Forgotten Realms - Counselors & Kings 02 - The Floodgate

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Prelude

The battle had turned against the laraken. The monster knew this, its

enemies did not. They continued to fight with the frenzy peculiar to brave men

who wish to die well.

Men had come into the Swamp of Akhlaur before, but these warriors were

armed not with enchantments but with wicked swords and pikes and arrows. With

them was a strangely familiar elf woman who was neither food nor foe.

The laraken advanced, shrieking like the demon it resembled and paying

little heed to the arrows and spears that bristled its hide. Its taloned feet crushed

the fallen humans. A casual kick tossed aside the body of the wemic-the mighty

lion-centaur who had died protecting the elf woman. The battered соrpsе

thumped and skidded along the sodden ground, splattering the surviving warriors

with fetid water before coming to rest amid the lurching roots of a bilboa tree.

Still the laraken came, charging into the humans' ranks-and away from its

source of life-giving magic. The monster's shrieks had less to do with battle lust

than with mind-numbing hunger. Greenish ichor leaked from countless wounds,

but starvation, not the humans' weapons, would be the laraken's death.

Its only nourishment was the elf woman's spells and the tiny draught of life-

magic offered by the tall, red-haired warrior. The laraken greedily drained this

scant sustenance, leaving the human as translucent as a dew-drop. Yet the man

lived, and fought on!

So did his comrades, and none fought more fiercely than the dark-hawk

human who clung to the laraken's back like a tick, slashing until the monster

screamed with rage and pain.

The laraken's most formidable foe was the small female, a human whose

eyes were dark pools of magic and whose voice could not be ignored. Her song

lured the laraken onward, when every instinct urged it to flee back to the trickle of

liquid magic that was its main sustenance.

She Who Called perched in a tall tree, far above the battle. The magical

song pouring from her filled the laraken with exquisite longing, both courting and

mocking its hunger. Frustration slowly gave way to fear: the laraken remembered

the long-ago wizard whose magic could not be eaten.

A flash of silver darted toward the laraken's eye and exploded into a burst of

liquid agony. The laraken screamed and clamped its upper pair of hands against

its ruined eye. Its lower arms flailed wildly as it raked at the warrior who had

blinded it. Talons found human flesh. At last the man released his hold and rolled

down the laraken's back.

Gripped by a desperate, mindless rush for survival, the laraken broke free of

the singer's grip and hurtled toward the pool. The elf woman shouted a strange

word and tossed something into the bubbling spill of magic. In an instant, the

bubbles grew into iridescent, man-sized domes, which burst into sprays of life-

giving droplets. As instinctively as a creature aflame, the laraken threw itself at

the water.

Immediately the monster was seized by a liquid storm that dwarfed the fury

of battle. The laraken fell-or perhaps flew-through the whirling white terror. Its

battered senses registered the bruising tumble, the roar of the water, and the

thunderous, hollow thud of the magical gate slamming shut.

And then, silence.

Dazed and disoriented, the laraken gave itself over to the water. It drifted,

vaguely aware of the tingle of energy that whispered against its scaled hide and

sank deep into bone and sinew.

After a time the laraken began to take note of its new surroundings. Water

was everywhere, but not like the water in its home swamp. This was liquid magic-

less dense than mundane water, more alive than air. The laraken could breathe

this water, and each breath brought renewed strength.

The monster moved forward cautiously, speeding its way with swimming

motions of its four webbed hands. It did not marvel at the beauty of the coral

palaces or undulating sea forests as lush and colorful as a jungle. It paid no heed

to the intricately carved arch framing the place where the magical gate lurked,

just beyond sight and sense. The eel-like appendages that surrounded the

laraken's demon face stirred. Reptilian eyes snapped open and took focus, jaws

yawned wide, and fangs extended like unsheathed claws. The eels began to

writhe about, snapping at a passing school of tiny, jewel-colored fish.

An overwhelming stench of magic engulfed the laraken, an acrid, gut-

clenching odor that the monster instinctively recognized as danger. The laraken

spun, snarling, to face the unknown threat.

