The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER 6

The celebration of Sammardach was winding down in the small hours of the night, but a few guests still seemed reluctant to depart the Generon. As Bartimus followed Grozier, Falagh, and Lavant through the halls of the great palace, the wizard began to wonder if those last few stragglers might not be changing their minds. He certainly wished he were somewhere else right then. He cringed as Falagh Mestel swore again.

"Stop avoiding me," Falagh ordered Lavant, nearly shouting as he followed the Grand Syndar. "I asked you a question!"

The high priest moved rapidly for such a hefty man, and the other three with him had to scurry to keep up. He neither spoke nor turned back toward Falagh. What had surprised Bartimus the most, however, was the strange smile Lavant had adopted once he heard the news from Grozier and Falagh.

Reth was swarming with zombies.

"You knew this was going to happen," Grozier accused in the direction of Lavant's elbow. "You've been waiting for it. Why?"

Finally, Lavant stopped and turned to face his pursuers. "Gentlemen, please. The activities taking place in Reth at this very moment have nothing whatsoever to do with our venture. It may turn out to be an unforeseen complication, but I do not think it will limit our profits in any way. Now, you must excuse me. I need to speak with Lord Wianar immediately. There is much to do." And with that, the ample man turned and hurried down the passage, leaving Falagh and Grozier staring after him in bewilderment.

"This isn't over!" Falagh called after Lavant, drawing a few uncomfortable looks from nearby guests. "House Mestel will have its due!"

Lavant ignored the man.

"Tar and trollops!" Falagh cursed, smacking a fist into his other palm. "He's practically gloating!"

"I don't understand," Grozier said, pacing. "Why would he want Reth to burn? You saw the look on his face. He's positively gleeful! It's as though he wasn't just expecting it, but actually planning-" Bartimus's employer stopped in mid-sentence, frozen in place, his jaw hanging open. "He planned it," the man finished in hushed tones. "He's been waiting for it because he planned it."

Falagh gave Grozier a measured look. "I think you may be right," the Mestel scion said. "But your first question remains. Why would he want such a thing?" Then, as if he were realizing for the very first time that they were not alone, Falagh glanced around. "We can't discuss this any further in here," he announced, turning to Grozier as he gestured all about. "We need to go somewhere more private. Bartimus, open one of your doorways and take us back to House Pharaboldi."

The wizard nodded and started to comply, but Grozier grabbed his arm and held it. "Now wait a minute, Mestel," Talricci said, waggling a finger at Falagh. "Bartimus works for me, not you. I tell him when and where to take us."

Falagh threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "It doesn't matter who-" Then he stopped and sighed. "Very well," he said with mocking patience. "Please instruct your wizard to whisk us somewhere more secure so that we might discuss this further in private. I would suggest the sitting room at the Pharaboldi estate, but it is entirely your call."

Grozier nodded. "I think that's a fine idea," he said, then turned and nodded to Bartimus as he released the wizard's arm. Though his employer didn't notice it, Bartimus saw Falagh glower and shake his head.

For the briefest of moments, Bartimus contemplated just whisking himself back to his own chambers, leaving the other two men behind to sort their conflict without him. He did not much care for their company when they bickered, which was happening more and more frequently. Then he dismissed the thought and conjured the magical doorway, concentrating to anchor the opposite end in the sitting room, as Grozier-and Falagh-had instructed.

One by one, the three men stepped through.

Bartimus sought his favorite corner and waited to be of some use. Grozier began to pace and Falagh sent a servant scurrying for glasses and a decanter of something to drink.

"Make it something strong," the man ordered, then sat down on one of several sofas to wait. "Unbelievable," he muttered, and Bartimus wasn't certain whether he was speaking about Grozier's behavior or Lavant's.

"All right," Grozier began, oblivious to Falagh's continued disapproval. "Let's work through this and figure out what that fat toad is up to." He began ticking points off one at a time on his fingers. "First, he puts together a business deal between my House, the Pharaboldis, and the Matrells."

Falagh grimaced but nodded. "A reasonable, if ambitious, effort. Lots of investment up front, very little return early on. Something that few other Houses in Arrabar would agree to, given the risks and outlay of coin." He shook his head. "Looking at it from that perspective, it begins to sound like a real confidence job. Notice that the temple has nothing invested in the venture, Grozier."

