Realms of infamy a-2 Read online

  “I… No one said anything about… Shall I inform the council that you have gone to Rysheos?”

  “Yes, how kind of you, Triska. Please tell them I will be back to Twilight Hall in a few tendays. I’ve booked passage on a caravan. The river is too treacherous this time of year.”

  Pulling his hood back up, Chane left the rotund apprentice staring in confusion after him. Once the tall priest reached the courtyard and found his saddled horse waiting, he smiled again.

  Rysheos was situated along the trade routes between Cormyr and Waterdeep, a day’s ride north of Soubar. The newly established boomtown bustled with life and color. Though still somewhat primitive in its architecture and inhabitants, the small city exhilarated Chane, filled as it was with smoke-scented trading shops and citizens seeking a fresh start. Until recent years, warring nobles-along with roving bands of goblins and ores-had given rise to chaos as each fought for control of Rysheos. But one powerful lord and his followers managed to crush all other factions and bring about a fear-induced peace. As the city flourished, opportunities surfaced for those with the courage to seize them. So far, no loremasters had established a temple here.

  Seated in the dining hall of the victorious Lord Teelo of Rysheos, Chane felt a sense of urgency tickling the tiny hairs of his forearms. While the city as a whole appealed to him, this one room expressed all the qualities he found so desirable. Rich scents of mulled wine, spiced meats, warm whole-nut bread, stale sweat, leather, and exotic perfume drifted comfortably into his nostrils. Closing his eyes for a moment, he listened to the sounds of laughter, music, clanking steel from mock fights, and toasts to good health.

  He raised his eyelids again and focused briefly on a silver bowl brimming with a bright array of fruit. So much wealth here, and so few who knew how to use it. His mouth watered, but he did not hunger for the taste of food. Warriors, wealthy merchants, and barbarians — at least to Chane’s perspective — occupied every chair. A wide array of humans, elves, dwarves, and gnomes surrounded him. It was not the mix that differed from that of the Twilight Hall; it was the feel and mood and code of dress. There were no minstrels here. No loremasters. No bards. No teachers of any kind. And for once, all gazes drifted to him. Here he was no perfect rose hidden behind a dozen other nondescript flowers. These people of Rysheos were thorns in the truest sense. Here he was truly appreciated.

  “How is your lovely highlady, Cylyria?” Lord Teelo asked politely.

  By the gods, Chane thought. Look at him sitting there in chain mail armor with food in his beard, trying to make pleasant conversation. “She is well and sends her greeting.”

  Everyone who knew anything of Berdusk was well aware that Highlady Cylyria had little do with the governing of her city. She relied on the mages, thieves, bards, and loremasters of Twilight Hall to govern it for her.

  “Then why have you requested an audience?” Teelo continued. “Does some other matter need my attention?”

  This was the crux of the matter, the heart of Chane’s lie. He had not been called to Rysheos for diplomatic reasons. He had written to Lord Teelo a few tendays past, requesting an audience. This hand must be played carefully. Teelo may have possessed the manners of a Shadowdale goat, but he was no fool.

  “I am concerned, my lord,” Chane began, “about the state of education in your vast city.”

  “Education?”

  “Yes, there are no churches here, no loremasters to teach the knowledge of Oghma. You don’t appear to even possess a bard who might teach your people music, art, or ancient history. Does this not concern you as well?”

  Chane noticed a pretty, dark-haired merchant’s daughter hanging on his every word. Perhaps she was interested in the conversation. Perhaps she was simply overcome by his charm. He enjoyed the company of women, but only if they were completely enamored of him. Pursuing a romantic challenge held no interest whatsoever. He liked to be adored.

  “What are you suggesting?” Lord Teelo asked.

  “Suggesting? Why nothing. The recent past of Rysheos has been colored by bloodshed. Now that you have brought order and justice, should not the next logical step be education? What will become of your people without music and history?”

  The lines of Teelo’s wide forehead narrowed. He had once been a warrior. Now he was a strong leader, and the welfare of his city took precedence over all else. “Yes, I see truth in your words. Should I bring in loremasters and bards, teachers to set up churches and schools?”

