the Puissant and Sage Leoster IV, also known as the Silver Lion to his community in the Guild tower. “Leoster is the best,” CassaRoc told Teldin as they closed Cwelanas in the room. “If he cannot save her, then she cannot be saved.”
Within half an hour, Leoster came. The king of the Guild tower was little more than a frail old man whose life, like those of the Guild’s other nobles, revolved around wizardry and hobbies. Leoster’s was a large coin collection, which spanned the riches of the spheres.
But he was still a king and still a mage of considerable power, and CassaRoc knew that if Cwelanas could be cured of her mind control and an explanation discovered, Leoster was the wizard to do just that.
With his urns and potions, Leoster set to work. Cwelanas was pale and feverish, muttering incomprehensible sentences in her delirium, when Teldin and CassaRoc adjourned to the common room. The mage told them he needed time to work the poisons out of her.
Poisons, Teldin thought.
Killing.
“Everyone wants the
Spelljammer
! Everyone wants this damned cloak! And everyone wants to kill me because of some ancient legend I have never even heard of!” Teldin slammed his fist on the table. CassaRoc’s tankard of ale shuddered, spilling over the rim. “When is it going to stop?”
CassaRoc blotted up the ale with a cloth. “Calm down, Cloakmaster,” he said. “Save your energy for your enemies.”
Teldin glared at him silently from across the table, then sat down and stared at the wall. CassaRoc quaffed his ale.
Teldin seldom became angry like this; usually he was too even tempered to explode in front of his friends, or to get carried away by strong emotion. But the anger had been building in him since they had come down to the common room, and the Cloakmaster’s frustration at the attempts on his life over the past year or so – all for a gods-damned piece of cloth! – was boiling over.
“Why?” Teldin shouted. He slammed his fist down again. “Why?”
“I don’t know why!” CassaRoc shouted. “Fear! Your enemies all want what you’ve got, so the Dark Times will not fall on them.”
Teldin settled back in the wooden chair and glared at the floor. “I’m just so sick of it all,” he said to no one. “I didn’t come rushing into the flow because I wanted to. It was this!” He fingered the cloak. “You know, it’s not like I had much of a choice.” He paused and picked up a glass of cool water, drinking half of it in a single gulp. “I’ve had friends betray me, friends die on me. Enemies have tried to kill me – people I didn’t know and had never heard of. When is it going to stop?”
“It’s not going to stop,” CassaRoc remarked. “It’s going to get worse.”
Teldin stared at him silently.
“Everybody knows you’re here now. Everybody knows you’re the Cloakmaster. And everybody wants your power. From what you’ve told me, it’s been like this ever since you started your quest, and it won’t end until you... well, do whatever you have to do on the
Spelljammer.”
Teldin looked away. “You’re right.” he said. “But how? What do I have to do? Is there anyone or anything that could help me, point me in the right direction? I need this quest over with. I need answers, and I need them before anyone else dies.”
“Or before you do.” CassaRoc shook his head and took a drink. Well, there is one place I can think of.”
“Where?”
CassaRoc grunted. “The library tower. No one has been in there in my memory. There are a lot of stories built up about the place.”
“Such as?”
“Supposedly, all the accumulated journals and logs of the
Spelljammer’s
captains and mages are collected there. They say the tower is protected, though.”
“Protected by whom?”
The warrior laughed. “Not who.
What.
The story goes that Neridox, a wizard, sealed himself up in the library years ago. If anyone breaks in to plunder, Neridox’s spirit is supposed to rise and attack all who enter.”
Teldin scratched his beard. “But this is just a story, isn’t it? You don’t know any of this for sure?”
“Aye, just a story, but the library has remained sealed for as long as I remember. I wish there were a map we could use, instead, and follow that.”
Teldin stared off again. There was something he knew he should remember, something important...
The dream! He had dreamt in the night. Disjointed images of beings, like the
Spelljammer,
but much, much smaller; a burst of magic and energy; and she, Gaye Goldring, had come to him. The amulet had burned on his bare chest. She had given him a message... What was it?
The closest are not what they seem.
Cwelanas, he knew in a flash of insight. Gaye was warning me about Cwelanas.
The mark will show the trust.
Yes. Cwelanas, again, he believed. The mark proved to him that she was not acting with her own will, but was under the insidious command of the neogi. She could be trusted, he knew now, and he was instantly relieved that his love, this time, had not been misplaced.
There was a third message. What was it Gaye had said? CassaRoc had said something about a map to follow.
Follow the woven heart.
“Follow the woven heart,” Teldin said. CassaRoc looked at him. “Follow the woven heart,” he repeated.
“What in the hells of Areas does that mean?”
Teldin said, “I’m not sure. I had a dream last night, before Cwelanas attacked me.”
“And?”
“I knew a kender once, long ago. She’s the one who found this amulet. I dreamt about her. I think she was trying to give me a message. Two of the things she said have already come true. She tried to warn me of the attack, and she spoke of the slave tattoo. And she told me, ‘Follow the woven heart.’”
CassaRoc grunted. “Dreams can be powerful things. What do you think it means, a woven heart? Like sewing?”
Teldin shrugged. “I don’t know. The cloak, perhaps?” He ran the material through his fingers. “I don’t know all its properties. Maybe it could lead me to the ship’s helm.”
“How? How do you use the cloak normally?”
“Usually I concentrate on what I need done. Other times, it works for me unconsciously.”
“Try to use it now. See if that’s what she meant.”
Teldin pulled the cloak around him. He concentrated on the ship, and an image of a ship’s helm: a sturdy chair facing into the flow. He waited for the familiar tingle of energy that was both warm and cool, but he could tell he was trying too hard. The powers of the cloak remained dormant.