The Apartment in Heremac, VII May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Sext.
Clement, Coric, St. James, Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mot.
“It still makes me shudder,” says Clement, gesturing towards the stony figures in the center of the common room. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing them, this way.”
Clement’s gaze lingers upon the unliving face that was once Mendelor’s, frozen in the beginning of a scream. And beside, on the floor, lies the twisted stone form of Valerius. Mot kneels nearby, clutching a broken stone arm. Weeks ago he stopped offering the arm to any passer-by, imploring them to “Fix… Please fix…” He has since succumbed to a silence as stony and unyielding as his master’s.
“Poor Mot,” says Friar Sidrach. “He’s really gone quite downhill, quite. He’s reverted to his old ways, eating garbage and wearing rags. May the Five grant him peace.”
“It’s that damned biting,” says St. James, “that really gets to me. When this fool gets really upset, he starts to worrying on his hands, like a beaten cur. It’s bad enough I’ve got to sleep in this Five-forsaken apartment with those two creepy monuments just a couple of paces away.”
“I doubt you’ve been sleeping much anyway, these last months,” says Clement, “with a bit of silver in your purse.”
“Aye,” says the Friar, “If I recall aright, you have spent most nights in the company of your friend, Margaret. Or perhaps my memory falters. Perhaps…”
St. James grins. “Bah, my dear friend Roger, I’m afraid, has siphoned more of my loot than Mags ever has.”
“Good Clement,” says Coric, “you said earlier that you had come upon some news. Pray tell, what have you learned.”
“Scholarship is thirsty business,” says Clement. “Perhaps you have an ale?” And while Coric fetches a tankard, Clement begins to relate his information. “I have spent many hours and many days in the Bergenian library, poring through many a tedious chronicle and many an insufferable translation. But I have gleaned some useful lore. I won’t bother you with a complete bibliography—I couldn’t remember all those sources anyway.
“If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: You were lucky to make it out of that temple alive—terribly lucky. Medusae were some of the most feared creatures in the ancient world. As you’ve doubtless guessed, medusae are not natural things, but are highly magical in nature. They are all daughters of Eurales, the Gorgon Queen, who was killed by the mythical hero Pelles. As Eurales was descended from immortals, medusae live extremely long lives, measured in centuries.
“In the ancient world, the dread isle of Kalyos was birthplace to all medusae. The very name of the place was synonymous with ruin and death. But Tynar eventually turned her eye to Kalyos, and conquered the island. The Empire forged a terrible pact that spread medusae all over the known world.
“You see, the Tynans venerated these Kalyosan monsters as guardians, and built profane temples for the medusae, giving them anything desired: prey, slaves, objects of beauty, all in exchange for the medusae protecting precious objects, magical and otherwise. It is said that some foolish emperors even placed medusae in elaborately designed mazes beneath their palaces, to guard the imperial treasury.
“Medusae were originally introduced into Selcrany by Tynan conjurers. What you stumbled upon was some sort of magical throwback to the days when Tynan governors ruled these lands. Somehow, that temple survived destruction from Kargs, Rucks, or Pentians.”
“But, Clement,” says Coric, “What about Valerius? And Mendelor? Is there no hope for them?”
“There’s no hope that I know of,” says Clement. “It would take a mighty magician, indeed, to transform our poor friends back to flesh.”
“Well there’s one thing for sure,” says St. James, looking at the stone figure of Valerius, “It’s sure been a lot quieter around here.”
The Apartment in Heremac, IX May. Vespers.
Clement, Coric, St. James, Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mot.
St. James opens the door to reveal a strange, disheveled old man, leaning upon a crook.
“Hurumph,” says Andrew Penney, shuffling inside. “You’ve been expecting me, of course.”
“Yes,” says St. James. “I guess we have.”
Andrew Penney pulls forth a dirty old rag, and mops his greasy brow.
“You’ll be glad to know that we have some coin to pay you with,” says St. James. “Friar Sidrach was able to sell all of the valuables we recently… acquired.”
“Yes,” says Friar Sidrach. “The Brotherhood of St. Markham paid quite handsomely, indeed.”
“Who would have thought that old Iron-Heart fancied art?” says St. James.
“Hurumph,” says Andrew Penney. “Coin is nice, but there’s something else I want. Yes, something else.” The strange old man draws from his robes a small ivory tube.
“The friar was able to tell you that the spear, the charm, and this scroll that you brought out of the Temple were all magical,” says Andrew Penney. “True, true. But I can tell you much more about each. I can indeed. I only ask that I be allowed to keep the scroll: it is of no use to any of you, anyway.”
St. James looks at Friar Sidrach, who looks at Hamral, who shrugs.
“Alright,” says St. James, “You can keep the scroll. But what about the other stuff?”
Andrew Penney gestures to the spear, propped against the wall. “It is a fine spear, one of a hundred enchanted spears forged by order of the Emperor Clarius, and given to his favored commanders. It shall strike true, it shall.”
“And the charm,” says Andrew Penney, pulling from his robes a plain lead medallion, set with a clear, round stone, smaller than a thumbnail. “See the stone? That’s rock-crystal, and its clarity symbolizes the sun. A clear stone is a lucky stone, and the magic of the charm will help the wearer avoid harm.”
