The Chaos Curse - R A Salvatore, ebook
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To Ann and Bruce,
for showing me a different way
of looking at the world.
THE CHAOS CURSE
©1994 TSR. Inc. All Rights Reserved
Dean Thobicus drummed his skinny fingers on the hardwood desk before him. He had turned his chair so that he faced the
window, not the door, pointedly looking away as a nervous and wiry man entered his office on the library's second floor.
"You ... you asked ..." the man, Vicero Belago, stuttered, but Thobicus lifted a trembling leathery hand to stop him. Belago broke
into a cold sweat as he stared at the back of the old dean's balding head. He looked to the side, where stood Bron Turman, one
of the library's headmasters and the highest ranking of the Oghman priests, but the large, muscular man merely shrugged, having
no answers for him. "I did not ask," Dean Thobicus corrected Belago at
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length. "I commanded you to come." Thobicus swung about in his chair, and the nervous Belago, seeming small and insignificant
indeed, shrank back near the door. "You do still heed my commands, do you not, dear Vicero?"
"Of course, Dean Thobicus," Belago replied. He dared come a step closer, out of the shadows. Belago was the Edi-ficant
Library's resident alchemist, a professed follower of both Oghma and Deneir, though he formally belonged to neither sect. He was
loyal to Dean Thobicus as both an employee to an employer, and as a sheep to a shepherd. "You are the dean," he said
sincerely. "I am but a servant"
"Exactly!" Thobicus snarled, his voice hissing like the warning of an angry serpent, and Bron Turman eyed the withered old dean
suspiciously. Never before had the old man been so animated or agitated.
"I am the dean," Thobicus said, with emphasis on the final word. "/ design the duties of the library, not Ca—" Thobicus bit back
the rest of his words, but both Belago and Turman caught the slip and understood the implications.
The dean spoke of Cadderly.
"Of course, Dean Thobicus," Belago said again, more subdued. Suddenly the alchemist realized that he was in the middle of a
much larger power struggle, one in which he might pay a price. Belago's friendship with Cadderly was no secret. Neither was the
fact that the alchemist often worked on unsanctioned and privately funded projects for the young priest, often for the cost of
materials alone.
"You have an inventory document for your shop?" Thobicus asked.
Belago nodded. Of course he did, and Thobicus knew it. Belago's shop had been destroyed less than a year before, when the
library was in the throes of the chaos
The Chaos Curse 3
curse. The library's deep coffers had funded the repairs and the replacement ingredients, and Belago had promptly given a
complete accounting.
"As do I," Thobicus remarked. Bron Turman still eyed the dean curiously, not understanding the last statement. "I know everything
that belongs there," Thobicus went on imperiously. "Everything, you understand?"
Belago, finding strength in honor, straightened for the first time since he had entered the room. "Are you accusing me of
thievery?" he demanded.
The dean's chuckle mocked the wiry man's firm stance. "Not yet," Thobicus answered casually, "for you are still here, and thus,
anything you might wish to take would also still be here."
That set Belago back; his ample eyebrows furrowed.
"Your services are no longer required," Thobicus explained, still speaking in an awful, cold, casual tone.
"But... but, Dean," Belago stuttered. "I have been—"
"Leave!"
Bron Turman straightened, recognizing the inflections and the weight of magic in Thobicus's voice. The burly Oghman
headmaster was not surprised when Belago stiffened suddenly and fell back out of the room. With a look to Thobicus, Turman
quickly moved to close the door.
"He was a fine alchemist," Turman said quietly, turning back to the large desk. Thobicus was again staring out the window.
"I had reason to doubt his loyalty," the dean explained.
Bron Turman, pragmatic and no real ally of Cadderly, did not press the point. Thobicus was the dean, and as such, he had the
authority to hire or dismiss any of the nonclerical assistants that he chose.
"Baccio has been here for more than a day," Bron Tur-
4 R, A. Salvatore
man said to change the subject The man he referred to, Baccio, was the commander of the Carradoon garrison, come to discuss
the defense of the city and the library should Castle Trinity strike at them. "Have you spoken with him?"
