"Come in," came the crisp reply from beyond.

With a deep breath Tyveris opened the door and stepped inside, though he was forced to turn sideways a bit to squeeze his broad shoulders through the portal. He was not a tall man, but his sheer size was astonis.h.i.+ng. The thin brown homespun of his simple robe did little to conceal the thick, heavy muscles that were roped about his powerful frame, and his dusky brown skin marked him as a foreigner in these lands. Altogether, he was a rather remarkable individual for the backward Everard Abbey.

And that was a great part of the problem.

"Oh, do stop standing there filling up the doorway and come sit down," Mother Melisende said in her typically brisk tone. The abbess was a tiny woman, with bright, dark eyes and wispy white hair. She sat before a fireplace, clad in a simple but elegant robe of soft dove gray. Despite her diminutive stature, a mantle of authority seemed to rest comfortably upon her small shoulders.

"Yes, Mother Melisende." Though he made an effort to speak softly, Tyveris's deep voice rattled the gla.s.s in the windowpanes. He sat down. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth to drive back the autumn chill. Melisende poured steaming tea into a pair of delicate porcelain cups and handed one to Tyveris. He stared at the fragile teacup worriedly, holding it with exaggerated care in his big hand. He swallowed hard.

Melisende sipped her tea, regarding Tyveris with a wise expression. "I won't keep this from you," she said after a moment's quiet. "Several of the loremasters have come to speak to me this past tenday. They have asked that I dismiss you from the abbey."

Tyveris's dark eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Have I done something wrong, Mother Melisende?"

The abbess sighed. "No, Tyveris, it is nothing you have done." She smiled fleetingly. "In fact, I daresay we've never had a handyman about the abbey who was as useful as you. The chapel ceiling no longer leaks onto the pulpit, the new hinges on the gate open without a creak, and the drains in the kitchen are working properly for the first time in a century." Her smile faded, replaced by a scowl. "No, it's not what you've done that some of the loremasters don't care for. You wear a monk's robe now, but I'm afraid that doesn't change what you are in their eyes-a sell-sword, a man dedicated to violence, not knowledge."

"But they have nothing to fear from me, Mother Melisende," he boomed earnestly. "I can control myself. I swear it!"

There was a clear, delicate snap as the teacup shattered in Tyveris's hand. He stared down at the broken shards in horror. "I've ruined your cup," he said despairingly.

"Forget the teacup, Tyveris," Melisende said, taking the broken pieces from his hand and setting them aside. "It is simply a thing. Completely replaceable." She took his big hands into her tiny ones. He almost pulled away in surprise, but she gripped him tightly. "Look at these, Tyveris. What do you see?"

Unsure what she meant he looked down at his hands. They were huge, big-knuckled, the dark skin crisscrossed with even darker scars and welts. They were a fighter's hands. Hands that had taken more lives than he could count. He told her so.

"Really?" the abbess answered. "That's peculiar. For I see a pair of hands that are gentle even in their strength. I see hands that have embraced children, hands that have freely given alms to those in need, hands that have held a book for the first time as their owner learned to read in this very room. No, Tyveris, I don't believe these are a warrior's hands at all."

He pulled away from her. "But the other loremasters don't believe that, do they?"

"Some don't," Melisende answered solemnly. "A few. Loremaster Orven speaks loudest among them. I'm afraid they fear that one day you won't be able to control your temper, and that violence will result."

"Maybe they're right," Tyveris replied, his voice just slightly bitter. Why not? he thought. It had happened often enough in the past, when he had been both slave and soldier and the only thing that had mattered was to kill his foe, so that he wouldn't be killed himself.

Melisende's eyes flashed brightly with anger. "I don't expect to hear any more such nonsense from you. I don't let just anybody into my abbey, you know. You're here because I believed you belong here. That hasn't changed." She picked up her teacup again. "I'll speak with those who have been troubled by your presence. Perhaps I can allay their fears."

Tyveris's heart leapt in his chest. "You will?" he rumbled gratefully.

"Did I not say so?" Melisende snapped. The abbess didn't like having to repeat herself.

"But what about Loremaster Orven?" he asked tentatively.

"I will concern myself with him. You may go now. Attend to your work." Tyveris knew that one didn't hesitate when dismissed by the abbess. He hastily stood and bowed before hurrying from the chamber.

"And, Tyveris," Melisende called after him. "Do try to stay out of trouble."

