Chapter I: Through a Glass, Darkly

As the priests began melding their energies, a swirling cloud of divine white light appeared in the center of the room hovering over the cistern that held the reagents. Aribeth smiled. Thanks to the mercies of Tyr, the cure for the plague was almost at hand. She couldn't help but sigh with relief. Soon they could end the suffering of the people and mend the tear their hurt left in her soul.

She took a deep breath and gently channeled her powers into the flood of magic. The cloud grew brighter and twined around her body in otherworldly beauty, like a lover's caress. Across the room, Fenthick smiled as he guided the weaving, encouraging her.

She couldn't help but smile in return. Fenthick looked radiant in his white priestly robes, a symbol of faith and purity. He was her strength, her support. Committed to her in body and soul, she had never met someone that could give such unconditional love. He was a paragon of self-sacrifice and his trust in the inherent good in others never faltered. He was everything she strove to be as a Paladin of Tyr, and his companionship alone made her feel closer to her god.

Whenever she looked at him, she was reminded of how much she had grown because of his companionship. She wouldn't even know Tyr's love if he had not led her to Him and for that she was indebted to him, enamored with him. Her heart was filled with gratitude.

As the flow of magic continued, she looked at all the familiar faces, friends that had helped her grow as a follower of Tyr, people she had fought, suffered, and worked beside, and her heart swelled at being able to share this moment of joy with them. Lord Nasher Alagondar had been the city's stalwart defender spending many a sleepless night as he maintained order in the plague-ravaged city. He had been her lord but more he had been a friend and confidante. He stood beside one of the great roof pillars, his arms folded across his broad chest, his face stern yet smiling, sporting his legendary long mustaches perfectly oiled and shaped. His eyes bore the heaviness of the burden of government but he waited here with the hope of seeing the salvation of his people.

Her fellow paladins Jonathan and Devall grinned from across the cistern as they aided Fenthick and the other priests in controlling the weave. She couldn't help but remember their bravery as they defended the Peninsula Gate from the escaped prisoners.

She even smiled for Desther, though they almost never agreed and were constantly arguing; even he had aided them in his brusque, officious, and egotistical way. If not for him and his Helmites, hope may have left the city long ago sending it into chaos. He stood off to Lord Nasher's right with two of his Helmite brethren waiting with joyous expectation, clenching his meaty hands absently as he watched the spell's progression.

And then there was Dernhelm, Neverwinter's 'Hero,' standing off by himself looking dour and grim.

It was for Dernhelm, Aribeth's prayers of thanksgiving were offered to Tyr. Dernhelm who had mysteriously appeared out of the east before the city was sealed, who had recovered the four reagents to make this moment possible.

As she looked at his dark expression amidst the joy of the weaving and the expectation of this moment, her smile faltered and her part of the weave momentarily trembled. He should be happy now that the cure was almost at hand but instead he looked ready for war. Always ready for war.

She remembered when she had met him in the hall hours before and had tried to thank him again for his help.

"You look unhappy," she had said. "How could this be so now that the cure components have been returned to us? You should be rejoicing. Tyr has smiled upon us through you!"

"The cure is not yet in our hands," he had replied. "I will rejoice when we have the cure and administered it to the people and not simply possess the ability to make the cure. My life has taught me not to celebrate until celebration is already occurring."

His acidic response had taken her completely aback and he had left her in the corridor dumbfounded and saddened. And angry. She had wanted to chastise him for his lack of faith, but she had to keep reminding herself, he wasn't a follower of Tyr; he couldn't therefore see Tyr's blessings. She added a supplication for grace to soften his soul to her prayers of thanksgiving.

"Something about him frightens me," she thought suddenly. "Something more than his simple faithless attitude."

His mere presence made her uneasy, as if he somehow pushed her outside her zone of comfort. True, as an unbeliever, many of the things he did made her uncomfortable – namely his methods of routing out evil – but she routinely dealt with those who did not follow Tyr. She knew it wasn't simply his beliefs. It was something she couldn't put her finger on.

In physical appearance he looked like a beggar next to Lord Nasher, or even Desther, with his dented and scuffed armor and his unkempt mop of maroon dreadlocks. His greatsword stood point downward against the flagstones and his hand rested on the pommel as if he expected an attack even here… even now. His grim attitude she surmised resulted from the long and arduous hours he had given to recovery of the cure.

As she scrutinized him however, she could not help but realize that beneath his tough and weather-beaten appearance he possessed an air of nobility. She knew that he was strong, intelligent, and self-sacrificial, and over time she had discovered that he was kind and amiable when circumstances permitted it. Whenever she thought about him though, she found herself drawn to him in a most distressing and uncomfortable way. It was something in his bearing, his confidence and his fierceness…

He was the exact opposite of Fenthick: godless, faithless, untrusting… strong, powerful, and aggressive. She herself was strong, the commander of the Neverwintan Guard, and she valued strength. Many thought it strange that she had chosen Fenthick as their faith was the only common denominator, but Fenthick was so pious, so enamored with her, and she owed him her very faith…

Dernhelm saw her looking at him and stared back at her. For a moment their eyes met. His eyes were bright with the fire of determination, and yet they held something else...

She shook her head forcefully, and turned back to the weaving. It was almost complete. She could not afford to be distracted now.

The cloud grew had grown in intensity and coalesced into a large sphere of energy nearly five feet in diameter that rotated slowly above the cistern. From what Fenthick had told her, the weaving was almost complete now. Her excitement surged. Lord Nasher coughed, breaking the beautiful silence. The two Helmites with Desther moved to take up places on her right side, their robes swishing as they walked. Their faces were alight with excitement as they stared at the cistern; Aribeth guessed they were looking for a good vantage point. Even she wanted to stand on tiptoes to see this momentous final step.

