The bard saw Kaerion’s worried gaze and tried to smile her reassurance. Surely, she would have given in to despair long before this had it not been for the fighter’s solid presence. Vaxor’s death had been a cruel blow, one that had cut unexpectedly deep for both of them. Yet somehow, though they had said only a few words in private since that tragic moment, she felt Kaerion’s strength beside her, and knew that their grief was bearable because it was shared.
“We must try and push on, Majandra,” Kaerion said to her after a moment. “This chapel is especially evil, even for Acererak’s tomb. I’d rather not spend any more time in here.”
She nodded and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it from turning in to a sob. Gently, she placed her hands upon the rangers shoulder and tapped. Gracefully, Gerwyth withdrew his arms from around her.
“Thank you both,” she said, and then stepped down from the altar area. As soon as she moved, she noticed that the once opalescent blue stone of the altar had turned a fiery blue-red.
“Gerwyth—”
“I see it,” was the ranger’s whispered reply. “Just keep moving away.”
The bard backed away slowly, grateful that the elf was taking his own advice. Once clear of the fiery stone, Majandra let out her breath and cast a quick look around the chamber. The chapel itself was over sixty feet long and sixty feet wide, sculpted carefully from the surrounding stone of the tomb. Like other areas of the tomb, the walls of this chapel were covered in mosaics depicting scenes of everyday life. To her dismay, however, the people depicted in these scenes were horribly corrupted. Rotting flesh, skeletal faces, worm-ridden skin—each scene was more ghastly than the last.
Worse still, the whole area was set up like the temples she was familiar with in Rel Mord. Wooden pews filled the east and west portions of this room, while the whole layout drew the observer’s eye to the imposing stone altar in the center of the south wall. Beyond the angry colored stone, the bard could see a tiered dais. Resting on top of the dais was a simple wooden chair—the ceremonial seat of the presiding cleric. Two large brass candelabra stood to either side of the dais, and Majandra could almost see the smoky flame coming from the five unlit white candles that sprouted from the candelabra like skeletal hands. She shuddered at this image, for every detail of the room spoke not only of evil, but also of goodness corrupted. Even the holy symbols on the walls, many representing the good gods and goddesses of the land, were not exact images. Each had some slight imperfection, and many were twisted to demonstrate the reverse of its intended meaning.
Worried, she scanned the room for signs of Phathas. She caught sight of the old mage leaning his bent back against the wood of the pew closest to the tunnel from which they had entered the tomb. She also saw the three remaining guards carefully searching the skeletal figure that lay upon the floor to the west of the altar, its outstretched hand pointing toward the mist covered expanse of another archway. Landra, the guards’ captain, conferred quietly with Kaerion, who had settled himself carefully near the edge of one of the pews.
“Well,” one of the guards said, “it looks like our next step is clear. This archway is our only way out.”
“It would seem that way,” Phathas said, turning from his examination of the wooden pews, “but I would be very careful following through on such an assumption.”
The old mage’s voice quavered across the chapel’s distance. Majandra thought that he sounded tired—more tired than she had ever heard him. A wave of sadness washed over her. She knew that as deeply as she grieved for those who had died, their loss would have cut the mage deeper—especially the loss of Vaxor. The two men had been close friends for decades, and now it looked as if the weight of those deaths bore down upon the mage with an implacable force. Majandra could see just how much the wizened mage leaned upon his staff as he made his way toward the center of the chapel.
“I agree,” the bard found herself saying. “The skeleton pointing toward that archway seems too obvious a clue. I say we split up and give the room another search. But be careful not to touch anything.”
Choosing the area behind the wicked altar, Majandra lost herself in the close examination of the stone wall. She had begun to lose track of time when a shout went up from the opposite area of the chapel. Turning, she saw one of the guards pointing to a small section of the wall, several feet in front of a large, stoppered urn. She made her way toward the guard but waited for the others to arrive before giving the indicated area a close examination.
Before her, about four feet off the ground, Majandra could see a small slot in the stone. Above the slot, the letter O was etched faintly into the gray wall. While the others congratulated the sharp-eyed guard, Majandra tugged at her lower lip, deep in thought. Something about this slot triggered her bardic memory, and she chased that elusive trigger through the twists and turns of her “inner library.” Around her, she could hear the group debating their next course of action. Voices rose and faded, points of view were exchanged, but she heard it all from a great distance.
At last, she honed in on the memory—and nearly shouted in her excitement. “I’ve got it,” she said with such conviction that it stopped all conversation.
“Got what, little sister?” Gerwyth asked in a wry tone.
“I have the answer,” she responded. When she saw the blank faces staring at her, she intoned, “‘If shades of red stand for blood the wise; will not need sacrifice ought but a loop of magical metal—you’re well along your way!’”
“Don’t you see?” she continued. “It’s in the poem. That circle is in the shape of a ring—a ‘loop’ of metal. All we need to do is place a magical ring on to that circle and something will happen.”
“Yeah,” one of the guards asked, “but do you know exactly what will happen?”
“Well, not exactly,” Majandra admitted. “But the poem has guided us correctly so far. I say we risk it.”
The group conferred for a few moments before unanimously opting to follow her hunch. Grateful for their trust, she rummaged through her pouches, but found nothing. She turned to the assembled group. “I gave the ring we found in the room with the three chests to Adrys,” she said. A knot formed in her throat as she said these words. Kaerion had tried to warn her, but she had ignored him, and now Vaxor was dead—quite possibly because of her unwillingness to listen.
Thankfully, Kaerion laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “No one’s blaming you,” he said softly. “We just need a ring so that we can get out of here.”
“And I have just the thing,” Gerwyth said, breaking the tension. They turned to find the elf holding a small silver band in the palm of his hand.
“I don’t know what it’s called, but it helps keep me comfortable in temperature extremes,” the elf said. “I think it will do nicely.”
“Thank you,” Majandra replied, unsure why Kaerion glared open-mouthed at his friend.
“Why, you goblin-eared excuse for an elf!” Kaerion shouted. “After all these years… that’s how you’ve done it. I thought your unflinching endurance in the face of the direst of elements was an elven trait and the sign of a courageous spirit, and all this time you were magically protected. Why I should—”
“Don’t bother finishing that thought,” Gerwyth interrupted with a devilish smile upon his face. “You might overtax that lump of clay you call a brain. Besides,” he finished with an injured look, “every elf worthy of the name has a few secrets.”
“Enough, both of you,” Phathas scolded—though the bard could see a smile splitting the mage’s weathered face. “Let Majandra concentrate.”