Plague of Spells (19 page)

“These kuo-toa bear the markings of those who went to dwell in Taunissik.”

The captain raised his eyebrows and waved his hand for Nogah to explain further.

Nogah said, “For all your sea lore, it would surprise me had you heard of Taunissik, Thoster. It is a failed colony, of little consequence. A few hundred dispossessed kuo-toa left Olleth six years back. They were part of a subsect whose charter demands its adherents always seek to expand kuo-toa territory. So they departed Olleth to set up an outpost on a deep atoll. Taunissik, as old morkoth records called it, boasts a massive coral growth on a submerged mountain. Time passed, and no word of the colony’s progress ever came. In Olleth, we thought the colony dead. Apparently, we were wrong to assume Taunissik failed; Gethshemeth found the colony. The colonists were enslaved to the great kraken’s will.”

The captain clapped his hands. “Aye! We have another voyage ahead of us! Back to the ship. We set course for Taunissik! Nogah will be our guide.”

Seren scowled, but didn’t gainsay the captain.

Japheth offered, “I am not a strong swimmer. How much of this colony is under water?”

“Worry not, human,” said Nogah. “I have an elixir that will preserve you and the woman, should it be necessary to descend beneath the waves.”

“What about him?” asked Japheth, pointing to the captain, whose back was turned as he stooped to retrieve his hat, which had been knocked off in the fight.

Nogah shrugged. “Thoster needs no elixir.”

The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) West of Nathlan

No food passed Raidon Kane’s lips. Every so often he sipped from his waterskin. His eyes were open, but he looked inward. Memory became theater, disgorging his past. He retrieved and relived every event that contained Ailyn. A master of his own mind, Raidon’s recollection was extensive.

On the second day, tears brimmed, and then broke from his eyes. Raidon tasted salt.

On the third day, he sighed. He reached into his pouch and produced a ration composed of dried dates, almonds, and apples. He nibbled. Later, he ate the entire close-packed morsel, and then another.

On the fourth day, Raidon levered himself to his feet with the aid of the great, dirt-grimed boulder. Pain knifed through his stiff joints. Physical pain was something to which he was becoming accustomed. Others might have taken the agony as an omen of their own inadequacy. Raidon decided to perceive the new barbs and the lingering aches as evidence of his continued existence. His hurts were a connection to his past he couldn’t gainsay. Pain grounded him and held him sane when images of Ailyn bringing him a daffodil during Spring Feast, Ailyn receiving a gold Cormyrean coin from his hand, Ailyn looking for him in a game of sneak-and-hide… these and other poignant memories threatened to crack him wide open, again.

The mountain on the horizon remained steadfastly in the sky, defying nature and perhaps even Silvanus… assuming that one had survived into the present. According to the golem that spoke from nowhere, even the gods were in disarray these days, as their lofty realms buckled and crumbled toward a new balance.

Raidon rubbed his chin, wondering why the sentient effigy had not attempted to renew their conversation. If it lay buried in an extra-planar dungeon, the golem must be lonely. Then again, it wasn’t alive—it was a magical construct. Perhaps concepts like loneliness held no meaning for it.

His voice rough from disuse, Raidon addressed the air. “Cynosure, are you near?”

“Of course, Raidon,” came the instant reply.

The monk said, “I am glad. The world has moved on without me, it seems. All save for you.”

“I was never part of the world, Raidon, at least until you woke. I resigned myself to decades more darkness. Then light broke from the void when you first called on the power of your Sign, and I knew I was not forsaken. Of the two of us, I would hazard that I am the one who feels most glad.”

Raidon nodded. Perhaps the construct could feel something like loneliness after all. But could it feel loss? When it recalled past acquaintances now gone, did a hollow cavity in its chest emanate a hopeless tide that threatened mental desolation? He didn’t trust himself to reply, fearing his voice would shake.

After a few moments, Cynosure asked, “What do you propose to do, Raidon?”

“I know one thing, golem; I hunger. I need food.”

“And after you find sustenance? What will you do?”

The monk shook his head in negation. “Nothing. I propose to exist. That is all. My deeds and past struggles have all yielded nothing. My greatest act of kindness concluded with the death of a child all alone. I’ll not make such an error again. Misguided efforts to improve the world only deepen its imperfections. My masters had the right of it: be in the moment; do not shape it.”

