The morning air was cool, yet lacked the bitterness of those lands beyond the warming waters flowing from the Crags. Rain had fallen in the night, she could smell its ghost on the air, but the sky was clear now, the rising sun gleaming golden and bright above the swelling waters as Isaviel trod a barefooted path along the coastline. The city of Neverwinter was but a short walk away, back through a half-hearted stretch of woodland. The folded sails of moored boats flapped weakly in the fragile wind a short distance to the right – today was not a day for seafaring.

Smoke could be seen drifting lazily up to the blue sky from those Docks District houses whose inhabitants were just rising. Someone was baking bread, and its scent drifted briefly by before being drowned by the briny reek of the sea and all the rot of the district close by. The Moon Elf sighed, looking back at the high wooden walls just ending to curve about the harbour past the shoreline.

All was still and very quiet – just the soft sigh of the wind through the trees behind her, the ripple of the waves on the hard, pebbled beach. Her feet ached from those unrelenting, cool stones, but she was glad for the distraction. The scar on her chest ached, as did the still-healing cut on her side from the Githyanki at Shandra's house. She had acquired other troubles and minor wounds along the weeks of her travels – as well as some significant responsibilities. Now that these shards were with her – always, as it turned out – it would seem that she had no choice but to collect them, to have the power over them to stop others who would seek them from coming after her. For even if she were to relinquish those four that she held, she could not give up the one in her chest – and retain her life. She wondered at why it was that all of them had chosen to stay with her to see her quest through to the end; Elanee, Khelgar, Casavir, Grobnar, Neeshka, Qara, Bishop, Shandra, as well as Duncan and Sand, and maybe Cormick too.

The peace and the cool air was a relief – to be away from the city for a while, at least for a short time, brought some comfort. Dropping her boots to one side, the Moon Elf climbed onto a boulder to draw her knees up against her chest and stare out at the sea, her cloak pooling about her. It was only then that the air changed. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, as she heard the slightest shift of pebbles far back, and then the smell of burned conjuring salts and other ingredients pushed aside the pungent stink of the Docks District. There was no point running from a group of mages that large, one that could all but deceive her of their arrival.

"Who are you and what do you want with me?" she asked, hearing just one set of footsteps approaching steadily across the pebbles towards her.

"Isaviel Farlong," a low, carefully spoken voice declaimed, "It has taken us some time to find you."

She slipped from the boulder to turn around and face those behind her to see a dozen or so grey-robed mages, their vocation proven by the badges serving to clasp their blue cloaks around their necks. Mages of the Cloaktower of Neverwinter, no doubt.

The one who had approached her waited calmly for the Moon Elf's response. Dressed in a chainmail shirt and plain breeches, he was clean shaven and blonde, fair of face but blandly so, with bright blue eyes that had the same righteous gleam as Casavir's. The jewelled hilt of a bastard sword twinkled on his hip, the curve of a shield arcing over his shoulders from its place strapped on his back. But it was the insignia on his blue over-tunic that spoke unsettling volumes to Isaviel: the half-closed, all-seeing eye of Neverwinter, and its three falling tears. He was one of the Nine, the warrior-council and guardians of Lord Nasher.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Moon Elf demanded now when no answer was forthcoming, watching the man warily after sweeping her gaze slowly over the wizards arrayed behind him.

"I am Sir Nevalle…"

"Of the Nine, I know."

"…and I am here to command you to return to the city, Lieutenant," the term dripped with derision, as if he knew that her post at the Watch was a rather half-hearted one, "You have been accused of the destruction of the village of Ember, of burning it to the ground and utterly massacring its people."

"W-what? That pathetic place? Why would I waste any of my time with that?" the Moon Elf's thoughts immediately went to the boy who had left with Bishop's dagger – he had said this would happen, though not in so many words.

Sir Nevalle's eyebrow quirked at her words, and he remained unmoved.

"The city of Luskan would beg to differ. They would have you fall to their Low Justice – and that means no justice at all."

"And I imagine you are the one sent to deliver me to them?" Isaviel asked grimly. There were shadows nearby, but their pull was only weak – she doubted she could use them to escape. Automatically, her hands went to the hilts of her kukris.

"Though we do not pretend to pass judgement of our own at this moment, we – Neverwinter – would see you face High Justice; at least that would mean a trial. We know not to believe Luskan's lies – and we wish to see Tyr's truth brought to light."

"And how do you propose this?" Isaviel asked sceptically, herself not trusting the smug look in this unfamiliar man's eyes.

"We propose that you become a knight – it is the only way that Luskan cannot have you, and that you can stand a chance of a fair trial," a familiar, slightly nasal, carefully spoken voice rang out and Isaviel watched in bemusement as Sand stepped towards her from behind the mages.

"Sand? What are you doing here?"

