"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.