A pulse surged within her, a beat alongside her heartbeat that filled her suddenly with warmth. With a rush of air that nearly put out the torches, the glowing orb extinguished with a sizzle, bathing everyone in radiance. The hush that followed was profound. For a moment, everyone stood motionless, even those who had not been part of the weaving.

Then, with a beaming face, one of the priests of Tyr walked toward the cistern and looked over the edge.

"It's complete," he announced with relief and reached for something out of view. Suddenly, the head of a crossbow bolt erupted from his spine, and he pitched backward with a burble of blood that sprayed luridly across the white flagstones.

"Shit," Dernhelm grunted and the room erupted into pandemonium. Magical gateways appeared in the air about them, disgorging cloaked and hooded figures, bearing swords and shields, which leapt at the surprised priests and guardsmen. Sensing an attacker behind her, Aribeth turned just in time to avoid a sword that slashed at her. Her warrior's instincts instantly took over. Drawing her dagger she slammed it deep into her attacker's chest. His grey cloaked blossomed with red and he went down with a cry.

"To me!" She shouted and drew her sword. Thankfully, though she did not expect it, like Dernhelm she always went girded for war.

About her, several guardsmen and three priests already lay dead in crumpled piles, blood spilling out of necks or opened bellies. The other guards stood in two groups, protecting the remaining priests who laid about them with battle magic and healing spells. Surprisingly, though they had been caught unprepared, the battle was quickly turning in their favor. Four of the cloaked attackers lay dead about Lord Nasher and Dernhelm who fought back to back.

Devall lay to her left, missing an arm at the shoulder. His eyes were glazed in death. Jonathan crouched low over him, sporting a massive cut that went from his left hip to his right shoulder across his belly. He held his sword defiantly in his right hand as his other clutched his stomach closed, but she could see him failing fast. She almost reached out to him, but she knew that to effectively tend to someone you needed to clear the field first, no matter how painful it may be to turn away.

It was this training that saved her. A large figure appeared before her with a war axe, and she had just enough warning to raise her sword to block the blow. The impact knocked her backward, sending her sword flying. She fell to one knee, her body supported by her left wrist as she caught herself from falling completely. A shadow loomed over her, the hefty bulk of Alls the Helmite standing not two feet distant, eyes boring into her with a look of pure hatred. Attacked by a Helmite? It made no sense. She was so stunned she couldn't move. Hefting his axe, he prepared for the killing strike.

A crackle of bright light burst from the center of Alls' face, momentarily blinding her. As the afterimage faded, a burning hole had replaced the wide nose, blue eyes, and normally jovial smile of the guardian of Helm. Alls sank to the ground lifeless and fell from view. Behind him stood a surprised Fenthick, his face registering horror and utter revulsion, eyes wide as saucers.

"The cure!" She heard Dernhelm shout and her heart clenched. Whipping around, even as she stood, she saw Desther calmly draw a large glass canister from the cistern. He held it almost lovingly and it was momentarily blocked from view as he held it against his chest. Despite Dernhelm's shout, she relaxed. The cure was safe.

"Praise Tyr-" she began breathlessly, but something in Desther's posture froze the words in her mouth. Turning to face her, their eyes met.

And in that instant, she could see with perfect clarity the terrifying truth they all had for so long denied. Her breath left her in a rush.

With a conspiratorial wink, Desther gave her a rude gesture and spat on the blood-drenched floor.

"I, Desther Indelayne, go to destiny." He turned as if to leave.

Something broke within her. With a raw scream, Aribeth charged at him. But Desther was quicker. With a flick of his fingers he disappeared with a flash and a puff of smoke. Not one second later a greatsword tumbled across the room through the place where Desther had stood and buried itself deeply into the opposite wall, the handle quivering from the force of the impact.

"The bastard!" Dernhelm growled as he walked over to his sword. Putting one foot on the wall, Dernhelm pulled, his muscles bulging, and tore a ragged chunk out of the plaster.

His look was murderous.

But, inside her, a fire raged.

They stood there, seventeen condemned men in a row, hands and legs bound to giant wooden uprights atop piles of pitch-covered wood. Sixteen of the men were dressed in tattered robes bearing the insignia of Helm, the last remnants of the false priesthood that had infiltrated the city. Their faces seemed to span the entire range of human emotion. Some glared boldly while others wept openly, crying out for mercy. Several had vomited over their battered robes and one stood so slack it seemed he was standing only by the aid of the bindings. These last merely stared blankly into space. All bore signs of violence. As the city guards had led them to their pyres, peasants had thrown cattle dung and stones and even bricks, nearly killing several of the prisoners.

Thousands had turned out to watch the execution, every man, woman, or child who could still stand, filling Justice Square to bursting. There was barely room to keep the peasants a safe distance from the coming bonfires. Their screams for blood were deafening.

On a raised dais on one side of the prisoners stood Dernhelm, Lord Nasher, Lady Aribeth, and Eltoora Sarptyl. Aribeth looked haggard and old, dark circles hanging like weights under each eye as if she had been crying for days. Dernhelm and Lord Nasher looked grim yet sad, watching Aribeth with concerned glances. Eltoora hid her face deep within the cowl of her Many-Starred cloak.

Closest to them with his head bound securely to the upright, Desther looked straight forward, sneering defiantly at the crowd. He was a mass of cuts and bruises, and his beard was matted with blood. A large gash from his head leaked blood into his right eye, practically forcing him to keep it closed. One peasant had nearly staved in his skull with a brick before Nasher was able to restore order.

