Pilos watched, horrified, as Emriana vanished before his eyes. Only a moment before, she had been standing there, watching her dagger sail across the room and into deeper shadows. An instant later, there was a rustle of cloth, a flash of new torchlight from within those shadows, and she was gone. The Abreeant priest felt a cold sensation grow in his belly as the brash girl simply disappeared, leaving all her clothes and jewelry to form her missing shape for the briefest of heartbeats before crumpling to the floor with a bell-like tinkle of filigreed metal.
From the shadows, a male voice chuckled. 'Too easy,' he said, and Pilos had to fight the urge to shudder, for he was certain that voice belonged to Junce Roundface, the assassin he and Emriana had followed into the room.
Pilos shrank back, trying to settle into deeper shadows of his own, hoping against hope that Junce had not spotted him. The scroll in his hand, which contained a spell he had intended to use to subdue any guards, was all but forgotten for the moment.
'Don't be shy,' Junce said, his voice full of merry cheer. He stepped into better light, looking right at Pilos. 'Come out where I can see you.' It was indeed the same man, as evidenced by his black doublet and matching trousers, which were tucked into stout boots that flared just below his knees. The man held Emriana's dagger in one hand, and he was smiling, but the intensity of his steel-blue eyes showed no mirth.
Seeing no reason to continue his failed attempt to hide, Pilos took a single, tentative step out into the open. He subtly slipped his free hand into the pocket of his own crimson doublet, fishing for a potion he knew to be there. 'What did you do to her?' Pilos demanded, fear giving him false bravado. 'Where is Emriana?' The thought of her simply ceasing to exist terrified him.
The assassin laughed. 'She's perfectly safe. Come over here and see,' he suggested, gesturing with the dagger back toward the spot where Emriana had been standing. 'And I'd suggest you quit reaching for whatever you've got in your pocket there,' the assassin added, giving the young priest a rather intense look.
Pilos froze, his hand half inside the doublet. 'Thank you, no. I think I'll stay well clear of your tricks.'
Junce shrugged, glancing away as if disappointed. Or exasperated, Pilos realized, just as the assassin cocked his arm and flung the dagger forward. The blade came hurtling toward the priest, the aim true.
For the rest of his days, Pilos would offer thanks to Tymora for the sudden urge to lunge for cover, even before he saw the impending attack begin. He spun and darted toward a large wooden table just as Junce sent the dagger flying toward him. It was the same table where Xaphira Matrell's belongings had been haphazardly scattered, but Pilos only sought it for its shelter. He crashed to the hard floor of the prison with a grunt just as the spinning blade clattered against the stone wall where he had been standing. The priest struggled to his knees as Junce swore an oath from beyond view.
'You little whelp,' the man said, his voice growing louder as he seemed to move closer.
In a panic, Pilos considered his options. Terror made him want to flee, to swallow the potion that would transform him into mere mist and allow him to escape, but he could not abandon Emriana so easily. He had to find a way to stop the assassin and rescue his companion.
The priest realized he still clutched a scroll. Without hesitation, he began to utter the prayer that had been so carefully inscribed upon the parchment, knowing he had only one chance. 'The Five Observances of Frugal Spending have many subparts, all of which must be memorized by anyone wishing to gain admittance into the temple clergy,' he began in a loud, clear voice, hoping the enchantment was sufficient to enthrall Junce and stop him from attacking. 'I will now recite each one, in order, including the various historical footnotes, for completeness's sake,' the Abreeant continued, knowing it didn't matter of what he spoke, only that he preach unabated.
As he continued to quote the first-year lessons by rote, Pilos listened for the imminent approach of the assassin, certain that his magic was not powerful enough to stop the man. But he heard no footsteps. Almost not daring to believe, the priest risked a glance over the top of the table and spied Junce merely standing, listening to his words. Amazed, Pilos nearly faltered in his recitations, but he caught himself before the enchantment could dissipate and rose to his feet, still orating.