  Chane smiled his warmest smile, turning his face toward the candlelight to make his smooth skin glow softly. “A brilliant idea, my lord. К you would, let me look into this matter for you. Perhaps a few members of Twilight Hall would be willing to relocate for the chance to undertake so worthy a challenge?”

  “Good,” Teelo’s gaze shifted to a dwarven mock fight that appeared to be growing less mock each moment. “Do that for me, Master Chane. I appreciate your counsel.”

  Chane sipped his mulled wine as though the exchange meant nothing to him, but his heart beat fast beneath the tan cloak he wore. The lord had expressed a mild interest at best, but a mild interest was all Chane needed. A servant laid half a roast pheasant on the loremaster’s plate. Unlike those around him, he cut into it carefully, making certain the bird’s juices did not soil his sleeves or spatter his neighbor.

  A caravan on its way to Iriaebor arrived in Berdusk late into the night nine days later. The bards, mages, and thieves of Twilight Hall paid no heed to the passengers on the incoming wagons, only the supplies they carried. They had no idea that one of their own traveled in the heart of the clamor.

  Chane kept quietly hidden between two wagons, having exchanged his tasteful cream robes for leather breeches and a heavy black tunic. He told no one of his arrival. He told no one on the caravan his true identity. As far as Berdusk was concerned, Loremaster Chane was visiting Rysheos on diplomatic business.

  As the horses and wagons began to separate near the marketplace to park safely for the night, Chane turned his mount down a side street and headed for the city’s west end.

  The Seat of Lore, temple to Oghma.

  The very thought of the temple filled him with anticipation. Long ago, scores of ancient books had been spirited inside those sacred walls. Centuries-old texts of legends and lore waited for him like glittering jewels in a consecrated mine. The temple’s overseer was a gnome called Bransul-dyn Mirrortor, a former rogue and wanderer who now guarded one of the largest collections of ancient and rare texts that Chane could ever desire. And what did Mirrortor do with all his wealth? He simply locked it up like some sad old man hoarding coins under a mattress.

  A familiar litany tripped through Chane’s thoughts: Knowledge is power. Power is wealth. Wealth is adulation and respect. That sorry gnome knows nothing of possibilities. He deserves to die.

  A not-so-charming smile twitched at the corners of Chane’s lips. How would Teelo reward a loremaster who knew more archaic history than any other priest on the continent? What would he pay to keep such a prized scholar within the walls of Rysheos? Yes, in Rysheos, such a loremaster could have anything he desired. He would rule the colleges and dole out positions to other prospective teachers, priests, or bards-just as long as they weren’t too educated and remembered their place. Life would finally be as it should… grand and glorious.

  It would take a few years of study, of course. After stealing the texts, he’d have to hole up somewhere to read and prepare. But then, just think of Teelo’s gratitude, to command such a loremaster. So much preserved knowledge would be at Chane’s fingertips. He would soon be worshiped as the right hand of Oghma. No other position could offer so perfect an existence. His mouth began to water again.

  The huge oak doors of Oghma’s temple loomed up before him. How to proceed? Cultured charm always worked best for Chane, but he could frighten and bully if the need arose.

  Opening the unlocked doors without knocking, he stepped into a cavernous room. All around him simple wooden benches l
ittered the vast floor. Sparsely filled shelves had been pushed up against three of the walls. There was no hall or entryway. To his surprise, he found himself looking at the far wall and a mahogany desk. Sitting at the desk, busily writing, was a slender elven girl with light gold hair.

  Her eyes lifted when he entered.

  “Welcome,” she said softly.

  Chane cursed under his breath; all the stories he’d heard portrayed Mirrortor living alone. He could not leave any witnesses alive to testify of his presence in the temple, so this unfortunate girl would have to die as well. Mirrortor was a great, selfish waste of flesh, hiding history from the eyes of the world. Whatever evil befell him, he deserved. But Chane had not planned to turn this theft into a night of multiple murders. There was nothing to be done about it now, however.

