[Further Explanations: To understand the structure of this work, one must forgive me for having reorganized the book into sections. It was originally written in a continuous manner with no regard for dates – events separated by short spaces or in some circumstances, none at all, at times even written in shorthand, something that I have, with help, constructed into fuller sentences. It can be deduced, however, that events before a certain point in time were recounted, and after that, the journal described events more or less immediately after they occurred. I have left the pseudonyms as they are written – it will not become me to force my opinion of the author's identity on the reader. I have left some words in the dark elven language where they would help with the reader's understanding.]
Part 1
Mother
The first thing I remember in life is my mother's grace. I remember watching her, in our comfortable though not luxurious apartment in Manyfolk, practicing – no, performing the Dance. Early childhood exposure to the Dance may account for why I live by it now, or perhaps not, but anyone who saw her would be fascinated by the fluid elegance by which she attacked and defended herself from some unseen enemy. I know now that her technique was not flawless by far, but then, her Dance appeared to be the most beautiful and dangerous thing in the world.
She dual-wielded a saber and a flamberge which she used to weave the air into barriers of steel, here a neat kick, there an economical slash, a flash of gray metal, all done in silence save for the sound of her breathing. Mother always believed that insults and shouts in battle only wasted energy, and that silence and expression were all that was needed, in any case, if intimidation was called for. In all, she was a killer, something contrasting with the connotations of her job description: a guard at the ironically named L'Phindar's Inthigg, The Monster's Treaty, a relatively popular shop in Manyfolk that sold unusual pets. Sometimes it was not the phindaren she guarded, but the proprietor, for in rare occasions a phindar may escape and endanger the place.
What she earned was enough to support the two of us such that I didn't have to join the ranks of begging children in the street. There was never any mention of my father, and for years I went on believing that he never existed at all. When I came to terms with the fact that part of my existence had to be due to my father – sometime later in life, though I was still very young by dark elven terms – I realized his absence only brought a vague feeling of curiosity. Mother was enough for me – living with her was enough of a challenge, since she had a temper to match her countenance.
Mother was considered plain by dark elven standards, her chin too strong, eyebrows slightly too thick, nose too prominent, her features marred further by a cruel-looking scar on her forehead, just over her right eyebrow. Her body had similar scars, the scar tissue at times unpleasant to behold. She was muscular nearly to the point of it being a further flaw in her appearance. I did not resemble her in any way except in the color of her eyes – a deep maroon, almost the color of fresh blood. This was not an uncommon color, to be sure, not like blue or purple, but I found to my advantage later that it seemed to be popular with the opposite sex.
She always wore a plain robe and leggings in the apartment, and chain mail elsewhere, that contributed to her scent – leather with the hint of oil and metal. Sturdy boots and a common cloak held 'surprises' for attackers that I later added to my own clothing – all sorts of ingenious hiding places for little, nasty weapons.
She was not kindly – how could she be? Commoners cannot afford to be kindly, caring creatures. For they are in a sense even more under the gaze of the Queen than her sniveling priestesses and her grasping nobles – they are where the blood on the altars is from. It is believed – and I have no reason to doubt this – that the Queen herself guides her priestesses, like carrion-feeders to a kill – to specific commoners to sacrifice. My mother was somewhat potentially in greater danger than the majority, because she worshipped not the Queen, but Vhaerun of the shadows.
This was of course something she concealed from me until I was much older, for children are prone to frankness and truth. I never knew what underlying purpose she was part of – to me, she was the strict Mother who cooked the meals, taught me to write and speak, and most importantly, introduced me to the Dance.
The world at the age of six was a boring place. Mother could not take me with her to L'Phindar's Inthigg – letting a child run free in an area full of monsters would be a good way of getting rid of the child, but certainly not a good way of ensuring its safety. So she locked me in the apartment with daily severe admonishments not to do anything idiotic. Since her disciplinary punishments were invariably excruciating, I wasn't stupid enough to try and cross her. I did not lack the inquisitive spirit of childhood, but I had better sense than to go wandering around disobeying my betters.
To keep me occupied she indulged my fascination in the Dance and drew up training exercises that I should perform. She didn't trust me with weapons, and so the first Dance that I learnt was not of weaponry, but unarmed. I could practice for hours until I tired and ate the food she always left on the table before going, rest a while, then start again until she came back, studied me critically, and found fault in something. It may have been her way of showing some affection in that she cared enough to patiently correct my mistakes in a manner that I would understand, or perhaps not. It does not matter now.
**
Mother never told me her name, or her past. The first I knew when I was allowed to accompany her to L'Phindar's Inthigg for the first time and heard one of her colleagues, a sturdy-looking duergar named Pa'kaq approached us.
"Veldrin! D'ye see ye've grown a tail wit' legs, yeh?"
