Imoen darted to the body lying on the dank, filthy floor. Anomen still lived; with his windpipe almost crushed, he would not live long.
She healed him with her powers: this much, and that little; and then, mixed a sleeping potion from a bit of powder and the water in her water bag. “Shh,” she told the man, who, still in shock and pain after what happened to him, did not yet know that he was already restored to health. “Drink this. It will help you heal.”
The potion worked almost instantly; as quickly as she managed, she took off the man’s splint mail, moved the sleeping body onto the closest bedroll, and covered it with the least soiled bedcover she found.
Now, the time was to face the more difficult part.
-----
Sarevok was outside, sitting in the night’s darkness with his head against the rocky wall and Pangur and Altair sleeping, back to back, by his side. “How is he?” he asked blandly, without opening his eyes.
“Alive,” Imoen replied, setting the two bottles and the two cups between them, and spreading a bit of cloth to sit on it: the rock was getting cold fast. “Asleep. Won’t wake up until morning.”
“Fool,” the man replied with audible relief. Then, he laughed, once, without great malice, “Ugly fool.”
Imoen smirked. “I’m sorry, brother… Was that still about him? You’re all covered in blood, you know. And it doesn’t look like it’s all his, either.”
“Some of it is the werewolves’,” her brother agreed easily.
“The part that looks like it’s still flowing, too? Open your eyes, I need to see.”
“Sister,” the man said, with some slight reproach; to which, the sister replied, “You won’t? Fine.”
Pangur? she thought, How do I see—? Oh.
The world became less dark, and more grey; and the perspective changed. She was much lower now, for one thing; she looked up—
Sarevok opened his eyes; and, for a moment, before Pangur’s eyes accommodated to the light, she was nearly blinded. The tales were, after all, true: cats had much more sensitive eyesight than humans.
“So, I was right,” she said, returning to her own eyes with a thought, and feigning triumph: her brother’s face looked almost as bad as Anomen’s. “Here,” she said, nudging his free hand with a bottle. “Healing. Then, wine. Tell me again why I should stay with you, brother. I don’t recall ever giving you the right to defend me.”
Sarevok sipped the healing potion slowly. “We are at arms against a common foe, sister; that is right enough,” he replied at last; then, flatly, “And you have no choice. Foolish bravado in the face of overwhelming odds is Delryn’s specialty.”
“And pragmatism is always a sought-after trait,” Imoen countered amiably, pouring the wine into the cups. “Which part of it made you treat Anomen as your punching bag, brother?”
“That cretin—” Sarevok started; and then, with a scowl, said, “He won’t be reasonable. He won’t obey me. How am I to protect him if he won’t obey a simple order?”
The wine was old, dry and made Imoen’s mouth water with its smell. “So, that’s it,” she said, tasting it unhurriedly. “He’s an irresponsible idiot, so you’re responsible for him? That’s what irritates you?” She smirked, and, for good measure, prodded, “Not that he called a god’s son, baseborn?”
Sarevok took a long, firm swig from his own cup, and announced his verdict. “Anomen Delryn, sister, is an infantile, unreliable braggart who believes we wouldn’t let him fight a dragon unless he impressed us with at least one foolish act in an hour.”
Beside him, Imoen’s smirk turned into an open grin. “He smote you,” she announced delightfully. “That’s what that rain of light was, wasn’t it? Helm’s holy power, falling right on top of my divine brother’s head… Must have been a nasty surprise.”
Her tired divine brother closed his eyes again, for a moment, as he massaged his scalp and shook his head lightly. “That, sister, was one of his better decisions. It worked. But I let him prove what he was worth, and instead—”
“Have you ever fought a dragon, brother?”
“—he disobeyed an express order. That vampire mist drained him nearly to death. No, sister. Never.”
Imoen smiled. “Vampire mist. So that’s what it was. How old are you, brother?”
They both watched each other for a moment, in silence, askew, drinking wine; before the brother asked, almost offhandedly, “How old do you think I am, sister?”
