The Pathfinder Tales Library

Novels

Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross

Journals

The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham

Short Stories

"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber Scott
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers

Dark Tapestry © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

Story by Elaine Cunningham.
Cover art by David Bircham.
Cover design by Crystal Frasier.
Interior art by David Bircham.

Paizo Publishing, LLC
7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120
Redmond, WA 98052
paizo.com

ISBN 978-1-60125-350-7

Originally published in Pathfinder Adventure Path #19-24.

Chapter One: Double Dealings

The old wooden tub had been built to hold a vineyard's harvest, so it was plenty big enough for me and the three other women who'd been herded into one of the blue "specialty goods" tents in the heart of Katapesh's marketplace. A faint odor of soured grapes rose from the tub, but after three days of forced march, water of any sort was welcome. The other women soaped and scrubbed with obvious pleasure, forgetting for the moment that they were slaves, or soon would be.

I waved away the eunuch's offer of scented soap and sank below the surface. There I stayed until one of the guards, fearing that I sought to drown myself and thus deprive his master of my slave price, hauled me up by my ears.

If I were the type to scream with pain, this would have warranted a shriek that would deafen banshees. Elven ears are damnably sensitive. I could hardly fault the man for making use of such convenient handles, but I could make him pay for the foolishness of dragging me up face to face.

My short-arm jab caught him just under the chin and sent him staggering away from the tub, his last, shattered breath rattling in his throat. The other guard scowled and drew a short, curved sword from his belt. My fellow captives shied away, huddling together as they put as much space between them and me as the tub allowed.

"Do you know how long a crocodile can hold its prey underwater?" I bared my teeth at the guard in a reptilian smile. "Would you care to find out?"

Before he could respond, the tent's entrance curtain parted. Long shards of late afternoon sunlight stabbed into the tent as a tall female hyena-woman, thin as a racing whippet and furred the dusty gold of a sandstone wasteland, pushed her way inside.

"Leave her be," she demanded.

My defender's voice held all the music of a crate being dragged across gravel. Hyenafolk are not fashioned for human speech, but they can shape words around their natural sounds. In doing so, they speak two tongues at once; their yips and snarls and howls carry meaning amongst themselves that is hidden from their human listeners. But Ratsheek speaks only in a growl, the better to hide her moods and purposes. Small wonder her tribe doesn't trust her. Even so, she handles most of their business affairs, for she deals easily with humans. The hyenafolk see this as another cause for suspicion. They are more right than they know.

The guard kept coming. Ratsheek stepped between us and swatted his sword arm out wide. "I said, leave her be," she snarled. "This woman is Channa Ti. She is a druid, worth more than the other three combined."

The eunuch—who'd retreated behind the high-heaped wardrobe table at the first hint of violence—lowered the large perfume bottle he'd hoisted in his own defense. Doubt creased his chubby face as he studied me.

"The elf-blooded make poor slaves," he said, repeating conventional wisdom, "and though I've served my master faithfully for twenty years, I have yet to find a buyer for any druid."

"So?" The hyena-woman's sneer bared fangs. "Twenty years a merchant, and you've never put camel fat in a crock and sold it as butter?"

"I'm an honest man," he protested, splaying a hand over his heart.

"An honest merchant who traffics with hyenafolk slavers?" scoffed Ratsheek. "A rare beast indeed! The Ruby Prince should hear of this. He'll want you stuffed and mounted in his trophy hall to keep company with his blue narwhal and black unicorn."

The argument and insults went on, but I didn't care to listen. I dipped back under the water, and this time the guard let me be.

Water does more than cleanse me; it heals small hurts and strengthens the magic I can call. Every now and then a child is born with a particular affinity for one of nature's elements. I am a creature of water. This is either exceedingly handy in a desert clime or of no use whatsoever, depending upon whether I wish to drink or to fight.

I had need of water, of healing. It is impossible to fight a tribe of hyenafolk and come away unscathed, even if the warriors mean to capture you rather than kill. New knife cuts and claw marks scored my arms, erasing the thin white scars left by the blood-oath Ratsheek and I had sworn years ago—two desperate slaves, working together to escape. We'd had a friendship of sorts. I'd never really trusted Ratsheek, but neither did I expect her to hunt me, kill my companions, and return me to the nightmare we'd escaped.

I climbed out of the tub. Some wounds are beyond water's power to heal.

The other women had been readied for auction. A green-haired gnome, a rarity in these lands, wore the amber-hued shift of a master brewer. The last two women, though less exotic, were obviously with child. No surprise there—wet nurses were valuable slaves.

The furred slaver nodded in approval at the younger woman's red-brown complexion, the mark of Osirion's ruling cast. She moved on to the next slave, seized her chin with a black-taloned hand and turned her face this way and that. A sly smile curled up along her muzzle.

"Dust this one's face with henna powder. No reason why they both can't fetch top price."

Ratsheek's smile grew as she paused before me, the black tip of her nose only a hand span from my face. Since hyenafolk, like most other canines, pant rather than sweat, they generally smell better than humans—except, of course, for their breath. The charnel stench made my stomach lurch and twist. I distracted myself with a fantasy of tying that muzzle shut and staking the slaver out in the desert sun to simmer in her own foul juices.

My thoughts must have shown on my face, because the smile dropped off Ratsheek's muzzle so quickly I expected to hear it shatter on the floor.

She turned to the eunuch. "Dress this one in blue silks and all the cheap silver jewelry you have. Paint her eyes with kohl and silver dust. She'll sell as a water witch. The more exotic she looks, the better price she'll fetch."

"But she's a half-elf!" he shrieked, raising both hands and shaking them as if imploring the gods to intervene.

"So cover her ears with a turban and none need know. Find me one human who isn't worried about the drought, or fearful of worse to come. Once her master learns what she can do, half-elf or not, he'll be thrilled."

"Or dead," I said pleasantly.

Ratsheek shrugged. "That works, too. Dead men seldom seek refunds."

This reasoning calmed the merchant considerably. I dressed in the clothes he handed me: loose pantaloons, a tiny vest, and a silk turban, all in silvery shades of blue. I expected the traditional slave sandals, hobbled together with a length of chain, but Ratsheek gave me my own boots back. They were the finest things I owned, eelskin tanned a pale gray. Wearing them, I could run as swiftly as falling rain.

The moment this thought took shape, I darted for the curtained door and out into the marketplace. I am not one to allow much daylight between idea and action. Sometimes this is a flaw; today it served me well.

The two hyenafolk slavers stationed outside the tent yipped in surprise as I pushed past. I leaped off the terrace to the street below, rolling as I hit the awning shading a jeweler's display. I landed in a crouch, my half-hearted attempt at a turban unfurling around my shoulders.

Shouts of alarm and protest rose on all sides, but I could still hear the snap of canvas behind me as Ratsheek stormed out of the slaver's tent.

"The perfume sellers!" For once Ratsheek's voice abandoned its mood-veiling growl, rising into a hunting howl that rang with sincerety. "Head her off, or we'll never find her scent!"

I cursed under my breath and changed my course. Sometimes Ratsheek was far too clever.

There was but one path to take. A tall Mwangi man wearing a thief-stopper's red vest blocked it, his mahogany arms thick with muscle and spread wide. Hesitation flickered in his eyes—I am often mistaken for a Mwangi woman—then turned to outrage when he noted my elven ears.

I didn't slow down or try to avoid him. As his arms closed around me, I brought my knee up, hard. He grunted out a curse and his grip relaxed for a moment, long enough for me to pull a knife from his sash and let myself fall to the ground.

Men expect struggle, but a sudden shift to dead weight generally takes them by surprise. Before he could adjust his grip I'd already rolled aside and gotten my feet beneath me.

The aisle between the fruit merchant stalls was narrow and crowded. I shoved aside an urchin who was covertly filling his pockets with kumquats. He stumbled and dropped a handful of stolen fruit. The merchant bellowed with rage at the revealed theft. Leaning over his table, he seized a handful of the boy's hair and began to shake him, looking for all the world like a sewer dog who'd gotten hold of a rat.

I used the distraction to snatch up a hooded cloak some merchant had hung on a basket hook. Swirling it over my shoulders, I set off at a brisk pace. I followed the aisle around a sharp turn—where it ended at a tall stone wall.

"Winter melons?"

What kind of man is Vanir Shornish?

I glanced at the old woman in the last stall and shook my head at the fuzzy green fruit she held in her hand.

"Fresh dates?" she persisted. "Figs? Or perhaps some incense to burn in yon temple?"

The cant of her head drew my eye into her shop. Her tent framed a narrow wooden door set into the wall. She cleared her throat and reached for a bell pull…

…which led up to an unusually large and sonorous gong.

Knowledge and cunning glinted in the old woman's eyes as she regarded me. She gave the alarm pull a significant little shake and lifted one eyebrow in challenge.

I gritted my teeth and stripped several of the rings from my hands. "Temple incense, please."

She examined the cheap jewelry, sent me a glance heavy with reproof, and handed me a single stick of incense. She kept her hand on the bell pull until I passed through the door.

Taloned hands seized my borrowed cloak and shut the door by slamming me up against it. For one brief, stunned moment I stared into Ratsheek's face.

"You weren't chasing me," I said as realization took hold. "You were herding me."

The hyena-woman smirked and cast a glance over her shoulder. "Didn't I tell you she was clever?"

"You did indeed. Well done. Oh yes, very well done."

I could hear the smile in the man's voice, which was thin and lightly accented, precise to the point of being prissy. When he stepped into view, he proved a good match for it. My would-be master was a small man, his beard neatly trimmed and oiled, dressed in pristine white under the knee-length, embroidered purple vestments of a Vudrani cleric.

Ratsheek released me. As the cleric dropped a small bag into her outstretched hand, I reached for the knife I'd taken from the Mwangi thief-stopper. I'd been a slave once, and had no intention of repeating the experience.

"Oh, there's no need for that, dear lady. None at all." The cleric spread his hands palms-out and inclined his head in a polite little bow. "You misunderstand this transaction. Ratsheek has accepted an introduction fee, nothing more. The amount she accepted to arrange this meeting is far less than you would have fetched at auction, but far more than Ratsheek's portion of that would have been. So we are all happy, are we not?"

He beamed at me, obviously expecting me to share the sentiment.

I wasn't happy, not by a long road, but I'll admit to being curious. But I held my tongue until Ratsheek had left and shut the door behind her. "You said something about an introduction."

The man bowed again. "I am Vanir Shornish, a humble visitor from Vudra. Your name is known to me, as is your reputation."

Well. In my experience, that was seldom good news.

"What do you want?"

Judging from his startled expression, he was not accustomed to plain speaking. "It is a sensitive matter, you understand. Discussing it in public would not be prudent."

I glanced pointedly around the walled garden. Not counting the statues, we two were the only inhabitants.

"My room in the temple guesthouse is ideal for our purposes," he went on, gesturing to the round white tower rising from the north corner of the garden.

A room in the temple guesthouse—now, that was interesting. The Vudrani worshipped many gods, most of them minor powers with regional portfolios. Many people from Katapesh and Osirion found their religion trifling, even amusing. I was of a different mind. A jungle is full of colorful little lizards and brightly colored birds, gaudy and harmless, but only a fool would suppose nothing deadlier could live among the trees. The elves of the Mwangi Expanse are given to proverbs, and one came to mind now: The unseen serpent boasts the deadliest venom.

"Which god does Vanir Shornish serve?"

"I might ask the same of Channa Ti," he replied, favoring me with a smile that was oily enough to grease a caldron. "Druids are clerics of nature, are they not? You are an honored colleague, and a kindred spirit. I would wager much gold on this."

"You already have."

He laughed delightedly. "So I did. It's settled, then."

I did not fail to notice that he'd sidestepped my question, nor did I ignore the skin-crawling aversion this man was beginning to inspire in me. But I let him lead me to the guest tower and up a winding stair to a third-floor room. After all, he did save me the time and trouble of killing whoever bought me at the slave auction. I could at least hear him out.

Whoever Vanir Shornish might be, he was important or wealthy enough to rate a lavish room. My eyes went first to the tall windows, noting the sturdy iron rods that secured the draperies at top and bottom. Fine carpets covered the floor and softened the white stone walls. The bed was heaped with pillows and discretely tucked into a curtained alcove, giving prominence to the low table and the refreshments it held. This was clearly a room meant more for business than pleasure, which suited me perfectly.

The floor cushions piled by the table shifted and a strange, small creature crawled from its makeshift nest. I blinked with astonishment at a tiny blue elephant, no bigger than a lap dog, that yawned widely and then stretched itself like a sleepy cat.

Vanir beamed with pride. "You are admiring Janu, I see. He is wonderful, is he not?"

"What corner of the Impossible Kingdoms did that thing come from?"

The cleric's smile never faltered. "We have many such creatures in my native land. The Vudrani are fond of companion animals. Surely you, a druid, would understand that?"

"Most druids would. A few of us are bound to elements rather than animals.

"Water," Vanir said, nodding. "So I have heard. How fortunate I am to find someone so uniquely suited to my purpose."

I gestured for him to continue, but he had turned away and was stooping to pick up the little elephant. He rose, cuddling the beast against his shoulder, and offered it a sugared almond. The elephant's tiny blue trunk curled around the treat and tucked it into its mouth. Crunching happily, the creature rubbed its head against Vanir's shoulder and raised adoring eyes to his face.

The man chuckled and tickled the elephant behind one ear. "Charming, is he not?"

"If you say so. Why am I here?"

Vanir set down the elephant and skimmed his fingers over the pattern of light and dark wood inlaid into the table's surface. A hidden drawer slid open. He took from it a scroll, which he unrolled and handed to me.

The parchment was old and strange, some sort of map surrounded by tiny runes. I am no scholar and had no hope of reading the scroll, but I knew the nature of that parchment the moment my fingers touched it. Only whaleskin was this strong and elastic. Neither parchment nor the ink upon it could be damaged by water, and under any conditions such a document could last a very long time. And old it undoubtedly was, for despite its durability, this type of parchment had gone out of favor several centuries past. Gham Banni, the Pathfinder venture-captain to whom I reported, once told me that any such scroll was probably ancient, of evil origins, or both.

Only the merfolk knew the secret of tanning whaleskin into parchment that could outlive centuries, and it had been long years since honest folk learned that a deal made with mermaids was no simple thing. They deemed it their right to demand a favor from anyone who used or even carried their goods. Such favors usually resulted in bloodshed and sunken ships. No honest man would be willingly beholden to a mermaid, and any wise ship captain would toss anyone carrying such a map into the sea—after dumping a load of bloody chum to draw sharks.

I handed the map back to Vanir. "I'll be going now."

"Oh, surely not! No Pathfinder would turn away from a chance to explore Xanchara."

I laughed in his face. A moment passed before I noted his wounded expression and realized he was quite serious.

Everyone has heard tales of an ancient city somewhere off the coast of Osirion, but few people give the tales much credence.

"You believe Xanchara existed."

"I do. And so, my dear lady, does Gham Banni."

He reached into a hidden pocket and produced a smaller scroll, this one fashioned from fine papyrus in the pale green hue Gham favored. The writing was unfamiliar, but that was of little significance. Gham Banni was a noted scholar who attracted many students, some of whom acted as his scribes. But the sigil burned onto the bottom of the page was undoubtedly his.

I should say a word about Gham Banni's sigil. Like many important men, his name held considerable power. In order to protect it, Gham Banni's personal rune was carved into a signet ring which could never be removed from his hand, nor could it be duplicated by means magical or mundane. The magic that burned the sigil onto parchment without heat or flame would be buried with him.

