Still, for the next few days Riven would have to lay low and watch his back. At least until after the Zhentarim hit the guildhouse. If anyone with a grudge survived the coming purge, they might notice his absence, put the puzzle together, and come looking for him. He wasn't afraid for his safety, but he didn't want the bother of fanatics trying to hunt him down.
He smiled, appreciating the irony. The rabid fanaticism of the Knives had been the very reason the Zhentarim had decided to move against them so forcefully in the first place. While Selgaunt's underworld was a viper's pit of competing organizations, none of them had been fanatical prior to the radicalization of the Night Knives. Thieves' guilds acted predictably; religious movements did not. Selgaunt's underworld could not long tolerate an unpredictable actor-unpredictability drew the attention of the city's otherwise disinterested authorities. The Zhentarim could not allow that.
One more reason to spurn religion, Riven supposed with a contemptuous sneer. Where was your god tonight, old man? Holed up in the shrine, maybe? He chuckled aloud. Riven restricted his worship to only three things-sharp steel, cold coin, and warm women, in that order. Anything else was weakness.
Still chuckling, he turned his back to the shrine and strode down the hallway until he reached the oak door that opened into the storage room. Low voices from within carried through the wood. He spared one last glance over his shoulder-his last sight of this den of idiots-wiped the satisfied grin off his face, and pushed the door open.
Two men, Fek and Norwyl, decent thugs, not so decent sentries-hastily stood from their game of dice. Two small piles of silver lay at their feet, and a pair of ivory knucklebones rested on the floor between them. Asp eyes, Riven saw, and smiled coldly. Crates lined the walls. For light, Fek and Norwyl had stuffed a tallow candle into the tap of an empty keg. A filthy rug covered the floor.
"Riven," Fek said in nervous surprise. The taller of the two, Fek wore a short sword at his belt and looked as though he hadn't shaved his spotty beard in days. A wooden disc painted black and ringed with red at the edge hung from a leather thong around his neck-the makeshift symbol of Mask that many of the guild's members had taken to wearing. Riven managed not to strangle him with it. Barely.
"Fek," Riven replied with a nod. "Norwyl."
Norwyl too wore the black disc about his neck. A nervous little man even shorter than Riven. Norwyl gestured at the knucklebones on the floor.
"Join us?" he asked halfheartedly. "Fek could use a change in his luck."
"Piss off," Fek said.
"No," Riven briskly replied and pushed past them. He thought about killing them both, a sort of going-away present for the guild, but decided against it. They'd be dead soon enough. "I'm leaving for-a few days," he announced. "Business for the Man."
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled up the dirty carpet – scattering the coins and dice – to expose a trapdoor with an iron pull ring. Norwyl and Fek merely watched, shifted from foot to foot, and said nothing further – they knew better than to ask him about his business or complain about the spilled coins. He had killed many men for much less.
He jerked the trapdoor open and wrinkled his nose at the stink of old sewage that raced up his nostrils. Without a glance at the two guards, he lowered himself over the side and slid down the rusty iron ladder. Halfway down, Norwyl's head appeared above him, framed in the candlelight. The guildsman's wooden holy symbol dangled from his neck, slowly twisted in the air. "Mask's favor," he called.
"Luck to you too," Riven grunted insincerely. You'll need it, he silently added.
With that, Norwyl slammed the trapdoor shut.
Riven, familiar with this exit, descended the rest of the ladder in darkness. When he reached the muck-covered floor, he took out his tinderbox, struck a flame, and lit a candle taken from his belt pouch. Surprised by the sudden light, rats squeaked and scurried for the comforting dark.
Riven pulled his crimson cloak close against the chill, shielded the small flame with one hand, and headed westward for the well exit onto Winding Way. As he walked, he replayed the events of the night in his head. It is regrettable that Cale is not here to share this triumph, the Righteous Man had said. Riven frowned thoughtfully. Regrettable indeed. Hearing
Cale scream as the dread devoured him would have been the sweetest triumph of all.
Yrsillar pushed the squealing soul of the Righteous
Man into a dark corner of the mind they now shared. He smiled in satisfaction. The feel of pliable, fleshy lips – his lips – peeling back over spit-wet teeth exhilarated him. He disdainfully wiped the snot and spittle from his new face and held his hand before his eyes for examination. He frowned when he saw that the spotted, wrinkled flesh of this body covered muscles and bones weakened with age.
Testing their limits, he repeatedly clenched and unclenched the fists of his new body, clawed the air, bent at the knees, twisted at the torso, and finally hopped up and down. Afterward, he hissed in satisfaction.
Though old, the body remained fit. Indeed, fit enough to contain Yrsillar's being and still provide a living shell that protected his emptiness from this plane. He felt no pain! None!
He reached his hands toward the ceiling and laughed, deep and long, a sound so full of power and malice that the true occupant of the body could never have produced it. The soul of the Righteous Man squirmed helplessly in its dark corner and Yrsillar laughed the more.
He had waited long for this day, centuries. Once before he had been summoned here. Over six hundred years ago as mortals measured time, a drow mage named Avarix had called his true name and drawn him here, had bound him and required for his freedom that he slay every member of a rival household. Yrsillar had done so without compunction, reveled in the massacre, fed greedily on drow souls, but screamed in pain all the while. The energy of this plane ate away like acid at his being, burning, searing.
He had felt the scars of that first summoning for years, even after he had won his freedom from accursed Avarix. Throughout the long healing process, he had brooded, plotted. The lure of this place had pulled at him. A plane so full of life, so full of food. He had longed to return and gorge himself, but the unavoidable pain that accompanied his existence here had made such a return inconceivable. Inconceivable that was, until he had struck upon the simplest of solutions-possess a living mortal body and use its flesh to shield him from the poison that flooded this plane. With that plan in mind, he had nursed his hate, and waited patiently for another summons.
At last the call had come. This fool called the Righteous Man had cast a summoning and pronounced his true name. The powerful word had sped instantly through the intervening planes and resounded in Yrsillar's ears as though spoken beside him. Gleefully, he had leaped upon the power thread and traced it back to this plane, his hunger for living souls lending him speed. Again however, he had found himself properly bound! His ingenious plan to possess his mortal summoner and remain here to feed caved in around him. Or nearly so. The other human had broken the binding and freed him.
He laughed and danced a gleeful little jig. As he did, his eyes fell on the Shadowtome, the hated book that held within its pages not only his true name, but also the proper way to bind him. What mortal had dared scribe such a thing? Avarix? Wretched book! Wretched drow!
"Rrrar!" He kicked over the lectern and knocked the book to the floor. Enraged, he stomped on it again and again, jumping up and down in a paroxysm of rage. A tendon in his calf snapped, but he ignored the twinge.