I will borrow this bauble, she said to herself, as I doubt that all the buildings are so magically lit, but I will return it when I am done.
Feril tucked the pear under her belt, which dimmed the glow only a little, and then dived down to the floor again. She took a long look at the statue in the middle of the room as she swam around it. It was of a Qualinesti boy standing with a crossbow, a quiver of bolts propped between his legs. He had the face of the boy holding the frog—perhaps the same boy, only older, perhaps a brother.
Maybe the statues tell a story, she thought, or recorded important moments in the lives of individuals who were precious to the sculptor. Maybe when she was finished with searching the city and after she had discovered a way to help Dhamon, she might return and study this room at length. There was certainly nothing in here that would help Dhamon or would help her puzzle out the magic in the city. She swam toward the door with a sudden pang of regret.
When she turned for a last look at the sculptures, she noticed a wispy figure rising from behind the boy with the crossbow. It was thin, like an elf, and as it drew closer its features became clearer. It had the image of a man, but with long graceful arms and delicate fingers. Mist swirled around the wispy figure, serving as a robe. Translucent feet poked out, sandaled and narrow. Its face was narrow, too, and Feril imagined that in life this dead elf must have been gaunt.
Somehow she was not frightened.
“Join me,” the ghost said. “Enjoy my art forever.”
7
Dhamon didn’t like water, and he especially didn’t like deep lakes. He had almost drowned in a lake once. He shuddered at the memory.
This one in particular was unnerving. The blue was too intense to be natural, and he saw there was a depth beyond which the fish would not swim. The water turned cold deeper down, an aberrant, disturbing cold that swirled around him. He had to find Feril, of whom, thus far, he had seen no sign.
Nalis Aren indeed, he thought, half-expecting to see chaos wights in the frigid water. He cursed himself for his fear of water and for not immediately joining Feril when she dived in, for hesitating and letting her take on his possible salvation alone. If something happened to her he would never be at peace with himself, and he might never have another chance to regain his humanity.
He searched for the Kagonesti for several minutes, at first seeing only the blue, then plunging deep, but without seeing anything out of the ordinary. He could have searched much longer before surfacing for air. His lungs were immense, and he likely could hold his breath for an hour or more, hut he wouldn’t stay down for more than a dozen minutes at a time. He couldn’t.
Dhamon dived again, hunting Feril erratically not methodically, going over the same area again and again. For a while he swam along the surface and tried mingling with the fishes, thinking one of them might turn out to be Feril, but they were all frightened of him, despite his suppressed dragonfear, and soon darted away.
At last, admitting defeat, he climbed out onto the bank and saw Ragh sitting in the grass just beyond the sand.
“You weren’t down there very long, were you? I know you’re not overly fond of the water.”
Dhamon stood in the shallows and gave a shake, the water spattering all over the decidedly disgruntled sivak.
“Didn’t happen to see any elves down there, did you?”
Dhamon shook again, arched his back, and let the sun warm him. “It’s a big lake, Ragh. She could be anywhere. I should have asked her in what direction she was going to swim.”
The draconian shrugged. “Still, you didn’t look very long for her.”
“I keep telling you, Feril can take care of herself.”
“So you’re not worried.”
“No, Ragh, I’m not worried.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Dhamon’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a game, Ragh.” His tone was suddenly angry.
“Fine, fine. I agree that she’s perfectly capable, Dhamon. I saw her hang those knights from the trees, and if she can swim with the fishes like you say, then we might have a long time to wait—no reason to get impatient.”
Dhamon pawed at a plant caught around a talon. “I might try again later, if she doesn’t come back in a short while.”
“Fine by me. I’ll wait in the woods, as far away from this peculiar lake as possible. I like the water maybe even less than you do. I can’t even swim like you do. I sink like a rock.”
“Stop talking about it and go to the woods then.”
“I intend to.” Ragh headed toward the trees again, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m going to take a long nap, Dhamon…in the cool shade. Wake me up if or when you find the elf…or when you give up waiting for her.”
“She’ll be back,” Dhamon said.
The Kagonesti had obviously managed well enough without him these past several years, he thought, and she certainly had faced worse dangers in her life than this unnaturally cold lake.
“Yeah, fine, but of course there’s a chance she already has drowned, Dhamon…” When Dhamon shot him an angry look, the sivak added, “…so might want to keep an eye out for her body floating to the surface. Wake me up if you do, then maybe we can get out of here, pronto. Sable’s swamp is starting to look mighty attractive compared to this damnable lake.”
“Join me,” the elf specter repeated. “Live in my gallery forever.” The wispy figure floated toward Feril, arms spread out in a greeting. “I am Deban Nildareh, and I would love to add your beautiful form to my works of art.”
Not today, Feril said to herself. She would have liked to say aloud, “I’ll not ever join you,” but she didn’t want to rile the strangely mild-mannered ghost. Instead she swiftly kicked her feet and swam past the sculptures and outside the building. She followed the wall as it curved toward a slate-tiled street.
Residences stretched in a line far into the dark blue water. One was missing a roof, and another had decorative stones knocked off along one side, as if a great windstorm had swept down the row of homes. The largest had a broken fence and shattered window boxes everywhere. A few had sheer curtains hanging out of opened windows. There was minimal damage on many of the buildings that she saw, though she suspected that she would see considerable damage if she really inspected things closely, but she wasn’t going to slow down in case the elf ghost was pursuing her. She kicked her feet and drove through the water faster.
Feril tried to keep her mind off the cold by imagining what it was like in the final moments for the Qualinesti who had refused to leave their beloved city. It must have been a time of pure terror, the sky darkened by the great dragon Beryl cutting across it. The overlord must have breathed on the elves, her deadly green cloud choking the ones caught in the open. Beryl’s forces were probably scouring the streets. She pictured the elves fleeing, some of them fighting desperately.
Did they die by Knights of Neraka or by the great overlord Beryl? Did they give the last measure of their strength in defiance of the dragon, or did they fall as they were fleeing? Did they drown when the dragon struck the earth and the White Rage River spilled into the crater to create Nalis Aren? Had they known there wasn’t a chance of victory and stayed till the end because Qualinost was all they had and all they ever wanted, and they couldn’t bear to leave their dreams behind? Or did they imprudently believe there truly was a chance to save their city?
Feril would have stayed and fought alongside the bravest warriors to defend the nation, not the city, of Qualinost. The city was merely graceful towers and elegant homes to her—a physical home. She was thankful she’d never become attached to any home, any one single place; indeed, she had very few possessions. Clothes, memories, and woods to walk through, that was all she needed. Perhaps Dhamon Grimwulf, a piece of her heart murmured.