Kate Novak & Jeff Grubb - Lost Gods 3 - Tymora's Luck

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Lost Gods Series
Book 2
Tymora’s Luck
Kate Novak & Jeff Grubb
Ye wouldn't appreciate the poetry of the tale, or the subplots of the opera, would ye? I'll cut
to the heart of the matter. —Elminster to Alias
Overture
To the Sensates of Sigil, new experiences were everything. Like children hungering for
knowledge of the multiverse, they streamed into the Civic Festhall, eager to perceive with every
sense they possessed, impressing on their minds and bodies the bounty of life. Hundreds, sometimes
thousands, of Sensates visited the private sensoriums every day, so that the arrival of guests to a
certain private party attracted no special attention. Yet the private party in question would be very
special. Tonight, fifty-seven Sensates in good standing and of considerable discretion had been
invited to share an experience both rare and risky. Tonight these select few would spy on the gods.
The chosen audience took their seats in one of the largest sensoriums and began to look
around with excitement. The leader of the Sensates, Factol Erin Darkflame Montgomery herself,
was their hostess. The lovely, sinuous woman moved from guest to guest with a private greeting for
each. Cuatha Da'nanin, Montgomery's handsome half-elven consort moved alongside her, handing
each guest a small rounded stone, glittering with semiprecious minerals.
In the front of the room sat a lone woman, small and slender, with blue skin. She was a
genasi, meaning someone in her ancestry was from the elemental plane of air. She, like the rest of
the guests, held one of the small rounded stones. An orange-sized sphere of smoky gray crystal lay
on a pillow in her lap.
Montgomery, having greeted the last of her guests, stepped to the front of the room to stand
beside the blue-skinned woman. "I'd like all of you to meet my guest of honor, Ayryn Farlight," the
factol said, motioning to the' woman beside her. "Ayryn is a gifted sorceress with a few unusual
abilities that make this evening possible. Something rather unusual happened when Ayryn joined
our faction and attempted to make her first recording." Montgomery held up one of the glittering
stones. The members of the audience listened with breathless, attention. The stones were known as
recorders, and they could magically encode the full force of any experience and then "play" the
scene back for anyone to experience anew. Recorders were one of the Sensates' most important
tools in enticing people into the Society of Sensation. Each Sensate was required to record several
stones as part of his initiation. The recorded stones became part of a vast library of sensations.
Montgomery continued her explanation. "Ayryn's sensations seem to be more incorporeal in
nature than most, so much so that the instant they enter a recorder they waft back out again.
Consequently, if Ayryn holds a recording stone in her hand, we can experience her sensations
moments after she does, but only then. Her experiences cannot be stored ... unless we do it for her."
The members of the audience nodded with understanding.
"Ayryn's gift of scrying is unparalleled," Montgomery continued. "She has cast her eyes
where few would dare, yet her intrusions have gone, for the most part, unnoticed. Tonight, for our
enlightenment, she will seek out and view what few mortals have witnessed—the gods themselves."
The members of the audience applauded with appreciation and excitement.
"As a security precaution, we ask that no one speak the names of any of the gods this
evening, since we would prefer that no notice is drawn to these proceedings. Ayryn will not remain
focused on any one god for longer than a few minutes at a time. You should also understand that
there may be occasions when she attempts to view a god and something or someone else entirely
different will appear due to some misdirection spell that god may have placed on his or her person
or realm. To begin, we will be viewing the gods of Faerun, which is a fairly large continent on a
world called Toril, set in a prime sphere known as Realmspace. Ayryn has cast a spell so you can
comprehend whatever language they might speak." Montgomery flung wide her arms and
announced, "Let the experience begin!"
There were a few moments of silence while the factol took her seat beside Da'nanin and
Ayryn focused her attention on the crystal ball in her lap.
From his position slightly behind and to one side of Ayryn, Bors Sunseed, a paladin, studied
the faces of each member of the audience. Bors was the only participant who remained standing and
who did not hold a recording stone. He was also one of only four people who had been allowed to
carry a weapon into the room. There were certain people who might consider spying on the gods as
a highly blasphemous activity and who would consider Ayryn the primary offender. Bors's job was
to see that Ayryn came to no harm. None of the guests looked in the least bit displeased with what
was to come. They had been carefully chosen, and Montgomery and Da'nanin had done their best to
ascertain that none were impostors, but there was always the possibility of error.
