Darkvision

If he accidentally hurt Yasha, who might he inadvertently harm next?

Or worse, kill? Was Xaemar pushing Shaddon to empower the crystal lode with power in some mad scheme to propel Datharathi Minerals to the top of the trade empire in Durpar? Or was Shaddon, always a sneaky bastard in Warian's estimation, pursuing some crazy plot of his own? A plot that had momentarily woken a dangerous strength in Warian's prosthesis. A strength, truth to tell, Warian wished to wield again.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thormud Horn used his moon white selenite rod to scribe a circle in the fine gravel. His grimy hands, thick with the soil of the world he so cherished, guided the rod with supernatural grace and accuracy.

So it was when the dwarf geomancer immersed himself in the medium of his expertise. Thormud's constant companion, a tiny replica of a dragon carved in opal, roosted on the dwarf's right shoulder. Its name was Xet. Kiril Duskmourn took a pull from her hip flask. The whisky hit the back of her throat like smoke, cleared her nostrils, and trickled down to warm her stomach. She watched the dwarf continue his methodical inscription in the loose soil atop the mesa. Kiril had watched Thormud inscribe similar circles nearly every day for the last ten years, or so it sometimes seemed. Kiril's sword was rarely required to protect her employer, thank all the gods of Sildeyuir. Yet she maintained her vigil. Thormud's coin was good, but more importantly, few of her own elf race (or any race, for that matter) would put up with her. Kiril's excessive cursing and bouts of near-alcoholism were traits elves generally shu

"Again, the prognostication fails." Thormud's voice was low and melodious, a voice that belonged to a trained performer on the streets of Gheldaneth, not to a crusty dwarf geomancer who lived alone in the Mulhorand scrublands. Alone but for his surly bodyguard and diminutive familiar. "Again, you say," said Kiril in a lazy, I-don't-much-care tone. Thormud looked at her, one hand rubbing the chin hidden below his black and gray beard. Xet loosed a call like a chime and launched from the dwarf's shoulder into the hazy sunshine. A few rags of white cloud fluttered in the otherwise vacuous blue sky. Kiril watched the tiny construct fly toward the edge of the mesa, then dip below its rim, out of sight. "Good riddance," she muttered. Thormud spoke. "Yes, Kiril. As you no doubt recall, all my recent prognostications have come to naught." Kiril sighed, then said, "And you still don't know why? Maybe your wits are departing as age creeps up on you." Thormud considered and nodded. "I checked that possibility. Fortunately for your continued commission, I find my faculties remain as sharp as ever. The trouble lies elsewhere." "Trouble?" wondered Kiril, slightly interested despite her studied detachment. "As you've heard me expound on more than one occasion, dear Kiril, the stone and mineral beneath the feet of all the quick green foliage enjoys an unhurried life all its own. Information flows through the earth in telluric currents and tides, but slowly." Kiril said, "I've noticed the slowness." Thormud shook off the elf's subtle provocation. He continued. "Something has disrupted those currents. Something far to the southeast." "Disrupted currents of the earth? I've heard you yammer too much over the years not to learn a little-disrupting the flow would take a massive event, right? Another volcano? I hate those." Kiril fingered an ugly burn scar on the back of her left hand as she spoke. "No." Thormud shook his head. "For all their fury, volcanoes are natural disturbances, and as such would only modify telluric currents, adding their voice to the flow of the earth. I'm experiencing outright interruption. Only something inherently u

The lonely mesa was much tu

Kiril took a sip for the road and stowed the container. The vitriolic taste wasn't enough to deter her preparations, though, and she retrieved a well-handled skull from her shelf. The skull was that of a child, delicate and elongated-an elf skull. Kiril kept it to remind herself of mortality, and as a remembrance of what stock should be put in ideology when reality intruded. It was incontrovertible evidence of the perils of wielding Angul. The peril, and the payment required-the cost of her own i