The Grieving Tree

CHAPTER 12

Tzaryan Rrac’s reply was waiting when Singe descended from his bed chamber to the dining hall below the next morning. An orc woman wearing the blue star of Tzaryan Keep hurried to meet him as soon as he appeared on the stairs. Without speaking or meeting his gaze, she extended a silver tray on which rested a folded note, then darted away as soon as he had taken the note from her.

Dandra was already up and sitting at one corner of a long, empty table. Her face was drawn and her eyes were dark. “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

“I didn’t sleep well.” She rubbed a hand across her face. “Tetkashtai doesn’t like Tzaryan Keep. She was fretting all night. It kept me awake.”

Singe unfolded the note and scanned it. He smiled in triumph. “I think I know something that will make you feel better,” he said, then read aloud “Master Timin, your request is granted. You’ll find the ruins to the northeast of Tzaryan Keep. You may explore them as you wish, so long as you and your party return to join me for dinner and share your discoveries. I will see you this evening-I regret that my stargazing has left me with a nocturnal schedule. Speak to the General if there’s anything you require. With respect, Tzaryan.” He looked up to find Dandra smiling as well, weariness washed away.

“We’re in?” she said. “You’ve done it?”

“We’ve done it.” He looked around the hall. “Which way is northeast?”

Dandra pointed down the length of a hall, directly toward a shuttered window. Tzaryan’s note crumpled in one hand, Singe strode to the window and flung open the shutters.

Robrand must have placed them in these quarters deliberately. The view from the window looked across a short stretch of Tzaryan Keep’s roofs-their tiles a glossy green by daylight-and over the outer wall. The landscape around the keep was dry, choked with thorny bushes and brittle grass, but a short distance away, the scrub growth broke around heaps of rock, weathered by time but still too squared and regular to be natural. One stretched out across the land in a straight, narrow line, like a toppled tree. Another looked to have crumbled inward not so very long ago. It didn’t take much imagination to picture them reassembled and standing tall.

“The Spires of the Forge,” he said.

“Taruuzh Kraat.” Dandra stepped up beside him, hesitated, then added, “Singe, about what I said through the kesh last night-”

Singe felt the stinging shock of her rejection again, the sudden emptiness after her withdrawal of the kesh. It hurt almost as much as his anger toward Geth. Almost, but not quite. “Don’t say anything,” he said. He turned away from her. “If we’re expected back for dinner, we should wake the others and try to get out to the ruins as soon as we can.”

They were out of the keep by mid-morning. They saw no one on the way apart from orc slaves-lean, frightened-looking creatures much reduced from the proud tribes of the Shadow Marches-and a few ogre guards. The grand upper levels of the stronghold, all polished dark wood and shining green tiles, were mostly empty. Tzaryan had built a fine palace, but no one came to his court. Singe thought he could guess one reason why. While the keep was impressively majestic in design, it was just slightly too large. Everything had been designed around Tzaryan Rrac’s towering frame. Doorways were intimidatingly tall and wide, chairs and tables oversized, stairs awkward in the strange height of each step. In a grand inn or a great house, the bed in which Singe had spent the night would have been luxuriously large. In the surroundings of Tzaryan Keep, it just made him feel like a child, weak and helpless. The effect was disconcerting.

And the upper levels of the keep were all that visitors normally saw. Robrand had described to him the chambers hidden behind the thick stone walls of the keep’s lower portion. Tzaryan’s ogre troops had their quarters there. The orc slaves, too. The dungeons of Tzaryan Keep were down in the dark as well. When he and the others wanted to talk to Ekhaas, they’d find her there. Singe had considered going to her before heading out to the ruins, but decided against it. Even with Tzaryan’s threat of torture hanging over her head, getting the hobgoblin to talk could have taken a long time and he didn’t want to spend any longer in Tzaryan Rrac’s fortress than he needed to.

Walking down the broad stairs to the gates was like walking through a canyon-a deadly canyon. Invaders forcing their way up the stairs would be vulnerable to attacks both from above and through murder holes in the thick walls. A broad landing halfway along the length of the stairs might have seemed like a haven, but Robrand had confided that it was actually a trap. The entire landing could be collapsed, dropping anyone on it into a deep natural chasm that waited beneath. As they passed out of the gates and between the still smoking fire-bowls, Singe let out a soft breath of relief and glanced back over his shoulder. The dark maw of the keep seemed even more intimidating by day than it had by night.

