Midnights Mask (28 page)

Leave it for us? Azriim asked. You will not be there?

Vhostym heard no concern in Azriim’s mental voice, merely curiosity. He had taught his sons well. Sentimentality was a shackle with which the weak yoked the strong.

Yes, leave it for you., Vhostym affirmed. We will not see each other again.

His sons fell silent. The words surprised them.

will contact you not long after dawn, Vhostym said.p>

Remember that what you see this day is my doing.

He cut off the connection before they could trouble him

with further questions. He had preparations to make.

*****

“What now?” Dolgan asked. Sea water soaked the street at the big slaad’s feet.

Azriim and Dolgan had assumed their preferred half-drow and human forms, and Riven had returned to his natural form. The three stood on a narrow street in Selgaunt. All were soaking wet and the human’s lips were blue. No doubt he was cold from the night’s chill.

Dawn was still an hour or two away and only dung-sweepers populated the otherwise deserted streets.

“We wait,” Azriim said. He looked down at his filthy, torn, water-stained clothing. “And as soon as the shops open, I buy some new attire.”

Cale and Jak materialized in the darkness of one of Selgaunt’s countless alleys. Cale recognized the location— not far from Temple Avenue. Their sudden appearance startled several cats and the felines screeched and fled. The sound reminded Cale of the kraken’s shriek. He put it out of his mind. They were safe now.

For a time, they simply caught their breath. Water dripped from their clothes and bodies. Jak bore a scratch on his face from Dolgan, as well as several deep gashes from troll claws on his midsection. Cale’s flesh had healed his wounds. The little man took out his holy symbol, called on Brandobaris, and spoke a spell of

healing. His wounds closed entirely.

“What about Magadon?” Jak asked, as he wrung out his shirt. They had left their cloaks and almost all of their other clothing on Demon Binder.

Cale shook his head, removed his own shirt, and wrung it out. The night air would have chilled him had his warming spell not still been in effect.

“I think he got Demon Binder clear,” Cale said to Jak, hoping that by saying it he might make it true. “I did not see the ship when we surfaced. Did you?” “No time to look. But… wouldn’t Mags contact us if he could?”

Cale had been thinking the same thing but did not say so to Jak. instead, he said, “He has only so much mental strength, little man. Could be that. I can scry for the ship, see if they’re all right.”

Jak brightened at that. “Right now? Here?”

“No. Midnight next.”

The scrying spell took preparation and Cale could not be ready until then.

Jak deflated a bit but nodded. He mumbled to himself, fished in one of his three belt pouches until he found his Pipe.

“Did it stay dry?” Cale asked.

“Dry enough,” Jak murmured, and searched another pouch for his pipeweed. “I have never seen anything as big as that kraken, Cale. Never.”

“Me either,” Cale said softly.

Jak removed a small leather pouch tied with a drawstring and pried it open. Cale caught the aroma of the weed.

Jak pulled out a pinch and held it up. “Dry as a fallen leaf. Now that’s a pouch worth its price.”

Cale saw that Jak’s hands were shaking, and not from the chill. Cale pretended not to notice. It had been a close call with the kraken, and Cale had been close to panic himself.

The little man managed his emotion by humming

while he pressed the pinch of pipeweed into the bowl of his pipe. He searched his pouches for a tindertwig and found several—all of them ruined by sea water. The humming stopped.

“Where am I going to get tindertwigs two hours before dawn?”

“You’re not,” Cale said.

“No, I’m not,” Jak said, and Cale saw tears in his eyes. Exhaustion and emotion were taking their toll.

Again, Cale pretended not to notice.

Jak recovered himself with a deep breath. He popped the pipe in his mouth and chewed its end.

“What do we do now?” the little man asked.

,”We wait,” Cale answered gently. “And relax while we can.”

“That sounds about right. The Murky Depths, maybe?”

Cale grinned and shook his head. “I’ve seen enough of the depths to last a good while, little man. We’ll find something else dockside.”

Jak nodded and they set off.

Cale put his hand on Jak’s shoulder as they walked the quiet, predawn streets of the city in which they had met, just as they had done countless times before, and just as they would countless times after.

