The ghost of the old elf went on at length about diverse patterns of magic in the world and where they lay the thickest, discoursing on all sorts of ancient places such as the Window to the Stars, where the magic was more substantial than the very stones that comprised the ruins. Ragh intently listened. In all his centuries on Krynn he’d seen some very unusual things, so he told himself the spirit of a dead Qualinesti sorcerer shouldn’t rattle him. The spirit did not seem malicious like other undead creatures Ragh had come across. Still, the sivak decided not to entirely trust the entity, and he could see that Feril didn’t either.
Though Dhamon turned up in the late afternoon, he kept far enough back and stayed down wind so the three barely noticed him. The elf sorcerer gave the dragon a quick look, and Feril nodded to him., yes, that’s the one, but they were preoccupied with their discussion. As for Dhamon, he didn’t look surprised to see a ghost conversing with Feril and Ragh. Ragh wondered if he didn’t already know about the spirit sorcerer; perhaps, the sivak thought resentfully, it was another one of the many secrets between the Kagonesti and his old friend.
Truth to tell, for the first time in a long while, Dhamon was truly tired. With a pleasantly full stomach, he felt bleary-eyed. He tried to listen to the magical discussion, the sweet taste of bear tarrying on his tongue. It wasn’t long before he was dozing.
Obelia became even more transparent as he put his energy into his voice rather than his form. “Elf-fish, do you remember when the gods were absent and magic was a memory? Some thought there was nothing arcane left on Krynn. The famed human sorcerer Palin Majere discovered a way to weave certain enchantments. He relied on magical swords and daggers, magical talismans that would power his spells. The magical items were often destroyed in his casting, but they made his spells possible. We can learn many a lesson from Palin Majere…”
Feril nodded. She was familiar with Palin’s expertise, having spent quite some time in his company. It was hard to follow some of Obelia’s circular logic. Her eyes searched the pale mist for the expression on his wizened features.
“Magic is vibrant again, elf-fish, but we will need something especially strong to break the spell that turned your friend into a dragon. The scroll you first looked at, we can use that as counter magic, and all the talismans you’ve gathered…”
“What about Sable’s scales?” the impatient Feril cut in.
Ragh’s eyes grew wide and he cast a quick glance at the sleeping Dhamon. He opened his mouth in protest. A stern look from Feril kept him quiet.
“Yes, the Black’s scales. We should get two, just to be certain. Three, four if we can, whatever we can manage, just to be certain. Since it was an overlord’s scale that began your friend’s woes—as you tell the tale—such a scale will be a vital component in the breaking of it.” He drew an insubstantial finger up to rub the bridge of his nose. “For the best chance of success, we should perform this spell…”
“At one of the temple ruins, where the greatest magic persists.”
The spirit beamed. “You are an excellent student, bright beyond words, elf-fish. Much of this work will fall on your shoulders, as my hands can, of course, hold or carry nothing. Death robbed me of many ordinary abilities.”
The draconian snorted. “I have good hands…”
“Such sorcery is foreign to me,” Feril interrupted. “My magic comes from nature and by Habbakuk’s grace.”
“You do have magic about you,” Obelia argued. “We will work from your strengths, coupled with all of these magical items, a scale, and my wisdom.”
“I know some magic, too,” Ragh said sulkily, “not much, but some. I can help too, but I think we should find a different overlord to snatch a scale from and not pick any ruins in the swamp to execute this ritual of yours. There’s the Window, the Silver Stair on Schallsea Island…I know of a few more.”
Obelia gave Ragh a thin smile. “The three of us will perfect the spell together, then. We’ll work on it during our journey to the dragon’s swamp. When your friend is human again, elf-fish, you will keep the other part of our bargain and take me on a search for my sister Elalage. I will scry on her to discover where she went. Oh, she will be most surprised to see me.”
Ragh growled softly. “Another overlord, Feril. Not the Black. Not Sable. This would be suicide. There’s the White in Southern Ergoth. They say that beast’s not as large. I don’t think Dhamon or I would mind the cold, and I think your undead friend would probably like the cold. Dhamon could fly us there and…”
The Kagonesti shook her head, the sunlight touching the ends of her hair and making her locks look afire. “No, my instincts tell me that Sable is the one. Besides, this place is closer, the swamp. Dhamon knows this territory.”
Ragh stood up, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Elf, I don’t think you understand how formidable Sable is. Sable hates Dhamon. He’s taken pieces of her swamp, killed her creatures, taunted her by his very existence, and she will kill all of us if we even get near enough to try to pluck a single scale from…”
“You don’t have to take the scale from the dragon,” Obelia interjected. He was looking down his overlong ghostly nose and talking in a condescending manner. “All you need is a scale…one, two preferably…they might have dropped off the dragon somewhere. Dragons shed, you know, like a common reptile. I suppose…uh, your kind even sheds skin from time to time.”
Ragh glared first at Feril, then at the specter before hopping off the rock. “Fine, fine, fine. You want one of Sable’s scales, I’ll get you one. Try to get you one, even if it kills me. I’ll crawl right into her damnable lair and…”
Suddenly the ghost opened its misty mouth and emitted a low whistling sound that caught Feril and Ragh off guard. It was a high-pitched, haunting noise that raised the hairs on the Kagonesti’s neck and caused the sivak to shudder. They exchanged wary glances. The sound went on for some time, quieting the birds and leaving only the splashing of the water around the half-submerged willow root.
“No,” Obelia said at last, closing his mouth and ending the strange whistling. “Sad to say I can’t manage it.”
“Can’t manage what?” This came from Ragh, somewhat angrily. He was standing so close to the specter that the cold it gave off caused the sivak’s breath to puff away from his face. “Just what can’t you manage, dead one? Helping us?”
A shake of the gossamer head. “I tried to cast a useful spell just now, a relatively simple one that would allow me to look for Sable’s lost scales. Scrying, the magic is sometimes called. Too bad, because if I can’t locate a scale, I don’t know how I’ll be able to find my sister later on.” Obelia let out a wheezing sigh. “Perhaps I can figure out how later. I certainly won’t give up on helping you.”
Feril touched the raccoon figurine. “Maybe I can help you, Obelia, calling on my own magic.”
The lines deepened along the edges of the specter’s eyes. “Elf-fish, what a splendid notion! Carry me close to that stream over there, and we’ll use the water for a window. Find a quiet spot if you can. Your wingless friend may join us.”
“I don’t understand all this.” Ragh sounded dubious.
“We’ll use the water like a crystal ball, right?” Obelia said, beaming. Feril nodded.
The sivak looked no less skeptical.
Carefully holding the flask, Feril stood and walked over to the stream. The current was swift, but there was a spot near the headwaters where the stream slowed around a fallen elm long since stripped of its leaves and small branches.