The Rite (13 page)

“Nevertheless,” said Scattercloak, “I refuse to submit to such an interrogation.”

“Well, you would, wouldn’t you?” Phourkyn said. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it, how daintily we’ve danced around this matter, without anyone coming out and saying what’s in all our minds. If someone in our circle is a scoundrel, then surely the likeliest subject is our resident ghost, the enigma whose face we’ve never seen. I think it’s time to remedy that.”

“Don’t try,” said Scattercloak.

“No,” said Taegan, “don’t. It’s unnecessary, just as it’s unnecessary for you, Master Scattercloak, to submit to questioning. I didn’t want to reveal this, but it looks as if it may be the only way to prevent a violent altercation. I already know for a fact that, like Rilitar, Scattercloak, Baerimel Dunnath„ and Esvelle Chernin are innocent.”

“How do you know?” Phourkyn demanded.

“I can’t explain just yet,” Taegan said. “It would prevent me from using the same method to investigate the rest of you. So I ask you to trust me. I promise that if you do, I can eventually unmask the culprit.”

The one-eyed enchanter shook his head. “Why should we trust you?”

“Because he kept Samdralyrion from incinerating you with his fiery breath,” Rilitar said.

“I think Maestro Nightwind has given us sound advice,” Firefingers said. “I’m inclined to take it.”

And though many of the other mages demanded to have their grumbling, quibbling say, that seemed to be the consensus in the end.

Afterward, Taegan and Rilitar took a stroll through Thentia’s teeming streets to unwind from the stresses of the conclave. The bright spring sun was warm, and though, after years spent in exquisite Lyrabar, Taegan could find nothing to admire in Thentia’s bluntly utilitarian architecture, he, as always, enjoyed the bustle, chatter, and even the occasional stinks of a human city. Jivex flitted about, snapping insects from the air and eliciting cries of wonder from passersby.

Taegan was likewise an object of curiosity. He noticed a pretty lass staring at him in fascination, spread his wings to give her a better look, then offered a smile and a gallant bow. She blushed, turned away, then glanced back as he’d known she would.

Rilitar chuckled and said, “I’m amazed you have any thought to spare for flirtation.”

“I don’t have to think,” Taegan said. “By now, it’s a reflex. I trained myself to act the consummate rake to attract wealthy young men to my academy.”

“Didn’t the mask ever chafe?”

“No, because it wasn’t a mask. I became what I wanted to be.”

“If so, I’m happy for you, but still surprised it’s that particular achievement that seems to give you such satisfaction. It seems a trifling accomplishment compared to mastering bladesong. If you think about it, Faerűn is full to overflowing with well-dressed louts who know how to guzzle brandy, chase whores, and shake a dice cup. People who can wield a sword with one hand while weaving spells with the other are extraordinarily rare.”

Taegan realized he’d never thought about it that way, but felt disinclined to say so.

“Fencing,” the avariel said, “bladesong, manners, wit, a knowledge of fashion, wine, and cuisine, are all brightly

polished and equally splendid facets of the perfection that is my humble self.”

“If you say so.” Rilitar glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers, then continued in a more confidential tone, “The meeting seemed to go well I’m glad you think so. I’m frankly bemused at the reception we encountered. Even a mage like Phourkyn, who ultimately seemed to agree with us, couldn’t bring himself to admit it until he did his share of scoffing and sneering.”

“For the most part, the human wizards are independent to the point of eccentricity or even perversity. They bristle when anyone tries to give them direction, no matter how benign the intent. The important thing is that they finally did fall in line with our suggestions, thanks in large part to Firefingers’s support. We should give thanks to the Lifegiver that he at least is sensible.”

“Did you observe anything,” Taegan asked, pausing on a corner while an ox cart creaked past, “to point the finger of suspicion at anyone in particular?”

“No.”

“Alas, neither did I.”

They strolled onward.

“I have to say,” Rilitar said, “you caught me by surprise when you announced that Scattercloak, Baerimel, and Esvelle are innocent.”

Taegan smiled and said, “I surprised myself, but it seemed the right ploy.”

“But how did you clear them?”

“I already explained why I think Scattercloak is in the clear. For their part, Baerimel and Esvelle are two of the less powerful mages. It seems unlikely that they can conjure demons that are somehow impervious to the wards of their more accomplished colleagues.”

