Key of Stars

CHAPTER TWO

The Year of the Secret (1396DR)

New Sarshell, Impiltur

Raidon Kane’s sandals crunched on gravel and dried dung. Tables, gaping doors, and overhanging balconies pressed in on either side of the cobblestone way. The morning sun lent the stone walls an eye watering clarity. Wine churned in Raidon’s stomach, trying to find its own equilibrium.

How had it come to wine? Tea was the drink that used to bring him comfort. But last night even West Lake Dragon Well had left him hollow. Despite Angul’s punishing sparks, he’d ordered a bottle, and hit the city streets. How long ago had that been?

A gale of music issued from a two-story inn to Raidon’s left. It was a simple drinking song, ridiculous on its face, yet scores of voices contributed.

The sound of effortless happiness scraped at his ears. He frowned. He’d been wandering the “bad side” of town to avoid such reminders of normal life. With the bottle of red in his hand, he’d been trying to besot himself all the previous evening. For a while, the road had threatened to spin beneath his feet, and he thought he’d achieved his goal.

But it had failed to blunt his despair.

He’d been a fool to think it would help.

As the tavern song meandered on, Raidon realized how far he’d really fallen. Was he to become a town drunk, suited for nothing better than staggering the streets of New Sarshell, chasing a chimera of equanimity?

“No,” he whispered. With his free hand, he touched the hilt of the sword sheathed at his belt. With a snap of searing cerulean fire, Angul burned the confusion from him.

Raidon’s mind cloud faded, but a headache smote him like a thunderclap.

Angul did not care for wielders too far in their cups; the blade couldn’t apply its influence through a haze of alcohol. Which could have been why the blade’s previous owner was driven to drink … Raidon let go of the hilt.

He dashed the wine bottle to the cobbles. The sound of its shattering glass went through his achy head like a spike. As if in a chain reaction, the first tendrils of nausea brushed the half-elf’s stomach.

Raidon plunged down the nearest alley, seeking shadow and escape from the tavern song.

In the narrow way, the street cobbles were broken and buckled from lack of maintenance. Blank walls frowned down on either side, so close that the sun failed to find any purchase. The monk paused, reaching for some semblance of his focus, but the sounds of conversation distracted him.

A gang of humans and dwarves lingered at the alley’s far end.

“This is a dead end, Shou,” said one. “You shouldn’t’ve come this way.”

Raidon focused on the speaker, a dwarf in brown leather, bedecked with angular tattoos. The threat implicit in the speech wiped away Raidon’s nausea. He took a deep breath, feeling anger take the place of despair.

“Did you hear me?” yelled the dwarf.

“Yes,” Raidon said. “But here I am nonetheless.”

“Then you got a death wish,” the dwarf replied. “Everyone knows this alley is ours.”

“If I had a death wish, I’d seek foes instead of pimple-faced children like you,” Raidon said. The words spilled from his mouth like bitter dregs.

The dwarf’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Raidon expected he’d roar, “Get him,” or utter some other ridiculous call to action.

Instead, the dwarf drew two medium-length blades in a single elegant motion and stamped forward, while his sword tips executed a technically perfect figure eight through the air, each arc designed to end in the monk’s neck.

Raidon was adept at countering a single blade, even in the hands of an accomplished swordsperson. But overcoming a dual-wielding blademaster required greater delicacy. He backpedaled to give himself a chance to study his opponent’s style.

The dwarf chuckled. He continued forward as his blades carried on their hypnotic dance. Instead of joining in, the thugs behind the dwarf were more interested in jeering and describing how they would divide up the Shou’s belongings once the dwarf dispatched the monk.

Angul muttered in its sheath, drawing attention to itself. As if Raidon needed the relic’s help to dispatch a mundane threat! He faced a dwarf, though obviously one especially skilled with weapons.

As his opponent shuffled closer, the half-elf dropped low and spun. His leg lashed out, his arcing heel crashing into the dwarf’s exposed calf.

The dwarf stumbled to the side, his swords crossing. It was the distraction Raidon wanted.

The monk spun out of his low crouch, stepped in, and elbowed the back of the dwarf’s hand. One of the dwarf’s swords clattered to the street.

Raidon shifted his hips so that his other shoulder angled toward his enemy’s chest. When the dwarf swung his remaining weapon, Raidon countered by chopping at the bearded man’s neck and the forearm simultaneously. He slid one hand down and captured the dwarf’s thumb where it gripped the sword’s hilt. He stamped down one foot on the dwarf’s toe, and simultaneously pushed and wrenched. Raidon’s foe finally toppled, and Raidon held his blade.

The tattooed observers shouted in surprise. “Hemet?” said one.

“This Shou knows his forms,” said the dwarf. He made to stand, but Raidon shook his head.

The dwarf continued, “He probably studied in one of those fancy monasteries in Telflamm or Phsant. Thinks he’s better than me.”

