1

Where to begin?

It seems just yesterday I was a girl, young and nearly carefree, with nothing more to do than haul water and kill rats for Reaver, and read and re-read piles upon piles of books. It certainly didn't seem simple at the time.

Who am I now? Certainly not the slip of a girl who complained to Hull about retrieving his sword—which he'd forgotten again—or who stepped into the warmth of the Candlekeep Inn and had to listen to Winthrop's fond crudities. So much has changed that I barely know where it all began, or even how it began. I've seen more since I left Candlekeep, done more things, learned of events and beings more than I had ever imagined, even with my piles of books. Now, as I put my own pen to parchment, I must wonder if this tale will be read someday by someone like me, who dreams of adventure outside the walls of a boring old stone keep, manned by ancient monks and grumpy guards.

I thought so much of the world back then. I thought…

I thought that someday, I'd walk across the snow of Icewind Dale with the freezing wind in my face. I thought I'd stand on the deck of a ship as it fought a storm on the Sea of Fallen Stars. I'd imagined the wonders of Waterdeep, or Westgate, or of exploring the jungles of Chult, or taking a ship across to Maztica, where even those who live there don't know what lies beyond the horizon.

I thought a lot of things back then. But that's where it all began, isn't it? In Candlekeep.

I sigh and lean forward over the battlement, resting my elbows on the stone and my head in my hands, and gaze out across the vast expanse of the Sea of Swords, where the sun casts blazing shadows across the water. As the waves come they shimmer and dance. Between me and the water lie perhaps a hundred yards of rough ground, leading down to a rocky beach, and then the sea to the horizon.

I spend at least a minute gazing out, becoming less and less aware of what's around me, falling into my own world between my eyebrows, where I seem to spend more and more time lately. Beyond that sea lies the piratical island of Mintarn, and mile upon mile of open ocean, broken only by the occasional stretch of gray, smoothed rocks sticking up out of the water. Far, far out on those rough waters is an island I one day hope to see—fabled Evermeet, the home of the elves who are half my bloodline. And I will go there. Someday.

A cough and grunt from the right interrupts my reverie and I glance over in irritation. Clad in hardened leather and wool now that the weather is cooling, one of the Candlekeep Watchers leans against the parapet much as I do, his massive wooden staff lent against it as well. He looks to have been asleep, and only now that he has snored and awakened himself has he realized. I see him glance around quickly and I have to smile just a little—if the Gatewarden caught him sleeping on duty, he'd let him have it, both in words and pay cuts.

My amusement is short-lived as another Watcher clumps up the stone stairs down below, coming up to either join his partner or relieve him for the night shift. I catch sight of a tousled head of black hair and then Hull, one of the more junior Watchers, jumps the last step and lands atop the parapet. Then he groans and clutches his head with both hands.

"Have a good morning?" the other Watcher asks.

Hull clamps his eyes shut and turns away from the glare of the sun, rubbing his temples. "Cyric's eyes, that's bright." He leans against the wall backwards, waiting until his eyes have either adjusted or stopped hurting so badly, before he opens them. They are bloodshot, and a shadow of a beard clings to his chin. With his outthrust forehead, the combination makes him look a little like some sort of giant monkey. I smile and turn back to the sea, hoping they'll just get it done and exchange, and not interrupt my few minutes of free time. But they don't. I keep my eyes on the sea, and hear only their voices.

"Why so early, Hull?" That was the other Watcher.

Hull groans. "Payday. Yesterday."

"Let me guess. You spent all of it."

"Not all. Not quite."

"Ceeby keeps telling you you'll never get anywhere if you keep showing up like this. Late all the time, unshaven—"

"Marye, when I want you're opinion I'll ask for it," Hull says. His voice is rough from either snoring or his midmorning binge. "In the meantime you're relieved."

The other Watcher grumbles something I don't catch, and I hear him walk away, then down the steps, thudding in his hard-soled boots.

Grumbling as well, Hull shifts his weight on the wall. "Hey kid."

I look over. Hull is a typical Watcher—bent on doing his work, getting paid, and drinking. I like him more than most of the others, for several reasons. "Hey," I say.

"Long day."

I shrug. Hull chuckles, but cuts off with a groan. "Ah, hell," he says, patting his left side. "I knew it, blast it."

