Prince of Lies - James Lowder [106]
"The patterns are not clear," she murmured, stalling for time. The old woman cursed herself for drinking so heavily at the Serpent's Eye earlier in the afternoon. The aftereffects of the gin was clouding her thoughts. "Let me look more closely."
As Elusina ran her withered fingertips over the smooth curves and sharp ends of the scattered bones, her mind suddenly went blank. The parlor fell away, the imitation Shou carpets and tasseled lanterns swathed in red silk fading into mist. In their place she saw only the tangle of chicken bones, as large as Cyric's temple, glowing more brightly than the morning sun. And for the first time, she recognized a clear meaning in the jumble.
"Death awaits you," Elusina said. Her voice was hollow, like something calling from the Realm of the Dead. "The city will fall, and all its defenders will be slaughtered – ground to dust beneath the heels of dragons and giants, pierced by the arrows of goblins and gnolls."
When she came to, Elusina found the Zhentilar officer shouting at her, angrily demanding his money be returned. Brok had taken up a post behind the sergeant. He looked to the old woman, watching for the nod that would mean it was time to throw the client into the street. But Elusina merely reached down into her strong box and grabbed a handful of coins. She emptied these onto the table without counting them, then rose silently and shuffled into the back room.
She saw no more customers that day or ever again. Elusina had been granted a glimpse into the future. She'd seen the face of death in the seemingly senseless pattern of the bones – not just the Zhentilar's death, but the doom of thousands upon thousands living in the Keep.
No matter how hard she tried, the seeress couldn't banish the image from her mind. The cold clarity of it, the immutable certainty of the city's destruction clung to Elusina's thoughts and smothered her spirits like ancient cerements. And with that certainty came the realization that even now, as she huddled in her small, dirty room, grim events were unfolding that would speed the present toward that terrifying, unavoidable future.
* * * * *
The dragon's corpse hung upside down in the catacombs beneath theChurchofCyric. As General Vrakk had guessed that day in the marketplace, the young wyrm hadn't survived long after the procession. Beatings had left welts and scars along its snow-white hide, while days without food had drawn the dragon's stomach into a hollow curve beneath its ribs. Grief struck the blow that finally killed the beast, an overwhelming sorrow at being separated from its brethren in the icy wastes to the north.
Ever eager to fill the church coffers, Xeno Mirrormane had sent word through the black market that pieces of the corpse could be had for magical endeavors, but only for a sizable donation to Cyric's temple. The dragon's eyes had gone the first day, sold to the wizard Shanalar as fodder for some dark experiment. Claws and tongue went next, along with most of the armorlike scales from its stomach. Now, less than a tenday after its demise, the wyrm looked much like a warrior's corpse left for the carrion crows after a battle.
Still, enough remained of the dragon for Xeno Mirrormane to post a guard in the catacombs. Every bone, every sinew from the wyrm would be sold eventually. No need to leave the thing unprotected and tempt the wizards who couldn't afford the high prices.
"And I thought guarding the merman in the damned parade was boring," Bryn mumbled, prodding the coals in the brazier squatting at her side. "This'll teach me to salute Ulgrym faster next time, though, won't it?"
She unsheathed her sword and scratched a crude drawing onto the dirt-strewn floor before her camp chair. She'd sketched the same scene – a nasty little imbroglio involving her Zhentilar commander and various farm animals – six