"Sand is an agent in Neverwinter's service. He is to help you assess the situation and gather any evidence for your innocence before the trial," Nevalle explained, but Isaviel just stared at the wizard who she had trusted, beginning to doubt every moment she had spent with him, "Becoming a knight, even a squire, would be enough to keep you from Luskan's 'courts'. I do not believe you guilty of this crime, but if you cannot prove your innocence then we – Neverwinter – will have no choice but to hand you over to the Luskans. Now, if you will excuse us, I will leave you to Sand – he will explain the rest. I suggest you return to the city forthwith – you cannot leave until you are a squire, for your own safety."

And just like that, before Isaviel could respond, a great white light rose up around Nevalle and the Cloaktower mages. When it had faded, they were gone, leaving just Sand facing the young Moon Elf, looking rather guilty. She had left his confidence just an hour earlier, and now she watched him warily.

"Isaviel, know that although I do work for Neverwinter I have never informed them of anything regarding you. All I have said and done has been honest…"

"But you just happened to neglect to tell me that you work in the service of that city?"

"A city that is, you must surely have noticed, seeking to aid you now when the Luskans could simply drag you away to your death," Sand pointed out, and the Moon Elf could not deny it, "I suggest that we return to The Sunken Flagon. Duncan will want to hear of this…ill turn of events – and I would suggest he rouse your friends as well. Their help will be invaluable in this, I would hope."

A grim mood had soon settled over the place, a large back room in The Sunken Flagon furnished with tables and couches around which Isaviel's friends and allies had dispersed themselves to hear the news. Only Neeshka and Bishop were absent. One vast window brought in the bright lights of morning, but no one was buoyed by the promise of a new day. Duncan was standing by the door, eyes blazing, arms folded across his chest.

Khelgar growled a curse into the silence which followed Sand's explanation of the accusations against Isaviel – and the fate of Ember. Elanee stared out of a window, looking quite queasy – although it was not clear whether this was for the destruction of the town or the threat to Isaviel.

"This must be some mistake – surely not even Luskan would do such a thing as massacre one of its own villages to frame you? And why would they do it? What have you ever done to Luskan?" Shandra asked in disbelief.

"Garius, member of the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan, is also the wizard I heard commanding Moire to assassinate me," Isaviel pointed out.

"And never expect any honour or mercy from Luskan. They will take what they want when they wish," Casavir put in, his voice grown cold and hard, his expression just as stony.

"Are ye sure the only way to stop them getting to her is to have her become a squire? No offense, lass, but it would suit ye ill," Duncan sighed, his tone far softer and calmer than the Moon Elf had expected, given his furious look. But the slight shake in his voice betrayed his real, barely restrained feelings.

"It would only be for show," Sand rolled his eyes, "There is hardly cause for concern on that count. But Isaviel, you will need to report to Sir Grayson, to become his squire, as soon as possible. He will explain to you what you need to do beyond this. After that, we should head for Port Llast. It is the closest Neverwinter-owned city to Ember, and we can use that as our base to travel to the town and inspect it for clues."

"Then that is what I will do," Isaviel sighed, standing from the couch into which she had sunk, and looking around the room at those who had sworn to help her, "If you wish to accompany me, you must know that I intend to travel for Port Llast as soon as I have become a…squire. So have your things packed and ready – we might be gone some time if we're to uncover the truth of whoever has set me up."

The others nodded in agreement, though Qara huffed and left the room first, with a glance back at Isaviel that made the Moon Elf wonder if the sorceress wished they had been the ones to burn the town. Duncan and Sand excused themselves shortly as well, followed by Elanee and Khelgar. Eventually, Isaviel was left with just Casavir and Shandra for company.

"Remind me to deny knowing Qara if I ever make it to the trial. She is absolutely the most likely person to have burned down that town for fun," Isaviel sighed, and that at least brought a slightly uncomfortable smile from Casavir as he approached her.

"Let me accompany you to the house of this Lord Grayson to begin the process of becoming a squire," Casavir offered, "I was never knighted, but I did serve as a squire in my youth. I may be of some help to you."

"Then that help would be welcome," Isaviel tried to smile, and he nodded firmly before leaving as well, probably to wait anxiously at the door for them to set off immediately.

"I want to join you, as well," Shandra said now that it was just them, her blue eyes intent and serious, "Whatever this is, it isn't fair – and I won't let anyone treat you like that. You've helped me – you've saved me more than once. I want to at least try to…start to… return the favour."

"That's quite a turnaround for someone who doubted they could trust me just hours ago," Isaviel noted uncomfortably, rocking back on her heels when the taller woman came closer.

"Well, I've had some time to think," Shandra's words were slow and steady, "And I've seen how much your friends care for you. There might be times when they haven't agreed with what you've said, and maybe what you've done, but they still follow you. I don't think a paladin would vow to help you if you were capable of burning a town of innocent villagers."