There was also the possibility that one of the gods would detect the intrusion upon his or her
privacy, resent it, and send a retributory strike. While it was impossible for any god to enter the city
of Sigil, one of them might send a powerful proxy, or several proxies, to let his or her displeasure be
known.
There was a collective gasp among the crowd, and Bors took an instinctive step backward as
a goddess towered over the assemblage. According to folklore, which Bors knew to be true, entire
cities could be, and often were, built on the corpses of dead gods. So Ayryn's projection of this
goddess was by no means life-size, yet it was large enough to cause a sensation among the Sensates.
If the goddess reached upward, her hands would appear to brush the ceiling of the sensorium, some
fifty feet overhead.
The goddess was notable for more than her size, of course. She was lovely to behold. Her
glistening white hair, worn in a long braid wrapped about her head, suggested a woman of great
age, yet her pleasing features, the texture of her brown skin, the firm tone of her muscles, all
suggested a mortal in her middle years. Her figure was strong and womanly. "A rose in full bloom"
was the phrase that Bors's people might have used to describe her. She wore a short tunic of
unbleached linen and her feet were bare. Her only adornments were the ivy and wildflowers
entwined in her hair and a girdle embroidered with all manner of fruits.
Bors, who had been fully briefed on which gods Ayryn would attempt to scry, recognized
the goddess before him as Chauntea, the Great Mother, patroness of agriculture, symbol of Toril's
fertility. Ayryn's projection included the goddess's surroundings. Fittingly, Chauntea stood in the
midst of a recently plowed field. Insects and earthworms on the surface wriggled and scrambled to
bury themselves beneath the dirt furrows before they were eaten by the flock of robins that bobbed
along behind the goddess, chirping excitedly. Chauntea walked along the furrows, sprinkling tiny
yellow seeds onto the ground from a green cloth pouch and nudging the dirt with her toes so that
each seed was covered. She worked with the speed and grace of a practiced farmer. An unseen but
undoubtedly bright sun glittered in the sheen of perspiration that covered her bare skin. Mud and
dust covered her feet and ankles and even her calves. Her lips curled up in a tiny smile as she
attended to her task. If she noticed she was being scried, she gave no indication.
Chauntea turned about to plant another furrow. Bors wondered idly just how long Ayryn
would keep her eyes upon this goddess. While spying upon any goddess was a new sensation for
him, he wasn't a gardener. His interest in Chauntea's activity was somewhat limited, and the field
she was sowing appeared to be rather large.
Someone in the audience pointed to a spot behind Bors. The paladin turned halfway about.
Another figure had appeared over the horizon of Chauntea's realm. As the figure approached
Chauntea, Bors recognized it as that of Lathander Morninglord, another god of Toril and reportedly
Chauntea's current lover.
Lathander appeared every bit as impressive as Chauntea. His face shone like the sun, and his
hair burned a fiery orange-red. Were Lathander a mortal, Bors would have judged him to be a
young man. The god's physique was slender and athletic, and his features were divinely handsome.
He wore an opalescent robe of red, pink, and yellow, open at the chest and bound at the waist with a
red and gold sash. The robe and sash billowed out behind him as he flew toward the goddess of the
harvest. He made a magnificent spectacle, as lovely as the dawn itself. His magnificence, however,
was lost on Chauntea, whose attention was focused on the ground and her planting.
Lathander smiled, apparently amused that Chauntea was so engrossed in her task that she
didn't seem to notice him. He landed in the field just behind her.
Without turning from her task, Chauntea addressed her newly arrived companion.
"Lathander, the seedlings' roots and stems won't be able to break through the earth if you compact it
with your weight," the goddess chided.
"Sorry," Lathander replied, immediately levitating once again so that his golden sandals
hovered inches off the ground. He floated about so that he and Chauntea were face-to-face. "Sweet
dawning," he whispered near her ear. His voice held the husky tone of one lover to another.
"Sweet dawning," Chauntea replied softly. She brushed his cheek with a kiss. There was
something perfunctory about the goddess's action, however, and she prodded Lathander gently so
that he hovered to one side of her furrow. She continued her planting.
"A new universe lies aborning out beyond the worlds of the Tuhgri," Lathander said with a
twinkle in his eyes. "The tiny crystal spheres are nested together like faerie-dragon eggs. Whenever
a wave of phlogiston washes over them they bump against one another, and you can hear them
chime over the humming of the void."
Chauntea laughed lightly. "Voids can't hum," she replied.