“That’s it? You acknowledged that you could be wrong about Scattercloak, and it’s also possible that Baerimel and Esvelle are more formidable than they’ve ever let on.”

“That’s true, and if I’ve just declared Sammaster’s agent innocent, no doubt he or she is pleased. But consider the situation if, as I think likely, it’s someone else. In that case, the traitor knows I was right about Scattercloak and the ladies, and accordingly, he has to wonder if I truly do possess some infallible means of unmasking him. My hope is that the threat of it will provoke him into attacking me, and thus revealing himself.”

Rilitar shook his head. “You seem quite cheerful for a fellow inviting his own murder.”

“Because our adversary doesn’t have it all his own way anymore. He has to worry about our own feints and genuine attacks. We’re fencing now, and that’s a game I understand.”

Raryn dropped to one knee and peered at a patch of pale fungus on the cavern floor. Something had crushed the edge of the soft, lumpy stuff. The dead monk’s foot? He thought so, but the way the fungus was already growing back, blurring the shape of the track, he couldn’t be sure.

He was fairly certain the path he’d chosen wasn’t actually heading toward the Monastery of the Yellow Rose. It had veered too far to the east, which didn’t mean it wouldn’t ultimately swing back around again, but how was he to know?

He felt anxiety gnawing at him, and frowned it away. Just do your best, he told himself. That’s all anyone can do, in any circumstance.

“I believe we’re still on the right track,” he said, straightening up.

“Let’s leave another marker,” Chatulio said. He murmured a rhyming cantrip, then scratched the wall with a talon—the claw cut the stone as if it were tallow—and drew an arrow.

They hiked onward, Raryn in the lead, Kara next, the copper third, and Dorn bringing up the rear.

At times, the way opened out into great vaults adorned with fantastic confections of stone, some of the stalactites and stalagmites delicate as lace or frothing sea foam, some ponderous as ancient trees. At other moments, the walls pressed in close, and hanging or rearing masses of rock choked the tunnel like rows of fangs. To negotiate one especially tight squeeze, Chatulio cast a spell that shrank him to half his former size.

Finally the explorers stepped out into another enormous, lofty-ceilinged cave. A crevasse ten paces wide split the chamber floor, but a rope bridge spanned the chasm.

Raryn sighed with relief. Surely the monks had constructed the bridge, which meant he and his friends had taken the right turns so far. Kara clasped his shoulder in congratulation.

Striding with renewed energy, the seekers hurried forward. Chatulio spread his wings to fly across the chasm. Raryn gripped one of the guide ropes, made to step onto the bridge, then hesitated.

“Hold on!” he said.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dorn.

“We figured something might be lurking along the way,” Raryn said, “the something that killed the monk. Well, it’s here, somewhere.”

He didn’t know how he knew, but trusted the hunter’s intuition that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Chatulio’s nostrils flared. “I do smell something,’ he said.

A thick gray fog clotted the air. Kara started singing a spell, and Chatulio chanted his own words of power. Certain the mist was intended to mask a foe’s advance, Raryn came on guard with his harpoon and listened. From long experience, he knew Dorn must be doing the same thing, though he could barely see the half-golem, or any of his comrades, within the clammy vapor.

Raryn heard a rapid scuttling. He pivoted toward the sound, and when the creature lunged out of the fog, the dwarf drove his harpoon into its chest. The beast—some sort of enormous reptile—retaliated with a snap of its dagger-sized fangs. He jumped back out of range and snatched his ice-axe free of the straps securing it to his pack.

A second later, the fog disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. Raryn assumed Kara had wiped it from existence with a counterspell. The effect of Chatulio’s magic was to sear their assailant with a burst of flame.

That creature, Raryn observed, appeared to be one of the wingless dragons called landwyrms, albeit a runtish, cave-dwelling variety he’d never encountered before. Its scales were a mottled gray that no doubt helped it hide in its environment of stone.

Dorn set himself in front of it, iron limbs forward, sword cocked back. Kara sang a crackling flare of lightning into being to stab into its neck. Taking Right with a snap of his wings, Chatulio spat acid to sizzle and smoke along its spine, eliciting a roar of pain and fury. Raryn chopped at its flank. But while evading its sudden wheeling attacks, its attempts to trample him, claw him, or bash him with its tail, the dwarf did his best to keep watch, also. Landwyrm’s lacked breath weapons, and likewise the magical prowess of true wizards, and that made it unlikely that this particular creature had burned the unfortunate monk.