"We will not need Baccio and his little army," Thobi-cus said with confidence. "I shall soon dismiss him."
"You have word from Cadderly?"
"No," Thobicus answered honestly Indeed, the dean had heard nothing since Cadderly and his companions had gone into the
mountains earlier that winter. But Thobicus believed that the army would not be needed, believed that Cadderly had succeeded
in defeating Castle Trinity. For, as the young priest's power continued to grow, Dean Thobicus felt himself being pushed away
from the light of Deneir. Once, Thobicus had commanded the most powerful clerical magic, but now even the simplest spell, like
the one he had used to dispatch poor Belago, came hard to his thin lips.
He turned back to the room to see Bron Turman staring at him skeptically.
"Very well," Thobicus conceded. Tell Baccio I will meet him this evening—but I maintain that his army should hold a defensive
posture and not go traipsing through the mountains!"
Bron Turman was satisfied with that. "But you believe that Cadderly and his friends have succeeded," he said slyly.
Thobicus did not respond.
"You believe that the threat to the library is no more," Bron Turman stated. The burly Oghman headmaster smiled, a wistful look in
his large gray eyes. "At least, you believe that one threat to the library is no more." he added.
The Chaos Curse 5
Thobicus steeled his gaze, his crow's-feet coming together to form one large crease at the side of each orb. "This does not
concern you," he quietly warned.
Bron Turman bowed, respecting the words. "That does not mean that I do not understand," he said. "Vicero Belago was a fine
alchemist."
"Bron Turman..."
The headmaster held up a submissive hand. "I am no friend of Cadderly's," he said. "Neither am I a young man. I have seen the
intrigue of power struggles within both our sects."
Thobicus pursed his thin lips and seemed on the verge of explosion, and Bron Turman took that as a sign that he should be
leaving. He gave another quick bow and was gone from the room.
Dean Thobicus rocked back in his chair and pivoted about to face the window. He couldn't rationally call Turman on the outwardly
treasonous words, for the man's reasoning was undeniably true. Thobicus had been alive for more than seven decades; Cadderly
for just over two, yet, for some reason that the old bureaucrat could not understand, Cadderly-had found particular favor with
Deneir. But the dean had come to his power painstakingly, at great personal sacrifice and at the cost of many years of almost
reclusive study. He was not about to give up his position. He would purge the library of Cadderly's open allies and strengthen his
hold on the order. Headmaster Avery Schell, Cadderly's mentor and surrogate father, and Pertelope, who had been like
Cadderly's mother, were both dead now, and Belago would soon be gone.
No, Thobicus would not give up his position.
Not without a fight.
The Promise of Salvation
Kierkan Rufo wiped the stubborn mud from his boots and breeches, and muttered quiet curses to himself, as he always did. He
was an outcast, marked by an ugly blue-and-red brand of an unlit candle above a closed eye, which lay on the middle of his
forehead.
"Bene tellemara" whispered Druzil. A bat-winged, dog-faced, scaly creature barely two feet tall, the imp packed more malicious evil
into that tiny frame than the worst of humankind's tyrants,
"What did you say?" Rufo snapped. He glared down at his otherworldly companion. The two had been together for the last half of
the winter, and neither much liked the other. Their enmity had begun in Shilmista Forest, west of the Snowflake Mountains, when
Druzil had threat-
The Chaos Curse 7
ened and coerced Rufo into serving his wicked masters, the leaders of Castle Trinity—when Druzil had precipitated Kierkan Rufo's
fall from the order of Deneir.
Druzil looked curiously at the man and squinted from the flickering light of the torch Rufo held. Rufo was over six feet tall, but
bone-skinny. He always stood at an angle, tilted to the side, and that made him, or the world behind him, seem strangely
incongruent. Druzil, who had spent the last few months wandering through the Snowflakes, thought Rufo resembled a tree on a
steep mountainside. The imp snickered, drawing another glare from the perpetually scowling Rufo.
