The green-robed druid issued a series of chit-chits and clucks, but the white-furred squirrel seemed oblivious to it all, sitting on a branch in the towering oak tree high above the three men.
"Will, you seem to have lost your voice," remarked another of the men, a bearded woodland priest with gentle-looking features and thick blond hair hanging well below his shoulders.
"Can you call the beast any better than I?" the green-robed druid asked indignantly. "I fear that this creature is strange in more ways than its coat."
The other two laughed at their companion's attempt to explain his ineptitude.
"I grant you," said the third of the group, the highest-ranking initiate, "the squirrel's color is beyond the usual, but speaking to animals is among the easiest of our abilities. Surely by now-"
"With all respect," the frustrated druid interrupted, "I have made contact with the creature. It just refuses to reply. Try yourself, I invite you."
"A squirrel refusing to speak?" asked the second of the group with a chuckle. "Surely they are among the chattiest..."
"Not that one," came a reply from behind. The three druids turned to see a priest coming down the wide dirt road from the ivy-streaked building, the skip of youth evident in his steps. He was of average height and build, though perhaps more muscular than most, with gray eyes that turned up at their comers when he smiled and curly brown locks that bounced under the wide brim of his hat. His tan-white tunic and trousers showed him to be a priest of Deneir, god of one of the host sects of the Edificant Library. Unlike most within his order, though, this young man also wore a decorative light blue silken cape and a wide-brimmed hat, also blue and banded in red, with a plume on the right-hand side. Set in the band's center was a porcelain-and-gold pendant depicting a candle burning above an eye, the symbol of Deneir.
"That squirrel is tight-lipped, except when he chooses not to be," the young priest went on. The normally unflappable druids' stunned expressions amused him, so he decided to startle them a bit more. "Well met, Arcite, Newander, and Cleo. I congratulate you, Cleo, on your ascension to the status of initiate."
"How do you know of us?" asked Arcite, the druid leader. "We have not yet reported to the library and have told no one of our coming." Arcite and Newander, the blond-haired priest, exchanged suspicious glances, and Arcite's voice became stem. "Have your masters been scrying, looking for us with magical means?"
"No, no, nothing like that," the young priest replied immediately, knowing the secretive druids' aversion to such tactics. "I remember you, all three, from your last visit to the library."
"Preposterous!" piped in Cleo. "That was fourteen years ago. You could not have been more than..."
"A boy," answered the young priest. "So I was, seven years old. You had a fourth to your party, as I recall, an aging lady of great powers. Shannon, I believe was her name."
"Incredible," muttered Arcite. "You are correct, young priest." Again the druids exchanged concerned looks, suspecting trickery here. Druids were not overly fond of anyone not of their order; they rarely came to the renowned Edificant Library, sitting high in the secluded Snowflake Mountains, and then only when they had word of a discovery of particular interest, a rare tome of herbs or animals, or a new recipe for potions to heal wounds or better grow their gardens. As a group, they began to turn away, rudely, but then Newander, on a sudden impulse, spun back around to face the young priest, who now leaned casually on a fine walking stick, its silver handle sculpted masterfully into the image of a ram's head.
"Cadderly?" Newander asked through a widening grin. Arcite, too, recognized the young man and remembered the unusual story of the most unusual child. Cadderly had come to live at the library before his fifth birthday-rarely were any accepted before the age of ten. His mother had died several months before that, and his father, too immersed in studies of his own, had neglected the child. Thobicus, the dean of the Edificant Library, had heard of the promising boy and had generously taken him in.
"Cadderly," Arcite echoed. "Is that really you?" "At your service," Cadderly replied, bowing low,
"and well met. I am honored that you remember me, good Newander and venerable Arcite."
"Who?" Cleo whispered, looking curiously to Newander. Cleo's face, too, brightened in recognition a few moments later.
"Yes, you were just a boy," said Newander, "an overly curious little boy, as I recall!"
"Forgive me," said Cadderly, bowing again. "One does not often find the opportunity to converse with a troupe of druids!"
"Few would care to," remarked Arcite, "but you ... are among that few, so it would appear."
Cadderly nodded, but his smile suddenly disappeared. "I pray that nothing has happened to Shannon," he said, truly concerned. The druid had treated him well on that long-ago occasion. She had shown him beneficial plants, tasty roots, and had made flowers bloom before his eyes. To Cadderly's astonishment, Shannon had transformed herself, an ability of the most powerful druids, into a graceful swan and had flown high into the morning sky. Cadderly had dearly wished to join her-he remembered that longing most vividly-but the druid had no power to similarly transform him.
"Nothing terrible, if that is what you mean," replied Arcite. "She died several years back, peacefully."
Cadderly nodded. He was about to offer his condolences, but he prudently remembered that druids neither feared nor lamented death, seeing it as the natural conclusion to life and a rather unimportant event in the overall scheme of universal order.
"Do you know this squirrel?" asked Cleo suddenly, determined to restore his reputation.
"Percival," Cadderly replied, "a friend of mine."
"A pet?" Newander asked, his bright eyes narrowing suspiciously. Druids did not approve of people keeping pets.
Cadderly laughed heartily. "If any is the pet in our relationship, I fear it is I," he said honestly. "Percival accepts my strokes-sometimes-and my food-rather eagerly-but as I am more interested in him than he in me, he is the one who decides when and where."
The druids shared Cadderly's laugh. "A most excellent beast," said Arcite, then with a series of clicks and chits, he congratulated Percival.
"Wonderful," came Cadderly's sarcastic response, "encourage him." The druids' laughter increased and Percival, watching it all from his high branch, shot Cadderly a supercilious look.
"Well, come down here and say hello!" Cadderly called, banging the lowest tree branch with his walking stick. "Be polite, at least."
