Under fallen stars

VIII

4 Kytnorn, the Year of the Gauntlet

"Ye play a pretty tune on that thing."

Pacys glanced up at Khlinat, who lounged across the small table in the modest quarters he kept at a rooming house on Windspell Street just west of the Wide, the name of Baldur's Gate's bustling marketplace. "Thank you, my friend." His fingers strummed the strings casually, picking out the notes, making them ring true. The song lived inside his head, adding to itself by leaps and bounds. He was already working on the song of the attack on Baldur's Gate and the words came so easily.

A beeswax taper burned on the table between them, throwing up a thin streamer of smoke and illuminating the carving board with a loaf of bread and cheese on it. Felogyr Sonshal had begged off as soon as they'd reached the dwelling safely. The dwarfs fare on hand had been simple, added to by small journeycakes smothered in honey he'd had put away, a clutch of apples, and a jug of cheap wine.

The old bard had eaten, picking at the offered food mostly, and he'd watched Jherek of Velen, trying to see some sign that the young sailor was the one Narros had told him to look for. As he surveyed the young man, he tried to figure out how he was going to tell Jherek of the destiny that lay before him. How could one so young, so vulnerable, be expected to shoulder such a heavy burden as facing the wrath of the Taker?

Khlinat had eaten with the relish of someone who had recently ended a long fast, drinking the wine with zest. He cut up another apple with a small carving knife, glanced briefly out the window as a Flaming Fist mercenary group went by carrying lamps. "How came ye to know the swabbie?" he asked.

"I don't," Pacys said.

"Yet ye came over to him like ye knowed him." The dwarf's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

They spoke about Jherek because the young man had taken his leave of them only a few minutes ago. Pacys had been loathe to let him from his sight, but Jherek had been adamant about not leaving Khlinat to himself should something go wrong with the wounds. The young sailor had taken it upon himself to seek out an apothecary for balms to better treat and dress the wounds until a healer could be sent for.

Pacys put a hand over the yarting's strings, stilling their hum. "I was sent to find him."

Khlinat fisted the carving knife casually, but shifted in his chair to get into better position. "The swabbie's not wanted for anything, is he? I'll not harbor anyone saying bad things about him. He laid his life on the line for people tonight, meself included, and didn't say one word about it."

"I expect he wouldn't," Pacys agreed. He'd noticed Jherek's calm demeanor as well. "No, he's not wanted for anything."

"Good, for ye had me worried a moment." Khlinat stabbed the knife into the carving board. "I've not had blood spilt in me room before, but I'd not hesitate."

Pacys's fingers returned to the strings, playing the hero's tune that he identified with Jherek. "How long have you known him?"

"I only met him tonight."

Surprised lifted one of the old bard's eyebrows.

"He came up on a caravan from the south," Khlinat said. "I had that from him before them pirates sculled into the harbor and started their attack. He hails from Velen."

"I know the place," Pacys said.

"Lot of ghosts and such there," Khlinat mused.

"What do you know about him?"

The dwarf shrugged and popped a piece of apple into his mouth. "He's a sailor and a good man. Lot of sand in his craw, ye want my opinion. Not many would have stood up like he did tonight."

"You did," Pacys said. "Driving a wagonload of smoke powder into the harbor was no trivial thing."

"I had me reasons."

Pacys changed tunes, finding the one he'd selected for the dwarf as he wove his song about the attack on Baldur's Gate. It was somewhat hard and unpolished, much like the little man himself. "You mean the Harper pin you wear?" The old bard had spotted it on the other man earlier back at the docks. It was clipped inside his shirt, out of the way of the most casual glances. Harpers didn't readily identify themselves except to others of their group.

Khlinat didn't answer.

"It's all right," Pacys said. "I know about Those Who Harp."

"Ye wear the pin yerself?"

Pacys shook his head. "I was asked. I chose not to." The Harpers were a group spead thinly across the face of Faerun that primarily worked for good. Individuals among the group also had their own agendas, though, and that was a problem at times and for some people.

"Being a Harper is an important thing," Khlinat stated.

"Some would call your group meddlers," Pacys pointed out.

