Elanvier

The first rays of the rising sun filtered down between the trees in the inner courtyard, but the coming daylight did nothing to drive away the cloud of darkness that hung about me like a shroud.

Slowly, carefully, I stretched out my frigid limbs, aching from the prolonged tension. I gasped in pain as my injured arm brushed against a low-hanging vine. The skin over my swollen wrist was now an angry purple. I had no healing magic left. I wiped the back of my uninjured hand across my eyes. My skin felt tight from the tears that had dried on my face.

I had tried to banish the devil from my room – tried and failed. I had called upon Ilmater to drive him out. I had cast spells at him, or at least attempted to do so, to no avail. My divine spells had been all but depleted, and my prayers had done nothing to replenish them.

The fiend had not harmed me, nor threatened me. He had not moved at all during our encounter. My continued demands to know what he wanted, went unanswered. The half-elven face he wore had maintained a sympathetic expression, and he had simply repeated his offer to assist me, speaking in an unwaveringly polite, soothing voice.

At last, I gathered the courage to dart past him and out of the room. My fear of the devil was exceeded only by my fear that he would be discovered in my room by someone of my Order, and so I had fled silently. I hoped feverishly that my terrified, racing pulse was thunderous to my ears alone. Bare-footed and wearing only my night-shift, I had run into the darkened courtyard.

The moon was hidden by cloud, casting only a ghostly specter of its usual light. I could see no more than a few feet ahead of me. Ignoring the branches that whipped and scratched at me as I ran, I headed for the eastern corner, where the vegetation was most dense. Crawling into the undergrowth, I hid beneath the fronds of a large conifer, and had huddled there for the rest of the night.

Laying there, cold and frightened in the dark, I remembered a time many years before, when I had fled with my family from our home in the middle of the night. Many of our neighbours had been driven mad by the Plague that had swept over Vaasa – any who did not flee from the diseased, were either killed or infected themselves. I had been a child then, barely old enough to walk, and had clung to my mother with all my strength. Her soft words, her scent and the warmth of her touch had carried my through that long-ago night – and I called upon the memory of her again on this night.

As dawn approached, I knew I would soon be discovered in the courtyard, if I remained here. Afraid as I was, I would have to return to my chamber. Surely the fiend would have returned to his accursed plane by now. Scrambling quickly out of the bushes, I made haste back to my room. I could not see the spot where the elven mage had been sleeping when I had last seen her, and I could not risk a detour to investigate. Luck was with me, since I made my return without encountering anyone on my way.

The door to my chamber stood ajar. Trembling, I peeked around the door, confirming that the room was empty. I slipped inside and shut the door. As some of the tension drained from my body, I sank down into a crouch, my back against the door. The memory of last night seemed distant, somehow unreal…

Had I imagined it? A small flicker of hope. Perhaps it had been a nightmare, brought on by the dramatic events of the past few days. As a child, I had been known to walk in my sleep occasionally; sometimes waking in strange places… maybe last night had been no different.

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and walked over to my wash-stand. I would clean myself up, and then report to the senior cleric on duty. Sister Asla was a wise woman, and certain to be understanding and helpful. Feeling calmer know, I hoped that after my prayers and some rest, I would regain my magic and be able to forget the bizarre dream.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a small vial on the floor at the foot of my bed. I recognized it immediately as a healing potion. One of my colleagues must have noticed my injury yesterday, and decided to help an inept junior cleric, without causing her humiliation. Gratefully, I picked up the potion, seeing upon closer inspection that a small piece of parchment was stuck to the bottom.

Frowning, I unfolded the parchment. Before I could read the words, a sharp, sulphurous odour filled my nose, like the spores of a toxic fungus. The note fluttered from my hand, down to the floor.

The fiend had left the potion at my bed.

From where I stood, I could see my reflection staring back at me from the mirror above my wash-stand. I could see my face visibly pale as shock drained the blood from my dirt-streaked cheeks. My wide, dark-circled eyes spoke of the mute panic that was threatening to overwhelm me, for it was not simply the mask of fear that made my visage hardly recognizable to me.

Yesterday, my pale blond hair had been a testament of my Northern heritage, and a reminder of the mother I had lost a child. Now that memory was gone.

A sudden flare of rage gripped me, and I hurled the potion at the mirror with all the force I could muster. The mirror shattered with a piercing crash. The thick, deep red liquid of the potion oozed along the web-like cracks in the mirror, and dripped into a growing pool on the floor.

From the remaining shards of the mirror, the splintered image of a stranger stared back at me. A woman wearing my face, with anger blazing in her eyes - a woman with hair the colour of blood. The touch of the lower planes was subtle, yet unmistakable.

Motionless, I watched as the spilled potion flowed along the crevices in the wooden floor, until it reached the fiend's note, and began to smudge the black ink lettering:

Please forgive me.