Song of the Saurials

5 The Young Priestesses

Zhara closed the door to the Red Room of the Old Skull Inn and motioned for Dragonbait to have a seat at the table. The paladin had agreed to join Akabar’s wife for lunch in the privacy of her room. The priestess of Tymora crossed the room and sat down opposite her guest.

After all that Akabar had told her about Dragonbait, Zhara felt the paladin was like a brother to her. Showing her face to a brother would not be immodest, she decided, pushing back the hood of her robe. She removed her veil and laid it on the table.

Dragonbait studied Zhara’s face curiously.

“You do not seem shocked or surprised,” the priestess said.

Dragonbait motioned with his hands.

“Yes, I can understand your sign language,” Zhara answered.

Dragonbait motioned with his hands that he could smell what Zhara was.

“Oh,” Zhara replied, remembering Akabar had also mentioned the paladin’s refined sense of smell.

Let’s eat, Dragonbait signed. Then we can talk.

Zhara nodded in agreement. She said a short prayer in Turmish in thanksgiving for the food laid out before them and began serving the meal. They ate in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. After the paladin had eaten his fill of the venison and potatoes and peas, all northern dishes that were strange to Zhara, the saurial leaned back in his chair and signed that he was full.

The priestess shook her head at the saurial’s plate “You haven’t eaten very much,” she said. “I thought warriors all had ravenous appetites.”

With his fingers, the paladin explained that saurials preferred many small meals to a few large ones.

“Akabar said saurial paladins have something called shen sight—that you can see into a person’s soul. Is that true?” Zhara asked.

Dragonbait nodded.

“I want you to look into my soul,” Zhara said. “Tell me, am I not a virtuous woman?”

Dragonbait lowered his eyes, and the scent of vanilla wafted from him. Fortunately, Zhara didn’t realize it was a sign that he was amused by the priestess’s self-righteousness. Despite his amusement, the saurial paladin complied with her request and summoned his shen. He saw in Zhara exactly what he had expected to see—a soul of pure blue, which indicated grace, the state of being sanctified and loved by her goddess. He also sensed that the priestess’s spirit was strong and arrogant. She was not so very different from Alias.

Do you have reason to doubt your virtue? Dragonbait signed, teasing the priestess.

Zhara shook her head. “I only want to know if you believe, as Alias does, that I could be so evil as to lie to Akabar about his dreams? That I don’t love him and I’m only using him?” she asked.

Dragonbait shook his head and signed to Zhara. Do not be offended by the swordswoman. She is still frightened by the Darkbringer, and her fear always makes her angry.

“Your Alias has no respect for the clergy,” Zhara noted coolly.

She was created that way, Dragonbait signed. She cannot help herself.

“Only a barbarian would belittle the gods as she does,” Zhara said contemptuously.

Barbarians also belittle beautiful music, as you did, Dragonbait pointed out.

Zhara looked momentarily flustered. She hadn’t expected the paladin to chide her about her behavior. She replied defensively, “Akabar has told me much of Alias. For instance, I know she practically worships Nameless and his music. That is wrong,” Zhara insisted. “Nameless is only a man, and his music is but the creation of a man. Neither the man nor his creation can compare to the gods or their works.”

Dragonbait sighed. I’ll tell you a little story, he signed. It’s a story I’ve never told anyone else. A story with a lesson.

Zhara leaned forward and watched curiously as the paladin’s hands motioned over the table.

Once there was a paladin who served the god of justice, the saurial explained. The paladin loved a priestess who served Lady Luck. The paladin was proud of himself and his service to his god. He felt there was no cause more noble than justice. He felt everyone should feel as he felt. Lady Luck was not always just however; sometimes she was fickle. Occasionally she bestowed her favor on those who did not deserve it, and withheld her favor from those who did. The paladin demanded that his priestess lover serve his god instead of Lady Luck. The two argued about it, and the paladin insulted Lady Luck and the priestess, but the priestess would not leave her goddess.

Because the paladin loved the priestess very much, he knew that if he remained near her, he would soon grow to accept her decision and remain her lover despite her refusal to do as he wished. He thought that if this happened, he would be tainted by the priestess’s love for her goddess. In his anger and pride, the paladin was determined that these things should not happen, so he left his tribe to serve his god’s cause in the dark and evil region of Tarterus.