  “Good evening,” he said smoothly. “I know it is late, but I wish to speak with Mirrortor.”

  The girl had serious eyes, clear gray that seemed to look through him. “One moment,” she said. “Let me see if he has retired to his room yet.”

  She slipped through a door behind the desk. Instinctively he knew that charm would be wasted on her. Force and threats were the only persuasion these people would understand. All he had to do was make Mirrortor show him where the oldest texts were hidden. The rest would be easy. Kill the gnome, pack the books into the bag of holding he had concealed inside his tunic, come back to the main room, kill the girl, and slip away. The dagger in his boot should be enough to silence them.

  The door opened again and the girl stepped out, followed by a white-haired gnome apparently dressed for bed. Not sure what he had expected, Chane felt almost amused. Perhaps he had unconsciously anticipated the famous gnome would exude an imposing air, that he would wear the robes of a highly placed loremaster. Instead Mirrortor wore an emerald green nightshirt and purple silk dressing gown with a bright red nightcap whose pointed top hung down past his shoulder.

  “Can I help you, son?” the gnome yawned, making the tiny crinkles in his forehead and cheeks more apparent. “It’s rather late.”

  “I’m here on business for Twilight Hall.” Chane fell into his authoritative voice. “I need to see your most ancient texts, the very oldest that you keep.”

  ‘Twilight Hall you say? Business? Cylyria told me nothing about… Aren’t you a bit young for a loremaster?”

  “That is not your concern.” Chane pulled an amulet from beneath his robe-the holy symbol of Oghma. “Show me the books.”

  Mirrortor shook his head and turned back to the door. There’s no need to be snippy. The texts are always open for all to see. We have no secrets here. You need only ask “

  You need only ask? What did that mean? If the books were readily available, why did no one ever come here? Perhaps the other loremasters read Mirrortor’s books and simply never mentioned it.

  Chane dismissed the notion as impossible. Anyone in his right mind would have attempted to remove the books and lay claim to them. Chane knew the contents of the Twilight Hall library by heart. There were no texts as priceless as the ones surely stored here. Perhaps Mirrortor’s books were written in languages so old the loremasters could not translate them. Chane smiled slightly in the darkness. Dead languages were his specialty.

  As he followed the gnome through the exit and into a narrow hallway, Chane found himself puzzling over the entire situation. Could it be this easy? If the texts were available to all, how were thieves held at bay? And what did Mirrortor hope to gain by sitting on such treasures like a fat little spider, only to allow any ignorant peasant to come in and see the books, as though Oghma’s temple were some second-class library? None of this made any sense.

  “I wish to see your oldest collection, the most archaic you have,” Chane repeated. “Nothing originating after 902 DR, when the Rotting War decimated Chondath.”

  “Couldn’t your quest wait for morning? We could have breakfast before we start. I’m not a bad cook, you know.”

  “No. I must see the books tonight.”

  At the hall’s end stood another door. It opened with a creak when the gnome touched it, and they both began descending a curved rock staircase. Dim lamplight made for poor visibility, and the endless circles as they made their way lower caused Chane to lose track of time and distance.

  “How far?” he asked.

  “Not far now. Almost there.”

  But the descent continued. Farther down, the lamps were replaced by thick candles flickering in iron holders on the wall. For all Chane’s frustration, at least the temple itself met his expectations-hidden corridors, rock staircases.

  Perhaps this was how the foolish gnome kept his texts safe. Such a downward journey into the darkness would frighten an ordinary thief to death. But theatrics meant nothing to the ambitious priest. It would take more than a few cobwebs to make him lose his bearings. He was a bit disoriented, but certainly he could find his way out again.

  “Here we are,” Mirrortor said finally. He stepped off the bottom landing into a corridor. “Just a few more paces. Most of the well-read texts are upstairs, where the light is better. Almost no one asks for these anymore.”

  “Probably because they are written in dead languages only a skilled loremaster would comprehend,” Chane answered, finding it difficult to keep contempt from his tone.

