The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  “At what point do you believe our minds were attacked?” she asked Vheod.

  “Up high in the tree,” he answered. “The first thing I can remember is standing in a woody corridor with rose vines and black moss and—”

  Vheod paused suddenly, his dark eyes growing wide.

  “What is it, Vheod?” Melann asked.

  “Melann, you have some knowledge of plants, right?” Vheod asked with a rapid intensity.

  “Well, yes, but I—”

  “Have you ever heard of some sort of moss or fungus that can affect one’s mind?”

  “Well …” Melann ran through her training, and all she’d ever heard or read about mosses, lichens, and fungi. “Yes! There’s something I believe is called, obviously enough, memory moss. It feeds on memories. Patches of it can be found in magical glens and enchanted areas, sometimes underground.”

  “Is it black?”

  “I … I think so.”

  “Well, now we know what we’re up against then, at least.” Vheod leaned back against the wall. He seemed more relaxed. “Is there any way we can fight it?”

  “I would imagine it could be burned,” Melann told him. “But Vheod, I can’t … I mean, I’m not supposed to …” She paused, with a pained expression.

  “What is it?” Vheod furrowed his brow in obvious concern.

  “I can’t willingly destroy a growing thing—even something like memory moss. It’s against everything I’ve ever been taught.”

  Vheod said nothing, just stared into her face, considering her words. He pulled away from the wall on which he leaned and folded his arms in front of him. Melann’s spell of light illuminated his rough, angular face in such a way that his eyes seemed even darker and more distant than normal. Judging by the look on his face, Vheod was confused.

  “Our Mother represents,” Melann explained, “and is in turn represented by all growing things. Her teachings forbid the wanton destruction of her creations.”

  Still Vheod stood silent. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Melann, I don’t understand. We’re talking about something that attacked our minds. It may threaten us again in a similar—”

  “I know,” Melann interrupted, averting her eyes from him.

  Sometimes clinging to her beliefs forced her into situations she truly hated. It seemed she should just be stalwart about what she knew to be right, but it wasn’t that easy. Melann was not blind. She could see that sometimes the tenets of her faith presented obstacles.

  Faith had never been easy for her. She’d been told as she rose in the ranks of the clergy that she showed strength and depth in that she agonized over, examined, and re-examined, every aspect of her religion. She saw it as a flaw herself and wished she could just be strong enough to never question.

  “But you eat plants,” Vheod reasoned.

  “That’s different,” Melann said, shaking her head. She’d had such debates with many of those not within Chauntea’s fold. “It’s not the destruction of the plant for destruction’s sake.”

  Vheod shook his head as well, folding his arms again. “You’ll have to forgive me.” His jaw was set squarely. “I am unused to such principles and such strict adherence to them. In the Abyss, the only principle was that which is most easily followed—‘serve thyself above all others.’ ” His sneer was almost a smile.

  He’d reached a point where he could almost joke about his past, Melann observed. Joke, that is, at least in a contemptuous way. He must have hated it there so much, she thought.

  “But you obviously had principles,” Melann stated softly. “You were different.”

  For just a moment, Vheod’s eyes seemed to lighten as they stared into hers, though he remained silent. He looked away after a moment, glancing at the floor.

  “More appropriate places will present themselves in which to hold this conversation, I’m sure.” Vheod looked around, particularly at the stairs leading up and added, “In fact, I must say I’m surprised we haven’t seen this Ravenwitch. She knows we’re here.”

  “Perhaps,” Melann said with a visible shudder, “she’s otherwise preoccupied.” Oh, Whitlock, she thought, where are you? What is she doing to you?

  “Above this chamber, we will find a roost of ravens. Beyond that lies the passage with the moss. I’m afraid I’m going to have to try to burn it, Melann. Can you live with that?”

  “We’ve got to get to Whitlock,” was her reply, “but I cannot help in such a dire task.”

  Again Vheod breathed outward through clenched teeth. “I have made a lifetime out of completing distasteful tasks. I can do it alone.”

  Melann was sorry. She had no idea how to make Vheod understand. Surely his noble nature would recognize what she said to be true. “You won’t harm this tree, though, right?”

