Mistshore (33 page)

Icelin and Ruen laid the dwarf woman in the corner, on a narrow straw pallet stacked with blankets. The crude bed had been stuffed into a wooden frame set six inches off the floor. Icelin saw a mouse burrow into the straw and disappear.

While Aldren moved his staff over Bellaril’s body, Icelin surveyed the rest of the odd living quarters. Another chair and a table stood in the center of the chamber, reinforced by more wood to make a crude desk. Like the wizard’s staff, the surface had been covered with inscribed symbols, some scratched and some burned into the wood. Icelin couldn’t imagine how long it

must have taken to carve the symbols so meticulously.

Aldren stood straight. The light in his staff dimmed. His eyes looked more sunken than ever, but he smiled wanly. “She will sleep heavily for a time, but she is healing. There will be no permanent damage.”

Before Icelin could speak, he brought the staff up and passed it in front of her face. Briefly blinded, Icelin felt warmth and strength flow back into her body. The terrible pain in her wrist went away in an instant. She didn’t realize how close the agony and weakness had been to consuming her until they were gone. When the light faded, she saw Aldren make the same gesture before Ruen.

“I’m in your debt,” Icelin said. “I am truly sorry to have brought my burdens to your door.”

The old man waved a hand dismissively. “I am not so easily intimidated at the prospect of other people’s burdens. I welcome the distraction from my own.” He followed her gaze to the desk and its writings. “Wood is the only reliable substance to hand,” he explained. “The harbor and the wild magic together are so toxic the ink is eaten and the parchment crumbling before a decade is out.”

“A decade?” Icelin said. “You’ve been here that long?”

“What is that?” Ruen asked. He pointed to the back of the chamber, which was cast in shadow outside the spell light.

Aldren spoke a word, and two candles jumped to burning life from the back of the hold. They sat in brass dishes on another wooden table, this one free of symbols but draped in a cloth runner of purple velvet. Faded gold braiding lined the edges of the runner, and in its center, true gold glinted in the candle light.

“Is that an altar to Mystra?” Icelin asked. As she approached, she thought the glintings were jewels, but when she got close she realized her mistake. They were not jewels, at least not in the sense that a high lady of Waterdeep would value.

They were holy symbols. She recognized Mystra’s symbol, and Deneir, Helm, even Mask and Eilistraee. There were several others she didn’t know.

“I don’t understand,” Icelin said, turning to Aldren. “I thought you served Mystra’s memory?”

Aldren seated himself on a chair and propped his staff next to him. Darvont sat on the floor across from him. His eyes never left the old man’s face.

“I first came here in the Year of Blue Fire,” Aldren said. “I was a man of thirty, then. I awoke on a slope of sand with water lapping my face and found that I had been brought to the place by this man,” he said, gesturing to Darvont. “I remembered only that I had been caught in an arcane storm of the magnitude you only imagine in nightmares.”

“The Year of Blue Fire,” Icelin said. “You were there at the beginning of the Spellplague? But that would make you—”

“Over one hundred and twenty years old,” Aldren said.

“How is it you’re still alive?” Icelin asked.

“Your spellscar keeps you alive,” Ruen said. He stood next to Icelin at the altar, but he did not touch any of the pieces arranged there.

“In a way,” Aldren said. “I have died several times over the course of these nine ‘decades, but my scar, as you call it, restores me.”

Icelin stared at the old man. She thought she’d ceased being surprised at the suffering endured by those the plague had touched, but she was wrong.

She looked at the holy symbols. “You were a priest of all these gods?”

“Over each of my ‘lifetimes,’ and sometimes more than one,” Aldren said. “I served them all, faithfully, not realizing at first that they, like Lady Mystra, had passed on. How could they cease to be when I could not? It was one of the more horrifying truths I’ve had to face: to accept immortality when the gods were

dying around me. When I realized that none of them would be able to grant the long sleep I desired, I dedicated myself to what the Art had lost—to Mystra’s memory.”

“How does your magic function?” Ruen asked. “From whom do you receive your divine power?”

“The gods are silent to me,” Aldren said, “even those I know to be alive and thriving. I don’t know why. Fortunately, the magic in this staff has remained strong. It is my only link to the power that once was Mystra’s, and so I will watch over it, this small shard of the unbound weave that no longer has a weaver.”

“But why stay here?” Icelin asked. “Why not live in the city?”

