King's Tear

Mark Anthony

 

The spirits of the three sages writhed in the flickering, poisonous green flames rising from the copper brazier. The necromancer Kelshara prowled catlike about them, here in the highest chamber of her tower that stood among the dark, jagged peaks of the southernmost Sunset Mountains.

"Please, sorceress, we do not know the answer you seek!" one of the spirits moaned.

"We beg you," pleaded another. "Release us from this torment.¹"

"Very well," Kelshara hissed. Her features were pale and flawless, her long hair as dark as polished onyx, yet she was anything but lovely. Rage was never beautiful. "And for your worthlessness, this is your reward."

She tossed a handful of dark powder onto the brazier. Brilliant sparks, red as rubies, crackled about the pale apparitions as they shrieked in agony. The magical flames flared to the ceiling, then died down in a puff of acrid smoke. The spirits were gone, the last echo of their wails ringing off the chill stone walls.

Kelshara smiled in cruel satisfaction for a moment, but the expression soon faded. She still had no solution to the mystery. From a golden box on a table she drew out two small objects. They were jewels, teardrop shaped and as clear as winter ice. King's Tears such stones were called. Legend held that they were the tears of ancient kings magically turned to stone. Legend also told that if you looked into the heart of a King's Tear, you would see an image of what the ancient lord had loved most in life. And the legends were true.

Even now she could see the visions flickering within the jewels: parchments scribed with strange glyphs and books bound with gem-encrusted covers. It was the library of King Everard Farseer she was glimpsing. Once he had ruled over a realm that stretched for leagues along the banks of the great River Chionthar. But his kingdom had crumbled to dust long centuries before folk from Cormyr crossed the Sunset Mountains and raised the shining Caravan Cities, strung like gems along the necklace of the river. But though Kelshara had gazed into the Tears for hours on end, she never saw what she sought, the book Everard had prized above all others: the Tome of Midnight. Within its covers lay the key to life eternal.

"Toz!" the necromancer shouted. "Toz!”

Kelshara heard the scrabbling of claws against stone behind her. "Mistress?" a voice croaked tremulously. She spun to see a small, malformed creature hobble into the chamber on two gnarled and twisted legs. It blinked its red, bulbous eyes, snuffling its warty, canine snout.

"Come, Toz," Kelshara said in her icy voice. "Speak the future for me. And do not dare lie, or I promise you'll lose more than just your tail this time."

"Yes, mistress." The kobold fawningly approached the table. Its features were caught up in a mask of mock-contrition, its bulging eyes cast down to the floor. A foul odor followed in its wake, and the ratty brown piece of sackcloth it wore like a tunic looked as if it was ready to rot off its scaly back.

Once the creature had been a man, a diviner of such skill that he had told the fortunes of emperors and queens. But Kelshara had wanted him for her own. She had arranged his murder. Then, with her dark powers, she wrought his reincarnation into this new, loathsome form, bound by magic to do her every bidding.

Clumsily, the kobold opened a small ivory box, drew out a deck of ornate cards wrapped in black silk, and shuffled them. "You must draw three," it instructed the necromancer in its croaking voice, and Kelshara quickly did so.

With a misshapen hand Toz turned over the first card. The Three of Gems. "This signifies the heart of your quest. It symbolizes great riches, but some of them are lost."

"Of course," Kelshara crooned, her violet, gold-flecked eyes glittering with understanding. "I have been a fool, Toz. The image of the Tome is not within the two Tears I possess, and there can only be one answer. The Three of Gems. There must be a third Tear. Go on."

The kobold turned the next card. The Priest, reversed. "This signifies the forces of your allies." Toz moved to the last card. "And this signifies the forces that will oppose you on your quest." He turned the card. The Warrior, also reversed.

"What do they mean?" Kelshara demanded.

Toz's pointed ears wriggled in confusion. "I am not certain, master. Somehow, a priest who is not a priest will help you gain the jewel. But a warrior who is not a warrior will stand against you."

'"A warrior who is not a warrior?'" Kelshara said mockingly. "That doesn't sound like one I need fear."

"But, mistress," the kobold protested, its snout wriggling in agitation, "these cards speak of powerful forces at work. You must-"

"Quiet!" Kelshara snapped, striking the kobold and knocking it to the hard floor. It yelped shrilly, but she paid the creature no heed. "All I have to do now is find where the third Tear is hidden," the necromancer whispered exultantly. "Then immortality will be mine."

Things were in a bit of an uproar at Everard Abbey, and Tyveris knew he was the cause.

He dashed up the spiral staircase, his sandals slapping hollowly against the worn stone steps. The abbess had sent for him, and one did not keep Melisende waiting. He hesitated for a few heartbeats before the paneled mahogany door that lead into her chamber, then knocked as softly on the dark wood as he could with his massive hand. The sound boomed like thunder. Tyveris winced.

"Come in," came the crisp reply from beyond.

With a deep breath Tyveris opened the door and stepped inside, though he was forced to turn sideways a bit to squeeze his broad shoulders through the portal. He was not a tall man, but his sheer size was astonishing. The thin brown homespun of his simple robe did little to conceal the thick, heavy muscles that were roped about his powerful frame, and his dusky brown skin marked him as a foreigner in these lands. Altogether, he was a rather remarkable individual for the backward Everard Abbey.

And that was a great part of the problem.

"Oh, do stop standing there filling up the doorway and come sit down," Mother Melisende said in her typically brisk tone. The abbess was a tiny woman, with bright, dark eyes and wispy white hair. She sat before a fireplace, clad in a simple but elegant robe of soft dove gray. Despite her diminutive stature, a mantle of authority seemed to rest comfortably upon her small shoulders.

"Yes, Mother Melisende." Though he made an effort to speak softly, Tyveris's deep voice rattled the glass in the windowpanes. He sat down. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth to drive back the autumn chill. Melisende poured steaming tea into a pair of delicate porcelain cups and handed one to Tyveris. He stared at the fragile teacup worriedly, holding it with exaggerated care in his big hand. He swallowed hard.

Melisende sipped her tea, regarding Tyveris with a wise expression. "I won't keep this from you," she said after a moment's quiet. "Several of the loremasters have come to speak to me this past tenday. They have asked that I dismiss you from the abbey."

Tyveris's dark eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Have I done something wrong, Mother Melisende?"

The abbess sighed. "No, Tyveris, it is nothing you have done." She smiled fleetingly. "In fact, I daresay we've never had a handyman about the abbey who was as useful as you. The chapel ceiling no longer leaks onto the pulpit, the new hinges on the gate open without a creak, and the drains in the kitchen are working properly for the first time in a century." Her smile faded, replaced by a scowl. "No, it's not what you've done that some of the loremasters don't care for. You wear a monk's robe now, but I'm afraid that doesn't change what you are in their eyes-a sell-sword, a man dedicated to violence, not knowledge."

