Chapter Ten: In which our hero runs out of ideas, Bishop has a surprisingly good one, and encounters are had with dark clerics and the best chocolate chip cookies evil can make.

"I didn't want to mention this, since we were all having so much fun," said Bishop, "but there's no healers in Highcliff."

Sand looked at the ranger blankly. He knew all the words, but they didn't seem to have any meaning as a whole.

"He is correct," said Casavir somberly. "The evacuation has proceeded."

Sand absorbed this. It took a long time.

He looked down at Serafin, slung across the paladin's shield.

Come back with your shield or on it. Isn't that what they used to say?

She was deathly pale. She was always pale, she could blush like no woman he'd ever met, but this was something else again, a waxy whiteness as if she'd been carved out of soap.

Her lips were no longer blue, but he didn't know how long that would last.

She looked annoyed. For some reason, this was an immense relief. If she hadn't looked annoyed, Sand would have despaired of her survival, but the thin line of irritation between her eyes was like an anchor to normalcy, albeit a dreadfully fragile one.

Can I keep her alive until the healers recover?

Sixteen hours, more or less. He couldn't imagine that she'd last that long. It was a desperate stop-gap measure. He'd bought her a few hours at most, no more.

He still couldn't quite believe it.

It had been the diary. A throwaway suggestion on battlefield healing—that for massive internal injuries and too few potions, if you could apply them directly to the internal organs, you could patch everything together crudely enough for the victim to live until you could find a cleric.

He hadn't known if it would work. He hadn't seen how it could work.

He hadn't been able to think of any other options. Every spell he'd ever learned had deserted him.

All he'd been able to think of was that if Serafin died, he'd never be warm again.

But it was working. There was still a gaping hole in her chest, hidden under the ranger's cloak, but between the cauterization from the demon's heat and his incredibly crude surgery—she wasn't dead.

Unfortunately, that isn't going to mean much if we can't get her to a real healer in the next couple of hours.

I have to think of something.

I have to think.

I…can't think of any thing.

Sand realized that he was out of brilliant ideas. He leaned down and laid two fingers across Serafin's throat, feeling for a pulse. It was thready and rapid, but it was there.

For how much longer?

All those nights, all the stupid things he'd said before, during, and after, and he'd never once told her that he loved her.

But I…

Maybe not, but would it have killed you to lie?

His sanity intruded. While I enjoy beating myself up as much as the next person, assuming the next person's not Casavir, this is not helping.

"You know…" said Bishop casually.

Something in the tone brought Sand's head up. The paladin was watching the ranger like a retriever on point.

"Happens…there's a shrine about an hour away from here. I know the woman who runs it."

"I have not heard of this shrine," said Casavir.

"They don't like to advertise."

"Why not?" asked the paladin suspiciously.

Bishop smiled, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. "It's kinda…dedicated to Mask."

"Mask," said Casavir coolly, "is an evil god."

"Let's just say he doesn't have the best press, shall we? Anyway, a cleric's a cleric."

The gith hissed.

"How do you know this?" asked Ammon Jerro.

Bishop shrugged. "I know this woman. She got religion." He ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Bad religion."

"You never mentioned this before," said Casavir warily.

"It's never really come up."

"You cannot believe that an evil cleric would be willing to help us."

Bishop and Ammon Jerro grinned identical grins, all teeth and no kindness.

Our dark credentials at the moment are fairly spectacular…

"Bad people get hurt too," said Bishop softly. "She's quite a healer."

"I do not—"

"Will she help us?"

It was a surprisingly determined voice. Sand was somewhat appalled to discover that it was his.

"Mother Haggard? Oh, yeah, she'd be delighted. Loves visitors." He paused, thought about that for a moment, and then added, "Generally lets them go afterwards, too."

Casavir made a dangerous rumbling sound. Sand was fairly sure the paladin was getting pushed to the breaking point, and was also fairly sure he didn't care.

"I do not think this is wise," said the paladin.

"Not really your decision, is it?" asked Bishop. "Since our lawyer seems to be calling the shots at the moment."

Everyone looked at Sand.

Who died and put me in charge?

He winced internally.

