The little girl yawned and dutifully grabbed the hem of his robe.
"How can I ever repay you?" the old man asked. "I must do something. I must give you something."
The druid shook his head. He had no need for possessions, especially any of the junk cluttering up the tower. But as he turned to go, a thought occurred to the druid. Eyes twinkling, he spun around to face Drollo. "How about giving me some of your collection?"
"Yes! A splendid idea!" Drollo exclaimed. "As much as you can carry."
Galvin spent the next several hours toting an impossibly large sack up and down the tower stairs.
"What is this?" the druid asked on the top floor, pointing to a long cylindrical object aimed out the window.
"A star-watcher."
"Well, I don't need one of those. And this?" He gestured at a half-sphere covered with beads and bits of metal.
"I don't recall."
"Fine. I'll take it."
"What about this?" Galvin asked as they descended to the next floor.
"It's called a hudabit. Imported from Zhentil Keep. I'm not sure what it does."
"Good. I want it."
The druid pawed through a collection of gnomish devices and pointed at a small box covered with gears and dials. "What's this?"
The old man shrugged, and Galvin promptly put the box in his sack.
On and on the druid went, picking up anything the old man couldn't identify. By the time he was finished, Galvin was loaded down with satchels, pouches, sacks, and packs. He strained under the weight, and Drollo had to open the front door for him.
"Thank you, Galvin. For everything," Drollo said.
"Until swords part," the druid replied formally. "And fair days to you, Isabelle."
The little girl yawned and waved, but the weasel in her hands chittered in mock offense.
"Yes, I'll come back for a visit," Galvin told the weasel. "I'll not stay away so long again."
Like an overburdened peddler, Galvin staggered away, dragging his bundles for nearly a mile. At last, he found a shady copse of trees and dropped his gifts on the ground. The druid unstrapped his sword, stretched, and fell to all fours.
He willed another transformation. This one covered him with coarse gray fur and gave him long, sharp claws.
The badger started digging a hole at the base of a massive willow tree. Hours later, when the hole was deep enough for his purposes, Galvin returned to his human form. He deposited all the junk into the hole, covered it up, and stamped the earth flat.
He carefully loosened ferns and mosses from elsewhere in the copse and transplanted them over Drollo's buried possessions. Like a careful gardener, he arranged the plants and made it look as much as possible as if the ground had not been disturbed.
Satisfied that Drollo's toys would remain undiscovered, the druid strode south toward the Reach. He intended to have a chat with the sea elves of Mercea about selling water spiders to people who haven't the foggiest idea of how to use them.
The Curse of Tegea
Troy Denning
From the look of things, times were hard for the Inn of the High Terrace. Although the supper hour had long since arrived, the veranda was deserted. In the center of each rough-hewn table sat an overturned bread basket and an old wine bottle filled with wilted poppies. The chairs were scattered haphazardly around the patio, as if the person who had last swept the floor had seen no purpose in returning them to their rightful positions.
"It appears you haven't had many patrons of late," Adon observed.
"Let's just say that tonight the best table in the house is yours," grumbled the innkeeper, leading the way across the patio. Myron Zenas, for that was his name, was a brawny man as hairy as a bear, with steady black eyes, a huge nose lined with red veins, and a beard that hung down to his chest.
"Does your trouble have anything to do with the curse on Tegea?" Adon asked.
Myron stopped. "It's not my fault," he snapped. "Who told you it was?"
"No one," said Corene.
Like Adon, the young woman belonged to the Church of Mystra, though she was a novice and he was a cleric of high standing. The black-handled flail hanging from her belt seemed curiously at odds with her golden-haired beauty, for she had brown doelike eyes, a button nose, and the gleaming smile of a goddess. "In fact, we've heard very little about the evil afflicting Tegea, save that you need help."
"It's best that you don't know more," the innkeeper said, an expression of relief crossing his face. He led the way to the far corner, where the veranda overlooked the entire village. "Tegea's problems aren't your concern."
"We've come a long way to offer help," Adon objected.
"Then you've wasted your journey," Myron replied. "Even if there was anything you could do-and there isn't-our village's grief is its own. The last thing we need is a pair of outsiders sticking their noses into our misery." With that, the innkeeper moved two chairs to the table and waved his guests to their seats. "I'll send your meal out."
As Myron returned to the kitchen, Corene whispered, "This is going to be harder than we thought."
"Not at all," Adon said, removing his mace from its sling so he could sit comfortably. "The people of Tegea will be happy for our help-once we've won their confidence."
"And how are you going to do that?" demanded the novice.
"I'll think of a way," Adon said. He looked out over the village he had come to rescue.
Located in the southern reaches of the Dragonjaw Mountains, Tegea seemed idyllic enough. The mountains surrounding it were covered with towering cypresses, as slender and pointed as spearheads. Closer to the village, the terraced slopes supported huge groves of strangely gnarled olive trees. The warped boughs were laden with silvery leaves that danced in the evening breeze and seemed to whisper the soft songs of pastoral life. In the town itself, the muffled clang of a goatbell occasionally echoed off a stone wall, but no other sound rose from the narrow lanes running through the labyrinth of whitewashed huts.
On the far side of the village, the local duke's dusky castle squatted upon the edge of a thousand-foot cliff. Its craggy towers were silhouetted against the distant waters of the Dragonmere Sea, where the sun was just sinking below the turquoise horizon.
Normally Adon would have been staying in the citadel instead of the local inn. As an important cleric in the Church of Mysteries, he could expect most nobles to extend their hospitality to him. However, the patriarch had been warned that the duke of Tegea disliked all priests, so he hadn't bothered to call at the castle.
Adon felt Corene's warm touch on his arm. "Here's dinner-at last," she said.
The cleric returned his attention to the veranda. A serving girl had just stepped out of the kitchen with a heavy tray in her hands. Her bountiful figure was accentuated by a tightly laced bodice and a billowing skirt just clingy enough to hint at the slender legs beneath. She had skin the color of ginger, with black hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders in silky waves. Her almond-shaped eyes were as brown as topaz and lined with kohl.
It was impossible to see the rest of her face. From her cheeks down to her collarbone, the maid's visage was hidden by an unsightly veil. Brushing against the skin of such a beautiful girl, the shroud seemed sorely out of place. It was made of coarse, black wool and suspended from a strand of rough twine.
The young woman rested the serving tray on the edge of their table. "I'm Sarafina, Myron's daughter," she said, placing a goblet of golden wine and a steaming bowl in front of Corene. "Tonight, we have plum wine and lamb stew. I hope you'll enjoy it."
As Sarafina turned to serve Adon, her eyes fell on the left side of his face and remained fixed there. Although the patriarch was a handsome man with a patrician nose and a cleft chin, he often elicited such stares. During the Time of Troubles, when the gods had walked Faerun in the bodies of mortal avatars, his good looks had been taken from him by a zealot. Now a red scar traced a crooked path from his left eye down to his jawline. Adon self-consciously turned his face away so the young woman would not have to look upon his blemish.