"Right," Grozier answered. "The temple's gains would be through favorable contracts. We need an army, the temple can supply one. I always assumed that he was just generating business for the glory of Waukeen."

"Perhaps," Falagh said, stroking his moustache as he thought. "Heavy skirmishing was a key part of the plan, that's for certain."

At that moment, the servant returned bearing a tray with crystal ware and a decanter with a fiery red liquid inside. Bartimus noted that another figure followed the servant. It was Lobra. She crossed to a chair in a corner of the room and sat down, ignoring Falagh's brief frown as he stared at her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, sounding somewhat put out. "I thought you were tormenting the Matrell girl."

"I got bored," was all she would say in response. "My 'brother' is still with her, though," she added, adopting a rather unpleasant smile.

Falagh grunted and turned back to the discussion. "So, why did Lavant's plan hinge on skirmishes to drive up the cost of lumber?" he asked, stroking his moustache again. He stood up as a revelation seemed to strike him. "Not just a little skirmishing, but out and out war," he said. "Lavant wanted to see full-scale war in the region. The lumber scheme was just an excuse to stir up hardship in the area. We improve lumber prices by controlling supply militarily. And if it gets out of hand, so what? The temple benefits regardless. He played us perfectly," Mestel snarled.

Grozier shook his head, seeming uncertain. "Why go to all that trouble just to generate conflict? There's enough war in all of Faerun to keep the temple armies steadily employed without our help."

Falagh shrugged. "Maybe to justify it to the Waukeenar. Their motive is profit, not war. It probably wouldn't set well with the rest of the clergy to start a war for war's sake alone. So he fabricated our ill-fated lumber empire to cover it all up."

Grozier nodded, looking grave. "But that just seems to come full circle without accomplishing anything. And it doesn't explain the zombies."

Falagh shrugged again. "What difference does it make? We gave him what he wanted, and now we're left holding the empty coin purse while he feeds the flames of war. Nine Hells, maybe he needed the undead to underscore just how valuable a mercenary army of priests would be, where other forces fall short."

"But they had to come from somewhere else, right?" Grozier said, his expression full of doubt. "None of the plans we developed involved necromancy. If he was behind the zombies, then he had to get someone else involved, someone we don't know about."

Bartimus realized the answer was on the tip of his tongue, so he spoke it aloud before anyone else did. "Lord Wianar."

Falagh turned to look at the wizard as Grozier stopped pacing, realization making them both gape. "Ah, yes," Falagh said, pursing his lips. "Our dear Shining Lord. Zombies would be just his touch. But why?"

"He is always fostering war," Grozier said, shrugging. "Why is this any different?"

"He's always fostering war among the great Houses of Arrabar," Falagh corrected. "He likes to see us squabbling, to be sure-it leaves us little time to challenge him directly. But this is in Reth. He doesn't even have a claim to-"

Bartimus saw Falagh sit up straighter then, a look of profound understanding mixed with something… horrific… upon his face. He imagined his own expression must have been similar, for a most unsettling thought had crossed his mind at about that same moment.

"He's letting Lavant destabilize the region so he can conquer it," Falagh uttered, an incredulous look upon his face. "He wants to bring Reth back into the fold."

"That's preposterous," Grozier said, shaking his head as if he doubted his own thoughts. "He would have to react so quickly, be ready to pounce at a moment's notice to take advantage of the chaos. He would need major armed forces in the field right now to do such a thing."

"Such as, perhaps, the kinds of mercenary forces that could be put together with sizeable contributions from three Houses?" Falagh suggested, giving Grozier a knowing stare. "Talricci, we've been played, but good."

Grozier sank down onto the sofa and placed his head in his hands. "We have," he agreed. "We let Roundface and Lavant handle so many of the details, let them serve as go-betweens and deal with our armies in the field. We are fools!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the room.

None of the men spoke. Each was absorbed in his own thoughts, his own painful realizations. Finally, Grozier raised his head again. "So, what do we do now? How do we regain control and get something out of this?"

Falagh shook his head. "No, no. I'm not going to put a twist on this whole mess and place my House between Lord Wianar and his objectives. If he wants to expand Chondath's borders, the two of us can't hope to stop him. That's a fool's errand."

"But we can't just let it all slip through our fingers," Grozier argued, sounding on the verge of wailing. "I've invested far too much into this enterprise! House Talricci will be ruined!"