The imp continued to stare, trying hard to view the man in a new light. With his stringy black hair matted to his head, those
penetrating eyes—black dots on a pale face—and that unusual stance, Rufo could be imposing. He kept his hair parted in the
middle now, not on the side as it had always been, for Rufo could not, on pain of death, cover that horrid brand, the mark that
had forced him to be a recluse, the mark that made every person shun him when they saw him coming down the road.
"What are you looking at?" Rufo demanded.
"Bene tellemara" Druzil rasped again in the language of the lower planes. It was a profound insult to Rufo's intelligence. To Druzil,
schooled in chaos and evil, all humans seemed fumbling things, too clouded by emotions to be effective at anything. And this
one, Rufo, was more bumbling than most. However, Aballister, Druzil's wizard master, was dead now, killed by Cadderly, his son,
the same priest who had branded Rufo. And Dori-gen, Aballister's second, had been captured, or had gone over to Cadderly's
side. That left Druzil wandering alone on the Material Plane. With his innate powers, and no wizards binding him to service, the
imp might have
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found his way back to the lower planes, but Druzil didn't want that—not yet. For, on this plane, in the dungeons of this very
building, rested Tuanta Quiro Miancay, the chaos curse, among the most potent and wicked concoctions ever brewed. Druzil
wanted it back, and meant to get it with the help of Rufo, his stooge.
"I know what you are saying," Rufo lied, then he mimicked "Bene tellemara" back at Druzil.
Druzil smirked at him, showing clearly that the imp really didn't care if Rufo knew the meaning or not.
Rufo looked back at the muddy tunnel that had gotten them under the cellar of the Edificant Library.
"Well," he said impatiently, "we have come this far. Lead on and let us be out of this wretched place."
Druzil looked at him skeptically. For all the talking the imp had done over the last few weeks, Rufo still did not understand. Be out
of this place? Druzil thought. Rufo had missed the whole point. They would soon have the chaos curse in their hands; why would
they then want to leave?
Druzil nodded and led on, figuring that he could do little to enlighten the stupid human. Rufo simply did not understand the power
of Tuanta Quiro Miancay. He had once been caught in its throes—all the library had, and nearly been brought down—yet, the
ignorant human still did not understand.
That was the way with humans, Druzil decided. He would have to take Rufo by the hand and lead him to power, as he had led
Rufo across the fields west of Car-radoon and back into the mountains. Druzil had lured Rufo back to the library, where the
branded man did not want to go, with false promises that the potion locked in these dungeons would remove his brand.
They went through several long, damp chambers,
The Chaos Curse 9
past rotting casks and crates from days long ago when the library was a much smaller place, and mostly underground, when
these areas had been used for storage. Druzil hadn't been here in a while, not since before the battle for Castle Trinity, before
the war in Shilmista Forest. Not since Barjin, the evil priest, ha'd been killed ... by Cadderly.
"Bene telletnaral" the imp rasped, frustrated by the thought of the powerful young cleric.
"I grow tired of your insults," Rufo began to protest.
"Shut up," Druzil snapped back at him, too consumed by thoughts of the young priest to bother with Rufo. Cadderly, young and
lucky Cadderly: the bane of Druzil's ambitions, the one who always seemed to be in the way.
Druzil kept complaining, scraping and slapping his wide, clawed feet on the stone floor noisily. He pushed through a door, went
down a long corridor, and pushed open another.
Then Druzil stopped, and ended, too, his muttering. They had come to a small room, the room where Barjin had fallen.
Rufo pinched his nose and turned away, for the room smelled of death and decay. Druzil took a deep breath and felt positively at
home.
There could be no doubt that a fierce struggle had occurred in here. Along the wall to Rufo and Druzil's right was an overturned
brazier, the remains of charcoal blocks and incense scattered among its ashes. There, too, were the burned wrappings of an
undead monster, a mummy. Most of the thing had been consumed by the flames, but its wrapped skull remained, showing
blackened bone with tattered pieces of rags about it.
Beyond the brazier, near the base of the wall and along the floor, was a crimson stain, all that remained as
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testimony to Barjin's death. Barjin had been propped against that very spot when Cadderly had accidentally hit him with an
explosive dart, blasting a hole through his chest and back.
