"Saw them?" scoffed the warlock. "Magic is not so simple that a gutterkiss can 'see' it. Or is there some other power you hide, filliken?"
Twilight shot an angry look at him. She thought about threatening him again, but since she hadn't followed through the first time, her threats meant much less. She rose silently and stared down the dark hallway, standing close to Liet.
"We should go back," she whispered.
"Why?" the youth asked. "We explored this way yestereve."
"Was that all that transpired yestereve, I wonder?" Davoren asked.
She wouldn't let that nettle her. "Something's come this way and lies in wait."
"How can you know that?" Taslin asked.
"Truly," said Liet. That was a shock, but Twilight buried the twinge of hurt. Of course she couldn't look offended that he didn't take her side. She almost would have preferred his comment to be vindictive, but his eyes held nothing but cold logic.
"A feeling." Twilight paused. "But I know 'tis a true one."
Davoren chuckled at her "feeling," and broke into a full laugh. "Well, we don't know that. I say we press on."
"I see no reason to turn back," said Taslin. "We have only just begun the day."
"I don't know, she could be right!" Slip said. Davoren and Taslin both glared at her. "Or... not." She looked up at Gatgan, but the goliath said nothing. Slip looked back and forth between the two opposing camps and followed his suit.
"Liet?" asked Twilight, not wanting to. "What say you?"
The youth looked at her for a long breath, rubbing at his sheathed arms. Finally, he shrugged. "If something tripped the wards and survived," he said, "logically, 'twould have attacked us as we slept, watch or no. At least we'd find a trace. Since it didn't do so, and we didn't find any sign, I say you could well be wrong. Perhaps the wards merely expired on their own and needed no help. Regardless, there's no reason to go back."
Twilight bit her lip. She shouldn't have cared, but it still hurt.
"Here!" exclaimed Slip from just beyond the once-enspelled doorway. She stood inside a narrow alcove off the corridor. "Look at this! Some manner of markings!"
Fighting the discomfort that came from being contradicted by Liet, Twilight knelt down beside the halfling. Sure enough, something had been etched into the inside of the doorway—four roughly vertical lines with dashes, crosshatches, and markings that rose parallel to one another, almost like tally marks.
"What are they?" asked the halfling.
"Qualith," said Twilight. "Illithid. Crude. Scratched with a talon, mayhap."
"A mind flayer wizard?" Davoren said doubtfully.
"Sorcerer, more likely." The warlock just shrugged as if to dismiss the distinction. "I've seen stranger things."
"You say that often," said Liet.
"And 'tis true every time," Twilight said, eliciting weighing looks. Mystery was comforting—he'd come just a little too close to her that night.
"Believe it or not, these are the marks of the Illithid language. They record emotions and thoughts." She ran her fingers over the markings.
"What need has a race of mind mages for written wotds?" Davoren scoffed.
"Telepathy has a limit," said Twilight. She laid her hand flat against the writing. "And this message was left for someone." "Can you read it?" asked Liet.
"Qualith is amazingly complex, meant to be read by illithids themselves. It would take extraordinary talent or decades of study to decipher these markings," said Twilight.
"So which do you have?" asked Liet.
Twilight smiled. It was hard to stay angry at the youth. Perhaps she could forgive him his lack of support. Later, perhaps, once he had well—and fully—atoned.
Eyes shut, she traced her fingers down the four lines.
"Anything?" asked Slip, shifting anxiously.
"Resentment," said Twilight, "at being imprisoned. Rage, at the writer's captor. A touch of fear, at the power of those above. And a name." She scrunched her brow in thought. "This illithid was a prisoner of a place called Negarath."
From the way the warlock reacted, Davoren knew the name somehow.
"You recognize this word?" asked Twilight.
Davoren bared his teeth. Their battle had certainly made him less guarded in his contempt for everyone and everything.
"Never you mind," he snapped. "This prisoner is long gone, as is anything else in this wizard's sanctum. There is no danger."
Twilight cast a supplicating look back toward Liet, longing for support, but the youth merely shrugged. Twilight bristled.
"Very well, then," said Twilight. "We move forward, against my judgment. I want that noted."
The others nodded, and only Gargan looked at Twilight with something approaching uncertainty. Not that he acted on it.
What good are you if you don't speak up? Twilight cursed.
The corridor beyond the back chamber of the wizard's sanctum turned out to contain many such alcoves for holding prisoners—in magical stasis, Twilight reasoned. The alcoves were empty and appeared to have been so for some time. Twilight felt no magic active anywhere in the corridor. The dark pathway terminated in another portal, this one complete with a stout stone door.
Twilight could hear no sounds through the door, so she examined it. She found no hidden needles or pressure plates, and while the device used a dozen sliding bars in a complex design—a dragon grinning as though bemused—the actual lock seemed simple enough. She slipped out her picks and fell to work, springing the device in a few breaths.
"Sand. Something feels wrong," Twilight said as she stood and stepped back for Gargan to push the door open. The door cracked and creaked, then swung open on its own into darkness, lit only by dim candle flames. "I think—"
"What's the worry?" Slip asked. She smiled at Gargan. "It's just—" she gasped.
Twilight looked into the darkness, as did the others. In the chamber beyond, four startled lizardmen blinked at the companions, roused from their game of bones.
Not hesitating a heartbeat, the goliath leaped forward and split one from fangs to tail. His engraved sword hissed as it burned the lizardman's flesh away like boiling water through sugar. The steel itself bled greenish acid. The hapless creature's companions gave startled squeals. They drew obsidian weapons.
The goliath's rush overturned the dry totted table at which they had been playing, which promptly shattered on the stone floor. Gargan kicked the remains aside and carved another lizard in two, but the distraction gave the thitd time to hurl a cracked stool in his face. As Gargan reeled, the fourth hissed a war cry and lunged forward with a scimitar.
Then smoking blood spattered Gargan's face as Davoren's ruby blast blew a lizardman's head into a black and red abyss. The creature flopped headless to the floor with a disconsolate plop, and the flame arced from it to burn a hole through the stool-hurler. Both twitched, smoking.
As Gargan, Liet, and Slip fanned out to search for more of the creatures, the warlock stifled a yawn with one hand. "That was interesting," he said to Twilight. "And you say you are afraid of an ambush?"
Twilight glared at him but said nothing.
The room was ten paces on a side, filled with the crumbling remains of furniture and decorated with filth. Arcane sigils in much worn and faded paint adorned the walls, though they were all defaced and defiled. It had likely been a casting chamber. The room was just as old and as strange of architecture as the corridor and first chamber, but smelled much fouler.
Twilight was glad the lizards had not bypassed the wards to enter the previous chamber—the smell had been contained.
No other fiendish lizards were found in the chamber, nor could they see any of the creatures down the next corridor.
"Must have left the main group," said Davoren, "for some rest and diversion." He grinned. "The rest theirs, the diversion ours."
"Scouts, testing us," said Twilight. "We should still go back."
The warlock groaned.
The door, however, ended that debate for them. With a scrape of stone on stone, the heavy portal swung back into place, despite their best efforts to restrain it. In place, it looked no different from the rest of the wall, and it had the appropriate lack of door handles, clasps, hooks, pulleys, and opening catches.
"I suppose you're all pleased," said Twilight. "I don't even know how to begin opening it. Probably a command phrase." A mechanical thunk and rasp from the other side struck her ears. "And that would be the locks sliding into place." She folded her arms and looked away.
"All's well," said Liet. He put a reassuring hand on Twilight's shoulder—an act no one but the oblivious halfling missed—and smiled gently. "Be not afraid."
"Only of those things that warrant it," Twilight snapped. She shook Liet off roughly, hoping it would be an action none of the others would miss.
Slip, alert halfling that she was, remained completely oblivious. "I know what'll lighten this up," she said. "Let's figure out the mystery!"
"Mystery?" Liet asked, turning from Twilight, who signaled that they might as well explore these rooms in greater detail.
"Of where we are, silly," the halfling explained. "Where lies this dungeon?"
"Please," Davoren said with a dismissive wave. "It's hardly a dungeon. Deserted ruins, more like it." He gestured at the sloping, twisting, curving walls. "The deserted ruins of some mad child's doll house."
The image of a blood-soaked doll flashed through Twilight's mind.
"Speak louder, and we shall see how deserted it is," promised Taslin.
"Can we not move on?" asked Twilight, tapping her foot nervously.
"Praise be to the Lord of the Hells," said Davoten. "The fil-liken offers a glorious suggestion." He grinned at Taslin. "We should listen, scarred one."
"I am curious as to Slip's thoughts," said Taslin. "Say on, noble small one."
It took Slip a moment to realize the priestess was addressing her. "Well," said Slip. "I'm trying to figure out..."
Ignored by the others, Twilight pressed ahead, examining the darkened corridor. An exceptionally stout portal had once closed off the casting chamber from the hallway, exactly opposite the hall of prisoners, but it had since fallen into rubble. Probably aided, Twilight thought as she glided carefully through the darkness, by the fiendish lizards.
She deemed traps unlikely, since the lizards had gotten through unscathed, but there was no such thing as being too careful. She sensed multiple auras of magic, so she crept onward slowly, searching. At the other end, having walked the hall untouched, she waved the others forward.
"We stepped through a portal near Longsaddle," Taslin was saying. "And it did not lead where we thought it would."
"Ah," said Slip. "Same with my band. Though not Longsaddle, but Dambrath."
"Band?" Taslin asked.
"Aye! Four, originally. Me, a blue-haired girl, a thick dwarf, and Liet, of course."
The youth squinted. "I'm sorry? What—?" Even as he chuckled, Davoren narrowed his fiendish eyes in confusion.
Slip blinked. "Oh," she said finally. "I must be taking you for someone else."
Twilight did not flinch. "We should be silent," she said. "An ambush may await."
"Oh, Belial's pisspot," growled Davoren. "An ambush like that of the lizards, perhaps? Some leader you are, always overestimating the danger."
The shadowdancer narrowed her eyes but made no reply. She crossed into the next chamber, casting about for some foe, but she found nothing there to distract her.
The room in which they stood might once have been a monster's fighting arena, with stone floors that sloped gradually down to a pit at the center. The remains of sigils drawn in crimson paint around the pit indicated a ward of some kind, perhaps a summoning circle.
Four statues of rusted, broken armor stood at the corners of the room, two shattered beyond the faintest possibility of repair, and the others propped against the wall like inebriated knights set there by obedient squires and left to rust by those less loyal. Six doors led from this chamber.
"What do you suppose—?" Liet started.
In retrospect, Twilight should have seen it coming.
"Wheel" Slip exclaimed, sliding down the slope to the bottom of the shallow pit. She bounced and landed face down with a great "oof!" and moved no more.
"Are you well?" shouted Liet.
"Oh aye!" Slip called back. "My face broke my fall!"
"Pity," Davoren murmured.
He might have said more, but there was a sudden creak of metal too long left to mold and dust. The two statues that still resembled upright people shuddered into motion.
Too late, Twilight understood the significance of the statues. Too late, she realized what would trigger their purpose: a creature at the center of the circle when the runes of protection
were not operating. Wizards sometimes kept guardians for just such an occasion, particularly when they summoned creatures strongly resistant to magic.
"Slip!" she shouted. "Run! The—!"
That was as far as she got before the first of the helmed horrors drew its tusty blade and lunged at her. The weapon burst into flames as the creature charged.
Everything seemed to happen at once, in that moment. Twilight rolled away from the one that swung at her, only to see Liet stumble into its path and be dashed to the ground. Gargan leaped upon one of the horrors as it loomed over Davoren and Taslin, his acid-coated swotd smashing it. Slip blinked, transfixed by the statues' sudden movements, and screamed.
That doesn't help, thought Twilight as she dived between a pair of armored legs. With an upturned wrist and a dip, she thrust her rapier up through the monstrosity's breastplate, an angled strike that would have unmanned, disemboweled, and slain a living man, but had no such effect on the creature. Her sword did stab into the horror's essence, and a blue-white mist began to leak between the fringes of its armor.
The construct shuddered but did not slow. It swung down one rusty fist with not-so-rusty speed, which Twilight narrowly dodged. She danced back, keeping impeccable balance, until Liet sent her stumbling as he charged at the horror.
"Fool!" Twilight cursed in anger and fear.
Liet might have replied, but Twilight saw energy crackling around the horror and her eyes went wide. She hissed, and Liet dived just below a swath of flame that sliced the air overhead, erupting from its breastplate. She dodged, but just barely.
"Davoren!" Twilight shouted, gritting her teeth against the pain and the heat.
The warlock didn't need to be told twice. Crimson power erupted from his hands and dark tendrils appeared from the ground, surrounding the helmed horror, enwrapping and entangling it. The creature swung its deadly, flaming blade at Twilight and Liet, but it could not reach them—its sword cut just a hair too short. Twilight flinched away, putting as much
distance between herself and that burning steel as she could, and the flames kissed her cheeks. As she did, she caught a glimpse of Gargan and his foe, and that stunned her.
The goliath faced his opponent in a sword duel that rivaled a tropical storm at sea. Swords flew and spun, cutting like scythes caught in a whirlwind.
The horror might have spent centuries moldering and rusting, but it moved as though it had been built a tenday past—like the deadly weapon it was meant to be. Its attacks left and right, up and down, flowed through continuous motion as though launched by an elf duelist with a mithral saber, rather than a suit of armor with an iron greatsword. All the while, the horror itself was the picture of mechanical calm, simply fulfilling its appointed task.
Its unruffled exterior, however, made for a poor reflection of Gargan. While many swordsmen fought with their muscles, backing fierce blows and counterstrokes with hot fury, and those trained in the fencing arts like Twilight fought with their heads, knowing every strategic attack, parry, and riposte through long practice, this was something far different. Gargan fought not by heart or mind, but by spirit.
Gargan's face was serenity itself, and no rage burned beneath its surface. The blade in his hand danced seemingly of its own accord, turning away strikes Twilight barely saw coming. The goliath never batted an eye as he parried steel a finger's breadth from his nose. He slapped the sword wide, reversed his grip as though spinning a baton, and slashed back in underhanded, tearing a burning gash across the creature's helm. The blade's acid took its toll upon the thing, impeding its flexibility and movements.
