Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 1 - The Verdent Passage by Troy Denning Page B
Authors: Troy Denning
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curtain just to be safe. By tipping that bench over,
you'll open an escape tunnel. Use it if you hear anything strange out here.”
Sadira glanced at the stone couch. “Where does it lead?”
“To UnderTyr,” he said, “and a Temple of the Ancients.”
“No!” Sadira gasped. She knew very little about the ancient temples, except that they had
been built before Athas had become a desert. According to rumor, most were filled with
vast amounts of metal treasure defended by the ghosts of those who had worshiped
long-forgotten, or long-dead, gods. “Under this wineshop?”
“Not directly under it,” the barman answered. “But if something happens and you use the
escape tunnel, don't be in a hurry to find that temple. From what I hear, you'd be better
served giving yourself over to Kalak's templars.”
With that, he stepped away and pulled a drape across the back of the shop. The drape was
made entirely from snake scales that had been pierced and threaded together.
Each scale had been sealed with shiny lacquer to preserve and heighten its natural color.
The result was a scintillating curtain of many different huesÑsandy yellow, rusty orange,
cactus green, and a half-dozen others.
Sadira drank her second mug of sapwine more slowly forcing herself to sip the powerful
drink. Although she felt like gulping the entire mug to quench her thirst, with the
curtain closed, she doubted that a refill would be forthcoming. The fermented resin was
the foulest drink available in the wineshops of Tyr, but the half-elf still wanted to
savor it. On Tithian's estate, all she ever received to drink was water.
As the half-elf sipped the last of her wine, an old man stepped around the edge of the
curtain. He had robust, proud features, with a heavy forehead accented by coarse white
brows, a large, hooked nose between shrewd brown eyes, and a firmly set jaw. His beard was
long and snowy. He wore a white, knee-length tabard, and over his shoulders hung an
ivory-colored cape fastened at the throat with a copper clasp. In one hand he carried a
mug filled with thick brown wine, and in the other a cane of dark wood. The cane's pommel,
a ball of polished obsidian, was both unusual and striking. Sadira found it difficult to
tear her gaze from the beautiful black sphere, but she did, for she knew its owner did not
like people staring into it.
The old man eyed the half-elf carefully, taking a long drink from his mug. At last, he
pointed his cane at her and asked, “What are you doing here, young lady? I didn't send for
you.”
“It's good to see you, too, Ktandeo,” Sadira replied, smiling warmly. She rose and wrapped
the man in her willowy arms.
“Watch my drink!” he snapped, holding his mug away from his body as a few drops of its
contents sloshed over the edge. “This is the good stuff.”
Sadira was unintimidated by the old man's peevishness. She was as close to him as any man
and knew that beneath his surly manner lay a kind heart.
A few days before Sadira's twelfth birthday, Tithian had hired a cantankerous old animal
handler to train beasts for the arena. Ktandeo, who had sought the position in order to
find a spy in the high templar's household, then chose the young girl to be his helper.
Over the next year, he had examined Sadira's character, subtly presenting her with moral
quandaries and tests of courage. The most vivid instance she recalled was when the old man
had “accidentally” locked her in the cage with a hungry takis to see if she would panic.
While he had fumbled with the latch, she stood motionless and let the bearlike creature
sniff her from head to toe with its slime-oozing trunk. Ktandeo had not opened the door
until the hulking animal bared its dagger-shaped fangs and started beating the floor with
its bony tail-club. The only time Sadira had ever seen her mentor laugh was during the
angry lecture
you'll open an escape tunnel. Use it if you hear anything strange out here.”
Sadira glanced at the stone couch. “Where does it lead?”
“To UnderTyr,” he said, “and a Temple of the Ancients.”
“No!” Sadira gasped. She knew very little about the ancient temples, except that they had
been built before Athas had become a desert. According to rumor, most were filled with
vast amounts of metal treasure defended by the ghosts of those who had worshiped
long-forgotten, or long-dead, gods. “Under this wineshop?”
“Not directly under it,” the barman answered. “But if something happens and you use the
escape tunnel, don't be in a hurry to find that temple. From what I hear, you'd be better
served giving yourself over to Kalak's templars.”
With that, he stepped away and pulled a drape across the back of the shop. The drape was
made entirely from snake scales that had been pierced and threaded together.
Each scale had been sealed with shiny lacquer to preserve and heighten its natural color.
The result was a scintillating curtain of many different huesÑsandy yellow, rusty orange,
cactus green, and a half-dozen others.
Sadira drank her second mug of sapwine more slowly forcing herself to sip the powerful
drink. Although she felt like gulping the entire mug to quench her thirst, with the
curtain closed, she doubted that a refill would be forthcoming. The fermented resin was
the foulest drink available in the wineshops of Tyr, but the half-elf still wanted to
savor it. On Tithian's estate, all she ever received to drink was water.
As the half-elf sipped the last of her wine, an old man stepped around the edge of the
curtain. He had robust, proud features, with a heavy forehead accented by coarse white
brows, a large, hooked nose between shrewd brown eyes, and a firmly set jaw. His beard was
long and snowy. He wore a white, knee-length tabard, and over his shoulders hung an
ivory-colored cape fastened at the throat with a copper clasp. In one hand he carried a
mug filled with thick brown wine, and in the other a cane of dark wood. The cane's pommel,
a ball of polished obsidian, was both unusual and striking. Sadira found it difficult to
tear her gaze from the beautiful black sphere, but she did, for she knew its owner did not
like people staring into it.
The old man eyed the half-elf carefully, taking a long drink from his mug. At last, he
pointed his cane at her and asked, “What are you doing here, young lady? I didn't send for
you.”
“It's good to see you, too, Ktandeo,” Sadira replied, smiling warmly. She rose and wrapped
the man in her willowy arms.
“Watch my drink!” he snapped, holding his mug away from his body as a few drops of its
contents sloshed over the edge. “This is the good stuff.”
Sadira was unintimidated by the old man's peevishness. She was as close to him as any man
and knew that beneath his surly manner lay a kind heart.
A few days before Sadira's twelfth birthday, Tithian had hired a cantankerous old animal
handler to train beasts for the arena. Ktandeo, who had sought the position in order to
find a spy in the high templar's household, then chose the young girl to be his helper.
Over the next year, he had examined Sadira's character, subtly presenting her with moral
quandaries and tests of courage. The most vivid instance she recalled was when the old man
had “accidentally” locked her in the cage with a hungry takis to see if she would panic.
While he had fumbled with the latch, she stood motionless and let the bearlike creature
sniff her from head to toe with its slime-oozing trunk. Ktandeo had not opened the door
until the hulking animal bared its dagger-shaped fangs and started beating the floor with
its bony tail-club. The only time Sadira had ever seen her mentor laugh was during the
angry lecture
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