no real harm.” Baylee rammed the shovel home. “How did you find out about the well?”
Jaeleen rummaged in her trail kit and brought out a compact oil lamp hardly bigger than her palm. It had six sides and seemed to be constructed more of glass than of worked metal. The glass sides held tiny etched figures of silhouette dancers. She spoke a quiet word Baylee could not catch. Obediently, the lamp’s wick ignited. A warm glow grew from the lamp, bathing the dig site.
“You still have Yarik’s lamp, I see.” Baylee slammed the shovel against the stonework of the well. A chunk of mortar and rock broke free. He saw it fall and heard it echo as it scraped the sides on the way down.
Jaeleen pushed the lamp toward the opening. The darkness within retreated slightly, becoming an ellipse trapped in the mouth of the well that went down ten feet. “I didn’t hear it hit.”
“No,” Baylee said with conviction, “it’s supposed to be bottomless.”
The woman glanced up at him, her eyes widening slightly. “You’re joking.”
He kept his face serious with effort. Jaeleen had always lorded it over him that she knew more than he did when he’d been Golsway’s pupil. That hadn’t stopped in the days since Baylee had been on his own, even though they both knew it wasn’t true. “What have you been told about the well?”
Jaeleen shrugged. “Not much. I only just found out about it.” She paused, looking deep into his eyes in that way that she had that Baylee found so damned irresistible. “Probably not nearly as much as you have.”
“Probably not,” Baylee agreed. “May I have the lamp?”
She handed it over somewhat reluctantly.
“I heard the tale in Jester’s Green two tendays ago. You know where Jester’s Green is?”
“North of Suzail.” Baylee was intrigued. He had heard of the legend himself in Dhedluk while searching for another treasure altogether. Mention of the sacrificial well of Vaprak had been contained in a history of herbalist’s lore the ranger had borrowed from a private library in the town to conduct research. The writer had been a native of Waymoot back in the days when the trollkin ruled the hills around that city, attacking caravans and travelers at their leisure. “Who told you the tale?”
“They have a number of soldiers garrisoned there.” Jaeleen peered over Baylee’s shoulder.
From the periphery of his vision, Baylee saw the smooth, rounded curves of the woman’s breasts pressing from the top of her bodice as if they were going to fall out. He reminded himself to breathe.
“Those soldiers were all too willing to try to impress a woman with a nice smile and seeming innocence with their stories. Most of them were twice-told tales as stale as a fishmonger’s love life. But, as you know, every now and then, there is that kernel of truth.”
Baylee knew. He shifted, sending the lamp further down into the yawning mouth of the cursed pit.
“One of the stories told was by a retired sergeant of the Purple Dragons,” Jaeleen went on. “As a boy, he’d lived in Waymoot. Most of the stories he told were of course about Lord Filfar Woodbrand, the local legend.” The woman leaned in closer and her cheek brushed against Baylee’s bare shoulder. The touch of perspiration covered skin was electric. “He told the story of how Woodbrand killed all the marauding trollkin in the area five or six times before he ever mentioned the well. In their day, the trollkin were very successful. A number of caravans as well as private individuals were murdered by the trolls. Thrown into this very well.”
“That’s not all of the story,” Baylee said. “This well was used as a sacrificial altar for Vaprak. He put a permanent spell of silence over the well to mask the screams of the dying from any passers-by. That’s why you didn’t hear the rock hit.”
“Then there is a bottom.”
“Yes.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Because the spell of silence may not be the only
Jaeleen rummaged in her trail kit and brought out a compact oil lamp hardly bigger than her palm. It had six sides and seemed to be constructed more of glass than of worked metal. The glass sides held tiny etched figures of silhouette dancers. She spoke a quiet word Baylee could not catch. Obediently, the lamp’s wick ignited. A warm glow grew from the lamp, bathing the dig site.
“You still have Yarik’s lamp, I see.” Baylee slammed the shovel against the stonework of the well. A chunk of mortar and rock broke free. He saw it fall and heard it echo as it scraped the sides on the way down.
Jaeleen pushed the lamp toward the opening. The darkness within retreated slightly, becoming an ellipse trapped in the mouth of the well that went down ten feet. “I didn’t hear it hit.”
“No,” Baylee said with conviction, “it’s supposed to be bottomless.”
The woman glanced up at him, her eyes widening slightly. “You’re joking.”
He kept his face serious with effort. Jaeleen had always lorded it over him that she knew more than he did when he’d been Golsway’s pupil. That hadn’t stopped in the days since Baylee had been on his own, even though they both knew it wasn’t true. “What have you been told about the well?”
Jaeleen shrugged. “Not much. I only just found out about it.” She paused, looking deep into his eyes in that way that she had that Baylee found so damned irresistible. “Probably not nearly as much as you have.”
“Probably not,” Baylee agreed. “May I have the lamp?”
She handed it over somewhat reluctantly.
“I heard the tale in Jester’s Green two tendays ago. You know where Jester’s Green is?”
“North of Suzail.” Baylee was intrigued. He had heard of the legend himself in Dhedluk while searching for another treasure altogether. Mention of the sacrificial well of Vaprak had been contained in a history of herbalist’s lore the ranger had borrowed from a private library in the town to conduct research. The writer had been a native of Waymoot back in the days when the trollkin ruled the hills around that city, attacking caravans and travelers at their leisure. “Who told you the tale?”
“They have a number of soldiers garrisoned there.” Jaeleen peered over Baylee’s shoulder.
From the periphery of his vision, Baylee saw the smooth, rounded curves of the woman’s breasts pressing from the top of her bodice as if they were going to fall out. He reminded himself to breathe.
“Those soldiers were all too willing to try to impress a woman with a nice smile and seeming innocence with their stories. Most of them were twice-told tales as stale as a fishmonger’s love life. But, as you know, every now and then, there is that kernel of truth.”
Baylee knew. He shifted, sending the lamp further down into the yawning mouth of the cursed pit.
“One of the stories told was by a retired sergeant of the Purple Dragons,” Jaeleen went on. “As a boy, he’d lived in Waymoot. Most of the stories he told were of course about Lord Filfar Woodbrand, the local legend.” The woman leaned in closer and her cheek brushed against Baylee’s bare shoulder. The touch of perspiration covered skin was electric. “He told the story of how Woodbrand killed all the marauding trollkin in the area five or six times before he ever mentioned the well. In their day, the trollkin were very successful. A number of caravans as well as private individuals were murdered by the trolls. Thrown into this very well.”
“That’s not all of the story,” Baylee said. “This well was used as a sacrificial altar for Vaprak. He put a permanent spell of silence over the well to mask the screams of the dying from any passers-by. That’s why you didn’t hear the rock hit.”
“Then there is a bottom.”
“Yes.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Because the spell of silence may not be the only
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