She nodded, halting a half-dozen paces from the pedestal. Leaning forward, she peered more closely at the object that rested upon it.

"That's it?" she said in disgust, her voice reverberating off cold stone.

"That's the wondrous Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan?"

"It can't be!" Marnok shook his head in disbelief.

Rage blossomed hotly in Ravendas's chest. Was this to be the final joke, then? "By all the blackest G.o.ds," she spat furiously, "it's nothing but an old knuckle bone!"

No, it is much more than that, a voice spoke in their minds.

Ravendas and Marnok looked up in shock. A man stood-no, he hovered-behind the pedestal. His long crimson robes drifted slowly on the air, as if feeling the touch of a distant wind. A gold skull-cap covered his head, and his yellow eyes glowed eerily in the angular landscape of his face.

"Ckai-el-Ckaan!" Ravendas whispered in dread.

No, I am but an image he conjured in his likeness long ago, when he raised this fortress to protect his most precious relic.

"Precious?" Ravendas snarled, braver now that she knew she was not facing the ancient sorcerer himself. "What's so precious about an old bone?"

Ah, but it is not any bone, the image said. You see, as great as Ckai-el- Ckaan's magic was, all his sorcery could not reveal to him the time or place he would meet his demise. So he forged this tower, and here within he cut off his littlest finger, and laid it on the pedestal.

"But why?" Ravendas demanded in confusion.

"I think I understand," Marnok whispered. He was trembling. "The book told how Ckai-el-Ckaan was obsessed with living forever. So he must have left a finger here, knowing that, one day, the bone could be used in a spell that would forge a new body for him, and bring his spirit back from the Realm of the Dead."

Ravendas stared at Marnok in amazement.

The image of the sorcerer nodded serenely. That is so. He created this fortress so that only one who was strong, and powerful, and clever enough to see him returned from the dead could gain the relic. Climbing the walls was the first test, the test of strength. Now begins the second. The ghostly wizardgestured toward the relic. Take it. But know that only one who has magic to match that of Ckai-el-Ckaan's may attempt to leave once he has done so.

"What... what if he does not?" Marnok asked tentatively.

Then he will be imprisoned forever. The image of the ancient sorcerer bowed. Fate be with you. Like mist before a wind, the image was gone.

Marnok drew a handful of glistening powder from a pouch and threw it toward the relic. A crimson sphere appeared, surrounding the pedestal. His magic had revealed the ancient trap. They could go no farther.

"So close." Ravendas clenched her hands into fists. "We can almost reach it. Almost." She knew now that the relic was indeed priceless. Certainly the Zhentarim would have the power to resurrect Ckai-el-Ckaan-and to bind the legendary sorcerer as their slave in the process. For that opportunity, the Zhentarim would pay dearly. If only...

"Let's go, Ravendas," Marnok said gently, reaching for her hand. "It's no use."

But that wasn't true. Suddenly she knew it. There was a way, after all.

Time turned to ice. For a crystalline moment, Ravendas could see a future.

Not the future, but one future, one of many. She and Marnok stood in the doorway of a country house, his arms encircling her. Golden sunlight spilled through the windows, and small children laughed as they ran on the green gra.s.s outside. Marnok whispered something gently in her ear-she could almost hear his words. But then the thread of that future unraveled, and another, darker tapestry was woven to take its place. She had made her choice. Time melted to flow once more.

She drew Marnok close to her. He did not resist. She brushed her lips softly against his.

"I... I'm sorry," she whispered.

His clear green eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, she shoved him with all her strength. He careened backward, falling hard against the pedestal. Ruby magic flared brilliantly as the basalt cylinder crashed to the floor. A small white object rolled away. Quickly Ravendas moved to s.n.a.t.c.h it up. The Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan.

She stood in victory, but when she turned around, her heart caught in her throat. Marnok floated above the fallen pedestal, imprisoned in a sphere of crimson fire. His limbs were contorted in frozen agony, as if he were dead. But his eyes were alive. They watched her with a strange look that was part anguish, part understanding. She could not look away.

