Song of the Saurials

4 The Half-Elf

Kyre took another step into Nameless’s prison. “I’ve been so eager to meet you,” the half-elf said to Finder.

“That’s some sort of soul-trapping gem you used on the saurial, isn’t it?” Finder asked, ignoring Kyre’s pleasantries. “I demand you release him at once.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, he’s a very dangerous creature,” the half-elf replied. “But useful—not unlike yourself.” Kyre reached her hand into her pocket and pulled it out again. She held a second walnut. “Darkbringer,” she said. Once again a sphere of darkness emanated from the nut, just as it had before. “The Nameless Bard,” Kyre pronounced slowly.

The sphere shimmered, and a tendril of black began to rise from it. Suddenly the tendril collapsed in on itself, and the darkness dissipated. Having failed to suck up the bard’s essence, the magical nut shattered, and shards of its shell flew in all directions. The half-elf didn’t even flinch. Instead, she stared up at the Nameless Bard with interest, waiting for him to explain.

Finder sneered. “I am Nameless no longer, but you, woman, whoever you are, will answer to the Harpers for this attack!”

Kyre laughed confidently. “I think not. You see, I am the Harper Kyre, and Nameless or not, you, bard, are in no position to threaten me.”

“Elminster would never approve of the cowardly way you’ve treated that saurial,” Finder retorted hotly. “Have the Harpers degenerated so far in the past two centuries that they attack innocent creatures and helpless prisoners?”

As Finder spoke, Olive could see Kyre slip a wand out of her tunic sleeve. The halfling couldn’t contain her anxiety a moment longer. She burst out from behind the curtain, shouting, “Finder! Look out!” and hurled herself at Finder’s legs, knocking him to one side.

A beam of green light shot out from the tip of Kyre’s wand, missing Finder by inches. The light struck the silver fruit bowl on the table behind him, enveloping it and the fruit in a sparkling green mist. After several seconds, the beam of light went out and the mist dissipated. The silver bowl was unharmed, but the plums, pears, and apples within had turned completely brown from rot and their skins had collapsed on the decayed flesh within.

Finder’s face registered fear now that he was finally aware of the danger he was in. He stared wide-eyed at Kyre.

Olive took quick aim and hurled her dagger at the half-elf. The weapon hit Kyre’s wrist, causing her to drop the deadly wand. Kyre’s eyes flashed angrily, but she made no sound or movement to indicate the weapon had hurt her hand.

Olive shuddered at the woman’s indifference to pain. “Would you get us out of here now?” the halfling shouted, shoving the finder’s stone at the master bard.

Finder grabbed the stone with one hand and Olive’s shoulder with the other, then sang an E-flat. Olive sighed happily as a yellow light began glowing around her body.

The halfling’s relief was short-lived. Though the light continued to glow, she and Finder didn’t vanish from the cell as expected. Olive felt as if something was pulling her in two, and she screamed in pain.

Across the room, Kyre laughed and held out her arms. Long, slimy green tendrils shot out from her sleeves toward Finder. Olive cried out once more, this time in fear. There was something terrifyingly familiar about Kyre’s tendrils.

The tendrils reached over Olive’s head just as Finder sang a second E-flat, this time an octave lower than the first. The yellow light shimmered with the deep resonance of the bard’s voice and then glowed so brightly that Kyre, her tendrils, and the room faded from his and Olive’s view.

Alias, Mourngrym, and his guards waited anxiously around the corner of the hallway as Akabar chanted his fireball spell. The mage’s voice rose sharply, then a great explosion shook the floor and walls around them and echoed through the corridors. A second later a burst of steam came rushing down the corridor, past the side passage in which they stood. Clouds of hot, moist air billowed around them.

Anxious about Akabar, Alias rushed around the corner and into the steam. The floor was covered with water and the walls were dripping with moisture. Alias spied Akabar in the dispersing mist. Not even the darkness of the mage’s skin could hide the flush of his face from the scalding he’d received, but he still stood. He was drenched from the steam, and when he shook himself, drops of water scattered from his beard, hair, and robes.

