'You have nothing, elf! You have nothing!'
The demon was wrong.
NECESSARY SACRIFICES
The Year of the Behir (1342 DR)
Corwyn followed the brunette down the narrow cellar steps, admiring the sway of her hips. She moved down like a dancer, in time with the music that filled the tap room of the inn above. The Old Skull Inn might have a reputation for drawing unsavory characters, but the women Jhaele hired to wait tables more than made up for it. This one had the most delicious laugh, and hips like…
Something was wrong. The brunette had stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She stood rigid, staring at something on the floor. Beyond her, in the darkened cellar, a shadow shifted.
Instantly sober, Corwyn drew his short sword. He stepped past her, sweeping her behind him with one arm.
A twang sounded from the far corner of the cellar. Pain lanced into Corwyn's thigh. He didn't stop to glance down at the wound.
'Up the stairs,' he shouted, giving the brunette a shove. At the same time, he marked a dim patch of white hair against ebony skin. Drow.
He charged, thrusting at the dark elfs chest. The drow dodged the blade with uncanny speed, simultaneously spinning and slamming a foot into the back of Corwyn's knee.
Corwyn stumbled, but managed to dodge the dagger that slashed at his arm. That it hadn't been a thrust for the vitals told him something: the dagger must be poisoned. Reeling back to his feet, the bolt in his thigh a hot point of pain, he somehow managed to catch the drow's wrist with his free hand. The wrist was sticky, coated in something that allowed Corwyn to maintain his grip. He slammed the dark elfs hand into the wall, and heard the knife clatter to the floor.
The drow spat a word at Corwyn-a curse. Then he wrenched his wrist free and spun. An elbow slammed into Corwyn's temple. Blinking stars, Corwyn staggered back, sword loose in his hand. He flailed with it as the dark elf retreated, and heard the sound of wood sliding against stone then only the sound of his own harsh breathing and feet pounding down the stairs.
His foot slid on something: Spilled blood.
That was when he looked down and saw the boy.
The Year of Moonfall (1344 DR)
Blowing snow stung SorrelPs face as he trudged through the forest. As the curtain of white shifted, the trees that surrounded him were screened from sight, then reappeared again. High above in the creaking branches, the elves of Cormanthor-his People-sat snug behind shuttered windows in their treetop homes, celebrating Midwinter Night. He caught the faint smell of mulled wine and onion-baked venison, and heard snatches of song over the shrill of the wind.
He drew his cloak tighter and shivered. For him, there would be no more singing. The ache inside him had stoppered his voice like a plug of ice.
He strode on, chin tucked into his chest, the club that hung from his belt swinging as he walked. Eventually, in the dusk ahead, a massive oak tree loomed. It had a trunk the size of a tower. A dozen elves with hands joined might just have encircled it. As Sorrell drew closer, he could see that the oak was utterly black, just as the songs had said. Its trunk, branches, and leaves-which had never fallen, not for five millennia-were as dark as a drow's heart.
Between two of the massive roots was a hole in the ground. Stairs, slick with ice, spiraled down into darkness. Sorrell paused at the top of it. He'd traveled so far, but he was finally there-and in time for Midwinter Night. After two years, did he still want to quench his sorrow in blood?
He reached under his cloak and slid a finger into the pocket of his shirt-the pocket over his heart-and touched a lock of auburn hair, tied with a frayed ribbon.
He touched the black bark. Brilliant white light flared around his hand, bright enough to reveal the dark shadows of the bones within his flesh.
'I givemyself to you, Shevarash,' he intoned in a voice made flat by grief. 'A weapon in your hands. Use me well.'
The air in the cavern beneath the oak stank of damp stone and earth, the smells of the Underdark. The cavern was large, but the black tree roots that twisted down through it made it seem tight and confined. Dozens of elves filled it: pale, willowy moon elves; sun elves with skin the color of burnished bronze; stockier wood elves like Sorrell-even a couple of wild elves with black tattoos on their bark-brown skin. All of the Dark Avengers were dressed in the ritual vestments of Shevarash's faith. Elven chain mail gleamed in the light of the candles they held, and blood-red cloaks draped their shoulders. Their faces were hidden by helmets with a fixed half-visor, revealing only their eyes and their grim mouths.
One of the dhaeraowathila led Sorrell to an altar at the center of the cavern. Weapons were piled around it in a heap: axes with broken handles, rapiers with notched blades, battered bucklers, splintered crossbows missing their strings, and hundreds of broken crossbow bolts. Drow weapons, all. SorrelPs breath lumped in his throat as he spotted a dagger with a spider-shaped pommel; a furrow in its blade held the remnants of poison, faded to a dull brown. The sight of it tore a sick hollow in his gut.
He climbed across the shifting pile of broken weapons, onto the altar. As he turned to face the dhaeraowathila, the elves in the cavern began to keen in voices both male and female. That there were women among Shevarash's faithful shouldn't have surprised him; Dalmara had been stronger than him, that terrible night.
The dhaeraowathila who had led Sorrell to the altar-a sun elf with hands criss-crossed with old scars-handed him a crossbow bolt fletched with bone-white feathers. Sorrell gripped it at both ends, crunching the fletches in his right fist. The barbed point cut into his left palm; the pain was sharp and clean-and welcome.
As the keening grew to a wail, the dhaeraowathila nodded. Sorrell lifted the bolt, then broke it across one raised knee.
The keening stopped.
'Sorrell Ilithaine,' the dhaeraowathila intoned, 'what do you seek?' His voice was gravelly, as low as a dwarfs.
The poisoned dagger atop the heap of weapons still held Sorrell's eye. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.
'Vengeance,' he whispered.
The dhaeraowathila' hand shot out, grabbed Sorrell's shirt. The priest pulled Sorrell's face close to his own. His eyes blazed from behind his visor. 'Does your heart not burn?'
Sorrell managed a nod. A lie. His heart didn't burn. It was ice.
'Then shout!'
Sorrell reeled backward as the priest released him. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists tighter around the broken pieces of the crossbow bolt. He pictured the horror he'd seen in the cellar that night. The two he held most dear, dead.
'Vengeance!'
He raised the halves of the broken bolt and tipped back his head, shouting at the ceiling above. 'Vengeance!'
His body was rigid, tense. He expected something to break, to release the tears that were dammed up inside him.
It didn't.