Tyveris spent the rest of the day repairing cracks in the abbey's outer stone wall. After he had finished the day's work he made his way to the dim, dusty library to read for a time in the quiet chamber. Outside the window the day was fading to twilight as the deep tones of a bronze bell sounded Vespers. The shadowed plains rolled southward into the far purple distance, toward a single twinkling gem on the horizon-the Caravan City of Iriaebor.

Had Tyveris been looking, the city's lights might have been a reminder of his past, of the days when Iriaebor had been his home and the sword had been his way of life. But he was focused on something else, another, more comforting past. Tyveris flipped idly through the colorfully illuminated ma.n.u.script resting on the table before him, a historical treatise concerning the founding of the Church of Oghma. He could hardly imagine a time when he couldn't read, but in truth he had only learned a few short months before.

The library was not a terribly large room, but it was filled from floor to ceiling with books, so many that Tyveris suspected it would take a pair of lifetimes just to read them all. The abbey was devoted to the G.o.d Oghma, the Binder, who was the warden of all knowledge, and its library was its greatest pride. In fact, the abbey even took its name from Everard Fa.r.s.eer, a king of an ancient, forgotten land whom legend told gave his life to protect a library from marauders who sought to burn the books within.

Tyveris cringed at the memory of the countless buildings he himself had set ablaze in the days when he had been driven into battle with whips at his back. How many precious books had been consumed in the flames and lost forever?

To atone for that destruction, Tyveris had spent the last decade as part of a small band of adventurers based in Iriaebor, men and women who had done their best to work against tyranny in the Caravan Cities between Waterdeep to the far west and Cormyr to the east. But even then he'd simply been a well-trained swordarm. And when the group disbanded a year ago, Tyveris found he had no purpose.

There was no one to tell him who to fight, or where or when. Alone once more, he discovered that all his good deeds had done nothing to a.s.suage his guilty conscience. Then, in the grips of a dark despair, he came to the abbey's gates on a rainy spring day....

A fierce look crossed Tyveris's face as he banished the memories. He wasn't going to let anyone force him to leave Everard Abbey. Not Loremaster Orven. Not anyone.

A place at the abbey was the one thing Tyveris knew he was still willing to fight for.

He bent his head over the tome once more, content to lose himself in its pages. Twilight dwindled outside the window, and night gathered its ebon mantle about the abbey, secure within its walls on the hill above the moonlit plains.

"Reading dusty old books hardly seems like a proper pastime for a warrior," a voice said, startling Tyveris. Yellow light flared up as a candle was touched to the wick of an oil lamp.

Tyveris spun around, dreading to see Loremaster Orven behind him. But instead he found himself gazing into the hard gray eyes of an acerbic-looking, harshly thin man. Patriarch Alamric.

Tyveris cleared his throat gruffly. "No one is a warrior within these walls, Patriarch Alamric," he rumbled.

"So the abbess is fond of saying," Alamric said in his sharp voice. "A pity."

Tyveris watched Alamric in wary confusion as the skeletal man sat at the table opposite him. He had not had many dealings with the old man since coming to the abbey. Alamric was a patriarch in the Church of Oghma, second at the abbey to only Melisende herself. Yet Tyveris had often had the disconcerting feeling that Alamric was watching him. It appeared that feeling had been justified, for the patriarch now gazed at him intently, interest sparking in his sharp gray eyes.

"Not all who wors.h.i.+p Oghma tremble foolishly at the sight of a warrior, like our poor Loremaster Orven," Alamric went on. His voice had a hissing edge to it, like a knife drawn through silk. Tyveris looked at him dubiously.

"You doubt me, but it is true," Alamric said with a tight, thin-lipped expression that was more grimace than smile. "I am a powerful man, Tyveris. There are many in the church who obey my orders. But even so, I admire you. No, I envy you." His eyes glowed with a strange, fierce light. "From the time I was young I wanted more than anything to lead others, to let my wisdom and my will be their own. I dreamed of riding into glorious battles, raising my sword in the cause of righteousness." He paused and sighed deeply. "But I'm afraid the G.o.ds have mocked my pride by granting me this frail form. I've had to content myself with spiritual battles. You are lucky, Tyveris."

"No," Tyveris said, shaking his head. "No, don't envy me, Patriarch. I would give anything to change what I am." He reverently touched the open book before him. "This is something far greater than battles or swords."

Alamric s.n.a.t.c.hed the book up in his bony hand and tossed it carelessly aside, a look of disdain on his severe visage. Tyveris stared at him in shock. "Knowledge is not the only thing sacred to Oghma! No, there is something even more holy, and that is Truth. Knowledge comes in tomes, but there's only one way to carry Truth to people, and that's by deed." A ruddy, unwholesome flush came to Alamric's cheeks. He didn't seem to be gazing at Tyveris anymore; instead his eyes were turned to the darkened window as if he saw a glorious vision there, invisible to mundane eyes.

