Key of Stars

CHAPTER THREE

The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

New Sarshell, Impiltur

Seren narrowed her eyes at the man sitting across the table from her. He blanched.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Seren said. “Surely, a few maps of Mulhorand survive. The Spellplague didn’t reach all the way to New Sarshell and erase them as it did the landscape!”

She made a show of flicking away an imaginary piece of lint from her red robes.

The man’s eyes followed her movements. His pale face and dry lips indicated that her robe’s color had not escaped him. If he believed Seren was a member of Thay’s mageocracy, she judged fear would make him more pliable.

“Well?” she said.

“Uh, my lady, the world changed …,” the man replied. “Of what use to me were such maps? It’s been over a decade since Mulhorand was wiped away. The old cartography is useless.”

“I will pay you triple your going rate for a map of Skuld that details the old temples,” said Seren.

“My lady,” the man’s voice said, quavering, “I just don’t have them! Skuld is no more!”

Seren pounded a fist on the table and stood. “We’re done,” she said. “Maybe one of the cartographers across town will prove more helpful.”

She pushed out of the shop crammed with star charts, maps of coastlines, and castle floorplans from Waterdeep to Telflamm.

“Useless,” she muttered.

The air in the street was cooler. She paused a moment to savor it. Passersby glanced at her, then away. Like the worthless map seller, they assumed her Red Wizard garb was sanctioned by Thay. Why wouldn’t they? No one would be foolish enough to wear the red robe who wasn’t an actual Red Wizard.

Unless one’s name was Seren. She’d lived in the shadows for ten years, hardly showing her face, let alone hints of her old affiliation. By doing so, she’d managed to avoid Thay’s notice.

But a wizard taker named Morgenthel had found her in Veltalar anyway!

So she was done with hiding. Thay would accept her back, Seren believed, once she paid the price Szass Tam or one of his subordinates had placed on her head. Until then, she’d wear the colors of her lost affiliation, confident it was only a matter of time before the garments represented more than hope.

She just had to come up with the requisite amount of coin.

Speaking of which … Seren turned south, toward the mercantile quarter of New Sarshell. Her thoughts drifted to the treasures that had been promised her by the spellscarred monk.

Raidon Kane had sworn to make a rich woman of her if she lent him her aid. Which she had done. She’d held up her end of the bargain, and then some! Traveling into the bowels of the world and entering a city of aboleths was far and above most people’s notion of “aid.”

It was time for Raidon to deliver on his end. By rights, she and the monk should have already departed Impiltur for the southern lands most afflicted by the Year of Blue Fire, where the foundations of cities lay crushed beneath altered landscapes or drowned under rising seas. The lost vaults of kings, merchant princes, and temples called to her.

But the half-elf monk dithered. He was changed since they’d escaped the damned city of aboleths. His eyes were unfocused, and his hands seemed uncertain. The last time she’d seen Raidon, Seren was certain she’d smelled the stink of wine on his breath.

Wine! A damn odd sign for someone who’d once impressed her with his casual temperance.

So odd, in fact, Seren had decided the half-elf was broken. He had experienced something dreadful in sanity-shredding Xxiphu, something he wouldn’t or couldn’t describe. Since they’d returned, he’d only become more tight-lipped and erratic in his behavior, and had taken to wandering the streets.

Even if Raidon finally accompanied her, she worried his mind would last only long enough to completely buckle at the worst possible moment.

So she’d begun making arrangements of her own.

Seren had in hand several detailed maps of Cimbar, a city on the southern coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars that had failed to weather the Spellplague. But she was more interested in Mulhorand, or rather, what was being called “High Imaskar.”

The land once known as Mulhorand was apparently being colonized by remnants of the ancient Imaskar empire, which was a surprise because everyone had assumed the Imaskar had been stamped out long before. But either they, or remarkably adept imposters, were laying claim to the lands west of the Plains of Purple Dust. From what Seren could gather, the newly renamed High Imaskar was mostly a blasted, twisted landscape empty of its new putative masters; the Imaskarans were pretty much restricted to a single towering city called Skyclave.

Seren was certain riches abounded in those lost Mulhorand cities, and she aimed to travel there first, before others with similar notions could arrive.

The wizard spied the building she sought-a three-story stone structure that bristled with defensive stonework like a keep. Letters carved above the lintel read, “Heltharn Depository.” Those with more coin than they could personally carry on their person could sign contracts with the depository to keep their holdings safe. Several years before, she had rented a vault in Heltharn Depository in order to save toward her goal.