"But they have nothing to fear from me, Mother Melisende," he boomed earnestly. "I can control myself. I swear it!"

There was a clear, delicate snap as the teacup shattered in Tyveris's hand. He stared down at the broken shards in horror. "I've ruined your cup," he said despairingly.

"Forget the teacup, Tyveris," Melisende said, taking the broken pieces from his hand and setting them aside. "It is simply a thing. Completely replaceable." She took his big hands into her tiny ones. He almost pulled away in surprise, but she gripped him tightly. "Look at these, Tyveris. What do you see?"

Unsure what she meant he looked down at his hands. They were huge, big-knuckled, the dark skin crisscrossed with even darker scars and welts. They were a fighter's hands. Hands that had taken more lives than he could count. He told her so.

"Really?" the abbess answered. "That's peculiar. For I see a pair of hands that are gentle even in their strength. I see hands that have embraced children, hands that have freely given alms to those in need, hands that have held a book for the first time as their owner learned to read in this very room. No, Tyveris, I don't believe these are a warrior's hands at all."

He pulled away from her. "But the other loremasters don't believe that, do they?"

"Some don't," Melisende answered solemnly. "A few. Loremaster Orven speaks loudest among them. I'm afraid they fear that one day you won't be able to control your temper, and that violence will result."

"Maybe they're right," Tyveris replied, his voice just slightly bitter. Why not? he thought. It had happened often enough in the past, when he had been both slave and soldier and the only thing that had mattered was to kill his foe, so that he wouldn't be killed himself.

Melisende's eyes flashed brightly with anger. "I don't expect to hear any more such nonsense from you. I don't let just anybody into my abbey, you know. You're here because I believed you belong here. That hasn't changed." She picked up her teacup again. "I'll speak with those who have been troubled by your presence. Perhaps I can allay their fears."

Tyveris's heart leapt in his chest. "You will?" he rumbled gratefully.

"Did I not say so?" Melisende snapped. The abbess didn't like having to repeat herself.

"But what about Loremaster Orven?" he asked tentatively.

"I will concern myself with him. You may go now. Attend to your work." Tyveris knew that one didn't hesitate when dismissed by the abbess. He hastily stood and bowed before hurrying from the chamber.

"And, Tyveris," Melisende called after him. "Do try to stay out of trouble."

Tyveris spent the rest of the day repairing cracks in the abbey's outer stone wall. After he had finished the day's work he made his way to the dim, dusty library to read for a time in the quiet chamber. Outside the window the day was fading to twilight as the deep tones of a bronze bell sounded Vespers. The shadowed plains rolled southward into the far purple distance, toward a single twinkling gem on the horizon-the Caravan City of Iriaebor.

Had Tyveris been looking, the city's lights might have been a reminder of his past, of the days when Iriaebor had been his home and the sword had been his way of life. But he was focused on something else, another, more comforting past. Tyveris flipped idly through the colorfully illuminated manuscript resting on the table before him, a historical treatise concerning the founding of the Church of Oghma. He could hardly imagine a time when he couldn't read, but in truth he had only learned a few short months before.

The library was not a terribly large room, but it was filled from floor to ceiling with books, so many that Tyveris suspected it would take a pair of lifetimes just to read them all. The abbey was devoted to the god Oghma, the Binder, who was the warden of all knowledge, and its library was its greatest pride. In fact, the abbey even took its name from Everard Farseer, a king of an ancient, forgotten land whom legend told gave his life to protect a library from marauders who sought to burn the books within.

Tyveris cringed at the memory of the countless buildings he himself had set ablaze in the days when he had been driven into battle with whips at his back. How many precious books had been consumed in the flames and lost forever?

To atone for that destruction, Tyveris had spent the last decade as part of a small band of adventurers based in Iriaebor, men and women who had done their best to work against tyranny in the Caravan Cities between Waterdeep to the far west and Cormyr to the east. But even then he'd simply been a well-trained swordarm. And when the group disbanded a year ago, Tyveris found he had no purpose.

There was no one to tell him who to fight, or where or when. Alone once more, he discovered that all his good deeds had done nothing to assuage his guilty conscience. Then, in the grips of a dark despair, he came to the abbey's gates on a rainy spring day....

A fierce look crossed Tyveris's face as he banished the memories. He wasn't going to let anyone force him to leave Everard Abbey. Not Loremaster Orven. Not anyone.

A place at the abbey was the one thing Tyveris knew he was still willing to fight for.

He bent his head over the tome once more, content to lose himself in its pages. Twilight dwindled outside the window, and night gathered its ebon mantle about the abbey, secure within its walls on the hill above the moonlit plains.

"Reading dusty old books hardly seems like a proper pastime for a warrior," a voice said, startling Tyveris. Yellow light flared up as a candle was touched to the wick of an oil lamp.

Tyveris spun around, dreading to see Loremaster Orven behind him. But instead he found himself gazing into the hard gray eyes of an acerbic-looking, harshly thin man. Patriarch Alamric.

Tyveris cleared his throat gruffly. "No one is a warrior within these walls, Patriarch Alamric," he rumbled.

"So the abbess is fond of saying," Alamric said in his sharp voice. "A pity."

Tyveris watched Alamric in wary confusion as the skeletal man sat at the table opposite him. He had not had many dealings with the old man since coming to the abbey. Alamric was a patriarch in the Church of Oghma, second at the abbey to only Melisende herself. Yet Tyveris had often had the disconcerting feeling that Alamric was watching him. It appeared that feeling had been justified, for the patriarch now gazed at him intently, interest sparking in his sharp gray eyes.

"Not all who worship Oghma tremble foolishly at the sight of a warrior, like our poor Loremaster Orven," Alamric went on. His voice had a hissing edge to it, like a knife drawn through silk. Tyveris looked at him dubiously.

"You doubt me, but it is true," Alamric said with a tight, thin-lipped expression that was more grimace than smile. "I am a powerful man, Tyveris. There are many in the church who obey my orders. But even so, I admire you. No, I envy you." His eyes glowed with a strange, fierce light. "From the time I was young I wanted more than anything to lead others, to let my wisdom and my will be their own. I dreamed of riding into glorious battles, raising my sword in the cause of righteousness." He paused and sighed deeply. "But I'm afraid the gods have mocked my pride by granting me this frail form. I've had to content myself with spiritual battles. You are lucky, Tyveris."

