The Glass Prison (6 page)

Her problem, Melann decided while happily joining in the toil of weeding and watering an expansive and robust patch of strawberries, was that she’d been too focused on their quest. While finding the key to ending her family curse and saving her parents was obviously very important, her meager, mortal concerns were nothing compared to the divine nature and endless toil of Chauntea. Melann now believed she had to focus on the teachings and responsibilities
of the Mother of All and the duties that fell on her as a servant and representative of that power in the world of men. From now on, she wouldn’t let a day go by without nurturing a growing plant. She needed to become her goddess’s tool in the world, to help bring forth fruit and abundant life.

Melann had to admit, however, that accomplishing that goal, being true to her beliefs, and being the sort of servant she felt Chauntea wanted her to be might be more of a challenge than she was prepared to face alone. In the abbey, surrounded by the other Watchful Brothers and Sisters of the Earth, staying faithful was simple—she was eager and happy to do nothing but think of Chauntea, and little of herself—but out here on the road, she found herself thinking more and more of her failing parents and the urgent need she felt to accomplish her personal goals.

She couldn’t speak of this problem to Whitlock. Melann loved her brother, but she knew he wouldn’t understand.

“It’s good to be back on the road,” he said.

“You didn’t care for the time we spent in the Abbey of the Golden Sheaf, did you?” Melann asked.

Whitlock didn’t answer. He hadn’t cared for the Elven Woods at all.

Traveling westward on a road known as the Moonsea Ride, they kept their backs to the sun throughout the morning. It would probably take them four days to reach Tilver’s Gap, and five more to Tilverton. The well-traveled road brought a few other wayfarers past them: merchants with wagons of goods and produce, messengers on swift horses, simple travelers alone or in pairs—even an adventuring company or two. Whitlock, of course, examined each of the people they encountered suspiciously.
He warned her about bandits who posed as travelers to mislead the unwary—but Whitlock was never unwary. Melann, however, couldn’t help but think he eyed the approaching adventuring companies with a bit of envy. She knew Whitlock wanted to believe their exciting, adventurous life had been
his
destiny too.

The brothers and sisters at the abbey had been unable to provide any real information regarding their goal other than further news of gathering monstrous humanoids in the direction they rode. Whitlock didn’t hide his displeasure over heading directly into such obvious danger.

Melann’s mind drifted back to a point ten days earlier, as she and her brother knelt at the bedside of their parents. Cruel fate had struck their mother and father down almost simultaneously, doubling the pain for she and Whitlock. It also doubled the burden, for caring for both parents brought both hardship and radical change to their lives. Whitlock gave up his position among the Ridesmen, the local soldiery, and Melann turned from her duties at the temple known as the Bounty of the Goddess, both to devote their time to tending to their parents. It had been particularly hard on Whitlock to see their father, once a proud warrior, wasting away.

The stench of sickness and strong herbal poultices hung in the still air of the room like a fog. They lay in their single, large bed together, heavily covered in blankets despite the thick layer of fever-sweat that shone on both their faces.

Whitlock entered the room quietly, his movements awkward and overcareful. “I think—we think we’ve found a means to end the curse, Father.”

Too weak to even turn to look on his son, Father whispered, “It takes magic to overcome magic, boy.”
Neither of them had ever beheld their father in such an impuissant condition. It was sobering, particularly when it seemed that his mind was still strong.

“You can’t lift the curse,” Mother said with a weary rasp, “until you discover the nature of the one who cursed us.”

Her eyes were sunken and her face was gaunt, with thin, jaundiced flesh pulled tight over softening bones. She was literally wasting away before her daughter’s eyes. Melann had no idea how much longer her mother might be able to stave off death.

“But no one’s ever told us.…” Melann replied.

“My mother told me it was a demon,” Mother stated, her voice thick with disease. Melann felt hard-pressed to believe that to be anything more than hyperbole or perhaps the delirium of the disease.

“Father,” Whitlock said, “We’re going to ride north first to see if we can gather more information. Aunt Marta is going to stay here and look after the two of you. If all goes well, we’ll be back in a tenday or two.”

A silence filled the air thicker than the sickness. Melann felt as if there should be more to say, but no words came to her.

