Overly aware of Iakhovas's body next to hers and its effects on hers, Laaqueel said, "Yes. Thank you." She didn't try to push away from him, letting him shelter her in his embrace.

Iakhovas remained standing, facing the wild current and staring into the heart of the liquid fire tunnel they followed. "We're traveling through the lines of volcanic fault. It was the fastest and truest way to gate into Seros. When we reach the end of this tunnel, well be in the Alamber Sea."

Glancing over his shoulder, Laaqueel saw the line of fliers speeding after them. The sahuagin aboard them were shielding their eyes from the bright magma swirling around them.

"Will this gate remain open long enough for all of them to get through?" she asked. She'd never before heard of the mode of travel they were using now.

"Probably."

Laaqueel thought of what it would be like to be suddenly boiled alive when the lava closed in.

'If that should happen," Iakhovas told her, "be assured that it will be over before they know it. There are some risks that we must take, and some losses that we must endure."

'To become stronger," Laaqueel said, "as Sekolah has so designed."

"Yes."

Looking ahead again, Laaqueel kept herself strong in her faith, not thinking about the potential for failure, but for the promise of success. At the other end of the tunnel, made bright by the whirling lava walls, she saw the dead end. A roiling mass of lava and hard rock blocked the way.

"Isn't it supposed to be open?" she asked.

"Yes." Iakhovas's tattoos glowed deeper green, looking like they were burning into his flesh. "It will be."

Tarjana bore down on the blockage and Iakhovas kept his hand steady on the wheel. Laaqueel felt the rush of heat when the ship collided with the end of the gate.

XXVI

1 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet

Pacys the Bard sat in the small sea elf tavern down in the heart of Telvanlu and almost felt at home. The sea elves, he'd found, were a quieter lot than he was used to, but as it turned out they appreciated his music.

The bar was like a lot he'd played in on the surface world and the crowd wasn't that much different, but none of the sounds were the same. Voices echoed through the water much more easily so the listeners had to be more polite, and there was no shuffling sound of feet across a sawdust-covered floor. After having been in the water for so long he was getting accustomed to feeling the currents change around him, and how someone passing nearby could affect them.

He sat, at the owner's invitation, at the end of the bar. The bartender passed out drinks packaged in fish bladders treated so they were clear enough to see the contents. A patron drank from the bladder by squeezing the bottom and opening the seal at the top. It had taken some getting used to when he'd first arrived in Faenasuor, but now the bard drank quite easily. Learning not to lick his lips afterward still took concentration, though.

Telvanlu was the capital of Naramyr, the sea elven lands in the Lake of Dragons in Serds, and was located two hundred feet down and forty miles southwest of Suzail. The city was moderately sized as elven dwellings went, but the architecture was definitely inspired by the sea.

Clamshell-like buildings hugged the silt, deliberately low to avoid the shipping that took place constantly between the coastal cities overhead. The architecture hadn't been all that agreeable to the elves. Some of them wanted taller buildings so they wouldn't have to be spread out. Many of them didn't like the fact that they had to live more or less two-dimensionally as the surface dwellers did. The trade with the surface dwellers was good, so though a lot of complaining was done, none of the buildings went any taller.

One of the things that surprised Pacys most had been the laws regarding weapons and armor. None were allowed in the elven city, and it was strictly enforced. Aravae Daudil, Coronal of Telvanlu, made sure her guards carried out her orders to the letter.

Pacys tapped the crystals of the saceddar, picking out the notes for "Lady Who Shed Golden Tears," an old elven song about the flight from Cormanthyr after the fall of Myth Drannor. Despite whatever cultural differences now separated the surface elves from their aquatic cousins, the song found favorable response among the listeners by tying into their common history.

As the last note faded away, passing through the open windows cut into the coral walls, they hooted their appreciation. Clapping took up too much energy to fight the water and stirred up currents that moved wildly within a contained area.

"Another song, Taleweaver," someone called from one of the tables.

"Nay," the bartender interrupted. He was pale and thin, with only a scattering of blue speckles across his body. His silver-white hair floated around his face, kept back by a band chipped from pink quartz. "The man has sung long and strong, and he's entertained you layabouts for free long past time enough. Now I'm going to stand him to a drink that he may rest his voice. What will you have, Taleweaver?"

"An ale, my kind friend," Pacys answered, stripping the saceddar from his body. "Nothing heavy, for I'll not be early to bed tonight."

Since Taareen had accompanied Khlinat and him there after leaving Faenasuor, the old bard had stayed busy with Telvanlu's lore-keepers, learning as many of their legends of the Taker as he could. He was only taking a short break now to rest his mind and gain some perspective on what he'd learned.

He took the ale bladder to a back table where Khlinat had camped out. From where he sat, the dwarf had a full view of the tavern and the street outside. The streets, Pacys had discovered, were there primarily for the surface dwelling traders that visited and didn't feel comfortable with a three-dimensional world.

"Ye sang well," Khlinat greeted. "Hard to see any of 'em crying in this watery deep, but ye could see the painful joy in their faces as ye called up the ghost of Cormanthyr past."

"It's a favored song," Pacys said.

"To yer health," Khlinat said, hoisting his ale bladder.

Pacys unsealed his own ale bladder, fixed his lips over the opening, blew the remnants of salt water from his mouth, and squeezed. The ale tasted bitter and strong, a Cormyrean brew that he was readily familiar with. Evidently the balance of trade included beverages.

He swallowed, then nearly choked as a convulsion tightened his body. Harsh music created a cacophony of strident songs in his mind, making his head feel like it was about to split open. The refrain remained steady in his mind, hammering as viciously as a dwarven blacksmith marking out the preliminary shaping on a hard piece of metal. The song gave form to the smell of rankest sulfur and savage heat.

"Pacys?" Khlinat asked worriedly.

Understanding what the song meant, the old bard looked at his friend and said, "He's here, Khlinat. The Taker has arrived in the Sea of Fallen Stars!"

The wind kicked into Black Champion's sails, driving the caravel into motion. Her prow slammed into the white-capped waves, burying down, then moving to rise again over the next trough.

Jherek clung to the rigging in frustration, unable to bring the spyglass into use when the ship was fighting the ocean so much. At his side, Azla continued to yell orders, putting up some sails and trimming others.

Vurgrom said Maelstrom, accompanied by the other pirate vessels, sailed at them. Jherek was beginning to believe that the pirates weren't chasing after them so much as they were fleeing something else. The tarps pulled tight across their decks still intrigued him.