Ah, but they weren't so innocent, were they? They left me to bleed in that paladin's arms the last I knew of them. West Harbour was innocent, but it still burned. Its people still screamed. But the Moon Elf just smiled and nodded, letting the woman squeeze her shoulder.

"You are tough, Isaviel," Shandra offered, "I certainly can't deny that. I don't know how you do it, honestly. A shard in your chest, dark wizards threatening to have you killed, a whole city trying to frame you for murder… and still you can smile."

"Learn to swing a sword a little better than you swung that broom and you might feel the same," Isaviel grinned, and the woman laughed in acceptance, "If anyone sees Neeshka or Bishop tell them to come and see me in the gardens. I have a few things to think through before we go to see Lord Grayson."

"Of course," Shandra nodded non-judgementally.

Thus they parted – the woman heading back to the tavern and a warm breakfast, the Moon Elf stepping through the door to the right, in the opposite direction, and out into the mess that Duncan called his back garden. Broken glass and snapped chair legs lay about the flagstones, themselves twisted and broken by the roots of an established oak tree in the corner of the yard. A few weeds grew here and there, but there were no aesthetically pleasing flowers, not even a pen of chickens or something mildly distracting. There was just a small, poorly painted bench against the wall of the building with a diminutive, dirty pond ahead of it. Little even could be seen of the city here, for the walls around the yard were tall, affording a view of a few stunted chimneys, the glint of the rising sun…and the taller, more stifling walls of the city itself looming up to the left. That way waited freedom.

A short time passed in which Isaviel found her eyes increasingly drawn to the murky little pond ahead, mostly clogged with algae and some more tenacious water plants. Leaning forward, her elbows against her knees, the Moon Elf peered down at the closest patch of water to see herself reflected against the blue of the sky. Her deep blue hair had fallen free over one shoulder to tumble down her leg, framing a face which…seemed somehow so unfamiliar. She had always been aware that others found her beautiful – and used it to her advantage often, as well. Her face was delicate and angular, as was common among Elves, symmetrical with high cheekbones and prone to an appearance of youthful innocence. Even when vacant she looked to be smiling just a little, and people seemed drawn to that.

Isaviel had thought she was one who appeared easy to trust – as misleading as that was. But Shandra had acted in any way but that – it reminded her that she had been forced to change a great deal since returning to West Harbour. There were scars visible now; one faint but pinkish remaining on her neck, another less appealing one running straight down from just below her right eye towards her chin. She was thinner, and her expression seemed just that little bit too grim. Her bluish skin was paler, her large golden eyes, so very markedly not human, significantly sadder. There was that cut from Shandra's chamber pot still healing on her cheek, though that looked unlikely to scar, and bruises and scrapes marred her legs, arms and back though these were not visible. She was no longer beautiful. Instead, now she looked brutal.

Anger began to well, a great frustrated bitterness. If only it weren't for the shards, none of this would ever have happened. She could have been free to run the streets of Neverwinter with Neeshka. Now she had a city and some mysterious ancient evil to contend with, just in case the Githyanki and the chaos at West Harbour had not been enough for one lifetime.

The Moon Elf was still staring at her reflection, frozen by the horrible realisation of what she was now and struggling against her warring emotions when she heard the door just to her right creak open. A tall form stepped out, dark against the sun, and she did not turn around.

"What's all this talk of burning?" Bishop's voice cut through the gentle sighs of the wind and made her heart skip, somersault…and restart.

"Did no one tell you on the w-" Isaviel began, but one look at his face showed all – there was a great rage in his eyes as he sat beside her on the bench.

"Those Luskan-bred bastards," he snarled, "Every single one of them is without morality or reason – it has to be them. They're the ones who've set you up," his sincerity startled her as his hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer to lean his forehead against hers and stare intently at her.

"Yes," she agreed as steadily as her racing heart would allow.

Part of her had been convinced that once he had slept with her he would discard her. It had been that way with others in the past – and there had been times she had been the one to do the discarding. Instead, there was a cruel tilt to Bishop's mouth now as he no doubt considered all the ways to kill those Luskans who he had shown such a hatred for.

"Casavir said that you were from Luskan," the Moon Elf pointed out softly, watching his eyes carefully as she spoke.

"Yes," he growled, his hold on her just that little bit tighter now, "But that doesn't mean I have to like Luskans, or their city. I was in their army, I saw how they worked and I know what they're like. Burning a town is just one of the minor things that they do to make sure you can't sleep at night."

"Then I will prove my innocence, however I can…even if it means becoming a squire for some wretched high-born Neverwinter lord. And then when that is done, I will hunt down all of those people, Luskan or not, who were responsible for setting me up like this. And I will kill them all," Isaviel vowed fiercely.

That made Bishop grin, his eyes flashing, kissing her slowly until she sighed against him and her arms slid around his neck.