“Are—are you all right?” Alias asked.

“I think so,” Akabar replied. “As a mage I have more immunity from the power of magic than you. At any rate, the wall is melted,” he said, gesturing at the clear passage ahead.

Mourngrym and Thurbal and the two tower guards rejoined the mage and the swordswoman.

“Good work, Akabar,” his lordship said, clapping the mage on the back.

Assured that the Turmishman was all right, Alias prepared herself for combat. Having brought no weapon with her, she retrieved the great axe that Lord Mourngrym had been using to chip at the wall of ice. Then she started down the corridor, silently hoping that Nameless was unharmed and swearing vengeance if he was not.

His sword drawn, Mourngrym took the lead with Alias. Akabar, Thurbal, and the two guards brought up the rear. A shadow fell across them, framing the doorway at the end of the corridor. Mourngrym and Alias halted and raised their weapons, poised to charge into combat.

A slender half-elven woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a silky yellow tunic and fine elven boots; a sword in a scabbard hung from the black belt at her hips, and a bright red orchid hung in her long, dark hair. The half-elf stepped into the corridor.

“Kyre!” Mourngrym gasped. “Are you all right?”

The half-elf looked up at Mourngrym. “You broke through the wall of ice?” she asked. There was a hint of confusion in her voice.

“What happened?” Mourngrym demanded, ignoring her question. “Kyre, where is Grypht? Where is Nameless?”

Kyre lowered her head. “I’m afraid I’ve failed, your lordship. I could not stop Grypht from reaching the Nameless Bard. Grypht grabbed Nameless and teleported away with him.”

For what seemed an eternity, Olive felt as if she were trapped in a golden web. When the light from the magical stone finally dimmed, she and Finder stood looking out over a grassy meadow on a sloping hillside.

Olive quickly sank to the ground, exhausted by the magical teleportation.

“Admit it, Finder,” she murmured, “whatever spell Elminster used to keep you inside that cell, it was almost a match for your rock, artifact or no.”

Finder cursed angrily under his breath. The halfling looked up at the bard. His face was drenched with sweat, and his complexion was pale. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“Kyre snatched the finder’s stone away from me just before we teleported,” Finder growled with rage. “That bitch has my stone!”

“Oh,” Olive said uncertainly. “Well, at least we escaped.”

“But she has my stone!” Finder snarled irritably.

“She could have you, like she got Grypht,” Olive snapped back. If you hadn’t been so stubborn about waiting for the Harpers’ blessing, you would have escaped before she arrived, Grypht wouldn’t have been captured, and you’d still have your precious rock.”

“She said she was a Harper,” Finder said incredulously. “She couldn’t be a Harper.”

“She is,” Olive said. “I told you—she’s one of the tribunal judges.”

“I can’t believe she tried to kill me,” Finder said. “She never would have gotten away with it.”

“She didn’t care,” Olive said. “You said something to her about Grypht being a foe of the Darkbringer. That’s Moander, the Darkbringer god, right?”

“Yes. Grypht said he was looking for Dragonbait because Moander was threatening their tribe.”

“Oh, great!” Olive muttered, slapping her hand against her forehead.

Finder looked at her blankly. “I don’t see the connection,” he said.

“Don’t you get it? Kyre’s one of Moander’s servants.”

“That’s impossible. No Harper would aid the Darkbringer.”

Olive huffed in frustration. “I recognized those slimy tendrils Kyre used to grab the finder’s stone. They’re just like the ones Moander had all over its body. Moander was probably controlling her mind, the same way it controlled Akabar’s mind last year.”

“Akabar,” Finder mused. The bard recalled the southern mage, Akabar bel Akash, who had befriended Alias the previous year, and how he had been captured by the Darkbringer when he had tried to free Alias from the god’s clutches. “But Akabar destroyed the body Moander used in the Realms,” Finder argued. “There’s no way Moander could have possessed Kyre.”

