register what was being said.
“Cross over to where? How can I help you?”
“I can’t tell you that …”
“Oh, Vashanka!” Zalbar exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Here we go again. I
can’t help you if you won’t tell me what …”
“Talk to Ischade,” the spirit interrupted. “She can tell you what I cannot.”
“Who?” Zalbar blinked. “Ischade? You mean the weird woman living in Downwind?
That Ischade?”
“Ischade …” the ghost repeated, fading from sight.
“But … Oh, Vashanka! Wouldn’t you know it. The one time I want to talk to him
and now he’s gone.”
Seized by a sudden inspiration, Zalbar sank back onto the pillows and closed his
eyes. Maybe sleeping again would bring the irritating apparition back long
enough for a few clarifying questions.
As might be expected, he slept the rest of the night undisturbed.
Zalbar awoke near midday with a fresh sense of resolve. Razkuli’s ghost had
finally given him some information he could act on, and he was determined to rid
himself of his otherworldly nag before he slept again.
The beginning of his quest, however, was delayed until nearly nightfall. The
hangover he had eluded for his late-night conference with the spirit descended
on him with a vengeance now that its ally, the sun, was shining bright. As a
result, he spent most of the day abed, weak-limbed and fuzzy-headed, waiting
until the traditional penance for overindulgence had passed before sallying
forth. He might have convinced himself to wait until the next day, but all
through his recovery he had clung to one thought like a buoy on a stormy sea.