Crypt of the Shadowking (15 page)

“You haven’t given up ale as well as your sword, have you?”

The monk shook his head emphatically. “Brewing beer is a most holy art, Caledan. Surely you know that” Tyveris sat down and took the mug, drinking deeply. “Ah, but then I’m forgetting what a heathen you are.”

Caledan drank to that “What did you find in the abbey’s library?”

“Quite an interesting search it was,” Tyveris replied. He pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up his broad nose with a dark finger and began sorting through the various tomes and codices. Yesterday Caledan had shown the big monk the scrap of paper the thief Tembris had written on—their one clue hinting at what Ravendas was searching for beneath the city. Caledan had asked Tyveris if he could research the peculiar and unfamiliar word the old thief had scrawled, and the loremaster had readily agreed, his dark eyes gleaming at the prospect of pursuing a scholarly mystery.

Mari descended the narrow back staircase then, clad in doeskin breeches and her customary green velvet jacket.

She poured herself a cup of pale sweet wine and joined the two men.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to one of the moldering books that Tyveris had opened before him.

“A history of the lands west of the Sunset Mountains,” the loremaster explained. He ran a big hand affectionately over a yellowed page, then drew out quill, ink, and parchment from his satchel to scribble a few notes. It was clear he was in his element. Still, Caledan couldn’t help but remember the days when Tyveris had held a sword as comfortably as he now did a pen.

Caledan leaned over to peer at the faded words carefully scribed on the page. “I can’t read a word of that.”

“That’s not surprising, given that it’s written in a language that hasn’t been spoken in a thousand years,” Tyveris replied with a rumbling laugh. “It’s called Talfir.” He picked up the wrinkled scrap of paper on which the thief Tembris had scrawled the single word: Malebdala.

Mari arched a single eyebrow in curiosity. Caledan motioned for the loremaster to go on.

“The Caravan Cities—Iriaebor, Berdusk, and Elturel— were founded about three centuries ago,” Tyveris continued. “That may seem like quite a long while, but against the full sweep of history it’s really quite a recent development. People have lived in the lands along the banks of the River Chionthar for millennia. They raised kingdoms that had fallen to dust centuries before the first folk crossed the Sunset Mountains from Cormyr to the east to resettle these lands. And those ancient people spoke a different language than the one your ancestors brought with them. That language was Talfir.”

Mari picked up the scrap of paper bearing the strange word. “Can you translate it?”

Tyveris nodded. “I think so. A number of books written in Talfir have survived over the centuries. We have a few in the abbey’s library, and I’ve been studying them.” He took the small piece of parchment from Mari. “Mai signifies shadows or twilight, and dala is a book or tome. Mal’eb’dala. The Book of the Shadows. That’s how I would translate it.”

Caledan frowned. “Ravendas had Tembris steal a book for her?” He had never known the Zhentarim lord to be the literary type. How could a book be so important to her?

“It would seem so,” Mari replied, rubbing her square chin thoughtfully.

“I asked the other loremasters at the abbey if they had ever heard The Book of the Shadows mentioned before. One of them, Loremaster Avros, showed me this.” Tyveris opened another book, this one bound with two flat pieces of wood. The pages were darkened with time.

“You can read that?” Caledan asked dubiously.

“This will help,” the loremaster said. He took a pinch of white powder from a small clay pot and sprinkled it across the page. Then he blew gently. The powder seemed to stick to the parchment but not to the faded ink. The words stood out more clearly now, written in some archaic tongue Caledan could not make out. He looked at the Harper, but she shook her head doubtfully.

“What does it say, Tyveris?” she asked.

The monk pushed his spectacles up and studied the passage. “It’s a story about a book,” he said in his deep voice. “‘A tome writ upon enchantments myriad and shadowed.’”

“The Book of the Shadows?” Caledan asked.

Tyveris nodded. “I think so. It’s a long passage, which tells of all the various copies of the original Book of the Shadows and what became of them over the course of time. The original was destroyed in a fatal battle between two mages. Almost all of the other copies have since been lost or ruined. But there is said to be one copy still in existence, kept under lock and key in the library of Elversult to the east, where it has lain for the last two centuries or so.”

“And is it there still?” Mari asked.

