'Help us find a way into the Citadel,' said Bareris, 'so we can destroy Szass Tam.'
Arizima peered at him as though looking for some sign that he was joking.
'I mean it,' Bareris said, and, as clearly and convincingly as he could, he explained the lich's scheme and what he and his comrades intended to do about it.
By the time he finished, the old woman was shaking her head. 'Tear down this world and put up a new one with himself as the only god? That's madness!'
'I agree,' Bareris answered, 'but the trouble is that it truly does seem like Szass Tam's particular flavor of madness. And while the zulkirs of the council doubt the ritual will accomplish its goals, they do believe it may well devastate Thay and neighboring lands.'
'So after all our years of hoping and praying and trying to nibble away at the necromancers' reign, it's now or never.'
'Yes. But the good part is that if our plan works, we'll have four archmages popping out at the lich to attack him by surprise. That's never happened before. The zulkirs were never willing to bet everything on this sort of gamble.'
'All right,' Arizima said. 'I under… st-stand, and I
'I assume that it's still impossible for a mage to translate himself inside.'
'Yes. I've seen demons try. They appear in midair looking like they ran headfirst into a wall.'
'But what if I were to disguise myself with magic?'
'It won't work. There are wards to strip away illusions and shrouds of invisibility.'
'Then what if I just walk in as though I have legitimate business inside? I don't look all that different from many other undead. I have the proper uniform and that 'golden tongue' you spoke of. And after all, it is the regent's palace. There must be people coming and going all the time.'
'All the d-d-doorkeepers are undead, so you'd have trouble making your blandishments work on them. And if you did persuade them, they'd assign an escort to take you where you c-claimed you wanted to go.'
'Curse it.' At the periphery of Bareris's vision stood an X-shaped wooden stand with shackles to hold a prisoners wrists and ankles, and he had to resist a sudden urge to turn and give it a kick. Hoping it would calm him, he took a breath instead. 'Very well, if neither magic nor pure brazenness will serve, that leaves skulking and climbing.'
'Yes,' Mirror said, 'but not for you. Not yet.'
Bareris frowned. 'What are you talking about?'
'I can fly,' said the ghost. The tusks and snout of the orc melted away, and his face became a murky semblance of the melancholy, mustachioed one he'd worn in life. 'I have innate abilities to walk through walls and fade from view that Szass Tam's defenses may not affect, or at least, not as strongly as they'd cancel out a sorcerer's tricks. If things go wrong, I'll have a better chance of getting away. So let me try to slip inside by myself, and if I succeed, we'll both go in tomorrow night.'
Bareris didn't like it. Now that they'd come this far, now that Szass Tam was only a mile away, the urge to press on burned like a fever inside him. But he couldn't deny that Mirror's idea made sense.
In the dark, the Citadel loomed like a bizarre, multi-bladed weapon raised to gut the moon. Like any castle worthy of the name, it stood at the center of a patch of open ground and had sentries patrolling the battlements.
Peering from between two of the buildings nearest to the fortress, Mirror watched the guards and timed them as they made their circuits. When he understood the routine, he waited for a gaunt, yellow-eyed dread warrior to trudge by, then darted forward.
He didn't advance invisibly, because even if such a trick would work for him, it wouldn't for Bareris. So he sneaked as he had in life when creeping up on an enemy. He stayed low, kept to the deepest shadows, and reached the foot of the outermost wall without incident.
He inspected the huge granite blocks and the mortared chinks between them. He doubted that an ordinary climber could scale the vertical surface unless possessed of exceptional skill. Not quickly enough, at any rate. Bareris, however, was inhumanly strong, remarkably agile, and knew charms to make himself stronger and more nimble still. Mirror judged that his friend could make it.
That meant it was time for him to do the same, before the next guard came tramping along. Alternately checking to make sure the minimal hand- and toeholds didn't run out and watching the crenellated wall-walk overhead, he floated upward.
With his head at merlon-height, he took another wary look around. This section of the battlements was still clear and, according to his estimation, should remain so for a little while longer. He rose until his feet were at the level of the walkway, then stepped through a crenel onto the ledge.
It was conceivable that if Bareris made it only this far, he could help Aoth, Nevron, and the others translate themselves into the Citadel. But the bard doubted it, and based on all that the past hundred years had taught Mirror about Szass Tam's wiles, he was inclined to agree. They assumed they'd need to cross the courtyard below, get past the inner wall, traverse a second bailey, and slip inside the towering central keep itself to have any hope of success.
Onward, then. Mirror took a step toward the inner edge of the walkway-since Bareris knew a charm to drift down to the ground unharmed, the ghost didn't need to bother with finding stairs, either-and a sudden jolt of pain froze him in place. At the same instant, pale light shined from the stones beneath his feet.
From the corner of his eye, he could just make out the crimson glyph that had appeared on the wall-walk three paces to his left. For a moment, he had a childish feeling that what had befallen him was unfair, because he hadn't actually stepped on the then-invisible sigil and wouldn't have expected it to affect a non-corporeal entity in any case. But he supposed that his predicament too, was an example of Szass Tam's cunning.
He strained to move, but paralysis held him fast. He silently called out to the god whose name he had never remembered but whom he nonetheless adored, and tried again. He took a tiny, lurching step, then a bigger one, and then the clenched, locked feeling fell away.
But at the same instant, figures as shadowy and poisonous as himself surrounded him. Perhaps the necromancers kept the murks, as such undead were called, caged inside the wall, or maybe the flare of light had drawn them; focused on breaking free of his immobility, Mirror had missed the moment of their advent. Before he could come on guard, the spirits scrabbled at him with long, wispy fingers, their weightless essence raking through his.
The attacks caused no pain in the physical sense, but they did something worse. Confusion and fear surged through his mind and threatened to drown coherent thought. Every day he struggled for clarity and purpose, for identity itself, and now the murks were clawing them to shreds.
He called to his deity a second time, and for an instant, his shadow-sword blazed with golden radiance. The murks withered away to nothing. Since they and he were made of the same unnatural foulness, the glow could just as easily have slain him as well, but it didn't. He'd learned to direct it, or perhaps it was simply the god's grace that enabled him to do so.
Something stabbed him in the back. He turned to see a corpse at the top of the stairs he hadn't bothered to locate before. The gaunt thing wore a mage's robe, and its sunken eyes glowed. Tattooed runes covered the exposed portions of its gray, rotting skin.
Mirror's mind still seemed to grind like a damaged mechanism. It look him an instant to recognize the thing as a deathlock, an undead wizard less formidable than a lich but troublesome enough. And the spells inked into its body would give it additional power.
The deathlock extended its hand, and darts of ice hurtled from its long, jagged nails. Mirror tried to block them with his shield but moved too sluggishly. Fortunately, the attack, magical though it was, passed harmlessly though his spectral body.
He charged the undead sorcerer before it could try again. He cut it and cut it until it tumbled back down the stairs…
Where it collided into the foremost of the blood orcs who were rushing up. Other figures were hurrying along the battlements. Atop one of the lesser keeps, a horn blew.
Plainly, it would be suicide to continue forward. Willing himself as invisible and intangible as possible-as close
