Her blade crashed home, right through Alusair’s ghostly sword-and right through the ghostly breast beyond, pinning it to the floor.
She crowed in triumph, as Alusair arched and writhed in soundless agony beneath her.
“Ha ha! Not so insolent now, are you, failed regent! Disgrace to the realm! Overmatched fool of an incompetent warrior!”
Through her open-mouthed, gasping pain, Alusair spat out the words, “Fly, Fang.” And then she smiled.
As up through her, up from the moldering heap of rubble she’d been lying on, sprang a glowing blue dagger.
Point first, it sped through Targrael, up through her leathers into her breast and inwards, through ribs, slicing upward like icy fire.
“Meet the Fang of Baerovus,” Alusair whispered. “The blueflame treasure you sought… the only one we Obarskyrs have. I wish you joy of it, would-be tyrant!” She faded into darkness, a wisp that drifted slowly across the floor, toward the door.
Targrael lashed out sideways with her sword, seeking vainly to slice that whispering shadow as it flew this way and then that, wriggling snakelike out under the door.
But the Fang of Baerovus was caught in her throat and sliding higher…
Desperately she dropped her sword, reached up with both hands, and broke her own neck, thrusting her head grotesquely to one side to hang limply down her back.
Just in time. The Fang burst up to the ceiling, trailing one of her ears, and struck sparks off the stone there.
Before it arrowed to the door, out through the gap she’d made by chopping through the lock, and away.
She knew by the utter agony, that her wounds would be mortal for one with lifeblood to spill. She felt too weak to do anything more than slump down atop the rubble and whimper.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The oldest, grandest Delcastle coach had thickly cushioned seats, but nothing else to soften rides. Wherefore Amarune was clinging to Arclath to keep upright, with her booted feet wedged against Mirt’s knees where he sat facing the noble and the dancer. Loose cobbles on this particular lane were making the coach rattle almost deafeningly as it rushed toward Delcastle Manor, where it had been agreed they’d tarry until Storm or El appeared to fetch Mirt to different lodgings under a new face and name.
“So who did kill the cook?” Rune was asking.
“Almost anyone may have,” Arclath said bleakly.
“Not so, lad,” Mirt rumbled. “The slayers were working for a noble.”
“Likely, yes,” Arclath granted, “but tell me why you say so. Is it merely one more ‘dastardly nobles are behind everything’ thought?”
“Nay. They carried off Lady Greatgaunt with no mess or noise. No ransom demands, no snatching all her gowns or the jewels off ‘em, no blood or tussle. Following clear an’ detailed orders-carefully.” Mirt waved a hand. “Therefore, working for nobles, hey?”
“Hey,” Arclath agreed with a grin.
“I-” Amarune hesitated, then continued, “I learned much from Elminster’s mind, while he was in mine. It’s only right you should know as much as we do about all of this. The ghosts, I mean.”
Arclath nodded, and Mirt made a beckoning “out with it!” gesture.
“At the Council,” Rune began, “a blueflame ghost appeared briefly during the fighting and felled several nobles, specific ones, but then vanished. So, obviously someone in the room was controlling it.”
Mirt nodded. “A noble who attended yer Council has a blueflame item.”
“A mystery for Elminster, or his old foe Manshoon, not to mention half the ambitious nobles in Suzail, now, to solve, as they all scramble to get that item and control the ghost,” Arclath added.
Rune nodded. “Elminster wants it to try to restore The Simbul-you know about her?”
Mirt chuckled. “I do. More’n I want to, but that’s another tale.”
Rune shook her head. “Not now, I pray you! Manshoon presumably wants the ghost to have another slayer he can send forth, in case he ever runs out of mind-slaves or beholders.”
Mirt nodded. “I remember him, too. That one will never be able to resist seeking such power.”
“Yes, but he mustn’t yet have it, or he’d be using it, not faring forth himself or sending agents. The blueflame ghosts frighten and therefore dominate-and Manshoon lives to control and dominate.”
Mirt nodded again. “Over the years,” he growled, “some things change very little. Names and faces, aye, but the games, nay.” He flexed his hands-and a dagger suddenly gleamed in one of them.
He held it up, smiled at it, and told Amarune and Arclath, “Fortunately, I always did enjoy playing these particular games.”
In a place as sprawling, tall, and deep as the royal palace of Suzail, there are forgotten places.
There are also “almost forgotten” spots. One of them was a neglected corner deep in the palace cellars where ancient and mighty interwoven ward spells foil detection magics and hide magical auras, very much as a thick fog conceals small scuttling things.
Targrael thought she just might be the last rememberer of that spot, judging by the condition of a particular ill-mended wall that had been getting worse for centuries. It had two dark recesses, cavities where stones had collapsed out to leave behind holes like missing teeth in an old warrior’s jawbone.
One of them was large enough to hold a death knight, one who had managed to unbar the door, escape Druth’s room, and make her slow and painful way to the doors of the royal crypt after several long and agonizing hours of crawling. Only her incredible force of will kept her going.
There, as she’d expected, the Fang of Baerovus glowed, as it protruded from the heart of a warding-rune that had kept it from entering the crypt.
She had it with her now.
Oh, this was going to hurt.
Stepping into the little cavern behind the wall, she bent over, choosing where she would fall, making certain she had space enough to lie. The slow, cold drops of water seeping through the stone above her chilled her back as she brushed against them. Yes, this place would do. It would have to.
She undid her leathers above her belt, laying bare her midriff, chose the spot with one careful finger-and slowly thrust the Fang of Baerovus into herself, driving the blade up under her ribs.
Every inch tore a fresh gasp of pain out of her, and she shuddered helplessly.
“I,” she hissed at the unhearing stone around, “am a Highknight of Cormyr. The Highknight of Cormyr!”
Then the agony overwhelmed her, and she sank down with a moan, trembling…
This was her doom, or her last slender hope.
Would her undeath slowly drink the magic of the dagger, healing and strengthening her, despite the agony she now felt?
She dared not move around the palace-where Alusair might find and finish her, or foolish war wizards destroy her. Not as weak as she’d become, even before tasting the Fang.
She would be a long time healing, if this worked at all… a very long time.
But then-she smiled coldly-that was the one thing she did have left. Time.
“What was that?” a Dragon snapped, his sword hissing out.
“A stone tumbling out of a water-soaked wall,” Glathra replied briskly, not slowing in the slightest. “It’s why we no longer use this part of the cellars much. Too many springs seeping out of the stones. Walls were built to seal off the worst parts, but that was centuries back, and they fall, stone by tumbling stone, with no one here to care or rebuild. Don’t worry, there’s quite enough solid rock left to hold the palace in place up above our heads. All
