Danger always strikes when everything seems fine.
Where were you with such wisdom when Ryan Trawl was riding to arrest me? Sarevok muses, without offence, as he is standing in the pleasant spot of warmth still keeping on the northern side of the holiest of Amaunator’s altars, now set afire by the silent, brisk and bright sun of the late morning.
Far below him lies the temple’s main courtyard with its cracked pilasters and fountains; beyond it is the forest; the yellow marble raft of the rooftop terrace is floating on a sea of fir verdure under a welkin of sheer azure. The scents and colours are strong and staggering, and, after the recent discreet, low-key monochrome, indescribably tawdry, tasteless, overdone and optimistic.
Himself, he had tanned somewhere on the sinuous way from Athkatla here, he has discovered, to his private delight; but then, he has always easily tanned; the proper high-born lady, Imoen is still pale. The beard—
Why worry about a beard when your head’s about to be cut off, master?
What has got into your own head today, bard? he asks the eagle perched on his braced forearm, amused; and then, solves her riddle: The classic answer would be: because it is mine. I don’t remember your ever complaining, bird.
The Edge of Chaos is with him, as always it should be; and the sibling is behind, still asleep with the rest of her party— The moment lacks perfection; yet he smiles, suddenly: Servant, for breakfast, I will have fish.
I am not a fishing bird, master, protests she at that, at last laughing; Learn, then, how to be one, pleasantly, he cuts the protests short. Fish roasted under a sauce of molten cheese, freshly ground pepper and wild berries; the way they serve it in Baldur’s Gate, in the ducal palace—
He releases her, hence, and he flies her, and she flies, spreading her wings wide as she takes a deep plunge into the precipice below her master; today, she is imperial, and stately, and slow, and like an avariel who still has her wings; and he loves her.
Together, then, they soar high into the sky, to see far, to see a flow, to see a fish glistening in the sunlight; feeling the sun and the wind in her feathers, for a lengthy moment free of all fears and worries— She cries in joy, and this lasts, long enough; but then, Minsc’s sad words filter into the foreground of Sarevok’s consciousness.
“Boo likes the forest, and the purpose is great and glorious. But I have my witches to protect! Alas, Minsc cannot stay.”
Frowning, the half-human makes himself perfectly invisible, and charily steals a look behind the triumphant golden chariot-riding idol, forever blessing the bodies of his faithful with his outstretched hand— The nymph who is walking with Minsc amidst the drained, lifeless husks; the scattered remnants of the blackened arrows; the cracks and holes in the yellow marble floor— She is slim and tall, queenly, evergreen with black eyes and a nest of long, black hair; she looks and smells like a fir, a spruce—or Sarevok’s own wife; but she is even less human than Kriemhild, and is beautiful and ageless.
“You will never finish your dajemma, Minsc,” dressed in a long, thick-woven, elm-bark gown, harshly, in a rook’s croak, the crone croaks; eyeing the Rashemi coolly over the high cheekbones of her gaunt, angular face.
“That may be so, if so it must be,” the barbarian replies; his own eyes, in turn, are dull and mirthless, without much hope. “But I will not abandon my duty! Boo would never forgive me.”
Mairyn, for it must be she, nods regally. “Such steadfast loyalty is commendable in a servant of nature, Minsc. I leave you until noon to decide— Now, you,” she turns to Sarevok; who, amused, sees himself visible again, “I know of you, but you are not known to me. Young Vaelasa from the south sends her greetings and her gratitude—” Apparently, trees tell tales of his deeds; he does not like it. “—but Nilthiri told me that you are cast out from her lands, and my sisters from Cloakwood promise that if you ever set foot in Abela’s forest again, you will dearly pay for it—”
“They need not fear,” he replies lazily as, briefly, he recalls an acquaintance past, “Even though they did nothing when I was available for their vengeance.”
Mairyn sizes him up and down, and ends her speech, “I am the heart and soul of this forest. Explain yourself to me. Have you come here as friend, or foe? Which—”
-----
“—is it?” Mazzy Fentan, in her golden armour, intercepts from under the idol, yawning; and the others of the party have awoken, and are quickly covering the short distance separating them from the men, the forest’s spirit, and the party’s leader.