"Yes," he agreed, "There is nothing I like more than killing…Luskans. I do wonder why they are bothering at all, though. With the war going on against Ruathym, they won't want to risk a war with Neverwinter as well, surely."

"It has to be that 'Black Garius' at the Hosttower. From what I heard he seems to follow some shadow cult and he fears the shards I am collecting. He seems to know an awful lot about this – and if I'm going to put two and two together I'd guess that the shards have something to do with the King of Shadows's defeat – and to do with him."

Sir Grayson Corett's house stood just outside the Blacklake, unsettlingly close to where Leldon had once made his sham life as a rich merchant. Still, it was a large, well-kept house with elaborately decorated gables and a small porch held up by white-washed pillars. The gates through the gardens had been almost as impressive, as had the twin ponds either side of the broad flagstone path, each sporting a maudlin fountain of the heavy-lidded crying eye of Tyr. A well-dressed servant had answered the door before they could knock, and invited them inside to a broad entrance hall decorated with the heraldry of a loyal knight of Neverwinter, The Knights' Vow carved in a thin trip of marble at the joining of the pale walls and high ceiling.

Isaviel had been fidgeting for some time, watching the unsettling eyes of Tyr dotted all about the entrance hall– emblazoned on the swords and shield over the arched doorway ahead, on the central rug and the flag by one wall. Sand had been pacing more and more ferociously in front of her as silence persisted, Shandra staring about herself in wonder at the wealth of the place, while Casavir seemed the only one unfazed by the situation, just waiting, still and blank.

Before they came Sand had insisted that both Isaviel and Shandra dress 'as well as was possible, given the circumstances', which had involved some significant hunting through all the possessions Moire had left behind. Shandra had no belongings from her old home and little other money to speak of, so they had been forced to spend some undeniable effort in finding any clothes among Moire's collection which might fit her taller, more curvaceous – and muscular – physique. In the end they had uncovered a suitably long blue dress at the bottom of a cupboard. The item looked unsettlingly to Isaviel as though it had been made for Moire in pregnancy – or at least a faked pregnancy, for the former Thieves' Guild mistress had been renowned for her disguises. As well as this, the garment, though not ill-fitting, and certainly flattering, still seemed to suit Shandra poorly, for she had become less self-assured and far quieter in the dress, as if conforming to all that it implied she should be. Still, beneath those skirts she still had her farmer's working boots.

For Isaviel it had taken a great deal of persuasion to tempt her away from her decision to finally get to wear the clothes she intended for her time as a fraud Waterdhavian emissary. Finally Sand had pointed out to her the need that she appear as unthreatening as possible, as uncontroversial – someone who the audience at a trial would never think could burn a village. Eventually she had relented and agreed to wear a pale dress, embroidered around the neck with green vines. She had proceeded to conceal some six daggers about her person, while she continued to wear the belt containing the shards, though her kukris had been removed.

After an uncomfortable length of time Sir Grayson appeared through the tall door ahead, a benign expression upon his lined, bearded face and his identity unmistakable from the heraldry on his cloak clasp as well as the doublet he wore displaying the eye of Tyr yet again. He nodded quickly to Sand, clearly already familiar at least on some level with the wizard, skirting his gaze past Shandra without even a thought and automatically looking to Casavir. The paladin was the only one among them still armoured – though not armed – and perhaps the Neverwinter knight had expected the one accused of burning Ember to at least look imposing and martial. He only took in Isaviel's presence when Casavir looked pointedly to her, too. Surprise flickered across the knight's face, along with something very much akin to distrust, before he smiled kindly once more, moving to shake hands warmly with each of them.

"Blessings of Tyr be upon you, Isaviel Farlong," he said with apparent sincerity when he reached the Moon Elf and she had introduced herself, his voice unexpectedly high and softly spoken, "I am Sir Grayson. Sir Nevalle has told me of your predicament, and it so happens that I am in need of a squire. This is…unusual to say the least, and at such short notice. Normally prospective squires spend months – even years – proving themselves before they are permitted to enter the nobility. But Captain Brelaina and Sir Nevalle both vouch for your character and your ability. And I have heard of your exploits at Old Owl Well from my good friend Sir Callum. Still, count yourself lucky to avoid years of caring for my horse and scouring the rust from my arms and armour. Your need is great – so I will take you as my charge to allow justice to be done."

He stepped back now, looking more confident when he could see just how out of place Isaviel felt. She watched him uncomfortably for a moment, wondering what was meant to happen next.

"So…that's it? I'm now a squire?" she asked a little incredulously, which made the knight laugh.

"Not quite yet," he told her, "But years of service will be passed over in your case, it is true. My sword is sworn to Lord Nasher, Neverwinter and Tyr. And it falls to me to teach you chivalry, so that you will not dishonour me overmuch as your knight."