  Vheod replied with a question as he drew his sword. “How do you know the tree isn’t a thing of evil? It’s creator obviously is, isn’t she?”

  “I assume so, but a tree cannot be evil. It is but a tree. Besides, the Ravenwitch almost certainly didn’t create the tree. She just shaped it, if it was her at all.”

  Melann considered that perhaps the Ravenwitch had killed the original caretaker of the tree or had forced another to shape it for her. She just couldn’t reconcile in her mind that the same person responsible for the amazing nurturing and caring that went into the creation of this tree fortress could have sent foul, wicked ravens to attack them and abduct her brother.

  “I think we’ll learn soon enough,” Vheod said, moving to the stairs.

  * * * * *

  Vheod’s tall but graceful form emerged from the shadows of the staircase, illuminated by the magical light conjured by Melann’s priestly faith. His long, cold steel blade bared before him, he advanced into the dark room he knew earlier had been filled with ravens. The chamber stank of bird droppings and feathers, and as Melann carefully followed Vheod up the stairs and into the room, they both could see that this indeed had been a roost for the black-feathered birds.

  Now, however, the room stood empty and utterly silent. As Vheod moved to the center of the room, he looked all around and up onto the high shelf where he’d seen the ravens roosting earlier. The ravens were gone. He paused a moment to listen, motioning for Melann to remain at the top of the stairs.

  Far above, he heard the distant sounds of shrill shrieks. The ravens had moved higher into the interior of the tree and now seemed to be agitated in some way. Vheod was too far away to determine more. He rushed across the room to the stairs leading higher up. Melann moved from the other staircase and followed him.

  When he reached the top of that flight of stairs, Vheod paused. This was about where he first remembered being in the tree and thus perhaps where his memories were stolen from him. He looked ahead in the light as the illumination brightened with Melann’s approach. She stopped quietly a few steps below where he stood, but Vheod could see in the magical light the black moss that streaked the wooden walls like blood from a wound or rust on metal. He was sure he hadn’t seen this sort of moss anywhere else on the tree. It might not be the culprit that had stolen their memories, Vheod knew.

  Even if it wasn’t to blame, he had little to lose. Vheod sheathed his sword and began reciting the incantation for a spell he’d learned in a dark corner of Broken Reach. A tanar’ri wizard named Chirotobyn had taught him a number of minor spells in exchange for a full year of Vheod’s service as a bodyguard. It had been a busy year, for Chirotobyn had many enemies. Vheod served his temporary master well, however, and even managed to get the tanar’ri to hold up his end of the bargain, though Chirotobyn had only done so at the end of Vheod’s sword. In any event, Vheod now spread his fingers, thumbs touching, forming a fan with his hands. As he did, flames leaped from his fingertips, jetting outward against the walls of the corridor ahead of him. The fire splashed against the hardwood, which was too firm and solid to catch fire, though it blackened and scorched.

  The moss, on the other han
d, burned away just as Vheod had hoped. The passage through the tree filled with flickering light as the moss took the flame. As it did, the black, stringy substance changed its shape before his eyes. While Vheod watched, the moss formed a perfect image of his own face, howling in pain while it burned. The face contorted hideously, then reformed to gain the appearance of Melann’s face.

  Vheod looked away. He couldn’t bear to see the wracked expression of the moss Melann face burning in the flames he’d conjured. Thankfully, the fire burned the moss quickly and thoroughly, almost disintegrating the stringy strands completely. What little remained fell to the floor as a dark powder. The hall went mostly dark again, lit only by the magical light Melann still held cupped in her hands on the staircase below Vheod.

  The horrible display on Melann’s face seemed to confirm in Vheod’s mind that the moss had somehow stolen a portion of their memories. A useful defense, he mused, assuming the Ravenwitch herself had some immunity to the affect. Obviously, when the memory moss struck, the witch or her servants had grabbed Melann. Perhaps they had come back for him, but he’d already wandered off to another portion of the tree fortress. His tanar’ri nature probably allowed him to shrug off the effects more quickly than they—whoever they were—had predicted.

