The Glass Prison (23 page)

“You have come here in error then, cambion,” the Ravenwitch told him softly. “Your master isn’t here. His prison lies in a cavern miles to the south.”

Vheod began to speak again, but stopped. Melann, from behind the Ravenwitch, still kneeling at her brother’s side, interrupted him. She could think of nothing more to say than simply, “Vheod?”

The sound of her voice seemed to bring about another change in him. He looked past the Ravenwitch to Melann. He stared at her a moment as she helped her brother. Vheod’s face changed, and his eyes seemed to grow softer. He looked to the Ravenwitch again, but the smile had vanished.

“I have no master,
witch
!” He shouted in defiance.

The Ravenwitch was silent for a moment, her body perfectly still, then slowly turned and looked back and down at Melann and Whitlock. Perhaps she’d simply followed Vheod’s gaze, or maybe she had some dire plan for the siblings. Melann would believe anything at this point.

Still looking at Melann and Whitlock, the Ravenwitch said simply, “I see.”

“You mistake me for someone or something else, I think, witch,” Vheod said, seemingly steeling himself as he straightened his back. The muscles in his neck and arms tightened. “I’ve come to ensure that Chare’en is
not
freed. I don’t wish his evil loosed on this world.”

The Ravenwitch turned back to Vheod. She moved even closer to him, close enough for her to lay a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. Vheod remained rigid.

“If that is truly your goal, cambion, then you will fail.” She said.

“Do not threaten me,” Vheod spoke through clenched teeth.

“I do not threaten. I speak of the future, and the certainties I have seen in divination. You will free Chare’en.”

Vheod remained silent.

“I suspect, then, after you free him and he gathers the army of creatures that already amassed waiting for him, you will fight at his side. The two of you can carve a fiendish kingdom of evil for yourselves. You’ll fight even against the arrayed armies of Cormyr and the kingdoms to the south, spreading destruction as only tanar’ri truly can. I don’t wish to oppose such a powerful menace. I want to survive.” The Ravenwitch gestured with open palms toward Vheod, but Melann was sure her narrowed eyes concealed something.

Melann looked down at Whitlock and called on the power of Chauntea to heal her brother. As she prayed, a bluish-white glow flowed from her fingertips to Whitlock’s flesh. The light caressed his bloody wounds, erasing them from his body as though they had never been. Whitlock’s eyes fluttered open, and he opened his mouth to speak, but all he managed was to cough up dark blood—raven’s blood.

“What have you done to my brother?” Melann demanded, interrupting the strange, disturbing conversation Vheod and the Ravenwitch were having. She held on to Whitlock as he spat out the blood and moaned.

“I did nothing,” the Ravenwitch said, circling around Vheod then turning to face Melann from behind him. “I was about to grant him the greatest gift within my power. A blessing, really,”—she shook her head slightly—“but you stopped it. Without the
infusion of ravens’ blood, now that the magical process is ruined, he’ll be nothing but a human.” She looked at Vheod from behind him. “Your tendency to thrust yourself into situations you don’t fully understand will be your downfall, cambion.”

Vheod turned to face her. “I am certain whatever you were doing to him was something that was rightfully ended. Do not attempt to trick me with sly wordplay, Ravenwitch. I lived for years among the sharp and slippery tongues of the tanar’ri, skilled in eons of temptation and betrayal. You will not fool me with your lies.”

“But,” the Ravenwitch retorted, “I was going to make him my servant. He would have been granted great gifts—flight, physical power, virtual immortality.…”

Realization of the importance of the ravens’ blood washed over Melann. “You were going to make him into some sort of lycanthropic slave—a wereraven! You were going to turn my brother into a horrible monster.” Melann stood, clenching her hands into fists. Her body was tense with anger.

“Something like that,” the Ravenwitch replied casually, “though I wouldn’t choose to use quite those words. One thing is certain: Your brother would have stood a much better chance of surviving as my servant than he will otherwise, once Chare’en is loosed on the Thunder Peaks and into the Dalelands. Mere humans will fall before his might quickly and easily.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Vheod said quietly, but firmly.

“Did you not hear me, cambion? You will cause it. That is why you are here.” The Ravenwitch offered a single open hand held flatly toward him as if to suggest that she offered a simple truth.

