Bruce Cordell - Key of Stars

Eleven Years after the Spellplague

The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

Candlekeep

The door shuddered in its frame.

The scribe’s hand jerked, flicking a blob of ink from his quill. The ink splattered on the parchment stretched across the composition table.

“Mystra’s corpse!” the scribe said.

Several heavy bumps thudded down the hallway outside the door, followed by laughter.

“What the hell is going on out there?” the scribe yelled.

He waited a few heartbeats for a response. Nothing but silence.

“Damn apprentices, playing when they should be reshelving,” he muttered.

The scribe sighed and returned to his work. The splatter hadn’t ruined the report, but the tiny spills made the page appear untidy and common-not up to his standards. At least it was salvageable. He dipped his quill in the pot once more.

The door shattered in a blast of expanding white vapor.

The scribe, bent-backed and stiff from a lifetime of copying, fell off his stool. Bits of broken door rained down on him. The inkpot shattered, painting jagged black lines on the floor.

Memories of the disaster more than a decade before spidered through him-the Year of Blue Fire. Was it happening again? A jolt of panic lent him strength. He pulled himself up and leaned unsteadily on the writing table.

A woman wearing a dark gown and cape stalked through the empty doorway. Her skin glowed like moonlight, and her eyes like coal. Was she some kind of eladrin?

A bald man followed her into the room. Blood flecked his otherwise impeccably black formalwear. When he smiled at the scribe, canines protruded. He also had something of the fey to him, but he was certainly no eladrin.

Behind them strolled a massive black hound that seemed more shadow than flesh; but its barred teeth were as white as snow.

“Who are … What’s going on?” said the scribe. “Where are the apprentices? They should have …” He realized the distracting noises probably hadn’t been the librarian trainees roughhousing, as he’d assumed.

“The apprentices?” said the woman. “Hmm, is this one?” She pointed to something outside the door.

The scribe leaned to the left and looked into the hallway.

What was left of a youthful librarian was embedded in the wall, his blood rayed like ejecta from a falling star.

Nausea bent the scribe over the writing table. His last meal came up. A useless voice in his head noted his report was almost certainly ruined.

“They did not accord me the proper respect,” the eladrin said. “Don’t make the same mistake.”

The scribe coughed and wiped his mouth. “No, um … my lady,” he forced out.

“I require your aid,” she said.

“Uh, yes!” the scribe replied. “But I doubt I, a simple scribe, can assist you. It is-”

The man laughed. The sound was high-pitched, its piercing note somehow horrifying. “If you aim to avoid ending up like your friends, try again, mortal,” he said.

“Wh … What do you want?” the scribe asked.

“We require access to a collection here in your wonderful fortress of lore,” said the woman. “Surely you can aid us with that.”

The scribe wondered why Candlekeep’s defenses hadn’t already converged on the invaders. He wished, not for the first time, that the defensive spellmantle of old hadn’t unraveled. It would have provided instant warning to everyone in the keep, and … He suddenly understood the invaders might have slipped into the heart of Candlekeep without the Castellan or the Keeper of Tomes being the wiser. Perhaps only he knew Candlekeep hosted uninvited guests. He had to get word out!

Should he send a message immediately? That would risk the invaders’ ire if they noticed his arcane twiddling. It might be better to go along with whatever they wanted for the moment, and survive long enough to try later. Sweat broke on his forehead.

“Have we scared you dumb?” said the man.

“Ah, no!” the scribe said. “I mean, what can I help you with? I only have access to certain specialty collections. Lore of ancient fey groups that died out long ago …”

“Perfect,” said the woman. “Show us to the Democene Reading Room.”

The scribe swallowed. “How … How did you know about that collection?” he said.

“Stop wasting time, human,” the woman replied. “I wonder, if I remove your hand, will it serve as the reading room key without your body attached?”

Slick dread churned the scribe’s guts. He pushed away from his table, toward the back wall. “This way!” he said.

Shelves heavy with books framed a door of dull iron. The door lacked a handle, but a plate set flush to the wall next to the door would serve.

The scribe placed one trembling hand to the plate and muttered the pass phrase. A spark was born, bit his palm, and died in an instant. He rubbed his hand as a series of knocks, bangs, and whines issued from the wall.

“A clunky sort of magery,” said the bald man.

“Access to the reading room the lady named is coming into alignment,” said the scribe. “Some collections are too dangerous to reside in the general stacks.”

With a final muffled clunk, the iron door scraped aside. A narrow track of descending stairs was revealed.

The scribe motioned the two invaders to enter.

“No, after you, my friend,” said the man. “Prudence and all that.”

The scribe nodded and preceded the invaders into the stairwell.

A similar iron door sealed the landing at the stairwell’s foot. The scribe opened it as he had the first. Beyond lay the Democene Reading Room.

Painted stars glowed on the ceiling, providing just enough light to read by. Crumbling tomes, scrolls, knickknacks, and drawings littered a single leaning shelf. A basalt table and seat nestled in one corner. A few unshelved books lay open upon it from the scribe’s last visit.

The woman breezed into the room. The glowing stars brightened, and a haze of dancing light enshrouded her. It hurt the scribe’s eyes to look at the eladrin.

“Something recognizes you, Malyanna,” said the man.

“Give the bat a sweet,” she replied. “He’s so perceptive.”

A dangerous expression briefly touched the man’s pale features. Then he chuckled and entered the reading room to stand at Malyanna’s side.

Malyanna extended a finger and began to trace the titles on the shelf.

“What you’ve still failed to adequately explain, my lovely,” the man said, “is why this side trek is necessary in the first place?”

The woman, apparently called Malyanna, sniffed. “You saw me attempt the ritual again, and fail, Neifion,” she said. “The Eldest is caught between waking and sleeping. Your pet warlock skimmed just enough power from the Dreamheart to prevent it from reaching full awareness.”

She said something else, but the scribe had stopped paying attention-the man and the woman stood in the room, ignoring him completely! The Democene Reading Room could confine more than dangerous tomes …

The scribe’s stomach dropped, and his limbs shook, but he placed his hand on the ceramic locking plate. He whispered the pass phrase.

The door clanked. Malyanna and Neifion glanced back, alarm clear in their expressions.

The door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The scribe grinned in triumph. Time to warn the Keeper of-

He gasped as something sharp and wet grabbed his neck and pulled him into the air.

He’d forgotten about the shadow hound! The scribe shrieked, and the beast dropped him. It unleashed a growl that strained the scribe’s ability to maintain bladder control.