Oath of Vigilance Page 4

  The space inside had once been a grand entrance hall for a stately home. The morning sun poured down through an open skylight, warming the ancient stone and illuminating every corner of the room. A graceful stairway swept halfway up the wall on one side before dissolving into rubble. A moldering tapestry that might once have been a carpet hung askew over another doorway opposite the stairs, the hinges of the original doors still visible at its sides. A pile of straw and rags in the far corner must have served as a bed, though it was too thin to offer much protection from the hard marble floor.

  As Travic had said, no sign of violence marred the scene. If gnolls had attacked this place, Roghar thought, they would have torn the curtain they came through, for starters. They would have killed the residents of the home, and gnolls prefer to kill in ways that leave blood all over the floor, the walls, and sometimes the ceiling.

  “Who lived here?” Tempest asked.

  “Their names were Marcan and Gaele. An older couple, humans in their fifties. Marcan was a cooper, but he lost his arm at the same time as they lost their children, about fifteen years ago. Gaele earns a pittance washing clothes and linens.”

  Roghar growled, a low rumbling deep in his throat. “So the weak become prey for the ruthless,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “That’s not what it looks like to me,” Tempest said. “Maybe they found a better place to live. I don’t see anything here that I’d take with me if I left.”

  “If they had simply moved, I’d have heard about it,” Travic said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I spend a lot of time with the people on this street. They know me and trust me. I was with Marcan and Gaele when they lost everything. They’d share the joy of a new home with me.”

  “Then I say we venture into the ruins and look around,” Roghar said. “Maybe we’ll find a threat other than gnolls lurking there.”

  “I’m confident we will,” Travic said. “The gods will guide us.”

  Travic led the way back out to the street and up toward the crater where the jewel of Nerath, the emperor’s glorious palace, had once stood. They passed more makeshift homes like the one Marcan and Gaele had claimed, marked by curtains hanging in empty doorways or clothes hung in broken windows to dry. Here and there, a potted plant lent a splash of color to the barren stone walls.

  The closer they got to the crater, though, the more infrequent such signs of habitation became. Fewer buildings could boast four walls and a roof, and soon Roghar was helping Tempest clamber over rubble that choked the street. The few sounds of human activity faded, replaced with the scurrying noises of vermin and the occasional snarl of a larger scavenger picking through the ruins.

  “Look over there,” Travic said.

  Roghar shielded his eyes from the morning sun and followed Travic’s pointing finger. It took him just a moment to find what the cleric had seen—the mangy pelt of some beast, hung like a banner on a crumbling wall a few dozen yards away. “Gnolls,” he said.

  Travic nodded and slid his mace out of the loop at his belt. Roghar drew his sword and adjusted his grip on his shield, glancing over his shoulder at Tempest. She still seemed distracted, distant, but she held her rod resting on her shoulder, ready to blast any enemies that appeared out of the ruins.

  Roghar led the way, picking his way carefully through the rubble. Gnolls were not known for laying traps and deadfalls near their lair, not least because they’d be likely to stumble into their own traps in the madness of their hunting fury. Even so, the ruins could hide any number of dangers, from lurking scavengers to unsafe floors. As he neared the wall with its grisly banner, he slowed his steps in a futile attempt to move more quietly, but for all his efforts every step was a grating symphony of crunching gravel and clanking armor.

  Despite the noise, no gnoll appeared behind the wall, no spears or arrows shot out at him. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Travic and Tempest had kept up with him, he ran the last few yards and fell into a crouch at the base of the wall. He signaled the others and they froze in place, crouching low to take whatever cover the rubble afforded. Roghar cocked his head and listened.

  Wind stirred through the ruins, making the pelt rustle against the ancient stone. Claws or teeth, still attached to the pelt, clattered against the wall. Somewhere far off, he thought he heard a flute playing high and sweet. But nothing stirred behind the wall.

