arcane tongue, or a language spoken by proto-beings of ancient ages. As each chanted couplet finished, its sound didn’t die away. The words remained in the background, drawn out in a long hum. Layer upon layer of words grew on the initial scaffold of sound, creating a texture of noise that she could almost see. The construct of ominous resonance reminded her of a gate.…
Fossil stared raptly into the widening aperture, oblivious of its peril. Then the Whispering Child spat out the keystone-it sounded like the death throes of a wounded beast.
The “gate” swung open. Only then did Fossil realize the demonstration was real, that
A skeletal hand three sizes larger than a human’s reached through the gap. The hand fumbled about the chamber as if feeling around inside a satchel for a spare coin.
The mask screamed, “No! Not possible! Not-” Fossil should have kept quiet. The reaching fingers snatched the floating facade. A blast of radiant energy tinged with a nauseating swirl of necrotic mist enveloped Fossil. In that fell light, the mask blackened, bent, and broke into two pieces.
The hand retracted. The fragments of Fossil clattered to the floor-two half masks, split in a jagged line down the center.
The last echoes of the chant died away. No remnant of the “gate,” the skeletal hand, or Fossil’s cruel demeanor remained in the vault.
Madri glanced sidelong at the painting, eyes half-lidded just in case the portrait’s regard was turned on her … but no. The Necromancer had apparently exhausted itself, and its painted eyes were closed.
“Well, Kalkan Swordbreaker,” she said after many silent moments, “I bet you didn’t foresee
But the pile of soil had no answer for her. She suspected the rakshasa wouldn’t be thrilled that she’d destroyed Fossil. On the other hand, she supposed she’d still go through with Fossil’s plan to use the Necromancer to hurry the rakshasa’s passage through death and on to his next incarnation. In which case the Swordbreaker would be in her debt.
“But first things first,” she said. “When I’ve finished with Demascus, he’ll wish he’d never been reborn.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chant Morven watched waves break on the ship’s prow and collapse behind the speeding vessel. An hour out of the Bay of Airspur and already the Akanul coast was a haze across the southern horizon of the Sea of Fallen Stars.
The pawnbroker squinted, for the dozenth time, at the elaborate wooden sculpture below the bowsprit. The figure’s shimmering green scales did nothing for its modesty, though he supposed any ship called
But a painted and lightly enchanted piece of wood couldn’t hold a candle to the very much alive and angry queen standing at the ship’s prow. The queen’s stained leather armor and cape weren’t royal finery, but they bespoke martial competence and elegance in one go. The cape flared in the wind of the ship’s passage, cracking with occasional tiny lightning sparks. The ship’s captain stood near the queen, playing with his pipe and yelling occasional directions to his crew.
Leaning along the rail, Jaul and Riltana traded off-color jokes. Riltana obviously had a far larger wealth of material to draw upon than poor Jaul. As for Demascus, he alternated between staring out at the sea and frowning at Arathane’s profile. Chant shook his head. If he’d been the recipient of the regent of Akanul’s recrimination, he’d do more than frown. He’d cry.
When the queen had appeared at Demascus’s home, she’d been seething. Chant imagined she’d had to restrain herself from slapping the deva when he finished his ritual and emerged from his chamber. She made an acid comment about how she hoped Demascus’s sleep had been restful, because the Four Stewards were drawing up war declaration documents against Tymanther for lack of any alternate intelligence on the mining disruption! Ouch.
The deva didn’t offer any excuses about pursuing vampires, about the Demonweb, or about a ghost of a past victim doing who knew what with a necromantic artifact. He’d merely said, “Now that the storm is blown over, the ship I chartered can take us out to the mine.”
Electricity rolled down the queen like water. “I’m going with you.”
“That would-” began Demascus.
“Because otherwise, how will I know you’ll actually go to the island? You might get distracted by a big fish or a boat race on the way.”
Chant saw Riltana wince. The queen wasn’t the master of colorful invectives like the thief, but Arathane’s barbs dug deeper.
Demascus’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. We can use another sword.”
Spear, not sword, thought Chant as he looked at the queen’s armament. But he’d learned a long time ago that wry observations are not always appreciated in the spirit in which they’re offered.
Thankfully, Jaul remained too awestruck by the ruler’s presence to offer up any witty repartee of his own. He was like Chant that way, but less practiced with the tact. So they raced across the sea, sails straining and resentments simmering. Onward to an uncharted place Arathane called Ithimir Isle.
Captain Thoster cleared his throat. “Anything in particular I should be on the lookout for, Your Royal Highness?”
The queen sighed. “Be ready for anything. Every force we’ve sent to investigate has failed to return.”
The captain grunted, as if in surprise. He looked at Demascus. “Did you mention that? I think I’d have remembered if you mentioned that. We may need to renegotiate terms.”
“Captain,” said Arathane, “I’m not unreasonable. Trust me that you’ll be justly rewarded for your aid. But
She pointed starboard. Chant and everyone else looked to the right of the prow, straining to locate what the queen indicated.
“I don’t see anything,” complained Jaul.
Neither did Chant, but he held his tongue.
“No?” said the Queen. She hummed a few off-key notes, then said, “How about now?”
“I … Yes!” said Jaul.
Chant heard gasps spring up across the deck. A stretch of water peeled away, revealing a stone spur striated with a craze of chalky lines. The spur emerged from the sea at an angle, as if leaning. Chant guessed it wasn’t a natural island. More like some foreign chunk of bedrock cast into the sky that fell back to the world far from its origin. If so, it hadn’t happened long enough ago for the pounding waves to break the shear lines of the spur into a coast.
“Where’s it from?” said Chant.
The queen glanced back at him. “Very perceptive, Morven. Indeed, Ithimir is not a formation native to the Sea of Fallen Stars. Or even Toril. It came from Abeir, in the aftermath of the Year of Blue Fire.”
“Ah.” Of course. Chant nodded. Like the genasi three generations ago. The people of Akanul had become part of Faerun’s economic and social fabric only since their arrival. And so, apparently, had Ithimir Isle-the economic fabric, anyway. However, a mysterious force of drow lusted after the same mineral hidden inside the stone spur that Akanul so valued.
Chant supposed that, given half a chance, he wouldn’t mind becoming a broker for such a valued substance himself. In truth, it hardly seemed fair, from a purely mercantile point of view, anyhow, that the state had claimed the entire mine, thus precluding all the potential profits to middlemen from arambarium sale and distribution.
Once they finished here, perhaps he’d see if he could somehow ease his way into the operation. After all, he
