He grabbed a door latch, which turned into a snake, which bit him. That was bad enough, but then he watched his skin turn different colors and his arm puff up. Finally he realized he wasn’t feeling faint because he was poisoned, but because he had been holding his breath. He blinked and shook his head, and his arm was as before.
So it went for seemingly every step. Using all his concentration to appear unimpressed, eventually Pryce was casually conversing with malevolent beholders, depraved deepspawns, and even degenerative, axe-wielding Derro dwarves.
“Hey, how are you?” he confronted them. “How are things at home? Killed anything interesting lately? What’s new in the ninth bowel of hell?”
It was quite a performance, but the finale was surprisingly serene. Eventually Pryce came to a long hallway lined to the ceiling with bookshelves. The hall led to a large room, which was lined with tables, around which sat many worshipers of Mystra and inquisitrixes, all reading.
“Marvelous,” Pryce murmured, peering closer to see the titles of the tomes nearest him. Much to his frustration, the tides were out of focus no matter how hard he looked. He turned to the reader nearest him, an angeUc creature in a cowled robe. “Say, I wonder if you could”
She put a perfectly shaped forefinger to her full lips. “Shhhhh!”
“Oh,” he whispered. “Sorry.” He knelt beside her youthful, shapely redheaded form. “I wonder if you could tell me what you are reading.”
She turned her sweet, gentle freckled face to him and smiled, and suddenly he felt better than he had all evening. Her voice was like a heavenly song. “It’s a secret, outsider,” she said, not unkindly.
“Oh!” he said, disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized earnestly. “It was not my intention to belittle you by calling you an outsider. It’s merely a statement of fact. I have been created to speak honestly to all who pass here.”
“Ah, so you are not an actual inquisitrix or a worshiper of Mystra.”
“Oh, I am indeed a true follower. Illusions can worship Mystra as well as tangibles, you know.” ‘Tangibles?”
“Humans. Like you. I am an honest worshiper of Mystra, as is my middle-aged self.” She motioned toward a woman beside her. When the woman turned, Pryce was staring at an older version of the young lady.
“Hello,” said the middle-aged version of the young illusion. Pryce nodded and smiled in greeting.
“… And my elderly self.” An old lady beside the middle-aged lady looked toward him, her mouth drooling. “She’s too old now to take care of herself,” the young illusion whispered to him in confidence. “No less a follower of Mystra, however.” She leaned over and wiped the old woman’s salivation with a handkerchief she removed from her sleeve. She patted the elderly woman reassuringly before returning her attention to Pryce.
Pryce frowned and nodded. “Of course.”
“In fact, we are perfect followers,” the young lady continued with undeniable pride. “Ever constant, never changing, with the purest possible love for our deity”she turned her clear, bright blue eyes toward Pryce”and for you.”
“Me?” By rights, he should have been concerned over the way this meeting was going, but her purity practically emanated a tangible aura.
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “You are able to converse with me, so that means you have circumvented all the other obstacles designed to repulse you. It proves you are a man of pure heart and good intentions.”
Covington nodded with satisfaction. “That has been said,” he acknowledged. “So many times, in fact, that I’m beginning to believe it myself.”
“Oh, good!” she said effusively. ‘You know, this castle appears different to each person who visits it. If you come again, you will not find it thus.”
“Really?”
“Truly. The exterior remains relatively constant, but the interior is always changing. Its image is influenced by the eyes that perceive it, and it alters its appearance accordingly, depending upon the strength, will, ability, and mood of the individuals within at any given moment.”
“Fascinating,” Pryce said honestly. “Then these books, too, are illusions?”
“Oh, no. The books are real. That is why you cannot read them. They are but a few of our books on the subject of illusion.”
Pryce glanced down the wall. There had to be, at a minimum, more than ten thousand volumes in this room alone. No wonder the inquisitrixes had enough power to constantly change every centimeter of the place. Setting aside that mind-bending reality for the nonce, Covington returned his attention to the vision beside him. “In that case, I will be all the more sorry to leave.”
“Because you will not be able to add to your fountain of knowledge?”
“No,” he said. “Because I will not be able to see you again.”
Her smile was bright enough to light up the Nath. “If you should ever return to our modest citadel,” she promised him, “I would like to talk with you again.”
“Thank you…” He groped for a fitting name.
“Call me Chimera.”
His smile grew as wide as hers. “Thank you, Chimera.” Then he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you the truth. I am a bit tired of all these mirages, and anything I experience after meeting you will be an anticlimax, so I wonder…”
She turned her head to whisper back in his ear. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”
“Would you, please?”
Her answer sounded, to his ears, like the ardent acceptance of a marriage proposal. “Of course!” she cried. Then, to his surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
It was a kiss the likes of which Pryce Covington had never experienced. Firm, yet yielding. Soft, yet passionate. Physical, yet emotional. At first his eyes popped open, but then they slowly closed as the library around him began to shift and separate like a pile of dry leaves blown in the wind.
Alone in the darkness of his brain, he realized that he was experiencing the perfect kiss… perfect because it came from inside his own mind. The very moment of that realization came with the disappearance of the kiss and the sound of water slapping against the soles of his boots.
He opened his eyes to find himself literally in a fog. Almost immediately, however, the fog began to dissipate, and he could see the tail end of the dragon turtle slipping into deeper water. He was back where he had been attacked: twenty yards from the simple, single door of the Mystran Inquisitrix Castle.
Pryce looked toward the quay, but it was still shrouded in mist. He took a step toward it, but he realized there was still one thing left undone. He quickly ran the last twenty yards to the door, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled.
It was locked.
“Figures,” Covington said, then started making his way back to the shore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a beautiful autumn morning. Gheevy Wotfirr had waited as long as he could stand it, but when Covington hadn’t shown up for breakfast by late morning, Wotfirr could contain his curiosity no longer.
Dearlyn opened the door of the Ambersong residence when Gheevy knocked. “M-Miss Ambersong!” he sputtered, surprised to see her at all, let alone looking so happy. “Gamor Turkal said that your father was securing you your own dwelling for the length of the Fall Festival.” He looked worriedly around her, as if half expecting to see Pryce Covington’s body strewn on the floor.
“Oh, that,” she said pleasantly, turning back toward the living room area. “I never took that suggestion seriously.”
“B-Butbut Darlington Blade!” the halfling babbled. “Isn’t he supposed to be staying here?”
“He is,” she said over her shoulder as she moved away from the door. “He has his own room… as I have mine.”
With a sense of wonder, Gheevy followed her into the living room. Light shone brightly from the many tiny windows set in the tree walls. There the halfling found Pryce in his personal conception of paradise, sitting crossed-legged on the floor of Mage Ambersong’s library, surrounded, and nearly covered by, open books.