Lathander sank again to the ground before the goddess. His feet sank in the soft earth. He
slid one hand behind Chauntea's back and with the other grabbed at her braid of hair and wrapped it
about his waist. "They do," he insisted, "but you have to get very close to them and listen very
quietly for a very long time. Come with me and I will show you."
Chauntea put her fingertips on the Morninglord's chest to keep him from embracing her
closer. "Lathander, it is planting season. You know that I must tend this field to insure the fecundity
of the Realms."
"What will it matter if the crop is a day late?" Lathander whispered. He tilted his head and
pressed his lips to the curve of her throat.
Chauntea smiled, but when the god began pulling her backward through the field, she broke
away abruptly. "Lathander," she reprimanded her companion sharply, "if you do not stop churning
the field with your feet, there will be crop failure in Halruaa this season."
"They can buy grain from Amn. It will teach the wizard kingdom something about
cooperation," Lathander said glibly. "Come with me, Chauntea. The growing season is very lovely,
but it comes every year. The birth of a new universe, on the other hand, is not only beautiful but
also rare."
Chauntea sighed with exasperation. "Lathander, you might just as well tell the sun to hold
off rising in the morning. My duties cannot wait."
"The last time I saw a new universe blossom," Lathander said sadly, "Tyche was my
companion. We lay on the back of a space whale and watched for a full year as the crystal spheres
grew larger and spread apart and the stars inside them flickered to life and brightened."
"Tyche always did have too much time to fritter away," Chauntea muttered, scattering a
handful of seed in the furrow before her. "I'm sorry, Lathander, but my work is more important."
"I want to share this with someone," Lathander insisted stubbornly.
"Well, Tyche is gone, and I am busy. You'll have to find someone else. Why don't you seek
out Tyche's daughters, Beshaba or Tymora? Perhaps one of them has time to lie on the back of a
space whale."
"Neither child is the same as her dam," Lathander complained. There was the faintest hint of
a whine in his voice.
"But you are the same as ever, Lathander," Chauntea cried, throwing her arms up in a
gesture of annoyance. "You're always looking for beginnings. Some of us have tasks that must be
finished! Go! Let me complete my planting in peace!"
Lathander's face darkened like an eclipsed sun. "As you wish," he retorted hotly, and with
that, he spun about and flew quickly away in the direction he'd come, disappearing beyond the
distant horizon. There were black scorch marks where his feet had last touched the field. Halruaa's
harvest would be poor this year. Chauntea sighed, then turned back to her task.
Ayryn covered her crystal ball with her hands and raised her eyes to Montgomery's face.
The vision of Chauntea and her field vanished.
A moment of nervous silence followed. Then the room erupted with the sound of the
audience's applause. They had witnessed two gods having a lovers' spat. Not a run-of-the-mill
experience in anyone's book.
Montgomery held up her hand. The room grew silent again.
"Can you continue, Ayryn?" the leader of the Sensates asked the genasi scryer.
"Yes," Ayryn replied. She gazed once more into her crystal ball.
Darkness filled the room, complete blackness. There was the sound of water dripping in a
cave. Then a red light shone up from the floor. The light came from a round pool of water—or
perhaps blood—nearly ten feet in diameter. A drop of liquid fell on the surface of the pool and
spattered like hot oil in water. The light from the pool flickered as the surface rippled.
Someone snarled a female voice, "Stupid eyewing, get away from here. Okim, Airdna, bat
that beast out of here before it poisons my spell."
A figure sat down beside the pool and tossed back a mane of snow-white hair, revealing the
features of a beautiful maiden. She was quite tall, with a voluptuous figure and impossibly small
waist. Her skin appeared red from the light of the pool, but Bors, whose catlike eyes could not be
deceived by tricks of the light, could see that her flesh was as white as a corpse's, but flushed about
her cheeks and throat with the palest blue and violet color. She wore a gown of the darkest black,
which fit her like a glove, and a tiara of black pearls. The goddess raised her head, and someone in
the Sensate audience gasped softly. The deity's eyes were rimmed with yellow and red and blazed
with madness.
This, Bors realized, was the goddess Beshaba. No doubt Ayryn had been influenced by
Chauntea's suggestion to Lathander that he seek out one of Tyche's daughters. Beshaba was known
as Tyche's "unpleasant" daughter. She was also known as the Maid of Misfortune. She had
dominion over bad luck.