  Slowly, as quietly as his armor would allow, he rose from his crouch and peered over the crumbling edge of the wall. The building was a gnoll den, certainly. Filthy piles of furs and grisly trophies decorated the space defined by the broken ruins of four stone walls. Gore-stained bones, some gnawed and broken, littered the center of the space. Dried brown blood was smeared on what walls remained, in patterns he imagined the gnolls found artful or symbolic in some way. But he saw no gnolls, and none of the fierce hyenas they preferred as pets.

  Gesturing the others forward, Roghar stepped around the crumbled wall. The stench of death assaulted his nostrils, and he silently thanked the wind that had carried it away from him earlier. He moved carefully about the den, peering around the other walls, straining his ears for any sign of life.

  “It’s abandoned,” Travic said.

  Roghar looked down at the gory mess in the middle of the room. Maggots writhed on the bones, fighting over what meat was left on them. He glanced around again, his eyes taking in details he’d missed the first time—shiny black beetles scurrying among the furs, a spider the size of his fist perched on an ornate web in one corner. He nodded. It was possible the gnolls were simply out hunting, but the place definitely gave him the sense that no one had been there for days, perhaps weeks.

  “Just like the house,” Tempest said. “Just like Gaele’s house.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Your father?” Kri said, his eyes wide.

  Albanon nodded slowly. “The Prince of Thorns, yes.”

  “You’re not smiling.”

  “You don’t know my father,” Albanon said. “Or do you?”

  “No, no. In all my years and for all my study, this is my first visit to the tower where the Order of Vigilance began. My first visit to the Feywild at all, actually. So what kind of reception should we expect?”

  Albanon frowned. “A very cold one. He was not pleased with my decision to study in the mortal world.”

  Splendid alighted on his shoulder. “He should have been proud,” the little dragon huffed. “Moorin was the greatest wizard in all the world.”

  “The world’s greatest wizard is not good enough for the Prince of Thorns,” Albanon said. “In his mind, even the lowliest eladrin mentor would have been preferable.”

  Kri stroked his beard. “Well, a cold welcome is better than an armed one, I suppose.”

  “Don’t insult him, or the one could turn into the other.”

  “Understood,” Kri said. “We’ll make our audience as brief and as polite as possible.”

  “Brief is good,” Albanon said. He stared at Splendid. “Polite is essential. Even if he says things about Moorin that are … less than complimentary.”

  “He would insult the great wizard Moorin?” The pseudodragon sounded incredulous.

  “Speaking from ignorance. But this is not the time and place to educate him. It’s probably best if you just stay quiet.”

  Splendid huffed and settled into a more comfortable position, stretched across Albanon’s pack and shoulder. Her needle-sharp claws bit ever so slightly into his skin, making him wince and shift his shoulders so her claws had more cloak to pierce than flesh.

  “Well, let’s get to the inn,” Albanon said. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  Albanon woke before dawn from a sleep troubled by dreams of his father, and he lay awake listening to the riotous chorus of birds greeting the first light on the eastern horizon. He saw Splendid as a silhouette on the windowsill, head cocked at the unfamiliar songs. He got up and walked to the window, idly scratching the pseudodragon’
s cheek and chin as he watched the sun rise and thought about his father. Before the sun set again, he’d be standing in the audience hall of his father’s manor, facing that imperious glare and a host of questions he didn’t feel prepared to answer.

  Kri woke before long, rescuing him from his thoughts by launching into the bustle of getting started on their journey. They left the inn with the sun still hidden behind the eastern trees.

  East of Moonstair in the world, the desolate expanse of marshy woodland and low hills called the Trollhaunt stretched for miles, strewn with ancient ruins and troll-infested caves. In the Feywild, the land was not much different, though both trees and hills stood taller. Albanon led the way southeast, along a river that shimmered with faerie light. Around midday, they found a dry spot overlooking the river and sat down to eat. Kri made a few attempts to start conversation, keeping to light topics, but Albanon kept getting lost in his own thoughts, sometimes trailing off in midsentence, and Kri soon gave up.

