A half-mile’s walk brought them back to the heart of the dank, muddy ruins and the plaza surrounding the wild mythal. Scores of slaves were hard at work scrubbing and polishing the ancient tiles covering the ground, while more worked to repair the crumbling walls surrounding the square. A dozen thralls-most of them ragged-looking humans who wore silver collars glowing with arcane glyphs-stood in a circle around the stone, chanting words of magic under the direction of drow wizards. Mages enslaved by the dark elves? Jack wondered. He grimaced as he realized that now he knew why Dresimil had need of slaves with arcane talent. If he had retained some of his affinity for magic, he might very well have been one of the exhausted wretches standing around with a silver collar on his neck. What great enterprise are the dark elves engaged in? Jack wondered. Some mighty effort was underway, but what was it? He was dying to ask his captors the purpose of it all, but he swallowed his curiosity. At best his questions would be ignored; more likely he’d be beaten again for speaking out of turn.
He studied the mythal as his guards escorted him across the plaza, and noted with some surprise that the stone seemed to be taking on a subtle, glossy sheen, almost as if it were growing a little translucent. There was a faint green luminescence hiding deep in the stone pillar, and he realized that he could very dimly perceive a glimmer of magical energy gathering in the mythal’s heart-the first hint of magic he’d sensed since waking up in this dismal new age. Jack slowed to look more closely, but a sharp glance from the guards escorting him prompted him to pick up his pace, and he followed more closely as they led him to a pavilion standing at one side of the plaza, overlooking the work. Dresimil and her brothers were there, observing the efforts.
“Lady Dresimil, we have brought the slave you asked for,” one of the warriors said. “He was rather rank. We took the liberty of having him wash and put on clean clothing.”
Dresimil turned and gave the guards an absent nod. “Very well,” she murmured, dismissing them. The warriors withdrew, leaving Jack alone with three noble-born dark elves.
Jack drew himself up, clicked his heels, and bowed. “My lady,” he said.
“Charming as ever, I see,” Dresimil replied. “Good. I’d feared the work in the fields might prove too much for a man of your delicate constitution.”
“It is somewhat more rigorous than I would have hoped, but I do my best,” Jack said. He longed to explain just how disagreeable he found the circumstances she’d thrown him into, but bit back on the words. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how miserable he was, but it was really a question of self-preservation. If he complained too loudly, Dresimil might be stirred to think of some new and even less pleasant use for him. Fortunately the dark elves seemed affable at the moment … perhaps enough so that he could indulge his curiosity. He put on an air of polite interest and nodded toward the mythal stone. “Your work on the mythal seems to be proceeding well. I can see the progress since my last visit here.”
“As it turns out, we have need of it,” Dresimil replied.
“Need of it?” Jack asked. “But the mythal was abandoned thousands of years ago, was it not?”
Dresimil shrugged. “It was. But that is not what I wished to speak to you about, Jack.”
Jack suppressed a frown of disappointment. He’d hoped that Dresimil might volunteer more than that. Now his curiosity was indeed whetted, but clearly it wouldn’t be wise to pry too deeply. Why did the dark elves need the old mythal? Doubtless they had some plot in mind, perhaps against the surface world, but what was it? “How may I be of service?”
“Tell me more about the woman we found petrified alongside you,” the marquise said. “Myrkyssa Jelan, was that her name?”
“Your recollection is accurate. She styled herself the Warlord of the Vast. In the Year of the Tankard-thirteen seventy-she appeared in the passes of the eastern mountains at the head of a formidable army, and ravaged much of the Vast for the better part of a year before setting siege to Raven’s Bluff. She had the very curious characteristic of being immune to magic.”
“Immune?” Jaeren asked sharply. “How so?”
Jack frowned. “Magic simply … wasn’t for her. No divination could find her, no battle spell could harm her, and in turn she could not touch or wield magic at all. She told me once that it was a generations-old curse upon her family, one that she was anxious to break.”
The drow exchanged silent glances. “Continue,” said Dresimil.
“Of course. Her horde laid siege to Raven’s Bluff. The Ravenaar army marched out to meet her, and defeated her forces in a great battle.” Jack paused, organizing his thoughts. “Jelan escaped the destruction of her army, and for many months afterward the city officials searched far and wide for her. It was assumed that she’d died unmarked in the battle, or retreated back to her strongholds in the wild lands far to the east.
“Unfortunately, neither hope proved well-founded. Myrkyssa Jelan infiltrated Raven’s Bluff in disguise. She posed as the last surviving member of the Thoden family, and rose to become the city’s Lady Mayor after the old lord mayor resigned. No one suspected her, because as the Warlord no one had ever seen her face.” Jack offered a small shrug. “I came to know her in the aptly named Year of Wild Magic, thirteen seventy-two. While she was Lady Mayor, she also masqueraded as a lawless adventurer called Elana. I suppose she found a second identity as a criminal useful for engaging in plots and intrigues that would be unseemly for a civic official. In her guise as Elana, she conspired to seize control of the city. But her ultimate goal was to gain access to this mythal; she believed she could employ its magic to break her family’s curse.”
“Resourceful,” Jaeren observed.
Jack nodded. “I think it would be fair to say that Myrkyssa Jelan was the most ambitious, resourceful, and resolute person I have ever met. She was ruthless, but she also possessed a peculiar sense of personal honor-something she brought with her from her time in the East, I suppose. I was lucky to defeat her.” He hesitated, wondering how far he could push this moment of amiability, before adding, “Why do you ask?”
Dresimil pursed her lips in displeasure. “She escaped this morning.”
“Escaped? But she was a statue.”
“It seems that was not a permanent condition,” Jezzryd answered. “The effect wore off, and she returned to life a few hours ago. Our guards failed to subdue her.”
There was likely a good story in that simple turn of phrase, Jack reflected. How many injuries and how much mayhem were entailed by a failure to subdue Myrkyssa Jelan? “She is a formidable blademaster,” he agreed.
“True enough, but as you just described, no magic could touch her,” said Jezzryd. “The most powerful spells of our mages and priests left her completely unscathed. Yet you say that you entombed her in a magical prison when you defeated her a hundred years ago.”
“I believe I caught her in a rare moment of vulnerability, Lord Jezzryd. When I confronted her here, she was almost finished with the ritual that would restore her ability to wield magic-and to be affected by it, too, I would guess.” Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It seems that the ritual was not quite completed, or did not have the effects she anticipated. Perhaps her native unmagic simply took some time to reassert itself?”
The drow wizard glanced at his sister and offered a slight shrug as if to say that he saw no reason to doubt Jack’s explanation. Dresimil thought a moment, and then addressed Jack again. “What do you think she will do now that she is free?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” said Jack. “She might seek to try her ritual again, but now that your mythal is no longer deserted, that would seem difficult. I suppose she’ll return to the surface world, discover that she has been entombed for a century, and make the best of the situation. If the people of Raven’s Bluff have forgotten her, they may have just gained a determined new enemy they know nothing about.”