Davoren bellowed with fiendish laughter and threw blast after blast at the horror. Taslin summoned Corellon's power to melt away its armor, piece by piece. All the while, it slashed at Twilight and Liet, where they cowered, with the determination only the dead and the mindless possess.
"Corellon!" Taslin cried, throwing her melted sword-and-symbol skyward, where it stopped and hovered in the air just
out of reach. White fire crackled around it, and the blade blazed suddenly whole. Twilight thought she saw something skitter out of the way above, but it fled her mind when she had to turn away to keep from being blinded.
A column of divine flame tore down through the ceiling, engulfing the monstrosity. The Lord of the Seldarine's wrath tore through the suit of armor with its flaming sword. A biting squeal of metal rose over the roar of the inferno. The smoking horror gave a disappointed hiss and crumbled to the floor, inert and useless. Its form fell with a solid thump, fused by the extreme heat of Taslin's spell.
A heartbeat later, Gargan slashed and ripped his foe to scrap. The horror gave a pitiful hiss as the goliath spun with his final backhand and lightly tapped the sword point to the floor. Behind him, it clattered into a pile of half-dissolved rubbish.
"Well," breathed Twilight.
"What a deep thought," Liet said with a grin.
CHAPTER Fifteen
So..." Slip said in the resulting silence. Her demeanor could not have been more tranquil. If a battle had been fought, she seemed not to have noticed. Liet decided to bite. "Aye?"
"So we all came from different places!" exclaimed Slip. "Through different portals!" Apparently, she truly hadn't noticed.
"Remarkable concentration," scoffed Davoren.
"Belt up, and give the little one a chance," Taslin shot back.
Slip continued undaunted. "Thus... thus!"
Liet thought the brainless halfling should get a third chance. "Thus?" he prodded.
"We all have different dirt upon our boots!" the halfling said excitedly.
The others rolled their eyes and Liet sighed. Twilight gestured to the floor.
Slip looked down at her bare feet. "Oh."
"You twit," growled the warlock. "It means we have come to this foul place by means of twisted Art. Someone is interfering with our portals, likely." His eyes fell on Twilight venomously. "I recall that the leader of my band led us through just such a conveying path, without regard to the consequences, of course."
Liet looked at Twilight as well, but the elFs face was blank. Her eyes, though, shifted back and forth uneasily. That struck Liet as odd. He felt perfectly calm, the thrill of combat fled. Hadn't the battle ended?
"So some force has drawn us here," said Taslin, standing amongst the group, "bringing us through various portals, all to the same place. The question is why."
Gargan said something then, in his strange goliath tongue. Deep and rough, yet noble. He had no idea what the words meant, but he could see the impact they left on Taslin, who could understand somehow, and Twilight, who seemed to have a sense of such things.
"You did not come through a portal," Twilight said softly.
"Eh? Wait a breath—" Slip started.
Gargan said something, and Taslin nodded her head.
"It seems he came upon a cavern while hunting a troll that had been spotted in the area," she said. "He followed the beast in and—"
"And there must be more of them," said Twilight.
"Why must—?" Liet asked. He was so confused.
"Goliaths are social creatures, even more so than humans," she said. She looked at Gargan sharply. "Where are the other goliaths?"
It took Gargan a breath to understand her question. He shook his head and spoke.
"He is an exile from his people," said Taslin. "Called... hmm. The closest word in the Common tongue is 'dispossessed.' "
Gargan nodded. "Dispossessed," he repeated.
"I see," Twilight said. "Second time I've heard such a name. The first wasn't so pleasant, as I recall."
Liet looked at her, expecting more, but she left it at that. He wondered if that was true—and what it all meant. She resumed pacing about the room.
Gargan continued speaking to Taslin, who translated for the others. Liet assumed it was magic of some kind. "The troll he was tracking—Tlork—ambushed him in the cave, and they fought. Blackwyrm, his acid-weeping sword—the one he carries
now—was key, but the creature defeated him. When he awakened, he was in the dark cell."
"This begins to make sense," Twilight said. "The master of these depths—"
"The Mad Sharn," hissed Davoren.
"We don't know that for sure," said Twilight. "This labyrinth..."
"Whatever he calls it," Slip said. "Midden's more like it. A foul pit!"
Gargan eyed her curiously, but Twilight didn't know why. "It's not so foul, as dungeons go," the shadowdancer said. "I've seen—"
"Stranger?" filled in Liet.
"Fouler," Twilight corrected matter-of-factly. She turned to Gargan. "What land have you come from? Where do these caverns lie?"
Gargan looked away, something like sadness falling across his stony face.
With a shiver, Twilight understood somehow. "What awaits us above?"
"Death," said Gargan.
Taslin let out a hiss, her eyes narrowing. Her voice sounded upset, eager, and her face gleamed in frustration. "Death?" she asked. "Can you not be more specif—?"
Then a long cord slithered down from the ceiling, curled about Taslin's throat, and drew the priestess into the air with a quick jerk.
Twilight was too shocked to do anything more than stare at the ceiling, from which hung the struggling Taslin and her attacker. The creature was vaguely humanoid, if twice the height of a man, fashioned out of slithering, whipping ropes of black silk. Two white orbs blazed where its face should be.
She ignored the sinking in her chest and yanked Betrayal free of its scabbard. As she did, she felt the choking herself, though nothing clutched her and fought it down. She knew Taslin was
dead, and if she did not act, the others would soon be as well.
" 'Light, what is that?" Liet stammered.
The tendril from which the priestess twitched and kicked recoiled and the other appendage extended toward them, sending a dozen ropes to claim their next victim.
"Down!" Twilight shouted, pushing Liet to send him staggering.
The quick motion saved him from being caught up by the rope tendrils, which went for her instead. Flicking like silent snakes, they lunged for her arms, and Twilight almost screamed despite herself.
She settled for a startled hiss and invoked her powers. Dancing into the shadows, she vanished before the ropes could catch her and reappeared across the chambet near Slip. Liet, running toward that spot, gasped when he saw her appear.
"A simple matter," Davoren said calmly, preparing a blast of fiery energy to throw at the creature as it looked about for a new target.
"Wait!" Twilight shouted, but it was too late.
The warlock's burning power stabbed into the creature's chest but boiled away, fizzling to no effect. "What?" the warlock shouted furiously.
"As I thought," said Twilight, dropping one hand to her belt. "A golem."
"A rope golem?" asked Liet at her side. "What—?"
The creature, moving in absolute silence, snapped its tendrils, and Taslin jerked spasmodically. Her arms fell to her sides. It flung the sun elf to crunch against the wall, where she collapsed limply to the floor. Cowering behind Twilight, Slip screamed. Liet caught her and shielded her eyes in his chest.
With both limbs free, the hangman golem lunged at Davoren, who fled, and Gargan, who met its grasp with sword swinging. The ensorcelled steel, streaming its acid, caused only minor damage to the creature, scratching and nicking the rope limbs.
Davoren dashed to the wall and began searching it with his hands, as though he had detected something nearby. Twilight
could not have sensed any magical emanations, not with such a huge magical creature attacking them.
"Get back here!" Twilight called to him, but the warlock did nothing of the sort. Soon enough, the wall opened and the warlock slipped through a hidden passage.
"What do we do?" shrieked Slip, tugging at Twilight's belt.
"Anything," she said, slapping the little hands away. She rummaged through the vials stuck through the laces of her belt. She retrieved one, which held a silvery liquid within. "You have power, aye?"
"B-but..." Slip said.
"Any spells of aid, cast them on Gargan," said Twilight. With that, she dashed toward the combat. As she stalked, she picked out a rope tendril and followed it with her eyes, focused, making it the center of her world.
The halfling sent a twinkling star of white trailing toward the golem, where it burst into a discordant roar. The sound jarred Twilight and Gargan alike, sending them reeling, but it did little to the hangman golem.
"Magic does nothing!" Liet cried.
"Sorry! Sorry!" yipped Slip. "I'll try harder!" She sprinted towatd Gargan, tearing free of Liet's grasp.
Stunned by the sonic blast, Twilight almost caught a rope in the face, but the goliath stepped in the way. He caught the tope in one hand and yanked, pulling the creature with him. It slithered along the ceiling, diverted from the others.
"My thanks," shouted Twilight, but Gargan did not respond.
The goliath held the hangman golem in a toe-to-toe duel—a strange sight with the creature fighting upside down from the ceiling. His sword left dozens of rope pieces flopping like worms on the floor in its wake. This hardly slowed the golem, but the acid leaked by the black blade ate at the strands of its body hungrily. The creature sensed this damage and focused its attention on Gargan.
Mistake, Twilight thought. She saw her chance and jumped, rapier extended, and ran a single tendril through. The golem hardly noticed. What was one strand to a creature composed
entirely of ropes? The rapier did not even sever the strand.
Holding tight to her blade with both hands, Twilight swung across the room on the rope and tossed a vial to the goliath in the same motion, praying that he understood. "Gargan!" she snapped.
As Twilight swung, her single rope slapped across dozens of seeking tendrils, tangling them all. The creature twisted and shook, thrown off balance and distracted.
Gargan spun and flung out a massive hand to catch the vial. In one smooth motion, he leaped away from the golem's tendrils and shattered the vial against his black blade, which suddenly gleamed with silvery-white radiance. At almost the same instant, Slip arrived at Gargan's side and touched his hip, completing her spell. The goliath s body showed no change, but his aura of strength grew.
Twilight dodged back and forth, twisting this way and that, avoiding the slapping ropes at all cost. She blocked ineffectually—the ropes simply whipped around her parries, regardless of how wide she held the blade. Here and there, her billowy blouse became stained with red, or open gashes appeared along her leather breeches.
Only reflex kept Twilight from being pummeled into a crimson stain on the stone. Even so, she screamed as the golem whipped her, desperate dodges or no.
"Strike it, Gargan!" Twilight shouted. "Stri—"
At that instant, a rope whipped under her high parry and struck her across the cheek. Twilight's head snapped back and she spun to the ground. She heard her head strike the stone with a loud crack, and darkness took her.
Liet almost cried out when Twilight went down, but he was too busy panting, trying to drag his sword back and forth. He ran to her side, slashing at the tendrils again and again, but to no avail. The ropes were too hard. Then they knocked him flailing.
Unhindered, the rope golem flowed along the ceiling,
soundless. It drew itself along the ropes that held it aloft and loomed over Twilight. If it had been a living thing, the golem would have hissed hungrily.
Liet knew Gargan could not have understood Twilight's words, but from his actions, he understood her plan intuitively and acted accordingly.
With a pulse of powerful legs and arms, the goliath hurled his huge sword, slathered with the alchemical concoction, into the air, where it spitted the hangman golem's chest. The creature reeled, though it made no sound.
Gargan wasn't done. He followed the sword with a mighty leap, his legs strengthened by Slip's divine magic, and caught the hilt in both hands at the apex of his jump. The goliath's momentum carried him past the golem and his firm grasp on the sword ripped the weapon through its innards.
Gargan's sword tore the creature in two in a way that was anything but tidy.
The golem reeled, pieces of itself flopping all over. The tendrils holding it precariously to the ceiling strained and snapped free of the stone, and the golem tumbled to the ground. It wheeled and writhed, trying to reform. Its tendrils slithered and whipped, caught in death throes.
Climbing to his feet, Liet breathed out in relief, but his eye fell on the fallen elf. " 'Light!" he shouted, taking a step toward her.
When Twilight's gloved hand moved, Liet's breath caught. Then her blood-streaked face turned up to him. He smiled, and the tiny twitch of her lips might have been an attempt to return it.
Slip was on her way, healing at the ready, a tremendous smile on her face. "Wegwf it!" she squealed. A tendril snaked up behind her.
"Down!" Twilight shouted, yanking the halfling off her feet and rolling over her.
Eyes wide, Liet saw what was about to happen and threw himself down.
The golem lashed out, its tendrils a whirlwind of whips that
caught the three within. Liet cringed and jerked as his body felt dozens of kisses and slashes.
When it was over, he looked up to see a bruised and battered Twilight lying, unmoving, where she had collapsed limply over the halfling.
" 'Light?" Slip screamed, shaking her by the shoulder. "Wake up!"
The golem, its fury spent, collapsed into a quivering mass of tendrils.
Liet blinked at the two, then at the golem, then at the staggering Gargan. Then he realized that if he didn't act, no one would. Whether Twilight lived or not, the rest of them would certainly die if Liet did nothing.
"Now!" Liet shouted. "Burn the ropes!"
"But magic doesn't work, remem—?" the halfling said.
"Torches!" Liet said. "Flints! Anything!"
Slip looked confused, almost hesitant. Then she looked down at the limp Twilight, who had saved her life. She pulled out one of the flints they'd collected and struck a torch. Then she produced several vials of lantern oil from the small bag at her waist—why she had them, Liet had no clue, but he didn't care—and in heartbeats, the thtee had doused the quivering ropes. Liet threw his torch on the pile, and the hangman golem twitched and thrashed its way to motionless oblivion.
For a moment, all was terrible silence in the aftermath.
Then Twilight coughed where she lay. Liet rushed to her side to help her up, and she took his hand. She offered a kind of smile, marred by the blood trickling down her slashed cheek. Then, as though just realizing their proximity, she pushed at his chest.
Her finger had hurt like a punch—a two-handed punch. Nothing had struck him so hard—not the guardians, not the golem, not even Taslin...
Taslin.
Silently, Twilight limped from Liet's side to where Slip stood over the unmoving Taslin. Liet wanted to go to her, but he could only stare at Taslin's body. The golem had been destroyed, yes,
but the toll was heavy. Even at this distance, Liet knew there was nothing to be done for the golden elf.
"Well then," said a voice, startling them. "Enjoyed ourselves, eh?"
Liet turned, numbly, to see Davoren walking toward them. He had not been injured—likely, he had spent the entire battle hidden, safe.
The words stabbed into Liet's numb, shocked ears. He looked at the sword in his hand, and almost ran over to ram it down Davoren's throat right then. It was illogical to blame Davoren for Taslin's death, but Liet wasn't feeling logical. He was afraid of the warlock, yes, but he could do it. He could...