Oh…right. There was a kind of embarrassed mental cough. Sorry.

Serafin had always claimed that leadership was easy. "You just give orders. People love orders. It means they're not to blame when it all goes to hell."

She would have laughed until she choked to see Sand now.

A cleric of the god of thieves?

Do you care?

He didn't. At this point he'd have marched up to a temple of the mad god Cyric and hammered on the door until somebody answered, and filled the collection plate with a clear conscience afterwards.

"We'll do it," he said.

"The gith can't come with us. Mother Haggard's not so keen on other clerics."

"Zhjaeve, go back to Crossroad Keep. Tell—"

Sand had to stop and think. Good god, are all the competents in our party really here? How depressing. "Tell…Mystra help us...Elanee. And—" he grimaced, "—Daeghun if you can find him. If we're not back in a week, tell Kana exactly what happened." He looked up at Bishop for confirmation.

The ranger nodded.

It'll all be over by then anyway, so they can hardly mess things up any worse.

The cleric gave Sand a long, wary look behind her veil, then inclined her head. "Know that it shall be so, wizard."

She turned and walked away, kicking up dust with every step.

"And now that the cleric's gone," said Bishop pleasantly, when Zhjaeve had vanished around the bend, "and you're outnumbered three to one, I'm gonna need to get an oath from you, paladin."

Casavir's eyes narrowed.

"Mother Haggard's a pretty vital part of the smuggler's network around here, and I'm not gonna go dragging a holy warrior to her doorstep if you're going to turn around and tell the authorities where she's located, understand?"

"You are asking me to lie to protect an evil cleric."

"I'm telling you that you're going to keep your mouth shut."

The paladin's hand came to rest oh-so-casually on the hilt of his sword.

I cannot believe they're still arguing. Do they never get tired?

"Do it, Casavir," said Sand quietly.

"You cannot mean to place her in evil's hands."

"Good has rather fallen down on the job today, if you haven't noticed."

The paladin looked briefly stricken. Sand felt a twinge of guilt, and a somewhat larger twinge of triumph.

The man is so easy to tie in knots.

Casavir met the elf's eyes, almost pleading, but whatever he was looking for, Sand doubted it was there.

Don't expect sympathy right now, my dear paladin. If I have to talk you into falling on your sword, I'll do it. Should take about five minutes. Four if the ranger keeps his mouth shut.

You would not believe the things I'm willing to do right now.

It was Ammon Jerro, strangely enough, who came to the rescue, with that deep, dark laughter. "If you're really that worried about the state of her soul, paladin, you had better come with us to safeguard it, don't you think?"

Casavir inhaled sharply, and then bowed, very stiffly, to the warlock. "Very well."

He nodded to Bishop.

Bishop smiled.

The ranger had said that the shrine was about an hour away, and probably if you were moving at a normal pace, it was.

Using a shield as a stretcher, with two men carrying, it took twice as long.

They were not the longest hours of Sand's life, a distinction that would forever be held by the night he'd fled the Hosttower, but they were definitely in the running.

The irony was that if they'd had a scrap of magical power left between them, they could have made it a great deal easier. Sand's mass-negating cantrip only worked for a minute or so—it was useful for carrying heavy boxes, not the injured—but Ammon could have summoned up any number of vile beasts from the netherworld and ordered them to carry a side.

But they were both wrung out and drained dry, and so it fell to brute strength and Casavir and Bishop to each grab an end and haul.

Sand could not say that he liked Casavir very much—"good-natured contempt" probably summed up his opinion best—but he had to admit, the man could carry a stretcher. Bishop wore out and had to be replaced by Ammon, Ammon wore out and was (briefly) replaced by Sand, but the paladin soldiered on.

Every time they stopped, Sand checked Serafin's pulse. Every time it seemed a little faster and a little weaker. Her breathing was definitely getting shallower.

After nearly an hour, they called a brief halt. Even Casavir was wearing out.

"I can't believe we're going to all this trouble for a wench," muttered Bishop, sitting on a rock.

Sand ran that through his Bishop-to-Common mental phrasebook, and got back "I'm tired and upset and I want a fight as a distraction."

