Live, that you may serve.

  Jherek reached for that voice, wondering where it came from and how it dared seem to choose him when there were so many others to pick from. He willed the dwarf not to die. "Pray," he told the dwarf, "pray to your Marthammor Duin that you live, Khlinat, then believe with all your might."

  Jherek knew that he didn't believe that strongly himself. He'd chosen Hmater as his god because he most understood the religion. The Crying God based his ethos on enduring and persevering, things that the young sailor understood intimately. His whole life had been about those things.

  Khlinat coughed and groaned in pain. Blood bubbled from his lips and ran down his cheek. Blue light dawned at his throat, partially obscured by his matted beard.

  Without warning, Jherek felt a low buzz in his hands, like he'd brushed up against an electric eel. Smoky blue blazed under his palms pressed against the dwarf's side. He felt the changes taking place against his hands, but he couldn't move them.

  The buzzing finished, and the blue light at Khlinat's throat winked out.

  The dwarf's lungs filled in a rush, and he flicked his eyes open. "Swabbie, what have you done?" His voice sounded stronger, more certain.

  "Nothing," Jherek said, as puzzled as the dwarf. He felt drained by the events of the last few minutes. His eyelids dragged as he scanned the little man.

  Khlinat coughed. "Only if yer calling saving me life nothing, and I ain't ready to call it that. Whatever ye did, I feel better."

  "It wasn't him," Sonshal said. "It was something at your throat."

  Khlinat reached up and took up the shark tooth pendent at his throat, stretching it the length of the leather thong that held it. "This?" He shook his head. "This is nothing. A trinket left over from the shark what took my leg. Them teeth come out regular, and the healer what fixed me up found it in what was left of me leg. I've been carrying it as a good luck charm, nothing more."

  "What else could be the answer?" Sonshal asked.

  The dwarf looked at Jherek. "I don't know, but I do know I feel better. Let's have a look at me side."

  Hesitantly, Jherek drew his hands away, afraid that the torrent of blood would begin again.

  It didn't. Instead, the flesh appeared to have closed in both places. It remained raw and ragged looking, but it was obviously healing, reconnecting.

  "Marthammor Duin save a wandering fool," the dwarf cried in astonishment. "Outside of a heal potion, or a healer's hands, I've never seen the like."

  Jherek gave him a smile and settled back tiredly on his haunches. The blood was drying tight on his hands. "If I were you, I wouldn't loose that shark's tooth."

  Khlinat reverently kissed the pendant. "I'll never feel as angry about that shark, I tell ye."

  Glancing out at the harbor, Jherek saw that a rout of the sahuagin and their aquatic accomplices was in full swing. He had no wish in him to be one of the parties responsible for slitting the throats of the stunned sahuagin. Now that they were organized, the Flaming Fist mercenaries appeared to have things well in hand. He looked for his father's ship, but Bunyip was nowhere to be seen.

  It was too late to save many lives, too late to save nearly all of the boats and much of the docks and some of the warehouses and buildings near them, but the docks thronged with men and women who fought enemies as well as fires.

  He considered the battle. Madame litaar had sent him to Baldur's Gate after his heritage to Bloody Falkane's pirates was discovered on Butterfly. She'd had a vision that his destiny lay here in the city, but where?

  He studied the narrow stone buildings and homes and tried to divine what he was supposed to find here. Dark thoughts intruded, and he had to wonder if it hadn't all been some kind of mistake. His life had never been simple or easy. He thought this could be a set of circumstances deliberately fashioned to lead him here and make an even bigger fool of him.

  But who would do such a thing? And why?

  He didn't know, but the voice he heard in his mind at such times was real. He had to believe at least that much because thinking himself mad was no option at all.

  He heard someone come to a stop behind him and looked up to find a skinny old man with a bald head peering down at him with more interest than the young sailor had ever felt before. Carefully, he got to his feet.

  "Can I help you?" Jherek asked.

  "Mayhap we can help each other," the old man said. "My name is Pacys. I'm a bard. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time."