They skirted the wall of the keep, circling around to the northeast, then striking out for the heaps of stone he and Dandra had seen from the window. Robrand had been right when he’d said it was almost impossible to avoid ruins in the hills. It seemed that for every few paces they walked, Singe’s eyes fell on the broken line of an ancient wall or some buckle in the earth with weathered stones protruding. Maybe they had been the outbuildings of Taruuzh Kraat, Singe guessed, maybe protective walls. Maybe stables-he wondered if the Dhakaani had kept horses or other mounts? The hobgoblins of Darguun used huge muscular antelopes called tribex as beasts of burden. Maybe the Dhakaani had, too.

The long stretch of rubble from the first of the collapsed chimneys appeared among the long grass. The second pile of stones was close as well. So was a third, far more tangled with creeping vines and scrub trees than the others-it must have fallen even earlier. Maybe it had been overgrown when the Bonetree hunters had come on their quest. Singe called a halt. “Spread out,” he said. “The Bonetree story mentions the door above the tangled valley. See if you can find an entrance into the underground ruins.”

It look only a few minutes of searching, though, before Natrac called out, “Here!” The half-orc stood in a depression in the ground, a kind of wide trough. One end of the depression, Singe saw as he and the others joined Natrac, was smooth and relatively level-the remains, perhaps, of a shallow ramp cut into the earth. Wind and rain had softened its edges and corners, blending it back into the landscape.

What would have been the deeper end of the ramp, however, was now a rugged patch of ground several paces long and sunk down by a good half pace. Geth climbed over it and pulled up a knot of grass. Tangled roots lifted thin soil with them. Underneath lay a jumble of stone.

Geth looked up. “Whatever was under here, it’s collapsed now. It might have been an entrance, though.”

They were the first words the shifter had spoken to him for days and Singe ground his teeth against a surge of loathing. Seeing Robrand had opened up old wounds. The loss of the Frostbrand pulled at him in a way that it hadn’t in years. Talking to Geth in any way was the last thing he wanted to do.

Fortunately, Dandra spoke before he was forced to. “I could try using vayhatana to shift the rubble.”

The idea was enough to pull Singe out of his anger. “No,” he said before she could attempt it. “There’s more to excavating a collapse than digging out rubble. You have to shore it up to make sure it doesn’t collapse again. I learned that from a company of sappers during the war.” He walked the length of the depression, staring at the broken ground. “We also don’t know how far the collapse goes. It could extend-”

“Singe,” said Ashi sharply, “don’t move.”

He froze at her warning, an instant reaction learned-like his knowledge of excavating-during the war, then stepped back cautiously as Ashi hurried forward to crouch over the ground he had been about to walk on. Leaning over her shoulder, he saw a footprint preserved in dried mud.

“What about it?” he asked.

“Look at the grass,” Ashi said, examining the footprint carefully. “It hasn’t rained here recently. This footprint at least a couple of weeks old. Someone was among these ruins not too long ago.”

The others came to cluster around them.

“Tzaryan?” suggested Natrac. “Ogres on patrol?”

“The footprint isn’t that big.”

“Robrand?”

Ashi shook her head, the beads in her hair clacking softly. “Robrand’s boots are old and well worn. Whoever left this wears good boots with no signs of wear at all.”

“Ekhaas wears good boots,” said Geth, still standing down in the depression. “And they might be magical. Magical boots don’t wear out, do they?”

His curiosity aroused, Singe answered without thinking. “Not usually, no.” He bit back a curse at having spoken to the shifter, but he had to admit that Geth might have been onto something. Ekhaas could have made the footprint. If she had, what had the self-appointed protector of the ruins been up to? A patrol of the territory she claimed? “Ashi, do you think she left any other tracks?”

The hunter rose and moved carefully, her eyes on the ground, in the direction the footprint faced. Her hand hovered in the air, then pointed. “Here-the mark of a heel. Here-another footprint. All in a straight line.” She stopped and held out her arm, marking the path.

The footprints led directly to a shallow hollow filled with thorn bushes. Orshok took one look at the bushes and said immediately, “Those are dead.”

Singe considered the bushes. “Are you sure? They just look dry.”

“I know dead plants when I see them.” The druid went up to the bushes and bent down low, peering underneath the tangled branches. “There’s something behind them. A big piece of leather.” He stood up and reached in among the bushes with his hunda stick, hooking the crooked end of the staff around a branch and tugging the mass of dry wood to one side. Geth helped him, gripping the prickly wood with his gauntleted hand. The dead bushes moved in a single mass to reveal a large section of heavy hide that was very nearly the same color as the soil. Stones had been lashed to the edges of the hide to give it extra weight and anchor it against the side of the hollow. Geth grabbed one and pulled the hide away.

Underneath was a hole just large enough for a big person to squeeze through.

