He paces the floor of his bedroom, carpet worn by bootnails, with the girl next door on his bed and a killing rage spinning through his head -
Cythandria lays down the scroll. "Perorate is truthful," she says. And Sarevok lets the rage in his head settle into its rightful place. Who he is. What he is. His destiny.
—
"Poor little motherless girl," his mother said, once upon a time. "With only a demented grandfather, in that overgrown waste-ground of a place? I ought to have visited much earlier."
"No fit company for my son," Rieltar answered her. "They possess a bloodline and a crumbling estate, nothing more. Pathetic and impoverished - I'll not have Sarevok mix with such rubbish."
"Pray reconsider, I beg you, husband. Sarevok has not lived with other noble children. This child can help him."
"And make a runaway match of it with the slut six years hence, no doubt! If my son weds it will only be to increase the prestige of the Anchev name."
"To let the children play together makes that less and not more likely, husband. Let them act as children for this brief while."
Sarevok lifted his ear from the door and nodded to himself.
—
Had his dreams been with him since the earliest childhood?
Sarevok is in a cave with a squalling infant. A man with a dagger comes at him, so he runs. Stone tunnels batter and bruise him and he starves in darkness. He reaches for the bone dagger before him. He will always reach for the bone dagger and make his enemies pay.
—
Cythandria was his playmate before he knew of his destiny. A tiny overdressed girl in her ancestors' costume with the pride of generations behind her. She wielded conjuration like Sarevok did the sword. They both understood hunger and desire.
Brimstone erupted from Cythandria's hands, spewing out into the garden. Where it fell it left cinders and ashes behind. She laughed wildly as she made it happen. Sarevok ran through the heat, fast enough that he could ignore the burns. Her fires didn't make it easy for him and he was glad.
Amidst a mound of her magic scrolls, she kissed him for the first time. A surprise, but not an unwelcome one. He'd never tell her that it was his first lover's kiss. Fire of a different kind ran through Sarevok's veins for once.
"No," Cythandria said, pushing him away when his urge was at its strongest. "It's not time - I am a lady, after all."
—
His new tutor was a huge hulking man, less fat than bulk, and smelt of dead things. Winski Perorate. Necromancer and once more than necromancer.
"Once, there was an order known as the Deathstalkers," Perorate preached. "They mastered the arts of murder like no one else. They were unstoppable in battle. One Deathstalker took on a king's army at the Bridge of Sorrows and forded the river with a dam of bloody flesh. They mastered their weapons and themselves. I can show you some of the ancient exercises."
Sarevok longed to be stronger. With each fragment of old scroll Perorate showed him, his power grew. He won a belt as the city's fighting champion in Saerloon, defeated bandits going against the Anchev caravans for his foster father's sake, built a reputation that no man would dare speak ill of the Anchev house within his earshot. It pleased Rieltar. But was that enough?
And what, he resolved to know, was the old necromancer's purpose in showing him this and all this?
—
Before he was Sarevok Anchev he was a street rat of Selgaunt, a full-stuffed city on the edge of the Sea of Fallen Stars. The sun beat down on his head and he raced with other children to pluck rotting food out of waste-barrels. He was bigger and stronger than most and won survival. He didn't know where he had come from, who abandoned him like so much other refuse. He knew that he could use his fists to live another day. That was what was truly important.
A rich merchant's cart was sliding off the docks. Sarevok's only purpose there was to steal a purse from one of the wealthy - they were careless, talking amongst themselves while their load went off. Then the moment it started falling they became headless chickens, not managing to stop their accident. The lead merchant called out a reward and he sprang into action. Alone, he held back the heavy cart long enough for the bales of silk to stay out of the sea.
"Just a boy; but a strong boy," the merchant said. Sarevok would later know him as Rieltar Anchev. "He stepped in when not one of your blockheads did, Taron. You'll forfeit your pay today and thank me that the inconvenience was not worse."
He held out a single copper coin to Sarevok. It was not what the deed was worth. Sarevok shook his head and stepped closer. Two coppers, and closer still. Three. The merchant's eyes raked him like a stray cat stalking a rat. Sarevok quickly recognised and respected the way the merchant stole his attention like that. Then there was - not the gold piece he expected, but a golden brooch sculpted like the sun. It was valuable, but much too good for a street boy. He could do nothing with it because others would steal it from him. He stared flatly at the merchant's poor bribe.