Janu is anything but common.

"The esteemed Gham Banni urges you to take on this task," Vanir said. "He goes on at length about your mission as a Pathfinder, and the opportunity to explore so renowned a site. He fully supports my quest, which is to recover a rare artifact and object of veneration among my people: the Reliquary of the Drowned God. It was stolen many years ago by people not unlike you Pathfinders, and brought to the great library of Xanchara. Thanks to this map I recently acquired, I believe it can be found."

"I can read," I snapped.

He held up both hands in a placating gesture and let me get on with it.

As it happened, Vanir's summary hit the mark squarely enough. I lowered the parchment and considered the cleric for a long moment.

"I have concerns."

"As would any reasonable person. Please, name them, so that I might set your mind at ease."

The utter absurdity of this claim shackled my tongue for a long moment. Judging from the Vudrani's confident smile, he truly believed he could sing this tale into a soothing melody.

As I shook my head in wonderment, my gaze fell upon the little blue elephant. "To start with, why would you keep such a creature? It's an abomination, a thing outside of the natural order."

"What civilized man does not improve upon nature?" Vanir countered. "In my country, magic and alchemy aid in the breeding of many wondrous beasts. Janu is a charming pet, but he is nothing beyond the common way."

As if to underscore its master's point, the elephant rolled over onto its back, waving its tiny, flat-footed legs in the air like a puppy that wanted its belly scratched. The beast actually fluttered its eyelashes at me, flirting like a courtesan. I have seen street performers display more subtlety.

I dragged my gaze back to Vanir Shornish. "You enjoy your pet's company."

"Oh yes, very much."

"Take him everywhere, do you? And you speak freely in front of him?"

Puzzlement began to gather around the Vudrani's eyes. "Yes..."

I crouched down to pat the little creature, taking note of how its eyes narrowed. With my free hand, I reached into a hidden pocket in my boot. This held a mixture of powdered herbs, one of the few useful things I had learned from the elf who'd sired me. As I rose and stepped away, I tossed a pinch of the herbs at the elephant.

The air in the room was suddenly thinner, colder, and crackling with the sort of energy that preceded a giant thunderclap. Vanir's "pet" shrieked like an angry demon...

Which made perfect sense, given its true form.

If a jungle bat and a mantis held an orgy to honor the ugliest demon lord ever to walk the planes, the resulting offspring might resemble Vanir's imp. The only thing remaining of its elephant form was the color of its hide. Membranous blue wings beat the air, holding aloft a vaguely man-shaped creature. Its wizened face was twisted with fury, and a hissing snarl bared long, sapphire-hued fangs.

"One of your Vudran ‘gods,' Vanir?" I inquired.

The cleric made no response; he stood staring at the imp in an attitude of reverent awe—or, possibly, abject terror.

"Who are you to speak of gods?" demanded the imp. "Druids are priests without gods, as impotent as warriors without weapons."

As it happens, the imp wasn't far wrong about the weapons. I pulled the only one I had—the Mwangi man's knife—and put all my strength into the throw.

Faster than I would have thought possible, the imp tucked one wing and rolled under the spinning knife. The little demon spiraled to the floor and landed in a crouch, one hand splayed for balance, then leaped into the air and flapped up to perch on the iron curtain rod. Its wings spread wide, preparation for a diving attack.

Lacking other weapons, I picked up Vanir Shornish in a wrestler's carry and threw him onto the table. Wood shattered, and so did the awe that held the cleric in thrall. As he scuttled away like a panicked crab, I picked up a table leg and lofted it like a club.

Janu swooped, I swung. Imp and wood met with a satisfying thud. The creature flew backward, wings folded together like praying hands, and slammed into a wall. It slid down slowly, leaving a stream of bubbling ichor on the tapestry. Again it landed in a three-point crouch, ready to spring.

I advanced, club ready to bat the creature out of the air again. The imp surprised me by coming up in a sprint. It ran for the window and leaped onto the low sill.

Janu sent me a mocking smile and pointed to the evening sky, where the planet Aucturn shone bright on the horizon and the rising moon, thanks to dust raised by violent khamsin storms, was the color of a bloody coin.

"The khamsin," said the imp, echoing my thoughts with eerie precision. "Know this, water witch: Air and dust elementals are not the only creatures who feel the power of Aucturn's alignment. You will learn this."

With that cryptic promise, the creature winged out into the gathering night.

Silence lingered for the space of several breaths.

"Thief! Cheat!" howled Vanir as he crawled out of his hideaway. "Spawn of a poxed whore and a rabid jackal! I'll kill the wretch who sold me a demon! I'll slit his throat! I'll flay him for boot leather! I'll... I'll... I'll report him to the merchants' guild!"

"Or you could just give me his name."

He quieted, cocked his head, and considered. "That would be easier," he admitted.

"Tell me."

Vanir did, with admirably concise language. He answered the questions I put to him and mostly told

the truth.

"Did this merchant know of your plan to recover the reliquary before he sold you the ‘elephant,' or after?"

For the first time Vanir hesitated. "He is a wine merchant, among other things," he said sheepishly, "and generous with his samples. I am not altogether clear on the events of that evening."

"Do you remember what you paid for the imp?"

Vanir considered. After a moment his brows flew up. "Now that I think on it," he marveled, "my purse was missing no great sum, nothing that might explain such a purchase."

I nodded, expecting this. Stooping, I plucked the whaleskin parchment from the ruin of the table, then rose to offer the cleric my hand and my bond. His face brightened, and he clasped my hand with both of his.

"I will find your reliquary," I promised.

And in doing so, I vowed, I would discover who else might be seeking it, and to what purpose.

Chapter Two: Justice Done, Betrayal, Repaid

I have never been troubled by the lure of gold. If a stray temptation of that sort were to wander in my direction, my memories would rise up like an angry mob and club it to death. Anyone who has watched a few-score treasure hunters purchase a senseless death will understand what I mean. Anyone whose life has been bartered for a handful of coins.

Even so, every now and again I cannot deny that money has its uses. The priest Vanir Shornish was afloat with it, and the fee he gave me to find a relic of one of his people's many gods was almost obscene in its generosity. I'd sent much of that fee on ahead by trusted carriers and paid for passage on a northbound ship, yet I could still feel the weight of coin in the purse stitched to my stout leather baldric, cunningly hidden behind the sheath that held a newly purchased knife.

Also hidden in that purse was an ancient map written on parchment fashioned from whale skin and evil magic. If the seaman who called me "mistress" and "lady"—because money also buys fine clothes and misguided respect—knew I carried such a thing, they would throw me overboard in a heartbeat, preferably with an anchor chained to my neck. In their position, I would do the same.

A small, sun-browned man came toward me with a wide smile and a sailor's rolling gait. I was leaning against the ship's rail, watching twilight awaken the stars and taking in the salty spray like a cat soaks up sunlight. I'd spent most of the short journey topside, and not just for the joy I found in the sight and smell and feel of the sea. There were but two cabins below decks. One belonged to the captain, the other to the ship's whore. Since it was not deemed proper for a lady to share sleeping quarters with the sailors, I was bunking with the whey-faced chit who serviced them.

"A fine evening to you, Mistress," he said cheerfully, "and a fine one it is indeed! If the winds hold, we'll be making port in Chiron harbor before midnight."

That did not seem right. My nature is bound to water; most druids would get turned around in a forest glade before I'd lose my bearings at sea.

I pushed away from the rail and turned to face the sailor. "So soon? We were not expected to land until daybreak."

"Aye, but the new bosun? The captain's nephew? He read the quadrant and corrected our course."

A familiar prickling sensation began to gather at the nape of my neck, like tiny ice-cold spiders skittering down the back of my tunic and up under my head-wrap. I'd met the bosun: a prideful young man who knew just enough to be dangerous. I'd seen his sort among the would-be scholars who flocked to study with my venture-captain, their heads so full of themselves there was no room for their vaunted book-knowledge to mill around and form up into anything resembling good sense.

"He changed our course? By what measure?"

The sailor thrust one finger under his headscarf and scratched as he thought that over. He examined the flea struggling free of the dirt beneath a grimy fingernail, then flicked it into the sea. "Well now, you've heard tell of the Flood Star."

What person in Osirion had not? A pale pink star, it appeared in the sky shortly before the spring rains. The night it rose was celebrated by festivals and rituals to the gods. This year, those rites would be particularly fervent. Last year the river's annual rising had fallen far short of the Floodmark obelisk. The drought was not yet severe, but another dry year could be ruinous. The Flood Star was considered a good omen, and its appearance was anxiously awaited, even though this year—

Suddenly I understood the source of my unease. I seized the sailor's wrist before he could resume his flea hunting.

"Did you see the bosun take this measure? Where did he get his bearings?"

He frowned, puzzled by the urgency in my voice. "The pink star, right over—"

His hand froze in the act of pointing and his face fell slack with astonishment and fear.

The sky was nearly black now, and the fainter stars in the springtime Crocodile constellation had winked into view. The sole pink star in sight was the third from the end of the crocodile's snout. Lower, where the Flood Star should have been, was nothing but darkness.

"Drought and damnation," he swore softly. "The captain won't thank me for carrying this news. He sets great store by that nephew of his."

"He's a great deal fonder of his ship. Is he in his cabin?"

The sailor cleared his throat. "In yours, more likely."

I hurried to the ladder leading below decks and down into the hold. The door to the whore's cabin was locked. I pounded on it until the bolt shot open and the captain stood in the doorway, buttoning his trousers and glaring. He looked surprised to see me, as if I hadn't paid good coin for the use of that room.

"We're off course," I said bluntly. "The bosun took quadrant readings from the wrong star."

The captain hissed a sigh through clenched teeth. "With respect, Mistress Channa, Bosun Mozar knows his trade. What makes you think—"

"Not think. Know."

There was no time for argument or explanation. My gaze skimmed along a row of barrels, passing over the beer and drinking water and settling on an open barrel filled with salt water and the small, fleet fish used for swordfish bait. I took a tin drinking cup off its hook and dipped up some of the water, then poured a little through the fingers of my free hand as I murmured a three-word spell. I gulped down about half of the remaining the water and held the cup out to the captain.

His eyes widened as he understood what I had done. Just to be sure, he sniffed at the cup and then took a tentative sip.

"Sweet as a mountain stream," he marveled, cradling the cup of fresh water in both hands. He looked up at me with a mixture of awe and avarice. "If you'd told me you were a water witch, I would have offered you free passage."

I managed, just barely, to suppress a snort of derision. If I'd told him I was a "water witch," I might have ended up with a chain to match the whore's.

"We're off course," I repeated. "We're heading toward the Mermaid Rocks."

That finally stirred him to action. He went roaring up the ladder, demanding to be brought the star charts, the sextant, and his nephew's ass in a sling.

The first jolt of impact sent me staggering. The ship screamed as her wooden keel scraped against hidden rock.

Running footsteps thundered across the deck, followed by the creak of a swinging boom and flap of canvas gone suddenly slack. Then came the thunderous snap as the sails caught the wind. I braced myself in the open doorway as the ship turned hard astern.

Several frantic moments passed before we were safely away from the Mermaid Rocks, one of the worst ship graveyards off the coasts of Osirion and Katapesh. When I came topside, the sailors were grim-faced and pale, muttering among themselves about bad omens. To my surprise, they seemed more concerned about the "disappearance" of the Flood Star than the near-shipwreck.

To my mind, this was a mystery easily solved. Every fifty years or so, the world scholars call Aucturn comes into alignment with our Golarion. Very rarely—perhaps six or seven times in recorded history—the paths of the worlds and stars is such that Aucturn obscures the rising Flood Star. Gham Banni, my venture-captain, told me these things. Since he is considered a learned man and, more importantly, since he has never lied to me, I'm inclined to believe this tale.

I will never be a scholar, but this I know: talk of omens and portents is ridiculous. Star charts are fine for navigation, but not prognostication. Perhaps someday people will accept that the time of prophecy has passed and take upon themselves the responsibility of their own decisions.

Right. And that will come to pass the day after mermaids become creatures of light and virtue.

Disgusted with the sailors' superstition and my own momentary lapse into optimism, I retreated to the women's cabin.

The whore was standing by the porthole, sipping from a pottery wine bottle and staring out into the darkness. No doubt she was enjoying a rare moment of freedom; a pile of fine-linked chain lay on the bed, removed for the comfort and convenience of her most recent visitor. Her bright orange dress, the mark of her profession, seemed to glow in the faint lamplight, and her northern skin was the approximate hue of a fish's underbelly. She glanced over as I entered and then turned her gaze back out to sea. Since I wanted nothing of her, she need take no interest in me. I had no quarrels with this arrangement.

I sat down at the tiny table and pushed aside her brushes and pots of face paint. Taking paper and ink from my pack, I settled down to record the details of my travels. That duty accomplished, I eased the old map from its hiding place and unrolled it for closer study. According to the letter Vanir Shornish had shown me, my venture-captain believed that Xanchara, the lost city of legend, truly existed. I found myself somewhat harder to convince.

"Rees is entirely too smart to be trusted."

A sharp intake of breath drew my gaze to the door. I hadn't heard it open over the sounds of the quickening sea.

The flea-ridden sailor who'd greeted me earlier stood staring at me, his bulging eyes giving him the look of a landed carp. He pointed at the map with a shaking finger.

"That... that's not what I think it is. It couldn't be."

"If you say so."

He dug both hands into his hair and looked as if he might shriek in panic. "That parchment's mermaid-crafted, mermaid-cursed. And here we are, barely clear of the Mermaid Rocks. It's an evil thing. It's an evil omen!"

"It's an old map."

He stormed into the room and waggled an accusing finger at me. "It's a promissory note to the merfolk, and what if they come collecting?"

I rose to face him, moving so that I stood between him and the door. "Unless someone in this room drops them a message in a weighted bottle, I don't see how they'd find out about it."

"The merfolk have their ways," he insisted. "The captain needs to hear about this."

Behind him, I heard the faint clink of chain against a hard surface. A smile twitched at one corner of my lips as I realized another message had been inadvertently sent and received.

I spread my hands in a gesture of surrender and stepped aside. "As you will."

The whore hit him before he could take a step. His eyes rolled back and he pitched forward into my arms. I lowered him to the floor and looked up at the woman who'd probably just saved my life.

For the first time I looked past the lavish henna and kohl face paint to cheeks sunken with hunger and eyes that held the sort of cunning a rogue jackal might recognize.

She hefted the wine jug, from which dangled a length of her chain. "Weighted bottle. Good thinking."

"Not what I had in mind, but I've no complaints."

"Is he dead?"

She sounded only slightly curious. I tipped the sailor's head and thrust exploring fingers into his blood-sodden hair. After a few moments of prodding, I assured her he'd live and murmured the spell that could put him into a healing sleep—a state that, conveniently enough, would last until the ship made port.

When his breathing evened out and deepened, I looked up and met the northern woman's gaze. It held, in nearly equal measure, a plea for help and the threat of blackmail.

"Get me off this ship," she said softly.

I sat back on my heels and considered my options. After a moment I shrugged and said, "Take off your dress."

She peeled it off without hesitation. It took both of us to undress the sailor and wrestle his limp body into the orange gown. After we rolled him onto the bed, she quickly dressed in his clothing. The two of them were as thin as twin vipers and about the same height, but her pale skin would undo her at a glance.

Once again, the northerner's thinking was running apace with mine. She sat down at the table and reached for a jar of henna. Into this she tipped some of the dull-yellow lamp oil and a drop of ink from my bottle, mixing in more ink drop by drop until the result was a shade of brown somewhere between the sailor's skin and mine.