“Well, well,” murmured Singe. “Not exactly a door, but I don’t think we need to be fussy.” Drawing his rapier, he laid a hand against the blade and spoke a word of magic. A warm glow spread along the metal, practically invisible in the sunlight but bright as a torch when he extended the sword into the dark hole. The sides of the hole were smooth earth, packed solid and held firm by old roots; just a short distance beyond the tip of his rapier, the hole passed through the stones of a broken wall and opened into shadows. Of the space beyond, he could see nothing. He cursed under his breath and pulled back the sword. There could be a short drop on the other side of the hole-or a long one. He looked around at the others. “Any volunteers to go in first?” Everyone glanced at everyone else. Singe grunted. “Fine. Ashi, Orshok, hold onto my legs.”

Geth interrupted again. “I’m stronger than Orshok,” he said. “Maybe I should-”

Singe sucked air between his teeth. Talking to Geth was one thing. Placing his safety in the shifter’s hairy hands was another. “Don’t touch me.”

Geth stopped and dropped back, a flush on his face. The others fell silent for a moment as well. Singe felt blood burn in his face for a moment as well-at least until the memory of Treykin, dying horribly in the streets of Narath but refusing to let an Aundairian touch him, came back to him. He stood straight. “Orshok can do it,” he said tightly. “You’re no weakling, are you, Orshok?”

The young orc glanced from him to Geth, then shook his head slowly. “No?” asked Singe. “Good.” He turned back to the hollow, putting Geth behind him.

His righteous anger lasted until he knelt before the hole and stretched his arms-sword hand first-into the hole, then his head, shoulders and torso. Suddenly he felt like a rodent. The space was cramped. Stray roots tickled his cheek and neck. Dirt sifted into his hair. When he felt strong hands locked around his shins and ankles, he took a deep breath and squirmed forward, pulling himself with his elbows and his free hand.

His body blocked daylight, leaving only the magical illumination of his rapier blade. He stretched the sword out ahead of him. Its light fell on the stones he had seen before, then passed on into the space beyond to flash against another wall not far away.

There was writing on the wall, stark black characters on gray stone.

“Singe,” said Ashi, her voice muffled, “we’re almost at your knees!”

“Keep going!” he called back softly. He wriggled a little more and pushed his arms past the broken wall and into open air beyond. Another push and his head was through as well. Arching his back and propping himself up with his free hand, he stared in amazement.

He had emerged in a corridor constructed of large stones, carefully smoothed and tightly fitted. Angular writing-some form of Goblin-covered both walls, scrawled across the stones in irregular patches as though a scribe had taken to graffiti. The strokes of the writing were sharp-edged, like a pen on paper, but there was no sign of ink or paint. Instead, it was as if the stone itself had been stained-a simple magic, but one applied on scale far larger than Singe had ever imagined. The light of his sword didn’t reach far, but it looked like one end of the corridor headed back toward the collapsed entrance, while the other continued on into darkness. The writing marched into the shadows in an unending stream.

The floor was an easy drop beneath him, the stones that had been removed to open the hole stacked neatly to one side. He lowered his rapier and carefully flicked it to the far side of the corridor. It fell to the floor with a swirl of light and a quiet clatter that rang like chimes on the still air. Singe paused, watching the darkness and listening, before twisting around and hissing back up the hole, “Let go!”

Hands released his ankles. Singe spread his legs, pressing against the sides of the hole in an attempt to control his descent, but he still came sliding out like the pit from a ripe cherry. He tucked as he fell, rolling back to his feet and snatching up his rapier in a smooth motion. He held it the weapon high and ready, light splashing around him.

Nothing stirred in the shadows. His breath hissed between his teeth and he stepped back over beneath the hole. He could see Dandra peering down at him. He gestured for her to join him. “Come down! Twelve moons, you have to see this!”

Geth was the last one down the hole. The slide into darkness was brief, the impact of his feet on the tunnel floor jarring, the cascade of dirt dislodged by his gauntlet extremely uncomfortable-it poured onto the top of his head and right down his back. “Rat!” he cursed, shaking himself and trying to dislodge it.

“Careful!” snapped Singe. The wizard was just lifting his hand from the head of Dandra’s spear. Light shone from the weapon just as it shone from his rapier. Geth growled and bared his teeth at him, for a moment caught up in their old, familiar rivalry.

Except that the anger in Singe’s eyes was real, just as it had been all the way along the road from Vralkek. Geth’s growl died in his throat and the shame that had haunted him since seeing Robrand again returned like a punch in his gut. The instant that Singe’s gaze left him, he pressed back into the shadows.

