Douglas Niles - Measure and the Truth

At the bottom of the steps, a narrow corridor led to the right and left. He turned left-for the other direction was an illusion, and though it appeared to be a long, straight passageway, in actuality it led to a cleverly concealed trap over a large pool of acid. Anyone who went more than ten steps in that direction would fall through the floor and into the pool. They would not come out again.

Hoarst continued down the narrow passage, each footstep kicking up little swirls of dust that danced in the light of his spell. He passed a number of side passages to the right and left and took the third corridor on his right. That led him to another intersection of passages, and again he made the correct turn.

There was only one way to walk through those dark corridors, he knew: each false move led to a death certain, violent, and inescapable. One trap would crush an intruder with a slab of rock weighing many tons. Another opened into a chute that plummeted into a hundred-foot-deep pit; the bottom of the pit was layered with spears planted, sharp tips up, in the ground. A third, one of the most ingenious, would pour oil over any trespasser and then, a few seconds later, release a cascade of bits of phosphorus that would ignite a searing, completely lethal blaze.

After a hundred and fourteen steps, Hoarst turned to the left into a corridor that looked just as ordinary as any of the rest. He came to a mundane-looking door, confirmed with a gentle touch that his locking spell was still intact there, and with a single word released the door, pushing it open to enter the most secret, most cherished of his rooms.

The light spell still gleamed from his belt buckle, but that pale brightness was completely overwhelmed by the brilliant glow emanating from a dozen different places in his treasure chamber. Jewels and scepters, a crown, and a magnificent wand all shone with magical light. A chest, overflowing with coins, glowed crimson as though from the embers of a fire. Yellow and green light rose from statues and paintings, while a magical chandelier-perpetually illuminated-brightened the place more than a hundred candles.

Hoarst spent a few moments perusing his trinkets, fondling the limitless piles of coins, admiring his favorite painting-which displayed a partially disrobed woman beside a deep, clear pool-hoisting a prize scepter, and cradling the hilt of a splendid flying dagger.

But business, not pleasure, had drawn him there, and he had precious little time to waste. He moved to a jar that was full of powdered flakes of gold. He needed both hands to hoist the heavy vessel until he slipped it into a bag of holding. Then he was able to suspend it from his belt as if it were a small purse. He found another small chest, one containing pure, crystalline diamonds, and added that to the bag. After a moment’s thought, he dropped the enchanted dagger into the bag as well.

Securing the wizard locks behind him, he went out through the dungeon tunnels and back up the long stairway, returning to his lab to find that the women had followed his instructions precisely. A great fire burned under his cauldron, and the wine and other ingredients had been brought over to the nearby table, where they were neatly arrayed.

He dined in the laboratory, mixing and working through the meal, then chanted spells and wrote arcane symbols deep into the night. The women tended the fire while he slept, and he continued to mix and cook for all the following day. Powdered gold, its weight equivalent to two thousand pieces of steel, was added. He put the diamonds-ten times the value of the steel-in his grinder, and reduced the precious stones to powder after an hour of hard labor.

For six more hours, the huge cauldron boiled, the magical potion taking effect until, finally, there was only one thing he needed to add.

“Sirene, come here,” he ordered.

The albino woman came to him immediately, willingly. She was clean and perfumed following her bath, and he was pleased. She well knew that albino blood was rare and much treasured as a spell component, and once again she proudly held out a finger, ready for the prick of his lancet.

“Do you need another drop of my blood, my lord?” she asked, relishing the power of her special status, inwardly sneering at the jealously of the other women.

“You understand me too well,” he said with a smile. “But this is a very special potion with very special requisites.”

The magical knife was in his hand, but she was looking only at his eyes.

“I am sorry to tell you this, my dear,” he explained. “But this time, I need all of it.”

Selinda returned to the little inn at the end of the dark alcove the next night. Though there was no sign outside the place, she learned from other patrons that it was called the Hale and Farewell, in honor of the parties sailors had before their ships left port for long voyages. She learned the proprietor was the man who had spoken to her outside the alley the first night she stopped, and that his name was Hale. People referred to him as Lame Hale, and he seemed to take that reference to his gimpy leg with fine good humor.

The third night she teleported from her room directly to the alley, very much surprising Lame Hale as he leaned against the dirty wall and scouted the street for prospective customers. But he seemed glad to see her again, and she enjoyed his compliments. She was soon inside and being welcomed by a host of familiar customers. She didn’t lack for an invitation to sit at a table with a group of travelers or share some gossip with some of the lady merchants who held court in the corner room.

The sailors told stories of exotic ports and terrifying storms, and she relished their tales of adventure. There were old soldiers too, and-for a drink or two-they could be coaxed into recounting campaigns against the Dark Knights, surreptitious missions under the realm of Khellendros, or battles against Ankhar the Truth on the central plains. Selinda stayed late each time she visited the place-usually the sun was coming up by the time she went home-and she always departed on foot, waiting until she was out of sight of the Hale and Farewell’s front door before teleporting home.

She told no one her name, and no one asked. She was treated well, as befitted her beauty and the generous tips that she left following each visit. The exotic music, oily and smooth and a trifle atonal, appealed to her in ways that the flutes, lyres, and drums of other local musicians did not. On her second visit, she had learned the unusual musicians and their instruments came from so far away that they were unknown on most of the continent of Ansalon.

It also pleased her to go to a place where no one knew her as the wife of the emperor, where her legacy as the Princess of the Plains, the woman who would help unite Solamnia, was mere myth. She had grown up in the city, a daughter of privilege, and-when she was honest with herself-she admitted that she was spoiled by her rich father. If he hadn’t exactly been doting, Bakkard du Chagne had never allowed her to want for any material things, and she came to adulthood expecting that as her due. Her marriage to the most powerful man in her world had done nothing to lessen her sense of entitlement, but it had walled her off from life.

There in the dark inn, those walls were broken. She laughed at the sensation of complete freedom and relaxed among the jovial strangers. She even joined in the gossip about the emperor, which was surprisingly common. Everyone had an opinion of her husband, and most opinions were unfavorable-though a few of the veteran soldiers spoke up for the new discipline and pride of the Solamnic nation. Others mocked Jaymes as being afraid of his own shadow and paranoid to the point of lunacy with his edicts and restrictions. If the new edicts had put any fear of reprisal into her new friends, they certainly hid the fact very well!