“Suppose Kyre visited a world outside the Realms?” Olive asked.

Finder considered the halfling’s suggestion and frowned darkly. “It’s possible,” he admitted.

“We have to get back to Shadowdale and tell Dragonbait so he can rescue Grypht,” Olive said. “Where are we, anyway?” she asked, tossing a pebble at a thistle.

“Home,” Finder said.

“Home? It doesn’t look like Immersea,” Olive replied.

“It’s not. Were you under the impression I lived at Redstone Castle with my family?” Finder asked.

Olive grinned, thinking of all the Wyvernspurs she’d met and trying to imagine Finder getting along with them. “I guess I should have known better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Finder asked.

Olive chuckled at his defensiveness. “Did they kick you out?” she asked.

Finder’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I left them. They never took me seriously.”

“Never a prophet in your own land,” Olive teased. Finder’s face darkened, and the halfling realized she might be pushing him too far. She decided to change the subject. “So where is this home?” she asked.

Finder made a sweeping motion with his arm, indicating something behind Olive. “Finder’s Keep,” he said.

The halfling turned around abruptly. The walls of a crumbling manor rose behind her. Thistles and grass grew between cracks in the stone. Kudzu covered the chimneys. Moss and fungus grew from the fallen roof beams. “I think you need a new decorator,” Olive quipped.

“The underground complex was sealed. It should be in good condition,” Finder said.

“Are we still in the Dales?” Olive asked.

Finder nodded. “The southern edge of the Spiderhaunt Woods.”

“That’s not too far from Shadowdale,” Olive said, her mind racing. “We can walk to the road connecting Shadowdale and Cormyr. There should be plenty of traffic on it this time of the year. Then we can get a lift from a caravan going north. We should be able to reach Shadowdale in about four days.”

“Olive, you’ve been trying all morning to convince me to flee Shadowdale,” Finder reminded the halfling. “Now you want me to go back and turn myself in to the Harpers. Suppose Kyre isn’t the only one in Moander’s possession?”

“You are a problem, aren’t you?” Olive sighed. “All right. When we get to the road, we’ll go south to Cormyr, and we’ll send a message back to Dragonbait with the first caravan we meet that’s heading north to Shadowdale.”

“No,” Finder said. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Then how are we ever going to tell Dragonbait about Grypht?” Olive asked, exasperated.

“We’re not,” Finder said simply. “If Dragonbait finds out about Grypht, he’ll try to help him.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Olive asked.

“Alias, in turn, will want to help Dragonbait,” Finder explained. “And I don’t want her going anywhere near Moander or Moander’s minions. Moander wants her for a servant. I won’t have the god using her again.”

“That’s Alias’s business, not yours,” Olive replied.

“She’s my daughter. I’ll protect her as I see fit,” Finder retorted sharply.

“Then don’t you think you should warn her that Moander might be after her again?” Olive asked.

“Moander can’t detect her if she doesn’t go looking for the god,” Finder said. “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

Olive shrugged. “Whatever you say. No note to Dragonbait. We still want to get to the road before dark. Well catch a caravan going south to Cormyr. That place I told you about, where we can’t be detected magically, is in Cormyr.”

Finder shook his head. “I’m not hiding anywhere. I’ve decided you were right. I’ve credited the Harpers with too much power. Once I get access to my workshop, they’ll never capture me again.”

Olive sighed. She had planned to send a note to Dragonbait anyway. It didn’t look as if she’d get a chance unless she left Finder.

The halfling didn’t really want to leave the bard, though. Olive genuinely liked Finder. He knew more about her than anyone in the Realms, yet he didn’t condemn her for her greed or her cowardice or her minor jealousies. He’d shown a lot of patience in teaching her more about music in one month than she’d learned during the rest of her whole life. In addition, he’d offered her a passage to respectability by giving her his Harper’s pin.

“You know,” the halfling said, rubbing her chin, “I’m beginning to worry that I might be a bad influence on you.”