  “And you find those ‘dead texts’ the most desirable?”

  “Of course. They are like jewels and wine, the older the rarer. The rarer, the more precious. I would have thought you’d figured that out years ago.”

  “That depends on your perspective. I often find value to be somewhat subjective.”

  Then you are a fool, Chane thought. He followed the gnome down another stair, six steps curving to the left. They passed though a cobwebbed entryway and into a dusty room.

  Upon stepping inside, euphoria filled Chane’s breast, and he sighed aloud. “I knew it would be like this.”

  There weren’t even shelves, simply stacks and stacks of leatherbound texts resting one atop the other. Scores, possibly hundreds filled his eyes, tales of heroic quests and dark deeds, the roots of Faerun’s history. Gazing at one stack directly in front of him, he noticed runes along the spines of several texts glowing soft blue. “Wards,” he whispered. Those books were to be avoided. His ultimate goal had always been attaining a high position among the priests of Oghma through knowledge of lore alone. He knew little of magic.

  Spellbooks aside, plenty of other treasures surrounded him. Bindings of forest green and charcoal gray shone out in the darkness with a brighter intensity than any glowing runes-texts of long-forgotten myths and truths. He would translate and memorize them all, then teach stories that no one had heard in a dragon’s age. People would stare at him in wonder. He would be revered and adored.

  “Are these the most ancient in your temple?” he asked, reaching down as if to scratch his leg. His fingers brushed the knife’s handle.

  No one answered.

  “Mirrortor?” He turned, but found himself alone. Where had the gnome gone? Perhaps he assumed Chane wanted time alone to read. It did not matter. He could find his victims upstairs without much trouble and silence them later.

  He touched the spine of a faded brown cover and chills ran up his arm. Worn symbols, rather than actual words, had been etched deeply into the leather by some craftsman of a bygone era.

  “Perfection.” He picked it up and turned to the first page. Inside, he discovered yellowed pages much better preserved than the cover. The symbols were a form of hieroglyphics once used in the old empires of the South, Mulhorand and Unther. He recognized the mark for “barbarians,” and his excitement grew. Could this be an account of ancient wars? He envisioned himself standing before a crowd in Lord Teelo’s dining hall-candlelight reflecting off his red-gold hair-recounting tales a thousand years past.

  Pulling the enchanted bag from inside his tunic, he placed the book carefully inside and began paging through another. Anything he could read too easily was disca
rded as too accessible. He wanted only the elusive, only the ones no other loremaster might already posses. After exhausting the possibilities in this room, he planned to move on to the next. There was no telling how many treasures lay hidden in the temple. And his bag allowed him to take as much from Mirrortor as he pleased. Although he’d never studied magic in detail, Chane found some of its creations quite useful.

  Thinking again about the elven girl upstairs, he was struck by a pang of something akin to guilt. “Oghma may be annoyed at first,” he whispered, “but he’ll cave in when he sees what a perfect rose I really am.”

  After he’d pillaged the first pile of its priceless tomes, Chane tried to move to a new stack. The bag’s weight jolted him to a stop. The books were heavy. Quite heavy. How could this be? After he had placed only fourteen in the bag, it was nearly full and difficult to carry. The enchantment should have allowed him to fill it forever. But peering inside, he saw that his magic bag was working as if it were nothing more than an ordinary sack.

  Mirrortor might be more clever than anticipated, Chane mused. Perhaps he had placed wards against magic on the library. Even for a strong man like Chane, fourteen of the oversized books made a formidable burden. Would he have to settle for this paltry haul?

  He stared down in frustration. Fourteen texts of the most ancient lore on the continent were still enough to fulfil his dreams. Or perhaps he could make a second trip after killing the gnome and the girl. The vault had not been hard to find. Yes, that was the answer, make a second trip, possibly a third. After all, he did have a horse waiting outside.

  Rising, he turned to leave. Then he saw that all four walls of the room contained exits. Strange. He hadn’t noticed them before. From which one had he entered? The many stacks of books made direction difficult to remember.