Nobody had the energy to give him one.

The moon elf drew his knees up and rested his forehead on crossed arms, and tried to think of nothing at all.

Mother Mystra, he was tired.

He couldn't clear his head. He kept seeing that moment when the demon had dematerialized, and for one sickening instant, he could glimpse daylight clear through Serafin's body.

When she had fallen, looking not so much hurt as very surprised, Sand had heard himself thinking If she dies, I will apprentice myself to Ammon Jerro, if it takes a thousand years, and I will summon Koraboros and I will kill him with my bare hands.

This was such a strange thing for him to think that he waited automatically for the sarcastic rejoinder—and didn't get one.

How strange, how very strange.

Obviously I am losing my mind at a faster rate than I anticipated.

I blame Grobnar, just on general principle.

He raised his head, and saw Ammon Jerro dump part of his waterskin onto a rag, wring it out with a practiced gesture, and press it to Serafin's lips.

The warlock saw Sand watching him and said "My daughter used to get fevers all the time."

It was always hard to remember that this dreadfully evil man had once had a life and a family and children, until he did something like that. It was either terribly sad or terribly creepy or both.

Probably more paternal affection than she ever got from Daeghun anyway.

He was so very tired. He let his head drop onto his arms again.

Bishop came up and thumped him on the shoulder.

"Mana tyára-le méra?"

"So's your mother."

Sand tried to focus. Ah. Common. Yes. Good lord, he must be exhausted. "What do you want?"

"Time to go."

They kept going. It didn't get any better, but it didn't get any worse, either.

Will an evil cleric really help us? How do we prove that we're bad enough people to be worthwhile?

Probably make us eat puppies or something.

Hmm.

Well, shouldn't be a problem for Bishop. Ammon'll just be disappointed it's not babies.

Casavir…hell, I'll probably have to eat his, too.

I hope we're allowed salt.

Uh, Sand? His sanity sounded a trifle concerned. You're getting a little strange on me.

Sorry. It's been a long morning.

By the time they finally arrived, Sand thought he might be so tired that he was seeing things. Even after he blinked a few times, though, the sight didn't change.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected from a shrine to the god of thieves, but an enormous upside-down bird's-nest in the middle of a clearing wasn't quite it. It looked more like a gigantic beaver lodge than a temple.

I wonder if there are dire beavers? Seems like there must be…there's dire everything else. I would imagine they have very large teeth. I should ask Elanee. Bishop would know, but I'd have to endure an hour worth of dirty jokes to get a yes or no…

There was a wooden door in the middle. They set Serafin down and Bishop walked up to the door and hammered on it with his fist.

The door flung back and a woman stepped out.

In all honesty, when Bishop had said that he'd known a woman, Sand—and probably everyone else—had assumed he meant…well…it was Bishop. You only expected one thing from the women in Bishop's life. The only thing that saved the ranger from being a raging misogynist was that he didn't much like men, either.

Whatever Sand had expected from either a cleric of Mask or one of Bishop's old flames, it wasn't a middle-aged woman who weighed three hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce and had forearms the size of hamhocks.

"Bishop, honey!" cried the woman, and seized the ranger in a bone-cracking embrace.

"Hi, Mother Haggard." He patted her affectionately on the back and shot the other members of the party a look indicating that if they ever mentioned this, there would be enough arrows in the back to go around.

The smell Sand was picking up was something deep and dark, like tar, with an odor of fresh baked cookies floating over the top of it.

"How've you been, lovey?"

"It's a long story…"

"You haven't visited me for ages! So good to see you!"

Sand discovered he was having a hysterical urge to giggle and bit down on it firmly.

The ranger disentangled himself. "I brought someone for you, Mother Haggard."

Mother Haggard grinned, displaying a surfeit of chins. "So I see…" Her eyes moved appreciatively over Casavir and settled on Ammon Jerro. "Raowr. What's your name, lovey?"

Sand had to bite on a knuckle. If he started laughing, it would turn into crying or screaming and he didn't think he could take it.

Serafin would have given her right arm to see this, he thought, and that sobered him at once.

Ammon once again surprised him. The warlock bowed as elegantly as a paladin and said "A pleasure, madam."

