The creature stood up straight in a posture that was almost humanlike. Still, something about the twist of the joints or the cant of the thing's head told Lewan that the position was completely unnatural. Close as it was now, Lewan could see that it had the lithe build of the elves, even the pointed ears and tilt of the eyes, but its way of moving made it seem a wild reflection of any elf he had ever seen. The icy light from its gaze was not the shimmer of the brazier, but came from inside the creature's eyes.
Lewan raised a trembling hand-a last effort to keep the thing at bay, though he knew it was probably futile.
But the thing flinched back just slightly, then leaned in, almost hesitantly, and sniffed. Then the thing's mouth opened, and a dark tongue flicked out, like a lizard tasting the air.
"Lewan…" Ulaan rasped. He felt her hands clinging to him, trembling. "It's… them. The dark things from the Tower. The Old Man's hunters."
The creature tilted its head, almost birdlike, and looked at Ulaan. The cold light in its eyes flared briefly, almost like a breath washing over an ember, then the creature returned its gaze to Lewan and gave a deep nod, almost a… a sort of bow.
"Lur'ashai," it said. It stepped aside as one of the other creatures came forward. It also gave a semblance of a bow and then extended both hands. Resting in the creature's palms, glowing faintly, was the hammer Berun had given Lewan.
The creature proffered the hammer. Part of Lewan wondered if this was some sort of bestial warrior's code, if they would not kill him until he had a weapon in hand. But no. If this were Sauk, then maybe. But these creatures were unlike anything Lewan had ever seen or heard of. This had not been battle for them. They had ripped those men apart, like wolves taking down an elk.
Lewan reached out and took the hammer.
"Lur'ashai," said the first creature. "Jankhota saalthua."
"I… don't understand," said Lewan.
The creature who had carried the hammer suddenly stood to its full height-as tall as Lewan-but was unnaturally stiff, as if bound to some unseen board. Its arms stood out from its sides, and its fingers splayed. The creature's eyes blazed, and it threw its head back.
"Little master," it said, but Lewan knew at once that the voice from the creature's throat was not its own. No. Lewan recognized this voice. It had spoken to him that day on the mountain. "The time has come. Your word, Lewan, is all I ask. The time has come."
Chapter Thirty-Six
J3efun lay on a bier of fresh leaves and flowers. The creatures had carried him here. Trussed in vines like a caterpillar in its cocoon, Berun had not even struggled as they grabbed him and bore him up the stairs. Up and up and up to the roof atop the Tower of the Sun. Open to the air as it was, still the scent of rampant vegetation permeated the air. A stone table lay near the northern ledge. There, they laid Berun upon a bed of new leaves and blossoms, his head cushioned by soft larch branches.
He had been too stunned to resist, to even wonder where they might be taking him and why. Over and over again, he saw it in his mind and heard the words. Chereth, his beloved master, the man who had restored him to life-and more importantly taught him how to live-standing there saying, Welcome to my tower.
… my tower.
… my tower.
And then, Bring him.
And the creatures had obeyed.
… my tower.
It couldn't be true. Chereth was master of the tower. Impossible. And yet it was the only explanation.
All he had been through in his life-both lives-An orphan in Elversult, living as a thief, scrabbling for survival. Fighting. Beating and being beaten. Running. Hiding. His first kill.
Alaodin, the Old Man of the Mountain, finding him and taking him in. Giving him a life. A life of murder.
Sauk. The brother he'd never had. One to fight beside. One to die for. And kill and kill and kill and kill…
Talieth. Love? No. Neither Kheil nor Talieth had really known love. But they had known passion, had connected in a way that Kheil never had with any other woman.
And then death. Death by Chereth's word. And life. Again by Chereth's word. And more importantly, a way of life. Something to believe in. Something to strive for. Meaning. He became Berun.
But Chereth had left him. Left him to… to what?
"Questions," said a voice. Nearby. Very close. Chereth's voice. "You have questions, I'm sure."
Berun felt the vines around him loosen, heard the rustle of the leaves, then they fell away.
"Your questions shall be answered," said Chereth, still unseen but very close. "And if the answers spawn questions, those shall be answered as well. But first we must see to your wounds. Sleep now. Olirith."
The last word held the tinge of magic, and Berun's awareness fell away.
Berun slept beyond dreams, but he did not sleep for long. Slumber fell away from him. He heard thunder shaking the sky far away, and he opened his eyes. It was still dark, but wispy, glowing orbs filled the air over the roof, floating like cottonwood seeds on a breeze. Berun sat up. His shirt was gone, and all of the cuts he'd taken under Sauk's assault were no more than lines of white scar tissue. Runes and holy symbols covered his arms and torso. The paint, smelling faintly of pine resin, was still damp. He could feel more on his face and forehead.
Berun took in his surroundings. Kheil had been here many times, the rooftop that was the highest level in the Tower of the Sun. The Imaskari had named it the Eye of the Four Winds, for standing at any of the waist-high ledges, one could see for miles in every direction. The stone tubes that wound their way up the tower connected to portals deep beneath the mountain-portals that opened to the elemental planes. With the proper spells, one could funnel both fire and water to the heights of the tower, so that in high summer, the fountains were always fresh and cool, forming falls that went over the heights of the tower. In the cold of winter, fires burned for light and heat.
Water flowed, giving off a clean scent, its song inherently soothing as it bubbled out of fountains, one at each corner of the roof. Fires burned, not from the tubes, which sat quiet and cold, but from a few braziers and several lamps, their flames low, their glow an orange as a dusty sunset. The light cast as many shadows as pools of light. In the nine years since he had last been here, the Eye of the Four Winds had been filled with vines, fruit trees, flowers, bushes, ivies, creepers, and even long strands of moss drooping off the stone.
"It is good to see you again, my son," said a voice behind him.
Berun turned, and Chereth emerged from the shadow cast by the arm of an oak that grew from the floor and spread its branches over the ledges and up to the sky.
"Master?" said Berun.
Chereth had been old when Berun had last seen him, and he wore the past nine years heavily. His hair had lost none of its thickness, but it was bone-white and flowed well past his shoulders in a wild mane. Leaves and flowers peeked out from the strands, and Berun thought some of them might actually be growing there. Chereth leaned upon his staff, and his posture had a stoop to it that Berun had never seen before. Even his gait was slower. Not quite a shuffle, but it was the pace of a half-elf much closer to his grave than his birth.