“I think,” the sister replied, amused, “that if Anomen Delryn ever learnt your age, he would completely refuse to follow you. And you’re going to make him listen to you tomorrow, are you not? That poor, poor creature…”
That cheered the man up, visibly. “He will, sister,” he replied, pleasantly, smiling, with that smile promising Anomen Delryn an eternity of torture and humiliation, “have the unique opportunity of squiring a nascent god.”
Imoen, happy, snorted. “A baseborn outlaw, brother.”
“It will postpone our plans a day,” Sarevok said, serious again. “But we simply cannot go at Firkraag as we are. You must learn to protect yourself from fire. I must train Delryn— Damn,” he cursed, sincerely. “I would much rather have Firecam here than that fool. There would have been far less screaming, I believe, despite that one being a full knight— Still, there is no use crying over spilt blood. Here, sister,” he said, unclasping something from his neck and proffering it to Imoen.
The woman took it curiously. The golden amulet looked simple enough: there were barely some faded etchings in it, and certainly nothing she would recognise. But the raw power it radiated— “What is it, brother?”
“For the past five minutes, fair sibling, you have been wondering how I made myself immune to the mist’s powers. Aran gave it to me when we realised that Bodhi was a vampire.”
“He did,” Imoen replied, putting away her cup, and examining the clasp and the pendant of the amulet in detail in the light she had decided, after all, to conjure. “How very provident of him. I still don’t like him. He beat you up just to say hello.”
“After that elf, sister,” her brother retorted cheerfully, taking in passing a long, deep swig from his cup, “I refuse to take your advice on men.”
“Damn,” Imoen smiled, returning the golden necklace and pouring more wine for them both. “And here I almost managed to forget about Coran. What do you think happened to his friend, by the way?”
“Geas,” Sarevok said with a deep, private scowl; Imoen narrowed her eyes and agreed, “It was Bodhi who killed the dryads.”
“She sent the woman here after we left Athkatla,” her brother countered in the much happier voice of the obvious challenge; and so, answering to it, she said, “But she wanted to make sure Safana would not double-cross her and tell us the rest of the plan if we found her out.”
Sarevok smiled, and finished, “The question is what the rest of the plan was.”
Imoen grimaced. “To alert Firkraag? If he knows Irenicus, he might know Bodhi, too… But Firkraag knew we were here before Safana did. And she wouldn’t have tried to hire werewolves if she could contact a dragon. And Firkraag, it seems, has his own plans… Brother, we are hopeless,” she sighed. “We let ourselves be seen by not one, but two people in—what? Four hours?”
“Five, I believe,” her brother smirked, toasting to her. “The workout was fine, sister,” he added matter-of-factly, drinking up the rest of his wine.
“Yes,” Imoen laughed, finishing her own. “It paid off. Although the Windspear Hills are not exactly what one might call… uninhabited.”
“No,” her brother agreed. “They aren’t. I would go speak with the orcs tomorrow, sister,” he added, casually, and Imoen, who was halfway to getting up already, sat back with utter disbelief.
“You want to go meet the orcs, brother,” she repeated, slowly. “Won’t they want to kill you?”
The man shrugged. “They might. Then, I would kill two or three of them, and the rest would talk. However, I don’t believe this will be required. I know these particular orcs. If they are Dig Dag’s, then they are the Stuck in Craw; Tazok’s people—and Mulahey’s, if you remember Mulahey, sister,” he replied to the incredulous look, before adding, shrugging again, “They may know something about what is happening here. And, frankly, I would not have a clan of orcs attack my back as I attacked a dragon in front.”
Imoen blinked, searched for arguments better than the one which jumped at her the moment she heard Sarevok’s claim: But they are orcs, brother! Orcs! Why don’t we just—and said, “Yes, brother, but… They work for Firkraag now. If you knew them once, that’s good, I guess, but are you really sure it will be enough to stop them from attacking you?”