Percival did not look up from the acorn he was munching.
"He does not understand, I fear," said Cleo. "Perhaps if I translate ..."
"He understands," Cadderly insisted, "as well as you or I. He is just a stubborn one, and I can prove it!" He looked back up to the squirrel. "When you find the time, Percival," he said slyly,
"I left a plate of cacasa-nut and butter out for you in my room ... ." Before Cadderly even finished, the squirrel whipped off along a branch, hopped to another, and then to the next tree in line along the road. In a few short moments, the squirrel had leaped to a gutter along the library's roof and, not slowing a bit, zipped across a trail of thick ivy and in through an open window on the northern side of the large structure's third floor.
"Percival does have such a weakness for cacasa-nut and butter," Cadderly remarked when the druid's laughter had subsided.
"A most excellent beast!" Arcite said again. "And yourself, Cadderly, it is good to see that you have remained with your studies. Your masters spoke highly of your potential fourteen years ago, but I had no idea that your memory would be so very sharp, or, perhaps, that we druids had left such a strong and favorable impression upon you."
"It is," Cadderly replied quietly, "and you did! I am glad that you have returned-for the recently uncovered treatise on woodland mosses, I would assume. I have not seen it yet. The headmasters have kept it secured until those more knowledgeable in such matters could come and appraise its value. You see, a band of druids was not wholly unexpected, though we knew not who, how many, or when you would arrive."
The three druids nodded, admiring the ivy-veiled stone structure. The Edificant Library had stood for six hundred years, and in all that time its doors had never been closed to scholars of any but the evil religions. The building was huge, a self-contained town-it had to be, in the rough and secluded
Snowflakes-more than four hundred feet across and half as deep through all four of its above-ground levels. Will staffed and well stocked-rumors spoke of miles of storage tunnels and catacombs beneath-it had survived ore attacks, giant-hurled boulders, and the most brutal mountain winters, and had remained unscathed through the centuries.
The library's collection of books, parchments, and artifacts was considerable, filling nearly the entire first floor, the library proper, and many smaller study chambers on the second floor, and the complex contained many unique and ancient works. While not as large as the great libraries of the Realms, such as the treasured collections of Silverymoon to the north and the artifact museums of Calimport to the south, the Edificant Library was convenient to the west-central Realms and the Cormyr region and was open to all who wished to learn, on the condition that they did not plan to use their knowledge for baneful purposes.
The building housed other important research tools, such as alchemy and herbalist shops, and was set in an inspiring atmosphere with breathtaking mountain views and manicured grounds that included a small topiary garden. The Edificant Library had been designed as more than a storage house for old books; it was a place for poetry reading, painting, and sculpting, a place for discussions of the profound and often unanswerable questions common to the intelligent races.
Indeed, the library was a fitting tribute to Deneir and Oghma, the allied gods of knowledge, literature, and art.
"The treatise is a large work, so I have been told," said Arcite. "Much time will be expended in examining it properly. I pray that the boarding rates are not excessive. We are men of little material means."
"Dean Thobicus will take you in without cost, I would expect," answered Cadderly. "Your service cannot be underestimated in this matter." He shot a wink at Arcite. "If not, come to me. I recently inscribed a tome for a nearby wizard, a spellbook he lost in a fire. The man was generous. You see, I had originally inscribed the spellbook, and the wizard, forgetful as most wizards seem to be, never had made a copy."
"The work was unique?" Cleo asked, shaking his head in disbelief that a wizard could be so foolish with his most prized possession.
"It was," Cadderly replied, tapping his temple, "except for in here."
"'You remembered the intricacies of a wizard's spellbook enough to recreate it from memory?" Cleo asked, stunned.
Cadderly shrugged his shoulders. "The wizard was generous."
"Truly you are a remarkable one, young Cadderly," said Arcite.
"A most excellent beast?" the young priest asked hopefully, drawing wide smiles from all three.
"Indeed!" said Arcite. "Do look in on us in the days ahead." Given the druids' reputation for seclusion, Cadderly understood how great a compliment he had just been paid. He bowed low, and the druids did likewise, then they bid Cadderly farewell and moved up the road to the library.
Cadderly watched them, then looked up to his open window. Percival sat on the sill, determinedly licking the remains of his cacasa-nut and butter lunch from his tiny paws.
A tiny drop slipped off the end of the coil, touching a saturated cloth that led down into a small beaker. Cadderly shook his head and put a hand on the spigot controlling the flow.
"Remove your hand from that!" cried the frantic alchemist from a workbench across his shop. He jumped up and stormed over to the too-curious young priest.
"It is terribly slow," Cadderly remarked.
"It has to be," Vicero Belago explained for perhaps the hundredth time. "You are no fool, Cadderly. You know better than to be impatient. This is Oill of Impact, remember? A most volatile substance. A stronger drip could cause a cataclysm in a shop so filled with unstable potions!"
Cadderly sighed and accepted the scolding with a conceding nod. "How much do you have for me?" he asked, reaching into one of the many pouches on his belt and producing a tiny vial.
"You are so very impatient," remarked Belago, but Cadderly knew that he was not really angry.
Cadderly was a prime customer and had many times provided important translations of archaic alchemical notes. "Only what is in the beaker, I fear. I had to wait for some ingredients-hill giant fingernails and crushed oxen horn."
Cadderly gently lifted the soaked cloth and tilted the beaker. It contained just a few drops, enough to fill only one of his tiny vials. "That makes six," he said, using the cloth to coax the liquid into the vial. "Forty-four to go."
"Are you confident that you want that many?" Belago asked him, not for the first time.
"Fifty," Cadderly declared.
"The price ..."