“Mazzy!” Nalia, in her short blue cape, almost runs up the cracked marble stairs to hold close the halfling, and the image of Nalia jumps around in wild happiness; Aerie, stately in her white, gold and brown, follows smartly. “W-we were so scared about you, Mazzy!”
Mazzy smiles. “I’m so glad to see the two of you, too! And you, too, Imoen. And—Valygar. Minsc. Kriemhild. I’m happy that you are all safe and sound! And this is… yours, I think, is it not, Anchev?”
His stone is still glowing with the muted, warm light of a latent promise; “Yes, it is,” he replies, absently, easily, in the civil anticlimax, as he hides it; the dryad has disappeared in a whiff and whirl of fir needles, and the promise of a rematch. “Thank you, Fentan.”
“You are welcome,” replies the halfling, stiffly, in her best-mannered, clipped tone; before also briskly moving to this next point of business. “But who was it, Minsc? Who were you two talking to?”
The barbarian, smoothly, for him, lies, “Mairyn. The forest thanks the heroes!”
“This is not good?” Kriemhild asks; “It doesn’t seem to make you too happy, though,” Imoen remarks; “Yes. What is it, Minsc?” Nalia adds.
“Mairyn wants me to stay,” Minsc admits, looking now at Mazzy, now at Aerie, now at Nalia, and now at Kriemhild— But it is the taciturn Valygar Corthala, of whom everyone has forgotten, who speaks out, loudly, suddenly, “The forest wants you to take Merella’s place?”
“Mairyn does,” Minsc replies demurely.
Beside her protector, Aerie smiles, brightly. “But t-that is wonderful, Minsc!”
“It is?!” Minsc and Nalia ask in concert, the former happy, the latter sceptical; “Why?” Mazzy Fentan demands.
The object of their joint offensive bites her lip and draws a deep breath. “B-because…” She closes her eyes; then, opens them, and recites, “Because I want to stay in Imnesvale, too. I-I won’t go with you when you leave, Mazzy, Nalia,” Aerie adds, unhappily, “I-I’m sorry.”
Minsc beams. “My witch wants to stay in the forest?!”
“Can you, please, be silent for a moment, Minsc?” my lady d’Arnise, together with her patience, snaps; then, in a much kinder tone, she adds, “Aerie? Did I— Yes, I mean, of course, I heard you correctly, but… Why, little thing? What are you talking about?”
“Yes,” Mazzy adds, “I’d like to know it, too.”
Now, Aerie makes a small mouth. ““W-well— I-I—” The closed eyes, again; the clenched fists, again; the recitation, again. “T-this place is nice,” she, lamely, manages as her shoulders droop.
“Nice?!”
“Nalia!” Mazzy’s tone is almost gentle when she asks, further, “Aerie?”
The elf, however, is already arguing at her friends, “Yes, n-nice! A-and t-there is the Understone, and Min, and Elence, in the barter post, a-and the people here don’t even have a decent healer, and I’m really good with t-that, and Uncle Quayle taught me h-how to make potions, too— A-and if Minsc stays here— I-I have to— I-I want to stay somewhere, Mazzy. I-I’m so t-tired of moving from p-place to place… N-never staying anywhere long… And there is Quayle…”
“…and I told you, Aerie, did I not? I will take you with me to my castle.”
“Excuse me?”
No one pays Mazzy Fentan much heed; the large eyes open wide in terror. “I-I don’t want to go to your castle, Nalia! I-I don’t really like human cities! T-they are so crowded, and… well, dirty, and people l-look at me a-and—”
In the background, Valygar Corthala shakes his head and walks off, heading for the bodies scattered around the altar. Sarevok’s own escape is arrested: Imoen lands a hand on his shoulder. Stay, brother, she tells him, with a look, without a word, without need.
He watches Aerie, instead, now herself eyeing wistfully a redhead; she is calmer now, again, as she makes her case. “I-I don’t want to go with you, Nalia… I want to stay h-here.”
“You want to stay here,” Nalia repeats. “You want to be some kind of a village witch in this— This—” The hopeful duchess looks desperately around the silent temple roof, the silent forest; the silent sky of the warm morning. “This place. In the middle of—no, at the end of nowhere.” Suddenly, her wandering gaze becomes much sharper as it turns to Sarevok. “Has he been telling you things again?!”