Ayryn's projection of Beshaba was not gigantic. The form the goddess wore was human-
sized. She was joined a minute later by two winged women of great beauty with demonic eyes. The
women wore silken pants, silver breastplates engraved with the stag horns of Beshaba, and swords
with serrated blades. Bors recognized the winged women as alu-fiends, creatures of evil from the
Abyss, where Beshaba made her home.
An old man's face appeared on the surface of the pool of red liquid.
"There he is," Beshaba whispered with an evil smile on her lips.
The goddess was scrying on someone, just as they were scrying on her.
"Doljust," Beshaba said, "it is time to pay for slighting me."
The vision in Beshaba's pool seemed to move away so that the goddess, and those Sensates
who spied upon her, could see more of Doljust and the landscape around him.
Doljust was old, as evidenced by his gray hair and beard and wrinkled features, but he was
by no means feeble. He rode straight and tall in the saddle of a prancing mare. A handsome pair of
hunting hounds circled his mount, barking with excitement. He wore neither fancy armor nor noble
velvets, but his clothing was well made and sturdy, and his mare was a fine-looking beast.
Doljust began to dismount.
Beshaba reached down and touched the surface of the pool.
At that instant, Doljust's boot caught in his stirrup, and when he managed to free himself
with his hands, he fell backward on his back. Doljust swore a common oath, not one that mentioned
any god's name.
One of the alu-fiends giggled; the other merely smiled. Beshaba was not yet amused.
Doljust rose and brushed himself off. He followed his dogs to a cave entrance. At one side
of the entrance lay the corpses of two children, mere toddlers. Doljust tossed his cloak over the
bodies. Then he started a fire at the cave's entrance, drew his sword, and waited.
The dogs paced behind their master. Soon, forced from its lair by the smoke, a were-bat
came hurtling toward Doljust with an awful shriek. The creature was in its hybrid form, with the
wings and head of a bat but the torso of a man. It raked at Doljust with the claws at the ends of its
wings. The man raised his sword and swung.
Beshaba touched the pool again.
Goaded by the goddess's magic, one of Doljust's hounds forgot its training and leapt toward
the were-bat's throat just as its master's sword came swinging downward. The blade sliced across
the hound's ribs.
The dog gave a horrible howl, which echoed about the audience.
The were-bat flew clear of Doljust and landed on the mare's saddle. With a cackling laugh, it
kicked the horse in the ribs. Doljust hollered, but the mare was frenzied with fear and galloped off
into the darkness.
There were tears in Doljust's eyes as he examined his injured and apparently dying hound.
Beshaba touched the pool again.
The other hound whimpered behind him. Doljust whirled about, slicing his sword into a
small were-bat as it flew from the cave.
The bat crashed to the ground, dealt a mortal wound.
Then, before Doljust's eyes, it transformed to a small child, a little boy with curly golden
hair. "Grandpa," the boy gasped with his last breath.
Doljust's screams rang out through the sensorium.
Beshaba laughed a horrible, maniacal laugh.
The darkness dispersed.
Ayryn's crystal ball fell to the floor with a clunk and rolled toward the audience.
There was a stunned silence in the room.
Bors came forward quickly and put a hand on Ayryn's shoulder.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes," Ayryn replied. "I ... I was shocked, that's all." There were tears in her eyes.
Montgomery came forward, holding out the crystal ball.
"We don't have to continue," she said softly.
Ayryn took her scrying tool and shook her head. "It would be a shame to end on such a sour
note. Let me try again."
Montgomery smiled and nodded. She returned to her seat.
Bors stepped back and examined the audience. Many of them looked as shocked as Ayryn,
but most hid behind impassive masks. One guest, though, was smiling.
Bors felt his body stiffen. The guest was a woman, small of stature and slender, with long
black hair. She was attractive and appeared quite young, but Bors knew her youth was a lie. The
woman's name was Walinda. Once she'd been a priestess of the evil, now-deceased god Bane, j
While the Sensates welcomed anyone who earnestly desired to be a member, Bors found himself
thinking Montgomery must have temporarily taken leave of her senses when she invited Walinda
into their midst, especially for so sensitive a performance. Walinda was, in Bors's opinion, a viper
in woman's form. He could still feel the bump on the back of his head where she had clubbed him
with his own frying pan. Had the paladin not sworn his undivided service as Ayryn's bodyguard for
the evening, he would have challenged the woman's presence.
The room darkened once more, though only slightly. Two figures appeared in the center of
the room, a young man with red hair and a slightly older raven-haired woman. The pair were seated
at a table, drinking ale. They were the size of ordinary mortals, but the woman sported a pair of
copper wings, and her face was covered with black feathers.