There the paladin was captured by a fiend who intended to sacrifice the paladin for a very evil purpose. As the paladin hung from chains in a dank dungeon, very close to death, he had a vision, or perhaps it was just a dream, in which Lady Luck appeared before him. The goddess said that she did not care if she ever saw him again, but the god of justice had asked for her help in sparing the paladin’s life. If the paladin would agree to perform a service for Lady Luck, she would free him from the evil creatures who intended to kill him.

The paladin wished to live, of course, and since his god had intervened on his behalf, it would be arrogant to turn down the goddess’s offer. The paladin had learned that even the cause of justice cannot always win against evil without Lady Luck’s blessing. He agreed to perform the service, and Lady Luck sent a human to free the paladin and tell him what service he must perform. So the paladin lives yet to serve the god of justice, but he pays homage, too, to Lady Luck or to any other god or goddess who can further the cause of justice.

Dragonbait leaned forward in his chair. Zhara thought he was finished and was about to speak when the saurial began motioning once again with his hands. The paladin, Dragonbait signed, learned that the god of justice is also served by other worldly beings—merchant-mages, halfling thieves, arrogant bards—and even by the creations of worldly beings—commerce and government, history and tales, music and song. Thus the paladin learned to respect worldly things. Is it not possible that the goddess you serve is served by such things as well?

Zhara huffed. “Even if Alias’s music serves the gods, it does not make it right for her to belittle them,” the priestess insisted.

Dragonbait nodded in agreement. She has reason, though, he signed.

“What reason?” Zhara snapped.

Her taunts help her fight her fear of the gods, the paladin explained.

“If she were virtuous, she would have no reason to fear the gods,” Zhara declared.

If you had ever lain helpless in the Darkbringer’s power, as she has, you would know better, the paladin replied.

Zhara lowered her eyes, chastened.

After pausing several moments, Dragonbait chucked her gently under her chin. You’ve had a long journey, he signed. You should rest now.

“Before I rest, I want you to tell me one thing” Zhara said. “Will the paladin in your tale ever return to the priestess he loved?”

When he has finished his service to Lady Luck, Dragonbait signed.

“When will that be?” Zhara asked.

When the Darkbringer is destroyed for all time, Dragonbait signed, and the paladin’s sister need never fear becoming helpless again. Rest now. We will talk again. The saurial rose to his feet.

Zhara smiled up at the lizard. “Do you promise?” she asked.

The paladin laid his hand on his chest, bowed, and slipped out of the Red Room as quietly as a cat.

The priestess sighed. Although she vowed to think more kindly of Alias, she doubted she’d ever really like her. The swordswoman was still a northerner and an adventuress, synonymous, in the priestess’s mind, with a barbarian. Zhara felt honored, though, that the paladin had divulged his story to her.

She yawned. Dragonbait was right. She should rest. The priestess reached over to the window, unfastened the shutter latch, and pushed the shutter open. Cool, moist air wafted into the room, carrying a number of tiny tufted seeds. As Zhara stared sleepily out across the gray landscape, the rain started falling once again.

She pulled off her sandals and threw them at her clothing trunk, listening with satisfaction to the thumping noises they made. Then she picked up her veil from the table and, for good measure, threw it in the direction of the trunk. It landed several inches short, but she was too tired to bend over to pick it up. Stupid veil, she thought. Let it lie there.

Pushing herself out of her chair, Zhara shuffled exhaustedly across the room and flopped onto the bed. Before they’d arrived in Shadowdale, she and Akabar had spent several days on the road with the caravan, camping in the open on the hard ground. As she lay back on the plump pillows, she anticipated the pleasures of sharing so large and private a room with her husband again. While she missed Akash and Kasim, her co-wives, there was no denying that she enjoyed having Akabar’s company all to herself.

Thinking of Akash and Kasim, Zhara uttered a quick prayer for their safety and health. Then she drifted off to sleep to the sound of the pattering rain and a vision of her handsome husband leaning over her, whispering her name.

