Free The Temple of Yellow Skulls by Don Bassingthwaite

Splendid flitted between Albanon’s shoulder and the library, blithe as a sprite in the morning light.
    “I don’t blame her for staying away,” the pseudodragon said. “You weren’t kind to her.”
    “Yesterday you called her an enormous oaf with the grace and hygiene of a cow.”
    “Have you been inside her room?”
    Albanon flushed. “No.”
    “Then take my word. I was entirely justified,” She rattled her wings. “You, on the other hand …”
    “I’ll apologize when I see her,” he promised.
    “Excellent.” Splendid leaped into the air, wings beating hard as she climbed. “I’m going to see Kri again.I’ll come back if you need help with your apology.”
    “No, I think I can manage it,” Albanon said quickly. Splendid gave a snort of disbelief, climbed a little higher, and disappeared through a window. Albanon sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.
    Kri had kept him awake late into the night, making him tell the tale of the encounters with Nu Alin and Vestapalk over and over again. When the cleric had finally allowed him to stop, he’d stumbled to his bed and slipped deep into the trance that served eladrin in place of sleep. In his dreams, the dragon’s green scales melted into Nu Alin’s flowing crimson-streaked quicksilver while Kri’s voice echoed like a god’s, ranting and cursing Moorin’s lack of preparation. Albanon lifted his head from the wall and asked himself—again—why he was helping Kri. The old man was demanding, arrogant, infuriating … much like Moorin had been, he supposed. Only without his old master’s ultimate interest in the education of a worthy apprentice.
    But Kri was a connection, however unlikely, to Moorin. The idea that both men belonged to, or had belonged to, an enigmatic order intrigued him. Why had Moorin never spoken of the Order of Vigilance, especially when, as Kri said, he should have been training Albanon in its ways? Had he not felt his apprentice was ready, or had he simply not gotten the chance to take that next step? Albanon wanted to believe it was the latter.
    Helping Kri find the vial containing the Voidharrow was like carrying on Moorin’s legacy. Shara and Uldane had gained their revenge against Vestapalk with the dragon’s death, but all he’d managed to do was drive Nu Alin into hiding. Good for Tempest, whose body the creature had possessed, but whatwould that have meant to Moorin? And to discover that the vial of the Voidharrow his master had been tasked with possessing had also been stolen under Moorin’s watch was intolerable. Albanon felt the pull of necessity. The need to do something ached in his heart.
    Not to mention, whispered a little part of him, that this might be the way out of Fallcrest that you’ve been looking for.
    He tried to stifle that inner voice. What he would do, he’d do because Moorin’s memory demanded it. “This is for you, master,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure people remember your name.”
    “A noble sentiment,” said Kri from the doorway beside him, “if we’re successful.”
    Albanon yelped and sprang up, bashing his shoulder into the door frame in the process. As he hopped in pain and rubbed at the bruise, Kri stepped outside. “Almost noon,” he said. “Where’s your friend, Shara?”
    “Probably still asleep somewhere,” said Splendid.
    The pseudodragon had draped herself across the cleric’s shoulders. A hint of jealousy stirred in Albanon. Since Moorin’s death, he’d been the one Splendid had attached herself to—and the one she heckled and belittled constantly. Why was he jealous? He stood straight and looked at Kri, not Splendid. “Shara will be here.”
    “I’m sure she will—if I wait for one of you stubborn children to loosen your pride and be the first to give in. We don’t have time for that. Where do you think Shara is?”
    Albanon stared at him. “She could be anywhere.”
    “This is Fallcrest, not Nera. Use your head. Think. I’m sure Moorin