The Ring of Winter (22 page)

“No need to explain yourself to me,” Rayburton noted. “I was rich. My father was a lord, as was his father and his father. Gods, we Rayburtons were around when the first elves were driven out of the Cormyrian woods to make way for human settlers.” He looked over at Artus and pursed his lips. “Right before I left Suzail for Chult, I did some detailed genealogy work for my sister. Needless to say … how to put this … my ancestors turned out to be pretty loathsome all the way around, once you got to know them. I’ve never had much respect for titled families since.”

The tension Artus had begun to feel eased at that statement. “Then you would have loved my family. My father was a well-intentioned highwayman. He was quite a good one, too, stealing from the rich and all that. He put me through school that way.

“One day he robbed a caravan belonging to the church of Oghma. He was so impressed with the loremasters, how polite and knowledgeable they seemed, that he used the money he stole from them to enroll me in their school.” The explorer frowned. “Somehow, I’ve always suspected my teachers knew that.”

“Your guilt was probably written all over your face,” Rayburton observed sagely.

At last they reached the main thoroughfare. At first it appeared to Artus to be like the Promenade in Suzail. The wide street was quickly filling with people, dark-skinned like Ibn and Inyanga back at Port Castigliar. Some pushed carts laden with tools or clothes or food. Others carried their burdens or struggled with children too small for school. The sound of wagon wheels clattering over the cobbles mixed with the chatter of men and women.

When Artus looked more carefully, though, he saw that there was an order to the movement that never showed itself on the streets of Suzail. The people filed past in happy groups, all heading for side streets into the Residential Quarter. They carried with them the tools of their trades—hammers and chisels, books and scrolls, merchants’ ledgers and beaded counting devices. They were going home after a long day’s work.

There was none of the chaos of Suzail’s bustling streets—no vendors hawking wares or teamsters driving their loaded carts through alleys busy with pedestrians. He saw no soldiers strutting through the crowd, no beggars huddled in empty doorways, no ale-soaked dandies careening down the way, singing bawdy tunes. Plowmen and scholars walked together, sharing a joke or a story of the day’s labor. The only confusion and bustle in the crowd was brought on by a group of young children running home, books and writing tablets tucked securely under their arms.

The men and women were dressed much the same, in sandals and long white robes Rayburton called tobes. A few men went stripped to the waist, the dirt on their hands proclaiming them farmers. A few women with infants went bare-chested, too, though only Artus seemed to notice them in the crowd. Most of the Tabaxi turned to get a look at the green-clad stranger with Lord Rayburton as they passed.

The bara nodded respectfully to the people who greeted him. At last he turned to Artus. “Each day, just before sundown, this street fills with Mezroans on their way home from the other quarters. It’s been this way for four thousand years.”

Keeping close to the walls, Artus and Rayburton made their way against the crowd. It was then Artus saw beyond the throng, to the vast fields that lay across the way from the white-walled houses. Neat rows of trees and bushes, vegetables and flowers, ran for miles, broken now and then by a field laying fallow. Small huts stood out against the crops in a few places. Scarecrows kept their stiff-armed vigil against birds that had stopped being frightened of them long ago. At the far end of the fields, the tall trees and tangled growth of the jungle reared up, dark and foreboding.

“This place is huge,” Artus said. “How have you kept it hidden all these years? Hundreds of expeditions have come to Chult looking for Mezro, but… .”

Rayburton pointed to the line of high palms that marked the beginning of the jungle. “A wall surrounds the city. It’s a vast circle—the city, I mean—and the sorcerers here constructed the wall a little over five hundred years ago, to stop the Batiri from raiding.”

“And I went under it,” Artus said, “without ever knowing it was there.”

“Oh, you felt the effects of the wall,” Rayburton corrected, “though you didn’t know it at the time.” In response to Artus’s puzzled look, he added, “Lugg and Byrt told me you passed into an area that glowed with golden light right before you stumbled into the mined part of the library. Then it became hard to think. Wall, that light was a side effect of the wall. It’s invisible above ground, but there must be some element in the tunnel walls causing an alchemical reaction, making it visible. Do you see?”