Why did it have to be Robrand working for Tzaryan? He could have happily lived his whole life without ever facing the old man again.

Orshok and Natrac came trotting along the tunnel. “You’re right,” Natrac said to Singe. “It ends at the collapse outside. Someone has been working down there-stones have been pulled out and pieced together on the floor like they were trying to match up fragments of writing.”

“Ekhaas,” Singe said. “I’d bet my hand on it.” He raised his sword so that its light shone full on a patch of writing. “This is some variation of Goblin. I recognize the script.”

“Can you read it?” asked Dandra.

Singe shook his head. “Not on my own. I can cast a spell that will let me, but the magic doesn’t last long. We need to go deeper-try and find the heart of the writing.”

“How? There doesn’t seem to be any end to it.” Dandra gestured with her spear, sending light dancing along the corridor. The strange writing on the walls stretched as far as Geth could see.

Singe reached up and touched some of the black characters. “Dah’mir left us instructions,” he said. “Look neither left nor right. The riches there are not for you. Hold to the path that leads to the Hall and find what waits in the shade of the grieving tree.”

“If there were ever riches here, they’re long gone,” said Geth. Singe glanced at him coldly.

“They’re not gone.” He patted the wall. “They’re here.”

Understanding lit up Ashi’s face. “The Bonetree hunters would have no use for writing-”

“-but Dah’mir would!” Dandra finished for her. She looked to Singe. “Do you think this writing is why he laired here?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out.” He lifted his rapier like a beacon and started down the corridor. “Follow me.”

For a moment, Geth wondered if the wizard realized how much he resembled Robrand when he took command of a situation. The thought brought another twinge of shame-another flash of better times among the mercenaries of the Frostbrand company. He forced it out of his head. Dandra had said it best: they had to work together.

That would have been easier if Singe had been willing to give him something more than a sour frown. Geth drew a shallow breath. “One battle at a time,” he muttered to himself, then winced. Another of Robrand’s gems of wisdom. He reached across his body and drew his sword, taking what comfort he could in the simple, solid weight of the weapon.

Around his throat, the stones of Adolan’s collar were a reassuring weight as well. He touched them. Grandmother Wolf, he thought, I wish you were here, Ado.

They crept down the dark hallway slowly, spreading themselves out so that they were close enough for comfort but far enough apart to swing their weapons if the need arose. The further they traveled along the script-lined corridor, however, the more Geth suspected that they had nothing to worry about. The shadows were still and silent. The dust of ages that lay on the floor had been disturbed by passage-Ekhaas, he presumed, since all the footprints looked the same-but there was no sign of struggle or violence. The air smelled of nothing but dust and rock … and maybe, if he breathed deep, old metal. He slid his sword back into its sheath.

At his side, Natrac leaned a little closer and whispered, “A different place from Jhegesh Dol.”

Geth nodded silently. The ghostly daelkyr fortress that the two of them had passed through in the depths of the Shadow Marches had been lonely and eerie as well-but it had also born the horrendous touch of its otherworldly master and been haunted by the spirits of his tormented victims. The tomb-like quiet of Taruuzh Kraat was welcome by comparison.

“They’re the same age, though, aren’t they?” Geth said. “The Dhakaani Empire was destroyed in fighting the Daelkyr War. Taruuzh Kraat and Jhegesh Dol might have both been occupied at the same time.”

“On opposite sides of the war, thank the Host.” Natrac nodded to the blade in Geth’s scabbard. “But your sword is that old, too.”

Geth looked down at the heavy Dhakaani weapon. “I try not to think about that.”

Natrac was silent for a moment, then added, “You really have Singe worked up. Him and Robrand both.”

“I try not to think about that either,” growled Geth. “Hold tight to your own secrets, Natrac.” He moved away from the half-orc.

The corridor they followed curved gently and soon rooms began to open off of it, then intersecting hallways. All of them were lined with writing as well, some of the characters larger or smaller, some patches of text isolated, others running uninterrupted for paces. It was like walking through an enormous book. Aside from the writing, the rooms they passed were empty. Geth took a wary glance through each doorway and down each hall that they passed. The ruins might have been dry, but the passage of centuries had left behind only those things that could resist time’s hunger. A fireplace, a counter crafted of stone and brick, scattered metal fittings amid the stains left by long decayed wood, a jumble of broken crockery fallen where some shelf or cupboard had crumbled.

And while Taruuzh Kraat might not have carried the terrible threat of Jhegesh Dol, the unending streams of text began to wear on him. Geth caught himself twitching and turning at half-glimpsed motion, only to realize that it was just another passage of writing on the wall. He bared his teeth and the hair on his neck and forearms bristled.