The rest of the room showed much the same carnage. Next to Barjin's bloodstain, the brick wall had been knocked open by a
furious dwarf, and the crossbeam supporting the ceiling hung by a single peg perpendicular to the floor. In the middle of the
room, beneath dozens of scorch marks, lay a black weapon handle, all that remained of the Screaming Maiden, Barjin's
enchanted mace, and behind that were the remains of the priest's unholy altar.
Beyond that...
Druzil's bulbous black eyes widened when he looked past the altar to the small cabinet wrapped in white cloth emblazoned with
the runes and sigils of both Deneir and Oghma, the brother gods of the library. The mere presence of the cloth told Druzil that his
search was at an end.
A flap of his bat wings brought the imp to the top of the altar, and he heard Rufo shuffling to catch up. Druzil dared not approach
any closer, though, knowing that the priests had warded the cabinet with powerful enchantments.
"Glyphs," Rufo agreed, recognizing Druzil's hesitation. "If we go near it, we shall be burned away!"
"No," Druzil reasoned, speaking quickly, frantically. Tuanta Quiro Miancay was close enough for the desperate imp to smell it, and
he would not be denied. "Not you," he went on. "You are not of my weal. You were a priest of this order. Surely you can
approach ..."
"Fool!" Rufo snapped at him. It was as volatile a response as the imp had ever heard from the broken* man.
The Chaos Curse
11
"I wear the brand of Deneir! The wards on that cloth and cabinet would seek my flesh hungrily."
Druzil hopped on the altar, tried to speak, but his rasping voice came out as only indecipherable sputtering. Then the imp calmed
and called on his innate magic. The imp could see and measure all magic, be it the dweomer of a wizard or a priest. If the glyphs
were not so powerful, Druzil would go to the cabinet himself. Any wounds he received would heal—faster still when he clutched
the precious Tuanta Quiro Miancay in his greedy hands. The name translated into "the Most Fatal Horror," a title that sounded
delicious indeed to the beleaguered imp.
The aura emanating from the cabinet nearly overwhelmed him, and at first, Druzil's heart fell in despair. But as he continued his
scan, the imp came to know the truth, and a great gout of wicked laughter burst from between his pointed teeth.
Rufo, curious, looked at him.
"Go to the cabinet," Druzit instructed.
Rufo continued to stare, and made no move.
"Go," Druzil said again. "The meager wards of the foolish priests have been overwhelmed by the chaos curse! Their magic has
unraveled!"
It was only partly true. Tuanta Quiro Miancay was more than a simple potion; it was magic driven to destroy. Tuanta Quiro Miancay
wanted to be found, wanted to be out of the prison the priests had wrapped about it. And to that end, the concoction's magic
had attacked the glyphs, had worked against them for many months, weakening their integrity.
Rufo didn't trust Druzil (and rightly so), but he could not ignore the pull on his heart. He felt his forehead's brand keenly in this
place and suffered a severe headache merely from being near a structure dedicated to
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Deneir. He found himself wanting to believe Druzil's words; he moved inevitably toward the cabinet and reached for the cloth.
There came a blinding electric flash, then a second, then a tremendous burst of fire. Fortunately for Rufo, the first explosion had
launched him across the room, clear over the altar and into an overturned bookcase near the door.
Druzil shrieked as the flames engulfed the cabinet, its wood flaring brightly—obviously it had been soaked with oil or enchanted
by some incendiary magic. Druzil did not fear for Tuanta Quiro Miancay, for that concoction was everlasting, but if the flask holding
it melted, the liquid would be lost!
Flames never bothered Druzil, a creature of the fiery lower planes. His bat wings sent him rushing into the conflagration, eager
hands pulling the cabinet's contents free. Druzil shrieked from a sudden burst of pain, and nearly hurled the bowl across the
room. He caught himself, though, and gingerly placed the item on the altar, then he backed away and rubbed his blistered hands
together.
The bottle holding the chaos curse had been placed in a bowl and immersed in the clearest of waters, made holy by the plea of a
dead druid and the symbol of Syl-vanus, the god of nature, of natural order. Perhaps no god in the Realms evoked more anger
from the perverse imp than Sylvanus.