All eyes are on him now; hence, he feels compelled to answer to his cue; hence, he folds his arms, and smiles, coolly, “No.”
His sister’s redhead is gorgeous when she is furious; gorgeous and dangerous. “No?!”
“H-he hasn’t been telling me anything! Well, h-he told me about what you two want to do, a-and—” Aerie, with her fists clenched, comes to his succour; then, falls silent; then, finishes, “I-I don’t like it!”
Kriemhild stirs, and eyes him darkly; Mazzy Fentan’s own gaze now rivals a beholder’s. “Anchev?”
He smiles again, down on her; the part is simple, now. “The duchess, Fentan, has employed me to retrieve her fee. The minutiae are, I believe, up to her discretion.”
Imoen looks at him, surprised; Aerie, with confused betrayal; “Exactly!” Nalia d’Arnise lets out the breath which she has been holding. “This is it. I’m sorry, Mazzy, but it’s—it’s as well you learnt this now. I really can’t stay with you. I have learnt much from you—and I really am grateful to you—but it’s high time I returned to my proper station. There is so much to be done—”
Mazzy Fentan puts a small hand on her forehead, and sighs deeply. “I… see,” suspicious, distressed, unconvinced, she replies, “I see. Yes. But why didn’t you come with it to me first, Nalia?”
That one looks at her bitterly. “I tried, Mazzy. Believe me… I tried.”
For a moment, silence reigns; until Mazzy Fentan, awakened from her dream, suddenly, sharply, still holding Nalia’s gaze, speaks up, “Someone has to pick the jewellery and the personal things from the bodies, if there are any, for the families. Minsc, Kriemhild, can you go help Valygar? Imoen, Anchev? We…” A brief look at Aerie. “The three of us have to talk. Alone.”
-----
“I am worried! Boo says nothing good comes from a witches’ quarrel!”
—“They will be fine, Rashemi,” in the end, Sarevok replies; then, to put his mind to the allocated task, asks, “Shall we? Sister? Wife?”
Valygar Corthala, they find nearby, crouched, contemplating with a hard face a young woman’s body. “Here. It should fit you,” he says curtly as soon as the four of them catch up with him, and he pushes towards Kriemhild a suit of ashen-coloured mail. “Perhaps less people would take your wife for an orc if you dressed her properly,” he almost throws at the half-orc’s husband.
“If this was supposed to be an apology, Valygar, perhaps you should have tried a bit harder,” Imoen steps up in her sister-in-law’s defence as Sarevok smiles, “You are not making friends here, Corthala.”
The man’s face pales. “Damn. This went completely wrong. Look.” He rises from the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m not good with words. I’m sorry. It was Merella’s,” he adds, looking from the dead woman to the half-orc.
Kriemhild is watching her husband expectantly; he shrugs. “Take it, wife, if you want to. Perhaps the man has some sense, after all.” And the ashen scale is superbly crafted. (“Look, Boo! These are wyvern scales!” Minsc gushes in the background.)
Kriemhild nods, once; and then, stiffly, she turns to the man. “Thank you.”
That one eyes her oddly. “No. Thank you. You saved my life, after all. For what it is worth.”
Emboldened, his wife points to the body, and, cocking her head, attempts further small talk, “Halarn? This is wife?”
For a moment, Corthala’s face hardens; then, in view of the half-orc’s candid visage, it soothes again. “No. A friend. We fought together in more places than I can remember. I didn’t even come to Imnesvale to see her, but—” He halts; then, speaks with sheer hatred in his voice, “That it was still the undead which got her in the end.”
“Mmm,” Kriemhild says. “Sorry?”
Then, clearly feeling that this is inadequate condolence, she looks at her husband, and he feels obliged to say: for this is, perhaps, the promise his stone hides— “Amaunator took care of his own, I believe.”
At this, suddenly, the man’s face bursts with contained fury. “And the rest of them?! Kelemvor will sort them out? I don’t believe in gods.”