Tyveris shook his head. “Loremaster Avros journeyed to the library in Elversult recently and found things in a bit of a stir. It seems the Mal’eb’dala was stolen about a year ago.”

Caledan swore. “So Ravendas has the one and only copy.” He turned to Mari. “We’re going to have to break in to the tower, Harper. Right now that book is the only clue we have that might tell us what Ravendas is digging for beneath the Tor. I don’t see that we have any other choice.”

“Wait,” Tyveris said, holding up a hand. “We may have one other choice. Loremaster Avros told me about a friend of his, one Loremaster Erill, a disciple of Oghma who resides in a monastery in the Sunset Mountains to the east It seems this Loremaster Erill has made a life’s hobby of copying as many rare and decaying tomes as he has been able to find, to preserve them for future generations. Loremaster Avros isn’t certain, but he thinks Loremaster Erill might once have journeyed to the library of Elversult to copy the Mal’eb’dala.”

A triumphant grin crept slowly across Caledan’s face. ‘The Sunset Mountains, you say?” He looked at Mari and then back to the monk, his pale green eyes dancing. “How do you two feel about going on a little journey?”

The Zhentarim Lord Ravendas ran a hand lightly over the cool steel spikes protruding from the machine. It was a curious device. There was a flat table beneath the needle-sharp spikes where an uncooperative prisoner might be bound, lying upon his back. At the foot of the table were a number of small wheels. Each one could be spun to raise or lower a single spike. The dozen spikes were positioned so that lowering them would cause terrible pain long before they caused fatal injury. Once Ravendas had been able to lower nine of them into the flesh of a captain who had failed her before his screams had ended in death. One day she hoped to lower all twelve into a subject without actually killing him. It was a great challenge, and Ravendas enjoyed challenges. But so far nine was her best.

The circular stone chamber was filled with other malevolent devices formed of twisted steel, sharpened wood, and leather straps. All were different, yet all had the same function—to maim and cause agony, without causing death. This was her torture chamber, deep among the foundations of the city lord’s tower. It was a favorite refuge when she was in a rage, a place of peace. And Ravendas had been in a rage much these last days.

Cityfolk had dared to stand against her.

True, not many so dared. And while persons had stolen from her caravans and slain her guards, no real damage had been done. But that was not the point. The point was that cityfolk had dared to oppose her. The rebels would be punished for that.

So far the resistance groups had eluded her attempts to find them. They were well hidden in the city, like rats cowering in the filth of a sewer. But now the rats had made a foolish move. They had tried to discover something about her. In turn she would discover something about them.

The heavy, iron-bound door opened with a grating of rusted hinges. Two guards entered, cruelly dragging a prisoner between them. Behind them strode the lord steward, Snake, in his poison green robes, eyes emotionless as always.

Ravendas, clad in a robe as dark as an executioner’s, approached the prisoner. He was an old man, his limbs thin and frail, his bony shoulders slumped, his head hanging downward in despair. She lifted his chin with a finger and found herself gazing into two empty pits of wrinkled skin where his eyes had once been.

“Greetings, dear Tembris,” she said softly. Terror rippled across the old thief’s face as he recognized her voice. His spidery limbs began to tremble.

She ran a finger slowly along his cheek. “Did you think that because your work for me was finished that you were no longer my servant, Tembris?” She spoke in a sickeningly sweet voice.

The thief shook his head in mute reply. “Once my servant, always my servant, Tembris. That is my rule. And I hate it when one of my servants betrays me.” Her long crimson fingernail dug into his flesh. A bead of dark blood trickled down his cheek like a tear. “It seems I should have taken your hands as well as your eyes.” The thief was shaking with fear, and Ravendas bared her teeth in satisfaction.

Ever since the insurrection had begun in the city, she had been routinely capturing members of the Purple Masks Guild and interrogating them. There were few, if any, who knew more about what occurred in a city than its thieves, and the torture sessions had proven informative, as well as entertaining. A slowly descending, razor-sharp blade had convinced one of the thieves to speak of two strangers she had taken to visit Tembris in the guildhouse of the Purple Masks. Unfortunately, the thief had died just when her story was proving interesting. That had been Ravendas’s own mistake. She had been so caught up in the thief’s tale that she had forgotten to pay attention to the descent of the blade.

