Book I
Burnt Offerings
Chapter 1: Festival in Sandpoint
Five years later…
To the world of Golarion at large, a mention of the land of Varisia would call to mind images of vast wilderness, ancient ruins, and exotic natives. Once the site of an empire vanished so long ago that its name was recalled only by sages and students of history, now a frontier, sparsely populated; a backwater, some said, and a land of adventure, others. Settlers from Cheliax, the great empire to the south, had established the great cities of Magnimar and Korvosa along the coasts, but still far more of the land was unclaimed than not, a lawless realm of secrets that remained buried.
To the north of Magnimar there lay the region known as the Lost Coast, so called because its foggy environment and thick pine forests promote a sense of vastness and isolation. Though shrines and inns dotted the coastline, there was little in the way of permanent settlement or civilization in this place, save in one location, where a campsite built in the shadow of a ruined tower had grown into a thriving town – Sandpoint.
It was in Sandpoint, on the day of the Autumnal Equinox, that a crowd gathered in the square before a great cathedral, newly-finished, which now rose above the low wood and stone buildings of the town. Today was the day of the Swallowtail Festival, and more, it was the day of dedication for the new church, built to replace the one which had burned five years ago, taking the life of a beloved priest and his adopted daughter. The air was jubilant and cheerful, as the townsfolk and those travelers who had come for the holiday or the dedication laughed and joked with one another as they waited for the speakers who would officially open the festival.
Near of the back of the crowd, one young woman stood, holding herself aloof from those who surrounded her; she spoke to none, and none spoke to her, for it seemed that she carried an air of some faint and undefinable gloom about her. She was dressed simply, in shirt and pants of solid black with faint silver trim, though a closer inspection would prove her clothing was well-made; her hands were covered with a pair of light black gloves, and a large black hat was pulled low over her face. From behind, all that could be told of her features was the tightly-wound dark braid that hung to her mid-back; from the front, a handful of townsfolk had glanced under the shadow of her hat and quickly pulled away at the sight of livid crimson skin and a flash of golden, feline eyes. Sandpoint was a mostly-human town, and though a number of dwarves and elves, and even a few half-orcs, called it home, no one like this woman had been seen here in some time.
The young woman was used to eliciting such reactions from people, and she found it difficult to be offended that no one seemed to want to engage her in conversation – indeed, reaction to one such as she would likely be far worse in her homeland. That thought brought a faint, cold smile to her lips; truly, Sandpoint was nothing beside the great city where she had been born and raised, but perhaps that was for the best. She had arrived the night before seeking a place where she could hide, somewhere out of the way where she could bury her past and disappear – perhaps this little coastal town might be what she was looking for in the first place.
Folding her arms across her chest, she watched as a middle-aged woman with an authoritative but genial air stepped to the podium in front of the new cathedral and began to speak.
/
In another part of the crowd closer to the front, a handsome young man poked the well-dressed dwarf who stood beside him with his elbow and grinned. "Well, Harann," he said lightly, "look's like things are about to start. Still glad you dragged the two of us out here from Magnimar for this?"
The dwarf, whose beard was short, brown, and impeccably groomed and whose eyes were merry, looked up at his friend and grinned. "Caelum, Caelum," he said, smiling. "What have I always told you? All I've ever wanted from life was the open road before me, a hot meal at the end of the day, and fresh experiences around every corner. How couldn't I be glad to be here in a place I've never been before, especially on a day of celebration?" Harann threw his arm wide as if to take in the entire crowd, and smiled even more broadly.
"Nothing dampens your spirits, does it?" Caelum said, pausing to take a bite from the piece of festival bread he held in his hand. He chewed for a moment, regarding the cathedral thoughtfully. "Still," he said after he swallowed, "I'd think today might have deeper meaning for someone of your particular calling. After all, this town has always had a soft spot for the worship of Desna, and that priest who died when the old church burned was one of hers."
