14TH OF FLAMERULE, 1341 DR
The only thing more intense than his sorrow and rage was the taste of blood filling his airways. He coughed out some blood, panicking in the darkness. An inhuman scream filled his head, too unnatural to be actual sound, full of nothing but hatred and frustration - he tried to scream, but managed only a gurgle.
Around him, rain, darkness, the smell of dirt, and a cold, yet red-hot pain in his chest: a small blade, piercing his lung. He tried to take stock of the spells in his head, but could think of none. Instead, he saw a strange figure just ahead of him, tearing at a nearby tree and devouring something that wriggled in a familiar, terrifying way. The humanoid shape slurped voraciously, retching in a way Tarmim recognized - it was eating an obliviax. The emptiness in his memories, and the inhuman screaming in his mind, could only mean that. He tried to demand answers of the humanoid that swallowed and retched ahead of him, but only managed to choke on more of his own blood.
The creature glanced his way, and Tarmim's eyes widened in terror; the creature's own eyes were an odd off-pink and blue, fragmented, and run through with crazes like those of a shattered vase. He could see no pupils at all, just hope he was imagining the wriggling protrusions wrapping around the creature's eye sockets. With a moan, it quickly returned to the task of prying out and swallowing more of the moss, chewing, gasping, and sputtering noisomely. It was clad in brute rags, soaking wet with icy rain, its shoes filthy with mud, reaching past them to the shins. The monstrosity shuddered in the cold, but it continued to gorge away at the bark.
The stranger tumbled to the ground, and retched, driving filthy hands to its mouth with a pained moan. Then its mineral eyes turned the wizard's way. With a number of false starts, the creature's voice went from whines and moans to ever more resolute syllables of invocation. Finally, perhaps inevitably, the creature cast the battlestrike spell, and darts of force suddenly sprang from its hand.
-Lord Bane...- his mind wandered as his vision began to swim. -is this how I die?
24 HOURS EARLIER
Tarmim stumbled towards a nearby alley, and took a deep breath. His behind was now soaking in blood, courtesy of an assassin who struck him three times near the kidneys before he was able to shake him off. He wasn't sure the man was completely gone, so he took the chance to cast some spells. His first spell was one of armoring. With the adrenaline governing him, he cast another spell, to grant himself vertical mobility.
And so, he realized the man wasn't coming again yet. Thinking himself a complete fool, Tarmim pursed his lips and cast one more spell. The spell he was using required one to visualize the attacker; he'd have to change tack here, for he had not been able to see much of his attacker. Instead, he thought of his own blood, on a blade freshly pulled from his flesh, and turned around, trying to coax the Weave into revealing an unseen weapon for him, one soaked in his own blood...
He was barely able to get a lock on the weapon, and quickly ran towards it, his heartbeat pounding in his ears- fearing the assassin might suddenly attack again. It had been pure luck that he had that improved strength spell functioning at the time, the one he employed to perform heavy chores: it had made it possible to shake off the assassin clutching his throat and stabbing him in the kidneys. A quick spell had stopped the worst of the bleeding, as well as cleaned out the poison - he still felt nauseous, lightheaded, plodding and stiff, but the sensation no longer overpowered him.
Following the trail of the spell, he found the door of an establishment - behind it, he heard a ringing chime, a warning curfew was shortly upon the inhabitants of the Keep. He knocked at the door... a panel slid open.
"Who's there?" an unfriendly voice came from inside.
"A man just tried to stab me, and he has run in there." Tarmim explained. "Let him know he either comes out, or I come in."
The panel slid closed. Tarmim growled.
"You greasy spew from a fat slug's hairy rotten behind!" he snarled. "I'll bring down your door! I'll torch your whole place down if I have to!"
There was a sound of unlocking bolts from behind the door, and it quickly swung open. Tarmim's eyes widened as two orcs, an ogre, and a gnoll stepped out towards him, wielding clubs.
"I- I've no quarrel with you. A man attacked me, and he is... in there. I know he is in there." Tarmim quickly explained. He stepped back gingerly, and as he did, people began to pour out of the tavern from behind the four humanoids; men, women, giving him killing glares - the old apprentice felt his cheeks begin to redden in exasperation. He had a good reason for making this scandal!
"That's many clients I've lost already..." the ogre snarled, raising a club.
"H-hold! It is not I that is to blame!" Tarmim gulped, looking at the men that kept pouring out of the small tavern. "I am pursuing..."
"Hey, Gruk, let's listen to the mage, and make nice." a young man suggested from behind. Tarmim noticed him mostly for his tousled black hair, and a few missing teeth.
"You stay back, Durrus." the ogre snarled at the young man.
"Gruk, come on, it ain't worth it to kill this man. Surely, he can make up for it, right?"
Tarmim gulped. A small crowd had begun to form.
"Sirrah, I apprentice to Venatur, the Ironfang. On my honor, I will see to it that you are compensated for any inconvenience." he told the ogre, hoping he may recognize the Master's name. If he did, there was no sign. "But a man has harmed me minutes ago, and he is in your tavern. I know it, because I can feel the knife he used to wound me... it is just inside."
"I don't need a knife to hurt you..." the ogre grit his teeth.
"Care to stake your life on it?" Tarmim's eyes flared wider. He hoped the display would be enough to head off the ogre's anger...
"Wizard! Behind you!"
A blade sank almost to his shoulderblade. With a gasp, Tarmim realized that the man was attacking him again, with a fresh and freshly poisoned knife; his charge was so sudden and violent, the point of his dagger punched straight between the force plates of his armoring spell. With great difficulty he raised his elbow to parry, and then reached to grab the knife with his other arm, only to feel it coming hard and fast into his gut.
He swung for the man, only to find himself deftly sidestepped and kicked in the lower back; this aggravated the barely-healed wounds, and he skidded backwards unnaturally, almost dropping on his knees, saved only by the levitation spell With magical strength, he clutched the man's forearms in his unshakable grasp; facing each other, Tarmim saw the adversary's mustache on a small-eyed, burgundy-tinged face. Before he could cast, the assassin threw his head back and slammed it on the mage's jaw. The syllables he was gathering died in his mouth. Tasting blood, Tarmim tried to push him away, only to get another, even stronger headbutt in response. His vision began to swam, and he felt his grip slacken as once more, the assassin bashed his skull against his own.
-Bane, is this how I die?- Tarmim wondered.
"Perish, in the name of Bhaal!"
Controlling the man's limbs was no way to stop his attack, and he could take no more. Tarmim's only move was to shift his head to the side, so the blow only brushed his temple; if anything, that made it even more painful. The mage then tumbled himself to the ground, bringing the slayer down with him; he rose swiftly in the air with the active levitating spell, his opponent caught in his steely clutch and hanging from his arms.
"Think of dropping me!? Hah! I've slain you already!" the assassin grinned. "I'll just stay on your body as you float down."
Suddenly Tarmim became aware that the iron grip he had was still strong, but it no longer held the man- instead, the man now clutched one of his hands, while the other still held a knife. "I'll carve you up just the same up here..."
