Sands of the Soul

PROLOGUE

The Month of Marpenoth 1372 DR

The fog rolled in. Ebeian Hart pulled his lightweight cloak closer around his slim shoulders. The red-haired elf did it more out of nervous habit, not really suffering any chill this unseasonably warm night. He didn't like it when things were out of the ordinary, even the weather, especially when he was in the middle of a theft. And tonight was something special.

Ebeian crouched lower behind a rather muscular statue and surveyed the rest of the inner courtyard. With his slim hands grasping granite biceps, he cautiously peered around the carved elbow of the bygone Soargyl and scanned for more guards. A pair of ill-equipped sentries had trudged past him a few moments earlier, and the Waterdhavian elf counted past one hundred to see if there would be more, but no others made any rounds.

Ebeian shook his head. Things had certainly changed at Sarntrumpet Towers, he mused sadly, and not for the better. There was a certain shoddiness to the manor and grounds. While the Towers had never been known as a great beauty, at least in the past it had been well kept. That was obviously not the case anymore. Ebeian was nearly ready to change his mind, toss the escapade aside as worthless because there was no challenge, but he hated changes in plans even more than he hated events out of the ordinary. He had gone this far and would go farther before the night was over.

Fairly sure that he would encounter no other guards, Ebeian lightly hopped off the granite pedestal, gave a quick bow to his carved, temporary partner in crime, and began to pick his way toward the five stone towers that rested in the center of the courtyard.

"Doesn't look like I'll need this tonight," he whispered to himself as he tucked his enchanted glass in a hidden pocket. "No need to waste my 'seeing eye' when there's clearly nothing to be seen."

He had discovered that only simple glow spells were being used to illuminate the sundry statues and fountains that littered the courtyard, and none were for protection or alarm. Ebeian had heard from "colleagues" of his that Lord Rorsin, head of the Soargyl family, was no longer paying top coin for his magic, and it appeared that they were right. The young Soargyl had let many things fall into disarray, including much of the family fortune. Ebeian shook his head sadly. He was sure Lord Rorsin's father would have been the first to agree that the lad was not ready for the early leadership that had been thrust upon his hulking shoulders. But death had taken no notice of qualities like readiness.

Ebeian shivered again and tugged the dark gray cloak tighter still. This time it was to ward away the unpleasant memories of more than a year past. Horrible events transpired then that had contributed to the second-rate condition of Sarntrumpet Towers and had actually led Ebeian there this night, in a roundabout fashion.

Obscene shadow monsters had invaded the home of the Uskevren during a gala, not to mention the Soargyl manse as well. It was as though he could still sense their lingering touch. The wraiths had left a huge swath of destruction in their wake. Many party goers lay dead after the attack at Stormweather Towers, the Uskevren family home, but a few were left worse than dead. Lord and Lady Soargyl, Rorsin's parents, were murdered in their own bed that same night. Ebeian, after viewing what those shadow monsters were capable of, fervently hoped that the Soargyls had been asleep when it happened, but somehow he doubted that.

A slick sweat was forming under his leathers. Ebeian took several deep breaths of the heavy night air, trying to clear his head. He could taste the tang of Selgaunt Bay, though it was not too near. Of course, he reasoned, changing the direction of his morbid thoughts, there was another rationale why the garden and, most likely, the manse was not overly protected and it had nothing to do with Rorsin's competence or lack thereof.

Families such as the Soargyls and the Uskevren controlled Selgaunt. It was practically a sacrosanct rule that the homes of such elite families were inviolate. Burglaries simply weren't done. That was why Ebeian Hart was there this sickly evening, when the delicate elf would have much rather been sitting comfortably in his rooms at the Lady's Thighs Inn, sipping some mulled wine and perhaps regaling some lady of the eve with one of his many tales.

He was there for a prize that only one particular woman would appreciate-one woman who would understand the irony and the value of stealing something from one of the Old Chauncel, a family from whom stealing just wasn't done. That woman was Thazienne Uskevren.

For just a chance to bring a smile to her lips or hear her laughter he was willing to do this and a fair bit more.

"Ah, Tazi," he whispered at the thought of her raven hair and sea-green eyes, a green much deeper than his own.

She was also one of those attacked on that fateful evening not so long ago. Not killed, she was left, in Ebeian's opinion, much, much worse. It had taken song priests most of that night to reunite her torn soul with her body. Even twenty-one months later she was still not herself, was still almost a shadow. Her shape and form was right, Ebeian thought, but her substance was wispy.