"His name was Rees," she said as she smoothed the ointment over her face. "You might as well call me that."

I watched her transformation with narrowed eyes. After a moment, I glanced at her discarded chain. It ended in a bracelet that locked with a key. With the toe of one boot I eased the bracelet free of the last link. Blue Narwhal—the name of the ship—was engraved inside. When "Rees" was preoccupied with tucking her hair into the sailor's headscarf, I picked the bracelet up and dropped it into my pack.

"Chiron is a small island," I observed. "They'll find you."

The mirror reflected a bitter smile. "Not if I find
‘them' first."

"Oh?"

Rees spun around to face me. "My mistress sold me to this ship when she caught me abed with her favorite servant. I intend to strangle her with the chains she forced me to wear."

"And after?"

"I don't care what comes after! If you'd been a slave, you would understand," she said in a low, passionate voice. "You would do the same."

"Do you hear me arguing with you?"

Rees blinked. "Well. All right, then."

"But don't use the chain, not unless you want her to hear you coming from two streets away." I unwound the bright silk scarf that covered my short black hair and long elven ears.

Her eyes bulged. "Gods above! You're—"

"Half-elven," I supplied wearily, well accustomed to her reaction.

Half-elves were rare in Osirion, and I fit no one's idea of a half-elf. My mother had been a woman of Geb, and I had the height and the strong, proud features common to that nation's darkest people. My elven father's blood had lightened my skin to a warm brown common to humans from the northern Mwangi Expanse. That's what most people thought I was.

A smile broke over Rees's darkened face and she reached out as if she would touch one of my ears. The look on my face changed her mind, but not her mood.

"Brilliant," she said happily. "Every man on this ship will react to you just as I did, and none will give me a second look."

She was quick. It was almost a pleasure to deal with someone who was able to keep abreast of my thinking.

"And surely someone saw first you and then this sailor enter the cabin. They'll assume the three of us spent the night abed, and will not be surprised to see ‘Rees' leave the ship with you. He likes to drink, after," she added by way of explanation. "A night with the two of us would send him running to the nearest tavern, thirsty enough to drain a wine barrel to the lees."

Maybe, I noted silently, where Rees was concerned I might do well to think a bit faster than usual.

My newfound appreciation for money died shortly after Rees and I parted ways in Chiron's harbor.

To any person of sense, much less a druid, excess is more likely to inspire disgust than envy. A thousand gluttons gorging themselves at tables heaped with food, stuffing themselves with both hands and demanding more and still more—that's what I saw when I beheld Chiron.

The deepwater harbor was well enough, cleaner and more efficiently run than most ports, and the market beyond the docks lavish but not too unfamiliar. But beyond that lay walled estates and marbled palaces, the homes of wealthy merchants and sea captains, each one bigger and more obscenely extravagant than the last.

I had no trouble finding the home of Bezaloo Hinder, the merchant who'd sold Vanir Shornish his "charming little pet"—a miniature blue elephant that was, in reality, a particularly nasty imp-like creature. I wanted to know why this Bezaloo considered the relic Vanir sought to be worth the risk of consorting with imps.

Wine merchants, it would seem, did very well for themselves. His home was massive, built of gray stone on the edge of a steep, rocky cliff. For all its size, it was strangely devoid of servants. I had no problem entering the front gate with the merchants who brought supplies to the outlying buildings, no trouble lingering behind and finding an unlocked door in the inner wall. Climbing the rough stone wall to the second story and slipping through an open window was simplicity itself.

I was halfway down the unlit hall when I came across the first body. A chambermaid, not much more than a girl, sat on the floor, her thin legs splayed and her body slumped against an oversized vase. Her braided hair and white clothes were neat and orderly, but her head canted at an impossible angle. She'd died quickly, without a chance to fight back.

I crouched beside her and saw the thin trickles of dried blood running down one side of her neck. There were four small puncture marks just under her jaw, tiny crescents that dug deep. Something with strong, small hands had hit her hard enough to snap her neck. Judging from the shape and placement of those crescents, the creature had faced her when it attacked, and killed with a single backhanded blow. And judging by the size and span of those hands, the creature was small—too small to reach the girl's face unless it had wings.

Another servant lay sprawled on the nearby stairs, but my gaze went to the bald, richly dressed man on the marble floor below.

The creature had taken its time with Bezaloo Hinder. His garments had been shredded by small claws, his flesh torn by small, sharp teeth. Small gobbets of flesh littered the floor, as if they had been torn free and then spit out, playfully, like urchins spitting melon seeds for distance.

The imp, it would appear, had beat me here.

I rose slowly to my feet, trying to make sense of this new development. Perhaps Bezaloo had sold the miniature "elephant" to Vanir Shornish in good faith, not understanding its true nature. More likely, some other party, someone who'd observed Vanir drinking lavishly of the wine merchant's wares, had sent the imp after him.

"It seems I'm not the first to come looking for the wine merchant."

Yes, that was probably what had happened. Vanir had mentioned that he had noticed no great sum missing from his purse, nothing that would explain the purchase of such an exotic pet.

What was certain is that someone else was involved. Imps and demons did not wander the Material Plane at will; they had to be summoned.

I left the house by a side door and started for the gate closest to the harbor. I'd have to find passage on another ship. By now the captain and crew of the Blue Narwhal would have learned of my part in freeing their ship's whore. They were unlikely to welcome me back. I would not trust them if they did.

The tolling of bells rolled up from the harbor, the signal of a coming hue and cry. A crime had been committed, and everyone was required by law to listen to the coming proclamation and spread it until the criminal was captured. On an island, this was no doubt highly effective. I paused to listen, though I had a pretty good idea what was to come.

A low, distant murmur spread through the streets like a sandstorm, swiftly gaining in power as the message worked its way toward Bezaloo's cliff-side mansion. Clearly, people responded with alacrity when the victim was a wealthy woman.

"Channa Ti," howled a voice from the street beyond Bezaloo's outer walls. "Half-elf, looks to be a woman of the Mwangi Expanse. Murdered the Lady Pizante Ross. Detain or slay."

I nodded as I retraced my steps into the mansion. There was a risk that "Rees," with her darkened skin and bright turban—my turban in truth, or another like mine—would let herself be seen near the home of her former mistress. And most likely she'd left my scarf behind. No one would raise an alarm for an escaped slave, so she might even find a way to get away altogether.

It wasn't a bad plan, I admitted as I stooped to leave her slave bracelet beside Bezaloo's body. No one would raise an alarm for an escaped slave—unless they had reason to suspect that slave of a vicious murder.

Justice assured, treachery repaid.

And now, to find my escape.

There was water under the house, a grotto. I could feel the shape of it, and beyond, the long narrow passage that led to the open sea. I followed my senses down a series of halls, then down a winding stair into a vast stone-walled wine cellar. In a far corner I found a barrel, wide and low. A thick layer of dust covered it. I brushed some of it away. Putting my ear to the cover, I listened for the distant murmur of water.

What I heard was a faint, eerie chanting, a sound that chilled my blood and made my heart forget its business for a beat or two.

I am a druid, what Vanir Shornish poetically termed a "priestess of nature," but I have no patience with those who toss about talk of "good" and "evil" as a way of sorting things that suit their purposes from things that do not. It seems to me that the mountain cat is no worse than the rodent it hunts. A paladin's noble steed must eat, but so must a shark. People, in my experience, are much the same. They will survive if they can, however they can. "Good" and "evil" are human creations, words meant to excuse and explain and justify. But when all's said and done, these words mean nothing more than "us" and "them."

I have always believed this to be true. But there was something in that distant chant—a dark energy, a cold and deadly weight—that made certainty shift beneath my feet.

My natural curiosity—not to mention my Pathfinder mission—quickly came to the fore. I pushed aside my fear along with the barrel lid. Inside I found a long shaft, and a rope ladder leading down into the darkness.

The chanting grew louder as I descended, and the darkness gave way to a faint glow. I crept through jagged rock formations, following the light, the sound, and my own sense of water.

Candles ringed a small deep pool and chased weird shadows across the faces of the men gathered there.

I knew at once what they were. The Pathfinders had long heard rumors of the Night Heralds, a cult devoted to the Dominions of the Black. They had no god, not as most people understood deities. Their devotion was given to the Dark Tapestry—the deep cold spaces between worlds. No one I knew had ever seen these Night Heralds, but the symbolism of their ceremonial robes could not be clearer. The hems sweeping the rocky floor were the pink and gold shades of sunset clouds, and the robes' colors darkened around knee level to a sunset shade of sapphire, and finally to a dark, faintly luminous purple. The deep hood drawn over each head was midnight black.

I know I made no sound, but one of the Night Heralds looked up, sharply, his shadowed face turned in my direction.

The change came over me suddenly, more by instinct than choice. I dropped to all fours as thick, scaly hide swept over my body. Fast as a cat I darted forward, moving on four short, powerful legs.

Chanting gave way to shouts of surprise. The priests nearest me fell back, suddenly more human than fiend. I slipped into the water, diving deep and fast.

The sea passage was long; fear quickened my heart and shortened my breath. But no creature on this world, except perhaps the hardiest of scarab beetles, had a stronger survival instinct than the crocodile. Somehow I made it through; somehow I burst free of the water and gulped in sweet, salty air.

Swimming to the mainland seemed easy in comparison. I followed the sound of voices raised in the singsong rhythm of a short-haul fishing shanty. A half-dozen peasants stood knee-deep in the surf, working in pairs to toss out small nets and haul them back.

I reared up in the water, lashing my tail and letting out a long, guttural roar.

The fishermen dropped their nets and fled, leaving their tackle and clothing behind. I gave chase to make sure there would be no witnesses to my transformation.

The crocodile mind is strong and slow to retreat. Several moments passed before I realized that I was running on two legs rather than four. I retraced my steps to where the fishermen had left their gear and changed into the rough tunic and trousers one of the men had left behind. After burying my "Lady Channa" clothes in the sand, I left a coin as payment and set off for the nearby town.

Until I cleansed my name of the stain Rees had put upon it, I would have to stay clear of the sea. Chiron was a busy port; many northbound ships stopped there. The risk that a captain of any ship I might approach might have heard the accusation against me was larger than I wanted to take.

So it was dry land for me. Familiar land, certainly. Just twenty days ago, I'd been hired to guide a band of adventurers through the monster-infested nightmare known as the Brazen Peaks. Every man and woman in that band and under my protection was dead, and I was... more than a little annoyed.

A wry smile twisted my lips. My old friend Ratsheek and her clan were out there waiting, and suddenly that was fine with me.

Justice would be done, betrayal repaid.

I lifted my face to the midday heat. Suddenly it seemed a very fine day for a walk.

Chapter Three: Raising the Green Flag

I had no problem blending into the crowd, despite being taller than any of the women and most of the men. Ziloth was a small market town just north of the border between Osirion and Katapesh, and people of all sorts passed through. The rapt faces turned toward the Pool of Justice ranged in hue from sand-colored to ebony. I fell somewhere in the middle, and as long as I covered my ears with a headscarf, people assumed I was a woman from the Mwangi Expanse. Without the scarf, I'd probably join the "criminals" awaiting their turn in the dunking stool.

Not that half-elves are hated in Osirion, exactly, but we are solitary in nature and therefore unlikely to be missed; in short, we're the sort of people the magistrate's men would seek out if the day's entertainment was deemed insufficient.

Ziloth's magistrate was a tall man with the red-brown skin common to well-born Osirians. Naked to the waist and wearing a gilded mask and a fortune in cloth-of-gold kilted around his hips, he stood on the dais surrounding the pool, gazing intently into the roiling water. Suddenly he raised his jackal-headed staff and brought it sharply down on the wooden platform.

The water wraiths had passed judgment.

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd as two of the magistrate's servants feverishly turned cranks, one of which was attached to the gears and pulleys that lifted the dunking stool from the pool, the other a smaller crank that raised a banner proclaiming the verdict. As the green flag rose, the crowd erupted into cheers and groans, depending upon the wagers they'd made.

"Guilty," said the man standing to my left. The satisfaction ringing through his voice raised my curiosity, even before he added, "May the embalmers piss on his rotting corpse."

Now, Osirians are fond of cursing each other, but most are content to cast aspersions on a man's lineage or question the nature of his relationship with camels. Embalming touches upon the afterlife; it's a serious matter, never invoked lightly.

I elbowed the speaker to get his attention. "That man did you wrong?"

"Man?" He turned away and spat on the ground. "Long-eared spawn of a two-legged jackal."

Ah. An elf, then.

I smirked to acknowledge his opinion of my half-kin and turned my attention back to the dais. The magistrate's servants plucked several sinuous, foot-long lizards from the condemned elf's body and tossed them back into the pool. There was no denying that the water wraiths were very green indeed.

Native to the Mwangi Expanse, the color-changing lizards known as water wraiths can match their surroundings so perfectly as to appear invisible. In open waters, they can grow to nearly the length of crocodiles, and they're every bit as vicious. They can tear their prey to shreds with the talons on their eight short, powerful legs, but prefer to latch on and suck blood like lampreys. They possess a sort of dim intelligence and are able to change their color at will. Local superstition claims water wraiths prefer the blood of the innocent. Since the creatures frequently turn red as they enter feeding frenzy, red is considered the color of innocence. Assuming the magistrate's men can pull the lizards off in time, the exonerated party is free to go.

A cynical person might look to the three bodies tossed to one side of the dais and assume the lizards' latest verdict had more to do with their full bellies than the elf's guilt. I knew better. Years ago, I took the shape of a water wraith to battle elves who meant me harm. It is impossible to take a creature's shape without also knowing something of its mind and habits. From this experience I learned that, in the opinion of water wraiths, elves are not very tasty.

Strangely enough, most of the elves I've met would probably be insulted by this news.

As the magistrate's men dragged the condemned elf to his feet, a shock of recognition jolted through me. I knew him. He was a merchant who traded with the elves of the Mwangi Expanse throughout my childhood.

"What is his crime?" I asked my new acquaintance.

The man spat again. "He killed a friend of mine. Poison."

"Yucami blossoms?"

His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. "How did you know?"

This required no great feat of divination on my part. Yucami grew in the Mwangi jungles. Burning a very small amount of dried flowers in a censor cleared the lungs and drove off fever. But some humans had taken to drinking the potent smoke directly from small pipes. The result was extreme euphoria, occasionally followed by death. Few elves would dare sell the herb to humans for fear of this very result.

"Did your friend purchase the yucami?"

The man sent me a quick, sidelong glance. "The elf cheated him," he said defensively. "He charged too much for his medicines. My friend only took enough to balance the scales. The yucami was poisoned. The water wraiths prove this to be so."

A familiar howl cut through the crowd, saving me from the urge to point out the fallacies in this argument. The time of prophecy and divination was past, but people devised new ways to avoid thinking and they did not thank you for challenging them. Besides, I had more important matters to attend. Ratsheek, my oath-bound friend and longtime enemy, was about to answer for her many crimes.

I pushed through the crowd toward the dais as three sweating, red-faced men dragged a cloaked and hooded figure up the stairs to the platform—one of the hyenafolk, if the exposed feet, tipped with claws and covered with sand-colored fur, were any indication. Even with her ankles hobbled with a short chain and her hands bound, the hyena-woman put up an impressive resistance.

The crowd hummed with excitement. Wagers flew and markers changed hands as the executioners wrestled the cursing, struggling prisoner into the dunking stool. When she was secured, the magistrate whisked off the hood with a theatrical flourish. At this signal, the crowd quieted. The magistrate recited Ratsheek's crimes, a lengthy list that nonetheless omitted most of her truly interesting offenses.

