The Floodgate зкик-2 Read online

  Yet, how could he?

  Once Andris's hair had been a rich auburn, his eyes hazel green, and his fair skin speckled by the sun. He used to jest that he'd be a fine hue, if only his freckles would have the courtesy to blend one into another. Now all these odd colors were but ghostly shadows. Even the sword in his hand was more like glass than metal. Andris was no more substantial than a man-shaped rainbow.

  As if to disprove Matteo's dismal thoughts, Andris pressed the attack. He came on hard, delivering a series of blows with real weight and power behind them. The two men moved together in a circle, exchanging blows in a rapid, ringing dialogue. As they fell into the new rhythm, Matteo noted that the morning was nearly spent-the sun was edging toward the dome that crowned the Disputation Hall. Both building and sunlight were clearly visible through the filter of Andris's translucent form.

  Matteo jerked his wandering thoughts back into line and spun away from a high, down-slashing blow. Holding his sword over his shoulder at a declining angle, he caught the attack in a deflecting parry. As Andris's blade scraped along the length of the sword, Matteo shifted onto his forward foot to remove himself beyond reach of a possible counter. He whirled back, twisting his forearm as he went to position his weapon for a lunging attack.

  A sudden burst of light assailed him. Instantly Matteo realized what Andris had done. He'd presented Matteo with a classic opportunity for a deflecting parry. In the moment while Matteo was turned aside, Andris had used his translucent sword like a prism to catch the morning sun and dart it directly into his opponent's face.

  Matteo danced back a few steps, blinking to dispel the dark spots dancing before his eyes. He was not quite quick enough. The flat of Andris's blade smacked his hip. Matteo lowered his sword and backed away, rubbing at the offended spot.

  "A good trick," he admitted.

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

  The ghostly jordain came in again with fast, feinting attacks. While his sword kept Matteo fully engaged, Andris pulled a companion dagger from his belt. This he held high, adjusting his movements so that whatever the rest of his body might be doing, the dagger stayed at the same angle relative to the sun. Sunlight poured through the sheer metal of Andris's dagger and concentrated into a thin beam. The thread of light seared the packed ground. Smoke began to rise from a blackened, spreading circle.

  Such a weapon in any other hands could be death. Matteo had no fear of his friend, but he fought fiercely to solve the puzzle Andris presented. For many moments they battled toe to toe. It was all Matteo could do to meet each of his opponent's attacks. There was no chance to counter, much less to maneuver Andris out of position and break the dagger's focus.

  Suddenly Andris shifted the dagger slightly. The line of red light split into two beams, one of which leaped up to nip keenly at Matteo's arm.

  Matteo yelped with surprise and jumped back. He quickly recovered and came in hard, catching the tall jordain’s lunging sword under his and bearing it down to the ground. He leaned forward, using his weight to drive the point of his sword into the dirt, pinning Andris's weapon beneath it. With his free hand he seized the wrist of Andris's dagger hand. Andris might be nearly a head taller, but Matteo outmatched him in mass and muscle. With a quick twist, he relieved the taller man of his dagger. Another twist brought Andris stumbling to one knee.

  "You're mine," Matteo said triumphantly.

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

  Matteo glanced down, and his lips twisted in a wry smile. The dagger-captured sunlight had burned a rune onto his skin-the rune for Andris's name.

  "It would appear that I am branded," he admitted. He slid his sword into its scabbard and then tugged Andris to his feet, congratulating him with a hearty slap on the back. "And since the rothe cow is butchered and not the farmer, my claim to victory rings false! You have grown devious."

  The comment was meant in sincere admiration, but Andris's sly grin dropped off his face so abruptly that Matteo expected to hear it shatter on the hard-packed ground.

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

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

  The bleak expression in Andris's translucent hazel eyes surprised Matteo. "Many strange events have happened of late," he agreed, "but at the heart of things, our goals are much as they ever were."

