Beyond the High Road, page 31
Owden pushed the latch, and it did not budge. He tried pulling. The door still did not open, but a muffled clatter sounded inside the cell.
“Tanalasta?” Vangerdahast could barely hear his voice over the sound of his drumming heart. “It’s Vangerdahast.”
Owden glowered, then turned back to the door. “And Owden.”
There was no reply. The two men exchanged worried glances.
“Tanalasta, we must open this door,” said Vangerdahast. “If you’re unable to answer, give the royal knock. Otherwise, I fear Owden may be somewhat overanxious.”
“I can answer.” The voice was somewhat lower and rougher than Tanalasta’s.
Vangerdahast narrowed his eyes and whispered, “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Before Owden could reply, Tanalasta answered, “And I doubt Owden is the overanxious one.”
Owden shot Vangerdahast a smug smile. “That’s her!”
Vangerdahast scowled, then motioned for the priest to wait above the door with his mace. “Better to be safe.”
“So it will look like I’m the suspicious one?” Owden shook his head. “She has been their captive for how long? Of course she sounds a little hoarse.”
Vangerdahast continued to point toward the ceiling. “It is no insult to be cautious.”
Owden rolled his eyes and reluctantly floated up to hover above the door. Vangerdahast pointed at the latch, then uttered a single magic word. The door creaked open, but Tanalasta did not emerge.
“Tanalasta?” Owden called, negating any possible surprise bestowed by his position. “Come along—we don’t have much time.”
“No.”
“What?” Owden dropped down from the ceiling and started to push the door open
Vangerdahast caught him by the arm and pulled him back. “Princess? Is something wrong?”
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” came the reply. “You can’t help me, so leave me alone. I command it.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Vangerdahast pushed the door open and saw a dark figure crouching in the darkness, staring up at him with red-tinged eyes and a slender face framed by a cascade of jet-black hair. So harsh were the features—the sharp cheeks, the dagger-blade nose, the beestung mouth—that it took the wizard a moment to recognize them as Tanalasta’s. Even then, he could not help bringing his wand up between them.
The princess spun away, revealing a pair of small, fanlike wings running alongside her spine. “I warned you! Now leave me to the fate I deserve.”
Owden was far faster to recover than Vangerdahast. He pushed the wand aside and floated into the cell.
“You don’t deserve this.” The priest spread his arms and reached to embrace the princess. “What makes you think that?”
“Don’t touch me!”
Tanalasta leaped away as quickly as a striking snake, then was suddenly squatting in the arrow loop at the back of her cell, naked, trembling, and glaring at them with wild red eyes. Her figure was a gaunt, heinous mockery of the one Vangerdahast had glimpsed at Orc’s Pool, and he could not help feeling sick. She crossed her arms in front of herself and looked down.
“If you touch me, I’ll absorb your enchantments.” She pointed her chin at the slithering floor. “You know what will happen then.”
“Yes, we do.” Vangerdahast started to unclasp his weathercloak, then recalled what would become of all the magic stored in its pockets and thought better of it. “We can’t leave you here. Come what may, you’re coming with us.”
He jerked the weathercloak off Owden’s shoulders and held it out for the princess, but she made no move to accept it.
“Tanalasta Obarskyr! I did not lose an entire company of the king’s soldiers to let you become a ghazneth.” Vangerdahast threw the cloak at her. “Now put that on and come along. Whatever becomes of you, it will become of you in Cormyr—even if I must teleport you back to Arabel in a web.”
Tanalasta’s eyes flared red. “I doubt you are that fast, old man.” Despite her words, she slipped the cloak over her nakedness and closed the throat clasp. The sheen immediately faded from the brass clasp, and she stepped down to the floor. The insects and snakes paid her little attention, save to scurry aside or slither across her bare foot. “Lead on, Snoop.”
So relieved was the royal magician to have Tanalasta back—in any condition—that he would have liked to grab her and teleport back to Arabel that instant. Attempting such a thing from inside the keep did not seem wise, however. Given the building’s magic-absorbing nature, they might well end up trapped inside its walls. Vangerdahast returned to the main room and floated up toward the murky ceiling.
