Christie Golden

They were murderers, thieves, rapists; villains all. They deserved to die at least three times over for their crimes. But they were also men, and because the being who watched them prepare for their slumber was not human, he felt he could not pass proper judgment.

He waited patiently in the shadows, listening to their stories of mayhem and cruelty. His blood, had it still flowed warm in his veins, would have run cold at the tales and the bragging tones in which they were told. At last, with only one to watch—and he sitting a distance away from the firelight—they fell asleep.

The vampire waited until his exquisitely sharp sense of hearing picked up the sound of steady breathing; waited for the telltale rise and fall of barrel chests. Then he came, more silent than the shadows in which he had lurked.

In life, he had been a gold elf, a native of the fair, magical realm of Evermeet. His name was Jander Sunstar, and unlike most of those who had been turned into undead, he remembered compassion and fairness. He came, as always, only to feed, to slake the unbearable thirst that raged through his cold flesh. He did not come to kill. He never did.

Jander's nose wrinkled at the scent of unwashed bodies, but beneath that sour stench came the sweet fragrance of hot blood pumping through living flesh. Jander's fangs started to emerge, and bis mouth ached. He loathed his body's cry for the red fluid, hated that he could smell it, that he was incapable of resisting its hellish call. At least, he thought, I am kinder to my victims than these men were to theirs.

Jander bent over the first man, turned him gently with a soft touch of cold fingers, knelt, and bared his fangs. A slight nick, and the flesh of the neck yielded up its honey to the famished vampire. He was repelled by the sweaty taste of the man's skin, yet captivated by the sweet flavor of his blood. A few more swallows, and he was done.

He rose, moved softly to the next man. A few mouthfuls from each of the six who slept, and Jander would be sated while his victims suffered no lasting harm. Kneeling quietly, he again manipulated the man's head so that the neck was easily accessible.

But this one had drunk less than his fellow and awoke, disturbed even by the butterfly-soft touch of the elven vampire. He screamed, and the night's peace shattered.

Instantly the other men woke, alert and dangerous. Startled, Jander hesitated only an instant, but it was time enough for them to see the golden, tunic-clad shape, time enough to glimpse his face. He turned and fled, the cries of fear and anger from the six marauders echoing behind him.

He would have to slake his thirst elsewhere tonight, and the thought gave him no pleasure.

The third night after this misadventure, Jander gazed up at the moon. It was nearly full, its soft light caressing the trees and silvering the grass. Though he loved beautiful things, the moon's splendor did not cheer him. He knew that for the rest of bis unnatural existence, he would see only the moon, never the sun; drink only blood, never wine.

A tear, bloody and crimson, escaped his eyes. "It was not my choice," he said softly, though there was no one to hear him as he stood alone in the moon-gilded meadow near Mistledale. "Is there no forgiveness, no mercy, anywhere?"

Only the soft sounds of a summer night greeted him, and they gave him no peace. He wanted quietness. He did not wish to have his heightened senses; they only reminded him of what he was.

His mouth ached, and he scented blood. Hare, deer, it didn't matter. They would all go to quench his abominable thirst. He wiped at his golden, angular face, erasing the mark of pain that had sat upon his cheek.

He walked as an elf. Not for Jander Sunstar the speed of the wolf or bat, not when it could be helped. So soft was his tread that his booted feet did not even disturb the dew on the grass as he followed the scent. He was not particularly hungry, so there was no hurry. The forest was dense, riddled with caves in which to sleep when the sun rose its beautiful, deadly, golden head.

Then, abruptly, the forest thinned. There came to the vampire's unnaturally sharp ears the sound of running water. Other than the normal threat posed to an undead creature by running water, there was no danger Jander could scent. Drawn by the water's laughter, a reminder of happier times, he stepped cautiously out of the wood's protection.

Ahead was a ring of huge, ancient oaks. There was no evidence of pruning or tilling, so the elf assumed the trees had naturally grown in such a circle. Though such things were rare, they were not unheard of. The clean smell of water reached his nostrils. The elf moved forward, thinking only to pause a moment by the stream that flowed through this peaceful place, to rest briefly before moving on. But then he heard the singing, and he froze where he was.

Elf? he thought to himself with a sudden deep ache. No, this voice was sweeter, purer even than any that issued from the throats of the Fair Folk. A nymph or naiad? He dismissed that thought as well, for such a creature would have sensed him as surely as he sensed her. She would

have fled, he thought miserably, fled from the monstrously unnatural thing he had become.

The sweet, feminine voice continued singing, as pure as if the water itself had been given tongue. The loveliness of the song that graced his pointed ears drew Jander like a bee to a flower. He entered the circle formed by the mighty oaks, and saw her.

The spring bubbled up in the center of the circle, and the woman sitting on a boulder in the midst of the water was lovely beyond words. She was the singer, and as Jander watched, enraptured, she lifted her head, dark as the oaks themselves, and fixed him with a luminous gaze.

"Come forward, Jander Sunstar," she invited. "The sacred grove knows of your pain and your trials, and makes you welcome. The water waits to cleanse and revive you."

The vampire found words, he did not know how. "If the grove welcomes one such as myself, Lady, then the world has gone mad."

She smiled, and it made his heart ache. "Nay, vampire, the rules are being bent, that is all. A great heart may sometimes triumph over a great hurt."

She rose, and he saw she was clad in flowing green garb. It was almost like leaves, almost like water . . . "Come. Bathe, and accept the quietude of Eldath."

Eldath, the Quiet One, Goddess of Singing Waters! Jan-der's thoughts tumbled through his head. Running water over his dead flesh would kill him. Jander knew it. Yet what sweeter way to finally die, to know peace, than to bathe in the pool of Eldath! Surely the only way a holy place would permit him to enter would be in order to grant him his death. It was a death worth embracing, and Jander choked back a sob as he broke into a run, slowing as he approached the Quiet One.

"This," and she spread her arms, "is an oak grove sacred to Silvanus. The spring is sacred to me. The trees listen well and remember what they have heard. All across the Dalelands, they speak well of you, of he who fights his curse, who helps the hurt, who will not kill. The forest itself has guided you here."

Her large, soft eyes grew sorrowful as she continued. "I cannot take away your curse. I cannot bring you the sun again, for that is not within my domain. Yet within the confines of this grove, I can temper your grief and sorrow—quiet the call that haunts you. Will you accept my gift?"

Jander felt tears trickling down his cheek. He made no move to wipe away the telltale streaks of red; she knew who—what—he was. Knew, and forgave.

"Aye, Lady, with deep gratitude."

"Kneel first, and lave your face," she said. He obeyed. The water was cool and refreshing. He splashed some on his eyes and cheeks, washing the blood away but unable to stop the tears. Jander wiped at his face—and stared, stunned, at his gold palm that glistened with only water.

"They are salty still, but no longer of blood," Eldath murmured, suddenly sitting beside him. "Will you enter the spring?"

Not daring to believe, he did so, careless of what the water did to his boots and clothes and tools. Jander waited for the pain of death as the running water enveloped him. None came. What did come, softly and sweetly like a gentle dream, was a sense of deep peace. With soft fingers, Eldath, luminous in the moonlight, reached and touched his ears, nose, mouth, and shoulders.

"These ears are sharp, but they shall no longer hear with the ears of the bat. This nose is keen, but it shall no longer scent with the nose of the wolf. This mouth is hungry, but it shall no longer crave the taste of life. These shoulders are broad, but they shall no longer move with the strength of the nosferatu."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she reached out both hands and pushed him under. Fear replaced joy as the waters closed over his wheat-gold head, and Jander struggled. If he had doubted her divinity before, he did so no longer, for her strength and her will were far beyond his power to resist.

With equal unexpectedness, the pressure keeping him under was gone. Jander shot to the surface. Eldath had vanished, leaving Jander desperately gasping for air. It

took a few seconds before he realized the import of that simple fact.

He needed air. Dear gods, for the first time in nearly a hundred years, he needed air!

He laughed as he gasped, and struggled to the bank. He clambered out, wet and cold—cold!—and shivering. Jan-der continued to laugh between coughs, remembering the goddess's words. When he had caught his breath, he inhaled deeply through his nose. The fresh scent of a forest at night came to his ears; that was all. No scent of deer or squirrel; no smell or sound of living blood pumping through veins and arteries.

On an impulse, he reentered the spring, splashed his way to the boulder upon which the goddess had sat, and put his arms around it. Grunting, he tried to pick it up. He had lifted heavier things in days past, but now, his uncanny vampiric strength had gone. Shaking, he sank down into the water, making a slow way toward the bank.

She had done it. The blessed Eldath the Quiet, with the approval of Silvanus, the Lord of the Oaks, had taken away most of what it meant to be a vampire. Jander understood that he would never be able to leave the relatively small circle of protection provided by the grove. That was no hardship, not in exchange for what they had given him.

But the night was fading fast, and Eldath had warned him that she could not protect him from the ravaging rays of the sun. Dripping and shivering, the elf followed the circumference of the grove. He found the protection he needed; a cairn of boulders over a deep ditch in the earth. It would effectively shield him from that beautiful but deadly light.

The magical night began to grow lighter, and the vampire that had been, his heart light for the first time in decades, sought his rest.

*****

Jander emerged at twilight, eager to begin his first full night without the dreadful thirst. He breathed deeply of

the cool evening air, closing his eyes and enjoying it.

"Good even to you, friend!"

Startled, Jander whipped around. "Who calls me?" he asked, his customary defensiveness aroused.

But it was only a young man, clad in robes of earth-tones and forest green. His hair was as red as that of Sune Firehair, and freckles dotted his open, friendly face.

Jander could not smell his blood at all.

"Oakbrother Endris, of Oakengrove Abbey." He indicated the two wooden buckets he carried. Tve come to get some water from the spring. And who might you be, friend?"

Sudden fear clutched at Jander's heart. "Don't send me away," he pleaded.

A shadow of puzzlement fell across Brother Endris's face. "Why would we do that?" He strode forward and began to draw water from the spring.

"I... I..." Jander floundered for words. "Oakbrother Endris, do you believe in miracles?"

Endris shot him an incredulous look. His blue eyes were wide. "And what kind of a priest would I be if I didn't?"

Jander felt suddenly embarrassed. "I meant no insult," he apologized. "But until last night, I had certainly ceased to hope for a miracle."

Jander relayed an edited version of what had transpired to him, leaving out the shame of his condition. He said he had been "absolved of a great evil," that he was "charged to remain within the circle as a symbol of his repentance." He expected to see disbelief or possibly even anger on Endris's countenance. Instead, the brother listened quietly. At last he spoke.

"Such is not unheard of here," he said quietly. "It would seem that Silvanus and Eldath must have work for you to do."

"But... I cannot leave the grove," said Jander. "What work could I do to earn my keep?"

"If the gods have taken you under their wing thus far, they'll make their wishes known soon enough. In the meantime," and he grinned like halfling, "you can help me draw the water."

Jander laughed, and gladly did so. He escorted Endris to the ring of the grove. "Thank you again for permitting me to stay here," he said.

"None of my doing," replied Endris cheerfully. "But it's good to see an elven face. Far too few folk come visit us these days. I look forward to speaking with you further, Jander Sunstar."

Silently, Jander was grateful that few folk visited the abbey. No doubt his name was being passed along rapidly among the Mistledale folk, ever since that incident a few months ago. . . . No. That was part of the past. This, he thought to himself, looking around the peaceful grove, was the future.

When Jander turned to walk back to the spring, he stumbled. He glanced down and found the discarded antlers of a deer that had passed through the grove, along with a few limbs that had fallen from the old trees.

And then he knew their meaning. "I understand," he said softly to the hush that filled the sacred place. Reverently, Jander picked up the items, seated himself on the boulder next to the spring, pulled out his knife and began to carve.

By dawn, when Endris returned for more water, Jander had accumulated three completed carvings. Smiling, he presented them to the astonished young oakbrother.

"They're .. . they're exquisite," Endris said softly, examining the two carved wooden likenesses of Eldath and the cluster of oak leaves and acorns Jander had created from the antlers.

"Have your oakfather bless them, and you can sell them as talismans," said Jander. "You can raise money for the abbey."

Endris lifted shining eyes to the vampire. "I told you the gods would let you know what they wanted from you. Thank you, Jander. Oakfather Raylen will be most appreciative. Oh, I almost forgot. I've got something for you, too."

He'd been carrying a large, bulky pack. Now he rummaged through it, humming in an off-key voice. "Ah, here we are." From the pack emerged a brown and green robe

with a simple rope belt, some fruit, and a bottle of wine. "Anybody who has the favor of the gods like you do gets treated very well by the abbey." He grinned.

Jander's throat worked. "I... thank you, Oakbrother. Thank you." The words were inadequate, but they would have to do. They were all the surprised elf could manage.

The nights fell into a pattern for the next few weeks. Jander would talk with Endris at the beginning and the end of night, and carve during the rest of the time. He had been an adventurer for most of his days, and at first he feared that the quiet, the peace, and his inability to leave the confined space would wear upon him. But it did not. He had lived a long time as a breathing being, had existed for nearly a century as one of the undead. Now, he simply was, and that was more than enough. For long hours, as Jander carved in silence, he would meditate on the stillness that surrounded him, would think of events long past, of people long since crumbled to dust. And he would think with subdued joy to himself, I do not need to feed upon blood! And that thought made what some might call a strange exile into a paradise.

Endris, too, helped pass the time. He was a jovial fellow, and it seemed every other day he had a new joke to tell his friend. From him, Jander learned about the day-today events that occurred in Oakengrove Abbey, only a short walk away over a small green hill. Jander could even glimpse its stone walls when the branches moved in the wind. But as far as the vampire was concerned, the abbey might as well be as distant as Evermeet, for he would never move a single step closer to it.

One twilight, Jander waited longer than usual for the customary arrival of Endris. But the oakbrother did not come. The night wore on, and Jander became concerned.

It was then that he heard the bell tolling and saw the night sky lit up with an evil, orange hue.

Fire!

Jander's first impulse was to run and help. He almost reached the edge of the circle when he skidded to a halt. If he left, he would never be able to return. He hesitated, torn between his concern for his friend and his blessed

peace. At last, angry with himself but seeing no alternative, Jander turned and went back to the spring, hoping miserably that his aid was not needed.

Shrieks pierced the night. Jander tensed. A fire was frightening, of course, but self-assured monks wouldn't panic and cry out in terror—would they?

"Please, Silvanus, protect your own," he murmured. His golden hands clenched and unclenched, reflecting the war that raged within him.