"Will-worth it!" Cadderly laughed as he secured his vial and skipped out of the shop. His spirits did not diminish as he moved down the hall to the southern wing of the third floor and the chambers of Histra, a visiting priestess of Sune, Goddess of Love.
"Dear Cadderly," greeted the priestess, who was twenty years Cadderly's senior but quite alluring.
She wore a deep crimson habit, cut low in the front and high on the sides, revealing most of her curvy figure. Cadderly had to remind himself to keep his manners proper and his gaze on her eyes.
"Do come in," Histra purred. She grabbed the front of Cadderly's tunic and yanked him into the room, pointedly shutting the door behind him.
He managed to glance away from Histra long enough to see a brightly glowing object shining through a heavy blanket.
"Is it finished?" Cadderly asked squeakily. He cleared his throat, embarrassed.
Histra ran a finger lightly down his arm and smiled at his involuntary shudder. "The dweomer is cast," she replied. "All that remains is payment."
"Two hundred ... gold pieces," Cadderly stammered, "as we agreed." He reached for a pouch, but Histra's hand intercepted his.
"It was a difficult spell," she said, "a variation of the norm." She paused and gave a coy smile.
"But I do so love variations," Histra declared teasingly. "The price could be less, you know, for you."
Cadderly did not doubt that his gulp was heard out in the hallway. He was a disciplined scholar and had come here for a specific purpose. He had much work to do, but Histra's allure was undeniable and her fine perfume overpowering. Cadderly reminded himself to breathe.
"We could forget the gold payment altogether," Histra offered, her fingers smoothly tracing the outline of Cadderly's ear. The young scholar wondered if he might fall over.
In the end, though, an image of spirited Danica sitting on Histra's back, casually rubbing the priestess's face across the floor, brought Cadderly under control. Danica's room was not far away, just across the hall and a few doors down. He firmly removed Histra's hand from his ear, handed her the pouch as payment, and scooped up the shrouded, glowing object.
For all his practicality, though, when Cadderly exited the chambers two hundred gold pieces poorer, he feared that his face was shining as brightly as the disk Histra had enchanted for him.
Cadderly had other business-he always did-but, not wanting to arouse suspicions by roaming about the library with an eerily glowing pouch, he made straight for the north wing and his own room.
Percival was still on the window sill when he entered, basking in the late morning sun.
"I have it!" Cadderly said excitedly, taking out the disk. The room immediately brightened, as if in full sunlight, and the startled squirrel darted for the shadows under Cadderly's bed.
Cadderly didn't take time to reassure Percival. He rushed to his desk and, from the jumbled and overfilled side drawer, produced a cylinder a foot long and two inches in diameter. With a slight twist, Cadderly removed the casing from the back end, revealing a slot just large enough for the disk. He eagerly dropped the disk in and replaced the casing, shielding the light.
"I know you are under there," Cadderly teased, and he popped the metal cap off the front end of the tube, loosing a focused beam of light.
Percival didn't particularly enjoy the spectacle. He darted back and forth under the bed and Cadderly, laughing that he had finally gotten the best of the sneaky squirrel, followed him diligently with the light. This went on for a few moments, until Percival dashed out from under the bed and hopped out the open window. The squirrel returned a second later, though, just long enough to snatch up the cacasa-nut and butter bowl and chatter a few uncomplimentary remarks to Cadderly.
Still laughing, the young priest capped his new toy and hung it on his belt, then moved to his oaken wardrobe. Most of the library's host priests kept their closets stocked with extra vestments, wanting always to look their best for the continual stream of visiting scholars. In Cadderly's wardrobe, however, the packed clothing took up just a small fraction of the space.
Piles of notes and even larger piles of various inventions cluttered the floor, and custom-designed leather belts and straps took up most of the hanging bar. Also, hanging inside one of the doors was a large mirror, an extravagance far beyond the meager purses of most other priests at the library, particularly the younger, lower-ranking ones such as Cadderly.
Cadderly took out a wide bandoleer and moved to the bed. The leather shoulder harness contained fifty specially made darts and, with the vial he had taken from the alchemist's shop, Cadderly was about to complete the sixth. The darts were small and narrow and made of iron, except for silver tips, and their centers were hollowed to the exact size of the vials.
Cadderly flinched as he eased the vial into the dart, trying to exert enough pressure to snap it into place without breaking it.
"Oill of Impact," he reminded himself, conjuring images of blackened fingertips.
The young scholar breathed easier when the volatile potion was properly set. He removed his silken cape, meaning to put on the bandoleer and go to the mirror to see how it fit, as he always did after completing another dart, but a sharp rap of his door gave him just enough time to place the leather belt behind him before Headmaster Avery Schell, a rotund and red-faced man, burst in.
"What are these calls for payment?" the priest cried, waving a stack of parchments at Cadderly. He began peeling them off and tossing them to the floor as he read their banners.
"Leatherworker, silversmith, weaponsmith ... You are squandering your gold!"
Over Avery's shoulder, Cadderly noticed the toothy smile of Kierkan Rufo and knew where the headmaster had gained his information and the fuel for his ire. The tall and sharp-featured Rufo was only a year older than Cadderly, and the two, while friends, were principal rivals in their ascent through the ranks of their order, and possibly in other pursuits as well, considering a few longing stares Cadderly had seen Rufo toss Danica's way. Getting each other into trouble had become a game between them, a most tiresome game as far as the headmasters, particularly the beleaguered Avery, were concerned.
"The money was well spent. Headmaster," Cadderly began tentatively, well aware that his and Avery's interpretations of "well spent" differed widely. "In pursuit of knowledge."