Without warning the floor lurched violently beneath her feet, and thunder cleaved the air. The crystal windows high above shattered, shards falling like glittering rain. The floor shook again, sending her to her knees. Just as the mage's book had foretold, the tower was collapsing.

"You must... go," a voice croaked. It was Marnok. His face was twisted with the terrible effort of speaking. "Remember the book..." Blood flecked the corners of his lips. "The third ... test. Face the sunset... give yourself to ...

darkness."

The tower shook again in its death throes, but Ravendas could not seem to move.

"Go-" Marnok gasped in agony. "Go ... Kela."

It was like being freed from a spell. Ravendas turned away and dashed toward the stairway. She did not look back. Chunks of stone streaked wildlypast her as she leapt off the stairway and sprinted down the spiral corridor.

She bounded across the bridge to the top of the wall. A heartbeat later the fortress shook again, and the bridge collapsed into the abyss.

Ravendas did not stop to watch. Marnok's words echoed in her mind. Face the sunset. She picked her way precariously along the jagged top of the wall, clutching the stone each time Gurthang convulsed, until she reached the western edge. She peered down but could see nothing in the gloom. The moon had set behind the mountains. There was no hope in light.

Give yourself to darkness. Yes, she thought. Wasn't that the choice she had made? Sounding a thunderous death knell, Gurthang's central tower began its slow, ponderous collapse behind her. Ravendas did not turn toward the grim spectacle. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath. And stepped off the wall.

For a moment, it seemed she was flying. Darkness encloaked her, cradling her gently within its soft, velvet folds. She laughed aloud. It was glorious!

Then she plunged into deep, icy water, and the moment was shattered.

Ravendas huddled by a small fire in the scant protection of a wind-twisted cedar, wrapped in the woolen blanket she had retrieved from her pack. The Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan lay on a stone beside her. She grinned, the glow of victory far warmer than the fire. She had done the impossible. The Zhentarim could not refuse her now. Her path to power was clear before her.

She spread her clothes by the fire, drying them of the tarn's cold water. As she did, she noticed something in the pocket of her leather jerkin. She pulled it out. A card. Though wet and torn, azure magic still shimmered on its surface, tracing an intricate outline, the outline of a spiral. Below it was written, The Cage. Words echoed eerily in her mind. Power can be a prison.

"No," Ravendas whispered fiercely. "I make my own fate."

Shivering, she tossed the card onto the fire.

AND WRINGING OF HANDS

Jane Cooper Hong

I hate my hands. The fingers are long-too long. And sickly thin. They look as if they'd splinter if someone applied the least bit of pressure between the knuckles. And the knuckles bulge like the k.n.o.bby growths you sometimes see on trees. I've often thought I'd like to chop off my hands and grow new ones, replace the mealy things with the ruddy, powerful hands of a smith or a sword master. I've looked into the possibility, actually. A wizard in Thay, one of the Reds, said it could be done. But he wouldn't guarantee the results. Oh, I'd have working hands. But when I asked if I'd be able to perform the intricate work I do now, he hesitated before nodding and saying, "Sure, I think so."

That wasn't good enough, so here they are.

I feel as if I'm someone else, watching from a few feet away as I use my hands to fletch the veins in the correct pattern on the arrow shaft. You see, the master counts on me to get these right. It makes a difference, you know, where I put the feathers, how far apart they are, how tightly they are bound, whether or not they are exactly the right size and shape.

The arrows and darts the master uses must fly true every time, without reliance on magic. The poisons he uses must be mixed to exact proportions in order to inflict death slowly, or quickly, as the circ.u.mstances warrant. If they didn't, what reputation would he have? As it is, people come from the farthest reaches to find Renek here in this G.o.ds-forsaken fleck on the Sembian plains.

You'd think he might move to Waterdeep or Suzai l, or at least Tantras.

Imagine how much business he might do then. People would call day and night seeking his services. Already, they pay the highest prices.