The mage felt his body begin to seize again, nausea and limpness gripping him. He reached towards the would-be slayer, but the best he could do was bat at his free hand. He was wounded, and now poisoned. In a panic, Tarmim began to descend.
"Your floating flesh will make a fine monument to BhaAAAH...!" as the man attempted to climb, Tarmim quickly changed from descent to ascent and released his hand; when the assassin tried to clutch him with the free hand, he slackened his own hand and swung him downwards. That was enough momentum to shake him off, and the man fell nine stories to his doom. The mage hovered down next to him afterwards, and crumpled into a kneeling heap.
He was barely able to ascertain the humanoids were still sizing him up, as if considering tearing him limb from limb still.
One of the orcs murmured something.
"I heard that! I have not died, nor am I carrying valuables." Tarmim grunted.
"Rude! Mind your own business!" the other orc spat at him.
"C'mon, surely this man here can make it worth our while." the young man from before broke in again, moving gingerly towards Tarmim. He sported an excited smile. "See, I told you that he was coming for you. Way I see it, you owe me."
"You did, indeed, young man..." he eyed him up and down, with barely concealed scorn. "By my leave, you may have all spoils from the corpse."
"I'm not dead yet..." the assassin groaned from the ground. The gnoll shrugged, walked over, and repeatedly thwacked the back of the assassin's head with a club, politely correcting Tarmim's oversight. The mage pushed himself off the wall and laboriously got up.
"Aw, that's quite generous of you, mate. You must be really grateful. Surely you won't mind doing a little thing for me, I wonder..."
"You play a dangerous game." Tarmim grit his teeth.
"Hey, don't be like that! I saved your life there! Twice!"
"And would you sooner live to regret that?"
The young man glowered at him. Tarmim took a few deep breaths, steadied himself on his feet, wiped the blood from his face, and started to limp off, occassionally looking behind him at the unwashed, impertinent young man. As he made it to the bag where he had been carrying the vegetables, he put a wall to his back and searched his pockets for a small copper tintinabar. Pulling a string from the wrist of his robe, he winded himself down and focused on his breathing, trying to steady himself. His head pounded just a little softer, his vision became a touch less blurry, his arms didn't tremble as much. He gulped, and unclenched his jaw, working the start of a spell.
Then he noticed the youth approach him.
"Hey. I'm Durrus, I've been looking for a teacher on magic. That's why I told you about the assassin after you... I mean, I would have told you anyway, but..."
"Zhentil Keep makes cynics of many; I will not think any less of you for that misstep." Tarmim rolled his eyes. "Why not seek a Naug-adar instead of me?"
"Uh, I mean, I have, but..." the kid gulped. "I've, uh, they kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I wanted money so I- I mean, maybe, no, who knows why? But, look, aren't you... Tarmim? Tarmim the Dim?"
"Excuse me!?"
He could excuse theft: it would not do to be outraged on the behalf of another Naug-Adar. They would not be incensed over any fate befalling him, for certain! He'd remember to secure any valuables around this dimwit. But the name...
"I mean Tarmim the um, ah, well... him?"
"One thing is for sure, you will never be one to speak in rhyme." Was he giving offense as part of some ill-conceived heist?
"Look, thing is, I was told you were the greatest teacher for dumb people out there."
Almost endearing. Almost.
"Young man, can you read?"
"Sure!"
The mage scrunched his nose in resignation. If a good turn did not beget another, nothing would, so he might as well play at this thankfulness and hear the kid to the end.
"Not anyone can wield magic, youngster. Magic must call to you, first. Power must flow through you first, choose you, send a sign that you're meant to work magic. Have you manifested a Gift?"
"I, yeah! I had fire coming out of my eyes the other day. And lightning! Twice!"
The mage shook his head. He was lied to often enough, but it was seldom from one so pathetic. Pity did not become him.
"Then seek a wealthy patron. Many merchants here would love to call a mage their servant; for those who have one already, you would profit greatly as their apprentice."
"Ah, you sure you can't teach me?"
"Very well; one thing alone matters the most of them all. Tell me what is it you want out of the Art. What do you want magic for?"
Suddenly the would-be apprentice went quiet.
"I would... I mean, I want it, because, magic rules the world. What's better than that?"
"Do you really believe magic rules the world? You have just seen me barely fall short of being struck down while bringing vegetables to my Master's abode."
"That's Venatur, right? The crazy guy?"
Whatever levity had come with the chuckle vanished.
"The master is far from insane, young man, and we would all do well to learn from his wisdom."
"I heard he skinned one of his apprentices alive and spread out their organs!"
"Two." Tarmim spat out. "If I took you on, it would surely make three."
"But..."
"Young man... you claim your warning has saved my life, and I will do the same for you: look elsewhere. My master has little patience for smart mouths..."
"Thanks!"
"...and less for dim wits."
"Listen, I'm just gonna keep asking until you say yes..."
Tarmim sighed.
"Such naivete is unbecoming of a man of the Moonsea. My master, you fool..." Tarmim just realized he'd slipped. He avoided using the word, for it often made fools foolhardy. "...is quite observant of the commandments of the Black Hand. He is a man who believes in fear and suffering; I celebrate the chance to learn from him. I'll give you a straight warning- there is nothing he enjoys more than breaking one who, in their folly, plays at being unbreakable."
"...say, this is one of those things where the wizard tells me to do one thing and I gotta prove myself by doing the other?"
He tired of this.
"Sure. Will you give me until tomorrow? Just don't bother me until tomorrow, that's all I ask of you."
"Uh... sure." the young man said. "I'll come by tomorrow!"
"I told you not to come. My Master will not appreciate you. I'll find you, if things go well."
"Things go well? What's going to happen?"
Tarmim smirked. He had scant chances to do such a thing as an apprentice himself, but he relished the opportunities to lord over a mystery as much as the next.
At the master's abode, he quickly realized that poison and injury made cooking impossible, and so, he had to resort to a rare resource: getting the other apprentices to do some of his tasks. He was not keen on this - they took up his chores rarely and thus performed inadequately, and they resented the simple tasks he'd grown to relish.
A broad-shouldered youngster, Deyinal Klenvas, manned the quern, grinding oats for the Master's fresh porridge. Daramia, young and blonde, hardly even a child, grated the spices with great effort. Relgam, an older apprentice, chopped the lizard meat for baeranth-pies; Tarmim himself turned seven large frogs for spit-roasting.
"This is unusually large." Relgam observed, brushing out a red lock of hair from his face. "What's the occassion, have you finally become too important to cook?"
"The occassion, Relgam, is that you'll eat well tonight."
"Will the Master be in a good mood?"
"Nay." Tarmim frowned. "You will eat first."
"The Master bides us eat naught but his leftovers, Tarmim. Are you trying to get us in trouble?"