Abruptly, joining the shrieks of terror and pain, came the sound of raucous laughter. The vampire leapt up and raced to the limits of his sacred space, pacing like a caged panther. Unable to help himself, he cried aloud, "Endris? Anybody?"

"Jander!" The voice was weak but recognizable. It was Endris, and after a few seconds that seemed agonizingly long to the agitated elf, the oakbrother stumbled into view.

His face was covered with blood, and he cradled his left arm awkwardly. Jander, who had seen a hundred fights in his day, realized at once that it was broken.

Jander cringed, thinking he knew what Endris was about to say. The oakbrother had no idea—could have no idea—of the real depth of the evil that had haunted Jander Sunstar. He couldn't know that if Jander set one foot outside of the grove, the maddening bloodlust would return, that he would be driven to hunt and harm; that he would again become one of the undead. And Jander knew Endris was about to ask for aid. What would he say? What could he say?

He braced himself for the plea, but Endris's words shocked him—and moved him.

"Jander," gasped the young monk, "hide yourself! Marauders have come to the abbey. They posed as pilgrims, and once they were inside . . . they will surely slay you if they find you!"

"But," said Jander, "my help ..."

"You are only one elf, with no weapon," Endris replied, wincing as pain racked him. "You cannot stand against six such as they!"

Jander began to feel a dreadful, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Six?" he repeated. No, surely it could not be—there were many ruffians out in the woods. ...

But he had no time to question further. From the direction of the burning abbey came a chorus of laughter and whooping. Endris turned horrified eyes on the four men who emerged from the shadows, cried once more, "Hide yourself!" and charged, weaponless, at his enemies.

It was perhaps the single bravest gesture Jander had ever witnessed in several centuries. For a moment he stared, dumbfounded. He recognized these men. They were the band of six killers upon whom he had attempted to feed a few weeks ago. He realized, with a dreadful shudder, that they had followed him. In all ignorance, he, Jander Sunstar, had led them to this place, had caused them to butcher the innocent priests, had given them the opportunity to defile the grove that had succored him.

They were busy beating Endris. They did not bother using weapons; they could draw out the pleasure longer if they slew Endris with bare hands and skilful blows. The men, their faces burned into Jander's brain, had not seen him. Not yet. He could do as Endris had wished him to— hide in his protective cairn, wait out the storm, and emerge whole, sane, his soul still reprieved.

But that would mean letting Endris, and all the other good men who had shown him only kindness, die senseless, brutal deaths.

Tears stung Jander's eyes as his heart broke. '

With a cry of mingled outrage and deepest grief, Jander charged the group of thieves and murderers. He transformed into a gold wolf as he left the protective circle, the quiet place, and felt the full weight of his curse resettle upon him. The red thirst raged, more powerful than he had ever known it. Strength flooded his limbs, and his rage knew satisfaction when the eyes of the nearest man fastened upon him and widened in horror.

The wolfs jaws crunched down, severing the throat. Blood flowed down Jander's chin, and he almost forgot his true purpose in the overwhelming desire to lap up the crimson fluid. By sheer strength of will, he turned away

from the dead man, found another victim, and again launched himself at the man's throat.

Now it was the interlopers who screamed in fear. To terrify them further, Jander permitted himself to change back into his elven form. But no elf who breathed air looked like this; golden face covered with blood, long fangs extended, gray eyes snapping with fury.

Two were dead. The other two fled, but Jander outran them with ease. One he slew with his dagger; the other's neck was snapped with a single twist of one powerful, sharp-nailed hand.

Four were dead. That left two more, raiding and defiling and destroying inside the abbey. Jander tensed himself and prepared to run in that direction. A hoarse call from Endris brought him up sharply.

"Jander!"

The anger ebbed, to be replaced by fear. Others, knowing his true nature, had rejected him. What would Endris do? Slowly, the elven vampire turned around.

Endris had been badly beaten. Jander tasted a sudden fear that perhaps his intervention—his sacrifice—had not been in time. But the young man struggled to prop himself up on his good elbow, a bloody, broken hand reaching out for the vampire. Jander went to him. If Endris wished to spit in his face, he had the right to do so.

Endris coughed, struggled for breath. "You spoke ... of evil... I did not know. Go back, Jander. You left. . . sanctuary for good cause ... Go back in."

Hope flared suddenly in Jander's heart. Would Eldath and Silvanus indeed understand why he had rejected their greatest of gifts? Would they give him another chance? Endris's words gave him new resolve. As gently as he could, Jander slipped his arms beneath his friend's body.

"You need help," he said quietly when Endris protested. The young man, though strong and muscular, weighed next to nothing in Jander's grip, thanks to the return of his vampiric strength. Quickly, keeping his pace as rhythmic and steady as possible so as not to jar his friend, Jander ran toward the abbey. At the first few steps, Endris moaned and went limp in his arms. He was still breath-

ing; he had merely fainted from the pain. Jander thought to himself that this was probably for the best.

He was met halfway by a crowd of angry brethren, brandishing powerful-looking canes. One or two of them were clad in the beautiful, oakleaf-shaped armor that was traditional among priests of Silvanus. When they saw the bloodied elf and the precious burden he bore, they at first thought him another marauder. One of them charged, staff at the ready.

"No, wait!" came a voice. From the back, a tall, thin man with white hair pushed his way forward. Jander guessed this was the oakfather, Raylen. "I believe it is Endris's friend, the elf who was granted sanctuary in the grove."

"Aye, Oakfather," said Jander. He held out Endris's limp form to the nearest priests, who gathered him carefully to them. "You need fear nothing more from four of the men who attacked Oakengrove. But there are two left—"

"We have dealt with them ourselves. They have been captured and await our decree." Raylen looked at him keenly. Even in this dim light, Jander could see perfectly well. The man's face was chiseled with the passing of the years, but it was clear that his mind was still as strong as the oaks that grew in the grove.

"The other four are . . . your doing?" Raylen asked quietly. Jander nodded.

"I left the grove to save Endris's life, and to protect your abbey. It was—a debt. I think perhaps that I unwittingly led these evil men to you. I needed to atone for that. Endris thinks I may be readmitted to the grove, because I left it for a good cause."

Raylen's wise eyes roamed Jander from head to toe, taking in the blood and the dishevelment. The light was too dim, thank the gods, for him to see Jander's fangs. When at last he met Jander's gaze, his face was sorrowful. He shook his head slowly. Jander's heart sank.

"But . . . Endris would have died . . . how could I not have helped him?" cried Jander.

"That you chose to do so shows me why Eldath gave you sanctuary in the first place—your heart is good, however

dark your deeds may have been. It was wrong of Endris to give you false hope. Few get even one opportunity such as was granted to you, my friend. No one receives such blessing twice, whatever good deed they may have done. Take comfort that you have not sacrificed your haven in vain— Endris will live. So will others, who might have died but for your actions." He raised a wrinkled hand and moved as if to give Jander absolution.

The vampire ducked back quickly. His identity as an unholy thing would be revealed the moment Raylen began speaking sacred words. Without another word, he turned and fled, racing down the green, grassy hill toward the grove. He slowed as he approached, fear rising up to choke him.

"Please," was all he said as he stepped forward.

And winced in pain as he encountered the invisible barrier that weakened him at once, the intangible but very real obstruction that prevented evil things from entering sacred space. He stared at the place that only a few minutes ago had been a goddess-granted sanctuary. His gray eyes roamed hungrily over the boulder upon which he had sat, the half-finished carving that had fallen from his hands and now lay quietly on the cool grass.

Jander half-hoped Eldath would appear, so that he could speak with her, plead his case. But she did not, and as the long moments crept past, resignation slowly replaced grief in his heart.

He could have made no other choice. He knew that he could no more sit by and watch an innocent friend be murdered than he could become a priest himself. Had he done so, the grove would have been tainted by his cowardice. He would have grown to loathe it, as he loathed himself; and one day, as surely as the seasons turn, he would have left the quiet place with more bitterness in his heart than he felt at this moment.

Deliberately, Jander turned away and began to walk. Where, he did not know. Perhaps to Waterdeep, his original destination. The gods had tried to offer respite, but fate and Jander's own remnants of goodness had foiled that attempt at peace.

The acrid scent of smoke still filled his nostrils as he forced a deliberate breath; but there were no more leaping flames. The injured would be tended, the destruction repaired. Life would go on as usual in the abbey—and at least some small part of that was due to his actions.

His heart lifted slightly. Alone, friendless, with no hope offered and none to dream of, the elven vampire walked toward the east, a smile playing on his lips even as darkness and death haunted his footsteps.

He had done the right thing. And in the end, when all the scores were tallied and all the chips of fate put away, that deeper peace would be worth all the quiet places in the world.

THE EYE OF THE DRAGON

Ed Greenwood

Ambreene glanced irritably out the window as she hurried along the Hall of Clouds behind the politely insistent seneschal. Why did Grandmama Teshla want to see her just now?

The deliriously cool breeze that slid around Hawkwinter House was dying away. Waterdeep would soon be cloaked in a damp, clinging haze that played Tymora's happy dance with lightning spells.... Even if all the household slept, she'd dare not conjure a single spark. Awkward, unpracticed casting was all she could manage.

Another tenday would pass in endless palace promenades; dull tutoring sessions on the honorable and very long history of the Hawkwinters; and idle chatter with the empty-skulled high ladies who were her sisters' friends—if such a cold-hearted, scheming, petty lot of cat's claws could truly be deemed the friends of anyone. Another tenday would pass in which Ambreene Hawk-winter—one more society beauty in a city that teemed with superior young she-nobles—would work no magic of consequence.

Ambreene scowled at herself in a mirror as she hurried past. It would be so easy to just give in. She could banish

to memory her secret sessions of sweating concentration and fearfully hissed spells, and just idle her days away, drifting inevitably into the boredom of marriage to the favorite lout, dandy, or stonehead of some noble family favored by the Hawkwinters. So gods-be-damnably easy. She tossed her head and glared at a startled servant as they turned into Teshla's Tower and began to climb the spiral stairs to the rooms Grandmama Hawkwinter never left.

That ease is why it must never happen, she vowed silently. I'll not become another wisp-headed cat's claw. I'll see Hawkwinter House hurled down into its own cesspools first!

The seneschal came to the door at the end of the worn red shimmerweave carpet and rang the graceful spiral of brass chimes that hung beside it. Unlatching the heavy door, he swung it wide, stepping smoothly back to usher Ambreene within.

The youngest daughter of the Hawkwinters strode past him with the absently confident air that made the servants privately call her the Little Lady Queen of All Waterdeep. She walked into the dim, quiet apartments that were all the kingdom the once-mighty dowager Lady Hawkwinter had left.

Priceless glowstone sculptures drifted in slow dances as she passed. Enchanted, shimmering paintings of flying elven hunts and dancing lords and ladies flourished their endless animations. A fascinated Ambreene was a good twenty paces into the luxurious chamber when she realized she was alone. There was no trace of the three elderly chamberladies who always lounged by the central bedchamber stair, waiting to be summoned up into Teshla's presence. Ambreene glided to a graceful halt amid the empty lounges, uncertain what to do.

An eye winked open in the smooth ivory sphere adorning one bottom stairpost, and a mouth appeared in the other, speaking in the familiar dry, waspish tones of Grandmama Teshla. "Come up, girl; I've not much time left."

A little chill arose inside Ambreene at that calm state-

ment. Obediently she set foot on the curving stair. It was the summons she'd dreaded, come at last. She gathered her skirts and mounted the steps in haste.

She should have visited Grandmama more often, and stayed longer, despite the watchful, overscented old chamberladies with their vague, condescending comments and endless bright, cultured, empty phrases about the weather. She should have told Lady Teshla—who'd dabbled in dark and daring magic in her younger days, they said—about her own fumbling attempts to master magic. She should have ...

Ambreene reached the head of the stairs and came to a shocked halt. Grandmama was quite alone, lying propped up on her pillows in bed. She must have sent the servants away and unbound her hair herself.

A soft-hued driftglobe hovered above the bed, and Ambreene could see that Lady Teshla was wearing a black robe whose arms were writhing, leaping flames of red silk—robes better suited to an evil seductress than the matron of one of the oldest, proudest houses in all Waterdeep. She looked dangerous, and the glint in her old, knowing eyes made that impression even stronger.

Ambreene swallowed. "Grandmama, I came as qui—"

"Quickly enough, it seems," the dry voice said, with just a hint of weariness. "I breathe yet. Stand not there quivering like an unschooled courtesan, girl, but come and give me a kiss—or you may yet be too late."

Numbly, Ambreene did as she was bid. The old arms trembled as they went around her, but the lips were as firm and imperious as ever. Ambreene looked into the black, bottomless pools of Grandmama's eyes—a falcon's eyes, her father had once called them—and said, "Grandmama, there's something I must tell you. I've been trying to—"

"Weave a few spells," Lady Teshla finished the sentence almost impatiently. "Do you think I don't know this, girl? What way does my favorite window face, now?"

Toward Ambreene's own bedchamber windows, of course, but.. .

"I'm glad you used the word 'trying.' A right mess you made of the darkshadow cloak," Teshla said dryly. "But

you have all the grand gestures right, girl. Some young blade'll quake in his boots if he ever tries too much at a dance and you hurl the pig-face curse his way!"

Ambreene flushed in embarrassment—how had Grand-mama, shut in this dim tower, seen that? She was sure she'd managed to restore the old war hound's rightful looks before his frightened yelps had ...

The driftglobe swirled and drew her eyes—and suddenly its heart flashed into a view of distant Castle Waterdeep, from above, as if she were standing atop Mount Waterdeep looking down on it!

"That's how I see all," Teshla told her as the scene faded. Touch the sphere."

Wonderingly, Ambreene did so. A tingling spread through her from her fingertips, and Teshla nodded approvingly.

"The globe will follow you, now. When you go, all can think I was just bestowing a little magic on my kin before I went to the arms of the gods—but this is why I summoned you."

A wrinkled hand moved with surprising speed, drawing up the fine chain that had gleamed down into Teshla's shrunken bodice for as long as Ambreene could remember—and bringing into view a delicate silvery metal dragon's head, in profile. Its single eye was a huge dark glossy gem of a sort Ambreene had never seen before in a lifetime of watching wealth drift languidly by at feasts and revels. She stared at it ... and it seemed to stare back at her.

"What is it?" she whispered as Teshla drew the chain off over her head with arms once more slow and weary, and held it out.

The Eye of the Dragon, child," Teshla said softly. "May it serve you better than it did me—and may you use it far more wisely than I did. Take it."

