Baldur's Gate (24 page)

“Gorion was alive then,” the half-elf woman said, and Beuros’s heart skipped a beat. “He was in there to let you in.”

So Gorion was dead. Beuros wanted to weep at the loss but held back the tears with a great sniff and cleared his throat. Beuros wondered if maybe it was true what was said about Abdel when he was a child—that Gorion had adopted him as some kind of changeling. Rumors abounded about the young Abdel, that he was some kind of demon spawn, a cambion or an alu-fiend, or the son of some evil wizard, maybe descended from a long line of corrupt Netherese archwizards. It was hard for Beuros and his friends to believe this since demonology was a part of their regular studies, and Abdel failed to exhibit any of the powers normally associated with the infernal, but still. Abdel grew to enormous proportions and exhibited both a strength and a thirst for violence that didn’t seem entirely human, at least not to the mild-tempered monks of Candlekeep. It certainly crossed Beuros’s mind that Abdel had perhaps killed Gorion himself, and the gate guard could think of no greater offense to the law and will of Candlekeep.

The name Tethtoril came immediately to Beuros’s mind, and he quickly made use of one more of the minor magic items available to him. He spoke Tethtoril’s name into a cone of golden foil and trusted the device to convey the message to the aging monk. In the meantime, he had to try to stall Abdel, though he doubted it would have been easy to get rid of the man even if he tried. Abdel and the woman were still outside the gate, conversing quietly. Beuros opened the peephole.

“Give me a book,” he said, obviously startling the woman, who jumped. They looked up at the little window.

“Beuros—” Abdel started to say.

“Ah,” Beuros interrupted, “a book, or a scroll, or a tablet, or a… something with writing on it. Give me something of use to Candlekeep, and you can come in.”

The sellsword furrowed his brow in confusion and frustration. Beuros wasn’t at all surprised that Abdel didn’t have any form of written record with him. It wouldn’t have surprised the man to hear that Abdel had forgotten how to read.

“Why this all of a sudden, Beuros? What’s going on in there?” the sellsword asked.

“The business of Candlekeep,” Beuros answered directly. “The business of learnedness.”

The woman smiled evilly and said, “That’s not even a word, you little—”

“A book!” Beuros insisted, insulted that this half-elf by-blow would question his learnedness.

“I don’t have—” Abdel started to say, then stopped, a look of dumb realization coming over his face.

“Give us a few minutes, Captain Steadfast,” the woman said sarcastically, making a dismissive brushing away hand gesture in Beuros’s general direction. The guard ignored her and closed the shutter.

Beuros wiped sweat from his brow and wondered what he was doing, and what was keeping Tethtoril. Abdel and the woman were talking again, and Beuros had a dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if Abdel managed to call his bluff? He heard the woman call his name, and brimming with apprehension, he opened the shutter once more.

“A book?” Beuros asked.

He saw then what Abdel was holding in his big, callused hand. It was a book all right, and the sight of it set Beuros’s heart racing. It was bound, no less, in human skin, and bore on it a symbol he hadn’t seen in a long time, a symbol crafted from a human skull. Whatever this tome was, it was unusual to say the least. Evil, no doubt, but certainly a subject worthy of study from a purely detached perspective. If it was some dark text, Faerun would certainly be better for having it kept safe within the walls of Candlekeep.

“Well, well…” Beuros started to say.

“Let us in first,” the woman interrupted.

Beuros laughed and said, “Not on your life, missy. Tell him to slide it through the slot.”

Beuros activated the trigger for the secret panel that would open the more accessible slot in the gate while the sellsword studied the space that was the peephole eight feet or more above the gravel-covered ground.

The woman said, “If there was a window a bit—” but stopped talking when she finally noticed the slot—easily able to accommodate the book—open up on the door at Abdel’s waist height.

“Slide it in there, Abdel,” Beuros said softly, not realizing he’d used Abdel’s name for the first time in years.

“I knew you knew me you bastard,” Abdel grumbled, crossing the short distance to the gate with the book held out in front of him. The sellsword stopped abruptly just as the edge of the old book touched the slot. He was obviously reluctant to let it drop.

“You can’t even read the language it’s written in, for Mielikki’s sake,” the woman said, making Beuros smile. “Give him the heavy old thing, and let’s get in there.”

