Chapter One

(*)

It was four years after the massacre at the temple, and the eleven-year-old Sarevok Anchev sat on his knees, tears of helpless fury running down his face.

He had escaped that Hell, living on the streets for some time, until he had been adopted by a well-off merchant, Rieltar Anchev, himself recently moved to the city and setting up a new branch of his guild. He and his wife were unable to conceive, and appearances were everything. To hide the couple's sterility, Sarevok had been chosen as their adoption... his dark skin and hair had hinted at Sembian heritage, much like his new 'parents', and few would question that he was not their child by blood.

He had not had much choice in the matter, but he had been content with it... his 'father' was a cold, distant, and brutal man, but hardly worse than living on the streets. He was made to study and train for long hours, learning swordsmanship from Sir Angelo Dosan, the half-elf swordmaster of the house guard, and letters and sums from Rieltar's attendant mage Winski. Sarevok had little love for either man, particularly the way the old wizard looked at him as though trying to peer through his skin and into his soul.

But food was plentiful, he had a warm bed to sleep in, and while his father might strike him on a whim, he never struck to kill or tried to force himself on the young boy. This set him above the denizens of the Gate's back alleys by far; Sarevok habitually carried two knives at all time for a reason. Better, Rieltar's wife, Arcine, was a meek and quiet but genuinely pleasant woman, who had gone above and beyond her husband's attitude to truly treat the boy like her own son. She was not above hiding the boy if he chose to skip out on a lesson or two, happy to slip him a small toy or a book of stories, always ready with a warm cup of tea or a small sweet. She was not his mother... he remembered little of his real mother, but he knew that much. But most days... he felt that she was better than his real mother.

Particularly today. After all, once you lost something, it was hard to remember it with anything but fondness...

It had been a day like any other. He had finished his lessons with Angelo, and was in a good mood; he was a large and powerful boy, stronger than some adults even as young as he was, and he took to the battle like a fish to water. Sword lessons with Dosan, while painful if he failed a routine, were diverting and useful. But it was time to take a meal before Winski took him to their manor's study for his history lesson, and lunch with moth—with Arcine was always a pleasant afternoon. He opened the door to the dining room, saying, "Arcine, what has the chef prepared? I am..."

He fell silent, then at what he saw.

Rieltar, stood in the dining hall next to the long oaken table. He was not an overly tall man, nor particularly well-muscled; soft, not fat but not athletic either, the result of a career made in haggling, negotiating, and studying rather than physical labor. It was only in his eyes one could see the danger in the man... like two chips of black ice set against the smooth and soft tan of his skin. His robes were brightly dyed and of excellent make, in shades of green and gold.

The blood clashed with them horribly.

Arcine lay on the floor, her blood soaking into the Calishite carpet, pooling around the red-streaked bruise around her neck. Someone had strangled her, with such force it had pierced the skin and cut into her throat.

'Someone'.

Rieltar still held the bloody garrote wire in his hands.

"Hold him," his foster father said, gesturing lazily at Sarevok, and two armored guards standing post beside the door separated from the wall, forcing the boy to the floor, his arms twisted behind his back. It was pointless; he was too stunned to fight back. All he could do was stare on, gazing at the glassy eyes of his... his mother...

"She was disloyal. Taking comfort in the arms of another man. Some common brat who worked the warehouses for the company," Rieltar said. "I had him removed earlier today, but her... my own wife. That required a personal touch."

He stepped forward, running the bloody wire lightly along his adopted son's face. "See that you never betray me. Let her be the example of how it ends, and learn well."

Sarevok did not know how long he sat there, staring at the cooling body.

But that was the moment he knew that someday, Rieltar would die by his hand. He didn't have the power to do it yet, he didn't have anything but impotent rage, but one day, one day...

The door opened silently, and Winski Pretorate, the young man's mage tutor, opened the door and looked in, taking in the scene. He did not say a word, or do anything to comfort the boy. That would be counter-productive to the wizard's true aim.