  Jherek studied the old man but didn't feel in any way threatened by him. "Let me help my friend to a safe place, then I'll help you in any way I may." He couldn't turn down the anxious note in the old bard's voice, though he also didn't know why the man might think he needed him.

  "Of course. Perhaps I could accompany you."

  " 'Tis a long walk down some powerful dark streets," Khlinat said.

  The old bard nodded. "I've seen hardships in life. Surviving this night has not been easy."

  The dwarf harumphed as Jherek helped him to his feet. "One as aged as ye, 111 wager ye have seen some bad times."

  The young sailor found aiding Khlinat in walking was an adventure in itself. The dwarf was too short to simply drape his arm across his shoulders, and too heavy to support easily.

  "Well come on then," Khlinat growled. "I've a small place, but yer welcome to what I have. With Marthammor's sagacious blessing, mayhap there'll even be some victuals we can scrape together."

  VIII

  4 Kytnorn, the Year of the Gauntlet

  "Ye play a pretty tune on that thing."

  Pacys glanced up at Khlinat, who lounged across the small table in the modest quarters he kept at a rooming house on Windspell Street just west of the Wide, the name of Baldur's Gate's bustling marketplace. "Thank you, my friend." His fingers strummed the strings casually, picking out the notes, making them ring true. The song lived inside his head, adding to itself by leaps and bounds. He was already working on the song of the attack on Baldur's Gate and the words came so easily.

  A beeswax taper burned on the table between them, throwing up a thin streamer of smoke and illuminating the carving board with a loaf of bread and cheese on it. Felogyr Sonshal had begged off as soon as they'd reached the dwelling safely. The dwarfs fare on hand had been simple, added to by small journeycakes smothered in honey he'd had put away, a clutch of apples, and a jug of cheap wine.

  The old bard had eaten, picking at the offered food mostly, and he'd watched Jherek of Velen, trying to see some sign that the young sailor was the one Narros had told him to look for. As he surveyed the young man, he tried to figure out how he was going to tell Jherek of the destiny that lay before him. How could one so young, so vulnerable, be expected to shoulder such a heavy burden as facing the wrath of the Taker?

  Khlinat had eaten with the relish of someone who had recently ended a long fast, drinking the wine with zest. He cut up another apple with a small carving knife, glanced briefly out the window as a Flaming Fist mercenary group went by carrying lamps. "How came ye to know the swabbie?" he asked.

  "I don't," Pacys said.

  "Yet ye came over to him like ye knowed him." The dwarf's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  They spoke about Jherek because the young man had taken his leave of them only a few minutes ago. Pacys had been loathe to let him from his sight, but Jherek had been adamant about not leaving Khlinat to himself should something go wrong with the wounds. The young sailor had taken it upon himself to seek out an apothecary for balms to better treat and dress the wounds until a healer could be sent for.

  Pacys put a hand over the yarting's strings, stilling their hum. "I was sent to find him."

  Khlinat fisted the carving knife casually, but shifted in his chair to get into better position. "The swabbie's not wanted for anything, is he? I'll not harbor anyone saying bad things about him. He laid his life on the line for people tonight, meself included, and didn't say one word about it."

  "I expect he wouldn't," Pacys agreed. He'd noticed Jherek's calm demeanor as well. "No, he's not wanted for anything."

  "Good, for ye had me worried a moment." Khlinat stabbed the knife into the carving board. "I've not had blood spilt in me room before, but I'd not hesitate."

  Pacys's fingers returned to the strings, playing the hero's tune that he identified with Jherek. "How long have you known him?"

  "I only met him tonight."

  Surprised lifted one of the old bard's eyebrows.

  "He came up on a caravan from the south," Khlinat said. "I had that from him before them pirates sculled into the harbor and started their attack. He hails from Velen."

  "I know the place," Pacys said.

  "Lot of ghosts and such there," Khlinat mused.

  "What do you know about him?"

  The dwarf shrugged and popped a piece of apple into his mouth. "He's a sailor and a good man. Lot of sand in his craw, ye want my opinion. Not many would have stood up like he did tonight."

  "You did," Pacys said. "Driving a wagonload of smoke powder into the harbor was no trivial thing."