A high, white cloud edged a limb over the sun, throwing a cooling shadow across the hillside.

Cynosure spoke again, “You have the Cerulean Sign—”

“I would cast it away, for all that it was a gift from my mother, if I could. It has brought nothing but trouble. And the Traitor of Stardeep is released, you tell me. The Sign scars my flesh only to remind me it is a worthless symbol of a failed cause.”

“The cause has not yet failed.”

“No?”

“The threats the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign formed to fight remain active, perhaps closer to the surface than ever before. In the Dawn Age, monstrosities slipped into the world from sanity-shredding realms. These creatures, great and small, instinctively work toward the day when Faerűn itself is consumed and made anew in their own mad image. As a Keeper, it is your duty to oppose this.”

“I am not a Keeper.”

“Raidon, though I may be wrong, it is possible you remain the sole, mobile Keeper in all Toril.”

“I did not choose that role. I am not a Keeper.”

“You fought aberrations whenever you came upon them.

Though you took no oath, you acted as one sworn to the cause. For ten years you did so, nearly without respite, prior to the Spellplague.”

Raidon frowned, then he ventured, “What of the other Keepers—Kiril and Delphe? And what about yourself? You are of the Sign, and a potent defender of it, as I remember it.”

“Delphe ventured into Sildeyuir fifteen years ago and never returned. With that realm’s fall, I do not know her fate or the fate of any of her kind.”

Raidon queried, “And the swordswoman?”

“Kiril and the sword Angul left Stardeep. They reentered Faerűn, and continued on much as they had before. Kiril sold her sword arm to anyone with sufficient coin to keep her in drink and lodging. Eventually, she met up with a previous employer, a dwarf named Thormud. I lost track of her in the change-ravaged Vilhon Wilds. She survived the Year of Blue Fire, but afterward plunged into the heart of an active pocket of spellplague, from which she never returned.”

The monk grunted. Though not definitive, the construct implied the only two pledged Keepers were missing and likely dead.

Raidon persisted, “You survive.”

“At this time, I am cut off from the world. I can only interact with Faerűn through you and your Sign. I can provide you support, advice, and even transportation on occasion, but I cannot personally enter the war.”

“A war, you say.”

“The conflict has begun. Only skirmishes now, but soon, a wholesale slaughter, when the ancient buried city of Xxiphu emerges.”

The monk walked the perimeter of the boulder’s weedy edge, one hand trailing along the rough stone. He was not being impolite, walking away from the golem; its attention was always centered on him. He wondered if he could sever the link. But the name Xxiphu sparked alarm somewhere in his memory.

“Cynosure, I recall that name, but neither you, Kiril, Delphe, or anyone else properly described the nature of Xxiphu and this ‘Abolethic Sovereignty’ to me. Aboleths have long slunk below the world. What, really, is more terrible about Xxiphu?”

“Two things. First and least, regular aboleth colonies are safely ensconced below the earth, immovable. Xxiphu is different. It is mobile. It may indeed breach to Faerűn’s surface, as previous divination revealed.”

The monk nodded. That was certainly a worry. “And second?”

“Second, Xxiphu contains the original aboleths. These are the progenitors of the race who personally squirmed into the world before it cooled from its creation fires. These aboleths were old when the sun was still young. Xxiphu is the seat of the Abolethic Sovereignty, possessed of a malignancy inconceivable, and ruled by the Eldest, an aboleth of such size its age is incalculable. Certainly it is older than when Abeir-Toril split asunder. If Xxiphu rises and the Eldest wakes, then Faerűn will face yet another catastrophe, this one directed by alien, unfeeling minds that do not perceive the world as you do, or even I.”

The monk didn’t respond. Instead, he looked to the southern horizon, his pose noncommittal.

“If that occurs, Raidon,” Cynosure continued, ”many more children than Ailyn will perish in fear.”

The monk sucked in his breath as if a mighty kick had caught him in the stomach. His eyes darkened, and his fists clenched. With no target other than the boulder, the monk balled his hand and assailed it with a thundering strike. The stone cracked, and splinters of rock winged away. His knuckles stung, then went numb.