"In pursuit of toys," Rufo remarked with a snicker from the doorway, and Cadderly noted the tall man's satisfied expression. Cadderly had earned the headmaster's highest praise for his work on the lost spellbook, to his rival's obvious dismay, and Rufo was obviously enjoying bringing Cadderly back down.
"You are too irresponsible to be allowed to keep such sums!" Avery roared, heaving the rest of the parchments into the air. "You have not the wisdom "
"I kept only a portion of the profits," Cadderly reminded him, "and spent that in accord with Deneir's-"
"No!" Avery interrupted. "Do not hide behind a name that you obviously do not understand. Deneir.
What do you know of Deneir, young inventor? You have spent all but your earliest years here in the Edificant Library, but you display so little understanding of our tenets and mores. Go south to Lantan with your toys, if that would please you, and play with the priests of Gond!"
"I do not understand."
"Indeed you do not," Avery answered, his tone becoming almost resigned. He paused for a long moment, and Cadderly recognized that he was choosing his words very carefully.
"We are a center of learning," the headmaster began. "We impose few restrictions upon those who wish to come here-even Gondsmen have ventured through our doors. You have seen them, but have you noticed that they were never warmly received?"
Cadderly thought for a moment, then nodded. Indeed, he remembered clearly that Avery had gone out of his way to keep him from meeting the Gondish priests every time they visited the library. "You are correct, and I do not understand," Cadderly replied. "I should think that priests of Deneir and Gond, dedicated to knowledge, would act as partners."
Avery shook Percival head slowly and very determinedly. "There you err," he said. "We put a condition on knowledge that the Gondsmen do not follow." He paused and shook his head again, a simple action that stung Cadderly more than any wild screaming fit Avery had ever launched at him.
"Why are you here?" Avery asked quietly, in controlled tones. "Have you ever asked yourself that question? You frustrate me, boy. You are perhaps the most intelligent person I have ever known-and I have known quite a few scholars-but you possess the impulses and emotions of a child. I knew would be like this. When Thobicus said we would take you in ..." Avery stopped abruptly, as if reconsidering his word; then finished with a sigh.
It seemed to Cadderly that the headmaster always stopped short of finishing this same, beleaguered point about morality stopped short of preaching, as though he expected Cadderly to come to conclusions of his own. Cadderly was not surprise a moment later when Avery abruptly changed the subject.
"What of your duties while you sit here in your 'pursuit of knowledge'?" the headmaster asked, his voice filling with anger once again. "Did you bother to light the candles in the study chambers this morning?"
Cadderly flinched. He knew he had forgotten something. "I did not think so," Avery said. "You are a valuable asset t our order, Cadderly, and undeniably gifted as both a scholar and scribe, but, I warn you, your behavior is far from accept able." Avery's face flushed bright red as Cadderly, still no properly sorting through the headmaster's concerns for him met his unblinking stare.
Cadderly was almost used to these scoldings; it was Aver] who always came rushing to investigate Rufo's claims. Cadderly did not think that a bad thing; Avery, for all his fuming was surely more lenient than some of the other, older, head masters.
Avery turned suddenly, nearly knocking Rufo over, and stormed down the hallway, sweeping the angular man up in his wake.
Cadderly shrugged and tried to dismiss the whole incident as another of Headmaster Avery's misplaced explosions. Avery obviously just didn't understand him. The young priest wasn't overly worried; his scribing skills brought in huge amounts of money, which he split evenly with the library. Admittedly, he was not the most dutiful follower of Deneir. He was lax concerning the rituals of his station and it often got him into trouble. But Cadderly knew that most of the headmasters understood that Us indiscretions came not from any disrespect for the order, but simply because he was so busy learning and creating, two very high priorities in the teachings of Deneir-and two often profitable priorities for the expensive-to-maintain library. By Cadderly's figuring, the priests of Deneir, like most religious orders, could find it in their hearts to overlook minor indiscretions, especially considering the greater gain.
"Oh, Rufo," Cadderly called, reaching to his belt.
Rufo's angular face poked back around the jamb of the open door, his little black eyes sparkling with victorious glee.
"Yes?" the tall man purred.
"You won that one"
Rufo's grin widened.
Cadderly shone a beam of light in his face, and the stunned Rufo recoiled in terror, bumping heavily against the wall across the corridor.
"Keep your eyes open," Cadderly said through a wide smile. "The next attack is mine." He gave a wink, but Rufo, realizing the relatively inoffensive nature of Cadderly's newest invention, only sneered back, brushed his matted black hair aside, and rushed away, his hard black boots clomping on the tiled floor as loudly as a shoed horse on cobblestones.
The three druids were granted a room in a remote corner of the fourth floor, far from the bustle of the library, as Arcite had requested. They settled in easily, not having much gear, and Arcite suggested they set off at once to study the newly found moss tome.
"I shall remain behind," Newander replied. "It was a long road, and I am truly weary. I would be no help to you with my eyes falling closed."
"As you wish," Arcite said. "We shall not be gone too long.
Perhaps you can go down and pick up on the work when we have ended."
Newander moved to the room's window when his friends had gone and stared out across the majestic Snowflake Mountains. He had been to the Edificant Library only once before, when he had first met Cadderly. Newander had been but a young man then, about the same age as Cadderly was now, and the library, with its bustle of humanity, crafted items, and penned tomes, had affected him deeply.
Before he had come, Newander had known only the quiet woodlands, where the animals ruled and men were few.
After he had left, Newander had questioned his calling. He preferred the woodlands, that much he knew, but he could not deny the attraction he felt for civilization, the curiosity about advances in architecture and knowledge.
Newander had remained a druid, though, a servant of Silvanus, the Oak Father, and had done well in his studies. The natural order was of primary importance, by his sincere measure, but stilll...