I turn more fully toward him as he pats, grabs, and comes up with an empty hand. He looks up at me with a half-irritated, half-sheepish grin. "Uh, kid—"

"Ten?"

He gave me an evil glare. "Fine. Just go get it."

I turn and head for the stairs off the battlements. As I pass below them they cut off the sun, leaving me in shadow. The world beneath the battlements, from early evening to late morning, is chill and, at this time of year, frosty. I go down the last steps with care. In a few hours they'll be covered in a layer of salty frost, blown in from the Sea of Swords.

I nearly bump into the person at the bottom of the steps. When I notice her I try to move aside and almost fall over, sliding on a patch of early frost. I grab the wall, and she grabs me, and I steady.

"Heya! Don't fall there," she says, in bright tones that never seem to dim. "Hey Di."

"Hey, Imoen."

I let go of the wall and step onto hard-packed dirt. A few weeds grow along the wall, now turned yellow and brown with the coming of winter. I watch my feet on the last step, and only when I set down on the ground do I look up, at Imoen.

She's about my height, and, oddly enough, greatly resembles me, though my hair is auburn and hers is dark brown. Like me, she's slim, and keeps her hair relatively short. With the many privileges we're awarded here at Candlekeep—milking cows, loading hay, finding lost books in the hay—long hair is just not an option. Like me, her finger are long and slender, and in the past several years she's become more and more of a woman, not only in form but in her eyes.

The biggest difference between us is our faces. I don't believe I've ever seen Imoen without at least the hint of a smile on her face. She has rather odd, nearly violet eyes, and a softness around her mouth which bespeaks of laughter. I, on the other hand, am darker and more slender. Because of my blood, some say my face is more angular than the average person. I've never found it so, though my eyes slant slightly upward at the corners, and they vary between amber and what I like to refer to as gold. And, as I've mentioned, my hair seems a mixture of brown, with oddly red-gold streaks.

I think people find it difficult to tell us apart because we're always doing the same sort of tasks. Usually, Imoen ends up doing things like cleaning out the sow troughs, and I end up shelving books, but there've been times when we just switched because she or I wanted to do something different, and after several hours someone would notice and say something like, "Hey, you look a little different today…"

Most of the time, with me, it's Winthrop who notices, and who simply laughs until tears stream out of his eyes at the sight of me gooey to the elbows with the weeds that end up growing in the feed trough.

Imoen. She's smiling, for no apparent reason—but then, Imoen doesn't need to explain her smile. But there's something peculiar about that smile, and I take a few steps past her, turn, and say, "Yes?"

She grins. "Can't keep a secret from you, Di. You sure you can't read minds?"

"You were grinning."

"Oh, blast and bother," she says. "I've got to stop doing that, it always give me away. Lookin at the sunset, Di?"

"Lights on the water."

A chill gust of wind skittered over the wall and swooped in under the battlement. I wrapped my wool shirt closer and Imoen grimaced and flipped up the furred hood of her own purple jacket. She likes purple, it matches her eyes.

"Hull again?"

I can't help but grin. Imoen and I don't need to read each other's minds. We've been doing the same things for so long, talking to each other, living in each others lives, that we know exactly what we do.

"Yeah. Again."

"Well, hey Di. It's a way to make a living."

"What, forgetting your sword?"

She grins. "No, not standing outside the guardhouse and reminding him every time to go back in."

"Come on, Imoen," I say, and we start toward the bunkhouse, and the chest at the foot of Hull's bed. It lies across a wide, rutted track that circles the inner ward of Candlekeep, inside the outer walls, and connects all the various cogs of this library together. There's only one gate, to the southeast, and it opens into a courtyard twenty feet across, and then into another, thicker gate which leads into the outside world. Directly before us, beyond the patched roofs and a row of yellow-leafed trees and the wall of the inner ward itself, lie the towers of the keep itself. I've lived nearly all of my twenty years inside these walls, and I know the byways and passages by heart. That is, excepting the crypts, where no one goes unless it's to bury someone.

We step across the ruts, now hardened as the rain of two nights before has dried, and stop next to the door of the bunkhouse. "So," I say. "You have a secret?"

"Yeah. But I think I forgot it."