Finder chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m not influenced easily.” He turned and headed up the hill toward the crumbling manor house.

That’s what I’m afraid of, Olive thought, but she held her tongue and followed.

When Alias heard that Nameless had been kidnapped, the blood drained from her face and she swayed alarmingly. Akabar put his hand on her elbow to steady her.

“Don’t worry, Alias,” the mage said softly. “We’ll find him.”

“Kyre, this is Alias of Westgate,” Mourngrym explained to the half-elf. “Alias, this is the bard Kyre, one of the members of the Harpers’ tribunal.”

After taking a few deep breaths, Alias had recovered from her shock enough to nod politely to the Harper bard. Kyre nodded back at the swordswoman, but it was Akabar who held the half-elf’s gaze.

“This is Alias’s friend, Akabar bel Akash,” Mourngrym added, noting how Kyre stared at the mage. “Akabar used his magic to destroy the wall of ice for us.”

“A pity that your effort, though great, came too late,” Kyre said to Akabar.

“I don’t understand how anything from a lower plane could have gotten into the tower,” Alias said impatiently. “Elminster had it warded against entry by that sort of creature.”

“Elminster also had a no-exit spell cast on Nameless’s room,” Mourngrym said. “How could Grypht teleport past that?”

“Such wards and spells sometimes deteriorate, your lordship, or they can be broken by powerful magic,” Kyre replied. Though she addressed Mourngrym, the half-elf’s attention was still fixed on Akabar. “As you saw, I just left the room without any trouble.”

Mourngrym frowned. “I’ve never heard of any spell of Elminster’s deteriorating or breaking. He’s the most powerful mage in the Realms.”

“Excuse me, your lordship,” Akabar replied, “but the lady is quite correct. Such things do happen on occasion. In fact, there is considerable evidence of many spells having failed this past summer when the gods walked the Realms.”

“Elminster took extra care to reset all the wards on the tower after that,” Mourngrym interposed.

“Yet we cannot deny the evidence of our eyes,” Akabar said.

“Speaking of Elminster, where is he?” Alias asked suddenly.

“He disappeared before our very eyes. Grypht appeared in his place,” Kyre explained. “Perhaps his absence weakened his spells.”

That didn’t sound likely to Mourngrym, but he had no training in magic. He turned to Thurbal and the two guards. “Better have the tower searched, in case something else has managed to sneak in.”

Thurbal nodded and ushered the two guards off with him.

Still unconvinced, Alias asked Kyre, “What type of monster was it? What did it look like?”

“Grypht is not a type of monster but one unique unto itself,” Kyre replied calmly. “Grypht is a duke of Caina, in the Nine Hells. The Zhentarim often use Grypht for their evil schemes. It stands ten feet tall. Its hide is covered with green scales. It has horns, claws, and a tail.”

Alias walked into Nameless’s former cell. Sigils and symbols were scrawled on the walls and the windowsill and even the doorsill, evidencing the wards protecting the room from entry by creatures from the lower planes. They looked all right to her. “Akabar, what do you think?” Alias asked, motioning the mage into the room.

Akabar stepped into the cell and began to study Elminster’s wards. As she watched Kyre’s eyes follow the mage, Alias wondered if the half-elf recognized the Turmishman from somewhere, but when the half-elf reached up to adjust the orchid behind her ear, Alias realized that Kyre was physically attracted to the merchant-mage. Akabar was, after all, a handsome man. Even Cassana, a connoisseur of men, had lusted after him.

Alias turned around to survey the rest of the room. Elminster had sworn to her that he had made Nameless as comfortable as possible. The old sage hadn’t lied. Everything about the room was lovely—the furniture, the curtains, the carpeting. A well-crafted songhorn lay on the table beside a silver fruit bowl. “Oh!” Alias cried out suddenly in disgust, revolted by the sight of the rotting, moldy plums, pears, and apples within the silver bowl.

“What is it?” Akabar asked, hurrying to her side. Mourngrym was close behind him.