“No!” Vheod spat. “In fact, the truth is that you are the one, are you not? I was warned about your evil.
You plan to free the balor Chare’en, don’t you? You probably worship him, don’t you? Foolish mortal woman—you’ll bring about your own demise.”

“No,” the Ravenwitch replied. Her voice was still calm and flat.

Melann noted that other than her initial shock at their sudden arrival, the Ravenwitch had remained decidedly unemotional. Somehow that caused Melann to hate and fear her more.

“I don’t worship demons,” the Ravenwitch continued. “I don’t look forward to a future where gnoll armies with fiendish commanders lay waste to the countryside.” Only on speaking of gnoll armies did her voice falter, or betray any emotion at all. “I know the future though, and I don’t fight against the inevitable. I am many things, perhaps, but I am not a fool.

“There is one, however, who does worship Chare’en, serving him and putting events in motion to help free the balor, and of course there are the gnolls.” Her disdain for the gnolls became even more clear with the look of fire that flashed in her eyes when she said the word.

“What about the gnolls?” Vheod asked her.

The Ravenwitch moved back to where she’d stood before, between Melann and Vheod. Melann helped Whitlock to his feet and over toward Vheod. She hoped they could just flee, once she got the three of them together. She didn’t care about exacting revenge on the Ravenwitch—she’d never been interested in such pettiness. She was, however, tired of hearing the witch’s half-truths and strange words. She just wanted to get away from the Ravenwitch and away from the giant tree. She needed time to think. Again Vheod had terrified her. The darkness in his soul was strong—stronger than she’d originally assumed.

“The gnolls,” the Ravenwitch said finally, “or rather their ancestors, once worshiped and served Chare’en when he was free in Faerûn. They were his army. Now, I suspect, they somehow hear his call once again. Don’t be so foolish as to think Chare’en doesn’t know you’re coming to free him. I suspect he’s quite eager to meet you.”

Melann didn’t know if it was right that she and her brother spend any further time with Vheod. She believed Vheod fought against his evil nature, but for the first time she seriously worried about what would happen if he lost that fight.

To the surprise of the other three, Whitlock managed to speak as he regained his feet. “So then, everything Vheod said was true. Chare’en wasn’t an ancient sorcerer, he was—is—a demon, and if we go looking for the remedy for our family’s curse, we’ll free him.”

“Yes, Whitlock,” Vheod answered. He frowned, and Melann knew he wasn’t happy to be right.

The Ravenwitch shook her head. “You won’t free him,” she said to Whitlock, and pointed at Vheod. “He will.”

“I told you, woman, I will not.” His muscles tightened further, and his eyes smoldered with anger. “Particularly now—we won’t even go there.”

“And we’ll never find the staff we were told might lift the curse,” Melann said, her voice cracking with sadness. She looked down at the ground, still helping Whitlock along.

“Oh, I imagine that if you go to Chare’en’s prison, you’ll find the staff you seek,” the Ravenwitch said.

“What?” Melann looked up. “You mean it
is
there?”

“Almost certainly. Many things of great and wondrous power lie in the balor’s prison, but you’ll never get there without your friend.”

Vheod remained silent. Melann noticed him glance down at his wrist, where his crimson tattoo lay. That struck her as strange. She was certain she’d seen it near his neck before. Had it moved? How could she have not noticed? What else didn’t she know?

“If we try to leave this place,” Melann asked her slowly, with a narrowed gaze, “are you going to try to stop us?”

“Of course not,” the Ravenwitch said. “You both misjudge and misunderstand me.” Melann thought of how the witch had sent her ravens to carry away her brother against his will and determined that she did
not
misjudge her. The Ravenwitch continued, “I know Chare’en will be freed. I know his reign of terror will spread and his armies will swoop over the land—here. I don’t want him to think of me as his enemy so I do not obstruct the actions of his heir and savior.” She bowed slightly toward Vheod.

Still obviously fuming with anger, Vheod remained silent. With Melann and Whitlock now at his side, he began walking toward the entrance to the passage through the branch that would take them back to the ground. The ravens around them let loose shrill cries in the moonlight, but he seemed unmoved.

Vheod stopped. Looking back to the Ravenwitch, he said, “You don’t know me. The future is always uncertain. My destiny isn’t preordained. I make my own way. Don’t judge me by what you assume I am. I am more than that. I always have been, and I always will be.”