I turn and she's grinning again. "Kidding. Gorion wants to see you."

I frown. "What about?"

"Well," says Imoen, eyes in the sky, a faint smile playing around her lips, "From what I understood, something about making a journey."

My heart leaps in my chest and comes down pounding. "A journey?"

"Somethin like that."

"Anything else?" For a moment I want to reach out and shake her. I feel almost as if someone has thrust a torch into my face and dazzled my eyes. A journey? Why? The last time we left it was only for a few days in Beregost, and Gorion had told me about it months in advance.

Imoen shifts ever so slightly to one foot, then to the other. "Well?" I ask.

"You might be going a long ways."

I blink in surprise. "How far?"

"Don't know."

I frown. "Did he tell you all of this?"

Shift to the left. Shift to the right. Imoen smiled. "Blast it all, Di, how do you do that?"

"Instinct. And you're shifting your feet."

"Urgh." She tromps both feet on the ground and keeps them still. "Doesn't work, Imoen. Where'd you hear it?" Now I'm even more curious. In the past, Imoen has had a…history with the Watchers. Not a serious one, but as I've practiced with Jondalar and Gorion, she…picked up a few things from Winthrop, who used to "use rosin on the shine."

"Well…" says Imoen. "I wasn't in his room the other day when he was gone, and I didn't just happen to glance over at his desk with all those papers, and happen to see one, and for some reason it didn't catch my attention, and I didn't read it." She frowns. "Nope. Guess I'm just like you, Di, I can read minds."

I chuckle, and much of my tension flows away. It was so…Imoen.. "I suppose you're coming along?"

Her eyes go wide. "Me? Oh, no, no. Just you and Gorion, speaking of which, I think Winthrop needs me." She seems ready to turn away, but didn't. I look at her.

"I could ask Gorion if you could…"

If possible, her eyes go even wider. "Oh, no!" she says, and I can't help but smile. "It says very explicity, you and Gorion."

Imoen and her way with words. There was a time when I was younger and more in awe of text itself than what it told, when I would have corrected her. But she's got her own method of dealing with speech. Sometimes it's just a little peculiar. Other times she employs oddities like 'buffleheaded" and "trollopy" the last gained from one of Winthrop's tales.

"By the way, what was this message?"

"Message?" Imoen puts on an innocent face. "What message? Anyway, he'd probably just say I'd mess it up or something. I'll get out soon enough. Thanks." And she's gone in a flash of purple.

I shake me head and turn toward the Inner Ward—and then remember Hull's sword and turn back for the barracks. I unlatch the door, pull it open on rusty hinges that squeal horribly, and slip inside.

At midday it's relatively warm here, but now that winter has come on the Watchers of bunkhouse three keep a fire smoldering night and day. The walls are thick and stone, and keep the heat in well. A dozen beds line the walls, each with a small dresser beside it and a chest at the foot. The air is warm and smells faintly of herbs, and I take a moment to relax and let it seep into me. I didn't realize it was that cold outside.

Hull's bunk is the fourth on the right. I go over to it, booted feet making the floor creak. There are no off-duty Watchers present, which means they're either talking with their friends at their posts or at Winthrop's drinking. I kneel down and open Hull's chest. Inside are his spare clothes, an extra blanket, a half-filled knapsack, and atop it all a gleaming new long sword in a leather scabbard. I reach in and take it by the middle.

"Hey there."

I whirl with the sword in hand. Standing not six feet away is a dark-skinned man in patched leathers with several days' growth of black beard. I stare at him until time speeds up again, because he looks so familiar but it can't because—

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" My voice sounds too high, frightened, like a bird caught in a thunderstorm and calling. I can't believe how far back things have got, how far away. The world is brighter than it should be, harsh around the edges as I stare at him.

He says nothing and takes a step forward. I shoot to my feet and back away three more. Though I haven't noticed it, one hand drops to the hilt of the sword I hold scabbarded in one white-knuckled hand.

"I got a question," he says. "Mebbe you can answer it."

"Get out of here," I say. "You're not a Watcher and you—"

"You Diana?"

My mouth goes dry. There's an odd shink as a third of the sword comes out of the scabbard. The man glances at it, unconcerned, and rotates his hips to show a foot-long dagger stuck through his belt. "I said, are you Diana?"

