Emerald Sceptre by Thomas M. Reid Page B

There are only nine dead guards.”
    Arbeenok nodded and pointed at the fountain. “There is a pair upon that shield,” he said, and Vambran saw that the symbol engraved on the stone was indeed a set of crossed swords.
    Then he looked down. “And my own blade makes twelve,” he breathed. “But what does it mean?”
    “It is the means of stopping the plague,” Arbeenok said. “It is salvation for this city.”
    “What? Me, here? In this garden?”
    “I don’t know,” Arbeenok replied, looking doubtful. “I don’t think so. I—I don’t know,” he finished, shaking his head.
    Elenthia bent down then, staring at the tiny city. “You said it was a drowned city?” she asked. “As in, covered in water?”
    Arbeenok nodded. “Yes,” the alaghi said. “But I do not know what that means.”
    “I think I do,” the woman replied. “The Cities of the Twelve Swords.”
    “What?” Vambran asked, standing and shaking water from himself. He felt cleaner but still tainted.
    “Ancient Jhaamdath,” Elenthia replied. “The cities of Jhaamdath were called the Cities of the Twelve Swords.”
    “But Jhaamdath is at the bottom of the Reach,” the mercenary said, doubtful of her interpretation.
    “Exactly,” Elenthia said, nodding. “Washed away by the wrath of the elves over fifteen hundred years ago.”
    Arbeenok nodded eagerly. “We must go there. Now. The secret of stopping the plague can be found there.”
    Vambran turned to look at the druid askance. “That’s an awful lot of water to swim through,” he said. “Do you have any idea where we should start?”
    “No,” the alaghi answered, smiling, “but you do.” “Me?” Vambran said, shaking his head in denial.
    “I don’t have the smallest notion,” he insisted. “You are the man in my vision,” Arbeenok said.
    “Just because I had a little blood on me does not make me the figure in your portent,” Vambran argued.
    “It does,” Arbeenok insisted. “I thought at first it symbolized a man who was at odds with himself, struggling between two paths—the blue and the red—and would find himself somewhere in between. But I was not taking it literally enough.”
    Vambran sighed. “Blue and red at odds, you say?” he asked. “As in my struggle between my duty to the Crescents and to my House?”
    “Your house is red?” Arbeenok asked, puzzled.
    “No, but the insignia is. A red four-pointed star, and all the guards wear that as a patch on their uniforms.”
    Arbeenok smiled again. “There, you see? You do believe it.”
    Vambran grimaced and nodded. “I still don’t know how I’m supposed to find whatever it is we’re looking for,” he said.
    “Let that take care of itself,” the druid said. “The visions will guide us true.”
    “Vambran,” Elenthia said, coughing.
    “What?” the mercenary asked, turning to look at his counterpart.
    Elenthia was holding her arm up in the air, staring at it. It was discolored, turning purplish blue. She coughed again, harder. “The plague,” she said. “I think I’ve gotten it.”
    • • •
    Being drawn back out of the mirror was just as unnerving as having been sucked into it. Emriana felt turned inside out, but just as soon as it washed
    over her, the feeling was gone again. She found herself huddled naked on the thick throw rug in the middle of Lobra’s bedroom. Denrick stood beside her, leering down. The hunger in his eyes made her shiver.
    On the far side of the chamber, Lobra sat upon a small couch, one leg drawn up beneath her. She regarded Emriana with what appeared to be mild amusement. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?” she asked.
    “For what?” she asked, disoriented.
    “Why, for letting you out, of course,” the woman replied. “Or did you forget your manners while you were tucked away in there?”
    Emriana wasn’t sure there was a correct answer to that question, but she didn’t want to anger the woman before she even had a chance to get her bearings. “Thank