The Howling Delve - Jaleigh Johnson

"Varan, what have you been doing?" Meisha whispered, but no one answered. She glanced behind her, but Talal had not followed her into the room. He stood, framed in the crack of the half-closed door, watching Varan. His expression showed a mixture of hatred, awe, and fear.

Meisha took a step forward. She felt the boy make a restless motion. Her eyes shot a question at him, and a warning—don't try to stop me.

Talal appeared torn. Reluctantly, he stepped into the room, just far enough to whisper, "He won't answer you. He never talks to us."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Lady, you'd need a bucket full of scribes to make that list. Just come away," he pleaded.

Meisha shook her head. "I have to see him." She crept toward the wizard, carefully toeing aside the non-magical debris to make a path.

She knelt next to her former teacher, but he did not stir from his work. He smelled much worse than Talal. His gray-blue robes were stained—Mystra's mercy, in some places charred—and soiled by old urine and waste. Her eyes traveled upward, and Meisha gasped at the gaunt, cavernous husk that the wizard's face had become.

Varan had been aged when Meisha was young, but the man who sat before her was sucked dry, all his energy and vitality gone. His left eye was missing, and the flesh around the empty socket had melted, folding into itself like a pudding. His one good eye stared dully at the wall as his hands moved in a jerky rhythm over the sphere.

Meisha followed his gaze. A rough parchment drawing floated flat against the cavern wall, illuminated by green radiances. On it someone had scribbled—the hand was too spiky to be Varan's—a drawing of the sphere, with notes along the top and sides of the page.

The lights in the sphere flared, drawn to its center. Suddenly, a sound like shattering glass echoed in the room, and the lights went out. Gray mist tendrils flowed from the gaps in the iron bands, curling up sinuously to touch Varan's beard.

The wizard's hands shook, as if the sphere had suddenly doubled in weight. It dragged the old man's arms down, and the mist swirled and dissipated. The sphere hit the cavern floor with a thud that Meisha felt through her knees.

Distaste flickered in the wizard's eye. He pushed the sphere aside and tore the drawing from the wall.

"Broken."

Meisha's head snapped up at the sound of the wizard's voice. "Varan?"

"Hello, little firebird," he replied, but his gaze never left the drawing. Carefully, he tore it into strips of glowing green, flicking each aside like magical confetti.

Relief flooded Meisha at the sound of the old nickname. "Master. What happened to you, to your eye?"

Varan seemed not to hear her. "I broke another one." He selected a brittle piece of meat from the plate and tore off a bite.

"What do you mean, you 'broke' it?" Meisha asked.

"Broken," Varan repeated. "Some of them work, some break. And yet they cling to me, just like you did, firebird. Cling to me, wanting to be fixed. I suppose I'll fix them all, eventually."

"Varan," Meisha said, choking back her revulsion at the white, squirming maggots crawling in the hair around the wizard's lips, "where is Jonal? And Prieces—the other apprentices? Why didn't they aid you?"

"Oh, they're here," Varan said. He patted the small sack he wore tied around his neck. He reached inside and drew out three rings. He dropped them into her cupped hand one at a time. They were identical to the ring Meisha wore, but for the bloodstains.

"Dead?" Meisha couldn't believe it. Three apprentices, and even Jonal, the lowliest among them, bore powerful elemental magic, defenses known only to themselves and Varan. "How?"

But Varan had gone back to his drawing. Meisha picked up the sphere, but whatever magic it had held appeared spent.

What happened to the wizard? Her attacker's words drifted back.

"Talal, what. . ."

But Talal was no longer in the room. Meisha turned back and found Varan staring at her as if he'd only just discovered she was in the room.

"Firebird, it is good to see you," he said. He lifted a hand to touch her shoulder. The gesture of affection was so familiar it made Meisha's chest constrict.

"Master, how did this happen?" she asked, cupping the melted side of his face gently in her hand.

"This?" Varan twirled a finger in the empty socket. "I believe he took it—or I had to give it away—hard to remember. Bad things are here," he said. Then he shifted the finger, tapping his temple. "But here ..." He grinned at her. "Gods are at work."

"Oh, Master—"

"I'm glad you've returned, little one. Yes, you can help me fix them—the broken ones." He touched his hand to the wall next to where the drawing had been. His fingers passed through the rock as if it were water, until he'd sunk to the elbow in stone. When he pulled his hand out, he held a second sphere, smaller than the first and copper-hued.

"What is broken, Varan? Where are those coming from?" Meisha asked. She lifted the pouch away from his neck, slipping the rings back inside. "What happened to the apprentices?"

"I told you, they're here. Don't fret." His hand closed tightly over hers. With the other, he stroked her hair.

"But what—"

"I told you." Ancient muscles flexed with astonishing strength, slamming her head into the unforgiving stone wall. "Don't fret."

Meisha went down in a burst of red pain and horror. Blindly, she lurched to her back as her teacher towered over her, a terrible, crumbling column of rage and power.