“So I believe,” her brother replied graciously; before adding, “However, sister. Someone must protect the Helmite in my absence—”
A grimace. “I wasn’t planning on accompanying you, brother. Not to an orc clan.”
“I did not think you would be,” Sarevok rejoined simply; before adding, slowly, “Still. I must have yet one more promise of you, little sister… When Delryn wakes, remain asleep.”
“All right,” Imoen, who had been rather expecting this particular plea, assented, smiling. “But don’t expect me to clean up after you again, brother.”
A half-smile crossed the man’s face. “I won’t, sister. Thank you.”
After which, having said and told all there really was to tell and say, the siblings rose and departed the scene; leaving behind only a cat and an eagle, asleep, abreast, content.
-----
The dreamscape was accommodating: it had been so for both past nights. Imoen had been walking it with Irene as her guide, sightseeing, marvelling at its many gruesome wonders.
Tonight, the sisters were sitting together on the Candlekeep ramparts. Pangur was also there: a spot of rose and grey against the venomously green, tormented sky.
“One tear fell for every murdered soul, and our Father collected them all…” Irene was saying softly. Beneath them, the sea of crystalline tears beat against the rock of Candlekeep.
“What’s in the library, Irene?” Imoen asked suddenly. “The door won’t open. Why can’t I get inside the library?”
“I don’t know,” the dwarf replied; then, sadly, “I don’t know, Imoen.”
-----
She awoke at an indeterminate hour, with Pangur stretched to his full length next to her on some werewolf’s bedroll, in the darkness of the burial chamber of an ancient king: for the fire, untended, had gone out long before.
No man’s breath pierced the reeking shadows; Sarevok and Anomen must have gone outside.
For a moment, she lay in the darkness, thinking.
There was no telling how much Sarevok Anchev knew of Anomen Delryn; certainly, not the amount of information he possessed about his master. There was no reason why he should have ever taken interest in an inconsequential squire. But after the night, the nagging feeling that she had herself once heard the name and the line subsided, paving way to simple fact: she had once seen documents mentioning a Moira Delryn, daughter of Cor. She had stolen them from the mansion of Saerk Farrahd, the man who had hired the girl’s murderers.
-----
Then, they were sparring, in the fabulous, brisk scent of wilderness; for a moment, Imoen halted on the threshold of the cave, breathing in the scene. Two tall walls of rock, golden and red in the mid-morn sun; in between them, a slice of azure welkin above, an azure ribbon of a clear, shallow stream below; a small patch of scarce grass with two horses grazing, across the stream, in the far left of the field of vision. A birch tree just to her right, halfway through to the opening of the mist cave, with a splendid, imperial bird perched on one of the lower branches. An-Nasr at-Taïr.
The eagle was watching the commotion below with fond indulgence on her beak; Imoen crouched on the threshold and decided not to interfere, either, just for a wee bit longer.
They were fighting with their real weapons, no makeshift practice stuff: Anomen, in his left hand his mace, hiding carefully behind the family shield he carried in the other, dealing out blows warily, guardedly, rarely; intent and concentrated, and yet so much more—relaxed? Yes: that was it, Imoen concluded in the end with some surprise. If this was how he usually fought—yes, it was, she remembered from that brief skirmish— But it was not hers to judge his skill, ultimately; she did not have the skill to judge.
She could not help but grin when she shifted her gaze to the squire’s opponent. He was not fighting with the Edge of Chaos now, and he, too, was wielding the Burning Earth, Dalok’s flame tongue, in his left—though for him, the weaker—hand; as she watched, he suddenly hastened his pace and attacked; both men crossed the stream in a shrewd parade of blows and parries; for a moment, the tip of the flame trailing after the sword touched the surface of water, and there was a loud hiss and a massive cloud of steam, but neither fighter broke his concentration so much as to cast a look at it— The footwork was brilliant.
