“Hello,” said the middle-aged version of the young illusion. Pryce nodded and smiled in greeting.
“… And my elderly self.” An old lady beside the middle-aged lady looked toward him, her mouth drooling. “She’s too old now to take care of herself,” the young illusion whispered to him in confidence. “No less a follower of Mystra, however.” She leaned over and wiped the old woman’s salivation with a handkerchief she removed from her sleeve. She patted the elderly woman reassuringly before returning her attention to Pryce.
Pryce frowned and nodded. “Of course.”
“In fact, we are perfect followers,” the young lady continued with undeniable pride. “Ever constant, never changing, with the purest possible love for our deity”she turned her clear, bright blue eyes toward Pryce”and for you.”
“Me?” By rights, he should have been concerned over the way this meeting was going, but her purity practically emanated a tangible aura.
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “You are able to converse with me, so that means you have circumvented all the other obstacles designed to repulse you. It proves you are a man of pure heart and good intentions.”
Covington nodded with satisfaction. “That has been said,” he acknowledged. “So many times, in fact, that I’m beginning to believe it myself.”
“Oh, good!” she said effusively. ‘You know, this castle appears different to each person who visits it. If you come again, you will not find it thus.”
“Really?”
“Truly. The exterior remains relatively constant, but the interior is always changing. Its image is influenced by the eyes that perceive it, and it alters its appearance accordingly, depending upon the strength, will, ability, and mood of the individuals within at any given moment.”
“Fascinating,” Pryce said honestly. “Then these books, too, are illusions?”
“Oh, no. The books are real. That is why you cannot read them. They are but a few of our books on the subject of illusion.”
Pryce glanced down the wall. There had to be, at a minimum, more than ten thousand volumes in this room alone. No wonder the inquisitrixes had enough power to constantly change every centimeter of the place. Setting aside that mind-bending reality for the nonce, Covington returned his attention to the vision beside him. “In that case, I will be all the more sorry to leave.”
“Because you will not be able to add to your fountain of knowledge?”
“No,” he said. “Because I will not be able to see you again.”
Her smile was bright enough to light up the Nath. “If you should ever return to our modest citadel,” she promised him, “I would like to talk with you again.”
“Thank you…” He groped for a fitting name.
“Call me Chimera.”
His smile grew as wide as hers. “Thank you, Chimera.” Then he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you the truth. I am a bit tired of all these mirages, and anything I experience after meeting you will be an anticlimax, so I wonder…”
She turned her head to whisper back in his ear. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”
“Would you, please?”
Her answer sounded, to his ears, like the ardent acceptance of a marriage proposal. “Of course!” she cried. Then, to his surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
It was a kiss the likes of which Pryce Covington had never experienced. Firm, yet yielding. Soft, yet passionate. Physical, yet emotional. At first his eyes popped open, but then they slowly closed as the library around him began to shift and separate like a pile of dry leaves blown in the wind.
Alone in the darkness of his brain, he realized that he was experiencing the perfect kiss… perfect because it came from inside his own mind. The very moment of that realization came with the disappearance of the kiss and the sound of water slapping against the soles of his boots.
He opened his eyes to find himself literally in a fog. Almost immediately, however, the fog began to dissipate, and he could see the tail end of the dragon turtle slipping into deeper water. He was back where he had been attacked: twenty yards from the simple, single door of the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle.
Pryce looked toward the quay, but it was still shrouded in mist. He took a step toward it, but he realized there was still one thing left undone. He quickly ran the last twenty yards to the door, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled.
It was locked.
“Figures,” Covington said, then started making his way back to the shore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a beautiful autumn morning. Gheevy Wotfirr had waited as long as he could stand it, but when Covington hadn’t shown up for breakfast by late morning, Wotfirr could contain his curiosity no longer.
Dearlyn opened the door of the Ambersong residence when Gheevy knocked. “M-Miss Ambersong!” he sputtered, surprised to see her at all, let alone looking so happy. “Gamor Turkal said that your father was securing you your own dwelling for the length of the Fall Festival.” He looked worriedly around her, as if half expecting to see Pryce Covington’s body strewn on the floor.
“Oh, that,” she said pleasantly, turning back toward the living room area. “I never took that suggestion seriously.”
“B-Butbut Darlington Blade!” the halfling babbled. “Isn’t he supposed to be staying here?”
“He is,” she said over her shoulder as she moved away from the door. “He has his own room… as I have mine.”
With a sense of wonder, Gheevy followed her into the living room. Light shone brightly from the many tiny windows set in the tree walls. There the halfling found Pryce in his personal conception of paradise, sitting crossed- legged on the floor of Mage Ambersong’s library, surrounded, and nearly covered by, open books.
Dearlyn continued on by Pryce, while Gheevy stared, with bulging eyes and jaw agape, as they smiled at each other. Til see you later, then, Mr. Blade?” she said.
“Indeed, Miss Ambersong,” he replied. Then Dearlyn went into the bedroom and quietly closed the door.
Pryce turned to find the halfling staring at him, his jaw still hanging wide open. “What is it?” Covington inquired. “Dearlyn? Oh, she still has a great deal to work out… in her mind and heart.”
Only then did Wotfirr find the strength to speak, barely able to contain his amazement. “Whawhat happened?” the halfling sputtered. “I thought she hated you!”
“She hated the thought of Darlington Blade,” Pryce corrected the halfling quietly. He gestured at his harmless-looking demeanor. “Not the reality.”
“But you’re not” Gheevy started before Covington urgently raised a silencing hand.
“Yes… I… am!” he said intently. “I am now, and must remain so if we are to get out of this alive.” His declaration finished, Pryce leaned back and surveyed the pile of books around him with pleasure. “Besides, Miss Ambersong has been extremely helpful in directing me to the proper literature needed to study the art of detection.”
Gheevy blinked and shook his head. “De-tec-what?”
“Detection, being a detective,” Pryce stressed. “An ancient word, much more common centuries ago, before the wizards fleeing the Phaerimm settled here. The native shepherds had much more cause to use it when investigating a missing wild rothe or rustled auroch.”
“They were… detectives?”
‘They were indeed,” Pryce assured him with disconcerting cheeriness. “They couldn’t just conjure up a rustler with a handy magic spell. They detected, using detection.”
“Did you get any sleep at all?” the halfling asked skeptically.
“Pfui,” Covington said, dismissing the question. ‘Too much to do. Too much to think about Too much to