Druzil studied the bowl and considered his dilemma. He breathed easier a moment later, when he realized that the holy water was
not as pure as it should be, that the influences of Tuanta Quiro Miancay were acting even upon that
Druzil moved near the bowl and chanted softly^using
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13
one of his claws to puncture the middle finger of his left hand. Finishing his curse, he let a single drop of his blood fall into the
water. There came a hissing, and the top of the bowl clouded over with vapor. Then it was gone, and gone, too, was the pure
water, replaced by a blackened morass of fetid and rotting liquid.
Druzil leaped back atop the altar and plunged his hands in. A moment later, he was whimpering with joy, cradling the precious,
rune-decorated bottle, itself an enchanted thing, as though it were his baby. He looked to Rufo, not really concerned if the man
was alive or dead, then laughed again.
Rufo had propped himself up on his elbows. His black hair stood on end, dancing wildly; his eyes twitched and rolled of their own
accord. After some time, he rolled back unsteadily to his feet and advanced in staggered steps toward the imp, thinking to throttle
the creature once and for all.
Druzil's waving tail, its barbed end dripping deadly poison, brought Rufo to his senses, but did little to calm him.
"You said ..." he began to roar.
"Bene te\[ iara\" Druzil snapped back at him, the imp's intensity more than matching Rufo's anger and startling the man to silence.
"Do you not know what we have?" Smiling wickedly, Druzil handed the flask to Rufo, and the man's beady eyes widened when he
took it, when he felt its inner power throb within him.
Rufo hardly heard Druzil as the imp raved about what they might accomplish with the chaos curse. The angular man stared at the
swirling red liquid within the bottle and fantasized, not of power, as Druzil was spouting, but of freedom from his brand. Rufo had
earned that brand, but in his twisted perception, that hardly mattered. All
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R. A. Salvatore
The Chaos Curse
15
Rufo understood and could accept was that Cadderly had marked him, had forced him to become an outcast.
Now, all the world was his enemy.
Druzil continued to ramble excitedly. The imp talked of controlling the priests once more, of striking against all the land, of
uncorking the flask and ...
Rufo heard that last suggestion alone among the dozens of ideas the imp spewed. He heard it and believed it with all his heart. It
was as if Tuanta Quiro Miancay was calling him, and the chaos curse, the creation of wicked, diabolical intelligence, was indeed.
This was Rufo's salvation, more than Deneir had ever been. This was his deliverance from wretched Cadderly.
This potion was for him, and for him alone.
Druzil stopped talking the moment he noticed that Rufo had uncorked the bottle, the moment he smelled the red fumes wafting
up from the potion.
The imp started to ask the man what he was doing, but the words stuck in Druzil's throat as Rufo suddenly lifted the bottle to his
thin lips and drank of it deeply.
Druzil stammered repeatedly, trying to find the words of protest. Rufo turned to him, the man's face screwed up curiously.
"What have you done?" Druzil asked.
Rufo started to answer, but gagged instead and clutched his throat
"What have you done?" Druzil repeated loudly. "Bene tettemara\ Fool!"
Rufo gagged again, clutched his throat and stomach, and vomited violently. He staggered away, coughing, wheezing, trying to
get some air past the bile rising in his throat.
"What have you done?" Druzil cried after him, scuttling along the floor to keep up. The imp's taifwaved
ominously; if Rufo's misery ended, Druzil meant to sting and tear him, to punish him for stealing the precious and irreplaceable
potion.
Rufo, his balance wavering, slammed into the door-jamb as he tried to exit the room. He stumbled along the corridor, rebounding
off one wall, then the other. He vomited again, and again after that, his stomach burning with agony and swirling with nausea.
Somehow he got through the rooms and corridors and half-crawled out the muddy tunnel, back into the sunlight, which knifed at
his eyes and skin.
He was burning up, and yet he felt cold, deathly cold.