That made Isaviel wince. How much she had tried to run from this! This man's serenity was overwhelming and unsettling – he was certain in his righteousness and the reliability of Neverwinter's law. As one who had worked against that law as far as she could whilst in the city, Isaviel naturally had some misgivings about how she was going to fit in as a chivalrous knight. Somehow Sand's promises that this would all be for show began to sound hopelessly hollow, and she shot him as dirty a look as she could before answering with a smile she hoped was sweet, even through her scar and cuts.

"What is it that I must do?" she asked at last. Honour. A word that filled her with dread, "And I have no intention of dishonouring you in this," the Moon Elf added, hoping her words did not carry so much sarcasm audibly as they did in her mind.

"Good," Grayson seemed satisfied at least, "I have heard that you are capable of defending yourself, so we'll not discuss that. The brotherhood of knights is one bound by the ideals of chivalry and honour – two codes I am sure your paladin friend here knows a thing or two about," he sent an intimidated smile up at Casavir, whose blue eyes shone so brightly back at him, "A brotherhood…ahem…and a sisterhood of course. Without honour, a knight is nothing more than an animal with a sword. To be a knight is to lead a life of duty and responsibility. We are bound by a code that prescribes your every action."

"Ah, the vows," Sand noted with a nod, turning to the Moon Elf with unbridled sarcasm dripping in his tone, "Listen carefully, Isaviel. These are important."

"Indeed they are," Grayson nodded seriously, and began to count off the ideals on his fingers, "To be brave and to be valorous in battle against your enemies. To know no fear in their presence. To be just and to be righteous, to embody and to uphold the laws of your lord and land. To be respectful to your enemies and kind to your fellows. To protect the weak and those who cannot defend themselves. All squires have these rules impressed upon them, by rote and lash. But I suspect you are mature enough to take the lesson without the cuffing."

This was all starting to sound very familiar to Isaviel – Merring had taught her that these were the ideals for a monk of the Sun Soul, or indeed for the Even Handed. All those lessons from her youth seemed to echo before her, and she felt like a child again, learning to kick a block of wood in half and to meditate in the silence of the marshes.

"Knowing the code of conduct is important for a knight or squire," Grayson continued when the Moon Elf could only nod half-heartedly at him, and he gestured at the vows around the wall, "But living by that code is paramount. To be a knight is also to live a life of service to your lord and realm. You will be expected to perform certain duties for the crown, when the time comes. Given your unique circumstances that can wait until after your trial. However, there is an observance that cannot be postponed – the vigil."

"And what might that be?"

"Your vigil is a time of reflection and contemplation. It is a sacred tradition…all who would become squires spend a night in the Solace Glade. Ordinarily you must spend the night alone. However, given that you have not yet been schooled in the ways of chivalry or honour, I suggest that we make an exception and allow…Casavir, is it? Yes? Casavir here to take the vigil with you, to ensure you know the proper ideals and expectations."

"I…" Isaviel could feel the need to blush, for how suitable it was that she should spend one night with Bishop, where honour held no sway, and the next chaste and educated in chivalry with Casavir, who was now watching her expectantly, "Yes. That sounds…reasonable."

"Indeed. I am honoured that you believe one such as I worthy of this," Casavir added humbly.

"Of course," Grayson nodded almost absently, "I suggest that you and your paladin friend report back to me at sunset and I shall escort you to the Glade. On the next morning I will welcome you into our brotherhood, and the service of Neverwinter."

No words had ever weighed so heavily on Isaviel's heart.

"Every future squire and knight of Neverwinter's history has come here to contemplate their new station," Sir Grayson Corett told Isaviel with a certainty that was so serene it was almost lulling, though she could barely hear him over the chattering of her own teeth, "To Helm, Tempus, Torm and Tyr have prayers been given. Think on that; once your instruction is over, pray to whichever god it is you have in your heart, or perhaps clear your mind and think of nothing."

"Thank you, Sir Corett," Casavir said gravely from where he crouched by the newly growing fire. They had collected as many free branches as they could from the Neverwinter Wood, within whose outermost reaches they waited, to build that fire against the unusually icy air rushing about them that night.

"I will leave you now," Sir Grayson smiled, nodding to them both and beginning to turn back towards his waiting guards, "When I come for you in the morning you will rise as a squire of Neverwinter."

"I look forward to it," Isaviel replied – at least, she would be hoping for the warmth of a bed in The Sunken Flagon after this vigil.

Once Sir Grayson and his men had left, Isaviel was quick to join Casavir by the fire, drawing her cloak tightly about herself and perching on a low rock, her back to the pool that made up the centre of the glade. It was a pretty spot by day, she expected, with tall, swaying grass, a blossom tree leaning idyllically over the water. The trees of Neverwinter Wood leaned in all about, dark and mysterious in the deepening gloom, the wind rushing through their shadowy leaves.