“This is almost over, little man,” Cale said.

Jak looked at him sidelong, nodded, and said nothing.

Cale did not tell Jak that he thought this reprieve to be the deep breath before the plunge. They still had to find the slaadi and the Sojourner and kill them all.

They could not find an inn that would open its doors, so they wandered onto Temple Avenue. It was deserted, except for the cranks who slept on the benches. The starlings nesting in the Hulorn’s statuary rustled at their passing. The wind stirred the leaves of the dwarf in a maples.

“Let’s sit down a minute, eh?” Jak suggested.

Cale agreed and they sat on two unoccupied benches

overlooking a still pool, across from the shrine of Tymora. Cale smiled, thinking that they must have looked a bit like cranks themselves. Sighing, he stretched out on the bench. Jak did the same on the other.

Through the maple leaves, Cale saw the stars shining down. He kept his gaze away from the Sanctum of the Scroll, though he felt it lurking there in the darkness, whispering Sephris’s dire prophecies at him. He did his best to put them from his mind.

Exhaustion settled on both of them quickly. They did not speak and both lay looking up at the sky, alone with their thoughts. Within moments, Cale heard Jak snoring. He smiled and drifted off to sleep himself.

He dreamed of Magadon and tentacles and a foaming sea.

*****

Vhostym spoke the words that allowed him to pass through the warded doors that led into the sanctum. He opened the doors with his mind and floated through. They closed behind him.

He felt calm, and his self control pleased him.

The Weave Tap stood in the center of the room, its golden leaves charged with the stored power of two Netherese mantles, possibly more magical power than ever had been assembled in a single place.

It would be enough, he thought. He would poke a hole in the sun and take a day, a single day, and make it his.

He floated forward, under the sparking canopy of the Weave Tap, and touched its silvery bark with his hand. It was warm, almost hot with the power it contained. He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Lines of arcane power veined the stone.

Everything was ready.

He found a suitable spot between the Tap’s exposed roots and lowered himself to the floor. He crossed his legs,

ignoring the pain the movement caused him, and closed his eyes.

Formulae moved through his mind, numbers, equations, variables, all of them designed to anticipate the movements of the bodies in the heavens. He moved through each one methodically, checking and rechecking the calculations. They were critical to his spell. Throughout the day, the magic would have to adjust continually to account for the movement of Toril, to keep the Crown of Flame intact over his island.

He was prepared.

With a slight mental exertion, he opened a channel between his body and the Weave Tap. Arcane energy flowed into him, powered him, the feeling more delightful than even the pleasures of the flesh he had enjoyed in his youth. He let the power gather in him. It built slowly but inexorably. As he drew from the artifact, the Weave Tap continued to draw power from the mantles of Skullport and Sakkors, replenishing the power that Vhostym took.

Vhostym inhaled and began his spell. Magical syllables fell from his lips in a complex incantation. His hands traced a precise, intricate path through the air before him. His fingers left a silver glow in their wake. He wove the mathematical formulae into the incantation. Vhostym accounted for the speed of Toril’s spin, its precession on its axis, the speed of its revolution about the sun, the size of Senine’s tear, the necessary distance that he needed to move it, the power he would need to hold it there, a host of other factors. The equations grew increasingly complex.

Vhostym kept focused and worked the equations into his spell. His fingers and hands became a blur. For a time, a short blissful time, he was lost in the casting and felt no pain in his body.

He worked for over an hour, all of it preparatory to the spell’s finale. His voice grew hoarse and still he recited the arcane words. Sweat dripped from his body.

When he finished the preparatory casting, he found himself sitting in the middle of a cyclone of magical energy. The formulae he had spoken were a storm of glowing, silver characters whirling about his person. They wanted only their purpose.

Vhostym gave it to them.

He drew everything from the Weave Tap that it could give. His body glowed with contained power. The numbers and equations whirled around him so fast they formed a silver wall.

He put his palms flat on the floor of the tower and let the magic flow through him and into the stone. The silver wall of numbers swirled through the tops of his hands and into the tower.