"Mayhap, but we stand betwixt evil, them what would take away freedoms, and the common man." Khlinat returned his gaze levelly, the candle flame wavering in his eyes. "I can imagine no higher calling."

Pacys reworked the tune in his head, bringing out the true sound of it through his fingertips. "For myself, I can imagine no higher calling than my art. Belief is a harsh mistress, and you have to believe in one thing most of all in your life. Otherwise, you're compromised."

"Aye. Now that's the right of it." Khlinat drained the dregs of his wine cup. "Ye never mentioned what ye wanted with the swabbie."

Changing the melody again, going back to the piece he'd constructed about his visit with Narros the merman in Waterdeep harbor, Pacys told the tale in his best voice, trusting in the good nature of Those Who Harp, winning Khlinat over to his side. Also, he knew it would help to have Khlinat on his side if possible when he presented the story to Jherek. As he talked, the dwarf poured them both fresh cups of spiced wine.

"How can I help you, my son?"

Jherek looked into the priest's eyes and saw the fatigue there. "I'm looking for a healing balm for a friend if you've any to spare." He opened his coin purse. "I'm willing to pay."

The Rose Portal was a shrine to Lathander, also called Morninglord, who was god of the spring, dawn, birth, and renewal, of beginnings and hidden potentials. Like the other buildings along the north wall of Baldur's Gate, the temple was constructed primarily of stone but the windows inset in the walls were of the palest pink to reflect the dawn. Even the torch Jherek carried picked up the color in the night.

He'd tried the temple of Ilmater before coming here, but their resources had already been drained. He'd stayed long enough to say his prayers to the god and make his peace with the night's events. Remembering how well he'd been treated at Lathander's temple in Atkatla, he'd decided to try there when one of the people on the street he'd asked had mentioned it.

"Child," the old priest said as he stepped back from the door, "enter and we'll see what Lathander has seen fit to provide us. Even now new donations are being received to help with the victims." He was short and broad, with a belly on him that spoke of familiarity with wine casks. His red and yellow robes hung loosely about him, stopping just short of the smooth stone floor.

Jherek stepped into the foyer and felt some of the chill hanging over the city drain away from him. He hadn't taken the time to change his drenched clothing, and it clung to his body with the touch of ice and rough salt.

While the temple back in Athkatla had been modest, this place spoke of opulence. The decor was ornate, steeped in inlaid gold and silver, constructed of polished and burnished woods carefully fitted together. Beyond the foyer, rows of long benches filled the space, all turned toward the dais where a huge rose quartz disk almost ten feet tall occupied the back wall. Rendered hi the glowing pink stone were rose-colored swirls centered around a pair of golden eyes.

Jherek flushed with embarrassment to think that the temple would need any or even all of the coins he'd been paid for the caravan work. Quietly, he followed the priest down the aisle.

Several people in agitated states sat in the benches. Many of them prayed out loud while others cried and wailed for lost loved ones. Other priests moved within the groups, offering solace or a healer's touch. As Jherek passed by one bench, he saw a young priest not much older than him on his knees reaching up to close the eyes of a Flaming Fist mercenary who'd stilled in death. Beside him, the dead man's wife and children clung to his legs and cried.

The young sailor quickly averted his gaze, not wanting to intrude on their grief. He knew none of the people, but he knew the anger and frustration and fear that filled them. In his life, he'd known little else until he'd escaped his father and reached Velen.

The priest led him to a back room where foodstuffs and other stores were kept. The room was large and generous, filled with well-stocked shelves and lit by candelabras. Priests worked with parishioners, sorting through the boxes and baskets of supplies that were being unloaded from a cart at the back door.

The priest called one of the acolytes and asked him to search for the things Jherek needed. In quick order, the young priest rounded up the necessary materials.

Jherek offered his coin purse. "Take what you feel is just."

The priest regarded him with renewed interest. "Pardon me for saying so, boy, but you look as though that pouch contains the last coins you have."

Jherek felt another sharp pang of embarrassment. The pouch in his hand looked pitifully slim, and he'd been so proud of it that afternoon when the caravan had arrived in Baldur's Gate. "If it's not enough, I'll bring more at another time if you'll trust me for it."