So, Sarevok was feeling lonely. And there was a part of him that wanted not the company of a little sister with whom to throw epigrams and enchantments at each other and at enemies, intellectually satisfying as a burning remark or a burning horde of goblins might be; there was a part of him that longed for the pure physical exhilaration of a spar, a fight. Not those random fights which were over within seconds and demanded little skill of him, or even those where he must wade through a horde of such weak enemies; her finicky, perfectionist brother wanted a fight which would be a goal unto itself; and someone to fight that fight with; a werewolf with whom to wrestle. The difference was, perhaps, like that between a trap Imoen herself must disarm to get somewhere and a trap she could play around with in her free time, at leisure.
He must have been so incredibly disappointed yesterday, when he had found out that Anomen would not deliver; that the squire was not proficient enough a fighter and mature a man to admit that he must retreat the battlefield; that he would try to impress them instead— Them? No. Him, rather. Not for Imoen’s attention had Anomen continued to fight during yesterday’s skirmish; for her, he would have remembered his oath. As it was, rivalry—after all, no squire of the Most Noble Order of the Radiant Heart could possibly be expected to withdraw while an outlaw held his spot—had prevailed over chivalry: duty and obligation to the outlaw’s sister. Sarevok—
The fight stopped for a moment, far away, by the horses; Sarevok put away the flame blade, picked up the druid staff Pauden’s gift; weighed it in one hand, to see how balanced it was; tried a few, almost random, moves with a deep, concentrated scowl. Anomen drank from his water bag; picked up the Burning Earth; asked something, pointing at the weapon’s hilt; Sarevok replied something; then, said something much longer, gesturing at Anomen’s feet, and his shield arm; the conversation lasted a few minutes more; all the while, Imoen, with her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, pondered.
There were certain—things; the idea itself was extremely vague, and she found she could not define it any further. But Sarevok was the kind of person who knew that a crimson rhodelia and a ring were the emblem of the Delryns. His own family—his foster family, she corrected, with a private smile—they had not been noble; as far as she could tell, at least. But they had been powerful. And there were certain things you learnt—you just absorbed from the air, sort of—when you grew up and lived among powerful people. Things she did not know. Such as what an Ilvastarr of Waterdeep was. She knew her own things instead, but that, not.
Anomen was probably the first person his own age Sarevok had met for a long, long time who would know such things if woken up an hour before dawn and asked. And he could fight, physically, much better than she did. And he was, well, a man, and there was no escaping that this also mattered. In a way, he was much more her brother’s kind of person than she was.
Of course, orcs were also her brother’s kind of people. That was part of the problem with him.
-----
The two men started to fight again: at first, only circling each other; then, Sarevok attacked high, on the head; a loud, dull sound resounded as Anomen caught the blow on his shield; instantly, a second blow, low, at the shins; another parry; Anomen attacked—
The staff looked fairly ridiculous in her brother’s hands; like a twig, almost. And he looked simply odd without a sword. But, somewhere beyond his complete focus on his moves, and Anomen’s moves—because there was no doubt who the teacher there was, and who the pupil: it was enough to look at the squire’s eyes—Sarevok was radiant. Fairly aglow with happiness. The way he had looked when he had met Altair.
Her cat had grown bored with her as soon as he had noticed the eagle; now, he was sitting next to the bird on the tree, washing himself nonchalantly. Altair, too, was grooming her feathers, from time to time casting nervous, furtive looks at the four-pawed ball of fur.
She let the fight last for a quarter of an hour longer; then, softly, said in the eagle’s direction, “Altair, tell my good-for-nothing brother to stop fooling around. There is work to be done.”
In the distance, Sarevok stole an amused glance towards her; then, hastened his pace and, in a few easy, vicious blows, drew his opponent to surrender. Then, for some further ten minutes, he discussed with Anomen whatever minute imperfections he must have still found in the squire’s balance; then, helped him out of his splint mail, and tied it to Grasshopper’s saddle; then, the two men, now with cooled heads, started to wash off the sweat in the cold water of the stream— Imoen would have sworn that Sarevok was delaying the reunion on purpose.