For several long minutes a guard standing below the dais beat on a metal gong with the butt of his halberd to quiet the people but the sound disappeared within the din. Finally though, it became clear that the men would not be executed without silence, and the gathered onlookers subsided to a low roar.

Lord Nasher placed his hands on the wooden railing of the dais and slowly looked over the people, searching faces. Woman clutched children to their breasts, and husbands held onto wives as if by sheer force of will they could stave off the death that had claimed so many others. The rage and hatred that emanated from them was palpable.

His jaw clenched as he saw the madness in their eyes, at the suffering they had borne… Suffering that as a leader he had been forced to watch but powerless to stop. It tore at his heart but he forced himself to be the stone like a leader must… in public.

Grinding his teeth he turned to the line of condemned men. They had caused this calamity then betrayed them again in the face of hope. Twice-damned he hated them. He wished he could… He was stone. He had a job to do. With a loud voice he cried out so that all in the square could hear clearly.

"Here before you stand the remnants of the false priesthood of Helm. They are found guilty of the murder of the entire company of Helmites at Helm's Hold, nearly two-hundred men, women, and… children." His voice quaked briefly as he said that last word even as several voices cried out in anger and Desther sneered. "They are in some as yet unknown way responsible for the plague's arrival in Neverwinter. Furthermore-"

"Spare us the details old man," Desther shouted, spitting out blood. "I find this attempt at a showing of civility amus-"

"I wasn't finished!" Nasher slammed his gauntleted fist hard enough on the banister that it snapped, showering bits of wood on the guards below. Miraculously, Desther held his tongue. "Furthermore," his eyes were fire. "They are guilty of the theft of the reagents necessary to form a cure, thereby prolonging its influence and the suffering of the people of Neverwinter, dispersal of false blessings that acted to spread the plague," he still couldn't believe that and as he said it bile rose into his throat. He forced the bile back down; he was stone "…murder of priests and guardsmen in Neverwinter, and theft of the completed cure for the plague. Your crimes have only one punishment: death by incremation."

Instantly the crowd began to cheer and press forward, but Lord Nasher held up his hand. When they had quieted, he continued. "While you are doomed in this life, I ask that you tell me who employed you to commit such atrocities. Maybe your punishment will be lessened in the life to come."

Several of the men cried out with desperate voices, stating preposterous lies in an attempt to be spared, but Desther cut them off. His sides heaving he let forth a booming laugh. "You tortured me for days and did not get the answers you sought and I will not appease you now. I sold my soul because they promised me greatness. Evil forsakes evil when it has outlived its usefulness as I did when Dernhelm caught me. But I will not betray my employers now. I will prove my usefulness to them even in death and when they reign, you will see that I will reign with them. Then you will all suffer. The plague will be but a nuisance compared to the horror you will suffer."

At this the people began to scream and push forward against the guards as if they might tear him limb from limb but Desther's voice cut across the courtyard like an axe. "Relish in the wonders of their might. Tremble and fear at their power. The destruction of this city is assured. They grow strong off of death and decay. They have fed upon this city and leached the marrow from its bones. All because of the plague I brought. But I couldn't have done it without my dear friend, Fenthick Moss." He turned his head despite his ropes, their tightness cutting into his skin, and looked meaningfully up at Aribeth.

Instantly the people started shouting even louder at feeling their hearts torn as the hint of Fenthick's betrayal was brought forward again into the light. Several more of the convicted men cried out for mercy saying that Desther had deceived them.

"Liar!" Aribeth shouted and leapt down from the dais onto the stacked wooden logs that comprised his pyre. In her rage, she proved quicker than Dernhelm, who lunged to stop her. With a cry she lashed out and caught Desther squarely on the jaw, whipping his head up so hard that his neck nearly broke; the stout cords snapped from the fury of her assault. Teeth and blood shot out of his mouth, spraying gore on her white and silver armor. Pulling back her fist for another strike, Dernhelm managed to catch her arm at the wrist and wrenched her around. Her punch came off as an offhand slap which caught him in the chest but he refused to let go. Wooden logs of the pyre scattered beneath them, making their footing unsteady as the whole pile threatened to give way.

Desther's body, caught by the ropes, looked like it was suspended in falling. His arms were tangled down by his sides and his fingers clawed futilely at the bindings. Within moments his body began to heave and it seemed to all the onlookers as if he struggled to right himself. To Dernhelm and Aribeth, however, his thrashing was the heaving of his sides as he laughed low and menacing. Dernhelm grabbed him roughly by his blood-covered shirt and hauled him upright with his free hand.

Desther smiled as he coughed blood all over Dernhelm's face. Dernhelm barely flinched, his focus on the paladin. Aribeth struggled from under Dernhelm's right arm as she tried to get at Desther but his grip was iron.

"What is wrong with you?" Dernhelm shouted, shaking her like a rag doll as he spit Desther's blood from his mouth.

"Let me go!" Aribeth screamed and proceeded to hit him again and again. Though she was strong, Dernhelm jumped down to the ground with her all but tucked under his right arm. As the startled guards parted for him to ascend the wooden dais, she rewarded him with a savage kick to the back of the calf, nearly making him fall.

"He's not worth it," Dernhelm growled through clenched teeth. Behind him, Desther continued to chuckle as blood poured from his ruined mouth. "Pull yourself together!"

"But he's spouting lies!" Aribeth's voice was thick with emotion. She began to cry.

Dernhelm set her down roughly on one of the dais steps and spun her to face him, causing her to stumble as she was suddenly released. "And he will die for his lies as well as for everything else he has done. But you? Is this how you act? You are an arbiter of justice!" Dernhelm looked fiercely into her eyes.

"Justice?!" she shouted, taken aback. "What justice is there in the death of innocents? What justice was there in his actions?"