"As will House Pharaboldi," Falagh said, shrugging. "Fortunately, Lobra will have House Mestel to fall back on. In fact, my family will most likely just absorb her assets, to recoup our own investments, of course," he added, turning to look at his wife.

She seemed completely unfazed by her husband's words.

"Don't you dare back out of this now," Grozier growled, standing and squaring himself to Falagh. "Don't you leave me hanging in the midst of this. I'll kill you."

Falagh raised his eyebrows, giving Grozier a disapproving look. "Oh, do you think so?" he said sardonically. "Big words from someone standing in a house filled with another man's guards."

"You forget," Grozier said smugly, "that my wizard there can deal with your House guards quite effectively."

No! Bartimus thought, groaning. Don't bring me into the middle of this!

"Get out," Falagh said, his voice cold. "Out of this house right now."

Grozier sniffed. "I think not," he said, and Bartimus wondered why his employer would choose to make a stand right then, with the odds arrayed against them.

At that moment, all went to chaos. Falagh flung his glassful of beverage at Grozier's face. As the man threw up his hands to ward off the attack, Falagh grabbed a dagger from inside his tunic and raised it high, ready to plunge it into Grozier's back. Grozier, stunned by the sudden attack, shouted in pain and staggered away, pawing at his eyes.

Bartimus opened his mouth to shout a warning, then changed his mind and decided on a quick spell to hurl at Falagh, then changed his mind once more and began reaching for a wand he had hidden away, but he was not fast enough. The Mestel scion leaped forward and plunged the blade squarely into his foe's back. Grozier grunted and arched his back, but instead of penetrating the man's flesh, the dagger glanced off to the side with an audible clank.

Falagh stared at the dagger in surprise as Grozier whirled on him, pulling a dagger of his own. "Fool," Talricci sneered, waving his blade in front of himself, threatening his opponent. "You're not the first coward who's tried to plunge a blade into my spine."

Ah, Bartimus remembered, the ring I crafted for him. I forgot about that.

The two men crouched, both their expressions grim, but before the skirmish could truly begin, Lobra pounced. Bartimus thought she would go for Grozier, expecting that she was attempting to aid her husband, but instead, she grabbed Falagh by the arm and flung him sideways, twisting his wrist as she did so and forcing him to drop the weapon. The woman's strength was remarkable, and Falagh smacked into a tapestry-covered wall head-first, then slumped to the ground with a groan.

Bartimus stared in amazement, wondering why the woman would turn on her own husband. Lobra began to shift, becoming the changling in its natural form. The wizard smiled, feeling the fool. "Very clever," he said.

At that moment, a Pharaboldi House guard entered the room, perhaps to see what the commotion was about. Upon witnessing the violence taking place, he yanked his sword free and began screaming for reinforcements as he took a step forward.

Avoiding his previous hesitation, Bartimus withdrew a small crystal rod from a pocket inside his robes. The hollow rod was filled with glowing moss that gave off a very faint greenish light. Bartimus gestured rapidly at the guard with the crystalline object. A swirling, undulating curtain of colors sprang up, catching the man in its midst when he put one foot in the room. The shimmering coalescence writhed in place, filling the doorway. The guard stopped and stood still, staring dumbfounded at the colors surrounding him.

Bartimus slipped the rod back into its protective pocket and turned toward Grozier, who was wiping his eyes with the hem of his doublet. The wizard moved to the man and muttered, "We must leave right now," hoping the shapeshifter would help him convince Grozier of the prudence of departure.

A gasp and a cry of dismay sounded out in the hall, and Bartimus turned his attention that way once more. Two more guards stood mesmerized in the middle of the swirling curtain of color, enraptured with the shifting veil all around them. On the far side of it, unable to circumvent the enchantment, three others watched in dismay. One of them spun and ran in the opposite direction.

"Wizard!" the guard yelled at the top of his lungs as he disappeared. "I need a wizard right now!"

Bartimus, knowing they were running out of time, turned back just in time to spy his employer plunging Falagh's own dagger into the downed man's back. Mestel jerked and cried out, shuddering. Grozier stood over the man, a sneer on his mien, and raised the blade high for another blow.

"No time!" Bartimus shouted, already preparing the last of the magical doorways at his disposal. "The whole House is coming!" And with that, he conjured the blue, shimmering portal.