The youngest daughter of House Hawkwinter swallowed, and then lifted her head and calmly reached out for the gem. Teshla chuckled at the imperious manner, and then tilted her head to watch her descendant closely ... almost warily.

In Ambreene's awed fingers, the gem seemed warm and alive—and weightless, as if it could float on its own. It held power, strong magic that Ambreene could feel through her entire body. She stared at it in amazement, and then looked up almost reluctantly.

"I-I never dreamed so precious a thing was in this house," she said wonderingly. "And to be given it... Thank you, Grandmama! All my thanks! I don't know how to say it well enough, but—"

"Know what it does before being so free and eager with your joy," Teshla cautioned her. "It is your true inheritance, for only a sorceress can use it. Keep it secret. No one else in this house knows of it... and it is a thing of great power."

Her dark eyes stared somberly into Ambreene's own. "Be warned, girl—learn its ways thoroughly, and use it only with great care, for it steals and stores memories, and can leave a man a hollow husk ... as I learned, to my cost."

A frown playing about her brows, Ambreene stared at the old woman. Grandmama turning a man into a ... husk? What man could she have been be so interested in—or who would even look at her? It must have been some reckless thief, come to the tallest tower of Hawk-winter House in hopes of stealing some baubles....

"Speculate all you want," Teshla told her, as if reading her thoughts, "but waste not the breaths left to me in foolish questions of who and why. That is my own business, and you can learn the truth from the Eye after I am gone. But remember, and beware: it steals memory."

Ambreene had been about to put the chain over her own neck. She stopped abruptly, looked at the pendant as if it might bite her, and hurriedly slid it into the outermost pocket of her robes.

"Wise," Teshla said, falling back into her pillows. "Now that that is done, and . . ." Her eyes closed, and her voice trailed away.

Ambreene stared at her in alarm. "Grandmama?" she cried. "Gra—"

And then she heard the rattle of a drawn breath, and—

slowly and unsteadily—another. Grandmama still lived ... and yet, this would be her deathbed. Soon.

Ambreene stood silently by Lady Teshla's bed for a long time, thinking furiously—and then whirled and left the room, striding hard. The driftglobe sailed silently along in her wake.

She was almost running when she swept past the seneschal, ignoring his surprised look and murmured question. She traversed the Hall of Clouds faster than the old warrior had ever seen her move before; he had to trot to keep up. Instead of storming into her rooms or bursting into tears when her chambermaids rose to greet her, the young lass turned abruptly aside to descend the back stair to the stables, and thence to the gates.

The seneschal clattered after her, clutching his scabbard to keep it from tangling in his legs and sending him into a headlong tumble. "Lady Ambreene!" he puffed, his voice imperious. "This is most irregular! Your father said nothing about your going out this day, and with the Great Lady Teshla so nea—"

Ambreene did not bother to turn her head. "Did he not? Well, go to him, and he shall tell you—but stand in my path at your peril!" The lie came to her in an easy rush, and she found herself quivering with excitement and anger. No one was going to stop her, not even Lord Piergeiron himself! Grandmama was her only real friend—and Ambreene had no intention of losing such a precious thing, whatever Teshla might think of the time left to her....

A few breaths ago, Ambreene Hawkwinter had been powerless to do anything about Grandmama's slow wasting. But that was before the Eye of the Dragon had come into her hand.

It was beautiful, yes—so beautiful!—and a thing of power, besides. But what were those things, set against the warmth and wisdom of Grandmama, there to laugh with Ambreene, chide her, and teach her the ways of spells and men and Waterdeep itself?

In all the city, men said, there was no mage as mighty as Khelben Blackstaff. If he could make the dead live and

gods whole, he could surely restore one old woman! He would want this Eye of the Dragon, and doubtless do such a small and kind service in return for it.

Briefly Ambreene thought of how powerful the Eye might make her, and how slow her mastery of magic was sure to be without it... but no. Without Grandmama's direction and teaching, she might never learn to wield even the pendant, let alone spells of her own!

She strode down the street as folk stared at the speeding driftglobe and the red-faced old seneschal puffing along after her. A dozen smirking, hastily assembled Hawkwinter armsmen completed the train. Ambreene didn't care. She needed only her eyes to head for the dark and distant needle of Blackstaff Tower.

Every child in Waterdeep knew it; the home of a man whose spells were mighty enough to hurl back liches, mind flayers, and beholders all at once, and whose stern justice frightened even proud heads of the richest noble houses. Ambreene quailed inwardly as she marched along. But she was a Hawkwinter, on a truly noble mission—and Ambreene's name might well some day ring down the streets of Waterdeep as grandly as that of Khel-ben Arunsun. She lifted her chin and strode on without slowing . .. and behind her, the seneschal rolled his eyes and wheezed along. Fear was on his face as she passed into the shadow of Blackstaff Tower.

*****

A single taper flickered in Ambreene's bedchamber as she shot the door bolt into place with steady hands. She hurried to the dusty space behind her wardrobe, where her few scraps of magic were hidden.

She almost made it. Two paces shy of her secret place, hot tears of rage and grief burst forth, blinding her. She blundered forward, sobbing, until she ran into the wardrobe's polished side and raised trembling fists to strike it, again and again, heedless of the pain.

Khelben had granted immediate audience, and hope had soared like a flame within her until the moment

Ambreene had given him her name. He looked at her gravely and uttered words that would burn in her brain forever: "Teshla Hawkwinter? No, child. Not that one. She knows why, and has accepted her death . . . and so must you."

That was all he would say, despite tearful pleadings. At last Ambreene rose from her knees, lifted her chin, turned in silence, and left, unheralded. Khelben didn't even look up from his papers as she went out!

She stumbled away, the seneschal and guards treading close around her but not daring to speak. At home, the folk were as white faced as she was, and silence reigned over Hawkwinter House, save for muffled weeping behind closed doors. The dowager Lady Teshla Hawkwinter was dead.

The priests of half a dozen temples murmured and chanted around the high-canopied bed. Ambreene wasn't even allowed in to see what was left of her Grandmama— sleeping forever now, a small and shrunken thing in the great spill of silken pillows—until the haughty strangers were done.

Her father was there. He said her name once, gently, and reached for her—but Ambreene stepped around him and looked upon the Lady Teshla alone and in silence. When she had turned to go, her father had signed to the servants not to follow, and for that gentle mercy she must remember to thank him when she could. But not now. Oh, not now.

She drew herself up in the darkness, her throat boiling with an anger that made her want to scream and rake herself and break things. She hissed in a voice that fought hoarsely through tears, "I will make you pay for her death, oh great grand Lord Mage Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun. Ambreene Hawkwinter will make you plead for aid as I pleaded . . . and I will show you the same mercy you showed me. This I swear."

Her last words seemed to echo around her, and Ambreene shivered suddenly and clung to the wardrobe for support. So this was what it felt like to swear a death oath. And against the most powerful archmage in all

Waterdeep, too. She sighed once, and then hurried to the door. She must get Grandmama's spellbooks and magic things before some maid spirited them away to make fair coin, and they were lost. The Lady Ambreene Hawkwinter had much work to do....

*****

A month later, Ambreene stood beside the wardrobe and looked at herself in her glass. A gaunt, hollow-eyed maid with white skin and dark, burning eyes gazed back at her. She knew the servants whispered that her wits had been touched by the Lady Teshla's death, but she cared not a whit.

Ambreene was almost ready. Mastery of all the spells in Teshla's books—her books, now—might take years, but the Eye of the Dragon shone openly on her breast, and at night quivered warmly against her skin, whispering to her in her dreams.

All too often the night visions it sent drifted away in smoky tatters, but when her will was strong enough to hold steady to them, they showed her how to command the pendant to take memories . . . and to yield its memories up, like the scenes acted out at revels.

As Grandmama had warned, the Eye could drink thoughts—and when she got the right chance, she'd use it on Khelben, to steal his magic. Then she would be a great sorceress, and he'd be left a shambling, slack-jawed idiot. A fitting fate, she thought. . . until that dark day when the pendant showed her why he'd refused to keep Grand-mama alive.

Ambreene saw how it all had happened, saw it through the Eye.

Teshla had been a lush, dark beauty in her youth, all flashing eyes, flowing raven hair, full cruel lips . . . and a proud and amoral spirit. Many men longed for her, but she saw them as passing fancies to be duped into making her richer and more powerful. She professed undying love for one wizard—but in her bed, the Eye pressed between them by their bodies and her mouth entrapping his—she

drained all Endairn's magic away, becoming a mage of power in one night.

With her newfound arts, she chained the emptied mage in a dark cellar, bound in spell-silence, and set forth to lure the most cunning merchant of the city to wed her.

Horthran Hawkwinter was rich indeed. She did not refuse his shower of coins, but it was his wits she truly wanted, his judgment of folk and knowledge of their pasts, schemes, alliances, and abilities. It was his wits she took on another night like the first, in the very bed he had given to her, the bed in which she was to die. The confused Horthran had been confined to his chambers from then on, visited by Teshla only when she wanted an heir, and then another child in case misfortune befell the first.

Ambreene shivered as the Eye showed her infant elders set aside in a nursery. Meanwhile, Teshla clawed and carved her subtle way to dominance, making the Hawkwinters a grand and respected house in Waterdeep.

She wept when the Eye showed a bored Teshla bringing together her husband and the mindless wizard and goading them into fighting each other for her amusement. They both died—sharing a look of heartfelt gratitude as they stared into each other's eyes and throttled each other.

That look troubled Teshla, even after she had the bodies burned and the ashes scattered at sea by a Hawkwinter ship. Eventually her nightmares about it frightened her servants so much that they called in the Lord Mage of Waterdeep. Khelben stripped away all her spellbooks and things of power except the Eye and left her alone in her turret room. The look he gave her as he departed haunted Teshla almost as much as the dying looks of Endairn and Horthran.

Over the long years, Teshla built up her magic again, scroll by scroll, her coins reaching where she could not, to win for her—often with bloodied blades—magic she dared not seek openly. Her son and heir, Eremoes, grew into a man of wisdom and justice under the best tutors the Hawkwinter coffers could buy. There came the day

when he returned to Hawkwinter House with a new and beautiful wife, the sorceress Merilylee Caranthor of Athkatla.

Seeing her mother clearly in the memory-visions, Ambreene watched numbly as the Amnian woman sought Khelben's protection against the Eye. Cloaked in his spell, she tried to seize Teshla's magic for her own.

The sorcerous attack on Hawkwinter House left no trace of his beloved Merilylee, slew half his servants, and razed the upper floors of the family mansion. Eremoes always thought this destruction the work of a rival house, not the result of a sorcerous duel between his mother and his wife. A duel Teshla did not loose.

Ambreene wept as she saw herself shielded in her nursery by Teshla's spells. From the first, her Grand-mama had chosen Ambreene to be her friend and sorcerous heir, and shaped her into the role coldly and caleulatingly.

When she came to the end of the long, long years of memories the Eye had seen, Ambreene spent a tearful night on her knees. At last she rose, dry-eyed, Khelben's hated face still burning in her mind.

Why hadn't he stopped Grandmama? He was Lord Mage of Waterdeep, and had a duty. Why had he let Ambreene's mother be blasted to nothing, and the Hawk-winters groomed to Teshla's wishes? He knew her deeds and ambitions, and did nothing. What made him any better than Lady Teshla Hawkwinter?

Nothing. She was gone, leaving behind only spells, the Eye, and . . . shame. But he lived still, and had dismissed Ambreene without even a look, and let the house of Hawkwinter become what Teshla had twisted it into. And her father did not even know. ...

That very morning Eremoes Hawkwinter had broken his mourning silence. To the palace and every grand house in the city, he had sent forth invitations to a grand feast. And they would come; Hawkwinter hospitality was legendary.

Khelben Arunsun's name was on one of those invitations . . . and he would be there. After Ambreene told the

Lady Laeral that she was thinking of studying magic and very much wanted to see the Lord Mage of Waterdeep at Hawkwinter House, Laeral would see that he attended.

Ambreene smiled slowly as she opened a spellbook. The feast was a tenday hence; she had little time to prepare herself to greet Khelben properly. She suspected it might not be all that easy to make an archmage kill himself.

*****

The gate greetings were done, and the many-colored driftglobes she'd conjured (to her father's smiling approval) were becoming useful as dusk drew down. From a distance, across the dance floor, Ambreene smiled and waved at Laeral as the arriving Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep were welcomed by her father—and then allowed herself to be swept away into a chalantra by one more would-be suitor.

She'd scarcely recognized herself in the glass when the chamberladies had finished with her, but she could have resembled a sack of unwashed potatoes and still been nearly trampled by every younger noble son of the city. As the night wore on, Ambreene kept a smile firmly on her face and used magic to keep her hair up and her feet just a breath above the tiles. She wasn't nearly as weary and footsore as she should have been after moonrise, when she slipped away from a sweating Talag Ilvastarr and sought somewhere private.

Many couples had stolen away from the laughter, minstrelsy, and chatter to enjoy the beauty of the extensive gardens of Hawkwinter House. A part of Ambreene ached to be giggling and caressing the night away in the arms of a handsome young blade, but she had sworn an oath. It was perhaps the first time she had resolved to do something important with her life. Ambreene Hawkwinter would now keep her oaths. All her oaths.

She was alone in a room that was dark enough. A few gestures and a hissed word, and Ambreene's muscles shifted in the loose gown she'd chosen. It felt peculiar, this sliding and puffing, as she became fatter, her cheeks

and chin chubby, her hair russet red. Now no suitor would recognize her as the highly desirable Hawkwinter heiress.

She smiled grimly into the darkness, and went in search of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep.

He was not on the dance floor, nor in any of the noisy, crowded antechambers that gave off it, where older nobles were busy loudly insulting each other, gossiping, gorging, and drinking themselves silly. Nor was he where Ambreene had expected to find him—the dim, smoky rooms on the floor above, where men who thought themselves wise and powerful muttered darkly about plots and trade treaties and the black days ahead for Waterdeep, and added new layers of refinements and pacts to the already labyrinthine entanglements of the city's intrigues.

Ambreene sent a seeking spell on a tour of the bedchambers and servants' rooms. The magical probe left her blushing and her eyebrows raised . . . perhaps permanently. In one, she found Laeral and her father together— but they were only talking. Relieved at not having to add the Lady Mage of Waterdeep to the ranks of those she must destroy, Ambreene continued her search, but found no trace of Lord Khelben.

Finally, she sighted him far away across the moonlit gardens, speaking to a succession of young party guests idly strolling the grounds. Hmmph. Dispensing wizardly wisdom, no doubt. Ambreene's eyes narrowed, and she cast another spell. There was a sound like the faint jangle of harp strings, and then:

"Grand night, to be sure," someone who was not there said loudly in her ear, "but my gut's rolling like a ship being beached through breakers!"