It was not without concern that Newander had returned to the Edificant Library. He looked out at majestic mountains and wished he were out there, where the world was simple and safe.
From a distance, the rocky spur at the northeastern edge of the Snowflake Mountains seemed quite unremarkable: piles of strewn boulders covering tightly packed slopes of smaller stones. But so, too, to those who did not know better, might a wolverine seem an innocuous thing. A dozen separate tunnels led under that rocky slope, and each of them promised only death to wayward adventurers seeking shelter from the night. This particular mountain spur, which was far from natural, housed Castle Trinity, a castle-in-mountain's-clothing, a fortress for an evil brotherhood determined to gain in power. Wary must wanderers be in the Realms, for civilization often ends at a duty wall.
"Will it work?" Aballister whispered nervously, tentatively fingering the precious parchment.
Rationally, he held faith in the recipe-Talona had led him to it-but after so much pain and trouble, and with the moment of victory so dose at hand, he could not prevent a bit of apprehension. He looked up from the scroll and out a small window in the fortified complex. The Shining Plains lay flat and dark to the east, and the setting sun lit reflected fires on the Snowflake Mountains' snow-capped peaks to the west.
The small imp folded his leathery wings around in front of himself and crossed Percival arms over them, impatiently tapping one clawed foot. "Quiesta bene tellemara," he mumbled under his breath.
"What was that?" Aballister replied, turning sharply and cocking one thin eyebrow at his often impertinent familiar. "Did you say something, Druzil?"
"It will work, I said. It will work," Druzil lied in his raspy, breathless voice. "Would you doubt the Lady Talona? Would you doubt her wisdom in bringing us together?"
Aballister muttered suspiciously, accepting the suspected insult as an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence of having so wise and wicked a familiar. The lean wizard knew that Druzil's translation was less than accurate, and that 'quiesta bene tellemara' was undoubtedly something uncomplimentary. He didn't doubt Druzil's appraisal of the powerful potion, though, and that somehow unnerved him most of all. If Druzil's claims for the chaos curse proved true, Aballister and his evil companions would soon realize more power than even the ambitious wizard had ever hoped for. For many years Castle Trinity had aspired to conquer the Snowflake Mountain region, the elven wood of Shilmista, and the human settlement of Carradoon. Now, with the chaos curse, that process might soon begin.
Aballister looked beside the small window to the golden brazier, supported by a tripod, that always burned in his room. This was his gate to the lower planes, the same gate that had delivered Druzil. The wizard remembered that time vividly, a day of tingling anticipation. The avatar of the goddess Talona had instructed him to use his powers of sorcery and had given him Druzil's name, promising him that the imp would deliver a most delicious recipe for entropy. Little did he know then that the imp's precious scheme would involve two years of pains taking and costly effort, tax the wizard to the limits of his endurance, and destroy so many others in the process.
Druzil's recipe, the chaos curse, was worth it, Aballister decided. He had taken its creation as Percival personal quest for Talona, as the great task of his life, and as the gift to his goddess that would elevate him above her priests.
The interplanar gate was closed now; Aballister had powders that could open and shut it as readily as if he were turning a knob. The powders sat in small, carefully marked pouches, half for opening, half for closing, lined up alternately on a nearby table. Only Druzil knew about them besides Aballister, and the imp had never gone against the wizard's demands and tampered with the gate. Druzil could be impertinent and was often I a tremendous nuisance, but he was reliable enough concerning important matters.
Aballister continued his scan and saw Us reflection in a mirror across the room. Once he had been a handsome man, with inquisitive eyes and a bright smile. The change had been dramatic. Aballister was hollowed and worn now, all the dabbling in dark magic, worshiping a demanding goddess, and controlling chaotic creatures such as Druzil having taken their toll. Many years before, the wizard had given up everything-his family and friends, and all the joys he once had held dear-in his hunger for knowledge and power, and that obsession had - only multiplied when he had met Talona.
More than once, though, both before and after that meeting, Aballister had wondered if it had been worth it. Druzil offered him the attainment of Percival lifelong quest, power beyond his grandest imaginings, but the reality hadn't lived up to Aballister's expectations. At this point in Percival wretched life, the power seemed as hollow as Us own face.
"But these ingredients!" Aballister went on, trying, perhaps hoping, that he could find a weakness in the imp's seemingly solid designs. "Eyes of an umber hulk? Blood of a druid? And what is the purpose of this, tentacles of a displacer beast?"
"Chaos curse," Druzil replied, as if the words alone shout dispell the wizard's doubts. "It is a mighty potion you plan to brew, my master." Druzil's toothy smile sent a shudder of revulsion along Aballister's backbone. The wizard had never be come overly comfortable around the cruel imp.
"Dell quimera cas dempa," Druzil said through Percival long and pointy teeth. "A powerful potion indeed!" he translated falsely. In truth, Druzil had said, "Even considering your limitations,"
but Aballister didn't need to know that.
"Yes," Aballister muttered again, tapping a bony finger on the end of his hawkish nose. "I really must take the time to learn your language, my dear Druzil."
"Yes," Druzil echoed, wiggling his elongated ears. "lye quiesta pas tellemara," he said, which meant, "If you weren't so stupid." Druzil dropped into a low bow to cover his deceptions, but the act only convinced Aballister further that the imp was making fun of him.
"The expense of these ingredients has been considerable," Aballister said, getting back to the subject,
"And the brewing is not exact," added Druzil with obvious sarcasm. "And we could find, my master, a hundred more! problems if we searched, but the gains, I remind you. The gains! Your brotherhood is not so strong, not so. It shan't survive, I say! Not without the brew."
"God-stuff?" mused Aballister.