Cautiously, Pilos walked around the table, observing Junce. He approached the assassin, ready to spring away at the slightest hint of aggression, trying to determine if it was a trick. But Junce's rapture seemed genuine.
Breaking into a slight smile in his relief, the priest skirted past his adversary, toward Emriana's last location, continuing to proselytize. He spied her clothing tumbled into a pile but did not approach it.
He angled in from the side, peering into the shadows, looking for signs of danger. He saw a mirror, large and square, propped against the wall of the cell where Junce had been hiding. From his vantage point, the priest could not see himself in the glass. It was angled to face Emriana's last position.
With mental alarms ringing, Pilos backed away, careful not to look at the glass. He turned back to Junce, who had spun to watch him, though the assassin still stood rooted to the same spot since Pilos had begun his spell. Feeling his mouth going dry, Pilos wished for a cool drink of water, but he ignored his craving and continued orating, lecturing in detail about the meaning behind each of the enormous and elaborate stained-glass windows in the great hall of the Temple of Waukeen. He hoped his voice would hold out long enough.
I need something large and heavy, the Abreeant decided. Something to shatter that mirror.
He scanned the room for something-anything-that would suit his purposes, but everything was either firmly anchored to the floor or walls or was much too large. Somewhere in the middle of his description of the third of twenty windows, he remembered the dagger.
Feeling his tongue growing thick and dry, Pilos hurried to where the dagger lay, intending to scoop it up and hurl it at the mirror, hoping that it would be enough to free Emriana. He considered plunging the weapon into Junce's chest, but he feared that he would not deliver a killing blow before the act ruined the spell, and he didn't want to risk such a chance.
No, he insisted. You've got your plan. Go with it.
He bent down to pick up the dagger and at that instant noticed the figures standing in the doorway, not three paces from him. In his shock, he nearly yelped in surprise, barely managing to continue his discourse. None of the three men were Generon guards, unalike in every way.
The first was a short, sinewy fellow with long, stringy hair, while the second was large and burly and wore a full beard. Both were filthy. The third was much cleaner, with brown curly hair, and skin weathered as though he had spent many days in the sun. While the first two glared at the priest, the third appeared more pensive than angry.
For a moment, Pilos trembled, expecting the trio to jump at him as soon as they realized he was aware of their presence. None of the three advanced into the chamber, though, instead content to stand in the doorway and listen to the priest's rambling. It took the young Abreeant a moment to remember that his divine magic would affect newcomers as easily as his initial victim. Shaking with relief, he gathered his wits, refocusing his concentration on his spell and trying to steady his breathing. He reached down for the dagger once more.
'That's not going to do you much good,' a feminine voice said from the corridor.
As Pilos jerked upright once more, he saw a flash of movement, then three glowing points of light swarmed through a gap between the three men, darting directly toward him. He recognized the dangerous magic, but no lucky evasion could save him a second time. The three glowing points smacked into his chest in rapid succession, sending jolts of fiery pain through his entire body.
Gasping in anguish, Pilos tumbled to the floor, doubled over in abject agony. As he writhed about, trying to soothe the molten wounds he sported across his torso, a shadow darkened above him. When the priest looked up, Junce Roundface was glaring. Pilos's spell was broken and the assassin looked furious. Pilos flinched and tried to roll away, but one quick punch to his midsection took his breath away.
It was all too easy for the newcomers to subdue the Waukeenar. In moments, Pilos sat against a wall, sullen, with his arms and legs locked tightly in shackles taken from the supplies within the prison. The two grubby men had done the heavy work, the big one sitting on him while the other snapped the restraints in place. The female arrival, with short blond hair and a scantily-cut magenta and purple outfit, shoved a wad of sour cloth into his mouth and tied it in place with a strip of fabric that kept him from speaking. He reckoned her for the wizard from Emriana's story earlier that day, which meant the others-or at least two of them-were the thugs aiding her.
I guess she didn't like my speech so much, the priest lamented.
As the trio finished their work binding the prisoner, the other man, the pensive one with the brown curly hair,