Alias pointed at the bowl of fruit. “Is this some sick joke to taunt Nameless?” she asked.

Mourngrym scowled angrily when he saw what had upset the swordswoman.” I can’t imagine who would do such a thing,” he said curtly, “but I guarantee I will find out who is responsible.”

“The sign,” Akabar whispered.

“What?” Alias asked, looking up at the Turmishman. Even beneath his dark skin, the swordswoman could see that the blood was draining from her friend’s face. Akabar’s body trembled visibly.

“Akabar, what’s wrong?” Alias asked.

“It’s the sign of danger. From my dreams. The bowl of rotting fruit marks its coming,” Akabar said.

Alias shivered, momentarily frightened by Akabar’s words. With a deep breath, she cast off the ridiculous idea that Akabar’s dreams were rooted in reality.

From the doorway, Kyre called Akabar’s name. The half-elf’s face was clouded with concern. When Akabar looked up at her, she spoke a word to him that neither Alias nor Mourngrym could comprehend, though it sounded to Alias as if it was in Turmish.

Akabar didn’t appear comforted by whatever the half-elf had said. He reeled around and was forced to lean heavily on the tabletop to keep from falling over. He began muttering, “The sign … the rotting,” over and over again.

“Get hold of yourself, Akash,” Alias demanded, placing her hands on Akabar’s shoulders.

“I think your friend is not well,” Kyre said, hurrying into the room and taking Akabar’s hands in her own.

“What is it?” Mourngrym asked Kyre. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s in shock. He should lie down. Here, Akabar Bel Akash,” the half-elf said softly. She tugged gently on Akabar’s wrists until she’d led him to the bed. “Sit here,” she ordered.

As if he were in a trance, Akabar obeyed wordlessly.

“Now lie down,” Kyre said.

Akabar swung his feet up on the bed and laid his head down on the pillow.

“Perhaps we should fetch Morala,” his lordship suggested, alarmed by the mage’s glassy-eyed stare.

“There’s no need to trouble the priestess, your lordship,” Kyre said. “I’m sure he’ll recover soon.”

“I’m sure she’s right,” Alias said. “Akabar’s been having these strange dreams,” she explained. “I’m afraid he takes them a little too seriously.”

“Perhaps I can help,” Kyre said. “I have made a study of dreams. If he will speak to me about them, perhaps I can tell him what they mean.”

“Alias,” Mourngrym said from the bedside, “I think he’s trying to say something to you.”

Alias knelt by the Turmishman’s side. “I’m here, Akabar. What is it?”

Fighting to get the words out, Akabar whispered slowly, “Take … me … to … Zhara.” His eyes glittered and his breathing was too quick.

Alias looked up at Kyre.

“I don’t think you should move him,” the half-elf said softly. “Who is Zhara?”

“His wife,” Alias said reluctantly. She stood up again and explained more to Kyre in a whisper. “His third wife, a priestess. She’s got him believing his dreams are real.”

“Dreams are only real in our heads,” Kyre said.

“Can you convince him of that?” Alias asked hopefully.

“Perhaps. If you and Lord Mourngrym will leave me alone with him for a time, it will be easier to speak with him about it,” Kyre suggested.

Alias looked down anxiously at Akabar. Perhaps this attack of nerves, or whatever it was, was a blessing in disguise, she thought. Kyre was a beautiful woman, and Alias found herself hoping that if the half-elf was left alone to care for Akabar, he would find Kyre as attractive as Kyre obviously found him. If Akabar liked Kyre enough, Kyre might break Zhara’s spell on him and convince him that Zhara was wrong, that his dreams of Moander weren’t some godly command to place himself in the path of evil, but only the memories of old terrors.

Alias nodded her consent. “Summon me if you need me,” the swordswoman said.

“I will let his wife know he is in my care,” the half-elf said. “Where is she?”

“The Old Skull Inn. I asked Jhaele to put Akabar and his wife in the Red Room,” Alias said. “There’s no hurry. Zhara won’t be expecting Akabar to return right away.”

