Kri glowered. “While your friends fight the demons in our stead? While Vestapalk sends new minions to unearth whatever secrets this tower holds? While the abyssal plague spreads across the worlds? Of course! Take your time! Enjoy yourself.”
Albanon felt his face flush crimson, and he turned away from the old priest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Clearly. Remember our mission, Albanon. We have to understand our adversary if we are to defeat him. Shara and Uldane are depending on us.”
“I … I suppose I’ll visit the library now.”
Kri nodded, and Albanon slunk back down the stairs. He paused outside the doorway leading into the library and peered back up at the dome. Kri was still standing on the gallery, bony hands clenched around the thin railing, staring up at the depiction of the Vast Gate.
“Apprentice,” Splendid chirped.
“Hm,” Albanon answered, lost in a scroll in Sherinna’s library. It was a fascinating study of the magical principles underlying the use of fire, outlining the problems and techniques of fire magic in a way he’d never even begun to consider. The author of the treatise, according to a line at the top, had been Sherinna herself, and Albanon enjoyed imagining that she was teaching him. He wanted to try the techniques she was discussing, but didn’t want to stop reading long enough to leave the library and find someplace less … flammable.
“Apprentice!” the pseudodragon said again.
Annoyed, Albanon tore his attention from the scroll and scanned the library until he found the little drake perched on the top of a bookshelf, peering down at him.
“I’m not an apprentice any more, Splendid.”
“Of course you are. The great Moorin never finished your training.”
“The great wizard Moorin, in case you’ve forgotten, is dead and never will finish my training. I have no master, so I am not an apprentice. But the acquisition of knowledge is a lifelong pursuit.”
“According to the ancient traditions of wizardry that the great wizard Moorin followed scrupulously, no apprentice can claim the title of wizard until a master has certified that his training is complete.”
“Did you have something you wanted to say, Splendid, or can I go back to my reading now?”
“I wanted to say that you should be careful.”
Albanon sighed. “About anything in particular?” he asked.
“About the priest. I don’t trust him.”
“Now you don’t trust him? All it took was a few strips of honeybark and some kind words in Moorin’s tower and you were his best friend. Practically everyone else we’ve met since we left Moorin’s tower, though, smelled wrong to you, starting with Roghar and Tempest. ‘The tiefling smells of pact magic,’ you told me. ‘And the dragonborn reeks of stale ale and-’ What was it?”
“Stale ale and overpriced mead. He does!”
“And he’s a paladin of Bahamut, and one of the most noble souls I know,” Albanon said. “Even if he does call me an elf,” he added under his breath.
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong about the priest.”
“It means you’re a terrible judge of character. What crime has Kri committed? Smelling like incense and scented candles?”
“Well, he does.”
“That’s because he’s a priest, Splendid. He’s a devotee of Ioun, the god of knowledge. And his knowledge is deep and wide! This library couldn’t contain it.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s working for good.”
“He saved my life-twice-and kept me from turning into a demon. He fought by our side, helped us defeat Vestapalk’s second in command, and helped fight off the demons we found here. What part of that doesn’t seem like he’s working for good?”
“He says he ran out of honeybark.”
Albanon sighed. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“But I don’t believe him,” the dragonet said, her voice growing shrill. “I can still smell it on him.”
“Through the incense and scented candles?”
Splendid harrumphed, a sound somewhere between a meow and a squeak. “He’s hiding something, apprentice.”
“All right, Splendid. You don’t trust him. What do you want me to do? I’ll keep a close eye on him.”
“Do you know where he is right now?”
Albanon looked around the library again, blinking. “I have no idea. He was here earlier.”
“That was hours ago.”
With a start, Albanon realized that the entry hall outside the library was dark-the sun had gone down as he read, and he hadn’t noticed. Several magical lamps kept the library well lit, and he’d been engrossed in the abundant volumes the library had to offer.
“Perhaps he got hungry,” Albanon said, “or tired. How long has it been dark?”
“I’m hungry,” Splendid said.
“Fine. Leave me alone and get yourself some food.”
“You should eat, too. The great wizard Moorin-”
“Splendid, enough about the great wizard Moorin! He’s dead and gone!”
The dragonet seemed to get smaller, furling her wings and drawing her tail close around her legs. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked down at him with a mixture of grief and reproach that only fueled his anger.
“In fact, I’ve had about enough of you!” he shouted. “You’ve been following me around since Moorin died, hovering like a chaperone trying to keep me out of trouble. I don’t need a chaperone-especially an impudent, self-important, overgrown familiar like you!”
With each word, Splendid shrank back from his growing anger, and with his final exclamation she turned tail and leaped off the shelf, flapping out through the archway in bitter silence.
“Good riddance,” he muttered, trying to find his place in the scroll.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Shara roared her fury and charged the enormous demon. Quarhaun groaned weakly as its claws sank deeper into his chest.
“Get off him!” she shouted, then her sword bit into the thing’s leering face.
“Remember, warrior,” Vestapalk’s voice said from the demon’s mouth, “wanting a thing does not put it within your reach.”
“Oh, I’ll have my revenge,” Shara said, aiming another slice at the demon’s throat. It batted her blow aside, but at least that claw was no longer embedded in Quarhaun’s chest. “Believe it, dragon.”
“Not dragon. So much more.”
The demon shuddered and Shara knew, in a way she couldn’t explain, that Vestapalk was gone. The creature before her was full of destructive fury, intensified by the pain of its injuries, but it lacked the dragon’s sheer malice-and, for that matter, its guile.
It doesn’t stand a chance, Shara thought.
Her sword was a blur of motion as she jumped within the demon’s reach, standing over Quaraun’s inert form and slashing up at the demon’s belly, the tendons under its forelegs, and, as it tried to back up and bite her, its throat. Every swing drew thick scarlet blood, gleaming like crystal in its wounds.
The lizardfolk had the demon surrounded, and they beat their clubs against it in a methodical rhythm, though they were attacking cautiously, avoiding the crystal growths on its back that had injured their fellow. Uldane danced in and out of the fray among the lizardfolk, always attacking exactly where the demon’s attention was not, striking vulnerable spots that made it yowl in pain and growing fear. The demon crouched low, bringing its belly within Shara’s reach.
“It’s going to jump!” Uldane shouted.
Instead of striking its belly, Shara rolled toward its hind end and slashed at the tendons of its rear leg, just as it started to spring. Her blow sapped the strength from its leg and it barely cleared the ground with its jump, then staggered forward, dragging that injured leg. Shara chased it, but it spun around and swatted at her with one great claw.
Claws of red crystal slashed through her armor and bit into her chest, but fear drowned out the pain. The red crystal’s in my blood now, she thought. Am I infected with this plague? Am I going to change?