Delg snorted in sudden recognition. “Priests’ regalia of Leira,” he said. “May I remind you, mighty Lord, that the Lady of the Mists numbers few priests among her faithful? We’ll hardly pass unnoticed.”
Mirt bowed. “True, but the nasty spells Leirans are known to favor will keep most folk—even Zhents—from bothering us, and we certainly won’t be recognized. These all-concealing robes—aye, put it on atop all ye wear, lass; over the head it goes—can shift about to fit the wearer, and even be commanded to hold their shape over emptiness, to conceal the true form and stature beneath. I carry half a dozen about, for—er, the proper occasions.”
He showed them how to don the featureless glass masks, pull the cowls over their heads, settle the mantles on their shoulders and chests, and do up the loose, dangling sashes that went on last. Unfamiliar in his own robes, face hidden under unmoving mirrored glass, the merchant laid a hand on the glass orb that adorned his mantle. He seemed suddenly taller.
“Ye do the same, Delg,” his voice came to them, hollow through the mask. “Increase yer height, enough so no one will think ‘dwarf’ when they see you. Shan, the magic works by yer will, when ye touch the orb; make yerself taller—and yer shoulders greater, to hide yer womanly front. That’s it, good …. These robes were hard to get, mind, so hurl no spellfire unless ye are sore beset.” He turned, rummaged in the bag, and suddenly a staff, topped with a multihued, ever-changing orb, was in his hand.
Shandril only had an instant to stare in wonder at its flowing, lazily changing colors before the old merchant swung away, stuffed the bag into his belt, and led the way up over the ridge with a slow, measured stride.
“Keep with me,” his muffled voice came back to them, “Brothers of the Mists. In a half-circle, behind me, as is fitting. We go north this day, as the Lady’s weird bids us.”
Delg fell in behind and to the left and gestured for Narm and Shandril to walk beside him, to the old merchant’s right. Matching the old man’s stride, they marched slowly down the grassy slopes to the road, the orb-topped staff borne before them, its swirling hues shifting and brightening.
Narm wondered if the goddess Leira would be angered at this false use of her regalia, and bring some capricious doom down on them. Or would this deception delight her?
The young mage looked to either side, but the road seemed empty of life for as far as he could see in either direction. Yet he could feel the sudden weight of cold, unfriendly eyes regarding them from somewhere—and knew by the way her head moved beside him that Shandril felt the scrutiny too.
The uplifted orb flashed and pulsed ahead of them. Mirt said, “Ah! The Lady leads us on.” He strode right across the road, heading for the cliffs beyond.
The ground around them was rising now, with rocks rearing out of the grass. There was not a bird in the sky or a beast to be seen anywhere, but the strong feeling of being watched persisted until Mirt led them into the ferny gloom of a little gully that pierced the cliffs.
The orb on the staff suddenly darkened. Mirt regarded it with satisfaction. “Whoever they are,” he said, “they’re not using magic to send eyes around corners after us …. They could see us only when we crossed the open road. Right—get this stuff off, all of ye: haste is what matters now.”
After a few frantic minutes of unstrapping and wriggling out from under cloth, Mirt had stuffed the bundles back in the bag, and the bag was restored to its carrying place in Mirt’s boot. Delg eyed it suspiciously as it slid out of sight, and said, “How many more tricks do you carry, Mirt? And are all of them as helpful as that one?”
“Many, and of course,” Mirt answered smoothly. “Now let’s be on—no trails are to be trusted in the Stonelands, and it’s a ways yet to the gate I know of.”
They scrambled warily along the gully, Mirt in the lead. Delg muttered from the rear, “If it’s not betraying too much to tell us, just where are we heading?”
“Irondrake Rock,” Mirt said, and Delg nodded.
“I’ve seen it,” he said simply as they struggled up to the head of the gully and peered about. Bare shoulders of rock rose all around them in a confusing, broken landscape of rising ridges and plunging ravines. Scrub trees, gnarled and stunted, thrust branches in all directions, and the land ahead was a patchwork of greenery and rocky heights.
Death could lurk anywhere in a land like this, Shandril thought—and be at your elbow before you saw it. She felt strangely weak and very vulnerable, like a deer surrounded by hunters. She drew a little closer to Narm, who put an arm around her, as if knowing her thoughts.
Delg, seeking any signs of pursuit, was looking suspiciously back the way they’d come. After a long moment, he sniffed, shook his head, turned to follow Mirt over the first ridge, and executed a precarious scramble down the other side into the concealing thickets of the next ravine.
Wary as they were, none of them saw the skull that floated along behind them, for it was cloaked in magics that made it invisible. The lich lord’s cold gaze was bent steadily on the small band—in particular, on the slim form of the maid among them. Nightfall approached slowly as the day went on—too slowly, it seemed. Iliph Thraun was getting hungry again.
The day wore on in an endless struggle up and down treacherous slopes and breakneck ravines. Everywhere around the travelers rose the crags and outcrops that gave the Stonelands their name. The Lord of Waterdeep, the dwarf, the bearer of spellfire, and the young mage who’d married her struggled through the broken lands, scraping and bruising elbows and knees on the ever-present rocks.
As they went, Mirt spoke seldom—no surprise, for he was wheezing and puffing like an old and indignant goat. When he did break silence, it was always to cheer them with tales of skeletal trolls, monstrous ettins and hobgoblins, and sly, cruel-fingered goblins who lurked in the Stonelands, dragging intruders down in ambushes or stonefall traps—and feeding on them.
“Do you mind belting up, merchant?” Narm asked at last, exasperated. The young mage was white to the lips from fear, and he cast involuntary glances at every bush and shadow as they walked.
Mirt chuckled and clapped him on the back, a mighty blow that nearly sent the mage sprawling. “Ah, stop me vitals, lad,” he rumbled, “but it’s good to see some spirit in ye at last.”
Delg squinted up at the fat merchant. “Speaking of ‘spirit in you,’ I recall seeing that bottle of amberjack in your bag—and wondering what else it might be hiding from us, too. Berduskan dark, perhaps? Or have you a little winter wine?”
Mirt chuckled. “I once had a considerable cellar in here, aye—but traveling’s thirsty work, and most of the stock’s gone now. Moreover, friend Delg, this is not the sort of country one should try legging it through with a few skins of wine on board. Falling and breaking bones is easy enough when sober.”
“A lecture on morals and practicality from Mirt the Moneylender?” Delg put his hands to his open mouth in mock amazement.
“Stow it, little one,” Mirt suggested in kindly tones, then led the way along the winding, snakelike crest of a ridge that headed west, on into the seemingly endless maze of rocky heights and tree-cloaked ravines.
As the group climbed and clambered on, Shandril’s fingers went numb from clawing at too many rocks, and she felt a growing weakness—an emptiness—inside. What was wrong with her? She sighed, drawing an anxious look from Narm, which she put off with a smile. Scratching at a scrape on her arm, Shandril wondered how much more of this punishing travel she’d be able to last through.