  The tall jordain shrugged. "Perhaps."

  Matteo's sense of unease deepened. Hearing his own doubts spoken in another man's voice lent them shape and substance. On the other hand, why should they not speak openly? Perhaps between the two of them, they might find some resolution.

  "Tell me what has changed," Matteo invited.

  Andris tossed his sun-heated dagger into a trough of water and watched the steam rise and dissipate before he spoke his mind.

  "You know that I have elf blood."

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

  "So that changes everything. I don't mean the obvious thing," Andris clarified, gesturing toward his crystalline form. "My life's path would be different even if my appearance had not changed in the Swamp of Akhlaur."

  They fell silent, remembering that terrible place.

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

  "Heritage is a powerful thing. Have you never wondered why jordaini are forbidden to seek the knowledge of our parents?"

  A disturbing image flashed into Matteo's thoughts: the memory of a small, forlorn woman trapped in the prison of her mind. If Tzigone had-for once-told the unadorned truth, this sad woman was his birthmother. By some odd twist of fate, Tzigone had found Matteo's mother during a desperate search for her own. Matteo did not understand her passionate need for family, but he recognized the same emotion in Andris's ghostly eyes.

  "The jordaini order has its reasons," Matteo said, trying not to dwell on Tzigone's hints concerning the identity of his other parent "So you have elf blood. Now that you know this, are you a different man than you were before?"

  Andris spun away and strode to the neat pile of gear he'd left at the edge of the field. He stooped over a leather bag and took from it a small, sparkling object.

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

  In it lay an exquisite statue, a tiny winged sprite no longer than his palm. It appeared to be fashioned from crystal and was as perfect in every detail as a living creature-as indeed it once had been. Matteo marveled that Andris could hold it. In the Swamp of Akhlaur Matteo had accidentally bumped a crystalline elf, and found that it was not solid glass, but an elf-shaped void far colder than ice.

  He placed a hand on his friend's translucent shoulder. "The elves in Akhlaur's Swamp and the sprite whose image you carry were freed by death, long before your birth. There is nothing more to be done. It is you who concern me, my friend. After the Azuthan priests do what they can, you must put this behind you and take up your duties as a jordain."

  Andris shrugged and turned away, but not before Matteo glimpsed a world of turmoil in his eyes.

  "You are dreading this inquisition," he observed.

  "Wouldn't you?" his friend retorted. He was silent for several moments as he tucked the tiny crystalline sprite away, then he stood and faced Matteo. "You know clerics. They will test and talk and poke and pray until even Mystra herself tires of it all. They might eventually add to their understanding of magic, but they won't answer the important questions: Why did I survive? Why did Kiva? She's an elf. Why wasn't she swallowed in a crystal void like all the others?"

  "Perhaps Kiva could answer that."

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

  "Not at last word," Matteo said. "The magehounds who tested her say that much of her strength was lost along with her magical spells. It seems that life and magic are more intrinsically bound in elves than in humans. They say it's a marvel she survived."

 
An impatient sigh hissed from between Andris's teeth. "The temple hosts more clerics than a bugbear has ticks. None of them could heal her?"

  "I asked the same question." Matteo shook his head in disgust. "Kiva holds knowledge vital to all of Halruaa. Yet the clerics maintain that praying for healing spells to benefit a traitor would be sacrilege."

  Andris muttered something unintelligible. He strode over to retrieve his white tunic, which he slid over his head. The fine linen turned translucent as it settled over his torso. The jordain stooped again to pick up a water gourd. He uncorked it and drank deeply. Matteo half expected to see the passage of water down his friend's insubstantial throat, but the water disappeared as soon as it touched the jordain's lips.

  Andris caught him watching and lowered the gourd self-consciously. Instantly Matteo averted his eyes.

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

  "No magic, no penalty," he said flippantly, dismissing Matteo's apology with a catchphrase common to jordaini lads. "So what will you do now? Return to the queen's palace?"

