City of Torment (18 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Taunissik, Sea of Fallen Stars Anusha wondered what was happening back on the island. Anxiety prickled through her dream form. She pulled her travel chest out of the hallway onto the main deck. The Green Siren’s launch was gone, but two much smaller lifeboats remained. Lucky followed her, the dog’s chain severed by a single stroke of her dream sword. To the eyes of any watching pirate, it would seem as if the chest slid along the oiled planks of the deck of its own accord. “The ghost!” A dark-haired, scarred woman stood between her and the closest lifeboat, her eyes wide. It was the same pirate responsible for nearly revealing Anusha’s presence several days ago. The woman wasn’t looking at her, but at Anusha’s reflection in the dirty glass of a signal mirror mounted not three feet from the travel chest. Annoyance briefly eclipsed her worry about Japheth. How many reflective surfaces were there on this blasted ship? Anusha released the chest and summoned her dream sword. She smashed the signal mirror with the blade’s tip. From now on, she decided, she would smash every mirror she came upon. The pirate screamed, “Ghost attack!” and ran, diving into the open hold. Questioning cries and answering yells sprung up around the ship. “Brilliant,” commented Anusha as she relinquished her sword. It faded like a dream. She grabbed her travel chest and pulled in earnest, quickly towing it to the railing. The seamount of Taunissik, ringed in streamers of darkness, remained just visible as the day’s light began to fall to twilight. Anusha studied the mechanism securing the lifeboat. Some sort of pulley connected to a lot of thick ropes and knots. She briefly considered having at it with her sword. No, she should lower the boat first… Pirate calls of alarm went up across the craft, in response to the incessant screams of “Ghost!” down in the hold. Anusha found the latch securing the pulley. She got a good hold on the chest, and then heaved her travel chest into the lifeboat. She couldn’t have accomplished that feat in the flesh, but even so, she nearly lost her concentration and dropped herself into the chop. Anusha jumped into the swaying launch and called Lucky to join her. The dog barked excitedly and bounded aboard. She released the latch controlling the pulley. The handle spun out, and the lifeboat dropped into the waves alongside the slimy bulk of the Green Siren. Safely down in the water, she severed the overhanging ropes with a couple of swipes of her shimmering dream blade, then grabbed the oars. Her plan nearly failed then. It was far easier to push, pull, slash, and heave things in her dream form than to hold and manipulate a discrete object over long periods, let alone two simultaneously. The oars kept slipping from her hands even as she tried to fit them to the oarlocks on each gunwale. Several heads poked over the railing above her, some pointing, all yelling. One man was yelling, “The ghost is stealing the captain’s dog!” Someone else yelled, “By Umberlee’s rusted trident, what’re you fools jabbering about! That’s not a ghost�we got us a thief with an invisibility spell!” Cries of disagreement, revelation, and surprise came back. A discussion broke out over whether wizards had relearned the art of magically tricking the eye. Anusha continued to struggle with the oars. Desperation was not helping her concentration. She recalled suddenly the effort it had taken her to learn cursive writing under the stern eye of her tutor. With a similar effort, she blocked out the pirate talk above and slowly, methodically, placed one oar in its lock, then the other. Once so placed, she discovered it was far easier to row. With swift strokes, the lifeboat nosed toward Taunissik. She left the pirate babble behind. Lucky positioned himself on the lifeboat’s prow, and for a short time, served as its figurehead. Halfway to the isle, the small dots trailing misty streamers of darkness resolved as squid-riding kuo-toa. Anusha suddenly recalled Nogah’s role the first time a landing party from the Green Siren came ashore. The ex-whip had chanted the entire time, to keep the attention of the sentinels and Gethshemeth elsewhere. Anusha ceased rowing and looked hard at the distant flyers. Their patterns didn’t seem any different. They hadn’t noticed her yet, down here on the darkening sea. Had Nogah been wrong? Considering the ambush the others had walked into, it seemed possible the ex-whip had accomplished exactly the opposite of her stated aim. Anusha resumed rowing. Her pace quickened, until she sawed at the oars like a madwoman. Why not? She didn’t need to pause for rest or breath. It wasn’t heavy work, just tedious. She sped across the water. In short order, she beached the lifeboat next to the first launch, in a thick tangle of mangrove roots. Nothing had found or disturbed the site, as far as she could determine. She wondered what had become of the rowers left by the first sortie. Nothing pleasant, she guessed. Anusha debated whether she should pull the travel chest completely ashore or leave it in the boat for a quick getaway later. She decided to leave it in the boat. She addressed the guard dog. “Lucky! Good boy! Good boy! Stay here, Lucky. Guard! Stay until I return, all right?” Lucky tried to lick her proffered hand and settled himself directly on top of the travel chest. What had she done to deserve the trust of such a loyal, innocent little creature? She patted him on the head, then turned toward the isle’s interior. ***** Raidon hurtled through a gap between nothing and everything, through a space where people were