“No way, Hemet!” called another in the gang.

“Damn straight!” said Hemet. “He just caught me by surprise. But there’s no way he’s better than all of us!”

The gang roared and rushed the monk.

Raidon spun his borrowed weapon to a new grip, then hurled it end over end. The blade spun through the air into the press. It drew no blood, but it did make the group pause for a heartbeat, giving Raidon time to leap straight up.

His hands caught an overhanging lantern pole. He jerked his body up and around, managing to catch one of his attackers under the jaw as he did so. He lingered for a moment, standing on his hands on the bar, his feet high in the air overhead.

Then he spun down and around, once, twice, the air shrieking in his ears; he released just after the third revolution. His momentum propelled him through the air in a curving arc that deposited him several dozen feet back up the alley, only a few steps from its entrance, leaving the gang far behind.

His headache complained, as did Angul. The sword didn’t want Raidon to abandon the fight. It sensed how easy it would be to take out the entire group of ne’er-do-wells, probably even the dwarf Hemet.

Raidon didn’t disagree. Rushing back down the alley was what he most craved. Because … For the duration of the much-too-short conflict, he hadn’t given a single thought to what he’d done.

He hadn’t thought about how he’d killed the memory of a little girl named Opal in the nightmare city of Xxiphu.

Raidon growled, a noise uncommon on the lips of half-elves and Xiang temple initiates alike. Hot needles seemed to prick his brain. His hands clenched so tightly his nails drew blood from his palms.

A red fury trembled in his limbs-Anger at his own childishness. The damned alley gang had drawn Raidon’s attention away from his brooding, yes. But in doing so, they had laid bare Raidon’s own unconscious deficits. The meaningless fight showed the half-elf for what he was-a hollow man who couldn’t order his own thoughts without violence to distract him.

Then … What was that odd smell? It wasn’t from anything present in the alley.

Something sweet. Something familiar …

The street ceased spinning. A scent like honey drew Raidon’s mind into the past in a twinkling. He was a child again, a boy of seven or eight years. His mother stood before him, kneeling down with one hand on his forehead. Tears were wetting his cheeks.

His mother?

Raidon tried to shake off the unbidden vision. But his ruined mind conspired with the aftereffects of the wine to blind him. The memory was too strong.

His mother stood before him. Erunyauve-the enigmatic star elf he’d sought for years but had never found, who had left him the Cerulean Seal that blazoned his chest like a tattoo.

Her soft voice assailed him. “Poor Raidon,” she said. “You suffer so much. Give me your hand.”

Warm, firm hands took his own.

Then the memory dissipated. With it went the rage that had billowed him like a sail, and the headache too.

Instead of charging back into the alleyway and murdering the lot of his accidental foes, Raidon turned and entered the main street. In place of the odd vision remained a twinge of conscious: regardless of the nature of the men in the alley, an initiate of Xiang Temple would not seek them out merely as an excuse to exercise his own failings.

With his breath coming a little easier, Raidon turned his feet toward Marhana Manor.

Anusha Marhana walked around fragments of broken mirror. The silvery shards littered the hallway, the thickest concentration near the open doorway at the end. Inside the doorway was an office, or the remnants of one. The desk lay on its side, papers spilling out of its drawers. The stuffed osprey she remembered from countless visits was no longer attached to its mount, and its feathers were everywhere. A thin stratum of dust covered everything.

Another mess, she thought, left behind by her half brother for her to clean up. “Behroun, you couldn’t just leave peacefully, could you?” she asked the air.

The black dog at her heels leaned its head against the side of her leg. She idly patted it.

Behroun had been living in Marhana Manor, up to his old schemes. The man had somehow learned that Green Siren was back in port, and had fled the manor before Japheth and Anusha had arrived. He’d ransacked his own office before leaving, apparently gathering up the most important contracts and who knew what else. Japheth wanted to go after Behroun, but Anusha had asked him to wait. The warlock had complied, though he said Behroun still owed a debt.

She hoped her instinct for mercy had been the correct one.

Yes, it had to be, she thought. Let Behroun go. Surely the man couldn’t do any more harm. Let it be punishment enough for someone on his way to becoming a powerful member of New Sarshell’s Grand Council to be rendered powerless, with no hope of regaining his former stature.

She remembered when she’d accidentally spied Behroun while dreamwalking. He’d muttered something about wishing he could have her slain. The memory made the hair on her neck prickle.

“I’m done thinking about my brother,” said Anusha.

The dog’s tail wagged all the harder. “Don’t worry, Lucky,” she said. “I’m not talking about you, boy. You’re good, yes, you are!”

She gave the dog a couple more pets, then righted the desk chair. She relished the smooth, hardwood feel of it. She’d spent so long in her dreamform, where her every interaction with the world required concentration. It was a pleasure simply to grab something and hold it without fear it would slip between her imaginary fingers.