He simply smiled, as the boy sobbed and raged over the corpse of the closest thing he'd had to a mother.

(*)

It was eight years after the massacre at the temple, and two red-haired ten year olds ran through the library.

"Give it back, Immy!" the taller of the two snapped. Her legs were longer and she was faster on a straight run, but the girl before her danced past readers, under tables, and between shelves like a cat, while her pursuer stumbled at each new obstacle.

"Mmmmmmmmmmm, it smells so good!" the little girl named Immy teased, an impish grin on her face as she brandished her ill-gotten prize of spiced bread. "I can't wait to eat iiiiiiit~"

"Don't! You! Dare!" the taller girl screamed, childish fury lending her tone a screech.

"Then you better catch me Seffy! It's still waaaaaaaaaaarm!"

Immy turned a corner, dodging past a junior Chanter performing his daily recitations, spun along the bannister down the stairs...

And ran into something both unyielding and soft, landing on her rear with a pained squeak. "Owwwww... oh. Um. Hi, Gorion..."

The mage sighed in annoyance as the second girl screeched to a half at the edge of the steps, her tiny expression of fury becoming immense embarrassment immediately. "F-father! Oh. Um. Our apologies, for... the noise, and..."

"The noise, and the running, and the knocking of books off the shelves? In a library? A library which, I might add, has extremely harsh punishments for damaging the tomes in any way?" Gorion asked dryly.

"... Yes?" the two girls said. Or asked. It wasn't clear.

In the years since that fateful night, he had been proven right in taking the girl in. Sephiria had been an angel to raise, since he had brought her home with him to Candlekeep. It had been a place close to his heart for many years, and he had needed a safe place to raise the girl, so the great library south of Baldur's Gate had been a choice as good as any; it was a veritable fortress, and this place full of serenity and knowledge, he had hoped, would dissuade her... darker impulses. And for those first eight years, it certainly had; the girl was well-mannered, charming, not overly fond of studying or reading unless it was stories of heroes and dragons, but strong and healthy.

Then Imoen had come to join them.

The girls had become fast friends, more like sisters than anything even a few months after meeting. It was just that Imoen seemed terminally allergic to obeying rules or using an indoor voice, and she seemed to draw out the mischievous, childish side of his calm, thoughtful daughter. Which, while not bad for a ten-year-old child, per se, made things quite a lot worse on her father.

"Now. I assume, Imoen, that this," Gorion said, snatching away the small treat from her and ignoring her squeak of protest. "Was stolen?"

"How come you assume I stole anything?!"

"Because in the five months since you have come here, you have stolen my favorite quill seventeen times, and you cannot write."

"Well, of course not," Imoen said, all trace of outrage vanishing from her face to be replaced with a chipper grin, showing off a few missing teeth. "That's why I need the quill! To practice, y'know?"

Gorion rolled his eyes. "Winthrop needs the beds made and the pans in the kitchen scoured. Run off now."

Her face falling at the mention of her own foster-father, the young girl tromped off sullenly, muttering something under her breath that sounded like, "Buffleheaded mutton-mongering riff-raff."

"Sephiria?" Gorion asked gently.

"... Yes, father?"

"You know better."

She sighed, looking down at her feet in guilt. "Yes, father. It's just that... well, it was mine. Parda gave it to me for doing good in my lessons this week, and..."

"I know, my child. I know. It was wrong of Imoen to take it from you. But you must remember," Gorion said, lifting the girl's face to look her in the eyes. "Anger is very often the difference between justice and revenge. And only the former is righteous."

The young girl took a deep breath, and composed her face into a somber expression. "Stop. Breathe. And think. Then, act how you feel is right."

Gorion smiled, and handed the small treat to his daughter. "Good girl. Run along now... Jondalar has sent for you."

The girl blinked. "Jondalar?"

Gorion looked away, smiling lightly. "Well. It seems he think you are old enough to start learning with a wooden sword, and..."