A white blur swept in with preternatural speed. The laraken's first perception

was vast size, and the yawn of a huge, hideous gate. In a heartbeat the laraken

recognized that the "gate" was actually the jaws of a gigantic shark, easily wide

enough to engulf its twelve-foot prey. Wedge-shaped teeth lined the jaws in

multiple rows. Beyond was bone, and nothing more.

Instinct prompted the laraken to flee, but it sensed the futility of this course.

Instead, the laraken leaped directly into the tooth-and-bone gate, diving

powerfully for the open water beyond those empty white ribs.

The skeletal shark's bones folded around its prey. Cartilage creaked as the

ribs clattered together and laced like tightly entwined fingers. The laraken's head

slammed into the narrow end of the basket weave of bones, abruptly cutting off

its dive to safety. Two interlocking ribs sheered off one of the laraken's eel

appendages. The disembodied head tumbled free through the roiling waters. A

passing fish snapped it up and darted triumphantly away.

The laraken hooked its foot talons on the shark's spine and swung upside

down to grasp a pair of locked ribs with all four hands. Bracing its feet, the

laraken threw its strength into wrenching the bars of its cage apart. The shark's

flexible cartilage buckled, but would neither break nor give way. Frantic now, the

laraken flung itself from one side of its prison to another until it was battered and

bleeding. The skeletal shark merely kept swimming, long past the lure of blood.

The laraken threw back its hideous head and shrieked like a demon new to

damnation. Its cries sent bubbles jetting out to mingle with the thrashing currents.

Through the sound of churning water and its own roaring protests, a new

note began to play at the edges of the monster's consciousness, a magic more

focused and pungent than that of the water. Instinctively the laraken reached for

it but found no sustenance. The elusive magic smelled a bit like the elf woman's

life-force, only stronger.

Stronger, and suddenly familiar.

Abject terror seized the laraken. Abandoning any hope of escape, it cowered

into the farthest depths of its skeletal cage and began to shriek mindlessly, like a

baby monkey that clings to a tree limb and awaits the jaws of a jungle cat.

The laraken saw the wizard, and its scream choked off into a strangled

whimper. In profound silence the monster waited-and hoped-for death.

*****

Akhlaur stalked toward the skeletal shark, moving as easily through the

magical water as he had once walked beneath Halruaa's sky. The necromancer's

magic had sustained his life through his long exile, yet two hundred years in the

Elemental Plane of Water had profoundly changed him. He was still a powerful

man, tall and lank, with fine black eyes and strong, well-formed features. Now

tiny scales covered his skin, and gills shaped like twin lightning bolts slashed the

sides of his neck. The fingers holding the wizard's staff were long and webbed,

the skin faintly green in hue.

The wizard had not just survived but prospered. His servants supplied him

with robes of fine green sea linen, embroidered with runes made with black seed

pearls. His necromantic artistry was much in evidence. The staff he carried was

not wood, but a living eel locked into a fierce, rigid pose. Small spats of lightning

sizzled from the creature's fixed snarl and sent light shimmering across the

wizard's bald green head.

Akhlaur reached out with his eel staff and stroked the shark's skull between

its empty, glowing eyes.

"What have you brought me, my pet?" he inquired in a whispery tone.

Blue lightning sizzled from the eel into the undead shark. The bony cage

flared with sudden light, prompting a thunderous, agonized shriek from the

shark's latest captive. An explosion of bubbles and a long, wavering cry spiraled

out into the water.

Akhlaur, intrigued but not impressed, leaned in for a better look. His eyes

widened in sudden recognition. "By curse and current! I know this beast!"

The wizard's gills flared with excitement as he considered the implications of

this latest capture. This was the laraken, the spawn of water demons and elven

magic! It was his own creation, and a link to his homeland. If the laraken had

found a way into the Elemental Plane of Water, then perhaps at long last he,

Akhlaur, could find a way out!

"How did you come to be here?" the wizard demanded, "and what have you

brought me this time?" He leaned his staff against a coral obelisk and began to

gesture with both hands, easily tracing a spell he had not cast in two centuries.