Kyre nodded as she laid her slender hand on Akabar’s forehead.

Mourngrym put a comforting hand on Alias’s shoulder as they left the room. “He’ll be fine,” his lordship said, pulling the door closed behind them. “I’m told Kyre is quite clever.”

“She seems very sensible,” Alias said, but she couldn’t keep from adding, “Do you think she’s right that this Grypht is a duke from the Nine Hells?”

Mourngrym shrugged. “I really don’t know. You heard what she said about its working for the Zhentarim. Whatever Grypht is, the Zhentarim would certainly like to get their hands on Elminster. Still, I can’t imagine that Elminster is in any real danger. He has an evasion spell to take him to safety if his life is ever seriously threatened.”

“But Nameless doesn’t have such a spell,” Alias said. “The Zhentarim could be holding him to force Elminster to stay with them. Nameless and Elminster were once close friends. Elminster wouldn’t abandon him. Suppose the Zhentarim heard some rumor about me and decided to try to coerce Nameless into creating another creature like me so they could use it as an agent? They might try to force Elminster to help him.”

Mourngrym’s face clouded over with concern. Alias’s theory was too sensible to be discounted. “Why don’t you pay a visit to the sage’s scribe? If anyone knows anything about Elminster, it would be Lhaeo. In the meantime, I’ll try to find some spell-casters who could scry for Nameless and Elminster.”

Immediately after Alias and Mourngrym left Nameless’s former cell, Kyre crept to the doorway and listened for a few moments as the swordswoman and the lord of Shadowdale moved away down the hall. When their footsteps and voices had faded into the distance, Kyre whispered a chant to hold the door closed so that nothing would interrupt her talk with the Turmishman. With Elminster gone and Akabar indisposed, it would take Mourngrym some time to scare up a mage capable of forcing the door. By then she would be gone and Akabar would be gone with her.

The half-elf crossed back to the bed and sat down beside Akabar. The Turmishman rolled his head and shook, as if he were in the midst of a bad dream. It must seem to him as if he were, Kyre realized. She had stunned him with a power word right in front of the lord of Shadowdale and the swordswoman, but since Kyre had spoken the word in Turmish, neither Mourngrym nor Alias had the slightest suspicion that the merchant-mage’s state of shock had been brought on by a magical attack. Like most northerners, they had never bothered to learn Turmish or any of the related southern tongues, and now the half-elf would reap a great reward because of their ignorance.

For a brief moment, when Akabar had found the strength and wits to ask Alias to take him to his wife, the half-elf had feared her scheme would be ruined. Fortunately Alias had been more willing to trust a stranger than accept the Turmishman’s trust in his priestess wife. Cassana had done a good job conditioning the swordswoman to dislike members of the clergy, Kyre thought with satisfaction.

Kyre ran her finger down the sleeve of Akabar’s robe. After she had spent months of fruitless searching for the Turmishman, he had brought himself to her, and now he lay here completely at her mercy. Before he regained his senses, she would have to put him under a stronger enchantment. She could place him in a gem of soul-stealing to carry him off to her master, but it would be easier and far more amusing to convince him to come with her of his own free will.

“Please forgive me for casting a spell on you, Akabar,” she said in his native tongue, “but I can’t permit you to tell everyone about your dreams.” The mage’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Kyre pulled a glass vial out from her tunic pocket and unstoppered it. “Drink this down,” she told him, raising the vial to his lips. “It will help clear your head.”

In his confused state it didn’t occur to Akabar to resist Kyre’s suggestion. Dutifully he swallowed the liquid she poured in his mouth.

Kyre leaned over and kissed the mage gently on the lips. “Lie still a few minutes and you’ll feel better,” she said in flawless Turmish.

“Zhara,” Akabar sighed. Then, with more agitation, he cried out, “The bowl of rotting fruit! Zhara, beware!”

Kyre frowned slightly. Aside from having too great a hold on the mage’s heart, this Zhara probably knew too much. Fortunately Alias had told the half-elf all she needed to know to deal with the priestess.