Raidon hissed, took a lung-filling breath, then dropped both hands back to his sides, outwardly back in control. The pity he earlier felt for the construct was gone. Cynosure was a manipulator first and last, he saw. It said only what it calculated would be most likely to induce the actions it desired. Very well, he would treat it as it deserved.

“You seek to shame me into action, Cynosure?”

“I merely speak the truth.”

“Indeed. I wonder. But, for the sake of argument, let us imagine that I do take up this challenge. What can I do to prevent the rise of the Abolethic Sovereignty?”

“You must meditate upon the Sign that is now part of you. You are not trained in its use, but I can guide you. It can show you that which transpires across the land, what threats now gather, and what you can best do to counter them.”

“You claim much authority.”

Cynosure was silent.

Finally Raidon asked, “Is the Sign I carry up to this task?” The monk dropped into a lotus position, one suited for meditation.

“The Sign is only as potent as its holder.”

“Then let us hope my training does not desert me.”

The monk supposed the construct attempted a new stratagem with its last statement. As if he were shallow enough to respond heatedly to such an obvious ploy. But Raidon wondered. Regardless of Cynosure’s tactics, if anything the sentient effigy said was true, wouldn’t it behoove him to help? Unless Raidon chose death rather than continued existence, didn’t his honor demand he do as the construct requested? Perhaps he required more information, if only to make a more informed decision.

“Cynosure, I would know more. Tell me how to proceed.”

The golem of Stardeep didn’t hesitate in its response. “Meditate on the Sign. Wake it with your will. Ask it to show you the danger that gathers.”

No novice to meditation, Raidon called upon his focus. He stifled his surprise on discovering his inability to immediately find it. Much had occurred since he’d lost himself in the harmony of a single thought. So he sat awhile, remembering the sensation. A tickle in his brain, becoming smoothness. Distractions dropping away, one by one…

His focus returned. He imagined it as a crystalline lens. He directed its attention upon the unwanted design that blazoned his chest.

He could just discern the symbol’s treelike outline, blurry like half-recalled faces of friends long absent. With single-minded deliberation, he compelled it to reveal its secrets.

It revealed nothing.

He was not impatient; he had nothing but time. He continued to observe the image. As they used to say in Xiang Temple, Raidon could stare the paint off the walls, if given the time.

Gradually he noticed discolorations within the lines, smears of gray on black. The blurs became colors; then the colors became shapes. The lines of the symbol pulled away on all sides to become a window onto another place.

Raidon saw a fog-shrouded tower on a small island. Dozens of scaled, fishlike humanoids burst from the water’s edge and stormed the tower. Behind them strode two watery crones who chanted obscenities.

The creatures had an aberrant taint. Raidon wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he assumed the knowledge was communicated to him by the Sign. Though the creatures were not aberrations themselves, a portion of their spirit was pledged to something abominable.

The fishfolk sought to overpower several defenders who held the tower. The tower denizens included a sea captain in ostentatious dress, accompanied by four humans in ship-scrounged finery; a woman in a body wrap the color of snow; a man with eyes like blood and a cloak so black it seemed more an aura than clothing; a striking young woman as hazy as a dream; and oddly enough, another scaled humanoid touched with the taint of aberration, who stood with the humans instead of its attacking kin.

The young woman with the hazy outline gasped and disappeared before the attackers landed their first blow.

The assault was fierce.

The captain lost his hat in the initial offensive, but his clicking, whirring sword dispensed death each time its damp tip pierced an attacker’s scales. Two of the humans in ragged ship’s attire fell in the initial blitz.

The cloaked man uttered what seemed more like a plea than a spell. A massive iron crown coalesced upon the head of one of the crones. The prongs atop writhed in metallic agony, and as if stricken mad, the afflicted hag began slaying her own allies. Fishfolk fell dead as her killing eyes raked them.

The woman in white discharged fire and lightning into the invaders’ ranks. Her eyes danced, and she yelled with grim jubilation with every enemy she laid low. She destroyed the remaining crone with a blast of fire.

To Raidon’s practiced eye, the attackers had woefully underestimated the depth and strength of the tower defenders. The fight was over.