Then he noted something new: a gold rod carved like a snarling dragon hanging from Davoren's belt. That must have been what he had collected during the battle. Rather than giving aid against the golem, he had gone instead for treasure. Liet couldn't sense magic the way Twilight seemingly could, but he guessed that Davoren had become a little stronger, while the rest of them had become weaker.
"At least the rest of the time we spend getting out of this wretched place will be quiet," said the warlock, prompting a roomful of horrified looks.
Liet couldn't reply in the face of such vitriol. He looked instead at Twilight, kneeling beside Taslin. She was shaking. "Are you well?" he asked.
Twilight did not respond. Her hand kept caressing the dead elf's hair.
"Of course she is," Davoren said behind him. "Spared of scar-cheeks, who wouldn't be?"
"Don't you care?" Slip cried. Her cheeks flushed, streaked with tears. "Don't you care that she's dead? Don't you care about anything?"
Davoren shrugged. "Of course I care." He nudged Taslin's corpse with his boot and looked down disdainfully. "Her magic was the source of our food."
Fighting outrage, Liet clenched his sword hilt with white knuckles. He had to suppress his anger—he had to. Then he
looked at Taslin again and felt empty.
"That raises a point," Davoren asked. "Can your pitiful Yondalla conjure us up something more filling than unsweetened cakes and seeds? Else, this journey is liable to be a hungry one."
The halfling hissed at him with surprising vehemence and huddled against the staring priestess, sobbing.
" 'Light?" It was Liet.
Twilight did not reply except to gaze down. She pulled her hand away from the ravaged face and hair. The elf's eyes bugged out at her, and her mouth hung open, tongue distended. What acid and heartache had not managed—ruining golden beauty—death seemed to have accomplished.
Unsurprising, that. Twilight knew all too well the power of death.
Twilight felt the constriction about her neck again, and almost wished it real—that she could die in Taslin's place.
She wondered what was going on behind her. She looked away from Taslin's body—that brute thing, no longer her companion—toward her comrades.
Face burning, Slip sobbed over the corpse, while Davoren smirked, tapping his fingers against a dragon-shaped scepter he wore at his belt. Liet stood aloof, hand on his sword; he didn't meet Twilight's gaze, and she appreciated that.
Gargan was saying something in the goliath tongue, and Twilight could not understand. Trembling, she bent down and gently took the ensorcelled earring from Taslin's ear and put the device in her left ear lobe. She heard an arcane hum, and suddenly she could understand everything Gargan said. She caught him in mid sentence, but he said enough.
"—found no trace," said the goliath, pointing up, where the creature had clung to the ceiling. "Its trail was not on the floor."
Twilight ran—limping, but she ran. " 'Light!" shouted Liet. "Where—?"
Sword in hand, feverish, Twilight darted back through the chambers, eyes raised. She followed their exact path, but she wasn't watching as the corridors flew past. Somewhere along the way, her hip smashed into a broken table and she stumbled, but her eyes nevet left the dusty ceiling. To an onlooker, she must have looked quite mad.
Finally she arrived back at the spellcasting chamber and searched above. With a wrenching wail, she collapsed to her knees in a pool of dried lizardfolk blood, clutched herself tightly, and fell to cursing.
"I was right," she gasped. "Oh, Erevan! I was right."
When the others came a breath or three later, staring at a madwoman, Twilight was still swearing incoherently and weeping angry tears, staring up.
There, the path of long coils—the path she had followed from the site of the ambush—terminated at the secret door.
CHAPTER Sixteen
tats the matter?" Liet asked as Twilight lay against him, a long while later. "Is it not obvious?" she said, tracing her fingers idly down his chest. "I railed."
They lay out of sight of the others, but not as tar as the ptevious night. She had chosen a side chamber off the main summoning chamber, which must once have been a wizard's bedchamber. The others camped near the wrecked horrors.
Their lovemaking had been fierce. Twilight could feel more than see Liet flinch as her fingers found a bruise here or a scratch there, but she did not care. She was furious, even as she took profound joy in him. Such conflict—the lay of her life.
Liet, half clothed, leaned against the wall. Twilight, her breeches and blouse flung carelessly aside, lay against him. Both were wrapped in his cloak. She'd wanted him to take his shirt off, but Liet had been adamant about his arms. Perhaps he found their sight too painful. Twilight understood a thing or two about pain.
After building Taslin a decent cairn and marking it with the remains of her sword, Slip locked the room as best she could. They spent the rest of the day exploring the sanctum listlessly. The magic had been long ransacked or ruined, either by passing tomb raiders, golems, or lizardfolk, and they found the place largely empty of anything of value.
The party found only a ratty pair of boots, to which the halfling had taken a liking. They were not magical by Twilight's estimation, though she did not have the heart to disappoint Slip. They also discovered a set of three rather dull steel rods now carried by Liet, which the shadowdancer knew to be magical but could not sense anything other than their general purpose—altering something.
She wished they could alter that day.
And there was Davoren's newly acquired scepter, and anything else the treacherous warlock had seized during the battle.
Half a dozen lizardmen had entered the sanctum at one point, and following Twilight's better judgment—against her bitter anger—the five had hidden, not fought. That concession to discretion had grated on Twilight. More than anything else, she felt helpless in this barren place, with her allies being slain one by one, without any real direction. She felt a failure as a leader.
And now there was Taslin's death, a death that could have been averted had she listened to her instincts.
" 'Tis not true," said Liet. He slid his soft fingers along her welts and scratches, caressing her. Twilight winced a little, but she did not stop him. "Not true."
It took Twilight a moment to realize what he meant—he was answering her last words. "Yes, it is," Twilight said. "I shouldn't have listened to you. Wanderer's sand! I should have followed my instinct and gone back."
"No one blames you," said Liet. - She looked him in the eye. "For all your vigor, dear boy, you're a terrible lover."
"Why so?" he asked, hurt.
"You simply cannot lie." She settled down with a sigh.
Liet smiled weakly. "Maybe, but you can, and you're doing it to yourself. 'Tis not your fault. 'Tis no one's fault," said Liet. "The hangman was merely passing—"
"Passing over us, through the door. It attacked us in the mage's chambers. Makes perfect sense." Twilight's voice was
angry. "Whoever created that iron golem must have done it. Set it on us."
"Mayhap. But none of us could've known of that... thing."
Twilight let the silence linger. "Are you so sure?"
Liet fixed her with an odd look. "I don't understand, lass."
Twilight didn't correct him.
"Too many coincidences," she said. "The wights' ambush, the tunnel of traps, the grimlock attack, the golem in wait that the lizards stumbled across, the rope golem." She shifted. "We're being watched. Someone's luring us into ambush after ambush."
Liet laughed—a forced sound. "You're imagining this."
"And whatever watches us left this where I could find it." She fingered her star sapphire amulet. "Because it would make me believe it impossible."
"The amulet that—ah..."
"Blocks scrying," said Twilight. "Our keeper could watch directly, with magic—but the amulet protects me and anyone close by. Or it could watch indirectly, with a spy."
"You're jumping at shadows—thinking about this too much."
Twilight found that ironic. "That's why I told each of the others a different direction," she said. "This way, I can see which one it is."
"I'm dense," Liet said. "Which what is what?"
"The spy," said Twilight. "Think about it. How many weapons were in that chest? How much clothing? How many of us were there supposed to be?"
"Six sets of weapons, six sets of clothing, seven of us." Liet shrugged. "I suppose that makes sense, but would that not make it... I don't know, obvious?"
"We're supposed to think that," Twilight said. When Liet frowned, she sighed. "Whoever's watching us did it—the clothes, the equipment, my Shroud—purposefully, so that we'd wonder if there were a spy, and guess that there must not be, because it would be too obvious. What more perfect way to cover up a spy?"
Liet blinked at her and Twilight sighed. Her mind was simply faster than his.
"There were enough supplies for six, and the spy makes us seven. That's one." Twilight put up one finger. "The wards on the spell chamber were penetrated from our side, and that door was one-way." Two fingers. "And from the golem's tracks—whoever released it must have done so through magic, from under our very noses." Three. "Whoever the spy is, he or she is still with us." She eyed Liet pointedly.
"Are you accusing me, 'Light?" he asked carefully.
"It could be you," Twilight said. "Why such a reaction?"
Liet smiled and Twilight read him, as she had read so many in her century of life. She noted every tic of his body, every twitch of his fingers, every flick of his eyes. She could see the rising warmth in his cheeks and hear his heartbeat. Twilight would know if Liet lied to her.
"Well?" she asked.
"I'm no spy," said Liet. "Whether you believe me or not is your prerogative."
Twilight allowed the faintest of smiles to tickle her cheeks.
"We shall see." She knew, though, that he told the truth. Another thought occurred to her. "Now. Back to your blankets."
Liet looked at her hard, as though searching desperately for a jest and finding none. Then he rose and walked stiffly away, hurt in his every step. Why didn't he fight?
"Liet," Twilight breathed. "Wait."
The youth turned back, arms crossed.
She wanted to apologize. She wanted to say that he was right, that she trusted him, that she needed him, but nothing of the sort came out. She couldn't lie now, but neither could she tell the truth.
Instead, all she managed was a question—a question she had no right to ask.
"Whence the scars on your arms?"
Liet bit his lip. "If you trusted me," he said. "If you'd share
your scars with me, maybe I'd share mine with you." Turning purposefully, he walked away.
"It would make this all easier if you'd express your anger," Twilight whispered to the closing door.
She desperately wanted to tell Liet that she believed in him, that she knew he wasn't a spy and a traitor, but she resisted the impulse. The logical, reasoning side of her nature, by far the dominant facet of her being, knew that admitting such a thing to him would endanger the stability of the group.
How can equality be maintained, Twilight mused, if not by mutual antipathy?
With a shiver, she realized that it sounded like something he would say.
In that moment, she felt legacy stab like a thrust from Betrayal. And in that moment of defiance—despite all her emotional defenses, despite her rage and pain—Twilight almost called Liet back. She almost let her walls drop, almost let him in. She almost reached out to another. She almost loved him—or more appropriately, let him love her—in that moment.
But she did not.
Every one of Twilight's carefully cultivated fears and confirmed doubts came back in full force, and she was alone once more. She didn't need anyone. No one could hurt her—not again.
She found herself thinking of Taslin, of how noble the sun elf had been, and how close they had come, just as Twilight had with Liet. She remembered how Taslin had looked in the breath before the hangman's attack, beautiful in her anger.
Twilight scowled. The gods toyed with her—one in particular.
"Damn you, Erevan," she murmured as weariness claimed her. "Damn you."
The useless one paused outside her chamber, not quite within Gestal, where he stood watching. " 'Light?" he called through the open door.
No response.
Gestal waited, watching as she lay. He was certain she slept, but that was not all he awaited. The large one went off for watch, and the small one stirred in her blankets. She looked in his direction, eyes wide, then rolled back and huddled.
Satisfied, Lord Divergence entered, closed the door behind them, making sure it was locked, and stood over the one he wanted. She hadn't bothered to dress, but had fallen to slumber in clad only in her cloak. He knelt and traced the hands a hair above the soft, lithe body. He passed over her curves, made note of her scars. Their eyes lingered.
The elf s lip trembled and her face went white, but she did not wake.
"I could be your lover," he whispered. "I understand. I see." No response.
"I see through your lies," Gestal said.
Gestal stayed, their eyes not an inch from her own. He wouldn't touch her—not any part of her body. No, Gestal would do far worse.
He bent low, their lips just a hair's breadth from her throat. The elFs hands shook and she sobbed in her sleep. "Lilten," she murmured.
"No," Lord Divergence said. "A better lover."
Twilight's eyes snapped open. It was dark and quiet—so still that she might have awakened in another world. Somehow, the tranquility was not tranquil, and she shivered. Something wet and cold was upon her, like sweat. She brushed idly at her face and her hand came away sticky.
She realized she had not dressed. Instead, she had fallen asleep wrapped in the roughspun cloak upon which she and Liet had held one another.
"Silly wench," she chided herself. "Don't you realize that's not safe?"
Then she looked at her hand and froze. Blood was on her fingers.
It wasn't her own blood, she knew. She immediately fell into
awareness of her body—no injury, no soreness. Nothing had damaged her—not physically, anyway.
The room suddenly seemed much larger, and she was terribly aware of her solitude. "Liet..." she whispered. Her voice came soft and weak—vulnerable.
Hardly daring to move, Twilight looked at her bare chest and belly. Her eyes widened. Bloody handprints covered her—hands on her breast, hands on her stomach, hands on her arms, hands on her legs. She felt the stickiness on her throat and face. The prints were not violent—they were what might be left by the caress of a lover, but they were not Liet's hands. The blood she didn't know, but the hands...
The hands were Taslin's.
"No," Twilight said, searching her skin. "That can't... can't be..."
She thought she heard laughter, soft and hidden, behind her.
Twilight shrieked and scratched at herself, desperate to get it off, but it only smeared. She tore open the precious waterskin and splashed it over her. She scrubbed, furiously, with the sweaty cloak, cleansing herself as best she could. All the filth of days trapped in these caverns came back to her, and she moaned and cursed the cloak that it would not cleanse her—not fully. She looked to her tinderbox.
Then something slammed into the stout, locked door. She screamed again and scrubbed harder. Harder. Knuckles split, and the scratches drew blood.
She didn't stop, couldn't stop. She couldn't let them see. Couldn't let them...
Gargan finally bashed the door open and Liet tumbled in, sword drawn, to defend Twilight from whatever could be attacking her. Slip danced in behind him, mace in one hand and obsidian dagger in the other. Even Davoren was there, scepter in hand.
Liet saw Twilight standing nude in the center of the room,
Betrayal in both hands. Scratches covered her body. Shaking, midnight hair wild, she stared at them with terrible vehemence. In the corner of the chambet, something burned smokily.
" 'Light?" He thought to sheathe the sword, but wasn't sure it was prudent.
"Stay away," Twilight snapped. "Stay back! Traitors! Liars!"
Liet stepped toward her. The rapier pointed at his face. "Back!" she screamed.