  Vheod turned to Melann and again motioned for her to wait. Her face showed concern. She wasn’t the type who liked to wait while others went into danger—Vheod had realized that early on. He wanted to make sure the corridor ahead was safe, and he’d also observed that neither Melann nor Whitlock possessed his skill at moving quietly. Obviously, they’d not grown up in an environment filled with fiends that would slay them at the slightest provocation.

  Vheod hunched down so he was almost crawling on hands and knees and crept forward down the corridor. The illumination behind him enabled him to see enough—more than if he weren’t half tanar’ri. As he slipped silently down the passage he felt a strange tingling sensation on his wrist. He didn’t need to see at all to know it was the Taint, but he had no idea what the feeling meant. He pressed forward.

  The passage twisted and turned but sprouted no side passages. It almost seemed to Vheod that he and Melann had climbed up through the trunk of the tree, and now he crept inside one of the gigantic branches. The corridor split into two, and Vheod had no idea which way to go. He also had passed far enough away from Melann’s light that he could really see just a little more than nothing. He would have to go back and get her. Before he did he allowed himself another moment to just listen. Again he heard the high shrieks of upset ravens, and though they seemed closer, Vheod’s ears detected the sounds of fewer of them now.

  Worst of all—or perhaps best of all—amid the squawking birds he heard what sounded like a man moaning in pain.

  Whitlock.

  Vheod ran back down the corridor as quietly as he could, but as quickly as he dared. The light grew brighter with each step, until he reached Melann once again at the top of the stairs near the scorched corridor walls. She looked at him with silent expectation.

  “I think Whitlock is ahead somewhere. We must be careful, and as quiet as possible.”

  “Is he all right?” She asked emphatically, the excitement and anxiety a living thing in her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Vheod said in a forced whisper. “I think he’s alive, but I think he might be hurt or in danger.”

  “Then let’s go,” Melann stressed, attempting to press ahead of Vheod.

  The cambion turned to the dark passage and stepped forward so he remained in the lead. He drew his blade and began to creep silently ahead, if for no other reason than to encourage Melann to be as quiet as she could, and slow down her too-anxious pace. Vheod didn’t want them to foolishly stumble into some unknown danger.

  Melann’s devotion to her brother was the most sincere thing Vheod had ever encountered. She was everything he’d always wanted to be himself—honest, true to herself and others, noble, generous, kind.… At many times in his life he’d thought such things were only fabled concepts, not real. Her purity of heart had quickly become the most important treasure he knew of. Melann herself had just as quickly become the center of his thoughts. He knew now that he would do anything for her.

  Vheod and Melann reached the point where the passage branched off into two passages, separated by only a narrow angle, as if they stood at the juncture of two tree limbs. They followed the sounds of ravens that seemed to come from the right, with Vheod still in the lead and Melann anxiously dogging his heels. Vheod saw light ahead and tried to pause, but he knew Melann’s understandable efforts to urge him ahead would quickly spoil any chance they had of approaching undetected. Both could hear the pained screeches of ravens entwined about a human moan. Behind him, Vheod could hear Melann discarding the light and preparing a blessing for the two of them. She obviously thought they were going into danger and battle. Vheod couldn’t help but think she was right. His instincts screamed of danger ahead. As he began moving swiftly down the passage toward the light, he once again felt the rush of power flow over him as Melann bestowed Chauntea’s blessing on them. He also felt a prickling pain at his wrist—where he knew the Taint to be. He knew there was no time to think of that now, as he rushed into the well lit area at the end of the passage.

  A starry sky above Vheod and a cool summer breeze brought him to the realization that he was outside. The passage he’d come through led through a limb of the gigantic tree and out onto a platform formed by the spiral entwining of a number of the huge tree’s branches. The platform reached a diameter of at least thirty yards, but for the most part its surface stretched emptily into the night, except for numerous thorn-covered black rose vines. The ever-present climbing vines snaked in every direction. Some of those hanging on higher branches within the tree’s gargantuan canopy dangled down above the platform, while others stretched down and grappled the wood of the platform in a taut web of black flowers and thorns.