Of course, the only daughter of Thamalon Uskevren continued to go about her daily duties-and a few of her more risque night callings-as she had before, but Ebeian could tell that some of Tazi's fire was gone. He sincerely hoped that passion was simply resting… dormant. Like a flower waiting for spring, perhaps Tazi only needed some warmth.

I would warm you again, he thought, if only you'd let me back in.

Ebeian shook his head to clear the reverie.

I can reminisce some other eve, he chided himself. Tonight, I have work to do.

Picking his way through the garden of stones, not a single plant in sight save for a few weeds that were spidering their way over the flagstones, Ebeian reached the center tower. How Rorsin was able to sleep in the same tower, let alone the same bed, where his parents were murdered caused Ebeian to wonder once more if the boy was addle-brained. What dreams plagued him was not something Ebeian wanted to contemplate for very long.

Ebeian decided not to use a levitation spell to raise himself the distance up to what he suspected was the bedroom window. After all, he reasoned, he didn't want whatever bauble he pilfered to simply be handed to him. Everything else had gone far too easily so far. If this was going to be worth it, he decided, he was going to sweat for the prize a bit.

Scanning the steep side of the tower, Ebeian could discern large chinks in many of the stones. A smirk played on his face. He had just the right tools with him this particular jaunt. Of course, he prided himself on always having the right tools for every occasion.

Reaching into a satchel belted to his waist, Ebeian pulled out a pair of enchanted metal claws and stuffed his cloak in their place. Each claw had four talons and a pair of leather thongs attached to the crossbar where they joined. It had been some time since he used them, but they glinted in the sparse light as though new. Carefully wrapping each one of them over his slender hands, Ebeian was soon ready.

The lower stones that made up the tower were beginning to crack badly. With relative ease, Ebeian hoisted up his light frame and, like a lizard, began to methodically work his way up. His fingers always unerringly discovered a handhold, no matter how insignificant. Years climbing around the great city of Waterdeep had honed his skills. This was almost second nature to him.

The higher he ascended, though, the more difficult it became to find a grip. Without as much weight resting on the upper stones, the less damaged they were. Cracks were fewer and far between. This was when the talons came in handy. The thin yet sturdy metal was able to slip into the slightest of scratches and afford Ebeian a handhold.

"Perhaps a bit of the old levitation was in order," he muttered, growing sweatier.

The damp air didn't help, and Ebeian was certain that the only way he was going to remove his thin leathers at the end of the night was to peel them off… or maybe get some willing barmaid to peel them off for him. That was something pleasant to contemplate.

Ebeian was so engrossed in trying to decide which barmaid he wanted to assist him that he didn't notice that the notch he had wedged his hand into was close to crumbling. The moment he began to raise himself up with that hold, the stone fractured apart and Ebeian started to drop.

Clawing wildly at the tower side, Ebeian slid a good story or two before one of his talons caught in a chink of a marble slab. He winced as the momentum of the sudden stop wrenched his left shoulder, and hissed in pain as his arm tried to leave its socket.

"Dark," he moaned. "That's going to slow things down."

He dangled by his left hand for a moment.

"By Fenmarel, I must look like some beast from the jungles of Chult, swinging here."

Needing to catch his breath, Ebeian looked down as best he could. By some good fortune, the guards had still not made another pass, and the mild enchantment on the claws had kept them silent on the frightening slide down the tower. When Ebeian realized that the fog would block the sentries' view of him, if they did come by, he breathed a little easier.

It took Ebeian twice as long to recoup the distance he had lost. When he finally reached the ledge under what he believed to be Lord Rorsin's bedroom window, what little good humor he had possessed was long since gone. Once again the thought crossed his mind to toss the whole plan to the wind and try again another night. But, despite some of the things he said and did, Ebeian was determined. Tazi meant more to him than he let on, even to himself. He wanted to be the one to reach her, when it seemed that nothing and no one else could. He firmly believed that what he stole from this place would be the gift Tazi needed to restore herself.