There was tense silence punctuated only by her heavy breathing.
"Davoren," Liet said quietly. "Davoren—give Slip your cloak."
For once, the warlock did what he was bid. Despite a weighing smile, he stripped off the black fabric, tattered as it had become, and handed it to the halfling.
"Slip," Liet said.
She hesitated, trembling.
"Slip, please."
The halfling looked up at Gargan for support, and the goliath nodded. Slip crept into Twilight's chamber and proffered the cloak. As Liet had thought, the elf did not attack her. She accepted the garment, looked at Slip with something like thanks, then collapsed like a discarded marionette.
They rushed to her side.
CHAPTER Seventeen
In her own clothes, having had some water from Liet's skin, Twilight felt more herself, though the shudders hadn't quite passed. Of course she hadn't told the others what happened—a nightmare, she said. She wasn't even certain that had been a lie, though she suspected not; she smelled like blood. She worried they noticed.
Davoren stretched and moved about his tasks of the morning with a spring in his step that had nothing to do with the lack of food. "I halfway enjoy life in this labyrinth without the golden bitch constantly whining," said the warlock. "Ah, silence."
"You said that already," growled Slip from her cloak.
"Ah yes," Davoren replied with a smile. He bent down next to her and looked her in the eye. "I just wanted to make sure my point came across quite fully."
The halfling bristled but said nothing, prompting the warlock's grin to widen. Slip shoved the rest of her gear in her pack and scurried over to where Twilight sat against the wall, clasping her arms about herself. Twilight met the halfling with an easy smile.
"Good morn, little one," she said as Slip thumped down with a sigh. She reached over and put an arm around the halfling's shoulders, as one might a child. Since her horror of the night before—which might have been a dream, anyway—she had
found nothing as comforting as the small one—not her clothes, not her sword, not Liet.
After a time, Slip spoke, quietly and hesitantly. " 'Light, I've a favor to ask." Her innocent voice sounded particularly meek in the dark cavern.
"I'm a great proponent of conversation. Say on."
"Well," the halfling started. She contemplated the dark spot she was busy scuffing on her boot. "If I paid you enough... would you... kill Davoren for me?"
Twilight bit her lip, not a little stunned. Slip was always so compassionate, so loyal, so... good, for lack of a better term. Twilight could hardly believe the little woman could ask such a question.
"What could you possibly have to pay me?" asked Twilight.
"I could save the strongest healing magics of me lord for you," the halfling said. The words sounded so blatantly strategic. "If you'd do this thing, I—"
"Firstly, there can be no alliances," Twilight said. "If any of the others perceive us as partners, or even as friends, it will spark a schism. I do not want to worry about the others plotting against me, or you, or both of us."
"But—"
"No alliances. If I'm wounded, it's just the same as if Gargan, Liet, or, aye, even Davoren were wounded." She clutched Slip's arm tightly. "I want your word on that."
Slip's eyes fell and she sniffed. "Fine," she said, defeated.
"Secondly, do I look like an assassin?" asked Twilight. "Gods, no. I'm a thief, just like you. I don't kill for coin. Might as well be a dinger, or a fen, for that matter, winning with brute force and manual labor what I couldn't get through finesse." That she slipped into cant, referring to a thug and a prostitute, should have told Slip something. From her blank eyes, it didn't, so Twilight stopped. "I have a little more self-respect than that."
It was difficult to tell if Slip was pleased or disappointed.
"And thirdly, the prime reason you can't pay me to kill Davoren," said Twilight, leaning in close. She adopted a cold tone. "I'd gladly do it for free."
Slip giggled and Twilight grinned, though she didn't laugh. Slip was more than she seemed, and something she'd said had struck Twilight as wrong, but damned if she could place it. She was too tired.
The events of the previous night had drained her and left her numb—empty. She knew, however, what the others expected of her, and she could use it to her advantage. She felt like her old self again—or one of them, anyway. Taslin's blood had been a shock. Things couldn't continue as they had. Something had to change.
She hugged the little halfling tightly. Nervous about Liet, Twilight was glad of Slip's companionship. Perhaps she had her mysteries, and perhaps she was less than stable, but at least Twilight could rely on her to be mysterious and less than stable. And if there was a spy, she would need someone she could trust.
"We go by the south door," Twilight announced when they were ready to depart.
The teactions were myriad and telling. Liet bit his lip. Davoren rolled his eyes. Gargan shrugged noncommittally, and Slip balked. Liet thought they were past this, but whatever had happened to her this morning must have changed that.
"B-but," Slip said. "You said..."
"It matters not what I said," replied Twilight. "But let us be more specific. You four shall take the route south of the sanctum, which I know leads up."
"How?" Davoren snapped.
Twilight flashed him a whimsical smile. "I wouldn't be much of a thief if I didn't scout ahead," she said. "The door, which I have unlocked, leads steadily upward until it arrives at a trapdoor hidden in the ceiling, inscribed with the inverted Netherese runes we saw before. There, you will find your way."
"What do you mean, 'you' will find?" asked Liet. "You're coming with us, aye?"
"I rather fancy a jaunt through the east passage."
"The east passage!" Slip exclaimed. "But why? And alone? 'Light!" She ran to Twilight and threw her little arms around her—or, rather, around her legs. " 'Tis too dangerous! You can't leave us!" Tears started to roll from Slip's eyes.
Liet opened his mouth, but he was too stunned to speak. Was she mad?
"Pitiful whining whelp," mused Davoren. "Let her go—and good riddance."
"Oh, worry not, little one," said Twilight kindly. "I'm sure nothing will be awaiting. My scouting of last night revealed simply a door I had yet to open, perhaps a chamber yet to be explored. No markings of lizards upon it. I doubt any of the creatures has opened it. I plan to stroll in, without taking any precautions." She gave Slip a thoughtless wink.
"Gods, 'Light—" Liet started, but Davoren laughed him to silence.
If the halfling had been afraid before, she was truly terrified at this news. She looked up with eyes wide as tureens. "You should come with us! Where 'tis safe—er, safer/"She buried her head in the shadowdancer's belly. "I can't lose you, too!"
The elf beamed at her as though she had not a thought in her head. "Do not worry for my safety, little one. 'Tis but a morning stroll—like you took in Crimel, yes?"
"No!" The halfling's eyes flashed. "At least take one of us—take me, aye?"
"The half-wench raises a decent argument," said Davoren. "Perhaps you should take someone, to make sure you are not hunting treasure—or arranging to betray us."
"Don't be silly," said Twilight with a laugh. "Survival takes priority over gold. The simple acceptance of this fact is precisely what keeps the numbers of folk in my profession breathing steadily. And if I meant to slay you, you'd be quite dead."
Davoren would not be deterred, though he looked a little unsettled by her manic demeanor. "Yet, we have only the word of a thief and a liar. I insist you take another."
"Insistence noted!" Twilight said brightly. "Liet—"
"Oh, very well," said Davoren, rolling his eyes and turning
away. He waved dismissively. "Take your handsome swain— this choice does not surprise me. And I'd be happy without his useless carcass slowing us."
"Liet," Twilight continued. "I place you in command."
"What?" Liet and Davoren exclaimed at once.
Twilight pinched Liet's cheek. "Listen to the lad's word as you would mine," she said. "As you have followed me, so you must follow him in my stead."
"I 'must' do nothing!" Davoren roared, ruby energy flickering around his hands and arms. His fingers twitched toward the snarling dragon scepter at his belt. "I have sworn no oath—certainly none that involves following a bare-faced boy! I refuse!"
"Well then," said Twilight, suddenly serious. "I shall simply have to kill you." Betrayal hissed out and she leaned back into a fighting stance. Her eyes brooked no debate, and she showed no sign of mirth.
After a long, motionless breath, Davoren laughed. "Very well," he said. "Play your game. I care not. I shall do as you ask, for now. Only know that mine shall be the last word, the last thrust, and the last smile."
"You just keep reassuring yourself of that, handsome," Twilight said as she sheathed the rapier. The warlock, it seemed, was successfully cowed.
As Gargan, Slip, and Davoren made the final preparations to move, Liet caught Twilight's arm. "Is this wise?" he asked. "I don't think—"
She touched his face with her fingers and traced down his stubbly cheek. "Nothing I do is wise," she said. She touched her lips against his. "Only prudent."
Then she kissed him, lightly at first, then harder, pressing her body against his. Not enough to warrant an outcry from the others, who stared.
Her farewell stunned Liet, remembering all the times Twilight had sent him from her side, so as to keep their affair a secret. Had she lost her mind? What was—
"Hmm," Twilight murmured. She nuzzled at his chin.
"Be wary," said Liet.
"I always am," said Twilight whimsically. With that, she was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the yawning east doorway.
"She... kissed you," Slip said, with awe, confusion, and something like jealousy. Liet wasn't sure who Slip was jealous over.
"For luck," said Liet. "Now, let's be going."
Stupid, stupid, stupid wench. Twilight berated herself as she made her way down the other path. Are you falling in love, or are you falling apart?
Both, she guessed.
She knew she shouldn't have kissed him. But she'd been mad, right—that's what they'd think, right?
Reality intruded, and Twilight was thankful for it.
Thirteen fiendish lizards, brandishing sickle blades and whips, crouched hissing and slavering in alcoves along a tight, winding corridor. They waited for a foolish creature to wander down that hall, the better to pounce and devour.
Crouching in the shadows around the corner from all that black, scaly flesh, Twilight considered stepping out to say well met. She decided against it, however, tending to avoid death and dismemberment on her part whenever possible.
So there is an ambush this way, she thought* And the same fiendish lizards.
As she let the implications bounce around in the back of her mind, Twilight judged the length of the corridor. Two dagger-casts. Perfect.
Twilight did not bother to leave her hiding place in the shadows. She flowed into them, dancing through the darkness. Silently, she emerged at the far end of the corridor with none the wiser. Once again, she thanked Neveren Darkdance. The dastard had given her a great gift, even if he had ruined her.
Having expended much of her power for the day—she could not dance that distance again—it dimly occurred to her that she should consider how she would get back, but that was a matter for another time..
Ignoring the fiendish lizards at her back, Twilight strolled to the open archway.
This area did not suffer from the same filth and defacement that the rest of the complex evidenced. These lizards had not been here long, though how they could get past a locked door, Twilight did not know. She shuddered to think of what she might be facing, if it could somehow teleport its minions into position. Perhaps there was something to this "Mad Sharn" business after all, in which case Twilight was in trouble deeper than her pointy ears.
A glyph ran the archway's length, and Twilight wished, not for the first time, that she had Asson beside her. The old man's tranquility and magic would have been useful, as would his understanding of Netherese.
She tapped the earring she wore. If the words were spoken, she would understand them. Slip's detection spell had set off the other warding, but Twilight did not...
Then an idea struck her.
She hated calling on her other powers, but sometimes blind curiosity got in the way of good grudges. Mouthing his name, she invoked a prayer he had taught her. It was not for detecting magic—thanks to Erevan's kiss, she saw mystic emanations as she wished—but rather a spell for locating a missing item. In this case, she chose the archway. Though she knew exactly where it was, casting any spell upon it should...
Sure enough, a sibilant voice, speaking in an odd tongue, came to her ears, and she understood every word.
"The taint of evil kept without, the power safe within," the ward said.
"Ah," said Twilight. "Helpful."
Just then, a horde burst into the chamber, screams of rage on their lips.
No choice, Twilight decided, and threw herself through the archway, hoping by Beshaba's bodice that her instincts told her true.
Sure enough, nothing happened to her, but such was not the case for a few unfortunate lizards.
Green and blue fire arced from the runes along the archway, tearing into fiendish lizards, searing flesh apart and blackening bones. The creatures put up pitiful wails, cut short by the furious wards that cut them to pieces with flame. The wards killed six before the remaining seven fiendish lizards panicked and trampled over one another in their haste to get away.
Twilight would have stood laughing but for the unpleasant odor of the destroyed lizards lying in a heap at her feet. Then she turned and strode though another archway, this one plain, and stopped dead, staring.
"Sand," she cursed.
As Twilight had promised, the four found no ambush awaiting them through the south door. This tunnel was of different design than the twisting, turning sewers. Rather, it was straight, two paces wide and thirty hands high, and rose gradually. Gargan led the way, with Liet and Davoren trailing at a few paces, and Slip taking the rear.
Liet wasn't sure he trusted the halfling entirely—certainly not enough to put her at his back—but keeping close to Davoren was sure, ironically, to keep him safe. No one watched his skin like the warlock.
Liet wondered when he had become so cold and calculating. When had he shed his youthful mentality, his naiveri? When had he ceased to trust others, and started thinking in matters of practicality, questioning the motives of all who surrounded him?
When had he become just like Twilight?
The day you broke rule four, he told himself with an inward sigh.
The corridor rose for forty paces before terminating in a space for a lifting mechanism, like the one they had used to escape the prison level of this labyrinth. The platform was down on the floor, and it would rise if someone stepped upon it—if the magic of the place yet operated.
The platform did not even tremble as they stood upon it, and Gargan boosted each of the others, one by one, before pulling
himself up. The four moved down a tunnel toward a set of steps, and Gargan's long strides took him swiftly to the front rank. Davoren watched approvingly, but Liet suspected it was more in quiet consideration of what the goliath could do to Davoren's foes—his former allies—suitably armed and charmed. In all ways, the two seemed to be opposites.
Opposites... the thought bounced about in Liet's mind, reflecting off walls of indecision and longing. He and Twilight were so opposite one another, yet so close.
He no longer tried to tell himself that Twilight meant nothing to him. The first night they spent together had changed that, but the feeling grew more intense as time passed. He dared not mention it, for Twilight would certainly...
Gargan hissed a warning note, and Liet looked up.
They had ascended the stairs into open air, but there was no breeze in the darkness. Liet was suddenly aware that he stood upon something much like grass, though the sun was not to be seen. Great forms loomed out of the darkness, and Liet had to draw his sword and gasp before he realized they weren't moving.
All around them, the torchlight revealed huge bulks that looked, oddly, like flowers and vines of reds, oranges, and purples. Luminescence came from fungi on the walls, such as they had seen in the sewers below, and some plants shed light in many subdued colors. They felt as though they had come into some sage's arboretum.