"Or instead of that reward, would you come with me?" Rieltar Anchev asked. "I may have a use for a boy like you.'
—
Rieltar Anchev's wife was kind, people said. She could not birth living children but she embraced her husband's bastard. Sarevok knew that story was a lie. He was chosen as Rieltar's foster son because he was strong and also because of his appearance, but he had none of Rieltar's blood. He supposed his birth mother was tall and dark like him and Rieltar. Gianna Anchev had unfashionable red hair and fishbelly skin, but she treated him like a son. That is to say, the way she treated him was vaguely similar to the sort of mothers who appeared in foolish children's tales. He called her mother at her wish and over time it sat easily on his tongue.
She taught her foster son ciphering and manners, singing and sighing and sitting still. He mastered the first two but not the others. She kept pet doves and wept when one of them died. Sarevok had seen multitudes of street dogs and cats and other beasts die, so it meant nothing to him. She gave her husband's business associates gifts of needlework or fruits or fine cloth. Part of her was afraid of her husband and shook like a leaf when he approached, part of her desperate to please him.
Sarevok vowed that he would not be weak like her, would not be foolish like her. It was not his destiny.
—
Once upon a time there was a man who made of himself a murderer. He came from nothing but grew in strength until he and his two companions fought the gods themselves and demanded deityhood in return for their deeds. These deeds were bloodthirsty and terrible, but they were deeds worthy of gods of death. The three men played knucklebones for their divine kingdoms. The murderer was last to choose, but he chose the best. Dreaded Bane was lord of tyranny and conquest, raising mortal empire after mortal empire in their turn. Feared Myrkul was lord of the dead, of the kingdom that all men reach at one time or another. Bhaal's choice was death itself. Lifting his hand, he starved the kingdom of Myrkul. Lowering his blade, he destroyed the tyranny of Bane. He was a powerful god until the Time of Troubles destroyed him.
The lesson of this story is that you should make of yourself a Lord of Murder who will never perish from the earth.
—
Rieltar wrapped the cord around his wife's neck until her face turned purple. He looked up and espied his son.
"This is the price of betrayal," he said. "She was unfaithful to me. Go, and remember not to repeat her mistake."
Sarevok did not know if that distorted shape was still twitching or not. He turned his back on the murder. But perhaps that death, the first murder he had seen, sent him toward his destiny.
—
The young soldier defended a raid of trolls from stealing and cooking human flesh. He slew more than anyone else in his party that day, his blade unflinching. The grateful villagers presented him with what coin they could scrape together. His companion slapped him on the back. "You fight as good as ogres!" Tazok said, and it was no lie. The satisfaction of a job well done grew in Sarevok's heart.
He dreamed of monsters. In his dream, he was the ravaging troll whose fingers ripped open human hearts. He was the ogre in the desert sands, the mountain lion by night, the hydra destroying cities with its poison. Then he was the slayer once more, removing the ogre's head, piercing the mountain lion to the heart, chopping each hydra head off in a bloody unrelenting battle until the creature kept no more blood in its body. He understood his lesson.
—
Once upon a time there was a dwarf who was kind and brave, beloved and happy among his people in the Orothiar mines. Then they dug too deep and the dwarf was one of far too few survivors. He never lost his faith in his god despite his haunting losses. Many years after the fall of the mine, the dwarf trusted the wrong friend and betrayed the secret of his past to a wicked merchant. As a result, he was captured and tortured to reveal the location of the once wealthy mines.
The lesson of this story is that you should not love or trust.
—
"My family's library was once extensive. You are welcome to the dregs of the attic." Cythandria's embroidered sleeve swept over dusty, forgotten codexes and old scrolls. Sarevok thought that he himself was probably the only person who could convince Cythandria to read anything that would not teach her magic. When they were children, Cythandria scorned his slow reading but he put up with it for the sake of her assistance. These days Sarevok Anchev was known for his rhetoric, sharper and faster than any born-noble boy in Sembia. It pleased his foster father and pleased himself.