With a squeal of joy, the girl ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, sprinting to get out of the library as quickly as possible.

"Slow, please!" Gorion called after her, trying not to laugh.

(*)

It was ten years after the massacre at the temple, and Acherai Moonshadow laid the gem down. "Five-hundred gold."

The old fence laughed in the young elf's face. "Half that, kid, and thank me for being generous."

"I am twenty years old, and the diamond is real."

"Twenty's young for an elf, and the diamond is flawed. And don't be acting like you can demand jeweler's market prices from a pawn shop, in the first place!"

"Flawed?! It's the size of a grape, stolen right from the personal wagon of that fat old marchioness visiting from Amn. This is a stone of rare quality. I refuse to part with it for less than four-hundred."

"Which means it will be harder to sell, sneak thief. And besides, how would you get hold of such a thing? Two-seventy-five."

"Most sneak thieves can't turn literally invisible. Which is why I need three-seventy five, and not a copper less. I've expenses."

"Three-fifty, and not a copper more."

"Three-fifty and one scroll from the back room," Acherai said. Minor mages needed money too, sometimes, and the old man was a very good pawnbroker. Even weak scrolls of genuine magic fetched solid coin if you could find a buyer.

"Deal," the old man said flatly. "Be happy I like you."

"Always am, old man, always am," Acherai said, rubbing his hands together. Three-hundred and fifty! Less than the gem was worth, but more than he'd expected to get. After all these years, it was really time.

After the massacre at the temple, Acherai had been adrift. Lost, alone, far from his home in Evereska... not that he had anything to return to there. He had no family he knew of besides his mother, and she had been... lost... when the cult came. And so he had made his way east, far from the city they had dragged him to, and vanished. A child could fit into many places, and Acherai was agile and intelligent. Sneaking aboard a caravan was not so hard, and Scornubel was not so terribly far from Baldur's Gate. Vanishing into the the underbelly of the Caravan City was not easy for a child.

But a child who was more agile than any human boy, and had natural talents lending themselves to stealth and spotting hidden doors and compartments, well... he had ways.

The first years had been spent as a pickpocket, something he'd had a natural talent for. The thieves guild had been happy to take him in, then, and he'd graduated to burglary by his fifteenth year. And from there, with more coin flowing in despite guild dues, the final stepping stone had been in sight.

Magecraft.

Acherai was not a stupid elf. He had no idea why those people had taken him, or those other children, down to that hellhole. But he had seen them, killers and warriors, cast into chaos by a single mage, lightning and fire hurled from his fingers. He wanted that power. He needed that power. 'Helpless' was not a state of being he ever wanted to be again. He was a survivor, and magic would help him stay one.

And so, from his fifteenth summer on, ever scrap of free time, every spare coin, had gone to the Art. Hedge wizards, traveling adventurers, anyone who could teach him anything. He was a slightly built boy even for an elf; he would never be more than middling in melee and was a hopeless shot with a bow. But he was also a smart boy. His mother had taught him to read, and more advanced books came with practice and, well, theft. He was good at theft.

He had gathered only maybe a half-dozen true spells; they were hard to find and most beyond his ability. But with this addition to his spell book and his coin purse, he had enough to buy passage out of the city, and hopefully enough talent to spend a few years under the master mage who dwelt outside Beregost, south of the Gate. Within striking distance, one might say.

And then, when he had the power and the knowledge he needed...

Well, then he would see about finding out just who exactly had killed his mother, and tried to kill him, and most especially why.

And then kill them, of course, if any still lived. Horribly and in lingering agony.

He was a survivor, and one did not survive by letting obvious enemies wander about.

(*)

It was fourteen years after the massacre in the temple, and Sarevok Anchev sat staring in disbelief at the book that Winski had laid before him. "You are sure?"

"The dreams. The unusual circumstances of your arrival here. Your... nearly inhuman strength and skill with the blade," the old mage said. "I have suspected it for some time, of course, but I was not certain until you came of age, lord Anchev."