"It's that wine," another, thinner voice replied. "If you must try to drink the Hawkwinter cellars dry all by yourself..."

Her spell was working, but where was Khelben's voice? Ambreene frowned and bent her will in the wizard's direction.

A third, cheerful voice said, "Fair even, Lor—" and then

stopped as if cut off by a knife.

Ambreene juggled the fading wisps of her first spell into life once more, and saw the man who must have spoken ... a man in a half-cloak, purple hose, and a doublet of slashed golden silk . . . standing conversing with Khel-ben. Gods-be-damned . . . the wizard must have a spell-shield up to prevent eavesdroppers from hearing what was said!

Her eyes narrowed. What words, at a party, could be so important that they must be hidden from all?

Then she had a sudden thought, and sent her clairaudi-ence spell whirling back across Hawkwinter House to the private chamber where Eremoes and Laeral sat.

"Your service to the Harp is timely and enjoyable, as always," the Lady Mage was saying, "and I want you to know that it is not unappreciated or taken for granted, Lord."

Ambreene blinked. Her father a Harper? Gods above!

"I know that's not the case," her father replied, "but I must confess I had my own selfish reason for this gathering. . . ."

"And would this reason be your youngest daughter's growing mastery of magic?" Laeral asked smoothly.

"It would," Eremoes Hawkwinter said. "I know Black-staff Tower always has more would-be apprentices than either you or Khelben have time for, but if you'd be willing to explore her powers .. . and, I confess, her thoughts and feelings; she's been more affected by my mother's death than her siblings or most folk her age would be ... I'd be most grateful. I cannot hire the right tutor until I know her strengths and interests, and to query her directly would upset her, diminish me in her eyes, and yet fail to yield the truth."

"I can do that in the morning, if you'd like," Laeral said in kindly tones—and Ambreene shrieked in fear! Her prying spell collapsed.

She must act now! Once Laeral poked into her mind, she'd have no secrets left, and Khelben'd turn her into a frog or bookend or his slave while she was still whimpering under the Lady Mage's mindprobe... .

Trembling in haste, Ambreene shifted her form again. A young woman who was alluring indeed raced down the closest stair to the gardens, startling couples out of their embraces as she rushed past, and found the moonlight as quickly as she could.

The succession of Harper agents seemed to have finished their business with the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, and for one chilling moment Ambreene thought Khelben was gone from Hawkwinter House, and she'd missed her chance.

Then she caught sight of him in a far corner of the gardens, sitting alone on a bench in the bright moonlight. Pulling the Eye's chain off over her head, Ambreene held the pendant ready inside her sleeve, panted until she regained control of her breath, and then set off slowly toward her quarry.

This would be her only chance. To keep her oath, she must not fail now. Ambreene moved as quietly as she could without seeming to creep; if Khelben turned his head and saw her, she wanted to look alluring, not like a thief darting guiltily about.

He was stroking his chin as she drew near, and studying the bright belt of stars overhead as if they were telling him something.

"Well met, Lord Wizard," she said enticingly, when she was only a few paces away. She kept her voice low and rich and laced with laughter, like a seductive courtesan she'd once overheard at the palace entertaining a Cal-ishite merchant. "Moonlight becomes thee."

"I believe that last line should be mine, lady," Khelben replied calmly, studying her with eyes that seemed to bore right through her magical disguise.

"I'm young yet," she returned lightly, "and still working on my scroll of blandishments and flirtations. All Water-deep knows of your dedication to justice and your fidelity to the Lady Laeral, my lord, but I was wondering if you'd mind if a lass who prefers wits and maturity to the empty swaggering of young men practiced a line or two on you ... and perhaps grew so bold .. ."

She leaned near, giving the Lord Mage of Waterdeep a spectacular view of the fine leaping-dragons lace that edged

her bodice, and continued slowly and huskily, "... as to share a kiss with me? Something I'd remember fondly and privately, mind, not shout from the rooftops...."

The Lord Mage regarded her. Something that was almost a smile seemed to play about his lips. "What precisely did you have in mind, O enthusiastic young lady?"

Ambreene let the fullness of her sleeve hold the Eye, and stretched forth that hand for Khelben to see. His gaze flicked from one of her empty, ringless hands to the other as she knelt, so that their eyes were level.

"I'm no disguised monster, only a lonely maid," she purred, staring invitingly and challengingly into his eyes, "and I'd very much like a kiss." She licked her lips and whispered, "I'll submit to whatever magic you want to use, to be sure I'm . .. safe."

The mage they called the Blackstaff raised an eyebrow. "And why go to all this trouble—possible humiliation and danger—just for one kiss from an old man?"

"I've heard what they say about wizards," she whispered, eyes bright.

Khelben looked swiftly around, as if to be sure that no one was watching, and then extended his arms. "Come, then, lass, and try whatever you're trying to do ..."

Ambreene's eyes narrowed at his choice of words, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. Opening her mouth hungrily, she glided into his embrace—and then twisted in his arms, whipping the pendant out and around his neck like a striking snake. The Eye of the Dragon flashed as she snarled, "Take his memories! Take them all! And give them to me!"

The chain tightened cruelly around the mage's throat, but he only pulled her closer and growled, "You wanted a kiss, remember?"

His lips were warm, but Ambreene shook her head violently and tried to bite him. When her mouth was free, she spat in his face and hissed, "Plead! Plead for your magic, archmage!"

She jerked the chain tight across Khelben's windpipe. He did not turn the purple hue she expected, but only smiled faintly.

"Don't you know what this is?" she snarled, tugging on the chain again.

The wizard nodded. "The Eye of the Dragon," he said calmly. "It's been years, lass, since I've seen it. Well, well..."

"Years?" Ambreene could barely get the word out through lips that were suddenly twisting and slipping. . . . Her face and body were sliding back into their true shape!

The craggy, bearded face so close to hers was melting and shifting too. When Ambreene saw what it became, the color fled from her face and her teeth began to chatter in terror.

She'd seen the Old Mage of Shadowdale only once, but the wizard they called Elminster was unmistakable. He grinned at her. "If ye'd live a little longer, lass," he said gently, "never try to bosom thy way up to the real Khel-ben. He's not that trusting, know ye ... after all, he's had several centuries of comely wenches trying that sort of thing on him, and most of them were his apprentices."

"But. .. how . . . ?"

"Khelben had to hurry back to Blackstaff Tower on some Harper business begun here tonight," the Old Mage explained. "Both he and Laeral felt your probing spells— really, lass, take a little more care with such things, eh?—so he called me in to do a little impersonation in case other Harpers came to report... or ye decided to do something spectacularly stupid."

"And was what I did so stupid?" Ambreene asked with menacing softness, her hands twisting the chain until it cut deep into his throat.

Elminster smiled unconcernedly, and chucked her under the chin as if she was a small girl. "Well, 'twas certainly spectacular ..." he murmured. "7 wouldn't wear a gown like that."

He bent his head to her bodice and peered. "Ah, leaping dragons ... Thayan work; very nice ..."

Ambreene thrust herself against him, hooking her legs around his and pressing as much of herself to Elminster's body as she possibly could. She put her head over his

shoulder and dug her chin down with bruising force, holding him with all the strength in her quivering body.

"Now," she said into his ear, "any harmful spell you work on me will hurt you as well. Khelben wronged my Grandmama and my family; my revenge was for him. But your magic will serve me just as well, giving me spells enough to destroy him another way . . . can you feel the memories leaving you?"

"No," Elminster said lightly. "I know how to make the Eye work as its creator intended it to. I'm giving ye only the memories I want ye to have ... and keeping them, not letting them drain away."

Ambreene favored him with a disbelieving sneer. "And just how can you do that? Lady Teshla could not, and the Eye hasn't shown me any way to wield it thus! What makes you such an expert?"

Mirth glinted in Elminster's eyes as he said mildly, "Why, lass, I created the thing in the first place. In Myth Drannor, 'twas ... in my spare time."

Ambreene shook her head derisively, but said nothing. He was so calm . . . what if it were true?

And then she gasped and stiffened as the world around her vanished in a flood of memories that were not her own. Images as vivid as if they were befalling here and now and she were living them. . . . She was dimly aware that her nails were raking someone's back, that he was growling in protest, and that there was a sudden strong smell of pipesmoke, but. . .

She was standing on the deck of a storm-tossed ship, watching as a grandly robed man turned his back on his son—who laughed and hurled a bolt of lightning with both hands. The blast cut his father's body in two from top to bottom and sent the front of the ship boiling up into flames.. . .

Then she was in a bedchamber where a sword pinned a man to a door, his lifeblood spreading on the floor. He gasped, "Why, Maruel? Why have you done this?"

"Because I want to," the breathtakingly beautiful woman on the bed said with a sneer that matched Ambreene's best. "And because at last I have the power

to. I am the Shadowsil, and from now on I will take what I want. . . not beg for it!" She waved a casual hand, and by itself the long blade obediently slid out of the man, all black with his blood. He crumpled to the floor, gasping, "But I loved .. . you."

"And what is that to me, fool?" she laughed. . . .

The scene whirled away, and Ambreene was somewhere else again. . . .

A tower, where a woman wept, smoke curling away from her empty hands and ashes all around her. Nearby, a man who sat on empty air said, "And so your trick has turned to visit itself on thee. Well done, Alatha—oh, well done indeed!"

The woman's raw howl of grief whirled Ambreene away into a scene of a sorceress betraying her tutor, then another, of an ambitious magistress turning to evil and mistakenly slaying the man she loved. . ..

"All of these happened, lass, and I was there to see them," Elminster told her gently. "Have ye such a hunger to join them?"

Ambreene wept and tried to pull away from him, shaking her head and straining to think of things she chose . . . but her thoughts were dragged ruthlessly back into the whirlwind of revenge and grief and evil. ...

"Gods! Oh, gods, stop! Have mercy!" she sobbed.

"Better mercy than ye intended to show Khelben, I hope," the Old Mage said grimly, and abruptly she was seeing a young lass clad only in long, luxurious hair, who knelt amid glowing, floating symbols, in a chamber whose dark walls winked with stars.

"Who . . . ?"

"A lady in Myth Drannor, Grafting the first foresight spell," Elminster replied.

Abruptly, the spell poured into Ambreene's own mind, writing itself in runes and whirling concepts of fire. She gasped and moaned as her mind stretched dizzily. A bright light seemed to be rushing through her, and . . .

"Note that this magic allows thee only to see what lies ahead for others. If thy mind can encompass it and ye stay sane, 'twill become thy most useful tool—and thy

greatest burden," Elminster said as she blinked and saw his face again in the moonlight, inches from her own.

Gentle hands put the Eye of the Dragon into her hands. "Now . . . about that kiss . .."

Ambreene seemed to be weeping again as warm lips brushed hers tenderly, and that old, wise voice said, 'Thanks for the memories."

Then the old wizard turned away in the moonlight. She stared after him with eyes that streamed the tears of a thousand years. Elminster strode across the garden, and as he went, his battered boots left the dewy grass and trod on air. Up on emptiness he walked, as if the starry sky was his own private staircase. Up over the garden wall he went, and on, over the rooftops of the city.

When she could see him no more, Ambreene looked down at the pendant in her hands. Suddenly it spoke with Elminster's voice, and she nearly flung it down in startle-ment.

"Ah, lass," it said, "be not downcast, for ye heard aright what they say about wizards. Put this on whenever ye need to talk to me ... or to Khelben. He's waiting for ye to come and see him."

Ambreene stared up at the starlight for a very long time, too dazed to shed more tears, as still and silent as one of the nearby statues.

So it was that the young, softly chuckling couple strolled right past without noticing her. Ambreene knew the lass—Berentha Manthar, a shy noble maid of her own age, whom she'd smiled with at several feasts, heiress of House Manthar since the hunting death of her brother Carn—and almost stirred to speak a greeting. But as the thought struck her, Berentha's young and devastatingly handsome man, Ferentar from Amn, asked huskily, "So, Berentha, as Selune is our witness here this night . . . will you wed me, and cleave to me all your days?"

Ambreene swallowed as she looked expectantly at Berentha's half-hidden face. She felt a tingling within her, and the need to know the truth that lurked behind honeyed words overcame everything. She seized on the

foresight tingling within her.

It was a strange thing to wield, but she conquered it in time to know that Berentha meant it with all her heart when she replied softly, "I will. . . oh, Ferentar, I will! Do you promise, too, before Selune and all the watching gods, to be true to me?"

"Of course I do, beloved Berentha," the young man said softly.

The chill that almost choked Ambreene left her trembling helplessly. Her foresight told her that Ferentar wanted to be Lord Manthar, with a dashing fur cloak and coins to spare on wine and dancers. He cared little for this stupid wide-eyed Waterdhavian cow gazing so ardently up at him—oh, she was pretty enough, but. ..

Ambreene wanted to scream out a warning and thrust them apart forever—but the cursed foresight rolled on. She saw herself doing that, and Berentha's face freezing into that of a bitter foe . . . and the wedding day coming anyway, and then Lord Ferentar Manthar whispering at parties in all the high houses that Ambreene Hawkwinter was a wanton sorceress who'd tried to seduce him to gain House Manthar's riches for her own. Then she saw him laughing in satisfaction as he pushed Berentha over a benighted balcony to her death, and turning in anger to the masked lords to demand Ambreene Hawkwinter's arrest for the spell-slaying of the Lady Berentha Manthar . . . and then Ferentar's face seemed to melt into that of Grandmama Teshla, and she heard herself screaming, "Khelben! Lord Khelben! Help me!"

Strong arms were suddenly around her, and the gruff voice of Khelben Blackstaff said into her ear, "I'm here, lass—stand back, young Ferentar, or I'll turn out the cesspit of your mind for all Waterdeep to see!—I'm here." Ambreene turned her face toward the comfort of that voice, and as she heard a gasp of outrage that could only be Berentha, Faerun spun crazily around her—and plunged into darkness... .

She awoke in Blackstaff Tower, with Laeral's gentle hands holding out a mug of steaming rose tea. And from that day until the morning the gods willed that Ambreene Hawkwinter die, long years later, the Eye of the Dragon never left her breast.

EVERY DOG HIS DAY

Dave Gross

King ran far ahead of me, pelting down the busy street in Raven's Bluff with the uncanny canine knack for navigating through a forest of human legs. I chased after him as well as I could, hindered by sharp elbows and stern reprimands from adults willing to forgive a running dog, but not a running boy.

