Bruce Cordell - Key of Stars

Concentration was important.

The ritual concluded on the nine hundred and eighty-seventh syllable.

Japheth ceased moving and speaking. The echoes of the last syllables fell soft and dead, like birds shot out of a tree.

Nothing happened.

He leaned into the circle and tapped the mannequin’s metal forehead.

“Blast.”

He reached to remove the jade rod from the construct’s hand when a sound of cloth on stone drew the warlock’s attention upward.

A pale man stood on the balcony overlooking the chamber. He was dressed in black, and a small green symbol wriggled on his forehead. The warlock recognized his former patron instantly. The outline of a great dog lurked in the shadows behind the intruder.

The warlock couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his eyes. Was it really Neifion? Was he actually seeing a fragmentary vision left behind from the last time he’d sampled traveler’s dust? He blinked and shook his head to clear the phantom. There was just no way-

“Japheth,” said the Lord of Bats. “I hoped I’d find you here. How lovely. It’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of your company. You never visit anymore. Such a shame.”

“How did you …?”

“How did I find you?” Neifion asked, pointing to the symbol on his forehead. “I’ve got allies whose powers overwrite the rules of the world.”

Dread churned in Japheth’s stomach. The pale man was no phantom.

“Allies,” said Japheth. “Malyanna, you mean?”

“Yes,” replied Neifion. “The eladrin ‘noble.’ She consolidates her power of Xxiphu, and only grows stronger in the bargain. No, don’t worry-we haven’t woken the Eldest. Yet.”

“You would be insane to do so,” said Japheth.

The Lord of Bats waved his hand as if fending off a comment about the weather. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re still wearing my lesser skin. Return it, and perhaps your death can be merciful.”

Japheth’s cloak rustled as if stroked by a light breeze.

“If it’s death either way, I think I’ll just keep it,” he said. His words belied the chill that raced across his skin.

“Good,” said Neifion. “You don’t deserve an easy end. I cursed your name with every sugared plum and toasted pecan I choked down during the Feast Neverending. You tricked me once, mortal. Time to pay for your betrayal.”

The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

New Sarshell, Impiltur

Raidon passed the open iron gates that separated the manor from the street. He trudged up the wide steps and let himself in. The grand entry door was unlocked. Wasn’t there usually a doorman?

The front hall contained a scattering of uncomfortable looking chairs and expensive pieces of art staged on elegant stands. Over the fireplace hung a slender long sword inscribed with an elaborate crest.

The monk sat down on one of the large chairs and leaned back. Angul’s sheath pressed into his back, but he ignored it. He closed his eyes. He wore exhaustion like a cloak. Once, his inner discipline had wiped away such minor physical discomfort with barely a thought. But he couldn’t be bothered to summon the control. Besides, if he slipped off into slumber, finally, perhaps he’d be graced with another vision like he’d received in the alleyway.

A distant bang sounded through the front hall.

Raidon opened his eyes. A faint shout followed, but it was too muffled for him to make out the words. A man’s voice, though.

He put his head back and contemplated the insides of his eyelids once more. Images and sound fragments darted at the edge of his attention. Colored lanterns, songs, and scenes of New Sarshell by night danced in his mind’s eye. His mother’s voice too, telling him something of vital importance-

The bark of shattering glass drew Raidon to his feet. He recalled the missing doorman as he’d entered the mansion. It seemed the doorman’s absence wasn’t merely a coincidence.

A servant stumbled into the chamber from a side hall. “Run!” she gasped. “Vermin, everywhere, flapping-”

Raidon flashed past her. He hurried down the corridor until he came to a dank chamber alive with a plague of writhing bats.

Three house servants with brooms swatted at the swarm. Each had dozens of tiny bites on their arms and faces. Shelves and furniture in the chamber were overturned and broken.

“Where did these come from?” Raidon shouted.

“From below!” gasped a servant. “From the catacombs!” The flurry of bats was like a blizzard of coal fragments, forcing the monk to raise his hand to shield his eyes.

Raidon knew Japheth was down below, working on something. The half-elf’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. The warlock’s dark allegiances had finally driven him mad. He’d unleashed the contents of his unholy cloak, probably as a precursor to a far more insidious curse. The man had touched the Dreamheart, and come away with something of its power.

Japheth called it a star pact. Raidon called it a deal with evil incarnate. He touched the Cerulean Sign tattooed on his chest … and discerned not the least drop in temperature. The swirling bat swarm, it seemed, was not conjured with Japheth’s new affiliation.

It didn’t matter. The sword on his back shifted slightly up and down, as if nodding.

The monk charged down the narrow stairs, taking them three at a time. The swarming bats grew thicker. They battered him with soft bodies and damp, bitter-smelling wings, and scratched him with tiny claws and needle teeth. Tiny lines of blood mazed his bare skin.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the press of creatures was so thick that the light from above was blotted out. Even his sensitive eyes could hardly discern anything but swirling motes of hungry black.

He concentrated on his Cerulean Sign. The stylized tree pulsed into wakefulness. Sky blue light illuminated the narrow stone corridor, bewildering the bats with its sudden radiance. Raidon took advantage of their disorientation to sprint down the corridor.

Raidon had never ventured into the winding corridors beneath the manor before. The narrow way was thick with branching off corridors and sealed doors, but the monk just followed the press of bats.

Five heartbeats later, he burst into a wide chamber with a ceiling that arched high over the floor.

Raidon saw Japheth through the flurry of wings. The warlock was sheltering behind a metallic sculpture. Scratches crisscrossed Japheth’s face, just like those covering the monk’s face and forearms.

A pale man in oddly formal dress stood on the overlooking balcony, his arms wide. An aberrant glyph hovered on the man’s brow. Raidon sensed terrific power in him. He was also the source of the swarming bats; they issued from his open coat. He was obviously the Lord of Bats, Japheth’s old patron.

Raidon was disappointed that the warlock wasn’t his foe after all. At least, not immediately.

The Lord of Bats shifted his gaze to Raidon. The man’s features were human with a fey cast, but his eyes were like pools of stagnant black water. The wriggling mark above his eyes evoked chill alarm in Raidon’s Cerulean Sign. Whatever questionable moral path Japheth was on, the man on the balcony had already arrived.

“Allies will avail you not, Japheth,” said Neifion.

“We’re not allies,” said Raidon. Then he charged, vaulting onto the chamber’s central stone block. Candles, rods, glass vials, and other bits crunched beneath his feet. He used the block to propel himself into a high, arcing trajectory toward the balcony. He pulled his arm back, preparing a devastating blow to coincide with the termination of his arc.

The Lord of Bats raised his hands and pronounced a word of power even as Raidon’s foot left the block. As the monk arced up through midair, vines studded with poisonous thorns burst from the balcony’s railing.