She paused just before crossing the street to the structure. That was strange-Where were the two ogre guards the depository normally stationed outside the building’s entrance?

Seren’s brows furrowed. The one thing the depository stressed to its clientele over everything else was its impeccable security. Every previous time she had visited the building, the brutish guards had glared suspiciously at her as she approached.

So why were they not there?

Ogres were, of course, the least of the depository’s security. However, their stolid presence represented all the deeper, magical layers of protection the coin keepers relied upon. If the ogres were gone, did that mean other protections had also been laid bare?

Fear for the safety of her coin urged Seren to dash across the street with her wand drawn. But fear for her skin proved stronger.

Seren stepped beneath the awning of an apple seller’s booth and whispered an invocation of obscurity.

The apple vendor, who’d caught her arrival from the corner of his eye, swiveled his head left and right, searching for her. Her minor spell of concealment was working.

Seren fixed her eyes on the depository door and waited. She had all day.

Over the next hour, she saw several different people walk up to the depository, enter, then leave not long after, looking angry or confused. Something was definitely going on in there-no one who’d entered had spent nearly enough time to access the contents of their individual vaults.

She might have all day, but boredom was a foe she’d rarely bested. So when the next two customers entered and emerged hardly a few moments later, she slipped from beneath the awning and trailed them. Her spell of concealment shuddered as she approached the two, then finally shattered as she moved too quickly for the minor enchantment’s limited capacity. Neither noticed her appearance as if from nowhere.

“Excuse me, could I ask you two a question?” said Seren.

The depository’s customers glanced back. Expressions of annoyance changed to curiosity and a little concern upon seeing Seren in her red robes hurrying to catch up.

“What is it?” said one, a human woman wearing a sea green smock.

“I had a problem accessing my vault this morning,” said Seren. “I was just returning to try again when I saw both of you emerge. Before I waste my time going in and dealing with all that bother again, I thought you could just tell me if the trouble has been cleared up?”

The woman frowned. “No, they’re still dealing with it,” she said. “Some kind of security threat.”

“Security threat?”

“Yeah,” said the other customer, a man in a greasy, oil-smeared coat. “The Depository’s brought in a new master of coins. He says they got to close down the vaults for a few days while they upgrade all the wards.”

“Hmm,” replied Seren. That didn’t sound too bad. “Did he say anything else?”

“Well, sure,” said the woman. “He said they had to upgrade the wards ’cause a mad wizard had been spotted north of the city. Mad with spellplague, he said, rampaging this way. Anyone with any sense is taking precautions. He said she may try to break into the depository, so they want to be ready.”

Seren hadn’t heard anything about a rampaging wizard, but then again, her network of informants was long gone.

“That seems sensible,” Seren said. “Say … Did you find out the name of the new master of coins?”

“Uhm-,” the man said.

“Sure,” said the woman. “Morgenthel was his name.”

Japheth stared into the blank, malachite eyes of the detached iron head.

The craftsmanship was tolerable. The metal was polished, and the articulation of the jaws and lids was smooth. The lines of the iron bust even suggested a feminine subject, which was appropriate. Not that he could claim credit-he’d employed a nearby forge to craft the head, and several other pieces too. In all, he’d kept five forges busy for three solid days in order to produce all the parts he required. He didn’t have the equipment to do it himself nor the time to gather it, especially here beneath Marhana Manor.

Too bad the pseudo-golem he’d fashioned to watch over the Razorhides was in Veltalar. He could have leapfrogged all the time he’d spent assembling the new metallic body. Of course, the “driftwood golem” he’d used to frighten a gang of killers into submission was probably too sinister-looking. The driftwood scarecrow’s crown of smashed shells, body of dirt, fish teeth, and cloak of sea mist made it a terrifying presence. Plus, he’d put it together in just under a day from lakeshore detritus. Though seemingly dreadful, it had been a fragile facade.

If everything came together as he had planned, the iron one would be much less frightening to look on, and far more sturdy.

Japheth carefully lowered the head onto a metallic torso. He pressed, but the head failed to attach. The warlock held the head in place with one hand and grabbed a padded mallet from a clutter of tools laid out on the stone block next to the body.

