The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  “You served me only a short time, but you did so admirably.”

  Vheod cut the horse’s throat. It was a swift, clean gesture. Stonesong’s painful sounds ended immediately.

  The woman seemed compelled to stay until the deed was done. Arms folded in front of her, she kept silent on her own horse while Vheod did what he felt he had to do. When he’d wiped Stonesong’s blood from his blade he turned and looked at her. She returned the long look, gazing right into his eyes, but still said nothing. Somehow, Vheod could sense her concern and compassion. It seemed remarkable to him that someone—a stranger—might care that much about him or his mount.

  Vheod tried to smile but only managed a nod in her direction. She smiled back.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “My brother is eager to go,” she said softly, “and he won’t allow me to tend to his wound until we leave the area. Will you come with us?”

  Vheod nodded. She helped him onto the back of her own horse.

  * * * * *

  Whitlock found a small copse of trees for them to rest in, well out of sight of the surrounding area. The three dismounted, and Melann immediately made Whitlock sit down so she could treat his wound. Whitlock, barely able to stand, found it easy to oblige.

  “Look, now that we’re safely away, I’ve got to speak with you,” the stranger said.

  Whitlock gritted his teeth through the pain as Melann lifted the lower portion of his hauberk and pulled the blood-stained cloth away from his leg. “Who are you?” she asked the stranger as she worked.

  “My name is Vheod Runechild,” he replied.

  “I am Melann Brandish, and this is my brother Whitlock.”

  “What are you doing out here?” Whitlock asked through teeth clenched in pain.

  “Looking for you,” Vheod stated.

  “What?” Whitlock started in surprise, then again in pain as his movements put his leg in a bad position.

  “What do you mean?” Melann asked Vheod, turning away from Whitlock for the moment.

  “I came here looking for you, to warn you that you are about to do something … terrible.” Vheod stood over the two of them, a few steps away.

  “What thing?” Whitlock asked, his voice raising in volume, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? How do you know anything about us?”

  “You intend to free the tanar’ri Chare’en from his prison.” Vheod said.

  “What?” Whitlock said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just as I’ve said; you’re about to release a terrible evil into the world.”

  “No, we’re not,” Whitlock said quickly. “Our business is our own. Besides, isn’t tanar’ri just another word for demon? If anyone’s going to have anything to do with a demon, it’s probably you. You look like you’re probably a demon yourself. Come to think of it, what did you do back there to frighten all the gnolls away?” Whitlock grimaced from the pain.

  “Just a moment,” Melann implored, and called on Chauntea to grant her the ability to heal her brother’s wound. When she was finished, she urged Whitlock to lean back and rest easy for a moment. “I’ll talk to him,” she whispered to her brother.

  Whitlock grimaced. He was worried that the gnolls might come back. In fact, he really didn’t understand why they ran away in the first place. The twosome—or rather, the threesome—had slain a fair number, but the gnolls had seemed certain of victory. Somehow, the dark-skinned stranger forced them to flee. The thought didn’t comfort Whitlock, it fueled his suspicions.

  Melann got up and moved to Vheod, motioning with her hand that they should walk a few steps away. “Please, sir—” she began.

  “Vheod,” he corrected.

  Whitlock strained to hear them as he lay on the ground and watched. He could feel the divine energy knitting his wounds together, but he ignored it in favor of the conversation being held.

  “All right,” she said with a gentle smile, “Vheod, could you please tell me what all this is about?”

  “I’ve told you what I know—what you need to know.” Vheod shook his head. “Are you or are you not going to free Chare’en?”

  “Free him?” Melann asked, her face showing confusion. “He’s dead.”

  Vheod paused. He cocked his head and stared into the sky through narrow eyes. Whitlock studied this strange man. His breastplate was forged from some black metal covered in bizarre barbs and spikes. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. The stranger had surprisingly long, reddish hair and a dark, weathered look to his skin. His features were gaunt and pointed—his appearance didn’t suggest the kind of warrior Whitlock had seen in the fight earlier. Something about him, Whitlock thought, made him appear different—almost detached from the world around him.