Venatur, also known as the Ironfang, and Master to Tarmim and his fellow apprentices, was a devout man, who believed in making himself feared. The Master demanded fresh food from his apprentices for every meal, a task often left to his oldest apprentice. He was not to game this, for if Tarmim made so much that leftovers were sure to be enough for all apprentices then the Master would refuse to eat, instead poisoning every crumb of the food and throw it in the street. The Ironfang believed in cruelty and spite, tempered only where practicality demanded it.
Over time, Tarmim had gained just enough leniency to stay alive - and the Master made it a point of ensuring the others resented it.
"There will be no trouble for you, should you obey me-"
Daramia's yowl suddenly cut them off: she had accidentally grated through the skin of her thumb. She shuddered in pain quietly after - the Master believed in increasing the suffering of those who complained. The three other apprentices shuddered; even hard-hearted as they were to suffering, the injury of this particular child hit all too close to home for them.
"Let me see..."
"No, I'm fine! I'm fine!" she yelped desperately. "The Master need not k- need not concern himself." she caught herself. "P-please..."
"It'll only take a moment."
She recoiled from Tarmim's fingers. He raised his eyebrows, and turned to the other two, who were staring with interest.
"Relgam, leave it for a moment; verify for me that Daramia is fine."
Through her protests, the apprentice examined her fingers quickly. "No, she's fine."
She once more recoiled as Tarmim reached into the bowl of grated spices instead. He dipped his finger in it.
"There is blood here, Daramia, in his food. The Master will know you have lied."
"N-no! Mercy! I don't want...!"
"Stlarn it, Tarmim! Are you having us here to rub it in our faces we can't cook, for a lark!?" Relgam protested.
"You are to make food, Relgam, for I am injured. I've had a draught to heal faster, but it's working too slowly." Tarmim sighed. "And you will eat first, for I must ensure you will not poison what the Master eats."
"Injured? So why should I help you? Why should we?"
"Because I teach you in the Master's absence, my slowly rising star."
"So what?" defiant glee shone in Relgam's eyes. "It's not like we're making much progress..."
"I see, Relgam. You are not pleased with your progress. Do you think maybe this lackspell is the one to blame? Perhaps you would set him aside, and spend days closer to the Master?"
The broad-shouldered man shuddered, and slowly returned his attention to the food, mumbling something under his breath.
Venatur had Tarmim join him for the audience with High Lord Manshoon at the High Hall the next morning. They came to a square room, flanked with columns; a wide couch, perhaps a throne, sat Manshoon and two others, one he didn't recognize. The other was blond, smug, young, Eraith, in a black robe, with a goatee.
"Master Venatur, what a surprise!" Eraith smirked. "Long time no see!"
"You." Venatur snarled.
Tarmim's heart sank.
"Oh, you two know each other?" Manshoon laughed.
The darkly handsome face of the High Lord of Zhentil Keep was a rare sight for Tarmim. His eyes widened to take him in, with a reverence that approached awe. For as long as the aging man had been in the Keep, Manshoon had remained starkly the same. Tarmim was painfully aware his youth had dissipated, and that his power was middling at best. On the other hand, little seemed out of reach for the Art of this man, perhaps a century old, mayhaps more. Where this man ruled, Tarmim scurried under the yoke of his master. Many dared not aspire to smaller things than Manshoon's status.
"High Lord. Master Eraith. Master Sarhthor." Sarhthor was widely viewed as one of Manshoon's right-hand men. Tarmim knew almost nothing about the High Lord, but it was like he knew his whole life story compared to what he knew about the closest servant.
"And you are Tarmim, Brother Venatur's apprentice. Now, Master Venatur told me you had an offer for us. I wonder about that... an offer from an apprentice to the Zhentarim?"
"What an upstart you are." Eraith laughed. "Ideas above your station, Tarmim? Who are you to have Master Venatur carry your offer for us?"
Eraith had proven himself in battle in Thar, fighting Arkhigoul's endless minions after receiving Tarmim's instruction while under Venatur's service. After his return, he had little other than scorn for either of them, but saved the worst of it for the apprentice.
"That was quite irregular, yes." Manshoon smirked.
Tarmim gulped, quickly scanning their faces. Eraith knew, Manshoon had to know too, that the proposal, never an offer, was Venatur's. They merely amused themselves with it. However, why had Venatur presented it as such? Had he, or were they amusing themselves? Was his Master not willing to take credit? That was unlike him. Was he perhaps trying to avoid too close an association? Or was he trying to boost Tarmim's profile in the organization?
"Speak now. We are on a schedule." Master Sarhthor began.
"Of course. I've a proposal to make. To make it quick, as Sarhthor would have it, I've devised a path of magic that makes for notably swifter learning. Eraith here, who barely spent a few tendays in our company, can probably attest to its effectiveness. I've modified those spells for ease of learning, and integrated them ever so carefully with an underlying theory that creates a philosophy of magic that is simultaneously self-consistent, useful, and completely incompatible with any other spells. As long as one follows magic in this way, we are in no danger that any of them learns other spells, greatly increasing their biddability. In this way, one can train as many apprentices as one desires, quickly, and without any risk of them learning more than one will teach them."
Sarhthor displayed no sign of emotion. Eraith scrunched his nose in disgust. Manshoon... seemed intrigued.
"You say no apprentice risks learning more, and thus, they'll remain ever biddable, yet Eraith here is quite versatile, I hear."
"Yet it took him years, I believe." Tarmim said, patiently. "All the tales I've heard of you speak of little spells but the ones I taught you. You had great difficulty understanding anything else, I take it?"
"So, how did you create this? I was under the impression your nickname was Tarmim the Dim." the High Lord smirked.
Tarmim felt his master harden his jaw behind him. He fought to keep himself from flinching.
"High Lord, it took me too long to discover the path to magic myself, before I could cast my first spell. So though I am no match for my master in puissance, the only reason I tread this path at all is because of my grasp of basics. I won't claim it was child's play to devise this path, but it did take a unique combination of skills to see this through - and years." The apprentice produced a book from under his clothes. "I am confident this will show nothing we care to keep hidden to a reader, and it deceives more than it reveals. Perhaps, you might want to see for yourself?"
Manshoon nodded, and accepted the book. He opened the book to its middle. Then he noticed the green gemstones on the inside.
"What are those gemstones?"
"I've noticed all too often, our apprentices are not learned in reading and writing. A late education is often needed; if you put a finger to these gemstones, they instead speak the contents of the corresponding page aloud in the trade tongue, as is spoken in the Moonsea now."
As Manshoon read the text, he scrunched his face in disgust. He appeared as to be about to touch the gemstones, but then recoiled.
"Tarmim, this is the most wicked, ungodly, disgusting, repulsive..." the apprentice suppressed a shudder "...enraging, insulting, hideous, sickening... text... I've had the displeasure of reading in my life. From the bottom of my heart, I curse you for penning this." the High Lord shuddered. "I find myself forever impoverished by reading this. Yet I believe you when you say you can teach a mage to cast spells in that way. And I agree you've made it self-consistent, apparently obvious, and completely wrong. Blood, that was enough to make my gorge rise. I see now why Eraith feels this way about you."
"I have taught a score mages for the Brotherhood. With the right resources, I can teach scores more. And we can do so much-"
"And what price do you name?"