"None," Dernhelm replied flatly, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "But that does not mean there should be none in yours. Remember who you are."

She opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort but then her eyes focused past him. The crowd had gone utterly silent and all eyes were fixed on her with looks of utter disbelief. Shocked she looked around at all of the faces and then down at the blood and gore on her own armor as if seeing it for the first time.

Her mouth opened as if to reply but no sound came out. For a long moment, she stood there frozen trying to collect her wildly spinning thoughts. Then Dernhelm reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. Startled, she looked up into that intense gaze, and found compassion, sympathy, and… that something else which filled her with heat. As she looked into that gaze, a strange calmness flooded her.

After a second she shook her head, nodding in agreement to what Dernhelm had said. He was right; this was not the way she should act no matter how much Desther had to answer for. His fierce eyes softened a little as if he understood her internal struggle. Squeezing her shoulder, she turned, and together they ascended the dais. A sickening gurgle followed them, Desther laughing even as he choked on his own death. Neither Dernhelm nor Aribeth turned around, and at once the sound was smothered by a cacophony of voices as heads turned to gossip with each other. The condemned men, who had fallen quiet, as shocked as everyone else, suddenly renewed their futile pleas for clemency.

Lord Nasher was equally stunned. His eyes struggled between concern and alarm and the need to keep an impassive, impartial face against the business he was about. Aribeth, he thought. How hard we all have suffered if even she forgets herself!

Once they had reached the upper platform, Lord Nasher again signaled for silence. This time, banging the metal gongs was more successful at bringing a semblance of quiet. With sheer will he forced himself to scan the faces of the crowd once more, taking mental note of each emotion, each tortured glance. His insides churned. What he saw there was a reflection of his own inner hate, pain, and rage. He forced his emotions to a dull roar.

"Your judgment is final," he called out in a loud, clear voice. "It is time."

A drum roll started off to left, at the far end of the line of prisoners and a knot of guards bearing torches stepped from the entryway of the castle. Each took up position in front of one of the pyres, and stood still at attention. When the last stood before Desther, a burly man bearing a torch in each hand, the drum roll changed to a single repeated note. Doom, doom, doom. The square became silent except for the drum and the pleas of the condemned.

As one, the guards bent down and began to light the piles all around the base; the pitch-treated wood flared to life and the pyres instantly blossomed into rolling infernos. As the flames grew higher, the skin of the condemned men began to blacken and then crack. Violently heaving against their ropes in a vain effort to be free, the men trashed about. The pleas for mercy became horror-filled wails of agony. Desther however continued to laugh though his body spouted flame from every orifice. As the flame grew so intense that he was nearly obscured, his body suddenly withered and then split apart showering the pyre with his internal organs like a carcass that spent too long rotting in the sun. Not one single person looked away, man, woman, or child.

She gritted her teeth.

Smoldering ashes and the smell of burnt flesh filled the square but not one person wretched or even coughed. The people were silent, inwardly fighting with themselves, searching to see if the hurt they had suffered had been justly recompensed or even slightly assuaged. Lord Nasher looked down upon them sternly, his own heart sickened at the evilness of men that had brought them to this point and on his duty that had ordered them to torment. No matter how much they deserved it, taking the lives of others always took something from the executioner as well. He had tried to avoid needless suffering on either side, but his heart burned from their screams as it burned for their just punishment. His thoughts were a quagmire of mixed emotions made even worse by the hatred that still radiated from his people though their torturers lay in small, blackened piles gone to whatever hell awaited them. And by the trial that still lay before him.

He had been taken aback by the reaction of Aribeth, a bastion of virtue, duty, honor, and justice, but he had to remind himself that even a paladin could not distance themselves fully from their emotions. He could not imagine what she must be going through, how she felt personally betrayed and even partly responsible for the calamity that had been brought on the city. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, but convincing one's own heart of that when it was so close to the agent of evil…

He felt even worse now. He was forced to bring forward her lover, Fenthick Moss, his trusted friend and adviser. He hated his duty; it lay anchored to his heart like a stone. But there was only one chance to save him and he had to take it, had to clear the air, and he didn't know if Aribeth would damn him for it or not. He hoped she would understand. He had spent hours deliberating alone in his castle, and he knew this was the only way.

Aribeth stood there looking almost as dour as Dernhelm usually did, her brow furrowed, and the sight of the sternness on her delicate elven face sent shivers up his spine. Any comfort that she had received from Dernhelm had seemingly turned to ash with Desther, now that the hour had come. He prayed to Tyr that everything turned out for the best, for her sake… and for Fenthick.

Turning back to the people, he had the guards signal for silence.

"One more matter of the utmost importance needs to be settled," he said in an emotionless voice.

Thousands of hard eyes turned to look up at him. He swallowed.

"In the last two weeks, as we rousted out the false Helmites, the Neverwinter Guard have relayed to me that many of you believe one of the chief criminals still sits among us in a place of power. Specifically, you have named our own Abbot Fenthick Moss."

Her heard Aribeth's sharp intake of breath behind him. His mouth tasted like ashes. The crowd below was silent.

"Such dissension and mistrust cannot stand if Neverwinter is to heal from the wounds inflicted upon us all by Desther and his false Helmites. I have therefore asked Fenthick if he would stand before you to be tried according to the will of the people, to face the claims which you have put against him. He has agreed," Lord Nasher said grimly.

A shocked murmur spread across the crowd; this was unprecedented. He noticed that some were smiling. Nodding his head toward Eltoora, a small glow began to fill the only clear space in the square and within moments Fenthick appeared with his hands bound in front of him, on a small platform normally used as a gibbet, the hangman's noose swaying in a light breeze behind him.

