“Yeah,” said Sauk. “I think you’re relieved he’s dead. Or you ought to be, if you’re smart.”
“What makes you say that? You and Talieth said he was our best hope for …” Val looked around. In the fortress, one never knew what ears and eyes might be lurking. “You know. If we’re back where we started, why would that relieve me?”
“Because as long as I’ve known you, Val, you never think of we, of us. You’re all about you. And unless you’re damned stupid—and I don’t think you are—you had to know that Kheil’s return might have … changed your situation. Looks like you are back where you want to be. Eh?”
Valmir scowled. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, enjoy the bed while you can. Things change.” He glanced at the boulder that had been the target of Valmir’s earlier attempts at the spells. “And keep practicing the magic. Something tells me you’re going to need it.”
Sauk smiled—though there was no kindness in it—then tossed his shirt over his shoulder and walked away. Val watched him go, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Talieth all morning.
Chapter Seventeen
Me?” said Lewan. “I don’t understand. How can I help you?”
“What I am about to tell you, Lewan, you cannot speak of to anyone else. Not Ulaan.” Talieth approached as she spoke, bringing the full bearing of her station down upon Lewan. He had to force himself not to cower. “Not to any of the servants or anyone else in Sentinelspire. Do you understand?”
Lewan nodded, too intimidated to speak.
“You have lived in the Endless Wastes most of your life, have you not?” she said.
“Since I was twelve. Before that, I lived in a small village. In Murghôm.”
“Murghôm?” Talieth smiled. “I thought you had the look of them. Your master has raised you since …”
“Raiders attacked my village,” said Lewan, and he left it at that. Those were memories he preferred not to uproot.
“Your parents?” said Talieth.
Lewan looked away and clenched his jaw. His mother’s face in that last moment kept trying to come up, but he pushed the image away. He took in a deep breath through his nose, willing himself not to cry, then said, “Berun and his master saved me.”
“His master?”
“An old druid from the Yuirwood.” Lewan shrugged. “I met him only that day, and I scarcely remember him. But my master spoke of him often. With great affection.”
“Chereth, wasn’t it?”
Lewan blinked and looked to her. “How … how did you know?”
“That is where our tales come together. But I must start farther back. In all your years, in your village in Murghôm or your life with your master, did you never hear of the Old Man of the Mountain?”
Lewan shrugged.
“Your master never spoke of him? You never heard whispered tales round the campfire or in some bard’s tale in a tavern?”
“I’ve never been in a tavern.”
Talieth tilted her head to one side. “Really? Why is that?”
“My master disapproved of cities. He said that anything bigger than a village made him … itch. I’ve been to Almorel a handful of times. But never for more than a day, and we never stayed the night.”
Talieth looked away, seemingly lost in thought. Confused, almost. But then she shook her head and said, “No matter. So you have never heard of the Old Man of the Mountain?”
“Never, lady. That is … not until …”
“Until when?”
“Walking through the Shalhoond with Sauk and his men. The half-orc told me of the Old Man of the Mountain. He said that my master had once been known as Kheil, that he worked for the Old Man.”
“As an assassin,” said Talieth.
“I … I didn’t believe Sauk then.”
“And now?”
A tiny voice in the back of Lewan’s mind warned him to say nothing, to plead ignorance. But what could it hurt? Sauk knew the truth already. If he and Talieth both served this Old Man, surely she knew as well.
“The night after we … after escaping Sauk and his men, my master told me the truth.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” said Talieth. “Then this will make the rest of my tale easier. You know your master once served Alaodin, the Old Man of the Mountain, as an assassin. What you might not know is that Alaodin is my father, and he has gone completely mad.”
“Mad?”
“Oh, he’s not gibbering and drooling and talking to the walls.” Talieth’s brow knotted up, and her attention seemed focused entirely inward, a mixture of sorrow and contemplation. “Suffice to say he was not born into the exalted position he holds. My father grew up hard. Early life for him was not so much living as surviving, and he did not have the benefit of a master who loved him.”
A master who loved him. A sob rose in the back of Lewan’s throat, but he took a deep breath and choked it down. Ignoring his trembling hands, he poured himself more water and took a long drink while Talieth gathered her thoughts.
“My father learned that to survive—and later, to protect those he loved—required power. No matter how rich, powerful, and influential he became, he never forgot the hard lessons of his childhood. They … haunted him. And perhaps he was not as careful as he should have been in where he sought power. He became a devoted servant of Bhaal, and when his god died … I think that was the beginning of my father’s madness.”
Lewan thought that anyone who would willingly serve Bhaal was well on their way to madness already, but he held his tongue.
“The death of his god reawakened something my father had not known in many years,” said Talieth. “Desperation. And fear. He began seeking new paths to power—lore, relics, allies. Although I cannot be certain, I believe it was during this time that my father first came into contact with your master’s master, Chereth.”
“Chereth would have never allied himself with assassins!” said Lewan. He looked up and forced himself to hold Talieth’s gaze.
If anything, she seemed amused by his effrontery. “I thought you said you never knew Chereth?”
“My master spoke of him often. He—”
“And your master never hid anything from you?” said Talieth, her voice sharp. “Never, perhaps, chose to withhold certain truths in order to protect you from … harsh realities?”