He spoke in rough Undercommon, a language I was familiar with. His one eye, under the bushy eyebrows, winked, and the impressive beard quivered as if with a life of its own. Pa'kaq was stout and heavily muscled, like all his kin, and his smell always reminded me of the insanely strong dwarven lager that they were all somewhat addicted to. A conical steel helmet was jammed on his head, and he wore a set of plain if well made, distinctly dwarven armor. In one of his sturdy hands he carried a huge, gleaming axe, in the other, an incongruous sheet of clean white paper that was growing grubbier by the moment.
"The quality of your sense of humor has grown as deplorable as your hygiene," Mother replied mildly. "When was the last time you took a bath, iblith?" I froze, expecting a fight, but some of the other guards and workers in earshot chuckled.
"Th' time when I was helpin' ye wit' th' umber hulk cage an' ye slipped an' fell on me, lass." Pa'kaq retorted with surprising good humor, "Why, I never knew ye felt that way 'bout poor old me."
"The day I feel that way for you is the day I feed you to haszakkin and watch them break their tentacles trying to go through your impenetrable skull, wael."
"'Tis by far a prettier one than yon drow one I see, lass."
"The sight of you pains my eyes, rothe."
"That's 'cos yer eyes're defective like the rest of ye, lass."
"'Defective'! You actually know words of more than three syllables! I am so happy for you."
It went on, a confusing barrage of insults while the others went on with setting up a large cage the size of the apartment. Eventually Mother and Pa'kaq – who turned out to be the head of one of the larger guard businesses in Manyfolk, and, as it turned out, the one who had gotten Mother this job – stopped, and he changed back to the subject. "So then, who's th' kid?"
"His name is Zaknafein," Mother said shortly. "We'd need help running errands today since this new import is coming in. Do not be soft on him – if he gets in the way, kick him out of it."
Then she turned to me. "Zaknafein, follow Pa'kaq for now. Do what he says." She did not need to threaten – that was unspoken, an uncomfortable air that remained as she stalked off to help the other guards. Helpless and alone, I shot Pa'kaq a wary look full of confusion.
"Ye've done this before, kid?" Pa'kaq scratched at his beard as he squinted at me. When I didn't answer, unsure of what to say, he added, "Ain't nothin' wrong if ye haven't. She ain't here to hear it, an' I won't tell if ye won't." With that, he winked.
I decided I liked Pa'kaq.
**
Mother ignored me for the most of the day, but I hardly noticed. Pa'kaq was a wealth of new information, and the world was full of new experiences. He didn't have time to show me around, but as I followed him he gave a few explanations for what everyone was doing. L'Phindar's Inthigg was huge, and stank of animals – row after row of cages carefully spaced such that each inhabitant could not get at the other. Tiny in comparison was the reception desk near the entrance where customers would buy and sell monsters. Some of these would be pets, some would be sacrifices – others, components of spells or suchlike. There was a consistent cacophony of sound, some from the cages, some from the workers and guards that made my ears, accustomed to the relative quiet of the apartment, hurt. The multitude of infrared color made my eyes hurt, as well.
"See, kid, this new import's a big 'un. A dragon."
"A dragon!" I immediately regretted the way I said that – it made me sound ignorant, unworldly. Well, I was ignorant and unworldly – but you would understand if I did not want to seem so.
Pa'kaq laughed – or rather, rumbled- when I said that. "Don't wet yerself, kid. Ain't a big 'un, and it ain't gonna stay here long."
"I'm not afraid," I said instantly, trying to recover some ground. "At all," I added, in case he didn't get it.
One bushy eyebrow rose. "Yeh?"
"Yes."
"Ye've never been 'fraid before?"
"No."
"Even with her around?"
I hesitated briefly. True, Mother was intimidating… but I realized with mild surprise that no, she had never frightened me before – even at her most furious. "No."
Pa'kaq glanced back at where Mother was berating several workers of different species for setting up a bar wrongly. The workers were cringing back, like kobolds, looking for a chance to slink away. If they had tails, the tails would be down, between their legs.
"Yeh? I find that hard t' believe."
It was some time later, after I'd run some messages around and helped in cleaning up, that Pa'kaq spoke again. "Are ye hers?"
"No."
"Yeh?"
"I'm nobody's creature," I said proudly, with a hint of arrogance. It was a trait that would, unfortunately, stay with me for all of my life, and would probably lead to my downfall. Here, however, it merely made the dwarf laugh.
"I meant if she's yer Mum."
I looked anxiously in Mother's direction, but her back was to me. She had not introduced me as her son, perhaps with her own reasons for doing so. If that was the case…
Pa'kaq saw my uncertainty and shrugged. "If it'd get ye in trouble, never ye mind. It's prob'ly so anyways – ye've got yer mom's eyes."
He looked more closely at my features, bending forward in a comical manner as he did so, then added, "And yer father's pretty face, eh?"
That was the first time I thought of my father as a tangible, existing being.
"My father?"
Pa'kaq looked vague, then said hastily, "Just a guess, kid."
I was interrupted from further questioning by the sound of a harsh, bloodthirsty roar at the entrance.
