Douglas Niles - Realms of Valor

"Very well," Kelshara hissed. Her features were pale and flawless, her long hair as dark as polished onyx, yet she was anything but lovely. Rage was never beautiful. "And for your worthlessness, this is your reward."

She tossed a handful of dark powder onto the brazier. Brilliant sparks, red as rubies, crackled about the pale apparitions as they shrieked in agony. The magical flames flared to the ceiling, then died down in a puff of acrid smoke. The spirits were gone, the last echo of their wails ringing off the chill stone walls.

Kelshara smiled in cruel satisfaction for a moment, but the expression soon faded. She still had no solution to the mystery. From a golden box on a table she drew out two small objects. They were jewels, teardrop shaped and as clear as winter ice. King's Tears such stones were called. Legend held that they were the tears of ancient kings magically turned to stone. Legend also told that if you looked into the heart of a King's Tear, you would see an image of what the ancient lord had loved most in life. And the legends were true.

Even now she could see the visions flickering within the jewels: parchments scribed with strange glyphs and books bound with gem-encrusted covers. It was the library of King Everard Farseer she was glimpsing. Once he had ruled over a realm that stretched for leagues along the banks of the great River Chionthar. But his kingdom had crumbled to dust long centuries before folk from Cormyr crossed the Sunset Mountains and raised the shining Caravan Cities, strung like gems along the necklace of the river. But though Kelshara had gazed into the Tears for hours on end, she never saw what she sought, the book Everard had prized above all others: the Tome of Midnight. Within its covers lay the key to life eternal.

"Toz!" the necromancer shouted. "Toz!”

Kelshara heard the scrabbling of claws against stone behind her. "Mistress?" a voice croaked tremulously. She spun to see a small, malformed creature hobble into the chamber on two gnarled and twisted legs. It blinked its red, bulbous eyes, snuffling its warty, canine snout.

"Come, Toz," Kelshara said in her icy voice. "Speak the future for me. And do not dare lie, or I promise you'll lose more than just your tail this time."

"Yes, mistress." The kobold fawningly approached the table. Its features were caught up in a mask of mock-contrition, its bulging eyes cast down to the floor. A foul odor followed in its wake, and the ratty brown piece of sackcloth it wore like a tunic looked as if it was ready to rot off its scaly back.

Once the creature had been a man, a diviner of such skill that he had told the fortunes of emperors and queens. But Kelshara had wanted him for her own. She had arranged his murder. Then, with her dark powers, she wrought his reincarnation into this new, loathsome form, bound by magic to do her every bidding.

Clumsily, the kobold opened a small ivory box, drew out a deck of ornate cards wrapped in black silk, and shuffled them. "You must draw three," it instructed the necromancer in its croaking voice, and Kelshara quickly did so.

With a misshapen hand Toz turned over the first card. The Three of Gems. "This signifies the heart of your quest. It symbolizes great riches, but some of them are lost."

"Of course," Kelshara crooned, her violet, gold-flecked eyes glittering with understanding. "I have been a fool, Toz. The image of the Tome is not within the two Tears I possess, and there can only be one answer. The Three of Gems. There must be a third Tear. Go on."

The kobold turned the next card. The Priest, reversed. "This signifies the forces of your allies." Toz moved to the last card. "And this signifies the forces that will oppose you on your quest." He turned the card. The Warrior, also reversed.

"What do they mean?" Kelshara demanded.

Toz's pointed ears wriggled in confusion. "I am not certain, master. Somehow, a priest who is not a priest will help you gain the jewel. But a warrior who is not a warrior will stand against you."

'"A warrior who is not a warrior?'" Kelshara said mockingly. "That doesn't sound like one I need fear."

"But, mistress," the kobold protested, its snout wriggling in agitation, "these cards speak of powerful forces at work. You must-"

"Quiet!" Kelshara snapped, striking the kobold and knocking it to the hard floor. It yelped shrilly, but she paid the creature no heed. "All I have to do now is find where the third Tear is hidden," the necromancer whispered exultantly. "Then immortality will be mine."

Things were in a bit of an uproar at Everard Abbey, and Tyveris knew he was the cause.

He dashed up the spiral staircase, his sandals slapping hollowly against the worn stone steps. The abbess had sent for him, and one did not keep Melisende waiting. He hesitated for a few heartbeats before the paneled mahogany door that lead into her chamber, then knocked as softly on the dark wood as he could with his massive hand. The sound boomed like thunder. Tyveris winced.

"Come in," came the crisp reply from beyond.

With a deep breath Tyveris opened the door and stepped inside, though he was forced to turn sideways a bit to squeeze his broad shoulders through the portal. He was not a tall man, but his sheer size was astonishing. The thin brown homespun of his simple robe did little to conceal the thick, heavy muscles that were roped about his powerful frame, and his dusky brown skin marked him as a foreigner in these lands. Altogether, he was a rather remarkable individual for the backward Everard Abbey.

And that was a great part of the problem.

"Oh, do stop standing there filling up the doorway and come sit down," Mother Melisende said in her typically brisk tone. The abbess was a tiny woman, with bright, dark eyes and wispy white hair. She sat before a fireplace, clad in a simple but elegant robe of soft dove gray. Despite her diminutive stature, a mantle of authority seemed to rest comfortably upon her small shoulders.

"Yes, Mother Melisende." Though he made an effort to speak softly, Tyveris's deep voice rattled the glass in the windowpanes. He sat down. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth to drive back the autumn chill. Melisende poured steaming tea into a pair of delicate porcelain cups and handed one to Tyveris. He stared at the fragile teacup worriedly, holding it with exaggerated care in his big hand. He swallowed hard.

Melisende sipped her tea, regarding Tyveris with a wise expression. "I won't keep this from you," she said after a moment's quiet. "Several of the loremasters have come to speak to me this past tenday. They have asked that I dismiss you from the abbey."

Tyveris's dark eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Have I done something wrong, Mother Melisende?"

The abbess sighed. "No, Tyveris, it is nothing you have done." She smiled fleetingly. "In fact, I daresay we've never had a handyman about the abbey who was as useful as you. The chapel ceiling no longer leaks onto the pulpit, the new hinges on the gate open without a creak, and the drains in the kitchen are working properly for the first time in a century." Her smile faded, replaced by a scowl. "No, it's not what you've done that some of the loremasters don't care for. You wear a monk's robe now, but I'm afraid that doesn't change what you are in their eyes-a sell-sword, a man dedicated to violence, not knowledge."

"But they have nothing to fear from me, Mother Melisende," he boomed earnestly. "I can control myself. I swear it!"

There was a clear, delicate snap as the teacup shattered in Tyveris's hand. He stared down at the broken shards in horror. "I've ruined your cup," he said despairingly.

"Forget the teacup, Tyveris," Melisende said, taking the broken pieces from his hand and setting them aside. "It is simply a thing. Completely replaceable." She took his big hands into her tiny ones. He almost pulled away in surprise, but she gripped him tightly. "Look at these, Tyveris. What do you see?"