“When I was at Wynarn,” Singe said abruptly, his voice brittle on the still air, “there was a researcher who specialized in planar cosmology. He usually wrote out his calculations in chalk on a slateboard, but sometimes when he was caught up in a problem that was larger than in his board, he would write on the walls of his classroom. One morning another researcher came in and found him backed into a corner, trapped by his own notes.”

“A few years ago in Zarash’ak, one of the scions of House Tharashk went mad and wouldn’t stop writing,” said Natrac. “It was a scandal. She scribbled on anything she could reach with anything she could get her hands on. She had to be restrained or she would bite her fingers and try to write with her own blood.”

Breath hissed through Dandra’s teeth. “You’re not helping!”

Geth glanced at her. Dandra’s face was tight, her jaw tense, her eyes half-closed in concentration. The others saw it, too. “Dandra?” asked Orshok.

Dandra lifted her chin. “It’s Tetkashtai,” she said. “This place frightens her. Il-Yannah, it frightens me. There’s madness here. You’re lucky that you can only feel the edges of it.”

“This was Dah’mir’s lair,” Singe pointed out. “Maybe something of his power is still here.”

She shook her head. “No. This is different. It’s-” She drew a rasping breath. “It’s older. An echo of something that happened a long time ago.”

“Can you tell what?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head again. “But it’s getting stronger.” She raised her glowing spear to light the way ahead.

To her or Singe, Geth realized, it probably looked like the corridor just kept going on and on. Out beyond the edge of human or kalashtar sight, though, the shadows opened onto a deeper darkness, like the shallows at the edge of a lake. “There’s something up there,” he said sharply. “The hallway ends.”

He felt an instant of bitter satisfaction as Singe’s face wavered between disdain and the need to ask for help. The wizard’s disdain won, though. He pushed forward, striding down the corridor. Everyone else followed hard on his heels. In only moments, the deeper darkness that Geth had glimpsed came into the light-a high archway with some kind of balcony beyond. Singe and Dandra stepped through the archway and out onto the balcony, their glowing weapons held high. Geth stopped just a pace behind them.

They looked down over a great chamber that still retained vestiges of the natural cavern it had once been. Vaulting arches of worked stone leaped across a high, rough ceiling. The lower walls had been smoothed and cut straight, but the chamber was still an irregular oval more than a score of paces wide and easily twice as long-even Geth’s keen eyes couldn’t make out its far end in the shadows. Broad stone stairs hugged the wall to one side of the balcony on which they stood, leading down to the floor ten paces below.

Spaced out along the walls and set into alcoves were the cold hearths of half a dozen ancient forges, soot staining the walls around them. Some still had the crumbling remains of huge bellows connected to them. Anvils, tools, and huge stone benches had been piled into the alcoves as well, all tumbled together as if they were nothing more than toys. Every smooth section of wall had been filled with more writing, though in this chamber the Goblin words were interspersed with strange sketches and diagrams.

In the center of the chamber, standing atop a broad platform, a strange sculpture of white stone reached up toward the ceiling. A thick base rose from the platform, narrowed, then spread and split into dozens of curved segments. The entire sculpture was cut with grooves across and along its surface. In places, sharp ridges and thorny spikes jutted out from it. The thing had an unpleasant, sinister look to it-so unpleasant and sinister that it actually took Geth a moment to realize what it was supposed to be.

“Grandmother Wolf,” he breathed. “It’s a tree.”

“If this is the Hall of the Revered, it must be the grieving tree,” said Singe. He looked at Orshok. “That’s what kind of tree grows underground, I guess. A stone one.”

Orshok just stared at the sculpted tree. “Why?” he asked. “What is it here for?” He glanced at Ashi, but she shook her head.

“Light of il-Yannah!” Dandra thrust out her arm. “Look there beside the tree.”

Geth followed her pointing hand. Close beside the stone tree-in its shadow-stood a strange heap of metal tubes and wires interspersed with pieces of glass or crystal. His eyes widened and his heart seemed to skip a beat. He’d seen something like it before, in memories Dandra had shown him through the kesh of her time as Dah’mir’s prisoner. It was a near match for the device Dah’mir had used to trap Tetkashtai in the psicrystal and place Dandra in her body.

“I think we need to take a closer look.” Singe grasped Dandra’s hand and drew her after him down the stairs. Geth and the others followed, picking their way carefully. The same footsteps that they had followed in the dust along the corridor marked the dust of the stairs as well. Ekhaas had been this way. When they reached the floor of the of the chamber, however, he was surprised to find that there was no dust on the floor at all-it had all been swept away.