“Madam?”

The manor’s steward stood in the office doorway.

“Yes?” Anusha said.

“Wouldn’t you rather let staff finish with this, madam?” asked the man. “You’ve made a great start. You must be tired by now.”

“I just got here, actually,” said Anusha.

“Ah, yes,” said the steward. “Well, in point of fact, tea is served in the salon, as you requested.”

“Oh! Thank you for reminding me.”

Anusha and the steward left Behroun’s office. Lucky gave a couple of sniffs to the stuffed osprey lying on the floor, then followed. They made their way through a long hall back to the main manor, through the entrance hall, and finally to the salon.

The manor’s sitting room, built into the base of a corner tower, was decorated in themes of silver and cream. A table and several comfy chairs were arranged in the room’s center. High windows allowed pleasant views out into the garden surrounding the home.

Anusha took her place at the tea service and called the dog over to curl up on the floor behind her.

A total of five settings were arranged around the table. Steam puffed from the spout of a silver kettle next to a silver plate heaped with nuts, fried dumplings, and plums.

“Where is everyone?” Anusha asked.

“Captain Thoster and Mistress Seren are seeing to private business in the city,” the steward said. “Master Raidon never returned from his evening constitutional, I’m afraid. And Master Japheth continues working on his project down in the catacombs.”

“I see,” Anusha said, hiding her annoyance. She’d invited everyone to stay in the manor when Green Siren returned to dock. She knew, intellectually, that her generosity didn’t give her the right to dictate their schedules-but everyone’s blatant absence rankled.

Didn’t anyone but her care that a hoary old city of aboleths had breached the Sea of Fallen Stars?

Like the others, she had been eager to rest in New Sarshell after they had escaped Xxiphu. More eager, probably; no one else had been drawn into the city against their will, as she had. What a relief to think only about day-to-day concerns for a while, and common pleasures. For her, food had come near the top of that list. And real sleep, uninterrupted by out-of-body adventures. Even simply walking down a hallway constructed of wood and stone was pleasing, as opposed to rough corridors coated in slime and patches of mind-stealing ice.

Anusha relished being home and having a semblance of her life again. But the memory of a black splinter hovering over storm-lashed water was an intruder in nearly everything she did. As the days passed, the image became harder and harder to ignore.

She had waited for Raidon or Japheth to broach the topic, or even Captain Thoster or the war wizard, Seren.

No one did.

Anusha had finally decided that, as Lady Marhana and their host, she would. So she called the tea to discuss the threat. Doubtless she had usurped Raidon’s duty, with his aboleth-slaying sword and spellscar. So be it! The time had come to decide what, if anything, could be done about Xxiphu.

Taking charge was part of Anusha’s mercantile blood; the fire of Marhana lived in her as it had in her parents. In business, loose ends were something that couldn’t be ignored. Even if the Eldest continued to slumber, its children were obviously wide awake, and their home hovered over Faerun! She couldn’t think of a larger, more significant “loose end” than the Abolethic Sovereignty.

Yet the chairs in the sitting room remained stubbornly vacant as the moments slipped by.

“Do they think it will just go away?” she murmured.

The steward coughed. “Shall I send someone to see about Master Japheth?” he said. “And perhaps to look for Master Raidon?”

“No, no. I’m sure they have their reasons for missing tea,” Anusha replied. The man had misidentified the source of her concern. She decided not to set him straight. No need for him to suffer the nightmares.

Like the one she’d had again last night.

Anusha shuddered, remembering herself standing in a misted void interrupted by pillars as tall as mountains. The pocked ground was slicked with phosphorescent aboleth trails. She saw herself speaking, but as usual, the dream didn’t come with sound. And why was the image of herself crying? Anusha could almost make out what the image of herself was saying. Something about … a key?

She dispersed the memory with a shake of her head.

Anusha decided to give everyone one more day of rest. Tomorrow, she would gather everyone, no matter what.

She grabbed the kettle and poured a cup of its fragrant auburn liquid. The steward stiffened, but didn’t speak. Anusha had become Lady Marhana, and the steward had shown himself amazingly graceful in accommodating her desires. If she wanted to pour her own tea, then by the gods, she would.

She took a sip. It was hot, but she avoided scalding her tongue.

As she took a second drink, the steward quickly prepared a smaller plate from the silver food tray and set it before her.

The Marhana staff was cooperative and friendly. At least Behroun hadn’t skimped when it came to paying for competent housekeeping. When Anusha had asked the staff to prepare suites for Raidon, Seren, Japheth, and Thoster, they had done so without so much as a raised eyebrow. She ruminated on the situation; how close her bedchamber was to the warlock’s suite …

Recalling his warm lips on her neck brought blood to her face.

“Shall I prepare a plate for Master Japheth and have it delivered?”