Druzil, wisely becoming invisible as they came into the revealing daylight, folIo»"Qd. Rufo stopped and vomited yet again, across
the hatuened remains of a late-season snowbank, and the mess showed more blood than bile. Then the angular man staggered
around the building's corner, slipping and falling many times in the mud and slush. He thought to get to the door, to the priests
with their curing hands.
Two young acolytes, wearing the black-and-gold vests that distinguished them as priests of Oghma, were near the door, enjoying
the warmth of the late winter day, their brown cloaks opened wide to the sun. They didn't notice Rufo at first, not until the man fell
heavily into the mud just a few feet away.
The two acolytes rusheol to him and turned him over, then gasped and fell back when they saw the brand. Neither had been in
the library long enough to know Kier-kan Rufo personally, but they had heard tales of the branded priest. They looked to each
other and shrugged, then one rushed back into the library while the other began to relieve the stricken man.
Druzil watched from the corner of the building, mut-
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tering "Bene tellemara" over and over, lamenting that the chaos curse and Kierkan Rufo had played him a wicked joke.
Perched high in the branches of a tree near that door, the white squirrel, Percival, looked on with more than a passing interest.
Percival had come out of his winter hibernation this very week. He had been surprised to find that Cadderly, his main source of
the favored cacasa nuts, was not about, and was even more surprised to see Kierkan Rufo, a human that Percival did not care
for at all.
The squirrel could see that Rufo was in great distress, could smell the foulness of Rufo's illness, even from this distance.
Percival moved near his twig nest, nestled high in the branches, and continued to watch.
Different Paths Taken
The three bearded members of the company, the dwarves Pikel and Ivan Bouldershoul-der and the red-haired firbolg V ier, sat
off to the side of the cave entrance, rolling bones, placing bets, and laughing among themselves. Ivan won a round, for the
fifteenth time in a row, and Pikel swept off a blue, wide-brimmed hat, with an orange quill on one side and the eye-above-candle
holy symbol of Deneir set in its front, and whacked laughing Ivan over the head.
Cadderly, seeing the move, started to protest. It was his hat, after all, simply loaned to Pikel, and Ivan's helmet was set with the
antlers of a large deer. The young priest changed his mind and held the thought silent, seeing that the hat had not been
damaged and realizing
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R. A, Salvatore
that Ivan deserved the blow.
The friendship between Ivan, Pikel, and Vander had blossomed after the fall of Castle Trinity. Gigantic Vander, all twelve feet and
eight hundred pounds of him, had even helped Pikel, the would-be druid, redye his hair and beard green and braid the bushy
tangle down his back. The only tense moment had come when Vander tried to put some of Pikel's dye in Ivan's bright yellow hair,
something the square-shouldered, more serious Bouldershoulder did not like at all.
But the exchanges were ultimately good-natured; the last few weeks had been good-natured, despite the brutal weather. The
seven companions, including Cadderly, Danica, Dorigen, and Shayleigh, the elf maiden, had planned to go straight from the
victory at Castle Trinity to the Edificant Library. Barely a day's hike into the mountains, though, winter had come in full force,
blocking the trails so that not even Cadderly, with his priestly magic, dared to press on. Even worse, Cadderly had fallen ill, though
he insisted that it was simple exhaustion. As a priest, Cadderly served as a conduit for the powers of his god, and during the
battle with Castle Trinity (and the weeks of fighting before that) too much of that energy had flowed through the young priest.
Danica, who knew Cadderly better than anyone, did not doubt that he was exhausted, but she knew, too, that the young priest
had taken an emotional beating as well. In Castle Trinity, Cadderly had seen his past and the truth of his heritage. He had been
forced to face up to what his father, Aballister, had become.
In Castle Trinity Cadderly had killed his own father.
Danica held faith that Cadderly would overcome this trauma, confident in the depth of Cadderly's character. He was devoted to
his god and to his friends, and they
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19
all were beside him.