I might have screamed and fallen back. Once, long ago. But I am she no longer. Now, I have a sword in my hand. His eyes are moving down past my face and past the sword and I can see it in his face now that same sort of smile and I yank the rest of the sword free and scream "Yes, I'm Diana!"

My scream startles him enough so that he steps back a pace, but I see that his hand has slipped the dagger free. He brings it up and there is a strange sort of grin on his face. "Come on now, girlie, you can't use that," he says, with a jeering jerk of his finger at the sword. "It doesn't make sense. Sweet girls like you don't have swords. Why don't you just hand it over here? Come on." There's a horrible sweetness in his voice as he drops into a half-crouch and advances toward me. I drop the scabbard and take Hull's sword in both hands. All of Jondalar's teaching comes back in a rush and runs out through the side of my head, leaving behind a confusion of words—strike right, hard, NOW—can't block from the left with figure three, figure four is designed—throw your weight forward and put him off balance—can't always win a fight with muscle you've got to try something else, with you it'll probably always be that way…with you…always that way…

I blot out the useless directions and focus on the man before me. "What do you want? Who are you?" My voice is high and frightened, but no longer quavers. No longer.

"Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is money. Just the money. Oh, yeah, my name, isCarbos," he says, and it's almost as if he's licking his way around the words. I can see his tongue, half-out of his mouth. His eyes are dark and somehow fierce, somehow inhuman thought he's very much a human, very much a man, I can see that now. He's seen before him a woman, and he—

This time I take it to him. He's got the dagger, and I've got a sword, and my hate is like an acidic flood that pours into my veins, at once painful and debilitating and at the same time somehow painful and exhilarating, so strong and sudden my limbs almost cramp up and there's a hot flare of pain in my head as I hear voices from years back, voices I don't want to hear. Then I leap at Carbos, point of the sword first.

Eyes wide, he dodges to the side and I rush past him. He's spinning back around at me with that dagger reversed, intending to stab me in the back as I go past, so I follow him around, faster than he expects, and there's another surge of pain and hatred as I catch his trailing left arm with the last foot of the blade and several of his fingers come free with sharp snaps, flying like little sausages into the dark corners of the room. He grunts, not noticing it yet, yet, and comes around with the dagger. I drop to the floor, almost under him as he's overbalancing, and he falls as I put the sword straight up in front of me.

I'll never forget the noise he makes as he goes down on the blade—a clean but somehow liquid swish, like stabbing a knife through a tomato. He makes a noise in his throat and I look up as deep red blood pours out of him and down the length of the blade. I let go and it twists as he falls, carving a path through his body. He almost gets my face with his diced left hand, and his nails scrape at me. Then he lets out a low keen, breathless and confused, and slumps into the side of one of the beds. I can see the pool of red expand with each pump of his heart, and for some reason I can't look away, even as he dies. He's face-down on the ground when it happens, away from me, but I can feel it when he goes. Somehow, the room is emptier than it was a minute ago.

I stand, shivering uncontrollably, and look at my hands. They are free of blood, a miracle that probably keeps me sane. I look down at the rest of me, and see that somehow, though the wooden floor between and now under two of the bunks is greedily drinking up this man's life, I somehow missed it all, and for that same strange reason I'm sad about it, as if I'd missed all the fun.

That last disgusts me even more than all the blood, and I as turn toward the door I feel my gorge begin to rise. I scramble at the latch, not wanting to look back at the still form with a bloody blade standing out of its back at an angle, and then the latch slides free and the door swings open, letting in a blast of freezing air and cold gray light, and carries me out with it.

((A))

I make it perhaps five wobbling steps into the street before I go to my knees and decorate the dirt with my lunch. It hurts more than I thought it would, and when I've finished there's a dull ache deep in my gut.

Footsteps nearby, heavy and crunching in the ruts of the road. A shadow falls across me and a rough hand grasps my arm. "Kid?"

I jerk away from the voice and the hand and might have lost it even out there had I not recognized the speaker. Hull looms over me, staff in one hand, concern etched in his hung-over face. "You okay, kid?"

"Hull, oh gods! Oh, watching gods!" I say, and get the irresistible urge to grab him and hug him so tight I won't ever have to let go. But he—

No.