"No," Tyveris said, shaking his head. "No, don't envy me, Patriarch. I would give anything to change what I am." He reverently touched the open book before him. "This is something far greater than battles or swords."

Alamric snatched the book up in his bony hand and tossed it carelessly aside, a look of disdain on his severe visage. Tyveris stared at him in shock. "Knowledge is not the only thing sacred to Oghma! No, there is something even more holy, and that is Truth. Knowledge comes in tomes, but there's only one way to carry Truth to people, and that's by deed." A ruddy, unwholesome flush came to Alamric's cheeks. He didn't seem to be gazing at Tyveris anymore; instead his eyes were turned to the darkened window as if he saw a glorious vision there, invisible to mundane eyes.

"Unbelievers can cast books aside all too easily," Alamric went on, his voice chantlike. "But if we armed our priests, not with parchment scrolls, but with swords, nothing could stand before us in our quest to bring Truth to all the lands of Faerun!"

Tyveris felt a chill run up his spine. "What 'truth' do you mean, Patriarch?" he dared to ask.

Alamric's gaze bored hotly into Tyveris. "The Truth. Don't you see? People will no longer need to read books to learn what to think. We will think for them. We will tell them what they must know."

"There will be people who will resist you," Tyveris said carefully. "There always are."

Alamric waved a hand dismissively. "Not all souls can be saved, Tyveris. But that's the price we must pay for the benefit of all. Mother Melisende and those like her may not see far enough into the future to realize the great good in this, but there are those in the church who will. I shall be the one to carry the message to them." He clutched Tyveris's wrist. His fingers felt strangely warm. "But we will need holy warriors to become the bearers of the Truth. You could be one of the first."

Tyveris pulled his hand away, rubbing his wrist as if he'd been burned. "I'm sorry. I don't think I can be ... what you want."

Alamric's exultant expression did not waver. "Very well, Tyveris. We'll let that stand as your answer-for now. But I have faith that you will soon see the light and join me. I have great faith."

After Patriarch Alamric left, Tyveris found he had no more heart for reading. He put away the book and made his way to the abbey's stable, where he kept a room in the loft. He lay in the darkness for a long time-even past midnight, by the stars outside the window-but he could not sleep. Alamric's strange words kept echoing in his head.

Finally he threw off his blanket and fumbled about in the dark until he found a stump of a candle. He lit it with a flint and a bit of tinder. A warm golden glow filled the loft.

He dug beneath his bed of hay until he reached the floorboards. One was loose, and he pulled it up to reveal a shadowed recess beneath. He drew out a long object and unwound the thick cloth that covered it. A sword gleamed in the candlelight, sharp and clean. For a time Tyveris stared at the blade, trying to see the faces of those he'd slain, to draw them forth like a magical shield against the patriarch's words. After an hour, he rewrapped the sword and put it away.

He drew another object from the hole-a small jade figurine. Once it had been meant to represent a bird, but its features had been rounded with the wear of his touch. Still, Tyveris remembered the beauty clearly. His sister Tali had carved it for him long ago.

Once he and Tali had been bold youths, always seeking trouble together. When the ships came across the sea to the jungles of Chult, he and his sister had ignored the pleading of their parents. Enticed by tales of riches and strange wonders, they signed on to become warriors in the distant lands to the north.

But they had been deceived.

The siblings had found themselves bound, not for glory, but for slavery. The ship had been a nightmare of foul darkness and disease. Tali had not survived the voyage, and Tyveris had lived only to have shackles clamped on his ankles and a sword thrust into his hand. The jade figurine was all he had left of his sister. Her bright eyes, her brave, sweet smile, were only memories now.

Not all souls can be saved.... Alamric's terrible words burned like poison in his mind. He gripped the figurine tightly in his hand. A single tear, clear as a diamond, touched his dark cheek.

"Must there always be more dying, Tali?" he whispered into the night. There was no answer but silence.

 

* * * * *

 

It was a dreary afternoon late in the waning days of autumn when the stranger came to the gates of Everard Abbey.

Tyveris was in the great hall at the time, repairing the crumbling mortar around a window to keep out the chill winds of the coming winter. He heard the crystalline chiming of harness bells and gazed outside. Through the glass he saw a figure clad in a heavy, midnight-blue traveling cloak ride into the courtyard astride a delicate black palfrey. Even as he watched, Mother Melisende and Patriarch Alamric stepped forward to greet the stranger. The mysterious rider lifted two gloved hands to push back the cowl of a heavy traveling cloak.

She was beautiful. Her hair, as dark and glossy as her steed, cascaded over the shoulders of her crimson riding gown. Her pale features were so perfect they seemed almost exotic. The woman must be a noble of some sort, Tyveris thought, and he wondered who she might be.

Rumors tended to be repeated as often as prayers in the abbey, and by Vespers Tyveris had heard numerous intriguing whispers about the strange lady. Her name was Kelshara, he learned, and she was a benefactor of the church. Some said she had been sending gold to the abbey for months and had now made the pilgrimage here.

Other rumors spoke of her desire to see the abbey's most holy relic, the Tear of Everard. The crystalline jewel, kept in a small chamber behind the chapel's nave, was in truth a tear shed by the abbey's namesake, magically turned to stone. Several centuries ago it had come into the possession of a priest of Oghma who founded the abbey to guard the Tear. Even now, pilgrims journeyed from lands afar to see the Tear and send a prayer to Oghma.

The evening chants still echoed among the candlelit vaults of the chapel when the order for a feast came down from the chamber of the abbess. In moments the abbey was bustling with activity, and Tyveris helped to ready the great hall. He and several of the brethren scattered the stone floor with fresh rushes and pulled out long trestle tables. All the while more and more of the sisters scurried in bearing candelabras pilfered from nearly every room of the abbey. Soon the hall was ablaze with light.

After this, Tyveris did his best to keep out of everyone's way. In the tenday since his conversation with Melisende, he had been making a concerted effort to do nothing that might alarm Loremaster Orven or any of the abbey's other residents. So far, it seemed, he'd been very successful.

By the time the folk of the abbey sat down in the great hall, the tables had been loaded with roasted geese, bubbling stews, platters of spiced fruit, and mountains of steaming bread. For a few fleeting moments Tyveris was in paradise-until the loremaster sitting to his left politely remarked that he was supposed to pass the food-laden platters rather than hoard them.

After all had filled their plates and a benediction had been spoken, Mother Melisende stood in her place at the head of the great hall. She introduced the stranger as Lady Kelshara and revealed that the abbey's mysterious benefactor had indeed come in pilgrimage to gaze upon Everard's Tear. Then Kelshara herself stood and spoke.

