I look at the food before me, spilled over the carpets and awash in his radiance. With Yamun dead, the Tuigan have no reason to welcome me back into their lands. And what kind of return could I expect in Khazari, a land Yamun conquered while I rode at his side? Sadly I admit what I have always known-my memories have become illusions, ephemeral dreams of places I can no longer call home.
"I accept."
"Then it is done." There is a flare of light, and I am blinded. I stumble forward, my senses fleeing into the dark and cold. My eyes burn, my skull throbs with pain. The soft cushion of the carpet vanishes beneath me, and suddenly I fall to the stone, cold and wet.
Finally the brilliant sparkles fade from my vision, giving way to fog-clad night. The garden and soft carpets are transformed to leafless branches and chill stonework. On the gray cobblestone before me is a small bag. Taking it, I unwork the strings and pour a small stream of dazzling gems into my hand, worth no less than ten thousand golden lions, I would guess.
"Master!" It is Foxe's voice. I turn as the fog swirls away to reveal the portico to Denier's temple before me. Foxe is hurrying down the steps, still hastily dressed, just as I had left him an hour or more before. I suddenly feel foolish, sitting in the darkness in my limp, damp robes. "Master, what happened? I warned you not to go. Are you safe?"
What can I tell him of this night? Surely he would believe me possessed or charmed. Were it not for these gems, I myself would doubt the tale, and yet I have to give him some answer. "I've been home and back again."
"What?"
"Later, Firstborn Foxe. I am tired. Help me back to the temple. Tomorrow we can pack." I look around, just to make sure I am where I think I am.
"You're still leaving us?" His voice is sad as he slips a strong, thick hand under my elbow to help me up. I stand a little unsteadily, still disoriented by my sudden appearance in front of the temple.
"Yes and no, Foxe. I think-" I roll a few gems in my hand, trying to guess how many books they might purchase. "I think there is business to attend to here before I do anything. And after that…. Have I ever told you how much I should like to visit Waterdeep?" We slowly climb the temple steps. "I could use a good secretary, if I make such a trek. You don't know where I might find one, do you?"
A VIRTUE BY REFLECTION
Penn Othmann couldn't explain why he felt so nervous as he closed up his small, exclusive shop. The day had been uneventful, and, following his usual routine, he had worked well into the evening cataloguing antiques. Yet as Othmann was about to pull the door shut behind him, lock it, and speak the word that would have engaged the shop's magical wards, a terrible fit of anxiety overtook him. He wanted to go back inside and hide. That would be childish, he told himself. There's nothing to fear from the night in a civilized city like Arabel. Nothing at all.
Then the figure leaped out of the shadows. Othmann felt an explosion of pain in his upper arm, and he cried out. He had been stabbed. Futilely he wished he had trusted his instincts, but it was too late to chide himself. Survival was all that mattered now.
Before Penn Othmann could make another sound, his mouth was covered by his assailant's hand. Othmann was forced back with incredible ferocity, his head slamming into the wall. A burst of pure white light filled his vision.
His attacker gripped his arm and spoke into Othmann's ear in a low voice. "Run. If you scream, I'll gut you."
The merchant desperately wanted to tell the dark, misshapen figure that he was a wealthy man, that he could pay any price for his life, but the tone of that threat told him such pleading would gain him nothing.
Instead, Penn Othmann ran, just as he had been told. He raced through the darkened streets of the city, darted into alleyways, leaped over gates, and plunged down deserted avenues. The flaxen-haired merchant prayed his heart wouldn't give out. He wanted to stop, to catch his breath and rest, but his pursuer was never less than a few paces behind. The physical regimen he had endured as training for the city's weekly footraces had kept his body hard and lean, but the cold night air bit deeply into the bloody wound in his arm. Othmann's proud, handsome features were screwed up in pain and exertion. His sky-blue eyes were fixed on the continuous maze before him.
He wasn't aware that he was being driven along a chosen path, toward a particular destination, until he turned a corner and saw a dark green wall of foliage ahead. A nightmare-black gap was carved into the shrub wall, a dark archway that served as entrance to the beautiful gardens of the Citadel. Two guards lay on their chests. They might have been dead, but Othmann couldn't tell for sure.
Suddenly he knew exactly why he had been brought here. He stopped, and the footsteps behind him ceased. The cold realization that escape had never truly been possible flooded into him, accompanied by a fear unlike any he had ever known. Trembling, Penn Othmann turned and looked into the face of his executioner.
The dark figure grinned in delight and advanced.
A delicate whisper moved through the fabric of Myrmeen Lhal's dreams, causing the lithe, sensuous brunette to stir gently awake. "Myrmeen," the voice said in rich, melodic tones, "it's time to begin your day, my dearest."
Her dark blue eyes, tinged with slivers of gold, fluttered open. It was morning. The voice repeated its message, and Myrmeen reached over to the ornate nightstand beside her bed and allowed her hand to drift to a beautiful crystal phoenix.
"Myrmeen, it's time to-"
The voice was abruptly silenced as her fingers grazed the small statue. The phoenix was a gift from an admirer, a magical construct that had the ability to capture sounds then release them once again at a time of her choosing. The voice that had woken her had been her own.
Myrmeen sat up in bed and turned to appraise the quality of the light streaming through the large window to her left. The radiance was delicate and soft, filtered through pale blue curtains that fluttered ever so gently, though the windows were closed and there was no breeze. Myrmeen smiled at this. The curtains had been charged with several spells of protection-as had many of the objects in the vast, opulent bedchamber-and the energy moving through them caused them to sway. If an intruder were to somehow break through the glass, the curtains would rap themselves around the unfortunate fellow and slice him to pieces. Brutal, yes, but such protective measures were not uncommon or unnecessary for the ruler of any large city in Cormyr.
And the traps and wards might be hidden anywhere in the room. The wall behind the bed was decorated with a bronze mural of barrel-chested fighting men grappling in various death-duels. The metal reverberated with a low, rhythmic thump, not unlike the beating of a human heart. A sunken bath with rapidly churning scented waters lay a few steps away. On the walls, between paintings of startling elegance, weapons of arcane origins were mounted. Any of these might prove to be far more than the trappings of wealth.
Myrmeen frowned, fell back upon the bed, and tried to go back to sleep. She had been burdened by nightmares that were already beginning to fade, and she worried that the effects of the restless night she had endured would plague her the entire day. If she could get an hour or two of proper rest, she might be able to face the day without yawning in some dignitary's face.
The dreams were of her troubled childhood, her disastrous first marriage, and the death of her second, beloved husband, Haverstrom Lhal. She knew that she should be used to the nightmares, but they disturbed her with renewed power each day. She was no longer certain they would ever leave her alone.