The stars were out in hosts, glinting and gleaming bright and silvery overhead, and close by sat Casavir, bright blue eyes shining in the firelight, like two more stars that fell from Tyr's realm to judge her. His expression was mild, however, and he had donned a simple tunic and trousers for the vigil in place of his armour. Nor was his hammer by his side, but he seemed comfortable without it, in spite of the clear danger they faced by leaving the city walls. Isaviel was not so trusting – Luskans seemed to know a great deal about her, so why would they be ignorant of her whereabouts now?

"You seem uncomfortable, Isaviel," Casavir noted frankly at last, his deep voice carrying an extra rumbling weight in this quiet, chill night.

"I can't help but fear the Luskans will know of this. How daring will they be? They have already destroyed one of their own towns. It does not seem such a great leap to assume they would come after me now, when I am at my most vulnerable," the Moon Elf gestured down at herself – they had not allowed either of them to go armed to the vigil, though she had concealed a few of her shuriken in the pouches on her belt for the shards. She was thankful for the long dress at least – it was proving a good choice for this cold weather.

"No, that is not what I mean," the paladin shook his head unexpectedly, and Isaviel watched him almost warily, hugging her legs to her chest and resting her chin on her knees, golden eyes large and reflective in the darkness, "You are uncomfortable around these knights, and their requirement that you become a squire for one of them. Is it their expectation that really makes you feel so ill at ease?"

"I thought you were here to teach me about chivalry and honour codes, not probe me for truths of my soul," Isaviel complained, but her frown was half-hearted. His words had stirred something in her, and she found her eyes locked to his pale, handsome features. There were too many truths she did not want to contemplate.

"I served under the Greycloaks of Neverwinter for ten years," he told her softly, now staring thoughtfully into the fire, "I am a lord's third son, and I was intended for knighthood. He sent me to squire for many years, and I did my duty. I took the vows you have taken – to serve and protect and obey. To be just and righteous and honourable, and to live by the code of chivalry. I have done so for all of my life, where I can. But knighthood was not what I wished for. The chivalry they expect of you is to be kind and polite, it is true. But it also comes with a level of pride that never suited me. A pride in the nobility of your birth, that which is supposed to set you above all about you. When my father died in the great plague of Neverwinter, the Wailing Death, I met the chief priest of Tyr in this city, Oleff. In him I saw all that I wish to be – kindness without judgement, honesty without questions. To follow a path of good, and to do it with an honour that means to do that which you will not regret because you know that only the most kindness can come of it. To allow real justice for all, to expect nothing in return, for not all souls are as at peace as are others. Not all have room for thanks or honesty or kindness. To oppose all who are cruel for the sake of cruelty, and who are brutal and unforgiving."

"And that is how you became a paladin?" Isaviel asked softly.

"It is," he looked back at her steadily, "Though Tyr is neither good nor evil, for he must make unfettered judgement, he is just. I wish to do good in this world, and through his honesty and justice I feel that I can achieve that. Oleff taught me all of these things, initiated me into the way of the Even-Handed and allowed me to train as a paladin. It was through this route that I was accepted into the Greycloaks, and though I was no knight I rose in the ranks and headed my own company."

"Why did you leave them?"

"Because justice was not served. Because good was cast aside. I will not allow those Luskans to have you – because you are not guilty; I know it for I am a witness. There is no judgement in that, only truth."

Silence fell between them, in which Isaviel's thoughts came to her in a great tide. She had held back her fears and beliefs for so long – this was the first quiet night in a long, long time. She had been running from it, and now there was even more to consider.

"It is not their expectation alone that I fear," Isaviel told him at length, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes now averted to a smouldering branch just ahead of her booted feet, "It is not really fear that I feel. Until Duncan told me the story of my mother's death, I had believed that my father and my trainer, Brother Merring, had been the ones to cut off my wings. That they had assumed me to be the kin of a devil or demon – Neeshka believes it yet. But now I know that it was not Daeghun who did that to me; he had implied as much to keep me from the brutal truth of my mother's cruel death, and my own treatment as a baby at the hands of demons. I was an unruly and angry child, though, and for a long time the scars on my back caused me pain enough that I would wake screaming in the night. That was why Merring began to instruct me as a monk I realise now, not because I was such a bad child. Doubtless they thought it would help my behaviour, though."

Casavir had to laugh at that, adjusting his position to face her more clearly, intent on her every word. He was still and calm and as she spoke Isaviel could feel the words rolling from her ever more easily.

"So he taught me how to meditate, to ease that pain," Isaviel continued, "And I was always very good at it. I could sit for hours and hours, even in the years when the pain had ceased. I learned that there were ways to join with shadows and shift with them, and my ability to do so has been growing with time. The psionic ways of the fighting of monks has always come naturally too, though it takes a great deal of concentration and discipline for me to master the techniques I learned in my younger years. A well placed hit with nigh on any parts of a limb can kill. I know how; I have used it."

