In the sepulchral silence of the library, the sounds of the others echoed and refused to settle into any clear location. The repeated shush of Mira pulling book after book, one at a time past its fellows, might have been several rows ahead or on the other end of the cavern. The occasional shuffle and thud of Maspero carting the texts she set aside to the camp in the center of the library might have come from beside him or farther on. The wooden clatter of Havilar and her glaive setting off one of the traps might be anywhere. The sound of Dahl and Farideh sniping at each other should have been nowhere.
He sighed. Gods, he did not want to play caretaker. Not for the first time he cursed Mehen, cursed the Fisher, and then cursed himself for not refusing the two of them.
They don’t need a caretaker, he reminded himself, opening one of the books. You don’t need to stop Farideh and Dahl from arguing or stop Havi running around.
Except he did-they were all his responsibility in the end, and if he couldn’t keep them alive and unharmed and watching out for one another, they might all be doomed. He rubbed the beginnings of a headache from his forehead. They shouldn’t have come-he shouldn’t have come. Only the moon above knew what the Fisher was letting happen out in the world. He set the book, a collection of folktales from Eaerlann, back on the shelf.
He wished he’d been able to detect the spellbooks from among the more mundane texts, but the magic of the library seemed to blur and bounce his senses every which way. He wished he’d insisted on leaving the cavern, on being out in the open one time more before they settled into this all-but-futile task. He’d have liked to perform the rites to have a moment to himself and Selune before being buried under the ground.
Mira had a point, he reminded himself. More important, perhaps, he hadn’t wanted to take that point, that authority away from her. Something was wrong-she had always been unflappable, reserved even. And all he knew to do was let her have the room she insisted on-to step back so she didn’t need to push.
But this time, he thought, returning the next two tomes to their spots, it didn’t seem to be doing the trick. More than anything he wished he could sit her down and get her to tell him what was going on. Good or ill. He was still her father after all.
The sendings to Everlund and Waterdeep hadn’t worked. The components had lain there, unspent as the ritual failed. The wards, Mira reminded him. The Book had mentioned them. They keep outside eyes from seeing in, so wouldn’t they stop messages from getting out? Perhaps-there was no telling, as old as this place was, as many changes to the nature of magic as it had seen. He tried again, just past the doors, and while the ritual cast, he got no answers. There was no way to be sure where the Shadovar, the Zhentarim, or even Mehen were.
“Shepherd,” a voice, an old voice from the recesses of his memory, said, “what do you think you’re doing?”
Tam blinked. The book was gone. His hands rested on the marble altar of Selune he’d used for so many years, in the chapel at the center of Viridi’s complex. Above, the leagues of stone had vanished, replaced by a clear and cloudless night sky.
He reached for his chain as he looked back over his shoulder-the shelves, the library, and the sounds of his team were gone. It was the chapel, as surely as it was Viridi, stern-faced and richly robed, standing there beside the stone table they used for resurrections, leaning on a cane.
Tam remembered this. It was two months before she’d died, her lungs failing her at last. Only Tam had known her time was short, and she’d caught him praying for the power to heal her.
He swallowed. “Let me do this. Let me try, at least.”
Viridi didn’t budge. “It’s effort wasted. You know that. My time is what it is.” She seemed to vanish, to skip across the room when he blinked. She was sitting behind the resurrection table, as if it were a desk. “Your people say you’re difficult to work with, you know?”
“It’s not that, I-” he started, then he stopped, puzzled. “I don’t have people. I work alone. I always have.”
“You are never alone,” Viridi said. “You’re a link in a chain, a knot in a silk rug. If you leave now … your people will owe you quite a few favors. Even if they don’t know it.”
“Stop talking about my ‘people,’ ” Tam said. Stop talking at all, he thought. She didn’t sound right. She didn’t sound like Viridi. “I don’t have people. I work alone.”
“We’re on the same side,” she chided, standing again and moving. Moving toward him.
Tam shook his head. They’d had this conversation before … but it had been different, as if the words were out of order, landing in a pattern that wasn’t from the spymaster’s tongue. He looked down at his hands, at the thick veins and thicker knuckles. He’d been younger too, when they’d spoken last. She took a step toward him, and he remembered.
“You’re dead,” he said to Viridi. She gave him that patient look she’d worn so often, the one that said he was missing something, and she wasn’t about to tell him what. He started to stand, but his knee seized, forcing him back down.
Viridi leaned down the shadows settling into the hollows of her eyes and the sudden collapse of her cheeks. The dead spymaster spoke and he could have sworn it was his own voice speaking back to him: “There’s nothing here worth dying for.”
Tam fell backward onto the stone floor of the library, and the chapel, Viridi, and moon above were gone. He blinked at the shelves surrounding him, his pulse still pounding. There was no sign of Viridi. There was no sign of what had just happened to him.
“Well met,” Brin said, coming around the corner. “Do you think you could recast-” He stopped and his eyes traced the path of Tam’s gaze. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” Tam snapped.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Brin said.
You haven’t, Tam told himself. Viridi is buried in Erlkazar, hundreds and hundreds of miles away. You’ve had her in your thoughts is all. That and not enough sleep. You’re overtired and overworked. It’s why you were supposed to rest, remember?
“I just …,” Tam said, standing. “I’m going to go lie down a spell. Excuse me.” He pushed past Brin, heading off toward the camp, the conversation with the illusory spymaster rattling in his thoughts. You’re a link in a chain. If you leave now … your people will owe you quite a few favors. There’s nothing here worth dying for.
Havilar slipped back into the presence of the Book. She glanced around, to be sure she was alone, before edging up to the Book once more. Picking it up initially had been completely boring-but after Farideh admitted to talking with it as if it were something important …
She scooped up the tome in both hands, perhaps a bit too eagerly, as the puff of dust hit her again and made her cough. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked, and she turned so that she could look at it and watch the aisle to the camp in case someone sneaked up on her.
“You’re supposed to know everything?” she asked.
Not everything, the Book said. But plenty.
Havilar eyed the open pages and the shifting inks. “What’s the best way to counter an attack that comes from both the left and the right side?”
Depends on the weaponry.
“Axes,” she said, after a moment. “And you have a glaive.”
I’m afraid I would have nothing at all, the Book said with a chuckle. But it seems that the Liquid Blades form would do best in those circumstances. Get both attackers to one side, and likely trip one into the other if you move correctly.