With the trails closed and Cadderly ill, the company had gone east, out of the mountains and their foothills, to the farmlands north
of Carradoon. Even the lowlands were deep with a snow that the Shining Plains had not seen in decades. The friends had found
a many-chambered cave for shelter, and had turned the place into a fair home over the days, using Danica's, Vander's, and the
dwarves' survival skills and Dorigen's magic. Cadderly had aided whenever he could, but his role was to rest and regain his
strength. He knew, and Danica knew, that when they returned to the Edificant Library, the young priest might face his toughest
challenge yet.
After several weeks, the snows had begun to recede. As brutal as the winter had been, it was ending early, and the companions
could begin to think about their course. That brought mixed feelings for young Cad-derly, the priest who had risen so fast through
the ranks of his order. He stood at the cave entrance, staring out over the fields of white, their brightness stinging his gray eyes in
the morning sunlight. He felt guilty for his own weakness, for he believed that he should have returned to the library despite the
snows, despite the trials he had faced, months ago, even if that meant leaving his friends behind. Cadderly's destiny waited at
that library, but even now, feeling stronger once more, hearing the song of Deneir playing in the background of his thoughts
again, he wasn't sure that he had the strength to meet it.
"I am ready for you," came a call from inside the cave, above Vander and the dwarves' continuing ruckus. Cadderly turned and
walked past the group, and Pikel, knowing what was to come, gave a little "Hee hee hee." The green-bearded dwarf tipped the
wide-brimmed hat
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to Cadderly, as if saluting a warrior going to battle.
Cadderly scowled at the dwarf and walked past, moving to a small stone, which crafty Ivan had fashioned into a stool. Danica
stood behind the stool, waiting for Cadderly, her beautiful daggers, one golden-hiked and sculpted into the shape of a tiger, the
other a silver dragon, in hand. For any who did not know Danica, those blades, or any weapons, would have looked out of place
in her deceivingly delicate hands. She was barely five feet tall—if she went two days without eating, she wouldn't top a hundred
pounds—with thick locks of strawberry blond hair cascading over her shoulders and unusual almond-shaped eyes a light but rich
brown. On casual glance, Danica seemed more a candidate for a southern harem, a beautiful, delicate flower.
The young priest knew better, as did any who had spent time beside Danica. Those delicate hands could break stone; that
beautiful face could smash a man's nose flat. Danica was a monk, a disciplined fighter, and her studies were no less intense than
Cadderiy's, her worship of the wisdom of ancient masters no less than Cadderiy's of his god. She was as perfect a warrior as
Cadderly had ever seen; she could use any weapon, and could defeat most swordsmen with her bare hands and feet
And she could put either of the enchanted daggers she now held into the eye of an enemy twenty paces away.
Cadderly took his seat, pointedly facing away from the boisterous gamblers, while Danica began to softly chant. Cadderly found a
meditative focus; it was vital that he remain absolutely still. Suddenly, Danica broke into motion, her arms weaving intricate
patterns in the air before her, her feet shifting from side to side, keeping perfect balance.
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21
The impossibly sharp blades began to turn in her fingers.
The first one came around in a blinding flash, but Cadderly, deep in concentration, did not flinch. He barely felt the scrape as the
knife's edge brushed his cheek, barely had time to smell the oiled metal as the silver dragon whipped in under his nostrils and
shot down to his upper lip.
This was a ritual that the two performed every day, one that kept Cadderly clean-shaven and Danica's finely honed muscles at
their peak.
It was over in a mere minute, Cadderiy's stubble swept away without a nick to his tanned skin.
"I should chop this tangle away, too," Danica teased, grabbing a handful of Cadderiy's thick, curly brown hair. Cadderly reached
up and grabbed her wrist and pulled her around and down, over his shoulder so that their faces were close. The two were lovers,
committed to each other for life, and the only reason they had not yet been married in open vows was that Cadderly did not
consider the priests of the Edificant Library worthy of performing the ceremony.
Cadderly gave Danica a little kiss, and both jumped back as a blue spark flashed between them, stinging their lips. Immediately,
both turned to the entrance to the chamber on the cave's left-hand wall, and were greeted by the joined laughter of Dorigen and
Shayleigh.
"Such a bond," remarked Dorigen sarcastically. She had been the one to cause the spark—of course it .had been the wizard.
