He withdrew the sword from the doppelganger’s guts and considered.
The beast in the pit below had, no doubt, been set there to devour the remainders of the wizard’s experiments; the dwarves had had access to it to feed it. But the narrow steps in front of him must lead—
He looked behind: the little sister was still sitting there, still with a vacant, absent air, still shaken by spasms, sobbing.
It was a pity that she was a sibling, he must admit that much after he had seen her work her trade. He might find some use for her otherwise: she was a proficient—trap-detecting monkey, to use her own expression—and sufficiently good with the bow; and she was a killer. Murderer, no; not yet; though that, too, would surely come in the fullness of time as the taint, still hidden, emerged and made itself known; but killer she was, even now. She enjoyed hunting the mephits omnipresent in this place; enjoyed the killing of the wizard’s smiths; enjoyed the appeal of a well-aimed shot, a well-placed blow; a well-executed kill. Yes; it was a pity that she was a sibling and that he would kill her.
For now, however, she was unstable; and, weak as he was, he needed her. There was no use denying it; hence, he must return for her. Perhaps outside of the forge’s noxious fumes, she would recover faster; or at all.
He noticed again the grey, amorphous mass of the shape-shifter’s body as he led the girl into the doppelganger’s pen; then, upon further consideration, bent, picked it up and threw it into the pit below. Imoen might not welcome the sight as the first upon her recovery; Frennedan’s kind, his servants, had been her enemies.
The doppelganger had tried to call on their shared history to have Sarevok rescue him from the wizard’s prison; and, when the man had sifted through his memories, amidst all the lacunae he had found, he had found the relevant remembrance; and once he had found it, had found himself clutching desperately to it— But this did not change the fact that Frennedan was wasted; that he must have been as hungry as hungry Sarevok was himself; and that his kind were eaters of human flesh.
A split second passed as the Bhaalspawn must wonder: how many days had he gone without eating, sustained only by the wizard’s magic? Then, he berated himself for the thought: it did not matter, in the end, of course: if he managed to escape, he would eat then; if he did not, then he… would not.
He cast one last look at the sibling, gathered himself and started to ascend the staircase.
-----
Once upstairs, he looked around. He had been correct: the barrel-vaulted crypt was a crossroads of sorts, with three paths radiating outwards, to what he guessed must be the armoury, the genie’s cavern, and the library, all behind those closed, warded doors Imoen could not open. The doors on whose other side he now was; he, and the fourth corridor.
There was a door here, too, but, as far as he could tell, it was not warded. He kicked it in, in a sudden influx of anger; and, to his amazement, when the dust fell, for a short moment he found himself being, of all possible things, his foster father’s son.
Incarnadine sarsenet bed-covers and heavy, golden cloth-of-gold bed-hangings; walls panelled in linenfold; a thick Cormyrian rug on the floor; an exquisite chaise longue upholstered in kidskin; a pewter-and-mithril candelabrum in the room’s every corner—and the list, he was sure, was far from complete: the wizard’s private chambers were an essay into opulent luxury bordering on inexcusable tastelessness.
Forcing himself to snap out of this mercantile reverie and into remembering that they must make haste; they need be a moving target to even contemplate a successful escape—he scanned the chamber briefly, again, with, not a business man’s, but a fighting man’s, eyes. It was empty; the splendid inlaid rosewood cabinets were, more likely than not, locked; he would leave it to open them to the little sister.
He was about to retrace his path when a glimpse of movement caught his eye. Hence, he entered the side passage, instead; and found himself in a grove.
-----
For a moment, shocked, he did nothing but stood there, gaping like some daft druid at the sheer lushness of the verdure: the carpet of grass below his feet, as thick as the rug in the neighbouring chamber; the dark bark of the trees; the dense canopy above. Was this really so easy; had he already escaped? But no; the darkness which peeked through the tree-crowns was not that of a starless sky; it was a ceiling. This place had been rendered this pocket paradise through nothing else but arcane artifice; it was the wizard’s, and not nature’s, magic which prevented the plants from dying—
“Who are you? Another of the wizard’s servants, coming here to taunt these caged spirits? Begone, evil one; Irenicus has taken all; you can harm us no more.”
“I daresay I might still find a way or two, if I wanted,” Sarevok replied to the disembodied voices, “But I serve no one. Show yourselves, creatures!”
They did: three women came out from within the trees, attractive and scantily clad; and Sarevok remembered, again, how once, in another lifetime, before he had learnt that he might be a god, he had been a man.
He quickly stifled the sentiment; there were more important matters to concentrate on.