The priest shook his head, reaching out and curling the pouch back in the young sailor's hand. "You misunderstand me, boy. Lathander doesn't just take from a community; he gives back. Else how can he work the miracles with the new beginnings he speaks of?"

Still, Jherek felt bad. The priests at Ilmater's shrine hadn't dissuaded him of making a donation there, and he'd gotten nothing from them except apologies.

"Just remember Lathander, boy," the priest said. "The Morninglord knows the wheel turns. We all give and get alternately, each as to their needs. Every day is a beginning of some kind for everyone."

Jherek nodded.

"Stings your pride, doesn't it, lad?" an old man's voice croaked behind Jherek. "Taking things offered you is hard."

When he turned and saw the old man who'd addressed him, Jherek swallowed an angry retort. The young sailor couldn't guess how old the man was. Time had marched scores of hard years over him. The man's face sagged with thick wrinkles, and his fevered blue eyes peered up from gristled pits. A fringe of gray hair gnarled around his head. He wore deep scarlet robes that marked him as a priest. Both hands shook, whether from age or illness Jherek couldn't say, and provided him a precarious balance.

"Do you have something to say, lad?" the old man asked, his face stern in spite of the loose flesh on his face.

"Brother Cadiual," the first priest said, "what are you doing out of bed?" He sounded very concerned and walked over quickly to the old man's side. "I gave strict orders that you were not to be disturbed."

Jherek smelled the illness on the old man and breathed shallowly through his mouth to avoid it.

"I'm here doing Lathander's work," Cadiual snapped. "As I have ever done during my life."

"But you're not well."

"Ghauryn," the old man said in a hoarse whisper that stopped the other priest's objections immediately, "I was running this temple long before you ever suckled at your mother's breast. Ill not suffer your insubordination now."

The other priest nodded, taking a half-step back. "As you command and Lathander wills."

Cadiual eyed Jherek. "Who are you, boy?"

"I'm called Malorrie, a sailor from Velen."

The rheumy old eyes searched Jherek's face. "What brought you here?"

Jherek showed him the bandages and balms Ghauryn had given him. "I've got a wounded friend."

Cadiual waved the answer away in irritation. "No. Before that. What brought you to Baldur's Gate?"

"I came with a caravan from Athkatla."

"Yet you're not from Amn, and by your own professed statement, you're a sailor. What were you doing with a caravan?"

Jherek felt very uncomfortable, suddenly realizing he had the attention of many of the priests in the back room. "It was the only way I could get here."

"Again," the old man said in his cracking, hoarse voice. "Why did you choose to come here, at this time when the sea itself rises up against us?"

"I came because I wanted to learn more about myself."

"See," Ghauryn interrupted, "you've been under the influence of that fever again, Cadiual. He's given you your answer." He reached for the old man's shoulder.

Angrily, Cadiual swept his cane toward the other priest, making him step back again. He returned his attention to Jherek. "You came because you wanted to learn what about yourself?"

Jherek silently wished he'd never stepped foot into the temple of Lathander. He wished he could muster the ill manners it would take to simply walk away from the old man and his piercing gaze. "Where I should go from here."

"You were sent here, weren't you? By a divination that you couldn't possibly comprehend."

Jherek didn't reply, feeling that he was being the butt of some bit of humor he didn't understand. He tried to take a step and leave.

"You think I'm some foolish old man, don't you?" Cadiual said.

"No," Jherek answered politely. "I think perhaps you've got me confused with someone else."

"Nay. I was told long before you were born that you would one day find your way here. A sailor, I was told, shorn from the sea and bereft of home, a man hardly more than a boy who runs from the bloody shadow of his father. A boy seeking his future to outrun his past, who was needy, yet hated to take on any help from others. To accomplish his task, there was much help he'd have to take along the way. Learning to accept that would be only one of his lessons." He paused. "Though we think we live our lives alone, there is no one of us completely alone, boy. The gods overlook us all."

Astonishment froze Jherek in place. There was no way the priest could know all that, unless he truly was mad and his powers of divination were confused by his insanity.