In response, magic seeped from the monster like blood from a killing wound.

The laraken clutched its bony cage for support as the wizard drained it to some

minutely defined point just short of death.

Akhlaur savored the stolen spells as a gourmand might consider a sip of

wine. "Interesting. Most interesting," he mused. "A blend of all the magical

schools, with some Azuthan overtones. Definitely these are Halruaan spells, but

the chant inflections are slightly off, as if the wizard were not a native speaker.

The accent is that of... an elf?"

The wizard considered. Yes, the laraken's prey had definitely been an elf,

probably female. The influence of Azuthan training flavored the spells-to

Akhlaur's particular palate, the taint of clerical magic was as cloyingly unpleasant

as sugar in a stew.

He snorted, sending a rift of bubbles rising. "Halruaa is in a sorry state

indeed. Elf wenches and Azuthan priests!"

Yet the prospect did not displease him. He had slain hundreds of elves,

outwitted and overpowered scores of priests. He could easily overcome such

foes.

Or so he could, if only he could win free of this place!

By some odd quirk of fate, Akhlaur, the greatest necromancer of his time,

had been exiled from the land he was destined to rule. For over two hundred

years his every attempt to wrest free of this prison had fallen short. How, then,

had some lesser wizard opened the gate wide enough to admit the laraken?

This should have been impossible. Any wizard who came near the laraken

should have been destroyed, his magic and then his life drained away by the

monster's voracious need. Akhlaur was invulnerable, of course, but he had

created the monster, painstakingly fashioning the channels that made the laraken

a conduit through which stolen magic flowed. This was one of Akhlaur's finest

achievements, the very height of the necromantic arts. Creating the laraken had

taken many years. Several attempts had ended in failure when the growing

spawn destroyed its female host. Not until Akhlaur had thought to forge a death-

bond with the green elf wench he'd nicknamed Kiva-

His thought pattern broke off abruptly, stumbling over a startling notion.

"No," he muttered. "It is not possible!"

But it was possible. Kiva had witnessed many of his most carefully guarded

experiments. She had clung to life when thousands of others had yielded to pain

and despair. She had even survived the laraken's birth-barely, but she had

survived. Akhlaur hadn't wasted much thought on her. Who would have foreseen

that a scrawny elf wench could not only survive but learn?

"It would seem," Akhlaur mused, "that I have acquired an unexpected

apprentice."

He nodded, accepting this explanation. Apparently Kiva's resistance to the

laraken had outlived the punishing birth. She was able to venture near enough to

open the gate and let the monster through, even though that meant losing her

wizardly spells to the monster's hunger.

Why would she do this?

Akhlaur studied the creature huddled within the undead shark. What had

prompted Kiva to risk herself to send the laraken here? Not maternal warmth,

surely! Elves could barely abide the notion of mixing their blood with humans,

much less water demons. The only possible motive Akhlaur could fathom was

vengeance.

Yet surely Kiva understood the laraken could not kill its creator. Perhaps she

sent the monster not as an assassin but as her herald.

Yes, Akhlaur decided. This was the answer. His little Kiva had sent him a

message.

The wizard glanced at the coral obelisk, where neat runes marked the

passing of each moon tide. The lunar rhythm echoed through the miniscule

opening that mocked his captivity, and the obelisk pointed the way home like the

very finger of the goddess. Soon, when the moon was full and the path between

the worlds shortest and surest, a vengeful and astonishingly powerful Kiva would

come to repay him with his own coin.

"Come, then, little elf," he crooned, gazing past to the obelisk toward the

invisible gate. "Come, and learn the full truth of the death-bond we forged."

To Lady Mystra

Great Lady, we have not spoken before-at least, not in any words I have

fashioned or perceived. I am Matteo, counselor to Queen Beatrix of Halruaa. This

summer marks my second year as a jordain in the service of truth, Halruaa, and

the wizard-lords who rule. I have always known that you watch over this land. It

seems strange, now that I think on it, that this is the first prayer I have ever

offered.