“If not the wizard’s servant, then you must be the wizard’s prisoner,” said one of the women.
“As are we,” added a second.
“Help us!” implored the third.
Sarevok looked from one beautiful face to another.
“Why?” he asked simply. “Do you have anything to offer in return?”
The three faces froze in surprise; a moment later, the women started to cast knowing looks between themselves.
The foremost woman had just made a move, as if she was about to speak, when Sarevok added in a lazy drawl, “Anything useful? Food? Water? Information?”
The relief on the three faces was palpable; the woman on the left said, “We have food and water. We can share them with you!”
“And information, too! What do you want to know?” said the woman to the right.
“The wizard. Irenicus,” Sarevok almost spit out the name.
“Irenicus,” echoed the foremost woman.
“The Shattered One,” added the leftmost one.
“Incomplete.” This time, it was the rightmost woman who had spoken.
“Marred.” The leftmost one again.
“Defiled.” Again the rightmost one.
“He still loves her, you know?” finished the woman in the centre, “We sometimes go into her room and look at the things.”
“Her room?” Sarevok asked. The three women wordlessly stepped aside, opening a way for him to pass.
Sarevok squinted. There was a faint light coming through the thick foliage.
-----
He stepped into the room, and was immediately greeted by the ear-splitting sound of an activating alarm. He swore loudly: that was what came of walking through unfamiliar places without one skilled in trap-spotting.
The presence of an alarm meant the presence of guardians summoned by the alarm; perchance, even, the wizard himself. As fast as he could, he ran away from the place, back through the grove, and into the wizard’s chamber.
He was about to leave it through the shattered door when the two golems entered the room.
Sarevok swore again; then, he reached—
Hello, Father.
-----
There was... pain.
There was darkness.
There was the face of the wizard, carving another extremely intricate, detailed sigil in his skin and flesh with one of those very special knives.
There was the face of Father, killing him with a blade made of human bone.
There was the face of the little sister, approaching him with a look of pure hatred on her face and with a lightly enchanted dagger in her hand.
There was pain.
-----
There was the cool touch of a healing potion on his lips.
He swallowed a sip and tried to speak. “Wh—”
“No,” he heard a voice. “No, big brother. Drink.”
He drank.
He drank and drank, one potion after another, without opening his eyes; he felt the damaged tissue of his flesh mend and heal; the scattered shards of broken bone diffuse into nothingness; the bone itself restore, reset.
At last, there wasn’t another potion at his lips; and he opened his eyes.
There was an unpleasant chill on his skin; on the tender, newly healed flesh. A part of his mind analysed the sensation, and reached a conclusion: he had no armour on, not even the provisional plates he had put on before.
He felt naked.
A moment later, he discovered that he was naked, at least in part; Imoen must have cut not only through the straps he had used to fix the armour, but also through the cloth he had been wearing underneath; probably so that they would not contaminate the wound and interfere with the process of healing.
“Don’t worry about that,” he heard an annoyingly merry voice pipe up, “The dryads told me where to search for the wizard’s clothes. We found something that we think can fit you, big brother.”
“Oh,” he managed to utter, and instantly wished that he had not.
Fortunately, the girl did not notice his momentary weakness; indeed, instead, a grimy face crowned with tangled, matted brown hair appeared in his field of vision. “And an armour, too!” the little sister chirruped whilst he noted that she had the wizard necklace fastened around her neck. “So, dress, and I’ll go see what’s in the other room. We’ll eat, and then, we’ll go help Malaaq—”
Sarevok blinked slowly, trying to fashion a means to regain the irretrievably lost control.
To initiate the battle, he started to raise himself into a sitting position; the sibling, as he noticed with some small satisfaction, immediately backed off slightly. “—Ulene and the others have some things to eat, if you want,” she said, starting to her feet; and he suddenly remembered the dryads’ promise to feed them.
She turned to the exit which led to the grove; she was already leaving the room when Sarevok called out.
“As much as it warms my heart, sibling, to find you in such high spirits… Who is Malaaq?”
-----
The little sister turned around, and he saw in her face, mirrored clearly, that, for all wizard’s necklaces and all wizard’s imprisonments, for all her newfound crutches and all his newfound emaciation; for all his nakedness—agreeably, she still feared him. She backed off a step.
