"Two things. First and least, regular aboleth colonies are safely ensconced below the earth, immovable. Xxiphu is different. It is mobile. It may indeed breach to Faerыn's surface, as previous divination revealed."

The monk nodded. That was certainly a worry. "And second?"

"Second, Xxiphu contains the original aboleths. These are the progenitors of the race who personally squirmed into the world before it cooled from its creation fires. These aboleths were old when the sun was still young. Xxiphu is the seat of the Abolethic Sovereignty, possessed of a malignancy inconceivable, and ruled by the Eldest, an aboleth of such size its age is incalculable. Certainly it is older than when Abeir-Toril split asunder. If Xxiphu rises and the Eldest wakes, then Faerыn will face yet another catastrophe, this one directed by alien, unfeeling minds that do not perceive the world as you do, or even I."

The monk didn't respond. Instead, he looked to the southern horizon, his pose noncommittal.

"If that occurs, Raidon," Cynosure continued, ''many more children than Ailyn will perish in fear."

The monk sucked in his breath as if a mighty kick had caught him in the stomach. His eyes darkened, and his fists clenched. With no target other than the boulder, the monk balled his hand and assailed it with a thundering strike. The stone cracked, and splinters of rock winged away. His knuckles stung, then went numb.

Raidon hissed, took a lung-filling breath, then dropped both hands back to his sides, outwardly back in control. The pity he earlier felt for the construct was gone. Cynosure was a manipulator first and last, he saw. It said only what it calculated would be most likely to induce the actions it desired. Very well, he would treat it as it deserved.

"You seek to shame me into action, Cynosure?"

"I merely speak the truth."

"Indeed. I wonder. But, for the sake of argument, let us imagine that I do take up this challenge. What can I do to prevent the rise of the Abolethic Sovereignty?"

"You must meditate upon the Sign that is now part of you. You are not trained in its use, but I can guide you. It can show you that which transpires across the land, what threats now gather, and what you can best do to counter them."

"You claim much authority."

Cynosure was silent.

Finally Raidon asked, "Is the Sign I carry up to this task?" The monk dropped into a lotus position, one suited for meditation.

"The Sign is only as potent as its holder."

"Then let us hope my training does not desert me."

The monk supposed the construct attempted a new stratagem with its last statement. As if he were shallow enough to respond heatedly to such an obvious ploy. But Raidon wondered. Regardless of Cynosure's tactics, if anything the sentient effigy said was true, wouldn't it behoove him to help? Unless Raidon chose death rather than continued existence, didn't his honor demand he do as the construct requested? Perhaps he required more information, if only to make a more informed decision.

"Cynosure, I would know more. Tell me how to proceed."

The golem of Stardeep didn't hesitate in its response. "Meditate on the Sign. Wake it with your will. Ask it to show you the danger that gathers."

No novice to meditation, Raidon called upon his focus. He stifled his surprise on discovering his inability to immediately find it. Much had occurred since he'd lost himself in the harmony of a single thought. So he sat awhile, remembering the sensation. A tickle in his brain, becoming smoothness. Distractions dropping away, one by one…

His focus returned. He imagined it as a crystalline lens. He directed its attention upon the unwanted design that blazoned his chest.

He could just discern the symbol's treelike outline, blurry like half-recalled faces of friends long absent. With single-minded deliberation, he compelled it to reveal its secrets.

It revealed nothing.

He was not impatient; he had nothing but time. He continued to observe the image. As they used to say in Xiang Temple, Raidon could stare the paint off the walls, if given the time.

Gradually he noticed discolorations within the lines, smears of gray on black. The blurs became colors; then the colors became shapes. The lines of the symbol pulled away on all sides to become a window onto another place.

Raidon saw a fog-shrouded tower on a small island. Dozens of scaled, fishlike humanoids burst from the water's edge and stormed the tower. Behind them strode two watery crones who chanted obscenities.

The creatures had an aberrant taint. Raidon wasn't sure how he knew that, but he assumed the knowledge was communicated to him by the Sign. Though the creatures were not aberrations themselves, a portion of their spirit was pledged to something abominable.

The fishfolk sought to overpower several defenders who held the tower. The tower denizens included a sea captain in ostentatious dress, accompanied by four humans in ship-scrounged finery; a woman in a body wrap the color of snow; a man with eyes like blood and a cloak so black it seemed more an aura than clothing; a striking young woman as hazy as a dream; and oddly enough, another scaled humanoid touched with the taint of aberration, who stood with the humans instead of its attacking kin.

The young woman with the hazy outline gasped and disappeared before the attackers landed their first blow.

The assault was fierce.

The captain lost his hat in the initial offensive, but his clicking, whirring sword dispensed death each time its damp tip pierced an attacker's scales. Two of the humans in ragged ship's attire fell in the initial blitz.

The cloaked man uttered what seemed more like a plea than a spell. A massive iron crown coalesced upon the head of one of the crones. The prongs atop writhed in metallic agony, and as if stricken mad, the afflicted hag began slaying her own allies. Fishfolk fell dead as her killing eyes raked them.

The woman in white discharged fire and lightning into the invaders' ranks. Her eyes danced, and she yelled with grim jubilation with every enemy she laid low. She destroyed the remaining crone with a blast of fire.

To Raidon's practiced eye, the attackers had woefully underestimated the depth and strength of the tower defenders. The fight was over.

Yet it wasn't over, not really. For Raidon perceived through the Sign-enabled scrying window that the attackers were pawns of something else, something that had not entered the fight. Lines of association ran like fishing lines away into the sea. The fishfolk and sea hags were mere fingers for an entity greater and more terrible. Something perhaps even aberrant or at least something infected with madness most foul.

What was it? He concentrated on the immaterial lines of connection, trying to follow them from the attackers back to their source. He was aware of Cynosure's attention, sharing his conjured view through the Sign. He understood the construct silently aided him, allowing him to use the Sign in such an extraordinary fashion despite his lack of training in its multifarious functions. With the Sign now part of him, he needed to learn to use it consciously and without aid. But for now, he allowed the golem to guide his disembodied travel along the wispy tendrils across the water, flashing west over miles uncounted.

In ten measured heartbeats, the Sign-generated scrying window framed a seamount surrounded by coral protruding from the sea. The small island appeared in the shape of a fat sickle moon from Raidon's aerial vantage. A salt lagoon filled the open central portion of the island, and rounded, jumbled structures sprawled between dry land and soggy marsh.

Even as the monk tried to identify the strange architecture, his viewpoint flashed into the murky depths. The sun's yellow light turned green, and then, as the descent continued, blue. More of the strange, rounded structures he'd noted on top of the island were jumbled around a yawning cave at the seamount's base. Humanoid figures swam among the drowned structures.