"Don't call me that," Sarevok growled. "'Lord Anchev'. Reminds me of Rieltar."

"Of course, master. But as I said... I am quite certain. The signs are all there. It explains everything, as I'm sure you agree."

"Yes... yes," the boy... no, a man now... rumbled. Adulthood had only added on to Sarevok's already freakish size and strength, and years of training had left him among the most skilled blades in the city. "It explains more than everything. But... what to do with it? I... could destroy him. The bastard who calls himself my father. I knew that, but... I don't know. I held back. If I let him die of old age or sickness, then his wealth would be mine, I would grow old, be a merchant..."

"I imagine that all seems a bit pointless, now," Winski said softly.

"Yes. Yes. Why should I dream of... of gold and trade, when I could have so. Much. More..."

"You could," Winski said softly, "have everything."

The younger man's eyes raced, scanning up and down the pages, his eyes devouring the words. "I'll need more. I'll need to learn to control it, and... yes, I'll need power. Not just my own. Men. Soldiers. Armies..."

"Worshippers?"

Sarevok looked up at his mentor, and a smile tugged at his lips as something unpleasant entered his eyes. "Yes. Worshippers. And books. Arrange transport to Candlekeep as soon as possible. I need more. I need to find out everything I can. Everything."

"As you will, master."

"And tell Tamoko to attend me," he murmured, mentioning the name of his favored lover. "I want to celebrate."

(*)

It was seventeen years after the massacre in the Temple, and Sephiria of Candlekeep looked over the steel blade in her hands in awe, the shirt of chainmail on her bed.

"Sir, I..." she began.

"Say nothing. You deserve it and more," Jondalar, her swordmaster, said. "Can't give you much, sadly. Not no fancy rituals, no priests of Torm around these places. Can't make you a proper paladin, but at least can give you a proper sword."

The girl smiled, her nineteenth birthday made glorious indeed. She had never been a book-learning girl, to her father's sadness, but she had taken well to the sword. More than that, though... she had taken well to what was right.

She might not have learned her foster father's knowledge of words, numbers, histories and spells. But she had learned something more important. His morality. His belief in justice. His need to help those who couldn't help themselves. The path of the paladin had been her goal since she was twelve.

Imoen called her stuffy, but not to her face. Sephiria had grown up well, tall and naturally athletic, closer to six feet than five. Further, years of sword-work had left her with muscles in her arms and shoulders that most women could never imagine. With her gold-copper curls and bright blue eyes, the boys and men around the keep were watching her more and more closely... until such time as they saw the muscles beneath that soft skin when she lifted a sword. A pretty face appealed to men, but a pretty face who could punch their teeth out the other side of their head tended to turn them off quickly.

She didn't really mind. Paladins were supposed to be virtuous, after all, so refraining from smashing a guardsman in the jaw for balking at her biceps was good practice.

She lifted the sword, and smiled. She did not even look out the window of her small quarters, to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man holding an old scroll, staring up at her room thoughtfully from the courtyard, and speaking to an older, skeletally thin man in robes.

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Acherai walked out of High Hedge, two years of apprenticeship behind him and a small smile on his lips as he began the walk to Beregost, a spellbook peeking out of his bag. From there, it would be a simple matter of finding a caravan or party heading north, and barely a day's journey to Candlekeep.

You could find information on anything in Candlekeep, and Master Thalantyr had, ah-hem, 'donated' an appropriate book he could use as an entry fee. The old man would hardly notice the forgery, he was so caught up in being surly to visitors and droning about how awful his adventuring days had been. So wise, and yet so easy to fool if you just knew the right buttons. He hadn't even noticed that junior apprentice Melicamp had stolen those bracers he kept in his locked safe! Honestly, you'd think if they were so dangerous he would check on them every so often.

Well, it wasn't as though Melicamp was skilled enough to do anything with them, and perhaps if he noticed the bracers gone, it would distract him from checking to make sure all his books were in place.