“Goodbye, children,” Mother whispered, pulling Melann down, so her cheek was close to her own. Her breath was strained.

“Ride safely,” Father added, his teary eyes closed. “Watch for those who would trick you. It’s a cruel world.”

Riding off that next day was the most difficult thing Melann had ever done. Neither she nor Whitlock had any idea if they would actually see their parents alive again. Chauntea, she prayed,
would watch over them—their care was out of her hands, but their salvation was not.

*  *  *  *  *

The Moonsea Ride led the pair along miles and miles of fertile farmland and gentle hills covered with sheep and goats minded carefully by watchful herdsmen. The sky offered few clouds to block the sun. Whitlock’s golden brown stallion didn’t slow in the heat, but Melann’s older mount began to lag as the last few hours of each day did likewise.

At the end of each day, the pair would make their campsite not far from the road in spots that Whitlock deemed defensible. They had brought simple food with them, including bread, cheese, vegetables and some dried meat. Melann supplemented this with wild fruits, leaves, berries, and roots, while Whitlock’s skill with a bow occasionally provided some small game.

The night prior to when Whitlock estimated they would arrive in Tilverton, they made their camp in the area known as Tilver’s Gap. Stark, knobby peaks rose on either side of them, though in the fading light of day they seemed little more than looming shadows. The pass was a dry, grassy region, notably different than the farmlands they passed through the three previous days.

While Whitlock built a fire, Melann found a small patch of wild berries. She picked a few to accompany their dinner, but he saw she also took some time to pull weeds away from the roots of the plants and provided them with some of the water she carried in a waterskin.

“Waste of time and water,” he said softly to himself. “Nature takes care of its own, and what doesn’t live wasn’t supposed to.”

When she was finished, Melann came toward the fire. He was already frying some bread and vegetables. A pale twilight glow came from the west. Melann stared at her brother for a moment. He was content out here. Safe.

“There’s always time and water,” she said, briskly wiping the dirt from her fingers, “out among the bounties of Our Mother. You need to be more trusting of people.”

“What?” Whitlock’s brow curved down, and his forehead filled with furrows, but he didn’t look up from his cooking.

“We’re out here, and not at one of the roadhouses, because you don’t trust people. You’d rather be out here alone than have to worry about who presents a threat and who doesn’t, or if a thief is going to creep into your room at night. Your instincts are good, and I’ll admit you’ve been keeping us well protected, but Whitlock, not everyone’s an orc.”

Whitlock looked up at his sister, who still stood at the edge of the firelight. He couldn’t hide his irritation.

“Look,” he said bitterly, “everything is going just fine the way it is. Let
me
worry about whether there’s danger or not. Besides—”

“I can help take some of that responsibility, you know. This journey is just as important to me as it is to you.”

“
Besides
,” Whitlock said again, stressing the word and narrowing his gaze, “we will be in Tilverton by tomorrow night. You can sleep in a bed then.”

Melann shook her head again. Did he think her so soft?

“This has nothing to do with sleeping in a bed or on the ground,” she retorted. “This is about you believing that you have to take care of me and be the sole guardian over the both of us. I can take care of myself. Lifting the curse is my foremost goal too.”

Melann rubbed her fingers, working away the soil. She turned, and as if to prove her point to Whitlock she prayed to Chauntea, calling on her power to place a ward around the campsite that would protect them while they slept. When she was finished, she lowered the holy symbol pendant she used to focus the warding and sat beside the fire. Whitlock stared at her in silence, and she stared back.

She dumped the berries out of her pouch and onto the ground.

Whitlock looked down into the meal he was preparing. The truth was, he actually did prefer camping outside to the often more dangerous roadside inns. Tales of diabolical innkeepers who overcame their patrons in the night and murdered them for their possessions or sold them into slavery were common in the more unsavory parts of the faraway Moonsea region. Melann just couldn’t understand the dangers that reared around them at every turn.

