Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [15]
Riltana sighed and brushed the last note into the same cavity where all the previous pleas to lost opportunity waited in the dark. When she’d started writing them, they’d given her some measure of relief. Each one was like casting away a stone laden with sadness. Eventually, she thought, her burden of sorrow would be lightened.
But months had passed, and her unhappiness seemed just as sharp as ever. She wondered if the daily scrawl had become its own burden. Had the notes transformed from something therapeutic into a behavior that prevented her from moving on?
She uncorked a half-full bottle of red wine and poured a generous amount into a crystal goblet. She dropped into a high-backed chair and sipped. Not bad, especially for a bottle that’d been open for three days already. But she’d better finish it soon before it turned; she hated to waste good wine.
Riltana swirled the glass. Images of her and Carmenere sharing drinks in her loft crowded around, as they always did. No one could laugh as loud as Carmenere, or make Riltana laugh back.
She had no one to blame but herself. She grimaced, wondering at her idiocy for the thousandth time.
Ego and pride has a price: loneliness.
Riltana downed her glass, stood, and snatched up a quill. She quickly dashed a new message to Carmenere, telling her how she was going to meet a client in the Sepulcher for a lucrative payment for services rendered. Thinking about the coin that would soon cross her palms gave her a jolt of satisfaction.
Looking forward to such a large payout was nearly enough to make her forget her troubles. Nearly … but not quite. But for now it would have to do.
Riltana changed back to her black jumpsuit and mask, and swept out of the loft.
The night was farther along, but the Plaza remained active. She sniffed the evening air, redolent with smoke and sea water, then raced across the roofs toward her destination.
The Sepulcher was concealed beneath Akanawater Falls, which surged into Airspur at the city’s westernmost limit. Observation points along the facing cliffs offered city dwellers and visitors alike one of the most beautiful sights in all Faerûn; so claimed a group of ebullient traders from Veltalar she’d once overheard. She supposed that by daylight the crystalline water crashing down the series of stony steps was impressive, especially when coupled with the body-shaking thunder that accompanied the panorama.
By night, the falls were not so beautiful; they were a roaring darkness of watery mouths leading to vortices capable of pulling a windsoul to her death by drowning if she wasn’t careful.
Many ne’er-do-wells in Airspur also knew the falls hid an entrance to an elaborate underground labyrinth that led to the Sepulcher. The Sepulcher hosted occasional illegal deals and chancy trades too dangerous to occur anywhere else. However, to reach the Sepulcher, one had to dive beneath the falls and swim past the vortices. Even then, brute strength or agile skill wasn’t always enough to win free of the grasping currents.
Riltana wondered how many would-be thieves had lost their lives trying that route. It was kind of a test; were you stupid enough to dive beneath the falls, or think twice? Would criminal masterminds subject themselves to such a risky path every time they wanted to unload a shipment of haepthum? No, of course not. Common sense dictated there had to be a way into the labyrinth that didn’t involve rushing water.
She eventually reached the alley she sought, midway up a switchback on Airspur’s north cliff face. A secret door concealed behind stacked flagstones provided entry into a dank cellar. Long abandoned, the cellar’s sole purpose was as a way in, one of three Riltana knew about, into the old tunnels that wound through darkness behind the cliff.
She snapped her fingers and produced a sunrod. She shook it, and yellow light spilled from its translucent length. Holding it before her, she entered Airspur’s labyrinth.
A complex of twisting tunnels and dead-end caves riddled Airspur