"Diana? Child?" Another voice, this one female, and coming closer. "Hull, what's wrong with her?"

"Threw up," says Hull, over my head, and now I really do feel like a child again, with all the tall people talking over and around you, and only rarely to you. Who was Carbos? What was he doing there? Why now? Why me?

I find no answers, and as dusty mauve robes come into view on my right, I'm not sure who can give me them except maybe Carbos himself, and—

"Diana?"

I look up. Framed by the gray, fading clouds, Parda appears for a moment like a purple wraith against the sky. Now everything seems cold and dead—until I see her eyes, brown and caring. "Child? Are you well?"

Child... I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and push up from the ground. Parda takes my shoulder and helps me up. We're the same height, though she's a bit larger around the waist. As with all the Seekers she wears robes of a mottled purple, and has her hood up against the chill.

"Hull, did you see anything?" she asks when I don't immediately reply.

Hull shrugs. In the dimming light he looks even more like a monkey, with his eyes in shadow but gleaming out at times. "She come running out of the bunkhouse like she seen a demon," he says. "Then dumped it in the road."

I want to laugh at how he puts it, because an image of someone shoveling dung into the ruts on the street out of a large wagon comes into my mind. "Very well," says Parda. "You may return to your post."

I catch a flash of irritation in Hull's eyes as he turns away and a little voice whispers that's why. Parda takes me by the hand and turns away.

"Thank you, Hull," I say before I can stop myself.

He turns and shrugs, but I catch a faint grin. "No problem, kid. You okay?"

I open my mouth to reply, but haven't thought of a reply by the time Parda has decided we're going.

((A))

Parda waits until we are out of earshot of the Watchers on the wall. "You are sure you're alright? What happened?"

A dozen replies flash in my mind, and I find with some surprise that more than one is designed to turn her away, to rebuff her so that I can go on my way to, to…

To what? I can feel wetness gathering behind my eyes, a stinging that means I'm about to cry, and I will not. Not now, not today. I look up into the cold gray of the sky and think what's happening? Why did I just kill him? Why did he try to kill me?

"Parda," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "There was a man in there. He, he—" I cut off, unwilling to speak and betray the quiver that will come into my tones. Parda's eyes seem to flash.

"Gods, child, not again." She reaches out to me and I step away. Not now. "He tried to kill me," I say, and out here under the iron gray, it doesn't sound nearly as ridiculous as it should have.

The concern in Parda's eyes shifts to a different degree. "Oh, my, child—"

My name is Diana. I want to shout at her, which is even more surprising. I've known Parda for years, she's tutored me and spent nearly as much time with me as Shindal though she is a Seeker and of higher rank than he. "What's happening?" I ask instead. The quiver has come back and flutters like a trapped and dying butterfly at the back of my throat. I'm shivering, and it feels unbearably cold. "Parda, why did he try to kill me?"

"Child, I can't explain. Not now. There's no time."

I stare at her in utter astonishment, coldness seeping into my chest now. "What do you mean?"

"Child, Gorion can explain. It's best he does. He's waiting for you inside the keep. He was afraid something like this would happen. Go."

She's speaking gibberish, I can't understand her, but as we round the corner of another bunkhouse I see one of the two arched gates that lead into the walled gardens and the inner circle. Parda gives me a gentle push in the back. "Go, child."

I stumble forward as if she's shoved me. After a few steps I regain my balance and go on, no more enlightened than a moment before, wondering what Parda meant by—how can she know—how could she expect—if she knew why didn't she warn—if Gorion knew why didn't he warn me?

I'm no more than a dozen steps into the quietude of the inner circle, surrounded by clear, still pools and trimmed bushes, when I hear soft footsteps on the path directly ahead of me. For a moment I tense, all my muscles contract again, painfully—then Tethtoril rounds the bend and slows as he sees me.

If there are three people I truly trust, they are Imoen, Gorion, and Tethtoril. I'd spoken with him only a handful of times over the years but each left me wondering how anyone could be so kind, so gentle, and so old. His face is withered with age and a long, flowing beard drapes from his chin. His eyes are like bright blue stars, constantly twinkling. His red-gold robes gleam despite the fading light, and as his eyes light on me they brighten. "Greetings, young one." Though there is condescension, as with Parda, in his voice, it's somehow different. Tethtoril...doesn't treat me like a child. He never really has.

