through room after dim room full of books. With sure instinct it made its way to a certain dusty alcove deep in Candlekeep and spiraled gracefully up one leg of a study table.
The young man seated there greeted his familiar with an absent-minded nod and returned his full attention to the book open before him: a thick history of fabled Waterdeep. Mrelder had always been fascinated by the City of Splendors, his hunger for its lore almost stronger than his ache to master sorcery. Almost.
The sorcerer seemed an ill match for the bright little snake. Lean, fit, and intense, he was pale from many hours spent with books. His once-dark hair had already gone gray, and his narrow face was seamed with thin, pale scars and dominated by fierce dark brows over mismatched eyes. One was a muddy gray, and the other (an old glass eye he'd bought in a manygoods shop) an odd pale green hue. Mrelder wasn't vain, but hoped to have coin enough someday to have a glass orb made to exactly match his surviving eye. It would be one less constant reminder of the horror known as Golskyn.
Light footfalls whispered on stone, approaching his corner. Mrelder paid little heed. Candlekeep was a quietly busy place, where many came to learn or, like him, to hide. The little snake, however, took alarm, darting into its master's sleeve and coiling about his forearm.
Thus alerted, Mrelder swept up his books and rose-just as a red-bearded giant of a man rounded the nearest shelf. Though one of Candlekeep's Great Readers, Belloch looked more like a warcaptain than a scholar. Just now, his face wore a dark expression better suited to a battlefield than a library.
'Come,' Belloch rumbled, dropping a massive hand onto Mrelder's shoulder. Without pause he wheeled, jerking the young sorcerer along so sharply that books tumbled. Mrelder stooped to retrieve them, but Belloch's grip tightened. 'Leave them.'
Mrelder stiffened. To treat precious tomes so was unprecedented in Candlekeep! In a sudden flood of wild speculations, he fetched up chillingly against a dire prospect: perhaps a certain priest by the name of Golskyn had recovered from his latest 'improvement,' somehow found Mrelder's trail, and come here.
No escape, even here…
Striding hard, Belloch marched the young sorcerer out of the chamber and down hall after hall Mrelder had never walked before. Some short time after he'd become thoroughly lost, they descended a winding stair and crossed several darkened rooms to emerge in a large circular chamber.
Mrelder's heart sank. Several senior Readers were gathered, and with them his favorite lore-guide, the visiting monk Arkhaedun. Six of his fellow scholars were also in attendance, looking frightened and confused. Armored guards-and where had they come from?-ringed the walls, faces impassive and long spears held ready.
It looked as if a court had convened to condemn Mrelder for his part in Golskyn's crimes-or perhaps, a small voice whispered deep in his mind, for his own inability to duplicate them.
'Arkhaedun informed us of your training,' Belloch said curtly, stepping away from Mrelder only to turn back and glare. 'He says you possess considerable fighting skills-not just small, untutored magics.'
The Reader's dismissive tone wasn't lost on Mrelder. Belloch had been a battle mage; many wizards scorned the inborn-and to their minds, unearned-powers of sorcery. Long used to far worse treatment, Mrelder was years beyond taking offense.
'I've learned much in my time here, lords,' he replied, trying to sound calm. 'May I ask what this meeting concerns?'
'We've received an urgent summons for every willing warrior and magic-wielder we can spare. A great battle rages, spawning small fires that can best be stamped out by such as you.' Belloch grew a mirthless grin. 'Your fascination with the city of Waterdeep has been noted; it should serve you well.'
'Waterdeep? You want me to go to Waterdeep?'
Something in Belloch's face changed at Mrelder's awed tone. 'I'll not lie to you, lad: this task may be your last. Monks' sparring is poor preparation for bloody war-and Binder forgive me, even all our books and scrolls leave many of that city's secrets untold.'
'I'll go,' Mrelder said eagerly. 'Of course I'll go.'
The Master Reader nodded and turned to the other scholars. 'Choice made? Well, then: When 'tis time to return, say 'arranath' aloud, and so hear the way.'