Then, at last, the men dressed, gathered the weapons, the water bags, the healing potions, and the palomino, and headed in her direction; Anomen finally noticed her, and, immediately, on cue, wide-eyed, blushed.
“Milady Imoen!” he exclaimed. “Forgive us— We were not aware—” He sputtered.
“Aware of what?” Imoen replied, feigning earnest incomprehension over her spell-book. Today, she decided, it was not the day for teasing; a handsome man who blushed because a woman saw him shirtless must be an even shyer, more private creature than she had earlier suspected Anomen Delryn to be.
“That you were present, my lady” the man finished, still with some difficulty; then, added, brightly, “I trust you slept soundly?! We tried not to wake you…”
“She did, squire,” an amused voice replied from the height of a charger’s back. “No elves around.”
Imoen smiled, briefly; Anomen, perplexed, listened to a curt, “My sword and my staff, Delryn,” put away his own shield and mace, and accepted, in turn, both weapons from the speaker.
“You’ll be taking Grasshopper and Altair with you, brother?” Imoen asked; at the same time, Anomen demanded, “Where are you going, Anchev?!”
“To meet potential allies, squire,” Sarevok replied smoothly. “My sister will give you the details.” Then, with a light bow, he turned to Imoen. “I will dispatch Altair once the first contact proves successful, sibling.”
“Of course, brother,” she replied in the same brisk, businesslike tone; without even adding, After all, you will need her, otherwise.
-----
“Where is he going, my lady?” Anomen asked curiously once Sarevok rode away into the canyon; To impress some orcs, Imoen almost replied; but instead, she said only, “Apparently, some friends of his live nearby. He’ll be back soon.”
That last statement, the squire took singularly without protest; but, a moment later, he cried out, with horror, “But—my armour? He— He took my armour!”
Imoen, incredulous, looked at the man, utterly mortifying him with her disbelief, and replied, “Yes, he did.”
She sighed when she saw his face. “My guess, Anomen, is he thinks they may have something better for you, and he’s taken it to have your measures at hand… Don’t worry. You’ll get it back. Probably,” she added truthfully. “Listen… Do you have anything to do? Because I must finish scribing these abjuration spells. It’ll take me an hour, and then, we’ll perhaps have a chat about that dragon—”
“But… my lady… Anchev… your brother, that is—”
Imoen studied the earnest, boyish face in front of her, and mentally cursed her brother’s recent matchmaking hobby. First, he had set the cat and the bird upon each other; now, this. Yes: Anomen Delryn did exhibit extremely fine, well-toned pectorals; yes: he was an heir, a nobleman, and a future paladin; and yes: as a substitute guardian, a Helmite ranked perhaps somewhat higher than a cat—but there simply didn’t exist a man to whom she could be less attracted. Well… Coran, perhaps.
For a moment, she wondered why exactly it had been so much easier to accept a flat-out ‘You have no choice’ from a much inferior, much eviller man, than this innocent—perhaps due to nothing but politeness—objection; when, in the end, she calmed down enough, she said, icily, “We will manage without him, I think.”
She watched the blush enter the squire’s cheeks again, and finished, trying not to sound unkind, “Just take an hour’s nap, Anomen, or something, while I finish. You must be tired. Then, we’ll talk.”
“Aye, my lady,” Anomen Delryn replied with a sigh; and then, sincerely, added, “I think I need seek my Lord Helm’s guidance again. ‘Tis a most thorny quest He would have me partake in.”
-----
…Suldanessellar.
She leafed through the pages of the diary to the place where she had tried to fill in what had happened in Athkatla—the escape from Irenicus’ place, and all that had happened among the thieves; but what she was searching for was not there. It was Edwin who had said something about a geas, she remembered, that was how she had learnt what it was, but—
It was not there; she sighed, added a small note about the theft of the Moira Delryn files, with a cross-reference to the fifteenth of Mirtul, the current date, and closed the small book.