"Unbelievers can cast books aside all too easily," Alamric went on, his voice chantlike. "But if we armed our priests, not with parchment scrolls, but with swords, nothing could stand before us in our quest to bring Truth to all the lands of Faerun!"

Tyveris felt a chill run up his spine. "What 'truth' do you mean, Patriarch?" he dared to ask.

Alamric's gaze bored hotly into Tyveris. "The Truth. Don't you see? People will no longer need to read books to learn what to think. We will think for them. We will tell them what they must know."

"There will be people who will resist you," Tyveris said carefully. "There always are."

Alamric waved a hand dismissively. "Not all souls can be saved, Tyveris. But that's the price we must pay for the benefit of all. Mother Melisende and those like her may not see far enough into the future to realize the great good in this, but there are those in the church who will. I shall be the one to carry the message to them." He clutched Tyveris's wrist. His fingers felt strangely warm. "But we will need holy warriors to become the bearers of the Truth. You could be one of the first."

Tyveris pulled his hand away, rubbing his wrist as if he'd been burned. "I'm sorry. I don't think I can be ... what you want."

Alamric's exultant expression did not waver. "Very well, Tyveris. We'll let that stand as your answer-for now. But I have faith that you will soon see the light and join me. I have great faith."

After Patriarch Alamric left, Tyveris found he had no more heart for reading. He put away the book and made his way to the abbey's stable, where he kept a room in the loft. He lay in the darkness for a long time-even past midnight, by the stars outside the window-but he could not sleep. Alamric's strange words kept echoing in his head.

Finally he threw off his blanket and fumbled about in the dark until he found a stump of a candle. He lit it with a flint and a bit of tinder. A warm golden glow filled the loft.

He dug beneath his bed of hay until he reached the floorboards. One was loose, and he pulled it up to reveal a shadowed recess beneath. He drew out a long object and unwound the thick cloth that covered it. A sword gleamed in the candlelight, sharp and clean. For a time Tyveris stared at the blade, trying to see the faces of those he'd slain, to draw them forth like a magical s.h.i.+eld against the patriarch's words. After an hour, he rewrapped the sword and put it away.

He drew another object from the hole-a small jade figurine. Once it had been meant to represent a bird, but its features had been rounded with the wear of his touch. Still, Tyveris remembered the beauty clearly. His sister Tali had carved it for him long ago.

Once he and Tali had been bold youths, always seeking trouble together. When the s.h.i.+ps came across the sea to the jungles of Chult, he and his sister had ignored the pleading of their parents. Enticed by tales of riches and strange wonders, they signed on to become warriors in the distant lands to the north.

But they had been deceived.

The siblings had found themselves bound, not for glory, but for slavery. The s.h.i.+p had been a nightmare of foul darkness and disease. Tali had not survived the voyage, and Tyveris had lived only to have shackles clamped on his ankles and a sword thrust into his hand. The jade figurine was all he had left of his sister. Her bright eyes, her brave, sweet smile, were only memories now.

Not all souls can be saved.... Alamric's terrible words burned like poison in his mind. He gripped the figurine tightly in his hand. A single tear, clear as a diamond, touched his dark cheek.

"Must there always be more dying, Tali?" he whispered into the night. There was no answer but silence.

It was a dreary afternoon late in the waning days of autumn when the stranger came to the gates of Everard Abbey.

Tyveris was in the great hall at the time, repairing the crumbling mortar around a window to keep out the chill winds of the coming winter. He heard the crystalline chiming of harness bells and gazed outside. Through the gla.s.s he saw a figure clad in a heavy, midnight-blue traveling cloak ride into the courtyard astride a delicate black palfrey. Even as he watched, Mother Melisende and Patriarch Alamric stepped forward to greet the stranger. The mysterious rider lifted two gloved hands to push back the cowl of a heavy traveling cloak.

She was beautiful. Her hair, as dark and glossy as her steed, cascaded over the shoulders of her crimson riding gown. Her pale features were so perfect they seemed almost exotic. The woman must be a n.o.ble of some sort, Tyveris thought, and he wondered who she might be.

Rumors tended to be repeated as often as prayers in the abbey, and by Vespers Tyveris had heard numerous intriguing whispers about the strange lady. Her name was Kelshara, he learned, and she was a benefactor of the church. Some said she had been sending gold to the abbey for months and had now made the pilgrimage here.