Ashi noticed as well. “Someone was trying to hide their presence, I think,” the hunter said.

“Why here then and not in the corridor?” Geth asked.

Ashi shrugged.

The device beside the tree was considerably smaller than the one in the memory Dandra had shown Geth. In her memory, Dah’mir’s device towered overhead. The device before them, on the other hand, was only a little taller than Ashi.

“This isn’t the same size,” Geth said.

“No,” Dandra agreed, “it isn’t.” She circled the device and stopped before to a niche built inside it. To judge by the broken metal surrounding the niche, Geth guessed that something had been pulled out from inside the device. Something large-something the size of a crouching child.

“And find what waits in the shade of the Grieving Tree,” he quoted. “That’s where the Bonetree found Dah’mir’s dragonshard.”

“He built a model of his device?” said Natrac.

“I don’t think so.” Singe stepped close to the device and pushed against a piece of age-corroded metal. It crumpled like paper, sending green flakes drifting to the ground. All of the bits of metal and wire that made up the device, Geth realized, were similarly corroded, the crystals among them clouded by time. “Dah’mir was here two hundred years ago. This is a lot older.”

They were all quiet for a moment before Geth said. “The Dhakaani made this?”

Dandra stepped back and stared at the device. “That’s impossible.”

Singe spread his hands. “Maybe not. By all accounts, the Dhakaani were accomplished smiths. Their weapons helped fight off the daelkyr. I’ve never heard of Dhakaani artifacts that use dragonshards before, but-”

“No,” said Dandra. “It’s impossible that the Dhakaani could have made something to affect kalashtar.” Her eyes were wide. “This device has to be thousands of years old, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said the wizard. “The Empire of Dhakaan fell after the Daelkyr War. I think historians agree it was dead by about five thousand years ago.”

Dandra raised her hand and wrapped it around her psicrystal. “How much do you know about the history of the kalashtar?”

Orshok and Ashi looked at her blankly and shook their heads. Geth spoke up, repeating bits and pieces that he had heard during the Last War. “Kalashtar come from across the Dragonreach. From the continent of Sarlona.”

“They come from farther away than that,” Singe said. He frowned. “Kalashtar are the descendants of humans and spirits from Dal Quor, the plane of dreams. That’s why you have psionic powers.”

Dandra nodded. “We’re not descendants as such-the Quori spirits that formed the first kalashtar were exiles from Dal Quor, and they were given refuge in Eberron by merging with a group of humans in the nation of Adara in Sarlona. As those first kalashtar married and had children, the original Quori spirits splintered among their lineages. The point is, we know exactly when kalashtar came into being. It was eighteen hundred years ago.” She pointed her spear at the Dhakaani device. “How could an empire that was dead more than three thousand years before kalashtar even existed build something to affect us? Why would they?”

“Maybe they’re not the same device,” said Orshok. All eyes turned to him and the young druid shifted uncomfortably. “Dah’mir’s device was bigger, wasn’t it? A knife and a sword have a lot in common, but you don’t use them for the same thing.”

Singe’s eyebrows rose. “But both devices were built around the same Khyber shard. Once a shard is attuned to a particular magic, it can’t be changed.”

Geth was abruptly conscious of the weight of Adolan’s stone collar around his neck. During the battle at the Bonetree mound, the Gatekeeper magic within the collar had protected him from the mental assault of a mind flayer. The Dhakaani sword at his waist had been forged to kill illithids and the other aberrant servants of the daelkyr; the ancient hobgoblins must have known about the tentacle-faced creatures’ deadly abilities. “Dandra,” he said, “are the powers of mind flayers psionic or magical?”

Her mouth opened, then closed as her eyes narrowed. After a moment, she said, “Psionic. They might come from the madness of Xoriat instead of the dreams of Dal Quor, but they’re still psionic. It’s like the difference between the magic of druids and the magic of wizards.”

“The Dhakaani fought mind flayers during the Daelkyr War.” Geth looked to Singe. “What if the binding stone traps things with psionic powers and all the wires and crystals around it are like …?” He struggled to put the idea in his head into words. “Like a sieve that only lets certain things through. What if the Dhakaani built a device that let the shard capture mind flayers, but Dah’mir made a new device that captures kalashtar instead.”

Singe drew a long, shallow breath and pulled on his whiskers as he turned back around to stare at the device. “Twelve moons,” he muttered. He spun around sharply and walked to the nearest wall. Closing his eyes for a moment, he spoke a word of magic and laid a hand against the wall, then opened his eyes again and stepped back to scan the wall. His gaze seemed strangely unfocused but he clenched his teeth. “Twelve bloody moons.”