A bad dream troubled her sleep. In the dream, Alias was closing her inside a coffin lined with daggers. The darkness of the coffin frightened Zhara as much as the idea of the daggers, and she was struggling with all her might to resist, when suddenly she awoke with a start.

The priestess wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep, but the room about her was much darker than it had been; twisting shadows played on the walls all about her. She reached into a pocket of her robe for one of the stones she had enchanted with a continual light. Something pricked at her elbow when she moved her arm. She reacted automatically, rolling on her side, away from whatever she’d brushed against.

Instead of rolling to safety, she rolled into worse stabs—painful and itchy. She rolled onto her back once more and yanked out her light stone. She gasped in horror. The room was choked with a thicket of greenery, sprouting needle-sharp daggers from every stem and leaf. She was buried in the center of the thicket, unable to move without lancing herself on the needles. As if she were still dreaming, a scream caught in her throat and would not escape.

Attracted by her light stone, the plants closed in toward her, stabbing at her flesh. Zhara cringed from the pain and threw her arms up to protect her bare face. She could feel a dagger-plant coiling under the hem of her robes, stabbing at her bare calves.

Zhara felt panic wrapping about her as tightly as the plants. This had been one of Akabar’s dreams. The Darkbringer had gained the advantage of first attack. Once it finished with her, it would take Akabar. It would devour his soul before his spirit was strong enough to resist.

“No!” Zhara growled through clenched teeth at the purple flowering pods pricking at her lips, trying to thrust their way into her mouth. “You’ll never get my husband!” A burst of anger forced the panic away from her. She thrust her left hand into another pocket of her robe and grasped at a handful of bark there, meanwhile clutching at her throat with her other hand for the silver disk that was the holy symbol of her goddess. Ignore the pain! she ordered herself as the needles pricked into the back of her knee. Concentrate! Zhara began a prayer to Tymora asking for the goddess’s aid. The oft-repeated lines helped calm her nerves until she was able to summon the power for her spell. Crumbling the bark in her fist, she whispered, “Oak sister.”

Zhara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, concentrating on the numbness creeping up her left hand into her arm, across her torso, up her throat, down her other arm and into her legs. She took a deep breath and sat straight up in the bed. The dagger plants resisted her movements with their woody stems, but she could no longer sense their sharp prickers. Her spell had transformed her skin into bark that was hard enough to protect her but also smooth and supple enough so she could still move. She fought back the attacking greenery with her arms as if it were nothing deadlier than hay.

Her eyes were still vulnerable, so she was forced to keep them closed. The spell wouldn’t last long. It wasn’t panic that caused her to seek help, she assured herself, and she did so, shouting, “Dragonbait!” at the top of her lungs. She pushed herself off the bed and stomped on the plant stems, crushing them under her bark-covered heels until the floor was smeared with sticky pulp.

All around her, the plants kept growing faster than she could crush them. They began winding around her ankles and wrists, restricting her movements until finally they held her fast. Another plant twisted tight around her throat, and she knew that when the bark skin faded, she’d either be strangled or have her jugular vein pierced by the thorns.

She screamed for Dragonbait again and again, until a flowering pod thrust itself into her mouth. The prickles stung like a hundred bees, and the plant forced itself deeper, choking her.

Unable to get her hands to her mouth, Zhara bit down on the plant and ripped the flower from the stem with her teeth. She chewed, despite the agonizing pain, until she’d worked the flower into a wad small enough to spit out.

Something thumped on the door. “Help!” Zhara screamed. “Hurry!”

The door opened just wide enough for Dragonbait’s arm to slip through. He held out his sword and growled. The sword glowed, then burst into flame, illuminating the room in a brilliant light. Dagger plants swayed instinctively toward the light, only to be scorched by the fire. The saurial slashed blindly at the greenery until he’d cleared the way enough to thrust the door open all the way. He hacked at the stems, setting them alight and filling the room with an acrid, black smoke. Then he slashed at the base of the plants that held Zhara until he could pull her from the room.

The saurial stood in the doorway, brandishing his flaming weapon. The plants hesitated to approach now, as if warned that the glowing weapon was deadly. Dragonbait hissed once and pulled the door shut.