"We are loyal to you, and to you alone. We desire only to serve you: in this way, we expect your forces shall conquer Thar ever so much faster. What my master asks is that you let him serve you afterwards as a seneschal of the future province of Thar. In that way, your strength shan't be diminished in any way..."
"...but of course. It does seem like such a small price to pay... if all you desire, Venatur, is that meaningless crag full of beasts, I see no reason to deny it to you, should I accept. I know Eraith's mind on this. What about you, Sarhthor?"
"I would not accept." he said promptly and flatly. "Armies of minor spellslingers are worthless if they come at such a cost in opportunities. High Lord, we make constant use of other spells. We cannot afford such a reduction of apprentice flexibility. Training time is not an issue to us; sheer number of would-be sorcerers is. Hence the conquests."
"Oh, please. This is more useful than most apprentices!" Venatur snarled.
"If availability be an issue, I may still be of aid." Tarmim added, shuddering at the Master's outburst. "I've recently devised one spell that breaks some of our limitations in the field - and I've used it myself, to great effect."
"So show it." Manshoon raised his eyebrows, this time in annoyance. Behind Tarmim, the Master sighed similarly.
Tarmim dug into his robe and gingerly produced a scroll for the High Lord to read. "This is the only clean copy. I was able to create an admittedly limited spell of healing. Though it works, it is a work in progress, High Lord. It is unique in that it works through deceivingly simple principles. I thought at first of copying divine spells of healing, such as our Banite brothers use, but that proved beyond my understanding. So I tried to adapt other arcane spells that convert energy into so-called life, the synostodweomer of the red wizards, the unique technique common among Damaran mages, and both were beyond me. Finally, rather than trying to adapt existing healing, I started from known medicine. That required me to learn a great array of skills, but it proved amenable to my needs." Tarmim continued. "Most of the spell's complexity comes from an extensive def..."
"Very interesting." Manshoon cut him off.
Sarhthor seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he glanced at the scroll.
"It's still not a good trade, my lord. Not even with this spell, which may be stronger at stopping venoms than it is at truly mending the body..."
Tarmim's eyebrows jumped at that. Had Sarhthor already realized that secret power of his spell with a simple glance at the scroll? This was an interesting man, all of a sudden. He knew there were mages good at the basics, better than him, by far, but such a degree he had never expected.
"What do you mean?! Why wouldn't you want to give me Thar?! What exactly do you want with it?!" Venatur snarled. Manshoon raised his eyes, and lowered the scroll.
"Patience, Venatur, and do not test me. Let me enjoy this reading." Manshoon sentenced quietly. "This is much better than... that abomination from earlier, Tarmim. This one makes no pretensions of elegance, and so its clumsy stupidity insults my intelligence less. It's far from complete and needs far more work than you've put into it. But I can see what this spell is trying to do, and as an archmage I'll freely reveal: in principle, there's no reason it shouldn't work."
"And as Sarhthor has observed, it can treat venoms, too." Tarmim let himself slip, in a rare moment of pride, in between trying to divine how to best respond to his Master, breathing behind him.
"Oh, can it? I haven't seen that yet."
"It's just further down, High Lord. Wait... Sarhthor... Mast- " he stopped himself just in time. To call anyone Master in front of the Master was an insult to the Master. "Sarhthor, sir, how'd you know the spell could treat venom, if the High Lord hasn't shown that part?"
"It was a foregone conclusion you would devise a spell that does so, if working from mundane medicine." Though the man's tone was almost inscrutable, there was a faint lilt that suggested he was still thinking of more to say even as he spoke.
"High Lord, reconsider Thar. As it stands, there is nothing to be gained from it, but strife to divide your attention and that of our forces." Venatur spoke plainly, but Tarmim could tell the man was supremely displeased.
"Your view is not too far from the truth. Nonetheless, the price is nothing I expect to be beyond our means." the High Lord smirked.
"Men die in droves in that desert, sir..." Tarmim twitched breathlessly at the barely concealed rage in Venatur's voice.
"And you must weep for each one." Manshoon's sarcasm made Tarmim twitch some more. "As High Lord, I pay the price gladly, be it blood or lives. Remember that only in such strife may the bonds be forged that tie us to our sister cities around the Moonsea. Why, what else but treachery would they expect from us if we weren't there to lead them into battle?"
"The price in years, however, it is certainly dear to me! To the whole Keep, I'd reckon, to Bane!"
Almost as a reflex, his breath slowed. Sure his master's eyes were away from his own, he took a moment to close his eyes - but when he opened them again, Sarhthor was looking straight at him. Tarmim blinked, turning his eyes to Manshoon, whose eyes quickly, slyly shifted away- were the two of them looking at him? Did they see him breathe slowly and shallowly, close his eyes- what would the Master say if he noticed they were looking at him? What would he say if he felt they had seen weakness?
"High Lord, surely you see the wisdom in what I say!"
"Doubt not my powers of observation, Venatur." Manshoon pursed his lips. "And mind that you watch that viper's tongue of yours. Being taken lightly has never become me."
Venatur sneered violently, and Tarmim quickly followed everyone's eyes. Sarhthor's tracked the imperceptible shrinking of his own shoulders. Venatur's voice kept rising; being denied did not become the master.
"You refuse me, High Lord. You shame me, mercilessly."
"Look, I'll just say what everyone's thinking, if no one minds..." Eraith sat straight in his chair, holding a glass of some alcoholic spirit.
"You better stay quiet!"
"Oh shove it, you nincompoop. You're just an average lackspell, Venatur, you and that scarecrow here, Tarmim."
Tarmim's eyes shifted quickly, still breathlessly, between Venatur and Eraith. Their interactions had always been some level of explosive, and the Master had never forgiven him for teaching Eraith. In the short term it limited their interactions, but it only heightened Eraith's arrogance and intransigence, until the man fled. And now Eraith denied Venatur. But he didn't do so alone; Sarhthor was as responsible, if not more. Eraith's view was not reasonable, it was just a pure exercise of power, power granted by Manshoon, and they had to know. Sarhthor's view may have been reasoned - in this state, fearing the Master's coming wrath, Tarmim could not quite tell if that was a reason or a pretext from another power-jockeying striver. Was it one, or the other...?
"Now why they let a whelp like you talk in this meeting, I know not. High Lord! This is unworthy of us. Why would you seek Eraith's counsel in this matter, when he was never any use, any power!"
Reason or not, he had to remove Sarhthor from play, make a desperate move before the Master's wrath reached its zenith, or else, he'd be tortured to death after this meeting.
"Master Sarhthor... you sent the assassin after me yesterday. That is how you know the spell stops venom."
"What?! Manshoon, is this true?" Venatur suddenly seized on the opportunity Tarmim provided. "I demand you prove your innocence immediately, or leave! Traitor!"
Sarhthor's first show of emotion was but a mild tilting of his head.
"I owe you no such certainties, Brother Venatur." his voice hardened slightly, going a little slower. "Keep such flights of fancy to yourselves; I owe you no patience."