His resolve strengthened, Ebeian swung his right leg up and hooked the ledge with his ankle. With only slightly less grace than normal, thanks to the throbbing ache in his injured shoulder, he pulled himself up. Taking advantage of his narrow perch, the elf rested his face against the cool rockwork. There wasn't much of a view at his elevation, he realized vaguely, what with the fog obscuring the city lights. In fact, Ebeian noticed with some unease how that same fog had covered the Soargyl grounds like a shroud. The various statues and figures were indeterminate ripples under the mist. Yet again he found himself shivering.

Each breath was an effort, and that concerned him. The pain from his shoulder was excruciating and Ebeian was afraid that it might slow him down.

"It's probably the heavy air tonight," he told himself. "I could cut it with my eating dagger, it's so thick."

Using that poor theory to mollify his concerns, Ebeian turned toward the window casement and untied the talons from his hands. He rubbed the tattoo on the side of his neck with his declawed right hand. It was his way of offering a silent prayer to Fenmarel before he began any caper.

A dim light flickered within the room. By its uncertain glow, Ebeian was able to make out a large bed. Mountains of pillows were heaped upon it as well as several large blankets. Ebeian thought unkindly that it looked like Lord Rorsin was unable to convince anything living to keep him warm at night and relied on the extra bedding for his company, but the bed was unoccupied.

"I wonder what the dull lad is up to? I was certain I was going to have to step lightly around his big form."

It was simply one more piece that didn't fit into Ebeian's plans for the night.

Gingerly, he removed a set of lockpicks from a strap on his left forearm, careful to jostle that shoulder as little as possible. The lock on the casement opened in short order. Since no one was there, the elf didn't have to concern himself with the breeze created by the open window. As Ebeian slipped noiselessly into the room, he marveled once more how easy everything was to get into.

At this rate, he thought, the boy might as well leave the doors open!

The situation didn't sit well with the thief. Why indeed leave everything so unprotected? Could Rorsin feel so certain those unwritten rules would protect him from common thievery? Even if he did, how could he ever feel safe after those heinous shadows killed his parents? Or did he have something inside the tower to keep him safe? There was food for thought.

Ebeian allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the master bedroom. There was a large trunk at the foot of the bed, but he dismissed rifling through that.

"Some moth-eaten blanket wouldn't draw anything but a moue of distaste from Tazi," he reasoned correctly, "and I am not some chambermaid, bearing fresh linen!"

Padding softly through the room, his pointed ears straining to hear the slightest noise, Ebeian moved toward the dressing table. He was hopeful that there might be some shiny trinket worth his time. Sifting through the pile of coins on the tabletop, though, Ebeian began to feel somewhat disappointed. He wanted something that screamed the Soargyl name to present to Tazi and he was turning up nothing at the moment. The pain in his shoulder was making him impatient.

Unwilling to sift through too many of the drawers of the table and make unnecessary sounds, Ebeian noticed a set of double doors to one side. He was curious if they led to a study attached to the bedroom, which would be a logical assumption. The "colleagues" he had consulted the other night did not know many details of the layout of the interior of the Soargyl manse. Perhaps there might be some paperwork of the Soargyls' most recent dealings lying about. Rorsin struck him as the unorganized type. Ebeian knew Tazi appreciated information as much as, if not more than, some twinkling gem.

He walked carefully, avoiding a few of the worn floorboards, and leaned cautiously against one of the doors.

After a suitable amount of time passed without hearing anything, Ebeian cracked it open.

He could see that a fire was burning in a marble fireplace along the east wall and that was the only light in the room. There was a leather sofa and a few divans as well as a table, but no desk or the like to be seen. A carafe glinted ruby-red in the firelight and two empty glasses rested nearby. Just like the bedroom, there were pillows everywhere. Ebeian wondered at Lord Rorsin's decorating tastes. Either he didn't have any of his own or he had simply left everything the way his mother had chosen.

More and more, Ebeian was sure Rorsin wasn't ready for leadership. He seemed to be the kind of boy who simply followed. Ebeian was so caught up in his analysis of the young Soargyl that he almost didn't catch the tread of footsteps in an outer hallway. Luckily for the elf, Lord Rorsin was a lumbering clod and the elf was able to skitter back out of the room as soon as he heard the sound. Ebeian started to shut the door, but an icy voice froze him in mid motion.

Through the tiny sliver of space between the doors he afforded himself, Ebeian peered into the sitting room. He could see Rorsin nearly stumble in, so intent was the young lord on his visitor. The blond-haired Soargyl kept peering over his shoulder at the dark figure behind him. From his vantage point, what he saw caused Ebeian's heart to skip a beat. If the figure was whom he thought, Ebeian understood why Rorsin hadn't bothered with any magic inside the house. He wouldn't need it tonight.

