“But Fullmer wasn’t killed with magic!” Witterstaet said.
“Killed, no,” Pryce explained. “But moved into the workshop, yes!” He turned to explain to Turzihubbard. “Sadly, a locked room mystery is essentially pointless in Lallor… there are too many magicians who can easily accomplish the feat!” He turned back to Dearlyn, pointing her own horsehair staff at her. “You were the only one left besides me with the magical knowledge necessary to circumvent the workshop’s special door. You couldn’t gain entry yourself, but you could magically move a dying body into the room!”
At that moment, the first fat bead of rain slapped into the deck. A rapid-fire barrage of lightning and thunder sent the suspects scurrying. Pryce stood his ground, however, and shouted the rest over the noise of the storm. “Luckily for you, your father’s own haunt overwhelmed any echo of your magic. Even if Witterstaet had perceived its shadow, it’s likely that he would have recognized it only as Ambersong magic, not Dearlyn Ambersong magic!”
At the mention of her name, Dearlyn suddenly grabbed the shank of the staff and tore it from Pryce’s grip. In a split second, she had it whirled around and pointing directly at Covington’s heart.
“Dearlyn Ambersong!” Turzihubbard boomed from the rail as more rain began to smack onto the deck. “Threatening Darlington Blade will gain you nothing!”
“Darlington Blade?” Dearlyn cried as another thunderbolt filled the sky. ‘This isn’t Darlington Blade! He told me so himself!”
Gheevy gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath, but Pryce held his ground, his palms up in innocent supplication.
“Come now, Miss Ambersong,” Lymwich said, both threateningly and soothingly. “It’s too late for wild accusations. They won’t help you now.”
Dearlyn laughed into the rain, which now pounded the deck like thousands of tiny fists. “No! Nothing will help me now!” she screamed into the wind.
Lymwich took another step toward her, but the deck was getting slippery and the storm was becoming blinding. Dearlyn backed up, keeping the staff between Pryce, who hadn’t moved, and Lymwich, who wouldn’t stop moving.
“I won’t be enfeebled,” the daughter of Geerling Ambersong warned. “Not by the likes of you.” But she saved her greatest animosity for the man who had accused her. “You!” she said miserably. “So the ‘great’ Darlington Blade triumphs once more. I’m ‘behind’ you again, am I? Well, at least this will be the last time!”
Dearlyn hurled her staff with all her might. It sliced through the air, started to curve, then went directly between Lymwich’s legs, tripping her. The inquisitrix went down in a heap.
Dearlyn turned and raced toward the bow of the skyship as the Verity entered into the very worst of the storm. Lightning bolts danced around her as rain splashed and thunder rolled. Pryce charged after her, the lightning bolts slashing vengefully across his path.
Dearlyn leapt atop the railing, holding onto the figurehead of Mystra with one hand. She turned to see Pryce diving after her just as a lightning bolt smashed down directly into his chest.
The others gasped and fell back, their hands and arms shielding their eyes. Pryce danced in place, his toes actually leaving the deck as the bolt crackled and coursed… into the cloak clasp.
For a second it was hard to tell whether the bolt was going in or coming out of the sea of brilliant sparks. But then the lightning was gone, and Pryce stood six feet from Dearlyn, completely unscathed. The only evidence of the strike was a small wisp of smoke rising from the cloak clasp.
Covington blinked in surprise as Dearlyn threw her head back, laughing hysterically. ‘The great Darlington Blade! Even the gods can’t touch him!” Then she looked at him evenly, all hysteria leaving her voice. “I knew there was good reason to hate you.”
And with those final words, Dearlyn Ambersong stepped off the rail and disappeared into the clouds below.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Twenty-five,” said Gheevy Wotfirr. “Wrong,” said Pryce Covington.
It was a beautiful autumnal afternoon, and they were walking through the rolling green hills southwest of the Lallor Gate. It was in the direction completely opposite from the Mark of the Question Tree. Behind them, beyond the Lallor walls, the Fall Festival was in full swing. Even from here, the two could hear the music and revelry that marked the celebration.
“Divide thirty by half…” Gheevy considered again.
“Yes?”
“And add ten.” ‘Yes.”
‘Twenty-five.” “No.”
“Argh!” Gheevy groaned, balling his little fists. To say that the remainder of the voyage to Mount Talath had been uneventful would be an understatement, considering what had come before. Incredibly, within minutes of Dearlyn Ambersong’s leap, the Verity had cleared the storm clouds, and the rest of the journey was made in blue skies and sunshine.
No one on board, however, was in a mood to appreciate it. Karkober couldn’t stop crying, while the rest of the people who had once been suspects either sat in motionless shock or wandered around in a reflective fog. Despite that, the grandeur of Mount Talath was such that even the most aggrieved individual couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by its majesty. Then there was the powerful presence of Priestess Greila Sontoin.
Wearing spectacular ceremonial robes, she had swept down a long runway that was swathed in thick blue velvet. There was a big smile on her pale, lined face, but she looked remarkably good for a person rumored to be more than a hundred and twenty-five years old. To the crew’s surprise, and Pryce’s shock, she opened her arms to welcome the great Darlington Blade, who shyly came forward, falling to his knees before her.
” ‘One knee,’ ” he later told the enraptured crew on the trip back. “She actually whispered to me, ‘One knee is all that is required. One knee looks like I’m going to bless you. Two knees and you look like you’re going to be sick all over my shoes!’” But no matter how they begged and entreated him, he wouldn’t tell them the subject of their short, but extremely private, talk.
“Rest assured that the legacy of Geerling… and Dearlyn… Ambersong is in the best possible hands,” he told them. “And that you are all welcome to visit anytime… and perhaps even enter the Order of Mystra to learn the wisdom of the ages.”
That was when Matthaunin Witterstaet finally gave Pryce the answer to his conundrum.
‘Think, Gheevy,” Pryce insisted, making it to the top of another green, grassy hill beyond the Lallor Gate. “Half. By half. What’s half?”
“Of thirty? Fifteen.”
“Yes and no. You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t listen.
Fifteen is half, right? So?”
“So… thirty divided by half is fifteen!”
“No, no! You’re not listening to the actual problem!”
They kept going at it until they came to the crest above a low, rolling valley. There, nestled in the gentle slope below, was a small but comfortable-looking abode made of stone, wood, and plaster.
“There it is,” Pryce said. ‘Teddington Fullmer’s cottage.” He started down toward it, the wind rippling his clothes and hair, but Gheevy had only one thing on his mind.
“All right, I give up,” said the halfling, coming up from behind Pryce. ‘You tell me. What’s the answer to your conundrum?”
“I’m not telling.”
“Oh, come on, Blade!”
“No,” Pryce laughed and then began to run. ‘You have to get it yourself.”
And so it went, until they reached the cottage’s unlocked door.
“Half is half,” Gheevy was saying as Pryce stepped inside. ‘You cut something in half…” Then he, too, stepped
