The inn was asleep as Cluracen unlocked the door to his room. It was late, and the click of the lock could be heard down the corridor as well as the creak of the hinges. Cluracen tensed, but quickly relaxed as he entered the room, closing the door behind him as he did so.
The room was small, but comfortable with a dresser and mirror against one wall, a small closet set into the opposite wall, near the door, and a spacious, comfortable bed set in the middle. On either side of the bed, candelabras sat waiting to be lit. On the dresser, a pitcher of water and a bowl were placed. At the foot of the bed, a window opened onto the Market Square below. Although quiet in the late hours, it was sure to be filled with bustle in the morning. Torchlight filtered in through the windows from below, giving the room a soft, sepia illumination.
Cluracen stepped over to the bed and laid his pack down on it, gently, as if to not disturb the patterns in the quilt. Unlacing the top, he reached within and pulled out a metal cylinder, about a foot long and six inches in diameter. He also reached in and pulled out a black oilcloth bound with leather straps. Untying the straps, he unrolled it on the bed in front of him and looked down at the instruments of his trade.
Lying on the cloth, each held by tip and pommel in leather, were an assortment of daggers, dirks, and knives, each gleaming in the torchlight. The cloth was not full, however. Several spaces showed where knives had been removed and were not yet replaced. Reaching into his sleeve, he withdrew another dagger and carefully placed it into one of the empty receptacles. He continued to do this, reaching into hidden confines in his clothing, extracting a dagger or stiletto until all the spaces had been filled. Then he re-rolled the cloth, bound it shut, and replaced it within his pack.
Reaching to the side, Cluracen began to unbuckle the straps holding the Mithril Breastplate to his torso. Despite the armor?s excellent protection against bodily harm, it was extremely light and Cluracen easily lifted it from his body and laid it on the floor. Next he removed the Ravenscale shirt he wore underneath it, magical chain as black as his hair, and laid that on the dresser, next to the bowl and pitcher.
Taking the pitcher by the handle, he poured the water it held into the bowl and placed it back down. He reached his hands into the bowl, cupping them and then lifted them to his face to wash the dirt from the road off it. After he had done this a couple of times, he looked up and looked at his own face in the mirror. Sea-gray eyes stared back at him, and Cluracen was astounded to find wrinkles starting to form at the edges of his eyes. He smiled to himself, enjoying the irony of being given an extended life, but short enough to notice the changes as they slowly occurred. Running his hands quickly through his hair, he checked it and his thin moustache for any signs of gray, but found none. He wondered if the Koada?Dal ever noticed the changes, or if they woke up one day and suddenly realized they were older.
The thought brought back memories of Kelethin, of sunshine hazily filtered through the trees of the forests of the Faydark. Of laughter and merriment as the children ran down the ramps and dared each other to levitate from one platform to the next. Of nights spent drinking and gambling with some of Faydark?s Champions as the Rangers called themselves, and nights spent on a blanket under the moon in a frenzy of lust and heat and passion. Of old friends, long thought forgotten and old loves, long since ?
Cluracen straightened with a jerk. He banished the thought from his mind, instead letting his eyes trace the patterns of scars on his chest. Some were long and thin, winding their way across breast and shoulder. Some were round and circular, where an arrow had managed to get through his armor, but not quite deep enough to kill him. Some worked their way across the tattoo etched into his left breast, the sigil of the Ebon Mask ? the Rogues Guild of Neriak. And a very tiny one, just to the right of his breastbone where the tip of the dagger had managed to pierce the skin as she slid it between his ribs.
He winced visibly with the memory. Though it had been twenty years since that night, the memory still played across his mind?s eye with crystal clarity. He recognized what was happening. He was exhausted and he couldn?t keep those things locked deep within him from leaking through the walls in his mind. He should sleep, he told himself. With rest and a good meal, all this vanishes. All demons become harmless in the full light of day.
He stepped away from the mirror, but only far enough to pick up the metal cylinder lying on the bed. Placing his fingers in just the right places and applying a bit of pressure, he heard the lock click, and twisted the top open. He reached inside, pulling a glass tube fitted with a brass stand at one end. Turning again, he placed the tub on the dresser, and for the first time in ten years, allowed himself to look upon the Rose of Firiona he had gathered so long ago. He sat on the edge of the bed, letting the memories rise up in his mind, knowing he was breaking all rules he was taught about control and discipline. He closed his eyes, lay back on the bed, and began to remember.
