Still, there was no denying that the library was strangely quiet this day-except in one corner of the second floor, where Brother Chaunticleer was holed up in his room, singing to his gods. Not a soul stirred in the headmasters’ area. It was strangely quiet and strangely dark, even for the perpetually gloomy place; barriers had been constructed over nearly every window. Normally the library housed nearly eighty priests-before the disaster of the chaos curse, well over a hundred-and at any given time, five to thirty visitors. The guest list was small now, with winter just giving way, but so was the list of priests who had gone to Carradoon, or Shilmista.

  So where was everybody?

  Another troubling sensation that the six priests could not ignore was the subtle but definite feeling that the Edificant Library had changed somehow, as though the gloom about them was more than a physical feature. It was as if Deneir and Oghma had moved away from this place. Even the midday ritual, in which Brother Chaunticleer sang to both the gods in the presence of all the priests, had not been performed in two days. Romus himself had gone to the singing priest’s room, fearing that Chaunticleer had taken ill. He found the door locked, and only after several minutes of pounding had Chaunticleer called out, telling him to go away.

  “I feel as if someone has built a ceiling above me,” one of the Deneirians remarked, following the suspicions of Cadderly that Dean Thobicus had implanted. “A ceiling that separates me from Deneir.”

  The other Deneirian nodded his agreement, while the Oghmans looked to each other, then to Romus, who was the strongest cleric among them.

  “I am certain there is a simple answer,” Romus said as calmly as he could, but the other five knew that he agreed with the Deneirian priest’s assessment of the gods. This library had always been among the holiest of places, where priests of any goodly faith could feel the presence of their god or goddess. Even the druids who had visited had been surprised to find an aura of Sylvanus within the walls of a man-made structure.

  And for the priests of Oghma and Deneir, there was, perhaps, no holier place in all of Faerun. This was their tribute to the gods, a place of learning and art, a place of study and recital. The place of Chaunticleer’s song.

  “We will wrestle!” Romus Scaladi announced surprisingly. After a moment of shock, the Oghmans began to bob their heads in agreement, while the Deneirians continued to stare dumbfoundedly at the stocky Scaladi.

  “Wrestle?” one of them asked.

  “Tribute to our god!” Scaladi answered, pulling off his black-and-gold vest and fine white shirt, revealing a eldest bulging with muscles and thick with dark hair. “We will wrestle!”

  “Oooo,” came a woman’s purr from the back of the chapel. “I do so love to wrestle!”

  The six priests swung about hopefully, every one of them thinking that Danica, the woman who not only loved to wrestle, but who could defeat any priest in the library, had at last returned.

  They saw not Danica, but Histra, the alluring priestess of Sune, dressed in her customary crimson gown that was cut so low in the front that it seemed as if her navel should show, and slitted high on the thigh to show off the woman’s shapely legs. Her long, lush hair, dyed so blond this week as to appear almost white, flew wildly, as usual, and her makeup was thickly applied-never had the priests seen any lips so bright red! Her perfume, also poured generously, wafted across the chapel.

  Something was out of place. All six of the priests recognized that fact, though none had figured it out. Behind Histra’s generous paint, her skin was deathly pale, as was the leg sticking out from under her gown. And the perfume aroma was sickly sweet, something less than alluring.

  Romus Scaladi studied the woman intently. He had never much liked Histra, or her goddess, Sune, whose, only tenet seemed to be the physical pleasures of love. Always, ever-hungry Histra had set the hairs on the back of Scaladi’s neck to tingling, as they were now, but more than usual.

  It was uncommon to see Histra on the first floor, Scaladi knew; it was uncommon for the woman to be out of her room, or out of her bed.

  “Why are you here?” the wary priest started to ask, but Histra seemed not to notice.

  “I do so love to wrestle,” she purred again, openly lewd, and she opened her mouth and laughed wildly.

  All six priests understood; all six nervous priests recognized the vampire’s fangs for what they were.

  Five of the six, including Scaladi and both Deneirians, went immediately for their holy symbols.