Harann's expression grew more serious, and his gaze dropped to the pendant that hung about his neck, which depicted upon a silver disk a stylized butterfly that bore the stars upon its wings – the symbol of Desna, goddess of travelers and luck. "True, the Swallowtail Festival is sacred to my Lady," he said softly, "and it wasn't long ago that a man died here who shared my faith. But the people seem happy here today, and the new cathedral is a magnificent one." Harann smiled again. "Truly, Lady Luck brings forth joy from sorrow, wouldn't you agree?"
Caelum laughed. "If you say so, my friend. But the troubles that plagued this town are over and done, and I don't think it likely they'll be needing my skills today; not really the place to try and start building my reputation as a great warrior, is it?" He rested a hand lightly on the pommel of the sword at his side. "Wait, is that Mayor Deverin standing up? I think we're about to get started!"
Kendra Deverin, mayor of Sandpoint, had been born to one of the four families that had helped to found the town generations ago. Popular with her people, she paused to smile and wave as she stepped up to the podium. "What a fine day we have before us!" she called out. "If you are a traveler who has come from outside our time, it is my happy task as Mayor to welcome you all to Sandpoint on this day of celebration! If you are one of our own, then I can say with certainty that I am glad to see the turnout we have here today – why, I see that even Master Rovanky has managed to tear himself away from his tannery and join us!" Laughter swept through the crowd, save for the notoriously workaholic Rovanky, who crossed his arms and scowled. "Though we gather today in part to remember tragedy," Kendra continued, "we also look forward to a bright future, and this church we will dedicate today shall stand as a reminder that no matter what may happen, we of Sandpoint shall survive, and we shall prosper!"
The crowd burst into cheers, and Kendra stepped aside as a dour man stepped forward. "Most of you here today know me," he said, "but for those who don't, my name is Belor Hemlock, and it is my honor to be Sandpoint's sheriff. I would like to thank Mayor Deverin for her kind words, but to extend a reminder to everyone to take care tonight around the bonfire, and I should like to take a moment for us all to remember Father Ezakien Tobyn, his daughter Nualia, and all those who lost their lives in the fire that claimed our previous church."
Caelum fell silent and bowed his head, keeping one eye open a crack to see that beside him, Harann was whispering a fervent prayer under his breath, his face uncharacteristically serious as he clutched his pendant of Desna. Finally, he looked up to see that Mayor Deverin had taken the podium once again.
"It is my regret," she said, "to announce that our next speaker, Lonjiku Kaijitsu, will be unable to appear before us today, as he has taken suddenly ill." The crowd laughed quietly at that, and Caelum heard a number of voices muttering that the only thing that made Master Kaijitsu ill was the festival itself; apparently he had a well-known distaste for frivolity, and was not popular in the town.
Now another man had bounded to the front, introducing himself as Cyrdak Drokkus; Caelum was only half-listening as he gave a number of anecdotes he clearly believed to be humorous and then rambled about the construction of the cathedral in greater detail than anyone actually needed to know, before concluding with an advertisement for his theater, which had apparently secured a famous Magnimaran actress for its performance of "The Harpy's Curse". Caelum's ears pricked up at that one, as the diva Allishandra was as well known for her beauty as for her skill on the stage.
Finally, after Drokkus finished speaking, a plainer, more humble man with some grey in his hair and short beard stepped to the podium; Harann nodded approvingly, for this man two wore the emblem of Desna about his neck. "I am Father Zantus," he said, "and as High Priest of Sandpoint, I would like to thank you all for coming today. May the Lady's blessing be upon you, and I declare this festival to be opened!"
Caelum's was only one of many voices that met the announcement with a cheer.
/
Later that day, the black-clad woman who had stood near the back of the crowd sat at a table in the common room of the Rusty Dragon inn, watching calmly as the innkeeper, a pretty woman whose dark hair and golden-tan skin spoke of Tian heritage, set a bowl of soup in front of her. She thanked the innkeeper and watched her leave, then looked down and stared silently into the steaming bowl for what felt like an eternity.