“Malaaq,” she said slowly, “is Aataqah. It’s his real name. He is a prisoner here, like everyone else, Cania and Elyme told me… Irenicus made a wish, see? Malaaq has to confuse the paths and everyone around here, so no one can get out of this place without Irenicus’ permission…” She must have noticed his sudden fury, because she added, pleading hurriedly, “We don’t have to kill him to get out! The dryads have his flask, and he has their acorns, see? They can’t help each other, even if they wanted to, and Irenicus likes it that way. But if we take the flask to him, and wish for the acorns, and for the way out, and make a third wish—Irenicus won’t make a third wish, and that’s what’s keeping Malaaq here, see?—and if we take the acorns to the surface, we’ll help everyone!”
He wondered if she knew how those who wished things from a genie terminated par for the course; but that offended him less; he smirked. “Little sister, who do you take me for? An errand boy?”
The little sister backed off another step, so that she was not standing inside the room any more, but on the soft soil of the grove. But when she replied, her voice was firm.
“No, Sarevok, I don’t. But, you know,” she added, with sweet, offensive mischievousness, “the dryads told me that the genie is here also to protect a powerful magical object. And that he’s forbidden to give it to anyone. That was Irenicus’ second wish. But if we have Malaaq’s flask, we can wish for that thing, too— And you know what, brother?” she added, clearly riding high on her emotion, “We’ll do it this way. My way. Because, you know what, big brother? We’re even. We’re even, and I’m going there, and I’m going to help the genie. Not kill him. Even if this means wishing things from him—” So she did know, he noted, absently, watching the girl. “And you—you can’t stop me, because you know that otherwise, I won’t help you. And you need my help. And you know that, and I know that, and so, we’ll do it my way this time!” she finished, flushing from excitement.
That precisely, he must endeavour to make her forget. “Are you finished trying to blackmail me, little sister? If so, go. Play with your toys. We must move soon.”
“Tough,” Imoen retorted. “Because, as a matter of fact, I’m not finished, and we’re not going anywhere, except to help the genie.” Suddenly, she noticed that he noticed that she was fingering Irene’s necklace, and forcefully removed her hand. Too forcefully: leaving him an easy opening on which to capitalise.
“I see that, for all your brave words, you are nervous, sibling. Do I frighten you?”
Imoen started to speak, “You know very well that you do, Sarevok—”
“Good,” the man growled, taking a step towards her. “So go.”
Then, after a moment, he added, “And hurry. The genie, no doubt, eagerly awaits salvation at your hand.”
Imoen blinked. She must think she won, hopefully.
-----
The little sister had found herself a crutch to lean on; therefore, Sarevok had found himself loth remembering a lesson in mercantile lore. When bargaining from an inferior position, yield a little; allow your opponents a modicum of success; inebriated with the conquest, they will overlook the greater loss. Mercantile lore: long beneath his contempt. The Son of Murder stands in no position but that of utter supremacy.
The little sister found herself a crutch to lean on, and Sarevok found himself putting on—clothes; he preferred not to think of their rightful owner. They barely fit, even though he had lost much of his muscle even as he had accumulated scars.
The armour was an elven chain mail, light, unenchanted, and golden in colour; not comparable to his old Deathbringer’s armour, of course; but it, too, would do for now, as it must.
He went back into the grove: the dryads had disappeared, but he found that there was a small pile of fruit laid out on the ground under one of the trees. He sat next to it and started to eat; he could not eat much, he knew, or else he might vomit all; but, as the smell and taste reached him, he discovered slowly how hungry he really was: unbearably so.
The sibling emerged from the room not much later, carrying a bundle of miscellany. She, too, began to eat; as hungrily as he did. He might warn her against overeating, he supposed, but the girl had spent several months in the wilderness after he had driven her sister and her out of Candlekeep; and so, she must surely know certain things on her own.
“Tell me, Sarevok,” she said suddenly, and without ever stopping munching on the fruit, “What was it that you did back there? With the golems, I mean?”
He looked at her, surprised. He could not decide what was more startling: that, even now, she dared attempt to strike a casual conversation with him; or that she did not know. “What did you see?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Not much. I drank an oil of speed when I heard the alarm, and when I reached the top of the stairs, you had already destroyed one golem— You fought very well there,” she threw in, unashamed.
“It is gratifying to know that I have earned approval in your eyes, little sister.”
The girl proved immune to his sarcasm. “It was really bad luck that the second fell on you the way it did, I guess. But you were,” another shrug. “I don’t know. Yourself, I suppose. But more so.”
It was surprising, perhaps, that she noticed as much, with her lackadaisical attitude to her heritage and her ancestry; in the end, he replied matter-of-factly, “I released Father's powers.”
The girl blinked. “Oh.”
And then, merciless, she insisted on continuing the topic.