Other rumors spoke of her desire to see the abbey's most holy relic, the Tear of Everard. The crystalline jewel, kept in a small chamber behind the chapel's nave, was in truth a tear shed by the abbey's namesake, magically turned to stone. Several centuries ago it had come into the possession of a priest of Oghma who founded the abbey to guard the Tear. Even now, pilgrims journeyed from lands afar to see the Tear and send a prayer to Oghma.

The evening chants still echoed among the candlelit vaults of the chapel when the order for a feast came down from the chamber of the abbess. In moments the abbey was bustling with activity, and Tyveris helped to ready the great hall. He and several of the brethren scattered the stone floor with fresh rushes and pulled out long trestle tables. All the while more and more of the sisters scurried in bearing candelabras pilfered from nearly every room of the abbey. Soon the hall was ablaze with light.

After this, Tyveris did his best to keep out of everyone's way. In the tenday since his conversation with Melisende, he had been making a concerted effort to do nothing that might alarm Loremaster Orven or any of the abbey's other residents. So far, it seemed, he'd been very successful.

By the time the folk of the abbey sat down in the great hall, the tables had been loaded with roasted geese, bubbling stews, platters of spiced fruit, and mountains of steaming bread. For a few fleeting moments Tyveris was in paradise-until the loremaster sitting to his left politely remarked that he was supposed to pa.s.s the food-laden platters rather than h.o.a.rd them.

After all had filled their plates and a benediction had been spoken, Mother Melisende stood in her place at the head of the great hall. She introduced the stranger as Lady Kelshara and revealed that the abbey's mysterious benefactor had indeed come in pilgrimage to gaze upon Everard's Tear. Then Kelshara herself stood and spoke.

"You have given me a most gracious welcome," Kelshara said in a silk-smooth voice, "and I look forward to seeing the precious relic you so unfailingly guard." She raised her wine goblet with a smile and tilted her head forward. "May Oghma in his kindness grant us each the knowledge we seek." Tyveris stood with the others to raise his goblet in reply, but he suddenly found himself distracted. There was something strange about Kelshara's smile, something very private and inward.

In his years as a warrior, Tyveris had learned to read the smallest of expressions on the faces of his jailers and his enemies. He could tell when they were lying by the look in their eyes, or whether they were going to attack by the set of their jaw. He wasn't altogether certain what Kelshara's smile portended, but a sudden chill touched his spine.

He picked at his food absently for the remainder of the evening, watching Kelshara out of the corner of his eye. She was engaged in an animated conversation with Alamric. The patriarch's eyes were glowing hotly, and Tyveris had no doubt he was extemporizing upon his dream of transforming the Church of Oghma into a more militant order. Kelshara seemed to be paying close attention to his words, but Mother Melisende, sitting nearby, was regarding the two with a sour expression.

Tyveris noticed then that Kelshara's smile had changed slightly. There was a faintly triumphant note to it now. Yet every few minutes her attention wavered from Alamric's ravings, and her cool gaze flickered across the sea of faces filling the great hall.

She's found something she was after, but she's still looking for something else, Tyveris thought. He wasn't certain why, but he slumped down in his chair as much as his ma.s.sive frame allowed. The less anybody noticed him, the better.

Finally, Mother Melisende rose to bid the abbey folk good night. She left the table quickly, but as she made her way from the hall she paused by Tyveris's seat.

"You've been working terribly hard not to be noticed these last days," she said matter-of-factly.

Tyveris grinned a bit foolishly. "I've been trying. It isn't all that easy, you know. A year ago I thought the word 'subtle' meant using a dagger instead of a battle-axe."

Mother Melisende winced slightly, then smiled, patting his broad shoulder. "Well, do keep trying. Loremaster Orven seems to have calmed a bit. In fact, I'm calling a meeting tomorrow to discuss making your position at the abbey permanent. I have reason to believe the loremasters will be agreeing with me." Her eyes snapped fire.

Tyveris's grin broadened. "Thank you, Mother Melisende."

'Thank me by not proving my judgment foolish," Melisende said smartly.

The abbess turned to leave, but Tyveris reached up and touched her arm. "You don't like her, do you?" he whispered.

Melisende hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I don't," she said softly. "But she seems to have found a friend in Alamric."

"He wants her to be the patron of his order, doesn't he? To use her gold to buy an army of warriors to spread his truth across the Heartlands."