Once I sorted through the lies and dramatic flourishes, it came down to this: Ratsheek had been caught spending more money than she could explain to her tribe. From there, it was easy enough to figure out what had brought her to the dunking stool. I had recently escaped from Ratsheek's band of hyenafolk slavers in Katapesh, only to be unjustly accused of robbing and killing an extremely wealthy woman on the island of Chiron. If word of my supposed crime reached the slavers, they would almost certainly assume Ratsheek had set me free for a share of the stolen money. To make up for the theft of their property—that would be me—the slavers sold Ratsheek to the magistrate's men.

Once the charges had been read, the magistrate gestured to one of his men. The servant pulled a long, curved knife from his sash and sliced through the ties securing the hyena-woman's cloak. Two more men dragged the tattered garment away.

A sharp bark of laughter escaped me. For the water wraiths' convenience, Ratsheek had been shaved from neck to ankle.

Her head snapped toward me and her gaze found mine. For a moment she went very still, and the malevolence in her eyes was nearly a living thing. Several people stepped out of the path of it before they realized what they were doing.

Ratsheek's hairless chest swelled as she drew in air to cry out some sort of accusation against me. But the magistrate's staff came down, and her shout was swallowed by water as the dunking stool plunged into the pool.

Immediately I reached out to the water wraiths, none too hopeful I'd be able to connect with them in time. But they were creatures of water, and their feral minds swam comfortably against the currents of my own. Two of them, in particular, seemed receptive to the image I sent their way, the unusual pattern and play of color—

The frantic pounding of the staff against the dais shattered my communion with the color-changing lizards.

"Get her out. Get her out!" shrieked the magistrate, nearly dancing with impatience and terror.

His men frantically worked the cranks and ropes, and Ratsheek shot out of the water like a leaping dolphin. Two water wraiths clung to her shoulders, their long tails draped over her shaved chest.

A deep, stunned silence fell over the market crowd.

"When your whole justice system is a lizard, something is very wrong."

The water wraiths had taken on a pattern of color, a sunset-to-midnight sweep that moved from rose and gold at the tails to twilight purple torsos to heads the black of a night sky. I'd taken a chance that the people of Ziloth would recognize the pattern of the Night Heralds' robes. The look of shock frozen onto dozens of faces indicated that they did.

I tucked this information away for further consideration as I pushed my way up to the dais. The magistrate's servants were falling over each other in their eagerness to free Ratsheek and send her off to her supposed masters. They stopped babbling apologies when I climbed the stairs to the dais.

I shook out the sand-colored wrap I'd bought for the trek through the Brazen Peaks and held it out to Ratsheek.

"Your cloak, my lady," I said in deferential tones. Generally speaking, it is better to be thought a servant to evil folk than someone who can wield her own share of dark power. Few heroes feel compelled to challenge a mere servant, and the craven leave you alone for fear of inconveniencing your masters.

The hyena-woman's eyes narrowed in speculation, but she quickly donned both the cloak and the role. The cloak swirled around her as she spun and flowed dramatically behind as she stalked through the swiftly parting crowd. I fell in meekly, swallowing a smile at her grand performance.

We didn't speak until we'd left Ziloth by the northern gate and were well beyond the ears of the watching guards.

"You saved my life," she said as she strode northward, her voice expressionless and her eyes forward. "If this has something to do with that oath we swore—"

"Ratsheek." The smile in my voice brought her to a stop. "You are speaking to Channa Ti."

"Right." She resumed walking. "In that case, what do you want?"

"I need to get to Sothis."

"So? Take passage on a ship."

"Ordinarily I would, but I have to keep away from
the ports."

The hyena-woman cut her gaze in my direction, and her lips peeled away from her teeth in a canine sneer. "Banned from the seas, water witch? What did you do now?"

"I stand accused of murder. Falsely accused."

Ratsheek waved away that distinction as irrelevant. "Anyone I know?"

"Do you know anyone on Chiron?"

Understanding swept over her face, closely followed by a swift, short blaze of wrath. She eyed me thoughtfully, a mixture of incredulity and respect in her black eyes.

That told me several important things. First, Ratsheek had come to the same conclusion as I had about her tribe's betrayal. Second, she knew about the Night Heralds and she knew they had a presence in Chiron. She assumed I had aligned myself with them, which surprised her but also earned her approval. And since Ratsheek approved of profit about all else, I surmised that she expected to do very well on this venture.

I named a generous sum. "I will pay you this now, and twice that when we cross the Brazen Peaks. The village of Posdam is a day's walk beyond the mountains. A moneylender there is holding funds for me."

Ratsheek responded with laughter—a short, bitter burst of staccato yips. "When people call me a bitch, that is not an insult but a statement of fact. When I call you a bitch—"

"That is both insult and fact," I broke in impatiently. "Yes, I know you can't safely enter your tribe's territory, any more than I can."

"My punishment for saving you from slavery," she snarled.

I didn't bother to respond. The last time I crossed the Brazen Peaks, Ratsheek led the band of hyenafolk that attacked the treasure hunters I was guiding. The raiders killed them all and brought me to the slave markets of Katapesh. Yes, Ratsheek had arranged my escape, but only so she could pocket a generous fee from my current employer rather than share my slave price with her fellow hyenafolk. And her tribe, tired of her self-serving ways, had not been forgiving.

"You're a rogue," I said calmly. "Condemned to live and die alone, without clan or tribe."

"Bitch."

"We've covered that. Despite all, you could find a new tribe, one that would revere you as a goddess."

Ratsheek sent a cautious glance my way. "Go on."

"You've heard of the pugwampis?"

She spun toward me and slammed her fist into my jaw, rocking my head painfully to one side and sending me staggering back a step or two. I shook away the stars careening around the edges of my vision and ducked under her second, wilder swing.

"You would have me join a tribe of jackal rats?" she growled.

"They're intelligent creatures," I said as I backed away, both hands lifted in a conciliatory gesture.

"They're hideous, hairless, thieving little monsters!"

Other than "little," this description fit Ratsheek admirably. For a moment I was tempted to twitch aside the folds of her cloak to underscore this point. The raw fury on her face suggested this would be an unwise plan.

"The pugwampis control tunnels that run under the Brazen Peaks. They build cities. They create art."

Ratsheek lowered her fists. "Art?"

"Of a sort. And they are, as you pointed out, thieves. I won't argue that their lairs rival dragons' hoards, but they do very well."

She considered this. "You've discovered these underground lairs?"

I shrugged modestly. Actually, this "discovery" had been entirely accidental. I'd followed an old map into a forgotten tunnel system under the Brazen Peaks. Unfortunately, jackal rats had claimed most of those tunnels since the map's creation.

"If you know the way, why do you need me?"

A fair question, but one I'd hoped to avoid. "The tunnel follows an underground river that passes through a cavern in which the pugwampi swarm has built a city. I could get through the cavern in animal form, but I can only call upon that magic so often."

"And you've spent that particular coin today."

I nodded. I'd used up my daily allotment of shape-shifting magic in the early morning hours to escape from the Night Herald's grotto. I disliked admitting this or any other weakness to Ratsheek. The speculative expression on her face did little for my peace of mind.

"So why not wait until tomorrow?"

Why? Because I was wanted for murder, because I had just left a town where elves were suspect and half-elves were easy prey, because I was competing with an imp for a prize of unknown power and importance. Oh, and because the real Night Heralds would soon hear the details of my little rescue.

"Why?" I echoed. "Because you need my help. Because I wish to honor our oath of aid and friendship."

Ratsheek snorted. "If you want to keep your reasons to yourself, just say so."

We walked in silence into the foothills. At my direction, Ratsheek brushed the sand away from the base of a steep rock butte. A broad canine grin stretched her muzzle as her fingers found the edges of the stone doorway.

Working together, we edged it aside and crawled into the low-ceilinged tunnel. On hands and knees, we crawled for what seemed like hours. I was grateful when the sun set, and for more than one reason.

Some druids can sense the turning of the world, the rise and set of the sun and moon. I am not among them, but I can feel the rising tide of my own druidic powers. Most people greet the new day at dawn. In my tradition, a new day began at sunset.

"Too dark," muttered Ratsheek behind me, a note of panic skirting the edges of her voice. "Too small."

"It opens up when we get to the river. There're glowing fungi in plenty there. You won't have any problem seeing."

"Are you sure you're going the right way?" she complained.

I stopped crawling and let Ratsheek close the distance between us. When I deemed the moment right, I kicked straight back. My boot connected solidly with the hyena-woman's snout.

When she'd stopped cursing me, I observed, "And what would you have done, had I questioned your sense of smell?"

A long moment of silence followed. "Good point," she said grudgingly.

We continued on our way. The unmistakable sound of water running over stone lent new energy to Ratsheek and had her nipping at my heels, literally and painfully. I picked up the pace, and soon we rolled from the tunnel and rose gratefully to our feet.

As I stretched out my cramped muscles, Ratsheek studied the rough rock walls, her black eyes alight with greed.

"There's no gold in these mountains, but that mica glitters brightly enough to part many a fool from his money. Perhaps the pugwampis can be taught mining. Can they use tools?"

"In a few moments, you can judge that for yourself."

The river was narrow, little more than a creek, but its song grew louder as we followed the path around a sharp bend. Ahead, the water fell in a steep, narrow spill. The lichen here glowed an eerie green, and the restless mists swirling around the lichen-clad rocks resembled verdant ghosts.

"You can always trust one of the hyenafolk—to do exactly as she pleases."

This strange beauty was utterly lost on Ratsheek. Her gaze remained fixed on the stone carvings lining the walls, a frieze that depicted life-sized hyenafolk in fierce battle. The carvings were primitive and time had worn away some of the finer detail, but I'd seen less impressive sculpture in the collections of princes.

"The pugwampis carved these?" Ratsheek marveled, tracing a stone muzzle with one claw. She snatched a smaller figure out of a stone niche. "And these?"

I nodded. "I'd leave that where it is, at least for the time being. That might be an object of veneration."

She set down the idol. "Well then," she said brightly. "The sooner I see you through this warren of tunnels, the sooner I can collect my fee and start rebuilding my fortune."

There was something in her tone I mistrusted, but I needed her to get through the pugwampis. I started down the rough stairs carved into the steeply descending path, wet from the waterfall's spray. We made our way to the bottom, where the falls ended in a deep pool. The river disappeared there, winding down into many narrow passages. These trickles of water converged under the cavern floor, and reemerged as a deeper, swifter stream on the far side of the cavern.

The cavern combined meeting place, fest hall, armory, and temple. Some of the alcoves chipped into the walls held collections of weapons, others were larders of game: burrowing animals such as hares and ground squirrels, pale fish pulled from the underground river. The stone floor sloped down toward a bloodstained dolmen, over which presided the statue of a snarling hyena-man. Piles of skulls, many of which appeared to be human, decorated the pugwampi temple. Beyond, a bridge of skulls led over the reemerging river.

A quick, light skittering was my only warning. Before I could draw breath to give the alarm, the pugwampi swarm roiled out of a side tunnel beyond the falls and raced toward us.

They moved like rats, unruly and disorganized, careening off each other and pushing two or three hapless creatures over the edge of the pool as they went. But they moved forward, and they moved fast.

I have seldom seen more hideous creatures. Only a foot tall and boasting no more than a few stray tufts of hair, the pugwampis were gray-skinned and rat-tailed, and they resembled small misshapen hyenafolk. Like the hyenafolk, they ran on two powerful hind legs. With their long-fingered hands they clutched knives nearly the length of their arms, and their dripping fangs and gleaming red eyes gave them the look of demonic lapdogs.

Ratsheek's howl rang through the cavern and brought the swarm to a dead stop. She strode forward, putting herself between me and the pugwampis, then tossed back the hood of her cloak.

"Oooooooh," murmured the swarm. I have never heard a sound that was at once so deeply reverent and so profoundly creepy.

Their excitement grew when Ratsheek flipped the cape back over her shoulders, revealing her nearly hairless form. I did not need to understand their language to get the gist of their high-pitched chittering. One of the hyena-people come to their cavern was marvel enough, but this creature was like them. A gigantic pugwampi hero of legend, or a minor deity, or a great priestess—

Ratsheek seized me and flung me over her shoulder. She strode down toward the dolmen altar.

"Definitely a priestess," I murmured.

"One who brings her own sacrifice," she added smugly.

I saw little sense in struggling, not with a small army of devout, knife-wielding pugwampis trailing behind.

"There's no sense, I suppose, in reminding you that you gave your word to see me through to the other side."

"None whatsoever," Ratsheek agreed cheerfully. "Vows are for children and fools, and neither of us are children."

When we reached the other side of the cavern, Ratsheek climbed the dolmen and flung me down onto the capstone. The pugwampis encircled the altar, again a roiling rat-swarm. They jostled each other, their weapons held high as they vied for the honor of lending the sacrificial knife.

Ratsheek knelt at the dolmen's edge and reached down to accept a blade.

I seized the moment and changed.

A water wraith the size and weight of a tall half-elf is a powerful, powerful creature. One swat of my tail was enough to send Ratsheek pitching into the crowd of her followers, and onto their upraised blades.

They went down under her weight, a score of them or more, shrieking and chittering in outrage. I leaped onto the bridge Ratsheek's body provided, and my eight feet were wet with her blood as I ran for the bridge of skulls.

Before I slipped into the water, I met the Ratsheek's gaze for a brief moment, touched a bloody forefoot to my snout, and willed my borrowed form to turn bright green.

Let her make of that what she would.

Stars gleamed overhead as I crawled out of the dry streambed that marked the end of the tunnels through the Brazen Peaks. Three days had passed since I abandoned my water wraith form. In another day, I would reach Posdam, where I would instruct a certain moneylender to pay Ratsheek the money I promised her.

I couldn't know if Ratsheek had survived, or if so, whether or not she would try to collect her fee. Having gone back on her word, she probably expected me to do the same.

But to my mind, the hyena-woman had done her part, exactly as I'd expected.

Ratsheek had betrayed me before and I expected her to do so again, and in the most dramatic means available to her. I'd taken note of that altar, that pile of skulls, and expected her to act as she had.

She probably didn't believe me when I said I couldn't change to animal form again that day. I didn't expect her to, not until she saw me keep my half-elf form when the pugwampi swarm attacked. She had no way of knowing that none of the creatures whose form I could take were small enough to squeeze through the passage between the waterfall's pool and the river beyond the pugwampi temple. She took me to the other side, just as I'd asked. So I would pay her agreed-upon wage, just as I'd promised, and I would hope she lived to collect it.

We were neither of us children, but Ratsheek was wrong about two things: First, I am no one's fool. And though I might pretend otherwise, a vow means something to me. When I give my word, I do my best to keep it.

But because I'm no fool, I don't expect anyone else to do the same.

Chapter Four: Gemstones

No river is more aptly named than the Asp. Fed by streams that slither down the north side of the Brazen Peaks, it is slim, twisty, and treacherous. Few boats of any size can venture close to the river's source, so I considered myself fortunate to find passage aboard a northbound palace barge.

Under most circumstances, I would not expect to encounter a royal pleasure boat so far south. But Prince Khemet III had been making his private fleet available to the foreign treasure hunters who flocked to Osirion. The latest band of adventurers had disembarked in the foothills an hour or two past, so my traveling companions were limited to a surly captain, a score of oarsmen, a few armed guards, and the three women who'd come along as entertainment.

I was taking a turn at the oars, not because it was expected of me but to spur rowers accustomed to a leisurely pace. We were nearing the confluence where two rivers, the Asp and the Crook, merged into the great River Sphinx. This was rough terrain, home to creatures I'd rather not encounter.

