Elaine Cunningham - Counselors & Kings 2 - The Floodgate

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The Floodgate
Elaine Cunningham
Counselors and Kings Trilogy
Book 2
Mass Market Paperback: 320 pages ; Dimensions (in inches): 0.88 x 7.06 x 4.26
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast; (April 15, 2001)
ISBN: 0786918187
Scanned by Dreamcity
Proofread and formatted by BW-SciFi/Dreamcity
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: February, 23th, 2004
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 ñîrpså
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.
The ghostly jordain watched him go. With a sigh, he shouldered his gear and walked across the
blazing soil to the guest quarters. It seemed odd to be a guest in the only home he'd ever known. On the
other hand, after just a few months away, his life at the Jordaini College seemed like a distant dream.
Andris was not looking forward to the coming inquisition, but despite his experience with Kiva, he
did not believe all magehounds were false and corrupt. No doubt the Azuthans had vigorously scoured
their ranks in the aftermath of Kiva's treachery. The inquisition would not be pleasant, but it would end.
And then what? A return to the jordaini order? Service to a wizard too insignificant to sneer at the
jordain's translucent form and dubious fame?
An image came unbidden to mind: Kiva's rapt and joyous face as she shattered the crystal globe
retrieved from the Kilmaruu Swamp, freeing the spirits of long-dead elves trapped by the evil Akhlaur.
That image, Andris decided, mattered.
He had followed Kiva at first because he had believed she spoke for King Zalathorm. That fancy
swiftly faded, but other reasons followed, reasons powerful enough to keep him at the elf woman's side.
According to everything Andris knew and believed, according to the laws of the land and the decree
of the Council of Elders, Kiva was a traitor to Halruaa. Was it possible that she followed some deeper,
hidden truth? Was her cause worthy, even if the pathways she took toward it were sometimes twisted
and dark?
Deep in thought, Andris pushed open the door to the guest chamber. He was greeted by a raucous
little squawk and the flutter of bright wings.
His lips curved as he noted the parrot perched on the windowsill. No bigger than Andris's fist, it was
feathered in an almost floral pattern of pink and yellow. The bird stood tamely as the jordain edged
forward. Its bright head tipped to one side, lending it a curious mien.
"Greetings, little fellow," Andris said. "I suppose you're a wandering pet. Congratulations on your
escape. Never will I understand the impulse to cage birds for the sake of their songs!"
"I quite agree," the bird said in a clear, approving tone. "Fortunately, this enlightened opinion seems
to be common hereabouts. I come and go as I like."
Andris fell back a step. Many of Halruaa's birds could chatter like small, feathered echoes. Even
sentient birds were not all that rare. He'd just never expected anyone at the Jordaini College might keep
such a retainer.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, my small friend. Might I ask what brings you here?"
The bird sidled several steps closer. Its head craned this way and that, as if to reassure itself that no
one might over-hear. "A message."
"A message? From whom?"
"Just read the books."
"The books?" Andris said blankly.
Pink and yellow wings rustled impatiently. "Hidden under the mattress. Read them, put them back."
The bird was gone. It didn't fly away; it was simply... gone.
Consternation filled Andris. This was a wizard's work, and serious work at that! Stern laws forbade
the jordaini to use magic, or to have any magic used on their behalf. A blink bird might be either a natural
beast or a conjured image, but both were forbidden.
That knowledge didn't stop him from looking under the mattress. He picked up an ancient tome
bound in thin, yellowed leather. The pages within were fine parchments aged to pale sepia and covered
with faded writing. Andris took the book over to the window and began to read.
With each page he turned, he crept farther from the window, as if he could distance himself from the
horrors revealed. He held in his hands the journal of Akhlaur! The deathwizard's own hand had written
these runes, turned these pages.
Andris's skin crawled. His sick feeling intensified as he considered the book's bindings. No animal
yielded leather so thin and delicate. The skin had once been human, or more likely, elf.
Suspicion passed into certainty as he read on. Precise little runes and neat, detailed drawings related
with matter-of-fact detachment atrocities beyond Andris's darkest dreams. Elves had been the
necromancer's favorite test subjects, and none had endured so much as the girl-child Akivaria, more
conveniently known as Kiva.
Andris felt like a man gripped by the mosquito fever-burning with wrath, yet racked with numbing
indecision. This book held secrets that could destroy the jordaini order if they became known. Now, he
knew.
As he had told Matteo, with knowledge comes responsibility.
With shaking hands, Andris took up the second book, which proved to be a detailed genealogy of
the early jordaini order. As he read, he prayed that Matteo's friend Tzigone did not know the details of
his elf heritage, or realize that one of his forebears was still alive and currently a "guest" of the Azuthan
temple.
He exploded into motion, snatching up his few belongings and stuffing them into his travel bag. After
a moment's hesitation, he added the books to his gear.
His eyes stung with unshed tears as he slipped away, using the route that his friend Themo employed
for clandestine trips to the port of Khaerbaal. No one noticed the shadowy figure leave. For the first
time, Andris was grateful the jordaini had become so adept at averting their eyes. He could move among
them as if he were indeed a ghost.
So he was, by any measure that mattered. His future was gone, snatched away by the lingering
madness of the wizard Akhlaur and by the jordaini masters who had first suppressed this knowledge,
then spilled it over him in one scalding enlightenment. The only life Andris knew was that of a jordain. His
future was gone.
On swift and silent feet, Andris went to claim his past.
Chapter Two
Matteo followed the jordaini lad who headed for the headmaster's tower like a hunting hound hard
on a trail.
"I know the way," he pointed out. "If you've other duties to attend, don't let me keep you from
them."
The boy shot an incredulous look over his shoulder. "Headmaster said to bring you." And that, as
far as he was concerned, was the beginning and end of the matter.
Matteo sighed, envying the lad his certainty. Life had been simpler when the credo of jordaini
service-truth, Halruaa, and the wizard-lords-were three seamless aspects of a sacred whole.
摘要：

TheFloodgateElaineCunninghamCounselorsandKingsTrilogyBook2MassMarketPaperback:320pages;Dimensions(ininches):0.88x7.06x4.26Publisher:WizardsoftheCoast;(April15,2001)ISBN:0786918187ScannedbyDreamcityProofreadandformattedbyBW-SciFi/DreamcityEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:February,23th,2004PreludeThebattleh...

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