1. Prologue
The fortress library was far from peaceful. Nestled in the cliffs, the keep was lashed by wind and rain, sun and sea, the rocks below pounded by the crashing waves. High above, a boy sat a desk, staring out of the small window onto the walled gardens below. Austere even by Candlekeep's standards, the regimented shrubs were framed by a single row of roses, white and pale pink but for one sole, soft yellow bloom. Without turning, he felt his mentor's mood shift in the adjoining room beyond. The slight shuffle, the heavy wall-chest thrown open, the rustle of tapestries and velveteen drapes of four pillared bed, large enough for three, the near-silent, but tell-tale crush of the thick Thayan rug, its vivid reds ground underfoot by the ceaseless, pacing, each step a harsh thrust. Those heavy boots were rife with muck; their pungent stench worse than the Shou silk slippers Gorion frequented.
It didn't take long before Gorion's haggard face inevitable drew into view. Charnarion was wise enough to turn before the door flew open; Gorion was savvy enough to line the walls of both the cell and antechamber with tapestries to drown out the draughts and noise from his wont of slamming things. This, amongst other habits, were something Gorion refrained from exercising in the presence of others. For once, his excursion hadn't taken the better part of three days, and this time, he failed to mask his bloodshot eyes. The furrows lining his face were deep, his eye sockets sunken, and their shadows crept in deep crescents, his nose veined with purple. The vanity glamour must have run its course.
Charnarion coolly lifted his head and met that savage, unblinking stare that cut through him, through everything. To everyone else, Gorion's benevolence knew no bounds, but in private, malice stained him. Outwardly, his standards were high, and the other scholars praised him for his charity, lapping up his sagely wisdom and admiring his strictness with the 'boy', many of whom suspected was his bastard, despite his proclamation Charnarion was his dead sister's son. While Gorion never inferred Charnarion's mother was a victim of violence, the lack of mention of a father and spouse led some to speculate on Charnarion's illegitimacy, and so, he found himself beset with proverbs about 'bad seeds', 'apples' and 'trees', and well-meaning advice, all geared towards impressing upon him how grateful he should be, how fortunate he was, and what a wonderful father Gorion was.
More than once, Charnarion wondered what they would say if they knew the truth. Most would never believe it, while others would immerse themselves in the scandal, but ultimately, it would only serve to undermine him, Charnarion. Besides, Gorion's hypocrisy didn't affect him, or so he reasoned. What did it matter if Gorion was stuffy, prone to drink, dark rages, self-pity, self-hatred, and anguish? But that was before that one, fateful night. The skies had sighed loudly, the summer storms gathering for an especially violent onslaught. More drunk than usual, Gorion had stumbled in after another whoring session, clutching his bedraggled cloak, his wispy hair plastered to the sodden waxy leather. Spitting out the cork, he proceeded to down half a bottle of elven firewine and sprawling onto the crimson sheets with their gold embroidery, he confessed. Half stupor, half lucid, his mangled words were the ravings Charnarion would have dismissed were it not for the bright, almost sickly light in Gorion's haggard eyes. There was something that rang of truth.
That awful night, he learnt Gorion had no sister, had never had a sister, and the woman who bore him did not die in childbirth; Gorion murdered her. Gorion claimed it was to 'save' him. He claimed Aliana, an occasional lover, had fallen in with a dark cult, a cult that intended to sacrifice him and a dozen other babes. The latest bout of firewine saw Gorion's eyes roll back in his head, his nasal snore preventing any further discourse, but what he shared was disclosure enough. Child-stealer, murderer. Given the life he endured now, it might have been better if the cult had followed through uninterrupted. What right did Gorion have to interfere?
