Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 5 - The Cerulean Storm by Troy Denning Page B
Authors: Troy Denning
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restore the mystic power to her body, but her flesh remained pale. Sadira
started up the stairs again, catching a few notes of Magnus's song between the storm's
booms and crashes.
The leader of the wraiths held his hand out toward her. Sadira felt her stiletto slip from
its sheath. She lashed out, but the dagger was gone before she could catch it. The weapon
sailed straight to his hand, coming to rest with the iron handle in his palm.
“I believe this weapon once belonged to Agis's mother,” he said, lifting the stiletto. He
had to raise his voice only a little, for the tumult was beginning to fade.
Sadira scowled and stopped a dozen steps below the wraiths, still holding her small iron
hammer. Although puzzled by the warrior's action, the sorceress was less interested in
what he was doing than in selecting her next attack. She estimated that her body contained
enough energy for only one more spell. If she wanted to escape, she would need to pick a
good one.
“What does it matter who owned it?” Sadira asked.
“You shall see.”
A pearly cloud of haze began to swirl around the dagger, coalescing into the face of a
handsome human, a man with even features, a patrician nose, and long black hair streaked
down the center by a single band of silver. The rest of his body took form below the
dagger, and soon he stood with his sinewy arms hanging limply at his sides and his
shoulders slumped forward.
Forgetting about her spell, Sadira gasped, “Agis!”
The noble said nothing. The pupils of his eyes remained milky and vacant.
“Don't worry, he's still alive,” the wraith said in a reassuring voice. 'The Gray often
disorients the spirits of the living."
Sadira's heart felt as though a hand of ice had closed around it. The wraith was lying.
Agis's spirit had coalesced out of the Gray, not been drawn through it. Had the noble come
from Athas, he would have arrived fully formed.
The wraith continued his lie: “Your husband valued his mother's weapon highly. I used that
attachment to summon his spirit from Samarah.”
For a moment, Sadira did not move, too shocked to react. Then she cried out and almost
collapsed, her whole body convulsing with grief.
Samarah.
She repeated the name over and over. That one word confirmed her worst fears. The wraiths
had found Agis, or Borys had, and they had killed him. All that remained of her husband
was the glassy-eyed apparition at the wraith's side, a spirit that could not remember his
own name.
“Go down,” the leader said. “Step into the Gray, or I'll take your husband's life.”
“Take him!” Sadira yelled. Her chest suddenly felt constricted and hot. “What good is he
to me now?”
The words had barely passed her lips before the sorceress felt sick with guilt. She could
not have said such a thing. It had to have been some other woman, a weak woman who had not
truly loved her husband.
Sadira knew that she should be sorry for Agis's death, concerned about the portents it
held for the future. She should be worried that Borys had taken the Dark Lens, and that
now she and her companions would have no defense against his mastery of the Way. She
should be seeing young Rkard, his red eyes blazing with determination, standing before the
beast that had killed Agis and a million others. She should be thinking of what came after
Borys killed her and Rkard and the others, of how he would raze Tyr and murder its
citizens, of how, too soon, an immense pile of rubble would lie where Athas's only free
city had stood.
But Sadira did not feel any of those things. She only felt angry, angry at the husband who
gone away and died so far from her.
Magnus suddenly stopped singing, and an eerie silence fell over the tower. The wraiths
cast nervous glances back toward the minaret, where a pink band had appeared between the
swirling eddies in the sky. The leader motioned to
started up the stairs again, catching a few notes of Magnus's song between the storm's
booms and crashes.
The leader of the wraiths held his hand out toward her. Sadira felt her stiletto slip from
its sheath. She lashed out, but the dagger was gone before she could catch it. The weapon
sailed straight to his hand, coming to rest with the iron handle in his palm.
“I believe this weapon once belonged to Agis's mother,” he said, lifting the stiletto. He
had to raise his voice only a little, for the tumult was beginning to fade.
Sadira scowled and stopped a dozen steps below the wraiths, still holding her small iron
hammer. Although puzzled by the warrior's action, the sorceress was less interested in
what he was doing than in selecting her next attack. She estimated that her body contained
enough energy for only one more spell. If she wanted to escape, she would need to pick a
good one.
“What does it matter who owned it?” Sadira asked.
“You shall see.”
A pearly cloud of haze began to swirl around the dagger, coalescing into the face of a
handsome human, a man with even features, a patrician nose, and long black hair streaked
down the center by a single band of silver. The rest of his body took form below the
dagger, and soon he stood with his sinewy arms hanging limply at his sides and his
shoulders slumped forward.
Forgetting about her spell, Sadira gasped, “Agis!”
The noble said nothing. The pupils of his eyes remained milky and vacant.
“Don't worry, he's still alive,” the wraith said in a reassuring voice. 'The Gray often
disorients the spirits of the living."
Sadira's heart felt as though a hand of ice had closed around it. The wraith was lying.
Agis's spirit had coalesced out of the Gray, not been drawn through it. Had the noble come
from Athas, he would have arrived fully formed.
The wraith continued his lie: “Your husband valued his mother's weapon highly. I used that
attachment to summon his spirit from Samarah.”
For a moment, Sadira did not move, too shocked to react. Then she cried out and almost
collapsed, her whole body convulsing with grief.
Samarah.
She repeated the name over and over. That one word confirmed her worst fears. The wraiths
had found Agis, or Borys had, and they had killed him. All that remained of her husband
was the glassy-eyed apparition at the wraith's side, a spirit that could not remember his
own name.
“Go down,” the leader said. “Step into the Gray, or I'll take your husband's life.”
“Take him!” Sadira yelled. Her chest suddenly felt constricted and hot. “What good is he
to me now?”
The words had barely passed her lips before the sorceress felt sick with guilt. She could
not have said such a thing. It had to have been some other woman, a weak woman who had not
truly loved her husband.
Sadira knew that she should be sorry for Agis's death, concerned about the portents it
held for the future. She should be worried that Borys had taken the Dark Lens, and that
now she and her companions would have no defense against his mastery of the Way. She
should be seeing young Rkard, his red eyes blazing with determination, standing before the
beast that had killed Agis and a million others. She should be thinking of what came after
Borys killed her and Rkard and the others, of how he would raze Tyr and murder its
citizens, of how, too soon, an immense pile of rubble would lie where Athas's only free
city had stood.
But Sadira did not feel any of those things. She only felt angry, angry at the husband who
gone away and died so far from her.
Magnus suddenly stopped singing, and an eerie silence fell over the tower. The wraiths
cast nervous glances back toward the minaret, where a pink band had appeared between the
swirling eddies in the sky. The leader motioned to
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