He had not cared much for staying at the Abbey of the Golden Sheaf, either, but that had nothing to do with distrust. Holed up in that walled fortress, tending to their gardens, those people didn’t have any idea of what the world was really like. They didn’t understand the dangers and the truth behind the evils in the world. Zhentarim, brigands, monsters, undead—one needed to be both strong and aware to survive in a world with such threats. Soldiers, mercenaries, adventurers—they understood. They knew the horrors that lurked in dark caverns, evil temples, and dimly lit alleyways, and they were prepared to face them. Like the priests in the Golden Sheaf, his sister was too concerned with lofty religious ideals and not the harsh realities of life.

Neither spoke again as the fire died. Whitlock ate, but Melann waved off any offer of food. Sounds of crickets and buzzing night insects filled the darkness.

*  *  *  *  *

The walls of Tilverton rose high above the flat plain on which the city stood. As Whitlock and Melann came just within sight of the city, traffic grew noticeably more congested as smaller paths joined with the road. People slowly traveled to and from the city in heavily laden carts and on fine, tall horses as well as on foot. Situated in the strategic mouth of Tilver’s Gap, the city watched over the only easy way between the Thunder Peaks to the south and the Desertsmouth Mountains to the north. Outside of the city, Whitlock and Melann passed a number of homes, most of them herders’ and horse ranchers’.

Tilverton had once been an independent frontier town. Now it was under the protection and rule of Cormyr, a powerful kingdom to the south and west. Fortunately, the hand of King Azoun IV was light and beneficent, and Tilverton prospered in the care of the city’s Lady Regent, Alasalynn Rowanmantle. The city offered thousands of people a home, safe behind high walls, safe against the dangers of the surrounding mountains.

The road took them past a stockyard that smelled of cattle and other livestock. Eventually the road wound to an open gate offering a means through the protective wall. The noise and smells of thick crowds rose above the wall as they approached. As the sun set, the city’s lights guided them easily along their path.

Inside the wall, the streets were alive with humanity. Dancing, colorfully dressed people frolicked in the street to the sounds of melodious horns and stringed instruments. Voices—some beautiful, some not, but all filled with emotion—rose from all quarters of the town, joined in song.

Midsummer had come, and both Melann and Whitlock had completely forgotten it.

This was a festival the siblings had taken part in many times on their own in Archendale. On this day each year, everyone celebrated life with wild festivities, food, wine, and music. Young unwed maidens would hide in the woods, waiting for their suitors to find them and propose marriage. The Long Night, as it was sometimes called, was a time of love and happiness, but it hardly fit into Whitlock and Melann’s current plans.

A guard, dressed in surprisingly severe plate armor, brandishing a spear in one hand and a turkey leg in the other, stood by the open gate. His helmet rested at his feet, along with his shield. Juice from his meal ran down his beard. When he looked up, wiping his beard, he saw Melann and Whitlock. The two remained mounted and looked at the festivities with wide-eyed surprise.

“You won’t find a room here,” he told them. “Inns and rooming houses are full-up. It’s the festival.” He shooed them off with the turkey leg and looked away.

They could barely hear the guard’s words over the music and singing. Whitlock leaned closer to the man, far to one side of his mount and shouted, “Isn’t there somewhere we can stay? Anywhere at all?”

The guard paused and stared for a moment. “Well, you could try the Flagon Held High,” he said, louder this time. “You can get something to drink there and
ask around about a room. Maybe someone will know of someplace.” He pointed with his turkey leg. “Follow the Street of the Sorceress until you get to Phorn’s Lane. You’ll find it.” With that, he took a hearty bite from the leg and turned back to watch the dancers in the street.

Melann had little interest in drink, particularly in comparison to her desire to find some information to help them find the Crypt of Chare’en. She looked to Whitlock and simply shrugged rather than attempt to be heard over the noise. He nodded a thank you to the guard. The two rode down the street, carefully avoiding dancers and merrymakers.

The Flagon Held High was a large tavern with new, smooth stone walls and fresh paint on the sign. The drinking, eating, singing, and dancing clientele had spilled out onto Phorn’s Lane. Like the rest of the city, the tavern that night bustled with all manner of patrons, rich and poor alike. Tilverton, as a community, apparently wasn’t old enough to develop a strict segregation of classes. Melann enjoyed that about the place. Whitlock didn’t seem to notice.