"You have given me a most gracious welcome," Kelshara said in a silk-smooth voice, "and I look forward to seeing the precious relic you so unfailingly guard." She raised her wine goblet with a smile and tilted her head forward. "May Oghma in his kindness grant us each the knowledge we seek." Tyveris stood with the others to raise his goblet in reply, but he suddenly found himself distracted. There was something strange about Kelshara's smile, something very private and inward.

In his years as a warrior, Tyveris had learned to read the smallest of expressions on the faces of his jailers and his enemies. He could tell when they were lying by the look in their eyes, or whether they were going to attack by the set of their jaw. He wasn't altogether certain what Kelshara's smile portended, but a sudden chill touched his spine.

He picked at his food absently for the remainder of the evening, watching Kelshara out of the corner of his eye. She was engaged in an animated conversation with Alamric. The patriarch's eyes were glowing hotly, and Tyveris had no doubt he was extemporizing upon his dream of transforming the Church of Oghma into a more militant order. Kelshara seemed to be paying close attention to his words, but Mother Melisende, sitting nearby, was regarding the two with a sour expression.

Tyveris noticed then that Kelshara's smile had changed slightly. There was a faintly triumphant note to it now. Yet every few minutes her attention wavered from Alamric's ravings, and her cool gaze flickered across the sea of faces filling the great hall.

She's found something she was after, but she's still looking for something else, Tyveris thought. He wasn't certain why, but he slumped down in his chair as much as his massive frame allowed. The less anybody noticed him, the better.

Finally, Mother Melisende rose to bid the abbey folk good night. She left the table quickly, but as she made her way from the hall she paused by Tyveris's seat.

"You've been working terribly hard not to be noticed these last days," she said matter-of-factly.

Tyveris grinned a bit foolishly. "I've been trying. It isn't all that easy, you know. A year ago I thought the word 'subtle' meant using a dagger instead of a battle-axe."

Mother Melisende winced slightly, then smiled, patting his broad shoulder. "Well, do keep trying. Loremaster Orven seems to have calmed a bit. In fact, I'm calling a meeting tomorrow to discuss making your position at the abbey permanent. I have reason to believe the loremasters will be agreeing with me." Her eyes snapped fire.

Tyveris's grin broadened. "Thank you, Mother Melisende."

'Thank me by not proving my judgment foolish," Melisende said smartly.

The abbess turned to leave, but Tyveris reached up and touched her arm. "You don't like her, do you?" he whispered.

Melisende hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I don't," she said softly. "But she seems to have found a friend in Alamric."

"He wants her to be the patron of his order, doesn't he? To use her gold to buy an army of warriors to spread his truth across the Heartlands."

Melisende's usually warm visage was suddenly as hard and cold as steel. "Stay away from Patriarch Alamric, Tyveris. He may need you for his schemes, but you most certainly do not need one such as him." With that, Melisende briskly departed.

Tyveris's gaze drifted to the head of the hall once again. Alamric was still babbling at Kelshara's side, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead her sharp violet gaze was directed across the vast room. The note of triumph about her smile had deepened. She was looking directly at Tyveris.

 

* * * * *

 

After the feast, Tyveris made his way to the stables for some much-needed rest. Yet when the moon finally rose over the distant horizon, its silvery light streamed through the open window of the loft to find him still awake.

"I know they'll decide to let me stay, Tali," he whispered. "I feel it. I belong here."

He set down the worn bird of jade on the overturned crate he used for a table. Then, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles into place on his nose, he bent back over the tome he had been reading. It was an account of an ancient war in an empire that had long ago vanished beneath the sands of Anauroch, the great desert to the north. His brow wrinkled as he concentrated on the words.

It was late when he finished the tome, but still sleep would not claim him. Troubling visions of Patriarch Alamric's army of truth bearers, financed with Kelshara's gold, flickered through his mind. For a heartbeat he saw himself leading a crusade, carrying the symbol of Oghma on a battle standard, crying out triumphant praises to his god as the unbelievers were trampled, weeping, in the blood-soaked mud beneath the hooves of his thundering black charger. There was a dark appeal to the scene, a comforting sense of power. And if Alamric's cause proved a worthy one, Tyveris knew he could be a powerful force in such a holy war. But if Alamric spoke only from his own ambition...

"No," Tyveris whispered fiercely. "I will not be a pawn again. Never."

He headed quickly down the ladder. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well get another book from the library. Quietly he made his way across the moonlit courtyard and slipped inside the abbey, treading down the stone corridors as stealthily as he could manage. As he passed the doors to the chapel, he paused. A flicker of movement within had caught his eye. Curious, he peered through the archway.

Alamric was inside. The patriarch stood in the chapel's nave, no doubt sending some fervent plea to Oghma. Tyveris quickly hurried away from the chapel, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no desire to listen to any more of Alamric's diatribes. He walked quickly up a stone staircase and down the long hallway leading to the library.

He was halfway down the corridor when he noticed something odd. A peculiar orange glow spilled from the crack beneath the door to Alamric's chamber. At first Tyveris thought little of it and continued on; no doubt the patriarch had left a candle burning while he was out. Yet there was something strange about the ruddy light, the way it flickered and danced. It looked almost like the light of a...

"Fire," Tyveris whispered, his eyes widening. An image flashed before his mind-a candle burning too low on a table strewn with parchments, flames licking hungrily at the papers, catching, and leaping high to the ceiling. He considered running downstairs to retrieve Alamric, but it might be only a matter of moments before the fire spread out of control. Instead he burst through the door into Alamric's chamber.

He halted, dumbfounded.

Tyveris noted two things about the room. The first was that there was no fire. The flickering light emanated from an object resting on a marble table-a small glass jar filled with a strange light that washed over him in dizzying waves.

The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone. The stranger, Kelshara, sat nearby in a high-backed chair lined with crushed velvet the same purple hue as her eyes. Tyveris took a startled step backward, but she seemed not to notice him. She continued to stare straight ahead, her face pale and devoid of expression. He would have thought her dead if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of her breast beneath her crimson gown.

Tyveris felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Without thinking, he dropped his hand down to his hip, but there was no sword hilt for it to grasp.

"There's enchantment at work here, sure as the night is black," he grumbled. He'd never much cared for magic, or those who worked it. Mages were treacherous creatures, the whole lot of them.

But the weird scene in the room puzzled him. Was Alamric dabbling in magic himself? Perhaps there was nothing he would not do to achieve his bloody dreams of holy conquest. Perhaps he had ensorcelled Kelshara so that she would give him the gold he needed for his schemes. Tyveris shook his head in disbelief. He had to go find Mother Melisende.