  Histra continued to laugh. “Wrestle with these!” she cried, and several torn, rotting, stiff-walking men came into the room-men the priests knew.

  “My dear Deneir,” one of the priests muttered hopelessly.

  Romus leaped forward and presented the symbol of Oghma boldly. “Be gone from this holy place foul undead things!” he cried, and the zombies stopped their shuffling, a couple of them even turning about.

  Histra hissed viciously at the monstrous group, compelling them to continue.

  “I deny you!” Romus roared at Histra, and it seemed as if she nearly fell over backward. A zombie reached awkwardly for the Oghmau, and he growled and punched out with his holy symbol, slamming the monster on the side of the face. Acrid smoke rose from the wound, but the monster kept on, its companions filtering around Romus to get to the others.

  “I cannot turn them away!” one of the priests behind Romus cried. “Where is Deneir?”

  “Where is Oghma?” cried another.

  A stiff arm clubbed Romus on the shoulder. He grunted away the blow and cupped his hand under the zombie’s chin, bending the head back, then slashed at the monster’s throat with the edge of his holy symbol. Again came a puff of smoke from the wound, and the zombie’s rotting flesh opened up easily to the strong man’s blow.

  But zombies needed no air, so the wound was not serious.

  “Fight them!” Romus Scaladi screamed. “Beat them down!” To accentuate his point, the powerful Oghman launched a barrage of punishment on the zombie, finally lifting the corpse over his head and hurling it into a statue against the wall. The Oghman spun about to see to his friends, and found that they were not fighting, but backing away, their faces horror-stricken.

  Of course, Scaladi realized. These undead monsters they now face, these men, had been their friends! “Do not look at their faces!” he ordered. “They are not of our order. They are mere tools, weapons!

  “Weapons of Histra,” Romus Scaladi finished, spinning about to face the vampiress. “Now you die,” the outraged man promised, lifting his flaring holy symbol toward the monster. “By my hands.”

  Histra wanted nothing to do with Scaladi. Like Banner and Thobicus, she had not come into her full power yet. Even if she had, she might have thought twice about facing Scaladi, for she recognized that the man had was fully in his faith, that his heart could be hers, but not his soul, for he would deny any fear-and fear was perhaps the greatest of a vampire’s weapons.

  Histra defiantly spat at Scaladi’s presented symbol, but he saw the bluff for what it was. If he could get to her, cram his god’s symbol down her wretched throat, then the zombies would be leaderless and could be more easily driven away.

  Unexpectedly, Histra darted up the side toward the altar, deeper into the chapel, and Scaladi suddenly found two zombies between him and the vampiress.

  The other priests were fighting now. The two Deneirians had carried weapons with them into the chapel, blessed maces, and two others had rushed to the altar table, wisely breaking off legs to use as clubs.

  The remaining Oghman, the one priest who had not pulled out his holy symbol when Histra revealed herself, was off to the side of the room, trapped against the wall, shaking his head in sheer terror. And how that terror heightened when Histra pushed aside the zombies near the man and let him see her toothy smile!

  Scaladi was hard pressed immediately by the zombies. He knew then, in his heart, that the library was no longer a house of Oghma, or of Deneir, that this desecration was nearly complete. The day outside was overcast, but the sun peeked through enough to be their ally.

  “Fight out of the room!” Scaladi ordered. “Out of the room and out of the library!” He shifted forward, puhing the two zombies’ backs to the wall, trying to give his friends an avenue of escape.

  On came the Deneirians, their heavy maces pounding zombies aside. Suddenly the path seemed clear for them all, and the Deneirians, and then Scaladi, bolted for the door. The club-wielding Oghmans chased after them, but one, when he tried to leap the altar rail, hooked his foot and sprawled facedown on the stone floor.

  Zombies swarmed over him; his companion turned back and rushed to his aid.

  Scaladi was already at the chapel door when he looked back to see the disaster. His first instinct was to charge back in and die beside his comrades, and he took a step that way. But the two priests of Deneir caught him by the shoulders, and though they could not have held the powerful man back if he wanted to continue, the pause gave Scaladi a moment to see things more clearly.