"Mind if I join you, friend?" a lilting voice asked, and the woman looked up to see a female elf decked in brilliant gold and green scoot a chair aside and drop into it without waiting for permission. Her hair was dyed an even more vivid shade of green than her clothes, and her eyes were a deep, impenetrable black, but a merry smile was on her lips.
"And who might you be who disturbs the lunches of honest travelers?" the woman asked, glaring at the elf from under the brim of her hat.
"I," the elf said, gesturing dramatically at herself, "am Calassara, once of Kyonin, now a wanderer, a singer of songs and teller of tales, drawn to this place by the excitement of celebration, the lure of mystery, and the taste of fine festival food – which, I might add, you do not seem to be enjoying." She leaned in close and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Correct me if I am wrong, but do I not detect the tones of Cheliax in your voice?"
The woman sighed. "If you will not leave me in peace until I answer, then yes, you do. I am Errezha, late of Egorian. Do not ask for the story of my life, because you aren't going to get it, and I trust that your curiosity is satisfied and you will now leave me in peace." As if to punctuate her point, Errezha grabbed her spoon and began to eat her soup, taking care to open her mouth wide so that Calassara could see the sharp points of her canine teeth – points far sharper than those in any human mouth. Most people took the hint.
The elf didn't. "My curiosity is not satisfied, in fact," she finally said. "For it seems to me that your accent is not only Chelish, but aristocratic, and yet if you are what I believe you to be, then that seems most unlikely."
Errezha stopped eating; the glare she shot the elf was murderous. "And what, exactly, do you believe me to be?"
Calassara's pale cheeks colored. "Forgive me," she said, "I do not know the polite term, but much in your appearance points towards a heritage… other than human. I did not mean to cause offense."
Errezha laughed darkly. "Well," she said, "as you're one of the first people I've ever met who is sorry to have offended me, I think I'll answer your question. The recognized term for… someone like me is 'tiefling', the vulgar is 'hellspawn', and neither can be considered 'polite'. And though my heritage is indeed aristocratic on my mother's side, the nobility of Cheliax pride themselves on their pure blood – their pure human blood. I was a product of what might be politely termed 'youthful indiscretions', and let's merely say that I was never on the guest list of Queen Abrogail's galas and leave it there."
She swept the hat from her head, revealing the two short, sharp horns that protruded from her hair, and giving Calassara a clearer look at her golden, slit-pupiled eyes and crimson skin. After seeing the elf's eyes widen slightly, she calmly placed the hat back in its original position. "There," she said. "Now you've learned more about me than I've told anyone since leaving my homeland. I trust you're satisfied?"
Calassara held up her hands in surrender. "I shall ask no more of you, my dear Errezha. Nonetheless, it seems to me that you are alone and in a strange place, and as it happens, so am I. Perhaps we two outsiders might stay together until the day is done and see what this festival has to offer?"
For a long moment, Errezha considered saying no, or perhaps ignoring the chattering elf until she got the point and went off to bother someone else. But suddenly a great yawning loneliness had opened within her, a desire for friendship that she hadn't felt since she fled from Egorian in the night all those months ago. The tiefling sighed, wondering what she was getting herself into, and then looked up at Calassara.
"All right," she said, "you have a deal. But two conditions. The first, no more badgering me about my past – that stays buried. And second, before we do anything else, you're going to have to let me finish this soup.
/
Caelum planted his feet firmly and gave a great have on the rope, the handful of people who stood behind him doing the same. On the other end, another group pulled in the opposite direction; the young man scowled and pulled with all his strength, and after a moment's intense struggle he and his team stumbled back, pulling their opponents to their knees.