"First Reader," I say, his formal title. He smiles at me, and I have the urge to drop my eyes. "Come now, Diana, I think we've spoken often enough to dispense of that." His smile reverses this gentle rebuke and turns it into something resembling advice. "Something troubles you."

"Very much so, First Reader." I can't call him Tethtoril. It would be like speaking face-to-face with Gorion, and calling him father. "I don't know what to do about it."

He smiles at me. "Times come when such occurs, young one, and there is simply no struggle against them. Do what you can, but fate will take you where it will in the end. You are at the edge of that, child, and neither I nor any other can help you."

The cold had retreated since Tethtoril came. Now it advances again, into the centers of my bones. "What is coming, First Reader?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "That is not for me to say. But take this, dearest child, and gods bless you." Before I can move he lifts his hands, and I feel the chill leave my bones as if ejected by the warmth that flows in behind. For a moment I just lose myself in this glorious newfound warmth, and then Tethtoril's face comes into view again, hovering at the center of my vision. "Now, child, go to Gorion."

He turns and pads, silent in his golden slippers, back the way he has come. I blink. The world seems just a little too focused. The waters are utterly clear in the pool beside me, and the green of the vines and leaves on the wall is somehow...greener.

But that deathly chill has gone, and I utter a silent thanks to Tethtoril, and to Mystra, to whom he prays, as I turn and make my way through the southern portion of the gardens. In some places the still-green trees and vines almost block my view, and in one such place, concealed on all sides by layers of vegetation, I find the Chanter.

He is seated on a stone bench beside a fountain, eyes closed, rocking back and forth, his deep baritone making the air thrum. The Chanter is the heart of song in Candlekeep, and also the keeper of the prophecies of Alaundo, along with his three assistants, called the three Voices. He doesn't notice me, simply continues chanting as I stop and watch.

When shadows fall across the land

Our divine lords will walk among us as equals

And such a pestilence shall they bring

That all those who go against them shall be struck down.

And then the ending that closes all of the prophecies of the Chanter and the Voices,

So sayeth the Wise Alaundo

Hundreds of years ago, Alaundo founded Candlekeep as a repository of knowledge. Alaundo the Seer, Alaundo the Wise, had spelled out the possible history of Faerun for untold years to come in his prophecies, and he has never been wrong. Admittedly, some of what he foretold seems to have had little impact. For example, he once predicted: A golden unicorn shall travel unmolested through the length of Waterdeep.

And indeed, in the Year of the Harp a golden unicorn did walk the length of Waterdeep—a shapeshifted druid by the name of Eleme Eversil, who as far as the Chanter knows, had never even heard of Alaundo.

On the other hand, Alaundo prophesied many of the greatest troubles of the current ages. White birds shall vanish from the north, and great evil shall die and be reborn, which, according to some sages, links directly with the Time of Troubles.

The Chanter lifted his voice high into the leaden air, and sang again.

In the year of the Turret, a great host will come

From the east like a plague of locusts

So sayeth the Wise Alaundo

The Lord of Murder shall perish

But in his doom he shall spawn

score of mortal progeny.

Chaos shall be sown in their passing.

So sayeth the wise Alaundo.

I go past the Chanter, leaving him to speak the words of the ages to the trees. Once I was enchanted with the endless tales Alaundo foretold. Now, they do not seem so important.

((A))

I leave the path as I near the gates of the keep, and cross an expanse of carefully cut green grass to the arching bridge that crosses a rectangular fish pool and leads to the doors of the inner keep. Standing just before the doors, robed in gray, his hair the same steely color as the sky overhead, is Gorion. In one hand he holds a small knapsack. In the other, a scabbarded sword. My sword. The one Jondalar presented me with four weeks ago for passing the third and final part of his training.

Gorion's lean, wolfish face splits into a smile as I approach. "Diana, I'm glad you've come. Here, take these." He hands me the sword. "Put this on first."

I do so, unstrapping the thick leather belt around my waist and sliding the scabbard on, angling it at the proper angle for my right hand to grasp. It's incredible how natural it feels, how…how much more safe.

