“Moander,” Akabar whispered and shivered. “So my dreams did not lie. It is returning.”
“You, too, are an enemy of the Darkbringer?” Grypht asked.
“I have come north to destroy it,” Akabar said with a quavering voice.
“Then you tread a dangerous path, Akabar Bel Akash,” the saurial said. “For of the Darkbringer’s minions in your plane, Kyre the bard was the least, and yet she nearly destroyed you.”
9
Finder’s Workshop
Olive knelt down beside the bard’s unconscious body on the cracked stone floor of Finder’s ruined keep. She pulled a vial of healing potion from her knapsack and uncorked it. Though the draft would have no effect on the poison in Finder’s body, it would take care of his bleeding crossbow bolt wounds. There was a chance it would even bring the bard to consciousness. She waved it under Finder’s nose, and he stirred slightly. She poured it past his lips and ordered him to swallow.
Instinctively Finder obeyed. In a few moments, he opened his eyes. “I dropped my dagger,” he said.
Olive laughed. The bard was dying, and he was still fussing about a lost dagger. “I’ll buy you another for your birthday,” she said.
Finder shook his head from side to side. “My grandfather gave me that dagger.”
Olive sighed. “Well, if you were thinking about going back to get it, forget it. I’ve given you a potion to slow the poison, but we’ve got to get you to a healer before the potion wears off. If we can just get you to the road, we should be able to get help from travelers. Do you think you can walk?”
With Olive’s assistance, Finder rolled over and struggled to sit up. He couldn’t use his injured hand at all. It was the size of a small melon and streaked with red and white lines, which ran up his wrists beneath the sleeve of his shirt. He was shaking slightly, though it was a warm afternoon. “I’ve got potions to neutralize poison in my workshop,” he said. “It would be easier to get back down there.”
“Are you crazy?” Olive shouted. “The place is crawling with orcs with crossbows! You nearly died down there!”
“We saw only four orcs. You probably blinded one with your torch, and I killed the two that grabbed you. If I hadn’t panicked like an idiot, I would have realized that left only one for me to handle while you took care of the other lock. The one that’s left will get bored soon and go back to its warren. By then, I’ll be rested, and we can try again. Instead of trying to show off this time, I’ll let you take care of the locks. An expert of your caliber should be able to open them without setting off the silent alarm or catching the poison needle.”
Olive wanted to grab the bard and give him a good shaking, but in his condition, she didn’t think he could take it. She tried to remain calm, to reason with him. “First,” she argued, “orcs breed like rabbits, and where there’s four there’s forty. And don’t forget, they still have a pal somewhere who disintegrates ceilings. Suppose they set up a guard in the passage just in case we turn out to be really stupid and come back? Secondly, I’m good with locks, but no one is perfect; there’s no guarantee I can bypass the alarm on the first lock or open the second lock fast enough in case I fail with the alarm.”
“The orcs would all rather be snug back in their warren than standing guard in a cold tunnel,” Finder argued. “They’ve come to rely on their alarm. It worked this time. They’ll assume it will work again. They won’t set a guard. As for your talents with locks you’re too modest, Olive girl. I know you can do it.” He turned his most charming grin on the halfling.
Olive fought the urge to please him. “Finder, I don’t want to stay here,” she insisted. “I want to get to the road before dark.”
Finder glared at Olive. “All right. Go,” the bard said coldly.
Olive looked at him with astonishment. She couldn’t believe he’d send her away. “Finder, I’m not leaving you. You can’t stay here. You have to try to get to the road with me.”
Finder’s chill expression thawed, and a rueful expression crossed his face. He reached out with his uninjured hand and pushed a stray strand of the halfling’s hair out of her eyes. “Olive,” he said softly, “I don’t want to die by the side of a road waiting for rescue. This place is my home. I’d rather be here when that potion wears off.”
“You aren’t going to die waiting beside a road,” Olive snapped angrily. “There are plenty of grain caravans and adventuring parties and soldiers traveling on the road this time of year. Most of them travel with healers, or at least with potions.”
“It’s half a day’s walk to the road, Olive. I’d never make it. I’m too weak. You’d better go now, in case there are any orcs searching aboveground.”
Olive dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to keep from screaming—or crying. “Oh, sweet Selûne!” she said. “You have to try, Finder!”
Finder chuckled dryly. “You sound like my mother,” he said. “She used to say that all the time—‘sweet Selûne.’ ”
Olive started. Invoking the goddess of the moon was a habit she’d picked up from her stay with Giogi and Cat Wyvernspur. She’d never be able to face the young man or his wife if she had to tell them she’d let their ancestor die out in the middle of nowhere. She’d never be able to face herself, either. Olive gave a deep sigh, unable to understand how she managed to get into these predicaments.
“I guess I’ll have to go down to your workshop, then,” she said with a false cheery tone.
“Good. Let’s go,” the bard said, trying to rise to his feet.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Olive exclaimed, holding him down with her hands on his shoulders. “I’m going alone. You’ll only slow me down. Give me the key to your workshop and tell me where to find the potions we need.”
“There is no key. Music unlocks the door to the workshop,” Finder said.
“Like the finder’s stone,” Olive guessed. “What note?” she asked.
“It’s more complicated than that. It takes a phrase from a song.” Finder sang out an allegro melody Olive had never heard before: “ ‘When Lady Luck lies with Grim Justice,/The soaring stars will be man’s auspice.’ ”
“Now, that’s right pretty,” Olive said. “You never sang that one before.”
“It’s not finished,” Finder said.
“When did you start it?”
“Before I finished building Flattery,” the bard said. “Now sing it back,” he ordered the halfling.
Olive obeyed.
“Lower it an octave,” Finder ordered.
“Finder, I’m too small. My voice doesn’t go down that low.”
“Yes, it does. Do it.”
“Whose voice is it, anyway?” Olive squeaked.
“I trained it. It’s mine,” the bard replied.
Olive laughed. “You’ve got to get this possessive streak under control,” she said.
“Olive, you have a fine voice. You can’t afford to waste it by constantly saying ‘I can’t, I can’t.’ Now try, for me, please.”
Olive flushed deeply. She forced her voice down to the first note.
“Good,” Finder said. “Now the words.”
“ ‘When Lady Luck lies with Grim Justice—’ ”
“Two notes in ‘Grim,’ ” the bard corrected. “G to F-sharp.”
Olive sang the the line over.
“Good. Now both lines.”
“ ‘When Lady Luck lies with Grim Justice,/The soaring stars will be man’s auspice,’ ” the halfling sang.
“Again.”
Olive repeated the phrase three more times before Finder seemed satisfied. He smiled and wrapped a curl of her hair around his finger. “I might make a bard out of you yet,” he said, tugging playfully at the strand of hair.