Some plants were normal, most were strange and twisted, but all were gigantic. Something like a daisy was taller than Liet, and Slip had to brush away petals of violets the size of her face. Mountainous moonflowers and firedragons the size of their namesakes swelled around them. Liet had to stomp his way out of the clutches of a rose vine with thorns like daggers. Most of the plants he could hardly recognize—turgid buds and whorls coming out of green stalks, knobby trees like heaps of flatcakes that wove from side to side with budding pink flowers up every inch.
How they grew in perfect darkness was beyond Liet.
"What is this place?" Liet asked. He started away from his echoing voice.
"We have arrived," Davoren said. He held the scepter up and intoned deep, powerful words. A bolt of lightning arced from his hand, high into the air. It struck something like a steel rod and sizzled along it. In half a heartbeat, the bolt exploded out, illuminating the vast cavern in which the four found themselves. The great rod flickered, hissing at intervals like an unhappy dragon.
And occupying that cavern with them was a ruined, overgrown city.
"Negarath," Davoren said with a glint in his evil eyes. If they had thought the architecture of the sewers odd, nothing could have prepared them for what lay before them. Negarath was a city of madness.
Buildings spread wider as they reached upward, almost as though built upside down. All around them, sprouting from the sides of buildings, coming up from the streets, were the strange flowers, some growing large enough to dwarf Gargan. There was not a single perpendicular edge in the place; all was a mixture of curves, waves, and obtuse or acute angles. Windows hung upside down and horizontally, as though the interiors of the buildings did not match the exteriors.
Most of the doors to the varying buildings were of odd shapes—circular, triangular, hexagonal, octagonal—anything but rectangular. Only one building seemed even remotely normal—a central tower that narrowed toward the middle, like a pyramid, but widened again as it rose toward the cavern ceiling. There, the tower hooked and curled, spiraling under itself. It looked as though they could stand atop it.
"The designers of this place must have been madmen," said Davoren.
"Or geniuses." The others stared, and Liet laughed nervously. "Art—heh."
Gargan shook his head.
Slip beamed. "Magnificent," she said.
The others looked at her this time.
"Well, it «,"she asserted with her hands on her hips.
The section of city in which they stood was markedly clear and empty, but such was not the case a few streets away. They
saw something like a giant mound of clay, stretching from floor to ceiling—a calcified, golden-red web. "What's that, I wonder?" Slip said.
The mass looked like red amber, with an eerie translucence. It glowed crimson from the inside, as though from a beating heart. Gold veins ran through it, like tunnels bored by a worm. The red substance ran over the buildings like glass, or perhaps ice that had frozen around them. It reached to the ceiling, holding fully half the city prisoner.
Then they became aware of a sound—a distinct humming, almost like buzzing, as though the air shuddered and crackled in expectation of a storm.
"Rain?" Slip asked.
"Magic?" Liet asked.
Gargan shook his head. He pointed.
Half a dozen black and yellow creatures swarmed out of holes in the mass of red amber and buzzed toward them. Flickering light twinkled off a hundred facets in their eyes, and gossamer wings zipped through the air. They might have been bees, if bees grew to the height of men and sported arms carrying spears, but these were abeil.
"Down!" Liet cried. A better command might have been "scatter," "ware," or even "run!" But he said the first thing that came to mind.
Liet did not know why he took one of the iron bars from his pack and placed it between himself and the diving creatures. Nor did he understand how he knew to press the end of the rod. Instinct, perhaps—or that odd power Twilight had spoken of. The rod gave a little hum but did nothing else.
A lightning bolt streaked into the sky and tore the wings from one of the bees, which plummeted to the street with a buzzing screech. Hefting his crackling scepter, Davoren scoffed. "Fear not. I shall defend you." He waved his hand and fire spread through the air.
Liet cursed himself. What had he been hoping for? A blast of fire, a protective shield? A flare of self-loathing came then, and he fought it back. Fury at himself, at Davoren. But he couldn't
get angry—not now. Seeing the bees fly around the fire, Liet pulled up the rod and prepared to retreat.
Rather, he tried to retrieve the rod, for it could not be moved. No matter how much he strained, the rod floated in place. The bees were coming, so he abandoned it.
A bee-thing crashed face first into the immobile rod and crumpled around it, there to hang, broken. The rod did not twitch, as though a mountain held it still.
A hissing sound reached Liet's ears then. Now what?
A bouncing motion caught his eye—it was Slip, waving at him and whispering his name from an open, crescent-shaped doorway. Above it floated the flickering image of a hammer emblazoned with seven stars. The seven stars of Mystra?
Whatever the failing image betokened, Gargan was ducking in and Davoren was tearing through the underbrush toward the door, cursing the incoming bees. Then Gargan yanked Slip off her feet and slammed the door.
Bees swarmed past their crushed, hanging comrade, throwing themselves against the crescent-shaped door and oddly curved windows in a killing fury. In reply, Davoren invoked his powers, and a forest of black tendrils sprouted from the building, flailing. The bees swarmed away before he could conjure fire.
Liet and Davoren reached the door at the same moment. It popped open and the men tumbled in past Gargan. The goliath slammed it once again and they collapsed in the darkness.
The four huddled behind the door, Gargan holding it shut. Liet sat near the shivering Slip and looked around. The room in which they found themselves could have been a smithy of some sort. Hammers and chisels and many things he couldn't recognize lay scattered and shattered about them. In the center was something that looked like an anvil, or perhaps an altar—a simple block of jet black stone. Other doors were visible, all shaped like crescents, stars, and inverted triangles. In the center of the room was a black disk, like the trapdoor they had come through.
"I wonder if she sent us here intentionally," the warlock said.
He looked at Liet, panting heavily. "Come—what would your mistress say if she saw you cowering?"
Liet wanted to retort, "She would praise me for having the sense to stay alive under a surprise attack, but by all means, go play if you want. Try not to get yourself killed too messily," like Twilight would have. As it was, he said, "My mistress?"
Then a hissing sound came from below, as of metal grinding against metal. The inert disk gave a shudder and sank. They backed away and hefted weapons. When the disk returned, standing upon it was a familiar, dark-haired elf.
"You called?" she asked, wearily.
" 'Light!" said Liet, moving forward.
Twilight stopped him with a raised hand. Something had unnerved her, clearly.
"What is it?" demanded the warlock. "More foes, coming from below?" He spat.
"What did you find?" Liet asked.
Twilight shut her eyes. "A mythallar," she said.
Davoren scoffed. "And so? This is a Netherese city, and such was the magic of the empire of magic—"
Twilight shook her head. "It isn't that simple," she said. She gestured to the lifting disk that had just carried her up. "The mythallar I found—it's still active."
CHAPTER Eighteen
Sitting in a corner of what Liet had taken to calling the Forge of the Seven Stars, Twilight blew out a long, troubled sigh. Liet had called this a smithy, though there was no pit for fire or water. Neither of these oversights surprised Twilight. If she had seen them—meaning the owner hadn't used magic—that would have surprised her. Netheril.
That they were inside one of the fallen cities of that mighty age was something Twilight could accept. That the city's mythallar still functioned, however—at least partly—unnerved her deeply.
The others hadn't seen the significance until Twilight explained it. Aside from its own essence, she had sensed three types of magic emanating from the mythallar—conjuration, enchantment, and transmutation—which must reflect dweomers that it maintained. That was its purpose, after all, to maintain the function of magical devices—the question in this case was what sort of devices?
Somehow, the mythallar maintained life in this cave, but would that continue? Would Twilight and the others find the limit of the mythallar's range, where the air would simply disappear and they would perish? Or, worse—would the mythallar finally expire, and whatever life-supporting spells it maintained
vanish in an instant, killing them no matter where they were in the city?
These considerations fueled Twilight's desire to find a way out, and soon.
The bee-creatures Liet described had not reappeared, but Twilight had seen black forms moving in that strange amber substance. Was it a hive of some kind? That might explain the flowers. A veritable madman's garden bloomed outside, and in here as well. Moss and vines crept through cracks and empty windows.
Nature has conquered this city, Twilight thought.
She looked around at her companions. Davoren lounged against the wall, seeming to sleep but really watching them all. In contrast, Liet snored against the opposite wall. Gargan sat sharpening the band's blades—excepting Twilight's rapier and the stiletto she'd taken from Davoren.
Twilight saw the halfling sitting still—gathering her focus for healing, likely—her face nothing but tranquility. The group was hungry—they had eaten little since Taslin's death a day and a half before, rationing out the remaining food—but calm.
Curious. Even in such tense, dark circumstances, the little one could know peace.
"Slip," said Twilight. The halfling's ears perked up and her eyes opened. The shadowdancer slid to the floor beside her. The others weren't watching. "Tell me of yourself."
"I'm hungry," she said. "And thirsty. It's been near a tenday without food, aye?"
Twilight resisted the urge to chew on her lip. Water was worse—they had almost exhausted the last of the waterskins filled with Taslin's conjured water.
"No," Twilight said. "I mean of your life—where you come from."
Slip grinned." 'Tisn't a riveting tale," she said. "Life in Crimel would bore woodpeckers to slumber faster than a Candlekeep sage's lecture on the life of the meadow cricket—even if there were crickets provided."
Twilight was not to be parried so easily. "Why did you leave?"
Slip shrugged. "The usual reasons—adventure, the open road, see the Realms, meet new faces, and..." She trailed off and her face went dark. "Reeman."
"Your sometime mate."
"A rascal if ever there was one!" Slip rolled her eyes. "He did say the nicest things, and he was ever so convincing." Her eyes closed, and a look came over her Twilight recognized only too well.
There was much to this story the halfling would not tell, and Twilight found no fault in the omitting. We all have our secrets, she thought.
"He was a kind lad, my Reeman—all of us loved him. Could talk a dwarf out of his beard or a dragon out of its hoard, then the both of them into leg wrestling. Which the dragon would win, of course." She smiled. "He had a trustworthy face, you understand."
"Perfectly." Twilight knew exactly what she meant, and it occurred to her that Slip possessed such a visage herself.
"And that's where the troubles began."
Slip sat silently for a moment, and Twilight did not press her.
"One night, Reeman convinced me to play at hiding with him, as a ptank on my da—to get all of Crimel stirred up. I'd hide in the woods, and he'd tell everyone a mouther got me." She squinted. "You know what—"
"Yes," said Twilight. She knew the distorted abominations, with their fout gangly limbs and tusks, by description if not by sight.
"Anyway," Slip said. "When everyone was gone looking, Reeman helped himself to all the gold at the temples and the warden's office, and set fire—accidentally, he said—to a few houses... while younglings wete inside."
Twilight felt a chill creep through her body even as Slip hugged her arms tight about her own breast. This had stopped being an innocent tale.
"March wardens followed Reeman, and he came to me for help. I watched as h-he killed—murdered!—two of them with his magic, and tried to run. When he tried to take me too, I—I..." She looked down at her hand, as though a bloody knife had just appeared that only she could see.
Then she looked up at Twilight. "I had to do it, you see? 'Twas the—the right thing, and they cast me out for it!"
After a long moment, Twilight put out her arms.
Slip hesitated a few breaths, her lip trembling. Then her eyes softened with sudden tears, and she snuggled into Twilight's embrace. "Oh, 'Light!" she cried, as that of a child to a mother. "What else could ldo?He killed two of my cousins afore my eyes and younglings besides!" Great sobs wracked her body.
Twilight closed her eyes in helpless sympathy and held Slip as she cried. She stroked the halfling's filthy hair—they were all filthy. Filthy, cold, tired, and heartsick.
How cruel she had been to suspect Slip—Billfora, Twilight remembered, for the story had allowed her to see the true halfling—how heartless. She knew all too well how easily a smile could conceal sadness, and how well tragedy could hide behind innocence.
Finally the tears stopped, and Slip breathed easier. Twilight made no move to release her.
"I was wed, too, once," she said, letting the words slide out. "Neveren. He—"
"Liken, you mean?"
The world froze. Twilight blinked. "What?" Slip blinked up at her. "What?"
There was a pause. Twilight looked at her very carefully. Ideas shot wildly through her mind—fears, anger, betrayal.
"Slip," she said slowly. "I've something important to do, and I need your help."
"Of course!" Slip said. "Anything, 'Light! You're my greatest friend!"
Twilight let that pass. "Can your magic recognize lies?" "Aye. I know that spell! I can hear lies when others tell them." So it was magic, and nothing else. "How can I help?"
Twilight nodded, and explained. Slip listened. In conclusion, Twilight pointed to a back room, which must have been some kind of storage for tools. "Go into yon chamber and wait. I shall join you shortly." She brushed the back of her hand along Slip's cheek. "And you need not cry—all shall be well."
The halfling wiped the tears away and beamed at her as only a comforted daughter could. Then she scurried into the side chamber and shut the door behind her.
Twilight blew out a long sigh and rose. So that was it.
She touched the sapphire pendant. Was its magic fading?
"I need everyone else to wait here," she said as she dusted herself off. She gestured to the side room. "Davoren—come with me."
"What is it?" the warlock asked.
Ten heartbeats later, Slip guarded the door and Twilight faced the mage from the other side of the room, arms crossed. Davoren had answered his own question.
"An outrage!" His hands gripped the back of a chair and they dripped with flame. The half-circles that formed the seat glowed red. "How dare you? I ought to..."
"Have peace, demon-spawn," Twilight said. "Just answer the question."
The warlock sneered at her and twisted his lip. He shoved aside the curious chair—all curves, no angles, like all this Netherese city. "I have suffered your humiliations long enough. You and your sniveling little rat—"
"That sniveling little rat can hear the truth in your words," said Twilight. "So if you just answer the question, we'll know of your innocence and you can be on your way, back to pray to your devil-god with a hand in—"
Slip blushed a fiery red and stared at her, horror-struck, so Twilight stopped. "Just answer," she repeated. "Are you a spy, or otherwise in league with our enemy, watching our movements so as to catch us in our weakness, or lay ambushes in our path?"
Davoren glared at her, and his eyes promised death. "Nay, I am no spy."