  After eating, they left the river and struck out due east. The trees grew taller, and an increasingly dense undergrowth of thorny bushes suggested that they were approaching their destination. Albanon found it easy enough to pass through the brambles without harm, and as long as Kri stayed close at his back he didn’t have much trouble. A few times, Kri’s cloak or robe got caught on a thorn and Albanon drew farther ahead; then Kri became lodged in the thorns until Albanon doubled back and helped him free.

  “The brambles know their master,” Kri observed as Albanon worked his cloak free for the third time.

  “I just know how to navigate them. I walked this forest a great deal as a child.”

  “The thorns recoil at your touch.”

  Albanon laughed. “Nonsense. My father is the Prince of Thorns, not I.”

  “Are you not his heir?”

  “It’s not that simple. Nothing is here. Please try to keep that in mind when we see him.”

  A few hours after leaving the river, they came to the forest’s edge. The trees gave way to a wide plain, dry and brown, choked with thorny bushes and tangled vines. To the north, the forest jutted a little farther into the plain, and Albanon could just make out the spires and halls of the Palace of Thorns among the trees. He waited to see how long it would take Kri to spot it, a game he had always enjoyed playing with visitors, even eladrin from other realms of the Feywild.

  “What are we waiting for?” Kri said. “Isn’t that your father’s house?” He pointed right to it.

  Albanon’s mouth fell open. “Didn’t you say you’d never been here before?”

  “I haven’t. But it sure looks like a Palace of Thorns, doesn’t it?”

  “It usually takes longer for visitors to spot it among the trees.”

  Kri laughed. “Ioun is the god of knowledge, prophecy, and insight,” he said. “I make no claim to possess more than a fraction of her wisdom, but she does grant me eyes enough to see much of what is obscured to others.”

  Albanon’s gape widened into a smile. He had much to learn from Kri, and moments like that made him all the more eager to start learning. Ioun was also the patron of sages, scholars, and students, so it seemed appropriate for him to study with one of her priests.

  His smile lingered as he led Kri through the briers, but faded quickly as the shadow of his father’s house fell over them. The dread that had haunted his sleep the night before returned in full force. His steps slowed without him fully realizing it, but they still brought him to the vine-wrapped outer gate all too quickly. Thorns jutted from the vines, nearly indistinguishable from the mithral bars of the metal gate that supported them. Albanon knew that on either side of the gate, a high fence of mithral and briers extended all around the Palace of Thorns, a warning as much as a physical ward.

  “How do we pass through the gate?” Kri asked.

  Albanon didn’t answer, but stepped closer to the gate. Silently, the huge gate parted in the middle and opened before him, as if welcoming him home.

  “I am not the Prince of Thorns,” he said, “but I am still a member of this house.”

  Tall trees with prickly leaves stood like columns in two straight rows ahead, ending at another gate—the inner gate, the entrance to the Palace of Thorns. Holly branches and thorny vines twisted together in an arch over the gate, which was a door made of white wood. Again the doors swung open at Albanon’s approach, but this time two guards stood behind it, eladrin women in fine mithral chainmail, holding slender spears and staring at him with more than a hint of surprise.

  “My lord Albanon,” one of the guards said in Elven. “You were not expected.”

  “You will announce me to my father, please,” Albanon answered in the same language. It felt strange in his mouth, it had been so long. “As well as my companion, Kri Redshal, priest of Ioun.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The guard turned briskly and walked into the palace. Not once did she look back to make sure Kri and Albanon were keeping pace, and she didn’t slow or stop until she reached the ornate door of the audience hall, made of the same white wood but carved with intricate designs of flowers and vines. Then she turned and said, “Wait here, please,” before passing through the door. It closed behind her with a definitive thud.

  Albanon’s heart was pounding, making his head throb. Splendid paced from one of his shoulders to the other until he hissed at her to be still. He couldn’t form a coherent thought. Snippets of sentences chased each other through his mind, refusing to resolve into anything he might actually say to his father, the Prince of Thorns. Kri smiled reassuringly at him, and he was unable to return the gesture.