A few steps away from her, Anomen was sitting in the shade of the birch tree. He was glowing lightly to her other eyes as he prayed; and she smiled. Perhaps she had been too hard on him; he must feel really out of his depth on his first independent mission; especially given that it was not even supposed to be such.
A high cry on the air; Pangur lifted his head from his napping spot on the tree; Altair, lightning fast, swooped down before stopping mid-air, so close to Imoen’s face that her wings lifted the rosy hair; in her talons, she was carrying a pheasant.
“Good thinking,” Imoen, relieved by the arrival, told her; and, because, if her brother might borrow her cat to pretend indifference, she might as well steal his eagle to hunt, she added, “Can you fetch two or three more?”
Altair cried, once; once moved her massive wings; left off; the man under the tree sounded, for once, genuinely impressed, as he said, “She is… magnificent, my lady.”
“She is my brother’s,” Imoen replied simply, picking up the pheasant to pluck it.
“Aye, my lady, I know. But she is, indeed, superbly trained. If I may venture a guess—magic?”
Imoen nodded, but chose not to explain beyond a, half-jesting, “Pure magic.”
The man drew closer. “May I aid you, my lady? ‘Twas my task, as a squire’s, to arrange the knights’ fare, and I grew quite skilled in the preparation of a wild-bird stew,” he said, for once unassuming; Imoen hid a smile. This sounded far more genuine a feat than yesterday’s tales of the Hillgnasher Giants; and so, she passed the bird to the squire whilst he, proudly, added, “Sir Keldorn—”
He halted, blushed, and cast a cautious look in Imoen’s direction. “It’s all right,” she replied. “I see no reason to hide the fact that the man my brother killed used to enjoy your stew, Anomen. What about Ilvastarr?”
“Ajantis, my lady? Ajantis was only just knighted— Forgive me, my lady,” Anomen said, evidently in response to the involuntary grimace which crossed Imoen’s face. “I meant no offence—”
“No. It’s all right,” she replied, watching the man at work; he really did seem practised at it. “I think I should be the one to apologise. For yesterday’s charm, for one thing.”
The man frowned. “I think, my lady, that you already did. And, according to… your brother, I have yet to thank you for giving me a chance to redeem my error after he—” Another pause; another blush. “After he shamed me.”
“Shamed you,” Imoen repeated, ghastly fascinated; finally comprehending the purpose behind yesterday’s display of brotherly affection. A slap on the cheek to leave Anomen Delryn without teeth; the physical punch had been just the supplement. Sarevok had wielded truth as he wielded his sword, aiming at the weak spots in the squire’s armour until he had broken it and him both in a single move.
The only comfort lay, perhaps, in that truth was a sword which maimed its wielder, its victim and casual bystanders alike; and so, that Anomen had not been the only one affected by it. However carefully choreographed the moves, the emotion and final intent had been genuine; Sarevok would not have almost killed Anomen had they not been. He would not have lost control. Not in actual point of fact.
Absently, she watched as, before her, feather after feather left the bird’s corpse.
“Aye, my lady.” Feather. “He shamed me, or, better said, I shamed myself…” Feather. Feather. “I nearly forsook my pledge to you. He—” Feather. “—had every right—” Feather. “—to handle me—” A whole bunch, torn out in one quick, angry move. “—like an honourless knave.”
“You do know that he has no honour himself, Anomen?” she asked quietly; the cruelty was almost too much. They needed the squire to follow, that he may live; not loathing himself for his youth, that he may have no reason to do so. “You said so yourself.”
“Aye, my lady. ‘Tis the gist: till I purge that stain from my honour, I cannot presume myself anything but that outlawed felon’s equal…” Anomen raised his head, and blushed again. “Forgive me, my lady. I constantly forget ‘tis your brother we speak of.”