"Why you little...!"
"You seem to be quite poised." Tarmim gulped. "I wonder, would you still feel that way if you wagered your life in it?"
Eraith hooted. Manshoon raised his eyes threateningly towards him; Sarhthor didn't respond. Venatur went quiet; however, Tarmim felt how the man was pleased. It was almost tangible.
Sarhthor stood up. The apprentice felt every ounce of courage abandon his body as that man's eyes hardened.
"Is that so, Tarmim? Are you challenging me to a duel? Think your words carefully."
-Bane, Is this how I die?- Tarmim no longer felt his heart beating. His almost limp tongue slid across his lips.
"N-nay. I spoke too freely, too quickly, Master Sarhthor. It was unworthy of the Brotherhood, and I apolo-"
"Let this meeting be adjourned, High Lord." Sarhthor cut him off briskly. "We have heard all we needed, and we need nothing here."
"Right. We are on a schedule after all. I'll keep this scroll, if you don't mind. It's interesting." Manshoon seemed too bitter to smirk. With a snap of his fingers, he vanished, as did Sarhthor.
"Alright! Great to see you, Tarmim, old man..." Eraith smirked. With a single final word, he vanished. Tarmim let out a sigh, too stunned to calculate what came after.
Then he felt his master's words, draconic syllables marred by a thick, emerging Calishite accent. From the sound of them, it was a necromancy spell.
The next thing he knew, Tarmim tried to raise his face, but his point of view just shook pendulously. Trying to blink, he began to realize his eyes had been plucked out of their sockets and hung from their nerves over his chest.
The skin was torn into gossamer layers, spread out, and his organs hung freely. He wondered where he was...
"Oh, you woke up. I could tell from the way your heart started to beat." the Master explained. "What was that, Tarmim?"
He tried to speak, but a chill in his throat told him it had been torn out, and now his vocal cords hung limp.
"I ask again, what was that? And if you don't answer..."
Electricity leapt from somewhere to Tarmim. He could hardly breathe in this state, kept alive only by the Master's magic, even as he was flayed open; he'd seen people so done before. The Master's magic tore him open, and would keep him alive for weeks, perhaps months. The ability to study still-living flesh had been of moderate usefulness in developing that healing spell.
"Were you afraid Sarhthor would kill you? I'll make you wish he had. Do you understand what this does to my plans!? Did you think I can't do without Ilthryma of Saerloon, so I wouldn't kill you? I can ambush Lerramien without you, just fine! My disenchanters in Esmeltaran can breed without you! Relgam can take care of the Carmalian beljurils! You were always just an experiment, and you're easy to replace. I never even told you about our scheme for the Crown in Tethyr. No one in this miserable brotherhood knows, but you- and you are about to take it to the grave."
He couldn't breathe; his lungs were perforated, kept from bleeding only because of the Master's magic. His heart, cold as it was, continued to pump out of sheer inertia. His master selected a metal tool, drawing it from many other metal tools, and went to work on something he could no longer see- the lightning had blinded him, and he knew not where the blood was...
In the middle of the Master's work, the door to the chamber was opened. Someone shuddered - Relgam, from the voice. Tarmim attempted to speak, but he could only manage an off-note hiss. The Master left... and the door closed, leaving Tarmim to twitch in silence. He thought the Master would return soon, but then fifteen minutes passed, and another fifteen... and then... he began to wonder.
He meant to stay here until he died. What if he... didn't?
After using it in the morning, his healing spell was still active. Unknown to the Master, it worked on the same principle as the unseen servant spell - if he concentrated, he could perhaps twist one into the other, and reach for a secret healing stash. He'd only found success in adapting mundane medicine, but in his efforts he'd built up a stash of components in this very laboratory. So he had the spell fetch ulvaen stones towards him; but as he flipped the jar, it somehow exploded, showering him with glass.
-Bane, is this how I die?- Tarmim wondered.
He felt a sensation as at least one ulvaen dissolved into his flesh. Then he began regenerating.
The Master returned to see Tarmim bare and shuddering on the ground, his abdomen transfixed by glass fragments. The regeneration had not been sufficient to push those out. The tall, white-haired man smirked in genuine pleasure.
"Trying to leave so soon?" the Master giggled. "Were you bored? I'm sorry I didn't give you my full attention, Tarmim. I just had the most interesting of visitors. Apparently, you promised something to an interesting young man... Durrus, was that it?"
Tarmim shuddered again.
"Did he remind you of yourself? You promised to train him, he said. Do you know what I did to him? I was merciful, Tarmim. I remember what magic does to dimwits like you. Don't you ever regret you came to Zhentil Keep?" The Master giggled. "I just ripped out his eyes, Tarmim. It saved a lot of time and heartbreak. That way he'll get the idea, he'll stop asking for magic."
"P-please..."
"I'm talking, you idiot!" the Master stomped on his midsection, driving the sharpened glass through all of his organs. Tarmim managed only a screech. "Can't you be quiet!? Didn't you hear me? Perhaps you're not satisfied. I'm still furious, Tarmim. Look at you, still agonizing, you try to talk over me, you don't care about the kid at all. I'm at my wit's end!" the Master mewled. "How do I make you understand?! Even flayed open, you still let your tongue out."
Tarmim clenched his teeth.
"Now you're quiet. Perhaps, Tarmim, that's what it takes to get you to understand. Maybe I don't have to kill you, just Durrus... what was that, Tarmim? Do you have a problem with that? I can't hear you. Speak up!"
"Nay, Master. I shall treasure his death at your hands as your merciful gift of wisdom" The Master's face was a mask. "and ever so thankfully share it with my fellow apprentices. M-my thankfulness shall know no bounds...!"
"Very well. I have matters to attend to this evening, thanks to your blunder. Make dinner for your fellow apprentices, will you not? I shall take care of Durrus and you as I return."
"I... I shall, Master. I shall eagerly await your return."
The Master grinned. Then, with a single word, he vanished.
Tarmim slumped back down to the ground, reaching a quick realization. His time in the meeting had been ill spent; he'd challenged Sarhthor trying to stay his master's wrath. If he'd kept his mouth shut, the Master would've picked a fight with Eraith, Sarhthor, perhaps even Manshoon! He could not have prevailed. If he'd kept his trap shut, instead of so dreading his master's wrath, his Master would be dead. Now that he'd squandered the chance to have three greater mages slay his Master, he'd have to do this himself. At the risk of being a cliche, it was Tarmim's time to slay his master - or else, by Bane, he'd be the receiver of the Master's wrath for a lifetime! Perhaps even longer, unto undeath... and worse, the Master would slay Durrus.
He wondered briefly why he cared, and then, crying a bitter tear, he realized why. He'd come to care, just a little, about him - so the Master had to take that and rip it out of him, make him watch as he burnt it to ashes. So long as the Master had his way, all of Tarmim's joy would be clandestine flashes, hidden even from himself, lest the Master learn of them - and tear them away for sport.