  The door swung open again, and Albanon stopped breathing. The guard stood in the open doorway, spear held to the side. She didn’t look directly at him, but focused her gaze up and out as she made her formal announcement.

  “Lord Albanon and Kri Redshal, you are welcome in the Palace of Thorns. His Eldritch Majesty, the Prince of Thorns, requests that you appear before him, that he might offer his welcome personally.”

  With that, she stepped to the side, clearing the way for Albanon and Kri to enter, and Albanon’s eyes met his father’s.

  Albanon had a fleeting impression of a predatory insect, tense and waiting, claws poised to lash out and seize its prey. His father’s features were sharp, and he leaned forward on his throne, his hands clutching the arms. The Prince of Thorns was an old man, though the signs of it were more in his bearing, his perpetual scowl, than in his physical features.

  “Albanon,” said the Prince of Thorns. “Tell me, how are your studies progressing?” The old man’s face was neutral, but his disdain was clear in his voice.

  Albanon decided to ignore the question as he strode forward and knelt briefly before his father’s throne. The throne was carved from the living wood of the tree that also formed part of the back wall of the chamber, adorned with images of thorn-bearing plants.

  “Father,” Albanon mumbled as he rose.

  “And you have brought a mortal man into my hall. Therefore, I assume that this is not a social visit. You might as well come quickly to the point.”

  Albanon bristled, but struggled to keep his face and voice from showing his anger. “A tower stands on your lands, beyond the Plain of Thorns. We seek your permission to visit this tower.”

  The Prince of Thorns scoffed and waved one clawlike hand dismissively. “Ridiculous,” he said. “The Whitethorn Spire has been abandoned for generations. None of our people venture there any more.”

  “With respect, father, we’d like to change that.”

  “It’s sure to be infested with monsters.”

  “We believe we can take care of ourselves.”

  “Can you? Then your studies must be coming along very well indeed.”

  “Moorin taught me much before his death, and I have had several opportunities to practice my magic in dangerous circumstances.”

  “Your teacher is dead? I told you, Albanon, humans are so short-lived. If you had studied with Darellia—�
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  Albanon interrupted, steel in his voice. “Moorin was murdered.”

  “How unfortunate.” The prince’s voice was not the least bit sympathetic, and Albanon felt Splendid stir on his shoulder, growling softly.

  “Father, just grant us your permission to visit the tower and we’ll leave your hall and trouble you no more.”

  “What do you seek there?” the Prince of Thorns asked. “I told you, the tower is long abandoned.”

  “With all due respect, Your Eldritch Majesty,” Kri said in perfect Elven, “Sherinna’s tower is abandoned because her son refused to fulfill the duty his mother laid on him at her death.”

  The Prince of Thorns sat up taller on his throne, glaring at Kri for a long moment before turning his attention back to Albanon. “I never cease to marvel at the ways of humans,” he said. “They can be taught to speak, but they cannot learn manners.”

  Kri drew himself up, and Albanon could feel the power gathering around him. The air shimmered with it, and even the Prince of Thorns seemed to diminish slightly in the face of it. Kri’s voice rumbled like distant thunder in the hall. “Sherinna was the sole custodian of knowledge that might prove to be vital to the fate of the world. She intended for her heir to safeguard that knowledge after her death, but her son refused and humans took on that responsibility. Now three hundred years have come and gone, and I am the last member of the order founded to take on the burden that you refused.”

  Albanon stared at Kri. The founder of the Order of Vigilance had been Albanon’s own grandmother?

  The Prince of Thorns stood, and Albanon took an involuntary step back. Kri’s wrath was like a nimbus of divine power around him, but it paled in comparison to the raw fury of the Prince of Thorns. The room darkened and seemed to constrict, the thorny decorations of the throne loomed behind him, and the prince himself seemed to tower above them and at the same time to lean hungrily forward like some feral predator.

  “Do not presume to lecture me about my duty, human,” he said. “I am the Prince of Thorns. My duty is to this land and the people who dwell in it. You have no claim on me.”