As he turned to leave, his gaze was drawn once again to the light-filled jar. Dread fascination reeled him in, forcing him to peer into the jar's center. There was something inside.

A man-or, more precisely, the ghostly image of a man- battered at the glass prison. His eyes were wide with madness, his mouth open in a silent, endless scream. The tiny ghost scrabbled at the glass with hands clenched into claws. Worst of all, Tyveris recognized the man imprisoned within the vessel. It was Alamric.

"So, you've come after all," a hard, cruel voice said behind him. "I expected you to, of course. Toz lies at times, but the cards never do."

Tyveris spun on a heel, crouching into a defensive posture. He held his big hands out before him, ready. His nostrils flared with the scent of danger on the air.

He found himself facing Patriarch Alamric.

Yet, somehow, his battle-honed senses told him that all was not as it appeared. The body might be the patriarch's, but it was not Alamric who gazed out of those gray eyes at him. No, somehow the patriarch-or at least his soul-was locked inside the glowing prison. Someone else had possessed him, and the smug, triumphant smile that curled about the patriarch's lips gave the foe's identity away.

"Kelshara," he whispered. The woman's body still sat, unmoving, in the high-backed chair, but somehow she was in control of Alamric's form.

The smile broadened. "Perceptive," the necromancer crooned through the man's lips. "However, I think you will find yourself wishing you weren't so terribly clever. Fate decreed you would stand in my way, warrior. It is my decree that you will fall."

With a suddenness that surprised Tyveris, the false patriarch drew a long curved dagger from beneath his robes and lunged forward.

Reflexes worn into Tyveris's muscles by his years as a sell-sword sparked him into motion. He spun away from the blade as he kicked out his other foot. He felt the bones of the patriarch's arm buckle and snap beneath the blow. The dagger flew from Alamric's grip. With lightning speed Tyveris reached out and snatched the knife before it fell and brought it downward in a smooth, precise stroke.

It was over in a second.

"No," Tyveris whispered in horror, staring wild-eyed at what he had done. Alamric's body slumped against him, a bloodstain blossoming on his robes like a rose unfurling its petals. Tyveris tried to pull the dagger free, but the false patriarch grabbed his arm with uncanny strength, driving the dagger in deeper.

"And so victory is mine," Kelshara hissed triumphantly through Alamric's teeth.

A flood of orange fire burst from the glass jar, searing Tyveris's vision. When his sight cleared he saw that Alamric was gazing at him in mute amazement. And this time the patriarch himself looked out through his body's dimming eyes. With a gasp and a shudder, he died. Slowly, Tyveris let the corpse slide to the growing pool of blood on the cold stone floor.

"I am grateful to you," said a chill, mocking voice. Tyveris turned to see Kelshara rise from the chair, smoothing her silken gown. "I was finished with Alamric, and you have so kindly dealt with him for me." She picked up the now empty jar from the table and slipped it into a pocket of her gown. There was a scrabbling of claws, and Tyveris watched in shock as a small, misshapen creature hopped from the sill of the chamber's open window and hobbled to Kelshara's side. It was a kobold. The creature regarded him with its bulbous red eyes.

"Here they are, Toz, just as the cards foretold," Kelshara said. "The priest who is not a priest." She waved a hand, and an intricately drawn card appeared in her fingers. It depicted a holy man. The card was turned upside down. "His was a violent heart, and violently has he died." She crumpled the card in a fist. It burst into flame as she dropped it, turning to ash before it even hit the floor.

"And the warrior who is not a warrior," the kobold croaked.

"Yes," Kelshara said, her violet eyes gleaming speculatively, "but I think there is more warrior in this one's heart than he wishes to believe. He kills with practiced ease. But then, so do I."

Too late Tyveris realized his peril. Before he could leap forward another card appeared in Kelshara's hand, this depicting an armored knight. It was also upside down. With a swift motion, she tore the card in half.

Tyveris screamed.

He had never screamed before, not in all his years of battle. He'd taken wounds that would have killed other men, borne the torture of whip and hot iron without ever giving his tormentors the satisfaction of hearing him hiss in pain. But this time he screamed, the agony ripping the sound out of him like a claw reaching down his throat to tear out his heart.

Mercifully, a numbing coldness washed over him then. He fell to the floor, his limbs frozen motionless, his heart shuddering in his chest. Kelshara bent over Alamric's body and took something from his pocket. It was a small, clear gemstone. Everard's Tear.

"I have what I came for," Kelshara purred. "Farewell, warrior. Do not fear, though. You won't live long enough for your brothers to mete out justice to you for this unfortunate murder."

The dark-haired necromancer turned to the open window. She spread her arms wide and called out in a strange, guttural tongue. A huge creature swooped down from the night sky to hover before the window.

In life the thing might have been a griffin, a feral but noble beast with a lion's body and an eagle's head and wings. But Kelshara's mount was a creature of death. Rotting flesh hung in tatters from its bones, and its eyes glowed with a sick, unearthly light. It let out a shriek, but the sound was muffled by the dirt filling the thing's beak. Kelshara climbed onto the nightmarish steed, the kobold clambering up after her. There was a rush of dank, charnel-house air as the creature spread its wings. It soared triumphantly into the sky, leaving Tyveris alone and utterly defeated.

Some time later, Loremaster Orven came upon the former sell-sword lying beside Alamric's already stiffening body, still clutching the bloodstained dagger in his frozen hand.

Then came the ringing of bells, shattering the night.

 

* * * * *

 

It was a chill, gray morning. The wind smelled faintly of snow. Tyveris stood before the open gates of the abbey, alone. No one had come to bid him farewell, though that was hardly surprising since everyone believed him a murderer. And he supposed they were right, though not in the way they so smugly believed.

He gathered his travel-stained cloak about his broad shoulders. He had traded in his brown homespun robe for the worn leather jerkin and breeches he had worn before coming to the abbey. His swordbelt was slung low against his hip, the flat of the blade resting comfortably against his thigh. It felt almost as if he'd never taken the weapon off. He shouldn't have even bothered trying.

The council of loremasters had not believed his tale.

"I need no magic to explain these black deeds," Lore-master Orven had pronounced angrily. 'Treachery is reason enough. You plotted with Kelshara to steal the Tear and brutally killed Patriarch Alamric to avoid discovery. But once Kelshara gained the relic, she needed you no longer. You are a fool as well as a murderer, Tyveris, for she left you to suffer punishment while she herself escaped to freedom." The others had agreed. Tyveris would never be anything but a man of violence.

Only Mother Melisende's intervention saved him from a sentence of death. But the punishment finally handed down was almost as bad: he was to leave the abbey immediately.