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood wafted into the shallow, flat-bottomed hold, heralding another creature I preferred to avoid. Suppressing a sigh, I cast a glance toward the stairs.

Lapis, a palace dancer and the apparent leader of the troupe of entertainers, came down the center aisle, jingling musically with each step. My gaze dropped to her feet. They were bare, but for the gold chains linking her toe rings to her ankle bracelets, from which hung several tiny golden bells.

"There you are, Channa Ti!"

Her words were rounded with delight, as if she'd happened upon a child's hiding place, and her painted lips curved in a smile of surpassing beauty. Lapis was all charm and warmth and light, unless you happened to notice the obsidian glint in those kohl-rimmed eyes. After two days in her company, I was starting to miss my last travel companion—Ratsheek, a treacherous hyenafolk bitch who, when we last parted, was trying to sacrifice me on a stone altar. At least hyenafolk don't pretend they're about to do you a favor when they reach for a knife.

The man I'd relieved was tossing dice with two of the guards. Lapis clapped her hands to get their attention, then gestured the oarsman back to his post. He scowled but offered no argument. What could he say? I was a paying passenger, a woman who'd taken it into her head to try her hand at rowing. And judging from the relief on the sweat-streaked faces of the other oarsman, they were not unhappy to see me go.

I yielded my place and followed Lapis up to the deck. We walked to the prow and stood for a few moments in silence, gazing out over the water and the vast tawny landscape that stretched out on either side. After a while she sent me a coy, sidelong glance.

"The oarsmen were hard pressed to keep pace with you. You must be very eager to reach Sothis."

I shrugged.

She waited until it became apparent that no further answer was forthcoming. "There are enough rowers," she said flatly. The tone sounded odd, coming from such sweetly smiling lips. "You don't have to work with the men."

"It passes the time."

"You should stay with the other women. When I couldn't find you, I was worried."

My eyebrows rose. "It is difficult to misplace someone on a pleasure barge."

Lapis's smile went brittle at the edges. "Not so difficult as you might think." She tipped her head toward the block of tiny, curtained chambers near the far end of the barge. "Ankara went to her room to avoid the midday sun, as usual, and I haven't seen her since."

"I can't imagine why you'd bother looking."

The words slipped out before I could consider them. Ankara was as spiteful as a wet cat and she had the light-fingered skill of a veteran pickpocket, but she was a member of Lapis's troupe. Still, I found it difficult to regret words that finally stole the smile from the dancer's face.

Lapis propped her hands on her hips and glared up at me. "Why do you think you're on this barge?"

"I paid for passage?"

Her response was a single derisive sniff. "The Ruby Prince has no need of your coins, nor do I. Think again, nifrani."

The answer was in the insult. Nifrani was the Osirian term for a particular type of bodyguard, trained fighters who served wealthy women and, on occasion, the pretty adolescent sons of high-caste families. The nifrani were eunuchs, drastically gelded not-men who disguised themselves in feminine clothing, the better to protect their charges' lives and virtue. A pretty, perfumed trifle like Lapis would probably consider comparison to a nifrani to be the worst insult one woman might offer another.

I burst out laughing, which only served to annoy Lapis further.

"Oh, I see," she said in a furious whisper. "Because I'm a dancer, because Vantiti plays the flute and Ankara sings and tumbles, you think we have no virtue to protect?"

"Actually, I found the insult amusing. But now that you mention it."

Lapis glanced away to meet the gaze of a passing guard. She returned his leer with a dignified nod and pointedly smoothed the deep blue silk of her gown.

The gesture held more significance than a stranger to Osirion could easily understand. Thanks to Prince Khemet III, the Ruby Prince, it was fashionable to name oneself after colored rocks. The dancer chose the name of a blue gemstone, one strictly reserved for royalty. She further emphasized her hands-off status by wearing lapis-hued gowns. It was a clever ploy, but I could see why she'd want less subtle protection than that afforded her by a gemstone name and bright blue clothing.

"As you can see," Lapis said quietly, "there are men on this barge who think of entertainers as you do. You are as tall as any of them, and you wear your weapons well. They will leave you alone. You will make sure they leave me alone."

I almost had to admire her thinking. "So I paid not for passage, but for the privilege of protecting you?"

Suddenly her charming smile was back, this time spiced with a hint of challenge. "Privilege? That might be putting it a bit high. But some people might consider this an opportunity, don't you think?"

"Some might," I admitted. "Most men, in fact, and no doubt more than a few women. As for me, I'd sooner befriend a nifrani. He'd be more man than you're ever likely to get, and more woman than you're ever likely to be."

She glared at me for a long moment, then turned away abruptly. "Come with me. If some harm has befallen Ankara, you will make sure I don't suffer the same fate. If we can't find her, we'll have to assume she went over the rail."

"Or we could figure out which men were last seen near her room and persuade them to explain what became of her."

That earned me a quick, sharp glance. "‘Persuade'?"

"Dangling a man over a few hungry crocodiles can be very persuasive."

Her incredulous stare demanded more.

"I am a druid. If need be, I can call crocodiles."

Lapis shook her head, not in denial but astonishment. "Not what I expected of a druid, but it might come to that."

We quickly searched the hold, moved storage bins, looked in every curtained room. There was no trace of the wretched woman anywhere.

"Are her possessions still in her room?" I asked.

Lapis looked startled, then chagrined. "I didn't think to check."

She flipped aside the curtain to one of the chambers. The room held a narrow, pillow-heaped cot and a small sea chest. I knelt beside the chest and flipped open the lid.

Immediately the air took on a charged, brittle energy, like that which precedes a lightning strike. The sensation was familiar; I'd last experienced it when my current employer's "pet" transformed from a miniature blue elephant into a hideous little imp.

In some distant part of my mind I was aware of the neatly folded clothes, the scent of perfumes and ointments. But my hand went unerringly to the source of the disturbance: a thin silver chain, from which hung a single opal, a smooth orb about the size of a very large pearl.

I regarded the pendant for a moment, then raised my other hand to cup the gem. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lapis start to throw out a restraining hand.

Interesting.

"There's more to Lapis than meets the eye."

The opal felt strangely weighty in my palm. I glanced over at Lapis in time to catch the narrow-eyed speculation on her face.

She quickly rearranged her expression into a rueful smile. "You were right. Ankara is gone. She must have slipped ashore with the Vudrani treasure hunters. She took her best things, and probably a few that belonged to other people as well. The pendant is mine."

As she reached to claim it, a shout of alarm went up from the deck. Lapis snatched the gem from me and darted toward the prow. She pushed her way between the captain and one of the guards and leaned over the rail to look, then whirled to gesture frantically for me.

In the river ahead rose several glistening black humps. Seven or eight enormous hippopotami swam steadily toward the barge. They were spaced out so that the barge would have to swerve hard to miss them. The river was shallow here, so whatever direction the captain chose, we would likely run aground.

"Talk to them!" Lapis shrieked, pointing toward the behemoths. "Channa, you must make them
give way!"

My affinity for water creatures extends to the hippopotami, but only faintly. I closed my eyes and reached out to touch the animals' minds, expecting to encounter the familiar vast, dull stubbornness lit by lightning-flashes of temper. What I found instead sent a shock of alarm racing through me.

The captain edged Lapis out of his way and reached for the bell pull to relay an order. I seized his wrist to stop him.

"Keep to the deep water," I urged. "Go right over those things, as fast as the oarsmen can take us."

He jerked his hand away from my grasp. "Are you insane? Hitting just one river horse could sink the barge. The rest would tear my men apart before they could swim ashore."

"Those aren't hippos."

"Of course they're—"

He broke off, squinted at the approaching bloat of hippos. Indecision rippled over his face.

"Channa is a druid," Lapis said. "She'd know. Do as she says, and do it now."

Perhaps the captain had endured too many commands from the dancer to follow one that made good sense. Perhaps he had little regard for the opinions of druids. Whatever the case, he scowled, seized the bell pull, and gave it three hard tugs. In response, the portside oars lifted high and hung there, dripping, while the starboard oars bit deep and hard. Twice, three times they pulled. The barge spun to the right and shot toward the shore. The dull hard scrape of the flat bottom against sand sent us all staggering.

The "hippos" changed course to follow us aground. Rounded black humps flipped aside to reveal small boats filled with armed men. The river pirates splashed into the shallow water and swarmed the barge.

Two of the guards seized bows and started to pick off the attackers. The oarsmen boiled up from the hold, armed with long knives. They met the pirates with ferocity and skill, as one might expect of men entrusted with the prince's safety. What did surprise me, however, was Lapis.

The delicate little dancer howled like an enraged baboon as she ran to meet one of the river pirates. Leaping into the air, she twisted her body so that it was nearly parallel to the deck. Her lower foot slammed into the pirate's shoulder as the heel of her upper foot kicked back, catching his chin and wrenching it hard the other way. The crack of bone was audible even over the noise of battle.

Lapis landed in a crouch and thrust one leg out to sweep the feet from under another pirate. He stumbled and went down on one knee. Before he could regain his balance, I seized a handful of hair, jerked his head back, and cut his throat.

The dancer shouted a warning. I spun, reached up to grasp the wrist of a man who held his knife high for a down-stabbing attack. My own knife angled up between his ribs, hard and deep enough to grate against his spine.

Another pirate charged me, lofting a curved sword and howling promises of vengeance. The man I'd just killed began to slump forward. I tugged at my knife, but it was firmly, fatally stuck.

Up leaped Lapis. She pivoted on one foot and kicked high, pushing the dead man off my knife.

I ducked beneath the first wild sword-swing of my latest attacker and thrust my knife into the soft flesh just under his belt. He bellowed like a gelded bull as I rolled aside, tearing the blade free as I went.

He still might have killed me, if not for the dancer. She kicked over my head—I could feel the swift rush of wind, the brush of golden bells against my headscarf. His blade clattered to the deck, and his hand flopped limply from a new joint between wrist and elbow. Incredibly, the pirate drew a long knife from his belt with his remaining hand and kept coming.

Lapis hooked one bare foot under the sword and flicked it toward me. I caught it by the hilt and brought it up in a sweeping backhand slash that sent the pirate's knife—and the hand holding it—spinning away to splash into the water.

The pirate's fierce gaze held mine as he stumbled back through the pool of his own blood. He stood leaning heavily to one side in a way that made me wonder if he intended to emulate the dancer's foot-fighting. But the mad light of vengeance suddenly left his eyes, and he went down like a felled tree.

By then the battle had wound down to a few small skirmishes and the pragmatic work of dispatching wounded pirates. Several members of the crew were dragging the pirates' bodies ashore to leave them for the jackals. The rest were waist-deep in water, their shoulders braced against the barge's side as they slowly, slowly pushed it back toward the deeper waters.

Lapis had arranged herself prettily on the deck and was making a show of fussing with the bells on her ankle bracelets. Our gazes caught and held.

"Tell me again," I said coldly, "how you need me to protect you from the crew."

The rest of the journey passed without incident. Lapis stopped seeking me out, stopped asking me coy and careful questions. Even so, I left the barge at the first opportunity and bought passage on a smaller, swifter boat.

The approach to Sothis never failed to impress. Busy marketplaces, miniature cities of brightly colored tents, offered goods from a hundred ports. Beyond the portside markets lush gardens surrounded buildings of white marble. But the greatest marvel was the glistening black dome, the carapace of a long-dead scarab of a size that was almost beyond comprehension. In past centuries, the people of northern Osirion had taken refuge from sand storms beneath that shell. Now it was the centerpiece of the royal city.

I strode along the footpath of the Crimson Canal, a man-made river that brought fresh water into the carapace. Mansions, each with its own small oasis, filled this part of the city. Magical lights glistened everywhere, land-bound stars against an obsidian sky. It was beautiful, I suppose, and certainly luxurious, but to my mind, there were better places to live than inside a dead bug.

Gham Banni, my Pathfinder venture-captain, liked the carapace well enough. I hurried to the library that he called home and found it strangely silent. I'd stayed there often enough throughout my years as a Pathfinder to know that people came and went at all hours. Gham was a noted scholar, famed for his generosity with his time, his knowledge, and his collection of rare books and scrolls.

I banged on the locked door for a long time before a servant came to admit me. One glance at her white-veiled face sent my heart plummeting. In Osirion, white was the color of mourning.

"Gham Banni?"

"It seems I've caught up to Janu after all..."

The woman nodded.

I thrust both hands into my hair, for once not caring that doing so knocked my headscarf aside. Gham Banni had never seemed to notice my elven ears, my strangely mixed heritage.

"When?"

"The night of the full moon," she said in a hoarse whisper.

For a long moment I stared at her, too stunned for words. The death of my venture-captain was a deeply unpleasant surprise, but this—this was impossible. In two days, the moon would be full again.

"But I have a letter from him, a letter written and dated several days past the last moon." I pulled the piece of tightly rolled, pale green parchment from my bag and waved it at her like a condemned man brandishing proof of his innocence.

In response, the servant pointed to the open door of Gham Banni's study. A stack of similar parchment sat on his writing table, awaiting the quill of one of his scribes. Her implication was obvious.

"It has his seal," I protested, unrolling the parchment and showing her the old bard's sigil. "This is from his signet ring, which can never be removed from his hand. How do you explain that?"

By now my voice had risen to a shout. I knew I was being unreasonable. Gham's death was no fault of this servant, nor was the puzzle in my hand. But grief, mixed with a creeping sense that things were profoundly wrong, pushed me far beyond the point of caring.

The servant brushed aside her veil, revealing a young, pretty, and far too familiar face.

Lapis.

I reached for my knife. What part the dancer might have had in my venture-captain's death I did not know, but if she aimed that sweet and mocking smile at me I would cut her lips from her face.

She held up one hand, a dignified gesture that was also strangely familiar.

"My true name is Tannabit Banni," she said softly. "Gham was my grandfather. I will take you to him, and then I will answer all your questions."

Lapis—that was the only name I could give her—surprised me by heading down the hall and toward the back stairs. I'd expected her to lead me to an embalmer's workshop. Gham Banni was rich and important enough to warrant skilled embalming.

The wine cellar had been emptied, but for a long table and a shelf holding embalming tools and several small, ornate jars. My gaze slid off them quickly. While I was gratified to see that an embalmer had been summoned, I did not like to think of my venture-captain as a collection of desiccated organs.

The figure laid out on the table was no easier to behold. Gham was old and thin as a sparrow, but this wizened husk bore no resemblance to the man I'd known.

My eye fell upon the leather-wrapped sticks that had once been arms, crossed over the dead man's chest. The skeletal fingers of one hand were decked with Gham Banni's finest rings. The other hand, and the signet ring it always wore, was missing.

Understanding came to me then, swiftly followed by wrath. Whoever had done this was as good as dead.

I lifted my gaze to Lapis's eyes and saw similar resolve burning there.

"You didn't kill him," she said. "I had to be sure."

This should have angered me, but I understood her meaning all too well. I had access to Gham's libraries and I knew of his interest in the lost city of Xanchara. I was a Pathfinder and a druid with a special affinity to water. Few people were better suited than I to the task of finding and looting a drowned city. It would be an easy thing for me to steal an ancient map and use it to convince a treasure-hunting cleric to fund a search for a divine relic.

I would not fault her for holding me responsible, with or without evil intent on my part. Only a letter from Gham Banni would have persuaded me to take Vanir Shornish's quest as my own. Only Gham's death would make such a letter possible.

"Is Vanir Shornish still alive?"

She blinked, clearly surprised by my question. "Why would I kill him? He is a tool, just as you have been."

