IX
He found her, later. Huddled up, shocked. Unable to remember what had happened. She couldn't believe everyone was gone; couldn't believe he was alive. They grieved together. Finally, she asked him what happened with Gorion. For a time, he was silent. Then he explained the magic exploded, about the dark laughter, the terrible dreams. It spilled out in a rush. Slow at first, then… everything. The sirines, the arachnids, the statue. She listened, wide eyed, nodding.
Then she explained who the statue was, a newcomer named 'Koveras'. He chanted the prophecies of Alaundo with his eyes closed, one of the monks had gossiped in the inn. He kept to himself, aloof, arrogant. There had been a meeting, negotiations she wasn't supposed to know about, something about an 'Iron Crisis'; a plague that gripped the Sword Coast. He had been gone for months and months, she said, then latched onto him, clinging. She knew it was him who saved her; she didn't know how, but as if in a dream, she felt him near, as if cradling her, laying her gently on the grass.
There was no one else alive. The dignitaries, knights and noble merchants from their dress were already dead by the time he found them. There was nothing left for them, except the belongings and the wealth of knowledge the library held. Most of the mages' wards were still in place. So they gathered what they could and headed to the catacombs. Imoen shielded her eyes and tried not to look at the fallen. Anything that could be personally identified, they left. Coin, jewels, enchanted items… anything of value. Anything that could help them start a new life, somewhere far from there. Neither of them had left Candlekeep in what seemed like forever; for him, it was forever. He had no recollections before then, and Imoen's own were scant.
The stench of death seemed to linger for days. They bathed in the cool waters, Imoen shivering, even as they brought lanterns down and set up cook pots with oil and wood, lit from torches. The run of the keep would have been attractive were it not for the circumstances. There were horses in the stables, and the inn was empty of nobles, reserved for the dignitaries. Soon, they knew, others would come, and if discovered, questions would be asked. They looted the temple of Oghma, paying reverence as they took. The dead had no use of such items. They plundered the inn, taking from Winthrop's stores. Imoen's 'inheritance', she called it, knowing her foster father would want her to have these things. She couldn't believe he was gone. They went through each room of the keep, and the barracks, and they amassed a hoard. At the campfire, they sat and remembered the names of the fallen. Jessup, Theodon, Bendalis. Shistal. Piato. Erik. Reevor. Obe. Dreppin. Ulraunt. They laughed and wept. His hands in hers, they sat. She spoke of Gorion, Winthrop, and then she held him.
With the dawn, they took the horses from the stables, but not Rieltar's horse, and packed whatever they could into the enchanted saddlebags, and prayed the bandits that lined the roads would not find them.
