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Chapter 147: Moments Away
“Harrian Corias, if those members of the Order who continue to doubt you could see you now, then I am sure all dissension or questions would be banished from their thoughts!” Anomen chuckled as the party made its way back up the fifth winding road, their leader tossing the final Tear of Bhaal from hand to hand contemplatively.
“And why is that, Anomen?” Harrian asked slowly, his brow furrowed. “Because I ‘passed’ these tests?”
“Exactly!” the cleric continued, a little oblivious to the thief’s less-than-enthusiastic response to his declarations. “Here, in the depths of the Hells, your very soul and moral conduct have been tried, and you showed yourself to be forthright and true.”
Harrian’s brow furrowed even further. “I’m not sure about that. Maybe it showed that I’m not a raving evil psychopath, but even the most immoral of individuals can come out like a saint when given these sorts of clear-cut black-and-white tests.”
Anomen blinked, looking confused. “How so? Those of the dark would have chosen the dark paths… those of the light, the light paths.”
Harrian threw him a scornful look over his shoulder. “Really, Anomen, have you not learnt anything over the last few months? How many people have you met who are completely, completely dark? Or even completely white? We are all grey.” He came to a halt, leaning against the nearest boulder thoughtfully as he slipped the final Tear of Bhaal into his pack. “I could be a murderer who would still sacrifice a part of myself to save a friend from death. I could want to ascend to my father’s throne without wanting to kill needlessly. I could be the most evil man alive who still refuses to be goaded into doing something.”
He shook his head, pushing off the rock and carrying on, a few paces ahead of the slightly stunned party. “Besides, in this place, it’s not about good and evil. It’s about Bhaaltaint. And whether or not I’d give into it. And even if I were to sink into a depravity that would have the Order trying to hunt me down, I would still choose the same way I already have. Because those decisions were based on who I am, not on how good I am. To give into Sarevok’s urgings, allow you to die, take the nymph cloak… That would all be to give up myself to the Bhaaltaint.” A grim smile crossed his face as he glanced back at them once more. “And even if I were an evil bastard, then I’d be an evil bastard on my terms, not on Bhaal’s. So, you see, choosing as I did just now doesn’t prove much.”
Harrian shook his head as they emerged back into the giant arena where the great door was set into the rock face, awaiting the tears. “Besides, morality cannot be judged in such a sterile environment. It’s easy to be good when it’s such a clear-cut decision. Being a good man in real life is that much harder.”
Anomen nodded, looking a little sheepish. “Very well.” There was a pause, and a wry smile crossed his face. “But it would still convince those doubting members of the Order who think in black and white.”
Reynald shrugged. “I like to think that I would not have chosen any different than Harrian did… and yet I am no man of the light.” He paused, sighing softly. “But we passed, and our souls seem to be intact.”
“It is time,” Jaheira agreed, looking up from where she’d been staring at her boots all the way along the path. There was a grim silence, broken only by the ringing of metal as she smoothly unsheathed her twin scimitars, her face settling into a grim expression.
Reynald nodded. “This needs to be done,” he declared, raising his hands to place his grim and closed-face helmet upon his head. The red plumage was a little ragged, the metal protecting the left cheek a little battered, and the Fallen Paladin’s appearance became even more imposing as he squinted at them through the slanted eyeholes. “Procrastination is the thief of time, after all,” he said at last, and the light tone of his voice made them all chuckle in the tension.
“Alright. Alright.” Harrian shook his head, hardly believing that he was debating whether or not to go and face Irenicus just yet – the moment was too odd, too surreal. This was what he had been working towards for the last two months, and the idea that it was here… that his soul was so close, that resolution, of some sort, was close… was overwhelming.
He reached up to slot the first tear into the first eye. At first, nothing happened, and he glanced nervously back at the others in confusion. Then, suddenly, the stone eye closed, and he felt a jolt of energy run up his arm, racing down into his belly and filling him with a strength and fizzing fortitude he had never yet experienced. Then the sensation hurtled up his spine and into his head, filling his vision shockingly, and he gasped and staggered.
Jaheira was by his side in a second, grabbing his arm, her face full of concern. “What? What is it?” she demanded, her scimitars sheathed once more.
Harrian blinked groggily, his vision coming back. There was a long silence as he drew deep, ragged breaths, trying to work out what had happened and why. He felt… odd. Stronger, somehow. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, demanding his attention, and so he allowed it to take over briefly.
