Кейт Новак - Song of the Saurials

Kyre leaned over and kissed the mage gently on the lips. “Lie still a few minutes and you’ll feel better,” she said in flawless Turmish.

“Zhara,” Akabar sighed. Then, with more agitation, he cried out, “The bowl of rotting fruit! Zhara, beware!”

Kyre frowned slightly. Aside from having too great a hold on the mage’s heart, this Zhara probably knew too much. Fortunately Alias had told the half-elf all she needed to know to deal with the priestess.

Kyre stood up, padded over to the window, yanked open the curtain, and threw back the shutters. “The rain has stopped for the moment. How convenient,” she declared.

From her tunic pocket, the half-elf pulled out a bit of thistledown with the seeds still attached. “Darkbringer,” she murmured in Realms common. The thistle seeds in her hand began to glow. “Zhara, wife of Akabar Bel Akash, in the Red Room at the Old Skull Inn,” she whispered. Then she held the thistledown up to her mouth and blew it out the window. The silky, seed-bearing strands danced away from the window toward the heart of Shadowdale, moving against the wind.

Kyre stood at the window, staring blankly at the greenery surrounding Shadowdale Akabar, hearing his wife’s name spoken, turned his head in the half-elf’s direction. He began studying her profile with fascination. Her silky black hair contrasted sharply with her fair skin, and her figure was lithe and muscular like a dancer’s. She’s really very beautiful, he thought. Not to mention well educated. She speaks Turmish well, with a soft-spoken voice like a true lady. And her touch is tender, as a woman’s should be.

Why, though, the mage puzzled, did she have to stun me just to keep from speaking of my dreams? Akabar sighed to himself. No matter, he thought. She said she was sorry. I must give her a chance to explain. She must have a good reason.

A few minutes later, just as the half-elf had predicted, his head felt much clearer, his body felt rested, and the strength returned to his limbs. His heart still beat a little too quickly, but he didn’t notice. He sat up and took a deep breath.

Kyre turned away from the window and smiled gently. “I’m pleased to see you feeling better,” she said softly, still speaking in Turmish. “You will forgive me, I trust, for being so forward, but I must tell you, you are the most attractive man I’ve ever met.”

Akabar blushed deeply. Usually the immodest advances of northern women annoyed him, but he felt inordinately pleased that someone as attractive as Kyre should find him appealing. Still, he wasn’t the sort to leave mysteries unsolved. “Why don’t you want me to tell about my dreams to anyone?” he asked.

Kyre crossed the room to his bedside, her walk graceful and sinuous. “I’m not sure who can be trusted,” she replied as she sat down again on the edge of the bed.

“You can trust Alias,” Akabar said. “She’s a good friend.”

“But I don’t think I can trust Lord Mourngrym,” Kyre replied. “However, I know I can trust you, Akabar. You’ve been chosen.” The half-elf ran her finger along the curve of the Turmishman’s ear and down along the artery in his neck.

Akabar felt his heart begin to pound and his blood throbbing in his head. “What do you know of my dreams?” he asked.

Kyre slid her hands up inside the loose sleeves of Akabar’s robe, lightly touching the inside of his arms with her fingertips. “They are of the Darkbringer’s return to the Realms, are they not?” she asked.

“Yes,” Akabar admitted. “They are.” He grasped the half-elven woman’s elbows, and rubbed his thumbs along the silky sleeves of her tunic.

“And in your dreams, you must find the Darkbringer. Correct?” Kyre asked.

“Yes” Akabar said.

“I will help you,” Kyre said. “Would you like that?”

Akabar pulled the woman closer to him. With amusement, he noted how the orchid behind Kyre’s left ear was held in place. Some magic, elven no doubt, had coaxed the stem’s tendrils to twist about several strands of her hair. The mage buried his face in the half-elf’s hair and breathed in the orchid’s intoxicating scent. “I would like that very much,” he whispered, but something about the orchid’s scent left him feeling anxious. The perfume tickled at some unpleasant memory that would not surface readily.

Kyre blew her warm breath into his ear. “I will take you to Moander’s place of resurrection,” she breathed. Leaning heavily against Akabar’s chest, the half-elf forced him to fall back against the bed pillows. She placed her right ear directly over his heart.

Akabar knew she could hear his heart pounding. “How do you know these things?” he asked.

“The master told me,” Kyre said. She raised her head and kissed the tip of his beard, then his chin.

As the woman’s lips moved toward his own, the Turmishman suddenly caught sight of her orchid’s tendrils, which twisted not about her hair but into her ear canal. Others had pricked her temples. The tendrils twitched and writhed beneath her skin, as if they were trying to get purchase on her brain. Akabar’s stomach churned with revulsion, and his heart began pounding with fear. Finally he recalled where he’d smelled the orchid’s perfume before. It was the scent of one of Moander’s sleeping drugs. Akabar cried out and thrust Kyre away from him.

Three tendrils shot out from Kyre’s mouth like snakes lashing out at their prey. These tendrils, tipped with pea-sized pods, were far longer than the orchid tendrils. As the green shoots curled and undulated in the air before the merchant-mage’s face, he realized with horror that they might have easily slithered past his lips and down his throat if he had closed his eyes in anticipation of the half-elf’s kiss. Suddenly the pods at the ends of the tendrils burst open, shooting tiny black seeds at Akabar’s face. Then the tendrils collapsed as Kyre sucked them back into her mouth.

“Those seeds were meant for you to swallow,” the half-elf said when her mouth was clear of the tendrils, “but don’t worry. There are more.”

Akabar sat up, shaking with terror, and tried to push Kyre away, but the woman had an iron grip on his elbows. As he struggled to free himself, Akabar felt other tendrils, incredibly slimy and as strong as rope, reaching inside his sleeves and entwining his upper arms.

“There’s no use resisting, Akabar,” Kyre said, still speaking in Turmish, only now her tone was cool and authoritative. “Your destiny is sealed.” The half-elf slid her hands out of Akabar’s sleeves. Her victim remained trapped by the plant appendages, which stretched from her wrists up his arms. The tendrils grew steadily longer, giving Kyre the freedom to move her hands up to Akabar’s face. The merchant-mage closed his eyes, revolted at the way the tendrils protruded from beneath the skin of her forearms.

“The Darkbringer desires to possess your body again and once more gaze into the sharp-edged crystal of your mind,” Kyre said mesmerizingly as she stroked his beard. “You should feel honored.”

“No!” Akabar shouted. He managed to rise to his feet, pulling Kyre along with him. Terrified, he screamed, “Alias! Help me!”

Kyre cut off his cries with a choke hold to his throat. “The Darkbringer would prefer that I deliver you alive,” the half-elf snarled, “but if that is not possible, the Darkbringer will be pleased enough with your corpse.” She released Akabar’s throat, and, as the mage gasped for air, she drew out a slender dagger from her sleeve and pressed its point against his neck.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Akabar whispered hoarsely. “If you murder me, Alias will cut you to pieces.”

“Alias will never know,” Kyre said. With her free hand, she pulled out an object and held it up to Akabar’s eyes. It resembled a crystal the size and shape of a walnut, colorless but for a flickering dark flaw at the center. “Behold, Akabar,” Kyre said. “Inside this stone is entrapped an enemy of the master, a mage far more powerful than you. If you continue to resist, I will slay you and carry you to the Darkbringer within just such a stone. If, instead, you cooperate and come with me of your own free will, you will be rewarded well. Moander will grant you such power as few men in the Realms have ever known.”