Was there something down here that could help him? Was this all a waste of her time?
Feril headed straight toward an artful tower that had caught her eye. It looked to be five or six levels and seemed to have escaped any serious damage. Her arms churned through the water faster, as the cold relentlessly seeped into her very bones. It seemed to be getting worse, and the feeling was leaving her feet.
As strong as her will was, it couldn’t keep the cold away. In the span of a few city blocks, Feril’s teeth were chattering senselessly. She imagined this must be as cold as the icy lakes created by the white dragon Frost on her Kagonesti homeland.
She angled herself toward the top of the tower and its roof that reminded her of a turnip. The roof was lighter than the stone of the outer walls, and it glimmered faintly as if embedded with crystals or precious metals. Directly beneath her was a circular manse and next to it, an impressive home that looked like it had been built around a much older courtyard. There was a fountain in the center, with two long-finned fish twisted together in an embrace. Water must have sprayed up all around from the mouths of smaller fish that ringed the bowl. There were tall, leafless trees in a runic pattern throughout the courtyard, and benches with posts carved to look like the legs of wild cats and horses. Someone with wealth and influence and an appreciation for art had lived here.
She passed over what she suspected was a small merchant district. The buildings were more colorful and a few had decorative awnings that hung limply without a current to stir them. There were numerous signs, all wooden and all rotting, the paint faded by the water and making their words illegible from this distance. Gowns and cloaks lay half-out, half-inside one shop window. Slippers were strewn outside another; a headless doll lay on its back in front of a likely toy store. Runes above a second-floor window suggested a sage or herbalist had lived there.
She would return to visit this district later, she decided, as perhaps that herbalist and others—scholars and healers with storefronts—had left some of their goods behind. Perhaps if the materials were stored in stoppered pots, not all the contents would have been ruined by the lake. Feril might bring Dhamon along. He’d been a battlefield medic and so could describe potent healing salves and such that could be salvaged and handed out to the Qualinesti refugees.
And some clothes for herself, she thought impulsively, considering that her only leather tunic was growing thin and was in need of replacing. Some garments the water wouldn’t have ruined; these she could lay out on the bank and let the sun dry. A light cloak would be nice, as the evenings would be getting cooler soon. It was so terribly cold here, she was reminded. She would look for a good knife, too, she decided, remembering the Knights of Neraka attacking her back by the White Rage River. She’d wished then that she carried a knife.
She spotted skeletons everywhere—at the corners of streets, near marble benches, at the doors to a few shops, and around the base of the tall trunks that lined the district. She noticed only occasional bits of armor, and these were silver, not black, likely marking the wearers as Qualinesti warriors. There were spears and javelins and a few shields, the markings on which were partially ravaged.
Feril could barely move her numb fingers by the time she had cleared the small merchant district and reached the high tower. She knew there must be other merchant quarters…somewhere. The city was immense, perhaps it had been scattered by Beryl’s fall, and she knew it could take her weeks to explore this area, months perhaps.
Her slender arms had become so heavy that she could scarcely lift them anymore, scarcely keep swimming. She glanced up, seeing only the never-ending blue, and realized that she should head toward the surface—at least for a little while.
How deep is this lake? How many feet down am I?
Feril angled upwards, swimming more slowly. Warm up thoroughly before returning. She was so terribly, terribly cold. The city and the lake would be here forever, so Feril knew she would have time to regain her strength and tell Dhamon what she’d discovered, perhaps wait until tomorrow to return.
Then she found herself close to the tower, and there was an open window a few feet away. She had the enchanted crystal still tucked into her belt to light her way. What is in the tower? Feril’s curiosity won again, and she decided to take a quick peek inside. Just a few moments, she told herself, as she managed to force herself to keep swimming. A few moments will not make a difference, then I can be on my way and be warm for a while. She pulled herself through the window, her enchanted light revealing a room that at first appeared to be filled with fog, but the mist was actually layer upon layer of parchment, she was quick to discern, all the sheets hanging suspended from floor to ceiling. She stretched her arm forward, touching several sheets. They dissolved into shreds, looking like fragments from a crushed eggshell.
She waved her arms to scatter the pieces drifting like snow before her eyes, so she could see farther into the room. She saw shelves on the far wall, all loaded with books. Likely the water had destroyed all these, but there was always a chance some pages could be dried out and preserved. If by chance, the books offered any magic spells or lore, the water shouldn’t have caused any harm—this she had learned during her time with the great sorcerer Palin Majere.
So many books, and this is just one tower.
They could be accounting ledgers for all she knew, or histories of Qualinost’s oldest families. They could be blank books, waiting to be sold to some scholar or statesman, to be filled with their imperious ruminations. They could all be ruined. Hoping against hope, she reached for one of the books, a short, narrow volume bound in red leather. The cover floated open, spilling its pages onto the floor where they dispersed in every possible direction.
Worthless. Like this notion of finding a cure for Dhamon here is worthless. By Habbakuk’s fist, why did he ever think to suggest I search this lake? Search for what? What?
Feril tried to reach for another book but couldn’t; all of a sudden the numbness had taken a greater hold of her arms. It’s the cold that’s making me despair, she thought, the cold is making this all seem so futile. There’s an answer here, I know it. The Qualinesti had some of the brightest savants and sorcerers on all of Krynn. They had to have left something behind that might help Dhamon.
So terribly, terribly cold.
The sun above would feel so good against her skin. She dreamed of the warmth as the shredded parchment floated up and danced before her eyes, yet there was still no current to stir them, and she wasn’t moving her arms to disturb them. Why did they move and sparkle so? She realized it was her mind playing tricks on her; the numbness had her seeing things. Though she continued to breathe the frigid water, felt it flowing in and out of her gills, she couldn’t even turn her head now. It felt frozen. It was as though she was turning into ice.
The colors of dancing parchment shifted to gray now, and her enchanted light dimmed. The room grew steadily darker. She felt as though she was sinking.
Too long, she told herself; she’d stayed down here too long. Damn my curiosity. Once more she tried to push her arms and legs into movement, backing out of the window. She might have made some progress, but she couldn’t be certain. The room was darker. It was hard to make out any of the details anymore.
No hope for Dhamon now. Feril didn’t mourn her own demise; she knew every living creature lived and died, but she felt sad that she hadn’t been able to help Dhamon. She did wonder what death would be like, however. The Kagonesti revered Habbakuk more than any other of Krynn’s gods, and she wondered if she would meet him when she passed from the world.