Kyre stood up, padded over to the window, yanked open the curtain, and threw back the shutters. “The rain has stopped for the moment. How convenient,” she declared.

From her tunic pocket, the half-elf pulled out a bit of thistledown with the seeds still attached. “Darkbringer,” she murmured in Realms common. The thistle seeds in her hand began to glow. “Zhara, wife of Akabar Bel Akash, in the Red Room at the Old Skull Inn,” she whispered. Then she held the thistledown up to her mouth and blew it out the window. The silky, seed-bearing strands danced away from the window toward the heart of Shadowdale, moving against the wind.

Kyre stood at the window, staring blankly at the greenery surrounding Shadowdale Akabar, hearing his wife’s name spoken, turned his head in the half-elf’s direction. He began studying her profile with fascination. Her silky black hair contrasted sharply with her fair skin, and her figure was lithe and muscular like a dancer’s. She’s really very beautiful, he thought. Not to mention well educated. She speaks Turmish well, with a soft-spoken voice like a true lady. And her touch is tender, as a woman’s should be.

Why, though, the mage puzzled, did she have to stun me just to keep from speaking of my dreams? Akabar sighed to himself. No matter, he thought. She said she was sorry. I must give her a chance to explain. She must have a good reason.

A few minutes later, just as the half-elf had predicted, his head felt much clearer, his body felt rested, and the strength returned to his limbs. His heart still beat a little too quickly, but he didn’t notice. He sat up and took a deep breath.

Kyre turned away from the window and smiled gently. “I’m pleased to see you feeling better,” she said softly, still speaking in Turmish. “You will forgive me, I trust, for being so forward, but I must tell you, you are the most attractive man I’ve ever met.”

Akabar blushed deeply. Usually the immodest advances of northern women annoyed him, but he felt inordinately pleased that someone as attractive as Kyre should find him appealing. Still, he wasn’t the sort to leave mysteries unsolved. “Why don’t you want me to tell about my dreams to anyone?” he asked.

Kyre crossed the room to his bedside, her walk graceful and sinuous. “I’m not sure who can be trusted,” she replied as she sat down again on the edge of the bed.

“You can trust Alias,” Akabar said. “She’s a good friend.”

“But I don’t think I can trust Lord Mourngrym,” Kyre replied. “However, I know I can trust you, Akabar. You’ve been chosen.” The half-elf ran her finger along the curve of the Turmishman’s ear and down along the artery in his neck.

Akabar felt his heart begin to pound and his blood throbbing in his head. “What do you know of my dreams?” he asked.

Kyre slid her hands up inside the loose sleeves of Akabar’s robe, lightly touching the inside of his arms with her fingertips. “They are of the Darkbringer’s return to the Realms, are they not?” she asked.

“Yes,” Akabar admitted. “They are.” He grasped the half-elven woman’s elbows, and rubbed his thumbs along the silky sleeves of her tunic.

“And in your dreams, you must find the Darkbringer. Correct?” Kyre asked.

“Yes” Akabar said.

“I will help you,” Kyre said. “Would you like that?”

Akabar pulled the woman closer to him. With amusement, he noted how the orchid behind Kyre’s left ear was held in place. Some magic, elven no doubt, had coaxed the stem’s tendrils to twist about several strands of her hair. The mage buried his face in the half-elf’s hair and breathed in the orchid’s intoxicating scent. “I would like that very much,” he whispered, but something about the orchid’s scent left him feeling anxious. The perfume tickled at some unpleasant memory that would not surface readily.

Kyre blew her warm breath into his ear. “I will take you to Moander’s place of resurrection,” she breathed. Leaning heavily against Akabar’s chest, the half-elf forced him to fall back against the bed pillows. She placed her right ear directly over his heart.

Akabar knew she could hear his heart pounding. “How do you know these things?” he asked.

“The master told me,” Kyre said. She raised her head and kissed the tip of his beard, then his chin.

