Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
19 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Sentinelspire
Awareness returned little by little. First the sensation of warmth. Not like fire, nor even sunshine. A soft warmness. Then sound, though it was no more than a breeze sighing over stone. Then scent. Many subtle aromas-fire, both wood smoke and the spicy aroma of candles, clean water, the particular thin scent air takes at high altitudes, and the sweet smell of spring blossoms-all blending in a pleasant whole. Last of all came true awareness.
Lewan opened his eyes. He lay in a soft bed wide enough for five people, his head nestled on goose down pillows, his body wrapped in silk sheets over which had been laid a soft coverlet sewn of rabbit skins.
The room around him was… luxurious. Lewan knew the word, though he had only been able to ascribe meaning to it from bard's tales. Never had he seen such opulence. A massive stone fireplace centered the wall opposite his bed. A fire was burning to embers in it. The bed itself lay under a canopy around which a netting of sheer red fabric had been pulled up. Tiles the color of rich cream lined the floor, over which lay thick rugs. A door of some wood the hue of burnt cinnamon centered the wall to the right of his bed. Scented candles burned throughout the room. The wall to the left of his bed opened onto a balcony, beyond which Lewan could see blue sky interspersed with high, thin clouds, fine as gossamer strands. Even through the scent of wood smoke and candle wax, he could tell that the air was thinner, crisper, yet a scent of many growing things pervaded all. Mountain air-but lush mountain air.
Lewan sat up, and a tiny spark of pain ran through his left shoulder. He looked down and realized two things. First, he was naked and completely clean. Even his hair had been washed and trimmed, his face freshly shaved. Second, the wound near his shoulder was no more than a pale blotch of skin with the slick-smooth sheen of magical healing. His last memory was the morning on the hillside in the Khopet-Dag. The assassin had sneaked up on him and plunged the poisoned spear into his shoulder. Obviously the poison had been meant to subdue him, not kill him. The earth had risen up and swallowed his master. Or had it? Lewan had been unable to hear anything, save for a strange chanting, and his vision had not been clear. Had that been a dream?
The door opened, and in walked a girl. She seemed close to Lewan's age, perhaps a bit older. The slight cant to her eyes, the long hair the color of a raven's eye, and skin the color of honeyed wax gave her the look of one of the Shou. She carried a bundle of folded cloth before her.
Her eyes widened at the sight of Lewan sitting up in bed. She nudged the door closed with one foot, then bowed. "I am Ulaan, your servant. I have brought you clean clothes."
"My… servant?" She was dressed like no servant he had ever seen. Her dress, the color of sunset on the clouds and of a simple cut, was made from silk that would have befitted the daughter of the wealthiest merchant trading along the Golden Way.
"I serve the Old Man," she said, "Lord of Sentinelspire. You are his honored guest. I am to see to your every need. Should I displease, another servant will be provided for you."
Lewan swallowed. His eyes stayed on the girl, but his attention focused inward. Servant? Honored guest? None of this made any sense.
"You wish for me to send for another?" Ulaan still had not risen from her bow. Her gaze was fixed on the fine rug before her, and as Lewan's attention returned to her, he noticed that her posture offered a generous gaze down the front of her dress.
Lewan blushed and averted his gaze. "Uh, no. That… that's won't be necessary, thank you."
"Thank me for what?" Ulaan rose and looked at Lewan. Her expression was one of complete deference, but there was a coy spark in her eye.
"Where am I?" asked Lewan. "How did I get here?"
"You are the guest of the Old Man of the Mountain," said Ulaan. "Others will tell you the tale in full, I am sure. It is my task to see that your needs are met." She lifted the folded bundles of cloth. "I have brought you clean clothes. Yours could not be saved. Shall I dress you?"
Lewan's blush deepened. "No! That, uh… that won't be necessary, thank you."
"Young master, my sister Bataar and I bathed and shaved you, and I have tended you since your arrival. You have nothing that I have not seen and touched."
Chapter Fourteen
'Xalicth found Sauk where she thought she would-on the mountainside, sitting cross-legged before a small fire. He often came up here when he wanted to be alone. The large outcropping of bare rock was around the north face of Sentinelspire, well out of sight of the Fortress in its secluded canyon. The broken cone of the mountain rose behind, and before them spread the Endless Wastes. Hundreds of miles of steppe.
The wind off the mountain whipped her heavy cloak in front of her and tossed her hair in front of her face. She was glad for the cloak. Early spring as it was, the wind at this height still held a chill, and her cheeks were soon raw and flushed.
The chill did not seem to bother Sauk. The half-orc sat naked except for a loincloth. His long hair was unbound, and the breeze tossed it over his shoulders. The stiff wind made the fire's meager flames struggle for life, but Sauk was close enough to the fire that his broad back kept off the worst of the breeze. As she came around to stand before him, she saw that the druid's relic, the Three Hearts, lay discarded on the dusty stone beside him. A huge knife lay upon his lap, and blood tinged its edge. The old scar that ran from his hairline down his forehead and left cheek oozed fresh blood. Some of it had dripped and dried on his chest. She knew he was aware of her, had been so for some time, but his gaze never shifted off the horizon.
"Where is Taaki?" she asked.
"And a good morning to you, too," said Sauk, still not looking at her. "How is she?"
"Her eye is gone. How do you think she is?"
"I am sorry, Sauk. We will find a healer for her. I swear it. Once this business is done, Taaki will have both her eyes again."
Sauk sat in silence, still not looking at her. She let him brood. When he had brought his band and their sole captive back to the Fortress two nights ago, she had never seen him in such a mood. He had beaten one of her personal guards and would have likely killed the man had she not stopped him. All because the man had looked at him in a way Sauk didn't like.
"Why are you here, Talieth?" said Sauk.
"Our captive is being dealt with."
"You came all this way to tell me something I already know?"
Talieth's jaw clenched. She hugged her cloak about her and followed Sauk's gaze out to the horizon. On a clear day, one could see the Firepeaks some two hundred miles to the north. But today they were nothing more than a smudge of dark haze on the horizon. The remains of the storm, most likely. Or perhaps the Firepeaks were oozing steam again.
"I need to hear the words from your mouth," she said at last.
"Kheil is dead," said Sauk, and the flatness of his tone, the utter lack of any emotion, shocked her.
"You said that once before." She looked at Sauk, all the weight of her station bearing down upon him. But it didn't seem to bother him.
"My brother died in the Yuirwood nine years ago," said Sauk. "Your vision dared me to hope otherwise. I now know that hope was false. Kheil is dead."
She pointed at the naked blade on his lap. "Then why this? Why cut your luzal unba? "
Talieth knew of this particular tradition of Sauk's orc clan. She'd been there nine years ago when he'd cut it the first time. When a warrior lost a family member, he cur a scar over his face in remembrance, from the crown of his head to his cheek. The wound bled profusely, even running into the eye like tears, symbolizing both death and grief. Ever afterward, the mourner would gaze through the scar of his grief.