You see, we jordaini are taught to revere the Lady of Magic, and to respect

Azuth, the Patron of Wizards-but always from a respectful distance. We are

untouched by your Art, and possess a strong resistance to its power. We are

trained to stand apart from the flow of Halruaan life, observing and advising.

But never doing!

Please, forgive this outburst. It was not only unseemly but also inaccurate. I

have done many things since last spring and in the doing have wandered far

from my first vision of jordaini service. What I am, what I should be, is no longer

as clear to me as it once was.

It is that very uncertainty that brings me to you. I have vowed to serve no

master above truth, but how is one man to measure truth? Once I trusted in the

wizard-lords, the jordaini order, the clerics and magehounds, the laws of Halruaa,

the lore and sciences I have committed to memory. These are all fine things, but

I cannot blindly follow any or all of them. And yet, what single mortal is wise

enough to fashion his own path? What pattern should I see in the strange turns

my life has taken?

Since leaving the Jordaini College, I have been counselor to Procopio

Septus, the Lord Mayer of Halarahh, and now to Queen Beatrix. I have learned

that great wizards are flawed and fallible. I have mourned the "death" of Andris,

my oldest friend, then reunited only to watch helplessly as he was stripped of all

but the shadow of life. I expected to counsel wizards on battle strategy but not to

test skill and courage in actual combat. Yet I have fought alongside my jordaini

brothers, many of whom who were stolen from their lives by the false magehound

Kiva. We defeated a dark and ancient evil, and we delivered Kiva to the stern

judgment of Azuth's clergy. Yet perhaps the most profound change has been

wrought by my friendship with the street waif known as Tzigone.

I suspect that Tzigone, like me, has not been lavish in her prayers. Life has

given her little reason to bless the wizards of Halruaa or-forgive me-their

goddess. Yet Tzigone is like a gypsy lark, blithe and merry and full of song,

despite an inner darkness profound enough to shroud her early memories. She

seeks answers to the mysteries of her past and the truth of a mother she barely

remembers. I suppose that Tzigone, like me, seeks to know who she truly is.

Her truth, my truth-I suspect that they are somehow linked. This belief defies

logic and cannot be explained by my jordaini learning. Yet I know this to be so.

My own heart is a stranger to me, but I perceive that it has its own logic and its

own wisdom.

This vision, however, is young and far from clear. For the first time, great

Lady, I recognize my need of you. Help me honor my oaths yet not betray my

heart. Teach me to recognize truth when I see it, to know when to speak and

when to honorably keep silent. These are not easy requests, and as 1 voice

them, I suspect that you do not regret overmuch my previous silence! Nor am I

fully at ease with the notion that a man can find his own way, guided only by the

truth in his heart and the voice of a goddess.

Perhaps we will become more reconciled to each other as the days go by.

Chapter One

Sunlight beat down upon the hard-packed ground of the Jordaini College

training field. A light breeze blew off the Bay of Taertal, bearing the tang of salt

but no relief from the summer sun. Heat rose from the ground in shimmering

waves, and sweat glistened on the bared chests of the two fighters who faced

each other with drawn swords and fierce grins.

Matteo lunged suddenly, his blade diving low-an attack that, if successful,

could hamstring a man and end a fight quickly. Andris easily blocked, then spun

away. He came back with a flurry of short jabs, feinting high and low in a pattern

too complex to predict. Matteo met each attack, enjoying the sharp clattering ring

of steel upon steel as a sage might relish good conversation. It was all so familiar

that for a few moments he could almost forget the changes this year had brought.

Yet, how could he?

Once Andris's hair had been a rich auburn, his eyes hazel green, and his fair

skin speckled by the sun. He used to jest that he'd be a fine hue, if only his

freckles would have the courtesy to blend one into another. Now all these odd

colors were but ghostly shadows. Even the sword in his hand was more like

glass than metal. Andris was no more substantial than a man-shaped rainbow.