That silky voice spoke again and was unmistakable to Ebeian, even from a distance. Though he had only seen the man, to use the term loosely, from afar on a few occasions, Ebeian didn't need to see the dark, close-shorn hair or the goatee to know it was Ciredor.

What is he doing back with the Soargyls? Ebeian wondered.

The elf didn't know much about the mage-Tazi had preferred to tell Ebeian very little about her last encounter with Ciredor-but what he did know was enough.

At one point nearly two years past, Tazi's mother had tried to match her wayward daughter with this man. It was not her first attempt at matchmaking, but as far as Ebeian knew it was the first real error in judgment the Uskevren matriarch had ever committed. Shamur had been under the mistaken impression that Ciredor had the potential for a good match with Thazienne. Playing the dutiful daughter, Tazi agreed to meet with him, as she did with all her mother's selections, and, as was her way, Tazi proceeded to steal something from him.

On the night of a celebration to Lliira, Ebeian couldn't remember which one, Tazi had set out to steal a diamond stud from Ciredor that she had presented him with on a previous occasion. What happened beyond that Ebeian never found out for certain. All he did know was that Ciredor disappeared and Tazi was a changed woman. She immediately dismissed her closest companion and refused to speak to Steorf since. Ebeian had tried a few times to ply her with drinks and find out the whole story, but the icy looks she shot him stopped him dead in his paces. The only piece of information he ever got was from Steorf.

The mage-in-training let it slip out that Tazi nearly died at the hands of that necromancer and wouldn't say more. Ebeian didn't pursue the matter, secretly glad that Steorf was no longer a part of Tazi's life-he detested competition of any sort-but if Ciredor was back, that didn't bode well for Tazi.

"Can I offer you something to drink?" a nervous Lord Rorsin asked his guest.

"It's not what you can offer me that intrigues me this evening," Ciredor replied smoothly. "It is what I might be able to offer you."

A slow smile curved his lips. Ebeian watched as Ciredor motioned Rorsin to sit, as though it were the mage who was master of the house.

And perhaps he is, mused Ebeian.

"I have something for you, something special."

With that, Ciredor reached into a hidden fold of his dark red doublet, and pulled out a crystal flask. He placed it carefully onto the teak table beside the couch with the slightest hint of a flourish.

Lord Rorsin studied the amethyst-hued flask for a few moments. Ebeian thought he was probably not looking at it so much as trying to work up the nerve to speak to Ciredor again.

"What is it?" the Soargyl finally asked.

"I thought you'd never ask," came Ciredor's easy reply. Ebeian sensed that the mage was simply toying with the slow lord and enjoying it.

"It is something your father hired me to do, before his untimely demise. His last wish, so to speak."

Ebeian watched as Lord Rorsin's head dipped slightly at the mention of his father's death and saw how that reaction did not go unnoticed by the dark mage.

The bastard, Ebeian thought.

"Within this crystal is something very unique. One might call it a one-of-a-kind piece."

The elf could see Ciredor lift the flask off of the table and allow the firelight to play on its many facets.

He is a good showman, I'll give him that, Ebeian grudgingly admitted to himself. He knows how to work the angles. Lord Rorsin is very much out of his league here.

As Ebeian predicted, the blond man could not outwait Ciredor. He didn't grasp the rules to this undeclared game.

"You still haven't told me what it is," he said, with a touch of petulance.

"I would have thought you would have guessed by now," Ciredor answered, and as though he couldn't resist the twist of the knife, he added, "and I would have thought your mother would have taught you better manners when speaking to a guest."

The elf realized that Ciredor was not someone he wanted to be on the opposite side of. Ebeian could see that he had an unerring ability to find his opponent's weak spot and dig in. He wondered even more what this mage had done to Tazi and what it had taken her to drive him away. He listened even more closely, the pain in his shoulder all but forgotten.

"What I have here is both precious and useful. Mark my words, boy, that combination does not occur in this life very often." He carefully placed the flask back on the table. "That"-he pointed at the container with one long finger-"holds part of Thazienne Uskevren's soul."