"He speaks true," Slip said behind Twilight.
Davoren sniffed. "Satisfied? I do not need trickery to slay you, filliken."
"Not there, however," the halfling said with a shrug.
The warlock gaped at her and his lips curled into a snarl, "How dare—?"
"Ah," Twilight said. Betrayal's dusky point tapped at Davoten's groin. "Careful. You had better not say something you might regret." She winked at him. "Now. Pass through yon portal." She waved at a rear door with Betrayal. "And wait outside."
" 'Wait outside'? That's meant to be safe?" he asked. "Or do you wish merely to kill me with those foul insect-men?"
"That's why I called you first. You are, after all, the most powerful."
The warlock hesitated for a moment before grumbling an agreement. He spat at the shadowdancer's feet, then stomped off, cursing to himself in Infernal.
Slip grinned at Twilight. "I was halfway hoping he would be the one," the halfling said. "I would've liked to see that fight."
"Yes," Twilight agreed, and from Slip's expression, she knew it was not a lie.
Gargan was next, pacing in with his arms crossed, and Twilight shifted uneasily. The goliath wore the great black sword on his back—a weapon he could wield in one hand—but he could easily powder Twilight's skull and shatter Slip's delicate bones with just those fists. She did not grip Betrayal's hilt, but her fingers were not far from it.
"I come," the goliath said in the Common tongue. He looked to Twilight and spoke in his own gruff language, which she understood by virtue of Taslin's earring. "Why have you brought me?"
"I have questions," she replied in Common, the only way to be understood.
"I have answers." "Let us see if they fit."
There was a breath's pause as he contemplated what that might mean. Then he nodded. "Blades in scabbards," the goliath agreed in Common.
That would have to do. "Are you Gargan Kaugathal, called the Dispossessed?"
"So I am called." Slip frowned at his words—she didn't understand them.
Twilight tensed. "In the trade tongue," she said. "Are you our enemy?"
The goliath did not seem surprised. "No," he said.
A quick glance at Slip told her it was true. "Are you a spy, or otherwise in league with our foe?" Gargan shook his head, but Twilight cut him short. "You must speak it."
He did, and Slip nodded.
"You may go." Twilight pointed. "And take my thanks."
The goliath nodded once, then walked away to join Davoren in the alley behind the smithy. The shadowdancer blew out a long sigh.
"One left," the halfling said.
"Yes," Twilight said, shivering. "One left."
Twilight held her breath as Liet came in. She had been dreading this, but she knew it had to be done. Of course she knew Liet was innocent, but she had to ask. It had to look convincing.
The youth gave her that familiar smile, as much to reassure Twilight as himself.
"A private audience." He eyed both Slip and Twilight. "Can I be of aid, lovelies?"
His comfortable manner—increasingly suave, she noted, and fancied she had something to do with that—put her at ease, but Twilight hesitated to show it. Her investment was likely common knowledge by now—their kiss had made that obvious—but it would not do to show favoritism.
"Just questions," she finally said.
"Pity," Liet said. He sat down, none too comfortable on the strange chair. It had nearly cooled since Davoren had heated the metal, for which Twilight was glad. A seat made answering thinly concealed accusations much easier.
"Are you Liet Sagrin, son of Harrowdale, and sometime swordsman?"
"And are you Fox-at-Twilight, daughter of mystery, and sometime thief?"
"This is no game," Twilight said. "You must answer my questions. Billfora has cast a spell that detects lies, and so she must hear your truths—and falsehoods."
Liet's eyes widened and his mouth trembled, pained. "You doubt m—" he paused, then finished the question another way. "You doubt your own ears?"
"Let us simply say," Twilight replied, "that I need a second opinion."
Liet's shoulders slumped. He was defeated. "Very well. Ask."
"Are you a loyal member of our band?" She raised a hand to cut off his objection. "Loyal to our well-being, and to the success of our venture."
"As best I'm able." She frowned. "Aye. I serve."
"But serve who, Liet?" She took a step toward him.
"But surely I serve you, Twilight," said Liet, rising toward her, "if I'm loyal to out well-being and the success of this venture of ours."
"Unless you think me mad or wrong." She stepped up to him.
"Unless that." He faltered for a heartbeat. "Though I don't think either."
They stared at each other, eyes not a pace apart. Theirs was a battle of will, rather than of words or swords. The world fell silent around them and they existed alone.
"Ahem?"
Twilight tore her eyes from Liet and looked at Slip. The halfling fidgeted.
"I..." Twilight trailed off. Asking the question should have been a simple matter, and yet it was not.
"Ask, Twilight," Liet said, and her eyes snapped back to him. He caught up her hand, and she could feel the warmth pass into her like a spark of power. The youth brought her fingers up to his lips. His next words were a whisper. "I'm not afraid."
Twilight could not say the same.
"Very well," she said. "Are you, Liet Sagrin, a spy?"
"Nay." He was telling the truth, as Slip confirmed with a nod. Twilight looked back, locking Liet's mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—with her own stare. She wondered what color her eyes seemed. They changed like her face—like herself.
"Are you in league with our enemy?"
"Davoren? Nay."
"The force that is attempting to slay us," Twilight said. "That Mad Sharn, perhaps, or whatever dark lord is responsible for the deaths of our friends—the murderers of Asson and Taslin... whoever our enemy is. Are you a servant of our foe?"
Liet's eyes searched her own. "Nay," he said.
Not a lie. Did she detect the hint of a smile? Just her imagination.
"Aie you our enemy?" Twilight asked, inspiration striking. "Have you deceived us all this time, hiding your true identity in an effort to slay us and drive us mad?"
Liet stared, perfectly calm. "I suppose..." He shrugged. "Aye."
Twilight's eyes widened. His voice had not wavered; his heart had not palpitated. All the subconscious signs were absent. Her senses had not found any falsehood. Liet stared at her with absolute sincerity and, she thought, contempt.
"Lady Doom!" Twilight leaped back and snapping out Betrayal. How...?
Liet's mismatched eyes blazed, and she knew it was true.
"Oh!" Slip screamed. "Oh, gods! 'Twas a lie!"
Twilight flicked her eyes to the halfling, who was panting, terrified. Liet grinned.
"What?" Twilight asked.
" 'Twas a lie, of course." He gave an awkward, insufferable smile. "I've been taking your lessons."
"Slip?"
The little woman stated at her intently. "I swear, by all the gods I know, that he tells a lie," she said. "I mean, that's the truth—that 'tis a lie... I mean... he..."
"No." Twilight let out a sigh and turned back.
" 'Light—" the Dalesman started, but her slap cut him off.
"You think this is a game, boy?" she snarled. "Get out of my sight."
"But—" Liet started. He stopped when Twilight half-drew Betrayal and gave him a look no yet-living foe had ever seen on her delicate features. Liet stiffened and suppressed a sound that was much like a strangled cough. The mirth had gone out of his eyes, replaced by sheer horror. "Oh, 'Light, I'm so—"
"I won't say it again," Twilight said, her voice flat.
The young swordsman's face went ashen and his eyes gleamed with tears. "Sorry!" he cried, and fled.
A long while passed, the silence filled with heavy, angry breathing. Twilight was hardly aware of Slip's searching gaze, her frightened features.
All she could see were those horrible eyes, Liet's eyes, laughing at her—mocking her hard-trained abilities, her confidence to tell truth from falsehood by ear. Laughing... always laughing... what was he doing, trying to drive her mad?
From behind her, Slip shifted nervously—loud enough for Twilight to hear. "Ah," she said. "Are—are you well?"
"Oh, indeed." Twilight closed her eyes and forced an easy smile onto her pale face. "Friend." She turned and favored the halfling with her most dazzling grin. "How sure are you that none of them is a spy?"
Slip brightened considerably, smiling back as though nothing were the matter. "Absolutely certain," she replied. "Why?"
CHAPTER Nineteen
When the screech came from the Forge, Liet bolted up from where he had slumped, his hands on his knees, against the wall of the alley. Gargan similarly unfolded himself from the shadows and laid his hand on his sword. Even Davoren paused where he had been pacing.
The rear door flew open and Slip staggered out. The halfling immediately whirled and drew her little dagger, but a dusky blade sent it whirling from her hand with a deft flick. The gray-white point of Betrayal hissed under Slip's chin. "Help me!" Slip cried. "She's gone mad!" "What's going on?" Liet asked, hand going to his sword. "Back," was all Twilight said, but the fire in her pale eyes— almost red in the ruby light of Davoren's pulsing energies—told him much more.
"Do you not see?" The warlock sneered. "She has eliminated the options—me, you, the giant—and has but one left. The only one who could have lied—the half-witch." Darkness passed over his eyes and his arms pulsed with flame.
Slip, with Twilight distracted, stammered out the words to a spell, but Davoren chanted along with her, invoking harsh and vile names and deeds better spoken of in a tongue of pure evil. The halfling's magic faltered, defeated by the warlock's voracious powers, and tears ran down her cheeks. Twilight dealt Slip
a savage kick to the stomach, stifling further magic. She pulled Betrayal back, lining it up with the little one's back.
Hissing black steel knocked it aside when she thrust. Gargan was there, sword drawn, and he and the elf locked blades and stares, waging a private battle. Their swords sparked against each other, bubbling acid hissing on the hot steel. The light flickering above her, like a hissing sun, plunged her face into light and shadow.
Liet shivered. From their stares, it was clear a life would be lost should it come to blows, and knowing Gargan's strength, it would likely be hers. The goliath didn't try to break her parry, only hold her sword back. If he attacked, maybe she could dodge, then riposte, perhaps, and...
What was he thinking? Had the world gone mad?
"Please!" Slip moaned. "Don't let this happen! Please!"
"Silence, traitor," hissed Twilight without taking her eyes off Gargan.
"Come, Twilight," said Davoren. As he spoke, he inched his way toward Slip, lying huddled and helpless. "Together we can slay them. We no longer need their aid."
The elf should have retorted but she did not, causing Liet to gape. Was she considering it?
Liet looked at Davoren. Lightning crackled around the warlock's scepter and flames licked his hands. Liet realized that if he did nothing, one of his friends would die.
And with that realization, something snapped inside him.
All the times he had watched Twilight confront the warlock fearlessly, all the wry smiles, throwing herself over Slip, all the memories of Twilight's courage came back to him in a single white-hot moment of bravery, and swelled into something inside that Liet had never imagined.
"No," he commanded. He stepped in Davoren's way.
All other sound in the cavern withered into silence. Twilight stared at him.
The warlock snickered, but Liet stayed firm. "I won't say it again."
"I see." Davoren slit his eyes. "The boy thinks he's pretty
enough and wily enough to split our fearsome leader, so that makes him worthwhile, eh? Allow me to explain how that isn't—"
"Enough talk," said Liet. He drew his battered, chipped sword and pointed it at Davoren's face. "You want to kill us, do you? Then do it now."
"Suddenly he's become brave," Davoren said, irritation in his eyes.
"Only braver than a coward," said Liet.
The warlock's eyes burned at him and his face contorted. Flames licked about fingers curled into talons. Davoren's face promised swift death and—
And went pale. The warlock's eyes widened, he backed away, and his gaze slid from Liet, as though he saw something that genuinely frightened him. He backed away and those red eyes showed real terror, and... something else. Pain. Hurt.
Liet felt a tingle in the back of his mind. Was this ability to frighten the warlock, whose unholy power dwarfed Liet's mediocre swordsmanship, a manifestation of that potential Twilight saw in him? Did he have a sorcerer's potential? Was he a hero?
He realized it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had stood between Davoren and Slip, and the warlock backed down. Now he posed no threat to...
"Twilight!" Liet said suddenly. She spun where she stood, facing both halfling and goliath with sword drawn, murderous fury in her eyes. "Don't do this! Slip's innocent! We all are! There's no spy! You're being ridiculous!"
"Lies," Twilight growled. "You all passed the test. She's the only one who could have escaped—the only one whose word wasn't tested. She's a liar and a traitor! She's the only one it could be! The only one!"
No, Twilight, she's not, Liet thought suddenly. She's the only one except—
"Except yourself, filliken,"Davoren said. Liet glared and the warlock receded as before, but he kept a hand on the scepter at his waist.
A trifle unnerved but more worried for Twilight, Liet turned
back only to see that the damage had been done. Twilight had gone paler than usual and her lip trembled, righting against a cruel thought—a grave doubt. Liet felt his heart clench in his chest, torn between love and not a little fear that maybe, just maybe, the warlock was right.
Perhaps she saw it in Liet's eyes, or perhaps she thought the same. Her shoulders slumped and all emotion vanished from her face. She appraised Liet more as a dull blade than a companion, or even a living thing, and his stomach knotted.
"Very well," she said slowly. "The halfling may indeed be innocent, but—"
"Thank you, Mistress!" Slip threw herself down and kissed Twilight's ragged boots. "Thank—"
Twilight shoved the halfling away with a foot, eyeing hei. "But I won't trust her."
"I'll watch her," Liet volunteered.
"No." Twilight shook her head.
"I," Gargan rumbled, drawing gazes from the other four. "I watch."
The silence lasted a long breath before Twilight finally nodded. "Very well," she said. "But you will watch her close, blade to hand."
"Blade to hand," Gargan repeated.
She turned away, casting Liet an angry glare, and slipped into the smithy. That gaze both thanked and warned him.
Unable to stand it, he looked away and thought he saw another of those black hands—with the eye in its palm— teaching out of a wall opposite the smithy. When he looked hard, it was gone.
Liet suppressed a chill.
The length of a candle later, Twilight sat naked, alone, and crying.
They had moved from the Forge into a larger complex, nearer the center of the city. With Twilight's talents at stealth leading them, they had evaded the bees who came to investigate
the shouts. This new building—a mansion, by comparison— might well have belonged to Nega himself, the high arcanist. Twilight didn't really care. It may as well have been hers now. Its wards and defenses had failed (clearly not the mythallar's priorities) and possession of the manse, as in all things, passed to the strong and alive.
Twilight had found an ancient bedchamber for herself— complete with an eerie floating bed of withered velvet, powered by the mythallar. She had stripped off her worn, ochre-stained garments, feeling filthy in them, and flung herself on the blankets, daring them to crack and disintegrate. They had not, and there she remained.