not meant to go. Light speared his eyes and burned his face. His teeth rattled in his jaw. All the bones in his body tried to burrow out of their fleshy cocoon. His chest ached as he gasped over and over, trying to draw in another breath of air. But there was no air. A gray haze narrowed his vision smaller and smaller… A guttering blue parabola snatched him out of the no-space where he trespassed. Raidon and Angul fell ten feet onto a flagstone floor. He couldn’t suppress a long, hacking cough, even though his ribs seared with each contraction. He lay on his side in a half fetal position, riding out his body’s mutiny. When the coughing subsided, he rested. Where had Cynosure dropped him this time? The chamber was a great stone vault filled with hulking, dimly glowing rectangular objects. Most protruded from the floor, but some stuck out from the walls and several hung from the ceiling. Ancient, magical script glimmered on the blocks; the source of each object’s glow was this script-born light. Two walls were collapsed beneath rubble, and many of the blocks were sundered, their runes darkened. Slender tubes of dully pulsing light protruded from the stone blocks, one or two from each. The corralled light was gathered in thick bundles, suspended from the high ceiling by fancifully carved stone gargoyles. Many of the cords were frayed and snapped, their light dead, and others lay in snakelike disarray on the rubble-strewn floor. It was cold too. Raidon’s breath steamed, and his face and hands were already chilled. Other than the cold, nothing immediately threatened him except the wounds the Chalk Destrier had given him as their fight concluded. He closed his eyes, reaching for his focus. He visualized his chest and the bones that gave his torso shape as lines of energy. They were cracked and misshapen�a few were broken. Pulses of pain spiked out from them through the rest of his body He imagined the spikes as real objects, then imagined their pointy ends eroding away. These sorts of visualization tricks aided his concentration. When the piercing pain receded enough for him to continue, he mentally grasped each broken and damaged bone, one after another, and straightened it. New spikes of agony shot through his body, ones he couldn’t dampen. But he did not stop until every bone was mended. Raidon finally released his focus. Stabbing pain had been replaced by a body-wide dull ache. He lay awhile longer in the winter-cold chamber of rubble and strange objects. Stray thoughts of his long-dead life intruded. He saw Ailyn playing in the courtyard of their home in Nathlekh. She wore a yellow dress, and her face was grubby. She clutched a great mass of wild daffodils from the garden. He could smell them. The monk smiled. Ailyn returned the impish grin he knew so well. His heart clenched. “Hey, little girl,” he murmured to the phantom. His throat was tight. Ailyn laughed and skipped away. A new pain pulled him from waking reverie. Something hard and painful lay below his prostate form. He shifted and saw the object was Angul. He looked at its dull length for a few moments. His vision was blurred with unwept tears born of his daydream. The monk rubbed at his eyes until they were clear. He grabbed Angul’s cold hilt and stood. From this new vantage, he could see farther into the chamber. The lines of light that were not burned out seemed to lead to a nexus at the chamber’s heart. He walked toward that gathering point, favoring one foot slightly. At the center lay a crumpled, half buried shape, like the husk of some fantastically large spider’s recent meal. The shape was a humanoid figure forged of crystal, stone, iron, and more exotic components, but it had fallen over. Its surface was rusted, pitted, and cracked, and half of it was buried beneath a section of collapsed ceiling. A partially visible design winked from its dented metallic chest�the Cerulean Sign. “Cynosure?” The figure did not respond. Despite that, Raidon was certain he was in the presence of the artificial entity who once served as Stardeep’s warden. “Are you awake?” He bent, tapped the golem’s forehead. Was that a slight glimmer of light deep in the idol’s stony eyes? He couldn’t be sure. “Did you exhaust yourself pulling me from the Chalk Destrier’s domain?” he asked. “If so, thank you. I hope it does not prove your last act. I’m not worthy of such sacrifice.” He frowned. “You sacrificed yourself to save me, someone you hardly know.” His thoughts turned backward. He murmured, “Me, I left the heart of my life to die alone while I slept in safety.” Even as he spoke aloud, he recognized he half consciously reflected the golem’s noble act back upon himself. A pathetic show of self-pity, and for whom? He was far more human, with all the failings that implied, than he’d ever admitted to himself. He was only a fool with an outsize ego, like every other fool who pranced and paraded through life, deluded they were somehow finer and better trained than most others, until shown the truth. He turned, disgusted. His hip brushed a stone block, closer to the golem than all the rest. The glyphs on the stone flared into life. Their shapes fluttered and morphed, until the monk saw they spelled out words in Common. He read: Raidon, If you can read this, I have consumed my last remaining store of animating elan. Fear not, I did not trap you. With your Sign, you can access Stardeep’s functions and propel yourself across the face of Faer�e last time. You must go to the seamount we earlier scried, where Gethshemeth lairs. You have the Cerulean Sign. Worry not about your lack of training. Concentrate on Stardeep’s spellmantle, and you will