Very gently the saurial pulled away the prickly shoots and flowers still wrapped around Zhara. Now that they’d been separated from their roots, the plants were no longer able to move, but they still clung ferociously to the priestess.

Zhara’s skin was reverting to normal, and it was an effort to keep from wincing as the paladin freed her from the plants. Her mouth and tongue were numb and so swollen she could hardly talk. “Akabar—” she gasped, and began to weep hysterically.

Dragonbait pulled her into his own room across the hall and forced her to sit on his bed, holding her firmly by her shoulders.

Zhara smelled woodsmoke all around her, and then she felt calmer. Her mouth tingled, but at least it no longer ached. She took a deep breath. “You healed me, didn’t you?” she asked.

The lizard nodded, brushing her reddish-brown hair out of her eyes and stroking her cheek gently with one of his scaly fingers.

“Alias was the one who sent those things after me,” Zhara said.

Dragonbait looked down at the priestess with widened eyes, as if she’d lost her mind.

“She did. I dreamed it.”

The saurial paladin shook his head vehemently.

“I have to find Akabar! He’s in terrible danger! You must take me to him! You must!” Zhara cried.

Dragonbait nodded. He pulled a scarf from his pack and handed it to her, signing that she could use it as a veil.

While the paladin couldn’t believe that Alias had anything to do with the attack on Zhara, he never doubted for an instant that Zhara was right about her husband’s being in danger. The deadly enchanted thistles smelled of the Darkbringer’s magic, and Dragonbait shuddered to think what other sorts of plants and creatures the god would send after the merchant-mage.

Satisfied that she had broken Akabar’s spirit, Kyre slid her dagger back up her sleeve and set the crystal nut down on the table. She kissed the mage on the lips, more passionately than she had the first time, tugging on his lips with her own.

Akabar shuddered, too terrified of the tendrils in the half-elf’s mouth to risk unclenching his jaw, but he made no verbal complaint. He could feel the tendrils about his arms loosening and then falling away.

“Now, prove to me your sincerity,” Kyre demanded as she slid the tendrils out from his sleeves. “Embrace me,” she ordered.

Akabar slid his arms around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her close to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and ran her fingers up and down his spine. The tendrils from her arms slithered about his ankles and lay bunched on the floor like pythons. The merchant-mage’s feelings warred between revulsion and desire.

“That potion you had me drink was a philter of love, wasn’t it?” Akabar asked.

Kyre looked up at the Turmishman with surprise. “Yes,” she admitted, laying her head against his chest. “The master made a perfect choice. You are very clever.”

Akabar’s eyes fell on the crystal soul trap lying on the table. If an enemy of Moander’s was trapped within, Kyre must have used it on Elminster, he thought. Then she had Grypht appear in his place to distract the other two Harpers before it occurred to either of them that she might be responsible. Grypht fled from the Harpers’ court and Kyre followed, making herself appear the monster’s foe. No doubt she assisted it in the capture of Nameless and then gave it the opportunity to escape.

“I shall be your first reward,” Kyre whispered, pressing her slender body against his own. “The potion still courses in your blood. You know you desire me.”

“I know,” Akabar replied flatly. He had never loved anything so hateful in his life. Only another mage could dispel the love charm to which he’d fallen prey. Elminster could do so without batting an eye, but Elminster was as trapped as Akabar was. Suddenly a glimmer of hope flickered in the Turmishman’s heart. If Elminster were to be freed, the old sage could do more than dispel Kyre’s evil magic: Elminster could destroy Kyre as well.

On the table, beside the crystal soul trap and the bowl of rotting fruit, lay a chordal horn, a northern woodwind instrument, which must have belonged to Nameless. It was beautifully crafted of black wood and decorated with gold, but Akabar was only interested in its length and weight. It would make a reasonable club if he could just get hold of it.

Steeling himself to the task of distracting Kyre from his efforts to reach the horn, the merchant-mage bent over the woman and began kissing her all about her throat. The half-elf moaned softly. Akabar squeezed her tighter, forcing her back against the table, and ran his right hand down her back until he felt the tabletop. He closed his fingers around the instrument, but as he began lifting it from the table, he accidentally struck it against the rim of the silver fruit bowl.