  At the center of the platform, the network of vines grew thick, and to Vheod’s surprise the vines held a number of ravens. Coils wrapped around the birds like constricting snakes. Many of the birds screeched in protest, while others hung limply in the black tendrils. Looking closer, Vheod saw thin trickles of red blood inch in grisly streaks down the vines to the center of this hideous black web. Whitlock hung suspended above the platform wrapped tightly in biting strands of black roses. The thorns dug into his bared flesh so that the ravens’ blood flowed down the vines and into his wounds. The man moaned and weakly thrashed in his taut bonds, but his eyes were closed and he showed no signs of conscious awareness.

  Vheod and Melann sprinted forward out of the tunnel and across the platform. The footing was uneven and tricky, but the urgency of the situation pressed them onward, guiding their feet.

  Before they could cross even half the distance, a shimmering wall of translucent blackness erupted before them. Vheod could just make out a female form, clothed in long black dress, on the other side of the wall, standing below where Whitlock hung. He hadn’t seen her when they began running, but she’d obviously seen them. The magical barrier rested on the platform and stretched around in what appeared to be a semicircle. Vheod knew he could get around it, but surely its creator was aware of that simple fact as well.

  She wasn’t trying to stop them, just delay them.

  Obviously, time was of the essence here, and Vheod surmised that Whitlock was the key. Melann drew her mace and slammed into the barrier forcefully but to no avail. She began to run around to the right. Vheod, however, took a few steps back and hefted his sword in a way that offset its center of gravity, pointing the blade almost parallel with the floor. Taking a few steps forward again, he threw his arm back and flung the sword so it spun through the air, over the conjured wall of energy. The whirling blade cut a swath through the air, and the woman behind the translucent screen watched it fly over her head.

  “No!” the woman shouted in protest.

  Vheod hoped Chauntea’s blessing would help g
uide his reckless heave. He almost prayed.

  The spinning blade flew toward Whitlock, and Vheod saw the look of horror cross Melann’s face as she ran to the right edge of the wall. Wordlessly, she watched as it chopped at the air, angling over the wall and down at her brother.

  The blade struck true. It cut through the vine that supported the bulk of Whitlock’s weight. With that vine severed, a number of the others tore with the sudden weight of his body, and Whitlock came crashing down amid rose petals, thorns, and blood.

  The black-clad woman screamed in frustration.

  The energy wall faded away.

  The woman looked at Vheod, dark eyes smoldering. Her skin shone in the moonlight like smooth, milky alabaster, her long dark tresses merged with her flowing dress so that in the dim light they made it difficult to distinguish where they ended and the garment began. A cape made entirely of raven feathers draped from her neck and dragged well behind her in a long train. She raised her long-nailed fingers like claws, as though she prepared to loose some dark spell, but then she stopped.

  Melann ran to her brother, passing the woman to one side. She was too preoccupied to pay the black-clad woman any heed. Likewise, the woman ignored Melann. Once at her brother’s side, Melann began pulling the thorny vines away from him. Whitlock stirred enough to indicated that he was at least alive and partially conscious. Melann’s sobs of fear and relief were the only sound other than the cries of pain and protest from the trapped birds.

  Until the mysterious woman spoke. She focused on Vheod for a moment, as though studying him.

  “Child of demons,” she said. “Chare’en’s blood flows through your veins.”

  Vheod stared back at her. He felt helpless and naked before her gaze, particularly without his sword. This woman—the Ravenwitch—was beautiful and terrible at once. She reminded him of Nethess, the tanar’ri marilith that had hunted him his last days in the Abyss. Something inside him roused at the sound of her dark, throaty voice. It was like nothing that caused him to care for Melann. In fact, it seemed his desire came from all the parts of him that lay dormant while he thought of the pure-hearted priestess. This Ravenwitch appealed to that small part of him he didn’t want to admit existed. She reminded him of everything in him that missed the Abyss and his former life. She was the catalyst that brought to the surface the lure of the darkness in his soul. The revel of dark power, the taste of innocent blood, and the beckoning need of betrayal and corruption churned within him.