“Do you know if there’s a door up here?” he asked. “There must be some way onto the roof.”
“No!” Tanalasta barked the word as though it were a command. “I mean, we can’t use it. That’s their door.”
She pointed to the far corner of the room, and Vangerdahast soon saw the problem. The door was centered above the stairs, so that the only way to use it was to fly. If he tried to hold Tanalasta long enough to carry her through the opening, she would drain the magic from his flying spell and trap them both.
“We can use the marsh door.” Tanalasta passed beneath Vangerdahast and started downstairs. “They won’t expect that.”
As they descended, Tanalasta’s weathercloak began to disintegrate, the fabric turning dingy and dusty, the edges fraying and the seams opening. Vangerdahast noted the decay and decided it would be prudent to arrive in a secluded part of the palace and gave no more thought to the matter. The excitement of finding the princess was fading, and his headache had returned with a vengeance. His temples pounded and his vision was blurring. His joints ached and his stomach had turned qualmish. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt as weak as an old woman.
“Is anyone else feeling sick?” he asked.
“It’s the keep,” said Tanalasta. “This place holds the ghazneths’ evil like a closet—the swarms, the darkness, the plague, all of it.”
Owden laid a hand on Vangerdahast’s arm. “If you are not averse to a little help from the goddess, I can help.”
“Later.” Vangerdahast started around the corner. “Let’s get out—”
A frightened voice cried out from the next room, “Vangerdahast, help! Are you there?”
Owden withdrew his hand. “That sounded like—”
“Alaphondar!” Vangerdahast finished.
Forgetting his headache for the moment, Vangerdahast flew around the corner and peered across the chamber through the breach in the keep wall, where he saw Alaphondar’s gaunt figure standing outside, silhouetted against the bright exterior light. The sage was swatting wasps away and turning in blind circles as he tried to shake off the afterdaze of using his weathercloak’s escape pocket. A few dozen paces beyond him, the last remnants of the Royal Excursionary Company lay on the ground writhing beneath black blankets of wasps—easy prey for the orcs and ghazneths rushing across the peninsula toward them.
Vangerdahast pushed Owden toward the breach. “Get him in here!”
As the priest flew to obey, Vangerdahast jammed his glowing wand into one pocket and fished a small square of iron from another. He rubbed the sheet between his palms and began a long incantation.
Owden entered the breach behind Alaphondar, and the wasps scattered instantly. The priest reached down and touched the sage’s shoulder. “Here we are, my friend.”
Alaphondar turned toward his savior. The sage’s venerable face was a mottled mass of wasp stings, already so red and distended that his eyes were swollen completely shut.
“Owden?” Alaphondar asked. Outside, the ghazneths sensed what was happening and launched themselves into the air. “Tell me Vangerdahast is with you!”
“He is, and he’s not the only one,” Owden answered.
This drew a puzzled frown from Alaphondar, but the expression quickly changed to astonishment as Owden plucked him off the ground and retreated into the keep. By the time Vangerdahast took their place in the breach, the ghazneths were streaking past the remnants of the Royal Excursionary Company and angling down toward the keep. Vangerdahast turned the iron sheet edge-down and dropped it, then spoke the last word of his spell.
The peninsula vanished behind an iron wall, then a series of deafening clangs reverberated through the chamber.
Vangerdahast retreated into the room with his ears still ringing and one eye fixed on the iron wall. The barrier was illuminated inside by a few stray light rays filtering down between its dark surface and the keep wall, but the space was far too tiny for a ghazneth—or so he hoped. When no more sounds came from the other side, he withdrew his glowing wand from his pocket and turned to the others.
“Could they have broken their necks?” Owden asked. “The wall was iron.”
“Do you really believe we’d be that lucky?” Tanalasta asked. “The wall is also magic. They are only … drinking it.”
“Tanalasta?” Owden gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“The idea was to rescue me.” Tanalasta’s tone was acid. “You do remember—or have you gone daft?”