"But you scorn those ways. You turned away from the path of the Sun Soul and the Even-Handed…"

"They turned me away," Isaviel corrected him sharply, but he shook his head.

"They did so because your heart was already lost to them."

"And why is that such a bad thing?" Isaviel shot back, "Why must I wish to be what others expect? My father and Merring expected me to be a monk. These knights expect me to be an honest and noble squire. There is no fun in the honour code you live by. I have no time for it."

"There is no fun in cruelty, either," the paladin told her firmly, and her anger flared for real.

"Then perhaps I am just evil," she suggested bitterly, remembering the way Zeeaire's blood had pooled.

"No," Casavir disagreed, watching her closely, "If that were so you would not be able to see the glow of my hammer. Trust me, there are some who cannot."

An uncomfortable silence fell. Staring into the fire, Isaviel fancied she could hear the screams of the dying, see the crumbling houses and the crumpling bodies of the dead, and the swarms of Bladelings and Githyanki in West Harbour. Those enemies had sworn that their hunt for her was done, only for this new threat, less obvious, to rise. How far was this linked to Black Garius, and how far was Garius linked to Luskan? She was certain she was missing something. They knew so little about the wizard and the cult he and Moire had been involved in. And along with all of that came the King of Shadows, an ominous enough name for anybody's nemesis.

"I regret that the lesson became so…personal," Casavir said at last, and the Moon Elf did not turn her gaze to look at him.

Only silence would do, and they would be there to the dawn.

"No one warned me we would have to come here," Isaviel hissed from where she was desperately trying to cower behind Casavir's large, once more armoured, frame.

"Your case is a most unusual one, Squire."

Sir Grayson's response held the patronising hints of one who spoke to a foolish child as he positioned himself ahead of them, in front of the vast polished wooden doors, overlaid with gilded iron decoration. They looked impossible to open. Isaviel wished it were so, but alas it was not.

The paladin glanced back at her over his shoulder with an amused smile that she suspected was a little smug, as well. The walk to Castle Never through the Blacklake District had been a most distressing one for the Moon Elf. She had never dreamed that she would be expected to endure an audience with Lord Nasher Alagondar, decades-long ruler of Neverwinter. A dream such as that would have felt more like a nightmare, she imagined.

They had at least been permitted to return to The Sunken Flagon briefly to make themselves 'presentable'. The hour was still early – Isaviel was glad for that, at least, because it meant that none of her friends, nor Duncan, had been awake to see her panicked expression. Somehow it did not feel like such a great concern that Casavir had been talking away her agitated strings of questions through the closed door as she changed into that embroidered tunic and silken blue leggings intended originally for her emissary disguise.

Once out of that wretched dress, as pretty as it had been, she felt somewhat more confident. When she had opened the door, still talking to Casavir, she had not hidden her smirk when he paused inadvertently at the sight of her new attire. The tunic she wore was more akin to the male style, and thus its lacing was significantly lower than would have been expected. His flustered response had drawn them even again, she decided.

Still, it had been intimidating to say the least to have the gateway ahead of Castle Never swung wide for just the three of them; Casavir, shining brightly in his armour, Sir Grayson full of prideful honourableness and Isaviel…trying to hide her fear. Beyond the plainer thick stone walls around the castle with its ramparts fairly swarming with well-armed guards lay a stark yard of very little greenery, just two large stables and a wide practice area joined to an armoury. But ahead, the building itself was vast and arching outwards, tiered and many-windowed, with marble reliefs depicting Neverwinter's history all across its façade. A tall portico was held up by two imposingly grave statues of a one-eyed man holding a huge hammer out before him, the symbol of the city engraved across his stone tunic which was painted blue and rimmed in bronze. Again a pair of gigantic doors had opened for them, and thus they had found themselves smoothly ushered into the atrium in which they continued to wait.

As at last those great gates were pushed open, each by two burly and heavily armoured guards, Isaviel found herself stepping into the most opulent room she could ever have imagined. It was not gaudy, but it was enormous. From the mosaic-floored atrium with its silken draperies they had stepped into a throne room. Though Nasher did not style himself a king, it would seem this place could be described in no other way. Its tall, clear windows were framed with intricate carvings, visible through blue and white marble pillars between which stood groups of talking retainers, maybe others waiting for an audience who held higher rank than Isaviel or her companions. The ground gleamed, and looking up she saw a high cross-vaulted ceiling, at the centre of which glowed a golden creation of the eye of Tyr, the pupil of which allowed a view of the blue sky. A dais had been set up directly beneath it with a large silver chalice upon it to collect the rainwater.