Kyre started at the clanging sound and twisted around in Akabar’s arms. Akabar grabbed the half-elf’s right hand in his left and aimed the chordal horn over the soul trap gem on the table.

Realizing the mage’s intent, Kyre looked alarmed. She screamed, “No!” and snatched for the crystal nut with her left hand.

Akabar slammed the chordal horn down hard on the table. The top of the instrument smashed into the crystal nut, shattering it into pieces, but the middle of the instrument smashed into Kyre’s wrist with a sickening sound. Blackness oozed and billowed over the table where the soul trap had lain, but Akabar could not tear his eyes from the half-elf’s injured wrist.

Beneath Kyre’s skin, which had burst open like the rind of an overripe melon, there were no sinews or muscles or bones; instead, her arm was packed with rotting, mold-encrusted tendrils. Akabar gagged on the stench of decay that rose from her wrist. Most of the tendrils had been smashed by the chordal horn, and Kyre’s hand hung from the end of her wrist like a piece of dead meat.

The tendrils lying about Akabar’s ankles whipped upward and lashed about Akabar’s wrists, cutting off his circulation. Kyre yanked her uninjured right wrist out of the mage’s grasp. Akabar tried to club Kyre with the chordal horn, but Kyre pulled the instrument out of his hand and threw it to the floor.

Akabar turned his attention to his last hope of escape—the blackness over the table, which was now coalescing into the shape of the being that had been trapped within the crystal. Akabar gasped. He’d been expecting Elminster to appear, but although the being standing on the table wore the robes of a spell-caster, it looked nothing like the sage. It was huge, with horns and green scales and claws and a tail.

Akabar suddenly made a wild guess. “You transformed Elminster into that beast!” he accused Kyre.

Kyre didn’t answer the merchant-mage’s charge. With her uninjured hand, she had already pulled an empty soul trap out from her pocket. She held it out in the beast’s direction and triggered it by shouting, “Darkbringer!”

Akabar threw himself into Kyre, knocking them both to the floor. Kyre lost her grip on the walnut-shaped crystal, and the magical device rolled across the carpeting.

The beast pulled out a crystal cone from his sleeve and pointed it at the bard pinned beneath the merchant-mage.

A freezing blast of cold hit the tangled bodies on the floor, covering them with rime. Akabar’s skin felt as if it were on fire, and his heart and lungs ached as though they’d been stabbed. Unable to cope with such terrible pain, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The beast Grypht watched with satisfaction as Kyre’s tendrils and the orchid in her hair withered from the frost that covered them. Kyre lay as still as Akabar, but Grypht was taking no chances. With his staff, he pried the merchant-mage off Kyre. Then he set the half-elven bard’s body alight with bursts of magical flames shot from his fingertips.

As the corpse crackled and sizzled, a horrible stench filled the room. Grypht made a face, but decided the smell could be borne. He climbed down from the tabletop and bent over his rescuer. He realized with a start that he recognized Akabar. Like the thief Olive Ruskettle, this creature was a friend to Champion—or Dragonbait, as people called the paladin in this strange world.

Unfortunately the Turmishman didn’t appear to have weathered the cold spell very well. He wasn’t breathing. Grypht’s people could breathe even when they fell into a torpid state, but the saurial had no idea what was normal for these chirping apes.

He sighed to himself. Killing Kyre had been far more important than worrying about who got in the way—even if that person had been responsible for freeing him and was a friend of Champion’s. Champion, however, would probably not see it that way. The paladin is always so damned idealistic, Grypht thought.

Grypht pulled a small bottle out of the sleeve of his robe. There was a chance it would prove unsafe for the creature on the floor, but he had to risk it. He unstoppered the bottle and poured its contents between Akabar’s lips.

Akabar coughed back some of the thick liquid, but he must have swallowed some, for a moment later, he breathed a shuddery breath, then another and another. He did not regain consciousness, but his complexion turned from gray to his normal brown, a change that seemed like a good sign to Grypht. The saurial turned his attention back to the remains of Moander’s servant.

