Akabar didn’t appear comforted by whatever the half-elf had said. He reeled around and was forced to lean heavily on the tabletop to keep from falling over. He began muttering, “The sign … the rotting,” over and over again.
“Get hold of yourself, Akash,” Alias demanded, placing her hands on Akabar’s shoulders.
“I think your friend is not well,” Kyre said, hurrying into the room and taking Akabar’s hands in her own.
“What is it?” Mourngrym asked Kyre. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s in shock. He should lie down. Here, Akabar Bel Akash,” the half-elf said softly. She tugged gently on Akabar’s wrists until she’d led him to the bed. “Sit here,” she ordered.
As if he were in a trance, Akabar obeyed wordlessly.
“Now lie down,” Kyre said.
Akabar swung his feet up on the bed and laid his head down on the pillow.
“Perhaps we should fetch Morala,” his lordship suggested, alarmed by the mage’s glassy-eyed stare.
“There’s no need to trouble the priestess, your lordship,” Kyre said. “I’m sure he’ll recover soon.”
“I’m sure she’s right,” Alias said. “Akabar’s been having these strange dreams,” she explained. “I’m afraid he takes them a little too seriously.”
“Perhaps I can help,” Kyre said. “I have made a study of dreams. If he will speak to me about them, perhaps I can tell him what they mean.”
“Alias,” Mourngrym said from the bedside, “I think he’s trying to say something to you.”
Alias knelt by the Turmishman’s side. “I’m here, Akabar. What is it?”
Fighting to get the words out, Akabar whispered slowly, “Take … me … to … Zhara.” His eyes glittered and his breathing was too quick.
Alias looked up at Kyre.
“I don’t think you should move him,” the half-elf said softly. “Who is Zhara?”
“His wife,” Alias said reluctantly. She stood up again and explained more to Kyre in a whisper. “His third wife, a priestess. She’s got him believing his dreams are real.”
“Dreams are only real in our heads,” Kyre said.
“Can you convince him of that?” Alias asked hopefully.
“Perhaps. If you and Lord Mourngrym will leave me alone with him for a time, it will be easier to speak with him about it,” Kyre suggested.
Alias looked down anxiously at Akabar. Perhaps this attack of nerves, or whatever it was, was a blessing in disguise, she thought. Kyre was a beautiful woman, and Alias found herself hoping that if the half-elf was left alone to care for Akabar, he would find Kyre as attractive as Kyre obviously found him. If Akabar liked Kyre enough, Kyre might break Zhara’s spell on him and convince him that Zhara was wrong, that his dreams of Moander weren’t some godly command to place himself in the path of evil, but only the memories of old terrors.
Alias nodded her consent. “Summon me if you need me,” the swordswoman said.
“I will let his wife know he is in my care,” the half-elf said. “Where is she?”
“The Old Skull Inn. I asked Jhaele to put Akabar and his wife in the Red Room,” Alias said. “There’s no hurry. Zhara won’t be expecting Akabar to return right away.”
Kyre nodded as she laid her slender hand on Akabar’s forehead.
Mourngrym put a comforting hand on Alias’s shoulder as they left the room. “He’ll be fine,” his lordship said, pulling the door closed behind them. “I’m told Kyre is quite clever.”
“She seems very sensible,” Alias said, but she couldn’t keep from adding, “Do you think she’s right that this Grypht is a duke from the Nine Hells?”
Mourngrym shrugged. “I really don’t know. You heard what she said about its working for the Zhentarim. Whatever Grypht is, the Zhentarim would certainly like to get their hands on Elminster. Still, I can’t imagine that Elminster is in any real danger. He has an evasion spell to take him to safety if his life is ever seriously threatened.”
“But Nameless doesn’t have such a spell,” Alias said. “The Zhentarim could be holding him to force Elminster to stay with them. Nameless and Elminster were once close friends. Elminster wouldn’t abandon him. Suppose the Zhentarim heard some rumor about me and decided to try to coerce Nameless into creating another creature like me so they could use it as an agent? They might try to force Elminster to help him.”
Mourngrym’s face clouded over with concern. Alias’s theory was too sensible to be discounted. “Why don’t you pay a visit to the sage’s scribe? If anyone knows anything about Elminster, it would be Lhaeo. In the meantime, I’ll try to find some spell-casters who could scry for Nameless and Elminster.”
Immediately after Alias and Mourngrym left Nameless’s former cell, Kyre crept to the doorway and listened for a few moments as the swordswoman and the lord of Shadowdale moved away down the hall. When their footsteps and voices had faded into the distance, Kyre whispered a chant to hold the door closed so that nothing would interrupt her talk with the Turmishman. With Elminster gone and Akabar indisposed, it would take Mourngrym some time to scare up a mage capable of forcing the door. By then she would be gone and Akabar would be gone with her.
The half-elf crossed back to the bed and sat down beside Akabar. The Turmishman rolled his head and shook, as if he were in the midst of a bad dream. It must seem to him as if he were, Kyre realized. She had stunned him with a power word right in front of the lord of Shadowdale and the swordswoman, but since Kyre had spoken the word in Turmish, neither Mourngrym nor Alias had the slightest suspicion that the merchant-mage’s state of shock had been brought on by a magical attack. Like most northerners, they had never bothered to learn Turmish or any of the related southern tongues, and now the half-elf would reap a great reward because of their ignorance.
For a brief moment, when Akabar had found the strength and wits to ask Alias to take him to his wife, the half-elf had feared her scheme would be ruined. Fortunately Alias had been more willing to trust a stranger than accept the Turmishman’s trust in his priestess wife. Cassana had done a good job conditioning the swordswoman to dislike members of the clergy, Kyre thought with satisfaction.
Kyre ran her finger down the sleeve of Akabar’s robe. After she had spent months of fruitless searching for the Turmishman, he had brought himself to her, and now he lay here completely at her mercy. Before he regained his senses, she would have to put him under a stronger enchantment. She could place him in a gem of soul-stealing to carry him off to her master, but it would be easier and far more amusing to convince him to come with her of his own free will.
“Please forgive me for casting a spell on you, Akabar,” she said in his native tongue, “but I can’t permit you to tell everyone about your dreams.” The mage’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Kyre pulled a glass vial out from her tunic pocket and unstoppered it. “Drink this down,” she told him, raising the vial to his lips. “It will help clear your head.”
In his confused state it didn’t occur to Akabar to resist Kyre’s suggestion. Dutifully he swallowed the liquid she poured in his mouth.
Kyre leaned over and kissed the mage gently on the lips. “Lie still a few minutes and you’ll feel better,” she said in flawless Turmish.
“Zhara,” Akabar sighed. Then, with more agitation, he cried out, “The bowl of rotting fruit! Zhara, beware!”
Kyre frowned slightly. Aside from having too great a hold on the mage’s heart, this Zhara probably knew too much. Fortunately Alias had told the half-elf all she needed to know to deal with the priestess.
Kyre stood up, padded over to the window, yanked open the curtain, and threw back the shutters. “The rain has stopped for the moment. How convenient,” she declared.