Isaviel felt like her legs fought her every step as they neared the silver-lined archway through which she could make out a smaller area - at its other side lay a set of steep white steps, and at the top stood a simple high-backed chair. An upright man sat there, she saw, a simple golden crown upon his balding head. He had a straight nose and small, deeply set eyes in a long, clean-shaven and unemotional face – though it was lined and clearly ageing. That had to be Lord Nasher.

As they passed under the arch, a gate fell with a slam behind them, separating them from the rest of the hall. Here it was quieter, and only a handful of nobly-dressed people were permitted so closely to the leader of the city. If there were any guards in this area, they were well-hidden. Sir Nevalle did stand to Lord Nasher's right however, and he watched them without a flicker of recognition – that seemed pointed. Were they to play a game, then?

"Ah, Sir Grayson…a pleasure to see you," the Lord of Neverwinter greeted coolly in a deep, resonant voice that rivalled Casavir's, with the addition of an imperious and all but grotesque well-spoken tone.

"It is my honour to serve, my Lord," Sir Grayson responded gently, bowing his head.

"What brings you here? You look troubled – and I received your message. Your urgency in turn troubles me,Sir. Who are these two who travel with you to my audience?"

"My Lord, it has come to my attention that this woman had been accused of murder, and is to be given over to Luskan for trial…and Low Justice."

Isaviel stepped forward as he spoken, and Nasher regarded her dispassionately for a moment or two before his icy blue eyes met her golden ones. She felt as though he were reading her very soul – and she was thoroughly unimpressed. This was just a man, an ageing – although still muscular, and evidently battle-scarred – man, well-spoken and prideful, and judging her on a stare. She did not incline her head to him once, and he seemed to note that defiance, for a smile threatened to twitch into being upon his face.

"What you have heard is true. Is that why you are here?" Nevalle asked, as if he knew nothing of the matter at all.

"I came here because this woman is my squire, and as such she cannot be removed to Luskan for trial. The law states that she must be tried by your hand, Lord Nasher, and at the will of the Gods above."

"What is this nonsense?" a tall woman inserted herself pointedly between Sir Grayson and the steps up to Lord Nasher, a sneer twisting her high-cheek-boned face, angling herself at the centre of the room so as best to show off one long bare leg through the slit of her colourfully patterned skirt, "This knight has no squire!"

"I would choose my words carefully if I were you, Ambassador, lest I think you are accusing one of my knights of speaking lies," Nevalle warned, and the woman turned on him.

"I only hear the words of a man shielding a murderer," she snarled up at him, unperturbed.

"Then let the accused speak," Lord Nasher interrupted, "What say you – does my knight speak truly?"

"He does. I have sworn the oath, and I have vowed to serve Neverwinter faithfully and well," Isaviel responded firmly, reciting the words Sir Grayson had told her to say. No one questioned how much a vow of hers might mean.

She kept her eyes trained on the woman in front of her, who now glared at her, her lip curled up as if from revulsion, one hand brought up to her throat where the thin fabric of her grey shirt ran out, as if threatened. This 'ambassador' had to be a Luskan. The theatricality with which she was moving and speaking suggested a very specific purpose. It was almost like she had expected this to happen.

"Then it is true," Sir Nevalle did not hide his smug smile, as the woman turned to watch him with hatred, "That means this squire will be tried here, Ambassador Torio. Not within your Luskan's walls."

"There is no justice in this," Torio spat, heading away to a side door, pausing as it opened to look back at the room once more before she left, "But I was a fool to expect justice in Neverwinter."

"Seeing that gloating smile stripped from her face pleases me more than you will know," Nasher sighed as the door slammed, relaxing visibly back against his chair, his expression a little softer as he regarded Isaviel again, gesturing for her to step closer, to the foot of the steps, "But this has bought you only a little more time, time you cannot afford to waste. We must find the truth of what happened at Ember, and quickly. But you cannot do that here. You have my leave to depart Neverwinter provided that you give your word to return for the trial in two weeks. Haeromos at Port Llast has already been contacted and will be expecting you. Try to run from this and you will only prove your guilt in the eyes of the Gods and the Sword Coast. The life of an exile is not easy when you must turn to either the City of Sails or the Lords' Alliance in that flight. Trust me, neither would give you shelter if you attempted such."

"So I have no choice," Isaviel shrugged, "To travel to Port Llast and see what evidence there is. But you speak as if you don't believe I did it. Why not just acquit me? You know I am innocent. And how can you be certain there will be evidence in my favour?"

"Though I cannot say that I trust you, or your good intentions – if indeed you have any," Lord Nasher told her with a sudden sneer, a look so derisive that Isaviel had the sudden urge to bury a dagger between his eyes, "I am also aware of Luskan's lies. Torio, our Luskan ambassador here, was clearly not surprised to see this turn of events. It is a show she desires, and I am certain they are hoping for a trial. That will mean that little evidence will be available, but it may yet be possible. These are false accusations after all, and that means the evidence against you will have been fabricated. There must be ways around them."