Greywind resolved to inspect the desiccated husks of the cultists near the inscription before committing to a path. Any scrap of information or item they carried could prove a vital tether to survival.
He knelt beside the two ghastly forms. The dehydration had been absolute skin clung like vellum to their bones, eyes had shriveled into deep, hollow sockets, and their mouths were locked in the silent, jagged screams of those who had died gasping for moisture. They wore the simple, coarse robes of acolytes.
Cultist 1: Beneath the rough fabric, Greywind found a small pouch containing 5 Gold and a common iron dagger. Nothing of consequence.
Cultist 2: Around his neck hung a small silver pendant depicting a sun setting over a dune a distinct departure from the previous cultist medallions. In his pocket lay a tightly rolled scrap of parchment.
Greywind unfurled the parchment. It held a crude sketch of the caverns, accompanied by hurried, frantic script:
"Middle path leads directly to the Offering Chamber. Keep voices low in the Hall of Whispering Sands. The great stone door opens only to the Song of the West Wind (Three high notes, one low). Althea will lead. If lost, follow the flow of darker sand it leads to the heart."
"The Song of the West Wind," Jannis murmured, her voice thrumming with interest. "That must be for the Door of the Last Breath. So the Sandheart Gem is not the sole key or perhaps it is a layer of extra security. The common flock has the song, so they likely do not carry the stone. But Mistress Althea... she surely holds it, or has it secreted away."
She paused, the psychic weight of her presence shifting. "Your choices have gained clarity. The middle path offers a direct confrontation, armed with the secret of the door. The left path may reveal more of this 'darker sand' or the perils of sound. And the right... perhaps that is where the stone lies hidden, or where the illusions are most potent."
Greywind knew the darkness would soon become absolute. "The middle path is the shortcut to their slaughter, is it not, Jannis?"
"The middle path is the direct path, darling," Jannis replied, her voice thick with a murderous vitality. "Straight into their midst. Straight to where blood is most easily spilled. If your intent is to cull them all and harvest their lives for me then yes, it is the shortcut. Their tracks lead there. They are preparing, gathering... like sheep huddling before the knife."
She sighed with a dark contentment. "But heed the warning: 'Keep voices low.' Something in those halls is awakened by sound. If you do battle there, the clash of steel, the screams, the... final groans of the dying... will rouse something perhaps viler than the cultists. Decide, then: kill them swiftly and risk the consequences, or seek a more shadowed way."
"Or," she whispered seductively, "you could lure them out. Create a clamor in another hall, and as they come to investigate... ambush them. Give me their lives one by one. Slowly. I certainly won't complain."
"Sometimes I admire your restraint, Jannis. You think with a rationality that defies your hunger. I shall take the right path."
"Admire?" Jannis chuckled, the sound rich with amused gratification. "I have existed long enough to know that patience often yields a sweeter harvest. Like waiting for the heaviest fruit to fall, or letting the fear within a victim ripen to its peak before you touch it."
A psychic sensation, like a cold, silken finger, brushed across Greywind's temple. "The right path. The Dream's Shimmer. A choice born of caution... or perhaps a deeper curiosity. Let us see what dreams lie sleeping there, and if we might... claim them."
Greywind prepared his light. He withdrew a torch and struck his tinderbox, the orange flame flickering to life and casting dancing shadows against the stone. He also invoked his Mage Armor; a chill ripple of magical energy wrapped around his frame, hardening his defenses.
With his torch in one hand and his rapier poised in the other, Greywind approached the right archway, veiled by the curtain of sand-crystals. They shimmered exquisitely in the torchlight, emitting a soft, melodic tinkling like wind chimes in a haunted breeze. As he brushed past, the sound intensified into a repetitive, haunting melody. Only silence greeted him on the other side.
The passage behind the curtain was narrow but short, opening into a semi-circular chamber. Here, a spectral natural light took over pale blues and ambers radiated from dozens of massive crystals jutting from the walls and ceiling like jagged stalactites. Within them, a colored mist swirled in slow, hypnotic patterns.
In the center of the room sat a low stone altar holding a finely carved wooden box. Around the altar stood four perfectly formed sand statues human figures caught in poses of worship, their faces detailed yet disturbingly vacant.
Most striking of all was a gargantuan crystal embedded in the far wall. Trapped within, like a prehistoric insect in amber, was a human figure. A woman with blonde hair, dressed in the practical attire of a scholar, her mouth open in a frozen shriek. Elara.
"Oh... this is sublime," Jannis whispered, awestruck. "A trapped dream. They have preserved her. Perhaps as fuel for the ritual? Or a warning? Touch one of the crystals, Greywind. Feel the dream."
Greywind approached the crystal encasing Elara. In the mingled light of the crystals and his torch, the details were harrowing. She appeared suspended in sleep rather than death, her hair drifting in a nebulous, misty medium. Her field clothes were tattered, and the silver Candlekeep badge hung about her neck. Her expression was tortured brows furrowed, jaw tight as if locked in an eternal nightmare.
He tapped the crystal with the pommel of his rapier. It was dense and unyielding. Elara did not stir.
"She is a prisoner of her own mind," Jannis noted with clinical curiosity. "This is no mere stone; it is the physical manifestation of a potent memory. She is likely reliving her final moments of terror, or... perhaps she is feeding the crystal with her suffering. Look at the mist it moves. That is her essence."
"You could attempt to shatter it, but that might kill her, or release... something uncontrollable. Or you could enter her dream but that requires a sorcery more intimate, a connection with a patron who understands the architecture of the mind." Her voice trailed off, an invitation hanging in the air.
"If I enter her dream, I am vulnerable here. If you guard my body, Jannis, what price would you exact?"
"A sharp question," Jannis approved. "Yes, if your consciousness wanders her dreams, your shell remains naked and defenseless. I could shroud you in my dark will, making you invisible, untouchable... or at least, very unpleasant to approach."
She paused, weighing the cost. "But to do so, I must divert my focus... away from my own pleasures. A sacrifice, indeed."
"The price, then..." her voice dropped into a low, predatory purr. "Not merely a life. That is already promised. No, I want something... deeper. I want you to surrender a memory to me any memory you choose for me to keep and experience whenever I wish. Or... permission to borrow your body for one hour, at a time of my choosing, to taste the physical world in my own way. I would return it whole, of course."
"Choose. The memory, or the flesh. Give me this, and I shall guard your body with all my strength while you walk the dream."
"The risk is too great, Jannis. I will seek another way." Greywind turned his attention to the box.
"Ha! A prudent caution, darling," Jannis remarked, sounding disappointed but not displeased. "I admire the strength it takes to say 'no' to me. It makes you... more compelling. Very well, let us see the box."
The wooden box was roughly six inches square, carved with intricate geometric patterns and desert symbols. It had no visible lock. With a steady hand, Greywind lifted the lid. Inside, resting upon purple velvet, lay:
The Sandheart Gem: A small, heart-shaped crystal the color of golden sand, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic red light.
A large, rusted iron key.
A tightly rolled piece of parchment.