The crowd fell silent. Fenthick merely looked out at them, expressionless, gazing into each face and making sure he met each person's eyes. His eyes were lined with black bags.

"Fenthick Moss," Lord Nasher intoned in a strong but quaking voice. "Charges have been leveled against you including: collusion with the false Watchknight Desther Indelayne to bring the Wailing Death into Neverwinter, use of your authority to help spread the disease to all corners of the city-"

"You can't believe that!" Aribeth shouted. Dernhelm grabbed her from behind and clamped his hand over her mouth, but he was hard pressed as she tried to bite him. As she screamed, Fenthick jumped as if struck, and turned to look at her. Instantly his impassive face changed to a look of incredible sadness.

"My love," he began in a voice thick with emotion. "It is Tyr's will that I am here. The people have suffered endlessly. We are here today to end that suffering. If it is Tyr's will that I be sacrificed to complete the healing, then so be it. He has the power to kill me or set me free. His will is made manifest through these people. Though we value life and love each other, we are but servants of his greater will."

For a long moment they stared at each other, as if they were the only people there. Finally, breaking eye contact, he twisted to look at Lord Nasher even as he heard her sob behind Dernhelm's hand. Rock-hard Dernhelm looked like he wanted to vomit.

"Finish the charges," Fenthick said in a suddenly strong voice.

After a moment's pause, Lord Nasher spoke. "You are further charged with," he stopped. "Oh, pigs and violence!" Nasher shouted.

"You people know your mind in regard to Fenthick. I am not going to be a part of this. I have seen him, I have talked with him, I have worked with him, and I have bled with him. I know there is no evil in him and his only crime is a heart that is so naive and innocent it cannot understand how men can indulge in evil. I wash my hands of this matter."

After a moment, he regained his composure. He barely saw the people, his mind was so filled with disgust.

"Fenthick Moss has chosen death by hanging. Ironically, he chose the traitor's death because that's what you call him. How vote you? Remain silent if you consider him innocent and he will go free. Or shout aye if he is guilty and he will be put to death," he paused. "By your will, not mine."

As he finished, a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone looked straight ahead as if ashamed to see the verdict in a neighbor's face or fearful that someone could discern the verdict in their own.

Nasher breathed a sigh of relief. He had never expected such a unanimous reaction giving the rumblings the guards had reported to him.

"Well then. Now that that is settled," he began, but a voice from the crowd cut him off.

"Kill him!" a woman shouted, breaking the silence. She looked like a hunted animal as she clutched her daughter to her. Nasher was unaffected. It was only one voice.

"Well, the decision has been made."

"Kill him!" a man shouted.

"Thank you for seeing reason."

"Kill him!" a young boy shouted.

"Fenthick Moss you are free to-"

And then the floodgates opened and pandemonium ensued. Dernhelm lost his grip on Aribeth as he stood completely shocked.

Aribeth began to scream.

The army sat encamped north of the city, the shining walls of Neverwinter making the gorge rise in her throat. As she walked through the camp, making final preparations for the siege of the city, she could see the human mercenaries shrink back from her, afraid to raise her ire or draw her attention. Pitiful, she thought. Pitiful and weak. But sufficient to serve her purposes.

Fifteen thousand they were, more than enough to crush the city and bring about the destruction of her enemies – especially with her in charge. Those wicked, ungrateful people, those murderers of purity and virtue, that thankless, unforgiving mob. She would punish them for their sins. She would fall on them like a messenger of death. Then she would find a way to throw off her masters. Once they finished serving her needs. She would not be mastered by anyone anymore. Not Nasher, not Morag or Maugrim, not even Tyr.

Tyr. She paused. His name brought up memories of the long internal struggle that had brought her to this point, the weeks of descending into despair and blackness. As she surveyed the terrain, she recalled the many hours spent in desperate prayer, crying out for Tyr to reveal to her His will, the purpose behind Fenthick's death. And then an answer came and she had clung to it like a lifeline in the midst of a storm. Fenthick's death had averted more bloodshed. Yes, that was it. Since everyone in authority had been associated with Desther – her, Nasher, the Neverwinter Nine, Fenthick, Oleff – that put them all into question. By only putting Desther to death it would have made it seem that those "which had been in league with him" were still in power, casting suspicion and likely leading to open rebellion. By executing Desther's closest confidante, it seemed to the people that all ties between Desther's evil and the city rulers had been put to death as well. Fenthick was merely the scapegoat to avoid further bloodshed, the sacrificial lamb to bring peace to the suffering city.

As she spent time mulling over this new realization, her joy at uncovering Tyr's will in Fenthick's death turn to dust. She couldn't believe it. It was logical but utterly heartless. Fenthick had been given up to appease the mob, nothing more. It was unthinkable. She spat. Tyr's name tasted like acid.

She continued her rounds of the battlefield. This fight would be glorious, she thought. They will all be put to the sword. The mob would be given up to appease her wrath, her anger… and to see justice done. Justice. That was why she was doing this, she reminded herself. Not to aid Morag and her plots for world domination. Not to aid the Old Ones in some hideous rite. Simply justice. They were merely the agent to help achieve her goal. And then her anger would turn on them. She controlled this army. Soon they would realize that!

She pictured in her mind those who she would put to death. The face of every acolyte of Tyr flashed in her mind, and then, the grinning, mustached face of Nasher. Nasher would be the last to squirm, and he would squirm – oh yes, for his crimes against reason and love and truth. He knew Fenthick was innocent but had given him up to keep the peace. A mob sacrifice. A life wasted to appease a mob. He claimed he washed his hands of it, but it was his guards that pulled the cord, his guards that had been responsible. He was responsible. She could not believe that for a time she had accepted that rationale, been so searching for an answer that such a notion made sense. Now this city would have no peace, she'd make sure of that. She'd give them a sword instead.