The young elf walked to Beregost, a tune on his lips and mind dancing with the images of men in armor crafted like skulls. He vaguely wondered how long it would take, among the tomes, to find some sign of them, some hint as to the nature of their bizarre cult.

And then he wondered what they would look like on fire. It had been so long since he'd seen it, after all.

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Sarevok fastened his gauntlets, admiring the vicious serrated spikes that adorned them. The armor had met his every specification. Just wearing it made him feel stronger. More alive.

His flesh was weakness. This armor, black steel adorned with blades and warm with the power of his blood. This was his true flesh now.

"You are certain, milord?" Tamoko asked gently, her lilting voice hesitant as she finished fastening the straps on his breastplate, taking care not to cut herself on the spikes. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but the suit was a bit impractical. She preferred plainer steel. But then, she was not Sarevok. His concerns were... the last few years, not so mundane as her own. It wasn't about practically, it was about being seen as something more than human, and then using that perception to become something more than human. The armor was not meant to be practical. Based on the already intimidating armor of the Deathbringer he had spent the years since learning his heritage training to be, and then made even more inhuman and vicious through Sarevok's personal adjustments, you could hardly even call it 'armor' anymore. Armor was made to defend, and this suit was less a tool for defense, and more a tool for inspiring terror.

And through that terror, to forge belief.

"All the signs are there. She is the proper age. The Harper we broke last month confirmed her foster father led the raid on the temple. I thought only I and the elf lived, but it seems one more slipped the net," he let out a low chuckle. "If only I had known then what I know now. I'd have let the Harpers slit the little brat's throat. Still, he'll show up soon enough. They'll all show up soon enough."

He turned to Tamoko, and his smile was more like a predator's glare than any expression of joy, but he still pulled her into a fervent kiss. "It's started. First blood has been spilled, and I spilled it. And now, all that's left... is to just. Keep. Going.

"Holy War. And it. Will. Be. Glorious," Sarevok whispered, letting the slightly limp Tamoko slip from his grasp to clear her head, and picking up his horned helmet. The ogres that had joined them in their camp, simple mercenaries, grunted at the motion.

The helmet slid over his head, completing the armor, and his eyes took on a golden glow, the plate channeling forth the power in his blood. He raised his sword, a mammoth greatsword it would have taken most men both hands to hold. He carried it easily in one.

"Time to hunt."

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Sephiria obediently followed her foster father into the rain.

"Come, child. The night shall only get worse, so we must find shelter soon. I will explain everything as soon as there is time," he said soothingly as he led her off the road, and she believed him, even as she huddled under her cloak to keep the rain off the sword and armor he had insisted she wear. It was a sign of her respect for her father that she had even agreed to this... vanishing from the keep in the middle of the night, without even bringing Imoen? But after the events of the day, she could hardly blame him...

She shuddered. The man had come up to her in one of the guardhouses, brandishing a dagger, all smiles and rotting teeth, asking if she was truly Gorion's ward. She hadn't been wearing her armor, but she hadn't needed it... he had lunged, but he was an amateur, and her weapon had better reach. One routine, and... and...

It had taken her less time than she had expected to get the blood off her sword. She had thrown the dress away... it was stained beyond salvation, and besides, she didn't feel comfortable wearing it ever again, after that.

Gorion had been right to take her out of that place.

"Wait," her foster father said, going oddly tense, his voice dropping. "Something's wrong."

He turned to face his child, his eyes narrowed. "Prepare yourself. We are in an ambush."

Two lights in the darkness appeared, walking from between the trees. Eyes. Glowing yellow, and lightning illuminated a figure that seemed to be carved from a single chunk of black steel, coated in razors, a massive sword in his grip, monsters stomping from the darkness on either side of him. He spoke, then, his voice so deep and strong Seph thought she could feel her bones shaking.

"You're perceptive, for an old man..."