The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  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.

  The two dismounted and tied their horses to a post a few buildings away from the tavern—as close as they could get. Whitlock pushed his way into the crowd, but Melann slipped through the teeming throng faster than he. He grabbed her arm and held it a
s they moved. They stuck together as they threaded their way through the wilderness of people.

  Inside the tavern, the crowd thickened. The two finally procured some wine as well as a bit of roast pork and vegetables. The meal’s flavor almost matched its exorbitant price. While they ate, after actually managing to find a table just then vacated, Melann attempted to ask the barmaid about lodging for the night. The woman just shrugged and moved on, obviously more concerned with serving drinks than chitchat that didn’t help her earn her keep.

  Whitlock rolled his eyes and motioned to the door. “We’d be better off on the road, I’m afraid.”

  Melann sighed. She knew he was right, but at the same time, she regretted that duty so consumed her life that they couldn’t stop for just one night and take part in this celebration. Instead, it presented them only with another obstacle in their quest.

  “Pardon me,” a man said, seating himself gingerly on the only empty chair at the small table, “but I couldn’t help but overhear that you are in need of lodging.” He was tall, with a high forehead and wide cheekbones. His voice carried a slightly annoying nasal quality, accentuated by the fact that he had to almost shout to be overheard in the din. He ran his hand through his thinning black hair and continued, “I know of a place where you can sleep tonight, if you’re not too picky.”

  Whitlock’s glare in this newcomer’s direction seemed to carry with it all the suspicion and distaste he could muster, which Melann realized was considerable. The man tried not to notice but did anyway. He cleared his throat.

  Melann replied, “Where?” Whitlock turned his glare to his sister.

  “Well,” the man said, turning to Melann, “just outside of town there’s an old granary. It’s not much of a rooming house, but I can assure you there’s room there, plenty of hay and whatnot to sleep on, and it’s away from the noise a bit—if that’s what you’re after. I own the building but no longer use it. You’ll find it to the south of the main road, just on the other side of the stockyards. The door bears the name Northrip.”

  Whitlock shook his head. “Thank you anyway, sir, but …”

  “Maybe we should look at the place,” Melann said to Whitlock. Unfortunately, to be heard, she had to speak loud enough that the stranger heard her as well.

  “Yes, by all means, if you wish it. I’m not even going to ask for payment. I just thought someone should benefit from it. It’s Midsummer festival, after all.”

  “You’re very generous, sir,” Melann said. “Could I ask your name?”

  “Oh. Ah, my name is Ferd. Ferd … Northrip.” He smiled broadly.

  “Well then, Ferd, I shall thank Our Mother tonight in my prayers for bringing us to such a generous man.”

  He smiled nervously as he glanced down at Melann’s amulet bearing Chauntea’s symbol. “Well, I should be going,” he said as he rose from the table.

  “You don’t actually trust him, do you?” Whitlock demanded as Ferd disappeared into the crowd.

  “Well, we’ve little reason to trust or distrust him, but I suppose we could just make our camp outside of town as we have been, at least for tonight.” She sighed.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Whitlock said, and Melann realized he didn’t notice her exasperation.

  When they finally left the Flagon Held High the singing had stopped, but that didn’t reduce the overall commotion. The dark night was riven by innumerable torches throughout the city, almost resembling daylight. Most of the people outside seemed to be looking off to the north. Melann and Whitlock followed along and did the same. In the north, flashes of lightning tore up the dark sky. Soon, the thunder that the lightning brought with it would be heard even over the noises of the crowd, Melann observed, and rain would pour down, bringing a quick end to the festivities. The approaching storm had the appearance of an invading army bent on destruction.

  Melann’s attention drew toward the crowd around her. “A storm,” someone cried. “But that never happens!” another declared. “A storm on Midsummer’s Eve!” “… a terrible sign.” “A bad omen!” “… poor portents for the future …”

  Melann herself knew their words rang true. The gods usually blessed Midsummer with a clear night in which all could celebrate until dawn, or so she’d been taught. A storm—a terrible storm such as this—was said to presage terrible events. Something horrible threatened this city and beyond. Her flesh grew cold.

  A chilling, harsh wind blew in from the north, causing the torchlight to flicker, and tugged at the party clothes of the dancers and celebrants.

  Whitlock looked at her and said, “We’re going to need shelter.”

  “We’ve no choice, then,” she replied, her mind more focused on the ominous, thundering harbinger roaring down from the north than on her brother’s statement of the obvious.

  “You’re right,” Whitlock said. She knew he hated not having a choice.