Imoen smiled, and picked up the pheasant Altair had just brought. “I don’t mind. Me and Sarevok—Sarevok and I—we really haven’t known each other long. We were, actually, about to break up when the five of you attacked us.”
“Aye, my lady, I gathered that,” Anomen, still flushed, replied; and so, before he could say anything in the vein of, ‘I cannot think you would want to stay with that brute through your own will. Has he kept you by force, my lady?’ or ‘I am sure that you found yourself in that blackguard’s presence by pure accident, my lady’—for she really was in the mood neither for a youth’s worship nor for any possible consequence of it, not so soon after Cernd—she said, calmly, “I don’t think even Sarevok would mind if you called him that. After all, that’s what he is.”
And so, Anomen, bitterly, replied instead, “Aye. An outlawed felon. A murderer who yearned for the death of all in Amn… Walking her unpunished, riding my lord d’Arnise’s own steed, with an eagle trained for a hunting bird on his arm, and a loving sister by his side… I, too, had a sister, once, my lady,” he added; and Imoen, who suspected the answer, must ask, “What happened to her?”
If she let any trace of personal interest seep into her words, Anomen did not hear it. “An old enemy of my father’s, Saerk Farrahd, had her murdered while I was away from Athkatla, my lady. Moira… she was not a lady at arms. Without me to protect her, she was defenceless.”
“I’m sorry,” Imoen replied, truthfully, without wondering, much, why Moira had not been a lady at arms; then asked, “Did the guard catch him?”
“Aye, in the end, justice prevailed, my lady,” Anomen added, in a slightly happier tone. “Saerk was foolish enough to keep evidence of his crime in his own private safe. That was stolen, in a break-in that, no doubt, he staged himself—” Imoen, privately, groaned. “—But his own daughter, ashamed of his wickedness, had made a copy of it in time, and presented it to the magistrate. I had the pleasure of delivering the news of Saerk’s arrest to Lord Delryn myself! Aye, my lady, truth and justice prevailed. But Anchev…” he said, clearly unable to shake the so named off his mind, “He… He has justice for nothing. Holds it in scorn, even— Have I heard it correctly, my lady? That… Safana, she was hired to find him for that vampire, Bodhi?”
“Apparently, she was,” Imoen replied, curious what Anomen Delryn might have to say about it.
“My lady, half the Order’s might is tied in Athkatla, fighting Bodhi’s coven! ‘Tis, I shan’t deny, a true and righteous endeavour, and one I would gladly lay my life for… Yet, my lady, now, knowing that Bodhi stands against him, I cannot shake the feeling that Anchev is behind this, pitting the lives of his betters against his private foes—” Imoen, who knew it for sure, decided to keep her silence. “—and laughing as he does so!”
The young knight, now positively furious, looked up at her, and she felt compelled to say, diplomatically, “It does sound like something which would appeal to my brother’s sense of humour, yes.”
Anomen took the last undressed pheasant, crossly, and said, “Aye, my lady. Your foul heritage shan’t concern the Order till you stray from the path of righteousness; but Sarevok Anchev is a devious fiend who needs be slain. He knows no rule, whether human or divine; he is the worst kind of blackguard and a law unto himself. He thinks himself different…”
He is different, Imoen wanted to scream at the man. He is a seven-foot-tall man with glowing golden eyes. And you’re scared when he’s just looking at you. Perhaps he’s normal, somewhere, but it’s not in Amn. He can’t hide, not like I can.
Although, to tell the truth, there were people from whom she could not hide, either. She had not enjoyed the experience.
“…better…”
Half the time, he’s all smug and proud of himself because he knows perfectly how absolutely annoying he is like that, Imoen laughed. And he is brilliant. It’s just that kind of arrogance of excellence which the crowd, the average, the mundane, the mediocre, simply want to bring down to its knees, to make it apologise for itself and beg for their approval by inventing some weakness for their express perusal. My brother has his weaknesses, Anomen Delryn; I know some of them. He simply sees no reason to share them with you.