  Vheod said, “When I spoke to Orrag—”

  “Oh, you know that misbegotten half-orc?” Whitlock called out from behind them. “Well, that at least explains something.” It confirmed his suspicions that Vheod wasn’t to be trusted after all.

  Vheod turned to look at Whitlock and said, “I spoke to him briefly while I was looking for you. He indicated you might think Chare’en is a long dead wizard. I can tell you you’re wrong about that. I don’t know why you believe it, but you’re wrong. He’s an imprisoned tanar’ri, and if you go to where he waits you’ll risk freeing him.”

  “How did you know to look for us?” Melann asked.

  Vheod turned back to her. “I spoke to these two men—priests, I believe. They showed me your image in a magical pool and revealed to me that you were going to free Chare’en.”

  “Vheod,” she asked him, “where are you from? Do you have something to do with the elves?” She glanced at Whitlock with a look that was supposed to carry with it some meaning—Whitlock was sure of that, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to gain from it. The pain kept him from being able to concentrate.

  Vheod paused, his eyes widening slightly, as if he was caught in a trap. “I’m not an elf.”

  “But that’s not what I asked,” she said gently.

  “I come from another plane, if you must know.” Vheod said sullenly. “I came here seeking my heritage—my family—and instead I met a pair of priests who warned me that the two of you are going to do something awful. I’ve searched for you ever since.”

  “You’re a cambion, aren’t you?” Melann asked, taking a step backward.

  Vheod stared at her flatly. Before he could answer, Whitlock asked from behind them, “What’s a cambion?”

  Vheod looked at Melann. “Yes,” he said. “Does it make a difference?”

  “Shouldn’t it?” She shook her head, mouth slightly open.

  “What’s a cambion?” Whitlock demanded, standing up. The wound was almost entirely healed by the spell, and he felt much stronger.

  “My father was a tanar’ri, but my mother was a human—from this world. Don’t judge me by that, though. I am my own man.”

  All three stood in silence, a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, providing relief to an otherwise sweltering day. A few insects flew around their faces, Melann brushing away the buzzing from her ear. She turned to Whitlock.

  “He helped us fight off the gnolls. He might have saved our lives. We owe him our thanks and respect for that.” She knew just what to say to him. Those were words she knew he would take to heart, and she was right. Whitlock couldn’t argue with that.

  “Well, I suppose that’s true enough,” he said to Vheod. “We thank you for that, sir.”

  Vheod looked back and forth between the two of them, his long hair tossed about in the breeze. He seemed confused.

  Melann’s church spoke of tanar’ri distantly—as only something to be feared and destroyed. That had been easy enough for Whitlock to accept. Until this moment, Whitlock hadn’t even been certain they were real. Demons were just something that didn’t come up in everyday life. Now one stood before him, and he owed the demon a debt. Whitlock still didn’t understand why Vheod sought them and what it was
he was trying to accomplish. It might be best, Whitlock thought, to never find out.

  “We must be on our way,” Whitlock said.

  “Wait,” Vheod implored. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? Chare’en is a balor! If you go to him you’ll loose a terrible evil into this world.”

  “First of all,” Whitlock said, “there’s already evil in this world—plenty of it. Second, Chare’en’s not a demon, he’s a long-dead wizard. And third, why, by the name of all that’s holy, should we listen to you? Just because you helped us against those gnolls? Now we’re supposed to believe everything you say? Does everyone in the world think I’m a complete idiot? I’ll have no more of this. Melann, come, we’re leaving.”

  “Wait,” Vheod said again.

  A long silence passed as the siblings both looked at the mysterious newcomer. Vheod stood very still, his arms hanging down at his sides. Melann seemed uncomfortable and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Whitlock glanced between the two of them, wanting nothing more than to leave. Damn the debt.

  “If what you are saying is true,” Melann said, “then our family is doomed … and so are we.”