Vangerdahast raised his brow. He had heard the princess address him in such a manner often enough, but never Alaphondar. The sage was like a father to her.
Alaphondar’s hurt showed even in his swollen face. His white eyebrows tilted inward, and he started to explain himself—then he hesitated.
“My mistake.” He looked around the room blindly. “I thought you were with Alusair for some reason. She just told me that she has learned the names of the ghazneths from the glyphs at the other crypts.”
“Really?” Vangerdahast asked. Being careful not to look in Tanalasta’s direction, he slipped a hand into his pocket and fished for a scrap of silk. “I didn’t know you had taught her to read elven glyphs.”
Alaphondar nodded. “Oh yes, of course. Post Thaugloraneous glyphs are a standard for well-bred princesses these days.”
Tanalasta’s red eyes flickered about the chamber, studying each man in turn. Vangerdahast was careful to keep a neutral expression. Alusair wouldn’t know a glyph from a rune, and he had a pretty good idea what Alaphondar was trying to tell him.
But Owden was not as quick to appreciate the situation. “Post-Thaugloraneous glyphs?” he asked, incredulous. “As in the dragon Thauglor?”
“A groundsplitter wouldn’t understand,” growled Vangerdahast. Continuing to look at Alaphondar, he casually drew the silk scrap from his pocket. “Did she say anything else?”
“She wanted to know the words of Alaundo’s prophecy.” The sage’s eyes shifted in Tanalasta’s direction. He hesitated a moment, giving Vangerdahast a somewhat more obvious cue than necessary, then said, “You know the one, don’t you, Xanthon? ‘Seven scourges, five that were, one of the day …’ ”
“Xanthon!” Vangerdahast spun instantly, flinging the silken scrap in the direction of the ghazneth imposter.
Had he not been slowed by a pounding head and aching joints, he might have been quick enough to catch the phantom. As matters were, however, Xanthon was already gone. Vangerdahast’s magic web spattered across the floor and wall, encasing dozens of snakes and an untold number of insects.
Alaphondar shrieked in pain, and Vangerdahast swung his glowing wand around to see the imposter clinging to the sage from below, claws sunk deep into the old man’s flanks. The extra weight was slowly dragging both Alaphondar and Owden down toward the poisonous tangle on the floor, but Xanthon was not content to wait for his swarms to finish the job. He drew his head back and stretched up to bite Alaphondar’s neck.
Vangerdahast leveled his wand at Xanthon’s temple and uttered his command word. There was a deafening crack and a blinding flash, then the thud of a body slamming into a wall. Still blinking the blindness out of his eyes, the wizard reached out and caught Owden by the back of the cloak.
“Are you still flying?” he asked.
“For now,” came the reply.
As Vangerdahast’s vision cleared, he saw that his lightning bolt had knocked Xanthon into the morass of sticky filaments strewn across the far side of the room. The imposter hung sideways on the wall, struggling against his bonds and spewing foul curses on Azoun’s name. He still bore a faint resemblance to Tanalasta, but the illusion was no longer strong. The ghazneth had suffered no damage, of course, and the sticky filaments of web were fast growing translucent, but he would remain trapped for at least a few moments.
Vangerdahast turned to check on Alaphondar. The old sage hung limp but breathing in Owden’s arms, the long gashes in his flank already puffy and red with purulence. The wizard laid a gentle hand on his friend’s arm.
“Tanalasta is safe?”
“For now,” Alaphondar replied. “She is with Alusair.”
“You are sure?”
When the sage nodded, Vangerdahast drew his iron dagger and looked back to Xanthon. The phantom’s eyes turned orange with fear, and he began to struggle even more fiercely than before. One arm came free, and he began to hack at the web with the sharp talons at the ends of his fingers.
“Not this time, traitor,” hissed Vangerdahast. “Now you pay.”
The royal magician uttered a quick incantation, then hurled his iron dagger across the room. The weapon took Xanthon square in the chest, splitting the sternum and sinking to the hilt. The ghazneth thrashed about madly, shrieking in anguish and trying to jerk free of the web. When the struggle continued for several moments with no sign of abating, Vangerdahast realized he would have to help matters along. Already, Xanthon had torn his back and one leg free.