As she returned to the command tent, its standards of a black sword point downward on a field of red flapping in the breeze, a clamor arose in camp off to her left. As she turned to look, the commotion began to spring up all about her, a building noise as if all her men were shouting about something at once. Then the tone of the noise changed and the air became full of the animal cries of orcs and the screams of men as if in mortal agony. She spun about wildly searching.

Were they being attacked? Was this some sort of enemy magic? Had the Neverwintans caught her by surprise? Impossible! The magic wards would have announced such a maneuver.

Just then a lance struck her deep inside, tore at the core of her being, filling her with white fire agony. She clutched her head as if her mind was coming apart. Collapsing to her knees, she let out a pitiful groan.

What was happening?

The iron of her will bent on destruction gave way like seeds of a dandelion in a strong wind, and she suddenly felt a tremendous sense of weakness and loneliness. Her anger and hatred seemed to all but disappear, filling her with pity and sorrow. What was happening to her?

She pounded the ground with a mailed fist.

"No!" she screamed. Not on the eve of her victory. But even that suddenly seemed hollow. The visions of glorious death that she would inflict on the people of Neverwinter began to make her sick. It was unfathomable.

Thoughts swirled through her head like a tornado. How far had she fallen? How far now that death of innocents could be so gratifying? No, she reminded herself they were not innocent. They were murderers. They deserved death! But deep within her a question started to arise: are they not simply as poor and misguided as Fenthick?

What was happening to her?

The mail of her gauntlet plowed the skin near her right temple. "Oh gods, the pain!"

How could she have thought to rain death upon this city, to murder women and children? She screamed.

Suddenly a voice called out to her, a voice she remembered. She trembled. The voice meant her death. Death to her for the deeds she had done. The voice would never forgive her. She could never forgive herself. She began to scream in terror.

"I am here," the voice said, almost calmingly, comfortingly. "It is over." She could not be comforted, not now, now that he had come for her. She recoiled at his gentle touch.

Death? She welcomed death. She opened her eyes and looked toward the voice.

It was Dernhelm.

She could feel Dernhelm holding her hand as she sat staring into space, her mind clouded in a wave of mixed emotions. His great calloused hands gently enfolded hers as he sat there silent and motionless. She couldn't think straight, couldn't focus. Not since the day that Dernhelm appeared in the middle of her camp. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. She couldn't tell which thoughts were her own, or which thoughts to trust.

It had seemed to make sense until the point that her army fell apart – her righteous indignation at Fenthick's murderers, the planned destruction of Neverwinter, freedom from unjust peasants and nobles… and gods – until Dernhelm had come for her.

She had thought he had brought death, thought that she would look up into his eyes and see her life pass before her in a brief flash as his greatsword fell. She had thought she would see black hatred. Instead she saw only tears.

She remembered crying out in shock as he knelt beside her, lifting her from the ground, and holding her tightly to his chest. She remembered beating her hands against his dented armor trying to escape from the fate she knew must come now that he had found her, only to fail in exhaustion. She remembered screaming for him to kill her and be done when her strength failed her, screaming until her throat was hoarse, but instead she only her heard him softly cooing to put her to sleep. She couldn't understand it. This didn't make sense. She was the enemy. Her mind began to unravel.

She awakened to find herself in this small cell with Dernhelm watching her from a chair in the corner, appearing as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Dark circles were under his eyes. It looked as if he had been crying. She found this the most impossible thing to believe.

For a long time they sat staring at each other in silence keeping to their own thoughts. Finally she could bear it no longer, the question burning to be answered.

"Why?" she asked. "Why didn't you kill me?"

For several minutes more Dernhelm said nothing. She was not sure if he was choosing his words; he hadn't moved. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. Shadows hid his face. All but his eyes.

"Let me tell you about your recent 'employers,'" he began with a low voice. His voice was thick with emotion as he spoke but she couldn't tell if it was anger or sadness.

"Morag had discovered a sacrificial rite used by the Old Ones to increase their power. It involved drinking the blood of innocents," he paused. "Luskan is nearly devoid of children because of her, that is, those who didn't die in the wars between the High Lords."

The look in his eyes was suddenly terrifying. It took her breath away. He sighed and his gaze softened. "I put an end to that.

"I stopped Morag from releasing the Old Ones and plunging all of Faerûn into an age of darkness under their dominion."

She was shocked. Shocked enough out of her tortured thoughts to pay attention. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she hadn't known the danger, or having known, she hadn't believed such a thing could actually happen. Her shock was further amplified by the humbleness with which he pronounced his achievements.

"Oh yes," he continued. "The threat was quite real and we stopped her just in time. We nearly lost though. Tomi and Linu both perished in the battle. Sharwyn may not recover."

She hung her head in shame, sorrow welling up inside for their deaths; they had been her friends. With their loss, she wanted to die all the more. How much suffering had she caused?

She could feel Dernhelm moving, and when she looked up he was kneeling next to the bed. She drew back in alarm but Dernhelm somehow calmed her, he made no aggressive moves toward her. She could see in his eyes that he would not harm her, and she could see something else, something that triggered a memory, a feeling deep within her that she could not put her finger on. Something that bore a memory of fear. But why wouldn't he do it? She deserved death for her crimes. Why doesn't he kill me? She began to draw away.

"You will see. I haven't finished my story yet," he replied in a calm voice, and she realized she had voiced her question aloud. She began to grow angry. He was mocking her, patronizing her.

"When I killed Morag, I broke her power over her thralls," he continued. "Her powers were enormous. Her slaves and even her army were all bound by her will over their minds. They were moving about like marionettes guided only by her evil will."

