swirling wraiths. Icelin knew his men would be nearby, but wherever they were, Cerest had them well hidden. She wondered if Ruen, with his sharper eyes, could detect them. The only illumination came from the lantern on Ruen's raft and a torch Cerest had propped in front of him.
He looked up when they appeared, and smiled in genuine pleasure. 'Well met, Icelin,' he said. 'I received your message. I'm happy to see you are well.'
He didn't seem to notice or care that there was a puddle of drying blood-leucrotta and Bellaril's-behind and to his left. The copper scent combined with the leucrotta's naturally pungent stink must have been overwhelming. But like the dying horse that day on the Way of the Dragon, Cerest took the horror completely in his stride. His pleasant expression never faltered.
Somehow, though, the sight of him amid the blood was less intimidating instead of more. Here at last he wasn't trying to hide what he was, the deficiency of mind that had set him on her like a crazed hunting hound. She could see him in this true state and feel pity, though it was a fleeting emotion.
'Greetings, Cerest,' she said. 'I hope you haven't been waiting long.'
'I'm accustomed to being patient. I was more than willing to wait for you,' Cerest said. 'In the end, I knew you'd come back to me.'
Icelin felt Ruen tense behind her. She reached back to touch him, but of course he moved just out of her grasp. She dropped her hand.
'Are we alone?' she asked, deliberately affecting a teasing tone.
'There's at least one in the crow's nest,' Ruen said. 'Ten feet up.' He pointed, and Icelin heard the scuff of boots on wood, a figure hastening to conceal himself in the shadows. Ruen smiled. 'I don't think he enjoys heights.'
Cerest was not so amused. Hatred came alive in his eyes when he looked at Ruen, an emotion so intense Icelin wondered at its root. 'I would be more than willing to dismiss my men, Icelin, if you would send your friend away,' he said. His voice was unsteady. He swallowed.
'But that's hardly fair,' Icelin said. 'I have so few friends left, thanks to you.' She reached into her pack and pulled out the stack of letters. 'Do you know what these are?'
Cerest stood and walked toward her outstretched hand. Icelin allowed him to approach but kept her body squarely between Ruen and Cerest, noting the irony of her protection of the elf.
Not for long, she thought, as the viper took the letters from her hand. I won't need you for long.
Cerest shuffled through the letters, and Icelin could tell he recognized the handwriting immediately. 'These are Elgreth s,' he said, handing them back to her. 'I never would have credited him with the strength to write them. He was in poor shape when I left him in Luskan.'
She thought she'd been prepared for anything, but at his words, Icelin felt a cold kiss on the back of her neck, as if one of the wraiths had drifted down to whisper hateful truths in her ear.
Anger bloomed in place of the cold, and the contrast made her tremble. She felt the letters flutter from her hands. They landed on the harbor's surface and became tiny, worn boats carried away by the rippling current.
She had felt many things upon learning of her grandfather's identity and subsequent fate: grief, confusion, loss, but always a place removed from her heart. It wasn't that she was callous. It was simply that nothing could surmount the pain and anger that lived there after Brant's death-until now.
'Why?' she said. 'If you found Elgreth in Luskan, why didn't you bring him home to Waterdeep? You said he was your best friend. How could you leave him in that godscursed place?'
'He was too far gone to walk,' Cerest said, 'and I didn't have enough men. I never would have made it out of the city with him. We would have been set upon-fresh carrion for the vultures.'
'Of course,' Icelin said bitterly. 'You wouldn't have risked yourself to make your old friend comfortable in his last days.'
'Whatever you think of me, Icelin, I was Elgreth's friend,' Cerest said. 'I would have given anything to have brought him home. He should never have gone to Luskan.'
'He went to protect me,' Icelin said. 'He must have been terrified you would find me. What was it, Cerest? What did you do to betray my family's trust in you so completely?'
'I never intended to betray them,' Cerest said, 'just as I didn't intend for Elgreth to run from me. You are too young to understand. My family was composed of artisans. They had centuries to hone their skills. My father could craft weapons that sang with arcane music. He only made a handful of blades in his lifetime, but they were named. If not alive, they were near enough to sentient that men in Myth Drannor craved the bond between sword and man more than they craved a mate. And it was all because my father could sense magic and make it bend to whatever shape he desired. It didn't matter that the Spellplague was ravishing magic all over Faerun. My father might have been a god. He was master of the unbound weave.'
'But his son did not inherit his ability,' Icelin said.
'No,' Cerest said. 'I tried, but the gift never came. There were reasons, my father said. A question of birth.'
The naked longing in his eyes was of a kind Icelin had never seen except on a grieving person. Cerest had long ago realized what he could never be, but he refused to come to terms with his inadequacy.
'It was easier after I left,' Cerest said. 'I comforted myself by thinking that this kind of gift was an aberration. I would never see it again, even in my long lifetime.' His voice was ragged, emotion breaking through at last. 'I met Elgreth, and your parents, and everything was perfect. We would have continued together, year after year, explorers all'-his face contorted-'if Elgreth hadn't wanted to explore the Rikraw Tower.'
These were the words Icelin had waited to hear. Cerest had given the tower a name, and names were power. She felt the bonds around her memories snap.
CHAPTER 20
As Cerest spoke, Icelin felt a kind of stupor descend upon her mind. The fog thickened and deepened. This was not like the other times she'd gone into her mind, seeking a stray piece of lost information. This was not in her control. She was being led down the twisting corridors by a hand that belonged to a person that was her and yet not her. This person was a child and yet possessed of more wisdom than her waking self.
Icelin was only half-aware, in this state, of Cerest moving closer to her and Ruen farther away. This repositioning made no sense to Icelin, but she had no time to consider the implications. The hand pulling het was moving faster, sweeping her along with its urgency.
The corridors turned to aged stone; dust and cobwebs clung to the corners. Was she going backward in time? An appropriate metaphor, Icelin thought. Brant always said her mind worked with the same ptacticality of a history text. Past was old, present was new.
She came to the end of the passage and found a swathe of green cutting brilliantly across the stone. Stepping out of the passage, Icelin found herself in a vast held.
At first she was afraid. The space was too open. The smells of the city were gone. She could only detect grass and the distant smell of smoke in the air.
This was what outside the city smelled like. This was what space smelled like. Gone were the constant press of animals and South Ward wagon traffic and the refuse of so many folk living side by side. She felt-remembered-the grass tickling her ankles, the movement of insects in the living carpet.
She breathed deeply and caught the hint of smoke again. Mingled with the ash and fire was the scent of onions cooking, and fresh game nearby.
A dusty ribbon of road, stamped many times over with hoof prints, snaked out in front of her. It led up a steep hillside and out of sight. She followed it, and when she crested the rise saw the campfire, the stew pot cooling in the grass, and the circle of figures waiting for their meal.
The feeling of familiarity cascaded over Icelin with such intensity that it left her dizzy and unmoored in her own memories. It was like encountering beloved friends with whom she'd corresponded for years but never seen face to face.
Elgreth cradled a spit stuck with flaming venison. He looked young, his dark brown hair showing only a few threads of silver in the sunlight. He had a thick moustache and wide arms like ale barrels. His cloak fell around him