  “You cannot help them!” one of the Deneirians cried.

  “We must survive to warn the town!” the other added.

  Scaladi staggered out of the chapel.

  The zombie horde tore apart the two Oghmans.

  Worse still was the fate of the priest against the wall, a man who had spent many secret evenings with Histra. He was filled with too much guilt to resist the vampiress now. He shook his head in weak denial, whispered, begged, for her to go away.

  She smiled and came on, and the man, despite his horror, offered her his neck.

  The three fleeing priests scrambled along the corridors, meeting no resistance. The front doors were in sight, one of them open, a weak line of sun streaming into the library’s foyer.

  One of the Deneirians cried out and grasped at his neck, then pitched forward to the stone.

  “The door!” Scaladi cried, pulling the other along. The Deneirian looked back to his brother and saw the man flailing wildly at a bat-winged imp as it hopped about his shoulder, biting at his ear and stabbing repeatedly with a poison-tipped tail.

  Scaladi dived for the door-it moved away from him, seemingly of its own accord, and slammed shut with a resounding bang, and he fell headlong at its base.

  “My dear Deneir,” he heard his lone companion whisper. Scaladi turned himself over, to see Dean Thobicus standing in the shadows, to see Kierkan Rufo-Kierkan Rufo!-moving quietly behind the withered man.

  “Deneir is gone from this place,” Thobicus said calmly and unthreateningly, approaching the man with his arms open and to the side. “Come with me now, that I might show you the new way.”

  The young Deneirian wavered, and for a moment, Scaladi thought he would give himself over to Thobicus, who was now no more than two paces away.

  The young priest exploded into action, cracking his mace across the dean’s wrinkled face. Thobicus’s head jerked violently to the side and he was pushed back. But only a single step-and he turned straight again, eyeing the disbelieving young Deneirian. There ensued a long pause, a long and horrible moment, the hush of a crouched predator.

  Thobicus threw his arms up, fingers bent like claws, gave an unearthly roar, and sprang over the young priest, burying the man under his flailing limbs.

  Scaladi scrambled about and grabbed at the door, tugging with all his considerable strength.

  “It will not open,” Kierkan Rufo assured him.

  Scaladi tugged furiously. He heard Rufo stepping near him, right behind.

  “It will not open,” the confident vampire said again.

  Scaladi spun about, his holy symbol thrust toward Rufo. The vampire leaned back, away from the sudden glare.

  But Rufo was not Histra, was full of the swirling chaos curse and was many times more powerful. The moment of surprise passed quickly.

  “Now you die!” Scaladi promised, but by the time he finished the simple statement, all conviction had flown from his voice. He felt Rufo’s will inside his head, compelling him to surrender, imparting a sense of hopelessness.

  Romus Scaladi had always been a fighter. He had grown up an orphan on the tough streets of Sundabar, every day a challenge. And so he fought now, with all his own will, against Rufo’s intrusions.

  Green bolts of searing energy burned into his hand, and his holy symbol was knocked away. Both Scaladi and Rufo looked to the side, to the smiling Druzil, still perched on the body of the Deneirian.

  Scaladi looked back helplessly as Rufo grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, the vampire’s face only inches from his own.

  “You are strong,” Rufo said. “That is good.”

  Scaladi spat in his face, but Rufo did not explode with anger, as had Thobicus. The chaos curse guided this vampire, kept him focused on what was best.

  “I offer you power,” Rufo whispered. “I offer you immortality. You will know pleasures beyond…”

  “You offer damnation!” Scaladi growled.

  Across the foyer, the Deneirian screamed, then went silent, and Thobicus feasted.

  “What do you know?” Rufo demanded. “I am alive, Romus Scaladi! I have chased Deneir and Oghma from this place!”

  Scaladi held his jaw firm.

  “The library is mine!” Rufo went on. He grabbed Scaladi’s thick hair in one hand and with strength that horrified the Oghman, easily tugged the man’s head back. “Carradoon shall be mine!”