"Victory is ours!" Caelum shouted, throwing up his hands and turning to the other contestants who'd pulled for his side. "Anyone cares for a drink later, it'll be on me!" The team gave a loud cheer, save for one burly half-orc who crossed his arms and stayed silent. Caelum walked over to him and clapped him on the shoulder – the man might be surly, but he did pull harder than anyone else, after all – and his expression softened. The half-orc nodded, gave a grunt that might have been affirmation, and then turned and walked away.
Harann came walking up to stand beside his friend. "Congratulations on your victory!" he said. "The Lady's smiling on you today! I'd have helped out, but," he glanced down, "I don't think I quite have the height to be pulling on the same rope as you tall folk."
"Not a problem," Caelum said, wandering away from the tug-of-war to observe some of the other games; he paused near the edge of the square where a balance-beam had been set up, and watched appreciatively as a lithe elf woman with shockingly green hair ran back and forth lightly across it, then suddenly dropped into a handstand and flipped back to her feet in a single fluid motion, drawing gasps from her audience. Grinning, she made a theatrical bow and the crowd applauded – even, Caelum noted, the woman in a hat he'd seen earlier, who'd seemed to be holding herself aloof from everything.
After the elf jumped lightly off the beam, he turned back to Harann. "This isn't exactly the kind of glory I've dreamed of winning," he said. "But I suppose there are worse things to be than on the winning team of a Swallowtail Festival tug-of-war match. Still, I wish there were real enemies to test my mettle against."
Harann shook his head. "You know I appreciate a good tale, Caelum, and always hoped you'd find yourself in one someday. But… the Lady's a good god, but a tricky one. She has ways of granting what you want in ways you don't expect, and won't always appreciate."
Caelum opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak a young woman in a vividly colored skirt and blouse thrust herself between the two men, a large box of some sort held out before her. By her dark skin and hair, Caelum took her for one of the native Varisians, and she smiled broadly at him. "You," she said, "look like a bold young warrior to me. Do you find yourself in need of a little extra armament? I assure you, my prices are the best in town!" She lightly flipped the lid of her box open, revealing a row of daggers of eclectic design, ranging from finely-crafted dwarven blades to a crude, broad-bladed affair that could have only been goblin make.
Caelum opened his mouth to protest that he didn't need a new dagger, before glancing back up at the woman's dark eyes and mischievous smile and deciding that, perhaps, he could go for one after all when Harann broke in.
"Can you lower that down a bit, miss?" the dwarf asked. "The hammer's my weapon of choice if you must, but you can never be too careful on the roads around here."
The woman glanced down at Harann, and her eyes widened when she saw the symbol of Desna on its chain. "My, my," she said. "My people have always revered the Great Dreamer, but you don't see many dwarves in her service. There's a tale there, I'd imagine."
Harann bowed. "True enough," he said. "Always was the odd one of the family, I'll admit – Da never did know what to make of it." He frowned, regarding the weapons. "Still, one never forgets the lessons of one's youth, as they say, and I say that's quite a collection you have there. How'd you come by them, anyway?"
The woman shrugged. "Oh, places." She winked at the dwarf. "But for a fellow Desnan, I'll even throw in a discount."
Harann perused the woman's wares for what felt like an hour, but was almost certainly a fraction of that, before finally settling on a plain but particularly well-made knife. After handing over his coin, he picked it up, tossed it lightly in one hand, and then thrust it through his belt with a satisfied smile.
"And if anyone asks where you got it," the woman said, "tell them that Shaenn is selling –today only, so get them quick!" She waved goodbye, and began to weave her way away from them, seeking someone else who might be interested.
"Why is it," Caelum said when she was gone, "that the most attractive woman we've met today practically ignored me and spent all her time on you? She must have been foot taller than you!"
"Must be my charm and good looks – not that you humans seem to appreciate the last part." He scratched his beard. "Of course, it's not like you stick to your own kind either – I saw you watching that elf girl earlier. Still, I've got to wonder about her wares. That was a pretty variety she had, and I've a feeling she didn't come by them all by entirely honest means."
