Sentinelspire

Chapter Nineteen

When 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 Faerun, 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.

"The Lady Talieth," said Ulaan, her voice still fragile, "she said that your… order? Is order the right word?"

"Right word for what?" Lewan threw his sodden shirt next to the door. He looked to the girl to make sure she was keeping her word. She crouched in front of the fire, her back to him as she fed wood onto the flames. Standing between him and the light of the fire, Lewan noticed that her dress was very sheer, and the light shone right through it, outlining her every curve. His breath caught in his throat, and he quickly turned his back to her. He kicked off the slippers he'd been wearing and began working at the drawstring of his trousers.

"For your faith," she said. "You and your teacher. Lady Talieth said that tonight was a very special night for you, and that you were saddened by not being able to celebrate it with others of your… order?"

"Tonight is the Jalesh Rudra, "said Lewan. He'd finally managed to loosen the knot, and he pushed his trousers and smallclothes off at the same time. Only then, as he stood naked and shivering, did he realize that he had no dry clothes.

"What is this Jalesh Rudra?" Ulaan pronounced it very carefully.

Lewan looked around. The damp towel was small. It wouldn't even serve as a proper loincloth. With nothing to put on, he crawled into his bed, under the silk sheets and thick fur coverlet. He leaned against the wooden headboard and pulled one of the large pillows over his bare torso. The two trees at the foot of his bed stood between him and the fire, so Ulaan was no more than a bit of shadow and light beyond.

"A sacred celebration," said Lewan. He added, in a quieter voice, "Especially for me."

The room brightened. Lewan heard the fire roaring to life as the flames caught the wood.

"May I turn around now?" said Ulaan. "Uh, yes," said Lewan. "Sorry."

She stood and turned, but with the fire behind her, Lewan could see no more than the dark profile of her head and shoulders between the branches of the oak.

"Why especially for you?" she asked.

"What?"

"You said this… Jalesh Rudra was a sacred celebration. 'Especially for me,' you said."

Lewan hadn't realized she'd heard him. He hadn't meant for her to. "It's… a sort of coming of age ceremony."

"Coming of age?"

Lewan blushed and looked away. "Tonight was the night my master was to perform sacred rites in my honor. If my god found me worthy, tonight I was to become a man. To enter into full communion with the god."

"Rites?" said Ulaan. "What kind of rites? What must you do to become a man?"

Even though he could see no more than her upper profile, he saw that she was trembling.

"Are you still frightened, Ulaan?"

"I am better now, Master," she said. "Thank you."

"Please stop that."

"Stop what, Master?" Her voice seemed frightened again.

"Stop calling me 'master.' I am not your master."

She was silent a moment, then said, "What shall I call you?"

"Lewan," he said. "My name is Lewan. I have-uh, had a master. But I am no one's master."

"Very well… Lewan." Though he could not see her face, he thought the sound of her voice held the warmth of a smile. A pleased smile. She gave him an odd shrug, but then he realized it was neither a shrug nor meant for him. She was undressing.

Lewan closed his eyes, but he could hear the sound of her silk dress peeling off her bare skin. His heartbeat and breath came faster.

"What are you doing? " he said.

"I am wearing a soaked dress in a room of stone," said Ulaan. "I'm cold. I will dry better without the wet fabric."

Lewan thought the room seemed a bit too warm, stone or no stone.

He gathered the fur coverlet into a bundle and tossed it over the holly bush at her. "Here. Wrap yourself in this." "But Lewan, what will you-?"

"I'm not cold," said Lewan. It was true. Lewan had spent countless hundreds of nights sleeping under the stars with no more than a tent or just his cloak and a blanket between him and the elements. This room, with its huge hearth and warm air flowing in through the walls, felt hot to him. Too close. Had Ulaan not been so frightened and so desperate to close off the balcony, he would have kept the doors open for the fresh air, wind and wet be damned.

He heard her wet dress hit the wall near where he had tossed his own clothes, then listened as her bare feet approached. His heart beat so hard he could feel the blood pounding in his ears.

"Do you mind if I sit while we talk?" Her voice came from the stool beside his bedside table.

He opened his eyes the smallest slit and saw that she was sitting there, wrapped from shoulders to toes in the fur coverlet. Her hair was still sodden, but she had pulled it back over her shoulders. Her forehead and cheeks still held a moist sheen from the rain. He closed his eyes again and laid his head back against the headboard.

"Tell me more of your rites," she said. "What happens in this Jalesh Rudra? Sauk, too, serves the god of the wild. During his holy rites, he goes onto the steppe to hunt. I have heard that he kills his prey and drinks their blood under the full moon-and his prey are not always animals. Your god… does he do these things?"

"No!" said Lewan, his face twisting in disgust. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Nothing like that."

"I didn't think so," said Ulaan, and for the first time that night he saw her smile. His breath quickened again, and the blood pounding in his ears began pounding in other places. "What, then? Tell me, Lewan."

Lewan swallowed and took a deep breath, praying that his voice would not shake. "My master and I seek out one of the sacred groves. We paint each other in symbols sacred to the Oak Father and make an offering of the leaves of Oak, Ash, and Thorn. Over running water, if it can be found. Then, when the Moonmaiden is at her height, the master of the ceremony plays the sacred pipes. If the Oak Father finds favor with the offering, he sends his messengers. They dance for us, and if I am found worthy, one of the messengers and I will, uh… c-commune."

"Commune?" asked Ulaan, her brow creasing in confusion.

Lewan looked away and hoped that in the warm light of the fire and candles, Ulaan could not see his blush. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

"Lewan?"

"Yes?"

"These messengers from your god? They wouldn't happen to be women, would they?"

Lewan's heart skipped a beat and he said in a hoarse voice, "Uh, spirits. Tree spirits. Or water spirits, maybe."

"You mean dryads?" said Ulaan.

Thunder rumbled in the sky outside, but the beating of Lewan's pulse almost drowned out the sound. "Uh, y-yes."

"Dryads take the form of women, don't they, Lewan?" Ulaan's voice seemed lower now. Husky and barely above a whisper. "Young women. Young, beautiful women. How do you commune with them?"

"Uh, I…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. Didn't know how to say it without sounding like a damned fool.

"Lewan?" Ulaan's voice sounded closer. Lewan opened his eyes. She was standing beside his bed, but the coverlet lay in a pile on the floor.

"Ulaan… I-"

"Lewan, do you think I am beautiful?"

She crawled into bed beside him, and he answered her.