It was clear Artus didn’t see. Rayburton scowled and tried again, his voice taking on a decidedly pedantic tone. “The wall’s not bricks and mortar, it’s magic. A sort of, er … wall of confusion. Anyone who gets near it without wearing one of these—” he tugged at the triangle of silver hanging from one ear “—becomes hopelessly muddled and wanders away. You did us a favor by stumbling in here; we got the architects to seal off the tunnel so no one else can make the same discovery.”

“A wall of confusion. So that’s why Theron got lost when he followed you from the Batiri camp,” Artus said, more to himself than to Rayburton. The older man let the comment pass without an explanation.

As the crowd thinned, Artus got a look at their destination—the huge temple that rose up at the heart of Mezro. Four wide streets, one at each major point of the compass, emptied into a circular plaza. At the center of this roundabout stood the most beautiful structure Artus had ever seen.

The temple towered over all the other buildings in Mezro. Flying buttresses jutted out from its wall like the elegant, muscular legs of a hunting beast waiting to spring. An arcade of piers marked the first floor, topped by a row of arches. Above these stood a long set of stained glass windows, sparkling like thousands of cut gems before the setting sun. A glittering, golden dome capped the roof.

As Artus reached the edge of the plaza, he noticed something peculiar about the temple. At first he dismissed it as a trick of the tight or, perhaps, a warning that his fatigue was returning. “Lord Rayburton, the temple looks like… .” He cocked his head. “It only has one wall.”

Rayburton nodded. “Amazing, isn’t it? No matter where you stand, you see the same wall, from the same perspective. Some sort of dimensional trick, I suppose. When a temple is built by the god it’s meant to honor, you should just accept it and marvel.”

The closer Artus got to the temple, the more its grace and subtle beauty overwhelmed him. The walls weren’t built of stone blocks, but interlocking triangles of crystal. The dark gems looked as fragile as Sembian lace and glistened seductively. Looking at the walls was like staring at clouds; the longer Artus gazed at the swirls of light and shadow, the more fantastic the shapes that appeared before him. At first they were simple things—squares and circles, half-formed faces and bodies. Then the mace and hawk crest from his tunic appeared on the wall, broken into hundreds of tiny images at the center of each triangular block. At first he thought it was a reflection, but no matter how much he moved, the image remained still in the crystals.

The crest warped and twisted, becoming the harp and moon symbol of the Harpers. That changed swiftly to a pair of bands, black as pitch and clutched into angry fists. After a moment, the hands clasped together. The color bled out of them, and they became the kind, smiling face of Pontifax. Artus reached out, but his friend was gone, lost in a tangle of trees and vines. The jungle closed in, filling all the crystals with a deep green radiance.

It was then that a simple image formed against the riot of trees: a ring, a plain band of gold flecked along the edges with sparkles of light. No, not light. Frost.

The Ring of Winter.

“It’s here!” the explorer cried. “I know it’s here.”

“Artus!”

The voice came from far, far away. It tugged at his consciousness, but Artus pushed the nagging thoughts aside. If he stared at the ring in the crystals long enough, if he focused all his thoughts upon it, he would learn where the Ring of Winter was hidden.

“Master Cimber! Oh dear, he’s gone quite rigid. I hope you don’t have a sizeable pigeon population in this square.”

That high, cheerful voice insinuated itself into Artus’s mind and threatened to tear his thoughts away from the ring. He knew, too, someone was shaking him by the shoulders. He didn’t heed the call, but instead stared at the ring as it spun slowly in the crystal before him, close enough to touch. Forget what Rayburton said, a voice told him. You’ve spent your life searching for the Ring of Winter. It’s here in Chult. It can be yours.

A fierce pain in his ankle shocked the siren call out of the explorer’s mind. “Hey!” he shouted, hopping backward. In doing so Artus tripped over the large brown wombat, who still had his teeth locked onto his boot.

“Leave it to Lugg to cut to the heart of the matter—or the foot, in this case,” Byrt chimed. “Well done.”

Lugg released his hold on Artus’s ankle. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he said, “More like extremely rare.” He spit and stuck out his tongue. “Feh. That’s really ‘orrible tasting, that is.”

“What … what happened?” Artus murmured. He rubbed his eyes. The image of the Ring of Winter remained clear for an instant, then faded.

“A property of the temple walls,” Rayburton said. “Rather like a massive scrying crystal. Allows you to see into your own heart. I should have warned you not to look too closely. You’ve been standing there for the better part of an hour.” He extended a hand and helped Artus to his feet. Only then did the dazed and bemused explorer notice the two other people standing between him and the temple wall.