"Still, there is one way to be certain." Cadiual reached inside his robe and took out a soft leather bag that showed decades of wear. He opened it and poured yellowed ivory bone splinters into his hand. "These are dragon bones. Lathander himself saw to it I was given these while still yet a child. They've guided me for years. Let me have your hand."

Reluctantly, Jherek stuck his hand out. When the priest's hand wrapped around his, he felt the shakes the old man was experiencing, and the thin finger bones as sticklike as the dragon bones the priest poured into his hand.

Cadiual gripped Jherek's hand in both his shaking ones, then closed his eyes and began praying to Lathander. The heat that suddenly flamed through his flesh surprised the young sailor. He tried to pull away, but the old priest gripped him more surely than he'd thought.

The old priest finished his prayer, and the priests around him echoed his final appreciative sentiments toward the Morninglord. The rheumy eyes gazed up at Jherek.

"You are the one," the old man said. "The one who has come to Baldur's Gate at the time the sea has risen up against all of Faerun. The one who will somehow find a way to stem the tide of dark reaping."

Jherek immediately shook his head, feeling trapped. "No. You've got me confused with someone else. That can't be right. You don't know who I am. Or what I am."

"I don't have to know," the old priest said. "All I have to do is believe in Lathander and let his hand guide mine. It's all I've ever needed. There is a final proof." He took back the splinters of dragon bones and put them back in the pouch, then he took from his robe an oval pearl encased in a gold disk nearly as large as Jherek's palm.

The gold was soft and buttery, showing numerous scratches and hard usage. As the old priest turned the object in his fingers, Jherek noted that the flat side of the pearl had been cut, raising a trident overlaying a silhouetted conch shell from the gemstone.

"I was told by the man who gave me this all those years ago," Cadiual said, "to give this to the young man who appeared in this temple on the night the sea powers wended their way into Baldur's Gate to strike against us."

"Why?" Jherek asked.

"You must stem the tide." Cadiual held the half-pearl out for him to take.

"No," Jherek said hoarsely when he realized the priest meant to give him the gem. "I'm not who you think I am. I can't be."

"Take the gem."

"I can't." But Jherek wanted to so badly he could barely restrain himself from plucking it up. Such a destiny must lie before the person that gem was truly meant for. He'd no longer have to be known as Jherek Wolf's-get, son of the bloodiest pirate of the Nelanther Isles. But to stem the tide of sahuagin that ravaged the Sword Coast? How was that going to be possible?

"It's yours," Cadiual said. "I felt it when I closed my hands over yours. You are the one." He grabbed Jherek's hand and placed the pearl in it.

Immediately, the young sailor thought the gemstone glowed soft pink but that could have been only a trick of the light. Still, it felt natural for him to hold it. He gazed into the pink-stained depths, trying to make sense of the trident and the conch shell emblazoned on the face of the pearl. If he were the one, wouldn't the secrets be unlocked for him? In the novels Malorrie had given him to read, things like that always happened to the heroes.

But he knew in his heart he couldn't take it. The gem-stone was obviously meant for someone other than him. Someone better. The old man had gotten unbalanced with his age and the responsibility given him.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" Jherek asked, thinking that his lack of knowledge would be a clear indication that the wrong person had been entrusted with it.

"I don't know," Cadiual admitted. "Nor do I know for sure where it came from. The man who arrived here came from the east. I had a gemologist look at it once, and he said perhaps it came from as far away as the Inner Sea. There was something about the way the pearl was constructed, about the layering."

"Then why bring it here?" Jherek asked.

"Because this was where you were going to be, of course," the old man snapped. "You have so little faith. Why is that?"

For a moment, Jherek was almost moved to tell the priest everything, from his childhood to the tattoo revealed on Finaren's Butterfly that had cost him the only good life he'd known, but he couldn't.

He offered the gemstone back to the man.

"No," Cadiual replied. "I've not made the mistake here. It's you and your lack of faith, and that's something between you and your god. I can only offer guidance."

"You've made a mistake," Jherek said in a level voice.

"No," the priest said confidently. "I've made no mistake."