As they walked away, the Ravenwitch said something that puzzled Melann, though her words were directed at Vheod. “It is a terrible thing for a creature to deny its own nature,” she said. “Unlike most, you have a choice—you have two natures. Choose one, and don’t deny it.”

*  *  *  *  *

Vheod and Melann searched through the packs on the dead horses outside the Ravenwitch’s tree. Each horse was already cold in death. Melann took out some clothes for Whitlock and helped him put them on. Vheod removed the useful supplies, including some rope, a few empty bags, two bedrolls, some cooking gear, six torches, a knife, Whitlock’s sword and crossbow, a quiver of a dozen or so crossbow bolts, and three mostly full waterskins.

They didn’t have Whitlock’s armor, Vheod’s sword, or any food. Melann made a comment about how they’d not eaten all day as she helped Whitlock, who remained weak after his ordeal. Melann’s priestly magic had aided him a great deal, and perhaps even saved him from death, but a number of his initial wounds from the battle with the giant ravens remained and weakened him.

“We need to get away from this place,” Vheod told her, “then we can rest. I’ll try to find us some food then.”

He loaded the supplies into two backpacks and handed one to Melann. She said a quiet blessing over the dead horses and thanked them for the help they had given the three of them. They both shouldered the packs and helped Whitlock to his feet. With his arms draped over their shoulders they walked away, into the deep woods.

Following the nearby river, the three travelers made their way south. They walked for a little over an hour, then stopped to rest for the remainder of the night. Vheod hoped the distance they put between themselves and the Ravenwitch would be enough to protect them from any treachery on her part. He didn’t trust anything the witch did or said.

“We never asked about the green stones,” Melann said as she unrolled a bedroll and made Whitlock comfortable.

“What?” Vheod said, turning to her.

“The Ravenwitch said a lot of things back there, but we never asked about the strange green stones the gnolls seem to be collecting.”

“I wouldn’t have believed her anyway,” Vheod said.

“Do you think everything she said was a lie?” Melann asked as she collapsed to the ground herself, wearily laying back on her own bedroll.

“I know her kind. The Abyss is full of creatures like her. They lace their lies with hints of the truth, just to make the lies more believable.” Vheod looked at Melann. She seemed to be carefully studying him.

“She confirmed your belief that Chare’en was a fiend, not a wizard,” she said after a moment.

“Yes. As I said, traces of the truth.” Vheod picked up a twig from the ground and whirled it around in his fingers.

“What about what she said about you? About you freeing him? Serving him?”

“Lies,” Vheod said harshly and quickly in response to Melann’s words. He didn’t look up at her, still staring at the small stick he spun in his hand.

“Vheod,” Melann said gently, “I’ve spent some time with you, and I’m a good judge of character. I know you’re struggling against the evil nature of your heritage.” She paused, swallowing hard. The words appeared to come to her only with difficulty. “But haven’t you considered the possibility that perhaps you’ve been set up? That somehow Chare’en—your ancestor—might have planned all of this?”

“I am in control of my own destiny,” Vheod protested, shaking his head. He snapped the twig in his hands and tossed it aside.

“But what if you aren’t? What if there’s a part of you—the evil, fiendish part—that actually conspires against you? I’ve seen that evil nature well up inside you. It could be capable of anything.”

Melann’s words cut into him like a sword. Vheod stared at the ground where he sat next to the reclining siblings. Whitlock had fallen into a much-needed sleep. Melann was quiet.

Vheod started to get up after a moment. “I’ll see if I can get something for us to eat.”

“No, Vheod,” Melann said, still lying down. “Wait until morning. Whitlock’s asleep, and I’m exhausted. We couldn’t eat anything now anyway.”

Vheod sat back down.

“Are you sure you don’t want a bedroll?” Melann asked. “I can sleep without one for once.”

“I’m sure,” Vheod told her, as he had on previous nights.

They both lay on the ground in silence, listening to the wind gently tug at the tree branches above their heads.

“Vheod?” Melann asked quietly. “Thank you for my brother. I could never have rescued him, and could never have gotten out of there on my own. Thank you.” Her tired eyes closed even as she finished speaking. She soon fell asleep, but sleep did not come that night to Vheod.