"Rub!" called King. Voices from the crowd answered him as I tried to push toward him.

"King! There's a good boy."

"What a good dog!"

Everyone knew and liked King, one of the masterless street dogs of the city. Everyone had stories of the remarkable feats the old terrier had performed: saving drowning children, foiling pickpockets, tracking down criminals. . . . This time I was the one who needed his help. My sister, Dauna, was in the hands of kidnappers, and King was the only one besides me who had seen them.

"King! Where are you?" I shouted. Scanning the street, I spotted King's wake, a wave of turned heads and quick sidesteps.

"Ruh, ruh!" His rough voice came through the open door of a little cottage. The building looked out of place next to

the straight lines of the shops and taverns on Wicker Street. A carved board next to the door read, "The Barley Bowl."

"Huh, rub.!" he called again.

Then I heard a piteous sound: King's whining. I'd heard the old, gray terrier growl at bullies, woof amiably to his friends, and even yap like a puppy when chasing the other street dogs. But I'd never heard him whine in pain. It made my heart shrink, and I almost began to cry again. Instead, I wiped my blurry eyes and entered the inn.

Inside, a dozen people sat at simple tables, their dinners in wooden bowls before them. At the feet of one man, the oldest man I'd ever seen, sat King.

The old man held King's head with long, thin hands. Bright eyes peered into the dog's face. "Oh, you got a snootful, all right. What scoundrel played dirty with you?" The old man's voice was sweet and tremulous as a minstrel's hautboy.

"The oldest man I'd ever seen" had a beard as white and fine as a swan's wing. Upon his narrow frame he wore a faded blue robe cut in the fashion of the court of thirty years ago. The badge upon his breast looked impressive and official.

"Here, lad. Hold his head." I stared a moment before realizing he was talking to me. "Come along. If you were standing in cement, you'd be a lamp post now!"

"Good boy," I said to King, kneeling by him.

"Good boy," the old man said to me. If I weren't already so upset, I might have been offended. "Hold him while I administer the Universal Solvent."

A potion, I thought! After escaping, then chasing, and finally losing track of the men who took Dauna, we had found a wizard to help us. Wizards are often ornery, but once he had ensorcelled the pepper out of King's eyes and nose, I'd ask him a boon, and he would help save my sister.

But instead of producing some glimmering phial of magical fluid, the old man took his cup of water and gently poured it across King's weepy eyes. King balked, but I held him tight.

"There, my old friend. That should take the sting away.

Nothing like a little rain to clear out the gutters." King whimpered once more, this time less pathetically. He nuzzled the old man's hand.

"But you said 'Universal Solvent,' " I protested. "I thought you were a wizard." I knew it was wise to be polite to wizards, but my disappointment was quicker than my wits.

"And what's that, but water? Any mason worth his sand will tell you that. And I've been a wizard and a mason for longer than ..." He drifted off, and his mouth worked wordlessly as he thought about it.

"I've run out of things to compare to my age," he decided. "Except perhaps for King."

"Are you King's master?" I asked.

"Oh, no. King's his own master. We're old, old friends. As you count in dog years, we're nearly cohorts." He chuckled, then sobered, as if the thought at first cheered, then saddened him. "Two old dogs of the city," he sighed.

"If you are a wizard, then you must help us. King tried to help me, but when the kidnappers went over the fence with Dauna, one threw pepper at him. Then ..."

"Wait! Back to your drawing, boy."

"My what?"

"You can't build a house without a drawing," he said. "And you can't crave a favor without an introduction."

"Ohil'mJame."

"And I'm Ambassador Carrague. Well met, young Jame."

"Carrague! They said you died!" Father had read the obituary aloud from the Trumpeter, then griped about who would replace Carrague as city building inspector.

"Dead? Pish posh. Those fools couldn't tell the difference between a corpse and a handsaw. Merely sleeping! Good thing I woke before they'd boxed me up. Eh?" King nosed Carrague's leg impatiently.

"Ah, yes, yes. Dauna's been kidnapped, has she? Who is this Dauna?"

"Dauna's my sister. They tried to get me, too. But I was playing in the street, and King ran up barking when he saw them carrying her. That scared them off, but they

held on to Dauna. King and I chased them."

"Why would someone kidnap her?"

"We're rich," I explained. "They want my father's money."

"Have your parents alerted the watch?"

"Father's returning from Sembia with silks and wine for sale. He won't be home for days. Mother died years ago. And Chesley—our steward—he doesn't believe anything I say! He thinks I'm just telling stories again. But King saw it all, and we nearly caught the kidnappers."

"But now they've given you the slip, eh?"

"Yes," I replied sadly. King growled in affirmation. "If I'd been faster, I could have seen where they went. But by the time King got under the fence and I climbed over, they were gone. King couldn't find their trail with his nose full of pepper."

"I daresay not. Even King has his limits." King looked up defensively at Carrague. "Now, now. There are just some things you're better built to do, King." The terrier looked miserable.

"If King were a man, he could have climbed that fence in no time. Then we'd have saved Dauna."

King's gaze turned to me, his red and weary eyes large and full wounded by my remark. His jaw dropped in a remarkably human expression of astonishment at a sudden attack from a friend.

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way, King. No man could have picked up their trail the way you did. You did the best you could, for a dog." King crossed his front paws and laid his head down with a whimper. I knew I'd said the wrong thing again. Something about King made you feel he understood your words, not just your tone.

"You don't know King's secret, then. Do you, Jame?"

"I know he's the smartest dog in Raven's Bluff! Why, he's saved people from drowning, foiled robbers and killers, too, and ..." Now that I thought about it, even the smartest dog in the world couldn't do half the things King did.

"Oh, all that's true enough. But it's only the facade. There's a deeper story underneath. King's foundation, as it were."

"What's that?"

"Better to show you. That is, if King doesn't mind my telling his secret." Carrague looked down, as if expecting an answer. "It could be a way to help Jame's sister," he prompted.

Lifting his head, King looked at each of us in turn. He sat up with an air of a judge deliberating on a man's life, his whiskered mouth thin and tight. Carrague returned the look, a bit of the caprice gone from his own gray face. They looked at each other a long time, 'the old dog and the old wizard. Then King made a very human nod.

"To my office, boys." Carrague lifted his stick like a general directing his troops. "To my office."

The Ministry of Art — the home of the city's most powerful wizards — stood well down the road from the mayor's palace. "Afraid we might blast a hole in the castle," complained Carrague. "Ridiculous notion. We're not mere apprentices. There's hardly ever an explosion."

With this and other remarks, Carrague had me terrified of the place before we arrived. It looked grand, ornate, well guarded, and thoroughly daunting.

"Your office is here?"

"Yes, yes. They moved me here when they realized I hadn't died. But they gave my job away. Just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "And that ridiculous gnome they hired! Ah! Ah!" The old man shook his walking stick, began to stumble, then caught himself with it once more.

Carrague gripped the railing as we ascended the marble steps. The guards let us past, though one gave me a questioning glance. King barked a friendly greeting, and the guard winked back. Everyone knew King.

Carrague rested a moment from the short ascent. Wizard or no, he was an old, old man. I wanted to offer help, but I feared he wouldn't like that.

A rich red carpet ran far down the hall, and colorful tapestries rose into the gloom of the high ceiling. We walked slowly past woven griffins and leviathans, unicorns

and sprites, airships and painted soldiers—all fantastical things I'd never seen for myself. Can-ague barely noticed them, since he must have seen even more wondrous sights in his life. I caught myself gazing at them in awe and wist-fulness. Then I guiltily remembered our reason for being here.

"What are you going to do to rescue Datura?" I asked.

"Why nothing. It's King who'll rescue her. He's the hero. I'm the wizard. And you're the boy, so watch more and talk less."

We had stopped by one of the many doors that lined the hall. Carrague's symbol marked the door. He spoke a word that I couldn't remember two seconds after he'd spoken it, and the door opened.

The whole world was stuffed into that office. I guessed you could search for months through there and find one of anything you'd ever want. I expected stuffed owls, unicorn horn and pixie wing in glass jars, bubbling beakers, and roiling cauldrons—and there was some of that there. But there were also feathered masks, jeweled statues, framed paintings, and enough furniture for ten houses. There stood the bust of a man I dimly recognized as a king across the Sea of Fallen Stars. From the ceiling hung a pair of thin wings on a wooden skeleton, and under a huge oak table moved something that kept just out of sight each time I stared at it. In a large glass globe swirled green seaweed, through which a tiny manlike figure peered at us. A parrot flew down from the window to light on King's back, until the terrier snapped at it and sent it flying back to its perch.

"Damn that woman anyway," cursed Carrague. "She's cleaned while I was away!" I looked at King, and he at me. Neither of us could see any signs of cleaning.

"I need the willow wand and the purple dust of Raurin," He opened the drawers on a big desk that served as a laundry table rather than a writing board. "No, no. That's not right. It's the yellow dust of the doppleganger we need." He turned his attention to a cabinet. "Here," he said after six slams of the tiny drawers. He held up a small black pouch. "The yellow dust."

Carrague looked all around, then finally slapped a wand at his belt. "Ah, had it with me all the time. Now to business." King already sat in the one chair clear of any obstruction. "Are you ready, old friend?"

King made that same human nod.

"Ready for what?" I asked. "What are you going to do to him?"

"Undo to him. I will change him back to his original self."

"His original self?"

"Rote learning is useful for clerks, my boy." Carrague rapped the wand smartly on my hand. "But we're dealing with wizardry here. Real magic. Don't repeat what I say."

"What do you mean by King's original self?" I hoped the question was different enough to avoid another rapping, but I kept my hands behind my back just in case.

"Why, his self before he was turned into a dog."

"Turned into a ..." I stopped myself just in time. "What was he before?" I looked at King carefully for a clue. His eyes were bright and intelligent, but so were those of many dogs. Could he be a dragon hiding as a dog? Or could he be...

"A man, of course. A hero, in fact." Carrague untied the black pouch and began sifting yellow dust over King's silvery coat. King shook himself and looked at the wizard reproachfully.

"Now be still, King." Carrague continued with his dusting, and King endured it stoically.

"If King used to be a man, why didn't you change him back years ago?"

Carrague whirled around to point at me, yellow dust spilling down to form a half-circle around him. "Now that is the first intelligent question you've asked." King woofed in agreement or impatience.

"He never asked before," answered Carrague plainly.

"Woof!" interjected King, scratching at the dust in his fur. He clearly wanted to be done with whatever magic Carrague promised to cast.

"Patience, King," chided Carrague. "If the lad's to learn anything, there's a matter of history to relate."

"Huh!" disagreed King.

"You're right. We are in a hurry, since Dauna's in danger," conceded Carrague.

"You can understand him?" I asked, astonished.

"No better nor worse than you could, if you listened carefully," said the wizard. The abbreviated story is that King, while still a man, offended a witch. She killed his companions but turned him into a dog, as you can see. Luckily for him, he escaped and came to Raven's Bluff, where he's become the most famous hero of the city, man or dog.

"And now, King," the ambassador said gravely. "Is this what you want? Shall I turn you back into a man so you can rescue young Jame's sister?"

King's nod never seemed so utterly human as now.

Carrague nodded back at him. "Very well," said the wizard.

Then Carrague raised the willow wand and spoke some more of those words that won't stick in memory. I braced myself for a flash of light, some thunder, maybe even a howling wind that would toss about the contents of the room (which, I reasoned, would explain their current state). King just sat there under Carrague's chanting and wand-waving, patiently awaiting the transformation.

But nothing happened.

"Nothing happened," I pointed out helpfully.

"No?" Carrague frowned at the wand. "Hmm. Maybe it was supposed to be the green powder of shapechanging," he mused.

King growled, then opened his mouth wide.

"Yaah," King yawned. Then he sat up suddenly, his front paws held out before him daintily, as if they were wounded. They began to swell, and his whole body stretched with a rubbery, creaking sound.

"Oh, my," said Carrague. He stood back from King and his chair. I followed his lead.

King's snout retracted, and all the hair on his face sank back into his flesh. His ears slid down either side of his head like sails vanishing over the horizon. His awful yawning whine grew deeper and louder.

"Rraaii!" he howled, then roared as his voice changed.

Fingers flexed where claws had been, and his broadening back bent forward in pain or ecstasy. I grimaced and shut my eyes, only to open them immediately. The sight was horrible, yet fascinating.

A naked man sat where King had been. His unruly hair gleamed silver as the dog's coat had been, and he had the same, large, intelligent eyes. While he remained muscular and fit, his skin was thin as old parchment. Though not as ancient as Carrague, King was still an old man. He squinted at us.

"That is why I never asked you to do this before," croaked King. "It hurt even worse the first time."

Carrague only nodded.

*****

Carrague easily found clothes for King; he conjured them. If I had any lingering doubts about his wizardry, they vanished when he flourished his fingers, speaking both the arcane words of Art and some mundane descriptions of fabric, color, and size. A variegated aura appeared, then darkened and shrank to form real fibers in the air. Faster than spider legs, Carrague's fingers wove them into breeches and tunic, boots and cap.

King fetched up a sword from Carrague's cane rack, hefted it, then grunted his approval. "It feels good to hold a sword again," he pronounced. His voice rumbled, rich and pleasant.

"Now don't run off to fight first," warned Carrague. "You have the power of speech again, and that's no mean tool. You'll need more than a blade to prevail against kidnappers."

"Believe me," said King. "I've lived long enough without a sword to know how to use my wits. You've got to do a lot of thinking when you're a dog in a city of men."

Carrague nodded, then peered at his cloak rack and plucked off a small green cap and handed it to me. "That looks about your size, boy. Try it on." I tugged it onto my head.

"It's tight," I said. Carrague smiled at me, but King's

mouth opened as wide as I'd ever seen it when he was a dog. He looked a quick question at Carrague.

"Pixwhistle's cap of invisibility," said the ambassador proudly.

"What?" I looked down at my arms. They were plenty visible to me. "I am not invisible."

King nodded at me, then sniffed. "You're invisible all right. I can't even smell you."

"Actually, you probably couldn't smell him unless you were very close," said Carrague. "Your nose isn't the fine instrument it was."

I looked around for a mirror while the two old men discussed olfactory, auditory, gustatory, and a few other -ory functions that didn't interest me. After elbowing past some mannequins and digging through baskets and bins, I unearthed a full-length mirror framed in carved oak.

"Hey, I'm invisible!" I exclaimed. I took off the hat. "I'm visible again!" While King's transformation and the conjuration of his clothing was more spectacular, this particular magic was much more personal. It worked on me.