Out in the hall someone shouted, and Bartimus glanced over long enough to see that his swirling halo of magical light had vanished. The guards who had been ensnared in its effects were regaining their bearings, and the rest pushed past them, trying to get into the room and at the perpetrators. The wizard scurried to his blue doorway.

Not waiting, he thought, as he launched himself at the portal.

Grozier gave a quick kick at Falagh, snapping the man's head sideways, just as the shapeshifter grabbed him and hustled him toward the magical exit. All three of them reached it at the same time. They plunged as one through the passage, which vanished just as three guards closed in on it.

When Darvin arrived at the Generon, it took him a few minutes to track down Eles. Though the Sammardach celebration had dwindled to small groups of partygoers gathered in nooks and crannies of the palace, talking earnestly, it still took the assassin some time to wander through the halls, searching. Periodically he would stop and ask guards if they had seen their lord about. He finally caught up with the man standing on a balcony on a high level of the palace, looking out over the gardens and into the warm, humid night.

Lavant was there already, and the look on the high priest's face told Darvin that they already knew at least part of the situation in Reth.

Darvin strolled up to the two men and cleared his throat. Lavant looked up with annoyance clear on his face, but when he saw who it was, his frown changed to a gleeful smile. "Have you heard?" the Grand Syndar asked, almost chortling. "It's begun."

"Yes," Darvin said, nodding. "I just came from there. But all is not shiny and wonderful in dear Reth," he said. "We have a problem."

"What problem?" Eles Wianar said, turning and scowling. "Now is not the time for problems."

Darvin took a deep breath. He did not relish bringing such unpleasant news to the most powerful man in Arrabar. "Rodolpho is not being as cooperative as we would like." Then he shook his head. With others, he could deliver bad news in a roundabout way, smooth the edges, sugarcoat the nuggets. But with Eles, it was better just to speak plainly. He had a way of seeing exactly what others did not want him to see. "He made the plague too virulent," Darvin explained, "and refused to create a cure. He apparently still harbors some resentment over his forced involvement with your plans."

Lavant clucked his tongue. "Not surprising," the high priest said. "There are ways around that. I can formulate a cure in a matter of hours. I'm sure of it."

Darvin shook his head, not so sure. "It may be too late in a matter of hours " he replied. "Half the city is engulfed in flames, and bodies are rising on the streets before they're even cold."

That description wiped the largest portion of Lavant's smile from his face. "Truly?" he said, his voice less exuberant than it had been before.

Darvin nodded. "As I said, I was just there moments ago. I saw it myself. And Rodolpho was painfully clear about his intentions."

"I'm sure he was," Eles said, though the tone of his voice was not terribly humorous. "He was the one biggest wrinkle in my plan," the Shining Lord mused. "I thought he might be reticent about cooperating. Twelve years is a long time."

Darvin started to ask Eles why he had chosen his cousin if he had had misgivings, but he thought better of it. Instead, he said, "In the interests of preventing a total disaster, I took the liberty of redirecting some of our forces a little earlier than we had planned. I had Havalla turn some of his troops around and lay siege to Reth. Maybe that way, we can contain the plague as long as necessary to devise a solution."

Lavant made a slightly strangled sound. "Why do you keep taking it upon yourself to change things without consulting us?" he demanded. "You may have just ruined our chances of swooping in at the right time."

Darvin shook his head again. "Trust me, there will be plenty for you and your temple troops to clean up. Even with that change, it may not be enough to keep the disease localized. All of Reth may be a graveyard or worse by morning."

"You exaggerate," Lavant said, his eyes wide.

It's about time you understood the true magnitude here, Darvin thought. "I don't," he said. "Half the city was in chaos, burning. This was a calculated acceleration on Rodolpho's part. He intended for it to get out of hand. I don't think he even expects to survive."

Lavant's loss of composure was brief. "Nonsense," he said, drawing himself up. "I will still arrive at the head of Lord Wianar's army, prepared to deliver defeat to Arrabar's enemies and blessed healing to the ravaged people of Reth. You will have your city back, my lord."

Eles shook his head. "Don't be cocksure," he told the priest. "I trust Darvin's judgment as much as I trust anyone with anything, and if he's concerned, then I am too."

Lavant looked wounded, but he recovered. "Then I am at your disposal to handle this however you see fit," he said, bowing slightly. "Though I still assert that I can generate an effective cure for the plague rapidly enough to prevent disaster."

