Son of Thunder

CHAPTER 9

It was midnight at the Wet Wizard tavern. Fueled by a new shipment of Tanagyr's Stout from Zhentil Keep, discussion turned, as it so often did in Llorkh, to Ardeth Chale. Lord's Men, locals, and visiting merchants and their caravan guards all had their say.

"My younger brother played with her as a child. She's a local girl. Taken an odd turn, that's for sure…"

"She does everything Geildarr says, but really she has more power over him than the other way around."

"Word is that she and Royce's band have taken off on one of Geildarr's crazy missions. What's weirdest of all is that Mythkar Leng's gone along with 'em…"

"Word about her has even reached Zhentil Keep. Geildarr thinks of her as his Ashemmi."

"Ardeth is the loveliest thing I've ever seen. What I wouldn't do for a chance to…"

"What annoys me most is the way she exerts her authority over the Lord's Men, without rank or position to justify it."

"Geildarr thinks he owes her everything. Some renegade dwarves would have taken over Llorkh if it weren't for her…"

"A Zhent skymage went off on a mission with her. She came back alone, riding his mount. What does that tell you?"

But all turned to hushed silence when Clavel Foxgray came into the tavern, his cheeks already rosy with drink. The Lord's Men shut up immediately, and the rest followed suit, wondering why.

"Let me guess," said Clavel, sneering. "You were talking about Ardeth."

A half-orc caravan guard snickered and asked, "What's yer beef with her?" Clavel provided the answer.

"A hobgoblin knocked me into the ditch with an axe," Clavel said, leaning against the doorframe to keep his balance. "I can live with that. Somebody would have gotten a rope and let me climb out. Oh, I'd have been laughed at a bit, but I would have laughed, too. Except Ardeth came along and told them to leave me there all night, then demote me. She's no place in the chain of command, but her word is law. So I'm back on the night watch, two years of seniority stripped away by Ardeth's whim. So-" he smirked at the half-orc "-so that's the reason conversations about Ardeth tend to go sour when I walk in."

The assembly in the Wet Wizard was silent as Clavel strode over to the half-orc's table. "That's too bad," Clavel continued. "I have quite a lot to say about her. The big question is this-does anybody know exactly what goes on between her and Geildarr? She lives in the Lord's Keep, does she not? On his floor or somewhere else? Because the image of that fat old slug of a mayor and that lithe demoness turns my stomach like nothing else. Or maybe they deserve each other."

"Clavel," said one of the other Lord's Men. "Perhaps you've had a bit much to drink…"

"Not nearly enough," Clavel slurred. "Like the rest of you-well, any of you who've seen her-I'd very much like to spend a little time in the dark with her. But the difference is, at the end of it, I'd want to sink a dagger into that sweet breast of hers!"

"That's quite enough, Clavel," shouted a Lord's Man, jumping to his feet. He and a companion grasped Clavel by the neck and hauled him out into the street. Sounds of struggling and fighting drifted into the tavern.

Nobody wanted to talk about Ardeth any longer.

Sungar reached around, his hands weak, and rubbed the lash marks along his back. "Kiev never speaks, does he?" he asked, on the off-chance that his neighbor was awake and listening. "He laughs sometimes. Snarls. But I don't think I've ever heard him say a word."

"Maybe he's embarrassed by his voice," said Hurd. "Could be it's high-pitched and squeaky or somethin'."

Sungar laughed. His lungs hurt as he did so, but he was happy; it may have been the first time he laughed since he found himself in this cesspit.

"Or maybe, more likely, he lets his whip speak for him," the dwarf added grimly.

"Are there other inmates of this dungeon?" asked Sungar. "Or is it just the two of us?"

"Probably some in the other wings. Petty criminals, cut-purses, dishonest merchants-people who commit crimes in Llorkh. But they don't last long. They're all executed pretty quickly, or maybe even released if they kiss Geildarr's hindquarters enough. Not so with us-Geildarr likes to keep his important prisoners alive forever. Makes him feel more powerful, I reckon."

"Why you?" asked Sungar. "If all the rest of your people are gone, why are you still here?"

"Don't really know," said Hurd. "I'm guessin' the answer is in Geildarr's mind. As I said, he likes to feel powerful-there's no power in presiding over an empty dungeon. I was one of Trice Dulgenhar's top men. I'm a plum prize, but not one that's dangerous to keep alive. Simple as that.