Tyveris gazed toward the far-off horizon. The world beyond the abbey's walls seemed empty, as though it held nothing for him. But there was no use in lingering. He started through the open gateway.

The clip-clop of hooves behind him brought him up short. He turned around. What he saw made him smile, despite his dark mood.

"I thought you might prefer to ride rather than walk," Mother Melisende said in her brusque tone. Behind her followed the delicate palfrey that Kelshara had ridden into the abbey. "I daresay no one else will ride her, though it seems foolish. She's a good horse and hardly responsible for her mistress's ill manners." She patted the palfrey's glossy neck affectionately.

"Thank you," Tyveris said, taking the reins. He stood absolutely still for a time, at a loss for anything else to say.

The abbess regarded him wearily. "I know you told the truth." Her expression seemed tired, her bright eyes dull. "I'm sorry I couldn't have defended you more properly, Tyveris, but the others would have simply thought I was bewitched somehow." She sighed. "People can be so terribly blind sometimes-even seekers after truth and knowledge."

Tyveris shook his head in amazement. "I really don't think there is anyone alive who sees as well as you do, Mother Melisende."

She laughed aloud. "Why, I suppose not." Her round face grew serious then. "This is for you." She handed him a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth.

Tyveris took it gingerly. "What is it?"

"It is a holy relic, a very old one. Once it belonged to the monk who founded the abbey. It will protect you in the dark days to come. And it will guide you."

"Guide me?"

The abbess nodded gravely. "To Everard's Tear." She sighed wearily. "I have just come from Loremaster Antira's chamber, Tyveris. There she cast an augury for me, to see what the signs portend for the future." She paused ominously. "The abbey is in great peril. The Tear was the abbey's heart, and without it we have no means to ward ourselves from the forces of darkness. The evil creatures you described as Kelshara's servants would never have been able to come within these walls had she not possessed the Tear. And now that it is gone, the auguries speak clearly. Within the year, the abbey will be destroyed."

Tyveris stared at her in shock.

"Find the Tear of Everard. Prove to the others what I already know about you."

Tyveris sighed gravely. "But how can I defeat Kelshara? All my years as a warrior meant nothing against her magic."

A mysterious expression touched Melisende's face. "Yes, but you possess something else, Tyveris, something she does not."

"Aren't you going to tell me what it is?"

She considered him carefully for a moment. "I think that's something you must discover for yourself." She pressed his fingers closed on the holy relic. "Remember. This will protect you and guide the way."

Without another word she turned and walked swiftly across the courtyard, disappearing into the abbey. Once again Tyveris was alone, though not so completely as before. The cold wind tugged at the cloth in his hand, revealing the object concealed within. It was a feathered quill pen, yellowed with time and spotted with ancient ink.

Three days later Tyveris glimpsed the tower rising like a jagged stump of bone from the dark hills. As he studied the castle, the sun slipped into a pool of bloodred clouds and the first flakes of snow began to fall, as hard and stinging as tiny shards of glass. One last time he carefully took out the ancient quill pen Melisende had given him. As he had done a dozen times in the course of his journey, he fastened a bit of leather string about the quill's middle. Holding the other end of the string, he let the relic dangle in the air. Despite the howling wind, the quill spun evenly until its tip pointed toward the tower. Tyveris nodded grimly, then put away the relic. After only a moment's pause, he nudged his dark mount into a canter.

The face of the hill was steep and treacherous with loose rock. Tyveris left the palfrey in a sheltered hollow and continued on foot. He loosened his sword in its sheath, his muscles tensing with anticipation. Abruptly the cold wind stopped, and the air grew strangely still. It was as if Cyric, Lord of the Dead, were watching, holding his sepulchral breath, waiting to claim his due.

Finally he reached the twin gatehouses bordering the main entryway. The tower hulked above, silent and frosted in a thin layer of snow. He pushed against the iron-banded wooden door, and it swung in upon groaning hinges. Sprinting across the deserted courtyard, he came to the keep itself-a single, massive tower that seemed to scrape the clouds high in the twilight sky. An empty archway led inside.

The keep's interior was cloaked in darkness. Tyveris cursed his foolishness, for he had neither candle nor lantern. Then he noticed a faint glow. He looked about in the dimness for its source and was surprised to see it emanated from his own pocket. He pulled out the quill. The feather glimmered now with a pure, silvery light.

"Thank you, Mother Melisende," Tyveris whispered with a fierce grin. He tucked the feather into his belt. It seemed.

Oghma himself would light the way.

The first thing he saw when he stepped into the entrance hall were the skeletons. The stone floor was littered with scabrous bones and blankly staring skulls. The dank reek of decay he had smelled that night in Alamric's chamber was a dozen times stronger here. He could almost feel the stench seeping into his skin. Still, Tyveris had dealt in death for most of his life. He simply blocked his nose and crossed the hall to another door. Bones cracked and crumbled to dust beneath his boots. To either side of the archway, skulls were heaped in pyramids. Tyveris paid them no heed as he moved by.

That was a mistake. Two pinpricks of crimson light flickered to life in the empty orbits of a skull sitting atop one of the piles, and the thing began to shriek. In a flash Tyveris drew his sword and struck. Shards of bone flew in all directions, and the thing's shriek abruptly ended, but the damage had been done. Skull watchers, such things were called. The enchantment that gave them life had been created long, long ago by Prince Ketheryll of the Moonshaes. It was only a small part of the dark sorcery that had created Ketheryll's nightmarish Palace of Skulls, but if Kelshara could master it, she was more powerful than Tyveris had suspected.

And worse, thanks to the skeletal guardian, she would be expecting an intruder.

Beyond the archway, the light of the feather revealed a vast circular chamber, its ceiling lost in a shadowy vault. The chamber was bare except for a spiral staircase rising against the far wall. Warily Tyveris started across the room, his boots echoing off the cold stone. He was just halfway to the staircase when he heard the noise.

It started as a faint clicking sound but grew rapidly into a deafening whir. Tyveris felt something brush against his neck, sharp and stinging. Then a hot bead of blood trickled down his back. He drew his sword and looked up, his eyes widening in shock.

Bats filled the air, hundreds of them, flitting jerkily around the chamber. They were not living things. Cobwebs stretched between the thin, yellowed bones of their wings, and their hollow eyes glowed with the same sickly crimson light that had shone in the orbits of the skull watcher. They opened their maws in silent cries, their needle-sharp teeth glimmering in the quill's enchanted light. Tyveris swore, batting one as it came close. Another sunk its fangs into his forearm. With a grimace of disgust he shook the creature off. The tiny abominations meant to tear him apart one mouthful at a time.