"But that is not true. The army was under my command," she replied.

He kept speaking as if he had not heard her or was choosing not to listen. "True, her minions all had evil intents in their hearts – greed, lust for power, revenge, envy at the richness of the human lands – but it was she that bent these desires, twisted, fostered them and made them grow, all to serve her needs. Without her, there would have been no army, no war. She dominated them by their own desires."

She started to object but he continued.

"Killing her broke her dominion over the wills of her minions. Their desires which had once seemed so intense and all-consuming gave way to confusion and fear. Many had no idea where they were or what they were doing. When they saw the armies arrayed in front of Neverwinter fear took hold of them. They were so disorganized; they realized that they could not stand against their enemies. The army splintered and fled."

"No. That's not the case. We numbered many. We were strong. We…" she realized what she was saying but continued anyway. It nearly overwhelmed her that she should have led that army to destroy these people, but this didn't make any sense. They had been three times the number of the Neverwintans. Her mind was so fragile that even though she wanted to reject her part in this near-atrocity she needed something sure about herself to grab onto. She had been the destroyer. She had been strong. She didn't turn and flee. Her soldiers were weak compared to her, but they were numerous. This didn't make sense. Why was he doing this to her? Why would he speak to her comfortingly only to drive her insane with his words? It was almost more than she could bear. "We… were unstoppable."

Somehow she sensed he saw how his words hurt her and in that moment she could see a change come over him, a look of intense and honest sadness. He reached out and pulled her to him. She didn't resist.

"Oh my poor angel," he said as he rubbed his hand through her tangled hair. "Don't you see why I am telling you this? I'm sorry. I was never good with words." He began to cry.

She couldn't move. She was overcome. Her crimes were beyond forgiveness. Her thoughts began to tumble together again. Why didn't he kill her? What was he trying to say by all this? That she was weak on top of being a murderer? Why was he crying? The tears came.

"I… I… don't understand," she stammered.

He pulled her away and looked directly into her eyes. There was that something there again, something she could recall but not name. What was it? What was happening?

"Don't you see? You were her thrall. She had dominated you but you didn't know it. You were under her power. You-"

"No." She pulled away. She couldn't look at him. Now he was trying to claim her crimes weren't her fault? Was he trying to make her feel stupid on top of weak and evil?

"When I talked to you in Port Llast, you were struggling with feelings of doubt and confusion. You said you still couldn't see how Fenthick's death was justified, that the people acted out of revenge. I didn't know what to say to you at the time. I tried to tell you that I agreed, but then you said somehow it fit into Tyr's plan. It was unjustified yet somehow divinely correct. You created an impossible dilemma for yourself. I… I didn't know how to help." She let him speak. She couldn't, couldn't fight him anymore. She was done. She gave herself over to listening to his words. It was all she could do to escape the pain.

"I knew you were strong and so I tried to help you just by being there. But then you disappeared into Luskan. I searched for you but Morag kept getting in the way. I couldn't find you." His voice was choked with tears.

"The next time I saw you, you were clad in black. I thought that strange. Do you remember what you said to me that time we met at Luskan's gates when I was taken captive by Maugrim? The words burned indelibly into my heart."

As he spoke, suddenly she remembered every word. She wanted to shut out his voice, her voice, but she was powerless. Something inside said that she needed to hear her words, some cruel part of her that wanted her to suffer. She knew that she deserved it.

"'The people took out their despair on Fenthick,' you said. 'It was unjustified. They knew he didn't knowingly help Desther. They had known him years before the plagues began. They killed him because they wanted to believe he was involved. They had suffered so much that they couldn't believe that only Desther and his false Helmites were the culprits. Their need for an answer in blood wasn't satiated in Desther's death. They had to believe it was someone else, someone that they had loved. Only some cruel betrayal like that could make sense for the suffering that was forced upon them and not simply the work of an outsider. The plague was too cruel, hit them too strongly, taking their loved ones, their children. It had to have some black and evil cause. They made Fenthick the cause. They had their revenge; they got their justice by sacrificing innocent blood. They set upon him like animals, rabid animals, the whole city of them. Rabid animals have no place in civilized society and deserve only death. I go to show them the truth of that, the truth of what they have done. I go to cleanse them with the sword.'"

His voice had grown strong while he spoke but as he finished, the emotion came back thick on his tongue. She could say nothing; she was stricken.

"I cried out to you, I could see what had happened. I saw how you were being controlled by Morag. I was helpless. I couldn't fight against Maugrim at that moment. I couldn't break free. He reveled in watching me suffer for you. He enjoyed seeing me discover the truth of what was happening."

As he continued his tale, she wanted to cry out, wanted to say how part of her died that moment seeing him bound by Maugrim, going off to torture and some uncertain future. She had tried to free him but at that moment, she couldn't control her body. She recalled being a prisoner in her own mind, colliding against a wall that had been raised inside her keeping her from control. Yes, that's it, she hadn't been in control. Something was inside her mind, growing, taking over, some force that sought to crush her will. In that moment as she lay there against him remembering that encounter, she believed. She could see how the woman she had become was not entirely of her own making, that she had truly been double-minded. That she had been controlled. She continued to listen, hanging on his every word. They were like lifelines to sanity.

"I made him pay dearly for that later," he continued, tears welling out of his eyes even as he gritted his teeth, chopping off every word. "When I broke free, I went after Morag. I knew she was the key. Haedraline showed me the way to the Source Stone. Morag…" he paused, and his eyes grew terrifying again, the tears all but crystallizing on his face. "Well, I… killed Morag. Her power was broken. I used the fading remnants of the Stone's magic to teleport to you. The rest you know."