Before I could respond, she turned away and touched the cellar wall in three places. Stone grated against stone as a block slid away to reveal a hidden place. Lapis reached into it and drew out the opal I'd found in Ankara's sea chest.

"Look closely at the gem."

I took the bauble and held it up to the flickering light of an oil lamp. The surface was glossy, reflecting colors like any fine opal, but upon closer examination I realized the gem was hollow.

A tiny, hideous face suddenly appeared, magnified and distorted by the curve of the gem. I flinched away, startled, then leaned in for a closer look. Tiny blue fists beat soundlessly against the inner walls of the prison. This was Janu, the imp-thing the Night Heralds had sent to spy on Vanir Shornish.

"The imp came looking for you the first night after you came aboard the barge," Lapis explained. "At the time, I couldn't know if the creature was your enemy or your ally. I imprisoned it in this gem. It was designed to capture creatures of evil."

I remembered the look on her face when I first reached for the gem, the way she'd flung out a cautioning hand to warn me away. The implication was that touch alone would cause an evil person to be sucked into the magical gem. That fit with the suspicions she'd held of me at the time. But it did not fit with certain other things.

"And you captured Ankara as well, though that was not your intent?"

The dancer's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. "I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty about that. After all, it would appear that she stole the gem from me, and she was a truly horrible person. Even so..."

Her voice trailed off, and the distant, troubled look in her eyes told me she was imagining Ankara's fate at the hands of an angry imp.

I was envisioning something rather different: the contents of Ankara's half-filled sea chest, neatly arranged so the gem was visible once the lid was opened. If Ankara had stolen the gem, thus sentencing herself to death at the hands of the angry imp imprisoned therein, how did the gem find its way into her sea chest? I suppose it was possible that she'd first touched the gem itself while standing over her open sea chest. But assuming that was what had transpired, who had shut the lid?

"Ankara drank the ale she brewed," I said briskly. And no doubt that was true. If she did sneak ashore with the last group of treasure hunters, as I suspected, the pampered musician would find the road to riches far longer and less pleasant than a cruise on a pleasure barge. "Forget about Ankara. What comes next?"

The dancer's gaze returned to my face and to the moment at hand. "I am my grandfather's heir," she said with quiet dignity. "It is fitting that his wealth and his wisdom be used to find his killer. Do you have my grandfather's map?"

I nodded. Until today, I had not considered that the whaleskin map might have belonged to Gham Banni. He had spoken of such things, yes, but as objects of great and inherent evil. Still, it was not beyond possibility that he would possess such a thing. He collected lore about the lost city of Xanchara. He might even have kept the map for no other reason than to safeguard it from men who were prompted by a lust for power rather than respect for knowledge.

"Good," Lapis said briskly. "We will set sail tomorrow at first light. What you have come for, you will find. We will use it to lure the people who sent you on this quest, and then we will kill them."

Her straightforward manner appealed to me, and her plan, as far as it went, mirrored my own. Later, perhaps, I would find reason for regret, but I am never one to linger overlong over a course of action. And what sort of woman could stand over the body of her mentor and not vow to avenge his murder?

"Agreed."

I spat in my hand and held it out. Lapis echoed my pledge. Her small hand was firm in mine, and for the first time the cold, obsidian resolve in her eyes did not seem out of place on her pretty, painted face. I'm never wholly comfortable with alliances, but I knew to the marrow of my bones that this woman would not betray our joint cause.

At least, not today.

Appendix: Osirian Pleasure Barges

In a nation as dry as Osirion, where water rights and access frequently mean the difference between affluence and poverty, it's little wonder that water itself has come to symbolize wealth in the subtle games of the nobility.

From massive bathing chambers to sculpted fountains, ostentation through the use of water is everywhere in Osirion, but nowhere is it quite as iconic as in the case of pleasure barges. Begun as a means of transporting pharaohs in style and comfort, these long, rowed galleys are incredibly ornate and differ from many ships in that, rather than having multiple decks and cabins, they bear large wooden awnings and are subdivided into smaller compartments via curtains and canvas. In this way they're able to provide shade for their occupants while still allowing any breeze from the river to keep them cool.

While the Ruby Prince still maintains the grandest specimens, pleasure barges today are no longer strictly the domain of pharaohs, and countless merchants enjoy traveling slowly up and down the nation's rivers in their floating palaces, entertained by musicians and acrobats and quietly displaying their power to guests and onlookers.

Chapter Five: When Mermaids Laugh

It is my opinion that anyone who follows a treasure map is a fool. Any treasure map at all, never mind a map created by a race of half-women who delight in luring seafarers to their destruction. In all my years among adventurers whose heads were filled with more dreams than wisdom, I've yet to encounter anyone foolish enough to follow such a map.

Yet here I stood, map in hand, poised on the starboard rail of the Blue Manatee and preparing to dive into the Inner Sea.

"Why do you hesitate?"

I glanced down at the small, blue-clad woman standing on the deck, shifting impatiently from one bare foot to the other.

"Another whale's coming up."

Lapis's shoulder rose and fell in a heavy sigh. "This is the Sandusky Shoal. There will always be another whale coming."

"This one's too close."

I pointed to a nearby patch of darkening sea. My new "partner's" eyes widened as the creature's huge, glossy back broke the surface. Its blowhole opened with a distinct popping sound. A long stream of spray rose into the air, so close that some of the fetid mist drifted over the deck. I hopped down from the rail as my four shipmates—Lapis and three of Gham Banni's most trusted servants—reached for mast or rail to brace for what was to come.

A whale can breathe its fill of air in less than two beats of a coward's heart. My feet had barely touched the deck before its white-fluted tail flipped into the air, tossing a swell of water toward the Manatee.

The wave started too close and came too quickly to pass harmlessly under the little ship. It slammed against the hull, sending spray arcing over the deck. We held on, feet sliding on the wet wood as the portside rail rolled dangerously close to the sea. The ship righted, but rocked for several stomach-churning minutes before she found her balance.

I waited until the Manatee calmed before speaking my piece. "You say there's a shipwreck here and I'm willing to look, if for no other reason than to prove you wrong. The shoal is a known feeding ground for whales. Ship captains avoid it."

"I agreed to help you find the Reliquary of the Drowned God," Lapis reminded me. "And you agreed to follow my directions."

I shook the whaleskin parchment at her. "This is the map of a city. There's nothing beneath these waves but sand, gravel, eels, and the whales that eat them."

Lapis folded her arms and glared. "The captain of the Starseeker thought otherwise."

This new bit of information set me back on my heels. Lapis had not mentioned the name of the sunken ship before now, but it was a name I knew. Gham Banni, my Pathfinder venture-captain and Lapis's grandsire, has spoken of it when reminiscing about youthful misadventures with his cousin, a man he'd described as having more ambition than conscience. The Starseeker had gone down north of the Swells of Gozreh, and Gham had been the only man to reach shore alive.

"Tell me."

Lapis began to toy with her jewelry, a sure sign that she was busily collecting her thoughts. She absently fingered the large opal pendant hanging over her heart—a pretty thing, if you didn't know it could swallow monsters. My distaste must have shown on my face, because she snatched her hand away from the opal and began to twist one of her rings, a circlet of gold inlaid with bright blue bits of her namesake stone.

"The object you seek, the Reliquary of the Drowned God? My grandfather found it years ago. He had it with him on the Starseeker."

I took a moment to absorb the implications of this. "But if the Reliquary was lost with the ship, why didn't he retrieve it? He could have sent Pathfinders here years ago. He could have sent me, for that matter."

Lapis shrugged. "My grandfather's goal was obscuring the Reliquary's location, not revealing it. Perhaps he considered it well enough where it was."

"Then why are we here?"

Her gaze met mine, challenge for challenge. "My grandfather did what he thought best under the circumstances he knew. He would expect me to do the same. The Night Heralds are looking for the Reliquary. They will not give up until they find it, or until they are destroyed."

I could fault neither her reasoning nor her goal. Many people in Osirion looked to the stars, but the Night Heralds sought the cold, silent places between—the mysterious realm known as the Dark Tapestry. Their purpose was to summon the inhabitants of the void, monstrous creatures that would grant them power and position. It would appear that the Reliquary played some part in this goal. If we wanted to catch the men who'd murdered Gham Banni, we needed the Reliquary to bait the hook.

Still, an important question remained unanswered. "Why does the map portray a city?"

"It's not important." Lapis raised a hand sharply, halting the retort ready to spring off the edge of my tongue. "It isn't about the city. Take the map and walk to the other side of the ship. You will understand."

At that moment, the notion of putting distance between Lapis and me held great appeal. I stalked across the ship to the portside rail—

And then I felt it: a faint, insistent tug drawing me back to the starboard side.

"The map lures seafarers to this spot," I realized. No wonder I was willing to dive into the sea to seek a shipwreck I didn't believe existed. No wonder I'd been so restless on my sea journey from Katapesh, so eager to speed northward on the trip up the River Sphinx. "It's the magic in the map that matters. What's written on it is meaningless."

"Not entirely." Lapis took the parchment from me and skimmed her fingers over some of the runes bordering the map. "The language is ancient—only a very few can read it properly—but most scholars would recognize this as ‘Xanchara.' A city map that mentions a legendary lost city? Who could resist?"

Not my former venture-captain, apparently.

I reclaimed the map, rolled it, and tucked it into a bag attached to my weapon belt. Additional daggers were strapped to my thighs, but other than weapons I wore only a brief undergarment and the long blue scarf Lapis had lent me to wrap around my chest. For a palace dancer, she was surprisingly circumspect about such matters.

As I turned to the rail, Lapis reached out and touched my arm. "Wait. There's something you should know."

My eyebrows leaped in feigned surprise. "You've been keeping something from me? I'm shocked and disillusioned."

She heaved another long-suffering sigh. "There might be a mermaid about. Be careful."

With difficulty, I managed not to laugh in her face. She might as well have warned me that dumping chum into the sea was likely to draw seagulls. We were carrying a mermaid-crafted map. Of course there would be mermaids about.

I vaulted over the rail and dropped feet-first into the sea. The rush of water against my skin was like a homecoming. My half-elf form dissolved, revealing a creature better suited to the sea.

I had never taken on shark form before. The transformation proved to be far more difficult than I'd expected. For several moments I clung to the surface, swimming in circles as the thoughts and memories of Channa Ti, half-elf, struggled to forge pathways through that alien, implacable brain.

A druid's animal transformation is seldom as easy as it appears. An animal's body and brain must act according to its nature yet obey the druid's will. The druid must embrace the animal but not lose herself to it. It is a delicate balance, a line easily crossed. Once I felt confident that half-elf and shark were on speaking terms, I dived deep.

"The sea elves have little patience for uninvited guests."

The Sandusky Shoal was an underwater plateau, so the water here was relatively shallow. Other than the occasional strand of seaweed that brushed against my rough hide and the eel burrows that pockmarked the coarse sand of the sea floor, there was nothing to be seen.

But the shark didn't need to see. There was blood in the water, and that's all it needed to know.

I was swimming toward the taste of blood before I realized the choice had been made. As I rounded a thicket of seaweed, the sodden corpse of the Starseeker came into view.

The old ship was surprisingly small. It listed heavily to one side, with the bottom turned toward me. A few strips of tattered sails clung to the mast and riggings, undulating lazily in concert with the seaweed.

My approach was slow and cautious. If a mermaid was lying in wait, she would probably hide amid the ship's wreckage, spear in hand. The smallest nick of one webbed finger would provide enough blood to bait the trap. What a map is to a treasure hunter, a blood trail is to a shark. A canny hunter knows the best bait for any prey.

Giving the ship a wide berth, I circled. The far side of the ship had rotted away; there was no place for a mermaid to hide. And the taste of blood—eel blood, perhaps?—was already fading away.

Still, there was evidence that a mermaid had lain in wait here once before. I could tell at a glance that no storm had sunk this ship.

A single plank was missing from the Starseeker's underside. I found it not far from the ship, a rope woven from sea fibers still attached to one end. The other end was a mass of splinters where it had torn free of the ship. The hull was clinker-built, with overlapping planks. Most likely the mermaid had pried one end of the plank loose, looped the rope around it, and let the momentum of the ship do the rest. I followed the rope for several meters to where it disappeared into the seabed—probably tied to a rock formation that time and tides had buried beneath the sand.

I swam back to the ship and peered into the wreckage. There was only one cabin below deck, and the sea chest in it had been chained to the floor. As I nosed at the chest, skeletal fingers rose from behind it and reached for my snout.

Instinct—shark and half-elven both—had me darting out of the hold. But the bony arm floated free, devoid of purpose or intent. No undead guardian this, but a fragment of a drowned crewman whose resting place I'd disturbed.

It seemed likely that the Reliquary, if it was still here, would be in that chest. In my shark form, I couldn't hope to retrieve it.

I changed back to the form I was born with. Working quickly, I used a dagger to pry the chest's hinges free of the half-rotted wood and then pushed the lid aside. Inside the chest were the usual treasures of a scholar: books, scrolls, a few garments. Seawater had ruined all of it. The only object worth taking was a small, coffin-shaped box. I ran my fingers over the surface. It was alternately smooth and studded, suggesting an inlay of jewels. This had to be the Reliquary.

I tugged open my bag. Before I could stow the Reliquary, the map floated out, slowly unfurling in the water. Faint, greenish light rose from it and spilled out into the dark.

As I snatched the map, I noticed that glow came from the markings tattooed on the whaleskin parchment. This made good sense, ensuring that the map could be read in dark water. But what was written there made no sense whatsoever.

The city map was gone. In its place was an eerie, angular sketch of a mermaid, her face twisted with malicious glee. The runes hinting of the legendary Xanchara had likewise changed into a script that looked vaguely elven.

There was no time to explore this mystery. Even in my natural half-elf form I could dive deeper and stay underwater longer than most land-dwellers, but my time was growing short.

I stuffed the map into my bag and pulled the ties shut. Up through the water I glided, blowing a slow, steady stream of bubbles as I went.

Strong hands seized my ankles and jerked me back toward the sea floor.

The sudden attack surprised me into releasing a burst of air. I quickly recovered and drew a dagger from my thigh sheath. Before I could twist myself down and around, a second attacker captured the wrist of my weapon hand in a crushing grip.

The dagger fell from my benumbed hand, and for a moment I stared into the face of the strangest elf I had ever seen.

Tattoos swirled across the angles of his stern face and down his torso. His hair was slightly curly, and cut as short as mine. The hand gripping my wrist was large and strong, and the fingers webbed. Gills scored the sides of his neck.

I knew sea elves existed, but despite my half-elf heritage and my druidic affinity for water, I'd never expected to encounter one. I certainly never expected this overwhelming sense of... recognition? Kinship?

A low, grinding creak sounded beneath me and suddenly, impossibly, we were sinking below the sea's floor.

The light was better here, almost as bright as the near-surface. At a gesture from the elf who held my wrist, my other captor released my ankles and swam away.

A nearby crash and clatter drew my eyes to a large cage, which was suspended from the underside of the "sea floor" with several familiar-looking, sea-fiber ropes. In the cage was a mermaid, darting from side to side and testing the bars with slams from her powerful tail.

Some echo of the shark's brain stirred in the back of my mind, and I remembered the taste of blood in the water. The mermaid must have caught my scent as well, because her frenzy abruptly ceased. The creature's gaze slid off me and lingered on my elven captor. A wicked smile curved the mermaid's lips and exploded into silent, malicious laughter.

I thought of the altered map, but only in passing. My chest was starting to burn, and the desire to gulp in water was growing too strong to ignore. Desperately I twisted in the sea elf's grip—

The sight spread out below me stopped me cold. A new pain enveloped me, but I did not wish it away. Some sights are too beautiful, some longings too poignant, to be experienced with unmixed pleasure.