Once an enemy of the band, indeed one of the leaders of the army that had invaded Shilmista, Dorigen, by all appearances, had
turned to a new way of life and was going back with the others to face judgment at the library.
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R. A. Salvatore
"Never have I seen such a spark of love," added Shay-leigh, shaking her head so that her long, thick mane of golden hair fell
back from her face. Even in the dim light streaming in through the cave's eastern door, the elf's violet eyes sparkled like polished
jewels.
"Should I add this to your list of crimes?" Cadderly asked Dorigen.
"If that was the greatest of my crimes, I would not bother to return to the library beside you, young priest," the wizard replied
easily.
Danica looked from Cadderly to Dorigen, recognizing the bond that had grown between them. It wasn't hard for the monk to
discern the source of that attraction. With her black hair, showing lines of gray, and her wide-set eyes, Dorigen resembled
Pertelope, the headmistress at the library who had been like Cadderly's mother until her recent death. Pertelope alone seemed to
understand the transformation that had come over Cadderly, the god-song that played in his thoughts and gave him access to
clerical powers to rival the highest-ranking priests in all the land.
Danica could see some of the same perceptive characteristics in Dorigen. The wizard was a thinker, a person who weighed the
situation carefully before acting, and a person not afraid to follow her heart. Dorigen had turned against Aballister in Castle Trinity,
had all but gone over to Cadderly's side despite her knowledge that her crimes would not be forgotten. She had done it because
her conscience had so dictated.
Danica had not grown to love, or even like, the woman over the weeks of forced hibernation, but she did respect the wizard, and
did, to some extent trust Dorigen.
"Well, you have been hinting at this for many days," Dorigen said to Cadderly. "Is it time for us to be on the roadf?"
The Chaos Curse
23
Cadderly instinctively looked back to the door and nodded. "The passes south to Carradoon should be clear enough to travel,"
he replied. "And many of the passes back into the mountains will be clear as well, the snow fallen from them." Cadderly paused,
and the others, not understanding why the mountain passes should be of any concern, watched him carefully, looking for clues.
"Though I fear that the melt might bring some avalanches," the young priest finished.
"I do not fear avalanches," came the firbolg's voice booming from the door. "I have lived all my life in the mountains, and know
well enough when a trail is safe."
"Ye're not going back to the library," piped in Ivan, eyeing his giant friend suspiciously.
"Go," added Pikel, apparently not too happy about it.
"I have my own home, my own family," said Vander. He, Ivan, and Pikel had discussed this matter many times over the last few
weeks, but not until this moment had Vander made a decision.
Ivan obviously wasn't thrilled with it. He and Vander were friends, and saying farewell was never an easy thing. But the sturdy
dwarf agreed with the firbolg's decision, and he had promised, before and now again, that he would one day travel north to the
Spine of the World Mountains and seek out Vander's firbolg clan.
"But why are you talking of the mountains?" Shayleigh asked Cadderly bluntly. "Except for Vander, we'll not have to go into the
mountains until we pass Carradoon, and that will entail no less than a week of walking."
"We are going in sooner," Danica answered for Cadderly, thinking that she had the man's mind read. She found that she was half
right
"Not all of us," Cadderly stated. "There would be no need."
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R. A. Salvatore
The Chaos Curse
25
"The dragon's treasure!" Ivan roared suddenly, referring to the cave they had left behind, where old Fyren-tennimar had lived.
The friends had dispatched the old red in the mountains, leaving his treasure unguarded. "Ye're thinking of the dragon's
treasure!" The dwarf slapped his round-shouldered brother on the back.
"An unguarded hoard," Shayleigh agreed. "But it would take all seven of us, and many more than that, to bring that great
treasure out."
"We do not even know if the treasure will be found," Cadderly reminded them. "The storm that Aballister threw at Nightglow
Mountain likely sealed many caves."
"So you wish to go back to see if the treasure might be recovered," Danica reasoned.
"Recovered when the weather is more agreeable," said Cadderly. "And so we need not all make the journey to the mountain."
"What do you propose?" Danica asked, and she already knew the lines that Cadderly would draw.
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