Anusha started. “Yes,” she said. “That’s a nice thought.”

After she’d awakened, jubilation had rippled through her body. She’d been flush with renewed life. And there he’d been: the object of her earlier infatuation and a symbol of the wider world denied her before he’d come into it.

But following their assignation in the cramped ship’s cabin, an odd shyness had fallen between them. Of course, he had his project since they’d come back to the mansion, which he’d taken on at her request. Its execution kept him busy day and night.

But it was more than that. He seemed reluctant to intrude, as if he was uncertain or having second thoughts.

No, she didn’t truly think Japheth was having second thoughts; the man had proved he would go to the Hells and back for her, that he would barter the world itself for her safety.

He wasn’t having second thoughts; he was waiting for her to make the next move. If so, then so far he had awaited to no avail, because she had not sought him out. She could not deny it-she was uncertain about the wisdom of forming an enduring relationship with the warlock.

For all Japheth’s allure and his proven dedication to her, Anusha’s basic quandary with him remained. Could she really allow herself to fall for a man who was addicted to demon drugs, and drew his power from pacts with nightmares?

Thoster slapped a handful of coins onto the board. “That enough for a down payment?”

“Aye, Captain. For starters,” said the short woman standing opposite him. “More’ll be needed for what we’ve already done to restore Green Siren to sailing trim, but this’ll pay for the canvas and lumber.”

Thoster nodded. He’d worked with the dwarf before. Karna Stonekeel was one of Impiltur’s most sought-after shipwrights. Her services didn’t come cheap because her dwarven crew worked quickly and efficiently. Ironic, he thought, that few of them ever sailed on the ships they built and renovated.

“Let me know the tally when you know it, Stonekeel,” he said.

“I’ll send a courier, special delivery,” she replied with a smile. “What in Umberlee’s name happened to her anyhow? Almost looks like Green Siren spent a few days ’neath the waves.”

Thoster grinned. “Something like that,” he said.

The moment he turned to depart, his easy smile slipped. The image of the beastly city hanging in the sky was never far from him.

Xxiphu had followed Green Siren to the surface.

Its wrongful presence had clawed at the air, pulling a cloak of storm around it.

He remembered how the surge around Green Siren intensified, so quickly the ship nearly capsized. More worrying was the strange music. A brassy, fluting, echoing melody glimmered just on the edge of hearing. In that sound, Thoster felt yearning. Something in him wanted to reveal itself to the music maker, but … that would have been crazy!

A many-armed mass broke the surface off Green Siren’s starboard. A kraken. Perhaps Gethshemeth itself. It leapt from the water, but failed to fall back. The kraken heard Xxiphu’s call too. Some sorcery held it aloft while its will remained bent on the city of aboleths. The undulating sea monster took up station around the storm-wrapped city, circling it with erratic loops.

Thoster screamed orders over the tempest, commanding the crew to bring Green Siren around. If they hadn’t got her prow turned into the surge when they did, the ship probably would have capsized. He’d ignored the music. None of his crew had heard it, nor apparently had the half-elf. Raidon had retained his place on the pitching deck, standing at the center of a half-obscured magic circle, his features slack.

The ship shuddered into its new facing as a wave burst across the bowsprit. The wave lacked the energy the captain had feared would swamp Green Siren.

Thoster remembered it as if he were on the pitching deck again …

Thoster glanced up. Xxiphu was rising farther into the sky. As it moved, it pulled the storm with it.

“Thank the Sea Mother,” murmured the captain. He let one hand fall across his amulet. The music yet played, still calling to Thoster. But what Seren had fashioned for him retained its charm. Thoster was free to ignore the call.

The question was, who was the caller? The crazy half-elf had prevented the aboleths from waking their progenitor. Could the Eldest yet reach out with such strength despite not being entirely conscious? Perhaps. Thoster could count all the things he knew about half-divine legendary beings on one finger: stay clear of them. Still, the music, growing dimmer as the awful city continued to recede, had a grasping, intelligent nature to it that Thoster didn’t ascribe to the Eldest. Xxiphu sought something. An object. It was … right on the tip of Thoster’s tongue.

The captain blinked.

The memory swirled away as the present intruded. He was standing on a busy New Sarshell walk outside the shipbuilder’s office. People jostled him as they went about their day.

“Damn me, I thought I drank enough rum last night to erase that memory,” the captain said.

A man gave him an odd look as he passed.

Thoster chuckled. He said, louder, “Guess I’ll try again tonight. The key is to not accept half-measures! The key …”

The key. Why was that word familiar? It put him in mind of a song.

The music from his memory battered Thoster, as loud and as demanding as when Xxiphu had frowned down upon Green Siren days earlier.

“The Key of Stars is what Xxiphu seeks,” he whispered.

The captain clutched his hat to his head and dashed down the walk in the direction of Marhana Manor.