His last job fetched three perfect one-carat rubies and a gold medallion nearly as big as the palm of my hand. His mark, Han, was a top-ranking member of the thieves' guild-highly visible-and that, of course, drove up the cost. Still, the pay seemed outrageous to me. After all, using one of my darts, the master could hit a victim from a long way off with a movement almost as subtle as stifling a cough. In Han's case, the means of death was even less obvious.

I question whether, considering all the help I provided, Han's murder or any of my master's a.s.sa.s.sinations have been worth the price people paid. For that matter, when you think about it, should anyone be paid for another man's mis- fortune, another human being's demise?

When I think of Renek and his profession, I wonder how he became-how anyone becomes ah expert... a noted expert... at killing? Is it something you decide to do? I mean, did Renek wake up one morning and say to himself, "From this day forward, I'm going to devote my energies to murder. I will become a first-rate a.s.sa.s.sin."? I can understand wanting thugs and murderers-Renek's typical victims-dead. But I find the idea of wanting to kill someone difficult to comprehend. I suppose some people might question my own involvement in Renek's deeds. But my work has never required me to kill anyone. Really, I'm a craftsman-a researcher and a craftsman.

At least that is how I had always thought of myself.

The first time I saw Ashana, I was working in my apothecary. That's what I call it. It's really just a glorified shed in which I keep the various components Iuse for my work. I hang branches and leaves to dry in the room, and I have grinding stones and shelving there. I bottle various components and catalog them carefully-everything from octopus ink to zinc powder and a few gemstones.

I was dicing the tender branches of a sweet brandyroot plant into fine slivers for drying when I saw her through the open door. Her hair was dark auburn, and it glistened in the spring sun. She was tall like me, but with none of my ungainliness. Neither did she crouch as some tall women do. She walked quickly and surely toward me.

"Tine?" she inquired.

I nodded. I should have been more polite, said something more, invited her in, but I stood mute, staring, admiring. She stepped toward me. I backed up against a long work table, taking in the elegance of her movement as she stepped past and then turned to speak to me.

"Bokun, a cleric in the village, suggested I come," she said.

I nodded again. I remember thinking I should smile or say something, but I'm not sure if I did.

"My father is ill. It's a growth the healers can't stop. I've talked with several of them. And I've read everything I can find in the library-" Her words spilled out with a sense of urgency. "I've tried everything... He has this, this mucous-" She put her fingers to her neck and moved them lightly up and down. "It builds up in his throat, so thick he has trouble swallowing." She gulped hard, moving her chin down and up again with the effort, imitating his struggle.

I was immediately taken with her intensity. She gazed at me, unblinking, and then spoke again. "Bokun said you have many herbs, rare ones. He thought you might have this...." She paused to unfold a paper that had been clutched in her left hand. She moved very close to me and smoothed the note flat on the table alongside us.

As I turned to look at the paper, I found myself so near to her that I was overwhelmed by her fragrance-a whispering cleanness that made me want to close my eyes and inhale deeply. I forced myself to look at the note. The cleric's prescription was penned in large, fluid letters: Hsin-feng ku gen.

"I have it," I said. "A small piece."

She stood still, watching as I scanned through my catalog and then the shelves of my apothecary, searching for the datelike root. She talked to me all the while-in the gentle, friendly tones of a neighbor or a close companion.

That's when she told me her name and where she lived.

I marveled at how easy it was for her to keep up a conversation. I groped for words to say in response. "This is the herb. It's used by the Wa people. My notes say the name means "bitter root of the fresh wind."

Ashana was impressed and said so. I could see from her eyes that her interest was genuine. I am no healer, but many of the tools of my work can be used to positive effect if applied differently, and I am not ignorant of their other functions. I sc.r.a.ped shavings from the wrinkled root and then mixed the herb in a paste with an inert powder and water. I explained to Ashana as I gave her a vial of the sticky mixture that her father must coat the back of his tongue and throat with the paste and leave it there for several minutes before washing it down with water. "It's exceedingly bitter. He'll think he's being poisoned," I explained, "but mixed at this proportion, it should be harmful only to what ailshim."