As the woman’s lips moved toward his own, the Turmishman suddenly caught sight of her orchid’s tendrils, which twisted not about her hair but into her ear canal. Others had pricked her temples. The tendrils twitched and writhed beneath her skin, as if they were trying to get purchase on her brain. Akabar’s stomach churned with revulsion, and his heart began pounding with fear. Finally he recalled where he’d smelled the orchid’s perfume before. It was the scent of one of Moander’s sleeping drugs. Akabar cried out and thrust Kyre away from him.

Three tendrils shot out from Kyre’s mouth like snakes lashing out at their prey. These tendrils, tipped with pea-sized pods, were far longer than the orchid tendrils. As the green shoots curled and undulated in the air before the merchant-mage’s face, he realized with horror that they might have easily slithered past his lips and down his throat if he had closed his eyes in anticipation of the half-elf’s kiss. Suddenly the pods at the ends of the tendrils burst open, shooting tiny black seeds at Akabar’s face. Then the tendrils collapsed as Kyre sucked them back into her mouth.

“Those seeds were meant for you to swallow,” the half-elf said when her mouth was clear of the tendrils, “but don’t worry. There are more.”

Akabar sat up, shaking with terror, and tried to push Kyre away, but the woman had an iron grip on his elbows. As he struggled to free himself, Akabar felt other tendrils, incredibly slimy and as strong as rope, reaching inside his sleeves and entwining his upper arms.

“There’s no use resisting, Akabar,” Kyre said, still speaking in Turmish, only now her tone was cool and authoritative. “Your destiny is sealed.” The half-elf slid her hands out of Akabar’s sleeves. Her victim remained trapped by the plant appendages, which stretched from her wrists up his arms. The tendrils grew steadily longer, giving Kyre the freedom to move her hands up to Akabar’s face. The merchant-mage closed his eyes, revolted at the way the tendrils protruded from beneath the skin of her forearms.

“The Darkbringer desires to possess your body again and once more gaze into the sharp-edged crystal of your mind,” Kyre said mesmerizingly as she stroked his beard. “You should feel honored.”

“No!” Akabar shouted. He managed to rise to his feet, pulling Kyre along with him. Terrified, he screamed, “Alias! Help me!”

Kyre cut off his cries with a choke hold to his throat. “The Darkbringer would prefer that I deliver you alive,” the half-elf snarled, “but if that is not possible, the Darkbringer will be pleased enough with your corpse.” She released Akabar’s throat, and, as the mage gasped for air, she drew out a slender dagger from her sleeve and pressed its point against his neck.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Akabar whispered hoarsely. “If you murder me, Alias will cut you to pieces.”

“Alias will never know,” Kyre said. With her free hand, she pulled out an object and held it up to Akabar’s eyes. It resembled a crystal the size and shape of a walnut, colorless but for a flickering dark flaw at the center. “Behold, Akabar,” Kyre said. “Inside this stone is entrapped an enemy of the master, a mage far more powerful than you. If you continue to resist, I will slay you and carry you to the Darkbringer within just such a stone. If, instead, you cooperate and come with me of your own free will, you will be rewarded well. Moander will grant you such power as few men in the Realms have ever known.”

Akabar stared into Kyre’s eyes, thinking what a fool he’d been. Zhara had warned him he would be in danger the moment he saw the bowl of rotting fruit, yet, for all his faith, he hadn’t acted quickly enough to defend himself, To add to his folly, he’d trusted Kyre, a complete stranger, and allowed her liberties with his body. Now he was tainted by her touch and helpless in her grasp. He was doomed—worse, he had doomed all he loved and all who dwelt in the Realms.

“You will behave now, won’t you?” Kyre asked sweetly, pricking painfully at his throat with her dagger.

The mage’s shoulders slumped and his arms went limp. With a deep sense of shame, he realized he wasn’t prepared to give his life just to keep Moander from possessing his body and invading his mind again. He nodded his agreement to the half-elf.