A second reptile—a sinuous, narrow-winged drake with dark, lustrous scales—scrambled up out of the chasm. Evidently goaded by frenzy, it and the landwyrm had joined forces to slaughter whatever prey they could catch in their sunless domain.

“Watch out!” Raryn called.

A split second later, the dark dragon spat forth a plume of vapor.

Chatulio and Kara were the targets, and both tried to dodge, the copper with a beat of his wings to carry him above the breath attack, and the bard by Ringing herself to the side. Still, the streaming corrosive fumes blistered them both, and Kara dropped to her knees, coughing and retching.

Raryn felt a stab of dismay. Then the landwyrm rounded on him, and he had no more time for thought.

He landed two solid chops to its mask, but couldn’t quite score on an eye. He evaded several strikes and raking attacks. Then Dorn must have clawed or sliced the landwyrm badly, because it spun away from Raryn for another assault on the half-golem.

Raryn risked another glance around. Kara lay on the cavern floor. The dark dragon thrashed and snarled, a swarm of stinging, pinching scorpions encrusting its body—or the semblance of scorpions, anyway. Actually, it was one of Chatulio’s illusions. The copper himself was swelling, returning to his original size, wobbling in flight as the transformation made him momentarily awkward.

Raryn hacked at the landwyrm until it whirled toward him again, then scrambled backward, not quite quickly enough. Its forefoot leaped at him, and he wrenched himself aside.

The last-second evasion turned what would otherwise have been a mortal blow into one that simply slashed his polar-bear hide armor and the skin above his ribs. Ordinarily, such a superficial wound wouldn’t balk him. But it made him instantly weak and light-headed, sick, as if the landwyrm’s claws were venomous.

The dragon snapped at him. He managed to jump back out of range, but in so doing, lost his balance and fell on his rump. The landwyrm reared, perhaps intending to flop down and crush him.

Then, however, it pivoted and lunged after Dorn, who must have attacked it ferociously indeed to distract it from making a kill—and who might pay for it with his life.

Accordingly, Raryn had to get back into the fight, but it took all his stamina just to clamber back to his feet, after which, dizzy and panting, he had to pause to gather the strength for further exertion. At the same time, the landwyrm slammed one clanging talon slash after another into the iron half of Dorn’s body. The blows failed to penetrate the enchanted metal, but knocked the big man staggering and reeling, making it all but impossible for him to strike back.

Raryn raised his ice-axe, took a step toward the landwyrm, and a wave of vertigo spun the cavern around him and nearly dumped him back on the floor. But if he couldn’t aid Dorn, maybe Chatulio could. He cast about, seeking the copper, then cursed.

Because Chatulio couldn’t help. He was still busy fighting the slim dragon with the dark, shimmering scales. It had rid itself of the phantasmal scorpions, and the two wyrms wheeled beneath the cavern ceiling like pair of colossal bats, maneuvering, using stalactites for cover, blazing away at one another with bursts of conjured frost and flame, and spurts of their corrosive breath.

It occurred to Raryn to use one of his ranger charms. He didn’t know whether it would counterattack the malaise engendered by the landwyrm’s touch, or even if he could articulate it properly in his dazed and feeble state, but it was worth a try.

The landwyrm knocked Dorn down onto his back, then snapped at him. Dorn whipped his iron arm across his body in time for it, and not his flesh, to catch the dragon’s teeth. When the reptile’s jaws clashed shut on the spiked and bladed metal and it realized what it had, it snarled, bore down hard, and lashed its head back and forth and up and down, trying either to crumple the enchanted prosthesis into uselessness or jerk it away from the meat and bone to which it was anchored.

It succeeded at neither, though the effort pounded Dorn against the floor. Finally the landwyrm hissed in frustration, then, as a notion seemingly struck it, laughed through clenched jaws. Dorn’s arm still clamped between its teeth, dragging the half-golem along, it scuttled toward the chasm, and Raryn realized it had decided to dispose of its well-armored foe by flinging him into the depths. Dorn stabbed at it with his sword, but without his feet planted, couldn’t exert the force to do any more than prick its rock-colored hide.