Ashana gripped my hands in hers as she thanked me. My first reaction was to pull away, but I felt a warmth unlike anything in my experience. I have always felt dreadfully awkward around women, and few have shown any interest in me. I didn't take her touch as a sign of interest, but from that day on, I took every opportunity to ride to the neighboring town she lived in. I watched for her and tried to think of things I could offer to help her father... to make her notice me. And she did notice me.

I know I said I think of myself as a researcher, as well as a craftsman. Part of my "research" is observing my master carefully-in order to serve him better. I've always made a point of watching Renek closely-knowing his physical strengths and weaknesses-the fluidity and power of his movements, the slight trembling of hand that overtakes him occasionally during "the hunt."

He calls it that. I suppose it makes it seem less like murder to think of a victim as prey, but it's also part of his belief that he is somehow superior, specially talented, somehow uniquely deserving of the rewards of his trade.

He never seemed to realize the disadvantage, the complete unlikelihood of success, he would face without me. The thief he most recently killed was a snake. That was Han. And because of Han's own vile nature, he knew about the wiles of others. If Renek had tried to use ordinary means to kill Han, he probably would have wound up with his own entrails publicly displayed from the tower of the nearest thieves' guild hall.

But I had watched Han for Renek. I knew that he had few regular habits and fewer weaknesses. After several tendays of watching, I alerted my master to his opening. The thief, for all his stature in the thieves' guild, paid t.i.thes to the order of Tymora. I saw no logic in a thief worshiping at the shrine of the G.o.ddess of good fortune. Maybe he'd made a habit of gambling. Or more likely he was trying to appease the G.o.ddess on behalf of someone for whom he grieved. I could only guess his motive, but my master's good fortune rested in the fact that on the sixth day of nearly every ten-day, Han could be found casting the crescent moons of fate and drawing lots before paying his t.i.the to the cleric at the shrine.

I pondered long over the method of death, and I chided myself for not seeing the possibility sooner. Like so many others seeking luck or blessing, Han would rub the wooden moons in his hands, then blow on them and kiss them before casting them to see which way they would land.

Dressed as a traveling cleric in the faith, my master had easy access to the crescents. A part of Renek's smoothness, his talent, resulted from his ability to blend unnoticed into even small groups of people. He is of ordinary human height and weight. His hair is a medium brown of medium length. His eyes are dark but not unusually so. Even his nose, a telling feature for many, is un.o.btrusive and indistinctive. Truly, he hasn't a single physical characteristic that would draw attention or set him apart from anyone in a crowd.

I wish I could say the same for myself. I'm tall, awkwardly so, and gaunt.

My skin is pale enough that in my youth it was the subject of jokes and cruel comparisons to fish bellies and other pallid things. No amount of exposure to the sun has ever improved my pallor. In fact, when I was young and more concerned about such things, I would stay out on bright days, scalding myself to the color and crepe-like texture of red poppies. But within days my parched skin would peel off in gummy layers to reveal more of the same milky hue Istarted with.

I also used to gorge myself repeatedly over many days in hopes of filling out my tall frame. Always, I would grow a rounded, ball-shaped paunch but experience no satisfying increase in overall bulk or brawn, and so I would return to my former eating habits.

Renek would not understand such measures. He's not handsome or even striking, but he'd never be the subject of stares or surrept.i.tious snickers.

That's why he could move unnoticed through the temple, as he did through every other a.s.sa.s.sination site.

But anonymity alone would not have put Renek in a position to kill Han. He had another important advantage going into this job: I had given him the perfect poison. Han felt, I'm sure, a faint tingling in his hands within seconds of rubbing the two crescent moons between his palms. And no doubt his lips had begun to tingle a moment after he'd kissed their smooth wooden surface.