He let out a bellow of rage and spun wildly, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. A dozen skeleton bats burst into puffs of thick bone-dust as the blade struck them. Yet the undead vermin continued to swoop and whirl about him. Blood snaked in fine rivulets down Tyveris's face, and countless pinprick bites covered his arms and neck. With every swing, more of the creatures burst apart in a spray of delicate, desiccated bones. The air was thick with dust, choking him, but there was no pause in the steady rhythm of his swings.

Finally the chamber was quiet, save for one last skeleton bat flopping weakly on the ground. Its bones were crushed to fine powder under Tyveris's boot as he made his way toward the stairs.

I'm coming for you, Kelshara, he was tempted to shout, but there was no need. The sorceress knew. He started up the broad stone steps, keeping his sword held ready in his hand. At the top of the stairwell a corridor stretched before him, ending at a door.

Ancient-looking stone sarcophagi stood upright to either side of the corridor, facing each other in pairs. Carved into the lids of the coffins were bas-relief death masks-likenesses of the corpses sealed within. Eyes inlaid with lapis lazuli and onyx stared menacingly at the warrior. Stone mouths carved into cruel, frozen smiles mocked him. He smirked back at them and started down the corridor.

As Tyveris passed the first pair of sarcophagi he felt a stone shift beneath his foot. A click echoed from the walls as some unseen mechanism was sprung.

Fortunately, he didn't waste a heartbeat considering his action. Even as he lunged forward, gleaming blades sprang from the mouths of the two death masks to either side of him. The blades met with a ringing sound just behind his head.

His momentum carried him forward, past the next pair of sarcophagi. Expecting another set of swords to spring from the mouths of the death masks, he hunched down. The motion nearly cost him his life, for this time the blades sprang from slots hidden at knee height; Tyveris barely managed to dive over them as they clanged together.

He charged down the corridor, blades hissing through the air all around him. The deadly barrage did little more than shred Tyveris's tunic, for he had trained long and hard to deal with such traps. But as the warrior leaped over the blades erupting from the penultimate set of stone coffins, he stumbled and skidded painfully to his knees.

The abbey's dulled my skills more than I'd suspected, Tyveris thought ruefully as he waited for the last trap to spring.

The grating squeal of metal against stone rang out in the corridor, but no blades erupted from the sarcophagi. The trap, it seemed, was stuck.

Tyveris glanced at the death masks, at the swordtips jutting halfway from them. If he moved, he might just set them off. Of course if he just sat there, Kelshara would most definitely stumble across him sooner or later.

Not daring to inhale, the warrior wriggled forward on his stomach until he was past the last pair of blades. As if in answer to his murmured prayers to Oghma, they remained locked in place.

Tyveris lay in front of the closed door, catching his breath and letting his heart slow, but only for a moment. Then he hauled himself to his feet. Beyond the door he found a narrow flight of steps. He gripped his sword firmly and headed up to the tower's uppermost chamber.

"You should be dead, you know."

Kelshara stood in the room's center, her hair shimmering in the moonlight that streamed through the chamber's open window. She smiled. It was a cruel, secret expression. "When I tore the card of fate in two, it should have ripped your heart apart. It's worked on other men."

"I don't care about your sorcery," Tyveris lied. "It has no effect on me." He watched her calculating eyes drift to his sword. Despite her cool demeanor, he could see a faint flicker of anxiety race across her features. "I am here for the Tear of Everard."

"So it appears," Kelshara replied acidly. "Toz! Bring my new treasure to me."

The kobold scurried out of a darkened alcove bearing a small box of finely wrought gold. Kelshara snatched the box from the creature's gnarled hands. "You are slow, as always, Toz," she snapped. Almost casually she pointed a finger at the kobold, and a spark of crimson fire leaped forth, striking the creature in the chest and flinging it into the chamber's wall. The kobold let out a shrill shriek and cowered against the cold stones, its eyes pulsing in pain.

Kelshara ignored her servant. She opened the box and took out a gem, clear and glittering. The Tear of Everard. "All men perish," she hissed. "But I have found the secret of eternal life." She clutched the stone tightly. "You will die this night, warrior. But I shall live forever."

Tyveris lunged forward, sword before him.

Kelshara gave a small cry of surprise, taking a startled step backward, but even as Tyveris lifted his sword for a killing blow she recovered her composure. She reached out a hand toward the warrior's heart as strange, guttural words rippled like dark water from her tongue.

An invisible hand clutched Tyveris, and he found that he couldn't breathe. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and his vision blurred. Slowly, shivering with cold, he sank to his knees. It was as if all warmth had been drained from him. He could even see it, like a trail of sparks on the air, flowing from his body into Kelshara's own.

The necromancer laughed, her cheeks blushed with color. She was draining the essence of his life and drinking it up, making it her own.

Tyveris tried to shout, but the sound was barely a whisper. He struggled to move, but his limbs seemed to be made of lead.

Suddenly a voice hissed, "That is the last time you will ever strike me-or anyone."

Kelshara turned to gaze at the kobold in surprise, but the magical stream still flowed toward her. Tyveris found it hard to concentrate, and the room started to tilt and spin before his eyes.

From amongst the rags of its filthy tunic the kobold drew a dark, jagged-edge knife. "Once I was strong and handsome-like him," Toz spat, his voice oozing malice. "And then you gave me this ... this twisted form. And the pain. For too long I've suffered the pain of serving you." The kobold's eyes flared with countless years of spite now unleashed. "But I will suffer it no more, Kelshara. I will suffer you no more." The kobold lifted the knife and took a menacing step toward the necromancer.

"Halt!" Kelshara cried, lifting a hand.

Toz shuddered to a stop. He grunted, trying to bring the dagger down in a deadly arc, but his hand merely trembled, frozen.

The necromancer laughed cruelly. "Foolish Toz. Do you forget the magic that binds you to obey me? Then allow me to remind you." She made a slashing motion with her hand, and Toz gurgled in pain. As though he were some fantastical marionette, the kobold moved to mirror the necromancer's motion, plunging the knife into his own chest.

The kobold howled once in agony, then slumped motionless into a growing pool of black, foul-smelling blood. Kelshara gazed at her servant with fierce satisfaction. And in that moment of distraction her attack against Tyveris wavered.

The magical force draining the warrior's life flickered and vanished. Warmth flooded back into his limbs. He felt weak, strangely hollow, but he was alive. Kelshara turned to him, a startled look on her face, realizing her spell was broken. She lifted her arms to entrap him once again, but this time he did not give her the chance.

He sprang forward, slamming the sorceress into the wall, the point of his sword resting against the hollow of her throat. "Give me the Tear!"