Eles waved a hand, dismissing Lavant. "Then go and do so," he ordered, "and let me know as soon as you have something definitive."

Lavant bowed again and departed.

Once the Grand Syndar was out of earshot, Darvin turned to Eles and said, "He is too sure of himself, my lord. This plague that Rodolpho cooked up is horrific. I don't think you should place all of your trust in the Waukeenar. You need a second option."

"Of course I do," Eles answered, smiling that smile that always made Darvin's skin crawl. "You're going back to Reth to wring a solution out of Rodolpho."

Darvin sighed. "I don't know if that's possible. When he said he hadn't created one, I got the impression he was sincere. I think he somehow knew this was the last great thing he was going to do with his life, and he took great delight in thwarting you."

Eles's scowl became a glower. "Lesser opponents do not thwart me," he said. "Deal with this."

Darvin nodded in resignation. Somehow, he had known all along that it would come down to that. "All right," he said at last. "But I can't get back there on my own. Laithe will have to help me."

"Fine," Eles said. "Take your sister along."

"Half-sister," Darvin corrected, then immediately regretted it.

"Darvin," Eles said, his face a mask. "Don't think that just because you are my flesh and blood that you can fail me in this. I will have Reth."

Darvin nodded. "I know, Father. I'm on my way."

"Can you heal her?" Vambran asked.

Arbeenok shrugged, trying to imitate the human gesture. It still felt strange to him to do so, even after several years among humans. "I do not know," he said, "I can try."

"Do it," Vambran said, forcefully, but Arbeenok understood that he was asking, pleading, not ordering. The alaghi understood, and he did not object, but the man's intense drive was remarkable. There was a fire in his eyes, a fierceness to act, to succeed, burning inside him at all times.

And there was conflict.

Arbeenok could see that Vambran questioned himself with every decision he made. The soldier scrutinized all his choices, never satisfied that he had selected wisely or had done enough. Arbeenok wondered where in his life he had failed. He wondered what had convinced the man that he was not capable of choosing the wise course.

His passion is admirable, the alaghi thought, but he will burn himself up if he cannot find balance.

Arbeenok turned from the soldier and examined the woman, Elenthia. She stared back at him with wide, frightened eyes. He understood her fear, too. Hers was far more defined. She was dying, and she knew it. "Try to relax," he told her.

Then Arbeenok began to sing.

The druid sang to the wind and the stars, to the earth somewhere below, calling to the natural soil that lay beneath the carefully aligned stones, down past the unnatural layer of the garden. He sang to the ocean that he could smell but could not see. He sang to them all, asking them to restore the balance in Elenthia, to cleanse her of the perverse disease that infested her.

They could not aid him.

Arbeenok's song turned inward, seeking some energy that he could harness within himself, from the spirits of the animals that resided in harmony in him, hoping perhaps to drain away the woman's sickness into himself and dissipate it.

The sickness was too strong.

Arbeenok opened his eyes and looked at his companions. Both were watching him intently. He had seen such looks before by those who had never heard him use his magic. He paid their stares no mind. "It cannot be cleansed by my magic alone," he said. "It is too unnatural for my healing skills." Arbeenok watched Vambran's face turn stony, as though bracing for the inevitable. "I can arrest it, though," the druid said, hoping that the two of them would understand. Sometimes, finding the words to explain things to outsiders was difficult. "Slow it," he added.

"Do it," Vambran said again, once more in that forceful, demanding tone. For him, failure was a fate too horrible to contemplate. Arbeenok could see that.

"It will not cure her," Arbeenok warned, wanting the soldier to understand that it was a temporary solution and would hold for a day at most. "She will still be ill, but the sickness will not… progress."

Vambran began nodding even before Arbeenok finished speaking. "Buy us time, that's good enough," he said. "And we'll go to the bottom of the Reach, burrow into the rock if we must in order to find whatever it is we're supposed to find."

Arbeenok smiled, glad that Vambran was ready to accept the alaghi's vision, to follow their entwined fates to their logical conclusions. "Yes," he said. Then he closed his eyes and began to sing once more, a different song, one to slow the poisons in Elenthia's body rather than drive them out. He felt the contagion begin to slumber, fall dormant. Satisfied, he finished the song, locking the magic in place for as long as he was able.