There was a city beneath the Sandusky Shoal, but not the ruins of ancient Xanchara. This was a living, vibrant place. Curving towers appeared to have been grown, not built, and the gardens surrounding them made the courtyards of Osirian palaces look as pale and lifeless as desert sand. Distant, graceful forms moved among these wonders, and glowing sea creatures blinked like jungle fire-bugs, bathing the scene in ever-shifting light.

I caught a glimpse, no more, before my vision began to turn narrow and gray.

My captor, sensing that I was beaten, relaxed his grip. Lapis's scarf had come unbound during my struggles. Summoning the last of my strength, I grabbed the scarf and looped it around the sea elf's neck. A frantic tug pulled it tight, holding his gills shut.

Now he needed air as badly as I did.

I'm sure we struggled. All I remembered is rising together through that door, toward the air and light of the surface world. Whatever it is that makes me Channa Ti was fading away, but some distant corner of my mind remembered the crocodile whose form I sometimes borrowed. A crocodile, once it takes hold, is not easily shaken off.

We broke the surface of the water together. I dragged in several long, ragged breaths before I realized I still had the sea elf in a stranglehold. Somehow I'd worked my way around so that I was pressed tightly against his back, the scarf knotted around his neck.

"Things are not as they seem," I said, speaking in the elven tongue. "If I release you, will you hear me out?"

For a moment I thought he did not understand. Then it occurred to me that the scarf was too tight to allow speech. I loosened my grip.

"I will listen," the sea elf said.

His voice was deep and pleasant, surprisingly musical considering his near-strangulation. I released him and back-paddled away. As he turned to face me, a net spun out over the water.

There was no time to call a warning. The net dropped over the elf. I could hear Lapis direct the men to drag the merman aboard.

Merman?

With a resigned sigh, I began to swim after the struggling sea elf. I wasn't sure which would be harder to overcome: my apparent betrayal, or Lapis's insult.

I caught the rope Lapis threw me and pulled myself over the rail. The three crewmen had dragged the sea elf aboard, still entangled in the net. They stood guard, whale harpoons in hand.

"Cut him loose."

Lapis whirled toward me. "Channa, have you lost your mind?"

"I can still tell a sea elf from a mermaid, if that's what you're asking."

To my surprise, the sea elf's lips twitched. Apparently he'd picked up a bit of Osiriani. That made things easier.

I locked gazes with the elf. "A mermaid laid an ambush for me. This sea elf fought the creature. Such treatment is no way to repay him. I'll only say this one more time: cut him loose."

Lapis seethed for a moment before conceding with a nod. One of the crewmembers cut the drawstring ropes and loosened the net. I motioned for the other two to put aside the harpoons. They ignored me. I gave up and took the map from my bag as the elf disentangled himself.

As I expected, some of the ink was faded and running. The city map was still faintly visible in the bright daylight, but only as a ghostly image imposed over the leering, mocking face of the mermaid.

"You were meant to kill me," I told the sea elf, speaking in the language of our common ancestors. "The mermaid wanted to watch you do it. And after you'd played her game, you were meant to find this."

I handed him the map. His eyes widened. I watched as understanding came, as wrath kindled in his eyes and hardened into cold, bloody vengeance. I understood the feeling well.

"So much for fabled Xanchara."

Finally he glanced up. "You told the human I saved your life."

"I implied it. There's a difference."

He conceded this with a quick flip of one hand. "Mistake me not—if my people are threatened, I will kill without hesitation."

"I offer no threat to your people."

"Then what of this map? What did you think to find?"

"The people who killed my—" I broke off, trying to find a word in the elven tongue that would serve the concept of venture-captain. None came to mind, so I started again. "I'm seeking the people who killed my chieftain."

His face darkened. "If you accuse the sea folk—"

"No. Humans killed him to trick me into following that map. I would kill them for that alone. Like you, I don't take kindly to being used as a weapon."

The sea elf glanced at the mocking face on the map and conceded my point with a nod. "And did you find what they wanted you to find?"

He meant the city, of course. I reached into the bag and pulled out the Reliquary.

It was a surprisingly pretty thing, fashioned from ebony and set with bright chips of lapis lazuli, emerald, and garnet. The elf took the box and lifted the lid. He tipped it so I could see the contents—a bit of carved bone—and raised one eyebrow in silent inquiry.

"The men who killed my chieftain are priests. They consider this a holy relic, and they place great value on it—higher than the value they place on a good man's life."

"Then I wish you good hunting and swift vengeance." As the sea elf handed me the box, he leaned in close and said in softer tones, "You did not tell the woman everything you saw."

The image of the sea elf city flooded my mind, and for a moment I relived both the beauty and the longing. Something of this must have shown on my face, because the elf's stern expression eased.

"Where humans are concerned," I said softly, "some things are better left unspoken."

"Then we will not meet again." His gaze flicked over to Lapis and the crew, including them in the question.

"No," I promised. "We will not."

I stood at the rail long after the sea elf had disappeared beneath the waves, sorting through the day's events and trying to make sense of the task before me.

No easy task, for a mind so clouded with anger as mine.

Gham Banni had been a great scholar. Thanks to his lifelong study into the lore of lost Xanchara, he knew more of the secrets hidden by Golarion's seas than any land-dweller I'd ever met. If he was aware of the sea elf city hidden under the Sandusky Shoal, if he knew where the mermaid-crafted map led, then he had found not only the perfect hiding place for the Reliquary, but also the perfect unwitting guardians.

In his own way, he was no better than the mermaids.

And what of the sea elves? What if that accursed map had brought to this place a force greater than the sea elves could turn aside?

For once, Lapis held her tongue and let me think in peace. But she could contain herself for only so long, and after a while she sidled up beside me and reached for the Reliquary. I slapped her hand away and picked up the bit of bone.

"Look at this," I said, turning it this way and that to show her the details. The hollow within was stained with ink. An ebony cap closed one end, and the other had a narrow groove carved into the rim. And the carving was a tiny form of a familiar sigil—a version of the sigil Gham Banni wore on the ring his murderers had stolen.

"A pen handle," I concluded, handing the bone to Lapis. "Somehow I would have thought Gham Banni would treat a relic of a dead god with a little more respect."

She examined it and shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Why did the Starseeker go down here?"

If the quick shift in direction puzzled Lapis, she gave no sign. She gestured to a breaching whale. "As you pointed out, navigating among feeding whales is no easy thing."

"I doubt whales had anything to do with it. If the Starseeker's crew learned they were following a mermaid-crafted map, they would have mutinied."

Lapis's mouth formed a little O of surprise, and she seized the arm of a passing crewman. "Doram, is that true?"

The man hesitated only a moment. "It is, Lady Banni. Had I known you carried such a map, nothing could have persuaded me to set sail."

She absently waved him on his way. "Well, you might be right, Channa. The map belonged to Shaffir Banni, my grandfather's cousin. My grandfather told me that both he and his cousin survived the shipwreck, but Shaffir died before their lifeboat reached shore."

"Usually any man carrying such a map would be killed. Instead, the crew set him adrift, and Gham with him. I think Gham Banni saw the ship go down. I think he knew full well no whale was responsible. And so," I added, "do you."

Lapis threw up her hands. "Alright, yes, Gham saw the mermaid, and yes, he told me it brought the ship down. I knew there might still be a lair hereabouts. But I did warn you. I told you to look out for mermaids."

"Yes. Thank you. That was very helpful."

She made an angry, sputtering sound and flounced off. I turned back to the sea to hide my smile. By now I'd figured out that Lapis, though adept at side-stepping truth and setting up small, deliberate misunderstandings, would not tell an outright lie. She truly did not know that sea elves, not mermaids, had scuttled the Starseeker.

I could let her live.

Appendix: A Note On Merfolk

A reclusive people, most merfolk communities avoid other races—particularly air-breathing ones—being well acquainted with the dangers posed by those not of their kind. Whether facing murder and slavery at the fins of fierce sahuagin raiders, kidnapping by curious sailors from the world above, or rampages by any number of monstrosities roused from their watery abysses, the merfolk have learned how to keep themselves hidden and, thus, safe from intruders. While this makes many prejudiced, even violent, against outsiders, some remain fascinated with other races. Such interests often prove difficult to maintain, though, as the underwater communities of merfolk tend to be so well guarded or hidden from outsiders that few encounters, either violent or friendly, ever occur. Noted here are three storied merfolk communities, told of in the tales of sailors and those few who have explored the depths of the sea.

Chosovosei: Small by the standards of the world above, but a true merfolk city nonetheless, this trench community lies about 350 miles northwest of Hermea. While the merfolk maintain aloof but peaceful relations with the elves of the Mordant Spire, they live in fear of the krakens of the Endless Eye, to whom they pay outlandish seasonal offerings.

Jehyseel of Fire Tide: The merfolk community of Jehyseel lies within a forest of stinging anemones deep within the Obari Ocean. The merfolk are quite adept at dealing with the anemones and can reliably treat their often deadly stings—through they rarely do for those not of their kind. The merfolk even possess a great shell trumpet, known as the Ohncov, that causes the plant-like hunters to retract their tendrils, revealing the town below should it be required.

Stormshoal: A merfolk fortress perched at the edge of the Eye of Abendego, this citadel of coral and colorful stone drifts above the sea bottom, constantly lashed by the stormy waters yet moored in place by the grasping lengths of a field of massive seaweed fronds. The merfolk within live a nearly hermetic life, for the swift-moving and murky waters endlessly churned by the storm make it just as difficult to leave the fortress as it is to enter.

Chapter Six: The Drowned God

The city of Totras strolled past at a leisurely pace, framed by the silk-draped window of the litter I shared with Lapis. In my opinion, a gilded box carried on the shoulders of six tall, brawny men was a ridiculous way to travel. But according to Lapis, visitors to Vanir Shornish's mansion were expected to arrive in style. Anything less might attract notice.

"We'd get there sooner if we got down and walked," I grumbled.

The palace dancer propped her small, bare feet on the pillow beside me and smiled charmingly. "What sort of warrior keeps her weapons sheathed?"

Lapis's foot-fighting skills were impressive, so I let her dubious logic pass unremarked. I glanced out the window and caught a glimpse of Totras's most famed landmark—an enormous red granite statue of some long-dead pharaoh, staring impassively over the harbor.

"We'll be there soon. Some things must be said."

Lapis's smile faltered. She gave a cautious nod.

"Vanir Shornish is expecting me to bring him the Reliquary of the Drowned God." I passed a small, jeweled box from one hand to another, as if weighing it in some unseen scale. "This fits that description perfectly. It's shaped like a coffin, and it's certainly fine enough to hold a relic. There was even a piece of bone in it."

"Yes? So?"

"So it's a lie."

She sat up straight, genuine affront on her pretty face. "I do not lie, and neither did my grandfather!"

"Not directly, maybe, but dancing around the truth seems to be a family tradition. Take this box, for example."

I flipped open the lid and showed her the round indentation carved into the thick wooden bottom. "This was designed to hold a sphere of some sort. There are a few body parts fitting that description, but none of them make long-lasting relics. One might therefore conclude that this box is not the Reliquary Vanir is seeking."

Lapis folded her arms, tucked her feet under her skirts, and sulked for several moments.

"That's true," she admitted at last. "But if we hope to find the people who my killed my grandfather, we needed to follow the mermaid-crafted map as they expected, and we needed to find something."

"And what if there were nothing to find?"

"I knew there was," she admitted. "I wouldn't have risked sailing the Sandusky Shoal, otherwise."

I clenched my teeth and wrestled down the temptation to fling the box at Lapis's head. "Tell me everything."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. "When my grandfather was a young man, he and his cousin, Shoffir Banni, collected artifacts and lore associated with the legendary city of Xanchara. For years theirs was a friendly rivalry, but Shoffir... changed. He became ambitious, obsessed with finding the Reliquary of the Drowned God, a powerful magical item thought to have been lost with the city. My grandfather knew it was not in Xanchara when the city disappeared into the sea. He knew it could be found, and he became concerned about what Shoffir would do if he found it."

"And what, exactly, might that be?"

Lapis shook a finger at me. "Story first, then questions. When Shoffir showed Gham the whale-skin map, Gham realized what the map was, where it led, and what the likely outcome of the voyage would be."

"Death to Shoffir and anyone unfortunate enough to sail with him."

"Yes," she said, confirming my grim assessment without a single bat of her painted lashes. "So of course, he encouraged Shoffir to go."

"Of course." I silently vowed to remind myself of this moment if ever I'm troubled by my own lack of family.

"But Shoffir, suspicious, invited him to come along. Gham agreed, believing that keeping Shoffir from finding the Reliquary was a worthwhile cause in which to die."

This was where the story joined paths with that I knew. "But the crew discovered the map. They mutinied and set Shoffir and Gham adrift in a small boat, but not soon enough." I paused for a grim smile. "The ship was scuttled by mermaids, probably the very mermaids you so considerately warned me about."

Now, I should probably note that I have no problem telling the occasional lie. Sea elves, not mermaids, brought down Shoffir Banni's ship. But in a way, my lie told more truth than Lapis's evasions. Mermaids created a map that would lure sailors to that spot, forcing the elves to defend their hidden city. Why would they do this? Most likely they were following the same impulse that prompts humans to toss roosters into a ring and watch them fight and kill. A mermaid's amusement might be more convoluted, but it's not so very different.

"There was a terrible storm," Lapis continued. "The rowboat sank. Gham washed up on the shore a few miles from Totras, more dead than alive. There was never any sign of Shoffir. Gham kept the whale-skin map in case someone knew what Shoffir sought, and went in search of the Reliquary."

"Because few things protect a secret better than a false trail with a fatal ending."

Lapis nodded somberly. "I wouldn't have undertaken that voyage without you. You knew to expect the mermaid. You know how to deal with monsters of the deep. Few people have your knowledge or skills."

I waited for a moment before asking, "And that's everything?"

She shrugged and spread her hands as if to say, "What else could there be?"

I answered her unspoken question by pulling a small knife from my boot and prying two emeralds from the ebony box. The first was attached to a tiny, slender key. I inserted it into the opening left by the second emerald and gave it a twist. The bottom of the box swung open, revealing a shallow hidden compartment. I took from it a tiny star chart bordered by runes. The chart was embossed on a thin sheet of silvery metal, shiny enough to reflect Lapis's wide-eyed surprise back to her.

"What is this? Don't bother pretending you don't know."

She gave up the effort at once. "A spell scroll," she said flatly. "Properly cast, it will summon a creature from the Dark Tapestry."

And there it was: the reason why the Night Heralds wanted this box. This was the secret Gham Banni had been willing to die to protect. The creature it summoned was probably once numbered among the many Vudrani gods Vanir Shornish venerated, which would explain his interest in the relic. It even explained why the Night Heralds involved Vanir. I did not recognize the runes on the metal spell scroll, but the Vudrani cleric, a collector of antiquities and a devotee of many small gods, was probably able to read a dozen ancient, obscure languages.

"So the box is important, after all. If it's not the Reliquary, perhaps it's meant to hold it?" I flipped open the lid. "What's supposed to go here? And more importantly, does Vanir Shornish have it? Do the Night Heralds?"

"They do not," Lapis said emphatically. She glanced out of the carriage window. "Good. We're here."

The litter-bearers came to a halt before a small, shoulder-high platform designed for docking such conveyances. After the men slid the litter into place, I stepped out and took stock of the situation while Lapis dickered over payment with the litter's captain.