There was nothing left of Kyre but ashes. Grypht used his staff to stir through them and knock aside the unburnt items Kyre had carried and worn—a dagger, a sword, a belt, a scabbard, three more walnut-shaped soul traps, two gold rings, a silver pin of a crescent moon and harp, and her boots. Always a careful scavenger, Grypht turned her smoking boots upside down. A silver ankle bracelet tumbled from one boot, and from the other a large yellow gem—the one the ape Finder had used to cast a tongues spell.

Grypht pocketed the yellow gem. He crushed the soul traps in his bare paws, but no other beings rose from the broken shards. The traps had been unused. Remembering the last trap Kyre had triggered, the saurial searched the floor until he discovered it under a chair and smashed it with his staff.

Time to leave this vermin-infested ape lair, he thought, rising to his feet. He looked down at the Turmishman. He’d have to take the creature with him. It had freed him from Kyre’s trap; it stood to reason it was an enemy of the Darkbringer, and leaving it here would endanger it further. If it recovered, it might be able to help him find Champion. He bent back down, swaddled Akabar in his cape, and slung him over his shoulder.

Unbowed by the weight of the merchant-mage, Grypht strode over to the window and stuck his head out. There was a river to his left, and beyond that a temple, but beyond the temple lay a forest. He looked long and hard at the tree line, first estimating its distance, then checking to be sure there were no other apes nearby.

Exuding the scent of fresh-mown hay, Grypht shifted himself and his burden through a dimensional portal. A moment later, he stood at the edge of the tree line across the river. He glared back at the twisted tower of Ashaba, glad to be free of it, and then turned and lumbered into the forest.

As Grypht carried Akabar Bel Akash from the Tower of Ashaba, he failed to note he was being observed. He was tired and wounded and preoccupied with how he would find Champion. Even if he had been fresh and alert, the saurial wizard might not have sensed the eyes watching him, for those eyes spied upon him with magic from over a hundred miles away.

The Mouth of Moander, high priestess of the Darkbringer, regarded Grypht’s fleeing image in an enchanted pool of water. Moments after Moander had used the possessed body of the Harper Kyre to stun Akabar, the god had sent the Mouth of Moander to the pool to cast a spell to scry upon the half-elf. It was important to the Darkbringer that the high priestess see this Turmishman whom the god desired to possess beyond all others.

The previous year when Moander had possessed Akabar, the god had been so pleased with the mage’s well-trained mind and talents that it had taken special care with the mage’s body so the possession could be permanent. The god had made the error, though, of using Akabar in a battle against his own friends, and the paladin Dragonbait had managed to free the mage. Afterward, Akabar succeeded in destroying Moander. Now, though, the god had possessed new minions and had forced them to built it a new body. Moander demanded that Akabar be brought to the body to witness its resurrection.

Akabar had proven difficult to find, though. He had left Turmish, and some powerful misdirection spell made it impossible for the Mouth of Moander to discover the mage with scrying magic. Moander suspected Akabar was in Alias’s company, so Kyre had been sent to Shadowdale to discover if the Nameless Bard knew of Alias’s or the mage’s whereabouts. Kyre had succeeded in discovering Akabar and separating him from Alias or whatever had protected him from scrying magic. Moander was too pleased with the half-elf’s successes to be annoyed by the inconvenience of her violent death.

The images of Grypht and Akabar began to blur and fade as the scrying spell cast on the pool of water wore off, but not before the Mouth of Moander had time to note that Grypht fled west from Shadowdale.

“Kyre recruited other servants on her way to Shadowdale,” the Mouth of Moander said. “It will be a simple matter to send flyers to alert them to intercept Grypht and Akabar. The Turmishman will not escape the destiny the Darkbringer has assigned to him.”

The two saurial priests who attended the priestess nodded.

“The flyers are too weak to travel so far,” the priestess cried suddenly with vehemence.

The two priests shifted uneasily. The priestess’s habit of arguing with herself frightened all her people who witnessed it.

“They only need to fly away,” the priestess answered herself with a cooler tone of voice. “It matters not if they return.”

The Mouth of Moander glared at her reflection on the dark surface of the pool of water. A female saurial with pearly white scales glared back up at her with disgust. Before Moander had possessed her, her name had been Coral, and she had served the goddess of luck. Then she had protected all her people, but now, because she had been too weak to resist Moander, there was no evil the god could not force her to perpetrate on even the smallest or most innocent saurial.