“…untouchable…”
I have avenged some of my fallen, Imoen thought, and others do not want to be avenged. The rest, I leave to you. Catch him, if you can. While you still can.
“…but even he, my lady, shall fall before the holy wrath of the righteous!”
Fight him, then, she almost spoke out aloud. Only that you can’t fight him alone, can you? Gang up on him, then— Honestly, between his superiority and your championship of mob rule, I’m almost beginning to regret that I’m on your side, squire. You completely missed the point, after all. He’s evil.
-----
Pangur, Altair. Cruelty, guilt, choices. Knights, striking insidiously: two to the fore, one to the side, where one least suspects them.
Once, they used to infringe each other’s space, crudely: standing closely to each other; handling each other, physically— They barely touched each other, now. There was little need to. But boundaries were still tried and tested, if more subtly.
Sarevok wanted to protect her, then, in that casual cruelty of a murderer who would protect his victim from future murderers. He wanted to kill Anomen, and offered to kill Coran, and then, at her behest, killed neither; and he felt guilt for drawing her into his matters; and then, he lost control as he realised his weakness and the chink in his own armour. And they were at arms against a common foe, and that was right enough, and she had no choice.
And, even before all that, when they both thought they were parting, he would try to remain in her life; insinuate himself into it through a back door. He offered her Pangur.
Everything, perhaps, harked back to that old saying: once you saved a person’s life, you were responsible for it; to simple arithmetic: if, in the end, he survived, she would not; to retroactive guilt: if she survived, he would not.
She offered him Altair.
She offered him an eagle, and made him happy, as a human, for a moment; and, in the same move, told him that one of the very few acts of mercy—perhaps the only one—he had committed in his life was utterly meaningless.
Casual cruelty was not a complicated art, to one, by birthright, a cruel goddess: a bit of honey in one hand; a bit of poison in the other; and, in the end, a choice. And she had not had the worst teachers, all in all.
She did not mind that her brother wished to protect her; if they travelled together, they must protect each other, and there was something to be told for having Sarevok on and at and by her side. And if it helped him assuage guilt, then guilt existed; her words had not left him untouched, and that, perhaps, had a meaning of its own. But killing came to Sarevok easily; and so, she, in her own brand of cruelty, would have him not kill, but endure Anomen Delryn.
Anomen would change him, of course—he already had, yesternight: there was no reason why a nascent God of Murder should care the least for the death of his own lackeys. But the cat had caught and brought home Anomen Delryn; and Anomen Delryn must survive long enough, despite himself, if needed. It was a challenge, as much as Anomen himself was a nobleman and a fighter; her brother enjoyed challenges and longed for the company of nobles, men, and fighters.
The siblings were not fools, either of them: there was not a speck of any innate goodness anyone might find in Sarevok, no hidden depths for anyone to discover. All semblance of decency there could ever possibly appear would have to be crafted out of utter void with a great deal of hard work; but, because Irenicus made the brother capable of feeling pain and regret for Semaj, and then pain and anger for Angelo; and because he felt for Cernd—and even because he felt for Aran Linvail; for, however the thought might revolt the sister, the brother really did feel something for that smart, elegant, repulsive man—she, in her cruelty, gave him Altair, with every reservation that he might refuse her gift, every step of the way.
And he was, of course, at most letting her let him try out being happy in her society, following her rules, for the meantime; for, ultimately, his fate would be his own choice; and she would not want it otherwise. All she ever did was give him an eagle, that he remember a sister, a promise, and an alternative; she would not waste time on the futile endeavour of attempting to mould a murderer into something else. She had her own life to think of.
With her, Sarevok was horse-playing, eagle-hunting, ridiculing his sister’s former boyfriends and teasing squires; with him, she was killing paladins, seeing him charm and beat up people, and drugging them herself to put them to sleep. Decent people cursed her on sight in his company; and though he may not wish it, it still happened.
He was nothing but a brilliant, murderous leper.
She liked him, she suspected.