The first was a tall, stern-faced Tabaxi. Like the other Mezroans, he was dressed in a flowing tobe. His was not white, but purple, with small green triangles clustered over his heart. Unlike the others Artus had seen, this man carried a weapon—a war club, which hung at his waist. From the muscles cording the man’s bare arms, he could quite obviously wield the knobbed cudgel to good effect.

“This is Negus Kwalu,” Rayburton said, gesturing toward the stone-faced Tabaxi. “Eldest son of King Osaw.”

Artus dusted himself off and bowed deferentially. He knew enough about Tabaxi culture to recognize negus as the title reserved for princes in direct line to the throne.

Kwalu’s brown eyes narrowed to slits as he studied Artus. He stood perfectly still, a square-featured statue staring at the explorer. From the hard line of the negus’s mouth and the crease of concern on his jutting brow, Artus guessed he was not faring well in the prince’s silent test.

Finally, the negus offered a few clipped phrases. The tone alone told Artus they were a formal greeting and welcome to the city, though Kwalu hardly seemed pleased to deliver it. Rather than risk offending the man by mangling a reply in Tabaxi, Artus smiled as genuinely as he could and bowed again. Kwalu nodded, then turned on his heels and marched off toward a huge amphitheater on the other side of the plaza.

For an instant, the explorer was certain he had struggled through the difficult exchange with as much grace as possible. A woman’s bright laughter shattered that thought almost as quickly as it had formed.

“You realty don’t speak Tabaxi, do you?” the young woman said in Old Cormyrian, then laughed again. The sound was clear and refreshing, like a cool spring rain.

Lord Rayburton frowned severely, but that did nothing to silence the woman. She nodded to Artus and said, “My father is too annoyed at me right now to introduce us. I’m Alisanda Rayburton.”

She held out a slender hand to Artus, who took it almost without thinking. He found himself staring at the woman with the same intensity he’d shown the images in the temple wall. Alisanda was as tall as the explorer, with the dark skin of her Tabaxi mother and black hair knit into a dozen tight braids across her scalp. Her green eyes shone with a calm self-assurance and a ready wit, things Artus had always valued in his old friend Pontifax, things that instantly beguiled him now.

“You can call me Sanda,” she said, her round face lit with a smile, “but only if you give me back my hand.”

“Oh, sorry,” Artus murmured. He let go of her hand. “So why were you laughing?”

Sanda gestured to Lord Rayburton, who still seemed rather put out by his daughter’s actions. “Father told me you came here without knowing how to apeak the language. I didn’t believe him.” She shrugged. “It just seems kind of silly, don’t you think?”

Bristling at the insult, unintentional though it was, Artus said, “I never planned to come here. The trip was unexpected.”

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Rayburton said bruskly. “She’s terribly rude sometimes. When she gets this way, I try my best to ignore her.”

“Speaking of being ignored,” Byrt cut in, “how about sharing a bit of the conversation with us. We don’t mind being talked down to—no choice, really, when you’re as short as we two.”

Sanda knelt and scratched behind Byrt’s ears. “Sorry. You and Lugg will just have to do a better job of letting us know you’re here.”

“That’s hardly their problem,” Artus grumbled, rubbing his ankle where Lugg had bitten him. A set of deep teeth marks marred the boot in a rough circle.

“Sanda has more of an appreciation for animals than most,” Rayburton noted absently. He was checking the length of the shadows in the plaza. “That’s the power Ubtao granted her when she became a bara—animal friendship, she calls it.”

“Oh,” Artus said coolly. He glanced at Sanda, suddenly uncomfortable. “How long have you been a bara?”

“Almost five hundred years,” she replied. “Not very long, not compared to Father or King Osaw.” After a pause, she added, “Still, Negus Kwalu has only been a bara for a hundred years, so I’m not the youngest.”

“The negus is a bara, too?” Artus exclaimed. “Gods. When am I going to meet someone here my own age?”

If Lord Rayburton noticed the tension that had settled between Artus and his daughter, he showed no sign of it as he turned his back to them and started away from the temple. “No time to waste,” he said. “The sun will be down soon, and I need to go talk to Ras T’fima about… well, about some old debts ” He stopped and looked back over his shoulders. “Lugg and Byrt should come with me, I think.”