Troy Denning - The Sentinel

Satisfied that she was not likely to encounter any unexpected obstacles during the climb, Joelle returned to the river’s edge, where her companions sat among a tangle of logs. As she approached, Malik rose and offered her a coil of braided rope, which he had spent the last two hours creating from the vines they had used to lash the logs into a raft.

“It will hold anything,” he promised. “Even the oaf.”

“You’re sure?” Joelle asked. “Because you’ll be coming up third. If it breaks before then, you’ll be trapped down here with Kleef.”

“Anything,” Malik assured her. “I took extra care because I knew my own life would depend on its strength.”

Joelle rewarded him with an approving smile. “I’m glad you understand.”

She accepted the coil and slung it over her shoulder, then stepped over to where Arietta was sitting with Kleef’s head in her lap, monitoring his slumber for any sign of bad dreams. After more than eight hours of sleep, the big watchmen was starting to look more like himself. The bags beneath his eyes had retracted into mere circles, and even his cheeks seemed a little less hollow.

Joelle dropped to her haunches next to Arietta and asked, “Any sign of trouble?”

Arietta shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

“Then let him sleep until I finish the climb,” Joelle said. “Once I’m in the ravine, it will take a little time to tie off the rope.” Arietta nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Good.” Joelle glanced downriver toward the hazy dimness that was the Shadowfell creeping toward them. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

Joelle started to rise, but stopped when she felt Arietta’s hand close on hers.

Arietta didn’t say anything. She just looked at Joelle with soft eyes and an arched brow, and Joelle saw the confusion inside her-the conflict between what Arietta was feeling and what she thought she should be feeling, the conviction that she should be the master of her emotions rather than a servant to them.

That was wrong, of course. Sune’s worshipers knew that emotions were the true guide to happiness, that only by paying attention to their desires and their anger and their joy could they come to know their own souls and live in harmony with their true natures. Unfortunately, that was not something Joelle could simply explain. It was something that everyone needed to discover in her own way-and that included Arietta.

After a moment, Joelle smiled, then raised the hand Arietta was holding. “Yes?” she asked. “Was there something else?”

Finally seeming to realize what she had done, Arietta blushed and shook her head. “No, not really.” She released Joelle’s hand, then said, “Just … be careful.”

Joelle laughed. “Be careful? Where’s the fun in that?”

She leaned down and kissed Arietta full on the mouth. At first, the noblewoman seemed too stunned to react, but her lips finally began to soften-and that was when Joelle broke off and looked into Arietta’s eyes.

“For luck,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Arietta seemed barely able to shake her head. “N-not at all.”

“Good.” Joelle smiled and turned to climb the cliff. “Maybe we’ll do it again.”

In the dream, Kleef and Arietta sit side by side at a campfire. They are nestled against a log somewhere in Faerûn, looking out over a moonlit river. Malik and Joelle are long gone, though Kleef doesn’t know whether they are dead or have simply parted ways.

Arietta reaches over and takes his hand. She says nothing, does not even look at him. She just watches the flames and twines her fingers into his, and Kleef knows that she is the one.

Arietta understands him in a way no one else can. She sees the despair that weighs on those who keep faith in a dead god, and the rancor that eats at those who honor their vows while others grow rich by flaunting theirs. But most of all, she recognizes the strength it takes to stand firm in a sea of corruption, to remain true to a sworn duty while the tide of depravity pulls the sand from beneath one’s feet.

Kleef knows that Arietta sees all this because she is a kindred spirit. Like him, she values honor and duty for their own sake, and she believes that the gifts a person receives in life carry a sacred duty to use them in the service of others.

And Kleef knows he and Arietta were meant for each other. He can feel it in the aura of warmth and comfort that shields them from despair, in the love and joy that armors them against the immorality all around them. As long as they have each other, they are invincible.

Then Kleef feels a strip of cold metal between his fingers, and he looks down to discover that the hand holding his wears a golden ring. It is huge and gaudy, with a setting that holds a moonstone carved into the image of a striking wyvern. The ring is the signet of House Seasilver, and that can only mean he is holding the hand of Grand Duchess Arietta Seasilver.

Now, the love that has been armoring them is gone. No matter how much she might want to, a grand duchess can never marry a mere watchman. Take him for a paramour, perhaps even keep him in the house disguised as a loyal retainer. But wed? The scandal would weaken her entire house. The Seasilvers would find themselves shunned by noble and royal alike, quietly demoted to the status of mere merchants-to be tolerated when necessary, but not to be courted or befriended.

Kleef feels the old bitterness seeping back. The only way he can have Arietta is through subterfuge and deception, and he cannot dishonor either of them in such a manner. He would be destroying the very thing he loved.

No sooner has Kleef come to this conclusion than Arietta’s hand turns cold. It starts to shrivel and wither, and the nails grow long and yellow. It becomes the hand of a crone. When he gasps and looks up, her face is gaunt and gray and hard. She is wearing a queen’s crown, and the light in her eyes has gone dim and malevolent.

“Have courage, Kleef,” The voice is soft and wispy and familiar-and it is not Arietta’s. “Ask Shar, and I can be yours.”

But Kleef has been in these dreams before, and he knows that the words are a diversion-that Yder has found him again. He shakes his head and tries to will himself awake.

Arietta’s face grows harsh and wrinkled. Her mouth drops into an angry frown, and she glares at him in hatred.

“Kleef, you could have saved me,” she says. “All you had to do was ask.”

Arietta jerks her hand from Kleef’s grasp, and then he feels it on his shoulder, squeezing hard and shaking.

“Kleef!” This time, the voice was Arietta’s, and it was filled not with hatred and disappointment but with impatience. “Kleef, wake up!”

Kleef opened his eyes and found a tent of blonde hair hanging down above him. In the middle was a slender female face with a long nose and full lips. Arietta, as beautiful as ever-with Kleef’s head resting in her lap.

Could it be that some part of his dream had been real? Could it be that the Arietta in his dreams had grown cold and cruel not because of their love but because he turned away from it?

Kleef smiled, then reached up to take the hand that was shaking his shoulder. “We can’t let them tell us who to love.”

Arietta’s eyes grew round with surprise. “What?”

“This is important,” Kleef said. “Follow your heart. It’s the only way to save yourself.”

Arietta’s jaw dropped. She seemed to study Kleef for a moment without really seeing him, then finally said, “Good advice.” She looked up the gravelly slope. “Perhaps I’ll take it.”

Kleef followed her gaze toward the canyon wall and was surprised to see Joelle clambering into the mouth of a hanging ravine. She had a coil of rope slung across her shoulder and did not look all that tired for a woman who had just completed a fifty-foot climb.