Sentinelspire (21 page)

Another storm had climbed up the mountain—a fierce one, by the look of it. Lewan could see the lightning flashing in the clouds, and the thunder came deep and low down the slopes. It would fall on the fortress before sunset.

He returned to his room, grateful for the warm light of the candles. The ashes in the hearth were cold, but more wood lay stacked in an iron rack next to the fireplace. He knelt beside it, and for the first time noticed that each of the four curves of black iron ended in the shape of a leering face, eyes wide and lips open in an almost feral grin. Who would craft such an awful thing?

The tin bucket of kindling next to the firewood was filled with shavings from apple wood. Lewan breathed in their scent as he scattered the kindling over the ashes. He chose the small birch logs next. They would burn hot and fast. Once the fire
was going, he would add the cherry wood. It would burn warm and slow, and he loved the scent.

The flames were just beginning to catch in the birch logs when the door opened and Ulaan entered, carrying a platter of food. Behind her came another girl, slightly taller and dressed in a loose silk robe of blue and green. She was so like Ulaan that they could have been sisters. A bundle of fresh candles dangled from one hand, and she bore a large brass wash basin.

Seeing the platter of half-eaten food still filling the small table, Ulaan placed the new platter on the bed and turned to face Lewan. She motioned to the other girl. “This is my sister, Bataar.”

Bataar rose from where she had placed the wash basin on the floor, then gave him a small bow, never meeting his eyes.

“The Lady Talieth said that you are feeling unhappy,” said Bataar. “She ordered these brought to you in hopes of lifting your mood.”

She turned and clapped her hands. Thunder rumbled outside, putting a slight vibration in the floor, and four servants, each muscled as thick as a seasoned warrior, entered the room. Each pair bore a large clay pot between them. In the first pot grew a tree, a mature oak, though it was no more than the half-height of a man. In the second pot grew a full bloom of holly, a mass of dark green leaves and bright red berries. The servants placed each at the foot of the bed, bowed to Lewan and the women, then fled the room.

“Do they please you?” said Bataar.

A laugh—more exasperation than humor—escaped Lewan. Talieth had him shut in this tower, surrounded by cut and crafted stone, cut off from the natural world, and as recompense she sent him two potted plants. Was it some sort of cruel joke? When he felt his laugh turning to a sob, he clamped his jaw shut and turned his back on the women.

“The trees displease you, master?” said Bataar.

“No,” said Lewan. More thunder shook the tower, and he could smell rain on the breeze through the balcony curtains. “No, they’re fine. But I want to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish,” said Bataar. “Lady Talieth, she warned you about tonight? About staying in your room?”

“Yes,” said Lewan, his back still to them.

He heard the women shuffle out, but one of them stopped in the doorway and said, “Lewan?” It was Ulaan’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Tonight, it would be wise to lock the door as well.”

The door closed, the first heavy drops of rain began to spatter the balcony outside, and Lewan could control his sobbing no longer.

W
hen the forebears of the Tuigan first wandered into the steppes, Sentinelspire was old. It stood alone and unchallenged, a great sentinel indeed amidst borderless leagues of grassland. The mountain’s true origins had been lost to even the wisest of loremasters. Some who lived in the wild and knew well the ways of the earth believed that the forces that shaped the Firepeaks had also formed Sentinelspire, making the mountain a sort of larger relative to its distant, more active cousins to the north. Others—the Tuigan foremost among them—believed that the mountain was no natural creation, that it had been formed from dark magics that rent the very fabric of Faerûn, opening passageways to realms of fire and destruction.

None living knew the truth. But the mountain had been old even when the Imaskari had claimed it as their own and built the hidden fortress on the southeastern face of the mountain. Many of the buildings and tunnels were crafted from the mountain itself. But some of the towers and the hidden chambers beneath the fortress had been built and decorated with purple stone that came from distant lands. Greatest of these structures was the Tower of the Sun—so named because those standing atop it would be the first in the fortress to see the sun each morning. The Tower—and though there were many towers in the fortress, when the inhabitants spoke of “the Tower,” there was only one they meant—stood in the very
center of the fortress, its topmost galleries looking over the rim of the canyon wall itself. From the top of the Tower of the Sun, one could see for hundreds of miles into the open steppe, and on clear nights every star and constellation looked down upon the tower, their silver light gathering in the purple stone and crystal statues that ringed the rim of the tower.

The broken peak of Sentinelspire itself dominated the western sky and loomed over the canyon. The storm that had spent the late afternoon gathering strength waited until full dark, then poured its full fury on the canyon. Lightning wreathed Sentinelspire’s jagged cone, and thunder rolled down the mountainside, strong enough to rattle the stones of the fortress. Early spring storms were not uncommon in this part of the Wastes. They built over the Great Ice Sea to the north and trampled the hundreds of miles of steppe like the Horde itself.

But on this night, the storm that hit the Fortress of the Old Man came with a power that many within the canyon, even those with no training in the mystic arts, found unnatural. Some thought they could hear whispers under the wind, and there was a rhythm to the thunder shaking the mountain. Lights of no natural hue flickered around the Tower of the Sun. Once a great bolt of lightning struck the tower itself, blasting the vines around the stone to cinders, and the flickering aftereffects seemed to linger too long. Rather than fade away, it looked as if the lightning crawled inside the open windows of the tower, where it continued to flash and burn.

