In The Cards

Look at your enemy closely, and you may be surprised to discover a brother. Still, even as you feel awe at that new closeness, try to remember that plenty of murders take place within the family. A brother he may be, but that doesn’t make him anymore of your friend, at least not at once.

Excerpt from ‘Interview With An Assassin’

There was a tearstain on one of the older pages of the diary. Just one, and near the spine of the book, where the writer probably hadn’t noticed it. If there had been any others they were no longer in evidence, though here and there pages seemed to have been angrily torn out. And on the later pages there also weren’t any, for by the time those were penned the writer had left most of his human emotions behind.

Dekaras stared at the final entry of the diary, not really seeing it. The assassin knew better than to try reading the dangerous volume while inside the Iron Throne compound of course. He did not want to risk being caught with it, and so had brought it with him to the room he still kept at the Elfsong. He had hoped to find valuable information within it; some weakness in Sarevok that might be exploited, and so help insure Edwin’s continued survival. And he certainly needs all the help I can give him in that area, as reckless as he is, he thought, I wish I knew what’s keeping him so long, they ought to have reached the city by now.

What Dekaras hadn’t counted on was the strange resonance he felt within the darkest, most secretive corners of his soul as he read the diary, every other word or sentence bringing back thoughts and feelings he usually kept deeply buried. Fear. Pain. Abandonment. Hatred. And the anger, the terrible black rage that wanted to strike and destroy everything around it, that was a desperate hunger, craving blood to fill the void within.

I have walked the same road as he has, or one akin to it at least. The assassin turned the pages back again with a sort of sick fascination, unable to put the diary down just yet. There was a haunted look on his sharp face as he found a particular entry. Yes…very familiar indeed. This entry had been written by a young Sarevok, still a child in fact, and not a happy one.

Reiltar gave me another beating today, for ‘looking insolent’. I wasn’t, not really. But he likes to hit me, he always has. It doesn’t matter if I try to be good, if he wants to, he’ll hit me anyway. Mother tried to talk to him, but he struck her in the face and she fell down. Then when I tried to keep him from hurting her more he got really mad.

It was some time before I woke up this time. I suppose it’s lucky I did, in a way. Mother and Winski would miss me if I were gone. But it hurts really badly, especially when I breathe. I think something inside me may be broken. Winski ought to be home soon. If I’m feeling strong enough, I’ll go find him and ask for help. But I’m afraid to do it, that he might say it’s too late to do anything. Stupid of me. I’m not a baby anymore. And it’s not as if it’s the first time either. And Winski will help me, I know he will. He always does. I think he hates Reiltar almost as much as I do.

I hope Mother is all right. She wasn’t there when I woke up, and she usually is when Reiltar’s finished with me. I won’t call him Father. I won’t. Not here, it’s bad enough that I have to do it when I talk to him. I hate him, and I wish he were dead. I really do. I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

The worst times are when he hurts Mother. I can hear it through the walls, and I want to help her, but I can’t. Sometimes he makes her scream. He likes making people scream. I try not to, but sometimes I can’t help it. I hate him. I hate him so much.

He owns us all, you know. All of us here, he often says so. And he says I should be grateful, that he took me from the streets and gave me a home and a family. I’m grateful for Mother, and for Winski. I wish he could be my Father instead. But I’ll never be grateful for Reiltar. I hate him so much, it makes me hurt inside.

I know a good game though. Sometimes, late at night, I make up different ways of killing him, and try to make them more and more painful. I’d like to hear him scream the way he makes Mother scream. I’d like that a lot. And I’m good at thinking up these things, and at fighting, and even killing. I’ve always been, much better than somebody my age should be, Winski says. He says he’ll try to help me find out why I’m like that. But whatever it is, it makes me stronger, and that’s good. When I’m big and strong enough I can hurt Reiltar and keep him from hurting us. That’s what so good about the Killing thoughts, and the Killing Dreams. Being scared makes me weak, but hating makes me stronger. I’m growing stronger every day. I think one day I’ll be really, really strong.

Dekaras paused in his reading, his face tense and drawn. Yes, he thought, as he touched the page with something that almost resembled tenderness.. That was more or less what it was like, wasn’t it? The humiliation and rage at knowing yourself powerless, of suffering pain at the hands of another. The craving for revenge. The warmth that can be had from hatred. The thoughts that no child should need to have. I remember those well. He could feel more than a little of that anger coming back right now, in fact. Judging from the diary entries it seemed that Sarevok had suffered terrible abuse at the hands of his foster father for many years. And it got worse than the beatings. Sarevok’s foster mother had lived to see him reach his full height, but no more than that. Another entry described her death.

Mother…mother is dead. We found her on the floor, cold and bloated. She had been garroted, the cord had dug deeply into her flesh, she was all blue and her eyes were bulging and her tongue…it was all swollen and puffed up. I can’t remember what I did the first hour afterwards. It’s all a black hole inside my head, but my hands are hurting, and my voice is raw. I think I must have hit something, probably screaming while I did it. I can’t remember. I can’t remember any of it.

Winski wouldn’t move from her. He just kept staring at her, saying nothing at all. He looks almost like he’s dead as well. If he is, then Reiltar’s responsible for his death as well as Mother’s. He will die for that. It was him who did this; I know it. He looks so triumphant, so pleased with himself. If he had been there when first we found Mother, then I would have torn his head from his body with my bare hands. Only Tamoko kept me from doing so, saying that there was no proof, and that the law would come after me, and that Reiltar would win if I was destroyed along with him. She is right, though it’s only now that I can see it. Revenge will come, but at a proper time.