While the audience was busy trying to guess which gods they were seeing, Bors realized
something had gone wrong with Ayryn's scrying. These people were not gods. The man Bors
recognized as a priest named Joel, a Prime from Toril, the same world whose gods they were cur-
rently spying upon. Bors had never met the winged woman, but from a description his friend Holly
Harrowslough had given him, he guessed she was another Prime by the name of Jas.
"Jas, you're being ridiculous about this," Joel said. "Give me one good reason why you won't
come with me."
"I don't have to give you any reasons," Jas retorted. "This is my business. Why don't you just
let me be?" The whites of her eyes flared, and her dark brown irises began glowing green.
"You don't mean that," Joel argued.
The vision quickly faded. Ayryn looked up, shaking her head. "Misdirected," she whispered
in Montgomery's direction. "I'm going to try one more time," she said.
The room dimmed somewhat. A god Bors recognized appeared in the center of the room.
The deity was seated on a bench, strumming a lyre. He appeared as a handsome young man about
ten feet tall with shoulder-length hair of spun gold. He wore a tunic of fine brocade with fur trim.
Behind him was a great library, with shelves and shelves of books and scrolls. The god was Milil,
Lord of Song.
Milil looked up from his instrument. "At last, an audience," he said with a sly grin.
Bors's body tensed.
"Welcome, prying eyes," Milil greeted them. "I expect you to pay attention now. It's the
least you can do after peering into my realm without invitation."
Milil began to sing "The Baker's Daughter," a love song about a silver dragon's love for a
mortal woman. His voice was deep and mellifluous. Several of the women in the audience sighed.
Next Milil sang "Pipeweed Dreams," a halfling drinking song. Many members of the
audience joined in, while others just hummed along softly.
Milil sang "The Seven Sisters," a long ballad. Then he sang "Three Thayvian Roses," a
bawdy festhall tune that brought a blush even to Montgomery's face. Finally he began, 'The Purple
Dragons of Cormyr," another long ballad. A few members of the audience began to nod off. Milil
woke them with a little shout. The concert continued. Milil began singing several old Torillian folk
songs one about the weather, another about crops, and even one about milking cows.
Bors stole a glance at Ayryn. Surely she cannot keep scrying for much longer, he thought.
She must be exhausted.
Ayryn's blue skin was pale. There was a glazed look over her eyes. Although deities could
not enter Sigil, somehow Milil had managed to get some charm through the crystal.
"And now," Milil said, "I have a truly special treat. "The finale from the opera The Fall of
Myth Drannor."
Bors slipped up to Ayryn and yanked the crystal ball from her hand.
Mercifully, Milil's image disappeared.
The audience shook themselves from their stupor. Montgomery laughed.
"My, but wasn't that interesting," the Sensate leader said.
I've heard that people commit murders at the operas and no one notices because everyone
on stage is bellowing at the top of his lungs. —Olive Ruskettle
Act One Scene 1
Joel stood at the end of his last song and bowed to the audience. His long red hair fell
forward and brushed the floor. The applause was loud and long and spiced with a few shouts of
"More!" Joel made an exit, stage left. Though a very young man, he had been a bard long enough to
know the three main rules of the entertainer. Don't turn your back on your audience. Don't upstage
the act that follows. Always leave the audience wanting more.
"And that was Joel, the Rebel Bard, at the end of his exclusive engagement here at Chirper's
Seawind Theater," the master of ceremonies announced. "Coming up in ten minutes, our next
performer, the renowned juggling act of Shar Nova."
One of the stagehands slipped Joel a note.
The bard perused the writing quickly. "Finally," he muttered. He slipped through the
dressing room, tied back his hair, retrieved his sword and knapsack, and stepped out into the theater.
Nonchalantly he followed a few members of the audience who were taking advantage of the break
to leave the theater.
Chirper's Seawind Theater emptied into Chirper's dining room. At this hour, the dining room
was still very busy, so it wasn't easy picking out the author of the note. A woman with wings didn't
stand out from the crowd in a place like Chirper's. As one of the most popular inns in Sigil, the City
of Doors, Chirper's catered to a clientele as diverse as the multiverse. More than a few of the guests
possessed wings, not to mention tails, horns, talons, and antennae.
