and power are their currency, but blood is their profit. So much blood. Too much. Too much death. Berun, son of the Oak Father, it is time to restore the Balance.'
Lebeth leaned in, all warm curves and sweet scent, her lips seeking his. Berun lay back on the grass, pulling her on top of him.
A riot of birdsong woke Berun, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that the sun was already above the treeline, reflecting white fire off the pool. He had slept late.
Berun rose and brushed grass, leaves, and dirt off his skin, hoping that Lebeth had remembered to return his trousers and boots. He looked around and saw that she had not, but had done him one better. At the base of the great oak's trunk, where the largest of the roots hemmed in the pool, lay a pile of clothes, supplies, and-best of all-weapons.
The trousers and shirt were both green as winter pine needles. At first Berun thought they were of dyed Jinen, but as he picked them up and ran his fingers over them, he was no longer sure. The fabric was soft and thin as linen, but seemed strong as tent cloth. The sleeveless jacket seemed to be made of tanned skin, but he could not tell what kind of animal it had come from-and Berun knew every animal in the Endless Wastes and hundreds of miles beyond. The knee-high boots were of the same material. The belt was thickly woven from some fibrous plant, strong yet supple. The buckle, though cool and smooth, was not metal; it had the feel and sheen of shell or stone.
The cloak and hood were strangest of all. Spreading it out, he saw that it would just touch the ground when donned, but the fabric and color he could not identify. It was heavy as oilcloth, and under the shadow of the oak it seemed the dark green of forest leaves, but here and there, as bits of the sun peeked through the canopy, it reflected bright as the sunlight itself. It seemed to gather shadow and reflect light. Berun thought that in the deep woods-or even in the tall grass of the steppe-he would be almost invisible in the cloak if he kept still.
Under the cloak was a small waterskin, already full. Berun found a cache of food wrapped in large green oak leaves- dried fruits and nuts, mostly. Wrapped round the mouth of the waterskin was a necklace, woven of the same material as the belt, though much finer, the material flexible as dwarf-forged chain. Dangling from the end was a round starstone, though its glow had a greenish tint, like sunlight reflecting off dew-covered moss.
Two weapons leaned against the trunk of the oak. One was a blade, slightly longer than the knife he'd lost, but just shy of being a true short sword. He ran his fingers along the sheath. It felt like aspen bark, soft and smooth, but it was black as river mud and cool. Blade and hilt were all one piece, carved from bone or antler. Berun drew it. Single-edged, it ended in a slight curve. He tested the blade against the thick callus of his first bowfinger. It cut through the tough skin easily as a steel razor.
The other weapon was a hammer, handle and head together as long as Berun's forearm and fist. The handle was a dark, heavy wood, and it bound a heavy stone, smooth and black. Leather had been braided round the handle to form a grip, and the braid ran off the handle so he could tie it round his wrist or use the weapon as a sort of flail. Borh weapons had images of oak leaves, trees, and vines etched into them, and the etchings had been colored with a substance that smelled faintly of resin. They were easily the finest weapons he had ever held in his hands.
As he picked up the hammer and tested the weight with a careful swing, the breeze gusted, whispering through the oak leaves, and Berun fancied he heard Lebeth's whisper-Berun, son of the Oak Father, it is time to restore the Balance.
Berun gently laid his palm against the oak where the root met the main bole of the tree, and for a heartbeat he felt again the sensation of Lebeth's thigh beneath his caresses.
'So be it, Oak Father,' he said, then looked up at the tree. 'Thank you, Lebeth. Lewan, Master Chereth… I'm on my way.'
Chapter Twenty-Nine
25 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Sentinelspire
Janas hated guard duty. He'd been inducted into the ranks of: he Blades of the Old Man only three years ago. And he'd been involved in the Lady Talieth's little conspiracy for only a few months. He had no particular love for Talieth nor hatred for the Old Man, but he'd always been smart enough to know which way the wind was blowing and set his path thereby. Changes were happening in the Fortress, and he'd be damned if he didn't end up on the winning side. Life here was too precious to risk. He wanted for nothing. He slept in a soft bed with any woman of his choosing, drank the finest wines, ate the finest foods-which were prepared for him-and all he had to do in return was put his considerable skills at murder to good use. A good life, all things considered.
Except for guard duty. Given all the traps set about the Fortress and littered about the mountain and the Lady's particular expertise at scrying, usually only the main gate held a permanent watch. But something had happened earlier-something involving Sauk and that new whelp-that had sent Lady Talieth into a flurry of orders. The guard at the main gate was tripled. Crews went out to make sure all the traps were armed and ready. A watch was set at the head of the falls. Men watched the passageways between the main gate and the Gallery of Stone Faces, men watched the passageway beyond, and Janas hid in the rocks beyond the leering stone face.
He understood why he'd been chosen. A Nar, he had more than a little orc blood in his lineage. Not a full half-orc with true night vision like Sauk, still Janas could see better than nearly anyone else at night. Strong moonlight was almost like noonday sun to him. But storm clouds had started building around sunset, and by full dark there was no moon or starlight of any kind. Still… always be prepared, he often told himself, and was glad he'd worn the special ring that Talieth had given him upon his induction into the Blades. It wasn't much to look at, but it enabled him to see in the dark. Not as well as daylight, to be sure. He could see no colors, but his eyes drank in the dimmest light. The downside was that he was nearly always the one chosen for nighttime guard duty or a patrol outside the walls. Only Sauk could see better than Janas in the dark, and Sauk was too high up to be assigned guard duty. Sauk did not guard. Sauk hunted.
The night flickered in sharp relief under approaching lightning, and soon after, thunder shook the mountain. Smelling the breeze, Janas knew he'd be sitting in the rain before long.
As the last of the thunder's echo faded to the east, Janas heard something skittering across the rocks down the path. He flexed his fist around the ring and narrowed his eyes. Nothing. Just boulders and rocks through which little eddies of grit and dust were stirred up by the oncoming storm. Just when he was about to relax and look away, he heard it again-a light scritchity-scritchity-scrititch. Definitely coming up the path. He waited, listening as the sound grew closer.
He saw it. A small shadow moving up the path. Smaller than Janas's forearm, at first he thought it was a snake, but as he watched, he saw that it didn't move with a snake's smoothness. More like the quick, jerky movements of a grounded bird or even a lizard. But its movements seemed erratic and pointless.
Now that it was in his sight, it stopped coming up the path. It stayed near the last of the large boulders on the path, running through the dust and pebbles and twisting on its back, then flipping back around. Almost like it was hurt or having a fit of some sort.
You watch like a starving hawk, Sauk had told him earlier. Talieth says there may be trouble soon. Don't you let so much as a bat get past you.
Bats don't go through our tunnel, Janas had told him. It was true. The bats that haunted so many of the caves and crevices of the mountain never entered the tunnel leading to the Fortress.
If one does and you don't see it, Sauk had responded, it's your life, Janas. Anything gets past you, and you'll answer to me.
Janas had heard what the half-orc had done to Chiganis. There were truly very few Blades of the Old Man who frightened Janas, but the half-orc was one of them.
The thing on the path continued to thrash in the dirt. The first raindrops began to patter into the dust.
Janas slid his short sword out of its scabbard. Holding it under his cloak so that another lightning flash wouldn't gleam off the blade, he rose from his hiding place and began a careful advance down the pathway. He risked a quick glance around the canyon and back toward the leering face of the tunnel. Nothing in sight but that thing on the path and wind-tossed sand.
As he drew closer, the little thing skittered back down the path a short way, then stopped and resumed its