“You can read it?” asked Dandra.

“Yes and no,” Singe said. “No, because it’s not all words. A lot of it is research notes, just like that researcher at Wynarn. And yes-” He blinked and turned around to face Geth. “-because you might be right.”

Geth felt his gut tighten at the angry disgust in the wizard’s voice, but no one else seemed to notice. Dandra was pushing forward. “It was meant to trap mind flayers?”

“I think so, but it’s hard to tell.” Singe turned and traced a hand across the wall, his eyes going unfocused once more. “These are mostly notes and calculations. They talk about illithids and arrangements of crystals that would attune the binding stone to their aura. I can only follow bits of it. They look more like the notes of an artificer than of a wizard. Other passages don’t make any sense at all.” He shifted his hand to another section of text. “This describes a sphere made of carved stone beetles linked together-it sounds like a child’s puzzle.” He touched other words. “This curses workers who fled the kraat. This tries to work breakfast into the equation for binding mind flayers. This-” He winced and lifted his hand away. “This just repeats over and over ‘My name is Marg. My name is Marg. My name is Marg.’”

“I think someone lost themselves in their work,” said Natrac. “You were right when you said you felt madness in the air, Dandra.”

“Why would a Dhakaani have built something like this, though?” asked Ashi, still circling the ancient device. “Dah’mir had to tie Tetkashtai and the other kalashtar down to use his device on them. Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill a mind flayer directly?”

“This might answer that,” Singe said. He had paced further along the wall, trailing his hand over the writing. He read from another passage. “Too large! The first stones were so much smaller. The matrix can be made larger but focus will be a problem. How did he do it?”

Dandra paled. “There were other binding stones?”

“It sounds like there were-at one time, at least. Marg says were and it sounds like he was trying to re-create them rather than come up with something completely new.” Singe looked up at the wall. “I wonder who this other ‘he’ was, though.”

The wizard’s pacing had drawn them past the strange stone sculpture of the grieving tree and the far end of the great chamber loomed in the shadows at the edge of Geth’s vision. He squinted at it, took a few more paces, and let out a soft growl. “Maybe this was him.”

Behind him, Singe and Dandra both turned and came forward. The soft glow of magical light spilled across the floor-then climbed over the legs of the statue that stood, tall as the sculpted tree, within the sharp point of the chamber’s end. Dandra lifted her spear high, throwing light onto the statue’s torso and head.

The statue depicted a Dhakaani hobgoblin, or so Geth guessed from its build and from the sword-very much like his own-that it gripped, point resting against the ground. The subject had been a man and muscular even for a hobgoblin, with massively thick arms and shoulders. He wore a smith’s thick apron over a bare chest, with heavy gloves on his hands. Whether he had been fierce, benevolent, or wise, however, was impossible to tell. The statue’s face had been ruined, hacked away leaving only deep scars in the stone.

The blade of the statue’s sword, as wide as the shifter’s own body, had also been gashed and as Geth moved closer, he saw that several characters had been crudely removed from the beginning of a longer inscription in Goblin. Writing identical to that on the walls throughout Taruuzh Kraat had been scrawled in its place.

Near the statue’s feet, a few pitiful crumbled bones lay mixed with chips of stone, bits of metal ornament, an axe with a metal shaft, and a short black rod. One of the bones was a hobgoblin skull.

Singe slipped past Geth and laid his hand against the inscription on the stone sword. His eyes unfocused once more as he read the Goblin characters, then he lifted his hand and looked up at the statue’s scarred face. “His name has been erased,” he said. He pointed at the remaining text, moving his hand along as he read. “The rest of the inscription says, ‘The Father of the Grieving Tree. The time will come again. Three great works stand together as allies: treasure, key, guardian, disciple, and lord.’”

The others fell silent, but Geth couldn’t hold back a groan. “The Grieving Tree again. Grandfather Rat, another bloody riddle?”

“The spell lets me read a language,” Singe snapped back irritably. “That doesn’t mean I understand everything. The inscription might mean something in Goblin.”

“What does the other writing say?” Natrac asked.

Singe looked up at again. “‘Keep your secrets, old master. Marg has surpassed you! I have created a new-’” He frowned. “It ends suddenly.”

Ashi knelt beside the fragmentary remains at the statue’s feet. “There’s not much left of him,” she said, “but I think Marg died in the moment of his triumph.” She pointed at the skull and Geth saw that part of it was fractured. “I think he fell.”

“An apprentice trying to outdo his master?” asked Orshok.