The native population of the Cage, as Sigil was called locally, was comprised mostly of
humans, the humanlike githzerai; the half-ram, half-human bariaurs; the half-human, half-fiend
tieflings; and a few elves and dwarves. The transient population outnumbered the natives by two to
one. Creatures from every known world and plane were represented, and they all seemed to visit
Chirper's. Evil fiends from the lower planes who stood several feet taller than an average human
dined beside halflings no taller than human children. Creatures that looked like giant frogs argued
across the dinner table with women with six arms and snake tails instead of legs. Beings whose
bodies seemed to burn with fire broke bread with foxes and bears who walked upright and wore
clothing.
The only way to enter or leave Sigil was through one of the city's innumerable magical
portals. Many of the visitors were stranded there, having stepped through a oneway portal and been
unable to locate a portal that led home or been unable to find the right key to a portal that led home.
Other, more worldly, visitors had come through one of the two-way portals as tourists to the city.
Some came to negotiate with their enemies in the neutral city. And since, for some mysterious
reason, the portals would not admit beings of godly power, a few came to do their god's bidding
here, while others came to escape the gods.
Joel had come to Sigil the first time searching for an artifact for his god. He returned to use
the city's portals to disperse the pieces of that artifact throughout the multiverse, and to fulfill a
bargain made with one of the city's natives. Both tasks completed, the bard was anxious to leave
Sigil, but not without at least saying good-bye to Jasmine of Westgate, one of his companions on
his last adventure. After fruitlessly scanning the crowd, Joel pulled aside the maitre d' to ask where
he'd seated the winged woman who'd sent the note. The maitre d' directed Joel to a small table by
the bar. Joel found Jas sipping an ale just where the maître d' said she'd be. She was not bothering to
cover up her gargoyle-like wings of patina-tinged copper or the black feathers on her face. She wore
a new outfit, consisting of leggings and a jerkin of black leather that clung to her slender, well-
muscled frame. A short sword in a scabbard and an azure cloak hung on the back of her chair. Her
dark black hair was cropped close to her skull, and it shone nearly blue in the amber light of the
lantern hanging over the table.
"Where have you been?" Joel demanded, taking the chair opposite her. He set his pack and
weapon beneath his chair. "Holly and I were worried about you."
"I hate just banging around," Jas explained. "So while you were away, I took some work as a
private courier for a high-up. Blood wanted to have me at her beck and call. So I left Dits's to stay at
her case."
Joel grinned at the amount of Sigilian slang the woman had managed to pick up after only
two weeks in this foreign place. Of course, that was to be expected. Jas was an experienced traveler.
She knew how to make herself fit in anywhere.
"So, did you and Holly unload all the pieces of the hand?" Jas asked.
Joel nodded. The artifact whose pieces he had dispersed throughout the multiverse had been
known as the Hand of Bane. He'd done it to help a paladin, Holly Harrowslough. Holly's god
wanted to be sure the hand could never be made whole and used to resurrect the evil god Bane.
"Holly's friend Bors showed us several portals to other planes where we could hide the
pieces," the bard explained to Jas. "Holly spilled the pieces into the void out over the edge of the
city. Then she was summoned to Elysium to give the ring finger of the hand to her god."
"What's Lathander going to do with a stone finger?" Jas asked.
Joel shrugged. "Use it for a paperweight? Who knows? Anyway, Holly was thrilled. She
waited around for two days, hoping to see you, but she couldn't keep her god waiting. She left for
Elysium this morning. She's not sure when shell be back."
The bard nodded as Jas's waiter set a mug of ale down in front of him and a fresh one in
front of Jas.
"She's probably secretly hoping Lathander will ask her to serve in his court or something,"
Jas said.
Joel nodded in agreement. That was his suspicion as well. As a paladin of the Order of the
Aster, Holly lived to serve the god Lathander. "She said she'd send word back if she wasn't
returning soon," Joel explained. "So we could return home."
"Joel, you mean you're not keen to stay in the Cage?" Jas asked with a grin, using the slang
term for Sigil.
Joel gave a quick glance at the tables nearby to be sure he didn't offend any eavesdroppers.
"No, not really. This city has more political intrigue than Waterdeep, the people are more arrogant
than Westgate merchants, and the air's more foul than a Zhentil Keep sewer," he answered.
"But that's all part of its charm," Jas replied.
Joel studied the winged woman's expression carefully, trying to determine if she was
serious. Jas came from the same world as Joel and Holly, a place Joel called the Realms, but which
Jas referred to as the world of Toril in the sphere of Realmspace. Jas had traveled through the void
to worlds in other spheres in a magical ship called a spelljammer. Joel found it hard to believe she
was now prepared to settle down in this awful city, but their last adventure had changed Jas.
