Кейт Новак - Song of the Saurials

Watching the sage do battle while unable to hear any of the accompanying sounds felt unnatural and eerie to Morala, yet she kept her eyes fixed on the water. She wished the blessings of Milil on the sage, though she suspected her god might have little power over events in the strange world where Elminster was now.

As the last pair of feather dragons came swooping down on the sage, talons extended, prepared to tear him to pieces, Elminster cast a forked bolt of lightning. Before the scorched bodies slammed into him, the sage winked through a dimension door, emerging some fifty feet away, where he could not be crushed in the monsters’ death throes. Witnessing Elminster’s unscathed emergence from the battle, the priestess breathed a sigh of relief. Elminster turned in Morala’s direction and seemed to look right at the priestess. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and he gave a little theatrical bow. Then he turned away again and walked off into the strange forest.

The colors in the water began to swirl in a chaotic pattern and then fade. The water began to bubble; then, in a great burst of steam, it evaporated away. Morala stepped away from the table and swayed, exhausted from the effort of scrying.

Lord Mourngrym stepped forward and helped the frail, elderly woman to a chair.

Morala leaned back, her eyes closed. “Elminster is alive and well,” she said weakly. “The moment before my spell wore off, he had just defeated several monsters the likes of which I have never seen in the Realms. He appeared in no immediate danger. His instincts were sharp enough to note that he was being scried upon. He does not seem to be anyone’s prisoner.”

“Then why doesn’t he return?” Breck asked.

“I do not know,” the priestess answered. “He travels on foot in a strange world, and I couldn’t perceive his goal. Perhaps some other wizard has summoned the sage to perform some service and he cannot return until it is completed. Perhaps he does not realize we have need of him here.”

Alias stood in the doorway to the Harpers courtroom. She had returned from speaking with Elminster’s scribe, Lhaeo, just in time to hear the priestess report what she had seen in her scrying.

“What of Nameless?” Alias asked from across the room.

Morala thrust out her neck and squinted, trying to focus on Alias. The priestess motioned for the swordswoman to come closer.

Alias strode across the courtroom until she stood a few feet from the small old woman.

“Your grace,” Mourngrym said to Morala, “this is—”

“Alias of Westgate, Nameless’s singer,” Morala finished the introduction herself. “I could tell by her resemblance to Cassana. I am Morala of Milil, child.”

“I know. I could tell by your garb,” Alias said. The priestess’s crimson robe, elaborately embroidered with gold dragons, was standard ceremonial garb among those who served the patron god of bards.

“Alias, this is ranger Breck Orcsbane,” Mourngrym added, motioning toward a brawny young woodsman in leather armor. The ranger’s face was clean-shaven, but he wore his blond hair in a plait that reached his waist. Alias recognized his face; she had seen him in the Old Skull Inn last night listening to her sing.

The swordswoman nodded briefly, then turned back abruptly to Morala. “Did you see Nameless?” she asked. Although her eyes shone hopefully, her heart pounded with fear.

Morala shook her head. “No,” she replied. “He was not with Elminster. I shall have to scry for him separately.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Alias asked impatiently.

Lord Mourngrym laid a hand on the swordswoman’s shoulder. “Scrying is a most difficult spell, Alias,” his lordship said softly. “Morala must rest for a while.”

Alias clenched her fist. It was frustrating enough having to rely on spell-casters to find Nameless, but being forced to wait was maddening.

Mourngrym sensed the swordswoman’s tension. As a fighter himself, he understood how she felt. She wanted to act, to hunt for Nameless, to kill anything that threatened him, to rescue him. She knew, though, that she couldn’t run off without an inkling of a direction to run in, but that realization didn’t make the waiting any easier. “What did the sage’s scribe say?” he asked the swordswoman, trying to keep her mind occupied.

Alias huffed out some of her anger, then replied, “Lhaeo said Elminster’s evasion spell hadn’t been triggered, so the sage definitely wasn’t dead, wounded, mindless, or desperate to leave wherever he is, but you already knew that from scrying or him. Since Elminster hadn’t planned to leave, he didn’t give Lhaeo any instructions about how to contact him. Lhaeo said a few other things, too,” Alias added, glancing at Morala and Breck, uncertain how they would receive what she had to say.

“What?” Mourngrym asked.

“First off, from what Kyre said—that Elminster disappeared and Grypht appeared in his place—Lhaeo suspects that Grypht used a variation of a teleport spell called transference. By switching places with another mage who’s already standing in a safe place, it guarantees that a mage can teleport without ending up too high off the ground or inside a stone wall. It’s a rare spell. According to Lhaeo, you could count the mages in the Realms who know it on the fingers of one hand. According to Lhaeo, there aren’t any creatures from the lower planes that can use it. Lhaeo also said that there was no way anything from the Nine Hells or the Abyss could have gotten past Elminster’s wards on this tower. He’d bet his father’s sword that Grypht is a wizard, not a monster.”

“If Kyre says Grypht is from the Nine Hells, then that’s where it’s from,” Breck insisted. “Kyre would never make a mistake about something like that. She’s very accurate.”

“Just how well do you know her?” Alias asked curiously.

“She brought me into the Harpers,” Breck explained. “We’ve worked together often in the past.”

“I see,” Alias said. If Kyre had been Breck’s sponsor for the Harpers, the swordswoman realized she’d never convince Breck that Kyre was capable of error. She looked to Mourngrym to support Lhaeo’s opinion.

His lordship looked uncertain. “Grypht did break Elminster’s one-way spell on Nameless’s cell,” Mourngrym pointed out to Alias.

“That’s not the same thing as a ward against evil creatures,” the swordswoman argued.

“That’s true,” Morala agreed. “There are important differences. A protection ward is very cut-and-dried, but Elminster’s one-way spell required provisions so that the servants and guards and the sage could enter and leave Nameless’s cell unhindered. I suppose the spell would have also allowed Nameless to leave if the room was burning, say, or in the case of some other emergency that threatened the bard’s life. If Elminster’s wording had been ambiguous on some provision, the spell might have broken from the strain of determining whether or not the provision was met.”

“Excuse me, your lordship,” a voice said from the hallway.

Mourngrym turned toward the voice. A tower guard stood at the door to the Harpers’ courtroom.

“Yes, Shend? What is it?” his lordship asked.

“Captain Thurbal has finished checking the tower security. He said to tell you everything seems in order, except for two things. First, he can’t get into Nameless’s cell; the door’s locked.

“Akabar Bel Akash felt unwell, so he’s resting in there,” Mourngrym said. “Harper Kyre is tending him. No need to disturb them. I’ll check with them later. What’s the second thing, Shend?”

“When I was on guard duty early this morning, I let someone pass through the gate without announcing her. She said it wasn’t necessary. Now we can’t find her, and no one saw her leave the tower. Captain Thurbal thought it a little strange, so he wanted me to report it to you personally.”