  * * * * *

  The grain house sat just where Ferd said it would. The door bore a wooden sign with a crude scrawl on it: Northrip. Gray, bare boards made up the building, and there was a single window. Through the rain, which had started just a few minutes before they found the building, they could see dim light slipping through spaces between some of the boards.

  Melann pointed at the light and whispered, “Perhaps Ferd offered the grain house to some other traveler needing shelter.” Whitlock’s hand went to his sword hilt.

  The door opened easily. Melann paused, speaking the words of a minor blessing. Whitlock stepped forward, his ready hand still clutching his sheathed sword’s hilt. He continually adjusted his grip, nervous but ready to draw it if he must. Dust covered the bare floor inside, and Whitlock’s boots stirred up small clouds as he entered. A closed door on the far wall probably led into the grain bin. A rust-encrusted pitchfork hung on an equally rusty nail next to the door. The light they had seen evidently came from within the grain bin.

  “Who’s there?” a rough voice called from beyond the door.

  Whitlock shot a glance at Melann. She spoke, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “Ferd Northrip gave us his permission to stay the night here.”

  “Wha—” the voice began, then the speaker paused. “Oh, Ferd sent you.” Sudden sounds coming from beyond followed these last words.

  The door opened and out stepped a man. He was at least six feet tall with a great girth. Hairy bare arms hung at his sides, his roughly woven clothes marking him as a man of little means. His broad face suggested more beast than man. His upturned nose showed too much nostril, and his eyes were small, like dark animal holes. He glared at the pair, looking each up and down.

  “My name is Melann, and this is my brother Whitlock.”

  The man just grunted, looking at them as though taking inventory.

  Whitlock said, “And who are you, sir?”

  He grunted again. “Name’s Orrag Grinmash,” he said with a voice coarser than his clothing. He rubbed his unshaven face with a massive hand.

  Whitlock’s mind held little doubt that Orrag was some sort of thief or brigand. In fact, he thought, “Ferd” was probably his accomplice. Now Orrag prepared to attack them while they slept and take their belongings. The whole scheme was a well-rehearsed plot. Generosity indeed! Whitlock would show him that he wasn’t so easily tricked and robbed. He knew that a circumspect eye is a Dalesman’s greatest asset.

  “Orrag, Our Mother Chauntea has brought us here to this shelter. She is a great provider and takes care of her servants well,” Melann said.

  From outside, a howling cry grew in intensity, then whistled all around them. The light flickered in the wind, from which this old building offered only meager shelter. A steady drumming began against the roof and walls.

  Orrag seemed a little surprised by her words. “Hmm. Yes, I suppose so.”

  Orrag stepped into the small room with Melann and Whitlock. He smelled of alcohol and old sweat. Whitlock looked carefully on the large man for weapons but couldn’t see any obvious signs.

/>   “So, here for the festival?” Orrag asked casually, moving around the other two, as if making for the door.

  “No, actually,” Melann answered.

  Orrag stopped and seemed surprised. “No?”

  “No. We’re just passing through,” Whitlock stated flatly, turning slowly to follow Orrag, watching his every move. Something about the way he walked, and the scars on his hairy arms and face told Whitlock that combat and strife had traveled Orrag’s way before.

  “We’re on an important quest,” Melann solemnly told him, her words slow and weighty.

  “Quest?” She suddenly had Orrag’s full attention. He spoke quickly. “What sort of quest?”

  “We’re looking for the tomb of an old wizard in the Thunder Peaks,” she replied.

  “Melann, that’s enough!” Whitlock hissed, his hand ready to draw his blade at any moment. His taut wrist ached from the position, and his fingers rebelled at the tension, but he held firm. Wind rattled the entire structure, but the old building had probably weathered many such storms in its time.

  “Really?” Orrag seemed intrigued—or perhaps afraid. He ignored Whitlock. “What wizard?”

  Whitlock heard Melann’s voice in his ear: “Maybe he can help us. We’re seeking information. Who’s to say where it might come from?”

  Before Whitlock could reply, Orrag asked her again, “What’s the wizard’s name?”

  Melann turned to him. “Chare’en.”

  Orrag reacted as if struck. He stepped backward and leaned heavily against the wall behind him. He rubbed his rough jowls again and closed his eyes. Melann and Whitlock both watched him, bewildered and wary. Finally, he spoke. “Wizard … Chare’en …” He paused.

  “Do you know of him?” Whitlock demanded.

  “Why?” Orrag asked. Lightning flashed in the small window, followed immediately by a sharp slap of thunder.