Perhaps she had decided to give up her wandering.
Jas grinned. "It does have one thing in its favor," Jas said.
"What?" Joel asked.
"I don't stick out like a sore thumb here," she said.
"You don't stick out all that much," Joel said.
"Ha!" Jas retorted. "Back on Toril, it was bad enough when I just had wings. Wizards were
always trying to capture me to study me. People in the Realms would mistake me for a succubus or
an erinyes and run me out of town. Once there was this kid who thought I was a were-eagle and
tried to get me to attack him so he would contract lycanthropy and become a were-eagle, too. One
crazy lich tried to put me in his harem just because of my wings. Gods only know what would
happen if I went back to Realmspace now."
"If you'd stay in one place long enough for people to get to know you, they'd feel differently
about you," Joel pointed out.
"Joel, you're too nice. Your friendship has made you blind to what I am," Jas declared.
"Look at me . . . No, don't look away. Really look at me. I have black down and feathers all over my
flesh and a crest of green feathers sticking out of my forehead. If I don't stay calm, my eyes glow
like an owl's. Yesterday some snotty Taker tried to tax me twice in one hour, and I got so angry that
one of my hands changed into a claw again. If that Taker hadn't been spry, he'd be missing an eye
instead of just the tip of his nose. I'm more animal than human now. If I go back to Toril, there isn't
anyone who's going to welcome me, except of course all those priests of Iyachtu Xvim."
Joel took a sip of his ale, debating whether he should continue arguing with the woman. The
priests of the evil god Iyachtu Xvim had transformed Jas with a curse, trying to make her a dark
stalker—a hunter they could use for their own foul purposes. Jas had managed to fight the
transformation and retain part of her humanity, a testament to her willpower. If she were to kill
someone, however, Jas would transform completely and forever into a creature of evil. There was a
way for her to overcome the curse, however.
"Finder said he would try to help you," Joel said, reminding the older woman that his god
had offered her his assistance. "All you have to do is ask. I've found a portal from Sigil to his realm
in the outer planes. We can go there now if you want."
Jas shook her head vehemently. "I'm going to handle this myself. I don't want any god's
help." "Jas, you're being ridiculous about this," Joel said. "Give me one good reason why you won't
come with me."
"I don't have to give you any reasons," Jas retorted. "This is my business. Why don't you just
let me be?" The whites of her eyes and her dark brown irises began glowing green.
"You don't mean that," Joel argued.
"Damned if I don't," Jas snarled.
"Damned if you do," Joel whispered softly.
The winged woman glared at Joel for a moment, then whirled about and grabbed at
something behind her chair. Something yelped behind her. With a sharp yank, she pulled the
something forward, depositing it on the table in front of her with a unceremonious thunk.
The something was a small man with pointed ears and a topknot of very long brown hair.
Over his indigo homespun trousers and shirt, he wore a scarlet vest covered with pockets and an
orange cloak over that. He was holding a crystal paperweight full of some dark liquid, in which
floated a thousand glittering specks. Joel recognized the paperweight. Holly had bought it for Jas as
a gift to help remind the winged woman of the stars, which couldn't be seen in Sigil. Joel didn't
recognize the small man. He guessed that he was some sort of halfling who'd just picked Jas's cloak
pocket.
"You lousy little halfling thief!" Jas hissed. She had both her hands about the creature's
throat. Joel gasped, alarmed by the sudden transformation of Jas's hands into the talons of a bird of
prey. Her claws were piercing the thief's flesh. Blood was trickling down his neck.
"Ow! Careful with those claws," the creature squeaked.
Joel put his hands about the winged woman's wrists and managed to pull one talon away
from her prey. The little creature tried to pull away, but Jas caught a clasp of his vest with the claws
of the other talon, and he was stuck fast.
"You're mistaken, lassie," Jas's captive said with an offended air. "I'm not a halfling thief."
"Halfling, tiefling, leprechaun—I don't care," Jas said. "It won't matter once I've put you in
the dead book."
"Render, lass. I'm a kender," the creature said proudly. "I don't think I'd fit in a book, not
even a great mage's tome, though once when I was a child I managed to crawl into a magic pouch.
Magic is tricky, though, you know, and I couldn't find my way back out. My parents searched for
me for hours. Finally I kicked my way out. Tore a huge hole in the back, ruined it. The man who
owned it was furious, but, really, he shouldn't have left it lying around where a child could find it. I
might have suffocated."