"Not long ago, the dungeon was full to the gills with dwarves. One by one they just seemed to disappear. Could be Geildarr released them, but not likely. There were rumors that they were given over to a priest of Cyric, who was trying to corrupt them into groundlings."

Sungar could hear the disgust in his voice. "What are groundlings?"

"Something like a dwarf, but mixed with a giant badger. The Zhentarim breeds them as assassins. It took a nefarious mind to conceive of such a thing. A Zhentarim mind."

"How did you end up in here, then?" asked Sungar. "You've been waiting for me to ask, haven't you?"

Hurd snorted. "At one time, a lot of dwarves lived in Llorkh, and humans alongside. I lived here in those days. We mined the nearby mountains, but after they started to run dry, a lot of us left. Those who stayed behind were eventually captured by the Zhentarim.

"Those black-hearted Zhentarim murdered the old mayor, Phintarn, and put in Geildarr instead. Truth is, they weren't interested in mining but wanted this town as a caravan stop on the Black Road 'cross the Anauroch Desert. What dwarf miners were still here mostly left, especially since Mithral Hall was open for business again.

"But some of us clung to the dream of liberating Llorkh from its captors-the damned Zhentarim. We formed a circle dedicated to it, set up spies in Llorkh, and made allies among the humans living here. Our leader was Trice Dulgenhar, as great a dwarf as I've ever known.

"Then we thought we saw our chance. When the phaerimm burst out of Evereska, Llorkh was under siege from a whole army of bugbears. Even the beholder they kept in the Dark Sun died in the fighting. And better yet, since the Zhentarim was still reeling from Shade's return, they weren't rebuilding Llorkh as fast as they could. We thought that if we moved quickly we could seize Llorkh, and with help from Secomber-and maybe even the Harpers or the Lord's Alliance-we could keep it out of Zhentarim hands for good. Make it a beacon of light and good in Delimbiyr Vale, rather than the dung heap it is now."

"So you invaded the city?" asked Sungar.

"No," said Hurd, his voice trembling. "One of our human allies sold us out. A mere slip of a girl called Ardeth, the dark-hearted bitch. She brought Trice's head to Geildarr and revealed our entire plan, on the eve of us carrying it out. The Lord's Men stormed our hideaways and rooted out our allies. It was a massacre. Those of us who survived found ourselves down here, subject to Geildarr's whims."

"Why did she do it?" asked Sungar.

"Who knows?" Hurd said. "For power, coin, or Geildarr's confidence, maybe. What's for certain is that she fooled us all. We knew she was no real help to our movement, but we tolerated her for her enthusiasm. She was very pretty, very young …" He trailed off, leaving no doubt that he considered himself personally responsible for letting all this happen.

There was no anger in his voice, which puzzled Sungar. Perhaps it had all been shorn from him by Kiev's torments. Perhaps this was why he stayed alive-not out of cowardice, but as a penance.

"You are not to blame," Sungar said. "She is."

Hurd snorted. "But what revenge is possible now? Oh, I thirst for it, perhaps with all the rage your heart could muster. But who can I blame but myself?"

Sungar made a fist and banged it weakly against the stone wall. Fragments of the wall dislodged. Who else can any of us blame? he thought.

The Star Mounts were dimly visible, hints of their fog-shrouded majesty hiding in the distance. Gan could tell that even the Antiquarians, for all they had experienced and all the places they had visited, held them in particular regard.

"Perhaps the mystery of all mysteries in the North," Royce called them, adding, "and we're in the business of seeking out mysteries." But Gan also noticed the fear they showed as they pressed ever closer to the legendary peaks.

A mystery unto herself was Ardeth, who showed no fear, little wonder, and none of the relish for cruelty that Leng displayed. Gan, unfamiliar with the conventions of human beauty, thought her ugly with her pale flesh, slight form, and her narrow hips that were grossly unsuitable for childbearing. Still, he recognized the effect she had on the human men.

Gan had some sense of the politics in the group, even without being told. He knew that they wanted Leng dead-Ardeth primarily, and now the Antiquarians seemed to be wordlessly supporting her. He could see it in their eyes and detect it in their manner. But they couldn't kill him openly. Leng and Geildarr had masters, and they would be displeased. The particulars of their plan were lost on Gan's brain, but he resolved to play his part nevertheless, and he took pride in what he was about to do on Ardeth's behalf-a most delicate task.

