Sarevok was the one Cythandria invested in, the one who would succeed our sire, the new lord of Murder. When his end came, it was unexpected, abrupt, and threw all of Cythandria's dreams into ruin. For a long while, she wondered if she was with child, and each night had toyed with the vial that would purge her womb. When she learnt of our arrival in the city, she knew it was only a matter of time before we came for her. She had chosen to face us, align herself with us, for she had heard reports from her agents of our cause. She did not believe at first, thinking it was misdirection, a scam to feed the ignorant masses. We were just another Sarevok, but then, she watched and kept watch. Sarevok would never have taken in the masses and even if he had, he never would have healed them. Cythandria had heard the tales of the wingless elf, of the sickened baby, the woman stricken with the gimp leg, all those the temples turned away.
She did not believe it until she sent one of her own to infiltrate our movement. The servant, she instructed, was to run afoul of one of the local gangs, to be severely beaten, and crawl towards us.
We knew of this, for his allegiance became transparent when he undertook the blood oath within the plane. But his eyes had seen the vision, and he returned to his mistress, not to betray us, but to try to convert her. Troubled, the Grand Duchess spent restless nights, aware that the Bhaalspawn of the South were growing in strength. Finally, she decided she would take her chances. Sarevok had not been kind to her, discarding anyone he tired off. While she had enjoyed his affections and even his vices, she knew one day he would discard her, and like his foster father, Rieltar, he had an unhealthy penchant for strangulation. Without flourish, she revealed her back, stating simply she had not quaffed the vial her husband left out for her each day after their nightly activities.
Rieltar was as cruel as his adopted son from the story her back told. Perhaps she enjoyed it in the moment, perhaps not. Either way, she wished, for her own reasons, not to be consigned to the Wall of the Faithless and did not believe that she would serve another god. Instead, if we would permit her a place, she would take the oath but live life on her terms.
Imoen bristled.
Almost tenderly, I reached out and took the Grand Duchess' hand. Holding her eyes in my own, I denied her and informed her that if she and her child wished to live, she would abide by the same ruling as everyone else, or she could join her former lord in murder's grasp.
I doubt anyone had ever said 'no' to her before. For the first time in months, Imoen wore a grin, even if it was tinged with a sick, smug satisfaction as Cythandria recoiled. I expected her to start uttering curses; instead, she pressed her lips to my hand. Imoen caught my eye with a raised eyebrow. More softly I reached down and murmured a second denial, a denial that saw the blood drain from her face. Ashen, she bowed her head and within moments, we had her in the plane. I have to admit, she cut a tragic figure, the paragon of grace and elegance.
Later Imoen asked what I had relayed to her. I simply replied that beautiful as she was, she could understand why I wouldn't take my brother's woman – after all, there was a place for him when we were done.