For the moment, Moander had loosened its hold on her mind, as it always did after having used the priestess’s body to cast a powerful spell such as scrying. Coral fought against the control of the Darkbringer so strongly that the god was forced to withdraw so their battle of wills did not use so much energy that the tendrils of possession controlling the priestess were destroyed.

Moander lurked in the back of Coral’s consciousness, though, ready to pounce on her thoughts should she try to act against the god. In the meantime, the god savored with a cruel delight the anguish and horror Coral felt at every action it forced her to perform. Most especially, the Darkbringer enjoyed controlling the priestess and forcing her to speak aloud its evil thoughts. Unable or unwilling to keep her emotional outbursts in check, Coral always argued aloud with what the god had made her say. Hence the priestess appeared to be arguing with herself.

None of Coral’s people understood what was really happening. Although all the members of her tribe who had been captured by Moander were infected with its tendrils of possession, most were only controlled physically. The Darkbringer had no need to control the minds of ordinary saurials; however, the god had magically shackled the thoughts of any spell-casting saurials it caught. The ordinary saurials thought the priestess had turned evil and insane, while the spell-casters, who had been enchanted to love the Darkbringer, thought the priestess was merely insane.

“If Grypht cannot be captured,” Moander said, addressing the priests through Coral’s mouth, “he must not be left alive. He might yet find allies to interfere with our plans. He searches now for Champion, the paladin whom people of this world call Dragonbait. If our servants discover Champion, however, they must bring him to me alive. In order to enslave the servant Alias to the master’s will, Champion must be sacrificed with special ceremony. Mine will be the hand that destroys the paladin.”

“No!” Coral shouted with anguish. “I want no part of his destruction!”

The priests shook their heads disapprovingly.

With a complete sense of hopelessness, Coral envied Kyre her death. It was horrible enough to Coral that she was forced to slaughter sacrifice after sacrifice to further strengthen Moander’s new body. She didn’t wish to live to arrange the conquest of Grypht or the Darkbringer’s reunion with Akabar, but most especially the priestess would rather die than spill the blood of her former lover. “Lady Luck,” she called out to the goddess she had once served, “please let me die!”

Moander’s tendrils of possession used the priestess’s mouth to argue with herself. “No,” Coral was forced to say. “I have something to live for: vengeance. Champion’s insults cannot be forgiven. I must see him humbled.”

As the priestess spoke these words, the scent of roses and baked bread and mint all wafted from the glands at her throat. She felt anger and grief and shame, for she was not able to argue with Moander’s words. She had struggled to forgive the paladin for leaving her, but she had never really succeeded, and imagining him humbled was a source of perverse pleasure to her. Unfortunately this feeling was Moander’s foothold in her mind. The god had twisted and perverted it to seduce her from her natural feelings of compassion. Should Champion actually be brought before her, Coral feared that Moander would have little trouble goading her into harming the paladin.

“Champion despised me when I worshiped the goddess of luck,” Moander made Coral say aloud.

“No,” Coral insisted, trying desperately to keep from growing angry with the paladin. “He merely disapproved. He never despised me.”

“Now that I am Moander’s priestess, he will be horrified and repulsed by me. I will kill him gladly to wipe that look from his face,” Moander said through Coral’s mouth.

The two priests nodded with approval.

Coral thrust her hand over her mouth to stop the god’s hateful words. Inside her head, she heard the god think, And after you slay him, I’ll release your mind to relish your guilt and grief.

Coral clawed at the fin on top of her head in a futile attempt to sweep Moander from her brain.

You only live to serve and amuse me, priestess, he reminded her in her thoughts.

Coral shrieked like a madwoman and crumbled to the ground, sobbing hysterically.

The two priests stood beside Coral, annoyed at her peculiar behavior, unable to understand why someone who was insane had been granted the honor of serving as the Mouth of Moander. Why hadn’t one of them been chosen? they both wondered resentfully.

Moander gathered up all the tendrils of possession inside Coral’s mind, like a rider taking up a horse’s reins, and drove her back to her duties as the Mouth of Moander.