Mythkar Leng had disappeared into the woods quite some time earlier to attend to nature's call, and eventually the group dispatched Gan to check on him. He did so, axe in hand. When Gan found him, the priest's back was to Gan and he was bathed in a sepulchral green light.

"What are you doing?" the hobgoblin asked.

Leng spun about, only mildly perturbed by the interruption. Dangling from his finger was a skeletal green cage. Within, a small creature with blue flesh and cricket wings silently screamed as it cowered in the center. Leng smiled a sadist's smile as he brought it closer to the hobgoblin.

"What is this?" asked Gan.

"A grig," Leng explained. "One of the many varieties of fey that clog this part of the forest. Or rather, it was a grig not long ago."

Within the cage, a change overtook the fairy. Its wings turned to those of a bat and its flesh churned and boiled, sprouting coarse fur. Leng lifted his finger and the magical cage vanished. The creature sprinted off into the woods, a foul parody of what it once was. Moss withered and died where it passed.

"Your power must be very great," said Gan.

"I serve a most powerful god," Leng told him. "Far beyond whatever monstrous deity you venerate."

"Maglubiyet," Gan said quickly. "Maybe a human god would be more powerful."

Leng chuckled. "It's odd that your kind are so inherently servile. You need to be led, and you look for the most powerful leader available. This is commendable, but shortsighted. Tell me, Gan, does it bother you that your function on this mission is simply to carry something?" He poked a finger against the axe head. "You're the most hideous butler I've ever laid eyes on."

Not understanding the insult, Gan said, "I offered my service to Geildarr, and this is the task he assigned me. He is a great leader, and I shall not question."

This provoked a roar of laughter from Leng. "Such loyalty! My advice to you, hobgoblin, is to forget about Geildarr. He is a mediocre man of earthbound ambitions. Many years ago he confessed to me a desire to become part of the Zhentarim's Inner Circle. And he never did anything to make that happen. He is more an administrator than a true leader."

"What do you mean?" asked Gan.

"He is weak. This very expedition is a sign of his weakness. The magic we're looking for-he doesn't want to keep it for himself, but wants to give it away to his superiors. A great man would not perform such errands at the behest of those he hates. A greater leader would remake the world in his image, not hold onto the inglorious scrap of ground he calls his own."

"Are you such a man?" asked Gan.

Leng said nothing.

"Your magic remade that grig," asked Gan. "Why did you do it?"

Leng frowned in puzzlement. A high priest of Cyric did not expect to be questioned for the reasoning behind his actions, so Leng did not have an answer.

"Such creatures disgust me," Leng finally said. "They lock themselves away from the world to flit about in their pools and glades-what purpose do they serve?"

"Why not simply kill it?" asked Gan.

Shrugging his shoulders, Leng answered, "I wanted to see what would happen. What Cyric's power could do to a creature of such purity. What such corruption would yield."

"Were you satisfied?"

Leng almost beamed. "I was."

"I've heard tell of a place not far from here where the fey rule," Gan said, trying hard to sound guileless.

"The Unicorn Run," Leng spat out, as if he were speaking a vile oath. "All know that name. It's the place we're avoiding."

"What would your powers do there?" asked Gan.

Leng shook his head slightly. "I don't know," Leng said.

There was a quality to Leng's voice that Gan couldn't put a name to, but it terrified him more than all of the battlefield atrocities he had witnessed in the Fallen Lands and throughout his life. It was something that went far beyond simple malice to a deep-set desire to corrupt and to destroy.

In that moment, Gan wanted to bring the axe down on Leng, to slice him apart just as he had that Zhentilar fool in the Fallen Lands. Could he act in time? What foul magic warded this priest? To think he could accomplish all that Ardeth wanted, all that Geildarr wanted, with a single swing.

But no-it would not be right. It would upset their plans. It would be beyond his place.

Leng looked down at the hobgoblin's fingers clutching the axe's shaft. A dark chuckle rolled out of his throat as he walked past Gan and back to where the others were making camp.