As he silently mouthed that word to fix it in memory, Mrelder's thoughts were of Waterdeep. To see the City of Splendors with his own eyes!
How often he'd dreamed this dream without really expecting it to become truth! Yet what crisis could threaten mighty Waterdeep that his small skills were needed? Had the great wizards of the city somehow… fallen?
Wilder thoughts whirled through Mrelder as he watched Arkhaedun step onto a circular mosaic in the middle of the chamber floor, an intricate rune outlined in flecks of colored crystal. A fractured rainbow of light shot up from the crystal shards-and the monk disappeared.
When the soft shafts of light faded, a sturdy, fair-haired lass Mrelder had seen frowning over high-piled tomes of battle magic stepped onto the rune. She was followed by a tall, silent scholar from the Inner Sea lands. When the soft glow of his journeying faded, a scholar of Tethyr was waved forward.
Then Belloch nodded, and it was Mrelder's turn. The young sorcerer hastened into the circle.
A searing flash of white light was his prompt greeting, as painful as falling into a hearthfire. Groaning, Mrelder fell to his knees, hands clapped to his burning eye.
When his mistily swimming vision returned, he saw spear-points. The circle of guards had closed around him with deadly intent.
Belloch pushed through them and dragged Mrelder roughly to his feet. 'Are you a traitor or a fool?' he thundered. 'Only one living thing at a time may pass the gate! What secret are you hiding?'
Belatedly, Mrelder remembered what he bore coiled about his arm. 'My familiar,' he gasped, plucking back his sleeve. What had been his snake fell limply to the floor like a bit of severed rope.
Chagrin twisted the Great Reader's face. 'I-it did not occur to me you might have a familiar. It appears your sorcery hasn't been… sufficiently regarded.'
'I seldom speak of my Art,' Mrelder murmured. 'If there's fault, it's my own.'
He should have anticipated something like this. Of course any magical portal in this most precious of strongholds would be carefully warded. Allowing but one living thing to pass at a time was a wise safeguard, given the worth-beyond-price of Candlekeep's irreplaceable treasures.
He gazed down at the little snake, the latest of many creatures to die in his service, and allowed himself a sigh. Then he looked at Belloch. 'I'm ready to go.'
The Great Reader shook his head. 'No. You'll be a staggering weak-wits until morn, no use in battle.'
Mrelder held out rock-steady hands. 'I've… learned to withstand worse pain. I'm ready, and I am needed. Send me.'
After a moment's hesitation, the burly monk nodded and thrust Mrelder into the circle.
The crystal mosaic blazed up and seemed to give way at the same time, and Mrelder found himself falling through a void of soft colors and eerie silence. In the utter absence of sound, the faint but constant ringing in his ears-another reminder of Golskyn- seemed deafening. It was almost a relief when he jolted to a stop on solid cobblestones amid the clanging cacophony of battle.
Mrelder glanced quickly around. He stood in a reeking, rat-scurrying alley between two old, large, rather crumbling stone buildings-warehouses by their look. Over the stench of rotting refuse and a heavy smell of smoke, the stink of fish was strong in the air. Mount Waterdeep loomed up behind him, its first rising rocks only paces beyond an alley-blocking mound of rotting crates, barrels, and garbage. The other end of the alley opened into a larger cross-street filled with a hurrying crowd.
They were all fleeing to Mrelder's left, shrieking and jostling as they ran. The crackle of fire and the clang of hard-wielded weapons sounded very near, off to the right.
Beyond the warehouse to his left stood a taller, finer building. Wisps of steam coiled from a door left ajar, bearing the soft tang of seawater. This must be one of the heated saltwater baths said to be popular in Waterdeep. Mrelder stepped closer.
A soft plash of disturbed water came through the steam.
Mrelder frowned. It was unlikely even the notoriously jaded citizens of Waterdeep would be idly soaking in the public baths as their city burned around them.
Then he heard something more from inside the bathhouse. Faint converse. The tongue was strange, liquid- sounding and guttural: Clicks, grunts, and deep thrumming croaks that plumbed depths no human voice could