It took all of Ebeian's self-control to remain silent at that revelation. How could that be, he wondered. When and how would the mage have been able to take that from her? His fingers practically bit into the doorknob as he, like Lord Rorsin, waited for an explanation. Even as it came, Ebeian realized when Ciredor could have accomplished it.

"I'm sure you recall the night your parents left this mortal coil," Ciredor began.

When this produced a nod from Rorsin and-Ebeian wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or not-what appeared to be a tear from his pale, blue eyes, Ciredor continued his narrative.

"On that fateful evening, the Uskevrens," Ciredor began, and Ebeian noticed the subtle insult to Tazi's family name, "were hosting a party. As you know, many attendees were slaughtered just like your parents. The shadow creatures seemed to draw the very essence from their victims."

Ciredor paused for a moment, and Ebeian wondered if it was only for effect or if the necromancer actually appreciated the creatures.

"I am also quite certain you would remember that the Uskevrens nearly lost their only daughter during the attack. Or were you too overcome with grief to assimilate that fact at the time?" he questioned solicitously.

Ebeian could see that Rorsin was becoming flushed. The elf was silently rooting for the Soargyl to actually display a little backbone, but that didn't seem to be in the cards. He could also see that Ciredor recognized he wasn't going to get a bite from the lad this time. He hurried along with his story.

"With Thazienne gravely wounded and the household in disarray after the evening's slaughter, I saw my chance."

Ebeian watched in fascination as Ciredor continued as though he were alone.

"I had been waiting forever, it seemed, for just the right moment to claim that little bitch. I owed her so much…"

Ciredor absently rubbed his chest for a moment before he realized where he was and regained his composure.

"Word spread quickly among the survivors of the debacle that Thazienne had been gravely wounded and her father had sent for High Songmaster Ammhaddan. It was simple enough for me, disguised as that very priest, to intercept Thamalon Uskevren's servant and be escorted inside. In they led me to poor little Tazi's bedroom, begging me to save her."

Ebeian's lips twisted in anger at the casual way Ciredor used Thazienne's special nickname.

"Her soul had been partially torn from her body, but still it lingered nearby. It was a difficult decision, whether to simply send that part of her to the Abyss and help the rest to follow or to take what was lost for myself."

He glanced at Rorsin to see if his audience was still hooked, and he wasn't disappointed.

"And all the while," the mage continued, pacing back and forth before the fire, "she lay there, so very… vulnerable."

Ebeian noticed how Ciredor savored that last word, as a cat might some delectable morsel.

"So I decided to take what was available for myself. I saw the value in it, and now I offer that to you," Ciredor finished, turning to stare at Rorsin.

Ebeian held his breath as he waited to hear what the Soargyl would say in response. All the while, his mind worked at how he could return Tazi's soul fragment back to her. This is what had been wrong with her all along, he reasoned, and now the elf could save her.

"I-I don't know what to say," Rorsin stammered, obviously frightened to anger the mage.

"Well, try, dear boy. I don't have all night."

With that, Ciredor seated himself in a cloud of maroon velvet back onto the couch.

"What I meant to say was that I wouldn't know what to do with something so 'precious,' as you phrased it. I have to wonder why you would be willing to part with it to someone like me."

Ebeian smiled from his hidden vantage point. Perhaps Rorsin might have a backbone after all.

"Here," the mage began, "try to follow along. If you have possession of part of Thazienne Uskevren's soul, you will have the ability to scry through her."

Both the elf and Ciredor realized Rorsin was confused.

"A window through her eyes," Ciredor explained. "You would have the inside view to all her family's dealings. I think even you," he added derisively, "can recognize what that could mean for you and your family."

"I guess I'm not making myself plainly understood," Rorsin interjected. "I don't understand why you would ever part with something that special?"

Good question, thought Ebeian. The elf had been wondering that himself. If Ciredor hated Tazi so much for that mysterious, past offense, why sell her so cheaply? Surely the dark mage could come up with a more interesting fate for her than this.

"I have to admit," Ciredor grudgingly revealed, "that you pose a good query, boy." He stood up and his maroon clothing turned black against the firelight. "I was never able to fulfill my bargain with your father and I find loose ends to be… annoying. As delightful a morsel as the splinter of little Tazi's soul is, I cannot be bothered with fragments right now. They have no worth to me."

Ebeian saw that Lord Rorsin was curious, and that curiosity emboldened him.

"No worth?" the lord asked.

Ciredor turned to gaze into the fire, and when he spoke again, Ebeian recognized that he did it more for himself than anyone else in the room.