Kellin strolled under the autumn haven of the great tree and the peacefulness put her in a reflective mood. But then, she thought, when was she not in a reflective mood? Members of the Tree Ghost honor guard were stationed at intervals beneath the tree, but she felt alone nevertheless-an island in the deep shade. She thought about everything Thluna had told her-how Sungar had acted to preserve his tribe's beliefs at such a terrible cost. Now, Thluna feared he was doing the same thing: compromising, cooperating with an outsider-even a spellcaster-and selling off what it meant to be a Thunderbeast.

Here she was, leading them down that path. Threatening to destroy everything that her father was determined to document and help preserve.

She almost jumped when Thanar approached her.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said.

"It's all right," she answered. "I was just doing some deep thinking."

Thanar cast a glance up at the leafy expanse above them. "This place can have that effect."

"It must be hard to know you have to leave it so soon."

Thanar ran a hand over his bearded face. "It's better we leave soon. The tree has its own magic. There is a danger that we all might wish to linger in its shade and never accomplish our mission."

"I feel its pull," admitted Kellin. "It's not evil, nor good. It just is. That's its appeal-it doesn't need to be understood. It exists so far from civilization's works, apart from even the Tree Ghosts. No matter how much they revere it, it would exist without them. There's a seductiveness in its simplicity. I could get lost in it if I let myself. Such a pleasant fate, to remain here forever, thinking…"

"Contemplation may turn to sloth," Thanar said. "And we cannot allow ourselves to lose time."

"Where is Vell?" asked Kellin, changing the subject.

"I believe the elf maid has taken him into the forest to explore his shapeshifting powers. Does that make you jealous?" She was taken aback at the bluntness of his question. "It is best you acknowledge such feelings…"

Kellin cut him off. "Another matter best explored at a later time. Tell me, Thanar. I sense you don't despise me the way the others do." She found it perplexing that he had left Grunwald because he thought his people had become too decadent, yet he was the most tolerant of her-the city-dwelling member of their group.

"Why should I despise my sister?" asked Thanar. He turned to the tree's great trunk. "We may be from different branches, but we are linked nevertheless. All living things are. From the deepest root to the highest bough, we are all one tree."

"I like that," Kellin answered, lowering her head. "I wish everyone thought that way. Some sages follow your line of wisdom. They think all life originated in one place and continues in what some call the Endless March-changing, adapting, and improving-in much the same way that farmers improve their livestock through breeding."

"I've heard of such thinking," Thanar said. "Do you believe it?"

Kellin shrugged. "It's not my area. It makes sense to me, though. And it cuts to the heart of what you said: that all of life may have a common origin and therefore be linked."

"I need no sage to tell me that. I feel it." He asked, "What god do you revere?"

"Principally," she said, "I worship Oghma. Why?"

"The Binder of What Is Known," he said, repeating one of the titles of the Lord of Knowledge. Kellin was faintly surprised Thanar knew of it, that he even knew of Oghma. She supposed it made sense for him to know of a god so opposite to his world view. "Tell me, why should the world be bound? Is not everything dead once it's bound? Once it is written in books or scrolls, it no longer lives in nature."

"I'd rather think that it will live forever if it's written," Kellin answered.

"And our tribe?" Thanar probed. "If we are destroyed, will we live forever in your father's books, or those you will write in the future?"

"You will be remembered," said Kellin, "by anyone who cares to remember you."

Thanar caught a fallen leaf. It was dry and withered, and he crushed it in his fingers.

"Perhaps that's better than nothing," he said.

"You're not like the others," Kellin pressed. "I understand you lived apart from the Thunderbeasts for many years. Do you consider yourself a member of the tribe?"

"Still the sage." Thanar smiled mysteriously. "Do you mean to put my answer in a book?"

"I can't promise I won't," said Kellin, smiling back. She felt much more comfortable with him.

"I spent many years away from it, truly," said Thanar. "But I was born a Thunderbeast and a Thunderbeast I remain. Even if the rest of the tribe withered and died, and I spent a lifetime in the Spine of the World, never seeing another human or speaking another word aloud, a Thunderbeast I would stay."

"Yet in the past you sought to distance yourself from your tribe."

"Others have done worse. Thluna's closest friend left the tribe to join the Black Lions, a matter which weighs heavily on him. The Black Lions' way holds much appeal for the young Uthgardt, it seems. I wonder, in Garstak's soul, does he still think of himself as a Thunderbeast? As for myself, after all this is over-and assuming I still live-I may choose to leave them behind for good. I hold that my tribe is something I carry around inside my heart."