As Renek told it to me later, Han had, as a matter of curiosity, sniffed his hands and the crescents themselves, inhaling the odorless poison. He shrugged and cast the crescents. My master told me they landed with their points at odds. "A bad omen," Renek had noted, chuckling. As Han walked to draw a lot from the bin indicated by the opposing crescents, he no doubt felt the tingling intensify to a mild burning, extending from his hands to his wrists, from his lips to his tongue and throat, and from his throat into his lungs.

By then, of course, Renek had exchanged the tainted moons for two harmless objects of worship. He told me how he feigned concern as Han staggered to the priest to have his lot read. And when Han began ranting in poison-induced lunacy, Renek asked a brother of the order if he could help.

But two other clerics waved him off as they carried Han to a trough and began splashing him with water-a kind but pointless act. Not long after, as Renek disappeared into the shadows, they would have noticed grotesque and darkening blisters forming on Han's lips and hands. He probably started to heave then-blackened spittle and blood. Renek told me he heard the screams of "Plague!" as he left the site.

I accompanied Renek when he collected his fee. I remember that I was staring at my hands on the saddle horn as he spoke giddily of how smoothly the task had gone. I was thinking about what the Red Wizard had said when I became conscious of Renek's words.

"You should have seen him, Tine," he said to me. "He came in meek as a bug, the way he always does-" I'd told him that. Yet Renek acted as though it was firsthand knowledge "-and walked to the offering table. I've never seen him look so humble-pious almost. Can you imagine?"

He went on like that, providing each detail as if he had observed it first, and describing the action of the poison as if he understood it. At one point I asked him, "Do you suppose you should have used an even slower-acting solution?"

"No. No," he answered. "I had just the right combination. And plenty of time to make the exchange, get out of there, and know I'd accomplished what I set out to."

His words and his pompous, thankless att.i.tude jarred me more than the rough gait of the horse I rode. He had just the right combination-not "you provided" or "because of you." He actually credited himself with the success.

When he took his pay for the task, I felt sure he would offer me a share. In my two years of service for Renek, he'd never been overwhelminglygenerous, but he had occasionally rewarded me when, as in this case, the craftsmanship was of exceptional caliber. Whenmy master mounted his horse and reined it around to where I sat, waiting astride the old bay, he handed me my wage and a paltry amount extra-hardly more than a barmaid might expect to earn in tips for half a night's work.

I tried to take some consolation simply in the fact that Han was dead.

Unlike most thieves, who take great pride in doing their work with stealth and cunning, Han based his pride on and earned his status from the sheer volume of his plunder. I'm sure he had far more murders to his credit than my master, but he had none of Renek's reputation for finesse. He'd left a trail of gore and mutilation that buzzards and monsters of the twilight appreciated. Strangely, though, proof of his crimes was elusive. Gnomes in the Arch Wood had tried him for killing one of their princesses in conjunction with the amazing robbery of an entire royal treasury. Even in places where lynching is the common form of justice, Han had escaped punishment.

Most recently, Han had publicly threatened the entire town council of Gendelarm. Rumor had it that he had dragged a councilwoman's son behind a wagon till he was maimed beyond recovery. The woman said that, with his last breath, her son repeated a death threat from Han.

Ironically, Han's a.s.sa.s.sination was not commissioned by the councilwoman, her family, or anyone on the council. Instead, a fellow thief seeking to elevate his own position in the guild had contracted for Renek's services. I suppose I shouldn't concern myself with the reasoning behind my master's work-Renek doesn't-but it always feels better when justification can be found in higher principles.

Such was not the case with Renek's next kill. His prey was not a criminal like Han or an undesirable like others he had killed. Always before, I had understood my own role and seen some good in a.s.sisting Renek.

Until recently, I also thought I understood how others viewed my role. But I learned otherwise from Ashana. After the a.s.sa.s.sination of Han, I continued to pa.s.s near her home in hopes of seeing her. As her father's illness progressed, she spent more and more time at his bedside, but occasionally when she did come out, she would visit with me.