She’d placed the enchanted crystal on the roof of the philosopher’s home, as a beacon. Kalilnama and Obelia promised to wait for her there, and she hoped that they hadn’t drifted off somewhere during the hours she’d lingered above.
Ragh stomped grumpily toward the white oak. He’d hollowed out a spot between the knobby roots of the tree, and the depression made it comfortable enough to sleep there. That was virtually all he’d been doing for days—sleeping.
“Hope they find something down there to help him,” Ragh said. “Make him human again. No more flying, no more swamp. No more smelling the swamp on his breath all the time. He was all right when he was human. He saved me when he was human. He might still want me around, but I wish they’d hurry up. It’s boring around here. Boring, and I still think it’s strange and dangerous.”
The sivak looked over his shoulder again. The surface of the lake was placid as usual. No sign of either the elf or Dhamon.
“Now I’m talking to myself. Nothing else to do around here.” He chuckled and ground the ball of his foot against the earth. “No one to talk to, no one to fight with. Nothing good to eat. Nothing to look at, but trees and trees and trees and that damnable lake.” His head jerked up and he scanned the treeline.
Hey, something was moving up there. He heard leaves rustling, but there was no wind to speak of. Shadows shifted, and he swore he could smell something foul.
The enchanted light showed the way, and Feril swam fast toward the beacon. Obelia and Kalilnama could easily be spotted waiting in the tree-home, along with more than a dozen other Qualinesti spirits, some of whom she recognized from her previous visit.
Obelia cast a glance at the shadow which trailed her but said nothing. “Here are things we’ve found that might help, elf-fish.” Obelia summoned his globes of light and used them to chase the chill from Feril. “Unguents from Rosemoon’s, powders and crystal shards that Kalilnama’s wife left behind. Her laboratory is at the top of this place. There are scrolls with spells in Jerlin L’oile’s shop, and these should be safe from the water. Jerlin used to heavily wax the edges of the tubes. There’ll be more things in the library at the east edge of the city. Though I suppose nearly all the books are ruined.” He stroked the bridge of his nose and stared long into her eyes. “We’ll tell you precisely where all these things are, my elf-fish. I’ll take you to them, but you’ll have to do the gathering. You see, our hands…” He sadly passed his fingers through her. “We cannot pick any of these things up. I alone of my dead friends can hold any semblance of a physical form, and I cannot hold that for more than a breath.”
You’ll show me where all of these things are?
Obelia nodded. “I’ll be your guide, and show you those things and more, elf-fish. All precious and enchanted, things the lake couldn’t destroy. I don’t know if they’ll be much help in obtaining an overlord’s scale, but it’s worth the trying.”
Dhamon saw the elf spirits through Feril’s eyes and heard everything Obelia and Kalilnama said. Dhamon wanted to ask them questions about how an overlord’s scale might help return him to human form. Too, he wanted to know what kept these ghosts in the city and why they hadn’t passed to the spirit realm where dead folks were said to drift near the gods. The only one he could speak to was Feril, and she had cautioned him to keep his tongue around the spirits.
The sorcerer-elf had been ancient in life, Dhamon reckoned. He’d seen plenty of elves, but none with wrinkles so numerous and deep, fingers and limbs that had they been flesh would be bony, pale, and sprinkled with age spots. Hundreds upon hundreds of years old the spirit elf was, maybe a thousand or more—in Dhamon’s early days with the Dark Knights he’d heard campfire tales that elves could live that long. Not so long as dragons, though, he thought smugly.
He continued to observe everything through Feril’s eyes, marveling at her acuteness of vision as they passed over a once lavish neighborhood. The huge head of Beryl came into focus, and he recalled the one time when he had laid eyes on the overlord at the Window to the Stars. That was years ago, and Beryl had been dead for years, too, so Dhamon guessed it was the unnatural cold of the lake that kept the carcass so preserved that it looked alive and merely sleeping. Conversely, it was likely the magic in the overlord’s carcass that made the lake so cold. Here the depths were truly murky and at the same time tinged green.
The ghosts of the Knights of Neraka appeared among the overlord’s neck spines, difficult to see because they were more translucent than before. They didn’t make any hostile moves toward Feril, and as she and her dead Qualinesti companions came closer, the knights’ images wavered and dissipated.
“I would think any scale from Beryl would do, elf-fish.” Obelia, speaking conspiratorially, was close at Feril’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should take two…as a fail-safe, in case your first attempt to help your friend fails.”
Three, Feril decided. Or perhaps four. However many I can pry loose and carry to the surface.
She kicked harder and drove toward her target, speeding past Obelia and Kalilnama, so close to the overlord now that all she could see was a wall of emerald scales that made up its jaw. She hovered for a moment, regarding the corpse’s scales and wary of the knightly ghosts. The smallest scales were on its claws and along a ridge above the dragon’s closed eyes. She darted in and gripped one of the smallest on the dragon’s head, just above one of its huge nostrils. Her arm muscles bunched and a vein stood out on her neck as she yanked. She gritted her teeth and pulled harder, but the scale would not give way. Feril doubled her efforts and was rewarded with the palms of her hands being sliced by the sharp edges of the scale. Blood trailed away and a string of curses tumbled through her head.
Silently, Dhamon encouraged her, half thrilled, half disconcerted to be this close to the great dead Beryl.
“You’re hurt, my elf-fish,” Obelia said consolingly. He appeared at her side, his heavily-lined face thick with concern. “You must bandage your hands. There is exceptional, thick cloth in the city and…”
I’m fine, she thought to him. I’ll go back to Qualinost and bandage my hands after I get some of these blasted scales.
“But you’re bleeding—that’s not good.”
I’ve had cuts all over in my time, she returned. The scales first.
Good for you, Dhamon thought.
Obelia nodded and floated away. Feril turned back, studying the ground around the dragon’s talons until she found what she was looking for—a long sword lying amid the bones. There was still no sign of the dead knights who had evidently vanished. She swam down to the sword and gripped the pommel in her slender fingers. The leather wrapped around the crosspiece was rotting, but she could use the blade to pry loose the scales, though she’d have to be careful not to damage them. Her goal was to extract scales in the most flawless possible condition.
This one first, she thought, eyes locking onto one of the deepest green scales. It was tiny compared to some others, about the size of a serving platter, but she thought it might be easier to get loose for that reason. She slipped the tip of the sword beneath the scale and, using it like a lever, carefully tried to pry it.
It shifted slightly, to her exultation. She nearly had it free when an icy wave surged over her; the cold shot down her back, and the sword slipped from her fingers—a cold more intense than anything she’d experienced before, instantly numbing her. Whirling she faced a row of militant ghosts, all spirits of the Knights of Neraka. The closest had needlelike claws instead of hands, and though he looked transparent, he’d somehow managed to pierce her. Though the cold was vicious, she also felt some warmth and guessed this was her own blood.