Tarmim called upon his own healing magic again, and oriented it to his own abdomen. The spell took only a few instants, and then the mage was free of glass. Leaning back up, he began a vow.
"Lord Bane," he whimpered. "May I know no peace until Venatur lies forevermore in his grave!"
He was invisible, warded, and in the foetid sewer, where he had a kicking, screaming, terrified Durrus dragged in by a swarm of summoned monsters.
"Durrus, young man, are you okay?!" he cried out at the bundle the conjured orcs dropped on him. "Look at me."
The young man gasped, turning to him. Tarmim repressed a shudder at the sight of the bleeding, hollow eye sockets.
"I warned you the Master was cruel."
"You didn't tell me he'd rip my eyes out..."
"I didn't know. His cruelties are so many, and so constant, that I slowly numbed myself to it all. I was some stupid hick before I was a mage, Durrus- it was just too easy for me to accept all these ways, so different from mine, as simply the excentricities of sorcerers, of the mighty, of the powerful, of the devout of Bane, of this city. I believed there was a deeper meaning to it all, a vision of the world I was to accept before I could join them, but now I know it's naught but the cruelty of a small-minded lunatic."
"So what am I going to do?"
"First, Durrus, you must know something. The Master has vowed to slay you, lest I forget my place." Tarmim sighed. "He believes I love you. That's enough for him to slay you- and that, in turn, is enough for me to slay him."
"You... love me?"
"No. I will slay him on principle, for it is on principle he contrives to deprive me of all. I thought it wisdom of him; now that I know better, I will suffer him no longer. But I need you to do something for me. Perhaps, the most difficult thing anyone has done for me."
The man just whined.
"I need you to trust me."
Tarmim sighed again. This was... no plan at all.
"I couldn't teach you... I will not have the strength to slay Venatur for some time, perhaps ever. I must contrive an ambush first, find him with his guard down, and then strike too hard for him to recover. I must deprive him of his wits, or rip out his throat. I don't have long, for my Master reams my mind from time to time, and he will see the change this day has wrought in me. I cannot train you, but I can set you on your way. Drink this." Tarmim forced a small vial on the man's hands.
"What is it!?"
"It's a potion to restore your eyes. A secret known only to me, and maybe a few others who have studied healing in stones."
Durrus haltingly removed the vial's cap, and quaffed its contents.
"It's fine, Durrus. Give it ten minutes, and you'll have eyes again, I promise. You'll be blind no longer. In the meantime, we must stay here until night falls."
"And then what?"
"When it's dark I'll return to you and send you on your way to Thentia, with a handful of my Master's secret plans. You'll find a man there, Flammuldinath Thuldoum, the Firefingers. Ask to be apprenticed; offer those schemes if needed, explain you need to be kept safe from him. If I live, all will be well; if I die, seek Harpers, reveal unto them my secrets, and they shall thwart my master over and again until they clash. Then pray my Master be slain." He feared it was not a great plan, but nobody had ever accused him of being creative.
Well, Manshoon had.
And so, as night began to fall, Tarmim turned his attention away from the spellbook, and back to Durrus.
"Hey, get up."
The young man rose. Despite the bloodstains around his lapel from when his eye sockets bled, there was something else - something new and wrong about him. Tarmim's magic had restored his eyes, but at a price. They were faceted, pink and blue, riddled with craze lines. There was no iris or pupil, and hollow, tendril-like tubes wriggled out of the eyeball. Tarmim gulped, trying not to look too closely - that was not supposed to happen.
"What's wrong?"
"Your eyes..."
Durrus' shoulders slumped. The young man shook, and whimpered as he examined himself in a puddle.
"Tarmim, why are my eyes wrong?" he whimpered. "Those are not eyes... what did you do?"
"I'm sorry. That was not... not supposed to happen..."
"You've made a freak of me! You're just experimenting on me, aren't you!? Is this some sick game between you and your master?!"
"No! It really is not..." Tarmim gasped. "I swear, Durrus, I had no other options."
"I trusted you!" Durrus cried out. "I trusted you, and... look at me! Look at me!"
"Be quiet, lest we be spotted!"
"What would be so terrible if we were?! I'm already some monstrosity! Look! Just look!"
"I didn't mean to! I told you not to come to my master's tower, and you did! I warned you of his cruelty... I told you he was cruel! By all the watching gods, what a fool you are..."
"So why shouldn't I scream!? What would be so terrible, were we to get caught!? I, now without eyeballs, and you, going behind his back!?"
"You realize that killing you is within my power now!?"
"Then kill me, damn you, and be quick about it!"
Clenching his fists, Tarmim advanced. ]Might as well let this idiot have it, he thought, digging in his robe for the utility knife he always carried.
Then he felt the drop rolling down his own cheek. Was he really going to do this?
"I'm sorry about that, Durrus, but I swear, I really am trying to help you. Why, I don't know. I wanted to help you, and I still do. But I really need you to trust me just a little longer. I can't do much more if there's no one to trust in me, and even I have forgotten what it means to trust myself. Just a few more spells, Durrus. Let me take you somewhere safe. Let me set you on your way. I promise."
Durrus sighed. Shaking, the young man seemed to shrink into his shoulders.
Approaching Durrus, Tarmim cast another spell with a scruple of encapsulated diamond dust. Already the two of them were hidden from scrying; only the most puissant of mages stood a chance of breaking through such a ward. He hoped that was enough to thwart Sarhthor, Venatur, Eraith, and whatever bottom-feeding Naug-Adar came scry on them.
Then two spells of invisibility, and then a spell of teleportation. It would only take them across the walls; it was all Tarmim was able to handle, even though other mages of comparable experience could do far more. Invisible and hidden from magic, he led the young man away from the wall, and they rode off on phantom horses; all that the lookouts at the towers saw was a horse suddenly appear, and then gallop away from the city. Hardly something worth bringing up.
"So, uh, what plans am I getting?"
"I... used to live on a no-name thorp close to Yulash. We cultivated something known as an obliviax. It exists yet in these forests, as a wild moss. It can steal memories; for mages, it steals the spells hanging in their minds as it does. I know where a patch is; if I let it steal my memories, you can eat them out of it. Then you can cast every spell I had at the time, just once. If you have a gift for magic, perhaps you'll hold on to them for a little longer."
"You think I have the Gift?"
"I do, Durrus. You were stupid enough to come to Venatur's door, to try and deceive me. The Gift's not just a talent for magic, it's also an attraction to it, the knowledge you will never really live without it. It is a draw as strong as drink exerts on a lush."
Tarmim cast another succession of spells, and began to sweep the forest on both sides of the road. He quickly found some of the moss he sought- a nostalgic shudder, a momentary terror passed through his spine. This moss had judged him a mage before he had ever thought of becoming one, and then its taste for his mind had scared him into never setting foot in the village again. His father thought him an idiot, and a coward, and he was: it took until very late in his life for him to gather himself, defy the man, violently, and make for the Keep.
"It's here."
"Just wondering, Master..."
"Yes?"
"If you lose memory of today... won't that mean you'll forget what you were doing?"
