Pryce was nearly overcome with emotion. He now wore what a great mage had created only for the people he held dear… which is why it had protected him from Lymwich’s spell but had no effect on Dearlyn’s earlier attack.
It was at that moment that Pryce Covington swore to all the gods he knew, and would ever know, that he would not simply try to stay alive. He would find out the truth no matter where it led him.
Lymwich was obviously shaken. Covington stood before her, untouched. “Butbut” she stammered, “all our magic-sensing spells… all our divining charms… they said you had nothing… nothing!”
Pryce smiled with a certain pitying compassion. “There are diviners, illusionists, invokers, generalists, abjurers, conjurers, necromancers… and then there’s you,” he said with harsh calm. “There is the magic of Geerling Ambersong… and then there’s yours.”
The perplexed inquisitrix could only try desperately to salvage some vestige of pride from her nearly unpardonable affront. “Your magic… is awesome,” she marveled, unable to completely eliminate tones of envy from her voice. ‘To have so much, yet to reveal none!”
Covington stared directly at her, trying to penetrate her mind. All he saw was blustering ambition… and it was that ambition that led him to a blinding insight. “Of course!” he cried.
His shout made Lymwich jump and raise her arms to defend herself. But instead of retaliating, he flashed her a knowing smile.
“Ask me again,” he invited. “Whawhat?”
“Think of what you brought me here for,” he said. ‘Think of what you want from me. You asked me beforeseveral times. All will be forgiven if you ask me again.”
She couldn’t deny him, not after what she had done. Only this time she wasn’t so much asking the question, but asking if this question was the right question to ask. “Where… where is Geerling Ambersong?”
Pryce clapped his hands together with satisfaction. Then he asked her the one question he should have been asking her and himselfall along. “Why?” he exclaimed in exultation.
“What?” she repeated.
He enunciated each word carefully, reveling in his understanding. “Why… do… you… want… to… know?”
She was truly confused now. “Didn’t I already tell you that? The inquisitrixes of Mystra need to know so the security of the city can be assured____________________ ”
Pryce waved that contention away impatiently. He was beginning to enjoy shouldering the responsibilitiesand wisdomof Darlington Blade. “Not them… you! You already admitted you were assigned to me. Assigned… or did you ask to be assigned?” He could see by her reaction that he had hit upon the truth.
“I was impressed by your dedication to your job,” he continued casually, walking nonchalantly toward the globes that lined the far wall. He stood before the one that showed the quay outside. “Still watching me at such a late hour? Practically obsessed with your assignment, I’d say. Even willing to unleash magic on an untried, unconvicted person ‘with a clear heart and good intentions.’ Why? Why is it so important that you, personally, know where Geerling Ambersong is?”
Her earlier shame disappeared before his eyes, leaving only bitter rivalry. “You’re the great Darlington Blade,” she said darkly. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He showed her his open, empty hands. “Why does the great inquisitrix Berridge Lymwich do anything?” he theorized. “Why is she so jealous of Dearlyn Ambersong? For her youth and beauty?” He made a clucking sound and dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “That’s a secondary motive. Your primary reason? You’re jealous of her proximity to Geerling Ambersong. Why so distrustful of me? Security concerns?” He waved that idea aside with his other hand. “A subsidiary consideration. Your principal envy? My affiliation with Geerling Ambersong. What does he have that you want so badly that you would risk unleashing magic on a person you thought was totally helpless?”
“All right! All right!” she screeched, retreating, her hands up to her ears. “Stop toying with me! You know what I want! You know what every aspiring primary mage in this city wants!” Just before she disappeared through a dark doorway beneath the orbs, she turned back and pointed at him accusingly. ‘You know that even the great Geerling Ambersong can’t choose his successor without the approval of the council!” she cried. “It’s not over, Darlington Blade! You may know the location of Ambersong’s secret workshop, but I’ll discover it yet!”
Then she hurried through the doorway, her words echoing in the chamber around him.
Berridge Lymwich had run away from the power of Darlington Blade, leaving Pryce Covington to find his own way out of the castle. He wondered whether the inquisitrix was going to explain her actions to a superior who might have been watching, or was going to gloat over how lost the “great Darlington Blade,” as everyone seemed to enjoy calling him, was about to get.
Pryce warned himself not to get lazy. He was in the Mystran castle devoted to illusion, so, by all rights, he knew he was about to do an impersonation of a mouse lost in a maze. The important thing was to have fun, appreciate the things he was about to experience, and not scream like a frightened child if any dangerous image threatened to eradicate him.
It wasn’t easy, even with that forewarning. Pryce soon discovered that the illusions were not limited to snarling Shipgrave Isle buccaneers plunging their sabers into his gullet or Outlaw Waste barbarians separating his head from his shoulders. The illusions were sometimes as simple as a doorknob or a loose floor tile. There wasn’t a single thing Pryce could take for granted beyond the end of his nose… and perhaps not even that.
He decided to act as Darlington Blade would act. Darlington Blade would undoubtedly be superior to the illusionary dead ends and would simply march past them until he reached the single door on the reef. There was only one problem: He wasn’t Darlington Blade. There was only one thing to do, he decided. He didn’t want to look like an incompetent idiot, unless looking like an incompetent idiot accomplished his goal.
Lymwich and her superiors were doubtlessly watching, and he decided to treat them to an amusing sight, designed to further embarrass Berridge. The great Darlington Blade exaggerated his caution to make fun of any illusion that confronted him.
He grabbed a door latch, which turned into a snake, which bit him. That was bad enough, but then he watched his skin turn different colors and his arm puff up. Finally he realized he wasn’t feeling faint because he was poisoned, but because he had been holding his breath. He blinked and shook his head, and his arm was as before.
So it went for seemingly every step. Using all his concentration to appear unimpressed, eventually Pryce was casually conversing with malevolent beholders, depraved deepspawns, and even degenerative, axe-wielding Derro dwarves.
“Hey, how are you?” he confronted them. “How are things at home? Killed anything interesting lately? What’s new in the ninth bowel of hell?”
It was quite a performance, but the finale was surprisingly serene. Eventually Pryce came to a long hallway lined to the ceiling with bookshelves. The hall led to a large room, which was lined with tables, around which sat many worshipers of Mystra and inquisitrixes, all reading.
“Marvelous,” Pryce murmured, peering closer to see the titles of the tomes nearest him. Much to his frustration, the tides were out of focus no matter how hard he looked. He turned to the reader nearest him, an angeUc creature in a cowled robe. “Say, I wonder if you could”
She put a perfectly shaped forefinger to her full lips. “Shhhhh!”
“Oh,” he whispered. “Sorry.” He knelt beside her youthful, shapely redheaded form. “I wonder if you could tell me what you are reading.”
She turned her sweet, gentle freckled face to him and smiled, and suddenly he felt better than he had all evening. Her voice was like a heavenly song. “It’s a secret, outsider,” she said, not unkindly.
“Oh!” he said, disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized earnestly. “It was not my intention to belittle you by calling you an outsider. It’s merely a statement of fact. I have been created to speak honestly to all who pass here.”
“Ah, so you are not an actual inquisitrix or a worshiper of Mystra.”
“Oh, I am indeed a true follower. Illusions can worship Mystra as well as tangibles, you know.” ‘Tangibles?”
“Humans. Like you. I am an honest worshiper of Mystra, as is my middle-aged self.” She motioned toward a woman beside her. When the woman turned, Pryce was staring at an older version of the young lady.