Thus Ravendas had ordered Tembris captured. Now she would discover what she wished to know.

She gestured for the two guards to lead the old thief to a chair in an alcove. Unfortunately, she would not be able to use any of her remarkable machines. They were designed for victims whom agony could compel to speak. Yet Snake had other methods at his disposal.

The guards strapped Tembris into the chair and at a harsh glance from Ravendas retreated.

“Are you prepared, my lord steward?”

“Yes, Lord Ravendas,” Snake replied in his dry voice. From his robes he drew a silver knife and a small round dish of polished green stone. He muttered a few arcane words, then with the tip of the knife pricked the third finger of Tembris’s right hand. The old thief winced in pain. A thin stream of blood trickled into the stone dish.

When the small dish was full, Snake dipped a finger into the dark blood and drew an intricate rune upon the old thief’s forehead. Then he held a splay-fingered hand over the dish.

“Azahk el gahzrabakl” the lord steward hissed.

With a swift motion Snake turned the dish on edge and pressed its bottom against Tembris’s chest, directly over his heart. A mild look of surprise crossed Ravendas’s pale face. The blood did not spill out of the dish. Instead it seemed to be frozen in place, a smooth, dark circle absorbing all light.

“Ask him your question now, my lord,” Snake instructed.

“Who came to visit you in the guildhouse, Tembris?” she demanded. “And what did they want of you?”

Tembris shook his head, his expression defiant. But Snake’s magic did its work. The dark circle of blood began to glow with an unearthly crimson light. An image appeared within it, a bony hand holding a lump of charcoal, scrawling something upon a piece of parchment. A word. Malebdala.

So whoever they were, they too were seeking The Book of the Shadows, Ravendas thought. Of course, they would not find it. She possessed the only copy, stolen by Tembris from the library at Elversult. No one else would learn the secrets within its pages. No one.

The image flickered and changed. Now it showed a woman with red-brown hair. Her heavy cloak had shifted just enough to reveal a silvery pin on her jacket, wrought in the shape of a crescent moon encircling a harp.

Rage flared hotly in Ravendas’s cheeks. She turned her sharp gaze to Snake.

“I thought you said all the Harpers in the city had been dealt with,” she snapped furiously.

No emotion registered on Snake’s thin face. “Apparently this one escaped, my lord.”

She clenched her fine hands into fists. “Apparently,” she said acidly. She was about to say more to berate her lord steward for his failure when the image wavered and changed again. Ravendas froze. The image showed a man with dark hair, pale green eyes, and angular, wolfish features. It was a face Ravendas would never mistake. She should have known she would not be rid of that one so easily.

“My lord steward,” she said, her voice calm but deadly. “Find the captain who reported to me that Caledan Caldorien had been driven from the city.”

Snake nodded deferentially. “Shall I bring him to you, my lord?”

“No. Just his heart will do.”

“And what of the old thief, my lord?”

Ravendas tapped her chin thoughtfully with a slender finger. “I shall think of something,” she said.

A low, wordless sound of fear escaped Tembris’s lips.

Dawn was still only a silvery glimmer on the horizon as Mari, Caledan, and Tyveris rode from the courtyard of the Dreaming Dragon. They kept the hoods of their traveling cloaks up, concealing their faces. Iriaebor’s streets were empty at this hour, but all the same they took care not to be seen.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?” Ferret had asked as they made their farewells at the inn.

“Thanks, Ferret, but not this trip,” Caledan had replied. “We thought we’d try asking the monks to see the book first.”

The thief had shrugged his thin shoulders. “Suit yourself,” he’d said in a slightly wounded voice, fidgeting with a sharp-edged dagger. “It just seems like a waste of time to me, that’s all. Asking is so … so indirect.”

Tendrils of mist crept from the ground as they made their way down the Tor into the New City. When they rode into the wide plaza of the free market, Caledan laid a hand on Man’s arm.

“Look above that archway,” he whispered softly, “but don’t be obvious about it.”

She did as he instructed, and her breath caught in her throat. A spear had been wedged atop a stone wall bordering the plaza. Thrust upon the tip of the bloodied spear was a human head. It was a man with empty, wrinkled sockets for eyes.