“Nalia… I-I— When we first met? Y-you told me about the Crying God, remember? Took me to that shrine on Waukeen’s Promenade? Ilmater helped me a lot, but y-you…”
“You are faithless?” Imoen asks, curiously, as Sarevok must frown at Aerie’s voice within his mind.
“Yes, I am,” the man, meanwhile, spits at his indifferent sister. “Yes, I know that I will end on the Wall, one day. Can we end this conversation, now?”
Sarevok shrugs. “As you wish.” No Bhaalspawn needs fear the Wall of the Faithless, of all places.
“…y-you, too, have ch-changed a lot! Mazzy is right… I-I don’t recognise you, sometimes!”
“Yes,” Imoen starts, suddenly, in accord. “Kriemhild, I also must really talk with Sarevok. Could you and Minsc help Valygar? Please?”
Master?
“We will cook,” his sister finishes, eyeing the monster of a fish his treacherous bird has brought.
-----
Imoen sighs, almost inaudibly, as they sit down, alone, in a corner of the marble terrace; in the still, stifling heat, the freshly caught trout has already started to reek.
“You know, brother,” she starts, cautiously, watching him as he is watching the catch, “I can’t say I’m not impressed. It took you all of three days to completely wreck the lives of three adult women.”
He eyes the fish further as he starts to clean the scales off of it. “I agree, sister: it is curious what the Rule of Threes, an inherent talent, and a bit of village gossip will do— Where is your cat? He might enjoy the entrails.”
“Stop it, brother,” Imoen replies amiably. “Pangur is with Nalia, of course. Look at me. We must talk. Really talk.”
“—Yes, as a matter of fact, Mazzy, the whole system! All the things we’re doing here, they— They will be useless otherwise! What’s so wrong about having a bit of ambition, pray tell me?”
He puts away the knife and the dead fish, vulnerable caught in this mundane, common, servant’s place. “Well, sister—?”
Now, that she may speak, Imoen is silent; and so, sick of the silence, he adds, “I have disarmed myself, sister. Let us talk. Or shall we forego the interrogation and move straight on to the verdict?”
Imoen eyes him coolly. “You are fibbing, brother. Either that, or, worse, you are being childish. What is it? Mazzy does not like you? Nalia can change her mind about you, too, you know, after what you’ve done.”
He must smile. “Beggars cannot be choosers, is it, sister?”
“Yes. But you, brother, never beg.”
Irritated, he counters, “Then judge me.”
“What? Sarevok, stop it—”
“Judge me. Now,” he insists. “Seven makes a jury, does it not? The prosecutor, the attorney, the sponsor, the spouse and the sibling; the indifferent stranger and the village cretin! Is that not enough? No paladin could have assembled a prettier court of justice.”
Imoen eyes him oddly, up and down: once, twice, thrice. “Gods,” she says, quietly, surprised. “You mean that— You really mean that, brother.”
Does he mean that? Words. Words, words, words—! He smiles, desperately, as he decides, with relief, “Yes. Why not—? You were right, sister. Fentan hates me. Wherefore should not Fentan hate me? After all, Fentan is afraid that, one day, she will turn into me; and since, if needed, devoid of enemy, Fentan will turn on herself; if devoid, further, of a reason, then for the very lack of pangs of conscience— Fentan, let me tell you, sister, loves to hate me.”
“But if you must put it this way, then… nothing, of course. Not if it is used in a good way, for a good purpose. I only wish you remembered that the ends—”
“And she has a very good reason for her hatred, sister. Look around you. See—” He must halt, again; he must press his mind to remember— “Merella. Lilah, who was Willet’s mother; Groos’ son; Groos’ wife; Johanna’s daughter— The forest itself, and its wolves, because, sister, mind that we are also the saviours of this forest; mind, further, the earth’s salt, the good people of Imnesvale— Take them all, sister. Together. They must have some value, do they not? Their work does. The forest’s timber does. The human’s lives must do. However, sister, to me, they are statistics. They have always been statistics, and they have never ceased to be statistics. And to turn into— Into her: proselytising, running around with the sword, fighting those little fights, others’ fights, limiting myself, attempting to convince these ordinary, mundane half-wits, in vain, that I am a good person, and that, as I say that, I am to be believed; to spend what little remains of my mortal life on this thankless, tedious, boring altruism— Until the day Irenicus finds me; or the day the prophecy finds us—” It dazzles the mind how liberating it feels to say all that, aloud; but his sister—
“Are you insane, brother?” she asks, hoarsely, before she corrects herself, “Again?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps I am. Again. Then, again, I have broken out latest pact, have I not? Allow me to assure you, first: not without a motive… And that? Perhaps I wanted the elf to know to what crime she would be accessory. Perhaps I was sick of your girlfriend’s pretence. Perhaps I thought that a craven elf was unnecessary ballast to Nalia’s plans; or to my plans; and perhaps I wanted to annoy Fentan. Or, perhaps, your friends should merely be glad that they survived three days of not only mine, but our joint company—”
“—I failed you.”