He pounded the metallic head into place with the mallet. The clamor echoed off the stone walls of the niche-lined catacomb. Instead of moldering bones, wine bottles lay in some of the carved shelves, heavy with the dust of decades. Other shelves had been swept free of wine and dust, and now held alembics, scrolls, open tomes, and a litter of needful things useful for conducting rituals.

With another blow of the mallet, the head clicked into place. It was the portion of the creation that defined the rest. The metallic body, propped up on the block of cracked stone at the chamber’s center, was primed. It was an empty vessel, waiting only for an inhabiting spell with enough strength to animate it.

“Sir?”

Japheth jumped.

The steward stood in the chamber’s doorway, one hand holding a lantern, the other bearing a tray heaped with food and a cup of tea. The steward’s shadow flared down the narrow catacomb hallway behind him.

“Oh, damn me for an idiot,” said Japheth, as the plate in the man’s hands reminded him of Anusha’s gathering. He instantly realized he’d missed it.

“Lady Marhana asked that I bring this down to you,” said the steward. “Shall I just leave it here by the doorway?”

Japheth cleared his throat, then nodded. “Yes, that will be fine,” he replied. “Please convey my regrets to A-Lady Marhana. Tell her I’ll be up in just a moment.”

“No need,” said the steward. “All the other guests apparently forgot the engagement too. I’m afraid the tea is off until tomorrow.”

Regret on Anusha’s behalf swept through Japheth. It was bad enough he’d lost track of time, but everyone else as well? Anusha wanted to discuss the Sovereignty. Apparently, she was the only one.

The steward bowed and departed, leaving the chamber to the dozens of flickering candles, plus the single lantern Japheth had set on the balcony railing overlooking the chamber.

It was odd, Japheth mused. Of them all, Anusha was the one who’d come closest to being destroyed during her time trapped inside Xxiphu. She was the one he’d assumed would want the least to do with the aboleths.

But instead, she was the one most eager to discuss the repercussions of the Sovereignty’s appearance. Seren and Captain Thoster seemed willing to forget the matter entirely given that they were safely away from the aboleth city. And Raidon … Well, the warlock wondered if anything really mattered to the monk anymore.

What about himself?

Of course he was interested in Xxiphu. He owed his renewed ability to wield arcane power to the Dreamheart, and the Eldest’s bond to the eternal stars. Though his pact was better negotiated than the one he’d sworn to the Lord of Bats, he understood far less about the entities that looked out from behind the tiny points in the sky.

Then again, here he was down in the catacombs working on his project, allowing it to drive all other thoughts from his head, including worrying about the Sovereignty.

More importantly, his undertaking also did a great job distracting him from fruitless speculation about Anusha.

Because if he thought about it, he’d have to admit … that he loved her.

That was all.

Anusha made him feel real and alive, maybe for the first time ever. Just thinking about their last few hours together on the Green Siren made his breath come quicker. He would do nearly anything for her; for them. Nothing else should matter.

Anusha had feelings for him, obviously. But she also had reservations. His addiction to traveler’s dust, not to mention his star pact, was a shadow between them, as was how he’d risked everything-the world and his own sanity-for just one life, even though it was hers.

Since they’d come to stay at Marhana Manor, Anusha had been reserved. Or perhaps he was projecting his own insecurity onto her? Either way, neither she nor he had moved to initiate repeating those wondrous few hours.

He knew that part of what attracted him to her was her core of purity-her essential goodness. She wouldn’t be the person he loved if she could long tolerate his addiction to hellborn drugs. If he and Anusha were to have anything other than a dalliance, he needed to make changes.

Her feelings for him gave him the confidence to believe that perhaps he could. If someone as good and as decent as Anusha could care for him, there must be something in him worth loving, something uncorrupted by his drugs and pacts. He needed to hold on to that no matter what else happened.

Japheth had to prove himself and show her the drugs, no matter how deadly, were nothing compared to her.

He could find a way to give up traveler’s dust. He just needed time to find the right ritual-willpower alone wouldn’t be enough. A soul was irretrievably hooked after only a few trips on the crimson road. Japheth shuddered and dismissed the thoughts of the road before images of its lethal terminus could form.

Once he had kicked traveler’s dust, he would look into giving up his new pact, especially if the power ultimately flowed from an entity as awful as the Eldest. That monstrosity had nearly consumed Anusha’s soul.

