Council of the Revered Sons, Brother Sopin… I believe they are all present now, in Istar? His Radiance has received their respects.'
'They are all present, Highest. Each of the nine realms has sent a delegation for tomorrow's festivity, and all the members of the council are present, though I have word today that one of the high clerics is ill. None have been able to heal him. Perhaps tomorrow — at the time of the festivity — he will be better.'
'As the gods of good will,' the master of scrolls agreed, then looked up again at his assistant. 'Ill? Which of them is ill?'
The keeper looked agitated. 'Ah… it is Brother Sinius, August One. The high cleric of Taol.'
The master of scrolls stared at him. 'Taol? The ninth realm? The one from whose realm came the disappeared wine?'
'The same.'
'By the gods of ultimate good! There lies evil's perfidy, Sopin. It lulls us with subtlety until we expect all of its machinations to be subtle. Then, when we are lulled, it strikes — simple and direct. Through the blessed wine, it strikes directly at us. None can heal him, eh? I must speak of this to His Radiance himself, Sopin. Tomorrow's council of light… there is business to discuss.'
'It is the Kingpriest's birthday, August. Is such business appropriate?'
'The council is present, Brother Keeper, and so is the evil. Leave me now, Brother. I must prepare a petition. I shall suggest an edict — the same that I have submitted so many times before. But His Radiance must consider it, Brother Sopin. Beyond that, it must have the sanction of the Grand Council of Revered Sons.'
'Yes, August One.' Sopin felt a chill rise up his back. The Kingpriest require the sanction of council? Only one order of business could explain that. The master of scrolls meant to propose the opening of the Scroll of the Ancients.
It was the one artifact in the keeping of the priesthood that the first Kingpriest had so feared that it was sealed by a spell. It could be opened, but only by separate, secret incantations recited in unison by all the members of the Grand Council of Revered Sons.
The knowledge contained in the Scroll of the Ancients was a power that the first Kingpriest had found so fearsome that he trusted no man with it — not even himself, or any of his successors. The Scroll of the Ancients, it was said, contained the secret of mind reading. With its power, one could enter and adjudge — possibly even control — the minds of others.
Never in the history of Istar had the scroll been opened. Never had the high council agreed to it, though it had been proposed many times. Among the nine there were always those — notably those of the Solamnic Knighthood — who argued that the altering of free will was an abomination. And usually there were some — generally the elves — who worried that the gods themselves might not condone such a thing. It could, they pointed out, destroy the very balance upon which the universe relied.
Certainly the neutral gods would be outraged, for free will was sacred to them. Even the gods of good and light, some whispered, might consider the exercise of mind control as an arrogance.
The keeper of portals shivered again, realizing that the scrollmaster was looking directly at him now. In those eyes there was no touch of age, no frailty, no question of purpose. The ancient eyes blazed with a zeal as bright as fire and as cold as ice.
'The gods of good rely upon us, Sopin,' the old one said. 'They entrust us and empower us. We must not fail them again. The source of evil lies in the minds of men. It is there that we must stamp it out.'
The great Highbulp Gorge III, leader of all the Aghar of This Place and Maybe Some of Those, was stumped by Lady Drule's question. He hadn't the vaguest idea when his birthday might be — wasn't altogether sure what a birthday was — and had far more important things to occupy his mind
… if he could remember what they were.
One of them, of course, was the wine mine. Gorge wasn't at all certain, but he suspected that wine was an unusual commodity for mining. Then again, the world was full of mysteries and it was usually best not to dwell on them.
He didn't even know where the mine was, exactly. The combined clans of Bulp always had a mine going somewhere (generally near the town dump), on the off chance of finding something useful, but the mine's location shifted as often as the location of This Place did.
This Place was portable, which served the gully dwarves' purposes. Years of abuse and misuse by other races had built certain instincts into the Aghar, and one was to not stay in any place long enough to be discovered. This week, This Place was here. A week or two ago, This Place had been someplace else, and a week or two hence, This Place might be in some other place entirely. This Place was wherever the Highbulp said This Place was.
Gorge didn't remember exactly why his tribe had left the previous This Place — past decisions based upon past circumstances were seldom worth remembering — but he was proud of his selection of the current This Place. A natural cavern in a limestone formation, its outside entrance was concealed by huge mounds of rubble left by the Talls who built the giant structures soaring above. This Place extended deep beneath the fortress parapets of the great temple of Istar and was joined by ancient, eroded seeps to the pantries of the great structure.
It was a fine place for This Place, and the fact that it had been discovered by accident — several gully dwarves had fallen into it, literally — was not worth remembering. To Gorge III, it was simply one more evidence of his personal genius as Highbulp, on a par with other accomplishments such as… Well, whatever they were, he knew there had been any number of them.
Probably the only actual act of genius the leader of the Aghar of This Place had ever managed was to proclaim himself Gorge III instead of simply Gorge. The enumeration had the desirable effect of keeping his subjects thoroughly confused — an accomplishment that all leaders of all nations and all races might envy. Few among the Aghar could count to two, and none could count as high as three. Thus, there was always a certain awe among them when they addressed their lord as Gorge III.
Simply by virtue of his name, they were never quite sure who — or what — he was. That alone eliminated any possibility of competition for his job.
Deciding to be Gorge III had been an inspiration. Now, many years later, the Highbulp sensed another inspiration coming on. He didn't know what it was, but its symptoms were not quite the same as indigestion and it had something to do with the way he felt when he put on his new elk hide with its enormous antlers. Somehow, the improbable attire made him feel like a Highbulp of Destiny.
So, when his beloved consort — what's-her-name — suggested a celebration in honor of his birthday, Gorge readily agreed and promptly forgot the entire matter. He was far more interested in strutting around in his elk hide and feeling important than in planning formalities.
Drule, on the other hand, had no such preoccupation.
'Hunch!' She summoned the grand notioner. 'We celebrate Highbulp's birthday!'
'Fine,' the ancient said, starting to doze off.
'Hunch!' she demanded. 'Pay attention!'
He woke up, looking cranky. 'To what?'
'Highbulp's birthday! Celebrate!'
'Why?'
That stumped Lady Drule for a moment, then she countered, 'Highbulp say so.'
Hunch sighed. 'All right. When Highbulp's birthday?'
'Tomorrow,' she decided. Other than today and yesterday, it was the only day that came to mind. And the
Highbulp certainly had not been born yesterday. 'Make plan.'
'What plan?'
'Who knows? Ask Highbulp.'
The conversation was interrupted by a clatter and a flood of oaths. The great Highbulp, trying to wear elk antlers atop his head, had fallen on his back.
The grand notioner approached and stood over his liege, poking at him with the mop-handle staff. 'Highbulp. What you want to do tomorrow?'
'Nothing,' Gorge grunted, getting to his feet. 'Go 'way.'
With his answer, the grand notioner returned to Lady