Carrague and King finished their discussion and turned to me. "It's time to find Dauna," said Carrague.

"Let's start with the servants at your house," said King.

*****

"Oh, Master Jame! We were so worried!"

Betha charged through the kitchen, grabbing me up in meaty arms better suited to butchering livestock than hugging children. I don't think I've ever fully recovered from those crushing embraces. At least it was Betha, and not Chesley.

I had just enough breath left to tell my story again. "I'm fine, Betha. But Dauna's been kidnapped. Oof!" She squeezed me again. "And I mean it. It isn't just a story, like Chesley says. King saw them, too."

"Oh, we know, dear boy. We know." She hugged me again, and that was the last I could speak for a while.

"Mistress Betha, I'm here to investigate Dauna's kidnapping."

"And by whose authority are you here, sir?" Chesley appeared from the dining room. He was all narrow lines and livery. Our family didn't have a livery, but Chesley insisted on wearing one all the same. Livery and uniforms were as important to him as protocol and etiquette.

"I serve Ambassador Carrague, of the Ministry of Art," said King proudly. He raised his chin. If he had been a dog, his hackles would have risen. I couldn't blame him.

"I'm afraid I don't understand why the Ministry of Art is involved in a matter for the watch," sniffed Chesley.

"I was at hand," sniffed King. Unlike Chesley, though, he was really sniffing. He walked right up to Chesley and kept on sniffing, leaning forward to get a good whiff. Chesley was unprepared for that.

"Wha-Whatever are you doing?" stammered the steward.

If I'd had any breath left, I'd have lost it all again in laughter.

"Where were you when Dauna was kidnapped?" demanded King. Chesley wasn't used to having the tables turned in that direction.

"Why, I—why, I was at market."

"Then why in the world did you send me to market this morning?" demanded Betha indignantly. "I could have finished all that washing you insisted on having this afternoon."

King kept sniffing at Chesley, moving down from his thinning hair to his narrow shoulders, and farther down. "Well?" said King.

"As if it matters!" protested Chesley, pushing away at King, who seemed oblivious to the impropriety of his own behavior. "If you must know, I had to replace a bottle of the master's wine, which I had carelessly broken this morning."

"Hmm," said King.

"Hmm?" said Chesley.

"I don't smell any wine on you."

"Of course you don't, you nonsensical fool! I changed clothes."

"Doesn't matter," said King.

"Don't be ridiculous," protested Chesley.

Even I knew something was wrong, now.

"And you're afraid of these questions. You're sweating fear."

"I've had quite enough of this bullying," said Chesley, drawing himself to his most imperious height. "It is true that I didn't believe the boy's story this morning, but that's because he is a proven lia—"

"It's because you know where Dauna is," interrupted King, rising up to tower over even the tall steward. "I can smell it." King showed his teeth and growled.

In the years since then, I've learned that when men smile, they're talking without words. Sometimes it's as simple as, "that's funny" or "what a beautiful woman you are." Some smiles say, "I don't know what else to say, so I'll smile." Yet others say, "You're a miserable, stupid troll, but I can't say that, so I'll smile." King's smile said, "I'm about to clamp my teeth down on your throat if you don't talk." Chesley, to his credit, understood King's smile exactly.

"It wasn't my idea! I didn't want the money! They threatened me!"

Now we all knew he was lying. It wasn't hard to get the rest out of him, especially once Betha reached up and grabbed him by his skinny throat.

"What have you done with that darling girl?" she roared. King and I both moved quickly away from her. Even a fierce one like King knows who's the bigger dog.

It took her very little time to get Chesley's story.

*****

"There," said King. He looked all silver in the moonlight—hair, eyes, and hands. He pointed to the warm glow of a lantern. The light spilled out of a flimsy warehouse door, making a silhouette of the guard sitting there, carelessly leaning back on two chair legs.

"That's father's warehouse," I said. "The one he rents for the goods he buys overseas. Why would they take her there?"

"Probably because that's the last place we'd think to look, Jame." I thought King was incredibly smart, even for a man.

"Now, listen. You won't be any help if you let those men get their hands on you, too." King took me by the shoulder and tugged the feathered cap out from my belt. He put it on my head and pulled it snugly down. I could tell by his eyes that I was invisible again.

"Keep this on. Once we're in, you look for Dauna. Getting her out of there is your job. I'll keep the kidnappers busy."

I nodded, but he kept looking toward me as if I hadn't. "Oh, I mean yes," I said. Being invisible was tricky business.

"Here we go," said King. He turned and loped toward the door, crouching low to stay in the shadows. He got within five feet of the watchman before his scabbard struck the ground and made a terrible scrape against the stone walk.

"What's that?" said the watchman. "Who's here?" He rose from his chair with a clatter, and I was sure he'd shout before King could stop him. But King was a dark blur, rushing up to slam the open door right in the watchman's face. The surprised man dropped like a sack of flour.

"Hsst! You there, Jame?" King whispered. I hurried to catch up.

"Right behind you."

"Listen." We listened for a moment. Voices floated up from the dark interior of the warehouse, but they sounded conversational. King nodded an all clear, then lifted the fallen watchman back into his chair. Tilting him carefully back, King left the man looking every bit as watchful as he'd been before. We entered the warehouse.

Past the yellow circle of lamplight by the door, the warehouse was dark and cool. It smelled clean and damp, though the floor was dry and scattered with sawdust. The rafters were hidden in darkness, but I could feel the clear space above our heads. Past the shadows of crates and barrels, another light reflected dimly on the far wall.

At first I followed King carefully around bolts of Shou silk. But when we reached the Mulhorandi carvings, he waved me forward without turning around. "Look," he whispered. "Is that Dauna?" I peered through the space between a particularly severe pharaoh and a slender cat goddess. It was Dauna.

They had her tied to a chair, and she slumped in the coils as if she'd exhausted herself with struggling. She wasn't bruised or bleeding anywhere, so I breathed a sigh of relief. The kidnappers wanted a ransom.

We could see three of the kidnappers, two of whom I recognized from our chase that morning. The third was Siward, the young thug Chesley had hired as a handyman last month. Chesley hadn't told us the boy was involved, but we should have guessed. A head taller than me, and perhaps two years older, Siward bullied me when he first arrived at the house. Now I knew that wasn't the limit of his wickedness.

"See there?" whispered King. He pointed to a line of barrels beside Dauna's chair.

I nodded. Then I whispered, "Yes."

"Try to make your way around to free Dauna." He held out a knife, and I took it. I nodded again, turned, and tread as quietly as I could back to the other side. King vanished into the gloom between the crates.

Checking to make sure the hat remained firmly on my head, I crept around a great pile of bagged spices. Some of them tickled my nose, and I pinched it shut. I didn't want to sneeze and accidentally alert the villains. Soon enough, I found a space through which I could crawl close to Dauna.

Poking my head out from between the narrow aisle of barrels, I wasted a few moments trying to attract Dauna's attention with frantic waving. Being invisible was becoming embarrassing. Fortunately, no one could see me making these mistakes.

I looked around and counted Siward and three other men, one of whom we hadn't seen from our earlier vantage. Two of them played at lots, and the one we hadn't seen was trimming his nails with a dagger, while Siward

lounged against the wall, trying to look tough and knowing. He stole quick glances at the other men to see if any noticed how dangerous he looked. None of them did.

With each of the kidnappers occupied with his own pursuit, I had no trouble slipping behind Dauna's chair. Being invisible helped, too, I suppose.

"Dauna, it's me, Jame," I whispered softly.

"Jame?" said Dauna. I couldn't blame her. It was taking me some time to get used to the invisibility thing, too.

"What's that?" demanded Siward, rising from his pose to stand directly in front of Dauna. "Did the little bug say something?"

Dauna's the bold one. "I heard a voice," she said. "Must have been the city watch, come to arrest you all." She's never been a great one for stories, though. Good thing, as it turned out.

"Right, and then they'll declare you the princess of Cormyr. Ha! Little bug! I bet your father won't even want you back, you ugly thing. Then we'll have to squash you." I'd never seen nor heard anything as ugly as Siward's laugh then. Dauna would have something sharp to say, I thought. But she screwed up her face and began to sob. I guess that's when I first really hated Siward.

He laughed again and called her "little bug" a few more times. I thought him rather dull for it, but it had a pronounced effect on Dauna, whose sobs turned to a wailing cry. King would make his move soon, I hoped. What was he waiting for?

"Oh, mercy," cried one of the lot players. "Don't get her started again. Get away from her, boy."

"Who are you calling a boy?" challenged Siward. But he went back to his place at the wall. It was then I realized that the fingernail-trimmer was missing. The kidnappers noticed it too.

"Where's Lonny?" asked the other lot player. His opponent shrugged.

"Probably had to see a man about a horse." They laughed at that tired joke. My bet was that King had dispatched the man and was busy tying him up. I used the time to put my hand over Dauna's mouth and whisper again.

"It's Jame, your brother. I'm invisible. Really. I'll let you try it later. But first, I'm going to cut you free. Don't scream or talk to me or anything. All right?" She hadn't bitten my hand yet, and she made a sort of nodding motion, so I let go. Cutting the ropes was quick and easy, but they fell to the floor with a noticeable thump.

"Hey, she's loose!" cried Siward.

Both of the lot players rose from their table, and suddenly King came leaping over the crates behind them. But he'd jumped badly, used to landing on his front paws first. A man's hands aren't quite up to that task, so he went sprawling on the table between two surprised kidnappers.

"Get him!" cried a lot player. The other drew his sword and raised it, preparing to stab King in the back.

"King!" I shouted. "Look out!" By then, Siward was almost on top of Dauna. I grabbed the cap off my head and pushed it over Dauna's curly locks. Siward paused just long enough at my sudden appearance and Dauna's disappearance for me to shout, "Run! You're invisible! Run home to Betha!"

Then Siward was an avalanche upon me.

"You prat!" he screeched, losing all composure. "I'll beat you into pudding!"

I wanted to respond with something clever, but he was quick to make good on his threat. My only response was a series of unintelligible grunts punctuating each of his blows. I looked desperately around for King, hoping he had not only dispatched his enemies, but could also rescue me from Siward.

But King had his own troubles. Both of the kidnappers wielded swords now, two blades to one, and King's back pressed the wall. To his credit, he was a good swordsman, but the weapon seemed awkward in his grip. It had been too long since he had fought like this. Then one of the kidnappers struck him a smart blow to arm, knocking his sword down. Both villains' blades flicked toward his throat.

"On your knees, hero," mocked one of the swordsmen. Siward held me by the collar and turned to look.

King was amazed and uncertain. He hesitated, then slowly knelt, defeat in the old warrior's eyes.

"Down, you cur," ordered the other man. The first grabbed King by the shoulder and pushed him down onto his hands.

"King!" I cried.

He looked over at where I lay beneath Siward's giggling bulk. All three kidnappers laughed mockingly, congratulating each other with glances. King peered across at his dropped sword, his expression hopeless, his head hanging low. He looked utterly defeated.

But then King hunkered down, finding the balance between his hands and feet. He lifted his head slowly. The kidnappers were busy grinning at each other, so I was the only one to see King show his teeth in a smile that would have terrified me had it been cast my direction. The swordsmen didn't see King look up at them, a renewed fire in his eyes. He tensed, ready to spring.

"Rahr!" growled King, lunging at the first kidnapper's leg.

The man shouted in pain and beat ineffectually at his attacker. "He bit me! He bit me!" he repeated in disbelief.

"He's raving mad," shouted the other, raising his sword.

Then they heard King's low, awful growl, and saw King's eyes, his teeth bared and bloody.

"Merciful gods, it's a werewolf!" cried one. Two swords struck the ground at once, and the kidnappers fled so quickly that one of them slammed face first into the statue of the cat goddess, knocking himself senseless. The other ran somewhat farther, screamed, then fell with a great thump. I figured out later that he had stumbled over Lonny, whom he thought to be the unfortunate victim of King, the werewolf.

Siward's reaction was every bit as sudden as those of his companions. "Werewolf!" he screamed.

Siward ran three steps and promptly tripped over a chair that mysteriously slid beneath his legs. Dauna appeared, slapping the babbling Siward with the feathered cap. "Who's squashed now, little bug?" Whether to stanch the wound to his dignity or to preserve his dwindling sanity, Siward chose the better part of valor and fainted.

The rest was a boring parade of arriving watchmen, a tearful and huggy Betha, and plenty of questions. The earlier thrill kept us awake for the first hour or so, but then Dauna's yawns melted into sleep. King carried her home in his arms, and I barely made it back under my own power.

"You must stay the night here," said Betha to King. The hero opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it again. Betha was still the bigger dog.

I had just enough strength to show King to the guest bedroom. We said good night, and I turned to leave. But I stopped a moment at the door to look back at him, thinking I had something to say but finding no words. He didn't see me.

I watched him lie down on the bed with a heavy sigh, then turn heavily onto his side. A few more uncomfortable shifts, and King climbed off the soft feather bed to crawl onto the rug, circle three times on all fours, then curl up to sleep comfortably.

*****

Father returned four days after we rescued Dauna. He wouldn't let us out of his sight for days. The first time I saw King was at Chesley's trial. The court was crammed with people, and I couldn't get anywhere close to King. Even from a distance, I could see he was unhappy. He'd lost some of the silver gleam he'd had on the night of the rescue. He looked just gray and tired. And old.

Eventually, Father allowed me my freedom again, and I rushed to the streets to find King. I wanted to hear all of his stories, everything about why the witch had changed him into a dog and about all his adventures since then.

King could have been anywhere, so that's where I looked. After searching the docks, the circus grounds, the markets, and even the Ministry of Art—where the guards told me Carrague was away to supper—I found myself on Wicker Street, not far from the Barley Bowl. I smelled barley soup and knew Carrague must be inside. Surely he could tell me what had become of King.

There was the ambassador, all right. He leaned back against the wall, snoring softly. A long pipe rested near an empty soup bowl. One hand dangled at his side, idly stroking the silver fur of an aging, mixed-breed terrier.

THE COMMON SPELL

Kate Novak-Grubb

"This is a waste of time. I don't need to learn this," insisted Marl, the cooper's son.

Kith Lias glared at the boy, but she kept her temper in check. Marl was hardly the first to denigrate the skills she was trying to teach. He wouldn't be the last, either. Marl was a big boy, the kind whose lead the other boys would follow. While none of the other students said a word, some of them eyed Marl with admiration that he'd had the courage to voice what many of them were thinking. The rest of the students watched Kith curiously, waiting to see how the teacher would handle this challenge to her authority.