“Sarevok!”
“Yes?”
Awake in the sun-filled world, they are sitting over the stinking remains of the dead fish, that odd creature, deer-like and cat-like and swan-like and human, female and divine, and eyeing him with something oddly akin to concern; and, on the other side, he. “So that is what he meant,” Imoen says, to herself more than to him.
“Who?”
“Pangur.”
Surprised, he scowls. “Your cat?”
“He told me,” Imoen looks at him pointedly, “that your bird told him that you were trapped playing with shadows in a labyrinth of mirrors. And I thought— Well, that’s exactly what an excess of philosophy does to a person. But, brother—”
“Tell me, how does Anchev mean to—” “…hasn’t told me yet, but I think—”
His sister falls silent; in the end, she bites her lip and asks, “When were you going to tell me what Nalia wanted you to do?”
-----
“Never, possibly,” he says after he unfreezes from the initial surprise; this is not the question he anticipated. He might play the fool, now, since Imoen has even less proof than he does of Nalia’s designs, but— “I agreed to her plans, sister.”
“Yes. You did,” Imoen, herself, agrees. “And Aerie?”
He must smile. “The elf made her own choice to speak— Roenall is a slaver you would love to kill, sister.”
“Then, perhaps, I will,” Imoen replies.
“Yes, perhaps you will,” he agrees, remembering, first, Rielev; then, the day when his sister turned from a killer into a murderer; and then, remembering his own, back in that dark alley, ten, or perhaps, fifteen, or twenty years ago; but, yes— “You make your own kills yourself.” One must respect that.
“Yes, I do,” his sister repeats. “And if you still don’t want to make yours, then Nalia will simply have to find herself another assassin— I was wondering, you know,” she alters her tone, suddenly, “Why you were behaving like you were, before. Why you wouldn’t come, wouldn’t talk to us, when we were waiting for Valygar to wake up, or in that dawn shrine… Why you were— You were moping in the shadows, instead, you know? Moping. I didn’t know you knew how to mope. But you were. Always moping over your diaries, or quarrelling with Mazzy, and always so… Irritable. Fractious. Moody. And you treated Minsc so miserably, even in the village, and you were always juggling… holding onto that stone of yours, and you were always so absent, so—not there—”
“—so… so wrapped in yourself and your own importance!”
Imoen snorts. “Exactly. Or, well, maybe no— No. I don’t want it to end up like this. I want to know, brother. And you, you reminded me of Xan, I’m not sure if you remember Xan—” She cast an anxious, furtive look in his direction, “You didn’t kill him,” she asserts, as firmly as unexpectedly. “Irenicus did. Xan was an elf, always moping, moping, moping… I didn’t like him, I think.”
She takes a brief pause, and adds, with sudden, private bitterness, “I also think I still have that pommel jewel. From his sword.”
Then, his sister surfaces from whatever memory is troubling her, and finishes, briskly, now looking at him, “But that’s not why I wanted to talk, of course. I just wanted to say that I was annoyed at you, too, you know? When you said nothing. When we, Nalia and I, I mean, when we decided that there really wasn’t any reason that we should not stay together, be together, and you even said that you noticed that, but it still felt as if you simply did not care either way— And,” she laughs lightly, “let me tell you, was it weird to realise that I wanted some sign that my next-of-kin approved of my choice— Even a dirty little joke— But, brother—”
He is sick of the words. “Have you just compared me to a neurotic elf, sister?”