“Because I feared the day I would be struck down. I imagined awakening in a sealed crypt, enduring a slow death over and over until I descended into madness. And I couldn’t leave him.” Aldren touched the side of Darvont’s head. “He saved me and shares my curse. I suspect part of his mind dwells forever in the heart of that arcane storm.”

“So you’ll live here forever, custodian of the same magic that scarred you,” Icelin said, “venerating gods who won’t answer your prayers?”-

The old man shook his head. “You should not anger yourself on my behalf. Many others suffer greater trials. You yourselves are touched, are you not?”

Icelin and Ruen exchanged glances. “How do you know that?” Icelin asked.

“Because we are all the same, now,” Aldren said. “Weavers— custodians of the Art that was lost.”

“Only Mystra could control the weave,” Ruen said. “We aren’t gods, and we aren’t immortal.”

“Then what is magic, without its caretaker?” Aldren challenged. “Lost, ungovernable. Yet in some few individuals it finds a vessel. You’re quite right: we are not gods, and most of us do not survive the blue flame that burns our flesh and bores our minds. But without the Lady, where can the Art go? It’s

been too long mastered. I say it cannot survive on its own, so it clings to the mortal realm and threatens to destroy what it loves most.”

Ruen snorted. “You can think that, if you find it comforting. The ttuth is magic doesn’t have a soul. There’s no beauty left in the Art. The only thing it can do is burn.”

“Is that why you gave Fannie the quill?” Icelin asked softly. “Why you stole a collection of magic at amazing cost to youtself? Did you risk your freedom because you believed thete was no beauty left in the Art?”

Ruen stared at her. He pressed his lips into a hard line, but his expression wasn’t exactly angry. “What has the Art ever done but bring you misery?” he said. “Why would you defend it?”

“I would defend you,” Icelin said. “I don’t know if what you say is true,” she said to Aldren, “but my friend and I must leave soon. We’re being pursued by a group of men. I led them here, thinking only the wraiths would be disturbed by our presence. I would lead them away—”

“But there is no bettei place than here for confronting demons, real or imagined,” Aldren said, “Please don’t fear for my safety. Darvont and I will be protected within the Ferryman’s hold. You are welcome to share its sanctuary, but I suspect that would defeat your purpose.”

“It would,” Icelin said. “Yet I would beg sanctuary for my friend Bellaril. I’ve no right to ask, and I have nothing to offet you in return. But if I live long enough I would find a way to repay you.”

“She’s true to her word,” Ruen said. “Stubbornness has never known a more faithful lover than Icelin Team.”

Icelin shot him a look, but Aldren said, “Of course your friend will stay. No one will harm her while I keep watch.”

“My deepest thanks,” Icelin said. She looked at Ruen. “Are you ready, clevermouth?”

Ruen nodded. They made their way to the gap in the hull.

Icelin paused by Bellaril’s pallet. The dwarf was still unconscious, her skin the color of the moon, but she breathed evenly and deep.

“She truly would have been killed,” Icelin said to Ruen, “if you hadn’t made her come with us. Cerest killed the master of the Cradle—such a mad action even someone so well protected as Arowall couldn’t have predicted it. And Bellaril wouldn’t have abandoned her master to save her own life.”

“Doesn’t mean she’ll live any longer than she was meant to,” Ruen said.

“Maybe,” Icelin said. She looked at Aldren. “Do you think your fate can be changed?” she said. “That one day the plague will allow you to die?”

“That is my fondest hope,” Aldren said. “Until then, I will live as best I can.”

“You and I are two halves of the same curse,” Icelin said. “The plague lives in me. It causes my memory to be nigh pet feet, for a price. Ruen says it will take my life before age does. The more I use my own magic, the quicker that fate will come fot me.”

Aldren’s soft green eyes reflected the spell light. “I am sorry for your burden,” he said.

Icelin shrugged. “I am sorrier for other burdens—loss and pain done to my friends because of my own fear. I think you’re right. We, all of us, can only live as best we are able, and hope to change our fates—” She stopped as something took hold inside of her.

Memory came, this time uncalled. With trembling fingers, Icelin removed her pack from her back and dumped its contents on the floor. The deformed man skittered out of the way.

“What are you doing?” Ruen said. Seeing her face, he crouched beside her and helped her gather the scattered letters from Elgreth. “What’s wrong?”