Though the room was far from the others, she did not mind. In fact, it suited her, for here she could scream and curse in privacy, without any of them thinking her mad.
Not that she did so. The day was more one for weeping than for expressions of fury.
Her tears had formed a damp spot on the bed cover nearly the size of a buckler when the door opened of its own accord— magic, of course. She wondered what manner of monster had come to slay her. Fiendish lizards, perhaps, or one of the bees. Maybe even the troll, though she imagined she would have smelled Tlork's approach. Perhaps even whatever beast had attacked her in the night, unless that had been a nightmare. She didn't know—she didn't know anything anymore.
" 'Light?" came a soft, hurt voice.
A sigh. It was far worse than any of the possibilities she had considered.
"Why do you frown, love?" Liet stepped forward, undeterred by her discontent—yet another aspect of him she loved and loathed. "It makes you too pretty."
She wouldn't take the bait. Twilight just looked away. He stepped closer, seating himself on the edge of the bed. She let him disrobe, stripping to his smallclothes, and his shirt, of course. He reached to embrace her.
"Surely this incident has told you—"
Twilight shoved him and he tumbled out of the free-floating
bed. Liet landed on his bottom with an unceremonious thump. He looked so adorable—and pounceable—but she ignored that observation.
"There are three possibilities," said Twilight, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "One, that it is Slip."
"That's out," said Liet. He rose, winced, and dusted himself off. The stone must have been cold under his bare feet. Twilight couldn't say she objected to the view, and for that reason she cursed him again.
"Two," she continued. "One among us can defeat het spell and my sense."
"Certainly not," Liet said. "No one can tell lies from truths better than you, love."
Twilight didn't bother to correct him. "And the third..."
"That there is no spy," the youth said.
Twilight bit her lip, then her eyes narrowed. "Have I been acting strangely of late?"
Liet gaped. "You can't be serious," he said. His surprise was a lie.
"It could be me," said Twilight. Her voice came out calm, a lie to the turmoil within. "How long was I unconscious without the Shroud? Any of my foes could have done this. I could be acting under magical compulsion—a spell I'm not even—"
Liet caught the shadowdancer by the shoulders and shook her. "Nonsense!"
No one did that to her. No one.
She formed a rebuke, but he laid two fingers across her lips. "This has been hard on us all—you especially, as? our leader."
With effort, Twilight calmed herself. She'd hurt him without steel. "I have seen you lie once, well enough to deceive me."
Liet grinned. "I've watched you with open eyes and ears." He climbed onto the bed on hands and knees, aiming for her lips. "I lie in your bed. I don't lie in it."
"I'm no stranger to enemies lying to me," she said. "In my bed, to my face, or otherwise." Twilight stared at him levelly. "You're just one more."
She watched his face fall, then a surge of anger. "Like your Uncle Nemesis, eh?"
Twilight felt cold. "Fair even, Liet." She dismissed him with a wave.
The youth's face went pale. He realized once again that he had just said the wrong thing. "I—I didn't mean it," he said, suddenly sad. "It just—ah—"
Twilight slapped him. "Aren't you angry? Do you have a spine, or do you just apologize for everything?" She fended off his damnably comforting hands.
"Why don't you scream at me, or beat me if you want—at least something. Aren't you going to fight for me?" She shoved him off the bed. "Why don't you say something, damn you?"
Liet stared at her, shocked. "I—I'm sorry, I..."
Twilight sighed, the fire in her blood dying down. It was pathetic, but it was endearing. A soft smile came over her face, and she hated herself for it.
"I know," she said. "I'm the one who should be sorry." She felt that way, too.
She reached down to help him up, and her fingers scraped his wrist. Liet gave a shiver but didn't pull away. He looked at her, his eyes so sad and longing...
She pulled away. "I just—" she said. She was shivering. "I just can't do this."
The youth looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded. "I understand." He gave a knight's bow. "Fair eve, for a fair maid."
"Sweet water," she whispered, "and light laughter."
Then he walked away, and Twilight turned to weep as quietly as she could against the wall. No tears came—her eyes were dry.
After a ten-count, she sprang up and pushed the table against the door. No one would intrude—not companion, nor monster, nor nightmare. Not her mysterious attacker, if it even existed. And if it did after all, well, she could die.
That would be all right. Without Liet.
She knew, somehow, that they were done. Some things are not forgivable.
The youth walked away, but he didn't leave.
Sinking against the door, Liet thought about Twilight's drawn, haggard face. Nearly two days without food, and little water, and that mysterious incident that morning had taken their toll on the lovely elf. But her nerves hurt her far worse than that.
The tragedies of the last days, especially the deaths of Asson and Taslin, had struck them all, but none harder than Twilight, who seemed to take full responsibility. And now that her suspicions about the spy had come out, and she had been proven so wrong in an incident that might have condemned their friend...
Liet tried not to think about Twilight going mad before his eyes. He contemplated the others. The way Gargan had stared at Twilight, murderously, still chilled Liet. And Slip—clearly she had been a bit unhinged from the beginning. Ironically, Liet thought the sanest, safest of his companions was the power-hungry, blood-thirsty Davoren.
His hands clenched open and closed. He couldn't get angry, but how could he do anything if he...
It only took the thought of her tears, her shoulders shuddering with repressed strain to stir up pain in his heart and push the anger aside.
Liet promised himself he wouldn't give up—not on her.
CHAPTER Twenty
Are we sure this'll work?" Slip asked, for perhaps the eightieth time.
" 'Twas your plan," Twilight sighed, for perhaps the eightieth time.
"Oh." Slip considered. "Right."
Twilight could tell by the way Davoren's lips moved that he prayed to Asmodeus, perhaps for strength. Having an archdevil on one's side wasn't all bad, she decided. She wouldn't ptay to Erevan. What was the point?
The five had risen after a reasonable amount of sleep. Day was night in the cavern, though Twilight knew it to be several bells after midnight on the surface, from her "gift." They could not have been imprisoned by Tlork long, but it seemed years had passed. Had her entire life until this point been an illusion, and the notions of "bells" and "midnight" just dreams? Perhaps Erevan did not really exist, and she truly was free—if freedom existed in a place like this.
That terrified her.
Twilight suppressed a shiver and shoved the thoughts violently aside. Liet had attempted to convince her of her sanity the previous night, but her own mind seemed Hells-bent on proving him wrong.
"If we climb that tower," Slip repeated, "we should be able to
get out, right? I mean, we're underground, and going up takes us aboveground, aye?"
Twilight didn't have the heart to bring up complications like cave ceilings or the inability to fly. "If only it were that simple," she muttered.
"Aye, love?" Liet whispered at her side.
Twilight just shook her head. She wished he wouldn't call her that.
The High Tower—Davoren had assured them it must be the High Arcanist's Tower, if this had truly been a floating enclave, but Twilight was not comfortable so naming it—was free of the hive but not the garden. The Nocturnal Garden, he'd called it, and that name, Twilight did not dispute.
They wandered through a nightmare landscape of twisted, alien stalks and blossoms of myriad, disturbingly vibrant colors. Fumes and spores that could only come in dreams threatened to send them dizzily to the ground, but Gargan seemed able to guide them around the more dangerous plants. When they saw one giant snapping beast indistinguishable from the surrounding ferns lash out with its tentacles to pull a passing bee-creature down its pod-gullet, Twilight was glad she wasn't leading the way.
They made their way slowly, in relative silence, avoiding carnivorous flowers and attention from the bees. Several times, they ducked and hid in the shadows of Negarath to avoid a flight of three or four. Most of the time, the creatures stopped to harvest nectar from the various unearthly plants, and Twilight understood the purpose of the garden. The necter-dependent bees would be hard pressed for a for a food source if anything were to happen to their garden.
Within a bell's time, they entered the overgrown, moss-ridden High Tower.
The rooms had long since faded into a dizzying array of vast, empty affairs that must have held opulence beyond reckoning in the days of Netheril. Tapestries remained, but they had withered to blank sheets of cloth canvas. Most of the rooms and the curled furniture were entirely of some sort of metal—iron
or steel—coated with cracked marble, sandstone, or obsidian, while some—the dangerous ones—were but broken glass.
The stairs that led up through the many stories snaked treacherously and madly, inside and outside the building, over and under balconies. A dozen times, steps crumbled underfoot, and a companion leaped to solid ground with a curse. Some sections of stair twisted upside down, unsettlingly, and these the five climbed over awkwardly.
Several times, they had trouble mounting inverted stairs— which had no support but magic—until Slip demonstrated that they needed to climb them upside down. That only increased Twilight's unease.
Having not eaten or had more than a few swallows of water in over two days, they were all weak and growing weaker, even the mighty goliath. As Twilight watched, Davoren fumbled and tripped over broken rock. She saw the lack of strength in his movements—the lessened energy.
"A morning meal would have helped, eh?" she asked once as she held him steady after a step crumbled.
Davoren glared at her. "We could've eaten the halfling, you and I," he said. "But oh, yes—you tejected that opportunity. Mark my words—you will regret it."
Twilight decided then that she wouldn't have minded seeing Davoren topple to his doom, were she not certain the fiend would blast them as he fell. She never got the chance to see if she guessed rightly.
Twilight exercised additional caution in those places where unbroken stairs flared outside—Liet had warned her that the bee-creatures might be scouting. No pursuit made itself apparent, though they had to duck and hide once when a trio of the humanoid insects buzzed by. Twilight noted their spears, helms, and shields distantly.
On the tenth floor of the soaring building, they came to a room without stairs. It was like a grand atrium, though the glass ceiling had long ago shattered. Blue trees with bright orange flowers filled the place, along with thorny bushes that might have been giant roses. Vines the thickness of human arms hung
all about. The garden spiraled around a grand circle with a black disk in the center that was probably large enough for eight humans at a time.
"Thank the All-Mother!" Slip exclaimed through her gasps and wheezes. "I've had enough stairs to last me two tendays."
"Our thanks for that," Davoren said, "but we are all, not just you, still far short."
"Huh?" Slip looked at the warlock as though he'd sprouted a second head.
On a whim, Twilight checked to see if he had. He hadn't.
"In case you're oblivious, which isn't surprising," Davoren said, gesturing up through the absent glass ceiling, "we are only halfway to our goal."
It was true. The atrium seemed to be the top level of the High Tower, except for the spires that stood around it like tines on a crown. Several were broken off. The central spire leaned over precariously and curled under itself. There was no way into it, though it looked hollow, from windows in its surface above.
"Easy!" Slip said. "We just fly up there!" "Asson was the only one who could fly," Twilight reminded her in a soft voice.
"Oh. Ah, well... we climb?"
"That far?" Davoren raised an eyebrow. "You can'tbe serious." He mimicked the halfling's accent with considerable skill. Slip bit her lip.
"Options?" Twilight sighed. She'd grown weary of the whole affair, and almost wished some great foe would fall upon them. She'd had too much heartache. Twilight longed for battle.
"This." Liet walked onto the black disk at the center of the garden.
"What?" Davoren hissed.
"This." Liet tapped one of his silvery transmutation rods to the black surface beneath his feet. Magic sizzled, and the black disk shuddered. Immediately, it rose as a disk-shaped platform, powered by Negarath s aging mythallar.
"How did you know to do that?" she asked.
"I saw you," Liet said. "Back in the Forge..."
Twilight almost smiled. The boy was becoming useful, even if they had had a falling out. She stepped up and Gargan immediately joined her—whether out of loyalty or because he still watched her suspiciously, she did not care.
"Is it—safe?" Davoren asked.
"Since when is the 'everything is wretched and dismal and filthy' warlock afraid?" Slip asked, mocking his voice perfectly.
Grumbling, Davoren climbed on. "Now what?"
Liet shrugged. "Now, we—" And suddenly they were shooting up, borne aloft on the flying disk. Twilight reached out to catch the startled human back from the edge. Liet had nothing but awe on his face as she held his hand. Then he came to his senses and squeezed her hand. Reassured, Twilight managed to tear her eyes away from him.
The disk bore them in a rising spiral around the garden, then up through what must have been, in ancient times, a hole in the ceiling, and carried them streaking out over the city.
Slip gasped. "Beautiful!" Then, eyes darting, she added, "And strange—very strange."
Twilight could not disagree. While Negarath showed a primal chaos, the purest of eccentricity in the works of madmen, it was difficult to resist the awe.
The disk twisted and turned its way around the spires, offering a silent tour of what must have been a glorious city in its day. And indeed, despite the oddity of its architecture, the ancient towers and statues whose features were worn away still held a sort of demented beauty. Towers curled downward, and stairs sprouted like teeth on the underside of arches. Spires twisted this way and that like needles thrust into huge stone cushions. Great facades with dozens of statues shrouded nothing, or they concealed great buildings in the shapes of flower gardens, blossoming wings of rooms that curved upward. A huge cathedral to the goddess of magic—Mystryl, Twilight finally remembered, as opposed to her successors, the Mystras—rose high into the cavern, its face looking like
nothing so much as syrup poured over a mountain of melting cakes.
Past the cathedral, she saw a curious building shaped like a sun, which seemed to be turning, so slowly she almost did not realize it. It radiated some sort of golden light through cracks in the stone, as though it were the sun itself. Then the disk whipped them away, circling the city faster and faster, higher and higher.
"Wonderful!" Slip cried.
"Yes," Twilight agreed. She pulled the halfling closer, away from the edge. "Wonderful until you fall."
Looking upon that city of wonder, Twilight could not help a spot of pity. Surely this view would have been stunning centuries ago, when all the people within had lived, cried and laughed, hated and loved...
"Look!" Slip shouted, and Twilight did.
The disk circled about the buildings, making its way back to the leaning central tower—the High Tower. Twilight couldn't suppress a twinge of uncertainty—after all, the mythallar could fail at any moment and send them plunging down.
"Are you controlling this?" she asked Liet.
"I don't—" Liet's brow furrowed. "Maybe. I did think about the tower."
"Well, by all means, carry on. Thinking never hurts." The faster the better.