But that is for later. My thoughts are wild, I want nothing more than blood and death, and there is a strange voice whispering at the edge of my mind, speaking of how sweet it would be to drink Reiltar’s blood and rip him to pieces. I fear that I may be going insane. Mother…please help me. We need you. I miss you so much.

Dekaras got up from the table, fighting a sudden urge to toss the book out a window. He really didn’t want to know all these things. That mixture of Sarevok’s hatred for his father and grief for his mother struck far too close to home. Except in my case I hated both my parents, he thought with a bitter twist to his mouth. And I missed them both as well, even after what they allowed to happen. I’d forgotten exactly how much, on both accounts.

Some of the entries described Sarevok’s relationship with Tamoko, the warrior woman. A meeting of two souls destined for each other, or so it seemed at first. But then as time progressed Sarevok also gained another interest, an almost fanatical one.

I know the truth now, one entry started. It is as I have always suspected, I am no ordinary man. The blood of a dead god runs through my veins, the blood of Bhaal, the Lord of Murder. This explains it all, my great strength and speed, even as an untrained youth. My dreams, where I now know that my true Father speaks to me. Even that strange resistance of mine, the near imperviousness to magic that Winski has always found so puzzling. I certainly need fear no wizardry, though Winski keeps telling me that I should be less sure of myself lest I come to harm. He doesn’t understand. How could he? He doesn’t feel the pull of the blood, the growing divinity.

Winski will help me though, as he always has. We will find a way to help me ascend my Father’s Throne, and I will finally have the power I need to live free. If I do not wish others to rule me, then I must make certain I rule them, and that they fear me. Reiltar certainly will. I still play the part of the dutiful son, but I will not do so forever. His time will come.

I wish Tamoko would be more enthusiastic about my grand destiny. It seems to frighten her, she who is so utterly fearless otherwise. I cannot understand it, but she will change her mind once she sees me truly wield my Father’s power. She will. She has to.

Now the entries progressed to describe Sarevok’s plans, the iron plague scheme, the bandits raiding the coast way, the iron from the Cloakwood Mines being supplied by the Iron Throne as a means of gaining both money and popularity. Dekaras already knew most of this, but what followed was new to him, new and chilling.

The Grand Dukes will fall, as our plans are near complete. The doppelgangers are doing their work, infiltrating the nobility, and I will have all the support I need to be selected. Once I rule the City nothing will stop me from completing the Plan. We have already started enough rumors about Amn being behind the iron crisis that igniting the populace will be easy. There will be war, and the Sword Coast will run red with blood. Blood and death enough to trigger my Ascendance, as I perform the final ceremony in my Father’s old Temple. Soon, it will all be mine. I will be the new Lord of Murder.

There is the nagging problem of my little sister however. A small problem, but an annoying one. She has proved surprisingly difficult to kill so far. Perhaps Slythe and Kristin will be able to deal with her. I shall mention it to them, though they have a lot to deal with already. Of course, I would much prefer to kill her myself. She has earned that courtesy.

There were some more entries, similar to this one, speaking more and more of Sarevok’s Grand Scheme, less and less of those more human concerns that had permeated the early ones. The blood of Bhaal is getting to him, Dekaras thought. He is more than half insane already I think. Not that I can blame him. Had that power been promised to me in my darkest hour, I don’t doubt that I would have seized upon it, just as he did. I can see just how tempting it would be to become Lord of Murder, to be a god. Impervious to pain, to suffering, to longing. Yes, that would have been very tempting. So easy to fall for the lies, for lies they must be. If Bhaal truly exists still in some form, then he will never pass on his power to his children. Poor Sarevok.

The assassin shivered a little as he put the diary down for the second time. He did feel true pity for Sarevok, he realized. The Sarevok who had been, the abused and lonely child. And the Sarevok who was, deluded into believing that this mad scheme might actually work. Doomed, even if he should succeed. A kindred spirit, in certain ways, determined to find his own way in the world and fight to get what he wanted. And yet I cannot allow that pity to influence me in any way. I have my own fights. I care little who sits the Throne of Murder, and this war of yours does not concern me. But you threaten one of the few people in the world that do concern me, and I cannot allow that.

Keeping Edwin alive and safe, that was the only reason why he was here after all. And right now doing so meant to help keeping Zaerini safe as well; making sure Sarevok didn’t wipe her out along with those who followed her. That meant trying to remove Sarevok from the equation, as quickly as possible. Dekaras thought about this for a few moments. There was something he’d read, something that was giving him a vague idea. Yes. It was a possibility, an angle of attack that Sarevok wouldn’t be expecting, but it hinged on finding the proper means and opportunity to carry the plan out. Still, he would keep it in mind, even as he searched for alternative options. He should have been pleased, and he was, partially. But he could take no real joy in the thought of Sarevok’s death, not after reading that diary. Not after sharing that pain, that rage, that confusion.

I am sorry, Sarevok, the assassin thought as he closed the diary again and slipped it into a hidden pocket. Truly I am. But I will do what I have to do. Somehow I think you would understand that. I cannot afford to do otherwise.

And as he told himself that, not for the first time, he almost managed to forget the stain of a single tear on a yellowed page. Almost.