Jas growled at the kender.
"I was just going to ask if this was yours," the kender concluded quickly, holding out the
crystal paperweight. "It's very lovely. Is it magical?"
"Jas," Joel whispered softly, "think what you're doing. Let the authorities handle this."
Jas snarled, deep in the back of her throat. If Joel were to release her wrists, she could tear
out the kender's throat with a single blow or even break his neck.
"For gods' sake, Jas, if you're going to lose your humanity, at least do it killing something
your own size," Joel implored.
"It reminds me of the stars on my home world," the kender said, peering into the crystal,
apparently oblivious to how close he was to death. "Funny you can't see the stars in this town, or the
sun. I miss the stars, don't you? Of course, if you're from around here, you've never had them to
miss. Which is a real shame."
As if they were a magical chant, the kender's words softened Jas's heart. Her eyes became
human again; her talons transformed back to hands. She pulled her hands from Joel's grasp and
pushed her chair away from the table. She put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands so
Joel couldn't see her face.
"Is something wrong here, sir?" a waiter asked Joel.
"Just a little misunderstanding," the kender said.
Joel might have asked the waiter to remove the kender, but the creature was still bleeding
from the wounds Jas had left about his throat. Brawling would get a person bounced out of
Chirper's, but if they suspected Jas had drawn a weapon and wounded someone, the staff would
alert the authorities.
"No problem," Joel said coolly.
The waiter studied the bard's face, searching his even features for any sign of a lie.
"Except that we could really use a plate of sandwiches and an ale for our friend here," Joel
added. “Yes, I'm parched and famished," the kender said.
"As you wish, sir," the waiter said with a shrug. He hurried off to the kitchen.
"Urn, I'm Joel, a priest of Finder," the bard introduced himself.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," the kender replied. "My name's Emilo Haversack. Just
call me Emilo." He held out his right hand.
Joel accepted the kender's handshake.
"Finder, hmm?" Emilo queried. "That's another god I've never heard of."
"He's a new god from another world," Joel explained. "Let me have a look at those cuts on
your neck before our meal comes."
"I'd appreciate that," the kender replied.
There was nothing in Emilo's tone that was the least bit sarcastic or threatening. His voice
and manner were soft and mild, rather different than one might expect from a thief, but also
different from the behavior of an innocent man accused of a crime. It was as if the creature were
completely indifferent to the violent skirmish his actions had caused.
Joel pulled a stool over from the bar for the kender, and Emilo slid down onto it. Very
gently Joel laid his fingers about the kender's bloody neck. Emilo closed his brown eyes, as if he
thought the healing might hurt. He re minded Joel of a boy waiting for a birthday gift to be set down
in front of him.
Joel noticed Jas looking up at the kender. The woman's face was pale beneath the feathers
that covered her flesh. There were tears in her eyes, though whether from shame or self-pity, he
could not tell. Noting that Joel was watching her, Jas looked back down at the floor.
Joel returned his attention to his patient. He noticed there were streaks of gray in the hair
gathered back from Emilo's temples and fine lines all over the kender's face. In a soft voice, the
bard prayed to his god. A dim blue aura of healing energy illuminated Joel's hands and seeped into
Emilo's body.
The puncture wounds sealed up easily, leaving little scars, like flea bites. Joel wiped the
blood from Emilo's neck with a handkerchief. "That's much better," Emilo said, opening his eyes
wide, as if surprised. "You're good at that," he said to Joel.
Joel bowed his head modestly. There was an awkward silence as he realized he was stuck
with a chatty kender when what he really needed to do was talk some sense into Jas. "So, where is it
you're from, Emilo?" he asked politely.
"Well, I was born and raised in the East, about twenty miles south of Render-more, in a
small village called Ten-grapes," Emilo explained. "I've been wandering most of my life. Before I
came here I was in the lair of a dragon called Flayze somewhere near Thorbardin. I stepped through
摘要：

LostGodsSeriesBook2Tymora’sLuckKateNovak&JeffGrubbYewouldn'tappreciatethepoetryofthetale,orthesubplotsoftheopera,wouldye?I'llcuttotheheartofthematter.—ElminstertoAliasOvertureTotheSensatesofSigil,newexperienceswereeverything.Likechildrenhungeringforknowledgeofthemultiverse,theystreamedintotheCivicFe...

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