His hands went down to his boot, reaching inside for the plain dagger he kept there in case of emergency. It was a good blade – it had been Gorion’s, and he had carried it ever since he’d taken it off his foster father’s body. Others had urged him to replace the dagger, which sometimes became his last and only weapon, with a more powerful enchanted one, but he’d refused. It was miraculous that he hadn’t lost it in Irenicus’ dungeon, but once Imoen had released him he’d found it discarded on the table of equipment in the nearest room. Unlike their other, powerful arms and armour Irenicus would not have won a fine price for this dagger.
He ran the blade over the tip of his finger, testing it. It was still sharp. Then, almost on a whim, as the niggling thing in the back of his head demanded attention, he gripped it and ran it over the back of his left hand forcefully.
There was no cut. No blood. No mark. He would have done more damage with a toy knife.
“Interesting,” Harrian murmured, returning the knife to his boot and straightening up to face the others. They were regarding him with confused and slightly suspicious expressions on their face. “What?”
Jaheira shifted uncomfortably. “Harrian… your eyes…”
“What?” he repeated, suspicious. “What about them?”
Imoen clicked her fingers, then shuffled through her pack of spell components for a second before emerging with a small mirror. She shrugged as she handed it over to Harrian, ignoring the glances of the others. “Well, some of you might be happy looking as if you’ve just been dragged through the undergrowth when we are out of the city, but I’m not!”
Anomen raised an eyebrow at her. “I did not know of this vanity, my lady,” he said, smirking a very little.
She whacked him on the arm lightly. “There is a point somewhere between vanity and a complete disregard for your appearance, Ano.” There was a pause, then Imoen looked back at Harrian. “See what I mean, big bro?”
Harrian was squinting at the glass in confusion and wondering who’d gone and made his eyes go golden. He was half-convinced that it was some sort of trick of the light, or that it would pass, even though the rest of him feared it wasn’t. His eyes were gold – as gold as a dragon’s hoard, as gold as the rising sun… as gold as Sarevok’s had been. And it didn’t look like it could pass.
This was not good. He’d liked his eyes. They’d been nondescript unless you looked right at them, and then they were rich in their darkness. Now he had a pair of torches set into his face, which would hardly ever allow discretion.
Though, Harrian reasoned, discretion was not one of his fortes anymore.
“Well. That’s interesting,” he repeated, tossing the mirror back to Imoen and assuming a nonchalant air. “Anyway, where were we?”
The break from the tension was brief, and as he clicked the other Tears into place, each time feeling a jolt of energy and increased strength run through him, the party shifted nervously behind them. Anomen ran through an incantation to call down greater strength from Helm, Imoen rifled through her spellbook to verify for the hundredth time that she would not incorrectly call down the arcane energy she knew like the back of her hand, and Reynald swung the Warblade through a few moves, gathering a feel for the weapon. At the same time, as Harrian put each Tear in each eye, he could feel Jaheira’s eyes on the back of his neck, both worrying and reassuring at the same time. Irenicus was so close. Either death or victory awaited.
They could do this. They would do this.
He hefted the last Tear and looked at the others, his newly-golden eyes shining oddly in the half-light of the arena. “Ready?” he asked, taking deep, even breaths.
They nodded in reply. “As ready as we’ll ever be to take on an evil, soul-stealing psychopathic mage,” Imoen said chirpily, even though she looked like she was ready to pass out.
Harrian nodded, his eyes locking with Jaheira’s for a moment. There were no words between them that needed to be said, or actions. He wasn’t quite sure he could shift this feeling in his gut into words, either. She nodded levelly for him as he forced himself to look away, focus on the others, and she seemed to understand.
“I’ve told you a thousand times to not follow me, and here you are,” he said at last to the others. “It’s too late to turn back, so I’m not going to make any more speeches about it. But… I just want to say…”
“…say something in case we don’t all make it out of here alive?” Anomen guessed, looking vaguely amused before his face was hidden by the helmet he rammed on his head. “No. We shall all emerge from this fight alive, Harrian.”
Imoen nodded. “Besides,” she said fiercely. “There’s nothing you need to say we don’t already know. Nothing any of us need to say we don’t already know.” She tilted her head to look Anomen in the eye slowly, and although the cleric’s expression was hidden, his shock was quite plain to see in his body language.
Harrian shook his head, smirking a little, then took another deep breath. “Well,” he mumbled, half-closing his eyes as he raised the hand that held the final Tear of Bhaal. “Here we go, I suppose.” Not his most heroic final words ever, but… fairly apt.