“Not bad,” says St. James.
“No, not bad,” says Andrew Penney. “It is a minor magic, but useful. One of you shall be very glad you found it.”
“Now, good master Penney,” says Coric, “There’s something else…”
“Yes,” says Andrew Penney, “I already know that you want to ask. I do, I do. And I already know what the answer will be.
“It’s the Sorcerer of the Green Tower,” says Andrew Penney. “He could restore your friends to flesh. Yes, indeed. Very powerful, he. And not hard to find—not hard to find at all. You just have to try. But the Sorcerer has a price. Always, a price.”
“Green Tower?” asks Coric.
“Aye, lad,” says Friar Sidrach, “There’s many a story told on the Frounter of the Sorcerer in the Green Tower. No one has ever seen him.”
“My mother warned me of such things,” says St. James. “She said I should always beware of a Green Tower, that a demon lived inside, and if I ever went near that I would be hauled down into the Pit. I always thought it was crap, to keep me out of trouble. But I’ve seen enough stuff in the last year to wonder.”
“Well, where is this tower?” asks Coric.
“Ah,” says Friar Sidrach, “This is the thing. The tower is never found in the same place twice. It’s usually seen in the Westwoode, though.”
“I’ve even heard songs out of Harplan,” interjects Clement, “about the Green Tower.”
“Yes,” says the friar, “yes. They say that you can always find the tower, if you look for it. But it gets harder and harder each time to find it again.”
“That’s right,” says Clement. “do you know ‘The Lay of Prester’? Sir Prester was a great knight, who had visited the Green Tower as a young squire to gain a magic sword. Years later he searched six months for the tower, to learn the answer to a riddle: which of three girls was his own true love? And years after that, his beloved wife was transformed into a bird by a witch, and Sir Prester spent ten years trying to find the Green Tower again. Through years of storm and burning sun / Vainly he sought the tower again / He’d trade the sword that now he bore / To see the tower but one time more.”
“So who does this magician work for?” asks Coric.
“Hurumph, hurumph,” murmurs Andrew Penney. “The Sorcerer of the Green Tower serves none but himself. No king, no pope, no magician could hold his loyalty.”
Clement nods at this. “Stories about the Green Tower stretch back into antiquity. The Tynan governor Tarquinis once sent an entire legion to assault the tower, but the Sorcerer transformed his soldiers into trees, and it said that they still stand somewhere deep in the Westwoode.”
“He sounds scary,” says Coric.
“Oh, he is,” says Andrew Penney. “But he is no more or less evil than he is good.”
Hamral scratches his chin, and looks back at the stone figures. “So the Sorcerer could restore those two back to life?”
“Well,” says Andrew Penney, “He could restore them to flesh, which isn’t quite the same, if you take my meaning. The shock of being transmuted to stone, and then back to flesh is not inconsiderable, of course. Not everyone could survive such a metamorphosis.”
“So we could haul these statues all the way into the Westwoode, and they could still end up dead?” asks Hamral.
“Hurumph,” says Andrew Penney. “Yes—yes, it is possible.”
“What about Valerius?” asks St. James. “His arm is broken off. Will it still be broken off after the sorcerer, uh, translates him?”
“Huhrumph. That could be a problem, now couldn’t it. Well, I think I may be able to help you on this score.”
Andrew Penney walks over to the stone figure that was once Valerius, and surveys the figure very carefully. He then approaches Mot, who raises the stone arm.
“Fix?” asks Mot. “Fix?”
“Well, my friend,” says Andrew Penney, “I can try, I can.”
Penney walks back to the petrified figure. He focuses intently, and pulls from his robes a couple of burdocks, which he rubs together. Penney takes a deep breath, and begins to murmur strange words that seem hauntingly familiar and yet always remain undecipherable. As he speaks, he rubs one burdock over the jagged spot on the figure, where the arm had been. And he rubs the other over the broken end of the stone arm. He continues murmuring bizarre syllables, and the air in the entire room suddenly seems heavy and thick, like before a thunderstorm. A strange, faint shimmering springs up wherever Penney passes the burdocks. Penney presses the arm to the join, and there is a small flash—and the arm stays in place. Instantly, everything returns to normal: the heaviness to the air is immediately dispelled. Mot springs over to the stone form of Valerius, and touches his hands wonderingly at where there once had been a break, and now is no seam.
A strange, excited burbling come from Mot.
“Well,” says St. James, “Now that we’ve gotten that straightened out, what are we going to do?”
“I am afraid of this Sorcerer,” says Friar Sidrach, “Although he may be powerful, he seems unconcerned with the Five.”
“It seems like a lot of risk for an uncertain payoff,” says Hamral, flatly.
“But what about our friends?” asks Coric. “Don’t we owe it to them?”
“Maybe we could sell them to the Grand Master,” says St. James. “They’d look good in a church somewhere.”
Seeing the expression on Coric’s face, St. James quickly adds, “I’m only joking. Sort of…”
“We must decide,” says Friar Sidrach, “One way or another.”
“I don’t know what the hurry is,” says St. James. “It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”
On the floor, an agonistic face, frozen in stone, stares blankly at the ceiling.