wondered Sturm.
He tip-toed through the colonnade to the main room. The cool tiles felt good under his feet. Beyond the columns was an atrium. Stars glittered overhead. As Sturm stood searching for familiar constellations, he heard footsteps and muffled voices. He went to the door and lifted the latch.
Two Kernaffi soldiers flanked a third, taller man. Chains clinked faintly from the middle man's wrists and feet. Sturm cracked the door wider. The men passed a wall torch. The fettered man was Sergeant Soren — and he was gagged, too.
Sturm shut the door quickly. His mind raced in tan dem with his heart. Why was Soren in chains? Where were they taking him? When the footsteps faded around the corner, Sturm knew he had to follow.
The massive suite door swung back without a whisper. Sturm saw the hinges were made of ruby. There seemed no limit to the wealth of the alchemist-lord. He slipped down the hall, straining to hear the last word of the Kernaffi guards and Soren. The palace was still.
He kept close to the wall, just as he did when he played 'Storm the Citadel' in Castle Brightblade. His damp palms moved stickily over the glossy wood panels. A strange, irresistible smell came to Sturm's nostrils, an odor of spice such as he had never known before. Where the corridor crossed another he stopped, uncertain which way to go. A fresh waft of spice drew him to the right. Down the hall a high, curving staircase of black marble spiraled up, following the sweep of the palace wall. Midway up, a single torch burned in an iron bracket.
Sturm mounted the steps. The odor was stronger and more compelling with every rising step. As he passed underthe torch, Sturm heard a peculiar sound — the gurgle of slow moving liquid. The steps ended at a black door studded with silver spikes. It was ajar.
Sturm's hand reached out, wavered… He could not resist. He touched the door with one finger, and it opened wide for him.
Even yellow light filled the room beyond. It was a workshop of some sort, filled with all sorts of strange things: tables laden with crystals of odd color and shape; stuffed animals with glass-bead eyes that stared knowingly back at Sturm. Shelves lined with fancy canisters and bundles of dried herbs, neatly labeled in some foreign script. And books. More books than Sturm had ever seen in his life.
He found the source of the gurgling and the spice aroma. An elaborate arrangement of clear tubes and bottles bubbled slowly on a round table in the center of the room. Beside this apparatus was a large red candle, as thick as his wrist. The odor was coming from it.
'Careful, young lord,' said Mukhari Ras, appearing ghostlike from a deep alcove. 'The essence still is very delicate, and I have need of it soon.'
Sturm flinched and stood away from the table. The fluid in the tubes was thick and dark, very like the color of -
'Blood,' said the alchemist. 'Merely the unwholesome remnants of my last experiment,' said the alchemist. He drew nearer even as the boy shrank from him.
'Human blood?' asked Sturm in a small voice.
'Of course,' said Mukhari. 'No other kind is of any use to me.'
Sturm slowly pointed to the red, sweet-smelling candle. 'What is this made of? It smells good.'
'I am pleased you noticed. It is a very SPECIAL candle. You see, I cannot smell it at all.' Sturm couldn't believe that. The spicy aroma was almost overwhelming in the close room. 'Only very special people can smell it. The young and pure.'
A cold hand came to rest on the back of Sturm's neck. 'What does that mean?' he asked.
'It means, my boy, that I needed to know what sort of boy you are, to know if you were suitable for my purposes.'
Sturm backed a step. 'What purposes?'
'At the command of my Dark Goddess, I seek the true restorative medicine, the elixir of life. My research uncovered the formula, but to make it work, I need noble blood. Your blood.'
'Mine!' cried Sturm. 'Why mine?'
'You passed the test. The candle led you here.'
Sturm bumped into a table. He cast about wildly for a way out. Mukhari did not seem to notice. He looked far away, musing about his experiments.
'Artavash brought me children from Kernaf, but they were imperfect, unworthy. The elixir made from their blood was only partially effective.' He held out an arm and pulled back the loose sleeve to his shoulder. 'See? I have the arms of a man of thirty, while the rest of me rots at sixty-six.'
Fear and disgust rose sourly in Sturm's throat. 'So that's why the town is empty — you murdered the children!'
'Don't be silly, boy. Most families fled, true, but they'll come back once I'm rejuvenated. They will come back and fall to their knees to worship the Goddess of Darkness who grants eternal life!'
'Life purchased at the cost of others! Paladine will not allow this!'
'And who is Paladine's representative? You?' Mukhari grinned evilly at the boy. 'No matter. In two days the dark moon will rise, and the celestial conditions for the making of the elixir will be propitious.'
'You will not suceed — Sergeant Soren — ' Sturm began shrilly.
The alchemist clucked his tongue. 'He cannot help you. Even now he lies trussed up in my dungeon. As for you, my young lord, if you give me the slightest difficulty, I shall order harm done to your mother and her maid.'
'You will not!'
'Nonsense, boy. You're not in Solamnia. I am master here.'
Sturm closed his hand around a smooth, cold object — a flask. He hurled the flask at Mukhari and turned to run. The aged alchemist dodged awkwardly. Mukhari, reached for a braided bell cord. Hidden chimes rang. A concealed door sprang open, and Artavash came in. Sturm rushed blindly into her grasp.
'Take charge of him, my dear,' Mukhari said. 'Only don't bruise him. I wouldn't want him less than perfect for processing tomorrow.'
'As you command, master,' said Artavash. She laid a firm hand on his neck and guided Sturm from the room.
On the stairs Sturm said, 'So — so this was your plan all
along?'
'Why do you think my master had me scouring the seas?' she said. 'Other ships have come and gone, seeking pure blood for Lord Mukhari's work. Noble offspring are hard to find; they're usually well guarded. It was the greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your ship.'
Sturm didn't feel at all lucky. He submitted without a struggle as Artavash took him to her chambers. All the while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with silken sashes, he was thinking, thinking. He batted the feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his mind. Soren a captive, his mother and Carin hostages,… and himself. To be bled dry, his life drained to further the evil work of the Queen of Darkness…
He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of Castle Brightblade with only a few loyal retainers while a mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade would meet the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or perish. It was the knightly way. It was the Brightblade way.
The tremors in Sturm's limbs faded. In their place a heat grew in his chest. He was angry. His father had trusted him to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who would bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral home if not him?
'Be still, boy,' Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to her lips and drank.
'Lady Artavash?' said Sturm, his voice cracked with emotion.
'What do you want?'
'Would you help me?'
She yawned and kicked off her sandals. 'Don't be silly, boy.'
'All you need do is untie me. Then I'll get Soren, and together we'll take my mother and Mistress Carin — »
'You're not going anywhere. Mukhari Ras has decreed your fate.' Artavash sat on her high couch and leaned back against the wall. She laid the naked blade of a shortsword across her lap.
'How can you serve a man like him? H-he is a monster who kills children!' said Sturm.