  "I had me reasons."

  Pacys changed tunes, finding the one he'd selected for the dwarf as he wove his song about the attack on Baldur's Gate. It was somewhat hard and unpolished, much like the little man himself. "You mean the Harper pin you wear?" The old bard had spotted it on the other man earlier back at the docks. It was clipped inside his shirt, out of the way of the most casual glances. Harpers didn't readily identify themselves except to others of their group.

  Khlinat didn't answer.

  "It's all right," Pacys said. "I know about Those Who Harp."

  "Ye wear the pin yerself?"

  Pacys shook his head. "I was asked. I chose not to." The Harpers were a group spead thinly across the face of Faerun that primarily worked for good. Individuals among the group also had their own agendas, though, and that was a problem at times and for some people.

  "Being a Harper is an important thing," Khlinat stated.

  "Some would call your group meddlers," Pacys pointed out.

  "Mayhap, but we stand betwixt evil, them what would take away freedoms, and the common man." Khlinat returned his gaze levelly, the candle flame wavering in his eyes. "I can imagine no higher calling."

  Pacys reworked the tune in his head, bringing out the true sound of it through his fingertips. "For myself, I can imagine no higher calling than my art. Belief is a harsh mistress, and you have to believe in one thing most of all in your life. Otherwise, you're compromised."

  "Aye. Now that's the right of it." Khlinat drained the dregs of his wine cup. "Ye never mentioned what ye wanted with the swabbie."

  Changing the melody again, going back to the piece he'd constructed about his visit with Narros the merman in Waterdeep harbor, Pacys told the tale in his best voice, trusting in the good nature of Those Who Harp, winning Khlinat over to his side. Also, he knew it would help to have Khlinat on his side if possible when he presented the story to Jherek. As he talked, the dwarf poured them both fresh cups of spiced wine.

  "How can I help you, my son?"

  Jherek looked into the priest's eyes and saw the fatigue there. "I'm looking for a healing balm for a friend if you've any to spare." He opened his coin purse. "I'm willing to pay."

  The Rose Portal was a shrine to Lathander, also called Morninglord, who was god of the spring, dawn, birth, and renewal, of beginnings and hidden potentials. Like the other buildings along the north wall of Baldur's Gate, the temple was constructed primarily of stone but the windows inset in the walls were of the palest pink to reflect the dawn. Even the torch Jherek carried picked up the color in the night.

  He'd tried the temple of Ilmater before coming here, but their resources had already been drained. He'd stayed long enough to say his prayers to the god and make his peace with the night's events. Remembering how well he'd been treated at Lathander's temple in Atkatla, he'd decided to try there when one of the people on the street he'd asked had mentioned it.

  "Child," the old priest said as he stepped back from the door, "enter and we'll see what Lathander has seen fit to provide us. Even now new donations are being received to help with the victims." He was short and broad, with a belly on him that spoke of familiarity with wine casks. His red and yellow robes hung loosely about him, stopping just short of the smooth stone floor.

  Jherek stepped into the foyer and felt some of the chill hanging over the city drain away from him. He hadn't taken the time to change his drenched clothing, and it clung to his body with the touch of ice and rough salt.

  While the temple back in Athkatla had been modest, this place spoke of opulence. The decor was ornate, steeped in inlaid gold and silver, constructed of polished and burnished woods carefully fitted together. Beyond the foyer, rows of long benches filled the space, all turned toward the dais where a huge rose quartz disk almost ten feet tall occupied the back wall. Rendered hi the glowing pink stone were rose-colored swirls centered around a pair of golden eyes.

  Jherek flushed with embarrassment to think that the temple would need any or even all of the coins he'd been paid for the caravan work. Quietly, he followed the priest down the aisle.

  Several people in agitated states sat in the benches. Many of them prayed out loud while others cried and wailed for lost loved ones. Other priests moved within the groups, offering solace or a healer's touch. As Jherek passed by one bench, he saw a young priest not much older than him on his knees reaching up to close the eyes of a Flaming Fist mercenary who'd stilled in death. Beside him, the dead man's wife and children clung to his legs and cried.