be able to access it as I have. Go to Gethshemeth. Subdue the great kraken. Destroy the relic of Xxiphu it wields. Much depends on you, Raidon. Though I have no spirit or life that will persist beyond my physical death, I wish you well with all the fiber of my faltering existence. Your friend, Cynosure “I am doubly unworthy of your trust,” Raidon murmured. He gazed long at the stone block. The runes he’d read were changing, forming a great ring. The ring lifted off the stone until it hung vertically before Raidon. Within it, an image resolved. Raidon saw the isle where kuo-toa cavorted above, and a tentacled monstrosity lurked in the watery hollows beneath. The view through the scrying circle showed him the island’s surface. It was night, but noisome glows and glimmers gave outline to the sentinels that continued their circuit above the island. “Angul, are you ready?” The monk raised the sword, gripping it. The cerulean light in the blade’s pommel continued to glimmer, no softer, but no stronger. He recalled one of the last times he’d seen the sword. It had been more than ten years ago, more like twenty, he supposed. Kiril had stood before Angul, considering relinquishing the blade that had cursed her with its overzealous nature. Cynosure’s words came back to him: “Angul’s life is only a half-life. Without a living wielder, the soul-forged blade will fail, releasing the soul to its final peace. All that will remain is a dead length of sword-shaped steel.” The memory faded, but concern tightened Raidon’s eyes. If his memory reported true, then when Kiril had given up the blade to the Chalk Destrier, Angul lost his living wielder. He hadn’t had a living wielder for years… “By Xiang’s serene teachings, you had better not be broken!” exclaimed Raidon. The sword remained as quiescent as when he’d first drawn it from the stone. Warmth flushed the monk’s cheeks. He resisted smashing the sword on the stone obelisk before him, even though it was what he wanted to do more than anything in that hot moment. No, he commanded himself. I am an heir of Xiang. Focus. Calm yourself, or your pledge to defeat Gethshemeth in Ailyn’s name will fail. Raidon unclenched his chest and shoulders, standing taller. “Angul,” he said, his voice calm but commanding, “I beseech you, wake! A foe you were forged to destroy threatens Faer�th a relic of elder days. If it and its foul artifact are not obliterated, you will fail your own purpose.” Had the dim pulse of blue in the hilt grown slightly brighter at his words? No. They hadn’t changed at all. Raidon tried a few more appeals to the sword before concluding the soul-shard in the blade was too far gone to be conscious of such petitions. He regarded the Blade Cerulean. It was a tool of the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign. A sign of which he himself had become a living manifestation. He loosened his jacket, revealing the ruddy Sign on his chest. He placed the blade’s hilt directly upon it and willed his Sign to pulse. Something tickled the back of Raidon’s mind. A query, so faint he thought he might have imagined it. Raidon pulsed his Sign again. This time, he clearly heard a forlorn question, a question asked without sound. Kiril, is it you? Has my Bright Star returned? The monk said, “Angul?” No response. He frowned and infused the blade a third time with his Sign. The voice, no stronger than before, spoke anew into Raidon’s mind. I am so tired. So tired. Why won’t you speak,
Kiril? I thought you shut of me, finally sworn off this shattered soul that can never know peace. I don’t blame you. I have no restraint, none whatever, as you know so well… Raidon addressed the blade again. “Kiril has moved on.” My Bright Star… She was my all, and I was her bane. “Angul, listen to me�” Angul? Is that my name? No, it was something else… “You are called Angul. I speak true.” … I remember. I am Angul. I was Kiril’s companion and righteous tool. But I have fulfilled my oath. My task is complete, and peace beckons. Why do you disturb me? “A new wielder has need of your strength. A blight threatens the world, a menace you were specifically fashioned to vanquish. You are needed!” So tired… “Aboleths from ancient days, Angul, are poised to poison the surface world,” pleaded Raidon. It seemed the blade was actively resisting him, actively trying to descend once more into complete, unknowing somnolence. Leave me be. Perhaps this time I can be reunited with Kiril as a whole and complete� Raidon pulsed the blade a fourth time. Like a candle begets a wildfire, his Sign finally ignited Angul. The paper-thin personality he’d been interacting with, ghostlike in its tentative, fleeting nature, charred and burned to nothing. Beneath lay the true Angul, hard and bright and unforgiving. Aberrations shall be purged, a voice pronounced in a tone completely shorn of the pain and loss of the earlier persona. This voice was keen for what awaited it, eager to strip the world of all who were unfit to walk its face. His hand disappeared in a nimbus of burning, searing fire, a fire that burned away his own self-pity, his doubt, his focus, and his half-realized desire to walk away from the entire escapade. Something more than aspiration took hold of the monk�it was moral certainty, simple and absolute. Some things could not, could never be suffered. Angul was the first, best, and only tool to accomplish that end. Gethshemeth, and its stone of corruption, would be eradicated. He knew it�he and Angul would be the instrument that accomplished that righteous deed. Afterward, Raidon decided he would turn his hand to the multitude of lesser moral failings still plaguing Toril.