Lewan held his glare a few moments longer before dropping his eyes to his half-eaten meal.
“In truth,” Talieth continued, “I could be wrong on this point. I don’t know when my father first had dealings with Chereth. And it’s entirely possible that Chereth never told your master of this. You Oak Children do seem rather adept at keeping secrets from one another. But I do know that they …” She thought a moment. “… crossed purposes.”
Rather adept at keeping secrets from one another. That stung. Mostly because Lewan knew it to be true. How could his master have hidden so much from him? And why? Did he not trust him? Did he think him some fragile little boy incapable of knowing the truth? Or was it simply shame at his past life? And how much had he truly known about his own master?
“My father and Chereth … I wouldn’t call them allies,” continued Talieth. “Certainly not friends. But they aided one another from time to time when it suited their purposes.”
“A servant of the Oak Father does not aid assassins,” said Lewan, though that particular truth, as much as he wanted to believe it, suddenly felt like trying to hold water with an open hand.
Talieth chuckled, a low throaty laugh with little kindness or humor in it. “Do you hate us so much, Lewan? You don’t know us.”
“I know you kill for profit.”
“So do kings and khans,” said Talieth. “You are too young to remember when Yamun Khahan’s horde invaded the west. You think he killed all those thousands of people out of kindness? Kings kill by the thousands. They’ll cloak it in glory or some righteous cause, but make no mistake. Profit is
the oldest reason for killing, yet it’s alive and well. None are better at it than kings. And in his own way, my father was a king.”
“It’s …” Lewan struggled to find the right word, then decided simple was best. “Evil.”
Talieth threw back her head and laughed. “Evil? Your dear master never killed?”
“Never for coins!”
“Never?” She gave him a hard look, the demeanor of a queen displeased at an errant servant.
“You mean Kheil,” said Lewan. He chose his words carefully so his voice would not tremble under Talieth’s gaze. “You—”
“I know Kheil killed for coins,” said Talieth, her voice rising to cut him off. “And many times for far less than that. That man loved blood like some men love wine. No, I am speaking of your Master Berun. He never killed? Not once?”
Lewan scowled. “Not for coins.”
“Then for what?”
“To protect himself,” said Lewan. “To protect others. He—”
“Others? What others?”
“Villagers sometimes hired him to track bandits,” said Lewan. “He guarded caravans on the Golden Way a few times.”
“And he did this for free?” said Talieth. “Out of the kindness of his heart? Or did he do it for coins?”
Lewan turned his gaze away, unable to stomach her smug expression.
Talieth’s voice softened. Not all the way to kindness, certainly, but she no longer seemed on the edge of anger. “Don’t misunderstand me, Lewan. You have a code by which you live. Which you honor. I respect that. But we, too, have our code. Do not despise us. Do not judge what you do not know. Would not even your master say such behavior is foolish?”
Lewan could sense the wrongness of her words, but he couldn’t reason his way around them. The seed of doubt was not yet sprouted, but it had been planted in fertile soil.
“Chereth,” Talieth continued, “what interest he and my father shared … I have no idea. But I do know that something happened between them. Again, here my knowledge is incomplete. All I know is that whatever happened was bad enough that my father sent men to kill the druid. Sent”—Lewan caught the faintest hint of a break in her voice —“Kheil. And you didn’t send Kheil for a quiet kill. No. You sent Kheil when you wanted a message sent. When you wanted bloody murder and everyone to know about it. My father sent Kheil and a band to the Yuirwood. They … did not succeed.”
“Kheil was killed.”
“Yes,” said Talieth, her voice carefully controlled. “And I thought him truly dead. I went nearly mad with grief myself. Had I known …” She stopped long enough to compose herself, then continued. “But several years ago, Chereth came here. To the Fortress. He came to kill my father, and it says something about the old druid’s power—and perhaps my father’s early madness—that he came so close to succeeding. Many of our people died. More than a few of Sauk’s scars were earned that night. But my father finally managed to subdue the old druid, and he has held him captive all these years. I only knew that Chereth was the man responsible for the death of the only man I ever loved.”
Despite his anger and confusion, Lewan kept his face carefully neutral. It seemed obvious to him that her father was mostly to blame for Kheil’s death, but she was well into her tale—telling Lewan things he’d never heard—so he did nothing to contradict her prejudiced view.
“Having the druid here in the fortress only reawakened my grief. I might have killed Chereth myself had my father not protected him. Make no mistake. The old druid was a prisoner. Never unguarded. But as long as he behaved himself, my father would allow no one to harm him. No one except my father. I told you that my father’s hunger for power often knew no caution. Though he was once a devoted priest of Bhaal, after the death of his god, he … broadened his interests, studying the arcane, searching lore wherever he could find it. Even this fortress, the place you now sit, is ancient. Built by the Imaskari thousands of years ago, and it holds many of their secrets still.”
“And your father,” said Lewan, “he used these powers on Chereth?”