The entire structure shuddered. A glow in the stone started at his palms and rapidly spread to the rest of the sanctum, to the rest of the tower. The structure amplified the magical. power Vhostym channeled into it until the spire itself radiated with power. Numbers and equations raced along the walls, glowing silver.

Vhostym pictured in his mind the largest of Selune’s tears, a perfect sphere of rock roughly fifty leagues in diameter, almost exactly a twentieth of Selune. Vhostym needed to bring the tear closer, such that its distance from Toril was a twentieth that of Selune’s distance. He would have preferred using Selune itself, but not even his empowered magic could control a celestial body that large.

He spoke the words to the spell that would pull the tear to the place Vhostym needed it. There it would remain, awaiting dawn, when it would put a hole in the sun and cast its shadow on the Wayrock. The magic would continually adjust the position of the sphere against the sun, so its shadow would not race across the surface as Torii continued to spin. Instead, his magic would move the tear with the sun-the shadow would remain stationary on the Wayrock throughout the day.

Speaking the final phrase of power, Vhostym channeled

all his energy into the tower, sent it soaring in a beam from the top of the spire and into the Sea of Night. Vhostym felt the beam’s magic take hold of the tear and pull it toward Torii. He could not contain a shout of joy.

It would be in position before dawn. Once he pulled it from its orbit, the spell would move the tear so that its surface would not reflect the light of the sun, as did Selune. It would move through the night sky in darkness, but Faerun would wake to the sight of a new satellite in its sky.

When Vhostym released his hold on the spell, exhaustion settled in and he sagged. Fortunately, nothing more remained for him to do. The tower still vibrated, still glowed, and Vhostym knew that a beam of magical energy reached from its top and into the night sky, where it pulled a ball of rock the size of a city toward Toril. The spell would remain in effect until the mantles of Skullport and Sakkors were utterly drained—about a day, perhaps two, Vhostym had calculated.

Despite his mental fatigue, despite the pain of the disease that wracked his bones, he smiled.

He had now only to recover his strength and wait for the dawn. Then he would exit the tower and walk under the Crown of Flame in his own skin, as he had done in his youth.

After that, he would die content.

*****

Magadon opened his eyes. His blurry vision cleared and he found himself staring up at the grinning face of Captain Evrel. A faint breeze stirred a sail. The sky behind the captain was brightening with the rising sun.

Magadon was lying flat on his back on the deck of Demon Binder. His head felt as if it had been beaten by a war hammer. Each thump of his heart caused his temples to throb.

The last thing he remembered was… moving the ship to Selgaunt. He recalled the power the Source had given him, its taste, its feel. He felt empty at its absence. He longed for another taste.

“There you are,” the captain said. “Welcome back.”

A relieved rustle arose from around the deck. The crew, Magadon presumed.

A gray-haired man in nightclothes and an overcloak stood beside Evrel, looking down on Magadon with a soft expression. The man held in his hand a thin chain from which hung a bronze symbol—a shield-shaped pendant engraved with the image of a cloud and three lightning bolts. Magadon did not recognize the symbol but he assumed the man to be a priest.

“He is fine now,” the gray-haired man said to Evrel. He smiled down at Magadon. “You will be well.”

Magadon tried to thank him but his mouth was too dry to speak.

The priest said, “No need to speak, good sir. Rest, now. Evrel is a very old comrade of mine and it was my pleasure to do him this service.” He eyed the captain sidelong. “But he must think highly of you to have roused me from my sleep.”

“He saved the ship,” Evrel said. “And all of us besides. I tend to think highly of such men.”

Beyond Magadon’s sight, several members of the crew ‘ voiced agreement.

The priest nodded, straightened his cloak, and said to Evrel, “Be well, my friend. It’s back to the sheets for me. Valkur keep you and your crew.”

“My thanks, Rillon. A drink soon.”

“Soon,” Rillon agreed.

The two clasped arms and the priest walked away. Evrel extended a hand to Magadon and pulled him to a sitting position.

“I was afraid to move you until I had a priest at my side,” the captain explained.

Magadon nodded in understanding. Crusted blood caked his face, his neck, his ears. He rubbed it off as best he could.