“The ‘mythical’ curse, as you call it, has caught up with everyone who has ever hunted the ring,” Pontifax ventured at last. “Someone beloved of the man or woman who hunts the ring died. Princess Alusair lost her one true love a few days after deciding to search for the ring.” He unfurled one stubby finger.
“Her lover was killed by bounty hunters trying to return her to her father,” Artus scoffed.
“A curse uses many agents,” the mage countered. “What of Gareth of Waterdeep? He lost his whole family, every single person who could carry on his name.” He unfurled another finger, then two more. “And there’s Kelemvor Lyonsbane. He thought he’d found the ring, but all he’d discovered was a deceitful ice creature that showed him a simple band of gold and killed most of his friends. And then there’s—”
“But what about that dark-hearted bastard, Cyric?” Artus interrupted.
Pontifax started, then made a gesture meant to ward off evil. “For the sake of your soul, Artus, watch your tongue.” He glanced around the chamber nervously. “I’ll concede the argument about the curse, just don’t mention him again.”
Cyric of Zhentil Keep had once been a questor for the Ring of Winter, like the others Pontifax named. Yet tragedy had not befallen Cyric. Far from it. During the Time of Troubles, in which the gods were cast from the heavens for their transgressions of cosmic law and made to walk Faerûn in mortal avatars, Cyric had been partially responsible for the destruction of three powerful evil deities. He had then claimed the right to take their place in the heavens, and he resided there still, Lord of the Dead and Master of Strife, Murder, and Tyranny. To take his name in vain was to invite swift and terrible retribution.
“Sorry, old friend,” Artus said. “I should know better than to talk about the ring when we seem so very far from finding it.” Gesturing to the mage’s bloodied forehead, he added, “I hope that looks worse than it is.”
“Oh, the beastie did me little real harm—” Pontifax touched the lump on his head and winced “—apart from this egg. It’ll take a few days to heal, that’s all. Hopefully, that’s more time than you’ll take to shrink back to size.”
Artus mumbled his agreement and settled in for a long wait. “Wounds and disaster all around,” he muttered. “As usual.”
One
Patrons’ pipes and the small, poorly stoked fireplace on the northern wall worked together to create a haze that hung heavy in the Black Rat. Daylight crept into the tavern through two grimy windows, casting long, dark shadows. Regulars of the Rat could tell the time of day by watching those lines of darkness on the pegged floor, but on cloudy days even the barmaids were hard-pressed to tell morning from night without opening the door.
For all its murk, though, the Black Rat offered more genuine hospitality than any other tavern near Suzail’s waterfront. The smell of meat simmering in the kitchens, the sounds of unhurried conversations and friendly laughter, the sight of sailors and teamsters, artisans and noblemen sharing tables without complaint—all these were quite common. Fights were few, and those few were ended quickly and without bloodshed by the soldiers who frequented the place, the Purple Dragons of King Azoun IV. It was even rumored Azoun himself visited the Black Rat from time to time, his royal identity hidden by the guise of a commoner.
Artus Cimber was reasonably certain Azoun was not among the half-dozen men and women in the tavern this particular morning. The frumpy, redheaded barmaid who seemed to live in the taproom was chatting amicably with a pair of sailors, twins in fact, from a Sembian merchantman. A few tables away, a man wearing the holy symbol of the God of Justice picked at a meager breakfast; Artus knew him to be Ambrosius, a paladin of high standing in the church of Tyr. Counting Artus himself, that left one other.
“Please sit still and stop looking around. Master Cimber,” the sixth occupant of the taproom said. “I cannot be held accountable for any mishaps that might result from your fidgeting.” He clicked his tongue. “After all, we wouldn’t want to repeat that unhappy incident from the ruins. The owner of the Rat would not take kindly to a giant crushing his tables and chair to splinters, don’t you agree?”
The man sitting across the table stared fixedly at Artus. His face was caught up in a look of casual disinterest, though his green eyes revealed the excitement he felt at examining the Mulhorandi pendant. He turned the silver disk over and over in his brown-skinned hands.
“Well, get on with it, Zintermi,” Artus sighed. “Go ahead and blow us up.”
The man nodded, brushing off his friend’s ill humor with a practiced air. He’d known the explorer for almost twenty years, from the time Artus had entered the House of Oghma as a student. The boy had taken readily to the subjects Zintermi taught—the history and lore of Faerûn. Sadly, though, he’d lacked the discipline necessary to become an instructor himself. “Close your eyes, Master Cimber,” the scholar said. “This should take but a moment.”
Zintermi untied the silken cords holding his sleeves closed at the wrists, then rolled the sleeves to his elbows. Gingerly, he took a vial of powder from the pocket of his black vest, then unstoppered it and poured the contents onto the fat tallow candle that flickered between him and Artus. With a hiss, puffs of gold, white, and black smoke rose over the table.
“Grant me the knowledge I seek, great Oghma.” Zintermi lowered his voice to a powerful bass rumble. “For I have sought truth and recorded it in your name, bound the past for all to study and captured the fleeting lives of great men on parchment. Allow me the blessing of understanding, that I may exalt it in the transient world of mortals, that I may show others the light of reason, that—”
“That I may drone on forever,” Artus grumbled. He gave his former teacher a withering look. “I’m not a yokel at a county fair, impressed by smoke and chanting. If you haven’t caught on yet, Zin, I’m really worried about this thing. It may be cursed!”
Artus noticed then that the other patrons of the Black Rat were staring at him. Magic certainly wasn’t uncommon in such establishments. It was often in taverns and hostels that traveling mages did their best business. From the frightened looks on their faces, he assumed they had heard him mention a curse. No one in Cormyr took such matters lightly.
Zin cocked an eyebrow. “We will need to continue this exploration out in the street if you don’t keep your voice down.” He turned a suddenly smiling face to the barmaid. “Have no fear, my dear. The only curse from which my friend suffers is occasional rampant stupidity.”
Artus bristled at the insult. The others laughed, returning to their food and chatter.
“Now,” the scholar said, slipping into the pedantic tone Artus always found incredibly annoying, “we obviously need to discuss the importance of praying to Oghma before delving into such mysteries. As you should know from your years—”
His hand held up to stop the lecture, Artus nodded. “As always, Zin, you’re right. Go on with the service.” He slouched back in his chair. “Just wake me up when it’s over.”
The droning prayer resumed. Closing his eyes, Artus let his mind wander. He had nothing against scholars like Zintermi; he actually respected the man quite highly. Much of what he knew about history, myth, and archaeology he’d learned from the old man. It was Zin’s sanctimony that always set him off, that damned mile-wide streak of religious certainty. Artus was certain of only three things in his life: himself, the trustworthiness of Sir Hydel Pontifax, and the importance of the Ring of Winter.