“Indeed, Abdel,” Beuros said, “listen to this young woman, and give me the book. I need a gesture of good faith.”

Abdel wouldn’t let go

“Abdel?” the woman asked dully.

The sellsword sighed once more and let go of the book, letting it drop through the slot. Beuros climbed down and picked up the book. It was heavy, and the touch of the cover was at once ghastly and exhilarating.

“What have you got there, Beuros?” Tethtoril asked from behind him, making the guard gasp and spin to face him.

Less than an hour later Abdel and Jaheira were siting in TethtoriFs private chamber watching him make tea. The walk across Candlekeep’s meticulously landscaped bailey brought back such a flood of emotions, Abdel had all but shut down. Tethtoril’s reaction to the news of Gorion’s death made Abdel live through it again. Jaheira, sensing what this visit was already doing to Abdel, clutched at his arm. She seemed impatient, but Abdel didn’t think about why. All thoughts of the Iron Throne had fled his mind.

“I won’t ask you where you got that book, Abdel,” Tethtoril said, handing a cup of tea to Jaheira, “but I’m glad you decided to bring it here. It was the right thing to do.”

Abdel waved off the cup that Tethtoril offered him, and the aging monk took a sip from it himself.

“I don’t even know what it is,” Abdel admitted. “I couldn’t read it.”

This seemed to take Tethtoril by surprise. “You tried?” he asked.

Abdel looked at him quizzically and shrugged.

“That book of yours, son,” the monk said, “is one of a very, very few copies remaining of the unholy rites of Bhaal, Lord of Murder.”

Abdel flushed, his head spinning. He’d been attracted to the book, wanted desperately to absorb it, understand it, but had at once been ashamed of that feeling and driven to keep his attraction to it a secret. Abdel still doubted it meant he was the son of this dead god, but the presence of Bhaal’s influence must have been a factor in his life—his life before Gorion.

“Then I’m happy to be rid of it,” Jaheira said, looking only at Abdel. “What I told you is true, Abdel.”

Abdel sighed through his nose and forced a smile.

“Your father,” Tethtoril said quickly, obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to say, “left something in my care. He told me that if he ever met an… untimely… if he died before he’d had a chance to…”

The monk held back a sob but couldn’t continue.

“What is it, brother?” Abdel asked, finally looking up at Tethtoril.

“A letter,” the monk said, then cleared his throat. “A letter and a pass stone—a stone that will give you free run of Candlekeep.”

“A letter?” Abdel asked, and his mind spun, remembering the scrap of parchment Gorion had clutched to his body with his last bit of mortal strength. “I saw it,” he said. “Gorion had it with him when he died.”

“Impossible,” Tethtoril said. “I have the letter right here.”

Abdel read the letter aloud, and Jaheira didn’t look at him almost the whole time.

” ‘Hello My Son,

” ‘If you are reading this it means I have met an untimely death. I would tell you not to grieve for me, but I feel much better thinking that you might. If you can, it will mean I have done the best any father could hope to do.’ “

Abdel stopped reading for a moment. If Jaheira had glanced at him right then she would have seen the cords standing out in his neck, his throat was so tight. Gorion had done his job and done it well. The son of the god of murder was—if only for a moment—speechless with grief.

” ‘There are things I must tell you in this letter that I should have told you before, but if my death came too soon and I have not been given the chance, you must know these things, and know them from me. I know you better than anyone on this world. You must believe what I have written here with the knowledge that, though there have been things I have not told you, I would never lie to you—not about this.’”

Abdel stopped reading again and looked at Jaheira, who didn’t turn toward him. “He’s going to tell me what you told me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “isn’t he?”

Jaheira nodded, then Abdel sighed and read on.

” ‘As you have known all your life, I am not your true father, but you have never known your sire’s name. It is a name spoken only in fearful whispers, for so great was the terror of it that even though its power has fled the multiverse, it has meaning still. You are the son of…’ “

Abdel sighed again, and his face tightened into what might have passed for a smile or some tight, twisted, silent laugh. A single tear rolled down one cheek, and still Jaheira didn’t look at him.

” “Your father is the entity known as Bhaal, Lord of Murder. A thing of evil, so vile it’s nearly impossible to believe the multiverse itself could stand its hateful presence.