“Irene could do something like that, too, you know? She could heal herself from time to time,” she chirruped on, “And she could slow the spread of poison through her body. And once, she killed an ogre just by touching it and healed herself at the same time. But she did that just once. She said it made her feel weird…”
He let her talk; and, once she was finished, asked, “What did you find in the room?”
“Some spells,” the sibling replied, “some potions, some gems, jewellery, and the Mistress’ keys, whoever she is. Is that how you broke out of your cage?”
“Yes. Any diary? Journal?”
“Not every villain keeps a diary, you know... Did it hurt? ‘Cause, I must tell you, you’ve just winced.”
“Which, I’m certain, makes you absolutely ecstatic, sibling. So, there was nothing?”
“No. Nothing!” the girl nearly yelled out. “Stop it! I’d also love to know what are the most intimate thoughts of my torturer, but there was nothing.”
“He must keep some records of his experiments,” he said, more to himself than to her. There had been none in his brief perusal of the library.
“Well, I’m not staying here to search for them,” the girl retorted angrily. “And what would you need them for, anyway?”
Sarevok looked at her coolly. “Haven’t you listened to what you heard, sibling? Irenicus knows how to deal with our powers.”
“I was too busy being cut, burnt and otherwise tortured,” she shot back. “But yes, it figures that you would like to release… our… potential! And, let me guess, when we left this place, I was to be your test bunny in turn?”
This amused him. “Perhaps.”
“Sarevok,” the girl said, with utter conviction and without missing a beat, “you’re a bastard.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, still quite amused. “But I am not the only one, sister.”
As her eyes narrowed—and he knew exactly what the girl must be doing: trying to find precisely how she might hurt him most; and failing—he added slowly, relishing every word, “Don’t think too highly of yourself, sibling. Again: have you ever listened to what you were told? The Lord of Murder shall perish, but he shall leave in his wake a score of mortal progeny… A score, sister: not one, not two, not three; a score. You would do well to remember this. Take it as… brotherly advice.”
This was met only with silence.
In silence, the siblings watched each other; suspiciously and resentfully on Imoen’s part; coolly and with detachment on her brother’s.
The man was the first to speak, “We must move. Lead the way, sister.”
-----
In effortless concord, the Children of Murder killed the otyugh which emerged from the darkness of the pit under the crossroads; and that, even though Imoen had never seen an otyugh before, and must ask Sarevok its name and appellation.
Then, with the key of Irenicus’ absent mistress, they undid the wards and opened the door to the genie’s dim, peaceful cavern; and then, they exchanged the genie’s flask for three wishes: three dryads’ acorns, the way out, and the enchanted object in Aataqah’s safekeeping.
Aataqah, whose true name was Malaaq, gave them the acorns; touched the flask; in doing so, took the siblings to a place much different from the underground cave; not a prison, but his true home; a place where Imoen had never been and which she would gladly forego visiting again; a place saturated with cold wind which hurt her eardrums and which made her eyes water; a small, unsafe, wobbling wooden platform suspended in the middle of a nothingness, on no supports—
She looked around, slack-jawed. You must rise, she remembered. But that much? She wondered if this was the proverbial genie’s gratitude, and this place, the way out he had prepared for them; a way out, but into a vertiginous Aeolian abyss.
But before her, “Beware,” Malaaq was telling Sarevok, “Leave as quickly as you can. For escaping, the Master will punish you. But for releasing his djinn slave, he will kill you. And now, for your last wish, Bhaalspawn—” Bhaalspawn; again. Between talks of potential and Irenicus’ experiments, she had long lost the last delusion that through that name, the genie meant only the man standing next to her.
Malaaq disappeared; and they were in Irenicus’ dungeon, back in the dark cell from which they had started their trek through the prison, but before a patch of the wall which was now a corridor; and Imoen saw the sword lying on the floor. Not just any sword; the sword.
Sarevok watched it hungrily, as if he expected it to follow the genie’s lead and vanish any moment. When it did not, with a short, abrupt move he cast aside the plain, unenchanted blade he had been carrying before, with such force that it rebounded from the steel bars of a cage, far away— Then, tenderly, he knelt, took the ornate sword, swiftly rose and made a practice cut; the blade fit him and his hand perfectly; as it well should, having been tailored particularly for him.
Then, Imoen’s brother turned to her and said, with emotion, “Sister. This time, I must bow to your superior reasoning; and this bout, I am happy to forfeit!”
And then, he laughed; and, as she watched the mad sparks glitter in the man’s eyes, deep within the darkness of the helm of the man he had once killed; as she listened to his deep laughter, rebounding from the prison walls—Imoen decided that wishes asked of genies do, after all, have a way of turning to ill; and that she would much rather not have had her point.
