called to her, screamed for her to stop. But she couldn't. Her parents were somewhere in the wreck of stones.
The tower's collapsed wall was a black blemish on the landscape. Scorch marks sprayed out from it in jagged, oily streaks. Viewed from above, the tower might have been a stygian sun.
Elgreth was still screaming. He's injured, Icelin thought, or he'd be running after me. I am wrong for leaving him. But she couldn't make her feet stop walking.
She caught her foot on a rock. When she looked down, she realized the rock was a hand, clutching her ankle. The fingernails were black, the palms blistered and oozing white pus.
Frightened, Icelin jerked away. She followed the arm attached to the hand and found Cerest, cuded on the ground. He had one arm thrown across his face. The appendage'was out of its socket. His other arm stretched toward her, tiying to stop her.
Icelin looked at that blistered, trembling hand for a long time before she turned and resumed her long journey to the tower.
The stones vibrated with a power beyond sun-warmth. Everything was cold now, but she could feel where the energy had been. When her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside the tower, Icelin could see there was nothing left. Her mother's hair, her father's spectacles-the spellplague had burned them to ash.
She touched the blackened stones, caught the ash-falls drifting through the air. Illuminated in moonlight, they might have been dust or the remains of flesh. She caught as many as she could in her small hands and clutched them against her chest. She started to cry and found she was too dehydrated for the tears to form.
Carefully, she got down on her hands and knees and placed her cheek against the ground. The ash stirred and warmed her skin. She stayed there, imagining her mother's arms around her, while Elgreth screamed for her outside the tower.
Daerovus Tallmantle was a patient man, and his office demanded discipline, but, as he surveyed the wraiths circling the distant Ferryman's 'Waltz, he concluded that he'd been patient long enough.
'That's the place,' he said.
'Can we trust him?' Tesleena asked.
The Warden thought of Tarvin, his head crushed by a plank. His body had been borne away to the Watch barracks and then to his family.
He surveyed the group of men and women that stood before him in homespun disguises. Their eyes flitted between the Ferryman's Waltz and his face.
'You know what's expected of you,' he said. 'If any man or woman among you feels he cannot perform his duty, you may accompany Tarvin's body back to the barracks. I look you in the eyes and ask this plainly: will you see justice done?'
A chorus of 'ayes' answered him. As promised, he stared each of them in the eyes, hunting deceit. He found none, and was satisfied.
'On the boats,' he said. ' 'Ware the wraiths, but Icelin is the one you want. Bring her in.'
'You have to untangle yourself from this,' said a voice Icelin did not, at first, recognize.
She looked up, and for some reason was unsurprised to find Aldren standing in the shadows of the tower.
'I didn't think you could weave yourself into memories,' Icelin said.
'Only yours, it would seem,' Aldren replied. 'But I would rather not be here. This is a foul place, and you're needed elsewhere.'
'I don't know how to leave,' she said. 'What if the plague won't let me?'
Aldren made a motion with his gnarled hand, and his staff appeared in the clawed grip, as if it had always been there, invisible.
'To weave magic requires discipline,' he said. 'At the best of times, anything can go wrong, because the Art runs unchecked. We are its only shepherds now.' He held out his staff to her. 'To be a weaver requires a focus,' he said, 'a tool to channel your energy. You should never rely on such a thing completely, but in the worst of times it can help you endure the wildness of the raw Art.'
Icelin touched the staff and felt a pulsing energy. The Art ran through the staff like blood in wooden veins. She. could feel the contained power, frightening and pure.
'What if it gets away from me again?'
'It surely will,' Aldren said. 'Such things are inevitable. The only thing you can do is focus on what is most important to you-what's worth saving.'
'Ruen.' She remembered his name as if he had been the dream, and this her only reality. She stood up, and her body was an adult's, though weak and fragile.
The tower melted around her. The black stones faded, as if all the filth was being drained from her memory. She closed her eyes against the swirling, turbulent cleansing.
She smelled the harbor, but when she opened her eyes, the scene had changed. Her mind couldn't process it at first.
Ruen stood thirty feet away, fighting two men at once. A third man floated in the water, his right arm and chest contorted at an odd angle in the water.
She was lying on Ruen's raft. Cerest crouched over her. His crumpled face showed concern, but Icelin noticed he held a dagger slackly in his fight hand.
'Are you well?' he asked.
She licked her lips and tried to speak, but she'd been in her mind too long. The words came out as incoherent mumbles.
Cerest leaned closer. 'Say it again, Icelin. I didn't hear you.'
Icelin didn't repeat what she'd been trying to say. She brought her knee up and crushed it into Cerest's stomach.
He lurched back onto his right elbow, losing his balance when he tried to bring the knife to bear. He pitched over the side of the raft into the water.
Icelin sprang to her feet and immediately saw that Ruen was in trouble. He held off the two men at his right and left Bank, but the man on the crow's nest was frantically cranking a crossbow into position. He propped it on the lip of the nest to steady his aim.
Cerest thrashed in the water. He grabbed for the raft. Icelin kicked him in the face. Blood exploded from his nose; her heel had knocked it out of position. The elf cursed and backstroked, putting a safe distance between them.
Lifting her. arms, Icelin chanted a spell and brought her hands together, as if she were cupping them around the crow's nest. The basket of rotting wood burst into flames that rose up around the man with the crossbow.
The man shrieked and dropped the weapon. It landed in the water and sank. The man dived from the nest, fistfuls of flame eating at his clothing. He hit the watet belly first.
The men fighting Ruen had their backs to the crow's nest. They tried to turn to see their companion's fate, but Ruen wouldn't give them a respite. He clipped the shortet of the two in the jaw, spinning him half toward the water and upsetting his balance on the bones of the leviathan.
It was all about balance. He kept them both at bay because they couldn't keep their feet. If they'd been on level ground, Ruen would have had several of his bones crushed by now.
While the shorter man steadied himself, Ruen dodged a roundhouse punch from a man wearing a mail vest and thick gauntlets. Built like a brick, this man would be harder to move with simple punches.
Icelin picked her spell carefully, focusing on the chain links pressed tight against the man's body. She could feel the trembling in her fingers as she worked through the complicated gestures.
Two spells, by the gods. Give me two spells without pain, Icelin pleaded. Lady Mystra, I can't pray to your memory. I never knew you. But if any goddess can hear me…
She flexed her fingers and released the spell. Her vision blurred. Nausea rose in her gut, and she felt cold, sticky sweat clinging to her forehead. She forced past the sickness and concentrated on the brick man's mail vest.
There was no visible change. Ruen took a glancing punch to his shoulder from the shorter man. He answered with a kick that took the man's tight leg out from under him. The short man grabbed an overhanging bone, perhaps a rib of the long-dead creature. The bone snapped off. The man grabbed wildly for his companion and buried his fingers in the mail links.