"Call it so," replied Druzil. "Since it was Talona who led you to it, that her designs be furthered, perhaps it truly is. A fitting title, for the sake of Barjin and his wretched priests.
They will be more devout and attentive if they understand that they are fabricating a true agent of Talona, a power in itself to lavish their worship upon, and their devotion will help keep ore-faced Ragnor and his brutish warriors in line."
Aballister laughed aloud as he thought of the three clerics, the second order of the evil triumvirate, kneeling and praying before a simple magical device.
"Name it Tuanta Miancay, the Fatal Horror," Druzil offered, his snickers purely sarcastic. "Barjin will like that." Druzil contemplated the suggestion for a moment, then added, "No, not the Fatal Horror. Tuanta QUIRO Miancay, the Most Fatal Horror."
Aballister's laughter trebled, with just a hint of uneasiness in it. "Most Fatal Horror" was a tide associated with Talona's highest-ranking and most devout priests-Barjin, Castle Trinity's clerical leader, had not yet attained that honor, being referred to only as a Most Debilitating Holiness. That this chaos curse would outstrip him in tide would sting the arrogant cleric, and Aballister would enjoy that spectacle. Barjin and his band had been at the castle for only a year.
The priest had traveled all the way from Damara, homeless and broken and with no god to aall his own since a new order of paladin kings had banished his vile deity back to the lower planes.
Like Aballister, Barjin claimed to have encountered the avatar of Talona and that it was I she who had shown him the way to Castle Trinity. Barjin's dynamism and powers were considerable, and his followers had carried uncounted treasures along with them on their journey. When they first had arrived, the ruling triumvirate, particularly Aballister, had welcomed them with open arms, drinking it grand that Talona had brought together so powerful a union, a marriage that would strengthen the castle and provide the resources to complete Druzil's recipe. Now, months later, Aballister had begun to foster reservations about the union, particularly about the priest. Barjin was a charismatic man, something frowned upon in an order dedicated to disease and poison. Many of Talona's priests scarred themselves or covered their skin with grotesque tattoos. Barjin had done none of that, had sacrificed nothing to his new goddess, but, because of his wealth and his uncanny persuasive powers, he quickly had risen to the leadership of the castle's clerics.
Aballister had allowed the ascent, thinking it Talona's will, and had gone out of his way to appease Barjin-in retrospect, he was not so certain of his choice. Now, however, he needed Barjin's support to hold Castle Trinity together, and ‚ rjin's riches to fund the continuing creation of the chaos curse.
"I must see about the brewing of our ingredients for the god-stuff," the wizard said with that thought in mind. "When we find a quiet time, though, Druzil, I would like to learn a bit of that full-flavored language you so often toss about."
"As you please, my master," replied the imp, bowing as Aballister left the small room and closed the door behind him.
Druzil spoke his next words in his private tongue, the language of the lower planes, fearing that Aballister might be listening at the door. "Quiesta bene tellemara, Aballister!" The mischievous imp couldn't help himself as he whispered, "But you are too stupid," aloud, for no better reason than to hear the words spoken in both tongues.
For all of the insults he so casually threw his master's way, though, Druzil appreciated the wizard. Aballister was marvelously intelligent for a human, and the most powerful of his or her of three, and by Druzil's estimation those three wizards were the strongest leg of the triumvirate.
Aballister would complete the cursing potion and supply the device to deliver it, and for that, Druzil, who had craved this day for decades, would be undyingly grateful. Druzil was smarter than most imps, smarter than most people, and when he had come upon the ancient recipe in an obscure manuscript a century before, he wisely had kept it hidden from his former master, another human.
That wizard hadn't the resources or the wisdom to carry through the plan and properly spread the cause of chaos, but Aballister did.
Aballister felt a mixture of hope and trepidation as he stared hard at the reddish glow emanating from within the dear bottle. This was the first test of the chaos curse, and all of the wizard's expectations were tempered by the huge expense of putting this small amount together.
"One more ingredient," whispered the anxious imp, sharing none of Percival master's doubts. "Add the yote, then we may release the smoke."
"It is not to be imbibed?" Aballister asked.
Druzil paled noticeably. "No, master, not that," he rasped. "The consequences are too grave. Too grave!"
Aballister spent a long moment studying the imp. In the two years Druzil had been beside him, he could not recall ever seeing the imp so badly shaken. The wizard walked across the room to a cabinet and produced a second bottle, smaller than the plain one holding the potion, but intricately decorated with countless magical runes. When Aballister pulled off the stopper, a steady stream of smoke issued forth.
"It is ever-smoking," the wizard explained. "A minor item of magicall..."
"I know," Druzil interrupted. "And I have already come to know that the flask will mate correctly with our potion."
Aballister started to ask how Druzil could possibly know that, how Druzil could even know about his ever-smoking bottle, but he held his questions, remembering that the mischievous imp had contacts on other planes that could answer many things.
"Could you create more of those?" Druzil asked, indicating the wondrous bottle.
Aballister gritted his teeth at yet another added expense, and his expression alone answered the question.
"The chaos curse is best served in mist, and with its magical properties, the bottle will continue to spew it forth for many years, though its range will be limited," Druzil explained. "Another container will be necessary if we mean to spread the intoxicant properly."
"Intoxicant?" Aballister balked, on the verge of rage. Druzil gave a quick flap of his leathery wings, putting him farther across the room from Aballister-not that distance mattered much where the powerful wizard was concerned.
"Intoxicant?" Aballister said again. "My dear, dear Druzil, do you mean to tell me that we have spent a fortune in gold, that I have groveled before Barjin and those utterly wretched priests, just to mix a batch of elvish wine?"
"Bene tellemara," came the imp's exasperated reply. "You still do not understand what we have created? Elvish wine?"