  Matteo shook his head. "It seems to me that Queen Beatrix has less need of my counsel than Halruaa does of my active service. Kiva did not close the gate to the Plane of Water but merely moved it. This new location must be found. I have also pledged to help Tzigone find her mother, or at least to learn of her fate."

  "I don't envy you your first task, but the second should be easy enough. Kiva described Keturah as a master of evocation magic. Such wizards are well known. All you need do is ask."

  "It's more complicated than that," Matteo admitted. "Questions could draw unwanted, even dangerous attention to Tzigone. No one else can know that she is Keturah's daughter. I must have your word that you will never speak of it."

  light broke on Andris's face, swiftly replaced by horror. "Lord and lady! Matteo, you don't mean to tell me that Tzigone is a wizard's bastard?"

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

  Andris raked a hand through his faintly auburn hair and blew out a long breath. "You keep interesting company, my friend. Does anyone else know?"

  "Other than Kiva, I think not." He told Andris about the note Kiva had forged, a letter purporting to be from Cassia, the king's jordain counselor, asking all jordaini in the city of Halarahh to aid in the search for Keturah's daughter. "At first I thought this news was widespread, but Kiva meant it only for Tzigone's eyes and mine. She meant to lure us both to Cassia's chamber, and from there to the Swamp of Akhlaur, by dangling Tzigone's heritage before her like a carrot hung before a hungry mule."

  "What carrot did you follow?" Andris asked, his ghostly hazel eyes suddenly shrewd and concerned. "The girl herself?"

  The question was not unreasonable, and Matteo considered it carefully before answering. Yet he could find no words to explain his friendship with Tzigone. "I suppose so," he admitted.

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

  The image of Tzigone, her urchin's grin replaced by a prim smile and her eyes demure under a maiden's veil, was so ludicrous that Matteo burst out laughing.

  "That has never entered my mind, and I would wager a queen's dowry that it never entered hers! Tzigone is a friend, nothing more."

  Andris looked unaccountably relieved. "She will be a wizard one day. The jordaini are supposed to serve Halruaa's wizards, not befriend them."

  A young student jogged toward them, saving Matteo from acknowledging this disturbing truth. The boy's gaze touched upon Andris and slid away.

  "Andris has permission to depart the college," he announced, "and the headmaster wishes to see Matteo."

  "I'll come directly," Matteo assured the boy. He waited until the messenger was beyond earshot before continuing. "It's unfortunate the college's wizards couldn't test you, and save you the trip north."

  Andris grimaced. "One of the hazards of being a jordain. Only the magehounds' magic has much effect on us. An important safeguard, of course."

  Matteo did not comment on the obvious irony: Andris had been condemned as a rogue jordain-falsely condemned-by a magehound from the Azuthan order. Once again, his life was in their hands.

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

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

  "I'll ride with you." When Andris glanced back inquiringly, Matteo added, "When Kiva revives, I have questions for her that I'd rather not entrust to a magehound."

  "A compelling argument." Andris rose and placed a translucent hand on Matteo's shoulder. "You'd better see what the headmaster wants. The rest will wait patiently until tomorrow; Ferris Grail will not"

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

  The ghostly jordain watched him go. With a sigh, he shouldered his gear and walked across the blazing soil to the guest quarters. It seemed odd to be a guest in the only home he'd ever known. On the other hand, after just a few months away, his life at the Jordaini College seemed like a distant dream.

  Andris was not looking forward to the coming inquisition, but despite his experience with Kiva, he did not believe all magehounds were false and corrupt. No doubt the Azuthans had vigorously scoured their ranks in the aftermath of Kiva's treachery. The inquisition would not be pleasant, but it would end. And then what? A return to the jordaini order? Service to a wizard too insignificant to sneer at the jordain's translucent form and dubious fame?

  An image came unbidden to mind: Kiva's rapt and joyous face as she shattered the crystal globe retrieved from the Kilmaruu Swamp, freeing the spirits of long-dead elves trapped by the evil Akhlaur.

