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hospitality.”
    “What makes you think I’m giving you a choice?”
    “There’s always a choice, Sauk.”
    “Not always a good one.”
    Sauk rummaged through the leather satchel at his belt and pulled out a half-eaten hunk of brown bread. Seeing that, a flood of memories hit Berun. He knew that no matter how hungry Sauk became, if anyone offered the half-orc meat, he would not eat it. Sauk served Malar, the Beastlord, and he would eat no flesh that he himself had not hunted and killed. He’d choke on moldy, maggot-infested bread first.
    Sauk bit into the loaf and spoke as he chewed. “That druid. The one the Old Man sent us to kill nine years ago.”
    “Chereth,” said Berun.
    “Yes,” said Sauk. “Or as we in the Fortress have come to call him: ‘The one who got away.’ ”
    A few of the men, listening in, laughed at this.
    “He the one who killed y—uh, killed Kheil, that is?”
    “No,” said Berun. “The rangers executed Kheil. Chereth called me back to serve the Oak Father.”
    Sauk nodded and swallowed, and Berun caught a glimpse of a strange look that the half-orc quickly hid. A knowing, pleased expression. Another memory hit Berun. Something Talieth used to say.
The best way to catch a liar is to ask him questions to which you already know the answer
. Was that Sauk’s game here?
    “And then?” asked Sauk.
    “Then?”
    “After you were … ‘called back to serve?’ ”
    “Chereth brought me to the Oak Father and taught me the ways of the wild.”
    “His
ways,” said Sauk.
    Berun knew that Sauk was thinking of Malar. Sauk was
zuwar
, a hunter sworn to the service of Malar the Beastlord. The Beastlord was also of the wild, but only of its more bestial aspects—the hunt, the kill, survival of the strong. The Oak Father did not deny those aspects, but Chereth had taught him that these were only one leaf on a tree that grew many branches.
    “You knew Chereth well, then?” asked Sauk.
    “He was my master,” said Berun, and left it at that. In truth, he had known the old half-elf as well as anyone, which was to say he’d seen only the surface of a pool that ran very deep.
    “Did you know that five years ago Chereth came to Sentinelspire?”
    “I … suspected.”
    Sauk’s eyebrows shot up. “And you let your beloved master go? Knowing what you know? Knowing us?”
    Berun clamped his jaw shut and stared into the fire.
    “Your Oak Father breeds odd disciples,” said Sauk. “Your master walks headlong into death, and you don’t so much as go after his body, much less vengeance.”
    Berun said nothing. He knew that Sauk was trying to provoke him, partially to see what information another torrent of angry words might reveal and partly out of his own personal disgust for the so-called “leaf lovers” and “blight beaters”—druids and their ilk who did not embrace the savagery of the wild.
    “Do you know why your master came to Sentinelspire?” said Sauk.
    “He”—Berun swallowed to keep his voice from breaking—“wouldn’t tell me.”
    “Ah,” said Sauk. “Old leaf lover wanted to protect his precious disciple. That it? Well, you know more than I thought. But this I’ll bet you don’t know.” The half-orc smiled and took another bite of bread. He chewed, swallowed, and took a sip from a waterskin. “Your old druid came to Sentinelspire to kill the Old Man of the Mountain.” Sauk paused, giving the words time to sink in—or perhaps letting the hook dangle before the fish. “Imagine that. An old leaf lover coming to the most impregnable citadel east of Thay and hoping to kill the king of killers. Now
there
is a tale!”
    Sauk’s words didn’t really surprise Berun. He’d long known that there was some sort of history between Chereth, Master of the Yuirwood, and Alaodin, Old Man of the Mountain. What exactly that history had been, he had no idea. But nine years ago, Alaodin had sent Kheil, the best assassin in his arsenal, to kill Chereth in his homeland,