“Used them on him, with him—perhaps even for him,” said Talieth. “As I said, my father’s hunger for power knew no bounds. He coerced knowledge from the old druid, by kindness or by torture. My father is an expert at both. But he also found ways to use the druid to leech the powers of the earth itself to serve him. This, I believe, is when his madness fully bloomed.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Lewan. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to. None of this had anything to do with him. His master was dead. If Chereth truly were alive, the best Lewan could do for him was to escape himself, perhaps seek a circle of druids somewhere, and tell them of the old half-elf’s plight. One half-trained novice could do nothing against such powers.
“Tell me,” said Talieth. “Did you feel the earth tremble not long ago?”
“Yes,” said Lewan. “It’s why I went out on the balcony. I thought it might have been a landslide.”
“No, Lewan. You’ve lived in the Endless Wastes most of your life. You do know that Sentinelspire is a volcano?”
“Yes. But she hasn’t erupted for thousands of years. The Firepeaks—”
“Are nothing compared to Sentinelspire,” said Talieth. “Yes, the mountain has slept for untold thousands of years. My father believed that the Imaskari found a way to put her to sleep, to channel her energies elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere? I … I don’t understand.”
“The Imaskari were masters of magic. But they were particularly knowledgeable about the other worlds beyond our own, and their wizards found ways to open doors to those worlds.”
“You mean portals.”
“You know of them?” said Talieth, sounding both surprised and pleased.
“My master told me of them. Sauk said that we were to take one here, before …” Lewan’s voice caught in his throat.
“Yes, let’s not get off on that path again,” said Talieth. “The portals. Some can take a traveler hundreds or thousands of miles as if walking from one room to another. But others … others can lead to other worlds altogether, some so deadly that the very air is poison, the seas fire.”
Lewan could not imagine why anyone, even a wizard, would wish to go to such places.
“The Imaskari,” Talieth continued, “found ways to use this art for their benefit. This fortress is perhaps one of their greatest achievements. You’ve seen the greenery throughout our home? The fountains? The great fall over the western wall?”
“Yes.”
Talieth gave him a self-satisfied smile. “We’re in the Endless Wastes, Lewan. Where does all this water come from? Snowmelt off one mountain? You say you’ve lived in the wild for years. Surely you can see that no amount of snowmelt could account for such abundance of water in the Wastes.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” said Lewan.
“No? Well, I can tell you that no amount of melting snow could provide enough water for that fall year round. The water all around you, feeding the vines and flowers and greenery, growing our food, filling that pitcher before you … very little of it came from rain or snowmelt. No. Deep beneath the fortress, and in hidden caves farther up the mountain, are the Wells.”
“Wells? Like water?”
“Some, yes. The Wells are simply what my father named them, but in truth, they are portals to other worlds. Some are portals to realms of purest water, and the Imaskari found ways to channel that for their benefit. But not just water, Lewan. Have you noticed these slots throughout your room?”
She walked to the nearest wall and pointed where the wall met the ceiling and the floor. Horizontal slots were cut in the stone. Very narrow—even a mouse would have trouble squeezing through. Lewan could not guess their purpose.
“I hadn’t noticed them,” said Lewan. “I woke only moments before Ulaan came with my clothes.”
“Ah,” said Talieth, and her smile turned mischievous. “And she does command one’s attention, does she not?”
Lewan blushed. “I dressed myself after she left the room. She returned long enough to offer food. When she left, I dozed some before the earthquake woke me. I went out to the balcony. I … I never spent time examining the room.”
“And a young man of the wild such as yourself is surely unused to such splendor. True?”
Her words might have seemed condescending—especially from a lady of her bearing—but Lewan heard no such thing in her tone.
He shrugged. “I’m sure I would have noticed them eventually. What are they?”
“Another of the fortress’s wonders—if perhaps one of its more indulgent,” said Talieth. “In high summer, the Wastes are damnably hot, even here on the mountain. But these slots are openings for a series of tubes that wind throughout the fortress. Far beneath us, they connect to a portal, a doorway to a world of endless cold, where the winds could flay the flesh from your bones. This air is channeled throughout the fortress in high summer, so that even on the hottest day, our rooms are pleasantly cool. And there are more wonders. You’ve lived through the winters here, yes? On the coldest days, your breath turns to snow. Not here. Other portals connect to a world of fire, so we never lack for heat. The Dome of Fire near the southern wall has many of these channels, and we can funnel fire into wondrous shapes through crystal as old as the Imaskari.”
Lewan took it all in. Much of it seemed too strange to believe, but Talieth spoke with such candor.
“What does all this have to do with me?” asked Lewan.
“Ah, my point, yes,” said Talieth. “I said that my father believed that the Imaskari put Sentinelspire to sleep by channeling her fire and fury elsewhere.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think would happen if those channels were closed?” said Talieth, her voice going very quiet. “Or worse, what if they were reversed?”
“You mean,” said Lewan, with dawning horror, “the mountain might …”
“Wake up? Oh, yes. With a vengeance. But it’s far worse than that, Lewan. I have only the faintest understanding of the arts my father has bent to his will. He not only plans to reverse the channels, but he has been building the mountain’s power—and power from other worlds as well—so that this eruption will be like no other in all the history of the world. You’ve seen the Firepeaks to the north?”
Sentinelspire Page 13