"Even a cooper may need to read and write sometimes, Marl," Kith answered, pushing a strand of her long, dark hair back behind her ear. "You may need to write down the orders for your suppliers and customers so you can remember them better."

The other students nodded at Kith's example, but Marl snorted derisively. "I'm not going to be a cooper," the boy declared. "Soon as I get enough money to buy a sword, I'm joining a caravan as a guard. I'm going to be an adventurer."

"A swordling without the common spell," Kith muttered sadly.

"What's a swordling?" asked Lisaka, the tavernkeep's daughter.

"What's the common spell?" Marl demanded.

"A swordling is an adventurer's word," Kith explained, "for a novice sell-sword. A mageling is a young mage who hasn't proven herself. The common spell is ... well, actually it's a story I heard from Alias the Sell-Sword."

The children in the classroom leaned forward as one. Like all students throughout the Realms, they knew that their teacher could be distracted from the lesson if they encouraged her to reminisce. They were also eager to hear a story about Alias the Sell-Sword. Alias was a famous adventurer—she rescued the halfling bard Olive Ruskettle from the dragon Mistinarperadnacles and slew the mad god Moander—twice. Only last year she drove the thieves guild from Westgate. A story about Alias would be wonderful.

"Tell us, please," Lisaka asked.

"Yeah, tell the story," Marl demanded.

Kith shrugged. "I heard Alias tell this story in the village of Serpentsford in Featherdale. The people there were suspicious of all female strangers who passed through the town, even a hero like Alias, for the village was plagued by a penanggalan."

"What's that?" asked Jewel Weaver, the youngest student in the class.

"It's a female vampire," Marl said with a superior air.

"Not exactly," Kith retorted. "A penanggalan is undead, and it does drink the blood of the living, but there the sim-ilarity ends. A penanggalan appears as an ordinary woman in the daylight, and the sun's rays do not destroy it. But at night its head twists away from its body, trailing a black 'tail', which is all that remains of its stomach and guts. The body lies motionless while the head flies off and hunts for its victims. It prefers the blood of women and girls."

Jewel squealed, and several other students shivered. Even Marl looked a little pale.

"The people of Serpentsford had known enough to cremate the victims of the penanggalan so they would not become undead themselves," Kith explained. "But the villagers were beginning to lose hope that they would ever discover the monster, or even any of her secret lairs, for she was very cunning. Alias told this story to raise their spirits."

"So what's the story?" Marl growled impatiently.

Amused at the boy's attentiveness, Kith smiled ever so slightly. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Marl squirmed with annoyance.

Kith began the tale. "This is a tale of the adventuring party known as the Swanmays. Their members included two swordswomen, Belinda and Myrtle; a pair of rogues, Niom and Shadow; a cleric, Pasil; and a mageling, Kasilith. In the Year of the Worm, the Swanmays wintered in the city of Westgate. Their landlord, a weaver woman, had an apprentice, an orphan girl named Stelly who was thirteen. Stelly and Kasilith, the mageling, became close friends, and Stelly wanted to leave the weaver to join the Swanmays.

"Now, although it was a master's legal obligation, the weaver had not yet taught Stelly to read or write. Belinda, the leader of the Swanmays, wasn't keen on taking responsibility for an illiterate girl whose only skills were with wool, and stealing an apprentice was a crime in Westgate. Yet Belinda liked Stelly. She promised Kasilith that if the mageling taught Stelly to read and write, Belinda would go to the city council, challenge the weaver's claim to Stelly, and petition to take Stelly on as an apprentice swordswoman,

"During the winter, Kasilith taught Stelly how to read and write her letters. Stelly believed what Kasilith was teaching her was actually magic; it was so awesome to the girl that scribbles on paper could mean something. Kasilith joked that if it was magic, it was the most common spell in the Realms.

"That same winter a penanggalan began to prey on the women of Westgate. Neither the city watch nor any of the adventurers inhabiting the town could discover the

creature's lair. In life, the monster had been a noblewoman and her family and their power helped to hide her. By chance or fate, the undead noblewoman came into Stellas master's shop to have a tear in her cloak repaired and decided to make the weaver her next victim. Explaining she could not call for the cloak until later that evening, the penanggalan made arrangements to meet the weaver after the shop closed.

"A little while later, the weaver learned of Belinda's plan to take Stelly from her. Angrily, the weaver ordered Stelly to repair the noblewoman's cloak, then locked the girl in the workroom. Stelly could hear her master ordering the Swanmays out of her house, then barring the door.

"After crying for a while over her lost chance, Stelly went back to her work. In the pocket of the noblewoman's cloak, the girl discovered an expensive locket engraved with a name. Since Stelly could now read, she recognized the name belonged to a girl who had already fallen prey to the penanggalan. Stelly shouted for her master, but the weaver, thinking the girl was just throwing a tantrum, ignored her cries. Much later in the evening the apprentice heard her master unbar the door to the house and then cry out once in fear. The penanggalan had come for the weaver in her true form.

"Locked in the workroom, Stelly could make out the weaver's moans and the sound of the beast slurping up her life's blood. Stelly cowered silently in fear until she became unconscious.

"In the morning the penanggalan, once again in human form, unlocked the workroom door to retrieve her cloak. Pretending concern for the apprentice, the undead noblewoman promised to return and free Stelly after dark. Stelly hid her fear and her knowledge of the woman's true nature. Knowing the penanggalan intended to return after dark to kill her as it must certainly have killed the weaver, Stelly conceived a desperate stratagem. Across the back of the monster's cloak she scrawled 'pnngalin' with a piece of chalk, then folded the cloak carefully so her repair work showed but her markings did not. The noblewoman nodded with satisfaction at the repairs and

allowed Stelly to set the cloak about her shoulders. Then the woman left the workroom, locking the apprentice back in. It was the last Stelly ever saw of her."

"Because people spotted the letters . . . and killed the penanggalan," Jewel said excitedly.

"That is how Alias's story ended," Kith said with a nod. "Reading and writing, the common spell, saved Stelly's life."

"Is that all?" Marl asked, obviously not pleased with the tale.

"No, that's not all," Kith retorted, her voice suddenly deeper and more commanding. "The ending Alias gave the tale was a lie."

The students' eyes widened in surprise.

"But why would Alias lie?" Lisaka asked.

Kith shrugged. "She learned the tale from her father, the bard Finder Wyvernspur, and that is how he told it to her. Bards are notorious for manipulating the facts for their own purposes. But I know it was not the tale's true ending. I was staying at the inn in Serpentsford when Alias told the story," Kith explained, "and when she finished a woman in the audience accused her of lying and slapped her."

The students gasped, even Marl.

"The woman had been the Swanmay mageling Kasilith," the teacher explained. "She was only twenty-seven, but she looked fifty at least. She told Alias and the villagers the story's true ending."

"Which was?" Marl prompted.

"Kasilith was supposed to teach Stelly to read and write," Kith said, her voice laden with bitterness, "but instead the two girls spent the winter playing frivolous games with magic and toy swords and their hair and dresses. When Stelly found the locket in the penang-galan's cloak she couldn't read it. The apprentice had no way of discovering that the noblewoman was the penanggalan, and even if she had suspected anything upon hearing the weaver cry out that night, the girl did not know enough of her letters to write anything on the back of the monster's cloak. The next night the noblewoman returned

to free Stelly. She freed her from her life, by draining all the blood from her body."

"Oh, no," Jewel whispered.

"Oh, yes," Kith replied.

"Did they ever catch the penanggalan?" asked Todd, the baker's son. "Wait a minute!" the boy exclaimed. Til bet it was the same penanggalan in Westgate that was in Ser-pentsford. Kasilith was still hunting her to avenge Stelly's death, wasn't she?"

"That is what she told Alias and her companion, Drag-onbait," Kith answered.

"So, did they catch the penanggalan?" Marl asked.

Kith continued. "Alias had a shard of the finder's stone, an old broken artifact. If you held the stone and had a clear picture of someone or something, the shard sent out a beacon of light in the direction of whomever or whatever you wanted to find. Kasilith said she'd seen the penang-galan's human body once, so Alias gave her the stone. Its light led them to a lair hidden underground, where the penanggalan's torso lay on a bier of fresh pine branches. The monster's head was not there; it would return before dawn, but now it was off hunting.

"With an exalted air, Kasilith used her magic to burn the body. Without its torso the penanggalan would not be able to hide its true nature again. If the head was struck by the sunlight and did not return to its torso within a few hours, it would rot, so the penanggalan would not be able to travel in the daylight anymore, either. The adventurers hid themselves and waited for the penanggalan's head to return."

"And did it?" Marl asked. He sat on the edge of his seat.

Kith shook her head.

"Then what happened?" Jewel prompted.

"Alias and Dragonbait and the villagers searched everywhere. For days and nights they looked for the penanggalan or its remains. They found no other secret lairs, nor did they find any other victims of the penanggalan. They hoped that the creature had been struck by sunlight and had rotted, but Alias would not give up the hunt until she had positive proof the penanggalan was dead.

"Kasilith did give up, though. She was just about to leave the village when a great snowstorm came down from the northeast. Travel in any direction outside the vale was impossible for nearly a week, and so she remained. The mage grew remote and haggard in appearance. The snowstorm broke, but by then Kasilith was so ill she was too weak to leave her bed. Her traveling companion, a pretty foundling girl called Jilly, remained at her bedside.

"Then one night, just as Alias and her companion Dragonbait were about to leave the inn for the hunt, Dragonbait turned about and hissed. Now, Dragonbait came from a strange race of lizard creatures called sauri-als, but really they're no different from you and me. Dragonbait was a paladin, a champion of the god of justice, and just like a human paladin he could sense the presence of evil. He dashed up to Kasilith's room with Alias hot on his heels. The pair smashed open the door.

"Something lay on Kasilith's chest, nuzzling at her neck. For a moment Alias mistook it for a sleeping toddler. It had silky strawberry blond hair, which Kasilith stroked with one hand. The mage's other hand was wrapped around what appeared to be a child's arm. Then the innkeep came to the door with a lantern, and Alias could see the thing lying on Kasilith was a penanggalan. It was lapping at the blood that oozed from two wounds on the mage's throat, and a glistening black tail attached to the fair head writhed like a snake beneath the mage's hand.

"The innkeep dropped the lantern and fled. Alias gagged in spite of herself, and the penanggalan raised its head and hissed. It had the face of Kasilith's traveling companion, Jilly. Jilly's headless torso lay on the bed beside the mage. The monster rose from the bed, its eyes glowing red, blood gurgling down its throat. In a raspy voice it called out its victim's name and flew toward the window, but its escape was blocked by the saurial paladin and his magically flaming sword. Alias slammed the door shut, trapping the monster in the room with its victim and the two adventurers.

"The penanggalan could fly, but the room's ceiling was low, and Alias's sword was long. She pressed the monster

into a corner and was just about to deliver a killing blow when her back exploded with the pain of five magical darts sinking into her flesh. Alias whirled around in surprise. Her eyes widened in shock as she discovered it was Kasilith who'd just attacked her. The mage was not just the penanggalan's victim; she was protecting the undead beast as well.

"Dragonbait threw himself on Kasilith, preventing her from casting any more magic, but the penanggalan, taking advantage of Alias's diverted attention, had turned on its attacker with a vengeance. It swooped down upon the swordswoman and lashed its tail about her neck. Alias flailed her sword awkwardly over her head while she tugged at the creature's tail to keep it from choking her. The tail felt slimy, like a decaying piece of meat, and it stunk of curdling blood. Realizing she hadn't long before the monster crushed her windpipe, Alias tried a desperate measure. She dropped her sword and snatched her dagger from her boot sheath.

"A second later she'd slashed the penanggalan along the length of its tail. Hot blood gushed down on her, momentarily obscuring her vision. The penanggalan sank its teeth into her cheek. Dropping her dagger, Alias grabbed the hair at the monster's temples and ripped it from her, smashing it into the wall over and over, until she had crushed its skull. The tail about her throat went limp and slid from her. Alias dropped the monster on the floor and, retrieving her sword, cleaved its head in two.

"An inky cloud rose from the monstrous head, shrank to a pinpoint of blackness, then vanished. From the bed, Kasilith sobbed out, 'Stelly,' and Alias realized what must have happened."

Kith paused in her story and hung her head for a moment. She breathed in deeply and let her breath out slowly.

"Jilly was Stelly," Todd cried out. "No one had cremated Stelly's body," the boy speculated, "so she became a penanggalan. But what about the other penanggalan? The one whose body Kasilith destroyed?" the boy asked. "Was that the one that killed Stelly?"

Kith shook her head. "No, the Swanmays did finally find and destroy that one. There was no other penanggalan. Kasilith created an illusion of the body and destroyed it so Alias would think the monster was dead and would go away."

"But Alias was too thorough a hunter, and didn't leave," Marl noted.

"And when Kasilith and Stelly were trapped in Ser-pentsford by the snow, Stelly had to feed on Kasilith so she wouldn't get caught," Todd added.

"And Kasilith helped Stelly even though she was a penanggalan because she was her friend," Lisaka said.

"A penanggalan isn't the person she was in life. It's just an evil life-force animating her body that knows what she knew," Marl argued. "Right?"

"That's true," Kith said softly.

"But Kasilith didn't know that, did she?" Jewel asked.

"She knew," Kith replied.

"The penanggalan probably hypnotized her into being its slave," Marl said.

Kith shook her head. "No. Kasilith served it willingly. You see, she felt so guilty that Stelly had died because she hadn't taught her to read. So she thought she deserved nothing better for the rest of her life than to serve as the slave to evil because she'd done an evil thing."

"Then what happened to her?" Jewel asked anxiously.

Kith sighed. "Well, she shrieked and cried and ranted and raved for a while. She swore she would never forgive Alias and Dragonbait for freeing her from the penang-galan's enslavement. Still, they attended to her while she was recovering from the penanggalan's wounds."

"More than she deserved," Marl muttered.

"True," Kith agreed. "Alias told the mage that Finder Wyvernspur had told her so much about Kasilith that she felt she was her friend and would not leave her until she was healed. Kasilith swore she had never met Finder Wyvernspur, but Alias stayed anyway. Finally, one day, something Dragonbait the paladin said made her change her mind about how she felt and about what she should do with her life."

"What did he say?" Jewel asked.

"He told Kasilith that the god of justice abhors punishment for punishment's sake. That we have to find a way to atone for the evil we do, and that we cannot atone for evil with evil, but only with good. He suggested she go out and teach other children who needed to learn to read and write. That way she would honor Stelly's true spirit and maybe bring peace to her own spirit. And that's just what she did."