The wizard passed his glowing wand to Owden, then reached for the priest’s weapon belt. “I need a hammer. Let me borrow your mace.”
That was enough for Xanthon. He plucked the iron dagger from his chest and began to slash, hacking at his own flesh in his haste to escape. Vangerdahast fumbled frantically with Owden’s mace, struggling to free the weapon and pull it past Alaphondar’s groaning form. By the time he had the head loose, Xanthon was standing upright on the floor, black blood pouring from the gaping hole in his chest.
The phantom hurled the iron dagger at Vangerdahast, then turned and fled through the door. Only the wizard’s magic shielding kept the knife from opening his skull.
Vangerdahast cursed, then caught Owden’s eye and glanced at Alaphondar. “Can you save him?”
Owden scowled, clearly insulted by the question. “Of course, but I will need a safe place to work—and for him to rest.”
“Then I will give you one.” Leaving Owden’s mace hanging half out of its belt ring, Vangerdahast reached into Alaphondar’s weathercloak. “Pardon me, my friend.”
He grabbed a pocket by the outside lining and tore it free, then held the resulting pouch in the air. Keeping one eye on the door lest Xanthon return, he spread the pocket and spoke a long incantation. When he finished, the pocket mouth expanded to the size of a trap door. Vangerdahast released the pouch, and it continued to hover in the air.
“You can take refuge in there. Pull the mouth in after you and no one can touch you—they won’t even know you’re there.” Vangerdahast drew the mace from Owden’s belt. “And don’t come out until you hear me calling—even if it seems like tendays. Time will be strange inside, so it may be that only a matter of seconds has passed out here.”
Owden glanced at his mace and cocked a brow. “And what are you going to do?”
“Avenge a betrayal,” Vangerdahast said. “And stop a scourge.”
“No!” Alaphondar’s voice was barely a whisper. “The door no man can close … you’ll open it!”
“It appears Xanthon has already opened that door.” Vangerdahast looked away, peering through the chamber’s profane darkness into the adjacent passageway. “And I am going to slam it in his face.”
21
he sliver rotated in Vangerdahast’s palm, pointing around the corner into the swarming darkness of the lower keep. The wizard floated to the far wall to peer into the next section of corridor. When he found nothing lurking in ambush except more snakes and insects, he eased forward and continued down the passageway. With three different spells shielding him from harm, he was not overly concerned about being attacked—but a wise hunter treated his prey with respect.
The corridor continued past another half a dozen doors, all as rotten and slime-caked as the first. The air was warmer and more fetid than ever, though thankfully it no longer made the royal magician feel quite so ill. Before parting ways, Owden had insisted on casting a few spells of his own, calling upon Chauntea to guard the wizard against the disease, poison, and evil of the place. To Vangerdahast’s surprise, his strength had quickly returned, and even the foul yellow fume that had started to flow through the corridors seemed to swirl away from him as it passed. This small service could not make him embrace Tanalasta’s royal temple, of course—but he would not be above saying a prayer or two of thanks when everyone returned to Suzail.
As Vangerdahast approached the next corner, the sliver in his palm stood on end. This perplexed him, until he rounded the bend and the tiny piece of wood fell flat again, then swiveled around to point back into the corner. The wizard turned around and drifted lower to inspect the area. He had traded his glowing wand for Alaphondar’s commander’s ring so his hands would be free to fight, but the ring’s light was even more limited than that of his wand. He had to descend to within an arm’s length of the floor before he noticed the ribbons of yellow fume spiraling down through a tangle of red-banded snakes.
Vangerdahast pressed his borrowed mace to the floor. There was a slight shimmering and a momentary resistance, then the head of the weapon passed out of sight. Vangerdahast frowned, wondering if this was the “marsh door” Xanthon had referred to while impersonating Tanalasta. Clearly, the ghazneth had been trying to lure his “rescuers” into some sort of trap, and the royal magician suspected that had been the purpose of the entire band for some time now—at least since his return from Arabel.