"Well, it's not like either of us are paladins to go nosing around in other people's business," Caelum said. "It's not as if she was hurting anyone here."
"True enough. Still, she was curious about my story, and I wouldn't mind knowing hers. Maybe we'll cross paths again later." Harann glanced up at the sun. "Looks like it's almost noon. Come on – you had your fun, but I don't want to miss the swallowtail release!"
/
"So, remind me again why this ritual is so important?" Errezha whispered as she leaned in towards Callasara. "We didn't talk much about Desna in the house where I grew up – Asmodeus, it seems, is a jealous god."
"Keep watching and you'll see," the elf whispered back, elbowing her companion in the side. Errezha looked up in time to see the priest, Father Zantus, wheeling a large wagon into the square, its top covered with cloth. As the vehicle came to a halt, the crowd fell silent, and Zantus raised his hands.
"My children," he said, "let us take a moment on this day of celebration to remember why it began, and how it came by its name. For in ages past, legend tells us that Desna was cast down to Golarion after a fierce battle with Lamashtu, Mother of Monsters, and she was sorely hurt. A blind child found the goddess where she lay and nursed her back to health, and in gratitude for his kindness, when she was well she transformed him into an immortal swallowtail butterfly, that he might travel and experience all the wonders of the world for eternity. And so therefore in memory of the child and the goddess, we shall set these swallowtails free, that they too might travel and be a reminder of the Lady's blessing upon all whom they encounter."
With a flourish, the priest pulled the covering away from the wagon, and a great swarm of brightly-colored butterflies boiled out, filling the sky above the square. Many of the spectators made appreciative sounds, and children laughed and clapped in delight as the insects swooped around them; one of the lighted on Errezha's hat, and the tiefling almost swatted it away before restraining herself. After all, if these really were the emissaries of a goddess it wouldn't do to offend them, she decided. Besides, they actually were rather pretty. Nearby, a young dwarf with a medallion of the goddess around his neck beamed as several of the creatures settled on his head and shoulders, and the handsome human beside him grinned and slapped him on the back affectionately.
"Desnans believe the butterflies' attention is a sign of good fortune," Calassara whispered in Errezha's ear. "No wonder the short fellow's so happy. You got one yourself, too."
"I'm no Desnan," the tiefling shot back. "And I realized a long time ago that the gods don't show their favor to people like me."
"Are you sure about that?" Calassara asked; there was a faintly sad note in her voice. Errezha did not reply.
/
After the release, a sumptuous afternoon meal was set out for the festival-goers, courtesy of Sandpoint's inns and taverns. The proprietor of the Rusty Dragon, whose name, it turned out, was Ameiko, seemed to be a particular favorite of the locals, and the spiced salmon she offered today proved to be no exception, much to the consternation of the other establishments. Following the meal, the festival attractions picked up again, until finally the sun began to sink towards the horizon.
Errezha, a small mug of Ameiko's mead in one gloved hand, stood with Calassara near the edge of the square as the crowd began gathering again. A sudden crack like thunder split the air, silencing conversation and startling at least one stray dog who fled into the gathering dark, and everyone turned their attention towards the cathedral, where Father Zantus was once again approaching the central podium.
"I think this is the consecration," Calassara said softly. "Don't bother me; I want to pay attention to this. If everything goes well, I might write a song about it."
Errezha said nothing, but the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling. Something seemed wrong; she couldn't put her finger on what, but growing up as a bastard tiefling in a Chelish noble house, she'd learned long ago to trust her instincts. Was that a trick of the light, or were those tiny shadows moving between the buildings, too short to be adult humans or even dwarves, but proportioned wrongly to be children?
If so, nobody else seemed to have picked up on it. Father Zantus took the podium; he cleared his throat once, and then opened his mouth to speak.
Before he could utter a single word, the screaming started.