"I'm worried about Vell," Kellin admitted. "He doesn't feel much connection to his tribe. Not now."

"Not ever," corrected Thanar. "He was one of the silent. You have seen them-Hengin, Grallah, Ilskar, and Draf-our warrior companions who follow their chief's orders absolutely and who seldom speak. I would wager that in their depths, they do not identify with their tribe as they feel they should, and that this is a matter of private shame. Many generations have pressed on in such anguish."

"What worries me," said Kellin," is that Vell doesn't have anything else solid to hold on to."

"He'll have his own choices to make," said Thanar. "We must have faith that he'll make them properly."

Kellin looked up at the vast Canvas of Grandfather Tree's leaves and was lost again in its beauty and majesty. "Do you think it would be all right to stay here a bit longer?" she asked.

Thanar smiled. "I don't think it will do any harm," he said, and together they lingered and marveled at the tree's everlasting dignity, undiminished by the nagging hollowness they felt in their hearts.

Vell flinched as the scales took him. Like an arrow to his brain, the change came, and he could feel all of his flesh awaken with thick natural armor, making his limbs heavy.

What scared him most was how natural it felt.

Two trolls were bearing down on him, their green flesh stretched taut over jagged bones. The woods were bright here, the trees spaced far apart and the sun shining brightly above. This was the reason Lanaal had lured the trolls here, where the space was open enough to accommodate even a behemoth.

Lanaal was here, Vell knew, perched somewhere in the trees above, watching and waiting. Within his blood frenzy, his eyes were clouded over with the insensibility of rage, but he could still hear a sharp, shrill bird call-Lanaal goading him forward, daring him to call on his full transformation. But he held back, even as one of the trolls wrapped its huge hands around his neck and twisted.

Vell clapped his hands on the troll's forearm and squeezed tight, ripping the arm free of his scaled neck. He kicked the troll's left knee then the other, sending it tumbling backward onto the leaf-covered forest floor. Before it could recover, he jumped onto it with all of his weight, landing with both feet on the troll's chest. Troll bones snapped under his impact, and he watched its hideous face as the shock hit home, it eyes bugging out and its mouth spewing forth a plume of thick green liquid that splashed over its face.

Vell knew he shouldn't finish the fight too swiftly. Though his sense of reasoning was weakened in his state, he had no intention of drawing the death blow yet. He was enjoying himself. When Vell shifted his attention to the other troll, staring up into the green-gray face topped with a wiry shock of black hair, he saw something he never would have suspected: fear.

The ground trembled around Vell as he walked. So it was with the beast shamans of his tribe when they called on the powers of the Thunderbeast and grew armor of scales.

Vell commanded the tremors to cease, to see if they would. And they did.

Hopping off his downed victim, Vell strode toward the troll slowly and it stepped backward, watching him intently and bracing for the attack. Armed with nothing but his own scaly strength, Vell plunged forward toward the troll's middle, delivering a forceful punch. The troll withstood the blow and struggled with Vell, raking its claws through his tribal robes, ripping them to find any skin beneath not protected by those thick scales. Finding none, the troll brought its fist to the side of Vell's head. The blow echoed like thunder through his skull and sent him flying against a fragile tree nearby. The trunk cracked behind him as the full brunt of his weight struck. The tree toppled into the clearing with a mighty noise.

The first troll's regenerative powers worked to knit its shattered bones together, and the monster rose to confront Vell again. With his feet against the stump of the broken tree, Vell wrapped his arms around the fallen trunk and spun it in a circle, its branches breaking off as it struck other trees. This brought complaint from the treetops above, and even in his rage, he thought of Lanaal in bird form, likely dislodged from her perch.

Facing the two trolls, his arms still around the trunk, Vell used it as a caber, hurling it full on against the trolls. It struck them both in the midsection, knocking them both backward. Like a great pin it rolled, over their chests and faces, stripping its bark on their rough skin. And like an engine of destruction, Vell was on them, tearing into their bodies with foot and fist.

A high-pitched trill sounded above him, and Vell was partly drawn out of his blood fury to remember what he was here to do. Standing tall and straight, he summoned the heart of his courage, not the courage that compelled him to fight monsters, but that which let him look into the most frightening things lurking inside him. He clapped his eyes shut and searched his depths for the will to leave his body behind and fully accept the scales' embrace.