"That's Ammon, Mother, but he's not the one." Bishop pointed to the shield, and Serafin curled up under his cloak.

"Oh, the poor dear." Mother Haggard, surprisingly light on her feet for her bulk, bent over the shield and reached for the cloak. "What ails the poor…Black God's balls! What'd she do, catch a ballista?"

"Demon," said Ammon succinctly.

Mother Haggard was suddenly all business and bustle. "All right, get her in by the fire, and I'll take a look. Amazed the poor thing's still alive, really, but we'll have her right as rain or in the ground by nightfall."

This was not precisely comforting, and yet Sand found himself oddly comforted anyway.

Any chance is better than none…

The inside of the bird's nest was dim and hung with bunches of herbs. A central hearth burned brightly. Hide screens separated large chunks of the building from view.

Sand would have to admit, it was the first shrine to a dark god he'd been in that smelled like baking bread, or that had a plate of what looked like chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen table.

The walls, perhaps appropriately, were hung with masks. Most of them were crudely carved wooden pieces, bits of bark with eye holes knocked into them, but a few were surprisingly elaborate. He recognized elven scrollwork on a few.

Directly over the hearth, a mask lacquered black smiled eyelessly at the visitors. Sand did not require the sudden whiff of magic to know that it was a bit more than a work of art.

It was not the oddest place he'd been in the last few months, but it was still…peculiar.

They laid Serafin out on a pallet in front of the fire. Bishop retired to a chair at the kitchen table, but Casavir stood by his leader's feet, looking like a renegade bit of temple statuary.

Mother Haggard smiled up at him. She came barely to his collarbone.

"You're a paladin, aintcha?"

Casavir narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

"I can always spot 'em. You can lay off the detect evil there, lovey, Mother Haggard makes no bones 'bout the nature of the company she keeps."

"I will be watching you," said the paladin, steel showing through the chivalry. "If you harm this woman…"

"Now, now." She waved a finger at him. "Just because I'm a dark cleric doesn't make me a bad person. I'll do right by your lady." She pushed past him and bent over the pallet. "You just sit your cute little holy butt down and have a chocolate chip cookie or two, and quit breathing down Mother Haggard's neck."

Ammon Jerro made a noise that Sand had never heard the warlock make before. Bishop's shoulders were shaking.

Casavir sat down in a chair, folded his arms, and pointedly ignored the cookies.

Mother Haggard settled herself ponderously to the hearth and dug a chain out from around her neck. A dark metal symbol flashed briefly in the firelight.

"They're great cookies," said Bishop, sliding the plate over.

Leave it to the ranger to find a way to offer someone a cookie that twists the knife…

"Damn straight," said the cleric. "I'll bet you nobody in the Temple of Tyr can beat my chocolate chip."

Sand waited for Casavir to defend the cookie-baking honor of Tyr, but the paladin had closed his eyes, locked his fingers over the hilt of his sword, and appeared to be praying silently for strength.

"Mind you, the priests of Helm do a mean gingersnap…ah, there we go." She clucked her tongue. "Interesting. Somebody did some work on this girl already, didn't they?"

"That would be me, yes." Sand nodded.

She gave him an odd, penetrating look. "Really, now. Wouldn't think it to look at you."

"Wouldn't think what?"

"All this halfway patching…that's a torturer's technique, lovey. How you keep 'em from bleedin' out on the table 'fore you've got what you want. Didn't do a bad job of it, either. Red Flower, were you? Maybe did a little work for the Grim Hand back in the day?"

"I…"

The other three men were looking at him. The quality of the silence got very, very loud.

Is it actually possible for this day to get any worse?

Only if Duncan somehow shows up.

"I read about it. In a book."

"Sure you did, duck." She chuckled. "Well, either way. Y'ever looking to keep your hand in, I know a few boys who can always use the help. Now, then…"

She cracked surprisingly delicate knuckles, closed her eyes, and began to pray.

When Casavir prayed, Sand had always thought it sounded like a dirge. Mother Haggard, on the other hand, sounded less like a hymn and more like she was scolding the god into doing her bidding.