“He tried to live as best he could,” Icelin said. “Just like us, like Aldren, retreating to this place.”

She found the letter she was looking for and practically tore it in her haste to unfold the old parchment.

“Cerest isn’t after a perfect memory,” Icelin said. “Elgreth’s scar was different from mine. Here!” She read part of the letter aloud. “I sat upon a rooftop and looked out over Cutlass Island, at the ruins of the Host Tower of the Arcane. The locals say it is a cursed place, and I cannot help but agree. The restless dead walk on that isle, sentinels to its lost power. In my younger days, I would have longed for the challenge and promise of treasure to be found in such a forgotten stronghold. I can see the magic swirling under shattered stone. It drifts among the bones of the once mighty wizards who ruled here.”

Icelin stopped reading and looked at Ruen. “Do you see?”

Ruen shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“I can see the magic swirling under the shattered stone,” Icelin repeated. “He could detect powerful magic, through stone and earth, just with his eyes. What gift would tempt a treasure hunter more?”

“Cerest will be disappointed when he finds out you inherited a very different gift,” Ruen said.

“Yes,” Icelin said. “A perfect memory is of little use to him. His hunt was for nothing.”

It was all a tragic jest. Icelin was grateful to have the one mystery solved, but there were still missing pieces. “I have to know why he betrayed my family,” she said. “If Cerest won’t confess it… how do you remember something you’ve managed to forget so thoroughly that even the spellplague can’t penetrate the defense?”

She’d meant the question rhetorically, and was surprised when Aldren answered, “If your mind has seen fit to bury something so deeply that even the spellplague can’t touch it, I would count the power a blessing.”

“Blessing?” Icelin said. “I don’t see how. If I had this memory, it would explain so much about my life. Why would I want to bury it?”

“You mistake me,” Aldren said. “I didn’t mean it was a blessing that you be denied a piece of yourself. I meant to say that if you could find within you the same power that pushes the plague back from this one, vital memory, you might find the power to change your fate.”

As Icelin digested this, she noticed Ruen looking at the old man intently. “Can you help her?” he asked. “Is there any priestly magic in that staff that can help her remember what she needs to know?”

“There are ways of bringing memories to the surface, if you truly want to relive them,” Aldren said. “When dealing with the spellplague, such methods are never certain to work and carry their own cost. I have stored the memories of each lifetime I’ve lived,” Aldren said. “I don’t know if I can impart such a thing to your friend, but if she is willing, I would try.”

“At what risk to yourself?” Icelin said. “No. We’ve caused you enough grief.”

“Are you afraid, Icelin?” Ruen said.

Icelin could hear the challenge in his voice. “No,” she said, “I’m not afraid: But I’m tired of other people risking pieces of themselves for me. I. think it’s time Cerest was made to answer for what he’s done. I will make him tell me.”

She stepped to the gap in the hull. She could feel an invisible presence. The old man’s magic formed a protective seal over the opening.

“Thank you,” she said to Aldren. “Whatever happens, I’m glad to have met you.”

“And I, you,” said Aldren. “The gods go with you.”

Icelin nodded and stepped through the opening. Ruen followed behind her.

She didn’t know what she expected to happen once she crossed the seal. An ambush, another monster, or a spray of magic from the elf woman who’d taken her on the shore? She got none of those things, but she sensed the change in the air

as soon as the harbor scent hit her nose.

“Look above you,” Ruen said quietly.

Icelin looked up and lost her breath. She could see slivers of moonlight through the Ferryman’s tangled rigging. The skeletal forest canopy swelled with movement. Sea wraiths circled each other and the wreckage. More were floating up from various parts of the ruins to join the mass. The unearthly choir keened softly, as if singing to the moon or some other, invisible celestial body.

“You said there was wild magic here,” Icelin said, “that it draws the wraiths. Can they feel it—the three of us here together?”

“I don’t know,” Ruen said. “But it’s possible we’re stirring up whatever’s been lying dormant here since the Ferryman was destroyed.”

“Not just us,” Icelin said, “him too.”

Cerest sat cross-legged on Ruen’s raft. He was alone, and looked completely at ease beneath the canopy of swirling wraiths. Icelin knew his men would be nearby, but wherever they were, Cerest had them well hidden. She wondered if Ruen, with his sharper eyes, could detect them. The only illumination came from the lantern on Ruen’s raft and a torch Cerest had propped in front of him.