“I think you’re right.” Singe turned and walked away from the defaced statue to join them again. “Our nameless master created the first binding stones, but didn’t share the secret. Marg went mad creating another stone, then died before he could do more than taunt a dead man.” The wizard cursed. “But he still left a record of his research and thousands of years later, Dah’mir came along.”

“But there’s so much writing,” said Dandra. “How long would it take to sort it out?”

Singe shrugged. “How much time does a dragon have? Decades? He spent two hundred years with the Bonetree clan before he tested his device on Tetkashtai, Medalashana, and Virikhad.”

“Why leave Taruuzh Kraat then? Why did he create the Bonetree clan? Why not build a tribe of followers here?” Dandra pressed the tips of her fingers into her forehead in frustration. “We know where Dah’mir got the binding stone now, but we’re no closer to understanding why he tried using it to turn kalashtar into servants of the Dragon Below.”

Orshok took a breath and stepped forward. “No,” he said. “We are. It’s the sword and dagger again. Batul taught me that it was Gatekeeper magic and Dhakaani weapons that drove back the daelkyr and their servants and won the Daelkyr War.” He touched the symbol of the Gatekeepers that he wore around his throat. “But Gatekeeper magic and Dhakaani weapons are meant to stop aberrations and the creatures of Xoriat.”

Dandra’s fingers slid down her face and she stared at the orc in amazement. Singe narrowed his eyes. “You don’t use the same defense against a sword as you use against a dagger,” he said.

Orshok nodded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” growled Geth.

“All of the ancient defenses against the great powers of the Dragon Below are focused against the madness of Xoriat,” said Dandra slowly, as if she was working out the answer herself. She looked up sharply. “By subverting kalashtar to the service of Khyber, Dah’mir gives the daelkyr servants with the psionic abilities of mind flayers but without their vulnerabilities.”

“And the ability to move about easily,” Singe added. “Mind flayers are monsters, but kalashtar can pass unsuspected almost anywhere.”

“Wait,” Geth said. He pointed back at the Dhakaani device. “The binding stone was built to capture mind flayers, but it captured kalashtar as well.”

“But it took a dragon at least two hundred years to figure out how to do that,” replied Orshok. He looked frightened. His hands were clenched so tight around the shaft of his hunda stick that his knuckles were white. “We need to tell someone about this.”

“Batul,” said Geth. “The Gatekeepers need to know.”

Singe nodded slowly. “I think you’re right.”

“What about Ekhaas?” asked Dandra. “Do you think she knows anything more about the history of Taruuzh Kraat? She might be able to tell us something that could help.”

“We’ll talk to her back at Tzaryan Keep.” Singe led the way across the great chamber, past the pale stone of the grieving tree, and toward the stairs back up to the corridor. “We’ll set out for Vralkek first thing in the morning-Robrand will help us. He might even know where we can find passage back to Zarash’ak and the Shadow Marches.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Geth saw Dandra stiffen. Singe must have seen it as well because he muttered, “I’m sorry, Dandra. I don’t think we have a choice.”

“We’ll be heading back toward Dah’mir,” Dandra said.

Singe stared ahead grimly. “Maybe he’s moved on by now.”

The return trip up the long corridor was much faster. They didn’t bother creeping along or trying to remain quiet. They didn’t pause to look down side passages or into rooms. There was no point. Taruuzh Kraat was empty. They moved along the corridor quickly-Geth even caught Dandra with her feet off the ground, skimming the air as she did when she fought. No one said much. Geth suspected that they were all too caught up in what they had just uncovered.

The stream of sunlight that fell through the hole to the surface was a welcome sight. Singe paused beside it. “Geth,” he said, pointing. “You first. You’re the best climber and you’re strong enough to help pull the rest of us out.”

Geth growled under his breath, but there was no conviction to it. After hours in the ancient dimness of the ruins, open air and warm light would be a welcome change. Orshok and Ashi linked hands to help boost him up and into the hole. Geth kicked and wriggled, bracing himself with his elbows, then catching the stones of the broken wall with his feet and pushing. Below him, Ashi and Orshok coughed on the dirt he dislodged. He gritted his teeth and clawed his way up the sides of the hole until his head and shoulders popped out the other end of the hole. It was well on into the afternoon-the sun was low and bright in his eyes.

He was still blinking against the glare when something twisted in the dust around the hole. Geth looked down just in time to see the loop of a snare before it whisked closed and a heavy cord cinched tight around his chest.

“Don’t try anything,” rasped a deep voice. “I was hoping Singe might be the first out of the hole, but I don’t think even the toughest shifter could shrug off a crossbow bolt in the eye.”

Geth twisted his head around. Just out of his reach, Chain d’Tharashk crouched down with a loaded crossbow aimed straight at his head.