Dragonbait pulled her into his own room across the hall and forced her to sit on his bed, holding her firmly by her shoulders.
Zhara smelled woodsmoke all around her, and then she felt calmer. Her mouth tingled, but at least it no longer ached. She took a deep breath. “You healed me, didn’t you?” she asked.
The lizard nodded, brushing her reddish-brown hair out of her eyes and stroking her cheek gently with one of his scaly fingers.
“Alias was the one who sent those things after me,” Zhara said.
Dragonbait looked down at the priestess with widened eyes, as if she’d lost her mind.
“She did. I dreamed it.”
The saurial paladin shook his head vehemently.
“I have to find Akabar! He’s in terrible danger! You must take me to him! You must!” Zhara cried.
Dragonbait nodded. He pulled a scarf from his pack and handed it to her, signing that she could use it as a veil.
While the paladin couldn’t believe that Alias had anything to do with the attack on Zhara, he never doubted for an instant that Zhara was right about her husband’s being in danger. The deadly enchanted thistles smelled of the Darkbringer’s magic, and Dragonbait shuddered to think what other sorts of plants and creatures the god would send after the merchant-mage.
Satisfied that she had broken Akabar’s spirit, Kyre slid her dagger back up her sleeve and set the crystal nut down on the table. She kissed the mage on the lips, more passionately than she had the first time, tugging on his lips with her own.
Akabar shuddered, too terrified of the tendrils in the half-elf’s mouth to risk unclenching his jaw, but he made no verbal complaint. He could feel the tendrils about his arms loosening and then falling away.
“Now, prove to me your sincerity,” Kyre demanded as she slid the tendrils out from his sleeves. “Embrace me,” she ordered.
Akabar slid his arms around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her close to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and ran her fingers up and down his spine. The tendrils from her arms slithered about his ankles and lay bunched on the floor like pythons. The merchant-mage’s feelings warred between revulsion and desire.
“That potion you had me drink was a philter of love, wasn’t it?” Akabar asked.
Kyre looked up at the Turmishman with surprise. “Yes,” she admitted, laying her head against his chest. “The master made a perfect choice. You are very clever.”
Akabar’s eyes fell on the crystal soul trap lying on the table. If an enemy of Moander’s was trapped within, Kyre must have used it on Elminster, he thought. Then she had Grypht appear in his place to distract the other two Harpers before it occurred to either of them that she might be responsible. Grypht fled from the Harpers’ court and Kyre followed, making herself appear the monster’s foe. No doubt she assisted it in the capture of Nameless and then gave it the opportunity to escape.
“I shall be your first reward,” Kyre whispered, pressing her slender body against his own. “The potion still courses in your blood. You know you desire me.”
“I know,” Akabar replied flatly. He had never loved anything so hateful in his life. Only another mage could dispel the love charm to which he’d fallen prey. Elminster could do so without batting an eye, but Elminster was as trapped as Akabar was. Suddenly a glimmer of hope flickered in the Turmishman’s heart. If Elminster were to be freed, the old sage could do more than dispel Kyre’s evil magic: Elminster could destroy Kyre as well.
On the table, beside the crystal soul trap and the bowl of rotting fruit, lay a chordal horn, a northern woodwind instrument, which must have belonged to Nameless. It was beautifully crafted of black wood and decorated with gold, but Akabar was only interested in its length and weight. It would make a reasonable club if he could just get hold of it.
Steeling himself to the task of distracting Kyre from his efforts to reach the horn, the merchant-mage bent over the woman and began kissing her all about her throat. The half-elf moaned softly. Akabar squeezed her tighter, forcing her back against the table, and ran his right hand down her back until he felt the tabletop. He closed his fingers around the instrument, but as he began lifting it from the table, he accidentally struck it against the rim of the silver fruit bowl.
Kyre started at the clanging sound and twisted around in Akabar’s arms. Akabar grabbed the half-elf’s right hand in his left and aimed the chordal horn over the soul trap gem on the table.
Realizing the mage’s intent, Kyre looked alarmed. She screamed, “No!” and snatched for the crystal nut with her left hand.
Akabar slammed the chordal horn down hard on the table. The top of the instrument smashed into the crystal nut, shattering it into pieces, but the middle of the instrument smashed into Kyre’s wrist with a sickening sound. Blackness oozed and billowed over the table where the soul trap had lain, but Akabar could not tear his eyes from the half-elf’s injured wrist.
Beneath Kyre’s skin, which had burst open like the rind of an overripe melon, there were no sinews or muscles or bones; instead, her arm was packed with rotting, mold-encrusted tendrils. Akabar gagged on the stench of decay that rose from her wrist. Most of the tendrils had been smashed by the chordal horn, and Kyre’s hand hung from the end of her wrist like a piece of dead meat.
The tendrils lying about Akabar’s ankles whipped upward and lashed about Akabar’s wrists, cutting off his circulation. Kyre yanked her uninjured right wrist out of the mage’s grasp. Akabar tried to club Kyre with the chordal horn, but Kyre pulled the instrument out of his hand and threw it to the floor.
Akabar turned his attention to his last hope of escape—the blackness over the table, which was now coalescing into the shape of the being that had been trapped within the crystal. Akabar gasped. He’d been expecting Elminster to appear, but although the being standing on the table wore the robes of a spell-caster, it looked nothing like the sage. It was huge, with horns and green scales and claws and a tail.
Akabar suddenly made a wild guess. “You transformed Elminster into that beast!” he accused Kyre.
Kyre didn’t answer the merchant-mage’s charge. With her uninjured hand, she had already pulled an empty soul trap out from her pocket. She held it out in the beast’s direction and triggered it by shouting, “Darkbringer!”
Akabar threw himself into Kyre, knocking them both to the floor. Kyre lost her grip on the walnut-shaped crystal, and the magical device rolled across the carpeting.
The beast pulled out a crystal cone from his sleeve and pointed it at the bard pinned beneath the merchant-mage.
A freezing blast of cold hit the tangled bodies on the floor, covering them with rime. Akabar’s skin felt as if it were on fire, and his heart and lungs ached as though they’d been stabbed. Unable to cope with such terrible pain, he lapsed into unconsciousness.
The beast Grypht watched with satisfaction as Kyre’s tendrils and the orchid in her hair withered from the frost that covered them. Kyre lay as still as Akabar, but Grypht was taking no chances. With his staff, he pried the merchant-mage off Kyre. Then he set the half-elven bard’s body alight with bursts of magical flames shot from his fingertips.
As the corpse crackled and sizzled, a horrible stench filled the room. Grypht made a face, but decided the smell could be borne. He climbed down from the tabletop and bent over his rescuer. He realized with a start that he recognized Akabar. Like the thief Olive Ruskettle, this creature was a friend to Champion—or Dragonbait, as people called the paladin in this strange world.