"It does, Durrus. Is that a problem?"
"Well, if you forget what happened today, will you still try to slay your Master?"
Tarmim looked into his odd eyes. He smiled, and slowly, the confidence melted from his eyes.
"You're right!" he exclaimed. "Lord Bane, I'm an idiot! I didn't think of that...! I've had a long day, Durrus. You're right, if I forget the why, I'll never do those things..."
"What if I make a note?"
"It's no use. I don't keep notes, and I wouldn't understand it anyway, not if I haven't lived it."
"What if I just go to Thentia?"
"You, alone, and with your eyes as they are, you'd die along the way. You need those spells. My Master would ream my mind as he so often does, slay me for this betrayal, and find you."
"C-can you come with me and cast them?"
"Thentians have little love for Zhents like you, less even for Zhentarim apprentices as I. My Master will come for me. Nay, I cannot flee him."
"Alright, here's my plan: give me the spellbook, and... hold on to that rage. I'll explain everything afterwards, with your memories."
Tarmim smiled.
"That... might just work. It's genius, Durrus."
"What can I say..." Durrus grinned. "I learned from the best."
Tarmim approached a strange patch of fungus, shining a magical light on it. He cast a spell of defense, creating a barrier none of his own prepared spells could pierce.
"Alright, Durrus. When I dismiss my protections, it'll steal my memories. If I'm close enough, it'll be inside my blanket of defense, able to do nothing with my spells. Take that instant before it realizes. Eat all of the moss, leave absolutely nothing - and don't hurl. Then, you'll have my memories and spells. Afterwards, get back on the phantom steed. With it, you can ride on the road: you'll be too fast for anyone to follow, don't worry. Just ride on, and on, and on."
"What will you do?"
"I've some spells to memorize later, after it's stolen mine." Tarmim showed the man the book he'd brought. "I know what you're thinking, and no, you must not take the book. I'll kill to have it back, and I can easily scry on it - as can my master."
Durrus winced.
"Alright. Remember, hold on to treacherous thoughts, Master."
"On three." Tarmim said, quickly. "One, two, three-"
He snapped his fingers, and immediately heard the furious mind-voice of the fungus, a painful screech, a grasping, inhuman desire, a tormentous glee.
Then a pain between his ribs.
He gasped, as Durrus suddenly kicked him to the ground and stole the book from his hands. The young man's unnatural eyes were tense- but there were tears in them.
"D-du-rrus!?"
"I-I'm sorry. It's you or me right now. I'm sorry, you know you'll return to that freak and hunt me down if he tells you to. I might as well take the book. This is what you wanted for me, right? To keep me safe!? He's gonna kill you anyway... I'm sorry..."
"D-du...!"
"You said this is how this works, right? That we cheat, kill, steal, do anything for power?! Isn't that what I'm doing!?" his ersatz apprentice sobbed in the rain. "Gods, Master, I am so sorry! I want to live, there is no other way! You could find no other way!" Durrus clutched the sides of his head in despair. "If you couldn't do it, what hope is there for me?"
The terror was soon subsumed by the grasping mind-tendrils of the fungus. It felt like absolute nothingness, as a loss of understanding, as he suddenly saw a creature with unnatural eyes turning its back to him, and devouring the homunculus forming on the surface of a tree. It retched, but insisted; Tarmim felt the fungus' terrified, hollow screech as a mindless assailant tore at it voraciously.
And so it came to the darts of the battlestrike spell. They sprayed from his fingers, and before his eyes, darted straight into him. He felt a few whistling impacts on his chest- and then realized it was just the rain. There were no new holes - had they been locked in combat before?
With a hollow moan, the monstrosity reached into its rough clothes, and pulled out another knife. Out of spells, Tarmim opted for a desperate approach.
As the creature fell on him with the knife, the apprentice reached towards its hands and clutched with magical strength. Luckily for him, that spell he always kept on was still active. Even if he was on the verge of fainting, the magic provided the lion's share of physical might. The aberration struggled in his hands; with his other hand, Tarmim reached for the spellbook it was gripping, catching it before he could pull it out of his reach.
"Let go of me, you worthless husk, and just die already!" it growled furiously. Its voice was perfectly human, uncomfortably so.
"I'm going to crush your limbs, freak. Let's see how well you cast my spells without hands or a jaw."
"Let go! Let go!" the creature hissed.
"Louder, you rotter!" Tarmim coughed, spitting ever more blood. "Scream, call a beast to us! You may yet find yourself chewed to death by something with dull teeth... I can hope!"
"L-let go of me, you coward! You cur! You mewling wimp!"
"Oh, to rip out such a foul tongue..." he gurgled. Then he began squeezing both of his assailant's hands. The creature atop him began to screech in pain.
"P-please! Mercy, Tarmim!"
The creature halted its screeching, and thrashed. That aggravated the knife in Tarmim's chest, and his grip slackened on both the monster and his own spellbook; the tome they both struggled over flew out of their hands, and landed a few feet away. As the mage screeched in frustration, the being pulled itself off and reached towards the book- Tarmim quickly caught its leg with one hand, and pried off the knife from his chest with the other.
The creature suddenly looked at his murderous eyes, and screamed a single word of dimensional sorcery. Caught up in his fury, the apprentice struck at the humanoid's thigh, only for the knife to swing through empty air, into the ground.
Snarling and whimpering, he pushed himself off the ground, and up against the tree. It was nostalgic, now, to look at the black, wriggling remainders of the moss- he hadn't seen an obliviax like this in decades, since he left his hometown. The remainder barely had any memories left to recover, if the creature had been able to steal his spells by eating it. Gripping the knife tightly, he looked around, and shuddered at the sight of two red, glowing eyes on a horse-sized apparition. It took a few heartbeats for him to accept it was, in fact, close enough to a horse; come to think of it...
"Come to me." he comanded. The horselike apparition approached. So he'd been the one to cast the horse. This was unsettling... what had happened in the last twenty-four hours? He remembered an upcoming meeting with Manshoon - he was about to make dinner for the Master, and curfew was almost upon him. How had he come to cast a spell of protection? How had he come here with a phantom horse? He quickly felt a leather band hanging around his torso, the faint weight of brass cylinders on it. It was slightly faster than having spell components on a pouch; he tapped the brass caps, looking for which ones were missing. By his math, that was two people he'd hidden from view and detection, at least one horse summoned, and he had active a spell of strength, and another spell that shielded. The rest of his magic had been stolen from his mind. If the spell that broke magic missiles expired, and it was bound to happen soon enough, he'd be quickly attacked. He reasoned he might as well get on the horse and flee.
So he crawled towards the phantom steed, and struggled to hurl himself over its flanks.
"Get me away from here, and back to the Keep."
He approached the Keep again, and with the first light of dawn, studied anew that minor teleportation spell. He was surprised he possessed the energy to prepare spells at all; he realized he must've drank a potion of vitality during the missing time. Then and only then, as he arrived at the Master's tower, he was hit by the realization he'd brought his whole spellbook. His chest tightened as he began to piece together that whatever he did, he'd planned to prepare more spells afterwards. He began to dread the conclusion he'd done something dangerous, unwise... who was to say it wasn't treacherous, too?