Between Gorion's half muttered drink-induced ramblings, Charnarion heard how 'beautiful' Aliana was, a formidable, proud woman, with sultry lips and smouldering emerald eyes, porcelain skin and hair of late summer wheat lit by sunlight. Whatever poetic ascription the old man had trailed off. It seemed clear to Charnarion that either his mother was a whore, or had terrible taste in men, or Gorion was lying. Then the old man's eyes opened, filmy with a sickly brightness and intensity that carried waves of hatred, his rancid mouth twisting. With something akin to grief, regret and perhaps, lustful longing, a kind of depraved hunger Charnarion didn't understand at the time, Gorion confided that Charnarion didn't merely favour his mother, he was her mirror. That every time he saw the boy, he was starring into her face, as if somehow, Aliana was staring back at him through the boy's soul. Becoming wild-eyed, Gorion started laughing madly, only to start belching, making his foul breath even worse.
The only other thing he could get out of the drunk was a single name: 'Arnarion'. Charnarion wasn't sure if that was his true father's name, or the name his mother intended for him. It didn't matter. He was used to Imoen's name-calling, 'Carrion', 'Clarion', 'Charnel house', 'Carnation'. It was her way of trying to get him to play. What she failed to understand was why would he want to play with a girl, especially one three or four years younger? She was the innkeeper's whelp, not his little sister, however she acted, and just because he was the closest in age, she didn't need to latch onto him.
Still, Charnarion tolerated her. It was better than enduring Gorion's hypocrisy. Every single day, the old fool disgraced himself. He wasn't as discreet as he thought. All the guards knew of his unsavoury habits, his sordid trips to Beregost. He paid them off to keep silent, but while their barracks talk never reached their superiors, Imoen overheard. Tasked with bringing them trays of ale flagons, eavesdropping on them and the inn's various guests, notably, visiting nobles and their servants, was her favourite pastime, a pastime she revelled in sharing with Charnarion. From her tattletales, Charnarion learnt more about everyone in Candlekeep than he had from years of wandering the halls and listening to their self-righteous drivel. Hypocrites, all of them. Imoen relayed how Gorion was forbidden from keeping whores in the keep, and how the inn kept a special reserve of firewine just for him. That titbit explained Gorion's periodic visits, in which he claimed he was visiting his friend 'Firebead', another lecherous old fool and Gorion's equal in long, pious sermons in virtue and heroism. The pair were uppity, rich in books and coin, whether from old money or self-made, and after a few drinks, tried to outdo each other about the exploits of their youth, relaying their heroics with self-gratifying grandiosity that made Charnarion want to vomit.
Gorion squandered his wealth and privilege. It became quite clear Charnarion his foster father would never change, but the final straw occurred one sunlit afternoon when Gorion humiliated Charnarion in front of Grand Duke Entar Silvershield. Duke Entar was no stranger to Candlekeep and held some past association with Gorion that stretched back decades. Quite what that was, Charnarion had never uncovered. During these little excursions, Entar would be accompanied by a company of guardsman, all in Silvershield livery, his son and daughter in tow. Upon the lawn, beneath the shade of the burgeoning trees, the two men walked side by side, and Gorion laid his hand on the Duke's shoulder. Gorion rarely displayed such overfamiliarity with those beneath his social standing, so it was clear by Entar's lack of outrage there was a certain understanding, at least to Charnarion's eye. While Imoen frolicked with Skie by the flowers, and Eddard, roughly four years Charnarion's senior, conversed easily with a young man that accompanied the entourage, one Ajantis, if Charnarion caught correctly, Gorion proposed an arrangement that turned Charnarion's blood to ice. Worse, Duke Entar seemed thoughtful, nodded, and the two shook hands. With that, Charnarion's future altered forever. At the tender age of eleven, Skie found herself waved over, and in a frilly skirt and layers of petticoats, she gazed up at her father, smiling brightly. That smile faded and her eyes widened as Entar conveyed the news, meeting Charnarion's eyes with a steady, seasoned stare. Just like that, the two found themselves betrothed, and haltingly, Skie obeyed her father and repeated the vows. While Imoen looked on, grinning gleefully, her own eyes huge, and Eddard, disinterested, stood to one side, Charnarion's knuckles turned white. Aware of his 'father's' gaze, and the repercussions of if he failed to obey, he repeated the vows listlessly. The two men nodded, shared dinner later that evening, and then the Silvershields departed. As the impact of what just happened slowly set in, Charnarion came to a decision, a decision he had toyed with since that one, awful night. Gorion had to die.