As if to disprove Matteo's dismal thoughts, Andris pressed the attack. He

came on hard, delivering a series of blows with real weight and power behind

them. The two men moved together in a circle, exchanging blows in a rapid,

ringing dialogue. As they fell into the new rhythm, Matteo noted that the morning

was nearly spent-the sun was edging toward the dome that crowned the

Disputation Hall. Both building and sunlight were clearly visible through the filter

of Andris's translucent form.

Matteo jerked his wandering thoughts back into line and spun away from a

high, down-slashing blow. Holding his sword over his shoulder at a declining

angle, he caught the attack in a deflecting parry. As Andris's blade scraped along

the length of the sword, Matteo shifted onto his forward foot to remove himself

beyond reach of a possible counter. He whirled back, twisting his forearm as he

went to position his weapon for a lunging attack.

A sudden burst of light assailed him. Instantly Matteo realized what Andris

had done. He'd presented Matteo with a classic opportunity for a deflecting parry.

In the moment while Matteo was turned aside, Andris had used his translucent

sword like a prism to catch the morning sun and dart it directly into his opponent's

face.

Matteo danced back a few steps, blinking to dispel the dark spots dancing

before his eyes. He was not quite quick enough. The flat of Andris's blade

smacked his hip. Matteo lowered his sword and backed away, rubbing at the

offended spot.

"A good trick," he admitted.

"I've a better one," Andris said slyly.

The ghostly jordain came in again with fast, feinting attacks. While his sword

kept Matteo fully engaged, Andris pulled a companion dagger from his belt. This

he held high, adjusting his movements so that whatever the rest of his body

might be doing, the dagger stayed at the same angle relative to the sun. Sunlight

poured through the sheer metal of Andris's dagger and concentrated into a thin

beam. The thread of light seared the packed ground. Smoke began to rise from a

blackened, spreading circle.

Such a weapon in any other hands could be death. Matteo had no fear of his

friend, but he fought fiercely to solve the puzzle Andris presented. For many

moments they battled toe to toe. It was all Matteo could do to meet each of his

opponent's attacks. There was no chance to counter, much less to maneuver

Andris out of position and break the dagger's focus.

Suddenly Andris shifted the dagger slightly. The line of red light split into two

beams, one of which leaped up to nip keenly at Matteo's arm.

Matteo yelped with surprise and jumped back. He quickly recovered and

came in hard, catching the tall jordain’s lunging sword under his and bearing it

down to the ground. He leaned forward, using his weight to drive the point of his

sword into the dirt, pinning Andris's weapon beneath it. With his free hand he

seized the wrist of Andris's dagger hand. Andris might be nearly a head taller, but

Matteo outmatched him in mass and muscle. With a quick twist, he relieved the

taller man of his dagger. Another twist brought Andris stumbling to one knee.

"You're mine," Matteo said triumphantly.

"I think not." The tall jordain gazed pointedly at Matteo's arm.

Matteo glanced down, and his lips twisted in a wry smile. The dagger-

captured sunlight had burned a rune onto his skin-the rune for Andris's name.

"It would appear that I am branded," he admitted. He slid his sword into its

scabbard and then tugged Andris to his feet, congratulating him with a hearty

slap on the back. "And since the rothe cow is butchered and not the farmer, my

claim to victory rings false! You have grown devious."

The comment was meant in sincere admiration, but Andris's sly grin dropped

off his face so abruptly that Matteo expected to hear it shatter on the hard-

packed ground.

"Better a devious mind than arrogant certainty," he said.

"We jordaini wish to believe that everything is simple and nothing is beyond

grasp."

The bleak expression in Andris's translucent hazel eyes surprised Matteo.

"Many strange events have happened of late," he agreed, "but at the heart of

things, our goals are much as they ever were."

The tall jordain shrugged. "Perhaps."

Matteo's sense of unease deepened. Hearing his own doubts spoken in

another man's voice lent them shape and substance. On the other hand, why

should they not speak openly? Perhaps between the two of them, they might find

some resolution.

"Tell me what has changed," Matteo invited.

