and conceal the fact.
“Watch above!” Owden cried.
Vangerdahast looked up to find the last two swiners leaping down the stairs into the light. He kicked himself closer to the ceiling and let them stumble past below, dispatching one with a quick dip of his wand. The other fell to a crushing blow from Owden’s iron-flanged mace.
“This seems a little more promising,” said Vangerdahast. “At least they’re trying to stop us.”
He led the way upstairs and found himself in a large chamber, floating above a square table strewn with moldering drawfish, eels, and whatever else the orcs could dredge from the swamp. The place hummed with the sound of untold insects, giving rise to a maddening din that made Vangerdahast’s head throb. The radius of his light spell was too small to illuminate all the walls, but next to the stairwell, the iron door of a small cell hung open. Motioning Owden up behind him, the royal magician floated over to inspect the interior.
Along one side lay a straw sleeping pallet and a dozen miscellaneous rings, chalices, and weapons. Though all were of exquisite craftsmanship, their condition was now dull and lusterless. Opposite the sleeping pallet, the acrid smoke of charred flesh was wafting out of a small trap door opening down into the ambush passage. The far wall of the tiny chamber was occupied by the splayed recess of an arrow loop, through which Vangerdahast could see the company horses beginning their mad charge into the astonished orc horde out in the marsh. The ghazneths were nowhere in sight.
Vangerdahast backed out of the door and inspected the rest of the room. On the two flanking walls, they found four more open cells, each with a sleeping pallet and an assortment of leaden treasures that had once been enchanted with magic. At the opposite end, only one of the iron doors hung ajar. The other was closed fast. The royal magician readied a web spell, then gestured for Owden to open the closed door.
Owden pushed the latch, and it did not budge. He tried pulling. The door still did not open, but a muffled clatter sounded inside the cell.
“Tanalasta?” Vangerdahast could barely hear his voice over the sound of his drumming heart. “It’s Vangerdahast.”
Owden glowered, then turned back to the door. “And Owden.”
There was no reply. The two men exchanged worried glances.
“Tanalasta, we must open this door,” said Vangerdahast. “If you’re unable to answer, give the royal knock. Otherwise, I fear Owden may be somewhat overanxious.”
“I can answer.” The voice was somewhat lower and rougher than Tanalasta’s.
Vangerdahast narrowed his eyes and whispered, “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Before Owden could reply, Tanalasta answered, “And I doubt Owden is the overanxious one.”
Owden shot Vangerdahast a smug smile. “That’s her!”
Vangerdahast scowled, then motioned for the priest to wait above the door with his mace. “Better to be safe.”
“So it will look like I’m the suspicious one?” Owden shook his head. “She has been their captive for how long? Of course she sounds a little hoarse.”
Vangerdahast continued to point toward the ceiling. “It is no insult to be cautious.”
Owden rolled his eyes and reluctantly floated up to hover above the door. Vangerdahast pointed at the latch, then uttered a single magic word. The door creaked open, but Tanalasta did not emerge.
“Tanalasta?” Owden called, negating any possible surprise bestowed by his position. “Come along-we don’t have much time.”
“No.”
“What?” Owden dropped down from the ceiling and started to push the door open Vangerdahast caught him by the arm and pulled him back. “Princess? Is something wrong?”
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” came the reply.
“You can’t help me, so leave me alone. I command it.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Vangerdahast pushed the door open and saw a dark figure crouching in the darkness, staring up at him with red-tinged eyes and a slender face framed by a cascade of jet-black hair. So harsh were the features-the sharp cheeks, the dagger-blade nose, the beestung mouth-that it took the wizard a moment to recognize them as Tanalasta’s. Even then, he could not help bringing his wand up between them.
The princess spun away, revealing a pair of small, fanlike wings running alongside her spine. “I warned you! Now leave me to the fate I deserve.”
Owden was far faster to recover than Vangerdahast. He pushed the wand aside and floated into the cell.
“You don’t deserve this.” The priest spread his arms and reached to embrace the princess. “What makes you think that?”
“Don’t touch me!”
Tanalasta leaped away as quickly as a striking snake, then was suddenly squatting in the arrow loop at the back of her cell, naked, trembling, and glaring at them with wild red eyes. Her figure was a gaunt, heinous mockery of the one Vangerdahast had glimpsed at Orc’s Pool, and he could not help feeling sick. She crossed her arms in front of herself and looked down.
“If you touch me, I’ll absorb your enchantments.” She pointed her chin at the slithering floor. “You know what will happen then.”
“Yes, we do.” Vangerdahast started to unclasp his weathercloak, then recalled what would become of all the magic stored in its pockets and thought better of it.
“We can’t leave you here. Come what may, you’re coming with us.”
He jerked the weathercloak off Owden’s shoulders and held it out for the princess, but she made no move to accept it.
“Tanalasta Obarskyr! I did not lose an entire company of the king’s soldiers to let you become a ghazneth.”
Vangerdahast threw the cloak at her. “Now put that on and come along. Whatever becomes of you, it will become of you in Cormyr-even if I must teleport you back to Arabel in a web.”
Tanalasta’s eyes flared red. “I doubt you are that fast, old man.” Despite her words, she slipped the cloak over her nakedness and closed the throat clasp. The sheen immediately faded from the brass clasp, and she stepped down to the floor. The insects and snakes paid her little attention, save to scurry aside or slither across her bare foot. “Lead on, Snoop.”
So relieved was the royal magician to have Tanalasta back-in any condition-that he would have liked to grab her and teleport back to Arabel that instant. Attempting such a thing from inside the keep did not seem wise, however. Given the building’s magic-absorbing nature, they might well end up trapped inside its walls. Vangerdahast returned to the main room and floated up toward the murky ceiling.
“Do you know if there’s a door up here?” he asked. “There must be some way onto the roof.”
“No!” Tanalasta barked the word as though it were a command. “I mean, we can’t use it. That’s their door.”
She pointed to the far corner of the room, and Vangerdahast soon saw the problem. The door was centered above the stairs, so that the only way to use it was to fly. If he tried to hold Tanalasta long enough to carry her through the opening, she would drain the magic from his flying spell and trap them both.
“We can use the marsh door.” Tanalasta passed beneath Vangerdahast and started downstairs. “They won’t expect that.”
As they descended, Tanalasta’s weathercloak began to disintegrate, the fabric turning dingy and dusty, the edges fraying and the seams opening.
Vangerdahast noted the decay and decided it would be prudent to arrive in a secluded part of the palace and gave no more thought to the matter. The excitement of finding the princess was fading, and his headache had returned with a vengeance. His temples pounded and his vision was blurring. His joints ached and his stomach had turned qualmish. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt as weak as an old woman.
“Is anyone else feeling sick?” he asked.
“It’s the keep,” said Tanalasta. “This place holds the ghazneths’ evil like a closet-the swarms, the darkness, the plague, all of it.”