-----
“Nalia… you know how it is between my sister and me, don’t you? After Patrick died—”
Imoen eyes him curiously. “Do you know how you look, brother?”
A minor illusion: the caster’s reflection, the self’s likeness suspended in the air. He casts it, briefly, and sees himself, at last: haggard, haphazard, and wasted, like an ancient god; and, like a beggar, exposed in this state for all worldly to see.
When you are watching the others, they are watching you, Rieltar Anchev had once warned, long ago; watch yourself, therefore; it is not only to the Abyss that the maxim applies. They had all looked like that, yesterday, before Amaunator sent them to sleep and the sleep restored them; after the Shadow Dragon breathed at them; but he had been protected from that, even then, and— He watches. All the muscle; all the body— It is still there, physically, as is, indeed, his beard, unkempt; but it is all subdued; the blood on his hands is muted in colour, and his eyes— They are weak, dim and hungry, in the air saturated with sunlight. It is as if he had aged years in days, he notes, distantly, as he studies the new lines on his face.
“It’s hit you even worse than Mazzy… Now that I think of it, already in the village,” Imoen, behind him, speaks quietly, without giving him the chance to comment, “Aerie kept casting protections on you, but they did not work. In the end, we decided that there must be some other reason, that you’re letting it in, somehow— Aerie told me that you were missing Anomen,” she adds, lightly embarrassed, as he still looks, morbidly fascinated, at the pathetic shadow of a human he sees. “No, sister,” he replies, calmly, as he dispels the image, “No more.”
“I won’t lie to you,” Imoen says sharply as she narrows her eyes—
“It may be simply the geas,” he interrupts, calmly, desperate to abandon the search for his tainted soul. “Imoen, I will be going to Athkatla. Fentan does not want to suffer my presence here longer than it is absolutely necessary. The feeling is, assuredly, mutual.”
He picks up the trout which looks like a salmon, again; this time, his sister offers no protest—and he begins to carefully scrape the scales off the fish, to open it and gut and fillet it; feeling himself like his current victim, in the sun and the light and the heat, in the stench, in the open.
-----
“—daughters to me—” “Yes, Mazzy, but even children leave the home some day, don’t you think?!” “S-sometimes, I w-wish…” “I think, Nalia… I forgot— Or, better said, didn’t want to remember—”
Imoen has sat by him to help him, now: she has taken the Imnesvale cheese out of her bag and is cutting it into small cubes; the odour of cheese mingles in the heated air with the smell of fish. “When you will be going to Athkatla, brother,” she speaks out, carefully, “I will be going with you. Without Nalia.”
He raises his head, surprised, “Why? All I—”
She raises her head, too, and their eyes lock. “Because I know how the geas can be dissolved.”
He freezes. “You do.”
“Yes, I do, brother,” Imoen replies as she lowers her gaze back to the food they are preparing. “And maybe I did not think— Nalia told me that Mazzy was very different, once. I’m—”
“Imoen,” he must interrupt; the art of the apology eludes him, as usual, and his only comfort must be the words of the first fratricide: “You are my keeper no more than I am yours, sister;” and then, “The dragon covenant was in effect, I believe, only until you found some real friends.”
The moment the jest is out in the air between them, he realises the mistake he has committed; the moment, too late.
Imoen frowns. “So, brother, you were jealous?” she accuses, now sincerely, “Am I to remind you that I swore no oath that you are safe from me?”
“No,” he lies, with sudden irritation, for that reminds him of the prophecy between them. “You were not unhappy, sister.”
“No,” replies she, “I was not. And they really did not need your interference.”
“No.” He must smile. “That is why they are dealing with what they need themselves now— Are you jealous, sister?”
“Yes. But what I actually meant, brother, is… They did not need your interference. And you can ignore me all you want, and never apologise, and be moody, and obnoxious, and all that, all you want, and I’m not that much worse for it— No, wait! Yes, I’m lying, but— It’s Kriemhild, you know? She’s doing pretty well on her own, yes. And I’m trying to help her, and she likes Minsc… But, in the end, she is your child. Your wife. You can’t ignore her. As long as she is in your presence—”
Sometimes, he wishes he had just killed the half-orc. “Yes, sister. I know. Believe me, I do have some basic grasp of orcish customs.”