” Tou do not remember the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked Faerun. Like other great powers, Bhaal was forced into a mortal shell. As is possible, I have read, with divine beings, Bhaal was somehow forewarned of the death that awaited him during this time. He sought out women then, of every race, and forced himself upon them or seduced them. Your mother was one of these women, a mortal…’”

There was a silence then that hung in the air for what seemed to both of them like hours. Abdel looked at Jaheira with tear-blurred eyes and saw her cover her face with her hands. She sat on the corner of the rickety iron cot that had been Abdel’s bed since he was but a toddler. The scroll he’d made in the first year of his schooling hung on the wall above her like some kind of cruel reminder of the lie that had been his human life. He continued reading, though he knew what was coming next aiid, worse than that, knew he didn’t know what to do about it.

‘“Your mother was one of these women… a mortal ravaged by murder incarnate.’”

He stopped this time only long enough to clench one big fist almost tight enough to draw blood under his jagged fingernails. His voice as tight as his fist, he read on.

““Your mother died in childbirth. I had been her friend and knew the paladin who brought you to me. I felt obliged, at first, to raise you as my own. As the years went by and I saw in you—every day—the promise of a life beyond some divine destiny, I came to love you as only a father can love his son. I have but one hope now, and that is that you will always think of me as your father.’”

I do, Abdel thought, hoping Gorion could hear him.

” ‘The blood of the gods runs through your veins. If you make use of our extensive library you will find that our founder, Alaundo, has many prophecies concerning the coming of the spawn of Bhaal. Perhaps these prophecies will help you find your way.

” ‘There are many who will want to use you for their own purposes. You had many half brothers, and nearly as many half sisters. Over the years an order of the paladins of Torm—among which I have some friends—and the Harpers, and some other individuals—I’m not even sure who—have kept track of you, and as many of your half siblings as possible. We’ve lost touch with some, we know some are dead, and we’ve rediscovered one. This one may be your half brother, and you may want to believe that he is family, that he can be a brother to you, but I beg you, do not. He means you only ill, and he was not raised in the calm, studious atmosphere of Candlekeep, but by a series of faceless cultists still clinging to the hopeless servitude of a dead god.

” ‘This one calls himself Sarevok.’ “

Jaheira gasped, and Abdel looked at her. She was looking at him finally. Her eyes were red, brimming with tears, and wide with confusion and surprise.

“Not Reiltar?” she whispered hoarsely.

” ‘Sarevok,’ ” Abdel said, then looked back at the letter, then up at Jaheira again. “Do you know that name?”

She shook her head and looked away, so he read on.

” ‘This one is the worst danger. He has studied here at Candlekeep and thus knows a great deal about your history and who you are. I have left you a token that will give you access to the inner libraries. You can find the secret entrance in one of the reading rooms on the ground floor. Do not tell any of the monks about your pass stone as they will take it from you. The inner libraries contain a secret route that leads out of Candlekeep. Use this only in the most pressing situations.’

“And he signed it, Tour loving father, Gorion.’ “

“Abdel—” Jaheira wasn’t able to finish. The door burst open and men came in. Abdel reacted, like he always did, and put his hands up fast to guard his head.

The first blow was a solid one that nearly broke Abdel’s left forearm. He stood and used the strong muscles in his legs to help propel the staff he’d been struck with up and into the low ceiling. It snapped in half, sending another jolt of pain across Abdel’s forearm. He ignored it and grabbed the broken end of the staff as it began to fall and returned the attack without even looking at the target. He’d been reading a letter that sent his life spiraling down a pit with very little hope at the bottom of it, a letter that presented more mysteries than it solved. The death of Gorion was a wound suddenly reopened, but Abdel didn’t let himself fall all the way back. When he hit the man on the head with the broken end of his own staff, it was with enough force to stun him, but not kill him.

Jaheira was on her feet too, but she had no weapon. Abdel’s broadsword was resting on an old wooden cabinet— a piece of furniture Gorion had given him and where he’d kept his clothes when he was just a boy. Abdel saw someone pick it up, and he clenched his teeth tightly. These men, maybe half a dozen of them, were dressed in the all too familiar chain mail and tabards of the guards of Candlekeep.