He put his thin hand on Jherek's shoulder. "Go and find your destiny, young sailor. For though I don't know it, I feel it will be something truly grand. But the way will not be easy." The rheumy eyes locked with Jherek's. "Find your faith, boy, find your faith and cling to it so that it will make you whole." He turned and walked away.

Desperate, Jherek looked at the other priest, then offered the pearl to him.

"Ghauryn," Cadiual called without bothering to turn around, "I've carried that gemstone since before you were born and I've grown weary of its burden. I thought death was going to steal my life away before I had the chance to finish what I was given to do. Don't you dare touch it."

The other priest shook his head at Jherek.

Reluctantly, Jherek closed his hand over the gemstone. It felt warm and sure, and he was surprised at the confidence that seemed to radiate from it. He had no doubt that they'd given it to the wrong man. Perhaps, though, he could return in the morning and the old priest would have had time to rethink what he'd done.

He thanked the priest for the bandages and salves and walked outside. He belted the healer's items in a bag at his side, but he kept the pearl out, not wanting to release it.

"Are you his woman?"

Startled by the question but wanting to buy herself some time, Laaqueel stood in Bunyip's stern and gazed at the western sky. The fires that had burned Baldur's Gate had dimmed somewhat, but an angry yellow glow like fresh broken seagull eggs still carved a pocket from the dark sky in the distance.

The malenti priestess kept her hands on the ship's railing, holding fast. The dark waters of the River Chionthar slid back from where she stood, cleaved by Bunyip's prow.

Behind her, Bloody Falkane came closer, till he stood right behind her. He kept his voice soft and low. "I asked you a question." His tone held command.

Immediately, Laaqueel rebelled against that authority. She turned to face him, a prayer to Sekolah on her lips and her hand resting on the long dagger at her hip. Her trident was only an arm's reach away, but she knew he could move quickly and intercept her.

"You have asked a question," she replied, "and I have deigned not to answer it."

Bloody Falkane stared at her with hooded eyes. His foul surface dweller's breath fell against her cheek. She knew he was handsome in the way that surface dwellers counted themselves so, and there was a cruelty about his dark eyes and mouth that a sahuagin could appreciate.

His oiled black hair was pulled back, but strands blown by the wind leaked down into his face. Silver hoop earrings caught the moonlight and splintered it. His mustache and goatee were carefully trimmed, leaving the tattoo of the bunyip coiled in mid-strike on his left cheek. He wore a black shirt trimmed in scarlet open to his chest, and scarlet breeches tucked into knee-high boots rolled at the top. A long sword hung at his left hip, balanced by the three throwing knives on his right.

Falkane smiled. "I could make you answer."

"You could die trying," Laaqueel promised in a cold voice.

"Ah, Laaqueel, that would be such a wondrous thing to see. My skills against your skills." Moving slowly, Falkane touched her hair with his fingers, stroking it.

Not knowing how she was supposed to handle this situation according to Iakhovas's strictures, Laaqueel allowed his touch. Never in her life had a man, an elf, or a sahuagin touched her so.

"Do not," she warned, "think to overstep your bounds with me."

"Or what?"

Laaqueel had no answer. Iakhovas had joined with the pirates of the Nelanther Isles without her knowledge, only revealing the fact to her shortly before he'd killed Huaanton and proclaimed himself king. She didn't know what those alliances entailed, or how she was supposed to handle them. She stared hotly back at Falkane, hating the fact that she couldn't speak on her own.

"Do you know what generally happens to people who threaten me?" the pirate captain asked.

Laaqueel didn't reply. She'd heard a number of stories about Bloody Falkane, the Salt Wolf. His whole past was spun of violence and fear.

He dropped his fingers from her hair, tracing her jawline.

The malenti controlled herself, not flinching from his touch. He held no power over her. If anything, he might be considered her equal. So she didn't drop her eyes and defer to him as was custom among the sahuagin so no insult might be implied. She returned his full gaze hotly. What surprised her most was how her body reacted to his touch. Warm vibrations thrilled through her, and a bitter ache dawned at the core of her. She didn't know how his touch had incited such a reaction unless it could be blamed on her cursed heritage.