  “They are just places,” Scaladi insisted, with the simple and undeniable logic that had guided the man all his life. He knew that Rufo wanted more than the conquest of places. He knew what the vampire desired.

  “You can join me, Romus Scaladi,” Rufo said, predictably. “You can share my strength. You like strength.”

  “You have no strength,” Scaladi said, and his sincere calm seemed to rattle Rufo. “You have only lies and false promises.”

  “I can tear your heart out!” Rufo roared at him. “And hold it up, beating before your dying eyes.” Histra came into the foyer then, along with a couple of her zombies.

  “Would you be like them?” Rufo asked, indicating the zombies. “Either way, you will serve me!”

  Scaladi looked at the wretched zombies, and to Rufo’s dismay, the priest smiled. They were corporeal animations and nothing more, Scaladi knew, had to believe with all his heart. Secure in that faith, the man looked Rufo straight in the vampire’s blood-red eyes, straight in the vampire’s drooling, animal-like face.

  “I am more than my body,” Romus Scaladi proclaimed.

  Rufo snapped the Oghman’s head back, shattering neck bones. With one hand, the outraged vampire heaved Scaladi across the foyer, where he crashed into a wail and crumpled at its base.

  Histra hissed wickedly, and Thobicus chimed in, a horrid applause as the two circled their master. Caught up in the frenzy, Rufo dismissed Scaladi’s damning words and hissed and snarled with all his wicked heart.

  “… more than my body,” came a whisper from the side. The three vampires stopped their macabre dance and song and turned as one to the broken priest, propped on his elbows, his head flopping weirdly.

  “You are dead!” Rufo declared, a futile denial of the priest’s words.

  Scaladi promptly corrected him. “I have found Oghma.”

  And the man died, secure in his faith.

  Outside the library, Percival hopped excitedly from one branch to another, hearing the torment of those still alive inside. The squirrel was down to the ground, just outside the door, when Rufo slammed it shut before Scaladi.

  Now Percival was high in the trees, as high as he could go, chattering frenetically and leaping from branch to branch, turning wide circles about the grove. He heard the screams, and from one window on the second floor, he heard, too, the song of Deneir, the prayer of Brother Chaunticleer.

  The screams were louder.

  The Nature of Evil

  The trail meandered around a wide expanse of rock, but Danica was growing impatient. She went to the stone abutment instead, looked up its thirty-foot height, and carefully began picking her way up along a crack in the stone.

  Dorigen came to the spot beneath her. The wizard was talking, but Danica, concentrating on hooking her strong fingers in cracks and picking rough spots where she could set her feet, wasn’t listening. Soon after, the agile monk lifted her hand over the lip and felt about, finally grasping the thick base of a small bush. She tested her weight, then, convinced the bush was secure, used it to pull herself over. From that vantage point, Danica got her first look at the Edificant Library. It lay nestled atop a flat juncture in a climbing trail, a cliff to its northern side and a steep drop south of the place. It seemed just a squat block of unremarkable stone, not a particularly attractive piece of architecture, and from this distance Danica did not notice that the small windows (there were so few) had been covered by boards ajid tapestries.

  All seemed quiet and calm, the way things usually were at the ancient library, and Danica, anxious to get this messy business about Dorigen’s punishment over with, was relieved to see it again. She turned about on the stone, meaning to tell Dorigen that the library was very close, but was surprised to find the woman scaling the cliff, slower than Danica, of course, but making progress.

  Danica fell to her belly and called out directions. She was proud of Dorigen at that moment, proud of the wizard’s willingness to fight obstacles. The cliff was small and no real challenge to one of Danica’s training, but she could appreciate how imposing it must seem to Dorigen, who had spent years with her face buried in books. Yet here was Dorigen, reaching for Danica’s offered hand, climbing without complaint.

  A hundred yards away, concealed in a copse of evergreens, Shayleigh was equally impressed. When Danica had been so obviously exposed on the cliff face, Dorigen could have taken any number of actions to ensure her freedom. But again the wizard had proven her heart, and Shayleigh, like Danica when Dorigen had aided in the troll fight, found that she was not surprised.