Gorion hands me the knapsack and turns to pick up another sitting on the ground behind him. "Are you ready?"

I blink in surprise. "We're leaving now?"

He nods. "There is no time, and already it may be too late. Come quickly, child." He moves off the bridge, out into the gardens. I glance around and catch a flash of purple at one corner of the building. At another time I might have smiled—Imoen again, keeping tabs on us until we leave. I hurry after Gorion as he goes through the archway and out onto the grounds, past the Gatewarden, who is engaged in drilling a dozen Watchers on the finger points of wielding a staff. Gorion ignores them and as soon as I fall into step beside him. Nearly all the light has bled out of the sky now, and the vault of clouds overhead is blank and empty. Rain will come tonight.

Gorion pauses at the gates, and I realize with a start there are no horses. "We're walking?"

He nods. "It's best." Again that brusqueness, so unusual in my guardian. "Perhaps later we will buy several. Now, child, I must tell you something. It is important." His voice has a peculiar crack to it I've only heard a few times—when Imoen set his bedsheets on fire, for example. "If we ever become separated, it is imperative that you make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn. You know where it lies?"

"Two days north by horse, more on foot."

"Good. There you will find Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them." He looked keenly at me for a moment. "Do you understand?"

"Khalid and Jaheira at the Friendly Arm? Why? How would we be separated?" A little bit of that coldness stabs in through the golden glow and I flinch. "Gorion, what's—"

"Patience, Diana. All will be told soon. But we must go first." Gorion frowns at me. "Did you hurt yourself?"

I touch my cheek, where Carbos raked with his nails. "It's nothing."

Gorion shakes his head. "Child, nothing is ever nothing." He reaches out with a hand that glows with pale fire and touches my cheek, and the sting of the scrapes vanishes as cool energy rushes into me. I almost hug him, there's something wrong in the way he's saying things, something wrong in the way everything's going, but he smiles, touches my cheek with one gentle finger, and turns away as the gates begin to clatter upward.

We step out, into the failing light, and the gates clatter shut behind us.

((A))

Bits of the clouds have drifted away by the time we pick our way down the long cart track that leads along a near knife-edge of cliff to Candlekeep itself. As we step out of the cool wind and the sounds of ocean decrease in volume, the sounds of the forest close in around us.

We start along the Lion's Way, which connects some miles ahead with the Coast Way, but almost immediately Gorion takes my hand and leads us off the path, into the trees, as the clouds rumble and the first drops of rain spatter on the stones. As the storm grows worse and the trees begin to rustle in the wind, he leads me further and further into the trees, until we come to the edge of a clearing. "It's best to be off the road. It may be watched," he says, and takes the lead, stamping his oaken staff into the ground with every step. The trees are so thick in here the only sign of the storm is water dripping down the trunks of the trees. Then a sudden crack of thunder explodes nearby and I let out a startled sound. Gorion turns, a shadow in the deeper darkness of the woods. "Hurry, child. The night can only get worse and we must find shelter soon."

I follow him out of the woods and into a clearing full of great rounded stones, set in strange patterns on the ground, perhaps a mark of a long-gone village or farm that once stood here. "Don't worry," Gorion is saying. "I'll explain everything as soon as there is time. There's no use not letting you—"

He stops suddenly, staring into the darkness ahead. I stop several steps behind him, staring as well, as forms begin to resolve out of it.

In the lead comes a man all in dark armor, uncaring of the rain that lashes down from the sky and makes his black plate shine. He is at once monstrous and graceful, at least a foot higher than me but snake-quick, and clad from head to foot in metal black as the night. He looks nearly as a great beast, with a helmet sporting great curving metal horns, and a maw where his eyes—oh, gods, his eyes—look out.

His eyes gleam with an unnatural light, a yellow gleam that shines out and seems to stab me through the chest, a sickening glow that makes me want to retch. I can't, because I got rid of it earlier.

In one hand, casual as a woodsman with his hatchet, he swings an enormous black sword, unmarked and gleaming with the rain as well.

From the darkness behind him come three more figures. One off to the side is a woman, shadowy beneath an oilskin cloak, only her long dark hair showing and, in the flashes of lightning, a pale face. Water streams off of her.