Melisende's usually warm visage was suddenly as hard and cold as steel. "Stay away from Patriarch Alamric, Tyveris. He may need you for his schemes, but you most certainly do not need one such as him." With that, Melisende briskly departed.

Tyveris's gaze drifted to the head of the hall once again. Alamric was still babbling at Kelshara's side, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead her sharp violet gaze was directed across the vast room. The note of triumph about her smile had deepened. She was looking directly at Tyveris.

After the feast, Tyveris made his way to the stables for some much-needed rest. Yet when the moon finally rose over the distant horizon, its silvery light streamed through the open window of the loft to find him still awake.

"I know they'll decide to let me stay, Tali," he whispered. "I feel it. I belong here."

He set down the worn bird of jade on the overturned crate he used for a table. Then, pus.h.i.+ng his wire-rimmed spectacles into place on his nose, he bent back over the tome he had been reading. It was an account of an ancient war in an empire that had long ago vanished beneath the sands of Anauroch, the great desert to the north. His brow wrinkled as he concentrated on the words.

It was late when he finished the tome, but still sleep would not claim him. Troubling visions of Patriarch Alamric's army of truth bearers, financed with Kelshara's gold, flickered through his mind. For a heartbeat he saw himself leading a crusade, carrying the symbol of Oghma on a battle standard, crying out triumphant praises to his G.o.d as the unbelievers were trampled, weeping, in the blood-soaked mud beneath the hooves of his thundering black charger. There was a dark appeal to the scene, a comforting sense of power. And if Alamric's cause proved a worthy one, Tyveris knew he could be a powerful force in such a holy war. But if Alamric spoke only from his own ambition...

"No," Tyveris whispered fiercely. "I will not be a p.a.w.n again. Never."

He headed quickly down the ladder. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well get another book from the library. Quietly he made his way across the moonlit courtyard and slipped inside the abbey, treading down the stone corridors as stealthily as he could manage. As he pa.s.sed the doors to the chapel, he paused. A flicker of movement within had caught his eye. Curious, he peered through the archway.

Alamric was inside. The patriarch stood in the chapel's nave, no doubt sending some fervent plea to Oghma. Tyveris quickly hurried away from the chapel, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no desire to listen to any more of Alamric's diatribes. He walked quickly up a stone staircase and down the long hallway leading to the library.

He was halfway down the corridor when he noticed something odd. A peculiar orange glow spilled from the crack beneath the door to Alamric's chamber. At first Tyveris thought little of it and continued on; no doubt the patriarch had left a candle burning while he was out. Yet there was something strange about the ruddy light, the way it flickered and danced. It looked almost like the light of a...

"Fire," Tyveris whispered, his eyes widening. An image flashed before his mind-a candle burning too low on a table strewn with parchments, flames licking hungrily at the papers, catching, and leaping high to the ceiling. He considered running downstairs to retrieve Alamric, but it might be only a matter of moments before the fire spread out of control. Instead he burst through the door into Alamric's chamber.

He halted, dumbfounded.

Tyveris noted two things about the room. The first was that there was no fire. The flickering light emanated from an object resting on a marble table-a small gla.s.s jar filled with a strange light that washed over him in dizzying waves.

The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone. The stranger, Kelshara, sat nearby in a high-backed chair lined with crushed velvet the same purple hue as her eyes. Tyveris took a startled step backward, but she seemed not to notice him. She continued to stare straight ahead, her face pale and devoid of expression. He would have thought her dead if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of her breast beneath her crimson gown.

Tyveris felt a p.r.i.c.kling on the back of his neck. Without thinking, he dropped his hand down to his hip, but there was no sword hilt for it to grasp.

"There's enchantment at work here, sure as the night is black," he grumbled. He'd never much cared for magic, or those who worked it. Mages were treacherous creatures, the whole lot of them.

But the weird scene in the room puzzled him. Was Alamric dabbling in magic himself? Perhaps there was nothing he would not do to achieve his b.l.o.o.d.y dreams of holy conquest. Perhaps he had ensorcelled Kelshara so that she would give him the gold he needed for his schemes. Tyveris shook his head in disbelief. He had to go find Mother Melisende.

As he turned to leave, his gaze was drawn once again to the light-filled jar. Dread fascination reeled him in, forcing him to peer into the jar's center. There was something inside.

A man-or, more precisely, the ghostly image of a man- battered at the gla.s.s prison. His eyes were wide with madness, his mouth open in a silent, endless scream. The tiny ghost scrabbled at the gla.s.s with hands clenched into claws. Worst of all, Tyveris recognized the man imprisoned within the vessel. It was Alamric.