What a fool. What an absolute fool he had been, thinking he could waltz into a temple of Oghma, murder its overseer, take its treasures, and then just stroll back out again. He'd brought no real weapons. No water. No food. King of lore-masters indeed. If he didn't find an exit soon, he would be king of skeletons.
The stairs and corridors stretched on endlessly. Chane shivered and sweated at the same time. After a while it seemed he traveled in circles and the rooms began to look the same. Or perhaps they didn't. Perhaps he only imagined they did. How far had he traveled? It seemed like miles, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't merely a floor or two. Icy discomfort in his shoulder was turning into agony. His teeth chattered. His legs ached. Finally he staggered against a stone wall. Whimpering, he slipped to the floor, chin resting on his knees.
'I've lost,' he whispered through parched lips. 'It's over.'
'Getting tired, son?' a cheery voiced asked.
Chane's head jerked up to see Mirrortor in the room with him, still in his ridiculous purple dressing gown. The elven girl at his side was rapidly writing on her parchment.
'Am I close to the surface then?' Chane rasped.
'Close?' the gnome answered. 'Well, that would depend on your perspective.'
Wretch, Chane thought, but instead he said, 'If you've come to hear me beg for help, you may as well leave. I'd sooner die than ask you about tomorrow's weather.'
'Hear you beg?' Mirrortor said. 'Oh, by Oghma's pen, no. We came to guide you out. There must be something sensible in that over-inflated head of yours or you wouldn't be breathing. You are intelligent enough to value your life over the power you lust after. That must count for something.'
Chane stared at him. 'You're guiding me out?'
'Yes, of course. But I warn you, those creatures are here to guard over more than just books.'
'I'm too tired to hurt anyone. Get me out of here.'
'You've come all this way. I think you ought to have something for your trouble.' Mirrortor held out a clothbound, dark green book.
Chane looked at it suspiciously. 'What is it?'
'Something I put to pen myself a few years ago. It is the recent history of Rysheos before the coming of Lord Teelo, an account of the wars of the noble families. Distasteful era. Something they will wish to avoid again. Take this book, Loremaster Chane. Go to Rysheos and teach this.'
Chane's mouth tightened in disgust. 'That is nothing! Maybe a few rare details, but there is not a tale in that book any common street peasant wouldn't already know. What wonders can be found in such easily attained lore?'
The gnome smiled slightly. 'The kind that matter. The lore we live and breathe and remember. Stories that can teach us to avoid folly.'
Mirrortor turned and motioned the girl forward. Chane gazed into her serious face as she knelt down and revealed to him the title of her work:
Chane looked up, the truth of it finally dawning. Lore was not only the ancient and unknown. It was created with each passing moment. He was now part of the web of legend, part of the web of lore, ever changing, always spinning.
Reaching out slowly, he took the green book from Mirror-tor. 'Yes, I will go to Rysheos. I will teach this lore.'
The gnome smiled wryly. 'Come then. Your arm will heal in a tenday or two. Now it is time to leave. I should have been asleep hours ago.'
Chane stood and followed his companions, paying little attention to which hallway they chose. Soon he would be out in the fresh air, free from this labyrinth. His mind churned with Mirrortor's words. Perhaps he
Picturing himself in an ivory robe, standing before a crowd of eager listeners, he anticipated the reverence that might be given to such an unselfish scholar-a humble lore-master, dedicated to his calling. He envisioned the awestruck faces of his followers as he taught the lore of recent tales. Naturally his handsome countenance would impress them, but his wisdom would impress them even more.
He was almost to the main entryway when a sudden realization came unbidden to his mind. Lord Teelo might be very grateful to a loremaster who knew more details of Rysheos's history than any other priest on the continent. Such a priest would be rewarded and valued.
Perhaps…
Raven's Egg
Soon I, Lord Sharven of Espar, shall attempt a most daring end to all my woes. I will not speak too plainly of my plans here; the purpose of this account is to justify my act, not to forewarn others what it might be. I wish I could be more blunt but, though I am a young man, my inheritance is vast. Because of my wealth, I have many enemies and many paid spies throughout my house. I see how they whisper in private, plotting against me as they go about their work. If I had proof of their treachery, I would kill them all. As it is, I must abide them.
Even Atera, my beloved wife, has turned against me. I cannot bear to cause her pain, so I lied and told her that there have been threats against us and placed her under guard in her chambers. She has requested no visitors save me and her aged physician, the wizard Raven of Saerloon.
Saerloon! Ah, the sound of that name-exotic, dangerous, calling to me even now. Saerloon-the place where I made my fortune. Saerloon-the place where I found my most precious possession: my wife.
My older brother had been sent to that distant city in Sembia by my father and the nobles of our humble town to forge a trade alliance with the merchants there. I'd always had a wanderlust that set me apart from my stoic friends in Espar and so asked to go along. I had expected father to refuse; he agreed readily. I rejoiced, but during the long journey east, I began to understand his indulgence toward me all too well. Gwendh, my brother, was to inherit the family estate. I could manage one of our smaller holdings, but would always be dependent on his charity unless I made a fortune of my own. If I did not, I was expendable.
As we rode into the city, I saw its wealth and its poverty Pickpockets stole almost openly from rich merchants in the crowded streets, ignoring the example of less skillful thieves, whose rotting bodies hung from the city walls to feed the crows. Nobles sported knives and swords with jeweled hilts, and even the grimiest street urchin carried a simple blade. Indeed, our first stop was to purchase daggers and swords. It galled me that Gwendh had to make the purchase for me.
I said as much as we sat in the back of a dark, smoky tavern, washing down spicy sausages with the golden local ale. 'No matter. I'll make my fortune soon enough in a city such as this,' I commented.
'Soon enough,' Gwendh echoed and chuckled, a sound I knew too well.
'What is it?' I asked. 'What have you been plotting?'
'Not me, Brother. Father has. He wants you to take a wife here in Saerloon.'
'A wife!' I stared at the tavern wenches, as drunk and foul mouthed as the patrons. 'Where will I find a wife in a place such as this?'
'Father's already found her,' Gwendh said, then covered his ears in anticipation of my angry explosion.
Shock stole all thoughts, all words I might have said.
'Father says that her dowry is huge,' Gwendh added.
'The greater the dowry, the uglier the bride,' I reminded him, and we laughed together.
'You'll get to judge her soon enough,' Gwendh said. 'You're meeting her tonight.'
'And if I despise her?'
'Her father hasn't announced the match, more for her sake than yours. She may despise you just as easily as you might her, you know.'
I doubted that, but nonetheless I was thankful when Gwendh bought us each a bath. We changed into our