Sand had never met a god, and devoutly hoped to avoid doing so, but he couldn't help but wonder how Mask felt about being addressed as if He was about to be sent to bed without His supper.

A deep violet glow began around the cleric's hands, and then Serafin's back arched and she screamed.

Oh sweet Mystra, what have I done?

Casavir shot to his feet, half-drawing his sword with a ring of steel. Bishop and Ammon got a hand on each shoulder and slammed him back down in his chair again.

"Come now, lovey," said Mother Haggard, with a purely malicious smile, "I'm a dark cleric. Our spells don't come with painkillers."

The paladin's eyes were rolling white like a panicked horse.

"Anyway, she won't remember it," said the cleric, shoving her sleeves back. "Well…most of it."

You did this. You agreed to this. You gave the orders, so it's your fault now that it's all gone to hell.

As if in a dream, Sand rose from his chair, walked to the pallet, and dropped to his knees. Serafin was panting like an exhausted hound, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her hands fisted in the blanket.

Mother Haggard nodded to him. "Hold her head, will you, duck? Bit easier when they don't wiggle." She elbowed him in the ribs. There was a surprisingly sharp elbow located under the dimpled fat. "'Course, you knew that already, didn't you?"

Sand shook his head mutely. Haggard bent her head over her holy symbol again.

"Go outside," Ammon Jerro was saying to Casavir. "This is no place for good men."

"I cannot—"

"Do it. I will watch her, I swear on the blood of my granddaughter. But go."

The paladin went.

"Good idea. Bishop, love, I haven't had a fresh bit of game in a hen's age. Go kill us some dinner, there's a good boy."

"Mother Haggard…"

"And don't you be snipping at your paladin friend either. Boy like that's gonna crack soon enough without any help from you, and Mother Haggard's too old for angst on her doorstep."

The ranger went.

"Lordy, those boys can really make a room feel small, can't they?"

"We call them the Traveling Ranger & Paladin Show," said Sand tiredly. The cleric cackled.

The hell of it was, despite the screaming, it seemed to have worked. Serafin's breathing, while still ragged, was no longer so shallow. The pulse under Sand's fingers seemed stronger.

"Gonna give her another jolt. Might want to talk to her, lovey, she'd probably be glad for a friendly voice."

Sand licked his lips. He couldn't think. He was too tired, and he felt increasingly like he'd wandered into someone else's nightmare. "What should I say?"

You, at a loss for words. Now I know we're in trouble.

"Anything you like."

He opened his mouth and heard himself say "Did you know that unicorns have two more stomachs than horses?"

I sound like Grobnar. Great.

It went on like that, and it went on for awhile.

Mother Haggard kept up that terrible painful healing, and Serafin shrieked until she got hoarse, and Sand kept talking, telling her anything he could think of—every use he knew for powdered ogre bones and how he should have been a glassblower because the overhead on all those flasks was going to bankrupt him and, in loving detail, every flaw possessed by her uncle Duncan, a recitation that went on for nearly ten minutes and did not repeat once.

After awhile he realized he'd lapsed into Elvish, but that probably didn't matter, since he had no idea what he was saying anymore anyway.

"Im mela le. Tyára-le ista tana? Im tyara…"

"That's probably enough, duck."

Sand opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus. He'd nearly fallen asleep, still talking. Maybe he had been asleep. What had he been saying?

"Is…" He had to clear his throat. "Is it done?"

"Not quite, lovey, but she's stable now, and I need a rest. You look about ready to drop. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"

She didn't wait for a response. Sand rubbed his eyes.

Serafin looked better. There was a line of pain between her eyes and she'd bitten her lip, but her skin had lost that terrible waxiness, and her breathing was deep and slow.

"She's going to live?"

"Eh, nothing's ever certain. But if she were a horse, I'd put two gold on her to at least show."

It took a minute for Sand to work that out to a yes.

He pulled the cloak back.

Serafin's torso was one vast mottled bruise, and there was a raw red scar the size of Sand's fists—but she no longer looked like Diagram of Human Internal Anatomy, fig. A.

Oh, thank you, Mystra…or Mask, I suppose. Thank you, someone.