As the world turned to midnight, the storm’s fury did not abate or pass, but seemed to settle in over the Fortress of the Old Man. The lamps burning in the streets and pathways of the fortress cast only weak pools of light, and the wind blew out many, deepening the darkness in the fortress.

The unnatural lights around the Tower of the Sun dropped into the gardens below, where they lurked amongst the trees or hugged the stone of the tower. The upper regions of the tower were lost in the darkness of night and storm to any not
possessing eyes that penetrated the dark—eyes like those of the half-orc and his tiger, crouching under the storm-wracked trees in a garden a few streets away. Most within the fortress had sought refuge in their rooms, behind locked doors. A few of the most devout of the Old Man gathered in the groves, but their eyes were closed or turned inward, intent on their devotions. And so, in the Fortress of the Old Man, the half-orc was very likely the only one who saw the shadows crawling down the vines and branches that encased the Tower of the Sun. He watched as they disappeared into the overgrown gardens beneath the tower, and he watched still as they scuttled out the gate or crawled over the wall to hunt in the dark.

Lightning flashed overhead, flickering off steel in the half-orc’s hand. By the time the thunder answered, he was already on the move, the tiger following.

Lewan was aware of none of this. He stood on the balcony, leaning against the ivy-thick railing in the downpour, unmoving as the statues in the courtyard below. His hair hung heavy over his forehead, and the tears on his cheeks mingled with the rain.

So loud was the roaring of the rain and the recurring thunder that he never heard the door open behind him, nor did he hear Ulaan lock it behind her and call out to him.

She found him on the balcony, hesitated only a moment before stepping into the rain, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped slightly at her touch but did not turn.

“Master Lewan!” She had to shout to be heard over the storm. “Come inside! You’re drenched.”

He ignored her.

“Master Lewan! Master, can you hear me?”

He turned to her, and she flinched at the pain in his eyes. “Go away,” he said.

“Master Lewan, what’s wrong?”

“Please. Go.”

Ulaan looked back into the room, then cast a quick glance outward, where the great tower dominated the center of the fortress. When she turned back to him, Lewan could see a slight tremble in her bottom lip, and her eyes flicked back and forth like those of a deer who hears wolves in the distance.

“Master, I … I’m frightened,” she said. She clutched at his sleeve with both hands. “Please, let me stay. Please.”

Lewan blinked and looked down at her hands. She was trembling.

“Please come inside, Master Lewan,” she said. “Please, I beg you.”

Lewan could see no point in doing so, but neither could he see any point in refusing her. He sighed and nodded, allowing her to drag him inside. He stood dripping on a rug that was probably worth more than all the coins he’d ever held in his life. Ulaan scrambled to the balcony doors, pushed them shut against the wind and rain, and threw down all three latches. The sound of the rain hitting the thick wood sounded hard as hail, and the wind whistled in beneath the door. Ulaan pulled the gauzy curtains over the doors. They were soaked and too heavy to flutter at the encroaching wind. As she stretched on her tiptoes to pull the heavier drapes over the balcony doors, shutting out the breeze and dampening the sound, Lewan noticed that her silk dress was soaked and sheer. It clung to her like a second skin. Lewan swallowed hard and averted his eyes.

“We must get you out of those clothes before you freeze,” said Ulaan. Her voice held a slight tremble, and her hands shook as she reached for collar of his shirt.

“No,” said Lewan, pushing her hands away. “You should leave. I can undress myself.”

Her eyes went wide. “You said I could stay.”

“No,” said Lewan. “I never said that.”

“Please, master!” she clutched at him again. “Please don’t make me go back out there.”

Lewan pushed her away, using more force than necessary. “Why? What has everyone so frightened?”

Ulaan clutched her fists to her mouth. “Not tonight, master, please. Please, don’t make me go back out there. I beg you. I’ll do anything.”

“Then answer me,” said Lewan, anger plain in his voice. “What has you so scared?”

Thunder shook the room, rattling even the massive brass candelabra flanking the hearth. Ulaan’s voice was barely above a whisper as she replied, “This night … something … special for that old druid the Old Man keeps locked up. Something …” She shuddered. “Things are not like they once were in the Fortress. The shadows have a life to them. There are sometimes eyes in the dark. The great tower, it has always been known as the Tower of the Sun, but since the Old Man began using the druid, it has become a strange and wild place, filled with secrets, shadows, and things that grow in the dark. Sometimes—on this night most especially—the dark things leave the tower. It is not wise to be about. Best to stay behind locked doors. Everyone does. Everyone except that crazed half-orc. He hunts the grounds, and gods help any who cross his path.” Ulaan swallowed and wiped the rain out of her eyes. She, too, now stood in a puddle of the rain dripping out of her clothes and hair. “Please, please, Master Lewan. Let me stay.”

Even though the room was pleasantly warm—from the low fire in the hearth, the dozen or so candles, and a flow of warm air coming from those odd slots in the walls—a shiver passed through Lewan.

“Very well,” he said. “But I undress myself. You can stoke the fire. And avert your eyes. You promise?”

“I promise, Master Lewan. Thank you.”

She rushed to the fire, the wet silk of her dress rasping as she passed him.

A single towel lay by the washbasin Bataar had brought. Lewan used it to sop the worst of the rain from his hair, then peeled off his shirt.