Hatred glittered in her eyes like poison, but finally she lowered her gaze in defeat. "Very well," she hissed. He thrust out his hand. She opened her clenched fist over his upturned palm.

Tyveris swore as he felt a sharp sting on his thumb. He shook his hand, and a small black beetle, bright with yellow blotches, fell to the floor with a plop. It scuttled away before he could smash it with his heel. Tyveris felt fury blaze hot and crimson behind his eyes. He raised his sword threateningly. "Give me the Tear!" he bellowed.

"Never!" Kelshara spat. From the folds of her robe a dagger appeared, stained with venom. She brought it down in a slashing motion, but Tyveris easily countered the blow with his own blade. She nearly managed to twist out of the way, but not quite.

The sword cut a long, sinuous gash across her arm. At the same time Tyveris felt searing fire run down his own arm. In confusion he looked down, only to find a wound that was the mirror image of the one he had inflicted upon the necromancer.

Black words of magic began to tumble from Kelshara's lips, but Tyveris attacked again before she could complete her spell. This time his blade bit deep into her shoulder. She slumped against the wall, moaning.

Tyveris swore as his own shoulder burst into brilliant pain. Blood coursed down his chest. He leaned heavily against the table, his head swimming dizzily. Kelshara watched him, her face a grimace of agony ... and yet that same triumphant smile twisted her lips.

"Yes, warrior," she whispered. "Each wound you inflict upon me strikes you as well. Our lives are linked by the sting of the deathmirror beetle. But I am stronger now than you. Go on. Strike me again. I will survive the blow. You will not"

Tyveris shook his head, fighting to stay upright. He knew she was right. Darkness swam dangerously at the edges of his vision. Her magic had weakened him, drained him of his strength. His muscles felt as if they'd been turned to water. He looked down at the sword in his hand, sharp and wicked, slicked with blood. For so long the blade had been his life, everything that he was. Now it had failed him. He had nothing left.

No, he told himself, that wasn't true. Remembered words echoed in his mind. You possess something else, Tyveris, something she does not. But what had Mother Melisende meant? Understanding washed over him, accompanied by a wellspring of fear that eddied darkly in his chest. He pushed that fear aside as best he could. He knew what he had to do.

The sword slipped from his fingers to clatter against the stone floor. He sank to his knees before Kelshara.

"The cards never lie," she purred. "You truly are no warrior." She picked up the sword in both hands. "You are nothing."

Tyveris did not look at her. Instead he clasped the ancient quill still tucked into his belt. He had heard the loremasters at the abbey calling upon the power of their god before. He knew that, sometimes, there was great magic in those prayers. Still, he was no priest. He could only hope that Oghma would hear his words anyway.

With a look of animalistic exultation, Kelshara lifted the sword. "All men die," she said coldly.

Tyveris gripped the holy relic. "I have faith that you will help me, Oghma. Grant me your protection."

As Kelshara raised the sword to strike, a blue nimbus sprang to life about the relic in Tyveris's hand. He felt a warmth touch his heart. The soft illumination enshrouded him like a cloak. It brightened, deepened. He rose to his feet, new vigor flowing through his veins. The necromancer stared at him, the fear finally clear in her violet eyes. He was stronger than she had ever imagined.

"I've won, Kelshara," he said solemnly. "Give me the Tear, and I-"

His words trailed off as the blue nimbus surrounding him flared. A thin, gossamer tendril uncoiled itself from the magical aura, reaching out for Kelshara.

"No!" the sorceress cried out, backing away, her voice trembling with revulsion. The sword dropped from her hands and clattered to the floor. 'The deathmirror beetle should only link us in pain!"

She shrank back from the divine aura, step by step, but the blue glow steadily followed her. Finally she backed up against the ledge of the chamber's arched window. The tendril of holy light coiled about her like a shroud. "It's burning me!" she screamed. "Help me! Someone please help me!"

"I will help you, mistress," a wet, bubbling voice croaked. Toz pulled himself slowly to his feet, the knife still lodged in his chest. He grinned, his jagged teeth stained dark with blood. "I am your servant, after all."

With a cry that might have been sorrow as easily as rage, the kobold lunged at the sorceress, grasping at her with gnarled hands. Entangled in a fatal embrace, the two tumbled backward over the window's ledge.

Kelshara shrieked. "But I am going to live forev…" Her cry ended abruptly.

The necromancer's life had ended. But her magic had not.

The tendril of azure light still linked her to Tyveris, reaching him from outside the chamber's window. Even as he watched, a darkness seemed to climb up the shimmering rope like a sinewy viper as black as midnight. It was the final culmination of her spell. Death had taken Kelshara. Now it was coming for him.

The darkness snaked toward him along the tendril, closer, no more than an arm's length away. One touch, and Tyveris knew that he would die. But how could he fight death itself?

It will protect you in the dark days to come.

There was no time to think about it. Gripping the quill tightly, Tyveris thrust his fist toward the thread of darkness.

"In the name of Oghma, be gone!" His voice boomed through the chamber.

Blue light flashed, and thunder shook the tower to its very foundation. The magic was shattered. Shards of azure and onyx flew in all directions. Then came silence. Tyveris blinked. Both the dark and light tendrils were gone. The ancient quill lay in his hand, looking dull and quite mundane.

Tyveris shook his head in wonderment. His body ached terribly, but he was alive. Carefully he tucked the relic back into his belt. He turned and walked slowly from the chamber, leaving his bloodstained sword where it lay on the floor. The weapon had failed him. His faith had not.

He made his way down the stairs and into the night. The storm had ended, and the moon was out, casting its silvery light over the new layer of snow that cloaked the ground, making everything seem somehow fresh and pure.

He found Kelshara and Toz among the rocks in the desolate courtyard, their twisted bodies covered in a burial shroud of windblown snow. The Tear of Everard lay in the necromancer's outstretched palm, unblemished and perfect.

Tyveris bent down and picked up the shining jewel from Kelshara's cold grip. Neither the sorceress's dark magic nor the fall from the tower had damaged the Tear. Just more proof of Oghma's divine presence in the world, Tyveris decided, and he headed off into the night.

 

* * * * *

 

When Tyveris finally reached the abbey on a bright winter's afternoon, he found the gates open wide. It looked as if all the loremasters had gathered in the courtyard to greet him. He swung down from the pretty black palfrey, grinning foolishly at them all. The news of his battle with Kelshara-and his recovery of the Tear-had obviously proceeded him.

"Welcome home, Loremaster Tyveris," Mother Melisende said, her eyes sparkling brightly. "Welcome home."