"But…?" she asked.

"But what?"

"But… why didn't you kill me?"

"Look at me," he said with a commanding tone. Instinctively she looked up. As she looked into his eyes she could see in them that faint whisper of something she could not describe. What was it in his eyes? What was it she was seeing?

In an instant it struck and she understood what she was seeing. It couldn't be. She shrank back in self-loathing. Her deeds shone like open wounds, dancing in her vision. He drew her back into his arms again. His embrace was warm and comforting.

It was impossible, she thought. Horrible, beautiful, but impossible. It was…

Love.

Her world had come unraveled. Her thoughts ran wild inside her head. One moment it all seemed to make sense, she seemed to find what she was looking for, and the next moment her wild thoughts would condemn her and she would spiral back into darkness. The bouts of darkness seemed to be getting longer now, laughter and light seeming to recede into memory.

He was back again, sitting with her. She had told him she had needed time alone and he had listened, but he would only stay away for as long as she asked. She could feel his love burn for her, like a beacon in the dark places anchoring her to the world of light, but the weight of her misdeeds and the god-shaped hole of forgiveness that ate at her insides could not even be overcome by such a radiant light.

She loved him as well. She had come to that realization. It was one of the few things she knew for certainty. It was amazing that she could understand love in the midst of her insanity but there it beat like the heart in her breast. He said it was enough to overcome, love could overcome anything, even her darkest fears, but that surety grew less each day. Her misdeeds were not something that could be assuaged by this simple yet profound love.

She needed the love of her god, but try as she might she could find no comfort in thoughts of his forgiveness. They seemed hollow and stale and those feelings drove her deeper into her private depravity whenever she thought of them. He could never forgive her, not for turning her back to him. Dernhelm claimed Tyr would, that he was a gracious and forgiving god, but Dernhelm was faithless and he couldn't understand. He didn't believe. She loved him but she knew he couldn't understand. Tyr couldn't forgive her.

Something inside her told her it was impossible. How could a holy god forgive her for killing innocents? How could he forgive her for the raising of Port Llast and Fort Ilkard? Granted she realized now that Morag had been in control, but the core of revenge had still been hers alone, not Morag's. Morag could only augment evil, not create it in people just as Dernhelm said. Therefore, no matter how she looked at it, she was responsible, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men and women… and children. Tyr could not forgive that. No punishment was too great. Not for her sins.

Suddenly, as she thought about that last part as she had so many times before, she realized something truly terrifying. Her life had been a lie. She started to scream aloud.

"I am here my love," said Dernhelm, rushing to her side and cradling her in his arms. He was haggard. He looked like death. "What is it?"

"No, no, no!" she remembered screaming. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. It wasn't a lie. Her screams continued for several minutes until her throat went hoarse. Her fists beat against his chest as if she could batter down the images and thoughts that sprang to life in her mind.

"My love," Dernhelm cried. His heart was broken to the point of death, she could read it in his face. "Don't do this. Calm down. What is it?"

"I under… understand… I finally understand why Tyr can't forgive me."

"But Tyr can, he will, he has…"

"No!" This caused Dernhelm to stop and look at her now with a look of deepest sadness. She continued. Her words were almost impossible to voice aloud. "He can't forgive me…"

"Why not?" His words were almost a whisper.

"Tyr… doesn't exist."

"Go," she screamed. "Go! You must leave me alone."

"But, I can't," he replied, his voice was pleading. He was death. "I love you."

"Go! I need to be alone. I need to be alone!"

"I won't leave… you need me!"

"If you love me, you'll go! Let me suffer here in peace!"

"But I can't… I have nowhere to go. You are my life. I love you."

She wanted to be alone with her madness. She couldn't bear him being near her. She was vile, dirty, stained black with sin and murder. She knew if he stayed he would die too, she would drag him down along with her into hell and that made her slip even closer to madness. She needed him to be free. He needed to be free of her. Out of love, she needed him to go to save him. He wasn't listening. Her heart was breaking beyond words.

"Please go," she pleaded.

"I love you. You need me. Don't say that." She could see his sadness turn toward anger. She was driving him insane also. He needed to leave immediately or it would be too late.

"I don't need you." She heard herself say and then wanted to die. Even though her mind was a tortured morass of emotions, those words she had never uttered aloud nor even thought in the darkest recesses of her heart for they were distinctly and unequivocally untrue. Her feelings for him had never wavered and he knew it.

"Uh," she heard his sharp intake of breath. She had wounded him too much. She wanted to die.

"Go, now." Her voice took on a hard edge. It was out of love. "I don't need you."

"But I love you," he pleaded one final time. She could see that this was the end.

"Well… I… I don't love you... I guess I was mistaken about that along with everything else."

She paused. She couldn't believe what she was saying. Inside she was screaming to take it back. To take it back or she would truly die, not just inside but completely. A slow death where there was nothing left.

In his eyes, she could see a new light grow, a new light that nearly eclipsed the light of his love. She fell back against the wall in fear. For a long moment he stood there, his jaw clenched so tight that she thought surely his teeth would shatter. He opened his mouth and when no words came out, he shut it again. Slowly he moved over to the cell door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it behind him, the door clanging shut with a boom of finality. Her world shattered.

"So be it," was all he said. His voice no longer held any emotion. Without a backward glance he strode out of sight.

She began to scream.

She sat bolt upright in bed, still screaming. The nightmares were too real. They had all come at once. They were almost too much to bear.

Suddenly she could feel arms around her, drawing her into a deep embrace. She tried to fight then, one fist connecting with the jaw of her assailant who let out a breath. "Stop," a voice choked. She recognized that voice. She turned.

"I am here," the voice said. "It is over."

It was Dernhelm.