Sarevok struggled to find the cross-references to Winski Perorate's versions of the tales. He wanted, needed to know the truth for himself. He read an account of murders a thousand years old, blood dripping from corners and cobblestones. It was not enough but it fed his hunger.
"There are other forms of hunger," Cythandria said.
He pushed her away. He didn't have time.
—
His father's outer robe was stained with blood. He removed it and hung it up by the side of the cellar doors. His expression was cool, calm, reflective.
"That dwarf knows what we had hoped for," Rieltar Anchev said. "There is a rich iron mine lying flooded in the Cloakwood. Capture and drain that, and we gain a foothold on the iron trade in the Sword Coast."
Sarevok's mind jumped to far more than that. The Cloakwood was next door to Candlekeep, home of the Candlekeep library. Home of lore of colossal millennia past. He must and would go there.
"Father, I have an alternate suggestion to merely draining and using the Cloakwood mines," he said. "The Sword Coast is presently experiencing an iron shortage. What if that shortage were to be exacerbated? Then, when the Iron Throne has stockpiled sufficient qualities, in a mine that only we know about, we shall charge whatever price we want. They will regard us as saviours and gods. I am willing to supervise the operation myself, if no one else is willing to travel so far."
Rieltar's face was momentarily immobile with thought. "Your concept is ambitious, but has merit," he said. "Bring me a formal proposal to this effect for the Iron Throne leaders. I will review it with great interest, my son. Your efforts will be rewarded."
—
" ... And this disciple is Tamoko," Winski Perorate said. "In the Time of Troubles, she had taken her first vows as a cleric just before her god died. She adapted, and now serves Kossuth, Lord of Flame. I assure you that she can make herself useful."
The woman bowed to Sarevok and Rieltar. Sarevok had seen her wield the heavy meteor-hammer she bore. He was not tempted to underestimate her abilities. Broad-shouldered, squat, strong, scarred: a warrior who willingly risked the battlefield.
"Let us hope that she is not a failure as a field agent like Cythandria proved to be," Rieltar said.
Tamoko's eyes lingered on Sarevok's face. Later, he would ask her if she had known on that first meeting. She had once sworn vows to Bhaal, god of murder. Then Bhaal died and she chose another god.
"I did not know then," Tamoko said proudly. "And I would rather not know it. There is more to you than a dead god, Sarevok."
"There can be nothing more than a god," Sarevok said. He believed it to be true when he said it.
—
Sarevok dreamed of a garrotte wire and skin turning purple and horrible. There was a woman who begged him to help her, but he turned away from her. His hands twisted a garrotte wire together that he would use for himself. Probably on his foster father.
—
The old dwarf was halfway through forging Sarevok a new sword when he was taken prisoner. The sword was designed especially for Sarevok. There was no finer craftsmanship in all of Sembia. So Winski Perorate took up the unfinished work and applied his magical arts to hone the blade. He drew a line of blood across Sarevok's cheek with the blade. He fed blood to the iron and something that was more than iron set the blade alight.
Sarevok had seen the necromancer do far darker deeds than this, and had participated in them also. A ritual with his own blood was no surprise for him.
"You are the son of Bhaal," Winski Perorate said. "The child of the god of murder, the man destined to become a god. Once I was a priest of that god and knew his blackest and deepest rituals. When our god perished I believed that all hope was lost. Then I crossed the path of Rieltar Anchev once more, and my researches showed me that I had found the one. Look at your own blood."
Sarevok's blood was no longer red, but glowed in golden dust over the surface of the blade, like dust motes in blazing sunlight. The blade swallowed up this strange blood. Winski handed the sword's hilt to its master and power surged within Sarevok.
"I name it the Sword of Chaos," Sarevok said.
"Well done, my young apprentice." Perorate turned to the night air. "Go and kill. This is a blade that must be baptised in blood."
—
Once upon a time there was a child of the Lord of Murder who grew up in the great library of Candlekeep. The child was innocent and loved and weak. The stronger child of Bhaal of the two, Sarevok Anchev, plotted to destroy that child because of their existence.
Like an unwritten book, the child of Candlekeep awaits choices and changes.
Is the lesson of this story that destiny is written in blood? Or is the lesson of this story that there can be a kind of weakness that is stronger than strength?
The lord of murder will perish.