Caledan drank to that "What did you find in the abbey's library?"
"Quite an interesting search it was," Tyveris replied. He pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up his broad nose with a dark finger and began sorting through the various tomes and codices. Yesterday Caledan had shown the big monk the scrap of paper the thief Tembris had written on-their one clue hinting at what Ravendas was searching for beneath the city. Caledan had asked Tyveris if he could research the peculiar and unfamiliar word the old thief had scrawled, and the loremaster had readily agreed, his dark eyes gleaming at the prospect of pursuing a scholarly mystery.
Mari descended the narrow back staircase then, clad in doeskin breeches and her customary green velvet jacket.
She poured herself a cup of pale sweet wine and joined the two men.
"What's this?" she asked, pointing to one of the molder-ing books that Tyveris had opened before him.
"A history of the lands west of the Sunset Mountains," the loremaster explained. He ran a big hand affectionately over a yellowed page, then drew out quill, ink, and parchment from his satchel to scribble a few notes. It was clear he was in his element. Still, Caledan couldn't help but remember the days when Tyveris had held a sword as comfortably as he now did a pen.
Caledan leaned over to peer at the faded words carefully scribed on the page. "I can't read a word of that."
"That's not surprising, given that it's written in a language that hasn't been spoken in a thousand years," Tyveris replied with a rumbling laugh. "It's called Talfir." He picked up the wrinkled scrap of paper on which the thief Tembris had scrawled the single word: Malebdala.
Mari arched a single eyebrow in curiosity. Caledan motioned for the loremaster to go on.
"The Caravan Cities-Iriaebor, Berdusk, and Elturel- were founded about three centuries ago," Tyveris continued. "That may seem like quite a long while, but against the full sweep of history it's really quite a recent development. People have lived in the lands along the banks of the River Chionthar for millennia. They raised kingdoms that had fallen to dust centuries before the first folk crossed the Sunset Mountains from Cormyr to the east to resettle these lands. And those ancient people spoke a different language than the one your ancestors brought with them. That language was Talfir."
Mari picked up the scrap of paper bearing the strange word. "Can you translate it?"
Tyveris nodded. "I think so. A number of books written in Talfir have survived over the centuries. We have a few in the abbey's library, and I've been studying them." He took the small piece of parchment from Mari. "Mai signifies shadows or twilight, and dala is a book or tome. Mal'eb'dala. The Book of the Shadows. That's how I would translate it."
Caledan frowned. "Ravendas had Tembris steal a book for her?" He had never known the Zhentarim lord to be the literary type. How could a book be so important to her?
"It would seem so," Mari replied, rubbing her square chin thoughtfully.
"I asked the other loremasters at the abbey if they had ever heard The Book of the Shadows mentioned before. One of them, Loremaster Avros, showed me this." Tyveris opened another book, this one bound with two flat pieces of wood. The pages were darkened with time.
"You can read that?" Caledan asked dubiously.
“This will help," the loremaster said. He took a pinch of white powder from a small clay pot and sprinkled it across the page. Then he blew gently. The powder seemed to stick to the parchment but not to the faded ink. The words stood out more clearly now, written in some archaic tongue Caledan could not make out. He looked at the Harper, but she shook her head doubtfully.
"What does it say, Tyveris?" she asked.
The monk pushed his spectacles up and studied the passage. "It's a story about a book," he said in his deep voice. "'A tome writ upon enchantments myriad and shadowed.'"
"The Book of the Shadows?" Caledan asked.
Tyveris nodded. "I think so. It's a long passage, which tells of all the various copies of the original Book of the Shadows and what became of them over the course of time. The original was destroyed in a fatal battle between two mages. Almost all of the other copies have since been lost or ruined. But there is said to be one copy still in existence, kept under lock and key in the library of Elversult to the east, where it has lain for the last two centuries or so."
"And is it there still?" Mari asked.
Tyveris shook his head. "Loremaster Avros journeyed to the library in Elversult recently and found things in a bit of a stir. It seems the Mal'eb'dala was stolen about a year ago."
Caledan swore. "So Ravendas has the one and only copy." He turned to Mari. "We're going to have to break in to the tower, Harper. Right now that book is the only clue we have that might tell us what Ravendas is digging for beneath the Tor. I don't see that we have any other choice."
"Wait," Tyveris said, holding up a hand. "We may have one other choice. Loremaster Avros told me about a friend of his, one Loremaster Erill, a disciple of Oghma who resides in a monastery in the Sunset Mountains to the east It seems this Loremaster Erill has made a life's hobby of copying as many rare and decaying tomes as he has been able to find, to preserve them for future generations. Lore-master Avros isn't certain, but he thinks Loremaster Erill might once have journeyed to the library of Elversult to copy the Mal'eb'dala."
A triumphant grin crept slowly across Caledan's face. 'The Sunset Mountains, you say?" He looked at Mari and then back to the monk, his pale green eyes dancing. "How do you two feel about going on a little journey?"
The Zhentarim Lord Ravendas ran a hand lightly over the cool steel spikes protruding from the machine. It was a curious device. There was a flat table beneath the needle-sharp spikes where an uncooperative prisoner might be bound, lying upon his back. At the foot of the table were a number of small wheels. Each one could be spun to raise or lower a single spike. The dozen spikes were positioned so that lowering them would cause terrible pain long before they caused fatal injury. Once Ravendas had been able to lower nine of them into the flesh of a captain who had failed her before his screams had ended in death. One day she hoped to lower all twelve into a subject without actually killing him. It was a great challenge, and Ravendas enjoyed challenges. But so far nine was her best.
The circular stone chamber was filled with other malevolent devices formed of twisted steel, sharpened wood, and leather straps. All were different, yet all had the same function-to maim and cause agony, without causing death. This was her torture chamber, deep among the foundations of the city lord's tower. It was a favorite refuge when she was in a rage, a place of peace. And Ravendas had been in a rage much these last days.
Cityfolk had dared to stand against her.
True, not many so dared. And while persons had stolen from her caravans and slain her guards, no real damage had been done. But that was not the point. The point was that cityfolk had dared to oppose her. The rebels would be punished for that.
So far the resistance groups had eluded her attempts to find them. They were well hidden in the city, like rats cowering in the filth of a sewer. But now the rats had made a foolish move. They had tried to discover something about her. In turn she would discover something about them.
The heavy, iron-bound door opened with a grating of rusted hinges. Two guards entered, cruelly dragging a prisoner between them. Behind them strode the lord steward, Snake, in his poison green robes, eyes emotionless as always.