The other two are twice my height, with pale green skin and no hair that I can see. They have a dull, blank look in their eyes, as if there isn't enough behind them to look out through. They each carry a huge spiked club, reminiscent of a morning star but not quite there. Though they are huge, and they bare their broken teeth, I am not half as frightened of them as I am of the dark man with the glowing eyes.

When he speaks it is so deep it seems to shake me from the inside, and he speaks to Gorion as if I do not exist.

"You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life."

Gorion stands there in the lashing rain, straight as I have ever seen him, and there is no fear in his eyes. I feel a chill as he speaks, as if he is bringing something out of himself. I have just enough knowledge and feeling of the Art to sense the rising of his power. "You're a fool if you think I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt."

The dark warrior steps forward one pace, both allowing us to see him better, and to show him Gorion's face. There is no fear in his voice, either, only sarcasm.

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man."

With the same swiftness that came when Carbos attacked, they all come forward—all except the woman, who stands back. I can see white fire flickering between her fingertips. Gorion slams the butt of his staff on the ground and a great blast of white light erupts out of the top, crackling with a pseudo-electric quality through the air, striking one of the ogre-like beasts with enough force to lay its charging body flat out on the ground, backward. It twitches and jerks, and Gorion lifts a hand and hurls a flaming ball at the other. It strikes it in the neck and erupts in a miniature hurricane of fire. The thing screams for just one second, then topples over into a growing puddle, smoke rising from it.

Things are happening too fast. I can't think straight. Gorion hurls another blast of energy at the charging dark warrior, but though the bolt hits him square it does absolutely nothing. The cloaked woman finishes her own weaving and a dart of flame flies through the darkness straight at me. I turn to run and it strikes me between the shoulder blades, a hot flare of pain that is somehow less than it should be, and all the warmth of Tethtoril's spell runs out of me, leaving me drenched and cold and with a sickening, wrenching feel somewhere deep inside. Gorion is shouting at me, "Run, child, run!" as he flings a blazing red-black bolt of flame at the dark warrior who is now so close, and this time it strikes him full and explodes in a jet of fire that knocks him backward. He lands on his feet and rushes forward, raising his sword.

Ten separate tiny bolts of energy streak from Gorion's right hand toward the warrior's face as Gorion lifts his staff and aims the glowing tip at him. All five strike home and the dark man grunts, but comes on. With his free hand Gorion unsheathes a gleaming dagger that flickers with its own fire, and waits—

And then they collide, a great tower of dark steel and a frail, old man who somehow doesn't go down, who steps forward to slash.

I never see the blow. It all happens to fast. One minute Gorion is standing, the next he topples backward, dagger and staff falling from his hands, and over him stands the great hulk of black steel, reversing his great sword in his hands, plunging it down into the still form beneath him—

All of them fade before my eyes as I turn and run, run away into the dark, the world blurring before my eyes and everything beginning to spin, to fall away, deeper blackness opens to either side and I run. There is laughter inside my head, a cold, cruel, sickening laughter that makes me hurt all the more because it reminds me of everything, of always, of…of…

I fall down out of the darkness, onto soft grass, and down into unconsciousness.

((T))

Author's Note: As you may have noticed, things have changed a little this time around. For one, it's a first person, present-tense perspective, something I think may work well for this story. As well, it already has more depth than the others, which is the point—I can hope I've improved. You tell me.

For critics or fellow critiquers, you may find mistakes in this story. There is a greater chance than in any other of my stories because I'm not going to be carefully going over this to be certain it's free of most grammatical mistakes. I'm writing this to write as much as possible before I run out of time and impetus to put out a story I've had in my head for several years. It twists, beware.

You may notice it lacks a prologue. I don't think it needs it. You tell me.

For those of you who take the time to read this, consider it a gift to anyone weird enough to consider looking at it. This will be the third time I've attempted this story. Obviously, both the other times I failed. After those I decided that writing fanfiction that could never earn me any money was not worth it. But you don't need to know my reasons.

For future chapters, I'd recommend approximately size 12 font so the words neither whisper nor shout. They're not intended to, I assure you, just to be read. And please try not to race. I've done that too much with books and have found it doesn't give me the whole story.

Consider it a sign of holiday mania and free time, and have fun.

K. Stramin

December 18th 2007