"Dwarvish mead, then?" Aballister snarled sarcastically. He took up his staff and advanced a threatening step.
"You do not understand what will happen when it is loosed," Druzil barked derisively.
"Do tell me."
Druzil snapped his wings over his face, then back behind him again, a movement that plainly revealed his frustration. "It will invade the hearts of our targets," the imp explained, "and exaggerate their desires. Simple impulses will become god-given commands. None will be affected in quite the same way, nor will the effects remain consistent to any one victim. Purely chaotic!
Those affected willl..."
Aballister raised a hand to stop him, needing no further explanation.
"I have given you power beyond your greatest hopes!" the imp growled forcefully. "Have you forgotten Talona's promise?"
"The avatar only suggested that I summon you," Aballister countered, "and only hinted that you might possess something of value."
"You cannot begin to understand the potency of the chaos curse," Druzil replied smugly. "All the races of the region will be yours to control when their own inner controls have been destroyed.
Chaos is a beautiful thing, mortal master, a force of destruction and conquest, the ultimate disease, the Most Fatal Horror. Orchestrating chaos brings power to he who remains beyond its crippling grip!"
Aballister leaned on his staff and looked away. He had to believe Druzil, and yet he feared to believe. He had given so much to this unknown recipe.
"You must learn," the imp said, seeing that Aballister was not impressed. "If we are to succeed, then you must believe." He folded his leathery wings over his head for a moment, burying himself in thought. "That young fighter, the arrogant one?" he asked suddenly.
"Haverly," Aballister answered.
"He thinks himself Ragnor's better," Druzil said, a wicked, toothy smile spreading over his face.
"He desires Ragnor's death so that he might assume captainship of the fighters."
Aballister did not argue. On several occasions, young Haverly, drunken with ale, had indicated those very desires, though he had never gone so far as to threaten the ogrillon. Even arrogant Haverly was not that stupid.
"Call him to us," Druzil begged. "Let him complete our test. Tell him that this potion could strengthen his position in the triumvirate. Tell him that it could make him even stronger than Ragnor."
Aballister stood quietly for a few moments to consider his options. Barjin had expressed grave doubts about the whole project, despite Aballister's claims that it would serve Talona beyond anything else in all the world. The priest had only funded Aballister's treasure hunt on the wizard's promise, made before a dozen witnesses, that every copper piece would be repaid if the priest was not overjoyed with the results. Barjin had lost much in Percival flight from the northern kingdom of Damara: Percival prestige, Percival army, and many valuable and powerful items, some enchanted. His retained wealth alone had played the major role in preserving a measure of his former power. Now, as the weeks dragged on with rising expenses and no measurable results, Barjin grew increasingly impatient.
"I will get Haverly at once," Aballister replied, suddenly intrigued. Neither the wizard nor Barjin held any love for either Ragnor, whom they considered too dangerous to be trusted, or Haverly, whom they considered too foolish, and any havoc that the test wreaked on that pair could help to diminish Barjin's doubts.
Besides, Aballister thought, it might be fun to watch.
Druzil sat motionless on Aballister's great desk, watching the events across the room with great interest. The imp wished he could play a larger role in this part of the test, but only the other wizards knew of his position as Aballister's familiar, or that he was alive at all. The fighters of the triumvirate, even the clerics, thought the imp merely a garish statue, for on the few occasions that any of them had entered Aballister's private quarters, Druzil had sat perfectly motionless on the desk.
"Bend low over the beaker as you add the final drop," Aballister bade Haverly, looking back to Druzil for confirmation. The imp nodded imperceptibly and flared his nostrils in anticipation.
"That is correct," Aballister said to Haverly. "Breathe deeply as you pour."
Haverly stood straight and cast a suspicious gaze at the wizard. He obviously didn't trust Aballister-certainly the wizard had shown him no friendship before now. "I have great plans," he said threateningly, "and being turned into a newt or some other strange creature is not part of them."
"You doubt?" Aballister roared suddenly, knowing that he must scare off the young fighter's doubts without hesitation. "Then go away! Anyone can complete the brewing. I thought that one as ambitious as you ..."
"Enough," Haverly interrupted, and Aballister knew his words had bit home. Haverly's suspicion was no match for his hunger for power.
"I will trust you, wizard, though you have never given me cause to trust you," Haverly finished.
"Nor have I ever given you cause not to trust me," Aballister reminded him.
Haverly stared a moment longer at Aballister, his grimace not softening, then bent low over the beaker and poured the final drops. As soon as the liquids touched, the red-glowing elixir belched a puff of red smoke right in Haverly's face. The fighter jumped back, his hand going straight to his sword.
"What have you done to me?" he demanded.
"Done?" Aballister echoed innocently. "Nothing. The smoke was harmless enough, if a bit startling."
Haverly took a moment to inspect himself to be sure that he had suffered no ill effects, then he relaxed and nodded at the wizard. "What will happen next?" he asked sharply. "Where is the power you promised me?"
"In time, dear Haverly, in time," replied Aballister. "The brewing of the elixir is only the first process."
"How long?" demanded the eager fighter.
"I could have invited Ragnor instead of you," Aballister pointedly reminded him.
Haverly's transformation at the mention of Ragnor forced the wizard back several steps. The young fighter's eyes widened grotesquely; he bit Percival lip so hard that blood dripped down Percival chin. "Ragnor!" he growled through gritted teeth. "Ragnor the imposter! Ragnor the pretender! You would not invite him, for I am his better!"
"Of course you are, dear Haverly," the wizard cooed, trying to soothe the wild-eyed man, recognizing that Haverly was on the verge of explosion. "That is why ..." Aballister never finished, for Haverly, muttering under his breath, drew his sword and charged out of the room, nearly destroying the door as he passed. Aballister stared into the hallway, blinking in disbelief.