Andris tossed his sun-heated dagger into a trough of water and watched the

steam rise and dissipate before he spoke his mind.

"You know that I have elf blood."

Matteo blinked, surprised by this unexpected turn. "Yes. So?"

"So that changes everything. I don't mean the obvious thing," Andris clarified,

gesturing toward his crystalline form. "My life's path would be different even if my

appearance had not changed in the Swamp of Akhlaur."

They fell silent, remembering that terrible place.

Matteo spoke first. "Why should a distant elf heritage define your path?"

"Heritage is a powerful thing. Have you never wondered why jordaini are

forbidden to seek the knowledge of our parents?"

A disturbing image flashed into Matteo's thoughts: the memory of a small,

forlorn woman trapped in the prison of her mind. If Tzigone had-for once-told the

unadorned truth, this sad woman was his birthmother. By some odd twist of fate,

Tzigone had found Matteo's mother during a desperate search for her own.

Matteo did not understand her passionate need for family, but he recognized the

same emotion in Andris's ghostly eyes.

"The jordaini order has its reasons," Matteo said, trying not to dwell on

Tzigone's hints concerning the identity of his other parent "So you have elf blood.

Now that you know this, are you a different man than you were before?"

Andris spun away and strode to the neat pile of gear he'd left at the edge of

the field. He stooped over a leather bag and took from it a small, sparkling object.

"Knowledge brings responsibility," he said as he held out his open hand.

In it lay an exquisite statue, a tiny winged sprite no longer than his palm. It

appeared to be fashioned from crystal and was as perfect in every detail as a

living creature-as indeed it once had been. Matteo marveled that Andris could

hold it. In the Swamp of Akhlaur Matteo had accidentally bumped a crystalline elf,

and found that it was not solid glass, but an elf-shaped void far colder than ice.

He placed a hand on his friend's translucent shoulder. "The elves in

Akhlaur's Swamp and the sprite whose image you carry were freed by death,

long before your birth. There is nothing more to be done. It is you who concern

me, my friend. After the Azuthan priests do what they can, you must put this

behind you and take up your duties as a jordain."

Andris shrugged and turned away, but not before Matteo glimpsed a world of

turmoil in his eyes.

"You are dreading this inquisition," he observed.

"Wouldn't you?" his friend retorted. He was silent for several moments as he

tucked the tiny crystalline sprite away, then he stood and faced Matteo. "You

know clerics. They will test and talk and poke and pray until even Mystra herself

tires of it all. They might eventually add to their understanding of magic, but they

won't answer the important questions: Why did I survive? Why did Kiva? She's

an elf. Why wasn't she swallowed in a crystal void like all the others?"

"Perhaps Kiva could answer that."

Andris's eyes lit up. "She has revived?"

"Not at last word," Matteo said. "The magehounds who tested her say that

much of her strength was lost along with her magical spells. It seems that life and

magic are more intrinsically bound in elves than in humans. They say it's a

marvel she survived."

An impatient sigh hissed from between Andris's teeth. "The temple hosts

more clerics than a bugbear has ticks. None of them could heal her?"

"I asked the same question." Matteo shook his head in disgust. "Kiva holds

knowledge vital to all of Halruaa. Yet the clerics maintain that praying for healing

spells to benefit a traitor would be sacrilege."

Andris muttered something unintelligible. He strode over to retrieve his white

tunic, which he slid over his head. The fine linen turned translucent as it settled

over his torso. The jordain stooped again to pick up a water gourd. He uncorked

it and drank deeply. Matteo half expected to see the passage of water down his

friend's insubstantial throat, but the water disappeared as soon as it touched the

jordain's lips.

Andris caught him watching and lowered the gourd self-consciously. Instantly

Matteo averted his eyes.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to stare."

"No magic, no penalty," he said flippantly, dismissing Matteo's apology with a

catchphrase common to jordaini lads. "So what will you do now? Return to the

queen's palace?"