“An explanation, not an excuse, Nalia. That is all. Of course I will help you.”
Imoen gives him a look of vague badly-hidden pity. “Mazzy will sort them out,” she says. Then, she smiles, briefly. “If Aerie’s supposed to be the village witch here, then, I guess, I’d better give her my potions book— Although I do wonder who will help Mazzy,” she finishes sharply.
Seen through Altair’s eyes, heard through Altair’s ears, Nalia d’Arnise is still fuming; and, as the warm day moves slowly on towards the noon, all he can tell his sister to excuse himself is, “Corthala.”
“Valygar?” Imoen muses. “I don’t know. I mean, Merella’s Merella, but he’s here on that family business of his— Brother.”
“There is something you two should see,” Valygar Corthala speaks out. “Since Mazzy is still busy.”
-----
The something is, first, Kriemhild, in Merella’s ashen scale; the armour is an almost perfect fit, and, while his wife mutely blushes as he tells her so, Imoen eyes a finely crafted mithril medallion, thing the second. The two men and Kriemhild have gathered what few rings and necklaces and, in one desperate case, locks of hair, there were among the bodies; but this could have belonged to no villager of Imnesvale. “I saw such emblems in Sir Jamis’ army. In Tethyr.”
The insignia are unmistakable. “A Tombelthen.”
“A wizard,” Valygar Corthala speaks his pyrrhic triumph. “The fool must have heard a story about a gold-filled temple, came here to check, broke the seals and released this… thing.” He spits, curtly, businesslike. “It took just this one cretin for them all to die. Him, and the original one. Amuana’s, or what’s-her-name’s, killer. Will you wizards ever learn?”
As Sarevok considers whether the man, even now, knows his own history, Imoen asks, “You think that he was the one who released the Shade Lord?”
Kriemhild nods. “Yes. He stinks. Bad.”
“Yes! It was Boo who found him. And Boo’s nose never fails to find an Evil Wizard!”
-----
“I still don’t believe the hamster talks to him,” Valygar mutters.
“Boo is my friend and companion, and more than he seems,” Minsc replies with good-natured cheer; his hamster, for the moment safe from the familiars, is nibbling on a piece of fruit. “He has been with me ever since my h-h-head wound, and has never led me wrong! But he tells me,” he whispers conspiratorially, “that a hamster, though always a very good comrade in arms, is not the best choice of a friend for every man of the forest. Your disposition, for example, is more suited to a hound.”
“I am not a man of the forest as you are, Minsc,” the other man retorts curtly, eyeing the Rashemi askew.
“I still wish we had some fruit to add to the fish,” Sarevok muses as he kindles a small fire and puts the fish, finally, to roast; and as his sister, who starts to grind the pepper, thickly, as is proper, in the peppermill, laughs. “You’ll like it, Kriemhild,” she says, on the side, to her sister-in-law. “I promise.”
In the corner of his eye, he sees Valygar watch them curiously; at last, the man shrugs. “Given the season, there should be some wild berries in the forest. If we have time—”
“Berries?!” Minsc frowns. “I can ask Mairyn for some good berries to aid the heroes! If Khelliara wills, Mairyn will grant—”
The purple ring of the tribal markings on Minsc’s face almost seems to turn in concert with his throaty whispers, the beating of the hooves of the wild horses running across the steppe; then the world becomes the steppe, and the ice dragons, and the harsh winters, and the scorching summers, and the wild horses in run; and the Wychlaran, the true Rashemen hathran who tattooed the runes into the Rashemi berserker’s skin— And there is a huntress there, too; and she is Mielikki.
“Here we are. The best of forest’s berries for the forest’s saviours!” Minsc intrudes proudly; and Sarevok, frowning, distressed, blinking, disoriented, must return to the Mirtul mid-morn heat of Amn. “See them, Boo?! Go for them, Boo!”
“But Mazzy, y-you have y-your way of helping people, I-I have mine, I think… a-and Nalia h-has hers…?” “Aerie, please…” “No, Nalia. I-I—”
-----
“No, Nalia. I-I’m so sorry, but no… I-I really want to stay here!