He traced her jawline with his forefinger, then brought it back to rest at her chin just below her bottom lip. He was a few inches taller than she was and suddenly seemed to envelop her.

"People who threaten me," he said, still in that soft voice, "die-in the most horrible ways I can think of. I assure you, I'm quite practiced at it."

Laaqueel tried to keep her thoughts centered on Sekolah, remembering that the Great Shark wouldn't put anything before her that she couldn't handle. If she failed Sekolah's tests, she would only prove her unworthiness. That was totally unacceptable. She only wished that Falkane's touch didn't have the affect on her that it did.

She shifted her attention to the deck over his shoulder. His men moved through the halyards with grim efficiency, some of them sporting bandages from wounds they'd received in the attack. Still, it didn't keep her mind from his touch.

"I've watched you," Falkane said, "these few times that we've shared company since first meeting in Skaug, and I've puzzled over your relationship with Black Alaric."

Black Alaric was the name Iakhovas had chosen to wear among the Nelanther Isles. The first pirate to wear the name of Black Alaric had appeared fourteen hundred years ago, then reappeared time and time again during periods of unrest.

Since learning of Iakhovas's chosen identity, the malenti priestess had researched the legend in her books of surface history. She'd first studied those to become adept as a spy among the sea elves and surface dwellers. The last Black Alaric had been active a hundred years ago. Iakhovas had claimed to take over the present identity five years ago, and had been plotting his strategies since that time.

"There is nothing to puzzle over," she told Falkane.

The pirate looked at her and grinned. "Until that day I met you, I'd never seen you in Skaug before."

Until that time, Laaqueel had never been in the capital city of the pirates before.

"I know I didn't because I would have remembered you if I had," Falkane said. "Someone so beautiful as you."

"You mock me." Laaqueel let some of the anger she felt drip venom into her words before she could stop herself. It was bad enough she had to so resemble a surface dweller and the hated sea elves, but her disfigurement also included dealing with some of the emotions that plagued them.

"No," he assured her. "I don't. I think you're a most enchanting creature." His eyes blazed as he deliberately looked at her from head to toe. "You're a beautiful woman. Don't you know that?"

"No," she replied. Even though she was fully clothed, she felt naked for the first time in her life. It was an unsettling experience.

"You have no man sequestered away somewhere?" he asked. "No lover?"

"No." In the sahuagin culture, possessions were to be admired and fought over, not mates. The reproductive cycle was a necessary thing. They didn't even raise their own children, turning the eggs over to the creches responsible for rearing them.

"Where were you raised to be so uninformed about the power you have to turn a man's head?" he asked.

Laaqueel looked at him, thinking that she'd like to turn his head till it spun off his shoulders. She wished she knew where Iakhovas was. They'd taken passage on Falkane's ship when they'd fled the sewers under Baldur's Gate, Iakhovas had immediately demanded a cabin and went off to examine whatever treasure he'd captured from the lime pit.

"I've heard that Black Alaric is a satyr in bed," Falkane said. "I've paid women who've spied on him. They couldn't tell me much more because he's very secretive."

Laaqueel looked at the pirate captain in shock. Since she'd been with Iakhovas, she'd never seen that side of him. Among the sahuagin, he'd been uninvolved with the opposite sex, and among others he'd always been in control.

"You didn't know that?" Falkane taunted.

"No. He has a habit of keeping his business as his own."

"And what are your feelings about him?"

Laaqueel shook her head. "I have none. I follow him because I believe that's what I'm supposed to do."

"Don't you ever think for yourself?"

"Of course," she snapped.

Falkane tapped her chin with his forefinger, stroking her flesh. "Then what do you think about me?"

"Nothing," Laaqueel stated flatly, but she knew that was no longer true. His interest in her, even if it was for reasons of his own, could provide an advantage for her that she'd never had since entering Iakhovas's thrall.

"Then I'll make that my mission," he told her. "Starting at this very moment, I promise you that you'll have cause to never forget me."

"You'd only be wasting your time. Ill forget about you the second you walk away."

Before she could move, he slid his hand behind her neck with a quickness she hadn't expected. He cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him, crushing his lips to hers in a deep kiss.