Matteo shook his head. "It seems to me that Queen Beatrix has less need of

my counsel than Halruaa does of my active service. Kiva did not close the gate to

the Plane of Water but merely moved it. This new location must be found. I have

also pledged to help Tzigone find her mother, or at least to learn of her fate."

"I don't envy you your first task, but the second should be easy enough. Kiva

described Keturah as a master of evocation magic. Such wizards are well known.

All you need do is ask."

"It's more complicated than that," Matteo admitted. "Questions could draw

unwanted, even dangerous attention to Tzigone. No one else can know that she

is Keturah's daughter. I must have your word that you will never speak of it."

light broke on Andris's face, swiftly replaced by horror. "Lord and lady!

Matteo, you don't mean to tell me that Tzigone is a wizard's bastard?"

"No, I didn't mean to tell you," Matteo retorted, "but there it is."

Andris raked a hand through his faintly auburn hair and blew out a long

breath. "You keep interesting company, my friend. Does anyone else know?"

"Other than Kiva, I think not." He told Andris about the note Kiva had forged,

a letter purporting to be from Cassia, the king's jordain counselor, asking all

jordaini in the city of Halarahh to aid in the search for Keturah's daughter. "At first

I thought this news was widespread, but Kiva meant it only for Tzigone's eyes

and mine. She meant to lure us both to Cassia's chamber, and from there to the

Swamp of Akhlaur, by dangling Tzigone's heritage before her like a carrot hung

before a hungry mule."

"What carrot did you follow?" Andris asked, his ghostly hazel eyes suddenly

shrewd and concerned. "The girl herself?"

The question was not unreasonable, and Matteo considered it carefully

before answering. Yet he could find no words to explain his friendship with

Tzigone. "I suppose so," he admitted.

Andris scowled. "You know, of course, that jordaini are forbidden to marry."

The image of Tzigone, her urchin's grin replaced by a prim smile and her

eyes demure under a maiden's veil, was so ludicrous that Matteo burst out

laughing.

"That has never entered my mind, and I would wager a queen's dowry that it

never entered hers! Tzigone is a friend, nothing more."

Andris looked unaccountably relieved. "She will be a wizard one day. The

jordaini are supposed to serve Halruaa's wizards, not befriend them."

A young student jogged toward them, saving Matteo from acknowledging this

disturbing truth. The boy's gaze touched upon Andris and slid away.

"Andris has permission to depart the college," he announced, "and the

headmaster wishes to see Matteo."

"I'll come directly," Matteo assured the boy. He waited until the messenger

was beyond earshot before continuing. "It's unfortunate the college's wizards

couldn't test you, and save you the trip north."

Andris grimaced. "One of the hazards of being a jordain. Only the

magehounds' magic has much effect on us. An important safeguard, of course."

Matteo did not comment on the obvious irony: Andris had been condemned

as a rogue jordain-falsely condemned-by a magehound from the Azuthan order.

Once again, his life was in their hands.

He could not leave his friend to face this ordeal alone. "When do you leave?"

Andris turned away and began to collect his gear. "Tomorrow morning will be

soon enough."

"I'll ride with you." When Andris glanced back inquiringly, Matteo added,

"When Kiva revives, I have questions for her that I'd rather not entrust to a

magehound."

"A compelling argument." Andris rose and placed a translucent hand on

Matteo's shoulder. "You'd better see what the headmaster wants. The rest will

wait patiently until tomorrow; Ferris Grail will not"

Matteo snickered at his friend's all-too-apt jest, then set a brisk pace for the

headmaster's tower.

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PreludeThebattlehadturnedagainstthelaraken.Themonsterknewthis,itsenemiesdidnot.Theycontinuedtofightwiththefrenzypeculiartobravemenwhowishtodiewell.MenhadcomeintotheSwampofAkhlaurbefore,butthesewarriorswerearmednotwithenchantmentsbutwithwickedswordsandpikesandarrows.Withthemwasastrangelyfamiliarelfwo...

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Forgotten Realms - Counselors & Kings 02 - The Floodgate.pdf

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Forgotten Realms - Counselors & Kings 02 - The Floodgate

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