“Haer’Dalis—”
“Haer’Dalis taught m-me something, too! Nalia… It m-may not be the best choice. But this will be my choice… d-don’t you understand? And I will not regret it. Oh, please understand!”
-----
“You have prevailed, then,” he speaks as he folds his arms, leaning against a pilaster. “How does victory taste, elf?”
The fountains of the grassless marble courtyard of the solar temple are no longer frozen still, but are running with cool, clear water; standing in a spot of pleasant shadow, the elf and he are watching Nalia d’Arnise and— “Imoen!” the redhead duchess complains; Imoen has spattered her girlfriend with a spray of small silver water droplets.
“I’m terrified,” Aerie, pensive, says, not tearing her eyes off the picture. “Nalia—” She halts; Nalia did not speak much when the two of them met with Imoen and with him; she had eyes only for Imoen, and hasn’t looked at Aerie since; and even her laughter now bears a trace of desperate, artificial longing for genuine mirth. He wonders, in passing, if the duchess had not loved the elf, after a fashion, his fashion, after all.
Aerie sighs, and looks at him at last. “B-but Mazzy said she would come to see me if she’s around, and t-there’s the forest, and I-I will have Minsc, and… Um. You wouldn’t let Kriemhild stay with us, would you, Sarevok?” she inquires, politely.
He eyes her critically from the vantage of his height. “Do you think you are fit to deal with her, elf? She will not be nice to you simply because you will be nice to her. She is in half an orc. She was raised like an orc. She thinks like an orc. She calls you her enemy.”
“I-I know,” the elf sighs quietly again. “I just t-think that… she may need Minsc as much as I do? And they may need her in the village… And,” she giggles, suddenly, “she c-can knock out Minsc, if he gets too excited!”
“She is also rich, and knows orcish cures and the rudiments of bone-setting,” he provides, coolly, mildly offended. “Their women all know them, in between the constant tribal warring. However, this is not what I asked you about, elf. Even assuming that I agree, and that she agrees, Minsc alone will be inadequate company for her. She will need a counsellor and an advocate. And you are about to have a child.”
Aerie frowns and considers. “I think,” she cocks her vixen-like head, and, for a moment, light reflexes jump from Altair’s feather in her golden hair, “t-that you came here just to ask me this, didn’t you, Sarevok? I-if I wouldn’t take care of her?”
He shrugs. “To put matters more clearly, elf, to shift my responsibility to you and burden you with my wife at the outset of your independent life. Yes. This is a question.”
Aerie bursts into unfeigned laughter, and despite herself, a duchess looks at her, for a moment, before angrily turning her head away. “The Broken One always h-helps those in need,” the little creature declares when her merriment at his expense is over. “Remember?”
“Exactly,” he replies; after all, this is, to an extent, part of the problem. “You are not your god, and Kriemhild is not in dire need; I merely have no further need for her, either. She may benefit from your presence, I believe; you must think of yourself, elf.”
Aerie makes a small mouth. “I-I told you already, Sarevok. If you agree, and she does, I’ll try to help her. I p-promise you that.”
He smiles. “Yes. And thank you.”
For a moment, silent conspirators on a common plan now, they watch each other and their shared company— Then, one last thought strikes him. “You— There is an elf by the name of Coran. My sister—”
-----
“It is said that, sometimes, if in childhood a sentient individual suffers chronic trauma, the mind dampens the perception and comprehension, though not the production, of emotions. Since fear and aggression are the most vital for survival, the capability to identify them, discern between them and process them persists the longest. If the deprivation does not subside, this, too, is eventually lost. The mind freezes; certain terms, like love, or happiness, alter or lose their connotations; so do lose their meaning certain physiological reactions.
You, Child, have found in your taint an outlet for your accumulated aggression. With this one exception, however, you are nothing short of a blind, deaf and mute fool wandering blithely through a world simply beyond your understanding. This will change. You will learn separation, analysis, interpretation and control. This will take time. We have time.”
The spell of silence let go at last; but only one parched word managed to surface in the cage stinking of the madness of a human body.
“Why?”
No answer. There never was.