  That image, Andris decided, mattered.

  He had followed Kiva at first because he had believed she spoke for King Zalathorm. That fancy swiftly faded, but other reasons followed, reasons powerful enough to keep him at the elf woman's side.

  According to everything Andris knew and believed, according to the laws of the land and the decree of the Council of Elders, Kiva was a traitor to Halruaa. Was it possible that she followed some deeper, hidden truth? Was her cause worthy, even if the pathways she took toward it were sometimes twisted and dark?

  Deep in thought, Andris pushed open the door to the guest chamber. He was greeted by a raucous little squawk and the flutter of bright wings.

  His lips curved as he noted the parrot perched on the windowsill. No bigger than Andris's fist, it was feathered in an almost floral pattern of pink and yellow. The bird stood tamely as the jordain edged forward. Its bright head tipped to one side, lending it a curious mien.

  "Greetings, little fellow," Andris said. "I suppose you're a wandering pet. Congratulations on your escape. Never will I understand the impulse to cage birds for the sake of their songs!"

  "I quite agree," the bird said in a clear, approving tone. "Fortunately, this enlightened opinion seems to be common hereabouts. I come and go as I like."

  Andris fell back a step. Many of Halruaa's birds could chatter like small, feathered echoes. Even sentient birds were not all that rare. He'd just never expected anyone at the Jordaini College might keep such a retainer.

  "This is an unexpected pleasure, my small friend. Might I ask what brings you here?"

  The bird sidled several steps closer. Its head craned this way and that, as if to reassure itself that no one might over-hear. "A message."

  "A message? From whom?"

  "Just read the books."

  "The books?" Andris said blankly.

  Pink and yellow wings rustled impatiently. "Hidden under the mattress. Read them, put them back."

  The bird was gone. It didn't fly away; it was simply… gone.

  Consternation filled Andris. This was a wizard's work, and serious work at that! Stern laws forbade the jordaini to use magic, or to have any magic used on their behalf. A blink bird might be either a natural beast or a conjured image, but both were
forbidden.

  That knowledge didn't stop him from looking under the mattress. He picked up an ancient tome bound in thin, yellowed leather. The pages within were fine parchments aged to pale sepia and covered with faded writing. Andris took the book over to the window and began to read.

  With each page he turned, he crept farther from the window, as if he could distance himself from the horrors revealed. He held in his hands the journal of Akhlaur! The deathwizard's own hand had written these runes, turned these pages.

  Andris's skin crawled. His sick feeling intensified as he considered the book's bindings. No animal yielded leather so thin and delicate. The skin had once been human, or more likely, elf.

  Suspicion passed into certainty as he read on. Precise little runes and neat, detailed drawings related with matter-of-fact detachment atrocities beyond Andris's darkest dreams. Elves had been the necromancer's favorite test subjects, and none had endured so much as the girl-child Akivaria, more conveniently known as Kiva.

  Andris felt like a man gripped by the mosquito fever-burning with wrath, yet racked with numbing indecision. This book held secrets that could destroy the jordaini order if they became known. Now, he knew.

  As he had told Matteo, with knowledge comes responsibility.

  With shaking hands, Andris took up the second book, which proved to be a detailed genealogy of the early jordaini order. As he read, he prayed that Matteo's friend Tzigone did not know the details of his elf heritage, or realize that one of his forebears was still alive and currently a «guest» of the Azuthan temple.

  He exploded into motion, snatching up his few belongings and stuffing them into his travel bag. After a moment's hesitation, he added the books to his gear.

  His eyes stung with unshed tears as he slipped away, using the route that his friend Themo employed for clandestine trips to the port of Khaerbaal. No one noticed the shadowy figure leave. For the first time, Andris was grateful the jordaini had become so adept at averting their eyes. He could move among them as if he were indeed a ghost.