Raidon repressed a shudder. He was suddenly and simultaneously cognizant that, with the scope of the situation before him, he hadn't thought about Ailyn for a great span of daylight…
The monk sighed, clenched his fists, and lost his focus. Of what real purpose was his life? He'd failed the one person who needed him. He'd outlived his own time and survived now only through a fluke of magic and circumstance. He didn't deserve or much care if his own existence continued. He yearned for an end to his struggles, an end to his shame. On the heels of that insight, an idea followed.
He said, "Once your capacity to move me is rejuvenated, transfer me directly into the kraken's presence. It will be caught off guard. I will strike with all the art of Xiang Temple in my fist, and kill the kraken before it knows it is threatened. Its death convulsion will kill me, and if not, I will drown before I reach the surface. I do not fear such an outcome. I would welcome it."
Silence was Raidon's response.
"Did you hear, Cynosure?" demanded the man of the air, his voice infused with uncharacteristic volume. "Send me along now. Let me slay this kraken and be done with it all."
The sun was sinking into the west, and a coolness grew on the plain. Raidon spied a wolf in the valley below, sniffing along the track of some hoped-for twilight meal.
Finally the voice replied, "I appreciate your fervor, Raidon Kane. Were I able to transfer you thus, assuming I could place you so close to the great kraken within its wards, which I cannot, perhaps you could kill Gethshemeth. But in killing it, and yourself, you would alert Xxiphu."
"Surely, I can slay Gethshemeth quickly enough," returned the monk, though with less certitude. "I would have a few moments to catch it by surprise-"
"It has held the relic too long. Even if I could put you in the right place at the right time, which I have just explained I cannot, killing the great kraken is not enough. We need to kill Gethshemeth and simultaneously sever its connection with the relic, and therefore, its connection to the Abolethic Sovereignty. Your Sign alone is insufficient to that task."
Raidon pulled his fingers across his close-cropped black hair, massaging away a germ of annoyance. The construct was becoming more long-winded and circumspect by the moment.
"Then what, Cynosure? What can I do?"
"You must discover the fate of the sentient sword, Angul. It alone, in your hands, can accomplish what must be done."
"Angul. Yes, a powerful blade. But was it not an item infused with its power by the Weave? With Mystra's fall, how could it still function?"
"You ask a penetrating question. A complex answer exists; the simple answer is that it simply does. Will that satisfy?"
Raidon frowned. His emotions were as out of control as they'd ever been. If Cynosure were standing next to him just then, he would have struck the golem.
Cynosure must have sensed something of the monk's mood. It said, "I apologize. Listen, then. Many magical items such as swords, cloaks, boots, and especially relics and artifacts survived the Spellplague and still operate, though sometimes with altered abilities. A magical item's abilities were scribed into these devices when they were created, so even though the Weave was used in their making, the Weave no longer plays any part in their continuing operation. Likewise, though a forge flame is used in the making of a sword, if that forge flame later goes out for good, the sword is no less sharp. Does that answer you fairly?"
Raidon thought on Cynosure's words. He recalled the effects of the Spellplague on a person. The caravan chief, who'd died in its hungry grip, for instance.
The monk grunted. He asked, "Why not tell Kiril all this? She's Angul's wielder. And a swordswoman. While I am proficient with blades, I prefer not to rely on them. You would be better enlisting her than me."
Cynosure replied, "As I said before, I lost track of Kiril after the Year of Blue Fire. She bears no Sign, yet in a dim way I was able to discern her condition. After she left the ruins of Ormpetarr, she and her dwarf employer plunged into something local survivors call the Plague-wrought Land. I have not detected her or Angul's presence since. And, moreover, you are the only person with whom I can converse."
"How do you know Angul lies within the Plague-wrought Land?"
"I do not. But it is the only lead we have. Perhaps you will learn more when you visit. A small settlement lies on its outskirts-you could get yourself a meal when you arrive."
Raidon's stomach spoke up of its own accord. He was still ravenous. His grief-inspired fast had sapped his strength. A sit-down meal… perhaps that was what he needed. With a pot of steaming tea on the side.
"Then send me on to Ormpetarr, when your strength is recovered. I will eat. After that, perhaps I will discover Kiril's fate, and if I decide you are not dealing with me falsely, take up the sword, Angul, as my own."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Green Siren on the Sea of Fallen Stars
You can't stop yourself, can you?"
Japheth looked up, his hand half out of a fold of his cloak, his fingers clutching a dull tin.
He frowned at Anusha. The girl perched on the edge of her travel case, nearly knee to knee with him as he sat on his cot. The porthole illuminated the cabin's cramped expanse, though poorly. Her face was half shadowed, but he could read her expression well enough. She was concerned. Constant proximity to her over the last days had worn away much of the distance he preferred to maintain between himself and others.
He had been lulled into a growing camaraderie. At first, she had done all the talking, relating to him the vivid details of her fight on deck against the sea hag. Japheth enjoyed her enthusiastic rendition of the events. In another person, he might have judged the story overlong, but somehow he hadn't minded as the account poured from her lips. She'd never successfully stood off a determined attack by foes eager for her blood before-why shouldn't she be flushed with success? More than that, he was interested to hear more of her peculiar sleepwalking ability.
Her question about his traveler's dust made him wish he'd maintained his customary reserve. The girl was becoming too familiar. Who was she to question his habits? Annoyance flared as a biting reply rose like acid in his throat. But he didn't voice it. Why?
Why did he not speak his mind with her? Why did he treat her so… delicately? Perhaps it was the fine cut of her jaw, her smooth-faced youthfulness. Her presence, in some way, recalled to him when he'd related to the world as she did, when he was still unscarred and saw limitless potential in everything. He had been like her not so long ago. Listening to her, watching her, he realized just how many dark events had got behind him. She radiated youth's naivety and energy, unconsciously and without regard to its scarcity.
If he allowed his guard to crumble further, he might make the mistake of dwelling overlong on her feminine attributes. It was better to think of her as a child, as when he'd first met her, rather than what she really was.
He imagined cradling Anusha's head in his hands and kissing her until they were both out of breath.
Lord of Bats forefend! Where had that come from? He shook his head, attempting to dislodge his thoughts from that track. He didn't need the complication of a relationship, however fleeting or innocent.
He tried to think of something else, anything else. An image of his tin filled with roseate crystals popped into his head. His palms itched in immediate response. His concentration shivered, and he growled.
"Are you all right?" Anusha asked, leaning toward him.
"My business is my own," he finally replied. He tried to make his voice cold, but it came out cracked.
Wait! He remembered what his mind kept trying to forget. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she could still be an agent of Behroun.