"So she became a teacher like you?" Jewel asked.

"She became a teacher like me," Kith answered. "She teaches the common spell."

*****

Marl the cooper's son stayed in school another two years before he finally bought his own sword and joined a caravan as a swordling. By then Kith Lias had taught him to read and write the names of every fell creature he might encounter in the Realms and had moved to another dale to teach another village's children. It was during Marl's off-duty hours that the other caravan guards taught him the game anagrams. After that, the cooper's son spent even more time wondering about the mage Kasilith and the teacher Kith Lias.

THE FIRST MOONWELL

Douglas Niles

The goddess existed deep within the cocoon of bedrock, an eternal being, formed of stone and silt and fire, her body blanketed by the depths of a vast and trackless sea. In the way of immortals, she had little awareness of the steady progression of ages, the measured pulse of time. Only gradually, over the course of countless eons, did she become aware that around and above her the ocean came to host an abundance of life. She knew the presence of this vitality in all the forms that thrived and grew; from the beginning she understood that life, even in its simplest and most transient forms, was good.

Deep waters washed her body, and the volcanic fires of her blood swelled, seeking release. She was a living thing, and thus she grew. Her being expanded, rising slowly from the depths of the ocean, over millennia spilling along trench and seabed, pressing deliberately, forcefully upward. Over the course of ages, her skin, the floor of the sea, pushed through the realm of black and indigo and blue, toward shimmering reaches of aquamarine and a warmth that was very different from the hot pulse of lava that measured her own steady heartbeat.

Life in many forms quickened around her, first in the

manner of simple things, later in larger and more elaborate shapes. Animation teemed in the waters that cloaked and cooled her body. Gashes opened continually in the rocky flesh of her body, and her blood of molten rock touched the chill waters in spuming explosions of steam.

Amid these hissing eruptions, she sensed great forms circling, swimming near, breathing the chill, dark sea. These beings of fin and tentacle, of scale and gill, gathered to the warmth of the earthmother's wounds—wounds that caused no pain, but instead gave her the means to expand, to strive ever higher through the brightening waters of the sea.

And, finally, in the life that gathered to her bosom, she sensed great creatures of heartbeat and warm blood. These mighty denizens swam like fish, but were cloaked in slick skin rather than scales, and rose through the sea to drink of the air that filled the void above. Mothers nursed their young, much like the goddess nourished her children and her thriving sea. Most importantly, in these latter arrivals the goddess sensed the awakenings of mind, of thought and intelligence.

Unaware of millennia passing, feeling the coolness of the sea against the rising pressure of her rock-bound body, the physical form of the goddess continued to expand. At last, a portion of her being rose above the storm-tossed ocean to feel a new kind of warmth, a radiance that descended from the sky. Periodically this heat was masked beneath a blanket of chilly powder, but the frosty layer yielded itself in a regular pattern to more warmth, to soothing waters that bathed the flesh of the goddess, and more of the golden rays shedding steadily downward from the sky.

The flesh of the goddess cooled, weathered by exposure to sky. New and different forms of life took root upon her; beings that dwelled in the sea of air turned faces upward to the clouds. Many did not walk or swim, but fixed themselves to the ground, extended lofty boughs upward, creating verdant bowers across the breadth of the land. The growth of these tall and mighty trees, like all forms of life, was pleasing to the goddess. She sensed the fruition and waning of the forests that layered her skin, knew the cooling and warming of seasons with greater acuity than ever before.

It was this awareness that, at last, gave to the earth-mother a true sense of passing time. She knew seasons, and in the course of changing climes she learned the pattern of a year. She came to measure time as a man might count his own breaths or heartbeats, though to the goddess each heartbeat was a season, each breath the cycle of the annum. As the years passed by the tens and hundreds and thousands, she grew more vibrant, stronger, and more aware.

The hot blood of earlier eons cooled further; the eruptions from the sea ultimately were capped by solid stone. That firm bedrock, where it jutted above the waves, was layered everywhere in forest, meadow, glade and moor. Seas and lakes intermixed with the land, keeping the goddess always cool, both fresh waters and brine nurturing the growing populations of living creatures.

Still the goddess maintained communion with the beings of warm blood dwelling in the depths, who swam to the surface and returned, sharing their mind-images of a vast dome of sky, of the sweet kiss of a sea breeze and the billowing majesty of lofty clouds. Her favorite of these sea creatures was one who had been nourished at her breast from time immemorial, feeding upon the kelp and plankton that gathered to her warm emissions, slumbering for decades at a time in her embrace. She came to know him as the Leviathan, the first of her children.

He was a mighty whale, greater than any other fish or mammal that swam in these seas. His soul was gentle, his mind observant, keen and patient—as only one who has lived for centuries can know patience. Great lungs filled his powerful chest, and he knew life with a rhythm that the goddess could understand. Sometimes he took a breath of air and settled into the depths, remaining there for a passage of several heartbeats by the reckoning of the goddess—a time of years in the more frenetic pace of the other warm-blooded creatures.

In long, silent communication with the goddess who was his mother, the Leviathan lay in a deep trench on the bottom of the sea, sensing the lingering warmth of her fiery blood as it pulsed and ebbed below the bedrock of the ocean floor. During these times, the great whale passed

images he had beheld above the waves, pictures of growing verdancy among the earthmother's many islands, of the teeming array of creatures swarming not only sea and land, but now even flocking in the skies.

And he shared, too, his memories of clouds. These more than anything else stoked the fires of the earthmother's imagination, brought wonder to her heart, and caused curiosity to germinate in her being.

As she communed with the Leviathan, sharing his memories of the things he had beheld, she began to sense a thing about herself: The goddess, unlike so many of the creatures that dwelled upon her flesh, was utterly blind. She lacked any window, any sense through which she could view the world of life flourishing upon her physical form.

The only visual pictures that she knew came from the memory of the great whale, and these were pale and vaporous imitations of the real thing. The goddess wanted to see for herself the sky of cloud and rain and sun, to know the animals that teemed among her forests and glades, the trees that sank their roots so deeply into her flesh.

From the Leviathan, the goddess earthmother had learned about eyes, the orbs of magic that allowed the animals of the world to observe the wonders around them. She learned about them, and desired them . .. and devised a plan to create an eye for herself.

The Leviathan would aid her. The great whale drank from an undersea fountain, absorbing the power and the magic of the earthmother into himself. With easy strokes of his powerful flukes, he drove toward the surface, swimming through brightening shades of water until again his broad back rolled above the waves, felt the kiss of sunlight and breeze.

Swimming strongly, the Leviathan swam to a deep bay, stroking between rocky necks of land into ever narrower waters, toward the western shore of one of the earth-mother's cherished isles. Mountains rose to the north, a stretch of craggy highlands crested with snow as the spring warmth crept only slowly upward from the shore. To the south was a swath of green forest, woodlands extending far from the rocky shoreline, blanketing this great extent of the island.

In the terminus of the bay, the land came together from north and south, the waters remaining deep enough for the Leviathan to swim with ease. He came to the place the goddess had chosen, and brought the warm and magical essence of herself through his body. With a great, spuming explosion, he cast the liquid into the air, shooting a shower of warm rain. Precious water splashed onto the rocks of the shoreline, gathered in many streams, flowed downward to collect in a rocky bowl near the gravel-strewn beach.

The essence of the goddess gathered into that pool, milky waters of potent magic. Her presence focused on the skies, on the vault of heavens she had so long imagined. The first thing that came into view was a perfect orb of white, rising into the twilight skies, coursing ever higher, beaming reflected light across the body and blood of the earthmother.

From the waters of her newly made well, the goddess beheld the moon. Alabaster light reflected from the shoals and waves of the shoreline and blessed the land all around. The earthmother saw this light, and she was pleased.

Yet still there was a dimness to her vision, an unfocused haze that prevented her from fully absorbing the presence of the world. The Leviathan lay offshore, rolling in the heavy swell, but the pool was remote from him, bounded as it was by dry ground and rocks. She knew then that it was not enough to have her children in the sea.

The goddess would require a presence on the land, as well.

*****

The wolf, gray flanks lean with hunger, shaggy pelt worn by the ravages of a long hibernation, loped after a mighty stag. The buck ran easily through the spring growth, exhibiting none of the wide-eyed panic that might have driven a younger deer into headlong—and ultimately disastrous—flight. Instead, this proud animal bounded in graceful leaps, staying well beyond the reach of hungry

jaws, veering only when necessary to maintain a clear avenue of flight.

In the midst of the keen, lupine face, blue eyes remained fixed upon the lofty rack of antlers. Patience, counseled the wolfs instinct, knowing that the pack could accomplish what one strong hunter could not. As if in response to their leader's thought, more wolves burst from concealment to the side, rushing to join the chase. But the stag had chosen its course well; a long, curving adjustment took it away from the newer hunters, without allowing the big male to draw appreciably closer.

A low cliff loomed ahead, and though no breeze stirred in the depths of the glen, the buck sensed another ambush, canine forms concealed in the thickness of ferns lining the shady depths of the bower. Now the stag threw itself at the limestone precipice, leaping upward with catlike grace, finding purchase for broad hooves on ledges and mossy outcrops.

With snorting exertion and flaring nostrils, the first outward signs of desperation, the buck scrambled up a rock face three times its own height. A trio of wolves burst from the ferny camouflage below, howling in frustrated hunger as the antlered deer reached the level ground above the cliff and once again increased its speed. Hooves pounded and thundered on the firm ground as, with a flick of a white-feathered tail, the stag raced toward open terrain.

But the leader of the small wolf pack would not, could not, admit defeat. Throwing himself at that rocky face, pouncing upward with all the strength of powerful rear legs, the wolf clawed and scraped and pulled, driven by the desperation of the starving hunter. At last, broad forepaws crested the summit, and the carnivore again loped after the prey, howls echoing after the gasping, thudding noise of the stag's flight.

Others of the wolves tried to follow, though most fell back. Still, a few young males and a proud, yellow-eyed bitch made the ascent. Their baying song added to the din of flight and gave the rest of the pack a focus as smaller wolves raced to either side, seeking an easier way to the elevation above the limestone shelf.

Weariness began to drag at the leader, bringing to his step a stumbling uncertainty that had been utterly lacking before. Yet the scent of the prey was strong, and mingled with that acrid odor came the spoor of the stag's own weariness, its growing desperation. These signals gave the wolf hope, and he raised his head in a braying summons to the rest of the pack, a cry of anticipation that rang like a prayer through the silent giants of the wood, along the verdant blanket of the cool ground.

But the powerful deer found a reserve that surprised and dismayed the proud hunter. The predator raced through the woods with belly low, shaggy tail extended straight behind. Those bright blue eyes fixed upon the image of the fleeing stag, watching antlers brush overhanging limbs and leaves. Straining, no longer howling as he gasped to make the most of each desperate breath, the wolf pursued in deadly silence.

And in that silence he began to sense his failure. The loping forms of his packmates whispered like ghosts through the fern-lined woodland behind him, but neither were they able to close the distance to the fleeing prey. Even the yellow-eyed female, long jaws gaping in a fang-lined grin of hunger, could not hold the pace much longer.

Then, with an abrupt turn, the stag darted to the left. Cutting the corner of the angle, the leading pair of wolves closed the distance. Soon the male was racing just behind the prey's left quarter, while the powerful bitch closed in from the opposite side. The twin hunters flanked the prey, blocking any attempt to change course.

But the stag continued its flight with single-minded determination, as if it had found a goal. The antlered deer ran downward along the slope of a broad ridge, plunging through thickets, leaping large boulders that would be obstacles only to lesser creatures. The woods opened still more, and now the vista showed a swath of blue water, a bay extending between twin necks of rugged land.

Finally the stag broke from the woods to gallop across a wide swath of moor. Soft loam cushioned the broad hooves, and though the deer's tongue flopped loosely from wide jaws and nostrils flared madly with the strain of each

breath, the animal actually increased the speed of its desperate flight.

But so, too, did the wolves. More and more of the pack burst from the woods, trailing across the spongy grassland, running now in grim and purposeful silence. If the great male had looked back, he would have noticed a surprising number of canine predators, more by far than had belonged to his pack when they had settled into the den for a winter's rest. And still more wolves came along the shores, gathering from north and south, highland and coast, drawn toward the scene of the hunt, hundreds of gray forms ghosting toward a single point.

The stag finally faltered, but not because of fatigue. The animal slowed to a regal trot, proud antlers held high. The sea was very near now, but the buck did not strive for the shoreline. Instead, the forest monarch turned its course along that rocky beach, toward a pool of liquid that rested in the perfect shelter of a rocky bowl.

The pond was too high to be a tidal pool, nor did the water seem like a collection of mere rain or runoff. Instead, the liquid was pale, almost milky-white in color, and it swirled in a hypnotic pattern. The shoreline was steep, but in one place a steplike progression of rocks allowed the buck to move carefully downward.

Wolves gathered on the rocks, surrounding the stag and the pool, knowing that the prey was trapped. Yet some silent compulsion held the hungry predators at bay. Glittering eyes watched with keen intelligence as the stag's muzzle touched the surface of the water; long, panting tongues flopped loosely as the carnivores waited for their prey to drink.

For a long time, the great deer lapped at the waters of the Moonwell, and when finally it had drunk its fill it stepped away, mounting the steps toward the leader. The stag raised its head, baring the shaggy throat, uttering a final, triumphant bellow at the powdery clouds that had gathered in the sky.

When the leading wolf bit into that exposed neck, he did so almost tenderly. The kill was quick and clean, the predator ignoring the red blood that warmed his jaws,

that should have inflamed his hunger and passion with its fresh and welcoming scent. Instead, the wolf raised his own head, fixed bright eyes on the same clouds that had been the last things seen by the mighty stag. A long howl ululated across the moor, and the leader was joined by the rest of his pack in a song of joy and worship, in music that hailed their mother and their maker.

When the pack finally fell to feeding, the blood of the stag ran down the rocky steps in crimson rivers. Though the wolves numbered an uncountable throng, now, there was meat for them all. With a sense of powerful satiation, each predator, after eating its fill, drank from the milky waters of the pool.

The feasting went on for more than a day, and at last the brightness of the full moon rose above the glimmering waters. Pups were born under that light, and youngsters frolicked around the fringes of a mighty gathering.

The red blood mingled with the waters of the Moonwell, and the goddess saw and celebrated with her children. The bold sacrifice of the stag was, to her, a thing of beauty—and with the mighty animal's blood was the water of her Moonwell consecrated.

And the balance of her living children maintained.

THE LUCK OF LLEWELLYN THE LOQUACIOUS