"Intoxicant?" came a sarcastic query from across the room.
Drawn away by the screams of "Ragnor!" Aballister didn't bother to answer the imp. The wizard rushed out, not wanting to miss the coming spectacle, and soon found Us two colleagues as they made their way through the halls.
"It is Haverly, the young fighter," said Dorigen, the only female wizard in the castle.
Aballister's evil smile stopped her and her companion in their tracks.
"The potion is completed?" Dorigen asked hopefully, her amber eyes sparkling as she tossed her long black hair back over her shoulder.
"Chaos curse," Aballister confirmed as he led them on. When they arrived at the complex's large dining hall, they found that the fighting had already begun. Several tables had been flung about and a hundred startled men and ores, and even a few giants, lined the room's perimeter, watching in amazement. Ragnor and Haverly stood facing each other in the center of the room, swords drawn.
"The fighters will need a new third in their ruling council," Dorigen remarked. "Surely either Ragnor or Haverly will fall this day, leaving only two."
"Ragnor!" Haverly proclaimed loudly. "Today I take my place as leader of the fighters!"
The other warrior, a powerfully built ogrillon, having ancestors both ogre and ore, and carrying the scars of a thousand battles, hardly seemed impressed. "Today you take your place among your ancestors," he chided.
Haverly charged, his foolishly straightforward attack costing him so deep a gash on one shoulder that his arm was nearly severed. The crazed fighter didn't even grimace, didn't even notice the wound or the pain.
Though plainly amazed that the vicious wound had not slowed his opponent, Ragnor still managed to deflect Haverly's sword and get in close to the man. He caught Haverly's sword arm with his free hand and tried to position his own weapon for a strike.
Gasps of astonishment arose throughout the gathering as Haverly somehow managed to lift his brutally torn arm and similarly block Ragnor's strike.
Haverly was almost as tall as Ragnor, but many pounds lighter and not nearly as strong. Still, and despite the wicked wound, he held Ragnor at bay for many moments.
"You are stronger than you seem," Ragnor admitted, somewhat impressed, but showing no concern; on the few occasions that his incredible strength had failed him, the ogrillon had always found a way to improvise. He pressed a disguised button on his sword hilt, and a second blade, a long, slender dirk, appeared, protruding straight down from the sword hilt, right in line with Haverly's unhelmeted head.
Haverly was too engrossed to even notice. "Ragnor!" he screamed again, hysterically, his face contorted. He slammed his forehead into Ragnor's face, squashing the ogrillon's nose. Haverly's head came crashing in again, but Ragnor managed to ignore the pain and keep his concentration on the more lethal attack.
Haverly's head came back in line a third time. Ragnor, tasting his own blood, savagely twisted his sword arm free and plunged straight down, impaling the dirk deeply into Haverly's skull.
The three priests of the ruling triumvirate entered the room then, led by Barjin, who was obviously not pleased by the combat.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of Aballister, understanding that the wizard had played a role here.
"A matter for the fighters to explain, it would seem," Aballister replied with a shrug. Seeing that the priest was about to intervene in the continuing battle, Aballister bent over and whispered, "The chaos curse," in Barjin's ear.
Barjin's face brightened immediately and he watched the bloody battle with sudden enthusiasm.
Ragnor could hardly believe that Haverly still struggled. His foot-long dirk was bloodied right to the pommel, but his opponent stubbornly backed away, thrashing to free himself of the blade.
Ragnor let him go, thinking Haverly in his death throes. But, to the continuing gasps of the onlookers-Barjin's heard most loudly-Haverly did not topple.
"Ragnor!" he growled, shirring badly and spitting thick blood with every syllable. Blood filled one of his eyes and poured from his head wound, matting his brown hair, but he raised his sword and stumbled in.
Ragnor, terrified, struck first, taking advantage of Haverly's partial blindness and hacking at his already wounded arm. The force of the blow severed the arm completely, just below the shoulder, and knocked Haverly several feet to the side.
"Ragnor!" Haverly sputtered again, barely keeping his balance. Again he came in, and again Ragnor beat him back, this time slicing through Haverly's exposed ribs, digging at his heart and lungs.
Haverly's cries became unintelligible wheezes as he continued his advance. Ragnor frantically rushed out to meet him, locking him in a tight embrace that rendered both long swords useless.
Haverly had no defenses against Ragnor's free hand, now holding a dirk, and the weapon dug repeatedly, viciously, at his back.
Still, many minutes passed before Haverly finally tumbled dead to the floor.
"A worthy adversary," one bold ore remarked, coming over to inspect the body.
Covered in Haverly's blood, and with his own nose broken, Ragnor was in no mood to hear any praises for Haverly. "A stubborn fool!" he corrected, and he lopped off the ore's head with a single strike.
Barjin nodded at Aballister. "Talona watches with pleasure. Perhaps your chaos curse will prove worth the expense."
"Chaos curse?" Aballister replied as though a notion had struck him. "That is not a fitting title for such a powerful agent of Talona. Tuanta Miancay, perhaps ... no, Tuanta QUIRO Miancay."
One of Barjin's associates, understanding the language and the implications of the title, gasped aloud. His companions stared at him, and he translated. "The Most Fatal Horror!"
Barjin snapped his gaze back on Aballister, realizing the wizard's ploy. Aballister had played the most important role in the brewing and, with a few simple words, had ranked the potion above Barjin. Already the other two clerics, fanatic followers of Talona, were nodding eagerly and whispering their praises for Aballister's creation.
"Tuanta Quiro Miancay" the cornered priest echoed, forcing a smile. "Yes, that will do properly."