When it was done, Arbeenok opened his eyes and nodded to tell his companions so. The relief on both their faces was clear. "We must rest," he said.

"There's no time," Vambran argued, his intense eyes looking away to some distant place, not just in space but also in time. He was peering toward the future, always toward the future, trying to catch up to it and yet never seeing it as it went by. "We have to go, get out of the city. People are dying."

"No," Arbeenok said. He stood, then, pulling Vambran away from the woman, off to the side where they could talk alone. "We must rest. She must rest." Vambran stared hard at the alaghi for a long moment, his eyes glittering dangerously. "I have seen you yawn many times just since we arrived in this garden," the alaghi added. "When was the last time you slept?"

Vambran looked away. "I don't remember," he said, avoiding the question. "A lifetime ago."

"You have not slept since I met you, when you were dangling from a pole by your tied hands and feet, hardly a good bed. And that was in the small hours of this morning. How long before that?"

Vambran sighed. "Not since the ship," he said. "Not since two nights ago."

"You cannot save the city if you wear yourself to exhaustion," Arbeenok said. "And she will not last long without rest. The harder you push her, the more quickly my magic will… vanish. No, fade. The more quickly it will fade. Do you understand? It can weaken if her body is not strong enough to maintain it."

Vambran sighed then, letting his shoulders slump. "All right," he agreed at last. "If she needs the rest, I could do with some as well. But we've got to find some place safe. Some place where we can defend her, you and I, without her needing to fight. Better yet, someplace where damnable zombies won't bother us at all."

Arbeenok looked toward the house. "Up there?" he asked, pointing to a second floor window that overlooked the garden. "I do not think the former owners will mind," he said.

Vambran nodded. "I'll take a look inside, just to make sure nothing is hiding in there. You stay here with her."

When the soldier was gone, Arbeenok sat beside Elenthia. She leaned against a tree, her breathing eased somewhat by the effects of Arbeenok's song, but it was still raspy. The alaghi thought it best not to discuss the sickness. "Do you love him?" he asked, thinking to begin a nice conversation.

"Vambran?" Elenthia replied, looking aghast. "Ilmater's mercy, no. He's… he's just a friend."

"But you are mates," Arbeenok said, puzzled. "I can sense it in the way you look at one another. You have shared a bed."

Elenthia blushed slightly. "Yes, we have," she admitted. "But only as friends. Our lives are much too different. He visits me from time to time, and I enjoy his company when he comes to Reth. That's all."

Arbeenok considered the woman's words for a few moments. "It must be that way between Vambran and Shinthala, too."

"Pardon me?" Elenthia said, looking sharply at the alaghi. "Who in the Nine Hells is Shinthala?"

"Shinthala Deepcrest, Grand Cabal of the Emerald Enclave. They, too, are friends."

"I see," Elenthia said, but her tone was strangely flat. "So, he's bedding a druid, is he?"

Arbeenok looked at the woman strangely, not understanding the question, but at that moment, Vambran returned.

"The house is empty, save for a few unfortunate souls in one downstairs room. I checked to make sure they were really dead." His eyes flickered away for a moment, gazing into that invisible distance. "It was the rest of the family," he concluded, his voice thick.

Together, Vambran and Arbeenok carried Elenthia up to a bedroom and laid her on a thick, soft mattress. Vambran settled onto a divan against the wall, facing Elenthia as though to watch over her. The alaghi saw her give him one curiously unpleasant stare, and she turned her back on him, wrapped the silk sheet about herself, and closed her eyes.

Vambran was breathing slowly and softly a moment later.

So they rested, with the alaghi keeping watch, listening for the approach of enemies, of undead, of anything that would disturb them. Outside, beyond the garden wall, fires still burned everywhere in the city. Occasionally, shouts rose from down in the streets, though Arbeenok could not see what transpired there. Nothing came to disturb them.

Arbeenok felt a small amount of gladness in watching his companions sleep, for their faces were peaceful. He was thankful that he had done something, some small thing, to thwart the terrible sickness, to thwart the strange men of the cities who had brought it.

The three of them remained in sheltered quiet for several hours. At last, Arbeenok spied the sun beginning to peek over the tops of the closest buildings, the first rays coming to warm the land, to bring bountiful life-giving essence to all the birds and beasts and fishes. He closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying for a brief moment the joy that came to him with the dawning of each new day.