  The young sailor quickly averted his gaze, not wanting to intrude on their grief. He knew none of the people, but he knew the anger and frustration and fear that filled them. In his life, he'd known little else until he'd escaped his father and reached Velen.

  The priest led him to a back room where foodstuffs and other stores were kept. The room was large and generous, filled with well-stocked shelves and lit by candelabras. Priests worked with parishioners, sorting through the boxes and baskets of supplies that were being unloaded from a cart at the back door.

  The priest called one of the acolytes and asked him to search for the things Jherek needed. In quick order, the young priest rounded up the necessary materials.

  Jherek offered his coin purse. "Take what you feel is just."

  The priest regarded him with renewed interest. "Pardon me for saying so, boy, but you look as though that pouch contains the last coins you have."

  Jherek felt another sharp pang of embarrassment. The pouch in his hand looked pitifully slim, and he'd been so proud of it that afternoon when the caravan had arrived in Baldur's Gate. "If it's not enough, I'll bring more at another time if you'll trust me for it."

  The priest shook his head, reaching out and curling the pouch back in the young sailor's hand. "You misunderstand me, boy. Lathander doesn't just take from a community; he gives back. Else how can he work the miracles with the new beginnings he speaks of?"

  Still, Jherek felt bad. The priests at Ilmater's shrine hadn't dissuaded him of making a donation there, and he'd gotten nothing from them except apologies.

  "Just remember Lathander, boy," the priest said. "The Morninglord knows the wheel turns. We all give and get alternately, each as to their needs. Every day is a beginning of some kind for everyone."

  Jherek nodded.

  "Stings your pride, doesn't it, lad?" an old man's voice croaked behind Jherek. "Taking things offered you is hard."

  When he turned and saw the old man who'd addressed him, Jherek swallowed an angry retort. The young sailor couldn't guess how old the man was. Time had marched scores of hard years over him. The man's face sagged with thick wrinkles, and his fevered blue eyes peered up from gristled pits. A fringe of gray hair gnarled around his head. He wore deep scarlet robes that marked him as a priest. Both hands shook, whether from age or illness Jherek couldn't say, and provided him a precarious balance.

  "Do you have something to say, lad?" the old man asked, his face stern in spite of the loose flesh on his face.

  "Brother Cadiual," the first priest said, "what are you doing out of bed?" He sounded very concerned and walked over quickly to the old man's side. "I gave strict orders that you were not to be disturbed."

  Jherek smelled the illness on the old man and breathed shallowly through his mouth to avoid it.

  "I'm here doing Lathander's work," Cadiual snapped. "As I have ever done during my life."

  "But you're not well."

  "Ghauryn," the old man said in a hoarse whisper that stopped the other priest's objections immediately, "I was running this temple long before you ever suckled at your mother's breast. Ill not suffer your insubordination now."

  The other priest nodded, taking a half-step back. "As you command and Lathander wills."

  Cadiual eyed Jherek. "Who are you, boy?"

  "I'm called Malorrie, a sailor from Velen."

  The rheumy old eyes searched Jherek's face. "What brought you here?"

  Jherek showed him the bandages and balms Ghauryn had given him. "I've got a wounded friend."

  Cadiual waved the answer away in irritation. "No. Before that. What brought you to Baldur's Gate?"

  "I came with a caravan from Athkatla."

  "Yet you're not from Amn, and by your own professed statement, you're a sailor. What were you doing with a caravan?"

  Jherek felt very uncomfortable, suddenly realizing he had the attention of many of the priests in the back room. "It was the only way I could get here."

  "Again," the old man said in his cracking, hoarse voice. "Why did you choose to come here, at this time when the sea itself rises up against us?"

  "I came because I wanted to learn more about myself."

  "See," Ghauryn interrupted, "you've been under the influence of that fever again, Cadiual. He's given you your answer." He reached for the old man's shoulder.

  Angrily, Cadiual swept his cane toward the other priest, making him step back again. He returned his attention to Jherek. "You came because you wanted to learn what about yourself?"