But first, before any of that, he had to complete his project. It was a gift for Anusha-something sure to put a smile on her face.

He was just about done.

Japheth wrestled the iron mannequin off the stone block, gritting his teeth and grunting as he heaved it upright. If not for its hollow core, it would have been unmovable, at least by him.

Japheth released the body. He waited a moment to be sure it wouldn’t topple off its feet, then selected a piece of red chalk from the surface of the stone block. He bent and carefully drew a ritual circle on the catacomb floor around his creation. The circle was small, but that shouldn’t matter. It would focus the arcane energies just as well as something more elaborate.

He reached for the tiny pouch on the far side of the block, but his finger grazed the tin compact containing his supply of traveler’s dust.

A tremor assailed him.

The ritual he was about to attempt didn’t require an enhanced ability to see the unseen, but he supposed it couldn’t hurt. A quarter grain, just enough to get the sight, but not too much. He picked up the compact … then threw it across the room.

“No. Not yet,” said, closing his eyes. He drew several breaths, each slower than the last. The tremor in his limbs subsided.

He opened his eyes when his pulse was back to normal, then continued on without the tin lying on the block to distract him.

Japheth selected the felt bag of crushed crystal he’d originally intended. He removed a pinch of emerald dust from it and scattered it in the circle. Next he picked up a jade rod. Fracture lines ran through the rod, and the top was missing completely, but the essence held within it remained secure.

It contained the other soul he’d bargained from the Eldest’s psychic hunger: Anusha’s friend Yeva.

He hoped.

He positioned the lifeless hands of the iron mannequin so they gripped the rod.

Last, he shook out a rolled parchment from an ebony scroll-case. It was titled “Soul Dance,” and its intended use presumably involved the transfer of minds between one willing and one unwilling subject. Though his two “subjects” were a jade rod and a soulless creation of artifice, Japheth was hopeful the spell would work for what he had in mind.

He walked widdershins around the circle containing his creation, and began incanting the parchment’s scribed words. He had to keep a close count of the number of syllables uttered. The ritual required that he mentally intone a harmonizing syllable for some, but not all, of the syllables he spoke aloud. The mental syllable occurred once before he said anything, then twice on the first vocal syllable, once on the second and third vocal syllable, once on the fifth vocal syllable, and so on. There was a trick to it; each mental syllable after the first two occurred on the sum of the preceding two.

Concentration was important.

The ritual concluded on the nine hundred and eighty-seventh syllable.

Japheth ceased moving and speaking. The echoes of the last syllables fell soft and dead, like birds shot out of a tree.

Nothing happened.

He leaned into the circle and tapped the mannequin’s metal forehead.

“Blast.”

He reached to remove the jade rod from the construct’s hand when a sound of cloth on stone drew the warlock’s attention upward.

A pale man stood on the balcony overlooking the chamber. He was dressed in black, and a small green symbol wriggled on his forehead. The warlock recognized his former patron instantly. The outline of a great dog lurked in the shadows behind the intruder.

The warlock couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his eyes. Was it really Neifion? Was he actually seeing a fragmentary vision left behind from the last time he’d sampled traveler’s dust? He blinked and shook his head to clear the phantom. There was just no way-

“Japheth,” said the Lord of Bats. “I hoped I’d find you here. How lovely. It’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of your company. You never visit anymore. Such a shame.”

“How did you …?”

“How did I find you?” Neifion asked, pointing to the symbol on his forehead. “I’ve got allies whose powers overwrite the rules of the world.”

Dread churned in Japheth’s stomach. The pale man was no phantom.

“Allies,” said Japheth. “Malyanna, you mean?”

“Yes,” replied Neifion. “The eladrin ‘noble.’ She consolidates her power of Xxiphu, and only grows stronger in the bargain. No, don’t worry-we haven’t woken the Eldest. Yet.”

“You would be insane to do so,” said Japheth.

The Lord of Bats waved his hand as if fending off a comment about the weather. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re still wearing my lesser skin. Return it, and perhaps your death can be merciful.”

Japheth’s cloak rustled as if stroked by a light breeze.

“If it’s death either way, I think I’ll just keep it,” he said. His words belied the chill that raced across his skin.

“Good,” said Neifion. “You don’t deserve an easy end. I cursed your name with every sugared plum and toasted pecan I choked down during the Feast Neverending. You tricked me once, mortal. Time to pay for your betrayal.”