He got up and fell into a chair at the table. Ammon Jerro nodded to him, eyes still as unreadable as flint. The warlock had pushed his hood back.

Mother Haggard passed around mugs of tea and sat down herself. She gave Ammon a thoughtful look.

"Knew a lad with tattoos that glowed in the dark. Not much good in a fight, but very useful for finding keyholes." Ammon snorted.

Sand took a sip of the tea. It was very warming, and didn't taste all that bad. He felt—well, still tired, but not quite so ready to collapse.

"This is excellent. What is in it, if I may inquire?"

"Best not to ask, lovey. Good stuff, though, isn't it?"

Well, she was drinking it too, so it probably wasn't poison.

He helped himself to the best chocolate chip cookies evil could offer, and they were indeed excellent.

"Here." She handed him another mug. "Take one out to your paladin friend."

Sand glanced at Ammon Jerro, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

He'll keep an eye on things. He may be as evil as they come, but in his own way, he's probably the most reliable of this bunch.

It was early evening. Sand was vaguely surprised—hadn't it just been late morning? How long had he been inside?

Casavir was sharpening his sword with long, even strokes of the whetstone, a methodical scraping that set Sand's teeth slightly on edge. He looked up at the elf's approach.

"Is—"

"Alive."

The paladin slumped, in guilt or relief or exhaustion, it was hard to say. The acrid edge of misery that always clung to him was strong enough to make Sand's eyes water.

The elf handed him the second mug. Casavir eyed it suspiciously.

"Oh, just drink it. If evil can triumph through tea, we're all doomed anyway."

The paladin took it. They stood in silence for a moment. In the increasing gloom, the shrine loomed like the shell of some enormous beetle.

Wait for it, wait for it…

"Sand?"

And here it comes.

Occasionally I get tired of being right.

"Did we do right?"

"She's alive, isn't she?"

Casavir shook his head slowly. "Yes, but…" He sheathed the sword. "To owe your life to evil. Such things leave a kind of taint that might follow her for many years."

"Possibly. And so what if it does?" Sand shook his head. "Better a live woman than a dead saint."

Unless you're a paladin, of course, in which case you'd probably prefer a dead saint.

There was another awkward silence.

"I should have trusted you," said Casavir finally. "I'm sorry."

Sand shrugged. "Yes, you should have. I do occasionally know what I'm doing."

We'll just avoid mentioning that you were pretty sure you'd made a horrible mistake a few hours ago…

Casavir stared at the dirt.

After a moment, the paladin said "I will stay outside."

"That is probably for the best."

"If you have need of me—"

"I will call." The elf began to turn away.

"Sand."

Oh, Mystra, what now? Haven't you worn your heart on your metal sleeve enough for one evening?

"Ye-es?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

The paladin shifted his feet. "You know that I care for the captain."

"No," said Sand, annoyed, "I have been living under a rock with my ears plugged. Everyone in a fifty mile radius of Crossroad Keep knows that. You and the ranger aren't exactly subtle."

Casavir flushed. "No. I suppose not. I am not good at this sort of thing."

"Really? I had hardly noticed."

The eyes that lifted to his held a kind of weary amusement. "We are not all as skilled at hiding our feelings as you are, wizard."

Sand felt his eyes narrow, and fought the expression back with difficulty. "I don't know what you're talking about, I'm sure."

What the…? No. He doesn't know anything. Discretion. It's all about discretion.

Um, yeah. It occurs to me that you may have displayed a tiny bit more concern than one would expect from mere friendship. Apparently enough that the paladin noticed, anyway.

…which of course means that Bishop will be absolutely convinced, and is probably going to be putting an arrow in your back the minute he gets a clear shot.

Back to sleeping in a globe of invulnerability again. Lovely. You cannot get the pillows fluffed right through those things.

"Ah," said Casavir noncommittally. "I see."

The paladin is humoring me. Mystra help me. This may be a new personal low.

Obviously it is time to beat a strategic retreat.

Sand scooped up the empty mugs. "I'm sure someone will be out with dinner. Or at least cookies."

He took a small, cruel pleasure in seeing Casavir wince as he went back inside.