Whether or not the youth controlled the disk, they did indeed float to the tower. Approaching from a new angle, Twilight saw more accurately its fate. It bent against and away from the ceiling of the cavern like a tree growing under a rock, and about thirty hands—about twice Twilight's height—from where it met was a flat space. The disk hovered near and did not move.
Relieved, Twilight took a step onto the curled tower, observed that it was stable, and motioned for the others to join her. Whatever enchantments held up the strange structure must have still operated, for though the tower was bent and curled, it held firm.
Better, they were well within reach of the cavern ceiling.
"Davoren, Gargan," Twilight said. "Find us a way out."
The goliath drew out a great maul he had found in the Netherese smithy. For once, the warlock did not argue. He simply raised his hands and sent burning blast after burning blast into the stone, cracking and chipping the hard earth for Gargan to knock free with the hammer. He looked just as tired of this place as any of the others. Twilight did not like the way he fingered that blasting scepter at his belt, though. What was he planning?
Though the work must have taken nearly a bell's length to accomplish, it felt like a moment, so anxious were they. Davoten's blasts heated the rock, and Gargan hammered the stone again and again. Slowly, bit by bit, they burrowed up, and up, and...
There came a great crack, like the splitting of a thousand crossbeams of great wood, and the stone split apart. Twilight looked up.
Then she dived to avoid the blinding avalanche that showered down. It struck her back, burying her as it poured, and poured, and poured. All went dark, and she was buried alive.
Erevan! she shouted in her mind—by reflex, unintentionally. She supposed she should be thankful she hadn't done it aloud, for her mouth would have filled with sand.
There was, of course, no response.
Blast you, wretch, Twilight thought. You're going to pass up the moment the impossible happens—when I call upon you for aid?
But there came nothing, not even what she expected: the tiny laughter of a wild elf who found himself entirely too amusing. She really was alone.
Typical, Twilight mused. She knew she was about to die, but that was all she thought. Typical,
Then it set in—blindness. She saw neither light nor dark, just white.
She was lost. Alone.
Then Twilight did scream—and choked. She thrashed, swimming in sand, dying, abandoned. Out of control—out of her mind. Lost.
A breath later, a hand grasped Twilight's wrist. Liet, she thought.
She latched onto it like a line tossed over the rail of a storm-swept galley.
Worriedly, Liet watched Gargan haul Twilight from the pile of yellow-white. She looked up, bright-eyed, but blinked in confusion at the goliath, as though she expected someone else. Then she nodded, and he returned it. Liet felt a little stab of jealousy. Ridiculous, he told himself.
He shook the snowy stuff out of his hair. "Sand?" he asked, perplexed.
The sand that had been trapped above ceased pouring out, leaving an open bubble of air. On the other side of this bubble lay another layer of sand. White grains hissed along its circumference as though along the inside of a great balloon.
Twilight furrowed her brow. " 'Twas what I was about to say."
"I don't understand," Liet said.
She plucked up a loose stone from the tower and hurled it upward with all of her might. It slowed as it rose, slowed, slowed even more, and almost seemed to hover as it reached a particular spot in the air—halfway between the tower and the sand. Then it accelerated up and up, and thumped into the sand as though it had fallen.
"What does this mean?" Liet asked.
Then there came a buzzing. From somewhere behind, Davoren shouted, and crackling lightning filled the air. The bee-men were upon them.
A stinger hissed straight for Liet. Crying out, he warded it off with his hands. Twilight leaped to his aid, her hand going to her rapier, but one of the creatures hit her from the side. Her head struck the stone with a crack, and her body went limp. Unconscious, she toppled, rolled, spun to the edge, and fell from the leaning tower.
" 'Light!" he shouted, agonized.
Then a dozen bodies slammed him down, spears gouging, and Liet screamed.
Gestal watched as she fell, reflecting how like a discarded doll she was. He especially enjoyed the helpless cry filled with mortal pain. But as Twilight fell toward her death, he felt nothing but bemusement and a slight twinge of disappointment.
Then a pair of black hands snaked out of shimmeting distortions in the air to catch the-falling body, and the eyes narrowed. The foe. The hands dropped her, redirecting her fall, and Gestal saw abeil—the bee-creatures—catch her. How frustrating.
Abeil swarmed the four from every direction, spears thrusting and multiple khopesh blades whistling. In spite of a veritable storm of lightning bolts from the warlock's scepter, the creatures quickly overwhelmed them with blade and sting. A pile grew around the four, but the fools were outnumbered twenty to one.
The stingers penetrated their bodies, and Gestal shivered at the lovely agony even as they fell. How sweet he found those stings. In the meantime, he enjoyed the screams of pain and distress as slowly each went down, inevitably. The gray-faced warlock lasted the longest, with his demon's blood. He killed at least a score, but it would not be enough.
As Gestal watched slaying power pour from that scepter, he grinned. 'Twas only a matter of....
Predictably, the scepter reached its limit, coughed when the warlock attempted to summon more killing bolts, and exploded in his hand, blowing the limb to nothingness. The warlock screamed, clutching his stump, and the abeil swarmed him.
The fiendish skin helped repel some of the stingers' force, but not the poison.
Well.
With the will of the Demon Prince, Gestal ripped into the other's mind and became himself. The other vanished into the darkness once more. The abeil hesitated but continued the
assault, wondering why this one had risen, and why it looked so different.
Gestal smiled with lips that were his again. Their mistake.
He spoke a single word—a piece of pure chaos, born of the roiling madness that had reigned before the upstart gods had come. It was not an exclamation, nor was it even louder than a whisper. Gestal merely breathed, releasing the magical power of the master, and the spell soared out in every direction.
In a sphere centered on Gestal, scores of abeil simply stopped, their hearts or brains obliterated, and fell from the sky. The less fortunate ones screamed blood and splattered against the stone tower like raindrops, to lie writhing and screaming in buzzes and hisses. A hundred beelike voices rose in protest, and abeil streamed out of half the towers and windows of Negarath.
"Your time comes," Gestal said softly. "Our old foe."
Gestal looked down to where Twilight had vanished into the darkness. Then he was gone, fading into the form of a wraith and vanishing into the stone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
She had vague memories of golden walls—passing through tunnels sculpted of amber, or perhaps honey. Light pulsed and flickered. Hands held her, dozens of insect hands, and the buzzing as they carried her along ripped through her ears. Was she being taken to her death? To be encased in that comb, to be starved of air?
She didn't care. She'd failed, and all because she hadn't relied on herself.
Her price, for trusting others, was death, and she would pay
it.
Liet, she thought. Liet, I'm coming.
Twilight awoke to terror and blackness so thick she could not see through it.
"Liet!" she shrieked. She started up, only to fall back when pain exploded in her head and forced her down. There was no reply.
No reply, that is, but for a pair of emerald eyes that opened and regarded her. The shifting of muscles like stones gave away his identity.
"He is gone," Gargan rumbled in his native tongue. That she could understand him meant she still wore Taslin's earring. "But we are not alone."
Twilight's hand shot to her throat. The star sapphire pendant still hung there. She breathed a sigh of relief without thinking.
Slowly, Twilight's eyes adjusted and her darksight returned to her. With it, she could see a few paces in the darkness, but no farther. Gargan, sword still sheathed on his back, knelt over her with concern written across his face. Twilight's eyes darted side to side, but she saw no one else—just cold stone. She sensed magic all over—the darkness itself seemed magical, though she expected it was simply radiation from something powetful, hidden within.
Then the pain came back, and she fell flat again. "The bees?"
"They left us and went back to their hive," the goliath said. "Whatever holds us now is not their master."
Gargan knelt beside her and laid his heavy hands on her temples. It struck Twilight as the second time he had touched her (the first, she'd thought he was Liet), and she was surprised at how gently his massive fingers caressed her skin.
Healing power flowed into her like pure water from a mountain stream. Twilight inhaled sharply, stabbed with ecstasy, and looked up at the goliath. Truly, there was more to this creature than met the eye.
She slowly sat, her hand on her head. She found that her clothing and weapons were in place. Even Betrayal was sheathed at her belt. "The others?"
Silence.
She turned to the goliath, who eyed her with dismay. "What is the matter?"
Gargan shook his head. "You remember nothing," he said, to which Twilight slowly nodded. The goliaths face grew grim. "The abeil attacked, and you fell from the tower. They must have caught you, but we thought you deadfor certain."
"Fate is not so kind," Twilight said.
She accepted his arm and rose to a kneeling position, whete she might speak with him closely. Their voices sounded discordantly loud in the dark stillness. She found herself weak, though, and leaned against his strong chest for support and warmth in the chilly darkness. He did not flinch or object.
"What—what of the others?" Gargan's eyes grew cold.
"Mlfell, "he said. "/ was buried under many bodies and watched Davoren, the last standing, cut down."
"They're... they're all dead?" Twilight's pulse pounded in her head.
"I saw none escape."
"I... I cannot accept that," Twilight said.
"You need not," came a trio of voices, shouting in unison, seemingly from different corners of the room, "for they are not sssslain."
Twilight was fast to rise, but Gargan was faster. The speed with which he leaped up and drew his black sword made her look as clumsy as a feeble goblin. Light flooded the chamber, revealing four massive statues that stood around them at twenty paces.
One was a solid ruby, carved as a soldier in ancient armor, carrying a mighty axe of the same precious stone. One was clay, a hugely muscular dwarf of thirty hands with a mace. Another was iron—the same creature they had seen slaughtering the lizards what seemed tendays ago—an unstoppable knight with a sword longer than Gargan was tall. The fourth stood even taller and dark as night, shaped as a mighty sorceress with four great arms, each of which held a hooked dagger. Spiderstone, Twilight realized.
The creatures looked at them, then lifted their respective weapons.
"Gargan," she murmured. "Slowly... put the sword... down..."
The goliath seemed to understand, and he lowered his black blade. He put a hand on Twilight's shoulder and stepped in front of her, protectively. It was a gesture she hadn't expected but appreciated nonetheless, as ludicrous as it might have been.
It was a great and spacious hall. Pillars wider than four dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder held up a tall dome whose belly was decorated with mosaics depicting suns and flames. In the center of the room, lying before an altar, a vast slab of black metal rested, looking like nothing so much as a great hatch. A
sun with a grim face hung at an angle above the altar. A faded sun mapped the floor, a withered candelabra at the tip of each of its twenty rays. It reminded her of the symbol of Erevan.
A strange golden moss marred the formerly beautiful architecture, and it was only when she looked away that Twilight realized it was moving, pulsing slightly. She fell into magic sense. The walls exploded with light, and she dismissed the sense with a wince.
Something Liken had told het came back—a bit of knowledge that she shouldn't have, yet did. She'd thought it a lie, but she realized what she was seeing. Her face went pale. "Oh, gods," she murmured, finding breath hard to come by.
"Fox-at-Twilight?"Gargan's hand clutched her shoulder.
"Heavy magic," she breathed. "The walls... the walls are covered in it."
Indeed, the golden stuff dripped from the stone, caking it as mud on the soles of a boot. It covered the interior of the cathedral almost completely. No magic could penetrate the barrier that surrounded the cathedral, and only the strongest archmage could even think of the Art within its walls.
And, as though to address that point, Twilight saw a silvery window open in the air before a section of wall. A black mass reached through—she recognized it after a breath as a muscular arm—and pushed the gold jelly back into place as though caressing the flesh of a yielding lover. Twilight trembled as she watched the arm snake back through the shimmering window, and another window opened across the room, then another just a few paces from them. Gargan leaped back with a growl, his sword hissing from its scabbard.
Then a portal of light, reflecting the back of the cathedral upside down, appeared before them, and through it came a creature of such power and majesty Twilight found herself forced to her knees. All her tales of seducing archmages and staring down archdevils fled her mind and she was emptied. In short, she was terrified.
For Twilight, who had never had the gift of verse, its form was almost indescribable. The best she could manage was brute
analogy. Its body was that of a bulbous tree with three limbs that split into six branches, each a muscular arm thicker than Gargan's chest. These arms ended in clawed fists that contained an eye in each palm. The arms constantly shifted location, as though the flesh were jelly. Sprouting from its body came three fanged, and nosed, but otherwise featureless heads amongst the arms, all of which spoke at once, making for a nigh incomprehensible cacophony.
"Welcome to my realm, dusssstlingssss," it said, echoing itself. The sheer majesty of the sharn, understandable or not, was enough to make Twilight want to bow down and worship, but she couldn't move.
Then the mouths began alternating syllables, but spoke them all at once, so three beats became one. "Sssshort lived racessss go by like dusssst in the wind. But you have not died thussss far." Then it ceased speaking, glaring down with eyeless faces and eyes dotting its six hands.
Twilight realized it was probably the closest the creature would come to complimenting them.
She could not see the details of its body well, even with eyes so attuned to darkness. It was a shapeless bulk of black and silver flesh constantly shifting in a way simultaneously sensual and discordant. Tiny sparks of magic burst and squeaked into being around it constantly—if anything about it could be said to be constant. Its heads and mouths twitched, as though it skipped through time and space every few heartbeats, the number varying as time passed. The six empty hands waved about, casting blank gazes this way and that.
"Chaos embodied," she whispered in a tone both bleak and awed.
Even though she had never seen one, nor wanted to, Twilight could tell at a glance that something was the matter with this sharn. Multicolored veins stood out along its sinuous frame, and here and there, tightly clustered matrices of light gleamed through its skin like radiant bones. Its mouths constantly oozed green-white fluid, and half its eyes had gone white, as though blinded, or burst entirely, leaving dripping sores.
"My-my lord Sharn," Twilight said with a bow.
"Ruukthalmuramaxamin," it corrected in two syllables, not looking at her. "Elf ssssings like bird on the wing."
From its display of Art and the presence of its guardians, Twilight realized that this creature controlled the golems they had seen. And that meant... Taslin.
"Not I. The hangman not mine, the death of thine not mine."
"What do you...?"
"Ssssilence!" it shouted thrice, its voice shaking the temple. She heard the scream in her mind louder than outside it, a vice that crushed her head.
Twilight fell to her knees. Doom was upon her—how dare she speak, or even think. The sharn could snuff out her existence with a thought. She had no right to...
Liet.