**
I had been far too busy talking to Pa'kaq to notice the progression of rothe dragging large wagons of crates, most of which were quickly unloaded by the simple method of manhandling them into their cages, forcing out the inhabitant, closing the cage door and then removing the crate. This was not as easy as it sounded, for many of the monsters were pressured and vicious as a result. I saw one worker get a nasty gash on his arm from the claw of some strange bird-like creature as tall as he was, and had to be rushed off quickly for antidote and treatment. Apparently there was poison involved.
Pa'kaq told me to stay, and lumbered off to give apparently conflicting directions as the final and biggest crate was carefully moved. There was no sound from the crate, and I blinked as they opened it outside the cage. Several workers went into it, and came out manfully carrying a sleeping dragon.
As Pa'kaq had said, it was a small one, probably only twice a dark elf's height at the shoulder, but it looked extremely large to me then as they carefully placed it in the cage and shut the door. It continued to stay in a deep sleep – drugs, Pa'kaq explained later. It was one of the species of deep dragon, with vestigial wings, a long, sleek body armored with overlapping scales, darkly iridescent in hues of black. Ivory horns, in stark contrast, arced up from the back of is triangular head and eye ridges, and occasionally it would move its mouth, showing sharp dagger-like teeth. Its graceful, fragile-looking tail tip flicked back and forth, snake-like.
"All this trouble fer a mage," Pa'kaq muttered, stopping me from getting too close to the crate. "Ye'd just hope it doesn't wake before 'e gets 'ere."
"What does the mage want it for?"
Pa'kaq shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? S'long as he pays. Ye don't wanna know what mages do, kid. Just look at them scrolls. Sometimes they use haszakkin brains." Shaking his head at the apparent insane perversity of drow mages, he stamped off to check on the other cages. I thought about this as I followed – it was a new take on mages, at least. I had always had the idea that Mother would not be displeased if I turned mage later on in life, for reasons unknown to me until much later, so I had assumed what they did was advantageous. Magic did seem exciting, glamorous even. Now I was uncertain again.
The world enjoys orchestrating the decomposition of illusions.
**
The mage in question arrived in a blaze of color – the first time I had seen magic, a portal - and I was somewhat certain again – I rather envied the way everyone immediately deferred to him. His long white hair was worn in a strange cut, and his robes were far richer than anything I'd ever seen, in shimmering colors with marvelous designs and complex folds that showed the hint of gleaming silver beneath. The dark elven mage sniffed in distaste as he looked around, not even deigning to plant his mage staff on the ground, and nodded curtly with the proprietor of the shop – also a dark elf. The others, he pretended not to notice.
The transaction was carried out, then the dark elf waved his staff. The portal yawned wider, the swirling color within growing more and more frantic, and then it swallowed him and the dragon's cage, closing with a snap.
Pa'kaq snorted in disgust, and went to talk to some guards. I tentatively asked the nearest one what the mage's name was.
"Ye don't know, kid?"
"No," I said patiently. A trait in dwarves is their tendency to state the obvious.
"That's Gromph Baenre, kid. Th' ArchMage."
**
I asked Mother more questions about mages when we were back in the apartment, and she seemed amused. "You want to be a mage, Zaknafein?"
"I don't know." I paused. "If I become a mage, do I have to give up the Dance?"
"Dance? What Dance?" Mother looked confused.
"Fighting, of course!" I said, with childish amazement that she hadn't known.
The next thing I knew, I was slumped against the opposite wall with a welt on my shoulder and a pain in the side of my head. Mother was in one of her moods as she stalked towards me and picked me up under the arms, shaking me painfully. "Fighting is not dancing, you stupid child! It is about survival, staying ahead of your enemy such that you don't vithin' die. It is never something beautiful. If you think that way, be a mage, then!"
I was too stunned to speak, and to my horror, felt tears welling up behind my eyes, making them sting. Frantically I willed them away – Mother hated seeing anything cry. Tears would never accomplish anything. Luckily, she didn't notice, but stared at me for a moment with blazing eyes before dropping me, going into the bedroom we shared and closing the door.
"It's a dance," I muttered, unwilling to give up. It wasn't the first time I'd disagreed with her – behind her back, of course. Somehow, this incident decided – childishly - for me what I wanted to become. Somehow, I've stayed with the choice ever since.
I didn't know why Mother got angry at certain things and why other, more provocative (to me) events passed her by, but as was my habit, I noted down what not to say in front of her in the future mentally and kept on going.
That is sometimes the best way to deal with situations, instead of blindly trying to change them. Like a stone set in a wall, at times it is better to stay than to try and escape, for that may bring down the wall in its crushing power onto you.
Mother recovered her temper quickly and continued to teach the Dance. I progressed to weapons in a year, to the amusement of Pa'kaq, since now that Mother took me to work regularly I had to practice there. The dwarf's technique was unsurprisingly different from Mother's, relying on strength and a strange finesse in whirling the crude axe as compared to the dexterity involved in swordplay.
For a brief moment in my life, existence was relatively peaceful – until the Visitor arrived.
--
Notes and References:
Iblith: filth, carrion.
Wael: fool.