Vanir Shornish lived in a white limestone fortress. At either end stood a tower, topped by an onion-dome roof, and the whole was surrounded by tall, stout-looking walls. The wooden door facing the street was twice my height and banded with iron bars.

I climbed down the stairs and gave a bell rope a quick tug. Almost instantly the door swung open and Vanir bustled out, beaming with delight. The pristine white garments draping his ample form gleamed in the midday sun. I blinked, momentarily snow-blinded by his clerical splendor.

"Channa Ti, so wonderful to see you again! And so soon!" A flicker of concern twitched across his plump face. "Not too soon, I hope. Did you find—"

"Yes."

"Of course you did! Splendid, splendid."

For a moment I thought he would embrace me. Fortunately for all concerned, Lapis emerged from the cluster of burly litter carriers. Vanir fell back a step, his little black eyes widening. I was not surprised by his reaction. The little dancer's long, shining black hair and gem-blue silks caught many an appreciative eye.

"Is that... Tannabit Banni? Thousand gods, child, how you've grown! Your grandfather is well, I trust?"

"He's dead," I said. "And the sooner we get behind that wall, the less likely we are to join him."

The blood drained from Vanir's sun-browned face, leaving it a sickly ashen hue. Lapis sent me a reproachful glance and moved forward to give the cleric a daughterly embrace.

"Long years, Most Reverend Vanir," she said sweetly. "My grandfather spoke well of your scholarship. As his student and heir, I am honored to renew our acquaintance. I hope you don't mind that I accompanied Channa Ti?"

"Not at all, not at all." Bolstered by the dancer's praise, Vanir managed to collect himself. He bowed and gestured to the open door, the very picture of a welcoming host.

"Only the Night Heralds would be arrogant enough to presume they could enslave one of their own gods."

Lapis handed a large coin bag to the litter captain and followed Vanir in. I looked around as he bolted the door behind us.

The mansion was built around a courtyard, which in turn was dominated by a deep, rectangular pool of water. It was, by any measure, a place of rare luxury. White marble tiles surrounded the pool. Flowers bloomed profusely in colorful glazed pots. A silk-draped pavilion provided shade, as did a trio of date palms. But the most striking aspect of the courtyard was the wall beyond the pool. Many niches had been carved into the white limestone, and all of them appeared to hold icons or relics.

Vanir noted my scrutiny. "My humble altar," he said in a tone that was anything but humble. "The result of a lifetime of devotion. A place is prepared for the Reliquary of the Drowned God. Come see."

The cleric was off at a brisk waddle before either Lapis or I could demur. We exchanged a quick glance and followed him around the pool.

He stopped before an arched niche and started to reach for the small black idol within. Almost immediately he checked himself. His hand dropped to his side and a shudder of fear and revulsion rippled through his plump form.

I immediately understood his reaction. The thing was ugly beyond description, hideous in a way that went far beyond form. A quick glance was enough to send pain lancing through my temples, enough to burn an image in my mind of writhing tentacles studded with fanged lamprey mouths.

"Tychilarius," Varir said in a low, somber voice. "A dark god from a dark time. I will sleep more sweetly now that I can hold in my hand proof that his time is long past."

"About that," Lapis said.

Vanir's head whipped around to face her.

"You've no doubt heard of the Night Heralds."

Shock jolted through his eyes, and his face fell slack with horror. "No. Surely not."

She nodded. "They have been watching you. They intend for you to summon Tychilarius."

The cleric clutched at his ears and shook his head in furious denial. "But I would never do such a thing! I would do nothing at all for the Night Heralds!"

"No, of course not," she said soothingly. She took the box from me and handed it to Vanir. "But you will do it for me."

I didn't think it was possible for Vanir Shornish to look more frightened, but the grim purpose in Lapis's voice turned his face a lighter shade of gray.

There are moments in life when one is struck, usually too late, by some profoundly unpleasant insight. At that moment I realized that, despite all, I had grown to like and trust Lapis. I, Channa Ti, the druid who had no need of a companion animal, the half-elf who had no reason to trust her elven kin, the Pathfinder who expected betrayal at every turn. It also occurred to me that trusting Lapis might be the most—and last—foolish thing I ever did.

The sharp, acrid scent of impending lightning was our only warning. All three of us spun toward the threat, only to reel back from an explosion that sent waves of dark power pulsing through the courtyard.

A blue imp, a hideous, vaguely human-shaped creature resembling the unholy offspring of a mantis and a rock lizard, hovered in the shade of the date palms. A halo of dark, sparkling light surrounded it.

I pulled a dagger from my belt and glanced at the round opal hanging from a chain around Lapis's neck. "You let Janu out of that thing?"

"The opal wasn't meant to imprison such creatures," she said, her brow furrowed with concern. "They soon return to their true place."

Somehow I doubted she referred to Vanir's courtyard. If the imp had been summoned again from its homeland, it was once again acting on behalf of the Night Heralds. No doubt they were close behind.

Vanir's slack-jawed shock gave way to panic. He shrieked like a girl-child and brandished the jeweled box at the imp like the holy item he believed it to be. The creature responded with a fang-filled grin and swooped toward the cleric, bat-wings flapping and clawed hands reaching for the box.

Lapis leaped in front of Vanir and spun into a high kick. Her foot caught the imp squarely in the chest and sent it hurtling to one side. The imp slammed into the niche-carved wall. It slid down, arms flailing, and fell backward into the alcove housing an alabaster statue of a swan with a woman's head.

A true holy item.

Fetid steam poured from the niche, and a searing hiss mingled with the creature's shriek of pain.

Janu tumbled out and fell to the ground, still smoking. The imp turned a baleful glare upon Lapis and gathered itself for an attack.

"Go, Channa," Lapis said, her gaze fixed on the imp. "Go now. Trust me, you'll only make matters worse."

"Trust you? Trust you?"

For some reason, this seemed to surprise Lapis. She sent me a quick, startled glance. Her gaze skipped past me and her eyes widened in an expression too fleeting to interpret, too swift to be feigned.

I turned to see what had caught Lapis's eye. The dark halo that had surrounded Janu had grown to nearly the height of a man. From that glittering oval stepped—

Gham Banni.

After that first, heart-stopping moment of recognition, I realized my mistake. My venture-captain had been a small man, thin and wiry and as bald as an egg. Time had dug deep furrows into his face, which had the same fine features and patrician, red-brown hue as his granddaughter's. This man was alike enough to be Gham's twinborn brother. But my venture-captain's eyes had never been so cold and empty, and he would have cut his own throat before he would don the robes of a Night Herald.

Lapis dipped into a pretty curtsey, her painted eyes demurely downcast and one hand resting over her heart.

"Greetings, Honored Cousin. I am Tannabit Banni, Gham's granddaughter and heir. As you can see, I have brought you everything you need."

She rose and swept her hand in an arc that included Vanir, the jeweled box... and me.

More Night Heralds came through the black gate. Not knowing what else to do, I drew a second dagger and kicked into a running charge.

Lapis leaped into my path. One small foot lashed up, faster than thought, and caught me under the chin.

My head snapped back. A second jolt struck the back of my skull, and in some dim, pain-shrouded part of my mind I realized I had fallen straight back onto the marble tiles.

Pain swept me down, inexorable as the tide. Lapis's face swam into view for a moment, then disappeared as the dark waters engulfed us both.

I woke to the sound of chanting accompanied by an insistent chorus of booming thuds. A moment passed before I separated the pounding in my head from that coming from the courtyard door. An eternity later, I managed to pry open my eyes.

I was lying on my back, my arms raised over my head and my feet spread. When I tried to move, I realized that I was bound to an X-shaped frame. The Night Heralds had come well prepared.

Lapis crouched over me, busy with the ropes securing my left wrist. Her opal pendant brushed my face as she leaned over to tighten the other side.

Shoffir Banni stood over us, wringing his hands and darting furtive glances toward the door. "Hurry, child. The spell must be cast before they break through."

"The spell must be cast," she agreed. Her gaze brushed against mine, slid away. "The transformation must take place. The half-elf will resist it, of course, but waiting too long could be fatal for us all."

My jaw throbbed where she'd kicked me. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was broken. Speech was probably impossible. I tried anyway.

"Look at me."

My voice was rough, barely more than a whisper, but Lapis heard. For a moment our eyes met, and I saw what there was to see.

I tore one hand free of the ropes, ignoring the pain of torn skin and small, broken bones, and struck Lapis across the face as hard as I could. My hand tangled in the dangling pendant. The chain broke, and the opal rolled toward the pool.

"Never mind that," Shoffir snarled as Lapis lunged toward the gem. Her fingers brushed it, but only succeeded in speeding its way into the water.

He held me down while Lapis retied the ropes on my bleeding wrist. That accomplished, she rose and opened the false bottom of the ebony box. She handed the little metal scroll to Vanir Shornish.

Sweat poured in rivulets down the cleric's face, but his voice was sonorous and firm as he began the incantation.

Something gathered around me, pushed at me.

Imagine the agony of standing in the hot breath of a desert dragon, the horror of finding yourself in the intimate embrace of a rotting corpse. Imagine the scent and taste of jackal dung and the writhing spasms of nausea as your body fights to rid itself of the foulness. Imagine feeling all those things, all at once, and you will begin to know what I felt.

"It seems the Reliquary is full of secrets after all."

Four of the Night Heralds, still chanting, picked up the frame and threw me, screaming, into the pool.

Water swept over my skin, familiar and welcoming. The sense of intrusion ebbed. I knew a moment's relief as the heavy frame sank to the bottom of the pool. Then it landed with a bone-jarring crash, and the gathering power of the incantation pushed at me with renewed force. My urge to transform, to escape, was almost more than I could bear.

I could see the creature in my mind now, as painfully hideous as the idol in Vanir's altar, and this time there was no looking away. This horror wanted me, needed me. If it was to take form on our world, it needed a physical body. Mine would do. A shapeshifter of any sort would serve just as well. Once the transformation was complete, there would be nothing left of the host. Not my body, nor my soul. This I knew, with a certainly that passed anything I had ever known before.

It had never occurred to me that I might meet a watery end. But I could die in this pool. If I could endure the pain, if I could let myself drown, would that cut the thread binding me to the Dark Tapestry? Would my death deny the Night Heralds their god?

The transformation must take place.

Lapis's words echoed through my mind, my last thought before the druid-change took me.

My limbs disappeared, my bones melted into something more flexible and fluid. It was easy, so easy, for my eel form to slip free of my bonds.

Dark power merged with the magic of my transformation, warped my druid-change to its own purposes. Tentacles burst from my sleek, scaled body, and my eel flesh split to reveal new fanged mouths. Eyes blinked open here and there, forcing me to watch, to see what I was becoming.

I suppose there was pain. Whatever my body endured was nothing compared to the darkness singing its way through the pathways of my mind. Every impulse shrieked at me to push the creature from me before it was too late.

Too late would be fatal for us all.

My eel form was nearly unrecognizable now. I forced myself to reclaim my half-elf body—

For one brief moment, I was Channa Ti. But the horror Vanir had called Tychilarius struck back with the force of a khamsin sandstorm. All of those tentacles and mouths and eyes tore free of my body in one sudden, agonizing burst.

All my life, I have shared mind and body with dangerous predators. I have walked the fine line between taking command of another form and losing myself to another creature. That line was swiftly approaching, but I was not quite there.

I willed my new, unblinking eyes to search for what I needed. The eye on the palm of one hand saw it first, and my seeing hand reached toward it.

But by now, Tychilarius was also in my mind. The creature understood what I meant to do.

My own writhing tentacles fought me as I reached for the opal on the bottom on the pool. I fought back with everything I was, everything I'd learned from the creatures whose forms I've borrowed. Finally, finally, I seized the gemstone.

The whole world vanished.

I awoke more slowly this time, and in considerably more comfort. Instead of a hard ebony frame, I rested on downy pillows and silk sheets.

Lapis sat in a chair beside me. She smiled and held up a silvered glass for me to look in. To my intense relief, my reflection sported no more than the usual allotment of half-elven limbs and facial features.

"It's gone?"

She nodded. "Your timing was perfect. The opal only imprisons evil creatures. Had you waited much longer, had the creature gained too much of a foothold, you wouldn't have been able to pull free. Had you picked up the gem too soon, we might not have captured the creature at all."

"Where is the opal now?"

"It's back inside the box, which Vanir Shornish has proudly added to his collection." She held up a hand to forestall my protests. "The Reliquary has served its purpose, and cannot be used again."

I thought that over. My mind was still foggy, so it took me longer than it otherwise might to grasp the implications.

"The opal is the Reliquary," I said. "It was meant to capture a creature from the Dark Tapestry, but a creature that had already manifested. I suppose it never occurred to the artifact's creators that someone might use the summoning spell to bring a creature here."

"Elves can be amazingly shortsighted," Lapis said, sending me a demure, sidelong glance.

That, I would think about some other time.

"If the spell can only be used once, that would explain why you wanted Vanir to cast it before the Night Heralds arrived."

Silence hung between us for a long moment, heavy with the memory of my suspicions. For the lack of anything better to say, I observed, "The ‘litter bearers' took care of the Night Heralds, I assume."

"Eventually." Lapis rolled her eyes. "Had they bothered to look in that coin bag I gave them, they wouldn't have wasted time trying to break through the door."

I burst out laughing. It hurt, but the pain was worth it. "You stole Vanir's keys when you greeted him."

She nodded, pleased. "It's a pleasure to work with a truly devious mind. You always seemed to think two steps beyond anything I told you. I don't know how we could have managed, otherwise."

It was difficult to meet her gaze, but some things needed to be spoken. "I came late to some understandings."

Lapis waved this away. "You were right to be suspicious of me. I would have preferred to be more open and direct, but the Night Heralds were watching you. I couldn't know how closely. I could say no more than I could afford them to hear."

I nodded, accepting this.

"My grandfather said your instincts were sound and assured me you would figure things out—" She paused to send me a wry little smile. "Eventually."

She regarded me expectantly.

It took a while, but I finally divined her meaning. "You're my new venture-captain?"

Lapis cocked her head. "Are you surprised and pleased, or plotting my demise? The look on your face could go either way."

That summed up my feelings admirably. I folded my arms and glared at her. "I suppose you're marginally preferable to a foul tentacle beast."

"You know, I never tire of hearing that."

My lips twitched; I couldn't help it. "Can we speak plainly now?"

"Gods above, you've been holding back?"

"Xanchara," I said, ignoring her sarcasm. "Did Gham ever find it?"

My new venture-captain's smile was slow, sweet, and full of promise.

"Not yet."

Appendix: Gods of the Dark Tapestry

Though Tychilarius is referred to several times here as a god, this is something of a misnomer. Unlike true deities, demon lords, and other such divinely powerful beings, Tychilarius is unable to grant spells. Instead, he's merely one of a large collection of strange and mysterious organisms that dwell in the Dark Tapestry, the dark spaces between worlds where entropy rules and even light slows and stills. There, beings with malignant, incomprehensible intelligences rule the aether, singing their songs of madness and commanding a mysterious consortium of emissaries known as the Dominion of the Black. While misguided groups like the Night Heralds sometimes attempt to contact these beings, such exchanges rarely end well for the greedy mortals.

About the Author

Elaine Cunningham lives in a fantasy world. Several of them, in fact. The Serpent’s Daughter, coming in 2012, will be her fourteenth novel in the Forgotten Realms. She has also written novels and short stories in such diverse settings as Star Wars, EverQuest, Spelljammer, and Ravenloft. Her other contributions to the Pathfinder campaign setting include the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch and work on the sourcebook Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Guide to the River Kingdoms.