Vell's throat went dry and his mouth filled with the acrid taste of growing fear. Troll breath washed upon him, but he paid it no mind; the danger would make it easier, he decided. The beast within must emerge-this was life or death, just as it was when Sungar's Camp was under siege. His blood coursed faster and thicker through his veins, his pulse throbbed in his neck like a drum beat, but the beast stayed sleeping. Vell's mood disintegrated and his energy with it, and when he looked down at his hands they were pink flesh, the scales retreating as suddenly as they had come.

And two enraged trolls were bearing down on him.

A sword fell from above, landing with a thud at his feet. Vell reached down and grasped its hilt. It was an elegantly curved elven blade, thinner and lighter than he had ever used, but it cut deep as he sliced a neat slash through a troll's neck-blood poured down its bare green chest. With a cry and a rush of air, a gigantic falcon swooped down next to him, tearing at the other troll's face, claiming both of its eyes with its sharp talons. Blind and howling, the troll batted at the bird and stumbled through the wood, bashing into trees as Lanaal circled and occasionally dived to strike again.

How long has it been since I fought as myself? Vell wondered. He felt good as he tore into the troll again and again, moving quickly to avoid its blows. A glorious swell filled his senses, and his heart awakened to barbarian joy. The troll clawed at his arm and wounded him, and he welcomed this too, the human pain and the feel of blood trickling down his body. To defeat the troll without his powers? A greater achievement by any account, he decided, slicing through his foe's leg and sending it toppling to the ground.

At last, he drew a small vial from a pocket inside his deerskin robes, also a gift from Lanaal. He uncorked it and emptied the contents onto the troll's ugly features.

The liquid hissed and bubbled down the troll's face, trickling off its chin onto its chest. It instinctively tried to soothe its wounds by wiping at them, but this only burned its hands as well. Its skin melted on its face, leaving gruesome black-green flesh showing underneath. Its features damaged by the acid and far beyond regeneration, the troll stopped struggling and collapsed on the forest floor.

Spinning around to find the other troll, Vell discovered that Lanaal had transformed back into an elf to finish off the lumbering monster. From her robes she drew a few darts and-with strength surprising for her thin form-drove them into vital places on the troll's body. Each of them leaked acid that seeped into its body. Its agonized cries were deafening as it melted from within.

Lanaal walked over to Vell. "Vell," she said. "By the Winged Mother, what went wrong?"

But Vell couldn't stop smiling. "I haven't felt this good in a long time. That was invigorating, fighting with my own body, my own skills. With the Thunderbeasts I rarely face foes except as part of a horde. I had forgotten the joy of it." He looked down at the demolished troll. "My kill, not the Thunderbeast's."

Lanaal frowned. "You tried to turn into the behemoth," she said, "but you lost the partial transformation that you had already achieved. How did this happen?"

"I think it rejected me," said Vell. "Whatever's inside me did not care to rear its head. Perhaps it did not deem the situation serious enough."

"Or perhaps you did not call it properly," Lanaal said. "Not seriously enough. You talk as if it's something else. You need to think differently. Acknowledge that it is another side of Vell."

"Are you in my head, elf?" asked Vell. "Do you know what I feel? Keirkrad, Kellin, Sungar, you, and everyone else think they know better than me. But who among you looks through my eyes?" He clenched his fist in anger-not the barbarian rage that he could sate with violence, but something much more complex and difficult to drive off.

"So you consider this experience a failure," said Lanaal.

"No," Vell smiled. "My eyes are clearer now. I tasted battle and felt alive again. No thanks to the enemy inside."

"It's not an enemy, Vell!" Lanaal protested. "Just a resource. A powerful one for good or ill-it will destroy you if you don't make it obey you."

"It's a demon," Vell proclaimed. "One I must strive to cast out."

Lanaal breathed heavily, her bronze-tinged face streaked with redness. "It may not be possible to remove it, Vell," she warned.

"I will strive nevertheless," Vell promised. "Thank you for helping me, Lanaal. I hope I can still call you my friend."

"Have no fear," she whispered. Her smile was filled with concern. "I will help however I can. But if you are seeking answers to your puzzle, I don't know if I can help you any further."

"There may be other possibilities," said Vell. "Rask mentioned something about the Fountains of Memory."