He was greeted at the tower's atrium by three fellow apprentices.
"Tarmim, where were you? We feared you'd died." Klenvas asked, glaring at him.
He glowered at his junior apprentices.
"Why would you fear such a thing?"
"The Master bid you make dinner last night while he was out. Was this another one of his lessons?"
"I think so." Tarmim breathed out angrily. "I was injured last night, and unable to return to the city."
"Where were you?"
"It doesn't... matter."
"We did without evenfeast." Daramia glowered at him. "The Master told us not to cook again."
"Your clothes are torn... you've been bleeding?" Relgam inquired. There was a new lash scar on the man's cheek - clearly, the Master had really disagreed with their cooking.
"It is of no consequence."
"What exactly did you do? What are we supposed to tell the Master? He almost killed you yesterday, after the meeting with Manshoon. Now you went out and almost died? What's the meaning of this, Tarmim?" Relgam insisted. "Did you encounter another assassin, like yesterday?"
"I cannot answer your query."
"You cannot or you won't? We're bound to the same Master you are, Tarmim. You owe us at least an idea of what's coming when he finds out you were attacked! You already know this will set him off, so at least tell us!"
Tarmim took a look at the hard gazes of his haggard, if younger apprentices. All of them, him included, were as vipers, as scorpions, as rabid animals. But even in their worst moment they were nothing next to the Master's vile, black-hearted cruelty. He often saw something in it, one way or another: a positive vision behind all that, a recognition of the power of pain and suffering to shape the minds around him. The more they were made to suffer, the less they would tolerate whatever set the Master off: that way, the Master's cruelty shaped them all into his favored tools. The Master's cruelty did not limit itself to immediate causes, so they would know to stay one step ahead of the world, or so he expected; in this way, when the Master punished them, it would be their fault for not having been one step ahead of the world, not preventing the deplorable situation. They would be shaped into people with foresight and knowledge of his priorities... or they would be obliterated as several apprentices were over the years.
Yet today, the more he thought about it, the less he could bring himself to believe it. The thought of the Master being wise in his vileness, rather than a pitiless little man with a broken soul, felt like a hollow joke. Deep down he felt a rage he hadn't felt in over a decade.
"Very well, Relgam. I can't tell you what happened, because I know not what happened. I encountered a wild patch of obliviax on some errand, found myself stabbed in the chest by what I think was a shapechanger, and all I know is that I cast a spell of concealment, that I carried my spellbook. I fear a shapechanger may have taken hold of my mind, forced me to fetch my spellbook, then tried to kill me."
He scanned Relgam's eyes. Before the fellow apprentices's practiced neutral expressions returned, he just briefly saw pain, horror, and pity in them. The last one made his gorge rise in a hurry, and he shuddered with a growl starting to well up in his throat.
Being the Master's possession might have well and truly mutilated his soul, but there had been a silver lining: Tarmim's own villainy made all foes of the Zhentarim, not to mention as many allies hate him, feeling disgust and rage often, but never pity. And now for the first time in decades, these three whiny, incompetent, butter-fingered, halfway-literate, greenhorn lackspells had the gall to look upon him with pity, as if he were beneath them. It made him long for the Master's wrath upon them, and upon him- he could stand the wrath. It was what he hoped he had traded the pity for.
A sob escaped his throat. Another shudder of rage went up his spine, and he stepped forward towards Relgam, his hands twirling into what could've been a magical pass. There, he began to feel the loss of blood in earnest: with the world suddenly swinging unmoored around his head, the apprentice stumbled. Though he tried to prop himself against the wall, he still felt his knee smacking painfully into the floor.
He tried to remember a mystical word, anything, to threaten the younger apprentice with, but all he drew was a blank. Like too many things to count, his tongue felt numb; he barely managed to mumble a few syllables over and over again.
-Bane, is this how I die?- he thought, once more, as they seemed to leap over him.
"Are you well?"
Tarmim's eyes quickly focused on Daramia, standing before him. The brat, how dare she...?
"I am well. Get off me!"
Klenvas and Relgam did as he called. He propped himself up against the wall, screaming inwardly, cursing the weakness of all of them and pondering the Master's coming punishment for the wastage of compassion. The Master would not endure foolishness... he blinked away his rage, and summoning the discipline that allowed him to endure the Master's punishment and remain polite, he pondered how he'd avenge the insult.
"I regret the disappointment last night, since the Master bade you wait for me to make dinner. I will make dinner this evening, without fail; my search for last night's events can wait until tomorrow. Surely a Naug-Adar will have been eavesdropping on me, and they'll trip over themselves to gouge payment for it soon enough. But for now, I will rest. If you'll excuse me."
"There's one last thing, Tarmim." Daramia called out. He glanced at the small woman. "Please, take care of yourself. You make this place a lot more bearable."
Tarmim was taken aback by those words. He feared for a moment that this may be another lesson from the Master: a falsehood for him to remember, a manipulation or a temptation to drift from the path, for the sake of a friendship he never deserved... but no. For whatever reason, try as he might he could not see the Master's hand behind these words or even imagine it. Maybe their compassion was genuine, innocent... the Master would punish it for its own sake.
"Thank you, Daramia." he smiled, withdrawing to his chambers. Once there, he crumbled atop the cot, dozing out into a pitiless, sleepless rest. It was all it took for him to forget their insult, push their earlier compassion out of his mind- where the Master would not find it, so it could go unpunished.
Indeed, Tarmim spent that day nearly paralyzed by his wounds, but he did make evenfeast for his fellow apprentices. It was a full meal, the best they had eaten in months, including him. The next day, though he tried to find out what happened and every Naug-Adar promised they were scrying on him, not one was credible. His fellow apprentices mentioned a young man, Durrus, the Master had attacked; Tarmim remembered no such thing, and the chill of the night rain caught up with him soon after, leaving him nearly bedridden for three days. After that, he found himself stonewalled wherever he inquired about Durrus. He could not change the strategy of his search, for the Master returned soon after, and forbid him continue with the inquiry, judging Durrus to be meaningless. Venatur believed Tarmim's memories had been stolen by one who sought to study the meeting with Manshoon, and once he said it, his apprentice dared not believe anything else.
When the Master next reamed his memory, months after, that missing time was at the forefront of neither's mind.
But just as Tarmim knew something had changed, so did Venatur. The gap in his memories could be overlooked, but not the escapade. Tarmim planned something, and whatever it was, his Master would not chance it. Once more the apprentice believed he might be killed, but instead of that, his Master turned him a freestave, traveling in errands far from the Keep. He was not to train any more of Venatur's other apprentices, so that they could not conspire together against him. He was forbidden from ever seeing them again, or seeking information about them, or even asking about them. Their devotion was for Venatur alone, and he'd sooner kill them than brook rivals. The apprentice realized all too soon that he had his master's confidence no longer.
In time, he would discover he did not regret that loss.