"I have been collecting flasks such as these for some time now, and one like hers would be worthless. It would sully my offering. I wouldn't risk that when I only need three more to complete my objective."

"You've got more of these," Rorsin pointed to the flask on the table, "here with you?"

Warming his thin, long fingers by the fire, Ciredor did not even turn around when he responded, "Not here, but in hot Calimport. I need only collect one more and I will be quit of this frigid city. Fannah's is the last, and I need find only two other, minor souls."

Ebeian's green eyes grew wide at the mention of one of Tazi's only friends.

"Though tonight," Ciredor added as he turned to smile at Rorsin, "I find it quite comfortable here."

Rorsin made no reply, not knowing how to. His smile fading, Ciredor became brusque.

"Enough dawdling, boy. Do you want what I have to offer, or has this evening been a waste of my time?"

Ebeian could sense Rorsin's fear of Ciredor coming off of him like waves. His own mouth was drying out at the prospect of this bargain and what part he would have to play.

"I can't refuse such an offer, can I?" Rorsin astutely answered. "But what amount could I possibly pay you?"

Ciredor's easy smile returned at the sound of acquiescence.

"Don't trouble your blond curls at this moment, dear boy. One day, I will come for my payment, and have no doubt, you will be able to pay."

With that, he reached for the flask, covered it with both of his hands, and closed his eyes.

"A few words," he told Rorsin, "and this bit of Thazienne Uskevren is yours."

Ebeian could feel his bowels turn to water as he watched Ciredor close his eyes. The pain from his shoulder was already a memory. This was the moment, and there was no turning back, even if part of him might want to.

Ciredor had only spoken a word when the elf hurled himself from his hiding space. The double doors slammed open from the force of his explosive leap. Ebeian saw confusion register on both the faces of Rorsin and Ciredor, but surprise was his. Before Ciredor could react, Ebeian smashed the crystal flask from his grip. The momentum of that leap brought both necromancer and elf to the ground, upsetting the heavy teak table. The flask shattered on the floor.

Ebeian watched as gold wisps rose from the shards of the broken container, and he almost laughed aloud at the picture Ciredor presented, scrambling over to the pieces and his hands closing on empty air. The wisps stole their way to the fireplace and, in a deafening roar, they were gone through the chimney, extinguishing the flames in their wake.

"She's free," Ebeian whispered, forcing himself to his feet in the darkened room. He knew his moment was at hand, but he had given Tazi a gift no one else could.

Ciredor turned wildly in the elf's direction. He stretched out his arms, and two green balls of light exploded from his fingertips. Ebeian was helpless before the spell and was flattened to the ground under its weight.

In two angry steps, Ciredor was at the elf's side. Through a haze of pain, Ebeian saw Ciredor raise his hand in what was sure to be a killing blow, but he hesitated.

"What have we here?" asked Ciredor, almost gently, the glow from his hands having revealed the thief's pointed ears.

Ebeian could feel Ciredor's icy hands on his face. Between the suffocating weight of Ciredor's magic and the pain from his shoulder he was nearly unconscious, but the elf could tell that Ciredor had raised his head from the floor and was lightly turning it this way and that.

"It is almost too impossible to be true," came Ciredor's shocked response. "An elf in this city… and one who bears the mark of Fenmarel Mestarine?"

Ebeian watched as at the wave of Ciredor's hand the heavy table righted itself. He could see that Rorsin had finally found his feet and was nearly to the door to the outer hallway, clearly out of his element. Ebeian could have laughed at the sight the boy presented. He looked for the entire world like a child waiting for the punishment of a schoolmaster, if he could have made any sound at all.

Ebeian was rapidly losing consciousness. His thoughts drifted back to Tazi. He could see her green eyes and smiling mouth, and he could hear her joyful giggles.

"You have no idea how special you are," Ciredor said, "and what is in store for you."

Ebeian was startled awake from his dazed vision to see black eyes boring into him. Turning his head slightly, he realized he was stretched out on the heavy table. Almost against his will, tears slipped from his eyes to run their course into his pointed ears.

In a low, melodic voice, Ciredor began a heinous chant. Pain exploded both inside and out of the elf's body. Rorsin crouched in the corner, unable to look. Gut-wrenching screams tore from Ebeian's lips. Outside, the sickly fog swallowed all light and sound.