  * * * * *

  Now it was Vheod’s turn to be confused. He looked deeply into Melann’s brown eyes and saw sincerity and sadness. Her long, dark hair had fallen out of the tie that had held it behind her head, and now it cascaded around her smooth, slightly sunburned face. As tears welled in her eyes, Vheod took a step forward and placed his hand on her arm.

  “Perhaps you could tell me what it is you’re doing here, and why you seek Chare’en,” he said, attempting to keep his voice at a gentle level.

  “Our family, long ago, had a curse placed on it. We don’t know all the details, but we’ve been told it happened in the days of Chare’en, a powerful wizard. In his tomb we believe we’ll find a magical staff that can remove the curse from our family.” Melann wiped her eyes before continuing. “It’s most important that we find the tomb now. Both our parents have fallen ill—struck down by the curse.”

  “I see,” Vheod replied, already deep in thought and filled with doubts.

  His own motives seemed shallow and selfish now. If Melann and Whitlock were correct, it would be wrong to stop them. But no, he knew Chare’en was his great-grandfather, a tanar’ri balor, not some mortal sorcerer. Vheod had been telling them about the great wrong that would be inflicted on the world if Chare’en were freed—now he was beginning to realize how true his words were. He wondered if it was his responsibility to make sure that the balor stayed imprisoned. He wondered too at the circumstances in which the balor was imprisoned. Was there any truth at all about this magical staff? Melann certainly seemed to honestly believe in the curse.

  The fact that Melann didn’t immediately assume he was lying or even attack him on learning of his true nature gave Vheod hope that perhaps he could convince her he was right. She obviously was reasonable. Her brother, on the other hand, appeared otherwise.

  “Look, Melann,” Whitlock said to his sister, “there’s no need to tell this … man about our business.” He turned to Vheod. “As I said before, thanks for your help, and thank you for your warning. Now we must be going.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You can’t let us?” Whitlock spat. “Are you going to attack us? Come on, demon—I’ll have at you.” Whitlock drew his broadsword.

  Vheod’s hand flexed, seeking the hilt of his own blade. He stopped. Instead, he simply held his ground. “I would not fight you, sir. I don’t seek further bloodshed. I’ve already seen a surprising amount of that on such a beautiful, peaceful-seeming world.”

  “You must be from somewhere else,” Whitlock sneered, his sword still pointed at Vheod. “Beautiful, perhaps, but peaceful? Experience has taught me something else.”

  Vheod said nothing.

  “You won’t stop us from doing what we’ve set out to do,” Whitlock continued. “We’ll do what we think is best.

  Melann spoke up. “You must understand, Vheod, we can’t possibly turn back after all we’ve been through.” She raised her hands in an emphatic gesture. “We can’t just give up on the only hope we have for our family—not just on the words of a stranger. I mean, no offense but … I’m sure you understand.”

  The worst part of it for Vheod was that he did understand. He would do the same thing in their place. He couldn’t possibly expect them to simply do as he said when so much was at stake for them. Yet he was certain that if left alone, they would take actions that would spell disaster for both him and them—and probably the whole world. He certainly had no desire to see Melann hurt, especially when he could do something to stop it. He didn’t even wish ill on hot-tempered, untrusting Whitlock. In reversed positions, Vheod would probably react much as the human warrior did.

  “Well, perhaps we can reach a compromise. What if I accompany you to Chare’en’s ‘crypt’? Then we can see which one of us is correct.” And, he thought to himself, I can make sure that if I’m right, Chare’en is not freed—no matter what. The real question burning in Vheod’s heart was whether or not he himself could be trusted going to Chare’en.

  “I don’t like this,” Whitlock said quietly to his sister, though Vheod could hear him.

  Before Melann could answer, Vheod said to Whitlock, “Isn’t this the best way to keep an eye on me? If I’m trying to do something wrong, would I not be better within sword’s reach? The best way to watch your enemies is to keep them close enough to kill, the saying goes. It’s a saying where I come from, in any event. Besides, those gnolls will probably come back—just as you said.”