"You should leave now, firebird," he said, his face dark. He murmured something inaudible, and the chamber sparked to life with newly kindled magic. "Leave me alone."

Gasping, cradling her head, Meisha opened her mouth in time to taste fire. The chamber darkened and blurred as if she'd been cast into a deep pool. She could no longer see Varan.

Trembling, Meisha raised herself to her knees and crawled to where she thought the doorway must be. Somewhere along the way the fire went out, but she could smell the smoke of things still burning: rotted meat, clothing, and hair—her own, of course. She slid onto her face and rolled jerkily to put the fires out.

Hands caught her armpits, and Meisha felt herself being dragged out of the room into cooler air. She heard the door grind shut, and Talal's terrified face filled her vision.

"He t-tried to kill me." Meisha coughed on the smoke from her own burnt clothing.

Talal nodded grimly. "The ball. You touched one of his toys. Shirva Tarlarin did the same thing. There wasn't enough of her left to show her husband. You should be dead," he said, half-accusingly.

Meisha shuddered. Her skin was unburned but red and raw, as if she'd stumbled through a bramble bush. "I'm protected—somewhat—against magical fire," she said, lifting a hand to touch her head. "I wish I could say the same for blunt trauma." She looked up at Talal imploringly. "What happened to him? How did—"

"We don't know," Talal said. "He was like that when we found him, but worse—starved nearly to death, and sick. We brought him out of it, but his head's gone.. . ." Talal still gazed at her suspiciously. "You believe me now? That thing isn't your teacher anymore, Lady."

"Then what is he?" Meisha snapped. "What has he become?"

Talal had a quick answer to that. "He's our doom."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Keczulla, Amn

3 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

"But of course the family stands happy to extend whatever assistance young Lord Morel may require, provided he understands the weight of the favors his father has already accrued."

"Your point is clearly taken, Lady." Kall bowed to the coldly smiling Lady Rothres and continued his trek across the ballroom.

Absently, he scanned the second floor balcony for Cesira. She was nowhere in sight, but that was hardly a surprise. With its open view of the main ballroom, the second floor was a popular spot, and thus quite crowded.

Kall left the echoing chatter of the ballroom and crossed the dark garden to the tower stairs. The double-arched windows of his father's former offices stood exactly as they had in Esmeltaran, though the current occupant of the tower hardly cared what view he had.

Syrek Dantane stood bent over a table, examining a book that was easily the length of his arm. The wizard had to shuffle a step left and right to read the text.

"I'd love to see the bookshelf that came out of," Kall said by way of greeting.

The wizard did not immediately answer. When he did, he lifted only his eyes from the tome. They were as clear and as blue as Kall's, with a matching sheen of barely concealed hostility.

"I'm sure it would astound you. One actually has to read books on a regular basis to appreciate that knowledge comes in many forms."

Kall ignored the insult. "Surely you can agree inscribing a tome that's impossible to lift borders on the absurd?"

"Whatever you say, Lord Morel. In fact, I was just about to gather my absurd bits of lore and be gone from your house."

Kall leaned against the doorframe. "I don't recall asking you to leave. Could be my mind is slipping. We Morels are famous for our scattered wits, you know."

"As it happens, I do," Dantane said. "No, you haven't asked me to leave, but judging from the fact that you've avoided my requests for an audience since you came here, I'm assuming my eviction cannot be far off."

Kall shrugged. "You may be right. Earlier today, I was going to throw you out without a conversation, but I changed my mind."

"What brought about that bit of charity?"

"I have questions about my father."

Dantane gathered his robes about him, perching on the edge of the table. "Ask."

"When did you come to him?"

"Deepwinter. I was traveling through the city and ran into a bit of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Dantane looked irritated. "The kind that comes when ignorance is allowed too free a rein."

Kall smirked. "Amnians are quite vocal about their wizard-hatred, aren't they?" he said.

"Your father was able to intervene on my behalf, although why he took the trouble—"

"Is the mystery I'm most concerned with," Kall interrupted. "My father hated magic more actively than most."

"So he took great pains to explain to me. Yet, he claimed a greater need drove him to hire me. He suspected someone close was using magic against him. He wished me to find the source."

Now Kall listened intently. "Did you?"

Dantane pushed away from the table. He strode to a locked cupboard in the corner and murmured something. A door creaked open, and Dantane reached inside, withdrawing an object that was unfamiliar to Kall: an ornate silver brooch set with a square, thumb-sized amethyst. "I removed this from your father's person, though its magic was already drained to nothing."

"What is it?"

"Exactly what it appears, but your father's blood is on the pin. That blood bore traces of a subtle mind-altering magic. I've seen similar pieces before. The spells make a person extremely susceptible to suggestion, but only from those they trust—friends or family. For instance, if the lady of the house doesn't approve of the way her husband is using the family finances, instead of throwing a fuss, she can use this to influence him in new directions."

"But the lord would be unaffected in business dealings with enemies and rivals?" Kall asked.