  Perhaps, Vheod thought, it would be good that Whitlock and Melann watched him very closely. Whitlock may very well be right not to trust him. He looked, almost reflexively, for the Taint. It resided on his forearm, as though it wanted him to see it. The tattoo had taken on the form of a laughing, leering face.

  Whitlock didn’t say anything. Instead he folded his arms in front of him defiantly.

  Melann approached Vheod, extending her hand. “We would appreciate your company, Vheod Runechild.”

  Chapter Ten

  “So, are you a wizard?”

  “Me?” Melann asked in surprise.

  The summer sun would soon set, and the shadows around them grew long. The looming shadows of the mountains already swathed much of the surrounding area in a blanket of darkness. She looked down at Vheod, who had asked the question, and apparently had asked it with sincerity. His eyes told her that he indeed sought an answer. Vheod walked alongside their horses while she and her brother rode. Melann was amazed that he could keep up the pace over the hours of the journey. A full day had passed since their paths joined, and he never once showed signs of tiring—though he slept the night before like any mortal man.

  Whitlock never ceased his constant vigil, convinced the gnolls would attack again. His caution probably slowed their pace a little, but no one commented on it.

  “In the battle with the gnolls,” Vheod said, “you cast a spell that struck down a number of them.”

  Melann laughed for a moment, more out of the joy of actually laughing than the humor of what Vheod really said. He didn’t seem to take offense at her laughing at him—instead, it seemed to bring a smile to his own face. She was fascinated with his long hair and dark, rough skin—but mostly she enjoyed looking into his face. She saw a sort of nobility in his eyes. She believed that a tanar’ri, raised in the Abyss no less, trying to overcome its inherent evil was perhaps the noblest thing she’d ever heard of.

  “I’m not a wizard, but a Watchful Sister of the Earth. A follower and servant of Chauntea, Our Mother,” she said with a smile.

  Vheod looked puzzled. “Our Mother?”

  “Yes. Chauntea nurtures and provides for our world. She loves and cares for all growing things.” It felt strange to be talking about her faith with a tanar’ri—or half tanar’ri, anyway. According to all she’d ever read or been taught about crea
tures such as he, Vheod was an abomination. Of course, she really hadn’t read that much. Demonology was hardly a requirement for a priest of Chauntea. She’d heard a few stories about creatures summoned by wizards or great monstrosities that walked the land in earlier, more arcane ages, but she honestly never thought she might ever, or could ever, simply talk with one.

  “I see. There are few priests where I come from, and they all worship, well … things better left unworshiped and names better left unspoken. I am more familiar with wizardry than priestcraft. Forgive me.”

  Melann kept her smile. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

  What must it have been like to have lived in—well, wherever he came from? A place of evil and darkness, certainly, but now he was here, and he’d seen beauty and freedom. Could anyone in the world appreciate the Mother of All’s goodness and bounty more than he?

  Melann turned away from him, looking at the green, rolling hills that led up in every direction to high, rocky peaks. Birds sang in the trees that dotted the hills, and the nurturing sun blazed down in all its glory, as if to spread its energy on the world for one last moment as it prepared to rest for the night. It was so easy to trust utterly in the goodness and might of Chauntea gazing on such a scene. It was easy to see that she guided all things with her divine hands.

  But what if Vheod was right? What if Melann and Whitlock couldn’t find the cure for the wasting disease that drained away their parents’ lives? Worse yet, what if in so trying they freed some horrible evil? Surely Chauntea wouldn’t lead her down such a path. Melann decided that Vheod must be mistaken. He must.

  “What’s it like to believe in something so wholeheartedly?” Vheod asked her, staring straight ahead as he walked, “How can you trust in what you believe? And if the god you serve is truly worthy of service, how can you know that you are worthy to serve?” Vheod looked up at her. “I’m sorry. I have no business asking such—”

  “No, that’s quite all right.” Melann swallowed. How did this man—if man he was—see her so clearly? His questions cut right to the heart of what troubled her, and why she was plagued with self-doubt.